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D I A R Y
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4th Trip
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Journal entry, 16.1.1995
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This morning I saw Mahounon again for the first time in two years. "Alberto, c’est toi?!", he called out, delighted. As if I’d only been gone a few days. His whole family was there, along with many Voodoo adepts. I played him my brother Mario’s latest CD, conducting Schumann‘s "Manfred", an opera about elves, visions, and madness. It left them completely cold. We showed them the video material from the last trip. They were astounded. Got back to the "Hotel" after midnight. We smoked huge joints and drank beer up on the roof. Talked about Fa, laughed, felt good. 3 a.m.: To get to our beds, we had to go through the bakery. Women and children were sleeping on the floor in the hallway. We had to step over them. The bakers were already hard at work in the bakery – half-naked under the flickering neon light, bodies glistening with sweat – kneading fresh baguettes from a huge pile of dough in the middle of the table. Now and then, they tossed rolls of dough up at the ceiling.
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Journal entry, 17.1.1995
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Spent the whole day with Mahounon. On the monitor, step by step, he explained the interminable ceremony. It’s not something you can mentally grasp. Try turning the radio off and listening with your guts.
Supper at nine with Dahgbo, secretary of the Voodoonons: Light in the yard. A couple of
Voodoonsi, Voodoo novices, and relatives played a kind of chess. Inside, Dahgbo, alone in his red-white robe, which looked like a costume out of an operetta, was sitting on a couch, watching a sports program on the state TV.
They broadcast for two hours in black and white.
Now and then, he conversed with Coco (our Italian ethnologist), but devoted far more attention to the TV set than to her.
It’s hot. On TV, cyclists were racing their mountain bikes down a ski slope. One of them fell heavily into the snow, right in camera.
Dahgbo slapped his thigh and shouted in delight …
After supper, the three of us shared a motorcycle taxi to the Orioko bar. Night on the sandy track was very like being in the snow on TV. We’d hardly arrived and were about to go through the door, when black shadows with machine guns leapt in front of us from across the street.
An officer was chasing some soldiers and beating them on their helmets.
Another was cheering the soldiers on from the other side of the street.
Only the lazy were beaten, the ones who didn’t grovel enough. Just like a shadow play, when they beat the clown. Nothing could be heard apart from the thudding of the blows and staccato bellows from the senior officers. The landlord stood beneath the open entryway with its Christmas lights, roaring with laughter. The neon lights flickering across his face, changing it from green to yellow to red. The bar’s other two customers ignored the scene completely. We ordered two vodka tonics and only when the waiter, with a friendly smile, waved the empty vodka bottle in front of our noses, was it clear that the show was over. Voodoo Land is Gin Land.
The three of us had a great moped ride through Ouidah on our way back to the hotel. Still full moon and bed, at last. Beneath me, banging and crashing – the bakers were getting back to work. The clock read 3:00 am and I was dead tired.
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Journal entry, 21.1.1995
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In the morning, when we met Mahounon, he was in good spirits, carrying a large joint of mutton: "Voulez–vous manger avec nous?". We laughed, thinking he was joking. Coco said that we had just eaten and, together, they went off to work.
In the evening, Coco turned up at the hotel with the joint of mutton. Mahounon had insisted that we take it.
Coco gave the raw meat to the cook. Asked him to roast it for supper. He gave her a look as if she’d just pissed in the soup. Behind him, the table was heaped with dressed chickens, ready for "la vrai cuisine Beninoise", which Coco had ordered without consulting us.
Chicken in elastic sauce with maize pilo, (which is the same as a corn cushion) and tastes a bit like the national dish of agouti (giant rat) after a long hibernation.
I am lying in bed completely exhausted. Soaked in sweat. A great day, lots of work, but content. The ceiling fan is clattering. I fall asleep: A railway station in Peking, my film is confiscated, millions of people crowding past, pushing and shoving, an awful stench. I woke up in the toilet. Everything covered in puke.
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Journal entry, 23.1.1995
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Racing through Benin in a Land Cruiser at 140km/h. Luxury for the first time. Smoking dope like lunatics.
Four vehicles queuing at the toll gate: Our turn.
