Seeing the walking dead (and still sweating cause I'm still in Africa)

Today was a day like no other that reminded me that I am in a foreign land (besides the language and the fact that everyone around me is African). This past weekend was a national holiday called “Fete de Voodoo”. All across the country, this weekend was a celebration of one of the many contributing cultures. It is said that the voodoo that is talked about, bastardized in movies, and turned into an evil cult in the West came directly from the slaves that were stolen from Benin.
 

As I was waiting for my homologue to show up so I could talk to her, I noticed that hundreds of people were walking, sometimes running, chanting and dancing in my general direction. This sight caused me to recount everything that the Peace Corps and my mother told me right before I got to post: when you see people running towards you, run faster in the opposite direction; it probably means something bad is happening. But this time it was a celebration, offering me a chance to see into a part of the culture that I did not understand nor could possibly understand unless I mastered the local language, but would still never be able to fully comprehend what was happening in front of me. I always wanted to be apart of these celebrations and witness things that I do not understand. I am lucky in my position as a volunteer for the wealthiest, most powerful man in Savalou, because as luck had it, it was because of him and his friends that this celebration was occurring, in front of his house. Before the true fete started, we went upstairs to meet his friends and the French volunteer that lives with him. We ate a little and drank a little to prepare ourselves for it.
Imagine any time that you walk up to a group of around 3000 people and as you approach they part, leaving a path to the center of the group, some prostrating themselves at your feet, begging for money, dropping in reverence and respect for you and the members of your group. That is exactly what happened as we approached today, not just because there were two white people in the group (like what happened in Miniki) but because the leader of our group is the most respected, most powerful man in your community. Because I work for him and was invited by him to enjoy this celebration with him, they treated me and everyone else in our group of about 10 as if we were him.

The celebration consisted of about 19 revenants (walking dead) dressed in completely outrageous costumes (to my eyes, that is). One was dressed in all black with flailing patches that were marked with skull and crossbones, another dressed all in burlap sacks, wearing Adidas socks, a mask made of cowry shells (see the cover of the Bradt tour book) and another dressed like the others with a tail of dead animals and leathered skins of goats. The colors ranged from bright red, to white, to black, to purple. The brighter they were the more they were respected and the more adorned they were with random trinkets the more they were revered, even by other revenants. These revenants gyrated, danced and ran to the beat of drums that played incessantly for the entire hour. As the beat rose, the revenants were overtaken by wild spirits; they ran wildly around swinging flimsy swords, sticks (that hurt you when they hit you, trust me) and whips. Supposedly, if you touch anything that they are wearing, unless they touch you, you will die soon after. But of course, since I was sitting with my group, the revenants constantly came over gently, stopped, kneeled and spoke to us with sincerity. I almost wish I was not with him, to experience it truly but then I remember the images of others running in fear, while getting whipped.

I have some pictures that I will be posting soon of the aftermath of everyone walking/running home, from a vantage point 4 stories up in my homologues house. It was definately interesting. In the end, my homologue husband donated 50,000 franc CFA, which is equal to about $100 to the revenants. It goes to their temple and to the revenants. This was a celebration for the Cult Agun(?) that originally comes from Nigeria but has found its home in Savalou. I walked away without being attacked for money nor was I threatened in anyway. This once again proved to me why people say that I live at the “Beating heart of Voodoo”.