Anonymous - 5-23-2004 at 05:00 PM
http://www.contracostatimes.com/mld/cctimes/living/people/te...
By Chris Danzig
TWO WEEKS AGO, I returned from my fourth annual spring break trip to Mexico.
But this was not the stereotypical party-till-dawn-drink-till-you-drop-yeehaw-Cabo spring break: I spent the past four spring breaks with high school
students and adults from my church in the slums of Tijuana, Mexico, building small two-room houses for Mexican families.
In Tijuana, we serve families living in the midst of poverty almost inconceivable to suburbanites such as myself.
Living in the Bay Area, it is hard to imagine a place like Tijuana. There is no vegetation except for a few weeds and trees. The landscape is tinted
brown with dust and dirt. The only color is occasional homes and shops, painted bright yellow, purple, and pink.
Broken pipes drip sewage down steep, rutted, garbage-strewn dirt roads. Stripped cars litter the street, unmovable and unwheeled, in front of tiny
houses and shacks made of garage doors, plywood and corrugated tin.
The sky is a smoggy blue. Car exhaust and the smell of burning plastic pierce the nose and eyes.
This year, our worksite lay atop a hill, overlooking miles of sunburned homes across the hazy horizon. Each year I go to Mexico, I experience
something special and different from the years past. This year, I experienced the children.
There are always children, from toddlers to teens, who come by the site to tease us, to play with us and, sometimes, to work with us. This year there
were two children I will remember.
Alejandro was 3 years old. He and his family were to live in the house we built. When we arrived, I asked him his name. He hid behind his mother and
wouldn't say a word. At first, he ran away every time I approached him, but one day he changed.
He ran up to me and asked, "?Como se llama?" -- What is your name? -- "Chris," I told him. Then, in Spanish, he promptly ordered, "Pick me up, Chris!"
I hoisted him to my shoulders and ran up and down the street, as he yelled and pumped his little fists. After five minutes of intense piggybacking, he
still wanted more.
In fact, he wanted more all week. Each day, over and over, he darted up to me, "?Criiis, Criiis, Criiis! ?Arriba!"
The second boy was 10 years old. He lived a few blocks away, but came to our worksite every day. Sixto acted like a member of the team and worked just
as hard. He mixed concrete -- a backbreaking job -- for more than two hours straight, and at the same time made friends with everyone on my team.
I had a Polaroid camera, and on Thursday he asked me to take a picture with him. Grinning, I held the camera in front of us, snapped the shutter and
gave him the photo. He put it in his pocket, and I left the site for the day.
Friday afternoon, Sixto ran up to me, upset, and told me he had lost our photo. He asked for another one. I understood, but I had run out of film that
morning. I told him there was no way I could take another photograph.
A look of horror crossed his face, and he grabbed the Polaroid. Pressing all the buttons he could find, he tried to make a picture come out of the
slot in the front of the camera.
Sadly, I showed him it was impossible. He followed me around for the last hour, pleading, "Foto, foto." Finally, I gave him a hug, said goodbye, and
stepped on the bus for the last time. As I climbed aboard, I heard his voice, "Foto, foto."
It amazes me that such friendships can grow in spite of language, cultural, and societal barriers. And it is painful to think that I will never see my
small Mexican amigos again. I hope that they escape the poverty of Tijuana, and are well and happy. But I'll never know.
Thinking about Alejandro and Sixto, I realize our friendship would have been impossible without their childish trust and innocence. They tore down our
differences and created that bond.
Despite my busy life, their poverty, and a short time to know one another, those two looked at me and found love in a stranger.
I will never see Sixto or Alejandro again, but in one short week, they showed me true friendship. I will not forget them.
That Story
jrbaja - 5-23-2004 at 05:23 PM
Dear Mr. Danzig, with the way that was put together and the emotion involved, I wouldn't be too sure about not seeing your new friends again! Weirder
things have happened, especially in Baja.
You may in fact have picked up something while down here. And fortunately, it's incurable.
God has Blessed you my Christain Brother!
Skeet/Loreto - 5-26-2004 at 02:54 AM
To the Blessed Anon: Thank you for words so well written and Actions so Noble.
It is so sad that many people move to and live in Baja among the People and never are able to understand the love of a Child, with a smiling Face
among the poverty!
If you ever need any Help, Please let me know.
Skeet/Loreto
"In God I Trust"