For many visitors to Yellowstone National Park, Cody is the last main town before finally arriving at the park. It is about 50 miles east of Yellowstone and makes for a nice spot to start or end your Yellowstone vacation. For me, it…Read More

For many visitors to Yellowstone National Park, Cody is the last main town before finally arriving at the park. It is about 50 miles east of Yellowstone and makes for a nice spot to start or end your Yellowstone vacation. For me, it was another drive-through location, as I had left Yellowstone around 4:00pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Heading out of the East Entrance area, the drive is actually quite beautiful. I think even better than the route I took to get to the park, coming up from the south and into Grand Teton National Park. There were huge rock and cliff formations as well as rivers and swiftly moving creeks. The waterfalls streaming down the hillside along the road were worth a stop for photos when the opportunities presented themselves.

Before reaching Cody, there is the Buffalo Bill State Park. It was a vast area largely consisting of a campground and boating area on the Shoshone River. The dam that creates the reservoir is a USPS National Historic Site, but they were getting ready to close when I arrived just before 5:00pm. I did stop by to check it out, but did not have time enough to take the self-guided tour. Admission was free, with a $3 fee for the audio headset for the tour.

From there I headed on into the Town of Cody. I knew I had arrived as I passed the Cody Stampede Rodeo Grounds on the outskirts of town. I briefly contemplated stopping in Cody for the night in order to attend that evening's 8:00pm rodeo, but felt I really should push on and try to make the most of the daylight driving time.

In the town, there were a number of western themed museums and attractions. Everything was closed, even the local visitors' center. This place really looked like an interesting place for a family to spend a day learning about the American west and the history of Buffalo Bill Cody. As I stated, many visitors to Yellowstone start or end their trip with a night here, which I can completely understand. For me, it just wasn't as convenient to do so . . . so this will also be added to my "next time" list for this area.   Close

So often we focus on land and seascapes or particular flora or fauna. Case in point, do you not turn your head toward the direction of sound? Do you not look at tree from where an acorn has dropped or bird has chirpped?…Read More

So often we focus on land and seascapes or particular flora or fauna. Case in point, do you not turn your head toward the direction of sound? Do you not look at tree from where an acorn has dropped or bird has chirpped? Of course, the waves breaking along the beach and the crest of a mountain can't be ignored either.

Traveling along the Ring of Fire was no exception. However, we began noticing the creations of nature as art. Photos zoomed in on a areas of nature itself with no distractions, nothing to stand out and draw your attention to a mere fragment of the picture. A lake was filled with boiling mud spouting up all over with sounds that plopped, spurted, beeped and groaned. One lone eruption looked like a miniature volcano spewing a silky gray material with streaks of black.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, a swirled section of untouched snow appear to be the lightest whipped cream in all the land. So light in some ways it seemed like it was made of cotton, or perhaps I should say cotton candy. I felt the need for fingers to caress the pattern the snow carved, to feel the smoothness.

Even the gentle ripples the wind created enhanced the flawlessly pebbled bottom of stream we hiked. One particular section was strewn with the same color, size and shaped pebbles. The color pattern was consistent with no shading to mar the area. No singular stone diverted attention from the creek floor as a whole. There was just the wavelets tracing watery diamond shapes across the top of the stream bed.

Similarly a section reminiscent of Zion, looked as if they had chiseled horizontal waves carved into them. Yet pastel shades of red, orange black and beige replaced the blue and green hues of water. Something as hard as rock could be designed so strikingly as to mimic the horizon during a spectacular sunset is amazing.

But another type of rock, the red sandstone for which Sedona is famous, has finger size holes everywhere. These air pockets are typically found in volcanic rock. The sandy feel of this rock begs for me to try out the finger size holes as if I were looking for the perfect bowling ball. I contemplated the idea that some tiny creature could use these for home rather like the hermit crab that moves from one discarded shell to another as he grows.

The realization that it is neither the speed at which you travel, covering more ground, nor the places you go, the more exotic the better, but rather the how much you really look that enhances the journey and makes worthwhile memories.   Close

As I set out on my quest to visit all fifty states, I realized that certain states would be harder to visit than others. North Dakota is one of those. There are not many tourist attractions and because of its location, I felt…Read More

As I set out on my quest to visit all fifty states, I realized that certain states would be harder to visit than others. North Dakota is one of those. There are not many tourist attractions and because of its location, I felt that I needed a reason to go. As a history buff and admirer of Theodore Roosevelt, a symposium is held every year at Dickinson State University in Dickinson and I saw this as my reason for visiting North Dakota. Because North Dakota is the 3rd least populous state, there are not many major airports to fly into, especially near Dickinson. Most of them are regional airports and those that have international in its title is because of Canada. Airline tickets into any of the regional airports were so expensive that I decided to fly into Fargo, the state’s largest city, and drive to Dickinson. It’s a four hour drive on Interstate 94. To break up the monotony of a boring drive, I decided to stop at any city or unusual roadside attraction that I could find.

I found my first roadside attraction an hour and a half away in Jamestown. Sitting directly off of the interstate was a large sculpture of a buffalo. I took the next exit so I could visit this enormous buffalo and I ended up in Frontier Village. This village consists of twenty-four original buildings which were moved from around the state to recreate a prairie town. Each building is open to visitors and is filled with original and time period artifacts. Visit a post office, jail, general store, saloon, and many others. At the very end of the boardwalk, is Louis L’Amour Writer’s Shack. This shack celebrates Jamestown’s most famous son and has a collection of all his works on display.

