9/ El Frio de los Muertos

“You think the dead we loved truly ever leave us?”

-- Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling

We have experienced our first change of season in a country different from our own. September, and the fireworks of Independence, have already begun to fade from memory, and the tricolor festoonery has largely—but not completely—disappeared from shop windows and building facades. It is autumn, and although the daily temperatures have not changed drastically, something different is in the air.

In conversations with two of my Mexican friends, there has been mention of this subtle change—the moment when they felt the first, faint chill of autumn brush against their skin, light as a feather yet undeniably real. A corner had been turned, and around it awaited something breathlessly exciting. They both referred to it by the same name: “El Frio de Los Muertos”—the Chill of the Dead.

This first exhalation of true autumn reminded me of childhood days in Maryland and, later, in New England, where the change was far less subtle. For me, that magical moment was always associated less with the incipient cold, dark days of fall and more with the pungent smell of dutifully-raked piles of dead leaves—sycamore, oak, maple and elm. Hallowe’en, with its sugar-stoked antics and costumed tomfoolery, was indeed just around the corner. 

Here in Oaxaca, El Frio de Los Muertos brings with it none of the foreboding that the name might otherwise conjure. Instead, it is met with giddy anticipation of one of this region’s most cherished festivals: Día de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead.

Those of you who have seen the Pixar movie “Coco”—and by now, that should be all of you—already know something of the cultural context for this annual observance. Hallowe’en—the night in which ghosts, goblins, witches, werewolves, demons, zombies, ghouls and various other supernatural miscreants prowl the night prior to All Saint’s Day—it is most emphatically not. Rather, it is a cherished time of reunion for families yearning to commune with the spirits, or at least the memories, of their dear departed.

Like much of Latin America, Mexico is a land where cultural and religious practices of both New and Old Worlds have swirled for centuries in a kind of spiritual alchemy. There is no doubt that the idea of an annual visitation by ancestral spirits predates the arrival of Catholicism, and that some of the iconography surrounding the Day of the Dead may well have passed directly from ancient times. But there are many aspects of Día de Los Muertos that are infused with Catholic observances: the candle-lit vigils taking place on the hallowed ground of church cemeteries, along with images of saints or the Virgin Mary adorning the household altars, or ofrendas, serve to underscore the deeply Catholic traditions of this country.

Vendors line the streets of Oaxaca selling Día de los Muertos memorabilia.

As October rolls along, El Frio de Los Muertos becomes more and more pronounced, as does the approach of Día del Los Muertos (or DDLM, for brevity’s sake): gift shops and artisan galleries undergo wholesale makeovers, lining their shelves with tiny flowered skulls, grinning mustachioed skeletons, catrinas in colorful gowns and cantilevered bonnets (for Death is depicted here as an elegant lady), and so on. Shops, hotels and businesses decorate their doorways, lobbies, and central patios with thousands of marigolds—las flores de los muertos, or flowers of the dead—their golden-yellow-to-deep-russet blossoms appearing everywhere.

In the mercados, the season of DDLM is met with abundant supplies of the essential ingredients for furnishing the ofrendas which will be lovingly crafted in homes, schools and businesses. These altars are erected on pieces of furniture such as a desk, a mantel, shelves or, in a pinch, some old wooden boxes. They are then embellished with an arch of sturdy yet flexible plant shoots, laden with garlands of fruits, flowers and prominently featured photos of the departed. On the nights in question, there will be plenty of food, drink, and other artifacts which the erstwhile family members enjoyed while alive.

A household ofrenda.

Of especially keen interest to oaxaqueños at this time of year is the combination of a special kind of bread—called, you guessed it, pan de Muertos—together with the rich Oaxacan chocolate for which the region is famous. Often called pan de yema, the bread is made with extra egg yolks to achieve a golden color; it also features a tiny, colorful angel face (carita) placed on top of the loaf. This is eaten with (and typically dipped in) steaming cups of hot chocolate made with water or milk. It is one of the key seasonal treats here, along with mole negro, candy skulls and other delicacies.

Pan de yema, a.k.a. Pan de Muertos

In neighborhoods throughout the city and in the outlying pueblos, both children and adults don costumes and face-paint to participate in comparsas, parades that undulate through the streets to lively music. In many neighborhoods, kids race from door to door demanding with outstretched hands “¡Me da mi calaverita!” (“Give me my little skull!”), hoping for money but settling for sweets or whatever else may be doled out. In this regard, the DDLM tradition resembles Hallowe’en trick-or-treating; but there the resemblance ends.

A comparsa, or costume parade, gets underway.

Still, cross-cultural contamination is evident, with the baser and more lurid influences of American Hallowe’en encroaching upon the purer, and to my mind, richer spiritual underpinnings of DDLM.

Zombie-ism has gained a following here, as seen in many ghoulish costumes worn by children and adults alike. Batmen and Wonder Women patrol the streets alongside catrinas and calaveras. Children busk for money underfoot, sometimes re-enacting gruesome scenes from slasher movies in hopes that their shock value will pry loose some pesos from an amused passerby.

A family portrait.

Outside the Centro, though, the Day of the Dead can be a solemn celebration that extends for at least two days: November 1 is Día de los Angelitos, which focuses on children and infants who died at an early age; followed on November 2 by Día de los Defuntos, when the focus shifts to grown-up family members who have passed. In each case, all-night vigils are conducted at elaborately decorated graves in outlying villages or civic cemeteries. For some, it is a time of quiet and somber reflection and remembrance; for others, there are songs sung, yarns swapped, and a jolly good time had by all.

In garish contrast, just outside the gates to the cemetery a carnival atmosphere prevails. Visitors must run a gantlet of fast-food stalls, trinket peddlers, midway attractions and street buskers. Electric bands with blaring horns and crooning baritones hold forth from well-lit stages, offering up Mexican favorites long into the night. It would be more than enough to wake the dead, were they not presumably already in attendance.

A quiet evening at graveside.

Another sign of the upcoming festival is the arrival of large numbers of tourists: most conspicuously tall, white people arriving from the U.S., Canada and Europe. Hotels, B&Bs, apartments, hostels and Spanish-language schools are suddenly full-to-overflowing with visitors seeking to experience an age-old tradition unlike anything from their home cultures. In particular, the young have seized upon this event as a kind of autumnal Spring Break; faces starkly white with greasepaint, they spill into the streets at all hours to give vent to their joy at being in the right place at the right time.

In recent years this annual influx of DDLM visitors has grown rapidly as awareness of this Mexican celebration, and Oaxaca’s colorful version of it, has spread around the world. Along with the usual street vendors selling painted skulls, candles, death-themed T-shirts and more, there is now a thriving cottage industry of face-painters lining the streets every evening to transform eager tourists into grinning skulls and alluring catrinas.

Three years ago that was us, walking the central tourist promenade with the rest and gawking at the spectacle of it all. Now, four months into our stay here, we watch as outsiders pour into “our” city, knowing that, as always, once this year’s Día de Los Muertos has passed into history, Oaxaca will once again settle into its normal routines, each of us going back to our daily lives while the city catches its breath and prepares for the next outburst of magic.