BAJA BOB

         The sun is almost straight over head in El Florito, Mexico.  Fortunately, it rarely gets hot here, rather we almost always enjoy the moderating influence of an ocean breeze.  Twenty miles inland from the Pacific, Rosarita Beach to be exact, the low rolling hills allow the ocean air to move in at night, slowly burning away as the day grows longer.  If we were to travel thirty miles north as the crow flies, we would land in some of the most high-end real estate in the United States.  These same hills provide for miles and miles of cliffs overlooking sandy beaches with the same comfort of a Mediterranean climate.  Luxury homes and hi-tech businesses cover the landscape making San Diego County one of the most desirable places to live in the nation.

            But the only thing El Florito has in common with San Diego is the topography and the climate.  Yes, all kinds of people live on the hillsides and in the valleys below, but most of them are desperately poor.  Shacks and lean-to structures provide most of the housing, erected on small pads carved out of the hillsides by the government.  The deal is if a family can build a “house,” some sort of structure with a roof overhead, and pay the equivalent of fifty dollars a month, they can stay.  No plumbing, but if they can throw a wire over the power lines, they have electricity.

            I’d been coming here about twice a year for over thirty years.  Much has changed as the coming of NAFTA caused assembly plants for electronic and some car manufacturers to be built all along the border.  Many improvements have been made, new roads to accommodate trucks heading for the border, and the development of commercial shopping centers to provide for the ever-growing population.  This would seem to be a good thing, and it is for some, but for most of the workers in the factories the prevailing wage of a dollar an hour is barely subsistence living.  Enough to pay the government its fifty dollars, buy food and water to survive, and maybe some used clothing now and then.  A home to live in remains out of reach for most people.

            So, we build them a house.  When I say we, I mean Baja Christian Ministries and whatever church or other group of do-gooders who raise $8,500.00 and dare to cross the border to spend a weekend building it.  A little “A” frame on a cement slab, about 20’ by 20’.  Two bedrooms, a living area, with an upstairs loft for the kids.  Shingle roof, plywood exterior, drywall interior, three windows with screens, and a front door including door knob with lock and keys.  Wired for electricity on the inside, painted any color of the rainbow on the outside, the bright colors of our houses can be spotted throughout the valley and up into the hillsides. 

            It wasn’t this easy in the beginning, and we sure couldn’t get a house done in a weekend.  We had a slab to work on, but we had to cut all the lumber ourselves.  Now, the wood is all pre-cut to the specific dimensions of the house so the walls and rafters fit together like an erector set.  Nail guns and drills for drywall screws make it possible to get it done in as little as ten hours.  So, when our church, Malibu Presbyterian, left Malibu at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday, we could be home by 9:00 p.m. on Sunday, spending one night at the La Especiale Hotel in Tecate.  We spend more time driving and sitting at the border than building the house.

            For me this has to be right around a hundred.  Not all of them were houses, we doubled up the size of the structure sometimes so it could be used as a church, orphanage or in one case the local police station.  My favorite was a chapel we built inside Ensanada Prison.

            This house is almost done.  The youngsters are on the roof finishing up, I work inside on the last of the drywall.  I’m still amazed that with all those houses I’ve worked on; how little I’ve learned about carpentry.  I do my best work as a laborer carrying lumber, shingles and drywall, thus avoiding bending another nail.  Problem is about this time on the second day I’m spent.  Time for a water break. 

            Finding a place in the shade, I have a chance to reflect on how it all started.  A friend of mine, no more than that, a personal mentor, Paul Shoop, asked me if I wanted to go to Mexico with him.  Paul was from Texas, and looked and acted his heritage wherever he went.  Paul was also a lawyer, about fifteen years older than me, and when I started out in private practice, he took me under his wing.  He referred me cases and showed me how to run a business.  He helped this young lawyer make a go of it.  So, when Paul told me he’d bought an old drilling rig in Texas, and had it shipped over the border so he could drill water wells in a place called El Florito, I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want to go to see it with him. 

            The plan was to meet “Baja Bob” at 10:00 a.m., just this side of the Tijuana border. I was expecting another cowboy, but Bob Sanders is anything but that, rather he might just be the softest spoken and humblest a man I’ve ever met.  Maybe 5’10”, prematurely grey, thin of build, and not speaking a word of Spanish, he didn’t fit my expectation of a guide through Mexico.  Worse, the car we were traveling in was an ancient VW Bus, that backfired often.  Paul wasn’t the least bit concerned, so I hid my anxiety as best I could. 

            I soon found out that being a missionary to Mexico was a new gig for Bob.  He’d taken a trip over the border with a group from Azusa Pacific University where he worked as a janitor.  So, moved by the abject poverty and the lack of fresh drinking water, Bob had asked the University for a small grant to help the poorest of the poor in Mexico.  Somehow, he’d gotten together with Paul, who was now underwriting what would soon become Baja Christian Ministries. 

