A (cook)book of memories

The man on the back of the ute shouts through a loudspeaker in emphatic Spanish. The students, Universidad de Ingeneria Managua emblazoned on their shirts, stamp in agreement on the dusty road. Cars honk incessantly, demanding to be let through. Occasionally a loud BANG! punctuates the cacophony.
I stand on the footpath, watching the restless crowd and wiping away the stream of sweat pouring down my face. My friend Hugh is next to me, happily clicking away with his camera.
‘You ok?’ he says between shots, as I shuffle my feet uncomfortably.
‘Yeah, sure’ I say sharply, ‘it’s just noisy’. He gives me a thumbs up and turns back.
Just try to relax, I remind myself. You’re just feeling like this because you’ve never travelled before. Everything is different in Nicaragua – the smell of sulphur from an active volcano, the constant diet of tortillas and beans, the mercados full of woven striped hammocks and tropical fruit…
BANG!
I jump involuntarily. That was close.
The crowd suddenly moves as one to face me. People start to sprint in my direction, jostling each other frantically.
They are... fleeing something. Run. RUN!
The adrenaline shocks my feet in action. I am stumbling, screaming, trying desperately to move with the stampede. ‘Hugh!’ I cry out. Was that bang a gunshot? Where is he?
My face and eyes begin to burn and I start coughing compulsively. I can no longer see.
The sight of a familiar restaurant breaks through my hazy vision, and I stagger my way through its doors to safety. To my relief, Hugh is inside, washing his red face furiously under a tap. He hands me a wet washer, which I gratefully put over my eyes.
‘What on earth’ I splutter, trying to catch my breath, ‘just happened?’ The washer shakes in my hands as tears gush down my face.
‘That was the riot police’ Hugh says, looking at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘They just used tear gas.’
I sit down, dumbfounded. I don’t think I will ever forget this day. We wait for the stinging in our eyes to subside and for our racing hearts to slow down. The door to the restaurant continues to crash open as students seek refuge inside, shirts or handkerchiefs tied over their noses and mouths.
Finally the crowd recedes and the noise stops. We weave our way through the barrio to our host family’s house. Hugh spots some children playing soccer in the street and races over, laughing at their cries of ‘Gringo!’
‘You coming?’ he calls over his shoulder to me.
I finally manage a shaky smile, and join the game.