 |
| “Chindi” |
It
all started with an ear-splitting scream and ended with a loud boom! In Navajo
the word “chindi” means devil. Well,
for a few short weeks that old pest was working overtime in Whiterock.
The Naked Truth
Our
morning ritual of waking up early and jogging the mile to the artesian showers
never changed. Even the frigid winter weather couldn’t keep us away. By the
time we reached the showers, laid our clothes on the wooden bench and cranked
the giant wheel releasing a flood of hot well water, ice crystals were forming
on our sweat covered extremities. Stepping through a warm cloud of steaming
mist and into hot gushing water was heavenly! It felt like standing beneath a
warm cascading water fall. Knowing how cold it would be drying off, dressing,
and walking back made lingering in the hot shower that much more enjoyable.
 |
| What's left of the artesian shower many years later. |
Washing
my hair in the rich mineral water turned out to be a problem. I found that
Prell Shampoo was the only brand that left my curly locks feeling clean and
looking shiny. One morning after arriving back at our place I noticed my
beloved Prell had been left behind. We jumped in our truck and raced back to
the showers. I couldn’t let my magic shampoo fall into the wrong hands! Upon
arriving I detected steam drifting out of the small window on the men’s side.
Hustling over I peered through the opening and, YES, I spotted my green tube of
Prell sitting on the wooden bench right where I had left it.
Over the sound of pounding water I shouted to the steam shrouded bather, “Hey, shi k’is (my friend), can you hand me that shampoo?” When the surprised bather turned and stepped out of the steam I was horrified to see a woman, not a man. Ear-splitting screams filled the air! I don’t know which one of us screamed the loudest. I yelled, “Sorry!” and ran for the truck leaving my precious Prell behind.
“The
Mormon Elders are shower peepin’ perverts!” The topic might have come up at the
next Chapter meeting. As we visited new camps with new faces I often wondered
if the shower victim was one of the faces staring back at me.
But
she was showering on the men’s side!
Road Rage
Elder
Kurtz was a great elder and we got along fine – most of the time. However,
driving the terrible reservation roads mile after bump mile, day after rutty
day, after rutty day, after rutty day could make even the best of Elders a
little crazy. And it did!
 |
| Elder Kurtz in his Wellington boots and coveralls, sitting on the rock we painted white. We felt the place needed a more celestial looking rock to reflect its name, Whiterock. New Mexico, 1965. |
It
was our custom to trade off driving every other day. On this particular day it was my turn to drive. As the
morning wore on we encountered some pretty bad roads. I was doing my best to
navigate through the worst of the ruts and bumps by veering from one side of the road to
the other. Meanwhile I noticed Elder Kurtz slouching lower and lower in his seat,
arms folded in silent irritation.
Suddenly, without warning he shot up in his
eat and shouted, “Must you hit every bump in the road?!!!” “What,” I responded.
“You heard me!” he said. “MUST you hit every bump?” I thought I had been doing
quite well considering the condition of the road. So, I shot back, “No! If I
hit every bump in the road, it would feel like THIS!” Then I proceeded to hit
every bump in the road, thus jostling both of us wildly around the cab of the
truck. “STOP, STOP!” Kurtz yelled. “I would rather walk than ride with YOU!” Upon
hearing this I immediately hit the brakes forcing us into a sliding stop. Elder
Kurtz flung open his door. slammed it behind him, and marched off in a huff.
There
was no point in trying to talk to him. He was too riled up and needed time to
cool down. So I bounced on down the road keeping an eye on my companion in the rear view mirror until I
rounded the next mesa. There I parked and waited.
 |
| Navajoland in winter with low hills and stunted wild brush. |
When enough time had gone by
for him to see the error of his ways, I returned to pick him up. I expected to
find a friendlier face but to my surprise there was no face at all. No face, no
body, no nothing! Elder Kurtz had disappeared. I honked the horn and slowly
drove back and forth, hoping to spot him. I half expected that he would leap
out from his hiding place, we would share a good laugh, and then be on our way.
No such luck! Where could he have gone? We were a good eight to ten miles from
home and there was nothing out there but hills and stunted wild brush.
I
continued to search for the next hour with no success. Finally I reluctantly
decided to go back to our place and wait for his return. Time passed. Morning
turned to afternoon, and afternoon soon became evening. Where was he? The sun was setting and in short order it would be dark. Now I was really getting concerned. Do I need to
alert the members and start a search?
 |
| Hmmm. Where could he have gone? |
Just as I was beginning to panic our old
wooden door slowly creaked open and there stood Elder Kurtz -- sunburned, sore, and
covered in grime and red dirt. He stumbled in, flopped down on the edge of his bed, and started to explain. He said he needed time to think and mull things over so he
had set out walking cross country, not really considering the distance he would
have to cover. To my surprise he apologized and asked me to forgive him. Wow. I
wasn’t expecting that! I accepted his apology warmly and offered him a
heartfelt apology of my own. We ate what we could scrounge up for dinner, then
knelt down for our nightly prayers. Tomorrow would be a new day and it would
not be my turn to drive!
The Big Bang
I
had been through Army Basic Training, but nothing I had learned prepared me for
what was about to happen. You see, there are unforeseen dangers living in a
remote wilderness situation. Just outside the abandoned trading post we called home
was an open fifty gallon barrel we used for trash. When it became full we
simply struck a match and the contents went up in flames.
 |
| Old Whiterock trading post where the Elders lived. Trash barrel located behind the fence. 1965. |
Now that winter had arrived the garbage looked to be a bit wet and soggy. Matches proved to be useless in starting the fire. So, I went in search of something stronger. Inside our storage shed we kept a old metal container of white gas. It was a special mix we used to fill our lanterns.
 |
| Metal gas container. |
I topped off an empty soup can and
headed back the trash barrel. This should do the trick, I thought, while
sprinkling the white gas over the barrel’s contents. If a little is good, a lot
should be even better. So I kept sprinkling and sprinkling until the soup can
was completely empty. I waited patiently, allowing the gas a few minutes to
work its way to the bottom. Then like any good boy scout I tossed in a match. KABOOM!
The barrel went off like a cannon blasting hot burning trash thirty feet into the air. I found myself flat on my back, blown over by the powerful explosion, and looking up at fiery debris raining down from the sky. "Hells bells! I’m lucky to be alive," it slowly began to dawn on me. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. Frantically I began to inspect myself for damage. Yow! The hair on my arms was burnt to stubble. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes. And a sizable patch of hair from the top of my head was missing. Parts of my clothes had small burnt holes, some of which were still smoking.
The loud explosion
brought Elder Kurtz running. After taking in the scene he remarked, “Man, you
don’t look so good!” “What?” I questioned. The explosion had temporarily
affected my hearing. I learned after the fact that white gas is much more explosive than regular
gasoline. Guess I kind of over did it.
No serious damage done, missionary life went
on as usual. I’m sure the people we visited were impressed. This hairless Elder
with the burnt, red face must have recently returned from Vietnam they probably
surmised. After the endless questions of
who, what, where, and why, I finally resorted to answering, “The “chindi”made me do it!!
I already knew what Earl Pioche was going to say, "Do-ya-shonda, Bilagáana!" Stupid whiteman!
