Dia De Los Reyes January 6
To Mexican kids, the Three Magic Kings are bigger than Santa is in the States, or, as John Lennon once put it, “more popular than Jesus.“ It was the gentile that arrived to deliver the famous gifts twelve days after the immaculate birth in a barn. On the night of January 5, the children place their shoes outside, with written requests for gifts, as well as snacks for the camels.
On the 6th, the Day of the Kings, families celebrate the arrival of the Magi with Rosca de Reyes, or Wreath of Kings, a sweet cake in the shape of a royal crown, bejeweled with candied fruit. Somewhere within is embedded a little white Jesus, hiding from Herod’s goon squad. Whoever gets the slice with baby Jesus is obliged to throw a Tamale party on February 2, forty days after the miracle birth, Dia de la Candalaria, the day of light.
Ivette considers making Rosca de Reyes for tomorrow. She likes the idea of obligatory tamales. If every slice of her cake were to contain a baby Jesus, this could amount to a giant lot of tamales, but the little white icons are hard to come by these days, almost as hard as wise men.
Luis grew up with the children’s film “Los Tres Reyes Magos“, which is iconic in Mexico like the Grinch and Christmas Carol and Charlie Brown in the USA, and he has come to dread Rosca de Reyes—he never wants to find a hard white savior in his piece of cake—going so far as to compare his serving to the Russian roulette scene in the film Deerhunter. Like any self-respecting New Yorker, he wants to avoid a February 2 Tamale obligation.
It is somewhat mysterious that the Catholics pray to these three wise guys, who are neither true canonized saints nor, in fact, specifically identified in the bible. No names are provided, but this did not stop devoted scholars from making up fantastic ones—I think (I am no scholar) they were Bethesda, Metamucil, and Ipecac.
Some speculate that Los Reyes Magos were scientists of some sort—alchemists, magicians, astronomers—hence the wisdom to follow a strange comet-star to the Bethlehem outback, carrying frankincense, myrrh, and the heaviest metal they could find.
Around the corner from my place, next to Cafeteria Lola y Moya, neighbors are setting up plastic chairs in the Nativity Garage. It is there that the believers will gather to sing the sacred hymns and pray to three unidentified Arab mullahs, who improbably followed a trail of summoned shepherds—in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, somehow in the middle of it all.
I rise at 8 am sharp to a thunderous introduction: “Buenos Dias, Puerto Morelos! Bienvenidos, Niños y Niñas!“ The amplified voice of a child sounds as if it is coming from my bathroom. Que Pedo, Guey?
I quickly dress and climb up to the roof to investigate. The radio station next-door is broadcasting a live kids’ show outside my window. It is so loud that I cannot even hear my own groans of annoyance, so I make my escape to find breakfast—Rosca de los Reyes.
I find my baby Jesus when I nearly break a tooth biting into Annette’s cake. Then I find another. Two! This cake is going to cost me a bunch of tamales. I melt the feet of one Jesus and mount it to the head of the other as a minor act of dissent. “Doble Jesus Es Mejor,“ I boast from the steps of My Paradise. Annette says I am going to Hell. Tell me something I don’t know, Chica.