Could possibly describe adequately what it was like Tuesday night. Certainly not how it felt. Soler had asked me about my possible interest in "going into the submarine" in the Virgen del Rocío procession, but as these things don't always work out I remained a little skeptical. Besides, I know what a big deal it is for the men who carry the throne, and I really didn't want to be putting anyone out, even if just for a couple of minutes. So with these reservations in mind, we met in the Plaza de la Merced at 9 and the scene there was already crazy. The idea was that Antonio and I would go into the submarine when Rocío got to Calle Alamos. It looked like that was about an hour away, as the processions were already getting backed up. Clarification: the "submarino" refers to the space directly beneath the throne. Most don't have people in there, but some of the bigger ones do, including Rocío. (See photo, which I believe is taken from Calle Victoria.) So instead of just standing around we (Asun, Daniela and me; Antonio, María del Mar, Fernando, and Agustín Rivera) went to get a bite to eat on one of the side streets off the square. I couldn't eat. I wanted to get going. Finally, around 10:30 we went off in search of Rocío. The procession had moved down Calle Alamos and was at the beginning of Calle Carretería, Rocío's street! Complete madness, you could hardly move, but we managed to eventually squeeze our way through and reached the throne in pretty good time. I thought Antonio would have to get out his cell phone, call, wait, etc., but no, all of a sudden I see him disappear underneath the throne, so I just followed him. Complete darkness and I hear a couple of guys saying to me watch your head, watch your head. Slowly my eyes adjust. But there's no time: cling, cling, goes the bell and everyone's scrambling to take position. So I grab the post I've got next to me, cling!, upphh, lift, and just like that, I can NOT believe this, I'm in the submarine helping to carry THE throne, down THE street. The darkness really distorts my sense of time and space and for the first 30 seconds or so I'm feeling a little nervous, and as a result I can't seem to get in step. This is essential, because there's only a few inches between the guys in front of and behind you. It's really tight. The guy in front of me feels my right foot bang into him a couple of times and I'm certain as soon as we stop he's going to demand that I be thrown out. We move forward a little, cling!, down comes the throne. Rest. The fellow in front of me smiles and welcomes me warmly. A few seconds to say hello, thank everyone profusely for allowing me to be here, but... cling, cling!, Cling! Uppphhhh, lift that throne, steady, sway a little, a few steps back, now forward... beautiful. You can hear the crowd responding. Now I'm focused on the band right behind us and the big drum is marking the beat. Ah ha! Now it's easy, left, always lead with the left I remember Agustín telling me. So with the beat of the drum and watching the feet of the men to my right, I fall into the rhythm. Rest. Alvaro, the guy who seems to be in charge of this group of thirty or so "invisible" hombres de trono, offers encouragement and brief words of advice. Water is offered, and I'm given a handful of little photos of Rocío. Cling, cling... off we go. Someone (Alvaro?) is reciting over the top verses of praise to Rocío. Poetry! The most beautiful.., a drop of divine dew... balm for our tired shoulders... I don't think I've ever experienced anything remotely as absurd, crazy, surreal, and simultaneously wonderful and civilized. I really feel like I'm in a dream, because surely these things don't happen in real life. More encouragement: hold her steady, she's the bride... so smooth not a single candle will go out... And the constant screaming from the street: guapa!, guapa! Ro-ciií-o!! Ro-ciií-o!! Two hundred and forty men to lift this thing. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, it seems like a million people surrounding the throne. It's hot in the submarine and quickly I break into a sweat. And the others in here have already been at it for over three hours. They've got six or seven hours to go! In one stop we move around a little and I go back to the rear right corner where there's a little more room. After a while I sense that we're getting near the Tribuna de los Pobres. This is the famous curve where people have been waiting and waiting, in some cases for hours. And it's here where one of the best saeteros is always positioned, ready to belt out this particular variant of cante jondo, the "deep song". This is where the cheering gets really wild and the throne gets lifted a pulso. Antonio had already asked me if I'd had enough. Are you crazy? As soon as I realized that no one was kicking us out, that in