October 30: Arrive in Oaxaca, for Day of the Dead. October 31: Drink mescal. Go to village cemetery, welcome dead. November 1: Take chloroquine, see altars of dead, masked mummers, drink more mescal. November 2: Go to city cemetery, say goodbye to dead, retire to bed.
One thing I learned from my trip to the old colonial town of Oaxaca (pronounced "Wa-ha-ca") was never to mix mescal and chloroquine. The chloroquine, an anti-malarial, was necessary for my onward journey to Guatemala, but the mescal was just for fun.
It wasn't as if I was uninformed about the lethal potential of this rougher cousin of tequila distilled from the heart of the agave plant. It has a unique feature: as proof of the authenticity of the better brands, the worm that lives in the root system of the plant is added to the bottle. Having tasted mescal con gusano (with worm) I could certify that the little fellow had a kick.
The events leading to my downfall should be explained. The Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is an important annual festival in Latin America. It follows Hallowe'en and coincides with All Souls Day, when the spirits of the departed return to earth. Nowhere is this festival more reverentially observed than in Mexico, and in few places more spectacularly than in Oaxaca.
My Ruta de Muertos started in the cemetery of Santa Cruz Xoxocotlan. The vigil had already begun for the returning spirits of los angelitos, "little angels", the chiIdren who had succumbed to the endemic diseases of a poor country.
The lights from the candles speckled the darkness. Flowers encircled each grave: giant sprays of arum lilies, gladioli and the ubiquitous cempasuchil , the yellow "flowers of the dead". The people gathered at the graves, families of the dead children, were not mourners but celebrants, ready to greet their lost loved ones.
Dazed by the smoke from bonfires and incense, I picked my way between the graves where infant dolls in miniature coffins were set on the tombstones A special welcoming treat for one angelito was a bottle of Pepsi and a chocolate cake.
Their ancestors, the Aztecs, had also provided their dead with funerary gifts of food, drink and incense. Although the defeated Indians had been forced to adopt the saints' and feast days of their Spanish conquerors, a strong element of their ritual and symbolism survives in the modern Catholic festival.
This was even more apparent at the Altars of the Dead Contest, which took place the next day at Oaxaca's municipal palace. This was the pick of the local ofrendas, the offerings to the dead set up in homes, offices, and public buildings in the run-up to the festival.
Elaborate arches of palm leaves threaded with marigolds represented heaven. Beneath them, multi-tiered tables represented earth, laden with goodies for the refreshment of the hungry souls. They could choose from pan de muertos (bread of the dead), tortillas, fruit and cooked dishes, including - in one display - a sad-looking chicken in a mole sauce, whose head hung reproachfully over the side of the bowl.
The rows of icing sugar skulls reminded me of the skull racks that displayed the sacrificial toll of the Aztec sun god. The ritual slaughter that had maintained the rising of the sun in the heavens - death and the renewal of life - had its analogy in these sugar skulls, whose consumption brought regeneration. And death tasted even nicer made of chocolate.
I went for a quiet coffee in the pleasant tree-shrouded Plaza de Armas, but the square swirled with life; at its perimeter, death was doing even better: in the side streets and under the arcades, the crowds thronged around stalls selling miniature coffins with pop-out cadavers, chocolate tombstones and sugar skulls with sequinned eyes. Pastry shop windows displayed cut-out paper skeletons in chefs' hats, tucking into elaborate pan de muertos .
In the square itself, next to the cathedral, a huge display of sand sculptures depicted the resurrected dead, with papier-maché skeletons climbing out of graves emitting whorls of incense. As the smoke curled into my nostrils I began to feel a little pale, time to head north for the village of Nazareno Etla and the comparsa (revels).
Half an hour later, as we parked the car, I was aware of dark, fiendish figures jostling around us in the gathering dusk. The village, it appeared, was populated by werewolves, witches and American presidents.
Shuffling in procession down the narrow streets, these were the bogies of Hallowe'en, here enacting the role of mummers mocking death. Tagging along with the demons, we found ourselves in a small farmyard where a brass band was stirring up the ghosties with an improvised extravaganza. A friendly campesino offered us plastic cups which he filled, unbidden, from a two-litre plastic bottle containing a clear liquid. The tang of mescal was unmistakable. Tentatively I downed it. Less tentatively, I accepted the refill.
From that moment, things became a bit hazy. I only knew it was my obligation to accept the proffered hospitality and join in a unique festival at its most compelling moment when the sacred gave way to the profane. The returning spirits were received with due reverence and compassion, but death itself was treated with mockery.
With less than comprehending eyes, I saw Ronald Reagan dancing with a gorilla and the former Mexican president Salinas with a werewolf. Men in drag with the masks of painted hags gyrated suggestively.
The actual Day of the Dead is November 2, when the resurrected adults return to their graves. The following morning, I felt I was halfway there myself when I went to the city cemetery to watch the families taking their leave of their loved ones for another year.
After 10 minutes, it seemed I'd paid my respects and headed with flagging spirit back to the hotel.
Luckily, Montezuma was merciful, and I was laid out for no more than a day, enough time to appreciate that I'd experienced one of Mexico's most dramatic festivals, in one of her most colourful cities. I'd learnt, too, that the Mexicans have a good relationship with death and embrace it like an old friend - something we could all learn from. It was an opportunity, too, to reflect that however careful you are, the worm will get you in the end.
Way to go
Getting there: British Airways (0845 773377) flies London to Oaxaca via Mexico City return from £657.10 inc tax with the leg from Mexico City to Oaxaca via Mexicana Airlines or Aeromexico. Cathy Matos Mexican Tours (020-8492 0000, mextours.co.uk) offers tailor-made itineraries, such as seven nights' room-only in Oaxaca for £926pp including BA flights to Mexico City, connecting flights to Oaxaca, airport transfers and sightseeing trips.
Where to stay: The hacienda-style Mision de los Angeles Hotel (0052 951 340 97) is a 20-minute walk from Oaxaca city centre (£55 per night, single or double).
Getting around: The Viva Zapata Travel Agency (Rio Niagara 40-bis, 06500 Mexico DF, tel: 0052 5207 6416) can arrange guides.
Further information: Mexican Tourist Office, Wakefield House, 41 Trinity Square, London EC3N 4DJ (020-7488 9392, visitmexico.com). Approx flight time from London: 11 hours 30 mins. Time difference: -6 hours. Country code: 0052.
