Gotham, Gauteng

Lightning strikes Hillbrow Tower in Gauteng. Photo credit: GoodThingsGuy.com

Orange streetlights spill into the darkness. The robot turns red. Shift down, accelerate, fly through. A driver never stops in this city.

Lightning strikes sideways across the sky, and a single bolt strikes at the needle-like tower at the city center. No one blinks.

On a quiet side street, a constant buzz. On top of the walls of each house hums a trio of electric wires. In the next neighborhood over, bottle shards top the walls. Unannounced visitors should knock first.

Along the roadside, open fires burn, melding eerily with the dim streetlights. Two shadowy figures huddle amidst the swirling smoke. It will be a cold night.

As the sun rises, the streets teem with activity. Fruit trees shine in their green glory. Buses hurtle past, screeching to a stop as passengers flash hand signals to the driver. Students trot to school in uniform. Fruit vendors fill the sidewalk. Tradesmen hawk their wares at the traffic light. Walking past a seemingly empty lot one peers over the fence to see a swarm of people, working below ground to erect a massive skyscraper. This city is surging forward, unified in the belief of the freedom to make a rand on the Witswatersrand. This is the City of Gold, dug from the bowels of the earth, laid brick by brick, a bustling place at the heart of the province with nearly the same name: 

Welcome to Gotham, Gauteng.

Jo-burg CBD

It is a city with Two Faces. The Gau-train rumbles past handsome estates, shack cities and belching coal plants.

It is a city of Jokers with international acclaim, Riddled with opportunity and ridden with crime.

Its wild Penguins cannot be trusted, their tuxedos and suits merely a guise for greed and corruption.

It is the ultimate Scarecrow, whisking away potential visitors with violent lullabies.

If you live nearby, you avoid a visit.

If you visit Gotham, you leave in a hurry.

If you live in another city, you know every reason why Gotham is the world's most miserable place to be. After all, you could die there.

But those who ride its streets know that the city's richness doesn't just come through the gold pumping through its subterranean veins.

Here, segregation is broken by the hilly landscape, with no mountains to separate people.

The entire continent flocks to Gotham's doorstep.

This is where music is made.

Where cultures collide.

Where languages are born. After all, Sifanakaloku - we are all the same.

Yho! Here was the very origin of humankind!

And in the spring - every tree is set ablaze with the purple petals of a million Jacaranda trees.

In the day Gotham comes to life.

But every night, this city needs a superhero.

Mother City, Sister City

I’m a big gardener. I love to watch the hummingbird and monarchs flit from flower to flower, and when I can, I like to add a new vine or shrub for them to enjoy. When I can account for rain, that is.

This week’s projections of rain were a welcome sight, but as yesterday came and went we were left with a whopping 0.04 inches. A pittance! And a pittance is the norm. In the last decade our frequency of wet years has halved to once every four years. It’s feeling awfully dry.

Wild Watsonias at Blue Gums, Cape Town

Fortunately, we are in a shared situation. At the opposite end of the globe, the Mother City of Cape Town, South Africa is wrestling with drought. They deal with the same Mediterranean climate as we do in San Diego, California – dry summers, wet winters. Well, usually wet winters – up to 31 inches, triple that of San Diego.  Just like us, Cape Town has had to learn to store enough water to get through the summer – and the occasional drought. Sitting at the tip of Africa, the City is highly isolated and surrounded by desert, without the opportunity to import supplies from distant watersheds.

Cape Town is also in the running for the world’s most beautiful city. It sits at the foot of a majestic mountain on the edge of the ocean, surrounded by abundant flora like their hundreds of native orchid species. I had the good fortune of living there and enjoying their sweet water. I worked with a team of lumberjacks to remove invasive plants which were drying up a mountainside creek that we called Blue Gums. We didn’t have pipes, just the clouds as they crashed into the peak of Cape Point and replenished the flow. With the trees cleared, the stream turned to a creek, rushing down the mountainside into the crashing waves.

Boulder Creek in San Diego, Feb 2018

The creek at Blue Gums is now just a trickle, in Cape Town’s current drought conditions. And the pipes that feed the city are similarly running dry. Here in San Diego, while the coastal areas have only received rain twice since last May, the mountain areas hold out with a small trickle, like this creek flowing from Cuyamaca Peak.

The future is uncertain, and yet we optimistically act as though we can forecast the next rain. In Cape Town, they are down to the wire, with less than 100 days left before the City turns of the taps. And with that kind of pressure, people are getting creative. This weekend, the Science Center is holding an event to “Hack the Water Crisis” to involve everyone in finding creative solutions to last the City until the wet season.

Capetonians made the mistake of fully relying on their City Supply, without taking responsibility for individual consumption. They waited until the last minute, and are running out of time. In San Diego, we have the benefit of last year’s bountiful rain. We should take advantage of the time that rain brought to us to adapt our own thirsty system to this new dry norm.

--

I’ll keep you up to date with any brilliant ideas from the Hack-a-Thon this weekend, the story of how we restored the stream at Blue Gums, and applications for our everyday lives here in California.

