BAJA COUNTRY CARNIVAL!
Originally published in Western Outdoor News the week of January 23, 2007
You know me. If there’s an opportunity to do something a little different or head down that proverbial “road less traveled,” chances are, I’ve already got my weedeater out and am hacking my way down that path. Sometimes it’s been my un-doing and other times, it leads to incredible discoveries.
For those of you who travel the Baja or any of the numerous places in Mexico, chances are you’ve encountered some little pueblo no doubt named after some saint, e.g. San Pablo, Santo Tomas, Santa Maria, etc.
I once asked one of my amigos how they came up with the names. Were the towns finished or dedicated on the feast day of some saint? “No,” he replied. “Usually, the first guy who builds a house gets to name the town. If his name is “Jose” the town becomes “San Jose!” Simple. (Hmmmm….How would “Santo Jonathan” sound? Doesn’t quite have that ring.)
Anway…If you ever want to see a town at it’s best and perhaps see a bit of Mexico that is passing the way of the fifty-cent beer and cheap green Pemex gasoline, get yourself invited to a local town carnival. The further in the middle-of-nowhere, the better! It’s as old-fashioned and culturally rich as a good old American country fair with a Baja twist.
They are always at night. When the desert is quiet. The pangas are beached. The farms are shut down and the stars are all that light the highway. In towns where the birth of a new cow is big news and someone getting cable TV is cause for a fiesta, find the lights. You’ll see the carnival lights from miles away like a baby Las Vegas and hear the music and the sound of the carnival generators long before you’re there.
When you see the signs announcing Gran Fiesta! (big party) and Gran Baile! (big dance) featuring some Banda Famosa (famous band) with a name like the “Toucans of Sinaloa” or the “Los Tigres del Rancho” no doubt written on huge florescent banners draped across main street and you’ve arrived.
It will be packed. They come down from the hills and off the farms. These carnivals last 3-5 nights. It’s the event of the season and the locals are ready to party the night away.
People are dressed up. Ranchers and fishermen might wear the grubbiest clothes to work, but tonite caballeros (cowboys) in their Sunday-finests cowboy hats and boots stroll with their damas (ladies) around the booths filled with trinkets and games, carnie hawkers and vendors. Coy young girls giggle and walk in the dirt with their high heels and best dresses anxiously trying to attract the eye of some young guapo (handsome young man) undoubtedly hanging with friend and trying (like young boys everywhere) “disinterestedly interested.” The younger kids underfoot run and tag, tease and squeal like any kids!
Rides that would never pass safety inspections in the states wheel, tumble and rattle as kids laugh and scream! “Cinco pesos! Cinco pesos!” cajoles the carnie operating the Ferris wheel that noticeably seems to be missing a few bolts. One whirling ride seems to have trouble with the speed. It spins so fast that at times that it’s centrifugal force often send the rider’s shoes or slippers whirling off into the crowd! Look out! But, of course, everyone yells “Faster! Faster!”
There’s a shooting gallery with real pellets and for 4 pesos you get 20 shots at beer bottles and empty spam cans. No safety. Only a sign warning you not to walk behind the booth or you might get shot! I do see someone’s dead chicken in the dirt behind the booth. No doubt killed by friendly fire!
The big dance is on the town’s concrete basketball court. The dance floor is jammed with bodies. Cars nose-to-nose use their headlights to light the dancers. Like many Mexican bands, the whole group is dressed alike in dark cowboy outfits and hats. Amid the thump of the bass and the blaring rancho polka sounds of the accordion, you can hear the generators powering the amplifiers and dancers whirl and step while tables lining the dance area have pyramids of beer cans rising ever taller. Every hour or so a fight break out only to end in hugs and more beer! Amigo! I didn’t know she was your sister! Mas cerveza por mi amigo! Andale!
If it’s the weekend, you’ll be lucky to catch the horse races through the desert where the riders are often so drunk they’d remind you of Lee Marvin’s character in that old movie “Cat Ballou.” The riders aren’t really jockeys as much as they’re just “along for the ride” and the winner must be seated on his own horse when it crosses the finish line. Many don’t finish…riders or horses… and have to be found later! The women handle the betting money to keep it away from the borracho drunken riders!
And food! Dios Mio! It permeates everything and wafts over and through the crowd. Fresh barbecued beef costillos (ribs); sizzling carne asada tacos; fresh tortillas by the kilo! Here’s a vendor making burros (giant burritos) as long as your forearm stuffed with roasted pork carnitas; grilled onions and green chili verde. There’s a booth with steaming tamales and the old women have pork, chicken and another filled with roasted chiles and cheese! The smell of sweet grilled onions seems becken from somewhere.
That booth over there is selling fresh steamed sweet corn in cup. Ten pesos! Filled with grated sharp dried cheese; crema, chili powder and tart sqeezed lime, it’s a deal! Coconut macaroons and almond brittle…honey cookies…hand-made vanilla bean ice cream…Hey! It sounds like another fight just broke out on the dance floor!
And on and on it goes into the night until bodies drop in exhaustion or drift back home. Many can be found sleeping it off peacefully in the streets wherever they ran out of energy (or the alcohol caught up to them.) And then they start it all again the next night! Viva Mexico! Viva la fiesta! I swear, I didn’t know I was dancing with your sister! Oh, she was your cousin! That’s different. Let’s have another beer, amigo!
I sure hope you’re not fishing tomorrow because your captain is gonna be a little late and a little red-eyed!
That’s my story. If you ever want to reach me, my e-mail is riplipboy@aol.com.
That's My Story 