A woman appeared ahead of me, her parasol angled over one shoulder to shield her from the early morning rays. Further still, two older matrons, leaning heavily on each other as they tottered over the uneven boulders. I turned another corner and saw six more hikers, then eight, all dressed for Christmas dinner and struggling to negotiate the rutted road in an assortment of completely misanthropic shoes. The grim, foreboding beat of a drum heralded doom ahead.

I made tracks past the stragglers, hoping to get to the bottom of the mystery, or at least outrun the crowds. A distant oboe wove its tuneless wail around the gloomy drumbeat. Three small boys squatted in the dirt, filling their already-bulging pockets with stones. Their white headbands stood out in sharp relief against mops of black hair. I knew before I saw the bobbing altar and the elaborately ornamented box that this mournful group would soon be turning off the path to find a place along the windswept knoll above us, already studded with a dozen listing gravestones. I stood aside to let them pass. A frail old woman looked up as she went by, returned my smile and bade me with an outstretched arm to walk with her.