Flash Flood

Irrigation canal for desert agriculture. Mexicali, Baja California

It has been a very dry season - in our city of San Diego, and on this blog. This rainy season has hosted but one lonely storm. The cry of drought has yet to sound, perhaps because this is our new norm. In the last two decades, only three years have boasted above average rainfall.

This blog has lain dormant as well, but not for lack of activity. Since my last post on the shores of the Atlantic, the trail of the Aridland Ambassador has taken me to deserts, watersheds and visionary cities around the world. I have devoted myself to a career in water, working to restore abandoned streams and neglected inner-city creeks. And I have grown intellectually while studying hydrology and watershed science at San Diego State University.

The world seems to be descending into extremes, but there are so many ways for us to right the ship. Over the next few months I will begin blogging again, recollecting those memories from my time abroad [2013-2015] as an Aridland Ambassdor and my last three years learning about the Colorado River Watershed and the City of San Diego as a graduate student. Let it rain!

Music that inspired an adventure

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Music binds us with a power that lyrics alone lack.

Bombino tearing it up Tauregy...desertrancy dripping dancing at Tel Aviv's Barby

My parents raised us on a steady diet of green salad, fish tacos, and matzo balls. By the time of my sister and my Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, we had both graduated to a level of definite cultural tongue-tiedness. JewISHAMERicaNSOUTHafriCANMEXicANCALiforNian what?!?! At this rate, the only antidote was the World music we'd also been raised on. Brazilian beats, hippie strumming, Yiddishe wails, Cuban heat, South African thumps. Most of this stuff was in languages we didn't know a bloody syllable in. But we got damn good at gibberish, Tam and I. Skerbibelplex Amarat?!

Our parents were similarly confused, continent hoppers that they were. Yes, with each passing generation a few of our relatives had switched to another hemisphere (East Europe, Middle East, Southern Africa, North America). So it was okay that we were all listening to weird music that we didn't understand. It freed us to be what we were - mixed up and fused. And it inspired this trip.

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This music is all about fusion, and each of these artists had something to say about another culture of the world they encountered, from the Yoruban influence on Brazilian percussion, to the amaXhosa adaptation of Khoi Khoi and San (Bushman) clicks, the Middle Eastern bands drawing from the near east and North Africa, and our homegrown USA Neville Bros. calling to the oppressed peoples of the Caribbean and Africa. Rock on, World, Rock on!

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Here's the playlist:

1. Khoisan meets amaXhosa - CliQX like a bushman
2. New Orleans unites the Nations - Zydeco rally
3. Jewish Londoner turns to Le Zulu Blanc - Shake like Shaka
4. Yoruba bounces trans-Atlantic - Woo'ed by the latin suave
5. Arab Jew Who? - Le route de parfums sweetens the desert warmongers
6. Portugal's fun side - Everyone in Bahia sambas dia e noite!
7. Abassid-Yiddishe-Ladinos - the Israeli melting poitjie
8. Seattle's most popular percussion - Zimbabwe guitar stars

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The best things in life are ... $3

I'm a frugal fellow. More than that, I believe in the value of things money can't buy. The experience of Mother Nature's beauty, the taste of a wild blackberry, the honesty of a true friend. But even I have to admit, there are some great things you can buy for just 3 bucks! 

- Froyo for an awkward first date

- Coffee for a productive day

- A concert ticket in the 1950's

OR

- A trip around the world

Think of how far 3 bucks a day would go after say, a year...geez that's a grand. After three years, well that's enough to keep you going for a long while abroad. And with that treasure, you'll be happily welcomed by locals around the world who want to share in the good ol' American value of making dough.

4 months and 8 currencies into my trip, later I learned a few lessons to make that travel money stretch:

1. Ditch the capital fast.

There's plenty of culture and much better prices out of town.

2. Plane tickets are for layovers. Make the most of your trip's biggest cost. It's easy to arrange a multicity flight for the same price. You're probably going to be stick with a stopover anyways. Might as well extend it to a week or so to really see the place.

3. No taxis. At all. Make arrangements to avoid them, like finding when the transportation the locals use is available, or giving yourself more time to get somewhere.

4. For cheap options consider meeting new cityslickers (Couchsurfing.com), volunteer farming (WWOOF) or bringing a small tent. Hostels are a good backup and usually have good kitchens to help you save on food.

In the end, every penny you spend is a donation to a growing wannabeAmerican economy. Good on ya.

Sifting thru 8 currencies in just 4 months taught me the art of nomadic penny-pinching

P.S. If at the end of the day you find yourself in some weird scenario of having saved enough, but not having the guts to git going, make a deal with a friend to kick you in the arse if you stick around. Thanks for the help Timbo! Glad you didn't have to keep your side of the deal :)

Potomac Jazz

After than heart-stopping soul food brunch, the perfect welcome to Washington DC was some freshly washed greens. I rolled up to my cousin Jeni's place and was greeted by my aunt. It was so good to kick back and catch up with my little cousins after 10 hours driving on the road. They had meanwhile spent years drifting around the world after leaving South Africa, with no true home to go to. After a decade of efforts, DC had finally welcomed them, green cards and all.

