Day of the Dead. Or rather 2 days of the dead. Actually, it was five workless days in honour of day of the dead. And after a couple of them I felt like I was the living dead. There’s some Mexican traditions which really need explaining, and others which also really need to be seen to be understood. I believe this is one of them.
In true ‘intercambio’ (exchange) style, this weekend it was Guanajuato-based Sarah’s turn to come to Veracruz, after my visit the previous weekend. The ‘puente’ (bank holiday) allowed for more wiggle room concerning travel times and extended weekend getaways. A true baptism of fire awaited her when she arrived, physically and emotionally exhausted after a 2-day journey, thrown straight into a party on a ranch. It was in actual fact a sixth-form reunion, 12 years after leaving school, but even so, the three Brits who arrived with their dodgy dancing and wobbly accents to encroach on their drunken nostalgia trip were embraced with arms as open as a Mexican heart. A sleep and a groaning plate of chilaquiles later, we were headed in the pick-up to the beach. Cue likening to road-trip and general ‘driving to a destination’ banter and musical interludes. Then lots of splashing, ridiculous amounts of photo-taking (not on my camera for once) and grilled fish after sunset. I am also pleased to announce that, for the first time in my life I weed in the sea. Three times. I was like a nun who, void of her chastity after years of celibacy, just can’t get enough of the waves of pleasure she now finds herself permitted to. But these were warm (then slightly warmer) waves of water.
The next day was a mix of soft, cushiony, womanly domesticity, and grimy masculinity. I learnt how to wrap tamales, another indispensable skill for a Mexican woman of the house, and how to make papaya sweets, and with corn mix still squished under my fingernails I hopped on to the back of a quadbike to take a spin round Cosolea, through dirt, over potholes and almost to a point of no return when no one could figure out how to get the thing started again. It definitely wasn’t a good idea to wear a white shirt for this activity.
Over the course of the 2 days, the 1st and the 2nd November, we visited three cemeteries to get an idea of how different communities here celebrate the day(s). On the 1st (officially All Saints Day), the people of Zaragoza and Oteapan (which used to be one community not so long ago) hold vigil all night in their candlelit cemeteries. Far from being a sombre, teary eery sight, it was at the same time magical and lively. I wish I could repeat the experience of walking into the cemetery, hundreds of people jostling around me on the narrow pathway leading up to the graves, salsa and reggaeton coming from different directions, with rolling mounds of tombs and earth dipped in candlelight slapping my sight for its ignorance of its existence hitherto. I was snapped out of my mesmerisation by the cries of ‘teacher’ from all of our students who were present at some grave or another. Oteapan’s cemetery was more imposing as it rises up from the entrance, but as less familiar territory, and therefore even less familiar dead people, we spent less time. I also realised there was no way I could ever get back the sensation I had when I saw Zaragoza’s display of mourning by darkness. Cosolea’s cemetery came alive on the 2nd, under the scorching November sun (there’s two words I never thought I’d write together), so we only stayed long enough to see the flowers, sit in the shade by the (deceased) man of the family and other relatives, and have a cooling drink...sat on a gravestone...shedding peanut shells over the ‘rest in peace’ engraving. I was, however, granted permission to call them ‘my’ muertos.
The other side of the celebration of the dead is the altar. A multicolour splash of three-tiered paper decorations, food offerings and items related to the dead loved one being offered, we had one at school and one at home. There is a set way to construct an altar, revolving around papel picada (cut--out tissue paper with skeleton designs), calaveras (marzipan skulls) and flowers. The flowers are reputed to smell of the dead, and are only ever brought out at this time of year. I couldn’t help but tell everyone about the time my Dad, the old romantic, proudly gave my Mum a bunch of these flowers as an unprompted display of his love for her. It’s amazing he’s still around to bear the shame. Helping build the huge altar in the school was an all-hands on deck experience, with all the kids taking it seriously and helping out, they knew exactly what they were doing and had all brought offerings of food and drink -- traditionally the deceased person’s favourite snack of tipple -- to adorn it.
The relationship with death here is, in my opinion, healthy, happy and a hell ufa lotta fun. It’s not trivialised, it’s brought to the fore, and celebrated as life is. It is made more poignant when there has been a recent death in the family, but the medley of colours, light, morbidity and joyfulness makes it a celebration which I think warranted five days off work.
P.s. Beach photos copyright Sarah
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