A Free Ride in an Alien Nation
I’m up at 5.30am to walk to the bus station. It’s a quiet walk at that time of the morning and no-one tries to talk at the bus station, which is quite refreshing. I snag two seats on the bus and nap most of the way to Roswell.
When I arrive, the ticket seller at the small bus station gives me the taxi company number – there’s only one in town – and I call them to arrange a pick up. The phone rings for ages and then a guy answers. There’s a moment where it feels like he might say no, but after a pregnant pause, he agrees. When he arrives, he explains the car he has it actually being worked on and there’s no meter yet. He offers to drop me for free. Must be my lucky day. We chat on the way to the hotel and I discover he lives in Mumbai most of the time and works as a pilot, but owns the taxi company and comes home for a month each year to make sure the business keeps running smoothly. I tell him I’ll be calling him again in half an hour to get back into town and he offers me a lift again. Brilliant.
I check in to the motel, which is fairly pink, but fine. My knight, named Court, then picks me up again and drives me to Roswell’s main attraction, the UFO Museum. He asks if I’d like to get dinner later on and I decide he’s too kind to be a nutter, so I agree.
Roswell is famous for the Roswell Incident, where something crashed on a ranch 40 miles or so away in 1947 and the military hushed it up, creating serious conspiracy theories to do with UFOs and aliens. The UFO Museum presents the facts along with a whole lot of signed declarations on what happened, and I have to say, the pro-UFO camp is a little more coherent and consistent with their story. It has presentations on UFO sightings, as well as hoaxes, information on crop circles, and finally, information on close encounters of the third kind and alien implants. This is where it kind of loses me.
Roswell definitely capitalises on the incident. Every shop has some kind of alien theme, as does every t-shirt and postcard for sale. Admittedly there’s not a lot to the place. It’s also extremely hot as I wander the streets. The most impressive building is the county court, which looks a bit like the Capitol buildings in other places.
Court meets me in town, this time in a rusty old Land Rover and we grab a coffee and head to the next town, Dexter, for dinner. Dexter is even smaller than Roswell. It has one pub-restaurant, which is extremely local, meaning there are five other people there and we are friends with all of them by the end of the night. The place dishes up a mean steak. We stop in at a pub in Roswell on the way back for a nightcap and the vibe is much the same, with just a few more people. Court drops me off and offers to take me to breakfast and then back to the bus station the next morning. Saved again by the kindness of strangers.
Show me the way to Amarillo
Court appears as I’m packing my last few things with Starbucks in hand and we go to a Mexican restaurant called The Red Onion for breakfast. The inside is warehouse-style, painted a violent shade of pink. The food is great. I have an omelette with chorizo, mushrooms and cheese, which comes with toast, refried beans and hash browns. A quick education – hash browns are not necessarily the deep fried potato cakes found in Australia; they can just be chopped potatoes sautéed in a fry pan. After breakfast we go to the Greyhound station, only to find the bus is already running late, so we get a cold drink nearby while waiting. Court won’t let me pay for anything, although I try.
The bus trip is only about four hours, most of which I sleep through, although I do talk for a while to the gentleman sitting in front of me. By coincidence, it turns out he is also Tasmanian. What are the chances of two Tasmanians being on a bus between New Mexico and Texas at the same time?
From this point on in my travels I don’t have many contacts to break up the hostel stays, so I’ve decided to couchsurf more often. In Amarillo I’m staying with Adam*. He works for a web design company and has taught English in Istanbul. He’s still at work when I arrive, so we agree to meet at a little wine bar down the road. When Adam arrives, we have a drink while we wait for another couchsurfer, who is also staying the night. He’s a young French guy, Alexandre*, who will be studying in Atlanta, so hired a Harley somewhere on the west coast and is riding across the country.
We eat at a Thai restaurant for dinner, then drop into a café to see Adam’s brother DJ. It’s not really my kind of music – it’s kind of alternative electro – but its more background noise than anything. There are not many people there, but those who are are really chatty. My favourite guy looks like Jay, as in Jay and Silent Bob, and talks exactly like him as well, which means I have to hold back my laughter any time he says anything.
From the café, Alexandre takes me on the Harley to Adam’s place. He has a lovely little house and I have my own bedroom. Adam shows us around and hands over house keys so we can come and go tomorrow while he’s at work. This couchsurfing lark is amazing.
Graffiti and Iced Tea
Alexandre is leaving today, but has offered to take me to Cadillac Ranch before he goes. Amarillo is the home to an eccentric wealthy artist, who specialises in installations. He has set up road signs all through the town with random messages on them, but Cadillac Ranch is his most famous work. He has buried 10 Cadillacs nose down in a row in a field and cans of spray paint are left there so people can graffiti the cars.
The Harley ride makes me realise that Amarillo, situated in the Panhandle Plains, is extremely windy, as it nearly blows me off the bike a few times. It makes my eyes tear, as my latest sunglasses have stretched so much that they fall of my head, so I really wear them anymore. I’m going to have to buy yet another pair. That will my third this trip. After a little spray-painting session, we ride back home, my eyes watering the whole way, leaving me with tear-stained cheeks.
Alexandre heads out, and I jump on one of Adam’s bikes and cycle down historic Route 66. This was the original highway that cuts through something like nine states, and has pretty much been made obsolete by the new highway system. The Amarillo section is mostly cafes and antique stores. I stop at Smokey Joe’s for a crispy chicken salad for lunch, then cycle downtown, only to find that there’s not much there. There seems to be an extraordinary number of banks, one café, and a tattoo parlour. I guess there are a lot of tattooed bankers around, drinking coffee.
I meander back along Route 66 and when I stop to take a photo of a random bar, two biker guys outside invite me over for a chat. I sit down, but decline the waitress’ offer of a drink. A few minutes later, she comes out and hands me an iced tea bought for me by some guy sitting inside. Strange. I drink it slowly, just in case, and then go in to say thank you. The waitress points to an old guy sitting at the counter wearing a cowboy hat. He tells me he saw me ride in and when I didn’t order anything, he figured I should have a cold drink since it’s such a hot day, so bought me the tea. Again with the kindness. It’s endearing.
I’ve offered to cook dinner, so when Adam finishes work we go to the supermarket to stock up. I whip up some pasta and we sit outside on the deck to eat with a couple of Adam’s friends. The guys brew their own beer, so we have home brews with our meal and chat the evening away.
*names changed
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