Taos, NM

Our journey to Taos begins with a short detour to Los Alamos, formerly known as "the town that never was". It was here, during World War II, that the atomic bomb was developed by some of the world's greatest minds under a thick shroud of secrecy, in what was known as the Manhattan Project. Nowadays, you can learn about what happened here - and what has been happening since - for free at the nearby Bradbury Museum. I'm not one to miss an exciting opportunity to expand my mind, let alone a free one.

A brief introductory video provides an overview of the Manhattan Project, after which we are at liberty to roam the museum as we see fit. Considering that the topic of nuclear science can be rather grim at the best of times, the museum has done a wonderful job to create an exhibition that is both interesting and informative. Among the highlights of the public displays are a letter written from Einstein to President Roosevelt in 1939 urging that he consider the military implications of nuclear energy, and a collection of photographs taken in Hiroshima the day after it was bombed. Both sets of documents are profoundly moving for quite different reasons.

What impresses me the most about the museum is the total absence of gung-ho jingoism that you might expect to find at a military museum. Nowhere is the use of nuclear weapons glorified: rather, the atomic age from Rutherford to Kim Jong-Il is documented in a frank, even-handed and holistic manner. There is even a separate section of the museum that serves as a forum for public discussion on nuclear energy, including a comments book accessible to all members of the public.

Flicking through the book, I find predominantly intelligent, reasonable debate from people on all sides of the nuclear argument, with not a love heart nor a penis drawn in anger. A recent comment reads, "the work done in Los Alamos is insane. Nothing can justify the hijacking of American ideals by the defence complex. Even without the bomb's use, its effects are poisonous".
Directly below that, someone has written "Nuke Tehran".

What also strikes me is how many of the key players in developing the atomic bomb were Europeans who had fled their homelands for fear of persecution from the Nazis. Not just Einstein, but Enrico Fermi, Leo Szilard, Edward Teller, Gregory Breit, and many more. There is a tremendous feeling of satisfaction knowing that by casting Jewish scientists out of his empire, Hitler contributed in a roundabout way to his own downfall. Had these brilliant men been on the Nazis' side, Hitler may well have got to the button first, and those of us who survived the nuclear fallout would have suffered the misfortune of spending their remaining days prancing about in lederhosen, eating sauerkraut and playing football in a boring, mechanical fashion.

As it turns out, the low road to Taos proves comfortably spectacular enough for our liking. After negotiating the drab outskirts of Espanola, the road takes us up a long climb, round a sharp bend before suddenly, a wide plain spreads out before us, hemmed in by distant mountain ranges. At the far end of the plain is Taos, separated from us by a large gash in the landscape, in the form of a deep canyon through which the Rio Grande flows. We are drawing ever nearer to the imposing shadow of the Rockies.

"Thank God I'm A Country Boy" comes on the radio and I am reminded, with a tinge of sadness, that I will not be attending the Waikaia Cabaret Ball this year. Generally considered to be the gala event of the Northern Southland social calendar, no Waikaia Ball is complete without at least 15 renditions of the aforementioned song, usually accompanied by frenetic line dancing and jug-sculling.

John Denver is held in exalted status in Southland; right up there, in fact, with Clarke Dermody and Robert E. Lee. There are some who believe that he was actually Southland born and bred, subsequently assuming an American persona and remaining incognito until such time as his Southern brethren issued the call to arms and he was to return to Southland to lead the insurgency against the tyranny of the northern provinces. I could believe it.

"Almost heaven, Northern Southland, Hokonuis, Makarora River..."

We arrive in Taos mid-afternoon and I am immediately enamoured with the town. Frankly, it's hard not to like a place that has a town square at its centre. Just like Santa Fe's town square, the Taos Plaza seems to set the pace and mood for the rest of the town. No one is in a hurry, and everyone is smiling. Our hotel occupies almost an entire side of the plaza and its adobe design gives it an old time western feel, as if you might expect John Wayne to stroll out of the hotel at any moment.

Thursday night is live music night in the plaza and around dinnertime, the square begins to fill up with locals and tourists. We sit from a second floor balcony at the bar, sipping beers and watching a country-rock band entertain the high-spirited-yet-predominantly-sober crowd. There is almost no drunkenness at all: in fact, a family atmosphere prevails. Vendors are selling barbecued ribs and candyfloss and soft drinks to children, old folks are walking their dogs around the square, even the mayor shows up on stage to honour the work of local Indian musician Robert Mirabal, who is greeted with a rapturous ovation. At once the beauty of the town square is apparent: it is the benevolent heart of the town from which good vibes radiate outward, imbuing Taos with a healthy mid-evening glow. On second thought, maybe I have been brainwashed by the nuclear folk at Los Alamos.

The following morning, we head north to the nearby Pueblo village. According to just about everyone, this is the oldest continuously inhabited site in North America. Many of the local native population still live and work in the village, without electricity, plumbing or foot access to a Wal-Mart. This ought to be a mind-blowing experience, but it isn't.

For the $10 entry fee and a $5 camera fee, I'm hoping to see a glimpse of human existence as it was 4,000 years ago. At the very least, I'd like to see some tribesmen round up and scalp a bunch of English tourists. But as it happens, there are very few Indians around at all. The few that can be seen are either manning lemonade stalls or selling souvenirs inside their houses. They are friendly and engaging, but also carry an air of resentment at the hundreds of years of European intervention, as well they might. I find myself quietly ashamed that I have paid money and come here to observe these people, when in actual fact it is their land and I am the strange-looking outsider, in my chuck taylors and beer t-shirt, who should be feeling awkward and conspicious. I buy myself a can of lemonade to assuage my guilt.

Back in the town square, I sit back with a beer and wonder why on earth Donald Rumsfeld would choose to live in a place like this. For the most part, its residents are the sort of liberal-minded free spirits that Rumsfeld would utterly detest, and the feeling would be mutual. Perhaps he just has a ranch somewhere out of town and gets his flunkies to come into town and run errands for him. Perhaps he and Cheney are just pissing the way the last of their miserable existences on his balcony, sipping gin and tonics and talking about how Bush was right to invade Iraq because God told him to.

As I move onto my third beer, I once again find myself admiring the masterstroke of urban planning that is the town square, and considering the benefits it could have for cities and towns closer to home. Imagine if SkyCity in Auckland were to be ripped up and replaced by a village green, where people from all walks of life could listen to music and eat barbecued ribs instead. Imagine if the unsightly carpark that used to be Cathedral Square in Christchuch was torn up and replaced by a park. In fact, imagine if everything within a 40km radius of Cathedral Square was bulldozed and converted to a green space. What a tremendous improvement that would be for the fair city of Christchurch.

I go to bed congratulating myself for almost not mentioning food for an entire entry, and thinking pleasant thoughts of simpler times when village greens were abundant and the social problems we now face as a result of their general absence were non-existent. At least now if the decline of Western Civilisation is eventually traced back to a lack of village greens, I'll be able to sneer down from my high horse and say, "I told you so".