Author: thelongmosey

Next phase of our trip is New Zealand. We arrived in Auckland, and despite the queues and the grumbles eminiating from Americans and English folk of “this is ridiculous”, “you don’t get this back home” and “they need more man power” as we wait for our security checks, this time I am suitably un-nervy. The only incursion on my personal space is the people who for some reason, in a long queue feel the need to get right up amogst the other queuers. I’m not talking about being given room here, there was one lady who despite her husband being behind me, and my better half alongside me but towards the front end of our trolley, decided she must occupy the tiny square of space left right next to me. Every step I took I got a little glimpse of freedom, then sure enough she stole it away within moments. I have no idea why. There was plenty room next to her dude. Perhaps he smelled really bad, but I mean really bad, because I was in full travel stink mode. I looked around. There were red faced non-Kiwis everywhere, atop tippy toes, staring at the checkpoints like it was going to change everything, but not only that they were so uncomfortably close to the folk in front that they were practically dry humping, but complaining and angry while they did. I am at a loss as to why people can’t queue politely and consciously of the situation at hand and the people around them. As an island with a very unique ecosystem that is susceptible to invasive species at all levels, the subsequent measures to protect the beautiful land are quite stringent. And good on them. Rant over.

Danny, our host met us at a pub in town. We headed back to his and he gave up, nay insisted we take his own bed ready to see what’s what in the morning. Now, let me explain. We don’t know Danny. He is just a lovely dude who knows my brother. Upon hearing that we were here he said we were welcome to use his house. He had recently broken his toe at a bounce house, so was in some discomfort but still played the perfect host. I am also quite bitter as he clearly looks a lot younger than I despite this being quite not the case. He is also a conservationist working on saving Kiwis (birds, not people). What a gem. Danny Sir, we salute you!

We did a bit of moseying around St. Heliers. Lovely spot. We headed to Ponsonby and sampled some hipster area stuff with the great Andrew Kinnersly. A dude we know from Nice who had recently returned from South America complete with thouroughly amusing chat and stories from the journey.

I like Auckland, but I don’t love it. It’s alright. I do love that they have chippies here though and that they all sell potato fritters. I ate too much.

Next up we headed to Helensville. Helensville is home to one of my favourite people ever, Aisling O’Brien and an almost equally awesome person in her husband James McNab. Turns out the whole McNab clan is bread for pure wonderness. They are truly lovely people. On day one they bust out the big guns and let Conny in on some lamb slaughter, some cow wrangling and some sheep displacement. She arrived astride a quad with a grin from ear to ear.

Duncan and Jinny, James’s parents, could not have been more welcoming. I often have issues being amongst those salt of the earth, capable, farm type men who just get shut done, and usually with a good dollop of humour to boot. Duncan is one of those dudes (to be fair Jinny is the dudette equivalent). I always fear that my vegetarian, non drinking, non smoking slightly hipster looks and general girl hands will do all but endear me to these folk. I know that my Conquest of Conny is a big tick in my favour but I generally feel I am going to be misunderstood or made to feel a little awkward if not a lesser man. No such thing here. The whole family has a wonderful spirit and could not have made us feel more welcome. We went to a beach with navy blue sand, which was odd and beautiful. We played in the surf. We went to Puhoi pub and ate chips and did cartwheels. Conny rode a horse. We hung around with the 12 dogs. Conny had the most delicious meat of her existence (one of those lamb legs from day 1 went down particularly well apparently)We saw sand bars, harbours and general north island loveliness, but best of all we had a party. Ciara, Ais and James’s beautiful daughter turned 1. There was quite the turnout, more McNabs (equally as wonderful) showed up, friends, neighbours, a delightful chap who looked the spit of Sean Connery’s immortal Ramirez and all in all a blast was had. A couple of those coin-op rides you find outside supermarkets went down a treat, a teddy bear picnic and even a paddling pool with teddies replacing water served to entertain the kids, and beer and food took care of their carers. All wrapped up, when the babes were also wrapped up in their beds, by a Kiwi winning the world heavyweight boxing belt whilst we ate chip butties (with sausages from the butcher for those omniverous amongst our number). Pretty solid days entertainment I’d say.

