Friday, Bloody Friday
The problem with living in a foreign country, as opposed to merely touring it, is that most of your friends are local. That may sound like a good thing, and it is, usually, except on those occasions when you want to be a shameless tourist and can’t for the life of you find anyone who cares enough to come with you.
This weekend is Easter, which up in Canada means a Friday off work. Some people go to church and some people plant chocolate eggs for the kiddies, but on a national level it is just a much-needed holiday after many months of winter.
Down here, however, 89 percent of people define themselves as Catholic, so Easter is a Big Deal. We are currently in Semana Santa, or Saint Week. Most people get the entire week off work; some get next week off as well. Me, I got two days but I’m not complaining. Okay, perhaps I am a little.
Tomorrow morning, on Good Friday, in the legendarily dodgy neighbourhood of Iztapalapa, a man who has spent the entire past year in training will be publicly whipped, paraded through town and nailed to a cross in front of one million weeping onlookers and the wailing woman playing his virginal mother.
(The hill they do the crucifixion on, incidentally, was discovered in 2005 to be in fact a sod-covered 1500 year old pyramid on the scale of, and probably built by the same people as, Teotihuacan, the big archaeological wonder northeast of the city. They have decided they are not going to excavate, however, as the Passion Play has been a tradition for 130 years and, well… I guess religion trumps science in this one.)
On Saturday, all the Virgin Mary statues around the city will be dressed in black robes while believers parade silently through the streets in mourning.
I am not a believer in the resurrection of Jesus, I admit, although I do think the symbolism is quite beautiful. I also am a believer in the virtue faith (not organized religion...), and the opportunity to see one million people connecting with their belief systems on such a fundamental level is both intellectually and emotionally fascinating for me.
And, yes, perhaps there is a little bit of wanting to see someone actually be crucified (albeit not to the point of suffocation and death,). When Luis, my roommate, first told me back in the fall that this would happen, I was gobsmacked. “Actually crucified?!?” I yelped in disbelief. “With nails through the wrists and everything?” Dragging a cross through the streets is common even in passive Canada, and I’ve heard of people in other countries strap themselves to crosses in symbolic reverence, but this man – this volunteer, carefully selected to match specific height and weight restrictions as well as psychological stability – is going to be flogged 39 times and then nailed to a cross for an hour or two. This is, quite simply, an unfathomable level of dedication for me.
It’s in keeping with the Mexican style of worship, I suppose, which they inherited both from their indigenous ancestors and their Spanish conquerors. The Aztecs (and not the Maya, contrary to what Mr. Gibson recently implied) were enthusiastic partakers of sacrifice, believing that their gods had sacrificed themselves in order to bring mankind into existence and sustain us. That corn you’re eating? That bit of chicken? That’s all the severed fingers, blood and heads of the deities. Oh yeah baby.
So the Aztecs believed they owed the gods a little something for their generous effort, and would with equal generosity smash, bury, burn, throw into lakes or slaughter almost everything, from animals to jewels to household objects. Prior to matches of pelota (a ballgame so fascinating and complicated that I shall leave it up to you to research it), priests would cut their tongues in order to offer their own blood; some scholars believe that some tribes would go on to sacrifice the losing team.
But it’s the Aztec tradition of human sacrifice that is the most globally renowned. If you stop for a moment to realize that almost every society on this planet has at some time snuffed one of their own for the pleasure of their gods, one must wonder why it is that the Aztecs became the unequivocal poster children for the artform.
Personally, I think it was the elaborate viciousness of the ritual: victims were taken up to the top of the pyramid (and consider that most people nowadays have to stop and rest at least once when hiking the ruins, and most of them are not carrying screaming prisoners of war), laid backwards on a stone slab the size of a breadbox, and their beating heart would be ripped out through an incision in the abdomen. The victim, still kicking, would then be rolled unceremoniously down the temple stairs, where the head would go on a stake and the rest fed to captive animals.
Willing volunteers believed they would join the Sun God on his daily chariot ride, often offering themselves after a year of living like a God on Earth, complete with the services of four young women. The less willing ones just made the gods happy, preventing plagues of fire, drought, famine, and Tezcatlipoca’s mood swings.
