The Mexican Day of the Dead is a tradition of nuance, a testimony to the occasional brilliant combination and transformation of two distinct cultures. For thousands of years, the pre-Hispanic indigenous cultures of Mexico – the Mixtecas, Zapotecs, Olmecs, Aztecs and Mayas, amongst others – would pay homage to their departed during an entire month’s celebration that fell upon the ninth month of the calendar, from around the end of July to early August. This month, dedicated to the goddess of the dead, Mictecacihuatl, was also intrinsically linked to the end of agricultural cycles of wheat, beans, chickpeas and squash; altars were heaped high with crops and joyful processions animated villages. Similar to Buddhist ideology, many of these ancient tribes believed that death was just a step towards a new life, an endless flow of energy and a cycle of re-birth, a continuum where contact with the dead was an embraced and ritualized occurrence.

When the Spanish conquistadores landed upon the new world accompanied by hordes of Catholic priests, the indigenous Mictecacihuatl celebration was moved forward to coincide with All Saints Day (perhaps more familiarly known as All Hallows’ Day, which falls on November 1st). Its an interesting coincidence as, according to many scholars, All Saints Day itself is rooted in ancient Celtic harvest festivals and pagan rituals – not so different from its Mexican counterpart.

The result of this blend in the modern day is a truly unique Mexican celebration of life and death, of indigenous vibrancy combined with Christian tradition. All across the country, dense skulls forged out of sugar are adorned with names of loved ones. (Due to the fact that Mexico was a country abundant in sugar production but too poor to afford European church decorations, the ever-inventive locals instead diversified into sugar art.) With their gaping, grinning smiles and multi-coloured iced lining, these calaveras have probably become one of the country’s most internationally recognised symbols. Flowering just after the rainy season and emerging specially for Día de los Muertos, bright golden cempasuchil flowers adorn every centimetre of the horizon in cemeteries.

As the gates of the ‘worlds beyond’ open at midnight on the 31st, angelitos (the spirits of deceased children) tumble down and join their families for the following 24 hours. The next day, the souls of adults join the party. A long and weary journey from the afterlife behind them, the travellers are welcomed by their living family and friends with a luxurious feast – mountains of bananas, oranges and tropical fruits, entire cooked meals of mole, tortillas, and quintessential Day of the Dead sugar breads, pan de muerto. Whilst the (deceased) children are treated to a hot cocoa, candies and dozens of toys woven into the flower altars, adult spirits indulge in mezcal and tequila, and even the occasional cigarette. Faces are painted white and black in homage to Mictecacihuatl, the Skeleton Dame, and traditional Frida Kahlo-esque robes flow through the cemeteries.

We drove into the heart of Michoacan state to Pátzcuaro, a pretty lakeside village renown for its traditional observance of Day of the Dead festivities. Throughout the evening heaped passenger boats transport visitors to the islands around the lake, where cemeteries are set underneath towering cliffs and sloping views give out to the sweeping scenery below. That night, when shimmering candles illuminated the faces of women and men seated above adorned graves, speaking in with closed eyes to the empty air in front of them, I couldn’t help but feel that my presence might be taking something away from them. The island became popularised by a film in the mid-century, and despite the fact that towns thrive from such visitors, I still felt slightly like an intruder, peeking with curious eyes into a ritual from which I was very far from being a part of.