Found in Translation (10 page)

I started laughing so hard I couldn’t respond at first.

“Can you drop a piece of that candy in my cup, please, and do you have a spoon I can stir it with? It’ll help me pretend better. Then let’s see what they’re going to feed us.”

S
ome of the most gorgeous yellow flowers adorned the cacti in the area. I couldn’t imagine ever losing my fascination with them.

While strolling over to the mess tent, Aleesha explained that it wasn’t a tent at all, nor was it any more covered than the field we slept in. It was the site—the rough equivalent of a dirt foundation—where the largest of Santa María’s buildings had stood before the storm. I never found out what the lost building had been, although I wondered about it enough.

My experience on local, church mission trips had taught me that teens and young adults can be quite imaginative—even sarcastic—in perceiving and labeling their surroundings. “Mess tent” in this setting was just one example. Another was referring to the well-worn dirt path that separated the mess tent from the rubbish-covered, so-called Passover Church yard as “Broad Street.”

Rob and Charlie had set up several large tables at the north end of the mess area. I may have made a few wrong turns going to church when I was a new driver, but I knew the sun still rose in the east even in the wilds of western Mexico, and it was barely visible to our right.

On closer examination, I discovered the tables were plywood sheets propped up on sawhorses. I considered asking to sleep on one. At least it would be free of rocks and pesky pebbles.

Pebbles?

When I moved my blanket away from that rock last night, I didn’t realize I was placing it on hundreds—probably thousands—of tiny pebbles. They left such an … impression on me that I dreaded having to sleep on them again tonight. If the nursery tale princess had that much trouble enduring a single pea, my sleeping arrangements would have driven her bonkers.

But then I thought about Jesus’ whipping prior to dragging His cross to Skull Hill. If I remembered correctly, stone, metal, bone, and glass comprised the working end of that whip.

My pebbles had been uncomfortable, but not excruciating. And they hadn’t torn my body to shreds and left me bleeding and unbearable to look at. I uttered a deep prayer of thanks for the torture Jesus endured on my behalf and decided to ignore the pebbles.

Every square inch of those makeshift tables in the mess tent contained food—all of it packaged or canned. Nothing was fresh. Or hot.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. The first bag I looked at turned me off so much I opened my mouth to voice a complaint. But Aleesha already knew me too well.

“Flexibility, Kim.”

“Oh.”

Flexibility? Sure, I can eat whatever’s here as long as it’s not pizza. No tables or chairs for our dining pleasure, either? Sure, I can stand or sit on the ground to eat.

“Is this mess tent big enough to hold most of us?” Aleesha said.

“Maybe. But I don’t think we’d have room to hold our food.”

Aleesha couldn’t argue about that, so—starting with our first breakfast—we took our food “outside,” pushed a bit of rubbish out of the way with our feet, and sat down on the dry earth.

“Eating on the hard ground will be less objectionable than sleeping on it,” she assured me. I must’ve complained about my sleeping conditions more than I realized.

I’d eaten my fill of school cafeteria “mystery meat,” but some of the stuff Rob and Charlie set out for breakfast looked more deadly than anything I ever faced in school. If God had slaughtered the Devil, boiled him in the lake of fire, and then cut him into strips, the results might have looked half this bad.

“You’re sure this is food?” I said. “It looks like something that’s turned to leather. After all, without electricity and refrigeration, we can’t have perishable foods. Is this some kind of all-veggie ‘meat’ that a sadistic, vegetarian food manufacturer has squeezed every last drop of flavor out of and packaged in plastic wrap that looks tastier than the food itself?”

I was proud of my exaggerated description.

“My dear Kim,” Aleesha said. If she sounded like she was addressing some dumb little kid, at least she’d done it patiently. “You may not have noticed this, but most of the food on the table is in cans. Does your mom keep cans in the refrigerator?” Before I could respond, she added, “Mine doesn’t.”

Duh.

“And that leathery meat you spoke so disparagingly about?” she whispered in my ear when she saw me hesitate and shudder at the sight of it. “It’s beef jerky, and it’s great. No refrigeration needed for that, either. They preserve it in lots and lots of nice unhealthy salt—just like country ham.”

