Semana Santa

Spain loves motorbikes. Marquez, Lorenzo, Dani Pedrosa. These are men of legend. In the spirit of Moto GP, I was caning it down a superbly twisty road that snaked along a Spanish canyon, when a damn great, slow white RV blocked my perfect line through yet another fourth gear curve. Sure, there was a double solid line, but I was going about twice as fast as the RV, and would be by it in a wink. I could see across the next curve anyway, so gave it some and flicked by before the driver could say caramba.

However, the almost-completely-visible next canyon curve had temporarily obscured an oncoming vehicle. It wasn’t a danger; there was plenty of room, and I was way past the RV by the time I came abreast of the approaching car. The issue was the surprised looks on the faces of the two policia in their patrol car watching me a) break the speed limit, b) overtake across solid lines and c) initially approach them on their side of the road. I did the right thing: I pinned it. They couldn’t turn round fast enough to chase me, and anyway I was confident they would invoke the gods of Moto GP and remark favourably about my cornering style. Whichever, I carried on unhindered to Vera, where my old friend Hnin and her Spanish husband Andres live.

Vera, like many other Spanish towns celebrates Semana Santa during the last week of Lent — and that’s when I would be there. Semana Santa is a centuries old tradition that celebrates two key elements of Easter. One is of course reverence and atonement for the death of Christ and the worship of a multitude of associated saints. The other thing is to underscore the importance of ‘brotherhoods’ or neighbourhood clans within a tight social structure; for both reasons it is a Big Thing.

Andres told me that for weeks before I arrived, the local Vera brotherhoods had been gathering in their local chapels, spending evenings and weekends decorating, polishing, fitting out, tidying up and prettying their sacred statues and plinths so they were ready to be paraded through the streets during the festival itself. Very Spanish, very Catholic, and so far, very typical of many religious processions anywhere in the world. But the big difference with Semana Santa parades is the weight.

The sacred statues, their associated plinths, thrones, decorations, hangings and massively carved wooden support platforms can weigh anything up to a muscle-cramping two tonnes. Which all has to be carried by devotees at shoulder height (no wimpy wheels or trolleys allowed), at a solemnly religious pace that brings on severe muscle ache to the legs of the bearers. Every step takes at least a second, and must be co-ordinated in a demanding freeze-motion march through the town for anything up to six agonising hours.

As a demonstration of devotion, the Semana Santa parade makes plain old penitential ball and chain-dragging or contrite cross-carrying look like a piece of cake. Remember, all this is done during Spain’s Easter so much of it it occurs in direct, baking sunshine along stucco-bordered, heat-reflecting streets, while wearing dark suits or heavy cloaks and shiny leather shoes. With no drink stops. Or ability to shift and get comfy once the procession has started. Or doing anything other than staring fixedly ahead.

Even though Andres is a very tough bloke and was “only” shouldering a fraction of the total platform load (his team had 60 bearers), he crashed out for about two and a half hours after his procession. It’s that hard.

All this slow-motion devotion takes guts, strength, and weeks of practising beforehand, carrying massive weights about and hefting concrete blocks in unison to develop the strength, discipline and stamina required to demonstrate true reverential devotion. Bear in mind all the bearers have to slow-march exactly in step with every one of the other 59 stalwarts to avoid tripping or stumbling and sending everything crashing to the ground in a hideous and blasphemous disaster.

But there’s more. Because just carrying a ton or two on your shoulders could possibly be seen as slightly weedy or not penitent enough, those who want to show absolute and extreme devotion carry the throne supports directly on their necks rather on their shoulders. It’s almost beyond comprehension.

Nonetheless, being a bearer is seen as a seriously desirable role; many participants had already waited years to walk the suffering Semana Santa road. But as ridden-in ring-in with a motorbike, I was lucky enough to be asked by Andres’ family to don a sombre jacket and brotherhood pin, and slowly pace the line behind the platform. Just walking the hot dry streets with nothing to carry or strict pace to synchronise with made me feel tired, but the pervading atmosphere of intense belief and community spirituality was strong enough that I didn’t falter. I was very proud to be part of it all.

