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. 

America: Melting Pot or Tossed Salad?

I felt it would have been folly to turn down an opportunity to witness a sporting event that took on a level of national pride. Specifically an event that involves one of my favorite sports, soccer. That opportunity came when USA would be hosting Argentina in a friendly at Giants Stadium on June 8th. Without hesitating I said yes, then I asked my wife, then I said yes again. At that time of acceptance to witness a clash of titans no one would expect that any of these two teams would be ranked number one in the world. That was until Argentina received that dubious moniker. What would be billed as a friendly would now be a clash between the US. Always the underdog because of our shortcomings in the international sport, and Argentina, the best in the world. (Personally I'm biased towards Germany)

Upon embarking for this match up, myself, Jay Partyka, Steve Provell and his girlfriend July took in the sites and sounds of the tailgating at a soccer match. Particularly the 

massive amount of Argentinean BBQ and American chutzpah. The sweltering heat that day would be caveated by the occasional spot showers that were traversing the state. 

We welcomed the momentary coolness as we basked in the sights and sounds of the Giant Stadium parking lot. In one instance there was a minor revelry of American patriotism in a bagpipe and drum combo playing the classical tunes of our forefathers. Whilst in the background the chanting of Argentina and half sober prophets laying down a dooming score line of 

four to nothing Argentina. Regardless of the opposition the small duo played on and brought cheers to U.S. fans in the vicinity.

As the time came for the game to begin we made our way into the stadium through crowds of light blue and white and American flags. We walked the spirals to the first level of Giants Stadium and walked down the small concrete steps to the fourth row on the American supporters side of the stadium. The constituents were chanting and jumping up and down as the U.S. players warmed up. The heat was oppressing in the stadium but that could not keep the gleeful mood of

 American supports from cheering the whole match. A large American flag was unfurled over our section, then another banner was unfurled, I believe it to be a banner of a jersey with the number 12 on it.

The match was certainly a struggle for the U.S. but Tim Howard kept the team in the game and after some near chances Argentina and the U.S. played to a 0-0 draw. The match would come to an end ad-mist a massive downpour of rain that only seemed to make the U.S. play better and raise the support up to a level or deafening proportions. I have been to many NFL games at Giant Stadium but the amount of noise that I heard as U.S. striker Landon Donovan took a series of corner kicks at the end of the game was the loudest I have ever heard the stadium. 

Looking out on the stadium, the U.S. team was certainly outnumbered in supporters. A see or light blue and white took up the majority of the stadium. Many Argentineans confidently expecting Lionel Messi to cut through the U.S. defense and make a mockery of the national team. The promise of America was confidently on display in the mixing of two cultures to watch a soccer match. In fact the U.S. players on the field, all having there own history of personnel ancestry, proudly displaying their heritage through sport but calling themselves American. Melting pot or tossed salad the international competition brings out the flavor of America. Some may view sport as a means to see who is better, to avoid the conflicts that nations may find themselves hurdling towards or possibly a means to peace. 0-0 seems an appropriate score. I can't help but think that when we consider ourselves better than others we do a disservice to the creeds and ideals of those who founded this nation. Though being outnumbered in support at what is considered a home match there is a joy to seeing so many celebrating their home nation in a nation who's backbone is those from all over the world.

Pointless or viable?

Recently I hit the road on a sixteen hour trip from New Jersey to Chicago. A tenuous drive, but one that was easily alleviated by some good tunes from my IPOD. I was not alone on my journey, two good friends of mine, Karl and Steve, accompanied me to Arise. (A worship and arts conference at Willow Creek Community Church.) For each of us our musical tastes very, though we appreciate each others music and have many musical similarities. One point that we differ on is rock music. No my friends are not classical music junkies, but they don't listen to most music that is deemed "secular." They don't have a problem with most of the music, it's just that they choose not to listen to it. But with there request that I bring my IPOD along for the trip they were warned that there would be some music that they never listen to. Most importantly David Bowie. One request that was made to me was that I give some history on David Bowie and his music and I duly obliged.

As we traveled and the music of David Bowie would come up out of the random shuffle, I would proceed to tell the stories and the history of David's music.  For each song there was a bit of information that over the hours Karl would eventually say to me, "You really know allot about David Bowie." Like a ton of bricks falling I realized that I did, and at a moments notice of a single note being played I could bring out information of who, what, when, where, why and how on David Bowie's music. Certainly it was appropriate that many of the songs we listened to came from the Aladdin Sane album, being that it was an album influenced by David's Ziggy Stardust tour of America. How did I get to this point of knowing all this information about David Bowie?

The school bus stopped at the corner of Valleybrook Court and I finished another day as a sixth grader. Entering my house, all alone I had free reign to do what I wanted to do for just a short hour. Many days it was just sitting in front of the television and having a snack but some days I would have this urge just to put on some music. I would pop open the glass door on our entertainment system and flip the top of the record player. (Yes, record player.) Find some records that had songs that felt the way I was feeling and put them on. One day I found this album that the title alone expressed how I felt. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. What on earth is this, I wondered. I put it on, heard this weird voice and let the record spin for a little bit. I changed records after a few seconds putting this weird album back on the shelf and going to something more familiar.

Flash forward. The heat of the summer is in full swing and I'm preparing to go on vacation with my cousin, aunt and uncle. I'm in this confusing transition of eighth grade to freshman. I'm a Beatles freak and that's all I'm listening to. Instead of listening in my living room where my parents are I'm upstairs with a little more freedom. Grabbing piles of records and just listening for hours, slowly falling into myself with the Beatles. As I grab a stack of records I notice some David Bowie records. Hey there's that Ziggy Stardust album. Next to it is an album called Young Americans. The cover shows a very different looking David Bowie than that of the Ziggy Stardust era. But there's a song on the Young American's album, Across the Universe. A cover of a Beatles tune, and John Lennon's name is on the album notes as being a contributor. I gotta check this out, in fact let's bring Ziggy along and give that a listen to.

