In the morning the school down the street has its speakers on full blast and I am awakened to the tune of I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. It doesn't matter that this is Mexico, that we are in the desert in the dry season. The tinny speakers wail and croon, following up with Rumpa Pum Pum, which is more appropriate but equally annoying.
Piñata stall |
Tonight the posadas will amble down the cobblestone streets, the virgin Mary propped against a paper mache burro, her accompanying angel in prayer pose, and a bored young Joseph, breathing in the fumes from the flatbed truck upon which they are so precariously perched. Piñatas will drop from balconies and children will pummel them with sticks until candy rains down and they scramble for the treats as the traffic backs up behind them.
Every year the markets become a Christmas Bazaar where you can buy clumps of moss and lichen and bromeliads and cactus and a myriad of plastic animals and figurines for your nativity scene.Piles of wise men, sheep, cows, palm trees. Marys and Josephs and angels and pigs, yellow
ducks and cherubs and flamingos. And of course, baby Jesus himself, in every color, shape and size.
Baby Jesus in Bondage |
In the shops the tinny sounds of Christmas songs emitting from strands of blinking lights adorn plastic Santas, which share the shelves with the baby Jesuses. Burros and reindeer eye each other suspiciously. Snowmen grin from glitter encrusted Christmas cards, and all is merry and bright, even though most of the people here have never seen snow, and most likely never will.
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And who am I to say it should be any different?
The Piñata Song
Dale, dale, dale,
no pierdas el tino;
Porque si lo pierdes
pierdes el camino.
Ya le diste una,
Ya le diste dos;
Ya le diste tres,
y tu tiempo se acabó
Hit it, hit it, hit it
Don't lose your aim
Because if you lose it
You will lose the path.
You've already hit it once
You've already hit it twice
You've already hit it three times
And now your time is over
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