Gator Tails and Buried Caddies. When in Texas...

The rest of my stay on the Mississippi farm went by in a flash. After staying in Montana so long, I decided two weeks was a good amount of time to spend on a farm. Plus, I want to be back in Oregon to spend Thanksgiving with the fam, and that put this part of my journey on a deadline.

Farmer Jon treated me very well during my stay. I finished weeding the gardens, then went to work helping him mount posts for a new goat pen (after these last few farms, I swear my post-digging skills are now wicked sweet). He made sure I didn't work too long and always fed me well. Sadly, we mostly ate processed packaged and frozen food from the local grocery outlet store, but I was in no condition to be picky. I saw the food as just one of Jon's hick traits. The others would be spitting every minute on the minute, naming ducks Poop and Crap and drinking whiskey for breakfast (sorry if I sound like I'm dissing him, but I felt I had to convey the whole experience).

One afternoon, Jon's mother gave me a personal tour through William Faulkner's former home in nearby Oxford. I later found out she was friends with his daughter, Jill, who passed away a few years ago. Jon's mother has a lifetime of experience acting and performing in different formats and was still an active member of a local storytelling guild. I made sure to stay in the area long enough to catch a performance in which the guild told ghost stories around a pumpkin patch at a church (William Faulkner's former church, at that). Some of the stories took place during the Civil War and glorified Southern families, which made me realize I was not likely to hear them anywhere else. It was a great way to spend my last day in Mississippi, and I got back to my yurt just in time to watch a spectacular thunderstorm. The lightning was right above us, and it lit up the whole yurt every time it flashed.

Faulkner's house, study and whiskey of choice.

Another perk of my last day was that I saw a wild armadillo for the first time. Jon told me they were common here. We frequently heard them rummaging through the tall grass around the farm, and one supposedly lived under my yurt, but they managed to evade me until that day. Unfortunately, it was gone by the time i retrieved my camera.

So, along came Monday morning and I hit the road. My next goal was to once again visit my sister and her family in Santa Fe and spend Halloween there. I debated the route for days, torn between taking a long, scenic drive through Louisiana and the far southern end of Texas, or zip across Arkansas and take a faster northern route that I've already seen. In the end, I decided there was no reason to spend any more time in Texas than necessary. It is, after all, Texas.

A few hours later I found myself in Texarkana eating fried alligator tail for lunch. I hate to say it, but it tasted just like chicken.

Fried gator tail. Don't knock it till you've tried it.... or just order chicken tenders because they taste identical.

The rest of that drive was a blur. I spent the night in my car at a rest stop near Wichita Falls, then sped the rest of the way to Santa Fe, only stopping once in Amarillo for a few pictures of Cadillac Ranch. I had seen the half-buried Cadillacs a few years ago when I first drove through this part of the country, but I like the attraction so it was worth the stop.

Cadillac Ranch, an art project created as a statement about the paradoxical simultaneous American fascinations with both a sense of place and roadside attractions—such as the ranch itself—and the mobility and freedom of the automobile... or so says Wikipedia.

So here I am, back in Santa Fe, which has become something of a home base for me. It's only now dawning on me that my WWOOF adventures in the United States are done—for now, anyway. My original intent was to WWOOF in the continental US until winter, then chase summer by traveling to Hawaii and hopefully New Zealand. I always knew money was a big factor in that plan, and my savings are certainly not what they were when I began. Although I still want to travel, I'm beginning to feel it would be prudent to earn some income first, and that means staying still long enough to find a job. For now, I plan to enjoy a week in Santa Fe, then a week with some old friends in California's Bay Area, then Thanksgiving in Oregon. That's when I'll have to make some big decisions.

Stay tuned for this season's exciting conclusion...

Some Things Deserve to be Eaten

Turkeys are dumb as dirt.

Back on the Montana farm, I found myself saying sheep were dumb as dirt. Turkeys, however, make sheep look like pigs. And pigs, in case you didn’t know, are incredibly smart. I’d say that pigs are so smart, they make goats look like ducks, which are considerably smarter than turkeys. Of course, that’s only a comparison because goats are actually smarter than sheep, but ducks aren’t. Got it?

Turkeys just shouldn’t be alive by evolutionary standards. There’s no reason for these dumb birds to have survived for thousands of years in the wild. Whenever Jon or I walk across the lawn, they all flock toward us and follow so closely that they run under our feet. I’ve stepped on more than one, only to see them get up and run back under my feet on the next step. Whenever Jon or his mother move the car, the turkeys run right in front of it and just stand there watching the tires come toward them. Somebody has to come and shoo them away so the driver can escape without casualties. Yesterday, Jon was closing his trunk and a turkey shoved his head inside it just as it shut. Jon didn’t think it would survive, but it’s still clucking and still eager to shove its head into any other closing doors it can find. And never mind the caterpillars I try to feed them—they’d rather dig up my freshly planted garlic just to look at it, then dig up the next one.

