2/3-2/7/11: Tulum, Mexico

Checking out of the hostel and running around took most of the morning, and by the time we settled into our early afternoon bus south, I was ready to be rid of Cancun. In retrospect it was probably a combination of things: hearing Chris rave about how "expensive" it was in Cancun although, compared to the US, it seemed dirt cheap, plus an extreme curiosity to see what "real" Mexico was like as opposed to the place where the signs were also in English.

Before leaving the terminal, Chris recognized one of his traveling buddies from San Francisco and San Cristobal climbing aboard our bus! Enrique is a charismatic Ecuadorian world-traveling photographer who happened to be Couchsurfing that night in Tulum. He's also one of those guys that other guys want to be: young, handsome, smooth, personable, confident, and not to be bothered by the blase, mundane trivialities that typically cripple the masses! Enrique oozes testosterone, doesn't particularly care where it flows, is an excellent photographer, and I would learn the next day that his camera is not only for photographs: in Enrique's hands, it's an ice breaker.

I played the role of sightseer while Chris and Enrique caught up. That made for a nice 2-hour ride thru Playa del Carmen to Tulum. Once their we took a taxi a few kilometers out of town and to a relatively well known hostel Chris found via the Internet : The Lobo Inn. I had been slowly getting sick for a week or two prior to arriving in Mexico, so elected to stay behind while Chris and Enrique returned to Tulum for dinner with his Couchsurfer host. It was here that I felt a twinge of the potentially acute pain of my language barrier for the first time.

There were several interesting people at the hostel, including a couple Israelis, an Argentinian Enrique had encountered elsewhere in his travels, and Romain--a Frenchman living/studying in Cuba who was vacationing in Tulum. Thankfully, the Israelis and Romain spoke English, so by the time Chris returned I was on my second huge 30-peso beer from the store next door and having a great time despite the cold.

Friday goes down as one of my highlight days. Enrique met us at the hostel, Romain, the Frenchman, joined up, and the four of us set off to see the Tulum ruins situated across the highway on the Caribbean Sea.

I have long had a keen interest in the Mayan civilization so seeing any and all ruins is constantly near the top of my things to see. The fact that Tulum's ruins are set adjacent to the beach made the experience that much better, and it so happens that there is a phenomenal public access beach making it nearly ideal.

Frolicking in the Caribbean, I realized that this was the first time, at least on these travels, that I actually had gotten IN the sea. With the exception of Santa Barbara, the rest of California, Oregon, and New Jersey were always too cold.  I made up for it and had the sunburn to prove it.

Friday night continued what proved to be a fun, albeit expensive pattern of conversing and drinking in the Lobo Inn's common area. The folks staying there were from all over: Mexico, Argentina, France, Israel, Italy, Canada, the US, Korea, and even the Canary Islands.

One of the more interesting cats was Frankie, an enigma from Cancun who was just staying there...for whatever reason. He had a car and a great deal of knowledge of the area so he would take people on excursions to places like the nearby cenotes, a network of underwater rivers that periodically surface in the jungles or caves in the area. Later in the weekend, he snorkeled out into the Caribbean spearfishing, got an Angelfish, and let everyone at the Lobo eat it. The one image of Frankie I'll carry with me is how he was always smiling and walking around with his beer in a huge mug that reminded me of a king's personal stein.

It was an incredible place, but The Lobo Inn was quite pricey ($140 MX), so Saturday Chris ventured off to scout camping possibilities on the beach where he met an fascinating beach urchin, Mil, from India. He was intensely obsessed with the familiar idea of synchronicity with a a tireless, focused mind. He offered to share a beach side cabana with us that he intended to occupy with another traveler, but checking it out we learned that this "friend" of his had had his belongings stolen the night before. My warning sirens were blaring as we chatted with this supposedly unfortunate soul, so we decided to pass on Mil's beachcomber hospitality in favor of another night at the Lobo.

Mil

Saturday night was another beerfest, Chris ended up sleeping in the jungle somewhere between the road and the Lobo after failing to find Mil, and Sunday was the Super Bowl.  Chris had been contacted on Saturday by a Scandinavian Couchsurfer staying in Playa del Carmen who hoped to hitchhike with other people to Belize to renew her 180-day travel visa, which she said was about to expire. We made arrangements to meet her at the Lobo at 10am Sunday to head south, but when she arrived we learned that Maria learned on the way down that she'd miscalculated: her visa had ALREADY expired and that she needed to go to Cancun and have a lawyer straighten it out!

In addition to all of that, my cold had worsened and I was losing my voice, so we decided to relax at the Lobo for one more night to watch the Super Bowl. We were stuck the to the Spanish broadcast on satellite via Fox Sports, but that was less problematic than the absence of the American commercials! However, did you know that Joe Montana is hocking cheap Mexican beer these days? Ouch.

Monday was once again getaway day, and we had noble intentions to hitch south, but my cold had worsened yet again. Mil had also reappeared out of the blue and was making his way back toward Cancun hopeful for a flight to Cuba. My girlfriend and I had also begun discussions about her flying to Cancun at the end of March. Considering my declining health, it seemed like a good idea to perhaps simplify things and bus to our eventual destination: San Cristobal, Chiapas. I could spend a solid six-weeks learning at least rudimentary Spanish as well as about Chiapas and the Zapatistas.

By early afternoon, Chris and I were joined by Mil on the bus to Cancun beginning a 24-hour journey west to San Cristobal and a fateful landing at Jose Luis's Galactic Station...

2/1-2/3/11: Cancun, Mexico

My flight's path was over the Gulf of Mexico directly to the Yucatan Peninsula, and seeing the shoreline I was struck that, other than Juarez across the Rio Grande from I-10 in El Paso, I was finally glimpsing something other than Terra Americana/Canadia for the first time since briefly living in Germany when I was 15.