While we were waiting, Martine, wife of the vehicle’s French owner, bought some cream cheese from a Pölfrau from the north. Asked how to prepare it and the toll officer joined in: "It tastes best with...", "I’ve got a recipe, too ...", "My mother always makes it with...".
We thought he’d never stop.
And the car reeking like a pot party.
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Journal entry, 24.1.1995
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The Egouns are here, the living dead! I can hardly believe it. Dived into the hotel, grabbed camera and sound gear, and rushed back out. Dangerous situation, hustling and scuffling, screeching, chaos. Great commentary: "Yowo, c’est trop dangereux." "Don’t go there!" "Il y a de la nuit". Super camera: Like in Israel for TIME, during the war, and being fired on by 15 cm howitzers. I was so scared I shit myself …
Evening and I’d had it. But still couldn’t get to sleep. Pictures of the ceremony haunted me. Affected me strangely. A mad energy. In far-away Europe, I would probably have jeered at myself.
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Journal entry, 25.1.1995
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Went to meet Karl in the Costa Rica, the "in" place for the European automobile racketeers. Lingered all afternoon.
He’s been here for five years. Hasn’t changed a bit.
He’s one of those Africa freaks, who couldn’t go back to Europe even if he wanted to.
Claims that his bankruptcy case (million franc swindle in a Swiss village) turned out to be a stroke of luck.
Stealthily decamped to Benin.
Every night, a different Nigerian whore in his bed, sometimes two.
Fugitive post colonialists from Europe, able to buy a piece of paradise with hard cash.. They live in isolation, only socialising with each other.
Karl lives with three monkeys and two crocodiles in his pool the size of a bathtub. Stuffed monkey heads gaze down from the book shelf with huge eyes. Gris-gris (Voodoo dolls) and fetishes scattered all over the house. A yellowed calendar with a picture of the Matterhorn is completely out of place.
In the afternoon, an interview with Alfred, one of the editors of LE MATIN, Benin’s daily rag. He told some great stories about Voodoo and gris-gris. I told him about yesterday’s ceremony. He nodded, without any mockery, which I didn’t expect.
He shares my respect for the powers that rule here. I’ve stopped feeling like a fool, spinning daydreams.
I spent the night with Coco’s, friends Mathilde and Frederic, in a real bed. Air-conditioner for the first time. Almost froze to death. Dreamt I was skiing down the Matterhorn.
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Journal entry, 26.1.1995
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The morgue in Porto Novo. Where it‘s absolutely forbidden to film. The souls of the dead are still alive. Camera hidden in an old bag, lens peeking out, covered with a T-Shirt. We crept in through the backdoor in the afternoon, when most of the people had left. The door to the mortuary was closed, but inside, about 20 corpses, piled on top of each other on the floor. The shelf above occupied two deep, filled to overflowing.
Tags on their toes. The stench is unbelievable.
The coroners we’d bribed, tugging at the corpses.
I asked about the souls of the dead. One of them laughed and rolled his black eyes. He didn’t understand. Everybody laughed. He most of all. His laughter had something manic about it.
We shook cold holds and took off.
Like thieves, we crept out the back door, the car was parked a long way off.
It was time to return to reality.
Brooding midday heat.
I suddenly realised that I was drenched with sweat. Shivering.
Ethnic, journalistic questions about possibly doing a report melted away in the leaden heat.
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Journal entry, 27.1.1995
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Diarrhoea with cramps. Up to my eyes in work, regardless.. The cramps bad enough to make me howl with pain. I had to stop en route for a shit. Wiped my ass with banana leaves. What a sight: a Yowo taking a spontaneous shit in a banana plantation. The boy guiding me kept a safe distance. I gave him 100 CFA. He beamed. I stank. It was so hot. Hellish. No breeze.
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Journal entry, 28.1.1995
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Up with the lark, 6 am. Diarrhoea drove me out of bed and kept me shackled to the pan. Had the shits and cramps for days .C’est la vie.
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Journal entry, 29.1.1995
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Said goodbye to Mahounon. Gave him my Swiss army knife with the thousand blades. He was as thrilled as a child, beaming. Everything went really well. A wonder that nothing went wrong. All the tapes full, the DATs sound fantastic, everybody feeling good. Tomorrow we go home.
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Frenetic Films · Zürich Switzerland · mail@frenetic.ch
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