TriumphAnt

The story of Spring Break 2005 continues as our intrepid travellers leave the snowy terrain of the Grand Canyon behind, and drive eastward and downward towards our next destination: Kayenta (which, as will be seen, is apparently Navajo for “You really don’t want to be here!”).

The highways in this part of the world are amazing! Maybe it’s because there is not a lot of obvious industry other than that which caters to tourists so considerable federal, state and local tax dollars are expended in an effort to minimize the wear and tear on vacationing motorists’ shock absorbers. Or maybe it was the fact that we were driving a car that rental agencies classify as “full-size”, with all the attendant near-luxury features lacking on our own car sitting in the garage at home. But whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, he stood there on Christmas Eve – HATING the Whos!... (Oh wait, sorry, got sidetracked there. Where was I?) But whatever the reason, when we were travelling in open country, we found ourselves gliding along beautifully-paved surfaces almost everywhere we went.

It might seem like old hat to some people but, until this trip, I had never driven a car on cruise control. So please indulge me while I… what’s the word? Oh yes – digress about this miracle of modern motoring.

After descending below the snow line and coming down onto the much flatter, drier land below, we crested several gentle rises, each followed by a long shallow drop into yet another valley. After the third or fourth of these had produced as the road’s only deviation a slight arcing to accommodate the curvature of the Earth, my wife suggested I switch on the cruise control.

“Huh?” I responded in my gender’s typically articulate means of expressing a need for further information. She pulled the operating manual out of the glove compartment and quickly found the directions for turning over control of the car’s speed regulation to the HAL 9000 computer embedded in the dashboard. It was a two-step process, both involving buttons mounted on the steering wheel. First, you pushed a button that essentially alerted the car that it was going to be switched to cruise control mode. Then you accelerated to the speed at which you wanted to cruise and pushed a “cruise lock” button.

(Then, I assume you remove your shoes and socks and make pencil sketches with your toes, since your feet no longer have any purpose connected to controlling the car.)

At first, it was incredibly unsettling. As soon as I pressed the cruise lock button for the very first time, there was a small but noticeable acceleration as the car received a burst of gas to lock it at the requested speed. Now I, of course, am a guy – that is, a rational, calm driver that motorists the world over admire. So immediately I thought of Stephen King’s “Christine” and promptly thumped my foot against the brake to counteract what I was sure would be runaway acceleration, ending only when we ran over Buddy Reperton. As everyone in the car lurched forward as the result of my braking, my wife said dryly, “No, it’s supposed to do that.”

The second time, I waited after that initial minor burst and, sure enough, the car’s speedometer sat as solidly as a rock at precisely the speed at which I had pushed the lock button. Now I felt like Wile E Coyote in a Road Runner cartoon, when he first tried on rocket-powered sneakers and proceeded to flash from point to point with his new high-tech toys (coincidentally in very much the same sort of country through which we were now cruising… controlled).

It really takes some getting used to. When I drive on an unknown road, no matter how well paved it is, I am in the habit of easing off the accelerator just slightly when approaching even a gentle turn if I’ve never before encountered what is on its other side. 99 times out of 100, the road just straightens out and back onto the accelerator will go my foot. (I’m talking about a drop-off of no more than 3 – 5 km/h here; and it’s probably more the need to feel psychologically in control if it should ever turn out – that one time out of 100 – that a cow is lying mid-road in an advanced state of insulin shock at the other end of the curve.)

Other times, I would find myself approaching the rear end of a slower-moving vehicle like a camper or semi-transport faster than I felt was comfortable. Despite needing just a simple nudge of the steering wheel to drift me over to the passing lane, I would instead put just a slight bit of pressure on the brake and immediately the car would kick itself out of cruise control.

So I cruised for a time, but while it’s a nice option it’s not on my list of required standard features when next I buy a car.

We were now entering what a local map that I bought called – apparently without a shred of political incorrectness – “Indian country”. (Try publishing anything under that label in this country! Dateline Canadian Press: “Representatives of several nascent aboriginal autonomous self-governing First Nations National Assemblies of native indigenous peoples societies continued their third day of occupying the federal Minister of Cartography’s office to protest the department’s 2005 edition of ‘Canada’s Indians Welcome You!’, which band / tribe / nation / society / leaders claim is deeply offensive to their heritage. The leaders are demanding $110 billion in compensation, title rights to all Canadian land east of Tofino, BC and have agreed to meet with federal representatives at Algonquin College, Ottawa.”)

Roadside signage, in a marked change from the symmetrically-lettered National Park Service style, gave way to often crudely hand-lettered sheets of plywood promising “turquoise”, “silver”, “Chief So-and-so’s Indian Souvenirs” and the like, “Just ahead!”

