Waiting in La Cruz

We’re waiting in La Cruz for refrigeration parts, which gives us ample time to complete a myriad of boat chores, from the nastiest (blasting the concrete out of the sanitation hoses) to the prettiest (sanding and oiling the rub rails and side rails).  In between chores, we make daily dingy trips to town for blocks of ice and fresh vegetables.  Occasionally, we hop on a bus for a wild ride to Home Depot or the chandlery in PV.   

Last week, we took the bus to Sayulita, a small beach town about 10 miles north.  It’s a compact town stuffed with tourists and surfers, some of whom appear to have been dropped off in the 70s and stayed.  We wandered the narrow, cobbled streets and settled at a breakfast bar on the town square for chilaquiles and smoothies.

We accomplished alot down below on this gray, rainy day and were treated to a magnificent sunset.    

La Dia de Muertos

In Mexico, the tradition to honor the dead began with the Aztecs.  Today, The Day of the Dead is celebrated with parades and costumes and parties that stretch over three days, but the most traditional activity is to build an altar.  Whether created in the home or in the cemetery the components are the same: marigold flowers, a skull, the delicious Bread of the Dead made only this time of year, candles, photographs, incense, and the favorite food and drink of the departed.  And, oh yes, a likeness of La Catrina, the woman considered to be representative of the dead.  All of this to entice the spirits to happily return for a brief visit.

In oppressive late afternoon heat we caught a bus that wound its way along the cobblestone streets to El Pantheon, the oldest cemetery in old town Puerto Vallarta.  Police blocked off the street out front and vendors set up stalls along the sides.  Just about everything needed for the day could be purchased at the entrance. 

Walking through the massive white concrete arch of the cemetery is like walking into a small town.  The ground is uneven, the dirt passages rocky.  This place has been around a long time and it’s crowded.  Crypts of every size fill the space.  They cascade up and down the hillsides.  Some are low to the ground and simple.  Others rise up to the size of a shed made of brick or stone or adorned in decorative tile with doors protecting the photos and flowers and candles. Some plots are nothing more than a cross stuck in the dirt bearing a family name, reserving the space.  

It was a busy place.  Entire families brought buckets of water to wash the crypts and then rolled on a fresh coat of bright white paint.  Silk flowers suddenly appeared in giant urns, trees were trimmed, the dirt swept.  When the kids got bored, they climbed over, under and around.  Not to miss entrepreneurial opportunities, two small boys wandered about the spirit houses selling cold beverages from a cooler trailing behind them. A tall staff with dangling bags of pink and blue cotton candy bobbed in the distance as the vendor stepped carefully amongst the departed.     

I wanted to honor my departed friends and family members so I gathered the traditional bits and pieces and built an altar.  There was a skull, marigolds, La Catrina, and food and beverage for everyone.  As the edibles all disappeared, I’m assuming that my spirit visitors enjoyed their stopover.