100 Days... Follow Up

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sher gave me the go ahead to publish this one, that she wrote about a month ago. while we were away, i received a couple more in the mail 😊. also, watch for a guest blog soon, written by none other than: me. oh yes, a firsthand account of our maewo experience. enjoy-b

Disclaimer - This is a long one!

We recently attended the all night dance on the eve of the 100th day of the dead who I have written of before. We walked to the site in the dark around 7:30 at night and were not surprised that we arrived early. The men who would start the dance were still drinking kava. As we waited for them to arrive, we chatted with some women and ate a second small dinner of boiled taro, island cabbage, and some very tough and chewy meat that Justin thinks was heart (glad I didn't have that milling through my head while I was chewing and chewing). Sitting there by light of kerosene with no idea what and how long this evening would entail, I felt rather Zen and in the moment with no expectations and genuine interest in what was to come. That seems to be the best way to go about life in another culture.

The men came quietly up the small hill to the yard outside the house, close to the grave. The now cemented grave had a roof of metal blocking it from the elements and was decorated with a nasasa (a colorful bush) with leaves of red and green. There was a kerosene lantern hanging from the roofing with its glass as pristinely clean as I have ever seen (usually they are accented with smoke smudges or bug guts). The light, too, seemed to be brighter, and I wondered in they were burning coconut oil instead of kerosene. The coconut oil is supposed to be a brighter, whiter light. The men would soon have to leave their passive, relaxed, kava-induced state and rile up the energy to dance and sing.

A few kids pulled a mat out to the yard to lie on and we sat on benches brought from inside the house. A coconut-scraper-stool was brought for an "olfala man" who was a strong singer, but not fit to stand the entire time. The mend huddled around and started to sing. Now, just earlier that day I was singing in our kitchen a favorite song that my Grandma Brock used to sing to us kids, a song of nonsense words like, "kemo kimo billy bug jingo" and "sing a song kelly ketchy kim e o." At this point, my local language is apparently not up to part with lyrical vocabulary because the words these men were singing could have gone right along with my Grandma's song.

Even though they were singing for someone who had died, the songs were not necessarily mournful or slow. This night, there were two types of music going on simultaneously. We first started out with the strong, what I would call "ho-down" style of music that the men stomped and clapped their hands to. The women participated in the singing as well as a Charlie Brown style run in place; scrape the ground with your feet type dance. Justin and I joined in, but I only lasted a few songs. The women's dance is intense; rather reminiscent of my days of running on an elliptical at the Rec. I "ran-danced" enough to break a sweat, then fell back with the other women who were resting in an outer ring.

The dress code for the night was definitely come as you are; which for Maewo constitutes an odd mixture of second hand T-Shirts and shorts, lots of island graphics and brands like Quiksilver and Billabong. The most common denominator, as far as apparel was concerned, were long island baskets the men had probably walked to the nakamol with to carry their kava roots. These, slung over head and one shoulder, hung down their backs, wagging in the starlight as they stomped, clapped, and sang.

As the singing grew stronger, the old fellow who had been sitting on the coconut scratcher decided to stand up. He supported his weight with both hands braced on a walking stick, but even then he stood hunched over, about half the height of the other men. But his voice and confidence made up for his seemingly smaller stature. You could tell his age just by listening as his voice warbled, but what he had that made him stand out from the others was the knowledge of the songs. When other voices mumbled or trailed off during the verses, this man proudly, shamelessly sang out. He held his ground pretty well too, edging his way back into the circle with his walking stick if he ever found himself outside it.

A sharp contrast to the old fellow was a young girl in silver studded, form fitting jeans (a rarity on Maewo). She hung in the shadows, giggling with her cousins, and finally worked up the courage to dance out in the star light. Instead of the customary stomp or Charlie Brown, she had a more hip-hop style groove. The light caught on the studs of her jeans and the whites of her teeth. She was self-conscious and flighty in her dancing, while the old man was confident and timeless. And yet, the great thing is just that she was there, participating in her own way, and not off being too cool for her families' custom.

