Maybe the easiest way to look at the initial days of the trip is not even to look at the days all, but the nights. The days of cycling were relatively the same--almost monotonous at times--but things really picked up at night. "Picked up" usually meant that something (anything) happened in the two or three hours I had between making dinner and sleeping. The life of a cyclist is a bundle of excitement, I'll tell ya. Off the bike, I never quite knew what to expect. Some nights I'd find my way to the home of a person with whom I'd been in contact previously. Other nights were more of a karmic nature, meaning to say that a bed found its way to me. In any case, here's a[n almost overly-extensive] look back at Voluntour 1951's trials by night. For those concerned with brevity, skip to the end.
The first night. I arrived in Houston by bus and I didn't have anywhere to stay. I lugged my bike onto a park-and-ride bus to shave down another twenty miles of the cycling whittling block, and I found myself with two options: get a cheap hotel room for the night or go to the campus where I would attend a conference the next day and find some place to camp out. If you knew me well, you wouldn't even have to guess which choice I made. I pedaled straight to the university and set up my tent behind the ceramics studio. Nestled in between the studio and a patch of bayou forest, I awoke only to an armadillo coughing--better than the crocodiles that also apparently lived in the backwoods nearby.
I found a home, both literally and figuratively at the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference the next day. I found myself among people who were doing and have done--people who understood the Latino community (or said they did) and would give me a whole slew of suggestions for my project. One of those persons was Lorena Lopez, who ended up taking her little cycling puppy home for a night and calling Univision the next day to interview him (which they did).
For the next two nights, I curled up in the home of Samantha Rainman, a junior high school teacher (please correct me if I'm wrong, Samantha) who was nice enough to respond to a petition for housing that I had made on Craigslist.org. She gave me full reign of her house, pots and cooking utensils, and welcomed me whole-heartedly into her home. That, and she played a mean backgammon.
After recovering from Samantha's board game demolition, I started the first leg of the cycling venture. On the first night, I managed to bang out a tough eighty-five miles into a mild headwind. My plan was to make it to a campsite directly south of Houston, Bryan Beach, a section of what I've aptly named "Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito" Island". As I left late in the morning, night fell upon me all too quickly. With the campsite nowhere to be found and darkness enveloping, I walked right up to an older gentlemen's house and asked to borrow a patch of his lawn to set up my tent for the evening. Stan not only consented but also granted me a reprieve from fire ants and said killer mosquitos that ate my flesh by inviting me into his house, offering me dinner and putting me up in one of his cozy guest bedrooms. I accepted and, after a balmy shower, slept like a lamb.
The next night this little lamb bleated until his good shepherd arrived to rescue him. Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Island became Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Southeast Texas, and those flying denziens of death attempted to suck me dry. Although I managed to find a developed campsite in LaVaca, I cursed the stars for my twisted fate, not only because of the mosquitos--oh no--but because of the insane six dollars I had to pay for an evening in a well-lit, routinely patrolled gulag replete with all the utilities that I could ever ask for. Six dollars for toilets, showers and running water--could you believe the nerve of those campsite directors? Why didn't they just ask me for a kidney?
Spewing vomitous language through gritted teeth, I paid my fee. I began to set up my tent, the mosquitos began their feast, and more cursing ensued. The camp began to stir. I watched in the distance as the camp host climbed calmly into his golf cart and grabbed a silver-looking canister to tranquilize the howling beast. "It's still got some spray left in it," he said. "Not much, but enough to cover you." I baaa-d a meek little thank-you and praised the saint for his penitent show of mercy. As I was passing out soon thereafter, I realized that I would never again put six dollars to better use.
The next morning I woke up to another ravenous pack of mosquitos and an empty bottle of bug repellant. We all had a quick breakfast to start our day.
Skip to night number seven: Mustang Island Beach. Somehow the good fortune of my meeting with the saint continued well in through the following evening. My penance paid, the mosquitos were nowhere to be found. The vicious gnawing sound of their tiny teeth with I dozed at night? Gone. Instead, I was forced asunder by the gentle lulls of the tide thirty yards to the east. I slept soundly throughout the night, blissfully comatose.
Had I known that the next hundred miles held little more in store for me than dusty farm roads and busy highways cruising through vast stretches of nothingness, I might have stayed at the beach another day. That morning I set out with intentions to ride eighty miles and enjoy a precious couple of hours of light in the late afternoon. At the eighty-mile mark, I found myself plunk in the middle of Hellifino, Texas. So I rode another twenty miles. Still nothing. Another ten: two private hunting grounds straddling the highway and no one in sight. After hoppping a gate, I found a water spigot tucked away along the backroad of the easternmost property. As I walked back to my bike, I saw a truck pull through the gate on its way out, and I managed to flag down a gentleman for three bottles of water, an orange soda and permission to camp out on the land for the night. He happily obliged.
The next morning, I woke up to the same truck clamoring its way through the gate--this time with a complement of six hunters garbed in full camo. I scrambled out of my tent, put on my shoes and, in little more than my cycling jersey and boxers, greeted them with a hearty "Good morning, gentlemen!" They whipped their heads around to see who (or what) I was, started laughing and drove off. I could have sworn I heard someone saying "we should have shot it, Jim, we should have shot it" as they pulled away. I could have sworn...
And nights nine though fifteen (or something of the like): a comfortable little nook in the home of a Ms. Elizabeth Garcia, grassroots organizer extrodinaire. Over the last week, I borrowed her car, ate her food and shared in her experience. She showed me around towns in not one but two countries and did all that she could to make my experience in the Brownsville/Matamoros area a meaningful one. At times I felt awkward by her humble shows of generosity and felt that I had very little to give in return. This was life lesson number one on the trip: be open to receive from community.
There have been more life lessons, both on and off the bike, but I'll get to those in posts to come. I realize that more and more is going to change as this trip pushes on. For example, I won't have time to write very many posts like these. To be able to sit back, write and relax was a luxury of the first few days of this project, but one that is quickly giving way to more compact organization and structure. I still have fun, don't get me wrong, but things are changing. I'll send out another post when I can.
And to let you all know, I'm now staying at the Calpulli Tlapalcalli, a center for indigenous Azteca-Chichimeca culture and community. I'm doing well--I've even managed to hijack a computer a local library--and I'll be here for the next couple of days. All told, I should be in the Rio Grande Valley for a total of three to four weeks. One conversation leads to another, and each demands that I be more considerate of the depth of these communities. This is to say that I'll be here for a while, and I'm liking it. There are some good people in the world, and they do good things--like put a wandering cyclist up for the night.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Part 1 (cycling to Brownsville, TX): stray thoughts and animals
COWS. It's funny. How many times have you gone past a whole herd a grazing cows while you're in your vehicle? You can't even get them to look at you. You "moo" at the top of your lungs out the side of the window, and they just keep on muching, bleary eyed. But I'll tell you what, when I ride by on my bicycle, those cows look at me like I'm a horseman of the apocalypse. I tell them in my squeaky mother voice "Hey, guys, don't worry about it...no, it's cool...relax, no guys, it's fine", and they take off at full gallop, although a lot of times in the same direction I'm going. They're not exactly the smartest of herd animals.
ROADKILL. It was a neck and neck race between the racoon and armadillo for the "Most Likely to Become Pulverized by Vulcanized Rubber" cup, until the snake slithered his way in between. It looked like a photo finish as the three reached the white line separating the right-of-way and the highway, but glorious victory was quickly squashed as a car edged over the painted divide and made quick abstractions of the unfortunate trio. "Don't tread on me" indeed.
YIPPY DOGS. People warned me about the dogs before I even started the trip, but I didn't believe them. They talked and talked about big, mean werewolf-dogs with sharp fangs that would gnaw my legs off while I rode, but they didn't say anything about what I really need to watch out for: little worthless yippy dogs. Yippy dogs, having been pampered all their lives by owners who cart them around in Prada purses, have no respect for cyclists, much less their owners. They leap from their owners' arms at the first sight of man and bike, scurrying as fast as their tiny legs allow and yipping like they're actually menacing. The things is, though, for fifteen seconds they're reeeeeally fast. They get too close for comfort sometimes, and I, the peace-loving veggie-eater, often hope that some vehicle (preferably a small one) puts them out of their misery and into the category above.
ROADKILL. It was a neck and neck race between the racoon and armadillo for the "Most Likely to Become Pulverized by Vulcanized Rubber" cup, until the snake slithered his way in between. It looked like a photo finish as the three reached the white line separating the right-of-way and the highway, but glorious victory was quickly squashed as a car edged over the painted divide and made quick abstractions of the unfortunate trio. "Don't tread on me" indeed.
YIPPY DOGS. People warned me about the dogs before I even started the trip, but I didn't believe them. They talked and talked about big, mean werewolf-dogs with sharp fangs that would gnaw my legs off while I rode, but they didn't say anything about what I really need to watch out for: little worthless yippy dogs. Yippy dogs, having been pampered all their lives by owners who cart them around in Prada purses, have no respect for cyclists, much less their owners. They leap from their owners' arms at the first sight of man and bike, scurrying as fast as their tiny legs allow and yipping like they're actually menacing. The things is, though, for fifteen seconds they're reeeeeally fast. They get too close for comfort sometimes, and I, the peace-loving veggie-eater, often hope that some vehicle (preferably a small one) puts them out of their misery and into the category above.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Part 1 (cycling to Brownsville, TX): the five states of cycling being
A lone cyclist thinks about many things on the road--where his next stop is going to be, how much water he needs to bring, what car is going to try and run over him next, etc. Every once in a while, however, a thought emerges that considers something outside of the routine, at times mundane circumstances in which the lone cyclist finds himself. This lone cyclist invites you into his innermost psyche--a glimpse into what a guy on a bike thinks about for hours on end.
