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Dia de los Muertos: Patzcuaro

There are few places left on my “checklist” for Mexico. Seeing Dia de los Muertos in Michoacán was one of the last standing until I took off a week ago for the land of the lakes. Surely just the tip of the ice-berg from what the state of Michoacán has to offer with its volcanoes and lakes and virgin beaches Dia de los Muertos in Patzcuaro is nonetheless the glittering jewel in the crown.(i)

Few also are the times when I listen to the abounding horror stories or let them put me off going somewhere but, for some reason or another, this had been the case with Michoacán. There are other places where I don’t want to go – I rearranged travel plans that took me too close to Tepito, perhaps the most notorious of Mexico City’s barrios (ii). Neither are Ciudad Juarez or the U.S. border places I have much desire to experience (on that note you could just say that the farther south I am, the better the vibrations).

Like most of the world Mexico’s media is full of terror and fear and lots of dead bodies, which is why I avoid it almost completely, and advice from friends and acquaintances is usually of a conservative and cautionary nature. One friend showed me a grisly news story just so I “could consider” my trip. “Allá matan gratis” was a phrase I heard more than once in the week preceding it, “there they kill for free”.

I believe in caution but I don’t let fear stop me from living my life.

I paid heed to the words of my friend whose personal testimony of his visit to Morelia with his motorbike gang was that the strong hold of La Familia generally kept the public out of violence and that it was violence between the cartel and the military that was predominant. It wasn’t without an extra prayer, an extra moment of meditation placing myself in harmony with the world around me, that I set off but set off I did.

I couldn’t be doing with an early morning as I am still enjoying the luxury of waking up when it gets light (and not a minute before) afforded by the clock change last week so I boarded the bus at eight expecting to pitch up in Patzcuaro around mid-afternoon. Querétaro, Celaya and the outskirts of Morelia came and went. The vegetation grew lusher and the evidence of a more successful agriculture grew as we rolled onwards.

Celaya, my band mates played a nightclub there once, there’s a great story about a narco drug lord and an Enrique Iglesias song from that particular place.

I made this trip on faith alone. I carried one small bag containing winter accessories but no change of clothing (I had also heard it was cold and I was prepared!). I had no plans. And, on a night when the world and its cousin descend upon the town, I had no hotel reservations.

Still, I had no reservations.

A place to sleep was no worry as I knew it was common to spend the whole night in the cemetery. I also had a pocketful of money which could buy me food, shelter, and passage.

At Morelia I got on a local coach to Patzcuaro, taking in of Morelia what I could. It was ring-road and road-works mostly (the downtown has a slightly more prestigious reputation as one of the most beautiful cities on earth – it shall be taken in in due time.)

The same German guys from the first coach were on this local one. We jumped out at the foot of the hill upon which Patzcuaro sat. The German gang got into a colectivo but I felt pulled away from the scene on foot and hopped off to a few blocks away before asking which way it was to the Centro. It was up the hill. Naturally. I climbed a steep and deserted street until I reached the main road which curved around to meet it. A peaceful feeling swam over me as I climbed the old cobbled steps. Once at the top I saw a sign across the road for Villa Patzcuaro. I had in mind to find a place to stay for the night so decided to check out the first place I had come to, may as well.

I passed through a wrought iron gate into a colourful little garden and knocked on the reception door. A chap opened the door. Obviously he too had been in his own little world and found himself a little surprised to be talking to someone as we both cleared our throats. He informed me that there was one room available for $900, I asked to see it and immediately accepted. I don’t usually blow that kind of dosh on my long distance travels but as this was just to be a one-night spectacular I thought I would treat myself.

Boom. Lodgings sorted. A rustic room with a fireplace and thick double bed covered with blankets. I listened for sound and couldn’t hear a thing. I flicked through a couple of small guides the proprietor of the place had given me and juiced up on some strong black coffee from Veracruz which had been left in the room before lightening my bag a little and setting of for the town.

