Over the course of the past two weeks I have had numerous interesting experiences, none of which cohesively tie together, so I'm just going to skip the clever segues and skip from one to the next as they come to my head.

SPICY FOOD
Spicy is the achilles heel of my otherwise quite invincible digestive system. I love new foods. I can eat just about anything with very few repercussions. But I have a problem with spicy. Which lends itself to an admirable amount of irony given my current location.

Mexico loves spicy. With everything. They put chili and lime on all snack foods, fruit, and even some deserts, and the salsa slathered on generously here could burn through iron bars. This is problematic for me, and unfortunately it's not just the sweating, crying, and runny nose. My first week here my host mother in Cuernavaca gave me a fairly typical Mexican soup, and it being my first week, I felt it more important to tough it out and be polite. I finished it up and was quite proud of myself until 2:00 AM when I sat straight up in bed, and I can vividly remember the two hours that followed.

So now I have started from the bottom and am gradually working my way up. I tell everyone I need to “acostumbrarme poco a poco” or “ accustom myself little by little.” I have the pastor's family on strict orders to up the dosage every week, because as of now, the word has gotten around to every family I eat with, that I cannot tolerate spicy and though people are more than happy to accommodate, “He can't eat spicy things” is said in about the same manner as though I had a sexually transmitted disease.

I do not understand the masochistic tendency to eat spicy things. Soon one level of spice isn't enough, and one needs to move on to another. The pain is intense, but people love the rush they get. Does this not sound an awful lot like heroin? Either way, I will be glad when I can eat what everyone else is eating and not stick out like a sore thumb.

MEETING FOREIGNERS
The other day there was another American on my combi ride to work. Besides glancing up when I got on, she completely ignored me. I found this baffling. Not that a female would completely ignore me, but that with as few foreigners as there are in this part of the city, there would be no interest to find out what the heck they're doing here. I have met perhaps three so far, and have been completely ignored by all of them. Fascinating.

MAKING A GOOD IMPRESSION
Every Friday morning I eat breakfast with a family down the street. Last week while they were preparing my food, I accidentally leaned wrong against their bi-level glass coffee table and the thing exploded. After they patched up my bleeding finger, I was told to sit back and drink my tea while the family spent an hour putting their beautiful coffee table in a burlap sack. I havn't felt quite that lousy in a long time.

GAMES
Recently I have been playing a lot of “Tourista” with the pastor's kids (Alva 21, Manuel 18, Cha Chas 10), which is basically a Spanish version of Monopoly, where the world is represented and the properties that you buy our countries.

This is an interesting take on the world. I can buy the U.S. for $40,000, which is almost twice the cost of Mexico and more expensive than all of Central America combined. I have won twice already by acquiring the U.S, buying out Mexico, and then building hotels and taking all the money from my poorer third world neighbors. God bless America. Not my brightest moment as cultural bridge builder.

Noticing that the house was low on games, Cha Chas and I went to the market, bought four decks of cards, and I taught them all Nerts (Dutch Blitz for those of you without class). It has been a smashing hit. Generally they are playing when I arrive in the afternoon, and I still get at least two hours in before I head for home. I was unbeaten the first few weeks, but recently the tides have begun to turn. Time to find another game...

I have thought quite a bit about my health in the past few weeks. This is a new phenomenon for me, as my Ortman metabolism would likely allow me to drink gravy for the rest of my life and still look like a string bean and feel like a million dollars.

No, I am not gaining weight, but my diet is as close to “drinking gravy” as it has ever been. I’m told that Mexico is a close third in obesity behind Australia and the US, and it’s not because Mexicans are lazy. It’s because 90% of what they eat swims in grease.

There are a lot of different types of food here, but they are almost all variations of the same ingredients, and virtually all deep fat fried. Breakfast, dinner and supper. Mario took me to McDonalds for the first time last week and I realized much of what I have been eating is greasier than the meal I had there.

