by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

The explosions happen in volleys. Cuetes, aerial dynamite, sixths of a stick. In less than two seconds 10, 15, 20 detonate right over my house almost all at once; rapid-fire, artificial thunder, in a succession too stunning and quick to count. One on top of the other. Not, boom, boom, boom... but, boom,boom,boom...

That'll make you stop what you're doing. In my case, it's 6am. I'm still in bed. And, if I wasn't awake before, I am now.

Then, after a ten, twenty or thirty-second pause, another volley is launched. Flying up from the back plaza of the Church of San Antonio, right next door, there is just one second of warning, the whooshing of the tiny rockets carrying the charges aloft, just long enough to shout, "Incoming!" and cover your ears.

Time is if not suspended then warped, hard to count, but after a while, and 5-8 volleys, there is a hiatus. Then just seconds into that longer pause, as if receiving their cue, a multi-piece brass band begins to play.

By the level of the sound, I divine that they are just across the empty lot on my other next door, away from the church, on the corner on the other side of the tortillera, serenading the statue of San Antonio there, recently adorned with flowers, his fountain filled in advance for the celebration of his day, Día de los Locos.

My supposition proves correct, when, five minutes later, the music gets louder. The band, I know without raising my head from the pillow, has left that corner station, and is marching, their sound no longer obstructed by the tortilleria, past the empty lot, down Calle Heroes. Sonically I chart their progress along the block, and then, also acoustically, note that they have paused their peregrination in the plaza in front of the church. The strains of their vigorous, discordant homage, not much farther away than the corner saintly fountain, but now muffled by more intervening buildings, are still quite audible on the otherwise unruffled morning air.

All this coming in fast and registering somewhat absurdly, it dawns on me that this band is at the head of a reverent column, a mass of pilgrims that has made its way towards a special, early mass at the church. Presently the church bells confirm this surmise, beginning their raucous, celebratory clanging. In this alternate, dream-like world the chaotic ringing fills what seems like eternity, but is probably just a few minutes. Then the band strikes up again, their music growing even softer, as they march off farther, down Callejon San Antonio towards the Ancha.

But before their notes fade completely, before the faithful have finished filling the pews, the aerial explosions begin again, in the same volley-pause-volley pattern, as quickly as the launcher can be reloaded; boom,boom,boom... [pause] boom,boom,boom...

The show finally over, I pluck up the courage to leave the relative sonic insulation of my recessed bedroom, get out of bed, go up front, and check the clock. It is 6:20am.

Wanting to illustrate this article with photographs of the saint's fountain in the early morning light, ten minutes later, still in my nightshirt, I am out and down our little alley almost to the corner, camera in hand, when I practically bump into a young man, coming along Calle 20 de enero. Broadly tattooed and still dressed for the evening before: festooned with chains, leather vest and cap, he wishes me a proper "Buenos días." Festooned in my own colorful way: long hair still down, beard flowing as ever, wild Guatemalan shorts, I heartily return the salutation. Following along a few steps behind him to the nearby corner, extending my telephone, I call out, in Spanish, "Friend, please take a photo of me in front of the fountain." He happily complies.

Except for me and my tattooed companion, no doubt making his way home from a lucky previous evening out, the streets are deserted, without movement of car or person. Yes, it is Saturday at 6:30am, but there is an added stillness, a higher tide of quiet. The dogs and cats, unconvinced that the booming is finished, are yet cowering, sheltering in the deepest refuge they could find. After the sonic barrage the silence is deeper.

With nowhere to go, I linger on the corner, drinking in the ambiance. The sun still shy, very low in the east, casts long shadows, the last remnants of receding night, across streets and the facades of buildings.

The whole episode: the bombs bursting in air, the very brassy band, the overly-insistent church bells, the tattooed man, me still dreamy in my pajamas, the flowered saintly fountain, taken all together, has the air of one of the wilder scenes from a Fellini film, a movie he never made about Mexico.

And it all is just one small scene of the movie, just a small part of the ensayo (rehearsal), a tiny part of the 14-day long preparation for tomorrow's finale. Each day has a different neighborhood setting out and boisterously parading their platformed saints each evening to the San Antonio church, their arrival there followed by hours of music, dancing and food.

All of this morning's surreal celebration is just a brief preview of tomorrow's main event, the Día de Los Locos parade, with 50 costumed contingents, limited by the city to no more than 100 dancers each, each group gyrating behind its own over-amplified sound truck.

It's easy to dismiss the festivities as crazy, puerile fun. They are an over-the-top outburst. But something profound is bursting out.

The over-exuberance: the too-loud music, the too many aerial explosions, the too-feverish dancing, is an expression of the irrepressible, a break from oppression and a victory over it.

I hear and see in the loco of Día de Los Locos the defiant spirit of the Mexican people: "You rob, torture and kill us... and have for centuries... but we are still here and strong... listen and watch!"

And, of course, throughout it all, in this very religious country, is religiosity; the church, heavily woven with the indigenous; the faith that there is a finer, truer experience of life beyond material wealth. I'll dance to that... but tomorrow. Right now, I'm going back up the alley, back home to have my morning smoothie. Watermelon every day!

¡Viva México!

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, our local social network, the community online and off, Atención robustly reborn for the digital age. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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