Then San Carlos Apache Reservation -Part 2-

Good lord, working up the self discipline to finish this one was time consuming. I have so much to say about Bylas...where to I begin? Well, at the beginning I suppose.

So there I was, exhausted and limping (a very common theme on this trip) into the little gas station-slash-market in town. I walked in, filled up my water, and walked out. The red sun was dipping into the horizon, and I wondered just how much daylight I had left before I would have to set up camp. (Setting up a tent in pitch black darkness is no fun for all you would be travelers out there). I knew I would have to make it a few more miles out of town before I could bed down somewhere, but at that moment I was content with sitting next to one of the gas pumps while chewing on some crackers and let my body vedge out for a few minutes.

Well low and behold, in my moment of veggitude a HUGE truck pulls up. Big ol rusty rambler pickup truck, and out steps the biggest Indian I’ve ever seen (meaning he was about as tall as me). As much as I would like to describe that guy from the crying Indian commercial in the 70’s (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4ozVMxzNAA) his hair was short and his face round. But I could see a wise soul beneath that craggy face. Well, later I did, anyway. He strode over to me.

“whatchu doing here man?” He said in a strangely accented English slur. (he was of course drunk, but on the reservation this seemed to be the rule rather then the exception.)

He was a fair ways off on his truck, so I yelled back “I’m trying to walk across the US”

He started to approach, slowly stumbling along the asphalt of the gas station. I should mention that it was here I decided to play the badly accented German tourist. I wasn’t sure how much love these people here held for their American oppressors.

“Wha?” He said.

(really bad German accent here that sounds more like Russian) “I said I’m walking across the US, my name is Petyr by the way”

“oh no way? Ich kanne lust mag deutch sprechen, I used to live in Germany on a base there”

-Shit- I thought, because the German he just spoke to me was so badly slurred I couldn't make heads or tails of it, something about liking to speak deutch but so poorly worded it was meaningless. Was I so out of practice? Later I realized he was drunk and had the general knowledge of German that most American army troops stationed their do, that is to say: None. So luckily no one had a chance to call me out.

We struck up a conversation, nodded our heads, and I prepared to head back down the road.

“Wait” he said, “you can come stay at my place if your tired man”

And so that’s how I met Fish, local hero of the Byla’s Apaches. I wasn’t going to turn the man down, for Christ sakes I NEEDED a shower. So I jumped into the back of his pickup truck and it sprang into clunky life. We tore ass down the road at about 50 miles an hour. I should mention here that not only was he drunk, but this pickup truck had no back to it. So I hung onto the sides. Hard.

“Don’t be scared!” said his buddy, who looked like a fat version of George Lopez, and that is in fact what I ended up calling him.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been closer to death then this.” And I have, but not by much if I had realized how drunk that idiot was. The first stop of course was more beer from the mini mart just outside of town. “ICE” beer was apparently the national apache beer of the month, it was pretty much all I ever saw. He picked up two 36-packs for “that evening” and we whiplashed like a bat out of hell again to his house.




He lived on one of the nicer houses in the town, which wasn’t saying much. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and it sure beat my POS tent by about 300 points, starving feral dogs included.

As I jumped out of his truck and strode triumphantly towards his house, I halted at the scene in front of me. Sleeping, sitting and standing in front of his house were about 10 young native American dudes about my age. But unlike my usual black attire, they were all wearing red to the man. Blood red, from their bandanna down to their sneakers. *Grk*

Upon searching for a picture of Natural Ice Beer, I stumbled upon possibly the coolest picture on ever put on the internet "Natural Ice Man"


Fish got out of the truck and put his arm around my shoulders in a display of comradery. “This is Petyr from Germany, he’s with me”

And that, incredibly, seemed enough. The scowls from their faces disappeared, in 10 seconds I had become one of them. They walked up, shook my hand and slapped me on the back and peppered me with the usual “Your walking? NO WAY” and such. There was a rotted picnic table outside his house, we all settled down and proceeded to get rip roaring drunk.

I was then introduced to the rest of my abruptly inherited Indian family. There was Fish, the big man of the house. Renée his feisty girlfriend and their daughter…who’s name I can’t recall. I suppose I should just make names up in the future to maintain the illusion I have any kind of recelective powers when it comes to names…there was also George Lopez, Fish’s brother. And also Georges daughter…who bore a striking resemblance to George himself…but not in a good way. It soon became a running joke they I was going to hook up with her. Well, there was quite a bit of beer I suppose.

And so we sat back and drank away the afternoon. It was beautiful in a way, but maybe again that was just the first blush of a light buzz on my cheeks. I became quick friends with one of the Red boys (we'll call him Joe), who was talking about singing that night at the dance (what?). And it was soo, soo nice to rest for a bit, and not have to worry about setting up that accursed tent.

It was sometime that afternoon that I realized just how batshit volatile Fish and Renees relationship was, and in it’s own way it was a beautiful thing. Sometime after my 5th beer I decided to speak some Deutsch with Fish. Whoops.

“Ihre Freundin ist hübsch na?” (Your girlfriend is cute, no?)

Fish sat on this for a few seconds, took a deep breath, and said, “No”

I should have realized of course that this was that “no” That being the “no” you say when you have claimed to speak a language, got hit with a fast sentence, and decided to play it off like you understood. But I didn’t realize it was that “No” and I proceeded to laugh my ass off.

