Erasing Centuries

March 21, Friday

Good Friday

The forecast didn’t favor us this morning, we started in lab after breakfast. Julia and I finished the intermediate positions for the 2007 photo ID of known animals. So now we are at a standstill on that front until Andrea finishes with the rest of the pictures. Bruno told us to outline our summary papers – probably because he had nothing else prepared for us to work on and because Julia is leaving in two weeks. He went over my outline with me before lunch. I don’t know why – the paper isn’t for him and he doesn’t understand our goals or the purpose of my summary. The only reason that I asked him about writing one is because I would like to use images from the different programs that I have learned while here – like ArcView and SoundRuler. Thankfully, he is allowing me to do that – but for the price of having to write the paper his way. That’s ok I guess since I can make changes to the text later as I need to.

After we got through our gnocchi lunch (very, very heavy), Julia and I took Nina to the north shore – with the cliffs and wedding cake rocks. The forecast came true. It was very, very windy and the fishery, even though it was protected by land, was too rough for dolphin observations.

Back in lab, I worked on my paper. It is helpful to be able to go through all of my notes and review everything that I have been working on. Despite the frustrations, I have learned a lot. My summary paper won’t fully encompass everything that I have done, but I hope to give a general overview. Then, if I ever need it, I can fill in the details from my notes and memory.

While Julia and I were clicking away on our keyboards, we kept an ear for the church bells. The Good Friday celebrations here include a procession (yes, another!) and the Stations of the Cross. By 7:30, I packed up my lab work for the day and headed over to the church to inspect the activity. Cars in the parking lot, but no one around. We saw on a poster that the procession started at 9, but we went inside anyways. The fellowship hall area in the back behind the amphitheater suggested activity – lights on, the occasional shout spilling out when a door opened. The priest was inside the church, walking a circuit around the pews as if in mediation or expectation for the night’s events. We let the priest be and went back to the house. Nina was just being released from her late lesson and decided that she wanted to see the priest – a weird request, but I think it was just to get out of the house.

The three of us went back to the church – still over an hour before the scheduled time of the procession. In the 10 minutes since Julia and I had left the church, a minicongregation of the town’s male twenty-somethings had gathered in front of the door. “Watch out! Picture!” they cried (Nina translated). But there was no picture. The line broke up and gathered around us – what sounded like at least a dozen voices chimed Italian. The oldest one, clearly a director of some kind, earned the floor. “Do you want to stand here and yell baraba baraba?” he asked us, directed at Nina and pointing to the steps. Completely confused, Julia and I just laughed (a little nervously, yes) and edged our way to the church door. Sanctuary! Nina fought the battle with her Italian, although she didn’t know what they were talking about, only what they were saying. The three of us finally made it inside – and they didn’t follow. Sanctuary.

Our eyes adjusted to the darkness as the now muffled laughter and heckling continued outside. The Last Supper stood resurrected in front of the alter. Ancient-looking wood tables covered with baskets lined with white paper and filled with loaves of bread. Thirteen challises and thirteen chairs. I didn’t wander too far from the center isle, unsure of where the priest lurked. He eventually emerged, ignoring us but apparently bothered by our presence, and opened up the main sanctuary doors. Once again, we stood right before the throng of men whose voices and laughter now burst into the church and tumbled down the isle towards the Last Supper. To make up for our awkward bumbling, Nina asked the priest when the procession started although we already knew it was at 9. The priest, who looks eerily like a third Beattie brother, glared at her and pointed to a poster pinned up in the foyer. Still 9. Yep… okay. One unfriendly priest and a mass of his complete opposites. We just needed to get out, but that was past all of them. Like taking the plunge into cold water, I took a deep breath and started out behind Nina, my Italian-speaking shield.

Again, she buffered their comments with quick wit and a lack of shame. As we wove our way through the conversations (most of which started at the sight of us) and the random shouts of baraba baraba baraba, one of them caught Nina’s attention. As she later translated for us, he told her that they could go out somewhere – and impromptu date without the expectation of fruition.

Not to be outdone by the friendly challenge, Nina replied “later, later” as she backed playfully away.

“When?” he teased back.

“At nine,” she fired without hesitation.

“Where?” he wasn’t going to back down either.

“At the church!” her final answer crowned her the undisputed victor of the challenge as he was reminded that he was there for a religious celebration, not a date. The others exploded in long-vowel sounds at their friend’s stunning loss. Ziiing – Burn – Ouch.

Nina smiled, knowing she had put them all in their place, and bounced a few steps to catch up with us. She laughed as she translated the turn of events. I looked back – the heckling continued. The nervous smiles plastered on Julia and me finally broke into genuine laughter. In just 30 seconds, Nina had done the one thing we needed to, but couldn’t, for six weeks.

Still laughing – more at the pleasure of the present company and break from monotony – we went to the park across the street from the house. A full, white moon hung low in the northeaster sky. The trees lining the park seemed to tickle it with their upper branches swaying in evening breezes off the gulf. Julia climbed on the playset to get a better view for a picture. The ropes and holes and rollers that amused children pose a serious hindrance to adult trespassers. Holding onto the chains and carefully planning each step, Julia struggled across the wooden bridge covered with nets to reach the tower that she ducked into. “How do kids do this?” she wondered aloud in astounded frustration. Nina straddled a toy motorcycle rigged to a giant spring sprouting from the mulch. She made the peace V with two fingers clad in Kermit green gloves as she bobbed back and forth. The two of them and the chance to laugh among friends – and maybe at them a little, too – was exactly what I needed. Nearly doubling-over in laughter, with tears streaming, it was all I could do to take their pictures. I haven’t laughed that hard since Florida.

