Not even a month after returning from Papua New Guinea in October, she had me scrambling around this last-minute, left-field idea to "drop" into West Africa. Meet Milkana, a tech start-up entrepreneur with a penchant for anthropological adventures, whom I had the pleasure of encountering at a tribal festival only a few weeks prior. On a year-long sabbatical extending to many corners of the globe, Milkana's wanderings certainly weren't finished with the Goroka Show, for shortly after I had just begun settling back into my mundane world of work, she was already dangling her next festival goals in front of my hungry eyes. "Any takers?!", she enthusiastically wrote in our Goroka group chat, including a link to an organized two-week tour that crisscrossed the republics of Benin, Togo, and Ghana, a three-day voodoo spiritual and cultural festival mentioned as the excursion's main highlight. My heart jumped at the idea of another ethnographic event, in a region of Africa I had yet to step foot, and with a new travel companion who shared my indigenous interests. And then came the heart-wrenching $5000 price tag at the end of the itinerary. Not including airfare, which would exceed $1500 for me, it simply wasn't feasible for my lowly American scientist budget, especially having already dropped several grand on both Papua and Greenland in 2025. The only way to make it possible was to organize it ourselves, which seemed daunting given West Africa's notorious reputation for political instability, safety concerns, and a serious lack of tourism infrastructure. To add to the pressure, the festival was set to begin the first week of January 2026, meaning we had barely two months to plan an entire trip from scratch. We went ahead and bought expensive flights to Cotonou, anxiously debating about whether or not we were acting too impulsively. But once the 24-hour cancellation window expired, we were locked in. Benin, here we come?
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| Benin & Togo: Sister countries and the birthplace of Vodun (voodoo) |
Over the course of a whirlwind November, we quickly realized the consequences of our spontaneity. The world's largest voodoo festival, Vodun Days, was the biggest event on the region's calendar, attracting over thousands people to the tiny town of Ouidah. With that, nearly every option for accommodation had already been booked out six months in advance, forcing us to scrounge for any available place to put our pillow. It was a logistical nightmare, reaching out to an endless lineup of hotels, guesthouses, Air B&Bs, VRBOs, and even an artisan's workshop that claimed to have a communal sleeping quarter. Our desperation eventually had me messaging a Beninese property manager in Paris who in turn reached out to his mother in Ouidah about any possible rooms to rent. We were met with a few rejections, but mostly a total lack of response. Our last hope for a rental was cancelled by the owner and then relisted, with the price jumping by several hundred dollars. Thankfully, Milkana came across a French woman who finally offered us a place to stay - a pair of tents in her courtyard. Constant WhatsApp communications with faceless local guides and accommodation owners, all of whom demanded cash payments despite never definitively confirming our reservation requests, also demonstrated the challenges of West African travel logistics, even despite our collective experience with venturing in unconventional destinations.
And just when things couldn't get more complicated, Milkana sent me a news headline, the kind that no one wants to hear mere weeks before departure: "Attempted Coup d'Etat in West African Nation". Since 2020, there had been nine successful coups from Guinea to Gabon (twice each in Mali and Burkina), with Benin at the heart of the so-called "Coup Belt". Surprisingly, Benin was one of the more stable and economically-sound nations in the region, until a rogue branch of the military attempted to assassinate the president and take over the national television station. In the end, they were outnumbered by loyalist forces and military aid from Nigeria, with the rebel leader ultimately fleeing to neighboring Togo. Even this became an issue for us, as the debate over extradition began to descend into a potential diplomatic spat. With half of our trip planned for Togo and our return flights leaving from its capital, Lome, we were starting to turn blue from holding our breaths. Should we re-plan? Should we cancel? What awaited us in Cotonou, only the orishas could tell.
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| Not exactly the type of news you want to hear before your vacation |
REPUBLIC OF BENIN:
It was past midnight when I landed in the tiny empty airport of Cotonou, Benin's economic capital. The seven hour flight from Istanbul was nothing short of nightmarish, as African passengers without much air travel experience began to test the patience (and sanity) of the Turkish Airlines stewardesses, resulting in spilled food trays, toilets clogged with paper waste, and disorderly conduct. At one moment during the journey, I was even handed an absent mother's infant to look after while she tended to her other two crying children. Stepping out of the terminal, a blast of humid 30°C (86°F) air slapped me in the face. It was still sweltering at nearly 1 in the morning. as the vacant streets of Cotonou were still sparkling with the surprising twinkle of Christmas decorations in the ironic shapes of snowflakes and pine trees. A five minute airport transfer for a staggering ten dollars dropped me at the Cocotiers Guesthouse, a decaying whitewashed concrete building behind a large protective wall. There was already a discrepancy at check-in, the debate over payment in West African francs versus euros, and the sudden extra charges for air-conditioning that slipped through the cracks in the language barrier. Thankfully, Milkana stayed up to meet me, and the relief that I wasn't alone outweighed the frustrations. All I wanted after 25 hours in transit was a bed.
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| Cocotiers Guesthouse in the tranquil upscale Haie Vive district of Cotonou |
The scorching morning sun blazed over the low-lying buildings of Cotonou, a surprisingly clean city with a laid-back, almost sleepy atmosphere. Wide spotless avenues lined with manicured landscaping of tropical trees and flowering shrubs extended in parallel with the beach, an enormous expanse of silky orange sand completely void of debris. We walked along Rue 220, a major boulevard full of foreign embassy compounds, as well as a number of ongoing construction projects for both government, commercial, and residential facilities. Everything felt brand new and spacious, a truly rare sight associated with many parts of Africa, where cities are typically chaotic, congested, and collapsing. Next to the newly constructed tumuli-shaped towers of the Palais des Congres, in a vast open square without any blemish, stood a towering 30-meter sculpture gazing over the cityscape, the second tallest in Africa after a statue in Senegal. Unlike most nations choosing male rulers, generals, or military leaders to immortalize in bronze, this statue depicted a tall and stoic woman brandishing both a machete and rifle. This was a reference to the famed Agojie amazons, an elite regiment of women warriors that fought for the pre-Benin Kingdom of Dahomey from the 17th to 19th centuries, the only female army in modern history and an icon of great pride for the Beninese. Immediately, I was reminded of the period action film The Woman King starring Viola Davis, a fictional tale based on the real events behind these remarkably tough African women during the height of the Atlantic slave trade. We strolled past the square and its team of street cleaners with power washers, towards the sea where a vast orange sand beach sprawled along the azure waters forming the Gulf of Guinea. Even the beautifully smooth coastline was practically empty of people, trash, and even seaweed or shells, leaving a perplexing image that conflicted with the typical images of West Africa I had become familiar with. Was any part of this city real?
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| The massive 30-meter tall tribute to the Agojie, Dahomey's amazons |
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| Completely vacant beach running along Cotonou's coastline |
After a noontime nap during the hottest and most humid hours of the day, a resident of the guesthouse suddenly appeared on the patio, another English speaker in a country dominated by native languages and Africanized French. Meet Ruairi, a middle-aged Irishman and father on a months-long solo journey through West Africa that had already taken him from Ireland to Morocco by boat, across the Sahara to Ghana by motorbike, and now the Sahelian coastline by local transport. His experience with the nuances and challenges of independent travel in West Africa quickly turned him into a valuable source of information for me and Milkana, as we still continued to mentally process our arrival in a region we knew quite little about. For him, finally having familiar western faces to converse with seemed to break his steady streak of loneliness in a land with hardly any foreign tourists. With nothing else planned, he joined us in tracking down a tuktuk that could take us to Marche Dantokpa, the city's main market and one of the largest open-air bazaars on the continent. Ruairi's presence gave us at least a surface sense of security, as the tuktuk zipped around town and gradually left the clean and calm of our more upscale Haie Vive district. After a few miles, we finally entered the real Benin that I had originally envisioned, a scene that was quintessentially African. The chaos and colors, sights and scents of Dantokpa market were frenetic and dizzying. People veritably swarmed the narrow cluttered streets that penetrated an intimidating labyrinth of tin-roofed shops, stalls, and mobile vendors spread out across multiple city blocks. The crowds seemed to whirl around you, and despite every effort to step aside into an open space to catch a breath, you were perpetually getting in someone's way or nearly being run over by wheeled carts piled high with products. From vibrant textiles and second hand clothing, to village style kitchen wares and dated electronics, all interspersed by baskets of dried fish, giant green plantains, and unique tropical produce, the market was a sensory overload no matter in which direction you turned. Our presence as rare foreigners in a sea of black faces received many prolonged stares and chatter, though Ruairi's comical and socially interactive personality seemed to melt any tension with the locals while simultaneously attracting more attention. In several cases, people approached us to inquire about our stay in Benin, and welcoming smiles seemed to provide some ease despite so many eyes of scrutiny. I had heard that public photography often invited discontent and risky overreactions in West Africa, which made it difficult to discreetly capture the exciting market culture without someone eventually berating you in an unintelligible tongue. Nevertheless, the market was a truly fascinating place to see the genuine side of Cotonou and West Africa overall, and thankfully we later found ourselves outside of the frenzy with the contents of our pockets and bags still intact. Given the government's plans to relocate the market to a newly constructed, more organized, and characterless structure on the outskirts of town, we felt lucky to experience a scene and center of Beninese culture that is destined to disappear.
