I sit on the open patio-cum-room between the staircase and the bedroom on the second floor. It is a spacious half-enclosed veranda looking out over the yard and onto the cliffs above the house. Open beam ceilings and overhangs give it a very cantilevered feel. Well after dark now, the crickets and frogs are singing. The wind riffles through the banana leaves and sounds like a gentle shuffling of cards. The occasional car or moped hums past in the night. From down the road, a gentle monotone of chanting comes magnified by a PA system. Someone, a young man, is reciting sutras or text of some form.
Earlier today, before nightfall, there was a slow procession on the main road toward this house set back in the trees. It barely moved. Two groups of men carried yellow, fringed umbrellas and a group on a truck played drums and sang into microphones in a droning, rhythmic danceable style. Another truck carried speakers. There was an electric guitar doing some ornate licks that sounded like Robin Trower playing a Balkan melody. They moved so slow that a small group of people sat in the middle and swayed on the ground, tired from their dancing, as others danced around them. But then they got up, dancing again, and the group, umbrella men, musician truck, dancers, speaker truck and three official looking men in yellow vests (guiding traffic, but dancing as well) all moved a few more feet and stopped again. I rode past slowly on my moped and the official at the center of the group waved at me, playing with me with synchronized waving motions.
Their destination was a house about 200 meters up the road. This evening, when I began to hear the chanting, I had to go look. I hopped on my moped and as I neared the drive that goes into this house, I saw stands of light. Tall sticks of flourescent light bulbs in yellow, green and white, in that order, top to bottom. Spaced every 30 feet or so, they looked like something out of a David Lynch film, but they were only there to indicate the location. I neared the entry road, looked down it and heard a man chanting what to my ears was unmistakably a sutra or a tale. It had that rhythm of "and then the Buddha said this to Shariputra: do this, and then that, and then this..." That cadenced rhythm of recitation to a tone, with variations and movement, but still centering on a focal note. Whether it's listening to the mass sung or hearing a muezzin call to prayer, its unmistakable. As I've studied the sutras and tried to at least transliterate or side-by-side them in their "native" tongues, I recognize the form.
The symphony of night forest as a backdrop gives the chant bouncing off the nearby cliffs a haunting eloquence, embellished by the chant phasing in and out as the wind shifts direction. Tokay geckos announce their "uh-oh" and the little ones here in the house click to each other. Everyone chimes in for this recitation.
I am reminded of the spring of 2001 when I went with a friend to Merida during what turned out to be Semana Santa, or the holy week between Palm Sunday and Easter. We landed Palm Sunday evening, so we missed the kick off. Not realizing the time, it took us by surprise. The town was lit up with locals. People go home for Holy Week much like Americans go home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. So, there were college students with parents, families of large size shuttling around town to restaurants, and much business to be engaged in the Plaza Grande in front of what is the oldest cathedral in the North America.
Shaved ice, churros, trinkets, sparkly and shiney things for children abound and can be had. All the shops on the plaza stay busy, and the coffee shop on the zocalo was our stop. Very early one morning, after we had figured out which week it was, we arose and scurried to the plaza for some very excellent croissants with coffee. We watched the city wake up; street cleaners in their city uniforms sweeping up the streets and the plaza, shopkeepers and cafe owners putting out tables, stands, portable acoutrements of business began their day. In a short sixty minutes we went from being alone on the plaza to be two among many faces enjoying a very busy and brisk day.
After a couple days visiting ruins, with a day in between to rest, we got up on Friday and considered walking the Merida version of Park Avenue, a long street with many grand houses from the halcyon days when Merida was the world center of the rope trade because of the abundance of henequen and sisal and the area's natural affinity for their cultivation. As we walked toward the center of town, slow drum beats were heard down the street. Large drums. Ominous drums. My friend and I looked at each other and recognition washed over us....this is Good Friday and that is a procession. Without speaking we took off toward the noise and rounded a corner to find the full procession, Roman soldiers, Mary and the weeping women, apostles, everyone reading their parts, all attending carefully to their lines, with the responsorial done by someone over a loud speaker to guide the followers holding their candles and prayer books singing the response. We watched the entire procession as it progressed up the street, stopping at the appropriate places for prayers as the fourteen stations of the cross were completely played out. This was ritual reenactment; this was theatre. These people were living the passion, in full costume, with the real script coming from their lips with vital engagement and power.
What struck me was that it wasn't "solemn." It was beyond reverent. It was just....the passion. It needed no extra acting, just tell the story. And the power and connection among the people was palpable. They processed into the church for the service, and we left them to it, as this was a neighborhood church. There were similar processions all over the city, and one could hear them completing their circuits as they entered their houses of worship as well.
We went to lunch during the service, and after it let out, everyone was solemnly returning home. Good Friday is a contemplative event. But in the evening, people began to come out for dinner again, heading to each other's homes or maybe to the restaurants that were open. I could feel the fellowship, the community surrounding me. Easter is a joyous time Sunday morning, but during the Easter Vigil beforehand it's time to reflect. That inward motion among these joyful people on a grand scale is a monumental feeling to be immersed in; the intimacy between people that is revealed takes ones breath away.
Today was the same. This little village where I'm living has its connections and ties, but today was a busy day, one of preparation and festivity. The market across the street was on today, a Saturday, which is not its normal day. I am thinking it won't be on tomorrow--the regular day--because everyone will be resting after tonight's festival.
Much like a week or so ago, when the day started with bangs of fireworks or explosives, this day did as well. So, I think this is another celebration of someone entering the monastic life or something like it. I will find out.
Just now a sutra finished and another man joined in, took over and sang a finishing line, hovering back and forth over the break in his voice, again, like a west Asian man might do calling from a tower. And I could hear cheers at another section completed. Now, there are more booms, but they are fireworks. The celebration (or the louder part of it) is complete. Now the sounds of the night--the crickets, the frogs, the wind--take over the response and sing me to sleep.
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