Memories from El Tránsito, 1977

Sometime in 1977, while Nicaragua was gripped by civil war, my parents faced a difficult choice as Managua became increasingly dangerous. Concerned for our safety, they sent my mother, younger siblings, our nanny, and me to the quiet fishing village of El Tránsito on the Pacific coast.

Life in El Tránsito was relatively peaceful. The small village consisted of humble houses, with occasional upscale beach houses belonging to absent owners. My grandmother ran a restaurant from the front of her house—a big open area with a thatched roof facing the ocean. My grandfather would fish early mornings and hold court in the evenings, where people from all walks of life would discuss philosophy, religion, and literature—but rarely politics, as it wasn’t safe to openly discuss the government.

One day, news of a big party spread through town. I asked if I could go, and my grandfather tacitly agreed. I joined the other neighborhood kids, and we followed the music echoing through the warm evening air.

As we approached, we encountered groups of people headed in the same direction. The venue was a timber building with a palm thatched roof and low cinderblock walls. People entered and left constantly, holding drinks, laughing and talking loudly.

Inside, tables had been pushed aside to create a dance floor. The air vibrated with deep bass from a single, imposing red metal box, weathered with age. A large speaker cone and broad metal horn pumped out bass-heavy music, while a lone turntable sat atop the box. The unmistakable smell of hot vacuum tubes wafted from inside—familiar to me from my father’s electronics and hi-fi interests.

Though the DJ cycled through just a handful of well-loved records, the music was met with unwavering enthusiasm. Toña beers and Flor de Caña silver rum flowed freely. The songs repeated throughout the night, but nobody seemed to mind. Everyone was lost in the driving rhythms and bouncing basslines, united in a collective dance that offered a much-needed respite from the tension of war.

As the night unfolded, I heard songs that would stay with me forever: “Avispa” by La Banda, “La Dicha del Gallo” by Lizandro Mesa, and the infectious melody of “Uptown Top Ranking” by Althea & Donna. These became the soundtrack to a moment etched deep in my memory, forever reminding me of music’s transformative power.

Between Two Coasts

My parents divorced in 1978, and we returned to Managua around 1979 when the war ended. I remember watching the Sandinistas storm the National Palace, marking the defeat of the Somoza regime.

But the situation remained volatile and dangerous, with frequent shootings and street violence, not to mention food shortages and frequent power and water outages. My mother packed us up again and sent us to my uncle’s ranch a couple hours from El Rama by boat, on the Rio Escondido in Nicaragua’s Atlantic coast region.

We settled into life in this remote place, living in a small community of perhaps 30 people, mostly indigenous ranch hands and our wonderful Afro-Caribbean cook and her family. I wish I could remember the name of that kind woman who provided delicious food, warm hugs, and sang constantly as she worked.

My uncle had given her a National brand transistor radio, ironically manufactured by my father’s factory before the war. The factory and my father’s electronics businesses were among our family’s first casualties of the conflict. That radio played constantly, tuning in to AM stations from Bluefields or El Rama.

Every evening after dinner, people would gather on the expansive second-story veranda overlooking the river. Someone would fire up a cranky diesel generator to power a string of lightbulbs and an ancient GE tube radio. Everyone would sit or lie in hammocks around the vaguely art-deco box, listening intently to news, radio dramas, traditional Nicaraguan stories, and eventually music—sometimes classical or jazz or folkloric tunes, but occasionally exotic sounds from the US or the ever-popular reggae.

Life on the ranch was mostly quiet, except for occasional supply trips to El Rama upriver or Bluefields downriver. El Rama felt more familiar to me as it was mostly Spanish-speaking, but Bluefields was fascinatingly different—populated mostly by multi-ethnic residents who frequently spoke an English-based Patois similar to Jamaican Patois but unique to Nicaragua’s Atlantic coast.

Bluefields was a busy coastal town with boats loading and unloading cargo from both the sea and the Rio Escondido. Music was always heard —blasting from small radios, boomboxes, or “rockonolas” (jukeboxes) found in every restaurant, bar, café, and even some stores.

