This post is a two-in-one, since I didn't get to post yesterday (the festivities required my full attention). So, fasten your seatbelts. I have a lot to say.
It feels like Christmas.
That probably sounds weird, but it's the truth. I woke up yesterday at 6 AM to the garbage man ringing his jingle-bells and made my way to the kitchen (today, too) to a table of bread and orange juice and hot chocolate and tea and water and the magical foods Martita makes. If you know my family, you know Christmas means hot chocolate, orange juice, bread...
It feels like Christmas. Or family.
That probably sounds weird, but it's the truth. I woke up yesterday at 6 AM to the garbage man ringing his jingle-bells and made my way to the kitchen (today, too) to a table of bread and orange juice and hot chocolate and tea and water and the magical foods Martita makes. If you know my family, you know Christmas means hot chocolate, orange juice, bread...
It feels like Christmas. Or family.
It feels important.
It is important.
In fact, nothing is more important than this. You'll have to figure out why on your own someday.
There is a beauty in the Day of the Dead that I haven't experienced in any capacity in any way near to what I've been feeling and experiencing these last few days. It is inspiring. It is comforting. It's community, tradition. It's perfect.
It's perfect.
The city is buried in millions of flowers. The city is buried in Day of the Dead bread. The city is buried in sugar skulls, chocolate, mezcal and comparsas. Yesterday after classes, Francis and Thora and I went to the panteon here in the city. It was dark and beautiful, and the care and affection of family and friends towards their loved ones was made evident by the elaborate and ample offerings of gifts. This cemetery had a few walking tourist-tours, which made me a little annoyed. But the overall experience was a good one, which left me pumped for the rest of the night.
After the panteon in the centro, my schoolmate-friends and I took cabs from el centro to Xoxo to visit two more panteones (cemeteries). I told my Spanish jokes to the cab driver. He laughed harder than anyone ever has laughed at my jokes.
Anyway, it's very important that there are two panteones in Xoxo. One of them is very old. The other is "new." The experience of the Day of the Dead in the new panteon is a even mix of authentic and commercial. When there are port-a-potties and 15+ street food options, you know that there must be a lot of visitors around.
In the new panteon, people sat and stood everywhere. People lit candles, cried, laughed, danced, sung. There was a band playing on the far right side, and we went to listen. As suddenly as I appeared in the area, I was swept off to dance by an older Honduran man. His accent was really hard to understand, by the way. After that, we encountered a man who invited us to hear about his experience with Day of the Dead. He told us of his baby daughter, of the comfort there is to be found in remembering the lives of others with others. He said that, for as long as he could remember, there had always been vendors in the panteon, selling cotton candy and chips.
He didn't like the commercial aspect of it. It's a beautiful thing to want to experience and adopt the traditions of others, but you shouldn't expect them to alter or be catered to you. You embrace it, or you are best to leave it alone.
I didn't like the commercial aspect either. I didn't like that so many of the spectators of this tradition chose to pre-grame heavily with alcohol. How can you appreciate a tradition, a culture, an experience if you are too drunk to walk in a straight line? Yes. This is a celebration. A celebration you must be present for.
I heard someone say tonight that they were bored last night. That is because you cannot enjoy something you are not present for.
I was far from bored. I was in awe, in shock, in wonder; I was annoyed at the disrespect and lacking of understanding bleeding from the pores of idiots. I was stopped in my tracks and humbled by forgotten graves. By the evidence of class differences even after death. I was encouraged and surprised by peoples willingness to share their stories.
It was much easier to get to hear peoples stories after separating myself from the larger group.
When you are 1 or 2 people, other people will feed you candied pumpkin and ponche. They'll let you use their bathrooms, explain traditions to you, tell you stories...
Learning experiences. Teachable moments.
There was a second panteon. The old one. I much, much preferred it to the other one. There were families there, but there were no vendors. There weren't any tourists because there wasn't a giant party happening. And who wants to watch people practicing their traditions?
That's obviously so boring. ^^^
Let me stop to roll my eyes now.
There is nothing boring about something as beautiful as this. In the old cemetery, a very old chapel had crumbled. The graves are wonky and hodge podge because they've shifted. And no one was forgotten. Every grave had a flower, even if it was only one.
It is obviously a place where everyone gets taken care of. Including the gringa (me). Over these last few days, if people have anything to offer - they offer it. Even to me. The outsider. If their comparsa stops in the street and they have food, their food becomes our food. When the music starts, and the dancing begins, everyone dances. Spectating is allowed, but participation is much more desired and encouraged.
Something I've continuously felt while being here is "taken care of." I'm surrounded by people who take care of one another, and when I'm here "one another" includes me. I have more words I want to say about this, but I don't want to ruin it. I don't want to dissect it.
Today was probably too exciting for my own good. I woke up at 7, ready to eat breakfast and go to school....running on 3.5 hours of sleep. Strangely, I had enough energy to engage in class (I even wrote a poem for someone for their birthday) and to celebrate with the school after class.
And boy what a celebration we had. I can't tell you what happened in full detail because you'd be ashamed and jealous all at once.
I will tell you that we made a video, and you'll probably be able to put the pieces together.
In fact, nothing is more important than this. You'll have to figure out why on your own someday.
