QUARTZITE (continued)
It all began in 1965, with something called the Pow Wow Gem and Mineral Show; a gathering of 'rockhounds'; no, not crack addicts but folks who enjoy grubbing around in the mineral-rich desert for interesting stones. This innocent hobby is popular among RV-driving 'Snowbirds'; white-haired thermal refugees who migrate South every year to keep the chill out of their old bones. And so, over time, this unprepossessing town, surrounded by public land costing little or nothing to camp on, became a major winter stopover.
Gem fairs are still part of the Quartzite scene, you can still browse dozens of stands with names like 'Ron's rocks' selling fossilized 'dino-dung' for a bargain $2.50 per lb. But today, the main draw is Quartzite's RV show. The event dates back to 1984 and has been growing ever since.
To an outsider, it offers an intriguing glimpse into the world of state-of-the-art technomadism. Here, if so inclined, you can soup up your motorhome with a turbo kit or upgrade the shocks to some Konis or Bilsteins, acquire all manner of satellite TV kit, purchase unpleasant-sounding Potty Pellets or invest in a Dump Buddy (makes dumping 'a breeze' apparently, no mean feat when you reach a certain age). Or perhaps you'd rather buy an inflatable jacuzzi or grab a pair of 'wiper boobs'; mammomorphic plastic domes designed to prevent your wipers sticking to the windscreen in hot weather. What an invention. To think humankind has come this far without wiper boobs...
In a sense the show is a reassuring place to hang out if, like me, you're staring down the barrel of 40. It makes one feel impossibly youthful, because almost everyone is over 60 (I thought I spotted a child among the crowd at one point but it turned out, upon closer inspection, to be a dwarf).
But in another, darker sense, it is very bad in that the goods on offer paint a lurid, almost comically bleak picture of the yearsto come. Step through the flaps of the enormous stripey tent, join the crowd - a syrupy current of slow-moving velour - and you're carried through a bizarre bazaar of gerontological gew-gaws and a kaleidoscope of questionable taste.
Here, if so tempted, you can blow your pension on indispensable products such as 'Lip Ink' (like lipstick 'only a little more permanent'), 'Kneading Fingers 2000' (an electrical massage pad that straps to your seat while creepy rubber protruberances poke you in the kidneys), acupressure insoles ('energise your feet using the secrets of shiatsu') or 'Nail Fungus Foot Soak' (no explanation required). In need of reading glasses, diabetic socks, hand crocheted doilies, assorted health supplements and quack cures, a leopardskin pant-suit or 'hand-crafted quality pet apparel' (dog sun visors)? This is most definitely the place.
Outside flocking snowbirds clutch walkie talkies, trying to locate friends lost in the crowds. 'Bill, Kenny?...Is that you?'...Yeah, been tryin' to get hold of Shirley...No answer!' But every channel is overloaded with a babble of unfamiliar voices and so people just shuffle around aimlessly in a fog of failing eyesight, faltering memory and fading reception.
Meanwhile, grizzled old dudes lean nonchalantly back in the saddles of their electric mobility trikes, as if they were the hopped-up Harleys they rode in their distant youth, checking out the passing talent from behind their clip-on shades. With women living longer than men, long-in-the-tooth lotharios have mortality statistics on their side. Not to mention a certain little blue pill. In recent years, Quartzite has earned the nickname 'Viagra Falls'. Self-deprecating humour is big here. 'Spending Our Children's Inheritance' reads a popular bumper sticker. 'I took the road less travelled and now I don't know where the hell I am,' declares a t-shirt. My own favourite: 'Who are these kids and why are they calling me Dad?'
There are 8.5 million RVs in the US, and an estimated one to three million serve as full time homes. Many of these are belong to retirees who have sold their house and hit the road with the proceeds. With no fixed abode, they pay minimal taxes and their pensions and social security cheques go a long way, literally; often tens of thousands of miles a year.
To support them, there are hundreds of clubs, some large and organised like the Good Sams and the Escapees, others small and informal. Our encounter with one group, the Dingbats, gets off on the wrong foot when we park our rented Ford Exploder too close to their campfire. The Dingbat, it appears, is a fiercely territorial animal. Chastised and chastened, we apologise, and they invite us for lunch.
"They don't like the people who come out for the day, run over bushes and park right in front of us," explains Dingbat President Gary Lenning. That'll be us then. Sorry. Every Dingbat is President, explains Gary, and there are no rules (a few parking guidelines, maybe, but no rules).
The Dingbats are single RVers. Someone suggests there are 50-100 members but nobody seems sure. The club was formed in 1987 by a lady called Maude. But Maude is mistrustful of the press and declines to converse with us. So while she sits in her chair looking rather stern, another lady called Debbie tells us how the club got its name.
