It is not entirely clear what my next step will be, but Ruben and I have teamed up so my next step will be ours and vice versa. In Sacramento, we will be meeting with a landowner and potential business partner. He has the land and we have the will and the know-how to turn it into something vital and productive. Not to mention that UC Davis is close and has kick-ass programs for all things agricultural, although I will have to wait for tuition to go back down if it ever does.

For now, I am in Ashland, Oregon with Ruben to visit his mother. Ashland a cute college town in the southern part of Oregon. The downtown is laid out in the traditional manner with street-side parking and busy sidewalks abutting storefronts, but feels formed to the landscape in an organic manner. Creeks run through the town and there are several walkways down along the creek wedged between bridges and small businesses. A natural lithium spring bubbles up via a fountain in the center of Downtown. The sulfuric taste is off-putting at the tip of your tongue, but feels good in the back of your throat. Here, the cornerstone of the mainstream medical schizophrenia treatment comes out of a public fountain. Lithium also may be used to treat other forms of mental illness including depression, bipolar disorder and Alzheimer’s. All that humans need to heal themselves exists right before our eyes, grows from the ground, falls from the sky and bubbles from the earth. Duh.

Ruben’s mother is Hilary Jacobson, author of Mother Food, a book compiling many years of research on galactagogues– foods and herbs that increase lactation. Her interests range also into general health and nutrition. I discovered a book in the house called Eating Alive: Prevention Through Good Digestion by Jonn Mateson N.D., published in 1987. Reading it, I recall the four basic functions of plant health that Bob Cannard taught… umm, well, I can only remember one right now, and that’s digestion. It does not matter how many healthy foods you eat, infusions you drink or supplements you take, if your body cannot digest the contents you do not benefit one bit.

I am learning for the first time the basics of human digestive anatomy. Why? I’m almost 25 years old. Why was I not taught these very basic facts of being a human? Sure, in school I learned that we all have an esophagus, a stomach, a duodenum, intestines etc., but the functions and roles of these organs were outlined at best, not to mention the problems that can occur if health and nutrition is poor.

When you think of it, aside from breathing, the digestive system is the part of the human body that has the most relations with external material in the environment. It is the most open system and therefore the most susceptible to the beginnings and exacerbation of disease. It is also ground zero for the treatment of disease. Duh.

I sit now in an Ashland cafe called Evo’s. The people are insanely friendly and happy. The cafe employees chat with the customers and joke with the mailman. The sign on the window says either “Home” or “Gone Foraging”. I can bike places! I borrowed Hilary’s ‘cycle and rode here in no time. Several organic and natural markets speckle the town. Access. Never have I realized just how important access is and how important it is to me to be able to ride my bike around town and find and eat good food. There is a striking lack of access in Texas. Although, I do believe that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Thirty miles from Echowood is the Producer’s Market and a weekly farmer’s market. I’m sure there are more farmer’s markets in the surrounding towns. Jackie, the owner of the Bastrop Producer’s Market, orders bulk foods from a grocer’s catalog each month. With organization, access can be gained. Unfortunately, I do not control the resources with which access can be taken advantage of at Echowood.

I have seen much information on the internet for unoxygenated compost tea (admittedly, including my own). If you live in a city in a small space, a proper compost tea maker may be difficult (but not impossible!). This article (http://www.ehow.com/how_6310121_oxygenate-compost-tea.html) should help to make true, oxygenated compost tea just about anywhere. If you are in a small space, try making compost tea in a smaller container with just one fish tank pump.

How to Oxygenate Compost Tea

All of this urine-play has to do with mating: finding out if the doe is in heat, etc. There is a daily hot pursuit with Loki practically crying and chasing a doe. Loki keeps chasing and crying and blowing snot (or something) on the doe, and the doe runs away and cries as well. I can just imagine their dialog: “Please! Please! Have sex with me! Ohhhhh! My balls hurt so bad!” and “No! Go away, you’re gross! I just had babies, c’mon, gimme a break!”

Yep, the goats must be sold. It’s sad. I have actually gotten to know them quite a bit. While Rob and Sharon were on a trip to California (to look at prospective places to live) Ruben sold three babies– two girls and a boy. These people must have been crazy. The babies were screaming as we handed them over to be loaded in the car. The momma goats were confused for about a day, but they seemed to get over it afterwards. Still, though, it felt bad taking two-month-old babies away from their mommas.

