Two weeks and some change without an entry... maybe you thought the blog was finished? Guess who's baaaaaaaaaaaack!

Since we last parted ways, I flew from San Jose, CR to Phoenix. It was a much longer trip than one would expect. Much of that was due to stops in Guatemala City and L.A. (to clear customs), as well as flying from L.A. to Phoenix by way of San Francisco?

I caught a cab from the airport to a Phoenix hostel for the night. My plan was to hang out in Phoenix for the next day, stay at the hostel for a second night, and meet up with two other volunteers at the airport the following morning where we would depart for Hotevilla, the community where the Red Feather project was located. I tossed and turned all night thinking about the prospects of a day in Phoenix, and rose before the sun to find a way out of the city and off to the Hopi reservation. Optimistically, I grabbed a local bus to the I-17 on ramp and tried to hitchhike my way to Flagstaff. Anyone who has been to Phoenix, or most large cities for that matter, will understand why I say "optimistically." Many people didn't even give me a glance, including a gentleman... strike that... some guy who walked past me without even responding to my friendly "good morning."

As I sat on the on-ramp, I thought about the optimism required for the act of hitchhiking. A hitchhiker may watch 300 or 400 cars zip past without even a hint of success, then *BAM*, somebody pulls over and carries him/her for 300 miles in a clip.

Well, my optimism waned after an hour and I decided to take the bus to the Greyhound station to at least get myself to Flagstaff. I ended up on the bus next to a 20 year old young man from Palmdale, CA, a fringe suburb of L.A. This trip marked his first time leaving the L.A. area - ever! We talked quite a bit. I shared some stories from my travels, while he told me of his plans in Albuquerque, where he hoped to sell magazines with some friends. A young Dine (Navajo) man sitting behind us overheard some of the conversation and began to ask questions about the rez. He had lived in Phoenix for most of his life and was heading to Gallup, NM to meet up with his girlfriend. I felt that he was excited to meet someone who valued his ancestry, and he seemed to be quite interested in reconnecting with his past.

The three of us parted ways in Flagstaff. I stopped by Northern Arizona University hoping to catch my thesis reader, Four Arrows aka Don Jacobs, at his office. He told me that he would likely be out of town during that time, but I swung by anyway. He was out of his office, and I proceeded to the local natural foods store for some lunch before making my way to I-40.

One of the two young women running the registers at the store assured me that Flag is a hitch-friendly town and I would have little trouble getting my carcass to the Hopi reservation. After my lack of success in Phoenix, this was exactly the reassurance that I needed. I hung out on the on-ramp for 30-45 minutes without success and decided that I might have more luck on I-40, where people from as far as Los Angeles would be traveling east.

I learned quickly that the freeway isn't the most friendly place to hitch. Cars whizzing by at 70-80 mph don't really like to test inertia for some shady looking guy carrying large bags. I walked the freeway for two and a half miles, where I reached the next exit and reset myself on an on-ramp.

By this time, it was probably two in the afternoon. I really wanted some water, but was also feeling quite ancy about passing up potential rides. For some reason, when I hitchhike and people go out of their way to avoid me or I am stuck in the same place for an extended period of time, I find it quite amusing. The thought that amused me the most during my wait in Flag was watching twenty-something earthy-looking people pass by... usually women. I would get a smile, but no stop. My response tended to be a wide grin and a shake of the head, exclaiming, "But these are my people!"

I must have been on the ramp for an hour when a guy from South Central L.A. pulled over and decided that my bags were too large for his liking. He was probably thinking as well... Jeffrey Dahmer, Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy... man, do I really want to take my chances with some off-looking white dude? I wasn't as disappointed as I might have been; I think the human contact was enough to sustain me for a bit longer.

Shortly after, a man in a pickup truck pulled over and invited me for a ride. I hopped in the truck without any clue of what was about to happen... magic. A structural engineer, self-proclaimed "wetback" (to those of you who don't know, a wetback is a derogatory term for a Mexican immigrant.. i.e. they swam here illegally), and former Army corporal. We talked nonstop from the time he picked me up in Flagstaff until Winslow, where I needed to head 30+ miles north, and he needed to drive several hours east to Gallup, NM.

When he pulled off the freeway, he asked me how far I needed to go. I told him thirty miles or so, and he said, "I'll take you." I insisted him that he didn't need to, but he responded, "My father taught me that when you do something for someone, you do it all the way until completion." "All the way to completion" meant 60 or so miles out of his way! The combination of his generousity, the landscape, the people awaiting me at Hotevilla, and the conversation rushed through me. The only way I can describe the feeling is as love. It is the only feeling that has fulfilled me as mush as I was fulfilled on that road through Navajo country.

As these feelings rushed through me, I realized that this was the man to whom I was supposed to give my mask. In Costa Rica I had this strong feeling that I would meet someone on my passage through the Hopi project, and when I met them I would know that this was the person for whom the mask was made. Joe was that person.