Belief

A little quotation from a great human to get us started. A few great words to keep in your locker, which might explain his constant repetition of “I am the greatest” and the fact that he went on to prove it.

“It's the repetition of affirmations that leads to belief. And once that belief becomes a deep conviction, things begin to happen".

Muhammad Ali

 

As is so often the case in Spanish, there are several ways to express “belief”:

 

La creencia – Alex defiende la creencia que todos merecen una segunda oportunidad.

Alex defends the belief that everyone deserves a second chance.

 

La fe – Después de que su hija sobrevivió al cancer, su fe en Dios se fortaleció.

After his daughter survived cancer, his belief in God was strengthened.

 

La confianza – La confianza de Mariana en la fidelidad de su esposo era firme.

Mariana’s belief in her husband’s faith was unwavering.

 

Before we really get started (and for the avoidance of any doubt) let me be very clear on pointy hats. Over the course of this post, there will be pictures of (and words about) people in long robes, wearing tall, pointed hats with covered faces.

 

These people are in no way connected to the Ku Klux Klan, and this clothing pre-dates them by several hundred years.

 

No. No they're not.

The capirote (hat of conical form) along with face-covering hood and long robes are worn by members of the brotherhoods (Hermandades or Cofradias in Spanish) who are representative of penitents during Easter observances in Spain and some Hispanic countries.

The historical use of the capirote dates back to the Inquisition, starting around the 12^th century. It was appropriated to some degree in the early 20^th century by the Ku Klux Klan for reasons best known to themselves.

 

More capirotes and Cofradias later, but I’m happy that we’re now clear on this.

 

With the Valencia rental property in great demand, we have tenants there through to mid-July, at which point we’ll get a few Valencian summer weeks in. This was a perfect opportunity to experience a different Easter. Malaga’s Semana Santa is a major Spanish “Fiesta of National Interest” and attracts crowds in their thousands.

 

The train from the Airport to Malaga Centro Alameda, the easy walk to our hotel one block away from Alameda Principal, and a quick dash out to eat. On this Martes Santo, the Easter observances were well underway. As we ate, we could sense the excitement around us. Our food was served unusually briskly, and there was an urgency to everything, anticipation all around.

 

We were very close to Alameda Principal, and we didn’t need to move far to see that Semana Santa was well underway. Alameda Principal was lined with wooden folding chairs in rows, behind barriers draped in crimson cloth. Further down, closer to the end of Calle Marqués de Larios and along to the Marriott Malaga Palacio, grandstands had been built. This was one if the main sections of the processional route for Semana Santa.

 

It was about now that my ignorance of the scale of Easter in Malaga began to become apparent.

 

As well as the rows of chairs and grandstands, there were thousands of people, although not the masses we were to see later in the week. All the buildings along the route had crimson cloth with various symbols draped on balconies, even on the new swish hotels facing the bottom of Marqués de Larios, and his statue in the middle of the wide avenue. And this was only one street, one small part of the processional route.

 

Stalls had been brought in and/or built along the wide pavement of Alameda Principal. They were busily selling everything kids wanted. Mostly things that their parents didn’t want them to have, but bought for them anyway. Sugary things, fatty things, noisy things.

And Balloon Guy. Balloon Guy sold helium balloons in shapes beyond the imagination, but appealing directly to the most insistent of bouncy, pleading children. Bob Esponja, of course, but also Peppa Pig, Hello Kitty, Spider man, Tweety Pie, Mickey and Minnie, your unicorns, your ponies, your cute baby cows, your lions and your tigers and your motorbikes… and everything else you could imagine in helium balloon form.

 

Balloon Guy was to become our touchstone in the days to come. If Balloon Guy appeared, something was going to happen. If Balloon Guy started to move, something was going to happen soon. If Balloon Guy wasn’t around, have a cold beer and wait until he was.

Our first trono of very many.

The crowd rose to applaud the last elaborate trono of this particular procession, carried aloft by a couple of hundred people straining under the enormous weight. Powered only by their belief, you might imagine. The marching band followed, a little girl blew a kiss to Santa Maria, and we went in search of more.