fact there was space for us, I thought, hey, let's keep going all the way to the Tribuna. In the next stop, Alvaro quiets everyone down: pay attention, this is it, this is big... it gets really loud, listen carefully, it will be very hard to hear the bell... I can barely see anything outside the submarine, but I know what it's like. The energy on the street is palpable and the the band is playing as loud as they can, trying to stay audible. We're getting close. "Guapa, guapa, guapa!" Stop. It gets quiet. A saeta. Bone chilling. The saetera is just to our left, above us. She has a beautiful voice. Are we in Morroco?, Arabia? Malaga in the twelth century? Or is it Woodstock? Ayyy, ayyy, ay yaaaay yaaaaayyy..... The timing is perfect. Among the seeming chaos and anarchy someone is thinking of the choreography. A little ways into the saeta, cling!, we lift: Rocío comes to life, the Virgin likes the praise. We gently sway the throne. This is beyond fun! Then, as we move the throne forward, a wailing lament, the reluctant goodbye that has turned my whole being into one big goose bump. Huge, huge applause. We're here. Tribuna de los pobres, the main stage! It's also beyond strange to me, I'm invisible but at the same time I'm quite literally at the very center of the spectacle, right beneath the Virgin, underneath the star. Beautiful! Some of the earlier rests were coming at intervals of less than a minute, but there are no rests here. Ten minutes straight. Maneuver that throne. "Viva la Novia de Málaga! VIVA!!!" There's no space, like parallel parking an eighteen wheeler in an aisle in Fenway Park during a game seven. (And imagining that, if you can, as the whole point of everyone's being there!) But it works, slowly, step left, step left, forward... back.. forward...Uppfff. "¿Qué se le dice a la Virgen? GUAPA!!!" Both arms extended. We lift, from shoulder to finger tips. She's as high as she can go. Delirium! Down. Up again! Greet your audience, take a bow. More lifts. I lost count. Four? Five times? RO-CIII-O!!! RO-CIII-O!!! (Watch this youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Q0Ruv2yD4 to get a sense of what it was like. It transmits some of the sense of excitment.) And I cannot believe it. How did I end up here? When I was sixteen I got to play a basketball game in Boston Garden. Huge! This was bigger, much bigger. Ten times huger! Someone wake me up.
4.10.2009
No Words...
Could possibly describe adequately what it was like Tuesday night. Certainly not how it felt. Soler had asked me about my possible interest in "going into the submarine" in the Virgen del Rocío procession, but as these things don't always work out I remained a little skeptical. Besides, I know what a big deal it is for the men who carry the throne, and I really didn't want to be putting anyone out, even if just for a couple of minutes. So with these reservations in mind, we met in the Plaza de la Merced at 9 and the scene there was already crazy. The idea was that Antonio and I would go into the submarine when Rocío got to Calle Alamos. It looked like that was about an hour away, as the processions were already getting backed up. Clarification: the "submarino" refers to the space directly beneath the throne. Most don't have people in there, but some of the bigger ones do, including Rocío. (See photo, which I believe is taken from Calle Victoria.) So instead of just standing around we (Asun, Daniela and me; Antonio, María del Mar, Fernando, and Agustín Rivera) went to get a bite to eat on one of the side streets off the square. I couldn't eat. I wanted to get going. Finally, around 10:30 we went off in search of Rocío. The procession had moved down Calle Alamos and was at the beginning of Calle Carretería, Rocío's street! Complete madness, you could hardly move, but we managed to eventually squeeze our way through and reached the throne in pretty good time. I thought Antonio would have to get out his cell phone, call, wait, etc., but no, all of a sudden I see him disappear underneath the throne, so I just followed him. Complete darkness and I hear a couple of guys saying to me watch your head, watch your head. Slowly my eyes adjust. But there's no time: cling, cling, goes the bell and everyone's scrambling to take position. So I grab the post I've got next to me, cling!, upphh, lift, and just like that, I can NOT believe this, I'm in the submarine helping to carry THE throne, down THE street. The darkness really distorts my sense of time and space and for the first 30 seconds or so I'm feeling a little nervous, and as a result I can't seem to get in step. This is essential, because there's only a few inches between the guys in front of and behind you. It's really tight. The guy in front of me feels my right foot bang into him a couple of times and I'm certain as soon as