Live From The Land Of Never Ending Funerals.

It should come to no surprise to anyone who has been following my posts that this country and the people who inhabit it have taught me more than I have taught them and arriving at my permeant site, the people and events have shown to been no different. But what is different from the fast paced 12-hour-a-day scheduled life of training, is that here at site, the pace has gone from a full on sprint to that of just a crawl. When in training, I wished for nothing more than a few lazy days laying under a mango tree with a good book, or an afternoon nap, curled up with the breeze at my back. What I didn’t anticipate in all of this freedom was the ability for my mind to wander, wander to places I haven’t allowed it to go in a long time. Wanderinng back through my previous travels, heartbreaks, family turmoil, but most of all mistakes that I’ve made— the kind of mistakes where you tell yourself (and others for that matter), that you have forgiven yourself for; but in these glimpses of weakness, you know you haven’t, and you probably never will. I can go hours without having a lick of English spoken to me, and even longer without speaking it myself. While some times I find this to be a nice change of events (not offering an opinion on some topics can be an equally liberating feeling), this silence more often than not is where I find my subconscious crawling into the crevices of my brain that I have tried so hard to keep dormant. I find myself getting lost in my thoughts to the point of disorientation. I feel myself separating from the reality and the Dagaree happening around me and entering into past senecioes and conversations with people. I begin replaying situations that have happened anywhere from minutes prior to years ago. I replay the senerio in many different ways, first the way it actually happened, then the way I would have answered if the seniero was happening in real time, and finally the way in where my words/actions lead to the outcome that I truly desire—the outcome that leads to a storybook ending. In these lost moments, I take back hurtful words I’ve said, actions I’ve taken; in these replays I take action and/or speak where in real life I was too scared to, unwilling to show venerability. Here I am the heroine in each occasion: I win the argument or better yet the heart of the one I will always love. But then something snaps me back to reality, whether its the Chiefs very distinctive laugh, the Queen Mother offering me snacks, or the kids asking me to play ‘Red or Black’ with them. And just like that everything is exactly how I left it before escaping into this alternate state. These breaks with reality, diving back into my past endeavours I think has been set off by a variety of things: being away from home (and not the way I’m used to), not knowing the local language enough to be present in everyday conversations, the heat (I mean really it can do wonders on the human mind—disorientation from heat exhaustion is nothing to joke about) but really what I think has made me think about the past and what I have/haven’t done or said, is all the funerals that I have been privy too since arriving at my site posting. Funerals, I bet this isn’t where you thought this post was going, eh? But really if you think about it, it's probably not that shocking. Death, it can evoke a bunch of emotions, especially emotions that you don’t want to resurface. Funerals make you vulnerable, sadness brings about emotions that (usually) aren’t expressed on a daily basis, and this can be disorientating. Death itself is a wild concept, everyone experiences it someday, but would you be ready if that day was today? Have you lived your life to its fullest, or are your demons, your regrets still haunting you? I found myself getting lost in my communities funeral ceremonies, their traditions, their cries, their music, and their drink. But while they were morning their beloved who had fallen, I was morning over my past, my present, and in moments of true weakness, my future. In the Upper West Region of Ghana, funerals are similar to the U.S., in the sense that people gather to mourn and celebrate the departed life, but so different in the way the event is presented. For starters everything is held outside, in the open, exposed and vulnerable to all of Africas (harsh) elements. The body is suspended on a platform, usually in the middle of an open clearing, where the body either sits up in a chair or a coffin, with only a canopy protecting it from the scorching sun. Off to the side somewhere you can find the elder men (and sometimes women) singing and playing instruments in his or her honour. The words of course I cannot understand but I like to think the songs speak of the persons life and how they will truly be missed. But this is not the end, these acts aren’t where I find myself getting lost in my thoughts, for it’s the last part of the funeral proceedings, where I find myself crawling into the deepest crevices of my memories. Around the platform is where most of the action takes place, for at the base of the platform everyone circles around the body, to the beat of the music. Some cry while they walk, others wail, some scream, but I find that most (though maybe not for the whole time) are silent. Attendants circle the platform anywhere from 10 minutes to 10+ hours. The funeral lasts non-stop, 24 hours a day, for about 3 days on average. And in this time never once is the body left unattended, never once is the platform not being circled by someone. Its walking around this platform, (or if I’m being honest just watching people circle it), where I find myself traveling back in time, replaying these memories over and over again imagining different outcomes. These travels back in time, have opened up old wounds, and made me feel things that I haven’t let myself feel in a long time. It has made me consider trying to make things right with certain people, or possibly forgiving others for mistakes that were made and hurtful words that were said. But then I hear someone cry out, or feel the beat of the drum pulsing through my veins and it clicks: all the things that did/didn’t happen, all the actions I did/didn’t take, all the words spoken/unspoken, have lead me to this exact place in time, this exact opportunity, this exact moment. Am I sorry that I have lost love, people, places, and things along the way? Of course I am, but this loss has also made me into the person I am today, thus I can’t say I regret a thing. For, should I be looking back at what could have been or should I be surrounding myself with all the possibilities that still can? What happens when we loose the things that anchor us? What if, instead of grasping at something to hold on to, like memories from the past, we pull up our roots and walk away— walk away to something better, to our intended future? Instead of truing to find the way back, to the way things ‘used to be’, we walk deeper into the woods, willing ourselves to get lost in something better— better for us. Its in this space where nothing is recognisable, not the people or the language or the food or ourselves— for it is where we are truly on our own. Eventually, we find ourselves unencumbered by the future, or in my case: the past. Here in this moment is where we see a fleeting glimpse of our truest self, our self in the present moment. Only after this, is when we can finally escape from our past demons, where we can be truly happy with who we are and what we have. This is what 6 funerals in two weeks has taught me. Even though I think I’ve known it all along.