Embedded in Africa

Joseph is a tall thin man of maybe 50. Clean shaven and bare footed, he wears a short sleeve shirt, light pants and a baseball cap -- clothing that appears to afford him cool comfort in the already

oppressive African heat and humidity. I load myself into the narrow wood, canvas-covered, flat-bottom longboat, and seat myself on a bench that extends the length of the starboard side. Untying the dock ropes, Joseph pulls the chord on the outboard. The motor explodes in a fit of spitting oil and gaseous fumes. Breaking out in song, while keeping time by tapping his feet on the boat floor, we pull away from the dock and enter into the cloudy midst.

Slowly moving upriver, the gentle trickling noise of the river being broken by the boat’s bow, we pass by settlements comprised of shacks made of scrap wood and tin. Freshly awake children with bloated stomachs play along a riverbank littered with refuse, scrap piles and, in some cases, mounds of white oyster shells. Campfires burn along the shoreline. Food cooks in empty coffee cans. Men and boys toss nets into the murky water from off the riverbank or from inside impossibly narrow boats carved out of long tree trunks brought down from the jungle. When they pull the nets in, small collections of trembling fish are suspended in the net’s bottom and added to the daily catch.

Up ahead, as the river begins to widen into what will become Lac du Nokoue, several longboats are packed with native Beninois who are being ferried to different waterfront villages for work and trade. How the narrow boats manage to hold all those people without capsizing is anyone’s guess. Not powered by outboard motor, the boats are propelled along the still waters with long poles, much like the gondolas of Venice, Italy. It’s no wonder Ganvie and its surrounding water-based communities are often referred to as Africa’s Venice.

As the mouth of the river gives way to the wide open lake, I can’t help but feel like Joseph Conrad’s Marlow being transported upriver in search of the mythical Kurtz, an ivory trader turned demonic jungle ruler. As the acrid smell of the city leaves us for good, it is replaced with fresh air accented with the scent of fish, brine and gas fumes generated by the outboard motor.

Not far in the distance, long jagged branches hacked from trees form a circular fence that looks completely foreign, set as it is in the middle of a lake. From what I manage to interpret from Joseph, these circular vegetation-filled constructions are fish farms tended to by local fisherman. Fish farming, along with traditional fishing, is the new industry on the lake. It strikes me as ironic that the Beninois, despite their primitive work conditions and tools, are savvy to modern fish population-management methods.
Not far up the lake from the fish farms, I discover another long fence-like structure that supports woven baskets that resemble the lobster traps you might find sunken along American’s New England Atlantic coastal waters. There are so many baskets and poles perched in the shallow water that Joseph shuts down the outboard motor rather than risk sheering a blade, and instead we move forward manually.

The trip across the lake goes on for more than an hour until we come to wide stands of grass that rise up enormously from out of the water. It’s not quite marshland, but it’s not quite open lake anymore either, while just beyond the stands of tall grass, I get my first glimpse of a Beninois house built on stilts. Poling themselves along the corridors formed naturally in between the sections of tall grass are fishermen looking for places to toss their nets. Joseph is respectful of these people, slowing the longboat to a crawl, minimizing the wake.

As we approach the village entrance, Joseph steers the boat in the direction of a newly built construction. The wooden single-story, stilt-supported structure is far more solid looking than the sun-baked buildings that make up the village behind it. As he tosses a rope to another man waiting for us on the small dock, I get the feeling I’ve arrived at what passes for the village visitor center.

I disembark from the boat onto the dock. There to greet me are two small children. They are shirtless and seemingly genderless. They hold out their hands, and beg for CIFAs (Benin currency). I was warned about the children by other Ganvie visitors who’ve come before me, and I know enough to ignore their pleas, despite the urge to fill their hands with whatever coins I have stored in my pockets.

