Día de los Muertos

It was impossible to catch a combi this past week. Starting October 26^th, my usual route was blocked by a marketplace specifically set up for the Day of the Dead. This market stretched almost 5 blocks, crowding the streets with sugar skulls, catrinas and calaveras, miniature ofrendas, and brilliantly gold and purple cempasuchil (very large marigolds). You also have your hojaldras (delicious bread served only this time of year), fruits, candles of all colors and sizes, and I even found some chapulines to share with my students. Surprisingly, many of them were grossed out by the fact I enjoyed eating the crunchy, little critters.

Catrina in the plaza of Izucar

My very own Catrina bought at the market.

Little mini ofrenda bought in the market.

Sugar skulls

Scary skull in the plaza

This special market takes place to prepare for a most amazing holiday, Día de los Muertos. Because I am a Spanish teacher, I had a little background on this famous celebration. It is a ritual that dates back before the Spanish Conquest. Therefore, you see many pagan traditions passed on from the indigenous Aztec culture sweetly blended into the Catholic customs complete with crosses, La Virgen and Jesus Cristo.

Families can buy their food, flowers, and adornos to decorate their ofrendas – usually a 3-tiered display symbolizing the life of a recently deceased love one and the faith of the family. My students tell me if I am going to spend Día de los Muertos in the state of Puebla, I have to visit the town of Huaquechula, which is about 30 minutes from Izucar. A quiet girl speaks up; Huaquechula has become very touristy and if I really want a traditional experience, I should visit her town, Cacaloxuchitl which is only 5 minutes from Huaquechula. I tell Coco this, and Nov. 1^st, la familia and I pack up and take off for a Día de los Muertos adventure.

We arrive in Cacaloxuchitl at 5:00 with empty stomachs. I was told to not eat anything beforehand because we would eat about a week’s worth when we arrived. I am hungry.  As we enter the town we are greeted by a “trick or treater”, a boy about 11 years old, in an ugly monster mask with a bucket. Jorge, our driver, gives him a few pesos. We continue on and realize we have no idea where we are suppose to go. Jorge yells out the window at a few boys standing on the corner. “Dónde están las ofrendas?” he asks – Where can we find the ofrendas? The boys respond with “Hay un chingó allá” pointing down the street. We laugh at the phrase – it’s kind of like saying “There’s a sh*tload down the street!” to perfect strangers.  Jorge tells me this is typical banter of small villages such as this.

However, the vulgar-mouthed boys guided us perfectly – we begin seeing trails of marigold petals, beginning in a cross in the street and then leading visitors (and the deceased loved ones) into various houses. We follow the first orange path into a rustic yard – tables and chairs have been set up, dogs and turkeys walk freely around, taking part in the festivities as well. I almost trip as I try to avoid stepping on a baby chic. The dueña de la casa invites us to follow her. Her hair is pulled back in a long graying braid; she is probably in her seventies.

She takes us into a very simple room with cement walls and floor; on one side of the room chairs are lined up for visitors and on the other, a magnificent altar stands in memory of both her daughter and her grandson. I learn that these types of altars are created for those who have died in the past year. Her grandson passed away in March of this year, and her daughter two months later. Los poblanos believe the spirits of their loved ones are in limbo in this year, still between earth and heaven; the altars are designed to guide them back to their home one last time, which explains the trail of marigolds.

Combining indigenous and Catholic traditions, altars are made of three levels. Each level is decorated with flowers and delicately cut papel picado. The first level represents “earth,” and traditional food and drink that the deceased enjoyed are placed to tempt the loved ones to return and enjoy. Tamales, hojaldras, pipían, mole, and various fruits cover this first level, in addition to cigarettes (if the person smoked), and tequila, mezcal, and/or Mexican cerveza.

papel picado

The second level of the altar represents the magical place between earth and heaven and is decorated in brilliant flowers, candles, and a 10’’ x 7’’ picture of the loved one. Many of the photographs that we saw were photo-shopped so that the person appeared to be walking in a garden, with a beam of light on them as if guiding them to heaven. On some, statues of crying angels stood guarding the photo.

The third level represents heaven, and there is usually a religious painting of La Virgin, a statue of Jesus Cristo, or a cross.

