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D I A R Y
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7th Trip
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Journal entry, 19.2.1998
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Filmed the Portuguese houses belonging to the returned slaves in Ouidah. The Brazilian names on the buildings’ tiles, once so opulent, were crumbling. The erstwhile slave road to the beach below was lively. People emerged in the dust, like shadows, on their way to the night market, or home. Ghostly traffic.
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Journal entry, 20.2.1998
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In Ouidah’s former slave square stands the tree of forgetting. The slaves had to circle it seven times, so they would lose the memories of their African homeland, before being shipped off to the New World. Gardeners had cut its branches and gathered them into a heap. As darkness fell, they lit a bonfire. The glorious flames outlined the shapes of the workers, sweeping the ground like slaves from days gone by, who had swept the square in readiness for the selection procedure. But the fire inverted everything: the tree, at first only a silhouette against the pale night, gradually became an illuminated tangle of branches before a pitch black sky.
Beyond, yesterday’s fetish was carried past, boys drumming and beating it with short sticks, like crazy. Everything began spinning even more quickly.
Jiggling breasts, women beating their chests, a child torn from its mother – the "kidnapper" running quickly away, the men chasing her, a knot of flesh and swirling cloth.
Shrill cries, moments of violence, everything shifted up a gear. Other women clawing their faces, tearing at their arms, beating the daylights out of each other.
Children kicking each other’s shins. In a word, electrifying. They went at it hammer and tongs.
Only Mahounon sat on his throne, entranced, unmoved by the activity around him.
Bats swooped in low-level flight over the Orik tree. The air heavy with the dust churned up by the dancers. Mahounon obscured by a dark cloud. Where did his thoughts carry him?
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Journal entry, 25.2.1998
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A ceremony for Mahounon’s fetish. My interpreter earnestly explained: "That’s not Mahounon. This morning, he was taken over by fetish. Now he has a different name and isn’t himself anymore."
But Mahounon‘s transformation didn’t seem to bother him especially. He groaned about the heat, it hadn’t been as hot as this in Benin since he could remember. And he wasn’t saying that out of sympathy with the sweating heap of Swiss misery, either. He was suffering, too. Everybody was.
The town, or rather the village, slowed to a riterdando.
Each breath of air scorching, as if an oven door had quickly opened.
Afternoon on the beach – and nothing has disturbed the exotic harmony, peace and the beauty of the Slave Road.
Past the Brazilian school, the tree of forgetting, the cemetery and its graves, where the dead can "live" to be 120, yes, even 130, years old.
Things really started happening in the evening.
Mahounon has waited 20 years for this festival.
A goat is sacrificed, the usual ballyhoo. I’d reached a point where I could whistle along to the melody, even while I was taking a shit. Yet, watching the people plunge themselves into their Voodoo cult with such warmth and abandon gladdened my heart.
It started at 6 pm: A colourful screen was raised, depicting the insignia of the last king, and beneath it, Mahounon’s throne. The forecourt of the Mahou-Lissa temple was packed, tambourines ready. Adepts appeared in glorious outfits adorned with Cari shells, enveloped in magnificent fabric, some with a picture of Dahgbo Hounon. Then came the Ga‘s, followed by Mahounon. The people cried out, sticking coins onto the brows of the dancers. They broke into ecstatic cries, like a rondel, interspersed with refrains and solos. One huge, ecstatic party.
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Journal entry, 27.2.1998
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Visited the museum of Ouidah. The Amazons, an army of women, feared like no other army in the world. Gruesome and merciless. Tried to film engravings: Amazons cutting off their victims‘ heads, or posing with a head under their arm as a trophy of war. I wouldn’t mind a woman like that. Well, maybe not ...
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Journal entry, 1.3.1998
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Interesting photo session with a Hounon.
But it got off to a dumb start. We steamed in like insensitive assholes, stressed out, the heat daily more intolerable, must have had an adverse effect on our sensibilities.
We fell on the people like a plague of paparazzi locusts, only coming to our senses after the Voodoonon’s wife set water before us. Ok, ok, our black production manager Lambert could have prepared them, as we’d agreed.
Lots of arguments, but the mistake was certainly ours.