Around midnight, we sheltered from a heavy shower under a barely adequate bar canopy in Plaza Carbón, and a full Easter procession hove into view from Calle Granada. Penitents, tronos, marching bands… all right in front of us in the commercial heart of Malaga. The tronos passed by a couple of feet away, the strain showing on the bearers’ faces as they reached the end of a very long procession, much of it in heavy rain.

 

The juxtaposition between the neon commerciality of Plaza Carbón at street level, and the ancient rituals of Catholicism was stark, but we were lucky to witness this up close.

I began to realise that Semana Santa de Malaga took over all of this city, for all of the week. Quite literally.

 

Miercoles Santo arrived with the glorious sunshine that would now remain for the rest of our visit. On our daily walk to Muelle Uno, we started to see how much of la calima had landed on Malaga, and what an operation it would be to clear it up.

 

In this year’s March storms, even more of the Sahara than usual had been drawn up into the atmosphere and deposited on Andalucía. It was in the streets, on the signs, windows, trees and benches. The impressive Pergola that weaves above the walkway as you meander along the first part of Muelle Uno represents a serious cleaning challenge if the sand is going to be removed. The buildings that tower over the shops and restaurants of the quayside further round have their own heavy dusting of sand.

 

Muelle Uno, and its mooring/marina area in front of the shops and restaurants in particular, is undergoing some redevelopment… chasing the superyacht market, judging by the billboards. Another thing that will bring significant change to Malaga… the city of change.

 

Back into town with lunch in mind, we caught another procesión moving slowly through Plaza Felix Sáenz, and up Calle Nueva. Again, that juxtaposition between the modern commercial world and ancient ritual, with Starbucks impossible to ignore as the Cofradia bore the immense weight of the tronos through the square and up the narrow streets, past Natura and Sfera, Primor and Tienda Orange.

Out in the early evening, we had that realisation again that this week was such a major event for the city, and drew such crowds that you could very easily be trapped in one small part of town. Several processions, and their accompanying crowds surrounded us, and we gave in and settled with cañas in Plaza de las Flores, watching processions on TV that were moving slowly by 50 metres away, inaccessible through the crowds.

 

As the coverage flipped between that evening’s processions, some tronos and processions were shown emerging from their various Brotherhood Houses. I could recognise where these were in some cases, and began to realise that I’d seen all these buildings before, walked past them scores of times, and not realised until now what the significance of these buildings was.

 

These Cofradias are Christian associations of laypeople, some with roots and history dating back to the Middle Ages. Each has it’s own set of rules and activities based around the beliefs of the Catholic Church, and they often provide for the needy and vulnerable. They have names referencing particular aspects of Catholic icons and events.

The brotherhood House of
Cofradia Sagrada Cena.

These associations exist also in Valencia, more commonly known as Hermandades, and they take a similar role in Semana Santa there, although it is largely celebrated in the Cabañal district rather than encompassing the whole city as it does in Malaga.

It is a great experience for the emotions and senses, but there is an austerity about Semana Santa in Malaga, particularly before Easter Sunday comes around. It demands to be taken seriously. Jueves Santo, however, delivered something with a more celebratory tone.

Moving around the city centre after breakfast, we followed crowds who clearly had an event to watch. That urgency again, that buzz of anticipation. The streets around Mercado Atarazanas were lined 5-deep, but we found a good place to wait (what we were waiting for still TBC) at the end of the closed Plaza Arriola, and Balloon Guy appeared.

 

Poorly informed as I was, I vaguely recollected information about the Procesión de Los Legionarios. I knew little more than it was due to happen today, but I began to see signs that this that we were waiting for. A chap walked past up with odd little figures in military uniform on a plinth, which he appeared to be trying (with very little success) to sell. One of the aforementioned “stalls that sell crap” took a last-minute delivery of some military-style children’s hats that they might flog to parents under pressure.

 

As Balloon Guy made his way past us, a lady from the Policia Local de Malaga crossed the street and grabbed me gently by the elbow. My firmly held belief that I hadn’t done anything wrong (recently) was underlined, as she gently moved me out of the way and collared two teens with skateboards behind us. It became clear that they had done something wrong recently.

