The next day we caught a bus to Patzcuaro, a fine colonial city 60km south of Morelia. They'd set up an enormous craft market in the main plaza... the state's best work was on offer. There were incredible carpets, blankets, textiles... clothes embroidered with bright scenes. There were ponchos, sweaters, jackets. There were masks... monstrous, devilish, grotesque. There was pottery abound, furniture, copperware. Countless Catrinas. Everything was striking, blazen. My favourite stall was filled with delirious little monsters... crude demonic statues set upon stages of bars, churches, boardrooms. Then there were the psychedelic insects... bright and hideous with several eyes and rainbow limbs. The gruesome little creatures stretched one side of the plaza... hundreds of them... all differently coloured and composed... pure Bosch.
The city itself was awash with visitors... booked out entirely... there was no hope of securing a room. After we'd shopped a little, eaten, wandered the streets... we caught the bus back to Morelia. We waited for the festivities to begin in earnest.
SOME RITUALS
We did not witness the celebrations and rituals prior to the night of November 1st, that is 'The Night of the Dead' proper. The previous and largely inaccessible proceedings included the 'Hunting of the Duck' and the 'Vigil of the Little Angels'. The hunting of the duck, a ritual specific to Lake Patzcuaro, is performed in the first few hours of October 31st. Hunters sail out onto the lake from the four cardinal points. With guns, lances and harpoons, ducks are slain as offering to the dead. The vigil of the little angels is universally celebrated as a form of rememberance to dead children. Altars are built with candies and toys and placed in the cemetary on the morning of November 1st.
THE TOUR
Our experience of Night of the Dead took us round some of the villages. We signed up for the only English tour available. When we set out to meet the group, it started thundering. The rain really came down...
The group was large and impersonal. They herded us onto coaches. Our first stop was Tupataro. We went to visit a church and observe the details of the ceiling. It had been painted by indigenas and hence had a pagan slant to it... all fruits and colour and vines. Our next stop was Patzcuaro. The place was heaving with drunkeness... flooded... one big blurry festivity. Our guide took us to a point just above the plaza. He explained that the town had been founded on old Tarascan holy sites... they'd just stuck their churches and schools over the hallowed places. There'd been a natural spring that marked the gate to the underworld and they blocked it up with a stone. Some years later, a priest uncovered it with his stave. Water gushed out and he declared it a miracle. Everyone fell down in worship.
Our final stop was Pacanda island where we were due to observe a traditional wake in a Purepecha cemetary. We had to take a boat across the lake... the water was black and clouded over with mist. We went cruising into it... they had little fires burning here and there... isolated beacons in the darkness. It took a long time to reach the island. The cold empty was broken here and there by lights from the shore... Janiztio island went by twinkling. When finally we reached our destination, everyone clambered out. We all went up a path and came to a church. They were ringing the bell over and over... for the forgotten dead... those passed who have no one to remember them. It went sailing out... harsh, jarring, sharp. We walked on and came to the gates of the cemetary... they'd set up a big frame of marigolds above it. We shuffled
in. The whole place was lit up with candles... the graves were dressed up in flowers... people sat talking quietly... sharing food... others lay by on the stones. There was a warm atmosphere... something tranquil and pleasant... it was a cosey and respectful gathering. Then the rest of the tourists filed in and set up their stupid tripods and camcorders. The flashes went off. Everyone positioned their frames and gawked. They had no idea what they were looking at.
I went back outside and bought a coffee from a stall. It was good and hot... sweet with sugar and herbs. While I was drinking away, a little old man came up and starting talking at me. I didn't know what he was saying but he seemed important. I smiled and nodded politely.