It was a refreshing walk up the tree lined street breathing the thin mountain air in the last few rays of the setting sun (atop the highlands, Patzcuaro sits at over 7,000ft). Someone important was getting choppered in onto a football field across the street. There was a policeman with an earpiece in the driveway looking nervous. I passed a woman with shopping bags and wondered why I hadn’t offered to help her. As a traveler one tends to keep to oneself but I have been thinking more deeply recently about how cultural differences come into play and understanding the role of collectivity in Mexican culture versus a very individual British society. It has involved breaking down some walls in my mind. It is the perfect time to do so as we stand of course at the close of the long count of the Mayan calendar and enter into the age of unity and co-creation, a time to remember.

The tension of the flight or fight is melting away to allow a more open being ready to connect.

Farther along I passed a cholo dressed man with tattoos all over his face, I dared a look back and saw that his legs and arms were also covered. He was carrying a huge bunch of flowers. The street leveled out and I arrived at what I supposed must be one of the two main plazas. On the steps of the church along one side of the square massed a band of foreign hippy types, a sort of travelling band of blue-eyed gypsies. There are quite distinct “tribes” in Mexico; I am not quite sure where I fit in although for what it is worth my friend Nick says I am a “typical English teacher.”

I hit the festivities in the plaza and Dia de los Muertos Patzcuaro style was up and running, it was awesome. For food and fun it was like Halloween and Bonfire Night rolled into one, times a million. The spiritual journey ran way deeper.

I completely forgot my hunger as I marveled at the delightful artisan’s goods on display at every turn. Unlike some places (I swear the Mayas must have a factory somewhere because 99% of the tat they sell looks the same) here I really saw unique works - pottery, masks, and jewellery amongst the traditional Catalinas and clothing stalls. As usual I wanted to spend all of my money on a variety of gifts for people but I restrained myself to a select few and squeezed them into my little bag. My eyes were wide as I drifted in and out of the lights and wafts of local cuisine from the arches around the edge of the plaza. There were all sorts of people there, a real mixture. There were lots of beautiful girls and a few times I heard “güerito guapo” called my way. Although on low alert I was still a little wary and was careful not to get caught looking at anyone’s girlfriend!

The travelling market was set up in a street off the plaza that climbed a hill to another church, I chatted to the artisans about their wares as I made my way along. I took a photograph of people face-painting and was introduced to two scraggly-haired hippy girls from España who were living in Guadalajara.

From there I wandered some side streets and came across a concurso of altars made by local schoolchildren. They invited me into number 2 where I was told about the tradition as we shared pan de muertos and atole (a hot chocolate drink). I asked who the altar was for and they told me that it was the grandmother of one of the children. The photograph they had used was of her when she was a young woman. I am fascinated by my grandparent’s respective childhoods; it is a mystery time, much more so than for parents I think. My grandparents have been “old” for as long as I’ve known them, as I watch my parents turning into them I begin to understand their personalities more. My imagination provides the new brush strokes of colour but the understanding of them comes from within as I begin to recognize.

The altar had more bread and food on it and there was even a duck taking part in the display as the pool it sat in represented the lake around which generations of these children’s families had lived their lives since the very first communities which sprang up here in the land of the fishermen. In the background the ‘Dust in the Wind’ arpeggio pulled at the heartstrings as children and parents asked me where I was from and told me to vote for their altar.

Time to eat. Sopa Tarasco (local tomato soup) and café americano, fuerte. I sat under the porticoes next to a table with two pretty girls. A beggar child amused passers-by with pretending to be dead in the middle of the walkway. The café really was strong and I was buzzing despite the caffeine being the only drug in my system. I spend a good part of my life in a dreamy haze and although the bright flowers, smoke and candles would have been a psychedelic dream I left the herb at home. I certainly didn’t want a beer as it would have left me cold and sleepy. I was awake and alert and very much in the present moment.

The plaza market was great fun but it was time to go and see some cemeteries. I had been advised to visit the small pueblitos around the lake and visit the village cemeteries there. I had also been advised that the island in the lake would be very busy and hard to get off of later on in the night. I went to the dock area to see about getting out there anyway but the place was heaving. There was a line 5 people wide that snaked its way all around the dock area as food vendors plied a healthy trade alongside them. I didn’t want to spend the night in a queue so I kept it moving.

