Ensenada 4 & 5: Running Out of Witty Titles

So I'm posting about day 4 and 5 today, (Friday, which is technically day 6) because the last two days have been a legitimate Godsend.

There was a definite, definable presence with us yesterday, and the day before was just awesome in more ways than I can explain with text on a screen. You really had to be here to experience the full glory of what God's doing in Mexico, but I'll do my best to describe it.

Day Four (Wednesday) began just like any other day; I was late getting down for Prayer, but I managed to catch the tail end of it, ate my breakfast, and went to the Job site. Andrea and Enrique were waiting for me, and through stinted conversation, they were excited to see the entire team.

I continued drywalling and started Spackling. An entire room, which would the kids' room, was spackled by yours truly. I was proud of my work, and though I did make a few mistakes, they were mistakes that added personality to the home, I felt.

Andrea taught me two new games, and I taught her Rock-Paper-Scissors. We played them for more than I usually played for, but she just lit up every time she won. Our site was still dusty, grimy, and all-around gross, but the games (and Bombeis, the smallest dog, kept hugging my leg - wrapping his paws around my knee and staring up at me) kept my spirits high. Our house was nearly finished (only painting to go!) when I left that day.

The afternoon consisted of a hike up a large hill, where the view was... breathtaking. You're standing above Ensenada, with rolling hills and valleys, greens, blues, and browns all mixed together in an artistic and amazing combination. In the distance, the sun was setting behind the large, tinged mountain range.

Breathtaking. If I were an artist in that moment, Ensenada would be my subject. Anyone who looks at it and isn't made a believer has a very narrow mind.

Finally, at the fire, feeling revved up and excited on the mid-week day, I shared my testimony with the fire. What I said is a little too personal for this blog, but if you ask me, I'll be willing to share it with you.

I fell asleep content, centered, for the first time in the week.

And then the puking started.

I woke up with a start at 1:30 AM, looking down to witness Peter, one of my fellow Ensenada mates, dry retching. A horrible sound. There was shuffling, panicked whispers, someone proclaiming that they'd get soap and water, and the splat of vomit hitting the floor.

Funny, that we slept through dog barks and yelling in Spanish, police sirens and car horns, rocks hitting buildings and backfires, but as soon as someone makes a sound resembling puking, we all bolt awake with eyes wide open.

Nathan, the fellow Canadian, was down for the count as well. He had one too many Tacos and expired from heat exhaustion.

The day got worse from there. I was cajoled into painting a giant, bright orange church, standing on a rickety ladder with an extended roller and a paintbrush. It was demanding, exhausting work, and the worst part of it was that we didn't finish the job. The church looked awful when we left.

I got onto the Job site, played with the kids for a bit, and then it was off to the Boy's home. We presented our Drimes, but we didn't really get to play Soccer with them because we (the Canadians) were late, due to mis-directions, and the teams were already full. I left feeling disheartened, and weary. Was this the first bad day of the week? Was this going to be the moment that broke the week for me?

God said no.

Nathan got up that afternoon and went with us to a soccer match against the local Mexican players. It was a lot of fun, and we all played an amazing game (3-1 Mexico. We scored a goal, though, so we were happy). After the game, a man from New Jersey, Glen, brought five more people to the lord through prayer. Watching him work was glorious.

When we returned, Peter had recovered. I won at six games of Spit. And I fell asleep with the knowledge that God does answer prayers, and He will show you the highest mountains after the lowest valley.

All in all, it turned out to be the best day so far. And I'm very grateful that I don't have a day to point to when someone asks, "What didn't you like on your trip?"

Gotta Jet, more tomorrow.

-Chicago Ted

Ensenada 3: Jargon, Translation, Repeat

Today, I slept in. Late. Like, really late. 7:45 AM late.

But I'm not going to talk about today, today. I can do that tomorrow. Today I'll talk about yesterday and later today I'll talk about today, because today's too new for me to blog about today, Wednesday.

Ahem.

Yesterday we nearly completed the cafe' colored house, decorated with white trim and a full roof. All that's left is the drywall, and finishing touches on the paint-job. While the house being completed is a nice addition, what I'm really excited for, what gets me up in the morning, is the children.