With the mommas– Frega and Aphrodite– sans babies, we had to “milk them off,” meaning manually milking them, so that their milk production can drop-off gradually, rather than a sudden drop-off after losing their babies. Frega was a good producer, but was very difficult to milk. Aphrodite was, in contrast, very well-behaved. She knew the deal: she gets to eat food out of her own special trough, and we get to touch her boobies. Ruben and I joked that she was a very good prostitute. We never came to an agreement with Frega, although she will now walk up to me and let me pet her. Each goat has such a unique personality. They are so beautiful. I’ve certainly become attached.

While in Oxford, I received some bad news from Ruben at Echowood– one of the main people, Will, was leaving with a woman he had met on the farm, and wouldn’t be returning for nine months or more. This prompted a decision by a couple of the property owners to sell Echowood. Even with imminent dissolution, I still knew I had to go back after visiting Ida.

Following my Oxford stint, I kept on truckin’, this time up the Natchez-Trace Trail. The Natchez-Trace is the most beautiful road I have ever encountered, considering its length. The Two Sticks folks had recommended it to me. Research must be done to find an entrance to this isolated road, as well as proper planning of food stocks and gas stops. The Natchez-Trace is 444 miles long, stretching diagonally across Mississippi, crossing through a corner of Alabama, and ending up just outside of Nashville. There are almost no buildings whatsoever along the Natchez-Trace– no gas stations, no convenience stores, no Wal-Marts. Occasionally, a farm building can be seen in the distance, but it is mostly flanked by trees, fields, parks, historical and ecological places of interest, and campgrounds. I jammed from Tupelo, MS to Nashville to Ida in one day.

I arrived at Ida in the evening, and parked my van at the front of the 200-acre property. There were several other visitors at the time, in addition to eight of the nine folks who reside there on a more permanent basis. Tennessee was cold, and the hollow that Ida sits in is deep, and even colder. I planned to stay for two weeks, but ended up departing after just one. It was cold and rainy most of my time there, and I came down with a wicked cold. I ended up spending a lot of time in my van, especially the last few days I was there. I slept a lot at that point– I had not been that sick for quite some time.

I generally had some bad feelings about that place. The mojo just wasn’t flowing well. I felt quite unwelcome, and was bored. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough; perhaps my ability to enter in to a new community of people had been sapped after four months of being in a new place every week or so. I was even trained to inject myself well into new groups of people– I knew I could have done it. But, for some reason, it didn’t seem worth it. I did not feel motivated to put work and energy into Ida. There was some kind of strangeness going on. It was not the bright, happy, playful energy that I had been led to believe was present there. Again, though, grain of salt– it was cold and rainy. Credit is due there.

All I knew was that I had to leave. I am of the belief that your body is an indicator of the environment around you, and I was very sick.

I left early in the morning on my return to Echowood. Ruben was not expecting me for another few weeks, since I had planned to go to Ashville, NC as well. It would be a great surprise. I did manage to tell some others at Echowood, however, so it wouldn’t be an unwelcome surprise.

Again, I drove along the Natchez-Trace, after having quite a hard time finding an entrance to the trail in Tennessee (“Get me out of here!”). Good thing to have an atlas when the GPS doesn’t have a signal (thanks, Grammy). Finally, I made it on the trail, and knew I was home-free. I had to stop at one point in a sunny meadow speckled with wildflowers. It was so good for my soul to be in some flat, sunny space. I soaked in the rays with Simon the Cat hanging out next to me on a leash.

At about 5 p.m., I arrived at Rocky Springs, one of the three free parkway campgrounds. At first, I was told the campground was full, but the friendly volunteer groundskeepers made space for me when I told them I was traveling alone and needed a place to crash for the night. How refreshing it was that the groundskeeper, Dave, was so friendly. I almost forgot what normal, friendly conversation was like after the past week. I went to sleep with the sun, and awoke with it as well, leaving the quiet, sleeping campground for the calm of the early morning Trail.

It was a sight to see– the Natchez-Trace with the sun coming up over it, trees and fog and dew. I felt happy, as I made my way on the last leg of the return to Echowood.

