Guatemala: Ice Cream Saints   
By Michael Persson

Brother Pedro walked the streets of Santiago de Guatemala with a bell in his hand.  If you’d been around in the 1650s, you might have heard his gentle signal, sounding out, reminding people of their solemn vows: a gut check to God, so to speak.  Pedro was a soldier of the Lord, overflowing with the gospel and wholly committed.  In 1667, the devoted missionary died and with him his ting-a-ling reminder to people’s conscience faded as well.

A hundred years after Pedro’s bell had quieted, something hit the city, changing it forever.   What had been the capital of Spain’s Central American Empire now lay in ruins.  The Santa Marta earthquake saw to that.  Nothing would remain of this city, not even its name.  The capital would move, up and over to the neighboring valley, taking the former’s seat of power, its prestige and influence with it. 

Guatemala City now had it all, all except for one thing.  For the new capital to be anointed in the eyes of God, the church had to strip Santiago of its saints.  By placing the saints in their new home, the transformation was made complete.  What eventually would rise from the ruins left by Santa Marta would not only be poor, insignificant, and neglected; the new town would be gutted, spiritually.

Semana Santa (Holy Week) in La Antigua is a traditional affair, traditional, that is, in the way anything exists in the New World: thoroughly observant, pious, and awash in carnival.  Some may think Semana Santa in Guatemala is on a par with Seville’s very own—it’s not.  Whereas the Old World flock remains faithful to Rome’s directives, the New World congregations ad-lib a little, changing the plot, whilst fusing their homemade brand of “acting-out” to the time-honored script.  When you stretch anything half way round the world things get a little funky…

That Sunday, at the start of Catholicism’s weeklong Easter ride, the first procession set out from the church of La Merced later than the advertised time—much later.  In countries south of the Rio Grande, one hour doesn’t necessarily have sixty minutes.  Palm Sunday, Latino style, was underway.

From the cool darkness of La Merced a float entered the afternoon.  The rainy season had arrived, and with it the rumblings in the valley were climactic and not the usual volcanic kind.  The air was thick.  At the front of the procession a cloud of incense smothered the scene in a heavy perfume; a cocktail of humidity and spice took over.

I was a non-believer in the grips of a weird holy asphyxiation, ready to convert my present reality into angels and holy ghosts.  The smoke signaled all that was to come, its odor as much of a constant through the week as the faith of the thousands spilling in from the countryside and God only knew where else.  Atop the float, Jesus stood hunched, shouldering a cross.  Below, eighty cucuruchos, bearers, did the same with the entire ceremonial edifice, something reminiscent of a large, upturned yacht with Christ playing the part of its keel.  The cucuruchos wore robes of purple; Christ had on white.  Rocking slowly, the bearers moved forwards; each side, left and right, staggering toddler-like with uncertainty.  Their technique succeeded; the Son of God was in motion.  To this, setting the tone, the band played. 

Mouth open wide; eyes following suit, and in an altered state by now, I was in deep.  Disjointedly, the band would strike up in that way a bagpipe first sounds as it’s brought to life.  A bass drum thundered, securing everyone’s attention; then, after a while, a quick roll on the snare tightened the suspense.  Once they had us eating from their hands, brass, reed, string and percussion came to, wailing disharmoniously like an ensemble of cats stranded in the rain.  It went on this way the whole day.  This gut check was more than just a bell.
   
 The message of Semana Santa rested in the faces, the expressions.  In the cucuruchos you saw the strain, the penance served, carrying the burden, pushing down until another eighty took over from those who’d started so strong only a block ago—faith can be heavy at times, a seven thousand pound float heavier still.  Men, women and children crossed themselves spellbound by what drifted past. 

On the ground flower heads, petals, fronds, colored sawdust, vegetables and fruits came together as carpets, lining the route in the same way palms had done when Jesus entered Jerusalem all those years ago.  Through the narrow streets beside the low-slung houses of cement and terracotta where once a capital had stood, La Antigua sat blanketed in these ornate offerings.  Stencils, sieves, brushes were used in the carpets’ manufacture, wielded by hands, young and old, blurring in a race against time. 

Page 1 of 2  Next Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.