THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

I just ate at the salad bar in an isolated casino on the California/Arizona border. The parking lot is full of high dollar motor homes, big 5th wheel campers and my pick up with its little pop up camper. Old Gringos come here by the hundreds, maybe thousands, every day, 365. They go across the border by day to get affordable prescription drugs, to get their teeth fixed, eye exams and glasses. By night they come back to casino parking lots and local camp grounds. The casino runs all night. At 6:00 a.m. human drones are still feeding slots and poker machines. I go inside to pee and get back out. The food is alright but I look at the faces and I don't see any joy there. 

I have an appointment with a Mexican dentist tomorrow to start on two crowns and a bridge. It will take 4 days. I’ll save $3000 from what I’d have to pay in Kansas. I had a consultation this morning, bought a blanket from a street vender, spoke some Español. Gringos moved through the streets like medieval lords and ladies with their pockets full of American dollars. They walked past natives, trying to sell something, anything. Old women selling worthless jewelry; what they earn is more pity than purchase. Grown men hawking for a dentist or a pharmacy; they scurry like mice after crumbs. 

I was in town the day before and noticed a young woman, a teenager with maybe a 3-year old, a 2-year old and a year-old infant in a sling across her chest. She had two cloth covered boards with jewelry and trinkets, working the long line of shoppers waiting to go back through customs. I saw her again today. Their clothes were clean, changed from the day before and her kids, a little boy and girl, they did as they were told and they were smiling at each other. She moved slowly along the curb, looking to make eye contact but nobody would look directly at her. I thought about my own daughter at 19, no babies. She was in college at the time where 19’s should be, studying biology and English literature.

Sometimes, when a conversation is ripe and moving along I ask, when you think of ‘Your People’, the people you identify with, who helped you to understand who you are and what life should be about: what did they look like? I don’t mean family. I meant the class of people your family identified with, how they carried themselves, the looks on their faces. Were they hard working blue collar, smart working professionals, starched military, counter culture artists, what? Not a cliche, beer & pizza question. From my recollection, my people have always been Los Pobres, the poor. It wasn’t tragic. Life was good but it was a struggle, every day: not my family in particular but all of us in general. I still identify with the poor. 

If you are poor, someone is worse off and you should be thankful for what you have. That is the lesson my mother never stopped teaching. The message seems to have lost its way with Make America Great Again. There but for the Grace of God . . .” You never, ever want to accept charity but you are required to be its instrument. Help those who are in need. In Los Algodones there are wealthy Mexicans and there are those who struggle every day. I saw them yesterday and again today. I am touched and their struggle is mine as well. Joseph Campbell said, “We can’t heal the sorrows of the world but we can chose to live with joy.” I work at that; thank you Jospeh Campbell. Jesus is credited with telling us, “The poor will always be with us.” But neither Campbell or Jesus meant that you shouldn’t care or that you are worthy and someone else is not.

In her song ‘Weight Of The World’ Beth Hart comes around with a hook in the chorus, “I want to come home, before the weight of the world turns my heart to stone.” I listen to it again and again and my heart hasn’t turned to stone yet either. I didn’t need to come to Mexico to feel the weight of the world. In every city and town along my way, the poor are there in plain sight, American Riffraff. As a culture, we prefer to not see them so we don’t. But I can’t help it, I see them; there but for the Grace of God. I live a charmed life but when I search my soul, they’re my people. 

SNOW ON THE MOUNTAIN

This morning when I woke up the first thing that struck me was that my feet were warm. For over a week I had been dry camping in the Arizona desert and this was different. Then there was an ahh-haa moment and I remembered. I am visiting with an old, high school amigo at his home in Cottonwood, AZ. I was sleeping in a real bed, a real room while cold rain pelted everything outside. Had I been in my camper I would have been warm and dry but nothing like this. Life really is pretty good after all. We’ve had a great time calling up old memories and remembering things that only come around when you are young enough not to worry about old age or not caring about what might go wrong. 

