Dancing with the Dead

Leave it to Peruvians to turn even a trip to the cemetery into a celebration. Gone is the hushed grief, the painful silences, the eerie stillness of it all. Instead we visit the dead, leave them flowers, share a large family picnic around the gravesite. We tell them stories about neighbors, cousins, and ourselves because we know the Peruvian thirst for gossip is never quenched. We throw a big party twice a year in their honor –- on the anniversaries of their birth and death, marking the bookends of their life. They might be physically gone from our lives but their presence is acknowledged and celebrated on a daily basis.

There is something quite beautiful and moving in honoring your departed loved ones in this way. I’d noticed it in passing before, but over the past few weeks I’ve spent a decidedly un-morbid amount of time in and around Peruvian cemeteries.

A few weeks ago, for Day of the Dead, I spent an entire day in the cemetery with my host family. We packed a big lunch and camped out for the day. There were families visiting almost every grave, enjoying their own picnics and paying their respects to deceased parents, grandparents, spouses and friends. Kids were laughing and squealing in the background, making dirt pies to sell to the adults. The ice cream vendor made a killing (pun intended) selling sweet treats to the sweaty revelers. Instead of a somber event, it was a happy day punctuated by chatter and sweet rememberances. It was a time for family and friends to share meals and memories. Obviously I don’t have a personal connection with any of the deceased relatives so it’s easy for me to gloss over any sadness, but in talking with my host family and observing the day, I really don’t think it’s a time for sadness. The dead aren’t honored here by crying over our losses, we honor their memories by spending time as a family, united in a shared love for someone no longer here.

A couple weeks later, Papy’s sister died. She’d been sick for a long time so it was no big shock, but it’s always sad to lose someone. What followed was a whirlwind of familial activities: a wake, a funeral precession, a burial ceremony, a post-burial ceremony, and lots and lots of shared meals. I was present for it all -- what’s a family event without the token gringita, after all? Sure there were some awkward moments, namely walking behind the coffin, standing heads above the rest of the mourners, throwing flower petals as we marched through the streets. More than one person stage whispered, “who is that white girl?” But overall it was a time for family and I was welcomed, as always, with open arms. The generosity of the Peruvians I know is boundless. Amid their sadness they found the kindness and love to feed me, include me in the rituals and ceremonies, and talk to me. The whole three-day affair was marked less by sadness and more by joyous moments of family love. It was unexpectedly moving for me. Once again I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude for being able to be a part of these private moments.

For all its hardships and loneliness, Peace Corps really does offer us this incredible opportunity to live in another culture, with all the joy and pain that brings.