Vodun. Timothy R. Landry
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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.
For Thomas this was the cost of entry into one of Vodún’s most protected secrets. This cost was not unusual for foreigners. During my time in Bénin I watched Americans, Europeans, and Brazilians pay as little as 1,500 USD and as much as 3,000 USD for the same rituals Luiz was in discussion to receive. Local people often paid half these prices—but not always. Many Béninois explained to me that Gbădù was particularly expensive because of her immense power and because of her ability to make new diviners. Her required presence during Fá initiations made her a valuable international religious commodity.
Sensing Luiz’s worry, Thomas leaned into him and whispered, “Don’t worry. It’s not expensive. You realize that with Gbădù you can make the money back after a few initiations? Vodún Gbădù will bless you.”
“But I need to learn how to make Gbădù. Is there anything I can do to convince you to teach me?” Luiz begged, desperate to learn Gbădù’s secrets.
“No, maybe next time you come—but not this time. She’s dangerous. I need to trust you before giving you that much power. I need to know what you’re going to do with it.”
In a moment of desperation, Luiz retorted, “But how will I know that you didn’t put cocaine in the shrine? I need to watch you make the shrine for my own protection.”
Thomas shrugged and said, “There’s nothing in Gbădù that will get you into trouble.”
From Luiz’s encounter one can see how spiritual tourists might attempt to gain access to Vodún’s secrets. Luiz’s case was quite representative of the dozens of interactions I experienced. The vast majority of the spiritual tourists I met made their entrée into Vodún through a diviner. During these encounters Béninois practitioners often delicately provide information to foreign spiritual seekers while simultaneously holding back religious secrets that they intend to reveal at a later date or guard indefinitely for their own families. Conversely, foreign spiritual seekers such as Luiz, motivated by their own anxieties, often tap into racist fears of Africa. In Luiz’s case, he begged Thomas in a moment of desperation for permission to watch him construct Gbădù because he worried Thomas might add illegal drugs into the vodún during the shrine’s construction. Having postcolonial, racist imaginings of a corrupt illicit Africa, many tourists I met expressed fears that Africans might construct shrines using marijuana, illegal animal parts (e.g., leopard hides or elephant ivory), or, in one case, even human remains.
Despite the challenges that these exchanges bring, an amicable conclusion in which Béninois teach some religious secrets to a foreign spiritual seeker while retaining others is almost always achieved. For Luiz, he was able to come up with the money for his initiation after a few weeks. He finally conceded that Gbădù would bless him and that he would be able to make his money back once he could do initiations on his own when he had returned to Brazil. Though he never learned how to make Gbădù, he received the shrine, and, despite his objections to being kept from viewing the shrine’s construction, he and Gbădù made it to Brazil safely.
When one combines Bénin’s colonial history with an influx of tourists seeking to learn and participate in a worldview that many Béninois feel is the last secret that they have as their own, it is no surprise that Béninois are cautious about whom they can trust and at what cost. These costs are, in some cases, reduced after a certain amount of time, but in other cases they may require tourists, who are for the most part inseparably members of the “Western world,” to lubricate the social frictions generated by secrecy. Heightened by a long history of colonial and postcolonial interactions, other gestures are often economic in nature and beyond a simple