Meutoh
awakened about six o'clock by drums. Looks like a ceremony. I get up, orchestrated by the percussion ... who happen to be beaters rice. Installed in homes, stick in hand to chase the chickens, married women - they wear the traditional headdress - prepare food for the day, some wearing an open jacket over their chest.
punch its weight on a board: the ram rises. Down from the board: the pestle falls into the mortar. Weigh on the board: the drumstick up. Down: he falls into the mortar. That the night black sun well up. I stroll into the village to the sound of this music archaic.
Clay littered with crap pigs, dogs, children. We understand why the feet are the impure part of the body, and why we live on stilts. From time to time a dog attacks me. People are wary - especially women, who fear that I take a picture. Nevertheless, overall, I'm fairly well tolerated because yesterday the chief's wife made me go round the village proudly show everyone that I had made the design of her cap.
Above the village, near the "door" - portico sculptures frightening that deter evil spirits - a large open space. While I take notes on the spot, a young girl who carries a baby on her back hangs in front of me and stares at me. The baby does not flinch.
Nailed on a large tree, three feet above the ground, a wooden triangle with three branches on either side that rise toward the sky and mobiles hanging. Above, a gantry supports long sticks placed crosswise. At right, a gallows about five feet, above which is wound a rope. While I'm thinking that the sacred is almost palpable, driven by the music of drums Rice women, the girl who looks at me piss standing under his sin.
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