Tales from the road, and Vegas

Tales From The Road

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Day Two

Its 7am at Canyonlands National Park, the sun peeps through the Mesa Arch, nestled at the end of a cliff overlooking a landscape that perfectly fits its name. Twoscore early risers are positioned in front of the arch, their camera-phones ready to capture the magnificence of the sunrise. Too proud to jostle with the crowd for a perch, and absolved of the responsibility of clicking high-resolution photos owing to my low-resolution phone camera (which is leagues better than most cameras from the 2010s), I walk around searching for a unique place from whence to witness the morning’s glory. In a few minutes, the quiet sun is up in the sky, its soft rays slowly spreading across the canyonlands (“dripping into the canyons like honey” if you will). Somewhere in between, the slow chatter of the crowd dies down, and there is a moment of perfect silence. After walking around for a while, and completing my ritual of taking a nap in the sunlight, once the crowd has thinned a little, I click one photo of the sun through the arch, the field of view partially blocked by other people. We leave a while later, chuckling at an argument between two tourists clearly bereft of sleep in their quest for the perfect photo, where one is told that “turning up early does not mean they own the place” A few days later, when I look at it again, I see a gleaming line of golden light stretching diagonally across the photo, like it does in sci-fi movies. Perhaps being early is worth it.

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Day One

An hour’s drive from Salt Lake City, the Antelope Island was my first true glimpse of the beauty of Utah. Running up a mile-long trail to catch the sunset, panting as I clear the last turn and look upon the lake ahead, I let out a woot of joy. Across the craggly white rock stretches a symphony in color. Browns and blues and oranges meld, the clear reflecting surface of the lake making boundaries between them indistinguishable. The sun dips into the lake. The vibrant colors tone down. A mellow beauty emerges, the sun and the moon sharing the stage for a brief time. An upward moving plane (rocket?) makes an appearance. The island seems to be swarming with tourists from Texas, and one of them rightly states “Utah is much prettier”.

The thing is, Utah is pretty. It is a landscape of wonder, a beautiful desert filled with shattered canyons, especially spectacular underneath the rays of the rising or the setting sun. I cannot (rather, shall not) comment on whether Joseph Smith found engraved golden plates, or if he truly returned them to the Angel Maroni, but the Latter-Day Saints seem to have done well for themselves, finding paradise in Utah. Salt Lake City is a charming town (here, charming does not mean “small”, unlike the “cozy” hotel rooms we grew accustomed to over the course of the trip), with elevation variations, surrounding hills, and neighbourhoods of small cottages a walking distance away from the imposing state capitol. The airport is one of the most pleasing ones I have seen in the US- happy (perhaps polygamic) families stand smiling at the gates holding up placards welcoming their aged relatives or their college-going kids coming home for the Thanksgiving holidays. In the lobby, a professor of music from Utah State university plays the guitar, elegantly dressed in a coat covering a t-shirt. Kids climb the shelves of craglike structures that serve as sitting areas. Perhaps there is something to be said about conservative cultures.. or perhaps I say this only because a Mormon has never knocked on my door.

After an evening of experiencing the pure beauty of nature, we turned to material pleasures, walking the aisles of a large Costco, marvelling at the living temple of American civilization. Shoppers had piled up their carts with food that would last them all winter, and were gorging on more at the cafeteria. We ourselves bagged a heap of chocolate brownie “bites” (as large as cupcakes), and dozens of Kirkland (TM) mineral water bottles at the low-low cost of 3 dollars, awaiting the dumpster recycling. I also learned about Costco’s “No questions asked, satisfaction guaranteed” returns policy. For some reason, I had a feeling that our party would not be satisfied with the drone and the GoPro camera that had been purchased from a Costco at the beginning of the trip. We polished off a large cheese pizza that (truly) did not taste like cardboard, resisted the temptations of the large ice-creams that people were digging into around us, and were on our way.

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A sidenote- Google Pixel can take particularly good photos of the moon. This has become a running joke across our trip(s). A friend has accumulated many photographs of the hare on the moon, furnished by the AI/ML capabilities (read: domain specific hardware programmed using Halide) of the TPU core. When we visit the Lowell observatory, and wait in line for our turn to peer into the cosmos using their telescopes at near-zero temperatures, I wonder if taking a quick peek at the moon using the phone’s camera would qualify as stargazing. (actually I don’t, but the photos are so good, that it would be perfectly natural to do so).