Okay, so here’s my live poultry preference, in order of favorite to least favorite:

1. Ducks
2. Geese
3. Chickens
4. Disease-Carrying Pigeons
5. Turkeys

Geese could be on top if they weren’t so damn noisy in the middle of the night. And chickens are not only noisy, but annoying. They follow me around, too, but not as obsessively as turkeys. As long as it isn’t mating season, ducks are well behaved and relatively quiet (“relatively” being the key word). They can also make cool pets, depending on the breed.

Glad we go that all straightened out.

Oh yeah, and they're ugly, too.

Redneck Roots

Many of my friends know I was born in Chicago, but few know that when I was two years old, my family moved to a small town just south of Atlanta, Georgia. We lived in the area where Smokey and the Bandit was filmed, and about 30 miles west of where the Dukes of Hazard was filmed (our town had paved roads and more than two cops). The place was and still is called Morrow, although it looks nothing today like it did when I was a kid. My family moved to Buffalo, New York when I was ten—in 1987—and I’ve only been back to Morrow once since then. That was about eight years ago, and seeing the old neighborhood made me want to cry. All the forests and fields I where I used to play became freeways and low income housing projects. Our old family home was a wreck; the yard was overgrown, the shutters were falling off and the house itself was actually sagging in the middle. One look at it made me never want to return to that neighborhood again.

I never wanted to return to the South again, either. After moving to Buffalo, and later Pittsburgh and Chicago, I picked up the negative redneck stereotypes associated with Southerners. I would occasionally joke with people about living in Atlanta with the attitude of thank God I got out when I did, and I always made sure people knew I was born in Chicago. Often, I just left out the Atlanta part altogether when asked about my past (especially in my high school, where redneck jokes could get physical). Not many of my family or friends know how much speech therapy I went through to learn to speak like a Yankee. It wasn’t so much that I had a southern accent as it was that I slurred my speech so heavily that I sounded like Boomhauer on King of the Hill (click here if you don't know the reference). I did have a southern accent growing up, but it faded before it became permanent, leaving me only with a strong southern slur. In the south, people understood that slur just fine. Not so up north.

In the past few years, I’ve started feeling guilty for shunning my Southern past. Part of my reason for wanting to come to a farm in the Deep South was to find some kind of acceptance with that part of my life, or at least to prove to myself I wasn’t ashamed or afraid of it. There’s a concept of Southern Pride that Northerners and West Coasties just don’t understand. It isn’t a cocky or snobby concept, like Vernmontians who look down on neighbors if they aren’t fifth-generation New Englanders. It’s more of an idea of holding your head high and refusing to hide your roots, despite whatever negative connotations may or may not be tied to them. It’s about accepting who you are and where you came from—the good with the bad—instead of trying to hide it.

So, yeah, I have some guilt for throwing my Southern Pride out the window. For a long time, I tried to forget that I didn’t say simply “what?” but “say what?” as a question. I never would have told a girlfriend that my mom called us kids in for supper by ringing a huge cast iron triangle from the back porch, or that grits and cornbread were staples in our diet. And there is no way I would let my classmates in Pittsburgh—Pirates territory—know that my favorite pastime as a kid was going to Fulton County Stadium see Braves games and cheering for Dale Murphy and Bob Horner (this was back when the mascot was a man dressed as an Indian who welcomed kids into a tipi above the dugout). Today, it seems ridiculous to be ashamed of these things, but they were a bigger deal when peer pressure and bullies were involved.

While I’m on the subject, I have to add that the stereotypes of redneck racism always bothered me. Sure, you still have race issues in the South, but I think it’s pretty pompous for Northerners to look down on alleged rednecks for that. Even as a kid in the Northern states, I noticed a big difference there: the North is far more segregated. Southern states do have separate white and black neighborhoods, but you see a lot more integration in schools, businesses and social outings. Northerners seem to think they don’t have the race issues of the South, but they often have never had to deal with that integration. It’s easy to think you’re immune to racism when 99% of the people in your life are white. Being friendly to your one black coworker doesn’t prove shit.

We did have some racial conflicts in Morrow. A black family once moved into our white neighborhood and they had a boy named Kenya who was the same age as my older brother. Once, a white kid up the street got into a heated argument with Kenya and told him he was made out of chocolate. Kenya retaliated by saying “Oh yeah? Well you’re made of vanilla!” The white kid ran home in tears.

