"What do you think it was?" I asked, deferring to Shamu's knowledge and experience. My daughter in-law was dead, and I wanted to know why. My son Guarta, trembling at my side, also wanted answers. Last night they returned home from a successful hunting party, with plenty of meat for all. Guarta, a strong man in his prime, carried a peccary on his back, a prize that would feed several families. Naturally I was proud, but the festivities came to a halt when he opened the door to his hut and found his wife lying in her bed, her black eyes sunken and her lips pulled back. She had been dead for two days, maybe three. Looking back, I should have realized something was amiss. I hadn't seen Eitok working in her garden, or out in the village. That's not like her, to stay inside her hut for days on end. If I had checked in on her, maybe...
"She has decayed quite a bit, in the summer heat, so it was hard to tell." Shamu was setting the stage, promoting himself as the medicine man of the village. Fair enough, his skills were unequaled. Even Sharen, the white visitor with her fancy medicines and instruments, was sometimes baffled by a simple rash that Shamu could diagnose and treat in short order. "I have decided," he continued, "that Eitok was out gathering berries in the forest some four days ago, when she was bitten by a lance snake. She probably thought it was harmless, so she went back home. Feeling a bit dizzy, she went to bed. I'm sure she called out for help during the night, but with everyone away on the hunting party, nobody heard. It is nobody's fault ; it is the will of the Forest." He lifted her right leg up, so that her foot was plainly visible in the noon day sun. "You can see how it is swollen, a bit larger than the other one." He lifted the other leg for comparison. "If you look closely, you can see the bite on the back of the calf." Both legs dropped to the ground with a thud. "I realize you need to prepare and store your freshly killed meat, which the Forest has graciously provided, but at the same time, we must perform the funeral ritual. I'd like to do it right away, if possible, because the body is already old." The villagers nodded their ascent, especially those nearest Eitok, where the smell of putrid flesh was unmistakable. Of course this wasn't a democracy, and everybody turned towards the chief.
Sakari was a short man with deep brown skin and eyes to match. He wore the red tunic that was reserved for the chief. "Yes, stoke the fire." He looked towards several women standing nearby. "Scatter out into the forest and bring back as much wood as you can. And gather up some palm leaves to wrap the meat in." He then turned towards the hunting party. "Prepare the meat for the fire, and the body too." Sakari wandered away from the body and sat conspicuously on a stump, surveying the activities of his village.
Nobody expected Guarta to dismember his beloved wife, so he focused his attention on the 71 pound peccary that he brought back from the forest. He pulled a gleaming metal knife from his bag, a gift from the white missionary doctor. While others settled for awkward stone implements, his keen blade sliced through flesh with ease. Eitok's sister brought a stack of wet leaves, and Guarta carefully wrapped each leaf around a strip of meat. Within 40 minutes the carcass was reduced to an impressive trove of meat-stuffed leaves, a bowl of internal organs, and a pile of bones. The organs would be boiled and fed to the dogs, although I rather enjoy the intestines, if they're properly spiced. My wife is a great cook, and I knew she would set some aside for me. As if on cue, she came over carrying two pots of water.
"I'll cook the intestines in this pot," she pointed to the smaller, "and the rest of the organs in that one." She separated the organs by hand, placing them in their assigned pots. I simply nodded, knowing the intestines would be cooked to perfection.
Guarta kept his gaze focused on the fire, where women were carefully arranging pots of water and stacks of meat. He had no desire to watch his wife being cut into pieces, some 20 yards away. I watched, because it is part of the process. My son is a fine hunter and warrior, but he does not possess the wisdom that comes with age. The body must disappear in order to set the spirit free. I reminded him of this, and suggested that he watch. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes towards his young bride. Two men had already removed the arms and legs, and a third was sawing through the neck. With one final stroke, the fourth and fifth vertebrae separated, and Eitok's head rolled away from its body, long black hair trailing behind. Blood poured out of the arteries and veins, creating a red pool against the dark green grass. He tipped the head up onto its top and began scooping the brains out into a bowl. They could not be eaten; they would have to be burned. Sharen's father had explained this to Shamu's father almost 30 years ago, and in this case, the white man was right. We never would have guessed that curu was spread from one person to another by eating the brains. Dr. Charles, Sharen's father, said it was a prion disease. Nobody knew what that meant, and even Shamu doesn't understand it today, but sure enough, there were no new cases of curu in the past 25 years. Who would have guessed? How could these pale people be so smart about some things, and so ignorant about others? He thought about their habit of burying their dead and shuddered. This came to a head last month, during a heated discussion with Sharen.
"You must stop these cannibalistic rituals!" she began, looking directly at the chief, and then at me.
"Why?" Sakari asked. He adjusted his red tunic, which he always wore when Sharen came to visit. In contrast, Sharen always seemed overdressed, covering every part of her body. In the heat of the tropical rain forest, a light cloth about the waist was all that was needed. Anyone could see that. Yet she wore long pants, and several layers on top, and was always sweating as a result. No wonder she had to bathe every day. Sharen pushed her light blonde hair off of her forehead and wiped her brow. After a brief silence, the chief continued. "We stopped eating the brains, as your father advised, and that has helped a lot. Thank you. But the meat is safe to eat. Your father assured us of that, and you have said so yourself. So I don't see the problem."
"It's just horrible!" Sharen spread her arms wide.
"Why? It would be a waste to simply burn the meat, don't you agree? And your other custom is, well, unthinkable."
"A proper burial is ordained by God. Here the words of Genesis chapter 23 verse 11. I give you the field, and I give you the cave that is in it. I give it to you in the presence of my people. Bury your dead."
"Which God?"
"Here we go again." thought Sharen to herself. She had been preaching for fifteen years, but to no avail. "The one true God." she explained, in a low quiet voice, summoning all her patience.
