Return To The Living (P1)
Resurrection Day Amnesia
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BLOG POST #027 Return To The Living (P1) - Resurrection Day Amnesia
How I learned to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish and not die. Riding solo in search of adventure from Detroit to Argentina.
My left eye blinks open at 5 a.m. Sounds of an angry metal frying pan echo through the village in rapid-fire bursts.
Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang.
From the tower of the Templo De Soledad in this quaint Mexican village, someone is assaulting the church bell.
I'm too warm, too cozy under covers to care.
Still half dreaming, I make up stories about it.
El Padre Francisco must have over-slept his shift at the phone-booth confessional, and now the line of angry nuns is getting impatient. Or maybe it is the end of round eight at some 5 a.m. luchador wrestling match. Could be a New York cab driver beating on the deli counter service bell, demanding his pastrami on rye.
Whoever it is, they sound pissed off.
There's a brief silence once the bell-ringer's arm gets tired.
Then...
Screeeeeeeeech-BOOM.
A mortar zooms directly overhead, shaking the walls of my little convent-turned-hotel.
It is a holiday. They like their fireworks. I get it. Still, if I didn't know better I would think they were firing at me.
"Missed me again, bitches," smirking as I snuggle in and close my eyes.
Waking up slowly, nerves in my brain light up one by one like rays of the morning sunrise popping over the horizon. Then the full gravity of what I'm doing hits me once again.
I'm heading to Argentina. Nine thousand miles. First time on a motorcycle. I don't speak the language very well, and I am hoping to not get arrested, robbed or killed.
"Learning to ride a motorcycle, speak Spanish, and not die."
I let out an involuntary snort-chuckle.
That's it. That's my new slogan. Laughing at my own joke usually means it's pretty good.
Rolling out of bed, I hit the floor on all fours. As I stumble to my feet toward the bathroom, I feel different. Not just rested. I feel resurrected.
Yesterday, I was completely dysregulated and ready to quit.
Today, I don't even remember what I was tormented about. Call it stress induced amnesia, my mental state is blank. Physically, mentally and romantically, I seem cured of all my troubles.
I'm still stuffed up and runny from my head cold, but somehow I feel fine.
Even the dark cloud of heartbreak that had been following me, is nowhere in sight.
My world feels pleasant and calm again.
Hard as it was to get here, this town seems perfect for me. I need a few days of “safe haven” before heading to Oaxaca for The Day Of The Dead.
During the past forty eight days on the road, I have had to improvise my way through everything. Most of it in Spanish. As a bald gringo bumbling through rural Mexico alone, I don't exactly blend in, however II love exploring other cultures and connecting with people, so I was on the right path.
But right now? I'll settle for some solitary time to recover.
Last night, I assumed that the random bells and fireworks were just some rowdy locals having fun - sleeping babies and neurotic lapdog Chihuahuas be damned.
It reminded me of uncle John and uncle Jimmy at grandma's lake cottage for the Fourth of July. One was on land and the other in a row boat. Bottle rocket wars involved shooting at each other until the cops showed up or someone lost an eye.
The 70's were a lot of fun.
Then it clicks.
The explosions and the bells are part of the Day Of The Dead holiday, a few days from now.
In an instant, I am fully awake. I throw on clothes and hit the door. Now I'm looking for a little adventure.
As always, I still have to be careful.
Ten minutes ago I was ready to go hunt down the church guy and beat him to death with his own bell-hammer. Now I feel like an idiot about that.
It is clearly an important tradition.
Outside, the street is dark and empty.
The town is cut into the hillside with an enchanting pre-dawn view of Oaxaca and its sleepy city glow in the distance. It has the feel of a humble working-man's village south of the border - slightly ratty, but clean.
There are exposed street light wires wrapped precariously in electrical tape. Some of the sidewalk concrete wobbles. Private homes, shops, and living-room restaurants intermingle all the way up the hill to the church.
I look to my right.
