The Miles that I Hiked

It is now the first day of March 2006. A lot of things have changed and a lot of things have stayed the same since I last recorded my thoughts. First and foremost, we have received a site-mate in Moroceli and are no longer the only North Americans in town. The first day when he came into site, on more than two occasions, a few of our high school aged friends asked him if he was my father. The funny thing is that Tim, our site mate, is only twenty-six years old and I am twenty-five years old. So now, I call him Dad to be funny, although I think it bothers him a bit that the Hondurans think he is so much older than he really is. Time has been occupied more with school starting up again but continues to misbehave and sneak away without permission.
I still struggle in my own circles of frustration, over-eating, under-eating, exercising and not exercising enough… and then we go to help out a group of twenty doctors that came to donate their time in a medical brigade. They only speak English and asked for assistance for translators from the Peace Corps. In the beginning of February, we had little to do in our site with school still being on vacation and were glad to escape our site for a few days. I have never seen so many black rotten teeth in my life. There were also entire communities haunted with the scabies disease. I cant imagine being so desperate, so overwhelmed with disease, pain. The people came to us looking for hope, help, and a magical cream to make their horrible rash go away, but we could offer nothing. The cure for scabies is complicated because the insects live in their bedding, in their skin. The cure is not a quick cheap cream, but rather a long patient process of cleaning thoroughly, boiling sheets and clothing. It hurts my heart to see them go away without help. I hope that God helps them. And then I feel guilty for my unfit frustration over food, and a negative body image. I feel like my own problem is simple and within myself and I should be able to help myself. People with diseases so deep in their skin, in their bodies, out of their own control, need the miracles that God gives.

And what else? I will share with you a glimpse from last Saturday. The oldest daughter (seventh grader) from the small village of Mesias, a two hours walk from Moroceli, came to deliver invitations for her sister’s fourth birthday party. So of course, last Saturday when the date arrived, we set off on foot at eight in the morning. We should have set off much earlier to avoid the hot sun. The sun was relentless and glared down at us with harsh burning eyes. We walked a steady fast pace trying to escape its sharp rays, over the white dry rock, past the dry barren streams, but we didn’t find comfort until we reached the family’s house two hours later in the shade of the kitchen. As always, Tia Wilma welcomed us with fresh corn tortillas fresh off the wood stove with beans. She leaned over the water basin, cleaning the chicken and pealing off its feathers when I asked her about the father of the family. Where had he gone? She explained that he was sleeping in the other room. How rare for a Honduran to be sleeping so late on his daughter’s birthday, I thought. Then as I was finishing my last warm corn tortilla, he stumbled out of the room to greet us with bulging red eyes. I overestimated his step and came way too close and then pulled me into him so close that I could smell alcohol on his breathe. Drunk on his daughter’s birthday and pleading me for more. The mother cooked everything and bathed all the children. Her sister came down from the village above in the mountain to prepare the piñata and the rice. Her oldest daughter put up decorations and balloons. The father swaggered in and out. Finally when all the guests arrived at four o’clock in the afternoon in their best clothes and shined black shoes, he collapsed on the bed and met the consequence of his pre-celebration. What a party. What a shame.
Every morning when I go running, I see several drunks asleep in the street. Or even worse, yesterday I saw two of them with their heads hung over riding on horseback. I ran to the side of the road, afraid they would fall off on top of me, and watched them fly away on their horses with a trail of dust behind them.

It is hot and dusty here. The earth, the streams, the air, the people, we are all thirsty for rain.

As March comes punctually, I think about how November is walking on his last mile and will be knocking on my door before I am ready. November will take me to such great changes. I am excited and scared at the same time. I am sad and overly happy to see my family. I am black and I am white. I am one feeling and at the same time the exact opposite. I love it here so much and then I cant wait to leave. Needless to say, I think beyond my little dusty town. And then it hits me, when I read A Walk in the Woods. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail. I want to feel sweat, hard work, I want to know the land of my own country. The book is about the silly, humorous adventures of Bill and his friend Katz and their struggles as they attempt to hike the Appalachian Trail. I REALLY RECOMMEND THIS BOOK! It is funny, loaded with good details and historic information! I will share with you a few of the thoughts of Bill Bryson that struck me.

“Now here’s a thought to consider. Every twenty minutes on the Appalachian trail, Katz and I walked farther than the average American walks in a week. For 93 percent of all trips outside the home, for whatever distance or whatever purpose, Americans now get in a car. On average the total walking of an American these days—that’s walking of all types: from car to office, from office to car, around the supermarket and shopping malls—adds up to 1.4 miles a week, barely 350 yards a day. That’s ridiculous!” (128)

Is that really true? That is insane. I find that unbelievable.

“I have regrets, of course. I regret that I didn’t do Katahdin (though I will, I promise you, I will). I regret that I never saw a bear or wolf or followed the padding retreat of a giant hellbender salamander, never shooed away a bobcat or sidestepped a rattlesnake, never flushed a startled boar. I wish that just once I had truly stared death in the face (briefly, with a written assurance of survival). But I got a great deal else from the experience. I learned to pitch a tent and sleep beneath the stars. For a brief, proud period I was slender and fit. I gained a profound respect for wilderness and nature and the benign dark power of woods. I understand now, in a way I never did before, the colossal scale of the world. I found patience and fortitude that I didn’t know I had. I discovered an America that millions of people scarcely know exists. I made a friend. I came home.
Best of all, these days when I see a mountain, I look at it slowly and appraisingly, with a narrow, confident gaze and eyes of chipped granite.
We didn’t walk 2,200 miles, it’s true, but here’s the thing: we tired. So Katz was right after all, and I don’t care what anybody says. We hiked the Appalachian Trail” (274).

It is true that Bill Bryson did not hike the entire trail. But he did it. In the same way, I need to remember, that I will never accomplish perfection, everything. I try my best. I need to learn to stop counting my faults, what I lack—how many miles I DIDN’T hike and focus on the positive things that I do.