Culture
Dying to be Dead: Celebrating Día de Los Muertos in Patzcuaro, Michoacán
by Daphne Carpenter
It is a week before Día de Los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead and Fernie and I have arrived early in this small Mexican town to observe the festivities leading up to November 1st. Within the colonial architecture of the dark shadowy streets and colorful graveyards of Patzcuaro, the native Perhepechas have preserved the Pre-Colombian ritual of honoring the dead.
The Fiesta Begins
The morning after our first night in town, we move into a posada on a touristy corner next to the Mercado de las Artesanías. From the open balcony doors of our room, we can smell the aroma of guava and papaya melting under the warm rays of the sun. Outside the hotel there is a mixed world of people—Europeans, Mexicans, indigenous and gringos. People of all classes have come to pay homage to the dead. By nine a.m., Plaza Grande is filled with Purhepecha women who have arrived early to set up temporary ofrendas, the traditional indigenous decorative offerings to the deceased. These offerings are saturated by the bright hues of cempasúchil flowers, the orange marigolds that the Aztecs used ceremonially to remember their dead. Smoke from copal (frankincense) spirals up into the air. The indigenous Purhepechas are direct descendants of the Tarascos, who are said to have developed Western Mexico’s advanced pre-Hispanic civilization.
Walking around the plaza’s water fountain, I stop to admire my favorite ofrenda. It is a large, framed close-up of a man’s stunning face and dark piercing eyes. He was 45-year-old Arturo Solorio, who died in an accident while decorating a church for a July celebration. His ofrenda is adorned with fruit, mole con arroz, pan dulce, tequila, steamed squash, and corn. All the samplings of his favorite foods rest along the trellises of his altar.
By eleven a.m., a consistent stream of smoke coils up from the center of the plaza. Atole, a warm drink made from corn, is passed around amongst the indigenous women. Tourists come out from every direction with cameras and wide eyes. With four days to go until Día de Los Muertos (also known as Noche de Muertos), the air has become thick. Magical pre-Hispanic overtones flow through the air. The excitement is building.
Noche de Muertos
Tonight’s finally the night. Noche de Muertos has arrived, but by this point we feel like we’ve already participated in a plethora of festivities. We’ve seen every calavera in town, and have eaten at least forty corundas (traditional food of Michoacán, like tamales, only larger and served with cream) between the two of us. We’ve traversed through every dark alley and we’ve stepped over every last cobblestone. But the final stage of the adventure is yet to begin.
In Lake Patzcuaro, there are several small islands and most of them have cemeteries. Janitzio’s cemetery rests on a slanted hill. We’re told by some locals not to go to Janitzio Island tonight. That is where all the tourists will be.
“It’s ugly there,” says Josephina, the woman who makes the best corundas in town.
“Go anywhere else but there.” Hers is our third warning.
Intent on avoiding Janitzio, we make our way towards the docks and walk at a snail’s pace through the dense crowds of debauchery. When we try to buy tickets to any island other than Janitzio, the girl at the window tells us, “Right now, the boats are only going to Janitzio.”
We buy the tickets to Janitzio and board the boat. After twenty minutes, we arrive at an island that looks as if it’s about to sink under the weight of the human species. Like cows, the driver herds us anxious tourists off the boat and on to dry ground.
Twenty steps onto the island, I’m not sure whether I’m walking or I have been lifted off the ground and am now just hovering along with the weight of the immense crowd. I look for Fernie who has inadvertently disappeared somewhere off into the madness. We’ve arrived to a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare.
Finally, I see Fernie in the distance through a silhouetted window of heads as we arrive to a set of towering wrought iron gates. Just inside, the modern world as we know it has come face to face with ancient times. Through the strong glow of thousands of flickering candles, a pantheon of old tombstones glimmers in the night. The noise level has dropped and the faces of the Purhepechua women glow in the candlelight. They are wrapped in traditional black rebosos (shawls) and sit almost motionless over the graves of their deceased. They appear to be in deep meditation as their fingers slide up and down their rosaries. The children are sprawled comfortably across the ground covered by warm blankets.
We try to maneuver ourselves out of the way of the drunken tourists who are trampling over the candle-lit graves of beloved family members. In the cold, foggy cemetery, the women ignore the distraction and continue to say prayers. They chant in between the infinite ebb and flow of inebriated human traffic. As the night progresses, spirits arrive. They have traveled a great distance from the other side to reconnect momentarily with their still-living families. They are beckoned back to earth by the curls of incense and by the smell of their favorite foods. Their presence has been requested and honored.
After an all-night excursion to the world of the departed, the mysterious night slowly comes to end as the first rays of the sun sparkle off Lake Patzcuaro. Morning has arrived and the Purhepecha children begin to wake up. Church bells ring and mass begins. The sound guides the spirits and ensures their safe departure back to the other side. Mass today is to honor and remember all who have died.
As we head back to the mainland after an exhausting night, Fernie and I are silent for the duration of the ride. We step off the boat drained, unsure of how to feel about what we had just experienced. From a distance we had observed a pre-Hispanic ritual that has been practiced reverently since 1300 B.C.E. It is a tradition that was not eradicated by the Spanish, but rather has blended Christian elements into its own. We also witnessed the collision of a modern world and the ancient, two very different realities struggling to coexist. Sometime they do this successfully, sometimes not. Back on the mainland, the fiesta continues.
Daphne Carpenter is a staff writer for City Magazine, published by the students of Long Beach City College. She studies International Relations at Cal State Long Beach and travels frequently throughout the Americas. She can be reached at
daphnestree@hotmail.com.