^{Candyfloss and Crucifixes, Semana Santa, Mexico © P.A.Knox 2005}

The narrow cobbled streets are crammed with people in various states of reverie and revelry.  The air is frighteningly thin due to the high altitude, hoards of people, heavy incense and the grease rising from deep fried foods. Vendors yell over the chaos of children and celebration. The night is dizzying, chaotic and nearly impossible to navigate. And then, as if the mute button were pushed, a hush engulfs the throngs as the first of an endless stream of gory crucifixes begins to round a corner. This is Taxco, Mexico. This is Semana Santa, Holy Week.

Taxco is a vibrant town perched precariously atop the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico. It was founded by the Spanish in the heat of their dual passions: the quest for silver, and the desire to spread Catholicism. Taxco is still in the grips of both passions, drawing people from around the world to purchase silver from its mines, and to observe Semana Santa.

During Semana Santa, the last days of Christ are reenacted in elaborate recreations, beginning with Palm Sunday’s glorious welcoming of Christ the Savior under a canopy of palm fronds. The streets are a crush of people waving palm branches at the foothills of the town, while at the peak of Taxco; a statue of Christ on the cross casts a shadow, foretelling what will come at the week’s end. As the procession of the palms concludes in front of the cathedral, the fronds are braided into crosses by children who sell them on street corners, as the people of Taxco prepare for their role and sacrifice which is to come as the crucifixion draws near.

The crowds swell and churn in front of the towering spirals of the Santa Prisca Cathedral, every possible space amassed with people, some on the backs of family and friends, others hanging from the balconies and windows that face the massive cathedral. All have gathered to watch as a man portraying Judas betrays Christ for a bag of silver, Taxco silver. Boys of the town, some of whom sold the palm crosses, depict Roman soldiers who accuse and beat the Christ figure, while little girls in wings and halos stand watch as angels. Every person of  the town takes part in the procession; each acts out their faith under the flickering light of candles and wavering yellow flood lights powered by hand-cranked generators and car batteries.  

The pageantry and procession engulf the night with the life-size sculptures of Christ on the cross which parade through the streets. No detail is spared as the crimson blood flows from the open wounds painted in technicolor clarity. The colors and full blown caricatures are that of a festival. The side streets are full of carnival flare as spectators eat popcorn and hot dogs on sticks. The children play games with toy guns and empty bottles-turned-footballs.  Some of them are still in their Roman soldier or angel costumes as they dive and run through the streets.

The carnival sounds are silenced by the young girls, the Virgins, veiled in white lace and carrying vessels of incense: part frankincense, as the bible foretells, and part copal, which is said to release the spirits of the Aztec ancestors.  As the smoke of the incense rises and billows through the streets, all images are lost in a white haze, leaving only the eerie sounds of chains dragging across the cobbled streets. Emerging as the incense clouds recede, the Animas, or “bent ones,” are bare footed, shackled in heavy chains and dressed in black cloths with hoods or veils obscuring their identity. They bow towards the street in repentance, not allowed to stand erect through the entire procession; remaining hunched and crooked like the streets they must cross. If the pain becomes too great, they are permitted to drop to all fours but never are they to stand up straight. Their penance is to walk with their faces to the ground, seeing only the shackled feet in front of them. They do this in remembrance of Christ and in repentance for sins.  Some are unwed mothers, others the mothers of sick children. Despite this public spectacle, each reason is deeply personal and, in many cases, known only to them and their God.

Moving behind the Animas are the Encruzados who, in silhouette, look like a sea of living, breathing, bleeding crucifixes as they somberly and silently march, arms outstretched, to the cadence of a drum. As they approach, it becomes clear that they are not nailed to crosses but rather have their arms wrapped around punishing bundles of thorn branches tied to their bared shoulders. Each man determines the weight of his suffering by choosing the number of barbed canes to carry; the usual bundle weighs about a hundred pounds and is several feet long. The cane bundles are tied with horse hair ropes across their back and shoulders, while their hands reach around the bundle in the awkward and painful position they must maintain for hours on end, arms extended and aching from the cruel noonday sun into the endless Mexican night. They are accompanied by a team of family and friends, who whisper comfort to them and help shoulder some of the burden when the pain becomes too great. The pain is evident, yet the penitentes make not a sound. Theirs is to suffer in silence for sins, tradition, and family. This has been the way of Semana Santa for 500 years.

The procession stops as men dressed in black hoods and bared chests walk through the crowd looking like executioners, wielding hand crafted tools of torture and heavy wooden crosses. Only the slightest glint of eyes are visible beneath the ominous hoods. They hand the crosses to their assistants and, instead of exacting punishment on a criminal, they begin to ceremoniously beat themselves across the back with crudely crafted whips of braided rope and nails, alternating between their right and left sides, leaving two raw and bleeding patches of flesh. They flagellate themselves as an act of penance before God and his bloodletting on the cross. The crowd is absolutely silent, leaving only the sound of the ropes cutting through the air and the nails ripping into the flesh. After several minutes, they stand and slowly walk to the next point where again they drop to their knees to repeat the bloody act of repentance, an act carried out dozens of times through the night.

And in the midst of this haunting and sometimes frightening display comes Mary. Her image, twenty feet high and adorned with garland of flowers and hope watches serenely. Around her are statues of the communion saints and gilded angels. They offer a moment of respite and reflection in this river of gore and pain.

These haunting displays last for the entire week, not stopping in the blistering sun or in the dead of the dark nights. The pungent smell of blood and incense, the sound of shuffling chains and macabre drums, and the images of pain and suffering overwhelm the senses. Mexico lives in all direction with little separation between public and private, profane and holy. All of life happens in the streets, including Semana Santa and its ancient pageantry. All of this is done before the entire town and those gathered from across Mexico. The elderly watch, perhaps remembering their time as a Penitente. The children also look on, mesmerised, knowing that the time may come to trade angel wings for hoods and toys for a cross. Some hold candles and rosaries, others candy floss and carnival balloons, but all are deeply moved by this public spectacle and the personal devotion that the Penitentes show. Devotion, tradition and honour are etched across every face and every broken and bloody back of the people of Mexico.