When traveling in Africa you cannot be quite sure of anything that has to do with traveling arrangements – no wonder when the buses stop running or the road is packed with traffic. Hundreds of other things could happen. So if we had a flight back to Europe in the evening from Lagos, which is located in another country, we knew very well that we have to wake up very early in the morning to be sure we get there on time.
But we woke up still in Ouidah and we had a lot to do: dressmaking for my new djembe (time: 1 hour), buying some palm wine from the market for our friends in Estonia (time: half an hour), saying goodbye for the family (time: half an hour) and also the things that seem so natural here – the last rituals with a White Mage (time: 2 hours!). We will be flying in the evening, but we keep on looking  towards the sun with a calm Mage, saying the necessary spells in Fon language, and eating magic seeds for different matters.

 However, when we finally got on the bike we had to find our beloved rasta family in Cotonou, with whom our adventure in Benin took off just about  a month ago. But as soon as we were together again, we started enjoying the African rhythm.  And suddenly we were not that much in a hurry anymore, that we couldn’t make some music with our rastaband and chill out in their cozy home in the Cotonou underground. The family was together, which is, after all, the main thing, and our best  friends were there -  Joel, Samsun, Chaka, Christian, Abiel, Auberge. So we had our rituals of great spirit, and my new djembe got its mercy from the professional. This was supposed to make me also a professional djembe player, as soon as I get back to Estonia.

So no wonder that the time stand still. We had a flight from another country, and we still had to cross the wildest state border I have ever seen – the one of Nigeria-Benin. But we kept on enjoying our songs such as „Aujourd’hui Africa Dit NO”. The sun was hot and I had tears in my eyes, as I was feeling such a warm love for life of being right here right now with all those people I adore. Joel and Samson- “Toujour positivité”. Back then I didn’t know that it was actually the last time I see them telling it. Always positive thinking.

When reality finally started to knock on my neck and  we got back on motorbikes,  now together with a gift of Joel’s paintings, the fate started throwing sticks on our spokes. First of all, the bike smashed  mercilessly Chaka’s leg, then Christian ran into a small accident. Then it seemed that all of the Cotonou ATMs were out of order, just today. And as our giant paintings were hiding the view from the rear view mirrors, I had to work hard on myself to keep on breathing and staying calm.  Finally, we got informed  that we were hopelessly late – “Do you really think that today anyone still travels to Lagos?”
“But we  have the flight,” we could only mumble for  reply.

Gradually an idea of Benin becoming our new homeland for a while started forming under my  brain cells. There were many attractions, of course, such as pineapple, the sun, rasta family… And maybe it’s not the best idea to fly Afriqiyah Airways and via Libya.
Near-endless hassle with dozens of taxi drivers and other nosy men, however got to the point that we were able to put the paintings and the drums on the taxi, and we ourselves took the motobikes until the border of Nigeria, mentally prepared to face all kinds of bribe demands of paintings and smuggle them to Europe even if we had to give our soul for them. And it all went… great!
We had  not even a cent of money or a gram of food when we finally had crossed the border, heading towards airport. Luckily we  had traded a bottle of water and a packet of banana chips including the price of the taxi.
Farewell Benin! Farewell  brothers, Christian and Chiaka!

Magical market

We had made it clear to Chiaka a long time ago that whenever there’s a real mage near us, we’d be more than glad to meet him. Since no mage came, no mage came. We’d already get accustomed to the African way of life and sense of time that confirmed arrangements didn’t get us going. We were concentrating on here and now, forgot about the past and didn’t think about the future.

But at this random moment, when I was ready do disappear into the anonymous swirl of street markets, Berit grabbed me from my sleeve and told to sit with her – this lanky man in white, with weird dreadlocks, is the White Mage.
When the White Mage started talking, he kept on talking. It felt as if the words that came from his mouth were flowing from a space touched by the otherworld that now through his identity united with our world. Chiaka and Berit quietly crept away, because magic works the best in one-on-one communication and so the mage’s voice was the only one that in this hot morning rang in the shade of the palm tree.
The mage talked and talked. Monotonously, aptly, sometimes taking my and his breath away. Every third sentence began with: “Here, where you are now, there…” As if he saw me from a odd perspective, or studied from the distance from another space or dimension.
At first his tied sentenced composed more and more intact pictures. Finally he came to an understanding what has to be done for my well being. He wrote everything necessary into a notebook. It said:

• A ceremony for Ogon god,
• A ceremony for a snake (with honey),
• A bath for mermaids,
• Powder,
• Talisman (to protect luck).

