Two old men ride slowly into town. They are covered in dust after the long mountain trail. The street is abandoned. On both sides, they see broken walls and fallen columns, remnants of formerly monumental edifices. The loose cobblestones crumble under their tires, and the sound echoes against the bare walls. Although they see no one, they can feel eyes watching them from the shadows. Night is looming, and with it, danger. At the central square, they dismount. They hear the rumble of distant thunder, They look up. Stars are visible in the darkening sky; It is not a storm. The sound grows nearer and louder. The sonorous throb of large drums reverberates within their body, and is now accompanied by slow-cadence music. A large group of men, wearing hooded dark robes, enter the square. They step in unison carrying a long and heavy wooden float. On the float, effigies of mythological figures in various postures of torture or death. Dozens of men shoulder the float, yet the strain is visible on their young faces. The two riders observe in silence. Torches are lit to illuminate the procession. Behind the float march several men playing funeral music on tubas and other wind instruments. The large drums are towed on trolleys and mark the solem beat. These are followed by more hooded men dispensing smoking incense from swinging censers. Out of the smoke, emerges another float. This one smaller, carried by dimunitive pre-teen girls. The girls are overpowered by the weight on their shoulders. A few of them stumble to the ground, and are briskly pulled up by the adult attendants surrounding them.
OK, OK. Enough of this post-apocalyptic movie.
Kobi and I arrived in Antigua, Guatemala, unaware that it was the night before Passion Sunday. The ruins are the remnants of an eighteenth century earthquake which almost destroyed the city. The procession is an old tradition, and attracts many visitors. (We were lucky to find a room.) The little girls were not being tortured. Their mothers were there, discreetly sharing the load.
On Sunday morning, more luck. A flight delay, allowed me to stay in town for the main event. The sidewalks bloomed with Mayan women wearing colorful woven outfits. Along the procession route, locals applied the finishing touches to decorative carpets formed by flowers and colored sand. These will be obliterated as the procession passes over them. At last, The large float entered the city. It was carried by two hundred men, wearing purple, the color of Lent. On it, effigies of Jesus enacted scenes of the crucifiction. A squad of Roman soldiers marched in front, and the bass drums and tubas followed. Virgin Mary on a smaller platform came next, carried by veiled women in black dress. Since the procession started earlier at a nearby village, and would wind its way through the city until evening, thousands of curcuruchas (carriers), all in purple, stood in readiness to carry the load for one block. Each carrier wore a badge, designating his turn as well as his position under the float. (That's how I know their number)
The spectators were still choking the city streets when I had to squeeze my way out, barely making it to the airport taxi.
