Ancient Modernity in San Miguel De Allende

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Ancient Modernity in San Miguel De Allende

This morning the air seemed to be full of a palpable energy. Leaving my house to go on my morning run I noticed that my next store neighbors already had a small feast of tortillas, eggs and some agua fresca neatly set up on a small, temporary table like the kind used in my grammar school.

I noticed immediately that there were very few cars on the street, and in their place groups of people scurried through the narrow cobblestone streets on unknown errands. Some were neatly dressed in what was obviously their best clothes, others seemed to be running to the store for a loaf of bread, a little coffee, or some pon dulce. It seemed that everyone in some way was preparing for the day, the festival of their town’s patron saint: San Miguel (or in the gringo tongue, Saint Michael.)

As I finished up my run, I passed a group of young men—from adolescents to a few in their mid twenties—dressed in classic Indian garb in the style of the old American western. A few carried drums, all looked the part with brown skin, dark straight black hair and leather anklets with simple black tassels.

After a quick breakfast, some yoga and a few cups of coffee my mom and I headed to El Jardin to watch the day’s festivities. Walking to the town center we both remarked on the sense of heightened energy, noticeable not only in the intangible electricity in the air, but also in the groups of people moving with surprising purpose on a prematurely hot Sunday morning.

As we made our way up the narrow cobblestone street to the garden the sound of pounding drumming became audible, the thumping bass caused the hairs on my body to stand on end, as if triggered by the primal beat and its native intonations.










Coming into the main square we embraced an explosion of color, motion, dance and smells—a wonderful mixture of chaotic movement, swirling masses of dancers, drummers, bystanders. The milieu of people swayed together in a flux of humanity, participants and performers; all of them mixing and trading space seamlessly so that you were never quite sure who was performing and who was watching. I began to stop trying to notice who was who and realized that everyone was apart of the show.

Over the din of drumming, the grito calls and the cymbals a deep voice announced what seemed to be the days events over a muffled public address system. With my shoddy Spanish comprehension I managed to catch a province name here, a time there, however, in the end it all seemed to blur into a strange background noise that served only to heighten the sense of being in a festival atmosphere.

Making my way through the crowd into the main area abreast of the main church tower the clamour and excitement of the people quickly inundated me. Indians, peasants, gringos, upper and middle class Mexicans mixed together in a torrent of people, devoid of the weekday tension and the normal order of things in the provincial artist’s colony. The gringo’s, while most noticeable by their pensive movements and their predilection to carrying camera’s worth more then the yearly wage of the Mexican standing at their side, seemed to be welcomed, if by anonymity, into the sea of people.





















While the day was marked by a genuinely Mexican sense of chaos, a modicum of order prevailed whenever a group of dancers or performers made their to the center of the human sea. When the pole flyers began the harrowing shimmy up the 100ft metal pole set at the center of the courtyard the crowd began to step back, and take notice of their bravery, while maintaining a sense of casual indifference. I’m beginning to learn that disregard for safety is a Mexican trademark, a careless bravado that does not ask for recognition but instead just is.

























Like a grandfather holding an Ipod, the mixture of ancient and modern that distinguishes Mexico was in fully glory this day . Seeing a beautiful woman in the latest western fashion walk side by side with someone dressed in the garb of an ancient Aztec warrior reminded me that I was in a place that honored its depth of history, even if a bit clumsily. I couldn’t help but think of the irony that St. Michael, a Spanish saint, was being celebrated today by throngs of people dressed in the garb of the people his empire tortured, raped and killed over centuries of conquest and oppression.

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Comments

[unbenumbst]

Looks good so far. Keep getting out, enjoying yourself; ¿Quién sabe? Tal vez, algún día todo el idioma vendrá claro a ti. Es la misma cosa para mi—espero que algún día, pronto, el idioma y la cultura y la gente y la tierra vendrán claro; ¿Qué lo tomará? Muchísimo cosas: viajar, pensamientos; el extrano (¿Ve ud.? Todavía no me acostumbro este idioma—¿Dónde está ~ en este teclado? ¿Qué es la palabra para “strangeness”? Etcétera.) mundo de la otra idioma y mi lugar cerca de este mundo diferente… Pues, hay otras cosas decir, pero no los creo ahora. Espero que los pueda para suyo, primero, que para su “blog”. De vez en cuando, escribeme una carta o un coreo electronico. Sano viaje y muchísimos descubrimientos. Su hermano. Y más: gracias para la practica esta manana, buen practica para ti, también. Recuerda: practica todos los días—hablar, escribir, escuchar, leer. Ahora que tienes tiempo, ¡hazlo! Es una cosa muy raro. Bueno suerte.

[Luzita]

The moments
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