Evidence of Semana Santa began days before Palm Sunday; the streets and sidewalk cafés began filling with Mexican and international tourists; street vendors began blanketing the Zócalo, the Alcalá, and any and all gathering places; and the front of the Cathedral was lined with local artisans — the dark faces and strong compact bodies of native craftsmen and women weaving palm fronds into intricate flowers and crucifixes to sell to the faithful (and tourists) for Palm Sunday rituals.
Palm Sunday – I awoke early to the sounds of construction. From my terrace, I could see a giant awning being erected on the Plaza de la Danza next to the Basílica de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad. Following a quick shower and breakfast, I grabbed my camera and woven palm frond and headed over there. Food stalls with hot comals, tables and benches, and a beckoning aroma spilled down the stairs next to the Plaza – squash blossoms, mushrooms, cheese, tortillas, red and green hot sauces — the fixings for empanadas – and I asked myself, “Why did I eat a boring breakfast of cereal?” More artisans weaving and selling palm fronds lined the stairs nearer the Basílica.
Massive sculptures of Jesús, bent under the weight of the cross he is bearing, and Lady Soledad, in her deep purple mantle, gold crown and halo, were set up outside, as was a small stage. La misa was celebrated outside (to accommodate the enormous crowd, I’m guessing); the youthful choir, accompanied by a guitar, sang folky-sounding songs, cheers were chanted to the cadence of “rah, rah, sis boom bah!” and palm fronds were raised and blessed with holy water. I wandered through the crowd (I’ve noticed a degree of fluidity exists among worshippers here, even inside churches, so I wasn’t the only one roaming around), one of only a handful of gringos in this congregation of 600+ mostly indigenous faithful. I had pretty much no idea what was being said but did offer my right hand when it looked like all were to greet their neighbors — and was greeted with startled but warm smiles and handshakes.
I returned home, but first peeked through the rarely open large red door of the Holy Trinity Anglican Episcopal Church nearby; 15-20 people standing in a circle in a small courtyard. Quite a contrast!
Religious ritual wasn’t the only event of the day; a Secc. 59, teachers’ union car caravan from Juchitán (about 150 from miles away) occupied part of the Zócalo – a peaceful reminder of the ongoing struggle between the teachers’ unions and the government. And, in the evening, sounds of a live (and free!) rock concert blared from the massive stage (I had heard being set up before the crack of dawn) in the Plaza de la Danza. As is routine here, a fireworks display exploded only a few hundred yards above the heads of the concert-goers (and a little above eye level from my terrace, less than 2 blocks away) – all courtesy of one of the opposition political parties – PRD, I think. The color, community, and contrast that is Oaxaca!
Jueves Santo – After a morning spend hand-washing “delicates” and tending to my garden, followed by an afternoon of Spanish lessons and shopping for fruit, veggies, and tortillas, with my portable fan on high (it was in the 90s), I collapsed on my bed for a late afternoon siesta. Unfortunately, that meant missing the 5 pm (give or take) mass and washing of feet apparently at all the churches in the city. However, after a dinner of tacos made with my newly purchased tortillas, aguacate, cilantro, Queso Oaxaca, lechuga, y pollo and washed down with Valle Redondo California Vino Blanco (my new favorite cheap wine), I reluctantly put on long pants (one doesn’t wear shorts in public in the city), grabbed my camera, and emerged from the refuge of Casita Colibrí, unwashed feet and all, to join the people-moving throngs.
Ritual called for visiting 7 churches, though pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it to 7, I figured I’d give it the good old college try. My first stop was San Felipe Neri where, at the entrance, I purchased a bag of Pan Bendito (5 buns for 10 pesos) and the followed the faithful down the aisle toward the altar and out a side door (I didn’t stop to get my Pan Bendito blessed), a traffic pattern that was repeated at the other churches, some with entrance and exit signs tacked on the doors, all in the interest of preventing gridlock that threatened. Clutching my bag of pan, my next stop was at Carmen Abajo, followed by the Cathedral, and Sangre de Cristo.
My plan was to end the evening minutes from my apartment, at the Basílica de La Soledad, where I could reward myself with a “Nieves Oaxaqueñas” (Oaxacan ice cream) of leche quemada (burnt milk) and tuna (not fish! fruit from nopal cactus) at El Jardín de Socrates, next to the church. The Basílica was closed, but some sort of mass was being celebrated in the plaza outside. So my question was, does that count as one of the seven? I pondered this deep theological question as I tried to eat my nieve slowly enough so as not to get the inevitable brain freeze. Last stop was at San José a small church across the Plaza de la Danza from Soledad, and even closer to home.
I’ve come to see Oaxaca as a city of contradictions, and the evening’s ritual was no different — sidewalks jammed with people in a combination of a semi-solemn pilgrimage, street festival, family night at the fair, and date night. A balmy evening; streets teeming with young, old, and everyone in between; loud music blaring from clubs; lively conversations flowing from the open windows of restaurants; every kind of street vendor seemingly doing a booming business; and lots of young April-love canoodling going on!
