Santa Fe, NM: Part II

You may not know much about the Pueblo Indians of Northern New Mexico, but that's okay because neither do I. Today, that's going to change. Hervey and Leslie are taking us to remote Frijoles Canyon, where can be found the remnants of an ancient Indian village dating back thousands of years. No one knows why the Pueblo Indians chose to leave here - they may have been flushed out by a prolonged drought, slaughtered by murderous Apaches or just moved down the valley closer to the casino - but what they left behind promises to be fascinating.

Back in the days when it was fashionable to be called Adolf, Swiss-born anthropologist Adolf Bandelier wandered the untamed West in an attempt to "trace the social organisation, customs, and movements" of Native Americans. He travelled relentlessly up and down the continent in search of answers, or a killer burrito, depending on who you ask. In 1880, he stumbled upon the Pueblo village in Frijoles Canyon and declared it "the grandest thing I ever saw". He was to later retract this statement upon visiting the Grand Canyon. Nowadays, thanks to good old Adolf, the Bandelier National Monument is a scenic day trip and a 2,000-year-old history lesson rolled into one.

As we pull out of the driveway, I notice a small tree across the street has been bent over and flattened, as if ploughed into by a runaway car. Strange, I hadn't noticed it before.
"Probably just a bear", Hervey says. Just a bear?

Hervey goes on to say that he's only seen one bear in the wild during the nine years he's lived here. Surely that means he's due to see another one any day now? This is bad news all round. I remember reading somewhere that bears can smell fear from three miles away. You do the math. I'm bear bait.

Perhaps sensing my unease, Hervey continues. "Don't worry, you're far more likely to see a mountain lion than a bear". Oh goody. Mountain lions are a piece of cake, you know. I fight them off in my sleep all the time. My nightmares that is.

"And what about snakes?", I ask tentatively. This time, he doesn't even answer. This is either a really really bad sign, or he can't hear me over the aircon. I really can't deal with snakes either. My last encounter with a snake came while hiking in northern Burma. I was looking out so intently for the bastards that I failed to notice that I was about to step on one. Suddenly a voice beside me yelled out "Max. Stop!" I stopped just in time to look down and see it crawl past me into the bushes. Another almost-new pair of pants ruined.

Half an hour of driving deep into the wilderness and we're there. "Welcome to Bandelier National Monument", says the park brochure I've just picked up, "You are in Wildlife Territory!", accompanied by pictures of a bear, a snake, a squirrel and a mountain lion. Hmmmm. Below this it says, "Do not feed or tease the squirrels. They bite!". It doesn't say anything about the bears, snakes and mountain lions biting though. Might this mean they've all had their teeth and other sharp bits removed? It seems unlikely, although it may provide some recourse if I find myself engaged in hand to hand combat with a mountain lion. "Excuse me, good sir, but nowhere here does it say you may bite me".

Further down the page, it says "Report any negative wildlife interactions to a ranger". Now, there's a phrase. What exactly constitutes a negative interaction with a bear, I wonder? Passing one on a trail without saying hello to each other? Getting cut off by a bear in an SUV at the carpark entrance? Seems to me that the only kind of negative interaction you could possibly have with a bear would result in you being left in a permanent state of inability to report it to anyone. Unless you were with friends of family, who could dutifully report your negative bear-related death to a ranger on the way home.

A short walk from the parking lot takes us to the ancient Indian village, where a young park ranger is giving an educational talk to a large group of fat Americans with their shirts tucked into their shorts, who for the most part are talking amongst themselves about the new low-carb menu at Taco Bell and the number of miles to the gallon they get with their Chevy Impala. The talk concludes and the Americans clear off, slowly and in the general direction of the refreshments stall, leaving us to enjoy the serenity of the site.

Park Ranger Nathan is a strapping young man of about 21, and loves mountain lions. "Oh yeah, we had one kill a deer here just last week", he says enthusiastically. Great. "But don't worry folks, they're pretty shy and won't attack groups of adults. They prefer an easy kill; something they can 'pop in the microwave and it's done', you know?", he says, indicating for the first time that America's obsession with fast food extends to its native fauna.

