Mojave Desert

And months pass, without word from your intrepid narrator... did he die, somewhere out there in the perfectly laquered big box nightmare that is the LA suburbs? Was he perhaps murdered by mutants who live in the sewers of california?

Actually, the truth is much more mundane. I found out pretty quick that internet cafes are very rare, and insanely expensive when they do exist. When given a choice between eating and updating you guys, sorry, you take a backseat to my stomach. I switched to my handy dandy yellow notebook, recording all my adventures in it, intending to write it all out for you as soon as I got back to Canada. Those who know me will not be surprised to know that once i did get home, I sort of....didnt.

So its been months since I got back, and since then a lot has happened, but my recent adventures must for now stay in my notebook, because I have an adventure to commit to the interwebs. If i dont, the notebook will inevitably be lost or destroyed, and all the people I met will sink into the mists, remembered by nobody.

I did eventually get out of LA, possibly never to return. As tempting as my favorite blogger makes the city sound (The Funky Freegan), the rest of the coast was so much more enthralling, and I didnt feel in quite as imminent danger of being knifed anywhere else I went as I did in downtown Los Angeles. Maybe I will come and get the inside scoop on the neighbourhoods from the locals instead of some godawful tourist map, and give it a second chance.

My mother and I rented a car and set out towards Vagas, plotting a course along the LA-to-Vegas highway along with every other tourist and gambler in this part of the world. Soon enough, the LA radio stations faded out, replaced with the pre-recorded pep of the station that strings all the way along that highway, not letting you forget you are headed towards the glitz and sparkle of Las Vegas. After a while, we lost that station, and found ourselves on a cracked desert highway that looked very unlike the expensive 6 lane leading to the home of Gil Grissom and Catherine Willows. The lushness of LA had faded quickly as we headed along, and now we were driving down the centre of a flat, cracked and chilly desert. What alien planet was this?

As we passed through tiny settlements and passed homesteads, we could not grasp the idea of owning property in this place. Who could raise children in this featureless landscape? We asked ourselves this as we passed one of the isolated homes where a fence arbitrarily seperated MY nothing, from the miles of more nothing. The only thing that seemed different about the baked earth inside the fence were the tires, and occasional children's toys scattered around the 'yard'. To an Ontarian, used to trees and buildings constantly hemming in our vision, providing protection and safety, this was a frightening place.

But the further we drove, the more life we saw. I dont know if it was our perceptions changing, or if it was the landscape itself, but the desert went from bleak nothingness to packed with desert life within a few hours. The land outside the window was covered in the unique plantlife of the Mojave desert, Joshua Trees, low bushes, growing creepers and the tightly balled spikes of cactus. Out here were Tortoise, Roadrunner, Snakes and Lizards, even deer and mountain sheep. I only spotted a few of the lizards, and they werent too happy to have me running after them to snap their picture, believe me.

Passing through one of the barren hamlets, we stopped short at the sight of a truck mounted missile... [ To be continued ]