The White Mage
When Berit had spend her few hours listening to the White Mage’s monologues, we took our bikes and drove to the market to get the necessary products. Berit was trying to find a chicken she was supposed to sacrifice to voodoo. I, for Ogon’s satisfaction, had to find certain herbs about which Chiaka talked as if he was talking about the most elementary things. I found that weird enough, what is more, the White Mage had told me to buy an eagle’s head for making the safety powder!
We drove to the eagle head market. The mage chose a suitable head, I bought it and then the Mage was supposed to make a powder of it. I should have a taste of that powder every day.

But the main challenge was yet to come. I had to carry out a ceremony for Ogon – it’s a voodoo god, which fetish was standing in Chiaka’s garden.
Chiaka swiped old palm tree leaves from round the pile of scrap metal, which was looked as the temple of god, making the place look a bit more sanctuary. Then he mixed a number of oils and powders, which one by one had to be sprinkled on the fetish. This was supposed to be food for the fetish.
Meanwhile the White Mage threw some colas into the water bucket, which in its own language meant whether the fetish was ready to talk to you or not. If the colas are in an open position the fetish will talk to us. If not, then not. Open colas, talking fetish.
I hunkered down before the fetish and tried to sharpen my senses and pretend solemnity. And actually I didn’t want to pretend. I wanted to believe, or try to understand what does it mean to believe the fetishes, to believe voodoo, to believe the magical power of the pile of scrap metal. I tried and tried, I really tried so much, but the fetish didn’t even plan to change into something more than a pile of metal that’s covered with spicy flour blend…
Chiaka and the chicken
After the ceremony I was physically and mentally worn out. I had wished to experience something that would touch my soul, but it seems I’d tried to believe the impossible – before me there was still a lifeless pile of scrap metal, which I, in my diligent solemnity, had poured the gook, saturated with spices, and petrol on the top. The fetish showed no sign of life. A subjective experience in its realm was not experienced and the voice of the fetish faded in the sea of my fantasy full of hope.
But maybe it was me, I’d like to think. Maybe I just can’t read the communication of voodoo souls. I’ve been ruined by the noise, don’t understand the code, don’t even notice it.  Voodoo talks to me but I don’t hear it.
Possible.

In Tartu I don’t lick the powder made of the eagle head on daily basis, but the talisman given by the White Mage is always with me. It’s worth believing, just in case, because as Chiaka said, truth in Benin is always a bit hidden, a bit in the shade.

Rastafarians in Benin gain power and a Rasta greeting among the young is as common as the French greeting with sharing kisses on cheeks or the Russian hand shake. But of course, everybody knows what a real Rasta should be like and acts in accordance to his beliefs, taking others as a bit unfortunate followers of the lifestyle.

Just like that, the Abomay Rasta family believed that emphasizing one’s looks and having dreadlocks don’t make you a Rasta at all. Rastafarianism is in your way of thinking and living. This is why they kept talking about the positive way of life and the ability to reach god through a plant, at the same time playing the drums.

Ouidah’ Rastas, taking Chaka as an example, expressed their belief through home graffiti, they wrote Bob Marley or Rastaman so big it covered the walls. However, the music came from a crackling CD and through the plant they got connected not only with the god but with a number of beneficial clients.

But in Benin there’s also Famille Jah, a Rasta family who declare themselves founders of a new movement and this is the reason why some other communities are disturbed: what gives them the right to believe that they are the utmost Rastas of all?

Having a discussion over it, Chaka answered as usually: Why do you ask from me, I’ll take you to them. And once again we were standing behind a new door, a dictophone in our hands, ready to ask some questions.

Jah-family repatriated from Guadelupe to Benin about ten years ago and started living here in the spirit of Panafricanism and spreading their beliefs.

By now they’ve built their own living quarters and a school by the lake, natural economy is what they rely on. Virtually everything they have on the table is from their vast gardens where in the plant avenues there are signs depicting names that are historically important for the Rastas, the flowers combine a map of Africa. “Madagascar included,” Father Jah specifies.

