Subject: Nova News #66
Date: Feb 2000
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: Elkhart Indiana
is the biggest small town in the world.Least ways, that's how it always seemed to me. Comprised
of 40K inhabitants and, therefore, large enough to entertain all
manner of ethnic socioeconomic diversity, it's internal caste system
was drawn along geographic grids whose borderlines could be breeched
with 10 minutes of hard bicycle riding in any direction...and I
liked to ride...a lot.
It had old rich, new rich,
Baptists, Protestants and Jews. There was trailer trash and
black lashed, Italians who ate fish on Friday, went to church on
Sunday, and ran numbers the rest of the week. Hell, we even
had our very own hobo town where guys who road the rails lived in
make shift shanties, got rousted by cops, and badgered by clueless
kids who awaited their own turn of the wheel...and toss of the dice.
Elkhart's commercial claim
to fame was The Mobile Home Manufacturing Capital of the
World. It also served
as the site where Speedy Alka Seltzer lived, One A Day multiple
vitamins got made, and Flintstone's for Kids were born. Over
the years, of course, some things have changed. More RV's
than mobile homes are made nowadays. The German corporation Bayer
bought out Miles Laboratories and, for all intents and purposes,
shut 'er down. Yet, in one form or another, the status quo
remains, and, although I've been at the receiving end of a few unsavory
agendas, they've served as a good schooling for our current exploits.
Our most recent address
finds us overlooking Ensenada Bay and within spittin’ distance
of the Pacific Ocean. La Jolla Beach is where the locals bring
their families. Whether barmaid or busboy, gardener or grifter,
the common folk come here to unwind. There are no ordinary
tourists who venture this far off the beaten path and we’ve
garnered a certain level of attention since our arrival. We’re
used to this. It's not the first time, nor will it be the
last.
The inquiries generally
begin innocently enough with, "Hello, nice weather we're havin,'
how long ya staying?" and, shortly thereafter, gravitates down
the corridor of, "So, what are ya famous, or infamous,
for?" Loosely translated, and dependin' upon whose sayin'
it, such conversations generally resolve into a resounding,
"What do you want?"
During an expedition to
the Mayan ruins of Palenque, I had the opportunity to have this
question asked me by some guy punctuating his interest in my response
by pointin' a .50 caliber machine gun at my forehead.The bore of a .50 is BIG…much bigger than the barrel
of the 9mm’s thrust toward me in Michigan's Manistee Forest.
I've come to the conclusion, depending upon where it's aimed, an
inverse relationship exists between the size of a weapon's borehole
and the size of one's ass hole.Especially so if that trigger finger "has a need to know."The Government goon holding me at gunpoint in Chiapas during
the uprising of ’95, fit this category.He appeared uncomfortably edgy with the knowledge Zapista
Rebels had overturned a couple trucks and had the only road comin’
in from Villahermosa pinned down with sniper fire…and so was
I.
Upon my return, I was asked
how I got into such situations, and, more importantly, how I got
out. I responded, "By respecting others, as well as MySelf."
I've learned from past experience the socioeconomics of the fringe
are every bit as agendized as anything I've ever seen while growing
up in the Heartland of America. As such, it makes sense to
respond in a Language everybody understands. Often times this
Language is based on somethin' as simple as an attitude reflecting
respect (or the lacking, thereof) back in the direction in which
it came. Frankly, I figure anyone who would Wonder as to our
Intent need only pay attention to the following concept: "If
your as good as ya think you are, than you know we're OK.... if
ya don't know that, than Now WE Know a whole lot about you."
Yep, there's a lotta agendas out there, "Being Respectful and
OK" seem like good ones to us.
La Jolla Beach Camp carries
a vibe, feeling as if Route 66 banked south of the border and spit
Ken Kesey's crew out and onto the Pacific. Yet it wasn't a
magic bus, but a retired RV, that began this ramshackle colony of
nooks, crannies, and rolled aluminum on wheels. The Hobbit
like homes serve as sarcophagus, holding within the kernel an original
Conestoga wagon which, somehow or other, made it this far.
Strangely, there are dozens here made in Elkhart, and learning this
makes me smile because I always wondered whatever happened to 'em
as they rode outta The Heartland into the great unknown. I
feel lighter with the knowledge some have endured to faithfully
carry such Shawshank Dreams to a Redemptive See. I expect
Morgan Freeman to arrive at any moment and whisper, "Ya made
it, Andy...ya made it."
Sometimes ya gotta get
outta the jelly jar to take a reely good look at the way things
are goin.' This holds true in one's personal life, as well
as the geopolitical.Insofar as the way the current Baja jam
is jellin,’ I'd have to say, I feel less of pucker factor
here than I have in a lotta other places...including many cities
in the States. I mention this because our Host is a sane man
and has asked me, "Why have American's become afraid to visit
my country?"
My response could have
been, "Because the Press and Prez are concerned about vacation
bucks falling into the hands of some Mexican politico, rather than
the gringo bandito dressed up as a mouse in Orlando"...but
I didn't. Instead, I shared the observation, "It seems
like the governments are sewing up the borders with a buncha fear."
We never spoke of it again. I didn't mention the inverse relationship
theory between butt holes, bore holes or dineros. It wasn't
necessary, because, as I mentioned, he's a sane man and already
knows this. I figure he's about as reluctant to go to Mexico
City as I would New York, but that's probably more about personal
preferences based on the pucker principal, and crowds, in general.
So far, this stretch of
Baja doesn't feel like it's about to fall off the edge of the western
world and drop into an ocean of chaos...civilly or criminally. This
may not be the case elsewhere, but I've got no problem recommending
this Pacific port as good harbor in a storm.