We took advantage of the multicultural metropolis by taking a nature walk on Roosevelt Island, just a horn's honk away from the capital. Dreamy boardwalks twisted between yellow irises and drifting butterflies. e walked down a dreamy boardwalk as we approached the tribute to the conservationist president. Next we visited a tropical greenhouse, free of charge, and later the holocaust museum. On the banks of the Potomac, with kayakers rowing from under the bridge to Georgetown, I felt the collision and gathering of people and nature, both struggling and cooperating at once.

In Baltimore, a dear friend Helen was attending a Jewish farming conference and I was stoked to see both her and the fields in bloom. The road kept winding North, and it was just my luck that a fellow nature lover Adam had shacked up in rural Pennsylvania and was in need of a Toyota Camry to really keep his bluesy toes swinging at Philly get togethers. I swung into Avondale to check out his gorgeous water research station and enjoyed a late evening of fresh blueberies, homemade pickles, freshly baked pizza and latenight banjoed jams. The last time I was in New York I was a wee bleary-eyed 7, so I couldn't pass up a crisp bite of the Big Apple. Adam bought the Camry and I boarded a megabus, which fired me North again and soon I was in the subway, riding next to my dear ginger amiga Ionie. Since I'd last seen her, this fiery MexiJew had managed to tear into the New York music scene and was filming a music video...Hot October. Damn girl! I loved the vibes, and we met lots of chill New Yorkers as we shopped for props like records and lingerie. 

After my dose of Manhattan I buzzed off, snare drum in hand, for some city nature time. I ended up at a park in Chinatown where, beating on ny drum, I made friends with some chinese kids and played tag with them. All that running and I was sweating, so I went for a swim at Brighton Beach, where a Russian couple was having a proper fight, spitting and hitting and everything. Almost got some flem on me but, some salty seawater to float in and I was right as rain. As I got out, I passed by the apartment where my grandma had grown up, the daughter of Polish immigrants, before moving to little cowtown Davis, CA. With the glum buildings right before my eyes, I still couldn't make out the connection between the two places besides the constant motion west over land and sea.

Back in DC my Aunt and I went on a jazz hunt. We hit a luck at the Bohemian Caverns, a speakeasy built underground at a time when alcohol was prohibited, which apparently just inspired the musicians' creative juices more. This place was built like a cave, with dim lighting and plastered, rounded walls, and they packed a 17 piece band, a bar, and an audience of forty into this tiny space. The improv sax solos were unbelievable. It was a wonderful time to share with my Auntie.

From one coastal populace to another, these American cities seemed like empires in their own right, drawing up needy immigrants into somethhing mighty. Even Chicago on the great lakes seems to benefit from being at the water's edge, whether that is because that is where the land ends, or where the trade begins. We Americans also need to keep pulling in the needy who already are one of us.

I couldn't leave the country without one more musical note and in my favor, a live Brazilian Jazz band was filling the halls at Dulles Airport. On the evening of the last day of July, I boarded a plane and crossed the Atlantic.

Cheese to please! Nepalese shopkeepers were quite slim - lactose intolerance has its perks.

Rising South

Mighty Mississippi, even more glorious at sunset. It's so wide in parts, it seems like a sea.

Some may call me an African-American, because of where my Dad is from (though they might also be jealously referring to his gorilla-esque bounty of hair). Now this is a bit confusing for a relatively pink and freckly mongrel like me. But three years ago I looked myself in the mirror and admitted it, "Damn boy, you white!" And with a map in hand, I knew that the remedy was called Mississippi. Still today, nearly two centuries after the end of slavery, this state still has highest percentage of people of African descent and sadly is the poorest. Although the region was graced by the likes of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., its people are still struggling. I knew all I had was stats, and I wanted desperately to see what the place was really like.

The road took me through East Texas, across upper Louisiana and into the bayou. I hit Natchez, Mississippi at sunset, the river's girth splayed out like a placid bay. As the moon rose, I rushed to domed Temple B'nai Israel where I learn that Jews had been in Natchez since the late 1700's. My feelings were mixed though, when I read that some members of the community easily joined the ranks of superfluous and hierarchical white Southern society. In the Jewish community, in every place, there always seem to be leaders struggling for political goals at both ends of society. Before I pitched my tent, I insisted on a cleansing dip in the mighty river, but it turned out to be slimier than I could take and I bustled off to the campsite in the dark of night.

When I woke the next morning, I might have been in a jungle. Green light filtered through the leaves onto my tent screen, where a hand-sized spider was perched. Lord have mercy! Where water flows, life grows and boy had this creeper grown! Before I became its breakfast, I hustled onto the road in search of a local lunch. My car rolled between a cascade of white magnolia blooms, flourescent teal butterflies, and the radio's endless supply of heavenly gospel music. Jackson, MS, the state capital, impressed me with its handsome moulded architecture. And since it was Sunday, I was just in time for an endless soul food buffet brunch at Two Sisters. Okra, creamed corn, buns, sweet tea, fricasseed chicken, chicken fried steak, fried fried fried, sugar sugar sugar. Damn, it was good! I got to talking with a local bruncher, Brenda Mathis, whose best friend was an elderly Jacksonite and a Belgian Jew. She was enthralled with her life and her wisdom and filled my ears as much as I had filled my stomach. I promised that if in Belgium, I would greet her friend's loved ones.

