WEST AFRICA: 2010

GHANA: A Ho New Reality

llcooljew — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 15:37:00 GMT

I arrive to the town of Ho, the capital of the Volta Region, with my jaw hanging wide open. I’m definitely not in the city anymore, and the stark difference between Accra and Ho is nothing short of mind blowing. Instead, I find myself in the middle of rural Africa, enveloped by mountains, banana trees, and lush green forests. People are walking for miles along the barren highway, which is their only visable means of transportation. Around me are mud huts, thatched roofs, and dusty red roads that lead further and further away from the 21^st century.

Ho is home to the Ewe (pronounced “Eh-veh”), which is both the language and the people of the Volta region. The Ewe are accomplished agriculturists, known for, amongst other things, their expert cultivation of yams. The annual yam festival, celebrated in September, is most certainly the highlight of their calendar year.

I know what you’re thinking. “Yams? Why, they are delicious!!!” Yeah...I thought that, too. But sadly, the African yam is not the sweet, orange sort we enjoy back home. No. They are white. And starchy. And completely tasteless. They are more akin to a common potato, rather than anything that warrants melted butter and marshmallow topping. In Ghana, they are pounded into a thick, gelatinous paste to make fufu- a steaming bowl of yam balls submerged in a spicy meat soup, and eaten entirely by hand. It is a most unfortunate turn of events, I assure you.

One of my many downfalls in life, and most particularly in relation travel, is that I’m a finicky eater. I’m not fond of trying new foods, and I incessantly resist eating the local cuisine of the places I visit. Like fufu. Yes, I have some issues. But, my biggest difficulty yet, is that when I am in this part of the world, or any place outside of my own country for that matter, I absolutely, flat out, refuse to eat meat. While I can’t say exactly where my aversion to foreign meat stems from, I can tell you, vaguely, that it has to do with some disturbing things I’ve seen over the years in my travels, like grossly slaughtered animals, severed goat heads, lack of refrigeration, and unsanitary conditions. So for those reasons and more, I stay away. Instead, I favor packaged foods, bread, and fresh produce- if I can find them. Yesterday, for example, I ate three crackers along with an orange soda for lunch, and for dinner- it was two small carrots and a handful of peanuts, all of which I went to great lengths to acquire. I don't mean to suggest that there's no food in Ghana, because the people who live here are perfectly happy with their fufu and goat meat. I'm only saying there's no food in Ghana that I want to eat, nor is it their responsibility to provide me with any.

However, I do not wish to complain about my hunger. It is temporary. Instead, I continually bear in mind that every single day, one billion people in the world go hungry, even though there is more than enough food to go around. And, of the Earth’s population of nearly 6.7 billion, 40% of all human beings live on less than $2 per day. Here in Ghana, however, that number is doubled, with 80% of all Ghanaians surviving on this amount! And, even more difficult to comprehend, is that 45% of the nation’s population exists on less than $1 a day. When you take a moment to reflect on such matters, my discomfort here is trivial. There will be plenty of pizzas and burritos in my future, I can promise you that. I just wish the same could be said for everyone.

The volunteer work I’m doing in the region is directly associated with poverty, and this appeals to me. I get to go into the villages, and prepare small-scale farmers to receive micro-financing. This is where a very small loan is made to an individual, who, because of their extreme level of poverty and lack of assets, would not otherwise qualify for a traditional bank loan. These loans allow people to pursue self-employment projects that generate income, and allow them to care for themselves and their families.

I should probably mention that I have no previous experience in microfinance whatsoever. When I learned of my assignment, I freaked out for about five minutes, then I promptly bought myself some books on the subject and read them. I learned a lot, and was able to bring myself up to speed on what I needed to know. And so, as the sole volunteer, I have been appointed to six different farming communities. Many of the villages are located hours away from one another, which in itself, is quite an adventure! Sometimes, I must get out of the car where the road ends, and then travel by foot until I reach the area. It is very hot outside, often over 100 degrees.

Once arrived, and the appropriate greetings and introductions have been made, I administer a simple questionnaire I have designed to help assess the specific micro-credit needs for each group. I also conduct a group discussion. How large is the village? Who is their chief? What level of poverty are they at currently? Which crops do they grow? What assets might they possess? How many chickens do they own? What are the concerns and challenges of the group? Do they require health insurance, or micro-insurance policies for their goats or their yams???

