A Funeral

One day one of the girls in my girls´ group mentioned to me that the father of another of the girls, and my neighbor, was gravely ill. I had noticed that for the past couple of months, when I talked to him his voice was incredibly raspy and soft, and he had told me that he was having lung problems. I had baked a batch of cookies for the girls´ group meeting, but not many girls showed up, so I brought half the batch across the street to give to the family. Unexpectedly, they ushered me in to visit him. I had noticed that people had been in and out of the house all day, and it confirmed my suspicion that they were coming to visit him and the family. He lay on a bed in the back room, his wife-- one of the kindest ladies I know-- in a chair beside him. A few other people were also visiting. They spoke for a awhile in K´iche´ and I couldn´t understand what they were saying. But as they left, the people would pat his arm and tell him “patience.” They was also a bowl beside the bed for people to give a bit of money. (I didn´t think to bring money, just cookies, which seemed rather silly as I was sitting there.) His wife explained that it was very difficult for him to talk, and yesterday he had been even worse, his whole body in pain. She said that today he was a little better, that just his arm was hurting, and they were hopeful he was getting better. I wasn´t sure what to say to him as I left, so I repeated that about patience, and said that I hoped little by little he would be getting better, and told them I would pray for him.

Then I left for a few days to go to our In Service Training at the Peace Corps center. After that, I made a long journey up to San Marcos to pick up my new kitten from some other volunteers. I finally got back (holding a box containing a meowing and terrified kitten) late on a Sunday. I noticed that quite a few people were in the house across the street and there was an ambulance there, and I wondered if he had already passed away. I let out the kitty and arranged her things and unpacked. But as I was crossing my patio, I heard wails suddenly coming from the neighbors´ house, and I recognized the voice of my student. I knew then that he had died. As if on cue, it began to rain.

I noticed the crowd continue to grow next door, so finally I put on some decent clothes and went over. As soon as I arrived, one of his daughters greeted me, then burst into tears. I found myself holding her, awkwardly saying something about how he was now in peace. I was then taken to the same room where I had visited him, where he now lay covered by a blanket. Some of his other distraught family members were there, to whom I also tried to make my awkward attempts at consolation. I then went out into the main room, and I was surprised by how many people from the community were there. Children were running around playing, most of the adults were sitting and talking in the plastic chairs that had been set out, and I saw some women preparing a large quantity of food in a pot in the back. Many of the family members and relatives left to retrieve the casket in a larger town. When they returned, a procession of crying and distraught family members went to his room, followed by the casket. He was transferred into it, then carried to the next room, which is normally their book store but had been cleared out and filled with rows of chairs. Eventually I escaped, exhausted from my travels and wanting to be with my new cat.

The next day at my big institute, the teachers discussed what to do to honor him and console the family since he had been a big supporter of the institute. We decided to go over there late that afternoon, rather than go to the entire funeral the next day. As soon as we arrived, we were each given a plate of food. We ate, then some of the teachers entered into the room where he lay (which was filled with people simply sitting in the plastic chairs) to pay their respects. I stayed after the teachers left to help pass out plates of food to the people that were coming for a couple of hours, before leaving. As I was crossing to my house, two of his little granddaughters (and my good friends) literally ran into me, crying. (I am guessing they had just visited him lying there). I sat there in the street and held them for a while, caressing their hair until they calmed down.

The next day was the day of the actual funeral. I made a decision, which I´m not sure was the correct one or the choice a Guatemalan in my community would have made, and I don´t think my host family approved. But when it comes down to it, I am still an American with American values. Tuesdays I teach all day in another community, I didn´t cancel my classes to go to the funeral (or the parent meeting I had scheduled). I am frustrated as it is by how little time I get to teach because of how often classes are canceled for other events and how much I have to leave because of Peace Corps activities. So I went to work.

The funeral was scheduled for 2 p.m., but when I got back after 5 p.m., my house was locked up and I knew it was still going on. I waited at the neighbors´ house, where I figured people would be returning after the burial. Sure enough, little by little the people began to arrive, the later ones drenched by the fierce downpour that had started. The family members when they entered seemed surprisingly calm and relaxed, and I hoped the burial and church service had been somehow cathartic for them. Again, everyone was given plates of food. As soon as I could get away from the lady that was chatting with me, I went to help again, this time washing dishes. I washed for a couple of hours, then was invited to sit for a while with the family. I sat beside the wife with a group of other older ladies, who were chatting solemnly in K´iche´. One of the younger ones started teasing me about finding a husband here and started pointing out available men and telling me which of the older ladies would be my mother-in-law. The wife told me that he had asked to eat one of my cookies as he lay there (although I´m sure it hadn´t tasted good to him in that state, and again I felt a bit embarrassed by the inappropriateness of the gift). They gave me some bread and tamalitos to thank me for helping out (although I´d only washed dishes). After a while, as more and more people were filtering out, I made my leave, and for the first time was able to speak to the girl from my group. She was sitting with her siblings and cousins and seemed relaxed and was laughing (though I´m sure of course she is still in a lot of pain). I blessed her and left.

There is no longer a crowd next door, but they haven´t opened the bookstore, and there is still a white bow above the door. Of course the death of a husband, father, grandfather and active community member, who is only 55 years old, is a tragedy however you look at it. (especially because I suspect that his life would have been prolonged if not saved by adequate medical care). Nonetheless, for me it was a special experience, participating in his remembrance. I´m not sure I have ever felt so much like a true member of this community, someone who has her ties and connections and people that she cares about, and someone who has a natural place here. It didn´t feel weird or fake to be helping out with the other women and men, and they accepted my help without question (I feel that when I was new in the community, they wouldn´t have allowed me to help).