As the plane descended, it was clear from the air that this was indeed another world; one I was eager to see with my own eyes as opposed to the controlled electronic agenda-driven snapshots we are inundated with in the States.

Yucatan Coast

Going from 9-below to a muggy 85 in a few hours feels good! As I stepped into Mexico for the first time, I was introduced to something that would quickly become familiar: Mexicans hocking goods and services to gringos. At the aeropuerto, it's transportation to Cancun. Chris had returned to Cancun from San Cristobal and I found him exactly where he was supposed to be holding a sign that read "X"--making fun of my persistent surname quandary. The idea that we had executed this little plan and were actually on the ground in Mexico was fun and though there was no clear-cut, long term plan other than getting out of Cancun and going south, this day was a long time coming...and now here it was.

We engaged in non-stop chatter into Cancun, but I found my attention span compromised by the scenes outside the window. One of the things that grabbed my attention almost immediately, aside from the lack of order on the roadways, was the glaring lack of regulation. There were people living beneath tarps and in flimsy wooden shacks along side the road on the edge of Cancun but to me the poverty was less shocking than the fact that they were permitted to do that! I remember seeing the same thing in various tent cities in places like Fresno, except that in the US these embarrassing capitalist warts are swept out of sight--under bridges and behind train tracks. Here, it's out in the open and is inescapable. My first 30-minute bus ride was also was my first subtle nudge in what would be a long, steady reminder to question our imposed and skewed definition of "freedom".

In the short term, Tuesday night's plan was simple:

1. Bus to Cancun
2. Hostel
3. Beer
4. Food

We are simple creatures after all.

The hostel Chris had checked us into was quite close to the bus station as well as 2-4 listed above. Since hostels in the US aren't hostels as much as overpriced, pretentious hotels, I had never stayed in one. Ours was 110 pesos a night (about $9.25), and our dormitory was shared with three other people: a middle-aged Canadian, a young French student and her Spanish boyfriend. The bathroom took some getting used to as well as it was unisex--including the showers.

Before long, we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe drinking Corona's, eating nachos, and chatting with Jose, a local sitting at the next table who spontaneously decided to invite himself over to join us. He spoke English, had been drinking all day, and was lamenting splitting with his wife. We had a great time, along with a predictably great many 100-peso Coronita buckets. Too many, in fact. Added to the tequila shots, they made for an expensive, partially blacked-out night.

Jose

Stop me if you've heard this story before. Despite the fact I've been only 29 for a number of years, I can't drink like that anymore. The recovery just isn't what it used to be so nights like this generally lead to wasted days-after. Thus, except for dinner and a trip to the store, Wednesday in Cancun was spent in slow motion. I was fine with that, the people were remarkably friendly but being nowhere near the resorts I expected and found Cancun to be a bit of a touristy shithole.

 
Thursday became getaway day and after a trip to Walmart and a bank to exchange dollars for pesos, we were off to the bus station for a ride down the Caribbean coast to a beautiful, memorable, and fateful date with Tulum...


Fun Fact: Upon my visit to the bank, I learned exactly how much the US bank where I'd bought pesos had (surprise!) raped me. I received nearly a full peso-per-dollar better rate in Mexico. The only nuisance was being required to provide the bank with a copy of my passport, but it's well worth it.

Mexico: A Prologue

Despite simmering on a hidden backburner for a year or two, the notion of traveling to Mexico and the rest of Latin America is something that never went away. A trek to Peru was one of my original ideas, long before 2008 when Chris and I spent countless hours bouncing adventureman ideas around his Denver apartment imagining such an adventure. As you can imagine there were the endless questions about things such as safety, corruption, the culture, and language barriers. Then in February '09, when I reconnected with my "long lost" family, the travels made it clear that they had their own ideas about where I would be going and why.


When Chris visited for Thanksgiving, it became apparent that 2010 had served an oddly similar purpose for each of us; the year had been very difficult on both fronts for strangely similar reasons. A peculiar byproduct of this difficult year was that by processing and discussing its less-than-flattering events, it appeared that we were suddenly able to redefine and realign our friendship.

We were dramatically less dogmatic than even a year ago, and less sure of the positions that we had quietly battled over all the way thru Slab City. The only thing I was sure of at this point was that while I knew for certain I had been given a slightly elevated metaphysical glimpse, I have no idea what the entire mosaic looked like nor any real idea as to where these microscopic nuggets fit in it.

They say the only real wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. I get that. It was a nice, calm couple of weeks where we were able to just relax and reconcile grievances from my stay in Port Townsend and even all the way back to 2005.

While I reconciled antiquated daddy issues, Chris grasped and ran with the Latin America idea. It was never far off his visible horizon and simply a matter of time, money, and logistics; matters tenuously solved last fall. While he visited, the end of December was set as a hard departure date which would be followed by a few weeks of Spanish classes either in Guatemala or San Cristobal, Chiapas. With that decided, we had an exploratory conversation surrounding me meeting him in Cancun when he wrapped up his classes at the end of January. That would give me a couple months to prepare and learn at least a little basic Spanish.

When he set off for San Antonio the first week of December, that was the "plan" (ha!). Then, just prior to his departure for Mexico on New Year's Eve, there was a brief hiccup when his "I Walk Alone" trait reappeared and we briefly decided that, rather than proceed with just one month in mind, it would be best to scuttle our plans all together.

For the next couple of days, something in my brain violently rejected this notion. Buoyed by Laina's encouragement, the Sunday after New Year's we reversed it and decided to proceed on 2/1, for a month or so, see how it went, and go from there.

For once, plans went as planned. Buying the airline ticket was a big step: there would be no turning back. Come Hell or high water, I would be flying into Mexico without a return ticket on February 1st. While Chris spent January adjusting to Mexico then settling in learning Spanish in San Cristobal, I gently reintroduced myself to writing and brutally attempted (unsuccessfully) to cram a whole lot of Spanish into a little brain.

