Day 6: last week's torah portion, which i've totally memorized by now

Date: 24 June, a Sunday morning
Location: Ein Ovdat, Negev, Israel
21 chanichim, three madrichim, and a medic slash guard had been trekking through the desert for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. If you know 16-year-old Americans, you know that this is the point in the tiyul when their internal organs start to shut down, specifically the mechanisms that handle body temperature, balance, and judgment of time. The chanichim lose all sense of reason: they sweat profusely while refusing to re-hydrate; they crab-walk on all fours as though navigating a steep decline despite the fact that they are currently gliding on perfectly level ground; and they incessantly remind each other that it’s been 12 hours since their last satisfying meal, 27 hours without sleep, and 39 agonizing hours of trudging through this cruel terrain with no bathroom or ice cream vendor in sight.
It was around 6:30 in the morning and perhaps 40 or 41 degrees centigrade, or somewhere between 100 and 115 Fahrenheit, depending on the mathematical abilities of whoever does the multiplying in his or her head. In order to raise the group morale and energy level, Ori, the guide, decided to introduce the chanichim to Doda (Aunt) Tova, who apparently has lots and lots of hens who don’t eat or drink. (If you know anything about camp songs, think, “Father Abraham has seven sons,” but significantly more annoying.)
As the fearless leader skipped around, flapping his appendages and tormenting the children with the powers of song and Hebrew rhyme, Shana was busy concentrating on her footwork and holding up the back of the line with Dvir, the medic slash guard. Now, Dvir’s name is nearly impossible for Westerners to pronounce, what with the deadly combination of the double consonant at the beginning and the throaty, Israeli “r” sound at the end. For an American, saying “Dvir” correctly is of the same level of difficulty as calculating the molecular weight of Bamba, the beloved peanut puff.
So Dah’veeeer tapped Shana on the shoulder and announced, “I have something here that you don’t often find in the desert.” Shana pondered for a moment. What could it be? A napkin dispenser? A whirlpool bathtub? An Eskimo? Dvir peeled back his hands and revealed a small frog, about the size of a falafel ball, and with an enlarged midsection that was probably due to either pregnancy or whatever disease it is that causes impoverished children in Africa to have bloated abdomens.
“Is it a baby frog?” the foolish chanich asked.
“No, idiot, there are no baby frogs,” answered the wise chanich. “Only tadpoles.”
“It needs to get to water,” said Dvir, who knew what he was talking about because Israelis know nature like they know where to find the best hummus. “And, she’s pregnant,” he added. So it was the first one.
Dvir had enough to juggle between the gun and the giant backpack of medical supplies, so he passed the amphibian to Shana, who cupped it carefully in both hands. It was caked in sand, much like one of those stretchy, sticky hands that you get in a plastic egg from a quarter machine, and once you put it in your pocket, it will always be soiled with lint and crumbs no matter how much you clean it.
Shana felt the frog squirming around in her palm, a decidedly unpleasant sensation to deal with while hiking. She raised her face toward the heavens, squinting her eyes from the blinding rays of the sun; she didn’t know who or what to pray to, just that she needed to beg for water to save this gentle life. Miraculously, her requests were promptly answered.
“Talk to the rock,” G-d commanded. “For water travels through stone over time like one solid, prehistoric irrigation system, and tapping it in the right place can release eons of liquid buildup.”
At that point Shana didn’t know whether she was hearing G-d’s voice or Ori’s geology lecture echoing in her head, so she kicked the rock wall with her left foot, stumbling a bit and consequently dropping the frog – not to its unfortunate death but perhaps to its crippling brain injury or premature egg release.
“Fool!” bellowed G-d. “I told you to talk to the rock, not abuse it!” As if on cue, the frog sprung swiftly under a boulder, out of Shana’s reach and forever destined to hop in futile pursuit of water.
But the chanichim carried on, planting each disgruntled foot in front of the other and continuing to ask pointless questions of whichever madrich happened to be within earshot. “How long is the bus ride after this?” “Will we eat falafel today?” “Is this hike going to be more scenic?” “Is 200 shekels a lot?” “How hot is it in Jerusalem?” “Are we in the desert right now?” “Is this dry or humid?” “Do I need hiking shoes for the rest of the day?” “What time is it in America?” “How long have we been hiking?”
“Why haven’t you finished your water bottles yet?” roared Ori. “For G-d’s sake, put your hats back on! Do you want me to sing the Doda Tova song again?”
And just like their Israelite ancestors before them, the chanichim were punished for their ignorance and poor listening skills, forced to wander the desert without reaching the Promised Land for another forty years, or at least until the health advisory hotline called to say that everyone had to get out of the midday sun for safety reasons.