And I noticed something else, especially when we crossed the border of the Navajo Reservation, but by no means exclusive to those boundaries. Among Americans, there is often a pride in just being “American” that goes way beyond the Patriot-Lite “I am Canadian” chauvinism that we know up here. Down there, they live it. In the middle of some of the most ungodly pieces of parched roadside desert land I would occasionally see a structure that looked no more functional than a northern Ontario duckblind, fronted by a flagpole from which would be flying a large and always brand new American flag. Every second car, it seemed, was decorated with a magnetic ribbon-shaped sign commanding any of a dozen variations on “Support our troops!”

You hear the word “heartland” used to describe the basic set of conservative patriotic values that propelled the current Bush back into the White House. But the evidence of that heartland rides the highways and bi-ways of desert country in Utah and Arizona, flies from its flagpoles, beams from its billboards, professional or hand-made, especially on the Indian reservations. The Navajo, to take just one example, clearly are strenuous supporters of the US troops and the present foreign policy that has placed so many of them in Iraq. (The cynic might also take note of the many dilapidated homes dotted among the countless small towns in this part of the country and conclude that, for many families, the US army might well be just about the only employment opportunity that their children have. Thus, “Support our breadwinner.”)

But the Navajo nation also provided a truly unique unit to the US forces in WWII. Known as “code-talkers”, they gave the American forces an unbreakable code to use in radio transmission when they simply used encryptions based on the Navajo language to speak to one another over the airwaves. At the time (and for that matter, today), Navajo was a language largely spoken – very little of it was written – and spoken exclusively by a specific indigenous group that a cultural anthropologist would describe as “linguistically autonomous”. It wasn’t a language, in other words, with a translating dictionary available for purchase in Imperial Japan’s better bookstores.

The code-talkers were awarded a special unit citation by President George W Bush on July 26, 2001. The President called them men who “in a desperate hour, gave their country a service only they could give.” (“Wind Talkers”, a 2002 movie starring Nicolas Cage as a soldier tasked with protecting a code-talker – or shooting him should he fall into enemy hands – is now on the rental market. It tells the code-talkers’ story within the framework of a not-so-bad war movie.)

And as you drive in Navajo country, you will occasionally encounter a sign proclaiming a small town to be the home of “So-and-so, WWII Navajo Code-talker”, and more than one museum dedicated to the unit.

As we continued our drive, I often found myself baffled, wondering what originally motivated a home builder or a town founder to decide that a house, or settlement, should be built on a particular patch of apparent desert nothingness, vs an identical patch anywhere within a visible 15 mile radius. In some cases, a single home had sprouted a couple miles off to one side or the other of the highway, creating a “driveway” of Odyssean length. (This was brought home late that afternoon when we watched a child disembark from a school bus to begin what looked like about a three-mile hike up a “laneway” – which in Ontario would qualify to be its own Concession Line – to his home, just visible on the distant horizon.)

Our destination this day was a hotel we had booked in a town specifically because it is located a short drive from the next major scenic attraction on our itinerary.

Kayenta, Arizona is a somewhat nondescript windblown town on the Navajo reservation. It straddles a dusty junction just about where Arizona meets Utah. That it exists at all seems to be due solely to its proximity to Monument Valley, Utah.

While searching for confirmation of its spelling, I discovered its official website and found myself reading material that I think really merits a few minutes of closer attention here to its more… uh… colourful (or being American, I guess that’d be “colorful”) features.

The Kayenta website, which is still “Under Construction”, greets you with an unimaginative photograph of the official green and white highway sign emblazoned with its name, and what appears unsettlingly to be a bullet hole or two. Directly underneath it is a wide-angle shot of the town itself, which looks either like it was taken from the window of a distant car racing by at about 60 miles per hour, or was shot just after the atomic bomb was tested very close by.

Right from the site’s introductory message, the writer seems to throw up his cyber hands and wax philosophical, “Kayenta may not be a fun place to live if you are a picky person, but if you aren't, Kayenta is perfect.” There is, unfortunately, no further explanation about just how not “picky” one needs to be before you’ll find Kayenta to be a “fun place”. (Personally, after reading most of this site, I suspect this webmaster thinks that about six ounces of José Cuervo Gold straight up oughta make you just about “picky” enough.)

If you follow the “Images” link, you’ll be rewarded with additional snapshots of such attractions as “A dust storm”, a grainy, long exposure of “Burger King at Night” and, believe it or not, a photo of the town’s new traffic light as it “turns red”.

Among its “Coming attractions”, the growing site promises that it soon will showcase “Pictures of the Prosecuter's (sic) Office after the fire”.

The featured link to “The Movie Theater” is something you just have to read for yourself.* It is plainly intended to encourage visitors to stay in their hotel rooms and order up a video. (A brief excerpt: “The exit signs weren't on, but we all knew where they were. The entrance to Cinema One wasn't working right and every time it shut, it slammed a little. There were many kids in the theater and they all seemed to talk at once. I could hear the movie, but I could also hear them, and it wasn't fun.”)