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| In the heart of Cotonou's Dantokpa Market |
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| The head is as useful as hands for carrying goods in West Africa |
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| Dried hibiscus and tamarind balls, for drinking and cooking |
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| Cramming into a tuktuk with Irish adventurer, Ruairi |
That evening, we met another resident of the guesthouse, Veronica, an older German doctor on a year-long, solo cycling expedition across the continent. She had been stuck in Benin waiting for a Ghanaian visa, a lengthy bureaucratic nightmare that she vividly vented upon us. We all strolled along an endless beach in the amber hues of the setting sun, listening to both inspiring and harrowing tales of her rides down through East Africa and around Southern Africa, before passing upward through Nigeria on to Benin and beyond. The "beyond" was currently on hold indefinitely, as she had found herself trapped in the convoluted and corrupt bureaucracy that was constantly delaying the issuance of a visa, while simultaneously running out of time on another visa. We each grabbed a weakly chilled beer at a quaint and sleepy beach bar, the humid salty breeze a somewhat sufficient relief in an area whose temperature never drops below 25°C (77°F). As dusk turned into night, we dropped into the nearby Erevan Super U, a modern middle-class supermarket with all the familiarities of home, to pick up some ready made foods like chicken pumpkin rice and French-style creamed fish with mussels. A sweaty 9 PM meal on the guesthouse terrace concluded our first full and exhausting day.
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| Strolling the beach at sunset with Ruairi and German trans-Africa cyclist, Veronica |
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| Sunset over the Gulf of Guinea |
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| A quaint and empty beachside bar to spend the (really) warm evening |
Early the next morning, we set off 20 km (12 mi) to the north, through the mayhem of rush hour traffic amidst the horns of beat-up vehicles and buzzing swarms of motorbikes. At the docks of a large lake, we met up with Theophile, a native of the area who happened to be the only English-speaking guide for the "Venice of Africa". The next six hours with him would ultimately turn into one of the most insightful and relaxing excursions I've ever experienced, a journey into the fascinating world of Benin's "floating" villages. As we jumped into a private wooden boat and set off across the undulating waters, we learned oral history and heard folkloric tales regarding the emergence of an entire tribe of people literally living in the middle of Lake Nokoué. In the era of the colonial Atlantic slave trade, many rival tribes captured and sold each other to the Portuguese, destined to toil in the plantations of Brazil and the Caribbean. One tribe sought to escape this violent trade by migrating in search of a hidden refuge. Reaching the shores of the largest lake in Benin, their chief beseeched the Vodún spirits, his prayers answered in the form of a hawk upon which he soared through the skies in search of a new home. Islands in the lake provided the best security, yet in the ancient days when many Africans could not swim, they themselves could not reach them. Yet again, the Vodún spirits were summoned, aiding the tribe by sending crocodiles to transfer them to safety and to a new home that ultimately grew into the village of Mi Gan Lé Fié, known today as Ganvié.
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| Women preparing to sell fish caught by their husbands in Lake Nokoué |
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| The boat dock of Abomey-Calavi, for barges headed to the Ganvie floating village |
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| Fisherman casting his nets. Palm frond "fences" divide the lake into individual fish farms |
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| Dancers sporting Benin's colors board our boat to make a buck |
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| A beautiful family navigating the waterways crisscrossing the village |
As we approached the largest floating village in Africa, hundreds of boats paddled their way around this Beninese "Venice", along waterways that flowed beneath silt houses and around fish farms. The vibrant activities of daily village life were all performed upon boats and canoes, from net fishing to produce selling, with barges serving as floating school buses, medical clinics, taxis, and even eateries. One barge approached us with a group of drummers and dancers, while another boat full of worshipers carried the conical grass costumes of the Zangbeto spirits. With every turn of the head, splashes of color from men's traditional bomba tunics and women's patterned head wraps whirled around on the water's reflective surface, broken up by clumps of bright purple hyacinth flowers. Theophile showed us the nature of the lake, the symbiotic relationship between fishermen and marsh birds when locating their catch in vast fish farms delineated by natural palm frond fences. The lake rotates between cycles of fresh and saltwater based on the monsoon rains, though potable water was pumped through aquifers beneath the lake bed for drinking and bathing. He guided us through some of the communities built on man-made islands, showing us gaudy sculptures dedicated to venerated ancestral kings and Vodún deities, which stood in peaceful coexistence beside the village church and mosque. Learning about the Ganvienou tribe's social structure was equally as intriguing, a mountain of information rich in ancient culture and spirituality. Only men could fish and only women could sell the fish, predetermined gender roles established based on the magical energies emitted by each sex and the perceived impurity of menstruation according to the Vodún religion. Women possessed immense control over a family's finances and decision-making, yet with her approval, her husband could seek additional wives if a more optimal distribution of tasks was necessary to benefit the family overall. Tribal justice and sentencing was administered by the village king, though crime could also invoke far greater punishment from the spirits if the culprit remained uncaught. Scarification of the cheeks could either symbolize spiritual affiliation, protect more handsome individuals from promiscuity, or simply be used to keep track of countless children in polygamist families. These insights gave such a deeper significance and understanding of the daily life we observed passing upon the water's surface. We made several stops along the route, to shop for crafts, see the interior of a local house, and take drinks at a floating bar. Though most of the day was spent leisurely cruising the lake and observing daily life, peaceful drifting was punctuated by the screams and flailing of excited children rushing to the edges of their stilt huts to get a glimpse of the rare foreigner. With cloudy skies and a breeze off the lake to help mellow the 30°C air, the day was essentially perfect. Not to mention, it was also Milkana's birthday.
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| Entering Ganvie, Africa's largest "floating" village |
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| An excited child rushes to the edge of his home to greet us as we float by |
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| One of many floating merchants in a boat overloaded with domestic goods |
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| A woman with pots of rice and stew waiting for hungry customers |
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| Inside a floating house with reed walls proudly displaying family photos |
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| Theophile was an amazing guide to his floating village |
Returning to Cotonou in the late afternoon, we spent the rest of the day on a little "mission" tracking down an obscure square in the heart of town that was purportedly marked by a tribute to an early 20th century Bulgarian communist leader. Bulgarian by birth, Milkana felt it would be rather comical to see if this dated vestige of childhood nostalgia, one that no one was particularly proud of, was still standing. We took a taxi for a couple miles to a dilapidated roundabout, where lo and behold, Georgi Dimitrov was still standing in all his garishly-painted concrete glory. The locals were exceptionally inquisitive about our presence, for not many tourists likely make a specific pilgrimage to that part of town to take photos in front of a man nobody seemed to know nor care about. Around the corner, we found an amazing strip of artisan craft shops selling exquisite souvenirs of elaborate masks, carved ebony statues, paintings, and basketry. Getting lost among so many desired goods, we ultimately lost track of time as well, suddenly finding ourselves stranded in a random part of town after dark with no taxis or tuktuks in sight. My anxiety began to grow thinking about having to traverse dark, broken streets for over an hour to reach the guest house, as well as what delinquent characters might be lying in wait along the way. Thankfully, Milkana's fluency in French helped us to flag down two motorbikes and give them directions to get us back. While not new to riding on the backs of motorbikes, I had always been fearful of them, particularly when navigating in nations with obstacles and traffic lawlessness. Clinging for my life onto the back of my driver, we sped through chaotic intersections and around giant potholes, erratically zipping our way across town even faster than by car. At one point, we passed through the scene of an accident, a man lying unconscious and surrounded by pedestrians on the side of the road, his motorbike mangled and in pieces across the lanes. It seemed almost prophetic, but thankfully we eventually made it back home with all our limbs.
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| Milkana meets a vestige of her past in an unlikely place |
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| Buying ebony carvings at Cotonou's little known artisanal shopping block |
Whirling. Thrusting. Gyrating.
Lightning motions envelope you in frenetic energy.
Sparkling. Radiating. Flowing.
Beads, brocades, and bush grass drench you in dazzling colors.
Vodún Days had begun. The world's largest festival of voodoo dances, rituals, and spirituality kicked off in the historic town of Ouidah, 50 km (30 mi) west of Cotonou along the tropical coast. Before anything can be said about this fascinating event, we must first explain the concept of voodoo, one of the most highly misunderstood aspects of West African culture and belief. Benin was a significant ancient birthplace of Vodún, an indigenous amalgamation of pan tribal doctrines, ancestor veneration, and ritual practices (though many anthropologists debate whether it should be classified as a "religion"). Based on the power of the natural world embodying local deities, spirits, and energies, Vodún has influenced nearly every aspect of traditional West African village life and society since time immemorial, continuing to do so even in the face of Abrahamic faiths introduced over the centuries by European colonists and Arab traders. With the rise of the Atlantic slave trade, Africans and their native beliefs were forcefully dispersed across the New World, evolving into localized but related faiths including Haitian Vodou, Brazilian Candomble, Cuban Santeria, and even Louisiana voodoo. Colonial white European supremacy and racism made no attempt to understand the complexities of what they viewed as "barbaric" practices, vilifying them as satanic devil worship and black magic witchcraft. Ever since, the word "voodoo" has been associated with evil curses and sinister acts of malice, which in fact couldn't be further from the truth. Voodoo was at its core no different than any other native animist belief system, relying on the supernatural, holistic medicine, and practical magic to solve domestic problems within the framework of a natural order. Many different cults arose, honoring a pantheon of spirits through invocations, music, and dance. Ouidah's voodoo festival once started as a celebration and sharing of rituals across different families, then later across villages, and eventually across nations and even continents. Held annually in early January, the free festival has greatly transformed over the decades, even being combined with music concerts and carnivals into a commercialized and organized (by Beninese definitions of the word) multi-day regional event.
