Saturday night when we got back late from Chihuahua, I asked Ricardo whether we would head to my assignment the following afternoon so we could sleep in a bit. “Oh no!” Ricardo responded, “They are expecting you at the church service tomorrow!”

Oh.

I find that is my response to a lot of things these days.

Ricardo and I got on the metro early Sunday morning, rode it all the way to the end, and then boarded a “combi” bus. This was a new experience for me. A combi is basically a 15 passenger van, in which all the seats inside face inward towards each other. A full combi (which is most often the case) holds 16-18 people. The particular combi we got in was also equipped with what I would guess was at least a 12 inch subwoofer, and the driver was not shy to use it. My type of public transportation.

We spent the next 40 minutes or so in that combi. It was rough. Very rough. Apparently in the poorer parts of Mexico City, traffic speed is controlled by speed bumps. About every 30 feet. These speed bumps are tall enough, that our Honda back home would literally not be able to drive in certain parts of the city.

To maximize time, combis slam on the gas, then the break, and then heave themselves over the speed bumps. This is about a 20 second cycle repeated until you get off. Throw In crazy traffic and lots of corners and you have yourself a fairly wild ride.

We finally arrived at the church, which holds its services on the second floor of a small building, feeling green in more than one way. The room was a little bigger than our living room back home, and the service had already started, which didn’t seem to be a problem.

The congregation, which I would guess is about 30-40 people, sits in folding chairs, and the front is dominated by the sound system, drums, keyboard, and guitars of the praise band. The praise band is composed of youth, with the exception of the pastor, who plays lead guitar, and the congregation sings words projected on the wall.

The rest of the service has a very intimate feel to it. A woman from the congregation gave the sermon, with quite a bit of interaction from the congregation, and I was very warmly received, with applause and hugs from just about everyone. This all despite the fact that when asked to share a few words, my nervous stammering translated to something like “Sorry for my Spanish, I have only had here one month. I am excited for being here.”

After the service, while everyone was bustling about setting the tables for the potluck, the youth played a video they had made, featuring kids with foot tall mohawks and break dancing with music from P.O.D. blaring in the background.

Having been there only one hour, I can say I had a strong feeling of peace come over me. After months of stress, worries, and unanswered questions, it was a wonderful feeling. I feel that this is where God wants me to be

This last week the MCC Mexico team congregated at the country reps house and flew out of Mexico City up north to Chihuahua, a city about five hours from the US/Mexico border. MCC does not usually gather its teams and then fly them halfway across the country, but this was an exception. This was also a learning tour to visit some Low German Mennonite colonies.

Besides knowing that they existed, I knew virtually nothing about these colonies. The week turned out to be a fascinating and enriching one as I got to know more about both the colonies and the MCC team.

As it turns out, there are over 40 Old Mennonite Colonies throughout Mexico, numbering over 60,000 people. 85% are old order Mennonites, generally successful farming families, living in close community and having very little to do with outside Mexican culture. The other 15% fall into the categories of General Conference and everything in between. The more progressive Mennonites sometimes live in mansions, wear jeans and T-shirts, and send their kids to college. The old order Mennonites live in uniform “humble gray” houses, wear skirts, head coverings, and overalls, and don’t educate past the age of 13. However, all speak Low German as their first language.

The inside of one of the churches (notice the hat rack that hangs above)

There is much more to say about these Mennonites, but in the interest of time and space, I will leave those of you who want to know more about the Mennonite colonies, to write me personally. I love mail by the way.

We spent our week at a more progressive Mennonite Biblical Seminary, where slept, ate, and had our meetings. We only had meetings for two mornings, but they were both 2 ½ hours long, and in Spanish. This means I could catch the general drift of things at the beginning, and by the end, my eyes were glazed over and I was catching hints of words I was sure I could have translated at the beginning of the meeting.

The team we have now is composed of 4 families and 6 single MCCers, serving in primarily in 4 different locations. That makes a total of 14 adults and 8 children. Most of the time it felt like twice as many children and half as many adults. I was made aware both that I am not ready for kids, and that those that decide to do service with little kids are some of the most brave and dedicated people I know (that mean’s you too mom and dad!).

