DAY OF THE DEAD TRIPTYCH – Naolinco, Oaxaca, Mérida

To experience Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) in Mexico is, for many, a once-in-a-lifetime joy. If you’ve ever done so—or if you’ve watched the wonderful animated film, Coco—you understand something of the meaning and wonder of this magical occasion.

I feel blessed to have done Día de los Muertos in Mexico three times—most recently this fall in Mérida, Yucatan.

I’ve reflected here after each of those first two trips, and was starting to write about Mérida’s version when I realized the real story might be to compare all three.

NAOLINCO, VERACRUZ
In Naolinco—a mountain town of 20,000 known for its profusion of cobblers and shoe and leather goods stores—nearly every shop in town had some depiction of skeleton figures (catrinas) posed to act out some everyday scene.

A tram stop was peopled with catrinas checking their watches, reading the newspaper—whatever folks would normally do there. Even the barber shop had skeletons standing in for barber and customers. 

The last two days of October, families gathered in the panteon (cemetery) to clean up the grounds and paint and decorate the spiffy little mausolea built atop nearly every grave. 


Then, on November first and second (All Saints Day), the same families would return to the panteon after dark with blankets, chairs, maybe a picnic and, of course, lots of candles. In one group a young man strummed lightly on his guitar as everyone sang.

It was lovely and quiet, reverent but not somber. I didn’t eavesdrop, but there was laughter. And frequent lulls in the conversation, left, I imagined, to listen for the voices of their dearly departed. 

In contrast, closer to el centro, groups of mostly young people donning glam catrina outfits and makeup partied in the streets. No outrageous behavior, but certainly far from solemn. 

So much to see and feel, but one engaging experience stands out: as I walked quietly around the side streets that night, many families had left their doors open. Some were selling drinks, arrayed on small tables or crates. From fruit waters to horchata to home-brewed mezcal, all were displayed in a ragtag assortment of repurposed bottles.

Folks loved it when visitors would stop and admire their alters. Several families invited me in for a closer look, and offered me tamales and drinks.

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CIUDAD OAXACA
In Oaxaca, I saw those same charming little scenes around town. Folks showed off their family altars; businesses put up decorations; and catrinas were everywhere. But Oaxaca’s a medium-size city of nearly half a million. So picture the scale of Día de los Muertos—of the colors, the costumes, the music—scaled up about 2,500 percent from that in Naolinco. And the tone: imagine Naolinco’s solemnity dialed down a bit, the partying dialed up a lot.

So, here the festivities start at least a week before the actual dates. Truckloads of cempasuchil (marigolds) and cresto de gallo (cockscomb) get dumped around town for decorating on a grand scale. 

Families and organizations build their altars, decorated from floor to ceiling. The huge community version arrayed just outside Oaxaca’s main cathedral had to be 40 feet wide. 

At nearly every hour of the day and night one can hear bands, salvos of fireworks and the joyous voices of people partying emanating from the various neighborhoods. 

For me, the most splendid of all the Oaxacan Day of the Dead traditions was the comparsa. Comparsas—some scheduled and well choreographed, others apparently spontaneous—are like parades, turning certain streets into pulsing arteries of lavishly costumed dancers, singers and musicians. 

Each array of costumes and performances depicts one of the widely divergent cultures of the various regions of Oaxaca state. It’s all bigger, brighter and louder than life.



Another tradition, one I’ve not seen elsewhere, is the display of tapetes, rectangular mats or “rugs” crafted on the ground of sand and flowers. It’s a custom that originated in Spain and has achieved work-of-art status in Oaxaca.

My night at the Panteon de San Miguel, Oaxaca’s general cemetery, couldn’t have been much different from that endearing night in Naolinco. First off, it’s a huge cemetery. And it wasn’t just the scale. Instead of surfaces adorned with freshly painted white and pastel colors, the Panteon General is one big study in gray and black. 

It’s possible that I was just there at the wrong time, but I saw just a small percentage of the tombs decorated. And very few families gathered around graves. 

(This dark, rather depressing ambience became all the more visceral when, as I picked my way around the tombstones in the feeble light of my iPhone, gaggles of cockroaches dodged my feet.)

I’d brought some color with me in the form of a big bunch of long-stem marigolds, intending to lay a single stem on each of the most abandoned-looking graves. In the near absence of family gatherings and the scarcity of even flowers and candles, that little gesture turned out to be the highlight of my evening.