As I drove north through Mississippi away from New Orleans, I gazed longingly at the other side of the highway. All of the people driving on that side of the highway were going south, where I truly wished to go– back to Echowood. I shook off those feelings and pushed myself to go further. I was particularly excited about visiting Ida in Tennessee, a queer, circus-y commune that seemed right up my alley. I had been talking about it for months.

But, these things often come when you don’t expect them and prove elusive when you seek them out specifically. On a last-minute jam to find a Texas farm that would host me (I wanted to see at least one farm in each state I visited), I found Echowood Farm on IC.org. They said to come on down, and so I did– to Delhi, TX (that’s “Dell-high”), an hour south-east of Austin off the 304. Twenty-three acres tucked into the Texas hill country, two houses– the “big house” and the “little house,” two trailers, an acre garden, a greenhouse, a herd of free-range goats, a flock of free-range chickens, a craft room, an industrial kitchen, a pond, a workshop with all manner of tools, a detached TV room/office, three dogs, three cats, and varying amounts of people. A Gonzales, TX flag flies in the wind, with the provoking words “Come and Take It.”

I realized that Echowood had the materials and the space (physical and emotional) to allow each person to ‘do their own thing.’ While a rough start-time for the work day was set at nine, it was certainly not set in stone. No one would hint that you should get a move on, or enforce even what specific tasks you should do. The word “anarchist” has been thrown around here a few times, and I would say that’s a fairly accurate depiction. However, must we call everything that doesn’t require you to ‘punch in’ or answer to a boss (from the Dutch for “master”)?

When I arrived here initially on February 7th, there were ten people in all at the farm. Three were new guests, plus myself. One was a more seasoned guest. Two were considered core people, and had been at Echowood between 9 months and a year. And three were core, stable members who had financial stake in the land. I could see the difficulty that is faced by a community in finding appropriate members. Both parties must click, and both be in a position to oblige each other. Some visitors click, but have other plans for their lives. Some visitors would love to stay after the two-week trial period, but the current members don’t feel they click. A couple of the guests that were here when I arrived had to be informed that the Echowoodians didn’t think this was the place for them. In one case, this brought tears, and in another, threats. This is serious business, I suppose. Opening your home up to strangers can be a blessing, and can also lead to all kinds of interpersonal drama.

Apparently, I clicked. I had planned to stay at Echowood for one week, but stayed longer for various reasons. The van needed some work, and some of the folks here helped me out loads in getting it fixed: trying to fix the problem here, and then, finally, driving to the auto shop in Smithville, with my van driving behind, to get repairs done. I was accommodated, along with my cat Simon, in the living room of the little house. Truly above and beyond. I clicked in particular with one sweet Swiss man, on Valentine’s Day, no less. How cute is that?

My mom had hooked me up with a hotel room via the company she works for in New Orleans– my next stop. So, I had to leave Echowood and continue on my journey before I was ready, and check in to the room. However, my trip would bring me back eventually.

Access to good food is something I really took for granted when living in the San Francisco Bay Area. Within a bike ride from my North Oakland apartment, I could get to Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, Berkeley Bowl, and Monterey Market– all of which have healthy, organic food. I was even able to be picky, and get the best from each (produce and bulk from Monterey or Berkeley Bowl, snacks at Trader Joe’s, fancy stuff from Whole Foods).

On this journey, I have found myself in the Dollar General, trying to find something that I would be willing to eat, calculating so many factors in my head on corn syrup proportions, craving, cost, any vestige of nutritional value. My last bout at that store turned up canned olives from Spain, prunes that I later gave away to a man asking for money for food, a bag of Lays potato chips that made me feel yucky when I ate almost the whole bag, cheese crackers, and peanut butter. This was just over the bridge from the ninth ward in New Orleans, but I digress…

In Austin, you have at least one decent option in Wheatsville.

While in Austin, I stayed in my van on the street for a couple nights. The first night there, I went to a Food Not Bombs benefit show at the 21st Street Co-op. Over a hundred people live in this large cooperative compound, all of which are supposed to be students at UT, officially, although I wonder if there are unofficial residents who are not students. The benefit show took place in a large event space on the second floor. Someone made really bomb vegan banana muffins encrusted with sugar. I sat around and chatted with people there while drinking wine out of a bottle. My sociality was low that night, however, and I turned in early. I had parked my van on Rio Grande. I slept well, only bothered by the yells of drunken college students walking the streets.