Before I knew what was happening, February was here. I had thought for sure I'd be shitting myself as the day approached, but there was less anxiety about Mexico than about Devils Tower '09 or even Santa Barbara '08!

When Laina dropped me at the airport, there was nothing but excitement joining the typical separation anxiety that comes from having a home! Adding to the symbolic tapestry was the beginning of what the media dubbed a nationwide Snowpocalypse: it was 9 BELOW zero when I landed in Denver for my connection to Cancun.

Good Day to Go to Cancun

-9F: Fitting Mascots

2/28/10: Watching the Wheels

People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing,
Well they give me all kinds of warnings to save me from ruin,
When I say that I'm o.k. they look at me kind of strange,
Surely your not happy now you no longer play the game,

People say I'm lazy dreaming my life away,
Well they give me all kinds of advice designed to enlighten me,
When I tell that I'm doing Fine watching shadows on the wall,
Don't you miss the big time boy you're no longer on the ball?


I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go,

People asking questions lost in confusion,
Well I tell them there's no problem,
Only solutions,
Well they shake their heads and they look at me as if I've lost my mind,
I tell them there's no hurry...
I'm just sitting here doing time,

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round,
I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go.


-Watching the Wheels
John Lennon

Once the bus finally got on the road, the ride was thankfully uneventful. After appearing utterly incompetent just a few days earlier, my nemesis driver pulled us into Albuquerque two-hours late on this Super Bowl Sunday, but still ahead of the approaching storm.

There was to be no word from Chris for nearly a week. The last I knew, he was 20-miles south of Tucson and struggling to get out of Arizona. About a week later, I learned that Chris had made it to El Paso Monday, then hit an epic wall. He remained stranded in El Paso for THREE NIGHTS! To me, this is astounding! In two years , I have never gone a full day without a ride...let alone two or three...across the river from Juarez-the most dangerous city in Mexico!

Naturally, he chose not to pontificate on the metaphysics after what had transpired in Phoenix, but he didn't need to. When I learned that the occupants of his latest lillypad had made a 1,000-mile round trip to "rescue" him, I had all I needed. Remember them signs? They're not always pleasant! When we chatted later there would be no mention of that!

Also, his rescue nearly wasn't. After driving 500-miles, his friends couldn't reach him because of his dead cell battery. In fairness, he apparently didn't know they were coming and thankfully they happened to spot him on the last pass before leaving. Hearing this sent me into hyper-observation mode; curious to see how this would affect him, and what the reality of Austin would hold.

As for me, the initial idea was to remain in Santa Fe just long enough to kick "The Crud", then either return to Slab City, or perhaps east to Florida for a bit of Spring Training, then Atlanta and Nashville to see friends.

What I hoped would be a week turned into three. Whatever it was would not let go! As March approached, I finally felt better, had found a Rideshare to Tampa, and made tentative "plans" (ha!) to leave the last week of February...

You've heard how "plans" and I get along, right?

2/6/10: Phoenix, AZ-Deja Vu

It was clear Saturday morning that I probably had contracted at least a mild case of bronchitis; my lungs were on fire. When I was young, I came down with something-bronchial about once every winter, but had avoided anything beyond chest colds for many years. My primary concern now was getting either Pneumonia or Swine Flu, which was making its rounds through Phoenix. Chris had given me some generic antibiotics, but in my eagerness to cut weight, I had deemed them unnecessary and mailed them home on Tuesday! If this WAS bronchitis, and I were to resume traveling from Phoenix, it would be Mucinex, rest, and simple hope that allied with my immune system.


Late in the afternoon, I received a call from Chris. Oscar had dropped him on the other side of Tucson, and Chris was already complaining that he wasn't making progress. No one appeared interested in stopping and he offered that he seemed destined to walk that night. While I sympathized, I was on the lookout for these "signs" we once talked so much about...and uninterested in spin. This sure as hell sounded like one, not just because of the circumstances, but also his tone.

As the day progressed, so did a sense of familiarity! It began to resemble Port Townsend, particularly at the end in September when my body trumped my ego's urge to keep going. I spent the afternoon updating and coming to the realization that Phoenix was done. There was no need for me to stick around just to "be sick." I was close enough to do that from home where I'd be better armed to fight this off. And, what was I going to do if I went back to Slab City with pneumonia? Cough, hack, and whine about it in the bivy? What, pray tell, would that prove? No, fuck that. My self esteem's fine! Despite my well-documented arrogance, I can handle humility and common sense!

This visit had also run its course as far as El Jefe was concerned. The bus was scheduled to leave Phoenix at midnight, so we had about an hour to hang out after he returned home from work. Start to finish, this had been a good visit and I hoped that Chris and I had left at least ideas, perspective, and encouragement with him. He probably would have let me recuperate there, but I wanted to bow out gracefully and thank him with my absence; let him have his space!

It slowly became clear what this Slab City excursion actually was, and it was NOT the beginning to 2010 as I had assumed. It was a preamble. The shaking loose old habits, crutches, and dormant mindsets. It acted as a rubbing-of-the eyes, and things felt a bit as though 2008 & 2009 themselves had collectively ended; that a whole new cycle had begun. Indeed.***

Who loves his metaphors?

Before I knew it I was at the shiny new bus station, and cursing Greyhound again. Naturally, the bus was 2-hours late before it even left, and guess what! It was the SAME driver as from Albuquerque to Phoenix with 10-days before! The very same who had left us sitting unattended for 2-hours at the closed Flagstaff terminal with NO explanation! WONDERFUL!

A snowstorm had closed I-40 east of Flagstaff, so there was yet another twist: my bus would instead be re-routed SOUTH on I-10 and through Tucson. That meant I would pass within yards of Chris, who I envisioned I would witness huffing down a frontage road in the middle of the night!