For no apparent reason, my father tells him we're from New Zealand. He enjoys doing this. "Oh, Noo ZEEE-land!", says Nathan, in a tone that indicates he's heard of it before. Immediately my mind begins taking bets on what he's going to say next. It's either "All Blacks!" at $1.85, "Lord of the Rings!" at $3, or "Flight of the Conchords!" at $4.25. He's young so maybe the latter might be the most attractive bet.

"All Blacks!", he says. "Y'all like rugby?"
Of course we do, we're from Noo ZEEE-land!
"I love those guys. So intimidating!" High praise coming from a man whose work involves trying not to get killed by rather imposing wild animals on a daily basis.

All that is left of the village are the brick foundations and remnants of walls where it used to stand. More intriguing are the small rooms that have been carved out of the canyon wall. I find myself imagining the scene a millennium ago: farmers tending to their maize crops, women creating winter blankets with yucca fibre, children collecting water from the stream, young men fashioning axes for hunting deer, old men complaining about having to pay $13.99 a night for high speed cable.

Further up the path is the Alcove House, a large hollowed-out cave that served as a gathering place for the villagers. It's only accessible via four ladders that ascend 140 feet up the canyon wall, so the old folks carry on walking up the trail while Joey and I decide to head up. The ladders don't look daunting from the base, but then, they never do. I can't think of many worse ways to spend a morning than falling 140 feet, except perhaps falling 140 feet into the arms of a bear.
"Go on up, you'll be fine", says Hervey.
"And take your time up there", Leslie says. "It's a beautiful spot".
"Just remember you don't have any medical insurance" are the best words of encouragement my father can muster.

I reach the cave without incident, which is a relief because this note is getting rather long, and look out over the forest and down the canyon. It is incredible to think that on this very spot for hundreds of years, Indian tribesmen ate, drank, partied, talked shit and did all those things we take for granted in our own daily lives. I'm told that on weekends, young descendents of the original Pueblo Indians come up here to drink moonshine and make out under the stars, and it comforts me to know that this ancestral link still endures into the 21st century.

Back on the trail, we stride purposefully in the direction of the old folks. My mind is so lost in amazement at the timelessness of the area that I've almost forgotten about the wildlife dangers when I hear an unfamiliar rustling sound just to off the path to my right. It's not a pitter-patter of footsteps, rather the continual sound of leaves and detritus being disturbed. I know what animal is making it. It's a sound I've heard on TV shows, movies and documentaries a thousand times before.

It's slithering through the undergrowth and over a log less than a metre from where I stand. Immediately my mind races back to Hervey's advice about what to do when confronted by a rattlesnake. "Don't turn and run, just jump to the side. Rattlesnakes can only strike in a forward direction". This seems like the kind of perfectly good advice that would, in application, invariably be ignored in favour of the "turn and run" approach. Actually, I do neither: I stand still and slowly reach into my pocket for my camera. If I'm going to die out here, the least I can do is get a photo of what killed me so that my family can hand over to the friendly ranger a more thorough and clear report of my negative interaction with the wildlife.

It's not a rattlesnake, of course. It's a relatively harmless garter snake. It's almost as afraid of me as I'm afraid of it. It sits on the log for a while, regarding me with mild disinterest, before it's satisfied that I've got enough photos of it, and it disappears into the bush. A short way further up the trail, I encounter the old folks, who in turn have encountered three deer. Although surely shaken by the recent mountain lion kill, they are happy to come almost within reaching distance of us, chewing happily on tree leaves while paying us very little attention at all. As interactions with wildlife go, this one is fairly positive.

Back at the car, still buzzing from our numerous wildlife encounters, we enjoy a healthy and refreshing picnic lunch. The sun is out but is pleasantly shaded by pine trees and the valley walls and babbling brook provide a pleasant backdrop for an afternoon feast. So familiar is the landscape that I could almost be forgiven for thinking I was back in New Zealand. Except there's a squirrel running around pestering me for food, and a bear rustling about in the trees about 20 feet away. Wait, no, it's not a bear. It's just an American with his shirt tucked into his shorts who has wandered off the trail to take a slash.

If you're wondering what kids do at night time in Santa Fe, the answer is a little disappointing. They do what kids the world over do: drive around and around the block in shitty cars, playing shitty music and hurling abuse at strangers. I make eye contact with one such individual as I enter the La Fonda Hotel just after dark. He thinks for a second about calling me a faggot, decides not to, and zooms off into the night.

