Engaged!

Yes! It is true! He has conquered the wild beast! He has lassoed the charming mountain goat! He has put a down-payment on his wench! A most delighted wench!

And where has this most excellent event occurred?

HERE!

Yes, this magnificent green-hued corner of earth, straddling the border of Tijuana and San Diego; the wall separating Mexico from the United States, and temporarily, yes only temporarily, separating me from my love. 

But, as always, there is a grand story to tell! So we shall start, as always, AT THE BEGINNING!

I left Puerto Escondido Friday morning, escorted by my sweet Destroyer (Bronwyn), pretty much missing my bus. Yes, definitely missing my bus to Hualtulco. Running down the street in hopes of getting him to stop for me, which, he did. 

Which is good, because I needed to get home. Being separated from Boris for six weeks was certainly difficult, but keeping busy with the ministry and various water and land activities such as motorcycling, taco eating, and surfing passed the time quickly. But once I knew I was going to see him, there was nothing that could stop me from getting home.

Except projectile vomit and missing immigration documentation, but that is yet to come.

So, off to Huatulco I went, on the three hour bus that has no bathroom breaks. For anyone who knows me, they know that's a problem. I drink water like a camel gone wild. Some very unladylike situations went down on that bus. But I was one step of the way closer to Boris. Puerto to Huatulco. Huatulco to Mexico City. Mexico City to Tijuana. Tijuana to San Diego.

I arrived in Huatulco and rewarded myself with a plate of chips and guac. 

Ah, just a light meal and some lemonade to ensure I am fresh and svelte to see my love. And, having a Mexico trained stomach of steel, I gobbled them down greedily without worry of repercussions. 

Three hours later. Mexico City. Flight delayed. Texting Boris. Texting Bor--AAAAAHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHH! ::sprinting through Mexico City airport in search of vomit receptacle::

Ah, you didn't think this story involved vomit receptacles, did you?

Well it does. And there I was, surrounded by well-heeled Mexico City ladies. Them - looking and smelling fabulous. Me - defiling their ladies' restroom with the revenge of my treacherous airport food.

In retrospect, I suspect I was picking up on Boris's nerves from thousands of miles away. We are that in sync. Also, bad Mexican food.

Feeling better after my ritual cleansing, I boarded the plane and finally arrived in Tijuana. I took extra caution to look and smell my best, brushing ze teeth, combing ze hair, making sure ze outfit was extremely stylish...

So we ended up with:
A blue flannel
A Miami Marlins t-shirt
Green leggings
A multi-colored tribal scarf
An Iroman heart rate monitor watch
A Oaxacan hair wrap complete with chicken feathers

Needless to say, I was breathtaking.

I took a taxi to the border and then walked to customs. A frenzy of text messages were exchanged between the Boris and I, keeping him abreast of every development.

I get in line. I feel my pockets. I check my purse. Somewhere in this operation, I've lost my tourist visa. Without my tourist visa, I cannot cross the border. Without the border, I cannot see my Boris.

And so I pray. And sweat.

And then I see this freshly-shorn, black-shirted, handsome figure through the door on the other side of the border. My heart starts to pound. My head starts to spin. I must see him.

The agent calls me up. I present my passport. He looks at me and asks me what I was doing in Mexico.
Visiting friends.
"Okay, well, where are you from?"
Um, here? San Diego?
"No...originally."
Yes. San Diego.
"Then why do you have an Australian accent."

This is a good question. I convince him that I have been corrupted by my Austral-Mexican friends and their contagious accents. He does not ask for my tourist visa.

He lets me go and I run into the arms of the most deliciously perfect human I have ever seen.

The next few minutes are private, but I can say, without a doubt, that the feelings coursing through me were the most overwhelming and magnificent of my life. There is nowhere else I would rather have been proposed to than in the dimly lit, green-tinged, security-laden fortress of the Tijuana border. Against all odds, it was the most romantic and unexpected moment of my life.

Pictured below: The aforementioned fashion items, with the addition of
Eyes, swollen with glee and tears
Hands, swollen with plane travel
Engagement ring. BLING.

We then traveled on a cloud of euphoria to my parent's house, where they were all waiting for us. And by "they all", I mean my mom and sister, because my father and brother-in-law had given up and gone to bed/home. We took pictures and cried and ate cake and drank apple cider and champagne.

I call this one, "Engaged."

 I call this one, "Engaged, With Cat."

But I couldn't really stand the thought of not seeing my dad, so I ran upstairs and woke him up.

"Dad!...Dad! I'm engaged!" 

His reply?

"Nooo...Noooooo................................Yaaaay."

I love his sheer, unfiltered honesty, followed by realization and acceptance. It all happened very quickly.

Please don't hold this picture against me Father. Special guest appearance by my (our!) amazing new pink Mexican blanket. 

Hmmm. It hearkens to a blog post from September 2009, where you'll recall this picture:

We didn't plan this re-creation, but I have just discovered it. How much has changed!

My father's abs have not changed, however.

Back to the subject at hand.

It is with heart aglow and head ecstatic that I would like to announce my intention to become 

Mrs. Chelsea Ruiz.

To the love of my life and my future husband I dedicate this post and every moment hereafter.

Romans 10:15

Just as it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who declare good news of good things!”