I walked my way through Frontier Village and as I looked up, I was greeted by a 26 foot, 60 ton buffalo nicknamed Dakota Thunder. It is the world’s largest buffalo monument and has been a popular roadside attraction for over 50 years. Dakota Thunder symbolizes Jamestown’s nickname, The Buffalo City. Just around the corner from the large buffalo is the National Buffalo Museum which tells the story of these animals from prehistoric times to the present. Adjacent to the museum and Frontier Village is 250 acres where a herd of buffalo roam on the open prairie. Be sure to look for the three rare albino buffalo, which are the prize of the herd.

Another hour and an half drive on Interstate 94 brought me to Bismarck, the capital of North Dakota. I wanted to get a bird eye’s view of Bismarck, so I went to the largest building in the state of North Dakota to do it, the State Capitol building. This 19 story building in no way resembles the traditional dome in most other states, but then again North Dakota is not like most other states. The Capitol sits at the heart of a 160 acre campus surrounded by other government buildings such as the State Library, Transportation Department, North Dakota Heritage Center, and many other buildings. Just around the corner of the campus is the Governor’s Residence.

Inside the Capitol building, I was given a free guided tour and since I was the only one on the tour, I could take my time and ask all of the questions that I wanted. Before we went upstairs, she was quick to point out the North Dakota Hall of Fame with pictures of Theodore Roosevelt and Phil Jackson. Pictures adorned the walls with famous people that have had some connection with North Dakota. We went to the legislative floor where there was a swarm of people buying and selling goods along the massive corridor. She told me certain times of the year people come here to sell and buy products which are made in North Dakota. I took a moment to sample some Kuchen, a German word for cake.

After I was done sampling desserts, we stopped in for a few minutes to see the House and Senate chambers. The legislative session was over so I didn’t get to see progress in action. The North Dakota Supreme Court is housed in the judicial wing of the Capitol building. Because of a trial, it was closed to the public. We then proceeded up to the 18th floor, which is used as an observation deck. The tour officially ends here and you can spend as much time up here as you want. This vantage point gives a 360 degree view of Bismarck and the surrounding area. Bismarck sits on the Missouri River and you can see for miles in any direction which gives the Capitol building its nickname, Skyscraper on the Prairie.

Before I left the Capitol grounds, I stopped in at the North Dakota Heritage Museum. It is the state’s official history museum documenting the state’s history dating back to prehistoric times. It is home to a rare mummified dinosaur as well as other prehistoric animals and birds. It also tells the story of the Indians in North Dakota and the European migration in the late 1800’s. Outside of the Heritage Center is a statue of Sacagawea, an important person in North Dakota. There are numerous other statues surrounding the Capitol Campus.

I decided to make one more stop before heading to Dickinson. I wanted to visit the Knife River Indian Village, one of only three National Park sites in the state. The park preserves the history of the Northern Plains Indians and has a recreation of an earth lodge. The site is an hour and a half northwest of Bismarck, near the town of Stanton. The drive is pretty desolate and boring with occasional rolling hills and farmlands. However, my drive was not without its excitement. As I was taking in the drive and the surrounding landscape, I failed to notice that I was exceeding the speed limit by 10 mph. I always assumed the unwritten rule was that 10 or under and you were okay. Not according to the North Dakota State Trooper that pulled me over. He admonished me with a speeding ticket that only cost $20. By far the cheapest speeding ticket I ever received, but my insurance still had something to say about it. After all of that, he was nice to give me directions to the NPS site, a mere one mile away.

After a few picture taking opportunities, a roadside attraction, and a speeding ticket, it was about time to head to Dickinson, still two hours away. I left Stanton with my wallet a little thinner and headed to back to the interstate on ND Route 31. As I was about to merge onto I-94, what did I see? It was another roadside attraction, this time in the shape of a cow. I was drawn to it as if by some sort of animal magnetism. Sitting high above the interstate at Exit 127 is Salem Sue, the world’s largest Holstein Cow. Salem Sue is 38 feet tall and 50 feet long and made entirely of fiberglass. It was built to honor the local dairy farming industry.

A buffalo, a cow, what’s next? I figured that there wasn’t much to see in North Dakota, but I was wrong. My four hour drive turned into ten hours. Twenty miles outside of Dickinson, I noticed a large metal sculpture of geese. I knew from a little previous research that this was the beginning of the Enchanted Highway. But after ten hours and starving, I left the Enchanted Highway for another day, ready to get to Dickinson to eat and pass out.

   Close

Among the lessons of in life in the desert is a deeper appreciation for all things associated with water. Living in the desert usually means that water is scarce, and if not scarce then often violent, as cloudbursts send torrents of rushing water down…Read More

Among the lessons of in life in the desert is a deeper appreciation for all things associated with water. Living in the desert usually means that water is scarce, and if not scarce then often violent, as cloudbursts send torrents of rushing water down slopes and through formerly dry arroyos. In the Pueblo tradition of the Tewa peoples, these concepts combine in the form of Avanyu, the plumbed serpent who is the guardian of water and the herald of storms. Avanyu’s image is found among the petroglyphs left behind by the region’s pre-Columbian residents, and it appears as an element used in their descendants’ decorative arts. Few New Mexicans would fail to recognize and understand its symbolism. I grew up as the child of an outdoorsman who loved hunting and fishing, which means that I had opportunities to visit the better-watered places of New Mexico on a regular basis. With all this in mind, here are a few of my favorite places and memories as influenced by Avanyu and the waters of the region.