It also showed me a different side of this community to see what happens in the case of a death. There is certainly a way of thinking about it that is very distinct from the US. In the US, people tend to keep a distance from those in mourning, leaving them to their immediate family and closest friends, quietly giving food and flowers and cards and money, respecting their need for privacy and time to grieve. Here, however, the people come in flocks to show their support. The more people present, the more love and support is shown. And the family in grieving mobilizes immediately to receive them, with places to sit and food to eat and an opportunity to say farewell to the deceased. (In this case, the immediate family members were spared a lot of the work by other relatives and friends, but I don´t know if that is always true.) Privacy is not seen as a necessity for anyone, and the grieving takes place openly and publicly and without shame. It´s as if everyone is close family, and there is no need to hide all the messiness and confusion and pain, because we all have our moments sometime.

I´m not saying this way is right and the American way wrong, or vice versa. Personally, I think I would prefer privacy and the company of close friends and family in my moments of grieving. But that is the way of the culture where I was raised. And I do admit, this way also has a certain beauty to it.

Boxing for Jesus

Me on Tajamulco, with Guatemala´s volcanic range behind me.

Many of my Peace Corps friends decided to”aprovechar” (take advantage of) Holy Week, or Semana Santa, in Guatemala to get out and see more of the country. But I´d heard the crowds were crazy and was also a bit low on funds (and vacation days), so I decided to spend most of the week in my town.

For the first weekend of the vacation, a group of us made it up to San Marcos to hike Central America´s largest volcano, Tajamulco, and camp there for the night. I was very excited since I hadn´t been backpacking or camping since moving to Guatemala (and it´s something I do a lot of in the summers in Montana), but also a bit nervous since I had done little very exercise since being diagnosed with asthma.

The hike was definitely challenging, but everyone went at their own pace, and we all made it up well before dark to set up camp. (We didn´t go all the way up to the summit that day; we had decided to get up at 4 a..m. and hike to the summit for the sunrise.) We had a fun night, sitting around our large campfire and roasting marshmallows. And somehow at 4 a.m. we all managed to wake up and get out of our warm sleeping bags into the bitter cold and windy dark morning. We all got there before the sun was up, though by the time we were on top the sky was turning a dusky rose and there was an orange line on the horizon. The view was spectacular. We could see almost the entire volcanic chain to the southeast (the volcano above Xela that I can see from my town and the three that ring the lake, among others). To the southwest, we could see where the mountains sharply drop off into the flat plains that stretch to the sea (upon which the mammoth shadow of the volcano was cast). To the north we could see the endless chain of mountains below us to Mexico. Directly east, I thought I could pick out the mountain ridge that shoulders my town. And slowly the sun rose and filled all of Guatemala below us with its light.

Once we got back, I spent a relaxing day and night with a couple friends that live in San Marcos and we got in some “paca” shopping (the second-hand clothes stores, which are phenomenal in San Pedro) where I spent way too much money. Then I made it back to my town.

I spent a few days in the house, cleaning and working on lessons. The Semana Santa activities didn´t start until Friday, which is actually the most important day of the week in Guatemala (not Easter Sunday). That morning I went for a jog and noticed little tables set up in the street with framed pictures marking the stations of the cross. Later, I was getting ready when I looked down the street and saw the procession coming. I hurried out to join it (though I missed the first few stations). At the end there was a small reenactment of the crucification of Jesus, but the young man that they tied up on a cross did start to self-consciously laugh a little, as well as some of the girls in the crowd that probably knew him, which kinda ruined the effect. In other towns in Guatemala, people work all night covering the streets with “rugs” of dyed sawdust in elaborate designs, but my town is mostly Evangelical and the procession was small, with no rugs.

Later in the day, I went with my host family to see the “boxing” in the soccer field. People had kept mentioning the “boxing” to me when they were telling me about Semana Santa, and it´s pretty much what is sounds like, though very informal boxing. Two young men are allowed into the field at a time and punch at each other until one of them falls down and then the next couple of men enter. I didn´t recognize any of the men that were fighting and lost interest rather quickly (although I was pretty entertained that this was how my town marked one of the most important religious holidays of the year.) Fortunately my host sister also lost interest quickly, so we left early. The activity of the evening had a more obviously religious theme: they showed the movie Passion of Christ with a large projector in the town square (but I stayed in).


The little girl and baby boy of my host family at the zoo.


Bumper cars with the 12-year-old nephew.


With the host family at the zoo.

My host family invited me to go with them to Xela to the zoo the next day. I rode in the back of the pickup with the little girl. The zoo was rather sad, as to be expected, with listless animals in very teeny cages. But I enjoyed spending the time with the family. We visited the carnival area as well, where I played a couple rounds of bumper cars with the 12 year old nephew. Then we had a picnic together in the open park area, where we ate fried chicken and fries and rolls. I bought everyone ice cream. I played with the baby and the two kids. It was a pretty sunny day, and it felt surprisingly nice to be with a family, doing normal family things. Then we parted ways. The family continued on to visit some hot springs, and I went to run some errands and meet up with friends. We stayed the night in Xela and went out to dinner and out dancing. And it was good to be with Americans on Easter morning, even if it was just breakfast at a hostel.

Overall, it was a nice Semana Santa. I got to stand on top of the highest point in Central America, relax at home, see the unique town activities, spend time with the family and get my groove on in Xela. Pretty good for just “laying low”.