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Travel> Semana
Santa
Semana Santa
in San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus
Published April 2002
I can't think of a better place for a practicing
Christian to be for Holy Week than San Miguel
de Allende--except maybe for Rome, but I've
never been there, and here I am in Mexico.
(Who knew?)
Even for those not Christian or Catholic,
the cultural expressions of this, the holiest
of times on the Christian calendar, is an
amazing experience in San Miguel.
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The
week is so packed with things, that
it actually starts on the preceding
weekend, one week prior to Palm Sunday
when there is an all-night procession
from the church at Atontonilco to San
Miguel (17 k), carrying the celebrated,
venerated and beloved El Senor de
la Columna. |
Made out of corn meal, orchids, and other
exotic materials rather than carved from
wood, so it's not so heavy and looks more
lifelike. In the Mexican bloody tradition,
this statue of Christ after being whipped,
is pretty graphic. But Mexicans really get
into the Passion, and maybe the violent
reality of their religious art help them
to feel their religion more.
Then the Friday before Palm Sunday is the
Day of Our Lady of Sorrows, and families
and communities work all night creating
beautiful altars in their homes and windows,
and in the many neighborhood fountains scattered
around town.
I was lucky in that the family owning the
building in which I live created the most
beautiful one I saw right in my own entryway.
There are certain symbolic requirements
to these altars, and the one made by Jorge
and Sandra had everything: purple
pots of growing wheat, white lilies, statues
of Mary weeping at the foot of the Cross,
bitter oranges, purple and white flags,
tons of fresh chamomile, white candles,
and then most amazing, a purple carpet made
of sawdust with different designs stenciled
in natural sawdust.
The whole family, friends, tenants, and
maids worked for hours creating this altar
in the entranceway and on the sidewalk in
front of our building. Then at night people
visit the various altars and are given frozen
fruit ices and hot rice pudding. And the
next day they were all gone, taken down
as quickly as they were put up.
The jacaranda trees here cooperate and
bloom in perfect purple timing with the
color of Lent, unlike the trees in Los Angeles
where I am from, which get dressed in May.
In San Miguel it seems divinely coordinated
with the holy season.
The next night happened to be my birthday,
and in a weak moment I had invited lots
of people to a party. I heard the best tamales
were made by the cloistered nuns in the
convent, but when I went to order some in
the church at the little curtained window,
the sister told me that because of Santa
Semana they were not cooking. My friends
and I partied up on the and ate the tamales
I had bought from the tamale lady in front
of the Oratorio, and drank cerveza and generally
had a fine time. Unfortunately the only
dancing was by me and Adrian, a young Mexican
artist who had spent some salsa time in
L.A. But the music was great (my CDs from
Cuba), and the gringos and Mexicans all
mixed together in both languages and so
I became 39, again.
Palm Sunday at St. Paul's Anglican Church,
which I attend, was very nice, and also
very familiar, since the liturgy is so similar
to the Lutheran. However I couldn't help
but feel the Mexicans were doing it up so
much better. In front of every Catholic
Church (and believe me, there are a lot
in this town!) and on the Jardin were artisans
who had woven elaborate designs out of fresh
palm fronds--flower baskets holding purple
flowers, shields, angels, crosses, bouquets--as
many designs as there were designers. The
palm art were all about 14" or so high,
cost 5 pesos (50 cents), and many people
took them home as bouquets after the service.
By contrast, at St. Paul's we were given
dinky little skinny palm leaves
about an inch wide that felt quite lacking
as we processed into the church. Why not
make a deal next year with the Mexican artisans
to sell their designs in front of the gringo
church too?
Wednesday in the late afternoon a crowd
gathered in front of the baroque Oratorio.
The sun was setting, colors streaked the
sky and turned the acolytes’ white
garments rose as they waited patiently with
their incense, tall candlesticks and golden
crosses at the top of the church stairs.
Behind them were a hundred women of all
ages in formal black, from cocktail
dresses and sequins to simple cotton, some
carrying their shoes as well as symbols
of the crucifixion.
Two little girls yanked on my sleeve and
we started a conversation, and I took their
pictures. Sisters there with their father,
we admired each others’ clothing and
exchanged names and ages (they were 7 and
8). Oh if only my Spanish were better!
Way up high in the tower were more teenaged
boys in white, fooling around while waiting
for the time to peal the huge bells.
