Necropolis

The long shadows cast by the sun at its late hour added to the austere mystique of the cemetery. The shadows showed the outlines of gothic angels, byzantine spires, and other assorted iconography. The tombs themselves went down several stories down spiral staircases, some reached up a story or two to be crowned by ceilings more befitting a cathedral.

Other tombs were decrepit, crumbling, with coffins that seemed to be broken into. These ones were overwhelmed by the massive presence of the prestigious tombs on either side of them. The most prestigious, those of former presidents, ministers, writers, and generals, were adorned with plaques by countless civic organizations.
The Recoleta Cemetery seems pulled straight out of ancient Egypt. It is a veritable city of the dead, with the size of your tomb being a display of wealth. Families move in and out, profits rise and fall, some monuments and families remain to preside over all others.

Cats are the only living residents of this maze of graves. Appropriately, I spotted one sitting next to a lion, almost aware of the dichotomy between the ancient big cat and the modern one.

The ornamentation, the emphasis on status after death was an absolutely stunning thing. No where else in the world can I think of this kind of reverence for the dead, save for the pyramids of course. It’s so easy here to just get lost down a narrow pathway, winding your way past the remains of those long ago. But perhaps, shining a light on the whole ridiculousness of this kind of status obsession, Evita’s tomb is barely noticeable.

Each tomb had a distinct architecture, ranging from so baroque that you expected Dracula to pop out in five minutes to stark, solid black blocks of granite with simply a name posted above the entrance.

Some tombs had small coffins, children, others had fresh flowers and new photos. Yet others were dated from the late nineteenth century.

You could read a story in the pictures, dates, plaques, and other adornments on each tomb. The lives of these people, some unknown, some vaguely familiar as street names in the city, yet others obviously famous; were spelled out all over their graves.

By the time we left, the sun had almost set, and the cats outnumbered living people in the cemetery. On the way out, we were accosted by a lady with a thick, almost comical British accent, who asked us to donate to the friends of the Recoleta Cemetary.