Alcohol(ism) in Togo

The passion that Ahossou shows for his sodabi (the local moonshine) is matched only by the animosity he shows for other—less refined—spirits. On top of telling me to never drink sodabi from anywhere outside the very tight confines of our region (and God forbid I should ever sample that swamp water they sell in Benin), my work partner and close friend always finds time to remind me to never share sodabi with anyone ‘on the street’ in our village. This admittedly sounds a bit less threatening when one realizes that there isn’t really a street in my town so much as a quaint little square with a rather nice church and a rather decrepit palais royale—though the old chief’s house does take a bit of charm from the traditional mud and bamboo construction and the two widowers the size and shape of lawn gnomes (canes and fuzzy bellies to boot) who reside there. They guard over a petite marché with a few ladies selling a few vegetables and three or four boutiques, which keep in mind have maybe ten things behind the counter. One (or usually more) of those ten things, always happens to be a myriad of sodabi bottles—multiple roots, herbs, and chili peppers infused therein as medicament for all your aches and pains. The liquor itself is the distilled product of palm wine, which in itself is the sweet, milky looking liquid that is naturally fermented inside of the palm trees that litter the landscape of these parts. Though it smells like vomit, it is actually rather tasty, and not at all strong tasting. Sodabi, on the other hand, packs a hell of a punch. The appetite for sodabi in southern Togo, like that of tchouk and tchakpa (local, unfiltered millet and sorghum beer) in central and northern Togo is simply insatiable. Sodabi stands can be found in almost every other familial compound in my village, and locals will stop to take it in the morning before work—just as we do with coffeehouses—straight through lunch and into the night. Just the other day I was told by a very respectable man that he only drinks the stuff in the morning before he goes to the farm and before dinner, as if that was downright puritanical. Others have more difficulty abstaining from the beverage: glossy eyed and with debatable motor skills a chunk of the population merely stays drunk. Their often foolish banter—normally somewhat innocent, though at times borderline abusive—seems to only grow louder when I enter the scene. Maybe it’s my friendly disposition, I don’t know, but drunks seem to be drawn into conversation with me every day. I usually don’t mind, so long as they only are looking to say hello or quiz me on my local language skills. Yet at times the knowledge that I’ll be confronted by someone who sees me as the source of their next shot is enough to make me steer clear of their usual haunts—especially at night or after a festival/funeral. The sad truth, that I’ve wanted to say for quite some time, is that alcoholism is secretly stifling the hopes of small communities across this country by stealing money out of men’s pockets: money that could be used on much more productive purchases (food comes to mind.) Don’t get me wrong, the money is at some level fed back into the local economy—people here are staunch supporters of their local stills—but that reasoning only goes so far. These concerns of mine, though, are not easily raised in village. If on one side of the advocacy spectrum (we’ll call it 10) are the ladies of prohibition who took axes to barrels of beer and bottles of whisky, and the other side (we’ll call it 1) is simply saying nothing at all, I’d probably—pitifully—be about a three. I’ll bring up the topic to close work partners and I’ve been a part of discussions on the issue at more formal conferences, but trying to ‘develop’ a ‘developing’ country means picking your battles (lest you lose your mind.) This, unfortunately, is one battle that will need a lot more than a few volunteers to be won.

J