Father Jah asks us to repeat: Africa sans frontieres and explains how Africa should be a unified state. Africa is the birthplace of people and it should be kept and loved as a whole. Although the Bible talks about the Garden of Eden, we all know that it’s Africa it’s really talking about. Why should we have the frontiers that bring anger and wars if we could share the opportunities and produce what Africa has to offer?

Why should we export to Europe if all African states should cooperate? The god has given the humankind agriculture and real Rastafarians should aim for it again. This is the sacred mission of Rastas.

Father and Mother Jah are presumably in their seventies already, and when looking at them one can see they haven’t had their hair cut for ages. Because when people were born there were no hairdressers in the world, there were no cut hairdos and not even scissors. Valuing the natural way of life they see no point in limiting their looks.

Being close to nature is the key phrase they sing to their children and what they pass on in their school. Agricultural works and learning handicraft occupies most of the time the children have, they can even make a coffee pot out of a tree from their back yard.

We listen to Father Jah and take a bite of soya cake and a sip of soya milk.

„You don’t eat meat, do you?“ he asks just in case. „Nobody has a right to kill an animal,” he stresses while pointing his finger. This sentence starts echoing in my ears a few days later when we meet the White Mage.

Could you imagine it this strange morning, when you first see a wild woman with naked tits sucking  blood from a dead goat’s neck, and then you find yourself in front of an abstract pile of things (which apprearently is a fetish), you pray and then you kiss African-earth floor. Then you find yourself dancing with a gang of black women, in line with few more shots of palm wine, and then, only then, you receive a phone call from Estonia, and it’s not just somebody on the phone, but it’s one of the most well-known Estonian globetrotter Tiit Pruuli, who is entitling and prizing us, the Avantourists, as the Adventurers of the Year. Oh my.

Of course, all of that made my head spinning, but apparently there was even more input added. And there they came  - a bunch of nice corpulent women walking down the  dusty streets of Ouidah, singing loud and proud their voodoo songs. They are singing, for example, that when someone dies, someone new starts respecting another fetish. Sometimes  they grab each other’s hips and start rolling their bodies against each other. I find myself in surprise, as my eyes are not lying – this is how a dry sex could look like. Or let’s face it – this resembles more like a real wild banging.

When seeing this bold women approaching me, I was thinking – come on, she’s not gonna come and take me, the foreigner, half the size that she was. But each of her dumpling step reduces my self-confidence, and ultimately I find myself facing real fear. And just a second later I was already held by her fatly grip.

Brown round full moon was laughing at my face, still singing voodoo bewitching lines, her eyes shooting sparks of primeval passion. But the real action was taking place somewhere in the waist area, it was strong! As it was still too little – someone was also approaching me from my back. And now I saw Chaka’s sister fucking Berit!

In other words – it’s a decent gang-bang in the absolute daylight in Benin. And we as tolerant anthropologists find ourselves in the situation as such. Anyway,  somewhere (but  surprisingly still very far away) I already saw the limits of my own cultural tolerance, but probably I was too much astonished by what had happened, that I couldn’t make sense of anything at all.

When I finally had come over the brutal rape, I suddenly realized – why our protegée Chaka didn’t do anything to protect us? He was just hanging out next to us, seeing all that happening.

Chaka laughs, and says quietly, as if we still don’t get it, as if we are still way too far from  understanding the system of meanings over here: “You girls are now part of the family. This is what it means. I couldn’t have done anything there.”

Oh well, try to get it, just try…

Late at night when we were sitting our good old boat shed and listening to the ocean’s continuos howling we had just experienced reading Pater Noster simultaneously – Chaka in French, me gropingly in Estonian – that night I finally made out what boys think what is the thing most worth seeing here.