Satisfied in belly and soul, I sped over to the next state capital, Montgomery. I have to say I have a thing for dark women, what with their sunblock-free superpowers, and I found myself hitting on a receptionist at the motel. It just hurt me to know that I might be the only one swimming at the pool, because I was the only one who could! I desperately tried to persuade her that I would give her a lesson, but she was scarred like so many are from a near-drowning experience of a loved one. No degree of humor could convince her that what she knew as such a dangerous place could actually be relaxing. In the morning I strolled around the city. For a place I had heard to be racist, it was easy to get along with people regardless of color. I was even impressed to find a self-guided sidewalk tour of Dr. King's marches. This educational homage to the great man convinced me further that in a segregated city, the segregated parts are the racist parts, but people always find a place to mix.

I had to run some errands, like going to prison. It was the only place where I could get my fingerprints stamped to become a true African-American, a South African Passport holder. I passed through some bars, sat on a metal stool and had an awkwardly tender moment with a gruff giant holding my hand, wrestling the ink onto the page. Across more bars another man sat, jailed. I'd never seen it before, and I grimaced at the deflated look on his face. It was back to the street for me, and I turned on the radio to be soothed and caressed by the cool voice of radio host. After he was done honeying up us listeners, he switched on THE TUNES WERE B^@$H F&$%ING S*@% loud. Praises! That hip hop was real. Good beats too.

Ahead lay a night in the Great Smoky Mountains with its chuckling crystal streams and belligerent touristy billboards. The road North.

Magical Drink Will Make You Grow!!

To my surprise, I'd felt most at home in the Mid-West. But as a liberal Californian, I couldn't have such high hopes for Texas. How would I survive? Despite my woes, the Lone Star state was smack dab in the middle of my cross-continental drive, and there was no missing it.

Luckily, I had someone familiar waiting for me on the other end. It was great to see my techie cousin David from hyper-liberal Davis, Berkeley's edible and political pantry. This smart guy had found a summer home for himself as an intern in Austin, and we had a good time touring Dallas's butter-heavy food scene together. Soon enough I'd found that this rival metropolis was actually darn close to my coastal hometown.

Turns out that San Diego and Dallas both have massive populations of nearly 2 million people, and both are positioned on either end of the arid Southwest. What was once a drab agricultural pitstop on the Friar's mission trail is now San Diego, the 8th biggest city in the U.S.. That's a lot of thirsty gullets to quench on the edge of the desert. Let's take a rough glance:

• 1870's 2,000        thirsty people
• 1900   20,000      thirsty people - an order of magnitude!
• 1940   200,000    thirsty people - another order!
• 1970's 750,000    thirsty people - 3x national growth rate!
• Today 1,500,000 thirsty people - doubled again!
  

(Rough #'s from San Diego History Center)

Yes indeed, every time another Texan moved to the beach, Diegan mayors and tycoons went hunting for water. Or was it the other way around? Either way, San Diego is water-limited, and its growth is water-induced.

Texas cruisin' babe! This country is BIG country, from its twangy radio to its open plains.

All of that thirst can really put a slice of stress in your piña colada; in drought years our stressed beachgoers have gone a bit wacky for rainmakers, inviting soothsayers like sewing machine salesman Charles Hatfield. But the real results seem to come from water projects. The most recent growth spurt in 1960 flowed in tandem with the construction of an aqueduct to the Colorado River. Today the Colorado River, in the desert on the other side of the mountains, is the lifeline of the city, from which the vast majority of San Diegans drink. Now that sounds like a crockpot idea to me too.

And since I'm from a city of sunburnt crockpots, I'll be dammed if I don't think outside of the pipe. Why don't we try catching our rainwater or coastal fog, and recycling the runoff from our lovely lawns? We could take a hint from the Israelis or the Namibians, who can't really ignore the fact that they live in the desert and have been relying on drip irrigation and wastewater recycling for decades. I may not be dressed in suit and tie, but all this desert wanderer wants is water, please! No ice :)

Homey Oklahoma

In the crossroads of America, where semitrucks thunder past likes sports cars to the radio's twang of Country music, I paused for a break. My mom's California college buddy David had lived in LA, tried it out, said the hell with Hollywood superficiality and headed home to Tulsa, OK where the streets are tidy, the people polite, and life is comfy. The Finers opened their home to me and I eagerly took shelter from the summer monsoons behind me in their comfy abode.

David treated me to some nice Southern barbeque (funnily familiar to my Polish Grandma's brisket), and we wound between the heavily forested city just enjoying the general calm. For my city thrills I stopped by the memorial of the federal building terrorist bombing, artfully presented, and an art gallery of Native American works from across the continent which was assembled to educate the ignorant Italians and other Europeans about the immense diversity of this land. 

After a good day's rest we hit the lake, a massive man-made string of freshwater fingers. I put my surfing skills to the test and started wakeboarding, jumped off a massive cliff with a hideously girlish scream, and realized this wasn't anything near the dry prairie I'd imagined. Even though I'd always thought the ocean was what made me feel centered, it was easy to feel at home in the middle of the middle of things.