That black family moved away a few months later. I never knew why as a child, but when I grew older I learned from my parents that someone burned a cross on their lawn… among other things.

So this blog entry is more of a rant than an update. Here I am, back in the Deep South at last. I didn’t feel obliged to go all the way to Georgia to explore my Southern roots; Mississippi seemed far enough, and so far it’s delivered. The trees, the kudzu, the humidity and the architecture are all very nostalgic, as are the people (there is definitely something to be said for Southern hospitality). I can’t say I’ve had any great revelations or found a mystic peace of mind from coming here. I can’t even say that I feel I belong here—Chicago is still the only place I’ve lived where I didn’t feel like an outsider. Being back in the South has, however, sparked many memories that I worked hard to forget in my younger years. And in the end, memories are all you have left.

Life on the Delta

One of my first orders of business in Mississippi was to wash the sheets, pillowcases and the cover for the comforter on my bed. Once they were all clean, the yurt felt much more welcoming.

The farm here is run by Jon, a divorcee in his mid-40’s. Jon lives in a small house with his aging mother and has a 5-year-old daughter who spends half her time here. He’s super friendly and works part-time as a substitute science teacher when he’s not tending farm. Here on his property, about four acres, he grows a few gardens of cabbages, strawberries, peppers and kale. His main business, however, is livestock. He raises chickens, turkeys, ducks and geese (the latter two mostly for pets), but his primary income comes from breeding goats.

Right now Jon has about 10 goats, and all of them are pregnant except for the single male. One of them, Daisy May, is almost ready to pop, so I may witness a goat birthing in the next few days (keep your fingers crossed—not only that I get to see it, but that I handle it better than that birthing video from 9th grade). Sometimes Jon milks them, but not often. His income comes from selling the kids at livestock auctions.

A very pregnant goat.

My work here so far has been to uproot three gardens overrun by tall, grassy weeds. That occupies most of my 5-hour work days, and I have one day off each week. The weeds look horrendous, but pulling them out is surprisingly easy—partly because I don’t have to be careful about what I pull up (except for a few obvious cabbage plants) and partly because the dry clay soil here lets them go without much effort. I usually have company, either from the turkeys that eagerly dive into the upturned soil in search of bugs or from a gigantic black snake that wanders from garden to garden. I jumped about ten feet the first time I saw that snake. Only moments earlier, Jon told me to watch my step because poisonous snakes are common here. Before it slithered away, I called Jon to come and take a look at it. He assured me it was a non-poisonous king snake, adding that they’re good to have around because they eat the poisonous snakes.

Weeding, before & after.

Everyone in the area here is a big football fan, especially with Ole Miss (U of Mississippi) right up the road. On my second day, it was declared that the college was changing its mascot from the Rebel Colonel to the Rebel Black Bear, the idea being that the colonel had too many ties to Mississippi’s confederate past. Personally, I’m not so sure the black bear is the best choice to eliminate any racial connotations.

That same day, Jon asked me if I wanted to go to a bar with him to watch an Ole Miss game against Alabama. I’m not much of a football fan, but then he warned me there would be some hardcore rednecks there. How could I resist? He chose a bar in Water Valley as opposed to the larger and closer town of Oxford for the sake of avoiding the drunk college crowd. It turned out to be a tame evening, but there was definitely no lack of rednecks. Sorry to say, Ole Miss got slaughtered.

So far, I’m liking Mississippi. The work isn’t difficult and the people couldn’t be nicer. And Jon’s mother makes sure I eat well. She is also insistent that Jon gives me enough time off to see Oxford’s many historic sights. My biggest perk so far was tagging along with Jon when he drove to a feed store in Tupelo. That happens to be Elvis’ hometown. When Jon found out that I’m an Elvis fan(atic), he took a detour to show me the shack where he was born.

It kicked ass.

Birthplace of a king... THE king.

Southwardness... Sans Kansas

I’ve driven through Kansas before. You wanna know what’s in Kansas? Let me tell you what’s in Kansas.

There, I just did.

Unless you really crave the sight of dirt and air, there’s no reason to go to Kansas. And the thing is, there are cool things that could and should be in Kansas, but they’re elsewhere. For example, the annual Wizard of Oz festival in Charleston, Indiana. Why is it in Indiana and not Kansas? You got me. I can only guess it’s there because the people who plan it must realize nobody in their right mind would want to go to Kansas to see it. Indiana is pretty sparse in itself, so that’s saying a lot.