That never transpired, but there was one final piece of coincidental irony. One of the kids in the van going in to Niland to "sign up for government cheese" the day we left Slab City was on my bus and heading home to Virginia.

It far from earth-shattering but served as a useful, centering reminder: focus on the complete tapestry of the last ten days, not just the last 48-hours...

2/5/10: Phoenix, AZ-The Famous Final Scene

Thursday night's incessant sneezing turned into Friday morning's "Crud." I woke up with my throat killing me, and was collecting stuff in both my head and chest although other than that...I felt great!

When Chris had Oscared off Thursday, the idea was to connect Friday morning and figure out a time to meet at REI. After all, that was the flame to my Slab City Moth! The hipbelt on Chris's pack had gone to hell, and as mentioned, the rubber on the shoes Lynette had bought me had already begun separating from the leather, and I was going through the now-standard cycle of obsessing about weight and contemplating downsizing my backpack if they had a suitable model in stock. Yes, by the time we learned Chris was already there, it was obvious that hours of fun was to be had at REI! Literally.


By the time we left 2-hours later, I had my boots and Chris had his new pack. Even El Jefe had barely escaped buying one! Watching him go through the process reminded me of starting this process from scratch and having to learn everything about gear. I was actually a bit nostalgic for these days of discovery; the excitement and possibilities of "what if." Capture that, and you'll have Youth in a Bottle.

From there it was back to Jefe's for the afternoon where the three of us spent the next couple of hours chatting and philosophizing about some of the "why's" behind this way of life. It was nice, and Jefe seemed to eat it up; he was quite interested in what the two of us were doing. Physically, I was feeling progressively worse as the day went on.
Chris had set up another date with Oscar, which included a ride to Tucson (and toward San Antonio) sometime on Saturday. When Oscar called to let him know he was near, we shook hands, he walked off, and that was unceremoniously that. A slight, familiar-but-faded sense of missed opportunity hovered momentarily in the air, but I understood that what "could be" is quite different from what "should be", and most certainly is often completely foreign from "what is".

Jefe gave me an amused look as I snapped a photo of Chris walking off, but I clearly thought that this was probably it. The story had yet to be fully written but even then, immersed in the trees, I could see the forest well enough to understand what had happened over the past week.

Chris was off to his next mystical lillypad, and I was eager to hear how the events transpired on I-10 between Tucson & San Antonio, and then once he got there.

I still believe strongly in the things that he and I had supposedly agreed upon. Slab City, Quartzsite, and Phoenix had served to re-clarify and reinforce these things--the primary of which being that events tend to cooperate and work in unison FOR you if you're "on-track"; if you're synchronized, things just seem to "flow." These "coincidences" are strewn throughout this blog. I wanted to see what happened to Chris in the immediate future; to me, this would be an indicator if he was in fact tuned-in, or that he was pretending to resonate on a fabricated frequency...

2/4/10: Phoenix, AZ-Peasant Rage

ple·be·ian

adj.

1. Of or relating to the common people of ancient Rome: a plebeian magistrate.

2. Of, belonging to, or characteristic of commoners.

3. Unrefined or coarse in nature or manner; common or vulgar: plebeian tastes.

n.

1. One of the common people of ancient Rome.

2. A member of the lower classes.

3. A vulgar or coarse person.

---

the common people

---

plebeianism n.

plebeianly adv.

plebeian; pleb: In British, French, Irish, Australian, New Zealand and South African English pleb is a derogatory term for someone thought of as inferior, common or ignorant.




Lex and Val's legendary hospitality didn't end at their RV nor did our conversation's end with Wednesday. An eventful Thursday began with Val making breakfast and Lex continuing with his merciless shredding of an obsolete system, useless politicians, and a complicit, but increasingly restless society.

Most of Lex's rhetoric seemed to be directed toward Chris, which I found utterly amusing! Chris, to my knowledge, has little passion for politics and at last check, "held out 'hope' for Obama". Taking this into account, I found it odd that he was actually engaging Lex in these chats, although Lex did most of the talking and Chris plainly seemed to speak from Lex's established lead, offering nothing contradictory or original, other than proclaiming that Lex "should read Todd's blog." He was the congregation's "Amen!" to Reverend Lex's sermon.

For my part, I was again picking my spots and biting my tongue; generally comfortable within my familiar observer role; observing Chris as much as anything. He seemed to be enjoying the  experience; one whose pursuit seemed meaningless the night before. I also concluded that this Peasant Rage had taken phenomenon status over the last couple of days and was still trying to take its temperature and examine its source in Lex.

Keith

After Lex & John had left for work, we had another nice conversation with Val until their friend Keith arrived. Val had arranged for us to ride with him all the way to Phoenix as he was on his way to the airport to pick someone up.

Our stay with Lex and Val was barely 12-hours, but left an impression on me. It was yet another smack in the face, and legitimized this overwhelming sense of familiarity. Something was most definitely afoot in the desert southwest! The same as it had been on the Pacific Coast and Idaho in 2008, in various places and particularly up north last year, and now everywhere I seemed to look in '10. There was no "warm up"; 2010 had kicked me in the mouth almost immediately, beginning with the conversation Chris and I had had Sunday night in the desert.

Rather than take the relatively sterile I-10 into Phoenix, Keith decided it would be easier to get the two of us where we needed to go if he took US-60, meaning we'd get to see 120-miles of rural Arizona. I was happy with that! Keith was in his 70's, retired, and from Flint, Michigan. He escaped Michigan's ridiculous winters in Arizona.

The three of us talked about many things and Keith, notably, never bothered with "what ya gonna do when you're done?". Instead, he offered a glimpse into his mindset when he told of joining the military out of school, and later being glad he didn't "rush off to pick a career." He said he had no idea what he wanted to do and would have "just fucked off" in college had he not gone out to "live a little" first. I found it remarkable that this 70-year old man contradicted the establishment in favor of, "Live First!" He held that mantra tight, which gives me hope for myself...and others!

