Benin
Benin may be a narrow strip of a country sandwiched between Togo and Nigeria in West Africa but its slender size belies its beguiling charm. There is much more to this intriguing and enchanting country than voodoo. If there were guidebooks written on Benin they would talk about sights such as Pendjari National Park.
Little known outside of the Francophone countries, Pendjari has lion, leopard, buffalo and is arguably the best game park in the whole of West Africa.
Ganvie would also be sure to feature in this yet-to-be-written guidebook. A charming pirogue ride took me through tranquil channels of water hyacinth and fishing nets to the village. Here I found find stilted houses emerging shakily from the water, seeking the safety of dry land. Crowned with corrugated iron, rusted and bent by time, these tiny houses leaned and tilted in ramshackle disorder. At the water's edge mothers cleaned cutlery, wives washed their husbands' clothes and young girls shampooed their hair. Kids played happily in the water.
Interesting though they may be, such sights are the staple diet of glossy tourist pamphlets and miss the essence of Benin. Benin is all about the bizarre, the unusual, the incidental. It is what goes on behind the brochure that is truly fascinating.
The coast is picture postcard material with palm-lined golden beaches and the roar of crashing surf. But it is the fishermen, who ply their trade to ancient songs as the morning hauling-in of the nets is accompanied by deep rhythmic chanting, that really delighted me.
Driving inland, there was no limit to the variety of scenes that wheeled past, no restrictions on numbers of passengers and cargo. Fridges, televisions, panes of glass, chickens stuffed in wire mesh cages were some of the paraphernalia on the move. The Beninois have taken the art form of creative packing to a higher level, no pun intended.
The vespas buzzing around brought an incongruous smile to my face. The makeshift petrol stations - a table with a dusty collection of bottles - made me laugh out loud. But most amusing of all were the antiquated three-wheeler mopeds. Salvaged from scrap and cobbled together in an outlandish way, they were like something out of Mad Max.
With its fetish priests and fishermen, voodoo and vespas, I became more and more convinced that magic does indeed pervade this little known corner of Africa.
Little known outside of the Francophone countries, Pendjari has lion, leopard, buffalo and is arguably the best game park in the whole of West Africa.
Ganvie would also be sure to feature in this yet-to-be-written guidebook. A charming pirogue ride took me through tranquil channels of water hyacinth and fishing nets to the village. Here I found find stilted houses emerging shakily from the water, seeking the safety of dry land. Crowned with corrugated iron, rusted and bent by time, these tiny houses leaned and tilted in ramshackle disorder. At the water's edge mothers cleaned cutlery, wives washed their husbands' clothes and young girls shampooed their hair. Kids played happily in the water.
Interesting though they may be, such sights are the staple diet of glossy tourist pamphlets and miss the essence of Benin. Benin is all about the bizarre, the unusual, the incidental. It is what goes on behind the brochure that is truly fascinating.
The coast is picture postcard material with palm-lined golden beaches and the roar of crashing surf. But it is the fishermen, who ply their trade to ancient songs as the morning hauling-in of the nets is accompanied by deep rhythmic chanting, that really delighted me.
Driving inland, there was no limit to the variety of scenes that wheeled past, no restrictions on numbers of passengers and cargo. Fridges, televisions, panes of glass, chickens stuffed in wire mesh cages were some of the paraphernalia on the move. The Beninois have taken the art form of creative packing to a higher level, no pun intended.
The vespas buzzing around brought an incongruous smile to my face. The makeshift petrol stations - a table with a dusty collection of bottles - made me laugh out loud. But most amusing of all were the antiquated three-wheeler mopeds. Salvaged from scrap and cobbled together in an outlandish way, they were like something out of Mad Max.
With its fetish priests and fishermen, voodoo and vespas, I became more and more convinced that magic does indeed pervade this little known corner of Africa.
