A funeral and a car wash carnaval melting-pot

When I was writing about a wedding and four baptisms, I recalled the film, ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’, and thought to myself - I’m glad there hasn’t been a funeral to write about as well. Sadly, like a bad penny, it turned up.

Yesterday about 8 a.m., near Sitio Serragem, Ivonete’s uncle’s 17 year old grandson Cicero was killed. Apparently a bull had gone into the lake and Cicero’s horse followed with him on it. He shouted to his friends, “I can’t swim,” as he fell into the water. These were his last words. Unfortunately his friends couldn’t resuscitate him. It's suspected he died of heart failure.

He was due to go to school in Serra Talhada that afternoon and it was very moving to see his school friends walk to the hospital mortuary to say their last goodbye in silent acceptance. It was also very sad to see his mother arrive on foot. At first she contained her grief, then cascading tears betrayed her dignity, as she wished she could have wakened up from this nightmare.

Twenty-four hours after the accident poor Cicero was buried in the small, overcrowded, graveyard in Pelo Sinal.

This photo, taken three years ago,
is of Luan our nephew, a bull and its owner
near where Cicero lived.

In the past, Ivonete has commented, why don’t you write good things about Brasil instead of tarantulas and other horrible things? Of course she has a point as there are so many beautiful things to tell you about. Unfortunately ignoring the less pleasant does not reflect life’s reality.

Our clean truck in our garage!

On a different note, I took the truck to get washed at the local Lava Jato yesterday morning and collected it three hours later. Four men, mostly related to one another, were still hand-polishing it. In Scotland this would be a fairly formal affair. In Brasil, it was a festa! They were talking loudly, cracking jokes and telling tales. They were prancing around as if on hot coals. That’s what makes life here so fascinating – it is a Carnaval – rhythmic chaos.

For me it was a bit disconcerting. They asked how long I had been in Serra Talhada. I told them only a few months and we chatted and joked. The man who said he was a 'black man' seemed surprised when I said in a couple of years my skin would be the same colour. He shook his head and said he was born like that and continued, "You were born white and you will stay white. You’ll never be like me." I could not accept this view. I shook my head indicating, "No, I am just the same as you." After all we are all Jock Thamson's bairns.

The other lads quietened down in embarrassment and in the difficult silence an equally black lad translated our unspoken thoughts, “We’re all brothers of course – there isn't any difference (in Portuguese).” So we all smiled. shook hands, and shared a genuine sense of 'melting-pot' 'alegria' (happiness).