One of the dopest experiences of my life was going to the cemetery in Culicán to see the tomb of my bisabuelos.
It’s a beautiful ass cemetery. So many colors and different types of family monuments. Here in America I feel like cemeteries are more somber and dry.
It felt like a museum of past generations. Every families collective personality is displayed.
My bisabuelos were buried in a very modest, old section of the cemetery, but as you walk along you start seeing these big mausoleums. Eventually they turn into mini houses. Then all of a sudden you’re in a little pueblo of small mansions.
The narcos from the Sinaloa cartel build tombs nicer than most houses for their dead.
I remember specifically one with giant columns that had a floral arrangement swirling up and it spread on the walls like wallpaper. All the flowers looked fresh. It made me wonder how often they change them and how much work it must take.