It is amazing how good energy attracts good energy
.
The next day I woke up feeling positive and determined. My sickness and the delay in getting my visa had cost me a lot of time. I had three days left to spend in Benin, to find some Voodoo and get back to Ghana so I could fly out of West Africa. A guy at the hotel had scrawled on my guide book map where I might find some Voodoo. Two more positive interactions that morning from helpful strangers and I found myself sitting in a share taxi waiting for one more person to fill the car so we could leave. It gave me time to contemplate the visually odd effects of colonialism (the shallow stuff not the bigger issues such as debt, dependency exploitation and Christianity). For breakfast I had eaten a croissant, I rode to the taxi rank on cobblestone streets, people passed me calling ‘bonjour madam moiselle’. Yet beside these quaint additions were stereotypical African images: the houses were made of red clay, the women wore traditional sheets of bright patterns and next to the woman selling baguettes was another woman selling fufu and goat meat. It was the French features that looked peculiar.
I had been wrong in thinking they were waiting for just one more passenger to fill the taxi, a mistake I often made in Africa, two men came and were squished in the front seat and I found myself yet again wedged in the back in between two very large, very brightly dressed African mammas. The squeeze in the back was so tight that my knees were propped against the back of the man in front and my arms were outstretched and crossed in front of me.
I made it to Ouidah, a town west of the capital where I was told I might find traditional fetish practices, I checked into a hotel and went straight out again. First stop was Temple des Pythons. A small oval shaped, walled in space with a few shabby shrines and a room full of pythons. The man who showed me around draped a few of the snakes over my shoulders which was fine until one of them curled its body around my neck and slowly I could feel the air compressing out and I calmly asked him to take it off, using what potentially could have been my last few breaths.
He explained some of the Voodoo practices and beliefs: he told me that the python is their God; that shedding the blood of animals on the roots of a tree is practiced for blessings of a fruitful life; and that bathing in water after a virgin girl has is done for purity. He showed me the scars on his face: five lines on both sides like the five lines on both sides of a python’s mouth. He and other children of voodoo followers are given these markings at birth. He had two scars between the eyes, two on his cheek bones beside his nose and two on either side of his eyes. I spent the rest of the day playing 'spot the voodoo guy' by searching for people in the streets with these markings.
Next stop was Route de Enclaves, I took a zemi-john down the 4km track where in the 1700’s and 1800’s slaves were marched in chains from a Portuguese fort to the beach to be sailed away to foreign lands. As soon as I got to the beach I was stopped by a very dark man in long white robes which wrapped around his mouth and over his head leaving only his eyes visible. It was quite an image: the bright pristine white of his flowing dress against a back drop of warm red sand and dark grey ocean. He told me his name is Assane and he is Tuareg from Northern Niger on the edge of the Sahara. I didn’t know all that much about Taureg nomads except a romanticised image I had of a silhouetted line of camels and caravans stretching atop a red desert hill. I could imagine the red setting sun behind them casting stretched shadows over the nothingness of the empty barren desert. He said his family are silversmiths and sent him to Benin to sell their jewellery. Obligingly I looked at his jewellery but I was far more interested in knowing his story. He removed the robes that hid his face and a sparse row of crooked brown teeth grinned at me. He told me he is thirty and a twin which means he is full of good luck and he leaned in toward me and lowered his voice to slyly tell me he is not married but looking for a wife. I brushed him off and left for the beach. He called out to me that he will make me tea and I half waved behind me, swatting away his offer like I was swatting away a fly.
Heading toward the beach I was stopped by another man. His face was covered in scales like a snake, I think I hid my shock well until he took my hand and I winced at the feeling of his swollen hand, three times the size of what it should have been, like a latex glove that had been blown up, his stubby fingers popped out the sides. It too was scaly like a snakes skin. I wondered what the voodoo believers thought of him – half snake half man. I brushed him off too, due to pity I was more polite then I had been to Assane, and I gingerly crossed the burning red sand and stood at the base of the crashing waves.
The sea was rough and the pull was strong. It definitely was not safe to swim which was an excruciating tease as my skin was yet again turning red in the afternoon heat. It was bliss, I stood letting the waves crash around my legs and for twenty whole minutes not a single person tried to talk to me. The energy of the ocean with the serenity of not being hassled left me feeling high, so high that when I passed Assane again on the way out I actually said yes to his offer of tea.