San Gregorio Lake

Among the first places to leap from my memory is San Gregorio Lake, a small manmade reservoir surrounded by woodlands and high meadows in the San Pedro Wilderness of the state’s northern mountains. My father took me there for the fishing, but what I remember are the sparkling waters, the beaver island in the midst of the waters, and the eagles that flew overhead. I also remember the magical mile-long walk through quaking aspen to reach the lake. The violent face of this paradise included the nearby arroyos that quickly filled with water during rainstorms and the currents in the vicinity of the dam. I have been back once as an adult, and San Gregorio Lake is one of those places that seems untouched by time—even the beavers are still in residence.

Jemez River

My father also liked to fish the swift-running Jemez River and its tributaries in the mountain country northwest of Albuquerque. On weekends and holidays, we would pile into the car and drive to Jemez Pueblo. After paying a fee at the tribal offices, we made our way into mountains with their surreal southwestern landscapes—red and yellow ochre pigments giving the mesa and cliffs a special glow, especially at sunset. The narrow, shallow river made (and still makes) small waterfalls and rapids that were perfect for rainbow trout. Daddy waded the river while I explored the rocks and wildflowers—always aware that rattlesnakes love this country. I would sit with my father for lake fishing, either on the shore or in a boat, but I had no patience for fishing with a fly (nor did he have the patience to teach me). As elsewhere, we always kept a weather eye out. The steep banks of this mountain river meant that the water rose quickly during a rainstorm. We might carry on with caution during a shower, but not in a heavy downfall. Like San Gregorio Lake, the Jemez is still wild and remote, much as it was in my youth. A recent return found the river and the mountains much as I remembered them, and an occasional fisherman practicing his art allowed me to visual Daddy doing the same.

Battleship Rock

Battleship Rock is also located in the Jemez country, but it lies within the Santa Fe National Forest rather than on Pueblo lands. The formation is a large red volcanic butte rising up from a small valley carved by the confluence of the San Antonio River and the East Fork of the Jemez. My father brought us here for camping and, of course, fishing the streams. This is a lush place for New Mexico, the lushness made possible by the abundance of water from the two streams. It is a place shaded by ponderosa pine and aspen, a cool respite from the desert. The larger area is also known for warm natural springs and even a ‘hidden’ waterfall. Here a child had no trouble letting her imagination run wild, and when the fishermen took their quest further upstream, she could splash and wade to her heart’s content. It was a place of trails, picnic tables, and primitive camping. Today camping is not permitted, but everything else is largely as was half a century ago—except that the trails and the picnic tables are in better condition. In this place, Avanyu seems more a guardian of peace than a herald of storms.

Rio Grande

During my childhood the Rio Grande, which flows through Albuquerque, was often so dry that we at times walked its full width without getting our feet wet. Scavenging the riverbed for treasures—some made by man, others by Nature—was a popular pastime. Most of the water we found flowed in narrow trickles and settled into dirty puddles. We knew the dangers the rivers posed. The sandy riverbed was not always as innocuous as it looked, and nowhere was the threat of flash floods more perilous. Fifty years later, the health of the river is better. Water once again flows freely along its familiar channel, and the Rio Grande Nature Center helps to protect both the river and a strip of the bosque (a riparian woodland)--and with them a return of wildlife, including beaver. All this is within the city boundaries, and I must say that exploring the riverbank and wandering through the bosque beats those scavenger hunts in the dried up riverbed of my childhood. The good old days weren’t always all that good.

El Morro National Monument

My memory of El Morro is first and foremost of the pool at the base of a large sandstone formation—a watering hole that has provided refuge and renewal for centuries. This landmark is surrounded by the badlands south of Grants. "Badlands" is a word that should be taken literally, a region characterized by a black basalt terrain formed by volcanic forces. El Morro’s importance to generations of wanderers is documented by the messages carved into Inscription Rock—petroglyphs by paleo-Indians and the signatures of conquistadors and cowboys, among others, who stopped here to refresh themselves and their beasts before facing the next stage of their journey. My father brought me here as we traveled through the badlands over paved roads and carrying containers filled with clean water on the seat behind us. For us as for our predecessors, clean water in such a harsh environment was not something to be taken for granted.

I have more youthful memories of the desert and its various oases, but this should do as an introduction. Today’s wanderers carry water in plastic bottles and camel packs, and they remind each other to remain dehydrated. Regardless of the pervasiveness of civilization, the desert remains dangerous and unpredictable. And from time to time it warns those who live there that their greatest resource can also be their most dangerous enemy. Avanyu serves as a reminder, either way.   Close

It’s plausible to argue that growing up the Southwest is to grow up with art as a birthright. This was certainly true of my New Mexican childhood. Mother Nature herself provided the paintbrush—there is even a wildflower called the ‘Indian paintbrush’—and the deserts and…Read More

It’s plausible to argue that growing up the Southwest is to grow up with art as a birthright. This was certainly true of my New Mexican childhood. Mother Nature herself provided the paintbrush—there is even a wildflower called the ‘Indian paintbrush’—and the deserts and mountains of the region provided the canvas.

