Chapter 15: New York Group Arrives to Las Rosas

Oh, this was great. I was sitting in my room, waiting for Adalid to show up so we could go to a wedding up in the church above Las Rosas. Kike was getting ready to head off to his parents’ house and stuffing his bag full of dirty clothes for his mom to wash. He was telling me the story about his parents wedding. I was starting to get a hang of this “Spanish” stuff.
“My dad had asked his then girlfriend to marry him, my mom. I guess he didn’t have the money for the wedding, and it was in three months.” He pulled out a picture and showed it to me. It was of his dad, at age maybe 25, with his now wife and wife’s sister, sitting on a bench in front of the Alameda Park near Bellas Artes in Mexico City, where we had just been a few weeks ago. It was a classic 70’s picture, the stereotypical faded colors, below the knee, puffy dresses, bell bottoms but not too exaggerated, mixed with stereotypical Mexican – shirt buttoned up to his lower chest where he tries to show off about three chest hairs. Everybody looking serious but not intimidating. “His brother told him about an opportunity to work on a place in an island in the Gulf of Mexico, up towards the border area. I can’t remember what the job was, but some sort of construction or something. It wasn’t construction, it was something more permanent. Anyway, he thinks he’ll just work the three months, because the job paid pretty well, and head back a week or two before the wedding. So he disappears, just saying that he’ll be back before the wedding.
I guess when he got up there he liked the place; they took them out on a boat, they housed the workers and gave them what they needed to eat, and took care of them. Well just when the three months was about up, he figures he’ll go tell his boss that he needs to get going. He goes to tell his boss and his boss laughs and is like ‘no, no, we are leaving for another three months. And I don’t pay my workers until they finish at least six months of work here.’ My dad is totally panicking thinking he is stranded out on this island, needs to get home, no phone or any way of calling home, and isn’t getting off the island for another three months. He goes and talks to his brother and I guess some guy overheard and said ‘oh, don’t worry. Just wait until he has about ten beers in him. Once he is a little drunk, he turns into a really REALLY generous guy. You can ask him almost anything.’ So that is what he did: he waited until a few days later when the boss got pretty hammered, and my dad came in a just happily said ‘guess what? I am getting married in four days, so I need my paycheck and I need off this island!’ The boss was so happy he gave him his money right there, got him on the boat that day, and my dad made it the next day, three days before his wedding.”
Almost on cue, a car rumbled up outside our window and the horn sounded. I gave him a high-five and helped him bring his stuff out. I say hi to his brother and sister and mother and cousin. He climbs in and the maneuver the car trying to turn it around the really tight road. They head off and I go back to my room to wait, having nothing else to do.
I hear a knocking on my door, and I go let Adalid in. But instead, it’s Osvelia knocking.
“What’s up?”
“There is a group here. Come down and meet them.”
It sounded like fun so I went out on to the balcony to see what kind of group was here. It was about eight Americans and one Mexican guy, a guy who I knew from somewhere before, but couldn’t put my finger on exactly where. Some crafts fair, or in some way associated with the hac. I knew he knew little English. I went back down through the courtyard and down through the big wooden doors. They were out there giving candy to the neighbor kids. Which I knew was going to mean the kids now wouldn’t leave us alone for one second. The Mexican guy, skinny and confident, came up to me with a look of relief on his face.
“Oh, it’s great you are here. I want to show them the stained glass stuff, but I can’t get the words out. Can you give them a tour of Las Rosas?”
So I say “yeah. Sure.”
The Americans come walking back up to their van, which says “World Vision” on the side – the apparent connection I have with the Mexican guy (I meet all kinds of people from tons of different organizations that work with the hacienda).
I give them a hearty “hello” and they all finally realize my presence as another American, but one who isn’t with their group. There is an older, larger man with his wife. There is another older couple there too, although younger than the first one. Then there are three people, two women and a man who are seemingly together – maybe siblings or friends or something. And then a kid, maybe about my age or so. The large man and his wife are immediately stunned by my presence.
“What… who are you?”