Along with marigolds, incense and candles stand at the base of the altar, lighting the path for the deceased.

Each major at UTIM builds elaborate altars honoring a Mexican hero

A montón of marigolds.

What is an ofrenda?

We pay our respects to the woman’s family. Coco makes “a sign of the cross” and kisses her thumb as she finishes the gesture. The señora leads us back into the patio and tells us to enjoy some of the wonderful food they have prepared. All of the women in the family are working hard; some making tortillas over an open fire, two are stirring enormous pots of mole and the others are busy preparing tamales for the visitors.

Café - with sugar and a lot of caffeine.

Making tamales

Bowls of mole poblano are brought to our tables, also, aguas made from sweet fruits, and of course, warm tortillas. We eat, give our thanks and continue on to the next casa.

In this small town, thirty-six altars were created this year – thirty–six loved ones passed away in just this past year.  We visit two more, an older man in his seventies who is mourning the loss of yet another son, and another family remembering their sweet abuelita (grandmother). We eat pipían – a green mole sauce made from pumpkin seeds over a chicken leg - and tamales wrapped in cornhusks. I am so full, but the family tells me it is a “grosería” (insult) to refuse to eat. So I eat another tamal.

En memoria de un hijo (son).

Altar in memory of an abuelita (grandmother).

These families are very poor, yet immediately after someone in the family has died, they begin saving their money to prepare for these altars and the grand feast. They could spend up to 30,000 pesos (about $3000), inviting complete strangers to meet and pay respects to their loved ones. These people believe the dead truly return – Lily tells me stories she has heard, food disappearing, candles flickering strangely. Superstition is as strong as the Catholic faith here.

Afterwards we travel to Huaquechula where there is a huge festival, with traditional Mexican folk dances, rides and games for children, and a market place selling a variety of Día de los Muertos souvenirs. The altars here are famous around the world I find out as I run into five Americans also taking in the spectacular tradition.

Altars in Huaquechula cost thousands of dollars to build.

Ballet Folklórico en Huaquechula

We take an alternative route home and decide to visit one more town with altars. A woman guides us into a small room with an altar dedicated to her husband. Her eyes are red; I can tell she has been crying. I read the sign by his photo – August 27, 2011.  This is a week after I arrived in Mexico, which seems like only yesterday.

The last altar we visit is a family celebrating the life of their grandmother. They are happy and pass around a bottle of tequila. They offer us candied pumpkin and atole – which is a sweet rice pudding-like substance. I thought I couldn’t eat anymore but I ended up enjoying THREE cups of this amazing stuff!

The next day Coco’s family invites me to the November 2nd Día de los Muertos tradition in Izucar’s panteón (cemetery). On this day, the tradition continues, taking the flowers, food, and candles from the altar to the graves of the loved ones. Doña Juanita (Coco’s mother) carries a large bouquet of cempezuchitl and a small, torn prayer book. Coco and her sister carry 2 large candles.

When we get to the cemetery, I am shocked at the amount of people. The place is packed with families, eating and even drinking Modelo around the gravesites. The afternoon sun is powerful; everyone carries umbrellas, and venders sell popcicles and ice cream in the paths between the tombs. Some family members have hired Mariachi bands to play for their relatives. The tradition of Coco’s family is much more simple and sweet. We visit five tombs, Doña Juanita leads us in prayers of the rosary, and we end in a joyous song, which Diego sings at the top of his lungs.

As a Spanish teacher, I thought I knew a lot about the Mexican culture, and particularly about Día de los Muertos. But after experiencing the kindness, generosity, and faith of these people, I realize I have a lot more to learn.

La vida después de 30.

Turning 30 was not something I was looking forward to. Last year, on October 24th, I was a mess. I cried a lot. I put myself together for my fabulous friends who were waiting for me at my party, but brought along my Visine red-eye drops just in case (I only had one breakdown, but no one noticed).

In your twenties, you have a lot of freedom to live single and carelessly, without worrying about your future. I realized on that day, that I had let 10 years pass me by. In my career, I felt like finally it was all falling into place, but in life, I hadn't grown up yet. There I was, still renting a tiny apartment, no husband, or even a potential prospect, no children, and still in the same small county I grew up in. It took way more miles to run off a second piece a pizza, and I had to start using eye cream.  I hadn't been on a date in over a year, and the single men my age were getting engaged or dating girls a lot younger than me. How had life passed me by so quickly, and when did I become so insecure?

