Day 8 - Grand Canyon

My favorite moment yesterday was seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. We entered the park and were driving along; the scenery around us hadn’t changed at all for 50 miles, when, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the opposite side of the red-, orange-, purple-, and yellow-striped canyon wall. Both vans immediately pulled over and we piled out at Mather Pt., completely in awe of the great crevice and the ledge that dropped off inches in front of our toes. The North Rim, at 8,800 feet, loomed 1,800 feet above us as we stood at the edge of the South Rim. The Colorado River raged 6,000 feet below us.

The whole experience seemed surreal; my sense of depth-perception was non-existent. It was as if someone had hung a sheet in front of me and painted a colorful, hazy horizon, a breathtaking illusion.

I was bold at first, clamoring around rocks and tourists to get a good view on one of the broad ledges. But as some hung back in fear, it started to hit me that this wasn’t an illusion; just one wrong step and I could be well on my way to the bottom of the canyon. I sat down on a sunny rock and tried to minimize my movements. My muscles started shaking uncontrollably; my voice became quiet and wavered softly. I watched groups of thrill-seeking visitors step confidently to the very edge of the outcropping, turning their backs to the canyon to pose for pictures that would be the pride of their vacation. When they recounted to their friends the dangerous nature of their recent escapades they would not be exaggerating. To sit at the edge of a 6,000 foot ledge and dangle one’s feet into a canyon, leaning over periodically to view the raging Colorado River below, requires a grave malfunction of the amygdala or a serious case of misinformation about the law of gravity.

After thoroughly examining the canyon from our viewpoint at the South Rim, we headed into the Grand Canyon Village to stock up on water before setting out on a hike. A wise hiker advised us to take minimum 1 gallon of water per hour for each hiker. I had brought exactly one half-drunk 16 oz. bottle of water, and no one else had brought much more than that, so it was clear that we were going to need some supplies. The general store was nice and new, but generally way overpriced. And walking into a giant grocery offering 6 brands of water took a little bit of the cherished ruggedness out of the experience. I would have preferred a little shack offering one flavor of ice cream cone, a rain poncho, a lone bottle of ketchup on the shelf, and a water spicket out front to this commercialized version of adventure.

In thinking about the greatest trips I've ever taken, it's not the most comfortable ones that make the Top 3. In fact, it's the emergence of happy moments in miserable conditions that truly make a trip memorable. Upon leaving the all-in-one grocery/deli/bakery/hardware store/sport apparel shop, I took a moment to mourn the loss of small town general stores and their delightful meagerness.

I soon forgot my shopping sorrows as we descended into the canyon by way of the Bright Angel Trail. The plan was to go 1.5 miles to the first water station and then turn around and hike the 1.5 miles back up. Halfway to the water station I looked up, saw a good 300 feet above me, and started to wonder if I would make it back by dark. I started scoping out little nooks in the canyon wall along the trail, making note of where would be a good place to curl up for the night--just in case. There is nothing that I feared more than being stuck on the trail in the dark--it was sandy, rocky, slippery, full of branches, and had absolutely no guard railing at any point. To make matters worse, I had just listened to a grocery store attendant tell a woman that, "More people have fallen in this year than normal. Each day we have a few fall in. Not all of them die though."

I found my only comfort in my dad's last words of our conversation the previous day: "Feel free to go get hurt; I already paid the insurance deductible for your brother's surgery this year, so you're totally covered." At least they won't leave me to die on the operating table for lack of insurance coverage, I thought. I mean, really, how many general insurance plans would usually cover falling into the Grand Canyon? I felt lucky to say the least.

It really didn't turn out to be all that bad. We made it down to the water station in about 45 minutes, filled up our bottles, and headed back up. Emma and I started to feel lightheaded on the way up--probably due to a combination of elevation change, sun, and no food--so we stopped a few times to rest for a minute or two. But an hour and 15 minutes later we arrived at the rim, tired, but safe and sound.

We had an hour and a half drive ahead of us to get back to the bus in Flagstaff, but hunger won that battle and we stopped for dinner in Williams. Pizza! I can't tell you how good it is to be out of the South and away from all their fried food. There are a lot of things I like about the South but you must understand, fried food is not one of them.