Hervey takes us to the hotel bar, where the Bert Dalton Trio have already opened their jazz routine. Bert himself is on the keyboard this evening, in cahoots with a drummer and a third man on the stand-up bass. Hervey comes here every Tuesday night, he explains, and a glance around the room suggests much of the crowd are regulars too. Nellie the waitress brings some beers to the table and Hervey introduces us all. "Hello", she says, "can I see some ID please?"

Nellie has been waitressing in here long enough to remember the days when cowboys would cruise in off the dusty streets at lunchtime to enjoy a couple of shots of rye before heading back out to resume shooting people, or doing whatever it was that cowboys actually did when no one was filming them. Nellie is well into her 70s and definitely belongs to the old school of customer service. This is made clear as she glares menacingly at the young couple who are making out ferociously on the dance floor, in full and awkward view of at least 30 people. Eventually they sense her eyes burning through the back of their heads and go elsewhere to resume their lurid pre-mating ritual in public, much to everyone's relief.

In between sets, Bert comes over to chat with Hervey, who informs him that we have come all the way from New Zealand to see him play.
"Louisiana?! Wow, that is a long way!"
"No, New Zealand".
"Oh, Noo ZEEE-land! Well that's even further! Whereabouts are y'all from?"
Queenstown.
"Well how about that, we played a couple of shows in Queenstown once upon a time! Long time ago now. Maybe 1983". I didn't even know Queenstown existed that long ago.

"Great place, Queenstown. Beautiful place. Wanna hear a funny story? We're driving into Queenstown, along the big old windy road along the lake... what is called. Why-cat-a-poo? Yeah. So we're packed into this van with a trailer and you know what, we didn't even know, but the trailer door isn't shut properly! So we get to Queenstown and discover we're missing a tom, drive all the way back down the road lookin' for it, but you know, it's all mountains on one side of the road and lake is on the other, and no sign of this damn drum anywhere".

The glint in his eye as he tells the story suggests that he has never told it before, but has been waiting a long time for the right moment to bring it out.

"So you know what? We went and got on the radio station there in Queenstown, sent out a message asking anyone who finds the drum to return it. And you know what? Very next day, some fella returns it to us. Great people they are down there, great people". Sounds like Queenstown was pretty much as wild 25 years ago as it is now.

After the break, the trio is joined by a trumpet player, forming what I suppose you'd call a quartet. The trumpeter adds an extra dimension and the music steps up several notches as they blast out one foot-tapping number after another. They're not dissimilar to Dunedin's very own Calder Prescott Quartet, only a little younger, and playing to a very much more upmarket crowd than you might expect in the Robbie Burns on a Thursday night. They carry on playing well past 11 o'clock, by which time I've long since left - noting with interest that the same halfwit in his shitty car passed me as I left the hotel - and gone to bed. It was quite a day.

It's a curious fact that Flight of the Conchords is as popular, if not more, in America than it is in New Zealand. Without doubt it has superseded Lord of the Rings as our most well-known entertainment export to the US. A lot of Americans never knew the New Zealand connection to Lord of the Rings anyway, as evidenced when they showed up at travel offices in their droves, trying to book holidays to Middle Earth.

Otherwise, New Zealand's contribution to American society is less than minimal. Snapple does make a brand of kiwifruit-and-strawberry juice, the label for which displays a picture of a koala in a kiwifruit tree. Michael Campbell earned his three minutes of fame when he out-duelled Tiger Woods in the 2005 Open. But these occasional moments in the limelight aside, our most popular export to America, particularly in the post-Lomu era, is still the All Blacks.

In the last few years, the British rugby media (or as I like to call them, "fucksticks") has made much of the supposed "loss of aura" surrounding the All Blacks and the devaluation of the All Black brand. I've always just dismissed this as moronic bleating from a bunch of stuck-up toffs who are tired of seeing their pathetic excuse for a rugby team getting bent over and having not very nice things done to them by the mighty All Black machine. However, I suppose I could never really know one way or the other without actually going to another country and gauging the public's feeling toward the All Blacks. Nathan the park ranger yesterday seemed pretty impressed with the All Black brand as it is. So far so good, then.

