The Dead & The Quick

The procession moved slowly through the town with 90 degree changes of direction at some intersections in this mainly quadrangular town/small city. Its pace was governed by the mourners shuffling on foot behind the hearse. Behind these pedestrians came a growing column of vehicles; most were carrying people who wished to pay their respects, others were vehicles caught up in the midst and unable to escape easily.

When it reached the south side of the main town, the procession took a left turn and started the climb towards and into Matagalpa’s main cemetery. The dead centre of town is laid out grid-like in similar fashion to the town, but vehicles can only get so far up the ever-steepening slope where the graves seem to have barely enough level room to hold their occupants.

In keeping with a Latin history and an ostensibly Roman Catholic faith, the cemetery is full of little buildings, like family shrines. Presumably this also keeps the grave-robbers at bay as well as giving the living a focus point to remember their dead.

By the time my work colleague, Oscar, and I had reached the burial site, most mourners had secured their vantage points from which to observe the interment. The coffin lid had been opened to allow family and friends to take a last look at their loved one.

The loved one was the father of the IT assistant at the water company where I am working. Aged about 45, he had apparently been ill for some time and I still don’t know the reason for his passing; something “Aids-related” was probably not the cause, this being Nicaragua and not sub-Saharan Africa.

He shuffled off this mortal coil on the Monday and we were gathered in solemn fashion (except for the male oafs talking and laughing in the shade of nearby trees) on the Tuesday afternoon, a case of the dead being the quick this time.

Kamilo, the 23 year old IT assistant and new male head of the family, was at the side of the coffin trying to keep the family on an even keel, difficult with the steep slope, never mind the circumstances. The wailing and sobbing was to be expected, but the racking sobs and searing cries of Kamilo’s 15 year old younger brother were awful to witness and hear. The family wanted to close the lid and let the interment begin, but the poor youngster wailed and begged to be allowed for some more time to gaze upon his late father.

After some more minutes had passed, Kamilo and his sister took the boy away and they sat out the rest of the interment, which was just as well because the process was subject to a grave error. The plot was a concrete lined affair, quite large and probably a family plot. After the coffin was suitably arranged in the depths, concrete slabs were placed on top and then cemented in.

However, there was a delay because the last slab just would not fit, a bit like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, or reassembled engine. The assembled host, minus the close family who had moved downhill about 25 meters away, had to gaze upon the efforts of the grave digging team as they chipped away with an axe at the recalcitrant concrete.

After about 20 minutes, the final piece was shoved into place and the tomb was sealed. The women who had been hovering in silent patience then moved into gear and placed all the floral tributes on top of the slabs till one could not even see anything of the cold slabs themselves.

As this task was completing, Oscar and I moved down to the family to express our condolences personally. The young brother was just sitting there in sullen shock, but I was able to tell the family in my fractured Spanish that my thoughts and prayers were with them.

During the procession, interment and when we drove away back to the office to the remains of the afternoon and day, I reflected upon a number of things: the fragility of life and relationships, the cycle of life and death, the differing conduct of the mourners.

I was especially conscious of how blessed I have been, not only relative to this bereaved family (because I am not a relative), but also in terms of my own family circle. When he was only 12, my Dad lost his own father in an accident aboard his warship in harbour; he had only recently got to know his father again when my grandfather had returned from a two year posting on the China station of the Royal Navy in the days when Britain still had a semblance of an empire.

Dad passed away peacefully in my arms, literally, just over 12 years ago. He and my Mum were married for 45 years, the entire life span as the Matagalpino just laid to rest. Gill’s Mum and Dad have just celebrated 60 years of wedded bliss, and my Mum had her 90th birthday last year, twice the life span of the quick fellow.

So I have been truly blessed to have had the guidance and support of both my parents, and in turn to support them, for most of my life. My blessings have been further increased by the gift of three great kids, if I may refer to my adult offspring in that old way. This well of blessing will no doubt be deepened further when our grandchild arrives towards the end of the year (see earlier posting Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven).

I have also pondered on the nature of my own funeral, whenever and wherever that may take place. Of course, I wouldn’t mind it if some tears and some poignant moments were in attendance, but I do not want a graveside scene like that I have just witnessed.

As far as I’m concerned (note to self: check my will and leave notes on funeral, music etc), the morticians can remove any of my remaining body parts that may be of use to anyone else (increasingly unlikely as I move inexorably towards my free bus pass one day), or which could be useful for medical research, or at least provide medical students with a good laugh; what’s left can be cremated and my ashes scattered on a favourite beauty spot still to be named.

In 1994 we cast Dad’s ashes at sea in the English Channel just outside Plymouth in a very poignant service run by the Royal Navy for former officers and sailors. Maybe mine can be dispersed on the beautiful River Wye near Hereford, unless New Labour makes that a criminal offence before I go.

Before I get too depressed, I’ll end this posting.

Keep well, safe and in touch.

Roger J