Call of the Bell Bird

by Jennifer Kavanagh

  Words by Ted Perry, based on Chief Seattl’s speech to the President of the United States in 1854

  I had a real problem with being in First World countries. We spent some six weeks driving across the States, and I wondered what I was doing there. I didn’t have a rationale for being there; it wasn’t where I wanted to be. After our time in Guatemala I couldn’t bear the prospect of yet more time in an affluent society.

  Of course there were practical advantages. It was a relief to be able to drink the water, throw the paper in the loo. At last there was good bread, unsugared fruit juice; we even found Marmite. On the downside the expense was frightening – we began to run through money at an alarming rate.

  Naples, Florida, is the home of Leslie, an American writer and former client, and his wife, Pat, who are dear friends, now in their seventies. It was also my first experience of a particular type of American town – green, spacious, sumptuous houses, but a town on an inhuman scale, car-orientated, with no one walking and no feeling of a local neighbourhood. I couldn’t stand it. The heat was oppressive – far more stifling than any we had encountered in Central or South America. I felt claustrophobic, imprisoned, unable to go out without a car. I was depressed at a vision of travelling through vast car-ridden inhuman cities and endless noise – radio in the car, TV in the room, Muzak everywhere else. Whither spirituality?

  But then we arrived in Orlando, where Stephen had lived for two years, and had been Clerk of the Meeting. It was more intimate with pretty houses in neighbourhoods; less glamorous, much more human. And, wonderfully, we were housed in the little cottage next to the Meeting House. It was so good to settle for a week, cook for ourselves, make contact with all Stephen’s old Quaker friends. And we received the two parcels I had sent on – full of presents to give and books to read. The cottage had a good presence: the atmosphere felt quite different, enabling. And Stephen and I were good with each other, on his territory. In this sometimes too secular leg of the journey, I felt spiritually advanced not only by the people we encountered and by the landscape, but seminal books, placed, it would seem, in my way. From the Meeting House library, Ordinary People as Monks and Mystics by Marsha Sinetar spoke directly to me, was an affirmation of what I feel called to do, my need to express the reality of myself in my life. It’s taken me a long time to get to this point, and I feel I need to get on with it.

  Given Americans’ preoccupation with the car, it was not surprising that much of this week in Orlando was taken up with acquiring one. At one point the difficulties seemed so unsurmountable that we looked at Greyhound buses, a much greener option, and more in touch with local people, but vastly more expensive. Trains ran rarely and did not cover the areas we wanted to see. We felt bulldozed into having a car. Renting for the six weeks would have been prohibitively expensive – $2,000 including insurance – so we were back to trying to buy and insure our own car. We finally acquired a ten-year-old Volvo, so immaculate that we were afraid to sit in it.

  In the States, I wanted, perhaps naively, to get beneath the veneer, beneath the consumerism to the “real” America. Passing through at great speed, as we were, we were unlikely to make contact with poor communities except through the Quakers we encountered, but we did try hard to understand more of the Native American culture. On the surface, what we saw was deeply depressing. As we passed through Indian reservations, vast advertisements for casinos dominated the skyline. Native Americans have, it appears, captured the casino market. With their own laws and a measure of independence, they have found a way of making money by providing what is largely forbidden in the States – gambling centres. We also heard of the growing alcoholism in the reservations, the more dramatic since many Native Americans have a genetic intolerance to alcohol. Later, on a bus trip in Canada, we met a young Native American who was training to be an addiction counsellor in his own community: the problem was indeed a deeply rooted one.

  Although our plan was to travel along the south of the United States, we diverted further north to visit the Cherokee communities of Oklahoma. We headed straight for the Cherokee Nation in Tahlequah, the headquarters of the second largest tribe in the States. Arriving early in the evening, we found the Cherokee National Museum closed, but were able to wander round the replica of an ancient village. Though it too was shut for the day, we met a young Cherokee man who was working there. We heard that a few years before he had had an accident at work which had damaged his back, an injury which had kept him off work for many months. Although he now had to work at a reduced level of activity, he said he had not received any compensation, and seemed surprised that I asked. He lived in the local reservation, and expressed contentment with his life, though I felt that was not the whole truth.

