For a totally average length of time now, my colleagues and I have been observing a primitive tribe of hunter/microwavers located deep in northern Chile’s mountainous tundra wetland region. Known as the Mo’daxíc Fojince (Mo’fo for short), this clan has gone centuries with no ties to the outside world save for sporadic airplane sightings and repeated Angelina Jolie adoption attempts. Exhibiting what we in the field call the Lady Gaga Effect, their practices are as fascinating as they are bizarre and involve gallons of face paint, but none captured our interest more than their sacred rites of manhood rituals.
From an early age, Mo’fo males are bred to believe everything-from women to salads to the region’s infamous Penis Fly Trap plants-is firmly committed to taking their manhood away from them (those plants exist in America in the form of Levi’s zippers). The tribe refers to unproven males as “Topi,” meaning “eunuch” (also a pun for “Seacrest”), and in order to shed this label during the rites of manhood, one must protect his ever-threatened masculinity with vigor, or “Gerard Butler.”
The ritual begins, like most maturation experiences, with ridicule. Young tribesman are read hallowed, manhood-targeting insults from the ancient parchments, such as, “Your hairline is receding at an alarming rate,” and “Your genitals remind me of my own, only smaller.” Every challenge has a proper response. For example, if a Mo’fo is told he uses hostility as a defense mechanism, he’s meant to shout back, “YOU’RE a defense mechanism!” while driving a Ferarri. Even if there is food to prepare, giant piercings to administer or much more logical things to be offended by, all men must defend their honor like it’s the Alamo. According to the Mo’fo, there’s only one thing less masculine to swallow than pride.
The magnitude and speed of a Mo’fo’s retaliation determines his success in the ritual. If he shows indifference or confusion, he is punished with a degrading meal of cooked cow (a Mo’fo symbol of femininity). If he responds swiftly with a level of aggression that’s just unwarranted enough, he is rewarded with a hefty feast of raw monkey (the Mo’fo god of health and vitality).
The ceremony continues for days. Shoulders will be brushed, beer pong skills will be questioned, names will be left out of “who has the village’s highest bench?” debates, and walking away from these egregious character attacks is simply not an option. In the Mo’fo language, “bygones” are disease-spreading rats, so letting them be just doesn’t make sense. Even after the ritual, Mo’fos have to harbor fierce grudges against all who doubted their man-ness. The rocky terrain they inhabit makes hatchet-burying a complete impossibility.
Perhaps the most interesting part of the rites is almost no one passes. It turns out people get tired of never letting their guard down, shouting constantly and referring to village women only as “Cùnche” (Mo’fo for “domesticated alligator”). Somehow, though, the tradition persists, and next year they’ll do it again. To defend one’s manhood is to prove it exists, and apparently in this culture, to be a man is to be a real Mo’fo.
Weinberg senior David Moss can be reached at [email protected].