Naturally, the vast majority of the community members do not read or write. Most do not speak much English, but only the local dialect of Ewe. And so, I simply take my time. I sit down, with each person, and with the aid of an interpreter, I help them fill out their form. For me, its the most gratifying part of the work I do in Ghana.

When a person later receives their first round of financing, typically in the range of, say- $50, they will likely be well below the poverty level, and this amount of money can be life changing. These are people with ideas, plans, hopes and dreams, who are anxious to do something more with their lives, but have not been afforded the opportunity.

Ironically, most recipients of microfinance pay back their loan at a percentage much higher than traditional borrowers. And there is good incentive. Once they have, they then qualify for a second round of funding, usually twice as much as the first. At this point, they are starting to see profits, and are able to feed their families. And, after they have repaid the second loan, they receive a third, also double the previous. By the time they have repaid that loan, they are not only seeing profits, but are ideally doing quite well for themselves. Micro-finance proves itself as a sustainable method to help lift people out of the cycle of poverty, so that they, and their families, can live dignified lives.

When I’m not working, I usually relax at the Freedom Hotel, which is my home in Ho. My room is surprisingly comfortable, and has a television with 3 channels-- a tremendous luxury. I go running here, which is a surreal experience. Often, I get lost, which makes me nervous when I am low on drinking water. I attempt to take mental notes such as: turn left at the mango tree, right near the goats; without realizing that all the roads look the same, there are many mango trees, and the goats had since walked away. Also, when I get lost deep in the villages, it genuinely startles people. The very last thing they're expecting to see is a little white chick cruizing around with an iPod, all by herself in the middle of Africa. They literally stop dead in their tracks, stop mid-sentence of whatever they were saying, and utter shock and disbelief overcome them. I feel badly, because I can tell that it throws them completely off balance.

Also in my down time, I spend time with the friends I’ve made in Ghana. Last weekend, I was invited to a wedding. Not the church kind, but a village wedding, in somebody’s backyard, with people dressed in their finest clothes, and chickens running around pecking at abandoned food. As you might imagine, I am very popular amongst children during such occasions. They follow me around like the Pied Piper, only instead of a magical flute, it is my long, blonde locks that mesmerizes them completely. Often, they want to play with my hair, which I welcome, and secretly love.

Back home, people always ask me if I’m having fun here, but I’m not sure that is the best word to describe it. Is it enriching? Definitely. Is it difficult? Often. Is it fascinating? Immensely. Do I miss San Francisco? A lot. But mostly, I’m extremely grateful. I am fortunate to have so much, when many people in the world have so little. I feel lucky that I have the opportunity to see and experience the things that I do, and I am especially glad that I’ve somehow chosen to lead such an interesting life.

-LL

This was the first indicator, as I drove into town, that I was in for a whole new reality.

Welcome to Ho, Ghana! Good times ahead!

My friend, Christy, eating fufu... Steamed yam balls with meat soup, which people eat by hand. I'll pass.

I stumbled across a pig pen while walking through a village one day. Seriously, why would you want to decapitate and chop these two up?

Helping the villagers fill out their micro-credit forms

Another day, a different community. That's baby Prince and his mother, Patience.

That's my dear friend Patrick, who helps interpret whatever I say into Ewe, and that's little Noah on my lap, who is my charming new boyfriend. He stole my heart. Sorry, fellas.

A lovely woman who was listening in on a meeting from her doorway

She is still a bit too young to qualify for a micro loan, but a beauty nevertheless

One of the communities who are receiving loans, and definitely the villagers I spent the most time getting to know. I love them!

The stained guest book from one of the communities, which they asked me to sign. This page represents entries from 2008 to now. They appear not to receive many visitors. I'm the only non-African listed.

I am explaining micro finance to the fellas

Whatever I am saying here appears to be very facsinating.

Boy mashing dried cassava to make flour

Girl collecting water from the Dayi River Basin

Sweet dreads!

These are an example of the evil brooms that wake me up every morning at 5am. "Scrape, scrape, scrape"

For those of you already familiar with my Praying Mantis obsession, you'll be pleased to learn that I made a new friend. His name is Richard, and I think he is very handsome!

I do!!!

My friend Christy and me, along with the bride. Both are wearing skirts made of traditional Kente cloth, which is a woven Ghanaian fabric, often worn in times of great importance.

Two boys at the wedding

CANNIBALISM!!!

Pretty in Pink (x3)

I make multiple friends everywhere I go!

