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| With Instruments and Odes, Comforting Mexican Mourners | |
| (about 1 hour later) | |
| MEXICO CITY — The gravediggers tossed dirt onto the gray coffin, the dust adding tears to weepy eyes. A young man in a T-shirt poured out a little beer for his cousin, who died at just 27. Then came the surge of music. | MEXICO CITY — The gravediggers tossed dirt onto the gray coffin, the dust adding tears to weepy eyes. A young man in a T-shirt poured out a little beer for his cousin, who died at just 27. Then came the surge of music. |
| Hired for an hour at the entrance to one of Mexico’s biggest, grittiest cemeteries, the Wolves of the Sierra — two friends in cowboy hats, one with a guitar, the other with an accordion — carried dozens of mourners into contemplation and grief with a classic song about a swallow hoping to fly. | |
| “Today we’re sad, but tomorrow we’ll be happy,” said Jesús Rojas, 33, a cousin of the young man who was buried, Alberto Valvino Blancarte Colunga. “That’s why we have the music, to carry us through.” | “Today we’re sad, but tomorrow we’ll be happy,” said Jesús Rojas, 33, a cousin of the young man who was buried, Alberto Valvino Blancarte Colunga. “That’s why we have the music, to carry us through.” |
| Musicians hired for the moment are as integral to Mexican life as tequila and family — often, all three appear together — but in death, melodies play a special role. Ever since the Mexican Revolution, when songs known as corridos became aural obituaries for soldiers killed in battle, music has been used to celebrate the dead and remind mourners of more festive memories. | Musicians hired for the moment are as integral to Mexican life as tequila and family — often, all three appear together — but in death, melodies play a special role. Ever since the Mexican Revolution, when songs known as corridos became aural obituaries for soldiers killed in battle, music has been used to celebrate the dead and remind mourners of more festive memories. |
| Especially here in Iztapalapa, a neighborhood of about a million people that has more homicides than any other borough of the capital, the Wolves have become a reliable companion. As the house band for the Panteón Civil de San Nicolás Tolentino, a 280-acre cemetery on a hillside full of graves either overgrown with weeds or graced with fresh flowers, they rarely go a day without being hired. | Especially here in Iztapalapa, a neighborhood of about a million people that has more homicides than any other borough of the capital, the Wolves have become a reliable companion. As the house band for the Panteón Civil de San Nicolás Tolentino, a 280-acre cemetery on a hillside full of graves either overgrown with weeds or graced with fresh flowers, they rarely go a day without being hired. |
| “The work is always steady,” said Lázaro Martínez, 55, a red electric guitar swung over one shoulder and a small speaker slung over the other. “Here there are always people who need a song.” | “The work is always steady,” said Lázaro Martínez, 55, a red electric guitar swung over one shoulder and a small speaker slung over the other. “Here there are always people who need a song.” |
| His partner, Edmundo Taurino Juárez Pérez, 56, arrived here first. Born in the southern state of Oaxaca, he came to Mexico City decades ago seeking stardom and a stable income. He has been playing among the dead for 11 years. | His partner, Edmundo Taurino Juárez Pérez, 56, arrived here first. Born in the southern state of Oaxaca, he came to Mexico City decades ago seeking stardom and a stable income. He has been playing among the dead for 11 years. |
| Tall and taciturn, singing more than he speaks, but with kind, dark eyes, he is the ballast to Mr. Martínez’s lighter personality. While Mr. Martínez seems to be here out of necessity (he said he tried and failed to make a go of it in the United States), Mr. Juárez plays the cemetery by choice. He said he liked the quiet, the solemnity: In a city of endless traffic, car horns and exhaust, San Nicolás is a slice of peace where birds can be heard even during rush hour. | Tall and taciturn, singing more than he speaks, but with kind, dark eyes, he is the ballast to Mr. Martínez’s lighter personality. While Mr. Martínez seems to be here out of necessity (he said he tried and failed to make a go of it in the United States), Mr. Juárez plays the cemetery by choice. He said he liked the quiet, the solemnity: In a city of endless traffic, car horns and exhaust, San Nicolás is a slice of peace where birds can be heard even during rush hour. |
| “It’s just tranquil,” Mr. Juárez said. | “It’s just tranquil,” Mr. Juárez said. |
| But the job can be difficult. “Especially when I first started, it was hard,” he said. “We play for a lot of people who are crying. We feel what they feel.” | But the job can be difficult. “Especially when I first started, it was hard,” he said. “We play for a lot of people who are crying. We feel what they feel.” |
| It was just before noon on a recent weekday. He and Mr. Martínez were walking back to the road after a small performance in a hidden corner of the cemetery where pink bougainvillea climbed over a barbed-wire fence behind a factory. | It was just before noon on a recent weekday. He and Mr. Martínez were walking back to the road after a small performance in a hidden corner of the cemetery where pink bougainvillea climbed over a barbed-wire fence behind a factory. |
