Communing with the dead

There was a lot going on Sunday, All Souls’ Day. To begin with, this is the only day of the year when they open up the ancient crypts in the basement of La Parroquia to the public. The only person I knew who had ever gone was Carol Romano, the woman who owns the Moroccan design shop up the street. She said it was interesting and worth the visit but definitely creepy.

I went early in the morning, during mass, figuring everyone else would be in church. The Protección Civíl had blocked off both ends of Correo to traffic in front of the Parroquia with orange cones and wooden blockades but they were allowing people through in small groups to look at the street art that students had made in front of the church. There were representations of Aztec warriors and Quetzalcoatl, the Nahuatl feathered-serpent deity, and Mictecacihuatl, the Aztec goddess of death, all made from seeds and flower petals—mostly orange and yellow marigolds.

Pagan Day of the Dead art in front of La Parroquia. Photos by David Lansing.

Pagan Day of the Dead art in front of La Parroquia. Photos by David Lansing.

Pagan gods in front of a Catholic church on El Día de Difuntos. How perfect considering that the whole Day of the Dead stuff goes back to pre-Hispanic times when, during the month of August, the Aztecs and other Meso-American civilizations celebrated death, presided over by the “Lady of the Dead,” Mictecacihuatl, who was believed to have died at birth, in monthlong rituals.

When the Spanish couldn’t stop the indigenous people from practicing their pagan beliefs, they got smart and simply incorporated the festivities and moved the whole shebang to November 1 and 2 to coincide with All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.

There were strings of papel picado hanging between the wrought iron fencing in front of the church and the lamp posts along the Jardín. The sky was overcast and the wind cool enough that I was glad I’d brought a sweater. The colored tissue paper flapped in the breeze and occasionally a square of purple or red would rip away from the enramadas and drift up, carried by the wind, disappearing over a building and into the heavens like a lost soul.

Ofrendas on the Explanada in front of the church.

Ofrendas on the Explanada in front of the church.

On the Explanada, in front of the church, were various altars, the more elaborate ofrendas with melons and rows of limes and plates of tamales and a dish of pumpkin cooked with brown sugar, maybe a bottle of tequila or a pitcher of atole, and dozens of alfenique—skulls, pigs, coffins, miniature hamburgesas and cakes, chickens, snowmen in top hats, and lots of Iztcuintles, the small dogs said by Aztecs to serve as a guide and companion to the dead.

You could see that some of the altars had been set up by various groups—like the sprawling ofrenda put up by Aficionados al Teatro—while others were more rustic and probably put up by a family. Like the rough pine table decorated with the fat orange cempazuchitls and a few candles around a framed picture of a little girl, maybe five or six years old. On the table someone had laid out some clothing: a tiny embroidered blouse and a fine huipil decorated with cross-stitching, and a pair of black patent leather Mary Janes that were unscuffed, the uplifted soles on the toes still shiny.

The cool air was laced with the piney smoke of copal incense and the graveolent scent of thousands of malodorous marigolds. Loudspeakers had been placed around the Explanada and some sort of somber flute and drumming music—very repetitive, very hypnotic—had settled over the Jardín like an aural fog. I passed through the gates to La Parroquia and down the stone steps to the crypt, ducking my head in the low doorway, and entered a small room—maybe twenty feet wide and thirty feet long—with crypts set into the stone foundation from floor to ceiling. Some of the crypts were missing their faceplates and bones were visible sitting atop the soil. The writing had worn away completely on others and it was obvious that some of the crypts had not been maintained in decades—maybe centuries.

I sat down on a small bench in the middle of the room, alone, wrapped up in the smell of copal mingling with the musty scent of the underground burial ground, listening to the awful drum and flute music coming from outside, trying to discern the presence of the dead. But as hard as I tried, I felt nothing.

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1 comment

  1. Sonia’s avatar

    Their souls left a long time ago. I think it would not be so creepy but Sad as that they were unkept. I am so wanting to visit this beautiful city.

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