Monday 2^nd November is the official Day of the Dead. 

Because we imagine ghoulish parties, families camping out by graves, skeleton outfits and macabre voodoo offerings, all of which we assume will take place at night-time, we decide to go to the beach for the day, maybe take in a pyramid or two, then return for the festivities at night.

On the way out of town we see flower-shops doing a brisk trade in teddy-bear shaped marigold arrangements; families walking together clutching umbrellas as protection from the sun, although yesterday there was an intense downpour, perhaps they think more rain is on its way.

“I think we should swing by the cemetery on the way out,” I say.   And that makes me laugh.  How often do you get to say that in the morning?

Sure enough as we approach we see queues of cars going through the arched gateway.  Police direct us through a different entrance.

“Policeman.  Put on your seat belts,” I bark at the kids.

“Did you know they used to call them Peelers?” asks Manu.  “Yes, after Robert Peel,” I say, amazed I can remember this.  “And the kids used to help the robbers get away!” she adds.

It’s only 11am, but the heat is thick, sultry.  Armand is less than enthusiastic as we walk in.  He doesn’t want to see a load of old graves.  It’s hot.  He might get freckles.

More cars drive past, one has mattresses on the roof.  He is either planning on spending a long time here, or he is a mattress salesman, I decide.

Before us, in a well-ordered grid area so large they have to give each row a street number, is, as Armand so rightly says, a load of old graves.  But like nothing I’ve ever seen before. 

There are elaborate family crypts with statues of angels standing guard -  but not doing a very good job, the tombs are broken, the windows smashed, the stone crumbling.   In one we see a pair of vultures, flapping around noisily, before escaping through the broken stained glass windows.

Most though are smaller, painted white or bright in pastel shades of pink, coral, pale blue, a bit like the houses on the streets of Merida.  There are angels in abundance, cherubs, princes, princesses, crucifixes, statues of God, the Virgin Mary.  And flowers.  Flowers on what seems like every single grave stone.  Fresh, brightly coloured in reds, yellows, hot pinks.  Fake, in the same shades for those who can’t visit but want to keep the graves looking pretty.

We see a tv cameraman filming a reporter; a nun selling the special bread for the Day of the Dead; a large group of people seated on red plastic chairs listening to somebody talking.

We file off down one of the pathways between the graves.  Here, a young couple, motorcycle helmets swinging from their hands, stand staring at a gravestone.  There, an elderly man singing a ballad, a hymn, before the grave of his wife.  He stands, slightly stooped, not caring that he is being filmed with a telephone by someone who looks like a reporter, about a metre away.  The old man does not see me, filming from a little further away, behind some pillars.  (I like to think I am a little more discreet).

I stop by a family, cleaning a grave shaped like a little traditional Mayan house.  A young boy has climbed up on the roof and is using a scrubbing brush.  He looks up at me for an instant then carries on.

Another grave is being given a fresh coat of light green paint.  The rest of the family stand by with religious candles and flowers.

It has been said that you can tell a lot about a country by the way it looks after its sick.  But you can also tell a lot by the way it cares for its dead. I think about how I try and send flowers for my parents’ graves in Shropshire on their anniversaries; how I make the trip up there once, maybe twice a year.  They’re buried in a beautiful spot, in woodland.  It is grim in January, delightful in July.

But there’s something to be said for a day like today, for feeling like you’re not alone in your grief, for getting down on your hands and knees and scrubbing away the dirt on the graves of the ones you love, for being mindful of your mortality.  No vampires, voodoo or midnight festivities.  Instead, something far more precious:  I leave feeling incredibly uplifted, happy to have this little insight into a very special day for families in Merida.