| As we carried our sleeping bags and mats under the steel arches of one of the world’s most famous landmarks, I couldn’t help but experience a slightly surreal moment. There we were – in our thousands, waving national flags, singing, cheering – crossing a stretch of road that is, and has for decades been, congested by traffic (especially on weekday mornings, when I, like so many others, commute by bus into the CBD on that same stretch of road).
Despite the best efforts of wind-chill to dampen the spirits of pilgrims, the journey from North Sydney was an entirely joyous one – beginning at 11am, finishing between 3 and 4pm, and traversing empty city streets. It was particularly wonderful to see Darling Harbour awash with so many travellers, some carrying sacred icons and crosses, and one girl even distributing CDs with Croatian music (compiled, no doubt, in an effort to promote Croatian culture).
We met Save Falun Gong demonstrators as we crossed into Surry Hills, and a group of Anglicans stood with posters promoting their faith (one man was even quoting Bible passages). Interestingly, no No-To-Pope campaigners could be seen.
Following a tiring 7.9 km march through the city, the crowd finally arrived at Randwick. We were ushered through a security tent where the inspection of bags comprised a quick glance at the items within (some pilgrims even passed through the site, not stopping to open their bags). We headed for our respective gates, collected green bags with Saturday’s dinner, Sunday’s breakfast and lunch, and walked down onto the racecourse, which had been divided alphabetically into ‘lots’ or compartments, with various group all sharing the one compartment.
While waiting for the evening vigil with the Holy Father, I made a quick trip to the other side of the racecourse to find my friend Konrad from Perth, whom I had met while studying at KUL over the holidays. A shimmering hurricane of languages, national flags, nuns, priests, gigantic televisions, police officers and volunteers could all be seen.
Finally, the Holy Father arrived and the Vigil began. I’m told the proceedings were quite beautiful – being unable to see the stage, and far away from a big TV myself, all that I was able to hear was music and Benedict XVI’s homily to the young people of the world. Actually, I was rather worried that I wouldn’t be able to hear the homily at all. A group of Lebanese pilgrims had been playing a very sonorous song all afternoon, dancing in a circle and singing, and it appeared they wouldn’t abate for the evening’s ceremony. (I think, fortunately, that someone kindly requested they stop.)
As soon as the sun had set, the night became very cold, with occasional gusts of a biting wind not particularly conducive to warmth. The plastic coating that had been used to ‘turf’ the racecourse proved not uncomfortable, though sleeping conditions were trying due to the brightness of lights, which were left shining during the night. The moon, glowing in a luminous haze, gazed down upon us throughout the night. Not to far away, Lebanese singing resumed…
I awoke around 6:30 on Sunday, just as hints of sunlight began to appear on the horizon. As I drank my hot chocolate (water and powder, bought from a nearby tent for 3 dollars), I wondered whether a dark cloud mass that loomed ominously on the horizon would postpone its deluge.
Fortunately, it did. Preceding the Final Mass was a brief concert given by Guy Sebatian and Paulini Curuenavuli, and a tour around the racetrack by the Popemobile, to the delight of pilgrims and spectators. A rich musical programme adorned what I imagined to be a visually stirring service (I watched the recorded version when I returned home last night.) It was a little disappointing, however, to see a group of Sydneysiders arrive for the final mass, and sit two metres away from me, eating, smoking, talking and laughing during the proceedings.
The journey home proved quite a challenging task, as well – some worshippers began leaving the stadium as soon as Communion had been distributed (on the 4.6km walk to Central Station at the conclusion of mass, I encountered the Falun Gong group again.) The instructions given by organising staff at the station were, however, superb – the whole exercise was neatly coordinated, excellently demarcated and well-timed. It was a tiring weekend, and my legs hurt all night. At its conclusion, however, I was left with wonderful memories, reverence and renewed inspiration – a member of the ‘new creation’ the Holy Father had so earnestly exhorted.
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