Feats of Guadalupe December 2, 2021
“Our fiestas are explosions. Life and death, joy and sorrow, music and mere noise are united, not to re-create or recognize themselves, but to swallow each other up. There is nothing so joyous as a Mexican fiesta, but there is also nothing so sorrowful. Fiesta night is also a night of mourning … Something impedes us from being. And since we cannot or dare not confront our own selves, we resort to the fiesta. It fires us into the void; it is a drunken rapture that burns itself out, a pistol shot in the air, a skyrocket.”
Octavio Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude
Loud explosions commence at 4am, followed by a series of rat-a-tat-tat. The sounds are coming from the east, less than a half-mile away, at La Iglesia de Guadalupe, and sources say the blasts will not end until the 12th of the month. This is the Feast of Guadalupe, the time for that old church on the eastern hill to shine. The Dominicans of the north and the Franciscans of the south will honor a temporary ceasefire from their own ceremonial shelling. This month, the Guadalupanos reign supreme.
Following a brief morning lull in the artillery-grade barrage, the bell at the church begins ringing furiously, as if to sound the alarm for more incoming. Boom. Rat-a-tat-tat. The explosions are deafening from the edge of Parque Guadalupe, at the foot of the steps that climb steeply to the Catholic temple. Below the church and hidden under some trees is a native monument, with painted half-naked statues pointing up the hill. They look like indigenous witnesses on the Grassy Knoll signaling where they saw the shots fired. The sky overhead is indigo-blue but for a hundred tiny puffs of smoke from the rocket explosions. The ground is littered with cardboard shells with a diameter of a 10-pesos coin. The air has the reminiscent smell of sulfur and black powder.
A German couple emerges from the hostel next door to the war zone, bleary-eyed, appearing shellshocked. They have just been told that this will continue for weeks, and they are ready to find a more quiet hostel, preferably as far away from Barrio Guadalupe as possible.
“I wonder if anyone has been hurt,” says the disbelieving woman, just visiting from the historic land of hurt and bomb blasts. “There could be serious injuries.”
No doubt, she is right, there could be. But Mexicans love their fireworks and seem willing to accept the consequences of inevitable mishaps. Nearly every other year, the massive fireworks market at Tultepec, in Mexico City, becomes a mass casualty event. Death and mayhem are part of a long tradition.
Parents and grandparents arrive with small children to rejoice at the bombs bursting above. Food venders set up stands in the park and ignite their portable propane tanks. Mechanics assemble a rickety carousel for the afternoon’s festivities. At several stands, rows of stools are placed facing glass mugs with spoons, where, for 45 pesos, hot Ponche is served with sliced pineapple and several other condiments. Adding some type of crouton turns the drink into a wet spongy dessert. Adding a shot of Pox costs an extra 5 pesos and turns it into something else altogether.
I see one familiar face in the crowd. She works the streets around here, especially where tourists gather, shaking her can of coins for contributions. She is in her twenties, with a child-like gait, but her round face is rough and leathery, like an old man’s, carrying the terrible scars of a house fire she survived. When it is my turn to give, I ask if she remembers me, but she does not. She is accustomed to being the one who leaves a lasting impression. I have seen people cry when they first meet her, sincerely horrified, placing large bills in her can and blessing her. Only when she sees someone she truly recognizes, like the produce ladies on the corner, does her beautiful smile appear. She has some money to share with these produce ladies. Their eyes light up the sky.
These are some of Mary’s powers,
She sees you are poor, so come as you are,
Prepare for a bender, as this may take hours,
These are some of Mary’s powers,
Surrender is finally ours.