On the Road in 1980, Part 7
One of the many alfombras (sawdust carpets) created for Antigua’s Semana Santa processions.
Miércoles, 2 de abril.[1] The first half of Semana Santa in Antigua was relatively quiet, giving me a chance to get to know the city. I attended the velaciones, or vigils, held at Iglesia San Francisco El Grande on Tuesday evening and Iglesia Escuela de Cristo on Wednesday evening. Large alfombras had been laid out before the altars of those churches by hermandades.[2] These “carpets” were intricately designed using sawdust dyed in a rainbow of bright colors, and then surrounded by a cornucopia of offerings: fruit, vegetables, flowers, candles, specially shaped loaves of bread. People came to pray, admire the alfombras, and then partake in the festivities outside on the church’s plaza. It became a bit too much – a mí me gusta la tranquilidad.[3] But I did get to taste a delicious Guatemaltecan pastry called mollete, a kind of custard-filled French toast.
Although I’d come to Antigua to witness the spectacle of Semana Santa, I grew to appreciate more the effect those ceremonies had on the people. On Wednesday night, I watched (not for the first time) the movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon and was moved by the story of Saint Francis of Assisi. I was drawn to the perfect simplicity of his life – working with his hands and renouncing all material attachments, living like the lilies of the field and becoming “an instrument of peace.” The next day, I gave away some of my clothing to Antigueño street beggars. To be honest, I did so mainly because I’d bought other clothes and didn’t want the extra weight, but the giving still felt good.
I awoke early on the morning of Holy Thursday. The kitchen of my landlady, Doña Marina, was a beehive of activity. Her two daughters, and a playful swarm of grandkids, had arrived to help prepare her annual contribution to the festivities: 600 empanadas de flan. I joined in the work: patting out dough into flat round disks, adding a dollop of flan, folding the disk in half, and crimping the edges with a fork. After we were done and while the empanadas were frying, Doña Marina invited me to join them for breakfast.
On Good Friday, the week’s activities came to a somber climax. At dawn, men on horseback, dressed as Roman soldiers, rode through the streets while beating on drums. It was a sunny morning, so I walked to the top of Cerro de la Cruz to step away from the hubbub and get a bird’s-eye view of the city and, beyond that, Volcán de Agua. Many Antigueños had been up all night working on the alfombras – most made of colored sawdust, some of pine needles and flower blossoms – that stretched through the main streets of the city. I ran into my Québecoise friend Michelle from San Cristóbal de las Casas, and we strolled around, discussing and admiring the artistry of the alfombras.
The death sentence of Jesus Christ was proclaimed at Iglesia de la Merced. And at noon, a reenactment of the crucifixion took place at Escuela de Cristo. After that, the procession began, and the men shouldering the andas trampled underfoot the beautifully crafted alfombras. Parque Central was packed with people, vendedores everywhere selling food, drinks, craft items. A shoeshine man, maybe five feet tall, got some business from the guy sitting beside me on a park bench: un lustre por 25 centavos.
Kaqchikel Maya weavers of San Antonio Aguas Calientes, using backstrap looms.
On Saturday, restless, searching for something, like young Francis of Assisi, I took a bus out of Antigua to nearby San Antonio Aguas Calientes, famous for the bright intricate textiles woven by Kaqchikel Maya women on their backstrap looms. It felt good to escape the crowds. I walked dirt roads to San Miguel Duenas, six kilometers to the south, and then another six kilometers farther to Alotenango, where I stopped at a Franciscan monastery to watch friars bless the water the farmers would need to irrigate their fields.
I climbed a steep hill past fields of corn and beans and lush café fincas.[4] As I did so, I composed a little song – “Café, café / Café, café / En las montañas de Guatemala / Hay mucho café, mucho café” – my voice ringing across the valley. To the east loomed Volcán de Agua; to the west, thin trails of smoke drifted from the twin volcanoes of Fuego[5] and Acatenango. Later, back in Antigua, the skies still perfectly clear, I could see all three, blue and formidable in the twilight.
* * *
Reflecting on the events of that week, I can’t help but think about what else was then happening in Guatemala. In San Pedro La Laguna, we talked about the dangers of traveling in certain parts of the country. The standard piece of advice was to avoid the Petén Basin, the northernmost region and home to a wealth of Maya ruins, including the pyramids at Tikal. A rumor was circulating that some young gringo travelers had disappeared in that area, but it was never confirmed.
What can be confirmed is that 1980 was the beginning of some of the most brutal years of that country’s long civil war. The Guatemalan army, with the help of right-wing death squads, had begun to implement Operation Sofia, whose goal was to wipe out the leftist insurgency led by the EGP (Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres[6]), which sought to overthrow the repressive military government. This act of genocide is now widely known as the Silent Holocaust.[7]
The people of Antigua performed their annual reenactment of the death of a man who was crucified for leading a popular revolt against the religious and secular status quo. Rome ruled Judea, but washed its hands of the Jesus case, handing him over to the Jewish leadership. The U.S. government, having quietly shored up Guatemala’s corrupt military government for so many years, looked the other way when the latter government silenced the protests against it.
In 2018 I taught one of the most challenging and rewarding classes in my years at Cedar Rapids Washington High School, an LA 10 class that included a large number of ELL students, among which were three very quiet but hard-working Guatemaltecan immigrants. As I got to know them, I learned they were all from Santa María Nebaj, a small town in the El Quiché department, deep in the Highlands east of Huehuetenango. Nebaj was part of the Ixil Triangle, three Ixil-speaking Maya communities that were especially targeted by the state-sponsored terrorism of Operation Sofia.
It hurt my heart to imagine what their parents endured to survive. It hurt my heart to know that ICE was harassing those families and none of those students would finish the school year at Washington. It hurt my heart to realize how oblivious I was in 1980 to the tragedies unfolding around me.
* * *
At midnight, flutes and drums resounded across Antigua, announcing the Easter Vigil mass, but I wasn’t able to pull my Brother Body out of bed. I did get up at dawn when the bells of San Francisco sounded the news of Jesus’ resurrection. Lit up with candles and decked out in flowers, the church was filled with the uplifting joy of our voices singing Alleluia! As the sun rose, it poured through the three deep windows behind the altar, silhouetting the statues of saints gazing down on our congregation.
I climbed Cerro de la Cruz again to lay in the warm sun and begin reading the biography of Saint Francis I’d picked up at the English-language used bookstore. Monday morning I would leave Antigua for Guatemala City to pick up the literary magazine submissions. I had decided to change my name, something I occasionally did as I traveled. Me llama Francisco.
Note: My former colleague at Washington High School, Jim Burke, has led a number of student service teams on trips to Antigua during school breaks. Through the nonprofit organization ImagininGuatemala, these students have helped Guatamaltecan families build better housing for themselves while experiencing another country, culture, and language. If you'd like to support the work of this non-governmental organization, I encourage you to go to their website to make a donation.
Footnotes:
[1] Wednesday, April 2nd.
[2] Church brotherhoods or fraternities.
[3] As for me, I like the peace and quiet.
[4] Collective coffee farms.
[5] The Kaqchikel Maya call it Chi Q’aq’ (“where the fire is”).
[6] Guerrilla Army of the Poor.
[7] For more information, see Yale’s Genocide Studies Program’s report on Guatemala.