Empty, New Mexico

We left Amarillo before the wind changed again, and headed to Phil's trailer in Nara Visa, my home for as long as I could stand it.

Nara Visa, population 112 and dwindling, ain't much of a town. There's no commerce any more: three gas stations, two auto mechanic shops, one antique store, one little market, and good ol' Ira's Bar and Package Goods, all closed decades ago.

So the main road - the only one that's paved - is littered with empty, broken buildings, all rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...

Smack-dab in the middle of town is a privately-owned auto junkyard: About twenty cars and trucks, ranging from old to ancient, lined up two-deep.

The oldest is the shell of a Model T, the newest looks like it was a 1970 Ford Fairlane. All rusting and rotting, missing a door here, a window there...

On each car, the owner sprayed "Keep Off," "Get Out," and "No Trespassing."

The guy who owned all these cars died, without heirs, two decades ago. So the cars are still there. Due to deterioration, some now just say "No."

Actually, the theme of Nara Visa seems to be "No Trespassing." Without all the discouraging signage, there would be sooo much homesteading at these prime properties...

The only place where money still exchanges hands these days (unless you count the churches) is the Western Star Motel, which is open on an as-needed basis. You want a room, you call the number on the sheet of paper taped to the window, somebody'll come buy and get you a key. Cash only, please.

Despite the sparse population, there are three active churches -- well, two and a half. The Methodists are in full throat every Sunday morning, the Assembly of God assembles regularly, but the Catholic Church, easily the most beautiful building in town, actually the only nice-looking building in town, stands empty most of the time. The priest comes by and unlocks the doors twice a month, in order to hold mass in Spanish. I wonder if God'll forgive me for going to Mass just to brush up on my Spanish. I wonder then if he'll forgive me for being an atheist...

While on the subject of that which god has forsaken, I present some photos of the trailer I find myself trying to live in. It ain't easy, I gotta tell you. This crappy little oven, baking in the sun, overrun with rodents, shower not working, flooring missing in places, is my reward for working on Phil's book. Woo-hoo, I am so lucky.

But I'm here anyway, I decide to give it a try. Phil is so earnest. He seems to be able to live in this shithole. So I'll try to keep an open mind. Plus my motorcycle is still strapped down in the van.

While we were in Amarillo, Phil picked up an old evaporative cooler. and installed it in the living room window the day after we returned. Did I mention that it was 100 degrees outside, and god knows how hot inside the uninsulated metal box?

The cooler wasn't. If you stood in front of it, you got the benefit of air circulation, but there was something wrong with the water circulation. Phil worked on it for a few days, but...

I had two fans in my bedroom, and by midnight it began cooling off. I started taking walks in the middle of the night. Kinda spooky in the land of decrepit buildings, a ghost town in the making, but at least I was out of the trailer. As I become used to the heat, I start taking my walks at sunset, when it's only in the 90s. Anything's better than just sitting in that damn trailer. You can study only so many hours in the day. There's no radio reception, the internet connection is too slow to download any entertainment or use Skype, there's no TV, there's no cell phone signal. There's just the couch, and the evaporative cooler.

And then there's the flies and bugs at night. They gravitate toward light and warmth, so when I retired to my room, it was attack city. Phil said that he learned long ago, on his solo trek on foot across the Australian outback, that the key to bugs and flying things is just to let them do their thing. Get used to it, and you'll sleep like a baby.

I haven't gotten used to it. I don't think I ever will enjoy having some tiny winged creature crawl all over me, in my eyes and nose and elsewhere.

We put screens up, but it's a lost cause. In this trailer you could let the cat out without opening a door.

So I wait each night for the light of day. The bugs stop attacking when the sun comes up. I generally sleep from 6 to 8 am, before my south-facing windows turn the bedroom into my private oven.

And in the daytime in my fog of no sleep, I look cross-eyed at Phil's book material and try to make heads and tails of it. I don't get too far.

We get my bike out of the van. I take it for a test run. It feels good to be back on the bike, even in the 100 degree weather. I start looking at maps of New Mexico, plotting my escape.

Phil's landlord brings in an actual working evaporative cooler, I think from an airplane hanger. It's a bit noisy - in the 80 or 90 decibel range - but it cools like a jazz band. I sleep in front of it, or try to. The bugs...

Phil's also made some improvements around the house, mouse traps and such. He put up a kind of shade for my bedroom windows, to cut down the sun, but it blew away that first evening (It's frightfully windy here). He's really trying, because he knows I'm disappointed. And if I leave, he's on his own in this shithole. I think he'll see it as a personal defeat.

Our agreement was that I would work on his book in exchange for housing. But in a month, I've slept about two nights. And in the daytime, I'm a captive of the 100 degree nothingness outside and in. So I'm thinking - Thanks but no thanks.

