WHEN THE VEILS PART: GALÁPAGOS

Puerto Ayora, Isla Santa Cruz, Galápagos Islands, Ecuador

Between downtown Puerto Ayora and the Charles Darwin Research Station, between the tourist shops and restaurants, and the national park offices — just past a scuba shop and the town’s first hotel, just before the national park boundary, is a plot of land on the left side of Avenida Charles Darwin.

On two sides along the roads, a stark-white wall undulates around that lot. The fence flows like the sea. Sometimes the stucco waves part to reveal a bit of the world within. White-washed and tiled plots, some with their names and photos still legible, crowd the yard. This is Puerto Ayora’s cemetery.

It is the end of October. As autumn wanes in the Northern Hemisphere and deathly winter nears, cultures around the globe sense the spiritual veils parting.

Soon, it will be Hallowe’en for those of northern European traditions. According to the Roman Catholic calendar, 1 November is All Saints Day and 2 November, All Souls Day. Here in Latin America, it will be the Day of the Dead — called Día de los Muertos in Mexico and Día de los Difuntos here in Ecuador.

The traditions observed in these Americas date back to long before the Spanish conquest. Unfortunately, those traditions have all but disappeared in many parts of Ecuador. Yes, some families still head to the cemeteries to clean and decorate their loved ones’ graves, but the other traditions have long decayed in these modern times. And throughout the country, you’ll find markets and panaderías (bakeries) offering guagua de pan (a bread shaped like swaddled babies, filled with marmalade) and colada morada (a purple drink made with fruits and spices).

Calderón, a city on the north side of Quito’s sprawling metropolitan area, is said to be a good place to observe the graveside celebrations. Otavalo, a traditional Quichua village famous for its market, is another place you can go. But for a more authentic window into the rites of music, food and trago (liquor) at loved ones’ gravesites, you’d have to head to indigenous communities deep in the sierra (mountains).

There are places, however, that never had indigenous human populations. The Galápagos Islands, 1,000 kilometers off the coast of Ecuador, is one. These volcanic Pacific islands are millions of years old. They are populated with reptiles and birds that have long evolved from their mainland cousins, into new species. Homo sapiens arrived only in the past few centuries.

When humans migrate from one country to another, they have to adapt to a new environment. Their traditions will also have to change, depending on the ingredients available for dishes, decorations and other cultural expressions.

But how do traditions transfer to a new place, a place without indigenous or native human populations — like the Galapagos Islands? How does this new species, Homo sapiens, adapt to its new environment? What traditions are continued? How are they adapted to a new environment? Cultural adaptation, cultural evolution …

How will Galapagans, those who reside in these Enchanted Isles (as Herman Melville named them) observe Día de los Difuntos?

~ ~ ~

The morning dawns with a rain. Not really a rain rain, not really a garúa, a misting rain. Something in between. It ends and the day grows humid as we enter this four-day weekend. Today is Día de los Difuntos — Day of the Dead — and tomorrow, Independence Day of Cuenca, Ecuador’s third-largest city and which lies in the southern sierra of the mainland.

I stop into the Research Station’s neighborhood grocery shop. It is a quiet day. No tourists or staff have popped in for a snack, and no research expeditions to uninhabited (by humans, that is) islands are stocking up for their adventures.

Diana, the woman who runs the store, and I spend a spell talking about our plans for this holiday weekend. She and her family will walk on down to Tortuga Bay, a popular beach of fine white sand bathed by cool, turquoise waters. Other than that, nothing much, really. Nothing special.

I set a few packs of cookies and a chilled bottle of water down on the counter. “Curiosity — do they celebrate Día de los Difuntos here in the Galápagos?”

Diana rings up my purchase. “Yes. The mass will be at 10 a.m. in the cemetery. I’ll be going to clean my mother-in-law’s tomb.”

~ ~ ~

From the Research Station, I walk up Avenida Charles Darwin. Yellow-flowered muyuyo (Cordia lutea), poison-apple mazanillo (Hippomane mancinella), and giant prickly pear cactus (Opuntia galapageia) shade the road. Off to the left, beyond the mangroves, I catch glimpses of the waves rolling across Academy Bay. The road, then passes the Galapagos National Park checkpoint and offices. To the left, I know, is their pier. Often marine iguanas (Amblyrhynchus cristatus) laze there, warming in the sun after a feast of seaweeds in these frigid waters.

This tranquil world abruptly ends at Puerto Ayora’s city limits. Even though there aren’t many buildings here, I can still feel the change. The atmosphere’s energy seems sharp with static and a bit off kilter – so much different from the quiet and calm of the station’s compound. Perhaps it is because I have entered “civilization.” Perhaps it is because of the return of the spirits of those who have departed from this realm of the living. Perhaps it is the vibes of tourists who arrive from all over the world to see the unique animals that call these Islands home.

On the street out front the graveyard gate, vendors are displaying wreaths of plastic and foil flowers and silk floral bouquets. No fresh flowers are allowed, for the danger of introducing foreign species that can irreparably damage these islands’ sensitive ecosystems. Also piled upon the stands’ narrow counters are candles and packs of palo santo incense. Other sellers are just beginning to set up, hoisting blue tarps against the still-cloudy sky. A gust of wind fills one like a sail.