The next day, I drove to 24 Hour Fitness to get some exercise and a shower. Ran errands around there. Then to a cafe on the east side called Thunderbird. I sat with my computer at the cafe bar. It was evening, so I didn’t want to drink coffee particularly, but what I nice surprise when I saw that they also served beer. Three bucks for a pint of yummy brew. They also had an art opening that night, so people mingled with glasses of wine around me. The next morning, I went in for a coffee, and saw that many paintings had been sold. Wow, I thought, I should move here if I want to sell art. Thunderbird also has music shows– everything you could ever want your favorite cafe to be!

I was interested in the many co-ops that exist around campus in Austin, and was told by some Marfa folk that particularly Royal co-op was a winner, so I emailed them, as well as the House of Commons. Both are members of the ICC (Inter-Cooperative Council). It’s essentially a co-op of co-ops. Unlike the College Houses co-ops, ICC is not strictly UT students, although most residents are. A resident of Royal responded and also offered me a place to stay. I drove my van there the next day and was able to park my van in the driveway for the next week. Royal was a lovely house. It’s close to campus but divided from the loud, partying, college-y atmosphere that exists right across the street. The yard was green and lush, and Simon had a good ‘ol time running around it.

Royal holds communal meals Sunday through Thursday, with rotating teams of two cooking each day. My first day there, they held a meeting, and my staying there was opened for discussion. There were no objections, so it was decreed I could driveway surf, and I introduced myself to the group. I pitched in a bit of cash for food and utilities, and got to know some of the co-op members.

I’m not sure I could go back to living in a restricted nuclear family household, or even with just one or two other roommates. Living in a co-op certainly requires that one give up certain amounts of control, but it also makes life easier, I think, to know that dinner will be cooked for you four nights a week, and you will cook for everyone one night a week. Royal was nice in that there was often people to hang out with in the evenings, but the house was quiet during the day, and was not a party house by any means. Certainly more of a ‘mature’ co-op.

I visited House of Commons to help cook one of their communal meals, and partake in the food with them. I cooked pumpkin pancakes, and found a much-needed propane tank in the free zone. The HoC meal was larger than Royal’s, about twice as many people at the table. A couple members spoke about a fire that occurred in the house recently. Someone had left a hot glue gun on in a bedroom, which was filled with cardboard (they had been making intricate cardboard suits of armor). The third floor burned extensively. The ICC, as the governing body of all member co-ops, handled all of the insurance disbursements and repairs. Further, there was a pre-existing web of co-op houses where HoC residents could stay while their home was being repaired. For busy working people and students, a community of this sort provided a large supply of aid. How many homeowners can tout such benefits?– or even renters for that matter! Not many landlords will so quickly repair damage, and provide a place for you to live in the interim.

I helped cook Food Not Bombs on Sunday, January 31st, at the 21st Street Co-op, where the FNB benefit show had been. It was much like cooking any other FNB meal. The crowd in Austin is younger than in Berkeley, with most regular cooks in their very early 20′s. I asked where they acquired the produce, but the place is now a secret, since they had an issue with an FNB impostor picking up the food. We served at Wooldridge Park at 6pm. There were about 50 people who had come to partake in the meal.

If you’re in Austin, also check out the Yellow Bike Project, the local bike recyclery. The organization is currently in transition, developing plans for a new space. But you can find them still twice a week, Monday and Friday 4-7pm, at 411 W. Monroe Street. Use of the shop stands and tools is free, and you only pay for parts. When I fixed my brakes and cotter pin and was ready to pay, I was even asked what I wanted to pay. I gave them five bucks. Pay-what-you-will is a practice that works surprisingly well, and could be used more widely.

As I found out from a person I met at an open-mic night, Yellow Bike began with the idea that they could produce and disseminate several bicycles painted bright yellow, for use as communal bikes that people the city over could share. However, they were not able to produce enough bikes to make up for the unavoidable loss that occurs when someone decides to keep one permanently. I suppose the take-if-you-will does not work as well as the pay-what-you-will.

