SEMANA SANTA in Spain is like no religious event this Kiwi girl has ever experienced before. I heard Malaga was one of the most famous epicenters of the nation’s celebration of Easter and drove to the nearby city to witness its Maundy Thursday events. 

The seaside city of Malaga has more than 45 traditional Holy Week processions, and that morning the Spanish Foreign League had arrived at the port to take part in the Cristo de la Buena Muerte, escorting the statue of Jesus. 

With a lemon cheesecake flavoured ice cream in hand, I set out to find a procession to watch in the later afternoon, following the sounds of beating drums and bugles playing music made just for the event. I passed families seated on camp chairs playing cards together – it looked like they’d claimed the front-row seats several hours ago and I was impressed they had waited so long for the Processions.

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Completely covered, with only dark eyes peeking out of the face covering fabric, the scene I saw before me was a little spooky. That was until I saw someone lift up their mask, the capirote (conical hat) pointing up high to the sky, and take a swig of water, throwing a cheeky grin to the crowd. The sun had popped out from the clouds that Spring afternoon, warming up the city and keeping those in the procession a little too cosy. 

Many of those wearing the gnome-like capirote appeared to be young kids taking part in the centuries old religious and cultural tradition. The hats are a symbol of the wearer´s desire to be closer to God through penance. Covering the face, this symbolises the anonymity and humility of the penitent. It all felt very magical.

The first processions in Malaga were held in 1487, after Catholic monarchs arrived and centuries of Muslim influence started to convert to the new religion. 

The Catholic Church encouraged the worship of religious idols, and cofradias (brotherhoods) began to form. In those first processions, ‘brothers of light’ or Nazarenes would walk next to ‘brothers of blood,’ who would be whipping themselves as a mark of self-discipline.

Luckily the whipping was a tradition that has long died out. 

When the Unidad Militar de Emergencias (the emergency branch of the Spanish Army) marched down the street, the crowds applauded and cheered.

The crowds also rallied for those moving down the streets loaded with the weight of the pasos. These are elaborately decorated floats carrying statues of biblical figures and depicting scenes from the Passion of Christ and of the Virgin Mary.

The first float I saw featured a statue of grimacing Jesus carrying his cross. It reflected the taught faces of those carrying him below as they shuffled around the street corner, moving side to side, unable to walk normally under the weight of the float. The heaviest paso in Mañaga is the Virgen de la Esperanza. Weighing more than 5000 kgs, it’s carried by up to 250 men.

As I watched the float carrying a scene of ´The Last Feast´ steadily move down the street, I spoke with a British family next to me. 

The wife was actually born in Malaga and when she was younger, she walked the streets as part of the procession, her head topped with a velvet pointed cap. Her two daughters gasped upon hearing their own Mum had been part of the religious traditions once upon a time. The dad from London explained that it was their daughters’ first Semana Santa. 

It was a massive family affair, with people of all ages watching the Easter processions, tourists from out of town and out of the country mingling with Malaga locals alike.

Maria and Alberto were visiting from Northern Spain hoping to enjoy some holiday sunshine. The last time they had seen a procession was 15 years ago. I asked if they’d ever taken part of the processions themselves and Alberto happily laughed saying he had practised ‘lifting the paso’ at his local gym but that was it.

Arriving in the old town, it felt like taking a step back in time as I shared the streets with brotherhoods more than 500 years old. Smoke from incest and tall wax candles being carried by some of the marches wafted and weaved amongst the crowds. Groups of capirote donned people passed in colours of pure white, jet black and ruby red. The marching bands played incredible tunes, both somber and rallying at the same time. 

I’d arrived at the Thursday processions just after 4pm and already the streets were choker. As I left five hours later, I moved as slow as the walking brotherhoods, zig-zagging through the crowds on my way to the train that would transport me home, passing even more people flocking to the city centre for the evening events. 

It became near impossible to see the processions and I was amazed by the spectators still standing, watching and seemingly enjoying just being present in the Holy Week celebrations. 

Easter weekend in New Zealand is slightly different. Many of those who practice religion would attend a service at church. Most of those who are not religious will celebrate an extra long weekend, spending time with family and friends, most likely snacking on chocolate easter eggs and hot cross buns.

In my own Spanish hometown of Estepona, I celebrated its Sabado event, where a moving re-enactment of Jesus’ final moments before he was put to trial and crucified played out down the town’s cobbled streets. 

As the play was spoken in Spanish, there wasn’t a tourist in sight, apart from me and another Kiwi couple who had just moved over to the other side of the world too. It felt like a truly special moment to be a part of, as ‘disciples’ donned in Mediterranean garb jostled past us to play their next scene. 

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