The Sonoran Desert

flor del campo

I would be remiss if I neglected the main hurrah of my sojourns into the desert, the flowers. It is easy to notice the noticeable, the majestic cacti in this arid terrain, but this spring ride was full of El Nino blooms. The high chaparral and its blooming tansy and incenso created allergy havoc with the cowboys. They resorted to using bandanas as face masks and stuffing their nostrils with tissues. To my mind they looked like sneezing ningas with machetes.

Botanizing is a way of life on the trail. The locals know the names of plants, mostly based on whether they are malo (garbancillo) or bueno for the animals. Luckily for me we managed to slow the pace in the process of pointing and talking about the growth all around us.

For tea we located wild mint in moving water, and I picked tiny berries (drive by style sitting in the saddle), called frutia, which sounded like a word worth eating so I did.

On a few occasions I have been treated to the sought after and hunted wild chiltepin; a staple on every ranch table. These diminutive palate pleasers are best ground in small containers and sprinkled on the beans or cheese, or better yet goat stew. The taste is fiery, but I attempt a few each meal when they are offered. By late season, the supply dwindles, and some cowboy will set out to the stomping grounds to collect, carefully dropping them in to a bottle, as many as the bush will bare. Have a view at this web site I enjoy reading called Sabores sinfrontaras.

Sabores sin frontaras

You will see the effort going into saving and collecting seeds in desert regions. You can learn about events in the borderland, namely Arizona.

where there is music ( mexico)

Here in the desert joyful subtleties, like a patch of singing frogs holed up in the bottom of the canyon, hold me captive. The truth is resident amphibians can’t compete with the brawny vocals of the living legends, the vaqueros of baja, who are guides and daily companions on our mule trips. There is even a song about the cowboys of baja in English. You can find it on the DVD called Corazon Vaquero. The other morning we sang the chorus on the trail below rancho Guadalupe. The guides all know the song. They should know it; they are the movie stars in the film about ranch life and 200 year old traditions in the mountains. Many visitors to the famous cueva pintada sites have been interested in ranch history for some time. The system of guiding in the World Heritage Site, organized with support by the government (INAH), and the existence of remnant adobe mission structures and indigenous history has prompted many americans to spend enough time in the mountains (researching and playing) to subsidize their existence. The movie, made in 2008, highlights the unique characteristic of the people who populate the landscape in the sierras which I have grown to love.

On a recent spring ride, called Eva’s Annual, these very guides sang ranchera musica into the night. Eva’s favorite is You are my Sunshine and she submits her requests nightly (the original Spanish version, of course). Teddi, a baja lover in her own right, brought her guitar and brought me to tears with a soulful folk song about the region.

In a different mountain range to the south, the Sierra de Guadalupe, we were treated to a 6 day ride into an expansive valley of mesquites. We camped in a stone corral above an arroyo and met a family with a boy who wants to be a tocadora. His exposure to the world is through a radio with dedications and announcements offered each day from faraway Guaymas. He is ten and he has memorized a corrido about the latest hurricane called Jimena that not only stormed though the mountains creating wider arroyos, but dumped giant guejibos and palms on the Pacific side of the peninsula. The winds and rains stretched northeast hitting the Mexican mainland where some famous group wrote the song. He entertained us with the song played on his homemade guitar.

Here is some info about the history of Mexican corridos found in the Cowboy Encyclopedia, by Richard W. Slatta, 1994.

"Because vacqueros were illiterate, they left few personal records. Some vaquero folklore passed into Mexican Corridos. These folk songs have eight-syllable lines, with the second and fourth lines rhymed. Regional variations are legion, for example, the Huasteca variant often includes cowboy yells (gritos de vaquero)."


Listen on youtube to a new song... Los cenzontles

La malaguena

The Huasteca music is not common where we travel, yet the yelling part is lively and it is my favorite. Here are the lyrics to a familar Huasteca song, from a different region in Mexico. I have heard it plenty, and reportedly it is in the Huapango style, dating back to 1820’s. I’m still looking for the words to the new corrido about Jimena that our ten year old host sang for us in the Sierras.

