Saturday, February 20, 2010

Drawing a Blank

Eleven pm local time and the blast furnace heat of the day has only relaxed a couple of degrees. There is not even the whisper of a breeze - the motionless trees surrounding the deck look like they're painted on the inky black backdrop of the sky and the water in the pool is an unrippled mirror.

This morning, after a late and leisurely breakfast, Frank and I returned to the terrace armed with drafting paper, scale rules and pencils. We cleared one of the dining tables, spread out our material and used the measurements we had gathered last week to draw an accurate floor plan of the performance space at the Arts Centre. Ed can now arrange the pine model of the set (which we brought with us from Canada) into an ideal configuration relative to the twelve columns that support the chapel roof. Much easier to slide around two ounce blocks than to lift and drag one hundred pound units in a quest for the perfect layout. Are you reading this Ed?

Mid-afternoon, we dropped off the drawing and I was slightly surprised to see so many theatre hopefuls sweating through the exercises and dance routines. Maybe that was what someone saw Elvis crying about in the chapel - it was too darn hot! There were almost fifty kids, and the artistic staff was certainly putting all of them through their paces. Frank and I had foolishly left our ballet slippers back at the hotel so we quietly disappeared through a side door into the relative chill of the 35 degree Suchitoto outside air.

After trying to describe yesterday's bizzare scene at Escuela Taller in last night's blog, I ran out of steam. What I left out was another curious event.

On our way downtown last evening we noticed that several houses had little 'shrines' set up on the outside wall, or on a table on the sidewalk. Houses here are built in the Spanish style: a block-long common wall butting right up to the sidewalk, each 'house' painted a different colour, the front door opening directly into the living room. So if you happen to be walking on the sidewalk (the cobbled street is the preferred option) and you look in an open door - the heat! - you'll often see outstretched legs inches away and feel like you're right in the living room with the family. Beyond the indoor living area is a walled, open-air courtyard.

The shrines we had seen were new, temporary and obviously religious, but we couldn't guess what they were for. We were soon seated on the usual wobbly folding chairs outside Chamba's Internet Cafe on the square. Coming slowly up the street towards us was a religious procession led by a couple of priests in white vestments. There was a gaggle of altar boys and a 4' by 7' platform borne on the shoulders of four sturdy fellows. On the purple fabric-covered platform was a 2/3 life size statue of Christ staggering under the weight of a cross. Stretched out behind these leaders were perhaps eighty or a hundred followers marching solemnly in loose, somewhat straggling, formation.

The group pulled up at the front of the small store immediately beside us, where another of the shrines had been set up. The priest intoned a lengthy prayer and the followers responded in unison. What was perhaps most interesting was the PA system. The priest used a microphone. A few feet behind the platform, someone held aloft a large, heavy speaker on a pole. I was unable to spot the amplifier, but I definitely saw a man carrying a huge car battery in his arms.

After a while, the procession started moving slowly past us and down the street. Hymn singing by a soloist was answered by a refrain from the folks behind. The procession turned the corner flanking the square and eventually vanished from sight. A guy came out of the store adjacent to the cafe and took down the white fabric that had formed a swag above the shrine (that's really not the correct word, but I'm stumped to come up with a better generic description that won't preempt the punch line. The R.C.'s reading this will have already figured out the simple mystery). A little boy snatched up the two pots of fake flowers that had adorned the site and trotted them back to his mum's business further along the sidewalk.

Much later, as Frank and I were walking home, we heard the familiar chanting and singing. Only then did the penny drop. The 'shrines' were the Stations of the Cross. The priests and parishioners were reenacting Christ's long march to Calvary, and they were still at it at this late hour. Incredible dedication and endurance.

All my years as an altar boy, including many Lenten services, should have informed me of what was going on. But that was a million years ago and I had never witnessed such an elaborate observance of the ritual. Please forgive me Father Charlie for I have forgotten.

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