Guatemala's Lake Atitlan: Surviving Good Friday
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Santiago de Atitlan is known for its worship of a cigar-smoking,
liquor-swilling god of the local Tzotojil Mayans. But I was here to see
Jesus Christ. It was Good Friday of Semana Santa, Easter week.
In central Gautemala, Lake Atitlan sits in an ancient caldera and is the highest lake in
Central America. Reflecting three volcanic peaks, the deep waters
preserve traditions that even 500 years of change couldn't
eradicate.
From the rickety dock, I hiked up through streets lined with crafts and
eager, dusty children smiling and following. Under the shade of
patient pine trees, we ventured into the main park. The square
was saturated with french fry and fried chicken stands, mobile licuado
venders, and ice cream hawkers. To my amazement, dozens of men on
their hands and knees were quickly creating paintings on the street of
interlocking cement bricks. These panels of color cresting the
hill were made of confetti and woodchips of blue, red, yellow, green,
orange, black, and white. They filled the entire road with
paneled portraits of birds, fish, flowers, a chicken; all distorted in
abstraction. This was the path that the Procession would follow.
Up a rounded set of stairs sat the elevated courtyard and the sturdy
white church, the Iglesia Parroquial Santiago Apostal. "Fundada
1547" announced a sign, but I knew it was built of reclaimed stone of
Tzutuhil Mayan temples.
Free now of the pack of children and dogs, I climbed the steep stairs
and entered the blocky church, inhaling immediately the heat of bodies
and candles. Deeper into the heavy interior, saints of yellowing
plaster stood in groups on each wall. Wearing ill-fitting cloaks
and jackets, one looked distinctly like a fattening Elvis. Boys
and girls carried candles as wide as dinner plates, 4 feet high, with
metallic rainbow streamers twisting down and around. They stood
lining the walls, wax covering their shoes, knees, hands, arms, even
shoulders and hats.
I followed the crowd. What choice did I have? Slithering
slowly like a barely perceptible current through the marsh of bodies,
we came to a huge structure of wood and glass. I couldn't make
sense of it; 25ft long, 5 across, made of thick redwood carved into
panels of flowery patterns. The masses kneeled and touched it,
mumbling, gazing heavenward. Plastic flowers crowded the
glass-enclosed area on top, like the cockpit of an X-wing
fighter. From a wall plug, Christmas lights looped around the
glass, flashing randomly.
I was surrounded by men in striped knee-length shorts, embroidered blue
at the bottom. Chapped shins were revealed down to the polished
leather shoes worn without socks. Little boys wore white tunics and
Chiquita-lady headdresses of paper flowers stacked high. One
proud boy bore a banister staff topped with a carved chicken. A
solemn group of older women sported their black hair pulled back tight into a
red-orange band that was wrapped around their heads in increasing
thickness, overlapping itself in concentric layers to form a disc,
framing their saturnine faces like rings. They looked like elder queens or intergalactic observers.
The cavern of the church was full of swarming people. Above our
heads the hall rose 50ft to the tin roof, wavering in our collective
heat. Breaking that stillness above, the throngs of Good Friday
worshippers raised the Cross. The tortured, bleeding,
(surprisingly) brown Jesus hung there, head lolled to the side, eyes
almost completely rolled up into his head, barely the strength to gaze
to the heavens. The plastic messiah looked over us, very much
like a flock. Communal movement dictated my direction. Strange
smells eddied and enveloped me. Never standing but leaning and
shuffling, heat and stagnancy eased me into a mindless float, not
focusing on anything, until a commotion passed through the crowd.
Almost directly above me, two men in nappy fake beards and cloaks were
ascending ladders. A hushed focus overtook the crowd as the
costumed men began to untie Jesus Christ and lower him with long sashes
of patterned purple. Pious patrons stood below, covering the
Lord's near-naked body, his arms swinging loose now, like a mannequin
in
transition. The fever and carbon dioxide of the church seemed to
distort the space like a mirage and my eyesight blurred. The heat
of the candles breathed heavily on my neck. There was no way of exit
even if I had had the energy. I was loosing it…
The sharp inhalation of a collective gasp snapped me back into
consciousness. I looked up through the haze to see the Jesus
mannequin hanging limply, twisted in his royal supports. His thin
legs, like an invalid's, indecently and irreverently revealed.
