| Reservation Blues |
[15 Sep 2004|10:42pm] |
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Yesterday's drive from Denver to Monument Valley, Utah, should have taken eight hours, but thanks to the DeLorme GPS software's inability to distinguish paved, commonly-traveled roads from primitive dirt mountain service roads, it turned into a fifteen-hour expedition into the Rocky Mountains. It felt like we were being punished by the ghosts of Lewis & Clark. Luckily, Avis mistakenly rented Albert a 4x4 Explorer instead of the Buick Century they said he was getting.
After many photo stops in the mountains, we ended up sneaking in to the Monument Valley camping area around 1 a.m., under cover of darkness and heavily-insulated RV camper walls. Technically, you're supposed to pay upon entering the park, but the drop box was dubious, at best, and offered no instructions or forms to fill out. Besides, we were only going to be at the pad site long enough to take a few night shots and catch a quick nap. We hoped to be packed up and out of the campsite before we were ever discovered. Luckily, all went as planned. I really don't think they even had anyone looking. Just a guy emptying the trash cans.
After the tent was set up, and all needed items were retrieved from the truck, I began setting up my Speed Graphic and composing my shot. I wanted to get a nice motion exposure of the night sky, with rock silhouettes in the foreground. I came to find out that the Monument Valley area is in the heart of the Navajo Nation Indian Reservation, so all lands and facilities are under control of the tribe. Therefore, common national park rules and guidelines do not apply. This was sacred ground, and we were not allowed to hike freely. Visitors are required to stick to designated paths. This meant I couldn't hike closer to the rocks, like I wanted to. I had to settle for a wide shot of the whole area. It wasn't what I wanted, but I loaded the Graphic and took it anyway. Something decent may still come out of it. I'll know when I get my film back.
I was very careful not to leave anything behind, or to mar the land unnecessarily, out of respect for the tribe and their land. The next morning, I was wondering why I had bothered. Read on...
I finished my shots and crashed in the truck. At dawn, we packed up and bought a pass to drive the 17-mile sightseeing trail to see the rock formations. Many photos were taken. Some shall be shown.
The land in Monument Valley is very beautiful. Great red rock formations shoot from the desert floor, hundreds of feet into the sky, and the region is dotted with picturesque canyons and draws. You would think the Navajo Nation would consider the land a source of great pride, and I'm sure they do, for the most part, but the condition of the area I saw was complete crap. The main road leading into the park is populated with small shops and a cafe made of rotting particle board and stacked end to end, literally. It looked like a fucking shanty town, with shop names and other information spray-painted on the sides of the shacks. One good gust of wind could blow the whole lot of them over. After seeing the state of those places, I don't know how anyone could bring themselves to eat in the cafe there. It looked as though you would be instantly poisoned simply by walking in the door, if it had a door to begin with.
You could almost smell the absence of federal health regulations.
The main area of the park wasn't much better. To their credit, the restrooms were clean, and made of real wood and tile. The rest of it was shit. The tour guide office consisted of four warped sheets of plywood, nailed together to form an impromptu kiosk. It had the words "Navajo Tour Guides" spray-painted off kilter on the side. The trucks they used to carry tourists were either broken down or looked to be recently patched up. No thanks. We chose to drive the trail ourselves.
The main roads along the trail were lined with a fair number of empty beer bottles and cans, as well as assorted bits of junk. A car door... Some tires... Shit like that. As we were leaving, we drove through one of the living areas off the main road, and it was like a trash bomb had exploded the night before. For an area that is supposed to be "sacred ground," they sure don't take very good care of it. Don't believe all that crap about "conservation" and the "rape of our land." Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against Native Americans, but I would think that if I had a colossal chunk of tax-free land in the very heart of the most picturesque and amazing natural areas of the Southwest, I would want to do something with it, instead of letting it collect trash and old car parts.
For some reason, I felt suckered. I'm not sure why. No, wait... I know why...
After we had pulled out of the park, some guy walked up to the truck, and in a thick, drunken, Navajo accent, told us some sob story about how he had run out of gas, and his four-year-old son was sitting in the truck, waiting for him to return, but he had no money -- you get the idea. He kept running on, and soon he let it slip that his "four-year-old son is waiting, and he had to make it to the cantina." Did you get that? The cantina. The cantina. The freakin' bar!
We drove on, and after some more bouts with the GPS software and uncharted dirt roads, I am now pleased to announce that we are approaching Las Vegas. I'm in the back seat, typing this drivel, Al is driving, and Dave is falling asleep in the passenger seat.
That's enough for now. I'll post this as soon as I get to the room and activate my internet access. Strong drink is in order.
Mahalo.
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stressed
lethargic
accomplished
anxious
amused