On Monday morning, we woke at precisely 6:00a.m. to the sound of blackcaps blasting off and the melody of nothing other than a marching band.
Rolling over, I groggily announce to NZ " Someone died".
We have become familiar with the eerie sound of the marching band in the wee hours of the morning. In the past six months, I've witnessed/heard three funeral processions take place outside our complex. All starting right as the sun rises.
I haven't asked around about the meaning of these processions, but each one I have witnessed marches through the apartment complex (this week it was at the complex adjacent to ours) complete with a parade (parasols and a Chinese dancing dragon this week), people walking, the casket and its pallbearers and a drumline. They seem to make their way to the Main Street, where busses and a truck to transport the casket are waiting.
Everyone loads up after causing a ruckus of noise at the crack of dawn and takes off for what I presume to be the burial grounds.
I'm not sure I will ever get used to being woken by a death march, as it is truly a unique experience.