The Texas border crossing had been a terrifying experience for all the media hype, American’s telling me horror stories, and even the border guards worried for my security. But life is always a gamble and living by the confines of fear does not seem like much of a life at all. So I’d simply allow myself to feel the fear and do it anyway.
The object of winter in Mexico is to find warmer climates so, in my usual style of roadside camping, I’d been riding steadily south for days. Thus far I’d found Mexico’s “security” problem no different than any other winter I’d spent here and again I began to marvel at the media’s ability to terrify the people so thoroughly.
The small two lane country road was somewhere near the west coast. Its shoulders were lined with a wildly green jungle foliage. But the day waned toward evening and again it was time to find camp. Although in the U.S. it’s useless, the Mexican’s reaction are usually exactly opposite. Knowing this I turned into the dirt driveway of a poor cinder-block home and shut the big Harley down. A woman stared at me from her place next to the fire-pit, beside her stood two young boys, a pastel of chickens, and one peacock. I smiled warmly as she approached. Though my Spanish is not to good, I have learned a word or two in my combined total of almost two years in this country. So I asked if it was okay to make camp in her yard for a night. When her moment of confusion had passed the woman said, “Sure. Anywhere you’d like.” I dismounted and introductions were made. Laura lives here with her husband who, and she giggled at the description, is a man with terrible social skills who spends most of his time hunting—which is where he was at the moment. Next she introduced me to Yesed, a boy of about 14, and his little brother Ian. Next Laura went back to her cooking and I set to erecting camp.
When finished, Yesed asked if I’d accompany him for a walk. With no idea where we were going, I followed. A block down and across the street we came to a big house and he knocked at the door. An older man answered. His greeting was a handshake then a hug. Speaking English, Phillipa told me he was Yesed’s grandfather then escorted us inside to meet his wife Yolanda, who hugged me again. Once seated at the kitchen table of this beautiful home Yolanda served coffee and pastries. Little did I realize that for the next five days this would become our nightly ritual. Phillipa told me that, with all the tourists gone these days, he’d not had opportunity to use the English language in 10 years, and what a pleasure it was to speak it again. I learned that Phillipa’s the local minister. But he did no preaching. Instead we talked hours into the evening. Eventually Yesed and I went home.
The following morning brought warm winter sunshine amid the chickens of my green jungle setting. Again I was greeted with hugs. In fact I began to wonder if these people were gonna hug me to death. The boys made obvious effort to be in my presence and I met Laura’s husband. For me there was a great feeling of contentment here, and acceptance among the family as well. Throughout the lazy morning I felt no desire to leave and eventually asked if I might stay another night. The answer was an easy yes.
The evening was again spent at Phillipa’s place, except this time with Laura and both boys present as well. As was her way, Laura found almost everything in life funny and her sense of humor was a constant pleasure to me. As for Laura’s mom Yolanda, she began mothering me like a long lost child. Yolanda also liked for everyone to hold hands and pray a lot. But I kinda liked it. This evening ritual would continue for the better part of a week.
A thing I’ve noticed about my stays with Mexicans is they almost always worry that their rough homes (by our standards) will not be good enough for the American. But in short time, and as always, it became quite apparent to Laura that her place suited me just fine.
Because the stove in their little block house did not work, Laura always cooked on the fire-pit outside. One day she walked out with a huge fish and plopped it, head, scales, guts, and all, right onto the fire-pit’s grill. I’d never seen that before. In a few minutes she flipped it over then soon moved it to the picnic table and began hacking at the thing with a knife and throwing fish-chunks into a pot. Next she added Crisco oil and other weird stuff while I began to think, This can’t be good. I’m just gonna have to suffer through this meal in the name of politeness. Next she set the pot back on the fire as I worked to keep my jaw from dropping at this obvious debacle. By the time the meal was finished Phillipa, Yolanda, and Arturo—the entire family—had shown up and the picnic table was filled with food and condiments.