Richard Majors and his wife Joyce live in a Southwest Santa Fe style home on the mountain side above Cottonwood. It’s scary how you remember bits and pieces of long lost adventures but between us we could reconstruct the whole. Nobody laughs like old men remembering, reflecting on the craziness of being young. We dredged up names and places that don’t exist anymore. There are no houses where his house used to be, only a bridge over Interstate 435. We’re still dredging up an unwritten history that doesn’t mean anything to anybody but us. 

This morning we drove up to Sedona for breakfast. Snow at higher elevations made the red rocks pop and photo opportunities were everywhere I looked. It’s been a terrific day and tomorrow is only a few hours sleep up the line. I wanted to drive up to Grand Canyon but there is a blizzard warning up there that will be dumping snow for the next week. I’ll have to wait on those photographs. They promised if I behave myself they won’t kick me out for another day or two. So I need to come up with a plan on where I go from here. I may go down to Yuma and venture into Mexico for the day or head for Tucson. I need to be in Memphis, TN on March 6 so I have some wiggle room. Waking up tomorrow should be easy, I’ll know where I am without revisiting my itinerary. Warm feet: you've gotta love it. 

RUBBER TRAMP - DAY 8

Sunlight is pouring into the camper through the big window over my bed. When I got up an hour ago it wasn’t. My new thermometer read 50 degrees when I went to bed at 10:20 and 44 when I got up at 7:00. I bought the thermometer yesterday so this is the first time I’ve actually known the temp. Temperature in Quartzite is on the internet but it’s several hundred feet lower in the valley and who knows how much warmer this time of year. My hands are cold; cold computer, cold countertop so this is moving along at a snail’s pace with timeouts to warm my hands. Greenhouse effect isn’t a bad thing in here. Since I started writing the big red needle has moved up 4 degrees. When I get back from the morning class it will be in the 80’s inside and I’ll have to open everything up. 

This is more about me than the camping but here and now you can’t separate the two. Keeping track of every little thing is critical because everything you have with you is necessary. Before I left the freezing midwest I knew I had to have a spare key for the truck. I found a good, safe place to hide it even if it’s a little tedious to access. Yesterday after class, reaching for my keys and looking in the window I saw them on the seat with the door securely locked. Thank you, thank you, thank you; whomever! Keys for my security cables/locks are in a small, plastic box on the floor of the cab. Before I can fuel or move the generator I have to unlock the truck, get the key, unlock the cable and return the key. If the key isn’t in my hand it goes back in the box on the floor of the cab. I need to get spare keys made for those cable locks but haven’t been in a place where they can do that yet: maybe soon. 

  Toilet protocol in the desert can be simple or complex. In the dark, you can get away with ‘Bear-in-the-woods’ etiquette but with so many people and rigs (rigs; new buzz word, even it it’s just the back seat of your 1990 Ford Fairlane) you don’t want to subject them to your poop & pee shenanigans. It’s perfectly normal and we all have to go but not in plain sight. A bushy Palo Verde tree down in a dry wash is enough cover, maybe. A bucket you can take inside the camper is common. It can be transferred and scattered in a dry wash without any fanfare. In the dark, a shovel is another strategy. I have a 5 gal. bucket with sealing lid; add to that a double trash bag and a good supply of kitty litter and it all fits neatly under the camper. You bring it inside to do business and seal it away until you go to town. I put other trash on top of the well kitty-littered, nitrogenous waste and leave it in the big trash barrel at the gas pump. ‘Van Dwellers’, a name most of my current cohorts identify with admit they stretch rules as far as conscience allows. As necessity requires, the conscience becomes more forgiving. But they know beyond any reservation, you always, always leave your campsite clean, hoping the guy who dumps barrels at Love’s Truck Stop never knows the difference. 

In the past half hour the temp inside has gone up to 65 and my fingers are at 98.6 again. I have some flea market browsing on tap after class and I’ll refill my generator gas cans. Well into the 2nd week of the rendezvous, everyone seems to be planning their next destination. Some are headed for the Texas coast and some are headed down to Baja. I’m going to see Grand Canyon in winter. I won’t camp there as I can get up and down in one day. I have an old, high school class mate in Cottonwood, AZ and maybe I’ll stop at his place before I head to . . .

