A Walker in the Suburbs

Too cold for me here. I’m going back to Africa. Not just for the hot sun and the balmy breezes, but for the colorful, always-summery cotton fabrics.

No more wool sweaters, high turtlenecks, thick socks. No more layers. I’ll live in the land of eternal heat with a pagne to cover me. Before I visited Benin, I never knew how versatile two meters of cloth could be, how from them you can fashion a headscarf, a skirt, a towel or a baby sling.

Because I visited during the dry season, the African landscape was mostly brown. The color came from the clothes. Not just the women’s but the men’s too. Bold patterns, bright hues, unusual combinations — I was filled with joy just looking at a street corner or a market, seeing the swirl of colors gathered there. And remembering them now warms me up completely.

Metro delays this morning, temperature in the teens.  Time for a virtual vacation. Today’s trip is to  Tanougou Falls, which the locals (and all French-speaking, I believe) call chutes.

We pulled up tired, dusty, minds still reeling from Parc Pendjari and the close-up view of baboons, elephants and what turns out to have been a young cheetah. Our van was almost snagged on the rutted, rocky road to the small restaurant and souvenir stand that guards the entrance to the falls.

We were immediately surrounded by a staff of willing guides. It was a short walk to the first falls, picturesque but small. Many eager hands to lead the way. But no, said the guides, this was just the beginning. There’s another chute ahead, up and over those boulders.

One of our party said no go, her knees were sore. I waited a bit, sized up the endeavor. There was a scramble over rocks that were under water, but the more I looked the more I thought I could do it. “Tres facile,” said one guide. “Be careful,” said another.

When I nodded yes, Mr. “Tres Facile” took one hand and Mr. “Be Careful” took another. It was perfect. The push toward adventure, cautiously approached. Each step was carefully chosen and pointed out: “Ici … ici … tres facile … be careful.”

And before long we were there, Tanougou Falls. A perfect bowl of a setting, water deep enough to swim in. Gorgeous chute, angling, spilling, gleaming. Idyllic, except for one problem — I had to get back.

But I did, of course, thanks to Mr. Tres Facile and Mr. Be Careful, who were rightly rewarded for their toil.

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!