Togo and Benin are largely about the ancient religion of voodoo, which is practiced here. 

But also about extremely nice people. About getting your shoulders down a bit again and finding your way back to the cool places to cycle and the good experiences in the small villages out in the countryside. 

On the other hand, it was incredibly difficult to get into the countries. Let's start the story there. 

No. No. No!!!

No matter how much I tried to argue with the border guard, I knew from the first second that the battle was lost, that I was not allowed to cross the border, to enter Togo.

I had exchanged all my money and emptied my phone of credit. It would be annoyingly difficult to start over.

But there was another reason why I had a hard time accepting the rejection; I was SO ready to leave Ghana. The experiences in “Africa for Beginners” had been surprisingly negative, and when I rolled up to the border barrier a little while ago, I almost cried with happiness at being able to put Ghana behind me and start a new chapter. 

Now the rejection was almost unbearable mentally. 

But in practical terms it was also a bit confusing, because all my research indicated that I should simply ask for a 7-day transit visa at the border with Togo. And that was exactly what they refused with such arrogance that I was about to explode with helplessness. Completely soaked, in rain gear from head to toe, I shuffled back to my bike, jumped on it and pointed the nose towards a border crossing 30km further north. My thought in the moment was that I must be able to get the visa up there. That they would be easier to talk to, further away from the big city.

While I was cycling, my whole head was buzzing. Not only from a strange headache that had started to creep up on me, but also from what the prospects were. I had 10 more days to be in Lagos. There I was supposed to meet Marie at the airport when she returned from Denmark. The border police told me that all visa applications now had to be done online. And I found out that the earliest application date was 5 days away. But that the application process itself could take 7 days. That would force me to race straight through Togo and Benin, to Lagos. It smelled too much of what we had just done in Ghana and the Ivory Coast, and it had definitely not been an adventure to lie on flat asphalt for several days in a row. 

I missed the adventure. The experiences. The time with the locals. Everything I had come to Africa for. I could feel a mental fatigue. Maybe it was the frustration of Ghana's completely brain-dead and deadly traffic, maybe it was just time to pull my head back into my turtle shell and let the experiences sink in a bit, without being on all the time. Or maybe it was the frustration of being on such a big adventure, without feeling it tingle in my body out on the asphalt. 

Long road to visa

When I reached the next border post, I put on my whole body of boyish charm. With my broadest smile and a twinkle in my eye, I walked up to the border barrier. After a little chat, the guards allowed me to try to get in touch with the boss. But the guards immediately thought the report was the same. 

I gathered myself even more and added an appropriate amount of reverent respect when I met the man in the uniform. With extremely well-chosen words and a crushing calm, I presented my case. He was as cold as a snowman! But I did not give up. I tried all possible argumentative techniques, suggested that I could pay “a fee” for the service (which I am otherwise completely against). Nothing helped. The Ghanaian authorities entered the field and unexpectedly threw themselves into the fight, on my side. They explained up walls and down posts about my situation. I said that if that would solve the situation, I could cross Togo in 5 hours (yes – the country is that small). In the end, I lost track of who was who, and who set whom to influence whom. But after about an hour and a half of back and forth, I stood again in front of the snowman, who had only become even colder. He ended up telling me directly that I should now get on my bike and ride back to Ghana, after which he took a motorbike and followed me down to the gate, where he instructed people that I should leave the border area. 

Then I was back in Ghana. Nothing had changed in my situation, except that I had wasted half a day. But I had learned one thing from it all, because one of the Ghanaians mentioned that they had a Chinese guy a week ago who was in the same situation: “He had to go back to Accra and get his visa done there.” 

I exchanged my money back into Ghanaian cedis, loaded up my phone with credit, found a dingy hotel, and spent the rest of the evening on Google. It was good enough. Instead of applying for the visa online, it should be possible to go to the embassy in Accra to get it done. A huge chance to not have to wait for the online application. My hostess at the hotel confirmed that there are buses from the border to Accra. If all went well, I could get a visa tomorrow and cross the border the day after tomorrow. I fell asleep with my fingers crossed. 

