We left Los Angeles in the evening, playing juju music from Nigeria on the radio; a kind of tropical, drunk-on-palm wine jam. In the night, we passed through the Eastern Mojave, and into Arizona, my brother Hans reading about a place called the 'Space Age Motel.'

"Its got a twenty-four hour coffee shop, man", he said.

I had called Hans five days before, "I'm going to the desert, would you like to come?" Of course, I was joking. Hans lives in Portland, Oregon, and the chances of him finding an affordable flight were close to none. When he showed slight curiosity, I backed away by saying, "If you did come, all you'd be doing is carrying film and camera equipment in a hundred degree heat. And you won't get much sleep."

Three days later, he called and said, "I'm leaving in a hour."
"Okay, what airline?"
"I'm driving."

Why he decided to drive 950 miles to spend five days as my personal sherpa is less surprising when you look at his credentials: a seasoned rock climber and backpacker, traveller, kayaker and explorer.

At midnight, we arrived in Gila Bend, at the 'Space Age Motel', which was a square-tin covered in white glitter with paintings of the 'Starship Enterprise.'

There were no available rooms, and the coffee shop had long been closed, so we stayed overnight at the 'El Coronado', a ratty-assed sweathole where the lamps and phone and air-conditioning were more props than working utilities.