Coveiros

This past Tuesday morning I got a text message from Dona Rachel, my empregada, that her brother had died. She usually comes to my house every Tuesday to get water, wash clothes and mop the inside of my house.  In the text she didn’t say anything about not coming, but I immediately texted her back “Meus Sentimentos” and not to worry about working that day. I called her later to give my regards. Luckily, I had learned the last time I heard of someone passing that “Desculpe” or “I’m sorry” doesn’t exactly translate like it does in English. I only had to make that mistake once to learn that lesson. People do not use “I’m sorry” to console someone when they hear of a loved one dying. In Portuguese, when someone says, “Desculpe” it directly means that they are apologizing for something that is their fault. When I talked to Dona Rachel on the phone, she said the funeral would be the next day, but she would let me know where and when. I figured that was her way of saying “you will be there.” The next morning, I got a text that the funeral would be at 14h here in Chicumbane. She didn’t say where in Chicumbane.  That morning when Calvino stopped by, I asked him where funerals generally commence. He said they usually start at the family’s house and then everyone walks down to the cemetery together before returning to the house following the burial. I was a little nervous about what to expect so I texted Anne, one of my PCV friends, who is at the end of her service and is known for going to a number of funerals in her community. “What do I wear? And if they say it starts at 14h, does that mean it will actually start then?” She responded to wear a capalana (a piece of fabric that all the women typically wear tied around their waists), a shirt that covers my shoulder and a head scarf. And that unlike most other things in Mozambique, funerals generally do start on time.

We had learned a little about funerals and the way Mozambicans handle grief and loss in training, but this would be my first time experiencing it firsthand. But, I had a feeling it wouldn’t be my last.

Just before 14h, I wrapped a capalana around my waist, which I recently learned in Changana is called anvulu, and headed over to Dona Rachel’s house. (I recently started Portuguese and Changana tutoring with a teacher from the primary school nearby.) When I arrived at Dona Rachel’s house, there were a number of women sitting on esteiras (straw mats) laid out in the yard. I thought that maybe I was late so I tried to discretely sit down with the others already seated. Dona Rachel saw me (I am kind of hard to miss, I guess) and brought me to the back of the yard where she told me to sit in a chair with some other women. The mother of one of the boys who goes to CACHES every day was sitting there and I had actually just met her the other day, so we started talking. Mid-conversation, she leaned over and told me that my capalana was on inside out. Who knew there was a front side and back side to a capalana? Since I had the bright idea to just wear bike shorts under my capalana—I thought that would be the coolest thing on such a hot day—I snuck into the latrine to rearrange my capalana. Phew, glad she helped me on that one.

Around 15h, a truck pulled into the yard with a coffin and a lot of people in the bed of it. Everyone stood up from the esteiras at this point and we all processed some on foot and some in cars to the cemetery. At the cemetery, we all gathered around the plot. I would say it was about 100-150 people in attendance. A representative from the church said a few words and then there were several songs. The whole ceremony was in Changana. For the burial, about six men carried the wooden coffin into the hole that was already dug. Some of them even entered into the hole as well. Then everyone gathered could walk up and scoop dirt over the grave. Once the site was covered, family and friends put plant stems into the dirt on top. Then, family and friends were invited to sprinkle water over the grave. It was a pretty emotional service. I even caught myself almost crying and I had never even met Dona Rachel’s brother. But, I think what got me was more the greater significance behind the funeral. I didn’t know how he died or how old he was. Did he have kids? A wife? Was he sick for a while? Was it unexpected? I didn’t think it would have been polite or very culturally sensitive to ask all the questions I wanted to. I could assume that it was HIV/AIDS, but I didn’t want to make assumptions. It wasn’t something people were exactly talking about either. What struck me most was how the whole community was there to pay their respects even if they hadn’t known him. The ceremony was nothing new. They had attended funerals like this one in the past and there would be more in the future.

Following the burial, we all processed back to the house where there were two women set up at the entrance of the yard with basins to wash hands. It is customary after a burial for everyone to then wash their hands back at the house. Then people either left or sat down on the esteiras again to have a meal together. I sat down on the edge of an esteira, but was quickly summoned by some of my neighbors to go sit by them. I moved over. They were then able to translate into Portuguese for me what was going on when the church representatives said a few words before passing around a plate to collect money for the family. It is customary for people to chip in 5 to 10 mets to help the family cover the cost of the funeral. Then, everyone was passed out a plate and the family served rice with either beans, couve (cooked greens) or chicken caril (stew). Unlike funerals in the states where usually the family is waited upon by friends and neighbors, here in Mozambique, the family was responsible for serving lunch to everyone in attendance. After eating, it was time for everyone to go home. My neighbor Dona Orlinda waited for me to walk home together. On the way home, she had one of the neighbor boys who was up a tree collecting mangoes, throw one down for me.

That night at CACHES, Professor Mario, a teacher who comes to do music with the kids, asked me what I thought of the funeral. He had also been in attendance. He then told me how I should have been right up in the front so I could have seen what was going on. I said I was fine where I was, a couple rows back, because I was with one of my neighbors. We then got into a discussion about the differences between funerals in the United States and Mozambique. Calvino, one of the jovens, popped into the conversation and explained how in the states we have coveiros at cemeteries. Coveiros? I wasn’t familiar with the vocab. But, Calvino explained how coveiros were the ones who hang out in cemeteries and dig graves, but here in Mozambique, they do it all themselves. I had to consult my dictionary to understand exactly what he was talking about. Coveiros=Gravediggers. Got it. After Professor Mario left, I then drilled Calvino with all the questions I had been dying to ask someone. He is already used to my way of asking 20 questions at a time. Eek. So it was no surprise to him, when I asked him if I could ask him a few questions. In the end, he learned from it as well because we continued our conversation from earlier discussing the differences between American and Mozambican funerals. I was just working on Peace Corps Goals #2 and #3: To teach host country nationals about American culture and to teach Americans about the culture of host country nationals. But more than just that, we were finding common ground between cultures that usually seem worlds apart.