Lomé

Lomé is the capital that begins at a border post: the city's western streets run straight into Ghana, and its palm-lined beach boulevard runs the whole seafront like a promise the town keeps daily. Its great institution is commercial and matriarchal — the Nana Benz, the wax-cloth queens of the Grand Marché, who ran West Africa's textile trade so profitably that the Mercedes they favored gave them their name. Their granddaughters still set the prices.

The sensible traveller works the Grand Marché's three floors with unhurried eyes — the wax prints are the country's autobiography in fabric —; rides a zemidjan moto-taxi at least once, briefly and gripping; walks the beach boulevard at dusk when the grills light and the sea breeze does the air conditioning; and approaches the vodun heritage with the respect owed a living faith: the fetish market with a serious guide or not at all, and Togoville across the lagoon, where the religion keeps its oldest house.

The Guide's honesty: vodun here is religion, not theater — some of the fetish market is genuine practice and some is staged for cameras: a good guide tells them apart, and your conduct should assume the former —; the zems are everywhere and helmets are not: short rides, slow drivers, or a car; CFA cash in small notes; and the ocean's currents are strong — the boulevard is for walking and grilling more than swimming.