A Love of 'Firsts'

I love ‘firsts’- I always have and seeking out new ‘firsts’ has led me to some of the greatest experiences of my life. I am by nature a very cautious and boring person- I don’t do anything to excess and my feelings of guilt and duty have always put a curb on any whisper of rebellion in my soul. The pursuit of ‘firsts’, however, has always been one of my greatest pleasures and is the one thing I believe keeps me teetering on the edge of ‘depressingly boring and stade’- even if something does not initially appear to be my cup of tea I will be sorely tempted to participate if it is something I have never done before.

This drive is what has led me overseas, what has prompted me to try wacky travel, wacky food and wacky activities and has kept me excited about the way I have chosen to live my life. Even my accident evoked in me this excitement at having had my first serious accident, my first broken bone, my first bionic appendage and even gave me my first taste of travel first class. The accident, like many of my ‘firsts’, is something I would happily leave in the ‘one time only’ bin but there are others, like my experiences this past Saturday, that I would love to recreate- but somehow, even if you succeeded, there just wouldn’t be the magic there was the first time.

This week my volunteer Caroline has had her parents over to visit and as a result has been out and about with them seeing all the local beauty spots. Many of these places I have been to, and written about, before but there has always been one that eluded me- the naturally occurring rock formations known as the ‘Tsingy Rouge’. Due to their distance and reputedly ominous roads I have never had the opportunity to see these infamous rose-coloured pillars towering out of the blood red earth of the Tsingy canyon and I have always wanted to. So when Caroline said that her parents had rented a 4x4 to get them to the Tsingy and had invited me along I was more than excited.

I worked my butt off all week to ensure the trip felt well earned and I prepared for the house to be smoothly run while I went out into the sticks for the day. Caroline’s parents must have detected my sense of occasion because the day before we were due to leave they suggested we start the day with breakfast together at the most exclusive hotel in Diego, another first for me. I had hot chocolate and a fresh croissant followed by colourful macaroons and already felt pampered before we even got into the car.

This was my first major car journey since my accident and I have to admit that a combination of African roads, port-town freight traffic and a driver who pushed 90km/h soon left me feeling queasy in the front seat. When the driver sped up to try and re-overtake another 4x4 who he’d been playing leap-frog with since town I eventually gave in and asked him to pull over so I could swap seats with someone and sit in the back. I soon forgot my anxiety however as the townships of Diego gave way to the rolling hills of the North, swathed in the lush green of the rainy season. As I sat back with the wind blowing the smell of the heat into my face I felt my stresses melt away into the endless blue sky.

At breakfast, when going over the plans for the day, Caroline and the driver agreed that since the Tsingy are best seen in the glow of the afternoon that we would add a trip to the sacred lake in Anivorano in the morning before lunch and then stop off at the Tsingy on the way back to town. This suited me as I had never been to this well-known spiritual nexus and it is often referred to in local folklore and superstitions. There is also talk in town of crocodiles in the lake- yet another first for me as I had never seen crocs before and was eager to spy a spiny backbone gliding across the water.

We arrived at the entrance to the sacred lake at around 09:30 and headed down the auburn mud road toward the lake, spraying mud behind us as we slid down the path due to the recent rainfalls. The path was cut into the earth and the sides of the 4x4 were brushing the sides of the ditch as we slid down in the direction of the lake- at one point a young boy herding two huge zebu pulling a plough came struggling up in the other direction. I gasped as our driver barely slowed down but with a deft flick of his supple twig the zebu hauled themselves, and the plough over the verge and down onto a field parallel to the road.

When we finally arrived at the lake it was exactly as I had pictured it- mango trees flanked the shore and between the rushes at the waters edge you were treated to a glorious view of sparkling water in the morning sun. It was certainly picturesque and a glorious natural beauty but something was off. All around us were local Malagasy, dressed in their Sunday best and heading toward the banks of the lake. I removed my shoes, as is the custom in any sacred area, and let the river mud squelch between my toes before heading down to the lake to see what all the fuss was about. The sounds of pounding feet, clapping, singing and ululating got stronger as I headed toward the banks of the lake and I stopped for a while to watch the local people dancing and singing in a hypnotic rhythm as a small zebu calf was led down to a large tree on the edge of the rushes. I asked what the zebu was there for and was amazed by the reply: “today is a sacrifice day. The zebu will be slaughtered and the blood used to call the crocodiles to the banks where they will be fed sanctified meat to thank them for bestowing blessings on a family who sought their help”. 