            Crossing the border again raised my anxiety level.  Stop lights were soon replaced by red “Alto” signs, despite the intense city traffic.  The road deteriorated quickly, and lanes of travel merged into one large flowing stream.  It looked like chaos, until I noticed the level of cooperation amongst the drivers.  They drove with patience and courtesy for one another, compensating for the lack of formal regulation.  About ten miles in we switched from pavement to dirt.  The ride got rougher, but we still moved at a good clip since it was so well traveled most of the ruts had worn away. 

            The farther south we went, the more it became clear we were in a third world country.  The commercial buildings along the border, and the brick and stucco houses, gave way to the wooden shacks of Mexico’s interior.  Thousands upon thousands of small shelters dotted the hillsides, only broken apart by the dirt roads connecting them.  Trash of every type lined the “highway” we were traveling, further blighting what had recently been the green rolling hillsides of spring.  The worst of it was the smell.  Black smoke of trash fires spread a lingering stench across the valley floor.  With no place to take their garbage, the people have no other way of disposing of their accumulated waste. 

            None of this seemed to bother our guide, Bob drove along happily describing each community, the people that lived there, where they worked, where they came from, that sort of thing.  Our pace continued to slow as the farther south we went the rougher the roads became.

            “We’re coming into El Florito now, this is the poorest community I’ve seen.  Most of the people here are migrants from the south of Mexico, or even Guatemala,” Bob explained.  “Some of them don’t even speak Spanish, just their native language.”

            “Why do they come,” Paul asked.

            “Poverty, of course, but also political violence.  The people of Central American are still caught in the middle of a communist insurgency and the repressive governments battling with them.  It’s in this community as well, some of the homes have a hammer and sickle painted on their doors.  We put crosses on the homes we build, and our goal is to replace all those hammers and sickles with crosses.” 

            As we approach our destination, we pass some women and children carrying large plastic jugs of water. “I’ll bet they got that from our well,” Bob was buoyant now.  “They’ll walk for miles to get fresh water, especially if it’s free.”

            Our pace slows to a walk as too many people jam the roadway.  Finally, we pull up next to a group of locals standing in a circle, waiting their turn as water from a steel pipe pours out onto the ground.  The strong spring spews forth a fountain of fresh water.  The locals hold out bottles trying to capture as much they can, as their children play beneath them in a newly created water park.  Joy fills the air, a spontaneous festival has broken out, a celebration observing the life sustaining character of fresh water.

            Paul walks to the drilling rig parked nearby.  The crew is taking a break, letting the people enjoy the moment before capping the well.  Paul’s pride is evident as he put out his hand to each man, saying “Gracias, Senor.”    

            Losing track of time in the moment, mid-afternoon creeps up on us; a concern, as we had earlier decided we wanted to get back to the border before dark.  Navigating the hinterland of Mexico is not what we want to do at night.  I had timed our route from the border at just under two hours, assuming the same going back, we should be alright.  Bob agrees, and we get back on the road.

            After about an hour I notice we have turned onto “Highway 2 to Tecate.”  Bob explains, “we’re going to cross at Otay Mesa, the line isn’t nearly as long as Tijuana.”  “Sounds good to me.”  I was ready to get back to the good old U.S. of A.

            Traveling east did nothing to improve the roads, but at long last we come to a fork in the road and turn left heading for the border.  Suddenly, the micro-bus starts to sputter and then just as quickly it stops altogether.   We coast a short distance before pulling to the side of the road.  

            “Sorry, it’s been having a fuel line problem, I know how to fix it,” Bob assures us.  Paul remains unflappable, but I barely kept my anger in check.  Dusk is upon us and we are in the middle of nowhere.  No cars, no buildings and no people.  The only structure I can see is as ominous as it gets.  A prison under construction looms down upon us from a hillside about three hundred yards above the road.  The observation towers at each corner of the reinforced concrete make it unmistakable. 

            Bob gets out and opens the back of the bus where the four-banger sits tucked between the back wheels.  Paul gets out to help, I reluctantly follow. 

            Pulling a clear tube from what I figured must be the carburetor, Bob sucks on it until it’s filled with gasoline.   He spits gasoline on the ground, two or three times before re-hooking the tube, and asking, “Phil, can you get me that bottle of water in the back seat?” 

            “You bet.”  I open the sliding door and bring the bottle to Bob who takes a swig and spits it out.

            “Okay, Paul, why don’t you give it a try.”  Paul sits down in the driver’s seat and turns the ignition key.  The engine turns over, but it doesn’t start.  Bob looks perplexed; Paul for the first time looks concerned.

