We stopped
in Barstow,midway between LA and Las Vegas...a bus stop consisting of an untidy jumble of fastfood joints -
McDonald's, Panda Express, Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits – all leading to dozens
of restrooms and souvenir stalls of the
"I've been to Barstow" cap/t-shirt Betty Boop bags variety. Fridge
magnets anyone?
Having
spent the past few weeks on the West Coast - from Vancouver to Seattle,
Portland, San Francisco and Santa Monica - I had forgotten how grimy America
can be.
The stopped
bus took on a musty air and I couldn't wait for the filthy vent to start
spurting air again.
My fellow passengers kept to themselves - each
holding their own purpose and intent close: the large latino girl wearing
pyjama pants who gorged on burger, fries and ice-cream sundae at the bus stop
and then curled up on her seat to sleep; the black man answering his cellphone
"I'll call you when I'm situated - we're about 2 or 3 hours out of Vegas and
I don't know what I'll find there"; the two heavily made-up
french-speaking women who appeared ready to step straight onto a Vegas stage; and the old cowboy with the checked
mountain shirt and grizzly white beard, his boots flapping loose and his
possessions rolled into a blanket.
We took off
again, the rolling tumbleweed hills looking like a moonscape of loose cement,
grey and infertile, past signs advertising "Peggy Sue's 50s Diner",
"Ghost Town Road" and "Mad Greek Best Gyros". A truck bearing
the slogan "The Joy of Eating" passed to reveal a row of
evenly-spaced signs proclaiming the Ten Commandments, though the Seven Deadly
Sins may have been more timely on the road to Vegas.
We were
still in California, but we were in another world from the coastline of Santa
Monica and all the beautiful people with coffee cups glued to their hands
striding to their daily yoga session. Here was all dust, bare hills, fast-food
and truck stops, abandoned mobile homes and arid dreams. The fences
partitioning the sad paddocks seemed pointless because there were neither
livestock nor crops, nor hope of any. A lone horse, saddled, leant forlornly
against a power pole and a goods train rattled past, delivering succour to the
insatiable West.
Looking
back, the hills seemed more interesting, more alive - not the first time I felt
that on this journey through North America, that the past was more than the
present.
I'm looking
at millions of dollars’ worth of litter ("$1,000 fine for littering")
alongside the road and wondering at how we just don't care…
The hills
take on a more greenish hue, more mouldy than ferrous. They seem to be closing
in on the road as if to squeeze us out of this pocket of the world.
There are Exit signs every few hundred meters
but no discernible reason for them.
"Win
before you sin in 45 miles".
Afternoon
shadows stripe the low hills, adding character to their worn faces. The early
settlers must have wondered if there was any point in continuing west from here,
with no water, no animals or fertile land in sight. The January sky is pale,
the air still, though there is nothing for any breeze to move anyway - the
spindly Joshua trees starting to appear are rigid
Donkeys
feeding on the saltbush - the first animals I've seen.
The hills
are pleating with anticipation as we get nearer to Las Vegas, the driver riding
the brakes on the descent into the vast caldera; "Trust Jesus" we are
reminded by a bright yellow sign tacked to a pole.
A large solar power installation appears on the left. We seem to be in a giant diorama. The late afternoon sun throws
the layered hills into relief.
"Welcome
to Nevada"..."Gun Store - try one - shoot a real machine
gun!"...
Rows of
powerlines now seem to be competing with the highway to see which can get to
Sin City first -the sky is striated with jet trails - even the saltbush is
growing in lines parallel to the bitumin - all roads, apparently, lead to
Vegas.
The poor
cousin of casinos, on the outskirts of town: "Dealers' Blackjack
$1"...
Another
goods train heading for LA - this one 60 cars long.
The hue of
the sky and hills has softened to blues and pinks and pale gold - possibly a
last respite before the assault of the neon noise ahead - or perhaps this too
is artificially-lit by some supernatural technician.
Dormitory
suburbs for a town where prostitution is illegal.
A fibreglass palm tree ushers us into Vegas proper.
(c)FMPDH 2012