Across the Universe is played, sounds different but there's a different power to it. Ziggy Stardust is put on and Hang onto Yourself blasts through the headphones with delight. The words of Five Years strikes a chord in me and Ziggy Stardust tells a tale like none I've ever imagined. One listening of the record becomes two, then three and before I know it the Beatles record's are on the shelf and I'm surrounded by Bowie records. I was bit by the bug of Bowies music and the next four years I listened over and over again to everything Bowie I could get my hands on. I read books, collected magazines from Ebay and created a personnel library of information on a musician.

Now I wonder about all that I've learned and think that maybe all of the information that I immersed my brain into could all be pointless. I became fanatic over a musician who is just a musician. (And an artist and an actor.) While I criticized the teeny-boppers and boy band lovers of my time I was just as bad with classic rock'n roll star. I guess that's the power of music and the effect of one persons life on another. David Bowie and I are miles apart and generations different but at times his words seem like they're hitting on my emotions. That's what good musicians and artist do. They tap into the human condition and find connections between people. So maybe knowing all there is to know about David Bowie may not change the world but it's changed me.

Relegation Blues

May 11th 2008. The day could be remembered  for so many things. For myself, it's the day of relegation for the Reading Royals. Sure they won the day with a four nill thrashing of Derby county,  but that meant nothing with word of Fulham beating Portsmouth. Why Reading and why the collapse? It was just a year ago that this little squad of no ones stepped onto the green fields of Premiership football and shocked the world. Now the future is uncertain and the Premiership a year away.

August 19th 2006. In there home blue and white stripe shirts, the Reading Royals stepped out of the tunnel and into a warm British sunlight. Each step walking on the pitch that was there own for some time but then so foreign in the world of Premiere league football. The test that day would be against Middlesbrough. The first Premiere match for Reading would start out like many seasoned fans would expect. Down 2-0 in a matter of minutes, Reading received a cruel lesson in top-flight football. Some would expect this team to fold and try again another day. My new eyes watched this new team and I expected a thrashing. I had never heard of the Reading Royals and here in the states we only know of four teams from England. I liked the Royals, sure they had Middlesex Blue Jay colors and I won't say that it's not a reason why I chose the Royals, but I saw something that August day that sealed this team in my heart. 

With a few minutes to go before the half time Dave Kitson scored a goal for the Royals that sent the stadium in a roar. Just a minute later Steve Sidwell scored to tie the game and the excitement built inside me. This red headed duo played with the courage of seasoned veterans in the face of a tough Middlesbrough team. In the second half at the 55th minute Leroy Lita scored the goal to put Reading in front and on there way to an 8th place finish in the Premiere league.

Now those days are long ago and Reading will be going down to the League championship. Unfortunately I won't be able to watch them on t.v. But the lyrics of a Scottish song help me through the realization and bring hope for future endeavors.

End of the Road-Sir Harry Lauder

Ev'ry road through life is a long, long road.

Filled with joys and sorrows too

As you journey on how your heart will yearn

For the things most dear to you

With wealth and love 'tis so

But onward we must go

(Chorus)

Keep right on to the end of the road

Keep right on to the end

Tho' the way be long, let your heart be strong

Keep right on round the bend

Tho' you're tired and wary still journey on,

Till you come to your happy abode

Where all you love, you've been dreaming of

Will be there, at the end of the road

With a big stout heart to a long steep hill

We may get there with a smile

With a good kind thought and a mile end view

We may cut short many a mile

So let courage every day

Be your guiding star alway

(Chorus)

Evan Surprise

I don't remember when I came across the delicious discovery, I think it may have been in high school. I was hungry for some dinner and there waiting for me was ground beef, mac & cheese and peas. A delectable pallet of food waiting for some reheating. This would obviously require a microwave and possibly three separate nukes. Economically I would put all three onto a plate in there separate corners and in two minutes eat another meal. Not today.

For some reason, maybe it was delirium from being famished, I decided to mix these three separate food groups together and on top of that, add more cheese. As this frankensteinian monster spun slowly in the microwave, the slices of cheese melting slowly, and the evaporation of water escaping the food, my stomach anticipated the unchartered territory that awaited.

With a few beeps sounding the completion and the slow removal of the hot plate, I looked down upon a mass of cheesiness. The mound of food resembling a Kilimanjaro of beef, cheese and peas there was one thing missing before I could climb this mountain. Salt.

A few dashes of salt and in my fork went. A release of hot steam came up into my face. My only defense a blow of the lips to cool the anticipated first bite. The small lump of food hanging on to the plate by a thin string of yellow cheese could not contain the desire of my stomach. I bit into the food and chewed immediately realizing only one thing.  

Eureka!! Within minutes nothing was left of what was once, cheese, meat and peas. A satisfied face and a full stomach was all that remained. That day I came to realize that a new dish was formed. One that would always be with me, for the rest of my days. Like any explorer coming discovering something new for the first time I named the dish after myself; Evan. I didn't want to just call the dish that, that could be the brunt of an endless amount of jokes. I rested upon Evan Surprise. Surprising that it was something that I made that tasted good. 

Now some years later I still make Evan Surprise. Though I am the only one that eats it when I make it. Aubrey doesn't care for it, maybe because it's too manly for her. The dogs like it though but they lick there butts so you can't trust their tastes. Anyway there is some satisfaction that it's all mine and that no one can take it away from me. Not even Hamburger Helper.