bout de papier, Vol. 17, No. 2 (2000) — Summer 2000 // Été 2000, p. 41
In 1993 I was sent to Dubai, United Arab Emirates, to open what was billed as a “mini- mission.” Shortly after my arrival a tragedy occurred amongst the resident Canadian community. I received notice from the local police that a young musician named Michael had jumped from the 18th floor of a downtown apartment building. There was no indication of foul play but a full investigation was nevertheless required. As we were new in the region and had no previous experience dealing with these sorts of situations, I consulted my counterparts at other consulates and was counselled to present myself in person at the police station. Apparently, being blonde and not exactly sylph-like would expedite the process. Accordingly, off I went to the station and was ushered into the presence of the Major in charge. Much desultory chatting occurred and eventually I explained that I was the Canadian Vice-Consul and that I needed his help to wend my way through the bureaucracy. I hastened to add that of course this would not be police bureaucracy, but rather all other forms of bureaucracy which might, or might not, exist in the Emirates.
My Major understood perfectly, handed me yet another cup of mint tea and informed me that he was assigning his best Captain to my case. He gave me a series of business, home and cellular telephone numbers for his colleague and insisted that I should feel free to telephone him whenever it was convenient for me. If the Captain failed in his duty, he would be punished severely for offending such a great country as Canada and such an august person as me, etc., etc.
My next task was to determine what to do with my poor Canadian’s remains. With the help of headquarters personnel, we ascertained that Michael’s mother could not afford the $6,000 I had discovered it would cost to ship his body back to Canada. She also did not wish him to be buried on foreign soil and I, therefore, was instructed to have him cremated and to return his ashes to Canada. Unfortunately, being a Muslim country, there were no Christian or nonsecular cremation facilities available in the city. All was not lost, though, as the Indian community sponsored a Hindu site where this could be accomplished, if one had the appropriate connections. There was a labourious process involved in order to convince the Hindu Benefit Association that they should perform the ceremony for a person not of their faith but, fortunately, our secretary was from Goa. Doris had lived in Dubai for 22 years and no one could resist her when she set her mind to something. In due course, we sorted out all the paperwork, donations and fees and chose the only mutually convenient day when the cremation could take place. It was now up to me to have the police formalities completed by the assigned time.
The Captain was as good as his Major’s word and he guided me through the labyrinthian bureaucracy which ensued. I was required to formally identify the body, inspect the autopsy incisions, meet the Federal Prosecutor (for some inexplicable reason) and attest various pieces of paper with official looking stamps. The police investigation was eventually completed, after much pleading on my part, and more papers attested, one of which contained instructions to the morgue to release the body to me personally. It was necessary to despatch our Pakistani driver to locate a couple of labourers-for-hire who would not object to handling a body. Two fellow Pakistanis were found and we all went to the morgue to collect Michael’s body. We wrapped his naked body in a clean, white sheet provided by one of the other local staff and settled him into the Consulate station wagon.
The crematorium was basically a fenced compound with a cement pad in the centre and some peripheral wooden seating for mourners. It was open to the elements and, although it was still mid-morning, the temperature had soared to almost 40 degrees celsius. The idea was that we would take some of the “special” wood we were required to purchase and place it on the pad. Next we put poor Michael on the wood and I covered him with a butter-like substance which I believe was ghee. More wood was arranged on top of his body. During this time, the obligatory Hindu priest chanted rhythmically as he circled the mound several times and tossed bits of coloured powder into the air. He then lit a joss stick and solemnly presented it to me, indicating that I should light the pyre. Apparently, this was a great honour as women are seldom permitted to perform this act. I did so and then retired to the seating area with the only other mourner, a musician friend of Michael’s, whom I believe had taken drugs of some sort. This volatile chap was so distressed that he flung himself into my arms, sobbing hysterically and creating quite a scene, much to the puzzlement of the Pakistani witnesses and the Hindu priest. I consoled him as much as possible and together we sat through the next two hours waiting for Michael’s body to be consumed, drinking warm Coca-Cola and pondering the meaning of life.
It takes several hours for someone to be cremated in this fashion so the driver and I returned to the Consulate until the late afternoon. In the meantime, another colleague had been sent to purchase a suitable container for Michael’s ashes. At this point, the whole ordeal was beginning to be quite macabre and there were many tasteless jokes as to what would be appropriate. None of us meant any disrespect to Michael and the sad circumstances of his death, but it was a necessary release from all the tension we had endured. The driver and I went back about 5:00 pm to collect the ashes which had cooled to the point where we could scoop them up.
We put them in the container, sealed the lid and arranged for a courier company to collect the last of Michael.
I was lucky that I was blessed with such a supportive local staff and that my host country officials were so understanding and accommodating. Although this was the first Canadian death I was required to handle, many other challenging incidents have occurred during my career. For any foreign service officer disgruntled with his or her lot — have we Consular Officers got a deal for you!
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 17, No. 2 (2000) — Summer 2000 // Été 2000, p. 41. Read the rest of this issue →