My 31st birthday treated me a lot better than 30. I walked into my classroom on Monday with a bag of treats and of course, lots of English practice for my students. After the first small activity, a student tells me my boss needs to see me upstairs. Before I go, I spend five minutes getting the students started on their second assignment so they can work while I'm gone; I can't stand one minute of learning wasted. The student escorts me upstairs, which I think is weird, but it's not my country so I just stand and wait with him. After about five minutes of waiting (this is a LONG time for me when I suppose to be teaching a class), my student sees me checking the time and says,  "I am bad, I lied. We just need a little more time."

I give him a puzzled look and he laughs; we go back downstairs and a few more students are waiting outside of the classroom with a blindfold. They tie it around my eyes and guide me into the classroom. When I take off the blindfold, the room is set up for a party with a gorgeous chocolate mousse pastel and refrescos. The students sing about four verses of their birthday song "Las Mañanitas", which is much more complicated than "Happy Birthday." They all start chanting "Mordida" which is my signal to dive face first into the cake taking the first bite. Of course a student behind me smashes my face into the frosting. I cut the rest of the cake that doesn't have my nose print, and we play music and dance the rest of the hour. I learn that male students are much more willing to dance than female students; one shows me how to duranguese, another student teaches me the bachata, and another cumbia. I teach them how to line dance.

The next class has planned a similar party but has decorated the room in balloons and throws confetti at me. Their cake is a delicious tres leches topped with kiwi and strawberries. I make all students stand in front of me while I take my mordida. I know these students work hard for every peso they have, and to spend so much time and money on me to make me feel special this day literally brought tears to my eyes. 

Afterwards, Coco, her husband and the rest of the family had planned a similar party - I don't even fight it when Chucho pushes my face in the delicious chocolate cake they have prepared for me.

If you are wondering, thirty actually turned out to be a pretty good year. I spent it with a wonderful group of friends and family in little Lafayette County; I earned a master's degree, saw Jimmy Buffet, and was chosen to participate in an amazing teacher exchange program. Mexico, while it has its challenges, is giving me time to figure out who I want to be. I want to be a great daughter, sister, friend, and teacher. The rest I will leave to fate; it's treated me well so far.

Mi casa es tu casa.

I moved. A cute pink apartment one block from the Zocalo and right around the corner from my favorite family. Lily’s friend owns a furniture store in town, and they delivered a new cama, ropero, mesa y 4 sillas for just 5100 pesos (roughly $425).

I am waiting on gas for my hot water; I do not have a refrigerator, a microwave, nor a television. What I miss most is the Internet. Since moving here I have developed a slight addiction to Facebook. But poco a poco, these too will arrive, and I will have my own little casita en Mexico while staying well-informed of Wisconsin gossip.

In Mexico, when you visit a family for the first time, you most definitely will learn this phrase, “Mi casa es tu casa”. They will tell you whenever you would like to come and play one of their many beautifully painted guitars, “mi casa es tu casa”; maybe you mention you like to run, and they have a treadmill; they will say, “whenever you want, mi casa es tu casa”; or perhaps, you live around the corner and just want a place to laugh, eat, and sing karaoke after a long day at the university instead of going home alone – now this is definitely mi casa.

My mentor’s sister and her family live just a block away.  This large Catholic family includes Coco’s mother, brother, sister and brother-in-law, their four children, and grandson Diego. Each has their own talents to offer: One sister and her amazing fashion sense has informed me my face is too delgada and blanca; I can no longer go out in a ponytail without makeup.  She gave me a makeover today in her small fiesta shop while four customers watched in awe, commenting on how much prettier my eyes were with five extra coats of mascara. Another sister is letting me tag along to the sports center with her so I can work off the 10,000 tortillas I’ve eaten since August; her mother keeps me well fed.

