Watch-wearing

It was three o’clock. They should be here right now, I thought. The elevated rate at which my heart was beating and anxious pacing of my feet confirmed the notion. It was three o’clock and I was readying myself for disappointment. It was three o’clock and not one of the people I needed to be seeing was there; not the Red Cross volunteers who were supposed to come and teach a first aid course, not Pastor Luis and his family, not even the people for whom the (100%free) course was to be taught. Three o’clock.

What is the big deal about Time, anyway? I looked down at my watch—I’m one of the only people who wear a watch around here—and asked myself that question. Three is simply a positive integer, o’clock nothing more than the contraction of “of the clock.” Together they are abstract words attempting to describe an imaginary point in the progression of time-space that can either mean “now” or when some event did/should occur. I thought for a minute…

Time is weird when you think about it.

Anyway, the minute hand on my watch was now pointing to twenty past three and I was about ready to tell the two people who came for the class that the show was over. Can I say the show’s over if it never really started? Then suddenly an ambulance pulled up outside the church. Who’s the ambulance f—right, it is here because I asked it to come. A tall man wearing glasses that belonged in the fifties (the glasses, that is) got out and introduced himself.

“You in charge ‘round here?” he asked in Spanish.

First aid presentation.

“Well for now at least,” I replied. He looked around through his large spectacles with nose slightly scrinkled, doubtlessly wondering where the people were. I was wondering the same thing. We walked inside to connect his computer to the projector and get the room set up for the class. Shame was oozing out of my ears; he had come on his own volition and I let him down by failing to fill the room.

Then, within the span of a minute, thirteen people came through the front door. “Alright, we’re ready to go!” Pastor Luis asked with a bounce in his step. Ready to go?! I thought. I’ve been ready to go for an hour and paced a hole the size of a baby rhinoceros in the floor, and you’re ready to go?!

The Heimlich maneuver.

Needless to say, things went very well. The two Red Cross instructors did a stand up job teaching the first part of the course (and will be finishing up next Friday). As far as I could tell, people were engaged and enjoying themselves. I am very happy that people in this community are being exposed to the content the Red Cross is teaching. And when the show was over I was left smiling because all the time I spent worrying about time was, well, a waste of time.

On the average day down here I don’t set an alarm to wake me up—that’s the rooster’s job. I have gotten used to going with the flow and adding at least a half hour onto whatever time anyone says. What is more, I have learned to give my time more freely to others. Time is an invaluable gift to give others, and an incredible one we’ve all received here on Earth. But when I reenter the world of schedules, hours, minutes, and timeliness I will not be disappointed. I like the idea of having at least half a degree of certainty when someone says they will be somewhere at a certain time. In the future I hope to blend the best of both worlds.

I shall wear the watch without letting it wear me out.

A case of the Tuesdays.

I am in Mexico, living “the dream” as a long-term volunteer. The headline goes something like this: young twenty-something with an inkling for adventure and decent capacity in a second language, and a world needing plenty of work. And the story would be full of joy, tears, excitement, and an emotional theme song for background music to boot.

Right?

It is Tuesday morning and I sit down to my computer at around 9:00 am. There is a laundry list of things to do. The highest priority item is planning for the English classes on Wednesday and Friday. I log on and open up the GoogleDocs spreadsheet with my lesson plans and click on an empty cell. The text cursor blinks like a well-trained dog, waiting patiently for my signal to vomit alphabet soup. I stare at it blankly for a few minutes, wondering how in the world I am going to teach meaningful and memorable language skills to groups of fifteen hyperactive kids for an hour at a time—let alone hold their attention.

Animals, for the next two weeks we’re going to learn animals. I come up with a list of animals. What do animals do? And so I throw in a couple verbs for good measure. Now, how to avoid spending money that I don’t have? Old MacDonald. Bring Sancho (my guitar) and sing Old MacDonald. Now we’re talking.

The hour is now 11:38 and things for the English classes are in a controlled state of chaos. Time for priority number two: nutrition education presentations for the women’s group. In May we are focusing on physical health and have planned a series of events to reach out to the members of the church. In addition to the presentations, we have seminars on preparing healthy breakfasts and the Red Cross coming to give classes on CPR and first aid.

