Friday, October 28, 2011
Apologies for the lack of posts. Things have been busy. I'll have some more photos up soon. In the mean time, funerals:
Two stories from funerals that I have attended here.
The first was for one of my organization's home-based carers, Nurse (a surprisingly common name here), who had been with the org since 2002. She was a fantastic lady and it was a huge loss to lose her.
Generally, memorial services are held on Friday and the actual funeral on Saturday. Early Friday morning my co-worker picked me up and we headed to the graveyard. I was told to wear work clothes and given no other information. I learned, on showing up, that as machinery is expensive to rent generally the men dig the grave. When we got there there were about ten guys standing around the plot, which was already dug to about two feet.
There is hard, dry soil here, so two guys would jump in with pickaxes, break up the earth, and then two other guys would go in with shovels to clear the loose soil. As it is a communal effort, after a minute or so two new people would take over pick-axing or shoveling. I got a lot of strange stares (happens a lot being the only white dude most places) and people seemed a little hesitant to talk to me, but after I jumped in a shoveled for a while, though, I was treated like a member of the group. My friend told me that white people almost never attend the digging, and absolutely never participate. Take that race-based cultural barriers.
We spent the morning and afternoon digging, breaking for bread and tea occasionally. Once we were finished we shared huge communal plates of mala ya kgomo (cow entrails) and nama ya kgogo (chicken meat). As I've mentioned before, cow stomach turns mine, but I made a fair show of putting some down.
After lunch we proceeded to the family's house for the memorial service, which took place under a tent in the family's yard. It was about an hour long and featured speeches from family, friends, and co-workers. They placed me at the front table, which, after the initial awkwardness, was really nice. Most of the carers from our org were there, and a few led songs during down times. There is nothing like forty South African women belting out traditional church songs. Nothing.
After the service we ate (noticing a theme?), luckily just bogobe (pap) and chicken. Unfortunately, my ride to the funeral (which was 25km away) the next morning had to go to his uncle's funeral in a different village and my family had a different one to attend in my village, so I couldn't attend. I'm glad I was at least able to be part of the memorial service.
The other funeral I attended was for my co-workers uncle. A note: uncle (malome) is a general term for an older male, so it was actually his cousin thrice removed. This time, I just attended the funeral proper.
We arrived in the village around 7. The service, again under a tent in the family's yard, started around 8 and lasted about 45 minutes. After the service there was a viewing of the body in the house and then we followed the transport car to the graveyard. As the procession approached the graveyard everyone got down on their knees and said a prayer before entering the gate. The procession was led by some traditional singers. The one male carried a tall, thin stick and, for lack of a better description, kept beat by airily beatboxing highlighted with the occasional high-pitched whistle. The five or six women sang traditional church songs along with the beat.
We filed around the plot and the coffin was moved onto the lowering mechanism thing. No idea what to call it, but I'm sure you know what I mean. Friends and family made speeches, mostly in Sotho. At one point everyone laughed and looked at me. My friend told me later that the guy had said, "We are truly blessed, a white person has joined us." All in good fun. The coffin was lowered down and the skin of a recently slaughtered goat was put over it. Asked my friend why and his only response was, "it's tradition." It seems like many things here are done as tradition long after the initial meaning has been lost.
Large pieces of tin were put over the coffin and cement, sand, and water poured over, followed by dirt. Once the hole was filled, stones were put around to mark the plot. Then family put the personal effects of the man who passes on top of the mound. They included two bowls, a cup, and a pair of shoes. Most graves I've seen around have similar things on top.
The singers then led the procession back to the family's house for a meal. I was seated with older family members (an honor), and we shared copious amounts of pap, beet root, chicken, and a whole boiled goat head. I tried the latter, but stayed away some. My friend's mother was in the group lording over a giant bucket of umqomboti. Umqomboti is a traditional home-brew made by fermenting mealie meal. It is thick, occasionally chunky, and always tangy. I was served a mason jar of it, with everyone watching, including the maker, to see how I would respond. Luckily I had tried it before and knew what to expect. After putting it down my friend and I went for 'after tears', the traditional post-funeral drink of remembrance. South Africans would like Ireland, I think.
Funerals here tend to be more a time of positive remembrance and community bonding than a somber, black dress affair. At the meal after the service it would have been easy to forget that we were there because someone passed. People were singing, some guy was hawking aloe beauty products, and conversation was lively. It's a much better way to remember someone, in my opinion.
