Famadihana

I was invited by my neighbor to her father’s and uncle’s turning of the bones ceremony, or famadihana. After seven to ten years after someone’s death, ones family will perform an exhumation ceremony. Malagasy beliefs surrounding death is incredibly rich and complex, which is evident in how they perform their exhumations and burials. I have only begun to unravel the mysteries surrounding these “croyances” that can be traced back to the original boat people from Indonesia, who came to shore thousands of years ago.

Preparations started one week prior to the event, which was to be held in my backyard. A canopy of palm leaves was propped on top of logs as a tent. A cable connected to a generator was used to provide entertainment and electricity for the festivities. Guest rolled in early Friday morning and didn’t leave until Sunday afternoon.

First the bones are unearthed from a cement grave, which is proudly maintained by the family of the deceased, an expense deemed necessary as a sign of respect and deference to their ancestors. The oldest male members of the family are the first to descend into the dug up graves. After undoing the silk shrouds he will hand the bones one by one to close members and friends, yelling excitedly what each bone is, “Here is his shoulder!” He spoke of the dead as if they were still in present, watching and evaluating how well his tribute was carried out. The bones are rubbed down by oil to clean off years of accumulated dirt. They are spoken to in hushed voices, with the latest family and community news. Later they are wrapped in clean new cloth.

I was helping cook a gargantuan amount of rice cooking in fifteen large cauldrons over charcoal cookstoves outside when I saw the large party parade the bones down the hill. The bones were then laid out on a table at the head of the tent.

They danced and sang. This was a celebration after all. Toaka (Malagasy moonshine) was served in pails. Music blared from the speakers. Women wearing salovina’s (traditional colored cloth worn by women in the north) were winnowing rice against my house. Three zebu (bovine with humps on their back) were sacrificed for the event. Zebus play an imminent role in Malagasy society. The creatures are a source of pride and wealth all over Madagascar.

Rows of bowls, with red paint bearing the initials of its owners on the bottom, were placed in three long rows on the sandy ground. Large bowls containing steaming rice were then placed down followed by zebu stew. Spoons were placed on rice to be eaten communally. Lunch was served. The children were called first to eat, then the men (many of whom were already intoxicated), the women last. I squatted knee to knee between two other women already busy chowing down the much labored over meal.

More dancing and drinking followed well into the wee hours of dawn. Children were the most enthusiastic, dancing the night away underneath the Southern hemisphere stars.

Coffee was even served in pitchers to combat fatigue at midnight. I didn’t have the same kind of strength as everyone else. I fell under a restless sleep at two in the morning, my ears pounding throughout the night by music that seemed to only get louder by the hour.

I admire the Malagasy people for their immense respect towards their ancestors. I was asked numerous times how Americans celebrate their dead, and whether we have famadihana too. I had to admit that graves are often forgotten over time by most people. But then I thought harder. In my own Asian heritage we also hold elaborate memorial services, sweep the tombs and provide offerings to our ancestors. Then there’s the numerous Hispanics who hold their own beliefs and have their own celebrations such as Dios de Muertos. So perhaps it was better to explain the mosaic of different heritages that make up American society and their attitudes towards death. Death is not seen as an end in Madagascar, rather it’s the start to a new beginning.

20th hand clothes

"We call this second-hand clothes in English," I tell my Malagasy friends as we comb through a pile of frip: used clothes, bedsheets, bags, shoes, and even lingerie. Fripperie are stuffed into large sacks or crates then thrust out by wealthier nations into the hands of poor vintage hungry Peace Corps volunteers living in developing nations like myself. One of my friends comments that "second-hand" is really a euphemism for what should really be called 20th hand clothes. There is little doubt in my mind that this shoulder padded blazer was popular when my mother was in high school, perhaps it was even worn by her.

Who knows where our unwanted clothes items end up after we discard of them? Most of these hodgepodges are in my opinion offensive. I can't comprehend how someone could even fathom donating some of the things I see. And its not because I'm a fashion victim, used to being able to afford what has been dictated to me by Hollywood or popular society. Rather I feel, "look! a questionable stain on these shorts," or, "hey looky, here's some elastic band yoga pants, that no longer is elastic...bummer." But sometimes theres buried treasure underneath all the undesirable stuff, such as a nifty D & G bag that would cost me an arm and leg in the States, perhaps its the designer label lightly worn cocktail dress. One whole USD why not? Finds like these makes me eternally grateful to rich Westerners who tire of their attire after only a few wears, if not even.

I keep myself from translating the meanings that I find on some peoples shirts. For example I spotted a teenager during mass sport a tee which read, "No silicone". Ironically she let it hang, as most ladies do not wear brassieres here, unknowingly holding true to the statement. there was another man who wore a brightly colored shirt stating, "I love BJ" during a morengy match (Malagasy bare knuckle boxing). And not to mention a number of South Park jerseys with obscene comments printed on them. These items without question are from our earlier more angsty days of adolescence, desirably wiped from our memories in the form of charitable donations to organizations such as the Salvation Army. They are however appreciated by our Malagasy friends for the warmth they provide and maybe even great color scheme.

What's in a name?

I find names to be fascinating, not necessarily the name itself but the story behind why one is given his or her name. A child that was recently born in a fellow volunteer's village was given her middle name Ruzena. Children are often named after famous events, people, and sometimes even natural disasters such as cyclones in Madagascar. In a country where children often don't know their own birthdate, one can sometimes take an educated guess based on their names. For instance my friend's niece is named Noel, since she was born around Christmas. One's offspring is a source of pride here, since they are their parent's life insurance in old age. Adults are often called their children's names followed by the title Mama or Papa. My personal favorites are: Mama Tasse (Mother Cup), Mama Piso (Mother Cat), Mama Valo (Mother Eight, I'm going to guess she ran out of good ideas for baby names after her eighth child). Its as if after becoming a parent your identity ceases to be linked to you as an individual but rather as a mother or father. Individualism isn't necessarily a characteristic one takes pride in here. Once I asked my neighbor's son what his name was. He answered Bogosy meaning handsome. I laughed and flirtingly responded, "yes and my name is Beautiful." I blushed when I discovered this really is his name.