I shook my head. If I’d ever eaten country ham, I couldn’t remember it. That must have been one of those things Dad didn’t like.

“You know,” she said, “like Smithfield ham.”

“Oh.” I didn’t want to admit I’d never had that, either.

“Beef jerky is wonderful, but you’re right about the leathery look. It’ll give your teeth a healthy workout, for it’s verrrrry chewy. I feel sorry for anyone here who’s braces-impaired.”

Although Aleesha laughed heartily, she seemed serious about people with braces staying away from beef jerky.

Then I discovered I wouldn’t have to eat it myself, and neither would anyone else.

Aleesha had referred to the cans on the table, but I hadn’t paid attention to the variety of individual-serving, easy-open cans of various fruits, vegetables, and processed meats Rob and Charlie had brought along.

Easy-open cans that toddlers could get into blindfolded with one hand tied behind their backs and adults couldn’t fight their way into under any circumstances. Not with a hammer, a chisel, and a hacksaw.

Although eating something familiar like potted meat or pork ‘n’ beans might have been safer, I couldn’t ignore Aleesha’s salty recommendation of the jerky.

Besides, the other team members probably thought of me as “Miss Prep” now, and I needed to demonstrate my humanity—not to mention my flexibility—during the next thirteen days and show them that “Miss Prep” and “Miss Priss” are not the same.

The villagers ate with us that morning; we probably outnumbered them four to one. Arriving at dusk, we’d barely seen them last night, but I wondered if they would feel self-conscious knowing that so many American teens had given up beach time to rebuild their homes.

I hoped not. Everyone needs help sometime. I was glad we’d been available.

I wondered how much they knew about us. Probably a lot. Although generally shy, they acted friendly and grateful. That’s how I read their body language, anyhow.

Regardless of my rude introduction to Santa María last night, I didn’t feel the least out of place today. My new world looked much better in daylight.

But I hadn’t heard one villager speak a word of English, and everyone in the civilized world spoke at least a few words of English. It was the universal language, right? Or was Santa María really that uncivilized? So uncivilized that none of its residents knew any English?

Surely not.

I thanked God for our translators, even though I hadn’t figured out who they were. Maybe some of the kids. I’d thought it strange that Rob and Charlie didn’t introduce them at orientation.

I could get used to this beef jerky stuff, even though I probably looked like a dog that had gotten hold of bubble gum.

But it was either just as tasty as Aleesha said or I was too famished to object to the taste and texture. I probably would have reacted just as favorably to three-day-old roadkill.

Charlie approached us while we were still sitting on the ground. He crouched and faced me. “Excuse me, but may I speak to you?”

He straightened up and I followed him several yards to an out-of-the-way spot. I didn’t think much about his interruption at first, but when he didn’t suggest sitting down, I almost panicked. Had Rob permitted Charlie the pleasure of raking me over the coals about yesterday?

“Kim,”—he didn’t sound angry, though—“did I hear correctly that …?”

I smiled when he finished. I’d made one good—perhaps I should say one sound—decision last night, anyhow.

A
leesha pulled me closer in so we could hear better. She hadn’t needed to, though. That karaoke system of mine made a great PA system for use with a group this size.

“Guys and girls, girls and guys,” Charlie started, “good morning to you all. I trust everyone slept beautifully under God’s heavenly blanket of stars.”

Almost everyone nodded or grunted their affirmation. Before I could open my mouth, though, Aleesha stuck her forefinger in front of my lips and said in a low voice, “Shush, Kim! Don’t you dare complain about hitting your head on that rock or about those pebbles.”

“I was only going to take another bite of food.” She gave me a strange look. Then I realized I’d already cleaned my plate and Aleesha knew it. That girl was too observant sometimes.

She was right, though. If I hoped to make up with this crowd for yesterday’s mishaps, I shouldn’t start today on such a negative note. I needed to renew my resolve to quit whining. “All right, already! I’ll be good. I’ll keep quiet.” Aleesha smiled and patted me on the head, mouthing, “Good girl!” the way a dog owner might praise a stubborn puppy that’s finally achieved housebrokenness after nine months of messes on the oriental rug.