Assane led me onto the sand where wedged in the shade between two shrubs only a meter high he had set up a blanket, a tea pot and two small tea cups. He used an intricately patterned silver scoop to pour ‘traditional desert tea’ into a tea pot balancing over a small flame. He added two full scoops of sugar and then poured it between the pot and the cup a couple of times to mix it up. He offered me a cup but before I took a sip he said:
“The first sip is difficult like life… The second sip is good for love. It tastes like love. It is easy”.
I took a sip, it had impact, it tasted strong, bitter and sickly sweet. It was distinctly spicy, almost like a chai tea with lots of chilli and too much burnt sugar. I couldn’t tell if I liked the taste or not so I had another sip. And to my amazement the second sip tasted smooth with a much more subtle flavour, it wasn’t sickly at all but quite moreish. “Like magic!” I exclaimed dumbly. Literally there was seconds between sips and it was like sipping two totally different drinks.
We sat wedged between the shrubs attempting conversation, mostly about my fictitious fiancée and me making excuses for why I would rather stay at a hotel then at his house. I suddenly started to feel really ill, and I have to shamefully admit that for a minute I did wonder if the tea was poisoned. I tried to rationalise it though, I was still sick and highly dosed up on Imodium, and he did drink some tea as well. I told Assane I felt ill and had to leave. He asked me if I would spend the next day with him. I told him that I couldn’t, I had plans to see a voodoo doctor.
“I will take you” he told me.
“Really? You know one?” I asked way too keen.
“Come back tomorrow morning, 9am and I will take you to see him”.
I shook his hand and left, jumping on a zemi I spent the ride back to the hotel trying not to vomit on the riders shoulder. I stood under the cold shower for 15 minutes trying to bring my temperature down. I was dizzy and dry-retching, but still I couldn’t control my excitement. The next morning I would be seeing a voodoo doctor. I didn’t know what to expect, I had no clue what I was in for, but I was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve.
.
The next day I woke up feeling positive and determined. My sickness and the delay in getting my visa had cost me a lot of time. I had three days left to spend in Benin, to find some Voodoo and get back to Ghana so I could fly out of West Africa. A guy at the hotel had scrawled on my guide book map where I might find some Voodoo. Two more positive interactions that morning from helpful strangers and I found myself sitting in a share taxi waiting for one more person to fill the car so we could leave. It gave me time to contemplate the visually odd effects of colonialism (the shallow stuff not the bigger issues such as debt, dependency exploitation and Christianity). For breakfast I had eaten a croissant, I rode to the taxi rank on cobblestone streets, people passed me calling ‘bonjour madam moiselle’. Yet beside these quaint additions were stereotypical African images: the houses were made of red clay, the women wore traditional sheets of bright patterns and next to the woman selling baguettes was another woman selling fufu and goat meat. It was the French features that looked peculiar.
I had been wrong in thinking they were waiting for just one more passenger to fill the taxi, a mistake I often made in Africa, two men came and were squished in the front seat and I found myself yet again wedged in the back in between two very large, very brightly dressed African mammas. The squeeze in the back was so tight that my knees were propped against the back of the man in front and my arms were outstretched and crossed in front of me.
I made it to Ouidah, a town west of the capital where I was told I might find traditional fetish practices, I checked into a hotel and went straight out again. First stop was Temple des Pythons. A small oval shaped, walled in space with a few shabby shrines and a room full of pythons. The man who showed me around draped a few of the snakes over my shoulders which was fine until one of them curled its body around my neck and slowly I could feel the air compressing out and I calmly asked him to take it off, using what potentially could have been my last few breaths.