Nothing.
Left.
Maybe.
"Which way was that adventure again?" I mutter.
Just as I was enjoying the awkward pause -
Screeeeeeeeech-BOOM.
Another flaming cannon ball whistles overhead. The percussive blast bounces around my internal organs.
Instinctively, my head jerks forward and knees kink so I'm half-bent down. Frozen in this position, I look around feeling stupid. Apparently, that reflex is hardwired but I'm not sure how ducking four inches might somehow save my life.
The explosions are much louder now that I am outside. They don't sound fun or festive - just dangerous.
Walking around on the street I confirm a bearing on the artillery fire. It's coming from the church as well as the bells.
So that is where I'm going.
As I walk, I hear faint music in the distance. I stop to listen closely. It is heading this way. Instead of going to investigate, I decide to sit and wait for it to come to me.
At first all I can make out are figures moving in the distance. Eventually a gangly band stomps down the hill, followed by twenty townsfolk. They strike up obnoxious triple-time brass at full volume.
Mexican folk music is usually so jolly and melodic. This is strange and obtrusive. I'm perplexed why they play at such a breakneck speed. Maybe they are paid by the song. They're trying to jam in as much as possible before the sun comes up. It rattles on so fast I can't even make out the tune. Best I can tell it's "She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain When She Comes."
Hardly a somber way to remember the dead.
Indifferent to the early hour and otherwise peaceful village, these guys are not holding back. Hardly a somber way to remember the dead.
Quiet village. Loud-ass band.
I'm shocked that no matter how close they get, it just keeps getting louder.
They sound like angry Mariachis at an ex-girlfriend's wedding. I'm not sure if they play for contractual obligation or personal vendetta, but this is not what I would call high artistic passion. I guess even music can be passive aggressive.
The parade shuffles by as I watch from a respectful distance. Kids, old folks, and a chunky dog follow. Arms at their sides and expressionless, people at the back plod along like they are not happy to be upright and awake. The dog seems like she's the only one excited to be here.
I'd love to follow the troupe, but don't want to be intrusive. I'm not from this town and don't go to their church. This is the main street, so surely they'll loop back.
The mob of zombie sleepwalkers wanders down the hill and out of sight. Five minutes later the clattering drums and wailing horns are reduced to a low din.
Back to dark, quiet, and alone again, I think, "Well, maybe that was it."
Ghostly quiet a few days before Día de Muertos.
Another rocket screams across the dark sky.
I pause for the ear-piercing boom.
BOOM.
The shock wave does not disappoint. I think it mayhave dislodged a filling. My right ear is ringing.
"Tuesday," I say out loud - doing a little self-diagnosis concussion protocol.
My number nineteen molar seems solid. Yep. All good. Moving on. Re-focused on my original mission, I trudge up the hill toward the church. More music is coming from inside. Set against the backdrop of pre-dawn darkness, the brightly lit walls are a stark white beacon drawing me in.
I'm expecting to see St. Peter with a big curly Mexican moustache.
Golden rays of godly light stream out of the big wooden doors, like the gates of heaven themselves. Approaching with caution, I'm still worried about being rude or invasive.
The truth is that I'm not here to worship, I am a foreign tourist.
At first I stay off in the shadows thirty yards away. Looking in through the side door I see people in pews focused toward the altar. It has the feel of a ceremony, but there's no discernable script to the order of things.
Periodically the band stops. Someone stands up to speak or pray. A few minutes later it all repeats as the drums and horns blast out another song. Just like the marching band outside, the music is terrible. They play like middle-school band practice kids all spun up on blow.
I'm thinking, "How about going with 'Amazing Grace' fellas?"
They probably don't take requests.
The interior decor is blinding white. Everything is clean and reeks of holiness. Edging closer over the next thirty minutes, I manage to join the congregation without drawing much attention. I sit in the back pew, just in front of the band.
The Virgin Mary in full regalia.