            “Wow, that’s always worked before…”

            “Worked before?”  I grumble.

            “Well, let’s give it another try, it’s definitely not getting any gas.”  Paul preferred to be helpful; I began contemplating worse-case scenario.  Can we walk to the border from here?  Is it safe?  Maybe hitch hike?

            Bob repeats the same process, spitting out enough gas that the smell of it permeates the area.  I was already feeling a little nauseous, raw gasoline fumes don’t help my condition.

            “Alright Paul, give it another try.” The labored whine of an electric starter plays on and on as Paul provides rhythm by pumping the gas pedal.  Nothing, not so much as a spark.  “That’s enough, I don’t want to wear down the battery,” Paul concedes.

            Great, dead battery, that ought to do it.

            Bob opens the back again, and fiddles with some more hoses, but its obvious he doesn’t know what’s wrong.  Panic enters my consciousness, but I suppress the emotion knowing it will just make things worse.   Instead, I let my attention drift back to the prison in the distance.  With the advent of dusk, a low-level fog is rolling in.  The grey prison walls are now touched by approaching fingers of fog accelerating the coming of darkness. This surreal scene reminds me of Tolkien’s description of the gates outside of Mordor.

            Then, beneath the walls, I see something move.  A moat of sorts surrounds the prison, dirt excavated to buttress the foundation of the walls.  Within the moat massive amounts of trash have been dumped; as if it were a landfill.  A haze of black smoke rises just above the moat from small fires still smoldering within it.

            More movement, people.  Their heads visible just above the crest of the moat.  I start walking, drawn to the scene as if I’m catching a glimpse of the Apocalypse.  The closer I get, women, children rummaging through the trash.  The women carry large bags on their shoulders, some have sifters, others carefully pick through the trash with bare hands the children, most without shoes, play with whatever they can find within the pit.

            Stopping just outside the moat, I stand and watch with a mix of sorrow and amazement.  Hearing footsteps, I turn to see Paul has followed me.  His naturally bold demeanor has melted into one of obvious sadness. We watch in silence; mesmerized by this unimaginable scene of destitute poverty.  I want to help; to do something, anything, but they are too many.  Despair comes over me as I realize there is nothing to be done.  

            Paul finally speaks, “I think we were meant to see this.”

             “Yes, it’s no coincidence we stopped here.”

            These were the only words spoken between us as we lingered there. Finally, we turn away and walk back to the bus.  We walk in silence, as the moment needs to be processed before attempting to understand it all.

            Back at the bus Bob does nothing to elevate our mood.  “I don’t know what else to do, I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

            Anger, how could he have brought us into Mexico in a beat-up bus he knew had problems.

            “Let’s give it one more try,” Paul refuses to join me in blaming Bob.  Paul sits down in the driver’s seat and the starter motor whines away again, but still nothing.  Worse, it’s slowing down, the battery is about dead. 

            “Suggestions gentlemen?”  Paul remains calm despite what I believe is a hopeless situation.  Having nothing to offer, I manage to remain silent. 

            “Well, the only thing I can think of is we lay hands on the engine.” 

            I look Bob in the eyes and realize he is serious; my astonishment is obvious. Paul smiles, with the courageous contempt of someone who enjoys a little danger now and then.

            “We’ve been here over an hour now, the engine should have cooled down, shouldn’t be a problem.” Bob’s concern for our safety doesn’t impress me.

            “We got nothing to lose, alright Bob, you start and I’ll finish.”  Paul goes down to his knees and opens the hood, leaning in he reaches for the engine.  Bob gets down on the other side, leaving me a spot in the middle.  Going to my knees, I grab the top of the cylinders and close my eyes.  Then we prayed, out loud.  Bob prayed for “divine intervention,” I begged for “help and protection,” and Paul finished with a few specifics about “gasoline and spark plugs.” We finish with a powerful, “Amen.”

            “Okay Bob, you give it a try,” Paul is still smiling.

            Bob sits in the driver’s seat, closes his eyes, and drops his head to the steering wheel. We wait for him to finish his silent prayer; then he turns the ignition.  It starts!  Elation fills our ranks, the joy of rescue, our own little personal miracle.

            Bob hits the gas, the four-banger screams for all it was worth, I do a little victory dance before high-fiving Paul.

            Bob has gone from goat to hero in an instant.  This humble janitor from Azusa obviously has some sort of connection. 

            I remember little about the drive to the border, or how long it took to get home that night.  Eventually the joy dissipated, and alternative explanations for our salvation were considered.  After much discussion, we abandoned our rational minds; it was just too perfect.  Not just the prayer for rescue, but where we were stopped. 

