Our destination - the Harley-Davidson shop on the outskirts of Querétaro. There we were met by Fernando (on a BMW) whom Michael and Mariana had met in Homer, Alaska last year, he having ridden there from Mexico on his motor bike. We pulled in behind him as he guided us across town to his house where, after meeting his son Armando and having a beer or two, we all set off into the centro for the Procesión de Silencio. But first, a delicious dinner in an outdoor café by the plaza as thousands of locals and Mexican tourists from elsewhere streamed by.
With the advantage of inside knowledge, Fernando took us to a place where the footpath was very narrow - room only for two deep - so we had front row seats just as the procession began.
...and it lived up to its name, as hundreds of worshippers in costumes that, unfortunately, have an association for much of the world with the KKK, slowly and silently wafted down the cobble-stone streets, the only sound being the slow beat of drums, the scraping of chains dragging behind bare feet, the low murmuring of the crowd and the crying of small children, either because it was past their bedtime, or they were traumatized by the spectacle...
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