A weekend when Everyday Worries Floated away

Every day we’re pelted with so much alarming news—political wars, dire predictions and yesterday, even a report of a tsunami—that you are left feeling like someone caught bare-assed in a hailstorm. Some friends have concocted escape mechanisms, most commonly going on a “news fast,” or in my case, taking up French, though its grammar can be as frustrating as current events.

But then this past weekend Stew and I unexpectedly detached physically and mentally from all that, by joining a small-group of San Miguelenses on a trip to a hot-air balloon festival in Pátzcuaro, a town about three hours away that retains the sleepy colonial charm San Miguel has lost over the past ten years as a result of its explosive growth as a tourist magnet.

It was nothing nearly as grand as Albuquerque’s Balloon Fiesta but a much simpler affair that nevertheless turned out to be an unalloyed pleasure for the eyes and a respite for the mind. To enjoy the three-day CantoyaFest you just need a concrete ledge or a park bench around the plaza to sit on, or maybe a table at one of the outdoor cafes. From there you can watch the participants unpack crudely simple or phenomenally large and elaborate contraptions, all made of tissue paper, and equipped with a wick, also made of tightly rolled strips of tissue paper, that is lit up to heat up the air inside and get their balloon airborne.

The ascents were sometimes majestic and self-assured, other times disastrous as the balloons veered off in unexpected directions or became tangled in a tree and simply burned up. In one case I witnessed a homemade balloon go up about ten feet, hesitate briefly, and then bounce off the pavement and rise again. Never give up.

There were some sad notes. One family brought a balloon memorializing Sami, a young daughter who had died recently. The ten-foot balloon featuring a photo of Sami was reluctant to rise and when it did crashed into one of the trees, as a dismayed sister looked on.

Another balloon, a large one, was created by Eduardo Marquez and his sister Diana, who put together a team of women from Zumpango, their town in the state of Mexico. Their protest balloon called attention to violence against women, an endemic problem in Mexico. The balloon had to be patched up repeatedly and when it finally rose it went it went awry, hovered nervously over some rooftops, caught fire and fell in pieces somewhere on the next block.

There was room too for some crass commercialism. A forty-foot-high monster advertising the Catrina Casino (“nights of adrenaline”! and poker, black jack and slots! right here in Pátzcuaro!) had a load of fireworks dangling underneath that went off flawlessly while young women on the ground, dressed in Day of the Dead costumes and makeup, handed out flyers to the spectators. Admittedly it was quite the showstopper.

The Cantoya Balloon Fest actually began about fifty years ago at the nearby town of Parecho, before Pátzcuaro began its own show nine years ago. It’s named after Joaquín de la Cantolla (spelling varies), Mexico’s earliest and accident-prone balloonista, and a colorful character in his own right. On his flights he wore a wide-brimmed charro Mexican hat or a stovepipe one. His most serious mishap had him crashing through the skylight of a Mexico City home whose angry owners beat him up. Another time the balloon he was riding strayed over territory held by Mexican revolutionaries who opened fire. Cantolla died of a stroke a few days later, possibly from the susto.

All the official entrants at the festival were graded by a roving panel of judges, in several categories, with the top prize of $14,000 pesos or about $650 dollars, though we didn’t stay for the awards ceremony.

During our last day in Pátzcuaro, and suffering from a bit of balloon fever, we bought four small balloons, for about two dollars each, to mount our own show at the ranch. Perhaps Félix and his kids would like to participate. Nothing to fear: All five showed up promptly at sunset Sunday. With the bed of Félix pickup serving as a launching pad, the balloons went up about twenty or thirty feet but then drifted listlessly over the neighbors’ ranches. No matter. Everyone seemed to have a good time anyway—including us.