He explained some of the Voodoo practices and beliefs: he told me that the python is their God; that shedding the blood of animals on the roots of a tree is practiced for blessings of a fruitful life; and that bathing in water after a virgin girl has is done for purity. He showed me the scars on his face: five lines on both sides like the five lines on both sides of a python’s mouth. He and other children of voodoo followers are given these markings at birth. He had two scars between the eyes, two on his cheek bones beside his nose and two on either side of his eyes. I spent the rest of the day playing 'spot the voodoo guy' by searching for people in the streets with these markings.Next stop was Route de Enclaves, I took a zemi-john down the 4km track where in the 1700’s and 1800’s slaves were marched in chains from a Portuguese fort to the beach to be sailed away to foreign lands. As soon as I got to the beach I was stopped by a very dark man in long white robes which wrapped around his mouth and over his head leaving only his eyes visible. It was quite an image: the bright pristine white of his flowing dress against a back drop of warm red sand and dark grey ocean. He told me his name is Assane and he is Tuareg from Northern Niger on the edge of the Sahara. I didn’t know all that much about Taureg nomads except a romanticised image I had of a silhouetted line of camels and caravans stretching atop a red desert hill. I could imagine the red setting sun behind them casting stretched shadows over the nothingness of the empty barren desert. He said his family are silversmiths and sent him to Benin to sell their jewellery. Obligingly I looked at his jewellery but I was far more interested in knowing his story. He removed the robes that hid his face and a sparse row of crooked brown teeth grinned at me. He told me he is thirty and a twin which means he is full of good luck and he leaned in toward me and lowered his voice to slyly tell me he is not married but looking for a wife. I brushed him off and left for the beach. He called out to me that he will make me tea and I half waved behind me, swatting away his offer like I was swatting away a fly.
Heading toward the beach I was stopped by another man. His face was covered in scales like a snake, I think I hid my shock well until he took my hand and I winced at the feeling of his swollen hand, three times the size of what it should have been, like a latex glove that had been blown up, his stubby fingers popped out the sides. It too was scaly like a snakes skin. I wondered what the voodoo believers thought of him – half snake half man. I brushed him off too, due to pity I was more polite then I had been to Assane, and I gingerly crossed the burning red sand and stood at the base of the crashing waves.
The sea was rough and the pull was strong. It definitely was not safe to swim which was an excruciating tease as my skin was yet again turning red in the afternoon heat. It was bliss, I stood letting the waves crash around my legs and for twenty whole minutes not a single person tried to talk to me. The energy of the ocean with the serenity of not being hassled left me feeling high, so high that when I passed Assane again on the way out I actually said yes to his offer of tea.
Assane led me onto the sand where wedged in the shade between two shrubs only a meter high he had set up a blanket, a tea pot and two small tea cups. He used an intricately patterned silver scoop to pour ‘traditional desert tea’ into a tea pot balancing over a small flame. He added two full scoops of sugar and then poured it between the pot and the cup a couple of times to mix it up. He offered me a cup but before I took a sip he said:
“The first sip is difficult like life… The second sip is good for love. It tastes like love. It is easy”.
I took a sip, it had impact, it tasted strong, bitter and sickly sweet. It was distinctly spicy, almost like a chai tea with lots of chilli and too much burnt sugar. I couldn’t tell if I liked the taste or not so I had another sip. And to my amazement the second sip tasted smooth with a much more subtle flavour, it wasn’t sickly at all but quite moreish. “Like magic!” I exclaimed dumbly. Literally there was seconds between sips and it was like sipping two totally different drinks.
We sat wedged between the shrubs attempting conversation, mostly about my fictitious fiancée and me making excuses for why I would rather stay at a hotel then at his house. I suddenly started to feel really ill, and I have to shamefully admit that for a minute I did wonder if the tea was poisoned. I tried to rationalise it though, I was still sick and highly dosed up on Imodium, and he did drink some tea as well. I told Assane I felt ill and had to leave. He asked me if I would spend the next day with him. I told him that I couldn’t, I had plans to see a voodoo doctor.
“I will take you” he told me.
“Really? You know one?” I asked way too keen.
“Come back tomorrow morning, 9am and I will take you to see him”.
I shook his hand and left, jumping on a zemi I spent the ride back to the hotel trying not to vomit on the riders shoulder. I stood under the cold shower for 15 minutes trying to bring my temperature down. I was dizzy and dry-retching, but still I couldn’t control my excitement. The next morning I would be seeing a voodoo doctor. I didn’t know what to expect, I had no clue what I was in for, but I was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve.
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