Of semana santa, guinea pigs, and goats
During Semana Santa, the week leading up to Easter Sunday, I stayed with a Peruvian family in Cusco. And that week, marked by, among other things, a twelve course meal featuring traditional local dishes and marathons of Charlton Heston movies, was an excellent time to have a familia Peruana. Though not particularly attached to the Catholic traditions, my mama Peruana cooked up a storm, particularly relishing the three deserts—apples and peaches soaked in a sweet cinnamon sauce, arroz con leche, and a sort of dark custard—which we consumed in massive amounts almost all day long while watching Moses, The Ten Commandments, and Ben-Hur.
The Easter Bunny and, much to my chagrin, Cadbury eggs, failed to make their appearance, but Cusco is known for other Semana Santa traditions, particularly the procession of the “Our Lord of the Earthquakes” through the streets to all of the main churches of the city on Holy Monday. This particular image, unlike the Christo Blanco statue that looms with lovingly outstretched arms over the city, has been blackened by years of ceremonial smoke and shows a crucified Christ battered and broken, with a startling violence that is much more common in the religious iconography in Peru than is seen in most European imagery. The image garnered its name when it was brought out of its home in the cathedral in 1650 to bring an end to the violent earthquake that was bringing the city to its knees. Since then, The Lord of the Earthquakes is carried from church to church in a slow, nearly day-long processional by forty-five men lifting his silver litter. Thousands line the route, while prominent city officials and clergy follow behind. The onlookers shower the image with blood-red cantuta flowers, particularly valued by the Incas (this is just one of many instances of the blending of Inca and Catholic traditions. For example, during Semana Santa the markets are flooded with traditional medicinal items, from herbs to donkey hooves. Many of the images in the Cathedral where The Lord of the Earthquakes resides combine Incan imagery with Catholic icons—images of the Virgin Mary are often depicted in a conical dress up to their necks, giving them the appearance of a mountain, revered as a god by the Incas).
The procession of The Lord of the Earthquakes culminates in his return to the Cathedral on the Plaza de Armas, at which time the gathered masses receive the benediction. From the upstairs window of my afternoon Spanish class, instead of the normal bustle of cars, taxis, and fume-belching buses, I saw crowds swarming down the street, closed to traffic for the day. I impatiently waited for the end of class, when my host sister collected me as we made a dash for the square, only to discover it already overflowing with people. Crowding into an alley leading onto the square, we saw the end of the procession as The Lord of the Earthquakes made his way to the Cathedral. Despite the sea of heads in front of me, lines of people continued to stream past, filling the square to impossible capacity that made breathing impossible. We linked arms with our neighbors and braced our legs against the surges. In my broken Spanish I rather pointlessly apologized for the repeated jostling to the small older woman in front of me who found it convenient to use me as a shield. She just grinned and responded, “It’s all right, it’s like this every year, I’ll just be knocking you back the other way in a few minutes.”
But finally, at the doors of the Cathedral were opened to receive The Lord of the Earthquakes, the crowd fell into almost an eerie silence, with only a few children whose views were obscured crying out in protest. The plaza was suddenly filled with wail of sirens signifying the benediction as the doors closed behind The Lord of the Earthquakes. People paused, heads bowed, made the sign of the cross and then, the ceremony over, all hell broke loose as the mass pushed against us trying to make its escape. We turned, and taking small penguin-like steps, were practically lifted out into the next plaza, nearly crushed along the way as people dispersed out into the nearby streets.
The last time I felt that nearly-crushed by a crowd was also in the context of religious fervor, though then it was of a Hindu variety. Spending a few days in Kolkata to meet with a micro-finance organization, I decided one Sunday afternoon to make a trek down to the renowned Kalighat Kali temple. With the subway system closed for the day, I took the four kilometers on foot, pushing through markets teeming with fruit and meat, food distribution lines and neighborhoods of disintegrating British architecture. After asking directions from a few friendly shop keepers along the way, I found the street, already crammed with taxis inching through fruit stalls, cows, and stalls dealing in flowers, incense and images of Kali.
The Kalighat, once an important landing on the Hooghly River, which has since carved a new course away from the temple, and said to have inspired the Anglicized name of the city, Calcutta, is devoted to the Hindu goddess Kali, goddess of death and destruction. As I came upon the masses crowding the entrance, I began to wonder whether I had chosen a bad day to come, though I later learned that thousands flock to this temple every day from all over India. But before I could scheme my method of assault or make the decision to bolt, I was greeted and ushered through a side entrance by a man who introduced himself as a priest, a series of whom, I was previously warned, are posted to escort foreigners through.
