Flowers for the dead

by Can Kırış (Turkey)

Making a local connection Mexico

I woke up to the smell of strong, freshly brewed coffee. It was my first morning in Oaxaca, my first morning in this strange new part of the world. I rushed in here on an impulse because somebody told me that Dia de Los Muertos was an event I had to see. I found Miguel, the 14-year-old son of the owner of the house I was staying in. “Still jet-lagged?” he asked, referring to the conversation we had when I arrived. “I thought the coffee might help” he continued while pouring me a cup. It was a bitter, dark roasted coffee, almost sour and too acidic. It left an unpleasant taste in my mouth, the first of the terrible coffees I’d go on to drink in Mexico. “Tastes great”’, I said taking another sip. It did help waking up after all. I asked him where to go that evening, it being the most important night in Oaxaca, when the dead were supposedly joining the living. Hesitant for a second, he responded: “Well, everybody will be in Xoxo. They usually have big fiestas there.” “Fiestas?” I asked, struggling to imagine what partying had to do with remembering the dead. “Si. You're in Mexico now. You should get used to them.” I followed Miguel’s advice and went to Xoxo at night. After passing a huge concert stage, I saw mariachi bands playing sappy songs, candles and orange flower petals placed on the walk paths and on graves, altars made from miscellaneous objects, skeleton-painted faces (of tourists with cameras mostly) and lots of food and drinks being shared. "What is this flower’s name?" I asked with my broken Spanish, pointing to the orange flower petals to one of the women was carrying, who looked like she was wearing a sort of a casual uniform. "Cempasúchil" she responded with a bright smile on her face, "Difficult to pronounce but important to know. Without them, the dead can't join us". She told me she was volunteering from the church. She and other volunteers were walking around the cemetery and placing Cempasúchil on the graves that were not decorated. Almost like a social work for the dead, I thought to myself. I continued wandering around the cemetery until I found myself with a Mexican family of 4 men: a father and his 3 sons. The eldest brother was the one to invite me to their party of broken smiles. I quickly understood it was their mom they were mourning for. The leader of their tribe, the father, gave me a tiny plastic cup and quickly filled it with mezcal from a label-less bottle. “Salud” he shouted looking straight into my eyes. “Salud”, I responded. “My brother makes these, what do you think?” he asked. Out of sheer politeness, I told him that I liked it. In reality, the only thing I tasted was the smokiness before it numbed my entire tongue. He said that it used to taste better but his brother changed the family recipe. “That pendejo puts sugar in mezcal, you don’t put sugar in mezcal!” he roared. After getting my crash course on how to make good mezcal and sharing more shots with the family, I decided to head back home trying to make sense of what I had just experienced. Right outside I've seen Miguel sitting on the curb. I asked him if he had gone into the cemetery as well. "There’s no point.” he replied. “My mom doesn't believe in Dia de Los Muertos. She's a strict Christian and doesn’t put flowers on my abuela’s grave." he responded, with yet another broken smile. "Well, did your abuela believe in it?" I asked. He responded with a nod. “Well, why don’t we find some flowers for your abuela then? I think I know someone who can help us.” I told him. Seeing the excitement in his eyes made me realize that this was not the event that was promoted to me. Nobody was there for my entertainment but simply there for themselves and their loved ones. “Maybe we can even find some mezcal for her on the way” I said, going back to the cemetery with Miguel this time.