Remembrances of Holy Week

Antonio Banderas, Michelle Pheiffer, bullfighters, socialite and the Spanish Foreign Legion marching from Malaga Puerto to the town: that was Holy Week for me.

There were so many celebrities there, so many socialites, generals, film and TV stars, and yet they all faded into insignificance when placed alongside the brilliance of the floats (tronos) that paraded throughout the week. Each day, from Palm Sunday until Good Friday, from midday until 5 a.m. the next morning, the city resounded to the beat of the drums and bells heralding the arrival of the processions.

Antonio Banderas kept well hidden in the middle of the group that carried one of the tronos. Rumour had it that his wife was one of the hooded figures (nazaremos) that followed the procession, but I wouldn't bet on that. Behind the tronos walked elegant ladies in black lace mantillas and children in blue and scarlet velvet tunics belted with white ropes, adding a graceful note in the midst of the hooded figures that carried the candles. The smell of incense was overpowering.

The populace turned out in their thousands to watch. Many of them had reserved their places up to 3 years beforehand. Estimates for the main procession of the week, on the Thursday before Easter, were 5 million. Could be right. I reckon 2 million stood on my toes.

It was an unforgettable week. It's been many years since I've known a two-day public holiday to mean that all shops closed - and I mean all shops. No supermarkets, tourist shops, or grand stores, were open for the two days of Holy Thursday and Good Friday. Bang went my chances of a major shopping spree in El Corte Ingles, everyone's favourite Spanish store.

In a restaurant in the historic old town I heard an elderly man spontaneously break into cante hondo, the deep flamenco song of the south, the sound that echoes through Lorca's plays and pierces the heart with its meloncholy. I saw a little girl in a red spotted gypsy dress stamping her heels in the best flamenco manner while her mother looked on proudly. I drank deep of the sweet Malaga wine in a dark bodega and I thought, yes, this is the real Spain that is hidden under the mantle of tourism.

I will look it out more often.