Day of the Dead
Edition Terlingua
Photos and Text © Ayash Basu | NOVEMBER 2016
Terlingua: Ghost Town, Ghosts, and a Porch Full of Misfits
Way out in far West Texas, almost brushing the Mexican border, sits Terlingua — a sun-scorched magnet for desert dwellers, artists, retirees, and anyone who likes paradise with grit. Once the hub of a mercury rush in the early 1900s, the mines dried up by the 1940s, leaving the town to drift into ghost-town legend. The 1960s revived it with the “International Chili Cook-Off,” a fiery spectacle of competition, camaraderie, and chaos that still lures ten thousand chili fanatics every November. Some call it the “Burning Man of chili,” others wouldn’t attend for all the beans in Texas.
Most of the year, Terlingua hums quietly: sunsets on the Trading Company porch, dinner at the Starlight Theater, and meandering through scattered art installations like finding lucky charms in the desert. But November 2nd? The town sheds its cloak of calm. Dia de Los Muertos turns it into a radiant carnival of memory, community, and desert magic.
The Trading Company porch is the pulse of it all — part stage, part social hub, part command center. By afternoon, locals and visitors converge: beers in hand, faces painted Catrina-style, kids twirling hoops, musicians letting it rip. Even the pets join in. Strangers become friends. Misfits? They fit perfectly. Local artist Molly Finnerty makes sure each painted face radiates joy, not grief — proof that in Terlingua, remembrance is a celebration, not a lament.
Sundown at the Cemetery: Where Tradition Takes the Stage
At the cemetery, tradition meets theater. Randy McLaughlin, the reigning “King Catrin,” and Grace Sullivan, the “Queen Catrina,” usher the first visitors through more than 400 graves — ceremonial, intimate, electric. Women draped in red roses drift between headstones, their petals mingling with incense and candle smoke. As the sun sinks, the desert sky ignites in gold and amber; the graves flicker with hundreds of tiny flames, quivering in the gentle desert breeze. The distant strum of guitars, children’s laughter, and whispered prayers thread through the air. Painted faces catch the candlelight, reflecting joy, remembrance, and pure magic. Strangers pause to marvel, locals smile knowingly, and every flickering flame seems to hum with memory. Terlingua does not mourn — it celebrates. Here, the lost are remembered, shared, and stitched into the community’s living story, a luminous, beating tapestry of life in the heart of the Chihuahua Desert.
Around the Bonfire: Community and Rememberance
Following local tradition, the evening bonfire in the cemetery is kindled as the desert sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the headstones. The fire quickly becomes more than warmth; it is a gathering point, a focal flare around which the community orbits. Chairs are carried from nearby homes, trucks, and the Trading Company porch, forming circles of conversation, laughter, and storytelling. Old friends reconnect, swapping tales of past Dia de Los Muertos celebrations, while newcomers are drawn in, invited to share in food, drink, and music that flows as naturally as the desert breeze. The firelight flickers across painted faces, casting Catrina and Catrin masks into playful relief, and the scent of smoldering wood mingles with incense and the faint, lingering perfume of marigolds. For many, the bonfire is a moment of quiet reflection beside family graves, an opportunity to honor loved ones who once walked the town’s dusty streets. For others, it is a celebration of the town itself — its history, its resilience, its stubborn refusal to fade like a forgotten ghost. Here, under the wide West Texas sky, the bonfire becomes a beacon of community, memory, and shared joy, blazing long into the night.
Nightfall at the Starlight: Where Stories and Spirits Dance
Once the sun dips below the Chihuahua desert horizon, the action shifts to the Starlight Theater. Music, dancing, food, and stories keep the night alive well into the small hours. Old miners’ tales mingle with modern adventure-seekers’ anecdotes, and visitors swap experiences over whiskey, beer, and the occasional fiery chili. Laughter bounces off the adobe walls while guitars strum, voices rise in impromptu singalongs, and someone inevitably sparks a spontaneous two-step. Newcomers are hugged into the fold, locals nod knowingly, and everyone moves together in a rhythm of shared memory. Dia de Los Muertos in Terlingua is less about ritual and more about the ties that bind: a celebration of life, memory, and community — a vivid reminder that paradise is not stumbled upon; it is crafted, one shared story, one raised glass, and one dance at a time, under the desert stars that watch over misfits and magicians alike.
From Fire Light to Starlight to First Light
By morning, the bonfire smolders low, its last sparks dissolving into the desert breeze. Candles still flicker on the graves, their glow softened by the first hints of dawn, as a handful of early risers move quietly through the cemetery beneath a fading canopy of stars. I sip an espresso at La Posada Milagro, watching the desert stretch and yawn, its silence broken only by the call of a lone raven overhead. Terlingua lingers in moments like this — half memory, half mirage — a ghost town that refuses to stay buried. It is not merely alive; it is eternal.
And perhaps that’s why I keep coming back. Terlingua isn’t just a place I photograph; it has become a long-term story I’m compelled to tell. Life here is hard, the desert relentless, and yet the town endures — stitched together by grit, humor, and an unshakable sense of community. In the fragile beauty of a small West Texas town, I find both a reminder and a responsibility: to return, to witness, and to keep telling its story, one sunrise, one bonfire, one shared laugh at a time.
Terlingua may be a ghost town, but it haunts you in the best possible way.
About this work
This project is part of my ongoing series on Day of the Dead in Terlingua, photographed over the past several years. Terlingua isn’t just another stop on the Día de los Muertos map — it’s a small West Texas ghost town with a big soul, where community, memory, and story collide in unforgettable ways.
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