The Rice House

Today was preparation day for our planned three day outing to Havasupai Campground.  We made a dozen rice balls, assembled freeze dried foods, put together the final touches of our knapsacks.  By 11:00 AM we were ready to go.  We drove to Flagstaff, filled our propane tank (of our motor home) at a Texaco station, and dumped our wastewater at a Giant Gas station, before we drove toward Valle, AZ.  The plan was to leave HARVEY in Valle, and ride with Greg, Nancy, Keya and Teresa to the Hualapai Hilltop, on a 68 mile long dirt road, for our descent to the campground.  We parked outside Flagstaff at the parking lot leading to snow covered San Francisco Peak, a ski resort and cooked lunch and supper.  I was concerned that we would delay the others at our meeting place at the intersection of Routes 64 and 180, and we did somewhat.  True to their nature, all was well when we met at the gas station and tourist center at our meeting place. 

The gift shop owner told us to park HARVEY and not to worry about theft for the three days we would be gone.  That was a break; we thought we might have to park at the campground across the street, but this was a better solution.  We crowded into Greg’s Mercedes all wheel drive van, with Nancy squatting in the back with the luggage that didn’t fit into the overhead storage bin and her dog Lily.  The drive was an unforgettable experience. The dirt road varied from drivable to rocky, uneven, and washboard, giving everyone’s kidneys a good workout.  There were no signs anywhere, except one to the hilltop not far from the entrance to the dirt road on Route 64.  After that, we were on our own.  There were many options at different “intersections” along the way,  a ranch entrance that we hesitated to enter, but was the right way to go.  The landscape was flat to rolling, with sagebrush everywhere, and not a tree or bush in sight.  We saw hundreds, if not thousands of cattle everywhere, including many colts, some almost newborn, and had to be careful not to injure any of them.  They generally moved aside as we approached but we did have to slow down.  Finally we arrived at a ranch house, the only sign of life for many miles.  The rancher told us we were on course and directed us how to continue to the hilltop.  The instructions were inadequate, and we blundered into many dead ends, then returned to the ranch house for more explicit directions. 

Meanwhile it was nearly dark, and we were wondering whether to proceed or not.  Greg, with his infinite optimistic nature, decided to continue, so off we went once again with the most convoluted directions imaginable.  We had to pass corrals, water tanks, and other landmarks, continue for well over an hour until, at last we came to a paved road that led to the hilltop.  By now, everyone was exhausted from the ordeal, and was dreaming of sleep.  The hilltop was filled with cars, and there was no place to camp, so we returned about a mile to a place where we spotted some people camping out.  Somehow, blindly, while Guinat sat cramped in the back seat exhausted and freezing, I opened our tent and laid out our air mattresses and sleeping bags so we could sleep.  I don’t remember my head hitting the ground before I was in dreamland.  

We were up just after dawn, and made breakfast before pulling down the tent.  It was cold, but not too terrible.  The hot instant miso soup tasted great and the muesli that I soaked the night before was sweet and refreshing.  We were starved and needed to fill our bellies for the long arduous hike that lay ahead. There was a lot of disarray among our travel companions, so we didn’t get to the trail before 9:30 AM.  Before even starting Ginat had trouble with her trekking poles; she couldn’t get one of the poles to fasten, so she had to hike down with poles shorter than ideal.  Off we went with our enormously heavy fully loaded backpacks.  Mine weighed about 30 pounds according to our weigh in the night before with Greg’s scale; his backpack weighed no less than 50 lbs; I couldn’t even pick it up off the ground.  Ginat’s pack wasn’t that heavy, but almost any load is difficult for her, and it wasn’t long before she felt as if her back was broken and shoulders would be useless for the next decade. 

So down we went on a steep switchback trail for about 2 miles till the trail leveled off in the canyon that was to lead us to the village.  We passed many mule trains laden with luggage sent by those wishing to have a more pleasant hike, and every imaginable material goods needed for survival in a village, as this means of transportation is the only one available.  At times, we spotted horses led by tribesmen with campers wanting to feel the luxury of camping without the pain of walking.  Fortunately, the weather was sunny but mild with a breeze blowing all the time.  I found myself walking with Keya and Teresa for some time before it dawned on me that Ginat may be having a problem keeping up.  The last time I saw her, she was giving a theoretical macro class to Greg with Nancy listening in the background. 

