Cemetery Visit

The other day B, myself and his two brothers and Mum went to pay our respects to family members who, as my peeps in the Caribbean say, have “gone home.” Basically, death is a big deal--not that it isn’t a big deal anywhere else in the world—but I’ve never heard of anyone going bankrupt to send someone “home.” I’ve had friends in West Africa tell me that they have gone to funerals where the coffin is actually blinged out in gold and precious stones. While for some other people, there is something to be gained just by their mere presence at a funeral. My Mum told me that when she was growing up in Guyana, that if a deceased person was not liked and therefore not that many people would show up to the funeral, a family could pay “mourners” to sit up front at the church and cry. They usually could be identified by the over the top theatrical performance they would put on. I haven’t had anyone tell me about paid mourners here in Southern Africa, but I have had folks tell me that people, and sometimes just random people attending the funeral, “get paid” in the amount of food they are served: the more tears shed, and vocally done so, the more food is dished out onto their plate.

In the U.S. and many other countries, a funeral is a time for people to help families through their grieving period by bringing food on the day of the funeral, and even the days after the funeral--not so in Southern Africa. Usually the family of the departed must provide food for any person that shows up. When I went to a funeral in Botswana, it lasted one day and I saw it as pretty reasonable until I saw that food was served to any person that stood on line which from my perspective looked like the whole village, even down to the local beggar man. So funerals in Africa are kind of like Hindu weddings in Guyana: you show up, grab a banana leaf, and wait your turn for some tasty veg curry. But in Mozambique, they definitely take it to another level as the grieving process is ten days and the family for the departed not only foots the bill for the obvious things, but also ALL the food.

When a person has passed on it is usually women that remain inside the house during the mourning period. Men sit outside eating, chatting and of course, drinking beer (so not fair!). Inside, the women sort through the possessions of the loved one who has died in order to burn them, as it is believed by many here that the spirit of the deceased remains in his or her possessions. If these items are not burned and are given to someone, then the spirit of the deceased could pass into the new owner of the item. B’s grandmother’s capalanas are stored in a beautifully carved wooden trunk in our house. So I asked if I could use the trunk and the capalanas inside. B said “Trunk, sim. Capalanas, não, não, não.” “Why not, babes?” “Do you want to become a curandera and midwife?” and the birthing doula in me answered “Yes! That would be lovely to heal people with herbal medicines and bring bebês into the world. Awesome!” “Não. You will literally take on her spirit, like you will have to do her will, not yours.” And I respond all arrogantly skeptical “Okaaaay,” “I know you don’t believe in our Africanismo, but just listen to me. It will save us problems with family down the line. I’m going to burn them when the time is right for me” And with much more understanding and sympathy, I reign in my Western know-it-all-ness and say, “Okay. I won’t touch her things.” Now I understand why many people here don’t have family heirlooms like we do in the West.

At the cemetery, you wait until the body arrives from the morgue, and thereafter women in their capalanas--covering their legs and heads---begin to lead the procession behind the men carrying the coffin on their shoulders and everyone sings spirituals in Changana. At the actual grave, a sermon is given by a pastor, and as you can imagine there is much crying and wailing, and at some point, someone may try to throw themselves into the coffin as well. Thereafter, items that the person liked are placed with him or her as well as sprinkling the body with perfume or cologne. Then the coffin is sealed and lowered into the grave, and everyone in attendance throws a handful of dirt onto the coffin. The men in attendance then bury the coffin and afterwards family members plant flowers and other shrubbery and then these plantings are watered by everyone in attendance. Thereafter, back at the house, people come and go to pay respect to the family over the next seven days and at all times food is served: usually, rice, matapa, feijoada and if the budget permits, roasted or stewed meat. (See my post on Fine Dining to see more about those dishes)

Basically, that was my experience of a Mozambican funeral as I remember it happening for one of B’s older brothers who died in 2012. There was much to do over a short period of time and it occurred within the first months that I arrived in Mozambique . My Portuguese that time was not great and my Changana, nil---so trying to balance the dynamics of culture, family and being an outsider on many levels, those were the details I remembered best. So on this visit, there was much more happiness and levity and time to take in what was happening at the cemetery itself, and as I came to realize, there was so very much happening. First, getting to the cemetery on the weekend, when most people visit, one must get up at the crack of dawn to form the queue for the bus. The cemetery is in the city and is not far at all from our house, but because many people go on their only day off of work, which is usually Sunday, the great number of people going creates lines for the bus passing the cemetery. Once we get there, there are men and women selling tiny bunches of flowers for 10 meticais (30MT=1USD) or 20MT, while others are selling bigger and pricier bouquets as well as flowering shrubs to be planted on the grave. Also outside the grounds are men and women selling five liter jugs of water, as a visit to a grave always requires one to pour water on the grave. I asked B if this was for the plants or if there was some kind of spiritual significance to it. He said that actually, not too many years back, people left both food and water, as the grave site was considered to be the second home of the deceased. But with each generation, people change parts of customs or completely abandon them altogether. The jugs of water cost 20MT a jug. Technically, the water should be free, but the manager of the grave site and the water sellers evidently have some kind of agreement, as the water taps inside are ALWAYS turned off, so that if you want to use water at the cemetery you can’t, and most people are not going to carry three to four 5L containers of water.

