The Heat of the Moment

The Heat of the Moment

From the moment I arrived at the busy village square, my nostrils are filled with the sweet scent of festival bread, chillied mango and roasted goat floating invitingly from the rows of street vendor carts. A soft whiff of garbage and a hint of urine drift upwards from the cobblestones and mingle with the perfume drifting down from the giant marigold displays covering the church. As I move deeper into the celebration, I catch glimpses of small children dancing on stage in their colorful costumes, just as their parents and grandparents who are watching them would have done.

“Ranchero” country music blasts across the loudspeakers and is occasionally broken by the sharp bang of home-made fireworks exploding sporadically, shooting through the crowds and changing directions as they please. Intermittently a scream erupts from amongst the throng as a wayward firework burns a hole through somebody’s sweater or singes their nose.

“Hola Mamacita”
“Que onda Mamacita”

Friendly catcalls come from young and old men alike at the appearance of attractive young girls; youths occasionally receive a rebuking nudge from the older generation for not expressing enough enthusiasm.

Scanning the square, I can see the colorful bunting flapping in hundreds of makeshift rows across the exposed electricity cables. Groups of pierced youths sell knock-off “Britnay Speers” and “Roling stons” albums and mangey dogs brush against my ankles searching the ground for fallen tasty morsels. Rickety ancient festival rides clatter past. A strong death-risk is apparently part of the thrill.

But I choose a different thrill; I sample the traditional “tamale.” Unwrapping the parcel of corn sheaths reveals a bed of hot sticky maize with a spicy green centre. Treating my palette at the fiesta is a short-lived experience however, as each new local spots the foreigner and eagerly pulls me onto the dance floor. Men of all ages twist spin and cavort past, stealing my hand from the previous suitor at an opportune moment. Macho levels running high it seems to be a great prize to be the one to teach the stranger how to salsa.

As the night draws on, more villagers arrive and the firework display becomes the main event. In the human crush around the church we watch in awe as colorful fireworks in the shape of butterflies are released. I can smell the tequila on the breath of my neighbours, the sweat from the rambunctious dancing, and the cordite of the fireworks zig-zagging and misbehaving in sky. The sudden smell of burning hair is a prelude to the vigorous slapping of my back. I frantically realize the tips of my hair had indeed ignited; a casualty of the nights’ festivities.

The next morning there is not a reveller to be found in the abandoned square as the sun reaches its zenith. The church stands above the wreckage, bells clanging lazily and the mangy dogs, sated after the evening’s scavenging lie motionless in the sun. There would be no further signs of life ‘til 3pm that day. I feel privileged to have been immersed in Mexican tradition and although I have lost half a ponytail I have gained so much more.