Hot Dogs and Jumping Frogs

Two major disasters have occurred since I was last with you. Firstly, my windscreen developed a serious crack. But more seriously, my tea bag collection vanished somewhere in the badlands of New Mexico.

Ever since leaving New York I’ve been hauling round a large plastic bag containing essentials such as PG Tips, London Cuppa, and Yorkshire Gold. Now, I reckon, Big Chief Yellowhorse and his Indian friends are enjoying “um heap good cuppa”, while I’m suffering in tealess misery.

I’d left Colorado excited by the prospect of visiting the “breathtaking” New Mexico settlement of Santa Fe. This place, according to the tourist literature, is a “world-renowned travel destination, unparalleled in richness of history, heritage, arts and culture”. It also enjoys at least 326 days of sunshine each year, the brochure boasts.

Well, I must have arrived on one of the other 39 days because there was no sign of the sun. Instead, the air was filled with red, clay-like dust that gets inside your eyes, your ears and your clothes. I couldn’t escape the damn stuff, and the car got covered in it. It penetrated the interior and probably got into the engine too.

Most of Santa Fe’s famous old houses are only old by American standards. People flock from across the nation to gaze at these uninspiring, not-so-old stone dwellings while getting ripped off for “genuine” Indian artwork and artifacts that were actually produced in Mexico or China. “Authentic” bodegas sell frozen Safeway tacos for $14.95, which get covered in a thin film of slimy red clay if you try to eat alfresco.

I didn’t linger. A long shower, a car wash and fifty miles later I was in Albuquerque – a town of “hot dogs and jumping frogs”, if Prefab Sprout are to be believed.

Well, hot dogs were in abundance, but I didn’t see any jumping frogs. So I had to settle for the next-best thing – a lively Italian.

For a while Len was my best friend at school in Sheffield. He’d settled in Duke City after driving round the states on a road trip with his laid back partner, Donna. They’ve since founded a successful business, had two wonderful children and become locals in their adopted city. They live in a cool neighborhood in an amazing, retro, fifties-style home

Len still speaks with a clear Sheffield accent, and even though I’d not seen him for many years, we picked up an easy conversation. He reminded me of forgotten times growing up in south Sheffield, and we shared news of old friends.

That weekend, the year’s most hyped boxing match was due to take place. It was being shown in a local cinema, with no bar. Luckily help was at hand from New York, where another Yorkshire pal was monitoring events. We received a text when the fighters were heading for the ring, and arrived at the cinema seconds before they got ready to rumble.

Twelve rounds of one-sided boxing and a unanimous decision later, we retired back to Len’s local pub twenty bucks poorer. While the fight was crap, we agreed, at least it wasn’t fixed. Which is an improvement on the 1990’s.

With a few notable exceptions, Duke City is the most welcoming of places.

It’s also an art deco-lover’s paradise. Route 66 runs through the center of town, which is bisected by the Rio Grande. Most of Albuquerque’s historic buildings have been preserved, and its retro feel extends to the local fashions.

Albuquerque also has its seedy side, which family man Len was reluctant to show me. But it was interesting to note that derriere desires are actively encouraged in the conservative American south,

Len suggested we visit the Rattlesnake Museum, which advertises itself as an “enlightening and educational experience” This weird place is situated in the Old Town, where 17 families braved harsh weather, ferocious animals and Indian attacks to found old Albuquerque. Today, the place it is a tourist trap where locals artists flog their work and public conveniences are in short supply.

The museum was surprisingly good, showing not only the slithery things themselves but also their portrayal in popular culture.

The next day, I agreed to Len’s suggestion to ride the cable car to the top of the local mountain. At first glance the car didn’t actually seem to go that far off the ground, which was just as well as I suffer from chronic vertigo.

However, after we passed over the brow of the initial hill we swung out over an impossibly high canyon with a cavernous, 1000-foot drop below.

After a terrifying 15 minutes swinging 1000 feet over the mountain, we ended up in an alpine climate with snow, gusting winds and – even more worryingly – rampaging bears.

After taking a walk along the snowy cliff top, the journey down seemed even more daunting

And I wouldn’t want this guy’s job

Back on safe ground, I said goodbye to Len and family and pushed on along Interstate 40, which runs parallel to the old route 66. Instead of expanding the old road, the interstate was built parallel to 66, leaving many of the motels along the old “mother road” to rot and die.

And the ones that survive aren’t exactly the Ritz.

After a few hours heading west, I realized that I was in the badlands. These are barren places where no crops grow and no cattle graze.

There is little wealth and no large settlements. In fact, there’s nothing here except the odd store serving the road, and occasional Indian outposts

I stopped off at the Yellowhorse trading post to buy gas. Although the petrol station was clearly signposted from the road, it was abandoned and derelict when I arrived. It was eerie. There was nothing there but some silent, creepy-looking Indians wrapped in shawls at the side of the road.

I wandered into the adjacent shop to look for someone, but it all seemed silent and empty. In the end, I simply got back in the car and drove on

However, when I arrived at the small town of Gallup, I found that something weird had happened. My tea bags were gone. I knew they were on the front seat when I left Albuquerque, so what happened was a complete mystery. Could a stealthy Indian brave could have crept up and grabbed them while I explored the derelict store? In a test of manhood, perhaps? I know it sounds unlikely, but as a great detective once said, once you can eliminate the impossible, then an Indian must’ve nabbed your PG Tips

At Gallup, I also discovered a large crack in the car windscreen which, like several of my teeth, a local expert judged “too far gone” to be repairable. I considered getting the glass replaced before deciding that, like a facial scar, the crack added character. Though I doubt it will increase its resale value.

Then onwards to Sedona, a town of healing crystals, rock formations, granola and twee alternative cafes. The scenery is spectacular, though the residents are a little weird.

In Arizona, apparently, aliens are in dander of being stopped and deported. So I hope that this character had all his papers in order.

Then onwards to Flagstaff, where, as previously reported, I lost my camera and spilt shrimp juice on my computer. The good news is that the situation is now rectified. While in Vegas, I sent the computer off to be repaired, and on Friday I picked it up from my sister’s place. She’s also donated her old digital camera to the cause, so apart from a few continuity problems, we’re back on track.