seems that the last two or three thousand years old civilizations that inhabited the region of Mesoamerica, had and maintained the habit of remembering their dead one day and there were the tricks to "bring" the other world gifts and meals that-somehow-they pointed the way back home. Product of religious syncretism, after the conquest, the party is confused with two Catholic celebrations, the All Saints Day and the Commemoration of All Souls, for the one and two of November, and today, (un) thanks to globalization, the ceremonies begin to mix again with the party of "jaluhüín" gringo.
No one better than Martin to walk the streets of Mexico City, so I called. He passed me in his green car with tinted windows ("is that it seems an official car and nobody messes with us," he told me months ago, when I landed in Mexico and wanted the chance to be the taxi driver who picked me up the airport for the first time), was, as always smiling and loved the idea of "around town" in the "Day of the Dead."
"We go to a cemetery, Martin, but first, I invite you to eat where you choose, though, that is meat," he said as he recalled that "no body no lunch", a wonderful phrase I taught once a friend and now-blame and forgetfulness while I repeat like a family tradition.
Martin did not hesitate and will fly to the south, a few minutes later we arrived at any street, "we are in Xochimilco" he said, parked the car and got out. A ten meters had a large booth with a sign immense that read "pork." "Here we had breakfast with my wife," he told me confident as we sat on stools in short supply around the post. The show was awesome, pork - poor thing! - Was divided, separated and cooked parts insatiable diners asked the cook. This, grab a piece of bofe (lung) and a master butcher jerky on a large trunk that served as a table for cuts. The corresponding portion placed in a block of corn, onion and parsley bathed, and is delivered to the customer who, in turn, smeared it with hot sauce, salsa cactus and chile ("this is the habanero, be careful," Martin told me.) My companion devoured several assorted tacos, which, I explained, contained, at random, filler, solid, crop, ear or other part of the slaughtered, while I, more traditional, I dispatched with his hands, like my ancestors, delicious Chamorro (the pork leg).
Well fed, heading to the cemetery. The traffic was unbearable around (and that's nothing, between last night and this morning there was a lot more people "), parked on the street (" ten dollars ") and walked the few blocks that separated us from the cemetery. Hundreds of people wandered there, at the entrance, dozens of vendors offering flowers, food, toys, liquor and a funny and colorful skulls (the "calaca" or the "Catrina", whose image became popular thanks to the wonderful lithographs of Joseph Guadalupe Posada, the artist who made these crazy immortal skeletons worshipful powerful characters or those who accompanied with a "skull" which was nothing more than a verse-couplet, quatrain or tenth, always anonymous, with which satirized the Time powerful "killing", even metaphorically). What happened
within the cemetery was really fascinating, each grave was clean, colorful, decorated with flowers and a series of objects that were, in life, important for the deceased. For example, on the tombstone of someone who had to be a singer, was a guitar, a pair of boots, a cowboy hat and, of course, two bottles of tequila. About five mariachis sang "Everlasting Love" by Juan Gabriel ("and there are many old rancheras speaking on the subject of the dead," Martin told me) and "shared" with the deceased agave distillate. It was not the only case, several graves had their mariachis and the cemetery was a symphony of harmonious voices and out of tune. At other graves were included entire families, dog-sitting at the marble slab, eating tacos, drinking tequila or simply talking. I was surprised to see that even some of the headstones recently, family members are or were sad lamented the contrary, talking animatedly, as if it were a family gathering in the living room. In the midst of such traditional ceremonies did not cease to amaze children dressed as Dracula, Frankenstein, or witches, carrying a plastic pumpkin in hand ("made in china") demanded some money "for my calaverita." Our tour continued
in the magnificent flower market in Xochimilco, passed by and saw the hundreds of pots containing the famous "marigold" or dead flower, colorful, sprouted, beautiful, with shades ranging from light yellow to orange on, fragrant and beautiful flowers at this time not only decorate the graves (with the "lion's claw" or "velvet") but also the altars in almost all houses are raised with a picture of who is remembered, along with offerings as varied as bread of the dead, sugar skulls and chocolate, water, tequila, a garment of the deceased and candles to guide the soul on its way back home.
Finally, aware of the impossibility of the task to go downtown by car, we rushed to the Metro-that fabulous road network in Mexico carrying almost daily to five million people, leave the car at a shopping mall and the station " Doctors "we climbed towards" Fine Arts. " When you exit the subway the show we found was wonderful. Almost all downtown streets were closed to traffic and thousands, tens of thousands of people walking down the tracks, whole families, friends, children dressed as "American", "darks", platoons of people (and lost up to half punk with a purple crest impressive), came and went. Means exhausted, we reached the main square and the tide was impressive there, twenty or thirty thousand people walked, calm and orderly, traveling, observing, photographing and admiring the dozens of altars and offerings to the various institutions and delegations, in a traditional competition, had built around more than four acres of endless space, exceeded in size only by the Beijing Tiananmen and Moscow's Red.
The day, exhausting but essential, he concluded, "and without Martin the next day in the theater Hidalgo, seeing, as tradition dictates, staging of "Don Juan Tenorio" by José Zorrilla. A lot has happened since it opened in 1863 in Mexico of English drama in the Castle of Chapultepec, and with the assistance of the Emperor Maximilian, and many versions, serious and comic and deplorable quality, memorable and forgotten, there have been through the years, however, people still attending, every first week of November, the chilling dialogue with the dead who engages Don Juan, his conviction and finally redemption through the love of Doña Inés, so chaste, so pure as virgin as ever.
The country never ceases to amaze, this holiday season all citizens, almost without exception and regardless of where they are in the unjust social pyramid, make a high, remember those who left and share with them, in cemeteries, on the altars with offerings, rituals, songs and drama, memories and emotions, nostalgia and dreams, old news and projects in a ritual that, contrary to what a superficial analyst might conclude, is not a cult of death but to life, a song to hope, a celebration of human existence, a time-reflective and irreverent, to stop, remember where we came from, plan where to go and tell the bald, the calaca, the Catrina, "today do not celebrate, today we celebrate what we were and what we are, today I noticed, in the light of our love and our traditions, not terrorize us, not rule, you are useless, never prevail and never forget your shadow will rule over us. "
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