Nuevos Amigos, Jose Luis and Patricia

A storm was a-brewing, we could feel it in the air. A current of anticipation was building as the crowd thickened. The covered stands overflowed with families, mostly women and children, while their men stood protectively nearby, ready to rush the field when the time came.

We were guests of Jose Luis, the sub-contractor that installed the bathtub I so desired in our new-to-us casa here in Patzcuaro, Mexico. Jose Luis and his lovely wife, Patricia, live about 40 minutes away in a small, rural village of about 1000 people. On this night, however, the town doubled it’s size for the yearly celebration of Corpus Christi, one of the most beloved and joyful celebrations of the indigenous Purépecha community.  The festival involves praying for rain, for their crops, giving thanks to mother earth for the harvest and agricultural planting of the year. (There are also religious elements to the festivities, which we did not witness).

handing out the goodies

And cohetes. Always the cohetes. Fireworks in Mexico are a given, and locals need no excuse to set them off.  But behold a parade, a festival or a holiday, and the missiles launched are enough to wake the dead. Seriously, the bombs here put the 4th of July in the US to shame, and sound more akin to wartime fighting. Many of the local street dogs seem to have adapted, but after seven years of living in Mexico, I still spook when they explode anywhere near my vicinity. Even Chance, our deaf dog, shudders and hides.

Between the explosions, the bands (lots of tuba, need more cowbell), honking horns and sirens, senses can be overloaded. Bowls of piping-hot pozole were served from huge vats to anyone and everyone with an appetite. Colorfully-dressed participants (including the local priest) marched, skipped and danced along in succession, displaying and tossing the local crafts, crops and confetti.

Since construction, agriculture and brick-making are the trades of the local people in this particular community, procession participants danced and carried everything from shovels and spades to bread and bricks. It was all very festive, with many of the local townspeople bringing large trash bags to stash the loot they collected.  After spending some time in the stands with Jose and his family, I joined Jeff on the sidelines. As I was leaving my seat, Jose warned “Cuidado“. Why would he tell me to be careful?

That’s when things got interesting.

The bands had made their rounds, and people began flooding out of the stands. Suddenly, the arena, about the size of a basketball court, was overflowing with the masses. Lining the grounds were trucks, large and larger, over-filled with stuff. There were toys, shoes, buckets, brooms and bowls. All being showered onto the crowd. It was raining plastic! I was knocked in the noggin by a toy tractor, and Jeff’s forehead was dinged by a dustpan.

Who’s gonna catch it?

The tossing of the balls

Then the shovels came out.

Wait…surely they’re not going to sling shovels into their congregation! Holy shit!

We eventually figured out that the shovels (and other small farming equipment) were waved in the air to exhibit the prize that was up for grabs. Then the people in the trucks, on the rooftops (!) and in the bucket of a backhoe began to heave giant rubber balls into the crowd. The person that secured the ball then brought it to the designated truck, (or wherever), and exchanged the ball for the shovel (or whatever).

You can imagine the clashes of those vying for the coveted prizes. It was a mosh pit! The crowds laughed, yelled, dodged, and sometimes struggled over tossed balls. An athletic competition, for sure, and any time a ball came too close, we ducked for cover.

Rowdies on the Roof with their little balls

I was glued to the sight of about fifteen young men, standing atop a building, guzzling bottles of beer and tequila. When empty, they would pretend to launch the bottles into the crowd.  They staggered and swayed, and I am honestly surprised no one fell onto the mob below.

After about three hours, darkness crept in, and it was time to make the trip home. Since we had encountered numerous horses, donkeys, cows and the ever-present street dog on the way to the village, we were determined to avoid driving in the dark. We said our fond farewells, and offered a lift back to Patzcuaro to a few of Jose’s friends that had joined us for the festivities.

I can’t say enough about the hospitality and warmth of the local people we have met in our short time here. Unlike in our cruising and sailing community, we gringo’s are undoubtedly the minority in our new environs. English is not widely spoken, but friendships develop nonetheless, and I am so very grateful to be living the new life that we chose when we moved to Patzcuaro.