Funeral season

Three weeks ago when I returned to Bormase from IST, I noticed that the "small girls," Maku and Augustina were not in the house. Upon asking Dorothy about the girls, I learned that Augustina was in Accra visiting her family while Maku was bereaved. Apparently, her 25 year old brother had complained of a headache while farming, was rushed to the hospital for treatment and given an IV but died shortly thereafter. Since autopsies are far from common practice in Ghana, the actual cause of death is unknown but Dorothy told me that the family suspects that he died of Malaria. Upon hearing this news, I asked if I could attend the funeral with Dorothy and if the would let me know once it was scheduled.

The funeral took place this past weekend. The night before the funeral, I learned that it would be a three day event. We would arrive on Friday and return Saturday after the body was brought to the cemetery. Some family members would stay through a Sunday church service but Dorothy and I would leave on Saturday with the majority of the visitors. I had set up an informal visit with one of Bormase's Chiefs on Saturday afternoon and it seemed as though we wouldn't be back in time. Since it was an informal visit, it wasn't a big deal but as our time of departure approached, I felt more and more anxious. The more anxious I felt, the more guilty I felt about wanting to skip a funeral while a 25 year old man lay dead and his 14 year old sister worked hard to prepare for the event.

At around 7am Friday morning, Dorothy and I joined a lorry and began our journey through several villages with names I can't even attempt to repeat. After 20 minutes of driving, we were in a part of Ghana I had never seen and the road was in horrendous shape. It seemed as though we were driving along a major fault line after an earthquake. A deep fissure split the one lane road down the middle and the driver of the fifteen passenger, no-suspension tro had to negotiate the road with great precision. The view was incredible but the ride not particularly comfortable.

Our first stop was at nearly 8:30 and we had missed our intended tro connection. Dorothy went to greet some friends she hadn't seen in some time while I sat with some market women. As usual, the farther I get from Bormase, the more attention I get from children. Under age 2, they either cry and run/crawl or stare with a mix of confusion and wonder. Once the children can speak, they typically yell "Blefono, Blefono, Blefono." until I respond and then have nothing else to say. I understand that most of these children see white people rarely if ever and while I hear "Blefono!" hundreds of times some days, I try to understand that each child only gets to yell it so often. Either way, it can fray my nerves.

After maybe a fifteen minute wait, Dorothy and I start on a long walk towards the next town. With a huge downhill grade followed by an equally impressive incline, I was ready for a good hour of walking. Within minutes, however, a tro came along and we were back on schedule. By 9:30, we were connected to a paved road and it was time to walk. As we walked and talked, I learned from Dorothy that Augustina will be staying with her family in Accra and won't return to Bormase. The future of her education (she's 12) is uncertain as her parents can't afford to send her to school. A boy named Paul (maybe 10?) had been around the house recently and will now help around the house. A serious game of musical beds is going on at my site, I have a hard time keeping track of who lives there.

Halfway into our walk, the clouds opened up and we were forced to take cover at a nearby house. A nice thing about rural Ghana is that you can pretty much go into the closest available house at the first sign of rain. We waited out the storm amongst a family and continued our trek along a very slippery mud road. We arrived at the funeral site a little after 10:30 and promptly greeted chiefs, elders and family members. I saw Maku for the first time in at least a month and then we sat for several hours.

As time went on, the rain started again, guests drank more and I sat. Akpeteshie (like Ghanaian moonshine) was passed amongst the elders, more and more people decided to test my Krobo. Many were pleased that I could greet and respond and explain where I'd come from while one particular woman (there's always at least one) made a point to say hello to me and follow it with a barrage of questions. She'd laugh when I didn't understand and she'd be on her way. This routine continued with at least a dozen visits throughout the afternoon. Of course she didn't speak enough English to explain what she was saying so she laughed at me while I bitterly fumed in silence.

By midday, a group of men had been arguing on and off for at least thirty minutes. Dorothy let me know that there was a dispute about the delivery of the corpse. The elder chief sent a group of individuals to the mortuary in order to have the body brought to the funeral site. The youth chief (each Krobo village has several chiefs) also chose several representatives to go but was overruled by the elder chief. Since the deceased was amongst the youth, his friends had worked ceaselessly over the past several weeks in order to prepare for the event and without warning, they had been passed over at the last minute.

For the next two hours, as the center of the compound filled with sloppy mud, representatives from the two parties went back and forth about the issue and haggled about the cost of retribution. Because of the delay, the rain and the state of the road, the process of delivering the corpse was far more difficult after the elders agreed to pay the youth group 15 Ghana Cedis in retribution.

At around 3pm, a group of young women entered the center of the compound to sing, dance, drum and slap palm fronds in the mud. From one side of the compound, young women and at least a dozen nursing babies looked on. Male elders looked on from the young women's left. Female elders looked on from a third side while a group of women and young children gathered around cauldron sized pots as they prepared food on the fourth side. I sat somehow between the male and female elders and did my best not to be splattered with mud as it flew from the quagmire of a compound floor.

