Red Fire Moon

‘You can call me Ze Chief!’ he exclaims loudly, throwing his head back in laughter, cackling like a madman.

‘Zis way yovo, to your room,’ he continues, arms outstretched, bowing slightly, though still maintaining eye contact. The Chief, a middle aged man with matted grey hair and a limp, is my host for the evening in Abomey.

I follow The Chief from the air conditioned lobby to the courtyard. The wooden door bangs loudly behind us and the warm tropical air pours over me again. A young woman, presumably his daughter, is sitting in a cane swing hanging from a large tree. She is wrapped in a colourful, one piece figure hugging dress, and hair extensions sprout from her head. She stares at me, expressionless, right up to the last moment that our eyes meet, then she smiles.

‘Here it is, c’est bon!’ The Chief announces, and he hands me the key, which is attached to a small wooden head with ghoulish features, and similarly matted hair.

‘Merci, c’est bon. C’est toi?’ I ask, holding up the key ring.

‘Ah! Mon fils, mon fils!’ he laughs, my son, my son!

Abomey, once the heart of the powerful Dahomey kingdom, is now a relatively insignificant town of less than 100,000, in the West African state of Benin. I arrive in the late afternoon, after a long journey from Ouagadougou in neighbouring Burkina Faso, and from Benin I will head west, to Togo, Ghana, and beyond. The Dahomey kingdom, in existence for almost 400 years, developed alongside the Atlantic slave trade, growing fat from the wealth of human cargo it helped export. The kingdom peaked during the reign of King Ghezo (1818 – 1859), Dahomey’s longest serving and most powerful monarch. Beloved by his people, King Ghezo used the economic advantages of the slave trade to maximum advantage, however his administration was unable to adjust when it ended. Increased French incursions into West Africa, coupled with British sanctions saw the kingdom wither. After King Ghezo’s death, the empire declined further, and by the turn of the 20th century, the last king of Dahomey had abdicated and fled to Gabon. The monarchy was no more.

The royal palaces of Abomey are the best preserved remnants of the former kingdom. The earthen structures, a deep, blood red, are spread out through a number of courtyards. On their walls, the authority of the monarch is conveyed though a series cartoonish reliefs. The image of a farmer being carried away on the shoulders of another man is a haunting reminder of the slave trade. Elsewhere, depictions of battles show enemies beheaded and limbless, and carvings of lions represent the king’s unchallenged standing as ruler. His throne, now an historical artefact, sits atop the skulls of captured enemy combatants, The interior walls are adorned with weapons of the Dahomey kingdom, many of which were gained through the exchange of slaves. The chains in which these men and women were shackled are also found throughout the palaces, still attached to the floors, or displayed in glass cabinets.

The Royal Palaces of Abomey

Outside the gates of the royal palaces, street vendors are selling water sachets. A man strides towards me, holding a blue tub filled with blocks of rapidly melting ice, ‘l’eau, l’eau!’ I drop some coins into his hand and take one of the plastic packets. He drops the coins into the breast pocket of his shirt one at a time, and then rubs his chest, humming. I rip the corner off the water sachet with my teeth, as is the local fashion, and spit it out before guzzling the contents. ‘l’eau, bon!’ the street vendor exclaims, before walking away, whistling and dancing.

From Abomey, I travel south, hitching a ride on a zemidjan (motorbike-taxi) to the coastal town of Ouidah. My chauffeur is dressed in faded blue jeans and a garish homemade shirt, pink and brown, adorned with images of seashells. He snakes down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic, and muttering to himself in French. Along the way we stop to eat at a roadside stall. I order Amiwo, a common Beninese dish of maize accompanied by a mix of onions, peppers, and tomatoes. The spiced dish tickles my throat, and between coughs and splutters, I signal for a glass of water. The chef, a middle aged woman with tea towels draped over her shoulders, hands me a plastic cup with water. She announces something to her fellow vendors, in a language I don’t understand, and they all share a laugh at my expense.

In the halcyon years of the Dahomey kingdom, the southern coastline of Benin was known as the slave coast, with up to 10,000 people per year shackled and transported, removed forever from their native land. La Porte du Non-Retour, a concrete archway and staircase, looking outwards to the Gulf of Guinea, memorialises those were enslaved. The sound of waves crashing on the shore, and the warm, salty breeze would have been the last experiences of those men, women, and children. Displaced from their homelands, and deprived of their freedom, those who left the slave coast were at least able to main connection with one part of their culture, their indigenous religion of Voodoo. As the regional influence of the Dahomey kingdom waned, this unlikely legacy lived on, finding new life in the Americas and Caribbean. Today, Voodoo is practised by more than 60% of Beninese people and is common throughout West Africa, while blended versions, often spiced with the Catholic practices of former slave masters, are found throughout the southern United States, South America, and Caribbean nations.

