I was
one of about thirty young men standing around in a dark suit eating cold cereal
out of a Styrofoam bowl with a plastic spoon. The building was unlike any I had
seen before. Instead of doors, there were thick metal gates that let the
sunlight and breeze in, keeping the room comfortably cool. There were a few
potted ferns tucked away, and in the back was a room filled entirely with bunk
beds and suitcases. A few young men were grouped against one of the walls,
taking pictures in front of a glass plague that read “Missión México Veracruz.”
Mission Mexico Veracruz, it meant. Our home for the next two years.
We Americans had been in the
country for less than eighteen hours. We’d spent that time navigating customs,
riding in the back of mission vans, eating what were apparently real tacos, listening to a bunch of
mission rules and policies, sleeping, and just recently, eating breakfast. Now,
we were waiting for our trainers to arrive and President Hansen to interview
us. I’d gotten kind of annoyed at him the previous night for so vehemently
telling us that iPods were in violation of mission rules. I’d studied the white
rulebook a dozen times, and I knew for a fact that it didn’t say anything about
iPods. Fortunately, I learned humility later.
Older missionaries started showing
up while I was in the back room organizing my things. I could tell they were
older because they were really tan and their shirts weren’t quite white
anymore. I noticed they all had matching black bags. President Hansen had told
us the night before that we could buy them for 50 or 60 pesos. That still
sounded like a lot of money to me, so I decided to use my own bag.
My turn for the interview came. I
walked into President Hansen’s office and sat down. He was a portly man with
graying hair, a big bald spot, and a funny accent. He had a big desk at one end
and a big white board at the other. The white board was covered with pictures
of missionaries and several post-it notes. I only had to read a few of the
names to realize that the post-its were all the new missionaries. President
Hansen asked me how good my Spanish was compared to the other American
greenies. Everyone, myself included, thought I was the best Spanish-speaker of
the bunch, but I didn’t want to sound full of myself, so I said, “One of the best.”
President Hansen grabbed my post-it
and put it next to a photo of a Mexican missionary. He told he his name was
Elder Olvera and that we were going to have a baptism that week. I knew we were
expected to baptize every week, so I figured that was a good way to start. He
told me my area was called El Tejar and that it was “pure Mexico,” whatever
that meant. Apparently it had something to do with people frying chickens all
day.
We went outside, and President
Hansen called my new companion over. My first thought was, “Wow, he’s short.”
He barely came up to my chest, but he must have been really excited to see me,
because he immediately gave me a big hug. President Hansen told him in Spanish
that I could mostly follow that he should give me lots of opportunities to
teach because I spoke the language. Elder Olvera asked me something, and I
immediately regretted saying I was “one of the best.”
We gathered my things and left the
mission office. It was about ten o’ clock, so it was still relatively cool. To
someone who had spent the winter in Provo, however, it was warm. I followed
Elder Olvera through the streets of Veracruz, knowing that if I ever lost sight
of him, I would be completely and irredeemably lost. We eventually made it to a
busy street and stopped at a bus stop. Elder Olvera explained that we would be
taking a bus to our area and that he would pay. I wanted to tell him that I had
my own money, but the noise and Spanish were enough to make me hold my tongue.
After several minutes, we got on a
bus, a rickety white thing better described as a metal box with wheels and what
could loosely be classified as seats. We went to the back of the bus and sat
down. A second later, the bus took off, and I was immediately afraid for my
life. The bus wove and twisted through traffic at breakneck speed, skidding to
a halt when someone outside waved their hand. The first time, he hit the brakes
so hard, one of my suitcases slid halfway down the bus. “Go get it,” Elder
Olvera said. I, the pasty white American boy with MTC Spanish and a fear of
strangers, walked sheepishly down the aisle to retrieve my suitcase while other
passengers stared at me.
At one stop, a guy got on and started
making an announcement. I had no idea how to react. All I could tell for sure
was that he was selling something. I glanced at Elder Olvera, who was just
staring blankly ahead, and decided the floor was suddenly the most interesting
thing around.
The bus eventually left the city on
a highway that ran mostly straight through the countryside. “Look outside,” my
companion said. I did and was instantly assaulted by a wall of green. Palm
trees pushed against the edge of the road between blocky concrete buildings. I
saw people outside, but my brain was so overloaded with panic and sensory input
that I didn’t notice what they were doing. In that moment, my only thought was,
“This is awesome.” I was convinced my area was a town carved out of a tropical
jungle. What’s cooler than that?
We finally reached our stop. I
followed Elder Olvera off the bus, and after a short walk and a flight of
stairs, we reached our apartment. We had a small living room, a small bedroom,
a small bathroom, a small hallway, and a room with a water heater in the back.
It was also incredibly dirty. Elder Olvera showed me my bed and where to hang
my clothes. Then he showed me the area book and “The Wall,” a giant piece of
blue butcher paper with post-its all over it. These post-its had names on them,
too. He told me they were our investigators and recent converts. He then told
me to unpack while he organized some things and that we’d be leaving for lunch
soon.
Another wild bus ride later, we
ended up at a tiny concrete hut that I never saw again. The sister had prepared
tacos for us. It was a good meal, and I managed to thank her in by clumsy
gringo Spanish. The rest of the day was a blur. I think Elder Olvera introduced
me to some of the ward members and investigators.
Our last visit of the day was with
a member family that lived near our apartment. They spoke English pretty well,
but they told me they wouldn’t be speaking it very often so that I could
practice my Spanish. They gave us something for dinner, and then it was back to
our apartment to plan and sleep.
Eighteen weeks and nine baptisms
later, I got transferred to another area with even more crazy bus drivers, a
bigger apartment, and slightly better Spanish skills. I had my first and only
non-Mexican companion – he was from Peru – and had learned that missionary work
is, in fact, hard. In the back of my mind, though, I would always remember that
first day in Mexico, the only day I ever thought I would die before it ended.
