The Funeral. Part II: The Setup

“You nuh tink a ram goat can talk like a man unda the fuol moon?”

It was then that I realized that Lion was dead serious. His normally-hazy eyes were clear, searching mine with an unsettling intensity. We sat around the domino table amidst of hundreds of mourners, the solitary fluorescent bulb above us attracting a similar gathering of flying insects. He grunted when his turn came, indicating a pass, the man to his right immediately releasing a howl and slamming the decisive tile into the weathered wood tabletop with meteoric force.

Lion ignored the defeat. He was still awaiting my answer. Of course the combination of sleep-deprivation and white rum made verbal communication impossible for me at this point. I just stared at the glowing double-helix of the light bulb. The cloud of bugs is my last coherent memory of that night until I awoke a couple hours later, still sitting in the exact spot, with the same men crowded around the domino table, seemingly oblivious to the passage of time. The only apparent change being the soft blue glow rising over the eastern hills.

The nine-night or setup is like a neighborhood party to honor the deceased. It was a good time. Lots of people. Lots of rum. I still have no idea what Lion was talking about, but neither did he. We were but tiny pieces of a great work. An old man was laid to rest in style, his spirit lovingly ground into a cacophony of good vibes and pumped into the souls of all present. Nuff respec.

The Funeral. Part 1: Let’s Dig a Grave!

This was my backyard since I moved here in January. Swanky, eh? All was cool until sometime last Thursday when someone had to go and die. It wasn’t long until I awoke one morning to the happy sounds of rusty shovels scraping cement outside my window. Armed with a cup of instant coffee and my own mordant curiosity I crept out of my house and assessed the situation. I carried the cat along too, just in case the scene grew ugly and we needed to evacuate suddenly.

A gathering of men, young and old, had mysteriously appeared in my backyard/cemetery. They had been toiling since dawn in the construction of yet another grand funerary monument to awe the Ages. One called up at me and demanded an offering, so I brought them down a jug of water and sat a while. In such a project, much of the energy consumed is done so through sitting. This cool energy keeps oby and im bredren from getting too close. The constant sips of white rum help too.

Eventually the council deems the hole adequate and begins hauling bags of cement and buckets of water down the treacherous gullyside. The cement is mixed on the dirt with generous doses of sand and white rum, then used to assemble a strong block box that will ultimately hold the casket. Not really wanting to mess with the spirits and participate in the actual digging or blocking, I busied myself by sweeping off the graves and getting water down to the workers.

The work went on, with more and more relatives pouring in from Town and lining their cars along the treacherous curve of road. At least a hundred people were gathered on my street and in my yard. I did my best to show the flag and be a respectful interloper. I think it worked. They let me take pictures.

And this is the finished product, the only thing missing is people.

But this story is far from done, for the Jamaican funeral something to see. It is a celebration of life. The family has been hosting friends and sharing old stories for over a week now. Tomorrow night is the “setup”, the wake, and it will be a psychosomatic journey through the human soul that will throb and blaze through these hills until sunrise. I’ll be lucky to get any sleep. On the other hand as an honorary participant, I don’t think I’m supposed to.

Deus Impeditio Esuritori Nullus

We are different, you and I.

Despite all the grand proclamations of brotherhood and equality, the praises and chants for One-World-Harmony, and every lofty quote ever uttered by any of history’s exalted luminaries; our minds will always follow differing paths. Though our bodies consist of identical components and are subject to the same pleasures and pains that compose the physical realities of all men, our respective cultures will always prevent a perfect understanding between the two of us.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

We must not fool ourselves into thinking that we can overcome this divide, since doing so would inevitably pit us against our most cherished personal beliefs and force us to question our darkest, unfettered impulses. The struggle would be a lonely one. When you declare war on your roots, you can expect little support from your brethren. The further a man pushes into such a journey, the more of himself he ultimately loses. We will always stand apart.

I can understand you, but I can’t feel you.

And so I can never trust you. In lieu of cosmic harmony we substitute Respect. Trust is nothing but a vaunted sentiment, but Respect is the universal currency. Without Respect, our countless humanitarian projects and lofty rhetoric are nothing but smoke: they hang in the air long enough to give a warm buzz and cloud the senses, then dissipate softly into the ether. So we agree to a separate peace, independent of the whims of dreamers, and continue our work.

I only hope the extremes of life never make us hungry, to the point we are forced to weigh bravado against blood.

Hunger scares me. It comes in many forms, but it still does its damage in the same slow, insidious way. Hunger is a cancer that destroys its victims physically, mentally, and spiritually… just the same as hate. It erodes self-worth and cripples confidence. Since you cannot respect someone who does not respect himself, I figure Hunger is the great arch-nemesis of everything that keeps us working together. Do we respect each other enough to stand against Hunger?

They say “No god can stop a hungry man.”

Respectfully, I hope I never have to try.