I’m teetering on the roof edge of a concrete tomb. The air is filled with the smells of sweat and rum, and I’m being jostled from all sides by excitable dancing men, hollering announcements in Malagasy to the surrounding crowd of thousands. They wave their arms, swaying to the upbeat trumpets of the brass band. I grip the concrete Cross, inhaling plumes of dust as below us men in baseball caps drive shovels into the dry, compacted earth. The crowd waits eagerly, many of them clutching rolled-up straw mats, demanding they dig faster and bring out their dead.
So, basically, a typical Friday.
•
I emerge from Antananarivo airport on a chilly night in late July and see my name on a sign held by my Madagascar guide, fifty-one-year-old Eric. He’s a kind, six-foot smile of a man, and shakes my hand warmly. We set off into the highlands, where around this time of year people exhume their dead in a ceremony called Famadihana, the Turning of the Bones. It’s a raucous party with rum and dancing around the opening of the family tomb.
As we drive out of the city, Eric teaches me a few useful terms to know in Malagasy. ‘The first you need to know is “mora mora”,’ he says, ‘slowly, slowly. In Madagascar, we take our time. No rush, no hurry. Like tomorrow, we will leave early so we can get there mora mora, stop for coffee, stop for lunch, see the views. Not rushing. Never rushing. Mora mora.’
‘Mora mora,’ I repeat. ‘Got it.’ Eric is married to a Dutch woman. For a while they lived in Switzerland, where his daughter still lives, but he and his wife moved to eastern Madagascar because Eric was so homesick he could barely see straight. I’m guessing his affection for doing things mora mora was part of his desire to get away from the home of the psychotically correct clock.
‘Also you are going to hear the word “vazaha” a lot.’ I repeat it (pronounced ‘vazza’). ‘It means “white person”,’ he says. ‘It’s not pejorative, it’s just the word.’ He teaches me how to say ‘hello’ – salama, ‘sorry’ – azafady, ‘thank you’ – misaotra, and ‘thank you very much’ – misaotra betsaka.
‘What about “fady”?’ I ask. I’ve done enough research to know that when something is fady it’s taboo, or bad luck, which Eric confirms. ‘It’s fady to wear red at Famadihana, right?’
Eric waves his hand, ‘Not so much any more. where we are going they are quite relaxed about the fady. But some are still important – for example, it is fady to point your finger at a tomb. It’s too direct, like you’re inviting death.’ as if on cue, Eric spots a tomb on a hill and pulls over the car. ‘You see up there, on the hill? That’s a family tomb.’
I lean forward and, completely forgetting what he told me about eight bloody seconds ago, I point, ‘That square concrete thing up there?’
‘Don’t point,’ he says quickly, ‘do it like this.’ He curls his fingertip towards his palm and indicates with his knuckle.
The importance of the ancestors in Madagascar is visible to the naked eye – from its position on the hill, the tomb overlooks a village of little huts constructed from mud, sticks and straw, some with deep, sun-dried cracks etched into them like wrinkles. But the tomb itself is much more durable and decorated: it’s made of concrete and granite, topped with a Cross, and painted dusty shades of pink and blue.
I turn to Eric and say, ‘I heard that in the eighties, an aid organization donated concrete to Madagascar. It was for people to upgrade their houses, so they’d be less vulnerable to cyclones, but instead they upgraded the tombs. Is that true?’
‘Yes,’ said Eric. ‘People are happy to live in mud huts they have to rebuild over and over, but tombs have to last for ever.’ We begin to swerve around increasingly numerous potholes.
‘We are beginning to dance with the road,’ says Eric, and continues, ‘I think the road is like the system in Madagascar.’ Clearly given to philosophical musings, he says that since earnings here are so low, people have to dance around doing fancy footwork just to find a way to live. As we drive on, I fall silent, taking in the scenery as the road winds into the highlands. It’s like nowhere else I’ve seen. The red soil is topped with sun-faded grass. Clothes are laid out flat to dry on hay bales, on the ground, in trees. We pass valleys of precisely divided rice fields. People walk along the edge of the road in the sunshine, waving as we pass.
•
In the early evening, Eric knocks on the door of my room. We’re in the town of Antsirabe, in a functional hotel owned by a gruff Frenchman. I open the door.
‘Hello!’ Eric says cheerfully. ‘Lala and her father are here.’