After a 4-hour near-death experience on a bus with a 25-year-old who has watched too much Formula 1, behind the wheel of a completely wrecked Ford Transit, we had covered the 150km back to the capital. The smile was spread wide again when I entered the embassy. It worked. The lady behind the counter returned the smile and asked me to fill out some paperwork. It looked good. 

A few hours later the mood had turned 180 degrees. They weren't happy that I had listed "landscape surveyor" as my job. I had pulled my old title out of my hat so that they wouldn't think I was a journalist coming from TV. But now I think I had been holding my own, because "surveyor" could be confused with an observer. There are presidential elections coming up in Togo, and they usually aren't particularly interested in being scrutinized too closely by international observers. But it worked. I got my passport with a visa and could head back towards the border. 7 hair-raising hours later I finally reached my hotel room. Pyyyhhh I'm glad we usually cycle ourselves. 

Togo or not to go

The next day at the border post I appeared somewhat more confident, with my passport triumphantly in my hand. But they were not that impressed. There were strict orders to call the top commander to get my entry into Togo approved. It dragged on. The guards smiled slyly and said: “It’s no problem. Don’t worry”. Inside I was boiling. But after a while the guard’s phone rang, and I heard a positive announcement. 

You would think that being stamped out of Ghana was a formality, now that I had finally been allowed to enter Togo. But it was like swimming in wet concrete. Now the Ghanaian boss “would like to talk to me”, so I was dragged into the office to be schooled. The man who had followed me to the boss managed to whisper: “You have overstayed your visa in Ghana, that is why you need to talk to the boss”, before he left the office. My jaw dropped, but I tried to think quickly. It couldn’t be right, and I thought they were after money. I was asked to sit down and wait, but instead I walked across the room to the boss, gave him a firm handshake, looked him in the eye kindly and asked: “What is the problem?” He was standing with my passport in his hand, and I could see the dates on the stamp. I had a 3-month visa and had only been in Ghana for 13 days. The next few seconds stood still. I waited for his words. What was his intention? Did he want money? But I could see in his eyes, as he looked at the passport, that he realized they had made a mistake. He looked at me embarrassedly, gave an order to his soldier and immediately left the room. 1 minute later I was stamped out of Ghana. 

It usually goes smoothly at the borders. There have been no problems so far. It can be more or less complicated, slow, bureaucratic affairs, but it always goes by the book. And so it did here too. Exactly by the book. This time it was me who had been in Africa for too long and heard too many robbery stories, so I thought I could get around the rules if I had a little money on the table. But it didn't work. Which is actually pretty cool.

So far we have spent more than 20,000 kr on visas. It is a costly affair in West Africa. On the other hand, the difficult and expensive ones should now also be in place. We are missing Angola, Namibia and South Africa. We are not so nervous about those. 

You can't love all... countries

As soon as I crossed the border, with my newly acquired visa, the atmosphere changed. The traffic calmed down completely. People drove much slower. They were considerate of each other. There was even a wide shoulder I could cycle on. People smiled and nodded, instead of shouting at me. Shoulders slumped and smiles returned. 

And NOW I was looking forward to experiencing Togo. I had lost some time, so I headed straight for the capital Lome. The drive into the center was the most peaceful I have ever experienced in a big city. Despite the loudspeaker trucks that were agitating for votes in the presidential election, it was relatively quiet. I drove around a huge market and filled my bags with fruit. The woman I was shopping with called me “Mon ami”. An expression I would hear again and again. Togo is French-speaking, but everyone speaks good English. Much better than in English-speaking Ghana.

I really wanted to love Ghana. I always try to see the best in a place. To understand the reason for the state of things. To accept and even love the cultural differences. But our route through Ghana was marked by touristy areas where locals were tired of whites and only tried to take advantage of them. At the same time, the traffic on the asphalt roads was downright deadly. Several times we were both about to be run off the road by young men who don't understand how dangerous their driving is. 