The man on the dock is a short, stocky, middle-aged Beninois. He’s smiling the ear-to-ear smile of a village leader greeting a long-lost explorer. Cheerfully he greets Joseph with a bear hug. The two men are so happy to see one another I can’t help but wonder if they are blood brothers. The stocky man peers at me with wide open eyes, chanting, “Come, come, come…”

As I climb the short flight of wood steps up to the wood building, I can already make out the shirts hung on racks, the colorful watercolor paintings leaning up against the interior walls, the home-crafted jewelry hanging down from wall-mounted hooks, the carved masks, wooden sculptures and voodoo talismans galore.

It’s all a setup of course -- a far less than subtle trap designed to get me to spend money. While it’s possible the stocky man might be the stilt village mayor, one thing is certain: he’s out for a quick buck, which means affording tourists and explorers no choice but to show up at his visitor center doorstep where he expects you to pump CIFAs into the local economy.

He and Joseph immediately go to work on me. The stocky man grabs an African style tunic from the rack, proceeds to throw it over my head and push it down over my shoulders. It’s such a tight fit I feel like he’s trying to restrain me with a straight jacket. Agitated, I back away. I pull the tunic off, toss it back on the rack. Searching for a way to appease the men, I grab hold of two voodoo bead-shell-and-bone necklaces and purchase them for a few CIFAs.

“No more,” I say, shaking my head. “No more purchase.”

The shopping ended, the stocky man no longer extols that friendly diplomatic air. I follow Joseph back to the longboat, hoping that my first trip to the Ganvie shopping mall, such as it is, will be my last. I didn’t come to Africa to shop for souvenirs. I came to learn something about the land and, just as importantly, something about myself. And I’m determined to see the mission through.

The longboat now cleared of the dock, we enter into a mysterious world built on water.

Next Dispatch: Part II, World Built on Water

Since you can’t exactly call in an order for ready-mix to be delivered to the bush, there’s a cement mixer located on site. As we drive up, I lock eyes on three Beninois laborers who are feeding the already-spinning concrete hopper with a mixture of dry Portland cement, sand and pink colored

Through the bush (photo by Vincent Zandri)

gravel. When the newly-mixed cement is ready, the men pour the thick mud into wheelbarrows which they then cart over to the new construction. From there, the masons direct them to pour the homemade ready-mix into foundation forms fabricated out of rough-cut lumber.

Work progresses steadily, not with the aid of power tools, but by hand and by strong back. The box-shaped building design is simple and, as far as I can see, not a single drawing or blueprint is being consulted. But when the work is completed, this building will serve as the area's agricultural center hostel. Here, in the Hevier bush, up to 35 Beninois farmers will learn how to tap this rich land for food without ruining the top soil by over farming.

I ask Cherry if I can snap some photos and he issues the “all okay” nod. No apparent voodoo danger at the construction site. Nothing apparent to the naked eye anyway. When I'm done, we pack back into the Nissan and head further into the bush.

Out my window I see a massive swamp that feeds a small lake. It's located maybe a mile in the distance. Cherry tells me this is where the workers gather up their water for the construction project. Feeling my travel muscles, I ask about heading down to the swamp to get a good look at how the

The crew who freed us (photo by Vincent Zandri)

men are tapping the swamp water. We push the Nissan along the two-track until we come to an opening where a compost pile is being collected. Beyond it is the swamp. Cherry drives down to the swamp's edge and engages the parking brake. That's when something bad happens. The Nissan 4X4 sinks into the swamp-soaked soil.

Disengaging the brake, Cherry thrusts the gear shift into reverse. He presses both feet down on gas and clutch peddles. The wheels spin. He tosses me a look that isn't good. His normally tan face turns a distinct shade of pale. He gives the Nissan the gas again. I can feel the vibration of the heavy 8-cylinder going through my entire body. RPMs, revving, gears burning, tires spinning, churning up red mud.

As if possessed by voodoo spirits, the Nissan sinks deeper into the swampland.

We get out to survey the damage. The driver's side wheels have sunk so deep, the muddy floor is touching the vehicle’s wheel wells and undercarriage. We don't have a winch. There are no shovels for digging us out. We could call someone for help, but cell phones are useless for calling anywhere other than the ship.

