Gone From Ghana

We know when it’s time to go. Unlike the guest who stays at your house too long, travelers reach the intuitive destination called, “move on.” Not only do we see the countries of Ghana, Togo, and Benin, but we taste them…feel them. Surviving the initial shock of over-population and people defecating along the streets, as they have nowhere else to go, we calm their aggressive manner of communication, by smiling. We then find a warm, welcoming people. Probably the best part of West Africa lies in the friendly people. We have little worry of being robbed or car-jacked, but still take precautions. After all, we’re from the United States.

            Harsher conditions in the French-speaking countries of Togo and Benin make Ghana seem like West Africa “light.” Still, we feel like we see all there is to see. We pass on visiting the waterfalls, and canopy walk, been there and did that in places from the Amazon to Multnomah Falls, Oregon, to Havasupai Falls in Arizona. We are hot, exhausted, and totally filthy. The open sewers become resting spots where folks sit and talk, and sometimes sell wares, including food, which continues to assault our senses. 

After one month of utilizing public transit, from seven people in a tiny taxi, to fifteen folks in a Tro-tro (small van) to three on a small scooter, we tire from sucking in the dust, smoke and relentless heat/humidity. As Mare says, “The only time I feel good is when submerged in water.” I agree with her.

                   

Experiencing West Africa in this manner, including witnessing a genuine Voodoo Ceremony, will stay with us forever. Eating goat, and the rodent, “Grasscutter,” with Fu-Fu, along with Banku, Okra Stew, Red Red, and other culinary delights remain a highlight as well. But we have our fill. We could live here, eat and drink well, for about $300 US monthly, but why would we want to? We seem to be the only tourists in these countries. The only other non-Africans that we encounter are volunteers, or here on business. And they are few and far between. 

Located by the Men's Dungeon in Cape Coast Castle

We will never forget the impact of the slave trade. The pain of slavery becomes more real to us than can be conveyed by history books. Unfortunately, a less visible form of slavery seems to exist here, in how the employees of hotels, etc., work a seventeen-hour day. No wonder they move so slowly. They have barely enough time to sleep, and then need to get ready for work. They get no days off. Only for a funeral, or tragedy, and they better not take too long or they will be fired, from their $200(US equivalent) monthly wage. 

New Friends - One Love

Still this is a culture of proud people, friendly despite primitive conditions. They teach us the power of the human spirit, the choice of attitude we all make to either whine and complain or celebrate and enjoy. I feel like a fraud to despair over taking a “bucket-shower,” which is much better than nothing. At least I can wear shoes as I walk through the sewer streams in the streets, unlike most of the children here. It’s one thing to see the images on television of poverty, but to walk among it for one month changes us forever.    

"We are the Children"

So where do we go next? Our plan is to head north through Burkina Faso, into Mali. However, we receive numerous emails from the US State Department, warning against travel to Mali, especially the northern region, including Tombouctou, which is of course where we want to go. This is due to the increased threat by Al- Qaeda to kidnap US citizens. So, while it is time to “move on,” maybe not to Mali.

They Cannot Forget

In the Sacred Forest, King Kpass’ reincarnates himself into an ikro tree.

Making a Wish

 Before visiting this tree, which I touch, make a “good” wish, and then drop a few coins, we visit various fetishes. They are statues of Voodoo Gods representing beliefs from fertility, to farming, to forging iron, and curing small pox. A huge tree in the center of this forest is said to be 200 years old. The guide also tells us that in Africa, they say “When an old man dies, it’s like a library burning down.” The strong oral tradition of passing on information through music and storytelling results in little being written. Not much reading going on. I guess I won’t try to market my novel in these parts!

            Our final tourist trek takes us along the slave route, full of several monuments. First, we see the slave trading square, where Chi-Chi makes their deals. After the sales, the people are forced to walk around The Tree of Forgetfulness, to make them forget where they come from. Then they lead them to a large cage and staging area. The slaves are housed in a bunker type of building, to prepare them for coming conditions and get them accustomed to the way they will be chained in the ships.