The youngest sister is crazy about music, English, and the Virgin Mary – we are going to run over 300 km December 10-11 to Mexico City – it’s sort of like Run Across Wisconsin only you are running for La Virgin de Guadalupe instead of cancer. At the finish line, you crawl on your hands and knees to the Basilica where the original shrine to the Virgin Mary still hangs after 500 years. For my birthday, their father gave me a wooden bracelet with delicately painted Virgins on each little square. The faith of this family is miraculously contagious, even for an atheist.

Coco’s mother lives in Texas for 8 months out of the year but comes back to Mexico from October to January – I met her just three days ago; she’s small yet fiery and gives fiercely strong hugs; already, I love her.

Coco tells me nearly every day, “No te preocupes, we will take care of you” and she has. I originally moved out for more privacy, more independence because that is what we Americans value; but I realize what I really needed was to be closer to family. 

Oaxaca

It has been difficult to write these last two weeks. When I have had time, I can't decide what great story I want to tell. I could write about the amazing fiesta with a cubano and his Mexican family and friends; he learned Russian rather than English when he was younger and has tons of pictures of Che Guevara hanging in his gorgeous house. We spent the evening passing his wife's acoustic guitar around singing classic Mexican and English songs. Stand by Me is their favorite.

Or I could tell you about my group of machos who swore like sailors and made cat noises while I was teaching. With a little change in my classroom management, they have become my most successful and hardworking class.

My students, in general, are amazing; I have learned 95% of their names (the other 5% haven't shown up for class enough for me to recognize them); I've been invited to baby showers, grandmothers' birthday parties, and to the local discoteca. They don't always do their homework, and copying is a huge problem, but they all work about 20-30 hours a week on top of their studies. Their pride for their country and culture is incredible, and I find they teach me something new everyday. Also, they love to play lotería (bingo) with their families on the weekend.

As for my weekends, Coco and her husband have decided I can't spend my Saturdays and Sundays in the café working anymore. Our first adventure was last weekend in Oaxaca (pronounce wah-hah-cah).

It takes about 4 hours by car to drive from Izucar to Oaxaca so Coco told me we would be leaving bright and early at 5:00 am Saturday morning. I turned down all fiesta offers Friday night to assure I would be ready to go the next morning. The carload of Coco, her husband, her sister and brother-in-law, two nieces and one super cute Diego arrived only one hour late, and we were off.

While the rest of the crew sleeps, I watch as the flat landscape quickly transforms into lush hills and valleys. The hills then change from green to a sandy brown with sporadic patches of cacti; they remind me of five o clock shadows.

After about an hour, my friends awaken and in typical Mexican tradition, they all start talking at the same time. This actually happens more with women I've noticed, and I am in the middle of four very talkative mexicanas. My head ping pongs back and forth as I try to understand each of them. They are talking about a nightmare Lily had recently. She ends her story with the phase "cuando duerme, la muerte entra". Not only is this family super Catholic, but Mexicans are also very superstitious. The superstition here is when you sleep the dead enters your body and takes over; this is what causes you to dream. They look at me and ask if I've dreamt yet here...I shake my head - nope haven't been possessed just yet...

Diego jumps from the back seat to the middle row trying to decide if he wants to sleep by his grandparents or practice his English with me. He knows all his colors, numbers up to 20 and has picked up on my overly used phrase "Oh my goodness!" This was the first English phrase I spoke in Mexico, in response to our car almost hitting a pedestrian on the freeway. Of course, the Mexicans thought my reaction was hilarious. I say it all the time now, as do all of my friends.

A little over half way there, we pass through a toll, and the guy in the booth says something to Chucho I can't quite understand. I know llanta is tire, but I've never heard punchada before. By the look on Coco's face, I'm pretty sure we aren't going much further.

We stop on the other side of the toll where there is a little tienda selling food. Our tire is completely flat, and unfortunately, the tire store that is directly across from us is closed today because the owner's mother-in-law has passed away. Like a typical optimistic Mexican, I think to myself, our luck is bad but it could be worse.

There is a small pueblo about 2 miles away; we can see the church and the enormous Pepsi and Corona signs advertised in the center. The girl at the tienda tells us we have to walk to the town if we want our tire fixed.  So Chucho and Jorge start walking in the late morning sun. No one is upset; in fact, everyone is in a great mood. Diego and I pick flowers; he arranges them so he can take a picture of them with my camera. We jump a tiny stream of nasty drainage, pretending there are crocodiles and snakes waiting for us. Lily and Fanny change and put on makeup; they never made it to bed from the night before; their mom decides to take a nap in the SUV - she stayed up all night too!

