It began to rain, then pour. So I walked slowly on the slippery granite the three miles to the far end of the rocks - Buzzards Peak, from where I have the most distinct view of the west; the distant browning of the land, until Texas becomes desert. From Buzzard's Peak, I walked, then drove, to Kerrville, which I found to be a pleasant place.
I stopped in the local Quicky-Mart for a coffee and brought up the subject of the camels to the server. "I guess I've never heard of the camels," she said. But she was interested (which is maybe why I found Kerrville so pleasant), so I proceeded on the subject of Kerrville's great place in history. So the story goes, in the 1850's, when the importance of the West was rapidly growing, US Secretary of War Jefferson Davis, with his eyes on the Presidency, brought thirty-three dromedaries on a converted naval ship from Tunis to the Gulf Coast. At extreme inconvenience, the military transported the corps north and ultimately to Kerrville, which would serve as the base for reconnaissance and loaded transport missions to California. A Syrian named Hadji Ali (pronounced Hi Jolly by the US Servicemen) was hired as Chief Jockey.
When on a mission, the party became lost and the horses and mules became unridable. The Servicemen were parched. The camels led the party to water, and upon arrival, needed nothing of the sort themselves. When Hadji Ali succeeded in his first mission, Jefferson Davis requested a thousand more camels to be purchased for cross-country military expeditions. But by now, with the outbreak of the Civil War, interest, and the success of the Camel Corps, was waning. The dromedary foot is intended for the soft sands of the Empty Quarter, and would bruise easily in the rocky west.
I drove to San Antonio, San Antone to the folks in Austin, and San Tone to the folks in San Antonio. I wasn't sure what to do in San Antonio, so I pulled in to the local Quicky-Mart, to fill up on gas. This quicky-mart was much larger than the ones in Fredricksburg and Kerrville. Its stock was indistinguishable from anywhere in the United States. I was in California, I was in Ohio, I was in Boston. I was in San Antonio, and I wouldn't even know it. The pleasure of modern travel is the spectacle of the loss of place. I'd rather walk through a swamp.
I took to the road to Houston - flatlands of farms, narrow stands of trees hugging rivers. Imperial-sized Quicky-Marts. Antique Shops. Adult video stores.
I pulled off the road and walked along a flooded river, which had enveloped the surrounding woods with stale water, flies, and the stink of bog. I decided to walk the mile or so south where the river widened and the small flood-plain provided ample mud for the rare dwarf palmetto - a tropical origin peculiarity in Texas, and a reminder among the farmlands that the Gulf of Mexico is not so far away.
The next day, I met a pair of Teamsters lounging at a cafeteria.
I asked them what they thought of Austin.
"Good place to get drunk."
And San Antonio?
"'San Antone? Too many Macabas"
"What's that?"
"You know, wetbacks."
"So what's up with the nazi symbol?" I asked, referring to his tattoo.
"It's throwing away discrimination," showing me that the symbol was being thrown through a basketball hoop. I asked him about the other tattoo, a gruesome skull-like creature with large ears, like its host.
