Dogon Funeral

Before they slaughtered the cows, there was drumming.

A group of older women were gathered in a semicircle, banging on large wooden bowls, while others simply clapped along, all of them singing the rhythmic funeral songs.

We were watching a Dogon funeral in the small traditional village of Tiougou. Dogon tribes live in cliffside villages in eastern Mali, a dry, hot, desolate desert landscape carved out of the Sahel.

A prolonged 3-day event, as part of this funeral we’d already been treated to the unmistakable (and mildly disconcerting) sounds of celebratory gunfire throughout the night and into the morning, each loud shot prolonged by its echo bouncing off the desert cliffs.

The Dogon guide turned to me and said: “only women whom the deceased has slept with are allowed to bang the bowls.” Ohhhhh.

I looked at the gathering of Dogon women with much keener interest. A regular Don Juan de Dogon this fellow must have been, although it’s an odd thought to reflect on when most of the women in question looked like respondents to a casting call for “spot your Dogon great-great-grandmother.”

I wondered, too, if this practice led to any awkward moments between some of the women. As in, “what, you too?!” And what of these women’s current husbands? I tried to look for older men glaring from the sidelines, but didn’t see any. Clearly, I was projecting my Western biases on an entirely different culture. But still.

Speaking of which, our guide explained to us some of the marital customs. The parents pick the bride for their son, almost from birth, and they are married around twelve or thirteen. “No” is not an option, as our guide repeatedly insisted (leading me to suspect he may not have been entirely happy with his parent’s choice). Perhaps to make up for this, the husband is allowed to take on usually one but up to three more wives of his choice. And mistresses, of course.

The bride does not immediately move in with the husband. She first has to bear a child, which she then gives to her parents so that it can take her place since she will be leaving. Only when she has her second child does she move in with her husband.

Which, of course, led me to wonder: how does Don Juan fit into all this? As I understood the guide’s answer, until the woman starts to live with her husband, she’s free to explore with others (as is he). And hence the gaggle of women lustily banging away on the bowls for the funeral.

After the banging and the singing, a cow was dragged out to the main square. It was forced down onto the ground, and a Dogon man with a long knife slit its throat. Moving with remarkable efficiency, other men hacked off its horns, chopped off its tail, and skinned the carcass, leaving it to bloat in the mid-day heat.

Dancers wearing intricate traditional masks came out and danced around the cow, all of them physically fit men wearing what resembled purple Hawaiian hula skirts of straw and strings of shells across their chests. Masks play a vital role in Dogon culture and the complexities were far too intricate for me to understand, but the rhythmic dancing around the dead cow was mesmerizing and felt entirely appropriate. Later, rifles were fired again as part of another dance.

And with that, a Dogon village bade a final farewell to one of its men.