8/8/2000 - 23h00- Lawton, OK
R dropped me this morning
at the airport. Flight went without problems. Seen from above, Oklahoma looks
like a field divided in 1Km-sided squares, each square divided in four. Very
weird. Looking in the lavatory mirror, I noticed a reddish stain on my face
which wasn't there this morning when I shaved. Another weird thing. After
landing, the hostess asked "all people using a wheelchair to please remain
seated", as if they would escape running... Waiting for the bus to take
me to the car rental office, I venture outside and the thermic shock is incredible.
These people move from the 20°C of the holy blessed airconditioningthankyouLord
to a scorching 40°C in the shade. No wonder some places count a statistically
worrying rate of nutcases. It's a one-minute sweat guarantee.
A shuttle bus drops
me at the car rental office, well, more like a cupboard with a counter and a
Straight-Story accent guy with his blessed holy baseballcapthankyouLord high
on his skull. I barely understand the first words he says, but I'm starting
to like that accent. It's very musical. The poor guy battles with a computer
system which doesn't understand that people can actually have an address in
a country outside the US. That's after the guy understands that Belgium is a
country. He stops asking questions fast wondering why an english-speaking Italian
born in Luxembourg and living in Belgium would have to go to a remote place
in Oklahoma with his rental car... I insist on the fact that all my data should
be in the system because I have inserted it myself when I booked the car on
the Internet. he can't find anything and starts encoding again. His colleague
comes in and tells him he'll go faster with the reference number marked on the
page I gave him. Argh! Of course all this is happening at 35°C and I start
to wonder why they don't use this method at customs to deter immigrants. Put
the customs office in a sauna with an ignorant employee.
Anyway, I give Mr. PleaseexcusemeI'mnewaroundhere a 10 min. crash course on
how to spell "Brussels" on a keyboard and we finally end the paperwork.
I'm ready to collect my Highway Star, my asphalt rocket, my Macadam Destroyer,
the machine from hell which will melt the roads beneath its tyres on fire, the
final conquest weapon: a 3 cylinder, one liter Suzuki Swift automatic gearbox.
Well at least it's red. Max speed can probably achieved in rear gear. The road
to Lawton is uneventful. The lack of fauna is compensated by some local pick-up
trucks and the characters driving them, or by the very looooong "sport
cars". I can't imagine this situation without the Holy Blessed AircothankyouLord.
Arrived at the hote in Lwton, I leave my stuff in my fresh and clean hotel room
and head for R. and W.'s place, less than a mile away, near the railroad track.
A "SantaFe" train passes by. It must be twice the size of a common
European city train.
R and W are too cool. They don't have much but they manage to raise the quality of their life far above that of other people who have the same revenue. Their commitment to quality in culture, nutrition, freedom of thought and to their kids is truly amazing. I'm invited to dinner and it's absolutely delicious. All this is respectful of all major guidelines of a healthy diet. I love these people. It's gift unwrapping time. The kids go crazy. I receive an indian cloth representing corn and a welcome card by Weckiai, the adorable daughter. W. tells me everything about her nation and its history. I receive a course on indian nations, before and after the colonisation, the history of the local people, their problems and quarrels, the problems they have with the white authority. This is completely different from what we're taught in school. Maybe today european schools give a more faithful account of this. R tells me about his book containing some very autobiographical prose and poetry which was censored locally. I understand rapidly that brains in function aren't very welcome around here. W loves to write and would like to extend her activities to cinema. R is finishing his second university degree. They hope to move to Portland, Oregon, hopefully next year.
Weckiai is 7 and William, her brother is less than 18 months. He looks at least the double. Weckiai is a real jewel, incredibly pretty. William looks like a baby Kurt Cobain and runns all over the place. I leave at 23h00. Tomorrow we visit Geronimo's grave.
9/8/2000 - 18h00- Lawton, OK
R. and W. graciously let me use their PC for a while. i know W. uses it a lot and I appreciate their hospitality a lot. After an excellent lunch we go to Fort Sill; this historical place is inside the local artillery Army base. This is really outlandish: nearby a ranch with nice-looking horses, you can admire cannons, rocket and missile launchers, Katiuschas (Stalin's "organons"), V2 rockets, as well as a long path of antique cannons and artillery stuff used since the Secession war
 long-range nuclear ammunition cannon |
 Horses + Missile |
 V2 rocket |
 Horses + missile |
We visit Geronimo's prison cell, barely two square meters. The comments and
picture captions on the walls are very partisan, sometimes revisionistic. everything
is made to flatten the legend of the warrior, transforming him into an decadent
common terrorist ending his carreer as an alcoholic prisoner. This place is
really emotional, and for anyone like me who loved the character in his youth,
it's a crushing experience. American colonialism presents itself here with its
heavy racist mantle. History is presented here from only one viewpoint. The
worst thing is that they're apparently still proud of it.
W. reminds me that the indian nations have themselves a heavy history of "racial"
conflicts, vengeance, corruption and that they were no angels either. Drug,
jealousy and alcohol problems are her people daily bread too, like in all modern
human society. We go to the cemetery to see Geronimo's grave. I can't take pictures.
It's like a small pyramid of stone and concrete, with an Eagle on top and Indian
jewelry. It's surrounded by hundreds of votive pieces of cloth, hung to the
tree behind the grave. The family members' graves are nearby. It's clear that
Geronimo knew how to take advantage of his image and celebrity, and still today,
among thousands of kids, his name is the one of a great hero, like in all cults
of personality. However, he remains a resisting man who made many a man change
his mind.W. reminds
me that many other people had a crucial importance in the indian history. These
people are certainly unknown in europe and most probably even outside this State;
they also contributed to the peace and well-being of their people. W. knows
quite a lot about this aspect of local history, as some of these great people
are her ancestors.
