Harry L. Foster

Summary

Harry L. Foster A Gringo in Mañana-Land (1924)

Managua, the capital, was in no better repair. It was situated at an altitude of only 140 feet—by far the lowest altitude of any Central-American capital. It sweltered in heat, relieved somewhat by the breezes from its lakefront, but like Corinto and León it was a city of sand, and the breezes filled the streets with swirling dust. Each lumbering ox-cart left a cloud in its wake. It lay two inches deep on the main avenues. It covered the grassless plaza, and the barren expanse of desert before the old cathedral, where vegetation was sprouting from a fallen spire.
Source: Gutenberg

Harry L. Foster A Gringo in Mañana-Land (1924)

To the stay-at-home American, Mexico is only a sun-scorched desert. In reality, it is a land of everything—of sandy wastes, of rugged mountains, of rank tropical jungles, of temperate valleys—of lowlands bathed in moist tropic heat, of midlands where strawberries are always ripe, even of highlands swept eternally by chilling winds. Yet always there is some intangible spirit about it that makes it unmistakably Mexico, especially upon the bleak plateau.
Source: Gutenberg

Harry L. Foster A Gringo in Mañana-Land (1924)

At 8.00, we sailed out of Mazatlán’s attractive harbor, where the moonlight sparkled along the wide expanse of sea, and the tinkle of a guitar came to us from the thatched cottages of the fisher-folk, as though it were an accompaniment to the chimes of the old cathedral clock that we knew so well. Eight o’clock! Herminia and Lolita would be strolling in the plaza, where the strains of the band, as though from an orchestra off-stage, blended with the ripple of the fountain, with the voices of youths and maidens and the whispering of the palm trees!
Source: Gutenberg

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