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.