P.N.ZOYTLOW

[Editors Note] I was surprised to see P.N.’s almost casual reference (contained herein) that this would be the last Field Report.  Subsequently, I called him and he refused any relevant details. However he did promise to sit for an Interview (something that has been in the works for some time, readers may recall) and perhaps as early as this June.   Most on his mind was his success at avoiding any use of the word  “why” except with reference to the subject, Why, Arizona. “If  you find one, don’t tell me about it!” said he with a laugh.

Followers of these Field Reports will note that once again, the Reporter/Observer has chosen an obscure place for an investigation. The reason is obvious: the place has a peculiar name, amusing to some, deeply serious to others.  For Zoytlow, it was a mix of both but the point was to go and verify that such a place (Why, Arizona) existed at all and was not merely a bit of cartographic whimsy.   Zoytlow, as is well-known, takes these types of investigations seriously and especially so if they touch on geographic locales. Proof simply must be found, backed by photographic evidence as required to support either the existence or the nonexistence of Why.

To begin, documentary sources suggested that Why would appear just east of the boundary of the Tohono O’Odham Reservation, ten miles south of the town of Ajo, and thirty miles north of the Lukeville border crossing with the Mexican Republic. What may lie to the West is open space, many miles of parched, trackless desert until one might reach Yuma.  Zoytlow, rising that morning with the task of driving to Why, felt the vague unease that desolate highways bring.

Zoytlow saw the first road sign with “Why” on it about 30 miles out. He was on the narrow highway that bisects the Reservation, a place with names like GuVo and Hickiwan which were somewhere out there, unseen, left or right at rare intersections. Such inhospitable, hot country.  As if to confirm his apprehensions, Zoytlow noticed many descansos as the roadside memorials to those slain along the road are called. Most are simple affairs, a grotto with flowers or icons, but others may include hubcaps, flags, sorrowing madonnas and photographs of the deceased Zoytlow was glad he was not on this road at night. Ten miles from Why another sign appeared and shortly thereafter and indication that the seniors of the town had “adopted” a stretch of road. This was reassuring: all over the country groups had for years been volunteering to pick up the trash that seemed to fly out of passing vehicles. That there should be such a group in Why reassured Zoytlow. Why existed. It was probably as benign as old folks who gleaned the junk.

When Zoytlow arrived at Why he saw that it was not much of a place, really. A ten minute drive along the main street confirmed this. Not far south of Why was a Border Patrol checkpoint with cheerful looking Labradors eager to please and sniff cars. In recent weeks they had apprehended significant cargos of marijuana coming up one of the numerous drug pipelines from Mexico.  On he north side of Why stood a complex of buildings, a regional Border Patrol HQ with many of the familiar green and white trucks  unfailingly encountered on and sometimes off-road in these parts.

This cursory survey through Why told Zoytlow that the ganglion of the place was at the Texaco station, the Why-Not Travel Shop. The place was surprisingly large and cool inside. Under a low ceiling and along rows of shelving, lay a remarkable range of groceries, camping equipment, and souvenirs. The place appeared empty except for a short man at the counter. He had a serious beard which covered the first word of a message on his tee shirt so that all that could be read was “can count to 10.” Zoytlow put aside an impulse ask the Bearded One to lift that hairy sheaf so that the first word or words of the message could be read. It would have to be something like “my horse” or ‘“even idiots,” but supposing it simply said “Why.”  Instead Zoytow began with an apology: he had come to Why to ask about the name, probably a near-predictable request?  The Bearded One smiled (a relief to PNZ) and motioned him to a glass counter beneath which was taped a yellowed news article on peculiar Arizona place names. Prominent among them was Why.  Zoytlow read the relevant paragraph.