This girl wanted to play with my hair forever! It was hilariously awesome, and I loved it.

I've got the whole world in my hand.

As the sun was setting on my way home from the villages, I found this beautiful bunch gathering water. This was awesome!

Africa's Next Top Model

Here I am pumping water for the entire village! (Not really)

Girl carrying home her loot

Right back at you, baby!

VIDEO CLIPS

One of the best moments of my time in the Volta Region! While walking around Ho, I heard music, and was invited into someone's backyard. Here, they are performing the Borborbor dance, which is specific to the region, and usually danced after a funeral

Would you like to take a taxi ride with me? Here we are in Ho, Ghana, driving down the main street where the marketplace is located. Taxis are shared, and stop to pick up whoever is waiting on the side of the road. The driver slows down, asks them where they are headed, and if its in the same direction, they are invited inside.

Photos: GHANA: Journal Photos

llcooljew — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 15:55:00 GMT

Photos to accompany journal stories

GHANA: What is a Jewish???

llcooljew — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 18:10:00 GMT

In Ghana, every meeting begins and ends prayer-- to Christ. This can be a little awkward for any visitor, but especially if you are Jewish. One morning at the office, we all went outside to bless the new pick-up truck our organization had acquired. Everybody joined hands and sang hymns to Jesus. It was very special.

Ghana is by far one of the most religious countries I have ever visited. Although there's a minority of Islamic and indigenous communities, it is chock full of Christian disciples, who love to discuss and display their love of Jesus whenever possible. As you walk down the street in Ghana, you will find shops with names like: Christ Resurrection Superstore, Clap for Jesus Hardware and the Amen Sister Rice Shop. The back window of most taxicabs are adorned in biblical verse, and a crucifix is certain to be hanging from the rear view mirror.

Often, while having just met someone new, and engaged in an otherwise delightful chat, the topic of religion is briskly introduced. “I hope you are a Christian?” they inquire out of nowhere, sending me off balance. “Oh... umm…” I hesitate, then change the subject. When pressed further, I answer: “Actually, I’m a different religion. I’m Jewish.” Then I watch, as they search their memory for some frame of reference, but come up empty. And so they ask: “What is a Jewish???"

When attempting to explain what is “A Jewish”, I proceed carefully. “My people come from Israel, and we read the Old Testament” I begin. “In fact, we really, really like it, so we only read the old book, and not the new one”. “Ah, OK,” they respond. But then, I see the wheels turning once again. A look of horror appears on their face, as they raise the inevitable question that is sure to come next: “But… but… what about Jesus???” And from there, I have a lot of explaining to do.

That being said, I always make every effort possible to understand the customs and beliefs of the places I visit. It’s how I learn about the world, and I haven’t traveled to 65 countries for nothing. Also, religion is especially interesting in the rural area where I live, because it is a mixture of both Christianity and traditional village customs. I was hoping I might have the opportunity to attend a church service sometime while in the Volta Region, to get a taste of the local customs. So imagine my great fortune when I was able to kill two birds with one stone... I was invited to a funeral!!!

I don’t mean to suggest that I’m happy that somebody died. Quite the contrary. It was incredibly sad. My friend, Chef, lost his brother in a terrible bus accident. Fourteen people from the same village were involved in that crash, and while only my friend’s brother was killed, many people were seriously injured, so it affected everyone in the community. But I’m not going to lie. I was excited to go! Being invited to a funeral in a foreign country, especially Ghana, is the absolute pinnacle of any cultural experience. And I was all over it!

Not wanting to miss a thing, I showed up at the mortuary. It was a small, unassuming yellow building, which sat beneath a mango tree. There, we gathered to watch the corpse be carried out and loaded into a van; his body wrapped in a simple straw mat. The mourners began to scream loudly as the body was brought outside. I could see his legs- lifeless and dirty, as he was laid inside the back of the truck.

Next, my friend Moses, an older man, escorted me into a taxi cab, along with two others. I learned that the person in front of me was also in the accident, and the best friend of the man who died. It was immensely surreal, as we slowly made our way up the road in a procession of cars, following the dead man, and listening to African funeral music, just as the sun started to set behind the banana trees.

Hundreds of people were waiting in the village of Matse to receive the corpse. They were dressed in black and red, the funeral colors of Ghana; many of whom were howling, wailing, and collapsing onto their knees in grief as the van finally approached. A band was playing; circling quickly down the street and beating their drums loudly. People danced wildly in the road, frantic, drunken, and overflowing with emotion. I couldn’t help but feel the anguish of each and every person that my eyes met, as my heart became heavy with their pain.

