Mexico Journal: Good Friday, Part 1

We've already written a lot about Oaxaca and our journal entries from April 14. Those parts were special for sure, but what made it a day unlike any other was the fact that it was Good Friday.

Now, bear in mind we're not the most church-going of kids. Much less Catholic. Living in big-time blue state country, outside a city once known as Little Beirut because of the regular ruckus that unfolded with Republican administrations visited Portland.

So the fact that we happened to schedule our trip during La Semana Santa, or Holy Week, was a happy accident. This trip was supposed to be about getting off the typical gimme-gimme-gimme tourist path and instead seeing -- and, we hoped, experiencing -- real parts of Mexican culture.

On the day we got into Oaxaca, we met a very nice woman at our hotel who spoke English. We asked her if there would be any special religious events going on as part of La Semana Santa that it would be OK to check out while we were in town.

Immediately she said, Yes, Friday night. 6 o'clock. On Alcala Street. A big parade. Masks. Crowds. Perfectly fine for you all to go and observe.

Great, we thought. That'll be a perfect way to wrap up our last night in town.

Friday morning we get up and leave for the day-long tour to Monte Alban, the Dominican monastery, the wood carvers and the pottery. We were supposed to be back in town about 6 p.m. This is where Mr. What-Time-Is-It? wastes an hour of my life sitting on a mountaintop outside town. And this is why I was all the more irritated with the guy. The woman at the hotel had told us the night's festivities would start about 6.

So finally the van gets back to town close to 7. Drops us at our hotel about 7:15. We run upstairs, ditch our bags, grab some water and start walking toward Alcala, which is a few blocks north and east of the zocalo. It's a pedestrian street running north through town and in front of Santo Domingo Cathedral.

Santo Domingo, which Aldous Huxley called "one of the most extravagantly gorgeous churches in the world." For all its exterior beauty, it's even more striking inside.

As we start making our way up Alcala, the usual crowds are out milling around, but they're thicker than the previous nights and there's all these banner-like things either leaning against buildings or being held by people, mostly kids.

The scene as we head up Alcala Street.

We keep trucking it north until we get to the throng. We're close to Sangre de Cristo Church at the corner of Bravo and Alcala. There are thousands of people. It's so crowded that it is hard to move. We start looking around to see if it's OK to be here. But the local TV station is there filming from the middle of the street, lots of people have cameras and camcorders out, and we are far from the only white-looking faces in the crowd.

The waiting.

The event, which is called the Procession of Silence, is a re-enactment of the crucifixtion, complete with flags and icons from churches throughout town. The flags seem to be made from a thick velvet, often in deep reds and rich greens. The icons, on flower-covered bases like a parade float, are extremely graphic -- blood, hair, thorns, bruising, bones. And there are people all over the street dressed in white and purple. Some with pointed hoods.

Onlookers outside Sangre de Cristo wait for a float bearing two icons to be raised.

Boys taking part in the procession wait for proceedings to begin.

A man with a microphone at Sangre de Cristo Church is reading something, passionately, in Spanish. We understand only bits and pieces. All goes quiet again after he finishes. Then drumming starts, keeping a slow but steady beat. The participants hoist the icons onto their shoulders. The march begins. All as the sun slides away, shimmering across the entire scene.

Hoisted onto shoulders, flashed into memories.