Fear for the Deer

My childhood was fantastic. Really. The more years that collect between then and now, the more I realize that I had an ideal environment for a child to grow up in. I think a child should spend more time in the worlds of their imagination than they do in reality during certain years. I know that I did. I know that many of you are thinking, "Well, that explains a lot..." which is the same response I get when I tell people I was home schooled. Sigh. Maybe it does explain a lot about me. But I like who I am, so that's okay.

One of the unique things about my childhood was that I played with my cousins far more than any other children. My cousins were my best friends. We played weird games. I don't even think I could really expound on them here without the permission of a couple of my cousins. Not strange, creepy or gross, just different. Awesome games. All the "little kids" were jealous. I tried to get my new "city" friends to play similar pretend games when I moved away from my cousins to Utah, and they thought I was a crazy one. But whatever.

We had our own little club. And we all had our place in it. Not officially, of course. All groups create a certain dynamic and people naturally fall into roles.

Brittany was the mature one, who made sure our games didn't get too "stupid." Brittany always came up with the cool names, painted the big picture for us so we knew just how "cool" our game was. Of course, it wasn't a game to us. It was more real than all the other every day stuff we had to do when we couldn't be together. When we weren't actually playing it, we were planning and creating so that we could play it even better the next time we got together. I think my cousins would agree that we all walked around as though we had some greater calling, a secret identity that was who we really were that we were simply forced to suppress most of the time. So,  Brittany, kept us grounded. Not in reality, but kept our fantasy a little bit closer to the ground.

 Aspen was the wild one who blasted any boundaries we thought we had to smithereens. Her defiance of "The Parents" was awe-inspiring at times. With a gleam in her eye, she would say, "Hey guys..." and out would come the most brilliant and terrifying idea ever. I never let on, but most of the time I was thinking, "Uh, no." This was either because it was too definitely against the rules and I was scared of the trouble we would be in, or because I thought it would get me too wet or filthy or  require me to spend too much time in the dark (which was my kryptonite in all make-believe adventures) or involved ingesting something that I knew I couldn't survive. I always gaped at her hoping my fear looked more like excitement and said, "Yeeeeaaahh!" And we would do it. Most of the time, they turned out to be the craziest and most memorable moments of my young life. And somehow, we never died.

Ely was the all-knowing, all-powerful one. I believed for way too many years that he knew everything. I never questioned anything he said. He spoke with such authority and confidence that I simply had no doubt that he knew exactly what he was talking about. He did know a lot. But mostly he had this incredibly creative and logical brain that would churn out theories that sounded entirely legitimate. I bet half the time he made up stuff, he was much closer to being right than most little kids. 

And here at last is the main story of this post. The deer. I can see this moment so clearly in my head. Ely and I were on the well-beaten dirt path to the creek on Grandma's property in Pocatello, ID. Trotting down the path brushing our fingers over the tops of the tall grasses in her field must have inspired a teaching moment in Ely. He stopped dead, whipped around and said, "Hey, Kathy check this out." Magic words coming from Ely. I knew something super cool was coming. Even if I didn't see the coolness factor initially, I knew it was only due to my ignorance and that Ely would educate me.

Ely snapped off one of the grass tops and gave me a significant look. I leaned closer.

He held the grass top up and squinted at it. "See this? See these little barbs? If you rub your fingers up it, it's smooth. If you rub it down though, its like sticky. See?" I  tested his information. Sure enough, my fingers got caught on the way down.

Ely put the grass on the arm of my shirt, "Now check this out." He slowly rubbed the grass with his fingertip and to my surprise, it crawled up my arm! Ely was so cool. My belief that he knew everything was cemented forever. I thought that this was the end of the lesson, so I happily applied my new knowledge and made the grass crawl up my sleeve again and again. But Ely wasn't finished.

"Did you know that's how it kills deer?" he said, grabbing a hunk of the innocent looking grass beside us in a fist as though it were a snake about to strike. He glared at it for effect while I gaped at him.

"Really?" I breathed.

"Yeah. Did you see how that climbed up your shirt? Well, it does the same thing to the deer." I pictured the grass crawling up the deer's legs, but I couldn't see how this could lead to fatality, so I waited for more.

Ely's eyes got wider and his voice dropped, "They eat it and the grass sticks in their gums. Then slowly, slowly it moves up through their gums until it gets to their brains. And then it starts to grow in there. Then one day, they drop down dead." He smacked his hands together for dramatic finish.

This was too much even for my faith. Skepticism crept in. "Nuh uh. . ."

"Yes, it happens, Kathy!" Then he offered the final blow. "I would tell your mom if I were you before your horses eat it." He knew that we planned to bring our horses on our next visit for a couple of days.

All doubt was blasted away by panic. I must have started to wring my hands and whine incoherently because I remember that Ely tried to herd me down the trail to the creek, perhaps hoping that our original reason for coming would help me forget my distress. The urgency, however, was unrelenting. I told my mother the moment I saw her about the dangers facing our horses when we brought them to Grandma's house. I think she laughed and said, "No honey, that grass can't kill horses."

"But Ely said. . .!"

Despite my warning, we pastured our horses at Grandma's house for a weekend. I knew that they would appear fine and healthy until the grass had time to fill their brains, so they would probably drop dead when we got them back home.

They never did, of course. Somehow though, I steadfastly believed Ely's every word for years to come. That's how convincing he was.

I still believe my cousin Ely knows almost everything. And he is still really, really cool.

The Love Tunnel

Sounds sketch, right? Well, it's not. Sorry.

 I just realized that if I don't write about the rest of my time in Honduras in little bits at a time, then it will never get written about. Or read about. The reasons being that I am too overwhelmed by how much there is still to write and that people have stopped reading my blog because of the ridiculously long posts I have been spewing out. Not that I blame them!

 So, there will follow this post many more like it. Short, sweet, and hopefully containing only the most prized nuggets from the remainder of my time in Honduras.

This tale comes from Elicia and I's trip to Tela, the "best beaches on the eastern shore" of Honduras, said my trusty Lonely Planet Guide. We took a boat tour out to a national park called Parque Nacional Jeannette Kawas, named after a woman who was murdered trying to defend the park from greedy developers in 1995. Lonely Planet guide again (seriously, if you are every traveling anywhere, it is completely worth it to buy one of those).

After an eventful walk through the rain forest (following posts: poisonous spiders, attractive tour guide, man-eating jellies, and the famous parrot, Captain Henry Morgan), we hopped back on the boat for a quick spin around Punta Sal ("Salt Point." Whoever names some of these places seriously must have had NO creative capacity). Our boat man stopped the boat right on cue several yards away from a narrow tunnel through some large rock cliffs. Our guide waved in the direction of the tunnel and said that this was the tunnel of ------ (I don't remember what it was called) and that there was an ancient tradition of the natives that it could determine if a young man or woman was ready for marriage. All they had to do was to swim through the tunnel and make it out to the other side. I couldn't help thinking that we make it WAY too complicated back home...

