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The weekend before Ash Wednesday is Carnival, marking (roughly) the beginning of Lent. Lent is an odd duck to me, but then all the various religions growing out of the Arabian deserts are odd ducks to me.
When faced with deprivation, followers go on a spree of excess, which is considered a sin, but then you can "repent" and all is magically forgiven regardless of the consequences of these actions in this life. Never mind that this files in the face of the actual experiences of life, in which all actions most definitely have consequences.
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On one hand I think this idea that you can do whatever you want and later be absolved is the source of most of what's wrong with western culture. It's the source of our environmental and social problems and I think in hindsight will be seen as the bit of philosophy that landed us in history's dustbin way ahead of schedule.
On the other hand, who doesn't love a big party in the streets?
Unfortunately, just as Candelaria fades the further you go north, Carnival seems to fade the further north you get from Brazil. Which isn't to say Mexico doesn't celebrate at all -- by most accounts Mazatlan is the place to be for Carnival -- but here in San Miguel de Allende it's been reduced to día de los cascarones, or day of the confetti eggs.
It's good fun for the kids anyway.
Cascarones are eggs that have been drained and filled with confetti. Or glitter or flour. They're colorfully painted, cost less than 50 cents a dozen and exist primarily to smash on someone's head. What's not to love?
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Aside from a few vendors hawking giant crepe paper flowers, some glittery masks, and various hand-made puppets to tourists, the only other sign of anything happening in relation to Carnival was the indigenous dancers. One night I took the girls up to the Jardin to watch the drumming and dancing.
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Most of the dancing groups we've seen quite a few times at this point, but there was one that was new to me who had drumming punctuated by machetes clanking like cymbals, by far my favorites from a musical point of view.
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The dancers all wore white outfits with red fringing and large feather head dresses. They would dance in a circle and then at some point in the rhythm, form up into two lines of four or five people all facing each other. The footwork moved with the drums, but the hands then clanged the flat side of the machete blade against that of the partner opposite them. The line then shifted and everyone lined up with a different person and the melody and rhythm repeated. When they reached the end of the line they broke into a circle again.
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The kids loved everything about día de los cascarones so much they dragged me back up the next morning to see if there was anything still happening. There wasn't. No one's kidding about the "día" part, but we did get to see the entire square in the Jardin covered in flour, evidence that the night before had gotten considerably messier after we headed home.
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