Check tires for water.

You've probably heard the advice, "don't drink the water in Mexico." It's pretty smart thinking. We've had our share of people who did, either intentionally or not, and pay the price. Montezuma seeks revenge, and the person ends up with projectile expulsion from every orifice. It can be brutal.

Having seen this occur a few too many times, I tend to be pretty careful about hat I drink while in Mexico. Sometimes though, there's just not a lot you can do about getting an inadvertent swig of Tijuana tea.

It was late Sunday afternoon. The last of the homes was getting it's finishing touches, many teams were already headed across the border, the chuck wagon van I drive was packed, my wife and kids tired and in their seats, and I was making my last rounds to make sure everyone was getting out and heading home.

I was driving up Manzana 319, the main little road through San Bernardo. 319 is not much of a road after the rains. There are often deep trenches, and driving up it requires the right mix of courage and a steady foot on the gas. As usual, there was runnoff coming down the middle of 319, mostly flowing from gray water, people dumping buckets of who-knows-what on the street, and a mixture of other ingredients I really prefer not to know about. I drove to the top of 319 when I saw a tire coming down the road. It was an old tire, gaining momentum, and behind it was a lady named Terry, running, trying to catch the tire.

Terry is an American living in San Bernardo. Terry is a bit of an enigma in San Bernardo, married to a local, she lives in a old trailer up near the top of Manzana 319. Over the last few years, Terry hasn't been very happy with us. She's always wanted us to build a home for her, often asks for money, and sometimes verbally harasses our volunteers. Truth is, Terry's house is much nicer than the people we build for. Still, many of our volunteers have helped her out on many occasions, and I've talked to her a number of times, trying to listen and understand her her situation.

So here I am, watching this tire fly past me on 319, and Terry giving chase. She gives up, and seems to realize she won't catch it before it rolls across town, to the bottom of the hill. Feeling bad for Terry, I figure this is an opportunity to do something good for her. So I negotiate a 14-point u-turn on the rather narrow Manzana 319, and drive down the hill to pickup the tire. When I reach the tire, I see it has come to rest in a giant puddle of mucky yuck water that had been draining down 319. Carefully, I pull the tire out and roll it up the van. The van is jam-packed with gear and my family. The roof-rack, some 7 feet off the ground, is also packed. There is however a small spot atop the cab area on top of the van. So, I figure I can give the tire a heave-ho, and toss it up to the top of the van.

I get a good grip, get it into a rythm swing, then with all the discus-throwing style I can muster, heave the tire up. Only, the tire is much heavier than I expect. As the tire reaches an apex at the top of my swing, it fails to fly as expected, and stops, mid-throw, directly above my head. With mouth agape, a rather large quantity of Tijuana water comes rushing toward my face.  Inside the tire, it had picked up a good quantity of water (if you can really call it water), and I watched, as if in slow-motion, as the torrent came rushing toward my face. It was then that I got a mouthful of the foulest-tasting, nastiest water in Mexico. And I was soaked, head to toe.

I looked up to see my wife Sophia, looking at me from the safety of the passenger seat of the van. She had an expression that fell somewhre between utter horror and uncontrollable laughter. A roar of laughter broke out behind me, as a local family was sitting out in front of their home, directly behind me, and witnessed the afternoon's gringo entertainment. It was not exactly how I pictured my little good-samaritan gesture going.

I grabbed some drinking water from the van and rinsed and gargled and spewed, much to the continuing entertainment of the locals. With all dignity lost, I stripped down in the middle of the street and changed clothes (the laughter stopped, as I think I grossed everyone out). Unsure exactly what to do about the toxic waste that I was sure would hit me sometime during my 3 hours wait to cross the border, I grabbed antiseptic wipes and began wiping my tongue. I wasn't sure if that would make things better or worse, but this point, I didn't really care.

I finally managed to get the tire back up on the van, and drive it up to a very thankful Terry. With good deed done, I dragged my very smelly self back into the van and we headed home. I'm glad to say that at no time during the long wait to cross the border, or during the long drive home, did Motezuma come seek any revenge. My wife and kids did manage to break out into spontaneous laughter a few too many times during the afternoon and evening though, reminding me what it means to be humbled.