"No bikini ... NO BIKINI !!!"

[7/29/07 Dear Christian Groth, When the Sakalava people cleanse the bones of their kings, they do so in the strict privacy of a temple. Being a nosey journalist, I had to try to see the ceremony first-hand. There are many rules for would-be entrants to the temple, the most bizarre of which is that you can’t wear underwear underneath the sarong that’s wrapped around your waist (another requirement). Christian, the translator I had hired for the day, knew I wasn’t following that rule, since I tied the sarong around my shorts after my taxi pulled up to the entrance of the dusty ceremonial grounds. Christian lives about 200 yards from the site of this ceremony, but never attended until this year – and then only because I paid him. He believes the ancestors will curse people for breaking their rules, or fady. So, out of genuine fear for my safety from commando-minded spirits, he tugged on the sleeve of my shirt and pleaded with me not to try to talk my way in to the temple. “You cannot have undarageraments,” he said, his accent thick enough that I didn’t understand. A moment of silence passed. Christian reformulated his thought. “No bikini, NO BIKINI!” he said. “Who’s going to check?” I said. “No bikini!” he repeated. I tried to get in anyway, shorts and all. I failed. Maybe the ancestors here have x-ray vision. Superman kings or something. -- SUTTER]

I bring you my zebu (it's like a bull)

[7/29/07 Dear Mom, People bring gifts to the king at this ceremony, asking to be healed or to be granted good luck. Six zebu -- the scrawny, hunch-backed cattle found in much of Africa – had their necks slit for this ceremony. They were splayed on the ground next to the temple where the king’s bones are cleaned. – John]

Troomba Room(ba)

[7/28/07 Dear Julie and Mark, Traditional Sakalava people, who once ruled western Madagascar, believe in spirit mediums, or people who become possessed with the spirits of dead royalty. They call the person and the trance a troomba. A person generally has a life-long relationship with the ghost who rents out his or her body for the purpose of telling modern day Sakalava what they’re doing right and wrong, and offering blessings and curses. An anthropologist, Michael Lambek, of the University of Toronto, told me troomba advise many aspects of life, from sex practices to the direction of the kingdom (which lately exists primarily to support these ceremonies). On Sunday night, the night before this big ceremony when four kings’ bones are cleaned, accordion music and dim light coaxed out the spirits. Sitting on the floor in a one-room palm-thatch building, people clapped along with accordion music and swayed in rhythm. A single candle cast a faint yellow light on the scene. Then, out of nowhere, a woman sprang her feet, and, head flopping back, waved wave her arms in the air, flailing about. That’s the possession. It seems like a performance, since the rhythmical clapping kind of eggs the troomba on. It reminds me a lot, honestly, of a concert festival experience, where the energy of the crowd and the performer ebb and flow as one. – John]

We built this city of tents for you, undead kings

[7/28/07 Dear Augie, On Sunday night, I went to a celebration called the Fitanpoha (pronounced FEET-am-poor), which honors four dead kings from the Sakalava tribe. Actually, my ancestors are probably cursed for my having written that, since people here believe the kings aren’t dead, but live on in a spirit world. You can be cursed for just saying that that’s not the case. Much less for writing it/publishing it online. And much less for doing it on Tuesday, the day of fady, or taboos, when some people in Madagascar virtually don’t do anything for fear of offending an veritable cult of judgmental ancestors, waiting to sneer at their every action. (Snakes are supposedly their messengers, by the way, so maybe it’s to my benefit that snakes can’t read a blog). So anyway, this place was rockin -- kind of like Boneroo or Woodstock, but with a heavier emphasis on spirit possession. A whole city of bars and stores popped up where a dusty field on a hilltop used to be. The throw-up metropolis was held up by raw-cut tree branches and draped in tapestries. Malagasy people like to listen to their music inaudibly loud, and you feel the dissonance and metallic screeching of overblown speakers when you walk down the dirt alleys between the tents. Roulette wheels, made of bicycle wheels and bolts, spin all through the night. People sleep on the ground, waiting for the cleaning of the kings’ bones in the morning. They have a Christmas-level sense of anticipation, which is pretty cool. Hope concert season is on in Oklahoma. – Sutter]