tourists are often left feeling exploited, while locals are often convinced that international spiritual seekers are trying to coerce them into revealing their cultural secrets for a pittance.
Tourist and Local Imaginings of the Other
These feelings of exploitation—felt, ironically, by both tourists and locals—are a result of a long colonial history that is deeply intertwined with contemporary manifestations of racism, power, privilege (Rodney 1981), and processes of “othering” (Bond 2006). On the one hand, spiritual tourists feel as though they are being exploited financially because they often sense that they are required to pay more than what a local resident might expect to pay for the same ceremony. On the other hand, local residents feel Western tourists are trying to gain access to secret religious powers for little to no money so that they can then return home to sell the information to others and become even richer.
One evening, while talking with Jean and his family, a young Béninois man in his twenties told me, “We can’t teach everything to white people. We can’t give them all our secrets. If we do, they will take those secrets and fight us with them.” Echoing a similar sentiment, another young Béninois man in his late twenties told me, “We can’t just initiate any white person. We have to be selective. White people are smart. They are always thinking about how to do things better. Black people only think about how to make quick money. But white people like to improve on things to make money. If we give them Vodún, they will make Vodún better and take our culture away.”
Both of these troubling statements illustrate the devastating power that colonial regimes have had on personhood and consciousness in southern Bénin, and how spiritual tourism has the potential to develop into a form of neocolonialism. Local fears that “white people” will improve on Vodún, or that “white people” may take Vodún’s secrets and turn them against Vodún’s historical custodians, are felt by many Béninois. Indeed, many of my informants spoke of Vodún as their “last real weapon” that they could use to fight off a “foreign invasion.” Sadly, many local people imagine foreign visitors to be smarter, richer, and more focused on the future.
Opposed to these views are tourists’ impressions that access to Vodún should be “given to anyone who seeks it.” While some priests, such as Daágbó, reinforce this notion by arguing that “Vodún is for the world,” tourists often come to this realization on their own without local promptings. Many tourists I spoke with argued that “Vodún is a religion, not a culture,” or that “Vodún, like Christianity, is a religion for the world and should be accessible to anyone who seeks to learn.” I never met a Béninois priest who denied Vodún’s international presence or value. However, many tourists I encountered neglected to appreciate the cultural system to which Vodún belongs; it often seemed that they were trying to pry Vodún from the cultural hands of Béninois in order to propel it into the global and international arena for anyone to practice, learn, and even transform. These politics have made access to Vodún a significant point of contention between Béninois Vodúnisants and foreign spiritual seekers, where access to restricted religious knowledge is often discussed vigorously.
In Bénin, individuals most commonly negotiate access to Vodún while in consultation with a diviner. In these moments, potential initiates are informed of the rituals they may or may not undergo and are provided with general advice as they take their first steps into Vodún. One such man was Luiz, a forty-three-year-old Brazilian man, who in 1990 was first initiated into Candomblé, an Afro-Brazilian religion with roots in the West African forest. During this trip to Bénin, Luiz hoped to become a diviner. His encounter with a Fá diviner typifies many pre-initiation discussions. While consulting Fá, the oracular spirit of knowledge, Luiz and Thomas, a well-known Fá diviner in Ouidah, negotiated the cost of initiation and access to cherished religious secrecy. When I asked Luiz why he chose to come to Bénin, he said, “I came to Bénin to experience Candomblé’s source. The Ketu [Yorùbá] spirits are important to us. This is where they come from.” Like most of the Brazilian spiritual tourists I encountered, Luiz emphasized those spirits in Candomblé that belong to the Nagô-Jeje nação (nation). These spirits, which are characterized by a historical connection to Yorùbá (Nagô) or Gbe (Jeje) cults, can still be found thriving in Bénin today (P. Johnson 2002).
Seeking to revitalize existing relationships with his spirits and possibly bring new spirits back to his family in Brazil, Luiz asked Marie to help him to find a respected diviner. Within a few days Marie had arranged for Luiz to meet with Thomas, a diviner and priest of Sakpatá (the vodún of the earth and of smallpox) who lived in Ouidah.9 Within a few days of making the arrangements, Luiz, Marie, and I made our way to Thomas’s house. Luiz was filled with anticipation.
“I hope he gives me good news. I really want to become a diviner. I want to bring Odù [Gbǎdù] back to Brazil with me. Do you think he can do all of this? Do you think he can help me?”
“We will see,” Marie offered quietly.
“Kɔkɔkɔ!” We announced ourselves as we walked into his compound.
“Kúabɔ̀! Welcome! Come in. Wait outside on the bench,” a disembodied voice shouted from inside one of the four temple structures. After ten minutes, Thomas emerged from the temple and greeted us customarily with a bottle of soɖabì (a strong, locally distilled palm liquor).
“You’re here to consult Fá?” Thomas asked, looking at Luiz.
I had met Thomas before. He looked to be in his late thirties and was respected for his proficiency with Fá divination and known as someone who could successfully fight witchcraft. Some even suggested the reason Thomas could fight witchcraft and divine so well is because he himself is a witch (azètɔ́).
Luiz answered, “Yes. I came to Bénin to receive Fá, and I want to know how to begin.” Thomas opened a small cloth bag and pulled from this bag a divining chain (akplɛkàn) and a few divination indicators (vode) that are used to ask Fá direct questions.10 Sitting on a straw mat with his back against a wall, Thomas poured a small amount of water onto the mat and began singing praise songs to Fá, welcoming the purveyor of all knowledge into our space. After a few moments, Thomas tossed his divining chain onto the mat to reveal Fá’s message for Luiz.
“Letè-Meji!” Thomas announced. “You’re right. Fá says you must become a diviner.”
“Can you do that for me? Can I also receive make Gbădù? Can I learn how to make Gbădù?” Luiz inquired in quick succession. make Gbădù was one of the most secretive and most restrictive and dangerous spirits in Vodún. Many Béninois fear make Gbădù for her association with Mĭnɔna (the primordial mothers) and witchcraft. Though exceedingly dangerous without proper initiation, make Gbădù’s worship promises unbridled protection from any number of occult and mundane forces. But Luiz, and almost every spiritual seeker like him, did not want to receive make Gbădù for her ability to protect. Luiz needed make Gbădù because her help is required to make new diviners. If Luiz ever wanted to initiate others authentically into Fá, he needed make Gbădù in his home.
“Yeah, I can make make Gbădù for you,” Thomas responded. “But I can’t show you how to make make Gbădù. Not yet.”
“Well, how much will the initiation cost me?” Luiz anxiously inquired.
“One million CFA,” Thomas responded quickly as if he were anticipating the question.
Luiz’s demeanor changed. He instantly went from exuding excitement and enthusiasm to being obviously melancholy and worried.
“How will I find 2,000 dollars?” Luiz asked me in English.
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