Austin has a lot to offer. Many great food, music, housing, craft, and art spaces. I plan, though, to settle for a bit an hour southeast of Austin, on a place called Echowood Farm.

I contacted Nowe Miasto, the co-op that the chick in Iron Rail had told me about. I wanted to check the place out and see what it was all about. Brice, Nowe’s founder, emailed back and invited me to come meet with him.

Initially, I met a couple other co-op members when I arrived there, and talked with them for a bit. One, Maddy Ruthless, told me that six people currently lived in the house. Maddy is a DJ, works at Domino Records, and studies music at the local college.

I asked why there was no Food Not Bombs or similar presence in New Orleans. I was told that sometimes, travelers will come through town and try to set FNB up, but then, they move on after several months, and the organization leaves with them. “Life can be harder here than elsewhere. Giving can be hard when you’re already hanging by your fingernails.”

“Nowe miasto” translates to “new city” in Polish. Creating a new kind of city is the goal of the space.

The Iron Rail Infoshop, which I wrote about in a previous post, used to be headquartered at Nowe, and has now progressed to their own space in the Ark building. Currently, Nowe hosts art and music shows, as well as a Books-to-Prisoners project, where folks collect literature and write letters to those in prison. It is intended as a general meeting/community/art space. Soon, it could be more than that.

When Katrina passed over New Orleans, the building that houses Nowe lost it’s roof and stood in 9 feet of water. Raising money for skilled labor and materials has proven difficult, and hindered a complete restoration of Nowe’s prior condition.

To appease this burden, Nowe is currently undergoing a transformation into 501c3 status. There is a debate within the community regarding this change (as I have seen a couple of times before in other organizations). The question is: should autonomy be maintained at all costs, with funding the sole responsibility of the community, or should outside sources of funding be considered, gained through the achievement of 501c3 status?

Another significant result of 501c3 status would be the possibility of forming a land trust, as Brice explained to me in the sunny, chicken-speckled backyard later that day. Brice and his partner recently purchased the building next door as well, under the plan of incorporating that land into the land trust as well.

Land trusts are often aimed at conservation of natural habitat, or of farmland, but a community or residential land trust operates somewhat differently. It allows people to purchase homes at lower cost, since they are buying the building, and not the land. The land trust holders (the 501c3 board), can decide what qualifying factors to use for potential buyers. For example, Brice intends this land trust to be open for low-income residents only, giving those an opportunity to own or rent a home who otherwise, would not be able to afford it.

Since the building owners would not own the land privately, but only communally as part of the trust, real estate speculation is halted, and gentrification’s most harmful aspects are thwarted. The two buildings that Brice currently owns would be part of the land trust as rental properties, providing low-income folks with apartments and rooms in a co-op setting.

Community boards tend to be “bourgie” (meaning “bourgeoisie”), Brice said, because it’s composed completely of property-owners. A land-trust would decentralize decision-making, Brice explained. Everyone who owns a building or rents space on the land trust has a say in the group decisions affecting that trust, but they can participate as little or as much as possible. He feels that this formation would allow people whose opinions are normally hindered to have a voice within land and real estate decisions in their neighborhood. A land trust would create “something good for renters and property owners… [They could] advocate for the neighborhood with more strength, and improve the quality of life.”

Low-income housing organized by the state, like Section 8, tends to be slumlord property. The land owner does the absolute minimum to maintain and beautify the properties because he/she has no motivation to do more– they receive Section 8 money either way. Section 8 housing also tends to be concentrated in certain parts of the city, creating ghettos, and eliminating any ability to choose residential locale on the part of the renter. “People want a nice place to live that’s affordable,” said Brice. The goal of the Middle-City Land Trust would be to “improve the quality of life for us and the people around us… [because] quality of life is more important than property values.”

The Iron Rail anarchist infoshop and the Plan B bicycle recyclery both occupy a portion of an old brick warehouse building on the corner of Marigny and Decatur fondly called the Ark. Although they are two separate organizations (which a volunteer at Plan B emphasized), they seem to benefit from sharing a space. In fact, their close proximity is similar to the layout of Santa Cruz’s Bike Church and Subrosa Infoshop. What do bicycles and anarchism have to do with each other anyways?