Que bonitos ojos tienes
Debajo de esas dos cejas
Debajo de esas dos cejas
Que bonitos ojos tienes

Ellos me quieren mirar
Pero si tú no los dejas
Pero si tú no los dejas
Ni siquiera parpadear

Malagueña salerosa
Besar tus labios quisiera
Besar tus
Labios quisieraMalagueña salerosa
Y decirte niña hermosa
Que eres linda y hechicera
Que eres linda y hechicera
Como el candor de una rosa

con tus ojos me anunciabas
que me amabas tiernamente
que me amabas tiernamente
con tus ojos me anunciabas
ingrata me traicionabas
cuando de ti estaba ausente
cuando de ti estaba ausente
de mi pasion te burlabas

Malagueña salerosa
Besar tus labios quisiera
Besar tus Labios quisiera
Y decirte niña hermosa
Que eres linda y hechicera
Que eres linda y hechicera
Como el candor de una rosa
Como el candor de una rosa

Si por pobre me desprecias
Yo te concedo razón
Yo te concedo razón
Si por pobre me desprecias
Yo no te ofrezco riquezas
Te ofrezco mi corazón
Te ofrezco mi corazón

where there is water ( Mexico)

It is not easy to explain my utter fascination with all things in the desert. Part of the charm is the access to clean fresh water in a drought prone land with less than 9 inches of rainfall annually. The Baja Peninsula itself is one of the longest in the world; a rocky place isolated by sea water and and often abandoned because of the limiting factor of arable land.

The joy of it all is that I get to swim in the noonday sun !! I get to hear the chorus of the spring peepers at nightfall, and I gleefully fill my canteen from a little straw sticking out of a crack in a wall on the sunnyside of the canyon below some wildly impressive pre-hispanic art.

Water is the essence of life and roaming the canyons, on hand-crafted paths, will always lead you to or away from a water source. You encounter pilas, posadas, tinajas, epresas, oases and functional acequias or canals built for the pleasure (or pain) of the Jesuits during a 70 year period of occupation. In many places today miles of mangera lead the way to the next huerta. They are black tubes transporting water to the corrals: an example of one of the many systems that still supports life in a place many call hostile and rugged.

Read what was written in 1866, by explorer J. Ross Browne, after the last of the missionaries gave up on the land and the people.

"All the vegetation visible to the eye seems to conspire against the intrusion of man. Every shrub is armed with thorns; the cactus, in all its varieties, solitary and erect, or in twisted masses, or snake-like undulations, tortures the traveler with piercing needles and remorseless fangs. Burrs with barbed thorns cover the ground; the very grass, wherever it grows, resents the touch with wasp-like stings that fester in the flesh; and poisonous weeds tempt the hungry animals with their verdure, producing craziness and death. Add to this the innumerable varieties of virulent reptiles and insects that infest those desolate regions in summer; the rattlesnakes, vipers, scorpions, tarantulas, centipedes, and sand-flies; the rabid polecats that creep around the campfire at night, producing hydrophobia by their bite; the scorching heat of the sun, and the utter absence of water, and you have a combination of horrors that might well justify the belief of the old Spaniards that the country was accursed by God."

Nubian Texas

It is big in Texas but there is no place named Nubian. On my way to the annual ARARA (American Rock Art Research Association) conference in Del Rio I toured the west in a yellow beetle. I visited the Alamo in San Antonio with brother Jay and family and I attended a Nubian vault-building workshop with Adobe Alliance in the Big Bend country of West Texas. This was vault building with the most basic materials. You can create an earthen roof without the use of any type of form. No nails, no wood, no metal parts at all. Of course the walls were already finished when I arrived making the job of creating a vaulted ceiling in a week easier.

The vault, a series of mud-brick catenary arches, literally goes up in mid air. We spent time chipping away at the adobe bricks and placing them upright. Always looking up created this fill in the sky feeling. Each day we created more roof, more shade, more miracles. The bricks stuck together upside down. What a trick!!

The patch of blue became smaller by day. After lifting and placing and chipping for hours at a time it was clear something was just not sitting well. By the last day we were forced to knock it all down. There was a budge on the outside and that created a wave. The look was lovely,but the structure wasn't. Some in the group simply hated the whole idea and to say the least there was not a smile on Simone's face at all when she realized her detached attachment technique for this stage of the project ( She already has masterminded a house and a dome guestroom) was not working. I found pleasure in the destruction. I was attached to the learning process as opposed to the product and the act of taking it apart was as systematic as putting it up was. Attempts were made to save each 50 cent block of adobe, and well, I had fun.

If you'd like some big Texas sky and a earthy project, this would be the place to go. Simone Swan studied with Hassan Fathy who is no longer alive but some say she is the authority on adobe dome and vault construction in the USA. For more info about efforts in the past to shelter the masses you should read this Hassan Fathy’s “Architecture for the Poor”.

