Embracing Mother Africa

The reports were unnerving. Several foreigners had been beaten to death by mobs in the streets after being accused of magically stealing living men's penises. A city of nearly a million people had, for all I could determine, one stoplight, no speed limits and insane traffic, almost all of it overloaded. But the more I learned about Benin, the voudou capital of the world, the more fascinated and less frightened I became about visiting it.

Benin is a small country just west of behemoth Nigeria on the Atlantic-wet underbelly of Africa's west bulge. (Forgive me for tormenting the metaphor: I have never been able to shake the perception that Benin's shape is like a young intestinal polyp.) It's democratic, intensely poor, and francophone.

In May 2004, I emerged from the womb of the plane, drew my first breath of African air, and immediately burst into tears.

The butt-slap of this birth was a profound sense of having returned to my roots, accompanied by an awakening of some ancient memory -- both impossible for me to fully express either then or now.

Paste-white in both my color and English/Welsh heritage, I know that my African genes are either few or very old, but there it was, a silent voice on the earthy wind: "Ah, child. Welcome home."

My daughter had met me in Paris and we flew back together to Cotonou, Benin's largest city, where she had lived and worked for more than a year. She simply smiled at my wet face. She'd already endured hours of my excitement -- soaring over the mirrored Sahara certain that I could feel the reflected heat at 30,000 feet, crossing a vast stretch of green polka dotted with villages, and dropping close at sunset to see the squares of fish farming in the huge red lagoon adjacent to the city.

Sandwiched between arrival and departure in an airport scented with too many overheated bodies were two weeks of remarkable memories, filled with a people who are hospitable, generous, funny, poor as dirt and highly resourceful. Here are some snapshots.

• At Ouidah, we were hosted at the slavery museum with drums and dances, and then traced the steps of the slaves to a gateway at the sea where they were loaded naked on boats. Some of the stops on that tour were so profoundly moving it seemed sacrilege to use a camera
• At Gonvié, descendents of the Tofinu tribe still live in stilt houses several kilometers from shore because it is taboo for their enemy, the Fon, to go onto the water
• At the 50-acre Dantokpa marché we found everything from monkey testicles to fine silver to rich textiles. Children would shout "yuvo" ("whitey") at our approach, and then stroke our skin as we passed to see if the color came off
• Drenched and filthy from the knees down when rain turned streets into shallow rivers, I wondered at the Beninese woman, spotless, regal and unwrinkled in both heat and torrent
• Commerce in Cotonou was curiously mobile as small shops -- selling gasoline in bottles, food, baskets, or fabrics -- moved nearly every day from venue to venue. Often individuals, particularly women, were walking stores, carrying everything from fruit to baskets of electric motors on their heads. One entrepreneur wore the equivalent of a hard sombrero, on which she had hung about 30 dresses
• Delivering shoes to a camp, we found that refugee shelters far exceeded the quality of Beninese housing, as did programs for the children
• When we were guests at a seaside chicken dinner, try as I might I couldn't finish my meal. Our hostess graciously asked if my plate could be passed to all others at the table so the food would not be wasted
• Touring with a group of voudou devotees, I fell ill, as luck would have it, near one of the very few public restrooms in the city. Our guide said, "We will be here, praying for you." When I returned, the sense of goodwill from that group was palpable
• Five months after the deadly crash, an airliner still lay on the beach after having spilled its passengers and freight, including goats and cattle, into the sea
• Jacques, an employee of my daughter, pedaled 40 kilometers one way each weekend to be with his family. The Sunday morning I departed, Jacques arrived bearing a gift for me that was extravagant in what it must have cost him, and precious in what it required to deliver it.
  
  I was humbled by my visit. I learned from the Beninese the importance of community, of hospitality, of resourcefulness, and the relative unimportance of acquisition, of professional status, and of entertainment beyond ourselves.
  
  That education provides great solace to me now. I know that, in these difficult economic times, that human beings can rise above the adversity to seize joy in life, undaunted, gracefully carrying our burdens on heads held high. Thank you, Mother Africa.

Copyright, 2009, Pat Grauer