Coming from Cotonou, we were dropped near the outskirts of town, on an unnamed red dirt road outside a walled compound. Owned by Regine, an older French immigrant who seemed to have a decades old love affair with Benin, her home and local guesthouse, L'air de Rien, was like a rustic bohemian art collective, a veritable Eden with its massive open courtyard garden shaded by mango and banyan trees interspersed with tropical shrubs and orchids. Hammocks, tents, and patio furniture sprawled out in between the patches of vegetation, alongside collections of local sculpture and muraled walls. Regine was our last hope of accommodation in light of our late planning, and our stay would end up being split between tents and basic rooms. Wearing a flamboyant flowing tunic while maintaining an air of equatorial nonchalance, Regine seemed made for spending her retirement running accommodations fit for both wanderlusters and artists alike.
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| L'air de Rien, Regine's tranquil guesthouse and garden |
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| Two nights in a tent on her property, as all other accommodations were booked out |
After depositing our backpacks in her family room, we immediately raced off on the back of a single motorbike (my reservations were gradually loosening) to the town center. Ouidah was a rather romantic town of clean character and equatorial charm, with quiet streets and spotless alleys of red dirt, lined on either side by patinated colonial buildings and enclosed family compounds. Small shops and businesses advertised their products and services with hand-painted signage ranging from elegant to comical. Women with woven baskets and plastic tubs towering upon their heads strolled effortlessly towards markets piled high with tropical fruits. The center was marked by the large Temple des Pythons and a sacred tree, opposite the town church. The temple was completely under scaffolding and renovation in preparation for a voodoo ritual that supposedly only occurred every seven years. Nevertheless, we were still able to enter for a rather absurd fee and were rushed around by a guide between a sacred tree (which was ironically chopped down) and a mound-shaped altar covered in the drippings of chicken blood and mystery liquids. The highlight of the otherwise awkward visit was none other than getting to pose with an actual python, one of many kept on the floor of a small sanctuary dotted with offerings and the carved head of a voodoo deity. The wild pythons, associated with one of voodoo's many spirits, were brought to the temple by devotees for safekeeping, often let out at night to eat whatever vermin they could find before being recollected and returned to the sanctuary. In addition to being venerated by locals, the sacred creatures provided a steady source of income from excited domestic and foreign tourists looking to casually wear them like scaley scarfs for dramatic selfies, for which I too was shamelessly guilty. The passive reptiles felt cool and smooth to the touch, and I briefly toyed with the idea of owning a snake as a potential pet. From the python temple, we wandered in confusion through the surprisingly empty streets of the town, trying to make sense of the festival's organization. We eventually learned that a lineup of multiple ritual performances was being conducted at various locations throughout the town and at specific times, allowing us to freely bounce among venues within relative walking distance to catch our performance of choice. The three-day long festival ensured that we would have time to see plenty of stunning dances.
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| A typical street scene in Ouidah, which was surprisingly tidy |
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| A lot of Ouidah's character is painted by hand in the form of quirky signage |
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| Many buildings are rustic remnants of the French colonial era |
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| A typical Beninese corner eatery with limited menu |
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| Inside Ouidah's main covered marketplace |
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| Piles of pythons inside a shrine at the town's main temple |
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| Voodoo shrines are usually amorphous fetishes with libations |
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| Blessed by the serpents of the Python Temple |
Before Vodún Days, the voodoo festival was a purely local celebration, where small scale rituals were held in homes, the compounds of the chieftains, or community temples. Devotees could wander the dusty streets of Ouidah to observe or partake in these rituals held all over town. The following generation of voodoo celebrations brought in more organization, hosting specific deity invocations at designated plazas and venues, with a three-day schedule of traditional dances. Fast forward to today, and the festival has gone beyond mere spirituality to include evening music concerts, festival food courts, official transportation services, and VIP access to special events, all promoted by a huge social media presence and marketing team. While many might question the authenticity of a cultural event commercially remodeled for the sake of boosting tourism, the dances and rituals themselves certainly had not changed in centuries, and the power they seemed to possess over the people felt deeply significant and completely genuine.
Walking to Place Maro, we heard drumming and commotion, the most obvious indicator that a ritual was commencing. The long rectangular court was covered in a layer of red earth, with large crowds of people on three sides, while on the fourth side stood canopies sheltering rows of chairs reserved for local tribal kings and voodoo dignitaries. To the pulsating symphony of talking drums, bells, and rattles, lavishly dressed Egungun glided down the length of the court, alternating between quick sprints and slow rhythmic swaying that allowed their flowing costumes to swirl with motion. As a troop of faceless masquerade performers in bulky layers of beautifully decorated textiles and beads, the Egungun physically manifested the ancestors of the Yoruba ethnic group in faceless form, like fantom entities of vibrant colors and textures. In the boiling heat, the sheer weight of these enclosed costumes seemed stifling and suffocating, yet the spirits danced with effortless energy. The rapid complex drumming summoned each from their seats under a canopy one at a time, bringing them into a trance as they stood before the group of drummers, before swaying their way towards the audience desperate to receive their supernatural blessings. The noise of the spectacle increased even more once they approached the barrier separating the plaza from the street filled with locals, erupting with jubilant cheers and jumping ecstatically at the proximity of the spirits. After some time passing through the entire pantheon of ancestors, the climax erupted when the metal barrier was suddenly opened, allowing the racing Egungun to plunge directly into the crowd, which scattered in every direction while being chased after by the rogue spirits. The chaos was thoroughly entertaining from a safe distance, watching locals evade being run over by their own ancestors. Though much of the symbolism was lost to me, the energy was very much present, and would only grow with every spectacular performance we'd come across.
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| A row of faceless Egungun ancestor spirits rest before becoming animated |
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| Each ancestor dances to the drum troupe before entering a trance and losing control |
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| The Egungun dance by whirling, flailing their arms, and waddling to fast-paced rhythms |
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| The Egungun pageant passes through the streets bestowing their blessings |
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| One of the tribal royal families sitting in reserved canopy seating |
Heading a few streets over to Fort Français, we witnessed one of the most iconic animations of voodoo culture, the otherworldly Zangbeto. As massive whirling cones of grass, purportedly with no one inside controlling them, the Zangbeto represented the "guardians of the night", a secret spirit police force of Ogu ethnic origins that would patrol their communities, capture evil entities, and bring them to justice. They were also frequently consulted by community leaders seeking permission to make key social decisions, many of which couldn't be passed without the stamp of approval from these mysterious life-size fetishes. The massive moving haystacks spun like tribal dervishes around the square, either swiftly or steadily, often changing abruptly without warning and nearly running over bystanders. Between them and the erratic Egungun, I never considered that one day I might possibly be flattened by a voodoo deity gone rogue. Their movements were guided by voodoo priests dressed in white clothing carrying long staffs, yelling out unintelligible phrases that I presumed were used to help direct the spirits within them along their circuit around the square. Each Zangbeto could be distinguished from one another by color patterns and fetishes attached to their peaks, whether it be a bull's horns, a carved wooden effigy, or a baboon skull, to name a few. The grass cones may have resembled giant whimsical brooms to an outsider, yet these deities possessed exceptional protective powers for the locals and were to be treated with both fear and reverence.
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| The Zangbeto, or animated grass cone, purportedly has no human operator within it |
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| The entire square was swishing around |
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| Some spirits had contact info, if you need a divine consultation |
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| The Zangbeto is one of voodoo's most famous ritual dances |
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| Practitioners of candomble, an Afro-Brazilian religious descendant of voodoo |
That afternoon, we strolled east towards the Forêt Sacrée de Kpassè, a holy grove of trees filled with Vodún totems, shrines, and cult figures in both wood and concrete. The pulsating sound of drums could already be heard from the distance, alongside rhythmic clapping and shrill vocalizations. In the center of the forest, a large circle of locals and spectators formed, men and women in bulbous grass skirts swished as their bodies bobbed up and down, swaying side to side, and jumping around in every form of aerobic movement. The intensity of their stomping footwork whipped up clouds of dust around each dancer who submitted to the power of trance. Sweat mixed with their yellow face paint reminiscent of powdered turmeric, dripped down their glistening bodies in the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. Invoking the spirit of raw energy and fire, Kokou, one woman in the group suddenly became overtaken by possession, collapsing to the ground and rolling around in ecstatic somersaults through the dust, aided by members who cleared the area and tried supporting her back to consciousness. The music and chants that welcomed the spirit were heavily percussive and exceptionally intense in their complexity, constant repetitions that became hypnotic enough to induce an alternate state of consciousness. Groups of three to four drummers, accompanied by a variety of rattles and metallophones, produced alternating rhythmic cycles that were entirely committed to memory, with flares of intricate improvisation that often lasted up to 45 continuous minutes. All female choruses bellowed out invocation chants in a classic African call-and-response manner, interspersed with shrill ululations that filled the air with an exotic ambience of pure tribal mystère. I was stunned by the level of stamina required to perform these dances and songs in the steamy heat and humidity, a madness that truly could only have been divinely bestowed.
