Togo by www.born2travel.it

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06.03.2014 Kara (Togo)

Having left chaotic Tamale, we head south towards Natchamba and the border with Togo.

[Stefy]: “Huts with straw roofs, completely empty inside except for a few sacks used as bedding and some pots piled in a corner. The women seated in a semicircle in front of their huts, the children with eyes so big you could see yourself in them. We are in the world of the Dagomba. We pulled out packs of sweets and I was very struck by the joy on the faces of both the men and the children. We had fun inflating balloons and making them fly above our heads. I saw radiant faces, proud gazes and honest smiles so sincere that they bring down every barrier, mistrust and difference that, wrongly, someone might think exists between us whites and them: a radiant ebony population.

In Sang we stop by chance to visit the orphanage “Nazareth Home for God's Children”, run by Sister Stan Terese Mumuni and dedicated to orphans with serious medical problems; while the group listened to the story of the school I could not resist and had to go into the adjoining courtyard to talk with a volunteer and two little one-year-olds: Thomas and Lucia. I kept looking at those eyes, so big, so young but already full of suffering…

In Natchamba we fill in the exit form in a little room with two or three hens wandering around, an old patched camp bed and a counter behind which the two passport control officers carefully leaf through all these Italian documents that have suddenly appeared before their eyes.

We are in Togo! While we wait our turn we notice sparse groups of people leaving or entering this small nation. Almost all without documents, and to pay for access they had to empty bags or satchels in favour of the greedy policemen.

Once the bureaucratic formalities were over, we had barely set off when we came across the first roadblock in a long series. Roadblock! Two barrels placed in the middle of the road and a sturdy big lad in a vest and a fisherman's hat who asks us for 10.000 CFA (about 20 euro) after inspecting the whole van and finding no fault. Mark haggles hard and in the end he wins out… The barrels are removed and we drive off as victors… at least this time!

07.03.2014 Sokodé (Togo)

We travel the main Togolese road that runs from the capital Lomé straight to the gates of Burkina Faso; all in all it is not bad, because there are none of the annoying Ghanaian speed bumps. Shortly before the town of Kandé we turn and take a red, dusty little road… within moments we are swallowed by a red cloud… we are in the kingdom of the Tamberma.

With the help of a guide we respectfully approach one of the many villages with its elegant and superb architecture.

[Stefy]: “It is incredible that these little forts are made of earth and water and have lasted 100 years. We are welcomed by women with long-horned hats and men smoking long pipes. They scrutinise us for a long time, curious… We spend some time wandering around that timeless place. Before we leave, some men begin to play strange instruments and the women utter muffled guttural sounds while others dance sinuously…

We head to the sacred tree, an ancient baobab with a large opening big enough for us to get inside. Finding yourself in the belly of a 1000-year-old baobab is a strange sensation — it feels like being inside a cave.

In the evening we reach Sokodé; we are back in southern Togo.

The day is still long; Ibrahim Yaya, the pastor of the “Temple de la Redemption”, gives us the opportunity to attend the fire dance of the xxx tribe, and so, after dinner, we head to the outskirts of Sokodé. The village chief welcomes us, seating us on two benches. While two or three men play djembes, the whole village slowly begins to gather around us. An old man grabs a fiery stick and begins to pass it over his arm, then over his head, until he bites and chews it… He is in a trance. It is striking.

Several men take turns in this strange dance. They all enter this circle drawn on the ground and, making a sign to the sky, call upon the “spirit of fire” to invite it to fight; thus the dance begins: the graceful movements of the body, the entranced, almost absent gaze, the fire on their bodies, even on their tongues.

He begins to rummage in a basin full of broken glass, then smears it over himself before doing the same with an old sword…

Suddenly Ibrahim comes up to us and orders us to leave at once; many of those men were in a trance, excited, and the atmosphere was becoming too oppressive and dangerous for us, the circle had become more and more oppressive… it was a real, authentic, non-touristy experience… just the way we like it!

08.03.2014 Djougou (Benin)

After a long journey, passing through remote villages and a few roadblocks that manage to get nothing out of us… we see in the distance a sleepy Togolese flag; it does not flutter, perhaps it is too hot here even for it! Two soldiers listlessly carry two benches next to a desk… all of it under a wonderful mango tree, where a very diligent but also very slow policeman begins to register every single passport… his boss, in local dress, is lying on a wooden bench and now and then issues some order. Nobody passes through, apart from the occasional rare moped… we are the only ones on the register for 7 March. A glance at the yellow fever booklet and they send us to two plump, sweaty policemen… we are in Benin!

We arrive in the much-longed-for Djougou. We meet the colourful and jovial Father Brice… I expect a lot from this meeting.

Father Brice spent 3 years in Padova, speaks excellent Italian and, among other things, coordinates an orphanage near Djougou.

After a brief stop at the post office we go to visit the museum curated by Zoumarou Alassane, which prepares us for the visit to the Taneka villages. We climb up dusty red little roads… the first children with big eyes, dressed in rags and with swollen bellies… we hand out toys and soft toys… they jump around mad with joy.

We are received by one of the three Taneka kings, who gives us his blessing from an old wooden chair… then a king of another tribe, then another still. This ethnic group from another world strikes me deeply; I cannot believe that populations exist who in 2014 still live so primitively; they live in mud-and-straw huts, pound millet and have no idea what the world is like outside Copargo.

We all lose ourselves wandering among the huts, in that peace broken only by the festive shouts of the children playing with the balloons we brought.

But now it is time to go and visit Father Brice's orphanage at Tchoutchou; we are welcomed by all the children, about fifty of them, singing a welcome song… a girl, beautifully made up, welcomes us by pouring a basin of water onto the ground in front of us… water, the most precious thing for them, used to honour important guests.

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