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We had a great day in Salt Lake City today, which I'll tell you more about tomorrow. For now, we're on our way to Las Vegas. We have plans to visit a wedding chapel tomorrow afternoon, and there's been some talk about a possible impromptu marriage, so if I come back from this trip married, you'll know what happened!

Day 7 - Navajo Nation

This marks the end of our first week on the road. So far, we’ve visited Memphis, Little Rock, San Antonio, El Paso, Roswell, and the Navajo Nation.

My preconceived notion of each city’s contribution to the American identity has been proved incredibly wrong.

As we drove out towards Navajoland this morning—20 miles from our driver’s hotel in Gallup, NM—I anticipated teepees, leather chaps, sweat houses, and women weaving

baskets. I was concerned about how the day would go. The serious hayfever I thought I had grown out of years ago came back with a vengeance a few weeks ago when I went into a bad case of anaphylactic shock—swelling of the whites of the eyes up over the pupils, intense sinus pain, constricted airways, heightened sensitivity to light and noise, among other symptoms.

So as much as I wanted to participate in sheepherding and other activities with the group, all I could foresee was several hours, possibly days, of misery in my near future.

Our first stop was the rest stop at exit 396 on I-40. Lee Silversmith, a full-blooded Navajo who currently resides with his family on the reservation, had graciously offered to act as our tour guide to Navajo history and culture for the day. His land starts from directly behind the rest stop, so it was a logical place to meet. Lee gave us a brief overview of the Navajo people—all information that was new to me—and then took us to his home where his parents had prepared delicious Navajo Tacos for lunch.

The traditional Navajo home is an 8-sided hogan (ho-gone). Their nation’s boundaries are delineated by four sacred mountains located in New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Colorado; according to traditional folklore the Navajos were conceived in the heart of these four mountains. It was quite an experience to sit in pews around the Silversmith’s hogan-turned-church and listen to “Grandma and Grandpa Navajo” (as I affectionately call them) tell their life story.

As opposed to the Northwest Indians I’m familiar with that rely on salmon for their medicine and food, the Southwest Indians are an agricultural pastoral society; sheepherding, raising horses, and planting crops such as corn are an integral part of traditional Navajo life. It was refreshing to learn that the Navajos were one of the last tribes to embrace the gaming industry; it wasn’t until just recently that they built their first casino—which, by the way, “is doing great,” Lee said, “despite the economic downturn.”

I was very touched by the warm welcome we received from all the Navajos we met. Lee had arranged for us to meet with some of the staff at the Navajo President’s office, so we headed out to government headquarters at Window Rock (pictured below at left) after lunch. The Federal Grant Writer/Progam Manager gave a phenomenal presentation for at least an hour; I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

The Navajo nation is made up of 110 communities throughout New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah. Besides being divided into districts (at three levels) by the Navajo government, they also have to deal with the U.S. Federal Government and individual state governments. They have a working relationship with the Federal govt. on a nation to nation basis, but any authority that Congress gives to the state then has be dealt with on a state level. Never mind that this is an unnecessarily complex system; it is especially cumbersome when it comes to issues such as education and health care.

For example, for the past 50 years many Navajo children have been separated from their parents and sent off to boarding schools around the country. At boarding schools they were heavily discouraged from speaking Diné (Navajo language), in fact, if caught speaking Diné—or accused of speaking it by another student—they would be punished with a spanking, mouth washed out with soap, and extra chores. Upon returning to the reservation students seemed disconnected from their families, communities, and Navajo heritage.

In 1975 the Navajo people were finally given a say in their children’s education and were allowed to construct schools on the reservation. However, Navajoland consists of 27,000 miles and reaches into three states. Since public schools are primarily state-run, the Navajo Nation has to deal with three sets of requirements, three curricula, three standardized test methods, etc., when running their schools. By incorporating Navajo language, culture, and history classes into the curricula, the Navajos began to make some headway in preparing their children and young adults to be productive citizens in the Navajo community. Ensuring that students felt comfortable and connected with their communities helps ensure that they will do well in school and then stay to help make the reservation a better place for everyone; it helps minimize the number of students who decide to move off to the big city because they don’t “fit in” on the reservation as a result of their strictly western education.

