Watching the grandma with her fanny pack hacking the bones from the meat with a machete like a scimitar, it seems clear that she is one of those who have accepted the role of attending death. She goes about it matter of factly. She cuts a chicken in half, its legs splayed. A man comes in, dressed in pale camouflage—gray and white, that would blend in with a pebbled beach—he sits on a stool behind her and drinks white rum out of the bottle. Like spirits accepting their due—the drops of white rum, the money accepted with bloodstained hands. I wonder why I never noticed before that the world of spirits was so immediate—so material. They are made of flesh and blood themselves.