Death on Manihiki – A story of tight community

The Pastor’s wife is admitted to the local hospital late in the morning. The sole registered nurse drops the queue of Council workers lined up for checkups. A sense of urgency around the hospital as we board the boat heading across to the other motu, Tukao. Emily confides in her booming voice that she had “smelt death in the house yesterday”.

The inevitable happens at 10pm that night, 39 years too young.  A short prayer is conducted at the hospital. All the village is assembled.  Normal activity stops across the island. Almost wordlessly the logistics swing into motion.  A group of men gather around the village excavator.  Late that night the new grave will be lined with concrete blocks.  The second group of men begin work on the coffin. 
The last group of men are launching boats they will be fishing with specific target catches in mind.  Blue fin trevally or urua will be high on the list.  Maromaroa, flying fish is also required in quantity along with au’opu (skipjack tuna).  The abundant fish stocks and centuries of marine knowledge will make short work of the task.

The womens’ divisions start with the decorating group, by morning the Ebenezera Hall and the Cook Islands Christian Church will be decked in bright colour. At the hospital the nurse and family are preparing the body for the coffin.  Every household is assigned a dish for kai kai. The big team of ladies are in the hall kitchen, kai kai production is paramount.  The team will be there all night, preparing the fish as it arrives back from the fishing fleet.

I awake early.  The sounds of the village are different, boats buzz to and from Tukao. The bush telegraph is about to reach my bungalow isolated at the northern end of the island. I arrive at the hall on my scooter.  Haumata tells met the strict timetable requires the body to be in the ground at 12pm. The tropical heat sets a cruel deadline. 

A boat arrives from the neighbouring island Rakahanga 25 miles away, with the open ocean playing ball with only gentle swell today.  The hall fills. I am feeling underdressed in my shorts and old tee shirt. The Pastor is dressed in a generously fitting white suit. My heart goes out to him facing the unenviable task of burying his wife less than 12 hours after her passing.

The singing resounds around me, voices break with grief at the front. The men work in seamless shifts to move the coffin across the road to the Church. The coffin is again man-handled to its final resting place. The concrete mixer starts up beside the grave and the excavator roars into life in the church-side lane.  The scene suddenly becomes very industrial. The excavator lowers a slab onto the blocks around the coffin.  Lorenzia breaks the male stereotype by joining the chain with buckets of fresh cement to be plastered around the slab. A red carpet is sacrificed to protect the cement as the excavator delicately swings loads of gravel. The driver is alert to the small boys in his swing arc, sharp voices send them scampering. The final touch is wheelbarrow loads of white sand raked smoothly over the grave. Lorenzia once again to the fore on a rake. A bunch of flowers is laid on the sand. Dust to dust.

I make the mistake of trying to slip away quietly before the kai kai begins. A small chorus from the kitchen foils my escape. Raw trevally and flying fish are added to my culinary experiences. Flying fish sprout bones in every direction. The cleanup starts with the same oneness of purpose. The kitchen contingent is exhausted. Late in the day the scooters start up and the village returns to normal routine.
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Five deaths in the last month; death is very much part of normal life in a small community.