Bombitas December 12, 2021
“Que es?” I ask the kids, who are squatting in the middle Calle Guadalupe.
“Bombita,” one says, nonchalantly. Little bomb. He and his friend look as if they are making sandcastles of black sand. I recall the truck a few blocks away that is inexplicably selling 20-pound bags of “carbon,” or charcoal. I wonder if there is anyone mixing this stuff with saltpeter, the oxidant that might turn the fuel into gunpowder. Regardless, the black powder will certainly burn, and this is the very idea.
An odd assortment of volunteers, including neighborhood children and indigenous Catholic ladies, are laying a powdered fuse all the away up to the steps of La Iglesia de Guadalupe. The line begins several streets below, at the intersection with Dugelay, and the dedicated workers blacken their hands trying to maintain the integrity of the long firing line.
An old Mestizo man in a straw hat and pleated trousers carries a feedbag filled with hand-wrapped cylindrical explosives, about the size of a nine-volt battery, shaped like a cocktail frank. Approximately 1-2 grams of the “carbon” is wrapped in a piece of cardboard and bound tightly with some kind of greased plant fiber. The sheen of the nugget is almost golden. He hands one to the boy, who places it gently on the fuse. Every eighteen inches, he places another bombita. The feedbag must contain dozens of them.
One of the little bombs has been placed in my hand for inspection. Ever since I mentioned to them that I am a chemistry teacher, the boys are eager to impress me with their handiwork. They tell me that their grandfather taught them how to make them, just for this occasion, and I congratulate them. The old man in the straw hat flashes a mischievous metallic grin. I hand the bombita back to him, but he insists that I place it on the powdered fuse. I give it, instead, to his grandson with a warning to be careful. I accept no responsibility. My fireman friend Steve would be appalled by the scene.
In my classroom days, like most chemists, I had a reputation on campus as a bit of a daredevil with pyrotechnic demonstrations. I have vaporized jack-o-lanterns with thermite and turned pavement to glass, but not even my most reckless stunts with high-energy reactants can match the audacity of these Guadalupanos. The firemen standing by with their cell phones seem amused by my caution but otherwise disengaged. It is not the fire I worry about, however, but the sound that will soon resonate against these narrow walls. Someone is going to injure an eardrum very soon.
The commotion begins just after noon. In the distance, we hear a sequence of blasts coming from Dugelay, and soon a dense blue cloud begins to billow up the street toward us near the church. Yellow fiery bursts precede each thunder clap. The black fuse crackles and sparks as if it contains magnesium. People are running to stay ahead of the explosive procession. Closer and closer it comes, eliciting screams of fear and delight. Still a block away, the sound is deafening. I decide I am not going to face this directly. I pull my sweater off and tie it around my head as a muffler, but this is no help. Boom goes the next, and the next.
One frantic pedestrian ahead of the train crosses Guadalupe and accidentally kicks the line of black powder in the center of the street, effectively breaking the circuit. The old straw man leaps into action, quickly gathering the grains and reforming the fuse. He stands away just in time. Boom, then another, again and again, louder and louder. The ground is shaking. As the madness reaches me, I join others who have ducked for cover behind some evacuated produce stands.
Afterward, I crawl out of my fetal position and head into the street to inspect the carnage. Smoke rises and dissipates like a burning mist. Way up on the hill, bells still clanging wildly, La Iglesia de Guadalupe is lost in a cloud. The boys raise their thumbs—another successful chemistry experiment. I am happy to see that they still have thumbs. The old man examines the burn residue with some measure of pride. I want to express to him my astonished admiration, but I am quite certain that he cannot hear a bloody thing.