MCC Mexico Team

The three young ladies (Meredith, Sam, and Kiara) that keep things fun and exciting...

When we weren’t in meetings, we were often on the road, traveling between the Manitoba and Swift colonies with the MCC representatives of the Low German colonies. The part of MCC that deals with the Low German colonies is run entirely by MCC Canada, and runs independently of our operation.

Alongside learning a lot about the Mennonite colonies, this gave a lot of time to see the beautiful terrain. The area is primarily fields and grazing lands, with mountains in the backdrop, not unlike Montana. Nothing terribly exciting, but after a month in the city, I spent my driving time glued to the window, taking it all in. I am not sure I have ever truly understood until now the kind of attachment I have to the land. I am suddenly attracted to National Geographic, movies that take place in rural areas, and all news about the farm. When I wake up to the sound of my 25 million neighbors, I have a strong ache to take a walk in the country with my mom, to check the calves on the four-wheeler with my dad, or make apple juice with my grandparents. There truly is no place like home.

View from outside the door of my room

Before I wrap up my rambling, I would like to write about four events in particular that impacted me during this last week:

The first came in a Mennonite run thrift store. Among rows and rows of long colorful dresses and overalls, I stumbled across a small pile of books that were free for the taking. On the bottom was an ancient looking leather-bound German bible. It was a cool looking book, so I took it. When I opened it later I found that the publication date was 1729. To put that in a bit of perspective, George Washington wasn’t even born yet.

The second experience took place at an old order Mennonite church. Entering a church like this is like walking back in history. Women on one side, men on the other. Sermons are often over 2 hours and are still the same 500 or so sermons that have been read in High German for years and years. What made this experience so special though, was that we visited the church on a Thursday. Thursdays are the days when all 12 or so pastors in the area meet for meetings and to settle disputes between colony people. We had a rare chance to interrupt their meeting to greet them. 12 older men in one room, dressed all in black with large rimmed black hats. I shook all of their huge weathered hands and decided that there were few times in my life I had been that intimidated.

The last two experiences came on our last night, when we had a good old fashioned German potluck with those colony people that work in one form or another with MCC. I was washing dishes after with a colony man and I was singing hymns to myself (Me? Singing? Imagine that). He commented that they sing the same hymn in German. We talked a little bit about my German heritage and sang a rousing version of Gott Ist Die Liebe together. He said my German was excellent (thank you Frau Unruh!).

And finally, a Mennonite connection. A few months ago, our family was driving by Papa’s in Freeman and we saw a truck loaded to the max with old farm equipment. My dad commented that he would bet that truck was headed to Mexico. I think I might have talked to the driver of that truck.

It turns out this man (not old colony I imagine) makes trips back and forth between the US and Mexico with such cargo. We spent half an hour talking about eating at Papa’s, Wiemans Auction, and his love for Fensels Motel. There is no way to prove that this was that same man we saw, but it sure could have been.

Overall an enriching and fascinating trip, getting to know and learning about a people with whom we share the Mennonite name and very little else. But in the end, we serve the same Master, and that is good enough for me.

An apple processing plant we visited. Chihuahua provides the majority of apples to Mexico. Ironically, they ship virtually all of their apples. We were told the apples you find in the stores are shipped there from the U.S. odd.

Preparing to enter the Mennonite cheese factory. This cheese is well known in Mexico. If I mention I am Mennonite to most anyone, the response is "Like the ones who make the cheese?"

These past couple of days have been spent moving the MCC offices from a second story floor, to the one below. This has been a decision made by the new country representatives, who in dealing with a very active two year old, would enjoy a bit of a clearer line between work time and family time.

Moving from one floor to another sounds easy enough, but do not be deceived. It is not. In a city of this size, space is precious, and the only way to get it is to build up. Straight up. The stairways look like they belong in the world’s skinniest lighthouse, and the rapid change in elevation is about enough to make your ears pop.

This has caused difficulty for some of the large and heavy furniture. Some things we have lowered down by rope, and other things, like the couches, have somehow been squeezed out the door and surfed down the railing. Before attempting it, we honestly had no clue how the furniture had gotten there in the first place.

