This
isn’t the first time I’ve written about Famadihana, the Malagasy tradition of
exhumation, but it will likely be the last because, well, tis the season but
once a year. The season usually
coincides with the winter months here in Madagascar, roughly July until late
October or early November. Outside of this
relatively temperate bracket the weather can become wretchedly hot and
rainy. Not ideal conditions to be
pulling mummified bodies from their tombs and exposing them to the
elements. Because Malagasy people are
particularly hospitable I was invited to a slew of Famadihanas last year only a
few short months after arriving at site.
It was an eye-opening experience but unfortunately I was about as green
as they come at that point and my Malagasy was nowhere near good enough to feel
like anything more than an audience member in some bizarre cultural theatre.
This
time around I can talk. Over a year and
a half into my service here I’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the language,
enough so that I can wedge myself into a social event and hold my own as a part
of it. In fact, during this round of
Famadihanas I had the chance to tag along and work at one with a buddy of mine,
Ras, who is a mpampandihy here in Arivonimamo, which translates to ‘someone who
makes people dance,’ or, I suppose, a DJ.
Ras had
been hired to work two different Famadihanas, over a 4 day period from August
11th until the 14th.
I was invited to work them with him and his partner Zo but had to miss
the first day of festivities because I was once again with my good friend from
out East, James and his partner in crime, Tahiry. The two of them had been planning to visit
some of Tahiry’s family in the capital so figuring they’d already have to come pretty far West I made a plea for
them to keep on the same trajectory for another hour and come spend some time
in Arivonimamo. They agreed and Monday,
August 12th James, Tahiry and I set out towards the town of Fonenana
to catch the second day of celebrations and give James his first glimpse of
this uniquely Malagasy custom.
The
first day of any Famadihana consists mostly of preparations, the erecting of
the tents, slaughtering of pigs, the arrival of the guests and what not. By the time the darkness is setting on the
first night much of the groundwork has been laid and people are ready to party. By the time James, Tahiry and I arrived on
the second day most of the people had been dancing and drinking non-stop
throughout the night. That, or they had
managed to eke out a few hours of shut eye crammed onto straw filled mattresses
or grass mats in dark corners of the mud house that served as the backstop of
the Famadihana yard party. Ras ushered
us past bleary eyed merry-makers and crops of children clustered throughout the
yard and up a rickety wooden staircase to a small balcony that housed the
speakers through which he was running his mpampandihy operation.
From up
on high we could see Famadihana proceedings straddling the national road on one
end, where people were congregating to get a look at the two vazah (foreigners)
who had just arrived, and the red-earth house we were standing in. Down in the yard there were the two dining
areas off to the right, built from large branches or planks of wood stuck into
the ground and encircled by colorful plastic sheeting. Inside people were being
brought heaping portions of ‘vary be menaka’ which literally means, ‘rice with
a lot of oil.’ What it is, is a Malagasy
specialty, especially in the highlands, served at most noteworthy cultural
events. Because of that you might think
it would be a big elaborate dish.
Unfortunately it is exactly what it translates to. Guests are given a generous portion of rice
while family members work the crowd with buckets and ladles, distributing
chunks of pig fat soaked in oil. The
taste isn’t all that bad, but trust me, too much of vary be menaka will wreak
havoc on a vazah digestive track. Outside
of the food tents there was an open space in the yard with ‘hira gasy’
musicians (traditional Malagasy music), arranged in a semicircle in the wings
and people congregated in the center, dancing to the alternating currents of
Ras’s music and hira gasy.
Once
we’d gotten the lay of the land, Ras and Zo decided to lead James and I back
down to the yard, to the outskirts of the party near the little tables stocked
with booze. ‘Up here,’ Ras suggested as
he climbed into the back of an un-yoked Zebu cart that was pitched forward in a
resting position. We clambered into the back of the slanting cart that was
close enough to the beer stand that we could reach down and grab ourselves a
round. Ras, Zo and Tahiry, along with a
few other Malagasy men that had gathered cracked the caps off the beers with
the teeth and handed them around to us.
Now that we were settled we got to talking about the Famadihana a
bit. Knowing it was James’s first time
around everyone wanted to pitch in their thoughts on what Famadihana means to
Madagascar and Malagasy people.
