Tag: funerals

The Funeral

And so it came.  In a way it’s weird… I always felt there were only two likely things to happen.

First, I would find my father (or he would find me) and a period of reconciliation may take place.  Closeness, perhaps never, but reconciliation would be fine.

Second, I would never find him, and that would be that.  Finito.

I’d actually come to the conclusion a few years ago that maybe he’d died some time ago.  In some ways it was an easier conclusion… it stopped me feeling guilty for not continuing a search or trying harder.

I don’t think I was ever ready for this.  And this morning I woke up very early at around 5am.  Partly because I went to bed very early, but also because my mind was spinning.  I decided to put some music on.  And this piece came up:

And I took a moment to try and remember what was really good about my father.  I’ve told the story that shows the negative in him.  The curious thing is that our negative moments in life tend to be far fewer in occassion than our positives, yet they often define us.

So I remembered:

  • Football in the garden when I was very young.
  • Him teaching me pinball – and his pride when I started to beat him, and most people, from the age of about five.  I still love pinball and if I ever have the space, I’ll have one!
  • Going to watch Liverpool play at Anfield on several occassions.
  • Learning about different cultures through him, that there was more to the world than the area(s) I was growing up in.
  • When I was 16 I met a girl in Oostende and, late in the evening, him quietly handing me enough money to take her clubbing.  He then made his excuses and dragged away others to give us space.  He continued in this vein all week.  It was just a holiday romance, but hey…

There was more… but those are what sprung to mind.  And I had my first ‘moment’ there in bed at about 6am this morning.

The next came during the funeral.  But first, a little about Chilean funerals…

Culture Shift

Chile doesn’t feel wildly different to Spain, in so many ways.  The climate, the landscape even… at least, when I compare it to Alicante where my family lives.  Culturally it’s similar enough that you expect things to be reasonably similar.  And I suppose they are.  But that’s still quite different to Britain.

First things first, you arrive at the hospital with all your paperwork a little before the funeral directors come to collect the body.  In our case we then had an hour or so of waiting before heading to the cemetary.  I’ve already mentioned that instead of burial plots, niches are used.

And in our case, as there were only two of us at the undertakers we could ride in the hearse, up front.  I was disappointed, in a way, as the hearse was simply a silver Ford Taurus Estate.  With BMW hubcaps.  As a car geek I was disappointed!  But then in the UK we use Fords for hearses as well, so I can’t complain… but I’d still prefer to head off in a Daimler, if anyone’s listening….

In the back was the coffin, wrapped in the skin of Bungle.

I realised that if we had an accident (not entirely unlikely) the coffin was unrestrained.  It would be… messy, to say the least.  Still, we made it to the cemetary where I met the kindly David Hucker from the Anglican Church, his wife, a singer he’d brought along, my father’s landlady, and several of his friends.

Given that funerals tend to be arranged very quickly here, and that he had no family at all here, it was a good turnout.

We then slowly walked behind the car to the tomb, where two rows of plastic garden chairs were laid out.  The Bungle-Coffin was then placed on a support, and the car left.  Nearby a bell tolled.

Rev. Hucker gave a simple ceremony in both English and Spanish with accompaniment and song from the delightful guitarist.  And then the moment I was completely unprepared for.  Everyone who knew my father stood up to say a few words of remembrance.  When it came to my turn, I fell apart.  I didn’t even start talking, just sobbed.

It’s so unlike me.  A few tears, sure.  But sobbing?  Proper, wobbly belly, heaving chest sobbing?  Nope, not since I was a little kid.

Every time I remembered the good parts of my father, I went again.  More than in the morning which was a single burst of tears.

After a few minutes and a few tissues I managed to compose myself to string together a barely articulate sentence.  It would have to do, or I’d just be off again.  I patted the Bungle-Coffin, sat down, and the ceremony was then brought to a close.

Of course, the English bits didn’t make sense, entirely, in the context, but they were familiar, which helped, I think.