I stopped and let Keya and Teresa walk on to wait for Ginat.  Meanwhile I had lunch—two rice balls, and lots of home made trail mix.  Whereas I was feeling fine without drinking until now, I developed an insatiable thirst for water after the trail mix.  With the heat beating down, I was grateful for this change, and drank to my heart’s content for the rest of the trail.   I waited about a half hour after lunch anxiously wondering what was keeping Ginat; I thought they might have stopped to absorb their macro lesson, but doubted that this was the case.  Finally, they all showed up.  One look at Ginat’s face told all.  She was ready to bury her backpack and keep walking free of any weight.  Nancy was very kind to switch with her; her pack was somewhat lighter than Ginat’s, though it was less comfortably designed.  It wasn’t long before this somewhat less cumbersome load became a burden and Ginat was falling off her feet again.  Just at that moment, a less than full mule trail came along, and Ginat bargained with the driver to take two of our packs for $40, an outrage, but at that point, we would have paid any price to be rid of this problem.  Greg and I carried the two lighter backpacks the rest of the way to the Indian tribe office; the driver had no intention of taking it to the campground despite Ginat’s asking him and thinking that he had agreed to do so. 

From then on, the walk was pleasant, and there were no further difficulties until we reached the reservation.  After paying our fees, we needed to haul our full backpacks the remaining 2.2 miles to the campground.  Although it was downhill, I was exhausted and thought my shoulders would fall off.  Ginat wasn’t in much better shape; the only thing that sustained us was sighting Havasu Falls, s 180 foot waterfall close to the campground that was stunning with its green hue derived from dissolved lime.  At the base of the falls were lots of people bathing and lounging.  As we watched from the top of the falls before descending, David, an Anglo married to a local woman, and living in the village for the last four years, approached us to take our luggage back on the way up on Tuesday when we planned to leave, together with Ginat and Nancy.  He undercuts the Tribal office with these services and charges less than the official price.  We agreed to his conditions, and asked him to pick us up at 9:00 AM Tuesday morning—a mistake in timing as it turned out. 

Finishing with David, we loaded our backpacks on our backs for the last time for the final descent to the campgrounds.  There was hardly a place left to be found; the entire campground was filled to capacity.  Luckily Greg and I went ahead of the girls, and found a spot nestled up against red rocked cliffs on two sides, on the other side of a narrow stream that we could easily access.  There was a picnic table, and we settled down.  The campground was on the valley floor of a canyon surrounded by red colored rock cliffs about 300-400 feet high.  There were out houses at each end of the campgrounds, and drinking water available at one spot from a natural spring.  Fearing the spring may not be clean, we preferred chlorinated water from a faucet nearby. 

One of the first things we noticed after we opened our tent and sat down totally exhausted, was the racket made by frogs that sounded more like jackhammers.  I have never heard any natural noise so loud.   It was now about 5:00 PM and time to think of making supper.  So, out came our one fire propane burner, and we cooked up ramen and two of the freeze dried vegetables we brought with us.  It was tasty and satisfying, but we added another instant miso soup for good measure.  By the time we finished eating and cleaning up, we could only think of sleep, so we took off our clothes and passed out.  I don’t remember slipping into my sleeping bag, before I was unconscious.

After sleeping ten hours, interrupted by two painful awakenings to urinate during the night, I woke up feeling energized.  And then I tried to move my body; that required a lot of determination.  My lower back and kidneys cried out for mercy, and a muscle on the inside of my right thigh felt torturous.  Once I got out and on my feet, I was OK and able to walk and function.  I fixed breakfast—a miso soup and muesli with a little trail mix for dessert—washed the dishes and felt grateful that I would not have to put on my backpack all day or pack our tent and other gear for hiking.  We spent the morning after breakfast at Mooney Falls, at the far end of the campgrounds, a 200 foot high waterfall with the same green colored water and bathers below.  The descent to these falls was very steep involving two tunnels with steep steps, and chains to assist hikers to descent the steep slopes to the bottom.  It was not a trail for the meek, or handicapped, and it seemed that carrying a backpack may have been a difficult task at best.  From these falls, the trail continues to another waterfall, and finally, after about 8 miles, to the Colorado River, about 2000 feet below the campground.  We didn’t even dream of continuing this hike with only one full day to hang out before ascending to the hilltop on Tuesday.  I descended to the bottom with Greg. 