I present to you all the five states of my cycling being:
Gritty McGriterson: I imagine Gritty as an old farmer or war veteran. Gritty doesn't complain or groan about the unfortunate circumstances that unfold in front of him. He just stares down the road ahead, steel eyed, chews on something, spits and says "well boy, it's time to get a move on." Gritty is pragmaticism meets will, and he'll never back down from anyone or anything, given good reason. Gritty is nails.
The Happy Buddha: The Happy Buddha, on the other hand, could care less about nails or will or pragmaticism. The Happy Buddha emerges as a supremely enlightened and blissful state of being most often after a good rest and a good meal. Sitting high in his seat with a smile radiant upon his face, the Happy Buddha could ride through a mine field--or midday traffic on a busy highway (almost the same)--without so much as a care in the world. The Happy Buddha is one with traffic and considers speeding, careening vehicles purely as emanations of false objective realities. He laughs at cars.
Grog: Grog grunts at cars. He is my usual morning state, arriving in the early hours as some sort of prehistoric caveman. Grog, descendant of "Grogginess", can ride for hours straight in the morning. He feels little emotion and absolutely no pain. He cycles so well because of a not-so-conspicuous lack of self-consciousness, and would respond to any vehicle or driver with an appropriate "Grog pedal" or, on his more eloquent days, "Grog pedal fast". Of all my states, I'm probably most thankful for Grog. He's always there when I need him.
Rolls: Rolls is actually cousin to both the Happy Buddha and Grog. Rolls, as his name would indicate, just rolls. He is me at my best--when my mental state is both calm and clear and my body functions with ease and fluidity. I find myself in a Rolls-state only after hours of cycling. Rolls is a man of action but always extremely considerate of the balance between his own being and the world around him. He is the patient, smiling and determined self that I strive to be on and off the bike.
The Wince: At every other moment, I'm firmly entrenched in The Wince. The Wince is a fish out of water, flopping painfully and gasping for air. The Wince is the pain in my ass traversing its way across my entire body and into my mind. The Wince is a full body-soul shudder--a punch to the gut of my very being. I despise The Wince, but I understand and value The Wince as a starting point for other, more desirable states of being.
I have too much time on my hands.
I present to you all the five states of my cycling being:
Gritty McGriterson: I imagine Gritty as an old farmer or war veteran. Gritty doesn't complain or groan about the unfortunate circumstances that unfold in front of him. He just stares down the road ahead, steel eyed, chews on something, spits and says "well boy, it's time to get a move on." Gritty is pragmaticism meets will, and he'll never back down from anyone or anything, given good reason. Gritty is nails.
The Happy Buddha: The Happy Buddha, on the other hand, could care less about nails or will or pragmaticism. The Happy Buddha emerges as a supremely enlightened and blissful state of being most often after a good rest and a good meal. Sitting high in his seat with a smile radiant upon his face, the Happy Buddha could ride through a mine field--or midday traffic on a busy highway (almost the same)--without so much as a care in the world. The Happy Buddha is one with traffic and considers speeding, careening vehicles purely as emanations of false objective realities. He laughs at cars.
Grog: Grog grunts at cars. He is my usual morning state, arriving in the early hours as some sort of prehistoric caveman. Grog, descendant of "Grogginess", can ride for hours straight in the morning. He feels little emotion and absolutely no pain. He cycles so well because of a not-so-conspicuous lack of self-consciousness, and would respond to any vehicle or driver with an appropriate "Grog pedal" or, on his more eloquent days, "Grog pedal fast". Of all my states, I'm probably most thankful for Grog. He's always there when I need him.
Rolls: Rolls is actually cousin to both the Happy Buddha and Grog. Rolls, as his name would indicate, just rolls. He is me at my best--when my mental state is both calm and clear and my body functions with ease and fluidity. I find myself in a Rolls-state only after hours of cycling. Rolls is a man of action but always extremely considerate of the balance between his own being and the world around him. He is the patient, smiling and determined self that I strive to be on and off the bike.
The Wince: At every other moment, I'm firmly entrenched in The Wince. The Wince is a fish out of water, flopping painfully and gasping for air. The Wince is the pain in my ass traversing its way across my entire body and into my mind. The Wince is a full body-soul shudder--a punch to the gut of my very being. I despise The Wince, but I understand and value The Wince as a starting point for other, more desirable states of being.
I have too much time on my hands.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Part 1 (Brownsville, TX): Made it to the next island...
Family and friends,
The Dudley Docker II and precious cargo (me) are safely in port. After five days and 450 miles, I arrived in Brownsville at 5 p.m. central time. I've already been in contact with some really amazing people, and I'm setting up a good dozen conversations for this next week.
I'll update this blog more extensively in the next couple of days.
The Dudley Docker II and precious cargo (me) are safely in port. After five days and 450 miles, I arrived in Brownsville at 5 p.m. central time. I've already been in contact with some really amazing people, and I'm setting up a good dozen conversations for this next week.
I'll update this blog more extensively in the next couple of days.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Part 1 (Houston, TX): Shipping out...
I'm leaving again for Brownsville tomorrow (Tuesday). I'll be on the road for five or six days, and I'm hoping to arrive at least by Sunday morning.
My plan is to have another couple-three posts ready for you all by the time I arrive in Brownsville. The short of it is that I attended the conference, met some really knowledgeable individuals, gained a slew of new contacts and ended up on the Houston Univision's weekend news broadcast. The DDII is ready to go, and so am I.
To the next island...
My plan is to have another couple-three posts ready for you all by the time I arrive in Brownsville. The short of it is that I attended the conference, met some really knowledgeable individuals, gained a slew of new contacts and ended up on the Houston Univision's weekend news broadcast. The DDII is ready to go, and so am I.
To the next island...
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Part 1 (Houston, TX): The Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
The Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference was the point of departure for everything that I'm doing now. Although my arrival in Houston for the conference came about as a sort of cosmic accident (someone stole my bike and I ended up leaving Austin a week later than expected), my attendance allowed me to connect with and learn from both the upstart and mature activist crowds.
I took four things from the conference, the first of which was a more in-depth understanding of the DREAM Act (see A Real Halloween Scare and a Note on A Real Halloween Scare) over at www.theborderedmind.blogspot.com.
The second was realization of the widespread impact of the Minutemen across the United States. We see burgeoning groups as far north as Michigan, patrolling the Canadian border. Other groups exist in California and, of course, my home state of Arizona where it all started.
In Houston, local organizers formed the Coalition Against Intolerance & For Respect when Minutmen announced that they were going to patrol local city streets, taking video of the day labor sites as part of their patrols for what they feel is an "invasion". Seasoned activist Maria Jimenez, along with other coalition members, immediately held a press conference, created groups that went to schools and churches, and staged protests so as to educate and bring awareness about the Minutemen's intents. They also worked with day laborers to document any cases in which their civil rights have been violated. I don't know how active the Minutemen are in Houston currently (as of November 8th), but I know that people are at least informed.
The next thing I took from the conference was a simple phrase from a great corrido musician, Jesus "Chuy" Negrete. At the end of his performance, he said that "when people sing together, they stay together." In light of the coalition's title above--Against Intolerance and For Respect--this was an important realization to make. With protest and peace-building, the efforts must be balanced. If people can shout, they can sing. If people can fight for their rights, they can also work in other ways to create a more harmonious world.
This means that we can connect the ear to action. I once heard Dolores Huerta, the yang to Cesar Chavez's yin, speak in Arizona. She said that "those who are educated become louder"--literally that there is more force and conviction to their words. We shouted vivas in return--"¡Viva Dolores Huerta!, ¡Viva Cesar Chavez!, ¡Viva la Raza!"--and she left to the sam thunderous Chicano clap that she and Cesar used to start their meetings. The clap slowing began in unison, gradually grew faster and soon erupted into a ubiquitous roar. Action to ear.
The last thing I took from the conference was a new direction to this journey. A quick history lesson: in the Chicano Civil Rights Movement of the 60s and 70s, there were four main figures--Cesar Chavez, Reies Lopez Tijerina, Corky Gonzalez and Jose Angel Gutierrez. Of these four, Gutierrez is the only one still alive, and I was fortunate enough to sit down with him for a conversation. Actually, I interrupted his lunch and almost forced him to listen to me, but we'll get to that.
He just finished speaking with passers-by after his keynote address, and he was sitting down to a much-deserved meal. After patiently biding my time to lure him into a verbal onslaught, I asked if I could sit with him for a "couple of minutes". He graciously consented, so I then emptied my salvo of 5,000 questions specifically designed to keep him from eating. Lorena Lopez, another attendee to the conference who woudl actually end up putting me up for the night, came to his rescue, asking to join into the "conversation" and effectively distracting me. "Sure, go ahead," he said. "It doesn't look like this guy is going to quit any time soon."
Having swallowed a dose of insta-humility, I left the man to eat and entered into an actual conversation. I explained to them both my project--where I was from, how I got the idea, etc. Lorena was very excited and asked me question after question, while Don Gutierrez listened intently. After a time, he offered the following:
"She didn't say it, but I will," he said. "You don't look Mexican... You have unearned white privilege."
