I'm Done Dead Already

Face as white as paste, black nose, big dark circles around my eyes! Late night in Mazatlán? Way too much Tequila? Cantina brawl? Noooo. Día de los Muertos.

Three ladies, who had been planning the night for some time, cajoled me into the caldron of craziness called Día de los Muertos. The eve of, actually, which includes the Callejoneada, the parade where the zombies and ghouls and such, led by a very scary looking Catrina, begin a procession in the Plaza Machado and rumble through Centro Historico jostling with beer carts pulled by donkeys, bandas, and narrow crowded streets lined with onlookers. People in and out of costume jump in and out of the parade as the crowd swells and bulges over curbs and sidewalks and around corners.

During a lapse of sanity, I agreed to be a part of the entourage – three ladies and me – which meant I needed to become ‘dead.’ About three in the afternoon the ladies gathered around the dining room table, which was completely covered with all forms of costume accessories and makeup; temporary tattoo appliques, eye shadows, wigs, eyebrow pencils, eyeliners, powders, glue, tubes and several items in many colors totally unknown to me. Someone made a run for early tacos as one can’t eat anything after you have been ‘muertoed.’ Oh, now they tell me. And be careful when you drink something – you don’t want to mess up your make-up. Oh, now they tell me.

The Decomposing Lady, Beetlejuice Bride, Black Angel and Tall Zombie ready for action.

It’s important to note that I was a Día de Los Muretos virgin. Somehow, I had never managed to be at the event. Maybe because of some misconceptions about the whole tradition or maybe the timing was just never right. I had been counseled about what to expect; still as with all virgins, explanations, guidance, precautions and advice can never really prepare one for the actual experience.

After tacos I plopped down in a chair in my glow in the dark skeleton T-shirt, a towel tucked into the collar with a big glass of wine handy, closed my eyes and let the transformation begin. It wasn’t so bad until my make-up lady wanted to paint black stuff damn near into my eyeballs. And then I committed a major sin – I scratched an itch on my nose. “Aacckkk, don’t do that! You’ll ruin your face!” came the response to that simple action. Then, surprise, my face began to itch even more. I’ve never worn makeup in my life. I’m completely used to scratching my nose or cheek when I feel the need. I scrunched up my now black nose – “I have an itch.” The look back into my eyes was stern – “Don’t you dare scratch your face!”

“How do you do this?” I inquired to the room.

“Welcome to our world” was a reply uttered from lips reflected in a mirror becoming ghastly black and white with skeletal teeth.

Finally, after what seemed like three days, I was finished. And my face itched! I went to the tool room and cut off a three-inch piece of stiff wire. I could poke at an itch, straight on, and not disturb my death mask. Not perfect and just a tad painful, but it worked. I refilled my wine glass while surveying the ghouls in progress as they proceeded with their bodily decorations. Fascinating.

As I watched the ladies become ghostly Catrinas I became more comfortable with the Day of the Dead tradition. At first I thought it was a bit creepy. Then, after becoming familiar with the tradition – honoring the departed, spending the day with them, celebrating their lives, remembering them, having a picnic on their graves and tombstones – I came around to the idea that it is a good thing. How many times did I visit my father’s grave, even when I was only thirty miles away? Next time I’m in the area I will have a picnic on his plot and say hello to his mother and father as well.

6:15 PM and the women are ready. And they are transformed. The only reason I recognize my evening companion – the Black Angel – is because I witnessed her metamorphosis. I don my top hat, grab my tequila bottle and camera bag and we all float out into the dark night. Four specters drifting into the abyss, looking for kindred spirits – alive or dead.

Making our way to the Plazuela Machado we amble by McCaws, where the crowd is already spilling out onto tables in the street. Patrons dutifully guard their beer bottles and wine glasses while staring at us as if we have risen from the grave, which confirms we have created the desired effect. None of them look dead – not within the scope of Día de Los Muertos anyway. Few of us are recognized, even by friends and close acquaintances. We are the only Día de Los Muertos zombies in the entire crowd. I’m beginning to feel rather foolish. Finding no other dearly departed souls for company we four – the tall dead guy, the black angel, the decomposing lady of the evening and the Beetlejuice bride – pointed ourselves toward the Plazuela.

Threading through the streets toward the plaza we encountered several ‘in character’ revelers and many appreciative onlookers so I began to feel less conspicuous and more festive. The little bottle of tequila in my pocket might also have propped up my bravado.

On Constitucíon at the plaza the mood detonated and the energy of the place and the people exploded like fireworks. The street was de-facto reserved for the Muertos walking toward the parade route beginning at the other corner by Pedro y Lola’s. Even with the crowds of people in their typical vacation wear on the sidewalks and standing aside, there grew an ever-expanding number of ghosts and ghouls and skeletons slinking and sliding along in and around each other and the onlooking crowd. A few lines of the Harry Belefonte rendition of Zombie Jamboree flashed through my brain.

“Back to back, belly to belly I don’t give a damn, I done dead already Oho back to back, belly to belly At the Zombie Jamboree

One female Zombie wouldn’t behave See how she jumping out of the grave In one hand a quart of rum In the other hand she knocking Congo drum

Lead singer start to make his rhyme The Zombies are racking their bones in time One bystander had this to say Was a pleasure to see the Zombies break away

Back to back, belly to belly I don’t give a damn, I done dead already Oho back to back, belly to belly At the Zombie Jamboree”

Cameras flashed continually. Throngs of people asked to take our photos. The newspaper took our photo. Nikon’s and Canon’s everywhere. I was surprised. I was not prepared for that. My companion, the black (fallen) angel and her two friends, the decomposing lady of the evening and the Beetlejuice bride posed and laughed and drug me along into photo ops and crowds of friends while we continued to elude recognition by nearly everyone. Especially the Black Angel. No one could figure out who she was. She was black magic.

Aa a bottle rocket roared skyward announcing the beginning of the parade, we nudged into the crowd behind the donkey pulling a beer cart immediately after the queen of ghouls leading her ghastly, ghostly followers around the corner moving back down Constitucíon and into the circuitous parade route winding its way through Centro. The pulsing, moving mass of humanity bulged through the streets ebbing and flowing – almost as if it was breathing - inhale, exhale. The guys in the banda slogging along directly behind us were inhaling and exhaling as loud as inhumanly possible while playing instruments as if they were trying to wake the dead. Zombie Jamboree.

We eased away from the parade somewhere near Sixto Osuna and trundled back over to McCaws for chairs and glasses of wine. Still in character, though somewhat disheveled, we played more with being dead and had some fun with “the kiss of death” which some astute person caught in a photo. The black angel and I opted for going home, showering back from the dead and waking up with clear heads. Rumor has it that the Beetlejuice bride woke up the next morning still fully painted dead and still noticeably intoxicated. I heard a similar fate may have claimed the decomposing lady of the evening.

And me. Though no longer a Día de Los Muertos virgin I’m not sure exactly what I think about my first time. Some of the experience was especially pleasurable, some of it fraught with uncertainty. As with all virgin experiences I’m not entirely sure how it will live in my memory. Yet, the next morning, I was smiling.

(Zombee Jamboree written by Lord Intruder (Winston O’Conner) circa 1953)