Easter in Guatemala by Sue Carpenter
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The night we arrived in Antigua, the old colonial capital of Guatemala, the streets were awash with ancient Israelites. Most of the men in the town looked as if they were on their way to an Israelite fancy dress party, in their purple silky nylon robes and white head-dresses, and, more often than not, trainers and jeans poking out underneath. Activity centred around the church of La Merced, a vast yellow Baroque building with white stucco vines creeping up its facade. Outside in the square, Israelites were munching hotdogs and canoodling with their girlfriends. A few bemused baby Israelites were hitched over their fathers' shoulders.
Fairground organ ditties blaring from food stalls soon gave way to the doleful strains of a whiny brass band playing funeral music. As the sound drew closer, more Israelites hoved into view, swinging incense burners, and people rushed out to strew pine needles in their path. Slowly, slowly, the procession moved towards us, until, through the wafts of heady incense, we could see the figure of Jesus carrying the cross, atop an enormous wooden float held up by 80 men.
The crowd gathered around the float as it executed a stately three-point turn and proceeded into La Merced, swaying from side to side as the bearers shifted their weight under their 7,000 lb burden. By now it was midnight on Palm Sunday, and the cavalcade had been tramping the streets of Antigua since two o'clock in the afternoon.
Thousands of these long-suffering 'cucuruchos', processional carriers, sign up to carry floats like this in a constant round of processions re-enacting the events leading up to the Passion, starting at the beginning of Lent and culminating on Easter Sunday. The floats are so heavy that the load is shouldered by an ever-changing cast, new bearers seamlessly taking over at the end of each block.
Latin America is the place to be for Semana Santa, Holy Week. The celebrations in La Antigua Guatemala are the second largest in the world after Seville in Spain, and yet there is a folksy, amateurish quality to them that makes them more accessible than their Sevillano counterpart, with its sinister ranks of hooded inquisitors. There exists in Antigua the high Catholic drama, introduced by the Spanish after they conquered Guatemala in 1524, but the floats are more gaudy, the carvings more crude, the costumes more makeshift, and the religious ritual more mystical, blended with ancient Indian tradition.
We had been told that, while Antigua staged the more spectacular event, a purer indigenous experience was to be had in the highland villages, where the Mayan culture still flourishes. We wanted to see both. We decided to risk leaving the jam-packed city for a couple of days, reserving our room for our return on Maundy Thursday, in time to see the all-night preparations for the big day, Good Friday.
Squashed seven abreast across the back of a local bus, we headed up to the frayed little town of Chichicastenango, arriving the night before the famous Wednesday morning market. All was dark and quiet, save for a few stall-holders setting up early. It was a thrill to awake to the most colourful and captivating market I have ever seen. Woven cloths of brilliant rainbow hues were spread out with sunshine-bright lemons, squawking chickens and turkeys, rosy radishes and tomatoes. The steps of the church were laden with bundles of palm leaves, creamy Madonna lilies and other traditional Easter blooms. The frenzy of activity was overwhelming. It was as if we were on the floor of the stock exchange, barely able to move without money or goods exchanging hands across our path.
Every hour, through the chattering and bargaining, we would hear a single, ominous drumbeat. We would step back, crushing into the market stalls, as yet another mini-procession wove its way through the crowds, carrying gruesome effigies of the dying Christ. Leading each cortege were the elders of the 'cofradías', the lay religious organizations in Mayan communities. These bare-legged old men are far removed from Christianity as we know it in Europe, dressed in black breeches and jackets, with tasselled squares in dazzling zigzags weaves draped around their necks. We crammed into church behind one group, and were soon engulfed in clouds of incense. As the smokescreen lifted, we could make out the realistic figure of Christ in a glass coffin.
We left Chichi to its extraordinary mix of high religion and high commerce and returned to Antigua full of anticipation. The traffic was at a standstill when we hit the outskirts of town at 4pm. Many roads were closed for decoration and, by the time we made it to our hotel, at 7pm, they had given away our room. I stayed to plead with the concierge, Manuel, while my companion systematically tried and was turned away from every other hotel in Antigua.
"Quiero ver el jefe," I demanded in my three-week-old Spanish. "I want to see the boss."
Manuel shrugged, flashed a mouthful of variously crooked, missing and gold teeth, and rattled off something to the effect that the boss was out. At 10 p.m., the three of us were still sitting in the hall, exhausted and despondent, when suddenly el jefe materialized and told us that we could have a room on the top floor that was under construction. Manuel's eyes lit up with the thrill of a solution, coupled with the pure frivolity of putting us in a half-built room. He scuttled off, gibbering with delight, to make it habitable.
That night we tiptoed gingerly through the brick dust to our beds. We wouldn't be getting much sleep that night: the alarm was set for 3am, ready for the all-night preparations for the big day, Good Friday. Each year, street communities would work through the night to create spectacular 'alfombras' or carpets. These carpets are made from flowers, petals and pine needles or dyed sawdust, painstakingly laid in patterns on the processional routes. This is the ultimate in fleeting, fragile art, for, seconds after a carpet is complete, a thousand marching feet trample over it.
It is a poignant echo of Antigua's past, where great care and artistic endeavour went to build and rebuild tremendous cathedrals and convents, only to have them destroyed in an instant by the next earthquake. After the devastation of 1773, the capital was moved to Ciudad de Guatemala, and now only façades and hunks of fallen masonry remain, as at the awesome La Recolección. History has not deterred the fervour of latterday citizens. Residents vie to create the most impressive carpet and certain streets are renowned for producing the most magnificent examples, thanks to a particularly rich, religious or ostentatious patron.
There was a party atmosphere in town that night. Portable stereos were blasting and beers being downed as people milled around watching the artists at work. Standing by were stepladders, sieves and sacks of sawdust, dyed peacock, emperor, yellow, emerald, shocking pink and black. Carpet-laying is a precision business. A base of sand is laid in a wooden frame to level the cobblestones; intricate geometric or figurative designs are then reproduced by sprinkling sawdust through cardboard stencils. The results really do look like fine Persian carpets with a velvety pile. Other carpets - homespun rugs by comparison - are made of flowers on beds of pine fronds, and sprayed constantly to keep them springy, fresh and scented.
At 6am the most dramatic procession of the week begins, re-enacting the sentencing and crucifixion of Christ. The way is led by Roman centurions in rich blue velvet cloaks and helmets topped resourcefully with a plastic broom-head to approximate plumage. Small floats follow, and then the figures of Pontius Pilate and the thieves with their wrists chained. All, so far, avoid the carpets. Now comes the object of everyone's gaze, heralded again by a drumbeat, the whistle of a single flute, and the incense-swingers, suffusing the air with musty grey wisps. Suddenly there is the striking sight of Christ, cloaked in scarlet, against the backdrop of Agua volcano, as this monumental float lurches up the street, crushing the carpets in its path. People genuflect as it passes and then stoop to gather the mangled flowers, which they believe to be blessed or miraculous.
Several more cavalcades set out from other churches throughout the day, the cucuruchos wearing black robes of mourning after 3pm. And the bands play on, their repetitive durges haunting every street. In a continuing display of dedication, Saturday sees yet more carpets laid and trashed. But the spectacle can cloy and a sadness lingers after the pageant has moved on as householders emerge with shovels and brooms to sweep away all trace of their work.
We left Antigua jumping to the sound of firecrackers. It was Easter Sunday and, significantly, the turn-out for the final, jubilant procession of Cristo Resucitado was small. The Antiguans had evidently had enough, and it was mainly Indians from the villages who were clapping and crying, "Viva! Cristo Rey! Viva!"