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The Guardian
13-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
In pictures: Palm Sunday around the world
Children look on as Catholic worshippers wait to take part in a Palm Sunday procession, as the Holy Week begins, in Suchitoto, El Salvador. Photograph: José Cabezas/Reuters Believers hold palm branches during a Palm Sunday mass at the Cathedral in Santiago, Chile. Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images Bishop Alexander Giorgi blesses a family outside its home during Palm Sunday celebrations in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Photograph: Rodrigo Abd/AP Women hold palm bouquets waiting for a Palm Sunday procession in the Kaqchikel indigenous community of San Pedro Sacatepequez, Guatemala. Photograph: Moisés Castillo/AP Claudio Armando Ramirez plays Jesus Christ during a Palm Sunday Passion Play at the San Lucas de Iztapalapa parish in Mexico City, Mexico. Photograph: Marco Ugarte/AP Catholic faithful participate in a Palm Sunday mass during the beginning of Holy Week outside the 20 de Julio church in Bogotá, Colombia. Photograph: Alejandro Martinez/AFP/Getty Images People participate in the traditional Palm Sunday in San Jose, Costa Rica. Photograph: Jeffrey Arguedas/EPA Children and a donkey before leading a procession into the Chelsea Old Church for a Palm Sunday service in London, England. Photograph: Jaimi Joy/Reuters Spanish actor Antonio Banderas attends the Maria Santisima de Lagrimas y Favores procession at San Juan Bautista church in Malaga, Spain. Photograph:People carry a crucifix after a mass on Palm Sunday in Champagne, near Le Mans, western France. Photograph: Jean-François Monier/AFP/Getty Images The Passion statue The Crucifixion is carried in the Palm Sunday procession of the Catholic faithful in Heiligenstadt, Germany. Photograph: Michael Reichel/AP A priest blesses traditional 'palms', made of tree branches decorated with paper flowers, during Palm Sunday processions in Lyse, Poland. Photograph: Kacper Pempel/Reuters Young women in folk costumes hold pussy willow that will be blessed before being given out to faithful during the Palm Sunday procession in Debrecen, north-eastern Hungary. Photograph: Zsolt Czeglédi/EPA A parishioner leans on an icon during a service marking the Orthodox feast of Palm Sunday in Staromykhailivka (Staromikhailovka) near Donetsk, a Russian-controlled area of Ukraine. Photograph: Alexander Ermochenko/Reuters Catholic clerics walk during a Palm Sunday procession, in Bucharest, Romania. Photograph: Andreea Alexandru/AP People attend a Palm Sunday service at St Isaac's Cathedral in St Petersburg, Russia. Photograph: Anatoly Maltsev/EPA A Palm Sunday procession at the start of the Holy Week, in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. Photograph: Kb Mpofu/Reuters A girl smiles while listening to a sermon during the Palm Sunday service and procession at the Regina Mundi Catholic Church in Mushin, Lagos, Nigeria. Photograph: Sodiq Adelakun/Reuters Catholic faithful buy palm branches outside Goma Cathedral before the Palm Sunday mass, locally known as Matawi, in Goma, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Photograph: Jospin Mwisha/AFP/Getty Images Members of the Legio Maria Church gather to celebrate Palm Sunday, in Kibera, Nairobi, Kenya. Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images Christians attend a mass in St Samaan Church to celebrate the feast of Palm Sunday in Cairo, Egypt. Photograph: Anadolu/Getty Images Roman Catholic clergymen carry palm fronds during the Palm Sunday procession at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, traditionally believed by many to be the site of the crucifixion and burial of Jesus Christ in Jerusalem's Old City. Photograph: Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Christian children light candles at the cathedral of Our Lady of Dormition, during the Palm Sunday mass in Damascus, Syria. Photograph: Louai Beshara/AFP/Getty Images Lebanese Christians join the traditional Palm Sunday procession outside the church in central Beirut, Lebanon. Photograph: Wael Hamzeh/EPA Iraqi Christians participate in the Palm Sunday procession in Al-Hamdaniya, Iraq. Photograph: Khalid Al-Mousily/Reuters A Palm Sunday procession at the Visitation Church in Al Zababdeh village, near the West Bank city of Jenin. Photograph: Alaa Badarneh/EPA Palestinian Christian children attend the Palm Sunday mass at the Greek Orthodox Church of Saint Porphyrius in Gaza City. Photograph: Omar Al-Qattaa/AFP/Getty Images An Ethiopian Orthodox Deacon prays during the Palm Sunday celebration at the Bole Medhane Alem Cathedral church in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Photograph: Tiksa Negeri/Reuters Christian devotees attend a Palm Sunday mass at the St Anthony's Church in Lahore, Pakistan. Photograph: Arif Ali/AFP/Getty Images A devotee holding a palm leaf takes part in a procession to mark Palm Sunday in Chennai, India. Photograph: R Satish Babu/AFP/Getty Images Filipinos wave palm fronds as they celebrate at the Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto church in San Jose Del Monte, Bulacan, Philippines. Photograph:A Catholic church choir hold palm leaves as part of the traditional Lenten devotion at the Church of the Birth of Our Lady, also known as Gereja Katolik Kelahiran Santa Perawan Maria, in Surabaya, Indonesia. Photograph: Juni Kriswanto/AFP/Getty Images