There is a beauty in the Day of the Dead that I haven't experienced in any capacity in any way near to what I've been feeling and experiencing these last few days. It is inspiring. It is comforting. It's community, tradition. It's perfect.
It's perfect.
The city is buried in millions of flowers. The city is buried in Day of the Dead bread. The city is buried in sugar skulls, chocolate, mezcal and comparsas. Yesterday after classes, Francis and Thora and I went to the panteon here in the city. It was dark and beautiful, and the care and affection of family and friends towards their loved ones was made evident by the elaborate and ample offerings of gifts. This cemetery had a few walking tourist-tours, which made me a little annoyed. But the overall experience was a good one, which left me pumped for the rest of the night.
After the panteon in the centro, my schoolmate-friends and I took cabs from el centro to Xoxo to visit two more panteones (cemeteries). I told my Spanish jokes to the cab driver. He laughed harder than anyone ever has laughed at my jokes.
Anyway, it's very important that there are two panteones in Xoxo. One of them is very old. The other is "new." The experience of the Day of the Dead in the new panteon is a even mix of authentic and commercial. When there are port-a-potties and 15+ street food options, you know that there must be a lot of visitors around.
In the new panteon, people sat and stood everywhere. People lit candles, cried, laughed, danced, sung. There was a band playing on the far right side, and we went to listen. As suddenly as I appeared in the area, I was swept off to dance by an older Honduran man. His accent was really hard to understand, by the way. After that, we encountered a man who invited us to hear about his experience with Day of the Dead. He told us of his baby daughter, of the comfort there is to be found in remembering the lives of others with others. He said that, for as long as he could remember, there had always been vendors in the panteon, selling cotton candy and chips.
He didn't like the commercial aspect of it. It's a beautiful thing to want to experience and adopt the traditions of others, but you shouldn't expect them to alter or be catered to you. You embrace it, or you are best to leave it alone.
I didn't like the commercial aspect either. I didn't like that so many of the spectators of this tradition chose to pre-grame heavily with alcohol. How can you appreciate a tradition, a culture, an experience if you are too drunk to walk in a straight line? Yes. This is a celebration. A celebration you must be present for.
I heard someone say tonight that they were bored last night. That is because you cannot enjoy something you are not present for.
I was far from bored. I was in awe, in shock, in wonder; I was annoyed at the disrespect and lacking of understanding bleeding from the pores of idiots. I was stopped in my tracks and humbled by forgotten graves. By the evidence of class differences even after death. I was encouraged and surprised by peoples willingness to share their stories.
It was much easier to get to hear peoples stories after separating myself from the larger group.
When you are 1 or 2 people, other people will feed you candied pumpkin and ponche. They'll let you use their bathrooms, explain traditions to you, tell you stories...
Learning experiences. Teachable moments.
There was a second panteon. The old one. I much, much preferred it to the other one. There were families there, but there were no vendors. There weren't any tourists because there wasn't a giant party happening. And who wants to watch people practicing their traditions?
That's obviously so boring. ^^^
Let me stop to roll my eyes now.
There is nothing boring about something as beautiful as this. In the old cemetery, a very old chapel had crumbled. The graves are wonky and hodge podge because they've shifted. And no one was forgotten. Every grave had a flower, even if it was only one.
It is obviously a place where everyone gets taken care of. Including the gringa (me). Over these last few days, if people have anything to offer - they offer it. Even to me. The outsider. If their comparsa stops in the street and they have food, their food becomes our food. When the music starts, and the dancing begins, everyone dances. Spectating is allowed, but participation is much more desired and encouraged.
Something I've continuously felt while being here is "taken care of." I'm surrounded by people who take care of one another, and when I'm here "one another" includes me. I have more words I want to say about this, but I don't want to ruin it. I don't want to dissect it.
Today was probably too exciting for my own good. I woke up at 7, ready to eat breakfast and go to school....running on 3.5 hours of sleep. Strangely, I had enough energy to engage in class (I even wrote a poem for someone for their birthday) and to celebrate with the school after class.
And boy what a celebration we had. I can't tell you what happened in full detail because you'd be ashamed and jealous all at once.
I will tell you that we made a video, and you'll probably be able to put the pieces together.
I had a lot of fun. I danced a lot.
I talked to many people.
I wore a mask.
I climbed a tree with a child.
I laid on a bench. I laid on a ledge. I laid in a tree. I laid on the sidewalk in front of the school.
Eventually, I went home and slept for a little over an hour. But only because I needed more energy for more partying! Luckily, we just had a chill little get together at the hostel where an older Iranian man wrote something beautiful in Farsi on my arm.
Then we went into town to enjoy the festivities in the streets.
Then I came home and failed to put it adequately into words.
I talked to many people.
I wore a mask.
I climbed a tree with a child.
I laid on a bench. I laid on a ledge. I laid in a tree. I laid on the sidewalk in front of the school.
Eventually, I went home and slept for a little over an hour. But only because I needed more energy for more partying! Luckily, we just had a chill little get together at the hostel where an older Iranian man wrote something beautiful in Farsi on my arm.
Then we went into town to enjoy the festivities in the streets.
Then I came home and failed to put it adequately into words.
2 comments:
I wish everyone could see the world through your eyes.
Sounds amazing Nikki!!!!
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