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Day Three

At the Arizona-Utah border lie five square miles of land that have defined the moviegoer’s perception of what the Wild West was like. This is a land of red stone and sand, of marvellous mesas. More importantly, it is a holy land. The land has memory. The land, its vegetation, the creatures that inhabit it, its seasons, the passing of seasons in the winter is sacred to the people who live there.

What comes to mind when you think of the Navajo? A backward, reclusive community that does not understand the ways of the world? You couldn’t be more wrong. The Navajo do practice the lifestyle of their fathers, and make medicine from herbs, and have stories about the past. But they do have electricity! Their children go to school just as ours do! They also have vehicles, the latest smartphone, and many have gone through a college education. Not all Navajo live in Navajo nation, and those who do venture outside and go about their business just like the rest of us. It is admirable that they have been able to preserve their heritage after being exposed to the evils of modern civilization.

Our Navajo guide seemed a little harried as we drove into the View Hotel overlooking the valley, minutes before our tour was supposed to start. I found this surprising, but post-enlightenment, I reasoned that time, too must be sacred to the Navajo. Over the course of the trip, I learned many truths about the world. I learned that the Navajo knew of things before they happened, or of those that they had never seen. Imagine my surprise, when I learned that one of the sacred mesas (plateaus) was named as a sleeping dragon mesa- dragons are rooted in European mythologies. A later explanation from a Matriarch of the tribe eradicated my skepticism- “We all come from the same place across the sea” she said “All men are the same, no matter their skin color, language, birthplace”- surely, the Navajo cultural memory must include mythologies from across the sea. Further on, I discovered that the Navajo were also prescient- years before Charles M. Shultz created Peanuts, the Navajo had known of the coming of Snoopy- for one of the mesas is named as “Snoopy looking up to the stars”. After a long drive full of wonderous (and sacred) sights, our guide stopped at John Wayne point, where we partook of the traditional Navajo fried bread (similar to a Bhatura, the recipe must have been preserved in cultural memory). We had been told that the stop had to be for 15 minutes or more- unquestioning of the wisdom of our guide’s ways, we absorbed the aura of the place, basking in the same sun that shined upon those filmmakers blessed enough to be able to film in the holy land. Later were we brought upon the august presence of a tribe elder, Loretta, who told us about why one must walk counter-clockwise into a hogon (a most ingenious conical structure made of wooden logs, packed with mud, an energy efficient design that keeps the occupant warm in the winter, and cool in the summer), and the importance of imperfections in every piece of art the Navajo create.

On our way back, I gained further knowledge about the Navajo people. The Navajo are curious about the customs of others, and of the occurrence of arranged marriages in India. The Navajo can be divorcees, and their husbands may have run away with other women. The Navajo may have many children, only some of which stay in touch with their mothers. The grandfathers of the Navajo can also be unfaithful. The Navajo have the latest IPhone, and teach their grandparents to use it. Some Navajo are not inclined to participate in the commerce of the modern world, while the more industrious ones work as tour guides on their sacred lands. The Navajo speak slowly, but are quick in their driving, for the presence of outsiders on their lands must cause great pain to the spirits that reside there. The Navajo charge a hefty fee for entering monument valley. For all the glory that we witnessed, I implore tourists to not enter this valley, lest they despoil its sanctity.

Vegas is a one-time experience

Vegas. America’s Sin City. A grand city of gold and grime alike. We drove into the sin city, cold and empty on the last day of a trip filled with breathtaking views of Utah’s unforgiving, yet enchanting mountains. Pretty anticlimatic.

In my twenty-four hours in the city, I’ve seen all kinds of sin, sometimes several at the same time. The city, of course, is merely a shell around its glittering “strip”- a continuous stretch of and lined with casinos (which double has hotels, resorts, shopping malls, and convention centers). It does not take long to figure out who’s boss.

The pavements lining the strip are peppered with “pharmacies” (most likely a result of some loophole that lets them remain open 24 hours, selling alcohol), tech advertisements, parking billboards, and escalators leading up to casinos.

The casions seem to form a city in themselves, one level above the streets. Wide overbridges connect the humongous casinos- tourists need never leave- just walk across. Party music blares (although I found it tasteful) at the entrances. Signs point patrons to levels and levels of free parking, and the buildings stretch to the sky, with a glittering signs at the top, beckoning all to enter and partake of the delights that they hold.