Yahoo
05-03-2025
- Yahoo
Meet the Maya artisans of Lake Atitlán
One of many myths surrounding Lake Atitlán tells of an ancient Maya sorceress who forged a magic ring for a Spanish conquistador, swearing it would make him irresistible to the object of his affection. Long story short: the plan went sideways, and the ring was lost at the bottom of the lake. There it remains, they say, still casting its spell through the water like an electric current, drawing travellers to these shores and compelling them to fall in love with the place. It worked on the hippies, who drifted this way in the 1960s, when word spread of a spectacular lake with mystical powers in west-central Guatemala. It works on contemporary wellness enthusiasts, who now sustain an industry of yoga retreats, thermal spas and 'psychic development' courses. And it works on me, too — though it might just be the view, as I set out from the busy gateway port of Panajachel on a wooden motorboat. Through a fine early morning mist, the surface of the water seems as vast and blue as a sea, and I keep waiting for a smell of salt that never comes. Three presiding volcanoes rise like islands on the horizon: San Pedro, Tolimán and Atitlán itself, the youngest and most active in the sequence. This whole freshwater lake, the deepest in Central America, fills the crater made by a volcanic super explosion some 85,000 years ago. The Indigenous peoples who settled the area have since told their own stories about the flood that created their most sacred body of water, which they regard as a bottomless source of healing energy. In one such tale, related briskly by my boat captain, who introduces himself simply as Andrés, the lake grew out of a single drop spilled from a maiden's water jug. The Spaniards later gave the legend a Catholic twist, and the maiden became the Virgin of Santa Catarina. Most villages along the shoreline now bear the names of saints, but their populations remain largely Maya, of the Kaqchikel and Tz'utujil peoples. And in San Antonio Palopó — a small port that rises from the lake to a hillside scattering of houses, churches and terraced farms — that mythic droplet has become a kind of unofficial trademark. In a tin-roofed, cinder-block shack that serves as one of several village workshops, I watch as a young woman fashions tear-shaped paint brushes into petals and fractals on the side of a freshly made stoneware bowl. She doesn't speak or look up from her task; her colleagues tell me she's the best at those drip patterns. The others, a little older and not quite so shy, paint their own pieces with various animal totems: owls, frogs, hummingbirds. 'Sitting with friends and chatting all day is the best part of the job,' says one. 'The downside is the odd lapse in concentration,' jokes her workmate. 'It's easy to make a mistake.' The botched items are sold at a discounted price in the neighbouring showroom, their colours and patterns especially vivid against bare grey bricks. It's easy to think their tiny imperfections add to their beauty. It's also easy to assume this style and skill was inherited from the ancient ceramicists of Semetabaj, a ruined Maya city set above the lake, or Samabaj, the sunken settlement discovered under its surface by a scuba-diving geologist some 30 years ago. Both sites were marked out by buried or broken porcelain, but the prevailing craft tradition has more to do with American potter Ken Edwards. After moving here with his kiln in the 1990s, he made productive use of Guatemala's rich red, black and white volcanic clays, and showed a few local students his technique for firing at high temperatures to burn lead out of the glaze. His teachings revived pottery as a local practice, and the distinctive wares of San Antonio Palopó are now known as Ceramics Maya Ke in his honour. A reminder, if you need one, that no culture exists in a vacuum. We learn a similar lesson across the lake in Santa Catarina Palopó, a slightly bigger port with a long history of textiles. It comes into view by way of vivid colour, most shops and houses tinted somewhere between light blue and deep green shades. 'Blue for the lake, green for the volcanoes,' says supervisor Milsa Sajvin at the duly luminous waterfront headquarters of Pintando el Cambio, or 'Painting the Change'. This ongoing social project was designed to beautify the townscape by re-painting local buildings. The aim was to actively attract a new wave of visitors and, in turn, create economic opportunities for residents, whose traditional forms of income (mostly farming and fishing) had been in decline. 