[one of three] Posadas

12-26

Christmas came and went, as did not one but two posadas. 

Posada #1: The Attack on Ameyaltepec

Jonathan is off talking with a 107-year-old woman, leaving Jeremias, myself and the anciano behind, at the house of a friend.  Fortino, I think.  We eat.  We spend an hour drawing fake tattoos on the arms of legions of six-year-old boys.  The Posada begins and we all scatter off, marching behind the procession.  Men carry a mounted Jesus and Virgin Mary at the front.  In the back, a man launches homemade fireworks—gun powder attached to tree limbs that zoom into the air and explode with a crack.  The procession chants in prayers, accompanied by the electronic chirping of Christmas jingles from Christmas lights.

We walk down the mountain, and the procession enters another home.  We are in what amounts to a callejon—an alleyway wedged in between two single-story, flat-roofed houses. 

Upon the roof of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, children toss candy and sweets down to the kids and the three of us in the callejon. 

It starts nice enough.  Cute little girls in their mandils sprinkle down small, hard candies—the equivalent of jolly ranchers.  The callejon kids squirm around, squealing in delight.  Even Jeremias joins in the action, scooping up handfuls of candy.  The anciano slowly pegs his way back up the alley with his cane.

The stakes get a little bit higher.  The rooftop kids stop lofting the candy, instead peppering the callejon kids with a bit of zip.  Then the candy becomes oranges, and unsuspecting grapplers begin to get pelted in the face.  We all become a little bit more wary in the callejon.  I am watching the girls, and I see that they are smiling as a child below rubs his head frantically, an orange at his side.  I also see kids scuttle up to the rooftop across the callejon. They are now armed with oranges.  I inch my way back up the hill to the anciano.

Candy and oranges rain down a few moments longer, and then some genius introduces jicama—sweet, fist sized, and really hard. 

All hell breaks loose.

I see flashes of white jicama and green oranges dart from rooftop to rooftop.  Boys join the girls on the roof of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, and vice-versa on the other side.  Kids are ducking, running about the rooftops.  The callejon kids launch their own counter-offensive from below, chucking fruit and vegetables skyward.  The height has the advantage, however.  The callejon kids are pounded in the fervor.

The three of us have long since gone before the Posada-turned onslaught of edibles ends.  The kids are red with laughter and welts.  As we scurry past the houses to the street, I see dozens of jicama on the ground.  These armaments will not be eaten.