Jesus
spun and a few old women screamed sincere and horrific. An old
man in thick glasses finally yelled "ya basta!" and choreographed the
realignment while the elder ladies in their eloquent head wraps pushed
up against me, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues in
disgust.
With Jesucristo finally on the ground and wrapped securely in blankets
thick with floral and animal designs, the huge wooden box began to
move. Like a lumbering animal awakening from hibernation, it
lurched and rose above the flock slowly. Bore by 60 men in their
striped clamdiggers and colorful shirts, it was approaching me
alarmingly fast. The massive movement wedged us out of the way,
like a ship in a bay of thawing ice chunks. Then I realized: it
was the Ark to carry the crucified Jesus, recreating the story of his
death. But, like all things in Guatemala, it was not so
straightforward. In this village nestled (or trapped, as one may
see it) in the bosom of two looming volcanoes, history is not
stagnant. Stories, and indeed religion itself, are transformed
and shaped to fit local realities. Hence, the life of Christ
becomes the complex but playful saga of "MaNawal JesuKrista": "the one
of knowing." Perhaps the direct Christianization of the Mayan
deity Mam, MaNawal is Jesus - revolutionary, leader, martyr, and
eventually, savior.
Jesus / MaNawal was then placed without further incident into the Arc,
where he lay peaceful and warm in the glow of Christmas lights and
plastic flowers. I was so close I found myself staring into the
face of the plaster Christ, thorn becrowned, so pained yet calm.
Even closer were the faces of the men burdened not by martyrdom but by
sheer weight. In the sweltering church sweat dripped and soon
soaked their clothes. They were packed so tightly together that,
in their exhaustion, they rested their chins on the shoulder of the man
in front of them; chest to chest, crotch to rear. Their misery
was, in
those close to me, palpable and pungent.
But it got worse. As soon as it seemed the Arc was situated
solidly on their shoulders, a swarm of men and women emerged from the
throng, holding hissing aerosol canisters of perfume in their
outstretched arms like overzealous riot police. In a fervor they
sprayed down the Arc, the lights, the flowers, and of course the
bearers.
They coughed and choked and tried to defend themselves with
handkerchiefs, but the hissing continued unabated, cacophonous.
This onslaught continued for almost ten minutes, the older women
clearly the more aggressive of the sprayers. I worried at one
point that some of the bearers might faint from lack of oxygen.
The paneled windows,
already obscured by the lights and flowers, quickly glazed over, fully restricting the Savior's view of the proceedings.
Mercifully the cans sputtered to their end and, echoing the rattle of
the little metallic balls, the drums began. The sound was much
like the first day of marching band practice. 3 old men beat
snare drums arhythmically, the skin of their brown hands stretched like
the heads of the drums. Then the procession joined the pulsing,
waxing and waning of the overlapping drumbeats, stumbling forward 20
steps and shuffling back 10. In this fashion, the procession
moved out into daylight and the gloriously fresh air.
The cross (which MaNawal reportedly enjoyed making: while chopping the
Zapote tree he continued his life of mischief by manifesting fish with
each chop) was lowered amid chaotic shouts and wrapped in purple
cloth. Just then, I felt a shoe on my heel and turned to see the
beast bearing down on me. During one of the retreats, the Arc had
gained too much momentum. I pushed at it with the others to no
use. The procession crashed into the cross to more horrified
screams from old ladies. But without too much hassle, everything
was put back into 'order.'
Slowly the procession moved through the church and out onto the steep
half circle of steps descending into the courtyard. It staggered
down the stairs, made from stones of ancient Mayan temples, and finally
arrived at the first of the street carpets over which the procession
would tread for 10 hours more.
It was then that I decided it was time to catch a boat back to my hotel
in San Pedro. When I got there it quickly became clear that I had
missed the last launch. Worse, I had only 20 quetzals (around $2)
in my pocket, no sweatshirt, and a deep hunger. I eventually sold
my rarely-used sunglasses and got the last room in the last and
crappiest hotel in Santiago.
