It was with a great deal of anticipation and a little trepidation that I entered the great state of Texas
Discovering a cycle route across the large and empty looking expanse of 'The Lone Star State' on the map was what had originally drawn me to bike across the southern USA.
"Now there's place I don't know much about" I thought.
Quickly followed by. " I bet it's still warm down there this time of year."
For,like an old friend of mine named Howard, I too am solar powered.
To me the name of Texas conjures up few images. I don't know much about the place. Nodding-dog oil wells come to mind maybe or ranchers roping steers.
Texas is of course home to George W. Bush and to J.R. Ewing from the 80s soap 'Dallas' , celebrated bad guys of fact and fiction.
It is is also the setting for 'The Dukes of Hazard', where good old Bo and Luke Duke tussle with the corrupt local law enforcement.
JFK was shot here. There was an attack on a government buliding in Waco.
Beyond that I don't know much about the biggest state in the lower 48.
You could fit New York, New Jersey, Illinois, Ohio and Pensylvania in the area of land Texas fills. It is about 800 miles across in the direction I am travelling, straddling 2 time zones.
It's unwieldy size was taken into consideration when Texas joined the union. A provision was made giving Texas the right to split into four more managable sized states if necessary.
The clause in question remains on the statue, if it were ever to be acted upon this area would have far greater influence in Washington, sending 4 times as many senators to congress and possibly shifting the balance of power.
In San Diego I had been that warned that Texans really don't like anybody from outside Texas. Although apparently it would be benficial that I am white and have short hair, so long as I didn't speak.
I took these warnings with a large pinch of salt. I have heard similar tales all over the world. People are forever warning you that things are not as good in neighbouring areas or countries.
Gambians will tell you not to trust the Senegalese, they will rob you apparently. As will the Cambodians according to the Lao. Omanis warn that Emiraties are not welcoming as they are. Many a Brit will tell you how awful the French or the Germans are. Southern English will tell you "It's grim up north", whilst some northerners say the south is full of snobs.
It has been my first hand experience that none of the above is true. Consequently I have come to Texas with an open mind. I will take the Texans as I find them and hope they do me the same courtesy.
My first surprise upon arrivng in El Paso, Texas, was to find out that most Texans there are.......
well, Mexicans.
I'm told 93% of population of El Paso are Spanish speaking people of Mexican descent. Mexican Americans perhaps you are supposed to say?
It transpires that 49% of all Texans claim Mexican descent.
Mexican people in El Paso are the antidote to regular Americans. A Mexican waitress who served me in El Paso did so with an air of nonchalance verging on indifference. A complete contrast to the super-friendly, anything to please attitude I have found elsewhere in the country.
There is a rerefreshing honesty to the 'whatever' attitude towards you in El Paso. However I personally I prefer the enthusiasm many other Americans bring to encounters. I am not so cynical in my old age. I buy into the idea that many people are just freindly and helpful. Sure it's sometimes their job too but I believe many of the people I have met were genuine in their positivity towards me.
To an extent you see yourself in others. In Phoenix a homeless man asked me for a cigarette, I didn't have one. He left wishing me luck and saying that he and I were in the same situation. Seeing my scruffy clothes, messy beard and pile of bags on my bike, he had understandably taken me for a fellow bum.
Minutes later at a bus stop a student who met me in the exact same state opened a conversation by telling me how he too planned to ride across the country next year.
El Paso lies in the gap where the Rio Grande flows between the Franklin Mountians and the Sierra Madre in Mexico. It is two cities in one. On the Northern side of the river lies El Paso, spreading up onto the hillsides, on the southern side lies Juarez, Mexico. One city split into two by the river and the national boundary. The quality of life differs a great deal depending on which side you live I am told.
Thousands of peolple cross the border in both directions each year. Mexicans like to come shopping in the US for the day, Americans and others also enjoy the attactions on offer south of the border.
My inability to speak Spanish put me at a distinct disadvantage, it is the Lingua Franca. English is rarely heard on the streets of El Paso. I frequently found myself in a position of not really knowing what was going on.
It was not proving to be to my advantage to white with short hair!
People on the streets of El Paso have an air of patient long-suffering about them. Maybe it is because they are poorer than they'd like to be? Perhaps just because this is their winter? I don't know.
However from time to time they become do extremely animated. If they see an old friend for example or something fires their imagination. Afterwards they fade back into their latent state of apathy.
I ate Mexican food for dinner and stocked up on groceries for the road. I rested my weary legs for a night in a shabby hostel.
After a good experience avoiding traffic gettting out of Phoenix, I decided to put my bike on the bus in El Paso too. I could rest my legs and get a head start on the day I thought.
The bus was 1 ½ hours late. Then the driver got lost and had to turn back. It took 2 hours for the bus to travel 14 miles. The bus ride cost me 3 ½ hours of daylight for a distance I could have covered in an hour and a half by bike.
With services like these for the poor, it is no wonder the El Pasoans have such a disposition.
The theme of following the Rio Grande valley continued with scenery much like what I had left behind in New Mexico: pecans; cotton; horses and ploughed fields.
2 weeks ago I met a German cyclist on the San Carlos Apache Reservation going the other way. He told me, "In Texas every man's land is his own, it is all fenced off. They shoot first and ask questions later. You won't be able to camp like you have there."
So it was reassuring to see occasional patches of unfenced wild land between the fields, scrubby bushland not much good to man nor beast, but ideal camp spots for me.
One noticable difference in Texas is the the Federal Border Patrol. Large numbers of 4 x4 vehicles drive up and down the quiet roads close to the river or park up on the edges of the wild land. The officers never seem to leave their vehicles.
I remain unsure as to what it is they actually do. Mexicans are allowed to come and go across the border anyway and there are numerous legal crossing points along the river. It seemed to be something of a show of force, perhaps to justify the money spent on it.
I have heard a lot about the dangers of Mexican drug cartels, gangsters who operate close to the border. It is said they are finding it hard to make money out of drug smuggling and people trafficing these days and have instead turned their hand to kidnapping Americans for ransom.
I understand the victims have not always crossed into Mexico to enjoy the night life over there.
I would be an easy target for such a plan.
Antonio, a very open and trusworthy local at the hostel, told me the chances of it happening even in Mexico are really very slim- unless you do something stupid. He takes tourists over the border nearly every week.
Like most of the scare stories you hear in this culture of fear, I suspect the dangers are greatly exagerated.
Riding through the ploughed fields of the river valley I was starting to tire of the same old scenery. I remembered one American in San Diego telling me Texas is a boring place to travel.
"If I've got 800 miles of this I'm in trouble" I thought to myself.
A dust cloud blew across the fields from the south, bringing with it a tumble weed which rolled right across the road infront of me.I had imagined tumble weeds to be small, maybe about the size of a big dog. This one was the size of me on my bike at least. Impressive.
With dark clouds gathering in the northern skies and the sun going down over the Mexican mountains to the south-east the place revealed it had a certain atmosphere of it's own. It wasn't so boring after all if you were willing to see it.
I rode on into the night. Miles and miles into the darkenss with not a car or a house in sight. Eventually I ran out of steam and pushed my bike onto some wild land and hid behind some bushes.
The border patrol drove past every couple of hours, I could hear them coming a mile off. I closed the lid of my notebook or turned off my stove to keep my position a secret.
It was a clear starry night but still it was relatively warm. I was the furthest south I'd been so far and at only 3,000 feet. The was no dew, no frost, no need for tent or bivvy bag. I just lay on the mat on the ground gazing up at the clear night skies.
Texas didn't seem like such a bad place.......so far.
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