The feast of the dead in the Huasteca Hidalgo (Xantolo), surprises with its color over the years. In Macustepetla, Huautla, Coatlila, Huazalingo, Huejutla and Atlapexco, the celebration is sacred. These are the impressions of a (ill-fated) traveler in love with the light, the taste of food, music and the pantheons of this area. […]
The feast of the dead in the Huasteca Hidalgo (Xantolo), surprises with its color over the years. In Macustepetla, Huautla, Coatlila, Huazalingo, Huejutla and Atlapexco, the celebration is sacred.
These are the impressions of a (ill-fated) traveler in love with the light, the taste of food, music and the pantheons of this area.
You never expect it so soon. It is always surprising. But there it is, stalking, seducing, calling, hiding behind appearances, and showing itself disguised in the many smiling masks that they teach and hide, like the ones one wears to dance on holidays.
One afternoon I was caught off guard, just as I was amused in messing up the routine; distracted. The same thing always happens when important things happen: you get caught; like when you fall in love, a vibrant light suddenly surrounds you and a vigorous wind blows, and you can't stop looking at it and you feel your foundations grind ... and you start to live otherwise: you begin to live and die.
My mistake was not recognizing it in time. It attracts you and rejects you, smiles at you and makes your soul fun. You are already lost, you will not be able to avoid it: you begin to die and live.
At that moment I remembered the times when I saw the moon set behind the mountains, the nights when I abandoned myself to the highest fullness, the days when I enjoyed to the limit a well-served and tasty dish ... Did I manage to steal its pleasures from life?
They are split gifts offered occasionally, and it was the only thing I was able to pack for the change of address, hoping the excess baggage fee wasn't high.
When that moment came I had the vision of choosing the right place:
Tianguistengo, near Tlahuelompa, the capital of the bells. It was a success to insist. At the top of a mountain in the Huasteca of Hidalgo, an indecipherable border with the mountains, at the top of a volcanic knot where the weather is humid, cool, with dew on the wings of insects. In that multicolored cemetery from which, on clear and bright days, you can see the mountains with snow on one side, and when I dare to look at the sky I have it closer and that allows me to fly and float from time to time.
I have an extra advantage. Every thirteen moons they come dancing a little giddy but always respectful to wake me up to cross to the other side. Nostalgia is cheap.
The women spin flowers to hang next to confetti, prepare the food to serve in freshly cooked clay pots, decorate the altars with tropical fruits, and light the candles and copal.
They prepare the party with care. They first receive the little ones, the little angels and give them only sesame tamales and sweets while they sing the mañanitas: "... today because it is the day of the dead we sing them to you like this ...".
Then we get to the older ones on time. The phosphorescent path is lined with yellow marigold leaves, in such a way that one does not get lost ... the memory is weakened and needs references to refresh it. In addition, the view begins to stop being dazzled by the light ... one walks, floats, following the polar glow, the reflection of seven warped colors about to fade, the silver light of dreams and fantasies and the transparency of rain when it is fine and cannot be felt.
There is another great help: the voices that fearlessly sing the melodies that gently penetrate with joy and tenacity.
What a pleasure to hear them! It is when one begins to falter with nostalgia.
Seductive voices that one cannot finally forget. For what? Why should I? They are from the past, they are carnal, they are insistent, they are puffs from another life. The music is irresistible, the brass band and drums that call and call and end up turning on ... the party is ready and it is a joy to go with the others, those who have not felt it.
Go back and eat those tamales, those huge, glorious, voluptuous tamales (zacahuil), accompanied by chocolate with water. And then a few drinks of sotol or pulque ... and get into the party, see the memory of almost unknown features, delve into what was called love and let the shadows of the clouds at times trace the true features on that immutable mask, the accidents of the wind that dance in disguise and do not stop until the day of San Andrés, at the end of November.
When we are exhausted from dancing, dancing, hypnotizing music, and pots of food that begin to appear less often, the talk begins to navigate faster and more treacherous, yet more exciting and treacherous, yet more exciting and treacherous causes. surprising. They ask me frequently and sidelong. And what is life like here so close to God and still so far from the gringos? It is a continuous, synchronized and harmonious time with the smile of the children and with the gaze of the shamans. It is an outward spiral, wide, vast; a panoramic view of the rain forest, rivers, caves, insect antennae and hare ears.
It is a delight to talk without haste and with greater shocks about the flavor of the land, the color of the gloom, the muffled echo of the footsteps of cattle, the young and wild, old and clear yearnings. Go back and never stop being surprised at the cracks, creaks and bumps that hide wrinkles and scars ... like the earth that does not get soaked from time to time.
