Things to do during Easter week in Bogotá

Sorry but believe it or not I have been a busy girl, I promise to update the blog with lots of adventures soon.

The word of the day: El via crucis: the via crucis, from latin meaning the path that Jesus took, or twelve stations of the cross.

I am not Catholic. That makes me a big weirdo here in Colombia. I am on one side of the family a great-great granddaughter of a Catholic priest, the granddaughter of a Presbyterian, and a Mason. On the other side there are the hidden Jews, and a high level Rosicrucian. I am best summoned up by my best friend Heidi, as a coming from the best Pagan, Jewish, witch stock. There is some Catholic thrown in for good measure, since up until the new constitution of 1982, being Catholic was de jure. There no civil marriages, baptism certificates instead of birth certificates, and 90% of schools were Catholic. But the reality is when you have anti-establishment parents you don’t grow up Catholic. You grow up liberal, secular with a dash of Pagan, Jewish, witchiness.

Having said that I do respect all forms of worship and religious expressions that do not have as a premise ignoring the universal declaration of human rights. A nice secular document that sums up nicely for me how we should behave. It has been five years since I have spent an Easter week in Colombia and I had forgotten the religious frenzy that it elicits. Please take in to account I am calling it Easter week, and not spring break. While they are the same thing in the calendar they are not the same thing in practice.

With my background I always feel like I am on the outside looking in when it comes to religious activities. I might attend a service, be moved, agree, even enjoy the ritual and sermon, but it is not mine. It is not my ritual or my celebration I am simply a guest. I am polite and interested, but I am a guest nonetheless. So this particular week I am not just a Gringa. I am the Pagan, Jewish, witch Gringa in the holiest of all Catholic celebrations.

During Easter week, the Bogotá is quiet as everything shuts down. All public institutions, businesses, and schools close down. Most bogotanos chose to go out of town, to either their hometown, a shrine, or to spend the week somewhere warm. The roads and airports are bogged down. If you stay or come to Bogotá you do so for mainly religious reasons, since all other attractions and institutions are closed. All secular sights are closed, no museums, theaters, or galleries are open. Movie theaters, and a very few restaurants are the rare exception.

Some popular churches expect and will have ten to twenty thousand people in one day. That is just the people who go for a look-see, a confession, or a blessing. It does not count those participating in rituals or masses. The main streets downtown, where the older colonial churches are located, are closed for pedestrian traffic. Crowds walk from one church to another in a combination of what is part ritual, and part local tourism. You see people go from one mass to another, or they plan an all day event at their favorite church. This is a family affair, grandparents, parents, teenagers and children all squeezed in to the church benches. Sandwiches, and drinks are packed up with the baby’s diapers, and grandmother’s shawl.

Monday we decide to go up to Monserrate, the church up on the mountainside over looking the city. I have never been before, in part because for years I have been told it is too dangerous. There are three ways of arriving up 2682 meters feet, the Teleferico, the Funicular or on foot. Or I should say on your knees. It is a common sight to see worshipers of the brown virgin, climb on their knees all 10, 341 feet. It is a way to ask for a favor, pay back a favor, or just show your devotion to the virgin that overlooks/blesses the city. We go up the Teleferico, a small, modern and fast way to zip up the Andes. It is not long before we see the city ahead of us as my ears pop on our way up. As soon as we get out we are pelted by rain. It is our worst nightmare, with a rush of people trying to find a place to hide out. Luckily the rain does not last. And the view of city starts to reveal itself between the clouds. It is breath taking.

The church is not yet filled with the faithful for the holy week. At the top of the altar is the brown fallen Christ. Unlike other churches this Christ is not on a cross, but rather lying on his side he looks out on his believers. It is eleven am, and there is already two people entering on their knees. The most memorable is a young woman accompanied by her mother and sister. She sheds tears as she nears the altar. She manages to compose her self, as she continues on her knees, to the bench where her family waits. She looks serene as she slowly manages to sit down.

The fervor in the church is overwhelming, and we leave. The sun has decided to come out in full force and we walk uphill. Replicas of the brown virgin, and the fallen Christ look out the tightly packed booths. They are mainly religious items, with some crafts thrown in. Photo shopped posters of the fallen Christ next to a Transmilenio bus are popular. Is it an allusion to the fact that the buses can’t run you over? Or that the buses are so safe because the Christ is looking out for us bus riders? I forget to ask about them when my eight year old little brother begins to ask for one of the goat hoofs. At first I think they are plastic replicas of goat hoofs made to look like bottles. No in this country you do just the opposite. You make goats hoofs in to bottles, with a small-carved inscription on the nail bed. “A souvenir of my trip to Monserrate, 2007.”

My first reaction is disgust, but my brother insists. When he quickly realizes I am not going to bend on this, he scampers over to our father. And he gets his goat hoof; now dangling from his belt buckle, as we continue to climb up to the pone air food stalls. The stalls are filled with arepas de choclo, pan de bono, almojabanas, buñuelos, and empanadas. The ladies call out with their lunch menu trying to entice you to enter their stand. One in particular is very large, almost cafeteria style with a view to the mountainside. In a glass counter large sheets of chicharron, roast chickens, and a variety of sausages are displayed. We keep on going down the path to the end where a clearing in the beginning of the forest. A small stand is in amongst the rocks. It sells soft drinks, and chips. This is where the poor who can’t afford the formal food stands gather to eat something. There is trash strewn in one corner of the clearing. My father once again bemoans the lack of discipline in Colombia.

“Why can’t the church require people to have trash containers?” He asks to no one in particular.

We leave the clearing and decide to find out the prices of the two formal restaurants that are located in front of the church. On our way back we pass through the sculpture garden with the Stations of the Cross. Groups of families walk rosary in hand, praying as they come up hill. The sun blares, in a way that it can only do in the Andes. Bright, clear, and at times blinding.

The St. Clair restaurant is perched on the mountain. Its’ wooden gazebo structure is simple but beautiful. We decide to stay and have an amazing meal. Even my brother, who is a picky eater, eats all of his food. Sooner rather than later most eight year-old´s are going to want to run around. And that time comes, I escort my brother in to what ends up being a marathon session of running up and down the hill. I get weird glances as I chase after my brother. They are a combination of: she is too old to be running around like that and we are not being respectful of the sanctuary.

When we decide to leave, we choose to go down the Teleferico. The line is long, and though the attendant keeps on announcing that the Funicular has no line, few budge. After a half an hour wait we go down in less than ten minutes. And we are back down in Bogotá´s rainy streets.

Next Part 2: Rain, libraries and a craft fair.