Funeral Friday

Before I start in on this blog post, I’d just like to make a public acknowledgement to my absolutely fantastic mother. In speaking with my parents I’ve complained many times about the dreary nature of the food here; rice, beans and tortillas every single meal. Every once in a while the type of beans changes, or the shape of the tortillas, and sometimes there’s a tangy sort of cream cheese added, or perhaps watery-ketchup like tomato sauce, the intermittent treat of bone chunks or cow gut, but variation is minimal. In a loving mark of solidarity with my culinary plight, my darling mom has taken on a week-long diet of rice and beans, three meals a day. That, ladies and gents, is a sacrifice. I know better than anyone else. If you don’t quite understand why I’m making such a big deal about this, it’s because you haven’t lived it. Long story short: thanks, Nanc. It means a lot to me!



An announcement was made in school yesterday that the father of one of our secretaries, and the father-in-law of our school director, had passed away. An elderly man, he’d apparently had a heart attack. In an effort to express support on the part of the school, we were invited to attend the funeral service this morning (Friday). Since I had absolutely nothing else to do, and I’ve been going out of my mind sitting in my room and twiddling my thumbs, I agreed to go. Funerals are never exactly a fun affair, but anything is better than sitting here bored, and I was a bit curious about the customs and services.

Around 9 am a contingent of teachers and students set out on a footpath through the overgrown hills. The funeral was taking place in nearby Samac, a short 15 minute hike away. We crossed over several hills, forded a creek and finally emerged from the jungle onto a muddy road leading into town. A small village, it was easy to find the funeral party: every single resident was there.

A large crowd had gathered around a small, ancient wood barn, from which marimba music and scented smoked drifted out. We slowly made our way through the mass, eventually reaching the barn’s entrance. I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going or what we would do once we got there; I simply followed my leaders like any good little soldier of goodwill. Among the group of people which we’d pressed through there were plenty of calm, contented faces, and the outer fringes had an unmistakable conversational atmosphere. Some people had apparently shown up just for the purpose of a social gathering (not unlike myself). Tear-stained faces and puffy eyes were present too, of course, as were seemingly hundreds of children. Ranging in stature from knee- to mid-thigh height, they skittered through the people, giggling and knocking into the forest of legs above them.

Inside the narrow, low-roofed barn the coffin sat on a raised platform of cinderblocks. The dirt floor was scattered with fallen flower petals and discarded incense wood. Plastic chairs were squeezed into rows on the coffin’s sides, and the marimba was set up in the back plunking out cheery percussions. (The marimba is sort of like a table-xylophone, made with wooden blocks. It’s about four and a half feet long, stands at waist height, and is played by three people at once, drumming out choreographed rhythms with rubber-headed mallets.)

The family circulated in and out of the room, as did spectators like us. I felt terribly out of place, but I couldn’t see how these other teachers or students could feel much more entitled to be there than I, so I didn’t fret it too much. When we first walked in I was appalled to see one of the teachers who had arrived before us leaning back in a chair, casually munching a hunk of bread and sipping from a coffee mug. Although this environment of reverence and sorrow hardly seemed like an appropriate place for such frivolities in my opinion, I was clearly in the minority. I was ushered to a front-row seat, where I suppose my job was to reflect on the years of friendship which had passed between myself and, uh, whatshisname. After I’d been there for just a few moments one of the gentleman’s sons, the one who works at the school, came around offering all of our group room-temperature sodas. Not particularly wanting one, but also not sure what to do, I followed the examples of those around me and accepted. Apparently refreshments are an expected part of the process here.

We sat in the room for several minutes. The heat of so many bodies, amplified by thick incense smoke circulating from a pot at the foot of the coffin, began to make me uncomfortable, and was glad that I’d taken a soda. Unfortunately, no one else had opened theirs yet, and as I was unsure of the proper protocol mine remained tempting and unopened in my lap for several slowly dragging minutes.

Finally my colleagues started snapping the tops of their Pepsis, and I did the same. Not being much of a regular pop drinker, the sickly sweet syrup of Orange Soda nearly made me ill, and instead of being refreshed I was disgusted. Unsure of what exactly I was doing there, if I was behaving correctly or not, and how much longer I’d be in that suffocating environment was a bit purgatorial in nature. The heavy feeling which straight sucrose imparted on my stomach and the slime forming on my teeth as sugar coated the enamel didn’t exactly help.

Suddenly the woman I’d been sitting with throughout all of this clutched my arm, said “Let’s have a look, shall we?” and drug me up to the coffin’s side. A viewing window had been propped open, and we peered in, finding a body completely shrouded in blankets. There was absolutely nothing to see, but she meditated over it for several minutes, holding me with her all the while. Another teacher at La Asunción, I honestly don’t even think this woman had ever met our deceased friend, but apparently that was the reverent thing to do, so I did the same.

We sat back down after a bit, and then eventually left for the “fresh” air formed in the throng of people outside. Eventually the coffin was carried out of its catacombic barn and was carried down the street. The crowed processed behind, filing into the local coffee cooperative building, where we listened to an hour’s worth of eulogizing. I’d love to spend a moment telling about the life this man led, the family he loved, and the interesting things he did, but I’m afraid it was all in Ki’chee’. Your guess is as good as mine.

Eventually, we all packed up and moved down the road again, this time to the cemetery. The road was filled with the vibrant colors of the women’s traditional costumes; the majority of their outfits including babies tied on their backs. I would guess that several hundred people were present, filling the road completely and stretching on for yards. The marimba was actually carried behind the coffin by three men, who held it above the ground while the musicians continued playing. The entire ambiance was an eerie, juxtaposed combination of cheery vibrancy and somberly funereal.

The coffin was interred, laboriously lowered into the earth while family members wailed with heartbreaking passion and no less than three ice-cream cart men peddled their sustenance to the amassed crowd of onlookers. Our small band of teachers retreated down the hill, returning to our haven of La Asunción.





While at this funeral I learned that a young boy from Santo Tomas also died recently, and funeral services will be taking place tonight. It’s a much, much sadder story. He’s the nephew of one of the clinic workers, and was ten years old. We actually saw the clinic employee rushing to the national hospital on Sunday evening, going to pick up his nephew and take him to a better, private institution. Apparently the boy had been running around during recess at school, and had collided with another student. His nose had been broken, and it was all treated very normally. However, he kept getting sicker and sicker, broke with an astronomical fever, and died less than a week after it had happened. Rumor has it that he broke a vessel behind his eye, and it went unnoticed and undiagnosed. Either an infection or a stroke eventually killed him. Ten years old.

I’m planning on going down to Santo Tomas this weekend, and I’m afraid I’ll end up attending the service. He was Catholic, and had many times to the clinic and the school, so I imagine it’s inevitable. I’m not looking forward to it; I imagine I’ll cry as hard as the rest. A lack of good medical technology is probably what ended his life; that’s “fuerte,” as my Chilean brother Felipe would say. “Heavy,” I guess, would be the best translation.