Tales of The Southwest: The Barefoot Prophet

So The Lady of the House and I were on a road trip.  As we often do we were talking about just about anything, a rambling conversation of rambling thoughts.  Somewhere, the term “enlightenment” entered the conversation.

  With the word “enlightenment” came a memory…rushing from the back of my head to the present, a memory of one person I’ve encountered among the few I’ve considered enlightened, the memory of my encounter with a man I’ll call “The Barefoot Prophet.”

  My encounter with The Barefoot Prophet happened twenty-some years ago, six counties and a state line away in Bisbee, Arizona. 

  For the uninitiated I should explain that Bisbee is a town full of hippies, inhabitants with no visible means of support, hopeful artists and county government employees because it’s the county seat of Cochise County, Arizona.

  Barefoot showed up in town one December day in his bare feet wearing a white toga and a smile.  Here in eastern New Mexico or west Texas such a personage might catch the attention of the local constabularies…they’d probably stop to have a chat with him.  But in town of Bisbee, with its tapestry of humanity, few people gave Barefoot a second glance.  Why would he?  Bisbee is a town where a man could walk down the main street of town in a dress, matching purse and five o’clock shadow or a pointed wizard’s cap festooned with stars and quarter-moons without even being noticed.

  I had seen The Barefoot Prophet walking through town.  It wasn’t his toga, his long hair or smile that struck me as much as the bare feet.  It was downright cold that December and I wondered how he did it, he surely had some seriously callused feet.

  As fate would have it I had the chance to ask to see his feet and find out why his feet weren’t a mass of goatheads...the wicked little spiked seed pods found in The Great American Southwest.

Goatheads...The bane of bicycle riders in The Golden West...

and of folks who'd like to enjoy a barefoot walk....

  I was invited to a dinner at Mary* the Vegetarian’s house, a dinner in honor of The Barefoot Prophet.

  I really didn’t know Mary The Vegetarian but she knew that I worked at the local radio station so she figured I should be “in the know.”  I wouldn’t have minded if she’d been easygoing about her vegetarianism, but she wasn’t.  If you bumped into her at the local supermarket and you had meat in your cart she’d loudly proclaim, “Some poor animal died and you have its body parts in your cart.”  Mary didn’t have many pals.

  I got the invitation at the radio station, a message from a phone call.  Simply put it read, “Come to dinner at my house to meet a holy man.”

  And sure enough, when I walked into Mary The Vegetarian’s house there he was.  We were introduced.  I don’t remember the guy’s name but between Mary calling him a holy man and his bare feet he remained The Barefoot Prophet.

  Dinner was lo mein with a bunch of vegetables piled on top.  Mary passed around a big bottle.

  “It’s a bottle of amino acids,” she proclaimed.  “Sprinkle it on your dinner and it replaces the amino acids from meat.” 

  I did and I wished I hadn’t, it was some kind of weird, bitter concoction that reminded me of liquid wood.

  The evening progressed with Barefoot and Mary discussing various aspects of The Good Book.  I was more interested in his traveler’s tales.  As he talked I studied the calluses on his feet, I figured they were a good half-inch thick.

  Barefoot’s most interesting story was about where he’d just come from:  a Mexican prison.

  According to Barefoot he just walked into Mexico.  Anyone who’s been south of the border knows this is really no big deal.  It’s walking back in to the United States, that’s the adventure.  Anyway, Barefoot spent his time walking the streets of Tijuana sharing his views on life, The Good Book and stuff when he apparently irritated some American tourists.  Barefoot said they reported him to the authorities.  Some Federales approached him asking for his ID and what was he doing in Mexico.

  “I told them, ‘I don’t need identification, I’m a child of God’ they grabbed me and hauled me off to prison.” he said.

  Now if you don’t know, Mexican prisons are radically different than American or Canadian prisons.  By most accounts they’re rough places where prisoners are warehoused.  If you expect to get decent food or supplies, family or friends must send money or supplies to you.  Barefoot acknowledged that the first few days in the prison tested his faith, but soon he was given the protection of a prison gang leader.

  “He believed I was a holy man,” said Barefoot.  “Soon, people were sharing food and everything with me.”

  Barefoot went on to say that after a month he was brought in to the warden’s office.  From there he was rushed into a van, driven to the U.S. border and dropped off with an admonishment not to return to the Republic of Mexico.

  “And I walked all the way from California to here to share the good news with the people of Bisbee,” he said. 

  I looked at his feet again.

  I don’t know what happened to Barefoot.  I saw him around town for a few days after our dinner and then no more.

  “Holy men pass through here a lot,” said Willow* the Innkeeper.  Willow ran a bed-and-breakfast in the town.  “Maybe Christian, Jewish, Muslim, even Pagan.  They pass through, share a bit of wisdom and move on.”  Willow told of a holy man who showed up during a dark time in her life.    

  “He stayed here for a few days, told some stories, talked about his interpretation of The Bible and such. 

  “Then one morning at breakfast he looked right at me and said, ‘If you believe in God, why are you worried?’  It’s something I’ve always remembered,” said Willow.  “When he said it it was as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders.

  “After breakfast he walked into town and I never saw him again.  And you know, not long after that my whole life turned around.”

  Holy man?  Carefree?  A prophet?  A can short of a six-pack?  I’ll never know for sure, but The Barefoot Prophet is filed in my memory as an enlightened person.

  I don’t think we’ll get a visit from him here in eastern New Mexico though.  There are far more goatheads in our area.  I believe those things would be a challenge to even the most determined prophet with the biggest calluses. 

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*Fictitious names