 

There was a sudden, excited commotion from down Calle Atarazanas beyond the market. In contrast with the slow-moving weight and austerity of the Easter processions populated by the Cofradias, this one came at you fast. Khaki-clad Legionarios strutted down the street at pace. Guns, trumpets, drums, white gloves, sweat and stretched sinews… heads thrust forward in determination.

The rifle-wielding section stopped in front of us and twirled their guns into the air, slapped their thighs, and pressed on. The bugles and drums followed, and as quickly as they had arrived, their ranks passed, and they were followed by the crowd, anticipating more of this, perhaps enjoying the change of tone after so much austerity.

 

We didn’t follow, but what we had seen was quite a spectacle. It wasn’t The Changing of the Guard or Trooping the Colour. It was an unpolished but passionate display of vibrancy and emotion, noise and irresistible velocity. I was so pleased that we’d seen it.

 

Viernes Santo was approaching. The Thursday processions had become more austere, more emotional and more intense. And went on through the night.

 

Viernes Santo duly dawned. Beautiful sunshine again, getting warmer still. We spent time in the quieter parts of town, knowing that there would be enormous crowds that evening, with emotion and intensity added to the mix. A few slow hours with sun and shade, cold beers and food. We even enjoyed a little sea and sand at La Malagueta.

 

Trying to move through town in the early evening once again, we found all our routes blocked even more comprehensively than before. Every street leading to everywhere had a procession, the huge crowds limiting access to only a few crossing points managed by the Policia Local. Despite this, we made it past the cathedral, slowly up Calle Cister, turned onto the wide walkway of Calle Alcazabilla… and into a crowd big enough to block the entire neighbourhood.

 

With the (very optimistic) intention of making our way through to Plaza Merced, we joined a few other pilgrims squeezing their way through the crowds, through branches and shrubs, against the fence bordering Teatro Romano. Until it was no longer an option, and we couldn’t go any further.

 

Once again absorbed as ingredients into the crowd, we turned our attention to what everyone was waiting for. There are 2 Brotherhood Houses alongside each other here: Hermandad de los Estudiantes and Casa Hermandad del Sepulcro. Enormous doors were opened, and every one of the 2 buildings’ windows and balconies was packed with members about to witness the main event of Viernes Santo.

 

There were hundreds of capirotes worn by candle-bearing penitents. The bearers of 4 huge candles stood in the cavernous doorway, and after a long wait, these candles were lowered to be lit, then raised again. A drumbeat began, and the first trono began to emerge from the hangar-like space.

 

Such was it’s size, and such was the huge number of bearers, that the throne had to turn right to make clearance from the doorway before it slowly pivoted and turned left to proceed up the Calle Alcazabilla walkway, wide as it is.

 

The crowd hushed. Whatever your beliefs, this was emotional. Darkness had fallen around us as we had waited. This was the central moment, the darkest hour. The tomb was passing before us. Such was its weight that the bell sounded to call for rest for the bearers even before it had moved past the building.

As with most of these processions, the second trono depicted Santa Maria, and was more elaborate, more celebratory, full of candles and gently swaying grace.

 

All of this is brought to you by belief. I’m sure that across the spectrum of the hundreds of spectators (and even across the Cofradia) there will be varying degrees of belief. But without belief, none of this would be happening. There would be none of this passion, this beauty, this effort, this commitment. There would be no cathedral around the corner, no Alcazaba behind us, no Mezquita de Cordoba, no Alcazar de Sevilla, no Alhambra de Granada, no Notre Dame de Paris, no Pantheon, no Parthenon.

 

Believe what you like. But without belief, the world would not be a better place.

 

After Santa Maria’s trono had passed, we moved back towards the cathedral, sure of being able to move through the city more easily now. Not the case. Deciding to fall back on Plaza Merced for an “any port in a storm” dinner, we were forced into a roundabout route, once again avoiding crowds and more processions.

 

Finally coming up to another packed area as Calle Alamos turns towards Teatro Cervantes, we fell in behind a young family with a large buggy, as it’s not our first rodeo. Papa pushed the buggy through the crowd with righteous determination, and Mama spat venomous abuse at anyone who got in their way. All of this was more than enough help for us to reach Calle Madre de Dios and Plaza Merced.

