Thoughts from Thaipoosam Cavadee

Welcome to Mauritius

If Madagascar smelt to me like doughnuts when I first arrived then I am afraid that I have no idea what Mauritius smells like. This is because my nasal receptors were damaged by inhaling all that heat when I landed. Mauritius is hot. Really hot. And humid. Very very humid. In fact it could be Malta on a seriously sticky August day before the rains come. But it is stunning; green mountains covered in low foliage rise out of the deep blue see and melt into the clouds. The sands are white and the sugarcane field make the flatlands look like a patchwork quilt.

My first view of Mauritius

I am staying in Mahebourg in a small family run guesthouse with an Indio-Mauritian family with two cats and three children. My room is modest but comfortable and my view over the river and mountains is breath taking. I arrived yesterday morning and the humidity was unbearable, I barely saw anything of the town before I escaped to the comfort of my air-conditioned room. There I read a little of my guidebook and had a cool shower before sitting on the bed and promptly falling asleep.  When I next woke it was early evening and I joined my host Reshma in her outdoor kitchen on the terrace where I helped to prepare the evening meal- fish curry with homemade flatbreads and a mango salad. I ate with some of the other guests and enjoyed pleasant conversation sitting in the living room until I began to feel my eyelids drooping and had to excuse myself for bed. I have determined that this sojourn in Mauritius should be one where work should be continued but beyond that I will do as I please, even if that means sleeping through most of it or lying on the beach every day. I slept deeply and undisturbed till around 7:30 Sunday morning when the sun streaming through my window woke me.

This cat might lead to me never leaving the guesthouse

Reshma's Kitchen

 The evening before Reshma had told me of a Hindu festival taking place in the village starting at around 10am and over breakfast she said to watch out for a procession going over the bridge from the balcony. At this time, she informed me, I would be able to just wander down a couple of blocks till I reached the main road and wait for the procession there. I did as she recommended and as soon as brightly dressed figures appeared on the bridge I made my way to the streets.

Me watching the bridge for the procession

 What happened next is something I am struggling to put into words. It was an experience so alien, so unexpected that I find it hard to believe what I saw. It was the festival of Thaipoosam Cavadee, which I have seem relayed on countless documentaries and recounted in many anthropology books but never did I think I would witness. During this festival, in honour of the son of Shiva, devotees gather at a temple and enter a state of prayer and meditation, they then pierce their lips and tongues with sharp skewers of varying sizes and walk carrying decorated bamboo structure to a neighbouring temple where the skewers are removed and the prayers continue.

Procession

My first alert to the approaching procession was the frenzied sound of drums and then in the distance began to appear large colourful platforms held aloft by men and women with pins and skewers adorning their bodies. The sun was bouncing of the tarmac and through the heat haze came the devotees. Walking barefoot on the road many were accompanied by family and friends who went before them spilling water and coconut milk on the asphalt in an attempt to easy the burning on the bare feet of their companions. The colours and sounds of an Indian celebration, accompanied by the laughter and song of children, were strange to see in juxtaposition to the increasing mutilation of the participants of the parade.

Bamboo alters decorated with flowers

As the procession went on the level of sacrifice undertaken by those involved began to increase. Soon the sight of a man with two or three skewers running through his tongue and cheeks was a welcome relief from the ghastly spectacles that were appearing on the bridge. Dozens of men and women passed us with larger, heavier structures and an ever-increasing number of needles adorning their faces and bodies. Children participated too, usually with the seemingly obligatory tongue and cheek skewers and the occasional silver leaf or feather adorning their forearms or chests. 

Next, accompanying the sound of drums, I began to hear the tinkling of bells and I searched for the source of the sound in the crowd. It was then that I realised that the new wave of pilgrims approaching where I stood had not only the facial mutilations of the first group but also had limes, weights and bells attached to their legs, torsos and backs by silver hooks running through the skin. These too carried large bamboo alters adorned with images and offerings to the gods and decorated with a wide array of beautiful, exotic, fresh flowers. I could not focus however on the religious significance of the alters, being too distracted by the figures carrying them.

The tinkling of bells will never be the same

 The third group of devotees came slowly, with structures so large balance on their heads that it took a group of other men to guide them through the maze of tree branches and telephone wires. Some had almost a hundred lime fruits weighing down hooks in their torsos and dozens more bells or decorations on their arms and legs. One man passed with hundreds of feather pins stuck all over him to the point where he began to resemble something other than human.