Hanging out with Ais and James was a joy. It served to remind of the good times and wonderful to be just chatting the shit with folk I miss, but also serves as a solid reminder that we have all moved a long way from who we were back in those hazy Nice days of drinking in darkened rooms stumbling home amongst the tourists and the heat of Nice’s mid-morning sun when even those darkened dens had to let light in and chucked us out. They have a new life, not only the one they created in Ciara, which was done with fine babymaking skills, but the life they have been making as a family. Everything about what they do is ace, and they ought be congratulated for doing the life thing so well.

We both loved every second of our time with the Magnificent McNabs and we hope to see them again some day. They will all be ever welcomed in Austria when we are there.

Waiheke island is just off the coast of Auckland. It has a micro climate, and it also has a Kinnersly. Not the Andrew Kinnersly of the day out at Ponsonby, but his brother, Dan. He, as did his brother, worked with me in Nice, in fact, he worked with Conny too. Dan graciously let us use his house, he and his beautiful bride to be cooked us dinner. To be fair I think he was just showing her off, saying “look what I’ve done!” like a puppy, but rightly so, even though he’s a good dude, I’m at a loss as to know how he did it. We met his housemate Lenor, a lovely Toronto lady, who was mighty envious that we had more recently than her eaten at her favourite Toronto Mexican eatery. She even had pictures of THAT sweetcorn…mmmmmmm…that sweetcorn. We also met the cat, Fritz. Fritz was super cute, until he was chewing on your foot. Then less so.

Dan makes wine. He even made some with some grapes from Nelson, which fortuetously became a fancy gift for my Nelson-living brother. I have tasted it. It’s delicious.

I like Waiheke. It is beautiful and remote enough to tick my hermit boxes but also within striking distance of the mainland. However, back to the mainland we headed, to our old mates at Jucy to get re acquainted with a trusty steed from our past trip to NZ, the Jucy El Cheapo, but if you are not aware of what one is, you’ll have to read the next post.

A veritable little slice of tropical Heaven. The moment you step off the plane at the airport, with it’s misty mountain backdrop you know you are somewhere a bit more than a bit special.

Given the last minute change in our travel plans, Air New Zealand, kind folk that they are, put us up at the Edgewater resort for a night before we made way to our accommodation proper. Lucky for me, we got there early enough for breakfast on the first day, where I made acquaintance with amongst other things, toast, marmalade, toast, vegemite, marmite (Kiwi variety, much different and much lower grade than the UK variant) some more toast, cereals, yogurt, coffee, a bit more toast and the piece de resistance, Paw Paw fruit. I liked it so much that I had it in both juice and whole form. Paw Paw, for the uninitiated, is a bit like a cross between a passion fruit and a mango and is simply put fantastic.

The Edgewater is as pleasant as one would expect without going super fancy. They have an events guy there who had a ridiculously long Cook Island Maori name, so he suggested we called him Mr Amazing. A name he did not fail to live up to as he taught us the skills of coconut husking. In Rarotonga, this is done with a specific implement, with a very specific name in Maori, which I can’t remember, but it is, I’m told translated as a sharp stick. He also demonstrated how to climb a tree to pick coconuts with the aid of a dishcloth. He leapt up there like a cat. Made it look easy, but the way down looked far more scary. The way, if you are wondering, to shell a coconut with a sharp stick, is thus:

1: Shove sharp stick in ground with sharp bit pointing up.

2: Take soft end of coconut fruit and ram it down on pointy end of sharp stick.

3: Twist coconut to separate skin from nut.

4: Repeat as necessary.

5: To open once skinned, take a large rock and smack, hard on the appropriate seem (the coconut at one end has what looks like two eyes and a mouth marked on it, the appropriate seem to hit when opening is the one right between the eyes, but at about halfway down the coconut)

Mr Amazing did all this whilst simultaneously teaching us about the Tree of Life as the Raro people call the coconut tree, and making it look damn easy. As he did when he made coconut cream for the ladies to rub on their skin and made a basket out of the leaves. Mr Amazing is pretty appropriately monikered, I’m pretty sure that Conny even had the hots for him a bit.

