Bonsoir Yovo
I finished reading James Baldwin’s Another Country this past week, a deliciously disturbing novel that delves into the ideas of race and identity. I found it especially interesting considering my own current minority status. Although as another volunteer pointed out, we’re more than simple minorities – we’re oddities, the other personified.
Toddlers see me as either a petting zoo or some new monster hiding beneath their mosquito net, alternately mobbing me or scattering for the safety behind their mother’s legs. (Yes dear brother feel free to insert an insult here – young children often literally run screaming at the sight of me). For everyone else, I’m condensed into this idea of wealth and visa access. I stick out wherever I go and am constantly accompanied by yelled greetings along the way: “Yovo! Yovo! Bonjsoir (White Person! Hello!).”
Usually, the exuberance amuses me, and I chose to view it as a benefit of a consistent welcome. Or at least a French language lesson for the munchkins. My foreign status also provides me with an easy excuse for any and all of my idiosyncrasies, explaining everything from my lack of children and husband to my cooking habits (according to my neighbors I don’t use enough piment or mayonnaise). Likewise, I’m included in things as my friends and neighbors do their best to expose me to aspects of Beninese culture (possibly to help me overcome my American quirks and become more Beninese).
This past Saturday, my cultural exposure included a Muslim funeral and performing egungun. Please google the term to see images – not knowing what I was getting myself into (and expecting a normal fete), I forgot to bring my camera with me on the adventure. The best way I can describe it is dancing carpets – people costumed from head to toe in layered and bejeweled works of art and spinning around to the beat of the drum. Each figure comes with its own handlers equipped with whips or sticks- in part to guide the “mascot”, in part to keep it from touching other people. If I understood correctly, touching the figure, or even just its clothing, results in instant death – hence the keepers and general chases across the mosque yard as the egungun charged groups of young men. (Again thanks to my foreign status I was safe in my prime seat in the second row – close enough to see but far enough away from the general mayhem to enjoy the spectacle).
Since that night, I’ve learned that egungun represent ancestors, making the whole death risk make at least a little bit more sense. The differences in severity in these traditions, though, continue to baffle and amuse me. Egungun and their similar Zangbetos (guardians of the night who are like the egungun albeit dressed as haystacks as opposed to carpeted creatures) seem to be family friendly, ready for festivals and parties alike. Yet, there are aspects of voodoo that remain sacred and deadly serious. And fun fact – voodoo originated in Benin, specifically the southern part of the country. Just another perk to being a southern belle.
Truthfully though, and returning from my cultural tangent, I am blessed with the people around me. Explanations might not always be as forthcoming as I would like (hence the lack of accompanying photos for this post) and anonymity may remain unreachable, but everyone looks out for me regardless. I may still be a yovo, but they’ve taken it upon themselves to include me as part of their family and as part of the community. For that, I’m willing to smile and “Bonsoir” any yovo call that comes my way.