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MERIDA, YUCATAN
Day of the Dead in Mérida is unique in many ways. For one, its origins in Mayan—not Aztec, Zapotec, Nahuatl nor Olmec—culture. In fact, most Meridanos consider it a different thing altogether, calling the occasion by its Mayan name, Janal Pixan. 

Still, there are many similarities with Mexico’s other events to remember and celebrate the dead. I was glad to see one of my favorite little customs shared in Yucatan: the laying of trails of marigold petals leading from the streets into people’s homes—to show returning souls the way home. (By the way, in Mérida I noticed none of the magenta cock’s comb flowers I'd seen in profusion in both Naolinco and Oaxaca.)

In my admittedly limited view, Mérida’s Janal Pixan celebration seems pretty subdued. For example, instead of the seven-layer ofrendas, or altars, stacked up to welcome the return of antecedents in Oaxaca, the Yucatecos typically build just three. 



Other features are more subdued too. I saw limited use of crepe paper decorating people’s altars, whereas in Oaxaca it often creates an intensely-colored, beautifully textured canopy over the displays.

There are just two major Janal Pixan parades in Mérida: the larger, more important Paseo de las Animas, Walk of Souls, which starts from the main cemetery, and the Desfile de Catrinas, Parade of Catrinas, the emblematic skeleton figures, starting at the city’s main plaza.

PHOTO: Ayuntamiento de Mérida

Sadly, I got my dates mixed up and missed the Paseo de las Animas, but the catrinas parade was great fun. Despite a delay of more than an hour, the event—running from Plaza Grande to the foot of Paseo Montejo and on to the Parque La Plancha—proved worth the wait. 

Loud music blared from the beds of pickup trucks, each introducing its own group of performers. Marchers sang, danced, and engaged spectators—some with smiles, others with playfully menacing moves. A few groups featured bigger-than-life characters on stilts or animated with sticks and strings loomed over the rest. 

I'd heard someone mention an event remembering and celebrating the souls of mascotas (pets). So one night I headed over to Parque La Plancha, expecting some kind of parade similar to those for human spirits. And, if the on-line reviews were accurate, lots of living pets either painted or in costume. 

But the affair turned out to be quite small and commercial, with lots of small stalls hawking pet supplies and just four or five pets dressed up. 

There was, however an impressive altar featuring hundreds of candles and what looked like at least 1,000 names of folks’ deceased pets. 

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SEE GENEROUSLY!
If I’ve persuaded you to visit any of these locales for Day of the Dead, I suggest you plan ahead by at least six months—a year if you’re really fussy about where you stay. By not doing so I’ve had to depend on as many as 40 inquiries—and considerable luck—to find decent lodging. (I’d be happy to share the names of those finds. Send me a Facebook private message or email me: jeff@willius.com)

Whether it’s Mexico for Día de los Muertos or anywhere else, remember, seeing is far more than an act of acquisition. At its best, it also involves giving. So I urge you to travel with not just open eyes, but also an open mind and an open heart. See generously...and expect wonder!

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind

The Oaxaca Series
Instead of the tedious, chronologic journaling format that’s so common in people’s trip reports, I’ve decided to organize my Oaxaca posts by category, by the four main themes of my experience: 1) language school; 2) Day of the Dead; 3) food and drink; and 4) arts and handcrafts—and the following brief introduction to lay the groundwork. So here goes…

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INTRODUCTION

I’d been wanting to visit Oaxaca for years.

Due to my ever-growing interest in Mexico—fueled in great part by my late-in-life quest for fluency in Spanish—I’ve managed to at least set foot in about half of the country’s 31 states.

From the arid lowlands of Sonora to the temperate, mile-high central plateau called the Valley of Mexico, to the upmarket tip of the Baja Peninsula, gateway to the Sea of Cortez; from the tropical Pacific coast string of beaches known as La Costa Grande to the cool, mountainous forests and unique Gulf Coast flavors of Veracruz. I’ve loved it all.

But Oaxaca, the furthest south of any of these climes, has always had its own special appeal. First of all, for the virtues everyone talks about: the food, the art and handcrafts, the mezcal.

