Memorias Muertas

For a long time I thought it was a canon. The explosions seemed to come from everywhere at once, unlike gunshots that let you feel their direction of origin in your belly. The noise bounced off the mountains and a puff of smoke held high overhead. It isn’t until the old man lights one off next to me, and the sound makes me almost deaf but leaves just enough so I can hear the second blast a few moments later that I understand these are fireworks.

I watch as he reloads. He holds a small newspaper bomb up to the sky and against his breast to bless it. There is a cringle of paper as he wraps another layer around it and slips it into the metal cylinder. I suppose it is like a small canon. He moves the cylinder around on the dirt, finding solid ground and searches his pockets for matches. When he bends the fuse down a woman nearby stops wailing and walks away, just behind a concrete grave. The man stoops to light the wick then takes several swift steps back. It explodes. Little pieces of charred newspaper hang in the air like black snowflakes and fall to the ground. And the man moves on, to honor another ancestor.

Each mausoleum is painted in bright colors and patterns and adorned with wreaths of plastic flowers, bouquets of lilies and marigolds and gaudy garlands. Offerings of thin burning candles and scraps of food and juice frame the names of loved ones. Families eat ice cream bars and smoke cigarettes and sit and talk. Several marimba bands move from one group to the next, playing the favorite songs of dead relatives competing to make themselves heard by the living and the dead. Libations of alcohol and water and coconut juice pour upon concrete.

In other towns, people fly spectacular kites that represent dreams or messages to the gods, to the ancestors. The tails carry evil thoughts back to the earth while the pure ones remain in the sky. I remember that ala means both wing and soul and almost understand.

I have no altar, no family here. I buy a garland of paper flowers to give as gifts to the women I love when I come home. A drunken man tries to interrogate me when I place one over the gated entrance to the cemetery. I watch the others mourn and think of my own ancestors-- the ones I’ve known, the stories I’ve heard, and the ones that are lost, except in me and my brothers. Invisible hands that shaped our minds, bodies, hearts. But my soul belongs to me alone. I move on and feel the eyes of angels.

Todos Ganan

It’s only 8 am on Dia de Los Santos, but the men of Todos Santos are already completamente borrachos. They have been celebrating through the night, and several are slumped over on staircases or in gutters. Pools of dried blood stain the dirt but no vomit. Streams of drool spill from the sides of mouths and a pile of clothes begins to twitch as we pass.

Despite the incredible debauchery of the local people, Todos is a pueblo from fairytales. The clouds roll in and the rest of the world disappears, until its existence is forgotten. We are an island in the sky. A certain silence passes in waves, of rushing water and whispered secrets, broken by the burst of whistles and trample of hooves, the confused rooster’s crow and the melody of a marimba trio. Shots ripple through the valley and a puff of smoke rises high above from homemade fireworks.

The children, like their parents, are all dressed in the same traditional trajes. Boys in red and white striped trousers, shirts with embroidered collars and straw hats with thick blue bands. The girls wear blouses that all but the littlest ones have made themselves and sheets of thick purple fabric as skirts. With raw cheeks and large dark eyes they look more like dolls than real children. They stay close to their mothers, and some cling to aprons spattered with the grease of fried chicken and samosas.

The riders lean far back in their saddles and swagger back and forth with the movements of their horses, tempting fate. Colorful streamers fly behind their hats and fake feather plumes protrude from the tops. Occasionally, one lets out a long ululation and his face cringes with pain. A man beside him hands over a clear bottle of aguardiente, whispering toma, toma. He takes a swig and passes it back. The air is heavy with emotion… anticipation, celebration, defiance.

When the conquistadores first came here, they did made it forbidden for the Mayans to ride horses. This was an incredible form of oppression for a people cut off from the rest of the highlands by steep and narrow passes, but they did nothing for a long time. Finally, one day, an old man became very drunk. He stole a horse and rode it round and round the centro. He was killed but his legacy lived on and the people of Todos Santos have celebrated his courage for the last 200 years. When someone dies in the fiesta, their life is considered a sacrifice to the ancient Mayan gods. With this gift, the whole village will prosper.

A burst of whistles is blown and the horses turn and trample the sand, kicking it up into the faces of people pressed against the railing, who squeal and gasp in delight and dismay as the riders fly past and fall. A few cling to the sides of their saddle when they begin their decent, and breaths are held and bodies lean in closer. Each time a man lands in the sand there is a moment, a pause, where the collective crowd wonders if he will move. Then he does. And there is a sigh of relief. Or disappointment.

The riders shriek at the horses and crack leather whips against rolling flanks. As they day wears on, they fall more often. The ones in the lead are given beautiful chickens as symbols of their strength and sacrifices to the gods. Most beat the horses with these gallinas until resistance and motion die. Then feathered carcasses are thrust toward the crowd and passed out of sight. One man rides with no hands, gliding over the horse’s body. When he is given a speckled hen, he holds her wings spread wide out in front, and she acts as the carving on the prow of an ancient warship.

The riders, the horses and the crowd are growing weary with this test of endurance. The ones that remain on their horses until the end are said to have blessings for the next year. The ones that fall, mala suerte. The horses get no reward, but, as one man explains, this is tradition. Eso si que es. Y en realidad, los que ganan son dioses.