Day 9: Central Valley, CA to Las Vegas, NV

I arrived later than expected in Fresno, CA due to the delays you read about in the last post. My host, Richard, was welcoming anyway despite having never met me. Our mutual friend, Hollis, had made an introduction and his vouch was more than enough for both of us, I think. Hollis had described him as “…a published author, a superb catalyst, a creative counselor, yoga practitioner, international traveler, and a good friend” and we talked that evening about his work through the years, most recently with the Fresno Center for Nonviolence and as part of the editorial team for the Community Alliance, the progressive paper in Fresno that gives a much needed voice to those outside the corporate news paradigm. I interviewed him about that work and also interviewed Mickey Huff, director of Project Censored, by phone that evening. He couldn’t reveal to me the top censored stories of the year until they’re officially published, but we had a great conversation about media literacy, good research, and more. You can hear both of those interviews in part on Praxis this week and in full here on the site when they’re ready.

Timing ended up quite bad for the organizations I was curious about in both Visalia and Bakersfield, but I’d like to share some information about their work here for you second-hand. Community Water Center, headquarted in Visalia but working throughout the Central Valley, works on drought mitigation advocacy and to get water to communities that have been without clean and reliable water for years now. I’d recommend reading some of the stories on their site if you’re curious. This New York Times article also lays out the complex relationships at play between big ag, small ag, workers, and residents in these areas as huge farms drill deeper and drink communities’ water out from under their feet. A third layer that ties the issues of oil extraction that we talked about the day before in the Bay Area is the use of partially treated petro-chemical wastewater to irrigate many of the crops in this area. You can read about that here. I hadn’t expected the scale of farming in this valley to be so overwhelming. The video below gives a tiny peek into how the miles upon miles of mono-cropped farms unfurl in this area. Don’t worry, mom, I was driving super slowly and sped up the video after the fact.

The scale of life that we’ve built in this civilization is clearly not sustainable. When our main food-producing region is drying up and sinking into the ground, it’s long past time to build smaller, more localized, less linear ways of doing things. I had a long drive ahead of me east through the Mojave Desert, and didn’t stay long in the Central Valley after I found out I wouldn’t be able to do interviews in person. I was grateful to have working A/C as I watched the outside temperature climb from 99 F to 104 F to 108 F while driving into the desert. I did hop out to take a few photos, feeling like a more sober Hunter S. Thompson, and not knowing what my real plan would be heading into Vegas.

I have no real interest in Las Vegas, in gambling, and the rest, but wanted to check it out as probably the best symbol we have of all-American decadence and escapism. After reading and hearing about the deprivation of basic human rights like water just a few hours west, I wasn’t ready for the visual onslaught that is The Strip as seen from I-15 at dusk. I drove through it twice, having backtracked to meet a friend, Kelly, who cosmically happened to be staying in Mesquite and offered me half her room. By the time I realized it would take nearly another hour, the sixth of driving that day, to get there, I didn’t care about taking my own photos of Vegas, as there are so many out there already. I can assure readers: the fountains are on, the lights are bright, and the party is in full effect even on a Monday night.

Las Vegas is the one looting and rioting. This permanent onslaught of light, noise, flash, bang, flesh, sell, buy–what is it if not a riot? It’s without any righteousness or feeling, though, that you might find in what’s traditionally considered a riot. Not entirely without feeling, I suppose, but without justification. The very American feelings of empty stomach, grabbing hands, go faster, more!, now! A hollow, fearful frailty wrapped in bravado, cloaked in neon and pornography. When I drove away that night and saw those hollering lights fade into a glittering bed of orange coals the color of shame and excess, I thought about the party I’ll throw the night they go out forever. Not a neon party, but fire and drums and wild human-scale humanity. I believe we will see those lights extinguished, and not long from now. Somehow as I pushed north into the desert into a blackness so comforting and empty I was somehow alone on the road for ten miles at least. That’s the road we’re all on now as we burn through the last of what makes this type of life possible, but I for one prefer the uncertain, unknowable darkness, the white glow of headlights, three stars.