After several minutes of drumming and dancing, Dorothy told me to get Maku, have her sit on my lap and hold onto her. Uncomfortable but accommodating, I did so and soon understood why. The steaming hood of a taxi pulled up to the entrance to the compound and all of the women started wailing. With my arm wrapped around Maku's midriff, I could literally feel her anguish as her brother was carried from the back of the taxi. There was no coffin, he was wrapped tightly in fine cloth as though temporarily mummified. With a few men at his head and a few at his feet, the young man was carried through the center of the compound while Maku's stomach convulsed with the strain of tears, gasps of breath, wailing and struggle as she tried to go towards her dead big brother. My mind runs through how it might seem inappropriate for me to have this teenage girl on my lap when nobody really knows who I am or why I'm there . I didn't know if it was common practice to hold family members back or if it was just an idea of Dorothy's. I tried to put myself in Maku's place with very little success. I also thought of how strange it was to be at the funeral of an age mate while his widow and three children looked on. This mix of emotions ran through me while I had possible the least connection the the deceased. I'm sure my face showed next to nothing.

Once the body was placed in a room, the gathered guests returned to what they'd been doing. Some ate, many drank and I sat. After another hour with my bony behind on a wood bench, Dorothy and I took a break for food. After my third meal of the day, I took time to read and decompress. There was no shortage of visitors while I read. Young children either stared or dared to get as close as they could. Men and women either politely greeted or gave mini-Krobo quizzes. Not quite relaxing but I was able to finish my book.

As bedtime approached, we were told that no beds were available and we were to be driven to a neighboring village to sleep. Dorothy didn't accept this arrangement as she didn't want to leave Maku.

I ended up sharing a straw mat on the floor with Dorothy and Maku's sister while two babies slept on a sheet beside us. With a backpack for a pillow, a terribly uncomfortable bed and a soundtrack of blaring music and crying babies, I barely slept.

At 5:45am, it was time to view the body of the deceased. Delirious, I trudged through the mud in order to see Maku's brother for the first time. By 6:15, I was watching steam rise from my body as I bucket bathed. By 6:30, I was watching a small boy as he was caned/slapped and forcefully bathed. He had been covered in dried mud and when told to bathe, he refused and insulted his elders. Talk about sensory overload early in the morning.

After a breakfast of kenkey (fermented corn dough) Dorothy and I went to join everyone as funeral announcements were made. Maku's father repeatedly approached and thanked me for coming while asking questions and insisting that Dorothy translate, even when I understood. Within fifteen minutes, I felt like I was going to pass out. I did my best to stick it out but had to ask if I could return to the straw mat to lie down. Within an hour, I had a fever. Within two hours, I was violently shivering. We were 5k away from any source of transportation and the funeral wasn't even halfway over so I napped on and off and shivered until the body was brought to the cemetery and everyone returned. Small children occasionally peeked their head in for an extra peak at the blefono but it didn't take long for me to resort to yelling and slamming the door. Eventually, I told Dorothy that I was pretty sure that I had Malaria again and had to leave as soon as possible.

By shortly after 2pm, we were able to leave. On the way out, I shook hands with all of the elders and family members. I tried to smile as "Blefono, Blefono, Blefono," was yelled at me from all angles. I tried to wait patiently as Dorothy chatted for what felt like hours (probably only a few minutes) with various drunk guests. I posed for a picture with Maku, Dorothy and several small children. Finally, as we were on our way out, one last man came up to me and in broken english asked if I could give him a job.

I gingerly walked for 45 minutes along a muddy road, under the mid-day sun with only a bottle of rain water until we reached the main junction. Dorothy went back towards Bormase and I went my own way via Koforidua to Accra. It felt almost like I was sleepwalking from place to place until between Koforidua and Accra, the sky turned black and we were hit with an intense downpour. Sitting in the jump seat (fold down seat that attaches to the benches in some tros) I had to hunch over to keep from hitting my head on the ceiling. With no seat belt and next to no visibility, I sat tensely as we passed a few accidents. We made it safely to greater Accra and sat in deadlocked traffic for 2 hours without moving 50 meters.

At 9:30, the three hour turned six and a half hour trip came to an end and I arrived at the medical unit. I had called the Peace Corps Medical Officer at 5 to tell him that I'd be in Accra at around 7. When I arrived, he was still stuck in traffic and I sat until nearly 11 before finally getting the necessary medicine. My fever was down to 100.6 ( I have no idea how high it was before) and I could finally go to sleep.

I've been in Accra since Saturday night but wasn't quite up to writing this entry. I feel good now and will go back to site tomorrow.

Love to all