"Who can ride the border?" he continued. "Them?", meaning to say many of the Hispanic community. His eyebrows raised and he pointed at me. "You."
"You're doing this because you can ride the border, and you have to confront that. They can't ride the border. Some of them are living day to day." His eyebrows raised again. "You aren't."
"You can walk into a Minuteman meeting and they'll let you walk right in." They wouldn't even bat an eye. They wouldn't even look twice. "And if you looked a little bit different?"
"We can't pick our parents," he said. I happened to be born to a Mexican-American mother of olive complection and a Caucasian father. Everyone in the conversation knew this. We also knew that it meant a particular sort of responsibility.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that responsibility is, but for right now, this is it. I'm giong to ride a bicycle two thousand miles, learn, and educate others about the issues of social injustice along the border and what some are doing to change them. This is part of my resposibility, and this is what I took from the conference.
Can you sing these words?
I took four things from the conference, the first of which was a more in-depth understanding of the DREAM Act (see A Real Halloween Scare and a Note on A Real Halloween Scare) over at www.theborderedmind.blogspot.com.
The second was realization of the widespread impact of the Minutemen across the United States. We see burgeoning groups as far north as Michigan, patrolling the Canadian border. Other groups exist in California and, of course, my home state of Arizona where it all started.
In Houston, local organizers formed the Coalition Against Intolerance & For Respect when Minutmen announced that they were going to patrol local city streets, taking video of the day labor sites as part of their patrols for what they feel is an "invasion". Seasoned activist Maria Jimenez, along with other coalition members, immediately held a press conference, created groups that went to schools and churches, and staged protests so as to educate and bring awareness about the Minutemen's intents. They also worked with day laborers to document any cases in which their civil rights have been violated. I don't know how active the Minutemen are in Houston currently (as of November 8th), but I know that people are at least informed.
The next thing I took from the conference was a simple phrase from a great corrido musician, Jesus "Chuy" Negrete. At the end of his performance, he said that "when people sing together, they stay together." In light of the coalition's title above--Against Intolerance and For Respect--this was an important realization to make. With protest and peace-building, the efforts must be balanced. If people can shout, they can sing. If people can fight for their rights, they can also work in other ways to create a more harmonious world.
This means that we can connect the ear to action. I once heard Dolores Huerta, the yang to Cesar Chavez's yin, speak in Arizona. She said that "those who are educated become louder"--literally that there is more force and conviction to their words. We shouted vivas in return--"¡Viva Dolores Huerta!, ¡Viva Cesar Chavez!, ¡Viva la Raza!"--and she left to the sam thunderous Chicano clap that she and Cesar used to start their meetings. The clap slowing began in unison, gradually grew faster and soon erupted into a ubiquitous roar. Action to ear.
The last thing I took from the conference was a new direction to this journey. A quick history lesson: in the Chicano Civil Rights Movement of the 60s and 70s, there were four main figures--Cesar Chavez, Reies Lopez Tijerina, Corky Gonzalez and Jose Angel Gutierrez. Of these four, Gutierrez is the only one still alive, and I was fortunate enough to sit down with him for a conversation. Actually, I interrupted his lunch and almost forced him to listen to me, but we'll get to that.
He just finished speaking with passers-by after his keynote address, and he was sitting down to a much-deserved meal. After patiently biding my time to lure him into a verbal onslaught, I asked if I could sit with him for a "couple of minutes". He graciously consented, so I then emptied my salvo of 5,000 questions specifically designed to keep him from eating. Lorena Lopez, another attendee to the conference who woudl actually end up putting me up for the night, came to his rescue, asking to join into the "conversation" and effectively distracting me. "Sure, go ahead," he said. "It doesn't look like this guy is going to quit any time soon."
Having swallowed a dose of insta-humility, I left the man to eat and entered into an actual conversation. I explained to them both my project--where I was from, how I got the idea, etc. Lorena was very excited and asked me question after question, while Don Gutierrez listened intently. After a time, he offered the following:
"She didn't say it, but I will," he said. "You don't look Mexican... You have unearned white privilege."
"Who can ride the border?" he continued. "Them?", meaning to say many of the Hispanic community. His eyebrows raised and he pointed at me. "You."
"You're doing this because you can ride the border, and you have to confront that. They can't ride the border. Some of them are living day to day." His eyebrows raised again. "You aren't."
"You can walk into a Minuteman meeting and they'll let you walk right in." They wouldn't even bat an eye. They wouldn't even look twice. "And if you looked a little bit different?"
"We can't pick our parents," he said. I happened to be born to a Mexican-American mother of olive complection and a Caucasian father. Everyone in the conversation knew this. We also knew that it meant a particular sort of responsibility.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that responsibility is, but for right now, this is it. I'm giong to ride a bicycle two thousand miles, learn, and educate others about the issues of social injustice along the border and what some are doing to change them. This is part of my resposibility, and this is what I took from the conference.
Can you sing these words?
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): "Puddle Jumper"
Have you ever tried to pee in the washcloset of a moving bus? Good lord, I'm soaked.
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): "AS THE LEAVES BURN"/ Get on the bus.
To preface, I took a bus to Houston because I was unable to clear two days to make the trip by bike. I had too much work to do to get the Dudley Docker II ready.
I just got on the bus to Houston. For a minute, the whole of civilation almost fell apart when the bus--my bus--arrived with a full load of passengers. Waiting travelers responded in uproar--"Where's my bus?", "Why is it full?", "But I'm a paaaaying customer...", "Does the other bus go straight to Houston?", "Where does it stop?"
Damnit, people, relax. Five minute of standing in line later, we're on another bus that will actually arrive in Houston sooner than the first. People, it's cool.
'Minds me of the hostel in Austin. The other day the shit really hit the fan when Melodrama Man confronted Cowboy Hat in what will forever live on as "The Leaf Burning Incident". In order to earn a free room for the night, Cowboy Hat raked up some leaves around the complex. Seeing that the leaves were abundant and the trash bins few, he started to burn the leaves in their respective piles. Melodrama Man, apparently stunned by the audacity of such an action, ran out of the hostel and scolded Cowboy Hat for his poor judgement. Cowboy Hat responded with a "fuck you", Melodrama Man returned the volley, and the latter got his feelings hurt while the former continued raking.
Shit. The bus isn't leaving until three--an hour away. Here we go again. The Western World crumbles at the feet of the almighty Greyhound. No, ma'am, you cannot get on another bus. There is no other bus. No, ma'am, you cannot yell at the driver. There's a manager readily available for just that purpose.
Lady, it's cool.
I guess I've been overly receptive of people's bad vibes lately. After a week of pacing around, watching, waiting, pushing, watching, waiting, pushing, I've become especially susceptible to the coughs and sneezes of other people's ills.
Enough of that, though. I just got myself a candy bar. I had a hunger inside me.
I put together a new bike--an old Diamondback Outlook, actually, with freshly-mounted clipless pedals, new brakes, handlebar extenders, rims and tires. At a hunkering thirty-eight and a half pounds, the Dudley Docker II is sea-worthy too, although not the speedy schooner of its prior incarnation. With thirty-five pounds of gear on a handlebar bag strapped on with an inner tube (as the attachment remains stolen) and a rack cannibalized from another bike, the DDII is a floating tank. It's cool.
Believe it or not, I'm actually about to roll out right now. This bus is on the move. Next stop: Houston, site of the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference. I'll be there for a couple of days, and if everything works out I'll most likely be heading down to Brownsville once again. I imagine that this conference will be the kick in the tail to make it happen.
A couple of things before I leave you: the first is an out-and-out thanks to the people at the Yellow Bike Project. They are really amazing individuals. The whole premise behind the Project is that volunteers get together a few nights a week to restore and make usable bikes that have been donated. In the last few weeks, most of those bikes have gone to Katrina evacuees--I myself saw a freshly-transplanted family with five young children ride around with loud, uncontainable excitement on their new bicycles. Other bikes are sold to folks like me, and hundreds have been given to the Austin community. Yellow Bike volunteers give their time, share their knowledge freely and do a lot of good for a lot of people. For that, they have my thanks.
By the way, city of Austin, the Yellow Bike Project would benefit greatly from the continued use of public space for their efforts. Please help make this happen.
The second pause for consideration concerns recent news and events. In El Paso, the Texas Minutemen are busy on their watches for undocumented immigrants, while the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) are also busy with their own--of the Minutmen. In Tucson, the border nonprofit No More Deaths (Ni Una Mas) is working on creating greater awareness of the trials of two volunteers, Shanti Sellz and Daniel Strauss, who were arrested for taking three severely-dehydrated crossers to a hospital for medical attention. No More Deaths' positon is that it shouldn't be illegal to provide humanitarian aid, regardless of the recipient's nationality.
This last bit of news might be the most important: Jennifer Lopez (yes, the J-Lo) is filming a move in Nogales, Sonora. Hundreds have flocked to the set hoping catch a glimpse of their idol or, perhaps, her pop-rock hubby, Marc Anthony. The movie, "Bordertown" (and this really is important), is about the hundreds of women who have been raped, mutilated and murdered in the real-life border city of Ciudad Juarez.
That's about it for me. You can read up on the above by clicking on the links provided below.