Cultural Crossroads

Nicaragua’s unique geography blessed it with both Pacific and Caribbean coastlines, creating a remarkable blend of musical traditions. The Pacific coast embraced the infectious rhythms of Cumbia and Salsa, while the Atlantic coast became a melting pot of genres deeply rooted in Caribbean traditions.

On the Atlantic coast, Reggae, with its laid-back grooves and conscious lyrics, was a constant presence, alongside Calypso and the rhythmic traditions preserved by Afro-Caribbean Nicaraguans. These sounds weren’t just background music—they reflected the deep historical and cultural connections binding Nicaragua to the broader Caribbean.

Local musicians emerged as cultural bridges. Anthony Matthews of Dimensión Costeña stands out as perhaps the most influential figure from Nicaragua’s Caribbean music scene. Born in Bluefields’ Old Bank neighborhood, Matthews began as a radio announcer before forming his first band at age 18. Despite personal hardships—his father died when he was seven, forcing young Anthony to sell fish in the streets to help his mother—Matthews went on to record 19 vinyl albums and 13 CDs throughout his career. His band, Dimensión Costeña, skillfully blended Nicaraguan sounds with Caribbean flavors, bridging cultural gaps and creating a unique musical identity.

Other important groups like Cawibe (formed in Siuna in 1974 by the Cassells brothers along with Marcos Williamson Cutberth and Adán Bermúdez) embraced these cross-cultural influences. These musicians weren’t just entertainers—they were cultural ambassadors who helped connect Nicaragua’s diverse traditions. The impact they had and continue to have on Nicaraguan culture is inmesurable.

Personal Evolution

Arriving in the United States in 1982, I felt completely lost in an unfamiliar culture where little of the music was familiar. Favorite tunes like Donna Summer’s “The Wanderer” were considered gauche and tacky by the suburban kids of Sunnyvale, California, who preferred Van Halen, REO Speedwagon, and Fleetwood Mac.

I didn’t connect with this music at first, but the desire to fit in was strong, and I began developing my own tastes. As I got older, I delved deeply into various genres, primarily focusing on US and European music. I had my first experiences mixing electro, freestyle, and early hip-hop. Eventually, I rediscovered my love for Jamaican music, exploring the UK branches of the Jamaican diaspora as represented by Two Tone Ska and dub-influenced industrial music like Tackhead or Richard H. Kirk.

Later, as I got into the rising San Francisco rave scene, I took my first steps as a DJ, live performer, and music producer. After a few years of dedication to the decidedly Jamaican-flavored sounds of Jungle and D&B, the latter part of the decade found me playing House, Techno, Electro, and occasionally Dub.

Fast forward 20 years, and a yearning for something fresh and authentic led me to explore genres like Cumbia, Salsa, Champeta, Dancehall, and Reggaeton. I discovered a vast universe of music that had evolved outside the sphere of US influence, showcasing its own remarkable cross-pollination and mutations.

A Continually Evolving Musical Landscape

In recent years, the Latin American music scene has witnessed exciting developments. Genres like Cumbia Chicha from Peru have transformed into electronic genres, incorporating elements of Dub and Techno. This evolution spans borders—in Mexico, Cumbia Rebajada (influenced by Houston’s Chopped and Screwed hip-hop) merged with Jamaican sounds. Artists like Dengue Dengue Dengue, El Buhó, and Nicola Cruz have pushed these boundaries, redefining Latin American music’s sonic landscape.

Looking back, I now understand that music possesses a remarkable ability to bridge gaps, defy adversity, and remind us of our shared humanity. The story of a humble soundsystem in a small Nicaraguan village during wartime, of diverse musical traditions evolving across borders, of cultural exchange and resistance—all testament to music’s enduring power to connect people across time and space.

That’s why I started Momotombo Soundsystem—named after Nicaragua’s iconic volcano—to showcase and explore Latin American and Caribbean dance music through a modern electronic perspective. It’s my way of honoring these remarkable musical traditions while continuing their evolution.