Keith was this "theme's" final example. Keith has witnessed Michigan's economic starvation firsthand, and while not affected as badly as some he, too, harbors a special sort of rage-also directed squarely at the government. He is yet another who's abandoned "party" affiliation, and discarded political dialectics. He is, like many, disgusted with Obama and the rest of the Democrats attempting to market and sell what I've rebranded "Insurance Reform" and deceptively selling it as being primarily in the "people's" interest. Keith sees thru Iraq & Afghanistan, wonders why Guantanamo is still open, and has a particular hatred for The PATRIOT Act, sarcastically wondering why "Obama hasn't repealed it yet" in wonderfully obnoxious tones! Soon enough, the conversation turned to something brought up by Lex the night before while I was on the phone; a conversation I had missed but a topic I liked: Demonstration!

Coalition X: A Rant

We began speculating about a massive cross-country, March of the Unemployed converging on Washington at about the time of the mid-term elections with the goal of forcing revocation of the PATRIOT Act and to "raise awareness" as to how much rage is really out there. Even the ENRAGED are scarcely aware of how much ANGER is pulsating just beneath the surface of American society. Don't be mistaken: It's NOT directed at Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, Nancy Pelosi, or even that greasy bastard John Boehner. Not specifically. It's directed at ALL OF THEM, COLLECTIVELY. It's not just a particular political party, IT'S THE GOVERNMENT AS AN INSTITUTION that's losing the "consent" of the governed! Read your Constitution if you need that put into perspective.

God help the politicians if the Plebs ever realize how powerful they are. The system has unwittingly built the opposition Army, and this could be the foundation of what I call, for lack of a better name, Coalition X: where the binding ingredient has NOTHING to do with race, background, or religion. The singular common bond would be simply: poor. The economically manipulated and oppressed; the realization that the American Dream has become something that, as Carlin said, "you have to be asleep to believe." With millions unemployed & without hope of getting their jobs back, and pissed about it, WHY NOT ORGANIZE? What else are they gonna do with their time?!? Trust that they'll be rescued by a government "that threw them overboard thirty-fucking-years ago?" Send resumes to India?

The time's long past for a timid "regress of grievances"; let the towns police themselves. When the "policing" turns into Establishment Thugs overstepping bounds and trampling rights, as it will, we'd show it. We'll have "embedded journalists" and thousands of tiny little camera phones... most with immediate access to the Internet! The philosophy worked in India and Alabama in the last century. Of course, in my opinion, this is all "best-case" and supposes that the tired, muddy masses will organize. All indications are that they won't. Collectively, we're the animal afraid to escape the zoo because he'd have to fend for himself; unchained prisoners of dependency and fear.

We all loved the idea, and we spent a good amount of time dwelling on the embryonic details until it became painfully apparent how far Chris and I have moved in different directions. When he began to speak from his predictable, redundant, politically correct place about keeping an eye on people in case of looting, I went from beyond disgusted to disdain. A million people? (We think big!) "How exactly would you do that? Wanna hire the Hell's Angels and repeat Altamont?" Demonstrations should be a bit messy, and should inconvenience a few. Otherwise, why not just take out a billboard?

Admittedly, I probably didn't hear him clearly and surely wasn't treating him fairly. After his first few words, for whatever reason all I heard was Wendy's silly Port Townsend Proclamation claiming that in the event of Armageddon, "there'd be no need for guns in Port Townsend because the community would come together." I've never fully recovered from hearing that utopian notion presented with a straight face and without protest!

Since reconnecting with Chris in '08 I've taken a hard right turn. I'm obviously fed up with Agenda Monkeys, "progressives", and now Utopians in particular. But, in a vacuum Utopians would provide a valuable service: surrendering goods without a fight.

[See later: Lambs to Wolves (2017)]

2/3/10: Quartzsite, AZ-Preacher, Lex, & Val

Leaving the Oasis, we almost immediately had a ride into Niland. The folks running the Karma Kitchen were driving vanloads of people into town to sign up for "government cheese" and offered us a ride. In the van were some teenagers I had yet to see during my stay, and I found it rather odd to see these kids signing up for public services, but it didn't bother me in the least in fact I was happy for them! "Bleed em dry!"

I chuckled as I recognized that, so far, my metaphysical senses had begun the year subordinate to the political/social ones rather than overshadowing them, as was the case in '09. This was an interesting balance.



Chris and I made our way to the south end of town, and set up shop to see how we'd fare tandem-hitching on this state road. We figured if nothing came of it, we could catch the dollar-bus toward Brawley in an hour or two. I was just as curious to watch Chris as I was to see how we'd travel together-or if we'd even get a ride!

I had repeatedly heard how he "was in no hurry" now. After hearing him profess his love for Sit Down & Shut Up, and even his attempted hijacking of The Side Car, I wanted to see it for myself! I've told Chris (with annoying frequency) that I would love to see what happened to him if he wasn't always "running somewhere." Considering it was Wednesday and that he had originally wanted the starting gun to sound on Sunday, I was open-minded about the possibilities. This could be cool.

Niland

With that as a backdrop, we threw our thumbs in the air unsure of what to expect. I was amused at how easy it was to settle into hitching! It had been 5-months, but it was immediately an old hat. We didn't sit there too long before Christian pulled over on his way to El Centro. He was the perfect way to begin the trek toward Phoenix; he was very friendly and the conversation quickly turned to society and politics. Not long after he dropped us off in Brawley we would be in The Preacher's truck heading east toward Blythe... and the theme would become blinding.