Okay. As I began to fill a plate that pot of fish eventually came around so I made two tacos then grabbed a seat to enjoy my mutilated fish. To my real surprise the fish was absolutely fantastic and I ate more of it than anyone else. Later I told this story to Laura and she laughed her ass off.
Part of Phillipa’s motivation for becoming a minister was because he’s a man who needs the luxury of finer accommodations and this, he said, was a thing that came with the job. And it was true, for his home and van were quite nice. Still, I believed that the larger part of his interest in ministering was altruistic. In fact, at one point he asked if I’d help him talk with a young girl who’d recently attempted suicide; for although he knew I’m not religious, I had also told him that I walk through life with great faith in a god of sorts.
Just for the experience I began kicking around the idea of attending Phillipa’s Sunday school. I told Laura as much and also stated I figured it’d be boring. She assured me it would.
That Sunday I walked to Phillipa’s place where he and I jumped into the big white van for the short ride to town. Along the way he stopped to pick up two amigos and it wasn’t long before we all bounced along the dirt road that led through a little neighborhood and ultimately to the church. The humble place had a wrought iron gate with big yard and small building that looked as though it was simply a house converted to church. We were the first to arrive.
Our guys were a little excited today as, from the van’s rear door, they produced a new banner/marquee then held it out for my inspection. Today we were gonna hang this thing over the wrought iron church entrance. Thing is they’re all fat so I did most of the climbing and wiring of this thing to whatever it could be secured to.
Before long folks began showing up and in short time I was sitting in church wondering about the boring sermon that would undoubtedly be in Spanish. But today that lazy-assed minister got out of it by simply setting up a television and running a religious film, with English subtitles, before his smallish congregation.
Although I’ve no idea how she got there, Yolanda sat beside me.
The sermon was not long today and at its finish the little courtyard bustled as folks socialized pleasantly among one another. Pretty soon I was back in the van with our guys and Yolanda, who’d now joined us.
Our first stop was to run these boys home and both lived in the same place. Brothers maybe? The front of their house was actually a small market and we gathered at a table outside. As conversation ensued I noted a girl eyeing me. She seemed a bit self conscious in that teenager girl sort of way. It was obvious she wanted to talk but was afraid her English wasn’t good enough and that she’d screw up, I’d not understand, and she’d be embarrassed. But I did understand most of what she said and it didn’t take long to realize she could practice English on me all she wanted. Her father, one of the guys who’d helped hang the church banner, was a fine woodworker and he showed me the beautiful furniture he builds to augment the family’s income.
After an hour Phillipa, Yolanda and I climbed into the van and left.
It’s been my experience that to many Mexicans us Americans are all movie stars. They see us on the TV and know we exist in the great rich country to the north. Although most will never go there, they are often very curious. Meeting me is the closest many will ever come to the U.S. and I’m often treated as somewhat of an event. So they’ll sometimes drag me around town to show the American off to friends, which is very cool because I get to visit various homes and meet lots of folks. And so it was today.
At one home I met a little girl of probably nine years who was instantly enamored with me. She insisted I tell her the English words for all the colors, although she already knew many of them.
Most of the families we visited that day lived in the back rooms of their little market, bakery, or whatever family business. Every one seemed to know my hosts well, greeted me with warm welcome, and invited me to stop back any time.
Although past experience has taught me never to openly spend much money on poor Mexicans when living with them because they may start looking at you like a paycheck rather than friend, at the bakery I insisted on buying all the pastries Yolanda tossed into a bag (cost about $2.25). After all, they’d been feeding me and offering use of their hot shower (Yolanda insisted) for days.
I had entered Mexico late in the winter season and would only have a couple of months to enjoy the time in this strange world before the springtime heat again signaled the need to move north. Besides, by now I’d grown bored with such small town life. So, on he sixth day of my stay with Laura’s family, I again packed the bike.
As the small jungle road opened up into a land so different from my own I wondered at what adventure might next take place. Little did I know it had only begun…
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