Bouncing, bounding, echoing, racing. In narrow cobbled streets the thrumming grew. Purple cloaks clustered in groups, families decked in matching rich hues wandered ladened with drums of various sizes towards the ever increasing glut of beat. The deep thump worked its way through the loose fabric of my cycling jersey, tingling the fine hairs on my arms and rattled my lungs till the breath caught in my throat.
We’d happened upon the Route of the Tambor and the Bombo Easter drumming festivals. Never had I experienced anything like the feeling of squeezing my way through hundreds of drummers crowded into one town square creating a noise so loud my vision blurred.
As we made our way through some of the nine villages that make up the route over the Easter weekend, deep rooted and confusing religious imagery left us awestruck. Adults drummed on images of a crucified Jesus while the children beside them drummed on Spiderman. Statues of Mary emerged from eggs flocked by pigeons keen to escape the festivities.
Icons were paraded around the towns as the drumming went on and on and on. Ceasing only on the eerily quiet and still Easter Sunday morning, all could rest and the world was born anew.
By Trace 🙂