South to Chiapas

The day came for us to leave the safe haven of the Wycliffe Guest House in Mexico City and begin the rest of our journey to the jungles of southern Mexico. When the nurse at the Kettle, as we fondly called the guest house, heard I had trouble with car sickness, she suggested Dramamine. The road south from Mexico City is notoriously mountainous and winding.

Ed and I, with the other missionary recruits, crowded onto the bus. We were not able to get seats together, so he took charge of our three-year-old daughter and I kept our one-year-old son with me. The Dramamine kept the car sickness at bay, but tried to put me to sleep. Friendly Mexicans, attracted to our very blond young son, wanted to be helpful. They kept offering him things to eat. I struggled to stay awake enough to politely decline in my limited Spanish. About all I could manage was, “No, gracias.” I hope it was accompanied with at least a weak smile.

We bounced and swayed over the mountain roads. The bus stopped in little mountain villages along the way and more passengers crowded on, carrying chickens headed for the market in Puebla. The smell of chickens and the odor of human bodies confined in a small space began to challenge the Dramamine. I longed for the oblivion of sleep, but had to keep myself awake for the sake of our young son.

At last we arrived in Tuxtla only to find the hotel already full. We were shown to a courtyard surrounded by rooms for rent. The accommodations were strange, but clean. My hazy memory sees a bed, where at last I could lie down and give in to sleep, and a wash stand with wash basin and pitcher. If we wanted running water, we could run to the pump in the courtyard.

A Missionary Aviation Fellowship (MAF) plane was to fly us out to Jungle Camp the next day, but the weather closed in and we were stuck in Tuxtla four days. I had scrambled eggs for breakfast four mornings in a row because all I knew how to ask for was “Huevos revueltos.” The eggs were good, but what was that black liver shaped thing beside the eggs? My first introduction to refried black beans. After that first night we moved into the hotel with the other missionary recruits.

Finally, the weather cleared and the MAF pilot was able to resume his flights. Our family of four loaded onto the two-seated Cessna and we were off. I don’t know how far out into the jungle we flew, b ut I would have preferred a two day—even a three day—mule trip. Again our son and I battled nausea, and I prayed God would keep this little bird in the air. How my heart filled with praise when we touched down on the tiny landing strip and the Jungle Camp staff gathered around to welcome these green gringos.