 

David and I dig into a Southern barbeque feast! Pickled chiles a must.  

NEWS FLASH! DUST BOWL FLOODS!

July 17, 2013

CHEYENNE, OK - Rapid flooding swept over the plains of western Oklahoma this morning, as the United States' historic "Dust Bowl" transformed into a mucky claybed. Foolish Californians bore the brunt of the trauma, as one bleary-eyed San Diegan explains.

"Man I was like sleeping and then I woke up and then it was like, whoa my tent is squishy man. And then like I got out and the whole tent it like, went up and started floating. Dude, I've never slept on a water bed until like, last night!" Joel Kramer stammered.

Local residents were also on the scene, such as rancher Dale Pierce, whose neighbor had lost a cow to the nearby woods in the precipitous confusion. According to Mr. Pierce:

"Climate change." 

And more elaborately, "It hasn't rained here in 100 days, and now, in the middle of summer? Sho is strange. Creek's been dry e'ry summa since 2010 now. Fact is, last time we got storms like this was back in '88. Boy, you musta been a young thing then."

Black Kettle National Grassland in Western Oklahoma was the site of historic massacres by the U.S. Army of native plains Indian families. White settlers later took the fall when intense droughts turned their grassland farms and open skies into a snowglobe of black powder. Today, cattlemen like Pierce struggle with national entities like the Forest Service which claim access to waterways for ecological conservation. Wild hogs in the area mowed the forest to stubs, and a series of fires and droughts have ferried in the invasion of dryland mesquite shrubs.

With pots and plates on his car roof to catch washing water, the oblivious Kramer shares his wisdom, "Like - don't camp on clay where's it's all flat when you're like, next to a swamp. Yeah!"

 

Drenched marshland campsite pitched by none other than this foolish Californian

Heartland

The lungs of the country stir with the whirring of windmills. Rainy roads glisten with the setting sun. Dusk settles like dust on the prairie.

Spurting through the muddy tracks, my messy tires slide into the campground. A half moon lights the dusky sky. Fireflies scatter between the trees. Grasshoppers spring staccato from the switchgrass. Soil glows as vermilion as a summer sunset.

On my humble stove, rice, beans, a shiny jalapeno. I eat on a damp bench, my nostrils steam with the chile's Mexican heat. For so long I have clung to other cultures, Mexican, South African, Israeli, Canadian, English, clinging to anything that made me feel more significant than the estranging America around me.

I sip black tea. I smoke my cigar. Animals call in the night, darkness surrounds my small tent, and I relax. I am home in my camp. In my America.

Breaking Bad on the Ground

Gabi and I would do anything for the best TV Show on earth. So we saddled up and rode through Indian Country and highland desert to Albuquerque, New Mexico in search of Breaking Bad. Luckily, we were rewarded with a nice milkshake at Los Pollos Hermanos, A.K.A. Twisters! We hit up a couple of other essential spots, like the Irish lawyer Saul Goodman's office (a bar), a massive warehouse (a massive broken down warehouse) and Jesse's Crossroads Motel (the Crossroads Motel). Yup, turned out Albuquerque was in fact a bit shady. Desert. Drugs. Immigration infighting. BUT, we had the idyllic Santa Fe, NM just down the road to help us enjoy the scenery.

Gabi lookin' tough next to her hefty sidekick at Walter & Gus's favorite rendezvous. (above)

Ancient Pueblo architecture lives on in the touristy "Spanish" style of Santa Fe, NM (below)

The cubic adobe architecture in Santa Fe was very unique. I liked the cool feeling inside the thick-walled buildings, the beams sticking out of the finely plastered stucco, and it made me wonder how the Spanish so cleverly adapted to the local climate. After all, it couldn't have been the natives who had devised such practical yet attractive engineering. However, we were enlightened from our trip to the dusty, barren and friendly Hopi Nation, where this architecture was the staple. Yes indeed, while the tourists walked the streets and enjoyed the supposedly Spanish style, it was in fact the indigenous pueblo-dwellers who engineered and mastered the craft. These original architects belonged to the same community who, when faced with the Spanish, lost their women to rape, their artifacts to bonfires, their lives to the gun barrel. 

The abuse and theft dealt by the Spanish was nothing unusual for the Hopi and other Pueblo tribes. These farming natives had defended their precious desert riverbeds for centuries against the onslaught of the warrior Navajo. The Hopi relied on the techniques of dryland farming, while the Navajo hunted wild game, and the two peoples fell into natural roles of hunter and hunted. The Navajo would attack the Hopi pueblos to steal from their granaries, forcing the Hopi to build their villages on flat-topped hilltops (mesas) and hire mercenaries to guard the entrances. In their ancient way, they continued to farm, and the feeling of their tightly-bound community contrasted greatly with the spacious and disjointed feeling on the Navajo Res.