Or the tornado museum. You’d think that some city council in Kansas would want to build it there because, well, all anybody knows about Kansas has to do with a movie about a tornado. But no, it’s in Pomeroy, Iowa.

How about some Superman attractions? After all, he was raised in a place called Smallville, Kansas. You’d think someone would want to build an attraction around that, but guess again—the Superman museum is in southern Illinois.

I will admit that Kansas City has a lot to offer, but get this: IT’S IN MISSOURI!!!

My latest work of art. I call it "Kansas In Its Entirety"

That being said, I decided to circumvent Kansas on my trip to Mississippi. Hence, the longer route to Iowa where my uncle was happy to put me up for a couple nights. I had a brief but nice visit with Uncle Jerry, then took off bright and squirrely Wednesday morning for the Mississippi farm.

I estimated that I had plenty of time for a leisurely trip so I had no qualms about stopping to see a few sights, and that led me to spend most of the day in Hannibal, Missouri. Hannibal is best known as the childhood home of Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens and provides the setting for many of his novels. As a devout Huck Finn fan, I couldn’t resist scoping out some key sights, including the riverboat ferries, the homes of Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher and the famous maze of caves on the outskirt of town—where Tom got lost with Becky and later found Injun Joe’s treasure.

By the time I finally returned to the road, I realized I used up all my spare time… and then some. The rest of the evening was spent racing to Mississippi as fast as possible. My fear was that I would arrive so late that I would either impolitely wake up my next farm host or have to find another place to spend the night. By “finding another place,” I mean finding a safe place to park the car so I could sleep in it without trouble from a jerk cop—something I’ve learned to worry about more in this part of the country than I did back west. Aside from hitting rush hour traffic in St. Louis, and taking a little detour for a picture of the Arch, I sped through the rest of Missouri, Arkansas and Tennessee in one long stretch, stopping only once for gas.

I did wake up Joh, my new farm host, but not at an ungodly hour. I called as I navigated the sparse country roads leading to his property and he was outside waiting with a flashlight when I arrived. Good thing, too, because I would never have found his house otherwise (so far, Mapquest has been unable to lead me to a single farm I’ve visited on this trip). And my heart leapt for joy when he showed me the yurt where I’d be staying. He and his mother lived in a small house on the other side of the property, so the yurt was all mine. Every foot of it was covered in junk and it had no running water, but I loved it right away. After sleeping on the floor at the res for two weeks with zero privacy, this yurt—equipped with a fridge, shelves full of books and a full size bed—felt like my own palace of luxury.

Even though it was late, John offered to prepare some food for me if I was hungry. I politely declined and quickly sank into my new bed. I decided not to care that the sheets were filthy or that there were dirty socks between them.

I Escape!

My host family on Pine Ridge has been more than hospitable the past few days. Not only did they spend many hours trying to help me fix my car, but they also let me stay at their home instead of the construction site so I wouldn’t be stranded there. That means I haven’t been able to do any work for them since Thursday. It made me feel like something of a freeloader, so when Shannon went shopping I pitched in for the cost of some groceries.

That being said, I made my grand escape from the res this morning! No, the car hadn’t been fixed yet. It did, however, start and run (albeit without taillights, turn signals, a charging battery or a working speedometer… amongst other things). I charged the battery overnight with Gerald’s wall charger, then loaded up early this morning and took off for the mechanic-laden town of Chadron, Nebraska.

I knew Shannon and her family would have let me stay longer, but I didn’t want to be any more of a burden and I was going stir crazy just sitting around the house for the past four days. I also concluded that it was time to seek some expert help on the car, and Chadron had a foreign car repair shop. I figured my Infiniti wouldn’t look to them like it came from another planet as it did to my mechanic friends on the res. I love and trust my res friends, but their experience was more or less limited to Fords and Chevies. At one point, Gerald spoke to his brother on the phone and told him about my electrical problems. I heard him say “I don’t know what kind of car it is… one of those expensive Japanese models.” Expensive? My ’93 Infiniti? Maybe 17 years and 130,000 miles ago…

Another perk of Chadron was that it was within range at 70 miles away. I estimated I could only drive about 150 miles before running out of gas because—get this—the electric button that opens the gas tank cover also didn’t work.


The drive was tense, to say the least. Fortunately, I only had to make a few turns on the whole trip. The scariest part happened about two minutes after I first started out because it was a cold morning and my whole windshield fogged up from the outside. Wipers were kaput, so I had no way of cleaning it off and I couldn’t see the road in front of me until I rolled down the window—one of the few electrical things that did work—and stuck my head out. That’s when I noticed a car behind me. There was no shoulder, just a steep ditch, so I couldn’t pull over. To make things worse, driving with your head out the window makes it really tough to stay right of the center line. I was swerving like a maniac, so I just stopped on the road and waved the other driver by. No doubt he thought I was completely wasted. At least, that’s what I read from the look he gave me.

