Fiesta de San Diego

There is never a bad day for a fiesta in Olinalá, and saints’ days are of particular importance. Thursday, November 12, was the saint day of San Diego, and it is only logical that the neighborhood named after this saint would have a large fiesta in honor of their saint. There are six neighborhoods in Olinalá, many of whom are named after saints. My old neighborhood was part of barrio San Diego, which I found out after I moved. The large neighborhood includes much of a hillside to the north of town on the way to Zacango, where at the top of the hill is a small, but beautiful chapel in honor of San Diego.

I first heard about the fiesta on Wednesday during literacy class in Zacango. Maria, who is always ready for a fiesta and fun, said that she would join many from Zacango for the procession to the neighborhood party. On Thursday as I read and enjoyed the sun on my rooftop deck, I heard a loudspeaker in the area announce that all those from barrio (neighborhood) Paraiso were invited to gather at 4:30 to begin the pilgrimage to barrio San Diego. From Bruce and Jaime who went last year and would be there again this year, I heard tell of a procession, dancing and a meal, the usual activities for a fiesta.

Thinking we would be appropriately late, Manuel, a coworker, and I climbed the hill to the chapel at 5:30, only to realize that people had only just begun to gather. We talked with Max and Irene who live near the chapel. Max’s brother, Luis, is the mayor of Zacango and a good friend of Bruce and Jaime. Irene cleans the MCC office twice a week. While waiting for the procession, I could see the white and red corn drying on the rooftops of the houses, the large pile of squash stashed in a corner waiting to be sold at the market, and the restless donkey eating the yellow flowers while chickens scampered around its feet.

Like a beacon on a hill, the chapel shined with candle light and smelled of fresh cut flowers. To the right of the chapel was a large concrete area that looked like it could have been a basketball court, but that night would be used for eating, saying mass and dancing. Papel picado fluttered in the wind. In front and to the left of the chapel, vendors selling drinks, snacks and knick knacks had set of shop for those who could not wait until dinner. There was a lot of activity and wonderful smells emanating from the left of the chapel where large amounts of pozole (corn soup with pork) was being prepared.

The music of the standard brass band hired for all fiestas signaled that the procession had reached the top of the hill. Similar to the Fiestas Patronales (Patron Saint Festival), though on a much smaller scale, the procession included youth dressed up in scary masks or as tigers who danced to the music of no less than two bands and the more somber adults carrying the saint draped in orange flowers. It lasted less than five minutes.

The 10-15 youth continued to dance to the music outside the chapel as Manuel and I surveyed the scene. The best description I can offer is that of a block party or town fair, minus the rides and cotton candy. I chuckled to see an old neighbor of mine who used to live across the street from me at my old place. My memory of him is that he stood on the balcony some mornings engaged not so appropriate activities. His proclivities tended toward those of my infamous neighbor in Regent Square, if you are familiar with that story. In the defense of this young man, it is common knowledge in the town that he is mentally not all there.

The 500-600 people were not going to fit into the chapel built for 50 people at most, so mass was said outside. Manuel and I were standing on the edges of the circle where the kids ran off energy and excitement, vendors continued to sell their wares, and dinner preparations continued. Every now and again a small grandma would chastise the children for their noise which would quite the group for a few minutes.

The highlight of the mass for me was when we sang “A la Orilla,” a song from the Mennonite Hymnal that I don’t particularly enjoying singing at home, but sang with gusto that night. It was the one time that I felt connected to the liturgy. After the spraying of holy water for those who stepped forward, the mass concluded.

With the conclusion of mass, the party could begin. Men carrying large pails of pozole made their way through the crowd to the tables. Bowls of ground chile, wedges of limes and shredded pork filled the tables along with liters of coke and bottles of tequila. The food was served buffet style from six to eight tables had all of the same food. As best I could tell, each table belonged to a different barrio or community that people had already paid into for the cost of the food. I was invited to eat at several tables, but Bruce and Jaime assured me that we were with the Zacango group. A woman handed me a styrofoam bowl full of pozole. I added chile and lime juice, managing to avoid the pork.

With dinner served, the music and dancing resumed and the tequila began to flow. I really did not see a future for me in the drinking or dancing, and by 9pm I decided that I had celebrated San Diego to the best of my ability. Saturino, a man from Zacango who had a relationship with MCC for many years, assured me that the party was just beginning. I certainly did not doubt him, but asked that he would tell me all about it another day. Maria could not believe that I was going to miss the fireworks. At home, I could still hear the music and see the chapel shinning on the hill.

The next morning as I walked to the office, I saw the sad reality of fiestas. At least three men were sprawled across the sidewalks, a tragic outcome over indulgence at a fiesta. San Diego was certainly celebrated and certainly got his fill of tequila.