Brawley, CA

The Preacher

The Preacher is from Texas, and yes, he IS a preacher. One who swears profusely and loves pot. He himself had just left the Slabs and was on his way to Quartzsite, Arizona before returning to Niland the next day. He quickly offered to take us all the way to Quartzsite instead of Blythe, and I began to wonder if we'd make Phoenix that afternoon. He had a small pickup with a cab, and Chris chose to ride in the back with his two dogs, who would provide entertainment themselves!

He professed to be a man of God, but I would categorize him as a borderline revolutionary: disgusted with everything Federal Government, Democrat AND Republican- and quite loud about it. He did little to conceal his disgust for law enforcement as we stopped at the Border Patrol checkpoint-- so they could look at us and ask if we were citizens. Here was someone as offended by this arbitrary "papers please" bullshit as me! It set off a firestorm of conversation that lasted all the way to Arizona. I got a kick out of this middle-aged redneck. He was another of the people I've met with regularity all over the country for nearly two-years. He was pissed off and no longer suffered official, disseminated bullshit. He has equal hatred for each political party and, like many more than some are comfortable in admitting, is ready to do something about it even if that "something" is just withdrawing his support.

As he laughingly pulled a handgun from beneath his seat immediately after passing thru Border Patrol, I thought about the distinctions between he and the hippies/ pacifists preaching peace, love, drum circles, and Communitarian Responsibility. If there's ever a vacuum, are these the factions competing to fill it? Smart money's on the one willing to fight for himself, even if that means slapping the wrong people from time to time. Sorry, hippies. In that world, you're prey.

I greatly enjoyed this ride thru the Imperial Dunes then across the Colorado River back into Arizona. I was glad it was Chris sequestered in the back and not me! When we finally detrucked in Quartzsite, Chris realized that this was the guy to whom Melissa had handed the bunker when she left. Small world.

Imperial Dunes, CA

Lex & Val

From there, it looked good for Phoenix. We had a few more hours of daylight, were at a very busy intersection, and considering the events of the day so far, (remember, it had begun at Slab City's Oasis Club) it seemed to be shaping up as one of the "memorable" ones.

Chris had made a curious decision however; one that seemed a bit out of character for him. Quartzsite happened to be the winter home of his friends, Lex & Val, whom he'd met on his walk and met up with in Boise last September. It appeared to me that he was again simply favoring the sprint at the expense of looking around. I didn't think much of it at first, after all they were his friends and it was his business. We tried both the exit ramp and the truckstop, but things were now more challenging.

We considered hitching separately and things suddenly felt a lot like the Iowa 80. At some point, I asked Chris about his decision not to call his friends, who had made a point to tell him where they were and to look them up if he happened through. His reasoning was, "I don't know if they got my email" or something. It seemed ridiculous not to at least call and leave a message, and I told him so. I handed him my phone and he gave them a call. A short time later, Lex & Val were at the truck stop to presumably go for coffee or something. After chatting for a few minutes, we were reacquainted (I had met them both at Lynette's in Boise) and they whisked us off to the RV park where they spend their winters insisting that BOTH of us stay for the night, despite the fact that their son was also living there.

With their dog and cat, it was crowded! Even with this obvious inconvenience, their hospitality was the thing of legend! We were offered showers, which after a week at the Slabs I pounced on. Then began the conversations. Care to guess the topic? (Hint: It wasn't American Idol.)

I had heard much about Lex and Val from Chris over the last 2-years. Lex had spent years riding horses across the country to Idaho and spent his summers there. I learned this night that they escaped the communists in eastern Europe decades ago with Lex escaping a Russian concentration camp as a child in Czechoslovakia, finding his way to the US, and essentially being enslaved by people HERE as a result! Val had a similar experience escaping Romania. Now retirement age, these two delightful people have worked hard and paid their dues only to be rewarded for their service to society much the same as everyone else: with a smack to the face and a struggle to keep afloat. Enter-- the chat.

Even by my standards, Lex is passionate. He's not shy about telling you what he thinks and, like everyone else I seem to run into: PISSED! He told us several times that being "out there" we "see things as they really are." I absolutely agree with that and have tried to explain it to dozens of people- usually to no avail. He got it with no solicitation.

Again, the theme held serve. I was witnessing venomous dissent; another call to tear it down. The difference here was that these were NOT radicals living out in the desert. These were not gun-totin' ultra-conservative separatists up in Montana. Here was a couple who should be enjoying retirement who instead have their adult son living with them as all three struggle to keep it going.

Like many others I have encountered, they did everything they were told and expected to do. And, for what? That question has NEVER been sufficiently answered. The pattern was undeniable. The cacophony getting louder.

As I curled up on the floor of their little RV and dozed off, I was getting an idea of what was happening. The Plebeians are stirring. Stirring despite being ignored; stirring independently of the Patricians. Once outside the media/ social bubble, you'd need to be blind and deaf not to notice. It also seemed apparent, based on the past couple of years and these familiar moments of human synchronicity, that things were aligning. I even pointed out to Chris that we had seemingly "combined our experiences." I now know what these significant events and people look like; this Wednesday seemed FULL of them and Chris had been part of it. All we had to do was relax and let it gel. The problem with that? The "we" part...

2/3/10: Slab City-Ray's Camel

Wednesday's plan:

1- Chris and I awaken at 6am
2- Coffee at the Oasis Club
3- Catch one of the two early buses going south from Niland to Brawley
4- Hitch east to Blythe, CA and I-10 toward Phoenix

Surprisingly, it didn't stray far off course, with one colossal unforeseen exception. Ray was also up before the sun and joined us at the Oasis for coffee. I was surprised at how many Slabbers turned out, before remembering that most sacked out by 8 or 9! As had been the case since Sunday, the Oasis clenched on to us. Before I knew it, it was 9:00 and it would be at least midday before we caught a bus.



Moth eventually joined a few others congregated around a table having some surprisingly provocative conversations. I participated a little, choosing instead to mostly watch and listen.