Viernes Santo – I slept later than usual and slowly went about my morning routine, knowing tonight was THE major event of Semana Santa – the Procesion del Silencio. However, as I was showering, from the open window I heard a slow, solemn drumbeat coming up the street — the unmistakable sound of a somber procession. I rinsed, dried, dressed, brushed my hair, was out the door, and onto Morelos in less than 10 minutes, to see the the backs of the slow moving multitude. Figuring they were headed to the Basílica, I ran down through the Plaza de la Danza and El Jardín de Socrates to the top of the retaining wall beside the stairway leading up from Independencia below, to the church above. Good move!
After about a half an hour, I had a ringside view as the statues of Jesús and Nuestra Señora de la Soledad made their way up the stairs right in front of me.
About 6 PM, I re-emerged from Casita Colibrí and headed up the Alcalá to La Preciosa Sangre de Cristo for the beginning of the Procesion del Silencio. Crowds had already gathered in front of the church, yellow caution tape roped off the street for participants to assemble, and banners were leaning against a nearby building. I joined the tourists (But, hey, I live here!) jockeying for good camera position to snap some pics, then retreated to the curb to sit and wait.
The procession began not long after sunset, but immediately took a left turn – ooops a change in route! The sidewalk populace immediately dispersed and I, pulling out my Spanish teacher’s route instructions (mil gracias!), ran over to 5 de Mayo where, in the darkness, I watched a grim, strangely moving, yet mystifying cortège. Night photos, punctuated by bright white, energy efficient street lights were equally obscure, but Flip video turned out better and I hope, eventually, to edit it into a short video vignette. We shall see…
By Saturday, I was “Semana Santa-ed” out! Perhaps next year I’ll make it to Sabado Santo, the celebration of fire and water. However, though I didn’t leave my rooftop refuge on Domingo de Resurreccion, the sound system of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad afforded me a bedside seat at the morning’s 6 AM outdoor Easter mass — the early hour more egregious because we had “sprung ahead” the previous night! And, no sooner had I finally been lulled back to sleep by the priest’s sonorous sound, than the flinchers (rocket explosions) began and I bolted upright. Bells followed and I gave up on trying to sleep. La misa lasted 2-1/2 hours; a mile high in the Sierra Madre, “He” has risen…
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Mexican Peso Converter
View From Casita Colibrí 
They ARE different
Posted in Culture, Economics, Education, Politics, Protests, tagged education, educational reforms, graffiti, Mexico, Oaxaca, photographs, photos, political commentary, protests, street art, Teachers union, United States legislation, wall art on October 11, 2013| 13 Comments »
Expats and Mexicans alike, are watching in amazement at the nonsense (as in, making NO sense) taking place in the hallowed halls of Washington DC. And, since many of the expats are retired, we are holding our collective breath over the possibility social security checks will not be forthcoming in November and a tanking stock market that flushes our nest eggs away. Of course, Mexico is in the middle of its own mess, “educational reforms” and economic proposals that will hurt Mexico’s working class and rural populations the most.
Wall in Oaxaca city.
In a New York Times article two days ago, Carlos Puig explains the reality of the material conditions that have forced the teachers of Oaxaca to take the drastic action of abandoning their classrooms to lead massive and extremely disruptive protests in Mexico City against the “No Child Left Behind” style reforms that the Peña Nieto led government has proposed and passed. (Read a critique of the US education “reform” by Diane Ravitch, former “No Child Left Behind” proponent, here.)
Oaxaca is 500 kilometers from Mexico City, yet the real distance is much bigger. The state’s G.N.P. per capita is one-quarter the average for the country. Oaxaca ranks second-to-last among all states in infrastructure. More than half its population lives in towns of fewer than 2,500 people.
Being a teacher in Oaxaca means sometimes having to travel for an entire day to reach your school in a tiny community, teach for three days — to children of all grades — and travel back home for the weekend. It means having to deal with children who speak more than 20 different dialects.
Being a teacher in Oaxaca means operating in a different universe — and under different rules.
Banner hanging in front of a school in Oaxaca city
However, as in the USA, the incomprehensible words coming out of the mouths of the 1% and their elected representatives are mind-boggling in their obliviousness to the adverse consequences their behavior and policies cause. And, we scratch our heads in amazement… McClatchy journalist, Tim Johnson, has repeatedly blogged about the exceedingly “bad” behavior exhibited by Mexico City’s rich and powerful directed at those they consider “below” them — most recently, Las Ladies, episode 7. And, just last week in Oaxaca, most were aghast to read that an indigenous woman, in the advanced stage of labor, was turned away from a hospital and forced to give birth on the hospital lawn.
Daniel Goleman had a revealing piece in the New York Times a few days ago that helps explain where this lack of empathy the ruling elite exhibit, that results in callous social policy, comes from. He explains in Rich People Just Care Less that, by necessity, “the poor, compared with the wealthy, have keenly attuned interpersonal attention in all directions…” And that, “A growing body of recent research shows that people with the most social power pay scant attention to those with little such power” and, “In politics, readily dismissing inconvenient people can easily extend to dismissing inconvenient truths about them.”
Okay, now we know why the rich care less, so what are we going to do about it?
Part of a mural on Niños Heroes in Oaxaca city.
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