But there’s also the state’s unique fusion of several indigenous cultures, whose colors, flavors and customs are ever-present in day-to-day life. Oaxaca City’s Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration—a blend of those pre-Columbian traditions with the European, Catholic traditions imposed by the invading Spaniards—is generally regarded as one of the most spectacular anywhere in Mexico.

I can see why the city’s such a popular destination for both Mexicans and world travelers. Part of the appeal is its apparent small scale. I’m seeing no buildings with more than two stories.

I learn that the reason for the buildings’ limited stature is a variation of the old saw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Earthquakes are so common here that taller structures just aren’t considered safe. This is also the reason, I’m told, that building walls tend to be quite thick here.

The weather is ideal at this time of year. By late October the rainy season is all but over. Temperatures reach the mid-70s to 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and fall into the lower 60’s to mid-50s at night. Humidity’s low. With the city’s elevation just over 5,000 feet, the sun is powerful, but otherwise it’s a benign climate.

And a personal connection: Oaxaca, along the Pacific coast, is where my friend and compadre, Silverio, was born. He and his family, though he’s now a U.S. citizen, still hold the region’s traditions close to their hearts. I’ve always wanted to visit the state, if not the actual village, that’s so much a part of them.

So, last year, I was finally going to make it happen—a two-week trip to Oaxaca including the week-long celebration of Day of the Dead. I decided, as I often do when traveling in Latin America, to focus my activities on a language-learning objective. I enrolled in language school.

So it was all set. Then, as if that vision wasn’t perfect enough, my daughter, Amanda, asked if she could join me, enrolling in beginner’s Spanish. I was over the moon.

But COVID-19 put the kibosh on that dream.

RECLAIMING THE DREAM
This past spring, as it became evident that we were gradually, painfully moving past the pandemic, I decided to reclaim the dream. Only this time, sadly, Amanda wouldn’t be able to join me.

First, I made sure the language school I’d been in touch with, Becari Manuel Bravo, would still be a good fit for my ambitious pursuit of Spanish. Sandra, the school director, couldn’t have been any nicer or more helpful, offering to tailor an advanced program to my interests, and even recommending several possible hotel accommodations.

Well, I soon discovered that you don’t waltz into a Día-de-Muertos-week hotel reservation in Oaxaca city just four months ahead of time. I contacted all of Sandra’s suggestions and no fewer than 35 other hotels before I finally found an available room in a decent hotel.

Hotel Casa Conzatti

As for air connections, I was happy to find flights on the days I wanted—and at reasonable hours—for around $800 round-trip. Not a steal, but doable. And with just one stop each way—not in some city an acute angle and 1,500 miles away from a straight route—but right on the way, in Dallas / Fort Worth.

So, on Sunday, October 23, I’m up at 4:00 AM for my 6:30 flight, and the adventure begins.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Día de Muertos, should be landing here in the next day or two.

Naolinco, Veracruz - 10/31-11/2 '09

In all my trips to Mexico these past 55 years, I’ve never managed to be here during Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), the holiday remembering, honoring and celebrating los difuntos, the departed souls of people’s loved ones. In planning this trip to Veracruz, I realized that, at last, my timing would coincide with this remarkable blend of pre- Hispanic and Catholic traditions. Not to mention that this year the holiday falls on the day of the full moon! 

A LITTLE BACKGROUND ON DAY OF THE DEAD
Day of the Dead is less about mourning the dead than it is about celebrating life. It’s a big party by the living in which the spirits of their loved ones are welcomed, embraced and, in some ways, entertained. Each family— and many businesses— begin the elaborate preparations far in advance of the November 1-2 duration of the holiday. 

They include the construction of an altar, a sort of shrine to the difuntos. Altars almost always comprise ancient symbols like arches, candles, incense-burners and, of course, lots of flowers. No array is complete without the age- old zempasuchitl, a type of marigold, and a deep- fuchsia flower with a fuzzy, brain- like texture (similar to our cockscomb), which together are referred to as la flor de muertos. And petals of the zempasuchitl are often formed into a cross on the floor in front of the altar and/or strewn in a path from the altar out the door (showing the difuntos the way home). 