Then the next new part – the coffin was then pushed into the tomb, and we got to watch the workers carefully seal it up.  The flowers were then placed in front of the stone, and we took turns to quietly pay our last respects.

My thoughts have also drifted to my brother and half-sister back in Europe.  The five grandchildren my father never even knew about, and the joy he missed out on with all of them.

One day I’ll explain this whole story to my new born son (and any others) and maybe I’ll be back in Arica once more.

And when we come back, I’ll give Joaquin Alvarez, the British Honorary Consul, a call.  He has been amazing, taking a lot of time and trouble to help me with arrangements.  He came to the funeral with us as a friend of my father’s, and has touched me with his kindness and generosity of spirit.  A true giant amongst men.

Arica – Day 1 – Arrangements

Phew… so what a day.  It started off with a cold shower and a blandly unsatisfying breakfast of a cheese sandwich, juice and tea.  But whilst eating a man came up to me and introduced himself as Joaquin Alvarez… the Honorary British Consul in Arica!  It was an unexpected surprise… I thought I was meeting him later in the day.

Sadly it was just a few minutes as he teaches English in the mornings.  But one thing I have to remark upon is that he immediately expressed astonishment at how similar I looked, sounded and behaved like my father.  He had been a friend of my father’s for years, not knowing of any family, and to see a similar, younger version standing in front of him.  It was a shock to him.

Later, we met properly, and we talked.  I’d brought him some union jacks and tea as a thank you for his help so far.  I didn’t expect the help he was about to give.

First the formalities… he showed me the paperwork he had, and my father’s passport.  This was the moment when I’d see what my father looked like recently.  In the picture was a tired man looking older than his 60 years.  But it was definitely him.  I will take a picture and add it to this post later.

Joaquin then took me to the hospital to discuss the matter of the hospital fees.  My father had been in the intensive care unit, and these had added up.  The positions were argued as so:

From the perspective of the hospital, a fee would be necessary in order to secure my father’s body and to help pay their costs.

From the perspective of the consul, many Bolivians and other illegal immigrants die in the hospital and there is never any money to pay for their care.

From the perspective of the social worker, if I was rich enough, and cared enough, to travel halfway round the world then I could surely afford to pay the fees.

The discussion went on.  As you may have seen in my earlier post, I had a particular position I planned on setting out.  In the end, we came to an agreement… I would pay half, and there would be an unofficial agreement that should I have more money in the future I could make a donation to the hospital.

This seemed to satisfy everyone enough to make progress.

The next stage was finding an undertaker, and to choose the coffin.  Now that was odd.  I discovered a few cultural things:

  1. Hearses here are white, and often just large American estate cars.
  2. In the UK a basic coffin is a pine wood thing in what we consider to be a classic coffin shape.  In Chile it’s the same shape as typical US coffins… but covered in fake fur.  I’m still trying to work out how that’s cheaper than a layer of varnish, but it is.
  3. There isn’t necessarily a church service… it’s just straight from hospital to cemetary.
  4. Most funerals tend to take place within 24hrs of death.  Over a month is extremely unusual.
  5. Cremation is rare and therefore a very expensive option.

Once a coffin of suitable size for a six footer (people here are short) had been found we were off to the cemetary. I had to settle for a sort of beige fur, incidentally, so my father looks like he’s being interred in a poorly cut Bungle costume.

Chilean cemetery by rob-sinclair, flickr, cc-sa

And the cemetary was a real eye-opener.  You can’t bury people when your town is built on rock.  So instead, it’s simpler to build what look a little like mini concrete apartment blocks into which the coffins are inserted.  See the picture above right.  The cemetary is also surprisingly brightly coloured.  In due course I will take pictures… it’s a fascinating difference in the way death is treated here.

And you know what amazed me most today? The effort put in by Joaquin, the consul.  He spent six hours with me, going backwards and forwards between the hospital, banks and funeral parlours.  He made a string of phone calls, and helped me way beyond the call of duty.  Truly, a great man.  I’m lucky, really.