Day of the Dead, Oaxaca Mexico — Celebrate Cultures

*A stilt-walker resting with a telephone pole*

Oaxaca started out rough. Tornadoes ripped through Dallas, cancelling my scheduled flight. I landed late at night, had trouble finding my hotel down a dark, cobblestone alley, had not eaten and was frustrated that every airport ATM had rejected my bank card. In this stressed state of mind and alone, Oaxaca felt menacing. After a sleepless night, I stomped out early to figure out cash, guarded and glowering.

Oaxaca would not let me stay in a dark mood for long. Cue the ballerina! She startled me in her bright red tutu. I gasped as she performed arabesques and pirouettes on the green cobblestones of the Calle Alcalá. I flushed a red to match her dress, embarrassed that I forgot the rules of the road. There can be no serendipity, no moments of magic, without letting go of control. Travel expands comfort zones. Sometimes, that means being uncomfortable.

Her dance welcomed me to the creativity and vibrance of this remarkable city. How ironic that I nearly missed that spirit, particularly during the week of Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Muertos and the people of Oaxaca remind us to celebrate life. Be present. Be grateful.

In this new state of mind, I appreciated how the buildings behind the dancer warmed as the morning light grew. As fate would have it, she danced in front of the main bank branch that I needed to solve my bank card dilemma. That is how travel works when we stay present. Pesos now in my pocket, I arrived at the main square, the Zócalo.

Remembering how hungry I felt, and smelling a pervasive perfume of chocolate in the air, I chose a café with shocking pink tablecloths and ordered a hot chocolate. My waiter would become my next Oaxacan teacher, after the dancer. He guided me to order the hot chocolate spiked with almonds and cinnamon, the local way. I agreed. He then insisted that I order the chocolate mixed in hot water and ground corn, not milk. I said no, I wanted it in milk. He brought both versions of the drink as a gift, so that I could see the error in my ways. He shared that the chocolate foam is whipped to capture the chocolate’s magic, which is medicine for the body and soul. However, that magic works better in the corn version. It tasted delicious and I released a little bit more illusion of control.

Sitting in the café, the Zócalo sprung to life. Vendors filled the square with balloons, shoe-shine stalls, incense-burners, and crafts. A mariachi band assembled to serenade a shining quinceañera and her family. People tucked into surrounding churches to light a candle between buying supplies for their home alters. The smell of copal started competing with chocolate beans to fragrance the breeze. Preparations for Muertos were underway.

Throughout Mexico, families restore gravesites with bleach, brooms, paint, and shovels. Once refreshed, graves are festooned with candles, food, and flowers. Each town displays different blends of reverence and revelry. This makes each local Muertos unique. In Oaxaca city, the revelry meter pegs high. Altars are constructed in restaurants. Community sand paintings captured the transience of life. Parades pop up at all times. The bass notes of a tuba are a sure sign that a party is underway.

One night, I saw my first comparsa in the less touristed Jalatlaco neighborhood. I do not have a simple English translation of this event. My impression was of something hyper-local to the neighborhood. A combination block party, high-school band concert, costume contest and improv theater, I was generously welcomed with turkey tamales. Someone explained that the skits on stage were based on neighborhood gossip. A person could influence the stories being told about them with small bribes, however it was all meant in fun. Controlling the gossip could not have been too important, since no one seemed to be listening with all other action of corn grilling, trumpets blaring, costumes twirling and mescal drinking, surrounded by buildings festooned in flowers and bathed by candlelight.

Traveling out to neighboring villages, the vibrance of Oaxaca’s indigenous cultures shines through. Oaxaca has the most ethnic diversity of any state in Mexico. Zapotec and Mixtec are the predominant groups. Their traditional villages maintain an ancient system of specialized crafts. For example, the people in San Bartolo Coyotepec sculpt black pottery. There are amazing sculptors in Atzompa. The people of Teotitlán del Valle are master weavers. In San Martin Tilcajete, they carve fanciful dream creatures called alebrijes. A carver who wanted me to order a personalized alebrije pulled out a well-worn book decoding the Zapotec zodiac. Pining down my birth date, he shared that my “protector animal” is an owl and my “spirit animal” is a dog and sketched how a mix-up of the two could look as a souvenir. I shared that I thought my owl protector might have brought me the ballerina that first morning.

Village specialization also extends to the annual Muertos preparations. For example, a special bread inlaid with painted flowers is exclusively baked by the women in Zaachila. These loaves are a showstopper on any alter and the market there exploded with vendors selling the richly decorated Muertos bread.

Back in the city, dancers were everywhere - a theme of the trip. Each night around dusk, I would wait in front of the majestic Santa Domingo church to see what would happen. Often, the Chinas Oaxaqueñas were prepping, braiding each other’s hair with festive satin ribbon. I appreciated their smiles as I asked for photos. Sometimes there were elaborately choreographed performances. For example, a group of women silently moved through clouds of colored smoke which billowed out of hand-held pipes.

Other performances seemed to erupt more spontaneously. One such example involved a few young men in elaborate and heavy feathered head gear, arranged to perform the Danza de la Pluma (the local dance from the same town that makes black pottery). What took my breath away was unstoppable crowd participation. It seemed like every local from San Bartolo Coyotepec who was in the square jumped into the dancers’ line. Soon there were dozens of men, in all range of street clothes and ages, leaping and kicking through an athletic war dance. The steps seemed as natural as breathing to them. I tried to imagine a comparable scene in the States, but could not produce a scenario where so many men followed historic choreography with such gusto.

My trip closed too soon with a final dancer at another street party. A young woman dressed in the “rags” of the Tiliche, spun with her friends. The colorful strips of rags stood straight out from her twirls; a centrifugal force radiating energy and joy. Rain had drenched us that evening, but that did not affect the mindset of the glorious Oaxacans out to celebrate life and their ancestors in death. My sense of adventure rekindled, I know I will go back.