On Mexico’s Day of the Dead, the Living Make Do With Less : Latin America: Families pay homage at cemeteries, but economic crisis means skimping on traditionally elaborate altars.

The nation’s living had less to offer their dead Thursday--fewer flowers, and a bit less bread.

On many of the colorful altars that are Mexico’s annual salute to relatives dead but never forgotten, the cheapest mescal had to suffice. Rather than a dozen candles, for many there were only a few.

And many of the barrio children who paint their faces and haunt the cemeteries on this day each year appealed to passersby for money rather than the usual sweets.

Such was the scene Thursday throughout Mexico’s sprawling capital, as this devout nation marked its sacred Day of the Dead amid one of its worst economic crises in modern history.

Few could afford the $8 rubber monster masks sold on street corners throughout Mexico City this week depicting the bald, mustached man most Mexicans blame for their plight--former President Carlos Salinas de Gortari.

Never has a former Mexican president been treated with such open disdain. One street hawker peddling the masks--along with foot-high wooden rats bearing a crude replica of Salinas’ head--explained: “Why not! This is the monster who ruined the economy, the rat who ruined our lives.”

The Salinas masks also illustrated a bit of cultural pollution, the blending of America’s Halloween with Mexico’s ancient Day of the Dead. In a nation that traditionally favors the spiritual over the material on such holidays, it is only in recent years that costumed trick-or-treaters have begun to appear on the streets here.

But on Thursday, as millions of family members made their way to cemeteries throughout Mexico--buckets, brooms and bottles in hand--it was clear that tradition still triumphed.

At a time when 50% inflation has sent prices soaring and about 2.5 million Mexicans have lost their jobs, most families still managed to afford most of the nine basic offerings required for the altar--among them bread, flowers, salt, incense and such traditional treats as tamales and tequila.

But many families did concede that money was too tight to honor their dead as plentifully as in the past.

“The crisis is definitely affecting the way people are commemorating the Day of the Dead, the way I’m commemorating it,” said Irma Rosas, a 52-year-old retired salesclerk. “For example, flowers are very expensive. I can’t buy flowers this year, and if you can’t give them [the dead] flowers and the foods and drinks they like, it’s just not right.”

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As people cleaned and camped at the tombs of loved ones, the social fabric that has helped most Mexicans survive this year of crisis was visible. Beside loved ones both living and dead, close-knit families sipped tequila, nibbled tamales and swapped stories designed to renew the spirits of the dead.

Tourists enjoyed the scene in Mixquic, a poor town just outside Mexico City that is enshrined in guidebooks for its Day of the Dead commemoration. The cemeteries filled with families as they do each year. Lighted tissue-paper stars decorated the paths to altars large and small. First-time visitors didn’t notice that there were fewer items on the altars than before.

Just beneath the surface, though, were signs of the toll the economic crisis has exacted. Maria Eugenia Juarez said that in years past, she made tamales and mole to offer up at her husband’s grave, where she spent the entire day and night. This year, she said, she didn’t have the time.

“This year, I have to watch the bathroom,” the woman said, seated outside her simple home, where, as do many others in tiny towns without public toilets, she rents use of her bathroom. The price: one peso (14 cents) per visit.

She said the side business has helped keep her within the razor-thin survival margin in which the crisis has placed most Mexicans.

“In small towns like this, we bake our own bread. We make the mole , and the flowers grow around here. So the altar isn’t a question of money,” she said of her holiday dilemma. “But with the economic situation, it’s a question of time. I can’t put the time into the altar.”

Worse, she said, her son had to spend the day on the street, selling bread and the skull-shaped candy called calaveras that also are a tradition of the day.

“I don’t think I can go to my husband’s grave, because I have to be here, and I don’t know who’s going to keep the grave company,” she said.

“It’s the busiest day of the year. And this year, I’m afraid, every peso counts.”