The entrance to Ouidah’s Sacred Forest (photo credit Laure Wanders)

Ouidah’s sacred forest, an expansive, open air exhibition, is the ideal location for an immersion in Voodoo, aside from the annual Voodoo festival, held each January. A pair of leopards, and a bearded, horned man with an erect penis, welcome visitors at the entrance. Even more statues are to be found within. The grounds of the sacred forest are dominated by enormous iroko trees. The twisted roots of the iroko rise from the earth, forming thick, powerful trunks and the trees can live for up to 500 years. In their sprawling canopies, colonies of fruit bats squeak and squawk, dropping seeds on the heads of visitors. Leaves rest where they fall, and crunch underfoot. Throughout the forest, the mischievous gaze of the Voodoo iconography is inescapable, and the feeling of being watched never abates. Amongst the crowd there is a man with two faces, a Minotaur swallowing a sword, a topless woman, and farmers with disproportioned limbs. On the walls of small huts within the forest, women are depicted carrying water, in their arms and atop their heads. As one of the four natural elements, water plays a central role in Voodoo culture, it is used to cleanse the body before rituals, and as an ingredient in medicines and potions. Often lost in the more macabre and fantastical images of Voodoo, is that it is a religion with deep connections to the natural world.

Inside Ouidah’s Sacred Forest (photo credit: Travel2Unlimited)

Once home to slave ships, whose masts flew the flags of colonial powers, Ouidah’s coastline is now dotted with fishing boats, two-man wooden hulls and single engine dinghies that bob in the ocean. Waves chop and crash on the shore, palm trees bend and sway with the winds, and zemidjans disturb the evening serenity as they tear up and down the sand blown roads.

At a small, family run hotel I spend my final night in Benin. My host is Zona, who explains that her name means ‘one who has artistry,’ and hanging in the grounds of the hotel are mobiles, made from scraps of metal, driftwood, pieces of material, and household waste. They jingle and clang in the breeze, and Zona appears proud of her creations, and of living up to her name. Elsewhere in the sandy courtyard, weathered hammocks hang limply between palm trees, and a large wooden table and plastic chairs constitutes the dining area. Zona’s four young children, including a set of twins, draw pictures in the sand, and play skipping games while waiting for dinner.

‘Poisson et riz,’ Zona announces, and she passes me a metal dish loaded with rice, sauce, and a whole fish, its left eye staring blankly. She points at her own eye, and then raises her eyebrows and giggles, exposing a gap between her two front teeth. We eat together, and I cough and splutter my way through another spicy Beninese dish.

‘Vin?’ she asks, holding a bottle of clear liquid with what looks like woodchips in it.

‘Ahh, petit,’ I say hesitantly, wary of the homemade concoction.

Zona pours a shot into a communal glass, and hands it to me, ‘Vin spécial,’ she assures me, and holds up her fist indicating that it will give me strength.

I throw back the wine, and it burns all the way from my throat to my stomach. I choke, gasp, and exhale a mouthful of invisible flames.

‘Un autre?’ Zona asks, chuckling.

‘Non, non!’ I reply, still choking, and she takes a sip herself, without any reaction.

After our meal, Zona takes her children aside for an evening of storytelling. They are a captive audience, and she appears an excellent narrator. The cadence of her voice rises and falls, and she gesticulates wildly with her hands. At one point she stands, runs on the spot, then falls back down. The children respond with laughter, awe, and fear as the story ebbs and flows. I observe from a distance, while watching the sky turn a fiery red at sunset. Zona concludes her story with a loud clap of her hands and hurries the children to bed. The night has grown still, and the mobiles are limp and silent, lifeless in the dark of night. The moonlight shines through the palm fronds, and I hear footsteps crunch in the sand behind me.

‘Ce soir c’est la lune de feu rouge,’ Zona whispers to me, ‘tonight is the red fire moon.’

Thanks to LaureWanders and Travel2Unlimited for the use of their photos. You can visit their websites in the links above and follow them on Instagram at @laurewanders and @travel2unlimited.