Gracias, Si ! (Mexico)

Just a word about being in baja california. This is a place serious about coffee time. It goes beyond the actual drink into a realm meaning time to have coffee, la hora de café. You shouldn’t miss it if you are invited and invited we were. It is what you do in the sierras.

If you are on a horse, in a truck or on foot, and if you pass a ranch you had better check to see if anyone is home because they might want to have coffee with you. It means come in, sit in the shade, or stand around the open fire stove. It means dump a load of sugar in the hot cup and eat the tortillas and queso fresco hidden under a brightly embodied panuela. It means talk, chat, laugh a little and listen in the background to the radio airwaves broadcasting little bits of news across the repitadoras from one arroyo to the next. It means how are you and it can happen any time of day.

I had a hard time refusing the coffee call. Real hard to say no and not totally polite to refuse but when that coffee comes around with the New Year’s day buenulo, you’d be smart to say “gracias, si”.

The other great coffee tradition is café de chiva, or cowboy coffee. We had ours prepared on the side of cliffs or on rocky porteros by the one and only Chente, the masterful trailblazer, mulero, sportsman, singing cowboy with hands the size of a grizzly. He can bang out coffee faster than starbucks. It’s the purest, thickest mountain mud I’ve ever had. In the end you do spend time spitting out the loose grounds, but who would have guessed the seriousness fashioned to this man of the mountains when it comes to coffee time.


“Café?…Gracias, si!”

A look at San Borjitas Rock Art

To see the real thing, in true color, you should visit the site near Mulege, called San Borjitas, off of Highway one. Short of that just click on the image to see it larger.

Pits not to FAll in

My most recent travels in North Carolina got me stuck in a one-room airport with the TSA opening 2 weeks worth of dirty clothes while searching for the shampoo I had left in the ditty bag. He located it and then examined all my things; even spoke to me about the tea tree oil soap. I'm not kidding. I now know his wife uses it. He spied my seashells and sand and asked about the beach. My bra and undies were dangling in plain sight. Ughhh, I was dumbfounded and could barely utter a response.

The other unfortunate tidbit of the travel part of life was the woman with the dog. She sat down with the tiny mousy dog in her lap and held it there for the 5 hour flight to Charlotte, NC. She told all who could hear that she had a doctor’s note, and those who were not in earshot flagged the attendant and asked why this woman was allowed to have a pet and peevishly asked how they too could do that, bring their own pet on board next time. A bunch of whining ensued. The woman with the disability got lots of attention. Perhaps that is was what the doctor ordered.

Beyond all this, traveling to places is really boring, as in not fun, when you are flying. I should mention the two minor mishaps I had at the airport and the one breakdown on the road. On that same trip to the east coast I had boarded US Airways in SFO but sans Droid, my new telephone i.e. smartware device which was plugged in at home. I frantically called home with a payphone card when I finally found a pay phone. I waited some, and called again and ended up leaving messages for Jon.

The plane boarded on time and I settled in to my seat and like a winged love note, an attendant asks, “Are you Sheila,?"

“Yes” I responded while she handed me my phone.

Then she informs me she will wait until I call my husband on the phone. Stunned I was feeling as if we were in reality TV and from a distance all were watching my hero Jon make the great race against time to prove his love and concern for me. I was safe and sound with my Droid and he had driven all the way home (with a stop for coffee) listened to the messages, got my phone, returned to SFO, parked the car, and wrangled a counter person ( thank you United) into hand delivering my Droid!! Phew. If he wasn’t such a hero I’d have deleted the whole event.
And of course there is the tire. We have a trusty 1998 4runner. It gets rave comments whenever we travel the backroads. This past Christmas eve, on our way to el capintero, the left front wheel just gave out. It was a thud, and it felt as if we hit a pothole. The deep in the desert road we were on was one of these one-way only deals and we were straddling the middle, on an incline. Stuck. Hard to believe, but after a few attempts from our rescuers (two hours later) we simply left it there, unloaded our belongings, and proceed to the ranch for festivities. The truck part we needed was broadcast on the radio and a local from Mulege, passing by, delivered it to the side of the road so our friend Chalito (a visiting fisherman/rancher) spent a few hours fixing it. So here we have yet another hero (the Toyota and our friend). We owe you one Chalito!