Swathed in royal vestments, wing-suit Virgin Mary looms large from behind the altar staring down at us. Her robes are flared out, ready for a BASE jump.
I'm surprised there's no Red Bull Logo amongst her iced-out crown and gold stitching. So much drip, if she doesn't have a sponsor, she needs to fire her agent.
The pulpit has a heart painted on it, wrapped by a crown-of-thorns. This is not the standard two-humped cartoon symbol that children draw on Valentine's day cards. It is grotesque and anatomically correct with the aorta, fatty tissue, and bloody veins sticking out. Lovely.
Back in the day, I explored all over the world with a paper map and a thumb-sized translator book. It was a tough slog, before modern-day travel tech was invented. Pros and cons, like anything.
I recall a shepherd amongst his flock by the roadside in Western Anatolia (Turkey). He was amused that there were foreigners this far out in the middle of nowhere, and I was obsessed with his sheep dog. We hung out for an hour trying to communicate. Pleasant as the interaction was, we operated at about a twenty percent comprehension rate. At one point, I embarrassed us all trying to ask something, by pointing at a word in my book. It was suddenly obvious he couldn't read and I don't think he spoke Turkish anyway.
That experience, and a million others will be forever shrouded in mystery. Who knows what the hell that shepherd was trying to tell us.
So here in Mexico, the three bars on my phone are a godsend. I observe. Then I google. Then repeat. I'm learning about the complexity of this holiday way more than I ever would without 5G service.
Over the next few days I unpack the essence of Día de Muertos. Obviously, it is about remembering the dead. Therefore, keeping them alive, in a way that celebrates who they were. The festivities distracts us from sadness of their loss, and reminds us that we are the caretakers of their memory now.
Even strangers speak freely to family members in a casual way about their recent dead. Nothing seems to be private, off limits or sensitive. Naturally, people are sad. However, unlike death in the USA there is no taboo or embarrassment around the topic.
One woman in the church is praying with her eyes clenched tightly, a man approaches with no regard to her intense emotional state.
He greets her loudly, "¡Hola Lupita!"
To my surprise, she isn't ruffled or upset at the intrusion. They start chatting the same as if they had met on the street.
In my own culture, we tend to elevate the importance of the dead by hanging on to grief. Sometimes for decades. Here in Mexico they seem to give it that same honor and reverence, but they use joy and gratitude instead.
All morning in the church, there is no pretense of decorum or pomp. A young mother is absorbed in prayer while the kids sit next to her playing hand-held video games. Band members text or scroll on social media between songs. A woman takes a call from her seat.
Amongst the bowed heads of group prayer, one guy stands up, walks to the center aisle and shamelessly snaps photos on his phone. This gives me confidence that I'm not going to disturb anyone or upset cultural sensitivities.
I don't need to be sneaky about taking pictures. No one cares.
Everyone goes about their business taking pics and chatting at will.
With COVID in full swing, I thought people would be more stand-offish because of my cold. However, even my constant sniffle and occasional sneeze doesn't raise notice. Lost in the buzz of sights and sounds, I don't feel so out of place anymore.
Sitting at the back of the church I am in direct line of fire of the horns section. I'm confused why the music is so cranky and fast paced, at Gitmo-Prison-Torture volume.
The visuals of red velvet adornments and gold inlay in this sacred space do not line up with amateur-hour battle-of-the-bands cacophony.
The song selection is even more bemusing. One minute they play something traditional, and then the next it sounds like the theme song from a 1970s cartoon. I'm having flashbacks of Woody Woodpecker on a black-and-white TV.
Right on queue as I ponder this, they strike up "Camptown Races" at a hundred miles an hour.
The band members don't look very religious. My guess is that they've been doing this since they were nine years old. From that time until now, they have never found a way to quit. Tia Rosa would be so disappointed.
A blind girl sits in the row in front of me with her slim bamboo walking stick. Her loyal dog stands by.
Even the dog's body language conveyed love towards his girl.
