Day 17
05-13-10
Bernalillo to Pueblo de Santo Domingo 28 miles
The morning began with a hearty breakfast, good conversation and a healthy debate with Miriam and her daughter Mary, both from Phoenix, Arizona. They were returning home from Ohio where their son and sibling had just graduated from the military academy. He is scheduled to leave soon for Asia to complete a year of community service. It is a new program which allows post graduate students a year furlough to immerse themselves into a culture to acquire a better understanding of different values and ways of life. The idea is to promote an optimistic approach to equip them to deal with the social problems of the various ethnic backgrounds they will undoubtedly face as officers. In light of this, I had to ask about the new Arizona immigration enforcement. Both smiled and said, “We were waiting for that question.” Mary stated that the media has twisted the information causing controversy and division. Both stated they and most Arizonians are in concurrence with the enforcement of the law as signed. As a member of the school board, Mary said that by law they will enroll anyone seeking an education without the required documentation. I gave this some thought and replied, “Maybe that’s just one of our problems. It seems unbalanced to enhance existing laws on one hand, and then knowingly place undocumented children into our educational system which has an economic impact on State and Federal budgets.” On a grander scale, I expressed my opinion regarding the fact that until the people of this nation hold our representatives accountable to enforce our existing laws regarding illegal entry and the employment manipulation of workers, this issue will continue to divide the nation and disrupt any harmony between humanity and its consciousness of truth. It is amazing when individuals that are elected by our governmental process to positions we have entrusted them with, positions that they receive benefits from, cannot complete the task at hand. Unfortunately, all too often history repeats itself, for these same individuals fall to the greed and power losing their integrity, honesty and sense of purpose for the betterment of the people who elected them – WE THE PEOPLE! To my surprise they agreed, and we parted on good terms.
The journey must go on. I leave with that wonderful feeling of adventure for the unknown. My route will take me through three pueblos on SR 313. I first stop to take a picture of a home with its own windmill constructed of wood from its time. It’s not operating now, but it does show the years of use. The metal wheel has collapsed with its wooden supports and cross members showing wear from the elements.(picture) I speak to a local who is watching me as I move to take the picture with my bike standing next to me. He says “A good day for a ride.” I agree and walk over to talk with him. His name is Ray and he is a member of Bernalillo community. He is pleasant and speaks of the pueblos with a conviction of ownership and pride. He tells me that San Felipe Pueblo just celebrated the feast day of their patron Saint San Felipe. This day is celebrated with dancing, song and the fruits of their harvest. He speaks of the differences between the pueblos, some sharing the same dialect and others with their own. He explains that some of the pueblo Indians are very private with their traditions and will not allow outsiders to learn very much about them. So, with information in hand and heart, I thank him. Before I ride off, though, Ray asks if I have any extra change. I reach into my back pocket and give him a dollar in change. I look around and take note that the building to the right of us is not just a neighborhood food store, but, in fact, liquor store with a bold advertisement, ‘Sales for Beer.’ Ray says thank you, turns and walks towards the building disappearing through the front door, no doubt with the intention to purchase that beer. This has an impact on me in light of our conversation concerning the pride with which he spoke regarding his pueblo.
I continue down the road which is lined with homes, some that have been renovated and others that have not been touched for some time. There are mobile homes that are recessed to the rear of the property with discarded automobiles, motor bikes and debris that were operational at one time in the past. Adobe homes appear as I get closer to the Santa Anna Pueblo. At first I see new tracts of homes with modern style adobe architecture. Next is what’s left of abandoned adobe buildings with half walls still standing, charred wood that was once a roof, door and a window frame, remnants of a fire that must have destroyed this home. There are several of these sites on open land hidden by an overgrowth of vegetation. Buildings that have become part of the living land placed there by a once living people who were sabotaged by ‘Americanization’ and separated from hundreds of years of tradition. I come to a sign which reads ‘Santa Ana Pueblo’ with an arrow pointing to the left.(picture) I decide to ride down the deserted street. This is the pueblo. It is lined with homes on both sides of the street; some with conventional fencing and others with cedar branches that have the bark attached retaining a rustic appearance. For the most part all are well kept. I travel 50 yards and I’m greeted by my first four-legged resident. He startles me with his bark, running at me from my right side. I reach for my plastic water bottle and before I can utilize it, the dog stops as if to say “I got you”. No sooner does he turn, another responds in front of me. I cautiously continue getting the attention of two more dogs. Just when I thought I was clear while crossing over a water canal, a big brown one crawls from what looked to be the water channel. I realize that each one of them was performing their duty to the pueblo -- getting my attention and alerting the pueblo of an intruder.
