Dust, heat, cement, heavy traffic, guns, unknown languages. Exotic birds, fresh fruit, smiling faces, a night sky smeared with stars like diamonds on velvet. When you travel to unknown places, survival depends on perception.

First off, I want to apologize for not posting as often as I'd like. It's also taking me much longer to type because I can't figure out this Spanish keyboard. Let me explain: Internet is not so easily accesible as I was led to believe, and it's getting harder and harder to keep my promise of keepig you all up to date. Our hosts directed me to the only internet in town - a tiny orange building with six ancient Samsung computers lined up on the wall, the use of which could be purchased at 10 pesos (about 1 dollar) an hour. I mananged to squeeze in among the teenagers pressing close to their desktops, generally on youtube or facebook. Because of the age of the computers there is no port suitable for my camera chip, hence the absense of photos in this post. I will work something out so I can share them next time!

So, back to the story you all came here for. I wish I could go into more detail, but time is limited and a brief glimpse will have to suffice...

Veracruz is a typical Central American city, but nothing like we have been led to imagine. Before I came here, the news was full of stories about the horror that was the city's ecosystem, and the facts are true. The entire police force of Veracruz was suspended becasue of corruption and infiltration by the narcotic system, and they were repalced by the Mexican navy. There have been many cases of deaths and dissapearances of photographers and journalists that were trying to expose the activities of the rival gangs, most prominently the Zetas, who are recorded as the most violent drug cartel in Mexico, and consider Veracruz their turf. Hearing stories of gang fights and dozens of bodies being dumped in the street, every John Doe on the world wide web were warning against ventureing into this pit of all evil. Though it is true the ratio of high-powered firearms to people seems much greater than the US, there is very little tension. While in Veracruz we stopped at a Sam's Club that rivaled anthing in the States. The only difference, however, was the security guard inside the door with an automatic rifle I haven't seen outside a USMC demonstration. It struck us as a bit odd (what are they going to steal, toilet paper?) but I guess it works for them. I expected to see Navy men swarming the city, but other than a few helicopters and one pick-up truck with two soldiers, nothing more was seen of law enforcement.

On the contrary, I found more to intrigue than frighten. Stout palm trees swayed in the sultry breeze, which was the only relief from the oppressive heat and humidity. The locals strolled along, seemingly unfazed by the temperature, whilst we Californians felt like melting ice cream. The air smelt of trash and car exhaust, occasionally relieved by a aura from a bakery or the salty air of the ocean. Dust was everywhere, coating everything in sight and giving a visible quality to the atmosphere. Our driver sqealed and swerved though traffic coming from every direction, and the city flashed by in a chaos of noise and color. Loud, festive music blared from every corner, and locals hawked their wares from the middle of the street, somtimes with toddlers in tow.

After three hours of driving through countriside greatly reminicent of Florida, we reached our destination of Mazumiapan. Thatched roof huts and chickens greeted us, and we unloaded our luggage into our host's spacous, well-kept cement home. We literally crashed into beds which were ingeniously made from burlap and wood and could be folded up to conserve space. Knowing it would cool off at night, I drug my bed out to the tile deck, hung my mosquito net, and crawled under it. It was unbearably hot untill the night breeze started to blow and I could finally fall asleep.

I woke to the crowing roosters, louder than any man-made alarm. It had gotten so cool during the night that I had added blankets on top of me, and I most certainly did not want to get out of them. Alas, we had limited time till the first clinic started, and after a hurried breakfast of oatmeal, fresh mangos and papayas we struck out to the small church down the street where we would work. The rocky dirt roads were all but impossible to navigate with my boot, but once we got there the difficulty was forgotten.

My job was checking and recording vitals for every person to see the dentist or doctor. Information like blood presszure, pulse and oxygen levels, weight (in kilos) and temperature (in Centegrade). The day passed by in flash, a blur of beeping machines, papers, numbers, and crowds of people speaking nothing I could understand. The two boys in our team worked right along with us, checking pulse and oxygen levels with a small recorder, stethescopes around their neck for effect.

It is impossible to describe how much we did in those few hours, or how much we enjoyed it. Summed up, my back hurts, I'm desperatly hungry despite the delicious plate of local fruit we had for lunch. I'm tired, hot, and my foot is getting worse by the hour. I Love my job! I love the intensity of it. I love the tiny babies and old grandparents that fill the brightly-painted rooms. I love working hard and sleeping in the open air to recover.

At times is seems too much to handle, the stress of the unknown, the exhaustion, emotional strain of missing the friends and familiarity of home, the barriers when communication with a foreign world seems impossible.

The only thing I know is Spanish is a smile. But survival depends on perception.