When the final group began to approach I put away my camera. I felt awkward and undignified taking pictures of these men. The bamboo structures had now grown so large and heavy from their adornments that they could no longer me carried aloft. Instead this, most dedicated group of devotees were dragging their alters behind them on wheels by a pulley system attached to them by two large hooks passing deep into their hips and backs. These men dragged dollies six or seven carts long on these cords and when they reached a bump or an incline it was clear the effort they were exerting. The mouth and cheek spears too had grown into poles almost an inch in diameter, often with weights on either end which were guarded by helpers who ensures they did not get caught on anything.

As the procession passed people would often lie down on the ground in front of particularly impressive participants who would then carefully step over them and then wait while they got out of the way of the dollies before continuing.

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I noticed at least that those progressing the slowest, due to the sheer magnitude of their burdens, had been given shoes and were not being forced to creep along the burning tarmac. It was not until the first of these approached me that I saw that what I thought were merciful sandals were in fact planks of wood, transformed into a bed of nails, which had been strapped to the feet of several of the older men. I was beginning to find the procession difficult to watch and as the last devotees melted into the haze of heat and saris I had to take a moment to catch my breath and control my stomach.

As I followed the procession I reflected on what I had seen. None of the participants had been crying or bleeding, despite obvious injury, and although many had shown signs of fatigue and exertion I would not say I had witnessed anyone seemingly in pain. Who am I to judge faith when I have none, and who am I to dismiss the fervent beliefs of others. I am not the one to say whether the astonishing spectacle was a display of the power of god or of the human mind and spirit. All I can say is that what I saw was mind blowing and certainly beyond the realms of my understanding of the world.

On my walk to the temple, following the sound of drums and bells and the smell of flowers and incense I was offered many refreshments from families gathered at the side of the road with cold drinks and buckets of water hoping to offer the pilgrims some relief on their journey. It was hot and I was thirsty and many of the people accompanying participants were accepting these offering but I just couldn’t reach out and take a cool glass of juice or small delicacy- it felt wrong, like cheating somehow when those ahead endured so much.

This man is pulling the structure behind him by those two chains attached to his back by hooks.

When I arrived at the temple I took off my shoes and followed the worshipers inside. At one entrance the pilgrims were being relieved of their heavy structures and led into the temple to give their offerings and be blessed in prayer. When they emerged they were led toward a dedicated group of men who removed the pins, skewers and hooks from they bodies and treated the wounds with what looked like ash from giant golden plates. I asked a temple usher if I was ok to be there and he smiled and nodded, “ofcourse”. I watched them removing the decorations from dozens of men, women and children and marvelled at the varying sizes and shapes of the adornments. I noticed too that although some had to be removed quite roughly very few people bled at all and those who did it was only for a second before the ash was swept across the body and the pilgrims returned to the temple for more prayer.

I moved away when the last group began to arrive. I am ashamed to say I could not watch the bigger implements being removed without flinching and cringing and after their long journey I felt it was the least I could do to not stare at them grimacing at the end, so I moved to a quiet part of the courtyard and watched from a distance. Countless people nodded or smiled at me, seemingly pleased by my presence, and several even came over to greet me and invite me to eat with them at the temple after the ceremony was over. Although I was honoured and deeply flattered I felt somehow that I was outstaying my welcome and that I ought to leave them to the less public portion of their ceremony in peace. With a last smile from the ushers and a shaken hand from some of the participants I slipped my flip flops back on and made my way back into the haze of colourful saris and incense smoke down the hill towards my guesthouse.

There are images that will stay with me all my life. Things that will effect me deeply even though I can not say how. There are moments in your life so humbling that you feel you do not even deserve your own memories of the events. This is one of those times for me and as long as I live I will never be able to accurately put into words what I saw, or what it meant or how I felt in that moment.

All I can hope is that I have managed to share just a little part of it through this blog and perhaps, some day, that I will be lucky enough to live another day like this one, which made me feel privileged and humbled at the same time.

PS

I must make an addition to this account of Cavadee, for even as I sat at the hotel, memories of the morning still fresh in my mind and this retelling of it just completed, I was approached my the family who runs the guesthouse I am staying in and invited to dinner with the community. They knew I had participated in the mornings events as an avid spectator and a few of the devotees and their families had prepared a traditional meal to eat together in the street.

This I partook in, eating from banana leaves the vegetarian fare traditional at this time I enjoyed an evening with strangers who treated me like friends, happy to share their experiences of the day and answer any question I might have. I was so welcomed by a community in which I am an outsider that it is hard not to romanticise the hospitality of Mauritians and say they are among the most genteel people I have had the fortune of meeting.

Truly I will remember this day forever.