Departures: NM99: Part 7

Waiting with the Nebraskan... Considering mayhem with a concealed pipe manipulation tool... Missing a chance for another hole in the ground... Drive-in movie theater with free beer... Whither WIPP PR?...

A Morning In White's City

1999.03.24 TUE

I woke up, packed. I left my leftover bread and peanut butter on the dresser. Hopefully, I wouldn't need them again. Later, I would see a chambermaid carrying the bread and peanut butter. In the desert, nothing is wasted.

I had a Greyhound ticket to the town of Carlsbad, 23 miles to the North. I would stay overnight at Carlsbad to transfer to another bus line. More importantly, I wanted to visit Carlsbad because it had become the center of controversy.

A ways out of town was the WIPP, the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant, an experiment in burying nuclear waste. They were burying waste in a deep salt mine. My guidebook said that the Plant had a PR office in town to handle concerns raised by protesting townsfolk. I thought it might be interesting to visit the PR office. Not all the townsfolk were protesting WIPP--many were glad for the money they saw coming into the community. Thus, controversy. I hoped it would be interesting.

Before I'd left on this trip, I'd joked with some friends about the WIPP office--too bad that they weren't offering tours of the facility itself. If I wanted to see a hole in the ground in New Mexico, I'd have to content myself with visiting the Carlsbad Caverns.

For now, I was in White's City, waiting for the Greyhound. In my room, I watched the TV News. The USA was beginning air strikes on Yugoslavia. It was comforting to be in a place where there were plenty of deep holes to shelter in.

Check-out time was 11:00, and the bus wasn't scheduled until 1:30. I checked out of my room and sat on a bench in front of the resort's gift shop where I had a good view of the parking lot. I sat and scribbled notes for this travelog.

When the Nebraskan, a skinny white guy comfortably past retirement age, sat down next to me, I smiled at him.

The Nebraskan Asked Me...

He asked me, "Writing your memoirs?" He tended to talk in sentence fragments.

"Yeah. If I don't write down what happens to me, I'll never remember it."

He looked out into the distance. "Yeah. That's true. Think you're going to always remember, but..." His voice faded, he made a gesture.

I liked talking with the Nebraskan. He talked slower than I did, expected longer pauses. I forced myself to stop being so quick to say things, adjusted to this slower pace of talk. Even when the conversation started to creep me out, I kept going with it.

The Nebraskan was here with some friends, touring around in an RV. Like me, their next stop was Carlsbad. I asked him if he knew of things to see or do in Carlsbad and he said that he didn't know of any.

He said, "Around here, 's not so much the towns. 'S in between."

I admitted to being from California, and said I liked looking at the country between towns out here, too. I said, "Out in California, you wouldn't ever be able to see so much that hadn't all been paved over."

I said that after Carlsbad, my next stop would be Albuquerque. He said that Albuquerque was his favorite place in the whole world. He explained: "They got everything there you could want..." He paused a bit, continued: "and they're very liberated."

This seemed like a strange thing to say. Suddenly, I was on guard--was he trying to convert me or pick me up or something? (I'd noticed Christians trying to rope people into bible study groups in El Paso.) Maybe he just thought I was a hippie kid who might be reassured to know that I would fit right in to some part of Albuquerque. Maybe his was an innocent remark. But my reply was guarded.

I said, "I hear there's a telephone museum there, they got all kinds of historical stuff. Lots of handsets." He said that he wasn't familiar with it. He offered me some popcorn.

He said that his group had just come from Texas. I said I'd just come from El Paso, that I'd just gone to Mexico for the first time. I gave a summary of my morning venture to Juarez.

The Nebraskan had been to some city in Mexico back in 1956. Back then, things had been pretty primitive there. Dirt roads, no sidewalks. He said that things had gotten a lot better in the last 30 years. It occured to me that it had been more than 30 years since 1956, but I saw no reason to mention this. Instead, I continued to look out at the parking lot.

He said that he liked travelling with his friends in the RV. He said that he didn't think he'd like travelling alone, especially staying in motel rooms alone. He looked at me with a questioning look. I thought, Mister, are you trying to creep me out? Because it's working. I said something about my difficulty in convincing any of my friends to take three weeks off from their jobs to kick around New Mexico.

He said that he supposed I wasn't married. This seemed like a strange thing to say. It's times like this when I'm glad I'm a behemoth, someone who predators would hesitate to pick fights with. I said that I, too, supposed I wasn't married.

A group of people, about six of them, emerged from the lobby. I would have guessed their average age to be 65. They looked as if they could be the Nebraskan's travelling companions, and they were. The Nebraskan sat and talked with his friends for about half a minute. I looked on and smiled. The friends occasionally darted looks at me; they seemed to be thinking, who's this guy?

The Nebraskan asked his companions, "'Bout time we go?" One of his companions allowed as how it was. The Nebraskan pointed at me with his chin, said somewhat truculently, "As far as I'm concerned, he can come with us." This was his way of introducing me to the group. His friends frowned, scowled, turned away, started walking--presumably to the RV. The Nebraskan continued, in a quieter voice, "just as far as Carlsbad."