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| The deity Papa Legba, with an excessively large phallus |
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| A voodoo fetish placed before a sacred tree shrine |
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| One of many voodoo temples in the Sacred Forest |
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| Devotees honoring Kokou, the spirit of power and energy |
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| Kokou dances were physically intense and exhausting even for the viewer |
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| A girl becomes possessed and collapses to the ground in ecstasy, aided by two older women |
After praising the spirit of Kokou, a new troupe of dancers entered the arena, creating a path for the entrance of a tall and elegantly dressed man carrying a towering vase-like object covered with flowing fabric much like a giant wedding veil. Invoking the spirit of Thron, representing happiness and prosperity, other men danced exuberantly before him in prostration before receiving a carefully executed bow in blessing, such slow and steady movements likely due to the immense weight atop his head. Additional dancers entered the chaotic circle, including men in elaborate textile drapery and capes carrying massive "barbell" like fetishes covered in red parrot feathers and held by straps like a backpack. They continuously leaned forward and stood upright, allowing the strange barbell object to roll up and down their necks. We were informed that this was an invocation of the spirit Hevioso, the god of thunder, with the barbell fetish representing a stylized bolt of lightning. Many in the arena wore distinct costumes and carried specific paraphernalia, but without any context or explanation given, the pantheon and ritual symbolism remained a complete mystery to us. Just before departing the sacred forest, we stopped by a display of Ifá (from Yoruba, or simply Fá in Fon language), a traditional divination system where specific manipulations of stones, shells, seeds, and bottles of mysterious potions could be used to read fortunes, fates, and futures. The priest himself donned white robes and sat upon a throne, waiting for devotees to consult him for his geomantic expertise and the wisdom of the spirit, Orunmila. As for myself, I already knew what was destined for my future, and that hopefully was a cafe with some chilled beverages.
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| "Lightning bolt" fetishes used in the invocation of Hevioso, god of thunder |
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| How the bolt fetish is worn over the shoulders |
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| An elegant man honoring Thron, spirit of prosperity |
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| A priest of Ifa, the traditional Yoruba system of divination |
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| And the future looks... vague |
In the early evening, we reunited with Ruairi and Veronica, joined by a new Nigerian friend, Olu, as everyone was looking to wind down after an exhausting day. Ruairi was enjoying his last few days in Benin before finally heading back to Ireland, while Veronica was looking to kill time while still waiting for her Ghanaian visa (by then, the bureaucratic nightmare had lasted almost two weeks). We took refuge in a small corner bar cafe of a few tables, with only electric fans to ease the harsh temperature. The beers were barely cool, and the water, despite the bottle being pulled from a freezer, was ironically lukewarm. Nevertheless, the five of us talked for over two hours, with topics ranging from African politics and history, to religion and philosophy. In some instances, the cafe felt more like a high school debate club, as opposing opinions assumed louder vocals and more animated expressions as the hours (and number of beers) increased. Olu's boisterous charisma paired with his comical Nigerian accent and mannerisms made for an entertaining display even while debating serious topics like apartheid in South Africa. The evening was a truly engaging discussion among intelligent, cultured strangers in the most unexpected of places, a cafe nestled between baskets of fruits and roaming chickens on a dusty street in West Africa. But the night was far from over. At around 10 PM, we began to head back to our respective lodgings, when Olu inquired if anyone was interested in going down to the beach venue to see any of the concerts. Before coming to Benin, I had already heard that the legendary Beninese diva, Angelique Kidjo, was scheduled to perform, although I was hesitant to go alone to a concert filled with thousands of people, at the furthest venue, in the dark of night, and with virtually no language skills. I had essentially written off my only chance to see Angelique until Olu's invitation reignited the possibility, even better given that he too was a huge fan on account of her Yoruba heritage. For fear of later regret, I immediately hopped onto the back of a motorbike with this Nigerian I had known for barely two hours, speeding down a congested highway towards the beach. Thousands had filled the strip by the sea, marked by a stadium, a concert stage, and huge open-air shopping and food court areas, the place buzzing with lights, sounds, and large groups of youths in varying states of drunkenness. Olu and I waited anxiously for the five-time Grammy Award winning Beninese diva to arrive back in her hometown. Though scheduled for 10:30 PM, Angelique did not take the stage until after midnight, filling the air with her bold and iconic voice covering decades of classics and recent hits. It brought back years of childhood nostalgia, when her songs were aired on a now defunct public broadcasting channel that had a special weekend segment playing world music videos. At 65, Angelique still had the power to captivate the crowd, which swayed to 90's hits Agolo and Wombo Lombo as if they were just released yesterday. By the time we were able to push our way out of the venue and negotiate a motorbike back, it was well after 2 AM when I stumbled into my tent in a corner of Regine's courtyard. The heat was still stifling, and when trapped inside the small tent with little airflow, sleeping became insufferable rather than rejuvenating. But for a day filled with deities and divas, I was more than willing to sacrifice my sanity.
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| Grabbing lukewarm drinks with the Voodoo Crew and discussing African politics |
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| Thousands gathering at the Gate of No Return for evening shows |
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| Performance by Beninese multi Grammy award-winning diva, Angelique Kidjo |
I was awakened a few hours later before sunrise by one of Regine's caretakers, who tried to explain to me in French the urgency of moving my tent beneath an overhang. Within minutes of relocation, a fierce downpour with drops like bullets shot down from the sky, a deluge quickly flooding most of the garden and creating thick pools of red mud. A sudden gale picked up and barreled through the town, knocking over branches, scattering debris, and even toppling flag poles. Thunder reverberated and lightning flashed across the dark skies, but as the morning progressed, the typhoon-like storm disappeared almost as suddenly as it had appeared. The ensuing overcast day provided considerable cooling relief, enough to help us regain our appetites, which had been reduced to only one meal per day since we arrived. We took lunch in the town center, at an impressive colonial era building now occupied by La Fondation Zinsou, a foundation for Beninese contemporary arts. Built into the former mansion of a palm oil magnate, the foundation kept a small but fascinating collection of modern voodoo inspired works in the forms of paintings, sculptures, and interactive displays. Even more impressive than their exhibit was their restaurant, an elegant eatery with reasonable prices that would still seem incomprehensible to the locals. Due to the lack of decent dining establishments in Benin, as well as to avoid poor quality ingredients and questionable hygienic practices, we opted to splurge and take a taste of Beninese cuisine in a pleasant environment (minus any air conditioning, naturally). An exquisite salad of greens, diced vegetables, cassava, and firm cheese in a citrusy dressing was a fresh and vibrant starter, followed by a mild peanut "curry" with chunks of firm Fulani-style curds reminiscent of grilled paneer. Together with flavored rice and stewed sweet plantain, the meal was delectable and unlike anything I had ever tasted before, particularly given the underrepresentation of West African flavors back home. We would eventually end up returning another afternoon for an early dinner of stewed vegetables and a Beninese take on beef feijoada with toasted cassava, even more satisfied in knowing that the revenue generated by the restaurant went to help support children's art programs. While desserts were not a specialty of Benin, my sweet tooth was still fully satiated by juicy pineapples and tangy soursops from the local market.
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| A brief early morning tropical deluge floods Regine's garden |
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| Art galleries and traditional crafts in Ouidah's historic center |
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| The Fondation Zinsou, a well known art museum with an elegant restaurant |
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| Traditional Fulani curds in peanut sauce with local rice and plantain |
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| Shopping for ripe soursops in the local market |
After lunch, Milkana returned to Regine's to rest from the heat, while I continued by motorbike to a small neighborhood located on the long stretch of open road between the town and the beach, an area filled with a number of lagoons and small islands. The Couvent Sakpata, a voodoo temple built to appease the feared spirit of disease, had a large open courtyard where a number of women and young girls in colorful patchwork costumes were acrobatically spinning in large circles. Given its distance from the town center, the crowd at the temple was smaller than at other venues, making it easier to sit in front to observe the intricate dance skills of the Sakpata cult practitioners. Little did I know, front row seats made me a prime target for the young dancing girls, who shimmied their way over and tossed giant carved wooden phalluses right into my lap, refusing to prance away until I would hand back the fetishes along with a monetary donation. Whether this was part of the tradition or a brilliant side hustle, I never figured out, yet the girls continued to ritually prod nearly everyone in the audience with the wooden members in exchange for tips. Much of the dance movements performed at this temple were clearly sexual in nature, which felt rather awkward when performed by prepubescent girls. While such a sensual performance would have mortified the West with its apparent vulgarity, sex in voodoo belief is as sacred as it is a natural part of life, a celebration of fertility that is unapologetically promoted.
