The scent of sage wafts across the plaza even before I note the man in the deer headdress and little more.

His cleansing is mostly silent except for the occasional conch blown and the a command here and there to help participants know what to do with their arms, but no warning for when he might: pick someone up, spray aerosol on their neck, massage an ointment into their hands or (more surprisingly) chest.

Part of me thinks he’s a creep with a good plan to feel up strangers — and get paid. Part of me marvels at the way people line up to be healed. He has clients long into the night.

smudging smudging2 smudging3

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