So here they are, finally making some progress, when the people of Arizona vote in the bill that makes English the official language of the state and instates the infamous “English-only” reform that makes English the only language of education in public schools. Now they’re back at square one: after devoting time and money to developing a curriculum targeting Navajo children, this curriculum is prohibited from being taught. Of course, if they established private schools they could teach whatever they want, right?

Sure, sounds great. But remember….the Federal Government owns the land (they recently put the Dept. of the Interior in charge of Indian reservations, along with National Parks and such) so no property taxes can be collected from the people living on it. And where does funding for schools come from? Property taxes.

Another big issue: development and the "Bennett Freeze Box." The Hopi and Navajo tribes were in a dispute, for a long time, about territorial boundaries. Everyone recognized that this was a dispute between governments, not between the people. Nonetheless, citizens of both tribes were banned from development until the dispute was settled. For forty years no one could make any changes to any building, no matter how old it was or what condition it was in.

So, say your kids are playing baseball in the front yard and a stray ball flies in a busts a window in your hogan. You absolutely may not fix it. Say you live in your great-great-grandmother's 150-year-old hogan, if a door falls off, the roof leaks, a rogue sheep busts a hole in the side--no matter what--you can not do a thing to improve your living conditions. This ban was recently lifted, although I'm not quite sure of the date or even the details of the treaty.

Having just created an International Entrepreneurship major for myself, I was especially interested in this next subject: the process of starting a business. According to the Navajo Program Manager, starting a business in the U.S. includes about 3-5 steps and is possible to do in one day. To start a business on Navajo land the process is bumped up to 52 steps and can take anywhere from 5-15 years. Is that not ridiculous?

The unemployment rate for years has hovered at 55%. There are 320,000 Navajos on the reservation; the average annual income per family is $8,300--well below the poverty level in America.

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In 1863 the U.S. Cavalry took the the Navajos from their homeland, moved them to Oklahoma--a centralized location--and made them live there alongside Native Americans from all over the country. Many of them, knowing the in's and out's of the canyon, successfully hid from the cavalry, but many more were forced to go on The Longest Walk to Oklahoma. Transplanting the Navajos became costly and U.S. taxpayers started to protest the tax raises needed to complete the Navajos' relocation. Eventually the Navajos were allowed to return to their home, but only after signing a treaty in 1868 that gave the U.S. government the right to do away with the reservation at any time.

Then, in the 1870's zinc, copper, lead, asbestos, and coal were discovered in what is now the Grand Canyon and the homeland of the Navajos and four other Native American tribes. Although many of these natural resources proved too difficult and costly to extract from the canyon, coal in the nearby, less mountainous region seemed to be a lucrative pursuit. The government proceeded to mine this coal--employing many Native Americans to do the work--and paid only pitiful amounts for what they took. It was recently uncovered that, in one coal contract, the Navajos were only receiving 15 cents for every ton of coal that was taken from them. If they were to have been given fair market value for the coal they would be one of the richest peoples in North America.

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During the Cold War Navajos were offered jobs mining uranium. In doing this they were subjected to radiation; Navajo men came home every day with uranium in their clothing and on their bodies. They brought this toxic element into their one-room hogans where their wives and children underwent radiation as well. To this day Navajos are dying because of the effects of the radiation and a large number of Navajo children continue to be born with birth defects.

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In one area of the reservation there was a large train crash years ago in which toxic substances were spilled and soaked into the ground. It was given back to the Navajos after being deemed too dangerous a place for Americans to live or work. However, Navajos were encouraged to build homes in this place, raise their livestock there, and eat the crops they grew in the toxic soil.

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It seems that the U.S. government has done everything short of genocide to rid themselves of these people. And yet their spirits are not broken. These are a strong people--in body, mind, and in spirit. And though I spent but a day in their company, I have learned so much about perseverance, hope, respect for the land and its resources, and trust in God through them. Throughout generations of nothing but hardship, they hold onto a joy and a hope that surpasses all of my understanding.

