Traveling in Benin: First Impressions From West Africa

Our first impressions of Benin came sometime after 2 a.m. in the immigration hall at Cotonou Airport — nearly 30 hours after leaving home.

As we landed in Cotonou, one of the overhead bins popped open and somebody’s suitcase came crashing down onto Mom’s leg. The flight attendants brought ice and offered a wheelchair — which, in hindsight, we absolutely should have taken. It would have gotten us through immigration in a fraction of the time. Instead, between tending to Mom and gathering ourselves after landing, we were among the last passengers heading into immigration.

The rest of our group had already moved ahead, feeding us directions via WhatsApp until they cleared immigration themselves. After that we were on our own — watching what everyone else did and hoping we were in the right line.

At one point, a man in what looked like a rough woven shirt stood in the middle of the walkway directing airport staff, completely at ease. The staff deferred to him. He was clearly somebody — I just had no idea who. Around us, meanwhile, was a swirl of different languages — French mixed with local languages we didn’t recognize, probably Fon among them. Women wore brightly patterned dresses in bold prints and colors. Other travelers wore robes, tunics, baseball caps, colorful dresses, jeans. Hairstyles ranged from intricate braids to close-cropped fades. Even completely exhausted, it was impossible not to notice how visually different everything felt from the airports we were used to moving through.

Our group had made sure the hotel shuttle driver knew we were still coming — but the first shuttle had already left for the hotel without us. Cotonou’s airport sits surprisingly close to the city center, and the shuttle ride to the Novotel only took a few minutes. At the hotel we finally got more ice for Mom’s leg. By the next morning it was sore and bruised but not especially painful — a relief for sure as this was the first day of a month long trip!

Over the next few days we got to experience Benin more fully — first for brunch, then wandering down toward the Amazon statue and the graffiti wall, a long colorful stretch of murals depicting Beninese history and culture that runs along the main boulevard near the waterfront. Later came tours and longer drives outside the city.

The heat hit first. Not dramatic movie-desert heat. Just constant humidity that wrapped around you the second you stepped outside. The kind where a one-mile walk suddenly feels ambitious. By the time we made it back to the Novotel that first afternoon, all of us were sweaty and slightly wilted.

And everywhere, there were motorbikes. Motorbikes greatly outnumber cars in Benin (roughly 4 or 5 to 1) — a constant swarm of them buzzing around cars and weaving through traffic. Many worked as taxis, their drivers identified by yellow vests in Cotonou (different colors are used in other cities). They are called zemidjan or zem for short. They are called zemidjan, or zem for short — a Fon phrase that roughly translates to “take me quickly.” There are 250,000 zemidjan in Cotonou alone!

At first we couldn’t figure out why random pedestrians were carrying motorcycle helmets while walking down the street. Then we realized the helmets belonged to people taking taxis. The law requires helmets, so passengers often carried one with them if they planned to hail a taxi.

The roads felt alive in a way that’s hard to describe if you haven’t been somewhere like that before. Not orderly exactly. But functional. Movement everywhere. People selling things between lanes of traffic. Horns. Heat. Dust. Motorbikes balancing impossible amounts of cargo.

One man drove past us with what looked like thirty dead chickens tied all around the back of his motorcycle, feathers fluttering as he disappeared into traffic.

Women carried huge bowls, baskets, and trays balanced on their heads so effortlessly that eventually we stopped staring every time someone walked past with what looked like an entire market balanced above them. Nobody moved slowly. Nobody seemed particularly bothered by the heat.

And then there were the roadside gas bottles. We didn’t notice them at first as they looked like drinks sitting out on folding tables in the sun. Old glass liquor bottles filled with bright yellow and orange liquid lined up beside the roads.

They were fuel. Our guide Didier explained that roadside gasoline sales are common in Benin — cheaper than stations, though not always the same quality. Trucks bring it in from Nigeria. Once you knew what to look for, the bottles were everywhere.

Nothing about Benin felt staged for visitors. That was probably what struck us most during those first few days. We were very obviously outsiders. But unlike in heavily touristed places, daily life didn’t seem to rearrange itself around us. We weren’t the center of anything. We were just moving through it.

I loved that.

A couple of practical notes if you’re planning a similar trip: Americans need an eVisa to enter Benin — apply in advance online before your trip.

Want more Benin? Start with Ganvie, the floating village that’s been hiding in plain sight for centuries, or head straight to Abomey and the palaces that inspired the Woman King.