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.