‘There
are a couple of important reasons for Famadihana that you’re going to want to
remember,’ Ras began.
James
and I have both spent plenty of time hearing and reading about Famadihana and
I’d been to my fair share so I was interested to hear his take.
‘First,
you’re paying homage to those who have come before you, paying respect to the
ancestors, or the ‘razana,’ he said. So
far that was something I knew, it was pretty much what I expected him to
say.
‘Second,
it brings all of your family together, which is a lot of people in your average
Malagasy family. It’s a kind of reunion
where you can catch up with those you haven’t seen in ages and celebrate the
love of your family.’ That was also
something that sounded in line with what I’d learned but it struck me as a
little sentimental coming from him.
‘And
third,’ he explained, with a coy smile spreading across his face as if he’d
saved the best for last. ‘Thirdly, it’s a way for you to remember who exactly is in your family so you don’t
accidentally date your sister.’
I can’t
say the guy doesn’t have a sense of humor.
Like I’ve said before Malagasy families are enormous so maybe he has a
point.
After
James and I danced in the yard for some time to the hira gasy, intoning over
and over again the repetitive yet somehow hypnotic melody, we were called out
into the road for a photo shoot. James
and I had both brought our cameras along for the event, and since cameras don’t
come around often for most Malagasy communities, and vazah come even less
frequently, the entire community decided that it was imperative we take
advantage of the situation. For about 45
minutes James and I were shuffled around between different configurations of
friends and family while Ras and Zo used our cameras to snap photos. We staged dancing photos, were handed babies,
and were the center-pieces in umpteen family portraits until it became time to
make the journey to the tomb.
At this
point we were beginning to burn out of being the focal point and quite
literally beginning to burn from the hours spent dancing in the sun. As is quite usual here, the moment fatigue
starts to set in is quite often the moment I’m thrust into the spot-light. Right before the parade to the tombs began I
was handed a t-shirt to put on. It was the
same one being worn by many of the family members who had organized the
Famadihana. It claimed that I was a
descendent of a pair of brothers whom we were on our way to exhume, and I
considered it quite an honor to have been included with the family. I was given the t-shirt discretely by one of
the family members and once the others saw it on me it set off a ripple of
excitement through the ranks of the family.
I could tell from some of the furtive glances cast my way by some of the
young drunk guys that one of their comrades had worked himself into a self-righteous
drunken pout because a vazah was wearing one of the family shirts so I
insulated myself with the majority of the family who had given it to me and
were coaching me along. I vowed to keep
a low profile and a wary eye on some of the drunk guys.
James
and I floated along the edges of the march up to the tomb and slowly made our
way towards the front of the cavalcade so that we could get some pictures of
the flag bearer who was leading the procession.
At the head of the march, followed by a herd of hira gasy musicians and
throngs of Famadihana goers, there is always one Malagasy man with the Malagasy
flag strung up on a thin bamboo stalk and he leads the group of family and
friends on the march to the tomb. Upon
seeing me taking pictures in my newly acquired Malagasy shirt, one of the
family members had the idea to pass the flag off to me. I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to lead
a Famadihana but I was also wary of upsetting any cultural norms which might
cross the delicate line I was already toeing with one of the hammered
cousins. In the end I decided to take
hold of the flag and led the Famadihana across the grassy plain towards the tombs
for about 15 yards until I was able to pass the flag back to its rightful
owner.
Once we
arrived at the outcropping of tombs the throngs of people gathered in a circle
around the short, squat, cube shaped tombs, on top of which stood all the
important male figures of the community.
A number of speeches were made in succession, extolling the virtues of
Famadihana and joyousness of the occasion.
All the while, groups of young men removed large slabs of stone from the
tomb’s entrances, sliding them off to one side to reveal a musty, cavernous
darkness below.
James
and I had positioned ourselves near the entrance to one of the tombs with the
hope of catching a glimpse inside. A
group of young men had already descended into one of the tombs and was emerging
with the first ‘faty’ or dead body. One
of the older men from across the entrance noticed our fascination and asked
emphatically, ‘would you like to go inside?’
We were
dumb-founded; I was under the impression that it wasn’t proper practice to let
just anyone tour the inside of a tomb, a most sacred places in a culture that
holds its ancestors in the highest regard.