Nothing is ever baked. Every oven I have seen here is used exclusively to store pots and pans, saving space in their small kitchens. The other night I went out for fruit for desert: Deep fat fried bananas covered in cream, caramel, and strawberry jam. And like everything else I have eaten here, it was delicious. I just have to wonder if my arteries are thinking the same thing.

This is coupled with the fact that I spend virtually every hour of my day indoors. There is nowhere to get exercise of any sort unless you buy a membership to a gym or are luckily enough to stake out one of the precious few soccer fields in the area.

Even when I am outside, I doubt I am doing much better. Mexico City is known to be one of the most polluted cities in the world, supposedly exceeding the World Health Organization ozone level standard 300 days out of the year. There are emissions from the over 4 million older vehicles, not to mention to trash from over 20 million people.

The pastor’s house sits right by the most polluted river I have ever seen, which runs right through the city. Trash flows thick through it every day, and rats run along the edge. It smells strongly of sewage and most people have found that throwing their trash in it and letting it flow with the current is the best way to be rid of it.

The other night we had a particularly big rain and the river was flowing high. The pastor’s family and I, as well as everyone in the streets began to cough and sneeze and feel sick. This only lasted a few hours, but it was a scary reminder of the price of living this close together with so many people.

I do not know how a year here will affect my health, but the truth of the matter is, when I am done, I get to come home to the fresh air of the Midwest. How blessed I am to be able to return home to the open prairies and breathe clean air, the way God intended.

Sundays here are by far my busiest day. I ride to the church with Mario at 9:40 and church generally isn’t over until after 2:00. Though the starting time is rather ambiguous, somebody generally gets up in front of the pulpit at 10:30 and gives a sizeable devotional, followed by prayer time. There is a time for individual prayer requests, and since we are a small congregation, almost everyone shares, which is exciting.

Then the congregation is split into three or four groups and assigned different prayer concerns, more on a global level. My second Sunday here we were all gathered in a circle and I was asked to lead the prayer. This was a problem, because I didn’t really understand what we were praying for. I asked if I could pray in English and they thought that would be fine. It was also lucky because since nobody here speaks English, I was able to pray for about anything I wanted to. When I was done with what I felt was a fairly decent prayer I said Amen, and everyone stared at me. As seconds drew on into minutes and all the groups around us continued to pray, I realized my prayer was inexcusably short. Oops.

Following this there is quite a bit of music led by the praise band. All the songs are praise songs and are read off a dim overhead. Some are translations of English classics, and others are new to me. Since Mario plays keyboard and not bass, I told him that once I knew some of the music better I would love to play bass as part of the praise band.

I was kind of picturing in two months. He took this to mean next Sunday. So on Saturday we practiced 4 songs. The music was simple enough to stumble through. Then on Sunday I got up on stage. Keep in mind I bought a bass in 7th grade as a hobby. I can’t read music, I’ve never had lessons, and I have never played with anyone else. But there I was in front of the congregation. It continued to get more interesting, after another four songs were added at the end of our segment. So with the congregation singing away, I tried to play songs by ear I have never heard before in my life. Mario kept turning around and yelling out keys to me. I’m not sure he quite understands the limits of my playing. All in all, it was a blast, and I am excited to have the chance to be part of a group like this for the rest of my year here.

Following the music is the real sermon. I try to keep my attention by writing down words that I don’t understand, but that is hard to do by ear and after about 10 minutes I find myself wondering about things like whether mom and dad are having apple crisp for desert. It is usually about this time I hear my name faintly in the background. I snap out of my dreamy state and the pastor and everyone else is looking at me.

I figure I have two choices, nod or shake my head. Usually I nod and smile because so far every time I have done that everyone else smiles and nods their heads and the pastor continues with his sermon. I make a mental note to myself to pay better attention.

One Sunday, at the end of the sermon, I heard my name and Mario mentioned. Mario stood up, and then everyone looked at me. I stood up too as it seemed the most logical thing to do. It turns out I was an usher that day. Mario asked if I wanted to give the offertory prayer. This time I said no. I’ll just stand here and time you for future reference.

