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EASTER ON THE BEACHES OF ARUBA
You have to wonder sometimes just how it is that certain traditions or rituals get started. Perhaps some of these (certain) traditions are best left a bit murky and the only light that should fall on them is a historic one. For me, that works - especially when it comes to Easter on Aruba.
We call it ‘Semana Santo” which means “Holy Week”. When compared to other traditions, I would say that the Bunny and Egg aspect is fairly new to our island while the religious implications are universal.
I remember that as early as February, my grandfather would go to the docks and warehouses and get shipping pallets and small wooden boxes. I remember him stacking these up in the back of the house and I remember asking him why. And I remember him telling me that they were for Easter (Semana Santo) – And I remember not understanding that until some years later.
During Easter week, we would go to the ocean side and there was a small wooden beach shack that was there. It had a large round wash basin there that was normally filled with ice and covered with a towel. In it were billions of bottles of beer and perhaps a few “Soda Pop” bottles – or at least so it seemed. The soda was called ARUBA-CORA and was a vivid red syrupy sort of a thing with bubbles in it. It had the ability to stain your lips, mouth, face or anything else in its path a red color. It was a beverage of choice.
The “Beach Shack” was built by men who worked for my grandfather. They used the pallets he had collected and covered them with cardboard to make both the floors and walls. Some home chairs were brought to the shacks but mostly the wooden fruit boxes with pillows served the purpose of sitting. I remember our house-staff preparing and bringing food to our beach shack while the job of the family was to communicate with each other, the neighbors or with those that were invited. We, as kids, were assigned the duty of swimming and collecting sun burns and were guaranteed to be successes. Our parents played fierce games of dominoes and cards – but mostly dominoes. The wind is simply to much for cards. I remember that the mothers talked about kitchen things and the fathers’ told the same lies that fathers tell today. In different corners of the beach shack would be bottles of rum or whiskey. These somehow emptied themselves mysteriously during the days and men could be found lying here or there in the shade of large Divi trees or on the shady side of the beach shacks. If I asked what was wrong with them (something I often did) and was told that they were “resting” or “thinking”.
Nothing was hurried and nothing moved at a pace that would cause perspiration. There was enough heat around us to for anyone to be looking for more ways to increase body temperature. The breeze was much like it is now and the sun has not had reason to change either.
The side of the shack that faced the ocean was normally left open. I remember sitting on a small box and looking out at the ocean. The sand was a brilliant “dry-white” that burned the eyes and graduated into wetness as it got closer to the water. Looking out that side and neglecting all else, there was a feeling I had been left on a stranded island. Walking out of our little beach shack changed that since there were many other similar beach shacks everywhere. These shacks were small, dingy and notoriously unattractive – yet were the haven for some of the most beautiful experiences for the families using them.
There were evening sit-around sessions where so much of our family shared their thoughts and feelings. We were not unique. We were the norm. It was a stellar experience and one that is only marred with the reality that I do not remember religious things, only family – and the religious implications certainly are enough to get anyone’s attention. Yet – the family thing had its’ own spirituality.
Times changed – but the essence did not.
The shacks turned into tents and the sound of a generator started to become the norm. Some of the shacks graduated into mini-homes with their own kitchens and yesterday I actually saw a mobile home on the beach. Is it better? Is it worse? No way to answer that except to say that “it is what it is” and that the children that experience it today will have equally fond memories of their ‘Semana Santo’ by the beach as I do of mine.
About 15 years ago, one of our visitors sent a letter to the chamber of commerce stating that it was a crime that we allowed the homeless to just build their shanty houses on the beach. It all has to do with perception. The folks camping on the beach are not homeless at all – the fact of the matter is that they are temporarily moving out of the buildings they live in and going home during Semana Santa.
It is a tradition and traditions are the glue and fabric of communities everywhere and they are good.
Happy Easter.
charles
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