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| Young girls waiting to perform at the Sakpata temple |
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| All of the ritual dances at the Sakpata temple centered on fertility |
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| A dancer holds two wooden phalluses to thrust at audience members |
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| A girl with ornate beads and cowrie shells woven into her hair |
Milkana met up with me at the temple before we walked the remaining mile to the beach. The sun was starting to set over the exceptionally crowded venue, the same level of energy and excitement as the prior night's concert. We were greeted by the Gate of No Return, a garish monument commemorating the exact point where countless slaves were loaded onto colonial ships, never to see their homeland again. The portal had now become a meetup point for young adults before hitting the beer gardens in the festival food section. We strolled along the beach where thousands of people lined up in rows within 20 feet of the sea. Not a single person was swimming in such inviting waters, and within minutes of briefly wetting one's feet, a police officer would quickly rush over to warn of potentially slipping into the sea. Apparently, Benin's coastline was prone to rip tides and erosion, with the government finding it easier to simply make beach swimming illegal rather than trying to monitor it. As night descended and the beach became even more densely packed, the Grand Vodún Ceremony finally commenced on the main stage after an hour of waiting. The dignitaries representing the many unique voodoo cults took their seats, followed by eloquent speeches made by a respected elder on the meaning and power of Vodún. An Ifá oracle took to the stage with his attendants and divination implements; it was time to forecast the future of an entire nation, an event even Benin's President Talon could not afford to miss. Broadcasted on large monitors around the venue, thousands of people watched in anticipation as the oracle sprinkled various powders, manipulated seeds and stones, as well as clapped cupped hands in nearly 15 minutes of ritualistic movements that were carefully recorded by one of the attendants. The tension of the audience was finally broken when the attendant's board was revealed, a collection of unintelligible lines that vaguely resemble tally marks. The audience erupted with cheers and applause, as Milkana and I looked at each other in comical confusion. We asked what was the outcome, to which a nearby local simply said it was positive. When asked how this was determined, and what was the meaning behind the tally board, the answer was more or less "I can't explain it". I chuckled to myself thinking that, ever since arriving in Benin, nearly everything we'd inquired about had been met with vague, ambiguous, and even tangential responses from the locals. The parade of voodoo cults began, with dancers representing each of the deities dancing their way across the stage to the echoing drums and chants in a raucous and festive atmosphere.
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| The Gate of No Return, where slaves were loaded onto European ships for the New World |
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| Festival food stalls in front of a replica European slave ship (not yet opened to the public) |
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| Thousands taking beers and drinks as the evening heat becomes slightly more bearable |
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| The Grand Vodun Ceremony commences at the main stage on the beach |
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| Representatives from various voodoo cults perform sacred rituals and dances |
The final day of the festival, we set out to watch another round of Egungun performances, only to find that none of the spirits had arrived on time to the venue. We walked to an unassuming square nearby, one without much for monuments with the exception of two obscured sculptures hidden behind scaffolding that seemed to be indefinitely under construction. Peeking behind the mesh tarps were bronze images of chained slaves being captured by Europeans. This was the site of the plaza where slave auctions had taken place for centuries, where lives were stolen and families torn apart. The Portuguese were the main operators of the trade in this area, and the port of Ouidah became infamous as one of the greatest exporters of human cargo in the history of the slave trade. Yet the Europeans weren't the only ones at fault for this heinous operation; they relied on conflicting African kingdoms such as Dahomey, Oyo, and Asante for capturing each other in tribal retribution and selling them off to Ouidah's slavers. Passing through the quiet square may have served as a brief mental break from the buzzing activities of the festival, but it also served as a solemn and heavy reminder to us of the town's shameful and tragic past.
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| The Auction Square, where slaves were inspected and sold for centuries |
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| A bronze statue of Europeans buying slaves (not yet debuted) |
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| Staffs marking a solemn mass grave of slaves |
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| Murals around town serve as reminders of Ouidah's dark past in the Atlantic Slave Trade |
Continuing our stroll down one of the many labyrinthine alleys of a nearby neighborhood, we heard vivacious percussions and decided to investigate. In the courtyard of a small community temple, walled off and hidden away from the tourists at the festival's organized venues, a colorful voodoo ritual was commencing. No one stopped us from entering the compound, into which we discretely inserted ourselves to observe a spectacular scene of authentic local worship, a fantastic glimpse of how the original festival would have appeared before growing into the more commercialized Vodún Days. In the center of the courtyard stood a large sacred tree, under which a drum troupe played trilling rhythms that beckoned female members of the congregation to dance before them. Everyone wore the most exquisite traditional clothing, mainly in the forms of elaborate wraps and sarongs with strings of orange coral and multicolored glass beads. In one corner, the male elders and leaders sat, their prestige marked by the wearing of grand boubous and carved wooden canes. Every few minutes, priestesses appeared from behind the reed curtain of the main shrine, one of which poured libations of a yellow liquid over a bonfire pile of rifles, wooden effigies, and metal parts, blackened and hardened from years of oxidized blood and oils. Priests later exited the shrine carrying two dead goats, their throats visibly sliced and blood drained in ritual sacrifice. There was a shriek from behind a wall, through which a woman in a state of trance entered the courtyard, wearing an elaborate costume with a bulbous headdress covered by a long flowing veil. She sprinted around the sacred tree as the drum tempo increased, stopping before the drummers to seemingly undergo further hypnosis.
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| One of many voodoo cult compounds ran by local families for generations |
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| Priests exit a shrine carrying recently sacrificed goats |
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| A priestess splashes libations on the sacred ground while devotees dance |
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| A man carrying the bolt fetish of Hevioso enters a trance |
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| A woman sprints around a sacred tree carrying a bolt fetish |
Once the rites had been completed, the son of the temple's pontiff approached us, offering to guide us (for an implied tip) back to the sacred forest where the ceremony would continue. He was able to negotiate with an organizer for two special seats for us, right up front and beside the drummers, a truly amazing vantage point unobscured by locals and tourists. From our VIP location, we watched the dances and invocations of the spirit Hevioso, a stunning pageant of men and women in ornate attire dancing their way into the circle. Many of the men were in fact wearing women's traditional dress and jewelry, a peculiar attribute whose symbolism was never explained. It was an unforgettable experience to literally sit within the heart of devotees, with the drummers to our left, the dancers entering to our right, and the powerful voices of the chanters directly behind us. I even temporarily lost my hearing from the sheer volume of their voices. After stopping at the local market to pick up a pineapple and soursop, we spent the rest of the evening relaxing in Regine's garden, reminiscing over the last three days of intense cultural overload. Coming to Ouidah for Vodún Days, the core purpose for this entire last-minute trip, had completely exceeded our expectations, a tantalizing magical experience into the heart of voodoo and the spiritual psyche of West Africa.
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| Men dressed as women performing ritual dances at the Sacred Forest |
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| An elegant voodoo couple |
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| A women carries venavi dolls housing the spirits of deceased twins |
We stood by the roadside with our backpacks for nearly 30 minutes without much luck. Hitchhiking in West Africa, in a region without any organized public transportation, was often the only way to travel between towns and villages. They told us to simply hail a "bush taxi", but there actually wasn't anything remotely taxi about it. There was no indicative signage on the vehicle, no set departures or arrivals, and no guarantee you'd even be able to flag one down in a reasonable amount of time. It seemed that any random car with space and a driver looking to make a couple extra dollars could potentially stop for you. Thankfully, a local Beninese man heading in our direction helped us to catch one, a beat up clunker already full of passengers. We crammed four people into the back, practically sitting in each other's laps, as we sped off westward. After an hour driving past lagoons, coconut palm groves, and emerald farmland, we arrived in the small fishing village of Grand Popo, an exceptionally quiet and sleepy strip of small shops and spaced out residences along a pristine empty beach. Had I not been tracking our location via Google Maps, we likely would have ended up right at the Togolese border, for bush taxis apparently keep driving until you tell them to stop despite giving them your destination in advance. The sun was scorching, but we managed to walk with our luggage one sweaty mile from the main highway to the Ramaya Auberge, a quaint hotel near the beach that had exceptionally grand rooms and air conditioning, a true blessing in these parts. After three days of nonstop festivities and sleepless nights (though to be fair, Regine's peaceful garden compensated for this), we finally had time to relax and lounge around in true Beninese lackadaisical fashion. We took a late lunch at a local roadside bar-resto, Chez Anita, where it took nearly an hour to receive our meal since everything was prepared from scratch. A truly delicious bowl of whole fried fish, home-made fries, and mixed vegetables cost only seven dollars, already factoring in the "tourist" price. We chatted for another hour in the serene setting, completely at ease in knowing that there was nowhere we needed to be.
