Remembering the Dead in Mexico’s City of Flowers

A rainbow of paper streamers crackle softly as gusts of wind dance down the whitewashed alley. Ángela Aguilar’s mournful voice croons through speakers as I slowly make my way along a pathway of marigold petals.

Salías de un templo un día, Llorona

Cuando al pasar yo te vi

Hermoso huipil llevábas, Llorona

Que la Virgen te creí

Shopkeepers bustle about, setting up brightly colored papel picado on door frames, nestling elaborately painted skulls between thick stalks of magenta cockscomb. I stop to snap a photo of a limp skeleton plopped on a public bench, dressed to the nines in a black and white embroidered mariachi suit and a matching sombrero, left hand outstretched as if he’s beckoning me to sit by his side. Despite his sunken cheeks and empty eyes, he’s vibrant and alive.

I’m currently in Atlixco, the sixth largest city in the state of Puebla. Day of the Dead in Mexico is far more than Coco (2017), though the animated Disney hit has done an excellent job of explaining the custom to the masses. The official dates are November 1st and 2nd, but most of Mexico turns into a sea of yellow cempasúchil and glittering calaveras by mid-October. After spending last year enjoying Mexico City’s over-the-top Day of the Dead celebrations, I wanted something more intimate. So I packed a weekend bag, hopped on the bus, and made my way to the charming City of Flowers.

One of Atlixco’s giant Catrinas.

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For a holiday categorically designed to celebrate death, it’s almost unbelievable that there isn’t even a hint of somberness. Between the colors, loud music and cheerful decor, one might compare it to Christmas. Instead of Santa statues, however, I’m passing Catrinas, tall, lanky skeletons decked out in fancy, oversized hats and fitted dresses. Just over a century old, the Catrina was a satirical character invented by artist Jose Guadalupe Posada to poke fun at the country’s aristocracy. Over time, she became a fixture during Día de los Muertos and has since morphed into multiple identities. Which is why in 2021, Atlixco started a project called Valle de Catrinas (Valley of Catrinas). I want to see some of the 15 massive skeleton statues perched throughout the city, each representing a different personality in Mexican history. I stop first in front of a towering Porfirio Diaz, his colonial soldier’s uniform and oversized white mustache a clear indicator of his identity.

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The authoritarian leader’s reign is largely attributed with modernization – in his era, Diaz oversaw monumental infrastructure projects and economic development through foreign investment. However, class division exacerbated, with wealth and security concentrated only in the upper echelon. Years of lower-class oppression erupted into a violent revolution. Was he the devil or the best president the country’s ever seen? Depends on who you ask.

Across town is Diaz’s opponent, whose Catrin hovers over a field of cempasúchil. Pancho Villa, the contentious rebel and champion of the poor, sits atop a horse, donning his trademark sombrero. He gazes lifelessly, perhaps ironically, in the direction of Ricardo Flores Magon, a marginalized neighborhood sitting pretty in a state whose poverty rate grazes 50%. I consider a conversation I had recently with a fellow history lover over coffee. “Neither side was good or bad during the Revolution. Everyone was terrible.” 

Since 2021, Atlixco has taken its Catrinas to the next level. Artisans and artists get busy to construct huge skeleton for the November celebrations.

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I take a photo of Pancho on his high horse and decide it’s time to make my way to the small pueblo of Huaquechula. Instead of a taxi, I choose a 20 peso (roughly US$1) ride on a combi, a local minibus drastically lacking in space considering the number of people on board. Those who haven’t secured a seat are forced to stand in the aisle, squeezed against one another like sardines in a can. I contemplate the potential safety hazard this vehicle presents as we zip down the highway, picking up more riders along the way. 

My purpose in visiting Huaquechula is based on a rumor – I’ve been told by trusted comrades that locals will invite you into their homes to see their personal ofrendas, and offer you pan de muerto and hot chocolate. To ensure maximum stomach capacity, I haven’t eaten yet. 

The ofrenda, or altar, dates back to the Mexica (pronounced Mesheeka, known colloquially as the Aztec), who created structures to honor and guide souls to Mictlantecuhtli, the Goddess of Death. A traditional ofrenda is constructed to have at least three levels – the underworld, earth, and heaven. Nothing less than a work of art, the ofrenda is decorated with photos of the deceased, their favorite food and drinks, papel picado, candles, and flowers. Items are carefully chosen to entice, so if abuelo had a penchant for tequila, a bottle would be waiting.