The second kind of music was based on spearing a tambia. A tambia is a flat piece of wood. Some are used for making a certain kind of laplap called nalot, some for grinding kava, and then some are used for making music. The men stand around the tambia and pound it with thick sticks, giving the music an organic thump at its foundation. This style of music is more husky and dark, though not melancholy. This cluster of men set up camp about a hundred yards away from the other group and often in transitions between songs, one groups' music infiltrated the others'. A few women stood on the outskirts to watch the tambia group, but it was mostly men who participated in this song and dance. The dance for the tambia music followed the beat with a step-together-step to one side followed by the other. It is said that the spearing tambia music is straight from Maewo, while the stomp clap is a mixture of Penama province, so Pentecost, Maewo, and Ambae. While with the other group I was dancing and felt very much a part of the music, here the mood was more contemplative. It was easy to gaze at the star freckled sky, framed with silhouettes of coconut palms and banana leaves and lose my sense of self to the music.

After a few hours of music, the women broke away from the group and started preparing to bake for the next day. They hauled bundles of taro that had been donated by family from other villages to the local kitchen and went into the bush with flash lights for firewood. Earlier, while we were waiting for the singing and dancing to begin, a man had dropped off his taro contribution. A young girl was recording the names and villages of everyone who brought food in an old day planner notebook. She showed me the names of 102 people who had brought taro for the 100 day feast! No wonder the women were planning to start baking at 1:00 am. Hopefully, the entertainment of the men singing in the background helps ease the burden of the work.

We didn't stay long enough to see this, but the men sing and dance until the sun comes up. Then some drink kava to help them relax and fall asleep amidst the hustle and bustle of the day and others force themselves to stay awake and help out with the work. The family will also present those who stayed the entire night with a small gift of matches. I found this a rather symbolic gift because of their saying that after the 100 days, the fire of the person's spirit is dead; so matches to start new fires seemed particularly meaningful. But in asking around, the women simply regarded the matches as a small yet practical thank you gift.

After a few hours, the foreign lyrics of the songs all began to meld together and sound the same. We shook hands and air kissed cheeks with women of the family to initiate our departure. We were very thankful that they would openly share this ceremony with us, probably far more than their native culture will allow them to understand.

We walked home and got there around midnight. After a cold shower and with bellies still full from our double dinner, we fell right asleep, thinking of those less than a mile away singing their hearts out.

The next afternoon, we walked down to Kaivo to Justin's host family's house to spend the night with them. Justin's dad planned to have Justin take his first rank at the nakamol and kill a pig in conjunction with the end of the dead ceremonies so that not many people would come. As we walked past the nakamol closest to the house of the dead, there were tons of men overflowing out of the nakamol and out the door. There was a definitely somber mood that made passing by on the road a little uncomfortable.

While Justin stayed behind with his dad and uncles, I went on to meet his mama at the house. We would up hanging out with Fufu Rose, chatting about the upcoming visit of my family. I ate dinner there as it was growing dark. I wasn't too sure what I was eating; rice, cabbage, and something chewy? When I shined my flashlight on the plate, I saw small, slimy, pink chunks of meat. Turns out it was "nawita" or octopus. Sure enough, if I looked close enough I could see the small suction cup tentacles. Its taste and texture was like a really chewy, really salty hot dog. Lovely.

The next morning, the day of Justin's pig killing ceremony, a cargo ship came. That means most of the village was down at the beach putting something on the ship, receiving something off it, or just looking. As soon as the ship moved on and the onlookers cleared out, Justin's brother drug a small, squealing pig to the front yard of the nakamol. Even as it was about to happen, I was still not at all sure what to expect and neither was Justin. Would there be blood? A custom dance? A long toktok by some of the men in the village?

Justin's dad brought a taboo stick for him to "kil" the pig with. The stick was about the height of a walking stick, but smooth and carved on the top. It was made of a dense wood and only used for ceremonial purposes. With his bumbu on one side and his dad on the other, Justin was instructed to "kil," or hit, the pig four times on the forehead. He did. I thought it was supposed to kill it, but it was only stunned so that his dad could easily finish the job by cutting the pigs’ throat. The rest of the day, the men roasted the pig as well as taro inside the nakamol. Any food prepared inside the nakamol is taboo for every woman and any man who has not yet killed a pig to eat. This is taken very seriously and, even though Justin came home with leftovers, I cooked for myself while he snacked on his taboo food.