| They had just played 10 songs (at 50 pesos each, for a total fee of about $38) for a family that came to visit the graves of several relatives, including the mother. She died in 1984, and every year the relatives return on the anniversary of her death. | |
| The music, they said, was a way to reconnect with past eras and loved ones who are gone. “None of them are here anymore, but when they were, they liked the music, and it’s a way to remember them,” said Elena Contreras Moreno, 64. | The music, they said, was a way to reconnect with past eras and loved ones who are gone. “None of them are here anymore, but when they were, they liked the music, and it’s a way to remember them,” said Elena Contreras Moreno, 64. |
| Her sisters nodded. “We want the music because we don’t want to be suffering,” said María de los Ángeles Contreras Moreno, 58. “We don’t want to cry, we want to smile, and the music helps.” | Her sisters nodded. “We want the music because we don’t want to be suffering,” said María de los Ángeles Contreras Moreno, 58. “We don’t want to cry, we want to smile, and the music helps.” |
| Mr. Juárez and Mr. Martínez seemed pleased with the praise. | Mr. Juárez and Mr. Martínez seemed pleased with the praise. |
| Asked about more difficult moments, Mr. Juárez walked over to a mound of earth where a young couple had recently been buried. “It was a motorcycle accident,” he said. | Asked about more difficult moments, Mr. Juárez walked over to a mound of earth where a young couple had recently been buried. “It was a motorcycle accident,” he said. |
| The hardest case, he added, came about a year ago when they played for the family of two young girls who died in a house fire. Their mother was out. No one was there to save them. | The hardest case, he added, came about a year ago when they played for the family of two young girls who died in a house fire. Their mother was out. No one was there to save them. |
| “Most of the people we play for, they didn’t die from natural causes,” Mr. Juárez said. “They’re young. There are a lot of accidents.” | “Most of the people we play for, they didn’t die from natural causes,” Mr. Juárez said. “They’re young. There are a lot of accidents.” |
| Iztapalapa is hard-working but poor, with nearly every open wall covered in layers of graffiti. Bodies with tragic stories arrive at the cemetery all the time. | Iztapalapa is hard-working but poor, with nearly every open wall covered in layers of graffiti. Bodies with tragic stories arrive at the cemetery all the time. |
| In November 2012, a 10-year-old boy was killed by a stray bullet while watching the Disney film “Wreck-It Ralph” at a movie theater in a mall here. | In November 2012, a 10-year-old boy was killed by a stray bullet while watching the Disney film “Wreck-It Ralph” at a movie theater in a mall here. |
| Two months later, all of Mexico seemed captivated by claims that roving packs of dogs had mauled five people in the park that abuts San Nicolás. Neighbors said the first bodies with bite marks, those of a 26-year-old woman and a 1-year-old boy, were found just after Christmas, followed by three more, including a teenage couple who bled to death. | |
| Many residents still doubt that dogs were responsible. They argue that the dogs came after the real killers dumped the bodies. Despite being protective of their neighborhood’s image, many here say drug dealing and violence have worsened. Last year, according to government statistics, 149 people were killed in Iztapalapa, about 20 percent of the known homicides in Mexico City. | Many residents still doubt that dogs were responsible. They argue that the dogs came after the real killers dumped the bodies. Despite being protective of their neighborhood’s image, many here say drug dealing and violence have worsened. Last year, according to government statistics, 149 people were killed in Iztapalapa, about 20 percent of the known homicides in Mexico City. |
| For Mr. Juárez and Mr. Martínez, the cause of death is often hard to determine. Relatives of Mr. Blancarte, the young man in the gray coffin, who was a local taxi driver, said his lungs had filled with fluid, but his cousins did not say whether it was illness or a bullet that compromised his organs. | |
| “If it’s not an accident that killed them, it’s usually violence,” Mr. Juárez said. | “If it’s not an accident that killed them, it’s usually violence,” Mr. Juárez said. |
| Mr. Martínez said he teamed up with his friend two years ago partly because playing at funerals was less dangerous than working outside the cemetery. When friends ask him how he handles spending seven days a week in such a frightening place, he often laughs and tells them they have it backward. | Mr. Martínez said he teamed up with his friend two years ago partly because playing at funerals was less dangerous than working outside the cemetery. When friends ask him how he handles spending seven days a week in such a frightening place, he often laughs and tells them they have it backward. |
| “It’s not the dead you have to worry about,” he said. “It’s the living.” | “It’s not the dead you have to worry about,” he said. “It’s the living.” |