He jumped in the water, and swam to the Falls’ outflow, while I photographed him from the shore.  Then he went to another part of the Falls area downstream, unseen from where I was standing, before returning to where I stood, unwilling to take the trouble of removing my boots and clothes to jump in the water.  After finishing our stint at the falls, we hiked up to where Nancy and her dog Lily were waiting.  I ascended to meet with Ginat who was not feeling up to the descent, while Greg and Nancy, leaving me to care for Lily, descended to the bottom.  Ginat, Lily and I walked over to the incoming waters that descended to the Falls; giving us an outstanding view of the lake and people below. 

While we waited for Greg and Nancy to ascend, we ate lunch.  It wasn’t long before we realized that the bag which Ginat left to avoid carrying with her while Greg and I were below was eaten into, probably by one of the many squirrels around, and the trail mix bag was torn open.  Gluttons for food as we are, it never occurred to us to forego the pleasure of eating the invaded trail mix after our luncheon rice balls.  By now, the air was heated up to the upper 80’s, and we walked back to our tent area.  I tried to stay awake, but found myself falling asleep on my feet.  I stripped off my hiking boots and despite my efforts not to sleep, found myself next to Ginat lying on my back and fast asleep.  I intended to replace my unused bathing suit with underwear, but woke up over an hour later realizing that I didn’t have the strength to do so.  While everyone walked to Havasu Falls in the afternoon, I refused to move, or even think of putting on my boots again.  Nevertheless, we did walk over to Havasu Falls to at least see what was happening, though we had no intention to go into the water.  It is a mini-paradise, soothing to the body, and food for the soul. 

After returning to our place, at 5:00 PM I started making supper before the rest of the gang.  It was good that I did so, as I cooked everything we had with us to be used for supper, and breakfast and lunch the following day.  By the time we finished eating we were stuffed, but satisfied.  Everyone else had joined us by now and I did numerology readings for Keya and Teresa.  I spent a lot of time arranging all of our food needs for the next day, not wishing to deal with cooking or meals the following morning.  We decided to start our hike back as early as possible to avoid the mid day heat, so I didn’t want to waste time.  While I went to sleep, Ginat gave Nancy a consultation in Greg’s tent.  It was another early night to bed, but despite my earlier nap, a much needed one.

My eyes popped open at the crack of dawn full of life and ready to go.  A few moments later, Ginat sat up for a few seconds, then flattened out again without once opening her eyes.  That turned out to be a prelude of her actually waking up and starting the day.  By 6:45 AM we were packed and ready to go, but Greg was still getting ready.  We worked very hard attaching both backpacks together to appear as one so we wouldn’t have to pay an extra $20 for two packs—and it worked.  Of course the backpack was so heavy it could hardly be picked up, and in any case, there was no way to strap it on one’s back even if it could be picked up.  So Ginat and I picked up each end and walked to the Ranger Station at the beginning of the campgrounds where David was supposed to collect the baggage and the girls with horses to get them back to civilization.  Keya and Teresa were already there, and left before Greg and Nancy came.  Greg left his huge bag, and we started our hike at 7:20 AM.  Fortunately, it was cloudy and remained that way all day so we did not fall over from the heat.  When we got to the reservation, we looked for David to be sure there wouldn’t be any mishaps.  We asked a local woman where he lives just at the point where the road turns off to his house.  Greg and Lily walked to settle things with David, while I continued to the Tribal information area.  I took my time, and kept looking back, not understanding why it was taking Greg so long. 

Before long, I looked up and saw Greg in front of me instead of behind; he had taken a different way back from David’s with a native through the village.  Greg found David preparing his horses; he promised to be at the Ranger Station at the appointed time of 9:00 AM—we found out much later that he didn’t show up till an hour later.  With the reassurance that everything would be OK, we started our hike to the top.  I was amazed that I could keep up the pace that I did; I did not fall behind Greg’s pace at all until we were into the incline toward the switchbacks that led to the hilltop.  There we stopped for lunch.  I had a huge meal while Greg snacked on trail mix.  The big lunch was my  undoing; my energy was directed to digesting my food instead of toward the muscles and other systems needed for me to keep up a rapid pace.  From then on, I struggled slowing my pace and stopping more often than I would have done otherwise.  By that time, I had passed Keya and Teresa who were struggling to get to the top.  I met Greg on top; my total hiking time was still less than five hours; so I averaged more than two miles per hour, despite the slowdown toward the end.  My first thought was water; I bought two bottles of cold water from one of the Indian sellers, and gulped them down with ease.  I had finished all the food I brought with me, including a lot of trail mix that left me very  thirsty.  The only food left was a rice ball, which I ate as well.  After a lot of anxiety, Ginat, Nancy, David and all his horses and dogs arrived in good cheer. 

