We are a scant block away from the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad: the Church of our Lady of Solitude. This weekend is the Fiesta de la Soledad, and it’s happening right in our front yard.

Last weekend, in another neighborhood, was the Fiesta de la Virgen de Guadalupe. Anywhere else in Mexico, that would be the big deal. But Soledad is the patron saint of Oaxaca state, and the festivities represent Oaxaca at it’s best: colorful, idiosyncratic, and deeply, deeply committed.

The Basílica itself is a great Baroque beast, completed in 1690 and in continuous use since. It features a restored, fully functioning pipe organ from 1686, a statue of Mary made with 2 kg of gold and a crown with 600 diamonds, and multiple public plazas. One of them is dedicated to ice cream vendors, and the other two are used for weddings, performances, and events.

Day One: Friday

The Fiesta preparations started Thursday afternoon and continued, as far as we could tell, all night without a break. The street in front of our building was closed off and turned into a three block long pedestrian mall with food, clothing, and souvenir vendors, along with games of “skill.” The park directly in front of us was turned into a pop-up carnival. The Ferris Wheel was actually in the street, so close you could diagnose riders as they circled past.

But the fair was a sideshow. At 7:00 PM, the Mass at the Basílica ended and the party began. A Carnival-like riot of costumed dancers, constructions, and massive puppets, it takes place on an open plaza with revelers snaking through the performers. There are no adequate words to describe it, so I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

When they finished up in the plaza, the entire party decamped to the street behind the Basílica. It looked exactly like it was going to become a parade, based if nothing else on all the floats on the back of trucks. Three of those floats featured different human versions of Soledad. Or maybe they weren’t all supposed to be different versions of Soledad, but there were no signs for foreigners, and they sure all looked like her.

We waited a while to see if it would actually move, but gave up in favor of dinner at one of the booths in the fair. Of course, it did turn into a parade, just after we left. We missed it, but Espacio Cultural Oaxaca posted an excellent video.

Dinner at the fair was amazing. More than just stalls, entire restaurants had popped up in the street, complete with awnings, tables & chairs, and table service. We ordered huaraches, masa dough fried and covered in refried beans and, in our case, al pastor. They’re called huaraches because of their shape, much like the sole of a sandal.

And that was pretty much Day One complete. But while we may have been done with the day, the day wasn’t done with us. The fair ran until midnight, and featured an amplified barker repeatedly inducing passersby to try their luck throwing a ring over rubber ducks floating in a tank. We tried to dull the sound by liberally applying mezcal, but were only partially successful.

Day Two: Saturday

The fair continued to run on Day Two, but the big event was the fireworks at the Basílica in the evening. The other big event was our 45th anniversary. The plan was to catch the fireworks and then go out to a nice restaurant for dinner. We’ve been eating pretty well, mixing it up between cooking at home from ingredients available at the mercado, eating street food, which is spectacular here, and the occasional sit down restaurant. But we hadn’t gone anyplace really nice yet, so the anniversary seemed like the right opportunity.

We didn’t know exactly when the fireworks would start, but Day One’s party started when Mass ended at 7:00. So we left at 6:30 to stake out prime spots on the plaza overlooking where the fireworks would go off. The temperature was in the low 60s and we weren’t dressed too warmly, but we thought we’d be out for about an hour before we made it to dinner, so we weren’t concerned.

So…

It turns out that the poster with the schedule for the Basílica did have times. Which I hadn’t noticed, and didn’t discover until afterwards. That time: 10:00. Actual start time was 10:15, so pretty tight to schedule, but almost four hours after we got there. That’s a very long time to stand, especially for those of us with replacement knees. But Dorothy was a trooper, and we were lavishly rewarded for our peevish patience.

As it happened, at 8:00 there was a procession, which we thought, in our youthful optimism, was a harbinger of fireworks. Not so, but still beautiful, with the Hermandad de Estandartes parading through with a statue of Soledad.

Eventually the fireworks proper began. It started with, as one might expect, men dancing with Papier-mâché bulls on their heads. Said bulls were wired for maximum carnage, and little to no effort was made to keep the crowd at a safe distance. No one was injured, or at least not badly enough to require treatment. Which made absolutely no sense.

I’d love to share the specific cultural context and meaning of this particular ritual, but I couldn’t find anything illuminating. I suspect that, like many traditions, it began with someone shouting, “Hold my beer.”

That was just the exceptionally weird appetizer, though. The main course was El Castillo: The Castle. A handcrafted, multistory Tower of Doom, constructed of bamboo and prayers.

I’m sure there are settings for my phone that would have kept the fireworks from oversaturating the video, but I don’t know them yet. So rather than share a video of the entire 10 minutes of exploding Castillo, I’ve edited some greatest hits, where the image isn’t so blown out you can’t tell what’s happening. Oh, and no video at all of the more traditional fireworks show that followed the Castillo. All in all, quite a night of explosives.

By the time this was over, we were cold, sore, and dazzled. What a perfect way to end our anniversary celebration. We had managed to sneak out before the show started to pick up hand food at the fair, so at least we weren’t also hungry at the end. We got a pair of esquites, which we knew as vaso elotes. It’s a cup with boiled corn, smothered in queso fresco, mayo, lime juice, and chili powder. It has absolutely no reason to be as delicious as it is, and it served double duty by warming us from the inside.

We wanted dessert, but we wanted to be sitting even more, so we made it the block home through the fair and collapsed with our best bottle of mezcal. It was after 11:00 when we got back, so we figured we were at least close to the amplified huckster shutting down. Sadly, he ran even later than the previous evening. By the time we passed out at about 12:30, he was still going strong.

Day Three: Sunday

The fair is still running, for what we assume pray will be its final day. The crowds were so intense this evening that we battled just to leave the area and take our evening walk.

Today’s Basílica festivities are modest. A fair amount of Eucharist, and then the return of the Brotherhood of the Banners in the evening. Last night was their entrada, and tonight will be their despedida (farewell). Not to be jaded, but we’ll play the video backwards if we need to see them depart the Basílica.

Sadly, the other Basílica activity today was the Procesión de aurora, with the ubiquitous Brotherhood of the Banners and a live band. As you might have guessed, aurora means dawn, and this Procesión was scheduled for 4:00 AM. Promises made, promises kept.

The band played a mournful air, followed by chanting, followed by a loud explosion. Because, of course it was. And the sequence started all over again.

Which sounds like complaining. Can’t imagine why. But we truthfully have nothing to complain about. We’re staying at Ground Zero for the local culture, and this is what we set out to see. Other people, other places, and other ways of living.

And exploding bulls.

Day Four? No. Just No.

It’s not funny anymore. Make it stop.

Day Five. Seriously.

The fair continues to run outside our building, ending between 12:30 and 1:00 AM. We asked our landlady when it was scheduled to end, and she didn’t know. At this point, we’re afraid it may stay up until Christmas, another four days.

We have dreams of Tía Pato drowning in a lake of fire.

Day Six…

We search for other survivors, but fear we are the only ones left.

Day Seven…

“It’s not the heat that’s driving me mad, Nigel. It’s the incessant jungle drumming.”

Day Eight. Fuck Me, There’s a Day Eight…

We seriously discussed leaving town for a few days. Then, at midnight, it ended, to be replaced by the soothing sounds of metal on metal, as crews worked all through the night to dismantle the rides and remove the stalls. By morning, we’d been rescued.