Base Station San Miguel is up and running. We arrived last Friday night and (to everyone's relief) got a chance to wash our clothes, sip some pizza, eat some wine, and kick up our heels. Nick curled up at once with a teddy bear and made a nest. We were able to capture him in his natural habitat.
That brief moment of tranquility was fleeting. The house we are watching is home to eight cats, three dogs, a host of scorpions and mosquitoes, and any number of other creatures, including Edmund the praying mantis. There are lots of street dogs in San Miguel, but the people here who have pet dogs treat them as nothing short of their own children. Coincidentally, a sister who went of vacation for a month left her dog with us as well - a 15-year-old miniature schnauzer named Fritz. 
San Miguel de Allende is home to the first English congregation in Mexico. The Kingdom Hall is beautiful, as is the congregation. Everyone here has a fascinating story. Most are retired Americans, with some Canadians and local Mexicans. All are full of vigor and valiant at heart - waging war on cobblestone roads that end expectedly and topes (extra large speed bumps) that can flip the wig right off your head. The town is decidedly beautiful.
One night, Tara and I awoke with a start at 4 am. Some horrible noise was erupting repeatedly outside our house - or was it inside our house? My mind raced with possibilities - someone or something trying to baton down our door. A shootout in the middle of the street. The end of this system of things? I groggily called Nick upstairs on the land line, half dreaming. He assured me that they were fireworks, him and Zoe had been watching them from the roof since sleep was rendered impossible.
The picture of innocence, ¿no? No. The day Joan (the sister we're housesitting for) and her friend are scheduled to leave, Fritz makes a break for it. He somehow had eluded three levels of defense to escape the property - a metal gate, an iron fence, and a wooden fortress. Eye-witnesses saw him being picked up by a woman outside the house. People will kidnap dogs here for a small ransom, but she also could have been a Good Samaritan.
Nick and the brothers from the hall launched into action. Quickly, a REWARD ad was placed on the radio while others scoured the town. A few hours later, Fritz was recovered in the center of town, a 100 peso reward was rewarded, and our nerves were shot.
Therefore, when I went to wash the dishes that night and the sink exploded on me, I was fairly nonplussed.
Sunset in Centro
Zorayda at the Instituto
One night, Tara and I awoke with a start at 4 am. Some horrible noise was erupting repeatedly outside our house - or was it inside our house? My mind raced with possibilities - someone or something trying to baton down our door. A shootout in the middle of the street. The end of this system of things? I groggily called Nick upstairs on the land line, half dreaming. He assured me that they were fireworks, him and Zoe had been watching them from the roof since sleep was rendered impossible. The next day, we learned that when someone (anyone) dies, no matter what the day or hour, family and friends will immediately assemble a barrage of fireworks and set them off incessantly until...they run out, I guess. The next day, a parade of people wailing, playing instruments and carrying oversize crosses will march through the street, setting off more fireworks. Exploding sinks or exploding fireworks, Joan gave us an all-purpose justification: "It's Mexico."
Most of the service mornings are spent canvasing in San Miguel, where there is a high concentration of English speakers. Some days, we go to further territories, like nearby Comonfort or Iturbede. There are less English speakers there, but a remarkable turn out of Bible students and interested people.
The rainy road to Iturbede.
Donde esta Zoe in the above picture? Tending to Fritz, who went out in the morning to do his business and came back with a scorpion (?) stung paw. Oh, Fritzoid. We can't escape the dogs. They're in our house, on the street, in our dreams, and on the roofs. They're everywhere. We can't escape them, and hopefully, ours can no longer escape from us.
We were waiting for one sister to finish a call when this man rolled up on his bicycle. He immediately dismounted and began reading his little blue paper. I could not help but think he was running lines for an upcoming audition. Extra Needed: MAN WITH MULLET. Behold - the most glorious mullet, if not most glorious man, in Mexico:
I don't know about you, but I'd hire him.
Prices here are all over the place - I've grown accustomed to the unbelievable cheap prices of Southern Mexico, but here, everything is different. Hairspray, dental floss, and peaches are luxury items. A cotton t-shirt can cost 500 pesos at the store, while I bought a pair of sweet leather cowboy boots on the street today for 20 pesos.
That's $1.47. Million dollar villas are short drive away from spacious houses that rent for $150 a month. There's a strange dichotomy between the lifestyle of the Caucasian people and the Mexican people. Amongst the locals, you can tell that many of the white people intend to stick together and refuse to learn the language or attempt cultural assimilation.
Amongst the brothers, the intermingling and love displayed is evident. The Spanish, English, Mexican Sign Language, and Nahuatl (indigenous language of the Aztec) congregations all meet at the same Kingdom Hall. In fact, when we showed up on Tuesday with no English brothers to direct us, the Nahuatl took us under their wing and into their territory.
It was fantastic! Most of the Nahuatl also speak Spanish, though it is a second language. And we also speak Spanish, though very much so like preschool children. Sharing that second language, we were able to communicate well enough with each other, not to mention the householders - for they would open the door, and whether they spoke Spanish, English, or Nahuatl, our bases were covered, we'd tell them the good news some way or another.
We looked for people high,
and low,
and near,
and far.
It was fantastic! Most of the Nahuatl also speak Spanish, though it is a second language. And we also speak Spanish, though very much so like preschool children. Sharing that second language, we were able to communicate well enough with each other, not to mention the householders - for they would open the door, and whether they spoke Spanish, English, or Nahuatl, our bases were covered, we'd tell them the good news some way or another. Afterwards, the family we worked with fed us as took us to the Tuesday market. There you can buy anything under the sun, and we bought most of the vegetation of Jehovah's creation.
I somehow made arrangements with the family to teach their two children, Francisco and Cithali, some working English, along with anyone else who comes and meets us at the public library. We had our first lesson last Saturday, and I was amazed at how quickly they learned basic introductions and how rapt their attention was. Zoe and I theorized that their simple lifestyle and lack of hyperstimulation could be the key to their diligence.
I somehow made arrangements with the family to teach their two children, Francisco and Cithali, some working English, along with anyone else who comes and meets us at the public library. We had our first lesson last Saturday, and I was amazed at how quickly they learned basic introductions and how rapt their attention was. Zoe and I theorized that their simple lifestyle and lack of hyperstimulation could be the key to their diligence. All of the congregations we visit want to know what our future plans will be. Are we coming to Mexico to stay? Can we stay and help them? Do we want to go get margaritas?
We are all in excellent positions to make excellent decisions, but only time will tell. Working in service, a precious bilingual sister tried to assess the situation.
"Chelsea, you are deciding if you are able to serve somewhere, perhaps in Mexico?"
"Correct," I confirmed.
"And your sister, Tara, she does not want the Mexico?"I couldn't help but laugh. Perhaps Tara does not want the Mexico. Perhaps I do not want the Mexico. All I know is "a large door that leads to activity has been opened to [us]." I may linger at the threshold for a while.
Puerto Escondido is nothing short of a dream. About a 6-12 hour bus ride from Oaxaca City, variable because the road is quite curvy and prone to mudslides. Our journey, however, was plagued by nothing more than the bus drivers horrible taste in music and a child throwing up everything he had ever eaten all over Nicks backpack.
(Tara was tearing it up too, but the camera died.) 