When I landed here in relaxed Togo, I really realized what a terrible experience we had in Ghana. And I have to make peace with that. On the other hand, I'm sure that if we had driven further north in the country, away from the tourists, out into the countryside, up into the mountains, we would probably have had lots of wonderful experiences. 

Voodoo for all the money

What I was most looking forward to experiencing in both Togo and Benin was voodoo. The mythical religion that is so demonized for us, through American films that inspire fear of the dark side. Voodoo dolls with needles in their bodies that are used to harm another person. Evil spirits. Priests who can make zombies out of living people. Black magic. That is the image we know of voodoo. But my rational brain tells me that when voodoo is a state-recognized religion that about 2 million of Benin's population practice daily, then there is probably not only death and destruction behind this mysticism, which we don't really know much about.  

In Lome is the Akodessawa fetish market. A market filled with relics used when practicing voodoo. And souvenirs. Because even though some claim that it is Togo's, even West Africa's, and almost the world's most important voodoo market, the reality is that it is an obvious tourist attraction with a large sign indicating the entrance fee and the price for taking pictures. 

I didn't mind paying a dime to learn something about voodoo, but I ended up in a friendly argument with a boy who took a picture of me about whether he should pay for it too. I didn't manage to wring a penny out of him. 

As part of the price, I got a guide. A passionate guy from Benin, who on the one hand talked about the bright sides of voodoo, but on the other hand also touched on the possible dark sides, without wanting to answer any further questions about it. 

What is voodoo?

Voodoo is a nature religion. Animism. The religion originates from the indigenous people who have lived in this area for the past many thousands of years; the Ewe people.

I can't claim to have received a clear and coherent explanation of what voodoo essentially is. But I also think that it ties in very well with the nature of voodoo. That it is intricate. Inaccessible. Incomplete. Inexplicable. There are no written rules or traditions of voodoo. Everything is oral and has traveled through generations and half the world. That is why voodoo looks very different, in different places in the world. But let me share some of what I learned. 

Voodoo comes from the Fon language where the word Vodun means god or spirit. There is one unifying or overarching god; Mawu. And among them a lot of small gods for many different things. The gods work to do good things for people, so people take it upon themselves to give the gods food and drink. You could call it sacrifices. Typically goats, chickens, dogs and cats. 

Voodoo priests act as mediators between humans and the gods. So if you want to ask the gods for protection or help, you go to the priest who will tell you what to bring him, and then he will perform a ritual to achieve what you want. 

And here it gets a little unclear. Because now the person has been sent to the voodoo market, called the fetish market, to buy something specific. At the fetish market there are so many dead animals in all sorts of different guises that you think it's a lie. But there are also live animals that can be bought for sacrifice. Just like you find amulets and the like. As well as voodoo dolls for the tourists. 

I never quite understood how the ritual with a dead animal works. The living animals are sacrificed, the blood poured onto various voodoo relics and eaten afterwards. 

There's a lot more to say about voodoo, but let's pause at the fetish market. Because it's a wild place. I think I'll let some pictures speak for themselves. 

WARNING: The pictures are not for the faint of heart!

Back in proper element

From Lome I drove back out onto the small roads, into the countryside. With the sound of crunching gravel under the tire and the sight of the Ewe people's neat fields of yams, corn and papaya, I tried to get far enough away that I could spend a night in the tent again, which I miss. 

At a small river, I got into conversation with a local woman as we boarded a small wooden boat. On the boat trip across the river, the woman and the boatman talked about the local palm wine, which they were almost horrified that I had not tasted. The woman promptly invited me to her home so I could have a glass. Of course, I accepted. 

