The Rocio is a pilgrimage to a religious sanctuary where yet another Virgin with miraculous powers resides. It is a pilgrimage that Chaucer would have enjoyed before he recanted as he approached death. It is a pilgrimage filled up with characters like the Wife of Bath, perhaps the first feminist in literature, the Miller, the Reeve, in other words the scoundrels of the Tales. Forget the Nun and the Priest who although fulfilling indispensable roles in the unfolding of the Tale are, when all said and done, do-gooders.

The Rocio is a pre-Christian Bacchanalian jaunt, although some would like to claim otherwise and emphasise its religious significance. El Rocio is a village about 50 kms from Sevilla whose only reason for existence is the Virgin Rocio who was found thereabouts in a field or under a tree, in fact, I don t know exactly where,and don t feel much inclined to find out. Anyway a Sanctuary or Hermitage was built, around which a village sprang up to attend to the needs of the pilgrims. The most important buildings in the village are those that belong to the various Brotherhoods and it is these Brotherhoods, in the same way, but not the same groups, who form the backbone of both Semana Santa or the Easter Parade and the Rocio pilgrimage.

After weeks of preparation the pilgrims set out from in fact all around the world. There are groups that come from Brazil, the USA, Germany, other parts of Europe and I have even read from Australia. But basically the groups, which can comprise of several hundred people each, set off from a radius of not more than about 80kms from the village itself. Many walk the whole distance, others ride horses, some ride in gaily decorated wagons pulled by bullocks or mules, the idle rich drive their Range Rovers. But they all take the traditional country paths, dating back centuries, crossing streams and I would like to say mountain ranges for effect, but in fact the land is as flat as as tack.

The trip, or in some ways trek, takes from two to four days, depending on the distance to be covered and is accompanied by much singing, dancing and drinking. At whatever stop, for whatever reason an impromptu group sets itself up, a ragged circle forms, a guitar plays, a song begins, hands clap and somebody spontaneously steps into the circle and dances with much swirling of arms and legs. All to be finished off with a bit of foot stamping amidst the rising dust and heat. And to be repeated again and but with different characters at the following stops.

This carries on to nightfall when camps are set up, fires lit, and the serious singing, dancing and drinking begins. So for a radius of quite some kilometres all around the village camp fires blaze and in the flames silhouetted figures swirl and general merriment abounds until at least four in the morning. At six the camp stirs and and seven it is on its way again. But it is during these night hours that as hearsay has it, many illicit couplings take place as newly formed couples, irrespective of marital status slip off into the night. It's the atmosphere, the heat, the alcohol, the dancing, the sweat on glistening bodies, the smell of horses, the flickering flames, which all combined make for a powerful erotic and pagan brew.

It reminds me of an essay by Juan Goytislo (an author, who has never heard of the word quiche, let alone eaten the stuff) that I read some years ago about a semi-religious festival in Morocco, where women of all ages, of all social classes, from all over the country go. Some cannot have children by their husbands, others go, I suppose, for a multitude of personal reasons to mate with happy abandon. It also makes me think of a trip I made once to AcroCorinth, where I was told that in the good old days there were both male and female religious prostitutes to attend to the needs of the pilgrims who made the climb to the top of the mountain citadel.

All in all a heady broth of religion and innate sexual urges which points in the direction that biologists are making about human sexuality, that in spite of the controls that society naturally puts on the behaviour of its members, there is the innate drive to mate with the strongest of the group, something I believe, to do with symmetry of the body. Sadly, one of my ears sticks out just a little more than the other. That might now explain many things in my life.

Back to the Rocio . All Brotherhoods are in the village by the afternoon of Saturday. Also on this day many people drive there directly on choked roads. The really rich who are too busy making money to spend three days on a dusty country road arrive by helicopter, the simply rich arrive in a chauffeur driven, air-conditioned Mercedes. But by conservative estimates, on Saturday night, there are a million people in this small village of normally several hundred souls. So there is much more singing, dancing and drinking in a horrendous cloud of dust until the Virgin is taken from her shrine and paraded around the village in this jam-packed mass of people. For many this is a moment of religious fervor and awe and mass hysteria. It is true that some do make the pilgrimage with a sincere religious purpose in mind. For others it is folkloric, for some it is an example of convivencia , of living together and sharing good fellowship. For others it is an excuse to party for yet another week, just like the Feria . But it is very different and although it is often the same people who attend both festivities, their behaviour is manifestly not the same because the function of the two are completely dissimilar.

However it is the triplet of Semana Santa , the Feria and the Rocio that make Sevilla such a special and unusual place.

Patrick
Seville
July 1999