Semana Santa

We made our way into Antigua Wednesday morning, expecting heavy crowds, perhaps a walk down the mountain just to get into the city, but found nothing of the kind. The city was quietly humming as ever, the sun was on the low rooftops, and Fuego, Agua, and Acatenango, though covered slightly with a dull morning haze, stood hugely over the outer hills.


(volcan Agua)

Sadly, neither the famous alfambras (painted saw dust carpets), nor the Semana Santa (Holy Week) processionals Antigua is so well known for throughout the world, were scheduled to appear or take place on Wednesday. Good Friday and Easter Sunday, according to the schedule an attendant had given us, were the better days to visit. Fortunately, there was to be a kids processional slated to depart from Parque de la Merced at 2:00 p.m. Determined to get a taste of all of the excitement, we decided to wait. Our morning quickly filled up with shopping, a visit to a few of the churches, and lunch.

(la Merced)

Around 1:30, we made our way under the Arco de Santa Catalina—said to be the only structure untouched by the great earthquake of 1773—toward the Parque de la Merced. We could see boys here and there coming quietly of out side doors and from around corners, dressed in royal purple robes making their way, like us, to the church.


(Arco de Santa Catalina)

We arrived in time to find a good place to watch across from the church along Calle del Manchen. Two or three women were already spreading dampened grass, long glistening threads of it, along the cobblestones, and an old woman was dropping flowers down the center in groups of three. The edges were bordered with strung daisies.



The anda emerged from the church around 2:45, fort-five minutes late, or right on time by the Guatemalan clock. Forty or fifty young boys lined each side, anda-bearers as they’re called, with serious looking faces. The float swayed.



The base was made of finely carved wood. In the front was a plain looking cross nailed with spikes, a black bound Bible fixed to its center, with a tiny lamb sitting on top. The figurine of a small Christ in a blood red robe carried a golden cross in the middle, and in the rear, a white altar.



Despite all the anticipation, in truth, the processional emerged and was gone round the corner and out of site within a few minutes. A band struck up a sad tune at its turning, following at a short distance, and the little Christ on the kid’s float got smaller as it swayed down Calle de la Aduana toward the artestian market. I had filled my digital camera’s memory with those minutes, as had a few hundred other observers.

Thinking back on those minutes over this Good Friday, I was a little sad at how my spirit failed to get caught up in the event. Failed, in fact, to feel much of anything at all. I got my pictures, very important. I talked about Guatemala for a while with an older lady from Colorado who’s friend was sick, and couldn’t make it. I made sure the goods we had purchased at the market didn’t get stolen, and that our kids—sticky fingered from ice cream and dead tired—were within hands reach. I kept track of where we had parked, and decided in my mind the easiest way out of the city. We left the scene and the crowd and the little Christ.

The children’s processional with 2,000 boys strong (or so said the brochure) could have been any parade really, considering the way I approached it, considering the lack of reverence I brought to the event. Cultural appreciation? Sure, I had some of that. Spiritual sensitivity, an awareness, a presence, to what was being offered and celebrated? Not a lick. The good Protestant scoffs, of course, at all this Catholic pomp (frivolity?). But the Christian, never good for one, since he is forever humbled by the knowledge of his own sin, should come alive at the celebration of his Christ’s passion, whatever the form—Catholic, Orthodox, Protestant. If my heart was in it at all, like they say, it was in it for the photos, sadly.


* * *
Yesterday evening I was coaxed into the street by Mallory to join a game of futbol the neighbor kids had started. The neighbors’ shacks were filled with new faces—the holiday appearance of family and friends, I supposed. After the game, sweat soaked and still catching my breath (the altitude here is a killer!), Alida, the nine-year old neighbor girl, pushed a plate into my hand with a lump of chicken on a tortilla. Her smile made a shape of joy. “Gracias, Alida.” I waved to her mom across the street, who was bending over her tiny fire.

The sound of laughter and a ruckus of kids playing poured through our windows all evening. The fires next door burned late, and the women laughed long and hard. The givenness of it is what strikes me even now, the common communion of family. No party plans, no invitations, no house cleaning, no last minute trips to the grocery for beer and chips. Just faces around a fire, barefoot kids giggling in a metal shack. The breaking of corn tortillas, the sharing of unpurified water in plastic cups. The holy holiday. Love covering a multitude of sins. Maybe even my own.