The chief chuckled, and I too caught myself laughing at such an absurd thought. We were happy to worship her God, but there were so many Gods. The Forest, the River, the Harvest, the Rain, the Sun, and on and on. What was she thinking? I could see Sakari gathering his patience as well. He liked her, and he found her visits to be, on the whole, beneficial. The metal tools she brought were certainly helpful. But some of her ideas, like her father before her, were outrageous. Sakari explained, once again, a fact that should be obvious to all.
"Please try to understand, the Earth is cold. Nothing is more horrible than placing a love one in the cold ground to rot, and be eaten away by worms, over a period of years. We would cry for her each day she was in the ground. There would be no way to get on with our lives. You have a certain word for it - closure I believe. Surely there can be no closure as long as the body remains. Don't you see?"
"It's an abomination before God."
"Which God?" he asked again.
"Look, never mind about that - as of July of last year, it is illegal."
Sakari frowned. A government of white men, far away, was always passing decrees on what our tribe could and could not do. This left us with little recourse, except to do the same things we have done for centuries, but now we must do them in secret, when the white visitors are not around.
"You, and your people, and your God, have no right to tell us what to do. We are harming no one. This conversation is finished." He stood up and walked away, and that was my cue to follow.
I like Sharen; I enjoy our talks together. She is the only foreigner who speaks our language fluently. Her father learned a word here and a word there, and after many years he still spoke with a thick accent. But his daughter, Sharen, seemed to learn the language quickly, simply by being around us. Maybe she is smarter than her dad; I don't know. But she still clings to some of his odd beliefs and customs. Maybe we're all like that. I can't imagine living in her world, any more than she can imagine growing up in mine. In any case, I'm glad she was not around for Eitok's funeral. That would have been an uncomfortable situation indeed.
As the men butchered Eitok's arms and legs, wrapping strips of meat in leaves for cooking, a tall woman in her forties approached the abdomen. She earned the respect of the village, time and time again, by doing the dirty jobs that no one else was able, or willing, to do - and this day was no exception. A fresh slice of sweet chirimoya was tied to her upper lip, just below the nose. This would partially offset the smell of decomposition, after days of decay in the heat. She cut the abdomen down the middle, and the internal organs were almost liquid inside. Using a combination of spoons and knives, she scooped and scraped, until the contents were transferred into a large bowl. Nobody could be expected to eat this, not even the dogs, so she tossed the contents into the center of the flames. A cloud of steam rose, as if in protest; then the oily mass began to sizzle on the hot coals as the Fire God returned Eitok's entrails to ashes, the first step in setting her spirit free. The smell of rotting flesh gave way to burned flesh, which was a definite improvement.
After Eitok's body was cleared away, the funeral dance began. Guarta wailed louder than anyone else, beating his fists against his chest. I danced by his side for an hour, maybe more, but my stamina is not what it use to be. I hoped nobody would notice as I sat down on the grass, far from the fire, for a fifteen minute break. Indeed, not a word was spoken as I slipped back into the circle for another hour of dance. I was determined to show Eitok all the respect she deserved, in my dancing, and in the feast that was soon to follow.
After three hours of vigorous dancing and wailing, everyone was hungry. This was part of the ritual. Eitok's close relatives and Guarta were exempt, but everyone else was expected to consume Eitok's flesh. As the father in-law, I was required to set the example. My portion would be especially large. Eitok's mother served me first, bringing a plate with a large section of the lower calf and part of the foot. Normally I enjoy these rituals. Human flesh tastes like pork, only sweeter. It is really quite delicious. But in this case the body had rotted for three days, and the well cooked meat still retained its putrid smell. I took my first bite and almost spit it back out. The sour taste of rancid meat was overwhelming. Still, all eyes were upon me, so I swallowed, and took another bite. Soon all around me were doing the same. I noticed that everyone drank plenty of water, and when their portions were finished they quickly reached for a bit of fresh chirimoya to change the taste. I must confess, it was difficult for me to eat all that rotten meat. I told Guarta I had to get more water for the villagers, which gave me an excuse to go down to the river and throw up. He knew what I was about, but he didn't say a word, and I'll always be grateful. I carefully washed my hands and face, filled the large pot, and carried the water back to the village, my arms straining under the load. When I returned, everyone gathered around me, filling their glasses with the pure liquid that would wash the sour taste from their mouths. Fortunately, most of the villagers received a much smaller portion than I, and they were able to keep it down without too much trouble. Nobody wanted to disrespect Eitok's memory. Some were enjoying a few bites of freshly cooked monkey, trying to forget the taste of what they had just eaten. With my stomach covertly emptied, I thoroughly enjoyed the second course, the boiled intestines that my wife prepared for me.
As the sun went down, everyone was satisfied with the events of the day. Eitok's body was gone, and her spirit was set free. We would all miss her, especially Guarta, but no one would speak of her again.
That was a month ago, and Guarta is now married to Kosima, a beautiful young lady whose husband died during a hunting party not long ago. She has two children, and will certainly bear more. I'm looking forward to that. We all miss Eitok of course, but as I say, we don't speak of her, and that helps. Everything is back to normal.
Sharen has described how the people of her village might mourn the loss of a loved one for years, even decades. Some people pay a lot of money for "therapy", whatever that is. To make things worse, one is not suppose to remarry for at least a year, maybe two. This makes no sense at all. A person only lives for 70 years, why waste two or three of them crying? I think Sharen's people would be much happier if they would partake in the funeral feast. The body would be gone, and the spirit set free. This is the proper way to show respect for the dead, and the best way to deal with your loss. When I am chief, and most people think I am next in line, this is one tradition that will continue, no matter what the white visitors say.