In June I will be traveling to the Black Hills. It has been almost exactly 20 years
since I drove west to see this part of the U.S.A..
The last time we went, the Teacher was a little girl and the
Crazy Horse Monument was just beginning to take shape. The state of South Dakota is like two
different places, divided by the Missouri River. East of the river is flat, prairie grasslands with little to
offer visitors outside of the two or three birth places of Laura Ingalls
Wilder. Poor Mrs. Wilder must have
been in labor for weeks in order to have birthed Laura in multiple
locations. West of the Missouri,
the state becomes mountainous, beautiful, and sacred to the Native Americans, who lived there for centuries.
The last time we visited, we did the usual tourist type
things which included a visit to Thunderhead Mountain where the Crazy Horse
Monument was being carved out of the top of the mountain. The scope of the sculpture is breath
taking. To give you an idea of the
size of the monument, the faces of the presidents on Mount Rushmore are 60 feet
from top to bottom. The image of
Crazy Horse’s face is 87 feet.
When we were out there 20 years ago, we were told that a four-bedroom
house could fit into the nostril of Crazy Horse’s pony. When the monument is completed it is
expected to be the world’s largest sculpture.
This all came about when an Oglala Lakota chief, Henry
Standing Bear, wrote Polish American sculptor, Korszak Ziolkowski, in 1929
inquiring about the creation of a monument to honor Native American
heroes. Henry Standing Bear’s
letter began the process that resulted in work beginning on the Crazy Horse
Monument in 1948. Ziolkowski
created a non-profit that funded the project without any state of federal
assistance. He died in 1982 and
his wife and 7 of his 10 children have continued working to complete the
project.
The project is not without its Native American critics. Crazy Horse was buried in secret and
some believe it is against his spirit to carve up a mountain in his honor. Others are upset that the sculpture shows
Crazy Horse pointing which is taboo in Lakota tradition. I think John Fire Lane Deer, a Lakota
Medicine Man, captured the essence of the opposition when he opined the whole
idea of carving up a sacred mountain to create an image is “pollution of the landscape
and against the spirit of Crazy Horse.”
I think those opposed to the monument have some very valid
points. However, I have not seen
or read anything where any Native American group is asking people to stay away
from the site, so off we go. I am
going to see what the last 20 years of work have accomplished. I am also fascinated with the idea of a
project this massive, in this day and age, when we, as a nation, no longer seem
to be able to dream this big.
By now, you are probably wondering what the hell this has to
do with dangerous women. To
understand the connection we will need to travel back in time some 40 years, when I last hit the road with the two women I will be traveling with this
summer.
The danger began early when Panzy Ann, Marjorie Ann, and I
dropped off a car in Houston on our way to Mexico. As I was heading up to the cashier of the diner where we had lunch, a big business man with a silver front tooth, asked me if I would like to
sell Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann to him.
Now, I don’t know if those two were vamping and batting their eyes
earlier when I was in the restroom, but they had some how drawn the attention
of this entrepreneur. Putting
aside my own pecuniary interests, I indicated that I wished to keep both of
them and concluded our business discussion on amiable terms thus avoiding an
ugly scene.
I never have felt Panzy Ann or Marjorie Ann appreciated my
efforts on their behalf. A couple
of years ago, I contacted Percy Crumphfuffle, a Vice President of Business
Ethics at J. P. Morgan Co. and asked him if I would have been in the wrong,
ethically, had I sold one or both of them to the Houston businessman. Mr. Crumphuffle informed me that I
could have made the transaction ethically because it was a mere exchange of
goods and services for consideration.
He did say the Houston party might have had trouble perfecting his
ownership of the two women because of over regulation by the federal
government, but that would not have been my problem, especially if I left
Houston quickly after the transaction.
Once we got to Mexico, Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann again drew
considerable attention to themselves.
Women in Mexico did not go out alone without a male member of their
family as a chaperone back in those times. The only time you saw women was if you were invited to
someone’s home or they were working in a family business or at the market. So the mere fact that Panzy Ann and
Marjorie Ann were traveling around with me instantly labeled them as, what the
kids today call, “fast women.”
Thus, I was again called upon to negotiate an offer for their services
from two Samaritans who had offered us a ride and subsequently pulled off the
road because of fake car trouble and asked me how much I wanted for the two of
them. Once again, putting my own
financial well being aside, I told the fellows they would have to ask Panzy Ann
and Marjorie Ann directly what they were charging for their services. Of course, I was taking a calculated
risk that they would not ask the women and was proven correct when we were
merely dumped off in the desert at high noon.
Again, I don’t think Panzy Ann or Marjorie Ann appreciated
the skill with which I had negotiated this situation, let alone the money I had
again left on the table.
Things continued to be interesting due to these young
American women provocatively traveling around with out their fathers. And so it was we found ourselves
needing to travel north up the west coast of Mexico to Mazatlan, to catch a
ferry that would take us across the Gulf of California to La Paz on the south
eastern side of the Baja Peninsula.
We were hitchhiking along the west coast, about five hours
from our destination, when a semi stopped to pick us up. The driver jumped out and opened the
passenger side door of his cab and motioned for Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann to
climb inside. The truck was the
old style without a sleeping compartment.
