The wind was gusting. causing dust funnels that almost blinded us, as if the dust created by the truck traveling along unpaved roads wasn't enough. I commented how the temperature seemed to be dropping, even cold for a fall day in Mexico. Soon we came across pools of water puddling in the dust that kept the swirl of dust at bay for a brief time. They flowed from a cinder block edifice on one side of the road, that looked like an unfinished garage that had been abandoned while another shipment of block arrived. Lines of clothing were strung across the back side of the structure, the garments straining against the wind, freshly washed but caked with the dust that seemed to be everywhere.
We drove up beyond the end of the unfinished wall and into a courtyard of sorts, more resembling a compound. Three women stood hunched over a metal basin in the middle of the compound washing clothes, as the water slopped out the sides of the basins and ran streaming down the gulleys they formed in the caked red earth, eventually pooling in the puddles we had seen just beyond the concrete wall. The only finished wall of the structure lied just ahead of us, and formed the rear wall of what seemed to be eight to ten cells, would be the best description. Each had a door, and a cutout for a window, smoke billowing from some. The scent of cooking fires was evident as we excited our truck.
Children seemed to peer from every opening, some actually wandering out into the daylight to see the two Americanos who had suddenly appeared in their community. A few played in the courtyard, glancing at us as we stepped into the open, then returning to their preoccupation with the water streaming from the wash basins. Almost all were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, bearing American symbols well known to me, but thick with the dust that seemed to be everyhwere now. All were barefoot.
A man stood nearby, a short man in stature he smiled warmly as we approached because he recognized my friend as someone he could trust. They spoke briefly in a broken Mexican dialect, as this man known only as Hefe, the Mexican word for boss, was a native of this country. Coming from a tribe of people who did not even speak the language the Spaniards brought here, but a language all their own, he struggled to communicate with us but was friendly and hospitable just the same. A woman approached, who I found out later had never spoken to my friend before, but this day was in a talkative mood. She spoke a bit more Mexican, and was also friendly and talkative, although she never made eye contact with either of us.
The concrete village, as the team at Lantern Hill has come to know this place, houses about 150 people (probably half are children), in a space the size of a small American warehouse, or three bay American garage. The only difference is that our garages are fully enclosed, while the concrete village is a project never completed by the landowner, with a full wall on one side, a half wall on another and two exposed sides, forming a courtyard of sorts where most of the routines of daily life, liking washing and cooking are lived out in community.
Oaxacan people have migrated here to work in the farm fields nearby and squatted in this compound with others to form a community that helps nurture and support one another. The poverty here is as severe as I have seen it in Mexico, which by comparison to other developing nations is pretty similar. The people work hard, spending 12-16 hour days in the fields working for $3 or less per day. The village is a place of refuge, shelter and cover from the wind, dust and cold that has set in this day, as fall conditions descend on the Baja.
Jefe, the "boss" holds the title simply because he is the oldest man in the compound, and as such too old to get work according to local landowners, so he cares for the women who are not working and the children during the day, while others farm the fields. What we learned this day is that the need right now is for clothing for babies and warm blankets. As we depart, I can't begin to imagine how cold it must be there that night, as the temperature spurred on by the high winds, drops into the 40's.
We are in the earliest stages on forming relationships and a sense of trust between Jefe, the people of the concrete village and ourselves, so we will return with blankets and clothing, purchased from a local woman who sells second hand clothing and who lives at or near the poverty level herself. We'll share some more conversation in hopes that as the relationship builds, more opportunities for accompaniment will emerge. In the meantime, I pray that the wind dies down and the warm temperatures return soon.
We drove up beyond the end of the unfinished wall and into a courtyard of sorts, more resembling a compound. Three women stood hunched over a metal basin in the middle of the compound washing clothes, as the water slopped out the sides of the basins and ran streaming down the gulleys they formed in the caked red earth, eventually pooling in the puddles we had seen just beyond the concrete wall. The only finished wall of the structure lied just ahead of us, and formed the rear wall of what seemed to be eight to ten cells, would be the best description. Each had a door, and a cutout for a window, smoke billowing from some. The scent of cooking fires was evident as we excited our truck.
Children seemed to peer from every opening, some actually wandering out into the daylight to see the two Americanos who had suddenly appeared in their community. A few played in the courtyard, glancing at us as we stepped into the open, then returning to their preoccupation with the water streaming from the wash basins. Almost all were dressed in jeans and t-shirts, bearing American symbols well known to me, but thick with the dust that seemed to be everyhwere now. All were barefoot.
A man stood nearby, a short man in stature he smiled warmly as we approached because he recognized my friend as someone he could trust. They spoke briefly in a broken Mexican dialect, as this man known only as Hefe, the Mexican word for boss, was a native of this country. Coming from a tribe of people who did not even speak the language the Spaniards brought here, but a language all their own, he struggled to communicate with us but was friendly and hospitable just the same. A woman approached, who I found out later had never spoken to my friend before, but this day was in a talkative mood. She spoke a bit more Mexican, and was also friendly and talkative, although she never made eye contact with either of us.
The concrete village, as the team at Lantern Hill has come to know this place, houses about 150 people (probably half are children), in a space the size of a small American warehouse, or three bay American garage. The only difference is that our garages are fully enclosed, while the concrete village is a project never completed by the landowner, with a full wall on one side, a half wall on another and two exposed sides, forming a courtyard of sorts where most of the routines of daily life, liking washing and cooking are lived out in community.
Oaxacan people have migrated here to work in the farm fields nearby and squatted in this compound with others to form a community that helps nurture and support one another. The poverty here is as severe as I have seen it in Mexico, which by comparison to other developing nations is pretty similar. The people work hard, spending 12-16 hour days in the fields working for $3 or less per day. The village is a place of refuge, shelter and cover from the wind, dust and cold that has set in this day, as fall conditions descend on the Baja.
Jefe, the "boss" holds the title simply because he is the oldest man in the compound, and as such too old to get work according to local landowners, so he cares for the women who are not working and the children during the day, while others farm the fields. What we learned this day is that the need right now is for clothing for babies and warm blankets. As we depart, I can't begin to imagine how cold it must be there that night, as the temperature spurred on by the high winds, drops into the 40's.
We are in the earliest stages on forming relationships and a sense of trust between Jefe, the people of the concrete village and ourselves, so we will return with blankets and clothing, purchased from a local woman who sells second hand clothing and who lives at or near the poverty level herself. We'll share some more conversation in hopes that as the relationship builds, more opportunities for accompaniment will emerge. In the meantime, I pray that the wind dies down and the warm temperatures return soon.
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