A Chicken and a Dead Pig

A Chicken and a Dead Pig
Just when I think my life cannot get any stranger, I ride to town with a dead pig and a chicken. Thank goodness, I had a good night sleep to deal with it.
I went to bed the night before exhausted from the day and after turning off my Kindle and my new reading lamp, I heard a mouse in the kitchen. Oh dread, another mouse. I am sure it was one of the many girlfriends and offspring Mr. Mouse left behind. I laid there listening to the sound of it scurrying about and started to get worked up about the mouse and all the other things I am living with in Madagascar. My exhaustion got the best of me and I decided I had just about enough of no electricity, hauling water, emptying chamber pots, the dirt, poverty, outhouses and now another mouse, it was the last straw. I said out loud, to no one “If that mouse dares to take a step near my bed I am leaving. As God as my witness, one step and I am jumping up out of this bed and packing my bags.”
As I start to list the things I would pack and the things I would leave behind I fall into a deep sleep and woke up nine hours later renewed and refreshed. I had a cup of coffee and then grabbed my backpack and headed off to my banking town to buy meat to make chili. I waited almost hour for a taxi brousse to pass and when one finally showed up there was a large dead pig strapped to the top, his pink head hanging ever so slightly off the edge of the roof, near the door, so one had to look into his dead eyes before boarding. When I was seated I noted a chicken sitting behind me who never stopped whining the entire trip.
The funny thing is, I get on the bus and ride to town as if this is the most natural thing in the world, riding with a dead pig and a chicken. It does not occur to me, at the moment, to be shocked or outraged.
It is amazing what a good night’s sleep and a cup of coffee will do. The world looks better. Most of life’s problems can be reasoned out with this formula. Worried about your job, children, finances, go to bed, sleep soundly for 8-10 hours, wake up and have a cup of coffee.
There is an African proverb,” However long the night, the dawn will break”. It is said that everything works itself out in the end and if it doesn’t, well it is just not the end yet.
When I return from my banking town a friend comes by and invites me to the family famadihana the next day. I feel very honored, this is a family event where they take the bodies out of the tomb and wrap them in new lambas – turning of the bones it is called. I mentioned it earlier in the fombas, but had never witnessed one.
NenyBe (Granny) as my friend is called, is 73, just 10 years older than I. Her husband died about 20 years ago. The family is well set according to Malagasy standards. They own an “Épicerie” a small dry good store, three rice mills to mill rice and a taxi brousse, that they pay someone to drive back and forth to the banking town. They also operate a “movie theater” of sorts on the weekends where people come and sit on the floor to watch Kung Foo movies dubbed in Malagasy. And of course, they farm rice – lots of rice. She works nonstop at the Épicerie and cooks’ food to sell daily. I don’t know where she gets her energy.
The next day the family of about 50 pass by my house around noon, led by a band of three drummers, three clarinets and three trumpets. All the instruments are in deplorable condition held together by pieces of string and tape. We walk about 2 miles and pick up other family members along the way to the tombs. Then we make a sharp turn into the rice paddies, crossing a good 15 or 20 and continue our journey up the mountain. It is just my luck that the deceased are all buried high on the mountain sides, which are difficult for me to navigate.
When we reach the three tombs, there is a crowd of several hundred people. It seems everyone in town is somehow related to the deceased in the tombs. Taking advantage of the crowd and event, vendors set up tables and sell food, drinks, beer and toka gasy, fermented rice made into the local strong alcohol.
I was not sure how I would be received at this event since I am a vasaha – I might signify bad luck for some. I am of course the only white person there. I do get a few “evil” eye looks from some of those attending, but NenyBe loops her arm through mine and pulls me close and gives them the evil eye back as if to say – she is a friend not a foe.
The bodies are taken out of the tomb and wrapped in straw mats, like a burrito. They are carried high over head by 6 – 8 people. Then they are placed on the ground in front of us and unrolled. One wrapped body is huge and it is explained that they put the body of the spouses together when both had died. Every 3-5 years a new “lamba” is wrapped round the previous one which is very stained and in a state of deterioration. Sometimes the old cloth is taken off and family members take pieces home, they believe it holds power.
If someone has been dead for 50 years they may have 10 or more lambas wrapped around the skeleton making the skeleton appear bigger than it is. Some of the bodies are small and you realize they must have been children.
After all the bodies are taken out, and wrapped in new cloth, they are tied with rope at the neck, chest, hips, knees and feet. The names and date of death are written on the cloth. Then the music begins and their framed photos, if there are any, are held up high for everyone to see and people begin to dance around the dead. Many of these people have already started drinking and the dancing can get a little wild. Any sadness is discouraged as they want their ancestors to enjoy the party.
The Toka Gasy, is being poured from a black plastic container with “Motor Oil” written on the front! I stay away from that. In fact, I stay away from all alcohol, since it looks like no one is going to serve a nice California red blend, chilled just right.
When Neny Be ask if I want to join in the dancing, I say only if she does. She does as it is a way to celebrate the life of the loved one gone. When the two of us get up and dance, everyone is shocked to see the vasaha join the celebration or maybe shocked that I can dance. The dancing includes jumping up high with our arms overhead, which is a bit of a task for us.
Several very drunk older men come up and want to dance with me, most are missing quite a few teeth – a deal breaker for me! NenyBe saves me from being dragged off by pushing them away. I notice that many are taking photos of me, even videos and I pray I do not end up on YouTube under “Vasaha dancing at Famadihana in Madagascar”.
They begin to take the bodies back to the tomb, placing them one by one on a decorated homemade stretcher. Finally, after a few dances NenyBe says she is ready to go home and we depart making our way down the mountain, across the numerous rice paddies and back to our homes. Once again, I am put to shame as NenyBe jumps across those rice paddy walls, her 13-year-old granddaughter helps me most of the way.
It was a great day, blue skies and the weather is getting warmer as spring is approaching us here in Madagascar. I thank her profusely for including me in such an exclusive family event and feel baptized in attending my very first “famadihana” in the community. And I must say one is enough! My week ends with riding with a dead pig and dancing with skeletons, can someone please wake me up from this strange dream!!

I did not take any photos of the event on purpose, not being certain if it was going to be permitted or accepted. If you google Famadihana Madagascar you will find many Youtubes of the ceremony. Some are a little gruesome – it was even more gruesome in person!

 

The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why. Mark Twain

I cannot do all the good that the world needs, but the world needs all the good that I can do. Jana Stanfield

Nenybe and her granddaughter

Rice Fields to cross – they are just starting the new crop so the fields are flooded