Byways.

`Kansas? What is there to see in Kansas?,' she asked. `She is from Arkansas. There isn't anything there to see either', someone answered.

In a little highway-side cafe in Florence, in Marion County, there is just a small crowd. At the end of my second day amid small town Kansas, some --- like the school-girl above --- were surprised that I should travel like this.

To see life in small towns of Kansas: that is the aim of this journey. It came about after reading the May 2004 issue of the National Geographic, whose cover story talked of the declining population of midwestern American states. Janet and Mirco showed me the magazine, which also had a photo-essay on Cuba, a town of about two-hundred people, on Hwy 36.

A lot many others too helped me. Lucas, and later Garrin, talked of William Least Heat~Moon's `PrairyErth', a book about Chase County.

Beginning Friday, 18th March, (2005 --- it took me a year to do this trip), I would head S and W of Lawrence. By Saturday evening, I should be in Chase County. Of Sunday, nothing was decided. Then move up and W, close to the Interstate 70. On Tuesday, return to Lawrence, roughly following the Interstate, but on lesser roads. That is the plan. I had bragged of this trip to almost everyone that I had met in Lawrence, so at least to keep my word, I should go.

The journey started at 1700hrs. Down Hwy 59, I drove to get to Hwy 56 W. At Overbrook, I stopped to shoot an old building. Every passer-by knew everyone else, and honked at one another, looking curiously at the stranger! It was getting chilly too, outside; as I passed Scranton, the display outside a bank read 46 degrees.

At a gas station outside Burlingame, I spoke to the manager about my trip. She said that I would have to go at least as far as Council Grove to find a motel, but I was certain to find a lot of small towns in that part of Kansas. Burlingame has probably the widest `Main Street' that I saw which, I read, was built so that wagons on the Santa Fe trail could make U-turns. Right on the main street, there was an election message, `Let us strive to keep Burlingame alive.'

At 1855hrs, just after it had got dark, I entered Osage City. Not many people around. I walked into the beautiful Weathermans Cafe on Market St. A nice double shot of Espresso and a cookie and a nice conversation with the lady running the shop. She moved in to Osage City from Topeka for a quiter life. She mentioned a bed & breakfast in town, but I decided to head to Council Grove, in Morris County.

After passing some small towns (Admire, Allen) I reached Council Grove at 2000hrs, and decided to stay at the Cottage House Motel, an old building. As I drove up to the motel, I saw another building opposite that, which appeared to be a cheaper motel. Why not stay there, then? I tried opening the door, but a groups of old ladies greeted me with curious looks; I had walked into an old-age home! I ran across the street and checked in to the real motel.

The next step is to find someone to talk about the town. A quick run across the town convinced me that diner was closed. I walked into Ross's Bar, just outside the motel. A rancher that I met there spoke of this town of about 2,400 people. Other than him, and me, there was just the old barman there. After watching the first half of a Jayhawks-Bucknell basketball game, I left.

Long before sunrise next morning, I drove out of the town, to shoot the countryside. I pulled upto an old barn, and had to wait for about fifteen minutes before it was bright enough to shoot. As I strolled its lawns in a serenity of the morning, I wished --- perversely --- that I had Eisenbud's book with me.

Back in the town, to check out of the motel and leave, I had breakfast at Hays' House, oldest working restaurant west of Mississippi. Very nice building and interiors.

I started E on Hwy 56 to get to a ghost town of Bushong. Having missed it first, I came back, and turned off into the town. Stray dogs chased the car, so I did a roundabout without stopping; there wasn't anything more than a handful of houses --- some of them dilapidated --- there. With a quick tour of Americus and Dunlap, I hit the Flint Hills Scenic Hwy to Stong City and Cottonwood Falls.

`I read about this town in _PrairyErth_.', I said, after mentioning the raison d'etre of my trip. `Didn't you read about the Emma Chase, then?. This is it; I am the Emma Chase.' She happily introduced herself.

I was mystified; this is rendezvous with history. I went back to my car after my lunch, and quickly read the section on Cottonwood Falls. Then it dawned upon me.

The Emma Chase (which is an entire chapter in _PrairyErth_) was a cafe run by Linda Thorston, who later closed it and began teaching at Kansas State University. _PrairyErth_ describes it as a meeting place to discuss feminist and other social ideas. That was closed in the late 1980s. She still teaches at KState.

`This gentleman here is the local historian mentioned in the book.' `Hello'. `Bill (Least Heat~Moon) travelled a lot here to write his book. He sends a post-card occasionally.' `Did he travel on foot across the county?' `Yes, he came here on and off for two years for writing this book.'

Not every experience is bad; I got a lot of help from the Museum curator Pat Donelson, who before I began spelling her name as Donaldson, corrected me. It was still bright sun outside, too bright for a good picture of the famed courthouse. I left Cottonwood Falls without a picture of it, for Florence.

The Town and Country Cafe in Florence is in prime location. And the man I met there was twice the city's mayor. The city had a population once of 22,000 people working in an oil-field; now its 600 inhabitants work in Wichita, drive trucks, or are farmers and ranchers. The town had a sorry look, the saddest among all towns that I saw. A lot many towns had the worn-out look of having lived past their prime, but many others still look cheerful.

People came; then the railroad. The town grew. Then the trains stopped, and the town slipped into oblivion. As a vestige from its past, there is a BNSF freght line passing though Florence. The same story I heard later at Abilene, but it has other attractions to keep up with.

Back on road on Sunday, I decided to move N on Hwy 77 at least till Herington. Its clean streets exhibited some life. Heading W on KS4, I passed through Hope, and stopped in front of the Cookie Jar Cafe, Gypsum. There is a collection of cookie jars in the cafe.

Roxbury, S. of Gypsum, is an intersection with a gas station. Heading W, one gets to `Little Sweden' Lindsborg. I had `The Uncommon Salad' at Irene's Tea Etc. a very nice dish. Browsing through one of the brochures that I found there, I was aghast: the National Geographic photographer Jim Richardson --- whose photographs on Cuba started this idea --- lives in Lindsborg! Like Archimedes I ran out, after I finished my lunch, tea and dessert. `He is singing at the church today. If you are around tomorrow, you can surely meet him', said the girl at the gallery. Never mind, I said. After admiring Berger Sandzen's paintings of the West, I left Lindsborg.

I would have called Salina a total disppointment, but for the time I spent counting the number of trucks in a Union Pacific goods train ( me indian always no freight train) while I was trying to get out of the town. First time I had had to stop for a train to pass at a crossing.

To avoid taking the Interstate to Junction City, to hit on Old Hwy 40 to Abilene, to take a look at the Eisenhover Museum. There are, they say, more greyhounds in Abilene, than the number of people in the whole county!

The next high point of the day came at Detroit. Lest you miss it, let me give you the co-ordinates of the lone cafe that marks the town: 38 deg 56 min N and 97 deg 7 min 30 sec W.

I had to break my vow of not driving on the Interstate at Junction City, because I had to get to a motel and I was at the wrong exit. After three days on byways, I merged to the fast lane of life, for three miles, and another ten next morning.

The city hall at St. George, east of Manhattan, is a ten-by-twenty shed. I would have liked a picture, but a drizzle spoiled it. I was told that there are old grain silos in the town. This is not far from Lawrence; that is another journey.

Eisenbud's book Commutative Algebra (with a View Towards Algebraic Geometry) is a text-book.

This pidgin is not accepted Indian English. I used it just for an effect. ``The last Englishman would be an Indian,' -- Malcom Muggeridge.