After a lot of chatter, we piled into Greg’s car for the trip back to Valle.  The question now was whether we would find our way back the way we came, or would we blunder in the maze of dirt roads that filled the landscape going around and around until the end of time.  Incredibly, we only made two wrong turns, and reached Valle after 2 ¼ hours.  Following the paved road from the hilltop to Valle via Route 66 and I-40 was about 175 miles and would have taken us much longer.  By the time we reached Route 64 and pavement, my kidneys were in orbit from the bouncing around that they took, but it was OK.  After lots of hugs, Greg took off back to Sedona, and we camped at the Flintstone Campground across the street.  The dirt that came off our bodies was so thick, the water in the shower was desert brown.  Ginat fainted on the couch claiming that she would be ready to eat noodles and veggies if I made them; otherwise, she was ready to forego eating despite her hunger.  After supper I felt energized and stayed up to work a little on the computer.  I was so contracted from the hike and food on our three day excursion, that I kept returning to find sweet things long after I was satisfied by supper.  With those snacks in my belly, it wasn’t long before my eyes closed and my energy dissipated.  Early to bed then, despite my intentions.

Ze'elim Ascent is a 400 meter rise from an overnight parking area accessed by a 4 km gravel road not far from Massada near the Dead Sea.  It is very popular among hikers seeking adventure on one of the many trails starting at this point. 

Ginat and I have hiked Ze’elim many times in the past.  We were feeling particularly ambitious when we decided to do a full day's hike up the Ascent, reach a second ascent named Namer by mid day, and then make it all the way down by nightfall.  As a crow flies the trail is about 13 km, but as a person walks, the ascents and descents are far more than that.  Some sections are definitely not designed for the weak hearted (or footed).

We rose at dawn and started our ascent at 8:00 AM.  By 9:00 we had conquered the first mountain top.  I carried a backpack with extra clothes and our food--a prepared lunch of rice, chickpeas, and lightly boiled vegetables, plus six extra rice balls, two sour apples, some dried fruit and roasted almonds, and four sucking candies.  Ginat carried a hip pouch filled with two small water bottles, a sheet of nori for skin cuts, and our cell phone. 

We were feeling good about our stamina as we met the physical challenges.  After a long and steeply winding descent we finally reached the trail junction that signaled the return back to our car.  We had passed through some of the most beautiful desert country in Israel, reminding us of the Grand Canyon in its majesty.  We were ready to return, looking forward to the noodles and vegetable supper we would make for dinner.  We enjoyed two of our four remaining rice balls, leaving two apples, the dried fruit and candies.  Despite the heat and strenuous walking we hardly felt thirsty all day, a result of chewing each bite of rice 100 times or more.  In fact, we had so much water left that, tired of carrying the extra weight, Ginat dumped one full bottle.

With renewed energy we set off on the last leg of our journey, following a trail that suddenly ended without warning in a giant boulder field.  We spent about twenty minutes trying to find our way, and finally retraced our steps back.  Ironically this was the only time all day when we saw other hikers, but we never thought to ask them the route they had walked.  We soon reached an intersection with a nearly vertical trail that climbed a small waterfall and continued almost straight up.  It was one of the most difficult trails we have found in our experience.  At last we came to another trail junction that appeared to be the one we were looking for to bring us back.  I couldn’t find it on the map, so cursing the Society for the Protection of Nature cartographers, I trusted the universe to take care of us.  Over forty years as a traffic engineer, and here I was unable to read a map!!    Though I normally have no trouble with this feat, I completely bungled this one.  We continued rapidly along the trail, realizing now that we were competing with nightfall.

We moved ahead swiftly but blindly.  The longer we walked, the more uneasy I became.  By the next trail junction I did not having any idea where we were.  I could not find the trail on the map and had no idea how to continue.  We had forgotten our flashlight at home, something that I had reassured myself hours before wouldn't be needed.  Now with darkness descending rapidly, we simply chose the easier downhill route to an unknown destination.  We continued till it was no longer safe to navigate the steep ledges and dangerous descents, and then we knew that we could no longer continue.  Ginat spotted a "cave" about five or six meters above the trail where we would have some protection for the night.  It was a rock overhang wide enough for the two of us, though too low for us to sit up.  The ground was flat and smooth, without large stones.  It got us out of the wind that was now kicking up. 

