bones are getting tired of suporting 200 pounds of unhealthy fat yet with a new pair of sneakers, I felt confident. You know those with thick magical bouncy soles that make a white man feel he could take off flying from the key putting away two with gusto. What a false sense of power,, but none the less thick soles do help.
Here is a link to a pilgrimage to Chalma from Milpa Alta Parts One and Two: https://youtu.be/jYsoAmPZBKo https://youtu.be/q9145nM02ms
People pass the hotel all that particular night night on the way to Chalma,
perhaps 30,000. We began our journey about 2:00 AM, following bunches of people on the same path, like clumps of scree floating at different speeds on a briskly moving stream. Beautiful night bathed in the blue light of a moon just about full. I am not exactly sure how the high priests calculate easter but it seems to always fall when the moon is near complete. I suppose that is why the date for easter is different each year.
For those who do not know of Chalma here is a link:
http://www.mexconnect.com/articles/976-the-magic-of-chalma
The motivation for a pilgramage is piety. The manner is to distance oneself from their comfort and quotidien through physical exertion. The physical act empties the body and the soul rendering it more sincere and of course more open to suggestion. It works. There is a spiritual commraderie that pervades these walks,, one purpose, one mind, a blissful destination.
The moon was fragmented by the trees in the mountain pass and later when we had almost reached Malinalco it bathed the stone path in its scintillating light. By the time we reached the highway the pace was like a repetitive chant, and the nocturnal ramble's magic began to take control of our compass. The last three kilometers are punishing,, a prolonged upgrade.Then there is Chalma in the distance a clump of lights in the nearing dawn. It is a dirty little town scarred by lower class use,, of sacred waters, set between camel backed parched mountains. The church is imbedded in the very center of Chalma, like a zircon. It is one of the best maintained churches in the area. Like latter day zombies we approached the edifice accompanied by many adorned with flowery crowns. People with crosses and others with statues are all about us looking to be blesseed with holy water. I fell to my knees in front of the altar,, emptied of my prejudices then exited to the left behind the altar where I was slowly extracted from a dream. We filed along sprayed with holy water flung by a priest onto the crowd. I stopped in an alcove and stood transfixed, reading some script written on one of many large ominous paintings from the 16th century. The phrases labeled the indigenous people as savages. At that moment I became conscious of my aching legs.
Then just before the exit behind the church where the river meets the Augustinian architecture we passed the "cajeros" a gauntlet of little windows like bank tellers ready to accept your donation. I couldn't allow this side of religion to steal the moment from me. I wondered if ancient precolumbian priests managed the same set up. Probably,, then I thought,, but what has that got to do with my personal experience. We crossed a bridge over the river and entered a small building housing "retablos" which are painted prayers, solicitations for loved ones. Others are thanks to the "Señor" for prayers that have been answered. A common practice in many churches since the 19th century these retablos were painted by roving folk artists on metal plates. This small building filled with devotion helped ease the contradiction.
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