we stop he's going to demand that I be thrown out. We move forward a little, cling!, down comes the throne. Rest. The fellow in front of me smiles and welcomes me warmly. A few seconds to say hello, thank everyone profusely for allowing me to be here, but... cling, cling!, Cling! Uppphhhh, lift that throne, steady, sway a little, a few steps back, now forward... beautiful. You can hear the crowd responding. Now I'm focused on the band right behind us and the big drum is marking the beat. Ah ha! Now it's easy, left, always lead with the left I remember Agustín telling me. So with the beat of the drum and watching the feet of the men to my right, I fall into the rhythm. Rest. Alvaro, the guy who seems to be in charge of this group of thirty or so "invisible" hombres de trono, offers encouragement and brief words of advice. Water is offered, and I'm given a handful of little photos of Rocío. Cling, cling... off we go. Someone (Alvaro?) is reciting over the top verses of praise to Rocío. Poetry! The most beautiful.., a drop of divine dew... balm for our tired shoulders... I don't think I've ever experienced anything remotely as absurd, crazy, surreal, and simultaneously wonderful and civilized. I really feel like I'm in a dream, because surely these things don't happen in real life. More encouragement: hold her steady, she's the bride... so smooth not a single candle will go out... And the constant screaming from the street: guapa!, guapa! Ro-ciií-o!! Ro-ciií-o!! Two hundred and forty men to lift this thing. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, it seems like a million people surrounding the throne. It's hot in the submarine and quickly I break into a sweat. And the others in here have already been at it for over three hours. They've got six or seven hours to go! In one stop we move around a little and I go back to the rear right corner where there's a little more room. After a while I sense that we're getting near the Tribuna de los Pobres. This is the famous curve where people have been waiting and waiting, in some cases for hours. And it's here where one of the best saeteros is always positioned, ready to belt out this particular variant of cante jondo, the "deep song". This is where the cheering gets really wild and the throne gets lifted a pulso. Antonio had already asked me if I'd had enough. Are you crazy? As soon as I realized that no one was kicking us out, that in fact there was space for us, I thought, hey, let's keep going all the way to the Tribuna. In the next stop, Alvaro quiets everyone down: pay attention, this is it, this is big... it gets really loud, listen carefully, it will be very hard to hear the bell... I can barely see anything outside the submarine, but I know what it's like. The energy on the street is palpable and the the band is playing as loud as they can, trying to stay audible. We're getting close. "Guapa, guapa, guapa!" Stop. It gets quiet. A saeta. Bone chilling. The saetera is just to our left, above us. She has a beautiful voice. Are we in Morroco?, Arabia? Malaga in the twelth century? Or is it Woodstock? Ayyy, ayyy, ay yaaaay yaaaaayyy..... The timing is perfect. Among the seeming chaos and anarchy someone is thinking of the choreography. A little ways into the saeta, cling!, we lift: Rocío comes to life, the Virgin likes the praise. We gently sway the throne. This is beyond fun! Then, as we move the throne forward, a wailing lament, the reluctant goodbye that has turned my whole being into one big goose bump. Huge, huge applause. We're here. Tribuna de los pobres, the main stage! It's also beyond strange to me, I'm invisible but at the same time I'm quite literally at the very center of the spectacle, right beneath the Virgin, underneath the star. Beautiful! Some of the earlier rests were coming at intervals of less than a minute, but there are no rests here. Ten minutes straight. Maneuver that throne. "Viva la Novia de Málaga! VIVA!!!" There's no space, like parallel parking an eighteen wheeler in an aisle in Fenway Park during a game seven. (And imagining that, if you can, as the whole point of everyone's being there!) But it works, slowly, step left, step left, forward... back.. forward...Uppfff. "¿Qué se le dice a la Virgen? GUAPA!!!" Both arms extended. We lift, from shoulder to finger tips. She's as high as she can go. Delirium! Down. Up again! Greet your audience, take a bow. More lifts. I lost count. Four? Five times? RO-CIII-O!!! RO-CIII-O!!! (Watch this youtube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6Q0Ruv2yD4 to get a sense of what it was like. It transmits some of the sense of excitment.) And I cannot believe it. How did I end up here? When I was sixteen I got to play a basketball game in Boston Garden. Huge! This was bigger, much bigger. Ten times huger! Someone wake me up.
