THE RESERVATION of San Carlos, which the Indians were promised would not be forced upon them, is much reduced from its original size. It was called ‘Hell’s 40 acres’ because of the myriad of health problems experienced by the Indians, but it was originally chosen for a simple reason: the whites did not want it.

The best part of the reservation was the valley and river but in the early1900s the Yanks built a dam and flooded the original base and valley to provide water for Arizona.

The Indians lost further chunks when it was discovered this unwanted land held silver, gold and potential for copper mining. Now it is much reduced although it remains many thousand acres... of scrubland.

We travelled through the Apache reservation where the average capital income per household is slightly over £10,000 pounds and some 70 per cent are on welfare but, remembering the Pine Ridge (Sioux) Reservation we visited in South Dakota the previous summer, the Apaches seemed significantly better off.

We were heading for the Apache Cultural Centre, which we imagined would be big but was probably thrice the size of Sarratt Post Office Stores. It was well assembled and interesting: the displays were informative but we are talking about a heritage and people – Apache means The People – and it is obviously grossly underfunded and far too small.

The curator at the time of our visit, Herb Stevens, is an Apache who went to university, worked as a bar-tender and qualified as a tailor and hairdresser during the nights when earning money to pay his way. Some of the skills he had already learnt on the reservation but he qualified as a BA and then an MA and came back to find his parents dying. He joined the others and drank himself silly until his aunts got a grip of him and asked: “Did did you return educationally triumphant for this?”

Despite all his qualifications he worked and became curator and designer of the museum and was looking for a way to raise funds for the phonetic Apache to be taught by headphones and cd player. The bottom line is that some bright whites translated Apache into words and wrote books, which the kids now have to learn to read and write, along with English etc.

There is a high rate of illiteracy on the reservation and Herb believed that as Apache was never written, the essential requirement is that they speak it, not read or write it as, in common with other Indian dialects, it has always been oral: passed from father to son for. Their language and history is a remembered one.

We watched a film on the female puberty dance, which is like confirmation or bat mitzah for Indian girls. The sponsor has to pay $7000 for the sunrise ceremony, which involves three days of food and plenty of dancing. The importance of song and dance is pivotal to their culture.

It was very interesting and he gave us his email address (“We have stopped using smoke signals and moved on a bit,” he said) and some acorns from Emory Oaks, which are far smaller than our acorns. They sun-bleach them and then blanche them. They are spicy and tasty, to be eaten with meat etc.

I signed the visitors’ book that October morning in 2011 but, sad to relate, on the same page there was one entry for August, two entries for June and two more dated 2010.

We felt duty-bound so, I bought a t-shirt and Ellie spotted ring. We are now used to the poverty of reservations and the frustration on a national and also a local level. They should do more to help themselves. As Herb said, it is a reservation stupid enough to sell alcohol at two outlets (drugs and alcohol play a big part in the inertia) and also stupid enough to let a casino be built without taking a major share of the profits.

Of course, when Cochise signed the treaty, he never envisaged they would come to this. As a t-shirt says, depicting Sitting bull, Chief Joseph and Red Cloud saying “Love America…. Or give it back”.

It was a lovely morning and we drove on and came across cotton fields (in Arizona?) and across plains with great mountains either side and on up to Silver City, a large, sprawling town, which has the usual fast food outlets along the main roads. We booked into the hotel and sped down to Downtown to sample the locale only to find the shops were shut at 4.30. Hold on, I was getting wise to this: we had gone back into New Mexico and lost an hour. It was 5.30.

Downtown was real 1950s meeting 1960s in design and feel. The shops reflected this and, just to underline it, when we went into a mini-supermarket, which was the only place open, they were playing The Hollies’ Jennifer Eccles.

We had a coffee in a bar restaurant and an old-timer with a pony-tail and hat was about to set up with guitar and amplifier and start singing. It was sobering to discover the old timer was two years younger than me. So we opted to stay and have another beer and ordered a meal – Ellie deciding that New York strip is the nearest thing to sirloin. I had a rib-eye which was very good and I got into a bottle or two of Flat Tire, or Cobblers Own or Up Your Creek – these micro boys call their ale anything as long as it is distinctive. They even had Old Speckled Hen there.

One man came in, tall and slim with boots and a cowboy hat. He looked the part but he had this female with him, who must have been well over 20-stone. I said I could imagine being a John Cleese-type waiter and saying: “What would you like sir. Oh sorry madam I took it you had already eaten.”

Or “Which salad have you chosen, Tubs?”

Hell, these micro-beers are potent.

Anyway the music was good. He played a mean guitar and mouth organ and he struck a few chords with us as he folked up Poor Little Fool and Teenager in Love, with harmonica solos, so we decided to stay a-whiles and indulge in all our yesterdays.

It was the most enjoyable live music evening we had experienced on that trip and by the time he moved into Mr Tambourine Man we were solid gone although Ellie, on coke (cola, that is), may not have been so far gone. She drove back.