Malaga - Monday in Holy Week

It's been an intense few days following Malaga Semana Santa processions. It's just over ten minutes walk from the apartment to the nearest part of the Old Town, so walking is far more convenient than taking a bus, so returning for meals was easier than eating out in one of a multitude of busy crowded restaurants, and that meant two trips a day on top of walking around, standing about to see what was happening, and taking photographs. 

I wasn't easy to get an advantageous viewpoint with hundreds of people thronging every street along processional routes. Being tall, I could stand back and hold my Song HX300 camera right above my head, benefiting from its hinged preview screen, and telephoto lens to capture scenes I couldn't see well at eye level. Not that I was alone in doing this. Phone cameras likewise raised aloft nowadays are a persistent feature in any crowd of spectators, and need to be cropped out of images which are thankfully large enough to magnify well to produce a good subject image. All that walking plus the stretching certainly gave me a good daily workout, and left me feeling like I'd swum a mile.

This morning was taken up shopping in preparation for Clare's arrival. After a late lunch, I made my way to Dos Martires Parish Church in the Old Town to see one of their cofradia processions start off. As we were waiting, the sound of another procession passing by hundred metres away drew my attention. It had come from the Buen Pastor parish up the hill in Lagunillas, and on the trona being carried Christ Crucified was depicted. Outside Dos Martires, the long procession of penitentes, plus a band slowly gathered in nearby streets. Half an hour later than expected, church doors opened and the ceremonial entourage of the trona began to emerge in clouds of incense. Then, from inside the church another band struck up, and as the trona of Jesus carrying his cross came out, the cortege began slowly to move, with stops punctuated by the ringing of bells. A pattern being repeated on different routes and times across the old town by half a dozen different cofradias each day.

Up the street, the tronas of Christ and our Lady from Buen Pastor parish passed by, then twenty minutes later the Dos Martires Trona emerged from church with its own procession. Each cofradia dresses in broadly similar vesture, but uses different primary colours for identification. Black, white, red, green, purple or yellow, vivid and striking. Faces are masked, preserving anonymity of age, gender, social status. Children, who may offspring or grandchildren of penitentes, wear the vesture and are seen walking hand in hand with their elders. Small boys with toy drums strive to imitate the marching drumbeats of the processional bands. Culture and tradition, caught as much as taught.

Remarkable in this procession was a group of Gitanos, not robed as penitentes, but making their presence known in the much larger crowd by their hand clapping, singing and flamenco style dance steps, let by a single guitarist as they followed the trona of Jesus scourged at the Pillar. They were followed by another processional band, and on times they were competing with it. I felt sorry for the guitarrista, who broke a string with heavy strumming, but kept playing anyway. It's hard  to know if the gypsy group are organised to participate into the procession, or insert themselves as a group with spontanaiety. Their identification with Our Lord's abusive treatment is natural, as they are regarded by many as an underclass in Andalusian society, despite the remarkable contribution made by them to the culture of music and dance.

I followed the procession almost as far as the Mercado Atarazanas. As it passed the casa cofradia of Santa Cena, the doors were open, revealing the tronas within. The guardian officials, holding their staffs of office, stood to attention outside as the procession wound past, and admirable gesture of respect and solidarity, I thought. This entire week of devotion is about everybody doing their best and encouraging each other, rather than competing to be the best.

I began winding my way back across the Old Town, noting how crowded the Alameda Principal and Calle Marquesa Larios were, with pedestrians on top of the many thousands of people paying for a spectator seat. In Calle Grenada I ran into an impenetrable crowd awaiting the passage of another procession. It looked familiar, indeed it was the Dos Martires procession, still going strong two hours into their journey with at least another hour until it arrives back at base.

The street remained crowded, and it wasn't long before another procession appeared, which I think was of the cofradia de la Pasion, depicting Jesus seated wearing the crown of thorns exhausted after interrogation and torture. A less than familar image, but powerful nevertheless.

I had parked myself on the doorstep of a jamon curado sandwich bodega, and ended up going in for a beer. I was so impressed to see a waiter with a try held high over his head weaving his way through packed crowds to serve outside customers with a cheery smile on his face. A man dressed in purple dashed in from the procession, lifted his veil, asked for los servicios, then dashed upstairs. There are several purposes behind the frequent stops I realised. One is to allow pedestrians and traders to get across the street. The other is for refreshment or comfort breaks, and yet another to let people join and leave the procession. That way, the whole city is able to continue about its business of looking after the visitors it welcomes, and be true to its sense of self and tradition. 

Eventually, the crowd eased and I made my way back, with darkness descending, tired but amazed at having seen so much. Today's photos are here