An ethnographer’s paradise, this island is rich in unusual observances, practices, rituals, ceremonies, taboos and the like. They cover birth, death, everything in between, and the afterlife. Some are downright bizarre. The most notorious is the famadihana ceremony practiced by the Merina of the high plateau. This ritual disinterment and reburying of the dead takes place every seven years with great fanfare – literally – with one or more brass bands.

But I’m told that none of the eighteen-or-so distinct ethnic groups that make up the population of Madagascar is as tradition-bound as the Antimoro of the east coast. The most old-school are found in the town of Vohipeno. Especially on the little hill known as Vatomasy, at the foot of which I’m currently sitting and typing. It’s a sticky night and the loudest sound is the crickets. For once we’re not here as music moguls. It’s more serious than that. Although Monique grew up on the west coast, she’s 100% Antimoro, with close family up on the hill. With this come certain responsibilities.

* * *

In a very poor country Vatomasy stands out somewhat. Just outside the front gate of my late mother-in-law’s house, where we’re staying, is the foot of the broad, crumbling, concrete staircase leading up the hill. At the summit, there are no streets as such. Just red earth. Houses are tiny, one-or-two-room shacks with thatched roofs. Walls are made of flattened tree-bark. The chickens, ducks and geese wandering around are not unusual. But the utter lack of running water is. As is the paucity of overhead electric cabling.

Yesterday I was hanging out with a group of kids, 4-13 years old. I know because I was playing a Q&A game, with the oldest translating from French when needed. They had a hard time with the concept of “What’s your favorite color?” It tended to be what everthey were wearing. Favorite animals were of the livestock variety, not the usual dolphins and lions. Then I got to, “What’s your favorite food?” I’ve polled a lot of kids in various parts of the world. The universal answer is pizza, with hamburger in second place and pasta a distant third. Here it was meat.

It’s not an all-day hike from here to the nearest road. This wireless internet connection is proof of that. Monique claims that what’s keeping Vatomasy so poor is the uncompromising way they’re clinging to the old ways. Tevye may bellow “Tradition!” in the first act. But in the end even he gives way to the new.

* * *

Thanks to French colonialism, nearly all folks here are Catholic. But this hasn’t stopped them from going on with their traditional spiritual practices. These are centered on the key position ancestors hold as interlocutors with god, whatever that is. Someone once described it as a scent on the wind that disappears just as you notice it.

A couple of years ago, with two cancer-afflicted family members on her hands, Monique called upon her ancestors. They delivered. Now we were in Vohipeno to keep her side of the deal. Accompanying was Monique’s sister Melie, also in remission, and Christian, her husband, ironically a non-practicing Christian.

As an Antimoro in good standing, and given the serious circumstances, Monique could not just light a candle and say, “Thanks very much.” This would be a complicated weekend. My role was ridiculously easy: look healthy, smile and pick up the tab. Monique, on the other hand, had to make it all happen. 

 Baristas in Vohipeno

Waiting their turn