While I was in Mexico over the summer, I had the unique opportunity of leaving the busy cities and tourist sites to visit the Indigenous people who live high up in the mountains. We were going to bring sweaters, backpacks, and toothbrushes we had all packed in our suitcases to the school children there.
Our ninja of a bus driver, Ricardo (seriously, this guy has skills comparable to none, except maybe Chuck Norris) followed two men in a rickety red pickup truck up a dirt road to this school in the middle of nowhere. He navigated through steep hillsides that were completely farmed by Indigenous Maya in their traditional clothes who peered at us curiously in our giant bus. We drove through windy dirt roads with cliff edges and no guard rail to be seen. We passed tiny tin or thatch-roof houses with clotheslines in the yards, chickens running around the lush gardens, sheep tied to short posts, hammocks hanging from the porches and old bicycles leaned up against the walls. If it weren’t for the Coca Cola signs and satellite dishes everywhere, I would have thought we had gone back in time.
When we finally made it to the school, we jumped out of the bus to see many apprehensive children lining the driveway in different traditional clothes depending on their cultural group. We gave them all high-fives as we passed, but I think that just scared them more than anything. What was a group of tall, white people wearing funny clothes doing at their school?
They welcomed us in Spanish over a loud speaker in their dirt yard, and then a girl from my tour did a jump-rope demonstration for them to break the ice. While that was happening, two of my friends, Ryan and Steven, were attempting to fix a broken set of giant teeth that came with the toothbrushes we were going to give them.
At this point, one of my directors leaned over to me and pointed out a funny thing. He said, “Can this be real? I’m standing here in the mountains of Mexico watching a white girl jump rope for a bunch of Indians while a giant set of teeth just said, ‘Me llamo Stevo.’ This is surreal.” And it was.
When she finished her little show, we started handing the stuff out to the kids. At first, they were hesitant, but pretty soon I was completely surrounded by children with their tiny outstretched hands desperately reaching for a toothbrush. The really young kids were completely filthy, and my heart simply broke. Seeing such eager expressions for a toothbrush or backpack caused me to reflect on my childhood. Why didn’t I grow up in the highlands of Mexico where receiving a sweater would have made my world? Why was I, instead, complaining that I didn’t get a Nintendo 64 like my friends amid my shelves and shelves of untouched toys and games these kids couldn’t imagine having? It just wasn’t fair, and it made me want to cry as I heard the children’s voices plead, “Uno para mi. One for me.”
As my meager stash got smaller and smaller, my panic rose. How could I confess to these hopeful brown eyes it was all gone? How could I leave these hands empty? It nearly killed me when my hand scrambled for just one more toothbrush at the bottom of my bag to find none left.
Once everything was gone, the priests of the town served us a lunch of beef (at least I think it was beef) stew. Seeing as how they aren’t very big fans of foreigners—especially Americans—this was a pretty big deal.
The meal was simple. It was bland. It was watery. It was the best lunch I’ve ever had.
I was overcome with gratitude.
Toward the end of lunch, we suddenly heard techno-sounding music blaring over the speakers, and peered out the window to see what was the cause of such out-of-place commotion. The same girl who jumped rope was now dancing. It didn’t take long before a huge dance party erupted in that dusty yard surrounded by a bunch of curious Maya. Some of us tried to get them to dance with us, but I think they just thought we were freaks.
We played soccer with them too. The teams were pretty equally matched. We were college kids; they were 8 year-olds. It’s funny how a ragged, lumpy ball can penetrate all culture barriers. We were no longer “rich, American college students” and they were no longer “poor, Mexican school children” but we were just a bunch of kids trying to kick a ball in between two posts more times than the other team.
When our precious time with them had run out, our professors struggled in herding us back on the bus. We simply didn’t want to leave our new friends. With much effort, our teachers pushed the last of us aboard, and we could see the kids smiling and waving to us through the bus windows.
As we pulled away, we watched a little boy flossing with the new floss we gave him for perhaps the first time in his life.
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