When the friends get to the burying-ground they hack an oblong hole a foot or two deep, dump the body in it and fling over it a little of the dried-up, lumpy earth, which is like broken brick.
What really appeals to the flies is that the corpses here are never put into coffins, they are merely wrapped in a piece of rag and carried on a rough wooden bier on the shoulders of four friends. The little crowd of mourners-all men and boys, no women - threaded their way across the market-place between the piles of pomegranates and the taxis and the camels, wailing a short chant over and over again. As the corpse went past the flies left the restaurant table in a cloud and rushed after it, but they came back a few minutes later.
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