November 1st (All Saints' Day) and 2nd (All Souls' Day) marked the Dia de los Muertos celebrations here in Mazatlan. When I lived in Texas, I heard that November 1 is a day for deceased children, while November 2 is a day for deceased adults, but here in Mazatlan, it seemed more like the first was a publicly celebratory day, while the second was reserved for private celebrations with family at home and at the cemeteries.

Mazatlan has been gearing up for the Day of the Dead for awhile now. Pan de Muerto, which Chuck and I have irreverently taken to calling Dead Bread, has been available in all the markets and bakeries for 6 weeks now. Dead Bread is a sweet egg bread, much like brioche, that is dusted with sugar. The loaf is round with extra dough rolled and laid vertically on the loaf to represent bones and a small sphere on top to represent a skull. Try as I might to see a pile of bones, to me it looks like an octopus sitting on a bread dome.

We started seeing altars in restaurants, stores, and offices about 10 days before the Day of the Dead. Some altars were small, just a tiny table with a candle and a picture, some very elaborate, with multiple tiers and special lighting. Most altars included some common items. The flor de muerta, orange marigolds, are used to call the spirits of the dead. The Christian cross is usually incorporated, as well as imagery of the Virgin Mary. Pictures of the deceased and some of their favorite items are included. We also saw drawings, letters, and poems. Some altars included many people while some seemed to be dedicated to just one person.

At the altars we also saw ofrendas, offerings to the dead. For children there are toys. For adults, there is usually some type of alcoholic beverage like tequila or mezcal. Food is offered to attract and welcome the spirits of loved ones. The dead eat the spiritual essence of the food, so even though the families later eat the offerings, it is believed they have no nutritional value. A pillow and blanket are usually left out so the dead can rest after their long journey.

If the dead do live in our memories, then they are brought back to life for a few short days while families gather around the altars and graves to pray, reminisce, and celebrate those they have loved and lost. The air of celebration is contagious. Here, death is not an end, but a beginning to a new stage of life. The dead are joyfully remembered and honored, not mourned.

With great anticipation, we attended the Callejoneada del Dia del Muertos, the Day of the Dead Parade, on November 1st. We arrived at the Plazuela Machado shortly after 6pm. We could hear the band, The Malverde Blues Experience, from blocks away.

The plazuela was decorated with altars and traditional Day of the Dead imagery. My favorites are the catrinas, skeletal dolls and manequins dressed in finery. The word catrina is the feminine form of the Spanish word catrín, which means dandy. The image dates back to 1913. Mexican printmaker José Guadalupe Posada created the etching La Calavera de la Catrina as part of a series. It demonstrates that no matter how fashionable, wealthy, or important you are, you still die the same as everybody else.

While we were sitting in a sidewalk bar sipping Pacifico, listening to the band, and watching the children play, half the population of Mazatlan snuck in behind our backs. One minute we were sitting on the marginally crowded plaza; the next minute the blues band stopped, a brass band started at the other end, and there were people everywhere.

We joined the crowd, not knowing what to expect. We stood at the rear of a mass on humanity, straining to see what the jubilant crowd was cheering about, while listening to the band play “Viva Mazatlan”. Inexplicably, the crown kept thinning, and we kept getting the chance to move significantly closer to the spectacle.

Eventually we got close enough to see, and the mystery of the disappearing crowd was solved. We saw a festively decorated wagon being loaded with iced kegs of Pacifico beer and cups. A donkey stood patiently waiting to pull the wagon and join the parade. As soon as the beer was loaded, the burro powered beer cart was in motion, and huge sections of the crowd fell in behind it. Suddenly, we were in front. When the next beer cart made its way past, we followed.

There is something very surreal about traveling with a ebullient horde in pursuit of free beer from a donkey driven mobile kiosk. We had a blast. I clung to Chuck with one hand, while competing for a cup with the other. Looking around, we saw some of the savvier celebrants brought their own drinking vessels. We were in the second row of people behind the cart. The gentleman in front of me was kind enough to gift me with a Styrofoam cup from the wagon.

Getting the cup was victory enough, but getting the beer was the point. That proved to be much more difficult. People were not shy about a friendly elbow to get their way in front of you. Getting beer took assertiveness. We stumbled our way along the uneven streets with the rest of the thirsty, watching for an opening. Finally I saw one, slipped through the pack, and actually got my hand on the wagon. There was no way I was letting go. I thrust my cup forward like some baby bird waiting for dinner. Finally, I was rewarded with a mostly full cup of warm foam. I let go of the wagon and slipped off to the sidewalk, Chuck following closely behind. The foam settled down into half a cup of warm, flat beer. It was great.

With the beer mission accomplished, we adopted an easy pace, meandering along with the congregation, enjoying the spectacle. We were able to use the side walks to slip forward and back in the column, so we could see everything the procession had to offer.

There seemed to be a band for each beer cart, each playing whatever music was their specialty as long as it was festive. People came out of their homes to watch the cheering, dancing droves move past. The multiple bands, cheering, singing, and ebullience created a cacophony loud enough to wake the dead, which was pretty much the point.

Intermingled with the multitudes were “official” celebrants in costume. We passed a roving band of camera hungry mimes. Most amazing were the stilt dancers. Dressed in flamboyant costumes and calacas, skull masks, the stilt dancers towered above the crowd, gracefully bounding, leaping, and pirouetting over the uneven streets and potholed sidewalks in time with the music from the nearest band. For some reason I have been unable to divine, a man with a giant stuffed squid mounted on his head traveled with them.

Toward the front of the parade, we found the elected queens and princesses. The queens wore enormous rhinestone crowns, beautiful gowns, and very high heels. And smiled the entire time. At the front of the procession, two lovely festival maidens carried a banner. Pacing all the beautiful women was a truck with a generator and high-powered lights, to ensure that we all could see them.

Leading the whole procession walked a lonely pyrotechnician. It takes either a lot of bravery or stupidity to be this guy, I'm not sure which. His job was to launch a steady flow of fireworks as he walked. He pretty much had a bottle rocket kind of setup that he held with what were essentially long tongs. He lit each one with a cigarette, then turned his head and let it go. The fireworks weren't little sparklers or noisemakers either. They were bona fide pyrotechnics that rocketed high into the air and bloomed. Wow.

I can't imagine taking part in something like this NOB. While the crowd here was animated and at times frenetic, it was also controlled and well behaved. We took a circuitous route, including many narrow, residential streets. The wandering mob respectfully flowed around parked cars and motorcycles and flower pots without causing any damage.

The Day of the Dead parade was a fun, although confusing, way for us to learn more about the new culture of which we are now a part. I can't wait until next year to see everything again now that I understand more of what is going on.

You can see pictures [4] from the parade in the photo gallery [5].