Chiaka’s and Pascal’s eyes really lit when we talked about the border between Benin and Togo!
Why?
Chiaka says in a secretly voice: „There – on the border – there’s everything…”

The next morning we dashed on our bikes along the Slavery Coast towards Togo. There’s really everything on the border: lorries, cars, bikes, bicycles, women, men, children, buzzing traffic, an overwhelming market, where you can also find such extraordinary snacks as chicken is.
Chiaka finds a parking space for his bike, blinks at a few dudes and the bike is in safe hands. Chiaka’s imaginary safety dome works again. We walk past a few strategic people, press our fists and it seems we’re safe.
Just like that we walk towards Togo – we could also see Togo if we’re already here, we think ironically. The traffic becomes heavier, we already pass the border control, passport controls, border signs drawn on the road, and already I start thinking how simple it was – but then a border police start yelling, at not only – the yelling was, oh, how extreme!
Chiaka drew his tail between his legs and a cruel criminal became the most charming man in the world.

„Do you think that you can walk across the border with two women just like that?!” a corpulent police woman bridled.
„But you’re here just the same – one man and two women!” Chiaka comes up with funny excuses referring to the border officers.
„And it’s normal in Africa – a man has to have many women!” I note.
This develops into the most amusing moment of the day filled with crisis – the whole line is laughing, the corpulent lady on the highest pitch.
But they don’t let us go to Togo.
But we had studied it already on the border of Nigeria that in Africa there’re always more ways of crossing the border than it seems at first. So we walk to the beach, go along the coast … And we’re in Togo!
Tens and tens of women go past us wearing a load above their heads, so typical for African women. But it’s typical for only boobs like us. This is how they traffic illegal petrol and drugs – nobody checks the luggage carried above your head. And what is more, they cross the border illegaly. Without documents, without problems.

By the way, cocaine is the basis of economy, some say in Benin. White gold and dangerous games for criminals – exuberance for European hipsters. There are almost no petrol stations in Benin – everything moves along illegal routes, women bring it from Nigeria above their heads and it’s strained through a cloth by 7-year-olds. On this continent, there’s nothing to do with the economy models known from the book. Illegal border crossing seems like a piece of cake when compared to this.

This is how black market moves – in the safe hands of women on the border of Benin-Togo

Of course we are seen when walking on the coast of the shining ocean – “why are the whites walking along our secret paths. The whites have to pay! We don’t care about the visa fee but this is how the guy in the border control doesn’t get his share!”
And a man started following us, he asked for our passports and said something. Suddenly something weird happened – another guy waved at him and the annoying man stopped in the middle of what he was saying and disappeared.
Right – Chiaka’s safety dome was doing it’s invisible job.
We’ve been to Togo. There’s nothing to do with “sights” – it’s the value of the experience.

In Grand Popo

At the beginning of-course we didn’t have any idea that what brings in the daily bread  for our friend is to make a kilo-weighing package of holy flowers into joint-size sachets. As it is common for a rasta, he often smokes even before the heat comes up. But as religious beliefs do not fall under the subject of critizism, then, as for me, they can do whatever they want – all my respect.

Thus our friend is Le Grand Frère of his neighbourhood. For more that 24 years his been sharing the holy leaf for all parties, and also gaining big respect for that, as not everyone can lead the role of opening the doors to the divine world. To remember – rastas smoke in order to be in connection to the God.

In our friend’s banana garden there are usually dozens of black men hanging out. A burly man talks about his master’s studies in business management, a couple of young brand dandies colorful with their Gucci, Prada and Diesel play with their all-allowing smart-phones.  Sunglasses in front of every eye. There’s also a poor man from the streets squatting under the palm tree, one is said to be a magician, the second one a voodoo priest, the third a policeman. In tune with their bobmarley-sounding melodies some hippies in their bright-colored shirts are floating in the garden. Always charismatic, but with a romantic heart, our friend is singing back to them in his high falset voice, after which the chickens are running away into two parts. I feel that I am surrounded by the modern cultural center of Ouidah.

It could be estimated that there are around 50-70 people passing by the Big Brother’s garden daily. Among them, only two women. One evening, I managed to come across with one – she was a Mama with big tummy and strong legs. I kind of felt as if I instantly metamorphosied into a fragile butterfly next to her. She had a kid tied at the back of her body and she was laughing at a low voice. Well, that’s a Mama.

We finally realized the validity of the social position of our friend only when we went down to visit the beach in Grand Popo.

It was not until several days later, when we realized why Africa seemed to us safe and why our friend didn’t really want to leave us by ourselves – the key lies in him. And yet I was feeling scared when walking alone by the ocean waves, as it was still hard to suppress the remnants of the psychological trauma I got after the armed robbery at the beach in Peru. I was still keeping pepper spray in my sweaty palms. But the thieves had long ago understood under whose protection we were moving around. That was our friend.