Once inside, it all looks slightly chaotic, as there are people EVERYWHERE: walking, marching in procession behind coffins, weeding, watering, sitting and chatting…..mind you none of these activities are done with any quiet solemnity. The randomness of plot placement also contributes to the chaotic feel. The cemetery is quite old, but it is not the oldest, which is located in Maputo city center and dates back to the founding of the city. B will not enter that one, because he says 1) too many colonial Portuguese spirits are wandering about in there, 2) the vast amounts of garbage accumulating in there is germinating all types of diseases and 3) he doesn’t want to step on a massive pile of duque as people use it as a public toilet. The only cemetery I’ve been to in the U.S. that parallels this one in appearance is one I visited in the Old French Quarter of New Orleans. There are burial vaults dating back to the 1500s, many of which have been broken into to be robbed and vandalized: the doors swing open and the stained glass windows are all shattered. Although many of the coffins are still sitting inside, they appear to be still sealed, thankfully. The cemetery also has old tombstones of archangels and the Virgin Mary, as well as newer tombstones with pictures of the dearly departed smiling back at you. Weird…. and creepy. Other grave sites are simple dirt piles with a number for those whose families can’t afford to build a cement block around the grave once the earth has settled after burial. The cemetery is jam packed with graves. The most space between each plot is perhaps the width of a human foot so that, it appears that, people are buried one on top of the other.

Because each grave is maintained by the family of the deceased, there are varied degrees of maintenance at the cemetery. If you are financially able you can procure the employment of young boys and girls hawking their services of tombstone maintenance for a fee. Thus, some plots are well taken care of and plants are trimmed and watered, and tombstones are washed of dust. While others are rarely taken care of or never visited again, so that 80% of the cemetery has tall weeds and flowers, even tall sunflowers, growing sporadically around the cemetery, which sometimes poses a problem of actually finding a grave if you don’t remember the plot number.

After visiting B’s brother’s grave, which we found easily, we started walking to find his grandmother’s grave—which was on the other side of the cemetery, way, way on the other side, and amongst many, many tall weeds, flowers and shrubs. We were able to get into the general area of the plot, but OF COURSE we didn’t remember the bloody plot number—we could only remember the last three numbers, rather than the first three which we needed. We also knew that the grave would be well tended, as B’s father visits it every week, but OF COURSE none of us had a phone charged to call him to ask him where it was. So we break up into individual search parties, with our heads popping up from the weeds every so often to yell across plots, “DID YOU FIND IT?” “NÃO!” I was glad to see that we were not the only ones wandering around aimlessly under the hot sun, as other people had the same confused look on their faces as well as beads of sweat on their brows from sweeping aside weeds and bending to scrounge around in the dirt looking for the metal signpost with the plot number on it. After 40 long sweaty minutes we finally find it. B, who is quite a preacher, gave a moving prayer in Changana, (even though I couldn’t understand the words, I felt the emotion and could tell everyone else was moved by the many, many Amens that were offered), and then we watered the plants and sprinkled the tobacco she liked to chew over her grave. We then started to make the trek out, and one of B’s brother’s tells us to watch out for scorpions. My eyes immediately bolt to the ground to be careful not to step in dark, weedy spaces, and what do my eyes cast upon? Part of a human skull sticking out of the ground-- a row of crooked and broken teeth staring at me. I’m so not joking. So I say “B. Look!” B looks down and says “Jeeezus. A. Christ.” “Babes. Why is that skull sticking out like that?” “It is one of two things. Either black magic witches were in here looking for human parts and they just took the part of the head/skull they wanted and left this behind. OR, most likely, the grave has been abandoned for some time so the cemetery managers have re-sold the plot and didn’t do a good job of getting rid of the body buried there before.” Lovely.

I hope to make a trip back to take a closer look at the colonial catacombs as well as maybe pop in to the oldest cemetery in the city center. I’m a bit curious to see what will be sticking out of the ground staring back at me. (wink)