during the transatlantic slave trade.3 However, for a minority of other tourists scripted activities are not enough. These tourists commonly speak of “adventure” or “going off the beaten path,” a desire to experience “the real Bénin” or, for many, “real Voodoo.” For them, it becomes important to capture a special photo of restricted or secret Vodún ceremonies, temples, or people that would lend “authenticity” to their “African adventure” or to their “frightening brush with Voodoo.” Some of these “adventure tourists,” as they often call themselves, seek out diviners to learn of their futures or to understand more clearly their pasts (e.g., Rosenthal 1998: 168–69; Clarke 2004: 239–56; Forte 2007: 134–36); some even strive to become initiated into one or more of the Vodún cults found in southern Bénin. As indigenous religions and international travel intersect in Bénin, a constellation of local and global forces has begun to push Vodún practices along several dimensions at once, impelling local and foreign peoples to collide. To chronicle these changes, in this chapter, I explore the ways in which tourism develops simultaneously alongside Vodún in Bénin. In this way, I deprovincialize religions such as Vodún that are frequently seen as being restricted to their locale and that play a decidedly “other” role in most Westerners’ imaginations. To illustrate the transnational practice of Vodún, I focus both on the politics of travel, attending especially to international visitors who wish to become initiated or use the “secret powers of Vodún” to gain control of their lives, and on how these themes contribute to Vodún’s transnational flow.
Understanding the Local Political Economy of Vodún
Spiritual tourists complain regularly about the cost of ceremonies, initiations, and even religious paraphernalia such as beads, special bird feathers, and other supplies needed to construct shrines for the spirits (see Landry 2016). Coupling the rising costs associated with livestock and other ritual supplies with a long-established precedent within Vodún linking money and religion (cf. Ogundiran 2002), spiritual undertakings such as initiations can be costly. Tourists may pay more than locals for the privilege of initiation, but local practitioners also pay relatively large sums of money to seek advice from diviners, to become priests, and even to placate—or thank—the spirits. Sometimes the financial expenditure is great—even for Béninois practitioners. Over a period of six months, Marie paid over 4.5 million CFA for her initiation ceremonies, her priestly regalia (such as expensive beads and prayer instruments), and the construction of a small temple attached to her house devoted to Tron, her new vodún.4 While Marie’s expenses were exorbitant, there exists an established and vibrant local spiritual economy whereby the costs associated with Vodún vary from paying only 100 CFA to receive divination to the high costs paid by Marie. However, most local costs fall between these two extremes and often come with a promise from the spirits that any money spent on Vodún will be returned exponentially. Even with spiritual promises of return, the day-to-day expenditure on Vodún can be daunting for many local residents. Working with Jean, I observed more than a dozen of his divination clients each pay in excess of 50,000 CFA for small ceremonies or sacrifices prescribed by Fá to regulate a given problem or issue. In addition, I watched five of Jean’s Béninois clients each pay more than 250,000 CFA for beginning-level initiations, and in one case a local man from Cotonou paid Jean 1 million CFA to receive the powerful and dangerous vodún known as Gbǎdù.5
In a country in which the average per capita income is around 1,500 USD (in 2011 dollars), most people cannot afford to initiate. Nevertheless, many people engage in Vodún’s religious economy in smaller ways. When praying at a shrine, it is customary to leave a small amount of money (usually 50–100 CFA) for the spirits. During ceremonies, people will often press money on the foreheads of good dancers and drummers to show their appreciation for their contribution to the ceremony.6 The amount given in this situation varies from 50 CFA to 10,000 CFA, depending on the giver’s actual—or perceived—wealth. When the community perceived individuals to be rich, they would often give more than they could comfortably afford to avoid being shamed.
While some Vodún priests have other ways of making money, the vast majority of the priests and priestesses I met took care of their families from the proceeds they made from serving the community as religious specialists. In the case of Jean, he had clients who came to him from all over southern Bénin and Togo. A day rarely passed when Jean did not perform divination, ceremony, or ritual for either a client, a member of his family, or a resident of Fátòmɛ̀. His proficiency in Fá divination attracted people regularly and helped him to develop a solid reputation as one of the best diviners in the area, and he was one of the few who could accurately construct Gbǎdù, the female vodún who is believed to be the source of Fá’s power. Jean’s reputation even reached into Cotonou (an hour’s drive from Ouidah) and found its way into the lives of foreigners living in Bénin who needed a diviner’s assistance.
During my time in Fátòmɛ̀, Jean was visited by half a dozen foreign clients (French, American, and Brazilian) seeking his help—which ranged from a simple consultation to complex requests for initiation into Fá or other spirits found at Fátòmɛ̀. With a steady stream of both local and international clients, Jean made a good living. His wealth allowed him to build a massive two-story cement home, provide additional homes for his four wives, keep his adolescent children in school, and support his community in times of crisis. Aside from being an important diviner in the community, Jean also filled the role of the family’s vǐgán, (literally, “the chief of the children”).7 As the vǐgán, Jean served as a liaison between the members of his family, the family head, and his father, the village chief (togán)8 In this capacity, he resolved disputes between villagers, and he decided when the village’s elders needed to become involved. Jean’s political power, along with his spiritual obligations and ritual skill, came with a great deal of responsibility and communal pressure.
The community benefited greatly from Jean’s success, as he frequently agreed to initiate young men in the village in exchange for work—often paying the cost of these ceremonies out of his own pocket. With a steady influx of clients, meat from the sacrifices he performed on a daily basis was always available, and Jean shared this meat with his community. Keeping in mind the taboos that keep women from consuming the meat of animals sacrificed to Gbǎdù, or men from consuming the meat of animals sacrificed to a diviner’s sacred staff of office (fásɛ́n), Jean made every effort to distribute meat evenly and fairly to the three major lineages who lived in Fátòmɛ̀.
From paying for ceremonies with money or labor to paying for divination, leaving money at shrines to pray, and even giving exceptional dancers, singers, and drummers money in appreciation for their work and their acɛ̀, money is clearly an important component of Vodún. Whether in the form of contemporary currency or as cowrie shells, money is a dominant symbol found in almost all Vodún ceremonies and rituals—as it is among many other religious systems across West Africa (e.g., M. Johnson 1970a, 1970b; Bascom 1980; Gottlieb 1995; Gregory 1996; Saul 2008). In many ways, the use of money in Vodún indexes the client’s power and spiritual success. Prayers to the vodún almost always include requests for financial wealth—and therefore the accumulation of wealth and the public display of one’s wealth during ceremony and ritual. Whether it is in the clothes and beads a priest wears or in his or her ability to give larger sums of money to the dancers, singers, and drummers, money serves as evidence of one’s spiritual power and favor with the spirits—and, by extension, of one’s power as a priest.
With the dominance of vodún such as Dàn (the serpent spirit of riches), Mamíwátá (the mermaid spirit of abundance), and Yalóɖè (the Yorùbá river spirit of material wealth), it is easy to see a cultural preoccupation with money and its accumulation. Indeed, money has become an important symbol of spiritual prowess and evidence of favor from the spirits, marking the rich as spiritually connected and the poor as spiritually incapable.
While money dominates the symbolic repertoire for Fon and Yorùbá peoples, many tourists come to Bénin and Nigeria unaware of these important cultural structures and symbolic forces. A tourist’s lack of awareness of the symbolic