The muscle behind this madness has been the country reps, one of the new MCC families (Jamie, Bruce and their three young children) and us four single MCCers (Sam, Meredith, Kiara and myself). One person is reserved for babysitting, and the rest of us pack or unpack as is necessary.

The new office area looks very nice, and we have enjoyed sweating, laughing, and eating together in the process.

One disconcerting element though has been working in two languages. Ricardo knows little English, and many of us know less Spanish. This is ok when you need someone to pass the rice, but not ok when we are all shaking and red in the face with a couch over our heads and Ricardo is yelling something urgent in Spanish. I know it is a phrase I have not yet learned, and that it must mean “put it down!” or “hurry up!” The difference between these two phrases is an important one, and there is not terribly much time to inquire further before the couch summersaults down thirty feet of stairs. Needless to say I have made note of these phrases and they are at the top of my list for memorizing.

The new home for the beautiful couches. We only tore up the back...

The other item of interest was my Quaker meeting on Sunday. For one reason or another, I have not been able to attend a church service since I left Akron. While I have improvised with my own devotions, I have really started to miss fellowship with a community of believers. When we checked into the Quaker house, we were told they had a service every Sunday and that everyone was invited. Having never been to a Quaker service, I thought this would be an interesting and enriching opportunity.

My primary concern was that it would be in Spanish and I wouldn’t understand it. This concern proved to be an unnecessary one, as I would learn that in fact, nobody talked during the entire hour long service. Seated in chairs in a circle, about 30 of us meditated and prayed for a little over an hour. Silence was then broken by a member of the group, we all greeted and shook the hands of the people next to us. A few announcements and concerns were shared, and then everyone was dismissed for coffee and cake.

All in all I found this odd interpretation of community refreshing. I feel the idea of “be still and know that I am God” is one that is too often disregarded. Prayer and meditation is a spiritual discipline I would very much like to improve, and I admire the Quakers for making it a priority.

That said, I would not want to do it every week. I miss my home congregation. The friendly familiar faces, the announcements, the children’s story, the four part harmony, pastor Eric’s thoughtful messages, the conversations after the service, all of it. Going to church every Sunday is perhaps not a requirement of being a believer, but for me at least, it is one of the most important ways to be motivated, encouraged, refreshed, and ready to face another week. Alone we are a flawed and struggling people, but together, we are the body of Christ, strong enough to make the Kingdom of God on earth a reality.

Three weeks of language school go by in a blur, and before I know it, I am lugging my suitcase back up the steep stairs and into my host parents’ car. We certainly made the most out of our last week, doing something different every night.

Me with my host parents. Yes I know, I look colossal, but Mexicans are usually small people.

Of particular interest were a night of dancing downtown and going out to watch two soccer games, one against Jamaica and one against Canada. Neither of those teams is a very formidable opponent for Mexico, but all TV’s are focused on the game, and everyone seems to make the time to gather round.

The whole crew out for a night on the town

We wrapped up language school for now as well, though I am scheduled for one more week down the road, perhaps in January when I have a better understanding of what I still don’t understand, and what just needed practice. I alternated between two tutors, Martha & Rosario (see pictures below), during my three weeks.

Martha

Rosario

We covered a lot of things, some of which I now understand better, and some which I am promised will become more clear to me as I become more proficient. All in all, I can tell my Spanish is better. I can understand more, I can speak easier, and I am finally starting to understand pronouns. I am far from where I would like to be, but language is a process, and however grueling and painful, you can’t skip any of it.

So where I am now? Back in Mexico City, where all of the area MCCers are congregating to first of all, move the MCC office from one floor to a lower one, and second of all, to fly out on Tuesday for Chihuahua up north for a week of retreat.

Since the MCC reps are hosting quite a few families already, us single MCCers (there are four of us) are a 20 minute metro ride away in a Quaker meeting house. Since coming to Mexico I have seen very view foreigners my age. Apparently they have all just been at the Quaker house.

