In July, 1966, my mom took me on a fantastic trip to Central America. Nicaragua to be precise. Her homeland. She had not been there since her brother died in the late 50s. She was taking me to meet my family, my abuelito Don Concepcion González. My family history is complicated, so for now, bear with me.
We left SF International early morning July 3, 1966 on a Pan Am Boeing 707. A connecting stop at LAX, then a 4 hour 16 minute flight to Guatemala City, at the time the only airport in Central America with a runway big enough for a 707. From there we flew to San Salvador for our overnight stay, as we could not catch the 6 PM flight to Managua. San Salvador was fun since we had family friends there, Don Rodolfo Ramirez Amaya, who was a member of the Chamber of Deputies. His family treated us like diplomats...first class all the way. Well, the next day we flew to Managua on a DC-6, I believe, LaNica Airlines. In the middle of a storm. I became SO Catholic and did not stop praying until that prop plane landed at Las Mercedes International Airport. After customs, I was introduced to my family and finally my grandfather. Tall, wearing a straw hat, kind of elegant and aristocratic, and olive complexioned and his kind eyes. He was skinny...so he could not be the grandfather of this chubby 10 year old. Well, we spent the first night in Managua, at a pension a sort of motel in a large house.
The next day we took the microbus (think of a VW bus) to my mom's hometown, Boaco. It is about 2 hours east of the capital. Long, winding roads with mountains, hills, and one or two volcanoes. Scenery was just incredible. Upon arriving to Boaco, I noted something. Streets were not all paved. I asked where the main street or downtown was. My family laughed and said we've past it. Talk about rural!! Dogs, cows, horses, little kids barefoot. Then that distinct aroma...odor...smell. Coffee!!! Apparently a burning process was going on and the air was filled with that magnificent smell. And of course, there were other not so friendly odors...cow dung. Boaco is the heart of cattle country in Nicaragua. In fact, my grandfather was a dairy farmer. He had his two fincas in the hills. Fincas are ranches. We stayed at my Tia Sarita's house. My bedroom had a mosquito net, which I had no idea what it was for. No television, and my cousins played the radio. Of course, they were in school. The kitchen was in another building, across from the main residence. The bathroom? Either a bedpan or a nice walk to the outhouse! Talk about odors...and bugs of all kinds. I protest. My friend Lynn has accused me of being a wuss for not going camping here in California. Hey, I survived Nicaragua...twice! Outhouses are an experience. My Tia Sarita's son, Abelardo and his wife Celina, took care of the cattle. Every morning they'd go and milk the cows by hand. They would make fresh cheese that was to die for with a homemade tortilla. As the days went on, we traveled all over with my relative and grandfather. He was ever the good Catholic, taking off his hat each time we passed a church. And the towns visited...Teustepe, León, Matagalpa, Chinandega, San Benito, Santa Lucia, El Viejo...amazing towns rich in history, color and folklore. León's cathedral has the distinction of being the oldest Spanish colonial style in Central America.
Ingesting food caused problems...too rich or too greasy and caused me to get sick; thought I was going to die. And who could sleep when it rained; rain fell on aluminum roofs. And the thunder and lightning- Mother Nature's pyrotechnics!! The landscape was so green in some parts, whilst others were dry and desert like. The weather was hot and tropical.
Managua in 1966 was a bustling metropolis. It's cathedral was beautiful. Buses overcrowded, traffic that made rush hour in the States look like a kiddie ride, the smell of foods...you must experience it to understand. Oh, and the patron saint celebrations. In Latin America, all cities and towns have a patron saint. Boaco's is St. James the Great, or Santiago. The colors, the horses, the marimbas and the indigenous people in their tribal colors. Closest thing to Carnaval I will ever experience.
Well, I shall close this telling now. I never did see my grandfather again as he died on February 29, 1972. My mom and I would trek to Nicaragua in 1973. And that's a whole different story. As a ten year old, I was glad to come home. I did not appreciate my mom's homeland as I would later as a teenager.
No comments:
Post a Comment