The stark drama of the landscape lends itself to thinking in artistic terms. Mesas and buttes have been sculpted into fantastic shapes by wind and water. The desert really does bloom during the brief and infrequent rainy seasons, with the local flora providing a profusion of color. And the colors of rock and soil lend themselves to other forms of painting—producing painted deserts in many places, not just the one carries the name in eastern Arizona. The map itself often reflects the colors of nature and her marvels: White Sands, Bluewater Lake, Red Rock State Park, Tierra Amarilla (or ‘yellow earth’), Red River, Rainbow Lake, and the Turquoise Hills. Even the word Albuquerque has colorful natural origins, commonly translated to mean ‘land of the white oak.’

Human activity has been creating public art for millennia throughout the Southwest. Petroglyphs and pictographs are common in many areas, and as with other forms of public art, they provided rich fodder for an active imagination--in both adults and children. I grew up in close proximity to what became Petroglyph National Park, and seeking out these ancient etchings and paintings was as natural a pastime as picking wildflowers and chasing jackrabbits.

In modern times, the local Indian tribes gave us pueblo-style architecture complete with vigas (timber beams often with ornamental elements) and native motifs for decorative accents. They also reached into their cultural heritage to give us Navajo blankets, Pueblo pots, and turquoise-and-silver jewelry—all of which enhanced our lives and our homes even for those of us who couldn’t afford the best-of-breed items that found their way into shops on the Plaza in Santa Fe. The Spanish colonial influence added vibrant colors, carved doorways and enclosed courtyards, milagros and santos, tin-work ornamentation, fiesta traditions, and luminarias. Cowboy culture gave us tooled leather belts and bags, cowboy hats, and the "Anglo" vision of the Wild West.

With all these influences swirling around us, it’s easy to see that art was an integral part of our lives. Add the artist colonies in Santa Fe, Taos, and the northern mountains, and you have a perfect storm for producing generations of New Mexicans who took for granted that some form of public art should be part of their lives.

In Albuquerque, more official forms of public art started with Art Deco (or Pueblo Deco for a regional twist) buildings—like the KiMo Theater in Downtown. The KiMo opened in 1927, and its interior and exterior surfaces are covered with Native American motifs. The Owl Café on Eubank is in the same tradition but came along later. Built in the 1990s and modeled after an older building, it is shaped like a large adobe owl—the owl being one of many birds common in pueblo motifs.

Commercial art and billboards were other forms of public art that became popular in the 20th century. It seemed to take its start from roadside signs along Route 66, reminding motorists of the distance between gas stations across long stretches of almost empty desert. These warnings gradually gave way to serial billboards featuring elaborate designs and bright colors—leading to so-called trading posts where gas, food, water, and every sort of gaudy souvenir could be obtained. I even recall a filling station and café to the east of Albuquerque that was done up to resemble an iceberg in the desert. In the city itself, there were oversized 3-D representations of lumberjacks, cowboys, buffalo, autos raised on arches, and other visual stimuli. Some of these are still in place, still providing potential customers with bearings to reach the desired destination.

By the latter part of the 20th century, the city fathers of Albuquerque had taken up public art as an official municipal duty. Pulling primarily from Native American and Spanish colonial sources, they commissioned a variety of sculptures, murals, and landscape art to beautify the city. Now there are oversized Pueblo pots in traffic medians, tall kachina towers on the Interstate, ribbons of stylized mountain motifs accenting sound walls along the highway, and a growing number of statues commemorating historical figures, great deeds, and tragic events.

The street signs in Downtown have been refashioned to offer practical location information using striking graphic accents. City-supported institutions to preserve and create the artistic heritage of the region have been established. In some places, bus shelters have been redesigned with emphasis given to aesthetics, and parks and other public places have been refurbished with an eye toward enhancing their beauty as well as their functionality. Historic adobe structures have been restored, and even the best of 20th-century kitsch has been refurbished and preserved.

Do Albuquerqueans notice? Of course we do—especially those of us who have been displaced elsewhere and return home only too infrequently. Is all this effort taken for granted? Well, yes and no. . . . New Mexicans in general and Albuquerqueans in particular have always lived with art, and we expect it to be there to enhance our lives. Besides, there is still plenty to do. Art as a birthright is still evolving, and the city is still a masterpiece in the making. But most of us like the direction it’s taking.
   Close

I tell people that the Sandias are my mountains: they belong to me. Despite the fact that they have not been a daily physical presence in my life for more than four decades, they are still my mountains. Their silhouette was imprinted on…Read More

I tell people that the Sandias are my mountains: they belong to me. Despite the fact that they have not been a daily physical presence in my life for more than four decades, they are still my mountains. Their silhouette was imprinted on my mind in youth, and that persistent image is a constant in my life that is both nostalgic and comforting.

My mountains owe their name to early Spanish explorers who saw them at sunset and decided that the reddish golden glow they reflected resembled the color of ripened watermelon. I never quite got the watermelon vibe when admiring the glow, but a name ultimately defines its object, so ‘Sandia’ seems thoroughly right.

Albuquerque, my childhood home, lies in the Rio Grande rift valley between the Sandia Mountains and the West Mesa. The mountains loom imposing above the city and their magnificent presence to the east was part and parcel of my everyday life as a child. For example, I had a constant directional reminder—find the mountains, that’s east. It’s impossible to be truly lost if the mountains are in view. Given that the Sandia range tops out at more than 10,000 feet, it’s never that difficult to find them. So, lucky me, as a kid I never felt lost. My mountains saw to that.

