November 1, 2002

I was told he had died just that afternoon, and that the burial would take place the next day in the afternoon. It was the elderly father of a senior-level woman named Gracinda in the village agricultural association. His death actually marked the one year mark for me in my village because a year earlier when I first visited the valley, my Peace Corps car had come upon him lying down, shaking on the side of the road. I assumed he had suffered a recent heart attack, and our driver rushed him to the nearby hospital -- he later recovered. Gracinda has been instrumental in helping me gain community support for my projects with women and girls, so I knew I had to go to the funeral -- my visit would be expected.

During that afternoon while my front door was open, at least four of my six neighbors stopped by to tell me of the death. When my water girl Nha finally passed with a large bundle of grass on her head for her livestock, I asked her all of my pressing questions: When should I go the next day? How long should I stay? What should I wear? Who else was going? When could I leave if I didn't want to go to the actual burial at the cemetery? Nha said she would be going the next day and would stop by around 10 am. to accompany me to the house up in the mountains.

At 6 am. I heard a knock on the door. I moaned to myself, then rolled out of bed and into my bath robe before answering the door. It was Nha saying that she ready to go, and I just acted like I didn't notice that the departure time had mysteriously changed from 10 am. to 6 am. I was definitely not ready to go, so I said I was sick to my stomach. I would need to sleep a bit longer and then decide if I would go. Around 9 am., I picked out a black top and pants to wear. Nha's brother Sabino showed up around 10 am., and I said I was ready to go. As we walked through the riverbed towards the neighboring village where the 'visiting' was taking place, more and more people joined us. They asked me about 'death' in the USA and what happens when someone dies. I was embarrassed to explain that the family organizes a ceremony at a 'funeral home', and then after the burial hosts a reception at their house or other location. After that day, there are no further ceremonies.

In Cape Verde, if you know the person who has died or are friends with a family member related to the person who died, you are obliged to 'visit' their house in the eight days following the death. It is best to go within twenty-four hours to their house or attend the actual burial. After the eight day visiting period, then the thirty day mark is also acknowledged with more visiting, as well as the one year mark. You must return each time if you are a friend of the family, or you are seen as ungrateful and not part of the community. As we walked alongside the stream, I pondered death in the USA and how much Americans seem to acknowledge a loved one's death at the funeral, but then it is soon forgotten. Although the family will remember the one year mark when their loved one has died, nobody else often acknowledges it in support of the grieving family. In this respect, I prefer the Cape Verdean custom because death comes with a lot of grieving and support from friends is always appreciated.

After an hour of walking, we reached the house up on a cliff overlooking the majestic valley. At least two hundred people dressed in their best clothes were sitting in all of the available shade spots, given that it was an unbearably hot, sunny day. The immediate sound of women whaling, or crying, along with the pounding of corn could be heard. Sabino gestured for me to follow him, and we walked slowly past a line of fifty visitors sitting in front of the house with our heads bowed. I was under intense scrutiny because I was the only caucasian person there. We ducked inside the main room where the casket was laid out, a slim box adorned with hand-sewn gold ribbon, the body in a Sunday suit, the face and hands covered with small cloths. Candles flickered on two chairs placed next to the casket, and ten women cried and moaned in sync. The sadness overwhelmed me, as I stood with my head bowed watching Sabino and others utter their Catholic prayers.

After ten minutes, we started the blessings, which involve lightly patting the family member's back and murmuring a Creole prayer into their ear as you lean into them. Although I would have liked to vary my blessing, I was embarrassed to be blessing people I didn't even really know, so I stuck with the 'Força e Coraji,' Strength and Courage, for everyone. When we reached the adjoining room, I saw Gracinda, who was saturated in her tears without her usual academic glasses on. I had never seen her so emotional, and I bowed into her petite 5'3'' frame to utter my blessing. Sabino and I stood there like two bystanders at an accident scene assessing the 'damage' while tears welled up in my eyes and he wiped his face with the back side of his hand. As I exited, everyone stared, and then I quickly settled into a spot in the shade where I would sit for the next few hours. Nha had informed me that once you arrive for the 'visit', you are not allowed to leave until the body has begun its journey from the house to the cemetery, otherwise it is considered very disrespectful.

I had spent the morning at my house contemplating whether I should bring my camera because I have been trying to get good, colorful slides of rural life to send into the contest for the 2004 Peace Corps Calendar made by the University of Wisconsin RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers). Their calendar sales annually gross over $150,000.00, which they use for sponsoring projects in Peace Corps communities. I knew that women would be grinding corn in groups of six, which is only witnessed at weddings and funerals. Normally, it is only one or two. However, I also guessed correctly that I would be the only Caucasian person there, and a camera would most likely be considered disrespectful. I didn't want to give the image that I was a tourist, so I left it behind.

The entire rest of the day I spent taking mental snapshots of the sons tying vines to tree branches to later carry the casket, the women grinding corn in their contrasting colored clothes, the elderly men methodically cleaning the recently killed livestock for the feast, the women sitting in the shade looking off in the distance, dogs lingering for any bits of food that may fall from a kind hand, and children staring at me in awe. I sketched with my black pen on scrap paper from my wallet, an occasional child wandering over to see what I was doing so intently. I noticed the shade patterns created by houses on the surrounding mountainsides, the color combinations of the women's clothes, the height of the trees in relation to the sugarcane fields. I noticed every detail in nature that would be useful for my women's painting group the next day.

After the feast of rice, fresh cow meat, and boiled corn, the priest exited the house blessing the casket for over an hour. A crowd gathered and everyone did a call-and-response chant of his Catholic blessings akin to 'He will rise from this house to heaven!' 'He will rise.' 'He will be blessed by our Father!' 'He will rise.' An occasional dog would lash out at other visiting dogs that had followed their owners to the gathering, and the crowd would temporarily part to avoid being bitten. After the priest finished, each child of the deceased man slowly walked single-file around the house and down the path towards the trucks waiting to transport everyone to the cemetery. Each son and daughter was shrouded in black veils, moaning, tears streaming down their faces, unintelligible Creole phrases moaned towards the mountain peaks.

The casket soon followed, and the hundreds of visitors followed single-file down the mountainside. For a moment, I felt like a photographer on assignment for National Geographic. This was so historical, and so cultural. People around the world would be interested to see the sense of community often witnessed in 'African' cultures. Visitors often dropped out of line to moan and cry out Creole phases about the deceased man. Again, I was overwhelmed with grief to think that this was the last time this man would descend the mountain he had been born on and had built his life on. At eighty-five years old, he was well accustomed to the daily hike to his house and caring for his crops.

As the caravan of trucks passed by my cluster of houses, I jumped out because I didn't feel up to going to the cemetery. I had been told by previous volunteers that everyone parts at the gate and goes to their own family's grave to grieve. Only the immediate family mourns over their grave where the bones of previous deceased members have been piled to make way for the newest casket. Everyone is buried on top of each other instead of side-by-side. Because I didn't have a family grave to attend to, I decided not to go. However, that was just an excuse. I was really just exhausted by the four hour visit, both emotionally and physically. That night, back in my cluster of houses, my neighbors asked me proudly how the visit had gone. What did I think? Who did I see? It was commonplace for my neighbors to acknowledge what I had done in order to create conversation and to praise my actions. As I retired to my house, the sound of grinding corn could be heard from the adjoining houses. Dinner would soon be served by candlelight -- tomorrow would be another day.