Slave trade is graphically depicted on this display

A memorial represents the huge hole in the ground, where the weak, the sick, the unsold, are discarded. Often, they are still alive when thrown into the pit. If a captured person fights back, he will be chained in a squatting position. A stick in his mouth, he will be exposed the entire day to the brutal African sun, in full view of fellow slaves, to set an example.  

Public Punishment

 An archway towards the sea memorializes “The Point of No Return,” decorated in symbols representing slaves in chains going into the water, and then down into the black hole of a ship, never to come home again. The African leaders may have been the ones who trade their own people, but much of the World is responsible for providing such a horrific market. Despite our beautiful hotel, pool and beach setting, we do not sleep well this night.

Point of No Return

Pythons Rule

Apollo pays for our hotel and he is just about out of money. So, after the canoe ride back to the mainland, we save money by walking up the dusty road, in that hot African sun, to the main street. No taxis to be found on account of a taxi strike, protesting the police and their frequent stops to take bribes. Apollo explains that the police will not let you pass if you have a cracked windshield, or other issues which all cars have, unless you pay them. Furthermore, Apollo once drove a brand new taxi, nothing wrong with it, and the police made him pay because he had no machete in the car, in the event of a fallen tree on the road.

            After a long, sweat-soaked walk carrying backpacks, we hop onto scooters which weave in and out of traffic congestion through the capital city of Contonou. Even the locals avoid walking on the beach in this city, calling it a lawless area. We wait at a taxi stand, and the resourceful Apollo finds a driver willing to drive us to the city of Ouidah. (Thanks for scabs!)

            I try to exchange dollars in a Ouidah bank, but nobody accepts US currency. Apollo exchanges the last of his Euros, and I find irony in spending over $500 (US) thus far, in one of the poorest countries. My tab with Apollo is still growing. Time to eat some Kpete’, which is blood of goat sauce, with boiled goat, fried goat, and Gui, sometimes called Akassa, a grit-like muffin made from maize. Then, we check out some sites.

Lunch

            The Shrine to the Python is only about sixteen-years old. This town of Ouidah is home to the annual Voodoo festival, held on January 10^th, ever since the government officially declared Voodoo a religion. People flock to this festival from all over.

            In the Shrine, about 50 pythons lounge on the cool cement, and are offered only water. They are let out at night to feed, an always make their way back to the shrine. Once on a while, if they get lost in somebody’s house, the occupant will carry the python back to his shrine. I must mention again that pythons do not bite, and the belief is that if you kill a python, you will also die.

Python Power

            The Voodoo community gives land to the Portuguese to build a Catholic Church. Just another example of how different religions can get along with each other. Even Catholics around these parts practice some form of Voodoo. But, the Muslims do not. Apollo explains that the Muslims have their own form of mystic called “Malam.” Either way, in these parts, pythons rule.

Stilted Village

Over breakfast of fresh coffee and baguette, we still laugh about the worms dropping from the ceiling last night – a new experience for both of us. We decide not to complain to the staff. What would they do anyway? Besides, the worms provide us a good story.

Welcome to Ganvie'

            Back onto scooters, and headed for the only ATM in town. The machine will not accept my card, so Apollo is building a rather large tab for us. From scooter, to a three-hour taxi ride, to another scooter, finally we wobble into a dug-out canoe, rowing towards the stilted-house village of Ganvie’. This village of 30,000 people sits on the shallow, murky water of Lake Nokove’. The villagers plant plots of rotted tree limbs into the salty water, and one year later, the plots draw the revered Tilapia fish. I guess that fish farming is not a new concept.

Fish Farming

            Our room perches one story above several others, on stilts. We open the shutters and see people living around us. The Hotel Carrefour Chez M Ganvie’ sits smack in the village center. We sit on the water level area, drinking beers of course, and watch the villagers paddle to the fresh water station, where lines of canoes form, waiting to fill containers with drinkable water.