My favorite memory of the Sandias involves setting outside our house on cool desert nights to watch lightning dance across the peaks. That particular view was and is an almost surreal vision. The mass of the mountains blocks the view of stars that one might expect above the eastern horizon. Against the deep black of night-shaded mountains, the lightning was magic—the gods sparring on Mount Olympus or the thunderbolts of Native American lore. The light shows on the peaks fired my imagination, and they were quite simply beautiful. They are always on the edge of my memory, where they are prized as a living remnant of my youth.

The Sandias were also a practical resource for family outings and recreation. Having the mountains so near at hand allowed for long drives to achieve spectacular views. They were a place where children of the desert could play in snow that so rarely fell in the valley below. They welcomed picnics in the wilderness and exploration along mountain trails. The mountains were our playground. A drive to Sandia Crest (elevation 10,679 feet) on a hot day was a major treat. On days when the temperature reached 100F in the valley, it would be 75F to 80F on the Crest—a serious difference, especially in the days before AC was common.

In the years since my childhood (the many years since my childhood), recreation in the Sandias has expanded and formalized to include enhanced ski lifts and runs, more and better trails and related facilities under the auspices of the Cibola National Forest, the addition of a world-class tram with a visitor center on Sandia Peak (elevation 10,378 feet), and a network of parks and trails in the foothills. There is even an award-winning golf course, Paa-ko Ridge, on the gentler eastern slopes. (In our later lives together, Himself found the course a satisfying challenge to play.)

In addition to playgrounds, the mountains provide outdoor classrooms for students and scholars interested in climate zones and geology. And they provide a magnificent backdrop for the colorful hot-air balloons that drift up from the valley floor north of Albuquerque.

For all this, the Sandias are still my mountains. They still belong to me. But I share them willingly—as do all those other New Mexico who feel similarly proprietary. All we ask is that you respect our mountains as you enjoy their beauty and their bounty.

© BawBaw/LovesTravel   Close

During my travels, people often asked me to speak or to give lessons. Sometimes, these were just invitations to a homey lunch. Santa Fe, being the Different City, prepared a singularly significant experience for me."Hello, there is someone who wants to meet you," I was…Read More

During my travels, people often asked me to speak or to give lessons. Sometimes, these were just invitations to a homey lunch. Santa Fe, being the Different City, prepared a singularly significant experience for me.

"Hello, there is someone who wants to meet you," I was told in my third Sunday at the Lutheran Church of the Servant. Following a short talk, I found that I’ve been invited for lunch in one of the suburbs by Shanadii, Geronimo’s granddaughter. Not knowing who Geronimo was, I used the trip to get a quick update by the brothers who invited me. Geronimo was a prominent Native American leader of the Chiricahua Apache. He fought against Mexico and the United States for their expansion into Apache tribal lands for several decades during the Apache Wars.

Shortly after, we arrived at a large house in Canyoncito, about half an hour south of Santa Fe. It was surrounded by a forest of pines, majestic Ponderosas and sturdy Pinions. Two years short of eighty, Shanadii turned to be a vigorous soul with a rare intelligence. "Do you want to drink something?" She asked while leading me to the kitchen, where perhaps two hundred kinds of teas were awaiting me. Looking at the wide selection and wanting to drink the same one as she, I asked which one was her choice; "I drink coffee, from the soluble kind," she shot while lighting a cigarette which was later exchanged for others until I left a few hours later.

Next week, I was invited again, this time for a meal. There were about a dozen invitees, and Shanadii tried hard to balance the discussion among the different participants. However, people kept asking me questions.

...

Then I looked around. People were smiling at me. Then, I looked at the hostess. She was beaming at me.

...

The coffee served then was sweeter than ever, though I never add sugar. Before I left, Shanadii told me: "I want to give you a gift; you are invited to our next Fire Circle."

Fire Circles turned to be ceremonies performed by Apaches and related groups. This graphic representation of their orally transmitted traditions was performed around a central fire. When the day came, I arrived at the same site. Around 5PM, we had a magnificent potluck, and waited until it cooled down a bit. An hour later, we were led to a small opening in the forest, where a circle of stones awaited us. Thirty-two participants sat on the stones while Shanadii took an elevated seat just out of it. She presided over the ceremony’s different stages, which were performed by others.

A central fire was lighted, and then the drawing of the Circle began. The drawing was done with grounded corn and created sharp yellow lines on the pastel-brown ground; after putting the corn on the ground and drawing the desired shape, the line was redrawn with a finger following the corn path, so that each line got a depression in its center. The corn is considered a sacred plant due to its many uses in their culture. All the drawings were done at the rhythm of a slow, deep drumming. The first drawing was a circle around the central fire; it represented the Earth and was drawn, as most of the other pictograms, from the east through the south. Following was the Creator’s Circle, wider and containing the first one. Four short lines, each one marking a compass direction, crossed the circles and then Infinity Lines were added at the intersection of those with the outer circle. The Infinity Lines were shaped as an "X" with their center at the exact intersection point; they represented the gifts of the Creator to us. Two short lines connecting the inner part of the X’s to the compass line were added and represented our thanks to him. Shanadii asked the people drawing to explain the meaning of their drawings; sometimes she added a few words. Then, two Pipes of Peace were added in each quarter. They represented the different people. They also represented a New Covenant between the Creator and the People, following an old downfall. The pipes had a feminine and masculine side and their symmetry showed a perfect equality among the genders. A third circle was drawn between the pipes, showing the unity among people. Then two shapes were added to each quarter, next to the outer circle. First, a symbol for the trees and another for the bushes were drawn at the southeast quarter, then one for the four legged creatures was drawn at the southwest quarter, and then symbols for the sea water creatures and the birds in the third quarter. In the last one, symbols for the fresh water and crawling creatures were added.

