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Jurramacho carnival in Montanchez

In this week's Camino a Ítaca it's carnival time in the mountaintop village of Montanchez here in Extremadura. Up among your hanging Jamóns it's not your average parade though. Click over to read the original version published in Spanish in el HOY or read the English version below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

As we passed the Puerto de las Camellas and the still Buddha-less Monte Arropez, the automatic BMW geared down for the last remaining curves. It was then that the wide savannah, more African than European, opened before us.

The early morning clouds had just burned off and on our right a committee of fifty vultures were riding the upswells that the warming sun had stirred. I put on my sunglasses and in the distance the blue line of the Sierra de San Pedro came into focus, framing the wide-angle scene looking south.

 Just past Casas de Don Antonio, to the left, our destination hove into view. Looming above the dehesa, like a precious stone set in a ring, the castle of Montanchez and its accompanying sierra rose up hundreds of meters.

I had seen a photograph somewhere. One that sparked my curiosity and was fortunate enough to know someone who was familiar with where it was taken and had been invited to see it take place in the carnival of Jurramacho in Montanchez.

“In case we want to dress up, I have come prepared,” my smiling hostess said as she held up two bags. “Carnival is different here. The idea isn’t necessarily to have the most elaborate costume. The aim is to efface yourself and become someone else, something completely anonymous.”

Not only had I heard that this fiesta was different but that it was also one of the oldest. I read that neither the Absolutism of the XVIII century, nor the Liberal Reform of the XIX century, nor the fascist dictatorship of the XX century managed to suppress this celebration. One that has survived, without pause, until today.

And today was special. The town hall had once again applied for the fiesta to be declared of regional interest by the Junta (the Autonomous community's government) and expectations were high.

It was early and the streets were still quiet when I saw my first Jurramacho. It was like a chest of old, yet clean, clothes had been hung out on a line and was walking. You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, young or old, it was completely denatured. But the most striking aspect was the mask. Like something out of a low budget horror movie, the woolen cover from Montanchez’s star product, el jamon, had been fashioned into a macabre looking veil.

“Buenas!” shrieked the figure as it shambled by. My friend laughed, “That’s another thing. Not only is the objective to be unrecognizable, but also to change your voice and even the way you walk.”

In the late afternoon the square began to fill for the pregon which was being given by a pair of Jarramplas. I looked around and was somewhat surprised to see only about half of the people yet to arrive under the dreadful plastic tent were dressed up, underscoring that this carnival was more personal than collective.

It’s always gratifying to receive outside recognition, especially for such a long running tradition. But even if the fiesta doesn’t meet the Junta’s criteria, for a one to have withstood dictators and pandemics, there’s certainly no danger of it becoming extinct. 

¡Viva el Jurramacho!