Peace,
The Bike Guy
From moderate to left:
Sellz and Strauss trial 1: moderate
Sellz and Strauss trial 2 (two-thirds down the page): moderate-left
Sellz and Strauss trial 3: left
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-right
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-left
J-Lo
I just got on the bus to Houston. For a minute, the whole of civilation almost fell apart when the bus--my bus--arrived with a full load of passengers. Waiting travelers responded in uproar--"Where's my bus?", "Why is it full?", "But I'm a paaaaying customer...", "Does the other bus go straight to Houston?", "Where does it stop?"
Damnit, people, relax. Five minute of standing in line later, we're on another bus that will actually arrive in Houston sooner than the first. People, it's cool.
'Minds me of the hostel in Austin. The other day the shit really hit the fan when Melodrama Man confronted Cowboy Hat in what will forever live on as "The Leaf Burning Incident". In order to earn a free room for the night, Cowboy Hat raked up some leaves around the complex. Seeing that the leaves were abundant and the trash bins few, he started to burn the leaves in their respective piles. Melodrama Man, apparently stunned by the audacity of such an action, ran out of the hostel and scolded Cowboy Hat for his poor judgement. Cowboy Hat responded with a "fuck you", Melodrama Man returned the volley, and the latter got his feelings hurt while the former continued raking.
Shit. The bus isn't leaving until three--an hour away. Here we go again. The Western World crumbles at the feet of the almighty Greyhound. No, ma'am, you cannot get on another bus. There is no other bus. No, ma'am, you cannot yell at the driver. There's a manager readily available for just that purpose.
Lady, it's cool.
I guess I've been overly receptive of people's bad vibes lately. After a week of pacing around, watching, waiting, pushing, watching, waiting, pushing, I've become especially susceptible to the coughs and sneezes of other people's ills.
Enough of that, though. I just got myself a candy bar. I had a hunger inside me.
I put together a new bike--an old Diamondback Outlook, actually, with freshly-mounted clipless pedals, new brakes, handlebar extenders, rims and tires. At a hunkering thirty-eight and a half pounds, the Dudley Docker II is sea-worthy too, although not the speedy schooner of its prior incarnation. With thirty-five pounds of gear on a handlebar bag strapped on with an inner tube (as the attachment remains stolen) and a rack cannibalized from another bike, the DDII is a floating tank. It's cool.
Believe it or not, I'm actually about to roll out right now. This bus is on the move. Next stop: Houston, site of the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference. I'll be there for a couple of days, and if everything works out I'll most likely be heading down to Brownsville once again. I imagine that this conference will be the kick in the tail to make it happen.
A couple of things before I leave you: the first is an out-and-out thanks to the people at the Yellow Bike Project. They are really amazing individuals. The whole premise behind the Project is that volunteers get together a few nights a week to restore and make usable bikes that have been donated. In the last few weeks, most of those bikes have gone to Katrina evacuees--I myself saw a freshly-transplanted family with five young children ride around with loud, uncontainable excitement on their new bicycles. Other bikes are sold to folks like me, and hundreds have been given to the Austin community. Yellow Bike volunteers give their time, share their knowledge freely and do a lot of good for a lot of people. For that, they have my thanks.
By the way, city of Austin, the Yellow Bike Project would benefit greatly from the continued use of public space for their efforts. Please help make this happen.
The second pause for consideration concerns recent news and events. In El Paso, the Texas Minutemen are busy on their watches for undocumented immigrants, while the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) are also busy with their own--of the Minutmen. In Tucson, the border nonprofit No More Deaths (Ni Una Mas) is working on creating greater awareness of the trials of two volunteers, Shanti Sellz and Daniel Strauss, who were arrested for taking three severely-dehydrated crossers to a hospital for medical attention. No More Deaths' positon is that it shouldn't be illegal to provide humanitarian aid, regardless of the recipient's nationality.
This last bit of news might be the most important: Jennifer Lopez (yes, the J-Lo) is filming a move in Nogales, Sonora. Hundreds have flocked to the set hoping catch a glimpse of their idol or, perhaps, her pop-rock hubby, Marc Anthony. The movie, "Bordertown" (and this really is important), is about the hundreds of women who have been raped, mutilated and murdered in the real-life border city of Ciudad Juarez.
That's about it for me. You can read up on the above by clicking on the links provided below.
Peace,
The Bike Guy
From moderate to left:
Sellz and Strauss trial 1: moderate
Sellz and Strauss trial 2 (two-thirds down the page): moderate-left
Sellz and Strauss trial 3: left
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-right
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-left
J-Lo
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): ON STOLEN BIKES
To whom this may concern,
On Thursday, the fifth of October, 2005, you illegally obtained a mountain bicycle at a picnic area five miles south of Nixon, Texas. That red 1995 GT Zaskar, with yellow extended-frame handlebars, Shimano clipless pedals, STX components and Spin (TM) carbon-fiber wheels, initially belonged to me, a cycling do-gooder with an eye on social change. I intended on riding said bicycle to Brownsville, Texas, then along the U.S./Mexico border to the coasts of the Californias.
You, taking advantage of an opportunity for what you must have thought of as a "free bike", have made this venture unneccesarily difficult. As you had the wherewithal to bring a pair of wire clippers from your place of residence to sever the fence upon which my bike was locked, I would have hoped that you would also have showed equal consideration in locating a potential owner sleeping twenty-five yards away. A simple "Hello, is anybody out there?" or "Alright, I'm going to steal this bike now..." would have been sufficient.
Unfortunately this was not the case, and thus I scoff at you, Sir or Madam--scoff at you. I have submitted theft reports to two counties and have been assured by law enforcement officials that they will do everything in their power to not only recover my stolen bicyle but also put you behind the cold bars of the jail cell in which you so justly belong.
I have constructed a new bicycle and will continue my journey, dear Sir or Madam, and henceforth bear you no ill will. I only hope that you truly needed the bicycle and will enjoy full use of it for the rest of its life. That, and I also implore you to notify the rightful owner of its whereabouts. Past wrongs may not be undone, but this story should and must reach its close.
With my sincerest thoughts,
Ryan Riedel
P.S. I hope you don't believe in karma, you scum-sucking dirtbag, because that stuff stings like hell when it comes back and slaps you upside the head.
P.P.S. Soon you will also to understand the joys of what I termed "The Gouchinator".
P.P.P.S. May your offspring have really hairy feet and may you come down with a wicked case of fatty ankles.
On Thursday, the fifth of October, 2005, you illegally obtained a mountain bicycle at a picnic area five miles south of Nixon, Texas. That red 1995 GT Zaskar, with yellow extended-frame handlebars, Shimano clipless pedals, STX components and Spin (TM) carbon-fiber wheels, initially belonged to me, a cycling do-gooder with an eye on social change. I intended on riding said bicycle to Brownsville, Texas, then along the U.S./Mexico border to the coasts of the Californias.
You, taking advantage of an opportunity for what you must have thought of as a "free bike", have made this venture unneccesarily difficult. As you had the wherewithal to bring a pair of wire clippers from your place of residence to sever the fence upon which my bike was locked, I would have hoped that you would also have showed equal consideration in locating a potential owner sleeping twenty-five yards away. A simple "Hello, is anybody out there?" or "Alright, I'm going to steal this bike now..." would have been sufficient.
Unfortunately this was not the case, and thus I scoff at you, Sir or Madam--scoff at you. I have submitted theft reports to two counties and have been assured by law enforcement officials that they will do everything in their power to not only recover my stolen bicyle but also put you behind the cold bars of the jail cell in which you so justly belong.
I have constructed a new bicycle and will continue my journey, dear Sir or Madam, and henceforth bear you no ill will. I only hope that you truly needed the bicycle and will enjoy full use of it for the rest of its life. That, and I also implore you to notify the rightful owner of its whereabouts. Past wrongs may not be undone, but this story should and must reach its close.
With my sincerest thoughts,
Ryan Riedel
P.S. I hope you don't believe in karma, you scum-sucking dirtbag, because that stuff stings like hell when it comes back and slaps you upside the head.
P.P.S. Soon you will also to understand the joys of what I termed "The Gouchinator".
P.P.P.S. May your offspring have really hairy feet and may you come down with a wicked case of fatty ankles.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Part 1 (Austin, TX): ...and rollin' right back in
Greetings from sunny Austin, Texas. It's a brisk seventy-five degrees outside of the lovely 19th St. and Guadalupe (pronounced Gwa-doll-loop here in Austin) Schlotsky's, home of freely-accessible computers and internet. No librarians to worry about here--only a bleach-blonde woman with a false sense of entitlement that wants to kick me off of yet another computer. Ah, the electronic workstation follies continue...
Last Thursday I set off for Brownsville, Texas. Logging in six and a half hours at a break-neck clip of thirteen miles per hour, I made my way to the action-packed town of Nixon, Texas, where the most excitement you'll find is a two-hour wait for a county deputy at the local sheriff's office--but we'll get to that in a second. As the sun began to set, I sat in the Nixon Dairy Queen with my chocolate milk in hand and a dancing, euphoric grin on my face. After eighty miles of cycling, I had reached a blissful state of enlightenment. I had done; I had accomplished; I had arrived, if only for a day. I couldn't have been any more content.
I cycled another five miles south to a picnic area that I had penned out previously on my map. The idea was to find a place to camp for the night, and I couldn't muster up the courage to knock on a farmer's door and ask him for a humble evening's plot. So, finding that the picnic area itself wasn't exactly suited for camping, I chucked all my gear over a barb-wire fence and pitched my tent about thirty yards away in the backwoods. I chained my bike up to the chest-high fence and called it a night.
