Mass DWI

Theodore P. Druch

Once the proverbial sleepy Mexican fishing village, San Patricio Melaque, about 135 miles south of PuertoVallarta on the Pacific coast of the state of Jalisco, has grown to become a major destination for Canadian and American snow-birds looking for authentic laid-back Mexican ambience without the hustle and bustle of the larger and more popular resorts.

San Patricio, named for St. Patrick, was originally a Hacienda deeded by the Mexican government to one of the San Patricios, Irish Catholic soldiers who had deserted the US Army during the Mexican War, claiming harsh treatment at the hands of their WASP officers. They fought hard and bravely for Mexico and were rewarded with land and other financial benefits.

Over the years, as a locally famous getaway for Mexican vacationers, the Hacienda grew into a village, and the village into a town, and every year, its Irish origins were celebrated with a Fiesta on St. Patrick’s Day. Every year, as well, the real connection with the ‘Auld Sod’ grew ever more tenuous and, though the present celebration is a noisy ten-day affair, you’ll see green on no one but tourists, and if anyone toasts Ireland, it probably won’t be a Mexican.

My wife Maria and I first visited San Patricio in 1999 when we were traveling in a 1976 Pace Arrow Motor Home, camping at the Playa Trailer Park on the beach. We arrived on the day after St. Patrick’s Day, and wandering about the Plaza de Armas, the town square or zocalo, we watched as the decorations were being taken down, vowing to return one day for the Fiesta itself.

Ten years later, after peregrinating around the world, we returned to Mexico to settle in Puerto Vallarta, and now, on March 15, 2009, we found ourselves back in Melaque for the last three days of the Fiesta de San Patricio.

The trip down Hwy. 200 from Puerto Vallarta is beautiful in the spring. Meandering curvily through the rolling hills along the coast, the largely shoulderless road is slow, but the snail’s pace affords leisurely views of the mountains to the East, the ocean to the West, and the brilliant yellow pom-poms of the Golden Primavera trees which sporadically brighten the roadsides. Along with the red, purple, orange, and white Bougainvillea spilling over the fences and the roofs of the small towns and villages through which we pass, large, pink-blossomed trees complete the color cycle, and the four-hour drive is a feast for the eyes.

Melaque is the collective name for three towns which have melded into one along the wide curve of the sparkling bay called Bahia de Navidad – Melaque, San Patricio, and Villa Obregon. Together they probably number around 15,000 inhabitants. At the same time, the hotels and resorts which have developed here over the years probably account for at least that many visitors.

The Playa Trailer Park is still here, right on the beach at the corner of Alvaro Obregon and Abel Salgado. Two blocks east along Obregon and we are at the Plaza de Armas and the Flor Morena, a restaurant we had discovered ten years earlier.

Walking along then, we had noticed a long line waiting in front of a little one-car-garage sized hole-in-the-wall with only six small tables in front and an open kitchen in the rear. Hungry, we opted to find a bigger place and wandered around the square. We passed at least five other restaurants, but they were all nearly empty.

Why?

There must have been a good reason, so we headed back to the Flor Morena and waited in line with everyone else. It had been worth it, and now we were pleased to see that it was still here, still the same, and still serving the best traditional food in town.

Owner Bety Torres Briseno has been feeding the hungry here for sixteen years, and they keep coming back for more, especially the Pozole, hominy soup filled with hunks of vegetables, shrimp, chicken, or stringy pork. The pork does double duty as a tamale filling, wrapped with the softest corn wrapping in Mexico, and the enchiladas, rolled in corn tortillas, are simply delicious. These, fajitas, and tasty tostadas, plain, simple fare, have kept Bety’s clientele loyal. We were sold too, and ate here every evening among a friendly crowd of locals, and the bill was never more than $5 US.

Sun-drenched and hot during the day, even this early in the year, Melaque slows to a creep, the tourists retreat to the beach, and many shopkeepers opt for a long siesta, re-opening in time for the late afternoon parades which wind around the zocalo and surrounding streets. These are pathetic affairs compared to the St. Paddie’s extravaganzas of New York or San Francisco, but the band members, marchers, and riders on decorated cars and pick-up trucks, seem to be having the time of their lives.

