Muddy Shoes

Cultures judge people differently.

In the States one might be judged by the car they drive, the number of ports in their garage, the zip code on their address, the university graduated, or the letters behind one's name.

In Albania, you are judged by your shoes -- not necessarily by the label (though to be sure, that may be important), but by their care.  Are they good quality?  Are they maintained?  Are they clean?  It's common knowledge that if there are any doubts to whether a stranger is foreign or local, it can be resolved by a glance at the shoes.

Mud on your shoes means your street is not paved or you do not have sidewalks.  If your street is not paved or you do not have sidewalks, you must not live anywhere important.  You probably live in a village (gasp!)!  And if you live in a village, well, likely your family has little to no money and your education is not too different.

A picture of muddy shoes.  That's all I have as a pictorial documentation of Saturday.  

Saturday we woke to a call at 6:19AM announcing that a friend's grandmother had passed away in the night.  The funeral would be at 1:00 that afternoon.  Plans for the afternoon were rearranged and we selected appropriate clothes for the upcoming event.

It was not unexpected.  We had paid a last visit to her bedside on Thursday.  She had been in a coma for about 72 hours and family were already starting to gather, prepared that each breath might be her last. Later that day they came to borrow the center's stools for the hordes of expected visitors following her death.

Thankfully the rain held off, but it had rained all week leading up to the weekend. The trail up to her home was a muddy mess.  In spite of carefully stepping on the strategically placed stones and bricks, passing fellow visitors walking the opposite direction meant stepping aside into the soft verge.  

Panting with legs starting to burn, I took a break to catch my breath and couldn't help but wonder how long she had been held up in her hilltop home, isolated by arthritic knees and out of reach of vehicles.  There was a reason her family kept a donkey.

Here is a previously published photo of the last stretch of trail up to the home.  I think the angle of Nathan's arms pushing Reni's stroller somewhat conveys the angle

There are moments when I long to use my camera -- not to document an event for my own memory as much as to share it with others who have never experienced such a thing.  I think funerals are one of those events that are so extraordinarily different that words alone cannot describe them fully -- yet for reasons I don't need to explain, are grossly inappropriate for me to film.  

Nathan walked in one room with the men, I the other with the women.  It was already full and one woman rose to give me a seat in front of the cloth-draped coffin.  I sat down and nodded at the relatives I knew. It was too tight to walk around and give them any hugs or kisses.  

The next door neighbor seated to my left started a mournful tune, almost a chant in its repetition.  I can only liken it to something I've heard from Native American culture.  After several minutes someone else took over and for a while it was joined by cries and wails of sorrow.

I could sense more guests arriving behind me so I stepped out of the room to free up a seat and claimed a chair in the hall way with a view out the front door and gate to the hills beyond, each layer in sharp focus to the layer beyond.  It was surreal to see the earth's signs of new life -- white blossoms on trees -- while inside another life had reached its end and all the living were shrouded in black.  

Though the door was open, the air was full of tobacco smoke and buzzing with soft, low small talk amongst the guests.  Granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law walked in and out with trays of coffee and raki for the men.  Everyone was waiting for the arrival of the hearse at the road's end to take her body on its last journey.

But with children at home, I had to keep my visit brief.

It was interesting to witness a slight change in tradition this time.  This was our fourth village funeral in 10 months and the first in which a female who was not a child or spouse followed the men all the way to the cemetery.  Granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law fell in step behind the men, carrying flowers bearing their names.  I viewed the processional from my second-story living room window.  Nathan shared about the rest with me when he returned.

In America, the funeral flowers bear the name of the deceased as he was known by those left behind:  "Dad,"  "Grandfather", "Great-grandfather."  Here, the flowers bear the names from whom the flowers were given -- as if the spirit of the deceased were to return and want to know from whom they had been given. 

Everyone present touched the coffin one last time before it was lowered into the ground, then the family walked wearily to a nearby restaurant to take part in a meal.

March 2014

The next day we would make the trek up the hill yet again for the customary coffee.  The fatigue on the faces of our hosts was evident. I cannot imagine my house serving as nursing home, then hospital, then funeral home, reception space and hotel, as friends and relatives far and wide come home.   

We were served a cup of Turkish coffee and a cookie.  At the conclusion of our drink we would slip a cash gift under our saucer or cup and it would be taken back to the kitchen and recorded in a notebook.  In a world without life insurance, these formalities serve a practical purpose as well.

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My shoes have been cleaned. The stools have been returned to the center.  Life in the village will resume after this brief pause.