I awoke several times--and you can see where this is going--to the sounds of cars passing through the picnic area. People got out of their vehicles and eyed over my locked-up bike. After a couple of minutes, they left and I would go back to sleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a trunk slamming repeatedly. In little more than boxers and my jersey, I tossed on my shorts and sprinted over to my bike just as the car took off southbound. Then, calamity. In place of my bike was the tree I leaned it up against. The fence had been snipped, and the barb wire lay forlorn across the leaves. Someone came back from the night before, brought wire clippers and stole my bike, lock and all. I couldn't have been any more upset.
To make a long story short, I hitched a ride back to Nixon with a farmer down the road (it turns out that I did have some courage in me after all), and put in a police report with two counties. A freshly-made friend from Austin drove down to bring me right back to the hostel where I was staying, and I've been plodding around here since.
All's not lost, however. The bike's gone, but I still have all my gear and most of my gumption. The invincibility complex took a beating though, and I've been doing my fair share of soul-searching. This is a project that I believe in and one that I want to sail with, but feelings of frustration and disappointment have stirred up some choppy waters.
Those waters I can navigate.
I hadn't told anybody, but I named the bike "The Endurance". The name comes from ill-fated ship that met its demise in the Antarctic around the turn of the century. Sir Ernest Shackelton, the captain, intended to cross the continent via an unexplored route through the south pole. Months into the voyage, pack ice surrounded the ship and it slowly began to sink into the depths below. The crew set up temporary camp next to the ship and eventually sailed off to a remote island with two of their lifeboats, the Dudley Docker and the James Caird. Shackelton and a hand-picked few left the remaining crew on the island as they set out on an improbable venture for help. Their new ship: the James Caird. In what some call "the greatest voyage of all time", Shackelton arrived at a Norweigan fishing station, having travled three-hundred and eighty miles through rough waters and with only four sightings. He eventually returned to rescue his waiting crew. Though the ordeal lasted almost two years--twenty months--all survived.
So, Plan B:
I'm going to sail out again. With the help of some really knowledgeable and generous folks at a local bicycle cooperative, I've been building up a new bike and should be ready to head out again this Friday. The immediate destination, however, has changed. I've set my sights on Houston for a leadership and unity conference keynoted by Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, a key figure in the Chicano activist movement of the 60's and 70's. My new ship: the Dudley Docker II. For the time being, I'm just trying to make it to the next island. After I arrive in Houston, I'll figure out what I'm going to do--(1) continue on to Brownsville or (2) delay the trip until the new year and make way via Greyhound to El Paso and Tucson for some time-sensitive and very important projects.
I knew that this kind of thing, i.e. someone jacking my bike in the middle of the night, could and most likely would happen, so I named my bike with a little bit of foresight. I just didn't know that it would happen so soon. I don't want this trip to become a protracted rescue mission, and I'm not thick headed enough to continue on in a despite-all-odds fashion. But I am one to keep going. Like Shackelton, my plans have changed. I might just end up with my own James Caird someday.
Last Thursday I set off for Brownsville, Texas. Logging in six and a half hours at a break-neck clip of thirteen miles per hour, I made my way to the action-packed town of Nixon, Texas, where the most excitement you'll find is a two-hour wait for a county deputy at the local sheriff's office--but we'll get to that in a second. As the sun began to set, I sat in the Nixon Dairy Queen with my chocolate milk in hand and a dancing, euphoric grin on my face. After eighty miles of cycling, I had reached a blissful state of enlightenment. I had done; I had accomplished; I had arrived, if only for a day. I couldn't have been any more content.
I cycled another five miles south to a picnic area that I had penned out previously on my map. The idea was to find a place to camp for the night, and I couldn't muster up the courage to knock on a farmer's door and ask him for a humble evening's plot. So, finding that the picnic area itself wasn't exactly suited for camping, I chucked all my gear over a barb-wire fence and pitched my tent about thirty yards away in the backwoods. I chained my bike up to the chest-high fence and called it a night.
I awoke several times--and you can see where this is going--to the sounds of cars passing through the picnic area. People got out of their vehicles and eyed over my locked-up bike. After a couple of minutes, they left and I would go back to sleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a trunk slamming repeatedly. In little more than boxers and my jersey, I tossed on my shorts and sprinted over to my bike just as the car took off southbound. Then, calamity. In place of my bike was the tree I leaned it up against. The fence had been snipped, and the barb wire lay forlorn across the leaves. Someone came back from the night before, brought wire clippers and stole my bike, lock and all. I couldn't have been any more upset.
To make a long story short, I hitched a ride back to Nixon with a farmer down the road (it turns out that I did have some courage in me after all), and put in a police report with two counties. A freshly-made friend from Austin drove down to bring me right back to the hostel where I was staying, and I've been plodding around here since.
All's not lost, however. The bike's gone, but I still have all my gear and most of my gumption. The invincibility complex took a beating though, and I've been doing my fair share of soul-searching. This is a project that I believe in and one that I want to sail with, but feelings of frustration and disappointment have stirred up some choppy waters.
Those waters I can navigate.
I hadn't told anybody, but I named the bike "The Endurance". The name comes from ill-fated ship that met its demise in the Antarctic around the turn of the century. Sir Ernest Shackelton, the captain, intended to cross the continent via an unexplored route through the south pole. Months into the voyage, pack ice surrounded the ship and it slowly began to sink into the depths below. The crew set up temporary camp next to the ship and eventually sailed off to a remote island with two of their lifeboats, the Dudley Docker and the James Caird. Shackelton and a hand-picked few left the remaining crew on the island as they set out on an improbable venture for help. Their new ship: the James Caird. In what some call "the greatest voyage of all time", Shackelton arrived at a Norweigan fishing station, having travled three-hundred and eighty miles through rough waters and with only four sightings. He eventually returned to rescue his waiting crew. Though the ordeal lasted almost two years--twenty months--all survived.
So, Plan B:
I'm going to sail out again. With the help of some really knowledgeable and generous folks at a local bicycle cooperative, I've been building up a new bike and should be ready to head out again this Friday. The immediate destination, however, has changed. I've set my sights on Houston for a leadership and unity conference keynoted by Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, a key figure in the Chicano activist movement of the 60's and 70's. My new ship: the Dudley Docker II. For the time being, I'm just trying to make it to the next island. After I arrive in Houston, I'll figure out what I'm going to do--(1) continue on to Brownsville or (2) delay the trip until the new year and make way via Greyhound to El Paso and Tucson for some time-sensitive and very important projects.
I knew that this kind of thing, i.e. someone jacking my bike in the middle of the night, could and most likely would happen, so I named my bike with a little bit of foresight. I just didn't know that it would happen so soon. I don't want this trip to become a protracted rescue mission, and I'm not thick headed enough to continue on in a despite-all-odds fashion. But I am one to keep going. Like Shackelton, my plans have changed. I might just end up with my own James Caird someday.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Part 1 (Austin, TX): rollin' out
That's it. I'm really doing it.
As of tomorrow, October 5th, I'm going to start this tour by cycling to Brownsville, Texas. I've been in Austin for close to two weeks, attending the Austin City Limits (ACL) Music Festival, enjoying fleeting moments with close friends and talking with from professors at the U.T.-Austin campus. Austin's great--I love the city--but it's time to hit the road and start this trip.
I'll be cycling along the U.S. 183, Highway 80, U.S. 181 and U.S. 77 on the way down to Brownsville. This leg should take about four days at eighty miles a day--five days if I take a detour to Padre Island, the easternmost land mass in Texas. Once back in Brownsville, I'll spend some time at Southwest Key, a group home for migrant children who've been separated from their families, and the Good Neighbor Settlement Home, a center that provides transitional living accomodations to any in need of their services. For close to week, I'll also be on the lookout for the Texas Minutemen who, not so coincidentally, are also on the lookout for migrants trying to cross the border. Don't worry about me: I'm relatively safe with the ACLU. Be concerned for those crossers. Minutemen carry guns.
I'll send out more updates as I go. So far, I've been really fortunate in Austin. I've managed to finagle a free room for close to a week, and I'm living pretty dirt cheap and learning from some amazing people. I'm just about done shoveling the dirt out of my lungs from the ACL, so I'm in better health that than I have been in a while. I feel great, if not nervous at times. Equal parts excitment and anxiety: the recipe for rational decision-making for an undertaking like this.
Keep in mind that this is a really important time to be aware of what's happening on the border right now--if not from me, from other sources. To the right of this post, I've set you up with links to news portals about the border. Recent news: R-Jim Kolbe presents the Tucson Border Patrol with a "symbolic" 35 million dollar blank check, part of the 56 million dollar package designated solely to the Tucson B.P. to protect the "most vulnerable area" in the United States; Border Patrol officials unveiled their new $14 million unmanned aerial surveillance system, a Predator-B spy drone used intially in Afganistan and Iraq; more and more undocumented immigrants are choosing voluntary repatriation to Mexico City, while the U.S. government foots the bill. Any one of these blurbs could indicate both triumphs and failures of border policy--the Border Patrol has been dramatically effective, so it needs more money; the Border Patrol has proven utterly inefficient, so it needs more money. Whatever. Do your own research, come to your own conclusions. If you stick around, you'll read plenty of mine in the posts to come.
