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The Posada del Abuelito felt like a fitting place to call home for the week. The House of the Little Grandfather in San Cristobal de las Casas. Arriving off an overnight bus, the highland town was drenched in a morning mist like a Latino remake of Brigadoon. Another lesson in the surprising variety of Mexico's sprawling topography. The hostel itself generated and maintained its social and convivial spirit. Dorms and private rooms spilled directly onto a leafy cobbled courtyard, in turn meeting the street only by way of a simple saloon door. A joyous cycle, the nature of the place beckoned travellers on the good road and joined them together for a pureness of venture. The patron saint was looking after the houses, keeping us safe. Then again, maybe he was also there to remind us of the duality of the region's troubled history at the hands of De Mazariegos and his conquistadors. One day, a speedboat carried our organic group of hosteleros through the Canon Sumidero, and our eyes traced upwards from the lazy crocodiles to the seahorse stalactites, onwards from the flea circus branches swung by distant monkeys, until the ghosts of Mayans flinging themselves all 1000 metres to our Mezcal stricken bodies below, speeding along too fast for our hazy minds. I was about half way through five months set aside from normality for my first solo backpacking trip. It was late October 2012. To some this spelled impending Apocalypse, which the Mayans knew better as simply the start of the 13th Baktun of their Long Count Calendar, 13.0.0.0. I felt as if my world was just beginning. The Posada had not just gifted me traveling companions. I also formed an unlikely friendship with the young Mexican woman who was cleaning the dorms, working her way methodically around the spilled contents of backpacks with quiet dignity and a shy smile. Her name was Nily. Although mostly off-the-cuff, I had planned to be in Mexico by Halloween, for the two days which would follow. All Saints Day and All Souls Day from Catholicism; Dia de los Muertos, the festival of the dead, from several thousand years before. On the morning of November 1st, I set off in a white minivan with two new friends in tow. We had our hearts set on finding a traditional observance of the festival. I had a scrap of paper in my back pocket with two names scribbled on it. The first, a place. The second, a person. San Jose Yashtinin, the home of Nily's mother, Victoria Pale Vasquez. Kiwi James, more hair than face, took his telescopic legs to the face. Aussie Ben, flipped his cap around and settled in. A local man asked us where we were going, and seemed bemused by our answer. This is what we wanted. The afternoon was glorious, undulating countryside basked in sun for an hour until the driver stopped and beckoned us out. There seemed nothing but a church and a farm. We asked a hunched elderly man for directions to the cemetery, a question which made much more sense than normal on that day. Upon arrival, we hovered at the edge of a lively scene within, curious glances from the local women and lairier looks from the men. One woman beckoned us in, and we told her whom we sought. She led us to the family plot of Victoria Vasquez, and a lady brought us inside the boundary. A family gathering was underway, with a wide variety of colourful flowers and candles adorning the grave. The atmosphere was neither a party nor a wake. Without introduction, the family shared the local corn snack of tamales wrapped in leaves, washed down with Pox, a strong liquor distilled from sugar cane. As we chatted in broken Spanish, I tried to explain our connection to Nily. This lady had no daughter by that name - this was not the right Victoria Vasquez! A stranger had welcomed us and allowed us to share in their most hallowed occasion of remembrance. We gifted whatever small items we had to the children and said goodbye. And we stood on the roadside awaiting a pickup, dazed and gleaming from Pox and adventure.