He grinned and asked if anyone wanted to try it. It was the same grin he used when he told us what the howler monkeys were saying, so naturally I assumed that he was joking. But his pause lasted long enough that we all knew he expected a response. My hand shot up. The rest of the group smiled and nodded their heads to humor him, as was typical of them (our group was composed of old, white, bermuda short clad, sunscreen-smothered tourists who were probably staying in a hotel that cost at least 10 times what ours did). The tour guide flashed that gorgeous smile at me and said, "Okay, but I have to come with you and you have to wear your life-jacket." He must have an expert sense for the life-jeacket reluctant ones, because he read my mind. I hate life jackets.

I said, "Wait, are you serious? We can swim through it?"

"Yes!" Another gorgeous smile.

I turned to Elicia. "You are coming with me right?"

She said, "Uh, yeah!" She is in love, after all.

So we kicked off our flip-flops and giggled and squealed a bit. The waves of annoyance coming from the rest of the group were thick, but we just avoided eye contact. I bet they have no idea how fun it is to squeal. Probably haven't done it in years. We jumped over-board and waited for the guide to join us.

I took the lead into the tunnel. It was more narrow than it had appeared from the boat and there were creepy looking bugs on the walls, antennae as long as my arm, it seemed . I bravely swam on, though. This was no time to get squeamish. I had to prove my wifely desireability. I was making good time with a nice breast stroke when it got darker and my brain forced me to wonder about the depths beneath me. I suddenly couldn't swim shallow enough. I broke into a frenzied doggy-paddle, fully aware of how stupid it looked.

I was about half-way through when the real test came. The waves from the other side were coming stronger and I was having a hard time battling them. Finally, one of them washed over me and I began to flail around, avoiding grabbing on to the bug-covered walls at all costs. I think I must have been making some kind of noise, gurgling or gasping or something, because Elicia said from behind me, "Uh, Kathryn? You can stand up."

I craned my neck around and there was Elicia and the guide standing in the water, the same waves that had nearly drowned me lapping gently at their knee-caps. I staggered to my feet and grinned sheepishly while they had a good laugh. Elicia really let it ring. I knew I would never live this down. Elicia would forever share this unfortunate incident whenever my marriageability was discussed (Those of you who think that this is a unnecessary worry don't know how often women talk discuss marriageability).

We walked across the sand until it got deeper again and then swam easily to the boat waiting on the other side. The boat man yanked us both in turn into the boat by the life-jacket straps. If you have ever been pulled into a boat that way, you know that it is incredibly awkward. There is no way to do it gracefully. I plopped into the bottom of the boat and scrambled quickly into my seat, feeling about as ready for marriage as my two year old neice. The rest of the tour group chortled politely as though entertained by our childishness.

I sat there dripping wet and wondered if the point of the whole thing was to inform young ladies just how NOT ready for marriage they were. Still, I had made it through. Hadn't I? Perhaps lessons in humility and laughing at yourself are some of the best preparations for marriage anyway.

Elicia laughed for a long time. Funny, though, how quickly she skipped over the pictures of the tunnel when we were showing our Honduras pictures to her boyfriend...

El Niño Oscuro

Some of you may be wondering how Elicia and I have been getting around San Pedro Sula. Well, maybe you aren't, but you should have been. In the beginning, the Galindo's would drive us to and from the BIT. We loved it, of course. Each morning, Papa Galindo would teach me Spanish, repeating each word or phrase a little louder each time until I got it right. Then he would smile broadly and say, "Bien!" I actually really miss those days. However, the family runs on Honduras time, which we learned very quickly means that you can be picked up on time to two hours late. This and the fact that we couldn't go anywhere BUT the BIT, and that the Galindo's wanted 37 dollars a week for this service convinced us that we had to find an alternative form of transportation.

We laid our case before Dennis of course (Dennis is like a really jolly Oz for us here in Honduras. He has solved all our woes), and he said, "We will figure something out." He and Camilo put their heads together, and Camilo said simply, "They can use the BIT car." Apparently there was a car that the BIT owned that was passed between the schools in San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa to whomever needed it at the time. We tried very hard to refuse it, not only because we felt like they must need it much more than we did, but also because the suggestion of us actually driving around the streets of San Pedro was alarming.

Camilo just looked at us and said, "This will work. The car will be here next week. You have your liscense?"

Elicia puposefully avoided eye contact. I knew there was no way in heck she would want to drive these roads, and so the lot fell to me. I said I did. He looked at me doubtfully. "You want to drive here? This driving is not like any driving you have ever seen..."

I nodded. "Yeah, I have been watching it. I can do it."

Elicia, bless her, put in a word of good faith, which made me feel more confident as well. "If anyone can drive here, it's Kathryn. I know she can do it!"

The possibilities started to open up before my eyes. We could go anywhere we wanted! Whenever we wanted! I had been going CRAZY sitting in that little room all day and being carted to and from the school. Camilo must have seen my excitement, and said, "It is not a very nice car..." We assured him that a car in any condition was fine as long as it ran. I have definitley drunken the dregs of the vehicle cup in my day. We left the BIT, and I had a pretty clear picture forming in my mind of the car we would get: humble yet sturdy, maybe some rust spots and no air conditioning.

The little guy arrived the next thursday. Camilo pointed out the window of the BIT office. It was a dark blue Toyota Camri, probably mid 90's. We bounded down the stairs to get a closer look. The inside looked a little more shabby but not too bad. The real discovery, however happened as we started to drive. One of the Galindo uncles came to drive it home with us. I felt like I was in driver's ed again. He told me when to stop and go, to turn on my blinker, etc. To be honest, though, it didn't feel like too much. Hondurans drive by different rules than I learned, anyway.

They drive by some strange rule book that may or may not include "stop at the red octagon." The city is on a grid. Avenues cross streets. Avenues have the right of way. Always. Almost. Most streets are one way, except Boulevardes, which may start out as two way and turn into a one-way without warning. Just because the street you are on is going one way on one side of the cross-road, doesn't mean that it goes the same way on the other side (Seriously. My first day driving, we went through a light and found three lanes of cars coming straight at us, honking and swerving. While I almost peed my pants, Elicia, bless her again, found some incredible place of calm and said, "It's okay. Just pull over here, Kathryn." ).

Lanes basically mean nothing; a road with two lanes can easily have a wall of five cars barrelling down it. At least we are all going the same way. Most of the time. Honking is pretty much a constant. Pot holes the size of our car threaten to remove an axel every block or so, and speed limit signs are non-existent. Taxi drivers have an entirely different rule book than anyone else. They act like two more seconds at a light is a matter of life and death. Someone should tell them that it actually is.

As crazy as this might sound, though, I actually feel very safe with these drivers. Why? Because they pay attention! They have to! In the states, everyone seems to have a mentality that they are safe because everyone else is going to stay in their lane, stop at their light, etc. etc. But here, there is no guarantee. The drivers are super alert and have to be personally accountable. If you get in an accident, you don't get a hunk of someone's insurance to pay for a new car, you just don't have a car anymore. Its still a crazy free-for-all, but somehow it works. I love it. Kenya told me the other day that I drive like a Honduran and I grinned from ear to ear. Best compliment ever.

