Shonto

We were driving way too fast down the highway outside of Flagstaff, when Kelly yelled, “Turn around, we have to go back!” It was 105 degrees, blazing sun, the heat making the road ahead seem hazy and shimmery. Kelly said again, “Turn around! There was an old woman walking down the road back there.”

When we pulled up alongside the woman Kelly had seen, we were all stunned to see that she was at least 95 years old. A Navajo woman, dressed in the most stunning turquoise clothing, with a wrist full of bracelets of the same color, stood there, unfazed, staring us down.

My friends were for once, rendered speechless. The strength and independence of this woman, was emanating from seemingly every fiber of her being. I looked at her, gestured towards the empty passenger seat, just vacated by Emily. She looked me, shrugged, and grabbed the handrail, placed a foot on the sidebar, and swung herself into the seat with a satisfied little “Humpf!”

Her weathered skin was the color of mocha, the brilliant blue of her dress brought out a kindness in her incredibly wary eyes. She was sitting in my Nissan Xterra, with four loud-mouthed self-proclaimed world travelers (well, at least U.S. travelers), early music from Pink on the radio, and the AC blasting. I immediately noticed goosebumps on her arms, and turned down the cold air. I asked her, “Where can we take you?”

She remained quiet, and looked around a few moments; to the side of the highway, behind us, and out in front of us. She raised a hand, and pointed a bony, arthritic finger in a northern direction, and said, “Shonto.”

We didn’t have GPS, but instead, giant, cumbersome, and impossible to fold maps. Kelly and Jen rustled around in the backseat, trying to look up this “Shonto” the woman spoke of. Emily leaned over and said to me, “Kate, just drive.”

So, my three best friends, and one new friend, headed off toward Shonto. The woman leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes. I must have stolen a thousand glances in her direction, wondering if she was comfortable, who she was, how old she really was, did she make her clothes and jewelry, did she live on a reservation, was she a revered and well-loved elder, what was her name, and what in the hell was she doing out on the highway in middle of nowhere, walking alone?

About 20 minutes into our drive, the woman opened her eyes; less than a minute after that, she started gesturing excitedly towards a road sign. Shonto, it said. The four of us had no idea where we were, but our friend clearly did. She sat straight up in her seat, started to smooth out her dress, and fidgeted a bit with her many bracelets. She was looking intently at side roads that had started popping up to our left; finally, as we approached a larger road, she pointed, and said, “Shonto.”

We turned left, and again, the woman was looking carefully at the tiny side roads along the way; after passing at least half a dozen of them, she gently touched my arm, and pointed to the right. I looked at her, her eyes dark, with a shy and small, but assured smile on her face. I saw grace. I saw strength. I saw light and love, hardship, and long walks down the highway. I saw pride. I felt a bit of a grateful peace, as we slowly wound our way down a bumpy dirt road.

There were no houses, no cars, no people; I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous. All of a sudden, the woman gestured to the right; we turned into a driveway, and it opened into a wide space of land with tiny bungalows, single story row houses, sheds, pick-up trucks, old bicycles, and motorcycles everywhere. The woman pointed to a simple cabin-like home, with the shades drawn, and yellow shutters. The front door was plain wood, with a black door knob, and a dusty doormat.

We slowly pulled up to this woman’s home; I noticed that every single place of residence had their shades drawn. I put the truck in park, and started to open my door. But the woman placed her hand on my arm, and gently moved my hand back to the steering wheel; if she had spoken, it clearly would have been to say, “Stay put.”

She opened the door and carefully began to swing her legs out to the ground; at that moment, simultaneously, every door, and every window, of every home of this Navajo village, flew open. Every single one. What must have been 100 souls, stood in their doorways, and peered out their windows, sizing up the four, very white women who were bringing their wife, mother, grandmother, elder, and wise woman home.

She firmly planted her feet on the ground once she was out of the truck; she steadied herself against the door for a moment, and then looked back at all of us. To each of each, she gave a slow nod of her head; a thank you. She gazed at me for a moment, and then looked at her people, her family. She looked back at me, and swept her arms in the direction of her home, and community, and said, “Shonto.” She closed her eyes, opened them, and looked at us again; and then, in an instant, she was gone. Swept into her house by a young woman and several children. Low talking could be heard, and then laughter. All the doors and windows closed. It was almost as if no one had ever been there at all.

We backed out, and pulled away. None of us said anything for the rest of the way to Santa Fe. It was a stunning display of family and community. Of respect, heritage, culture, and a way of life none of us would ever be able to fully translate. We were total interlopers; but at the same time, we were welcomed for one small moment. I’ll always remember this glimpse I got into a world that is not mine, and I’ll never forget the brilliance of the color turquoise. Shonto.