La Iglesia de San Patricio, San Patrico, Mexico

 

Pamplona, Spain is the site of the annual "running of the bulls."
 

Pamplona with Burns

Where Melaque ends and San Patricio begins is anybody's guess. It's a classic example of the more people you ask, the more answers you get. Suffice to say the two small pueblos enact an intimate embrace along the Pacific coast of Mexico. Logic suggests the central plaza, referred to as the "jardin" (har - deen' / garden) by locals, touches upon both communities. There is no question though, that La Iglesia de San Patrico (St. Patrick's Church) located across the street from the south end of the jardin, rests in San Patricio.

St. Patrick, the patron saint of San Patricio, is honored annually throughout both communities for 10 straight days leading up to March 17th, St. Patrick's Day.

The festivities kick off with an hour long aerial bombardment across the 2AM to 3AM time slot Tuesday, March 8th. A brass marching band hits the streets at 7:00AM that same morning for those lucky enough to get back to sleep. The aerial explosions and brass marching bands appear regularly across the next ten days with little discernible regard for rhyme or reason.

The main attraction each day is the nightly gathering in the jardin. It is noisy and festive. The jardin fills by 9PM when the band ascends the gazebo stage and launches into brassy numbers with a latin beat. Young couples dance the frenetic "la banda." Others stroll in the cool evening air or chat on benches or low cement walls surrounding raised grassy plots. Clowns perform. Vendors set up on the sidewalks selling tacos, tamales, coffee beans and sugary fried churros. Passing vehicles blast advertisements through speakers. One señorita sells emptied out painted eggs refilled with confetti for smashing on unsuspecting heads. The restaurants and cafés around the jardin do a bustling business.

Friends say the evening of Wednesday, March 16th, is the most raucous. I get there early.

For much of the evening I'm at the bench of a group of Canadians I have gotten to know. We chat and watch the pretty girls go by. The Italian Canadians, who rarely sit, say hello as they pass in small groups. I occasionally wander off for a pineapple tamale or ice cream cone.

Around 10:00PM, a restlessness grows in the crowd. Several workmen have wheeled out a long, ungainly structure from alongside the church. It's called a "castillo," (castle), but looks anything but. The workmen raise the castillo to an upright position. It stands about 45 feet tall and is a framework structure, looking much like a vertical crane. Tangled cables, which turn out to be fuses, run throughout the castillo from the bottom to the top. Sets of three large pinwheels protrude from three sides of the castillo. A separate, trapezoidal-shaped frame crowns the top of the structure.

As the clock approaches 10:30PM, onlookers move towards their favorite spots. The upright castillo, which sits in the narrow street between the church and the jardin, draws the bulk of the crowd. The church's front doors are swung open, exposing its brightly-lit interior, and a large group has gathered out front. A horde of young boys stand in the street near the castillo, each carrying a sheet of cardboard. I position myself on a raised grassy area just off to the right of the front of the castillo.

At 11PM, a young man appears and lights a fuse on the castillo. It flares up one side, igniting the pinwheels on that side as it moves along. The pinwheels spin and burst into colorful, flaming designs sending out thick showers of sparks. The gathered young boys in a show of youthful machismo hold the cardboard pieces over their heads and sprint back and forth under the bright cascade. Burning rockets on the outer edge of the pinwheels propel their spinning motion. As the rockets burn down, they periodically dislodge and fly wildly about. Panic and hilarity ensue. Knots of onlookers dance bizarre jigs as burning rockets richochet around their legs. One rocket lands on a taxi. Another flies into the church. A tamale vendor pitches a fit when a rocket scurries up the underside of his truck.

I stand with a group on the raised grassy plot, watching rockets fly hither and zither about the jardin. A blazing projectile suddenly heads in my direction. It's about ten feet above me when it breaks in a wild corkscrew and shoots towards my head. I spin around to protect my face and quickly gauge the crowd configuration. In a lightning burst I leap off the grassy plot onto the cement surface of the jardin. I continue sprinting for another ten feet. Unscathed, I head back towards my spot on the grass. People are animated and smiling. A gaunt, Vancouver bohemian, moments before standing at my side, drifts by pawing at a gaping hole in his shirt. The hole is rimmed with bright sparks. A young local and I slap at the smoldering fabric. We lead him to a fountain and douse his shirt with water. He lifts it up to expose several pink, nickel-sized burns stretching along his abdomen. He says he took the missle full on in the stomach.

"Did it hurt?" I ask.

"Yes, it hurt."

His girlfriend arrives and leads him away.

Each side of the castillo is lit separately. The final fuse runs to the crown. It bursts into a bright display of pink and green crucifixes, then lifts off high into the San Patricio night. Its rockets spent, the crown falls back towards the crowd and lands flaming in a small palm tree. The crown's retrieval considered auspicious, onlookers battle to grab it.

The castillo now a smoking hulk, a machine-gun spray of fireworks and explosives commences from a church building's roof. A near-
horizontal trajectory propels the spray into the sky just above the jardin. The effect is of an exilarating assault. One salvo leaves a thick vapor trail of shimmering golden flakes.

And this was just the warm-up.

The fireworks complete, I notice a rapid migration in the crowd. Some flee for their homes or hotel. Others remain, but move across the street to the sidewalk on the far side from the church. Another group presses forward towards the side of the jardin closest to the church. I join this group.

A nervous squeal erupts when the first torito (little bull) appears in a church archway. He's slightly crouched under the weight of a cylindrical frame about the size of a beer keg. In the frame's center stands a wooden bull. The torito holds the frame in both hands above his head, which slightly intrudes on the frame's interior. Someone lights a fuse at the bottom of the frame. It burns upwards and ignites a ring of rockets circling the frame. Several more rings of rockets circle the exterior of the frame each igniting as the previous ring burns down. Once the initial ring is clearly ablaze, the torito charges across the street into the throng.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The torito dashes haphazardly throughout the jardin, his jostling movements shooting rockets in all directions. The crowd alternately follows and flees. I trail him at a distance and join the others in running like heck when he heads my way. Some daredevils crowd the torito on his manic rounds, often pelting him with plastic bottles. Later I see them lifting their pants legs to check for burns or examining soot marks on their shirts. It's all hilarious until the torito heads towards you, then you run in a thrilling panic. The torito sprints amok through vendors' stands and across the street to terrorize those who had sought safe haven. A whitish smoke fills the jardin. Now only a dim colorful glow and the frightened calls of the crowd announce the torito's arrival. I keep my eyes peeled and my wits about me. Concerned he's not inflicting enough panic, the torito halts his zigzagging attack, takes the frame by the bottom rungs and whirls it in a reckless, rocket-spewing frenzy. People scream and sprint away. The crowd roars when a male onlooker takes a rocket to the groin.

Five more toritos follow the first

I feel invigorated, bold and daring as the smoke clears and the evening draws to a close.