I actually have to disagree with her though, to be honest and to protect my mother's sanity. I actually drive alot more slowly than Hondurans and I usually let the traffic flow by me. I am probably driving more carefully than I have in my life. I drive very slowly (potholes) and in the slow lane (taxis) and very alert (Hondurans).  It's actually not the other drivers that scare me. My greatest fear is getting pulled over by a cop. The police are very corrupt here. They can pull you over for no reason and make you pay. I have been told that the best thing to do would be to simply hand over two hundred dollars and they will let me go on my way. I am prepared to do that if I need to, but our family told us that they get into some pretty sticky trouble when they pull over American's, so they basically turn a blind eye to us.

So Elicia and I have been thoroughly enjoying our newfound freedom. And we have developed a deep fondness for our little car. We named him El Niño Oscuro (the dark boy), which sounds racist in English, but El Niño is Honduran, so he speaks Spanish. We quickly discovered that he is a very "special" car. Not one part of him is complete and fully functional. Each door for example: Mine has no handle on the inside, only a shiney wire loop that hooks to some obscure gadget behind the door pannel. The first couple of days had me tugging on it in a panick while the car heated up by ten degrees per second once we stopped at our destination (I have mastered it now though). Once you get it open, you have to carfully push the wire thing back in or the door won't shut at all. My window, however, rolls down, praise be to the Japanese, I guess. Elicia's does not, and there have been numerous occasions where she will snap in the heat, glare over at me and say, "I swear I am going to break this window..." I just try to get moving so she has a slight breeze on her at these moments. The window behind her rolls down, but if it goes beyond like 1/3 of the way, it won't roll back up. Elicia has the magic touch with it though. She just pulls the electronic panel out of the door (don't worry, I don't think it has been attatched for years) and fiddles with the wires and up it goes. The other window just doesn't do anything. One of the doors in back doesn't open at all, and the other one only opens from the outside (thanks to little brother Galindo. It worked when we kidnapped him to show us where the movie rental store was...). The air conditioning doesn't work at all, my lap belt buckle is only half of what it was born to be (Of course I have the ever-present shoulder belt of the toyota camris, thanks to the Japanese again, though it doesn't have the capacity to move along the door anymore), and my sun visor now has masking tape wrapped all around it because the flap thingy flips down into my face every time I need to use it. We only have one headlight, the speedometer doesn't work, and we think that our gas gauge is about a quarter tank off. To top it all off, there is an enourmous family of teeny-tiny spiders that lives around the shifter. As soon as the car roars to life , they begin their senseless scurrying all over the general area between our two seats for the entire drive. Elicia doesn't even mention them anymore (the first day she squealed a lot). They are just part of the car.

El Niño has some special problems under the hood as well. Camilo said that we needed to put some water in the radiator every once in awhile because it had a leak. No, actually, he needs like half a gallon EVERY morning. The first time we went to fill him up, I was thinking we would have to go inside the Galindo's house and grab a bottle or something, but Elicia suddenly lugs a 2 gallon jug from behind the passenger seat. El Niño has three of these, it turns out.

Two days after we started driving him, El Niño's stearing became like sandpaper and after a particularly hot and sweaty 22-point turn in the mall parking lot (Their parking lots are insanely cramped here. Elicia jumped outside and sprinted back and forth waving me inch by inch while three or four cars sat and watched me wrestle with zero stearing fluid, sweat dripping into my eyes), we informed Camilo of the problem. He said, "Well, it needs fluid." I knew this, I mostly just wanted to whine about it before we went and bought some. We all trooped down to the car anyway, and again Elicia magically appeared from behind the passenger seat with a bottle of stearing fluid. El Niño had his own first aid kit. The stearing was gloriously silky for about a day and we needed another bottle. Turns out El Niño needs about a bottle every two days. After we drizzled 3 bottles of stearing fluid all over San Pedro Sula, Camilo made an appointment with the mechanic.

So, El Niño has made life in Honduras much more of an adventure. He is pretty dependable as long as you take care of his special needs. Of course, he did choose the night of the YSA formal dance not to start, when it was raining and I was left alone in the car with Hector... but that is a story for another post.

Fishy chips, proposals, and spanish testimonies

These days in Honduras are never dull. Elicia and I have been having a blast teaching at the BIT and exploring the city of San Pedro Sula. We have been running around like crazy trying all the Honduran food that we can get our hands on, because the more we try the more we are convinced that American´s have no idea how to eat.  Well, except maybe for Red Robin and Ben and Jerry´s. I have sold my soul to the Baleada Express, where they spread creamy bean and onion paste onto an extra thick, warm tortilla, spoon a chicken mixture onto it, sprinkle it with cheese and drizzle sourcream over it. I beg them to put avacado on it, too, and they DO. Our new friend Karen from the ward took us to a little wooden shack where they sell pupusas, fried corn patties with stringy cheese in the middle topped with marinated shredded cabbage and onion salsa. Every time I try one of these news things, I say "I NEED to learn how to make this!" so I now have lessons scheduled throughout the week for Baleadas, Pupusas, and Tamales with different ladies from the ward.

Some of the foods are not so awe-inspiring, such as the banana chips that I bought the other day. They were very salty instead of sweet and somwhere near the middle of the bag I found a puffy something that tasted like fish... I remembered my lessons from my childhood about "one of these things is not like the others" and threw the bag away. I have always jumped into the culture though, trying anything and everything (within the bounds of safety and reason... mostly), but China still holds the prize for the strangest foods. The home cooking of the Galindos is by far the best food we have had and continues to fatten us up nicely. Each meal, I try to find a better way to express in Spanish just HOW good it is but it is getting to the point where simply tagging on yet another "Muy" to my "Bueno" just sounds stupid.

Elicia and I finally ventured out of the city. Karen offered to take us to the beach after her morning classes last tuesday. It was the first time that we have gotten to really see the countryside of Honduras and also the more rural homes. The poverty that we have been told about became very obvious as we came out of the city. Peoples homes are often only made of tarps and metal sheeting and they are squished up next to their neighbors on the bank of some trash filled stream. At church yesterday we were talking to one of the sister missionaries and she told us that many of these members have to choose between feeding their children and paying their tything every single month. It made me think about my own testimony of the law of tything. Have I ever had to actually sacrifice to pay mine? Not really, no. For that I am grateful, but based on the spirit in testimony meeting this sunday, I know that these people have been blessed by such sacrifices with a powerful foundation of faith. A God who lets His children struggle is truly a God who loves them.

The landscape of Honduras is beautiful. San Pedro is nestled against some pretty high mountains considering which part of the continent it is on, and they are covered in thick green forests. The beach was not their nicest beach, but it was the closest, only 45 minutes from the center of the city. The beach was called Cortez, which I thought was kindof interresting...

