THE DAY OF THE DEAD
Part 2
Story and Photos by Phil Saviano
Yet, in a city of inspiring sites, nothing
would match the splendor of the cemeteries. For two nights they
were laden with flowers, enveloped by incense, and lit by a thousand
glittering candles.
On October 31, in the nearby villages of Santa Cruz Xoxocotlan and San Augustin Etla, all-night cemetery vigils kicked-off the fiesta.
I took a taxi from the zocalo to Xoxocotlan, about a 15 minute ride. The cemetery there is enclosed by an 8-foot tall brick wall, and the caved-in shell of an ancient chapel marked the center. I arrived to find the entire cemetery blazing with candles, and all of the graves decorated with red and yellow flowers. Many of the flat tombs were sprinkled with flower petals, often arranged in the shape of a cross. Clay skulls and skeleton figures were also in view.
The vigil was both a solemn and noisy affair.
Within the ruins of the chapel, elderly men knelt before a life-size
replica of Saint Sebastian, the patron saint of the cemetery, his
body pierced by a half-dozen arrows. 'Till well past midnight, the
men chanted, wailed and sang in one of the native Zapotec languages.
Outside the chapel walls, tour groups from as far away as France and Japan passed through the cemetery, flashing their cameras. Surprisingly, the residents of 'Xoxo" didn't seem to mind the intrusion. Some remained completely focused on their prayers or thoughts of their loved ones. But other families invited the tourists to share a snack or try a shot of fiery Mescal liquor.
If you were not afraid of heights, or of looking foolish, you could
scale the wall at the front of the cemetery, then perch up above,
like a hovering spirit. Though I had to tear my pants to get up
there, the panoramic view of the twinkling flames seared a memory
in me that I'll always cherish.
On the next day, November 1, the place to be was back in the city, at Panteon General, the main cemetery, on the eastern edge of town.
Families had began arriving that morning, armed with scrub brushes and clippers to freshen up the graves. By mid-day, a steady stream was passing through the main gates bearing flowers, candles, food and portraits of the dead.
I showed up at sunset, surprised to find the twirling, neon lights of a carnival set-up along the outside walls of the cemetery. Kiddy rides, midway games and food stalls reminded me that I was far away, in both spirit and space, from the American way of death!
Once inside the gates, however, I was relieved to find a much more
reverent scene. The thick outer walls of the cemetery held rows
of crypts stacked above each other like the cells of a honeycomb.
As dark settled in at 6:30 p.m., boys scaled the walls and placed
a single, lit candle in front of each one of the 2,355 cells.
Parallel to this inside wall, stretching for the length of a city block, were many beautiful altars, all glowing with light. Each altar was more elaborate, more inspiring than the next!
My favorite altar (not pictured) was a tribute to a Director of Communications. Placed at the center was a portrait of the man, next to votive candles and a large candy skull inscribed with the name "Carlos." Scattered across the altar were some of the tools with which he distinguished himself in life--a typewriter, pens and markers, books opened to his photograph, newspapers bearing his stories. Filling the spaces between these mementos, were marigold blossoms, burning candles and samples of his favorite foods.
From the outer wall, I followed one of the walkways towards the center. Here, just like in Xoxocotlan, there were the ruins of a 16th-century chapel. A dark sky lit up by bright stars formed a roof over a large altar laden with flowers. At the four corners of the ruins were large sawdust tapetes, surrounded by flickering votive candles. A rowdy 17-piece brass band kept everyone -- both spirits and mortals like myself -- moving to a beat.
I spent a long evening here, enjoying the music and sharing a few swigs of mescal with the guys in the band. It was a great night for crowd-watching, and I was humbled by the many elderly visitors who came shuffling past the big altar.
At midnight, I headed back toward the main entrance,
following the sounds
of guitar strings and men singing. they brought me to a burial plot
surrounded by a low, 
rusting iron railing. Inside, a large granite
slab lay flat on the ground, surrounded by flickering candles and
smoking incense pots. There, at one corner, stood five young men,
raising bottles of tequila, strumming guitars and singing their
hearts out in memory of their buried friends.
I crouched behind a tomb, respectful of their privacy, yet caught-up in their spirit. I suddenly realized that my brimming eyes and runny nose had little to do with the pungent smell of burning copal. I was missing my own loved ones!
And I was also a bit envious of this exotic, Mexican culture. In Oaxaca, I'd learned that death needn't be so final, nor remembrance so painful. And come what may, there will always be a way to return home, let loose and celebrate!
-END-
Story and Photos Copyright 2004 by Phil Saviano