Although the Navajo have the largest American Indian reservation in the mainland U.S., equipped with a multi-campus university system, the community there felt broken. Gabi and I drove through the flat valleys lined with buttes on our way to the Canyon de Chelly. We passed an old woman with a cane and couldn't miss the opportunity to give someone a lift. This seemingly sweet woman hopped in and soon enough, we found ourselves at a gas station buying beer for her "sick brother". We stopped at the university, the whole campus as quiet as the library, and by the time night fell we'd barely seen anyone. The natural beauty kept us afloat and before long we got lost on a spider web of deep sandy roads in a magnificent thunderstorm.

All this worked up an appetite.

Albuquerque's best chilli feast in the back of a florescently-lit pharmacy

The hectic history had my hot head aching, and moreso my stomach. We set off in search of satiating spice and lo and behold, ran into the bearded shark scientist Dovi Kacev. He was, of course, visiting the interior Southwest to lecture to freshwater fish researchers. His communication expertise was invaluable as we asked a couple of tattooed cholos where to get lunch. And of course the answer was in the back of a nearby pharmacy. While this sounded like the start to a drug deal, we were in Breaking Bad land so, what the hell, we followed the enchiladas.

By god that was chilli. We got to the pharmacy, walked in through the doors and, with florescent lights beaming down, sniffed our way to the back of the store where a full-fledged traditional Mexican restaurant was dishing out bunuelos and salsas like mañana had come early. We needed the fuel because I was about to drive Gabi to the airport for a sad goodbye. What a great journey together through our beautiful Southwest!

Shady parking lot in Gallup, NM; Chinese goods rumble across the tracks. Meth country.

With the sharp crack of a cowboy's whip, the thunderous wind spurred dust and alamo leaves across the riverbed. I hurriedly gathered firewood for the wet desert journey ahead. In the midst of it all, my friend Surprise (Simangele) called from distant California, asking where I might be. Scurrying into my car, I was enamored with the West, its winds, its untameable wildness.

Dry Humor

The most treacherous rains I've ever been in were in the middle of summer, on a lake, in the desert (Santa Rosa, NM). These jokes are inspired by that night of which I tried to make light.

Got something funny to say? Just add a comment on the blog. That ain't no joke!

~
   
Why don't fir trees grow where cacti do? 
The desert ain't no place for softies.

~

Three guys walk across the desert in search of water - a bedouin, a Spanish missionary, and a Namibian bushman. They reach a saloon in Arizona and take a seat at the bar.
The bushman takes a sip of amarula and asks the Spaniard, "Xqolope tciqxa xco axaxfqao he?" Meaning: What have you gotten up to on your journey?
Being a man of the well-travelled Catholic church, the Spaniard understands, sips his tequila and replies, "Eh, you know, spreading the word of Christ, son of Abraham, by song or by sword. Un dia normal."
With a little too much arak in his system, the bedouin is alarmed. "Walla! You must mean Mohammad, son of Abraham!"
Harrumphs the bushman, "Xqho!" - The gods must be crazy!
And he walks swiftly back home across the Bering strait.

~
   
This Yiddishe joke is also a true story.

Why did the Rocklins leave kneidls, knishes, and kreplach of their cozy shtetl in mother Russian for the godforsaken Sonoran desert? The Czar. He was feeling moody so they wanted to keep their distance.

~

The city we know as Sin City in English has a very different facade in its Spanish. Las Vegas actually means...fertile valley. Now how could that be? Was that business foresight, or an outright mistake?
I say, blame it on the Vikings.
See, those horny seamen started off in Iceland looking for a place to chill, and found out it was covered in boiling lava. Then they went to Greenland looking for some good farmland and froze their butts off. Before they turned into human icicles they decided they'd find a nice pasture to avoid the rough weather they had been through. With the last of their savings, they set off for Las Vegas. But, when they arrived and found it was a desert, they just started gambling!

Still today, you can see the evidence at the Sons of Norway Lodge.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!

~
   
The tortoise and the hare have some cousins down south, and they love to race just as much as their northern cousins Franklin and Fluffy.

So, back in Tucson, the gun fires and desert tortoise and desert hare wobble and hop across the sand. The desert hare is ahead, making great progress at night. He reaches the edge of a mesa and spots the finish line when, a coyote pounces on him and turns the desert hare into lunch. With that, the worn, coyote falls sound asleep for a siesta on his ACME pillow.
Fortunately, desert tortoise is finally ahead for once. As he reaches for the trophy at the finish line he hears, lo and behold... Meep meep!

Moral of the story? Hyper, flightless birds always win the race.
 

~    

A cowboy, Bruce Wainwright treks out west from his ranch in Colorado, in search of some good farmland along the banks of his home river, the Colorado. Between the tumbleweed (Salsola tragus) and sand dunes, he beings to lose hope. After months of weary travel, he finds himself in Yuma, Arizona, at the delta of the great river.
"Well, well, well...what do we have here!"
That red water and sandy soil might as well have been gold.
Then, on the other bank he sees someone roll up wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops.