I can work on his book anywhere. In fact, in order to do the supporting research,I have to go elsewhere, since the internet connection at the trailer is so frail.

But I try: I think if I can get some exercise, maybe I can sleep, and all would be well (enough). At a church social event, I met two kids, ten-year-old Chet and big sis Kaitlin. We played basketball, Kaitlin kicking our butts. I promised to bring my frisbee the next day that isn't windy.

A few days later, it was calm at sunset, so I rushed over to the kids' house, to get some throws in before it gets too dark. They're home but they don't answer the door. Frustrated, I walk around town, twirling my frisbee, begging with my eyes: "Bring out your children. It's not too windy!"

People see me walk by. They're not used to someone walking around, so they just stare. I realize now that this last entire month, I never saw anyone walking anywhere, ever, in Nara Visa. That's why god invented trucks, I guess, so you could go four blocks, (which admittedly is clear across town) to get your mail and your gossip at the post office.

I finally saw Chet at the post office the day before I left. I told him I stopped by to play frisbee and was sorry I missed him and Kaitlin. He said yeah, well, gotta go. Spooked, he was. You know, I met their mother, their stepfather, shook their hands at the ice cream social. When I stopped by their house, and they peeked at me through the curtains, I had a frisbee in my hands.

But I guess they couldn't reconcile the fact that I was an adult with wanting to get exercise. They knew I only had the motorscooter. I wonder if they thought I was going to abduct their children on foot, somehow get them on the scooter, using the frisbee as a weapon...

Never can tell what cityfolk are likely to do, I guess. They also knew I am from California. I downplayed San Francisco, I am ashamed to say. No need giving anyone an excuse to load the shotgun and/or get the rope.

At the end of one month, I got the fuck out of town.

Next blog: Liberation!

The Fecal Fogs of Amarillo

Though a cat person, I really enjoy these dog-sits. In Tucson last month, I chaperoned Abigail the occasionally anxious dachshund whilst her momma was tromping around England.

And now in Armarillo, trying to match wits with a wily schnauzer named Dobby (pronounced: /dAHbi/). Ten days dogsitting, in this pretty little neighborhood, with neat brick homes, trim lawns, and a little park nearby.

Dobby is to be walked twice a day. We take the alleys, so that she can antagonize as many of the doggies stuck in their back yards as she can.

Oh the sniffing, the barking, the bodily functions. Such happy times for a dog. The routine: entice other dogs to fence. Sniff, growl, bark. Repeat as necessary. Then urinate on something as you turn away. That's something I want to get good at: urinating in disdain...

We take these neighborhood tours early in the morning and quite late at night, cuz it's 100 degrees outside. On occasion Phil takes me to visit various friends or do errands. Amarillo seems like a nice place. It kinda drives me crazy that they water their lawns like they're in a contest, despite a long and nasty drought, but hey, we're in Texas, which is spelled "d-e-n-i-a-l", so what do you expect?

The other biggie that Amarillians are in denial about: airborne fecal matter. When the wind is blowing the right way, it's pretty fucking nasty.

Where's that coming from, you ask? About 50 miles from Amarillo is the bustling town of Hereford, Texas, with a million residents: 15,000 humans and 985,000 head of cattle.

Cattle farts, times one million. With all this methane, people here don't need matches to light their cigarette.

I am told that back in the day, the wind-borne smell was only "occasional," and so the distant tinge of natural fertilizer was tolerable, or at least to Texans. But nowadays, the operation has been beefed up and a million cattle stand where there were but a few thousand. What's worse, the antibiotics and hormones that go into plumping up the beef get "processed" and released into the air by those million head of cattle. (Well, you know, not the head...)

These additives make a tart super-toxin out of the floating cattle-farts. (Add it to diesel exhaust and you've got a super-efficient carcinogen delivery system.)

So when the wind is blowing just the right way, your eyes smart, your nose burns, you keep your mouth shut and you get your ass back indoors.

Fortunately, the Shit Winds of Hereford only blow in Amarillo's direction about 25% of the time, and it's a pleasant place otherwise. I mean that. I'm not saying that because of the looming trip back to Nara Visa...

Not to be outdone, Phil takes his cat Smokey for a walk, too.

The Road to Disenchantment

I'm a New Mexican now, at least for the time being.

It was not easy getting here. My mentor, Phil, has two vehicles - well, I think he's got five or six vehicles, at least a majority of parts thereto, but for our purposes he has the 1991 Chevy van, and the 1977 Honda Civic. My motorcycle was partially dismantled and loaded onto the van and strapped down; the Civic was fitted with an overhead carrier and hooked to a trailer. Poor little thing. Phil's cat Smoky rode with him in the van, I followed behind in the Civic. It was tough getting it up the slightest incline. I couldn't get it going more than 20-25 miles per hour uphill, and with semis bearing down on my ass at more than double my speed, it was pretty thrilling.