  We visited the Museum the following day and informed ourselves of the terrible story of abuse represented by the Trail of Tears. The Cherokee, one of the five “civilised tribes”, were pretty comfortable in 1830, when the Indian Removal Act came into force. They had their own form of representative government as well as a written language; many were affluent with extensive property, and some, we were astounded to hear, owned slaves. Because of divisions in the leadership of the tribe, they succumbed to the directive exiling them from their homes in Georgia, and moving them on to Oklahoma. During the terrible winter of 1838–39 some 4,000 Cherokee died in the thousand-mile march.

  There is a considerable interest nowadays in Cherokee heritage from descendants even with one-sixteenth Cherokee blood – partly because there are material advantages for those who can prove their Cherokee descent. We learnt about what was available from the Nation offices. The social services were extensive, encompassing education, health, family assistance, help for business and training and employment services.

  We talked to staff at the museum and in the nearby shop, but here and elsewhere we found it hard to penetrate the apparent absorption of Native Americans into the US mainstream. Yes, we were told, there were medicine men, but one would have to make an appointment some weeks ahead to meet them. Yes, it might be possible to stay with a Native American family, but nothing could be arranged at short notice.

  We maintained an interest in Native Americans as we travelled and even got a list of Pow Wows round the country that we might be able to attend, but we were never in the right place at the right time. When we arrived in Santa Fé, we saw to our delight that the town had been taken over by a vast Native American craft fair. But what we found were besuited men sitting in front of extremely expensive pictures and artefacts, most of which seemed to have no identity separate from the rest of US culture. No reason why they should, but I was looking for more that was indigenous; seeking, without success, for a “real America” beneath the billboard consumerism.

  In a way I found it in the travel itself, the only part of our journey that we spent in a car. We had planned a route along the south to Los Angeles, visiting Servas hosts, Quakers and friends along the way, and then up the west coast into British Columbia. I say “we” but I’m afraid Stephen did all the driving. Although I had given up driving some 20 years before, I had reluctantly agreed to share it on this trip, but, mysteriously, for no doubt Freudian reasons, my international driving licence disappeared. (It was sent on to me later from wherever I had left it.)

  Unlike trains and buses, there is no local life inside a car, except for the radio. Although we tussled about whether to have it on or off, we did light upon some programmes that enriched the texture of our trip. Especially the music on local stations: blues in Louisiana and Mississippi; Country and Western in Texas. Hearing the real thing in the real place is quite different, and we sang along with gusto. In fact we did have live experience of both. A close spiritual friend and her husband with whom we stayed in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, took us to a working men’s blues club. We had been to New Orleans for the previous few days but this was of a quality I have rarely heard. Earthy, passionate playing and singing. And in Texas, derided Texas, we found ourselves in a motel next to a restaurant with a h
illbilly band. It was enormous fun.

  The other voices that stayed with me from the radio were those of the evangelical preachers. One in particular, whom we seemed to be able to get all over the country, was a minister from a Cathedral in California, appealing unashamedly for funds.

  “Numbers are down, get your registration in and get your ass down here. I’ve been appointed above you and have the right to tell you what to do.”

  But in general the activity was all outside our car windows. Driving mainly on the highways, rather than the impersonal interstates, we felt more in touch with humanity and signs of its existence, and with the environment as, at a slower speed, we could have the air conditioning off and the windows open. We settled in to a different kind of life from the earlier phases of our travels: long drives through magnificent scenery – vast forests, swampland in Louisiana and Mississippi, huge fields and some hills in Arkansas and Oklahoma. An experience of small-town America, amplified by Bill Bryson’s The Lost Continent and our splendid guide book, Road Trip USA. We travelled on Route 66 for quite a lot of the way, enjoying the crazy little cafes and memorabilia, particularly the famous though vandalised Cadillac Ranch in Texas – ten brightly painted Cadillacs upended in a field.