Another link, cheerily entitled “The problems”, showcases several further highlights that contribute to the town’s charm: “According to some studies, there are over 55 gangs on the Navajo Reservation. Kayenta has its share of problems and recently a gang called ‘OFA’ or ‘OFAK’ has begun tagging the town. The letter (sic) stand for ‘Out F-ing Around’ or ‘Out For Another Kill’ and the gang originated in Los Angeles.” (“Tagging” by a gang is analogous to what a dog does to a neighbourhood fire hydrant to delineate its territory. The only difference is that the “tag” in question is not canine urine, it is spray paint and the mark the tagger leaves is a gang logo. In Kayenta, gang tags are sprouting up all over the place but the website advises helpfully, “Tagging is a serious problem and the only way to get rid of this ugly problem is to clean it up.”)

Other problems? Stray dogs: “If you go to a shopping center, you're bound to see some and tourists feed them. Do not feed these dogs! They may seem like they need help, but they are only adding to the overpopulation of stray and rabid dogs on the reservation.” (This caution accompanies a grim night-time photo of a trio of glowing-eyed dogs that look like they belong more on the set of “Hounds from Hell” than on the streets of a small town.)

Most cities avoid any mention of local crime worries. Not Kayenta. Referring to a regional realty webpage that provides a safety rating of neighbourhoods for prospective buyers and investors, the writer notes: “On a 1-10 scale, 10 being an ‘extremely high risk’, none of the crime possibilities fall below an 8! This site makes Kayenta out to be a very dangerous place to live and it seems like it tries to scare people away from moving here.”

If you do hear an ambulance or police siren, get out of the way, please: “They are most likely driving to a drunk driving accident, domestic violence case, or some other problem that happens daily on the Navajo Reservation.”

And finally, if you’re thinking of heading into the desert for a breath of fresh air, think again: “Pollution. Every town on the Rez has this problem. People dump their trash everywhere they can, and now that they closed the landfill, the problem is even worse.”

Remember this is a public visitor’s website!

The virtual “welcome” listlessly concludes, “This Web site may not update too frequently because Kayenta is a small community, and there is not much news to report on.”

I can’t but think that if this staunch member of the local Business Improvement Association is ever asked to add a music link to his site that best captures the spirit of Kayenta, it’s going to be a little something that goes a lot like this:

“The window's dirty
The mattress stinks
This ain't no place to be a man
I ain't got no future
I ain't got no past
And I don't think I ever can

The floor is filthy
The walls are thin
The wind is howling in my face
The rats are peeling
I'm losing ground
Can't seem to join the human race

Yeah…I'm living in a hell hole
Don't want to stay in this hell hole
Don't want to die in this hell hole
Girl, get me out of this hell hole

I rode a jetstream
I hit the top
I'm eating steak and lobster tails
The sauna's drafty, hoo
The pool's too hot
The kitchen stinks of boiling snails

The taxman's coming
The butler quit
This ain't no way to be a man
I'm going back
To where I started
I'm flashing back into my pan

Yeah, that's what I'm doing
And why not?

It's better in a hell hole
You know where you stand in a hell hole
Folks lend a hand in a hell hole
Girl get me back to my hell hole”

(“Hell Hole”, by Spinal Tap)

* I’m still not entirely sure there isn’t at least some tongue-in-cheekery happening here. But the site is as described, and appears in all its “glory” at: http://www.angelfire.com/az/rez/ The webmaster himself shows up in the photo essay about what seems to have been the greatest single moment in Kayenta history – the night “Windtalkers” opened at The Theater. He looks a little like an over-caffeinated Tim Curry, so who knows?

Such was our home for the night. And despite my in-depth coverage of the peculiarities of Kayenta’s web presence, after all that, to be fair, the Best Western Kayenta is a most pleasant (and unlike many of the “attractions” highlighted on the town’s official website, I can add a most “un-Kayenta-like”) place to stay. It was staffed, as nearly as I could determine, entirely by pleasant Navajo women each of whom sported a beautifully woven vest with a distinctive Navajo-looking pattern. In fact, it was so attractive that my wife mused about buying one for office wear, and we actually inquired about where and if they were for sale. But being Best Western corporate wear, they weren’t. However, we could find something similar, we were told, if we were willing to drive about 50 miles north. We weren’t.

And not too far from the junction (with the traffic light!) is a great little Navajo restaurant called The Amigo Café. We had two meals there. In one I tried a Tex-Mex platter that included a chimichanga stuffed with cornmeal that actually tasted like ground corn. Later, I opted for a “Navajo burger” that varied from a traditional burger in that it was stuffed into something called “Navajo fry bread” instead of a bun. Ottawa natives need only hear “Beavertail” to achieve a perfect understanding of what Navajo fry bread is. For everyone else, suffice to say that every recipe I have subsequently found includes the words “deep fry” in its instructions.

Diet food, it ain’t. But delicious it is!

Up next: 58 choruses of “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon”; Monument Valley; Johns Wayne and Ford; three sisters and an elephant butt.