Pastorela, Mexico’s Bizarre Nativity Play, Finds New Political Targets

Four angels from on high strummed guitars and sang of a miracle, then offered their musical services for baptisms, weddings and other parties.

Two shepherds, one a machete-wielding farmer with a hot temper and the other a feathered Aztec who carried an American Express card, decided that the angels must be part of a marijuana stupor.

The shepherds were not en route to Bethlehem. They were in Mexico City to complain about a corrupt mayor who had stolen their papaya crop. And the mayor, whose sins included the embezzlement of earthquake relief funds and the sale of psychedelic gelatin, sent three demons to waylay the shepherds.

Revisionist Theology

These are some of the elements this year in a traditional Mexican spectacle--the pastorela, a nativity play gone slightly mad.

It is that time of year again, and at least nine pastorelas can be seen around Mexico City, marking a revival of what had been a tradition in decline.

The pastorela gets its name from the Spanish word pastor, or shepherd, and it hints at the basic plot line: the shepherds’ journey to Bethlehem to witness the birth of Jesus. On the way, as the pastorela has it, the devil tries to tempt the shepherds from their pilgrimage. Inevitably, the devil is thwarted by the archangel Gabriel.

But within this framework, almost anything goes. Variations on the theme often reflect the people’s preoccupations of the moment, or just the popular love of a pratfall and an off-color joke.

Hymns, processions and mariachi ballads are interspersed with comic scenes of drunkenness, seduction, gluttony and other vices. Political satire frequently crops up. “Amal and the Night Visitors” it is not.

Allegory, Pretext

German Dehesa, who wrote the script for the pastorela about the corrupt mayor, told an interviewer, “The pastorela is a pretext to use images of heaven and hell to make a comment on the earthly kingdom.”

In Dehesa’s pastorela, titled “And the Ship Doesn’t Sail On,” the Mexican government is the butt of most of the jokes. The mayor is a member of the long-ruling Institutional Revolutionary Party. He owns huge mansions, collects Picasso paintings and hoards commemorative World Cup soccer coins, all at the expense of his town, San Juan de las Pitas.

In the end, when forced to give it all back, the mayor cries out, “You can’t do that.”

His assistant, who has turned good, counters, “Yes, we can--at least in pastorelas.”

Dehesa, a television comedy writer and university professor, believes that his pastorela, with its heavy political overtones, has rescued the spirit of the pastorela.

“This is the tradition,” he said, “taking a religious act and turning it into an attack on the government.”

Conversion Technique

Originally, the pastorela was used by the Spanish clergy as a device to convert Mexican Indians to Christianity. The nativity play was a method of explaining religious texts.

But improvised, rowdy variations took hold in the Mexican imagination. Some scholars regard the pastorela as a form of revenge on the Spanish for imposing their religion and authority on Mexico. In time, the ever more bawdy pastorela was expelled from the church into the street.

This year, the Mexican government seems to have recognized the power of the pastorela and put on one of its own, which has a minimum of political jokes and is heavy on patriotism.

The government production, called the “Pastorela of Brotherhood,” is billed as a thank you to volunteers and foreign governments who helped in the relief effort after the disastrous September earthquake in Mexico City.

In the government pastorela, the shepherds are traveling to Bethlehem to seek relief from the quake’s horrors. They are interrupted by such diabolical diversions as a soccer game, an amorous mermaid and a fairy godmother promising riches. In every instance, Gabriel appears to set the shepherds back on course.

Devil Figures

The only political references in this version deal with the declining value of Mexico’s currency and charges by the devil that Gabriel is a spy for Henry A. Kissinger.

“This was a pastorela meant to encourage unity,” said Eduardo Rossy, a spokesman for the production. “If we brought out a lot of politics, then we couldn’t have reached our goal.”

Other versions around the city are spiced with topical material, among them perhaps the most famous at Tepotzotlan, on the outskirts of the capital. Set in the courtyard of a 16th-Century church and convent, it has been put on, with variations, for more than 20 years.

“We try to keep the pastorela as traditional as we can,” Alejandro Saldivar, who plays Gabriel in this year’s production, said. “That means politics, jokes, puns and other things you might not associate with Christmas.”

The Tepotzotlan pastorela features two bands, live animals as gifts borne by the shepherds, fireworks, a horse, a burro and devils who disguise themselves as harem girls, market vendors and rich matrons.

Tepotzotlan’s pastorela also takes a swipe at the government. Toward the end, bitter companions of the chief demon, Lucy Perez, complain that they would have been better off traveling with a devil from the ruling party.

Play Was Unrevolutionary

The pastorela fell into disfavor in the first half of this century. The reasons were complex. The Mexican revolution of 1910 was in part anti-Catholic, if not anti-religious, and this dampened enthusiasm for the pastorela.

For several decades after the revolution, indigenous celebrations were in favor, and anything reminiscent of the colonial period, including the pastorela, was scorned.

The government’s sensitivity to criticism also tends to serve as a damper. Theatrical productions are subject to censorship, though Dehesa neglected to submit his script to the authorities.

The pastorela is just one aspect of a wide range of public Christmas activities that liven up the season beyond bright lights and other decorations. In slum neighborhoods, pinatas are hung up for children to smash and release a shower of candy.

Roving processions of candle-holding carolers go from door to door in many neighborhoods. The caroling is called the posada because the wandering singers invoke the search for lodging by Mary and Joseph. This year in Mexico City, the posada has taken on added meaning since many of the participants are homeless as a result of the earthquake.

Economic Aspect, Too

Although less commercialized than in the United States, Christmas in Mexico City has its material aspects. Workers collect annual bonuses that fuel the usual buying spree. Other workers, seeking to supplement their annual bonuses, visit offices they service and drop off Christmas cards in return, they hope, for money.

Christmas is also the peak season for smuggling goods into Mexico from the United States. Contraband, or fayuca , is the target of a continuing government crackdown, which has never succeeded in stopping the flow of such goods.

The Mexico City neighborhood of Tepito is a particular haven for the trade in fayuca. Well-publicized raids in the neighborhood have done little to dampen business. Along the sidewalks, one can buy anything from foreign chewing gum to stereos, all at cut-rate prices.

Not long ago, a truck bearing what was described as half a million dollars worth of contraband goods was detained by officers of the federal police on its way into Tepito. It was something of an embarrassment, for the shipment was being escorted by other federal policemen.

As an onlooker commented, it might make a plot for a pastorela next year.