  The cheap motels we stayed in much of the time were impressive. They were generally undistinguished buildings at the rough end of town – “You don’t want to go there” – but for about $30 a night, we got a clean big room with bathroom, towels, a TV and phone, and usually a pool: such a luxury in the stiflingly hot weather of the Southern States in August.

  Cadillac Ranch

  So much was different: the ease of life and the plenty. Rich soil, great rivers, and enormous space – not just in the vistas, but round the unfenced homes, and between the carriageways on the road. There were acres of land everywhere. And there was nobody walking. There was never anyone on the streets, no one to ask the way. Just cars. And huge stores. It was hard to find little shops, though we tried, and occasionally found stalls selling water melon or “muscadines” – large grape-like, round, succulent fruit.

  Strange sights, such as whole homes being transported on the Interstates, RVs (“Recreational Vehicles – caravans) so huge they have to tow a car, as a large yacht does a dinghy. The hoardings were a source of pleasure: not only the famous one on Route 66: “Rattlesnakes exit here”, but at the entrance to a church: “Don’t worry, Moses was once a basket case too.” A wealth of information about local life was available from the organisations that participated in the national “Adopt a Highway” movement: a mile or so of highway kept litter-free at the expense of, for instance, the local boy scouts or, in one case, the Wiccans. Much to Stephen’s amusement, I rather fell for American trucks. The “rigs” were so handsome and beautifully maintained, with shiny chrome and big brightly coloured cabs – brilliant red, purple or blue.

  But again the richness of the experience lay mainly with the people: ordinary people who chatted with us and helped us out: the diner waitress or motel manager, working long hours but keeping up a smile and going the extra mile to be helpful. And our Servas hosts, exemplifying the international friendship that the organisation stands for. Scotty in Little Rock, Arkansas, for example. We had been attracted by the description in the list of hosts of a lakeside home in the woods. As it turned out he and his wife had divorced since the list had been printed and Scotty’s response to my call was: “I hope you’re not calling about the quilting, because we’re divorced.”

  Our stay was all that we had imagined. A Unitarian, Scotty shared a lot of our spiritual beliefs, and his way of life had been a dream of Stephen’s for many years – tending trees, chopping wood. He also made wine and furniture in an outbuilding. It was a tough time for him; conscious of his new single state – with his house depleted of the shared-out furniture. We were the first people he had hosted on his own, and I think our stay was a pleasure for us all.

  And then there was Lynne in Santa Fé, with a very serene home, close to town. She was a Sufi/Buddhist, Stephen’s age, a hiker and an artist. Until she had hurt her back recently she had been a caving explorer. Small enough to go where others could not, she led the way down into previously unplumbed caves. Lynne’s house had a little peace garden with a hammock, swinging chair and an outside “hot tub”. As I sat on a bench, a humming bird above my head, reading in the idyllic climate (85° Fahrenheit in the shade but very pleasant and cool at night) an impromptu Spanish harmonic singing group started up from a house near by.

  With its unique round-edged adobe houses, Santa Fé is an attractive town, and a place where people walk. It is cultivated – and expensive. On a lovely hot night we went to the open-sided opera house to hear young professionals perform excerpts of a variety of operas – not light pops, but a demanding selection, sung by singers of real power and dramatic range. And on the bedside at Lynne’s was another of those seminal books: Women Who Bond by China Galland. About the search for “fierce compassion”, it spoke of the interface of faith and action, and women asserting the feminine – leaders acting out their faith. I was particularly inspired by the story of Sister Jessie, an Indian nun turned solitary, and I determined to track her down once we got to India.

