The yovo with the fancy camera is my friend Kaitlyn who is one of three Americans who started an organization called Unseen Stories to create documentaries designed to raise awareness about problems in the world and help people see how they can help.
My friend had plans to go on a Christmas pilgrimage with the president of the NGO where he works (who is also a responsable (pastor) of his church). Every year, the Celestes, known for wearing no shoes and dressing in white robes, gather at the beach for a midnight mass and prayers. I figured it would be interesting, but I didn't realize I was in for one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
Churches came from all of Benin, and delegations arrived even from Nigeria, Senegal, Togo, France and other countries. Each Church set up their straw mats under an awning to protect against the strong sun. Vendors, Celestes and non-Celestes alike, set up stalls or wandered, hawking goods from large backpacks or baskets on their heads. Mostly they sold food and prayer neccesities like perfume, candles, fake flowers, etc., but there were tupperware, sandals, instruments, videos, and a little bit of everything.
It was very intense--I was there for over 24 hours and saw no other white people aside from my friend. Everyone was curious about the yovos who had arrived at their pilgrimage, and it was difficult to walk anywhere without someone stopping me or calling me over to talk. A number of times, my path would cross that of a child, and they would literally jump away, startled and spooked.
By chance, amid the crowd of easily over ten thousand, we ran into my friend's friend from village, along with his friend, who immediately told me that he loved white people, and insisted on holding my hand everywhere we went. I can hold hands--no problem--but this guy, Moise, was ridiculous. After I got fed up, I seized an opportunity to steal back my hand, and did my best to keep it busy scratching my head, holding my other hand behind my back, or hiding it in my pocket. He would grab my wrist, and try to pull my hand from where ever I had stashed it, and I would just look around, pretending not to notice. All this while, for about fifteen minutes while we were walking around with , there was a robed fou (crazy man) who was nearly hyperventilating and yelled at everybody in Fon to watch out for the devils (us). He was bumping into people and scared women left and right, walking ahead to warn the people that we were coming, and coming back to eye us nervously. Luckily, he once strayed too far and we managed to slip away. I later heard that the Gendarmes had taken him in and most likely beaten him.
Returning to camp, the pastor asked if we would like to meet the head of the entire church, whom I and my friend later started to call "the pope". Well, that should be interesting, we thought, but we didn't yet realize just what we were in for. We were lead through the crowd to a huge church, brightly lit with long flourescent lights. There were no walls, and people had gathered all around the outside to peer in from afar, as only the Grands and special invitees were allowed in.
Inside, there was a brass band--about twenty trumpets, one saxophone, and some drummers. We entered, leaving our sandals on the steps as we were ushered past the guards. The floor was sand, and along the sides of the central space, important members of the church were sitting in their robes, rank indicated by varying degrees of color and ornamentation added to the basic white robe. At the end of a long purple runner, in an upholstered throne, the focal point of several cameras, video cameras, and electric fans, sat the Reverend Pasteur. Sporting a regal purple robe with golden embroidery, nonchalant behind his large, tinted glasses, he was a man with presence.
Unshaven, with wrinkled pajama pants and hair slightly unkempt, the "American Delegation" was led up to kneel before "the pope". We were presented with ceremonial flair, and it was explained breifly by the pastor how we had arrived in Benin as volunteers, and noticing that there was a pilgrimage, we had decided to come and see how they celebrate Christmas. All this, mind you, was far from the private meeting that we had expected. Loudspeakers broadcast the proceedings within as will as outside the church. Movie cameras lurked, recording for national news coverage and for posterity.
Had we watched any delegation arrive before us, if we weren't walking into a trippy, alternate reality, we might have realized that we would be handed a microphone and asked to speak a few words, and accordingly, would have prepared a few cogent thoughts and well-chosen words of thanks. Instead, the microphone was handed over, and our minds frantically scrambled for the right words. My friend had the presence of mind to explain that we were here to work with the people of Benin for the good of Benin, and I took the opportunity to wish everyone a happy holidays with the fon "Mi kudo hwe!"
After our moment of glory, we were ushered over to a loveseat of honor, next to the Minister of the Interior, two big-shots representing the Gendarmes, and other Invitees of note. From there we watched as delegations from various countries danced up to the Pasteur, accompanied by the raucous brassband, and knelt down to share their gratitude and a few thoughts.
Afterwards, we were led into an inner sanctum with the Grands Invitees where we shared cold cans of soda in a somber silence.
Midnight mass started surprisingly at midnight, as a slow hymn wafted from the church to our distant camp. Simulcast by radio, the Church's sounds arrived from all directions and washed through the crowd as the congregations added their voices to the waves of sound sweeping across the expanse of people. The first hymn struck me as quite like an enormous group om, and sleepy people slowly stood from their mats, lifted their hands to the sky, and immersed themselves in prayer.
I joined in the repetitive prostrations and standing-up for some time before looking around, noting that about half of the pilgrims were still fast asleep, and deciding to join them.
The next day, after my Church as well as most others started to leave in the early morning, I packed my backpack and went off walking down the beach in search of a fisherman friend who lives in a simple house among tall palm trees on the beach. He goes out on the ocean in his large (very large),motorized Pierogue (canoe) and lays nets to catch fish. This is not his house, but it looks quite similar.
I walked for hours, stopping to swim with a bunch of naked playful men (sorry ladies, no pictures ;) ), and found many nice pieces of beach glass and beach-washed pottery shards which will decorate my home nicely. Eventually I found my friend who promised to take me out for a day of work whenever I choose to return. His young boys deftly climbed these 40-foot trees to find me some delicious fresh coconuts.
After a quick visit to my host family in Lokossa, I've come back to Cotonou to stock up on food and such, and it's back to village to fete-up the new year...
Caught in the act--classic Beninese hand-holding.