'It's all voluntary,' explains Milsa, showing me the brochure from which home and business owners can choose any combination of colours, patterns and real or imaginary creatures. Options include Guatemala's emerald native bird, the quetzal, and a mythical double-headed dragon called an ixcot. 'It represents all the good and bad that comes from living and suffering,' Milsa says. Private donations cover the costs, and the only real stipulation is that all participating households must send their kids to school. Uptake was slow at first, admits Milsa. But the project is proving steadily successful, attracting more and more visitors as the community gets coloured in block by block. This includes her own house, and those of her parents and grandparents. 'My home is blue,' she says, 'with butterflies and peacocks.' Meanwhile, her huipil — the traditional tunic worn by Indigenous Maya women — has thick ropes of red running through the fabric. The colour is powerful in Maya symbology, connoting blood and the rising sun. It used to be the signature shade of this village, as once expressed in the local weaving tradition and explained further at a nearby folk museum. In the 1980s, a wealthy American woman became so enchanted by these textiles that she put in a bulk order. But, notably, she asked for them to be made in turquoise. That became Santa Catarina Palopó's dominant colour, and so it remains, explains my guide, whose own huipil is threaded with the now signature blue-green. She shows me around the small exhibition, through rooms that recreate a rustic dwelling with a woven bed, firepit, steam bath and jars of traditional medicines. Lemon verbena for inflammation, chamomile for better sleep, rosemary to counteract witchcraft — or so it says on the label. 'Are witches still a problem?' I ask her, joking. 'Oh yes,' she says, not a hint of humour in her voice. Back on the boat, the gentle morning breeze has intensified, and we bounce over waves that weren't there earlier. 'Xocomil!' shouts Andrés from behind the wheel — the name given to the eerie wind that rises here every afternoon. According to mythology, it's caused by an ancient curse blowing over the watery graves of two doomed lovers from warring Indigenous factions. According to modern meteorology, it's the result of a swirl of cold and warm air currents around the volcanoes. These unusual pressure systems work on the fertile volcanic soil and make the slopes above the lake the perfect place to grow maize, avocados, coffee and cacao. The village of San Juan La Laguna, where I head next, has long been a trading post for such produce, with subsistence agriculture now somewhat tweaked for maximum appeal. The streets are strung with decorative umbrellas, straw hats and folk dolls; the walls are painted with giant, colourful murals of past mayors and pioneering midwifes. The effect is pleasing without feeling like a show put on for foreigners (only Indigenous Tz'utujil people can own property here). Equally pleasing are the coffee and chocolate. The brew at Café San Juan, a wooden hangout, is the best I've tasted. At nearby factory Xocolatl, I sample chocolate chunks with coconut and try shots of rum infused with cocoa and chilli. The Maya believed cacao to be a divine gift, and they'd dry, grind and mix the beans with water to create a bitter, frothy drink. My guide says her ancestors burned them to generate hallucinogenic smoke, and mixed them with blood to make an 'elixir of the gods'. I learn more about invigorating Maya brews at Abeja Obrera, a dockside cooperative of beekeepers laid out in little market stalls and information booths. I'm greeted there by Elsa Cholotio, who comes from a farming family with hives in the surrounding hills, and dresses in a full bee costume to help sell their honey-based foods, cosmetics and health remedies. I ask if she ever gets stung, and her antennae waggle as she nods. 'All the time,' she says. Then, she pours me a wooden cup of siete poderes, or seven powers, a fermented honey concoction that ancient Maya warriors drank to fortify themselves for battle. It's potent stuff, with a botanic, alcoholic sharpness, and just a hint of sweetness — like licking a grain of sugar off the tip of a sword. A single drop is enough for me to start believing in the mythical healing magic of Lake Atitlán. But I'm letting my imagination run away with itself, and the reality is more seductive than any story. Passing over the lake one last time, Andrés steers close to the volcano of San Pedro and the namesake village in its shadow. There on the shore, locals just go about their lives, as the ancients must have, too: swimming, doing their laundry, washing their hair. This paid content article was created for Guatemalan Institute of Tourism. It does not necessarily reflect the views of National Geographic, National Geographic Traveller (UK) or their editorial subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
National Geographic
05-03-2025
- National Geographic
Meet the Maya artisans of Lake Atitlán
