Last year for Christmas I stayed in my village in order to partake in the festivities with my neighbors. I soon discovered that Christmas is mostly just a fete for the children who go around door to door in search of candy (sound familiar? Halloween perhaps?). So this year when my friend, Jazz, invited me to his father’s home I accepted.
Jazz (I’m pretty sure he gave himself the nickname), was a student last year in my village and would often be at the health center studying. He passed the BPEC (equivalent to 10th grade graduation) and therefore moved to a nearby town to continue his education. Before he left in August he had invited me to his father’s home for Christmas. What was so special about this invitation is that his father is a Charlatan or Voodoo Priest and I was told that dozens of people come the week of Christmas to see him.
I hadn’t seen Jazz since he left, but through sporadic minute phone calls we made plans to meet at his sister’s, Bridgetta, place in Bohicon. When I got there, despite the fact I had come from lunch, she fed me and insisted I take a nap. I decided it was easier to agree and I curled up on the floor of her coiffure shop and slept a bit. Jazz in the meantime left to go to his father’s where family matters were being discussed. I could have slept longer but I wanted to visit with Bridgetta before the festivities began (she has very limited French so really I just watched as she tressed or braided hair).
Jazz came back and we headed out to his father’s which wasn’t far from the main road, but remote in many ways. Upon arrival we were greeted by the 3rd wife of his father who in accordance to the culture gave us some water and as I took a sip apologized for the fact that it came not from a pump, but from a well; oh well. After introductions I was shown around the village. As we walked around, the closeness of the houses to one another gave me the feeling of being inside a maze, not knowing what each turn would lead to. It was communal living to a T. Everyone was related to Jazz in some way, quite a few were brothers or sisters (I once heard his father has over 20 children with 3 wives), while others were uncles or aunts who watched him grow up and were thrilled to see him.
We came back to the main house of his father were Jazz’s mother began to make up some Nescafe (in honor of the Yovo). His father remained in one of his fetish rooms where he had been since morning, fasting the entire time. Jazz and I sat around waiting for the festivities to begin. I was told it would be around 7. However around 10 I gave into my tiredness. I squirmed in a hard wooden chair trying to get comfortable, regretting that I didn’t take advantage of Bridgetts’s floor. Then I moved to the bench that Jazz had recently vacated and napped just a little before I was beckoned by the Charlatan.
Women are not allowed to wear shirts in the fetish room. So I wrapped myself in a pagne or 2 meters of fabric and took off my shoes before entering not realizing that I would spend the rest of the night just as I were. In the room I was given a seat and watched as one of the sons would pray/ read horoscopes by the knocking of a few pebbles and reading their meaning as the fell in front of him. Men, women and children alike sat in front of him. To my left along the wall sat a woman who had already gone through menopause and 3 girls who haven’t yet experience menarche or the age of womanhood. They were dressed in white and I never got the full story of their significance.
As midnight approached the drum began it’s call. We were given candles and gathered outside. Everyone began chanting to the beat of the drum which I felt under my skin, running through my veins. The drummer didn’t give into the arising excitement and stayed consisted, controlled. Boom, boom. And we were off. Following the Voodoo Priest and the 4 girls dressed in white we went down a path, lit by the trail of candles at hand. It wasn’t a short walk, but the path beneath my bare feet was well travelled. We halted at a fetish shrine and I placed my candle in the sand that surrounded along with everyone else’s.
I soon learned that even the Voodoo Priests forget things at times; he or whoever was responsible forgot the goat that would be sacrificed. Luckily there were other things to be done as well…
It began with a distribution of kola nuts. I watched the others begin to rub the kola nuts along their faces, and I was instructed to do the same. The exact reasoning I’m not sure of, but I think it has something to do with giving all my bad spirits to the nut, a reoccurring theme for the evening. The nuts were then placed into a white circle with a star in the middle where the Charlatan said words that I didn’t understand but watched intuitively nonetheless.
Trying to reflect upon the evening now, things seem a bit hazy, probably due to the lateness of the evening and the tiredness that had come over me. I have to look at my pictures to in order to remember what came next. The goat finally made its way. One man grabbed the animal by its hooves and proceeded to touch it against the foreheads, mine included and I was the only one who cringed at the thought of touching this filthy goat to a part of my face, but I was not about to refuse when they were being so accepting of me there. Then wack! The goat was banged on the ground, twice. No slitting of throats as one may think of when talking about sacrifices. The goat they received stomps by everyone. Women made their children touch the animal and I was told I must do the same in order to give all the badness of this past year to the goat so it wouldn’t come with me into the next year.