 

Saturday was procession-free. A breather for the Cofradias, and a chance to have an unplanned, crowd-free day in the city, at Muelle Uno, at a nice Portugese café on Calle Beatas, only a few metres from the Picasso Museum, but mostly hidden from the tourist tide.

Domingo de Resurrección was very quickly upon us. After breakfast on Plaza de La Marina, we wandered idly up Calle Marqués de Larios, along the procession route. We knew there was only one procession today, the celebratory Easter Sunday procession lasting around 4hrs, but hadn’t really made a plan of where to watch it. Reaching Plaza de la Constitución, it became clear that it was here and now.

 

We found a place in the crowd outside Stradivarius, opposite Camper (that commercial/ritual juxtaposition again!). Cameras were set up for broadcasts, and the shape of the crowds roughly demonstrated the processional route to come. It was a good morning to stand in this smart city square, with an air of joy and release in the air. Balloon Guy plied his trade up the street. 

 

With the sound of bells from around Calle Santa Lucia, many capirotes moved into view, followed by the first trono and the marching band. All of the Cofradias seemed to be represented in this singular mass procession, wax from their candles dripping on the streets and onto the wax balls collected by children in a competition for the bragging rights that go with the largest.

Parents and friends took advantage of the many pauses in the procession to press drinks and sweets into the hands of the Nazarenos. They had been at this for a week, after all. Children came forward again to collect more wax. The first trono passed us. On a day of ceremony, triumph and celebration, the strain on the faces of the bearers reflected a long week of effort.

 

It’s here that the contrast with a Valencian Domingo de Resurrección parade was clearest. Along Calle Reina in Valencia on Easter Sunday, the parade is a joyous, flower-throwing, dancing, kissing, embracing celebration of the climax to the festival, and of the summer to come. Very Valencian, a delightful, emotional carnival.

 

Here, in the very heart of the Malaga, the austerity and formality was still there, but there was a sense of triumph. A sense of victory, a sense of dark days having been overcome, conquered by togetherness, common purpose and belief.

The morning sun glorified the tronos as they passed around Plaza de la Constitución, and past the grandstands towards the top of Calle Marqués de Larios for the last time.

The nazarenos, the bands, and the dignitaries marched proudly past, some outwardly emotional, some perhaps offering up a little prayer for the speedy arrival of the end of the parade route.

 

As the last drummers passed, and the last waft of incense drifted away, we moved past the Catherdal and towards Muelle Uno once again for drinks and lunch. In the small outdoor auditorium in Parque de Malaga, a church group (the more guitar/smiley sort) finished a song and began chanting “Christo Vive!!” in enthusiastic fashion.

 

Sunday lunch on Muelle Uno was a typically sunny, busy, noisy, pleasurable affair. Excellent food delivered by friendly faces overlooking the developing quayside getting ready for the superyachts. If the bid for this part of the market succeeds, this will change Muelle Uno once again. Will the new sleek crowd want “100 Montaditos” or “Dunkin’ Donuts”? One feels they’ll demand a more exclusive offering: more change for the city of change.

We enjoyed the weather on our last couple of days. Doing a little more idle wandering, we walked up Calle Victoria, away from town, and made our acquaintance with Barrio La Victoria. A lovely neighbourhood feel, very different to centro. More local shops, small churches, play areas and independent cafés and restaurants. The noise of kids back in the school playgrounds. At the end of Calle Aqua we climbed the steps and found ourselves at the north-western foot of the hill where Castillo Gibralfaro sits, green with sunshine and pines.

 

A great beach lunch put us in mind of lazy days spent at a chiringuito only a few miles down the coast on several happy holidays. We saw the comings and goings at Muelle Uno, enormous cruise ships moving out from the quayside at La Pergola only to be dwarfed by the giants berthed beyond La Farola.

 

The barriers were coming down, the grandstands were being dismantled, and the stacks of wooden chairs were being loaded onto trucks as our visit ended. The traffic was back, and our last breakfast on Plaza de la Marina had a familiar background of ebb and flow, noise and normality.

I’d been educated over that visit. Semana Santa takes this fine city over for a week, and its scale is astonishing. The effort and commitment to make it all happen is immense. The nazarenos and Cofradias and the tronos and the Legionarios turn their attention to other things for another year or so, but there will always be belief.

 

Summer holidays in Valencia to come.