El Viaje a Patzcuaro y Janizio, Dia de Los Muertos
Viewing: Posada Prints
While riding from Morelia into the town of Patzcuaro, our bus began trailing, and being trailed by, pick-up trucks filled with marigolds. Dia de Los Muertos begins on the night of 1 de noviembre, on the Dia de Santos, or All Saint’s Day. It is one of the most widely celebrated holidays in Mexico, a national and solemn holiday, a time for prayer and reflection, honoring the dead. The most iconic representations of Dia de Muertos are the finely dressed and characterized skeletons, who hail from its earliest forms in pre-Colombian art to its twentieth century romance with their most famous comic artist, Jose Guadalupe Posada. The images of skeletons with personalities have stuck closely to Mexican tradition, which has “a unique dialogue with death” and has turned its traumas and absurdities to laughter. Its representations of the dancing and drinking skeletons create the macabre sense of humor the country adores. For us, while making our way through Southern Mexico, we could not escape from its haunting reminders of the holiday. We slowly began to see the colored paper tissue flags, with skeleton and designs cut out, hanging from tiendas, as our buses inched slowly west. Our destination was the island of Janitzio, which boasts one of the most famous Dia de Muertos celebrations in the world. The island is located in the center of Lake Patzcuaro, about a 30 minute boat ride from the city, which is situated on the lake’s bank. The statue of Jose Morelos, a powerful emblem of the city, rises 131 feet into the air and stands overlooking the island and the surrounding water. The walkways that meander to the top of Janitzio are carved into the island’s stony base. There is one road, a labyrinth, in which you will always lose your way and also find your way. We stepped onto a crowded boat, huddled together against the cold, and sped towards the island, passing boats of visitors along our way. As the boat docked, we were greeted by dozens of homegrown food stands, cheerfully cooking under colorful tents with lights and dia de muertos flags. Circular ovens with trays displayed fried mini-fish, tortillas, empenadas, and taquitos. Traditionally dressed Mayan women called out their menus, pressed gorditas firmly to their stoves and dangled their babies from sashes bound across their backs. Hundreds of travelers come for the famous “muertos” celebration to watch the spectable of veneration the dead, a tradition not followed in American tradition or culture. By constructing shrines out of marigolds and the favorite foods and items of the deceased, each shrine is honored and sacred space. Janitzio is poor– gray and rocky, the only color introduced by its inhabitants were marigolds and the clothing of Mexican (mainly Mayan) women, but despite this, the spirit was whimsical and eerie, leaving the spectator feeling all of the island’s visual complexities simultaneously. To add to my confusion, I traveled to the island with a group of 6 of the infamous Japanese « photo » tourists, who coincidentally were wearing identically styled puffy coat, all in different “pop” colors. The ever-curious photographers, came equipped with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment, GPS which linked all six to each other, in case the bright puffy coat was not enough to locate a lost member, hot body patch stickers (think, Thermacare without the pain) in case they got cold and chic, ergonomically friendly sidepacks which protected against theft (zipper facing belly and hip). Together, we began our journey to the top of the mountain and first stumbled (you always luckily found everything) the large outdoor ampitheater, holiday entertainment in full swing. The theater, which felt like a coastal version of the Colosseum, overlooked the sea while dancers on stage were masked as « drunken old men » dancing furiously beating canes, feet and bottles on the ground. As the danced closed, attention was directed to twelve traditional fishing boats, which expanded like dragonflies, began moving in circles, their fisherman masterfully steering in coordinated rhythms. We continued on, entering through the cemetario’s massive iron gates. The epicenter of the celebration and with thousands packed into this small lot overlooking the lake, the cemetario was lit only by candlelight. We made our way solemnly through, stepping over gravestones (and occasionally sleeping persons) as we held onto each other’s arms, surveying the intricate shrines, donning photos of dead persons, pan de muertos, coca cola and photos of la virgen de Guadalupe. We creeped (along with thousands of others) into the small chapel, a simple white building with white walls and a statue of a sarcophagus of Jesus under glass, where many Mexicans would sit all night for the night vigil. As we crawled to the top of the island, back to back with visitors and climbing hundreds of steep steps to the top, we reached the Jose Morelos park, where the statue stands, left fist raised to the sky, while the right hand, and the rest of the island, sit peacefully.
writings 