Semana Santa: Comayagua

     The day after our trip to Cayos we re-boarded a bus to take us back to San Pedro where we planned to catch another bus to Comayagua, a town in central Honduras about 1.5 hours from Pena. Once again Melissa and I waited at the bus station for Sam to get back from dropping Rachel off, and by the time we set off looking for a bus in the direction of Comayagua, it was around 2:45. Now, we had done our research. We knew that there wasn't going to be any public transportation on Friday, which is why we had booked our Comayagua hotel for two nights. We were prepared. Except for one thing: our research had not turned up the fact that not only was there no public transport on Friday, the buses stopped running by 3 on Thursday. In fact, at 2:45, there was only one bus company going to Tegucigalpa, with only one bus left to leave, and it was full. It looked like we were going to be stranded in the bus station in San Pedro.
 Until a Honduran man who had noticed us wandering around the bus terminal asked if we needed any help. After confirming that there were no buses left, he said he would help us negotiate a taxi fare for the 2.5 hour trip. A medical student who had also missed the buses and was going in that direction would be joining us.
     Our helper (whose name we never found out, but God bless him for taking care of us) escorted the four of us out to the taxi queue where we were immediately surrounded by pushy taxi drivers lobbying for our fare, which was obviously going to be quite large. We refused to pay more than 500 lempira each (about $25), finally got someone to agree to that price and climbed into his taxi. We drove no farther than the exit of the terminal parking lot when he stopped the car. Apparently he didn't have the proper paperwork to leave the city in which case I'm not sure why he would accept a job to Comayagua, but this is Honduras and I've learned not to question certain things. He passed us off to another taxi driver who did have the license.
     Now, this guy was one of a kind. Like all Honduran men his hair was slicked back with about 2 pounds of gel, but he also wore a bright Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, white denim jeans, and sunglasses with 'lol', 'ttyl', 'brb', and other text-speak plastered all over them. His taxi was equally flamboyant: there were four or five Prince Royce concert t-shirts draped over the seats, plastic leis hanging from the rearview mirror, seashells and a starfish resting on the dashboard, and, la piece de resistance, a medium-sized disco ball hanging between the two front seats, effectively rendering the rearview mirror obsolete.
     After forging and re-forging the dates on his permit to leave the city, we were on our way. In all honesty, it's probably a miracle we made it to Comayagua in one piece. He tore down the highway, blasting Bob Marley. In his desire to get us there as efficiently as possible, he spent most of the time in the middle lane of the three-lane highway, regardless of which direction that lane belonged to at any given time. He took the curves of the mountain roads in ways I've never experienced and that, combined with his overpowering cologne, and the loud music, gave me a raging headache.
     The three of us in the backseat kept looking askance at each other, silently asking if this was actually happening. It was one of those things that we could never have made up in our wildest dreams. If there was ever an item on any of our bucket lists like an absurd "this cannot be happening right now" moment, we definitely checked that box off. When we did finally arrive in Comayagua, we all clambered out of the car as quickly as we could, thanked and paid him, and set off to our hotel.


     Before I continue, I need to explain something. The reason we chose Comayagua as the destination for the second half of our break was their Semana Santa traditions. As the oldest colonial town in Honduras, it has quite a few of them. The first glimpse we got of these traditions was after dinner. We left the restaurant and walked right into the audience of the Last Supper reenactment going on in front of the Cathedral. There were 13 men standing around a table, miming to a pre-recorded tape of the event. This being Holy Thursday, we watched as the sacrament of communion was instituted, Jesus' prayers and frustration with his disciples in Gethsemane, his arrest, beatings, and visit to Herod. It was clearly meant to be a serious occasion, but the soundtrack they had chosen as the background was from Star Wars, which destroyed the mood for me a little bit. Nonetheless, it was very well done.