The blue stuccoed church on the zocalo, strung with garlands of blue and white paper flowers is the backdrop for nightly performances of Indian dances by people ranging in age from children to the elderly and dressed in costumes of white and red.

Once the dancing is finished, a bandstand is erected in the street to hold the evening’s musical entertainment, which usually consists of a well-known local band. They set up their sound equipment across the street on the high Gazebo in the square, beneath which are a public bathroom and a bookstore, with the toilets doing the biggest business at 5 pesos a pop; there’s a lot of beer being guzzled.

None of it is green.

Across another street, a large vacant lot is set up with a kiddie carnival, and the rides are spinning about, children squealing with joy, although the most popular concessions are large trampolines upon which they leap away happily with not a single mechanical contraption in sight.

Once darkness falls, hand held rockets are fired into the sky, long orange spark-trails ending in a bright flash, and a loud bang. About a dozen are launched every fifteen minutes, accompanied by clanging from the open-work brick bell tower. This continues all evening, interrupted only during the eight o’clock mass.

In the closed courtyard next to the church, professional cueteros (fireworks experts), are hard at work all day preparing that night’s castillo, a tall tower at least 30 ft high, outfitted with wickerwork wheels upon which various kinds of rockets are mounted, ready to display a colorful spectacle of spinning fire.

At 8:30 every evening, the castillo is carried out to the center of the zocalo, stood upright, supported by guy ropes attached to the lampposts, and readied to be set off at 10:30. By now, the crowds are getting heavier as celebrants pour into the plaza in anticipation of the show. Cement flagstones pave the square between large, raised, freeform planter areas surrounded by low, wide concrete lips, perfect as benches, especially when we’ve remembered to bring our foam cushions along, and their snaking lengths are rapidly filling with folks looking for a good vantage point.

There are a few drunks weaving about, but this is mainly a family affair and small children race back and forth playing noisily, constantly chased by parents and older siblings trying to keep them from disappearing into the gathering crowds. The band performing on the main stage is often drowned out by others playing on the fringes of the plaza, and groups of Mariachis also wander around, looking for those who’ll pay them, though, if business isn’t good, they’ll perform for the sheer joy of performing, adding their wails to the general cacophony.

By 10:30, the crowd has reached a fever pitch of anticipation, and the sudden sparkling of the fuses which light the castillo elicit loud cheers, quickly turning into oohs and aahs as the fireworks-rigged wheels begin to spin in brilliant colors, huge clouds of smoke filling the windward side of the zocalo. Fireworks fly off, exploding with loud reports, and children, holding torn up cardboard boxes for protection, race back and forth beneath the huge falling sparks which turn the pavement below into a brilliant Roman candle.

For the most part, the display is harmless, though occasional embers do start fires on clothing, but they are easily extinguished, and no one seems to suffer more than minor burns, a price willingly paid for the thrill of racing, shrieking, through the fiery thunderstorm.

The excitement, the light and the color render null and void the burden of a lifetime of warnings and, in the exhilaration of the moment, even I, codger though I am, run back and forth beneath the pillar of whirling, whistling fire, sans cardboard, pretending to just be trying for the best shots with my camera.

Once all the various wheels of the castillo have exhausted their burden of fire, the topmost piece blows off to fly high into the sky, trailing sparks as it traces a narrow arc, and falls back down into the hands of the most intrepid spectators. Grabbing the still burning firebrand by sticks hanging down, they risk serious burns as they race with it around the square, trailing a cloud of pungent smoke until it finally goes dark.

The excitement of the Castillo has barely abated, when men carrying wickerwork bulls called torillos, outfitted with more fireworks, race around the zocalo followed by the milling crowd, showering the multitude with even more sparks, and popping firecrackers, as aerial fireworks boom overhead, sending colorful flaming flowers and huge showers of silvery glitter raining down out of the sky. At least ten torillos are unleashed upon the crowds every evening of the fiesta, and the whistle of fireworks, the boom of exploding rockets, and the happy shouts of people, racing beneath the showers of fire as they rampage through the zocalo, echo through the night      .

The days between are for long walks along the beach, reading, or just snoozing; marking time until the next night’s castillo will set the ten-year-old within free again for another few moments of glorious childhood.

(This article is excerpted from my book, Footprints on a Small Planet, available at Amazon.com)

Originally published here.

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