The place is set up like a hostel, with two dormitory rooms (one for men and one for women) with about 6 bunk beds in each. Luckily, at the moment I am the only guy there, so I have a room to myself. Besides that, there is a library, a lounge room with a kitchenette, and a dining room where for 20 pesos; you can eat breakfast with everyone else.

It is not fancy by any means, but it is homey. It has a very similar feel to a French monastery I stayed at in Jerusalem. There seems to be around 10 Quaker young adults here that help run the place and the surrounding Quaker mission projects. They have a very adventurous hippie Bethel feel about them, and the posters, books, and “bring a food, take a food” pantry confirms it.

Breakfast is simple, and you wash your own dishes, but you meet some fascinating people. I talked this morning with an older gentleman from Jamaica. Breakfast was worth 20 pesos just to hear a Jamaican attempt at Spanish.

Sam, Meredith, Kiara and I spend our evenings winding down in the lounge.

Yesterday Alberto told us about a large street fair in the area that happens for about three weeks this time of year. It has supposedly been happening here yearly for 288 straight years. Having only three hours of school a day and a personal tour guide, we didn’t think twice.

The fair was about a five minute bus ride from downtown. For 45 cents you can ride the bus as far as it will go. The problem is that there are no maps. Anywhere. People here memorize the different routes and tourists are left hanging. Unless you have a friend like Alberto.

The fair consists of two parallel streets decked out with small versions of popular carnival rides and booths of all types, lining the streets for about half a mile. Once again, a plethora of sights, smells, and sounds to take in. Not to mention a shoulder to shoulder crowd, moving both directions.

Some things are a bit different than U.S. fairs. For starters, there is a lot more variety to the food. A lot of delicious smelling bakeries, making pastries of all sorts, right there in front of you. Candy shops, venders selling nuts, sugarcane, tacos, and much more.

At Alberto’s suggestion, I had a cup of Elote soup, which is a Mexican sweet corn soup with lime juice, grated cheese, mayonnaise, and chili powder. It sounds like those ingredients should never be in your mouth at the same time, but it is actually quite delicious.

Unlike American fairs, this fair also had quite a bit of fresh fruit. Also unlike American fairs, it was very cheap. I ate well for about $3.00.

Another difference is the lack of any regulations. Besides the picture of the electrical power situation that I have posted, there were also fireworks going off occasionally. Big ones, like you might see professionally done at a fourth of July display, only these were set off randomly, seemingly in the middle of a crowd, and fired low enough that falling debris could definitely light your hair on fire on its way down.

Like fairs in the U.S. there was loads of worthless junk. Tourist trinkets, toys, pictures, you name it. Loud techno booms from fair rides with greasy haired carnies, yelling through megaphones to get your attention.

After passing one such obnoxious affair, Alberto turned to us and asked “Did you understand what he was saying?” Since as a defense mechanism for my poor overworked mind, I tune out a lot of Spanish that does not seem to pertain to me, I hadn’t. Apparently the carnie was announcing to the crowd over his megaphone to look at the “gringos” from “gringoville.” As “gringoville” was not in my Spanish textbook back home, it is not overly surprising that I walked right past, completely oblivious that we were temporarily the center of attention.

Another shocker for me was the mix between the secular and the sacred. In the U.S. it seems that we often acknowledge carnivals as morally shady places and draw our own lines accordingly. Here, it all mixes together. Religious iconography is prevalent everywhere. Some is stunning art work that is very tasteful, and some of it is what I would consider “Jesus junk.” There were several times I had a vivid image of Jesus overturning tables, with stuffed animals and small trinkets flying everywhere.

Along with my opposition to “selling” Jesus, I am also uncomfortable with statues of the Virgin Mary standing next to statues of topless mermaids and a picture of the crucified Christ hanging next to a picture of a crucified Homer Simpson.

This dichotomy also comes to a point in the center of the fair, where a group of people, almost entirely over the age of 50 I would say, gathered at a cathedral for mass, trying to compete with the cries of vendors and exploding fireworks. It seems to be a turbulent time for the state of religion in Mexico. But perhaps it is a turbulent time for the state of religion everywhere.