10 minutes later she pushed open the door to her courtyard, and we stepped inside to children and grandmothers, who greeted us kindly. A chair was placed in front of me and a cup of water was thrust into my hand. I really like the friendliness and formalities involved in welcoming strangers. You immediately feel welcome. The woman found the bottle of palm wine and told me how they tap a tap into the tree and tap the liquid, which then sits for a while – and then mixes with something – and then it becomes palm wine. First the woman drank a glass herself. Then one of the grandmothers joined in. And finally I got the small shot glass, filled to the brim with a good swig of palm wine, which burned in my chest. It actually tasted pretty good. 

The woman then said: “Now you have your palm wine, so now you can drive on to the market in Vogan, which you wanted to reach”. And she was right. So just as quickly as the invitation had landed in my lap, I was out the door again. Now with a little sly smile on my face and light legs. 

In Vogan, the town was indeed bustling. It was market day and the atmosphere was wonderful. I was looking for a hotel room. The first place I asked, the owner looked very surprised and exclaimed: “Do you want to sleep here?”. Right then and there, I probably should have just answered “No – not when you say it like that”. But it wasn’t until I saw the room that I pulled out my feelers and looked further. 

The next hotel was called Better Hotel, which was very promising. Two women and a little boy were sitting outside. I asked if it was a hotel? They confirmed. Then I asked how much it cost, but before they could give me a price, they wanted to know if I wanted “cream or fun?”. Without fully understanding what was what, I was still a little taken aback. I tried, without offending anyone, to explain that I just wanted to sleep. “Aaahhh – you want simple?”. I took the chance and confirmed. “So no fun?”. No thanks – we agreed on simple and the price seemed to fit with the fact that extra services had been taken out of the bill. 

Everyday voodoo

The next day I drove a little further north, along the small dusty dirt roads. I found some nice singletrack that led through a forest, and completely outside the road network on the map. But I had a good feeling that I could find my way, based on my sense of direction. Until I stood in the middle of a courtyard by a small cabin and 20 shaking young men fell silent for a split second, their jaws dropping. It didn't help that I tried to ask for directions – they were completely speechless and speechless. A big mama with bare breasts stepped out of the door and took control of things. She explained the way forward to me, while the men perked up and nodded and said yes yes. 

When I reached a town again, after my singletrack shortcut through the forest, I found a kiosk selling hot soda. Not everyone in the world can afford a refrigerator. 

I sat on the kiosk's veranda and drank the warm sugar water. 

Here was a table full of dead animals. I asked if it was voodoo. Some men nodded and I was allowed to take pictures. It always fascinates me the most when you go to places where other tourists never go, so you can experience the culture purely. There were no entrance fees or souvenirs here. No voodoo dolls. The most striking thing was that it was apparently a little girl of 10 years old who was selling the things. I would have liked to have asked more about that, but she didn't speak English, and the men were a little shy. 

I finished my hot soda and jumped on my bike again. 

The heat and headache increase

It's so disgustingly hot here. It's hard to drink enough, because I don't see any wells, and the kiosks are too far apart. I should buy more water, but I keep misjudging. I've been getting a pretty bad headache. I think it's dehydration, but I'm also starting to think there's something else going on. 

In addition to the heat, the humidity is killing me. I'm watching the news from Nigeria, where the heat wave is a big topic. 

Even the locals here seem to be affected. At least there are a number of women who have taken the consequences and thrown away their shirts. New Puritanism has not reached Togo. 

I sweat 24 hours a day and am aware of dehydration, but have difficulty solving it. At the same time, the food stalls are far apart and the portions are small, so I don't get enough energy either. 

The epicenter of voodoo in Benin

After only 3 days in Togo, I cross the border into Benin. I am heading towards Abomey, which was the capital of the Dahomey kingdom. That is, before the colonists divided Africa with a ruler on a desk. In Abomey, I was immediately fascinated by the city's rich cultural history, which is very evident in the streetscape. Everywhere there are decorated house walls that tell stories of ancient times. Also on new buildings.