We ventured out onto a wooden dock upon arrival and Elicia and I enthusiastically kicked off our sandals and dove into the water. We came up spitting and tearing. For some reason these Gringas always seem to forget that the Ocean has salt in it. The water was incredible, though. So warm and clear. There were little striped fish swimming all around and we even saw a jelly fish, though much deeper than we were swimming (some guy came over to us on the dock and said, "Did you see the jelly?" It took me a second to realize why it was so strange that I had understood him. Yes we saw our first Americans since we arrived here in Honduras.)

We met some Honduran beach bums who sell rides on their motor boat for about 2 dollars a person. They also tow people behind their boat on a huge "Banana" but only on certain days of the week. Not tuesdays. Karen flirted it up with them and we got their number so that we could call them the next time we were coming to the beach and have our own personal tow session any day we wanted.

Another week of classes and Elicia and I have perfected the art of turning boring lessons into fun games. I am growing way too attatched to my students. Unfortunately, in one case, the opposite is true too... Remember in one of my previous posts when I mentioned that one of my students had asked for my e-mail? And that he had gorgious green eyes on his handsome latin face? Well...

We teach one group of students on Saturday from 2-5 pm that only comes that one time during the week. Its a long class and we have to work extra hard to keep them interested in the English language. The previous week, Elicia and I had stayed after class to discuss the formal ball the next friday that the Young Single Adults were having. This time it was in a safer neighborhood and Elicia and I were determined to go. I refused to leave Honduras without some real latin dancing. Gladys and David (the YSA representative for the stake) told me all the particulars, while Hector hung around. "You will need partners for the dance, of course," Gladys said.  I nodded. We would figure out something. That's when Hector touched my arm, took a deep breath and said, "You would like to be my companion for the party friday?" I said I would love to.

The next Saturday, I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into. Elicia was feeling very sick and so I agreed to take her home and come back to teach the rest of the class with Gladys. That lesson was about names and titles (first name, last name, Mr., Mrs., etc.). I demonstrated by putting my own full name on the board and pointing out the different parts of my name and my title. In Honduras, each person takes the last name of both their mother and father, so they say that they have a first and second sur-name instead of a last name. I explained that my middle name was not my mothers last name, but simply a second name. Then I told them what we do with last names when we get married. I erased my last name and put a big question mark in it's place.

As I turned back around to erase the board and move on, I heard Hector call out something. I looked to Gladys for interpretation and she had this funny smile on her face. She told me that he had said his own last name. The whole class went silent and sat there staring, waiting for my reaction. Not awkward at all. I think I blushed a little bit (dang it!) and did some kind of stupid giggle and shrug and tried to move on. But Gladys wouldn't have it. She said loudly, "I think he just proposed to you!"

I decided to face the awkwardness head on. I turned to Hector and said, "Really?" Gladys mumbled what she had said to me in Spanish to him.  His eyes got wide and he said "No!" The class was really enjoying the show, heads whipping between Hector and me. I tried again to make it into a definite joke. "Well that's okay. It wouldn't have worked anyway. You are a student, and I am a teacher." I said this slowly and pointed at us both. No one needed interpretation on that one. The class burst into laughter. Hector wasn't laughing though. He looked at me and said, "Why?"

Oh man. I sighed. What the heck could I say? I thought the obvious would work: "Well, for another thing, I speak English and you speak Spanish."

Hector smiled and said confidently. "I can speak English."

I couldn't very well say, "Um, no you can't" to one of my own students, so I just said, "Well, then. I guess we're good!" Then I turned back to the board and started erasing furiously.

It didn't end there, though. For the next three hours, Hector tried everything he could to get my attention. He always somehow ended up at my elbow and everytime I turned around, he was there smiling at me and tried to strike up some kind of conversation. When Gladys and I were wandering around helping each of the pairs practice the model conversation, he would wave me over to his desk, "Teacher, question me."

At one point, I was standing at the back of the class waiting while the students did some writing portion and he turned around in his chair and said, NOT in a whisper, "I like you. You are very pretty." I said, "Thanks, Hector. I like you too" in the same tone that I used to compliment his English sentences, but I knew that wouldn't make a difference.

By the end of class I had resorted to drawing desperately from my water bottle just for something to do in response to all of Hector's stares. He plowed right on through, though. "You like much water?" I said that I did. His eyes lit up, "You need more water?"

I smiled, "No, thank you. I will just get more when I get home. Thanks." He nodded and winked.

I was flattered, but I knew that I might have to pull him aside and request a little bit of propriety in class in the future.

Monsters in the Bedroom

I just had to tell these two stories.

The other morning, Elicia and I had just woken up in the casita, and she was telling me about her dream. This a very common conversation for us. Elicia has fascinating dreams and mine are just morbid (no idea why, but it is starting to scare me!), so the conversations are always really fun. I opened the door to let some fresh air in because, guess what? Honduras is hot and muggy!

Elicia's dream was about Coco, the Galindo's dog. He is actually really sweet and docile, but in her dream he was a ferocious guard dog. She had been kidnapped by her government teacher. We shall withhold the name. Luckily, Elicia had an S-needle (this is a small, curved needle that we use at Anasazi to sew leather projects) so she knew she could pick the lock of the house and escape. On her way to the door, she saw some food in the kitchen (again, these are part of the Anasazi food pack. See post number 2.), and she grabbed only the essentials: cheese, gatorade, and seeds. She would have gathered more, but she "wanted a light pack." She was at the door when she realized that she needed a bag to put these foodstuffs in, so she hurried back to grab one and that's when coco caught her. He was huge and fanged. Elicia tried to go through the door, but Coco kept chasing her. So she slammed his head in the door repeatedly, saying "Why are you doing this?!" (Elicia got pretty worked up even telling this dream, so I am sure it was pretty dramatic for her). The next part is a bit gory and probably not appropriate for this PG rated blog. Then Elicia cried, "What have I ever done to you?!" And I guess that stumped him because Coco said, "You're right. You haven't done anything to me," and let her go.

Right on the heals of this edge-of-your-seat dream telling, in walks Coco through the door. Elicia screamed "No! Get out!" which I thought was a bit of an overreaction. I said, "Elicia, he's fine." He ambled over to my bed and I patted him on the head, talking nonsense to him. He went to Elicia's bed next but instead of seeking a pat on the head, he had another agenda. Before we knew what was happening, he lifted his leg and peed all over Elicia's blanket. I sprang to my feet shouting, "Oh no! Coco! Crap!" He was so startled that he bolted for the door.

Elicia was in hysterics. "Oh my gosh! He just peed on my bed! Eww! Eww! Why would he do that?!" I was curled up in a ball on my bed laughing. This went on for another minute or so, and then she sincerely started demanding answers. "Why did he pee on my bed?!"

I shrugged "I don't know, maybe your heart is at war with him from your dream. He could feel it!" (This is an Anasazi concept. With all people, creatures, and things, we always have either a heart at war or a heart at peace, and those people, creatures, and things can feel it, even without our saying a word). She didn't want to admit that was true. That is pretty typical of someone when their heart is at war.

Elicia has glared at Coco ever since and the entire family will not let her live it down.

Story number two.

