Photos: In the Kitchen

A common kitchen set-up: cooking outside on a charcoal cooker

An outdoor kitchen. One pot is propped up on rocks and a wood fire can be built underneath.  There is a cooker in front of it. There is also a charcoal cooker towards the back right. On the far right is the mortar for the mortar and pestle.

Photos: Igname Pilee, the Dish of the North

Igname pilee, mashed yams, is the classic dish of the north (in contrast to pate, the typical dish of the south). I eat igname pilee almost every day in village. The following photos show how it is made:

A Beninese yam, called igname. This one is relatively skinny because it's only as big around as my arm.

First step, skin your ignames and  cut them into chunks. Add water and boil until they are soft enough to be mashed.

The shopkeeper and her daughter mashing the igname with a wooden mortar and pestle. They pound the igname at about one hit per second, alternating mom-daughter-mom-daughter-mom-daughter.

A look at what's going on inside

The finished product. When mashed enough, African yams form a blob that is somewhat like playdough.  When the mashing is done, the igname pilee is rounded into a flat ball and placed in a dish for eating. It is always accompanied by a sauce and by meat, wagashi (the local cheese), or hard-boiled eggs. It is eaten by hand and must be consumed immediately or else it hardens.

The Sonsoro Witch Hunt

Belief in witchcraft appears to be widespread in Benin, even among the educated. I often hear locals suggest that someone might fall victim to gris-gris, or black magic. My colleague's husband, for example, has never been able to identify someone as a sorcerer, but he knows what they do. For instance, a sorcerer might transform himself into a dog and then bite you. Even at church in Dangbo, I heard a woman explain how a jealous first wife cursed the new second wife, causing the second wife to be hospitalized with an incurable illness.

Recently, I was discussing burial practices with some village friends and they were surprised to learn of the practice of cremation. Here in Sonsoro, the dead are always buried. Burning is a fate reserved for those who practice gris-gris and must be killed in order to be stopped.

A few years ago in Sonsoro, there was such a situation. A man was widely known to practice gris-gris. Cross him and you would become sick or even die. If he asked you for food and you didn't serve him for free, he would curse you. Eventually, the killings came to be too much and the community decided they must be stopped. Therefore, for the good of the community, the man was rounded up and burned.

Death has been a predominant subject of conversation lately because of some significant deaths in the community. A few days ago, a well-respected old man died. In the local tradition, the community played music, danced, and feasted to celebrate his death. Here, deaths are celebrated when the deceased lived to an old age, or at least old father/motherhood.  The locals consider that they were lucky that the person was with them for so long.

In contrast to that is the tragic death of two young men yesterday in a motorcycle accident. Around 9 pm, I heard strange, loud moaning sounds. Apparently, it was orchestrated mourning. Today, these deaths were the topic of conversation everywhere and hundreds of people participated in the funeral proceedings. The somber mood contrasted greatly with the joyful rejoicing we had a few days ago for the other death.

Photos: My Colleagues

The pharmacist and the nursing assistant

The pharmacist and her daughter, who didn't want to smile for the picture

What's in a Name?

I have realized that despite having spent more than a month in my village (including the two-week visit in August), I know the names of no one in my village except my colleagues, a few children, and the shopkeeper's husband. This is not a sign of anti-social tendencies on my part, but rather a reflection of Bariba culture.

Here in Sonsoro, people tend to be addressed by their position or by their relationships. Thus, like the rest of the village, I call the health center pharmacist Commis ('pharmacist') or Maman Farhan ('Farhan's mother'). The nursing assistant is called Dokotoro (like doctor), Sage Femme ('midwife'), or Maman Herman ('Herman's mother'). These names are used in place of first names. For example, I would say, "Commis, do you have change for 1000 CFA?" or "Give this to Maman Herman."

A few weeks ago, I asked Maman Herman to tell me the name of the shopkeeper. She didn't know, even though they have been good friends for years. Everyone here just calls the shopkeeper Maman Jeremie ('Jeremie's mother'), and her husband is Papa Jeremie. Since Jeremie is only four months old, I wonder what name Maman Jeremie used before.

When children are born, they can be given a Muslim name, a Christian name, or a name that reflects their birth order. Thus, my name, Bake ('third daughter'), is extremely common. Out of the 16 pre-natal visits we did yesterday at the health center, three or four of the women were named Bake. Even when a child has a Muslim or Christian name, he/she may be casually referred to by his/her birth order.

As for last names, I haven't figured that out yet. Husbands and wives don't have the same last names. When we fill out vaccination cards, we automatically list the father's first name as the child's last name. Perhaps that is the naming practice here, but I have not yet confirmed that.

How's Your Husband?

One of the most common questions I am asked in Sonsoro is "How's your husband?" Now, you may be inclined to say that I don't have one, but that's where you're wrong. Well, sort of.

In Bariba culture, it is a common practice to joke about a young child being your husband (or wife). Often enough, when I am out and about, someone will ask me, "Do you want a husband?" and offer me the nearest young boy. The offer is always a joke, and the boys are used to it (and probably already have several "wives" this way). The occasional child, of course, is terrified of being brought towards the batoure and runs off screaming.

It is in this manner that I have a few dozen husbands - all under the age of 12 - in Sonsoro. My husbands include my colleague's two year old, the shopkeeper's baby (she's also my colleague's "husband"), one of the newborns at the health center, and an awful lot of boys that have been brought up to me in the market or elsewhere. This morning I got another husband yet: a father offered me his eight year old whom he had brought in to the health center for treatment.

In reality, of course, polyandry is not allowed in Benin, whereas polygamy is commonly practiced. I keep wondering how it is possible to have polygamous families (sometimes with four - or more - wives) when there are roughly as many men as women. Shouldn't that mean that there are lots of men without wives if some men have claimed more than one? My colleagues insist that there are more girl babies born in Benin than boys, but I have pointed out that the birth records show the numbers are equal. If anyone has an explanation, please share.