"Boy, what kind of boots are those?" teases Wainwright.
"Enough to give a good kick" responds the Casual Friday stranger. "What do you call this thing?"
"This here's the mighty Colorado." jeers Wainwright.
"Patented!" yelps Casual Friday. "Surf's up!" He tosses something across the water. Bruce grabs it with his lasso...a business card:

BARRY WAVERIGHT
River Acquisition Specialist
Gnarly Biotechnics, Inc.
San Diego, CA

"Aw, shucks!" scowls Wainwright.
And with that, San Diegans extended their life another 12 years.

~

Still wondering why Native Americans are called Indians? Because they are!
Looking for proof? Try eating some fiery chili in a summer desert monsoon and you'll start wondering, (thought bubble) "how in the hell did I get here?"

~

After a good winter rain, a few cacti take a long drink, and store up the courage to head over to the saloon to hit on some hot desert dames. The saguaro sidles, the barrel rolls, and cholla jumps over to hit on a smoking hot mesquite babe, but these well-hydrated cacti are just too cool for her.
"I like my cactus men tough and prickly" she says.
So, desperate and desolate, they wait.

And wait. Summer hits and they finally feel dry enough for at least one of them to get lucky.
"Should we go?"
"Hey, why not."
They start to head over to the saloon. But, mid-sidle, roll and jump, a summer monsoon hits.

Some things are better during a drought.

~  

And now to honor our Spanish-speaking brothers and sisters from across the Rio Grande:
  
Esta mediodía.

¡Knock-knock!
- Where you at pal? Let's get lunch! Si estas en casa, dime lo que si!
...Silencio...
Otra vez, ¡Knock-knock!

   
Mas tarde.
   
¡Knock-knock!
- Hola gringo como andas!?
- Donde fuiste el mediodía?
- Como dijiste gringo, siestas. Su casa es mi casa, pero fijate, mi cama es mi cama. jajaja

Happi Nation

Weds, July 10

It's sunrise at the Hopi Cultural Center. Yesterday Dion Dashee told me a story, and in Hopi fashion, I am going to run the story over to you.

Of course, the story begins with the Gods, but luckily, these kachina Gods were most interested in food. When the kachinas of the desert southwest were choosing the destiny of the people of the region, they began by handing out cobs of corn to the various communities. Long and yellow went first. Then red corn, purple kernels. As each different type of corn was handed out to the farmers of the desert, the Hopi waited patiently for their turn. Big kernels. Next, sweet corn. Finally, it was Hopi's turn, and all that was left was a stubby blue cob. But the kachinas were reassuring - the Hopi life would be a life full of hard work, but they would always be provided for. They were the chosen people.

Still today, most Hopi food is blue - Blue pancakes, blue eggs, blue bread, blue stew. But the Hopi themselves weren't blue at all - I found them quite friendly and welcoming...Happy.

---

A few days before, Gabi and I had started our adventure in San Diego. It was the midst of summer and we were experiencing dreadful coastal temperatures of 75 degrees F. We left the comfort of the marine layer and with the help of my little 2000 Camry, rumbled over the mountains and into the Sonoran desert. Before dinner we had already reached sand dunes straight out of Aladdin!

footsteps proceed into barren dunes fruitful with adventure

As we scampered down the road, we came across the most American emblem of the desert ... meep-meep! The roadrunner calmly sidled off to the side as we frantically looked behind us, expecting it to sprint. The locals keep it cool in the desert. Little did we know the ruckus that would await us that evening. As we tried to enjoy our riverside Colorado campsite, a bunch of river hicks blasted their awful pop-rock into the night, but the swim the next morning made the rough night all worth it. 

The next day we hit the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen - Red Rock country, Sedona, Arizona. It looked like the basis for that Disneyland ride Thunder Mountain except, there were no vendors, no sidewalks, no trains...just towering sculpted red rocks surrounding the cottonwood-studded creek in the dim dusk light. We had already driven 500 miles and we decided we'd stick around Sedona for a couple of days. 

In Sedona we met a couple of interesting folks. There was the bear-like hippie in a monster truck, ex-San Diego North Parker named Truly. We met him after a magnificent sunset hike to chimney rock. My right hand was full so I gave him a hug with my left arm. Earlier that day I asked a plain old son-of-a-settler-looking ranger about campsites in Navajo Country, and he gave us a mysterious name that would take us on a wild roadrunner chase - Roeena Jackson and her sisters ... the Jackson 5.

The next day we indulged with some Dairy Queen and, much more refreshing, a dip into Slide Rock Park. This gem was filled with naturally occurring water slides, and cliffs to jump from, all of which were subsequently filled with cute families. We were absolutely refreshed and ready to move North to the Grand Canyon and Indian country.

When Gabi and I reached the Grand Canyon, the sun was getting low. We read some frightening signs about deaths in the Canyon, then grabbed a flashlight (just in case) and set out. There it stood in the evening light, a perfect perch on top of a ridge. We made ambled down the stony trail, and sat on the throne to watch as the sun set at ground level above us.

