“Chaperone”

August 16, 2011

 

Just like most 20-something-year-olds, I know I'm not a kid anymore, but I never feel like I'm filling the shoes of an adult either.  Or I didn't.  Then there was a pivotal incident when I realized, "Holy poop, I'm the one in charge!" 

 

My "holy poop" moment was on a hike in Southern Kazakhstan. Two volunteers and I took seventeen school kids camping in the mountains five hours from civilization and two hours from cell phone service.  Heaven knows what we were thinking.  Sure, we had a local teacher, an old man, and a bus driver tagging along, but they slept in the afternoons while our 13 to 16-year-olds went berserk. 

 

On Wednesday we trekked out of camp with ten of our most rambunctious students. We were speaking English and telling stories from childhood as we lunged up the side of a mountain.  Everything was great.  But the next thing I knew, I caught a glimpse of Nursultan, Abu, and Akelbek one ridge over and scampering over the face of a cliff. Within a span of five seconds my heart jilted in concern for their safety, then immediately went to what I would tell their parents when their boys came home in caskets. 

 

It hit me: This wasn't just a thoughtless romp up the mountain with some friends.  It wasn't just me being bold on some narrow ledges.  I was the one ensuring survival.  Thirty-four parents were trusting me to return their kids in one piece. Apparently, three of our boys needed a little extra guidance.

 

Jennie, our best disciplinarian, darted across the cliff while I surveyed a safe-ish path and Clara found a route for the less daring (or more sensible) students. We conquered the mountain, then we trail blazed our return.  Everyone made it back to camp with all limbs intact.  The only change in pulse came from the three 20-something-year-old chaperones.  Our mutual consensus: It's way more fun to be foolish when you're not in charge.