Chapter 3
Nice for Some...
Palm Springs / Indio Jan 17-21
With not far to travel today, we slept in for the first time in ages, in spite of the traffic noise all around the truck stop. On our morning walk, Jake met a friendly homeless dog who was apparently well-fed by overnighting truckers but had to sleep underneath the idling rigs to keep warm. He was covered in oil stains! California is not very dog-friendly – a feature that we noticed on previous visits, and woe betide the pathetic pooch who is seen frolicking freely without suitable restraints. We have to keep reminding Jake that he could very well get a Citation if caught out alone on one of his social forays. I always thought a citation was something good, like a reward or a badge or something, but down here it is different, and not at all good.
Fearful of another freeway foray through L.A., which would have been quick had we survived, we opted instead to take the back road across desert hills and through small towns to the Palm Springs basin. There are signs everywhere of economic downturn in these small places in California – shops boarded up, decaying infrastructure, unhappy faces. A few of the businesses still open are employing roadside clowns waving signs to attract passing motorists to their establishment. The best we saw was a brightly-clothed young man dancing wildly and waving a sign with red cross and arrow saying “Urgent Care Health Clinic – One block!” To a citizen of any country with universal health care, this was a scene most bizarre.
Descending into the Palm Springs desert valley, one is amazed by the apparent prosperity and the greenery that it buys. Sprinklers are everywhere making the bougainvillea bloom bright red and purple. Palms are waving in the breeze, manicured lawns, gardens, and golf courses – all green. It seems that the Colorado River, once mighty enough to carve the Grand Canyon, has been tapped into all along its route and Palm Springs is one of the last to syphon off some of its water for irrigation. It never actually reaches the Sea of Cortes now, and the Mexicans get none of it. Still, add lots of water and lots of Mexican gardeners to a desert and it does create a lovely scene. The streets are wide and divided and bounded by walls, which contain whole communities of nice houses. Without passing through the inevitable security gate, all we see are tiled rooftops and the tallest of the palms showing above the walls. With our trusty GPS we made our way to the chamber of commerce to locate an RV park close to where we were expecting Vancouver friends to be staying, and after the obligatory rig-washing to re-establish our respectability, we were soon installed at a very up-market RV 'resort'. You know when they use that word that all will be tidy and just as Trump intended. Our (now) little machine was dwarfed by the huge motor-homes on either side. All was paved or verdantly watered. Electric golf carts propelled their portly passengers along the “streets”, past the gaudy and tacky neon decorations seen on some semi-permanent RVs, past tiny putting greens and the 'No' signs everywhere. Apparently even those noisy little fuzzy white dogs that have found their ecological niche in large motor homes are also subject to the same regulations as Jake. The complex, which covered about 2 square blocks (walled of course), included an advertised “dog run” that was about the size of my bathroom at home. You should have seen the look I got from him that time! To say that this wasn't our cup of tea would be close to the truth, but it was convenient for our friends who showed up the next day right on time and carried us away to their lovely rented house behind one of those walls. Steve, Ken, and Kim were down from BC for a week's golfing, but unfortunately our friend Dan was unable to make it at the last minute. Frank and Robbie, another couple who winter there, joined us all for dinner and we jointly solved the usual set of world problems over Italian wine and delicious “beer-butt chicken” (don't ask!) cheerfully prepared by Ken. The nights are still cold even in sunny California, and we found the gas fire in the middle of the outdoor table to be a great comfort. Thanks for your hospitality, guys.
Two nights at the walled fortress taught us enough to know that big rigs (with their small dogs) don't move around much. They often tend to move into one RV park and stay for the season. The various motorhome manufacturers occasionally sponsor rallies at desirable camping spots, but in some cases unless you have a machine of the same marque, you are not welcomed. The cunning marketing men encourage you to buy the same rig as your brother-in-law otherwise you won't see them. Anyway, it was all a bit too shiny for our tastes and we shifted to the edge of town where there was a delightful campsite on a lake/reservoir run by the county. Plenty of space, more approachable campers, no walls, and reasonably priced. Jake even met a lady border collie named Shelby who lives in Courtenay, BC, and we quickly became friends with her people Dave and Isabelle. The tranquil scene was not disturbed by the mobile towers that were televising a PGA golf match nearby, but the police gun range against the hills reminded us once again where we were. Deputies from all around LA and area came there to shoot off noisy cannons for several hours each night, and their target hill was lit up too. Apart from that it was a great spot, and it was nice chatting with some Latino people who came during the day for some relaxing fishing. We passed four pleasant days there and Jake even got in a few soccer games – his favourite.
We had been waiting for our laptop to be delivered , which we had foolishly left behind in Washington, and just like BP Tony, we got finally got our life back. Preparing for the wild desert outback, we made the obligatory visit to the Indio Walmart for groceries and camper bits and pieces. There were at least two security guys in pickups cruising the parking lot. It was noon on a Saturday, apparently a high-risk time to be shopping! This country is getting weirder every day. So that was our glimpse at what I will remember as 1%-ville. A beautiful creation in the desert by clever engineers and hard-working immigrants, designed for the pleasure and above all, the security of those Americans who bubbled to the top. They're welcome to it.
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