This is an incredible paradox. In Europe one's family members actions and quests
will gain a status of nobility and respect. Here they only earned a contant
ostracism from local rednecks who unfortunately owned the land and the capital,
in the name of an imported god. Before leaving the cemetery I took a picture
of a group of blank tombstones, without names, bearing only a number. From what
I understand, whites used to mark certain Apaches with a tattooed number. Sounds
like the Nazis weren't even original.
 Apache graveyard |
R. drives us around town
to show me its typical american extremes. Some "high-class" districts
present an incredible lack of taste, while other poor districts the locals struggle
to keep a decaying home looking like a nice little house. A surgeon has built
a huge megalomaniac mansion on a hill as artificial as his ludicrous fake golden
painted pompous dome on the roof, to the glory of his immense redneckitude.
Something to make you glow in the dark with shame.
 Mansions near artificial lake |
 Surgeon's house |
On the way home we are
stuck by the typical local parade. This is *exactly* like in that movie directed
by David Byrne "True Stories". Everything's in it, by the book: the
big truck with the "Melon Queen 2000", named after a local agrarian
contest and not after her mamelian protuberences, the miniature cars, various
heavy lawnmowers, the local election candidates throwing buckets of sweets to
the kids, the clowns and a camel and about twenty blonde and hollow females
riding horses proudly holding flags of the local ... ... sponsors which paid
for this marvelous exhibition of what intellectuals call "Americana":
the typical suburb and redneck lack of taste and excess of vulgarity in its
mall and supermarket breeding ground. OF
COURSE my film ends after only two pictures. It's OK, one can rent True Stories
by David Byrne and see it all like I saw it.s
 Parade 1 |
 Parade 2 |
I'm again invited to dinner by W. and I can't possibly refuse. She's a great cook: she feeds her family intelligently avoiding all the easy traps of the typical american shitfood industry. I'd like to take this family in a good local restaurant if there's one.
10/8/2000 - 22h00- Lawton, OK
Spent all morning calling
hotels in L.A. for an alternative to the youth hostel, to no avail. Everything
is booked. We spent the afternoonin a local wildlife preserve in the neighbouring
mountains. The resemblance with sardinia is incredible. same hills, same trees,
same granite surface, even some prickly pear cactus tree! However, the difference
becomes clear with the fauna: first the Prairie Dogs, something like a large
beige ground squirrel standing on its feet when alerted, just like Cubicle employees
in office landscapes. Then there's the huge local buffalo. Now that's a big
thing. Same size as its african counterpart but its fur makes it look much larger.
It doesn't look as menacing as the african one so I venture outside safely for
a couple of pics.
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 Prairie Dog 2 |
 Prairie Dog 3 |
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 Buffalo1 |
 Buffalo 2 |
 Buffalo 3 |
I invited the family to
a local mexican restaurant, then R. showed me a video of a poetry contest in
Taos, NM, to which he participated. I had read his poetry but seeing it read
by the author himself is a different thing. Shivers down my spine as he reads
about family violence. R. is forbidden to read his poetry in public in local
bars. He speaks too openly about what a racist, alcoholic, violent and incestuous
father can do to his family. Seems like it's national sport here. R. is a mountain
of strength hiding a great heart. I meet W's mother, the author of many family
tattoos and painter artist.
I have observed, during these days, the tendencies of this State to slide towards
something similar to Iran or Afghanistan, with it religioius extremes. I hope
this family can move away from here as soon as possible.
11/8/2000 - 12h00 - Phoenix, AZ
Yesterday was my last day
in OK. I wandered aroud the streets looking for some cream to calm the mosquito
bites. I went for a tour of the local shopping mall, much smaller than I thought
and more surprisingly, much more expensive than in Europe. Local fauna is typical
of any shopping mall around the planet (Homo Shoppingmallus Vulgaris). I guess
the elderly come here for the fresh holy blessed AirconditionedthankyouLord
air. I spent the afternoon at R and W's, I went with R to a local Wal-Mart,
symbol of the great American Exportable Decadence where they even sell spare
parts for cars.
Back home we tried the inflatable balloon that I had brought for Weckiai. What
an experience: it's a long 4meter black plastic sausage, made of a very thin
and light plastic film, which flies when the air inside is warmed by the sun.
Under the amazed eyes of the kids, the giant sausage started hovering above
ground and flew up to ten meters when its cord got stuck in a nearby tree. Unfortunately
the cord broke and set the giant black sausage UFO free above town, hopefully
triggering some alarms in the neighbouring army base. I promised to send Weckiai
a replacement balloon.
I left some European music MP3s to R and spoke at length with W. about her long-term
sickness, a form of over-reacting immune system which endangers her life.
I left this morning with my speedmobile red bullet car to OK City, waited one
hour to return the car to Mr. Efficiency. In the plane to Phoenix, I gave my
seat to a person so that she could stay together with her partner. I was thanked
6 times and offered a drink. lloks like this kind of normal behaviour rarely
happens around here. From above, Phoenix looks like a desert with hundreds of
swimming pools.
 Weckiai 1 |
 Weckiai 2 |
 Weckiai 3 |
 Weckiai 4 |
 Kids at fort sill |
 William 1 |
 William 2 |
 Kurt Cobain!! |
 Kids inside a teepee |
 Kids go wild |
