Dancing with spirits

This past week, we went on our technical visit. This is a four-day excursion where you travel with two-three other members of your sector to a current volunteer’s (we are not considered volunteers yet and are referred to as trainees) post and shadow them. It provided insight into daily life of a health volunteer and the various factors that compose the volunteer experience as a whole.

The first challenge of the trip was transportation. We first took a “taxi” to Cotonou; when I say taxi, I do not mean a clearly established yellow vehicle with a light on top indicating availability, I mean a beat up, hollowed out, starts-by-means-

of-hot-wiring vehicle driven by a man who likely decided that morning that he would act as a taxi for the day. When we arrived in Cotonou, we had to change taxis to get to our next stop. The picture is of the interior of our first taxi. When we stepped out of the car, men flocked to us, all advertising their driving services. This was an interesting event to observe; at first, the 13 drivers unionized, demanding the same, over-priced fee. They stood strong for about 5 minutes and when we started to walk away, one, brave, profit-seeking individual, offered us a price less than the other. This was when hell broke loose. All bets were off; amidst heated debate, I was sure that we were going to witness 7 different fist fights. Fingers were almost lost in trunks being opened to welcome our baggage, only to be slammed shut by competing vendors. We were able to find a decent price, and shuffled through the agitated crowd of drivers to our taxi. After 2 hours with 8 other people in a 5 passenger car, we arrived at the second stop. The volunteer we were going to stay with lived in the back-country, jungle-bush. We took zemidjans for the remainder of our trip; it was a beautiful 30-minute ride on paths that wove through small villages and the lush green jungle. At long last, exhausted, but still wide-eyed, we reached our destination.

With the guidance of the current volunteer, we led two information sessions for women who were taking part in a 14-day nutritional recuperation program that aims to combat malnutrition via education and hands-on practice of preparing enriched meals. This was a great experience to help prepare for work at our own posts.

One of the best parts of the visit was walking around neighboring villages and talking with local people. They were all welcoming and patient with our clumsy fragments of local language, Fon, which we learned on the spot. They laughed at what was surely poor pronunciation but were delighted by our efforts to speak Fon.

On Friday night, our host volunteer told us that we were going to a party. She also told us to bring a little money to contribute; we figured this would be for food and drinks. At about 9:30, we left her house and began walking down the dirt path – following the sounds of the drums. At about 9:55, we arrived. Recognizing their volunteer, they greeted us excitedly and led us through a horde of people also thrilled to see us, to a rickety bench at the front of a dirt courtyard. The four of us sat, trying to take in all that was going on and anticipate what was to come next. This, however, would prove impossible, for what came next could not have been anticipated. The mob of people surrounded us and three tiers of children quickly piled behind us, applying the pressure to our backs that can be expected of such a crowd. Without knowing which way to direct my eyes, drums began to play, a cowbell started to clank and men began to chant and then three figures that resembled 7-foot high, 5-feet wide, stacks of hay, appeared and began dancing and spinning wildly. They spun so fast that dirt and dust was being stirred and flying into our faces. These figures are called “zambettos” and are spirits that occasionally appear physically and visit their village. Apparently, these zambettos heard about the foreigners who were in town, and decided it best to dance for them. Trying to fight the urge to sing “Woolly Bully,” I sat in a state of complete speechlessness. The four of us clapped along to the beat while bracing ourselves against the increasing pressure on our backs from the rabble of children. They danced, shouted, shook, spun and at the end of a spinning spell, would collapse to the ground. After about 10 minutes, we learned what our money was contributing to. One of the village men in charge asked us for a monetary donation for the dancing zambettos. After money matters were put aside, the zambettos began dancing again, and the four of us got up and danced with them. This made the villagers go insane – they were clapping, laughing and yelling. They do not normally dance with the zambettos because they believe them to be actual spirits, so they thought we were absolutely out of our minds.

After the dancing ceased, we walked back to our host’s house; all of us trying to process what just happened and what we had been allowed to witness and even take part in. Personally, I’m still processing. Each village has its’ own traditions, beliefs, values and culture as a whole and I am excited to discover those of my post village. One thing is for certain, wherever I go, whether it be with mothers, children, or spirits, I will be dancing.