How one Afro-Colombian community honors their ancestry

It’s Spy Wednesday, almost 6 a.m. At the shipyard port in Buenaventura, the major port city in Colombia’s Pacific region, the last wooden boats are about to depart for the Afro-Colombian communities along the Yurumanguí River.
Dozens of people embark on a journey that can last up to eight hours, crossing the Pacific Ocean, skirting cliffs and navigating through mangroves. Most passengers now live far from their native territory, displaced to the city due to economic instability, lack of health care access, education or the region’s armed conflict.
Upon reaching the clear waters of the Yurumanguí River, wooden houses begin to appear along its banks. There are 13 settlements in the river basin, home to approximately 4,000 residents, mostly descendants of enslaved Africans and maroons brought to work in the mines between the 17th and 19th centuries.
In a context of geographic isolation and state neglect, where illegal armed groups have a substantial presence, the Afro community of Yurumanguí comes together despite intimidations to celebrate the Manacillos festival every Holy Week.
Far from tourists, this ancestral and unique ritual originated in Juntas, the uppermost village on the river, as an act of cultural resilience. During the festival, no one is allowed to work in the artisanal gold mines or the agricultural fields in the jungle.
In Juntas, the memory of slavery is alive. The Manacillos hold profound spiritual significance, reaffirming their African roots and resisting colonialism and imposed Catholicism through syncretism, creating a new collective cultural identity.
It’s Maundy Thursday. The community has adorned the cobblestone streets and balconies with corozo palm leaves. Ayerson Valencia and Henry García finish sewing their Manacillos costumes with the help of female family members. Meanwhile, in the same room, some women braid their hair, paint their nails, and try on elegant dresses.
The typical Manacillo’s costume is made of burlap sacks and banana leaves and is often adorned with colorful fabric patches. Additionally, every Manacillo wears a slender leather whip fastened to their waist, which they use to “punish” the other participants during the Manacillos’ games.
Along with this, the rest of the costume consists of a distinctive and colorful mask carved from balsa wood sourced within their own jungle. In the backyard of his house, 15-year-old Henry applies the final touches to his mask, painting a red smile reminiscent of the Joker’s.
The masks of the Manacillos transform the wearer into spiritual beings. “Every year, we decide what type of mask to paint, reflecting how we want to be perceived. Some evoke fear, others are humorous,” he says.
Meanwhile, some men are completing the construction of the Manacillos’ house, a small wooden structure located in the center of the village that faces the church. Here, the group gathers to play traditional Manacillo songs, recharge with viche — a traditional alcoholic beverage of the Afro-Pacific communities — and plan their next activities. During the Manacillos’ game, they attempt to steal Jesus’ coffin, play pranks, tease passersby, steal objects and even “kidnap” locals, including babies, for ransom.
There is no age limit to become a Manacillo, as membership is inherited from parents by their sons or other close male relatives after they pass away. This year, the youngest member is 7-year-old Leandro Valencia, who inherited the role after his father, a leader in the community, died in exile. Over the next few days and nights, he plays his role tirelessly, just like a child.
Adolescents such as Henry, who has been playing the role for five years, feel a strong sense of pride: “I became a Manacillo to honor our ancestors and preserve our cultural heritage. My goal is to pass down this knowledge to the younger generation so that our traditions are not forgotten.”
Holy Week is celebrated differently here. In their tradition, Jesus’ death occurs at midnight on Thursday, not on Good Friday. The ritual begins with a procession of Jesus the Nazarene and is repeated nightly until Easter Sunday. During this religious syncretism, the village is shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by candlelight.
The village catechist, Delio Valencia, and the altar boys chant prayers while carrying leaf-adorned statues of Jesus and his mother, Mary. Leading the procession, a group of women sing soulful and loud salves and
— traditional Afro community songs for religious rituals and funerals to bid farewell to the deceased. Their bodies sway with the rhythm.
At the front of the crowd, Luz Damaris García, a 49-year-old vocalist, sings with a deep, raspy voice. Tears glisten in her eyes as she holds her friend’s arm. Both sway gently, harmonizing the lyrics and melody. “The salve is like a feeling. It reminds us of those who have departed,” she says.
That night, the ceremonial procession visits the local cemetery, where three solitary souls, portrayed by trembling men in white sheets, descend from the sacred heights. Children hold their mothers’ hands tightly, some crying, others laughing. They will sing their unique religious songs in the church until 4 a.m. The Manacillos will not appear until the next day.
The main outer wall of the church is adorned with a large painting of the last two social leaders who disappeared at the hands of armed groups. The painting includes the phrase, “We will die on the day we remain silent in the face of injustices.”
One of the leaders was 79-year-old Delio’s son. “During prayers, we always entrust ourselves to them, who lost their lives to free the Yurumanguí River and liberate their people,” he says.
Originally, the Manacillos’ ritual commemorated the passion, death and resurrection of Christ in their unique way. The group started with 12 men led by a Manacillo named Barrabás, after the Biblical figure, and has now grown to nearly 40. According to oral tradition, the Manacillos are the spirits of the Jews who betrayed and executed Jesus.
The Manacillos’ play begins on Good Friday evening, and they are not allowed to sleep for the next 48 hours. Before singing, the masked men shout, “Death to God and long live Barrabás!” The rest of the community responds, “Long live God and death to Barrabás!”
