Misty and damp start today, and I cooked breakfast in the dark. Sat in the crows' nest when we drove on but it was cold up there and my sunglasses kept fogging up. The mist distorted every sight and sound and it felt like we were in a murder mystery but we knew it would be sunny by mid-morning.
Fell asleep as we entered the coastal town of Cotonou and woke up outside the Niger Embassy in time for today’s wallet blow: 5000 CFA for new Niger visa. Down to one photo and next to no money. Shellshocked, I headed to the post office with my latest letters, the stamps leaving me with just 500 CFA left. I met up with Vicki and went to check reverse charge phone calls but no go, so decided to go to Marche Dantopka, the largest open-air market in west Africa.
A well-dressed young woman outside the post office gave us detailed directions and advised us what was a reasonable taxi fare. Then she bundled us into her friend's van and we drove there, four adults crammed onto the bench seat, my legs over Vicki's so the driver could change gears. The potholed and bumpy unsealed "main road" we followed was the worst so far - big call, I know! - tossing us every which way. We laughed and gasped at the traffic and our driver’s dodging and pulling out into the flow. But finally we arrived. Thanking the woman for her help, we disentangled ourselves from each other and the van.
The central market building was disappointing, with a large liquor store, extensive fabric area, and a third floor selling modern fabrics, but outside, stretching for what, on foot, seemed to be kilometres in every direction, was a cornucopia of goodies, none of them remotely touristy. Time was too short to explore, though, so we taxied back to the truck to go to the police, arriving when all the chiefs were at lunch. So Kelvin drove us back to the market - Vicki and I now all too familiar with the rough road! - and set us loose for an hour and a half.
Just inside the market we came across a crowd swaying, singing and dancing to the beat of huge gourd drums draped in rattling beads and shells. We followed the musicians as they moved through maze-like alleys and congregated again undercover to drink beer, their smiles broadening and their dancing becoming more abandoned. Even the smallest girls carrying trays moved to the drum beat.
Finally moving on, we stumbled on an extraordinary voodoo market. (Rooted in ancestor worship, animism (belief that all things have spirits) and veneration of spirits, Voodoo originated from traditional West African religions, particularly those of the Fon people, the largest ethnic group in Benin, and the Ewe peoples of modern-day Ghana and Togo.) For sale here were shrivelled monkey and dog heads, dead whole birds (from owls to tiny, brightly feathered ones) and some cut open to reveal their innards, long-horned cow skulls, porcupine quills (I could have bought one for a pen/stilo), dried snakes, snake heads, a set of crocodile jaws, leopard or cheetah feet, dead rats and mice, feathers, sea shells, carved wooden statuettes (possibly fetishes for warding off evil), dried lizards, hollowed horns and duck bills. One of the stall holders held a live chameleon. And over everything scampered geckos, finding shelter in the shadows among the curiosities.
Eventually tearing myself away from these fascinations, I wound my way through chili and tomato stalls, past the birdcage section, where hundreds of diamond-shaped baskets stuffed with live chickens adorned the street, some draped with pieces of fabric for shade and others with the enormous broad-brimmed hats the local women wear. The stalls were piled with empty baskets, looking like a child's building blocks. Took a photo down one alley of palm frond woven mats, baskets and flat discs of varying sizes, possibly for sifting grain. A girl roasting peanuts scampered when I lifted the camera but the male toddler with her raced to centre stage with a wide grin. I so wanted to buy Ben one of the huge-brimmed hats but the spoilsport had specifically asked for something he could wear in the truck cab so I resisted the temptation and bought him a smaller one woven from palm fronds.
I continued past baskets of peanuts, rice, flour, vegetables, and other local produce. Here too were piles of red prawns, dried fish, and a reddish, fatty meat that looked like Parsons' noses, served with a hot sauce. Pigs rummaged through mounds of garbage on the riverbank behind the vegetable stalls. I tread a huge circle round the main central building, through grog stalls, piles of packets of cigarettes and all odds and ends, before returning to the truck.
We drove to the police for our exit permits, Kel stamping each passport himself, rather than give the officials free reign to use another blank page.
Checked at the pirogue (narrow boat) centre about cruising to the nearby stilt village, but the CFA3500 price tag prompted a loud “no way!” The boats were motorized, anyway, which would have lessened the fun. Drove to the awful and expensive campsite we checked out this morning on our way into town, parking the truck under the coconut palms beside the camp because the backyard camping area proved impossible to access in a truck without four-wheel-drive.
The campsite comprised a bar with tables under palm trees and a backyard toilet block: an oblong of concrete divided into six cubicles each with a hole over a huge pit. Our source of water was a well with a bucket on the rope. I hauled water up into a large metal bucket and filled the camp shower which Bob helped me string up, and had a fantastic shower, semi-hidden among the trees. This soon became a communal washing area with the basin washers just beside me. Clean hair and relatively clean clothes refreshed me for the ten minutes before the humidity hit me again.
The highlight of an already remarkable day was spending the evening with some gorgeous local girls. Ben, Vicki, Adri and I were around our tables when we heard growling from the other side of the truck. Then the youngsters descended on us. How to describe the joy of our night: we played chasey, taught them our names, gave them pens and paper to draw or write their names and ours. Billy was a cute little monkey of four or five years who climbed over everything and everyone; Ferolise was a rascal of seven; Manjella was quiet and reserved and looked on while the others ran riot; her 10-year old sister Aggee was studious but playful. Ben took a photo of Adri, Vicki and I up to our eyeballs with three little black bodies, with pens and paper strewn across the tables. The girls sang songs for Ben's bonbons . Myrta tied Billy to her back with her fish sarong like the local women do and ran around the fire bouncing the squealing child up and down. The two bar ladies (one obviously Billy's mother) came over to see what damage their tribe was doing and laughed as they watched on.
Retrieving my Korrie kookaburra hand puppet from my locker created quite a scene, with the girls' initial fear becoming delight and eagerness to hold her. Ferolise raced off with the puppet but I was sure she wouldn’t harm her so just sauntered after - in time to see Ferolise's mum jump backwards from her daughter's toy, unsure what was going on. Billy danced beautifully for us, initially at our request but then with total closed-eye pleasure. She moved her slight body with rhythm and grace, turning around, swinging legs and hips but hardly moving her close-cropped head. We lifted her onto the table where she left tiny footprints as she “grooved”. Music obviously plays a major part in their lives from birth, if not from within the womb.
The girls were intrigued by our hair – its softness and unfamiliar colours - and tried to braid it and then just pat it and work it, prompting sighs of pleasure from me and Vicki. Ferolise and Billy were intrigued by our breasts, too, pinching them painfully and determined to get to them. Billy actually tried to suckle a slightly embarrassed and disconcerted Adri, tapping the breast with expert knowledge but, of course, not getting any milk. We tried to explain that we had none but this time even our combined French was not enough to answer their questions.
Early in the evening the girls crawled up into the truck and peered down on us and they did another late-night inspection before we carried a weary Billy back to her mum, where she clung to Adri not wanting to go. Bidding them all a very fond “bon nuit” with smiles and waves from all and mum we returned to the truck.
A few of our fellow travellers had grumbled about the girls' annoying presence during the evening but didn't understand what was going on and the fun of it all, or that this, for me at least, is what coming to Africa is all about. I crashed out exhausted but light-hearted, completely content.
Add comment
Comments