After setting out to bring the sheep in for the night, we arrived at the place on the other side of the canyon where we thought they should be, only to find that they had, in fact, found their way home on their own. Lee led us, weaving in and around groves of cacti, up a rocky mesa to a beautiful layer of red sandstone rock where we took some memorable group photos and just spent time talking and laughing.

We learned to identify a few plants, such as the famous Navajo tea they had served us at lunch, and then started to head back down. As we reached one of the last vistas we spotted--not sheep--but a small herd of the Silversmith's horses. The mares, foal, and stallion have miles and miles of grassland at their disposal. With only the canyon walls to keep them close to home, they live basically as free agents. It was beautiful to watch these unbridled, unharnessed creatures roam the canyon floor as they wished. They looked happy and healthy--I could tell they were happy and healthy from a half-mile off.

20 minutes later we arrived back at the Silversmiths, getting ready to say our goodbyes and head back to Gallup to grab a quick dinner before class and bed. As we pulled up the drive there were tables and chairs set up in the front yard. Lee came out and announced that Grandma Navajo was cooking again -- she wanted to feed us before we set out. Over dinner Lee talked about his trip last summer; he walked from San Francisco to Washington D.C. with a group that re-enacted The Longest Walk as a memorial to their ancestors and awareness campaign for Native Americans. Tribes across America welcomed them each night and offered food and shelter. It was really neat to see his pictures and hear the stories of the people he met along the way. Lee talked about how close he had become with the band of strangers who walked for three months together and the impact some individuals had had on his life. He said that the Lord has everything happen for a purpose; that we had a purpose for coming to spend the day with him on the reservation. How right he was.

In addition to bringing away numerous life lessons from this day, I started to see a general trend in the people we've met so far on this trip...

The people who have the least are the people who give the most.
It doesn't take riches or fame to make a difference in the world; it takes a joyful heart, a respect for others, and a passion for service. I'm no longer going to wait for a raise or new job before donating to this charity or that church group. I'm no longer going to wait for the semester to be over or for my vacation to end before I volunteer.
I only have a short time on this earth; the time to serve is now.

Day 6 - Roswell - UFO Museum and more

While we were visiting the International UFO Museum this morning, I got talking to an elderly couple who lived in Florida but had been on the road traveling around the country since mid-May. I asked them what brought them to Roswell; they said they always wanted to visit the museum, so as they were passing through it made sense to stop.

“What does it mean to you to be an American?” I asked.

He responded, “Well, it’s the best place in the world. I never even wanted to visit any other place. You can do things here you can’t do in other countries….the living facilities are better…”

This vague, “it’s better here” answer is rather typical of what we’ve been getting in every city so far. But of course, we want specifics, so I probed.

“What are some of the things you do here—or you’d like to do—here in America that you wouldn’t be able to do in other countries?”

He paused for a few seconds, questioningly, then timidly replied, “Ummmm….I don’t really know. All I know is that I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want.”

I was really disappointed and frustrated during the week before our trip started when I was asked to write an essay about what it means to be a Patriotic American Citizen. I had a general idea, I could name a few characteristics of each, but I really couldn’t give a working definition of any of the three concepts. I attributed this to my ignorant youthfulness and recent absence from the country. But I’m beginning to think that that’s not it. In the past few days I’ve talked to many people from many states, young and old, and few have been able to give a response that had any real substance when asked, “What does it mean to be an American?”

There was one man, however, who won’t be easily forgotten. Yesterday in El Paso we visited Fort Bliss – the second largest military base in the continental U.S. We were shown around the base by some very friendly folk and ate lunch in the mess hall. The high-ranked soldier who ran the dining services came out and gave us a brief presentation on how he and his staff prepared soldiers to cook tasty dishes for the troops once they were deployed. At the end of his talk, we asked him the famous question, “What does it mean to be an American?” I can’t even remember exactly what he said because I was in such shock with how quickly he responded. He didn’t hesitate even one ½ second (and no one tipped him off that this was question was coming). I’m sure that what he said was brilliant, but all I could think about was how it made sense that it would be on the tip of his tongue: Why would you put your life on the line every day for something which you could only vaguely describe?