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| Hitchhiking from Ouidah to Grand Popo |
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| We got some help flagging down a car, then we all crammed into the back |
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| The Ramaya Auberge, a truly relaxing location after three days of festivities |
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| The best room on the whole trip |
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| Taking a late lunch at a laid back local seafood restaurant |
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| Only $7 for a whole fried fish, vegetables, and crispy homemade fries |
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| The sleepy village of Grand Popo has more fruit stands than people |
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| Beautiful sunsets over quiet beaches and fishing boats |
The following day, we had nothing planned, though it oddly felt sufficient. We napped in the auberge, took care of some long overdue laundry, and fully made use of the nicest room we'd likely see on the trip. That morning, a man inquired with Milkana about possibly taking a short cruise along Grand Popo's main lagoon to view the terrain and observe coastal village life. It seemed like the perfect late afternoon activity, particularly after the noon heat began to wane. Traveling by motorbikes along the coastal road, we eventually hit a wide red dirt path that hugged the vast golden sand beach. There were no tourists or resorts, simply collections of long wooden boats and fishermen tying up their nets for the day. The narrow sandy isthmus of Grand Popo extended for tens of miles along Benin's coast, with the lagoon and Mono River to one side and the ocean, the Gulf of Guinea, on the other. We met our lackadaisical guide and embarked on a small covered boat, heading east along the river past lush green landscapes of coconut palms, marsh reeds, and mangroves. Thatch and tin roofed villages dotted the banks where children ran out to see what passengers were sailing by, while chickens, ducks, and goats meandered the shores. We cruised past a number of colorful voodoo temples, with their brightly painted murals depicting various spirits and mythological heroes from the West African pantheon, as well as garish concrete idols of Zangbeto and Shango. Entering one village, we witnessed the meandering pace of daily life, strolling around crumbling mud brick structures with the smoke of cooking fires, goats climbing over a voodoo mound shrine covered in stale chicken blood, and children playfully kicking a deflated soccer ball around through the alleyways. Giant ceramic vats were filled with a particular type of sand, into which water was passed and filtered through a spout at the bottom into a secondary vessel. This collected purified brackish water, which was then boiled over roaring fires to evaporate and isolate pure mineral salt. We finished our visit by reaching Boca del Rio, where the Mono River met the sea, a narrow outlet with a heavy current that couldn't be crossed. Crabs scuttled around the desolate sand bank, a serene open space completely lacking people.
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| Exploring the Mono River following the coast of Grand Popo |
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| Sleepy villages and fishing pirogues along the river |
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| Colorful voodoo temples with whimsical idols and Zangbeto sculptures |
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| Wild ducks take flight |
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| Entering the complex root system of the coastal mangrove forests |
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| A voodoo mound shrine in the village |
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| Boiling down brackish water extracted from lagoon sand to purify salt |
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| Arriving at the Boca del Rio, a narrow sandbar separating the Mono river from the ocean |
After leaving our seemingly indifferent guide, we took motorbikes back towards town, cruising into the orange hues of a serene tropical sunset. That night we took dinner around the corner from the auberge, at a quaint garden eatery owned by an agile and rather flirtatious octogenarian expat from France. Monsieur Jean-Claude's final retirement project was the Boca del Rio restaurant, specializing in local seafood flavors with a European twist. As we dined on large juicy prawns with sauteed vegetables and fries, Jean-Claude recounted the fascinating story of his life as if it was taken directly from the pages of a romance novel, from spending half of his life traversing Africa as a photographer, to serving as a social development consultant to various West African ministers. Like Regine in Ouidah, Westerners choosing to live out their lives in such remote and dramatically different places from their origins continued to captivate me, and the tales surrounding their decision seemed anything but mundane. With our bellies and minds both filled, we took an early rest, anxious to see what awaited us the following day... in Togo.
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| Cruising the beach on motorbike into the setting sun |
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| I may have lost my fear of motorbikes on this trip |
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| The entrance to Jean-Claude's quaint garden restaurant |
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| Jean-Claude was a suave storyteller with a rich life history |
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| His kitchen whipped up amazing fresh prawns... |
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| .... and a coconut flan to die for |
REPUBLIC OF TOGO
We arrived midmorning at the Hillacondji border crossing via a private car, as the uncertainties and inefficiencies of hitchhiking didn't align with our tight itinerary. An immigration officer was snoozing face down at his desk amidst piles of paperwork. After a minute of awkward silence and with a delicate tap on the glass, he arose groggily and took our passports and visas. The southern frontier of Benin and Togo was bustling with locals going through the same inefficient formalities, along with trucks on the verge of tipping from piles of onions, oil, and other commodities. Before we could even get our passport through the tiny hole in the office window, several men pushed us in order to shove their own IDs through. The lack of queues or civility was expected, though no less frustrating. Heading to the Togolese office right next door, we waited for over an hour out in the midday before our biggest surprise of the day came pedaling up to our bench. We laughed as Veronica arrived on her bike, all decked out in the well worn trappings of a trans-Africa cyclist. Her cycling clothes were as colorful as the local textiles, soaked with sweat after riding all the way from Cotonou. With so few foreign tourists traveling through West Africa, even running into someone you'd only met a handful of times made you feel as elated as seeing family. We eventually received our documents, bid Veronica a quick bon voyage, and began heading to the capital of Lomé. Welcome to Togo.
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| Unexpectedly ran into Veronica at the Benin-Togo border crossing! |
Entering Lomé felt like arriving at the opposite end of West Africa's diverse spectrum. Something about Cotonou, and perhaps Benin overall, made it feel like a cleaner, organized, and almost idyllic representation of a developing region. Lomé certainly was not. We were dropped off in the middle of utter mayhem, a convoluted intersection clogged with buzzing motorbikes and honking cars, together with vendors selling domestic items, street corner mechanics, and industrial material production. The buildings in Lomé looked as if they were neglected back in the 60's and left to decay at their own pace, separated by destroyed sidewalks, gaping unguarded sewer pits, and giant piles of filthy plastic rubbish. Men simply relieved themselves onto trash heaps in public view without any care for modesty. At our eclectic chateau-esque hotel, the Résidence Hotelière Océane near the Grand Marché, we finally met up with our guide after weeks of mobile correspondence regarding a private tour of remote northern Togo over the next three days. Bnam hailed from the Kabye people in Kara, founded his own homegrown tourism company specializing in customized regional tours, and spoke the best English of any local we had met. We first dealt with pre-trip formalities and discussed payment in installments over the course of the trip, an aspect of his honest business style that I greatly appreciated. As had been the case throughout the trip, traveling through a region without credit card usage still proved to be a nightmare regarding the availability of cash. Exchanging money was difficult to conduct without local assistance or knowledge of black market cash dealers. ATMs were a slightly better, unless there was a software malfunction, power cut, or depletion of bills. No one ever seemed to have enough to break larger notes, despite the fact that both ATMs and money changers only dispensed the highest denomination. Hotels, shops, restaurants, supermarkets, and even high end establishments struggled to make change. It made even simple purchases and transactions difficult to complete without either overpaying or walking away from the product or service. Bnam helped us to acquire more cash and gave us strategies on how to always accumulate smaller notes.
As he set off to organize our car and driver, Milkana and I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring a small artisan market before taking a delicious dinner at Chez Brovi, a popular local hotspot for traditional seafood dishes. The cook brought over a huge tray of different raw fish for us to point to, ordering it marinated and grilled along with some aloko (cooked plantain) and djenkoume (spiced cornmeal dough), which felt like a Togolese equivalent of spicy mashed potatoes. After visibly devouring our flavorful fish, much to the delight of the waitresses, we headed back home for an early rest, for a very long journey awaited us the next morning.
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| The hotel inner courtyard was a calm retreat from Lomé's chaotic market streets |
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| Picking our fish at the popular Chez Brovi seafood restaurant |
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| Delicious marinated and grilled fish with a lump of djenkoume, or spiced cornmeal |
Before dawn, when the once chaotic streets of Lomé were eerily vacant, we departed for the north of Togo. The drive with our chauffeur, Agbe, was a stereotypical African journey, marked by tailgating, erratic avoidance of potholes, and reckless passing. The Togolese countryside proved to be a beautiful distraction from all of the overturned car wrecks on the side of the highway, with rolling green fields filled with teak wood forests, towering termite mounds, and regal fruiting baobabs. We stopped in Atakpame for a roadside breakfast of omelettes, instant coffee with two heaping spoons of condensed milk, and Celine Dion's French hits of the 90's. The drive was filled with Bnam's explanations of local lifestyle and customs, as well as tidbits of his personal life. He was originally from a devout Christian family, until he realized that no matter how much money the church took from him, God never seemed to answer his prayers. His return to indigenous Togolese animism brought him back to his pragmatic roots, as voodoo focused more on solving the problems of earthly life rather than on life in the hereafter. Over fifty percent of Togo's 10 million people still followed some form of voodoo practice, including consulting what Bnam dubbed as "charm makers" (village shaman priests) on domestic matters from medical to marriage. In between the storytelling, Bnam bombarded us with a barrage of local snacks, including pineapples, fried plantain chips, Fulani cheese curds, and fresh juicy cashew fruits taken from someone's orchard. Arriving in Kara, the largest town in the north, we took lunch at a very local and rather sketchy roadside restaurant with an open patio behind some rubble. The options looked less than desirable, and as for the method of dish washing, it was best to not look at all. I ordered a small bowl of wild bush hare, a single smokey mid-body piece in a puddle of murky sauce accompanied by a lump of bland cornmeal. As eating with the right hand was customary, I prayed that I wouldn't have any additional microbial regrets aside from the already questionable hygiene of the establishment. Milkana looked as uneasy as me, sloshing around two puddles of herbal stew and mucus-textured jute leaves. My meal totaled less than two dollars, while hers cost less than fifty cents.