Other items commonly found on the ascending levels of the altar include photos of the departed loved one(s), representations of saints, copies of ancient sculpture or pottery, items representing the deceased’s accomplishments, and various kinds of foods, drinks and other things for which he or she had a special yen— often including (most often for the men) bottles of tequila and packs of cigarettes. Rounding out the display are lots of fruit and, perhaps the most important of all offerings, el pan de muertos. The loaves of sweet bread come in many sizes, usually round or broadly oval. The surface of each loaf is crafted, as if by a sculptor, into elaborate designs, and then the loaf is baked until it reaches somewhere from a golden brown to a deep mahogany color. Communities as a whole also seize on other carry-overs from the pre-conquest times, including the ubiquitous catrina (life- size figures of skeletons elaborately dressed and posed in any conceivable role, from babies, to business men; from elegant damas to couples in love, and displayed in stores, public spaces and the streets. Even pets can be represented as catrinas).

DIA DE LOS MUERTOS IN NAOLINCO, VERACRUZ  Naolinco de Victoria (Naolinco for short) is known for two things: The fact that 80 percent of the population (of, I’d guess, 2,000- 3,000 souls) make their living from the crafting, distribution and sale of shoes; and its annual Dia de los Muertos festivities.
Saturday, November first, at 9AM I headed for the huge Veracruz bus station and boarded AU’s direct service to Xalapa, a city of about half a million population and the state capital of Veracruz. 

The relaxing two- hour ride took us northwest through sugar cane fields, some cattle country, and then increasingly hilly, forested terrain broken by rock cliffs and canyons (and an impressive bamboo forest). As we neared the city, I felt the cooler air, smelled wood smoke and noticed moss on many horizontal surfaces—all indications of Xalapa’s famously damp, cool, drizzly climate. With the higher elevation, we’d definitely left the warm, wet sponge of Veracruz’s southern Gulf weather behind. 

From the main station, I took a cab for Central Bandilleros, the obscure little bus station that provides the only bus link with Naolinco. There I grabbed the next “semi- direct” bus (one of a slightly lesser class than my first leg) for the hour-long, climbing, tortuous ride to my destination. As we pulled into Naolinco, we passed its famous statue of a giant cobbler hammering on a shoe, representing the town’s stock in trade and, a few blocks later, pulled into the tiny, inconspicuous bus terminal. 

Outside, the refreshing 45- 50- degree air felt wonderful to this norteño. Judging from the fierce wind, I figured the norte we’d been feeling for several days was still kicking and wasn’t sparing Naolinco. I soon noticed with a chuckle to myself that most of the locals were wearing parkas, scarves and wool stocking caps. 

A few blocks more and I found the zocalo, with its several mammoth Norfolk Island pines, and the presentable little Hotel del Parque. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around and just getting the lay of the land— not very hard when you can only walk about ten blocks in any direction until you’re out in the country. 

Already, the townsfolk and business proprietors were preparing for Dia de los Muertos, setting up their catrina figures, strings of cheery, pastel- colored papel picado (perforated paper) and altars honoring departed family members and business founders. Here and there, burros and their handlers were delivering ten- gallon jugs of water to homes along the hilly streets.

I spent a restless night in my ground- floor, eight- by ten- foot room separated from the busy lobby by just— get this— a large, double, swinging- door type of window with frosted glass panes secured by a dime-store latch. And no curtain of any kind to block the bright lights just outside from pouring into my room. Not to mention the noise. My door might as well have been propped wide open! 

Sunday morning, after a satisfying breakfast of huevos a la Mexicana, frijoles and tortillas at the next- door restaurant, I started a long day of trying to immerse myself in this charming, friendly little town. Within two blocks along Avenida de la Revolución I spotted a large doorway and a sign reading “Casa de la Cultura”. Inside I could see a catrina on display, so I went in. 

Turns out this was the town’s pride and joy, a fabulous exhibition of the finest catrinas, altars and other Day of the Dead decorations. Nearly all the businesses (that would be a couple of hotels, about three full- service restaurants and over 200 shoe shops) were getting ready for the expected rush of Mexican and international tourists who descend on Naolinco every November first and second. 

I looked up a cobbler named Gilberto Fernandez Mora about whom I’d read a glowing report on line from a customer who’d ordered five pairs of made- to- measure shoes from him when visiting the town (at a price of about $25 US a pair). Señor Fernandez Mora grinned from ear to ear when I suggested that, by this one mention in cyberspace, his fame was spreading worldwide. 