After the service is an hour and a half of Sunday school. The pastor works with the youth, and there are generally about 7-10 of us. By this point, my brain has turned to oatmeal and it is all I can do to stay focused.

After all of this, the church usually has a potluck meal. It costs two dollars a plate, and is actually a fundraiser to build two additional rooms on the roof of the building. It will cost about $3000 dollars, which is a huge amount for this congregation. They have taken to selling their household appliances on the street to raise money. If you would like to help at all with a donation, let me know. This seems like a good opportunity to help a sister congregation.

On another note, I would like to say thank you to everyone who thought of me on my birthday. I felt very supported and loved on my first birthday away from friends and family. There was no big party here, although I received many hugs and congratulations from everyone who knew about it. The pastor also told me that a birthday here lasts more than one day and that all festivities are a surprise, so time will tell what that means. Overall though a very happy 23rd.

Continuing my two part series of “things you won’t see in South Dakota,” I’d like to talk a little more about public transportation. Perhaps in part because it is so new to me (Freeman doesn’t have much for public transport after middle school), and also because the system itself is quite impressive.

You can travel almost anywhere in the middle of the city by metro for twenty cents. There are five or six different lines, all with different colors, and all the stops have symbols to go with their name. I could rest assured my first week here that if I got off at the stop with the helmet, I was at the right place.

Actually riding the metro takes a bit of adjusting to. First of all, you have very little time to get on and off. I was actually caught in the door once, just for being at the back of the big push.

And then there are the people. If you like people watching as much as I do, the metro is really a treat. A mixing pot where all types of people meet. If you like your space however, the metro takes some times to get used to. It is hot, stuffy, and during rush hour, you pack in as tight as possible. They actually separate men and women into different cars during rush hour to eliminate sexual harassment, which can otherwise be a problem.

But what makes the metro exciting is the vendors. Much like the ones that come by my house, the metro is full of people trying to make money. Sometimes people come on selling MP3 cd’s, blasting music through a stereo system bulging from their backpack. For a buck you can buy a cd with up to 400 songs on it, covering about any genre you can imagine.

Other times musicians (often blind) will come through the cars, playing guitar or singing along with a tape recorder. Sometimes it is wonderful. Other times it is not.

Sometimes vendors sell gum, candy, pencils, sewing kits, you name it. Occasionally they will work their way through the car, setting their item in your lap, hoping that if you just had the chance to hold it for a second, you would want it. If you leave it where they put it, they will come back and reclaim it.

Once we had several clowns (literally, with face paint) come on to entertain people. Occasionally, in the evenings when there is more space in the metro, things get really wild. Shirtless men will come on, lay out a cloth full of broken glass, and then throw themselves down on it as hard as they can. Then with backs bleeding, they come around asking for tips. I have never seen anything quite like it.

If you live farther out in the poorer residential districts of the city, you rely on combis. Each combi has a route name in the window. There are no maps or explanations. You have to ask a native.

Mario told me there are over 1000 combis in our small part of the city alone. They usually make up over 50% of the traffic. During certain parts of the day it is closer to 80 or 90%. Why so many? Because all you need is a license and a combi number and you can join the fray. Can’t find work? Buy a 15 passenger van, take out the seats and rearrange them, and drive people around all day. It is really an excellent system. It employs a lot of people, and I can get a ride anywhere at just about any hour. If one combi passes you, you usually only have to wait ten or fifteen seconds before the next one comes along.

I do miss driving, but there is not a day I don’t thank God that MCC does not make me drive in this city. For now I am content to pay my fifty five cents, squeeze in beside two strangers, and enjoy the ride

One of the things I miss most from home is silence. Silence so pure and still you hear your ears ring. There is never silence here. Ever.

I didn’t expect any less in a city of over twenty million, but there is some of it I find very aggravating. And I’m not talking about traffic noise here (though how such a laid back society can be so generous on the horn is beyond me). Rather, I’m talking about vendors. Apparently when you live in a city with so many people and not enough jobs, the vendors come to you.

