It’s stunning. The square seems to capture the light from the mountains, in stones bathed for centuries in the warmth of the sun and the cold kisses of moon light.

During the day the sun burns down on my neck and at night the plaza seems to turn into a vision of spain in the 1920’s… the fountain the backdrop for a romantic black and white journey. Children splash themselves with the water from the fountain and guards march around the square in their worn moss coloured uniforms- guns on their shoulders and hats tilted to deflect the suns rays.

This town is beautiful- it really does have a magical quality to it…and in the same breath I am reminded of the everyday struggles of those living in poverty. The children beg for money to buy new football shoes. Mothers with their children in tow, ask if one would like to take a photo with them and their kid. The children’s muddy faces match the colouring of the small goat they carry with them. In a beautiful city, it is the tourists who eat at the cafe’s and the locals who work in them. As the children cool themselves by the fountain ledge, I wonder if they attend school. This only opens the door to more questions about their society and other like it. If they do go to school, what doors will be opened to them? Will it be a gateway to unreachable goals, a false hope that only creates dream unrealized? Does economic development relieve the suffering of the human soul?

It is Easter, and never before have I experienced this religious holiday in a Catholic country. It looks like the entire town has gathered in the plaza as the military band begins to play the national anthem and the flag is raised. Now dancers are beginning a procession around the square in their brightly coloured dresses and brown fedoras.

I feel quite detached from the whole experience- no easter dress, coloured eggs, family or sunrise service. Not quite sure how to connect with the festivities, as Mary (in a 18th century english european style dress) is carried past me on a platform. Next comes jesus in a gold plated coffin. This holiday which is central the Christian faith seems distant and irrelevant, far removed from the middle eastern culture in which the story took place. Sitting in a balcony window looking down on the procession, the reality that my conception of easter is as equally fabricated, hits me. In first century Jerusalem there were no painted eggs, oversized pink bunnies, no one wore flowery (and may I add rather hideous) sunday dresses, just as Mary did not wear a corset and Jesus was never put in a gold plated coffin (or followed by a marching band). It is another reminder of how our societies, or cultural-religion changes things and ultimately our experiences and ability to connect with a day of remembrance.