SIT is well loved at the village of Ifotaka, the Tandroy village I already mentioned. Last summer our organization built a small campground (where we stayed these past few days), a shower (a walled in space with a drain and a bucket), a toilet (located appropriately west, traditionally the direction of impurity) and most importantly provided the funds for a new schoolhouse. We’ve also made ourselves a major source of income for the village, as every time we visit (three times a year) we hire local guides, local cooks, and pay various villagers to submit to intensive questioning about their lives and habits. This year we did one more thing too, to inaugurate this summer’s success. We bought a zebu, the local breed of cattle which represents wealth to the local people.
An example of how important the zebu is to their culture. We interviewed one of the local subsistence farmers, a man who has spent all sixty something years of his life working the same traditional plot of land that his ancestors had cleared uncountable years ago. One of the girls wanted to know, “Are you satisfied with your life?” and got an immediate no. Our translator asked him what he was missing, and the man told us that he needed three things to be happy. Most important, more zebu. Second, more children. Third, money. This comes from a man who lives in the region most afflicted by droughts, famines, and poverty in all of Madagascar (in its turn one of the poorest countries in the world). What’s missing in his life? He could do with a few more cows.
So. We bought a zebu; medium sized, with a white forehead. In Madagascar, the markings of a zebu often predetermine its future use. Zebu with white foreheads are sacrificed to celebrate grand occassions. At midday, we gathered around the Kily (Tamarind) tree, a traditional meeting place in Antandroy. Under it’s shade were already assembled the twenty or so men of the village, and some important personages from around the rest of the Fokontany. Children were welcome to lean over shoulders, so long as they were quiet, but the woman had to listen from afar; decision making is men’s work. First came the speeches, an important part of village life when there is no written culture and one’s importance is measured by one’s ability to orate (and the number of zebu in your herd, of course).
First, the speaker of the village talked; he crouched towards the eastern side of the group, crouched so that he could be on the same level as us when he spoke. It would be very rude to speak to someone if one of you were sitting and the other standing. He spoke at length, and to little effect, about reciprocity and hopes for a good future with SIT. The eastern side of the tree was then yielded to Barry, one of our professors, and then Jim, his boss. Next the Chef du village spoke, and finally the President of the Fokontany. The most important person always speaks last; it has been explained to me that the rational for this also explains why the rear of the zebu is the most prized part, and why it is acceptable to speak with your back to the east. The president of the Fokontany (a Fokontany is a region that is self governed by a locally organized government. Often, local people completely ignore state law, obeying only dictates from within their Fokontany. If something is stolen, they are more likely to report it to the President than to the local gendarmes) went to some length to assure people that our presence here was a good thing. The Vazaha, he reminded all there, brought light to Madagascar. He gestured to his shoes and pants as examples of the good work we have done. “These Vazaha”, he told all there, “Have not come to steal our land or harm us, but to help”. We hadn’t realized before this was translated for us that those other options had generally been considered a strong possibility.
Once the speeches were through, we had to demand a blessing of the village elder. He was an old man of perhaps seventy, who sat with the others, listening attentively and wearing a traditional woven Tandroy hat. The hat was a rounded dome with a narrow spiked brim, and was decorated with a metal ring, a pouch of medicinal herbs, chicken feathers, and some plastic jewels. It was quite the hat. A gift of money was required to “Open his mouth” and once Jim and Barry had handed this over, the man stood slowly. We all got up too. Carefully, he selected a branch from the Kily tree and broke it off. We all made our way to the western side of the school, where our Zebu was lying on it’s side, legs tied together. We crouched down again in a large group, while the old man took the branch and began splashing water with it from out of a coconut shell. He splashed us, then made his way in a clockwise circle around the school, splashing as he went.
The young men gathered around the zebu, some to hold it down, one with a bucket and one with a bowl, and another with a kitchen knife. The elder returned, and with him standing by, the zebu’s throat was quickly slit, right through the arteries, airway, and esophagus. The men calmly held it still while another solemnly caught the blood in a bowl and poured it into the bucket. There was a lot of it. The elder leaned over to dip the kily branch in the fresh blood, mixing it back into the water. He then walked around the school again, splashing, and went inside to splash the desks and chalkboard as well. When the zebu was just about finished, we were gestured forward into the school. Most of the village plus us attempted to cram into a tiny space, squeezing up against each other and around blood spattered tables. The speaker of the village stood at the front and spoke again. One of our Malagasy professors, N’aina, brought forward three bottles of Malagasy honey rum, which were accepted graciously. The bottles were then passed around the room and everyone sipped.
By then, some of us were close to passing out in the heat, and so the SIT students left to return to the campsite. We left by going the long way around the building, so that we didn’t pass by the zebu but instead walked towards the north east and left towards the southeast, moving clockwise.
The final step of this rite, the division of the meat, was not open to us. Because we had given the zebu to the village, it was there to divide. The order of division of the pieces of meat was indicative of position in the village; this time the most important ranks go first. We were given a piece third; it was delicious. The best ritually sacrificed animal I’ve ever tasted.