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| Bnam eats a local breakfast of fish head, greens, and fufu |
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| Breakfast and basking in Celine Dion's omnipresence |
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| Freshly cut pineapple for the road |
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| French-style bread rolls out hot and fresh for the morning market crowd |
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| A cashew apple with the "nut" at bottom |
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| Typical Togolese luggage transport includes securing the live goats |
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| A local Togolese eatery with cauldrons of various meat and herbal stews |
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| Braised wild bush hare with cornmeal, gamey and somewhat questionable |
We drove further north into the UNESCO protected region of Koutammakou, the territory of the Batamarriba tribe who originally fled Muslim invaders of Burkina Faso in the 12th century. The paved road eventually ran out, becoming a bumpy off-road trail undertaken in our dusty Toyota sedan with a partially flat tire. The savanna dotted with massive baobabs, mangos, and tamarinds, felt more like the familiar Africa of our picture books, a dry grassland that formed the Sahel strip between the Sahara and the tropical south. Towering tata sombas, fantastic two-storey mud and thatch Batamarriba houses, began to spring up across the terrain like life-size sand castles, architecturally exquisite with whimsical turrets, gateways, and rotundas. Crafted over six months from local sand that hardens much like concrete when mixed with water and cow dung, these stunning structures are still used today, with each family building multiple mud mansions on parcels of land handed down by their ancestors over centuries. Before each home entrance stood multiple pinnacles and mounds to honor these ancestors, fetishes covered in feathers and the splatter of a mysterious white liquid. The interior layout of the mansions formed a network of dark chambers and tunnels, each possessing small holes in the walls through which the family could fire arrows upon potential adversaries. The bottom level could house cattle, goats, and chickens. Climbing up through a hole in the ceiling, we reached a level containing a small kitchen, with three mounds built into the floor upon which cooking pots could rest above their fires. On the roof of the edifice, we gained 360-degree views of the vast plateau. Two thatched sorghum and corn granaries, one for each the men and women of the household, flanked a small central hut with a tiny opening into cramped sleeping quarters. The entire "fortress" protected the family and food sources from both enemies and vermin alike. After exploring the tatas, women from the tribe gathered to perform a traditional dance for us, rhythmic movements relying heavily on foot stomping, the air filled with shrill ululations and squeals from the village children. Even before the performance, the tribe was already playing music from a portable radio and dancing, attributes of a people possessing a natural tendency to celebrate even the beauty of daily life. Placing antelope antler headdresses upon our brow, even we were expected to stomp around like gazelles, despite looking clumsily offbeat compared to our hosts. From the tata, we drove further up the road to visit a sacred baobab with a hollow trunk large enough to house a small family. A hole at the top of the trunk allowed for the men to perch themselves and release a volley of arrows in times of conflict. The narrow slit entrance into the baobab proved to be slightly challenging for our fuller American physiques, yet once inside, the amount of space was rather impressive.
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| Living on the savannas of the Sahel, the Batamarriba idolize the gazelle |
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| Each family and their livestock can conceal themselves within these mini fortresses |
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| The sleeping quarters are a little tight for the average American |
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| Climbing the granaries that keep dry foods safe from vermin and enemies |
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| The women and children performing a traditional gazelle stomping dance |
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| The Batamarriba are always dancing and love getting others to join |
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| Entering the hollowed-out trunk of a giant-out baobab |
Just down the street from the remote northern border crossing between Togo and Benin, we stopped at the village of Nadoba, where a bustling weekly market was commencing. The scene was spectacular, a special glimpse into a frontier bazaar at which tribes across both sides of the border congregated every Wednesday afternoon to purchase produce, sell wares, trade items or services, or simply socialize with copious quantities of home-brewed alcohol. The crowded market was a maze of narrow lanes between mud platforms and huts, with merchants displaying their goods on the ground or on low wooden tables. Women in stunningly colorful textiles, groceries piled high in baskets and bowls atop their heads, gracefully meandered through the stalls, while men sat in round huts chatting boisterously over gourds cups full of brew. As the only foreigners in the entire area, Milkana and I readily stood out, but in ways that surprisingly received warm greetings and invitations from jolly (and somewhat tipsy) locals. Bnam treated the market as a venue for an impromptu food tour, generously producing coins to allow us to sample a number of exotic eats. From fried bean fritters to local curds, the most astonishing product we sampled took the form of round red-dyed patties that were described to us as "soy cheese". One bite confirmed that it was none other than literal tofu, and an absolutely delicious one to add. We even had it fried with chili sauce at another vendor, making the dish indistinguishable from its Sichuan counterpart. I was completely baffled by the presence of tofu in a remote corner of West Africa, which seemed to be a local adaptation of Asian tofu that developed alongside the rise of soybean farming in the 80's. All of this food tasting was a dream for me, although I couldn't help but quietly ruminate on the risk of later food poisoning, which would've been an utter nightmare out in the bush without any proper bathroom facilities. That subtle anxiety became nerve-racking when we were invited into one of the "beer huts", a round mud structure where patrons sat around a woman scooping out hefty volumes of tchoukoutou, or sorghum beer, from giant plastic buckets. We were each offered a large gourd filled with the murky beige liquid, bowls that were reused simply after a dip in a bucket of local water. I took a careful sip out of respect for our host, a tart yet pleasant beverage reminiscent of a light cider, while mostly pretending to drink. The hut began to fill with very jovial characters, all insisting that we imbibe with them, which forced me to take even more reluctant sips of brew. At one point, Milkana was handed two gourds as Bnam kept generously buying rounds for the entire hut. I eventually was able to pass my gourd on to another man, who was more than pleased to gulp down the bowl and spare me from embarrassment. The experience of joining a Batamarriba "tavern" on the frontier was one of the most unique highlights of my many interactions with indigenous peoples, a delightful participation for which I was willing to risk the state of my bowels.
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| People convene at Nadoba each Wednesday to sell whatever they have |
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| Merchants selling all kinds of mystery items and ingredients |
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| A traditional tchoukoutou hut for drinking sorghum beer |
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| Sorghum, nuts, corn, and other staple starches |
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| A tipsy shopper completely enthralled by our foreign presence |
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| Invited to imbibe copious quantities of tchoukoutou |
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| The "bartender" was this delightfully cheerful Batamarriba lady |
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| Returning home after an afternoon of shopping |
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| A woman frying up delicious bean fritters with chili powder
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That evening, we drove out to settle into our accommodation for the night. We were promised a "night under the stars", although neither of us realized that would ultimately take the form of sleeping on the roof of one of the famed tata houses. My inner child was unleashed when we saw the tata that would serve as our hotel, exploring its jungle gym of chambers and climbing through holes to the roof, where the tops of each tower were crafted into little nests containing a mattress and mosquito net. The bathroom was a chamber that provided basic bucket bathing, as well as a separate outhouse toilet that was surprisingly clean. The open view from the roof included the neighboring tata of our host family, whose operation extended even to the young children who set up our "rooms" and cooked our entire dinner on their own, a remarkably delectable peanut-based stew of carrots, cabbage, and Fulani cheese over locally grown rice. Tucking ourselves into our little nests and gazing upwards, the entire expanse of the heavens and its stars shined overhead, humble twinkling night lights that gradually lulled us to sleep in the warm midnight breeze.
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| The tata of our host family, next to a beautiful towering baobab tree |
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| A wonderful vegetable stew prepared entirely by the young children of the family |
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| Waking before dawn on the Togolese savanna |
Waking before dawn to a soft light on the eastern horizon, the silhouettes of tatas and baobabs standing silently on the savanna, I briefly meditated in a cool breeze to the sounds of crowing roosters, grunting pigs, and faint radio tunes. The village was already stirring from sleep, lighting fires and filling large basins with water. The sun slowly rose from behind the distant mountain, a red disk masked by the hazy air of the "dust season". The serenity was unforgettable, nibbling on a simple omelette sandwich and slurping a grainy Nescafe while basking in the pink hues of a quintessential African sunrise. We bid our host family and the kids farewell, heading back along the dirt road towards Kara. We made a quick stop in the village of Lama-Sahoude to visit Bnam's uncles, touring their ginger root farm and using a large palm frond to stir up a massive cauldron of home-brewed tchoukoutou. With no stomach issues despite everything we'd been consuming, I felt more at ease in drinking a full gourd of the murky brew being generously offered. We tried the chalky seeds of the baobab, as well as the creamy savory lobes of the unripe cashew apple.
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| Tall mound fetishes outside of the home representing the ancestors |
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| Bnam's uncle's ginger root farm |
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| Bnam's cousin stirs a giant cauldron of boiling sorghum beer |
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| Giving the pot a good stir with a palm frond |
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| Bnam's uncles make a good clean brew |
From his family village, we headed back to Kara, where Bnam offered to help us find stalls selling materials and ingredients used in traditional voodoo sorcery. The Kara outdoor market was more organized and calmer than the Nadoba frontier market, but the variety of produce and clothing of the customers were no less intriguing and colorful. Past the merchants selling beautiful terracotta pottery and calabash bowls, the voodoo stalls stood discreetly in the shadows, decked out in the hides and hairs of exotic mammals, as well as crocodile and snake skins. Dried chameleons were stacked beside gruesome monkey heads, their mouths agape revealing long sharp fangs. Bags of seeds, herbs, quills, and mystery organics were all used in specific ways to conduct traditional rituals and prepare concoctions that no one could seem to explain to us when asked about them. Looking for unique mementos (that hopefully wouldn't set off alarms at US customs), we opted to have leather gri-gri amulets made, using our beads of choice. The vendor wrapped unknown black powder and flakes into a piece of paper before sewing it shut within a small leather pouch suspended from a string of colorful beads. Milkana and I were thrilled to have custom souvenirs that were also genuine articles used by local animist practitioners, bought from a market that's likely to never be on the average tourist itinerary.