It is still only 5:45 a.m., but the dog is just happy to be here. She has beefy pit bull shoulders and a super loving personality. At the slightest hint of human attention, her tail wags enthusiastically. Laying on the floor, the dog's nose points towards the one she loves. Her butt sticks out into the aisle. What a sweet pooch.
After awhile things take a somber turn in the congregation.
Someone leads everyone in prayer. Different people stand to read names of the recently passed. Sometimes they sing softly. It is much more befitting of this holy place without the clammdankerous band.
Much of the proceedings struck me as funny. But sometimes it was deeply spiritual.
One by one, naked voices echo off the pale stone walls, as people mumble, whimper and sob with raw vulnerability. Most of the words are indistinguishable mutter in a foreign tongue to me. However, the emotion comes through loud and clear.
Since I was a child, witnessing human grief has always weighed heavy upon my chest. With so much talk of death and loss, everything washes over me all at once.
I'm alone. Home feels like a million miles away. My kids are grown up and gone anyway. No one speaks my language. A ten pound lead slug fills the cavity left by my love-scorned heart.
My neck aches from the cold - my ears are muffled and eyes are puffy.
I'm full of snot and sorrow. I cry. Not wailing or breathing hard, I don't break stoic form. I sit straight-backed in the pew, just like my dad made me all those Sundays of my childhood. Every few seconds I touch a tissue to my cheeks, dabbing away at my trickle of woe.
No one notices me or I would feel self-conscious. The tears flow freely. Everything runs out of me without pride or hesitation. After some time, my sorrow fades and I bow my head.
As I breathe deeply to recover, a furry angel intervenes at just the right moment. That adorable chunker of a dog comes over to wedge her muscular torso into my lap. She demands an ear scratch.
The universal language of snorts and tail wags.
Who could deny such pure puppy love?
My mood shifts to gratitude and I crack a smile. Lavishing praise on my new best friend, I don't have to hold back or translate. She understands my language perfectly, as she snorts with joy and bangs her wiry tail on the wooden seating.
The Virgin Mary hang-glider statue must have been irked with my sarcastic observations as she intervened with divine comic timing. The band fires up a brassy blast-tastic rendition of the cheeseball accordion classic, "Oh My Darling, Clementine."
Lead trumpet wails forward from three feet behind my right ear. It's so abrupt, loud and fast paced I almost fall out of my seat. The dried crusty traces of salt crease around my eyes as I burst out laughing.
Throughout history, old tunes were re-used many times over with different lyrics in various languages around the world. Maybe this song has some deep spiritual meaning to the people in this region. However to me, it is hilarious.
All I can see in my head is a Wild West pan-handler on a stagecoach with a floppy cowboy hat flipped up in front. Someone is playing a mouth organ as he sings along.
"Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darrrrrrrlin' Clementine..."
It is technically appropriate, being that the song is an ode to darlin' Clementine's death. Still, it is hard to hear any sorrow in the melody with the rhythm at jet-propulsion speed.
Two songs later, even the dog yawns her disapproval.
Holy church and manic minstrels. I don't get it.
Sensing that things are wrapping up to make way for the next event, I head back outside.
The more I understand, the more I see the world differently. Someone told that the fireworks and bell ringing are a reminder that the dead are coming home.
I imagine a widow sleeping in the middle of the night. She is suddenly woken by a memory of her husband. The bell banging is this same kind of thing. It is a wake-up call reminder about those that have passed.
The fireworks are meant to guide the dead back home.
The sun is starting to come up.
I plonk myself in a corner of the church balcony.
Looking down at the grounds and reflecting pool, I marvel at the beauty of it all. What a privilege to be here I think.
How apropos, that I would find my own rebirth on this day, in this place. I'm right where I belong.
My quiet moment is shattered yet again…
I'm pretty sure it's from a 1968 Batman episode, but I am not positive.
(rage)
NEXT POST COMING SOON: May 17th, 2026
