Tata Somba Country

We got up early to meet with a driver recommended by the hotel, who would take us around and show us the Tata Somba country. After a protracted negotiation, where my French actually held up pretty well, we decided no matter what we needed to hit a bank and find more CFAs. In just two weeks, I’d blown through $200, which seemed quite high to me. We agreed to go to the museum, out to a Tata Somba village where we would tour a house, across to a stone village and finally to a set of waterfalls where we could swim. The whole thing would take about six hours and cost about $100 with tips.

First, though, to the bank, where time appears to stand still in a bureaucratic inertia that makes my head spin. First, there were forms to fill out, then a series of photocopies to be made of passports and the bills we were exchanging. Approvals from managers and signatures and on and on. After 40 minutes we left empty-handed, with the instruction to come back before noon to check on the progress of things.

The museum was interesting and the drive to the Tata Somba country was relaxed, if a bit bone-crunching. The Tatas built their homes in isolation from one another, using thick clay walls to connect the rooms and keep invaders out. The ground floor of the walled compounds are given over to animals – chickens, goats and sheep – who scratch around the compound for food and are kept warm and mosquito-free by a smoky fire that’s tended constantly. Up a steep set of stairs in the 2nd floor, where the family bathed and a second staircase leading to the third level, where the rooms and granaries are kept. The family we visited was headed by a wrinkly, skinny old man who muttered to himself while arranging sticks for some kind of protection blessing at the family’s fetish shrine. Around the door to one compound was a small skull, maybe a monkey, some dried flowers and some other bones. This man had three wives, so there were three rooms, plus two granaries where they stores beans covered in ash to keep flies and other bugs and mildew away. When we crested the third floor, a woman’s head was just popping out of the granary. The rooms were half in, half out of the third floor, giving them a dark, sunken appearance, and the door openings were simply small squares barely big enough for a grown man. You would have to remain pretty thin or sleep outside. The rooms each had a fire pit and some stored sticks and bales of sweet-smelling tobacco. We climbed up a rickety ladder to look into the granary, poked around a little more and took some photographs. The people we were visiting spoke no French, but they followed us, marveling at us marveling at their homes and habits. It felt very nice, actually, not particularly forced or touristy and there were no offers of handicrafts or special pleas for extra money. We simply tipped the family 2,000 CFA (about $5) and made our way to the hotel, where the beautiful view of the valley was completely obscured by smoke. The rooms were interesting, though, in the round Tata Somba style, but with beds, a fan and a couple little windows for light.

From there we drove back to Natitingou to collect Rhonda’s money, then sped off toward the stone village with only biscuits and a bottle of water for lunch. Our guide, Mahmoud, tried to keep up a rather friendly banter, but my French isn’t good enough for that and I preferred to simply watch the scenery go by. We drove for what seemed like more than an hour, then turned off the paved road and climbed up toward some rocky hills. We got out with Mahmoud and walked into his village, which had lots of circular huts built into the sides of the rock, their thatched roofs topped by overturned clay pots. The houses – essentially one room for each person, with cooking and cleaning done outside – blended perfectly with their surroundings and we were somewhat surprised at the size of the village since we couldn’t see it from the road. Children, dirty, barefoot and dressed in rags, ran forward to grab onto our hands and offer big smiles. Mahmoud and the older kids tried to shoo them away, but they stayed by our sides throughout the visit, aside from our time with the chief. There seemed to be no men around, but Mahmoud explained most people were out at their farms. The women, who washed dishes, clothes and children, and pounded cassava and palm nuts, wore clothes or fabric rolled around their waists, their pendulous breasts swinging free. Each was adorned with necklaces, bracelets and baubles; even the children wore elaborate, colourful waistbeads. We wondered later whether the village was really so poor that some of the children were naked except for their beads or whether nudity was not such a taboo in the community.

Mahmoud took us to meet the new chief, a man originally from Burkina Faso who was “voted” chief nine months before, after the previous chief died. He was tall, wearing a chief’s traditional robe and a hat of wound fabric that stood up off his head and he had quite a kind, intelligent and engaged face and he actually seemed happy to see us. He was sitting under a tree up on the hill with four other elders. When we approached, I got the distinct impression the men were saying something borderline lewd, kinda dirty old grandpa-ish to Mahmoud – I swear one old guy had a twinkle in his eyes –and Mahmoud turned and translated saying, “Ils ont dit que vous etes belles.” Hmm… sounded like a lot more words to me.