Flying High

Last year I bit the bullet and am now a proud owner of a frequent flyer credit card. My statement claims that I can boost 58,000 miles after receiving doubled credits for the promotion. I’m working hard for those miles (remember mine is a travel sabbatical) so I’ve decide to do a little running total, which will include driving time, but exclude mule, swimming, boat and hiking miles. I’ve started the calculations from my trip to Tanzania so the summer trip that started in July 2009 to New York and the UP won’t count.

















20,000 SFO – Dar es Salaam, Tanzania flying (plus boat rides)

2,060 SFO- Mulege, Baja CA, Mexico round trip driving (plus mule ride)

1,060 SFO- Mexicali, Mexico round trip driving

600 SFO- Zzyzx, CA round trip driving

2,500 SFO – West Palm Beach, FL flying

607 West Palm Beach,FL – New Berne, NC flying (plus boat ride)

2,560 New Berne, NC – SFO flying

588 Rosemond, CA driving


This is one traveling fool with nearly with 30,000 real time miles in 6 months, averages to 5,000 miles per month, which doesn’t bode well for my carbon footprint even if I don’t do plastic.

Hunting with strangers (Bay Area)

Jon and I have been hunting for edibles all season and just yesterday we were alerted to some blewits under the cedar lined parking lots of a nearby school. I didn’t enjoy that foray, there was too much trash, and signs of disturbance, which is exactly why blewits are popping up, because they can, because it has been cleared and is free of duff.


It occurred to me today that on a recent foray I had been hunting, in a foggy forest, with strangers. Hunting with no target, nothing goal driven, and as Terry S. (the trip leader from the Mushroom Society of San Francisco, MSSF) who posts weekly trips claimed, no promises. The mushroom hunt was more of a rambling. For me it was pure freedom. We set off of the path to wander under the fir, and madrone and like neon road signs in a unlit forest we noticed polypores galore, and just past the firs we discovered an edge habitat with shrimp Russulas in distinct stages of maturity.


Each fungi offered an opportunity for Terry to unearth the Latin name, the meaning behind the names and reasons to look for a stiff chalk like stem or a staining red or yellow mark. After investigating you soon realize that you don’t do ALL the tests for all the species, just the ones you may confuse with look alikes, or in the case of edibles, the undesirables. So the Cortinarius were out, the Suillus slimy, the Polypores were trailing on the logs; some cedar, some pine, and we sat in the sun drenched meadow in Marin for my first picnic of the year, albeit, minus mushrooms, with a few strangers.


I recommend hunting with strangers. There is no commitment, no race for the prize, and most importantly, no cleaning and cooking necessary.

Oh to Ride the great Mules ( Mexico)

Scenes from Christmas ( Mexico)

Animals in the driveway


the young , green one

sunrise on Christmas morning from the back, waiting for warmth

(?)Que Hago? (Mexico)

There I was, high on the slope of yet another canada, being led like an infant uphill. Our mule guide, Chente ( whom I’ve decided to call 'el oso' because of his massive hands), was towing me. He was on his horse and had a machete in one paw, and loaded rifle attached to his saddle. My tow-rope was in his other hand. He called my macho a lazy Mexican and yanked as hard as he could as we traveled in a switchback fashion ripping past towering cardon cactus, and a few thorny biznagas.

The tricky part was the prickly brush and palo adan in my face not to mention the joy of redirecting the beast left when Chente was really pulling the rope straight above me. There was no up, only curve after curve with the stubborn animal stopped dead after each hump. Somehow it collapsed, my macho, face on the dirt and body stuck in a hole. Chente missed the cue to stop. I yelled “Que hago? Que Hago?”. Chente seemed to tell me (all in Spanish of course) to stay put. He claimed the animal only wants to stand. I was unsure, but I had no real place to go if I did get my feet out of the stirrups and my legs out from under the thick layer of leather called armas and butt off the saddle. Actually getting off didn’t appear easy. I was not stuck, but I was fatigued. There was no panic in his eyes and beyond my yelling and heart pounding all was still. The mule straightened up, Chente mumbled a few words of encouragement and we were back in motion again; trudging uphill to see the next cave with pinturas repustres in the Sierra de Guadalupe.

It only looks easy (Mexico)

This is an on going course. Every year I make attempts to learn the art of tortilla making in Baja California and my friend Delia is an expert at all things. She marvels me with her skills and grace. At home I have my very own comal, and palo, yet inspiration seldom strikes. Improvements in this arena are unnoticeable yet my documenting efforts have reached youtube worthy status . This was a fine batch of thin ones. The ranch had a crowd for the holidays. I challenged the youngsters to make a few and the 17 yr old son displayed great talent. The day before we made New Year's day bunuelos (a royal pain) and ate them with the morning cafe.

