The Cemetery - 10.31.2006

The celebration won’t happen here for two more days, but already people are preparing for the return of their ancestors. They are painting the family graves in bright pastels or, occasionally, like American flags. They are decorating them with flowers and streamers and burning candles. They have brought tortillas and bottles of rum and Coca-Cola for their loved ones to eat.

Tonight the drinking begins, and tomorrow is the horse race, and the next day the cemetery will be overrun with photographers and film crews, tourists and pickpockets, the families and the dead. It’s best to prepare the graves now, before the rush.


There is a quiet spot to write at a balcony on the edge of the cemetery, away from the trash that is drifting between the concrete tombs, and away from the bustle of the family members. I settle in.

There is a small creek a hundred meters distant from that quiet spot at the edge of the cemetery. The land drops away from me to meet the water. As it falls, it carries a small field of corn on its back.


There are muted sounds from distant dogs and distant roosters, and the soft, muffled screams of children on the Ferris wheels. Occasionally, a firecracker explodes far overhead and its echo rolls grumbling up the slopes. A few moments after each explosion there is a wave of aristocratic tinkling as tiny pieces of the bomb drift onto tin roofs. But mostly there is just the wind walking through the crisp leaves of old corn.

It is harvest time now, or it will be very, very soon.








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For more photos from the cemetery, click here.

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