The hat the boy wore looked gaudy and heavy

When I arrived in the town of Saachila, a group of boys had already gathered in front of the church, pressed into service for the festivities. It seemed they were about to perform a dance. As is often the case in small Mexican towns, no one thought to explain what festival it was. Whether it was a religious rite or a simple annual celebration, the line was blurred. For an outsider like me, however, it was far simpler to watch than to ask about origins.

Among the boys stood one whose headdress dwarfed the rest—a towering plume of feathers perched precariously on his head. It looked heavy enough that walking alone must have been an ordeal. Painted along the brim was the figure of a bird. Mexico’s national bird is the caracara, yet I could not say whether this bird was meant to be one. In any case, festival iconography is rarely about taxonomy; more often than not, the principle seems to be that “as long as it looks impressive, it will do.”

And yet, the boy’s face betrayed none of the frivolity his costume suggested. Beneath the swaying feathers, his eyes held a curious gravity. With their wide, steady gaze, they recalled the colossal Olmec heads I had seen in museums—less the eyes of a child than those of some ancient custodian of ritual. Of course, the boy himself was not meditating on such weighty symbolism. He was probably just waiting for his turn to dance.