Campsite etiquette and spit pits

The Mexican ground is hard. Maybe it is just a matter of the immense heat that hits the surface each day or the fact that a few thousands of people over many years have walked the land of the Amor ministry camp. The patch of dirt that we were relegated for team Amarillo was harder than some concrete that I've faced in my time. Driving metal stakes into the ground (Or trying to) and seeing them bend under the weight of every last ounce of force, would certainly be a good indicator of the amount of work that was to come.

As tent city soon formed in the Mexican desert and the first day of living as a very large family began, ground rules started to fall into place easily. A simple table was made out of two horses and a piece of wood and a cooler placed on top of the table was our sink. (Our being anyone in the campsite that week) Below that table, between it's legs lay a small dug out ditch. How that ditch was dug baffles me since the extreme toughness of the earth could repel the hardest of nail hits. This crude setup would be known as the spit pit.

The spit pit is used for two things. Brushing your teeth, the spit part, and washing your hands. You don't get drinks from the cooler, you don't wash yourself, you don't press the tab and let the water run for fun. Very simple rules to follow. There have been gruesome stories of the spit pits, some that I would not be willing to share, but the first day use of this system seemed very easy. I notice though that the spit and water that went into it's trough seemed to go nowhere. I figured that this dirt probably has not had much contact with water and being that the dirt does not know what to do, instead of soaking into the ground it just stayed there. Each day slowly growing, higher and higher. 

Careful steps are needed when brushing the teeth. Falling in and having a spit shine on the feet is not fun. Then again when there's four people standing over a trough, brushing their teeth and spitting at the same time, splash back is bound to happen. For myself, I'm a wild spitter, I would aim but lucky for me if I could hit the target.

The spit pit is just one of the many challenges of trying to not "step on the toes" of others in the camp. Of course there's the silent rule. Being quiet after ten was supposed to be the rule everyone was to follow. Each night that rule could not be kept. The teen girls talking about teen girl things, the husband and wife talking about husband and wife things, the naked chinese kids in the showers (Don't ask), and yes the snoring. Some people were very punctual with the timing of the snoring. Ten o'clock would hit and it sounded like the chain-saws were out. 

The toughest parts of the night were not the man made noises. There is silence that cuts through the Mexican night. The occasional howls of the coyotes would resonate, even the ruminations of the packs of wild dogs would visit the campsite. When all you are is contained into a tent you soon realize how much bigger the world is around you. There are dangers in the night and there's even the mysterious ground squirrels. No need for trees for them, they go under ground.

A week of living as a giant family in Mexico allows for a moment of fellowship and whole hearted reflection on the world we came from. Scoffing at our daily American routines and our need for a super clean wardrobe all the time creates moments of good laughter in the desert. To sit in a circle and wait for the announcement that seconds will be served and a polite mad dash for the food creates an unknowing reality of the immense disposal of food in our houses in America. Being a Walter, firsts warm you up, seconds transitions you to thirds where thirds fills you up and fourths stretches the tummy out for dessert. 

The campsite was a transitional place for all of us. Those in the kitchen crew would find it to be there home for the majority of the week. For those going out to the work-sites, the brief moments of relaxation and reenergizing could only come through the campsite. But we were not there for camping.

The Traveler

In the month of January I wrote a check for some three hundred dollars to seal the deal on my and Aubrey's participation to build a house in Mexico in the month of July. The bitter chill of a New Jersey winter was a far cry to the dead heat of a Mexican summer. That first check was just a step toward the completion of a work that God had called me to do. What does this work entail? For such a novice as myself I was told that for four days a team that I would be a part of would build a house for a poor family in Mexico through Amor ministries. We would travel to San Diego, then into Mexico where we would set up camp at the Amor campgrounds and from there travel into a town and build a house. Words sound easier than the experience.

On July 5th Aubrey and myself woke early in the morning to meet up with our Mexico team, comprising of members of the First Presbyterian Church of Dunellen, to head out to Newark airport to fly to San Diego. Upon our arrival in San Diego, soaking up the sun and feeling the breeze of the port or San Diego, I was approached by Stephen Geiger. In a manner that only fits Stephen he asked me, "How do you feel about driving a 15 passenger van?" What I thought would be a burden at the time became a simple, "Ok." Harkening back to my Bound Brook Ford driving days I knew I could handle the van, what I couldn't manage was the traffic patterns of the state of California's road system. Many wrong turns and narrow misses later we found our way to the In and Out Burger. (Which I find to be an odd name for a food joint, think about it.)

Driving the streets of San Diego proved manageable after a while, though I'm still confused over a traffic light that I saw. Two lights were red and two lights were green at the same time. I chose to go. Once we left San Diego the desert came alive. American sprawl in the middle of an arid landscape was a peculiar sight but as the Mexican border approached mountains came into view and somehow inside I knew everything was about to change. 

Going into Mexico was a breeze. Traveling through Tijuana and seeing people begging on the median of the highway proved that I wasn't in the wonderful land of Oz anymore. As I drove out of Tijuana and went into the mountains and rocky landscape everything felt different. The dirt roads into camp would provide a weeks worth of enjoyment for myself and those who road in the back of the van. As we entered the camp-sight the surroundings were very simple. Just a flat piece of ground and one building for a type of canteena, a concrete structure known as the showers and of course the baños. 

Stepping out onto the dirtiest, hardest  ground in the world the immediate sensory invasion was through the nose. The row of port-a-potties was emitting a putrid smell that welcomed all of our spoiled bathroom senses. To stand in a small, dark space, with fly's buzzing about and looking into the toilet hole and seeing a trough of human excrement proved that a life changing experience was in store this week. Being a runner and useing many a port-a-pottie before races I thought I had smelled everything that could come from a port-a-pottie. But these bathrooms, that will now be known as what they are, the baños, would be the bane of many people throughout the week. But there was something more to the baños, there was life and landscape all around. At night, the stars shone bright and the moon would light the way for those who needed to use the baños. After finding some manageable baños in the row (In the picture I looked the blue ones in the center) the bathroom became just a thing. 

I can't help but think of the countless number of times that I've taken extreme care over the bathroom in my house. As if for some reason that the bathroom was sacred ground. There's even a thought in my mind that Jesus would come back and find me cleaning my toilet bowl and then asking me, "Why are you doing this?" A lesson of simplicity runs its' course in Mexico.