1,951 miles plus. This is going to be a long ride.
As of tomorrow, October 5th, I'm going to start this tour by cycling to Brownsville, Texas. I've been in Austin for close to two weeks, attending the Austin City Limits (ACL) Music Festival, enjoying fleeting moments with close friends and talking with from professors at the U.T.-Austin campus. Austin's great--I love the city--but it's time to hit the road and start this trip.
I'll be cycling along the U.S. 183, Highway 80, U.S. 181 and U.S. 77 on the way down to Brownsville. This leg should take about four days at eighty miles a day--five days if I take a detour to Padre Island, the easternmost land mass in Texas. Once back in Brownsville, I'll spend some time at Southwest Key, a group home for migrant children who've been separated from their families, and the Good Neighbor Settlement Home, a center that provides transitional living accomodations to any in need of their services. For close to week, I'll also be on the lookout for the Texas Minutemen who, not so coincidentally, are also on the lookout for migrants trying to cross the border. Don't worry about me: I'm relatively safe with the ACLU. Be concerned for those crossers. Minutemen carry guns.
I'll send out more updates as I go. So far, I've been really fortunate in Austin. I've managed to finagle a free room for close to a week, and I'm living pretty dirt cheap and learning from some amazing people. I'm just about done shoveling the dirt out of my lungs from the ACL, so I'm in better health that than I have been in a while. I feel great, if not nervous at times. Equal parts excitment and anxiety: the recipe for rational decision-making for an undertaking like this.
Keep in mind that this is a really important time to be aware of what's happening on the border right now--if not from me, from other sources. To the right of this post, I've set you up with links to news portals about the border. Recent news: R-Jim Kolbe presents the Tucson Border Patrol with a "symbolic" 35 million dollar blank check, part of the 56 million dollar package designated solely to the Tucson B.P. to protect the "most vulnerable area" in the United States; Border Patrol officials unveiled their new $14 million unmanned aerial surveillance system, a Predator-B spy drone used intially in Afganistan and Iraq; more and more undocumented immigrants are choosing voluntary repatriation to Mexico City, while the U.S. government foots the bill. Any one of these blurbs could indicate both triumphs and failures of border policy--the Border Patrol has been dramatically effective, so it needs more money; the Border Patrol has proven utterly inefficient, so it needs more money. Whatever. Do your own research, come to your own conclusions. If you stick around, you'll read plenty of mine in the posts to come.
1,951 miles plus. This is going to be a long ride.
Part 1 (Austin, TX): and the flipside...
And some not-so-shining moments in Ryan's Austin venture:
(1) Adam Keizer, a close friend, and I go to bar/music venue and are sitting down for dinner. I'm munching away and Adam gives me the saucer-sized "look over there" eyes. I do look over there, and sure enough Sandra Bullock is standing right next to Austin native Jesse James. Serveral minutes after my initial "whooooooaaaaaa", a dude with a Monster Garage t-shirt walks into the bar. Again excited, I proclaim my intentions to tell this man that THE Jesse James is in the bar and that he too should be excited. I walk over to the man and carry out my duty as a the bestower of happiness, and the man looks at me and says "Yeah? Uh, yeah, I know. I work with him eeevery (notice the peevish drawl) day. Nothing special." I wither, crumple and mumble out a "Yeah, man, cool man, I bet that's exciting." It wasn't exciting. Adam pokes at me for my good intentions, calls a Monster Garage enthusiast-friend from Cheyenne to tell him about the incident, and the next day more head-hanging ensues.
(2) There are 8 computers available for non-students on the University of Texas-Austin campus. Or were. Every day I've been using those computers at the library and not-so-slightly exceeding the 30-minute usage period. Once the library lady asked me to abdicate my electronic throne. The same lady asked again the next day, only to engage me in an argument that I was destined to lose. On the last days of my library follies, I decided to play again with the fates and use those computers for a time period no longer than 30 minutes. During that time, the lady sees me again, laughing in apparent incredulity, and walks away without a word of scorn. I finish my time, half-shouting after her "hey, but at least I haven't exceeded my 30 minutes". I leave, only to return two hours later to 8 computers freshly passworded. I've officially been blacklisted from the U.T.-Austin library. It feels like the freshman-year cafeteria incident all over again. All I ever wanted was free internet and bananas. Must the consequences be so dire that everyone must pay for my crimes? Will there ever again be free access to the world wide web and "all-you-can-eat" fruit?
(1) Adam Keizer, a close friend, and I go to bar/music venue and are sitting down for dinner. I'm munching away and Adam gives me the saucer-sized "look over there" eyes. I do look over there, and sure enough Sandra Bullock is standing right next to Austin native Jesse James. Serveral minutes after my initial "whooooooaaaaaa", a dude with a Monster Garage t-shirt walks into the bar. Again excited, I proclaim my intentions to tell this man that THE Jesse James is in the bar and that he too should be excited. I walk over to the man and carry out my duty as a the bestower of happiness, and the man looks at me and says "Yeah? Uh, yeah, I know. I work with him eeevery (notice the peevish drawl) day. Nothing special." I wither, crumple and mumble out a "Yeah, man, cool man, I bet that's exciting." It wasn't exciting. Adam pokes at me for my good intentions, calls a Monster Garage enthusiast-friend from Cheyenne to tell him about the incident, and the next day more head-hanging ensues.
(2) There are 8 computers available for non-students on the University of Texas-Austin campus. Or were. Every day I've been using those computers at the library and not-so-slightly exceeding the 30-minute usage period. Once the library lady asked me to abdicate my electronic throne. The same lady asked again the next day, only to engage me in an argument that I was destined to lose. On the last days of my library follies, I decided to play again with the fates and use those computers for a time period no longer than 30 minutes. During that time, the lady sees me again, laughing in apparent incredulity, and walks away without a word of scorn. I finish my time, half-shouting after her "hey, but at least I haven't exceeded my 30 minutes". I leave, only to return two hours later to 8 computers freshly passworded. I've officially been blacklisted from the U.T.-Austin library. It feels like the freshman-year cafeteria incident all over again. All I ever wanted was free internet and bananas. Must the consequences be so dire that everyone must pay for my crimes? Will there ever again be free access to the world wide web and "all-you-can-eat" fruit?
Part 1 (Austin, TX): notes on Austin and the ACL
This city kicks ass.
Think the sprawl of Phoenix meets the eccentricity of Tucson, with a bit of "Don't mess with Texas" in between. Subtract the guy in the taxi, and there you have Austin.
The state capital of Texas is also the self-proclaimed "weirdest city" in Texas. Weird is right. Driving around the other day, I saw a bunch of human-sized fruit sitting on top of a parking garage and a two-story replica of the Eiffel Tower right off a busy thoroughfare. I met a former UT-Austin professor with a goatee, ginormous fake breasts and pink bikini bottom at the ACL Music Festival. I tried mushrooms here for my first time. Okay, I lied about the last one.
Austin is an old hippy community that has gradually become gentrified by invaders from satellite cities--not entirely unlike my former home of Tempe, Arizona. Once upon a time, Tempe too had a vibrant local life and culture, only to have both squashed by the likes of the Brickyard and whatever corporations that plowed through Changing Hands and Cookies from Home. In Austin, however, the long-since obliterated organic ethos of Tempe lives on in an extensive system of in-city bike routes, organic-medicine pharmacies and people who will actually drive a few miles to drop off their recyclables. Non-coformism and "green living" strike on in place of "image reversal" and "culture overhaul". "Keep Austin Weird" has become the unofficial but popular motto of Austin, while weirdness has offically become code for hippy-safe and accessible.
I came across an article in a local alternative magazine the other day, and reporters quoted a pastor as saying something to the effect that "Keep Austin Weird" was a self-contradicting paradox--that preservation is a conservative effort to keep alive a liberal consciousness. How does one preserve the unorthodox without making it normal or routine? The answer, he said, is Austin. I'm inclined to agree.
I guess that it's no so outrightly weird as people say. On the University of Texas at Austin campus, lady students around campus wear flat-soled shoes and athletic short that actually do not, and you might not believe this if you attended Arizona State within the last five years, ride up their asses and flash buttcheeks as if they were blinking, half-obscured headlights. I'm amazed. Male students look like any others, I guess, although I notice a severe lack of collar-upturned, sunglass-wearing Aber-Fitchers. It's almost like people can think for themselves around here--except for the taxi driver.
I don't mean to bash Tempe folk. Lord knows I'm a card-carrying member and a product of 23 years in the East Valley. My athletic shorts ride up my ass all the time. I mean to say that there's something alive here--a culture. Something more than nights spent out at the Cue Club and/or binge drinking with buddies. Take the music scene: the Austin City Limits music festival is one of the biggest in the nation. For three days, people rocked out to the Arcade Fire (every bit as good as Chris Martin says they are), Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay (well, that's when they weren't spewing up their lungs in the kicked-up dust that doubled as "breathable" air). After those three days, Austinites went back to their cool bars for great music year round. Cheryl Crow performed the other day in park on the Austin River for free, headlining soon-to-be hubbies' "Lance Thanks Austin". I don't care if you like Cheryl Crow or not. That's just cool.