Lit torches lined the roadway as we travelled in colectivo to Ihuatzio, the queue of traffic heading back into the town stretched all the way past the turning to the smaller villages. My bag was gradually emptying of winter garments as the lakeside air crept on us.

Ihuatzio cemetery had an orange glow as candles flickered amongst the bundles of cempaxuchil (iii) stacked on and around every grave and tombstone. Incense smoke was thick and heavy, the crisp night air held at bay by the warm orbs of heat given off by the candles. Families came to put wreathes on the graves and sat huddled under woollen blankets. The graveyard was awake with quiet movement and low conversation spoken on misty breath. Some people quietly took photographs in the darkness. I felt them all as one unified being, I felt the warmth of their hearts and the depths of their souls; the weight, or rather the presence of the past was heavy with us. I felt the souls of lost loved ones close to me in a foreign land.

I stayed stood there in the midst of all this for quite some time before making my exit into the streets of this little town. I wanted to get to the water’s edge but it wasn’t possible from here, the thing I was most excited about was seeing the candles being floated out onto the lake but it was only going to happen on the islands. I heard strange footfalls behind me as I walked down a deserted back street; it was just a random bull running down the road! It was obvious from the dwellings that the people of this village were very poor. I got back to the main street and searched for some elote but couldn’t find any amongst the ponche, café, and chocolate.

I went back to Patzcuaro around midnight to investigate the dock area again but the queue was long as ever still. I set about finding food and after locating my elote I tried the local white fish ‘delicacy’ called charales which was seasoned with salsa, limón and sal. I think Mexicans will eat anything as long as it is smothered in salsa, limón, and sal – these crispy, greasy, battered snacks were at least nicer than the crickets and grasshoppers down in Oaxaca. I washed that lot down with hot chocolate and a wedge of coconut cake. I noticed the old woman’s fingers long hardened against the burning frying oil as she held out the tiny charales for me to try.

The tide of emotions changed as the families began to ebb away and be outnumbered by the groups of younger people who had brought their drinks along. The queue was still thick so I started to walk my way back to the hotel, I felt fantastic and without the need to pursue the night further. Having paid a decent sum for my room I was quite looking forward to a log fire and my bed.

There was a massive spider in the logs as I knew there would be so I didn’t use them all but still I got a sizeable blaze going, lay back on the big soft pillows and gazed into it before falling into a very comfortable sleep.

I woke up one minute before the alarm to the sun shining through the window of my rustic, wood-smoked room. Breakfast was included – scrambled eggs and pancakes with maple syrup and fruit. I polished that lot off with a juice and another strong coffee and made my farewells to the peaceful rest spot. The fresh morning air felt good in my lungs as I set off.

I tried to get a better view of the lake from the colectivo taxi as curved its way to Tzintzuntzan on my way to the ruins of the Tarascan Indian capital.

Walking up the hill in the now hot sun there was evidence everywhere that for some people Dia de los Muertos is a chance for them to “Echan un des madre” – literally “make a mess!” There were bottles and bodies strewn up and down the hillside as the last of the revellers pulled themselves from whatever hedge they had fallen into. I saw one kid sleeping in a tree beside the road. At least I hope he was sleeping.

A man in the information centre bid me “enjoy the culture of Mexico” which I thought was very nice. He was a teacher from Mexico City.

The ruins sat in neatly cut lawns shaded with trees and it reminded me of Morales Park back in San Luis. I sat and sketched one of the five rounded structures from the shade of a leafy, solitary tree. I smiled at the symmetry and evolution of my Dia de los Muertos adventures. My first year here my friend took me to his home in La Huasteca, it just so happened that back in England my family were planting a tree at my Grandmother’s grave. We explored some cemeteries, visited my friend’s village festival and the following day I saw my first glimpse of the pre-hispanic culture of Mexico at Tamtoc.

