Semana Santa (holy week) 2010

The seeds were planted at Christmas. A couple of Rod’s cousins were staying at the ranchito and we began to talk about how fun it would be to invite a bunch of family members here for a camping vacation. We just needed to decide what would be the best time of year.

Rod decided that Semana Santa was it; the kids are out of school and many of the parents take time off, and typically there is no rain. So he sent out an invitation to his family on his father’s side and we expected as many as 15 to 20 people might want to come.

“How many are we up to?” I asked.

“I don’t want to tell you; you might freak out.”

“Last you told me we were at 30. Anything over that is the same. I’m numb after that.”

“50.”

“Who even has 50 immediate family members!”

“That’s just my father’s side.”

“We need to order at least one porta-potty.”

Emails began flying back and forth. I was copied in all of them but they were in Spanish, too complicated and full of idioms for me to follow. I expressed my apprehension to a friend’s mother. “If they’re Mexican it won’t be a problem,” she said.

An Excel spread sheet arrived, with every family’s cooking and clean-up schedule. Breakfasts were the responsibility of each family individually; comida (the main afternoon meal) was to be divided by families to cook for everyone. I only had to cook when the first 20 people arrived on Wednesday and clean-up on Saturday. Rod had more assignments (mostly pertaining to barbequing because he is the grill queen) but I was only concerned about what I had to do.

The night before the first guests arrived, we had dinner at a restaurant with a friend who was visiting from Spain. Rod was up all night with food poisoning.

The next day I got to meet and great 20 family members and serve them comida while Rod could barely lift his head off the pillow on the sofa. When people began unloading I began reheating the spaghetti sauce that I’d had the good sense to prepare the day before. I enlisted help from the maid and eight-months-pregnant cousin Chelo to prepare the garlic bread and salad.

Comida came off without a hitch. Everyone seemed to enjoy my gringo meal and very little food, if any, was leftover.

The maid stopped the children from throwing rocks in the fish pond while the parents were setting up the tents. The kiddy pool was filling. In the mean time, I remembered that we had balloons leftover from previous parties and got the idea to start making water balloons. (I think I earned the award of best gringo uncle ever that day.)

I put the eldest child (14) in charge of building the campfire, brought out marshmallows for roasting and a guitar for anyone who could play. Everyone checked on Rod from time to time and he even made an appearance briefly; but then staggered back to his couch. I stayed up until 11:00 PM, conversing completely in my bad Spanish the entire time. I fell into bed exhausted.

The next morning we awoke to children playing in the hammock outside our bedroom door. By the time I was showered and dressed, more people were starting to arrive. I walked out into the kitchen and was thrilled when Rod’s three-year-old nephew (who had left Cuernavaca at 5:00 AM with his family) jumped into my arms.

The days began to wash together after that. The porta-potty arrived, tents kept springing up, the front of the house became a parking lot. People took orders and ran to the supermarket, an uncle bought a pump and figured out how to string all the hoses together and wind them around the yard in order to solar heat the kiddy pool. A “Slip and Slide” was a huge success.


I received a lot of, “Charles do you have this,” or “Where can we find that,” but all in all, I was so impressed by the way everyone chipped in while at the same time being so respectful of our space. They would hardly enter the main house without permission. (But the casita was a zoo.) Food arrived in piles and I engaged in recycle education (not available in Mexico City). One couple asked what score I gave them (1 to 10) on their recycle prowess. I gave them a 4. After that they became the recycle guards and quickly moved up to a 9.

I learned a lot. I learned that you don’t have to be “on” the entire time. It is ok to nap or to find a private corner, jumping into the fray when the mood strikes you. I learned to delegate, I learned to let go and let whatever happens, happen. I learned that your Spanish doesn’t have to be perfect. I learned that a child in need is a child in need and one doesn’t need to be their parent to take care of them. (Sometimes it was difficult to determine which child belonged to whom.) I learned that in a family this large, if something is broken, someone will know how to fix it. (More than once I saw someone walking across the property with a toilet plunger.) I learned to play dominos.

They also understood the economic impact of such an event and everyone chipped in to pay for the porta-potty, the beer I’d bought in advance and even for the gas to heat the hot water for showers and such. I tried to refuse but they would not take “no” for an answer. (I also received gifts of wine and chocolate.)

Despite my occasional feeling of being overwhelmed, I was sad when the cars began to pack up and leave. And my heart melted when a carload of children yelled, “Adios Tio Charles,” as they drove off.

I’ve received several Facebook messages from Rod’s family, thanking us for hosting the event. One cousin went so far as to say, “Me and my family will remember this weekend for the rest of our lives.”


When it is all said and done, I find this an amazing tribute to Rodrigo. The fact that he is so loved by his family that all these couples, these aunts, uncles, cousins, all married in the Catholic church, would pack up their camping gear and children to spend a long weekend with him and his gringo boyfriend.

So if anyone tries to tell you that Mexico has a backwards, macho, un-accepting culture, tell them to put this story in their pipe and smoke it.