Guatemala: 10/2 - Dia de los Muertos

“Death is no enemy, but the foundation of gratitude, sympathy, and art. Of all life’s pleasures, only love owes no debt to death.” ~Anita Diamant

The steel door bangs loudly behind me as I step out into the noise and traffic of San Lucas. Across the street a pack of stray dogs scampers up the street. A motorcycle rattles by, four people piled on its seat, followed by a huffing truck with Coca Cola bottles in the back. Dust blows up from the ground into my face; it dries my throat and makes me cough. The morning’s commotion seems to be moving in the same direction: towards the cemetery. I’m heading there too, to see the traditions of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday to pray for and to remember those friends and family members who have died.

On my way there, I walk through the market streets, where beneath the black tarps of shade, it is a world of color and movement. Everyone is there, or so it seems. It’s so crowded! There’s hardly any space, it’s shoulder-to-shoulder, and slow moving.

Women sit on blankets on the uneven stone street. In front of them are baskets full of fruits and vegetables. They yell at the passersby, “solo un quetzal, un quetzal…piñaaaaa, tres quetzal, tres quetzal…quiere bananooos, solo dos quetzal…” (only one quetzal, one quetzal (about $0.13)…pineapple, three quetzal, three quetzal…do you want bananas, only two quetzal…”). Buckets of fish sit in the shade, its smell pungent and lingering in the hot air. The man yells at me, “Gringa, canche, quiere camarónes…son baratos para ti” (white girl, blondie, do you want shrimp…they’re cheap for you”).

Spiced meat cooks on grills, and skillets warm tortillas. The smoke rises towards the blazing sun. Pastries, bread, and candy are all aligned on checkered table clothes. Traje— traditional Mayan clothing of bright threads woven into simple intricacies—hangs in the kiosks. A boy with a wooden box full of cigarettes and candy runs by me, yelling, “cigarillos, dulces, cigarillos, dulces…un quetzal, solo un quetzal!” Ranchero boots, caitos (traditional Mayan sandals), pointed-toe leather shoes, tennis shoes, and heels are in piles or displayed neatly. Soap, shampoo, dishes, thread, candles…all the necessities are sold on market day.

A short distance ahead I see the open gates of the cemetery. The crowd is pushing its way there, buying flowers, kites, and tamales along the way. Entering through the gates, the cemetery is alive with excitement and celebration. People and flowers are everywhere, there seems to be no organized layout of the grounds, no distinct walking rows. I weave between the rectangular and square cement altars that rise and fall at different heights. All around families are seated in front of gravesites, eating and talking. Many of them have been gathering since dawn, decorating the gravesites with flowers, grass, and fresh paint. Each year, the family repaints the faded cement altars, and they bring offerings of favorite foods and drinks to the deceased souls.

Los patojitos (little kids) run in front of me, over the graves that are flat with the ground. They hold strings to flapping barriletes (kites), made of plastic bags and sticks. Dia de los Muertos is more a day celebration than a day of mourning. And the graveyard is adorned with bright colors, play, smiles and happy chatter, the smells of cooking food, vibrant flowers, kites, and music. It is so different from the quiet, melancholy, and organized beauty of the cemeteries I’ve been to.

Indeed, sadness over lost ones grips the hearts of these people. Amidst the celebrating there are tears and shuddering shoulders. And family and friends are there, to embrace one another, and to find strength and love in. But it amazes me how this community, an entire culture, gathers every year for this occasion. They come together to mourn the death of loved ones, but more importantly to remember and to celebrate the life of the deceased, and to enjoy together the life they still have. There is no such holiday in our culture, where, with strangers and families, we share this kind of sorrow and joy.

From a hill, I look out one last time over the vivid colors and commotion of the graveyard. The place is packed. People are coming and going. Food is cooking, smoke rising. Flowers decorate the graves, their petals the dirt ground. Above, dozens of kites flutter and dive in the blue sky.

As I see all of this before me, I suddenly realize something that seems so evident to these people and of this celebration: In death we are in the midst of life. Death is not our enemy, but another reality, and an unknown moment. Its mystery is a cause for reverence and celebration of life itself. And the people that live and gather today are a powerful proof that love’s seed is immortal.