Nor was it just the Aztecs, either, although for reasons of not attempting to explain the entirety of Mexican history in one blog post, I shall refrain from getting into here. However, just to back up the argument: although no one knows who built the pyramids at Teotihuacan (the name itself means “Place Where the Gods Are Born” in Nahuatl, as the site had already been abandoned by the time the Aztecs got there), they have found the remains of hundreds of sacrificed children and adults buried at the corners.
One of the reasons the Spanish so easily and efficiently conquered the mighty Aztec empire was due to the fact that, so despised were the Aztecs for their bloodthirsty ways, the surrounding tribes were all too happy to throw in with the Spanish to get rid of the bastards once and for all. And so, roughly 500 years ago, in roll the Spanish with their Inquisition bloodlust and that particularly Spanish brand of Catholicism in which the primary focus is not on the resurrection but on the sacrifice.
Really, it’s not surprising that this country converted: the two histories mesh together rather well, no?
I honestly don’t know what I think about all of it on a deeper level. There are two chapels in the Catedral Metropolitana: the main one, which is misty and dim and full of weeping crucifixion images, and the secondary one, which is helmed by a brightly coloured image of paradise. I prefer the latter on a spiritual level, regardless of my morbid fascination for the former. I know I don’t really understand how one would prefer to derive inspiration from images of extreme suffering rather than the many teachings of love, forgiveness and hope inherent in the religion. My Catholic friend Lily tried to explain it to me once – “Guilt,” she said, “Look what He went through for you. Be a better person damn it.” – but… well… it’s very… graphic… It escapes me, really.
Then again, as a passive-aggressive agnostic Canadian, I wouldn’t know ideological fervour if it offered to buy me dinner and a movie.
And, so, with this combination of history and that fiery Latin seizing of life, is it all that surprising then that there would be at least one Mexican per year willing to be flogged and crucified in the name of his faith?
And, as a Canadian tourist, is it at all that surprising that I am *desperate* to see this in person?
But right around to my original complaint. With a notable lack of deep believing Catholic friends, I find myself alone in my interest in the events of this weekend. I need a little backup reserve of tourist friends; perhaps I should spend the night in the hostel or something just to meet gawk-minded people for tomorrow.
I can’t get over how fascinating this country and culture is. It really is incredible.
This weekend is Easter, which up in Canada means a Friday off work. Some people go to church and some people plant chocolate eggs for the kiddies, but on a national level it is just a much-needed holiday after many months of winter.
Down here, however, 89 percent of people define themselves as Catholic, so Easter is a Big Deal. We are currently in Semana Santa, or Saint Week. Most people get the entire week off work; some get next week off as well. Me, I got two days but I’m not complaining. Okay, perhaps I am a little.
Tomorrow morning, on Good Friday, in the legendarily dodgy neighbourhood of Iztapalapa, a man who has spent the entire past year in training will be publicly whipped, paraded through town and nailed to a cross in front of one million weeping onlookers and the wailing woman playing his virginal mother.
(The hill they do the crucifixion on, incidentally, was discovered in 2005 to be in fact a sod-covered 1500 year old pyramid on the scale of, and probably built by the same people as, Teotihuacan, the big archaeological wonder northeast of the city. They have decided they are not going to excavate, however, as the Passion Play has been a tradition for 130 years and, well… I guess religion trumps science in this one.)
On Saturday, all the Virgin Mary statues around the city will be dressed in black robes while believers parade silently through the streets in mourning.
I am not a believer in the resurrection of Jesus, I admit, although I do think the symbolism is quite beautiful. I also am a believer in the virtue faith (not organized religion...), and the opportunity to see one million people connecting with their belief systems on such a fundamental level is both intellectually and emotionally fascinating for me.
And, yes, perhaps there is a little bit of wanting to see someone actually be crucified (albeit not to the point of suffocation and death,). When Luis, my roommate, first told me back in the fall that this would happen, I was gobsmacked. “Actually crucified?!?” I yelped in disbelief. “With nails through the wrists and everything?” Dragging a cross through the streets is common even in passive Canada, and I’ve heard of people in other countries strap themselves to crosses in symbolic reverence, but this man – this volunteer, carefully selected to match specific height and weight restrictions as well as psychological stability – is going to be flogged 39 times and then nailed to a cross for an hour or two. This is, quite simply, an unfathomable level of dedication for me.