This starts around 6:00 or 7:00 AM, when two men walk down my street yelling JABÓN!!!!!!!!! JABÓN!!!!!!!! At the top of their lungs. These men have decided that the first thing I will likely want when rudely awoken in the morning is soap. They are wrong. There are many things I want when rudely awoken in this fashion and none of it would be good for their health. I cannot understand who is buying soap here at that hour anyway; most people don’t even get up until 9 or 10.

Try something for me. Tomorrow morning wander into a residential district with a bar of soap in each hand and yell SOAP!!!!!!!!!!! at the top of your lungs. Tell me how that goes for you.

About half an hour later another vendor comes by. I’m not even sure what he is selling. All I know is that he does so by ringing a cowbell as loud as he can. And I doubt he is herding cattle. I can hear him coming for blocks, and must sullenly wait five minutes until he is past my house. Then he turns back around and comes back again, as though to ask “what would it take to be tackled full on by a screaming American?”

But the show isn’t over yet. About half an hour later a man in a pickup truck slowly drives by. He doesn’t feel the need to yell, because strapped to the roof of his car is megaphone loud enough to bring anyone within twenty feet to their knees. I have actually seen a tamale vendor with one of these, and he was wearing ear protection. How considerate of himself.

Around the time I eat breakfast someone comes around with a bicycle horn. The kind of bicycle horn that nobody buys for their children’s bikes because the noise is so atrocious.

Sometimes when I am doing my daily devotions, the soap guys make another round. And no, I still do not want soap. Perhaps it is a daily ritual I need to embrace as part of my new surroundings. Or perhaps “Jabón” is only the first part of a Mexican version of Marco Polo, and I simply need to discover the rest.

Recently I have been spending more time than usual at the pastor’s house. This is because, about a week ago, two electricians knocked on our door, and said something to me in rapid Spanish. I didn’t have a clue as to what they were saying, but I tried to make it clear that I wasn’t really in charge and that they were probably free to do what they needed to do.

Fifteen minutes later they had stripped clean our electrical box and were gone, leaving us in the dark. I was a bit concerned this was what I had instructed them to do, but as it turns out, our power contract is up. This means for an undisclosed amount of time, we have no electricity.

Thus Mario and I have been staying later at the pastor’s house. I have a nifty headlamp for my spelunking adventures in the house, which mostly consists of finding the bathroom and finding my bed. Before I leave for the pastor’s house every day I lay out everything right where it needs to be for my return. There has yet been no clear indication that we will have power soon.

Most days my office continues to be the couch in the pastor’s living room. In all honesty, I have a considerable amount of time on my hand. Aside from my RECH responsibilities, I spend time studying Spanish and catching up on reading I should have done in college (The Politics of Jesus by John Howard Yoder and Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis at the moment).

On Friday I took my first solo trip back to the MCC headquarters to work through some finances and report on my first week on the job. This involved taking a combi to the metro, and the metro to MCC headquarters. This is about an hour trip, and aside from the stress I get from public transport, I am quite proud to be able to navigate my way around this city, a city in which even the taxi drivers get lost.

I got to spend some quality time with Sam, Meredith and the directors. Within five minutes I had used more English than the entire previous week. It was wonderful to talk so effortlessly. In Spanish, I have to sweat to earn every phrase. At times, I have something to add, but the work it would take to put the thought together into a coherent sentence is too much work, and I let the moment pass. As a person notorious for one line jabs, this handicap is killing me.

What I did not realize I was getting myself into by returning to MCC headquarters was moving the safe downstairs. Yes, that kind of safe. For reference, see the staircase pictures from a previous blog. That couch we moved was a walk in the park in comparison.

On Saturday I had the opportunity to eat lunch with Sylvia, one of the ladies from my congregation. In the part of the city she lives in, houses are stacked on top of each other, put together with whatever is around at the time. After eating she took me on a walk to show me her neighborhood. She pointed to one particular small four story apartment complex and informed me that 20 families lived there. The neighborhood crawled with people like a bee hive.

