The sun fell behind the Possotomè hills as it does in the tropics: quickly. The shadows stretched over the lake, and we dined on lobster and grilled flatfish over rice. The hotel's restaurant stood on stilts over the lake surface, and the water lapped gently beneath us as the lights reflected over the water.

I retired to the extreme edge of the dock with a whiskey and my journal, where I saw something I hadn't seen in ages: stars. We see some stars in Cotonou, but the lights of the capital preclude much of a show. Here in the countryside, there were few lights to speak of, and the sky was ablaze in a moonless night. Orion reclined over the lake's eastern shore, and Mars and Sirius glowed like embers beneath his shoulder. In the distance we heard the drums of a celebration, or a Vaudoun rite.

It's hard not to evoke Cotonou's name in the local language, Fon, because the expression "River of Death" turns heads. But in Benin, West Africa, the past and the present are the same, and the future and the present are indistinguishable. So it is that, irregardless of what Cotonou is today, it will forever retain the soul of an African slaving hub at the mouth of a river that carried an unfortunate cargo down to the waiting slave ships. And for the moment, Cotonou is my home, and this message is coming to you live from the River.

In August 2009, Benin celebrated its 49th year of independence. For an American whose country was last the colony of another nation 233 years ago, that's pretty impressive. It's a sobering trip to walk east from Gran Popo along the shores of the Mono River through what remains of that village's now ancient, colonial architecture. Blame economics, neglect, differing priorities, or the simple avarice of the Atlantic coast's shifting coastline. But the little that remains of France's colonial influence in Gran Popo is not far from oblivion. That makes it an inspiring destination.

As our low craft slipped through wooded islets it was hard not to appreciate the tenacity of the river's march towards the rumpled Atlantic. The river's course widened appreciably in our descent: low villages of concrete and adobe huts watched us from the river's edge, children splashed each other in the warm water, and men strained to push their wooden craft in, laden with nets...

It's easy to be nostalgic about the past, overcome by a false affection for the simplicity and cleanliness. But the following is undeniable: a century ago, Cotonou was significantly better shaded. The picture below is an image of Cotonou taken in the 1940s when Benin was still known as Dahomey, and Dahomey was still a French possession. It would remain so for another 20 years. It was still, by any stretch of the imagination, little more than a biggish village, with a sandy main street lined with small shops, a couple of well organized neighborhoods, and the outlet of the Nokoué river. Commerce centered around the wooden pier that jutted out beyond the breakers into the Atlantic, and hosted all manner of steam ships calling from Europe ...

If I had to point to my one favorite place in all of Benin, I'd draw your attention to a place that doesn't show up on any maps, isn't mentioned in any travel guide, and a decade from now probably won't even still exist: our paillote at the edge of the Atlantic. Unassuming, uncomplicated, and thoroughly authentic, the paillote has been a place of refuge and of reflection since approximately our arrival in 2006.

Abomey’s reputation is larger than life, where you can still catch a glimpse of the throne set on human skulls, or the palace walls painted red with human blood. But in the kingdom whose kings descended from the son of a princess who slept with a panther, what impressed me most was left unspoken.

If you were to send back only one photograph from your trip to Benin, it would be of Ganvié. A lacustrian stilt village of fishermen, floating markets, and long, wooden canoes, Ganvié is in many ways, amazing. "The Venice of Africa" the pamphlets say, home to 20,000 who make their living by fishing and trading, and a lively market daily on board the graceful wooden pirogues that provide transport from the mainland.

The Harmattan descends upon Benin in a pale, chilling mist, obscuring the horizon, blotting out the buildings in other neighborhoods, and filling the air with choking dust. No other season I’ve experienced, from the monsoons of Southeast Asia to the 6 month Central American drought, is as oppressive. It’s hard not to be impressed by just how powerful the Harmattan really is, and in Benin, the Harmattan is not just a wind, it’s a season.

"It’s your fuel injectors," the mechanic confirmed, while children came to look at us, studying us from sideways glances and little smiles, one finger tucked in the corner of their mouths. Some were dressed in khaki school uniforms, others in underpants that didn’t necessarily correspond to their gender; at least one little boy was wearing nothing at all. No one asked us for anything; no one held out an outstretched hand; no one tried to reach into our vehicle. They were just interested in watching us. We stayed there for four hours in the hot afternoon sun, watching the shadows lengthen and the market close up operations and the women go home. And the mechanic and his friends got to work on our car. Their tools consisted of one misshapen flathead screwdriver, a cheap steel socket for removing spark plugs, a loose gilette razor blade, and a couple of tubes of crazy glue from the market. But it was enough.