"They were sitting around the campfire and it was raining and somebody shouted 'Boy, you're a bunch of Dingbats!' That's how it got started. If we saw someone who looked like a single person, we would talk to them and ask them to come and sit by the fire.
Debbie has been camping here at Quartzite in her 2001 Fleetwood Flair motorhome since Christmas but has been full-timing alone for three years. Before that, she travelled with her former husband.
"We full-timed for seven years before we broke up," she tells me. "He bought a house and I bought a motorhome. And I love it and will never have another house..."
It must be a difficult life at times, I say. Why does she choose to live as a nomad, albeit one with a nice, late model RV?
"When a woman starts out by herself it is kinda difficult but other people are willing to help. But I love the freedom to do what I want, when I want to do it," she replies. "You meet so many interesting people. And if you don't like your neighbours you can just move..."
A trim 65-year-old with immaculate clothes, hair and makeup that looks slightly incongruous out here in the desert, Debbie, a former Avon lady, carries herself with an aura of confident flirtiness.
"I told you...that’s not a cowboy!" bellows a gravel-voiced male Dingbat from under his Stetson, pointing in my direction. "She likes men though," he adds, reflectively.
"That's Jack...I met Jack recently," says Debbie with a little smile, "Like he said, I like cowboys."
"Although it's a singles club, a lot of members do hook up, explains Garry Lenning, "But they always keep their own rigs." Gary's rig is a 1978 Dodge Travco, a very cool retro RV he's restored himself. "They were originally mobile laboratories used at nuclear test sites. In the Seventies they were the Cadillac of motorhomes," he tells me.
The other Dingbats seem to hold Gary in high esteem. A capable mechanic and a little younger than most of them, he's the one they turn to first for help. Cooperation is an important part of the ethos of both the club and the whole full-timer world. Without it, life would be much, much harder.
"That's how we are," says 77-year-old Walt Casey, "Someone's got a problem, someone will fix it." Walt's rig is another rare Seventies survivor; a Revcon. A sophisticated and expensive machine in its time, Revcons were NASA's motorhome of choice. Retired electronic engineer Walt has been full-time since his wife was diagnosed with cancer. They sold their house and bought an RV so she could see America before she died. Now alone, Walt has medical problems of his own now but he's determined to stay on the road as long as he can.
"You come to a point where you can't drive. I don't want to get to that point, but I'm real close," he says, "I still enjoy it but physically I can't do the stuff I used to do. Even seeing as good or even remembering as good."
"Once they found Walt in a diabetic coma," Gary tells me later, "He didn't come out one morning so they had to climb into his rig through the window."
Unlike Walt, who spends six months every year at Quartzite, Bill and Heather Wigley from Calgary, Canada, are here for the first time. And they won't be hanging around.
"I don't like it here," says Bill, "It's too dirty. I like Palm Springs." The Wigley's gold-painted Monaco motorhome is the biggest, flashiest RV I have seen. It cost US$600,000 dollars, is 45ft long and rather than tow their car behind it, they tow a US$30,000 trailer with their car inside. That's right, they take a garage on holiday with them.
Hauling it all along is a 500bhp Cummins diesel engine that returns about four mpg with Bill at the wheel.
"I drive pretty fast," he says, "You don't worry about mileage." They must own oil shares then, because they clocked up 25,000 miles last year. I ask them why they think Quartzite attracts so many RVers. After all, it's not exactly Palm Springs…
Heather thinks it's the camaraderie but Bill has another theory. "I'll tell ya why," he says, "If you look around there's a lot of people that don't have a lot of money. It's cheap, $150 bucks a year, so they can live very cheaply and still have hot weather. A lot of the places we're going are $60 a night to park."
The Wigley's are dry camping without any water, power, or waste hook-ups - 'boondocking' as it's called - but with its powerful generator, solar panels and huge water tanks, their rig could remain self-sufficient for two weeks. Bill's clearly proud of his acquisition as he shows me around.
"This has every option," he says, "It literally is a home on wheels. We can be on the web or emailing as we’re driving down the road. We've got three TVs, an icemaker, continuous hot water."
Inside, it's finished like a luxury yacht, with gold-plated everything, dual air-conditioning and steps that automatically light up at night when they sense your feet approaching. It's got everything. Or has it?
I open my mouth to ask Heather if she's got Wiper Boobs when the words are drowned out by a deafening rumble. "My God! Look at that!" shouts Heather, "He's towing a hummer!"
©Richard Fleury. All Rights Reserved. A version of this story appeared in BBC Top Gear Magazine.