A Walker in the Suburbs

There’s a reason why I’m eating a turkey sandwich at 6 a.m. It’s lunchtime in Benin!

I taste the tart lemonade I found at one of the local supermarches along the drowsy lanes of Haie Vive. I hear the revved motors of the zemidjahns as they halt at Place des Martyrs. I see Suzanne dashing out to buy beans and rice.

She will have been up six hours already, have walked 45 minutes to her office near Etoile Rouge, have made phone calls and finalized arrangements for an upcoming business trip; she will have spoken with at least several friends who beeped her to say good morning, in the Beninese style.

Travel gives us many gifts, and one of the best is perspective, shaking us out of routines and habits, reminding us it’s a big old world. In this regard jet lag is a willing accomplice. It’s a souvenir of our wanderings, our body’s way of saying not so fast — you were really there, you know, living on Greenwich Mean Time, just six degrees above the equator.


(Street meat in Cotonou. No thanks!)

Most people in Benin speak a couple of languages, but whether they’re saying farewell in Bariba or Fon or French they usually add an Americanism at the end. “Bye-bye!” they say, with a funny little vocal uptick at the end.

I started this post a couple of days ago, but the Internet key wasn’t working and for a while I wasn’t working very well either (the country requires an iron stomach!) and then … it was time to go.

But not without a final adventure. The zem drivers that took Suzanne and me to the airport decided to take a dirt road. Yes, a dirt road, in the city, to the airport. They were bumping and skidding and sliding so much that I gave up saying “doucement” and started exclaiming “Oh, my God!”

“What if we’d had an accident my last few hours in the country?” I said to Suzanne as we dismounted the bikes and took off our helmets.

“People here say that Benin doesn’t want to let you go,” she explained, only partially in jest. And yes, I could see that. It is a place of magic and chaos and unruly good cheer.

But I did leave — boarded the big silver bird, flew back to this clean, orderly place, where there are cars and hot showers and flush toilets.  

I won’t stop thinking about Benin, of course, and I”ll write about it plenty. But for today, for now, it’s bye-bye, Benin.

For the most part, Benin turns its back on the beach. Many Beninese can’t swim, and few people fish. There are a few hotels along the coastline in Cotonou but for much of Benin’s oceanfront, beaches are trash-strewn and deserted. What a marvelous natural resource untapped and unclaimed!

As my visit here winds to a close I wanted to spend a couple days at a real beach resort, so we came to the Auberge de Grand Popo, which is sur la plage (on the beach) and within spitting distance of Togo.

The trash, it will always be with us. But it doesn’t matter much here. The natural beauty of the place overwhelms it. We went to sleep last night to the sound of surf, and I’m listening to the waves as I write this post. It’s palmy and shady and gorgeous. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself!

It’s like sleeping inside a cloud, all this mosquito net business. Sometimes the nets are suspended from hooks in the ceiling or walls, turning the bed into a circus tent. Other times, they are draped over four posters reminding me of the canopy bed I slept in as a girl — only with gauzy netting instead of a frilly top.

Though I’m visiting Benin in the dry season, I’ve used a net most every night. It keeps other bugs away, too, especially those three-inch roaches that thrive here.

Besides, the mosquito net is evocative; it’s humid tropical nights, Graham Greene novels and ceiling fans. It’s far more than a way to keep the bugs away.

When it’s too far or too dangerous to walk there’s always a zemidjan, a word that is not only onomatopoeic (zoom zoom = zem zem) but poetic in other ways. Its literal translation is “get me there fast.”

And get you there fast it does. My first zem ride was at night in Cotonou, which is a bit like diving into the deep end before you can swim.  Suzanne had chosen what appeared to be a steady, safe driver and had admonished him with “C’est ma mama” and “Doucement!” (be careful). And I guess in a way he was. But careening into a roundabout on a peppy motorcycle while scores of other aggressive drivers jockey for position, darting in and out between the cars, is enough to take your breath away.

