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It is the beginning of my ‘lone’ adventures across the United States of America. I have left friends in New York, Colorado and Utah, and am heading south to New Mexico where I know no-one. I have recently discovered “couch-surfing” which someone briefly warned was akin to ‘sex’ surfing, which renders its appeal slightly less attractive.
The journey begins in my ‘curious’ and somewhat ‘defeated’ sense of self. ‘Curious’ because of recognising the source of this trip to be a self-initiated method of travel enticed by a series of lined up interview ‘quests’ rather than a response to an open opportunity to ‘be somewhere’. And ‘defeated’ relating to choices of ‘letting go’ of my temporary home in the foothills of the Himalayas and moving on with my life elsewhere. This gave rise to a ‘fear’ of the unknown, which I have substituted with a sense of ‘security’ by organising visitations of friends’ and ‘film projects’ throughout various states.
For example, one of the ‘film projects’ is to find, and interview, the ‘Earthships’ creator, Mike Reynolds – an intrigue generated during my previous Indian project (a cafe I developed and ran in Leh) over a conversation with a lovely volunteer couple from New Mexico. After being engulfed by my favourite book, ‘Anastasia’, I had become open to methods of sustainable Earth practices as well as human ‘ethics’ which were clearly inspiring my interview quests. Excitingly, Mike has agreed, but of course the couch surfing request-acceptance by an artist named ‘Jeff’ is equally matched in desirability; namely to capture his intriguing home-farm-type setup on camera.
ALBURQUERQUE TO TAOS
The greyhound is an hour from Albuquerque when it makes its first and only clanking-thud.
Twenty minutes prior, I had been on my Google maps attempting with sheer willpower to steer the bus towards my mountainous couch-surfing destination; Taos.
My initial request to alight before Santa Fe had been abruptly refused, with the conductor calling out some convoluted triple-exchange route that begins from a stop further up; ‘Las Vegas’, to be precise. In doom I return to my seat knowing I am going to be way further north than required for comfort, but as the passenger-loaded hunk of metal cranked into fourth gear on the main Interstate 25, I mentally prepared.
That was until the bus broke down…like…just now…
Pulling into Seton Village to await a delivery of its vital organs, I cannot believe my luck at being less than 20 minutes away from New Mexico’s bustling capital.
“Hey, if you want to get off here, ya can,” permits the conductor in his defeated change of tune.
I hurry down stainless steel steps that have seen better days, and drag my partially torn, green holdall in the direction of exit 284.
If you start playing the pinching-zooming game with your fingers, you might be fooled into thinking state highways are relatively close to each other. They are not.
It is about 2.30pm and the sun is blazing. I have literally managed to jay walk one motorway like a chicken, to get to the other side, in attempts to ‘hitchhike’. This is in fact my secret get out of jail card, stealthily decided upon during my last stop in Colorado, in an attempt to reduce air mileage and of course totally against the wide-eyed disproval of my fellow stranded grey-hounders; many of whom appear straight out of season 1: US Crime.
After twenty minutes of cars spinning dust into my face I grow more assertive and wave an approaching truck down. Strangely, I experience physical resistance, emotional shame and mental denial upon lifting my arm to attract attention to myself, and the reality has hit home that I am attempting something one watches in movies with no prior experience.
“Hi there, do you know how much further to reach the 285?”
The lady winds her window down fully to tell me something.
“The 285 is still a while away. Where you headed?”
Her voice is trill, like Minnie Mouse.
“I need to get to Taos”.
I watch as her her face drops.
“That is over two hours away,” she anxiously replies.
Ashamed, I speedily reply, “I know, its ok, I’m just going to hitchhike.”
Managing a slight smile before cringing her lips, I feel I must reassure her of my security lest she goes into a panic attack. I shove my personal vulnerabilities to one side whilst waving goodbye, and continue walking solidly forth.
Its only been about two minutes of pathetically thumbing the air before the very same jet black, dust wagon returns.
“I am going to Mora, its about half way up, I need to see my parents first so I won’t reach till about two hours, but please get in.”
“Are you sure?”, I hear myself idiotically say.
She scrunches her eyebrows. Clearly she’s not. Clearly she’s just being polite. Clearly I’ve got dependency issues.
I’m wondering what to tell her to make it alright. Will I ever learn to be the grateful victim in life…jeez. The lady is giving me a lift, just say THANK YOU, woman!
“Ok, if you don’t mind then. Thanks so much.” I manage.
We stop by a small mobile home. It sits on arid land with a few flower beds scattered around. A dream catcher and silver chimes dance in the wind.