I got out and wiped off my windshield from the outside before continuing. Without a speedometer, I decided to play it safe by driving a bit below what I guessed was the limit. Lower speeds are easy for me to gauge by the feel of the road, but faster speeds are much more difficult; I could have been going anywhere from 60-80mph and the last thing I needed then was a ticket (at a time when I probably really deserved one for operating a vehicle that shouldn’t be anywhere near a road). The funny thing is that at one point, a tribal cop pulled up behind me and followed me for a couple miles. There was a turn coming up and I was sure he’d pull me over when I didn’t use a turn signal (I knew I could use hand signals, but I guessed he still would have pulled me over if he saw that). At the last minute, he swung into the other lane and passed me. Guess I chose the right speed.

So I made it off the res and into Chadron, which felt like coming back to civilization after crawling through the dessert. Chadron was a hip little Nebraska town with a lot to offer. The guys at the repair shop were super friendly and directed me to a coffee shop down the road where I could hang out until they had news. I was warned that if it wasn’t an easy fix then it could take days for them to trace all the wires to the problem. Honestly, the prospect of being trapped in Chadron didn’t worry me one bit; I was bracing for the worst and had already arranged to stay the night at the house of a very cool old guy named Buffalo Bruce (thanks couchsurfing.org!). And the coffee shop not only had my favorite tea, but a very mouthwatering selection of gluten-free and pumpkin flavored treats. Could have stayed there all day in total bliss.

Chadron, NE

As it turns out, I barely had time to finish my pumpkin strudel before the mechanic called to tell me my car was done. We’re talking 20 minutes, tops.

In the end, it was a blown fuse. A big fuse, and one hidden deep inside the engine compartment, but a fuse nonetheless. I gladly paid the $20 labor fee and refused to feel bad about missing that fuse when we checked the others, or about buying that new alternator. Hey, I followed my friends’ advice—which was very sound given what we knew at the time—I grew a lot closer to them and I saved a ton of money by learning to change that alternator myself instead of paying a garage to do it. And there was no way I was going to spend another four hours removing that new alternator or drive all the way back to return it. I already cashed in the old one to be rebuilt and resold, anyway. For what it’s worth, the mechanic told me that fuse was a rare part and I wouldn’t have been able to find it in any auto parts shop in the area. They were only able to replace it because they had another broken down Infiniti with the same part and they pulled it for me.

So, with a big weight off my shoulders and a big smile on my face, I gave my best to Buffalo Bruce and hit the road. It took me over 12 hours to cross Nebraska and most of Iowa, but I finally arrived at my uncle’s house in Cedar Rapids. I decided to cut out the Chicago visit to save time and more than make up the cost of that alternator, and now I’m back on schedule to arrive at my next farm in Mississippi in two days. And while I was on the road, the Mississippi farmer called to ask what kind of beer I liked before he went shopping.

Life is good.

Plans Change

If anyone is actually reading this blog, then let me end your suspense by saying that my car troubles are far from over and I am still quite stranded on the Pine Ridge reservation.

We charged the battery and put it back in this morning, but virtually all of my electrical systems were still out. The engine seems to run fine, but without taillights, brake lights, turn signals, speedometer or radiator fans. Plus, I have serious doubts that the alternator is charging the battery. Adam didn’t have much time to look at it today because he and Shannon were already planning an overnight getaway in Rapid. We checked fuses, bulbs and some basic connections this morning, but the weather put a quick end to that with a flash thunderstorm. I haven’t seen a single cloud in the sky for the two weeks I’ve been here, but today the wrath of God has landed on Wounded Knee, SD. If burning sulfur fell from the sky the day would be complete.

So I called my uncle and the old friend in Chicago whose couch I was going to surf and told them not to expect me anytime soon. Adam wants to give it another go tomorrow, although it’s starting to look like I need a repair shop that can do more advanced electrical testing. I spent a good chunk of time today analyzing the wiring charts for my car and have little to show for it. I’m still hopeful Adam can figure it out, but I’m already making plans to get to a garage early Monday morning, just in case. My best bet seems to be in Chadron, Nebraska, about 60 miles away. It also looks on the map like only three turns to get there, so keep your fingers crossed that I can make it without brake lights or turn signals and not get pulled over—again. Or worse, break down on the side of the road.

Shannon warned me that tow trucks on the res will charge about $300 since they have to travel so far, and they’ll likely ruin my transmission. Consequently, she also said my windows will most definitely get smashed if I left the car unattended on the side of the road.

