Navajo Saturday

Escaping from the less-than-ideal motel in Pinetop, the next morning I head north, down out of the wooded foothills along the great mountainous rim that cuts through Arizona. A half hour later I'm in the gritty town of Show Low, then heading east across the flat undulating plateau of northern Arizona, the view interrupted only by sporadic mountains far in the distance.

St. John's is another gritty little town of trailers and chain link fences in front yards. North of there, along the eastern fringe of Arizona, the road is empty and lonely, perfect for a morning drive. The road is always better in the morning, something I've learned from years of road trips. Traffic tends to build up during the day until reaching a peak in the late afternoon.

After another hour, almost two quickly, I reach the great ribbon of civilization called Interstate 40. One sees the trucks from miles away, as if approaching a great city.

I got on the Interstate heading east, towards the nearby state line, but I get off at the very last exit before the border. The road heads north through a picturesque canyon into the sprawling Navajo Nation, the largest Indian reservation in the country.

I can tell I'm on an Indian reservation. There is no mistaking the look of the houses, which are often trailers or pre-fab. There are also stray dogs here and there, in a way you wouldn't see elsewhere. And stray horses as well.

I stopped at a roadside rest area. There is no restroom facilities. There are beer bottles and trash everywhere.

A half hour later I reach the little town of Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation. As I come to the main highway crossroads, I see a large outdoor festival in progress. I pull into the gravel parking lot and get out to explore. It turns out to be a Saturday flea market, with tables set up selling various second hand items beside parked trucks and cars. There most organized table seems to be selling bingo cards.

The air is filled with loud music from a band that is playing. I walk over and watch them. They are of young Navajo men playing old rock standards, such as Credence Clearwater Revival. Behind them are a row of small businesses in a plain brick structure, a more permanent version of the kind of impromptu business stalls that one sees everywhere on the reservation.

Most of those structures beside the road cater to tourists, selling trinkets to motorists. But the ones here in Window Rock all serve various versions of Navajo fry bread and stews. Mutton seems to be the most common meat offered.

I go inside one. It's tiny with a few tables. At a small window in the back wall I order a mutton fry bread and pay with as close to exact change as possible, as per the request of the hand-lettered sign. I sit next to an old Navajo man in the next booth, looking out the window at the band outside.

The mutton is as tough as shoe leather. It takes an enormous amount of chewing to finish the small portion. The chiles are hotter than expected. There is no water visible. I tough it out, letting my mouth burn.