At the end of the street I come in contact with my first two legged residents. I ride up and ask if the pueblo has a store. They respond with “No, but we have a cultural center with a small trading post which has artifacts of blankets, jewelry and pottery for sale.” Oddly enough, they can’t tell me much about the history of the pueblo, but they do state that the history is told in story form by the elders, not written down in the fashion Americans are accustomed to. I ask if everyone owns a dog. They respond “No, some own pigs.” I say, “Pigs!” in disbelief and they return, “Yes, they’re usually out roaming the streets about this time.” They say that the town is usually very quiet with some of the local ranchers passing through onto the 313 road. I stopped by the cultural center in hopes of acquiring some literature regarding the local history, but was told none existed in the center. I left a little disappointed but accepted it, and decided that if their history was to be told, it would happen on their terms. I can respect that. I didn’t run into any of the dogs on the way back, and only saw silhouette cutouts of pigs out in front of some of the homes. This pueblo seems to be exceptionally fond of pigs.
I get back onto 313 and ride for another ten miles. The railroad tracks are running parallel to the road, yet a train has yet to pass. The land is flat with cotton trees lining the opposite side of the road. The wild grass has grown green with thick sage nestling between full, healthy junipers reaching for the sky in appreciation for the rains. Once again I am hypnotized by the cloud cover. They are thick, bellowing ones with an occasional swirl or streak mixed in. They have gathered in the horizon above the mountain ranges giving life to the blue sky. An incredible sense of freedom exists out here. Roads are few and the land stretches for miles. The choir of songbirds is heard clearly with no interruption from city life. I’ve arrived at this point of peace and solitude many times during this journey, each time thinking nothing could top the last. Sadly, this imagery is somewhat shattered with the remnants of broken bottles and debris that lie along the side of the road. It tells the tale of mans’ inability to listen, appreciate and protect the natural resources of the land.
I come to a sign that says ‘Entering San Filipe Pueblo’ but there is a long stretch of open land before I get to the entrance of the pueblo. There is a sign informing travelers that they are prohibited from any sketching, photography, audio or video recording of the area, and there is to be no possession or consumption of alcohol. (Odd in the light of the various alcohol bottles scattered on the side of the highway.) A fine of $10,000 and confiscation of equipment will be imposed if found guilty. Another interesting note is that New Mexico has a proposal to implement a statewide recycling program by 2030. The road leads me to the pueblo which is hidden in a small valley with mesa walls as a back drop to east. There are conventional homes mixed in with adobe buildings. (picture) It is very quiet with only a passing car to break the silence. At the end of the road I come to stop sign unsure which direction to go. I’m looking for the back road into Pueblo De San Domingo. There is a building with the marquis “R&T 4way Shop & Grill”. I ride over to get directions. When I enter the building I see it is market, hardware, trading post and small kitchen for fast food. A short and plump woman approaches me assisted with a walking cane to support a limp on her left leg, stops and asks if there is any thing I’m looking for! I reply. Yes. I mention a back road which the map shows as paved and if she could direct me to it. With a half smile she says it‘s about a block east from the store and continues to inform me that it would not be wise to ride my bike on it. She continues to let me know that the road is not paved and its condition is like that of a wash board. Her expression appears serious but I couldn’t help from laughing at the comparison. To my surprise she laughs with me. It’s a good hearty laugh from the heart. I ask for her name, she replies Trini. The left side of Trini's face appears to have been affected by a stroke which may be the reason for the limp. She’s happy and doesn’t seem to mind smiling. I ask about the kitchen and weather I might get a sandwich with some fries. Again with a smile she lets me know, I could, if the cook was in. Unfortunately for you she hadn’t arrived yet and didn’t know if she was coming at all. A young woman entered the store and began a conversation with Trini in their language. Her name was Vanessa, 21 years of age and going to an Indian school for business. I ask to take a picture of both of them. Trini said she did not want her picture all over the internet and besides pictures were not permitted anywhere in the pueblo. She reiterates the sanctions if caught. We talk of the celebration of dance and other issues. Both have been very pleasant and fun to talk with. I let Trini know that I will let everyone know how I was chased out of the pueblo with an empty stomach by the happy store keeper. She laughs at same time saying she would cook for me but it’s not her kitchen. I give her a hug and tell her and Vanessa how happy they have made my day. They both assure me that the café at the Hollywood Casino will have a good menu selection up the road off I-40. The casino belongs to the San Felipe Pueblo. I leave once again with a friendship worth every moment of this journey.