From the goat came the chicken and the same deal, except we didn’t have to step on it. The sacrifices were then placed into a pit that was dug during the process. Starting with the men, people crowded the pit while their heads were washed with water (I fully participated in everything!). The water that dripped down their faces glistened in the candle light.
We were well into the night and my exhaustion was obvious. Bridgetta, being the mother that she is, took responsibility for me and made a spot for me on a mat along with the others (mostly just the old or young) to rest a bit. There was a wait to get horoscopes read. Men and boys went first. One by one they would kneel in front of the fetish shrine and waited for the Priest to predict the future with his stones and experience. Bridgetta brought me over for our horoscope reading. And then our heads were washed again, the water drained into the shrine leaving us cleansed. I later asked what my horoscope was. I was told this next year things would be fine, but Bridgetta would have to make a sacrifice to avoid dangers in this upcoming year.
Being concerned, Bridgetta sent me and Jazz away, but I assured them I could wait until everyone else had their horoscopes read. It didn’t take much longer and we were on our way back. We no longer had candles so I stuck closer to Jazz, following his steps until we got back to his father’s. I could see everyone was getting ready to celebrate; music was playing, dancing started. I however was dead to the world, it was 4am. I was led to someone’s home where I was given a bed and Bridgetta helped me tuck in my mosquito net. When I first got into country I would have felt off guarded by the situation, sleeping in someone else’s bed, taking a bucket shower, etc. However at this moment I was at ease with my surroundings, completely comfortable, reflecting in what I had just experienced.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Sunday, December 14, 2008
La Fete de Chicotte
A few villages in the northwest, near the Togo border, have a coming of age celebration for their boys. There just so happens to be a volunteer who lives in one of these villages and she invited us to come and join in the festivities.
La Fête de Chicotte or whipping fete occurs around the end of October every year and according to new country regulations they are now on weekends so children will no longer miss school. So early morning Saturday Oct. 25th the 14 of us who arrived the night before left in a van to go to a neighboring village. Tired and a bit groggy (we were ready by 6am) we arrived and were soon carried off to pass the time at the King’s home. It was said that he was well into his nineties, had several wives and dozens of children (I don’t really believe he could have been in his nineties… maybe, or maybe he just felt that old; without birth certificates no one really knows). We were given choc, a local beer made from millet; drinking at 8 am is actually a common occurrence in country.
At the sounds of drums we parted from “his majesty” and went to a small opening where the men were arriving from the different corners of the village, each wearing a specific attire to represent their allegiances as well as their year in participation: first, second, third or completed. The men of all ages, even the 5 year olds, formed a revolving circle around the drums. Their feet were wrapped in a type of bangle that contained small beads which produced a rattle when their feet hit the ground with force. The stomping fell into the rhythm of the drums, controlled, without rushing as they concentrated on their contests to come. Surrounding them were the retirees: fathers, older brothers, uncles… there to give support and guidance; they also happened to be dressed in drag looking better than most women could in a mini-skirt.
Once enough people had gathered the whipping began. Crack, crack. Crack, crack. It was heard all over. The drums stopped and the men dueled with whoever was closest to them, a sort of musical chairs. Each gave two flicks of the whip while their opponent protected themselves with a make shift shield that was really a long stick with a handle at the middle. This could only suffice a bit and the blood became to seep from define lines of where the whip had cut into the flesh of the arm or back. The opponent was then given their chance of two whips. Crack, crack. The supporters sometimes had to step in to prevent a continuation of frapping when the contestants would get caught up in the moment. The drums would start up again and the men would fall into their circle, each time it grew larger as more arrived.
This was just the warm up. From there we followed the mob to the soccer field. It became difficult to see with the whole village there and everyone trying to get a glimpse. Women supported their brothers, boyfriends and sons. Little boys eyed them and stood just a bit taller, anticipating their day to come. Here at the arena only two at a time dueled and this was more of a presentation for the King and other elders. Crack, crack. I could only see with my ears, but that was enough. Crack, crack. It didn’t last long, maybe until 10; but I’m sure the fete-ing lasted the duration of the day.
