What a zebu looks like...

Funeral Malagache

Loading  Cross on to truck

Ancestral Burial Ground

Malagasy moonshine

Distant relative excited to have picture taken

Zebu slaughter

Special plate I shared with my Grandfather

The other day I attended the funeral of my great grandfather. It was the best party I’ve been to in a long time. He died one month ago at the ripe old age of 103 (100 according to his death certificate, but we know that this is just because his first three years were spent in some remote corner of the Antinoche wilderness). He was a farmer and would have lived forever had be not fallen and bumped his head while getting in to bed. The only request he made was that the family put a cross on his grave. So, naturally, my family saw to it that the world’s largest cement cross be cemented into the earth right above his spot in the family tomb.

The whole process lasted approximately a day, beginning at sunrise (people typically wake up at 5:00 here) and ending at sunset (typical bedtime being 8:00). At first things got off to a slow start. The 16-wheeler that chauffeured us to the cemetery was about 1 ½ hours late (right on time) and it took about 2 hours to figure out how to lift the 12 x 6 foot cement cross and all the sand and cobblestones and scaffolding into the camion (so basically way ahead of schedule at this point). It took us about another hour to reach the cemetery “truck-back” style. Before departing however, my Dadabé, now the patriarch in the family, splashed rum rouge (Madagascar rum infused with Madagascar vanilla) on each corner of the truck.

The cemetery itself is not so much a cemetery as it is a mountain range, one of the most beautiful mountain ranges I’ve ever seen actually. There are other families scattered about, but you would have no idea just by looking about. Unless you’re part of the family it’s pretty hard to know where the family tomb is; a cluster of tombstones resembling more of a rock formation was the only indication. It’s foumba, custom to not wear shoes when walking in the cemetery because it is such sacred grounds and is the final resting place of so many people. This was one of the few customs that my hardcore Malagache family didn’t follow. I asked my cousin how long our family has been buried here and he couldn’t answer. I get the feeling that it’s pretty much since the dawn of time.

In Malagache culture the entire family is buried in the same tomb, one on top of another, women to the left/ North and men to the right/ South. You’re buried in the land of your father with all of the other relatives of your father’s side, regardless of whether you are a man or a women. Typically, the family waits one week after your death to bury you and preserves your body in cactus juice. It is important to take this time to morn, but it is also fady, taboo to bury someone on or directly after the day of death. The day of death carries a lot of bad luck and evil spirits. One time a family buried their relative the same day they died and afterwards seven more members of the family died! The family must also consult a rampalala, akind of astrologist/ medium/ healer (originally hired by Malagache Kings and brought over from India) to know when to have the funeral service, which is exactly what my family did and this is how we knew when to put up the (giant) cross. Thankfully the diviner chose a really beautiful day with minimal wind.

It is also foumba to slaughter at least one zebu on the day of the funeral. Quite often as many as 16 are slaughtered, it really just depends on the family. Mine felt only one was necessary. One of my relatives wrestled it down single handedly and thwacked it several times with and axe right behind the horns. It died pretty quickly but its reflexes continued to work and its legs continued to kick well into the time when they were removed and the parts were broken down. Even after the meat had been butchered it continued to twitch, the muscles alternating between contracted and relaxed. I imagined the zebu trying to run away but not being able to because it’s body was in different pieces. I was surprised that I felt no physical reaction to the zebu slaughter other than a racing heartbeat. I wasn’t nauseated or revolted or even faint – I just had a really fast heartbeat. When the meat was broken down a violent argument ensued between two of the men doing the butchering regarding who should get what pieces of meat. In Malgache culture it’s pretty set in stone who gets what – the patriarch always gets the neck and the head and the butt because they have the best meat on them – so it’s verrrrry shameful to bicker over it. I totally missed this at the time so when someone asked me what I thought about the bickering I was kinda just like “Oh it’s totally fine! I feel like I’m at home! This kinda thing happens all the time in my house! Look how similar we are!!” when I should have been like “I find this deeply shameful and wish it never happened.” I think the argument might have been centered around me, too, whether or not I should receive the special pieces as well or whether they should be reserved for Dadabé only. Essentially, what the argument (and all the subsequent arguments that day I’m pretty sure) boiled down to were whether I was an honorable guest or an ungrateful intruder. I don’t think I even know the answer to that. In the end I ended up sharing a plate with Dadabé and everyone seemed to be okay with that.

A lot of the day was spent sitting around waiting for someone to finish doing something so something else could happen. During these intermissions bottles of Malgache rum and Malgache moonshine, toka-‘gache (nostril singingly strong stuff), were passed around. My cousins and pretty much everyone got sloshed. I sat back, took photos, and got lost in translations. There were many amazing conversations that I had or had translated to me by my extended family members. It turned out that I was the first vizaha, white person, to ever visit the cemetery. I didn’t really know how to respond to this, for I had no idea and it hadn’t hit me until right then what an amazing honor had been extended my way. Finally, the whole shebang ended with a giant family picnic (feast) under the mango trees. I shared a plate with Dadabé, of which I felt very honored, and reflected on what amazing things I had just been a witness to.