There was a bench seat that could accommodate three people. As Pansy Ann and Marjorie Ann happily
climbed in, the driver opened a small compartment on the side of the truck and
stored their backpacks. That left
me standing on the side of the road wondering what was going on. The driver walked over and patted the
gas tank that was behind the cab and in front of the trailer he was hauling,
indicating I should climb on top of the gas tank. Then he threw my backpack onto the tank and again gestured
for me to climb up. We were still
five hours from Mazatlan and up against a hard deadline so I reluctantly
climbed aboard.
As we took off, it became quickly apparent that I would need
to stand up and hold on to a bar attached to the cab with my backpack wedged
between my legs. As we went along,
the backpack and I would vibrate toward the side of the tank and absent the
maintaining of a degree of vigilance, would have vibrated off the tank to the
road below, causing a heck of a mess.
As I took my standing position, I found my self between two unmuffled
exhaust pipes, belching smoke, and causing brain-rattling noise. And there I stood for five hours
literally roaring down the highway.
I have to say I have had more comfortable rides. What added insult to injury was my
looking through a little oval window in the back of the cab and seeing Panzy
Ann and Marjorie Ann talking with the driver and laughing and seeming to be
having just a grand old time. I’m
not too proud to admit that I wiled away the last hour of the ride fantasizing
about strangling them both. Every
now and then one of them would turn and smile and wave at me, not in a mocking
way, as I believe neither one of them thought I wasn’t having a nice ride and
thinking we were all happy we were going to make our destination on time.
When we finally reached Mazatlan, I climbed off the gas
tank, physically exhausted with my brain feeling like a glob of jelly. It didn’t take long for Panzy Ann
and Marjorie Ann to realize that my ride hadn’t been anywhere near as pleasant
as theirs and they took over making sure we got to the ferry and boarded the
ship on time.
I don’t think my traveling companions were at fault in this
situation, but I do doubt the driver would have stopped if there had been three
men hitchhiking that day. I do suggest, if you ever find yourself in a similar
situation, you insist your female companions wear fake beards and mustaches to
avoid having to ride on the outside of the vehicle.
The danger continued when we reached the Baja. After an interesting episode on the
west coast that I have already written about (See: Naked Came the Gringo), we
decided to hitch hike back to La Paz.
There was one road, mostly dirt, which connected the west and the east
coasts. As we stood waiting for a
ride, it occurred to us, we better get a ride from the first vehicle passing
because it didn’t look like their would be another one coming by that day. After a considerable wait a truck
stopped and we piled into the back.
The truck was one of those with an open air, picket like fence around a
flat bed. It was being use to haul
bails of straw and in the open air the straw dust swirled around and made
breathing it in less than pleasant.
In order to avoid breathing the dust we all stood holding on to the top
of the fencing.
The Baja is quite narrow and the ride across it was somewhat
slow due to the condition of the road, but not all that uncomfortable. In fact, the first three fourths of it
was rather enjoyable as we rode through the desert in the late afternoon. It was in that final fourth that the
huevos rancheros I ate for breakfast attacked me. I began to feel clammy and broke out into a full body sweat. This was followed by gut wrenching
cramps like I had never felt before.
Luckily, we were not far from La Paz when this all began.
 |
| Terrorist Breakfast. |
As we arrived at the outskirts of the city, I knew I was in
trouble. Then as we moved farther
into the city, the truck hit a bump and everything that had been inside me was
suddenly outside. The cramps
intensified as the truck pulled over just across from a nice looking, if modest
hotel. Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann
helped me down from the truck and across the street into the hotel lobby. There was a cot by a stair well in the
lobby and I curled up on it while Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann went to get us
checked in. The hotel staff, being
professionals, realized that having a sick and rather stinky gringo in their
lobby was probably not that good for business, moved very quickly to get us to
a room.
When we got to the room, I grabbed some clean clothes and
limped to the shower to get cleaned up.
When I was done in the bathroom, I walked, bent over in pain, to one of
the beds and curled up in the fetal position. As I lay there, I realized Panzy Ann and Marjorie Ann were
breezily discussing their dinner plans.
I guess I was expecting some sympathy but that was in short supply and
as I lay there convinced that all of my major organs were lying back in the
truck, I realized they were going to leave me in my last hours on the
planet. Panzy Ann did run down to
a corner store and get me a bottle of 7-UP, that universal, if mostly
ineffective, bromide for all stomach ailments. Just as they were going out the door, one of them turned and
asked me if I wanted them to bring me back something to eat, I waved them off,
as I thought at that moment, I might never eat again.
I have to admit; I was astounded they had just picked up and
went to dinner and left me to die alone.
I guess in retrospect, I must have been exaggerating in my mind the
severity of my condition. Both of
these women, who would become mothers, must have taken a look at me and
concluded, he’ll be all right, let’s go eat. And, they were right.
They came back to the room after a couple of hours and a nice dinner and
stroll around La Paz and I was already feeling better. The cramping became less severe and the
sweat stopped within 90 minutes or so and by midnight all of my symptoms were
gone and the next day I was good to go.
I have held these incidents over Panzy Ann and Marjorie
Ann’s heads for the last 40 years.
In a kind of weird tribute to just how good of people they are, I have
been able to make them feel guilty for their sins, although I suspect they are
pretty good actors, too. All in
all, it was a great trip and we have often relived the many strange and
wonderful things that we went through way back when. I married Panzy Ann, and Marjorie Ann (their names have been
changed to protect the guilty) has been a great friend, forever. But even though I know what great
people they are, my subconscious keeps throwing up the possibility that
when we hit the road again this summer, they will revert and dangerous times
will be back again. Pray for me.