We had arrived at the perfect time, totally by fluke, and were welcomed into the group with open arms. I was about to witness a local custom few Malagasy had even seen and in the process spot more than a floating flash of crocodile, as I had dared to hope on our approach. The ceremony had begun in earnest and with the singing and pounding reaching fever pitch something unbelievable happened- lured by the vibrations they know to precede a good meal the crocodiles began to gather. The tell-tale ‘S’ shaped ripples began to come across the lake towards us and then suddenly around ten of natures most powerful predators were hauling themselves out of the water and heading straight for the sound of singing- and us.

Lining up for lunch

"A Table!"... "J'arrive!"

The entire ceremony passed in a blur. Three families had coordinated to offer up thanks to the crocodiles on this day so as we watched two large fattened animals were brought to join the calf and all three were bound tight. The blessing began with women from the donating families washing the cows in fresh water before slapping the flank of the animal to send it on it’s way into the afterlife. At this point the air became thick with the smell of incense as the local spiritual leader began to pray over each zebu, accompanied by the sounds of blades being sharpened beneath the tree. Finally each cows neck was twisted and stretched and a ceremonial knife was used to slit each throat before an axe was taken to the neck of the beast. None of the zebu seemed to struggle and there was very little noise to speak of but watching them die gave me mixed feelings. The blood was so red it looked like fake Halloween blood and some was collected onto a golden plate, which was then washed in the lake to announce the start of the feeding. Then, with all three cows lifeless, the men began to remove the most sacred parts of the animal for the crocodiles.

Sacrifice

First came the fatty hump- the most expensive and valued part of any zebu, followed by a chuck off the rump and the testicles. The men tossed each part across to the waiting crocodiles, who swallowed each piece whole without much effort. The feast then proceeded to the legs, hooves, ribs and so on until the whole right side of the three zebu had been devoured by the waiting reptiles- obvious throwbacks to the dinosaurs who once roamed the planet.

I have never seen such power as was evidenced by the crocodiles. The crunched through even the toughest bones without a thought and swallowed whole legs and rib sections whole. The were quiet and patient and appeared to take turns waiting for the offering before turning and slithering over their brothers to consume their winnings in the shallows before re-joining the back of the queue.

Despite their apparent docility I was a little nervous to be just a few feet away from one of natures deadliest predators and I voiced my concerns to a group of friendly Malagash. They laughed and replied that since the sacred crocodiles were once human they do not eat human flesh, as that would be cannibalistic. And so I learned the legend of the sacred lake:

Reminders of the sacrifices that came before...

“A long long time ago a village once stood on the spot where the sacred lake is now. The people of this village all belonged to one tribe and were a tight knit community who helped each other get through hard times. However, one afternoon during the hot season, when the sun was high in the sky and the red clay burned the soles of the feet a stranger staggered into the village. He was not of their tribe and he came unannounced to the village- he was stumbling and sweating and crying out for water. But water was scarce and the villagers were loathe to share what they had with an outsider. The old man collapsed in the centre of the village and cried “I am dying of thirst- will no one give me a sip of water”. One by one the villagers turned their backs and left the man to die. Only an old woman hovered behind and finally came forward with a bowl half full of water saying, “It is not much, but what I have I share with you”. The man thanked the old woman and warned her that her village would be punished for their selfishness and greed and that she should leave the village if she valued her life. She did as the man warned and that night, from the top of a nearby hill, she watched as water began to flood the village, submerging the houses of her neighbours and flowing freely through the streets. She knew the curse of the stranger was taking shape- the village was drowning in the very water he had been denied. But that was not all- the selfish villagers, who had been willing to watch a stranger die for want of a drink, were suddenly transformed into crocodiles; cold blooded and vicious they would be cursed to live forever surrounded by water, feared and loathed by those who came upon them. Some say if you look closely you can still make out their identities by the bracelets and earrings they wear.”

It turns out that even now the Malagasy believe that, infused with the powers of the supernatural, one can strike a bargain with the crocodiles- give me my wish and I will bring a fatted calf to the banks of the lake in thanks. That is why so many Malagasy make deals with the crocodiles of the sacred lake, and are dedicated in fulfilling their end of the bargain if their prayers are answered.

Don't see any earrings on this one...

I did not see any jewellery on the crocodiles in the lake, but perhaps that is because I am a sceptic and I tricked my brain into seeing that flash of gold or silver as a ripple or reflection in the water. The crocodiles seemed to know when the feast was over as they turned, en mass, and slid back into the water as soon as the spiritual leader began to divide the left sides of the cows among the gathered crowds.

I watched as the spiny ridges snaked across the surface of the lake into the glare of the sun and wondered what I have done in my life to deserve the gift of such experiences as this. I am so grateful for the life I live despite my occasional lapses in faith and I know these memories will keep me strong when life gets tough…

Look out for part 2 of this blog ‘Sakafo and Tsingy”