MARFAlous
Just another WordPress.com weblogArchive for March, 2010
It’s not just Javier Bardem’s Haircut that’s Scary
My lonely days and nights in Marfa came to an end this past week. My husband and dog are now permanent residents here (numbers 2,123 and 2,123.5). But before they got here a good friend from Baltimore visited me for a long weekend. I have to admit that getting her out here was a little selfish–I really wanted to explore a couple of places I hadn’t yet gotten to because I was all by myself, and I knew she’d be up for an adventure or two. So, our first jaunt was to the Chinati Hot Springs. Don’t be fooled by the Chinati Hot Springs address…it says it’s in Marfa, but it took us over two hours to get there. Why? Because it is more out in the middle of nowhere than I’ve ever been IN MY LIFE. Go ahead. Scream. No one will hear you.
And first let me say that we took the *easy* way–driving all the way down to Presidio and then back up the mostly-paved road to the Hot Springs. The *hard* way–if you dare–is to drive on an entirely unpaved road from Marfa to the springs. But my Subaru Outback (yes, my SUBARU OUTBACK…you know badass like Lance Armstrong, all-wheel drive, can get you through impassible back roads during blizzards) was not tough enough to handle the hard way.
Even on the easy way, though, the last several miles of road is completely unpaved and near no town, village, or hamlet, thereby forcing you to pay close attention to the last time you saw a house, a ranch, or a structure of any kind in case your car decides to overheat or your tire decides to deflate on one of the many many sharp objects that grow on plants around here (see my goatheads post). Let’s face it, Far West Texas does NOT want you to drive on it, bike on it, or walk on it without thick-soled shoes. It is by nature one giant puncture waiting for your clumsy step.
So, imagine my surprise when–having gotten home from the Hot Springs alive and unpunctured–driving to Marfa from El Paso after taking my friend to the airport, my check engine light came on. And, not only did the check engine light come on, it came on when I was driving the 100-mile stretch of near-nothingness between Van Horn and Marfa. Where there’s no cell phone service.*
So, I was driving through the desert picturing myself quadruple-marathoning it to Marfa No Country for Old Men style with Javier Bardem chasing me with that freakish haircut (surely I would be able to get the coin toss question right), hoping that each truck that passed me was Tommy Lee Jones. I didn’t dare pull over and check under the hood because a) I had no water, b) I had no oil, c) I don’t know anything else to do besides put in water and/or oil, and d) what if I couldn’t start up again? So, I kept going.
When you’re out in the middle of the desert with a check-engine light on, everything seems so dire. Suddenly 65 degrees seems like 115. You’re certain you can hear your alternator belt loosening. The air coming out of your vents seems so hot and smells funny. What if your car is about to explode?! Why don’t they have a “your car is about to explode” indicator light?!
And then, when you finally get to Marfa, and you’re back to some sort of civilization…
…and you see the Dairy Queen sign over the hill…
…and you think about how refreshing a cookies and creme Blizzard would taste right now…
…and you want to give yourself a treat because you made it all that way without breaking down OR being killed by Javier Bardem, which would have surely happened if you had broken down…
Well, suddenly the car can wait till tomorrow.
*This should say “Where there’s no AT&T cell phone service.” Because I think there might be cell phone service for everyone else. If you ever find someone lying in a ditch on Route 90 between Van Horn and Marfa, it’s probably because he or she was an AT&T customer.
Sky Shots
Lots of very compelling people seem to make their way through Marfa. Last week, at The Food Shark alone, I met a Californian motorcycling from Nicaragua back to San Francisco, two journalists from two different travel magazines doing stories about Marfa, and a photographer driving his RV all the way around the US border, Australian Sheep Dog in tow.
The photographer commented to me on how difficult it is to photograph the southwest, particularly the sunset. “Why’s that?” I asked, “It seems like every shot would be a good shot.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he answered. “It’s so beautiful that everyone photographs it…everyone has photographed it. It’s almost a cliché.”
He couldn’t be more right. How do you photograph something that’s been photographed a thousand times and make it fresh? Different from everyone else’s work? Different from anyone else’s family photo album? It’s like anyone who’s ever photographed Niagara Falls or The Grand Canyon…by, say, the third time someone snaps a picture of it, it ceases to be new anymore.
But to visit those places…it never gets stale. Yesterday as I was out riding around on my bike I found myself trying to take pictures of the vast sky (on my little iPhone no less, which is wholly inadequate) while at the very same moment realizing how inferior each photograph was compared with the real thing. It’s like being in the middle of the ocean and feeling the depth and largeness of it all and then trying to capture it in your little lens…it’s impossible.
When I got home after feeling completely overpowered (in a good way) by the sky, I was putting my stuff away and I heard a knock at the door. It was a local guy who is helping with the 2010 Census for Marfa, and he verified my address and gave me the official Census packet before moving on to the next house. It seemed ironic to me that I had just come from staring at an enormous sky, trying to record one tiny piece of it on my little camera for posterity or art or something, and feeling so small; and now to find out that my presence in Marfa will bring the official population from 2,121 to 2,123 (counting my husband, too, of course)!! Hey, in a place like Marfa, two more people is kind of a big deal. Yes, *I* am number 2,122 and *Glenn* is number 2,123. We’re suddenly kind of important around here.
This is a little place–a very very little place–inside a big place–a very very big place.
