Funeral -redefined

We were invited to a burial this weekend. Not a funeral. The uncle of a close friend,  one of the last of the elders in his family had passed . He had been a big man in the community, well liked  and a significant influence supporting many members of  his village to go on to become educated.
Our friends, the daughters, nephews and cousins went off to the village of Mankwi early in the day to do preparations. A group of us volunteers shared a taxi and made our way off the pavement and into the mountains behind Bafut. The narrow road was dusty with occasional large rocks and a few potholes, squeezing to the side as an occasional taxi or truck roared past.  The views were majestic, through some seemingly unharvested forest, infrequent houses and a great valley falling away below to the mountain across the way,  eroded and scalped by the locals preparing to grow crops once it starts raining again.
Arriving in the village the road was plugged with pedestrians, parked buses and cars. Most folks dressed in their finest clothes, some in ceremonial robes and all the family we knew, wearing one fabric. As well there were choirs and women’s groups also all dressed in a "uniform" of colourful fabric making their way uphill to the church.
 Our friends welcomed us and insisted we head up to the church, along with  the continuous stream of arriving friends and relatives.
There were a few choirs,  the congregation sang,  eulogies and an overflowing building. But no lamentations.
After the service the coffin was driven down to the man’s residence where it was laid to rest in front of the house.
All around people were singing, greeting old friends and sharing food. We were offered the regional favourite Achu; cooked cocoyam with banana, wrapped in banana leaf. Unwrapped, it is spread round and round with flourish then formed into a mini bottomless bowl on the plate.  Yellow “soup” is ladled in and chunks of fish, chicken and/or beef placed beside. Normally eaten with index and pointer fingers much amusement ensues when I ask for a spoon. The spices in the sauce bear further investigation.

While our companions were busy snapping pictures, a parade of family and friends circulated through the room and through the village, meeting and greeting.
Outside we could hear  drums and after eating, walked down to where a dance group were performing surrounded by spectators.

What  a celebration of life! Everyone seemed joyous and friendly, although in the dancing there was occasional aggression and likely symbolic expression: Men shaking sticks and charging the circle of onlookers, occasional passionate arguing and of course the masked dancers posturing spinning, stamping their feet, ankles ringed with rattling seed pods.

No somber looks here, the pleasures of feasting, family reunion and witnessing the growth and maturation of children all speak to a culture focused on life and living.
And libation, the palm wine flowing freely, beer and carbonated sodas, men drinking from their cow horn cups, folks walking by in both directions with cases of beer, soda and jugs of mimbo.
During the dancing men were uncapping bottles and pouring it bubbling onto the ground amid shouts and clapping.
Back in the room where we had eaten, most of the Eco-builder  women's group began dancing with the folks from Betterworld  to the beat of a drummer,  practicing at first, with almost everyone in the room joining in.

I did my best to record their “entrance” weaving in among the celebrants down to the crowd at the main house where another group were dancing, circling the gravesite.






Our group stepped in once the others left. As I  filmed the dancers, everybody laughing singing and  having a good time I was struck by the lack of grief, the sheer exuberance and delight of the crowd. I managed to dance briefly as it wound down.

This was truly a celebration of life, the impact and deeply created connections of one man in community. It was inspiring. That’s what I want to happen when I go, no funeral for me,  instead family and friends celebrating the joy and appreciation for how well I lived my life.

The Fon's dance

Once a year the Fon (King or traditional leader) of Bafut hosts an amazing cultural festival the Bafut “Abin”. We have attended now 3 times and this year I danced. Finally!
 The official invitation  includes lunch with the Fon held on a grassy meadow below a massive tree to the left of the museum. At the top of the stairs to the museum, a guard let us through the gate. Chairs were spread along the stone fence overlooking the parade grounds and parking where the dance would take place. We arrived well after the stated start time and waited patiently for his highness, and everyone else to appear.
 When the Fon appears everyone  must stand, till he is seated, and the same when he leaves, till he’s out of sight. He sat flanked by his retainers in their tie dyed indigo ceremonial cloth “skirts”, shirtless, each holding a  2 metre spear.

To his right facing us (sort of, he was behind a small tree) dignitaries are placed according to some formula. Most of them know not to arrive too early, some managing to arrive as they were called up to eat into the serving line.
We sat in the shade, under a canopy till it was our turn to be called up.  The Princesses in traditional attire walked past and an almost endless procession of robed and hatted elites, relatives and invitees arrived. Beer was the chief liquid refreshment although there were also a variety of flavoured  bottled bubbling beverages available.
We were entertained by a local photographer tour guide, who found us to be interesting subjects dressed as we were in traditional clothing. This year I intentionally left my camera behind. Last year I spent most of the event staring through the viewfinder or at the display screen, attempting to capture the pageantry, sumptuous fabrics and embroidery  swirling around me.
It was not so bad at the festival, but I’ve experiencing some challenges taking pictures. The locals never seem to have an issue but my white face brings out resistance and demands for payment.

A number of familiar faces drifted by and we greeted and were greeted ourselves by old acquaintances and friends. This is a well attended opportunity to see and be seen, an annual gathering of the tribes. Family groups, dance groups and the like wearing similar fabrics, designating that they were representing some faction of the populace.
Once lunch was done we stepped out to sit together in one of the local bars while the traditional rites took place. Outside a continuous parade of brightly coloured robes and dresses passed by in the bright sunlight. A vendor came in and I bought a(nother!) hat. I’d noticed most men had a new one each year, so…
I spotted a group going past with swords, spears and bows and arrows so we finished our beers and wandered back through the throng. The crowd was growing, the bandstand full. We positioned ourselves in front of the sacred drum and watched a group slowly make it’s way towards us from the palace, beating drums and playing flutes.
The Fon and the Mayor stood out and blasted away with shotguns,

then the first group came chanting, brandishing weapons and posturing  to stand in front of the Fon and his party. The point of it all is to show they are fierce enough to protect and support the Fondom from attack. Pledging allegiance. But this year no other guns were fired and there were fewer groups or quarters represented.
And then the Fon  began leading a group of notables in the beginning of the dance. He made a small circuit, then sat down to watch. The drummers had maintained their rhythm and moved in closer to the centre.

As the Princesses passed by in a long line  sweeping their horse hair fly wisks in time with the beat, other folks tagged on. I was grooving to the beat and it just seemed natural to step in and follow along, with my cane in hand. The woman ahead of me was impressed and guided me through as we circled in a long oval past the spectators ringing the procession. Numerous cameras and cellphones caught me as I slowly shuffled along. As we approached the shrine she told me to face it as we danced past.
 As I passed the royal party, first the mayor and then the Fon , along with a number of dignitaries,  acknowledged me with raised fists or canes. I was able to respond in kind by lifting my cane.

After 3 or 4 passes both my guide and I were done and  we melted back into the crowd. As best I could anyway, being one of about 9 white faces in a sea of Bafut Cameroonians.
An incredible spectacle, I felt like a Bafut man dancing with the people.