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 - Part 2

PART 2 OF 5 PARTS

DIA DE MUERTOS
When I walk into the airport terminal, signs of Oaxaca’s early preparations for Día de Muertos are already evident. Even the narrow corridor from the arrival gate to Mexican customs and immigration is lined with art depicting one aspect or another of the occasion.

 
As I get settled in la Casa Conzatti and check out the hotel’s immediate surroundings, vendors are already selling bunches of golden cempasuchitl (marigolds) and fuchsia cresta de gallo (cock’s comb), the two flowers considered staples in decorating for the holiday.

Many families and some shops, including my hotel, are starting to build their altars, the often-multi-tiered displays of flowers, food and drink, and religious symbols thought to encourage and welcome home departed loved ones.

As the week unfolds and the radius of my exploring widens, I see more and more altars going up, from a simple four-foot circle of marigold petals and a couple of photos on the floor to seven-level extravaganzas designed, as one person explained, to represent the seven stages of a soul’s journey to a state of eternal rest.

In front of some shops what looks like truckloads of flowers get dropped on the sidewalk. Soon, the shops will be festooned in them, peopled with life-size or even gigantic catrina skeleton figures, and their façades even painted with special Día de Muertos murals.

The catrinas are sometimes arranged in real-life settings, like sitting on a bench reading a newspaper or making out with a partner. One huge one—about three stories tall—goes up overnight to loom over the Alcalá, the central historic district’s all-pedestrian street.

As the pivotal days of the celebration, November first and second, approach, the big Santo Domingo Church is putting the finishing touches on its massive outdoor altar. With seven levels and two large marigold arches, the thing extends at least 50 feet wide.

Even our school, Becari Manuel Bravo, builds an altar. I help trim the bushels of cempasuchitl, while teachers and other students pitch in to build the framework and arrange the other, non-floral elements: skeletons, candles, a Virgin of Guadalupe figure, Pan de Muertos—a special Day-of-the-Dead bread—fruit, and even bottles of Coke and mezcal.

I and a couple of other students have brought photos of deceased loved ones—in my case, my parents—to put on the finished altar. I think Mom and Dad would be pleased. Especially Dad, who would have loved to take his yen for learning Spanish this far.

      By mid-week, it looks like about
      a quarter of the people I see are
      skeletons or zombies. 

The atmosphere in the central city seems to be building to some kind of crescendo. I wander across what look to be spontaneous parades, with people walking and dancing, some of them animating 15-foot paper mache figures, in all kinds of costumes, and moving to the boom and blare of brass bands. I discover that some of these dazzling processions are just folks celebrating weddings.

The main parade, the Magna Comparsa, takes place every year on October 27. Starting at El Llano, the large park about two blocks from my hotel, it winds through town for a couple of miles, pulsing with music and dance.

There are costumes and paraphernalia representing every corner of the state and every cultural heritage. The energy is incredible. The strains of one band conjoin with, then give way to those of the next. We spectators, many of us with cameras held high, press out onto the street where volunteers struggle to clear the parade route.

The next morning, right in the middle of my daily walk to school, a block-long artisans’ market has popped up along Calle Alcalá, under a tent that spans the entire street, from the imposing wall of the Botanical Garden to structures on the other side. You either have to walk through a teeming gauntlet of vendors and shoppers or go a couple blocks out of your way.

Down at Plaza de Santo Domingo, it seems like something festive is going on at just about any hour of the day. There are food, art and handicrafts vendors; street performers; people laughing, dancing or just strolling; and make-up artists, dozens and dozens of make-up artists. And they’re all busy. By mid-week, it looks like about a quarter of the people I see are skeletons or zombies.

And at night, Santo Domingo is humming even louder, with music, dancing, pop-up celebrations of one kind or another…even some super-flamboyant trans folks dressed and made-up to the nines.

One of the central intentions of my vision for the trip was to visit a cemetery, both during the day to observe families’ preparation of loved ones’ tombs and during the night of November first, when they gather around the graves to share remembrances, play music and sing, and maybe enjoy a picnic.

As I did a decade ago in the small mountain village of Naolinco, in Veracruz, I also wanted to buy an armload of flowers and leave one or two stems on graves that look abandoned. (I don’t know why this idea so appealed to me; maybe it was a way of giving some purpose to my intrusion besides just gawking and stealing a photo.)

But the cemetery experience in Oaxaca proves very different from the one I enjoyed in Naolinco. The first small one I checked out, in the Xochimilco barrio, was pretty depressing. Very little color besides lifeless shades of gray; many of the graves in severe disrepair, if not derelict; only a handful of people there tending to them.

     I poke my head in and see three
     generations of the family, all smiling
     and saying ¡Bienvenidos! 

Another big difference, I figure, is simply that Naolinco is a village of 20,000 inhabitants; Oaxaca is a city roughly 40 times bigger. I shouldn’t expect to walk down the street and be invited into people’s homes for tamales and horchata, or a shot of mezcal.

Still, I do get one such invitation in Oaxaca. I’m walking along a side street and pass a home with its door open and a beautiful altar inside. I poke my head in and there are three generations of the family, all smiling and saying ¡Bienvenidos! No tamale, but I chat for a few minutes with grandma, mom and daughter about the parents/grandparents pictured on their altar, and leave feeling blessed, both for the friendly welcome and my command of the language.

The next day I walk about a mile to the main cemetery, El Panteon San Miguel. I’d read and heard that it's been closed since the severe earthquake five years ago which damaged many of the mausolea. The guard tells me, oh no, we’re open every day until 8:00 PM.

So, on the night of Todos Santos, All Saints Day, I return. The cemetery, about the size of four city blocks, is crowded, but not with the people I’d expected. Instead of families communing with their departed, it’s mostly folks like me, there, apparently, just to witness this most intimate of Día de Muertos traditions.

Nonetheless, I do manage to buy a big bunch of flowers and do my thing, lending a spot of color and paying at least token respects to about twenty forgotten souls.

 

 

I observe—from a distance—the few families who are there to connect with spirits of their difuntos. As they gather around flower-swathed, candle-lit graves, some are quietly talking, perhaps sharing memories. Others are playing music. A few people look like they're praying.

As I reflect on the whole Day of the Dead experience in Oaxaca, I realize that these unforgettable sights and sounds—and the emotions they stir—capture for me the depth and breadth of Mexican culture as no other experience has. 

It's the rich tapestry of all the different regional cultures coming together;
a spiritual energy that embraces, rather than fears, death; the enviable cohesiveness of families; a tangible sense of pride in place and patrimony; and the irrepressible joy that Mexicans, like few other nationalities, bring to it all. 

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Language School, should be landing here in the next day or two.