A Walker in the Suburbs

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.

We woke early, jumped on motorcycle taxis in the dark and by daybreak were cruising east and south on the ATT Busline. This bus had air conditioning and loud Beninese music — which I stopped hearing after a couple of hours.

“You’ve been in every region of Benin, Mom,” Suzanne said as we drew closer to Cotonou. And I have to say, I feel like it. Traveling cross-country here is not for the faint of heart. Come to think of it nothing much here  is.

It will take me days, weeks, probably months to digest the last seven days — and I had time to start digesting before we got home since we sat for more than 45 minutes in a traffic jam. Yep, they have ’em here, too.

It’s as close to these animals as I’ll ever be — or want to be! At Parc Pendjari we saw antelope, bison, baboons, hippos, warthogs, a small leopard and lots of elephants — some of them close enough that we prepared for a quick getaway in case they charged.

For the last few hours, Suzanne and I rode on the top of the van, where, with a little imagination, you could be flying over those waving grasses, those acrid plains. The antelope bounding, the elephants spraying their backs with the fine red dust that has made its way into my pores. The baobab trees with baboons munching their fruit.

Finally, I couldn’t resist. The tune had been in my head all day, so I fished the iPod out of my purse, found the theme song for “Out of Africa” and pushed play. I stuck one bud in my ear and the other in Suzanne’s. It was hokey but it was also perfect. It was a soundtrack for the moment, for the sights and sounds and smells of Africa.

I’ve learned something new: If you’re taking three bush taxis in a day, it’s wise to ride shotgun. Luckily, Suzanne already knew this, so she made sure I was sitting up next to the driver in the ancient Peugots.

There were five people crammed in the back seat and three in the far back. In the front, there was just the driver and me until the last leg when Suzanne joined us — and, for the last few miles, also a petite young woman with ceremonial scars on her face who was none too happy to be crammed into our group.

About five miles from our destination the car broke down. Everyone waited patiently for an hour or so, when a replacement car came zooming up to take us away.

We started and finished the day with motorcycle taxis and are now preparing to visit Parc Pendjari, in hopes of seeing elephants and rhinos if not lions and tigers and bears.

But for now, a day to recuperate. Riding shotgun makes it better, but a bush taxi is a bush taxi!

(Luckily, most of our roads were paved.) 

To spend two days in Toura is to go back in time and forward in time, is to meet at least a hundred people, none of whom speak English.

It’s to wander through a village on the edge of the Sahel under a full moon.

It’s to drink Beninoise beer, eat a freshly killed and grilled guinea fowl and learn two Bariba words: abwado and alafiya (both spelled phonetically here!).

It’s to go to Sunday mass and hear Ibo songs accompanied by hand claps, dancing children and an earnest drummer who looks up to heaven in rapture as he pounds out the ancient rhythm.

It’s to wonder what we lost when stopped living together in community.

Twelve hours on a bus has taken us to the north of Benin, where the call to prayer echoes from one mosque to another, where French and Bariba are spoken in one breath. So many impressions, so little time. Best today to capture it in pictures.

The first post of 2015 finds me sitting on a stool in Suzanne’s little living room. A ceiling fan whirrs above and traffic noise filters in from the street. The new year is getting lost in the shuffle for me, since I’m getting to know a new country, a new continent.

Take last night, for instance. In retrospect New Year’s Eve seemed a good day to arrive. There was a festive atmosphere abroad in the land, people preparing for the celebration. “Bonne Fete!” they said. Have a good holiday. (There’s another phrase specifically for Happy New Year but I’ve already forgotten it.)

What I hadn’t accounted for — but should have — was the racket that lasted past 1 a.m. Firecrackers that seemed to be exploding right outside the window, the high-pitched voices of Beninese women singing. Dogs parking, horns honking. And then, just as I was drifting off, roosters crowing.

It certainly was a memorable New Year’s Eve; I doubt I’ll have another like it. As for resolutions, mine so far are simple. Eat right, drink only bottled water and work up enough courage to ride a motorcycle taxi. I’m almost there!