BURNING JUDAS
Jerez de Garcia Salinas, Mexico, rests in a flat valley surrounded by mountains. As if those mountains have sealed it off like Shangri-La, Jerez remains off the beaten tourist track. Outside of it’s home state of Zacatecas in the north central highlands of Mexico, the town remains relatively unknown even in Mexico. This is why many of the old ways survive into the twenty-first century. Burning Judas every Easter is a flamboyant example.
My sister, Doris, husband, Gene, and I are in Jerez to visit our other sister, Barbara, and her husband, Phlete. They are recent arrivals, so the Spring Festival – Feria de Primavera – is new to us all. Cockfights, dances, bullfights, concerts, plays, and a carnival are on the schedule, but locals say the highlight of the feria is “Burning Judas.”
In the 1920’s, when D, H. Lawrence wrote his Mexican novel QUETZALCOATL – THE PLUMED SERPENT, he noted, “Judas is the big man of Holy Week, just as the Skeleton is the idol of the first week in November, the days of the dead.” Ceremonial punishment of Judas for his betrayal of Christ still occurs in a few other Mexican communities during Semana Santa – Holy Week – but in Jerez that ancient ritual ha
s evolved in a unique manner.
Things begin on a somber note on Holy Thursday with a re-enactment of Christ’s march to Calvary. A few of the participants look like terrified high school students in costume, but the main players are so believable that I can’t tell if the vicious guard is really lashing the Christ character with his ship. Christ’s back bleeds true blood, but that could be from the large wooden cross he carries. I follow them along their course. It isn’t easy. Spectators pack the sidewalks. I’m sure I see the whip hit Christ’s back. I wonder if he’s a penitente, a person who practices physical abuse as a form of religious penance. That practice isn’t as common, or at least as public, as it once was in Mexico, but few outside eyes watch today.
Shops and businesses close early on Holy Thursday for the passion parade and other religious observations, the way they frequently do in the United States on Good Friday. Since they are closed anyway, shop owners use that time to repair and clean up their establishments. My sisters and I rush to complete our errands before the closures. We peek in at the roses in the main plaza. Closing the plaza for a month of weeding, feeding, pruning, replanting, and reopening on Easter Sunday is another custom. Es costumbre – it’s the custom is a phrase frequently heard in this community of approximately 50,000 Andalucian descendants. White stucco buildings with flat roofs and balconies that hang over the flag stone streets are visual reminders that this is a Spanish colonial town.
Judas burns on the Saturday immediately preceding Easter Sunday. We know there will be effigies stuffed with fire crackers hung across the main street, a parade of caballe
ros, and the burning, but we’re not sure of the particulars. The time the parade starts, for instance, is not so much a closely held secret as a widely circulated rumor. It will start at 10:00 a.m. say some. Maybe later say others. Maybe earlier say exactly the same people. Some over zealous patrons of El Tigre Negro Bar burned the effigies before the parade even started one recent year, so people aren’t taking chances on missing the fun. By 9:00a.m., spectators start to gather and venders set up. Every intersection has an impromptu bar of a pick-up truck parked on a corner. The beds of the trucks face out to the parade route and hold iced beer. I bought one at a truck decorated with greenery. They offered salt and wedges of juicy little limes to go with the beer.
A few cowboys start to ride into town, so we decide to take a walk and see the effigies before the parade begins. Above Main Street, they hang on ropes strung from lampposts and balcony rails at intervals from the main plaza to the outskirts of town, a distance of no more than a mile. Barbara and Phlete live on that route. We will watch from their roof and balcony. We didn’t have to look far to realize the life size papier-mâché figures represent not only the Biblical character but also more contemporary individuals who have let the people down. The auto mechanic is easy to identify since he holds a gas can in one hand and an air filter in the other. A soccer player represents every player who has ever cost Mexico a game. Anyone who attended parochial school can understand why one of the figures is a num; there is always a teacher who is long on homework, short on good grades, and quick with the paddle. Less obvious are the two “men” in suits and ties. We are told they stand for a former President of Mexico and a recently disgraced attorney general. All these are Judases.
