“Dónde está su gato?” he asked. (“Where is your cat?”)
Do?a Ely and Paul share two cross-cultural connections: one, their obvious love of skulls, and two, dressing up their cats in costume. Paul pulled out his cellphone and began to show Ely pictures of his own cat, Baba, dressed as “Cat-urday Night Fever” with a handlebar mustache, a gold neck chain, and a permed wig, and “Florence Nighten-tail” with nurse uniform and stethoscope.
“Aaaaah!” Do?a Ely exclaimed in delight, recognizing a true kindred spirit.
The skulls, on the other hand, wore identical cotton beanies, light blue in color, with their individual names embroidered on the front, like babies in a nursery: Ramiro, Carlota, Jose, Waldo (found him!). These weren’t their names originally; the names were bestowed by Do?a Ely when the skulls became ?atitas.
Each one of Do?a Ely’s ?atitas has a distinct personality, and a distinct gift. Carlitos is the skull you’d visit for medical issues; Cecilia helps students studying at university. Seven of the skulls, including Maria and Cielo, were the skulls of children and infants, so they specialize in children’s issues. The skulls had coca leaves in their mouths, and the crevices between them were stuffed with brightly wrapped candy. Other offerings made to the ?atitas by their estimated two to three hundred devotees included flowers, bottles of soda, and entire watermelons and pineapples.
Certain skulls were considered the most powerful, the heavy hitters. Oscar sat on the top shelf wearing a police cap. Oscar was the first of Do?a Ely’s ?atitas, acquired eighteen years ago. “We had lost our house, had no work, no money,” she explained, “and Oscar helped us to get back on our feet.” Do?a Ely can say with certainty that the ?atitas work miracles, because she has experienced the miracles for herself.
Another powerful ?atita was Sandra, and it was easy to see why. At least a quarter of Do?a Ely’s ?atitas were not as much skulls as they were mummified heads, and Sandra was the pièce de résistance. She had one of the more elegantly preserved heads I have ever seen, chubby-cheeked and smiling. Leathery skin covered the entirety of her face, including her lips, which seemed to curl up into a jovial smile. Two thick salt-and-pepper braids wound down the sides of her head. Even her nose was intact (rare, and hardly qualifying her as “pug-nosed”). In a feminist move, Sandra’s specialty was financial negotiations and business.
Paul came closer to take photographs of Sandra. “Ah, here,” Do?a Ely said, sensing he was trying to get a tighter shot. She pulled Sandra from the shelf and removed her “Sandra” beanie, revealing the full extent of the preservation. Do?a Ely looked around, searching for an even nicer accessory for Sandra’s close-up. As she went to fetch it, she handed Sandra’s head to me.
“Oh, yeah, okay, sure,” I fumbled.
When I held Sandra close, I could see her eyelids and a full set of light, fluttery eyelashes. If she had been acquired by a medical or history museum in the U.S., glass would have separated us. In La Paz, it was just me and—alas, poor Sandra.
Do?a Ely returned with a tall white top hat for Sandra and plopped it on her head. Paul was snapping photos. “Okay, hold Sandra up closer to you, there we go,” he said. “Caitlin, can you smile a little, you look so dour.”
“This is a human head. I don’t need pictures of me grinning with a severed human head,” I said.
“Sandra’s smiling way more than you are, try to look a little less melancholy, please.”
After I returned Sandra to the shelves and we prepared to leave, I noticed a brand-new set of teal embroidered beanies stacked next to the door. A woman waiting her turn to consult with Do?a Ely’s ?atitas explained, “Oh, they get a new color every month. Last month it was orange. These are the new ones. I like this color. It’s going to look good on them.”
DO?A ELY HAS a significant collection of ?atitas (“I’ve photographed charnel houses with fewer skulls than Do?a Ely’s house,” said Paul), but the most well-known ?atitas belong to Do?a Ana. Full disclosure: I never actually saw Do?a Ana. On the day we visited, a whole room of people were waiting around a huge cast-iron cauldron to enjoy an audience with her. Do?a Ana’s ?atitas speak to her in dreams, and based on your problem she will tell you which of the skulls to consult (Jose Maria, Nacho, Angel, Angel 2, and the very popular Jhonny).
Each of Do?a Ana’s two dozen ?atitas sat atop a glittering pillow in its own glass-fronted box. They wore safari hats with flowers along the brim. Cotton balls were stuffed in their eye sockets. Strips of tinfoil covered their upper and lower teeth, like metal mouthguards.
“What is the tinfoil for?” I asked Paul.
“To protect their teeth when they smoke,” he said.
“They smoke?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
The Roman Catholic Church, as a general rule, has never thrilled to the presence of the ?atitas in La Paz. In the past, priests presiding over the annual Fiesta de las ?atitas have announced to the crowds seeking blessings that the “skulls must be buried” and “should not be venerated.”
The first year Paul came to photograph the Fiesta, people arrived to find the church at the General Cemetery locked, with a sign saying they would not be blessing any skulls. The people protested, marching through the streets, holding their ?atitas in the air and chanting, “We want blessings.” The church opened its doors.
The Archbishop of La Paz, Edmundo Abastoflor, has been a particularly vocal dissenter on the subject of ?atitas. “Well, of course he has,” Paul scoffed. “The ?atitas embarrass him. They make it look like he doesn’t have control over his own diocese.”
Women like Do?a Ana and Do?a Ely represent a threat to the Catholic Church. Through magic, belief, and their ?atitas, they facilitate a direct, unmediated connection to the powers of the beyond, no male intermediary required. It reminded me of Santa Muerte, the Mexican Saint of Death, who is unapologetically female. She carries a scythe and her long robes are vividly colored, draped over her skeletal form.