San Felipe is the most conservative of the pueblos, and the Indians are extremely protective of their traditions. This pueblo is well known for the beautiful dancing, especially on the Feast Day of San Felipe, May 1, when there are hundreds of men, women and children participating in the Green Corn Dance and honoring their patron saint, Saint Felipe. The celebration is open to the public. Keresan is the language of the San Felipe Pueblo, and it continues to be a living language even today where it is taught and spoken by the San Felipe families and the elders. In 1591 San Felipe was given its name by Castano de Sosa after a Jesuit Priest named Felipe was martyred in Japan.
I finally get to the Hollywood Casino where I have a delicious chicken sandwich with great fries. As always, all good things must come to an end, so I leave with one intention which is to get to my destination before dark. It’s now 3:30 pm. The remainder of my rides takes my along I-40 hugging the shoulder due to heavy traffic in the direction of Santa Fe. My turnoff is Exit 259 where I call my cousin Frank Romero, the son of Rosa Romero, my father’s first cousin. He informs me I am roughly eight miles from his home in Pena Blanca. I look down the road that I am to travel in an effort to recollect how much of the distance is downhill. I don’t remember so I must ride. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I am riding down into the valley of Santo Domingo. From this vantage point I see a wide and long stretch of green vegetation stretching the length of the valley below. It must be the underground aqua and what’s left of the Rio Grande above. (picture). Although my thoughts of the land are appreciative in nature, the one thought that overrides the beauty is the ride back up! I get to the junction of Pueblo Santo Domingo and see that the pueblo is south of the road I am riding on. Up ahead is a new tract of homes, many of them with the traditional outdoor ovens made of adobe which is used to make bread, one of the pueblo’s staple foods and means of income. A loaf runs roughly five dollars each and sold at local trading posts. As much as I wish to ride into the pueblo daylight does not permit me to, and I forge ahead to Frank’s home, my destination. On arrival Frank greets me at the door, ushers me inside with his mother Rosa who was sitting in a lounge chair watching TV. She is 83 years old and without hesitation rises from her chair to greet me with a hug and kiss. Rosa has never been very talkative, but her eyes and smile express her happiness at my presence. Frank sits me down at the kitchen table and serves me dinner consisting of chicken enchilada, rice, beans and fresh tortillas. We speak briefly of Rosa’s health, which I am happy to say is good, and a little of my ride to this point. Frank assists me in getting the bike inside with the gear, and then shows me to the guest room. I shower after which Frank and I continue our conversation. I feel Frank has become comfortable in my presence due to his assertiveness in conversation. Frank retired from the State Corrections here in New Mexico, and shares with me some of the ordeals he faced over his 32 years of employment with the Department. I must confess my feelings about California’s political process and governmental operation of the institutions have changed in light of what I have learned. For one, Frank had two jobs, four hours as the accountant for the institution and four hours as a correctional officer. He saw firsthand how money was diverted from general accounts into the pockets of the administration. Frank has seen the deaths of fellow correctional officers by the hands of inmates rioting in the system due to the lack of officers needed to control the overall inmate populous. Frank has his mother’s nature in shyness, but I sense a relief in sharing his experiences as if a healing process has yet to transpire. I listen for the most part and periodically voice my disbelief of the working conditions which he endured. I am happy that Frank found confidence in me to have opened up a part of his life which he has been living alone. This is only our second meeting, but very significant, for my connection with him is as deep as it is with his mother. The meaning of my journey has come to light once again. Frank enjoys fishing, oil painting and hiking through the mountains of New Mexico. He is closely connected to his family and lives out his responsibility for them. For example, at the present moment his mother is in his care living with him after an illness took her from her home in Penasco, where she lived alone independently for over 80 years. Frank said she was in disapproval of the move and wanted to return immediately, but over the past two years she has become accustomed to her living conditions in Frank’s home, which slowly is changing her desire to return. It is getting late; tomorrow will be another long day. Frank offers to drive me back up the hill avoiding the extra eight miles. It did not take long for me to accept the invitation, which allowed me to sleep in much greater comfort. Hallelujah! With a abrazos for both and a kiss for Rosa, I retire to the one activity I have come to enjoy most – sleep.
Tomorrow, which has already been ridden, Santa Fe.
Love ya all, take care.
Old Man still basking in the Land of Enchantment
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