Report from the Road

I may be wrong about how Columbus, New Mexico came to be a town. What I suspect is that a great mythical bird rose up out of the Chihuahuan desert, and on its flight north, squirted out a bit of adobe. Soon a small space of brush was cleared away and the adobe became a haphazard pattern of small casas, a tienda, perhaps a cantina when times got better. There were scruffy dogs in the street and gritty little children. Of course, it probably didn’t happen this way. But in such matters I would rather not be tethered too closely to the facts.

Here a few paisanos grubbed out a hard living, made babies, and scratched their mark on the broad plain surrounded by low desert mountains. Days were warm, even in winter, and at night the town cooled and slept beneath a great orb of intense stars. I imagine that the inhabitants were mostly happy folks, generally satisfied with their peasant existence. Even today, you will find friendliness and a bright outlook the rule here.

The truth is that happiness and wealth are not closely related – maybe not related at all in the aggregate of people. I know this is difficult idea for a well-trained capitalist to swallow. But, I find no better example of this counter intuitive notion than the simple people of the Mexican high desert. As a group they are happy, cheerful, fun loving folk who honor family and love their children with abandon.

Sometime during the nineteenth century, the governments of Mexico and the United States decided that their border would lie three miles due south of Columbus. Later, a highway arrived that ran from the Mexican border town of Palomas to the more genteel towns farther north. A railroad (now abandoned) pushed through Columbus. And, just prior to World War One a small fort garrisoned soldiers here during that period of border tensions. For a time the community thrived, but that was many decades ago. Now, trailer houses and other fixtures of modern times surround the quaint little town center. Across the flat plain at night you can see twinkling lights of the small Mexican village of Palomas (“doves” in English).

The attack was the biggest thing to happen in Columbus. In the spring of 1916, Francisco (Poncho) Villa attacked the sleepy little town during the night. Shopkeepers and townsfolk were killed along with a few troops garrisoned here. Houses and stores were burned. Folks fled for their lives before the Mexicans retired back across the border. To this date, the clash is the last time the United States has been attacked on its own soil by a foreign force. (A possible exception occurred 9/11/2001.)

Truth is, Poncho was not an exemplary citizen of anywhere, and the reasons we remember him at all have to do with his aggressive nature. He was an outlaw and a cattle thief before he became a political figure and leader of a rumpled army know as Las Villistas. Becoming a politician is a recommended career move for one with a little charisma and a past that needs renovation. You simply redirect the attention of the people to baser emotions such as anger and fear. As a leader, Poncho became a rebel with a cause, rather than a common thief.

We wandered into Columbus by accident mostly, the way we discover many of the places that push their way into our memories. There was no special reason for coming -- just meandering near the border where the January days were warm and the nights not so cold. A small state park crowded the edge of town and provided a welcome location for our trailer among the cactus.

We decided on a camping spot near the surrounding brush country, knowing that it would harbor an abundance of bird life. As I write this, we are perched with our morning coffee next to the large window of our trailer. Within the past few minutes, nearly under our feet, we have seen droves of White Winged Doves, Gambel Quail, Curved Bill Thrushes, White Crowned Sparrows and tight little wads of House Finches among the cactus. And beyond, just in the near distance, lie the broad wrinkled hills of Chihuahua, Mexico.

Many of the town stalwarts here are Anglos (ok, Gringos, if you prefer), most of who have drifted in for various inconsequential reasons. John wandered into town eighteen years ago, he told us, after loosing his job and his house in Utah. Among his few remaining possessions, he counted a camper trailer and an old truck. He did what most anyone would do. He and his wife piled into the rig and headed for the warm. Folks are friendly and he likes it here, he says. “Think I’ll stay.”

Gloria is typical of many of the Anglos. Now in her eighties, she and her husband found this place twenty-eight years ago during a wandering phase in their lives. They passed through here, liked it enough to come back and buy some land and later build a house. Her husband’s death has left her alone in her adobe casa for twenty years, but she stays busy with community work; serving meals at the senior center, serving on the board of the local museum. The kids are back east but she gets to see them now and again.

Most Norte Americanos are here only on a temporary basis, seeking to refill their prescription medicines in Palomas and gain a little relief from the health care mess in the United States. It is easy! Just park in the dusty parking lot next to the border and walk across into Mexico without interference. The main street is scattered with pharmacies, dentists, and optical shops. The savings are big, and folks speak highly of the quality. One Anglo woman told us, “At home my tooth crown would have been one thousand dollars. Here it was one hundred dollars. I have all of my dental work done here.” Savings on medicines are similar. One man told me that antibiotics are one hundred dollars at his local pharmacy and only eight dollars here. “You’ll save at least half on any medicine,” he says.

Wednesday evenings, folks gather in Columbus at the Tumbleweed Theatre, a small adobe fronted building on the short main street. It is spaghetti night; four fifty a person. And, if you keep your seat after you finish eating, local musicians will begin a jam session. Across the street sits a tiny square building with an American flag run up the pole in front. Signs say the American Legion serves breakfast here on Saturday mornings. Two fifty a pop. Next door, the library seems well supplied with books and provides wireless Internet access along with several shared computers.

We are kinda taken with Columbus -- a nice little spot. Folks are agreeable and life moves at a slower pace. And, nowadays there is little danger that some jerk like Poncho and his rowdy army will attack you in your sleep.

During December and January Tom & Kathy Corey are on the road with their RV and their little dog “P.V.”(for Piss and Vinegar). They submitted this report by email while wandering along the Mexican border studying the itinerant life,