Little Angel: Risks and Rewards in Nicaragua

Laura Watilo Blake • Travel columnist

MASAYA, NICARAGUA—You know how one bad experience can jade your perception of a place? That COULD have been the story about our visit to Masaya, Nicaragua.

Walking toward the center of town, my travel companion and I were hassled by some guy in a cowboy hat. He saw us coming and stepped into the street to block our path. Seeing this, I crossed the street to the other side, but he blocked my friend and became physical toward her, touching her.

I quickly hailed a taxi. As I was trying to talk to the driver, the cowboy came around to my side. I jumped into the taxi with my friend and the driver pulled away, but not before the cowboy reached through the window and slapped me. The whole scenario lasted less than two minutes.

Like I said before, the experience could have made Masaya a horrible memory. We decided just to eat lunch and get the hell out of town. We had come to see the San Jeronimo festival that reportedly took place every Sunday in November, but we were a little nervous about venturing off the main plaza.

We gave up looking for the festival, but it found us.

Halfway into our silent meal, a truck filled with young kids in traditional costume and other folks shouting and waving noisemakers pulled up in front of the restaurant. Within minutes the restaurant was transformed from an empty shell with a few people eating to an entertainment mecca —musicians were playing, the kids were dancing and family and friends were applauding.

An older woman in a polka-dot dress and white hat kept looking over at me. I went over to talk to her and she explained the dances were part of the San Jeronimo Feast Day celebration. All of these people were her family (21 grandkids). Her name was Angelina.

One song after another took place, each being danced by a new pair of kids. I think 10 songs were danced and then it was over. Angelina explained the group would travel to different places, stop to dance, and then move on to the next place. She invited us along, so we quickly paid for our lunch and followed.

The next two venues were residential homes. Furniture had been cleared to make room for the crowd. Between each stop, men were serving Cuba Libres from the trunk of a car.

We ended up in the Casa de Cultura, a gymnasium with a stage at one end. On stage, two men were introducing the groups of dancers as they entered. Angelina's grandkids took a spot on the gym floor to dance and I went up on the stage with other spectators to get a better view. A couple women were dancing the marimba and encouraged me to join them. So, there I was, dancing the marimba with people circled around me, clapping cheering.

Angelina said the next stop would be quite far away from town, so it was time for us to leave the family fold. Angelina gave me a huge grandma hug and I thanked her for inviting us along.

Angelina, as her name suggests, was our little angel. Her name couldn't be more perfect. She doesn't realize that by welcoming us into her family (even for that short time), she was able to ease some of the isolation we were feeling following the assault by the guy in the cowboy hat. Now when I look back, that guy is a distant memory and I often entertain the idea of going back to find Angelina.