Benin

	After changing the Pinzgauer’s clutch plate in Ghana we made a dash for the Ghana-Togo border on the same day. We did however pay the price for crossing this border late in the day. The leaving Ghana part was straightforward enough, but the Togo border guards were miserable as sin. The Guard issuing the visas was obnoxiously slow and obstructive. After finishing the stamping and form filling all that remained was for us to pay and have the big boss sign the passports. The little piss-ant then asked for 11,000CFA when in the passport he had given us a stamp/receipt for10,000CFA. I challenged him with this and he stuffed the unfinished passports in a drawer. As I walked away from his desk and headed towards the office of the big boss, he came after me and manhandled me out of the building. Thankfully, a portly French speaking ex-pat came to our rescue and persuaded another guard to finish our visa's for us.

In Togo we spent two nights at Chez Alice (Lome) relaxing with Campbell and Linnea. The truck was running fine with no further problems and so we moved quickly along the tiny 57km coastline towards Benin.

Grand Popo (Benin) is full of Voodoo. Granny would love it. In fact our guide was adamant that Catholicism and Voodoo were quite compatible, but somehow looking at the dumpy statues with the big willies I couldn’t quite see it.

	We took a flying boat for a tour of the mangroves and local villages, no wings, just an outboard motor instead of a stick. Our guide, Mathias was informative and efficient, and we managed to see how the locals caught crabs and shrimp. The area was littered with voodoo sites and in one town I was invited to enter. Feeling broadminded about the world but still harbouring a niggle of catholic fear, I waited nervously as the man muttered something and rang his little bell.

	At the apparent ‘all clear’ signal he beckoned me inside the temple, but as I stepped over the threshold he started waving and babbling excitedly and pointing at my shoes. I backed up and removed them, and was relieved that no real harm had been done and no chickens died as a result of my ignorance.

	Further up the river and we were treated to a demonstration of the most long-winded way of making salt in history. Salty sand from several kilometres up-stream is punted to the village and mixed with several gallons of bore hole water punted from many kilometres down stream and then filtered through large mud lined baskets. The resultant supersaturate is then boiled dry in a thatched hut by super-sweating women.

	The trip was really worthwhile and I even had a chance to try net fishing local fashion, but all I caught was a tiny flatty, and I didn’t tread on it.