Oh Mexico
part six
Our first meal consisted of fish and tortillas, cooked over an open fire at the pastor’s home. They didn’t have an indoor kitchen—just an outdoor, thatched-roof pavilion with a fire pit, a small prep table, and a wooden table with benches.
The fish was delicious. In a village where fishing was the primary industry, fresh fish was abundant. What I didn’t realize was how much fish we’d be eating. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner—every single day—we had fish and tortillas.
As tasty as the fish was, after several days, both Johnny and I were craving something else. I devised a plan. We were out making evangelistic visits with two deacons from the church while the pastor had other business. I suggested, “Let’s tell them not to worry about feeding us at lunch. I spotted a small store down the street—I’d be happy with some cheese and crackers.”
The plan seemed to be working. The deacons left us alone, and we set off toward the store. But then I heard a voice I’d come to dread: “¡Tenemos pescado! ¡Tenemos pescado!”
I turned around to see the pastor, struggling to steer an old, rickety bicycle down a steep hill. His wife was sitting sideways on a rack bolted over the back, waving her hand and shouting, “We got fish!”
They caught up to us quickly. The pastor explained that a lady in the church was preparing lunch that day—fish, of course. Resigned to our fate, we turned and trudged back up the hill with the pastor pushing the bike and us pushing our patience.
When we arrived at the home, we were greeted by a large Mexican woman who seemed disappointed by our earlier escape attempt. Her home didn’t have a table. I sat on the floor, my back against the concrete wall, and she handed me the biggest plate of fish and tortillas I’d ever seen. Her expression was clear: "You're going to eat it all."
And I did.