Finally the traffic was stopped and the
procession began, with angels and Roman
soldiers and solemn drummers and THEN when
the beloved statues were hand carried on
flower bedecked litters out of the church,
I couldn’t help but catch my breath.
Men in crisp white shirts and formal black
slacks carried Christ with his cross, but
it was WOMEN who carried the others—Mary,
Magdalene, John, Veronica—tiny women
all in black, most barefoot, with the heavy
wooden stretchers over their shoulders.
There wasn’t a cleric in sight. This
was a people’s procession.
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So when the crowd fell in behind the procession
as it wended it’s way up the hill and
on to the Stations of the Cross, I cut out
and ran over to the Biblioteca’s theater
where “Jesus Christ Superstar”
was just beginning. Afterwards I found myself
drawn back at the Oratorio, just in time
to see the procession return to the church.
There had been a downpour during the movie,
I had heard it on the roof. Now two hours
later the procession was damp, weary, still
proud. Even more of the ladies in black
were barefoot, but the teenagers wore their
high platforms with pride after hours of
walking the rough streets of San Miguel.
The little girls in white still held forth
their bread, the prom-queen angel still
held out her full tulle skirts, but everyone
looked tired. Then up the hill in the distance
appeared the moving lanterns, candlelight
progressing slowly in the dark, lighting
the way for the venerated statues. By the
time the last of the procession entered
the church, I was emotionally exhausted,
and I turned to the picnicking families,
the candy and tamale vendors, the balloon
men with relief.
Holy Thursday I attended a gringo lecture
on “Rabbits, Eggs, and The Blood of
Christ” And then I visited the churches,
which were all open as is traditional this
night. One is supposed to visit seven, but
in San Miguel the churches are so many and
so close together I actually did eight in
short order. People file quietly in, pray,
touch the statues, receive manzanilla flowers,
a roll of bread, a purple palm cross for
a donation at the many tables set up by
teenagers in the sanctuaries. There is a
great suspense in all the churches, altars
are covered, people are awaiting the Eucharist,
the bread and wine.
The town was jumping, packed with tourists
and residents, no one was home. Some shops
were open, singing poured out of the cantinas’
swinging doors, there was no place to sit
in the Jardin. Vendors were selling everything
everywhere. A friend from Canada invited
me to join her group at Mama Mia’s
for drinks, but I just wanted to go home
alone. I did flick on the tube, though,
and almost every channel had Bible movies
or film of Holy Week parades and appearances
of the Pope.
But all of this pales in comparison with
Good Friday. There were three processions,
the last one in the evening consisting of
hundreds and hundreds of participants, including
two choirs and a real orchestra with accordions,
violins, and lots of dark brass, carrying
their music stands. All of the women litter
bearers wore black with white gloves and
black lace mantillas, the men all in black
suits, white shirts, and black ties. A real
funeral cortege, men wearing hats along
the sidewalks were asked to remove them,
and the crowd watched the procession with
respectful silence, even the children. Right
before the arrival of the glass coffin with
the body of Jesus, little girls spread manzanilla
over the cobblestones, and the air was fragrant
with perfume as the flowers were trod upon.
Nothing mechanical or electronic, no Animatronic
giant moving floats, only people power,
and it was powerful. This was the church
brought out into the streets and into the
lives of the people.
Saturday, instead of the Blood of Christ,
there was blood and sand at the bullfight
arena in the center of town. A charity event
to raise money for the orphanage, it seemed
somehow a fitting activity for Holy Week.
Though averting my eyes on occasion, I had
to appreciate the color, courage, and grace
of men and beasts in the ring. At night
the churches held candlelit Easter Vigils,
but I went dancing at la Cava de la Princessa
with a group of crazy artists from Calgary.
Easter Sunday is the day that life-sized
effigies of Judas, other bad characters,
and politicians are strung up in front of
the government buildings along the Jardin,
and blown to bits one by one at noon after
church services. It’s a great catharsis
and a fitting end to an intense week of
passion, emotion, blood and death, and resurrection.
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About
this author: With degrees in English,
Dance, and Library Science from UCLA,
Cherie has published many articles in
professional journals and magazines.
Her solo travels to Europe and Latin
America have inspired several pieces
published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie,
JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad,
Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly,
the-vu, and various online magazines.
She was the dance critic for the Cerritos
News in Orange County, California before
moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
She is currently at work on a novel
situated in France, when she's not out
dancing. |
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| Cherie Magnus
and Carlos Gavito, star of "Forever
Tango." |
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