After spending a few days in California, we loaded up our six passenger van with 15 peoples worth of luggage…then loaded our 15 passenger van up with our group. I know it sounds confusing, but it really isnt. 15 people, two vans, heading to a certain spot to meet up with the person who was going to lead us into Mexico.
Our first introduction to “Mexico” was really simple. Everything suddenly went from English – to – Spanish. Darker skins, Spanish signs telling us to “Alto” instead of “Stop.”
We stopped at a little place that was open to the world. Met up with another member of the camp – and ordered our first taste of Mexican food. The most awesome tacos you would have ever had.
Then off to the camp.
On our way in, they pointed out to us “Durango” the town where our kids were going to come from. Upon first appearance, it was another little mexican town, much like the others we had passed.
Our camp consisted of two “Tents” which resembled green houses. The first night it rained. Everyone woke the next morning cold, wet, and excited to see what the day held. We were introduced to our “Ninos”
“When I left I had a list of fears” I shared at the camp fire one night.
“One by one, these fears have been put to rest” I continued
“And today – one of my greatest fears, that I wouldnt be able to communicate, or connect, with my nino because of the language barrier, was put to rest.”
This past week, I have grown to love these kids. These kids who speak as much English as I do Spanish. We loved, unconditionally, and were loved, unconditionally. Refusing to let the language slow us down.
The day we said good bye – we pulled into the town of Durango to see our ninos families and houses – and instead of “Just another Mexican town” I saw the faces, of these kids, that seemed like family to me – popping out through the crowds, smiling, waving, and chasing after us.
I fell in love, with the kids of Durango. The people of Mexico. The camp and the staff.