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. 

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.