The dead and the deadly

Last Saturday, I attended my second Ghanaian funeral. I know that it's pretty clear that Ghana and the US are very different but there are certain aspects that hadn't even occurred to me. Embalming/beautifying dead bodies is one of those aspects.

I arrived in Odumase (an hour tro ride from my site) at 8:30am. I'm met on the roadside by Adolph (I have no idea how he's related to my host family but he is). Adolph ushers me around and takes me to see the bereaved family members and the casket. I shake 5 or 6 hands (always from right to left) before even noticing that there is an open casket in the room. It takes a few seconds of blatant staring to understand whether I'm looking at a real body or at a mannequin. The mand I'm looking at died after a month long illness at the age of 42. He died a month ago and I'm looking at what looks like a life-size wax figurine.

After leaving this room, I sit amongst Emmanuel's senior brother's sons. These 4 men are some of the burliest Ghanaians I've met to date and despite being at a funeral one immediately starts asking how I feel as a representative of George W. Bush. I answer with something along the lines of "I really like Ghana!!" and allow the conversation to drift elsewhere. Within a few minutes, the entire group of women from the room I've just left breaks out in bouts of convulsive wailing and sobbing as they walk around in circles. I'm not sure what specifically spawned the outburst but I find myself keeping a very straight face while all non-wailing members of the procession are staring at my very white self sitting in a sea of very black people wearing all black clothing.

The ceremony starts at around 9:30am with a live band (3 BIG drums, several trumpets, a trombone and a cymbal) playing while the casket is precariously brought down a short flight of stairs. A Baptist priest starts with a few readings and hymns. Every so often, a woman or two will make her way up to the front of the tented off courtyard in which we're sitting and circle the casket while loudly yelling (no clue what she's saying) and crying until they return to their respective seats.

Some very emotionally driven presentations and readings are given before the announcement is made that we'll proceed to the cemetery for the burial. At this time, the band starts up, the casket is loaded into the bed of a pickup and the 100 or so people in attendance start to walk down the road alongside the truck. People are singing, dancing, crying all around me yet I can't even hear myself think while music is blaring in my ear. We walk about a mile (around noon at this time. As you may have guessed, I'm drenched in sweat) before the casket is removed from the truck and we walk off the road and into the woods. I see a small sign that says "public cemetary" but otherwise would never guess that it's a burial site. As the music continues to roar, a drunken man begins to wrestle with some of the pallbearers. He seems to be trying to pull the casket from them but all I can hear is music. A few other men pull the drunkard from the casket before he can knock it onto the trash strewn soil beneath us. We finally come to a clearing and there is an open grave with a man standing inside. He has his pants rolled up to his knees and is standing bare foot with mud up to mid-shin. The pall bearers hand the casket down to this man as he negotiates the small space he has. They heave and haw until finally they're able to get the coffin into the muddy grave. The man then steps onto the casket and out of the grave, leaving a dripping footprint of mud on the top of the silver box. By this point, the music has stopped, the wailing is perfectly audible again and the drunkard is in a yelling/shoving match with another man (again I can't understand what they're saying). He then spikes a full water sachet onto the casket and calms down a bit. People randomly drop items into the grave as a man begins to speak (items include bits of cloth and even a saw (he was a carpenter)). At this point, Dorothy suggests that we should leave. We walk to the roadside, jump in a tro and after maybe a minute of loud pop music, I'm on the roadside watching a teenager hack open a coconut with a machete. I enjoy my snack, sit with Dorothy and friends for a few hours and then I'm back on the road to Bormase. Quite a whirlwind cultural experience I must say.

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While walking with Raph (19 year old homestay brother) to various poultry group sites in Bormase, I strike up a conversation about snakes. I remember being so scared to come across snakes when I first arrived but recently I've been walking through the bush without any worries. I've asked Raph if he often sees snakes around the area. He tells me that he doesn't see them very often but that they're around. As I'm explaining how I was so scared when I arrived... I look to my right and see one foot of inch and a half thick black and yellow snake!! I stop my sentence, tell Raph and watch him run in circles looking for a stick with which to kill the snake. There were no sticks and the snake disappeared into the bush. I asked if it was a Black Mamba and Raph said yes. I Googled Black Mambas and I'm not convinced but either way, it was big and very close to my house. AAHHH!!! I guess I'm living in the African bush after all.

Love you guys.