Turning off the rugged, pothole-filled paved road, a caravan of
vehicles made its way along a dirt road through the barrio of a
coastal Mexican town.
For several of us, it was the first time we
had ever been to Mexico, let alone deep into a neighbourhood of
shacks, small rundown travel trailers and peace-meal homes built from
whatever material could be found.
The homes sit atop an old
landfill and pieces of plastic, glass and other materials poke
through the light-brown dessert sand.
By North American standards, it looks like a slum, but for
the people living in the barrio of Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) it is
home and not an uncommon neighbourhood. With a wage of mere $40 a
week, it can be a challenge to provide even that.
While only a few
kilometers from a pristine collection of resorts, condos and towering
luxury buildings, the barrio might as well have been on a different
planet, the contrast is so stunning.
As we pulled up to one
particular shack, we were warmly greeted my Meetay, Jasmine and
Charlie. Charlie is not his given name, but because of the difficulty
our Canadian tongues would have in pronouncing his real name, he told
everyone to just call him Charlie. So we did.
I thought our
mission was to change the life of this Mexican family, but when it
was over it would be my life and the outlook I have that would be
changed.
Charlie and his family were typical of so many in the
area. Honest, caring people who were doing their best to scratch out
a living in an economy where wages were dollars a day and a litre of
gas cost the same as Canada. Alcohol is cheap, milk is not.
We
piled out of rented cars into the hot Mexican sun and immediately got
to work building a ‘house’ for this warm and genuine family.
The
house, by North American standards, was really not much to look at. A
rectangle box with two doors, two windows and a tiny bathroom area,
it measured 220 square feet – roughly the same size and the garage
of my Okanagan home.
Dozens of wheelbarrows of concrete were mixed
by hand to make the floor and foundation. The family was hooked up to
electricity only a few months ago. Water was from a small pipe
sticking out of the ground with a garden hose attached to it. There
were no cement mixers, just wheelbarrows, shovels and large hoes with
holes in them to mix the cement.
Prior to our arrival, the
building material was dropped off at Charlie’s home. Someone had to
stay at the home at all times to watch over the pressboard, bags of
cement and two-by-fours. Charlie assured they would be safe.
“It’s
OK, I have my 45,” he said not referring to a handgun caliber, but
to his dog, whose name was 45.
First the forms were made to
contain the cement mixture before everyone grabbed a shovel or hoe
and began the laborious task of mixing the concrete.
Gravel and cement were first mixed dry before water was added and the
whole thing was mixed yet again. When the last wheelbarrow was
dumped, we turned our attention to framing the walls that would be
put up the next day.
As the work progressed, neighbourhood
children came over, shy at first, but by the end of the build they
were running up to some of the foreigners they had bonded with,
wanting piggyback rides or to sit in the sand with them and stack
small pieces of cut wood in a game they had just made up. The
children were a delight and irresistible to hang out with. Besides,
it was also a good excuse to take a break from mixing cement, or
later, swinging a hammer for a few minutes. Who could deny someone a
chance to interact with a small child with huge brown eyes and an
even bigger smile. These beautiful children would remember the people
who played games with them and gave them their time long after the
memory of the builders had faded.
A few venders showed up as well
to ply their wares, but they were not aggressive like the ones in the
Old Port market who do whatever they could to entice you into their
shop.
“Amigo, you buy. You come look. We make deal.” were oft
heard phrases in the market crammed with vendors, restaurants, taxis
and more vendors all clambering to get the attention of the gringos.
If you were white, you were assumed to have money.
Because we were
there during the off season, there were not too many white folk to be
found so the ones who were there were besieged by vendors. After a
short while, I must admit it became very irritating to be constantly
declining offers to purchase something, as you would no sooner
decline an offer from one when another would attempt to get your
attention. The sidewalks salesmen were relentless and almost
overwhelming with their omnipresent sales pitch. Nothing had a price
tag and everything was negotiable.