While he was doing so, the Bearded One loudly announced that there was a rat running about outside near the gas pumps. Laughter followed and Zoytlow abruptly realized that there were four others in the store. The “rat” in question was a patron’s miniature dog, a Chihuahua with a grey muzzle and a limp. Now woman appeared from the back room of the store. Her badge said “Manager” and she joined in the laughter. “Oh,” said she, “that rat!”  Zoytlow said, to no one in particular, that Why seemed to have a good humor to it.  All four patrons and the two employees agreed. “Why not?” said one. More chuckling. The patron at the gas pump entered the store carrying the dog/rodent. It growled and the laughter began anew. Why has a year-round population of less than 100 persons, perhaps more like 42. Winter saw some increase due to refugees from the Cold Zone elsewhere.  Zoytlow learned that the best method of taking the census here was t to count the number of active water meters. Anyway, with six humans and one dog before him, it was likely that more than ten percent of Why was enjoying a few moments of presumable rapport in the Why-Not.

This laughter was genuine and innocent and refreshing. There was nothing to suggest simple-mindedess and none of the obvious or cynical ironic twists so necessary to get a laugh in other venues.  The ice being broken (ice in the hot desert!) Zoytlow felt at ease to ask more questions including whether the town had a festival of any sort such as a “crazy days” or a “homecoming” or a “pioneer weekend.”  Nope, was the answer, and then, unselfconsciously, the woman with the dog said, “Why make a fuss?”  Then everyone laughed, and Zoytlow, forgetting the seriousness of Field Reporting, laughed loudest of all. Seconds later, another laugh: the Why water supply came from deep wells that some years ago had tested positive for arsenic. “Tasted great but it will kill you, so we dug a new well.”  Kind of like tequila? Zoytlow volunteered, and they rewarded him with another honest cackle (for such it was). Zoytlow felt good about Why.

Back to work: regarding Why, it hung on, yes because it lay at the junction of two highways, but also because it was only minutes from the northern end of a national park, Organ Pipe Cactus National Park. You are standing, said the owner of the still-growling Chihuahua, in the Wal-Mart of Why!  Now, here was the missing irony. Alas, business was down: the recession, the drug trouble in nearby Mexico, the ominous presence of the Border Patrol, and so on. People used to drive this way to go to Puerto Penasco a.k.a Rocky Point, a tourist destination at the top of the Sea of Cortez.  Now they were afraid, though the media was roundly condemned for making matters worse.

The lack of a customary flow of tourists to the Park or into Mexico meant that keeping the store stocked was constant guesswork. The Bearded One told Zoytlow that they only stocked “thrice requested” items.  Zoytlow pointed an overflowing box of candy suckers with real scorpions trapped inside, amber style. “Bet you have a hard time selling these,” PNZ commented. “Not so–very popular” said the manager who was dusting some cans of SPAM in the next aisle. “Lots of folks like them,” she said, “the kids say they taste like salted nuts.”  Zoytlow thought that Why, lacking a community festival day, might still have managed a to agree on a favored snack?  However, the Bearded One averred that he would never eat one, he’d stomped on too many of them and knew the color of their guts. (Laughter)

Readers of these Field Reports may assume that with a place like Why as a topic, the usual 75 minute of research time, so crucial to the methodology, would, in this case suffice. That is also what Zoytlow thought. He left the store with ten minutes of research time left and spent it slowly driving the scant and dusty streets. Down Why Road, up Mesquite, along Higgins, and back using Sonoita.   He noted the Howling Coyote Campground, the small Casino on the edge of the Tohono O’Odham Reservation (small compared to others elsewhere and with very few vehicles in the lot), the absence of churches, the discovery of a second gas station and, most curious, a restaurant which closed on Saturdays and only Saturdays. Any reason for that? Zoytlow noticed on a nearby house a weather-worn Star of David with small lights, the sort of thing you might use as yard decor during Chanukah. Could it be that the diaspora of the Israelites had reached Why?  Too many new questions, so little time.

Leaving Why, Zoytlow stopped briefly to give a final scan to the topography, the setting of this, his last research effort. There, in the distance mountains, southwest of Why and so obvious that no feat of imagination was needed, sat The Buddha.

The Great Buddha of Why