Abandoning the door with no lock, I emerged again into the
street. It was dark and the procession was climbing hills, always
turning left. It lumbered in fits and starts, often tilting and rarely
aligned towards its goal. The drums played on and the lights
stayed lit. Somebody was in charge, apparently, of unplugging and
replugging the extension cord at those crucial points.
I sat with a young family on the sidewalk, munching tamales and
observing the slow, indeed tortured, progress of the Arc from the
bottom of the hill. The street carpets at this point were much
finer renditions than those earlier in the route. Stencils were
used and it gave a true sense of una alfombra, a carpet. The
family chattered in Tzutuhil and I shared flirtatious smiles with the
little girl. It was cold and the procession was moving almost
imperceptively slow. The street was packed. People streamed
by below us, all but a few of the teenage boys in traditional
outfits. A very drunk man stumbled over a case of sodas and fell
onto the carpet, smudging an ass-sized portion of the border.
Beastlike, the procession rose and passed me. I saw the few men,
in the left front corner, to whom I had been closest in the
church. The tallest, in his teens, was visibly hurting over two
hours ago. Already then appearing totally exhausted, his eyes had
even rolled back into his head on a couple of occasions. Now his
face was calm, lightly sweating, eyes unfocused; resigned. I followed them, cresting the
hill and another left turn. I read their nametags, noticing the
numbers indicating proper position were out of order. They
trampled an exquisite alfombra of actual flower petals, large orange
candles and bouquets rising into the third dimension. I thought
of Tibetan Buddhist sand paintings: meticulous meditational mandalas of
colored sand which, once exquisitely completed, are left to be walked
upon and destroyed; a lesson in transience and temporality.
To end the night, the procession followed the route of the sun
(representing the Holy Father) to the four corners of town, always
making left hand turns. The Arc arrived at the Holy Burial, where
it would stay until Sunday, the time of His resurrection. Here
especially the Tzutuhil influence asserts itself. MaNawal splits
into three: his body returns to the earth in the form of corn; a
rain deity in the mist of the volcano heights; and a third that joins
His Father on his daily journey across the sky: the Mayan trinity
of maize, sun, and rain.
With that I walked home slowly, exhausted, head bowed. Little
kids scurried around collecting the scattered flowers and colored
sawdust, like soiled confetti the day after a big surprise party.
I fell asleep to happy drunken howling from the bar downstairs and
awoke to roosters and glory glory hallelujah.
The early morning sun warmed the church square as I listened to the
sounds of murmuring conversation and dozens of busy rakes and
brooms. All the men in their clam diggers were back to refresh
the square, sweeping garbage into smoldering piles. The ritual was
over. The suffering was felt physically and recreated
symbolically, meshing cultures. It was a night of pain, clearly,
but death fertilizes life, like blood let with obsidian blades from
ears, tongues, penises...
And so, with the help of Quetzalteca, the burning liquor favored here,
the cofradias (the bearded saints leading the procession), the cofrades
(bearers), and AnDolores (the Holy Mother) retire to cleanse themselves
of the pain; to drink and dance and wail until the first sun of the new
year, Spring, rises with Jesus. And everyone, battling hangovers
of apocalyptic proportions, ascends the stairs to the church altar,
where AnDolores has replaced MaNawal Jesus Christ until the next Lent.
I arrived early to wait for the boat. The wind had picked up and
it was carving patterns onto the water's surface. I gazed up at
the three conic volcanoes whose eruptions millions of years ago blocked
a river to create this lake. Finally it made sense. Like
the river, new influences continue to flow into Guatemala´s
Atitlan. First it was the Mayans, then the Toltecs, and finally
the Spanish. But the collapsed volacanoes prevent the waters from
flowing on. And so they build up. The accumulated influence
of Tzutuhil and Catholic, spirits and saints, continues. Modern
Catholic and conquistador customs combine with traditional Mayan
beliefs. New influences flow in, causing observable ripples, and
things appear modern, but just below the surface the ancestors live on
and protect the residents of Santiago de Atitlan.
About the Author
Paul Abodeely lives in Seattle when not traveling. His hobbies include kickball and mobile bicycle parties in costume.
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