I experienced an "I hate Honduras moment" Sunday evening. It had been a long day ( 3 hours of church and 4 hours at a movie and games night with some ysa from the ward) of constant spanish to the point where I knew that if I heard another word, I would scream. Now, I love Spanish, let me get that straight. And I love the young adults from the ward. They have invited us to everything, right down to a formal ball in a couple weeks. But when you have been sitting for hours in a group who only occasionally translate (which is understandable), and who are shouting and laughing in Spanish, it begins to grate on the nerves a bit. Couple that with the fact that we don't have our own car and had to wait 'till 11:00 to be picked up when we were told 9:00 and maybe you can understand the state I was in when we finally closed the door to the Casita and drank in the silence.

Elicia started to ask me what one of the sticky notes on the wall meant (We put up a bunch of spanish words and phrases all around the Casita to speed up our learning), and I asked her if we could save that for the next day. We turned off the lights and started to chat about something when Elicia said, "Kathryn. Oh my gosh. Get up!" in that voice you hear only when death is near. I know that voice well because I used to hear it everytime someone told me there was a bug on me.
I catapulted off my bed, letting out a strangled scream and slammed the light switch over (in Honduras they are side to side) just in time to see a cockroach scurry across my bed.

Elicia said, "Wow, you moved fast. It was on your pillow heading straight for your head, and all I said was that you should move." What can I say? If anyone knows how to spring into action at the threat of a bug, it is me. (Of course, I have reformed since Anasazi. I love bugs now...)

The nasty little intruder disapeared off the end of my bed right before Mama and Elias Galindo came running in. "Que paso!"  Mama Galindo cried, taking in the the scene: me shivering in my PJs standing with my toes curled under (as though that would save them if the cockroach came at me on the floor) and Elicia staring at the foot of my bed.
We all spent the next 15 minutes searching for the cockroach, me forgetting entirely my Anasazi pact with the bugs, and cringing from head to toe the entire time. We never found him. Mama Galindo thought it was pretty funny, and told us that "La cucuracha" came to party and we scared him away. She sprayed some kind of cockroach deterrent on the floor around my bed and the door and left. I looked at Elicia and whinned "I hate Honduras..." She just laughed at me, which I guess is okay because I laughed a lot more when Coco peed on her bed.

I had to give myself a pretty intense pep talk to get back into bed. I also gave a magnificent address to the concealed cockroach, asking him to kindly leave us alone and telling him that we would do the same. This is a trusted Anasazi method of avoiding the bugs. I am not kidding. Many Young Walkers will tell you they have made peace with the spiders or the scorpions. And they never get bitten. This is the first time I have tried it. We have not seen Señor Cucaracha since, so perhaps it really works...

Feliz Cumpleaños y Tres Tortas

I am obviously fluent in spanish now (the title), but I will spare you all and write my posts in English, still. The birthday in Honduras was fabulous, and entirely Honduran. Of course. It was honestly one of the best birthdays I have had in my long, long life of 24 years.

I slept in in my casita (that is little house) in Honduras. Elicia and I had to teach from 1-6, so after a fine breakfast of fruit (pineapple, papaya, orange, and bananas covered in dry granola and honey, all better tasting here than in the US), we sat down at the family computer (the one with the space bar that I desire to melt down to be made into grocery baggies) to plan our lessons. The program that the school uses is called Top Notch, and it is pretty much like the 1st level spanish book you used in high school (if you took Spanish, like I wish I had every single day here). We turned the TV on to have in the "background" while we planned our lessons, which is probably why it took us 2 hours... We got very excited when Sydney White came on in ENGLISH.

We went back to the casita to take a short nap and while I was laying on the bed thinking cold thoughts, Elicia was dinking around making lots of noise. I ignored it for awhile, then finally sat up and snapped, "What are you doing?"(the heat made me do it...). She turned around with a styrofoam plate in her hands and said, smiling broadly, "I made you a cake!" She had cut up an apple, drizzled dulce de leche over it (we bought it in a tiny little cup at the convenience store near the BIT. I'm pretty sure it was McDonald's dulce de leche, but it was still pretty good), and sprinkled m&ms on top. A rolled up peice of notebook paper had been stuck into the middle of the heap for a candle, which I blew over when she had finished singing. Elicia is basically the best, right? We sat down on my bed and ate the "cake" together. Que rico!

Teaching was awesome. I honestly can say that I wouldn't have spent that 6 hours of my birthday any differently. I love, love, LOVE teaching here. The students are so eager to learn and so much fun. Sometimes I think that in the United States we take too much precious time getting "comfortable" enough together to be good friends. Here it seems to be instantaneous. I feel like I have known these people for years. We have so much fun with them. The lessons from the book can be pretty boring, so we try to spice it up a bit and play games. This is when personalities really come out. There is one sister in the class that likes to tell everyone what to say. Forcefully. In one game we played, each person had an item that belonged to someone else and they had to say both, "This is so-and-so's cell phone" and "This is her cell phone." I will never forget this sister practically shouting "OR...!!" in another student's face.

They say the funniest things. I have to be careful what I laugh at though. In this saturday class, a 23 year old boy named David was asked if he has a girlfriend and when he said no, we asked him "Why not? Don't you like girls?" just to tease.

His response was, "The woman... is good." I burst out laughing. I couldn't help it! He got embarrassed, of course and I felt so bad. I sincerely apologized and went to the "worst teacher ever" corner and wrote on the board, "I will not laugh at students" for the rest of the class. Not really, but I should have. To try to make up for my insensitivity, I asked David if he has a motorcycle. I had seen him come in with a helmet, so I assumed he did. He brightened up and said, "Yes!" I told him that I loved motorcycles and asked if he would take me for a ride sometime. I was joking, of course. Mostly. He got embarrassed again. Strike two for teacher Kathryn. Goodness.

In the evening classes, we don't teach the lesson by ourselves, but help the regular teacher, Gladys, with whatever she wants us to do (which is usually a lot. Which we don't mind.) and during this class Saturday evening, we were leading some kind of activity and she suddenly said, "I have to go. I will only be gone for like... half an hour... You will be okay?" We said yes, but it was all very abrupt and mysterious. So we kept on teaching. A few minutes later, the door burst open and the entire school -- all the office staff and about 15 more students -- came in singing "Happy Birthday to you" at the top of their lungs, carrying little plates with peices of cake on them. I found out that Dennis had been behind the whole thing. (Dennis is the director for all three BIT schools, and it the most likeable, wonderful man I have ever met. He has a habit of breaking into song or dance or both to get a point across while teaching.) I was so surprised. I have only been here 4 days and these people feel like my family.

Someone whipped out some banana soda (ew) and we started to drink it when, who brings forward two cans of root beer with a grin the size of Tegucigalpa? David! He drove his motorcycle to buy them for me from who knows where. I guess I didn't embarrass him too badly. The rootbeer had much to be desired (namely the rootbeer flavor), but it was the best gift ever.