(To Renee while laughing) “He says your not beautiful.”

I expected maybe a playful slap from her to Fish, but she proceeded to take her full can of “Ice” beer and slam it in his face so hard I swear I thought she broke his nose. Then she preceded to poor the rest of the can on him while he cried out in pain. I was shocked, but everyone else started laughing with the casual grace that this was obviously just “going through the motions for them.” Fish looked a bit weepy eyed right after, and Renee quickly comforted and kissed him and told him she was sorry. 5 minutes later she was pointing to the white stain on her shirt and told everyone how much she regretted sucking him off so hard the night before.

Ahh, I’m finally among people on my level.

The afternoon wore on, and one of my more inebriated brothers in red (Joe) kept talking about the Dance that night. Apparently it wasn't a "Big one". That was coming tomorrow, this was more of a practice session. "Still," he slurred, "you should come down there tonight." And so I did.

The whole crew jumped into that big old pickup truck and launched into the nights blackness. If I was worried about catching my death before with these people I was doubly so now, as far as I could tell I was the sober"ist" (can you say that?) one there, and I could barely see my own hands. Luckily Fish seemed to be one of those drunk driving pros-you know the kind that drive drunk all the time and eventually crash into tree and kill everyone in the vehicle. Luckily I had my trusty complete-fucking-idiot mentality equipped and went with them.

We drove down an empty desert road for quite a ways, 15 miles at least. I began to entertain thoughts that they really were going to kill me after all, but these were easily crushed after we passed a few "Sacred tribal grounds, Keep Out and No Littering" signs. Damn this was exciting! Though slightly ironic and depressing to see discarded beer cans outlining the beautiful desert road.

And we arrived to a scene that brought me back to those nostalgic days of the Macedonian faires my parents would bring me to as a kid. There were about 50 or so of my native comrades circle dancing around a smaller group of men who were quite busy beating on drums and singing. To those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, Circle Dancing is a strange ritual that involves holding hands or locking arms, and then moving slowly in circles while kind of bobbing your body up and down like an Umpa Lumpa. Other variations include kicking your legs out in one direction or another while you rotate (think of burlesque shows). As Macedonia and ancient Apache Tribe America have been somewhat far apart for a while, I can only assume that circle dancing springs up from cultures who cannot dance worth shit, and so together the entire community can wallow in their talentless dancing skills by sharing the embarrassment in a large circle. Pirates, for instance, did not have circle dancing. And we all know why, because pirates are almost as cool as well, me.


I have to admit though that I can see the draw to this kind of circle dancing. You don't have to worry about the next move, because there isn't one. Far from my mind were thoughts of what move should I pull next-the Michael Jackson crouch grab? Saturday night live disco special? No my friends, there was only the circle. And the music-oh! I've been segwaying for a bit, lets get back to the story here.

So square in the middle of our local dancing troupe were the singers. It consisted of about 20 blokes sitting cross legged in an interesting kind of "square" formation. Can't really describe it, you just had to be there. Each one had a drum and each one was doing that Indian moaning thing. Like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbX4I8p9wJk that sounds pretty close to what I was hearing. But I'll tell you man, that youtube video does not compare to hearing such things in the reality of the moment and setting. It gets to you man, it gets to your soul. You can just feel the primal nature of it-and god help me-I wanted to join that circle dance.

Renees seemingly borderline esp kicked in and and pulled my arm towards the other villagers dancing. "Common," she said, "lets go dance!"

"But but.....is it even ok for me to be here?" A cursory glance had revealed the fact I was the only white guy within at least 50 miles.

"It's fine, fine! Your with us remember." And so I went, and so I danced.

Oh baby, I was intooo it! Once again, something to be said about that primal spirit when it comes to a fire and men beating on drums. I should explain that my feet at this point were basically squishy pink sausages covered in blisters-but I didn't care. I bobbed baby, bobbed up and down and rotated in a circle like there was no tomorrow. Once every few seconds someone who was really 'feeling it' would let loose with a Indian howl that I'm quite sure a white person is incapable of reproducing, or at least I was. But I was feeling it too baby, and I soon found myself letting loose with awkward white guy wolf howls that would have put the best of us to shame. But I didn't care, the spirit of the night was within me.

And as we danced, right at the apex of my spiritual howls to that great white moon in the sky, the night was pierced with it's own tragic irony. As we rotated past a corner of the square, one of the singers tipped over and sprawled on the ground like a dead thing. The merriment stopped, and we crowded around while his fellow singers and drum beaters shook his shoulder and tried to rouse him. Was he ok? "It's all right," someone said, "just had to much to drink." He was picked up by two of his companions and dragged off to a waiting car. I saw his face when they had turned him over-it was Joe-the one who kept telling me to come in the first place. I don't think I've ever felt a more acute sadness for anyone then I did for my Indian friends at that moment. What a sad, broken people. Their glory days so far lost, now stuck in this little desert reservation. Even in the midst of the one tradition that they had managed to maintain alcoholism and depression still invaded.

As we drove back, Fish said that the next few days would be amazing on the reservation, that the things happening tomorrow only took place there once a year. He asked me if I wanted to stay.
I said yes.


And so you know I am really tired now, and can't write anymore. But I promise you there is a "Part 3" and it is the best of them. Or at least my favorite anyway. However, I may skip strait to New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma so I can catch up a bit to where I actually am on the road now.