At this moment, Shanadii explained that we are living in a transition year. The mark for two-legged creatures—as humans were oddly referred to—was added next to the four-legged one. In other years, the human’s symbol is not drawn. A symbolic eye was added at the outer part of each "X," and then the eye was finished. A blue point, the only non-yellow point in the whole drawing, was added to each. They represent the constant watch of the Creator over his creatures.

Once the drawing was finished, a fourth circle—a number considered sacred by Apaches—was created on the central fire and was dedicated to the Creator. Then, everyone stood up around the external circle. Prayers were said, and the fire was left to burn out. At 9PM, already in darkness, we left and devoured the rest of the food and traveled home, not without an invitation for the coming Solstice Circle.


(Excerpt from The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem; the book reads independently of Part I, The Cross of Bethlehem - The Memoirs of a Refugee.)

The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem is available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

   Close

I had a free day. Yet, Santa Fe turned out to be so tiny that apart from exploring its museums and churches thoroughly, the main sights could be covered in an hour or so. The city was constructed around a central plaza of distinct…Read More

I had a free day. Yet, Santa Fe turned out to be so tiny that apart from exploring its museums and churches thoroughly, the main sights could be covered in an hour or so. The city was constructed around a central plaza of distinct Spaniard design. Buildings in the downtown area were built up using adobe. Unlike its Bolivian counterparts, the adobe was covered up here with an adhesive layer that made them waterproof and gave them distinctively roundish borders. Eerily, the overall effect was pretty. Was Santa Fe the stage of a George Lucas film about a far, far away galaxy?

"Excuse me, to which culture do you belong to?" I asked a senior woman sitting on a rag next to the first municipality building by the main plaza. She was selling knick-knacks. Her merchandise was advertised as belonging to the "pueblo."

"I am pueblo," she said with a smile, she reached out for a few rings, hoping to nail down a sale.

"‘Pueblo’ is Spanish for ‘village’ and ‘people,’" I said, ignoring the tacky souvenirs. Then, I insisted, "What’s your cultural background? Which language did your ancestors speak?" With beautiful high cheekbones, small eyes irradiating life, and black hair despite her age, I had no doubt she had a background of millennia in the area.

"They spoke Spanish; this is the ‘pueblo’ area." She was referring to the nineteen tribes of northern New Mexico that were now called "pueblo." It was obvious she didn’t know beyond that. Later I found this time and again. For many modern Americans, the area originally belonged to the Spaniards and Spanish was the original language of the people.

Of course, reality was different. Franciscan Friars entered what is now New Mexico only in 1598 as part of a group of Mexican colonists that were migrating from Mexico City. In 1610, Santa Fe was founded together with a church on the basilica’s actual location, just next to the plaza. Founded as Villa Real de la Santa Fe de San Francisco de Asis (Royal City of the Holy Faith of St. Francis of Assisi), the city’s main Catholic church is named the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. This imposing stone structure is the exception in adobe-oriented Santa Fe. It truly stands out from its flat surroundings. In 1630, a larger church replaced the original one; the latter was destroyed during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. The Spaniards returned in 1693, but the building of a new church was delayed until 1714. This adobe church was named in honor of Saint Francis of Assisi, Santa Fe’s Patron Saint. The Chapel of Our Lady La Conquistadora is the only part of this church still in existence; it is dedicated to an image brought in 1625 from Spain. The statue is considered to be the oldest representation of the Virgin Mary in the US.

…

Next morning, Lewis appeared at the hotel’s lobby with his family. He had a young wife and four little girls. He was about my age, and if clothed differently, he would have resembled the archetypal ultra-orthodox Jew. His bushy beard didn’t help to dissipate this impression.

While driving to his home, Lewis performed the best evasive driving I had seen. Random turns at high speed took us round and round, around Santa Fe. In that complex maze of long, curvy streets, such driving could only call attention. If somebody was chasing us, he would have had an easy task, since we were raising enough dust to be seen from faraway. I was fascinated. How could I ask if this was a joke? Later on, once I learned the streets’ layout I confirmed my initial feeling. Lewis didn’t drive through even close to the shortest way. It had been his daring attempt to evade… nothing.

"Is somebody chasing us?" I asked while holding tight the vehicle’s door.

In that hot afternoon, the streets were empty. The ubiquitous surveillance cameras were probably focused on desert mirages. Lewis was sweating profusely, concentrating all his impressive intellectual powers on the road.

"I’m making sure they’re not," he answered with a proud smile.

"Thank you, I appreciate your concern. By the way, where did you learn to drive like this?" This was crucial; as far as I knew he didn’t have any substantial background with the governmental organizations that could teach him these skills.

Suddenly, Lewis was intensely interested on the horizon; so interested that he forgot to answer.

Once at his home, I was given a small room. In the following weeks, I found certain discrepancies between what I had been told in Bolivia and the reality here. He edited a newspaper, but it was a free one given away at public places. His work as editor meant mainly that he was responsible to accept paid advertisements. He published a short column in it. The editorial published booklets and distributed them in adjacent areas; nearby Albuquerque was their limit to the south, Espanola to the north. Even I wasn’t interested in publishing with them.

That evening he invited me to meet a group of activists he frequented. They met at a Methodist church near downtown. Around ten people sat in a circle and talked in low voices. There were no tables between them; coffee was available at a corner of the room. While preparing a cup, I couldn’t help but notice they were talking about Hurricane Katrina, which had hit the American coast the previous August. They were complaining of the unpreparedness of the American government. Overall, 1836 had died, 135 went missing; most of the victims were from Louisiana.