I'm not typically impressed by those who consider themselves "progressives" (hippies), and I generally find anarchists ridiculous, especially when babbling about Utopian solutions that require organization or cooperation!

These folks, however, couldn't be characterized so conveniently- despite showing hints of both. There was an articulated, angry social consciousness lightly resonating through the Oasis that morning; something familiar. It was that "something" that I'd found from California to North Dakota to North Carolina, and had hoped to find in abundance at The Slabs. Here it was.

It's amazing what you find when you position yourself to see it. Slab City is NOT simply full of rubes on the run from statutory rape charges or hiding from child support. In fact, they are just as informed- and far more insightful than the generic CNN junky watching from his furnished cage. I would also wager that the typical "aware" Slabber's tendency toward defiance and independent critical thought had most likely made him incompatible with Dialectic Parrots simply squawking manufactured talking points.

In fact, that's exactly why many make their home in the desert. They could not be told what to think or who to be. The more I listened to these folks and chatted with Mike Bright, the more this trait became apparent.

With that, an exciting, yet troubling, theme quickly became apparent and continued for the foreseeable future; something I first (ignorantly) attributed to the locale: more tangible rage, frustration, and mocking ridicule directed at the government and its minions. And, in a far greater degree than last Fall. This would be the catalyst for some mini-drama later on.

As we were enjoying the atmosphere of the Oasis, Ray produced an article written about him for Chris to read. To this point, I hadn't been impressed with Ray's walk. It reminded me of Chris': achievement for ego's sake. It also reminded me of Gary and the King of Cliches Stephen Newman-- I'm keenly wary of "cause jockeys!" Take mental note of that for later.

Part of this was Ray's fault. He has a story; the details of which he'd failed, until now, to mention. One whose coincidence I would scarcely have believed and, once learned, commanded my immediate interest, and more importantly: respect. The regular reader knows that is no small thing!

When Chris had finished, he emphatically told me that I "needed" to read it.

In a nutshell, Ray spent many years as a Judgment Enforcement Officer; basically a repo-man for the courts. He would attempt to coerce payment, then seize property...even evicting people from their homes...because it was his job description.

"Just following orders; just a job." Exaggerated Nuremberg comparisons could be made, but he was good at it. He'd earned the nickname The Reaper. All considered, it's remarkable that I could muster ANY respect for him, but we also shared a favorite Bible verse and an affinity for camels:

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God." -Matthew 19:24

Remember that? At some point, Ray had a powerful epiphany as a direct result of this verse. However, he took the rare step of fully putting the entire story into context, thereby making it more than a superficial, abstract idea resulting in little more than eloquent lip service. In response to a question asking what the wealthy man's to do in order to become "righteous", Jesus is said to have replied, "Go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor... and come and follow me." Sound familiar?

That's exactly what Ray claimed he'd done. Yes, he sold nearly everything-and gone beyond. If I recall correctly, he signed his house over to a domestic violence shelter.  

He gave his house away. 

I read that he described it as "raising $100,000 before taking a step." To hear him tell it, he simply couldn't deal with what he had done in the name of "Mammon", and was in a sense paying penance. I found it remarkable that I had no idea Ray was religious in any way, and in fact I wonder after my own experience if "religious" is the applicable term. There was no preachiness about him; he played the role of a dude just doing what he does.

If possible, his humility may have been to a fault in the sense that I nearly missed his fundamental foundation. The "world record" and sponsors took center public stage whereas, to me, triggers are far more impressive. It's just one man's opinion and observation, but I believe these "triggers" run directly to my oft-mentioned Splinter in the Mind, The Voice, Nosce Te Ipsum, Vitam Impendere Vero, and many other ideas that I've "ranted" about here and other places.

After Andre and the aforementioned winter struggles, this coincidence was staggering. I wanted to pick his skull, exchange ideas, and decipher what exactly he hoped to find... if he even knew himself.

I wondered about the events of synchronicity that he may have experienced. I wondered if he had thought about the notion of being driven by a vision to a place still to be determined. I wanted to investigate that curious, familiar blend of ego and spirituality!

Before me was a guy who had taken the difficult step of an honest, brutally difficult inventory; he would likely be equipped to offer honest insights free from a comfortable Quixotic reality!

What did I do? I made sure he had a link to my Pondering Camels post and suggested that he read up on Andre. After all, Chris and I had a bus to catch!

Obviously, on an ordinary day I would have let Chris resume alone while remaining in Niland. I didn't. I ignored further exposure to another of these timely, significant people like Leslie, Andre, Pastor Snake, etc. in favor of predictably rehashing and reliving the past. I robbed myself of the possibility of meeting other Slabbers who may have turned into valued new friends in favor of recycled conversations and rationalizations; repeated results.

Of course, at the time I was having my own rationalization field-day. "Hey, this could be different than before. Maybe the conversations will bear fruit again!"


Before having too much fun at my expense, despite originally calling this decision a mistake I don't believe that it was. Wednesday morning was the first of a double-fisted event; the "beginning" I had sensed coming a month before--yet beyond the traditional meeting of a person with similar views and guided by a vision or The Voice. Ultimately, it would serve as a reminder of who I was, and what the hell I was doing!

In order to further bust out of this funk of self-doubt, I needed to experience the second half: the "ending" to this "beginning." As usual, I'd require reflection time to piece it together, and would have it forced upon me in the same way as Port Townsend. And, as usual, I would happen right in front of me, despite my blindness and egoistic objections!

As Chris and I left Ray, The Oasis, and Slab City behind, Shakespeare's famous line from The Tempest rumbled quietly in my subconscious: What's past IS indeed prologue!

