Roswell, New Mexico is about three hours south of my parents’ home in Albuquerque. The trip between cities cuts through a wasteland of red sand, and I40 is punctuated by a handful of podunk towns — Moriarty, Vaughn — whose inhabitants make monthly, several-hour-long trips to Wal-Mart for provisions. New Mexico fancies itself the “Land of Enchantment”, and Roswell is its southernmost fever dream (discounting Las Cruces), where enchanted fans of American kitsch and truly deranged victims of “extraterrestrial abduction” gather annually for the UFO Festival. I have witnessed this event enough times to make several conclusions on the way we talk about aliens, just north of the border.
The most fascinating part of the UFO Fest is the friction that occurs between true believers and the goofy tourists who drove into Roswell expecting a family-friendly craft fair. The Fest straddles the line between satisfying believers and tourists as best it can, but it’s no Jean Claude Van Damme.
Both groups are equally committed to attending the Fest, and their sub-events don’t really overlap. It’s easy to stumble between the kids’ costume contest at Roswell High School and the support group for former abductees which is held in a windowless room on Main Street. I’ve been to both, and they’re equally fascinating.
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