It’s been over a year since I first started emailing Rojo, a woman who owns a travel company in Madagascar, in hopes of securing an invite to Famadihana. Just two months ago, I received the email: Rojo’s own employee Lala had invited me to attend her family’s ceremony in the village of Ambatomiady, around seventy miles from Antananarivo.
I thank Eric, and grab an envelope of money for them to buy a lamba (a shroud to rewrap the body) as a thank you for inviting me to the ceremony. I come outside and join them at a table under the cold blue porch lights. Lala is thirty-four, lives in northern Madagascar and regularly makes the long and arduous journey to visit her family. She’s little, wears a pink fleece, has her hair tied back in a ponytail and her hands crossed over her front to protect from the chill in the air. She smiles and nods in greeting. Her father, Edmond, wears a brimmed hat and a coat, and clasps his hands formally on the table. They speak in Malagasy and Eric translates.
When I ask if Edmond and Lala would like the envelope now, Edmond makes a long speech. I wonder what he can be saying. Eric translates that there have been a lot of unanticipated things and that they’re organizing the finishing touches of the ceremony now – which turns out to be a delicate, sweetly diplomatic way of saying ‘yes’. I pass the envelope and Eric says, ‘In our culture it’s traditional to give a speech at this moment.’
Eric translates as I say, ‘I appreciate the invite so much. You don’t know me at all, so it’s really kind of you, and I feel really privileged. Rojo said you could use this for the lamba but I realise you may have bought one already; obviously you can use it for whatever’s needed for the day. Where I’m from, we don’t really have a relationship with the dead and I’m not sure it’s doing us any favours. So I’m really delighted to get to see this ceremony I’ve read so much about, and talked to Eric about. I’m very honoured to get to come and celebrate with you and your family. Misaotra.’ Their eyes brighten in recognition at the sound of the word for ‘thank you’.
Edmond speaks, and Eric grins.
‘He said you’re welcome to take pictures of everything you see, and also that there’s going to be music and drums and dancing, and he said to tell you you’ll definitely be expected to dance.’
I grin at Edmond and Lala, and nod. ‘Deal.’
•
Barely fifteen minutes into our drive to Ambatomiady, I stumble into a fady. I ask Edmond, who is in the back seat with Lala, exactly how many bodies there are in the family tomb. Edmond says he’s not quite sure, and when I probe – are we talking tens, hundreds? – Eric tells me it’s fady to get too precise about numbers of corpses in tombs. That explains the delicate atmosphere in the car, as if I’ve just asked Edmond about his prostate. I’m fascinated to find a reluctance to discuss numbers of corpses when we’re on our way to literally exhume them. But Edmond happily confirms that the tomb is seventy years old, and that fourteen bodies are being exhumed and rewrapped tomorrow – including Edmond’s grandfather, who died before Lala was born.
Fear of corpses seems to abound most in cultures where death is associated with a loss of power. When death means becoming a demigod, the person to whom the living now turn for favors – such as here and in Tana Toraja, where I’ll be going in a few weeks – the corpse seems more likely to be invited to the party. A van overtakes us, with a coffin wrapped in a sheet on the roof. It’s flying a small Malagasy flag, a legal requirement when transporting a dead body. It’s a common sight during the months of Famadihana, as people who have died in the past few years are transported to the family tomb so they can be placed inside when it’s opened.
‘Are you afraid when you see a dead body?’ I ask.
‘The main feeling is sadness,’ says Edmond, via Eric. ‘We’re not afraid because when people die, we have a wake, so we get used to seeing a dead body. You have that last image before you wrap them and place them in the tomb. You have a mourning period, and then you accept it. Then after five to seven years we accept that the person has become an ancestor. The separation is painful and sorrowful, but when time has passed, we accept it and have a party.’
We pass a house with a band that’s firing up the trumpets – another family’s Famadihana kicking off.
‘We have a saying,’ Edmond continues. ‘“At death we cry, at Famadihana we dance.”’
•
Famadihana is not simple or quick to organize. For one, you need legal permission to open a tomb. The family decide on a rough date – usually five to seven years since the last, or an odd number in any case, as it’s fady to turn the bones on an even year. Then, three to six months beforehand, they must visit a local astrologer and ask which date would be safe to open the tomb. Some dates are, everyone knows, off limits – it’s fady to open a tomb on a Tuesday or Wednesday, for example. The astrologer asks when the tomb was constructed, and issues a selection of dates between June and September, when it’s dry – getting here today was tricky enough, but during wetter months many villages in the highlands are impossible to reach. Once they have a date, the family must then apply for permission from the state to open the tomb.
