Chapter 6: Back in the Village

MME BERTHA and Sofía and her mother and her younger brothers and sisters never missed the annual Rain Festival in their village on the coast, a full day’s journey by bus. It was a half-day at most for me by car. They’d invited me last year but I was too new in country then and not yet sure enough of Mme Bertha to accept.

Sofía and her aunt and the others left on Thursday. I’d negotiated Friday off so I drove down after the morning rush cleared, although given the traffic patterns in the city “cleared” is a relative term.

I’m not going to try to explain this festival. It seemed to be a mash-up of pre-Conquest religious observances, fertility and rain rites with an overlay of Catholic Christian ceremonies and liturgy.

From what I’d heard, and looked forward to observing in person, the result was a pretty riotous time, plenty of eating and drinking and dancing, plus all of those enjoyable activities that often follow eating and drinking and dancing.

“You’re going to like it, Michael.” Sofía’s eyes were laughing. She gave me a little hug. “You’ll see.” Her grin was wide. “I’m so happy you’re going to come this year.”

When I arrived Friday afternoon I followed Mme Bertha’s directions and pulled into a side street a couple of blocks from the main plaza. I never discovered the exact relationship between Mme Bertha and the woman who greeted me at the door of a fairly nondescript house on the corner, but Mme Bertha’s instructions had been very clear. Once I’d identified myself, the landlady, Sra. Martínez, welcomed me and showed me to a bright room with doors that opened onto a small patio. High walls made the patio private and the ivy that covered them turned the walls into a living garden. The room itself wasn’t large but it had everything I needed, including a comfortable sofa and a couple of easy chairs.

The small refrigerator contained wine and mineral water and what looked to be Champagne or prosecco.

When I asked about the price Sra. Martínez shook her head and gave me to understand everything had been taken care of. There would be no cost to me. For a moment I was suspicious. Folks connected in any form with the visa operation at the embassy rarely were invited to a free lunch. On the other hand, as far as I was concerned Mme Bertha and Sofía could have all the visas they wanted, so they didn’t really have anything to gain by attempting to put me in their debt. I would find some way to thank Sra. Martínez after I returned to the capital on Monday.

“I usually serve breakfast early, Sr. Michael,” Sra. Martínez said, “but given the holiday we can be flexible.” She almost giggled, I swear.

Spoken by someone who knew what her guests were likely to look like early in the morning after the previous night’s activities.

I smiled.

“Thank you, Sra. Martínez.”

After she left I washed up and changed my shirt and set out for the plaza. It was still relatively early for things to get into their full riot mode but the musicians were spirited and the pots over the cooking fires sent their “Eat me” messages straight to my gut.

Street food in this country is a crapshoot. I’d had mixed luck and I figured I’d better wait until I found Sofía or one of her siblings to lead me to likely vendors. Not long ago I read a book, really a compilation of his blog posts, by a guy who ate his way north to south in Vietnam, eating street food all the way. He said he only got sick once or twice, which seems unbelievable. On the other hand, even if Americans obsess too much over their insides, I had no desire to spend the weekend within a few steps of a toilet.

I ran into Andrés, Sofía’s next younger brother, as soon as I set foot in the plaza. He was with a couple of buddies, and I waited a minute for him to recognize me before I approached. Middle schoolers are a funny lot. They’re right between childhood and teenage horror, so you never know what you’ll get. In the case of Andrés, he seemed to have inherited the same serious genes his older sister had.

He gave me a wave and I wandered over. He practically puffed out his chest, literally, to be seen greeting and talking to an American, a diplomat no less, for so he proudly identified me to his friends, middle schoolers as well. I shook each one’s hand, very formally. I wouldn’t be around, at least I hoped I wouldn’t be around, later in the evening when and if they managed to talk themselves and Andrés into doing something really stupid.

“Is Sofía here, Andrés?”

“Yeah. She’s with my aunt at her house. I’m not sure if Auntie Bertha is coming to the plaza this year, but Sofía should be here soon.”

“Andrés, any idea which one of these folks is a safe bet for food?” I waved my arm at the row of women producing savory aromas from their grills.”

“That’s Sra. Gladys on the end. I’ve known her since I was little and lived here, and my mom and Auntie Bertha think she’s the best.”

He nodded when I looked a little doubtful.

“I think she’ll be fine, don Miguel.”

“Thanks, Andrés.”

Gladys produced a plate of what back in California I would have called tacos, although they went by another name here. But to me they were tacos and they were delicious, every last drippy bite from the savory beef filling to the bits of jalapeño and salsa that gave it serious attitude.