“Alright folks, pay attention to this riveting nutrition presentation!” …Are you asleep yet? I am concerned that the information will be boring. Taking naps in class is healthy too, I guess. Looking up the Spanish equivalents for more uncommon words such as “starch” and “ingest” takes way longer than it should. I sarcastically say to myself, you’re going to botch them anyway, so why even bother with the dictionary?

The poster advertisement for May: “A better me in May”

At 2:00pm it is time for the big meal of the day, a welcome break from the computer screen.

By 3:00pm I am back in front of the keyboard typing away. The afternoon project is to format the Recipe-Book-that-shall-not-be-named. Why the allusion to Volde—err—He-who-shall-not-be-named? Because it is simply magical how complicated a straightforward idea like assembling a book of recipes from mothers in the community to sell as a fundraiser in Mexico and the States can become. For no less than five hours my mind goes numb as I change the 60+ recipe titles in Spanish and English to Burrito font, size 24 and the rest of the text to a traditional 12 point Garamond with 1.15 line spacing.

Thud! My laptop screen shuts, finally, at 7:00pm. I am sick of electronic reality, and the thought crosses my mind that the only time I made it out of the house was for a quick three-mile run in the morning. This is supposed to be living the dream, saving the world, and all of that other baloney sandwich; Tuesday felt more like cramming for finals in college. Here are a couple takeaways from my day living “the dream.”

1) It is not possible to visit the beach in spirit while working on a computer, even if I live only two kilometers away as the crow flies.

2) I am not cut out to spend long periods of time in front of electronic screens.

3) Days like Tuesday are a necessary counterpart to more gratifying indulgences such as teaching English, making children laugh, and helping mothers to lead healthier lives.

4) Nonetheless, it is hard to see this bigger picture while carrying out the thankless aspects of service such as those aforementioned.

5) Goal: see the big picture that encompasses the entire life-cycle and scope of  specific   process/experience. (translation: feel equally satisfied and encouraged with days like Tuesday as with days whose gratification is easily felt)

Belly of the Bus.

Among common public places, the bus has got to be one of the most intimate. Busses and stadium restrooms, I suppose. But in this blog entry I will talk solely about busses (you may now breathe a heavy sigh of relief).

Busses in Vallarta are uniformly blue and white on the outside and uniformly un-uniform on the inside. The single consistency amongst interior decoration styles is the Virgin of Guadalupe. Whether small or large, her image is drawn, stickered, or painted in every bus. Good to know that there is a mom looking out me, because the bus drivers are manic-crazy. Rides are bumpy and wild. My legs generally don’t fit in the seats because, compared to the average Mexican, I am a giant. I would complain if the ride cost more than a mere fifty cents U.S.

Inside the belly of these beasts collide individuals of all ages and walks of life. An aggregate mass of people all needing to go in a similar general direction, but with unique start and end points, and individual objectives; sounds like a microcosm of society, no? Metaphors aside, busses are a window into humanity’s daily functioning. Here was my day on the bus today:

I flag the bus a few blocks away from Arroyo. It is near the beginning of the route and almost empty. At first the road is all dust, gravel, and potholes; I might as well be at a rodeo. The route passes by the garbage dump that serves all of Puerto Vallarta. It is just possible to catch a glimpse of the shacks of people who make a living in the dump, sorting through garbage and looking for recyclables. Within mere minutes every seat on the bus is full as the blue ironclad beast winds its way through the streets leading to the city center, the hotels, the beach, and the money.

A man and his young son jump onboard. He plops his kid down next to me, backpedals a few steps toward the front of the bus, and strikes a firm stance in the aisleway. He clears his throat.

“Hello everyone,” he begins to say, but not nearly loud enough to be heard above the traffic’s clamor. “I hope you are all doing well today. I happen to find myself in hard times, my son and I, and so here we are speaking with you. I really am not much of a singer, but I thought you would like a bit of music for your bus ride. Here it goes…”

Most bus-performers have next to no shame and go about their act as if nobody were watching. This man, well-groomed and wearing a red Ralph Lauren polo, is the complete opposite. He begins singing as timidly as he spoke, voice searching up and down for the right pitch and eyes darting back and forth looking for some sort of nonverbal acknowledgement. My entire being aches for him. It seems to be something new for him, soliciting charity. His kid sitting next to me sings along with his father, equally and unharmonically off pitch. I am not a huge fan of paying for things I do not request, but I also respect vulnerability. Here I am seeing vulnerability in spades. As he walks by with open hands I distract myself from my book long enough to reach into my pocket, pull the small amount of change I have, and give it to him.

