Capeverdeans’ relationship with death is remarkably different from that which I’ve witnessed in the United States. I grew up attending funerals of neighbors, family friends and acquaintances. In the procession from the church to the cemetery, children would be in the front carrying paper flowers that would be placed on top of the coffin. The first funeral I attended was my father’s at the age of two. There is a picture in our family home in Cape Verde of me looking down sadly at my dad’s face inside his coffin.
Since I arrived at the United States, I’ve hardly been to a wake or funeral. The last wake I went to was for my gradual school advisor and professional mentor. Seeing him inside a coffin was beyond shocking. I could hardly believe that his family was so well composed. I hardly saw anyone dropping a tear. In Cape Verde, the coolness of that moment would have been replaced by a tempest of crying and loss. For Capeverdeans, funerals are the last place were one should be composed. It is interpreted as coldness and considered rude. That day, I almost ran to my car where I bawled like a wounded baby.
I recently experienced the tempest of loss in Cape Verde. A man disappeared on a late Saturday night and was found by fishermen on the following Monday morning on a remote beach located miles away from his town. That morning, I had been attending Dr. P’s medical consultations when he received the unfortunate call. He asked me to accompany him to the fishing town where he would examine the body. We arrived at the town around 10:30 am and along with the island attorney and police officers, waited for two hours on an old port for the boat to return with the body.
It was a bright sunny day, the perfect day to be at the beach. I stood on the port without any sun protection. I tossed my white coat on top of my head to protect my scalp from being burned by the hot son and starred at the young island attorney as he was dressed all in black. Later, I couldn’t help but laugh when he looked like the sun was cooking him.
A number of people joined us at the port as a boat began approaching. The police asked them to move backwards following the medical team’s (i.e. the Dr. P and I) suggestion. Dr. P and I put on our masks and gloves and walked towards the boat. To our surprise, there was no dead body inside. A fisherman told us that they didn’t think it was wise for them to remove the body without any protection given its state of decomposition. As he was telling us this, a multitude of town locals surrounded us, giving up no space to move. I felt as if at any point someone would take the wrong step and throw Dr. P and I on the deep blue water. “There is nothing to see my people. Please move forward and give us some space.” I pleaded with them.
A new team of rescuers, this time including firemen, needed to be assembled. Some very basic protective equipment was needed. Dr. P and I left to Ribeira Brava to get more gloves, masks, and alcohol. I also got my camera as no one, not even the police, remembered to bring one. I could not believe when one of the police officers confessed that the station did not own a camera. I told him then that the people of our island were good by nature because if they wanted to rebel and create anarchy, there would be nothing the handful of police office could do to keep order.
We returned to the fishing town after eating a 15-minute lunch to face the intense midday sun. This time, I brought a hat. No one seemed to know what happened to the poor man. He was not originally from my island. He had been living here for years away from his family. He had made many friends. Everyone seemed to like him. Doctor P kept interviewing the townspeople over and over again, trying to get a sense for what happened. The more time passed, the more I became convinced that it was just going to be one of those deaths that leaves many unanswered questions. How did he fall on the water? Was he alone? Was he drunk? Was there a crime?
Around 4:30 pm, the boat finally arrived. All of the townspeople, including children, had come to the port to witness the sad event. As the body was being removed, a couple women began crying uncontrollably. Then, a few began screaming and shaking. The crying became contagious and masked some of the needed conversation between the officials. As the smell from the body bag began invading people’s nostrils, the townspeople moved a few steps backwards almost in uniform. My strong allergy to dust protected me by weakening the intensity of the smell. Doctor P examined the body. I assisted him with photography and with the other needed equipment. Then, the body was placed on a baby blue coffin and driven miles away on a pickup struck to the cemetery, sandwiched by the police truck and the medical truck.
“Oh my dear friend! Why did you do this to me? Why did you have this kind of unfortunate death? We can’t even take you home, give you a bath and change your clothes. Oh my good friend! Why? Why? Why?” Wailed out a lady as the trucks left the town. By the time we arrived at the cemetery, there were over one hundred people who had come from both directions for the fast funeral. They were all dressed in respectable dark-color clothes. They were trying as much as possible to give the poor man the honors any individual should receive on his death. At that moment, I felt somewhat foolish in my orange capri pants.
As the coffin was placed in the ground and began being covered with urgency with the dirt previously removed, I found myself saying the prayers I heard the adults reciting on funerals when I was a child. To die away from one’s family and friends and not receive a “proper” burial that includes all of the traditional rituals and preparations is one of the worst things that can happen to someone from my island. There are rules to be followed even in death. To break them is to deepen a loss that is already too deep.
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