A M
AN SELLING BALLONS MOVES AMONG THE CROWD, HIS COLORFUL BOUQUET BOBBING ABOVE THEIR HEADS. There are venders selling typical souvenir T-shirts, sun visors and trinkets for children, but some of the items for sale are pure Mexico. Delicious soft tacos. Tropical fruit cups of orange papaya and mango, red strawberry and watermelon, creamy banana and jicima. A marinated mescal plant is sold leaf by leaf. Cold sweet potatoes. Unusual sweets. Biznaca, for instance, a candied cactus that’s yellow, chewy, and rather bland in taste. Cut into little pieces, es costumbre to include it in capriotada, the traditional Easter dessert of Jerez.
People pack balconies, flat roofs, and sidewalks along the parade route now. While cowboys still ride into town, others appear to be leaving. Certain men or horses look familiar. They’ve been by more than once. It finally dawns on us that this is the parade.
There a
re no female riders. No es costumbre en Jerez. The men are handsome, as all the people of Jerez tend to be: black hair and yes, warm but not dark complexions, high cheekbones and proud noses. Some wear grand suits with braided trim, while others are in blue jeans and fancy shirts. More than a few wear chaps, and I wonder if these are the real caballeros who work the cattle country that surrounds Jerez. A few of them have on Stetsons, but most of the men have on wide brimmed Mexican sombreros, each with it’s own distinctive decorative hat band and matching trim around the outer edge of the brim. They all wear cowboy boots and spurs.
“I’m in love,” said Doris.
“You don’t want to get mixed up with a cowboy,” said Barbara. “It’s a hard life for a woman.”
“Being single is a hard life for a woman,” said Doris.
So far, not being single has been a hard life for Doris too.
Soon the cowboys are patronizing the pick-up truck bars where they purchase and are served without dismounting. There are no laws against open containers in Mexico. Two boys riding double, sharing both a horse and a beer, demonstrate that there are also no age limits on drinking.
Many of the saddles are finely tooled. All of them feature the Mexican saddle horn as big around as a tortilla. The horses are gorgeous, especially a leopard appaloosa. It’s gray with dark spots all over and has a gray mane and tail. Another horse dances to the music of the marching bands that have joined the parade.
Suddenly there’s an explosion. Bang! Shrieks of surprise. Shrieks of joy. There is smoke in the air. The burning has begun. A horseman lassoes a figure, pulls it to the ground, and gallops off, dragging Judas at the end of the rope, pursued by other riders. An arm blows off. His head explodes. Finally, a cowboy cuts what’s left of him loose, but up and down Main Street the mayhem continues. The mechanic burns. A former president explodes into nothingness. The pop, pop, pop of firecrackers mingles with the clop, clop, clop of horseshoes on flags
tones. All the dogs of Jerez howl or bark. I know the figures are no more real than scarecrows, but I feel like I’m witnessing a lynching. The crowd loves it. When no figures remain to punish, the onlookers, including us, leave balconies and roofs for the street. The marching bands are now dance bands. Barbara and Phlete waltz together on the flagstones. The street party continues all afternoon and into the night.
At sunset, a lone cowboy sits astride his horse and looks down the road leading out of town, into the hills. The road is open and clear as far as he can see. The horse rears up on his hind legs. They take off, lickedy-split. Faster and faster they gallop, hooves beating a furious flamenco on stone. It is a dramatic and fitting end to a day in the old west. Perhaps a wild ride back to the rancho es costumbre en Jerez.
The photos (by Gene Gaffney):
-Exterior of Barbara & Phlete’s place in Jerez with a beer truck on the corner below.