Andrea and Enrique now know three different secret handshakes that I've taught them, Andrea even says the words in English (Bump, twist, lock!) along with me while we do it. Enrique knows the word 'Pass!' whenever we play football, and Andrea knows her colors and ages and her dog names. They're both very patient with me whenever I mumble things in Spanish, although Andrea is sometimes quick to sigh and run off to fetch a translator. Inadvertently, I have taught them patience.

But it's not what they're learning that has me excited. It's what I'm learning.

I know all their family's names; Hugo, Karina, Hugo Jr., Enrique and Andrea. I know that their dogs are Chato, Quate, Bombeis, and Nigre. I know that the giant hole in the middle of their site is for working on cars. I know their ages, their facial expressions, and that they really like painting their hands and sticking their hand prints all over us White folk. I know that they'll always ask me if I'm coming back tomorrow. I know that they are in awe when I explain that I'm from Canada and insist that it's 'Benito'. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'd stay here for a month, hanging out with them, if I could.

It's a humbling experience, building a house for a family that has nothing and yet is so happy. They climb through a little hole in their RV every night because their trailer door is blocked, and yet insist that they're fine, and that they have a great life. To realize that your so priveledged and yet not nearly as happy as this little family in the dusty South makes you want to chase happiness like a rabid dog chases a rabbit, clamping down on it and shaking the love and adoration from it's fading body until you can call it your own.

But I'm not a rabid dog. I'm a christian. And instead of chasing down rabbits, I'll pursue God, because He brought me here. He allowed me to have these feelings despite the fact that I almost - almost - didn't get on that plane to start the journey - physical and spiritual - to Ensenada, Mexico.

Before I left yesterday, I got two things. One was this picture:

From left to right: Jon, Hugo, Me, Karina, Hugo Jr. The bottom row: Enrique and Andrea.

The other was a handprint, from each child, on my cherished Wolfman hat.

Sorry, Mom. But that hat will never be washed.

-Chicago Ted

Ensenada 2: Construction Blues

I woke up today just like every other day, it seems. On my side, with sweat soaking my body and my eyes cracked barely, squinting into the dim light flitting through the open window. If you've ever witnessed a Mexican breeze before, you know that it's stagnant and barely-there. Not something my team leader and his daughter could attest to, of course - they get to stay in the Romano's home, rather than our military-style lodgings.

But hey, we all make sacrifices for Faith, no?

I digress; I woke up much later than yesterday (Keep in mind that waking up at 8 is sleeping in, here) at 6:45. My eyes immediately met the eyes across from me, a father of two kids who was worshiping just as I am.

There was a brief moment of supreme awkwardness, as our eyes met and held. I broke it by cracking a wry smile and doing a half-wave. He waved back.

I proceeded to swing my scarcely clad body over the top of the bunk, being mindful of the person sleeping beneath me. (I imagine waking up to the crotch of a virtually unknown Canadian in boxers isn't the best wake up call) After I donned shorts and a CANADA T-shirt, I went downstairs.

The aforementioned team leader and his daughter were already up, typing away on a laptop, quietly discussing something. They looked up and greeted me. After I filled a bowl up with knock-off Mexican 'Froot Rings' (with extra fibre) I sat down with them, eating and surfing the good ole' Facebook. I joined them in the surfing and took charge of the eating.

When the prayer meeting started, Rick, the leader of the Ensenada Project, introduced us to Jamin, a pastor here in Ensenada. His daughter, Jare, was under spiritual attack.

She had dark circles around her eyes, her fingers and belt adorned with various rings. She looked worn out, distraught, and approached us with great caution. Her eyes darted around, examining our faces closely, as if wary.

She had overdosed on pills two weeks ago, and Jamin had asked us to lay hands on her and pray for her safety and recovery from a mental lapse.

We all prayed, gathering and laying hands, whispering to God and Jesus and hoping, asking for her blessing, for her recovery, and for her health. As we prayed, whispered, and clustered around this poor child, the spirit loomed in the room so large that all of our hearts were bursting. It felt like the shoulder I layed my hand on was warm to my touch, and the hands on my back were channeling, so much so that I was on fire for God.