Mi Casa

            Groups of tourists stop here to drink, eat, and take photos. We notice that all the children, in the tourist attraction areas, replace their friendly waves with an open hand, asking for money. Eventually, we order chicken, as it is the only food available. Two hours later, we get probably the scrawniest piece of chicken I’ve ever seen. By this time, we are sick of beer, but the French fries taste wonderful. Watching the floating market, canoes full of goods, and people paddling past us as busy as scooters on the streets, provides mellow entertainment for the evening. How nice to have some relaxing, down time.

            Unless you have a generator, which most people in this village do not, there is no electricity. We see small fires inside of the stilted, palm thatched huts, and figure that folks must have mastered the art of keeping the fire from burning down the place. The generator at our dwelling goes out, and we sleep under a mosquito net, while our second story room sways and the wood creaks with the wind. The occasional cry of a baby, some tribal language discussions, and beating of drums in the distance flow through our open shutters and lure us into a sound slumber.

Village Life

Voodoo Ceremony in Benin

We hear the drummers pound a unique, rhythmic beat with plenty of cowbell. The fetish priests form a dancing line behind the top man, the Voodoonou, who fluidly guides the line, slithering around and circling the House of Python. The women join, headed by the Voodooshis, and on down the ranking. Sort of like the Pope, Cardinals, Bishops, Priests, Nuns, to altar boys and Eucharistic lay ministers, for lack of any other analogy. The crowd woos, and the family, which sits around the first ring of a circle, drinks special alcohol. The line of dancing holy people comes to a stop, and they stand with their back to the House of Python, facing the family. The drums stop. More greetings continue.  Some family members enter the House of Python, and come out with bowls of some sort of liquid, but we cannot see what happens inside.

Voodoo dancers

The drums resume, and a man pulls a young, white goat by a rope. The goat screams. He sounds like a small child. He tries to resist by leaning back onto his haunches, but this goat is groomed his entire life for this ceremony. (Somebody tell that to the goat!) With special care, and diet, the goat is believed to already be full of the good spirit.

The drums change to a slower rhythm, and a lower level fetish priest hoists the goat into the air, holding him by both sets of legs. He taps the roof of the House of Python, and then taps the ground with the goat, over and over, for about fifteen minutes. The goat cries the entire time.

Another change of drum rhythm to a faster pace, and the man slices the goat’s throat. He slowly drains the blood into a bowl, while the other fetish priests and the Voodoonou approve. He brings a bowl of blood to a family member sitting in the first ring of the circle. The family member dips his finger into the blood, taps the top of his knee with it several times, dips again and then douses his lips with it. This same process continues for each individual family member, many of them, in this ceremony.

House of Python

Afterwards, a Voodooshi holds the goat high, by his neck, and forms another dancing line that encircles the entire complex. Many women and children follow her. The goat is pushing out any remaining bad spirit that is in the complex. Then, the Voodoonou grabs the goat, and does the same thing, with another long line, purifying the grounds.

The goat is brought back to the middle of the circle and placed on a pile of green leaves. A woman kneels down, and places her face in the dust where the goat is wrapped in leaves. The drums take on a distinct, louder beat. A woman dances in the middle of the circle, making bizarre movements, stamping her feet and pulling her shoulders back and forward, hands waving parallel to the ground. A different man unravels the goat from the leaves, and hands him to the woman. The drums really roll now and the woman dances with the goat, first holding it up high by its neck, then upside down, under her arm, to make it look like his legs are dancing. The crowd chants every time the goat is flipped onto his back. The Voodoonou and all other fetish priests and Voodooshis watch carefully, as both the woman’s and the goat’s movement tells whether or not the good spirit chases out the bad.

Voodooshis

Apollo only sneaks one or two photos. He and Abell seem more afraid than Mare and I! This crowd of at least 800 people only give us quick glances, not seeming to care.We leave the group, despite there being one more ceremony tonight. We would see much the same thing, and it is already ten o’clock in the evening, of a very long day.