I met up with the hippy girls and their friends again and we walked together back down to the village where their camper van was parked. I had one eye on the return journey so I slipped off into the dazzling cemetery on my own. The bright sun shone down through the boughs in the shaded graveyard where every grave was attended by family and friends.

I felt welcomed by the small Indian community who, like it or not, must be accustomed to the world descending upon them for three or four days every autumn. Walking around the decorated graves of departed loved ones, families – some of them with fresh scars of loss – sat around them in remembrance there was always the possibility of feeling like a gate-crasher at a funeral. This wasn’t the case at all. My lost ones may be interned in a far-away soil but their memory beats in my living heart.

There was a priest giving a service in the cemetery, his voiced projected through the trees on loudspeaker. He spoke of the celebration of life, not of death. The life of the sun god represented by the cempaxuchil flower, chosen by the ancients for its bright golden colour, its long life, and its many petals representing the eternal rays of the sun. A golden flower for a golden age.

The children, he said, did not fear to pass the night in the graveyard, there was no fear of death. There was no darkness; this was a joyous occasion of light. A sharing of food and drink and feeling. A joy of life, of the living. The living family, the living community. Time to forget family feuds and arguments, time to concentrate on living.

The priest spoke about Santa Muerte which is a “saint” for “bad people”. It has a popular following amongst the narcos and is taken very seriously indeed.

He stood in that cemetery and he said: “forgive me. I do not mean to insult anybody here, but Santa Muerte is for ignorant people”

He said that Santa Muerte was “nothing but a skeleton on the mantelpiece” that it “has nothing to do with life or death”, and that it was “an occult thing for ignorant people who are afraid of the light and truth and love of God.”

I hung off of every word as I walked the cemetery and then stopped to listen to him. It was a very moving speech. It was also a very brave speech; remember “aquí matan gratis.”

“Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil”

The whole atmosphere was wonderful the entire time. Policing was low key as a few streets were closed off for the markets; don’t get me wrong, when I see police I go the other way for sure but their presence here was suitably subdued. I still marvel at the difference in professionalism between Mexican and British police. Fat and out of shape, poorly uniformed, drinking cokes and smoking on duty - and snoozing in the patrol car is standard! I saw one of them off to the side necking with his girlfriend, his machine-gun slung casually over his shoulder. I don’t know if it makes them more dangerous or less dangerous, probably both, in different ways.

I did one last tour of the market and stuffed my face with more sopa tarasco, tacos dorados, and one last café before boarding the coach and snoozing my way back to Morelia. Sadly there was insufficient time to see the historic centre of Morelia so I took some notes and watched children playing in the bus station before catching the coach back to San Luis Potosi.

It had been a wonderful two days away from the world: no news, no tv, no internet, only the moment, the now, a shared moment lived with the people around me, a small world by the edge of a lake, framed by green volcanoes. A celebration, not about flowers and candles and candy skulls – expressed through those things, yes – but a celebration of something much more profound: the togetherness of life itself.

I regret not seeing the candles in the lake but that gives me all the more reason to come back next year.

.......

i) Tajin and its 365 niches is the last real big one before the daddy Teotihuacan and Mexico City itself which I have crossed under and above ground various times but I never stopped moving on any of those occasions.

ii) I was given advice like “carry a piece of wood with you” and “walk fast, like running” and so decided not to risk my whole trip on its first day (this was part of a proposed cheap route to Chiapas on viajes de compras).

iii) French Marigolds, the traditional flower of Day of the Dead.

#dia de los muertos #patzcuaro #Michoacan #day of the dead #mexperience

Mexperience

#Mexperience

My Mexperience

I am a British Mexpatriot living in central Mexico. This space may or may not be infrequently filled with my thoughts on life in this great country. Or it might just be a place to share some photographs.

Mexperience started (and will probably continue) as a long email, sent to my friends and family which documented my exploits in the New World. This will be a different style, similar content.

That's the preface.

You can find similar anecdotes from a teaching perspective at The Tao of Teaching.

Happy reading!

The Wize

Practice Eventually Aids Creative Exploits

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