P.S. -- we stopped off for a photo-op at the "Alien Zone." Here I am in the UFO!

Day 6 - Roswell, New Mexico

Good morning from Roswell!

When I was greeted this morning by an alien giving the weather forecast in the local newspaper, I knew I couldn't be anywhere but Roswell, New Mexico!

We're heading out for a fun-filled day at the UFO museum, interviewing locals at the "Out of This World Cafe," and an afternooon at the lake. I'm extra excited because today happens to be shower day and laundry day!

(I know I skipped Day 5 in El Paso, but I'll make sure to add more on that tonight.

Day 4 - San Antonio - The Alamo and more

We arrived at the Alamo around 10am on Tuesday morning. The lilting breeze and visitors strolling through casually landscaped desert gardens, weaving in and out of 19th century adobe architecture, gave the place a sense of serenity. As the historian presented the history of the Alamo as the founding of Texas, the pride in his voice reflected the way a young father might talk about his first son. The crowd's attentive silence during his speech confirmed my impression of the Alamo's status as a shrine for Texans.

We were given some time to explore the Alamo on our own after the short tour. One of my professors was remarking on how shocked she was at how the Alamo's surroundings have changed since she was last there in 1984. It used to be all dirt, nothing but dirt and dust, and it gave the Alamo a very authentic feel. Today, cheap touristy shops selling all the same things line the street opposite the sacred fort. A hotel salesman sets up a stool on the sidewalk, luring in tourists as they make their way towards the Alamo. It's sad to see such contrast between the legacy of the venerable historic site on one side of the street and its commercialized identity sold on everything from shot glasses to boxers to teapots on the other.

Around noon we walked a few blocks down to Casa Rio, an authentic Mexican restaurant. After some chicken fajitas we broke up into small groups and headed out to explore the Riverwalk and talk to some locals. Upscale restaurants and hotels lined the Riverwalk on both sides; as two of the guys and I strolled by I noticed this façade pictured at right. Two tattered flags--the American flag and the Texan flag--hung from the ceiling and tied up as a decorative touch.

Two weeks ago I wouldn't have thought twice about this, but we were just talking about flag desecration (its protocol and limits) last week before we left on the trip. I've kind of been on the lookout for flag situations throughout the first 4 days of the trip, and I've actually been surprised at how many times I see the flag being displayed in a less-than-respectful way. I'll make sure to cite them when I see them!

Regarding the picture at the top left....I just wanted to show something that I found interesting as I walked around the city....even though the Native Americans were there first, they really regard and play up the Spaniards as their founders. So that photo just shows some art we found in one of the beautiful Riverwalk hotels--paintings and sketches of their "forefathers."

And lastly, a candid shot of our home sweet home....our rockin' not-so-humble abode! This bus is great, and my bunk gets more comfortable every night!

I took this picture from the back of the bus, looking towards the front. The "thorax" of the bus is lined with bunks, six on each side. You can only see a corner of my bunk, in the very bottom left corner of this photo.

Day 3 - Community Service Project in New Orleans

As we drove through New Orleans yesterday morning I experienced an odd sense of culture shock. It was hard to come to terms with seeing poverty like this in America. I felt like I was back in war-torn Bosnia, with one exception.....When I was in Bosnia people continually wanted to tell me about how they loved America -- how President Clinton had sent help and supplies during the war and how indebted they were to Americans now.

Eager as they were, the citizens of New Orleans had a slightly different story to share.

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Our morning in New Orleans was spent volunteering at St Bernard Community Center in the 9th Ward, the only county ever to be declared 100% destroyed in a natural disaster. Stephen, a local activist, said the first ones to come to their aid after the levee broke were the Canadian Mounted Police from Vancouver, British Columbia -- they arrived the Monday after the storm. The German Search and Rescue team arrived the next day, searching for cadavres, tying them to telephone poles so that they could find them when they came back to collect the bodies.

The U.S. National Guard didn't arrive in New Orleans until four days after the storm. When they did arrive, they didn't even bother to go into St Bernard, assuming there were no survivors in New Orleans' most hard-hit area.

