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April 2nd, 2008
06:30 pm - Funeral
I just finished participating in my first full on funeral. Yes I've been to others, but I haven't participated as much.
It starts when you first hear that someone has died. In this case it was the mother and grandmother of people I'm friends with who I see on an everyday basis (one of the grandkids is my student). In this case, it was as me and my roommate were passing in a hiace on our way back from a meeting, at night (well, twilight). There was a bunch of people in front of a house, so naturally the hiace stopped and asked what was going on...that's when we found out. As me and my roommate were walking home from the hiace stop, I decided to go directly to the house...I still wasn't sure who died, but it was someone in my community who I probably had some connection with. En route there, I learned who it was.
Then you go and "chiga", which is a Kriuluization of chegar, which means to arrive, but which here also means to hang out. Deaths in the States, funerals there are weird...they make me feel awkward, and I'm never really that sure what to do (luckily I haven't been to many there). Being an outsider only exacerbates this problem: it's not your culture so you haven't grown up watching others do this; you know you stand out just by the color of your skin and/or the way you hold yourself, and in these situations all you want to do is blend in; and, out of respect for the dead, you REALLY don't want to screw up.
As you enter, you say hello to people, and then you go inside, where you hug and handshake the family. The hug is weird: for a culture that is so touchy feely (guys will sometimes hold hands, girls will just start petting my hair without asking, etc) the hug is surprisingly distant: a hand on either shoulder and a little lunge inwards, followed by a handshake. With the people I knew, I bucked this and gave them a full on, full contact hug, explaining that that is what we do in America.
Then you sit. And sit. In silence, with only the occasional wail of someone interrupting it. "Oh my mother" they'll wail in a hauntingly sing-songy way, "Why?" Or "Oh my sister, why?" or something else along those lines. The sitting reminds me of "When Harry Met Sally" (because that movie was all about West African funerals :) ) Harry tells Sally that "somewhere between 5 minutes and all night is the problem." For everyone other than Brian, who already gets the reference, Harry is referring to the difference between guys and girls as to how long they want to be held. The guy isn't really sure how long is long enough, but after the first five minutes, it, and the silence, and the silent observance of your actions, gets increasingly awkward. That's kinda how I view the chiga at a funeral. It's difficult to sit still, and it just feels awkward. Instead the sitting room, there's no tales told of the person, and with the exception of a handshake or a hug, there's no attempt to make the family feel better. I also feel like I'm intruding on something private, which in reality is just simply the result of American and Cape Verdean cultures clashing.
When you leave the sitting room, people are outside, just hanging out, talking, the guys are playing cards, the kids are playing in the street.
The second night I went, I wore a pink shirt (it was what I was wearing earlier in the day). When I arrived, I was kinda surprised to see a card table set up and guys playing cards outside. The women were cooking for the family and visitors, and people seemed slightly less solemn outside. It's kinda beautiful: the community just comes together, stays with the family, taking in air, letting them know that they are not alone. As I was about to go in, I saw my neighbors who informed me that I wasn't supposed to wear bright colors...so I put on my jean jacket and buttoned it up and went inside.
This time I was greeted by the sight of an open casket. There was the woman whom we were all mourning, a woman I couldn't distinctly remember, but whom I'm sure I met. She was laying on one side of the room and all around chairs with people were set up. Once again I sat for what I'm sure was way too short and then left, to go hang out outside.
I decided to leave after less than an hour: I had school the next day, and just chiga-ing always makes me feel useless and awkward. On my way out, I ran into this Cape Verdean guy who'd lived in Germany for many many years and who in quase-retirement had moved back. It was an interesting conversation, in English, about the good things and bad things in this culture. The close community is good, the beautiful weather (it's just now starting to heat up but it's been absolutely gorgeous) are pluses, but on the minus side, jobs and opportunities are highly determined by who you know. Even this gentleman admitted to benefiting from that type of system. It was just interesting.
One other thing that I noticed which I pointed out to people, was how weird it was for them to reply to "Modi ki bu sta?" (how are you?) with "fixi" (great). It seems like it's a sad occasion. With the exception of one person, they just agreed. The one guy said that they were asking how your heart was, so answering fixi kinda makes sense.
Today en route to school, I dropped off a bag of rice, beans, dried corn and a couple spices which they use. Here, rarely do you bring premade meals or casseroles or anything (the exception being for desserts, someone pointed out). Usually you just bring raw food which the community of women who cooks for the group from dawn till dusk, cooks up. They use their huge pots over wood fires to make things. Maybe it says something about the differences in cultures that in America, we drop off already cooked dinners for the family to eat later, alone, in private, whereas here in Cape Verde make big huge plates of food that are eaten by everyone that day.
At 4pm, I left my house for the funeral. I expected things to be late, as they always are here. Based on my two experiences, the only things that start on time here are funerals. I was late, but I walked down to the graveyard, which is right across the street from the church. Again, I felt awkward. I found a friend and told them I wasn't sure what to do, so I just followed their lead. There is weeping, and crying, loudly, much more loudly than in America. It's emotional, and somber.
The rest of the week, I stopped by at least once a day to just chiga. Every night, for 7 nights, a mass is said for the person. After mass, people sit outside, just like I described above. I noticed the food was getting low, so I dropped off some more, which an older woman just took quickly from my hands without so much as a thank you. Again, there's the CV and the American cultures colliding.
Hopefully I won't ever have to go to another one here again, although now I'll be a lot more prepared if I do.
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06:37 pm - DANG!
I just bought a black shirt with Napolean Dynamite's head, surrounded by a red wreath and the word DANG! on the top in white. Now the only question is...whom do I give it to...
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