Looking out over the Grand Canyon the next day, Gabi found ourselves suddenly surrounded by a horde of Israeli tourists. When they realized I could speak some Hebrew, we all got chatting. Then, in a few moments they were gone, ephemeral as the water which carved out the Grand Canyon, yet with the same deep impact that made me feel at home. Another chosen people, on their own mission, however theirs involved an air-conditioned tour bus.

fitting my small self into the Grand Canyon mold ~ a sense of pure tranquility at sunset

As we said farewell to our Semitic friends, we drove East into the Indian yonder. We entered a place of wide desert expanses, horizons interrupted by mesas, with wild sunflowers dotting the roadside. Desolate, it was. But, luckily, we still had a fresh head of lettuce. We stopped for lunch at a park with dust in place of grass, and colorful, misshapen concrete tables, and we prepared a rather fashionable salade Nicoise:

4 boiled eggs
1 cup tuna
1/2 head romaine
red onion
beefsteak tomato 
black pepper
seasoned salt
lemon juice
salad dressing
1 satisfying siesta

And with that scrumptious feast, we went looking for Roeena and the Jackson 5. It turned out they had their own raised stage...Second Mesa. It was good to have friends in high places. We got past the tribal bureaucracy, the costly tour guide, and the art salesmen. But we didn't get to Roeena. Instead, we met her neighbors, friends, and fellow tribespeople. One after another, we built friendships. We would ask them a brief question, and find ourselves still hanging out with them at their houses an hour later. Gabi and I traded addresses and phone numbers with three different families, promising them surf lessons when they visit San Diego. One chosen people meeting another.

I was intrigued to learn about Hopi history. The Hopi actually don't live on a reservation; they are a sovereign nation. They are, however, completely surrounded by the largest rez in the USA - the Navajo Reservation. Back in the 70's, there were still battles and land disputes going on such that the Navajo blocked out the main road connecting Hopi to the rest of the world. 

Hopi and Navajo have been disputing land for centuries. Simply put, the Hopis are farmers, and the Navajos are hunters. Thus, the Hopi live on raised plateaus called mesas to protect themselves from attack. The steep cliff walls sang loudly of the desert Israelite holdout against the Romans at Masada. The Hopi had to ward of the Navajo, the Apache, the Spanish. They even hired mercenaries from the Tewa Pueblo in New Mexico to live on the Mesa and guard the entrance. However, when the Tewa were off duty one day, this matrilineal society formed a feminist legend, Hee'ee Wuti. The Apache and Navajo warriors approached Second Mesa, knowing that the Hopi men were in the fields. Despite her parents' protests, Hee'ee Wuti stopped grinding corn, grabbed her uncle's shield, and like an Amazonian woman with half of her hair down, she yelled and wailed until the troops fled out of fear. Now that's my kind of woman!

The magnificent architecture of the highly-touristed Santa Fe, New Mexico, is a modern adaptation of the Pueblo Indian style whose creators once dominated the Four Corners region. Of these pueblos, the Hopi are the keepers of the culture, since only they were able to fully resist conversion to Catholicism by Spanish missionaries. They follow their own calendar still, and regularly host their converted compatriots for seasonal dances and ceremonies. They are a chosen people, and they have chosen to remain that way.

History can get a bit heady, but these Hopi were full of heart. My favorite couple that brought us home with them was Dion and Felicita Dashee. Together, they supported their family through a combination of dryland farming, sculpture, welding, and dentistry. For the first trade, their herb of choice ain't sweet Mary Jane. It's little blue corn. These blue kernels, passed down from generation to generation, grow without any irrigation. Following a rain, a stalk can grow as much as a foot in one day, despite the harsh desert climate. Some of their varieties produce yellow cobs as long as your thigh. But, the center of their agriculture is blue corn. Dion told me the pillars of Hopi society - Corn, Rain Clouds, and Kids. Without the kids, without any of them, there is no future. Most people leave the Hopi Nation to work, because work is as scarce as rain. But despite their modest lifestyles, these people were outrageously generous. I left their home carrying two grocery backs filled with ancient corn, chili and bean seeds, desert tea, and even a cookbook filled with native recipes. Wow! I can see why they might be poor, because they so freely give what they have!

Hopi dryland farming ~ ancient technique does not use irrigation ~ after a rain, plants grow a foot in a single day

After visiting with the Dashees, Gabi and I went for a run. We were lured by a sign:

"TACO SALE"

What kind of Southern Californian can resist such temptation?! 
We finally found it in the dark as they were closing up shop and opening up living room...yes, the restaurant kitchen was part of a trailer house. We got our chili-covered Indian fry brad tacos, and headed back home, satiated. As we walked back, a rez dog followed us. At first we were surprised and scared of it, but then we realized it was just being friendly. As we kept the dirt beside the road, the dog walked back and forth across the road. Cars sped past, but the dog kept its space. Then a truck sped by and, strangely, the dog stood in place. BAM, the truck smacked its hindquarters and the dog wimpered in pain and desperation as it rolled off of the road. Rez life.

It was late, and I was feeling a bit down. We set up a tent at the Hopi Cultural Center. I laid down in my sleeping bag, looking forward to a morning meal of blue corn shortcakes, closed my eyes and then...drumming and chanting started.

A worthwhile detour from I-40.

Hopi Breakfast ~ blue eggs, blue fry bread, blue shortcakes, and normally-colored but extraordinary-tasting chili