Highway 66

Kingman, Arizona.  A small desert town on Highway 66.  A town where the boundary between reality and fiction is blurred.  Where, for an unsuspecting couple, the present will soon echo the grim past.

"Highway 66 is the main migrant road.  66 the long concrete path across the country...from the Mississippi to Bakersfield... crossing the Divide and down into the bright and terrible desert, and across the desert... and into the rich California Valleys"

(John Steinbeck: Grapes of Wrath.   All italicized text in this post are from the same source)

The sun already went down, yet a scorching wind was emanating from an immense oven.   I strolled through Kingman's historic downtown, and Steinback's depression-era characters came to life.

"66 is the path of people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land...  Ashfork and Kingman and stone mountains again, where water must be hauled and sold"

Without exchanging words, it was clear to both Adi and me, that the next morning we will get off the main freeway, and follow old Route 66 through the desert.

The people in flight streamed out on 66, sometimes in a single car, sometimes a little caravan.  All day they rolled slowly across the road, and night they stopped near water"

Exiting Kingman, the road narrows and steepens.  Soon we were the only car in sight.  We were alone, climbing the arid mountains, totally depending on old Nemo to carry us safely.

"Listen to the motor.  Listen to the wheels.  Listen with your ears and with the palm of your hand on the gear-shift lever...Listen to the pounding old jalopy with all your senses, for a change of tone, a variation of rhythm, may mean- a week here?"

It must have been the term "old jalopy" which upset Nemo,  When we returned to Nemo after a scenic stop, I turned the ignition switch, and nothing happened... complete silence.

"Le's look.  God almighty, the fan belt is gone!  Here, make a belt out of this little piece of rope"

At first, I assumed it was the clutch switch.  This would have been an easy fix.  But that was not the problem.  I did check the fan belt.  It was intact.  Nemo remained lifeless.

"Thirst set in instantly.  Winfield moaned "I wanta drink.  I wanta drink."  The men licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst.  And a little panic started."

Alone in the middle of the desert.  Without a cellphone.  Adi sat in the cabin, not saying a word, but her face betrayed her fear.  I took a sip of water to calm my nerves  (Old soldiers, always carry water) and proceeded with the troubleshooting process.

"Lemme have the monkey wrench an' pliers outa the truck"

For years, I have been bringing along a tool box.  This is the first time I needed it.  With the help of the correct-sized wrench, tightening the battery terminal was a cinch.  The rest of the drive to Oatman, where outlaws shoot blanks for the amusement of tourists, was a relaxing return to the present.

Swimming With Crabs

On Mazatlan's malecon (waterfront walkway), under the shapely tits of a mermaid sculpture, sat an abandoned seawater swimming pool.  Built between the large rocks, and just below the water line, it filled with the rising tide, and emptied when the tide was low.  Constantly pounded by the waves, it resembled an ancient ruin.

No more.  This year, the city renovated the pool, built a water-slide, and opened the Carpa Olivera pool to the public.  Kids line up to climb the slide, and the older generation enjoy watching the waves from within the safety of the pool walls.

The morning after I completed a three kilometer swim to the rocky outcrop which decorates the bay in front of our hotel, I came to the pool to polish my "smooth" style.  It is not often that while taking a breath (trying to keep my head as low in the water as possible), a large crab appears in front of my goggles.  It stayed on the pool's edge, enjoying the sunrise, while I worked on my drills.