4am, and as I drive out of Antigua, there is not a soul in sight, gone are the thousands of people that crowed this city for the last few days. Its quiet, the sounds of the funeral marches have faded, and normality reigns once more. The mystical incense has cleared, and its veil, provider of so many images of ghostly figures, has dissipated.

My tunics, gone back into storage and a feeling of sadness overwhelm me. It has been 8 straight years of being part of this event, of walking the streets under the heavy “andas” and venturing out into the night under the cadence of the ever-beating drums.

Holy Week in this land casts a spell on you, once that can’t be broken. The centuries old brotherhoods that protect the sacred images, host this grandiose celebration of the passion of Christ. . Endless processions of wondering figures draw you in as the search for that unique image, that jewel of a moment that is going to make the 3am’s worthwhile continues. Candles light the late night darkness providing a beacon for the inquisitive photographer.

Left behind are friends and brothers, a year will pass before we see each other and embrace the art we so drearily love. There will always be an Antigua, and there will always be a burning desire in my soul to head back and explore this universe.

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