As we crested the hill there was a massive Wal-Mart owned grocery store. Wal-Mart supposedly is 25% of the economy here, a considerably larger percentage than in the U.S. and a considerable problem for nearby small business owners trying to support families.

As we kept walking we passed a small soccer stadium. This gives opportunity for some, but there is simply not enough space for everybody. After school, kids around here generally run around in the street or are confined to their small living rooms. Sylvia would love to live in the country, where her son could have space to run around. Unfortunately there is not the money for that.

We also walked through a grassy area, an odd sight among all the concrete and residential housing. I asked why nobody was taking the opportunity to build there. Apparently all such grassy looking places in the area are owned by a Frenchman, though nobody is sure what he intends to do with it. Whatever his intentions are, nobody is allowed to build on it.

Sylvia was also very proud to take me to her English class, held in a neighbor’s house for herself and four other high schoolers (apparently there is one school in the city that only offers French, a very practical language for inner city Mexican youth). The English was basic (we worked on holidays and basic question and answer), and was taught by a man who had been teaching English for 14 years.

Watching these lessons was good for me for two reasons. First of all, I realize why native English speakers are in such high demand, regardless of experience. Though this man had been teaching English for 14 years and likely had a much better technical understanding of the language, my English was still undoubtedly better than his. He also (like most Mexicans) could not pronounce his “th.” If a teachers has trouble with pronunciation, there is no way for students to learn properly. The teacher took advantage of having me there, simply having me speak, so that the students could work on their pronunciation.

Secondly, I had the chance to watch an experienced teacher teach English, something I will be doing in several months. It was a good chance to examine methodology and also observe the typical problems Mexicans have with English, problems a native speaker would be unaware of.

For Sylvia and her community, learning English is an important gateway to better paying jobs and a chance to climb out of poverty. For many people in Mexico, the chances are slim. This is the community I live in.

Yet I am humbled, when I am invited over to someone’s house for dinner. I was humbled when after our walk, Sylvia bought me an ice cream cone and insisted on paying for my combi ride back, and I am humbled every week during our weekly Bible study when my community takes time to pray for the U.S. economy and the Americans affected by it. The community I live in may be poor in means, but it is rich in spirit.

My second Monday here, I sat down with the pastor to talk about expectations and the like. It looks like I will be phased in here very gradually, which is good news to me, since I still feel a toddler-like dependency with everybody and everything.

As of right now, my responsibilities are as follows:

#1. Send out an email to all the RECH youth once a week. Though there are only half a dozen or so youth in the small Mennonite Church I am a part of, RECH reaches out to all area youth and supposedly has a contact list of around 200, ranging in age from teenagers to early twenties. My job is to first of all, introduce myself, then outline upcoming events, and finally, pick a Bible passage and write a devotional.

This email takes me a while. Writing it in English is a breeze, but my Spanish is still very basic and rigid. Even if I could get it perfect grammatically (which I can’t) it still reads like a legal document, and we all know how much kids love boring things.
*Sigh*. This will all improve in time.

The second part of my job description is to help plan the abovementioned events. “Helping” is still a bit of a joke at this point, but I do attend all the meetings, which generally consist of the pastor and his wife, their daughter Alva, and a few other determined youth.

I understand very little of the meetings as of yet, but they have been putting events together for a long time, and besides throwing me a bone for input out of pity occasionally, my job at this point is to observe, see how everything runs, and then gradually increase my involvement as I can. Sounds like a good plan to me.

RECH seems to do casual get-togethers on the weekends (hanging out, eating, watching movies, you know, youth stuff). But every month or so there is a big RECH event. On the 25th we have “Club RECH” which sounds like an elaborate youth group night. We even recorded an audio advertisement, which sounds pretty spiffy to me. you can hear it at the RECH MySpace page:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=167619160

I had to look up some words after we were done recording, but it sure sounds like I know what I’m doing doesn’t it?

