Dear Reader,
Ok. Let’s not sugarcoat things here. You’re in the Southwest now – the land of scorpions, rattlers, and the wiggy, wildly rich.
And the wiggy wealthy in these parts are not the Hamptons kind, or even Malibu. These people want the Wild West touch, with a latte and all the turquoise their necks can bear.
Meanwhile, this is also the home of the abjectly poor. All desert and no water. Land theft. Natives, the first peoples of this land, fight daily to get it all back. At one time, there was enough water and earth for everyone. Then, the white man came, and it hasn't been the same since.
Gold. Old, white-bearded types chase it in the Superstition Mountains in Arizona, still today, in that desperate prospector way. The skeletons of white men and worn-out horses litter the Arizona desert like stone markers.
Here, in the Southwest, the white rich love all things Native American, and they are eager to show us off like wax figures come to life at their high-hilltop mansion parties.
They invite us and give us their coats to put in the coat room, and then present us like a painting or a doll come to life. Pinocchio shit. And, to this day, they want to touch us — our arms, faces, hair — and they want to fuck us when the drink hits their head, but they still won't give us our land back.
I digress. Yes, yes, the Southwest.
On any given day in places like Santa Fe, old white folks driving Teslas suddenly cut you off, sending you into a death spin on the two-lane highway with a steep cliff to the right, which ends with the inevitable brutal, tumbling death down the dirt hill. I, for one, never get mad at slow drivers, especially in these parts, the land of red and green chili, frijoles de hoya, and many other fantastic confections transported in huge, brimming pots. Precious cargo. And none of it is ever delivered by anyone behind the wheel of a fucking Tesla.
Indeed, Santa Fe is a retirement community for the New York oligarchs when they tire of Manhattan blocks — old couples with weird fetishes and that never-ending coffer of cash.
Right. The southwest is loaded with the rich and famous. Years ago, you could wander around downtown Santa Fe by the plaza and you'd see a gaunt Gene Hackman, then 90-something, riding a $10,000 bicycle in and out of traffic. Today, you can saunter into one of the city's many (way too many) art galleries and there in suspenders is a paunchy George R.R. Martin speaking in his signature high, scratchy voice about how he still wants to build a castle just out of town. Then, on Sundays, rain or shine, Natives, mostly elders, sit on the concrete near the street and sell their wares to pay this month's bills.
Meanwhile, this is also the land of ghosts and haunted highways and hotels and, if you ask the Chicano elders in these parts, it's where La Llorona, "the Crying Woman," viciously drowned her kids hundreds of years ago. She's now doomed to live in this world as a tortured specter, wracked with the guilt of her devilish deeds, and she chases children at night who fail to get inside before dark. Never follow the sound of a wailing woman, especially by a river and especially at night, lest we never see you again.
And speaking of ghosts, about a year ago, I took a drive through the length of the Southwest, down to ol' Mexico, and I scribbled copious notes along the way, and they go a little something like this:
"Desert dust-laden white crosses with plastic flowers and printed portraits of the dearly departed dart the freeway. The road from Santa Fe, New Mexico, to Phoenix, Arizona, is a massive memorial to the mangled dead. If there is a haunted highway in the U.S., Interstate-40 is it, bub, all the way to frigid Flagstaff. And when the sun gives way to night, and the witching hour creeps like a foaming, fanged demon hiding under your mattress, the imagination begins to reel, and you wonder how many ghosts you’ve driven by so far and how many more are still ahead."
Then, suddenly, the sun creeps back over the mountains to the east, bringing comfort, warmth; it's a majestic beauty and safety from the ghosts, at least for a while. Breakfast, you think. "I'll take mine Christmas style," which is both red and green chili smothered over a medium rare sirloin steak and eggs.
And the epilogue to this story is to avoid any bastard who drives a Tesla, get inside when you hear the wailing woman by the water, be kind and show respect to the Indigenous peoples of this land, and if you find yourself at the Hotel Congress in Tucson, Arizona, leave the lights on or you yourself may become one of doomed ghosts who feed on the foolish and the non-believers. You've been warned. Salud.
Your friend,
Simon Moya-Smith
Caption: This is a snapshot of my notes that started this piece; Santa Fe, New Mexico.