Since the guys were doing their taboo thing, I went with the women to cook for the final "kakae" for the dead. This was the 101st day, so families would be heading home now. About seven women (plus me) met at a kitchen about a fifteen minute walk from the burial site to bake laplap. They baked two huge ones. The style for the final, 101st day is to lay taro leaves on the bottom of top of the grated taro mush to be baked into it. Also, within the laplap, small cups are made from taro leaves and pressed into the uncooked batter and filled with coconut milk.

Sitting around while the women prepared the laplap, I was growing miserably bored. The women were storying in language and didn't really want me to help because taro can "kakae man," literally bite you, or make you scratch. So I was sort of pushed to the side. Then I noticed the light in the kitchen was unusually good as the space between the bamboo walls and natangura (a leaf used for roofing local houses when dry) roof was bigger than typical kitchens. When I asked the women if they minded if I took pictures, they got pretty excited and that was my new role for the day. Every step they thought I should take a picture, which was perfectly fine with me and my inner photographer bug.

When the laplap was done, we parceled it up with pieces of beef and stacked it into metal wash basins. 73 parcels in all! The women carried the basins on their head to the nakamol to give to the men who were sharing their last sorry there. Justin's mama and I continued down the road to the house where the grave is. Earlier that morning, she had had me make a "banana cake" (aka banana bread) for breakfast. She suggested saving a piece of it for one of the daughters of the woman who died. The daughter had given up flour for the 100 days. Some people give up taro, but she chose not to eat any form of flour. I walked up to the local kitchen where the women there were also sharing food parcels to give her the piece of cake in a plastic sack. Later, she gave me a hefty parcel of laplap with a nice chunk of beef.

We sat and waited. Once the chore of sharing food was complete, the gravity set in. The daughter who I had given the cake to is the woman I always hear and see when I remember the wailing. She was the one to start it again. The women all took their cue and, wailing along with her, almost mechanically set about their next task: building a fire. They were to burn all the instruments used to make food for the past hundred days. This was the first time I had witnessed the burning element of the dead ceremonies. It was emotional. I found out too that they burn the old clothes of the one who has died.

I just don't have the nerve to take pictures during these moments, but the images are burned into my mind forever. At one point, the daughter took a basket full of clothes to burn. As she tossed each article into the flames, she first smelled it, before giving it over to the flames. I understand that act so well it shakes me. I hope to never forget the visual of the daughter's silhouette before the gigantic flames, head in hands as she waits for the clothes to burn, crying her last cry for her mother. Powerful stuff.

Justin's mama and I walked back to her house in a respectful silence. Justin was ready to go within an hour, complete with a bundle of taboo pork and taro to take to his host brother, Kenny, who stays at the school, as well as for himself. If I hadn't been given beef earlier that day, I probably would have been rather bummed. With night fully settling in, we headed home to share the food with Kenny and relate the days' experiences to each other.

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Photos

Nakamol
The tabu nakamol

Taking Rank
Justin giving the pig thump #3

Ready to bake
Some materials to bake laplap. Notice the taro leaves and big dish of grated taro mush ready to go. And the fire heating the baking stones in the background.

Coconut Filling
Filling the taro leaf cups with coconut milk

Hot Stones On Top
Piling hot stones on top of the ready-to-bake laplap

Nalot
Topping the Breadfruit Nalot with coconut cream. Her hand is holding a coconut shell filled with cococut milk and a hot stone from the baking fire to heat the milk into cream as it is poured on top.

All done!
The laplap is done and being cut up and parceled into banana leaves with a bit of bullock for the men at the nakamol.

Delivery
Women carrying wash basins full of parceled laplap to the nakamol.

Comments

[BOURDET Alex]

Hi! I'm Alex. I have a project on Vanuatu. Can I use some of your photos? Sincerely Alex.

[Sheridan]

Permission to use Pictures
Hi Alex, I know this is probably too late for your project, but you'd be welcome to use pictures from my blog. Please give credit by using the address: mytb.org/sheridan or my name. Thanks and I hope your project went well!