Day of the Dead 3

Posted on November 4, 2002 in Festivals Photos Travels - Past

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Two years ago, Lynn and I passed through the serpentine canyons to the southeast of San Diego, through a range of mountains whose lomas appeared to bulge with smallpox pustules, to the border crossing at Tecate. The name is the same on either side of the border and, yes, the Mexican town is where they brew the beer.

We hunted for about an hour for the cemetery and we finally found it by following the women carrying huge bunches of marigolds. The barrel-vaulted entrance to Tecate’s panteon was crowded with flower vendors and churro stands. We politely declined their offers of merchandise and food and made our way into the confusing city of the silent whose streets had names like St. Therese de Liseux and St. Martin de Porres.

I shot two rolls of film in the hour we spent there. The most memorable sight of my visit, however, remained unrecorded on celluloid. I don’t think the picture would have come out, to tell the truth. She would not have permitted it.

The old woman wore white satin and a white veil. She stood at one of the far ends of the cemeteries, next to a crumbling brick wall. Wherever there was a niche in that wall, she stuck a candle — one of those tall, pale golden beeswax candles that fill a tall glass. She pulled them from a crate, lit them, and set them either in the wall or on one of the tombstones which marked, I guess, the graves of her ancestors. I could see her lips tremble, but I could not hear the prayer this osteal supplicant uttered as she walked among the graves, looking for her dead.

I, who had no shame, could not lift my Nikon to my eye. Here was the most perfect and complete representation of bleached grief that I had ever witnessed in my life and the only thought I had regarding photographing it was “Leave her be.”

So I took no picture of the ghost white woman. I photographed other graves, then continued down the road to Ensenada, hunting for other cemeteries and roadside crosses.

It may have been wise that I took no picture. This memory, I dare say, may be the only evidence I can offer that I survived an encounter with La Llorona. In broad daylight, less than 100 yards outside my native country.

Agnostic though I am, I cross myself as a ward against the wrath of the Weeping Woman. The unmistakeable howl of the coyotes in this night comforts me: a human wail would shatter me.

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This story totally spooks me!

This batch of photos conclude the human portion of my Day of the Dead experiences. The next two days shall focus on the altars and the “selling of the dead” on Olvera Street.

Isn’t that picture of the dancer “laughing” at the two “ladies who lunch” hilarious? I have another, which is not as good, that lends itself to the title “Death in the Family“.

Hmmm. Maybe it’s not so bad when I crop it like that….Sorry about the pun. I couldn’t resist.