"Do you know that before hitting the USA, Katrina crossed Cuba? Do you know how many died there?" I asked them, while balancing my coffee and grabbing a seat, all at the same time. Lewis became oddly alert.

"No," several voices said at once.

"Zero. The Cuban government evacuated in time the areas to be affected."

Lewis didn’t let me talk afterwards. He interrupted me every time I began saying something. It was the last time I was invited to such an event, despite my comment having been obviously welcomed by all other participants.


(Excerpt from The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem; the book reads independently of Part I, The Cross of Bethlehem - The Memoirs of a Refugee.)


The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem is available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

   Close

The next bus to Santa Fe, New Mexico, departed only at 5:45PM, meaning I needed to wait around six hours. I purchased a ticket and, fifty dollars poorer, finally turned my attention to the USA. The terminal building was comfortable for a short…Read More

The next bus to Santa Fe, New Mexico, departed only at 5:45PM, meaning I needed to wait around six hours. I purchased a ticket and, fifty dollars poorer, finally turned my attention to the USA. The terminal building was comfortable for a short break; it had a sizeable snack bar, a big lobby with basic seats and lockers. The lockers cost one dollar per hour with a minimum of two hours’ use. I left my luggage in one of them and went to explore the town. El Paso has a small commercial center and picturesque dark green trams connect the different sectors. The Big Bun Hamburger, at Stanton corner of Franklin was a lovely place for a light meal; they offered mainly Mexican food. A dark green tram belonging to the end of the 19th century patiently travelled along the streets connecting the large blocks of this town. People didn’t seem to be working here; Spanish was the main language heard.

The bus to Santa Fe left with a delay of over a quarter of an hour. It was much older than the Mexican one; it had four little TV screens that didn’t work. Just before leaving, a woman boarded it and sold burritos. Shortly after, the bus was stopped. An American immigration officer checked the passengers’ documents. That was odd; I had been told no such checks were performed within the USA. "Welcome to the USA," the officer greeted me while handing me back my passport after having taken only a superficial look at it. To recover from the shock, we stopped shortly after the sunset for bad coffee at Alamo Gordo.

After 10PM, we made a short stop at San Antonio, a town that seemed void of people, for what the driver described as a smoking break. Then, he mercilessly attacked the road crossing the desert northwards. Thirty minutes before midnight, we were at cold Albuquerque. A tired food court was especially opened for us. Then, the bus was cleaned, and the driver was exchanged. After a long delay, we continued our way at 00:50AM. Two hours to the minute later, we reached Santa Fe’s Greyhound terminal. The building was closed, and there weren’t any taxis traveling along the wide avenue in front of it. I couldn’t bring myself to call Lewis at such an hour; I knew he had small children. I began walking in the most promising direction along Cerrillos Street, which later I learned was one of Santa Fe’s main venues. During the day, it allowed magnificent views of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

I was searching for a room; but it seemed a lost cause. Well after 3AM, Ted Itagaki from the Lamplighter Inn of Santa Fe told me that he couldn’t let me check-in, because I arrived at the time he sets up the hotel’s computer for the new day. He wouldn’t write down the order and feed it later into the computer. However, he called the Best Western Hotel. After finding that they had available rooms, he took me there in his car. He made sure I’d get the room the next day and not only until eleven. This experience with Ted was my first substantial interaction with an American in America. I couldn’t decide if it had been positive or not. Why couldn’t he write down my name? And then, why did he bother to take me to the other hotel? I couldn’t solve that; I was too tired from the trip. Instead, I took a look around. The excellent room included an outstanding bathroom, free coffee in the room and the lobby, breakfast, cables TV, an indoor swimming pool and a comfortable bed to accommodate my, by now, bus-seat shaped body.

I left a message for Lewis, telling him to meet me the following day. Then, I went to sleep the only American Dream I would ever have.

(Excerpt from The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem; the book reads independently of Part I, The Cross of Bethlehem - The Memoirs of a Refugee.)


The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem is available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

   Close

At the congregation, I announced I would travel to the USA for a few months in the hope of publishing the book. Despite the violent events, I knew several of them were devoted Christians and real friends. "We want you back," Hortensia told me,…Read More

At the congregation, I announced I would travel to the USA for a few months in the hope of publishing the book. Despite the violent events, I knew several of them were devoted Christians and real friends.

"We want you back," Hortensia told me, while Nelly—her daughter— held her arm tightly, a bit too tightly.

"We will keep loving you!" Catalina—Hortensia’s aunt—shouted at me.

"Saarja, bye," Nelly said, charmingly mixing Aymara and English.

How could I not return?

During the following months, the memories of the church would help me through the harsh period I spent in the USA. Regardless how awful the following months would turn, almost certainly they would allow me to create at least the financial framework needed for the publication of the book. Moreover, I had enough internet coupons to flight back to Bolivia at any time.

The savings from the Compassion project and the meager incomes from the travel book sales, the seminary and occasional speeches and sermons at various congregations allowed me to buy a ticket to America. My American visa was still valid, since it was awarded in the days when that country still awarded 10-year visas. In order to save some money, I traveled by air to Mexico City and from there took a bus to El Paso, Texas. The plane took me over the Amazon River; despite my expectations, I couldn’t enjoy the views since a thick coat of clouds covered the entire area.

