My Death in Mexico

Expats in Mazatlan have been known to be thrown out of pulmonias, the golf-cart like vehicles ubiquitous to the coastal Pacific city, rounding corners at speed. Others have been hit by buses while riding their bicycles. More, I’m sure, have suffered heart attacks and any number of unpleasant surprises. Given all this, my dear Mexican friend Lupita had been on me for years  to put a together a document of instructions should the worst ever happen to me in Mexico. 

Her son works in a Mazatlan hospital. He has seen first hand, and duly reported to his mother, what can happen to a foreigner without this document. Without the proper instructions on file, partners can be prohibited from seeing their unconscious loved ones in hospital beds. 

Dying in Mexico as an extranjero, particularly a single person, is an even bigger mess. Without instructions, a body might lie in a hospital for weeks. And then there’s the thorny issue of transportation of remains across international borders, a process that has to be brokered by some lucky family member or friend.

Her notary office is on the way to the outdoor central market, and one morning, I stopped by on impulse to make an appointment to draw up the papers. Greeting me from the front desk, Lupita extracted a two-page sample document to take with me and review, adding that I’d need to name a trustee. 

Puedes ser tu? (Can it be you?) I asked my dear friend.

Claro que si, mi amor, she said 

She went on to explain that I would need to decide what to do with my earthly remains, and what form they’d take. I took a deep breath. She continued by explaining to me that her own family had their bases covered in regards to resting places. They had eight plots purchased at the cemetary for traditional burials and almost the same number of shelves for cremated remains. She added casually that I could have one of those spots if I wanted. My heart filled with something difficult to describe.

El Dia de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is one of the most important days on the Mexican calendar. It’s origin is based on the Aztec belief that for one night out of the year the souls of the deceased can leave the underworld and visit the living. The underworld isn’t based on how you lived but rather how you died. Those that die a natural death go to Mictan. Some say the dead arrive every 12 hours between October 28 and November 1

I’ve attended Dia de Los Muertos activities at the Mazatlan cemetery with Lupita’s family. On that day, groups of family and friends picnic at gravesites decorated with lavish floral arrangements and remember the people lying in state beneath them. Favorite beverages, personal items or preferred foods of the deceased are displayed near the gravestones.

Struck speechless by Lupita’s invitation, I suddenly realized I couldn’t think of anything I’d like better than her descendants having to explain my name among the rows of engraved stones reading Calleros. “Quien demonios es esto?” (“Who the hell is this?”) I pictured them asking, which is probably as close to a fond remembrance as many of us can wish for. 

The cemetery for cremated remains is apart froism the traditional cemetery in Mazatlan. Once I told her that being with her family forever would be lovely, she informed me that we would need to take a ride there the following week to choose my spot. Pretty choked up by now, I protested that I really didn’t need to see the cemeteries. Just having a plan was enough.

Lupita, who like many Mexicans, has a pretty visceral view of death, said, “Of course you need to visit! It needs to be where you’d be most comfortable!” She let me know her boyfriend would be joining us. I took the papers and  left her office with a completely inappropriate and inexplicable grin on my face.

My final arrangements evolved into quite a source of humor. Lupita’s sister, Araceli, is the second member of my friendship trinity in Mexico. A few weeks after my meeting with Lupita, Araceli and I were together one night shopping for table lamps. Once in the car, I thought that I should let her know we’d be spending eternity together.

From the back seat, her adult daughter, Ingrid, informed me that I’d better develop a taste for banda, the polka-based regional music that I make fun of every time we drive by the Sinaloaense, a huge two-story bar on the malecon, where it blares out at maximum volume every night. They both also expressed the desire to join the little party bus to pick out my final resting place. Of course. Invite everyone. 

I believe that home is not necessarily where you were born. It’s where they want you. In all my moves across the U.S., from Oklahoma to the West Coast to the East Coast and back to the interior again, I always felt that no matter how much affection I developed for a new city, my love would never be fully reciprocated. I believed it was being withheld as punishment for having left forever the place I grew up. That is, I felt that way until my friends in Mexico welcomed me home.

About the author:

Kerry Baker is the author of three books. Her most recent is a cookbook, The Lazy Expat: Healthy Recipes That Translate in Mexico for travelers, snowbirds and expats who want to keep a healthy diet in Mexico. You can’t maintain a healthy diet without cooking in Mexico. This book tells you how and gives you 150 recipes that can be made in a simple kitchen anywhere.

The Mexico Solution: Saving your money, sanity, and quality of life through part-time life in Mexico is her second book. It’s the only instruction manual on moving to Mexico that won’t leave you numb. Her first book, “If Only I Had a Place” is the inside scoop on renting in Mexico, both the pitfalls and opportunities that await you.