Still, I looked at James, who gave me a look of, ‘well if you’re game,
then I am,’ and we both quickly agreed.
He pulled the two of us around to the front entrance and showed us down
a small set of stone steps that led down into the tomb.
Inside
the ceiling was just tall enough for James and I to stand up, having ducked
through the small stone doorway to enter in.
The chamber had a dank, musty smell and the air felt warm with the
faint, stale humidity of air that had ventilated through and around death for
years. We stood in the center of the
cavity which was ringed by three levels of carved stone shelving on each wall
and on the far side across from the doorway.
Our new friend explained that the most recent bodies are put into the
tombs on the lower shelves and the ‘faty’ slowly graduate upwards the longer
they’ve been in the tomb. Having seen
the tomb James and I quickly excused ourselves, not wanting to overstay our
welcome, and rejoined the crowd of Malagasy people dancing with already
extracted bodies.
As
things began to wind down, James came over to me and said that he and Tahiry
would have to take off so that they could make it back to the capital before
dark. At that point I was worn out and
happy for an excuse to take off. Not to
mention that the young drunk guy who had previously been giving me the evil eye
had seemed to have settled himself and I wanted to take off before my luck
changed. The matriarch of the family
also appeared to be looking for an excuse to take a little break and walked Zo,
Ras, Tahiry, James and myself back to the main road so we could pack up our DJ
equipment and send our two friends to Tana.
I said
goodbye to James and Tahiry and parked myself on the opposite side of the road
with Ras, Zo and all of our equipment to wait for a taxi brousse (the local bus
transport) to take us back towards Arivonimamo.
All of the sudden I hear a chorus of voices shouting from behind the
main house, on the pathway that led from the tomb. A hoard of men and women, all wearing my same
Malagasy shirt that says we’re all from the same family come storming out from
behind the house and at the center of the throng I saw a young woman balling
her eyes out, held up by another young woman and a young man. On the edges of the fray there were two young
guys, veins bulging from their necks in anger and eyes the same blood-shot,
cloudy hue that happens only when someone’s far gone on ‘taoka’ or Malagasy
moonshine. The whole family was
screaming and failing their arms while some of the women cried hysterically and
young drunk men circled the yard provoking each other.
I
quickly pulled a sweatshirt I had brought over the top of my family t-shirt at
which point one of the older Malagasy men saw me and tried to explain the
situation to me. Unfortunately he was as
lost in the haze of moonshine as the young men and couldn’t exactly piece
together what he was trying to explain away.
He gripped my hand tightly and with eyes bulging from his head implored
me to understand how sad it made him to see what was happening to the
family. How much it hurt his heart to
see these young men acting this way. I assured him that I understood and he
stumbled back in to mediate the dispute/provoke the young men. I wanted to fade as much into the shadows as
possible so I asked Ras to figure out what was going on. ‘Apparently that
girl’s husband said a swear word which upset her and then her brother got upset
with the husband,’ Ras explained.
Wait?
That’s it? This woman was wailing as if
she’d just lost her first born child and the half the men at the Famadihana
were strutting around like they might slit each other’s throat. ‘Yea, that’s it, I guess,’ Ras said and shook
his head.
The fight
began to cross the street and the pack of angry men swung in front of me and
veered off to the right. For a moment I
thought it had calmed down and then out of nowhere one young guy bolted across
the street and head-butted another so hard that it knocked him off his feet and
sent him sailing into a ditch 5 yards to my right.
At this
point I didn’t care to fade into the shadows anymore and just wanted to get
back to Arivonimamo so Ras, Zo and I flagged the next brousse we could find,
quickly threw our gear on top and hitched a ride back home.
On the
way back the three of us re-hashed the situation. Zo and Ras were both having a pretty good
laugh at how out of control all the
drunkards had gotten but both of them were a little unsettled by how dark
things had turned. Of Ras’s three reasons
for Famadihana, I could see he was definitely right about how important
Famadihanas are for honoring the ancestors.
It also made sense that it would probably keep you from dating your
sister. At least helps you remember who exactly makes up that gigantic Malagasy
family of yours. As for strengthening
the love within a family? I wasn’t
entirely convinced. Or maybe the take
home message is that taoka gasy is a fierce drug not to be trifled with. Either way, been there, done that, got the
t-shirt.
Until
next time,
Veloma.