Sam and I at the Tlatenango fair

Sometimes I question the stability of the electrical situations around here

On Tuesday night, Alberto took Sam and I downtown to an open air restaurant & bar that has live music and Salsa dancing. After a few hours of very relaxed watching, listening, and sipping of a papaya juice, I came to two conclusions:

First of all, few American establishments would dare to have their big night on a Tuesday. Why? Because in the U.S. you go to bed early during the week so you can wake up early for work. You only stay up late on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays. The mindset is different here. If you don’t open up your business till 10 or 11, you can stay out late every night. Why haven’t we thought of that?

Second of all, I MUST learn how to Salsa. I have spent the last four years or so learning to swing dance, which I have enjoyed immensely, but Salsa is swing dance with passion. It’s not as mechanical as swing dance, it has a flow and a rhythm all its own. Alberto has promised to take us out dancing before the week is over. Hopefully a year is enough time to cover the basics.

On the walk home after dropping Sam off at her house, Alberto bought me a Mexican hot dog, which is similar to the American hot dog, except with lots of mayonnaise (Mexicans seem to love mayo) and bacon.

All in all a wonderful evening.

The Zocalo at night

One of the great things about living in a house that rents out a lot of room is all the people you get to know. Three times a day I eat meals with my family learning the dynamics: who belongs where, who actually lives in the house and who is just visiting, and realizing that the lady who seems to be asking me everything twice is actually two different people.

Last Sunday the house was swarmed with relatives. The only thing more awkward than trying to explain why I am in the house eating their food, is not being able to communicate why I am in the house and eating their food.

But even more fun is getting to know the people that are renting rooms here for a longer period of time.

There is Jennifer, a middle aged lady from Chicago that is here teaching English. She seems to meander around the globe these days, going where the wind takes her. She is fluent in Spanish and has been here a while, so she is able to answer the nagging questions I have about Mexican culture and speak English with me after a rough day of butchering the Spanish language.

Jennifer

Then there are the three other guys that live in my pool house. We didn’t interact much the first week, but the second week something brought us together. It turns out that every weekend, the pool is invaded by loads of college kids from Mexico City, wanting to party for the weekend. Mexican college parties are a lot like American college parties, not ending until close to the time we need to wake up. It turns out we all have a fond love for sleep and a common bond against those who deprive us of it.

David is a California kid, spending some of his post college years seeing the world. This includes teaching English here in Cuernavaca for six months. David became our best friend when a week ago, he revealed to us a place in the yard that receives wireless internet. It has been a common meeting place ever since. Having come in with a relatively similar amount of Spanish as I have now, David also gives me a picture of where my Spanish can be in 5 months if I work hard.

David

Alex is a little younger than I am, and rents out a room here, working in town during the day. He is around for dinner and in the evenings, and since his English is about where my Spanish, we have worked out that I talk to him in Spanish and he talks to me in English. We are both the teacher and the student.

Alex

Alberto is a nephew to my host mother, and is living here until next week, when he heads off on another backpacking adventure. Having already backpacked across around a dozen countries and lived enough time in Canada to become fluent in English, Alberto is carefree, adventurous, a ton of fun, and knows the city like the back of his hand. The perfect person to know as a foreigner in a new city. He has taken us out for a night on the city a couple of times, fun experiences that I will blog about later.

Sam, Alberto, and I

I do get lonely at times, missing my family and friends back home. But what God has asked me to leave behind, he has also provided for me again. Praise be to God.

Our internet cafe and hangout

People I talk to are generally very curious as to what the food is like here. Sometimes it’s easy to forget how much of a culture revolves around the dinner table, both in foods and in the customs that come with them. I’ve had to adjust a bit to both of them.

For starters, I have had to adjust when I eat. Breakfast is at 9:00 for me, but dinner isn’t until 3:00, and supper not until 8:30 or 9:00. This is fine once you adjust to it, but you do have to get used to a longer morning and getting ready for bed a lot sooner after supper.

I eat with the family for all three meals of the day. Sometimes it is 5-6 people, and sometimes it is just me. Everyone seems to have their own schedule. Sometimes there are one or two hired hands cooking in the kitchen, and sometimes it is just my host mom. She serves everybody and rarely sits down to eat until everyone else is done.

