On being culturally overwhelmed

The day began in a blaze of colour. I’d been up since dawn, watching dedicated Guatemalans painstakingly assemble intensely saturated alfombras — ‘carpets’ made of dyed sawdust and flowers that lined the streets. A sweet balminess ascended as the loose petals warmed in the sun. Merriment seemed inevitable, and by the time the Semana Santa festivities began, Antigua was radiating pure joy. Crowds were thick, laughter pealed between buildings and carried across fountains. Children ran around, ducking and weaving through masses of people, dutifully avoiding scolding by closely watching adults.

The afternoon paled into dusk, and as the light faded the mood in the streets changed.

I was buzzing. I shouldn’t have had those drinks. But I had, and I was feeling it, and I knew it was wrong because for those people who lived here, the locals, those people who cared about this week, it was not an event for a slightly inebriated tourist to be attending. The people milling in the streets were wholly committed to this religion, believing wholeheartedly in everything that was about to occur. They’d spent months preparing for this holy celebration.

Even if my mind hadn’t been buzzing, limbs warm with alcohol, I would have felt drunk. The air was thick with incensed smoke, curling from hypnotically swinging lanterns full of hot coals and myrrh. The smell was eery, and everywhere, inescapable. Candles and lanterns gradually lit up throughout the streets, leaving long shadows on the sides of buildings. Lights glowed along the exterior of the cathedral in the main square, highlighting its colonial architecture, the desperately beautiful statues of weeping Madonnas. The night grew darker still, and music sounded in the distance, eery, throbbing. The parade of intensely spiritual people was nearing.

Violet clouded my vision; it, too was inescapable, the colour of collective sorrow. Everywhere people were swathed in purple cloth, their hooded robes eerily similar to images I’d seen of the Ku Klux Klan back in high school. The cucuruchos. Young robed boys swayed under the weight of floats depicting the passion of Christ, taking one small step after another, sweating with the strain. Grown men trembled, eyes closed, as they continued their vigil — some on their seventh hour of bearing their burden. All in repentance for their sins.

Not being a religious person, I felt overwhelmed. Faces contorted in prayer surrounded me. It seemed every which way I turned there was another myrrh-bearer, relentlessly swinging, releasing more shrouds of fragrant smoke that flooded my nostrils. Drums throbbed. Candles flickered. The synapses in my brain flashed, trying to find some equatable situation to compare this to. They came up with nothing, leaving me with only one option: give up trying to make sense of what was happening and give in to it.

Maybe it was the crowd, maybe the clouds of smoke that stung my eyes. Maybe it was jealousy, a distress that I’d never believed in something like these people had. Maybe it was the rhythmic heartbeat of the drum around the corner. Maybe it was the image of the once intricate and beautiful alfombra, now crushed by the leaden footsteps of the cucuruchos and scattered in the wake of the pressing crowd. Whatever it was, my emotions consumed me, and tears formed, heavy on my eyelids. My face grew hot as I fought to control myself.

Taking a deep breath in, I looked around and realized it would not be seen as weakness if I was caught crying. Safe in that knowledge, I allowed the procession to engulf me, and felt freedom rather than embarrassment when the hot tears took the path of least resistance down the creases of my nose.

Never have I been so affected by something that I knew so very little about, especially as I was not pre-disposed to be convinced by it in the first place. Religion plays no part in my family history; I was ignorant of Holy Week and the ideologies that these men and women were paying tribute to. But it was precisely my non-religious background that so surprised me that night — I was being swayed by this event that had nothing to do with me, my beliefs, or my history.

Perhaps my religious ignorance led to my misinterpretation of the term ‘festival’ with regards to Semana Santa. The only definition of the word that I knew conveyed joy and celebration. It brought to mind traditions from my past, occasions of merry-making. An effervescent feast for the eyes, ears, and soul. Never had I equated a festival with such sadness, such devotion. Being here forced a sudden realization that the lovely word also held other meaning. Generally a moment of realization leaves you feeling light — this new conclusion, however, staggered me.

I learned a great deal in my four days spent in Antigua — about faith, about humanity, about people’s need for devotion and piety. The commitment to one’s religion and culture overwhelmed me. It wasn’t the act of believing, it was the passion that shook me. I struggled to recall a time I’d felt that passionate about anything, and it distressed me. I ached to be a part of something bigger, as these people were. I suddenly understood what must be the basis of faith.

The streets were quiet as I walked home later that night. Flower petals tumble down the cobblestones, caught in the breeze. Magenta sawdust was lifted from the ground, ascending into the night. It was a fitting final image for an Easter celebration, a small piece of faith being raised again.