When I began my trip in Cancún I had no intention of returning to Mexico in the near future. My plans were to continue south after purchasing my motorcycle and crossing the Darién Gap into South America. Day of the Dead was one of the major factors in the dissuasion from my previous resolution, proposed of course by the little English lass I met in Granada, Nicaragua that you all know as Louise, whom I should probably mention also had some inherent baring in my decision change.

We were to visit Oaxaca for the days leading up to Day of the Dead, and then continue onto Lago Pátzcuaro for its’ authentic ceremonies on offer. Oaxaca is a mecca of art, both modern and traditional. Surrounded by villages which specialize in traditional art forms, and also a highly varied art scene within the city itself, Oaxaca quickly became one of my favorite Mexican cities. I arrived around 4 am via bus, and since our hostel didn’t allow for guests entering before 6 am, I laid out my sleeping bag in the rundown bus station and tried to rest for a bit before a guard came around at 5 am waking myself and the locals up.

After a taxi ride I was still quite early so I remained affront the hostel for about 45 minutes waiting, but eventually I’d make it inside. Louise would wake up a couple hours later (she had come a day earlier) and we’d spend the next three days or so exploring the city. Oaxaca is an intensely varied city, with a huge market where one can find all types of handcrafted goods, as well as a seemingly endless supply of art galleries, museums, shops, cathedrals and other cultural jewels. I can’t say enough good things about the city, and the country as a whole for that matter. Americans tend to regard their southern neighbors as a bit rough, a bit underdeveloped, a bit impoverished. All those things may be true to a degree, but those who succumb to the country’s stereotyped and in many ways over-exaggerated danger will never have the opportunity to witness what Mexico truly has to offer. Oaxaca is a prime example of these offerings.

On one of our nights in Oaxaca, a number of hostels in the city organized a Day of the Dead group outing, with live music provided and many bottles of mezcal being passed around. We all painted our faces in the traditional Día de los Muertos style, and though not a necessity of participation, I found myself thoroughly hammered…thanks in no small part to Louise’ ability to attract drinks which were quickly pawned off onto me. While making our pugnacious trek back to the hostel I came up with the brilliant idea of putting Louise on my shoulders. She mistakenly agreed, and once the novelty of that act wore off, I decided it would add to the excitement if I’d pretend to be drunk by swaying back and forth, largely an attempt to frighten the helpless Louise who was now trapped in my web of obnoxiousness. Naturally, I didn’t heed the little detail that I actually was drunk, and proceeded to topple over in the most ungraceful way possible. Fortunately for Louise she had been stricken with anxiety the moment she realized her blunder (which came about the instant she was securely fastened atop my shoulders), and thus without hesitation she had bounced off her perch once realizing my playful sway had developed into a full-blown collapse. Unscathed, she took the opportunity to berate me with “I told you so’s”. Despite my attempts, she refused to remount.

On the eve of Day of the Dead, we left Oaxaca with our sights on Lago Pátzcuaro, the single most popular destination for local citizens intending to celebrate the event. Upon arrival it quickly became apparent that what locals considered celebration we’d consider a full fledged party. Using the city of Patzcuaro itself as a base, visitors take launchas to the primary island where the festivities take place, Janitzio. We had begun with the intent of taking a launcha directly to Isla de Pacanda, as it’s atmosphere was much quieter and more involved with the tradition of Día de los Muertos. We found however that only one island was serviced directly from Patzcuaro without a private charter, and that was Janitzio. So without option we bought our ticket and headed for the island. As you move across the lake, floating lanterns light the water around you. In the distance approached Janitzio, and almost immediately when the loud sounds of the Patzcuaro partying faded, we could here the even more intense sounds of Janitzio. Seeking an intimate, traditional experience of Day of the Dead, we were a bit discouraged. We could only hope that we’d be able to jump aboard a private charter headed for Isla de Picanda. Much to our delight, this is exactly what happened. Upon arrival we realized the situation on Janitzio was even worse than we had believed, and proceeded to immediately seek our next launcha. It came in the form of a mixed group of visitors from Mexico City. We were allowed spots aboard their boat for a fair price, and off we went, headed for our intended destination.

The experience on Isla de Picanda is beyond words. At the small cemetery, families and friends crowded graves of their loved ones, telling stories and designing their offerings as best they could. The scene was an ocean of candlelight, faces half illuminated wore expressions that wandered between mourning and reminiscence; celebrations of the life they had and sadness for that same life now being lost…solace was found in the company of loved-ones and a sense of pride in the fulfillment of tradition. Saying little we walked among the site, attempting to absorb what we were witnessing. A small, infant-sized grave was marked with a miniature wooden horse and a tiny palm-sized shoe, both accompanied by a single candle. For many, this day was dedicated to the memory of probably the hardest experience of their life: losing a child, a sibling or parent. They were here dealing with that memory, and we were nothing short of intruders. We fought to appease the boundary between curiosity and respect.

Eventually we would return to the launchas which would take us back to the city of Patzcuaro and our warm beds, but for locals they would remain at the graves, staying by the side of their loved ones whom exist now only as memories until the morning came. Experiencing Day of the Dead is something that is indescribable. A truly unique feeling of grief and joy, unity and partiality; a celebration where life meets death and where the very next day, they diverge once again, a relationship not to be formally rekindled for another 364 days.

Pátzcuaro is a city that is not unlike others, somewhat unremarkable in many ways. However it finds its’ significance in the celebrations which take place there each year on the first and second of November. For this reason, I will never forget the time that I spent in this small, humble city of Mexico.