We find it difficult to watch the goat die at first, but with an open mind, I realize that this ceremony is older than Catholicism, where we eat the Body of Christ, and drink the Blood of Him as well – interesting comparison, to say the least. We all want the same thing…a good spirit.

The ride back to our hotel, where we squeeze in between two men on scooters, proves to be the scariest event of the evening. My rider provides the light for Mare’s, who is in front of us. The treacherous road can barely be seen. We get separated. When I arrive at the motel, Mare is nowhere in sight. I worry and am about to start walking back, when she shows up.

We are totally stoked! After sharing a few beers with Apollo and Abell, Mare and I shower together, and it never felt so good. I am too exhausted to sleep. The Voodoo drums still play in my head. I hear, and feel a light thump on the top of my sheet, near my belly. I look at the sheet and see a two-inch worm. Then I look up at the damp ceiling, and realize that worms are dropping from it. I hear slight smacks when they fall to the tile. Mare is sleeping. I roll onto my side, in the event I fall asleep with my mouth open. Then the place looses electrical power. Mare wakes up, and we lay in pitch black. It seems the worms are dropping with more frequency in the darkness.

“I hear something in our backpacks,” Mare says with alarm. “Maybe it’s a mouse or something?”

“Nah…don’t worry,” I say. “It’s only worms dropping from the ceiling.”

“Oh!” she says sarcastically. “That makes me feel better!”

We get another case of the giggles, for an hour. We both have to urinate, but resist the urge, rather than risk walking on worms in our bare feet, in the dark, on the way to the bathroom. Eventually, we pass out.

Motel "D'Worm"

Voodoo Child

After a long day of travel and sightseeing, at six o’clock in the evening we head out to a Voodoo ceremony. Three people to a scooter, Mare sits between two men on one scooter, and I on another. I have never felt such closeness, sandwiched between two men before. Mare probably enjoys this better than I. The half-hour ride bounces over bumps, powdered dust, rocks and ruts. No riders around here wear goggles, and despite us wearing sunglasses, our eyes burn and water. We have never been so filthy.

            The following account comes from my interpretation of what Mare and I experience at a genuine ceremony. Voodoo is complex, and this information we get through our guide, Apollo, by asking questions that he has to ask the family member who invited us.  

             Each family hires a fetish priest, a Voodoonou, once every seven years. The reasons vary, and each Voodoonou has his area of specialty, but this seven year ceremony is mostly for the family’s good heath and fortune. If a family has had a good year, they may sacrifice a cow, but most sacrifice goats.

            Voodoo followers worship the Python. A python will not bite you, but if you kill one, even accidentally, you will die. These beliefs, as all of these beliefs, help the people to stay in touch with their ancestors.

            So, we sit in a circular row of chairs around a House of Python. We sit, stare, sit some more, in between Apollo and Abell. Apollo says that they will protect us. They seem nervous.

            Abell tells Apollo (in native tongue) to tell Mare to “Slowly give your camera to Apollo. He might be able to sneak a couple of shots.”

Villagers, friends and relatives of this family, begin to arrive. The Chief of this tribe shows up, with his wife, dressed in bright garb with a yellow sash. People approach both of them and bow down to their knees. Then they bend over and kiss the dust on the ground, while the Chief claps his hands together a few times. People use this same greeting for the Chief’s wife, and the many dignitaries, such as holy fetish priests, priestesses, who are Voodooshis, that are on a lower tier than the high Voodoonou. All in all, between 750 and 1,000 people are here, mostly greeting each other.

Arriving

I feel like I’m going to pass-out. Mare is exhausted as well. She whispers into my ear, “The things I do for you.”

We are getting delirious. I remember a silly video that a friend sent to me prior to this trip. In it, a white man is captured by an African tribe and has his feet tied together, while his arms are tied around a log across his back. The villagers chase him, as he tries to hop away. They catch him, kill him, and cook him.

I whisper to Mare, “If I see a white man hopping, I’m taking off!”