We have a choice. We either hike it back through the bush to a settlement, or we wait it out and hope someone missed us. Not much of a choice. We start to walk.

We follow the two-track back up the hill. On both sides of us, the bush is so thick and tall you can't see over it, much less through it. On the leafy ground beneath my booted feet, ants the size of beetles scurry past. Some of the black insects simply climb over the tops of my trail boots to get to where they have to go. I'm aware that these ants are not only big, but they pack a big bite. And the bites can infect.

The midday heat goes from oppressive to worse, but that's a blessing since even the malaria-carrying mosquitoes know enough to get out of the sun during a hot African afternoon. Does the fact that I haven't taken my anti-malaria medicine today (Doxycycline Hyclate) leave me regretting my own poor judgment? You bet it does.

Up ahead is a clearing that supports a small masonry building. Cherry heads inside the structure and reemerges with a big, stocky, blond-haired, white man by his side. The man is dressed in beach party shorts and flip flops. Shaking my hand with his bear claw of a mitt, he pleasantly introduces

Rescue party heading into the bush. The red-shirted man is on the right (Photo by Vincent Zandri)

himself as Ken. He and Cherry know one another since they both work for Mercy Ships. Behind him are seven or eight native Beninois, one of whom is dressed in colorful indigenous, loose pajama-like clothing. He’s also sporting aviator sunglasses that afford him a mysterious if not intimidating presence.

Forgetting about the seriousness of the situation (not to mention Cherry’s responsibility for keeping me safe), I pick up a machete that's lying on the ground. I ask Cherry to snap of photo of me holding it. My two teenage sons will get a kick out of a photo op like that. The good natured and ever patient Cherry snaps away. But the sunglasses wearing man somehow takes offense. He points at me, issuing some stern words in his native French. Nervously dropping the machete, I make my way back to Ken who is busy organizing the gang of Beninois men into a rescue party. Grabbing some shovels and machetes, the rescue party begins the trek back down through the bush to the disabled Nissan.

I politely follow.

It's while the rescue team proceeds to dig out the Nissan's buried wheels that I can't help but notice one red-shirted man who keeps staring at me. I try to distract myself with the digging. But every time I look at him, his wide, white and black eyes are planted on me. When it soon becomes apparent that we can't dig the Nissan out, Ken sends one of the men to the construction site on foot to retrieve a Land Rover that can pull the vehicle free. From thereon in, we have no choice but to wait in the hot sun.

Ken decides to call a meeting to pass the time.

He gathers everyone into a semicircle. Using one of the workers as a translator, he wants to know what the men can learn from Cherry's and my having buried the 4-wheeler in a swamp. “You don't drive tucks into swamps,” I want to shout out. But Ken is obviously a dedicated missionary trying to teach his flock a lesson of Biblical proportions, so I politely keep my trap shut. After all, I’m the one who got us into this mess in the first place.

But it's while Ken is preaching about the providential benefits of working together that I catch the red-shirted man staring at me again. His stare is so intense, I can feel it going through skin and bone and flesh. No matter how much I try and shake it, he just keeps on looking at me, through me.

Sensing something mysterious in the air, Ken, decides to introduce me to the work party. He refers to me as a writer come all the way from America to write about Africa and Mercy Ships. I issue a polite “Bon soir” to all and try to avoid the red-shirted man's dark eyes, not to mention the long machete he grips in his right hand. But when he raises up his free hand, points a crooked index finger directly at me while speaking something in rapid French, my heart skips a beat.

The entire group peers at me. Rather, not at my face, but down at my right hand. The interpreter wraps his thumb and index finger around his right wrist like he's imitating a wristband or bracelet. I'm not sure why he's doing this until I look down at my right wrist which is supported by a thick black

Mixing mud (photo by Vincent Zandri)

leather strap that was purchased as a gift for me back in the US.

The red-shirted man speaks. I gaze at the interpreter, await his translation.

“You have fought and killed many men,” he says like a question.

I feel a drop of cold sweat trickle down my backbone. I clear my throat.