Today, Hervey takes us just out of town to lunch at Harry's Roadside Diner. Our waitress introduces herself as Jennifer, a thirty-something Italian girl from New York City (she didn't actually say that last bit, I just inferred it).
"Now, can I get you guys something to drink?", she asks.
"We're from New Zealand!", my father volunteers cheerfully.
"Oh, Noo ZEEE-land! I love that place, you know, I was thinking of going to live there one time. The locals are so friendly!"
"Glad to hear you say that".
"And you know, I love those Maori soccer players who do the-"
At this point, she slams her fists against her chest then raises them forcefully into the air whilst making a loud hooting noise.
"Oh, the haka".
"Yeah the hocker! Oh my God, I love it! So scary!"
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, you sad old English gits. All Black aura is being lost eh, well certainly not in Northern New Mexico, that's for sure.

It's funny how all Americans who visit New Zealand rave about how friendly the locals are, and all New Zealanders who visit America rave about how friendly the locals are. One country has obviously got it all wrong. Still, I suppose it just goes to show that change is as good as a holiday.

I had the buffalo burger, by the way. Tasted just like chicken.

It's our last night in Santa Fe and we're invited to the stately home of Myron and Jan, more family friends from my father's university days. Their house is an architectural marvel, blending Pueblo influences with that wonderful American desire to make everything twice as large as it needs to be. The ceiling in the dining room is 23 feet high, "which is great until you have to change a lightbulb", Myron says.

We dig into a hearty barbecue of whole chickens and sausages with potato salad, coleslaw, pickles and sourdough bread with that creepy pale American butter that looks like sour cream and tastes like nothing. Leslie asks me what I've enjoyed most about Santa Fe. "The food", I manage to blurt out, washing down a large chunk of chicken breast with a refreshing Santa Fe Pale Ale. In fact, I've enjoyed just about everything about Santa Fe. The weather, the architecture, the easy pace of life, oh and did I mention the food?

After dinner we sit on one of Myron's three balconies and watch the sun go down over the Rockies and the lights flicker on in the distant town of Espanola. I remember Leslie telling us that it was one of the most drug-riddled towns in America. Nowhere else in the country is the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots as conspicuous as it is here in New Mexico.

"It's a funny old place, New Mexico", Myron says. 10.8% of the population is of native American descent, more than ten times the national average. This adds immensely to the cultural capital of the state, but also brings with it social issues not encountered elsewhere.

"We have terrible problems with drink driving", Myron continues. "And one of the highest rates of pedestrian deaths in the country, from kids driving all over the road and knocking people over. It's unbelievable. Some guys get caught drunk driving three, four times in a year, judge knows if he doesn't send him to jail he's just gonna keep driving, but if he does send him to jail, his family starves".

It sounds much like the situation we have with our indigenous people, I tell him. "I bet. And the laws are just hopeless to prevent the situation. In New Mexico, you need insurance to get a license, but you can get it by the hour. So you get your insurance, go in and get your license, then go straight out and cancel the insurance policy again".
"Yeah, the law-makers are hopeless around here", Hervey chimes in. "And our city councillors are the best that money can buy". Still, in spite of New Mexico's many threats to life and limb - bears, snakes, biting squirrels, unregistered drunk drivers - it seems like a pretty swell place to live as far as I'm concerned.

For 28 years Myron had a holiday home in Taos, which is our next destination about 70 miles up the road. I don't know much about Taos, except that Donald Rumsfeld owns a house there.
"Oh, don't worry about that", he says reassuringly. "It's still a great little town. You'll love it. Are you gonna take the high road there or the low road?"
Until this point I was unaware of the Frostian implications of driving from Santa Fe to Taos.
"You've gotta take the high road! It's a bit longer, but it takes you through all sorts of country and the scenery is incredible".
Sounds good, but Hervey is sceptical. "I don't know Myron. It's a pretty rough road. Last time I drove it I ended up in a cow paddock".
"Yeah, that'll happen", Myron says. "There's a couple of left turns that aren't well signposted and easy to miss. If you end up in a cow paddock, turn around, go back and make a right".
"Didn't a couple of kids go off a cliff on that road not too long ago?", Hervey continues.

Think we'll just take the low road.