Sheila makes Tortillas
	2 min 26 sec - 14 hours ago Sheila makes tortillas at Rancho Carpintero on New Years day. www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISKCksj8y9Q

Shamba/Baobob house building update!!

I left Tanzania with the house not yet finished but everyone was geared up to finish the walls, both inside and out. Here is a picture of a big work crew on one of our last days.




BEFORE: sent from Teri in December 2009. Arches for doorways and windows are complete, now all are awaiting the roof. Maybe 2010!!



AFTER

2010 New Year's update from Kyle... interior firebrick walls visible and cap placed on walls. You can see the half wall for the outside, graywater shower system started. Im not sure how the design will work in regards to privacy. We simply had buckets and used banana leaves for cover. Oh the long lost days of air drying!

(If you want the real details..click on the link on the right that says Rotary Club Sideshow)

BACK in the BAY (California)

Don't eat these



I'm back in the bay area in time for fungi fun!!. The Mycological Society of San Francisco's annual Fungus Fair always has a display of freshly caught mushrooms and we joined a foray led by Bill Freedman to make a sizable contribution to that display. We got the golden key to enter the Crystal Springs Reservoir terrain and found bundles of the usually suspects under leafy oak and madrone. Most showy were the deathcaps but later this week we had a nice batch of boletes and have spent time harvesting California blue mussels from our favorite rock. One bucketful is about the 10 pound limit. The chore is the "debearding" job that Jon gets to do. If he is equipped with special gloves it goes smoothly. We made some nice meals with that one collection. Too bad our annual fishing license needs renewal soon.

You should eat this one

Bagamoyo -In and out of town

Im home now. Just have a look at what I am missing; a bunch of friendly faces, happy builders, and fun in town and on the road!!

cowson and moogey beer




georgie porgie puddin in pie





Say Nzuri

Kyle with his hands full

More news of the project and other images coming soon!!

A GOOD HAIRDAY ON THE FARM

Today is a fine day to take off my hat and go to the hairdresser. Wish you were here.



Learning curve-- week5


Well, I finally did it. It is not quiet basketry, but it is weaving. The women folk gather papyrus and make mats. I had a marvelous teacher, Mos, or mama Rama. I’m not skilled enough to start the weaving on my own but I can say I enjoy every part of the process. After posing questions (in general showing eager interest in the best I understand you -you understand me non-language full body communication I could muster), she gleefully dusted off her mat which was inside on the wall. This, by the way, is the only Tanzania house that I have entered. I think she said she wanted me to actually take it home as a gift, but the tears welled up in my eyes and I left the house before she could take it down.

To split the fibrous veins she used a knife and then cut each blade into 4 strands, leaving two attached. They served a function later, when they were woven. The halves were held in place, near her hands while she wove until she needed new material, thus saving the step of picking up new pieces from her lap. Thank you Mos for your kindness and for calling me your rafiki (friend).

niceness

I watched last evening from the high perch of the tenant house as a handful of kids returned from the citrus grove with oranges tucked in their clothing. We sat on a mat and they filled the void between the fiery sun and the shadows. One by one each kid peeled an orange. The orange (which was green) was hard skinned and required peeling and then cutting, then sucking and a great deal of seed spitting. The part I found woefully painful was the waiting. There was only one machete, but each child waited and there was no frenzy, nor need to distribute pieces fairly. The little ones watched until their time came. By then the old boss kids (10 years as opposed to 4) would help. I was touched by the lack of demanding it took and scared watching these babies with a giant machete navigate a tiny round orange. In the end it was no big deal.

It has been weeks here in Tanzania and I’m just getting the hang of how to eat the oranges. These days, with 40 or so citrus trees at our fingertips, I am less then motivated because they are pithy, full of seeds and sour. I lend out my knife often, and do relish the fluids, yet nothing to get too excited about.

Luckily we have the gardener- turned- watchman to assist with gathering. On most nights Mr. Afunday (well that is how it sounds) sits poised with a borrowed flashlight (darkness finds us at 7) reading his bible. He speaks about praying, God and going to church. This man is our orange hook up as well. He finds us oranges in the cover of darkness, so I never really can figure which direction to walk in for potentially superior oranges. He somehow climbs the tree, and later peels a few oranges for our enjoyment, while we are busying ourselves for the evening.

It is such a simple gesture and a welcome choice for an after ugali and mchicha meal.