The next day, on the other side of town, a young man and woman approached me excitedly on the street. They explained that she’s Fernandez Mora’s daughter and he works for him. She told me her father had forgotten to ask me how they could find the website mentioning him and his shop. 

The town was really coming to life. As the day went on, the streets began filling with people— clearly a mix of locals and visitors. Vendors of flowers, candles, pan de muertos, sweets and gifts surrounded the park with their stalls. And along the side streets it seemed nearly every other doorway hosted a tiny table arrayed with recycled wine and tequila bottles, now filled with delicious home- made wines— wild grape and six or seven other fruits I’ve never heard of. Each vendor offered liberal tastes, served in little plastic pill cups. 

I stopped to take a photo of a big rack of pan de muertos in a store window. Before I’d gotten the lens cap off, the door opened and a young man motioned me in. 

Inside, he and four or five others were working and shaping the dough for yet more loaves. Turns out I was in the manufacturing part of the panadería, with the actual shop next door. As I was asking the guys a few questions, one handed me a fresh, fragrant tamale, still steaming inside its little corn- leaf packet. Another handed me some Coke in a big styrofoam cup. 

This moment captured very well, I think, one facet of my impression of this special place: the generosity of both spirit and substance of the residents. (Of course I had to go next door and buy a couple of small loaves.) 

Avenida de la Revolución led me uphill, past some pretty fancy, free- standing homes with lawns and driveways, to a decent overlook of the town. There in the mist, practically in the clouds, I stopped to remember my wife’s mother, who’d passed away at 91 just last week. At that very moment, a flock of 50 or so big, snow- white birds flew across the horizon accentuated against the dark hilltops.

Eventually I worked my way over to the south end of town and el Panteon. I could see right away that this cemetery is different from others I’ve seen elsewhere in Mexico. The graves are marked, not by the usual gaudy profusion of religious statues and plastic flowers, but by substantial little houses, their elaborate appointments of flowers, photos and memorabilia of the departed well protected inside. Most even have electric lights.

As night poured in from the surrounding hills, the town’s busy- ness turned to magic. Their busy preparations over, the residents turned to the more respectful— but by no means somber nor sad— business of welcoming home their departed spirits. Some homes opened their doors to welcome in neighbors and visitors alike to marvel at their altars and perhaps pay respects with a small gift of flowers, a candle or some pan de muerto. A few even handed out tamales, another of the special foods marking particularly this holiday. 

 

In a tradition called La Cantada, groups of mostly young men wandered from home to home and, when invited, surrounded the altar to sing a simple, haunting Rosary. There were many stanzas and I could understand very little except for something about “los cinco misterios,” the five mysteries. Small groups of young people, elaborately decked out as living catrinas, roamed the streets, posing in mute deadpan for photos with jolly visitors. 

As I passed the Casa de Cultura again, a troop of cub scouts, their faces half painted in black and white, waited in line to see the exhibition. On my way back to the cemetery, I bought a dozen big yellow flowers and tried to think of a way to symbolically honor the memory of Sally’s mother. 

When I got there, Naolinqueños and visitors alike were streaming in along the single, narrow main pathway. Some carried candles or flowers. As I worked my way toward the quieter back of the cemetery, with its plainer, less- cared- for graves, it dawned on me what to do with my flowers. 

I picked out the most forlorn, forgotten markers and placed a single bright stem on each one. I think Sally’s mom would have liked that. I felt an incredibly warm and peaceful vibe in that cemetery. The silence was brushed only by soft choruses of the same rosary I’d heard before in the Cantada, this time sung by family groups, some of them accompanied by a guitar. 

The smell of flowers and incense warmed the brisk air. The full moon was directly overhead and, just above the horizon, Orion's Belt stood on end, exactly in the center of a near- perfect rectangle formed by the four brightest stars in the area. I’ve never seen anything like it, and wondered what it should mean for me. 

I stayed, just strolling around, until midnight. I prayed for Sally’s mom, my parents and sweet little Abby, our mini Schnauzer who died just a few weeks ago. I could feel their spirits and had lucid images of their faces, of my father's hands and of Abby running toward me in the park where we used to take her on our walks. 

Monday morning, I returned to Veracruz and school, full of impressions and thoroughly enchanted by Naolinco, its traditions and its people. I know I won’t soon forget them.