It’s in keeping with the Mexican style of worship, I suppose, which they inherited both from their indigenous ancestors and their Spanish conquerors. The Aztecs (and not the Maya, contrary to what Mr. Gibson recently implied) were enthusiastic partakers of sacrifice, believing that their gods had sacrificed themselves in order to bring mankind into existence and sustain us. That corn you’re eating? That bit of chicken? That’s all the severed fingers, blood and heads of the deities. Oh yeah baby.
So the Aztecs believed they owed the gods a little something for their generous effort, and would with equal generosity smash, bury, burn, throw into lakes or slaughter almost everything, from animals to jewels to household objects. Prior to matches of pelota (a ballgame so fascinating and complicated that I shall leave it up to you to research it), priests would cut their tongues in order to offer their own blood; some scholars believe that some tribes would go on to sacrifice the losing team.
But it’s the Aztec tradition of human sacrifice that is the most globally renowned. If you stop for a moment to realize that almost every society on this planet has at some time snuffed one of their own for the pleasure of their gods, one must wonder why it is that the Aztecs became the unequivocal poster children for the artform.
Personally, I think it was the elaborate viciousness of the ritual: victims were taken up to the top of the pyramid (and consider that most people nowadays have to stop and rest at least once when hiking the ruins, and most of them are not carrying screaming prisoners of war), laid backwards on a stone slab the size of a breadbox, and their beating heart would be ripped out through an incision in the abdomen. The victim, still kicking, would then be rolled unceremoniously down the temple stairs, where the head would go on a stake and the rest fed to captive animals.
Willing volunteers believed they would join the Sun God on his daily chariot ride, often offering themselves after a year of living like a God on Earth, complete with the services of four young women. The less willing ones just made the gods happy, preventing plagues of fire, drought, famine, and Tezcatlipoca’s mood swings.
Nor was it just the Aztecs, either, although for reasons of not attempting to explain the entirety of Mexican history in one blog post, I shall refrain from getting into here. However, just to back up the argument: although no one knows who built the pyramids at Teotihuacan (the name itself means “Place Where the Gods Are Born” in Nahuatl, as the site had already been abandoned by the time the Aztecs got there), they have found the remains of hundreds of sacrificed children and adults buried at the corners.
One of the reasons the Spanish so easily and efficiently conquered the mighty Aztec empire was due to the fact that, so despised were the Aztecs for their bloodthirsty ways, the surrounding tribes were all too happy to throw in with the Spanish to get rid of the bastards once and for all. And so, roughly 500 years ago, in roll the Spanish with their Inquisition bloodlust and that particularly Spanish brand of Catholicism in which the primary focus is not on the resurrection but on the sacrifice.
Really, it’s not surprising that this country converted: the two histories mesh together rather well, no?
I honestly don’t know what I think about all of it on a deeper level. There are two chapels in the Catedral Metropolitana: the main one, which is misty and dim and full of weeping crucifixion images, and the secondary one, which is helmed by a brightly coloured image of paradise. I prefer the latter on a spiritual level, regardless of my morbid fascination for the former. I know I don’t really understand how one would prefer to derive inspiration from images of extreme suffering rather than the many teachings of love, forgiveness and hope inherent in the religion. My Catholic friend Lily tried to explain it to me once – “Guilt,” she said, “Look what He went through for you. Be a better person damn it.” – but… well… it’s very… graphic… It escapes me, really.
Then again, as a passive-aggressive agnostic Canadian, I wouldn’t know ideological fervour if it offered to buy me dinner and a movie.
And, so, with this combination of history and that fiery Latin seizing of life, is it all that surprising then that there would be at least one Mexican per year willing to be flogged and crucified in the name of his faith?
And, as a Canadian tourist, is it at all that surprising that I am *desperate* to see this in person?
But right around to my original complaint. With a notable lack of deep believing Catholic friends, I find myself alone in my interest in the events of this weekend. I need a little backup reserve of tourist friends; perhaps I should spend the night in the hostel or something just to meet gawk-minded people for tomorrow.
I can’t get over how fascinating this country and culture is. It really is incredible.
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