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| Beautiful ceramic cooking pots and gourd bowls at the Kara market |
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| Herbs, roots, and organics used in traditional remedies and tonics |
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| Dried chameleons and monkey heads for medicinal powders |
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| Having custom gri-gri amulets made by the charm-maker |
From Kara, we passed through a local tourist attraction called the Faille d'Aledjo, a narrow cleft in a cliffside rock where large trucks precariously scraped their sides squeezing through. Arriving in Sokode, the center of the muslim Tem tribe territory, we visited a tiny ethnographic collection of "magically infused" tribal relics, as well as an all-female weaving cooperative spinning out exquisite striped Tem textiles. Bnam took us to another local eatery, one far better than the first day, which offered stewed antelope in tomato sauce with a heaping lump of fufu, or pounded yam. Completely stuffed, it was an additional three hours before reaching Atakpame for the night. We arrived at a local hotel that felt more like a discotheque with its flashing multicolored string lights and fully-stocked bar, behind which stood a cluster of tiny bare rooms featuring dim lighting, a broken AC, and bucket shower overtaken by scurrying cockroaches. The room felt miserably hot with the faint essence of car exhaust, a sleepless night for both the mosquitoes and myself. Nevertheless, the ambiance of a local inn should certainly be experienced, but maybe only once.
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| The Faille d'Aledjo cleft, a local attraction |
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| Women of Sokode's Tem tribe specialize in textile weaving |
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| Buying a traditional Tem design scarf |
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| Delectable stew of wild antelope with fufu (pounded yam) |
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| Infested room at a local inn in Atakpame |
Back on the road the following day, we headed towards the plateau town of Kpalime, the terrain filled with enormous fruit trees and a refreshing greenery in stark contrast to the dry Sahelian landscape from which we had come. Breakfast was served on the side of the road, a mother selling a bucket of hot akassa (sweetened fermented corn porridge) with fried corn dough fritters, a combination that strangely reminded me of Chinese sweet tofu pudding. After we finished, she dunked our bowls into a bucket of local water, wiped the rim, and set them aside for the next customers. It amazed me to think of how much local street foods we had eaten across so many markets in the last three days without once experiencing stomach complications or illness. Nevertheless, we continued to hold our breaths. Reaching Kpalime, we headed westward and up onto the slopes of a lush mountain overlooking the town. The terrain transformed into a rich rainforest of dense banyans, wild mangos, bananas, and palms, lining a narrow dirt road of switchbacks ascending the hillside. At the cool and airy summit, a large European style stone and concrete chateau with a single turret towered over a large open property. Built over five years in the early 1940s, Chateau Viale was once the lavish estate of a German lawyer, which was later taken by the French and then newly independent Togolese state, which used it to host presidents and dignitaries for private gatherings. Abandoned in 2005, the structure was left to decay into a hollowed out concrete shell reclaimed by the surrounding jungle, now a serene spot to explore the former extravagance of the post-colonial transition era. After a fish lunch at Chez Paul, a hillside restaurant serving locally grown coffee, we continued further south through village backroads until we ultimately found ourselves mere miles from the border with Ghana. Guards with AR-15s manned checkpoints on the jungled road leading to the frontier, from which we hiked down into a small banana-filled gorge to enjoy the beautiful Cascade de Womé, an inviting waterfall surrounded by hanging vines and orchids that served as a local swimming hole. The shade and cool waters provided a soothing relief from the heat of the glaring sun, an ideal break before heading back into the humid inferno of Lomé.
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| Typical breakfast stall in Atakpame |
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| Roadside breakfast of akassa, sweetened fermented corn porridge |
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| The ruins of the 1940s Chateau Viale in the jungled hills around Kpalime |
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| A German doctor's crumbling mansion, now a local attraction |
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| Our driver, Agbe, taking in a stewed fish over rice |
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| The Womé waterfall, a local swimming hole near the border with Ghana |
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| One of the tallest termite mounds, on a secondary school campus |
Arriving just before sunset, with the large orange face of the sun perfectly visible in the dusty polluted air, we bid farewell to Bnam and the wonderful experience he provided us despite our brief itinerary. Our final day in Lomé was relaxed and flexible, as the lack of interesting landmarks in this filthy city meant there was no sense of urgency for sightseeing. We decided to save one last adventure for the end of our trip, a place that would ultimately turn out to be unforgettable for a variety of reasons. The long drive to Akodessewa district eventually dumped us into an desolate area that seemed exceptionally impoverished, marked by broken infrastructure, abandoned construction, and piles of refuse. The purpose of our visit was for a specific marketplace that would ultimately challenge one's fortitude, both mentally and physically. We entered the gate to a large open lot that housed Lomé's most notorious bazaar, the Marché des Fétiches, the world's largest voodoo market. Founded in the 19th century as an open-air pharmacy for traditional bush medicine, the market still played an important role for West African voodoo and indigenous animist communities. The place was absolutely mind-boggling, its stalls piled high with the dried bodies, skulls, severed parts, and viscera of countless animals traded from all over the continent - monkeys, baboons, cheetahs, warthogs, vultures, hyenas, badgers, wild cats, domestic dogs, tropical fowl, reptiles big and small - rows and stacks of moth-eaten animal carcasses with every turn. The gruesome site also contained large statues to various Vodún deities, as well as altars littered with skulls and bones drenched in colored powders, rancid blood, and other mysterious liquids. The air of the market was putrid from decaying flesh and musty from piles of raw untanned hides. These animal parts served as natural medicines for physical, mental, and situational ailments, often ground into powders and pastes to be inserted into open cuts on the patient, or processed into potions and tonics for consumption or ritual bathing. As a molecular biologist, the idea of festering bacterial infections or viral nightmares like Ebola, Lassa, and HIV, made me shudder with disgust as I simultaneously tried to understand such practices from the local perspective. Milkana seemed to be growing ever more nauseated, even taking my spare surgical mask in an effort to simply get through the place before vomiting.
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| Strings of skulls for use in voodoo ritual offerings |
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| A shrine to the god of iron, spikes topped with skulls and bones covered in blood and oils |
We distracted ourselves with beautiful carved masks and tribal sculptures that also filled the market, some mere souvenirs and others antiques used in actual rituals. The most ubiquitous figures were none other than the infamous "voodoo dolls", carved wooden effigies pierced with nails in the most sinister fashion. Despite Western stereotypes surrounding voodoo dolls and their supposed use in black magic to cause harm, these figures were merely protective icons placed in shrines or homes, with nails driven into the statuettes as a means of promoting the release of spiritual energy when in need of aid or healing. The dolls for sale were considered "mute" until they were magically "activated", a service offered by charm makers in small curtained rooms behind the market stalls. Inside, we observed a scarlet robed "sorcerer" sit before a grimy altar of jumbled mounds, idols, and animal bones covered in feathers, hardened blood, and yellow pigments, tapping an iron bell against the altar while uttering a string of incantations over a doll. The doll was presented to me in a tortoise shell, which I was commanded to receive with open palms, bringing it up to my forehead and back while whispering my name to it three times. The doll was then activated and now magically linked to me, although upon hearing that its price had now increased three fold, I humbly backed out and sought a cheaper, magic-less alternative. With a few more words, the doll was reset, restored to the shrine, and ready for the next potential customer, a comical testament to voodoo flexibility in the face of commercialism. Nevertheless, the fetish market was a truly bizarre bazaar and a fascinating glimpse into regional spirituality and occult, raw traditions that were so completely antithetical to that of the sterile West. It took a while to regain our appetites, but we managed to conclude the trip with one seafood dinner, a delectable sauteed squid and grilled fish at Chez Brovi.
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| The famed "voodoo doll" derived from these votive statuettes |
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| Buying real voodoo dolls! |
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| Voodoo shrine with sacred fetishes and ritual implements |
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| A priest chants incantations to "activate" a voodoo doll |
Traveling independently in West Africa is not for beginners. The lack of infrastructure, nonexistent public transportation, language barriers, and currency issues are among some of the biggest challenges to navigating through the region. In many respects, these expected factors have helped to keep places like Benin and Togo pleasantly "tourist-free" and off most vacation itineraries. Despite spending a mere two weeks in just a small part of the vast territory, I came to conclude that West Africa isn't a place for vacationing, but rather a realm for voyaging. The colors, vibrancy, and energy were some of the richest attributes of the native peoples and their cultures, their festivals and spiritual practices the most attractive offerings to travelers seeking a taste of both the exotic and esoteric. Though spontaneous and brief, this trip surprisingly exceeded my expectations, challenged my assumptions, and redefined my views. Benin was far cleaner and more organized than I anticipated, while Togo had an unexpectedly diverse cuisine. The people of both nations were unbelievably friendly and welcoming, and these sister nations felt relatively safer and more secure than I initially thought. More insightfully, the people we encountered were genuine and honest. While much can be said about the travel warnings and the cliche portrayal of corrupt governments, poverty, and crime, the only way to remotely gain a clearer understanding of a nation is to visit, engage directly with its people, and walk in their footsteps. While my heart didn't initially beckon me to this highly misunderstood part of the world, the
rhythm of West Africa certainly called out. Sometimes the most meaningful experiences require you not to follow the heart, but to follow the drums.