-Interior with Barbara, Mary, & Doris in front of a Daniel Brennan painting of San Miguel de Allende, MX
-3 views of the parade including the leopard appaloosa
-Burning Judas
Jerez de Garcia Salinas, Mexico, rests in a flat valley surrounded by mountains. As if those mountains have sealed it off like Shangri-La, Jerez remains off the beaten tourist track. Outside of it’s home state of Zacatecas in the north central highlands of Mexico, the town remains relatively unknown even in Mexico. This is why many of the old ways survive into the twenty-first century. Burning Judas every Easter is a flamboyant example.
My sister, Doris, husband, Gene, and I are in Jerez to visit our other sister, Barbara, and her husband, Phlete. They are recent arrivals, so the Spring Festival – Feria de Primavera – is new to us all. Cockfights, dances, bullfights, concerts, plays, and a carnival are on the schedule, but locals say the highlight of the feria is “Burning Judas.”
In the 1920’s, when D, H. Lawrence wrote his Mexican novel QUETZALCOATL – THE PLUMED SERPENT, he noted, “Judas is the big man of Holy Week, just as the Skeleton is the idol of the first week in November, the days of the dead.” Ceremonial punishment of Judas for his betrayal of Christ still occurs in a few other Mexican communities during Semana Santa – Holy Week – but in Jerez that ancient ritual ha
s evolved in a unique manner.Things begin on a somber note on Holy Thursday with a re-enactment of Christ’s march to Calvary. A few of the participants look like terrified high school students in costume, but the main players are so believable that I can’t tell if the vicious guard is really lashing the Christ character with his ship. Christ’s back bleeds true blood, but that could be from the large wooden cross he carries. I follow them along their course. It isn’t easy. Spectators pack the sidewalks. I’m sure I see the whip hit Christ’s back. I wonder if he’s a penitente, a person who practices physical abuse as a form of religious penance. That practice isn’t as common, or at least as public, as it once was in Mexico, but few outside eyes watch today.
Shops and businesses close early on Holy Thursday for the passion parade and other religious observations, the way they frequently do in the United States on Good Friday. Since they are closed anyway, shop owners use that time to repair and clean up their establishments. My sisters and I rush to complete our errands before the closures. We peek in at the roses in the main plaza. Closing the plaza for a month of weeding, feeding, pruning, replanting, and reopening on Easter Sunday is another custom. Es costumbre – it’s the custom is a phrase frequently heard in this community of approximately 50,000 Andalucian descendants. White stucco buildings with flat roofs and balconies that hang over the flag stone streets are visual reminders that this is a Spanish colonial town.
Judas burns on the Saturday immediately preceding Easter Sunday. We know there will be effigies stuffed with fire crackers hung across the main street, a parade of caballe
ros, and the burning, but we’re not sure of the particulars. The time the parade starts, for instance, is not so much a closely held secret as a widely circulated rumor. It will start at 10:00 a.m. say some. Maybe later say others. Maybe earlier say exactly the same people. Some over zealous patrons of El Tigre Negro Bar burned the effigies before the parade even started one recent year, so people aren’t taking chances on missing the fun. By 9:00a.m., spectators start to gather and venders set up. Every intersection has an impromptu bar of a pick-up truck parked on a corner. The beds of the trucks face out to the parade route and hold iced beer. I bought one at a truck decorated with greenery. They offered salt and wedges of juicy little limes to go with the beer.A few cowboys start to ride into town, so we decide to take a walk and see the effigies before the parade begins. Above Main Street, they hang on ropes strung from lampposts and balcony rails at intervals from the main plaza to the outskirts of town, a distance of no more than a mile. Barbara and Phlete live on that route. We will watch from their roof and balcony. We didn’t have to look far to realize the life size papier-mâché figures represent not only the Biblical character but also more contemporary individuals who have let the people down. The auto mechanic is easy to identify since he holds a gas can in one hand and an air filter in the other. A soccer player represents every player who has ever cost Mexico a game. Anyone who attended parochial school can understand why one of the figures is a num; there is always a teacher who is long on homework, short on good grades, and quick with the paddle. Less obvious are the two “men” in suits and ties. We are told they stand for a former President of Mexico and a recently disgraced attorney general. All these are Judases.