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I have neither fought many men, nor have I killed any.”

The interpreter nods thoughtfully, then relays the information to the red-shirted man.

While the rest of the men look on calmly, as though we were discussing the weather, the red-shirted man speaks once more.

Turning, the interpreter, says, “In the voodoo culture, men who are able to wear such a band are considered to be powerful fighters. This man envies you for your power.”

Just then, we hear the roar of a second off-road vehicle barreling through the bush. We all turn our attention to the machine as it emerges onto the clearing so fast and abrupt, the startled band of Beninois run for cover. When Ken shouts “Slow down,” the driver hooks a quick right and proceeds to get our rescue vehicle stuck in the soft earth beneath the compost pile.

Coincidence? Bad luck? Voodoo spirits at work? I'd rather not think about it.

Minutes later, after pushing the rescue vehicle out, we winch the Nissan out of the swamp. After a group photograph, Cherry and I hop back in the freed 4X4. Exhausted and dehydrated, we wordlessly make our way back through the bush towards the main road.

But it isn't until we are on our way back to Cotonou that I break the silence by making a confession. Turning to Cherry, I tell him I slipped the red-shirted man my leather bracelet; did it out of friendship and gratitude for helping us get out of the swamp.

Cherry doesn't say anything at first. He just concentrates on the busy road ahead. Until finally he says, “Well, that's a nice thing, but...” He lets his thought trail off as if finishing his sentence will put

The rescue vehicle (photo by Vincent Zandri)

the fear of God in me. And it very well could. I might ask him to spill his guts, but a little voice inside me is telling me to let it go. That in this case, ignorance is bliss. My discretion doesn't stop my imagination from taking over however. Is it possible for the red-shirted man to cast a spell on me now that he possesses a piece of jewelry that was once my own; something he believes made me powerful enough to fight and kill many men?

I look out the window, at the many huts and plywood shacks that we pass by, at the many children waving and shouting “Bon soir!” at the busy men and women. I can't imagine these people...these poor but somehow happy people, wishing harm on anyone, no matter what the spirits tell them to do; no matter the sacrifices the power of darkness might command. I don't believe in any of that superstitious hocus pocus anyway.

I sit back, happy that I gave the red-shirted man my bracelet. Proud even. After all, in the end, it's not the size or expense or apparent power of the gift that’s important. It's the thought that counts.

NEXT DISPATCH: Heading up the Lagune de Cotonou by wood longboat to the remote Ganvie stilt village.

Enter Mercy Ships, the thirty-year-old global charity that is better known for performing surgery onboard its docked ships. I’ve been surprised to learn that the organization also performs operations “off-ship”, which explains the new agricultural center now being constructed in Hevier's interior jungle territory. It’s amidst the thick, almost impenetrable growth that a clearing has been made to accommodate the construction of a hostel that will house up to 35 farming students. This is also the territory where “biblical agricultural practices” are being taught to the Beninois who wish to cultivate vegetables, roots and fruits without spoiling the land for future generations.

My driver and fixer for the day is David Cherry, a tall, thin, quiet man in his late fifties who originates from Georgia in the U.S. He's been overseeing the “Ag project” since its inception some months ago. He is also a steadfast “convinced Christian” which, out in these parts, means he is as respectful of African voodoo as he is to Jesus. In a word, the man has his guard up, which also makes him a bit nervous, if not unsettled.

Behind the wheel of the Nissan 4-wheel drive he speaks to me in his slow southern “good old boy” drawl about how easily many Beninois mix a belief in the Christian God with a steadfast belief in voodoo talismans, spirits and power. Some of the people mix the voodoo with a belief in Islam. In either case, it is strongly advised not to snap away with abandon like Robert Capa on steroids or else risk a Beninois tongue lashing or, far worse, some kind of powerful spell that might be cast upon me. I'm not sure about Cherry, but I wonder if it's the Beninois belief in voodoo that is causing them to have so much trouble raising crops without destroying the top-most layer of soil. Agricultural bad karma, as it were.