It was just past 5:30 PM, and I knew we had about 13 hours before there would be enough light to start hiking again, even if we still did not have any idea where we were going.  Our only obligation for the next day was to take care of my grandchildren in the late afternoon. 

We never made it.

We stretched out as best we could in all our clothes, skipping supper to conserve the little food we had.  Answering nature’s call in the dark was no easy feat with so little space to stand outside our enclave on the edge of a deep chasm.  I removed my hiking boots to air out my precious, stinking feet, but it wasn't long before I put them back on to keep warm.  Here we were, wallowing in filth, lying on the dirty ground in sweaty clothes, unable to even wash our hands, and feeling fine. 

We did not have the minimum equipment for an overnight stay in the desert, where temperatures can plunge without warning.  I had a thin fleece jacket that stretched over the top of my head and hands.  Underneath I had a tee-shirt and flannel top, but we had left our gloves and hat in the car.  The jacket was just warm enough to keep me going along with body heat from 9½ hours of hiking with only brief meal breaks.  We did have one baseball cap that Ginat put underneath herself against the hard ground.  I looked like a headless freak, breathing as best I could with my jacket zipped to the top and a large lump between my shoulders sprouting a few hairs in the space normally reserved for my head. 

Ginat's clothing was even scantier than mine.  She had a thin ski vest without sleeves that provided only the slightest protection.  Underneath she wore a light cotton hooded sweat shirt.  In very short order she was shivering from the cold so much that her teeth rattled.  We survived the night only by my wrapping my body on top of hers until my weight became more uncomfortable than the cold.  Then I would lay on my side with my arms over her to maintain some of the warmth she had accumulated, adding to my own warmth as well. 

The ground was hard and after a while I couldn’t lie on my side any more.  When I wasn't on top of Ginat or at her side, her teeth were rattling within minutes, and I went back to the same cycle of warming her body.  Only then did she reveal the pain she was feeling on her ankle from a bad twist she made during the last part of our hike.  She jumped from the pain when I touched it lightly.  I imagined her leaning on me or across my shoulders to make it back if worse came to worse.  I didn't want to dwell on this possibility so I pushed it aside for the meanwhile.  I hoped for a macrobiotic miracle that would enable her to walk unassisted.  Thankfully, by morning the strained muscles had calmed and she was able to walk with little discomfort.

As the night endlessly wore on I kept looking at my watch and announcing how the hours till left till dawn.  We must have slept in spurts though I cannot remember doing so, and definitely do not remember dreaming at any point. 

The sky was cloudy all night, but with the full moon the mountains and valley floor below us were visible.  Just before dawn it began to rain in a brief, heavy downpoor.  Too late, Ginat remembered that my digital camera was outside our shelter.  When I tried to photograph our pad an hour later, everything was blurry.  The damage seems to be permanent.  The good news is that I needed to replace the camera anyway.

With morning light we tied our boot laces, strapped on our packs, and ignoring the misty drizzle were back on the trail with a euphoric feeling after this harrowing experience.  I feel about it like I would a major disease—I would not choose it, but having attracted it, I can either learn from it or complain.  As we moved merrily along in the stunning desert landscape, we summarized the lessons. 

1. It is amazing how adaptable one can be when you want to. 

2. The key for survival is proper nourishment and a positive attitude.  Rice balls were clearly our savior, and made the difference between us dragging along or maintaining a high level of sustained energy.

3. Sleeping in the desert was not fun, but it gave insight as to its dangers and rewards.  It certainly was an experience!

4. Though it can hardly compare, more empathy for the homeless is now possible.

5. It is wonderful to rise above all the things that could go wrong to a level where our focus was on the joy of life instead of its obstacles.

6. The love that we feel toward each other made the biggest difference in our survival.  We sought only to comfort each other rather than to focus on our own egotistical needs.  We truly felt unconditional love.

We were too cold to sit and eat anything for over an hour after we started out along a deep, winding ravine.  Just before a steep ascent to yet another peak that we could not find on our map we shared a rice ball and a sour apple, savoring every mouthful.  It was delicious, and gave us a boost of energy to continue.

