How Not to Attend a Goat Sacrifice in Benin
How a trip to West Africa encouraged me to rethink the boundaries crossed when we travel in pursuit of cultural experience.
Members of the Zangbetosecret society, dedicated to protecting their communities at night, perform aritual dedicated to the cult's deities. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
I’d forgotten what it was like not tosweat. Since my arrival in West Africa a few weeks earlier my skin had beenslicked in a salty, dewy sheen which, at that moment, was generated not by myproximity to the equator, but because I was anxious. I had let my taste foradventure run loose, failed to pull its reins in time, and was about to witnessthe sacrifice of two small white goats as the culmination of a Vodoun ceremony.
Every January, thousands ofinternational tourists descend on the shores of the club-shaped country ofBenin to observe, ogle, and gape at devotees of traditional religions at theannual Festival de Vodou. While the main event takes place one afternoon at theDoor of No Return, a memorial to the millions of Africans wrested from WestAfrica and sold into slavery, the celebrations continue for days around thesmall city of Ouidah. Next to the centuries-old Portuguese fort that served asa regional center for the slave trade, Vodoun disciples dance through thestreets in hybrid ceremony/performances that nourish locals and delightvisitors. Travelers determined to witness a more “genuine” version of thereligion can buy their way into private rituals less fit for casualconsumption. Which is where I found myself, dragged along by agoat-sacrifice-obsessed traveling companion, freshly initiated into the cult ofa Vodoun deity to whom, any minute, a pair of adorable bleating, miniaturebovines would be ritually slaughtered.
A vodou shrine outside of Ouidah dedicated to the god of pythons. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
Determined to avoid another snow-filled January in NYC and saddledwith a gnawing curiosity about pre-Christian belief systems, I searched foraffordable flights to Benin. In this country, a chilly winter day meant 70degrees, and Vodoun is a nationallyrecognized religion. The budget room I booked for my month-long stay was locatedabove a dance studio in Cotonou, where I woke in the morning to the sound ofbeating drums while students practiced their routines below.
After rinsing off the layer of sweatI accumulated overnight, I headed out to explore the city. Dodging theonslaught of Zémidjan moto taxis and weaving through crowded streets, I made myway to the Marché Dantokpa, the largest open-air market in West Africa. Windingthrough the lanes past the vendors selling snacks, fabric, kitchen gadgets,tools, and CDs, I followed a pungent odor towards the section of the marketspecializing in vodoun ephemera – beads, shells, animal skulls, carcasses andother talismans used during rituals. After speaking with a few locals in myrusty French about my interest in the religion, I discovered the annualFestival do Vodou would take place during my stay and promptly began makingplans to attend.
First, I needed to findtransportation. Ouidah, where the festival was held, was an hour away, and themyriad celebrations that comprised the event took place in several differentvillages. Hiring a guide was the best way to see as much as possible, but I wason a serious budget. My limited funds meant cutting a few corners. I researchedlocal tours, and found an amiable guide named Jacques who offered to cut me adeal if I joined a tour he had already previously arranged with anothertraveler. “Sure,” I shrugged not aware of what I was getting myself into. Weagreed to meet the next day at a café before heading out to see our firstceremony.
Followers of the Vodoun faith prepare to celebrate during the annual Festival de Vodou in Ouidah, Benin. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
Stefan, my new travel companion was hard to miss. At 6’4” and wearinga snow-white jellabiya, the bumbling bearded SerbianAmerican stood out a block away. After Jacques helped him pay for his coffee,we climbed into our car and set off. Almost immediately Stefan began asking ifwe would see a goat sacrifice. This was low on my priority list, but since Iwas along for the ride, Stefan was calling the shots.
“Yes, yes, we will see the goat sacrifice. Do not worry,”Jacques assured him.
Our first stop was in Ouidah tosee devotees of different Vodoun deities perform their dance rituals. Jacquesasked us to wait in the car while he spoke with one of the organizers. Despitethe rites transpiring in public, they were intimate religious events and weneeded permission to attend. Stefan’s patience lasted about 30 seconds beforehe stumbled out of the car and toward the dancers. The organizer erupted,yelling that we were disrespecting the ceremony. Desperate to calm the mandown, Jacques gave him some money to appease his anger, and we joined the crowdwatching the performance. Initiates to a cult of a Vodoun deity wearing short,layered skirts and covered in white powder danced and tumbled as if possessed.The chaotic movements were mesmerizing, the dancers flitting about the openspace until they collapsed in exhaustion.