We get a case of the giggles and try to hide our inappropriate laughter. We are pretty conspicuous as it is, being the only white people here, at a sacred ceremony, and do not want to appear disrespectful. I’m reminded of my altar boy days, trying not to laugh during mass.

Darkness descends, and still we sit and stare straight ahead. We ask Apollo questions, for him to interpret from Abell. Here is a summary…Most of Voodoo is for goodness, but there also is a dark side. For instance, if you go to a Voodoonou and ask for someone to be killed, he will put you through a rigorous number of tasks first, such as bringing him a woman’s menstrual blood. Also, you will bring him the heart of a dead person, which you will need to dig up. Even Apollo believes that a Voodoonou, who specializes in this area, has the power to kill a person without physically seeing them.

Moses

Many people believe that Rastafarians derive from Prince Ra Sta, who is believed to be embodied with a living god. But here, in the birthplace of Voodoo, a much older story teaches that a couple, who cannot produce children, will approach a Voodoonou (specialist) for fertility. However, after they have a child, he is not permitted to cut his hair, or he will die. The family must trade again with the Voodoonou, in order for the child to get a haircut. No wonder I see only two Rastafarians with dreadlocks in all these countries thus far. Rasta’s are discriminated against here, even by the government, like a Voodoo Child.

People for Cannons

Bushed, from changing taxis several times in several villages, in the stifling heat, we stop alongside the road. Apollo negotiates his beaded bracelet with an elderly, topless, woman, so Mare can use her outhouse. Mostly, throughout Western Africa, people relieve themselves just about anywhere, especially the men. Flushing toilets seem to be reserved for hotels.

            After a one-half hour scooter ride, where the wind dries our our sweat soaked clothes and cools us, we reach the city of Abomey, and check-in to a clay hut at Motel D’Abomey. Apollo talks to an artist, Abell, who invites us to his family’s Voodoo ceremony this evening. Of course, we accept the invitation. But first, we walk about one mile, in the sun, to visit the Royal Palace Museum.

            The twelve kings of Dahomey lived here, and each added more space to the huge compound. They ruled the kingdom until the French conquered them. There really are not many artifacts left in this compound, other than some reproductions of thrones, as either the genuine remnants sit in French museums, or were destroyed by the Africans. The most interesting, true artifact left here, is a throne that sits atop human skulls.

            “Why can’t we take photos?” Mare asks.

“Because if people take pictures, nobody would come to visit,” the guide replies.

Mare looks at me and says, “No Kidding.” I am reminded of how the NFL will black-out a local game if the game does not sell out.

This tour is sad, seeing the loss of traditional relics. Bowls of corn and an old garden ho sit in clear plastic displays. Really, there is not much to see, as the traditional remnants appear barren. Rich in history, the guide explains how the African leaders traded 15 strong men, or 21 perfectly proportioned women to the Portuguese, for each cannon that they needed to fight their enemies. The kings gained their riches by trading their own people. It is interesting to hear our guides blame the African leaders for initiating trading of people for goods, primarily weapons.                                                                                                                                                                      After this tour, we walk through the market and see a more realistic fetish market, where local people purchase items.

This market looks pretty much like a garbage dump, and the fetish stands reek of rotting flesh. Scrawny chickens roam around the filth, being gathered twenty at a time for sale.

“Here in Benin, we eat local chickens,” Apollo says. “Not like the imported fowl you get in the hotels around Accra.”

Gathering Chickens

Ironically, about one-half hour later, the three of us sit and eat a fried, scrawny chicken at restaurant “Chez Monique’. The couscous tasted terrific, and luckily, the chicken does not have much meat, and we have “Cipro” back in the room.

Scooter rides back to the hotel, and then we’re off to the Voodoo ceremony.

Restorative Justice Voodoo Style

Theo, the proprietor, joins us for breakfast. He speaks French, so our conversation is rather limited until Apollo shows up to translate. Meanwhile, we watch children cast their nets into the shallow lake, hoping to fill them with Tilapia.