RUBBER TRAMP - DAY 5

I haven’t decided yet, what to make of a Nomad culture that thrives out of sight, in plain sight. This rendezvous started 8 or 9 years ago but the Rubber Tramps have been connected for a long time. Technology has made it easy for them to network and it is for sure a sub culture of its own. The man who started it all, (the rendezvous) has been living either out of his van or a 6x10 cargo trailer for 30 years. There were 40 people the first year and it has grown since. Last night there were over 600 registered with the ranger’s office in town. I’m not registered and I suspect many others aren’t either so the total could be much higher. 

We are camped on public lands about 3 miles out of Quartzite, AZ, several hundred feet up, elevation wise. No services, no fees; you have to take care of all your own needs. At night the lights in town make it look like a big city but most of that comes from campgrounds and street lights. The posted population is just under 2000. Someone said that over a million snowbirds spend time in Quartzite from November to March. We are just doing it dry, up in the desert. It’s all dust covered rock with small palo verde trees growing in the washes and scrub dotting the desert. 

People are truly funny. No need to go to the zoo? In the beginning, campers were all rubber tramps but over a few years, others began showing up in their monster motorhomes and 5th wheels. They were coming to see what it was all about but had brick and shingles homes to go back to. They want to see and learn, maybe dabble in the gypsy life style but the ones invested, actually living off the grid, off the radar are all about networking, learning new technology and strategies for camping in warm, safe places without camping fees. No rent; that’s the principle, be self sufficient at a minimal cost.

There is a YouTube channel and website the Rubber Tramps use to communicate, demonstrate tricks, gadgets and new ideas. Here, these two weeks, we have two work shop, seminar, lectures per day. Some folks don’t like the noise, (any noise) while others can’t wait to party. The organizer indicated that it has gotten out of control, too many people with different agendas and he may not do it again. Uninvited party crashers don’t realize that’s what they are. RTR’s are mature, serious people whose life style circumvents traditional jobs, traditional homes with a hybrid sense of identity. 

I met a woman, (I’d guess in her 60’s) who has been living in her ’05 Toyota van for 7 years. She follows the climate; wherever it will be in the 60’s & 70’s, that’s where she goes. She is collecting Social Security and I don’t know what else but she manages everything down to the penny. We both sleep with CPAP machines and her solar system isn’t quite up to meeting that need. I had learned and shared with her, the heater/humidifier on the CPAP burns about 50% of the energy it uses. If you turn it off or down significantly, your stored energy goes farther. Also, if you are running it through an inverter at 110 Volts, you can get an adapter to run it on 12 Volts, directly off the battery. That eliminates another 10% bleed off from the charge. I’m learning

This culture is predicated on safe, no fee places to park/camp. They use public restrooms when they can and dump their porta potties as needed. Sometimes they camp together in small groups, keeping in touch and help each other, sort of a tribal/fraternity thing. The rest of us either can’t or don’t want to change our life style to get that kind of off-the-grid independence. For many of them it’s the only way they can be independent. I’m lucky enough. My income allows me to go home now and then, work on the house, mow the grass, fix breakfast in the kitchen and eat in the dining room. Some RTR’s do have nice, big rigs and more amenities. They treat each other as equals and accept almost everyone but you would have trouble passing for one of them if you haven’t paid your dues. Again, I get to be the fly on the wall. A woman from CNN is here filming a documentary on the culture. If you see it and look real close you might see me in the crowd. 

Wal Mart allows free camping in their parking lots; in late and out early is their policy. Folks in transit know about it and it works out for everyone. Wallyworld almost always get business from the campers. But you can’t spend days or weeks in a parking lot. You can camp for free in National Forests and on other public lands, that is the best scenario for these roadies. When they can meet up with someone they know, it’s a win. The group always knows more than the individual. I’m not ready to reinvent myself and I’ll wait and see about coming back next year but the people are worth the meeting and it’s warm here. 

