I have read about two concepts, (astonishingly, both in the memoirs/novels of Elizabeth Gilbert), which (together with the more familiar concept of the South African ‘mbongi’) sum up the exact work that I would like to spend the rest of my life doing.
The first concept is that of a Codega, which I discovered in Eat, Pray, Love: “In Venice in the middle ages there was once a profession for a man (and possibly for some hardcore women too) called a ‘Codega’ – a fellow you hired to walk in front of you at night with a lit lantern, showing you the way, scaring off thieves and demons, bringing you confidence and protection through the dark streets.”
I was thrilled and charmed by the idea of a Codega, both figuratively and literally. I immediately wanted to be one when I grew up.
But now I have also discovered the concept of a ‘Rauti’ in Elizabeth Gilbert’s more recent book, ‘The Signature of All Things’ and I am utterly unhinged by it. She describes it perfectly herself in the extract below, but I would describe a rauti as an historical Tahitian poet who runs alongside you and readies you for battle, by reminding you of who you are and where you have come from. By invoking your ancestors. Yho. I have no words. This combination of codega, rauti and mbongi is precisely who we need to be to each other.
‘He continued. “Now, as for my grandfather, whom I have not yet mentioned, he was a rauti. Do you know about the rauti? The Reverend Welles has tried to enlist my help over the years in translating this word, but its difficult. My good father uses the word ‘haranguer’, but that does not convey the dignity of the position. ‘Historian,’ comes close but is not quite accurate either. The task of the rauti is to run alongside men as they charge into battle, and to keep up their courage by reminding them of who they are. The rauti sings out the bloodlines and the lineage of each man, reminding the warriors of the glory of their family history. He ensures that they do not forget the heroism of their forefathers. The rauti knows the lineage of every man on this island, all the way back to the gods, and he chants out their courage for them. One could say it’s a kind of sermon, (or a poem) but a violent one.”
“What were the verses like?” Alma asked, ……He had brought her here or a reason, she supposed, and he must be telling her this for a reason.
Tomorrow Morning turned his face towards the cave entrance and thought for a moment. “In English? It does not have the same power, but it would be something along the lines of, ‘Give forth all your vigilance until their will is severed! Hang upon them like lightning! You are Arava, the son of Hoani, the grandson of Paruto, who was born of Pariti, who sprang from Tapanui, who claimed the head of the mighty Anapa, the father of eels – you are that man! Break over them like the sea!” Tomorrow Morning thundered out these words, and they reverberated across the stones, drowning out the waves. He turned back to Alma – who had gooseflesh up her arms now, and who could not imagine the impact this must have had in Tahitian, if it stirred her so greatly in English – and said in his conversational voice, “Women fought too, at times.”‘