Usually, this kind of experience is few and far between back home, but here, the hits just keep on coming.

Right after this amazing experience, we distributed to build our houses. The one I was assigned to, along with Jon, is located right next to an RV. A family of four lived in this small RV, which was about as long as a car and a half, and just as wide. The supplies were unloaded, the knuckles were cracked, and we settled into a routine.

I was quickly singled out as a 'macho man' because of my size, and so carried heavier loads and was the designated paint-roller. It was demanding, taxing, and altogether satisfying work. The family dogs ran around, happily jumping on Jon and licking my kneecaps.

The second wall was up and the siding was painted when we broke for lunch, and I took the opportunity to attempt communication with the local children.

I succeeded.

The boy's name is Enrique, and he's four. The girl's name, which has slipped my mind at the moment of writing (long and busy day, forgive me) and she's 9. I mainly made faces at Enrique to hear his boyish giggle, while the girl insisted that Canada was beautiful and that I was six, not nineteen, due to a slip in my Spanish.

We left that day with all four walls erected, everything was painted, and the dividers for the inside were set in place. Tomorrow, the drywall.

I left with a huge smile on my face, because the girl's last words to me, in flawless Spanish, was asking if I was coming back tomorrow.

"Si," I replied.

--Chicago Ted

Ensenada 1: Breaching the Border

My second post is the second day I'm in Mexico, at 7:29 AM in the morning.

Wow, that first line is pretty accurate to my state at the moment. I'm exhausted, thrilled, and at the same time, incredibly hyper.

The drive across the U.S. Border was rife with wonderful scenery, breathtaking housing, and bright colours. I've never seen anything like it in all my life. Mountaintops rolled and tumbled, breaking through the cloud-line in a burst of mist, dotted by withering trees and caressed by the ocean backdrop. People walked along the sides of the roads, with packs slung over shoulders, serious expressions etched into their brows. Colourful housing and erratic building projects dotted the skyline, sometimes obstructing our view, sometimes not. After an hour of driving, the most miraculous of all structures:

A towering, full colour statue of Jesus.

As I stared out the window, all I could think was; This is not your world.

"You ain't in Kansas anymore," I mumbled, in a really bad Avatar-colonel impersonation.

"What?" Jack said, driving the car.

"Nothing." I muttered, continuing to scan the countryline.

After a drive that took a lot out of all four of us - especially the impromptu sing-a-longs to the radio - we arrived, in a convoy of no less than five vehicles, to the place we'd be staying at for the next seven days.

Have you ever pictured the way something will look like? You know, like a fancy hotel room or your wedding dress or even the way a certain shirt will flatter you/make you horribly ugly? Well, I've been doing that about this place for the past three months, and let me tell you, it blew my mind when I finally saw it in it's full glory.

I've dubbed it the Ensenada Mission's Hotel. On the top floor there are bunk beds, housing all the men and women of this trip. I'm on the top bunk, along with about 20 New Jersey'rs, who will be my mission-mates for the next seven days. It's a large wooden building, with many benches and dining tables lining the bottom floor and facilities and sleeping arrangements on the top. Balconies wrap around the top floor, where many of the people we'll come to know and love stand, leaning against the rails, basking in the glory of finally being in Mexico.

After a raucous dinner and several introductory conversations which were steered to each parties liking, I turned to Jack, leaning against the balcony, grinning like a mad man.

"Jack," I said, "I'm in Mexico!"

He laughed, and clapped a hand on my back. "You sure are, Brandon," He grinned back, the excitement and awe in his voice mirroring mine, "you sure are."

-Chicago Ted

Ensenada 0: Fun in Milton

Let me give you a little insight as to how my adventure into Mexico started.

Since I received a concussion courtesy of a lax co-worker the Monday before I was supposed to depart, I was instructed to visit my family doctor, Dr. Chung, for a check-up regarding whether or not I could be able to work and travel to Mexico. At 2:18, I stepped through the doctor's office doors, timidly explained my situation to the secretary, and plopped myself down in one of those straight-backed chairs that made up the waiting room, popped open my cell phone, and started playing a little Papi-Jump.

