Good Friday at Valladolid

My earliest memories of Holy Week had always been one associated with dread. Belonging to a family of devout Catholics, I grew up with the obligation of fulfilling my Christian duties during this time of year. As long as I could remember, it was a time of sacrifices and solemn nights. Owning a number of icons, including a century-old Santo Entierro, the family has a responsibility of keeping up the tradition of dressing up the carroza and guarding the icon throughout the night of the du-aw, a tradition wherein devotees flock the church with lines extending as long as the MRT queues during rush hour to kiss the feet of the dead Christ. The oldies would take their children and grandchildren to pass down the ritual of paying respect to the dead.

There was a time in my life when I did the Via Crucis for eight consecutive years, waking up at 3:30am to prepare for the 4am march. The part that made it difficult was staying up until midnight of Maundy Thursday because we also had to prepare the Altar of the Repose in the church, and a three-hour sleep before a three-hour walk is something I will never get used to. The via crucis would start out in the church with the priest saying a prayer then would progress around the city where we would stop and say gospel readings at all fourteen stations of the cross. The beauty of the experience is walking amongst few strangers at dusk and come sunrise, you look back and see a sea of people following through by the hundreds. Some people wait at stations and join the group the moment we reach them. The via crucis usually takes three hours to complete with a perimeter of about 6-8kms of walk. The feeling begins as a burden of having to wake up so early, but in the end it’s a feeling of fulfilment as you see the break of day greeting you at the entrance of the church. The only thing I worry every year back then was the possibility of stepping on dog poop.

Women in the time of Jesus' passion.

Women mourning at the foot of the cross.

Although there were a few occasions wherein I joined the procession that took over three hours to complete the full circle at times, passing by the seaside road at times, I always preferred rushing back to the old house and wait in the balcony for the procession to pass in front of the house. The procession line begins with sacristans holding a golden cross and candles, succeeded by the chronological order as to how the events in the Bible took place, from the triumphal entry of Jesus to Jerusalem down the Dolorosa at the end.

Through the years, prominent families in Valladoild have added more and more carrozas that my last count two years ago was about 24 carrozas in total. The old seaside village has turned itself into a sort of pageantry of beautiful carrozas during Good Friday that people had begun to notice the trend that the influx has been steadily growing through recent years. Besides the Catholic Church’s procession, there’s also the Aglipay and another Christian sect that goes around the municipality with their own set of carrozas, though not as many. There were times in the past, that due to the lengths of the lines, the two sects would cross paths causing delays, so now the churches have agreed with varying hours just to ease the flow of traffic.

Right before the bringing the carozza to the church.

As a kid, the sight of unruly hair and a bloody statue scared me.

Looking down from the balcony as the procession passes by.

The Dolorosa is usually the last holy statue in line as this is Mary mourning for the dead Christ. 

Right before the procession ends, my aunt would invite me over to the church wait for the santo entierro to go through the doors, an event worth witnessing at some point in my life. It starts out inside the barricaded church, with pews arranged in a way that people can’t stampede in from all directions, a more organized process as compared to before where people would flock in droves to kiss the feet of the dead Jesus. At usually around 8pm, I would hear the generators rumbling and that frightful sound of drums beating echoing in the empty church, then a sudden stop at opposite side of the door, a few minutes more I would hear the hinges cranking and the voices of people begin to scream as the carroza is hastily pushed in the church for the statue to be placed in the pedestal so that people could start the du-aw. Being in the family, I have the privilege to kiss the hand and feet before people are let in, something that I will always treasure. Expensive oil is applied on cotton and is wiped on the feet as perfume after each devotee kisses them. I’d watch as mothers carry along their children, some curious at the tradition, while there are those frightened at the sight. This would go on for hours, until the last person in line kisses the santo, which usually ends at midnight.

This sight never fails to unease me. There are three dozen apostles in Dolid.

This is after the procession, when the carro is being pulled in the church away from the mob.

One of the devotees kissing the feet of the dead Christ.

During days that I decide to stay in the house, I would see the carroza being brought home with several people following it there to get petals or a bunch of flowers that were blessed; this is usually done in the belief that bringing the flowers with them when they go out fishing will bring them a bountiful catch. Unlike other carrozas that are left untouched at the end of the procession, the santo entierro is always being mauled because of such belief, but I did not see that happen here in Manila though. My mom says it’s because Valladolid is a fishing village, that’s why such is the case. This is unfortunate because I’ve seen parts of the statue being scraped off, his hair being trimmed down by some men who use it as relic when they go out to sea.

At the end of the night, we head back to La Carlota, usually under the full moon light, and breathe a sigh of relief as another year passes. Sleep and food deprived, it’s a tradition that I miss out on being in the metro. There’s a huge difference in the whole ambiance of being out in a sleepy town that does tons to prepare for the event from being here where people are not as inclined to observe such tradition. Going out and being a part of this tradition is something I would recommend to experience at least once in your life, and Valladolid is one of the fitting places to go to on a Good Friday.