The Day of the Dead in Mexico has always been an event that I have wished to witness, especially after watching the James Bond movie ‘Spectre’. Foolishly, like many other people, I believed that this magnificent parade was an age-old ritual, but it wasn’t. It was a fictional parade conjured up in the mind of director Sam Mendes for a spectacular opening to a chase sequence in the film ‘Spectre’. Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos) is a genuine Mexican tradition, but the large-scale, choreographed parade of skeletons and floats was not. The parade in most capital cities began in 2016, after the movie’s release, as the Mexican tourism body saw it as a major tourist attraction for the country.
Prior to the commercialization of the Day of the Dead, this cultural event was quietly celebrated by Mexican families in a family-centered, intimate manner, focusing on honoring their deceased loved ones and, supposedly, guiding their spirits back for a visit. Make-shift altars in houses would be decorated with photos of the deceased, candles and incense kept lit, ‘bread of the dead’ (aka pan de muerto), sugar skulls (calaveras de Azúcar—skulls made of sugar or chocolate that you can eat), or clay painted skulls, fresh water and the deceased favorite food and drink were all put on the altar. The altars represent the four elements of nature—fire, earth, wind, and water. Families would also visit the cemeteries of their deceased to clean and decorate the graves with brilliantly colored orange marigolds and candles, sometimes holding all-night vigils to accompany the dead.
Rituals often varied from region to region. In Oaxaca, sand tapestries (Tapetes de Arena) made from dyed sand, seeds, and petals depicting death themes and happy skeletons were spread out in doorways and public spaces, creating splashes of temporary art. And in Michoacán, the comical Dance of the Little Old Men (Danza de los Viejitos) would be performed in a dynamic, humorous way to honor the elderly as guardians of culture and wisdom, and in reverence for the cycle of life and death. The iconic vision of a skeleton wearing a massive plumed hat was created by artist José Guadalupe Posada, a satirical cartoonist. This image plagues most cities, whether it’s on top of buildings, painted on the walls, or quirky skeleton models standing in doorways.
The Day of the Dead culture has existed in Mexico for thousands of years. In the days of the Aztecs and the Toltecs, month-long festivals were held by worshipping the ‘Lady of the Dead’ (Mictēcacihuātl) and her husband, the ‘Lord of the Dead’ (Mictlantecuhtli). While the Mayan death god was a skeletal deity known as Ah Puch/Kisin. They believed that the spirits of the dead could return to the living once a year, as death was merely a continuation of life. By holding large ritual gatherings and using musical instruments, sometimes made of human bones, their dead loved ones would appear. After the arrival of the Spanish in the 16th Century, these ancient indigenous rituals were blended with Catholic beliefs, keeping the core spirit of the customs alive in a new syncretic tradition. The joining of these beliefs gave rise to the modern Día de los Muertos, celebrated on November 1st and 2nd, coinciding with the Catholic All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day.
Chasing the best experience of the Day of the Dead parade was a hit-and-miss affair. Skeleton-smothered cities had haunted our trip from mid-October to the actual date at the beginning of November. It so happened that my daughter and I would be in Merida, not in one of the more high-profile cities such as Mexico City or Oaxaca. When the big night arrived, it was a bit like being caught in a ‘Fawlty Towers’ moment. No one could tell us where or when the parade would take place. We ended up shadowing the painted faces of who we assumed were locals through the dark streets (there aren’t many street lights in Merida). Either everyone knew where they were going, or we were all playing a game of ‘follow the leader’ as more people appeared at corners and joined our little group in a funny mix of locals and tourists.
Eventually, we came to a plaza decked out with comical neon-lit skeletons and locals' personal tents, each with its own altar. Joining the chaotic throng milling around in this area was like being slowly squashed into a sardine tin. Face painting was happening everywhere, food stalls were overrun with hungry hordes, and the cobblestoned streets were waiting for you to twist an ankle. When the parade actually began—it was noise and smoke making an entrance first—the army of locals knew exactly where to stand, while tourists had little or no hope of seeing past the sea of mobile phones held to the heavens, especially if you are height-challenged. Constantly trying to stand on tiptoes to peer over feathered head-dresses or big cowboy hats presented a challenge for the enjoyment of viewing the parade.
Was I disappointed? Yes.
Was my daughter disappointed? She was only in a ho-hum mood about it to start with.
Would I bother with the Day of the Dead parade again? Yes.
Would my daughter bother with the Day of the Dead parade again? No.
Unless I insisted that she come to honor me as ‘the guardian of culture and wisdom’ and to make sure I didn’t get lost on the way back to the hotel.
Next time, I would like to be perched high on a balcony overlooking the main street of the parade, possibly in Mexico City, after seeing the images captured during their parade—I suffered a bit of ‘FOMO’ for the next few days.
Gail Palethorpe, a self proclaimed Australian gypsy, is a freelance writer, photographer and eternal traveller. Check out her website Gail Palethorpe Photography and her Shutterstock profile.