In the car, ‘Patricia’ has told me how her truck had its clutch custom-fitted to her hands because her legs are too short to reach the pedals. Patricia has phocomelia, a condition that involves malformations of the arms and legs, induced through the drug thalidomide otherwise inherited genetically.
Patricia slips down off her leather seat and lands on the floor in her tiny black work heels. She struts into the house and is greeted by her mother who looks on wearily, whereby she enthusiastically tells her the story of how she found me. Patricia reassures me that everyone who knows her is used to her various pick-up projects because she does this all the time. I grow intrigued.
Our next stop is to Patricia’s husband’s work place. She normally collects him on the way home. She explain to me how he is actually a Mexican immigrant from Chihuahua, but reassures his good heartedness and methods of care for her after the divorce from her ex-husband, the father of her daughter.
Pulling up to the lumber yard, Pulko, Patricia’s second husband, peers into the car. I am in his seat. I sense his confusion at the intruder, and swiftly jump out smiling awkwardly. Patricia begins telling Pulko all about me, my failed hitchhiking attempts and meeting her parents – in Mexican Spanish of course. Pulko smiles a little more as the story unfolds.
“She needs to go to Taos, so I said we could take her to Mora, by us.” Pulko thinks a while, then utters his first words in a broken English, “I’ll drive her”.
Patricia is slightly surprised. “Are you sure, Mi Amor?” she asks. “Yes” comes his one word reply.
I am suddenly in shock and blurt out, “can I pay for the gasoline?”
“Yes, whatever you want, its fine,” she tells me. Shit, I think, I am supposed to be doing this whole hitchhike thing for free…epic fail. Then again I did feel it was the right offer to make based on the situation.
An hour and a half later and the valley is disappearing. Pines begin to appear as the road curves around the mountain. The sun is setting and with the sudden temperature drop I begin to shiver.
“There was this homeless boy that used to come by each day close to work.” Patricia recalls. “He would sit outside and tell me he had run away from his mother. I told him to come live with us, and he did for two years. He got a job and we helped him through college. He’s gone now.” I detect a tinge of sadness in her voice.
I am feeling touched; awed; grateful. My heart is beginning to open again.
We reach the top of the mountain and Pulko finds the farm. He seems a little reluctant to let me go.
“Do you know these people?” he enquires.
“Its ok, its just a couch surf. Don’t worry.”
“Come to stay with us ok, when you come back”, calls Patricia as the car pulls away.
I am feeling emotional. I breathe in to block the flow. A strange bond has began forming somewhere inside of me. Why am I so susceptible right now? Had I found ‘family’ in Patricia and Pulko? How could it be that easy? These were strangers, surely? Was it the fact that I had spent my life in search of ‘acceptance’ because I never felt it growing up?
I opened the wooden gate to my next temporary home.
THREE DAYS ON A FARM
My room is a medium sized, chipboard box-thing with a freshly raised wood platform. Jeff, artist-cum gardener has just completed it in time for my arrival.
The door barely closes with an electric cable in between the gap, but I begin unpacking my case nevertheless, and lay down on the bed to await emerging stars.
I feel a settling sense of satisfaction shortly before an overriding a sense of loneliness begins to spread through me like wildfire. And before long I am experiencing emptiness, a tinge of longing and a bitterly satisfying sadness I first met when I turned five.
Hello my friends, couldn’t stay away from me that long could you? Now the adrenaline has evened out in my veins; now the sun has retired for the day. Are you from within me? Are you from somewhere else? Do you know why I am here, all alone, in this place; in this space? Am I close to finding that which I search for? Do you know what that which I search for, is?
I close my eyes and listen to Jeff’s dog, Pooch, bark something. The cats have already come to say hi and the chickens continue to rustle in their coop. There is another couch surfer at the farm helping out. She is driving from East to West coast to start back at University and currently assists Jeff in return for food and shelter. I, on the other hand, have come specifically to make a film.
I am curious to know more about the way he tends his organic farm, why he invests his time into growing his own food, what his political and social views of the world right now are. Of course I have told myself a story before hand, of how it might be, but now I must finally decide on some worthy questions, lest he take me for an utter madman with no plan in life. That is exactly what I am right now; a madman with no plan.
I am curious to know more about the way he tends his organic farm, why he invests his time into growing his own food, what his political and social views of the world right now are. Of course I have told myself a story before hand, of how it might be, but now I must finally decide on some worthy questions, lest he take me for an utter madman with no plan in life. That is exactly what I am right now; a madman with no plan.
