A few days ago my co-teacher informed me that the sports teacher’s mother had passed away and the funeral was to be held this Thursday. She asked me if I would like to go and I kind of looked at her and sputtered out “Um... I don’t know.” Thinking inside my head, I don’t really know this teacher, let alone his mother. Won’t it be kind of odd me just turning up? She then informed me that all the other teachers would be going and I should go as well, being a member of the faculty. I wanted to say that I would just wait for the next funeral, when I maybe knew the person a little better, but then I realized that would mean there was another dead person and stopped myself. I told her that I would go, since everyone else was going.
I worried about what to wear as I was not quite sure what one wears to these kinds of events. The morning of the funeral I tried on my go to little black dress, but it was a little too tight and short. Great for a bar, not a midday village death party. My second black dress was just crap. Again too short. I tried on my black and gray sweater dress that I normally wear with jeggins and just laughed. I settled on a floral dress that hit at the knee and was mostly blue, green, and yellow. I looked at my shoe choice and sighed. It is super muddy right now and I have just been wearing my L L Bean boots because they can take it. The only shoes that maybe were close to being appropriate were my six inch stiletto platforms, because they were black and dressy. They were not going on my feet. I put my Bean boots on and thought if anyone thinks badly of me because of it, I hope they will write it off as me being American.
During school I asked my co-teacher how many people would be there and she said about 200, but this would be a small funeral. It’s normally about 500 and there will be a supra after. I just kind of looked at her and was like “All right then.”
I should admit right now I have not had to experience a lot of these events, thank God, back in America and I am terrified of them. I even took a class in college called Death and Dying to help me over come my fears of such things. I got a D and that was just because the teacher felt bad for me. I’m pretty sure she could see me having panic attacks in the back of the class, when I wasn’t crying. (I’m never going to die and neither is anyone I love.)
After school all the teachers who went, which was not all of them like I was lead to believe, piled into our large school van and was driven to a village that was about 15 minuets away. We stopped in front of the dead woman’s house and got out. There were people milling about everywhere and I stayed close to the teachers that spoke English. Some of them were going to go in the house to see deiced and asked me if I wanted to come along. I looked at them like they were crazy. No, I did not want to see her, I don’t like seeing dead people. You people brought me and I can pay my respects by not having an emotional breakdown.
We stood outside for a bit and then finally the funeral procession started. Some of the men from the family carried her out of the house in her simple coffin, with the top off so everyone could see here as we walked by. Small children led, dropping flowers every ten meters or so. The couple hundred of us trailed, walking about a kilometer and a half to the cemetery. One of the teachers asked me before we started walking if I wanted to go because we had to walk very, very far. I was like, really you can’t walk a mile on this glorious sunny day, in the memory of this poor woman who died?
When we got to the cemetery I assume a little something was said and then she was buried. I didn’t get too close and couldn’t see or hear anything. I started to think about this woman and how she had probably lived in this village that we had just walked her through, for her whole life, quite moving really.
Our van had come to pick us up and drive us back to the house for the supra. When we got there we took our seats at a massive banquette table that was under a large tent. There were two rows, one for men and one of the woman. We ate cold food first and the toasts started up. Some women filled there glasses up with a little wine and drank it in gesture, with the first toast, but after that there was no more drinking from our side of the tent. The men went on and on toasting and drinking. When the wine bottles started to get low, younger men from the family came around with more, putting funnels in and pouring the wine out of massive tea kettles.
After about 45 minuets hot baked beans were served, fallowed by pork with mash potatoes, beef, and then sweet rice with fruit in it. One of the toasts came from a very emotional crying elderly man who was the brother of the woman. I felt really bad for him and how he lost his sister. One of the teachers wiped tears away during the speech and I was glade that I did not understand it, because I probably would have started crying too. What funerals I do have to go to I always want to cry and sometimes do, even if I don’t know the people.
I was asked what a funeral after gathering is like in America and I tried explaining and when I started failing horribly I apologized and stated that the last one I had been too was a while ago and I couldn’t remember. It was half a decade ago. It was in a church basement, there was food and crying people.
After about two hours or so of eating and drinking, for the men, the festivities wound down and I was put in a car to be driven back home. On the drive I looked at the landscape bathed in the setting sun and a feeling of contentment overcame me. I am living in this foreign land, that never seems to make complete sense to me, but it always keeps me guessing and wondering. Whenever I get overwhelmed by this I can’t help but look out a window and think above all this is one of the most beautiful places I have been and everything seems a little brighter, especially when I’ve just been to a funeral and I am not only happy to be alive but also living.
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