The city also has a large fetish market and is generally the epicenter of voodoo. I wanted to know a lot more about voodoo and had a thousand questions. I had been looking forward to coming here and researched a guide named Mark, whom I contacted. I couldn't get a hold of Mark that evening. But the next morning he said he was ready for a tour. "I'll come and pick you up in 35 minutes." And of course I knew that was a lie. He had probably just gotten up. When he finally arrived, an hour and a half later, he looked a bit stiff. I seriously don't think he had slept all night. But he had good recommendations from others and I was excited to experience something, so we set off. I jumped on the back of his motorcycle and we drove off to visit a voodoo priest first. 

Visiting the voodoo priest

A little old man, who reached my chest and reminded me of Yoda from Star Wars, looked me in the eye kindly and welcomed me. We took off our sandals and went into his house, into the first room where his voodoo altar was. He began to speak in the local language. Every now and then he took a good sip of palm wine and spat it over his various voodoo figures. Then he took a calabash, made a rhythm with it and began to chant. Mark translated most of it, which was about blessing us and asking the gods to protect us. 

From there we went out into his courtyard, where a similar ritual was repeated. There was a very beautiful calm about the old man as he stood there in his bare toes, pouring wine into small jars, stepping on figurines' heads and chanting on the fon. But there was also an absurdity in the fact that we stood there, the three of us together in full sunshine, calling on the protection of the gods via clay figurines doused with palm wine. 

In the last room were some of his oldest figurines, which had been passed down through the family. They dated back to the seventeenth century. The priest showed me a number of different amulets that you could buy. I found a small bag with secret ingredients that you could keep in your pocket. He put it in my hand and sprinkled white powder on it. Then he prayed to the gods that it would protect me from evil on my path. Finally, I blew the powder off the amulet and closed my hand around it, and put it in my pocket. 

I thanked the priest for an insight into his voodoo and for letting me visit him. 

Motorcycle guide

Throughout the day we rode Mark's motorcycle around and visited various places of importance to voodoo in the area; a church shaped like a giant chameleon, a fetish market, and a couple of the palaces that the kings have inhabited. Throughout the trip Mark poured out his knowledge. 

Today's highlight

But the wildest experience didn't come until the evening. I had told Mark that I was interested in experiencing some of the rituals associated with voodoo. In January there is a huge festival where you can see the rituals and dances. But the rest of the year there are still a lot of things going on in the small villages. Mark talked to a lot of people during the day and eventually managed to get word that Engungun was loose in a small village nearby, that same evening. 

When Mark picked me up again, he was significantly fresher. Almost energetic. And we were in a hurry to get going so we could see Engungun before it all stopped again. Mainly because he was again half an hour late for our appointment. 

We were milling through the city and could see a crowd starting to gather. Mark seemed a bit stressed as he parked the motorcycle. He jumped up to some men and asked them something. Then he waved me along through a long alley. At the end we could see a shouting crowd, which was rolling back and forth like a roaring ocean. A couple of times some people came running towards us and Mark grabbed my wrist tightly. He pulled us back. The people now ran back towards whatever was in front of us. We followed. But when suddenly a large crowd of young excited men came running towards us, Mark pulled me hard and shouted: “We can’t be here”. Together with the crowd we tried to get away, through the small alley. At first we waved with the people, then we had to fight our way through the crowd, as everyone else wanted to go back again. Out on the road again, Mark had to realize that his sandal had been stepped on and had lost its strap. He seemed a bit upset. But he had a good idea. There was a gate next to the alley. We went in and by a wall there were a couple of benches, with a lot of people on them, looking over the wall. We jumped up and looked too. 