Part of this is because the meal is served one course as a time. This has been a source of confusion for me at times. It’s hard to know how much to eat and when to excuse yourself when the food keeps on coming. After almost a week though, I am figuring it out.

The adjustment to the actual food has been a lot easier. Probably because I eat like a king here. For starters, there is the juice. Not store-bought juice that boasts about its 6% real fruit juice, I’m talking about fresh fruit from the market, run through a liquidizer. Stuff so thick that it is work to finish off the bottom of the glass. Mandarin, Guava, Orange, Lemon, Prickly Pear, you name it.

Also a staple for meals are tortillas, homemade and piping hot, fresh off the stove. You can roll them, fold them, dip them. There doesn’t seem to be a protocol. At other times there is toast as well. There is butter and jam on the table too, but I’m suspicious that is set out specially for me.

A black bean soup is also popular with most every meal. In fact, with the exception of breakfast, almost every meal starts with a bowl of soup. Rice, bean, cream of onion, cream of spinach etc.

Following the soup is the main course, generally involving either rice or pasta, and a meat of some sort. At times there is also salad, which here means a plate of tomatoes and a plate of lettuce, both dressed with salt and lime.

At this point sometimes your meal is over, and sometimes there is still fresh fruit or yogurt to come. Occasionally there will be something sugary and sweet, but as a general rule, desert is not as celebrated as it is in the U.S.

Are there things I miss? Sure, but as a general rule I have loved the food here, and more importantly, it has loved me.

This past Saturday we took a fieldtrip to Tepoztlan, a town in the mountains located near the site of some ancient pre-Hispanic ruins. To clarify “fieldtrip” a bit, these excursions have nothing to do with the Spanish classes I am taking. Instead, they are fieldtrips for the history and culture class that is going on right now with 10 or so students from George Fox University (in Oregon), who are here for a semester. For a small fee, Sam and I have the chance to tag along to fascinating historical places, and so we do just that.

A 45 minute drive through the mountains, Tepoztlan is a town that seems to rely heavily on the tourism industry, with an impressively large crafts market near its center square.

It boasts two main tourist attractions. The first is a small pyramid nestled up in the mountains. It was a steep hour long ascent for me, which was forty-five minutes shorter than it was for most of the group. I credit this in part to the mile I ran in Akron. I felt pretty good about that until our guide told me he used to do it in twenty minutes for athletic training when he was in school. The actual pyramid at the top isn’t particularly exciting in itself, but the view is spectacular.

The other big attraction is the massive cathedral and monastery. The monastery portion has been turned into a fairly impressive museum, though when you have to work hard at processing the Spanish that is spoken to you all day, it is hard to find the energy to translate the little descriptive plaques attached to everything.

What was most interesting to me though was getting inside a large Mexican cathedral. First of all, I love huge cathedrals. I love the breathtaking architecture, the faint smell of incense, and all of the intricate ornamentation. Though I wouldn’t want to attend one regularly, there is a certain gravity and awesomeness to the feeling of God that I feel in a cathedral.

I also found it interesting to compare a Latin American cathedral with the ones I saw in Europe on choir tour. For starters, there is not quite as much money for restoration here. Plaster crumbles and murals fade. It gives it a very ancient and authentic feel. There is also a lot more dealing with the Virgin Mary and the images of Christ are almost all of the suffering crucified Christ. In all honesty, I found it a bit unnerving, having grown up in a Mennonite church with very little crucifixion imagery.

It is all a little bit intimidating and formal, and has caused me to think about the paradox I see here in Mexico, between the staunch Catholicism and the Goth and punk rebel youth on the streets and the subway. It seems that wherever there is a structured and conservative religious presence, there is also an opposing backlash. My job here in Mexico at the youth center will be in part to try to help bridge that gap.

A picture of our courageous tour guide leading the way to the top of the mountain.

The view of Tepoztlan from the top

Raccoon like creatures. They will walk right up to you and steal the food out of your hands if you let them.

Church of the Nativity

A view of the inside. Not taken by me by the way...