Once again, I am amazed by the kind people of Caritas. I have been sitting on this bus headed for Belize for the last few hours, attempting to illustrate why I feel so connected to the Mexican culture when I am working. I had been wrestling with this thought internally for some time until finally frustrated, I peered out the window into the green rolling countryside of Southern Mexico. I found my answer in the migrant worker, cutting down sugar cane with his rusty machete. I found it in the road worker, rubber soles melting over the hot tar. I found it in the street vendor, slaving over the hot stove. I found it in the young man in the wheelchair with a barrel full of watermelons and a steely resolve. People work here. They work hard. They value it with a sense of integrity I've seen nowhere else. If you want to earn the trust of the Mexican people don't come riding into town in gleaming white vans, pitching a tent and serving bananas and pepperoni pizza. This will be appreciated but it is only charity.
I am certain that the bond created from sweat, from hands and arms working together, no matter the color, is as strong as blood. We worked hard. For five hours we tore down walls, moved 100 lb. bags of sugar, moved shelving units up narrow shaky stairwells, and cleared out rooms to improve the efficiency of their donation process We had our fun too. Priceless moments such as playing basketball with my good friend Luis with packets of tampons (yes I know) and toilet paper wars with Travis and Michael and more tampons (yes I know). We broke bread and shared meals with the staff.
As we wrapped up our work, the Deacon of the Caritas in Veracruz, a kind and noble man whom I have a great deal of respect for, offered to take us to a remote beach outside of town while he took care of some work. So we hopped into his small white Toyota with his white rosary swinging back and forth from its perch on the rearview mirror. We traveled past giant sand dunes and shopping malls, small riverside villages and Land Rover dealerships until we pulled off a sandy road into the driveway of a quaint Catholic church. Turning to face us, smiling behind his glasses with warm eyes, Francisco told us that if we took a right and then headed straight we would reach the beach. He then told us if we walked along the beach we could find many restaurants and stores as this was a fishing village. We only went straight... Covered in grime and blood and dirt, we walked straight until we walked into the glimmering water of the shoreline. We kept walking as the sandy shallows extended out into the distance where dark tanned boys dove for clams and fishermen tested the shallows for a day's wage. Throwing live sand dollars like frizbees which we found at the sandy bottom in abundance, we rejoiced in the ageless fun, the madness of such a rare experience, laughing at the hotels in the hazy distance.
As Travis, Michael, and I scattered to our own private plot of water, I dipped my head beneath the surface to escape the crashing surf, and the laughing children, the distant mopeds and buses. I hung submerged and suspended, drifting towards the shore not by my movements, but as each gentle wave turned I would inch a little closer, toes lightly anchored in the sand. Somehow I had even escaped the noise inside my head, my body laid to rest at a quiet point of the beach.
Check out some photos of the trip at http://www.flickr.com/photos/26885096@N07/
gregorio