I continue reading, but am startled back into reality when I feel someone applying pressure to my shoulder. I look to my left and realize it is the kid sitting next to me, 100% asleep. How he can fall asleep amidst the noisy, bumpy ride is beyond me. Before long he is using my shoulder as a full-on body pillow. Kids look so innocent when they are asleep. I feel bad when my stop comes and I have to get up. I walk down the steep steps and my feet hit stationary ground once again, back into my own little world.

After days on the bus such as this I am all the more convinced that we human creatures have more in common than we do in difference. Spending time in Mexico, away from my native language and familiar culture, I am convinced of the same. But it seems like the differences get a lot more attention, and to me that is a crying shame.

Obedience hurts.

When I envisioned myself working as a long term volunteer in Mexico before I arrived, I pictured medicine and gnarly infections and pain. Not because I have tropical disease-phobia, but because I am off to medical school and health issues are very interesting and relevant to me. People frequently asked me I would be doing down here. My canned, simplified answer: “I’m going to be working on health projects and also mixing in a little bit of English language instruction.”

Not that being wrong is a bad thing, but I was dead wrong about my job description. My preconceived ideas were much different than the needs Pastor Luis and Lupita have asked me to meet. I have hardly done anything relating to health. My plate has been filled with a laundry list of other occupations. Leading the teenage youth group, teaching adult English classes, keeping track of the mission’s finances, and being a personal translator would be naming just a few.

Although I naively thought during the honeymoon period of “service” that it would be easy to be selfless, it has not been. I tend to carry an agenda and it doesn’t feel good to throw it out the window. Melding my personal agenda with the larger agendas of Pastor Luis and the community has been good for my ego. I realize now that coming to Mexico has little to do with succeeding in my projects, and much more to do with the humbling of myself to the point of asking “what do you need?”

Is true service about proving one’s benevolence, or about melting one’s heart (and head—it can be tougher to mold at times) into a tool used for the common good?

—Fast-forward two weeks—

Recently the wheels of my concept-car version of service I was driving almost came off. Luis and I were riding in the Gordita and discussing some of the financial matters that I had been working on. Rather nonchalantly he began telling me how much it bothered the other members of his family that I was keeping track of all the receipts for the church and family expenses.

“It is just not something that we in this culture are used to,” he explained. “They pushed back…” At this point the bottom was dropping out of my stomach. I didn’t particularly like the accounting work, but I did it because 1) Luis asked me to, and 2) I thought that it was desired and appreciated. Now my worst nightmare was coming true: insensitive American barging his way into another culture and obliviously doing more harm than good. I started boiling inside as my frustration meter climbed. I felt like I had been deceived and it hurt like hell to know that I was in some way causing strife.

“I feel bad, Luis.” “Don’t.” “No, I feel really bad, Luis.” I was starting to raise my voice.

“Listen,” my pastor replied. But he didn’t have to tell me twice because the tears in his eyes already had my attention. “When Jesus was alone in the last days, do you think he felt bad at times? I have felt bad too, Scott. More times than you can imagine. But I get up every morning and keep pushing and persevering because I know that is what He did and what He would have me do.” He looked me square in the face. “You have to believe and know that what you did was good—even if it hurts.”

I have never seen Luis like that before. Tears welled in my eyes but I was too overwhelmed to speak. Being obedient to the vision and volition of somebody else is challenging. I have been working for the last two months to be able to stomach that. But obedience turns gutwrenching when it is accompanied by the message, “this is going to hurt—but you need to do it.”

Next time I hope I will still be obedient to point of saying, “Yes, to the end of the earth.”

Photo Break II

A couple of times over the past month I have been able to get away from the daily grind and take pictures. Here are some from the state of Nayarit and my trip to Mexico City:

Sayulita, Nayarit

Mexico City

Mexico City

Museum of Anthropology, Mexico City

Teotihuacán, Mexico

Teotihuacán, Mexico

Punta de Mita, Nayarit

Museum of Anthropology, Mexico City

Museum of Anthropology, Mexico City

Under the Big Top

The weather around here is finally warming up. In other words, daytime highs are now flirting with 85^o. With the rising temperatures comes a two-week spring break for the Mexican school system, encapsulating the weeks before and after Easter. What would any self-respecting church and community organization do to capitalize on the situation? Have three days of water camp, of course!

