31.07 miles per hour

On Saturday for the first time I went grocery shopping with David (pronounced Dah-veed) to buy food for all of Montaña. This process, known around here as compras, happens once a week. He picked me up at 6am on Saturday and we headed to the city.

My experiences at Meijer, Costco and the likes can be categorized in one of two ways: in and out for a few items or accompanying my mother on the weekly trip when I was younger. My Saturday trip resembled the latter, as I was not in charge of the list, merely an extra pair of hands. At 18 I am not authorized to do the family grocery shopping on my own. I lack the intuition and knowledge of how-much-of-what-is-needed-when that all mothers seem to possess. I have no gauge of how much to buy of anything for our family of four, let alone a family of 40.

I listened carefully to David’s instructions and diligently went to work around the store. I bagged 20 pounds of potatoes. I counted out 60 bananas. I found 15 ripe mangoes. We bought entire blocks of cheese from the deli. No need for slicing when you need to feed 30 plus people three plus meals a day. We filled five carts. And that was just the first store.

I enjoyed accompanying David and the opportunity to participate in this behind-the-scenes operation. While here in June I gave little thought to the food. Well, I suppose I should rephrase: I thought about the food a lot. It was incredible; filled with flavors, colors and fruits we do not have in Ohio. There was always so much on the table and seldom food left over. I never thought about the logistics of feeding an additional 15 people. We did more than eat during our time here. How else were we disrupting the usual goings on at Montaña? Even with the best intentions, it is easy to forget that life here existed before we arrived and continued after we left.

My understanding of Montaña was limited to what I knew as a group member. When I flew down in January I followed the same itinerary as that week’s service team. The energy was just like I remembered my service trip: an abundance of food, laughter, and children. When the group left, this time without me, things immediately slowed down. My portions shrank, the kids retreated to their rooms, it was still outside, and I felt a general quiet.

I have broken up this quiet by traveling to the city on several occasions. Each time I am amazed at the absence of accidents on the road. Driving here reminds me of my cross country days and the ever dreaded Indian runs, but here, there are cars instead of people: the loser crossing over into the other lane, racing to the front as a line of cars is driving towards us playing the same game.

I see a sign with a posted speed limit. 50kph. It is not often followed, but I begin to wonder how fast this would be in miles per hour. I cannot look up the conversion, so I text Dad. He tells me to take km/hr times 0.6.

“.6? Exactly?” I inquire.

“100 kmh is 62 mph” he says. “62.137”

Now I wonder, why are we so focused on making things even? On rounding them out so they are simpler, so they appear less messy? Why did we buy 60 bananas? Why not 63? Why do we drive 30 miles per hour? Why not 31?

I did not know the conversion between kilometers and miles per hour because kilometers are not part of what I know. My world consists of miles. I did not know what a mango looked like on the outside because we do not often have mangoes in Ohio. My world is full of apples.

In a word, my time here has made me more aware. I am more aware culturally of the people and customs around me. I know to greet people before any conversation and to ask permission before entering a room. I am more aware situationally. I know where I am and who is closest to me at all times. I hear when the water pump has been left running. Finally, I am more aware personally, of how little I know and how much is left to learn. And perhaps, the next time I am on Hard Road, I will drive 37.28 miles per hour, because 60 kilometers per hour just seems to fit me better.