We reached an ascent that included embedded steel rails to enable climbers to scale the nearly vertical mountain walls.  Suddenly I recognized where we were.  We had hiked this very trail just three weeks earlier in the reverse direction, relaxing in the wadi below before climbing back to our car.  It was a sensational trail with spectacular views.  But I immediately realized just how far away from our destination we were.  This trail led to a gravel road 6 km from the Massada-to-Arad highway.  It was about 12 km from there to Massada and another 6 km back to our car.  We would have to walk the long access road, climb the back of Massada up the Roman ramp, take the cable down to the Dead Sea, and hike back to the car.

We were hungry so we threw caution to the wind and shared our last rice ball and apple in delirious excitement.  With telephone reception finally restored I called my son-in-law to tell him that we couldn't pick up the grandkids. 

Once we hiked out to the Arad-Massada highway it was clear that traffic on the road was very close to zero.  We enjoyed the warmth of the sun and waited patiently for the Messiah to deliver us to Massada.  He appeared in the form of a Bedouin worker from a nearby oasis resort who was headed in the opposite direction.  When we waved he reversed to see what we wanted.  The temptation of making 70 NIS was enough for him to change his itinerary and take us to Massada.  His car looked like it was held together with rubber bands and chewing gum.  He barreled along at breakneck speed using both lanes to maneuver the sharp curves.  Ginat and I sat crunched in the single passenger seat without seat belts, admiring the views and camels along the way to divert our attention from his dangerous driving.  I kept appealing to the Universe for safety, and assumed that this trip was a message from God to test my faith. 

At last after a twenty minute flight we were at Massada.  When we had climbed up and ridden down to the tourist pavilion we bought a large container of salty peanuts, fumigated raisins, an orange and a bottle of cold water that we used to wash the peanuts and raisins.  We sat in the warm sun devouring the nourishing food.   When we felt refreshed at last, I left Ginat at the gift shop and walked non-stop the last 6 km in the hot sun back to our car.  On the way home we parked at the En Gedi shore and cooked the noodle and vegetable dinner planned for the night before.  It was a wonderful meal, the end of a wonderful two days of trial and love.

Sheldon and I had an authentic Mexican experience beyond anything we could ever have dreamed up.  I’ll capture it on paper while it’s still fresh in my mind since it already seems like a dream.

We left the Rio Grande State Park campground to cross into Mexico on the only government licensed hand-pulled ferry on any boundary of the US.  To get there we drove on back roads to a tiny US village called Los Ebanos.  According to the plaque there, it was apparently an ancient ford first used by Spanish explorers in the 1740s, again by Mexican war troops in 1846, by Texas rangers chasing cattle rustlers in 1874, and by smugglers during Prohibition in the 1920s.  The ferry and inspection station were established in 1950, named for the ebony tree there.  The ferry is pulled across the river by hand over a cable strung across the water.  Three strong Mexican men pulled in tandem with easy, powerful movements for all of four minutes.  The ferry can carry a maximum of three cars in addition to foot passengers.  It operates from 8:00 AM to 4:00 PM every day and costs $0.50 per person. 

On the Mexican side was…nothing.  A uniformed man greeted us with “Buenos dias,” and that was customs.  From there, it’s two miles to the nearest town, Diaz Ordaz, named after a Mexican past president.

It was a cool morning, so we shared a taxi with another couple into town for a dollar each. The narrow two-lane road passed through beautiful farmland on both sides.  At the town entrance the cab slowed to pass over a speed bump—one of those very short ones designed to break an axle for the unaware driver.  Indeed there was no warning sign of its presence.  The town looked like an Arab village in Israel with neglected infrastructure, little street or building maintenance and seemingly nonexistent city planning.

We set out to explore the main shopping street.  I was so excited to be there that I greeted everyone with a silly grin and “!Ola México!”  We couldn’t resist a corn tortilla roasting on an outside grill, and didn’t have to pay for them when the vendor finally understood that we wanted neither chili nor carne inside.  We discovered a few wealthy houses all guarded by high, spiked fences and barred windows, situated among puddles of muddy water on paved and unpaved streets, amid broken sidewalks and no landscaping.  We ventured into a supermarket to find many American products, limited fruits and vegetables, bins of bulk herbs and seasonings of many kinds.  We watched as fresh tortillas on a production belt were stacked and folded into white paper sacks.  Of course we bought a stack, paying with an American dollar, and found a place to sit down in front of a window kiosk on uncomfortable steel stools set before a blank wall and long, narrow table.  The proprietress didn’t mind that we had our own food and purchased nothing from her.  By now we were starved, and ate the lunches we had brought with gusto.  We ate so many tortillas that I couldn’t even make it to dessert. 