“We’re going to have a great day in the Lord today,” Charlie said. “It’s His work we’re here to do, and we want to create a favorable and lasting impression on our new friends.” I looked around at the villagers’ blank faces and realized that none of them had a clue what he was saying.
Where are our translators, Charlie?
Every once in a while I saw their eyes brighten, maybe at hearing an English word that was similar to the Spanish, but those times were infrequent.

“Some of you may have noticed that the villagers don’t speak any English,” Rob said, his face scalding in a sea of red. “Are …” I couldn’t imagine why he looked so scared of continuing. “Are any of you fluent in Spanish?”

Rob, don’t tell me we don’t have translators.

One hundred forty-four young adults looked at one another before shaking their collective heads no.

“I took Spanish for a couple of years, but I barely passed it,” one girl said.

“Same here,” a boy responded from the opposite side.

“I used to translate written Spanish fairly well, but I’m out of practice now. It’s been two years since I last tried, and I never was good at English to Spanish. And to translate spoken Spanish? Forget it.”

“That’s my problem, too,” a voice spoke from the middle of the group. “Native Spanish speakers go far too fast for me to follow, and it sounds a lot different here than in high school.”

If that observation had been a locomotive, almost-audible nods of affirmation would have overloaded the cars that followed it.

“Yeah!” somebody yelled with a laugh. “Here it sounds like a foreign language and not a school subject.”

A caboose reverberated with laughter and one single loud, “Amen.”

“What about it, brothers and sisters?” Rob said. “Isn’t anyone here better at Spanish than these poor honest souls who’ve admitted that only a miracle … ”—he stopped to gasp for air—“that only a miracle could transform them into translators at any time in the near future, much less today?”

When he started gasping again, I squelched an inadvertent laugh just enough that it sounded like a loud burp. Rob’s unexpected diplomacy tickled me, but better to belch than sound disrespectful.

Although everyone looked around for the source—I pretended to do that, too—no one bothered looking at me. They probably didn’t think Miss Prep could be that crude.

“Are any of you Pentecostals who can speak in tongues or interpret tongues?”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. If the strange looks I saw on dozens of faces were any indication, neither could anyone else.

Rob searched the crowd for a more positive response. He hadn’t looked this frustrated when he mentioned my lateness at orientation.

Then I made the mistake of yawning without covering my mouth.

“What’s that, Kimberly, uh, Kim? Speak up.”

“Me? Oh, I’m sorry. I was just yawning. I’m not bored, though—just sleepy.”

Although the laughter lasted forever and I felt my face burning slightly, I didn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as I had at orientation. So I decided to say something positive while I had the floor.

“I took four years of high school French, though—mostly As and one B. I don’t suppose any of the villagers knows French, huh?
Parlez-vous français?”

I addressed my question to a group of villagers standing in the back. They smiled at me as naively as if I’d said, “You’re standing on a bomb, and it’s about to explode.”

My French would be useless in Santa María.

“Thanks anyhow, Kim,” Charlie said. “At least you’re willing to use your talents. Not your fault they’re the wrong ones. If anyone decides he or she can help even a tiny bit with basic translating, please see Rob or me later.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” someone yelled from the middle of the mess tent. The voice sounded like the caboose “Amen!” from several minutes before.

Rob looked around the general area the voice had come from, trying to pinpoint the questioner. “Sure,” he said after giving up. “Go ahead.”

The questioner gave an offhanded wave so Rob and Charlie could see who was talking to them. “Why do you need any of us to be fluent in Spanish? Good thing that wasn’t a project requirement or none of us would be here.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Rob said as he examined his shoes for a few seconds.

Charlie responded to the questioner without hesitating. “You’re right. I’m going to sound like I’m making excuses. For myself—for both of us.”

Rob nodded. Then he closed his eyes. I wondered if he was praying for Charlie or hiding from the truth.

The questioner shifted his weight and folded his arms. He reminded me of a bull getting ready to charge. I may not have been an expert on body language, but I knew a take-no-prisoners attitude when I saw one.