But then Africa is a land of extreme contradictions. For instance, in Benin (the capital of the voodoo world) as in many parts of Africa, it's perfectly acceptable to practice Islam or Catholicism in the morning. But at night, after the sun goes down, it's okay to focus your prayers on lesser Gods. You ask the spirits to give you the power to overcome your problems or to achieve something you desire. Problem is, however, the spirits don't give anything away for free.

This talisman is self explanatory (RT Photo / Vincent Zandri)

In extreme circumstances, such as in war-torn Liberia some fifteen years ago, a political leader ran and won on the roughly translated slogan “I killed your mother and I can kill your children.” Now if that's not a political agenda propped up by voodoo tradition and the bone chilling fear it harvests in many African souls, I don't know what is. Fear and loathing in the dark unknown can cause otherwise good Christians to do bad things, such as engage in ritual sacrifice. In many parts of Africa, an extreme example of sacrifice is the harvesting of the still beating heart of a little child. A tamer example is the consuming of the blood of a freshly killed rooster.

If you don't believe in spiritual hokus-pokus, you can get around Hevier's sun-baked villages and bush country without cause for fear or panic (that is, of course, if you're not bothered by spiders and snakes). But if you're the least bit superstitious and/or religious, you begin to see strange sets of eyes staring at you through the brush or from around a hut corner. You might feel a cold chill run up and down your backbone when an old shirtless man carrying a machete locks onto your eyes with his milky whites as you drive by. You can't help but wonder if a spell has already been cast upon your soul just by entering into a rural area rarely seen by westerners and almost never seen by tourists.

Coming upon the edge of the thick bush, we hook a quick right and continue with our bumpy and sometimes dangerously precarious drive along a rain-slicked dirt road. The hard-packed road is the color of pink cotton candy. Lining the sides of it are more wood huts and little shops. Native Beninois are scattered about along the side of the road, the men and boys dressed in loose shirts, slacks or shorts, their tough-soled feet bare, while the women dress in colorful wrap-arounds. Our white Nissan sticks out like a great white whale on wheels. People stop and stare. Most of them issue a suspicious scrunched brow, narrow-eyed expression. Through the years these people have seen western missionaries come and go, all too often abandoning the projects they started. Some leave because they run out of funds. Others get frustrated with this tough, unforgiving country. Still others become spooked by the voodoo (many missionaries, including some Mercy Ships volunteers, refuse to purchase souvenir ceremonial masks or jewelry because of the power they are believed to possess).

But what takes me by surprise are the children. The children, very few of whom go to school, run up to the Nissan as Cherry slowly negotiates the deep ruts and tries to prevent us from sliding off the roadside into a ditch. The scantily dressed boys and girls assume wide smiles. They raise their hands and wave. They shout out “Bonjour” and laugh and get the biggest kick out of seeing us head into their jungle. I can't help but wonder: are they laughing with us? Or are they laughing at us? I stick my arm out the window, wave back, and hope for the former.

We cross over a stream via a narrow bridge with no rails. Cherry's eyes widen as we pass huts with thatched roofs on one side and corn fields on the other. Further up the road, topless women pound corn or seeds in stone jars with heavy, blunt ended polls. Roosters and pigs scurry about along with the occasional underfed dog. Soon we pass a tower made from clay and wood. Mounted to the top of the tower is a crude airplane. I ask Cherry the significance of the airplane. But he doesn't know. But what he does know is that the tower is a talisman and it signifies that we are in the middle of voodoo territory.

When we pass by a wall-painted talisman that depicts a grass-skirted man whose mammoth-sized manhood is sticking out through the grass, I feel no need to inquire about its fertile meaning. Acting on instinct, however, I raise up my camera and catch a quick picture. Cherry doesn't have to tell me to put the camera down. I can feel his scream in the glare he gives me from behind the wheel. Clearly, the nervous Cherry seems to be getting more nervous.

Now having gone beyond the final semblance of civilization, we continue on into the bush towards the Ag Center, where only jungle and dark spirits await us.

To be continued…