The Trip that started it all - Mexico 1997

One of my greatest passions in life is travel. I mean, who doesn’t want to hop on a plane, train, or magical carpet to see the world? Most folks in their 20s dream of globetrotting, ticking off places from their bucket list like it’s a scavenger hunt. In my case, I hit the travel jackpot during the summer of 1997, just before heading into seventh grade. My grandma decided it was a good time for a mission trip to Tula, Mexico—yes, you heard right, a mission trip! My dad thought it would be a brilliant idea for me to gain some “cultural experience,” so he whipped up a permission slip faster than you could say “¡no hay problema!”, and off I went with my great-grandma, my great-uncle, and my uncle Chris, who is slightly younger than I am.

Now, Chris and I have been buddies since we were in diapers—literally. Lucky for us, I had a smattering of Spanish under my belt, courtesy of my elementary school (which I suspect was taught by a pair of mismatched socks). We piled into a white Dodge van, pulling a trailer loaded with clothes and food for the needy. To get in the right mood for our charitable endeavors, we cranked up the hip-hop as we cruised through South Texas, jamming to Master P, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, and Snoop Doggy Dogg in our headphones. Because nothing says “mission trip” quite like explicit lyrics, right?

After a few days at a church camp just north of the border, we hit the road. The moment I saw dusty roads and ALTO on the stop signs, I thought, “Hello, new world!” It was a long, winding journey through mountains, most of which I snoozed through with my headphones firmly in place. I’d wake up occasionally to find Uncle Chris gazing out the window, taking in the scenery like he was watching animals at the zoo. I was too busy battling the altitude changes, which I had yet to master, so I figured sleeping was my best option. My eyes would pop open to the sight of my boombox, adorned with a picture of my girlfriend (who I was convinced would forget me the second I left).

  Finally, we reached our destination, and it was like stepping into a postcard of “Old Mexico.” Cobblestone streets, scrawny dogs prancing around like they owned the place, and trucks packed with locals zooming by. I recall visiting a few corner stores to grab Coka-Cola and Pepsi. At one point, I shook up a bottle and sprayed it everywhere like I was celebrating a hip-hop victory. The locals looked at me like I was a crazy American wasting precious sugar on a fizzy fountain of youth. 

Eventually, we met the family my grandma knew, which included their 16-year-old son, Marcos. This kid had a car! He was our personal chauffeur around town, and let me tell you, every teenager wants a local guide when they roll up to a new place. We hit the market, where I bought a dog collar for a wallet chain (because, obviously, that was the height of fashion) and a brand-new leather Mexican wallet. There I was, sporting a backward cap, JNCO jeans, Vans, and a wallet chain that could double as a weapon in a pinch. While munching on some frozen treats and checking out chicas, I propped my feet up on a metal bench, only to be warned by Marcos that I could end up in jail for “defiling property.” 

One memorable day, we found ourselves in a field filled with fluttering blue butterflies, as if I’d stepped into a hippy’s fever dream. A kid rode up on a bike with a cooler, selling homemade push pops. Naturally, we bought some and wandered over to a nearby basketball court where local kids were playing. After a bit of hoop action, we headed back for yet another sermon in a nearby town. On the journey, we fulfilled part of our mission by offering up clothing we had brought with us to give away. We watched as they went absolutely wild when we handed out clothes. I’ve never seen so many items of clothing and food vanish so quickly!

On our way back to town, I spotted an old man on a donkey wearing a sombrero, and I thought, “This is the photo op of a lifetime!” But as he trotted by, I hesitated, feeling like I was intruding on his very stylish donkey moment. Instead, I waited for him to pass before snapping a picture from the back of the van—because nothing says “respect” like a candid shot from a moving vehicle.

      

The next day would turn out to be unforgettable—not just for the trip, but for life. We roadtripped into the mountains for another sermon, but first, we played a makeshift game of baseball with a stick and a ball in the street, with the boys that lived in this small mountain town. After the sermon, we had to give a young married couple a lift back to town. The wife was pregnant and needed to get to a hospital pronto. With our van already packed tighter than a can of sardines, Chris and I found ourselves squished in the utility area of the van, perched uncomfortably atop a toolbox.

As the bumpy ride began, I quickly realized this would not be a pleasant journey. The soon-to-be mother was vocalizing her discomfort at every pothole, and let’s just say, the bumps were plentiful on those Mexican roads. My grandmother assured us that the baby wouldn’t be making a grand entrance in the back of the van, but Chris and I were far from convinced—if anything, we were terrified! We handed my grandma rubber gloves while the soon-to-be mother clutched the old woman’s hand like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

And then it happened: amidst the screams (of both the mother and my internal panic), I witnessed live birth for the first time in my life—thanks to my great-grandmother. We sped into town, and by the time we reached the hospital, everything was fine; they welcomed a new baby boy into the world. Meanwhile, my uncle was busy cleaning the van’s seats with bleach as if he were starring in a horror movie. It was right then and there, covered in a mix of wonder and utter chaos, that I declared, “I need to travel more!”