Thirty years ago a typical Famadihana ceremony lasted a week and attendance was mandatory. Now that the cost of living has risen, most only last two or three days. But even a short Famadihana remains eyewateringly expensive. ‘You’re feeding an entire village for two or three days,’ Eric explains. ‘You’re hiring a band, maybe paying for transportation for families who live far away. Some families save money by doing small, simple celebrations – but for others that’s not acceptable.’
Often people get a bank loan to pay for it and fall into cycles of debt; it might take three or four years to pay off, at which point the next ceremony is just a year or two away.
‘I made a terrible faux pas at a Famadihana once, when I was younger,’ Eric told me while slowing down to drive through a pothole the size of Cardiff. ‘I said, “Why do we spend all this money on the dead? Life is expensive. We should spend it on the living.”’
‘Were they offended?’
‘Yes, terribly. I had to apologize.’
Eric isn’t a Christian, but this sentiment of prioritizing the needs of the living is often echoed by the Church. Like many African nations, Madagascar had an influx of Christian missionaries – white saviors of the soul – beginning in the 1800s. Now, while around half the population maintain traditional religious practices, around 41 per cent practice Christianity. Eric says many Christians question the value of spending money on the dead, even condemn it, as life for the living becomes ever more costly.
That is, of course, easy for them to say.
‘In the Malagasy tradition, we don’t have Jesus or Buddha or Muhammad,’ Eric explained. ‘The ancestors are our prophets, our intermediary, the link between us and God. That’s why it’s important to take care of them.’ When Christians – or a young Eric – suggest Malagasy people stop venerating their ancestors, they’re essentially recommending they abandon their prophet, their advocate, their protection against mortal terror.
We all find ways, regardless of our beliefs, to believe in our own immortality. Some of us follow religions that tell us our souls are immortal, that we’ll be reincarnated or go to heaven. Non-believers might find symbolic immortality in naming children, stars or hospital wings after themselves. Some of us, ahem, write books.
But some methods of keeping death anxiety at bay are pricier than others. At Edmond’s house, watching the preparations, I wonder if the debt people go into for Famadihana is almost like a tax on living without terror.
•
It’s dark by 6:30 P.M., and Edmond’s house is the site of a huge party. Everyone dances in front of the giant speakers, which vibrate with the volume. A few of the younger guys set about finding and hanging a light bulb, since right now the lighting is being provided solely by the stars – and the orange glow of cigarettes, which bob up and down in the darkness.
Eric and I find ourselves standing in a huddled circle under the stars with ‘Big Uncle’ Rafaely (at seventy-two years old, he is the oldest member of the family and therefore the boss, the closest to ancestor status), Henri, and several children who come over to listen to the conversation and, according to Eric, to have a closer look at me, their first vazaha guest. I roll my dictaphone and ask every question a journalist is supposed to ask – name spellings, ages, the system of opening a tomb – as well as some philosophical questions they raise about why Malagasy people venerate the ancestors. Eric translates whole debates and discussions had by the group in answer to my questions, the longest of which is about where their love intersects with their fear.
‘Listening to you all talk about the ancestors, their power to make good or bad things happen to you – is this ceremony more about love for the people you lost, or fear of what they might do? You mentioned how expensive it is, how people go into cycles of debt – are you doing all this so you can live with less fear?’
Eric puts this to the group, and they discuss it. It seems they only partly agree with the idea that Famadihana is a tax on living without terror.
‘Honoring the ancestors in this way, it’s a duty, but also a pleasure,’ Eric says. ‘we believe in God, but we can’t see God. But thanks to the ancestors, we’re here on earth – that’s tangible. So why would we forget them? why wouldn’t we honour them, touch them?’
•
‘Would you like to stand on the tomb?’ a bizarre question to be asked in almost any context, but here the one-story tomb is already populated with several drunk, dancing men who seem only too happy to make space for me. The crowd of thousands is dotted with rolled-up straw mats, babies on hips, arms waving to the music, and the air is made of shouts. They shout over the music, shout over the shouting. As the minutes wear on and people get more excited to see their dead emerge, the space gets tighter. Below us, the dirt is being shoveled aside in search of the slab to open the tomb. The view from up here is astonishing. There are easily two or three thousand people here. It’s strange to think that many of them will end up in this very tomb, will be exhumed for Famadihana in years to come, and when no one remembers who they are, they’ll get pushed to the back of the tomb to make more space, and finally, as we say, ‘rest in peace’.