Berit

So we were sitting inside of the old boat, which has become our beach home, and fell asleep right there on the sand under the starry sky. It would be too hot inside of the house. We haven’t had any electricity for the past four days, we bring water from the well daily, and cook a meal by candlelight. Our days begin with coconut milk, caught from the tall palm trees.

If there’s not a tsunami wave floating us over, the nights on the beach are passing calmly. Ocean waves are affecting me just as music with only some fractional seconds of silence in between. The sound is growing into thunderish waveform, and then slows down into calmness, only whispering some words in his secret language. The call of the wild.

After many weeks in Benin, the question was still in the air:
Why do White Women seem so desirable for Black Men?
Participant observation in Benin by Fifame and Sena (i.e. cultural anthropology freaks Terje and Berit) allows me to highlight the following:

White Woman can be seen as an object of property for strategic defence reasons.
This is a a characteristic of the collective societies – when someone literally takes you under his control, you basically have the protection of his entire family which becomes your family. When moving around the town, the White Woman is seen as linked to the company of a Black Man. An  imaginary protective shield forms around the white woman, and its strengh depends on the power of the  social and symbolic capital of the black man. Economic capital is usually important too, but as there’s usually lack of it in Benin, so this is already a special case here.
In our example, we drove down to the beach in Grand Popo for a change. Chiaka came with us. For him this seemed completely obvious, because how the hell you can send away the women of your own family! But he never left the next day. How he could leave us, the White Women, as we are, after all, under his protection!
At first it seemed a bit harrowing, but after a while we noticed the very practical bottom line. How could it happen that nobody touched or hurt us in this dangerous part of Africa? Well, a few rounds in the city with the company of Chiaka and the protection shield works as magic. White woman (Berit) and his two Black man, for strategic defence reasons.

White Woman as a rich woman
For the people with family, this argument is not very meaningful – beninois are generally very lovely people – but when there is White Woman moving on the streets there is still some sweet smell of money around her. They are not really ripping you off, but deep down they still tend to believe that money grows on the tree on the white people’s land. Even just a bit.

White Woman as a symbol of modernization
For me it seemed that most smart young men in Benin suffered from the lack of expressive freedom. They were born in the turmoil of hot and dusty poverty, their mother is sucking goat’s blood straight from her neck and the father has two wives extra. Grandma is selling pies on a street corner. Uncle is a priest of Fa. Twice a week they go to the Internet cafe, and sadly sigh. Oh, White Woman…

White Woman as a window to Europe – to the land of all opportunities
When White Woman symbolizes modernity, capitalism, constant electricity and running wireless Internet, then Black Man wants to marry the White Woman and fly with her from the symbolic reflection to the Real. They dream of moving to Paris or Marseilles, but the most important thing – to Europe, the land of all possibilities!
What they only do not know is that in France the gender roles tend to turn upside down: White Woman strikes out in the city making career, and Black Man raises children at home and cooks.

White woman as a divine woman
But the most stunning discovery comes from a rastaman artist with a beautiful name Art A Jah. He told me that around the White Woman lies some sort of mystical aura. It’s of purity, holiness, it is glowing aura. A white woman is like veiled. As if White Woman also symbolizes some sort of mental expansion. But for the surprise of the Black Men gender roles get a bit of twist when hanging out with the White Women

But Black Man cannot agree with the White Woman’s ego and desire to be at even with a man. To simply be equal.
Most of the young men’s fathers, on average, have three wives in Benin. Polygamy lives to the fullest. Women are raising children at home, men have sex in rotation.

“Now that woman is a Satan!” Chiaka waves towards the woman carrying a bowl on her head on the other side of the street.
“What do you mean?”
“When we had a relationship, can you imagine, I found her with another guy in bed,” he tells his bleak story.
Me with Sena immediately put up a question – when this is so terrible for the woman, then why does not the same apply for the men. Why polygamy is okay, but only for the men?
Chiaka’s response made the feminist inide of us to raise her head:
“Because a man is a man.”
“?”

“Because a man is a man.”
“..?”