Phil and I switched cars after about an hour of sheer harrowing hell.

Unfortunately, the van was worse. The steering wheel was nothing more than a suggestion. Wide swings of the wheel right then wide swings left kept the vehicle going in a relatively straight line. Too wide, however, and the van would begin to sway, too narrow and the van would move left or right according to some inner voice.

We were going "the Safford way" in order to enjoy the rugged scenic beauty of Eastern Arizona. Narrow roads alongside cliffs and gullys. White knuckles on the wheel; trying to remember if I told Sungmi that I loved her the last time we talked...

Then the rubber stripped itself off the left rear tire. The van careened out of control, which wasn't dissimilar to what I had been doing for the last hour, the steering's so bad. This all happened on a flat patch of road, else there would be no more blogs.

Phil had a badly balding spare at the ready, and we limped on it to Safford, the next town. Luckily there was a tire store with used 16.5 tires - a rare size - and the stripped 1969 tire was removed from the 1991 van. I think we upgraded to the 90's.

We'd been on the road for about two hours at that point. Some 600 more miles to go, and I'm scared out of my wits. Phil, he's calm as a morphine addict with a fix. "These are great old cars. Go forever."

We had lunch in Safford.

East Arizona is pretty, rugged, and at times quite beautiful. We wound around and up the Mogollon mountain range and into its shadows. Pretty, but all I can thing about is the one new used tire between the two vehicles. I was getting used to the boat-like steering of the van, but the roads were getting narrower and narrower, the margin on each side slimmer and slimmer.

Irony 101: I just finished a 4000 mile trip through Mexico on an undersized motorcycle, and I was scared out of my wits driving a four-wheeled vehicle.

It took two days to get to Nara Visa, New Mexico, less than ten miles from the Texas border. Surprisingly, both vehicles made it, the cat made it, we made it.

Unfortunately, "it" was a 1980-style mobile home baking in the sun. Easily 110 degrees inside at 6 pm. No insulation, no air conditioning, inconsistent flooring, and mouse droppings everywhere.

Surprise, surprise. Welcome home.

Phil was unapologetic. He had a few fans, some of the windows opened (especially the broken ones) and it would cool off at night at some point. Mice won't kill you. What was I, a pussy?

Yes, I'm a pussy. And an idiot for being here.

Fortunately, we only had to spend one night in this shithole. A schnauzer named Dobby was waiting for us in Amarillo, Texas. Save us, Dobby!

Lies, all lies

I'm glad nobody's reading my blog, because, as it turns out, I've been lying through my teeth.

My last post told of coming to Tucson to sell the bike and use the proceeds to live in Ecuador and finish my schoolwork.

Not a grain of truth! Well, I am in Tucson, but not for long. But the bike's staying with me, I'm not going to South America, and it's going to take a bit longer to finish my schoolwork after all.

Instead of northwestern South America, I'm going to try eastern New Mexico. Almost all the way to the Texas border, actually. A very very little place called Nara Visa. (I believe the name means "why the f--- are we stopping here?")

Nara Visa, New Mexico: look it up on Google maps. For a laugh, take a look at "street view" for any of the four streets. Or, you can look it up in a dictionary under "desolate." No restaurants, no grocery stores, no 7-11s. No stores at all. I hear there was a gas station once.

Not much there, but it is the home of renowned architect Phil B. Hawes, my degree program mentor for this last 8 months. Phil, who studied with and under such luminaries as Buckminster Fuller and Frank Lloyd Wright, is most famous as the architect of Biosphere II, the largest man-made enclosed structure on earth (except it's no longer completely enclosed).

Phil is getting up there in years - he turned 77 last week - and he feels a need to pass along some of what he's learned along the way.

And even though he's been subjected to more than 70 essays written by yours truly, he thinks I'd be helpful in researching, organizing, and writing his book.

Working title: "Snappy Working Title: How to create and maintain a 100% sustainable community" by Phil B. Hawes with Douglas McAbee.

And so tomorrow, at the crack of lunch, we're on our way to the high plains of northeast New Mexico. Frankly, I'm scared. Scared of not knowing how to write a book, how to get it published. Scared of driving my motorcycle to Armarillo, Texas to buy bread and cheese. Scared of living in a place where the closest commercial activity of any kind is 30 miles away.

To help with my main fear, I bought "The Elements of Editing" and "Getting Your Book Published for Dummies." I hope to find a happy medium between "editor" and "dummy."

To help with the other fears, I've packed away tins of tuna, tons of pasta, and tubs of peanut butter, not to mention as much soy milk powder and breakfast cereal as I can carry.