And what delights may they be? Floors and floors of gambling halls, filled with slot machines, sports betting bars, restaurants (like Tao’s, one of the most profitable establishments in the US, which beckons you to enjoy “religious nightlife” and “spiritual dining”, a large statue of Buddha showering blessings over all who enter). The Venetian (my favourite casino by far) has the “Grand Canal Shopping Center”- a long corridor filled with brand-name stores, bars, restaurants, with a cleared water artificial canal running through the middle, connecting “The Pallazo” with “The Venetian”. A false sky-ceiling covers the canal, with all external light blotted out. One section perpetually in daytime, another forever locked in twilight. Gondolas float through the canal, with opera-singing rowers taking tourists around, in a Venice imitation I’m not entirely sure is accurate. With the smooth cobblestone pavements, charming streetlamps, little bridges stretching across the canal (offering spots for tourists to click millions of selfies) and the occasional opera singers serenading the crowd, the corridor recreates (or to the discerning American patron, outdoes) the atmosphere of Venice.

I am properly dazzled by this atmosphere on the cold and empty sunday night, and return on monday afternoon, only to find the corridor overflowing with hoodie-wearing, badge-flashing persons of diverse nationalities. The Venetian (and the surrounding Palazzo and Wynn casinos) are host to a convention: AWS reIgnite. Volunteers dressed like birds, with large artificial plumage identifying them to be Amazon employees contractors walk around, looking very “Happy to help”. I feel at home, and this underdressed, company merchandise toting tourist blends into the crowd of conference attendees.

I didn’t gamble in Vegas, of course. Putting money in the machines has negative E(X), and I might as well toss pennies into the canal, hoping they’d bring me good luck. I didn’t drink either- inspite of an arrogant bartender making me show ID at the Grand Lux Cafe Bar (the assigned seating spot for poor losers eating alone) where I watched old ladies day-drinking, eating a well-made omelette stuffed with asparagus, mushrooms, spinach and havarti. And when well dressed african american gentlemen graciously invited me into their stately limousines for “a party and more”, I laughed in their face. But I couldn’t avoid the sweet smell of secondhand cancer- wafting through the street, next to the one-armed bandits, and at the airport.

Vegas is grandiose. Elegant. I could even call it beautiful. I have a long moment on one of the bridges after sunset before it gets cold, with the casinos (and people) lighting up and well-dressed tourists walking in to the halls of those esteemed institutions, marvelled. A city perpetually on vacation, welcoming, nay, inviting any and all with open arms, at the low-low cost of everything in their wallets at the time.

Its time to go home. Google maps tourism mode kicks in. One of the “Deuces” (double-decker buses plying along the strip) is cancelled, and I walk down to the blue-line bus stop that will take me to the airport. I climb into the bus with a trembling old man and the tourist he’s so profusely trying to explain directions to, and walk to the back, sitting next to a heavily tatooed guy sleeping in the corner, straight out of “the wire”. A few stops later, I decide that I’ve had enough thrill climbing ledges in Utah on the trip, and need no more, and change seats. Another confused european tourist walks in, sees two empty seats, freezes for a moment, and sits next to the dangerous-looking person in the row in front of mine, making a point of being unbiased and choosing the seat closest to the door. One stop later, the poor driver notices that the tatooed guy in the corner is sleeping, and hits upon the marvelous idea of stopping the bus, and informing him that sleeping on buses is not allowed, while man pretends to continue sleeping. A large burly man (I don’t remember his other characteristics, I’ll call him Mr. Wallace) promises to “work on the driver’s ass” if he doesn’t start the vehicle reasoning that “the driver ain’t gonna hold him up on his way home”. After the formality of asking if the aforementioned person is “threatening him”, the driver goes back to the front, and we are on our way. The tatooed man gets off at the next stop, commenting that Mr. Wallace must have scared the driver.

The airport stinks. Men are taking off their shirts in the security check line, and revealing their hairy chests. The flooring looks gaudy- for some reason everything in vegas must sparkle. Slot machines everywhere. People suffering severely from mid-life crisis sit next to one armed bandits near the boarding gate, feeding them dollar bills. A particularly distressed person checks their bank balance on a mobile app, and continues to play, waiting for his flight. Luckily, I find a nice bagel stand, share a laugh with the server who mispronounces my name twice, and sit down to write about Vegas, wondering how I can write something funny but frank about Vegas, without making people think I’m not fun. I first decide to name my article “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” after an acclaimed book that I haven’t read. Finally, I hit upon the perfect title- “Vegas is a one-time experience”.