A Nocturnal Ceremony in a Mexican Village

These Mexican don´t need sleep. They arrived at the ceremonial place at 3 in the afternoon. Right away, they grabbed the instrument Concha and sang away. This lady that I talked to earlier, soft-spoken, watchful, shocked me now with her brilliant, exhilarating voice. To sing these songs, you need to engulf a maximum gush of air before it roots down into the diaphragm, springs up with a brute force to produce those voluminous, resounding vowels. The singing clearly had a cathartic effect, plucking out all the inhibitions that they had been accumulating -- those inhibitions that have left countless knife cuts in our diaphragm every time we suppress a desire, or subdue an expression.

 After we danced across the town four hours straight, it was close to midnight, but the nocturnal singing just started. There must be no less than forty people. We gathered around the altar, the source of lights. They sang towards its direction, deeply engrossed in their act of singing. It moved me to observe their gaze -- determined, looking into emptiness -- the same kind of ¨absent presence¨ when people are in a deep state of listening and feeling.

 The languor caught up with me two hours past midnight. Sleep-deprived, inebriated, I was induced to the semi-conscious state where the songs pierced through me, and carried me to meet an amalgam of vivid beings.

 When I returned to sobriety at 3am, I heard the crowd still singing. At 4am, it did not stop. Every time it comforted me to realise that I am still enveloped by our communal space of passion, of human warmth. I snuggled by this energy. Chilly night only reminded me of how safe I am with them.

 Photos: Loic Chalumeau










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