Si seulement je pouvais disparaître sous terre

Dear visitors

You will certainly appreciate the big effort I made to overcome my Oblomovczinska in order to present to you some photos from the subterranean village. The museum was already closed, but a very friendly guardian let us crawl through the fence and take photos from the main exhibition hall. Still, you may excuse the quality of the pictures, my little camera sometimes just isn’t strong enough.

The museum from outside

The staircase

Sleeping and storage chamber

Entrance to one of the sleeping chambers

The following pictures hopefully give you an impression of everyday life in Bohicon.

Big market


Main road in Bohicon

Leftover of the former (before 1989) State of Workers and Farmers

Mrs. Clotilde Abouta in front of her atelier. Consumers here rely very much on artisans for their everyday products, be it furniture, doors and other parts of the house, clothes etc. If you need a new dress, you buy a piece of cloth (the colourful cotton prints from the Netherlands, if you can afford it, or else the less expensive counterfeits from China. For comparison, stroll through your local quarter of African immigrants) and have it tailor made. Tailors are specialized for women’s clothes, traditional men’s clothes, European men’s clothes, and stitching. I have not yet found an atelier where those dramatic African women’s hats are produced.

Mrs. Abouta’s atelier

The dress she made for me

The date of final high school exams is approaching. This is a big event here implicating the whole extended family. Two candidates are preparing together for the exam.

The following day we left for Natitingou, a pleasant little town in the high north, where we arrived late in the evening.

A rock in the central province Collines. Note the birds' nests in the palmtree.

Another rock in the Collines province.

Many days have passed since then, with bad internet connections, lost texts, and virus infections. I have been in Natitingou for several days now, so I can give a due impression of this town.
Natitingou is situated in the rolling hills of the Atacora province. It has become a very touristic place, as it is the main starting point for excursions into the Pendjari national park. Of course, this has had repercussions on the living costs. Everything is almost twice as expensive as in Cotonou – people say this is at least partly due to the tourists who do not negotiate the prices.
Anyway, everything is more expensive for whites.
Agriculture is small scale, as usually, yams, mangoes, maize, karité nuts. There is one swimming pool in town, situated in the most expensive hotel and rather minuscule. Enough to learn swimming though.
This is where I got stuck without money last year, as the guidebook had said there was a money machine up here, and indeed there was, only it did not take my visa card. Apparently they have adapted to the touristic needs now, and you can now yet money against a visa card. Well, there are worse places to get stuck.

The Mosquée du Centre, marking the town center, as the name says

Another Natitingou downtown street

The chef in his kitchen

I had a little birthday celebration the day before yesterday. Big thank you to the friends for their cooking, passing by, presents and tremendous hospitality.

Patricia and me

Christian and me

Gislain and Vasco

Barnard, Ahmed and Christian