In contrast, the sellers at the
build site sat patiently near the side of the road and waited for us
to come to them - which we did at the end of each working day.
Bartering is a given in Mexico, but most of us could not bring
ourselves to haggle too much knowing these people were barely
surviving and the few greenbacks we gave them would feed their family
while our wallets would barely notice the absence of a few pieces of
paper.
The first day’s work done, it was time to head back to
base camp for a meal and time together before going to bed. We would
be up before the sun to get as much work done as we could before the
afternoon heat bore down on our winterized Canadian bodies.
Day
two saw the walls go up, a roof put on and the first layer of stucco
(a mixture of sifted sand and cement) as the swarm of pasty-white
Canucks labored shoulder to shoulder with Charlie, his family and
neighbours. When the first walls went up and the shape of a building
began to form the volunteer work crew was re-energized, as real
progress could be seen. Once the walls were secured, the roof was
added and sheets of Tolko pressboard covered the entire
structure.
Tar paper and chicken wire was then added to the
exterior before it was back to the wheelbarrows and more hand-mixing
cement and sifted sand for the first layer of stucco.
Day three
had ther final coat of stucco added, windows and doors installed and
finishing touches to the structure that would more than double their
living area.
Through it all, Meetay could not stop smiling, a joy
that infected the 20 people who travelled from the Great White North
to help 1 Mission build yet another home for a deserving family. The
heat of the day was barely noticed as we closed in on completion of
the home and the excitement of making such a huge difference. The
look of pride carried by Charlie was not lost on any of us.
A
faith-based organization, 1 Mission builds 75 homes a year for the
people of the barrio – for free. All that is required from those
receiving the home is to put in 200 volunteer hours helping their
neighbours. 1 Mission has been operating in Rocky Point for several
years and have built some 300 homes; a feat that has not gone
unnoticed among the barrio community who treat 1 Mission and its
workers with respect.
As the last nail was driven into the door
frame, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment, an
inner joy for helping out such a deserving family and a humbling
feeling of just how blessed we in Canada are to live in such a rich
and luxurious nation.
For the first time in her life, 12-year-old
Jasmine would have her own bedroom. Charlie and Meetay would take the
other room and their former house would be their kitchen and common
area. As a brief ceremony was held at the end of the build, Meetay
and Jasmine could not hold back their tears and several of the
builders also found themselves filled with emotion.
It was
wonderful and fulfilling to spend time with ‘real’ Mexicans. To
see the ‘real’ Mexico and not just some sanitized Americanized
version of the nation that so many people visit, but few really
experience.
These were just regular, everyday people, and we were
blessed to be able to share a short portion of their lives. The
unpaved roads, roaming dogs, blowing dust and sheer poverty in which
so many Mexicans live was so far from anything I have ever seen in
Canada, it takes a few days to process.
In this Mexico, there are
no swimming pools, no waiters catering to your every whim, no maids
cleaning your room while you lounge at the beach with a tequila, and
I loved every minute of it.
We spent five days in Mexico, three
building the home and two at a resort only a few kilometers away. By
far, spending time with Charlie and his family was the more enjoyable
of the two. It does the soul good to help others, there is a joy that
cannot be found poolside as you sweat in the midday sun and rinse
dust from your teeth or nurse a finger that got in the way of a
swinging hammer.
I would highly recommend it. There is reward in
giving of yourself to help others. The time at the resort is reduced
to a few photographs and souvenirs, but the house built memories that
will last a lifetime. The resort offers a few days of luxury, the
home offers a family a life-changing blessing – both Charlie’s
family and my own.
While my family and I chose to support a
Christian-based group, there are many agencies working in communities
throughout Mexico that could use some free labour. So perhaps the
next time you go south, considering skipping a couple days of a
king-size bed, big screen TV and room service to experience the real
Mexico and to get more than just a tan. By helping out you will get a
sense of satisfaction, lifelong memories and the knowledge that you
made a difference in the life of someone not as blessed as you. You
will not regret it.
