One of the things I love most about Spain,
besides the exquisite beauty of its countryside and the crumbling palaces and
cobblestone streets, is the powerful sense of community and exuberance that
permeates our town. The celebrations
during Semana Santa, “Sainted Week,” are full of life and a crosscut of the
entire community, from the very young to the very old and everyone in
between.
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| My aunts Heide and Traute blended right in! |
In Spain, as opposed to other places I’ve
lived, people don’t segregate according to age.
Go to the Gaslamp district in San Diego on a Friday night, and you will
see the 21-to-30-year-old crowd almost exclusively. Not here.
Hit downtown Puerto at midnight on Friday, and you will see infants in
strollers, parents watching their toddlers play, teenagers partying in botellones (street drinking, while not
exactly legal, is tolerated, and a plastic bag with a bottle of gin and 2
liters of tonic is common). Older people
hang out with their grown children at the outdoor cafes, and it’s not uncommon
to see grandmas in wheelchairs being pushed through the streets by their kids
or grandkids.
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| Watching the processions |
During Semana Santa, this mixed community
is even more obvious. Semana Santa is
the week-long celebration of processions leading up to Easter, and probably the
most religious time in Spain, at least in Andalucia. My aunts Traute and Heide were in town for a
visit; this was particularly fortuitous for Traute, a long-time Catholic. That didn’t mean she wasn’t shocked by the
hoods and eyeslits worn by the pentitentes during the processions; these
Ku-Klux-Klan-lookalike costumes are startling to just about everyone the first
time you see hundreds of cloaked figures come down a darkening street.
Click here to see what I'm talking about
Click here to see what I'm talking about
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| Here they come...intimidating at first |
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| Menancing? |
But there’s the community: Everyone comes out to see the processions. Or so it seems. There are all ages, from babies to the oldest
senior citizen, watching and clapping as the tortuously heavy floats, borne by dozens
of men known as cargadores, are revolved around corners and under electrical
wiring in Puerto’s narrow streets.
Click here to see a procession
Click here to see a procession
Semana Santa is a whole-sensory experience,
with the visuals of the stunning floats bearing suffering Christ and a
radiantly sorrowful and exquisitely beautiful Maria. These icons, or statues, or whatever you’d
like to call them, have taken on much more meaning for me; seeing them in their
alters at the church, I found them beautiful but mildly amusing, dressed in
splendor that Jesus and Maria would never had seen. Now that these figures have passed right past
the front door of my house, they have taken on a life of their own, becoming
familiar and dear to me.
Click here to see another procession!
The visual is accented by the odor of incense and the mournful laments of the bands. All ages participate in the bands as well, and I continue to be amazed at the quality of music achieved by these multi-age marchers. Primarily made up of trumpets and other brass instruments and supplemented by drums, you can see all ages, men, women, boys, girls, teenagers, and everyone in between, playing and marching together in unison.
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| A visit by an old friend...or so it seems |
The visual is accented by the odor of incense and the mournful laments of the bands. All ages participate in the bands as well, and I continue to be amazed at the quality of music achieved by these multi-age marchers. Primarily made up of trumpets and other brass instruments and supplemented by drums, you can see all ages, men, women, boys, girls, teenagers, and everyone in between, playing and marching together in unison.
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| Looking for wax |
And these processions include the
onlookers, including our American, very-much-not-Catholic kids. The penitentes
carry large, long candles to light their way through these 4-to-5 hour-long
processions, and as they stop to rest and switch out cargadores—the onlookers
clapping appreciatively every time the float is hoisted successfully—children of
all ages dart out with balls to collect the wax. Tia and Sasha have accumulated an impressive
bola; Griffin and Ado keep losing theirs and have had to start over several
times. But the interaction delights our
kids, and we watch them slipping from one candle-bearer to the other, intent on
their part of the celebration, while the ever-tolerant Spaniards watch and even
help them with their task.
And the Spanish are nothing if not tolerant, on
all sides. During the morning
procession, which begins at the church at 5 am, the silent penitentes wind
their way through the narrow streets to the riverfront, passing by the
Resbaladero, home to no fewer than 4 discos.
As the procession stopped before its turn up the street right around 7
am, the partygoers spilled out of the dance halls, loud and drunk. The contrast was fascinating, and I waited to
see what would happen, as the discos usually are open until 8 or 9 in the
morning. But after watching for a few
minutes, the nightlife crowd dispersed into the onlookers, joining the crowds
and clapping for the cargadores. Or
maybe they just went home, I’m not
sure. Whatever it was, the discos turned
off their pumping club music, closed their doors; it was peaceful and friendly,
and as the sun rose, the procession band gathered at the corner fell into step
and began to play.  |
| Not so scary after all |
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| Santa Maria's float |