Oh boy.

Sitting Bull Sez "STAY!"

I finally replaced the broken headlight from my deer attack after finding a great deal from a salvage yard in Minnesota. The same day I fixed it, I had to plug a flat tire, which was my second on this trip so far. The next day, I had to redrill bolts that hold mounts that keep the radiator fan in place (that one was kinda my fault—a mishap while putting in the new headlight). A couple days after that, I started my pretty little car and none of the electrical systems came on. Dash lights, dome light, radio, turn signals, fan, odometer, tachometer, speedometer, the button that opens the gas cap cover—all dead. The only things that did work were the headlights, power windows and locks. After driving a couple minutes, everything came back on, but then the same thing started happening every time I turned the car off and on. Lousy timing, since I was planning on leaving South Dakota tomorrow.

I bought this 17-year-old Infiniti last year because I wanted a car to drive on weekends to visit my folks 20 miles away, and for an occasional surfing trip. It was an affordable clunker with 110K on it, and I never imagined I’d be taking it cross-country. I’d like to be back in Oregon for Thanksgiving, so I’m hoping and praying it will pull through just one more month.

I asked Shannon if she knew a good mechanic and she told me auto shops were scarce around here. The good news, she said, was that just about every Indian on the res grows up working on cars. She referred me to Adam, Gerald’s son and her boyfriend.

Adam diagnosed my issue as a bad alternator. Since my battery light came on after the second day of the problem, I readily agreed. And I felt extra fortunate that Adam not only had experience changing alternators, but was happy to help.

Unlike most normal cars, my alternator was buried deep behind several engine components. It took us a while to figure out that we had to remove the AC motor and several hoses just to get to it, and I slashed my hand open across a knuckle pushing it loose (I could actually see my knuckle bone, which was a new experience for me). Eventually, we got the new alternator in and I took the car for a test drive down the street with my neatly bandaged hand.

Two minutes later, I got pulled over by tribal police for not having working taillights or turn signals (for those of you keeping track, that’s about the fourth South Dakota traffic violation I’ve picked up in the past month). Fortunately, the cop knew Shannon and her family, and he believed me when I told him about my electrical problems. He even escorted me back to the house where he, Shannon and Adam had a good laugh about me and my invisible car. It turns out Adam ran after me when he saw I had no taillights. I was oblivious.

So I’m still stuck with a potential car problem. The battery is charging overnight and that may solve everything, but now Adam thinks there could be a bad cable in the harness somewhere. It’s too late to work on it more tonight, so we’ll have to check it out in the morning. And by “we,” I mean Adam while I hand him tools as my mechanic experience is mostly limited to replacing headlights and plugging tires.

My intent was to leave the res early tomorrow morning, visit my uncle in Iowa for a couple nights, visit some old friends in Chicago, then arrive at my next farm in Mississippi by Wednesday evening. Right now, that whole plan is in limbo. I hate to say it, but all these recent car problems are making me feel more than a little helpless. I’m completely dependent on my car right now, and the money I saved for this trip is draining fast with car repairs. I find myself imagining what I would have to give up if I had to travel by bus or train (or foot) and could only carry a couple bags.

I like to think things happen for a reason, so maybe I’m supposed to stay on the res longer, or learn a lesson about patience or money. Maybe God or the universe or the spirit of Sitting Bull is trying to tell me something. I will say that this car issue has brought me a lot closer to Adam and Gerald over the past two days, and I really like those guys. They’re both mellow and down to earth, but also incredibly sharp and friendly. Adam is taking full-time classes in ranching, and is carefully planning his career. I love hearing him talk about what he's learning in cattle care and marketing. I’m also a little envious that I didn’t learn more practical skills in school, or at least something that would have taken me outdoors more. My dual major was in film studies and philosophy. I always told my parents that if the film thing didn’t work out, I could always fall back on the philosophy career. Ha ha.

It’s kind of a crap shoot to see if I’ll be leaving South Dakota tomorrow, so place your bets now!

The Originals

Today I met Alex, Gerald’s older brother. He came to the house early in the morning with a bobcat to help level some of the ground around the construction area. I wasn’t expecting him, and the appearance of a truck bearing a big bobcat took me by surprise as I stood outside brushing my teeth over a rusty, pipeless sink.

Alex called Gerald and Shannon at the crack of dawn to say he was coming by, but they didn’t have enough time to meet him here when he arrived. With some time to kill, we sat around and chatted about evil white people for an hour or so.