Once in a while, there is nothing like watching the world through the windows of a crammed bus scratching the globe’s surface. Mexico City is a place as enjoyable as any other to begin such a trip, and Santa Fe, New Mexico, is such a casual end. An itinerary long enough to blur up trees, bad roads, uncomfortable seats, sun dried lizards, moldy food and semi-xenophobic immigrations personnel into a single kaleidoscopic quantum of perception.

To reach the terminus in Mexico City, I took the Politecnico metro line from the shiny airport building to the Autobuses Norte station. There was a two pesos flat tariff, and a truly friendly clerk selling them. She patiently explained how to reach the right station. The metro was badly marked; there were neither signs nor maps within the cars, and the stations weren’t announced. The small name signs at the stations were hard to spot from the moving train, but at least the Terminal Central de Autobuses del Norte was just in front of the metro station’s exit.

The terminal had a single and non-connected Internet spot. Several companies sold tickets to Ciudad Juarez; all of them were first class and cost over one hundred American dollars. Unexpectedly for Latin America, there wasn’t a terminal fee. They allowed payment in dollars, in pesos, or a combination of both. After buying a ticket, I went for some food. The snack bars in the terminal served Mexican food, and the most intriguing option was the "chilaquiles verdes con bistec." It was a spicy corn-noodle with meat dish. The coffee was from the cheap instant kind and was served in truly generous cups. While boarding, a small bag with mango juice, cookies and a sandwich was given, but other meals on the long trip weren’t included in the ticket.

Minutes before 9AM, we left in a luxurious Mercedes bus. Almost empty of passengers, it had one humongous TV screen at the front; it didn’t stop working for most of the trip, showing Spanish-dubbed Hollywood pictures. Mexico City turned to be a colossal metropolis made of an endless sea of unremarkable structures. Only almost one hour after departure, open fields appeared. The low, semi-commercial, buildings, which shaped the city, were built on an almost flat terrain; the only exceptions were sporadic hills covered with slums up to half-height. Afterwards, the trip became a list of snack stops.

Around 11:30AM, we stopped at Queretaro Terminal. Coffee and snacks were available there. The area wasn’t quite a desert, but the houses had water tanks on their roofs; at least four colonial churches adorned the town. An hour and a half later we stopped at Fonda Mony for lunch. There were many "fresas con crema" (strawberries with cream) and cocadas, a sweet made of milk, sugar, coconuts and glucose; it appeared in several varieties, from cookies to big bars, and in different flavors. After we passed through Aguas Calientes in the afternoon, the landscape became a desert with many cacti and green-stained rocks. To overcome the distress, we stopped for coffee and more snacks at Zacatecas. During this stop, the Mexican immigration checked out documents and took away three men from Guatemala, who were hiding with the luggage stored in the lower luggage compartments. There was another check two hours later. The day ended around 11PM, when we stopped for a late dinner. At this stage, I couldn’t look at food anymore. Yet, there was nothing else to pay attention too. Before sunset, the views belonged to a deep desert. The road wasn’t well marked; milestones were sporadic and unclear. As a result, it was difficult to estimate times of arrival.

At 5AM, we reached the town Chihuahua, where the bus stopped for a few minutes at its company’s local offices. Skipping a cheap coffee there turned out being an error; we didn’t stop for breakfast for the next three hours. Then, the bus stopped at a roadside tent placed amidst nowhere. Quesadillas, a flat, thin and round pancake, with a bit of cheese in its center and folded in two, were the main option available to us. Expectedly, there was no coffee here. "Muy tarde, muy tarde," the woman serving the quesadillas kept telling me; it was too late for a breakfast coffee. Shortly after, the Mexican army boarded the bus and checked the entire luggage except for handbags. Umbral del Milenio (Millennium Gate), a yellow gate in the open desert, was crossed minutes after they let us go.

At 9:30AM, the bus reached the terminal of Ciudad Juarez, just across from El Paso. On the way across its outskirts, there were many nightclubs that seemed to be the main industry in town. Just before entering the terminal, the bus stopped, and the driver opened a door next to the luggage. Three clandestine passengers got out from there. How did they pass through all the checks along the way? I couldn’t be sure, but probably bribes had been paid to the police and army along the way.

Taxis from Ciudad Juarez cost eight or forty dollars to the Bridge of the Americas or to El Paso, while a Greyhound bus to El Paso’s terminal, cost six dollars for the eight kilometers way. While buying the second, I found I could buy also tickets within the USA. However, since the passport check was a process of undefined length, I didn’t buy one.
This turned out to be wise. It took the bus over ten minutes to cross the short bridge. The entire area was crammed up, with the American immigration being the clear culprit of the delay; at least, I would gain an hour while crossing into the US.

Across the bridge was the American immigration building; it resembled what a jail built within a hangar would look if ever constructed. There, passengers were requested to leave the bus with their belongings, and enter the immigration hall. The Mexican immigration officers weren’t present; hence I didn’t get an exit stamp. As for the Americans, in addition to a visa, they requested a permit from the Homeland Security Office, fingerprints of both indexes and a digital photo; the pleasure cost six dollars. Once across the unpleasant process, I boarded a different Greyhound bus; one is not supposed to board the same one. Minutes later, I reached El Paso’s Greyhound Terminus.

(Excerpt from The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem; the book reads independently of Part I, The Cross of Bethlehem - The Memoirs of a Refugee.)

The Cross of Bethlehem II – Back in Bethlehem is available at Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.
   Close