Red rice for the feast

Vohipeno part three. 

After the fomba I walked back down the hill to where we always stay in Vohipeno, the house of Monique’s mother, Jeanne d’Arc, who died in 2008. Monique, meanwhile, had other ceremonial business to attend to. I’m still not sure what all it entailed. But it involved an extended walk on a flooded path to a piece of family land some distance away, where a ritual was conducted. And what of the hapless zebu? It became the main course of a feast up on Vatomasy enjoyed by somewhere between 150 and 200 extended family members.

The party starts

Night was already falling, early and suddenly as it does in the tropics, by the time Monique returned. I was directing a face-making competition with the kids when she showed up at the head of a noisy procession of dancing women bearing the empty food platters.

This marked the start of a wild dance party. An uncle of Monique’s had installed a sound system in the living room: a pair of cabinets with 15” speakers and no tweeters. Even with the treble turned all the way up the sound blasting out was lo-fi. As it happened, this perfectly suited the 1970s and 80s Malagasy music that Yaya had on his computer: mp3 files transferred from worn-out cassettes that hadn’t had much high end to start with.

And continues

Soft drinks and Three Horses Beer flowed freely, as did dzama. This was not the aged elixir, smooth and golden, we quaffed at Vovo’s (see Feb. 25). Instead, it was reminiscent of something you’d use to strip paint. The idea, someone remarked conspiratorially, was to start people drinking early so that they wouldn’t stay on too late. For us VIPs, meanwhile, Monique had prepared an especially delicious batch of her cocktail: rum, freshly squeezed orange and lemon juice, grated ginger, cinnamon sticks and vanilla bean – all local ingredients.

* * *

Dressed for church

Next morning over coffee, also local, and mokary (rice cakes), everyone agreed that the weekend had been a huge success. Accompanied by much good will, it had generated a lot of social capital, for want of a nicer phrase. In more concrete terms it means, for instance, that folks are happy to come help out whenever we show up. Extra hands are essential in Vohipeno, where daily life is just a step above camping.

More critically, it ensures wide participation and support at ceremonial occasions, especially funerals. There’s also a reputation to maintain. Monique’s family may have had its run-ins with the local establishment – her maternal grandmother’s scandalous relationship with a Frenchman is remembered to this day. But her parents had a lot of standing in the community, boosted by the success of their musical progeny.

Monique takes this responsibility seriously. That’s why throughout our stay the house  received a constant stream of well-wishers, most movingly and raucously the church choir that Jeanne d’Arc had belonged to. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to accompany Monique to church for the elaborate Easter morning do. (It’s the first time she’s attended in years; she has a very low opinion of Church and its clergy.) But church came to us with the choir’s visit.

The day ended with a sunset visit to Vohipeno’s river, Matitanana. We asked some boys emerging from the water whether they were worried about the crocodiles. “No,” they replied, “We’re Antimoro and it’s our river.”