A Haitian Funeral

A caravan of cars leaves the rectory at 8:30, loaded to the gills with people. Pere Walin is officiating at a funeral at about 9:30, so we're all going with him. Every square inch is packed with people. In the back of the truck, parishioners have placed the low traditional Haitian chairs. Women dressed in their funeral best are perched on the seats of the chairs in the truck bed. In the Montero that Johnny is driving, we have five passengers in seats and four in the back hatch area, complete with two violins. American seat belt laws do not apply.

Within a block of the rectory as we leave, we pass a little boy with his goat on a string, a woman on a horse loaded with a full set of chairs, a woman carrying a chicken, and a young man driving a team of oxen hauling a giant cart of dirt. The donkeys, mules, and horses are outfitted with giant side woven baskets--like bicycle panniers--that hold a lot of gear. There are many people on the streets and moving about. A mother just passed by with a large bundle on her head; her very small daughter followed behind her, also carrying a bundle. A big black pig darts out in front of the car, but we avoid a pork disaster.
We drive for about 40 minutes and then the rough roads get very rutted and pot-holed. The car pitches violently as we rock back and forth over a road I would never, ever try on my own. We are headed to St. Patrick church in Lokob.

St. Patrick, it turns out, is a corrugated roof open-air church. It seats maybe 300 people packed together on hand hewn pews. Giant USAID tarps that have the slogan "From the People of America" block sun for at least part of the church. They're also strung around the outside to form sun shields for the hundred or so extra people standing and sitting on the group outside. There must be four hundred or more people here.

The women wear all white, or white and black. The men are dressed in suits or collared shirts and dark pants. The little girls wear frilly dresses, lacy socks, and lots of hair bows and barrettes. Little boys wear nice shirts and slacks. Family members of the deceased wear wide green satin ribbons as sashes with religious mottos on them. The members of religious groups wear the clothing and scarves of their organization and stand in groups. If our little band of Americans didn't stick out enough already as primarily white people in a black crowd, our clothes also set us apart. We're wearing travel attire, not funeral attire.

The service lasts for three and a half hours.The departed, Leoclus, was a beloved choir leader who wanted music at his service, and his wishes are honored. There were at least 15 choral, string, accordian, and band performances. John Moon's Haitian string group plays "Amazing Grace" and at least one other number. A wonderful men's choral group sings several rousing numbers with lots of choruses. The congreation joins in the liturgy and other hymns. Several priests speak. The music and words are interrupted by the squawking of chickens and the occasional shout or moan, primarily from the female relatives of the deceased. One woman is seized with a paroxysm of grief and falls convulsing to the ground. Her male relatives carry her out like a moving log of wood, people scrambling to let them by. Ursula sits near the mourners and is much affected by their grief. Much later, this expression of grief intensifies when the white coffin is carried from the chapel. A huge procession of mourners shout, wail, cry, and scream as they follow the casket. Arms around each other, they leave the chapel, leaning on each other for support and occasionally bending low and swaying in their sorrow.

Midway through the service, the sun is fierce; the breeze is slight. The kids slip out and wander down a path nearby leading past several traditional Haitian homes set apart some distance from each other. The view from these very modest homes is astounding. If this real estate were in Austin . . . well, we're talking millions. But this is Haiti. The kids encounter a young Haitian boy and keep him company for quite a while, discovering goats and a tethered bull in the process. Philip is captivated by the bull and wants to approach it--we intervene (although he does have a friendly encounter with a goat later). The kids hang out together, wandering around, talking, laughing.

The service goes on, and on, and on some more. I feel rather out of place. Little children turn around and stare at me fixedly; so do eelderly people. I try to nod and smile when I make eye contact. One quite old lady beams when I do so and waves at me from inside the church. She later comes up and takes both of my hands in hers and greets me generously.

As the final mourners leave the church, a woman right in front of us falls down in what appears to be a seizure caused by grief. She bucks and flails around for at least ten minutes. Her family hauls her laboriously to a small house nearby, within eyesight, and set out a tarp for her to rest on.

It's finally time to go . . . we load up the cars again and start down the treacherous path. Only this time the narrow, rocky road is filled with departing funeral-goers, some walking, some riding motocycles, some on horses or donkeys. It seems ten times scarier and much dustier to careen around these steep roads with pedestrians within an arms-length. Fortunately, we make it safely back "home"--the St. Andres rectory.

We arrive exhausted but amazed by the experience we have had--one, actually, that anthropologists can only dream of.  We gulp down water and cane sugar Koka and settle in for yet another meal  together in the rectory.
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