Alex refers to Gerald as his “little brother,” though if I had to guess, I’d say Alex looked about ten years younger. I was shocked when he mentioned that he was in his sixties; he was a big guy, very able bodied and active-looking, and a lot of muscle. His hair was still dark and his face showed only mild wrinkles that I would have placed on someone in his forties. He did point out that Indian people live healthier and longer lives because they use their minds to heal, not a bunch of medications.

Alex had no trouble carrying on the conversation. I think he really got a kick out of telling me stories of his tribe’s rituals and philosophy. He started by talking about how much the area had changed in his lifetime. When he was a kid, there wasn’t a single house around here other than his grandfather’s small home. Alex and Gerald grew up in the hills that surround us, and would eat nothing but cornmeal every day for a week. The next week, they would eat nothing but oatmeal. The week after that, nothing but rice, Then they’d start over with oatmeal again. Looking around the property, he claimed he could see about thirty different invasive grasses and weeds on what was once hills full of nothing but buffalo grass. “They’re taking over our land,” he said, “just like the white man.”

Alex and Gerald grew up speaking the Lakota language. Americans, according to Alex, were really missing out with because English words don’t have any meaning to them. I didn’t quite understand this, so he tried to explain it with the word love. Love, he said, doesn’t mean anything just to say it, but in Lakota the closest word for love implies a whole system of compassion that connects two people.

Alex & Gerlad Weasel... Lakota Brothers

Alex went on to vent about white visitors who claim to be environmentalists. All “environmentalist” means to him is someone who raises awareness but doesn’t do anything himself. He really went on a rant talking about how much it irks him to hear these so-called environmentalists act as if they were so smart. “They think they’re better than the world around them because they have brains,” he said, “but a brain is nothing.” He then went on to say that Lakotas call what’s in your head a seed. Alex then spread his arm across the field and said that everything around us comes from a seed—every plant, every insect, every animal and every person. We’re all just seeds, and therefore all equal. To speak of the world around you as if you were a superior being, he said, was an entirely wrong idea.

Then he went off on Catholics. And man, does Alex hate Catholics. The Pope is the closest thing to Satan on earth as he could imagine. According to Alex, European explorers and settlers were told by the Pope that the tribes living in the New World did not count as human beings since they didn’t acknowledge Jesus Christ. Therefore, it was okay to kill them and take their land. He also went off on how ridiculous it was to pray to only one god since there are countless spirits all around us. He said white people can’t even tell when their ancestors are in the room, then added that we’d be having a very different conversation if there was a contrary spirit present.

A contrary spirit compels one to play devil’s advocate, so to speak. About five years ago, a group of bikers came through the reservation and were completely intrigued with the Lakota culture. They were welcome by the community and invited to a young man’s birthday party. At the party, the tribe summoned a contrary spirit, then passed a microphone around the room so everyone could speak. Alex spoke first, telling the boy that he hated him, wished he was never born and was good for nothing. The next person who took the microphone said similar things, as did the next and the next all the way down the line. Alex noticed the bikers getting angry and worked up at these words (not to mention a bit confused), so he sent someone to explain to them that, under the influence of the contrary spirit, they said the opposite of what they meant. The point of this was to create a balance; in a world where people often say nice things they don’t mean, this is a time when you know people have a good and loving meaning behind phony words. Alex said the bikers broke down in tears when they understood the ritual. One of them said he’d give a million dollars to be adopted by the Lakota tribe.

Incidentally, Alex hates the phrase “Native American.” He says he isn’t American at all since his people were there before that word existed. He prefers to think of himself and his tribe as “originals.”

Only at the end of these stories did Alex point out that when he referred to white people negatively that he didn’t meant for it to apply to me. I told him I didn’t mind and liked hearing his thoughts. Then he asked if I was Catholic.

I was happy to said no.

Whitey on the Res

The house now is nearing completion, although running water is still in the works. It’s a cute little one-bedroom cottage with a spacious loft area and earthen floors and walls. Our work here includes a variety of projects, like collecting and drying herbs, helping build a cob storage shed and fixing and installing loads of little things in the house. My biggest task is to build a fence around the property to keep horses and cows at bay (their residue is everywhere and shoveling it is on neverending project in itself). Once again, I’ve found myself spending most of my days digging holes. With all the skills I’ve developed, I’m now thinking about starting my own hole-digging business when I’m done WWOOFing.


This permaculture project is very low/no budget, so most of the building supplies are donated and most of the tools are borrowed. Resourcefulness is a necessity, and we often find ourselves scrounging through heaps of construction junk to find a post or sheet of plywood just the right size. The race now is against the season, and we’re rushing to get done with everything that has to be finished before winter comes. The first snowfall can happen anywhere in the next 2-6 weeks, and not much can be done after that.