He turned to me, asked, "So, you want to ride with us?"

I thought fast. I was looking at waiting another 1.5 hours for the bus. It was only about 20 miles to Carlsbad. My presence on the RV might make things awkward; from those scowls, it seemed like most of the people didn't want me there. Still, I'd only have to deal with it for half an hour. If this guy wanted to alienate his friends to give me a ride, after half an hour, that would just be his problem, not mine.

If they got rough, I could use the monkey wrench. I'd brought a monkey wrench with me on this trip, just to have a heavy blunt truncheon along. Yes, you read that right. When I'd packed, I'd expected El Paso to be a tougher town than it was, didn't know what to expect in Juarez. Upon arrival, I'd seen that El Paso wasn't bad at all; I'd figured I was safe in Juarez at 9:00 in the morning. I'd never had occasion to wear the monkey wrench on my person, but I felt reassured knowing that it was in easy reach in my bag.

I wondered which would age me more: two hours of waiting for the bus or half an hour of paranoid frenzy in an RV.

I turned to the Nebraskan. I flicked my eyes over to his retreating companions. I said, "I'd better not. It was mighty nice of you to offer, though."

Into the Heart of Carlsbad and Out to the Fringe Thereof

Photo: Sign: "Welcome to Carlsbad"

The Greyhound ride into Carlsbad was pretty easy. I hopped off the bus and walked up to the Driftwood Motel. As I was registering, the manager asked to see some picture ID. He didn't seem too pleased to see me. He asked, "Did you just get here off of the Greyound?" I answered in the affirmative. At this, he seemed to relax. This seemed strange--if someone told me they'd just got off the Greyhound, I'd be more likely to tense up than relax. But I wasn't going to ask this guy why he'd relaxed. I wanted to hurry downtown to see the WIPP office. So I dropped off my bag in my room and set out.

Photo: The Driftwood Motel's doorways were made for someone much shorter than I am.

Because it was on the way, I stopped off at the Chamber of Commerce to pick up a visitor's guide. I walked along towards the WIPP PR office, browsing the guide. The guide had something to say about WIPP.

I cursed. They were offering tours of the WIPP facility. But the facility was 30 miles out of town. For the first time on the trip, I was regretted that I hadn't re-learned how to drive, hadn't rented a car. Did I want to hire a taxi to drive me out there? (Were there even any taxis in Carlsbad, or would I have to call one in from elsewhere?) Was I so psyched to see this hole in the ground that I wanted to spend an extra day in Carlsbad? This seemed like something that might turn into something of a mess, logistics-wise.

I decided that I would settle for the PR office. Strange, the address in the Chamber of Commerce brochure didn't agree with my guidebook. I've mentioned that my guidebook, while very good, was a few years old. So I wasn't surprised when I walked up to the spot where my guidebook said the WIPP PR office should be and instead found a bank.

I guess I had a stricken, lost expression. I held my map limply. A lady walked up to me, asked me if I was lost. I told her the new address of the WIPP office, asked her if she knew where that might be. She wasn't sure. I said it was the WIPP PR office--and she knew where it was. About six miles South of town, most of the way down to the airport. I thanked her.

About six miles. According to my guidebook, the Office would close at 4:00 pm. If I walked quickly, I might be able to get there just as they were closing. Not good.

Okay, I could walk to the PR office and get there after they closed. I could time myself. Based on this, I could go there tomorrow morning, time my walk so that I got there just as they were opening. Depending on the timing, I'd probably have an hour there before I had to walk back and catch the Albuquerque bus.

And so I walked South.

I went a few blocks out of my way to look at the Fiesta, one of the few Drive-Ins left in the country. I walked along a dusty street. Dogs, frustrated by fences, jumped at me barking and growling. I'd got to the place where the access road to the drive-in began. A ways away, inside the lot of the drive-in, a figure was hunched over, cleaning up. He waved, yelled, "Hey, buddy!" In the sun and heat-shimmer, I couldn't tell if he was waving at me or someone else. I made a little wave, something that he might see if he was facing me already, not likely to get his attention if he wasn't. He yelled, "I got some free beer, here!" and wandered out of sight behind a fence. I snapped some pictures and continued South.

Photo collage: Fiesta Drive-In

I walked south along the freeway. The sidewalk disappeared. I wasn't walking next to buildings anymore. Off to the side was fenced-in desert. It wasn't exactly clear what the fence was supposed to do--perhaps it was keeping the desert from escaping. You could tell that this desert was still close civilization by all the plastic bags which had been blown by the wind, blown until they lodged on the spines of cacti. I walked over dirt, gravel, stones. I scanned the ground for snakes and scorpions. I didn't know if this was their habitat, but the terrain seemed rough enough to conceal such.

Photo: Carlsbad freight.

I'd been taking my sweet time, taking that side trip to the Fiesta, pausing to take photos. I was kind of surprised when I came across the WIPP office as soon as I did. I wasn't even sure I was at the right place. Sure, the sign mentioned DOE and Westinghouse. I'm pretty sure it was closer than six miles. Maybe it was four. I looked at my watch--4:32.

| comment? | | home |