Weaving through a further series of stalls, we entered a sheltered courtyard and scurried through to a small alcove in the corner where I was instructed to remove my shoes, as required upon entering the holy places, to be left in the care of a small woman beaming a toothless and not exactly trust-inspiring grin. Again, beginning to question my judgment as I watched my one pair of sandals being thrust into a wooden cabinet, perhaps to be seen for the last time, I nevertheless padded after my guide toward a crammed staircase leading to the main shrine, sensually overloaded with immense amounts of decorative red and the stale smell of feet and vaguely fearful of the goddess of death, whose house I had intruded upon, barely listening to my guide´s rapid narration of the temple’s history and description of the shrine we were about to enter.
Not having inherited their colonizers’ extreme love and respect of queuing, the Indians crowded onto the stairs seemed barely phased as my guide pushed through, though we had to wait to cut into the viewing area for the image of Kali, at whom the devout throw bunches of blood-red flowers and then bend their foreheads toward men clinging to ropes above the crowd to bestow upon them the small orange dot that marks their visit. Feeling my body crushed as I stood behind the first row, I emitted an audible gasp as they suddenly parted and I got my own first glimpse. The image, a black circle, featuring three slanted eyes of blood red, surround by an outer circle of the same red, is truly and hauntingly terrifying; Kali certainly deserves her reputation for annihilation.
But I had little more time to react as the crowd surged forward and my guide ushered me to the next portion of the temple, the meditative space, a welcome and relatively quiet spot to gasp for breath, which I had little time to enjoy. Leading me to a window on one end of the cramped rectangular room that opened onto a patio below. “And this,” he announced grandly, “is the Hargath Tala,” meanwhile thrusting me forward. “The place of sacrifice!” And I saw a glint of metal raised into the air.
Now during Semana Santa (which may be a dark week for the guinea pig population who are allowed to run around free until a special occasion calls for their presence at, or rather on, the dinner table), the llama population, like the cows of India, feel calmly content, merely used for photo opportunities with women in native dress and for the occasional scarf.
Indian goats: not so lucky.
And I stood on the lookout platform, seeming to see the blade fall in slow motion, my gut wrenching in revulsion and disgust, only to see half a melon fall the ground, much to my relief. Apparently just a practice swing.
I quickly backed away and suggested we continue our tour, which led us to the bathing courtyard, built around a pool of water channeled in from the Hooghly, which I can only imagine is as sanitary as the rest of India’s streets and rivers, which is to say not at all, though the devout continued to descend into its murky depths. But this was also the scene of the ambush I had long been anticipating. Introducing me to the “temple cook,” my guide held out a battered notebook with a list of names, notably all foreign, accompanied by the numbers 2000 or 4000.
“You can donate money to buy rice for the poor,” my guide announced generously while the cook stood beside him beaming.
I discreetly peered into my wallet, and finding exactly 440 rupees, or about twelve dollars, more than enough to keep me going in India for a couple of days, I offered him 200, a relatively generous sum by Indian standards (my hostel cost 140 a night).
They both became indignant.
“NO ONE offers that little here. We only take donations of 2000 or 4000 rupees here.”
How much rice did they expect me to buy!?! I began to wonder if I would soon find my head dunked in the Hooghly water while they sifted through my wallet, slowly backing away, stammering excuses. The cook seemed about ready to press me for more, but my guide interceded and I thought rather kindly led me away, much to my relief.
Our tour nearly over, he led me past a few more, smaller images of Kali, each more violent than the last. Our path back to my shoes necessitated us passing around the outside barrier of the Hargath Tala. Apparently, that melon had indeed been the practice, for as we passed by, my gaze averted, I had to carefully avoid with my bare feet the blood and crushed flowers streaming down the grimy tiles toward the drain a few feet away.
I was indescribably relieved to again see the toothless shoe sentinel and my sandals emerging from their cabinet, but my guide interposed, announcing “And that will be 300 rupees for the tour.” He had rescued me from the chef only to plunder for himself.
I looked longingly at my sandals and the exit and dug 200 rupees more out of my wallet as a peace offering, which was accepted begrudgingly as he led me to the door, leaving me with a blessing, which I felt sure was followed by a curse as soon as he was out of earshot.
He had deposited me right beside the Mother Theresa Kalighat Home for the Pure of Heart, outside of which stood two bleating, unsuspecting white goats, draped with red flowers. I wished them a speedy, painless death and made my way quickly back down the hectic street.


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