Madagascar

Madagascar is a large island country located about 550 miles due east of Mozambique in East Africa.  It has a colorful and varied history dating back millennia.  Some of the first settlers on the island coming from far away southern Borneo and perhaps Polynesia. While the country has variously been influenced by Africans, British, Arabs and others it was colonized by France and French is widely spoken on the island.

The capital is Antananarivo but was called Tananarive when I visited there many years ago.   Located on a hill in the city is the royal grounds where the kings and queens lived until the late 1800’s when the French deposed the queen.  I feel privileged to have been able to explore the grounds and the king and queen’s palace while I was there.  In 1995 they burned to the ground.

In order to reach the front gate to  the grounds one climbed many stone steps etched with hundreds of years of footsteps of loyal subjects.  My recollection  is that the king’s house was a large, lofty open building quite similar to a Polynesian building.  The queen’s house was somewhat smaller but similarly built.

 

 

My work took me to the city of Tulear, now Toliara, in southwest Madagascar.  Much like the American southwest the area is semi desert.  It is located on beautiful beaches of the Mozambique channel.

A short distance inland lies the spiny forest and home to the unique Baobab trees.

Somewhat like Australia, Madagascar’s flora and fauna are unique to the island.  There are huge numbers of species of Lemurs and chameleons.

During breaks from work it has always been my habit to jump on my motor bike and head  off  in search of people and places.  It was on such a trip that I came across two old men sitting at a table on the sidewalk in front of a coffee kiosk in a  small village.

They were intent on a game they were playing with dice.  I was not familiar with the game they were playing nor did they give any indication that I was present or alive in their world.  I got off my bike and strolled up to the kiosk window where I ordered a cup of thick hot coffee.  I walked back and sat down on the old stone curb a few feet away from the players.  I sat and sipped my coffee from a ceramic  cup that appeared to be well used.  No words were spoken and my presence was never acknowledged.

Being a curious and somewhat obnoxious person I was determined to strike up a conversation to see what I could learn about the area from them.  They were the only people nearby on the street.  After I cleared my throat a couple of times without being acknowledged I decided that it was a lost cause.  As I have already admitted to being  obnoxious you will understand that I could not just get on my bike and leave.

After returning my coffee cup to the proprietor I stopped in the street next to the curb by where the men were lost in concentration.  I removed my cap and bowed very low towards them and held it for a few seconds and then stood up ready to run.  To my surprise when I stood up the two men had stopped playing and were staring at me rather sternly.  Almost simultaneously they suddenly burst into peals of laughter.  One of  the men motioned me  to a  small stool near  their table where I sat down.  They continued their game while I observed.  We three shared another pot of coffee served to us by a young girl perhaps ten years old.  The girl could speak some French, as could I, so we made small conversation as best we could.  I could not understand what the game was all about nor  have I ever learned.

After about a half hour or so the two men rose from their chairs and nodded towards me that I should also stand.  The proprietor of the stand and his daughter appeared on the walk.  An old dilapidated Peugeot car was lumbering towards us with several people in the car, on top of the car and following behind the car.  They all seemed to be in a festive mood.    I thought it was most likely a wedding party.  The driver was a man in his 40’s perhaps.  The person in the passenger seat was dressed in white linen covering her body and head.  As they went past everyone was singing and dancing happily.

I asked the girl if it was wedding which she then translated to the others present.  Again everyone burst into laughter.  After some conversation between them she informed me that it was a funeral ritual.  Most of the Malagasy people at that  time were not Christians but were worshipers of their ancestors.  They believed that they were also interconnected with the Lemur’s on  the island and considered them sacred.   It was their belief that their ancestors brought them earthly benefits and would look after their souls after their death.  Each year the family removed the body of an important ancestor from its rocky tomb, took it home, cleaned the bones, wrapped it in fresh linen and then drove it around town.  The purpose was to make sure that the ancestor was celebrated and was aware of any recent changes to the village or families so it could be returned to the grave to lie peacefully until removed again.  The passenger in the car was the skeleton of one of  the families ancestors, perhaps a parent or grandparent, that they were all celebrating.  Frequently the celebration would  be accompanied by other festivities, food and a band.  It all seemed all quite logical and beautiful to me.

The shop proprietor, his daughter, the two old men and I fell into the end of the line and followed the celebrants to the cemetery.  Having missed all of the food and music we were only present for the interment of the body back into a  rocky hole in the ground surrounded by other graves.

Each headstone was a carved wooden plank perhaps 10 to 15 feet tall.  The carvings represented periods and achievements in the person’s life.  At the top was something of great significance about the person’s life.  There were thousands of these around various cemeteries and one could only try to guess what they meant.  For example many had cattle so I presume they were cattle owners/herders.  One with a bus was perhaps the first person in the area to own a bus.  I saw one with an airplane at the top and surmised that the person may have gotten a ride in an airplane or perhaps just saw one for the first time.  They reminded me of a more refined version of the old boot hill markers of  the American southwest.  They are some of  the finest works of art in  the world in my view.

It was getting late afternoon as we returned to the coffee stand.  The two old  men drifted off.  I sat on the curb for a few minutes talking to the girl and her father about their lives.  I noticed that they all wore a similar bracelet which I presumed was elephant hair.  They told me that it was worn to ward off the paku, or something like a devil.  They also told me that everyone lived on the second floor of the houses there for the same reason.  The paku could not climb stairs and he only went out at night.  Good families and children always stayed safely in their homes upstairs after nightfall.  I have never heard this story before or since but the people of this village sincerely believed there was something lurking in the night.  It is certainly possible that the French or others may have spread this rumor in order to control the people and keep them off the streets at night.  In any case, I drove a little faster into the setting sun to get back to my hotel before nightfall.  After all, I did not have one of the elephant hair bracelets.