We returned back to Kate’s house and awaited the festivities to come on Sunday. So we passed the time with a bit of Cranium and just enjoyed each other’s company catching up from the last time we saw one another. That night the boys began getting ready by making trips to all the houses. We would hear them coming from the distance, chanting in a way that represented the mood for this fete, almost with a dreadful ring, perhaps it was just my imagination for I couldn’t understand any of what was being said. Some just chanted “l’argent, l’argent” or “money, money” but we gave them candy. This lasted for hours. It was after 10pm and most had gone to bed and the chanting had died down a bit. A few of us were left on the terrace setting up our beds; outside is the best place to sleep to feel the coolness that comes with the setting of the sun. All settled in, (trying not to worry about scorpions after we just killed one) and already drifting into sleep I could hear chanted. Louder and louder it came. They were really close to the house I knew, but it wasn’t until Megan exclaimed something that I sat up. The gate was hinged closed; but that didn’t create any type of hesitation. I was taken aback to see a line of teenage boys in costume chanted and stomping their feet up on the terrace. It was almost scary. We had to shoo them back off the porch and give them candy before they would depart. Luckily we slept afterwards without any more visitors, neither boys nor scorpions. The whole night resembled a version of Halloween and it just so happened that Halloween wasn’t that far away.
Again we arose early. Grabbed some power bars donated by Lindsey who was finishing up her service and headed down the road. We waited for the men to arrive. After some time, they began to approach from one end with the rising sun at their back. In front of us they joined the others who gave from the opposite end and veered off into an overgrown patch, trampling the weeds and creating an opening. It turned into one big free for all. There was no order. Just the snapping and cracking of whips. They still maintained the two hit rule, but that was one of the few similarities than the day before.
Down the road was another mob of people that we joined. There was no set place for combaters or observers, so we were continuously changing our position trying to avoid getting in the way. But with this we could also get better views. At one point I watched a younger boy in a spar with a much older, intense man (probably late teens, early twenties). The elder didn’t block the boy’s hits (I also noticed the whip was changed to one with less power) but he sure did give it back. The younger blocked himself well, but I was memorized by this teaching moment between, what I like to believe, bothers.
Each battle was finished by the retired men, probably family members, they grabbed the tips of the whips and promenaded the contenders around until meeting up with someone else to challenge. It was a horde of half dressed men either in drag or loin clothes, multitudes of whips, cheering women and more baby powder than… well I’m not sure what but the white dusting on black skin gave an effect to the scenery .
From there we gathered at an arena where the battles would be presented in front of the King. Being Kate’s home we were given front row seats. I only regret not getting a video at this great opportunity. Being up close without a rumble of people I had the ultimate experience. Crack, crack went the whips. Muscles rippled as the men both took and received the forceful strikes of the whip without a slightest wince when the sharpness cut through the unprotected skin creating a dark red strip that would without a doubt leave a scar.
Again like the day before, it didn’t last long and we soon went to the King’s house. There we drank chouc again. But this time a whip was given to Heidi and Rut who each took turns flicking their arms to hit the shield of the opponent, giving the villagers a little spectacle in return. I was surprised when the whip was handed off to me and eager at the chance as well. Crack, crack. I didn’t hold back knowing that my inexperience was something the man in front of me could handle. It was exhilarating. I could fully understand how one could receive a hit and not cringe, so much adrenaline the pain wouldn’t start until the day after. No worries, I didn’t receive any hits in return. It wasn’t that I was a wimp; I just didn’t have a shield.
We bid our farewells and thanks to the King and shortly took off in different directions to our villages or towns around Benin. The cultural weekend was definitely a highlight and I’m glad I had the chance undergo this experience.
La Fête de Chicotte or whipping fete occurs around the end of October every year and according to new country regulations they are now on weekends so children will no longer miss school. So early morning Saturday Oct. 25th the 14 of us who arrived the night before left in a van to go to a neighboring village. Tired and a bit groggy (we were ready by 6am) we arrived and were soon carried off to pass the time at the King’s home. It was said that he was well into his nineties, had several wives and dozens of children (I don’t really believe he could have been in his nineties… maybe, or maybe he just felt that old; without birth certificates no one really knows). We were given choc, a local beer made from millet; drinking at 8 am is actually a common occurrence in country.
At the sounds of drums we parted from “his majesty” and went to a small opening where the men were arriving from the different corners of the village, each wearing a specific attire to represent their allegiances as well as their year in participation: first, second, third or completed. The men of all ages, even the 5 year olds, formed a revolving circle around the drums. Their feet were wrapped in a type of bangle that contained small beads which produced a rattle when their feet hit the ground with force. The stomping fell into the rhythm of the drums, controlled, without rushing as they concentrated on their contests to come. Surrounding them were the retirees: fathers, older brothers, uncles… there to give support and guidance; they also happened to be dressed in drag looking better than most women could in a mini-skirt.