So far I’m liking it here. Two more volunteers, Chip and Alexis, arrived the day after I did. We stayed in our tents only the first two nights. After that, the temp dropped dramatically so we all moved into the house. Gerald, Shannon’s father-in-law, will eventually move in here, but he prefers to stay with Shannon in the next town until it’s finished.

With no running water, we have to fill up coolers at the neighbor’s garden pump. There’s an outhouse, an outdoor mirror and sink (no pipes) and a camp shower, although dinner is served at Shannon’s house a few miles away so we tend to shower when we go there. Like Utah, ambient light is scarce out here, so on a clear night you can see a zillion stars in the sky. And if you stare long enough, you’re bound to catch a few shooting stars.

I heard plenty of horror stories from my friends about coming here. They ranged from “all reservation Indians hate white people” to “everyone on the res is a kleptomaniac alcoholic and they’ll steal anything you leave unwatched.” I can’t say everyone here is immaculate, and alcoholism is definitely a big res issue, but so far everyone I’ve met has been very friendly. Shannon is Jewish and from California, and she’s been completely welcomed into this culture.

Gerald quickly became one of my favorite people here. He’s a skinny guy in his late sixties, although he can wield a sledge hammer like nobody’s business. He has a strong Lakota accent and tells great stories about growing up with his grandfather in these hills before anyone else settled here. He also has some sad stories, like being slapped on the knuckles with a ruler anytime he spoke the Lakota language in public school. Overall, he’s totally mellow and very happy about his new house. I have to be careful leaving clothes lying around because he’s likely to grab my jacket or hat and walk to the next town with it. It’s not theft, it’s just his way; he lives minimally and is used to sharing everything with his family and neighbors. And he always returns what he takes.

So far, I only had one awkward moment. A few nights ago, I stopped by a local quickie mart—the only store for miles—to pick up some food for Shannon. Two Indian children were sitting outside when I walked up with the two other volunteers, who are both white. Once kid kept saying “Where are all these white people coming from?” while the other just shouted “Hey white people! Give us money!”

Oh well.

Res Life

After all my days of cruisin’, I finally arrived at my destination on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation!

I arrived a bit later in the day than I expected, partly because I took a scenic detour through the Badlands and partly because I got horribly lost. At any rate, Shannon, the woman in charge of volunteers, directed me to the construction site and told me I could set up my tent anywhere on the property. It was late, dark and cold, though, so I opted to snooze in the car for my first night. My car’s back seat, believe it or not, has given me some of my best nights of sleep on this trip.

I should probably explain this reservation project. Although it’s part of the WWOOF network, it’s not exactly a farm. A house belonging to Shannon’s father-in-law burned down over a year ago and she’s spearheading the project to rebuild it. Not only is it being rebuilt, but Shannon is turning it into a large permaculture project to help the community. This includes straw bale exterior walls, cob interior walls, a composting toilet, a solar heater, a rainwater catchment system and several permaculture gardens that will hopefully produce veggies and medicinal herbs that can be sold for profit.


The Pine Ridge reservation is the poorest Indian reservation in the country, and this construction project is smack dab in the middle of its poorest area (by the way, I’ve learned that “Native American” is not kosher by most Indians). Shannon is using this building project as a way to reach out to the tribal community, teach them to do their own sustainable projects and hopefully generate some revenue for locals who are willing to help out with the garden and get involved with selling its goods. She is currently encouraging people to turn their old refrigerators into worm farms/compost bins—as just about everybody out here seems to have an old refrigerator lying around the yard.

I knew most of this info before I arrived, but the area doesn’t look as impoverished as I expected. It may be low income by national standards, but I quickly realized that it’s a close-knit community where everyone habitually pitches in to help each other out. For example, Gerald, the father who will eventually live in the house, needs to travel 10 miles every day from his daughter’s house to the construction site. He doesn’t have a car, so in the morning he just starts walking until someone passes by and picks him up. His sons do the same thing, and I’ve learned most people in the community get around that way.

There is barely anything out here other than lots of small houses. The region consists of several small towns each about 10-20 miles apart, and it’s rare to find even a gas station in most of them. I’ve been in rural areas with gas stations and stores further apart than this, but never among so many towns with such dense populations. The poverty level probably has something to do with lack of businesses, and therefore jobs, but it seems like nobody here is really interested in money-making schemes. I’ve heard a few comments to verify that many Indians here hate how capitalist white people just want to make a buck.

Well, I chose this place because it seemed like a radically different project than what I’ve been doing and I wanted variety in my farms, as well as a cultural experience. So here I am…