An older gentleman and his older woman companion proceeded to discuss why my generation in all its youthful glory were single handedly responsible for the downfall of this country and it’s national system. They proceeded to even accuse Bill Gates of being the mastermind behind ‘inherent laziness’ and referred to us all as a bunch of slackers.

I had no idea I was such a terrible influence on older generations.

The fun didn’t stop there: When I actually got into the Doctor’s office, to do a follow up on a hard knock to the head I received on Monday, courtesy of a co-worker from Scandinavia or somewhere – he interrupted my story of pain and woe with a simple request.

“Stand up!” He barked at me, in a hoarse, heavy Chinese accent.

I stood.

“Do jumping jack!” He barked again. I’ve seen Full Metal Jacket, and was instantly reminded of the squad forced to do a routine exercises in the pouring rain while an older man barked orders and flapped his arms.

With this slightly hilarious image in mind, I did a half-hearted jumping jack and sat down cautiously, poised and ready should my ability to exercise at the drop of a hat be called upon once more.

He thanked me profusely, not noticing how my arms were braced on my chair and the slightly goofy smile that spread across my lips.

“It has been three days. Concussion Monday, come to me Thursday. You do not badly. Go rest.”

I nodded, thoroughly confused, and walked out of the office a happy man.

The next thing on my list of things to do pre-Mexico was get a haircut. If you’ve seen me pre-mexico haircut, then you know my dilemma. If you didn’t see me, my hair is an explosive forest that was influenced by radiation poisoning. Curly brown locks that twist and turn like the Autoban. My hair, in short, is messy.

Right across from the Doctor’s office where the elderly insult the youth that will take over from them, there’s a little corner-tucked hairdressers. It makes me smile every time I walk past it. It looks like a small, meek little shop, holding a sling, while Goliath (Wild Wings) hulks above it with it’s bright sign and fancy service and multiple doorways. Great clips has one doorway. It needs no other.

When I entered, I was greeted in the most enthusiastically unenthusiastic way I’ve ever experienced. The lady had long manicured nails, a beehive haircut, and was chewing bright pink bubblegum, and responded to my entrance as if she genuinely enjoyed being miserable.

“Welcome to Great Clips,” She said, sighing the words out as if a giant weight were on her shoulders, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

If this robotic voice wasn’t going to convince me to throw money in the air and do a tapdance around the shop, I don’t know what is.

I cautiously took a seat in one of those hugely uncomfortable torture devices that hairdressers have the gall to call ‘chairs’ nowadays. Shifting and sliding around on numb butt cheeks, I tapped fingers against my chin, the picture of a nervous teenager unsure about someone taking sharp metallic objects near his skull.

A woman, chubby and blonde, approached the desk. She stared at me.

I stared back.

Eventually, she spread her arms. “What’s your phone number?”

I stammered and stuttered through my number, not exactly expecting the sudden ‘warm’ conversation from this woman. After a strange mix-up in which she confused me for my dad, I finally was able to be led to a man who was the chosen one to flip around sharp objects near my brain chamber.

When I let it slip that I was going to the promised land down south, his eyes got really frat-boy big and he excitedly prattled off all of the things that I’ll just love about Mexico.

I barely got the words; "Mission's trip" "church group" and "humanitarian" before he started prattling on about the gorgeous babes and the wonderful women and the use of condoms and the Mexican mafia. He told me how all Mexicans hate Canadians, especially, and while he was speaking, he was quietly praising his own work.

Example: "Yeah, so when you're down there - man, this is a good blend - make sure to blah blee bloo blee blaap." Etc, etc.

After he was done threatening my life with metal instruments, he then rotated my chair, electing me to hold the mirror awkwardly while he claimed his work was the greatest hair cut of all time. He then went on to say that in Mexico, they don't cut hair like this. In fact, they barely cut hair at all.

Never in my life have I ever met a man who loved hair as much as this individual. This individual would probably elope with hair, if given half an option.

Regardless, I gave him five bucks and exited the creepy-cereal-killer salon, and stood on the curb, my cell phone ringing and the wind ruffling through what little tufts of black locks I had left. Sure, I didn't look as good as I thought I would. Sure I was kind of let down at the advice of my family doctor. But you know what? It didn't matter.

I was going to Mexico.

-Chicago Ted