There is a hubbub of bustling activity immediately outside the solemn confines of the Metropolitan Cathedral. Vendors hawking their wares. Dancers performing as though re-staking their ancestral Aztec claims to the land seized by the Spanish conquistadors.
And an abundance of shamans offering alternative services to the ceremonies performed by the Catholic priests inside. We are unsure how one chooses among the shamans, whose attire ranged from casual jeans and tennis shoes to more formal midriff-baring loin cloths, feathered headdresses and anklet rattles, huesos de fraile or bones of the friar, made from ayoyote seeds.
All of the purported intermediaries between the natural and spiritual worlds were equipped with similar tools of their trade, smoking copal incense and bundles of herbs. Their ancient cleansing rituals involved much circling of their clients with the incense and brushing with the fragrant herbs, the strong scents of both lingering on the newly purified for quite a while.
The shamans seem malplaced, their stations exuding bad feng shui. I fail to comprehend how anyone paying for the services could possibly slip into the proper receptive state amidst all the surrounding chaos.
Cross the street to the expansive Zocalo, and the level of noise and activity often is multiplied by special events. While we were there, the main plaza was occupied one week by a book festival, one week by Day of the Dead events and the final weekend by a youth concert with the loudest amplification I think I have ever endured. When they cranked up the music, we fled the plaza as quickly as possible. Surely the overwhelming noise forced even the most determined shamans to pack up their medicine bags to head for an alternate locale.