RUBBER TRAMP

          ‘Trepidation’ - a sort of agitation over what may happen; I have some trepidation about the day. The past three days were all about miles. What can you say about Oklahoma, in January? Too cold for camping so I stayed at an old, Route 66 motel in Shamrock, TX. Crossing the pan handle, more windmills growing in rows than any other crop. Out of the blue, coming up on my left, a huge Christian cross, over a hundred feet high coming up in the distance with a foot print as big as a house. When I got closer there was a new, stone church with an empty parking lot. Those big crosses are not unusual. Seeing them is routine, especially in the Bible Belt. It’s hard to know where devotion gives way to pride. ‘And God said, “Go build me a cross, 40 cubits high, with a stone pile under neath that will hold a thousand Believers. By the way, make a great room where they can cheer for Jesus and the Dallas Cowboys.” 

Across the highway, on my right there were hundreds if not thousands of crosses, as far as you could see, must have been two hundred feet high. The arms were spinning in slow motion, cranking out electricity for all the good people. I was taken by the contrast and the metaphor. I trust, given another generation, the saints there will build a new cross with arms that move, maybe three hundred feet tall. 

Another day and night and I’ve landed in the desert just shy of the California line. The Rubber Tramp Rendezvous is a gathering of oldish, snow bird-nomads; sort of a ‘Burning Man’ substitute in the Arizona out-back. They all sat around the fire last night, exchanging trivia except for a small entourage making music. A tall, guitar guy and another guy in a wheel chair with a conga drum doing Eagles and Creedence Clearwater songs. Maybe a dozen frazzled old dogs sang along and I felt like a space traveler. Should I make myself comfortable or hold my breath? Hey Scotty, you can beam me up any time. 

BLESSING OR A CURSE

Kris Kristofferson is sort of a hero figure to me. Not that he is heroic in the popular context but certainly in a mythical sense. In ‘Hero With A Thousand Faces’ Joseph Campbell frames the hero’s journey from Jason and Perseus through modern day heroes like John Glenn and Nelson Mandela. When everyday people are thrust into the maelstrom of chance and adversity, they may rise to the occasion or they may not. But in either case, if they return changed persons, if that change sets them apart as leaders or role models, that is the return part of the hero’s journey. You must go back to the source and be an agent of change. Kris K’s military career was more or less assured by his family connections but he let that go. Burning bridges with family and friends, he chose the high risk life style of popular music. 

Half a century later it’s fair to conclude that he is far better remembered and respected for his music than had he gone to war. The back-story helps as I reflect on lyrics from his song, ‘The Pilgrim’. The song captures a character who struggles, who fails more often than not. He continues the struggle, against the current of his culture; “Not knowing if believing is a blessing or a curse . . . or if the going up is worth the coming down.” The believing part is about his chosen path rather than what others would have him believe. By Campbell’s standard, Kristofferson is heroic.

I ponder the idea that the difference between a blessing and a curse may simply depend on your point of reference. It is January 6 and I’m stuck in Missouri with below zero temperatures outside. I don’t want to pack up my truck and camper or drive in this cold. These are conditions where things break easily but I’m comfy inside. I’m supposed to be in Arizona but I’ll wait for a warmer day to jump off. The going up and the coming down; I take a lot for granted. It is no secret that I view myself and seven billion-plus world-mates as simply animals with unique adaptations. There is certainly no threat to our existence other than our inhumanity to each other and an indifference toward our niche in the biosphere. History would tell us that the consequence of our grasp exceeds our reach. I’m more than comfortable inside, with subzero temperatures outside. My truck will start on the first turn of the key and I have fresh vegetables in the refrigerator. That’s a blessing, at least you would think so. It’s so much better than walking, shivering, hungry. Still, if you could anticipate the bullet and keep out of its way, guns wouldn’t matter and neither would curses. To the point; too much of a good thing may be the worst curse ever. 

I’m not going outside in my sleeves to identify with squirrels and woodpeckers. I’m not suggesting anything except that we see our heroes through the lens of our own experience; and we're all on a hero's journey whether we return with a moral and a lesson or fall out along the way. I think Kristofferson is right; we will forever be on the bubble. A blessing or a curse, and, is it worth the coming down?