As four of my 40/40 team members and I unpacked and rinsed off janitorial supplies that had been donated to the center, Stephen came back and interrupted us several times with different stories -- about everything from life in New Orleans to his world travels during his time in the Navy -- keeping us from making progress with our task. My first reaction was, "how are we ever going to get anything done?" But as he spoke, as his passion for service revealed itself, I began to see that my real purpose there wasn't to scan inventory into the system, my five hours of casual work wouldn't make that much of a difference; I was there to lend an ear and be a witness. I was there to share in the joys and struggles of a community that felt forgotten.

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Emile, a respectable, retired Philippino gentleman, lost his wife to breast cancer a few months before Katrina hit. The majority of his time is now spent taking care of his older brother, Joe, and cooking a hot lunch for the poverty-stricken guests at St Bernard's Community Center every Tuesday. When I asked him what motivates him to give so much of his time to helping others, he explained that he is retired and has extra time. He wisely put away savings during his career, and has a very modest lifestyle with just basic monthly utility bills; his homeowner's insurance kicked in after Katrina so he was able to fix up his house for only $50,000. His biggest hardship is losing his wife, being lonely, so he "spends [his] days serving others. It doesn't give [him] time to think about being alone until late at night when [he is] in bed." He said that he doesn't have it bad off so why shouldn't he help some others?

I was so touched by Emile and his heart of gold because, though he had money, his lifestyle didn't at all reflect the lifestyle of most people with similar incomes. He didn't value new boats, caviar and nice restaurants, a manicured garden, or anything that most of us strive to obtain through money. Emile was content with just enough food to sustain himself, a dry place to lay his head, and a modest means of transportation. Emile wore bleach-stained, crusty, well-worn mocassins, blue jeans, and an obviously lived-in plaid button-up; he was concerned with the well-being of his neighbors more than his own comfort. I couldn't help but think, "The fact that I am amazed by Emile's constant acts of generosity is a sign that I myself am far from being selfless in the same way." Even though poverty isn't present in my everyday tasks, how often do I choose to go to ice cream or a movie instead of heading down to the local rescue mission to help young, impoverished children with their homework?

Just last week I wrote an essay: Defining the Patriotic American Citizen. In my essay I talked about "giving back to the community" being one of the key elements of a good citizen. I said I was raised to value community service and had participated in community projects throughout my youth; I consider myself a good citizen. But somewhere throughout the past few years community service has become less and less of a priority, I've put it on the back burner, after school, work, and entertainment.

How will my priorities change after discovering America?

Je vous explique...

Je suis désolée que j'oublie faire des blogs en français de temps en temps. Certains m'ont envoyé des mails-- "Je ne comprends pas tout, mais j'aime bien les photos!" Donc je vous explique un peu....

Le voyage s'appelle "4o états en 40 jours" .... nous avons commencé à Nashville et voyageons en grand bus à traverser les Etats-Unis. Le but, c'est de découvrir ce que veut dire être américain(e). Donc, on demande aux gens dans chaque ville.... "Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire pour vous d'être américain?"

Nous sommes dix étudiants et deux profs. Nous recevons du crédit universitaire pour participer; ce sont des cours de sociologie et d'écriture/composition. Nous dormon en bus, on a chacun un lit, et le matin quand on se reveille, on est bien dans un nouveau état! C'est magnifique! Je n'ai jamais vue l'amérique comme ça et en plus nous nous amusons bien ensemble!

Aujourd'hui nous arrivons à Texas. C'est encore le matin - 9h - et nous sommes toujours en bus. Certains dorment, certains s'habillent, certains font leur blog comme moi. J'aime me reveiller tôt pour écrire le matin....c'est trop dûr de le faire le soir à minuit quand nous retournons au bus.

Nous avons l'internet sur le bus, mais ce ne marche pas très vite donc je ne mets pas bcp de photos pour le moment. Quand je serai de retour à Nashville j'en mettrai plus.

Voilà la route.....

J'espère que ça donne un peu d'info....si vous avez des questions n'hésitez pas de laisser des commentaires ou m'envoyer un mail!