Once enough people had gathered the whipping began. Crack, crack. Crack, crack. It was heard all over. The drums stopped and the men dueled with whoever was closest to them, a sort of musical chairs. Each gave two flicks of the whip while their opponent protected themselves with a make shift shield that was really a long stick with a handle at the middle. This could only suffice a bit and the blood became to seep from define lines of where the whip had cut into the flesh of the arm or back. The opponent was then given their chance of two whips. Crack, crack. The supporters sometimes had to step in to prevent a continuation of frapping when the contestants would get caught up in the moment. The drums would start up again and the men would fall into their circle, each time it grew larger as more arrived.
This was just the warm up. From there we followed the mob to the soccer field. It became difficult to see with the whole village there and everyone trying to get a glimpse. Women supported their brothers, boyfriends and sons. Little boys eyed them and stood just a bit taller, anticipating their day to come. Here at the arena only two at a time dueled and this was more of a presentation for the King and other elders. Crack, crack. I could only see with my ears, but that was enough. Crack, crack. It didn’t last long, maybe until 10; but I’m sure the fete-ing lasted the duration of the day.
We returned back to Kate’s house and awaited the festivities to come on Sunday. So we passed the time with a bit of Cranium and just enjoyed each other’s company catching up from the last time we saw one another. That night the boys began getting ready by making trips to all the houses. We would hear them coming from the distance, chanting in a way that represented the mood for this fete, almost with a dreadful ring, perhaps it was just my imagination for I couldn’t understand any of what was being said. Some just chanted “l’argent, l’argent” or “money, money” but we gave them candy. This lasted for hours. It was after 10pm and most had gone to bed and the chanting had died down a bit. A few of us were left on the terrace setting up our beds; outside is the best place to sleep to feel the coolness that comes with the setting of the sun. All settled in, (trying not to worry about scorpions after we just killed one) and already drifting into sleep I could hear chanted. Louder and louder it came. They were really close to the house I knew, but it wasn’t until Megan exclaimed something that I sat up. The gate was hinged closed; but that didn’t create any type of hesitation. I was taken aback to see a line of teenage boys in costume chanted and stomping their feet up on the terrace. It was almost scary. We had to shoo them back off the porch and give them candy before they would depart. Luckily we slept afterwards without any more visitors, neither boys nor scorpions. The whole night resembled a version of Halloween and it just so happened that Halloween wasn’t that far away.
Again we arose early. Grabbed some power bars donated by Lindsey who was finishing up her service and headed down the road. We waited for the men to arrive. After some time, they began to approach from one end with the rising sun at their back. In front of us they joined the others who gave from the opposite end and veered off into an overgrown patch, trampling the weeds and creating an opening. It turned into one big free for all. There was no order. Just the snapping and cracking of whips. They still maintained the two hit rule, but that was one of the few similarities than the day before.
Down the road was another mob of people that we joined. There was no set place for combaters or observers, so we were continuously changing our position trying to avoid getting in the way. But with this we could also get better views. At one point I watched a younger boy in a spar with a much older, intense man (probably late teens, early twenties). The elder didn’t block the boy’s hits (I also noticed the whip was changed to one with less power) but he sure did give it back. The younger blocked himself well, but I was memorized by this teaching moment between, what I like to believe, bothers.
Each battle was finished by the retired men, probably family members, they grabbed the tips of the whips and promenaded the contenders around until meeting up with someone else to challenge. It was a horde of half dressed men either in drag or loin clothes, multitudes of whips, cheering women and more baby powder than… well I’m not sure what but the white dusting on black skin gave an effect to the scenery .
From there we gathered at an arena where the battles would be presented in front of the King. Being Kate’s home we were given front row seats. I only regret not getting a video at this great opportunity. Being up close without a rumble of people I had the ultimate experience. Crack, crack went the whips. Muscles rippled as the men both took and received the forceful strikes of the whip without a slightest wince when the sharpness cut through the unprotected skin creating a dark red strip that would without a doubt leave a scar.
Again like the day before, it didn’t last long and we soon went to the King’s house. There we drank chouc again. But this time a whip was given to Heidi and Rut who each took turns flicking their arms to hit the shield of the opponent, giving the villagers a little spectacle in return. I was surprised when the whip was handed off to me and eager at the chance as well. Crack, crack. I didn’t hold back knowing that my inexperience was something the man in front of me could handle. It was exhilarating. I could fully understand how one could receive a hit and not cringe, so much adrenaline the pain wouldn’t start until the day after. No worries, I didn’t receive any hits in return. It wasn’t that I was a wimp; I just didn’t have a shield.
We bid our farewells and thanks to the King and shortly took off in different directions to our villages or towns around Benin. The cultural weekend was definitely a highlight and I’m glad I had the chance undergo this experience.
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