Our time here is obviously affecting us. We are drained. Before the shoot, there was some sort of discussion between Lambert and the Voodoonsi. We didn’t understand the words, but we could sense the tension. Although Lambert played it down in his inimitable way– he didn’t manage to impress anyone. We were finally allowed to film, but there was a terrible row afterwards. Which was lucky, really, as it led to the unique opportunity to discuss Voodoo, commercialisation, exploitation of rights, etc. And that from the perspective of a "simple" Voodoonons, whose arguments made an amazing amount of sense. We were making money out of his face, getting rich at his expense. He was affronted by my 5.000 CFA, sensing that there was real money to be made from his footage. What he forgot, of course, was OUR time and energy, which was considerable. His "portrait" was expensive. But how could he know the cost of all the equipment?. And to be honest, he did have a point.
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Journal entry, 6.3.1998
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Mahounon was waiting for us in the temple. One after the other, all the adepts appeared, and then the Gas. I sat down beside Mahounon. He made a short speech, briefly explaining our respective tasks and contributions. I donated the Gin and the Martini.
Beat and Erik turned up, my new assistants from Switzerland. The entire temple gathered at our feet (sounds silly, but that’s how it was) and they began with a song of thanksgiving.
Mahounon then made another short speech, likewise the chief of Codomey. I was regarded as an adept of the temple and this was my home. I would be forever welcome.
Then, it was my turn. First, I thanked everyone for their wonderful hospitality and warmth.
And it was true, they had taken us all to their hearts.
"Our job, the film with you here, is at an end. We go back home on Tuesday. And that is when our real work begins. We will be seeing you and hearing you every day for the next few months, for now we begin the film’s montage. And even if all the pictures were lost, it wouldn’t matter, for you are here in our hearts."
I was lying through my teeth, for it would have been a catastrophe had we lost the film material – impossible to duplicate, gone forever.
Mahounon gave me a nudge and said, "Bien fait!" Everyone was smiling and content, at least until the end of the official speeches, for then EVERYONE wanted a personal present from Yowo.
But we got off lightly. Back to the hotel, under the shower and I quickly fell into what was almost a coma. Our work was done.
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Journal entry, 7.3.1998
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We drove along the coast to Cotonou, through beautiful groves of palm trees. Lots of families sitting in the shade, having a picnic. "Bon soir, Yowo", the same old greeting.
If we were staying any longer, it could really get on my nerves, but it was Sunday and everything was alright.
I sat in the back of the Land Rover, with a stupid grin on my face, picking my nose with my left hand, and flicking the bogeys onto the next best palm tree.
A half-naked woman, carrying a huge platter of charcoal on her head, saw me and winked.
I grinned even more stupidly, whereby she called out softly, "Yowo! Yowo! C’est dimanche (it’s Sunday)".
Food in Mon Pied – Ton Pied with wine. The peak of French colonial power of a bygone era.
Pure and simple – paradise.
I thought about Gounon, and how he would handle the transition from being a film crew’s centre of attraction into normal daily life. Luckily he had Mahounon and Kpassenon.
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8th Trip
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Journal entry, 20.12.1998
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In Zurich, I was notified of Mahounon‘s death. And that January, I made my eighth and last journey to Benin for his funeral.
A few weeks later, Gounon was announced king of the Voodoo priests.
I took Alexander and Bettina with me as assistants. Worked with a crane and underwater cameras, all somewhat complicated.
I was allowed to film things during Gounon’s Fa ceremony, that they never would have let me do two years ago.
But what I didn’t know was that Bettina wouldn’t be allowed to take part. Apparently women would instantly go blind during this ceremony.
"Bloody men, they’re all the same wherever you go, even here …"
We took it calmly, but the double workload knocked us out. No assistant for 3 days.
Had to cart everything ourselves.
Gounon slept in our hotel for three nights.
He thought it was great. I crept into his room one night. He lay on the bed, fully clothed, stiff as a board on the fresh sheets.
His hat hadn’t budged an inch.
Getting melancholy with age.
He lay there, a grown man - only six years ago, still a boy.
He really didn’t have any aura of royalty about him. I felt uncomfortable, slipping into his room out of curiosity, like that. The image of the sleeping Gounon is carved in my brain, like so much from Benin that I didn’t get on film.
Either chances missed, or just moments too lovely to capture.
But sometimes it would be so good to share moments such as these.
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Frenetic Films · Zürich Switzerland · mail@frenetic.ch
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