Our cemeteries make for good tourist attraction

For a 20-something-year-old born in Soweto who has only been exposed to the idiosyncrasies of former gangster-turned-millionaire Godfrey Moloi, it was a culture shock.

That my local tour guide would suggest the excursion to the graveyard in the first place, matter-of-factly at that, along with the tour of the Jewish quarter and a local bookshop, stunned me.

I thought, Moloi – the infamous Godfather of Soweto, who bought himself a uber lux coffin and a plot at Avalon Cemetery – was a symbol of peculiarity. I was wrong.

My curiosity got the better of me. So, off I went to the local cemetery in Krakow, Poland, in the company of a very keen local, eager to show me the city the way only a local could.

From the outside, it looked like the suburban cemeteries in cities such as Joburg, Durban, Cape Town and Bloemfontein. Trees as old as death itself sprawled the cemetery that was covered in grass except for the narrow footpaths that guided you to the various sections of the graveyard.

A closer look, however, revealed an eerie sight. Not only were the usual inscriptions that one would find in a tombstone – name, surname, date of birth and death, and the loved ones that the deceased left behind – but there were pictures of the deceased as well. From modest pictures covered in clear plastic to ornamental frames preserved for posterity in glass, it was eerie staring back at the people who are buried six-feet under the lush green grass.

This was until I learnt that Mexicans hold no punches when it comes to the inscriptions they write on tombstones.

The epitaphs are as colourful as their gravesites. Here, if you are not a loving husband, father, grandfather, brother and uncle, don’t expect your family to lie on the epitaph. A Bible verse will not be inscribed on your tombstones if you did not live your life in line with the Good Book.

Expect: “Here is resting my dearest wife, Brunjilda Jalamonte, 19731997. Lord, please welcome her with the same joy I send her to you.”

How about this one for airing the family’s dirty laundry: “Gustava Gumersinda Gutierrez Guzman, 19341989. Rest in peace. A memory from all your sons (except Ricardo, who did not pay any money).”

This has given me an idea for friends who are planning to visit Jozi when Covid-19 is a thing of the past. I will include a tour of Westpark cemetery, along with other tourist attractions such as the Apartheid Museum, when it reopens, and Vilakazi Street.

We could pour liquor on the graves of struggle icons, bust a tune for those celebrities resting there and drive by the graves of thugs and hoodlums.

What is the point of having all these elaborate tombstones when we cannot show them off, especially to tourists?