An ultra-slow-speed internet connection in Tulear, where we were the past few days, has hampered blogging. Here’s part two of our Vohipeno adventures.

* * *

Omens are important in this part of the world, especially up on Vatomasy, where the personal and universal meet. Each time a new ruler seizes power in Madagascar he makes the trek over to Vohipeno and up the hill to check out the omens and get the Vatomasy seal of approval.

Now it was our turn. As scathing as Monique is about some of her ethnic group’s traditions and many taboos, especially those restricting the role of women, she is meticulous about respecting others.

* * *

Saturday dawned bright and clear. A promising sign, given the previous day’s weather. A downpour of truly biblical proportions had pounded the tin roof from morning to night. I was wondering how one orders up a rescue copter from the US embassy. But everyone else reacted with the resigned shrug appropriate to a normally rainy day. Even more reassuring was the total nonchalance of Yaya, the nephew who handles post-disaster logistics for the World Food Program.

Over the past 24 hours the numbers at the ancestral house had grown into a substantial crowd of extended family. Though it was only 9 am as we climbed the hill, I darted from one shady spot to another, amazed that all the houses, trees and dirt hadn’t been washed away.

Our destination was the rickety, one-room house of the head of Monique’s clan, one of seven clan leaders – they refer to them as kings – who live on Vatomasy. Leaving sandals and flipflops outside we entered barefoot through the door in the west wall. Someone motioned me to my place on the mat-covered floor. The king and two counselors sat in battered armchairs against the east wall. Women wearing the traditional Antimoro squarish, straw headgear sat on the south side of the room, men on the north. More folks arrived and everyone scooted over to accommodate them. By now there were maybe fifty of us packed into a space the size of a master bedroom. Others stood outside by the door.

This was a fomba, the Malagasy benediction ceremony. As the morning sunlight streamed through cracks in the walls, the proceedings began with palaver by various men. As usual I didn’t understand a thing, apart from some references to Melie and me. Then the king spoke up in a quavery voice. Christian whispered with awe that he had been born in 1906. Later on, Yaya, whom I suspect is better informed about the country’s mortality rate, dismissed this, as he did the framed ancien combattant certificate on the wall. “After the war with the French in 47-48, a lot of people claimed a lot of things,” he pointed out.

Gazing around the room, I saw that apart from the certificate, the décor consisted of very old plastic flowers, some faded family photos and a Chinese calendar. Conspicuously absent was the kitschy Jesus artwork seen in most homes. The explanation, perhaps, lay in the dusty, tobacco-colored tsorabe scrolls wedged in the rafters over the king’s head: in this household tradition edged out Christianity.

Already the sweat was dripping into my eyes. As I was trying to figure out how to get my handkerchief out of my pocket while folded into an orgami, people started to get up and troupe out. I followed the others filing around the house to an empty space on the ease side.

There I saw a zebu pinned to the ground with its legs bound. The last time I had seen this cow was yesterday at our gate as Monique haggled over the price. The animal now looked up with an impassive stoicism, similar to that of the white-capped man standing nearby holding a sword with a dark, curved blade. Earlier, through the doorway of the king’s house, I had seen a man toting a big bundle of banana leaves, used here as all-purpose drop cloths. Now I knew what they were for.

We stood in a circle around the beast. Someone indicated I should remove my cap. The king, leaning on his staff, said a few words, followed by Monique in an uncharacteristically subdued voice. Then we filed back the way we had come as the swordsman got down to work. Animal lovers look away now.

We squeezed ourselves back into the house, sat for a while and sweated. (I had fished my out handkerchief while outside.) In a few minutes two objects were passed in through the door. The first was the sword. It was placed on an armoire that stood against the east wall, dripping blood onto a lace doily. “The sword is very old,” whispered Christian. “It’s never cleaned and never gets dull.”

The second object was a big wooden bowl passed over the sitters’ heads to the king. He dropped a large silver coin into the liquid it contained, which resembled cherry Kool-Aid. Fishing it out, he flung drops out the window towards the east, summoning the ancestors.

Starting with Monique he then performed the benediction ceremony. As she scooted closer and bowed her head, the king sprinkled her hair, chanting. He did this three times. Next up was Melie. My turn was accompanied, as it always is, by jokes about the drops making my hair grow, which broke the tension. Then it was the turn of Christian and Hanta, our daughter-in-law, and her baby Arthur. The king followed this with collective benedictions for everyone else, flinging drops over their heads. When it was finished the women started singing, a cue for me to tear up. However, I blinked to clear my eyes. Any weeping at this point would have been fady, taboo.

To my surprise, whole ceremony was repeated, but this time by the man with the pointy gray beard that sat on the king’s left. “He’s the king’s seer,” Christian whispered. “I’ve never seen this happen before.” They’d clearly pulled out all the stops for the fomba. 

It's not that Monique had ordered up a deluxe performance, I learned later. Things don’t work that way up on Vatomasy. The correct, respectful and generous way she set everything up certainly had something to do with it. But the community had its own reasons for making this a big-in-Madagascar event. We were fortunate to have a front-row seat.