By Working Gringos
Topic: Daily Life
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Early Sunday morning, after the dogs were walked but before most of Merida had awakened, the Working Gringos found themselves down the street from their new rental at Merida’s oldest and largest cemetery. Like most cemeteries in Mexico, this one is more like a little city than an American-style graveyard. Back East where people have been living longer, the cemeteries are more crowded than we’re used to in California, but they don’t come close to a Mexican cemetery.

According to our research, Merida’s first cemetery was at Santa Lucia beside the church that is still there. When that area became too busy, they moved the cemetery all the way to Santa Ana. That too was engulfed by the ever-growing city, so in 1888, the cemetery was set up in its present spot and plots were sold where the mausoleums were built that still stand today. According to a friend of ours, many of them are not being kept up by their families because more and more people are choosing to be cremated instead of buried and the families don’t feel the strong connection that they used to.

What drew us to the cemetery this morning wasn’t much other than a chance to stroll in peace. We drove into the main entrance and headed straight down the wide avenue and parked just past the glorieta (traffic circle) in the center. At this intersection, one of the first things we saw was the monument built to the leaders of the Socialist Party, with the elevated tomb of Felipe Carrillo Puerto. Across the road and underneath an old, shady tree is a rectangular sculpture that marks the grave of his famous lover, Merida’s most important gringa (so far…), Alma Reed. At least six of Felipe’s brothers and sisters are buried around him too, as well as other movers and shakers of the Partido Socialista del Sureste (the Socialist Party of the Southeast). There’s a lot of history here, but that is a subject for later.

Behind that memorial is another one built for the Sociedad Artistica. Guty Cardenas, who died very young, is buried here, along with a number of fellow musicians and singers from the late 19th and early 20th Century. Just down the road from all of this, the cemetery workers were gathered, resting before starting their day of keeping the cemetery somewhat free of basura. They were surrounded by a pack of dogs, who appeared to be their able-bodied assistants.

We spoke briefly with Lupe, a woman who sells flowers in the center of the cemetery (there are a collection of flower stands there, $30 pesos for two bunches), who told us she loves her work. She loves the peacefulness of the cemetery and she has been working there every day for… are you ready?… fifty-seven years. She started working there when she was seven years old.

Cruising the cemetery, or camposanto (saint field) as it is also known, could be a lifelong occupation. This cemetery is huge and crowded. Just like in life, the main avenue is lined by the houses of rich families, but in this case the houses are mausoleums. They range from classically beautiful to over-the-top displays of wealth, but they are all filled with the same thing: restos (remains). The twin hammers of sun and rain, with occasional beatings by Category 4 hurricanes, make maintenance a never-ending (and in this case, multi-generational) chore. We think at least one of the families actually employs someone just to maintain their mausoleum because when we looked inside, we saw a freshly-oiled tricicleta parked amongst the crosses and flowers.

Even bigger than the mausoleums are the grand old trees. Their beauty and shade are a big part of what makes a visit here so lovely. We saw quite a few trees that were just dripping with pods and flowers, lazily waving their branches in benediction over the dead buried around them.

And the dead are everywhere. Everywhere you look, there are houses of the dead. Big fancy houses, small modest houses. Some have what we think of as traditional headstones. Some people are buried in groups, like the musicians or the henequen workers or the Masons. Most are grouped with generations of ancestors who died before them.

Very few dead Meridanos rest alone. At one point, we were walking between the rows and peeked into the back of one edifice which seemed to be dedicated to just one person. But what did we see? Stacks of boxes, full of bones. The bones of generations.

It gives one pause.

You would not call most of the markers gravestones nor headstones. They are indeed little houses, built by the living for the dead. They bury the bones beneath the houses, but the houses are kept as a place to visit. Most of the houses have windows and doors. They are often topped by crosses and angels. Inside each little house is something different, something brought and left by the living when they visit: statues of saints, photos, candles, flowers… even cans of beer. Some are painted in bright colors, others are kept clean and white.

We saw one group of ladies washing down a grave with bleach and soap before they put flowers in the vases. They were visiting their younger sister, they told us. She died nine years ago in childbirth. They came out today to clean her house and give her fresh flowers. They talked and laughed while they were cleaning and arranging, and then proudly stood for a group photograph after they told us Ella esta lista! (she is ready!).

After walking around for an hour or so, we began to wonder if taking care of the dead is a losing proposition. Most of the little houses have broken windows and rusted gates. The candles are burned out, the flowers are dead. The stones are cracked and falling apart and the bones are turning to dust. Statues of Jesus are missing body parts and angels are missing their wings. Some houses are newly painted with bright colors, but so many of them are faded and grey. It occurred to us that the houses and statues are there for the people left behind, who need a place to mourn, a place to care for and nurture the missing. And when the mourning is over, the houses fall apart, not because the dead aren’t really there, but because the living have continued to live.

But we believe the spirits of the dead are swaying in the breeze, up in those trees, waving their benedictions down on the memories below.

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