A Week in the Land of Enchantment

The Land of Enchantment draws us in many ways – the land, the light, the people. We came to relax, explore, and experience her charms. Rather than making our usual straight drive to Taos or Santa Fe, we took routes we had never been on and saw places that were new to us, arriving in our usual haunts only towards the end of our trip. New Mexico rewarded us, and revealed herself to us in new ways.

Three cultures – Native American, Spanish and Anglo – coexist and blend here in unique ways. We had rich and enlightening encounters with all three. Near Crown Point, driving west on a back road of the Navaho Nation, we saw a man galloping a horse along the side of the road. This got our curiosity up so when we saw a cluster of trucks and people at a show grounds we slowed and realized there was a rodeo happening. We drove in, parked among the horse trailers and walked into a Navaho rodeo. We were the only white faces there, but no one seemed to mind or pay any particular attention to us. We sat and watched a youth rodeo - young girls roping sheep, young boys riding bucking bulls, and young men competing in tandem cow roping. On our tour of the Sky City on the Acoma reservation we met a native who had worked in casinos but had returned to being a tour guide because it allowed him to be more true to himself and tell the story of his people, which he did with pride and undisguised resentment for what the Spaniards had done to his ancestors.

Along the sparsely populated stretch of highway 53 between Zuni Pueblo and Grant we passed a café and campground. It had all the trappings of a New Age enclave – selling trinkets and serving organic meals made with homegrown produce. We stopped, ordered espresso and spent time chatting with the owner and his lover (presumably, flowery outfit, long painted fingernails) who waited tables. They had fled Salt Lake City and were now running this remote outpost together.

South of Santa Fe we visited el Rancho de las Golondrinas, a living history museum spread across 200 acres. With restored buildings, exhibits and guides in period costumes it recreates, as authentically as possible, the living and working conditions of Spanish colonial New Mexico in the 18th and 19th centuries. While we rested on the steps of a small chapel, a well-dressed Hispanic gentleman, who we had seen earlier on the rancho, approached and asked “con permiso?,” gesturing with his camera. We nodded and he took our picture. Later, while we were browsing the merchandise he approached and began a conversation. His refined, courteous manner reflected that of the Spanish landowners who had been in the area for generations.

The encounter we enjoyed most, however, was with Carlos and Alfredo in the small village of Chimayo. Carlos Medina sells chilies, crosses and a large array of other tourist trinkets from his family home near the famous Chimayo Sanctuary. He thoroughly enjoyed letting customers sample the amazingly flavorful chili blends, which he scoped up with pistachio shells and handed over with specific tasting instructions. He also liked to tell stories, so after we had bought a few bags of his product we stayed on, listening to him tell of his encounters with supernatural powers, his extraordinary dreams and his philosophy of life. When we shared our interpretations of his experiences he always listened attentively. We talked long after his mom had locked up and his coworker and friend since childhood, Alfredo, had left.

We returned the next evening, also, as it happened, at closing time. Nevertheless, Carlos happily prepared some food for us and then both he and Alfredo stuck around while we ate on the patio. This time it was Alfredo who told stories of his life. He was like a cat with 9 lives – having nearly drowned as an infant, having been rushed to the hospital with a quarter stuck in his windpipe as a child, having been crushed between 2 cars in his driveway, having been hit by a van crossing the highway and thrown 25 feet, leaving him in a coma for 21 days, and having been in surgery to remove a tumor in his neck where the tracheotomy failed and he again nearly died. He said that all this taught him to not think of money, possessions or family, but to think only of God. Carlos added his stories of near-death experiences and again, with no one apparently feeling like they had to be anywhere else, we sat and talked for a long time. These times gave us a remarkable glimpse into the life of people who work the land and seldom venture far from the place where they were born.

Another distinct subculture in New Mexico, of course, is the artist – both the indigenous type (Native American and Hispanic) and the transplanted Anglo. While walking the streets of the small village of Truchas, we stopped in a gallery of a woman, who had moved to the US from Sweden. After browsing her paintings we began talking (we had actually spent some time speaking with her a couple of years ago when we had visited the same gallery). After sharing stories of our backgrounds we talked about the economy, rural life and the trials of raising children. In the same village we spoke several other artists in their studios, including a Hispanic man whose family had been carving wooden religious figures for generations. In Taos we visited with an Anglo artist we had become friends with on a previous trip. We picked up previous conversations as they had started yesterday.

Each person we met in New Mexico gave us something – a story, a kind smile or gesture, a visual statement of who they were. We felt incredibly blessed to have felt part of the dynamic and diverse cultural landscape of a very special place.