Grand Popo – Benin

Although not confined to any one country, Benin is renowned, I guess, more than anywhere else as the home of Voodoo. From the outside it would be considered a religion of the dark arts, of spirits maybe not of the terrifying variety, but certainly discomforting, the kind of spirits that genuinely cause you to seriously begin questioning their existence. I woke up at 7am on our first morning in Grand Popo, a small touristy town on Benin’s narrow coast. It was only just getting light, a result of the clocks changing when we crossed the border from Togo. What’s more, a heavy, drenching mist shrouded the campsite, preventing the low-lying sun from exerting its full influence. The dew was so strong that I had to roll down the outer fly on my tent earlier in the morning to stop what I first perceived as rain falling from the tree above and keeping me awake. It was an atmosphere specifically induced for, or by, the spirits. The unusual chill said it all, a chill that would soon be replaced by incredible heat and humidity for the rest of the day. We had entered Benin late afternoon the day before. The industrial coastal road of Togo gave way to Benin’s farmers where flat fields for as far as the eye could see were irrigated and planted with a huge variety of crops. I am sure most is shipped off to the city, but it looked impossible that the local villages couldn’t have anything other than an extremely healthy diet of fresh fruit, vegetables, and fish. 

With the morning mist gone, we headed off to a small village on the mouth of the Mono River, once a source and holding place for slaves before their transportation. Now, there is a small turtle rehabilitation centre. Apparently, these are compulsory at any spot on a beach where tourists may appear. Don’t get me wrong, I love turtles but, we probably need to be doing far more than what is barely anything greater than a petting zoo. So I gave it a miss. Don’t worry, they still got paid. We waded through a muddy riverbank and jumped on a wooden boat that I think even it was surprised to be still floating. As ever, there was no option of a lifejacket. Have you ever noticed that on really good boats lifejackets are always available, but never on the boats constantly on the verge of sinking? I mean, even planes have lifejackets should you be lucky enough to fall out of the sky. It’s just a curious observation regarding the colossal void between societies. Despite the lack of lifejackets and, a sinking boat, it didn’t matter too much because thankfully the locals had shot all the hippos that used to live in the river after one fisherman was killed when getting in the way of Africa’s biggest non-infectious disease killer. But don’t worry, tourists can visit the turtle sanctuary. The boat took us to the edge of a mangrove forest and an entrance that looked like something straight from Harry Potter’s Forbidden Forest (sound’s more evocative than intended). This was where locals would go off hunting for freshwater crabs and other goodies that lurk among the mangrove trees. It won’t surprise you to hear that if you look on Google Maps there is actually very little mangrove remaining. Strange, considering their ability to provide food, suck up a heinous amount of carbon, and protect coastal villages from flooding. My guess is that the Voodoo shrines dotted all over the village we paid a visit to provide all the protection and nourishment required by the local populace. It was a strange village, a mix of old colonial buildings falling into disrepair, traditional village housing, and shrines of many – despite what I said earlier – terrifying things. Things is the only noun I can think of. The most popular ‘thing’ looked a lot like a mouldy Humtpy Dumty. One appeared to be melting into the ground, while another was sporting an erect penis of such epic proportion it would make the Pope look twice.  

Despite my sarcasm, it had been a nice morning and we returned to camp for a spot of lunch and some more time in the sauna, that is, anywhere other than the swimming pool. After 50 days, the heat is starting to catch up with me a little. I’m not one to complain about heat in hot countries but I have to admit that it is borderline unbearable on the Benin coast. No, it is unbearable. The smell of vinegar follows me everywhere. I can put on a fresh t-shirt and pair of pants and within minutes they will be soaked with sweat, the smell of soap flushed out from my pores before I’ve dried off from a shower. Alongside this, my body is beginning to break down. Maybe not like that of early European explorers to the continent, but I am getting a little understanding into how they struggled so much on years’ long expeditions and the absence of modern stuff. My wear-and-tear miniscule problems, other than the heat, include a random rash on my calf that has been with me since Freetown, a cold sore, one or two gutsy ‘wobbles’ and, backpain induced simply by sleeping wrong, or more recently, bending over to wash a plate. Absolutely nothing to worry about, but irritating nonetheless. There were two possible treatments for restoring or forgetting about my health, Voodoo, and rum.

I started with Voodoo, leaving at 3.30am we headed down the road to a local village where we would see a Voodoo ceremony performed for us. Down as a trip highlight, even I was interested to see this play out, and being a religious ceremony, I felt safe from the possibility of being made to dance. We arrived at the village at 4pm and were ushered through the sandy streets to an open area with benches at one end. A couple of drummers were already playing as we found ourselves sat adjacent to a shrine with Humpty Dumpty puffing on a lit cigarette. Before anything had really began there was an eery atmosphere produced no doubt by anticipation, but also the shade cast by a large tree, the glowing sky caused by a setting sun, and the usual change in pastel colours that accompany such times of day. A Dalek then appeared. A cone shaped, tassely, colourful, man-height, sorry, person-height, Dalek with a cap. It was undoubtedly a spirit despite the fact it walked like a person. But then our guide wasn’t too good at filling us in with the plot and its characters. The cone-shaped spirit dawdled awkwardly to the smoking Humpty Dumpty and a shot of clear liquid was offered up by one of the spirit’s human escorts. As with all these events, the spirits are accompanied by a support crew of mortals that ensure the spirit’s mystery is maintained for the audience. This process was repeated another three times until a line of four spirits presented themselves on the sandy dance floor/stage. Every now and then they would wobble hilariously as though they had just been tasered. Then began something. I don’t know how to describe it. The spirits began to run around, pirouetting at an impressive rate that caused the tassels to take off, and no doubt the man inside, sorry, the spirit to feel increasingly sick. By now the drummers were in full swing, a crowd of women had joined in with singing, chanting, and dancing, and the remainder of the village was crowded around the perimeter of the performance. Sporadically, a spirit would spin towards the crowd causing them to disperse in every direction, children running in simultaneous joy and concern. Several times the spirts deposited live crabs as they span that caused a rush of villagers to collect as many crabs as possible, I assume a gift for the cooking pot. After 90 minutes, one of the spirits stopped in the middle of the stage, wobbled for a while, got covered in flakes of corn, and was lifted up by its support crew, tipped over, and showed to the watching crowd to prove there was no mortal inside. The spirit had, however, given birth to another Humpty Dumpty in scenes not to dissimilar to that in Benjamin Button, a wrinkled, aged, blob of something with only a face and no extremities. We were invited up for a closer look. Benjamin wobbled just enough to suggest he was animate, I suppose possessed, but I still have no idea what any of it meant. Soon enough a parental spirit returned, was placed over Benjamin, some faffing took place, and the spirit twirled away. The inevitable then happened. Two women danced over and grabbed me and our truck driver Rosana, pulling us up to dance, there was no escape, I turned red, resisted the tempting hands of death, and inelegantly danced my way through as the rest of the group looked on in pure delight. The ceremony had lasted two and a half hours, the drummers hadn’t stopped for the entire duration. I was done, ready for my dinner and some red wine. Reminiscent of the golden days, wine led to a bottle of rum, which led to a swimming pool. I woke the following morning, cloaked in spiritual mist, with sore back, rash still on leg, and the addition of a sore head. It would seem I am yet to harness any control over either Voodoo or rum.

23^rd January 2024