Into the Wild Spaces

Like travel just about anywhere in Benin, it was more trouble to get there than it should have been, and not quite as nice as we'd hoped. But it was beautiful nonetheless: Lac Aheme.

It's one of West Africa's traits that its lakes are found mostly along the ocean and not farther inland where they would be of more use to fishing communities. They are formed, geologically, by the strong currents of sand sweeping the Gulf of Guinea and blocking access to the sea of the many rivers that drain the highlands. They pool against the accumulated sand, and meander their way out to sea somehow through the twisting and shifting sandbar that makes up the coastline. This is the story of the Mono River that goes through Grand Popo, it's essentially the story of the Ouémé River that goes through Cotonou, and it's the story here of the Kouffo River, that drains through Lac Ahemè.

But what a gorgeous lake.

There are no trails

We spent a day and a night along its shore in the sleepy village of Possotomè, known for its night markets, a product of returned slaves in the habit of doing their trading by night after the farm work was done. There we set out to find some hiking trails we'd heard about. A young man by the name of Jules was offered to us as a guide.

We'd barely driven out of the hotel parking lot before something was wrong: Jules had us driving out of town the opposite direction I'd expected. I continued, suspicious, but then resolved to stop him and ask where we were headed when he turned away from the lake to points unknown. He was flustered.

"I'm taking you over to where you can see traditional village life," he explained.

I told him we'd lived in Benin a long time and were quite familiar with village life, and that we were expecting to be taken to the hiking trails that went along the lakeside. We turned around.

This time, he took us down a sandy road that led to the lakeshore. There were no trails as far as I could see, and we were almost immediately surrounded by several dozen happy children eager to make our dogs bark (easier than they'd suspected, I'm sure). We walked past a community latrine and a festering heap of garbage towards what we soon discovered was a bar.

"I thought we'd go here," Jules explained. We declined, and headed back to the cars. There, we abandoned the search and drove back to the hotel, as Jules clearly didn't know where the trails were.

At the hotel, Jules disappeared. I found him again later, and offered him a little money for his trouble and by way of apology for having been so direct with him on the way to the village we didn't want to visit. "I wonder now if maybe those trails don't exist," I said.

"No, there are no trails," he said. And we went our separate ways. How much time we'd have saved if we'd just had that conversation before setting out. I spent the evening reflecting the nature of miscommunication, and the way people travel along lifetracks that become easy to predict; when we mispredict we misinterpret. It wasn't the first time I suspected though we were speaking the same language we were not understanding each other.

Stars over the Water

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.

I watched them until my eyes grew heavy, conscious of the unfettered peace of the moment. Not until you are pulled away from your usual routine, and there neither TV nor radio nor Internet to distract you, do you recognize it: there is nothing between you and the stars but the absolute stillness of the night sky.

Peace

The tranquility continued into morning, when dawn brought Harmattan dust and smoky, grey horizons. The fishermen were out on the water in small, wooden boats, poling through the shallows and casting their nets. We said goodbye to the peaceful scene, and returned to the bustle of a world we know so much better than this one.

All photos courtesy of Joe and Maki Plunkett.