Well, for one, anarchists tend to concern themselves with a DIY mentality– making and fixing things yourself versus purchasing new items or paying someone else to provide a repair service. Indeed, this is one thing that attracts me so much to anarchist culture. Too often, people hear the word “anarchism” and they scoff. That’s what some dude from Dallas at the last farm I was at did. I immediately felt pissed off and defensive, even though I don’t even self identify as an anarchist.

Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater! Anarchism has lots of lovely little shiny babies– take ‘em out of the bathwater and dry ‘em off, will you?

Anywho, the Iron Rail’s doorway opens up to a foyer, with open space for meetings and film screenings, a bookshelf full of free books, and a big ol’ pile of free clothes— a “freecycle,” Zena said. Zena was at the front counter on the other side of the foyer, in the infoshop proper. She has been volunteering at the Iron Rail for three months– as long as she’s been in New Orleans. All those who work at the Iron Rail volunteer their time. Zena said she likes volunteering there because she just wants something to do, wants to help book stores in general survive, and likes supporting what the Iron Rail is all about– giving the community positive ideas about revolutionary anarchism, feminism, and DIY through literature.

The Iron Rail creates “a space for learning about radical ideas” through their free library and store where you can purchase music, ‘zines, and patches. Zena described it as very well-run, and indeed, it has been at the Ark for nine years, since 2001. Organizational meetings are held every Wednesday at 8pm.

Zena offered me some coffee, and I sat on the couch and read for awhile. Several people came in and out, some obviously travelers, some locals. One chick brought in a bunch of dumpstered cupcakes. They had been in her freezer previously. I’m always into dumpstered food, but it was kind of a yucky cupcake. I purposely dropped most of the frosting on a patch of dirt, and ate the cake.

Apparently, there is no Food Not Bombs active in New Orleans. That’s really too bad. I would expect it of a city with such size and fame and large contingent of radical-y people. Zena said there used to be an organization similar to FNB called Fuck No. They wold serve under the Claiborne Bridge. For some reason, the organization dissolved. She also mentioned a “bum feed” called The Wall, a punk house called Nowe Miasto (nowemiastonola.org), and noladiy.org (a good website for New Orleans music shows).

After hanging out in the Iron Rail for a bit, I walked into Plan B. It was probably the busiest bike recyclery I’ve seen. I spoke with both volunteers working that day, Jascha and Amy. Jascha had been volunteering there for five years, and Amy for two. Like the Iron Rail, Plan B has no paid employees, only volunteers, although they do have what Jascha described as a core group of volunteers.

They do not charge for the use of the bike stands or tools, but do sell new and used parts. For those who cannot afford to buy the parts, Plan B offers a work-trade option at the rate of $5/hour. Technically, work-trade can be used in exchange for an entire rebuilt bicycle or new parts, but Plan B tries to keep work-trade restricted to used parts alone.

All patrons of the shop on the day I was there were men, but like many bike recycleries, Plan B has a women/trans day, so that women or female gender-indentifying folks can have a safe, quieter space to work.

Amy said that although many of their patrons are men, the volunteer group is gender-balanced. When I asked her why she likes volunteering at Plan B, she said that she simply likes to work on bikes. She finds bike shops are typically financially inaccessible, and bike recycleries allow those who normally could not afford bike repair a place to care for their bike. Amy believes that bicycle accessibility is important because people use bikes to get to work, to go on adventures, and to travel. Additionally, Plan B provides a clearinghouse for used parts that would normally be thrown away. “It’s either here or the dump,” she explained.

Amy explained the problems with an all-volunteer organization such as Plan B. “There is a rotating group of committed people,” she said, “and people get burned-out easily, but then a new group of people emerge who are excited about it… It would be better if we could have paid employees– the shop would be cleaner, more organized, and we would have more parts.” Currently, though, Amy explained, Plan B is barely keeping its head above water. Every month the rent gets paid is an accomplishment.

