Wednesday, June 29, 2011

To Dust

I had heard a lot about Zambian funerals.  Other Volunteers described them as being pretty wild.  When one of the counselors (advisers) to the village chief died a few weeks ago, the Head Teacher at my zonal center school (the one next to where I live) insisted I come along.  He had died, I was told, in the middle of the night or early in the morning.  My Head received word around 8:00 a.m; I had my first overnight guests (two American cyclists on a 4-month journey from South Africa to Ethiopia, check out their adventures at www.toAddis.com) still at home, so I got them breakfast and got them on their way.  Between 10:00 and 11:00, my Head, the school's Senior Teacher (who also is a sister-in-law to the deceased) and I began walking to the funeral home.  It took perhaps 45 minutes, during which time we chatted, greeted others on the road, and had a pleasant walk.  When we entered the path to the home, however, my Head broke off, whispering, "Just follow her," and I fell in behind the Senior Teacher.  Calm and composed just a moment before, she now walked a bit stooped, and her shoulders began heaving up and down as she cried out, in loud sobs, "Ba Mulamo Imwe!"--roughly, "Dear brother-in-law, you!"  We entered the home of the deceased.  There was almost no room to sit on the floor as women were seated in every available space.  The deceased was in a corner, I believe, though I couldn't see the body--the room was dark and crowded.  I sat quietly, as did some other women, but many were wailing and sobbing, particularly the word, "Limwi!"  It means "maybe"--but no one could really explain why they were saying maybe.  I think it just has a nice wailing ring to it. A girl next to me was sobbing so violently that she began convulsing and had to be carried out of the house to another house nearby.  (She was fine about half an hour later.)  After 20-30 minutes in the house, the Senior Teacher led me out and we found a place on the grass outside.  There were easily a few hundred people all around the house grounds, including the chief (near whom my Head was sitting).  Men sat separately from women.  Some were eating food they had brought along, some were talking, some were feeding babies (the constant companion of almost every woman, it seems.)  My Senior Teacher, overcome with emotion in the house, began checking her cell phone for messages.  After a bit she pointed out a few men with wood: "They're building the coffin right there."
Indeed, they were.  In short order, a roughly-hewn wooden coffin--something that looked like it would fit right into a collection of haunted house props--was constructed and covered with a bright citenge (the all-purpose cloth common here).  It was carried to the house; the women were vacated so that a few men important in the family (adult sons, etc.) could also go in and grieve.  The body was then brought out in the coffin.  Some prayers were said, a few songs were song, and then the body of people processed in a quick circle around the coffin, the lid of which was slightly askew to reveal the face of the deceased.  I had only  a brief moment to look, but the man appeared to be at calm repose.  We then processed to a bit of a wooded area just a few minutes away--still part of the property--where a hole had been dug.  The coffin was lowered in, a few more prayers were said, dirt was shoveled on for--it seemed to me--a long time.  Crying and wailing filled the air, and I couldn't help but feel tears in my own eyes.  We then walked back to the house, sat for a bit on the grass, and then began walking back to the school for afternoon classes.  The burial was complete by approximately 15:00--only twelve hours or so, perhaps less, from the time of death.

I haven't captured the essence of this ceremony, and parts of it seem crude or even disingenuous in comparison with the rituals I'm familiar with back home.  They're not, though--the people here just express grief differently.  I was struck by the contrast between putting someone to rest here and the industry of death in the U.S.  There were no cards (though certainly those unable to attend because of distance could send their regrets and condolences by mail later), no flower arrangement, no pianist, no thousands-of-dollars polished-oak-and-cushioned casket, no iron vault.  There's something really beautiful about this.  A man dies.  His community, upon hearing, comes together to be with the family, to grieve, to pay their last respects.  Those who have carpentry skills and/or a bit of wood craft a final bed; those with the strength and the tools prepare a place in the ground.  The community puts the man to rest swiftly, honorably.  At the same time, it's a remarkable reminder of our morbidity; one moment he was breathing, talking, moving about; only hours later, his body was a few meters beneath the soil.  A wild thing, indeed.

I'm heading back to the village in a few moments.  I'll do my best to try and send mobile updates, but otherwise I hope to update again the next time I'm back in Kasama at the end of July.  Love to all!

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Village Life

Dearest Readers,
Unfortunately, the Internet access on my phone (that is, the service network in my house) is rather fickle.  Sometimes I will get access and then--poof!--I'll have a screen informing me that the phone "failed to connect."  This is especially disheartening if it means that an email or message I've spent twenty or more minutes typing out finger-peck by finger-peck on my cell phone not only fails to send but is lost and gone forever.  Hopefully this explains my lack of recent blog posts.  Now two months in to a three-month community entry period (something common to all Peace Corps posts worldwide, I believe), I've been at the Peace Corps office/house in Kasama for the past four days, and I had hoped to write many lengthy blog entries.  For some reason I can't explain, the things that you look forward to doing with electricity--like spending time typing things out on a computer--suddenly become very unappealing once the required ingredients (electricity, computer, etc.) are available.  I do hope to get a few things posted, but the bottom line is that I love my house, I love my village, I love the children and my family and my school.  I'm having a wonderful time, there is real potential for meaningful work, and there's no place I'd rather be living!  At the moment, though, I'm exhausted, so I'll sign off for now and hope to write more soon.