A light wind flicks playfully at the giant brown feathers adorning a sweaty troupe of Aztec dancers as they pound the pavement of Mission Street. Like the beat of a heart, their rhythmic steps keep time with the baritone rumblings of three large drums. They stop, flaunt their skill -- and their calf muscles -- and move on.
If hunting for good Mexican food west of Dolores is your usual idea of weekend pleasure, last Sunday left you high and dry: Most shops merrily shut their doors, gathered their goods, and high-tailed it to the 30th annual Cinco de Mayo parade, which wound throughout the Mission District and ended with a noisy celebration at the foot of City Hall.
Unlike Carnaval, Cinco de Mayo -- which commemorates the defeat of Napoleon III's army by a small group of Mexican nationalists in 1862 -- is by nature a more political holiday, an example of the strength, pride, and tenacity of the Latin community. "No Human Is Illegal" and other such admonishments worn by parade participants clearly reflect the effect that the recent rash of anti-immigration legislation has had in the Bay Area.
"It's important that we make a statement while we have the attention of the media," explains Ramiro Fernandez, a bystander from San Jose. "We have long been the backbone of California. We can't just be pushed out."
The crowd -- a kaleidoscope of small girls in pristine Communion dresses; families munching on juicy mango slices dripping with hot sauce; slick, bare-chested men with homemade tattoos; earthy hippie types; and goateed Mission hipsters -- erupts into cheers as a fireman climbs his truck's ladder to proudly fly the flag of Mexico. A mariachi band, looking uncomfortably warm in black-spangled outfits, drifts by on an open-bed truck while half a dozen ice cream carts race between corners, their bells tinkling gaily as their owners vie for position. A man carrying a placard reading "Intelligence Instead of Drugs" makes his way leisurely down the middle of the street. Just behind the crowd, an ageless man in baggy Ben Davis pants pitches his wares -- "Chiva! Coca!" -- as several children, completely indifferent, run in circles around a neighboring lamppost.
At Civic Center, a large, shimmering banner featuring two vividly colored flamenco dancers hangs from the top of City Hall -- yet more evidence that Willie loves a good party. Between rows of food carts emitting a dazzling array of global aromas -- Southern barbecue, Thai, Vietnamese, as well as the expected Mexican fare -- palm readers and craftspeople ply their trades. Below, shiny prize automobiles and earth-trembling hip hop supplied by the Low Vintage Car Club draw a clutch of beauties with burgundy-red lips to the display. Other gals wearing "KMEL Jams" bumper stickers across their chests and bottoms push their way through the crowd to the sound stage where Tito Puente Jr. is "rapping" up his set. At the La Z sound stage an orgy of margarita-fortified couples dance with happy abandon between sets, just out of reach of a 5-year-old kickboxer.
"A lot of the shit here doesn't have anything to do with Latino culture," says 22-year-old Miguel Fuentes as he hands his baby brother a piece of corn on the cob rolled in strong cheese, lime juice, and hot sauce, "like the Chinese food and the fuckin' AT&T booth. You know, people are fucking lining up to win key chains!" But despite the Yoo-Hoo truck passing out samples of something akin to a chilled, liquified Sugar Baby, the music, the crowd, and numerous hand-painted carts pedaling "Snokone, mango, and corn" keep the event from becoming a farce.
From one of the sound stages a shouted "Viva Mexico!" is met with an outburst of cheers from the sunbaked crowd, only to be outdone in volume by shouts from the El Salvadoran and -- even louder -- Nicaraguan contingents.
"It has a lot more spirit than the Irish parade [in March]," says Kaleb Morris, a semirecently arrived Dutchman with blond dreadlocks. "There are so many families here, and everyone is dancing." Nearby, on a bright orange jungle gym bustling with small bodies and high-pitched laughter, a diminutive couple clad in lacy bloomers and a Wolverine shirt, respectively, climb up on a platform where they link hands and sway to one of the many rhythms pulsating in the open air. "Viva la Raza!" they shout.
Send comments, quips, and tips to crawler@sfweekly.com.
By Silke Tudor