In November RECH is hosting a small music festival of sorts at a nearby church, then in December, there is a breakfast held for the parents of RECH members. As I say, it is a learning process.

The third part of my job is organizing service trips. I have yet to have a meeting with Anita and the pastor and his wife, but yesterday I figured out who Anita was, so I am already making headway. It will eventually be my job to find work (isn’t MCC a wonderful resource?) and then plan all the nitty gritty details, like transportation, food, fundraising, etc.

However, more than anything right now, my job is to spend all the time I can with the youth and my congregation. I make awkward small talk at church, I eat at different peoples houses, I attend all church functions, and whenever the youth are hanging out together, I am there with them, learning names, personalities, and the Mexican adolescent way of life.

One of our texts for orientation pointed out that Jesus spent over 20 years learning the culture before he started his ministry. I don’t have 20 years, but I am content right now to step back and learn. And as the pastor told me, my mere presence here is a witness to many.

All said, this really feels like a dream job for me. I have a long way to go before I feel comfortable here, but I have a good start, and I hope and pray I can be the hands and feet of Jesus, working here with the future of our world and our churches.

Going into my second week, I now have a few actual events under my belt to phase me out of my daily routine of “rest and recuperation.” The first of these was a Bible study which is held every Thursday night at the church, about an half hour drive from the pastor’s house.

I asked about what time this meeting was.
“Oh, about 6:30.”
This means we leave the house at about 6:30 and would start the Bible Study with whoever was there at 7:30. This is standard for all the meetings I have been at so far. Personally, I make a point of being places “on time” and then bring things to do with me.

Bible Study is a gathering of around a dozen adults and Mario and I. It is part of the unique chance I have, in being in two social circles: that of the youth, and that of the adults. As far as I know, if the church has an event or gathering of any sort, I will be there.

The adults are very glad to have me here. Many of them will come to my Spanish classes (which start in January) to improve their English. They are also insistent on teaching me “proper Spanish,” before the youth dilute it with all their slang.

The Bible Study is held in a circle, led by the pastor, and opened with scripture. Prepared with my English Bible, this is the part I understood. The next 90 minutes were a bit ambiguous. From what I could discern, people shared their opinions and real life experiences, and then everyone else chimed in with advice and their opinions. I imagine this is a little bit like the early church operated. It is a very special service, and will grow more so as I can understand what people are saying.

The second experience I had was my first time out with the youth and the pastor’s family. This time the event was a couple of rock concerts. Right down my alley. Everyone met at the metro, which we then took all the way across the city. This gave me a great chance to get to know the dozen or so core group of RECH that were in attendance. Not that it is that difficult, most of them are very outgoing.

Well over half have taken on a goth, punk, or emo appearance. If any of that is confusing, ask your kids. Most want to try out their English. “How old are you?” “Where are you from?” “What is your favorite music?” For most of them, this is the extent of their English. The conversation then switches over to Spanish and all of a sudden I’m the one in the frying pan. But many of them have a passion for music, and I listen to enough music to make a connection with about all of them.

Taking the metro to the concert

The concert, held in a large contemporary church, was very much like concerts I have been to in the U.S: a motivational speaker, a praise band, and then two rock bands. The first of these rock bands was Zona 7, a band from southern Texas that does all of their music in Spanish. An interesting concept. They were actually very good (if you are interested, check out http://www.myspace.com/zona7). It was here that I took part in my first legitimate mosh pit. Not the kind where everyone jumps up and down, but the type where people tumble like clothes in the dryer.

It had not originally been my intention to participate. When the wide eyed youth asked me if I was going to mosh, I gave them my standard answer: “I’m too small. I’d get killed in there.” Everyone just stared at me. It suddenly dawned on me that at 6 foot 150 lbs, I was bigger than most anybody there. So I decided what the heck. I still have all my teeth. And afterwards, a girl behind me actually thanked me for adding stability to the chaos. I do what I can.