One of many myths surrounding Lake Atitlán tells of an ancient Maya sorceress who forged a magic ring for a Spanish conquistador, swearing it would make him irresistible to the object of his affection. Long story short: the plan went sideways, and the ring was lost at the bottom of the lake. There it remains, they say, still casting its spell through the water like an electric current, drawing travellers to these shores and compelling them to fall in love with the place. It worked on the hippies, who drifted this way in the 1960s, when word spread of a spectacular lake with mystical powers in west-central Guatemala. It works on contemporary wellness enthusiasts, who now sustain an industry of yoga retreats, thermal spas and 'psychic development' courses. And it works on me, too — though it might just be the view, as I set out from the busy gateway port of Panajachel on a wooden motorboat. Through a fine early morning mist, the surface of the water seems as vast and blue as a sea, and I keep waiting for a smell of salt that never comes. Three presiding volcanoes rise like islands on the horizon: San Pedro, Tolimán and Atitlán itself, the youngest and most active in the sequence. This whole freshwater lake, the deepest in Central America, fills the crater made by a volcanic super explosion some 85,000 years ago. The Indigenous peoples who settled the area have since told their own stories about the flood that created their most sacred body of water, which they regard as a bottomless source of healing energy. In one such tale, related briskly by my boat captain, who introduces himself simply as Andrés, the lake grew out of a single drop spilled from a maiden's water jug. The Spaniards later gave the legend a Catholic twist, and the maiden became the Virgin of Santa Catarina. Most villages along the shoreline now bear the names of saints, but their populations remain largely Maya, of the Kaqchikel and Tz'utujil peoples. And in San Antonio Palopó — a small port that rises from the lake to a hillside scattering of houses, churches and terraced farms — that mythic droplet has become a kind of unofficial trademark. In a tin-roofed, cinder-block shack that serves as one of several village workshops, I watch as a young woman fashions tear-shaped paint brushes into petals and fractals on the side of a freshly made stoneware bowl. An artisan in a workshop in San Antonio Palopó making Ceramics Maya Ke. Photograph by Francesco Lastrucci A selection of Ceramics Maya Ke in San Antonio Palopó, all handmade and individually decorated with the traditional teardrop design. Photograph by Francesco Lastrucci She doesn't speak or look up from her task; her colleagues tell me she's the best at those drip patterns. The others, a little older and not quite so shy, paint their own pieces with various animal totems: owls, frogs, hummingbirds. 'Sitting with friends and chatting all day is the best part of the job,' says one. 'The downside is the odd lapse in concentration,' jokes her workmate. 'It's easy to make a mistake.' The botched items are sold at a discounted price in the neighbouring showroom, their colours and patterns especially vivid against bare grey bricks. It's easy to think their tiny imperfections add to their beauty. It's also easy to assume this style and skill was inherited from the ancient ceramicists of Semetabaj, a ruined Maya city set above the lake, or Samabaj, the sunken settlement discovered under its surface by a scuba-diving geologist some 30 years ago. Both sites were marked out by buried or broken porcelain, but the prevailing craft tradition has more to do with American potter Ken Edwards. After moving here with his kiln in the 1990s, he made productive use of Guatemala's rich red, black and white volcanic clays, and showed a few local students his technique for firing at high temperatures to burn lead out of the glaze. His teachings revived pottery as a local practice, and the distinctive wares of San Antonio Palopó are now known as Ceramics Maya Ke in his honour. A reminder, if you need one, that no culture exists in a vacuum. Change of scenery We learn a similar lesson across the lake in Santa Catarina Palopó, a slightly bigger port with a long history of textiles. It comes into view by way of vivid colour, most shops and houses tinted somewhere between light blue and deep green shades. 'Blue for the lake, green for the volcanoes,' says supervisor Milsa Sajvin at the duly luminous waterfront headquarters of Pintando el Cambio, or 'Painting the Change'. This ongoing social project was designed to beautify the townscape by re-painting local buildings. The aim was to actively attract a new wave of visitors and, in turn, create economic opportunities for residents, whose traditional forms of income (mostly farming and fishing) had been in decline. 'It's all voluntary,' explains Milsa, showing me the brochure from which home and business owners can choose any combination of colours, patterns and real or imaginary creatures. Options include Guatemala's emerald native bird, the quetzal, and a mythical double-headed dragon called an ixcot. 