I stayed for just a while that evening. I was the only outsider (i.e. white person) present, and people were understandably distracted to see me, but were welcoming all the same. Even so, the frenzied scene made me uncharacteristically frightened. My friend Moses, bless his heart, held on to my hand, and didn’t let go, as we made our way through the unruly crowd, into the pitch dark night, and exited the village.

The next morning, seven people, including myself, were crammed into a four person car, and driven to Matse. The corpse had been with the mortician overnight, and was now on display in a white lacquer coffin, decorated with ribbon and blue, artificial flowers. I can only guess that funereal technology in rural Ghana is a bit outdated, because the dead man looked alarmingly grotesque. His nose was propped open with cotton, his eyebrows were drawn in with pencil, and his face was encrusted in layers of dull, black wax that looked anything but flattering. I don’t wish to pass judgment, but in my culture, we do not view or cosmetically alter the deceased. Frankly, I’m kinda cool with that program.

A serious argument ensued between the dead man’s family and the tribal council. The elders of the village had a differing viewpoint on the funeral proceedings, and it took nearly three hours of tense negotiations to reach a solution. During this recess, I was ushered into a variety of locations, including people’s homes and backyards. In one such place, I noticed an old man sitting on a porch, with his foot grossly diseased, being treated by witchdoctors. They mixed a potion from a number of bottles, herbs, and powders, then applied it to his foot. Next, the witchdoctors lit a fire, and the man held his foot above the flames. They then produced a razor blade, and sliced his foot four times, so that the smoke could enter his skin and heal his foot. Blood dripped onto the rocks beneath him. The man sat in silence, and continued to hold his foot over the hot coals for nearly an hour.

It was finally time to continue with the ceremony, so we gathered under a tree, with the family and me on one side, and the chief and village elders on the other. As a guest of honor, I was made to sit in the very front row, whether I liked it or not. And I would have preferred the “not,” because had I known what was coming next, I would have high tailed it out of there in two seconds flat.

A sacrificial lamb was carried out, and placed onto a stone before me. It had already been stabbed in the abdomen, and was bleeding onto its own fleece. Next, the village chief poured himself a cup of palm wine, which smells sour, and overwhelmingly pungent, like bad vinegar. He began chanting, and pouring the liquid into a small puddle on the ground; drinking the remainder. A bottle of liquor also appeared, and a similar offering of libation was made. And then it happened. They held a knife underneath the sheep’s head, and slit its throat. Right in front of my eyes. It was horrible. Blood poured out from its neck, and they carried it away, still kicking, to a nearby ditch, as a trail of dark red fluid trickled alongside the dusty path.

After gaining my composure, it was time for the church service, held outside in a beautiful grove. The mourners sat on wooden benches and plastic chairs, as the casket lay at the edge of the courtyard. Once the pastor completed his service, spoken entirely in the local dialect of Ewe, the coffin was quickly snatched up by a horde of men, who paraded it wildly into a crowd which had gathered in the road. Emotions were tense, and a brawl broke out amongst the pallbearers. The casket became unsteady, as the men exchange blows, and others rushed in to break up the fight. At times, I feared that the coffin would fall open, and the dead man would be ejected onto the pavement.

I didn’t attend the burial. The cemetery was too far from the village to walk, and I wasn’t feeling up to riding along with the corpse. I politely took a pass, and also decided to skip the festivities. I’d seen enough. Yet, I was quite honestly grateful for the opportunity to have been there, all the same. Cultural mission definitely accomplished.

I think that witnessing such an intense cultural experience genuinely gives one pause to consider their own. I found myself thinking a lot about Judaism, wondering how strange my own customs might seem to someone else. Take, for example, Passover- my favorite holiday of the Jewish calendar year. Would it not seem odd to an outsider that during our observance, we do not eat bread or grain, but only eat Matzo? Or, that we keep saltwater, a glob of horseradish and a sprig of parsley, amongst other items, in the middle of our table? To me, it seems perfectly reasonable, and everything I experienced that day in Ghana did not. In fairness, hadn’t the Jews also sacrificed lambs, and did we not, in fact, smear its blood on the doors of our homes, so that the plagues of Egypt would pass over, hence the term? Yup. We did. So, really, what do I know!

