Stopover in Cotonou … for New Year’s
We’d been talking about a trip to Ghana, Togo, and Benin since last July. Then, plans shifted to Namibia, and the original trip was postponed to December. In the end, I had to set off on my own.
Stopover in Cotonou… for New Year’s
We’d been talking about a trip to Ghana, Togo, and Benin since last July. Then, plans shifted to Namibia, and the original trip was postponed to December. In the end, I had to set off on my own—delayed even further because my passport arrived late. But that was the least of it. It was the nights in tents that concerned me most: the complete lack of privacy, the discomfort. To endure situations like these, you need to see truly beautiful and unforgettable things; otherwise, it all becomes just a pointless endurance test. I bought a sleeping bag, inflatable pillow, water bottle, flashlight, and multi-tool knife, then set off—but I hadn’t planned on spending New Year’s in Cotonou.
The most difficult decisions are made alone.
In the anxious solitude of my hotel in Lomé (I’m not sure of its official rating; in my book, it’s three stars below zero), with the din of live rock from the bar out back, the sticky heat on the scratchy, faux-cotton sheets. The new plastic pillow smelling—well—like plastic. And the headache from airplane drinks. Half-asleep, I made my decision to abandon the original plan. I would focus on the coast (colonial architecture), skip the north (indigenous architecture), stay as little as possible, and get out. A pricey decision, as all these last-minute changes ended up costing a small fortune.
December 31, New Year’s Eve in Cotonou
As midnight approached, I tried to fall asleep in a Cotonou gathered at the one decent party in town—at the Sheraton. I peeked out from the window. It’s not that this trip is wowing me with beauty. Quite the opposite. Large cities like Lomé and Cotonou reveal only a few traces left by the Portuguese, French, and later the British colonizers. Everything is uniformly dilapidated, neglected, and humiliated by the locals’ disdain for anything old.
My driver is Aboudoudjalidou.
He’s 33 but looks older, with a mustache and goatee in a style we’d call “marshal,” a Muslim, married with two kids. He insists on showing me new hotels and ministries until, after I took him near the market to look for Portuguese and French houses from a couple of centuries ago, he had a realization. “You like old houses,” he said. “Yes, except in women,” I replied, quickly closing the topic before he got any strange ideas. The old houses he mentioned were these once stately homes, now divided among countless families. No one here knows what maintenance is, so the houses just get older and shabbier. Many are demolished. Part of the city’s image and history fades with them, but it’s no great loss to art history: the materials are poor, the designs simplistic, the dimensions modest. These colonizers weren’t exactly rich—not like the wealthy settlers of Indochina or the Caribbean, lands of planters, not bureaucrats.
It’s nearly eleven.
The poolside party is in full swing. A tinge of loneliness appears, only to disappear quickly. Behind soundproof glass, I observe everyone as if in an aquarium. I think I’ll ring in the New Year by sleeping. I picture the rest of the group celebrating in a tent (which they set up themselves) in some desolate stretch of northern Benin. I can’t bring myself to envy them.
I look down and see swarms of children running around the pool.
One of the striking things in these regions is the sheer number of children. They appear everywhere—swarms of half-clothed, often barefoot little ones with vacant expressions. Many ask for a gift, without a clear reason (is being white enough?). Across Africa, except perhaps in South Africa, simply being European comes with an unspoken tax. I’ve been asked for money countless times, even by adults, just for taking photos of buildings on a public street—buildings that aren’t even theirs. Dignity also means not asking, or at least giving without asking. I see yet another large, disheveled woman, fanning herself as she mutters her pleading phrases, ending inevitably with a request for a gift. I watch as she can’t decide whether to stay serious and keep up the act or laugh at the charade she’s performing so masterfully. I wonder how much she believes in it herself.
It’s finally midnight.
Cheers, music, a few fireworks over the sea. And then the lights spell out the new year. Now that the New Year has truly arrived, I can go to bed knowing I still haven’t caught the “African bug.” The music continues; maybe those in the desolate land are already sleeping peacefully under the stars.
