Embedded in Africa

Some of these mini-residences sport little front porches that don’t look all that different from the ones you’ll find attached to a farmhouse in the middle of the North Dakota farm country. In Ganvie, like North Dakota, the inhabitants use the porches for relaxing and taking a shady respite from the sun. But they also use them as vantage points for suspiciously eyeing the strange explorers who have been coming to this world on water for several decades now.

The story of Ganvie’s origin was never taught to me in my high school American history course. It is also one that Jesse Jackson might prefer to sweep under the historical carpet. Several centuries ago, the water community was created out of desperation by a Tofinu people on the run from the FON warriors who, under orders from their own African kings, were snatching innocent people up and selling them to western slave traders. According to legend, the Dan-Homey religion prevented the warriors from entering the water. This made the water a safe haven for not only the Tofinu, but for other tribes who might be captured and sold off to white European and New World slave traders by their own people.

The Beninois, despite their poverty, are a delightful, eager to please people. But not the people living inside the Ganvie stilt village. The people who pass us by in their canoes and longboats not only refuse to be photographed, but many sneer at me. While a steadfast belief in voodoo might cause some to shy away from my camera, gut instinct tells me they don’t want me here. This place was built as a safe haven and a refuge from evil intentions. Its very nature is to be distrustful to outsiders—even 21st century outsiders. I am no exception.

The eyes that peer out at me from the many buildings and fishing skiffs are as distrustful as the eyes of a deer caught in your headlights. And I can’t blame them. Generally speaking, Benin is not known as a tourist destination, but Ganvie just happens to be unlucky enough to be located along the western banks of one of its mighty lakes. Even with men like Joseph and the stocky man trying hard to turn the tide of distrust into profitable tourism, it’s evident that the occupants of this peaceful fishing and fish farming community want only one thing: to be left alone.

When Joseph pulls into another docking area, I sense another shopping setup. But like I did the first time, I disembark, politely but sternly ignore the children who beg for CIFAs and proceed to browse the gift shop/hotel and bar. As far as I can tell, no one occupies the hotel or the bar. The gift shop, which contains wood sculptures and more voodoo talismans and jewelry, is also empty. Feeling something churning in my stomach, I decide that perhaps this is a good time to ask Joseph about the availability of a bathroom.

Asking to use a bathroom in Ganvie is a little like asking for crushed ice in the North Pole. With water surrounding them 24 hours a day, the use of a western style bathroom is foreign to these people, if not filthy. Still, I am directed by Joseph to a small building that adjoins the two-level hotel. I enter into the building, which is comprised of two side-by-side rooms and a common empty vestibule. I find a door with a sign nailed to it. The wood sign bears the shape of a man’s facial silhouette. I enter the room, close the door.

But there’s no overhead light, so I have no choice but to leave the door slightly ajar. Looking down at a white porcelain toilet that drains directly into the water below, I reach down and lift the lid. The unattached lid and the seat drop off onto the wood slat floor. Perched inside the dry toilet is a black spider. The spider is about as wide as my palm. Its body is black and furry, its abdomen bloated, its legs long and bony. It is also fast. Suddenly exposed to the sun, the spider scurries across a web it spun inside a toilet that never sees any use. Until now. I jump back against the wall, pull up my pants, make for the exit.

Maybe Conrad’s Marlow wasn’t afraid of spiders during his journey into the “heart of darkness,” but I’m terrified of them. Especially the giant ones they grow on this continent. And I shudder to imagine what might have happened to my bare posterior if I’d decided to sit down on that toilet without looking first. It’s a lesson we can all live by: look before you squat.

Back on board the longboat, Joseph silently steers us again through the village and out towards the open water. I snap as many pictures as I can, knowing that this will be my last vision of this place, perhaps for a long time; perhaps forever. I catch a Christian cross in my viewfinder and snap. I also catch people dressed all in white who are attending Sunday services. I continually snap away, attempting to capture in the lens a series of moments never to be seen or experienced again.

Just off the bow is a longboat occupied by a single family. Both mother and father protect their heads from the searing sun, with wide-brimmed straw hats more suitable to Vietnam than Africa. While the two adults hide their faces from my camera, the little boy seated in-between them sneaks his head around and issues me the briefest of smiles. My camera poised on him, I somehow manage to catch the once-in-a-lifetime shot.

Back out on the lake, I watch the many birds that use the fish farms and shrimp traps for sanctuary. I’m told birds of many known and unknown species migrate here from all over Africa. Evidence that Africa is not only the birthplace of life on earth, it remains its cradle.

Later, as we leave the lake and enter back into the river, the smell in the air changes back to city smog and stale pollution. Once more we pass by the riverbank shanty villages and the people who mingle about them. A dog barks and searches for food scraps among the garbage. A little boy with his pants pulled down relieves himself along an oyster shell-covered bank. The boy is oblivious to the men, women and children going about their desperate lives all around him, and they are oblivious to him.

I think about the stilt village and the people who live there. I think that, perhaps, they are the lucky ones. The people live in an enclosed community that, for centuries, has warded off trespassers along with time and development. I’m thankful for having experienced it. But more than likely, I will never go back. Given the choice, I’m sure that’s exactly the way many of the peaceful inhabitants of Ganvie would want it.

Next Blog: The Final Dispatch: Closing Observations/Photos on Africa, Mercy Ships, and how the experience has changed my life.

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.