Here's where the story gets truly amazing. While instant messaging with my friend, Mayor, in the United States, he casually inquired where I’ll be having my Passover seder the following week. I told him I’d reluctantly be skipping it this year, being in the middle of Africa and all. So I assumed he was kidding when he informed me that someone from Chabad, a Jewish organization, would be flying to Africa to make sure that I had matzo and kosher wine to make a blessing with for the holiday. Clearly he must be pulling my leg. But unbelievably- it was no joke.

On Monday night, March 29, I attended a Passover seder in Ghana, West Africa. Two young rabbis, Mendy Mochkin, the brother of my friend Peretz Mochkin (the rabbi at Chabad of North Beach, San Francisco), along with his comrade Pasi, flew all the way to from New York to Accra. They came armed with suitcases full of hand made matzo, kosher wine, Haggadot (Passover prayer books), and even brought kosher chicken! Just a handful of Jews are in this part of the world, but they made the effort to find as many of us as they could, and invited us all to Passover seder. We gathered together around the table, drinking wine, eating delicious food, and recounting the story of our people so many years ago. It was truly one of the most beautiful, meaningful experiences I have ever had, and words can’t express how much it meant to me.

As an added bonus, I then had the unique privilege of sharing my culture (and matzo!) with all of my friends in Africa, telling them how my people, too, were once slaves; and that while escaping from Egypt, we had to leave in such a hurry that our bread could not rise. I explain that for eight days, we must eat a special cracker called matzo. Everyone, of course, was blown away to learn that someone would fly all the way to Ghana just to bring me the special cracker. Since I'm the only Jew they've ever met, I was honored when they expressed how much respect they had for the Jewish people that we take our traditions so seriously. Naturally, I invited each of my friends to have a taste of the special cracker, and their eyes lit up with curiosity. I proudly reached inside my bag, broke off a piece of matzo, and watched as they excitingly crunched down and smiled.

So… What is A Jewish? “A Jewish” is someone who comes from a rich history, with traditions passed down over thousands of years, who is able to remain connected to their ancestors through the customs and community which they keep. “A Jewish” is someone who values all people, all religions, and cares deeply about the struggles of others. Sometimes, “A Jewish” takes time out of their busy lives, so that they can volunteer and serve other communities, helping to repair the world. “A Jewish” is someone who flies all the way from New York to Ghana, without being asked, just to make sure that one of its community members, who is all by herself in a foreign country, so far from home, has somewhere to be for Passover seder. I am “A Jewish.” And, quite honestly, I’ve never felt more proud.

-LL

Say it loud, say it proud, Ghana!

Holy Fast Food

My Lord!! That's a lot of feed!!!

Here I am feeling awkward as everyone else bows their head in prayer.

Bring it!

This girl knows what time it is!!!

Dear Baby Jesus, Please fix my car.

Wait... what was the question???

An amazing church service I stumbled upon, one of the highlights of my trip

A colorful pastor

OMG! I was just having the very same debate inside my head!

Richard, my pet praying mantis in Africa, passed away in his sleep, may he rest in peace. But Richard is really here to tell you that the photos which follow his, while interesting, are also disturbing. They include a dead man, a graphic voodoo healing, and an animal being slaughtered. Please, proceed with caution!!!

When somebody dies in Ghana, notices are plastered up all over town, as well as neighboring villages, to alert the communtiy of their passing. Sadly, when you see this man again in the next photo, he will be dead.

This is a dificult photo for me to see. It brings back a lot of sad, viceral memories of that day of the funeral. Whenever I scroll through my photographs or my journal, I close my eyes when this picture is displayed. Including now.

Every time I was offered palm wine, I nearly vomitted

While some "medicines" are ingested orally, others are directly applied to the affacted area. The old man's foot is sliced four times with a razor blade by the witchdoctor, and the medicine is applied. Then, he was made to hold his foot over an open flame in order to for the cure to set in. As you can see, it is not exactly the most hygienic of settings.

The witchdoctors prepare to treat this man’s foot, with the help of various potions they have brought along in bottles and have rubbed tohis limb. Then they hand him a stiff drink, which I reckon he’ll need for what comes next. Proceed with caution...

The old man quietly contemplates his pain, after just having been raked over the coals.

Yah. You can pretty much see where this is going...

Poor fella is still alive as he is carried to a nearby ditch.

Major bummer!