Devotees of a Vodoun cult possessed by its deity engaged in ecstatic dance in central Ouidah during the Festival de Vodou. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
A few blocks away we visited another cult of devotees, the Egungun, a secret society whose members wore ornate sequin-covered costumes that obscured their faces. The adherents spun in circles careening dangerously close to the spectators gathered around them. Jacques told us that a touch from one of the dancers meant death. Each charge toward the crowd sent spectators scrambling in practiced retreat, furiously avoiding contact with an Egungun.
Members of the Egungun secret society, representing the spirit of death, wear elaborate sequined masks and capes during their ceremonies. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
We pressed on to more ceremonies,but Stefan continued asking about the goat sacrifice.
“Tomorrow,” Jacques promised.
The next day we visited a sacredforest filled with Vodoun shrines dating back to the early 20th century.
“What about the goats?” Stefanasked. "Soon," Jacques assured him.
We ate lunch at a small open-airrestaurant on our way to our next stop. After we downed a meal of curried meatand fufu, a West-African dough eaten with many stewed dishes, Stefan asked touse the restroom. Jacques and I watched in embarrassed amusement as Stefanstood in the doorway of the pit toilet, refusing to step foot inside, his backto the diners as he urinated in plain view.
“And now the sacrifice?” Stefanpressed again as he clambered back into the car when we left the restaurant.Jacques tried to suppress his frustration. "I promise, tomorrow," hereplied.
We watched the annual blessing ofa beach, a ritual dedicated to the god of fisherman in hopes of ensuring abountiful year. Hundreds of locals gathered on the shore, including scores ofwomen dressed in bright ceremonial clothing to pay homage to their deity. Theevent was beautiful but did not satisfy Stefan. Jacques and I rolled our eyesin unison as he asked again about the goat sacrifice.
A ritual to secure a successful fishing season takes place on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean near Ouidah. Photos by Ann Seymour Vergara
“Yes, we are going now,” Jacquesrelented.
Like the ceremonies we witnessedin Ouidah, the offering was an intimate event and not open to everyone. Inorder to participate Stefan and I first had to undergo an initiation ceremonyconducted by a priest devoted to the deity to whom the poor goats would besacrificed.
As the process unfolded a deepdiscomfort set in. All of Stefan’s pestering had made the sacrifice feel morelike a joke than something that would actually happen. The ritual dragged onfor what felt like hours. I was fine with that, perhaps Stefan would againbecome bored and want to move on to another ceremony?
The priest used shells to divineour fortunes, and we were fed a nut so acrid I gagged in embarrassment. Thepriest dotted us with mud and wrapped us in colorfully patterned sheets offabric. Stefan paid intermittent attention, participating when he was calledto, and otherwise occupying himself by petting the goats and wandering aroundthe grounds. The energy shifted when one of the men leading the ceremony dug ahole in the sand that would catch the goats’ blood. At long last, the stage wasset. Stefan leaned in close with his camera phone. I pulled mine out at welland feigned discretion. The goats were about to shuffle off this mortal coil.
Members of a Vodou cult prepare to sacrifice a goat in a private ceremony outside of Ouidah shortly after the annual Festival de Vodou in January. Photo by Ann Seymour Vergara
The experience was predictably upsetting, and I was relieved when it was over. The assurance that the animals would soon be dinner for the priest and his family did little to ease my conscience.
Finally satiated, Stefan decided to call it a night and I did as well. Jacques dropped us of at our respective hotels, bidding Stefan a terse goodbye before departing. Despite feeling exhausted from the heat and the experience, I did not sleep well that night, the cries of the goats still ringing in my ears.
The next night Jacques and I ate dinner together before my return to Cotonou. He brought me to his favorite hole-in-the-wall on the outskirts of Ouidah, an airy but almost empty restaurant down a dirt side road, decorated with flashing red Christmas lights hanging on the walls. We both hoped the other could explain Stefan’s confounding fascination with seeing the sacrifice, but neither of us could offer much insight. Perhaps it was just another item on his checklist before heading off to his next exotic locale. Eventually we shrugged it off, and dug into a meal of delicious goat stew.
Members of the Zangbeto secret society are the night warriors of society, tasked with keeping villages safe after the sun sets. Photos by Ann Seymour Vergara