The Ditch

My stay in Panorama Heights lasted only two weeks. My mysterious symptoms vanished just in time for me to receive the call from President Koyle to become a zone leader in Gallup.

Elder Hillam and I had been in the MTC together, so we already knew each other well. We greeted each other with manly hugs and he set about introducing me to the area. Gallup, New Mexico, is situated at the lower limit of the Navajo reservation, bisected by a railroad and straddling several enormous hills that do their best to leave you panting and sweating like a Frodo crawling up Mount Doom when you attempt to ascend them on a bike. Some call it the Indian capital of the southwest, despite the fact that the official Navajo Nation capital lies a few miles to the east at Window Rock. This is because of the sheer amount of Native American culture that converges in Gallup — not just Navajo, but also Hopi and Apache.

There are also, unfortunately, plenty of drunk Indians. I'd seen drunks as early as Bloomfield. In that area, a slathered Indian once staggered up to me and told me he didn't want to listen to me because I had a "coatical state of mind," a phrase he used at least five times during our conversation. I still have no idea what it meant.

Later, a professor from a heavily Native American university in South Dakota explained to me that Native Americans have propensity for getting drunk because they lived for millennia with very little sugar in their diet, so they haven't yet developed any kind of tolerance for alcohol. I saw this firsthand.

One of the first things we passed on our way out tracting the first day was The Ditch. Elder Hillam explained that some elders low in street contacts for the day would come here because there was always people here to talk to, many of whom were too drunk to bother trying to escape.

"How do they get drunk?" I asked. On the deep rez, alcohol was against the law. Here, just off the rez proper, alcohol was allowed but was still far too expensive for homeless people to consume in large quantities.

"Mouthwash," Elder Hillam said with a frown.

"Huh?"

He led me down into The Ditch, an abandoned arroyo, or open storm drain, where stunted trees and scraggly bushes had been allowed to grow, like a science fair biosphere created without enthusiasm. Several bums — all natives — had settled out for the day, fresh grocery bags in their hands.

"Hey," I said, approaching one with a friendly wave.

He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and grabbed a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, raising it in salute.

"Heeyyy," he murmured.

"We're out talking to people about Christ and how knowing about him can help our lives," I told him. "I see you've got a few minutes. Mind if I sit down?"

He just looked at me, the cogs in his mind working like the spinning hourglass cursor on a frozen computer. "Mouthwash," he grumbled.

"There's nothing we can do for these people," I told Elder Hillam, my heart sinking. "Let's go."