            We jump into a taxi, en route to the town of Abomey. Passing through several villages, changing cars, we learn that Saturday marks a major market day. A good distance out into the countryside, we pass a small, mud-hut village, and Apollo makes the driver stop the car. He exits, while children come to our window and wave, shake hands with us, and giggle. The kids find us as fascinating as we find them.

            Apollo returns. “The elder men in the village are getting ready for a Voodoo ceremony. I’m trying to get permission from the Voodoonou for you to photograph them.”

            The Voodoonou must consult the spirits. Eventually, we are granted permission.

            Voodoo ceremonies have many purposes, and most seem similar to praying for good things to happen. This particular ceremony involves a member of the village, who had had something stolen from him. He consults the Voodoonou, and agrees to provide a goat, or it could be a chicken if he cannot afford a goat, for sacrifice.

After this ceremony, every villager is asked if they were the one who had stolen the item. If the person who steals the item denies doing it, he will die on the spot. The human skulls which anchor the fetish display give credence to this claim. Fetish priests can specialize in this power to cause death, but only after a long and complex, traditional ceremony. If the thief admits to stealing the item, he must restore it to the victim, along with an additional gift.

I'm Innocent!

We are not permitted to watch this ceremony, but are privileged to be able to take a few photos.

As retired criminal justice professionals, Mare and I cannot help to correlate this concept of “Restorative Justice” to our profession. And we think of ourselves as pioneers of a new idea? This Voodoo origin predates all of us. 

Apollo insists that prior to the introduction of Christianity, thievery was not an issue. We are not so sure about that claim, but it’s an interesting comment .

Grasscutter

No Helmet Law in Benin

Busses and Tro-tros disappear. Taxis and motor scooters replace them as the primary form of public transit. We notice harsher conditions in the French-speaking countries of Togo and Benin.

            “In the English speaking countries, people walk, then they get a car,” Apollo explains. “In the French speaking ones, people walk, then bicycle, then many get a motor scooter, and a few of them get cars.”

            We pay an extra fare to the taxi driver, so that three of us can sit in the back seat, rather than the usual four passengers. Three also sit in the front seat. Mind you, the cars are no larger than an economy size vehicle. We drive through a more lush countryside in Benin, than in Togo, and notice that most people garb in very colorful, traditional attire. The dwellings, in small villages we pass, often are made from mud-brick and palm thatched roofs.

Fill'er up

Gas stations become roadside stands, with a variety of shapes and sizes of bottles, full of gas, and on display. At first, I think that they are selling palm wine. (African moonshine)

Traditional Attire and Transport

            The religious breakdown in Benin is: 20%Muslim; 30%Christian, and 50% traditional belief such as Animism and Voodoo, which is practiced under the name of Fetishism. Christians and Muslims also practice some forms of Voodoo. All religions coexist peacefully and respectfully.

            Our US dollars mean nothing here, and we cannot even exchange them for CFAs, the currency for all French speaking countries. At a rare automatic teller, $200,000CFAs equal about $400US dollars, which maxes out my daily banking limit.

            We ride the final leg of our journey today on the back of small scooters. Bouncing overtop gravel and dirt roads, I am not used to riding on the back of a bike. I find it frightening at first, not being in control, but these riders quickly prove their expertise, weaving in and out of ruts, rocks, and raw sewage, as if competing in an exotic obstacle course.

            Apollo leads us to the resort “Chez Theo,” in the town of Possotome. He is proud to say that a black man owns and operates this business. Our painted clay hut looks similar to the one where we stayed back in Ghana at the KO-SA. Only, it offers a private bath/shower and air conditioner. I should mention that we have not seen a shower with hot water thus far, not that we need it, because the African sun keeps the water plenty warm.

            We relax on a stilted terrace, overtop Lake Aheme, and the three of us share beers. Apollo explains that his family has slaves, purchased a few generations ago. The slaves are like part of the family, but are not entitled to any sort of inheritance.

