I tell my smartly
dressed young taxi driver that we followed the Gitanos (gypsy) trono last night.
Suddenly animated, he replies that he’s one of the portapasos (float carriers)
for the Virgen del Rocío this week.
I ask if he’s done much training for carrying the crushing weight of what amounts to a small chapel. (This one is 50 kilos each shoulder, 240 men). “Oh no,” he says, “we don’t train. How would we suffer for the beloved Virgen if we were used to it?” I agree that his pain – and love - will be much greater this way.
It’s our first Semana Santa or Holy Week in Málaga and like our neighbours we’re getting a bit dizzy with devotion. Forty-two processions over seven days, criss-crossing the city in unruly splendour, streets jammed with penitents and followers, a mediaeval painting sprung to life. The gilded tronos swaying drunkenly, urged on by showers of applause, relentless drums and the raw, high cante jondo of the trumpets. It's the music of pain.
Following the Gitano’s dusky idols, the women sing and dance twirly Sevillanas. I don’t even bother to ask if that's appropriate for such a solemn occasion. In Málaga, the sociable city, this intense love for life in the context of pain and death is a kind of worship too.
Thanks as ever to Fred for the photos - if you want to see more candid captures of this amazing week, you're welcome to visit his Flickr site.
Wishing you a bright and hopeful Easter, wherever you are.
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