They took us into a smoke-darkened circular hut, where we sat on the ground on a prayer mat and the chief sat up on a ledge, his walking stick resting nearby. Mahmoud encouraged us to ask questions, so we peppered him with queries for about an hour, learning that the chief is elected by the village, who nominate three candidates (all men) and then literally stand behind their candidate and the man with the most supporters is named chief. It’s the chief’s responsibility to throw a party for the town – slaughtering goats and a cow and supplying the “good cheer” for the lapsed Muslims, before he’s “sworn in” with a ceremony and begins wearing the chief’s robes. The previous chief had 12 wives; the current had only three. The people of the village were mostly farmers. Originally they settled the village before the Dahomey kingdom became Benin, running from the tyrannical D’Abomey king and ending up in the rocky mountains, where they sought protection in the stones where lots of animals were living as well. This chief was the first to allow visitors into the community – a thoroughly shocking concept that in the year 2005 there could actually be communities where visitors are barred! – largely because he recognized that his people were losing out by keeping themselves from the outside world. I think an anthropologist could have a field day with the impacts that will have on the community. The children had already learned to ask for money and “Bics.”

The chief asked about us, learning that we were both farm girls. Then he asked if I would take a photo and send it to him. I tell you, I didn’t think I could be more satisfied by his reaction to seeing his photograph, the old times lined up for a snap and man, oh man! I got a little choked up actually.

After we left the chief, we climbed further up the hills to see the village’s fetish priest, a spritely old man with a long beard and long pipe and a large sack made of goatskin or some other animal. Other than that, he was naked as a jaybird. Apparently his line fetish priests vow to stay naked as they entered the world voluntarily, as a commitment to their craft. The priest learns his craft from adolescence, following the previous priest as an apostle or apprentice. He asked if we had any problems we needed solved and we said no, but then I went on to ask about what kind of problems he could solve, offering fertility or infertility as an example. My muddled grasp of the French language led to some confusion and they thought I was asking for myself, I think, and told me I could bring my husband and they would prepare a special room and a special ceremony and voila, the problem would be solved rather quickly. The priest offered to pose for a photo (in exchange for CFA 2,000) and laughed delightedly at his image.

From there we picked our way down the hill back to the waiting truck, fending off demands for “une Bic” or “un cadeau.” For a village that only recently allowed visitors, these kids are pretty quick studies. I ended up tossing out an empty water bottle and it led to a bit of a scuffle. It really is a different world when you’re fighting over trash.

We made our way silently to the chutes, up a rocky road that gave the truck a bit of a challenge. Our guide forgot the best route down and we ended up picking our way rather unsteadily through the rocks, weeds and thorns. Quick but hardly safe. The chutes were beautiful, with great big palms overhead but the water was positively freezing owing, I think, to the depth of the water. We splashed around for about 20 minutes, while Mahmoud swam around in his underwear. Then we walked back up the right way, paid our 200 CFA entrance and headed back to town, our thoughts on dinner. When we arrived at he hotel, we paid the remainder of our fee and tipped our guide and driver, who both looked rather disappointed. Over dinner, we decided we really stiffed our guide and decided we would try to make up the difference with his friend. Unfortunately, he wasn’t at the hotel when we left the next morning.

From Natitingou, our plan was to cross back over through Togo at Kara and push through to tamale, where we would sleep the night. The first taxi took us through about half the country. Then we hopped into a car made for the demolition derby hanging together by string and spit and the vagaries of gravity. The inside was entirely stripped bare and there was a hole in the floor that coughed dust every time we hit a bump, which was often. Rhonda noticed that he driver would only put his foot on the gas for five seconds, then back off, producing a rhythm that drove her insane. We waited about an hour to get a car filled up heading into Togo, then spent about 40 minutes explaining in my best French why we shouldn’t have to pay for a second visa, all for naught, really. That car then emptied into another car, which took us into town, where I bought bananas and biscuits and we headed off rather quickly. The car drove us to a market town, where we got into our first tro-tro a sweaty experience that Rhonda hadn’t yet had.