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.
Organpipe Cactus at last light
