Mexico: The Day of the Dead is alive

Robert Bagnall encounters the spirits of Chiapas

Graveyards are not usually high on the list of holiday destinations. But then most graveyards are not like the ones you find in Mexico, especially when it is the Day of the Dead.

On the first day of November. Miguel, our guide, led us to the Mayan village of San Juan Chamula, 2,300 metres high in the Chiapas uplands near the border between Mexico and Guatemala. In the shadow of the skeletal remains of the old church of San Juan (nobody is sure of the date when it was built, nor when it was consumed by fire), the graveyard was a bizarre mixture of party, picnic and seance.

Each and every grave was guarded by the descendants of its occupant. All the women were in traditional dress of black skirt, white shirt and blue shawl, and they were shoeless so as to absorb the fertility of the earth. (Men, unless they hold a religious or political position within the community, rarely wear traditional costume). Some of the gravewatchers were laughing and joking together, some were lost in prayer.

Chiapas, like the rest of Mexico, is Catholic. However, this is one of the many areas that the hand of the conquistadores touched only lightly, at least in terms of their religion. I would have loved to have known what the Vatican make of this Hammer Horror-type family reunion, played out as though on the banks of the river Styx.

Each neat plot had been covered with pine fronds and chrome-yellow flowers. Gifts of food had been left on the graves to enable the dead to take their part - tradition has it that the spirits of children return on the first (All Saints Day) and of adults on the second (All Souls Day) of November.

The spirits weren't short of drink, too; crates and bottles littered the cemetery, many containing beer, but the majority Pepsi or Coca-Cola. Manuel explained that the love of fizzy drinks in this part of the world comes partly from the belief that belching releases evil spirits.

He pointed out that, even though the villagers were drinking out of Coke bottles, these did not always contain Coke. Later we had a more formal introduction to the additive Manuel had hinted at: "posh". This substance is somewhere between vodka and what I suspect lighter fluid tastes like. It came courtesy of one of the elders of the village who grinned, held the bottle out to us and then relieved us of cigarettes in the nicest manner imaginable.

At the entrance to the graveyard, a huge billboard, resplendent with the Coca-Cola logo, prohibits photography during religious ceremonies. Taking photographs at the wrong time or in the wrong place can land you in hot water; every traveller to Chiapas hears tales of those who have received severe beatings for wielding their cameras in churches or at ceremonials.

This doesn't mean that the Chiapas people are unfriendly to visitors, but neither are they overly friendly when they are busy waiting for their deceased to join them. We drifted through the graveyard, past families praying in banshee-like wails, without raising a flicker of interest. I felt uncomfortable looking at them, but equally uncomfortable looking away. And there was something disturbing and surreal about watching a Mayan, in full traditional costume, cracking open a bottle of Coca-Cola and joking with friends, over the graves of her ancestors.

The Day of the Dead is far from the only time when feelings run high. In the winter of 1993/94, the area surrounding San Juan Chemula, especially San Cristobal - the second largest town in the state of Chiapas - had been at the heart of insurrection.

Chiapas, one of the poorest parts of a poor country had found itself in a poverty trap. In order to cover their debts, farmers found themselves forced to sell land to speculators. And in order to earn a living they then had to rent it all back again.

Something had to give. It did on 1 January, when the lightly armed rebels of the Zapitista Army of National Liberation (EZLN), its members drawn from the Mayan villages, occupied San Cristobal and other towns in Chiapas. Their enigmatic leader, Subcomandante Marcos, declared war on the "70- year dictatorship of traitors" and issued demands for the resignation of the Mexican president and for sweeping political reform.

After 30 hours the EZLN withdrew from San Cristobal. The Mexican army began a bloody counter-offensive and for several days Mexico appeared poised for yet another revolution in its long history of revolutions.

However, a truce was called and negotiations began. Mexico's political structure, for better or worse, remained relatively intact.

At first sight, it is hard to imagine San Cristobal being at the heart of revolution. Two thousand metres above sea level, surrounded by pine forests that look more Tyrolean than Mexican, the town seems little more than a sleepy stopping off point on the Pan-American highway. However, look a bit closer and the mark of the EZLN is easy to find. You will find their name in graffiti; from street stalls you can buy T-shirts and bandanas emblazoned with the pipe-smoking, balaclava-clad image of Marcos for a few pesos. They even sell photos and videos of the uprising.

As potential revolutions go, it was a good-natured affair; tourists who happened to be in San Cristobal at the time, took the opportunity to be photographed with the occupying EZLN forces. And as rebel organisations go, the EZLN seem to be an unusual outfit, sticking strictly to the mandate of the villagers they represent. The idea is that each government edict or proposal they receive is translated into every language and dialect of the Maya, presented to the villages where it is then debated and voted upon. The EZLN then follow to the letter the majority decision of the Mayan villagers.

Whether it works exactly like that is debatable, but the reality is - as the theory suggests - time-consuming. After the attempted revolution of January 1994 it was not until the following June that the terms of the settlement between the government and the EZLN had been translated, debated and voted upon and the votes counted. In the end the government's proposal was rejected, but it gave Mexico, and Chiapas in particular, time to think about the future and to defuse a potential powder keg.

That things do not happen quickly is fairly characteristic of Chiapas. Maybe this area is just too thoughtful for revolution. Certainly one of the great pleasures of San Cristobal is to sit in a cafe drinking strong black coffee. You get a similar sense of peace watching the clouds roll over the mountains and into the town from one of the two hilltop churches. I like to think that's what the spirits are doing when they're not sharing the "posh" and Coca-Cola up in the graveyards.