2012’s installment featured plenty of water games…

…Clowning around…

…Crafts…

…Bouncy house…

…And last but definitely not least, the swimming pool.

Pastor Luis and I were in charge of the water games, so every half hour rotation we would get a new age group coming through for the entertainment. Day one was relay day. Day two, water balloon toss and sponge races. Day three, Simon says tournament.

Amongst the many hours of preparation/execution/un-preparation, two hundred children, some six hundred quesadillas and hamburgers, and an untold many gallons of water, there remained one thing that haunted my existence during the camp: the swimming pool. It started out clean (and dry, for that matter) but by the time the end of the second day rolled around it was brackish-brown and so murky that I couldn’t see two feet to the bottom. Thinking about the number of tots and young children who decided to relax control of their bladders in that pool was unsettling. The law of averages says at least one person did.

Pastor Luis, el maestro.

“When are you going to jump in, Scott?” “You been in yet?” “C’mon, get into the pool!” I was continually chided by kids of all ages to get in, but was able to dodge their requests with convenient excuses. “Sorry, I’ve got another group coming for games.” “No, I need to help the food crew.” As the last day of the swimming pool was winding down I finally came to the end of my excuse-rope. There was no other thing left to do besides kick off my shoes, submerge myself in the pool of Pepsi-colored liquid, and hope for the best. Luckily the tug I felt on my leg was not the Loch Ness Monster—just one of the teenagers trying to trip me.

Despite the pool’s questionable appearance and suspect odor, I survived in a quite normal fashion. These past two months have been a journey in peeling back layers of inhibition that stands between me and feeling like I belong. As I came out of the water, I felt a little more a part of the community. Call it an initiation rite. My skin is getting darker and I don’t question the meat in street-side tacos anymore. I used to get embarrassed about my poor Spanish accent, but no longer.

The water camp was called “Debajo de la Gran Carpa,” following Gold Creek Community Church’s “Under the Big Top” children’s circus program. For an appropriate metaphor I look no further than Rihanna and Jay-Z’s song titled “Umbrella.” Being sheltered under cover is a powerful representation of the longings of the human experience. It took me a while to find my way under the “big top” of Mexican culture, and what a wild circus it has been.

There is a bigger tent yet, that of God’s Kingdom. But I’ve heard that it takes a life’s worth of unlearning to find it. So for now, I will settle for smaller and tangible gains.

Group picture.

I have a girlfriend.

I have a girlfriend. For those of you who’ve known me a decent amount of time, that will come as no small surprise. But it was only a matter of time before it happened, right? I mean, what do you normally get when you mix attractive, tan, lively young Mexican women with skinny, awkward white kids from Seattle?

Before getting too far ahead of yourselves (yeah, I’m talking to those of you who want to see a picture), it is only fair that I describe her:

She goes by Gordita, a term of endearment in Spanish.

…She is tan…

…At the same time, she is very secure in her self-image…

…I can take her anywhere with me…

…She is not in the least bit pretentious…

…Her heart is true…

…She is always thirsty and likes to drink…

…What is more, she rarely takes long getting ready to go out…

…But for that matter, she does not bathe very often…

…She is a bit on the heavier side…

…And she does bump into stuff on occasion…

…Yet she carries her baggage well, and even helps me with mine…

Lastly, I love the way she takes curv—er—what I meant is I love her curves.

Got it yet? Here she is… ¡Viva la Gordita!

 

 

 

 

A fair amount of my time has been spent in this rusty (colored) bucket of bolts. She taught me how to drive in Mexico, i.e. without any regard for personal safety, nor the wellbeing of those around you. We deliver food donations in her. I fill her trunk up with teenagers and drive them to the river to hang out for the afternoon. If she would only shed a few pounds, this angel could fly.

I give her baths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If she plays nice, I give her snacks. Her favorite is plain, week-old hamburger buns.

We also take naps together. And finally, this trip to the beach brought to you by—you guessed it—my Gordita.