Anywho, it was fascinating to see the traditional practices and cultural differences. With the frequency of funerals here, I'm sure I'll attend several more during my service.
Two stories from funerals that I have attended here.
The first was for one of my organization's home-based carers, Nurse (a surprisingly common name here), who had been with the org since 2002. She was a fantastic lady and it was a huge loss to lose her.
Generally, memorial services are held on Friday and the actual funeral on Saturday. Early Friday morning my co-worker picked me up and we headed to the graveyard. I was told to wear work clothes and given no other information. I learned, on showing up, that as machinery is expensive to rent generally the men dig the grave. When we got there there were about ten guys standing around the plot, which was already dug to about two feet.
There is hard, dry soil here, so two guys would jump in with pickaxes, break up the earth, and then two other guys would go in with shovels to clear the loose soil. As it is a communal effort, after a minute or so two new people would take over pick-axing or shoveling. I got a lot of strange stares (happens a lot being the only white dude most places) and people seemed a little hesitant to talk to me, but after I jumped in a shoveled for a while, though, I was treated like a member of the group. My friend told me that white people almost never attend the digging, and absolutely never participate. Take that race-based cultural barriers.
We spent the morning and afternoon digging, breaking for bread and tea occasionally. Once we were finished we shared huge communal plates of mala ya kgomo (cow entrails) and nama ya kgogo (chicken meat). As I've mentioned before, cow stomach turns mine, but I made a fair show of putting some down.
After lunch we proceeded to the family's house for the memorial service, which took place under a tent in the family's yard. It was about an hour long and featured speeches from family, friends, and co-workers. They placed me at the front table, which, after the initial awkwardness, was really nice. Most of the carers from our org were there, and a few led songs during down times. There is nothing like forty South African women belting out traditional church songs. Nothing.
After the service we ate (noticing a theme?), luckily just bogobe (pap) and chicken. Unfortunately, my ride to the funeral (which was 25km away) the next morning had to go to his uncle's funeral in a different village and my family had a different one to attend in my village, so I couldn't attend. I'm glad I was at least able to be part of the memorial service.
The other funeral I attended was for my co-workers uncle. A note: uncle (malome) is a general term for an older male, so it was actually his cousin thrice removed. This time, I just attended the funeral proper.
We arrived in the village around 7. The service, again under a tent in the family's yard, started around 8 and lasted about 45 minutes. After the service there was a viewing of the body in the house and then we followed the transport car to the graveyard. As the procession approached the graveyard everyone got down on their knees and said a prayer before entering the gate. The procession was led by some traditional singers. The one male carried a tall, thin stick and, for lack of a better description, kept beat by airily beatboxing highlighted with the occasional high-pitched whistle. The five or six women sang traditional church songs along with the beat.
We filed around the plot and the coffin was moved onto the lowering mechanism thing. No idea what to call it, but I'm sure you know what I mean. Friends and family made speeches, mostly in Sotho. At one point everyone laughed and looked at me. My friend told me later that the guy had said, "We are truly blessed, a white person has joined us." All in good fun. The coffin was lowered down and the skin of a recently slaughtered goat was put over it. Asked my friend why and his only response was, "it's tradition." It seems like many things here are done as tradition long after the initial meaning has been lost.
Large pieces of tin were put over the coffin and cement, sand, and water poured over, followed by dirt. Once the hole was filled, stones were put around to mark the plot. Then family put the personal effects of the man who passes on top of the mound. They included two bowls, a cup, and a pair of shoes. Most graves I've seen around have similar things on top.
The singers then led the procession back to the family's house for a meal. I was seated with older family members (an honor), and we shared copious amounts of pap, beet root, chicken, and a whole boiled goat head. I tried the latter, but stayed away some. My friend's mother was in the group lording over a giant bucket of umqomboti. Umqomboti is a traditional home-brew made by fermenting mealie meal. It is thick, occasionally chunky, and always tangy. I was served a mason jar of it, with everyone watching, including the maker, to see how I would respond. Luckily I had tried it before and knew what to expect. After putting it down my friend and I went for 'after tears', the traditional post-funeral drink of remembrance. South Africans would like Ireland, I think.
Funerals here tend to be more a time of positive remembrance and community bonding than a somber, black dress affair. At the meal after the service it would have been easy to forget that we were there because someone passed. People were singing, some guy was hawking aloe beauty products, and conversation was lively. It's a much better way to remember someone, in my opinion.
Anywho, it was fascinating to see the traditional practices and cultural differences. With the frequency of funerals here, I'm sure I'll attend several more during my service.
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