Keeping non-profit community-centered organizations like Plan B open and thriving in a society that aids and favors money-driven enterprises certainly is an accomplishment each day running.

www.bikeproject.org

www.ironrail.org

On “the scruffy side of the tracks” in Marathon, Texas, sits La Loma Del Chivo. An eclectic variety of buildings occupy this city block of land, from a kiva to a sweat lodge, to a bedroom sarcastically entitled the “Mc Mansion.” The special thing about all of these buildings is their DIY flavor– all have been built not according to some professional architect’s idea of what a building should be, but according to the vision and creativity of those actually building it.

The hostel is an inexpensive option for those traveling through West Texas, or going into the Big Bend National Park. It’s even free for bicyclists traveling down highway 90. If you cannot afford the $15 a night, there is also a work-trade option, and the hostel is host to several folks in the WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) program. How refreshing to find a place where so much creativity and property is allowed to flow and the feeling is so laid-back. WWOOFers are encouraged to start whatever project they would like, and owner Guil funds the materials cost. A workshop is available for all who desire to use it. The result is papercrete buildings– some big, some small– a brick pizza oven, an organic garden, and pathways made of crushed glass tumbled smooth.

One WWOOFer, Jarrett, showed me around, and explained to me his vision for La Loma. He stays in a small steel trailer on the property that he hopes to collect rainwater from. The water would run off from the roof and onto a garden adjacent. A kiva-in-the-making will have a domed roof. At the time I was there, the kiva had been dug, lined with papercrete, and large tree stump set up in the middle to support the roof. In the warmer months, a movie projector is set up on the roof lounge of the main building, and pizzas are made in the brick oven. The roof lounge wall is decked with block letters forming the phrase “malls and malls of dessert in every direction,” which Jarrett interpreted as a commentary on suburban sprawl.

While I was there, a delivery of lumber, cinder blocks, and pavers was made, and everyone helped to unload, along with several neighbors, who Guil pays by the hour. Once the materials were unloaded, one WWOOFer exclaimed “beer time!” I really wished I could have stayed and enjoyed that beer time with everyone, but, alas, I had to depart on my way to San Antonio. See ya later, West Texas!

Eve’s Garden has been meticulously designed, built, and landscaped for the past eight years by owners Clyde Curry and Kate Thayer. Their vision, which Eve’s Garden embodies, is increased “localized self-reliance.” Hence, the Garden is not only a wonderous place to stay, but is also built to inspire the creative spirit. Clyde describes the B&B as a “Hope Center,” a place where folks can experience an example of more responsible living.

Entering through the large front door, you step inside the main house to a welcoming foyer, painted brightly and with findings from the natural world dispersed throughout. Going forward, you walk between two dining rooms, where Garden guests enjoy an organic meal each morning. Next, the kitchen where the magic happens is chock-full of every implement you could possibly imagine for creating delicious and nourishing food. Down a few steps, and you come to the main lounge area, where a coffee table is host to a number of inspiring books and rags— ACRES USA and The Transition Handbook, to name a couple. The house is 100 years old, standing within a few blocks of Marathon’s main drag and small shops, and local art decks the walls.

Exiting the house through the back french doors, you reach the lap pool, oxygenated by a tranquil waterfall. From there, you walk into the outdoor courtyard, with many colorful places to sit and relax or chat. This is where the bulk of the original construction begins. The walls of these buildings consist of a material called papercrete– an adobe-like material made up of paper and mortar that can be molded into all manner of shapes. Each building of papercrete at Eve’s Garden exhibits smooth angles and lines, as well as intensely bright colors– for color-therapy, said Clyde. Papercrete is relatively easy to use, and is also super-insulating. This building method provides an example of how people can create their own dwellings, taking responsibility for the origins of their property into their own hands.

Clyde and Kate keep on going with the construction, building more rooms, and planning for another garden, dedicated to edible produce. They hope that their methods provide inspiration to people, as well as the fact that they refuse to stop and ‘retire’ like so many others in our society do, to the detriment of their bodies and minds.

The guest rooms surround a 7500-square-foot greenhouse where flowers and butterflies abound. It’s a welcome humid respite from the dry desert air, and two fountains elicit a feeling of peace and well-being. Each room has its own flavor, and are given names like Lotus and Boquillas. The name of Eve’s Garden itself is a “socio-political-religious joke,” Clyde explained. With this project, he and Kate are attempting to give the garden back to Eve.