The power of flight
In Mexico, fearless ‘voladores’ turn a religious ritual performed 100 feet above the ground into a profound personal triumph, said Leila Miller in the Los Angeles Times.
CUETZALAN, MEXICO— Ricardo García kneels before the towering tree in the middle of town and, like his brothers and father before him, prepares for a journey taking him
100 feet up and 2,500 years into the past.
He places one foot on a wooden step nailed into the spine of the tree trunk shorn of branches. He hoists himself up, a hand on one plank, then another. Wind ruffles the gold fringe at the hems of his red pants and the feathers on his headdress as he climbs with no safety harness.
At the top, almost parallel with the bells of the church tower, he sits alongside three other voladores—fliers—on a square frame mounted on the pole. He ties a thick rope attached to the pole around his waist. People in the square below lift their faces to watch.
Ricardo, 25, has been making this climb since he was 15 and his chest is “cold” with nerves. For years, as a child, he had watched with envy as his two brothers took to the pole in ceremonies central to the identity of this town and its people.
Now he sits with his legs dangling, taking in the church’s spire, the tiny spectators below, the cluster of houses giving way to central Mexico’s lush green mountains. Ricardo hears the whistling of a flute and the beat of a drum played by a fifth volador stomping inches away at the top of the pole, his back arched and face tilted toward the sky.
Then on the count of three, Ricardo and three others lean backward to fall headfirst into nothing.
ACROSS MEXICO, HUNDREDS of people take to the skies this way, spiraling gently to earth and preserving an Indigenous tradition that survived the Spanish conquistadors perhaps simply because it is jaw-dropping.
For generations, families like Ricardo’s have taken it upon themselves to keep alive what started as a plea to the gods for rain and good crops. Now the Ritual Ceremony of the Voladores, as it’s officially known, is performed for all sorts of occasions, including holidays and festivals to honor Catholic saints.
Along with passing the ceremony down to their children, the voladores are fighting to provide it legal protections and figuring out how to keep the ritual pure while collecting tips from tourists.
For Ricardo, who ekes out a living as a motorcycle mechanic, the meaning outweighs the risk. He’s been flying for 10 years, and the ritual retains its magic. “It’s lethal, yes, but it’s something that calls to you, something that identifies me as a Mexican,” he says, “something where I can say with pride, ‘This is what I am.’”
Mountain roads winding through the state of Puebla lead to Cuetzalan, a municipality of 51,000, where most live in poverty and speak the Indigenous language Náhuatl.
It’s hard to know when the voladores first arrived here, but the ritual they sometimes call the “dance” has become embedded in the city’s identity.
There are 120 voladores, forming groups often made up of families. A weekend outdoor market sells volador-themed keychains and little poles with figurines of fliers hanging by threads. Not too far from the Volador Inn, a restaurant stages the flight from a metal pole.
Cheerful flute music fills the main square on weekends, when voladores collect tips after flying. But one tradition has not changed: replacing the skyscraping tree trunk in the town square each year is a feat that requires dozens of volunteers and brings many in the town together.
Ricardo García’s father, Rufino, began flying at 19 when an older volador, Jorge Baltazar, invited Rufino to try. Rufino was hooked. There was nothing like the adrenaline of flying. He wasn’t scared, since he was used to climbing trees to get firewood.
The woman he was dating, Enedina, worried about his safety, but she was proud to sew his first volador uniform. Enedina lost her nervousness and married into the volador life. Rufino didn’t want their sons to become voladores, but it ran in their blood. His oldest, also named Rufino, flew at 15, then Jesús and Ricardo. “We’ll be right back,” the brothers would tell their mom on weekends, as they’d carry a frame and rope to a tree they had cleared of branches to practice on with friends.
Ricardo made his first flight in Cuetzalan’s church square, on Christmas Eve when he was 15. He crossed himself and climbed the pole, pausing to rest as he made his way up.
“I’m behind you, go calmly,” another volador encouraged him. At the top, Ricardo couldn’t help smiling as he took in the view of the cloudy day. As he fell through the air, he let himself go. He heard the creak of the platform turning with the weight of the voladores as the rope unspooled counterclockwise, and the music of the drum and flute. He kept his eyes open as he hung upside down and opened his arms, feeling the pull of the rope around his waist.