Diego pretending he is a cholo (Mexican gangster)

We had a lot of time to kill

Jorge and Chucho arrive about 2 hours later, and shortly after, a man with a jack and a new tire. And we are off.

We finally arrived in Oaxaca at 3 o'clock. We find a hotel and decide to eat in the Zocalo. Lily, Diego, and I eat a place that sells both tacos and sushi. I feel incredibly guilty, but I go with the sushi. Lily is 28 and Diego, who just turned 5, is her son. I tell her my sister is also 28 (both were born in May) and has a five-year old daughter a week younger than Diego. She is sure Olivia and Diego will get married someday. Lily is about 6 inches shorter than me. Olivia will probably be about a foot taller than Diego in 15 years. I laugh as Lily says exactly what I'm thinking.

We walk the colonial streets of Oaxaca, admiring the Spanish architecture in its bright colors; it's much prettier than Izucar - definitely kept up for the sake of tourists and their money. We walk through the famous Santo Domingo cathedral where the Pope will visit the following day. The alter and parts of the ceiling are made of pure gold; it is spectacular. We have just enough time to take a few photos and then we are hurried out, as a wedding will be starting soon.

We ran into the wedding party later on that night.

After much primping and preening, we go out for the night. Fanny and Coco choose a place called "Nude." In English. My eyes go wide - I'm sure it is a strip joint. But actually, it is just a bad name for a cool club. The band is above us on a tiny balcony - the female singer is awesome and I spend the night dancing with my friends and a really cute Cuban.

The next day we travel to Mitla, a small town about 45 minutes away.  We eat at a tiny little diner that serves Mole negro - different from mole poblano in that it is darker and a little sweeter. After eating it, we all decide that mole poblano is way better because that is what Mexicans do on vacation - they compare everything to how it is in their hometown and decide home is always better. Chucho notes the decoration on the wall is a Toltec design. The ruins we see later on will be adorned with  similar patterns.

Mitla has a Nahuatl origin meaning "City of the Dead." The ruins are actually high priests tombs and the intricate patterns along each wall signifies how they were sacrificed. Jorge (Coco's brother-in-law, not the Cuban) tells me that the church was built in the 16th century on top of the ruins in order to convert the Zapotec people to Catholicism. I happen upon a group of English speaking tourists with a guide; after about five minutes of listening, the group leader says I can join them for 200 pesos, but I decline and walk away. My Spanish-speaking tour guides are just as knowledgeable and free.

Market in front of San Pablo Church at Mitla

We pass a fabrica de mezcal on the highway. The family insists I must try this cultural treasure.  Mezcal tastes a lot like tequila and is made from the maguey plant which is a relative of the agave plant used to make tequila. We are invited to watch how it is made and then, to try the many, many different flavors. My favorites are mint chocolate, cappuccino, mocha, and just plain old mezcal. Much like tequila, you drink it with lime but instead of salt, a delicious orange chili and lime flavored powder. Only after I licked the powder did they tell me it was made of a fried and ground up worm found in the maguey plant. Super yummy. Seriously.

Our last stop was Tule, another small town located outside of Oaxaca. It is famous for it's enormous tree that would take 30 people with their arms outstretched to wrap around it.  To soak up the mezcal, we found a cute little restaurant known for its tlayudas (like a tostada but way bigger) and listened to an amazing musician who played anything we requested.

Jorge and his tlayuda

We drive through Oaxaca and stop at the market for some chapulines, fried grasshoppers covered in chili or garlic, depending on your preference.  I like the chili flavored chapulines. They are kind of messy as you have to pull the legs off before you eat them, getting chili salsa all over. It's a lot of work for a little bug, but it definitely vale la pena.

I didn't sleep during the five-hour trip home. I stayed awake reflecting on our trip, thinking how lucky I am to have met these wonderful friends and to be in this amazing country. And as I watched in horror as crazy drivers passed between the two lanes of traffic, straddling the center lane, I couldn't help think how lucky I was to make it back to Izucar in one piece.