See! A Beninese Funeral

Not sad this time, I promise. Earlier this year I was informed that the mother of the President of the welders association had just passed away at her home in Dassa, and that all the members of the group would be going to the funeral. Knowing that funerals for old folks here are a celebration rather than a mourning - not to mention a good chance to hang out with some of the artisans -- I lept at the invitation.

However, that leap didn't mean we were going any time soon. No no, funerals here require a lot of planning, and the dead don't mind waiting (what else are they going to do ?). Music, food, matching outfits and a parade all need to be mobilized before community elders can be laid to rest. Yes, I said matching outfits.

Nearly a month after the initial announcement, I received my invitation along with the opportunity to buy some of the matching fabric. Jaren was invited too, but unfortunately had scheduled another activity for that morning. That said, had she come I have no idea where we would have put her. The plan was to go and come back the same day, 'caravaning' the dozen welders down.

On the morning of the funeral I was told to wait by the side of the road by the house and wait for the group. Not 2 minutes had passed before I saw the clown car like sedan with 9 people pull up, at which point I was shoehorned in the middle of the rear bench seat on top of the pull down arm rest (increased surface area, of course). I got very lucky that sitting next to me was Pierre, VP for the commune wide artisans group, whose outsized personality is counter balanced nicely with a 5'4'', 125 pound frame.

The next two hours were a blur - a sweaty sweaty blur - as we headed south. Two stops were made, once to eat some rice (can't do anything in this country without stopping to carboload at some point), and once at another welding shop to take the arm rests off the doors in an effort to better accomodate the 6 adults sitting in the back seat. Amazingly, it worked.

On arrival, the scene was surreal with dozens of people in matching outfits sitting and talking, eating and drinking. We had a snack, then walked around the corner to see some other people and have another snack.

This basically went on for 2 hours, meandering and eating. Finally someone said it was time for the funeral, so we walked a half kilometer into a densely packed neighborhood until we got to a nondescript house with a makeshift awning built out front with banana leaves.

That's when they told me we were going to see the body. « Umm, hasn't she been dead for over a month? » I thought to myself while trying to figure out how a country to which refrigeration is a pretty new phenomenon could have developed a tradition of burying bodies after a month of waiting. Ew.

So after removing shoes and hats, Valentin and I entered a doorway to find a body thankfully shrouded, with clothing then laid over the top of the shroud. We paid our respects for a few moments and then headed back to the main festival point for another meal.

And what of all this eating. Some was good – can't go wrong here with rice, fish and sauce – and some was terrible, mainly the akassa (old pate) with leather (the often discussed local custom of eating boiled cow skin).

After a few more meals, a bit of music, the moving of some chairs to get back under the shade, and a short public group nap we piled back into the car and headed home. And that was that, one funeral attended.

Photos Below