In mid October, my friends and I were invited to a birthday party by a woman named Lydia. The party was planned for Saturday. We were excited for the opportunity to eat a meal with all of Lydia's family, knowing that it would help us to build confianza with them.
I spoke very little Spanish at the time, but I could always distinguish the word “confianza.” It means trust or confidence. At least, that's what the dictionary says. There is so much more to the word though. In a people group with very little trust for outsiders, to have confianza is to be allowed in.
People from our ministry had been visiting the village of Yucuañe for 5 years by that point. It is a tiny rural community tucked away in the mountains of southern Mexico. The dirt road leading to it had only been built about 20 years prior. The secondary school, which served up to age 15, was also a recent addition. The villagers had spotty electricity and a limited water supply that depended on the rain. Yucuañe is a beautiful place, hidden away from the world and full of secrets.
Before leaving for the village, my teammate Angela and I baked some banana bread to bring with us. Lydia fed our group almost every Thursday we visited, so we were culturally obliged to offer food in return. Normally, inviting them to a meal at our house would have been the best thing to do. However, no one in the village had a car so Lydia and her family did not leave often. Also, our group tended to avoid inviting locals to our base. Showing off our American wealth would not have made a good impression.
The party was supposed to start around 3. We knew that, per “Mexico time,” the party wouldn't actually begin for at least an hour later than that, but we wanted to arrive early to help with the cooking. It was ab outh 3 when we rolled our SUV down the last dip of the rugged path and approached Yucuañe. Normally we would park at the store on outskirts of town and walk, but this time we drove to Lydia's house, hoping that fewer villagers would notice our presence. Not many people appreciated our visits, and we knew that Lydia already received pressure from the others for allowing us into her home.
Lydia was the first contact the ministry made in that village. She lived with her two daughters and mother near their fields in the southern side of Yucuañe. She was a jovial woman of middle age, full of laughter and patience, even for me, who couldn't understand anything she said. Perhaps it was her outgoing personality that helped her overcome the natural sense of fear most villagers had of outsiders. There is a strong sense of superstition that governs the lives of indigenous Mexicans. Many expected our presence to bring bad luck to the village.
Six or so of the mangy village dogs identify Lydia's place as their home. They came out to bark at us when we called from the gate. Lydia's mother, la Doña, hobbled across the yard, shaking her thin wooden cane at the dogs and hissing at them. The gate opened, and they ran past us as we were invited in. Normally Lydia's yard was mostly clear, and we would sit in the shaded area by the house. Today, the kitchen table had been brought out into the yard, as well as a table borrowed from her sister.
I spoke very little Spanish at the time, but I could always distinguish the word “confianza.” It means trust or confidence. At least, that's what the dictionary says. There is so much more to the word though. In a people group with very little trust for outsiders, to have confianza is to be allowed in.
People from our ministry had been visiting the village of Yucuañe for 5 years by that point. It is a tiny rural community tucked away in the mountains of southern Mexico. The dirt road leading to it had only been built about 20 years prior. The secondary school, which served up to age 15, was also a recent addition. The villagers had spotty electricity and a limited water supply that depended on the rain. Yucuañe is a beautiful place, hidden away from the world and full of secrets.
Before leaving for the village, my teammate Angela and I baked some banana bread to bring with us. Lydia fed our group almost every Thursday we visited, so we were culturally obliged to offer food in return. Normally, inviting them to a meal at our house would have been the best thing to do. However, no one in the village had a car so Lydia and her family did not leave often. Also, our group tended to avoid inviting locals to our base. Showing off our American wealth would not have made a good impression.
The party was supposed to start around 3. We knew that, per “Mexico time,” the party wouldn't actually begin for at least an hour later than that, but we wanted to arrive early to help with the cooking. It was ab outh 3 when we rolled our SUV down the last dip of the rugged path and approached Yucuañe. Normally we would park at the store on outskirts of town and walk, but this time we drove to Lydia's house, hoping that fewer villagers would notice our presence. Not many people appreciated our visits, and we knew that Lydia already received pressure from the others for allowing us into her home.
Lydia was the first contact the ministry made in that village. She lived with her two daughters and mother near their fields in the southern side of Yucuañe. She was a jovial woman of middle age, full of laughter and patience, even for me, who couldn't understand anything she said. Perhaps it was her outgoing personality that helped her overcome the natural sense of fear most villagers had of outsiders. There is a strong sense of superstition that governs the lives of indigenous Mexicans. Many expected our presence to bring bad luck to the village.
Six or so of the mangy village dogs identify Lydia's place as their home. They came out to bark at us when we called from the gate. Lydia's mother, la Doña, hobbled across the yard, shaking her thin wooden cane at the dogs and hissing at them. The gate opened, and they ran past us as we were invited in. Normally Lydia's yard was mostly clear, and we would sit in the shaded area by the house. Today, the kitchen table had been brought out into the yard, as well as a table borrowed from her sister.
We were invited to sit outside and offered drinks. Villagers drink soda almost exclusively because purified water is hard to get. It was la Doña's job to entertain us, apparently. We sat for a long time, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and our trip to the village. Communication is very indirect in this culture, so it was a delicate dance of words to convince Lydia that not only were we content to wait for the party, but we also wanted to help with the cooking. Her initial assumption was that we were bored and felt uncomfortable waiting in her house.
“How can we help you?” my teammate Amalie asked, “Let me chop the tomatoes for the salsa.”
“No no no, how could I?” exclaimed Lydia, a playful smile never leaving her eyes.
“We want to learn how to cook,” insisted Angela.
I nodded along and tried to seem eager. Although I didn't understand the words they were speaking, I knew this was an argument we had often.
“Are you hungry? Here, I'll make you un taquito to eat while we're cooking.” Lydia offered.
We tried to insist that we weren't hungry, that we wanted to wait until dinner. But our fate was sealed. Even worse than having her guests feel bored was the idea that her guests would be hungry while in her house. The embarrassment that would cause Lydia was unfathomable. What if we mentioned to other villagers how we went hungry while sitting in her house?
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