In front of us was a large open space, with a huge tree in the middle. The space was packed with young men. Everyone was a little excited. Many stood with their sandals in their hands. Everyone was ready to run for their lives. Because suddenly a dangerous spirit came running, dancing, spinning into the middle of the crowd, with unpredictable movements. An Engungun was loose. If it touches you, you are dead, and must be carried away by your comrades. When Engungun comes, everyone flees, scared out of their wits. But of course some people play with death, like a bullfighter trying to get close without getting hit. The atmosphere was at boiling point. People looked wild in the eyes. What to a Western eye might look a little theatrical was quite serious. And yet. Because there were also relieved laughs and pats on the back for those who narrowly avoided death. 

Who is One gun?

When a person dies, the person will lie in their home for the first time. After a few days, the spirit of the deceased will appear in a mask, an Engungun, before leaving the family. 

After a year, the spirit returns, and it may have a message from the deceased to tell. Perhaps it wants to hunt down a specific person who hurt the deceased. 

But it will also hunt the people participating in the event and try to “kill” them. 

Engungun is not a dressed-up human. You can tell by its shape. It doesn't have any human-like features at all. For example, it has no face, it typically has many fluttering layers, maybe a completely square back, and it might have a small head on its back. 

If an Engungun stands in front of you and you give it some small change, you can receive a blessing from it. 

Only white man

Again, it was absolutely amazing to experience how voodoo actually happens in everyday life and in the lives of ordinary people. This was not a tourist attraction. I was the only white person, along with maybe 200 locals. It was a pretty wild and intense experience. And now I had tens of thousands of questions.

Does voodoo have a hidden side?

On the way home I asked Mark what it was we had experienced. He explained a little, but not as much as I could google. And that is probably the experience I am generally left with. Those I have talked to about voodoo would very much like to conjure up the image of black magic in the ground. But they have difficulty giving a clear picture of what voodoo is more precisely. And they consistently avoid answering questions about black magic, which they do admit exists. 

I understand wanting to get rid of the stereotypical attitude that comes from American films. It is condescending to portray someone's religion in such a one-sided way. 

I understand that voodoo is something different. But there is a reticence. Something unspoken. Voodoo is not something you proudly show off. It is difficult to understand a whole. It seems like a lot is hidden. 

As I cycle out of Abomey the next day, I stop and take a picture of an ornate wall. Something has caught my interest. Because something here is different from the nice picture I was presented with yesterday. 

After I've taken the picture, two young men come running out and talk to me on the phone, in a slightly intense mood. I calmly tell them that I don't understand. "Not for tourists!". OK. I understand that. Fair enough. One of them comes close to the bike, and I can see he wants to open my bag, where the camera is. But he gives up. He gestures for me to come inside. The other says in broken English: "Come inside. We want to talk to you."

It's going to be a no thanks, boys – and I'll drive on, but I'll just look over my shoulder once...

Goodbye Togo – hello headache

I'm heading for Porto Novo, the capital of Benin. I'm running out of time before I have to meet Marie in Lagos. 

My head now hurts so badly that I have to visit a doctor's office, where I explain that my brain feels swollen. As if it can't be inside my skull. 

The doctor Google-translates that he will give me an injection and then he will take some tests. I ask what kind of injection it is. “To make you feel better”. I convince him that we will first take tests and determine what is wrong before I get injections. 

He finds nothing but the malaria, which is still smoldering since Ghana. But we agree that it is time to beat it down. I don't want to keep straining the immune system. 

However, I suspect that it is more likely dehydration and ask for electrolytes. They don't have them at the clinic. Nor at the pharmacy. Nowhere. It is getting critical. 

I continue to Porto-Novo. Here I look for the soul of the city, but I don't really find it. 

But brain thinks too slowly. I'm worried. There are no proper hospitals here. But in Lagos I know that there are many expats who work for big companies. That's why there are more good hospitals. I decide to go there a day earlier than planned and put all plans aside until I've been to a proper hospital. 

The next day I cross the border into Nigeria after less than 500km in Togo and Benin. 

The two countries deserve much more attention, and I would have loved to spend much more time here. The culture is incredibly interesting. The people were really nice and welcoming. The traffic was exemplary – in an African context. 

But we must come back another time.