I feel a settling sense of satisfaction shortly before an overriding a sense of loneliness begins to spread through me like wildfire. And before long I am experiencing emptiness, a tinge of longing and a bitterly satisfying sadness I first met when I turned five.
Back in my temporary home I soon come to realise how I am used to being the centre of attention. And when I get none, I no longer wish to ‘hang about’. Jeff is busy with the couch surfer who happens to be this hot brunette and doesn’t seem at all interested in me and my life plans. I, feeling unseen and unheard, am feeling invisible, once more. Only I can’t go anywhere this time because I actually made a plan. Thank God for tasks that make us feel of some use.
So with tears streaming down my face in utter transparency, I must sit in the truth of my dysfunction, and get to know it better. I decide to record a video before bed. It makes me feel a bit better, voicing my truth to the world before archiving it away in digital never-land.
What exactly is this drug I crave? Where do these thoughts of abandonment, lovelessness and worthlessness stem from? Why do I feel so much pain when I no longer disassociate with them? What exactly happened to me?
The following day’s interview goes smoothly and Jeff answers all of my demanding questions with equal curiosity. Like a good little producer, I assess all the ingredients to create the final dish which is flavoured with trust, transparency and humour. One final and beautifully homegrown meal later, and I am ready to get off this mountain.
Jeff wishes I could stay a little longer now that I am leaving, thinking what I am doing with the whole filming thing is ‘awesome’, which makes me feel slightly more ‘seen’ and a tingy bit ‘loved’. My love tank was almost on empty but that has actually let me become somewhat acquainted with the energies that fuel my behaviour. Always good to know who’s behind the steering wheel. I am scared now, but I’ll be grateful later.
(Side note disclaimer): The thing about this human condition they call ‘attachment disorder’ is that it develops from trauma at such an early age you cannot truly know yourself without it. In fact, it is not who you are, just a shell of protection that conceals your inner child which, these days, has outlived its function (purely a means to an end interpreted as ‘survival’). Millions of us live with it, and yet many spend our entire lives unaware that it is the injury or ‘addiction’ attracting us to all manners of inauthentic, unhealthy relationships, actions and behaviours in order to feel ‘fulfilled’. Or should that say ‘loved’.
In reality, however, the only way to really fill ourselves up is to learn how to give ourselves what we need. That usually comes in the form of self-love, and that is something that takes time, energy and dedication to practice each day. (Disclaimer over.)
TAOS TO MORA
I take a piece of cardboard and write ‘Mora’ on it, attaching it to my bag. Waving goodbye to Jeff I begin my descent on the hot, tarmac road, and turn towards the Universe for solace. No sooner have I been walking when a pick up truck stops beside me.
“Hi there. Where you headed?” The lady is a strawberry blonde this time, dark glasses with a bunch of kids in the back.
“Hiya. I’m going down to Mora.” I say.
“Mora! That’s over an hour down. I have to drop the girls off but I’ll come by on my way back ok? Actually, its not safe for a young girl to do this, you remind me of my daughter. Let me take you to a friends house first, ok?”
The car pulls up close by a river. There is a giant tree in the back yard. Wind chimes line a log cabin with dirty glass bottles strewn between tall grass.
“Mora! That’s over an hour down. I have to drop the girls off but I’ll come by on my way back ok? Actually, its not safe for a young girl to do this, you remind me of my daughter. Let me take you to a friends house first, ok?”
And as I get closer to the sounds of trickling water something magical occurs. It only happens when no other human is around and I am in nature. I feel my heart pop out from its shell. I still don’t know how or why this happens, whether there is some magic fairy dust in the air or that I suddenly feel safest alone in nature with no sign of human life…who knows and right now, who cares..?
A trillion particles explode inside me and begin absorbing the sights and sounds through each human sense. I understand the totality of the nowness under the heat of the sun, listen to the trickling of liquid moving past my feet, connect to the cold, smooth grass caressing the soles of my feet…I’m back in to the wild just like Anastasia.
Lying on my back I remember why I carry a plastic piece of image-recording kit. Technically I still haven’t a clue how to take proper photographs, but the silk worms spinning in the wind from dangling branched above my head cry out for their portraiture. I lose myself in the grass. I smell, taste, hear, feel, become the bliss, at One with the Elementals…just me and my camera.
Suddenly a horn sounds. The lady in the pick up truck has returned. I wave goodbye to the fastest two hours of my life and continue back towards Patricia and Pulko’s house that already feels like home.
