Feast of Santa Cruz de Almolonga May 3, 2022
According to lore, the patron saint of stonemasons is Santa Cruz—Saint Cross. The name appears to be more of a thing than a person, and this particular thing sits alone in the woods, with a view of the whole city. The hilltop church of Santa Cruz de Almolonga seems suitable for this heavenly patron, as it is located not far from a limestone quarry, the source of the building stones. Today the quarry is quiet, and all priestly blessings on new construction are on hold, as the 3rd of May is the Feast of Santa Cruz.
At dawn, the celebratory explosions commence. Dozens of small puffy clouds combust over the summit of Santa Cruz, just across the filthy Rio Amarillo and the southern border of Barrio Santa Lucia. Following each puff is a blast wave that causes our house to shake. It is time to wake up and smell the coffee, as the Yanquis like to say. For the devout, it is time find their palm leaves and ascend Santa Cruz.
The pilgrimage begins at an inconspicuous alleyway, tucked beside the SAPAM water district office next to the river. The narrow alley twists like a snake as it ascends, passing precariously perched cinderblock homes and small wild gardens. I cannot imagine how the families in this favela get their water, or, for that matter, anything else of substance, as it must be carried 100 feet up. Despite the subsistent challenges, each small home along the alleyway is decorated today with green paper flowers, meticulously cut and folded. Dogs along the slopes bark at the intruders, but their hearts are no longer in it, as the sheer number of pilgrims overwhelms any thought of property defense.
400-feet up the hill, old ladies and their husbands gingerly step over the cobbles and limestone grottos, dressed in church clothes wholly inappropriate to a hiking trail, which is what this alleyway has become. I hike here often and rarely see anyone on the way up to the church, but today is different. Within a hundred feet of the top, live ranchero music can be heard through trees above. The players have horns and marching drums. Some have beers in their hands. A cotton-candy vender steps out of the woods with his inventory waving from a 12-foot pole.
One elderly gentleman takes a liking to me, perhaps sensing that I am lost. He points me in the direction of the unimposing Iglesia de Santa Cruz, where paper flowers are hanging all about, and families wait in line for tamales with salsa. I explain to him that I know this hill well. Indeed, I pronounce, “Yo vivo aqui—I live here.”
The old man squints at me for a moment and then gently shakes his head. No, he is saying, I do not live here. I am lost. He motions again for me to proceed up the final mound to the church, but the crowd is too thick. With so many children waving palm fronds, someone is going to get an eye poked. The drums pound louder, the horns blare like Joshua’s, and still the noise will grow. The next volley of 4-inch mortars have arrived, thanks to generous donations from the homebuilders’ association. It makes good sense to have your stonemasons feel appreciated, even edified, so a wise employer pays for the skilled workers’ party on May 3rd. A priestly blessing invoking the spirit of Santa Cruz may or may not keep these structures safe from harm, but there is no substitute for solid workmanship. Best to keep the masons happy, as our very foundations rely on it.
I resist the old man’s Catholic summons and descend the hill. The valley has become grey with an approaching afternoon rainstorm. The dogs find shelter beneath a piece of corrugated metal. Soon this trail will flow with runoff, filling the cisterns of the homes below, testing the strength of the rebar footings that keep the favela of Santa Cruz de Almolonga clinging tenuously to the earth. Explosions again fill the sky, the rockets before the thunder.