The celebratory action didn’t stop there. Each of the many bearers’ teams also featured an impressive cast of non weight-bearing extras. There were mourning widows, Roman soldiers, masked and hooded Nazarenes, chained prisoners, candle bearers, Foreign Legionnaires, incense wafters, a brass band and even some devotees who walked the whole route in bare feet, sometimes blindfolded. It was bigger than Round 6 at Circuito de Jerez.

To add to the sense of occasion, the streets were also jammed with thousands of spectators and relatives supporting their broad-shouldered statue-bearing family members, taking photos, counting rosaries, and possibly even eyeing up some of those hunky, manly bearers or ravishing widows. The festival atmosphere was so mesmerising a bomb could have dropped without anybody turning to look.

Eventually, all the bearers completed their walk and put their platforms down, the merry widows downed a rioja or two, some families adjourned to chapel and we ate a big and delicious paella courtesy of Andres’ mum.

Sadly, it was soon time to hit the road again in a wind that was biblical in its own way. It wasn’t the sheer strength, but the gustiness and unpredictability that caused me to invoke the Lord on a regular basis. I swerved north.

As the road climbed into the central Sierras, I rode through some stunning old towns, full of white houses with red tile roofs clustered round a castle or church. Huge bulls munched on long grass behind ancient stone walls, old men with sticks crept down cobbled streets to the local cafe, and if you believe the road signs, inattentive would-be racing motorcyclists were busy running into each other on a regular basis.

But it wasn’t all pretty-pretty. The further north I rode the more the effects of European de-industrialisation became apparent. In Pennaroya-Peurtonuevo, a mining town which looked like its coal-mining days were almost at an end, many of the shabby houses on empty streets were plastered with For Sale signs. Bars were busy serving mid-morning wine and beer to middle-aged men in cheap and lurid shell-suits; other men were tending to caged birds. It was quite sad to see.

My original plan had been to ride north into Portugal and sample another country, but the sample I could see on the horizon (snowy mountains cowering under vicious black clouds and sheets of rain) looked sufficiently dismal to keep me on the sunny side of the border. On arriving in the workmanlike town of Leon, I decided to go posh and stay in a hotel as a reward for a long day’s ride, and successfully avoiding the bad weather. Hotel VillaPaloma looked promising despite its kitsch name. The room looked good, was listed at a mere €35 and had a bath too. It was time for my standard check-list.

“Agua caliente?” Si.

“Desasyuno?” Si.

“WiFi?” Si.

“Parking por el moto?” No!

Well, I wasn’t leaving the bike outside in the approaching gale and rainstorm, no matter what. I communicated this fact.

“Momento.” The receptionist and the manager, cigarette wobbling on his lip, went into an urgent whispering huddle. A gasp on the cigarette, a nod to the janitor and moments later my motorbike was snug and safe in the lounge room, parked rakishly amongst the easy chairs and linen tablecloths. Parking por el moto — Si!

Next morning, while I was eating breakfast, an old bloke wearing a black beret and poacher’s coat and looking like a freedom fighter came into the restaurant, pushing a shopping trolley. As I tucked into my delicious olive-oil soaked croissant and café cortado, I noticed him take out a surprisingly large and sophisticated smartphone.

He gestured conspiratorially to the barmaid (and me, in an aside motion) to look at a photo on his phone. I expected a blurry shot of high-tech weapons stored ready for the storming of parliament, or a secret map showing the location of Franco’s famous lost treasure.

It was a picture of a doughnut. “That’s big,” said the barmaid, and carried on polishing glasses.

I revved up the KTM and rode out of the lounge room to the waves of some friendly local lads, towards the ferry with Andres’ blessed brotherhood pin sitting snug and sanctified in my pocket. I got home safely despite some more Spanish riding.

Want to see more photos? Click HERE. Want to read more of my stories from the road? Click HERE.