Giant Catrinas populate the streets of Atlixco during the celebrations for the Day of the Dead

To find ofrendas in Huaquechula, visitors must first walk the path of the dead starting from the town’s zocalo. There is a cobblestone street lined with gravesites which have been specially designed for the occasion. I stroll beside the piles of fresh dirt, each with a wooden cross and brief description of the individual’s demise: "Me cacharon los mensajes de WhatsApp" ("They caught me by my WhatsApp messages") says one message, followed by "Te dije que sin rencores, te mentí maldito!" ("I said ‘no hard feelings’, but I lied, damn it!") on a nearby altar.

The graveyard gives way to a carefully constructed river, where small trajineras (canoes) and delicately-painted calaveras (skulls) are arranged to appear as if they’re floating downstream. The flow of the water guides souls to a path of marigold petals, the final stretch in a long journey to the earthly realm.

By my side is a man carrying an overstuffed trash bag of golden petals. He sprinkles the blossoms atop the spots which have thinned due to wind or rowdy children. My stomach rumbles in anticipation of the pan de muerto I’ve come to expect. The sweet, round bread is identified by two layers of dough on top, shaped in the form of crossbones, and a slight hint of orange blossom water. I see that at the end of this street is another, smaller alley lined with houses where I’m sure to find what I’m looking for. 

The path of flowers, while beautiful, isn’t purely for aesthetic. The color and aroma is said to guide souls to the altars, and families leave extra petals outside their door in the shape of a cross. The small alley boasts a dozen or so of these. I follow one particularly defined trail of petals into the home of a young couple with two little children.

“Are you looking for an altar?” The mother asks me in a bubbly tone. My mind races with thoughts – how does this work? Is it disrespectful to film this experience? Should I offer something for the ofrenda? My pockets are empty. The mother is looking at me, waiting for a reply. I chirp out the affirmative “sí”. She smiles, and informs me that this altar is personal and I will have to exit the house, take a right, turn left, continue straight for two blocks until I hook another left and find what’s known as a megaofrenda – a large, public altar. Not what I had in mind.

Ofrendas come in all shapes and sizes, from simple memorials for family gatherings to public theatrical stages that whole communities can admire.

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Sheepishly I apologize, wondering if I should press further to clarify these rumors of bread and chocolate, while she boisterously repeats the directions to which I am no longer listening. I turn right, and forget everything else. My listless wanderings take me past a multitude of houses with ofrendas on display, but not one visitor with a fresh, doughy pan de muerto. 

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Confused, I head back to the center square. It’s crawling with people, some lining up to see these aforementioned megaofrendas, others chowing down on tacos, many taking their seats around a stage where a live band will perform in a short while. The smoky scent of carne asada from the neighboring market tickles my nostrils and my appetite. Above the incessant chatter and clattering of utensils comes the explosive blast of a trumpet. For a day that celebrates death, I’ve never seen Mexico so alive.

I order a cheeseless quesadilla with flores de calabaza (zucchini flowers) which are in season. I pile it high with salsa verde from a large bucket. As a whole, Mexico confuses me. Catholicism dominates, but here I am surrounded by Mesoamerican practices. The country-wide fiesta celebrates the dead, but the only tears I see come from the chili peppers that sneak their way into every dish. It seems that no matter the obstacle – from the Spanish conquest to trade wars with the U.S. – Mexico preserves tradition.

I finish my quesadilla and walk back to the combi. A teenage boy with Airpods slips into the seat ahead of me, black Nike gym pants clinging to muscular thighs, undoubtedly the result of years playing soccer. Or, perhaps, American football, whose popularity has bamboozled the Mexico-U.S. border. A young mother wearing an embroidered huipil steps on with a toddler on her hip, mouth painted blue by artificially-colored Takis, a testament to Mexico’s ongoing health struggle. An old man, weathered by years of sun, smoke, and extensive working hours, grasps the side of the door frame as a heavily-tattooed 40-something gives him a push. 

My phone buzzes. My friend Paola made her first altar. It’s simple – stacks of cardboard boxes layered with papel picado and adorned with dog treats, a worn tennis ball, a collar, and his photo. “Mi ofrenda para Chuchi!” 

As I settle into my seat in the back of the combi, I look out the window at a lady standing over a big basket. She takes a plastic bag, wraps it around her hand, and sticks it into the basket. She pulls out a fresh pan de muerto and hands it to a woman holding a bunch of marigolds. A pang of satisfaction shoots through my chest. The combi bumbles its way back to Atlixco. I buy a pan de muerto as soon as I get there.