Revived and still flushed with laughter and the cold night, we went back to the house. We continued our rambling conversations in our room until dinner. It wasn’t ready until 8:50, which gave us the impossible time limit of 10 minutes to eat and do dishes. Andrea made Paraguayan tortillas – fried dough balls stuffed with flavorless cheese, which you can’t eat quickly for fear of choking or vomiting. Politely hurrying, we finished dinner and tag-teamed through the dishes. It was after nine, so we took off down the street after the procession. We made it almost all the way to the harbor before we realized that we were actually ahead of the procession. Cutting back across the beach as fast as possible with the Paraguayan rocks expanding in our stomachs, we made a complete loop and ended at the church.

A mass of people stood on the upper courtyard facing the church doors. We snuck up quietly and joined the locals in the back. The priest, in his long ceremonious robes of purple and white, held a microphone in the rear center of the crowd. All eyes gazed towards the upper platform before the church and away from the priest.

Before the carved doors, stood Roman soldiers and Pontius Pilot himself. His red cloak swirling in the breeze evoked the omnipotence of the Empire two millennia ago. In booming Italian, Pilot addressed the crowd. Baraba Baraba Baraba they shouted back. A husky man in tattered rags emerged from behind the sheet stretched across the open church doors. A thick rope bound his wrists together. The escorting soldiers carried huge spears and shields bearing the Roman crest. The crowd on the steps burst out with Baraba Baraba Baraba at his appearance. The Italian echo of Barabbas resounded off of the visage of the church. Goosebumps bristled down my back as I thought of the echoes of their ancestors’ shouts before the original Barabbas. The energy surged as a congregation became a mob. The shouting grew louder. Pilot stood taller.

In that moment, two thousand years of history disappeared before me. The humid air of the Mediterranean night unwrote legacies. Popes and pizza, mafia families and fashion vanished. World wars became unfought. The Renaisannce and a hemisphere were lost as the world became flat again. The Plague gave back lives and humors determined health. Legendary figures took back their places in the darkened sky. Gods walked among men and an Empire uncrumbled. In an instant, time gaped open and I became a Roman citizen at the sentencing of Jesus the Nazarene, a traitor to the Emperor.

Pilot washed his hands of the situation and the soldiers beat Jesus, silhouetted by the sheet stretched across the church threshold. The energy turned to communal despair as we watched the wiry figure wreath in pain. He emerged, stumbling and wavering among the soldiers. Thorns. Blood. Tears from the crowd. A cross was carried down the steps and laid on his shoulder. Hunched over and surrounded by Roman citizens in plain robes tied with ropes, Jesus began the procession. The crowd members without a costume carried candles and walked slowly behind the recreated figure of their savior.

The three of us followed the crowd down the street. They sang quietly in angelic tones, then recited prayers in response to the priest’s script. Every few hundred meters, we stopped as the priest narrated one of the Stations of the Cross. The crowd gathered around the actors in an oval. We processed through the town like a giant egg squeezing down the streets. This procession only covered half the distance as the previous one, but took just as long. Like the other, the crowd overtook the street and wove around parked cars and corners. Everyone kept to themselves and maintained a respectful silence, but flash photography by the locals was surprisingly common. I stayed away from flash use, but I did manage to get a video of one of the Stations. It just so happened that the man who the soldiers forced to help carry the cross was standing beside me during that section.

The procession looped around and ended, of course, at the church. Again, the crowd gathered on the upper courtyard. The actors disappeared from my view, but soon the singing and their voices drew my attention to the side of the church. From the back of the crowd, I could hear screaming and hammering. Then Jesus rose above the crowd for all to see, affixed to the huge cross he carried around town. Two other crosses soon rose above our heads as well – a believer and a non-believer. I watched as the Italian Jesus promised one a place in heaven. Then the soldiers bashed his legs and stabbed his side. The crucifixion ended with singing and weeping – some scripted, but mostly natural displays of grief from the crowd. Men and women, young and old – everyone cried around us. When the crosses were lowered, Jesus was lifted and carried away. The crowd, including Julia and I, followed into the church.

A statue of Jesus lay where we had seen the Last Supper just a few hours ago. Everyone took a seat in the pews, then filed out row by row to the statue. Kneeling down, every person kissed the feet of Jesus. Julia and I didn’t go because it wasn’t really for us. This is clearly more than a ritual to most of the people involved. I was just as content to stay seated, which I know how to do, instead of going up and doing something wrong. The choir sang from beside the organ – beautiful voices for such a small town. When everyone so inclined had kissed the feet of the statue, the priest stood at the alter and said a few words. A very few words. The singing started again and people slowly trickled out of the church. We stayed until the singing was over, then filed quietly out into the night.

It was 11:30 when we finally got back to the house – just across the street from the church. We took our quick (and cold) showers and then settled onto our respective beds. Since this is Nina’s last night with us, we wanted to take full advantage of her talkativeness. Random conversations, with a little Italian lesson tidbits mixed in, brought me back to modern reality. The Church is alive and well; Italy is now known for pizza and fashion and art; we can’t see the constellations without imagination; Romans are only actually from the city of Rome. And I still have a home on a new continent on the other side of this round world.