The church service of the funeral was held in a grove, with everyone dressed in black and red, the traditional funeral colors of Ghana.

Moments before a brawl broke out between the pallbearers. Can you see the anger on their faces?

These women were actually super nice to me, despite their stern look. But in Ghanaian culture, one does not typically smile or even look directly into the camera, as they prefer a more serious, contemplative expression in their photographs. Therefore, I have taught countless Ghanaians the term “American Style!” which means to look in the camera and smile big, which is how I got the majority of the photos you have seen in my blog. The term “American Style” has become a huge hit among the many friends I have made, and they crack themselves with it." That being said, this picture is definitely "Ghana Style."

This is Matse Village. The "School Under Tree Project (SUTP)" on the sign sounds promising.

This boy provided me with a much needed smile as I exited the village after the carnage

Passover seder plate

Rabbi Mendy Mochkin leading our Passover seder.

I sit in utter disbelief, as I celebrate Passover in the middle of Ghana.

My friend, Sammy, happily crunches down on The Special Cracker

VIDEO CLIPS

This video was taken at the mortuary, just after the corpse had been loaded into the van. The family screams as the van is driven away. It is very, very sad.

Here, hundreds of people are waiting in the village of Matse, wailing and dancing wildly in the streets as the white van makes its way into town.

On a far more uplifting note, this is a very special moment I stumbled upon one day while volunteering in the villages. I heard some drums, and followed the sound until I came upon this scene. I learned that I was the only outsider/westerner who had ever been there, and now I am sharing it with you. Here is Part I.

Part II of the beautiful church service

Photos: Assorted Photographs- Worldwide

llcooljew — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 09:20:00 GMT

Assorted Photographs- Worldwide

Photos: TOGO: A Bewitching Journey

llcooljew — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 07:20:00 GMT

Accompanying photos to my scholarship entry

Photos: Profile Pics

llcooljew — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 06:19:00 GMT

Lauren

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

llcooljew — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 06:16:00 GMT

Deciding to travel alone to neighboring Togo was, admittedly, an ambitious undertaking. Not only don't I speak a word of French, but I accidentally left my West Africa guidebook in a taxi cab while still in Ghana, before I’d so much as booked a hotel room or planned an itinerary of any sort. But why let my complete inability to communicate, coupled with the fact that I have no idea where I’m going, stand in my way? Don’t be ridiculous!

I set off to Togo with just my passport, some cash, two sets of clothes, a toothbrush, my camera, and a mini hairdryer. I also felt it important to bring some nail polish and mascara, so that I could look and feel my best when I reached the border.

After traveling for hours in a sweltering hot minibus to the Ghanaian border town of Aflao, I changed money in the black market and bought myself a visa. Then, quite theatrically, I waved my French manicure at the customs agent, handed over my passport, and sailed on through, or, rather- walked on through, to the nation of Togo.

It’s always interesting to see the subtle changes of two neighboring countries, and there were many. First, the infrastructure in Lomé, the capital city, seemed just a bit more solid than Ghana’s. The roads were better paved, the streets had names, and absent were the drainage ditches filled with human excrement which I’d grown so accustomed to in Accra. Most importantly, however, Togo had proper food!!! French bread, coffee, cheeses, salads, and croissants! ...Croissants!!! I nearly wept!

I found a little place to stay called “Hotel Bellevue,” based solely on the fact that the receptionist spoke a little English and they had a charming restaurant with an enticing menu. It was a nice enough place, really, despite the giant cockroach I met in the shower.
But the creepiest things I found in Togo were not in my bathroom. Instead, they were on display in one of the strangest, most disturbing places I’ve ever visited: the Marche' des Fetiches- more commonly known in English as “the voodoo market.”

Throughout Africa, and particularly in the western region, traditional medicine practices often summon witchdoctors to heal the sick, who grind up various elements and concoct magical potions to cure one’s ailments. And when the recipe calls for monkey organs or warthog teeth, the voodoo market is an excellent place to procure such items! As I walked around the dusty marketplace, I saw freshly sawed-off dog heads, a chimpanzee hand, and a severed elephant foot. The sites and smells here can be rather disconcerting for any visitor-- particularly the squeamish or members of PETA.

My guide, Joseph, suggested that I meet with the witchdoctor, so that he may give me a special potion to bring good luck-- for a small fee, of course. Much to his surprise, I declined. I wanted to save my appetite. After all, there were freshly made croissants back at my hotel.