Within the undulating walls, gravesites of all shapes and sizes crowd the small field. Some are mere patches of soil lined with stones, headed with a simple cross. Many are above-ground, sarcophagi, covered with ceramic tile. The headstone may have an elaborate gate protecting a photo of the dearly departed.

Dozens of people are tending the final resting place of family and friends. Tombs are being whitewashed. The black lettering of names, of dates is being freshened with a steady (or sometimes trembling, but loving) hand. The perfume of paint drapes in the humid breeze.

In front of one grave stands Lobo Marino (so he calls himself: Sea Lion). As always, he is barefoot and bare-chested, his sun-toasted skin exposed to the salt air, and wearing cut-offs. He is with a family from the mainland Sierra. The woman wears a length of dark velvet wrapped around her waist that is tied off with a faja (woven sash), in the traditional way. A pinned-back, dark-blue cloth upon her head hides her hair. Many ropes of golden beads drape her neck. The man of the family has his greying hair pulled back in a pigtail. Indigenous cloth sandals (called alpargatas) cover his feet. Their heads are bowed. Lobo Marino looks up and cries, What he would want, what we need, is music to give him! The only response to his cry is the silence of his companions.

In the next row behind this family is a large, tiled sarcophagus. Above the platform is a sign with a heart and letters carved into the wood. They are filled with silver paint that gleams in the weak sunlight. These words are written raggedly, as if chiseled through the veil of tears: Te Extraño … I miss you.

With a damp rag, a man wipes the dust from that tiled grave there. With a leafy branch, a woman brushes the dirt from this one near the mound of rocks upon which I sit. Not too far away is the mausoleum of the Municipal Workers Labor Union, a step-pyramid of five rows of niche tombs beneath an arch proclaiming Sindicato de Obreros Municipales – Santa Cruz. Some of these graves have bright plastic flowers.

All around this campo santo, on the gravestone crosses, families hang wreaths and forlorn lovers place bouquets. Candles are lit. The flames dance, perhaps briefly extinguishing in the breeze, only to once more revive, dancing and disappearing and resurrecting.

I share cookies with two children and their mother. They are visiting her husband’s tomb. A small basket leafed in plastic and overflowing with purple, orange, and pink silk flowers rests in front of his name. She stoops to light a single taper. They leave ere the mass begins.

The altar sits in the thick shade of a tree. The table has been spread with a white, lace-trimmed cloth. A man sitting on a stone outcropping covered with vines strums a guitar. Today the priest is dressed in purple, symbolizing hope and expectation, as is required for the liturgy of the dead. The padre calls those present for the Eucharist. The small choir begins to sing. Everyone falls silent. Many abandon their tasks and move closer to the religious service.

Other families arrive during the mass, setting to the cleaning and decorating of these final resting places. The adults — wives or husbands, sons or daughters — are seriously intent. The children look ‘round or kick pebbles across the rough earth. Some seem a bit lost in these Day of the Dead traditions, some of them seem bored.

In front of a gaily painted tomb is the family of Ozumi. The size of this monument belies the infant cradled within. Mami’s, Papi’s and her siblings’ rainbow hand prints decorate the sides. The bougainvillea harbor shades them from this tropical sun flickering through the clouds.

The wooden cross upon another child’s grave is decked with a silk-flower lei. Upon the top, Tommy Joao’s family has outlined a heart in colored-glass. From a red toy jeep, a human observes plastic animals — a tiger, rhinoceros, zebra, and a fallen-over giraffe. Perhaps Tommy always dreamed of taking an African safari …

And here I am, yet perched atop this mound of rocks partly buried beneath faded plastic, foil, and silk flowers, observing how Galapagans celebrate Día de los Difuntos. A garishly blushed female lava lizard (Microlophus indefatigabilis) rustles the leaves. It is mating season for those reptiles. Mr. Darwin’s finches peck through the brush at my feet. The wind rises for a moment, seeming to beckon another shower this morning. A solidifying river of wax now anchors that candle to that wife’s, those children’s kinfolk’s grave. The flame yet fades, yet revives in the closing morn.

As the mango-colored sun dips beyond the island and colors the dulling waters of Academy Bay, I return to the graveyard. With hushed waves, the tide washes, washes, only several hundred feet away. Outside the cemetery, on benches and curbs, a family shares their picnic dinner.

I stop at a stall still set up outside the cemetery gate. “No,” the woman says in a quiet voice, “the guagua de pan is all gone.” I sip a colada morada as I enter the yard, chewing on the chunks of pineapple, spitting the spicy clove seeds into my hand.

The white-washed graves are brighter under the hazed three-quarter-full moon. In the sheltered niches of tomb façades, candles waltz and bow on the gusting breeze. Murmurs of families drift through the worn twilight. Beyond row and row of sites, glasses clink against a bottle. A child’s laugh chuckles further beyond. And singing — like the silvery song of crickets.

Beneath a leafy arbor, a group of youth gather. Some sit on other tombs, some on the ground. They pass around a cup of liquor that is refilled every now and then, and raised to the spirit of their friend. In quiet voices, they share tales of their amigo, passed on too early. They are silhouetted in the orange candlelight. The taper’s flame illuminates the tear on one chica’s cheek.

A family of women stands at one monument near the front wall. I promise, I promise her I shall finally…, says one. A sea of tears washes her face shadowed by moon, by clouds, by candlelight. She then strokes the façade, strokes the newly blackened letters, before crossing herself and stepping beyond the gate into the new night.

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011), and nominated for the Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.