            “Once a foreigner, always a foreigner,” he explains. Then he pulls out a dark, plastic bag. “I have a special treat for you.”

            Apollo opens up the bag and offers us a few pieces of “Grasscutter,” the cooked meat of the “King Rodent,” that he knows we want to try. Yes…it is a rat…but a big one, who eats only grass and is hunted throughout West Africa.

            After that appetizer, we feast on the two available dinners: rabbit and fish, before calling it an evening.

And The Gods Send Us Apollo

Ghana-Togo Border

This morning we throw on our backpacks and meet Apollo, our guide, for coffee. We will travel through three countries via Public transit. So, we head for the “Lorry” station and sit in the van for about one-hour, waiting for people to fill it up. Venders sell everything from fried plantains to high-heeled shoes. Already soaked in sweat, finally the Lorry fills up, and we squeeze together like sardines in a can, en route to the border of Togo.

            Several hours later, madness and mayhem minds the border. People sell goods in clouds of dust, dodging trucks, taxis and vans, (Tro-tros). Finally, we pass through the fifth passport/immigration stop, filling out forms, happy to hop into a taxi. The driver continually beeps the horn, slowly rolling through the middle of a crowd in a market. Again, vendors sell everything from plastic banjos to baby cloths and dried fish.

Drive through the Lome market

The smoky, dust-filled air of this city of Lome, in the country of Togo, burns our eyes, and I feel like I have smoked a pack of Camel non-filters. Lome derives its name from “Alome,” the Ewe tree, which produces chewing sticks. French is the language here, and through the border, negotiating taxis, we realize that Apollo, our guide, is worth more than we could have imagined. We would still be at the border, probably detained for missing a stop, if not for him.

Apollo shows me his perfect teeth. “You see, people think that we are backward, but look at my teeth. We’ve been chewing on sticks way before the Europeans brought us toothbrushes. Everybody has good teeth.”

Okay, from this point on, I scrutinize everybody’s teeth.

Fetish Market in Togo

Our first stop is at a fetish market, “Marche’ des Feticheurs,” where a different guide gives us a tour. Dried heads of monkeys, dogs, tigers, elephants, snakes, lizards, frogs, alligators and antelopes, goats and gorillas, birds, most everything you could imagine, sit out in the sun on display. All the animals die on their own, before they get “medicined” to preserve them. The stench of decaying flesh overwhelms the smell of smoke and diesel fuel. These fetishes (Voodoo) represent white magic, good magic, and the guide explains that nothing can harm us here. The black magic of Voodoo cannot defeat the white magic at this place.

“What you see here is just a display for tourists to buy,” the guide explains. “They are not blessed yet. Now I will take you to a fetish priest, (Voodoonou) who specializes in good travels.”

We take off our shoes and walk through a curtain, hiding a back room, where the Vodoonou welcomes us. He learns our names, and blesses us individually, not looking at us, but at a statue that he pats, making a tingling sound.

All items in this room are blessed. He hands pieces to us, one by one, such as a small, carved travel god with a hole in it. You speak into the hole to ask for safe travels, and then plug the hole with a small stick. Travel with it in your pocket. After traveling is finished, you take out the stick for another time.

The bones of a variety of animals are ground, mixed with up to two hundred different herbs, and  used for healing – Elephant for elephantitis, guts of a cobra (preserved moist in a bottle) for general healing, and blessed pods to put under your pillow for good sleep. Of course, a certain stick is used for maintaining an erection, by cutting off a small piece, soaking it in water, and then drinking the water fifteen minutes later.  A man can only do this once per week. At least the guide didn’t tell me to see the Voodoonou for any erection lasting more than four hours!

We decide not to purchase any of the items here, as Apollo advises us that this market is mainly for tourists. If all goes well, we will experience a genuine ceremony in Benin, the birthplace of Voodoo.

Togo-Benin Border

When we cross the border from Togo to Benin, we again realize the value of our guide, Apollo, who directs us through several more checkpoints, and speaks not only French, but many different tribal languages as well.