It all started with the flute. I had landed in Guadalajara, then taken a thirty-five minute taxi ride through verdant green countryside. Now, ensconced in a room a few steps away from Lake Chapala, in a mecca for artists and writers, within a historic edifice where DH Lawrence had composed The Plumed Serpent in the 1920’s, I could hear, from my balcony, melodious lute tunes floating through the palm trees.

In the land of Mariachis, where I was expecting the vihuela and guitarrón and strident violins and trumpets, this pure sound whispered across the breeze like a finger furled, an invitation to follow me. It ebbed and rose in the breeze, even as the hint of a new moon climbed in the night sky and I tried to fall asleep, exhausted by travel, in a new bed in a new country.

The next morning, it was the flute that I woke up to. This time, I followed the sound past the balcony, down the colorful steps. Until, at the edge of Lake Chapala, I saw them dancing the Danza de los Voladores.