Olé,
Cascamorras!
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Some people prefer black. Others fancy green, yellow or brown paint and
decorate themselves with it all over. Five hundred years ago a disagreement
between two priests ended in the popular festival El Cascamorras. It takes
place yearly in the Southern Spanish village of Guadix. “Be careful,
at seven o’clock everybody goes mad.”
Text: Marie Louise Schipper
Photos:
Leo Erken
Four houses have been packed in plastic when at half past five the first
youths gather near the railway crossing in the main road of Guadix, the
Carretera de Murcia. Their eyes are shining in their brown-painted faces.
They carry paint sprayers and aim at all cars, trains and passers-by.
Down in the valley the town centre lies scorching in the sun. From there
they come, on foot, a crowd of black, dark green and dark brown figures.
In less than an hour hundreds of people have gathered round the railway
line.
The local residents are not happy about the Cascamorras festival. Some
people carry a stick or a club to keep the young people at a distance.
The pavement in front of four houses in the nearby Avenida de la Estación
is cordoned off with red and white striped plastic ribbon. Behind that
line the residents have entrenched themselves. To them the 9th of September
is a day of great annoyance. “This is not a feast, this is one big
shambles,” says an elderly lady in black. “Who is going to
clean the mess afterwards?” Meanwhile, it has become a quarter to
seven. “Watch carefully, at seven o’clock it breaks loose,”
says the sexton of the Chapel el Sagrado Corazon. “Then everybody
goes mad.” He, too, carries a stick and from time to time he stabs
at young people who threaten to overindulge in spraying paint. “I’ve
never taken part in the Cascamorras. Not even when I was young.”
Opinions vary about the background of the festival. Everybody agrees about
one thing: it all started with the statue of the Holy Virgin of Mercy.
During the Moorish rule in Southern Spain (790-1492) this statuette was
buried somewhere between Guadix and nearby Baza, to prevent its destruction.
In 1490 a farm worker, Juan Pedernel, happened to dig it up. According
to the sexton the parish priests of both Guadix and Baza claimed the ownership
of the statue. “One day they fell out. The parish priest of Baza
even threw sand at his confrère. Five parish priests from neighbouring
villages had to mediate. In the end it was decided that the statuette
would alternate between the two parishes. Unfortunately the peace was
of short duration. At a certain time the parish priest of Guadix refused
to hand the statue over. Now it is here, in the church of San Miguel.”
According
to legend a handsome, strong young man from Baza will recapture the statue.
On his way to Guadix he is attacked by youngsters pelting him with tar,
tomatoes and potatoes. When he goes back to Baza empty-handed, the same
fate is waiting him there, because he has not been able to bring back
the statue. This young man is called Cascamorras ‘he who swings
a club’. Nowadays the statue is not the starting point of the festival
anymore; the game of the Cascamorras is the most important. An association
was even founded for that purpose. The ‘Hermandad del Cascamorras’
is a fraternity which decides who will play the leading part. The Cascamorras
has to meet the following conditions: he must be in his early twenties
and a good actor. The performance of last year’s Cascamorras was
not a great success, according to experts. The man was not able to play
to the crowd.This year, after careful consideration, Heriverto Amescua
was chosen.
When, at seven o’clock, the starting signal is given with four rifle
shots, Cascamorras appears out of nothingness. He rattles the crowd of
people who chant: “Olé, olé, olé, olé,
Cascamorras, Cascamorras!” When they shout: “Are you the real
Cascamorras?” he swings his stick wildly and scatters the group.
Nicely coiffured middle-aged ladies in the audience take to their heels,
afraid to be splattered with paint. A strong wind is rising and the whole
spectacle gets a grotesque touch. When, after ten minutes, the first blocks
of flats come into view, the crowd suddenly comes to a halt. Residents
are watching from their balconies. When the mass chants, “Agua,
agua, agua!” all of a sudden from the third and fourth floors buckets
of water are thrown down. Cascamorras chases the group which again shouts
defiantly: “Are you the real Cascamorras?” At the next block
of flats the ritual is repeated. After some time it seems as if everybody
has assumed the same rust-coloured appearance through the mixture of paint,
water and dust. When, just before eight, the crowd mounts the steps of
the San Miguel church, Cascamorras swings his stick for the last time.
The crowd cheers. The last buckets of water are emptied. When Cascamorras
finally disappears in an annexe of the church the festival ends as quickly
as it started. Again four rifle shots are given. A man takes his son by
the hand, ready to go home. The boy looks up at him anxiously; he does
not recognize his father. A few yards from them two boys are walking,
still captivated by the game. One boy swings a stick from which a paint-soaked
ball hangs down. “Cascamorras, olé, olé, olé,”
screams the other one. The festival is over.