EASTER WEEK-END IN SEVILLE, SPAIN

We took off from Javea as soon as it got warm enough to camp in our truck. That was the middle of march. So even after almost five months in the Drunken Sots Enclave, we left sober and popular. Since Easter is a special time in Spain, we thought we’d see the southern areas and end up in Seville on Good Thursday. And we did.
The town was mobbed. The campground had no designated camping spots. It looked like the parking lot for a rock concert. The gate keeper told us if we could find a space, camping was free. We found a space, under a budding tree, that was so steep we had to sleep backwards to keep from sliding out the rear door.
Our next surprise was in order to see the parade the next two days, we had to buy seats! We tried avoiding that, but there was no standing areas, so we went for the ten bucks each for seats which were at the edge of an alley, and about fifty feet away from where the parade was going to pass. So it goes. . And the next morning, not really hung over, we were in our seats and ready for the parade. Well, unless you’ve been here before, no one is ready for the parade.
We were almost alone until about noon when we heard the trumpets. In fifteen minutes all the seats were taken. The priests and nuns in habits were okay, but then came a fairly large group of guys, stripped to the waist and flaying their bare flesh with all sorts of whips and cat-o-nine tails. Blood ran down into their waist bands. Marilyn wouldn’t let me take a picture of that.
Once the flagellants had passed, we thought normalcy would prevail. When the first large float appeared, featuring a seated female saint, we were sure of it.. It was twenty feet long and about six wide, covered with blue velvet draperies and strewn with white and yellow flower petals. Marilyn snapped it and it came to a stop. A hush came over the spectators, when twenty or so rugged young men popped out from beneath the float. All they wore was a white sheet, wrapped about their loins, and a white turban. And each had a rolled towel fitted across their shoulders. Spectators rushed out offering wine or water. The first was drunk and the second splashed over the shoulders. They disappeared under the drapes, there was a huge animal grunt, the float rose very evenly, and moved off. About a hundred more yards the ritual began again. The route was about two kilometers long. We wondered if they would make it.
Back at camp, we were invited to another beer bash, bigger and better than the other. We drank listening to Auzzies and Kee Wees tell about Pamploma, running the bulls, and answering the same question over and over again. ‘ Just what the hell kind of Yanks are you? Yanks never travel rough, and never come here. So what’s up, mates?
Good Friday was the same old, same old except there were a lot more flagellating with meaner looking instruments. And there were more floats which were bigger. In fact, over the ten hours the parade passed, the floats grew. Thirty footers were nothing, and fifty or so sweating males piling out from under them became routine. When the floats ceased the guys dragging all sizes of crosses began. Whipping was also part of their act. The spectators moaned and wept. Some even ran out and offered to help. We decided to get out of there and head for Morocco.
The owners waved goodbye after shoving four wine bottles through the window. Christian charity, we guessed. And if we thought this was weird, well, Marakesh and Ronald Reagan would make this look like Sunday at the local baseball game.