            Paul and I often discussed the women and children of the prison moat, and why we were meant to see them.  The message was strong, but not specific. So powerful was the image that it returned to me one night in a dream.  My heart was broken and I could feel the tears running down my cheeks.  When I awoke these words entered my mind: “If you do nothing, this is the way it will be.”

            Paul quickly embraced this sentiment, and we devised a plan on to support Baja Bob Sanders and his ministry to the poor of Mexico.  It hasn’t always been easy, ministry on a shoe string never is, but Bob persevered. 

            The bang of a few more nail gun cartridges brings me back to the present.  The last of the shingles are being nailed into the final corner of the roof.  It is time to find the keys to the freshly hung front door. This is an honor I reserve for myself, choosing the members of our crew who present the keys to the family. 

            Our family this time is particularly beautiful.  Young, mom and dad have to be in their early twenties, grandparents – hers I think – and three little girls, maybe ages six, four and two.  The two-year-old stays close to her mother, but the other two charm us by doing their best to help.  I directed them to the ladies painting trim, so their hands and faces are now spotted yellow and blue, the colors of their new home.

            Bob arrives in a weather-beaten pick-up truck, with three mattresses in the back.  A new bed for each of the homes we have built. 

            “Phil Dunn, so good to see you, brother.”  Bob always draws unwanted attention to me; I’ve gotten used to it.  “Good to see you Bob.”

            I pick up one end of a mattress with a younger, stronger fellow, and walk it down the hill to the house below.  Four of us then push it up into the loft above.  Bob isn’t finished yet, “We had enough to buy some pillows and comforters, and even a few stuffed animals.”  A couple of the ladies from our painting crew know just what to do.  Gathering the two eldest, they walk them up the stairs and teach them how to fit sheets to mattress. They have them lie down next to each other, placing a pillow under each of their heads and then spread the comforter over them.  The final touch, a couple of long-eared stuffed puppies. Friends to sleep with in the first bed they have ever known. Giggles from the girls, and sniffles from the ladies fill the room.

            Our crew include a group of teenagers from Malibu High School and their parents.  The trip includes a healthy dose of culture shock for any first-timers, residents of Malibu in particular.  I watch as the two moms descend the stairs and upon safely reaching the floor, one turns to me, and asks, “who does this?”

            “You do this.” 

            I receive a small nod of recognition before she turns to wipe away tears.  When she turns back, I hand her a key to the front door.  “We’re about to start the key ceremony so, why don’t you say a little something before giving them the key.”

            “What do I say?”

            “Whatever comes to you in the moment, will be just fine.”

            Bob calls from outside, “Come on everyone, let’s gather round the family, and say a few words.”  As everyone gathers around the front of the house, Bob starts the “Starfish Story.”  Bob always tells this story, I’ve heard it a hundred times, but his enthusiasm for its message never changes.

             “It was low tide at the beach on a very hot day, and everywhere attached to the rocks were starfish, baking in the sun.  A boy walks onto the beach, and realizing the starfish are dying, he begins picking them off the rocks and throwing them back out into the ocean.  An old man walks over to the boy.  ‘Little boy, don’t you realize that there are thousands of starfish dying on this beach, you can’t save them all, you’ll never make a difference.’  The boy stops for a moment to consider the old man’s words, and then picks up another starfish and throws it into the ocean saying, ‘It made a difference to that one.’”

            Bob let’s the story sink in a little before, “Brother Phil, will you lead us in a word of prayer as we lay hands on the family.”

            I have long since overcome my discomfort with the laying on of hands.  My prayer is typically short, it is for the family, especially the children, and all the other Starfish in the neighborhood.

            Three of the team come forward to hand Mr. and Mrs. Ibarra the keys to their new home.  Through an interpreter he thanks us, and then, “please know, that I, my family, all of us will never forget this and we will always lift all of you up in our prayers.”

            We are soon loaded into our late model trucks and SUV’s.  Leaving the neighborhood, we pass by a homeless encampment.  Like our own country, these are the poorest of the poor, except here there are no government services.  Most of them are recent immigrants who have traveled as far north as they could.  The best of their shelters are lean-to’s, often times made from garage doors imported from the United States.  Most are in poorly fashioned tents; many have no shelter at all.  I am reminded of the women and children of the moat, and the cynical old man in me rears his ugly head. 

            Three decades later, and the life of the poor in Mexico is probably worse now, than when we first started.

            Then, I catch myself, and remember the words of Mother Teresa.  She had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and the secular press descended upon her.  One particular skeptic asked, “Can you tell me if it’s any better now than when you first started working with the poor of Calcutta.”  “No,” she answered, “if anything it is worse now, than when we started.”  Then came the gotcha question, “So what’s the point, why do you bother, if you’re not making a difference.”

            “Because God does not call us to be successful…, just faithful.”