Blood, Sweat and Tears

I have the hands of a prize fighter. They're not lightening quick. They don't carry the force of a freight train. Nope. They're just really narly and chewed up. Have I started taking part in bar room brawls? Am I engaging in illegal Gringo Fighting? No. I participated in what is known here as Day of the Dead. And it took a toll on my poor, dainty hands.

Myth buster #1: Day of the Dead not really Halloween, people. Though, due to America's influence, some people do dress up in costumes. Most everyone seemed to be a devil or a dead bride. Lots of dead brides running around the city last week. Day of the Dead hopes to celebrate and commemorate those who have passed away. So perhaps it's better to call it a Mexican Memorial Day. Each household creates an altar full of marigolds, fruit, photos of those who have passed away, chocolates, mole, and any number of things that were favorites of the dead loved ones, like cigarettes, a certain kind of beer, etc. In addition, many people travel to the local cemetary to visit their loved ones, clean up their tombs and sit in vigil for the night.

I happily accompanied my friends to the cemetary on Friday to clean off their father's grave. I'd helped another friend the day before with his brothers' tomb, which was really interesting. But what escaped me was that not only would we be cleaning dad's tomb, but also mom's tomb, uncle's tomb, and some other guy who got a cleaning because, hey! why not?

I'm attaching some pictures of what some of the tombs look like once they are all pimped out. What you won't see is what these tombs looked like before. They are a total mess. We're talking a year of grime. The graves are packed so tightly next to each other that I found myself balancing my mop on Señor Cordero's neighboring grave for a spell while I scrubbed. I hope the vecino didn't mind!

The whole tradition is really quite lovely. Whilst you put a little elbow grease into cleaning, you can reflect on the person you've lost. I heard a lot of great stories about my friends' families. The downside is that these tombs are all made of stone, of course. So I have some bloody knuckles to show for all that hard work I put in.

Later on that Friday night I returned to the cemetary around midnight. The place was jumpin'. The city lights all of the niches where in days of yore, people's caskets were interred and cemented in for eternity. Local artesans created altars at the cemetary. The crumbling ruins of a chapel stand at the center of everything; a tree founds its way to life right in the center of the ruins. They light it in scarlet for the occassion. The place was packed. People crowded around tiny tombs, drinking and toasting their dead. Roving bands criss cross the cemetary offering a serenade for your muerto for a small fee. Some stay all night, sleeping next to the stone tombs.

I helped build the altar in the house of my friends the Cordero's. I nestled in a photo of Grandma and Grandpa Martin. If only I could have found some Scotch to leave for Granddad, or a Day of the Dead Old Fashioned. That would have been perfect!

**Blogspot is being grumpy about loading my pictures. I'll have to post them later.