  We were hoping soon to get the chance to sleep out. We were to have four days between Santa Fé and Arizona, and Lynne gave us her spare sleeping bags – too heavy to backpack with, she had no use for them. As Stephen said, if we had stayed any longer she would have emptied the house for us. The night before we left, Lynne rescued a large black beetle from our room, and mentioned the pleasure of sleeping out and finding little footprints around her in the morning. I envied her her composure; I’m not good at creepy crawlies. Perhaps it is my challenge to become more at ease with the less obviously attractive of our fellow creatures, as she and others who live closer to nature do. Appropriately, in her peace garden is a statue of St Francis of Assisi.

  We stuck to our resolution to sleep out and drove far into the pine forests to a basic campsite in Cibola National Forest reserve. It boasted pit toilets as its only facility, so we thought we would have a good chance of getting some peace and quiet. And indeed, that proved to be the case: there was only one other couple there. Jackie and her boyfriend were, it turned out, local people, a tough no-nonsense couple who camped there regularly, getting away from it all. They slept in their van, and were adamant that on no account were we to sleep out. The previous time they had come, they said, there had been bear prints all over the cab of their van in the morning. We had already been alerted first by a double-page spread in the local paper that morning about a bear that had killed a ninety-year old woman in her home; then by a notice as we entered the site: “This is bear country”. Our companions’ warning was the final straw.

  As a thunderstorm threatened, they insisted that we share their meal cooked over the open fire: a feast of steak, large-kernel corn stalks, and salad. They were hunters, going out from time to time to shoot elk and other animals for the pot, cutting them up and freezing them for consumption later in the year. They were unashamed about not stalking them on foot but driving to an appropriate spot and pointing the gun. But they were scathing about the trophy hunters who hunt animals only for their horns, and leave bleeding carcasses, wasted, on the ground. This was, in their eyes, sacrilege. If you kill an animal you owe it to that animal to make the most of its life: the traditional ethos too of Native Americans.

  So we also slept in our car, but I lay awake all night, waiting for the sound of the bears.

  As usual, the desert – my reason for wanting to be in this part of the States – eluded us. Somehow we were never quite in the right place, trying to squeeze too much in and rushing from one place to another trying to find it. I woke one morning and unwisely blamed Stephen which precipitated another row and ruined our view of the spectacular red rocks of Sedona, awesome in size and colour. The previous day we had stopped spontaneously at the Painted Desert, which was so beautiful that it brought tears to the eyes of
both of us – rolling red desert of different hues, “badlands” as they are called. If we had known, we would have camped down there. As it was, unprepared, all we could do was stand and stare.

  The Painted Desert

  Now that I had finished my store of Chinese herbs, menopause was back in force: a lot of hot flushes, emotional swings and lack of energy. And still the periods came. Cooped up in a car, in the confines of hotel bedrooms, bereft of my usual daily yoga practice, my joints were seizing up.

  But, finally, in Arizona, we did sleep, if not in the true desert, then at least in scrub land miles from anywhere. It was an unforgettable night under a crescent moon and myriad stars. I was nervous about unknown animal life – we saw an owl fly over and heard a coyote call – so I did not sleep much. I am drawn with a fierce, almost irresistible longing to such deserted spots, and, though in practice my courage falters, the experiences remain powerfully central to my life.

  After nearly a month in the States I reflected that it was almost stranger being in a country that speaks (nearly) the same language than a foreign one. Expectation is confounded more often, not just by different words (wash up/wash dishes) but how different things are. How hard it is to get oil and vinegar dressing, how milk for tea comes in a glass not a jug, how cars have no front number plates, how little fruit and few vegetables there are in cafes and diners in such a fertile land.

  And, surprisingly, it was in the States that we had the greatest difficulty in accessing two of the most universal examples of modern technology: the internet and the telephone. When we arrived at Miami airport, in a hurry to hire a car until we could buy one, we simply could not get a telephone to work. To use the phone you needed a card; to get a card you needed change; to get change you needed to use a machine which simply would not receive our note. No shop would change it; we bought something we did not need to get change, bought the card, then found it was the wrong one for the particular machine. By this time it was growing dark and we were at screaming pitch with the machines and with each other.