A M
AN SELLING BALLONS MOVES AMONG THE CROWD, HIS COLORFUL BOUQUET BOBBING ABOVE THEIR HEADS. There are venders selling typical souvenir T-shirts, sun visors and trinkets for children, but some of the items for sale are pure Mexico. Delicious soft tacos. Tropical fruit cups of orange papaya and mango, red strawberry and watermelon, creamy banana and jicima. A marinated mescal plant is sold leaf by leaf. Cold sweet potatoes. Unusual sweets. Biznaca, for instance, a candied cactus that’s yellow, chewy, and rather bland in taste. Cut into little pieces, es costumbre to include it in capriotada, the traditional Easter dessert of Jerez.People pack balconies, flat roofs, and sidewalks along the parade route now. While cowboys still ride into town, others appear to be leaving. Certain men or horses look familiar. They’ve been by more than once. It finally dawns on us that this is the parade.
There a
re no female riders. No es costumbre en Jerez. The men are handsome, as all the people of Jerez tend to be: black hair and yes, warm but not dark complexions, high cheekbones and proud noses. Some wear grand suits with braided trim, while others are in blue jeans and fancy shirts. More than a few wear chaps, and I wonder if these are the real caballeros who work the cattle country that surrounds Jerez. A few of them have on Stetsons, but most of the men have on wide brimmed Mexican sombreros, each with it’s own distinctive decorative hat band and matching trim around the outer edge of the brim. They all wear cowboy boots and spurs.“I’m in love,” said Doris.
“You don’t want to get mixed up with a cowboy,” said Barbara. “It’s a hard life for a woman.”
“Being single is a hard life for a woman,” said Doris.
So far, not being single has been a hard life for Doris too.
Soon the cowboys are patronizing the pick-up truck bars where they purchase and are served without dismounting. There are no laws against open containers in Mexico. Two boys riding double, sharing both a horse and a beer, demonstrate that there are also no age limits on drinking.
Many of the saddles are finely tooled. All of them feature the Mexican saddle horn as big around as a tortilla. The horses are gorgeous, especially a leopard appaloosa. It’s gray with dark spots all over and has a gray mane and tail. Another horse dances to the music of the marching bands that have joined the parade.
Suddenly there’s an explosion. Bang! Shrieks of surprise. Shrieks of joy. There is smoke in the air. The burning has begun. A horseman lassoes a figure, pulls it to the ground, and gallops off, dragging Judas at the end of the rope, pursued by other riders. An arm blows off. His head explodes. Finally, a cowboy cuts what’s left of him loose, but up and down Main Street the mayhem continues. The mechanic burns. A former president explodes into nothingness. The pop, pop, pop of firecrackers mingles with the clop, clop, clop of horseshoes on flags
tones. All the dogs of Jerez howl or bark. I know the figures are no more real than scarecrows, but I feel like I’m witnessing a lynching. The crowd loves it. When no figures remain to punish, the onlookers, including us, leave balconies and roofs for the street. The marching bands are now dance bands. Barbara and Phlete waltz together on the flagstones. The street party continues all afternoon and into the night.At sunset, a lone cowboy sits astride his horse and looks down the road leading out of town, into the hills. The road is open and clear as far as he can see. The horse rears up on his hind legs. They take off, lickedy-split. Faster and faster they gallop, hooves beating a furious flamenco on stone. It is a dramatic and fitting end to a day in the old west. Perhaps a wild ride back to the rancho es costumbre en Jerez.
The photos (by Gene Gaffney):
-Exterior of Barbara & Phlete’s place in Jerez with a beer truck on the corner below.
-Interior with Barbara, Mary, & Doris in front of a Daniel Brennan painting of San Miguel de Allende, MX
-3 views of the parade including the leopard appaloosa
-Burning Judas
No comments:
Post a Comment