Yesterday’s zem ride was one of the longest. I do what I always do now. I cast my fate to the winds and to this complete stranger. I take a deep breath, hop on the rear of the moto, place my feet carefully on the rests (avoiding the exhaust pipe!) and hang on for dear life.

And before I know it … we’ve reached our destination. I’ve gotten there … fast!

Cotonou is a lively, bustling metropolis. It has paved roads and unpaved roads, roundabouts and all manner of alleys, cul-de-sacs and more. It is a little skimpy on sidewalks, though.

Half of each narrow walkway consists of stone blocks straddling a public sewer. About one of every twenty blocks is cracked or missing, so you must step carefully to avoid falling into the muck and twisting your ankle. The other half of the sidewalk is commandeered by merchants hawking pineapples, fried plantains, gasoline, soap powder, grilled meat, beignets (a Cotonou specialty) — most anything you can imagine (including coffins!) in a cacophonous jumble. 

All of which is to say that my primary means of urban discovery has been difficult to practice. Suzanne has definitely tried to get me out. We’ve walked around her neighborhood enough that I could find my way there and back. We’ve trekked to the beach (less than three miles from her house) and made the much shorter trip to church and various markets.

But these are not ruminative rambles. They’re more like panicked scrambles as I try to avoid the zems, which may decide to use the sidewalk, too, and the unwanted attention of school children, who chant “yovo” (foreigner) and are not afraid to pull your hair.

So imagine my delight at being parked here in Haie Vive, a quiet neighborhood of wider walks, calmer traffic, cafes, markets, even a bakery.  I can look around as I stroll, instead of watching every step. I can snap photos of streetscapes and hidden balconies. I can imagine what it would be like to live in this place.

On Saturday we drove down the Slave Road that leads from the village of Ouidah to the beach. Slaves were marched down this road in chains, past the Tree of Forgetting, where they would be branded and forced to walk around the tree to forget their homes and families. The tree is gone, replaced by a shrine to the Voodoo goddess Mamiwata.

Along the route is a statue of a lower leg in chains, which represents one of the many indignities these men and women were forced to endure. The prisoners were bound so tightly together that if one died (and many did before even reaching the ships), the easiest way to unhitch him from the others was to simply cut off the leg above the chain.

The final stage of departure was when the slaves boarded longboats that would take them out to ships, which would transport them across the ocean — often to Brazil.

Today that spot is marked by a gateway with murals and Voodoo revenants representing the spirits of the dead. The slaves knew their bodies would never return to these pleasant shores — so they counted on their souls to do the job.

At home I throw in a load of laundry, sweep or write or do something else, then move the clothes from washer to dryer, sweep or write or do something else again, then fold and put away.

Here’s it’s a bit different. We draw two tubs of water, grab powdered soap, add clothes and rub. One tub is for washing; the other for rinsing. Because we’ve been traveling widely in dusty places, we must empty both tubs before the “load” is through.

The tubs, I should mention, are on the tile floor in the bathroom, which is a corner of the kitchen separated by a partial wall. There’s a shower (no stall), a faucet for filling buckets, a toilet (blessed, beautiful toilet!) and a sink.

Washing the clothes is an athletic endeavor, involving much standing, bending at the waist, energetic scrubbing, intense wringing and the use of muscles (in my hands, for instance), that I didn’t know I had.

The best part is last: Hanging the clothes on the line to dry. It doesn’t take long here. In a couple of hours I bring in a pile of clean clothes, crisped and sweetened by the sun.

Today we traveled to the village of Ouidah, where thousands of people flock each year to receive a blessing from the town’s voodoo chief.

Voodoo is one of Benin’s official religions, and though I’ve yet to meet anyone who claims it as their faith, the whole nation is imbued with magic. Superstition, karma, gris-gris, amulets, protection rings — these are all part of everyday life.

So today when the dancers gathered and the singers chanted and the drummers drummed we were there to catch it on camera.