As far as the Texas situation goes, I am told it would be best to keep my mouth shut about San Francisco (or any part of California really), peace, justice, race relations, climate science, and generally alternatives of any kind on any subject.

Our agreement is that I'll work on the book three days a week, and work on my sustainable studies the rest of the week. At least until my head explodes.

Ecuador is on hold, but not out of my mind. How long will it take to make this book happen? I have no idea. But if all goes well I will celebrate in South America. And if all goes not well, I can hide out in South America.

The only difference is whether I have to change my name or not...

Wish me luck. (Especially about keeping my mouth shut in Texas!) Next post, Armpit, New Mexico!

Arizona

Well, I made it back to the States without problems. I'm hanging at a friend's house in Tucson. My goal is to sell the bike and use the proceeds to fund a trip to South America.
I'll be sad when I say goodbye to the Suzuki Bergman 400, ye of little wheels and big heart. We've done 14,000 fun miles together and except for the time it landed on my ankle, it's been very good to me.
Anybody want a sweetheart of a bike, one that's proved its mettle by delivering me far into the Mexican highlands, gulping that thin air and sipping gasolina like it was born in the Alps? Apply within.

The ride to the border took eight days, counting four days without progress in Guadalajara. Day one of the trip was two hours from Mazamitla to Guadalajara, where I stayed at a friend's house. Thomas' place is luxury's lap itself, a nice break at the start of the trip. Then just before 6 am on Easter morning, I loaded up the bike and shoved off for the toll roads north. The rear tire was flat, though, and I didn't go anywhere that day, except back to Thomas' house. Few motorcycle shops are open on Sundays in this very Catholic country, and this was Easter Sunday. On Monday I couldn't find a shop that had the tire, so I got the tire patched and left on Tuesday bright and early. Then it was four days straight through: Guadalajara to Mazatlan, to Los Mochis, to Hermosillo, to Tucson. No hassles, no problems with the federales, no inspections, just a long-ass line at the Nogales border.

The day I crossed into Arizona, my last remaining living uncle passed away. On Monday we had a nice little ceremony in Phoenix, well really Mesa, and he was placed next to his dear Delsie. Goodbye, Uncle Jim. Thanks for the fireworks, for my first Playboy magazine. Thanks for letting me learn to drive with your VW bug. Sorry I got it banged up.

My dad was one of seven siblings and mom one of six, so at some point I had more than twenty aunts and uncles. Now there's just two left - mom's sister Violet in her 90s and dad's sister Amy in her 80s.

I'll do Tucson and Phoenix for a few weeks, I've got a dog-sitting gig coming up, I'm working on the master's stuff, have an appointment with a bike shop to get the thing cleaned up and ready for sale to the highest bidder.

Then it's Chile, Argentina, Peru or Ecuador. The average high temperature in Buenos Aires in June, July, and August is a sweet 59 degrees. Cusco, Ecuador: 66 degrees. Santiago, Chile: 58 to 61. These all sound great numbers to me. I suspect I'll fly to whichever is cheaper the day I choose to go, unless you've got any suggestions?

Bye-bye squirrels, horses and cows (and lizards and spiders and...)

Well, this is my last week in Mazamitla. On Friday, I'm getting on the bike and riding toward Nogales. My six-month visa expires the first week of May, and that means I have to cross a border, so I picked Nogo, then Tucson. I'll dump the bike, try to sell it, whatever. I wanna go to South America, so I'll fly/bus/boat when I'm ready to go.

I'll miss this charming retreat. Except for the chickens, and the occasional cow going bump in the night, it's pretty quiet up here. I was able to finish seven of the 16 required classes for my MBA during my three months here.

I've got five classes to go, and of course the green business plan.

Of course, I have to credit my ankle injury. Couldn't have been nearly so productive if I hadn't been prone for two months straight. Thank you, god, for growing trees to provide shade on the street so that speed bumps are completely invisible.

I've started walking for pleasure, as of last week. A major milestone, or 'kilostone' as they translate around here. Now that I can hike the mountain trails, I'm leaving town.

Well, wish me luck as I nervously get back out on the highways (free of speed bumps) and byways (loaded with killer speed bumps) of Mexico. Next stop, well, I don't now. At a speed bump, probably...

By popular demand...

I've gotten a few requests to show more photos of the idyllic forested cabins of outer Mazamitla. I don't use my camera that much - too many error messages when my new camera talks to my newish computer - but here's a few:

Enjoy!

A misty morning outside my bedroom window.

The renegades, mowing and fertilizing without permission. Note the genuine leather upholstery. Ususally they're wearing their gang bandanas.

A shot from the living room window.

A nearby cabin. There are tons of these, empty and waiting for the occasional weekend 0r holiday. Or a wayward gringo such as myself.

A local family hauling wood, pausing for creekside refreshment.