The best yet is that people are just plain nice here. Call it good fortune or dumb luck, but I've been able to work off a week's worth off of hostle rooms by cleaning out fridges, putting up bulletin boards and breaking down bedframes. It also stands to reason that one considerate individual (whom I'm probably actively screwing over right now by saying this much) pitched a freebe to an aspiring young man with a good project. The point is, however, she's one of many who've been really generous here. So has the lady at the bike co-op. So have many of the faculty at UT-Austin. Without their help, I wouldn't know shit about bike repair or have half as many connections and conversations set up as I do now. The people of Austin have good life--vibes, aura or whatever you want to call it. Other than the guy who almost flattened me with his taxi (you sonofabitch bastard, watch out for cyclists when pulling out of your fucking parking lot. It doesn't matter that it was dark.), you have my thanks.
At this point, some of you might be saying "then stay in Austin, hippy." I can't though. I've got work to do. This is a good place to start from. This city kicks ass.
Think the sprawl of Phoenix meets the eccentricity of Tucson, with a bit of "Don't mess with Texas" in between. Subtract the guy in the taxi, and there you have Austin.
The state capital of Texas is also the self-proclaimed "weirdest city" in Texas. Weird is right. Driving around the other day, I saw a bunch of human-sized fruit sitting on top of a parking garage and a two-story replica of the Eiffel Tower right off a busy thoroughfare. I met a former UT-Austin professor with a goatee, ginormous fake breasts and pink bikini bottom at the ACL Music Festival. I tried mushrooms here for my first time. Okay, I lied about the last one.
Austin is an old hippy community that has gradually become gentrified by invaders from satellite cities--not entirely unlike my former home of Tempe, Arizona. Once upon a time, Tempe too had a vibrant local life and culture, only to have both squashed by the likes of the Brickyard and whatever corporations that plowed through Changing Hands and Cookies from Home. In Austin, however, the long-since obliterated organic ethos of Tempe lives on in an extensive system of in-city bike routes, organic-medicine pharmacies and people who will actually drive a few miles to drop off their recyclables. Non-coformism and "green living" strike on in place of "image reversal" and "culture overhaul". "Keep Austin Weird" has become the unofficial but popular motto of Austin, while weirdness has offically become code for hippy-safe and accessible.
I came across an article in a local alternative magazine the other day, and reporters quoted a pastor as saying something to the effect that "Keep Austin Weird" was a self-contradicting paradox--that preservation is a conservative effort to keep alive a liberal consciousness. How does one preserve the unorthodox without making it normal or routine? The answer, he said, is Austin. I'm inclined to agree.
I guess that it's no so outrightly weird as people say. On the University of Texas at Austin campus, lady students around campus wear flat-soled shoes and athletic short that actually do not, and you might not believe this if you attended Arizona State within the last five years, ride up their asses and flash buttcheeks as if they were blinking, half-obscured headlights. I'm amazed. Male students look like any others, I guess, although I notice a severe lack of collar-upturned, sunglass-wearing Aber-Fitchers. It's almost like people can think for themselves around here--except for the taxi driver.
I don't mean to bash Tempe folk. Lord knows I'm a card-carrying member and a product of 23 years in the East Valley. My athletic shorts ride up my ass all the time. I mean to say that there's something alive here--a culture. Something more than nights spent out at the Cue Club and/or binge drinking with buddies. Take the music scene: the Austin City Limits music festival is one of the biggest in the nation. For three days, people rocked out to the Arcade Fire (every bit as good as Chris Martin says they are), Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay (well, that's when they weren't spewing up their lungs in the kicked-up dust that doubled as "breathable" air). After those three days, Austinites went back to their cool bars for great music year round. Cheryl Crow performed the other day in park on the Austin River for free, headlining soon-to-be hubbies' "Lance Thanks Austin". I don't care if you like Cheryl Crow or not. That's just cool.
The best yet is that people are just plain nice here. Call it good fortune or dumb luck, but I've been able to work off a week's worth off of hostle rooms by cleaning out fridges, putting up bulletin boards and breaking down bedframes. It also stands to reason that one considerate individual (whom I'm probably actively screwing over right now by saying this much) pitched a freebe to an aspiring young man with a good project. The point is, however, she's one of many who've been really generous here. So has the lady at the bike co-op. So have many of the faculty at UT-Austin. Without their help, I wouldn't know shit about bike repair or have half as many connections and conversations set up as I do now. The people of Austin have good life--vibes, aura or whatever you want to call it. Other than the guy who almost flattened me with his taxi (you sonofabitch bastard, watch out for cyclists when pulling out of your fucking parking lot. It doesn't matter that it was dark.), you have my thanks.
At this point, some of you might be saying "then stay in Austin, hippy." I can't though. I've got work to do. This is a good place to start from. This city kicks ass.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Travel Itinerary
VOLUNTOUR 1951 ITINERARY*
PRE-TRIP:
September 21st – 22nd: traveled to Austin, TX
September 23rd – 25th: attended the Austin City Limits Music Festival
September 26th – October 4th: met with faculty at UT-Austin
October 5th: cycled 85 miles south of Austin past Nixon, TX
October 6th: bike was stolen, caught a ride with a friend back to Austin
October 7th - October 13th: built the "Dudley Docker II" with volunteerws at the Yellow Bike Project
OCTOBER:
October 14th: took a bus to Houston, TX
October 15th: attended the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
*spoke with Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, long-time Chicano civil rights leader and social activist
*spoke with Maria Jimenez, seasoned social activist formerly of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) and now of Carecen
*spoke with Lorena Lopez, full-time student and mom
October 16th: interviewed by Houston Univision
October 17th: met with Michael Espinonza, co-founder of La Nueva Raza
October 18th – 22nd: cycled to Brownsville
*met with Elizabeth Garcia, local grassroots organizer with the San Felipe de Jesus Social Justice Committee
October 23rd: met with Helga Garza of Calpuli Tlapalcalli
October 24th: met with Carlos Gomez, executive director of the Good Neighbor Settlement House
October 25th: met Brother Albert Phillipp and Sister Phylis Peters of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church
October 26th: went to Matamoros in the evening to speak with families
October 27th: met with Father Mike Siefert of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church and Ericka Weinmann, a nursing student at the University of Texas-Brownsville
October 28th: met with Cristina Balli of The Narciso Martinez Cultural Arts Center (the Chicho)
October 29th: attended the 14th Anniversary Celebration at the Chicho
October 30th: spoke with a trio of self-proclaimed mallrats and a ROTC student at a local marine prep. school
October 31st: spoke again with Fr. Mike Siefert
*spoke with Principal Alzono Barbosa of Porter High School
*met with Edgar Rico, small business owner
NOVEMBER
November 1: spoke with Nathan Selzer of Proyecto Libertad
*celebrated Dia de los Muertos at the Calpulli
November 2: spoke with Rogelio Nunez of Proyecto Libertad and former co-worker Jonathan Jones
*spoke with Gloria Ocampo of the Friendship of Women
November 3: spoke with Enrique Leal, local filmmaker
November 4: spent the day with Rafa Castro, organizer for maquila workers
November 5, 6: spent weekend planning and writing
Noveber 7: went to Matamoros with a San Felipe de Jesus health outreach group
*spoke with Alejandro Fuentes, director of Ozanam (homeless) Center
November 8: spoke with Meredith Linksy, director of South Texas Asylum Representation Project (ProBAR)
*spoke with a pirate at a cake shop
*spoke with Pedro Cruz, attorney with Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid (TRLA)
*spoke with Lisa Brodyage, attorney with Refugio del Rio Grande
*spoke with the salesman
*attended a San Benito School Board meeting
*spoke again with Nathan Selzer and his wife, Hortencia Armendariz, an organizer with Service Employees International Union (SEIU)
November 9th: spent the day at the Fun n' Sun trailer park
*spoke with Grace Cabuto, mother of two and certified nurse
November 10th: met with Rey Limas, father to Rackel Limas and owner of Con Carino care facilities
*met with Delia Perez of Llano Grande and program guests Guha Shankar of the Library of Congress and Michelle --- of the University of Texas at Austin folklore program
November 11th: spoke with Delia Perez
November 12th: attended a march with La Union del Pueblo Entero (LUPE) and the United Farm Workers (UFW) in San Juan
November 13th: spoke with Ester Salinas, community activist in Mission, Texas
*spoke with members of her Mission community
*met Congressman Lloyd Doggett
November 14th: spoke with Dr. Greg Selber, professor at the University of Texas-Pan American (UTPA)
November 15th: spoke with Drs. Jose Pagan and Cynthia Brown, professors of economics at UTPA
*spoke with Blandina Cardenas, President of UTPA
November 16th: spoke with Olga Cantarero, organizer with LUPE
*spoke with LUPE members
*spoke with Maggie Jamieson, manage of Tropic Starr winter home
November 17th: spoke with Amancio Chapa, Fine Arts Director with La Joya Independent School District
*spoke with Norma Zamora-Guerra, Director of Community Information with the McAllen Independent School District
November 18th: spoke with Sam Rodriguez, owner of RY Livestock Sales
November 19th: spoke with Dr. Reynato Ramirez, Philathropist President of IBC Bank in Zapata
November 20th: attended a Conjunto/Mariachi/Ballet Folklorico performance at La Joya High School
November 21st: writing day
November 22nd: spoke with Ed Krueger and members of the Comite de Apoyo in Reynosa
*spoke with and was interviewed by Mariano Castillo, border correspondent for the San Antonio News-Express
November 23rd: spoke with more community members in Mission
November 24th - 31st: Mission
DECEMBER-JANUARY: Phoenix, Arizona
AND THE REST OF IT?