     But we weren't there for the Last Supper reenactment. We were there for the parade on Friday morning, or more accurately, the sawdust carpets that were to line the parade route. As the parade was due to start at 9 o'clock, we woke up at 7 and were out the door by 7:30 to insure we were able to see as many as the carpets as possible before they were trampled by the holy procession.
     They were absolutely incredible. Some were intricate and detailed, others were made of large geometic shapes. Some took up entire blocks, others were only a few feet square. There were images of Jesus, Mary, crosses, Stations of the Cross, and lots of other religious symbols. They must have taken hours to make, and soon they would be nothing more than a pile of multi-colored dust. The artistic skill was obvious, but my admiration went far beyond aesthetic appreciation; it takes a special kind of dedication to work so hard for something so fleeting.

     We spent almost two hours walking around, taking pictures of the carpets before finding a spot from which to watch the parade. At 9:45 we'd been waiting in one place for about an hour and nothing seemed to be happening. We asked one of the locals when the parade was supposed to start and she told us it had already had. Within 10 minutes we could see a float about a block away, but for about another 5 minutes it didn't look like it was moving at all. We were all wondering what was taking so long. Well, we were about to find out.

     The first wave of marchers was made of altar boys swinging incense followed by a high-ranking Catholic priest (bishop? I don't know enough about the Catholic church) who was in turn followed by two long lines of nuns. Our chosen spot was right next to the reenactment of Station 4 of the Stations of the Cross, and I can only imagine they repeated this process at each one of the 13 other stations. First they sang, then, as the nuns and other singers moved on, the float began to approach.
     It quickly became obvious that this was a float of the crucifixion. It was carried by probably 20 men in red and white robes with red, pointed hoods that looked eerily like Ku Klux Klan outfits. This was the first sign that we did not know nearly enough about this tradition and that we were going to be mystified by what was going on. Just as the float reached us, it stopped and the men carrying it began to sway back and forth. Suddenly, from the other direction, a second float approached, this one a representation of Jesus' words: You who are free of sin shall cast the first stone. The stone float approached Jesus, they bowed to each other, the stones turned around and returned the way they had come. This happened three more times.

     Then another float, this one with a person of indiscernible gender carrying a cup came and bowed to the Jesus float. We thought initially this was Mary, but five minutes later, a woman who was obviously the Queen of Heaven arrived and repeated the bowing process of the other two. It made absolutely no sense. After what seemed like an hour, the entire procession began to move again and we felt that we could make a retreat away from the crowds of people and find something to eat. As we walked backwards along the parade route we saw people on their hands and knees scooping the dust into bags and water bottles.

     We returned to the main square almost four hours later and the parade was only just entering the Cathedral for the crucifixion. Those poor men in those robes. They had looked tired and hot when we had seen them earlier after only an hour of carrying those figures, now they looked like they were on the brink of collapse. It was a hot day, sunny, and they were in at least three layers of clothing carrying these heavy figurines. I have never seen anyone more relieved than them once the floats had been safely deposited along the aisles of the Cathedral.
     The crucifixion service itself was not at all what I had expected. Every Good Friday service I've attended has been solemn, dark, quiet, and subdued. This was none of those things. There were people standing in the pews taking pictures of the Jesus figure on the cross. The songs sung were, if not joyful, certainly less-than mournful, and sun was streaming in through the windows. I never got the feeling of gravity that other services have given me. We left relatively quickly.

     That night, we left the restaurant where we had eaten and walked right into the middle of another parade. There was nothing about it in the guide we had picked up, but judging from the timing, maybe it was the funeral procession? I'm not sure. The first seven pieces of this parade were very young girls, probably 4-5 years old, dressed in pure white and sitting in what was clearly meant to be clouds. It wasn't until the third had passed us that I realized each girl was representing one of the things Jesus had said while on the cross. They were followed by the mysterious goblet-bearing figure from earlier, Mary, and St. Veronica with her handkerchief. Finally came Jesus on a funeral bier surrounded by plastic baby dolls and an angel standing guard. It was an overwhelming experience, especially because we had absolutely no idea what was going on.

     We spent another 30  minutes or so in the main square people watching before retiring to bed. In the morning we got a taxi to the bus stop where we caught a bus back to Pena Blanca. On Easter Sunday, for the first time in my life, I didn't go to church. Instead, we celebrated Easter by visiting the orphanage just outside of town. It was the perfect ending to a wonderful week.