Elliott is quiet on the way there.
I ask questions. I have my flip video camera trained on him. This will be part of my documentary.
I ask questions that (really) are unanswerable, like,
"Elliott, you were once very, very sick, and you're okay now. Why do you think you recovered?"
Elliott answers with simple practicality, answers that won't help me probe the mysteries of life.
I'll never win a slot at Sundance with, "well, western medicine was available."
(Elliott later explains, with some small shame, he's not very good at talking and driving).
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We drive through that stretch of blight (the toxic industrial mess you invariably pass) which communicates you've left home - you're on a trip! The sulphur smell, terrible and wonderful.
You feel safe in the car, knowing you're just passing through. But the awakening to the dirty, cold infrastructure, shatters your efforts to see your world in some controllable romantic, leafy way.
We pass very tall cranes used to transport resources from one part of the country to the other.
"What are those things called?" I ask Elliott.
"Gantry Cranes."
"How do you know that?"
"I'm not sure."
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