Before the students filed out the door and back to their other classes, David asked me to dance with him at the stake dance and also said that we could ride his motorcycle sometime. I have heard these latin boys can dance... did I mention this was the best birthday ever?

After the lesson, one of the students approached me and asked for my e-mail. He is... okay, picture this: dark hair, dark skin and GREEN eyes. Yes. Let me repeat: best birthday ever.

Another younger student caught up with me as we were leaving the building. He had told us earlier in class, when we were discussing hobbies, that he likes to collect coins. He had proudly showed us one from Japan that hung around his neck. This is what he pulled over his head and gave to me "for jor birday" ( I am not at ALL making fun of the accent, just showing how adorable I think it is.) He told me that it meant good luck. I made a leather string for it and have been wearing it ever since.

We went to institute that night until 7:00. I asked the teacher, "So you are teaching the lesson in English right?" She thought that was pretty funny. Perhaps she thought I was joking. I can testify, however, that the spirit speaks the same language here in Honduras as it does in the US. After institute, some girls (one of them yet another Galindo niece), snagged us for the rest of the night. No doubt Mama Galindo told them to give the American birthday girl a good Honduran time. She's always taking care of me. We told them we wanted good Honduran food, so we went to the Baleada Express. Baleadas are probably the most typically Honduran food there is. And they are LOVELY. And cheap! Only 14 Lempiras apiece (about 75 cents). Its an extra thick tortilla with a smooth bean and onion blend spread on it, topped with runny sour cream and either chicken, chorrizo, or egg, and fresh grated cheese. Oh man. Two of the boys from the ward met us there, as well.

Next we went to the City Mall. We wandered around the mall until our movie started and I received yet another birthday gift. There was a lost ballon on the ceiling, and my new friends lifted the tiny Andrea skyward to retrieve it for me (really, she must weigh only 90 pounds). She stood on one of the boy's shoulders against the shop glass window and I cringed.  But they were successful. Andrea tied it to my bag. A few mintues later, a little girl approached me and pointed at it, gabbed in spanish and ran away. Maybe she wanted one too? We rode the escalator up a floor and there she was again, like magic! Elicia said, "Oh! It's probably hers!" Of course! I rushed over to her, yanked it off my bag and handed it to her. I wasn't about to keep a little girl's balloon, even if it was my birthday. I am 24 for heaven's sake. Maybe when I was 23, but now I must put such things away.

I bought a Cinnabon to eat in the movie. Yes, a honduran cinnabon... shhh.

After the movie we were driven home, ready for bed. But! Alas! One more party! Mama Galindo had made me a giant chocolate cake. She and Elias and Alejando were waiting there to sing to me (Alejandro was quite bleary eyed, having been pulled out of bed for the occasion). They sang in halting English and then again in Spanish with much more gusto. We sat and talked with Mama Galindo (Elias as translator) over huge peices of cake (the frosting was made with sweetened condensed milk. Oh baby.) and I learned how very, very expensive it is for these families to send their children to a decent school. And how nearly impossible it is to get a decent-paying job without learning English at said expensive schools. And this is in a country where the average wage is 1.65 dollars an hour, or 280 dollars a month, and gas costs 4 dollars a gallon.

So on my birthday, I received many songs, a japanese coin, 3 cakes, rootbeer, 2 Honduran dates, a ten minute balloon, and a greater understanding of just how blessed I am to have been born in Ogden, Utah in the USA.

Lonely Larvae

I have some Anasazi moments that I want to post over the next few days that I didn't get to before my Honduran adventure started. The first one involves a boy that we will call Trevor (I am not allowed to share the names of the young people I have worked with).

Take an adolescent boy from his daily hours upon hours of video games, facebook, cell phone, TV, and ipod and drop him in the middle of the silent arizona desert and tell him to sit and think and you might as well have dropped him on Mars and told him to breath oxygen. The Anasazi experience is literally foreign for these kids and the more time I spend out there with them, the more aware I become of the incredible culture shock they have to wade through to before they feel safe, competent, and even happy out on the trail. There are no showers, no soft warm beds, essentially no shelter from the elements. Food takes quite a bit of time and preparation, entertainment consists of things you can make with your hands, converse about with a group of people you didn't (and usually wouldn't) chose to be with, and think about in your own, little head (which can be pretty frightening and exhausting for people who are used to escaping themselves through various forms of modern entertainment all day long). It was difficult for me, and they have to be out there for a minimum of 6 weeks straight. I tip my hat to Young Walkers. And I am grateful to them for the entertainment they provide me while they adjust.

Based on this perspective on the YW experience, you can imagine that in several weeks time, a Young Walker can get pretty. . . desperate for something new and exciting. As the boys would say, "Dude, I'm telling you, the forest does things to you . . ." (My boys band called the desert "the forest", though I have no idea why... case in point, I guess).

So, one day by the fire (lots of trail stories start out this way), I was sitting against a log carving or something. The other Trail Walker was several yards away, reading on his bed or something, and there were boys scattered around the camp. Albert, Jared, and Trevor were sitting by the fire with me, probably eating or cooking because that is mostly all that young walker boys do. At this point in the week, the boys were at the end of their weekly food packs, so Albert and Jared were eating lentils, the bane of a YW's existence. Trevor, however, refused to eat lentils, so he was "fasting" until the next day when his food pack would arrive.

Trevor was the tallest of the boys in the band, tall and lanky, with big blue eyes, and the beginnings of a light brown fro fringing his dark face (not that this is too distinguishing; all the boys have dark faces and fros due to the build up of dirt and grease on their heads). Trevor always wore his black thermals for pants and an old hideous sweater with Christmas trees on it-- a gift from a trail walker weeks previously. He was sitting indian style on the ground across the fire from me, and the last thing I was aware of was that he had collected some acorns from the ground (remember it is January, so these acorns are aged...) and had fed one to Jared, who spit it out saying, "That's rotten, Dog!" Dog is actually a term of endearment, I have learned.

So, I was focused intently on my project, whatever it was, and Trevor called to me accros the fire in a desperate sounding whisper, "Kathryn."

I looked up. He was staring, unmoving, at something on the ground directly infront of him. He was hunched over it, almost protectively.

"Kathryn!" He said more urgently, as though worried about disturbing something.

"Yeah!"

Without looking up, he said, "Kathryn, come over here"

I was like 3 feet away. I didn't exactly see a need to move. "What is it?"

"Kathryn, you need to come OVER here." He was still speaking reverently, as though the ground in front of him contained the mysteries of the universe.

I sighed and put my project down and stepped over to him. He had collected five tiny, pale larvae (of what, I have no clue). They were in a neat line on the dirt, their discarded acorn homes lying in bits nearby.

"Um, Trevor...?"

He turned his face upward, his eyes big and wild on his dirty face. "Would you like to eat one?"

I think I said something like, "Uh..."

And he said, "You should eat one." He said it like it would be a kindness to the larvae.

I said, "No thank you," and crept back to my side of the fire. I resumed my project, figuring that it was best to leave him alone.  Trevor proceeded to stage a conversation between the larvae, complete with voices in different pitches. I don't know if he ever ate one of the poor creatures himself, but he did try to feed one to Jared, who declined. Jared had been out one week less than Trevor, so maybe the "forest" hadn't gotten to him. Yet.

