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Blast From the Pacific Pearl Past

Holy Week In Paradise

By E.G. Brady, April 2001 Issue of the Pacific Pearl

Semana Santa in Mazatlan is basically an expression of the general feeling, "We had so much fun at Carnaval, let's do it all over again!" Everyone is on vacation, so the western half of Mexico comes here and parties on the beach and in the street. The main drag becomes clogged with parades, cruisers and taxis. The sidewalks overflow onto the road, and vice versa. The beach is teeming with people.

Hotels downtown rent out space on top of their rooftops. It is an epic event on the scale of a Cecil B DeMille movie, or is it Fellini? Toddlers in princess costumes perched on the hoods of Dodge Darts without so much as a crash helmet or a bunjee cord. A family of five balanced on a moped, all clutching roses to sell. Pick ups full of teenagers waving cans of Modelo and shouting at each other above the thumping roar of Shakira's latest smash hit.

Luckily nobody is moving very fast, traffic being backed up as far as the eye can see. The intersections are enlivened by flaming sword swallowers, balloon sculptors and windshield abrasers. The astute traveler will enjoy bemusedly observing the spectacle while maintaining a safe distance from the stampede, much the same strategy as that employed by survivors of the running of the bulls in Pamplona.

This is a good time for discovering the shady comfort and tranquility of your balcony, watching the crazy ensemble go by without being jostled. Of course, there will always be those restless, intrepid souls who will insist on charging into the melee, often the same ones who will spurn sunblock cream their first day in the tropics. Don't come crying to me because somebody stepped on your foot or your nose is sunburned.

I was unprepared for the excesses of Holy Week down here. Easter in my old home town tended to be, as I recall, a pretty low key affair. It's been a few years, but I vaguely recollect chocolates and ham, an egg hunt on the church lawn, and a sermon about rising from the dead, emerging from the cave, and if He sees His shadow, there's six more weeks of winter.

Here, attending Easter Mass at the Cathedral in Old Mazatlan is a truly awe inspiring experience, and being in Spanish it seems somehow more authentic, more like the original unintelligible Latin. The Cathedral becomes a spiritual haven, while all around swirls a sort of madness, a kind of Spring Break for the whole family. It all reflects the oneness of La Raza, the hundred million Mexicans who share an ethnicity and culture that goes even beyond belonging to the same Church. Gueros and morenos, chilangos and norteños, they are all in the same boat together.

It shows in the way a stranger will pick up a woman's baby, give it a hug and a kiss, and pass it back. You can feel it when they fill the streets, celebrating together. While the US becomes increasingly fragmented, a bewildering melange of sub-cults, peer groups, and hyphenated ethnicities, it is impressive to see cultural solidarity on such a massive scale. The nation that plays together, stays together. If only they would keep it down, so this outsider could get some sleep!