‘Eric,’ I say, gripping the dusty pink Cross on top of the tomb, ‘did you say this is all one family?’
‘Yes,’ Eric nods, taking my backpack and slotting it on to his front so I don’t drop it on the corpses that are about to emerge, ‘Lala has fifteen siblings, and that’s normal. So if they all grow up and get married, and they each have fifteen children . . .’ He indicates the crowd. It’s simple math.
‘Do they all know each other?’
‘No!’ he waves his hand. ‘That’s one of the most important reasons to have Famadihana. So they can meet each other.’
The men toss aside their shovels, having uncovered the slab. They slide it back and dive into the tomb. A very drunk young man sways before the gaping dark hole, his eyes closed, his arms raised to the heavens. People step forward and pass their straw mats past him – it’s a sign of respect, not putting dead people straight on the floor. The men disappear into the tombs, place the ancestors on the mats, yell out their names, and pass them up to their descendants. The names are still visible on the earth-stained shrouds, scrawled on the side in Sharpie. The descendants hoist them upon their shoulders and walk them to the back of the crowd.
‘That’s Lala’s grandfather,’ Eric says, as the fifth body emerges from the tomb. ‘Let’s go!’ We climb down the rickety wooden ladder and jog through the crowd with ‘Follow that car!’ energy. It takes us a few minutes to find the right corpse, which is not a sentence I ever expected to write. A young man rips strips off a new shroud and mutters, his eyes wet with tears.
‘He’s saying, “I haven’t got a dad any more,”’ Eric whispers, ‘“I’m an orphan.”’
I remember Edmond’s comment that the overwhelming emotion of exhuming the bodies is sadness, an intense renewal of the loss. Rather than treating bereavement like a flesh wound that heals linearly and with time, Famadihana rips it all open again, if only for a moment. Grief is the small print of love.
They wrap him in a silk sheet, tie it up with the fabric strips. The music swells and all around us, people start to hoist the bodies onto their shoulders. The brass band is louder and livelier than ever, and people grin with delight as they bounce their dead up and down to the music.
I feel a knock in the back of my head – it’s a freshly wrapped corpse on the shoulders of three men, who laugh and say, ‘Azafady!’ Of course, I think, laughing helplessly, of course I got hit in the head by a corpse. I briefly wonder if I was kicked or headbutted, but I don’t ask.
‘Vazaha, vazaha, take our picture!’ cries one grinning man, steadying an ancestor on his shoulder.
‘Do you have un stilo?’ Eric asks. I pull a pen from my bag, and Lala’s relative proceeds to write the deceased’s name in large black letters on the white silk shroud – so they’ll be able to recognize him in seven years. The next body over needs one too, so they pass it along. When I get it back, I joke, ‘This is a special pen now.’
‘It is!’ Eric grins. ‘You will receive a blessing.’
‘A blessing?’ I laugh. ‘Just for lending someone my pen? That was easy.’
The sun is tumbling towards the hills. It’s unwise to tackle potholes in the dark, so we say our goodbyes. The family members clasp my hand with both of theirs, thank me for coming, make me promise again to share those pictures, and tell everyone what I saw. We hurry through the crowd, ‘Azafady, azafady…’ ducking under newly shrouded cadavers bouncing joyfully on the shoulders of their rum-lit descendants.
I shut the car door and gaze into the rear-view mirror, barely able to process what I’ve just seen. Eric starts the engine. The wheels puff clouds of dust into the air behind us, obscuring the family of thousands, dancing with their dead under a setting sun.
Erica Buist is a writer, author, journalist – mostly for the Guardian – and Senior Social Media Editor at Tupelo Quarterly. Her first book, a hybrid of memoir and journalism called This Party’s Dead is out in February 2021. Erica’s short fiction has appeared in Liars’ League London, Tupelo Quarterly and Guts Publishing. She has been awarded writing residencies at the Wellstone Center in the Redwoods, Vermont Studio Center, Faberlull (Spain), Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and Arte Studio Ginestrelle (Italy). She lives in London and tweets @ericabuist.
This Party’s Dead is out on 18 February 2021 and is available to preorder:
Hardback: Waterstones and Blackwell’s
Ebook: Barnes & Noble
