I came to Antigua, Guatemala, for the most elaborate Holy Week celebration in the Western Hemisphere. I was eager to immerse myself from Palm Sunday through Easter in art, music, culture, and spectacle wrapped in Christian spirituality.
I wanted to see the beautiful street “carpets” made from colorful sawdust and created by locals. I wanted to see the dramatic processions that march over those carpets in expressions of faith and penitence.
I had previously visited this UNESCO World Heritage Site perched at 5,000 feet in the central highlands of Guatemala. That brief visit had filled me with admiration for the gentle people I encountered, the city’s grand Colonial churches and its neighborhoods of squat adobe houses painted in soft pastels. Blue, pink, green, orange . . . the colors create streets resembling lines of dusty jewels.
When I learned about the un-paralleled drama of Semana Santa, I simply had to return for Holy Week.
The shuttle ride from Guatemala City Airport took almost two hours on roads crammed with holiday traffic. But once we reached Antigua, calm settled in.
Besides looming volcanoes and inspiring history, what had most impressed me on my first visit here was the Mayan women selling textiles and jewelry on the streets. In their brilliant native dresses, they offered hand-crafted wares without hounding to buy. They were friendly, mellow, intriguing.
I’d encountered half a dozen such vendors on that visit. Now there were scores, all carrying armloads of hand-made textiles or hand-crafted necklaces. Parque Central with its great fountain, is full of them along with Mayan men selling wooden masks and flutes. Yet no one pesters. They ask me to buy, I decline, they move on.
Early Palm Sunday, I walk to La Merced Church, one of Antigua’s largest churches. Food booths line nearby sidewalks. Crowds pack the front plaza. A Palm frond market fills the grassy lawn beneath a stone cross. There, frond bouquets are being bought as fast as the women and their children can make them.
By 9:30, the crowds have doubled. From babes in arms to grandparents, everyone’s here, eager to see the first procession of the day.
No personal space in this crowd. Surprisingly, I’m comfortable despite the human crush. Perhaps that’s because no one else seems stressed or unhappy. No angry or irritated words. In fact, there’s a serenely pleasant feel about this crowd, a kind of tenderness pervades.
And then the procession begins. Men in purple gowns and caps carry banners from the church followed by a giant, 7,000-pound float, borne on the shoulders of scores of other men in purple, called cucuruchos.
The float contains St. James, patron saint of the city, riding forth on his horse, three church domes, and Jesus carrying a golden cross.
About 50 musicians follow. Trumpets, trombones, drums, tubas and more, blasting out music to break the heart (and eardrums).
I’ll see dozens of such processions during Holy Week. All day, all night the floats, their faithful carriers, and bands move step by solemn step along city streets and over colorful sawdust carpets.
And every day the crowds grow.
By Good Friday, it’s impossible to move easily along city sidewalks. The press of the human swarm never lets up.
Families mob the parks. Babies, toddlers, children, parents, grandparents. The women selling textiles carry babes in slings over their backs. The little ones’ bright eyes take in all the action. Other infants ride in front slings so they can nurse when they want. Children everywhere. Yet I see no spankings, swats or slaps, no outbursts of frustration or anger. The kiddies all seem to be treasured.
While people-watching in Parque Central, I suddenly realize that this week’s most impressive experience has not been the grand floats, loud bands, or even the beautiful street carpets, but rather an uncommonly gentle, loving spirit.
Despite overwhelming crowds, exhausting processions, and constant bartering with tourists, I’ve never heard an angry word aimed at a child or anyone else.
All I’ve witnessed are expressions of affection. Adults kissing or patting or holding children. Adults picking up children and hugging them. Lifting them to shoulders so they can better see what’s going on.
Siblings embracing, or kissing a younger child’s cheek. Everyone seeming to cherish everyone else with warm and genuine fondness.
I’ve seen nothing all Holy Week but gentle words and caring actions.
It’s shocking to realize, that with more than 70 years on planet Earth, this is a first for me. I’ve never before experienced such all-encompassing kindness. Especially within crushing crowds and stifling hot weather. The gentle spirit softens my heart and moistens my eyes.
I came to Antigua expecting fantastic drama and spectacle, and found it.
But the unexpected, almost life-changing discovery has been the gentle, all-enveloping spirit of love.