We started back to the ferry after lunch, intending to walk the two miles.  We made a pit stop at the municipal office where we were approached by two ladies selling M & M’s and small cheese tarts.  They explained in simple Spanish that their mission was to support their church and rehabilitation center for ex-drug addicts, including themselves.  We willingly gave them the pesos we had received as change for the supermarket tortillas plus enough American money to fulfill their request of a dollar.  We refused the candy and pie.  They blessed us enthusiastically, kissing and hugging us repeatedly, especially when they found out that we are Hébreos.  They explained that they were formerly Catholic and now Christian, a distinction we had never heard.  Born again, they had replaced their drug addiction with zealous faith.  One was the wife of the pastor; the other was an older woman—originally one of 18 children—who had lived at the Center for over 50 years. As we left the municipality, we gave them another dollar as they sat in a car with several other women.  The next thing we knew, they passed us on the road and stopped to give us a lift to the ferry.  Instead of disembarking there as planned, we accepted their invitation to tour the area with them and return at the end of the day.  After soliciting the border patrol and ferry patrons they returned downtown to pick up two more young women who were making the rounds there.  Along with another reformed woman and her mother we were now eleven in the van, singing, clapping and sharing life stories.  None of the women understood English, and I was pretty happy with my Spanish skills as I translated for Sheldon. 

We parked downtown in Camargo, the next town west of Diaz Ordaz, and the women spread out to sell their goods.  As before, most people found it difficult to refuse these righteous women, and they maintained good cheer with all the money they collected.  We hung around for about a half hour till they were satisfied that nothing was left undone.  Continuing on, we drove further west on the main coastal connector, a two lane broken down road without shoulders, until we reached Ciudad Miguel Aleman—named for another past president--just opposite Roma, TX. 

Suddenly it dawned on us that the last ferry to Los Ebanos, USA left at 4:00 pm, now long past. There was no way short of swimming to get back.  I sheepishly explained our dilemma to La Pastora—!No problema! she assured me, and invited us to their church in Reynosa, 100 km distant. 

Meanwhile, in Miguel Aleman two of the women, a mother and daughter, left to visit their relatives.  The daughter was one of their success stories and lamented that her mother had not accepted Christ fully.  We picked them up again on our way out of town.  Meanwhile the troops needed to eat supper.  The Pastora was determined to treat us, insisting that refusal would be an insult to God.  To our dismay, dinner was at Church’s Fried Chicken fast food restaurant, a first for us.  We found fresh corn on the cob there, and supplanted it with our uneaten lunch rice balls and dessert.  Sheldon had a few French fries that tasted more of salt than potato.  In any event we got off easy, with minimum culinary damage and an inspiring prayer before eating.  I didn’t understand all the words, but the fact of 11 people bowing their heads together over Church’s chicken made a big impression.

It was dark when we drove back, and the Pastora now drove very cautiously on the poorly marked roads.  Entering their town of Reynosa, a city of about 335,000 people opposite McAllen, TX, we stopped at a gas station.  One of the young women with us noticed a couple with two small children standing around looking miserable.  She clarified that they were migrants from the south of Mexico without shelter for the night.   Everyone shifted around to fit four more bodies to the eleven present.  I felt like clowns in a circus act.  The singing intensified as we brought this downtrodden family with us to sleep in the church. 

What a reception we got when we arrived!  The Church of Living Spirit is home to about 80 men, and only a handful of women.  Apparently, women have a much harder time breaking their addictions than men.  The main area looked like a wedding hall with a large auditorium, a band of instruments on a small stage, and several offices to the side.  We were introduced to an English speaker in charge of men’s accommodations, perfect for Sheldon.  I was assigned to the woman’s dormitory.   Before the 10:30 sleep time, we were invited to meet the pastor and visit with them in their modest apartment right next door.  Of course everyone else came along as well.  The Pastora invited us to use her shower the next day, as the dorms didn’t have the luxury of hot water. 

