Night Crawler

For example, when the second castillo's fuse burns out before all the wheels ignite, a young man eagerly climbs into the center of the cyclone, scaling the rattan frame of the tower and relighting the fuse, amid a shower of sparks and explosions that rain down on the crowd just below. This relighting of fuses is a common occurrence.

Even with burning debris falling from 80 feet in the air and rockets peeling off in every direction, the crowd is absolutely fearless. Earplugs and safety goggles are considered nearly sacrilegious. (In fact, a group of San Franciscans who attended the festival wearing goggles two years ago are still talked about with clucking tongues.) The only visible safety precaution: When the next tower is lit, the crowd standing directly under it moves back a few feet. Actually, though, it is unclear whether the movement is aimed at safety, or getting a better view.

The heat of the initial blasts from the tower singes my eyebrows. The shrieking of burning accelerant is loud enough to abolish thought. And standing directly in front of a monstrous spinning wheel that is nearly blinding in brilliance and size, looking into a hot center of multicolored flowers and expanding angel wings, feeling the glowing ashes light on my seared face like weightless down, and watching as the baladora lifts a burning crucifix high into the night sky may be the most compelling Christian experience this agnostic could ever have, and it could have never happened in the United States of America.

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By Silke Tudor