three weeks: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo
February: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo, Eagle Pass, Piedras Negras
March: Del Rio, Presidio, Big Bend, Las Cruces
April: El Paso/Juarez
June: south-eastern Arizona
July: southern Arizona
August: southern Arizona
September: southern California
October: San Diego/Tijuana
November: Lower Rio Grande in Texas
*all travel plans are but approximations and good intentions
PRE-TRIP:
September 21st – 22nd: traveled to Austin, TX
September 23rd – 25th: attended the Austin City Limits Music Festival
September 26th – October 4th: met with faculty at UT-Austin
October 5th: cycled 85 miles south of Austin past Nixon, TX
October 6th: bike was stolen, caught a ride with a friend back to Austin
October 7th - October 13th: built the "Dudley Docker II" with volunteerws at the Yellow Bike Project
OCTOBER:
October 14th: took a bus to Houston, TX
October 15th: attended the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
*spoke with Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, long-time Chicano civil rights leader and social activist
*spoke with Maria Jimenez, seasoned social activist formerly of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) and now of Carecen
*spoke with Lorena Lopez, full-time student and mom
October 16th: interviewed by Houston Univision
October 17th: met with Michael Espinonza, co-founder of La Nueva Raza
October 18th – 22nd: cycled to Brownsville
*met with Elizabeth Garcia, local grassroots organizer with the San Felipe de Jesus Social Justice Committee
October 23rd: met with Helga Garza of Calpuli Tlapalcalli
October 24th: met with Carlos Gomez, executive director of the Good Neighbor Settlement House
October 25th: met Brother Albert Phillipp and Sister Phylis Peters of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church
October 26th: went to Matamoros in the evening to speak with families
October 27th: met with Father Mike Siefert of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church and Ericka Weinmann, a nursing student at the University of Texas-Brownsville
October 28th: met with Cristina Balli of The Narciso Martinez Cultural Arts Center (the Chicho)
October 29th: attended the 14th Anniversary Celebration at the Chicho
October 30th: spoke with a trio of self-proclaimed mallrats and a ROTC student at a local marine prep. school
October 31st: spoke again with Fr. Mike Siefert
*spoke with Principal Alzono Barbosa of Porter High School
*met with Edgar Rico, small business owner
NOVEMBER
November 1: spoke with Nathan Selzer of Proyecto Libertad
*celebrated Dia de los Muertos at the Calpulli
November 2: spoke with Rogelio Nunez of Proyecto Libertad and former co-worker Jonathan Jones
*spoke with Gloria Ocampo of the Friendship of Women
November 3: spoke with Enrique Leal, local filmmaker
November 4: spent the day with Rafa Castro, organizer for maquila workers
November 5, 6: spent weekend planning and writing
Noveber 7: went to Matamoros with a San Felipe de Jesus health outreach group
*spoke with Alejandro Fuentes, director of Ozanam (homeless) Center
November 8: spoke with Meredith Linksy, director of South Texas Asylum Representation Project (ProBAR)
*spoke with a pirate at a cake shop
*spoke with Pedro Cruz, attorney with Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid (TRLA)
*spoke with Lisa Brodyage, attorney with Refugio del Rio Grande
*spoke with the salesman
*attended a San Benito School Board meeting
*spoke again with Nathan Selzer and his wife, Hortencia Armendariz, an organizer with Service Employees International Union (SEIU)
November 9th: spent the day at the Fun n' Sun trailer park
*spoke with Grace Cabuto, mother of two and certified nurse
November 10th: met with Rey Limas, father to Rackel Limas and owner of Con Carino care facilities
*met with Delia Perez of Llano Grande and program guests Guha Shankar of the Library of Congress and Michelle --- of the University of Texas at Austin folklore program
November 11th: spoke with Delia Perez
November 12th: attended a march with La Union del Pueblo Entero (LUPE) and the United Farm Workers (UFW) in San Juan
November 13th: spoke with Ester Salinas, community activist in Mission, Texas
*spoke with members of her Mission community
*met Congressman Lloyd Doggett
November 14th: spoke with Dr. Greg Selber, professor at the University of Texas-Pan American (UTPA)
November 15th: spoke with Drs. Jose Pagan and Cynthia Brown, professors of economics at UTPA
*spoke with Blandina Cardenas, President of UTPA
November 16th: spoke with Olga Cantarero, organizer with LUPE
*spoke with LUPE members
*spoke with Maggie Jamieson, manage of Tropic Starr winter home
November 17th: spoke with Amancio Chapa, Fine Arts Director with La Joya Independent School District
*spoke with Norma Zamora-Guerra, Director of Community Information with the McAllen Independent School District
November 18th: spoke with Sam Rodriguez, owner of RY Livestock Sales
November 19th: spoke with Dr. Reynato Ramirez, Philathropist President of IBC Bank in Zapata
November 20th: attended a Conjunto/Mariachi/Ballet Folklorico performance at La Joya High School
November 21st: writing day
November 22nd: spoke with Ed Krueger and members of the Comite de Apoyo in Reynosa
*spoke with and was interviewed by Mariano Castillo, border correspondent for the San Antonio News-Express
November 23rd: spoke with more community members in Mission
November 24th - 31st: Mission
DECEMBER-JANUARY: Phoenix, Arizona
AND THE REST OF IT?
three weeks: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo
February: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo, Eagle Pass, Piedras Negras
March: Del Rio, Presidio, Big Bend, Las Cruces
April: El Paso/Juarez
June: south-eastern Arizona
July: southern Arizona
August: southern Arizona
September: southern California
October: San Diego/Tijuana
November: Lower Rio Grande in Texas
*all travel plans are but approximations and good intentions
Sunday, October 02, 2005
"Recruitment"
One of the things I realized after the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference was that I need a team (I've archived what I wrote about the conference to October). For those who've been involved in the ad hoc Team Ryan, as my mom calls it, I thank you. I hope you know how important you are to this community endeavor.
I ask you to keep one thing in mind as you read the list below: this is not a vain attempt for attention. My ultimate goal is to educate others about social justice issues along the border. One of the best ways to do this, for example, is to create a media stir and let them do the dirty work of publicizing the issues. Fulfilling other... positions will help me better manage my time and focus more on the people I meet.
Thank you. Anything you can do will help.
TEAM RYAN:
Fundraising: Misty Cisneros and the CCLIAA (de facto)
Someone to transcribe and enter posts on the blog: Anneke Stagg
Someone to translate certain posts into Spanish: Momma Pearl
Someone to contact English-language media in Texas: Mariano Castillo (de facto)
Someone to contact English-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact English-language media in Arizona: Courtney Klein, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact English-language media in California:
Someone to contact national English-language media:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Texas:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Arizona: Luis Avila, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in California:
Someone to contact national Spanish-language media:
Someone to find periodical (print) outlets:
Someone to find web outlets:
Someone to raise attention about the project over the internet: Taylor Jackson
Someone to track down contact information for potential conversants: Janey Pearl (El Paso)
I ask you to keep one thing in mind as you read the list below: this is not a vain attempt for attention. My ultimate goal is to educate others about social justice issues along the border. One of the best ways to do this, for example, is to create a media stir and let them do the dirty work of publicizing the issues. Fulfilling other... positions will help me better manage my time and focus more on the people I meet.
Thank you. Anything you can do will help.
TEAM RYAN:
Fundraising: Misty Cisneros and the CCLIAA (de facto)
Someone to transcribe and enter posts on the blog: Anneke Stagg
Someone to translate certain posts into Spanish: Momma Pearl
Someone to contact English-language media in Texas: Mariano Castillo (de facto)
Someone to contact English-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact English-language media in Arizona: Courtney Klein, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact English-language media in California:
Someone to contact national English-language media:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Texas:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Arizona: Luis Avila, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in California:
Someone to contact national Spanish-language media:
Someone to find periodical (print) outlets:
Someone to find web outlets:
Someone to raise attention about the project over the internet: Taylor Jackson
Someone to track down contact information for potential conversants: Janey Pearl (El Paso)
Funding
I should also make a note here about funding. This project is largely self-sponsored, and I am assumming most of the financial responsibility for the the total equipment costs as well as normal cost-of-living expenditures.
The New Belgium Brewing Company and Recycled Cycles of Ft. Collins, Colorado, the Cesar Chavez Leadership Institute Alumni Association and the Barrett Honors College of Tempe, Arizona, and a few private donors have pledged donations. I'm hoping that individuals and organizations will be willing to contribute to my efforts along the way.
If you'd like to make a donation, you can send a check to the following address:
Ryan Riedel
Voluntour 1951
1211 W. Barrow Dr.
Chandler, AZ 85224
Somebody once said that your success is directly proportionate to the amount of help you are willing to ask of those around you. I would greatly appreciate any help that you have to offer. Thanks.
The New Belgium Brewing Company and Recycled Cycles of Ft. Collins, Colorado, the Cesar Chavez Leadership Institute Alumni Association and the Barrett Honors College of Tempe, Arizona, and a few private donors have pledged donations. I'm hoping that individuals and organizations will be willing to contribute to my efforts along the way.
If you'd like to make a donation, you can send a check to the following address:
Ryan Riedel
Voluntour 1951
1211 W. Barrow Dr.
Chandler, AZ 85224
Somebody once said that your success is directly proportionate to the amount of help you are willing to ask of those around you. I would greatly appreciate any help that you have to offer. Thanks.
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