The other side

A couple of months ago I had my first experience of a Tanzanian funeral. One of the nurses fell ill suddenly after finishing her shift on Valentine's Day. Within a few minutes she was dead. Cause of death is often speculation and rumour without the facilities for a post-mortem. Perhaps more realistically why someone dies is irrelevant in most cases. Not only is it a tragedy for the family but the loss of a salary can have huge consequences on their future.

Not having experienced death in Tanzania the rituals and traditions that surround it were new to me. Within an hour, the news of her passing had spread around the village.  Phones were buzzing with the grizzly details and her final moments became a common topic of conversation in homes and at the market stalls. Being a member of staff the funeral costs were paid for by the hospital and sacks of flour and a coffin were sent to her family.

The next morning, I went with my neighbour to the family home to view the body and pay my respects. She had lived in a typical village home that had a few disconnected rooms surrounding a central open area where people would meet to cook, wash clothes and socialise. A large metal barrel collected rain water that was running off the roof and the women worked to keep the fire going under the pan of boiling water that was ready to cook the ugali.

I was led to one of the smallest rooms made of mud with a tin roof. Coloured cloth was hanging across the doorway and it was dark inside. The body was wrapped and laid on a bed, surrounded by people sat on the sand floor. The shroud covering her head was undone and a torch held up to her face so that I would be able to see. My first dead body and without the luxury of fridges or formaldehyde. Afterwards I was taken to see the matriarch of the family who was sat on the floor of another small room surrounded by a group of solemn women. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and her chin was touching her chest as I offered my regrets and gave her a small amount of money. The onset of wailing from outside signalled the arrival of senior female relatives who were led into the room, supported under each arm by more women. Their heads and faces were fully covered with scarves and whilst they wailed with a passion they discreetly rejected incoming phone calls on the mobile phones in their pockets.

Before the burial a mass was held in the village Catholic Church.  A priest arrived from a town 2 hours away after the local father refused to hold a funeral service for someone who did not attend church regularly. The church was full of women dressed head to toe in brightly coloured kangas. According to Tanzanian culture, death is the most critical situation to the bereaved and helping a family during this time is considered an indication of friendship. To be seen to attend a funeral is very important in the Swahili culture. Time off from work for burials is a common occurrence and representatives from each hospital department are often called on to attend funerals in distant villages of colleagues' parents or relations.

The graveyard was already full by the time the congregation arrived, Muslim well-wishers having bypassed the church service. Small groups of people whispered amongst themselves and the odd woman had to be carried off, inconsolable. Men at the graveside performed the final ritual as they fought over the spades used to cover the coffin with dirt. Then it was over. The crowds slowly departed, drifting back towards the village and their homes to carry on with their lives. 

After 18 months in Tanzania, I have the feeling that certain things are taken for granted. Life will be hard. Death will likely come early. And there is very little that can be done to change either.