We arrived on time, not knowing when it would really start.  Our favorite driver was with us.  We don't  go anywhere by ourselves.  The car was parked across the road from the hospital morgue.  Following closely behind him, we wound our way through traffic and inside the gate.  

Suddenly we found ourselves swallowed up in a sea of people, some seated but most milling around.  On closer observation it became apparent that they were in various groupings.  Scanning the crowds, we searched in vain for "our" group.  Recognizing nobody, we continued our slow advance towards the building.  

Finally our driver decided that "our" group must be the one inside, so we slipped into the room as unobtrusively as we could.  We were just in time for the conclusion of the brief "removal of the body" ceremony. But alas, the dearly departed was not "our" dearly departed.  We stayed at the back of the crowded room and tried to be invisible. Being the only two white people for what felt like miles around, it was an unattainable goal.  But we tried.  And we quietly and solemnly filed out with the wrong group of mourners.  

Once outside we again tried to recognize somebody, anybody, in the mass of grieving mankind.  Finally it was decided that we would remain in one location and our driver would move about and hope to learn something.  He could more easily blend into the crowd and perhaps discover where we were supposed to be.  

We reminded ourselves that we shouldn't have to be finding them.  Our people should be finding us.  After all, we are the ONLY white people in the village of Eyene, and have been the only white people attached to that village for twenty years.  We are well known.  People we have never seen before know us.  And in their cultural context, they should be coming up to us, greeting us, helping us.  So where were they?  

No matter how many times our eyes scanned the crowd, we could see nobody whom we knew.  Mind you, by now everyone was looking familiar.  But nobody was anybody whom we really knew.  With no visible person in charge, no information booth, no posted list of which body was coming out when and in what order, mass confusion reigned.  Or so it seemed to us.  

We have attended many, many "removal of the body" events since the inception of this ceremony.  Back before there were any morgues in Cameroon, they didn't do things this way.  But we live in modern times so we are no strangers to this kind of thing.  However this level of chaos was new to us.  It was our first time to be at this particular morgue.  

There we were, highly visible in the masses of mankind, watching one casket after the other being removed and brought out to the waiting vehicle, for transport to some village somewhere.  Each grieving family is given fifteen minutes inside the room to view the body and have whatever ceremony is appropriate in their tribal tradition, and then the casket comes out, making way for the next one.  And on and on it goes, all day long.  Fridays are the official day for the "removal of the body".  

Finally, when all hope was evaporating, our village landlord appeared out of nowhere. What a relief to finally see a familiar face.  He was deeply touched that we would join with them in their great sorrow.  He thanked us again for letting them put the coffin in the living room of our village house.  And he let us know that the large bag of rice we had contributed was greatly appreciated.  Then he informed us that when the group inside was finished, there would be another one, and then it would be our turn.  As he moved away to rejoin his family, we were relieved to finally know what we were supposed to be doing.

And thus it was that for the second time we filed into the room for the "removal of the body" ceremony.  The difference was that this time we recognized a few faces.  And the dearly departed, though dressed to the nines in a western style wedding gown, looked familiar.  When the traditions had been faithfully observed we slowly filed past the open casket and on outside, keeping more or less in our group.  It is very common for a few ladies to begin wailing and falling to the ground,  and our group was no exception.  Others come rushing to the aid of the distraught person, trying to calm them down and sometimes literally dragging them off to the side.  It's a pretty awful thing to witness.  

While waiting for the casket to come out, an old village grandmother whom we recognized came over to us.  While her French is extremely limited and our Manguisa is all but nonexistent, we had no trouble conveying warmth and love.  Her delight in our being there made it all worth while.  After the hearse drove through the gate, our landlord came over and thanked us for being there.  

We returned to the car with a prayer in our hearts that God would use our brief time with this grieving group of Manguisa from Eyene for His honor and glory.