'It represents all the good and bad that comes from living and suffering,' Milsa says. Private donations cover the costs, and the only real stipulation is that all participating households must send their kids to school. Uptake was slow at first, admits Milsa. But the project is proving steadily successful, attracting more and more visitors as the community gets coloured in block by block. This includes her own house, and those of her parents and grandparents. 'My home is blue,' she says, 'with butterflies and peacocks.' A house painted through the Pintando El Cambio project in Santa Catarina Palopó. Photograph by Francesco Lastrucci The textile shop in San Antonio Palopó. Photograph by Francesco Lastrucci Meanwhile, her huipil — the traditional tunic worn by Indigenous Maya women — has thick ropes of red running through the fabric. The colour is powerful in Maya symbology, connoting blood and the rising sun. It used to be the signature shade of this village, as once expressed in the local weaving tradition and explained further at a nearby folk museum. In the 1980s, a wealthy American woman became so enchanted by these textiles that she put in a bulk order. But, notably, she asked for them to be made in turquoise. That became Santa Catarina Palopó's dominant colour, and so it remains, explains my guide, whose own huipil is threaded with the now signature blue-green. She shows me around the small exhibition, through rooms that recreate a rustic dwelling with a woven bed, firepit, steam bath and jars of traditional medicines. Lemon verbena for inflammation, chamomile for better sleep, rosemary to counteract witchcraft — or so it says on the label. 'Are witches still a problem?' I ask her, joking. 'Oh yes,' she says, not a hint of humour in her voice. Magic moments Back on the boat, the gentle morning breeze has intensified, and we bounce over waves that weren't there earlier. 'Xocomil!' shouts Andrés from behind the wheel — the name given to the eerie wind that rises here every afternoon. According to mythology, it's caused by an ancient curse blowing over the watery graves of two doomed lovers from warring Indigenous factions. According to modern meteorology, it's the result of a swirl of cold and warm air currents around the volcanoes. These unusual pressure systems work on the fertile volcanic soil and make the slopes above the lake the perfect place to grow maize, avocados, coffee and cacao. The village of San Juan La Laguna, where I head next, has long been a trading post for such produce, with subsistence agriculture now somewhat tweaked for maximum appeal. The streets are strung with decorative umbrellas, straw hats and folk dolls; the walls are painted with giant, colourful murals of past mayors and pioneering midwifes. The effect is pleasing without feeling like a show put on for foreigners (only Indigenous Tz'utujil people can own property here). Locals diving into the water from the rocks on the shores of the lake. Photograph by Francesco Lastrucci Equally pleasing are the coffee and chocolate. The brew at Café San Juan, a wooden hangout, is the best I've tasted. At nearby factory Xocolatl, I sample chocolate chunks with coconut and try shots of rum infused with cocoa and chilli. The Maya believed cacao to be a divine gift, and they'd dry, grind and mix the beans with water to create a bitter, frothy drink. My guide says her ancestors burned them to generate hallucinogenic smoke, and mixed them with blood to make an 'elixir of the gods'. I learn more about invigorating Maya brews at Abeja Obrera, a dockside cooperative of beekeepers laid out in little market stalls and information booths. I'm greeted there by Elsa Cholotio, who comes from a farming family with hives in the surrounding hills, and dresses in a full bee costume to help sell their honey-based foods, cosmetics and health remedies. I ask if she ever gets stung, and her antennae waggle as she nods. 'All the time,' she says. Then, she pours me a wooden cup of siete poderes, or seven powers, a fermented honey concoction that ancient Maya warriors drank to fortify themselves for battle. It's potent stuff, with a botanic, alcoholic sharpness, and just a hint of sweetness — like licking a grain of sugar off the tip of a sword. A single drop is enough for me to start believing in the mythical healing magic of Lake Atitlán. But I'm letting my imagination run away with itself, and the reality is more seductive than any story. Passing over the lake one last time, Andrés steers close to the volcano of San Pedro and the namesake village in its shadow. There on the shore, locals just go about their lives, as the ancients must have, too: swimming, doing their laundry, washing their hair. Indirect flights are available from London, Manchester or Edinburgh to Guatemala City (taking around 15-19 hours), with stopovers usually in the US. Town centres tend to be walkable, and taxis (including Uber) or buses are available for longer journeys. For more information, see This paid content article was created for Guatemalan Institute of Tourism. It does not necessarily reflect the views of National Geographic, National Geographic Traveller (UK) or their editorial staffs. To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