“I’m Patrick. I live here. He,” motioning to the Mexican “brought you guys up here to take a tour of my house.”
They’re like “do you own this?” “What do you do here?” “Why did you come here?” It’s like “Apocalypse Now,” when Charlie Sheen gets to the end of the river and finds the fat Marlon Brando with all the skulls and everything at the end of the river, a place where you would never expect to find another white person. Maybe we need some skulls or something. I hadn’t shaved in a while either, so I had the extra “mountain man” effect going. I answered all their questions, feeling suddenly proud of my position, being one of wonder and bizarre for them. I assumed they hadn’t met anyone who spoke English as they passed by the hacienda (which was a correct assumption), and the cause of their bewilderment because if they would have known there were more of us, they probably wouldn’t have been that surprised. I showed them around, and told them some of the history of the place, making up facts where needed. I told them the story about the robbery. They liked it.
They told me about them. They were from New York, coming to see the State of Mexico to report what World Vision was doing. I gathered that Norberto felt we might get some money from them if they liked what we were doing here. I told them about the school and ceramics and stained glass and stuff. We went to show them the stained glass stuff, which they were very excited about. I asked Osve for the keys. She didn’t have them. Uh oh. We need that door open. I knew we’d sell a lot if we could just get that door open. Osve and the Mexican guy who brought them searched around for them, while I entertained the guests. The kid said he was living in Mexico City, having just recently arrived, and knew little Spanish. We talked about his church and about Union Church in Mexico City, agreeing that it was little more than a country club or social center for resident Christians.
Adalid had showed up by then, so I presented her to all of them. The keys still had not been found. Geez those two better hurry. I knew that any minute the group was going to say not to worry about it and we would lose those sales.
“You know what, don’t worry about it. We don’t want to cause you any trouble. We need to be going anyway.”
Crap. OK. Ok. Think fast. I knew I could get that window off if I had a screwdriver, which I knew we didn’t have. A butter knife! Right. I went into the kitchen and came back.
“Uh, you know what? The two girls here…” Adalid and Osve “…both do stained glass and they really want you to see their stuff.” Not exactly that true, but by then I really wanted them to see the stuff. I start to take off the screws around the window. They are coming off easy, and the Mexican guy is helping me. We get them all off, the ones off the small window on the door, and try to pull the glass off. It was hot glued onto the frame. Crap. I start to pry. Must…get…window…off… It pops and breaks leaving just a small piece in one of the corners, but coming 80% clean. Whatever. I smile and stick my hand in the door, turning the handle. Which doesn’t turn any more than it would from the outside. Which I should have known. The thing is like a built in dead bolt with no hand knob: you need the key to open it, no matter which side you try to open it from.
“It’s really ok… don’t worry about it.”
My Mexican buddy has a great call. He grabs a chair, and slides through the hole, the only person besides Adalid who could have made it. Actually Adalid followed him in, seeing the vision. They just pull stuff out of its paper wrapping or off the shelves, bringing things over for us waiting outside to see. They oooh and ahhh over each piece, commenting like collectors.
Each of them ended up buying quite a bit, making it worth ripping the window off. By the time they left they bought enough that it would have been worth just breaking the whole window in if we hadn’t found a way to take it off.
As the group left, I shook all their hands and thanked them. They wished me well, shaking their heads and smiling at the idea of me living up here in the middle of nowhere.
When they left, Adalid turned and finally gave me a hello kiss. “I thought you said Americans don’t shake hands to say goodbye.”
I just nodded and smiled, shrugging my shoulders.
I got dressed quickly and we walked up the hill about a few dozen meters to the church above. We ended up at the wedding about three hours late, which got us there just in time to see the vows, or what I could make out were vows, a figure-eight rope thrown over their heads, and then them walking up the aisle towards the five-piece brass band playing a lazy wedding march at the back door of the church, shaking hands and hugging, and getting confetti thrown all over them. We immediately went to the inclined field on the hill above Las Rosas for the reception where we sat on chairs at about a 20 degree angle sideways, or backwards, or leaning forward. The cakes, I was sure, were going to fall over on the slanted table.