Journals

Nerri, Martina, Veronica and I took a field trip to the cemetery. Much can be learned from places of the dead. Vanushca’s tomb is constantly blanketed with flowers even though she died nearly 100 years ago. Prayers, desperate appeals, and humble requests for love, friendship, and relationships are scribbled across her tomb. “Please help me find my soul-mate. The one I will love like no other on earth.” “I want someone to share my life with, I’m so lonely.” Vanushca Cardenas’ story is one of ill-fated love. She was a 17-year old gypsy in the early 1900s who fell in love with a boy of wealth. Of course, as these things go, the boy’s parents didn’t approve of their beloved son marrying a poor gypsy-girl so they sent him away to Spain for schooling. Vanushca was devastated.   She committed suicide by ingesting pastillas (pills). Her beloved returned to Guatemala against his parents’ wishes only to discover his love was gone. Unable to bear the pain, he drank himself to death. It’s believed they united again in the afterworld. So, Vanushca has become Guate’s Juliet; a symbol of eternal love. The cemetery is colorful…almost cheerily so. It is divided by class; one section for those with means and one section for those without. The “upper class” section consists mostly of above-ground tombs or elaborate monuments. The poor section varies but mostly, it’s mounds of dirt and hand-painted, wooden crosses or cement memorial “stones”.   Soda bottles, coffee cans, and plastic food containers serve as flower pots. In the upper-class section, Nerri brought us to the tomb (really it’s more like a residence) of a former dictator. “Wow, quite lavish digs for a dictator, no?” I asked.   “He was one of the better dictators.”   Better dictators?   Nerri didn’t catch the contradiction. Although, he did say that the trash piled outside the dictator’s residence is symbolic.   There are too many “revolution” sites to keep track of the dates and names. One was pretty shoddy, almost hastily strewn together. Nerri explained that the shoddy lot was in fact a quick job – constructed to accommodate a heap of bodies—those killed by order of the dictator for the offense of speaking ill of the dictator. The complex of tombs housing the critics must have been 5 slabs tall by 40 long and 2 deep. I guess that dictator wasn’t one of the better ones. Fires are common in the cemetery. It’s a costumbre to light fuego for the dead. And offer plates of food. Nerri exclaimed, “Suerte!” (Luck!) A funeral procession was walking the long, bumpy, dusty path to the “poor” section. I knew what he meant. It was hard not to stare at the procession. As the mourners trudged uphill under the weight of the coffin, snack vendors walked alongside carrying their lollipops, chips, cotton candy, and other tasty treats. Martina, Veronica, and I immediately raised brows. Nerri kept walking ahead unaware that us three were at a standstill in amazement. Martina whispered, “Take a picture.” I shook my head no even though I, too, wanted to capture the moment. We began walking downhill. Nerri was well ahead of us. A little girl at the end of the procession pulled her tights down, lifted her skirt, and began peeing in the middle of the dirt path. I walked around her thinking that I shouldn’t have worn sandals. I looked back. The little girl finished up and scurried along. We were far enough away, with faces out of view, that I didn’t feel completely morally vacant snapping a picture of the cotton candy salesman.