We finally pulled into Oaxaca City at one in the morning after 16 hours in the car and who knows how many miles jousting 18-wheelers. For the first time in three weeks, we'd broken our principal rule: never drive after dark. As punishment, we'd gotten ourselves hopelessly lost in the Sierra Madre de Oaxaca.

In retrospect, perhaps we'd been a bit overeager driving all the way from San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas to Oaxaca City in one day, a distance of 625 kilometers.

But Oaxaca City had drawn us, like so many others before. We couldn't wait to fill up on the great food (my wife daydreamed about the oaxaqueno mole Negro, while I pined for the famed chocolate con leche); vibrant indigenous culture, and temperate 1,550-meter elevation.

Most of all we looked forward to Guelaguetza (pronounced gay-la-getza), the city's stunning annual festival of dance and music. A Zapotec word meaning "mutual help, cooperation or exchange of gifts," the event has its origins in ancient pre-Hispanic rites honoring maize and wind gods. It then merged with Catholic celebrations brought by the conquering Spanish. Today, it is one of the premier arts events in Mexico, which is saying something for a country that loves festivals even more than hippies do.

Guelaguetza takes place every year on the first two Mondays after July 16, which was, unfortunately, too early for us. However, a convenient scheduling loophole saved the day: if June 18, the anniversary of the death of Benito Juarez, former Mexican president (and one-time governor of Oaxaca), falls on a Monday, as it did this year, the festival is bumped to July 25 and August 1. Sweet.

Whenever it's held, Guelaguetza brings thousands from around the world to Oaxaca City. The normally tranquilo capital buzzes with anticipation and creative energy. Musicians stroll the zocalo (main square) and pedestrian malls. Food is available at every turn.

There is even a mezcal fair. For 10 pesos, you can sample the multi-flavored wares of more than a dozen distillers. The tequila-like spirit, produced from the sap of the maguey plant, wakes you up like a Zapatista uprising. (Though I can tell you that by sample six the pina colada is hard to distinguish from the cappuccino. By sample nine you become fluent in Spanish.)

The city also fills with lavishly attired dancers. They arrive from Oaxaca state's seven regions, bringing the signature dance of their area. When not performing in one of the city's plazas, they circulate for pictures like flocks of tropical birds.

We almost caused a 10-Aztec pile-up when we stumbled on to the procession of dancers and musicians that marches through the city the two Saturdays preceding Guelaguetza. It's one of the many traditions that has developed around the important festival. Standing two feet from the parade felt like stepping inside a kaleidoscope that's rolling down a flight of stairs.

Another must-see is the Bani Stui Gulal, a two-hour extravaganza of dance, music and fireworks that takes places on the two Sunday evenings before Guelaguetza. The show has grown so much in recent years that it's now held in the outdoor Auditorio Guelaguetza on Cerro del Fortin, the 10,000-seat amphitheater built in 1974 on the hill in the north of the city just for Guelaguetza.

We weren't well prepared for Bani Stui Gulal. Just as we touched the last of the hundred-plus steps leading up to the amphitheater it began to rain. Our daypack held five decks of playing cards, two books, a water bottle and a blue guayabera (traditional four-pocket Mexican shirt) I'd just bought, but no rain gear. We sat on a soggy issue of "El Pais" and hid under the tissue-thin ponchos we'd bought from a Mexican woman in an Alan Jackson t-shirt.

On stage, a cast of hundreds retold the history of Mexico in a series of elaborately choreographed dances. There was so much color it was like tumbling in a dryer with a bunch of Bill Cosby sweaters. The battle between Moctezuma's plumed warriors and a bunch of marauding conquistadors was a highlight. A band of sombreroed musicians provided the soundtrack.

But the best time to see the dancers really do their thing is on the two Mondays of Guelaguetza, known as Los Lunes del Cerro (Mondays on the Hill), when they all convene in the Auditorio Guelaguetza for the main event of the week's activities.

The show starts at 10 a.m. and goes until about 1 p.m. Seats in the two front sections, or palcos, of the stone amphitheater go for roughly US$40 and US$33 and typically sell out months in advance.

The two rear palcos, meanwhile, are totally free, and therefore perfect for us. It seemed to me a very enlightened way to price such an event, one section for those with more money than time, and one section for the reverse. If only rock concerts, college survey classes, and traffic court could get behind the idea.

The only problem is that to get a spot in the cheap seats, one has to wake before the dogs and roosters, not easy in Mexico, and get to the amphitheater by about 6:30 a.m. to join the long line of other peso pinchers.

I dragged myself out of bed at 5:30 a.m., leaving my wife comfortably twisted in the blankets as she'd didn't feel well. Bleary-eyed, I caught the bus on the highway in the chilly morning air, wondering when folk dancing had made the list of things I'd get out of bed for.

Calle Independencia, the road into town, had been closed, and the off-road detour helped bring about wakefulness, and spinal injury. There were also others on board heading for the show. Very quickly I felt a connection to the Mexican people that wasn't possible when merely butchering their language after too many mezcal tasters or getting lost on their roads.

By the time we reached the foot of the steps to the amphitheater at about 7 a.m., I was excited. On the climb up I passed vendors busily setting up their simple tarp stands to peddle food, hats, drinks, umbrellas, ponchos, etc. Steam and the rich, comforting smell of hot chocolate issued from the first stalls. The old aproned women working the bubbling vats stirred and watched.

The fact that most vendors were not yet set up suggested I'd arrived early enough to find a seat. Then I reached the top. Looking down on the free palcos, I found a sea of very early risers. Had they spent the night in line? Who was playing, The Who? After many stammered inquiries, I found a single seat behind a young Indian mother nursing her child.

I bought a torta con pollo (chicken sandwich) for 10 pesos (about US$1) from a 10-year-old girl selling a pile of them out of a plastic bucket. Others sold seat cushions, nuts, soda and water, plastic binoculars, candy, inflatable toy swords, everything one might need to appreciate dance.

About 100 rows below sat the broad stage, and beyond it the outline of Oaxaca City slowly emerging from the morning dark. There was not another gringo face in sight. I bought a cup of sweet oaxaqueno coffee from a woman who ladled it out from a large tub she carried around her neck.

A flute and drum band took the stage to wild cheers. They were followed by a marimba outfit, and then a full orchestra just as the first few rays of sunshine arrived. Free straw hats were tossed to the crowd, the decorative red bands emblazoned with "Coca Cola." Some tried to get "the wave" started and I wondered if we've ever exported anything good to Mexico.

The next two and a half hours were a spectacular, dress-swishing, foot-stamping free-for-all. The women, in vividly embroidered dresses and ribbons, flirted with their partners. The men waved their hats, and the audience answered by waving theirs.

The troupe from Mixteca got big laughs when the women played the part of bulls and gored their slow-moving male "matadors." Other groups punctuated their performance with rhymes, which the crowd loved but to me had all the meaning of a Lewis Carroll poem. The delicious dancers of Papaloapan won the biggest applause with their famous Chiquita-meets-The Rockettes pineapple dance.

Each group, upon completing their performance, peppered the first few rows with gifts, including more hats, vegetables, clay pots, flowers, even melons. People on the rear roof of the amphitheater shot t-shirts into the crowd via water balloon launcher. I wished they'd distributed the melons that way, too. Imagine the picture-taking potential.

By the time the last hem had been hefted, the sun was hot. Because of my seat location, I'd missed all the freebies tossed into the audience. But I had enjoyed a tasty chicken sandwich and hot coffee, and seen more dancing than Grease and Grease II combined. I was happy. Still, one of those straw hats would've been nice.