16 March 2001

Toward Benin and the Coast

 

We left Niamey and took a somewhat leisurely drive through southwest Niger headed south towards Malanville, Benin.  Our imaginations spurred by signs saying “Giraffe Crossing,” we kept our eyes peeled, looking over the tops of the brush for a member of the world’s only free-range giraffe herd.  Sadly, we never saw any.  It was the same story for the elephants, hippos and baboons — we kept seeing the signs, but never got to see the real thing.  Our animal-spotting attempts kept us busy for most of the morning, though and the next thing we knew, we were at the bridge in Dosso that crosses over the Niger into Benin.  (For anyone keeping score, this is the seventh and final crossing of the Niger River for the group!)

This border crossing was the first really official-looking one in quite some time.  They had an actual building on the Niger side with a window for customs, one for immigration, one for the gendarmerie and one for the local police.  Formalities took about an hour and then upon clearance, we drove across the bridge and parked at the Beninese border facility which was much like its counterpart in Niger.  After a few t-shirts and cigarettes exchanged hands, we were on our way.  We headed off towards the coast, mere days away from our final destination, Abidjan.

Benin is one of the greenest places you’ll ever see.  The combination of lots of rain, heat and rich soil have made it one of the most-farmed places in West Africa.  All the way to the coast, the road cut through flourishing cotton and tobacco fields as well as really nice little villages where the people were happy and friendly and never asked for a thing.  Allow me to digress for a moment . . . here lies the paradox of Africa for me:  For the most part, except during droughts, people in rural villages are well-fed, surrounded by a family and village network, generally happy and enjoying a fine quality-of-life.  In cities is where you find the Sally Struthers poverty, homelessness, filthiness and rotten quality-of-life.  The strange thing though is that people move from rural villages to cities in droves, hoping to find their fortunes and a more Western way-of-life (read:  TVs and Nikes) but only finding poverty.  I wish there was a way to convince people to stay in their villages and away from the cities (now there’s a job for the Peace Corps) in the long run, they’ll be so much better off.  If there’s one thing that really sucks about what the West has done to Africa it’s that we’ve forced them to want to be like us and that’s a real shame.

After searching for quite a while for a good place to camp, we finally stopped early in the evening and found a secluded grove of trees at the far end of a cotton field near the town of Parakou, Benin.  The desert for the past few weeks really spoiled us with two things:  dry heat and no bugs.  Here in Benin, the story was much different.  The bugs were fierce and large and the heat was muggy and almost unbearable.  Nature made up for our six-week lack of bug bites in a single evening.  In addition, it didn’t get below 90 until 7:00AM but within another hour, the temperature was rising again.  All that said, we actually had a really good night.  Getting into camp early provided us the opportunity to have some time for relaxing and talking around the campfire.  That night it truly dawned on me for the first time, looking at the six other guys I had just spent the last six weeks with, that our adventure really was going to end.  Eight weeks seems like forever, especially slogging through the hot desert, but to quote the band Modest Mouse:  “The years go fast, but the days go so slow.”  The end was near and approaching faster that I wanted to admit.

We got on the road good and early the next morning, intent on making it to the coast with enough time to enjoy the beach for a while.  Following advice in the Lonely Planet, we decided to check out a place on the beach called Grand Popo.  After a few wrong turns, we came upon the most gorgeous stretch of non-touristy beach you’ll find anywhere.  Coming from the eastern U.S. this was pretty incredible for me.  Here, beaches are overcrowded, billboard-ridden wastelands that you visit only to find that the water’s too cold to swim in, all the good places have been taken and “why didn’t we just stay home and swim in the pool.”  Grand Popo was the polar opposite for me.  It had gorgeous warm blue water, clean fine sand and maybe five people as far as the eye could see.  Now this kind of afternoon at the beach I could get used to!

To add to the attractiveness of Grand Popo is a fantastic place called (appropriately enough) Auberge de Grand Popo (Grand Popo Inn).  The Auberge is owned by a likeable and interesting Frenchman by the name of Guy.  He bought what was a deserted girls school in 1980 and turned it into a real undiscovered gem of a hotel.  Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s very basic.  No TVs or jet skis here, but if you don’t mind paying $15 a night to stay in a comfortable room 50 feet from the ocean listening to waves crashing on the beach and drinking a cold Castel beer, then this is the place for you.  Uncluttered and unencumbered by the back-breaking throngs of package-tourists, Grand Popo is a truly incredible place.

One rather strange occurrence upon arriving in Grand Popo was all the Ving Rhames-looking guys carrying guns.  They were sort of sneaking around and looking at us with some interest.  It was rather disconcerting until we found out who they were — the president’s personal body guards.  Apparently, President Kerekou is from Grand Popo and was holding a campaign rally in his former hometown during the run-up to the Beninese national election.  From our hotel we could hear the chants and shouting coming from the soccer field where the rally was being held.  It was a bit troubling at first, but it soon became kind of a novelty for us.  A few of us got a glimpse of the president as he was about to be whisked back to Porto Novo in his big car and we wondered if he really appreciated what a great country and people he leads.

Benin is one of those places that no one knows about.  When we mention to people that we visited Benin, the usual reply is:  “Oh yeah, that’s in Asia, right?”  I hope it’s obscurity remains that way and tourists are directed to Ibiza and Tunisia.  For, contrary to what I said about tourism in the last article, I hope no one ever visits Benin again . . . I want to keep it all for myself.

For any package-holiday planners, hotel developers or tourists thinking about going to Benin on holiday.  Don’t go.  It’s a terrible place and you’ll hate it.  Take my word for it.

-Paul Shumway