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.
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