The celebration begins with the drumbeat. A woman initiates a melodic chant: “On Holy Thursday, God died; on Friday, they buried him; on Saturday, they sang his glory; on Sunday, he ascended to heaven.” Other musicians join in with traditional instruments — bass drum, cununo and guasá, which sounds like water. The song is repeated several times.
Everyone is covered in sweat, the musicians seeming to merge with their instruments. The female singers and other participants repeat the song without showing signs of fatigue, their voices full of emotion. The music creates a mystical trance and euphoria among the participants. No other music is allowed until Easter Sunday; otherwise, the Manacillos will punish the offenders with whips.
Over the next few days, the entire community gathers in Juntas, captivated by the nocturnal warmth and viche spirits. Amid this fervor, the game’s characters dance, leaping from side to side, holding their attires. The youngest members of the community move from house to house, singing in honor of the Manacillos.
“Music helps us preserve our identity amid the armed conflict. Today, many children prefer picking up an instrument over a weapon,” explains Franklin Valencia, an instrumental musician from the popular group Matachindé.
During the Manacillos’ dramatization, violent scenes occur as they are allowed to punish locals and vice versa. Many suggest that beneath the Manacillos’ masks are community members affiliated with armed groups. These individuals get permission from their superiors during Holy Week to play the role before returning to the wilderness.
The festival enables improbable encounters in daily life. Civilians and soldiers from different armed groups come together in the same space without violence. Solange Bonilla Valencia, a Ph.D. student in social anthropology and a specialist in peace, culture and international humanitarian law, explains that in the tense conflict of Yurumanguí’s river communities, violence takes on a spiritual dimension — a collective release.
“It’s a moment of catharsis, a chance to encounter the other. The fear of being struck with a whip is different from the fear of being killed with a firearm,” she says.
Amid the exuberant nature along the banks of the Yurumanguí River, prominent signs bearing the insignias and messages of the Jaime Martínez Group, an illegal armed faction of the demobilized guerrilla Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC), appear every few kilometers upstream. The dissident group displays its presence and activity in the territory. The ever-present, yet hidden, eyes that intimidate the inhabitants.
The conflict among armed groups for control over this territory has intensified due to its strategic location for drug trafficking. The celebration has changed, and there is fear of losing ancestral traditions. “Many former Manacillos can no longer participate,” Angulo explains. “Some were killed, others relocated due to insecurity.”
Angulo, a 60-year-old human rights defender and active Manacillos leader who is identified only by his last name for his safety, as he plans on returning for future celebrations, spent several years away from his homeland due to the threats posed by the armed groups. Now, he is enthusiastic about the significant number of community members who have returned for the four-day celebration.
The Manacillos’ festival is not only a moment of joy and a break from routine but also a time to remember deceased relatives, return to the territory and reinforce social ties. “I was raised in this jungle and then forced to leave, abandoning my children and traditions,” he says. “That had a profound impact on me. Here, I feel good. I’m not a city man.”
In late November 2021, two prominent social leaders, Abencio Caicedo and Edinson Valencia, were kidnapped by armed groups, plunging the community into distress and fear. Even the popular Manacillos festival was temporarily silenced by the residents’ grief.
“The loss of a leader is a huge pain. Many have been killed, the most important leaders are lost, and we are left unprotected,” says Luz Damary.
For the Yurumanguireños, the river is a living entity and an essential part of their community. Daily life revolves around its waters. Children learn to swim before they can speak. Women wash clothes and kitchen utensils in the river, which also serves as a natural shower and the main route for transporting wood, fish and fruits. The crystalline waters are surrounded by a lush, dense jungle that conceals sugarcane, plantain and corn fields, their primary sources of sustenance.
“Their primary concern is to safeguard the territory for future generations,” Bonilla explains. “They emphasize the vital role of a thriving, preserved river in sustaining life. They warn that neglecting the river, especially through heavy machinery in gold mining, would deprive future generations of the essence of life itself.”
“The river is life,” the inhabitants of Juntas reiterate when asked about its significance. The sentiment is evident in their efforts to protect the river from external threats, a struggle that has claimed the lives of several social leaders.
It’s Easter Sunday. After three sleepless nights, few seem tired. Once the rain stops, the Manacillos and the rest of the community — this time without the elderly or the children — march toward one of the river’s beaches. Despite the previous night’s alcohol, they skillfully cross the river. Some dive into the water while others fall asleep on the shore.
During the parade, the sound of the Manacillos’ songs resonates continuously, and everyone dances in ecstasy. This time, a few women, known as Manacillas, join them. Dressed in banana leaves and wearing straw hats adorned with colorful strips of plastic, they play their role while smoking prominent tobacco leaf cigars.
“Wearing the Manacilla attire brings me joy and fulfillment, connecting me deeply with memories of my grandmother,” says 18-year-old Manacilla Camila García Valencia. “I am honored to uphold her legacy.”
The procession returns to the village, where children and the elderly gather around the church, dressed in their best clothes. As Jesus rises from the dead, the Manacillos throw themselves to the ground, acknowledging his resurrection. Now, they are believers.
Once inside the church, everyone dances to the rhythm of drums and bells. After several minutes, the instruments fall silent and the Manacillos retreat into the mystic world. Those behind the masks return to being ordinary people. The game between life and death ends in the ritual, but not in real life.
“We are free here,” Angulo says. “Look at the river! We just want more security in our territory.”