Behind the mask in Mexico’s Carnival

Last March, while researching in Mexico, I found myself swept into the fun chaos of Carnival in San Martín Tilcajete, a small town just outside Oaxaca City. Unlike the massive parades of Rio or the glittering masks of Venice, this was something raw, intimate, and deeply rooted in tradition.

Here, Carnival isn’t just a party; it’s a ritual that goes back centuries. The origins of these festivities stretch back to the Zapotec civilization, long before Catholic traditions arrived with the Spanish. Back then, celebrations marked the cycles of life, death, and renewal, tied to agricultural rites and the honoring of spirits. When Christianity arrived, Carnival became a fusion of indigenous beliefs and Catholic traditions, blending pre-Hispanic rituals with the liturgical calendar. Today, it’s the last wild burst of joy before Lent, a time to shed inhibitions, let loose, and express emotions both light and dark.

San Martín Tilcajete is now famous for its colorful alebrijes, but before that, it was known for its beautifully carved wooden masks—often devilish in style—that are still worn during Carnival. Each village around Oaxaca City has its own twist on the celebration and its own visual way of chasing off bad energy. In some, men dress as women; in others, devils are painted bright red. In San Martín Tilcajete, the stars of the show are the diablos aceitados—masked figures covered head to toe in thick black oil, often wearing horns and carrying wooden sticks or whips. Throughout the day, they run through the streets as a group, making noise, pulling pranks, and smearing others with paint—releasing their “devilish selves” and making strategic stops to dance along with local bands. It’s loud and fun, but that’s the point: a symbolic and playful release before the solemn days of Lent.

Thanks to local friends, I got to join right in. I watched as neighbours transformed—literally painting themselves into character—before taking to the streets. There was dancing, shouting, laughing, and plenty of mezcal (optional, but I didn’t hold back). The atmosphere was intense and electric, the kind of experience that shakes off routine and makes you feel fully alive.

What makes it all the more special is how personal it feels. Carnival here is a celebration by and for the community. I was one of only a handful of foreigners, but I felt embraced and included in something ancient, meaningful, fun, and wild.

If you’d like to be part of the celebrations next year, now is a good moment to start planning for next March.