Zona 7

The second group was a ska/reggae group that came out with dreadlocks down to their waists and sporting red jumpsuits. In my experience, this either means a band is legally insane or is going to be a lot of fun. This time it was the latter. Inhibition-less Mexicans are even crazier in concert.

Banda Alternativa

My first week here has been one designated as one of “rest and recuperation.” Quite frankly, I’m flattered. At home, “rest and recuperation” was the morning after prom when I was allowed to sleep in till noon instead of 8:00. Never in my life have I been given a week.

A week with no particular expectations besides “rest and recuperation” has given me time to fall into a routine. Though not necessarily accurate of the weeks to come, it has nevertheless started to give me an idea of how things work around here.

Home is now a bi-level house right off the street, about 15 minutes or so from the church. Once you open the outer gates, the place has more of an appearance of a motel, with two levels of individual rooms that open to a small concrete courtyard, just big enough to squeeze in a small car. Another family lives on the top floor, and on the bottom floor is a small bathroom under a staircase and four more rooms. One acts as the kitchen, and Mario and I occupy two of the other three.

My front lawn

My bedroom

Our kitchen

My house from the street

Mario is essentially my church appointed babysitter for my adjustment period here. A 24 year old university student, Mario prepares or buys my breakfast and supper, drives me where I need to go, and as a respected and active part of the church and RECH (the youth organization I will be working with), he also acts as a valuable bridge to getting to know all the young people.

Alongside pursuing a degree in music education, Mario plays guitar in a rock band and the church praise band, is actively involved in the church, and somehow finds time to volunteer with RECH and babysit me in the process. An outstanding individual.

Mario’s appearance is fairly typical of the youth around here, hair gelled punk style, and Aeropostale hoodie and faded jeans worn everywhere. Even to church. He’s very friendly and outgoing, and has been extremely helpful to me despite the fact that he speaks no English. Then again, I haven’t found anybody around here that does yet.

Mario

As of yet, I have no responsibilities in the morning. I can sleep in till 10 or 11 and still be ready for breakfast at 11:30. At around 1:00 Mario drives me the 15 minutes or so to the pastor’s house. At times this can be quite a thrill. The other day we took a back route that headed straight down a steep hill and I just started laughing out loud, because we were still hauling and from what I could see, there was nowhere to go. It was either that or scream. But of course Mario knows the streets like the back of his hand, and I really have quite a bit of faith in his driving.

I spend till around 5:30 or so at the pastor’s house. Dinner is around 3:00, and around that time I try to spend between an hour or two working on my Spanish. Sometimes I have a chance to talk to the pastor and his wife or their 21 year old daughter Alva and improve my conversational Spanish. Other times I hang out with their 10 year old son Cha Cha. He has become like a little brother to me. Sometimes we play video games or watch Bob Esponja. Spongebob has a huge following here in Mexico.

Dining Room at the pastor's house (and Alva)

Living Room at the pastor's house (and Cha Cha)

When I am ready to head back home, I take a combi. It costs 15 cents to go either direction. The first few days somebody rode with me so I got on the right one and knew my landmarks. It is easy enough to flag down a combi once you memorize the different route names. In fact, once you get on and have the correct change to pay the driver (I am still baffled as to how the drivers keep track of everyone’s route price) you’re almost there. But you have to know where your stops are (combis will stop anywhere for you).

My landmarks are a church that is close to my house and a bridge that is close to the pastor’s house. This is really fairly simple. Until you forget the word for bridge. This happened to me the other day. Luckily, Cha Cha was with me and the crisis was resolved.

My house is just a block of the combi route, so my transit is really quite safe. The evenings are mine to do with as I please. Sometimes there will be somebody new for me to meet. Other times I watch a movie or a soccer game in Mario’s room. Supper is anywhere between 10 and 11:30. It really isn’t too bad once you adjust to it. Sometimes Mario cooks and sometimes we grab something off the street (from vendors that is).

A very relaxing and enjoyable first week.