Sacred Space

Basilica in Viejo

Iliana, who owns our hotel along with her husband Mario, has  told us she is Catholic. She said she attends mass every Sunday and says the rosary every morning. She said that Mario never attends, but that he is a good man.

Iliana and Mario once owned 2,500 acres, but lost them during the revolution. They took refuge in Honduras and Costa Rica for years, until Violetta Chomorro was elected. They returned to Nicaragua penniless, and step-by-step have created Hotel Don Mario.

Iliana told us few days ago about a basilica in Viejo, a village 3 kilometers from here. A basilica, she told us, is more beautiful and more important than a mere cathedral. The basilica in Viejo is one of only three in Central and South America. She offered to show it to us.

Today our morning is free, we accept her offer, and she flags a taxi. When the taxi driver quotes a price to Viejo, she says it is too much and he accepts a lower fare of 50 cordobas ($2.00).

From the outside, Basilica Senora de Concepcion looks even older than its 450 years— its white walls turning black with age. But its interior is a wonder. See for yourself [more text follows the 3 photos]:

The altar is bedecked with roses and greenery, in preparation for the wedding of an important Chinandega family. “Muy, muy rico” (very very rich), she says. She tells us that later today, flowers will also line the aisles and flow forth from the church.  The fiesta (party) is being catered by an exclusive Managua restaurant.

Yes, she knows this family. She knows all the families of Chinandega. She grew up here.

Iliana points to the altar below the flowers. “Real de plata (real silver),” she says. And the gold, pearls, emeralds, and rubies in the virgin Mary’s halo are real as well.  This basilica is important to all of Nicaragua, and people come here from every part of the country.

Her voice grows hushed and reverent. She talks of the basilica’s patron saints, shows us the baptismal font, the holy water. She dips her fingers in the water, crosses herself with it, then dips her fingers again and sprinkles droplets on us. “Agua de benediciones” (water of blessing), she says.

And, as the droplets cool my skin, I join her awe for one rare and shining moment—a thin place in which I sense the great beyond.

I do not revere saints and relics in the same way as Iliana. So I don’t know exactly why, but before I leave, I dip my fingers in the water of blessing on my own.

This much I do know:  in this land of heat and noise and dust and poverty, Basilica Senora de Concepcion is indeed a holy place.