2/2/10: Slab City-Deaf, Dumb, and Blind

Since 2008, there have been surprisingly few significant slip-ups when it comes to following that "Voice." I've been fortunate enough to catch myself at the last moment, or rescued by serendipity and subtle nudges from others. This was not to be the case this week. Mistakes would be made. They were significant. They were valuable. They were mine. All mine. If, while at Slab City, I had been focused and not creating my own doubt-induced Quixotisms, the next several days would look far differently than they shall instead lay out before you!


Over the winter, I had slowly lost my footing atop my foundation and my grip on the compass. Self-doubt cast a cloud of confusion and cost me the ability to both listen to and trust myself. There had long been a sense of stirring; even before the fact Slab City felt to be the site of significance. Endings or beginnings; not ones necessarily pleasant. The aroma of both foreboding AND excitement emanated around this visit, but being rusty, barely tuned-in, and clinging to sadly antiquated thinking, I based my observations upon lazy, short-sighted, and familiar assumptions- rather than staying grounded in reality and observing the obvious: fundamentals had been altered and flimsy foundations crumbled beneath the dead-weight of ego and rationalization. The remnants would be hastily pasted together using even more verbal gymnastics only to be quickly brushed aside by a swift, obvious metaphorical smack in the face. I'll clarify these thick sentences in time. For now, suffice it to say that this first week of February was both: an ending and a beginning. To the details...

I awoke immediately feeling quite guilty about barking at Kari the night before! That was, thankfully, put to rest when I was assured that she was indeed acting... I'll translate to: "unsavory." My impressions confirmed, I immediately felt much better. Kari, in fact, made her way over to visit Rael. She was smitten! Refusing to speak to anyone but Rael; her defiant display and the fabricated tension were both inappropriately amusing! Kari then announced, loudly, that she was off to presumably seek her intrepid adventure in Los Angeles. I figured this was the last I'd see of her. I was OK with that.

As Tuesday got underway, Chris hankered to get his "still not in a hurry" move-on, despite what appeared to be a blossoming situation. I on the other hand was NOT eager to leave! Slab City and I liked each other, and I thought highly of most of the people I'd met. At the time, this was secondary to the sense that there were interesting possibilities afoot with Chris, and I wanted to see them through.

The last time we had traveled together, outside of a night in Idaho, was way back in July at the Iowa 80. This ended with the disclosure that I was, literally, dreaming of punching Chris in the mouth. I wondered, had anything really changed? In the 3-full days I had been in the desert, the only noticeable changes in Chris were his new VisionQuest Narrative (now not going to Mexico), and instead of heading west, toward Denver or Port Townsend, he was running east toward treasures surely buried near San Antonio. Sure, he had stayed a couple extra days, but the efforts felt contrived and the results had little tangible effect. Rather than the actual experience being the texture, they appeared to be held as incidental at best; secondary. Useful only if confirming and/ or conforming to the pre-scripted scenario. Nothing deviating from the Heroic Epic would be suffered for long!

Don Quixote lives! Call me Sancho.

Around midday, Rael joined Chris and I on the 3-mile hitch into Niland where the two of us would presumably begin hitching toward Phoenix. I rationalized it away by pointing out that I could exchange my boots at R.E.I. The rubber had already begun separating from the leather, which WAS ridiculous considering how little wear they had, but it could have waited... for weeks if not months. I was simply trying to convince myself that it was a "sign" that the dead dog could still hunt. Behold: The Power of Bullshit! Damn windmills. We had a ride into Niland before even leaving Slab City.

Our first stop was Niland's library which is funded by Imperial County. The county, like the rest of the state, is insolvent. I learned of the county's fiscal folly because Tuesday is one of the two days their little library was open. And, big news: it wasn't to be that way for long. Earlier, a TV news crew appeared in town asking how the library's March closing would affect locals. Niland is a decrepit, dusty, dirty little place on the shores of the largest engineering snafu (The Salton Sea) in history. It has nothing to speak of, other than meth and its proximity to Slab City. I felt for these people losing their little library. You could see a resignation in the fact that Niland's residents really don't matter to anyone. At least they have meth! And panhandlers. One, a particularly aggressive and annoying tweeker.

With Chris checking the Internet, Rael and I headed to the little diner for lunch, where we were pleasantly surprised to again see the unnamed, congenial hottie from the night before. Our plan was to get a "real meal" at the diner, which Rael did, but by now I was realizing how much money I'd wasted. I decided to apply a new found discipline by depriving myself... of food. My idiocy is astounding.

Back at the library after an orange juice, root beer, and splashing warm running water (woohoo!) over my head while cursing the fact I had hair, I learned that there was extensive public transit running through Imperial County. Really? They can't keep this dumpy little library open, but I can hop a southbound bus to Brawley or even all the way to the BORDER at El Centro... AND FOR A BUCK? Well, shit. To hell with hitching! We concluded that we'd be better served getting up and taking an early bus on Wednesday. I was feeling frequent, and now-familiar twinges of dismay about leaving, so staying another night set nicely with me and delayed dealing with that little conflict and in the end provided me the opportunity to rationalize it away with, "at least there's one more night here."

The three of us had begun the hitch back to the Slabs, and imagine our surprise when Kari zipped by us, on her way TO Slab City... hours after her supposed exit to the big city! "What happened to LA?" we asked between laughs. It never occurred to me that she could have at least given Rael a ride, but almost immediately after she and her horn-highlighted passive-aggression sped by, we got a ride back with Kevin. I like that Kevin.

Not surprisingly, Tuesday came to a close at the Oasis around another fire. Kari apparently had trouble navigating to both LA and the cigarette store! She would periodically show up, bum a cigarette, sit there long enough to supposedly keep up appearances... despite saying NOTHING other than, "give me a cigarette"... then vanishing until she needed another. I'm glad I quit smoking; another "go fuck yourself" would have likely found its way into conversation.

The three of us returned to Rael's spot, setting the clock for 6am. Wednesday would be even more eventful; one of those days that set tones which would resonate and rearrange things down the calendar...