The Funny Thing About Dead People

It's interesting, the way respect is expressed. In Madagascar, the ancestors are traditionally ery much honored. Once dead, they can bless or curse the living. Because of this, you are not allowed to point at tombs. Instead, you bend that pointer and point with your knuckle. This is something you learn early on, along with how not to accidently swear at people with your body.

But it is NATURALLY more complicated than that. Allow me to introduce you to the famadihana. It is a party whose theme happens to be dead people. Get ready for this.

So once upon a time, a dead person gets cold. This usually happens in the winter (surprise surprise--America's summer, PS). So the dead person will tell its descendents (through visions or a telegram, I assume--I don't know--I'm not dead). So then the descendents are like, " Oh no! Nenibe / Dadabe / other dead relative is cold!" They then go to the town oracle (um, best job EVER--did someone say secondary project??), who tels them what day to have their famadihana.

The night of the start of festivities comes, and the family goes to the tomb of the dead person and say "Stay here!" so the dead person doesn't miss the party (apparently there is a problem with run-away dead?). They then go to this outdoor tarp hut thing (because winter here isn't all that winteresque). They proceed to get HAMMERED and everyone and their mom (literally) dances to a loud live band all night long. And by all night long, I mean you better hope your neighbors are immortal if you want to get some sleep in famadihana season.

Now, let's talk about this dancing for a minute. Imagine if you will a strange mix of awkward parents dancing, awkward junior highers dancing, and a sketchy drunk guy dancing to himself at a bar. All that mixed together. THAT is Malagasy famadihana dancing. Okay. I am going to help you re-enact it for your own Malagasy experience. Get a high school marching band to play fast happy music. It is okay to have a ratio of 5 players to 20 dancers. No biggie. The louder the better (PS I wish all of life worked out that way, for my own sake). It's also okay if they're blasting away only a few feet from your ear. So then you stand in a group of friends with your legs apart a little and start bouncing awkwardly on your knees--don't move, don't sway--just bounce. Now put your hands up in the air. Add jazz hands. And finally, have a fuzzy, happy look on your face--remember, you are drunk. Every once in a while, go ahead and just shout "hey." Congratulations! You are at a Malagasy famadihana dance party. PS I would be MORE than happy to do this dance for you once back in the States. In fact, I look forward to it.

Now for the morning after. It is banquet time, and I tell you what--you have NEVER experienced something like this. And if you have, well, dude--no seriously, what? I will describe this one party in particular, because it was the KING of famadihanas. All of my stage go to this thing at like 10am. We line up in the rain next to the huge tarp hut thing. For 3 hours. Because it is NOT a party during training unless you stand in the cold rain for hours doing nothing. Good thing there is a rocking band playing Lola music (Lola . . . another time, another time). It is finally our turn. We enter the tarp hut. I look around. It is like an elementary school cafeteria, only Malagasy style. The tables and benches are made of wood (neatness doesn't count). On the tables plastic is stapled--and COVERED with a thin layer of something that resembles (though I am no expert) animal fat. YUM. With the scattered pieces of rice, of course. So we squeeze into the tables and wait and wait and wait. Finally it begins--hundreds of bowls are brought out (some with a little rice stuck on them already--an appetizer, if you will). Then come out the spoons (with a similar layer of animal fat). We can see a man we assume is the cook off in the corner through a crack in the tarp--or at least he has a GINORMOUS wooden spoon slash shovel, and why else would you have that?? PS Add death by vat o' vary aka rice to your top ten list of worst deaths). Once the rice is ready, they bring it out in tubs. They slop it into your bowls. Then comes the meat. I'm pretty sure they killed about a dowen animals (of the pig and cow variety), chop them up (not that thoroughly) and then cook them in lots and lots of oil. Though truth be told, it KIND of reminded me of a Southern BBQ (sincere apologies to my Southern friends out there). Post-meal, we all filed out--a parade of spoons--dropping the spoons in a bag on our way. Once we were out, new guests filed in.

Highlight of the lunch: this one (probably drunk) man came in through the exit (aka party crasher) and just grabbed chunks of meat and SHOVED them in his mouth. He had grease and meat everywhere. He even tried to steal a trainee's food. A server SMACKED him on the head with a bowl, pushed him out again, and kicked him in the back of the pants, no joke, it was hysterical, right out of a comic strip, I could not have planned it better myself.

Now for the main event: dancing with dead people. After the food, everyone marches up the hill (including the band) to the tomb. Now, remember, how you can't POINT at tombs out of respect? Well, you CAN dance drunk on top of them, bust them open, and pull out the dead bodies. Because THAT, my friends, is a famadihana. You pull your dead relatives out, wrap them in new fabric (remember--so they're not so cold anymore), then dance down the street with the dead body over your head. At one famadihana, people had t-shirts and hats with the dead person's face on them. At another, they wrapped a husband and wife together (romantic, huh? a post-death date).

Note: this is one Malagasy tradition I will not integrate into my life after the Peace Corps. Meaning, if you dance with my dead body, I WILL come back to haunt you. Promise.