There were three double deck bunk beds in each of our rooms, and a toilet behind a curtain without a door.  Sheldon was given two blankets, a towel and a makeshift pillow; there were no sheets.  I got only one blanket, and slept with all my clothes on in an effort to stay warm.  The stench from the toilet was so strong that I had to keep my head under the blanket the whole night.  The mattress was a lumpy straw material with hard springs that made turning over perilous.  I shared the room with the young women in the car and the wife we had picked up with one of their children.  Sheldon’s dormitory included Raul, an ex-druggie who had served a two-year stint in a Houston jail, and a young man from Honduras with a leg amputated below the knee and a winning smile.  At one point I decided to see if I could join Sheldon, who I thought was on the floor of the office, only to find that we were locked into our sleeping quarters.  It was just as well, since I couldn’t have entered his dorm room anyway. 

The next morning after almost no sleep, I looked like something the cat dragged in.  We rinsed our mouths with bottled water and managed to find two freshly baked white flour tortillas to eat along with some instant miso soup I miraculously had with me.  Then we set out for a walk in the neighborhood.  We explored the main drag and surrounding side streets.  As in Diaz Ordaz, most of them were unpaved or unfinished, lacking a permanent asphalt cover.  The contrast to US standards was striking.

Returning to the church, we were impressed to find everyone busy with morning chores.  Even the dirt courtyard was swept, although I couldn’t see much sense in it.  When all was done everyone gathered in the auditorium, and kneeling against plastic chairs, prayed with fervor seldom seen anywhere.  The place lit up as people sang along to recorded music with closed eyes, fervently swinging their arms and swaying with deep emotion.  Watching them was a delight.  Just at a critical moment the electric fuse blew, and we reluctantly left for another walk, checking in with La Pastora to see when she would be ready to take us on our promised city tour. 

This time we found a tortilla factory, and promptly bought a small stack which we ate right there in the store front.  The proprietor shared a pan of refried beans meant for her workers with us to use as a dip.  The dip was perfect, and by the time we finished, we were full to bursting. 

Back at the ranch, the Pastora was teaching the women while her husband preached to the men.  We set out once more, this time to an Office Depot for their clean bathroom.  The store was stocked according to American standards and looked completely out of place in the surrounding poverty.  Coming back, we passed a group of men on the street smoking marijuana.  We heard later that drugs are plentiful and easy to get.

Before we said our final goodbyes we had a long talk with Rodrigo, a serious young man in his mid-thirties, to hear his story.  He described a life of financial success in a career with great stress.  Eventually he disassociated himself from his wife and children and turned to drugs to relieve the pressures of work.  Before long, he had lost his family, job and money to heroin.  Unable to stop, he finally agreed to call the phone number that his mother had heard on the television in an advertisement for this church.  After nine clean months, he has no plans to leave.  He wants to help others in the way he was helped, and maintain close contact with his support system.  He sees no purpose in returning to the world of work, and prays to reconnect with his family.  He is determined to succeed, and seems to serve as an example for the others. 

As our conversation wound down the time came for our tour.  We inched our way through a congested downtown, then parked and strolled past street vendors to a covered market filled with hats, blankets, foods, gifts, and so on.  We bought a new tablecloth for Harvey, and the Pastora surprised us with a gift.  Knowing how many tortillas we had consumed during our 24 hours in Mexico, she bought us a colorful straw tortilla basket, round, about 6-inches high and a foot in diameter.  I love it!  We were amazed that she wanted to give it to us.  What a wonderful lady.  In fact, everyone adores her, using terms ranging from princess to angel. 

At last it was time to leave, and the two women took us to the Central Bus Station for a bus back to Diaz Ordaz and the ferry.  As luck would have it, there was a bus scheduled to leave in ten minutes.  In a flash, we returned to the car, gave each of the women hugs, and marched to our bus bay.  We sat in the front seats while the VCR above us spewed out a subtitled movie with Sean Connery.  The ride was pleasant except for an accident that delayed traffic for miles in both directions within the city limits of Reynosa.  The day was gorgeous, and temperatures rose to the upper 70s for the first time in weeks.  In Diaz Ordaz, we hopped on a taxi to the ferry, had an uneventful crossing and were relieved to see Harvey quietly waiting for us as we walked up the hill.  Driving through the relative opulence on the US highway, we couldn’t help compare life on both sides of the Rio Grande.  The luxuries we take for granted here perhaps are compensated for there with warm, open hearts and a tight-knitted community.  At any rate, it was an experience we will long treasure.