Amor de Honduras

I am in Honduras! San Pedro Sula, the second largest city in the country. Elicia and I kept looking for the city that we were going to land in all the way down to the tarmac. It never came. We landed in a small town and they call it San Pedro Sula. Thank goodness! I was picturing soot and grime and smog like in some of the cities in China, but this place is lovely. It is clear and green and all the roads have two lanes (or fewer). I guess I should have been clued in by the fact that the population of the country is the same as the entire CITY that I lived in in China (a small village of 7 million).

The seasons are two: hot and humid, and hot and humid and wet. We are not in the wet one, though I am hoping that we will get to do a serious, Honduran, Gene Kelly number. I thought that I would be miserable in the heat, but I am actually loving it. No need for lotion or chapstick, though my hair has finally filled its poofing potential. We live in a tiny apartment right next to the Galindo family's home. It has a ceiling fan that tries really hard, but we were advised by cousin Miguel (the 16-year-old nephew of Hermano Galindo) to buy a good fan or we "will die." We said, "Yeah, we will get one soon. Maybe tomorrow?" His eyes widened and he shook his head. So we bought a Honduran fan. That was actually our second purchase. My first purchase was a sharpe and a stack of Honduran sticky notes. Elicia and I are going to stick the spanish language (or at least most of it) up in our apartment. We found out that what we learned from the children's spanish picture dictionary in Arizona, "Que aventura!" actually isn't enough. I am happy to report that I actualy understand a great deal more than I thought I would. Speaking is the problem. Our family is patient, though, and very good humored. We had lots of fun trying to communicate yesterday, shaking our heads and laughing at each other.

We are staying with an LDS family, the Galindos. Madre Galindo, Padre Galindo, Alejandro, and Elias. Granny Galindo lives with them, too (and she is adorable), and there are always a bunch of uncles and cousins and aunts around as well. Full time family reunion : ) The boys are 18 and 15 years old, I think, and they speak pretty good english. The mother is eager to cook for us and yesterday we had a heart-to-heart about our food preferences. When I said that we would eat mostly fruits, veggies, and bread, and not much meat, she got a really concerned look on her face. She said that we will go home to the states all skinny and that our families will think that they starved us in Honduras. When we told her that we would like tacos, enchiladas, and omelets, she was much relieved. We were also told that a peanut butter sandwhich is "not appropriate for lunch" by uncle Galindo. He informed us that the main meal of the day here is around noon. It is the Honduran way!

I guess I should share a little about what we are doing here. There is a small non-profit organization called One Life at a Time that is based in San Pedro Sula. It consists of a school and a pre-missionary program. It is not organized by the LDS church, but works closely with it, locally and generally. The pre-missionary program helps get missionaries prepared for missions. The LDS church will pay for the mission, but many, many families here cannot come close to affording the clothing, medical, and dental that are needed to be able to go. LDS Institutes in the US donate clothing and supplies. They have been able to send out over 100 missionaries so far.

 The school is called the BIT, and there are school buildings here, in the capital of Honduras, Tegucigalpa, and in Nicaragua. Mostly LDS students, from around 18 years old and above, study English, computer, and finance classes to build a skill set that will make them much more employable. The program's aim is to break the cycle of poverty through education. Students graduate in a year. BYU Idaho has agreed to accept a BIT degree for a high school diploma, allowing students to take a very cheap, accesible bachelor's degree online. This is absolutely life-changing for these students! I am excited to be involved.

Elicia and I came into the BIT this morning and participated in the morning English classes. These, we have been told, are all ours. They are EAGER to turn over to us as much of the program as we are able and willing to take. The days here are long (12 hours) and so we agreed to take the classes all day from wednesday to friday, and Saturday afternoons. Monday and Tuesday are our "weekend." This morning's class was very beginner, still learning pronounciation of the alphabet. Elicia and I want to make an ABC rap to make it a little more fun. Haha. Hopefully they won't boo us out the door. We are excited to start planning lessons and to create some fun activities. Nervous, too. At least this time I won't have to send them to a chair in the corner for speaking Chinese or dance around the room and make painfully grotesque faces just to get their attention. Well, at least I hope not.

Okay. This has gotten out of hand again. I promise shorter posts!

One last moment-- they love to gossip about love and dating here in Honduras. I guess that is pretty much universal. Aunt and cousin Galindo took us out for ice cream yesterday and asked us about boyfriends. Miguel said he has a brother who is 21 (Elicia laughed and said, "Shouldn't be a problem for YOU, Kathryn!' Perhaps she thinks I have a history of dating younger men...?) and I said that was a little young for me. And Miguel said, "For love, there is no age." There you have it. I guess that is the Honduran way, too.

A land of cactus and daily miracles

Many of my friends and family are aware that I have a job at a wilderness therapy program called Anasazi. Actually, probably most of you know it because it probably forced it's way into every conversation you tried to have with me since I did my internship there last summer. However, besides the bizzare stories I have recounted to many of you, I don't know how much I have described the everyday joys of being in the trenches at Anasazi. I could probably write for hours on this subject, and I plan to over the next several posts as well, but for now, let me describe a day in the life of a Trail Walker ( I am honored to call myself one of those) and if I somehow paint a picture that gives you even the tiniest idea of what it is really like, I will sing praises to the Anasasi Cactus god. Just kidding. Don't worry, mom, Anasazi has taught me about the same God that you did.

First, some general information. Anasazi takes really talented, incredible kids bound for greatness disguised as "troubled teens" out into the wilderness of the Arizona desert for a minimum of six weeks (more often a couple more which is when the biggest miracles are seen). Bands of about 4 Young Walkers, age 12-17 or Sinagua Walkers, age 18-84 (they figure by 85 an individual has discovered who they really are) are accompanied by 2-3 Trail Walkers as they hike, sleep, eat, and especially discover self, family, and the Creator in the dessert. The bands hike somewhere between 10-30 miles a week over ridiculous terrain: creek beds full of boulders, or cliffs, or freezing water, thick forests of catclaw, and straight up and down mesas the size of... well, a big mesa. What was that? Trails? No.

Trail Walkers and Young Walkers get the same exact gear and food, except for the extra weight that TWs carry: the com. kits (radio, sat phone, and GPS), the med kits, and the maps, as well as exorbitant amounts of beads. Because Anasasi runs on beads. The food pack is about 20 pounds, sometimes 10 by day two if YWs are trail smart and eat/bury half their food before the hike the next day. The food pack is filled with the following goodness:

3 cups lentils ( YWs must get a different kind because their lentils mysteriously dissapear within an hour... odd...)
3 cups whole wheat flour
3 cups brown rice
2 cups corn meal
2 cups oats
2 cups whole grain macaroni (oh goodness)
1 cup orange tang (or powdered hope for a better day for YWs)
1 cup brown sugar
small bags of salt, baking soda, pepper, and chicken boulion
11 dried figs, 17 dried apricots, 20 dried tomatoes (oh baby)
small bags of almonds, walnuts, and raisins
1/4 cup butter (boys get 3/4 cup. I know. Super bitter about it)
A ridiculous amount of powdered milk (Ew)
And: Da da da DA!!! 2 glorious cups of powdered cheese (and we are not talking the kraft mac'n cheese crap. This is like cheese from heavenly cows. Sigh.)
1 onion, a massive hunk of garlic cloves, 1 potato, 2 carrots, and an apple ( I learned how precious this apple was when a YW basically crawled up to me with an upturned, dewey-eyed face and pled, "Can I have your core?" Yeah.)

