It’s Lent, time for the faithful to give up their chocolate and steak, drink black coffee and, even worse, turn off their phones and iPads. You don’t have to be religious to find faith fascinatingly weird, and, wars and pogroms aside, a bit of self-denial, a long hard walk and a moment of existential reflection probably does everyone good. Better still, go and watch other people doing it. No one religion has a monopoly on either celebration or self-inflicted torture and it’s remarkable how similar are the things people do around the world in the name of faith. So here are five religious festivals that should be on everybody’s bucket list.
Holi, Mathura, India
Every culture has its spring festival, even the ones that don’t experience winter. In Northern India, it’s Holi: the Festival of Color, which centers on the twin cities of Mathura and Vrindabana. Mathura is home to the largest temple in India consecrated to Krishna: the Hindu Apollo, lord of youth, beauty and music. Krishna was something of a hedonist: a bit of satyr mixed in with the handsome prince. Like Pan, he took delight in chasing shepherdesses about in woodland surroundings, playfully splashing them with water and throwing flower petals about. This is basically the sort of coy romantic pursuit that you see in a million Bollywood movies. Krishna’s water-antics sound delightful until thousands of people armed with super-soakers filled with food colouring get involved. Do not wear anything to Holi that you value: you are going to be mercilessly targeted all day and will come back looking like Martin Sheen at the end of ‘Apocalypse Now’. This is definitely a festival for the hardcore adventurer: a sludgy bacchanal reminiscent of Woodstock or a particularly bad year at Glastonbury. The photography is amazing but remember to keep your camera in a strong plastic bag, and, if you have issues with personal space or mess, stay away.
Holy Week, Seville, Spain.
Another ritual that seems common to most religions is that of carrying ponderous objects about the streets all day. In Seville, the objects are huge, priceless wooden effigies of Christ and the Virgin covered in gold leaf, crowned in thorns, swathed in velvet and encrusted with blood-red jewels and crystal tears. The endless processions snake through the narrow streets all day. Each proud Sevillano neighborhood is represented by a guild, exactly like the krewes at Mardi Gras. The ubiquitous penitent’s costume is a hooded mask with a pointed crown but despite what you think, it has no racial connotations whatsoever. Local men (and increasingly women,) prove their mettle by shouldering the crushing weight all day until their shoulders are callused and raw. The endless shuffling pauses intermittently as local women serenade the Virgin with saetas: dolorous flamenco ballads of great antiquity. Children run here and there through the crowds, collecting the dripping wax from huge candles into large balls. But it’s not all torture and gloom: the tapas bars do wild business in sizzling shrimp and endless tiny, icy glasses of beer. The celebrations go one and on into and through the night. If you survive, there will be hot chocolate and churros (long snakes of fried dough) in the morning.
Easter Week, Jerusalem.
The Via Dolorosa (Way of Sorrows) stretches from the Mount of Olives though the narrow streets of the Jerusalem Old Quarter to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, which purportedly stands on the Mount of Calvary where Christ was crucified. Apocryphal or not, it’s impossible not to be touched by the heavy hand of all those centuries of blood and faith, concentrated on this one spot. All week, heavy crosses are born along the route by murmuring pilgrims. The Church itself is a bat-haunted cavern with fissured walls, crumbling columns and flagstones spattered with tallow. It’s uneasily shared by most of the world’s major Christian sects. Ethiopians chant on the rooftop; Franciscans haunt the galleries; Coptic priests brood under the vaults. The focus is on the Crucifixion and the candle-lit interior is heavy with incense and chanting. It’s a haunting place that seems very far away from the smooth, gleaming world of Apple stores and online banking. You may not believe in god, but there’s no denying that you feel awed by the presence of time. However, if the brooding atmosphere gets too much for you, springtime in Jerusalem is undeniably beautiful so you can easily escape to the sparkling sunshine and fresh air.
Sanja Matsura, Tokyo
Springtime in Japan means cherry-blossoms. The Sanja Matsura (‘Three Shrine Festival) is the largest Shinto festival in the world. Centered on the vast Sensō-ji temple in Tokyo, the festival is dedicated to the spirits of two fishermen who found a statue of a Buddhist saint in the Sumida river and, together with a local merchant, subsequently converted to Buddhism. The statue is now inside the temple. The ceremonies attract millions of visitors every year. Despite the throngs, the atmosphere is safe and pleasant. Huge bronze prayer bells clang and drums beat incessantly. Heavy Mikoshi shrines are carried around by burly men in the traditional costume of loincloth, short kimono, two-toed socks and wooden sandals, yelling the Japanese version of the haka. This is the one time of the year when the infamous Yakuza display their ornate tattoos to the world: so if you bump into a man crawling with fish and dragons, apologize. People drink oceans of sake and beer later, so you may see some Japanese businessmen getting unusually emotional in the afternoon and evening. Cast your fortune with the I Ching, win a goldfish, or sample some of the matchless Japanese street-food: if it can be caught, seasoned, grilled, and impaled on a stick: you will find it here.
Croagh Patrick, Ireland.
Back home for the last one, which celebrates much that is wonderful and awful about Ireland. Croagh Patrick is a small but steep hill in Mayo made entirely of razor-sharp rocks. Saint Patrick came up here in 441AD to fast and get with the Lord, but it may also commemorate Lughnasadh (‘loo-na sa’): the ancient Celtic harvest festival. Pious Catholics are supposed to ‘Ooh’ and Ow’ their way barefoot up its slopes on ‘Reek Sunday’: the last Sunday in July. This may sound like summer but you can bet it’ll be as foggy and gray as any February morning. The mood is anything but solemn: there’s a definite feeling of ‘A Grand Day Out’ with chocolate biscuits and flasks of hot tea so strong ‘you could trot a mouse on it’. If you don’t feel up to bare feet, feel free to wear boots. Up to 30,000 people participate, led by the bishop of Tuam. The walk only takes a couple of hours but there are injuries and people taken ill every year, so it’s a busy time for the Gardaí and Rescue Services. Bring a stout walking stick and a rain poncho. You should really do this on a growling stomach and save the full Irish breakfast of sausages, eggs, pudding, bacon and a fried slice, for when you get back to the local snug. Ah sure, Jesus wouldn’t begrudge you a ham sandwich.
Holy Rollers: Five Religious Festivals 2014
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