Obviously this is one of those symbolic, figurative scriptures, in which the aforementioned beauty is visible only to heavenly entities. The way we're covering our territory has changed, and inside of canvassing region wide for English speakers, we're focusing on the houses we've already found. Houses may be an overstatement, as often the "house description" is "shack on stilts with green poles" or "junkyard with lots of abandoned cars."

Once we locate the pins on the map, we find the house by description as there is usually not street names or numbers. These locations may be hidden behind mountains, in ravines, or in plain sight, but guarded by vicious dogs and children. We go back six, yes six, times before leaving a letter. Some of these house require not a bit of effort to get to, and you can imagine our excitement upon trekking up the same hill on attempt number five or six.

For example, consider this territory:

We start from the highway and work our way up. See that house is the very top right corner? That's where we're going. Six times.

Attempt #1

 

Attempt #2

 

Attempt #3

In one of these territories, it was attempt number three and Bronnie, Nat, and Rachel (two girls from England) and I had just about given up on finding a certain block of houses. I was certain that success was elusive. We started our mission down the mountain and tried to look lively.

Suddenly: "I recognize that voice! That's Chelsea."

In my heat induced delirium I had no idea who was descending from the adjacent house, speaking fluent English. Then I recognized him, a man we had called on in the complete opposite side of town, an architect who spoke English and at the end of our visit had asked us for someone who could come and talk to him about the Bible once or twice a week. He had said he was almost impossible to find at home but gave us his card. And now we found him. Or he found us.

He came down the stairs.

Him: Would you be able to come to my house to study the Bible with me and my son this week?

Me: (thinking I might be hallucinating) Uh...yes. How's Thursday at 4:30?

Him: Perfect. See you then. Are you following me?

Us: (delirious laughter as we stumble down the hill, having accomplished something unexpectedly delightful)

Of course, some days are easier than others; some roads are easily accessible by motorcycle, sometimes we stop for juice or tacos on the side of the the road. Sometimes you get to be in an air-conditioned car and go on people's studies (I'm looking at YOU, Destroyer), but every day here so far I've had a passenger on the motorcycle and worked territory. Since I'm only here for other month I'm pushing a bit harder than I usually would, trying to soak up every bit of ministry goodness that I can. I can't wait for the campaign in November, where there will be a whole lot of this:

"Umm...where are we?"

 

Ideally followed by a whole lot of this:

 

In the meantime, I sure hope the angels think my feet are beautiful, because they sure aren't getting any prettier.

 

Two Week Tempest

So it's already been almost two weeks since I left the comfort of my home -- my home being the massage chair in the Tijuana airport -- and am attempting to send this blog post from the comfort of my pool, ignoring the wild cats rustling in the bushes, the fireworks/gunshots going off in the distance, and my raging need to close my eyes and sleep off this amazingly busy day.

(Three hour interlude in which much good is accomplished, including Bronnie and I rigging up a mosquito net and laughing hysterically at each other's accents. Hysterical laughter is not uncommon, including yesterday in which I tried to weigh Bronnie by wrapping her in a sheet and trying to hoist her up with my luggage scale...

It didn't work.)

The raging need to close my eyes has won tonight. I certainly have a lot to share, but fear tonight is not the night. The prospect of a restful night in my impermeable polyester-nylon palace is too great.

So I say goodnight to the cats and the fireworks and my loved ones and my beloved one and the mosquitoes, who sing a melancholy song of sadness over the loss of their golden goose, their walking feast of flesh who is now hermetically sealed in her polyester-nylon palace.

They lie in wait, hoping for a toe or an elbow to escape its gauzy perimeter.

And they wait.

There Will Be Snakes

First time in the water today, treading water and chatting with Jacinta at Carrazillio.

Chelsea: Blah blah blah. Blah? Blahhhhh.

Jacinta: There's a snake coming towards us. We should get out of the water.

Chelsea: Blah?! Blah??? Blah!!!!

Chelsea: ::swims vigorously towards the shore::

Chelsea: ::turns around and makes sure Jacinta has not been consumed by snake::

Chelsea: ::reaches shore, stares in horror at snake still coming towards us with head raised::

Snake: (telepathically) I'm a sssssnake!

Jacinta: ::laughs:: Well, you've got a story now. Welcome back to Mexico.

We asked a local woman on the beach if it was dangerous. She comfortingly said "Si, muy peligroso..."

The locals ran out of the shops to see the sea snake roving through the water. Because I'm evil, I asked them to kill it. Because they are sane, they did not. But this man fished it out and offered "un collar nuevo" (a new necklace) to these little ladies. They refused. Kids these days.

On closer examination, we saw it was a tree snake. Poor guy probably fell off a tree and into the water. He simply wanted to use Jacinta and I as a perch to dry out. Which is great because there are several varieties of fatal sea snakes around and I was not about to meet one on my first day back. Maybe second, but certainly not first. Regardless, they set him free and he was on his way, surely relieved that the locals did not listen to that evil, murderous woman who he just wanted to use for a resting place anyway, gosh.

"Release me."

Outside of the Huatulco airport there was this sign:

Which is brilliant and everything but in Paradise there won't be snakes in the water. Or there will be, but they will announce themselves and their intentions clearly from afar. Actually, if we have talking snakes in Paradise, we might be in trouble.

Snake: Ooooh, I'm a ssssnake!