You would not BELIEVE the incredible range of foods that are made with these 21 items. It still astounds me. The other week I had my first pizza, and I kid you not, it was one of the best things I have ever tasted. YWs have come up with muffins, poptarts, calzones, cheesecake, lasagne, teriaki chicken rice, lentil burgers, tostadas, wet dog (don't worry about it), jam, cookies, cold cereal, and tortillia chips. Of course there are those times when a Young Walker will approach you, wide-eyed with excitement, and proclaim that his concoction tastes like such and such food and you take a bite and it definitely does NOT taste like such and such (more like pond goo), but you just smile and nod at them because, after all, they have been out in the wilderness for a long, long time.

All of this food is cooked either over the fire in a tin cup or in the fire (ash cakes). Cups are to be clean when the YWs get their new food pack each wednesday. Sometimes that is the ONLY time that week a cup has been cleaned.  As the weeks come and go, however, the cleanliness of a YWs cup begins to reflect the changes he is experiencing in his soul. He starts to take pride in even something as simple as that. Pretty cool.

Every individual on the trail sleeps out in the open, on the ground in a sleeping bag (winter) or a canvas army "burito" and wool blanket. Everyone gets a tarp to make a shelter with when it rains. Or snows. (Like it has twice in the past few weeks on the other rotation, and never on mine. Ha! Crap. I probably just cursed myself...)

Trail walkers work 8 days on the trail, wednesday to wednesday, and have 6 days off. "Switchouts" between the two rotations are like the coming of the Anasazi moon god for the young walkers. Just kidding. No moon god either. This is the day they get their new food packs. Trail Walkers wafting the foreign smells of shampoo and mint toothpaste arrive fresh from the city (YWs have the most incredible sense of smell I have ever seen. It is truly amazing.) and the filthy, trailwalkers wafting the lovely smell of the trail, a mixture of sweat, urine, smoke, and garlic, sling their packs on their backs and walk/race (this would be denied by most TWs because TWs are supposed to be the epitome of selflessness) up to the vehicles where they find a feast of extremely unhealthy food from the other rotation. I always bought oreos, in hopes that someone on the other rotation would get the hint that I wanted them to buy me oreos for my rotation. It took 3 weeks. I always feel a little guilty while I am stuffing my face with such gluttonous wonder while my young walkers are doing the same with trail food. But they are probably more grateful, so I am actually losing out. Right?

On the trail, there are two rules for these kids. 1) Don't get dead and 2) Don't ever look in your canteen. Seriously, those are the only rules for Young Walkers (Trail Walkers have a few more, but that is only because we ask for them) and the rest fall under the natural laws and consequences of life itself. Which is why this program works so well. There is no beating the system; life is the system.

A Trail Walker's primary responsibility is the safety of the Young Walkers. And that includes emotional safety. With all the dangers (sheer cliffs, rattle snakes, undropped water (choice of some YWs to leave out the chlorine...), the presence of very sharp knives, fires, and poisonous plants, etc.) of leading adolescents through the desert, hours away from the nearest civilization, there should be several serious injuries every week. But there aren't. One of the earliest things I became aware of at Anasazi was the close protective hand of the Creator over those on the trail. I have seen enough to know that YWs and TWs lives are preserved many times each year.

Anasazi's philosophy is one freedom of choice and personal accountability. The staff look for and point out the "seed of greatness" in each teen and encourage them to shed all the labels that have been tagged on them in the past. Our aim is to help them 1) Experience the power and continual reality of having a New Beginning, 2) Turn their hearts homeward to their families, and 3) Turn their eyes upward to the Creator. We teach them to listen to the "sacred wind" and to follow the "awakenings" that come through it from the Creator. Little do they know, they are being taught the Gospel of Jesus Christ in a language free from their own biases. And they listen.The Anasazi staff strive to live lives that will create an environment that invites change. Staff are to have "hearts at peace" always, to put Young Walker's first, and to simply love them and listen to them.

Young Walkers are very suspicious of such a non-judgmental environment in the beginning. And they often sit in angry, defiant silence for their first day or two, but the desert--free of all the noise of their life at home--and the nearness of the Creator eventually gets to them and they truly transform. Almost in direct porportion to the darkening of their skin (mostly dirt and ash), their eyes fill up with light. They start to share with anyone who will listen (which is everyone out there) about all the awakenings they have had, how much they regret taking their family for granted, and how very different their life is going to be when they get home. It is incredible. I am the lucky one who gets sit and listen, and watch this miracle happen each week. And then I get a check. And it suprises me, every time.

Fun, fun, fun till my daddy takes the T-bird away

Oh, man! The pressure of posting for the very first time on my very first blog is pretty heavy... but I think I will make it through. I don't  believe that blogging should be high pressure, so I will make a vow right now that I won't let it become so. It shall be my haven. And I will call it my haven. And it shall be mine.

This blog is coming to pass way later than it should have been. I have wanted to blog for years. The key, it turns out, is to have someone that you are accountable to. I told somewhere around 7 people that I was going to blog about my upcoming adventures and I did that on purpose so that I wouldn't have a choice but to start one. I suppose I could just ignore the silent accusations flung at me from the general direction of United States, but imagined judgement is the worst kind.

So, I begin. I have just graduated from BYU, and feel extremely educated. (Let me know if you need an answer to something. Chances are, I know it.) I feel those simultaneously conflicting and complimentary feelings of excitement and terror that I am sure many college graduates feel when they are handed the world at a ridiculously young age and told that they can do whatever and go wherever they want. I have to say though, that the excitement is winning out. I feel incredibly blessed to have these years handed to me. A weighing concern is that I will use them to their fullest potential and that I will somehow discover what God has in mind for me. Because right now? I want nothing more than to do exactly what that is. However, the heavens are pretty silent. So, I have made a plan and it sounds too good to be true even when I say it to myself. And I have no doubt that God will correct me where I have drawn outside the lines.

I have a feeling that I am going to have to constantly check myself on the length of my posts... so, before I break some unknown Bloggers United rule, I will end this one. I am back at Anasazi, the wilderness therapy program where I interned over the summer (and I LOVE it), I am in the process of buying my plane ticket to Honduras where I will live until April and volunteer at a small non-profit, Seattle is calling to me increasingly loudly for a summer stay, and so is my Ben and Jerry's from the freezer in the other room. Not for a summer stay, though. More like 15 minutes.