On Safari

No one would ever stay at the Safari Motel in Joshua Tree for its palatial qualities. Nothing about it and no facilities that it boasts could ever be described in those terms and I suspect that I am the only repeat customer they’ve ever had.

After 5,000 miles cycling across the country and experiencing just how bad motels can get, the Safari compares reasonably well, but it’s not a Motel 6 or a Super 8 – and don’t even mention Marriott or Hilton in the same sentence.

It provides the basics; shelter from the elements, bed, toilet and shower but little else. In common with other motels run by businessmen from the third world, decrepit fittings get steadily worse until they cease to function, the room smells of cheap detergent and the provided accessories – soap, towel, toilet paper – are of the lowest quality and probably come in bulk from the Dollar Store down the road. The biggest surprise is the provision of shampoo, a rare luxury in such establishments.

Is it an accident that I am here? Is this my second visit, having suffered amnesia and forgotten the first? Is this the only motel around?

No.

I am a regular. I have been coming here, on and off, for nine years. I get the super discount rate of $45 per night – which is exactly the same as everyone else’s, but the owner wants me to feel special. I can almost hear the italics when he tells me the price. “It’s a good deal, just for you,” he says, leaning forward and dropping his voice conspiratorially. He probably doesn’t even remember me.

So, why do I stay here?

Quite simply, on a convenience scale of one to ten, the area would rank nine point nine. Within a short distance lies everything to make the transient hiker’s life perfect; food, drink, supplies, provisions, entertainment and, of course, accommodation.

Five minutes on foot is all it takes to reach the Joshua Tree Saloon, a no-frills, no-nonsense American pub that serves decent food and good beer, despite the Wednesday karaoke that always seems to be happening when I am there. Occasionally, a drunken regular will stumble to the bar and buy the whole bar a round – everyone, strangers and locals alike. Slightly further is the Crossroads café for healthy food, lively atmosphere and conversation at the bar with the type of customers who close doors behind them and use their brains before their mouths. I doubt anyone here would argue against health reform.

Between the two lie a hiking store, a gas station, a breakfast cafe and, should hell freeze over and I suffer a coincidental whim of insanity by wishing to get married, a small chapel. The access road for Joshua Tree park is less than a quarter of a mile distant, the Purple Turtle internet café – a rare breed in America – is not much farther and sits opposite a small shopping center which adds to my options. Should I wish to drive five miles, I can reach Walmart, Walgreens, Starbucks, McDonalds and a movie theater. I could even buy a hammer and nails, should I be so inclined, in the twenty-four hour Home Depot.

True, a few improvements in the motel would be nice. Towels that feel less like sandpaper, two-ply toilet paper and a fridge that didn’t sound like it was training to be a pneumatic drill would be a start – but there’s a lot to be said for handiness.

If facilities were like weather, Joshua Tree would be the perfect storm. I can suffer towels that have never seen conditioner, if I get to stay in the eye of the hurricane.