The afternoon saw a spot of reading and a little snorkel in the lagoon, courtesy once more of Mr Amazing and the equipment he lent us.

A meal at the local Italian(odd I know, but not shabby) later and it was bedtime before round 2 at the breakfast buffet.

We boarded the bus, but sadly going in the wrong direction, the bonus is, the island only has one bus route that goes two ways, clockwise and anticlockwise, the maximum full loop takes 55 minutes, so really, we just took a scenic route.

Our home for the next week could not have been more perfect. A little hut with direct access to the beach, nothing looking over us, no bustle, even relatively speaking for Rarotonga. We could, and did while away the days between the beach, our veranda and the open hut, with dips in the lagoon from time to time to cool off from the tropical heat. These dips did lead to some turmoil, however, but more about that later, first things first, I must convey the majesty of the place appropriately!

Rarotonga is nothing short of a marvel, a true paradise island. The pointy green peaks of the middle highlands, shrouded in cloud and mist, swooping down to the crisp white shoreline, all encircled by a calm, warm, safe lagoon in which we snorkelled and swam through the coral gardens, chilling with the fish and the sea stars. Conny befriended a local boy harvesting the sea cucumbers (more particularly their gonads! This apparently comes in two varieties, one that must be cooked and the other that can be eaten raw) who didn’t actually know what it was. He was sure it definitely was not an animal, but wasn’t in fact sure what it was (wikipedia says its an animal, so no gonads for David). We managed to hang around with some of the local kids, drawn to us by the lilo upon which we floated, which in turn got us a slap up lunch provided by the local Sunday school lady who was providing them a picnic on the beach (while scaling the beautiful angel fish that the boys had speared on the reef). The people there are fantastic, a little quiet to talk to at times, they come across occasionally as submissive, but ask them about their heritage and they come alive. Island life is very important to them.

The sky at night was like nothing I have ever seen before, there were almost more stars than there was night. Millions of brilliant shiny wonders, uninterrupted by man’s foggy light. It was breathtaking. We tried to take pictures but nothing came close to capturing its magnificence. The big skies in America pailed in to insignificance.

One evening we went up to what they call an Islander night. The Highland Paradise is a tourist attraction that takes you to one of the ancient gathering/prayer sites of the old Maori tribe that used to own that hill. In fact all land on the Cook Islands is still owned by the descendants of those Maori tribes that farmed, lived and battled over the various parts of the islands. In order to get land, you must first call a meeting of elders and justify your lineage. To be honest, the evening got off to a shaky start. The ticket is for a traditional buffet style meal, some of which is prepared in an earth oven called an Umu, with a tour of an ancient settlement, the sacred meeting place and some traditional music and dance, all hosted by the hilariously charming Danny. Think a cross between Mr Miyagi and John Candy with a kiwi accent and a bit of a tan, then you are somewhere there. In our case though, the transport to the event had forgotten to pick us up at the bus stop. We were lucky that the bus stop was located at a local hotel resort called the Rarotongan. Thankfully for us the guys at the reception there are decidedly Rarotongan (ie nice) and that even though we weren’t their guests and they were in no way obliged to, called the Highland Paradise up. They scrambled some guys in a pick up truck to our rescue and all we missed was a little of the talk. The ride up there however was well worth it. The boys, about 18 years old I reckon, were already in traditional garb, they just told us to jump on the back of the pick up and hold on. Conny was slightly disappointed not to be squeezed in with the handsome Maori boys in nought but grass skirts, but hey, we can’t win them all eh. It was a spectacular ride, more spectacular the owners face when she saw how we had been picked up. Her jaw hit the floor I think when she realised that they hadn’t seen fit to vacate the cab for us and them ride in the back, which was later confirmed by Danny over dinner as we chatted. He nearly gave one of the lads a clip round the ear as he heard but I feel the fact we enjoyed it more and the fact that the lad so nonchalantly just said “Yeah, we threw’em in the back eh, sweet as” to Danny’s enquiry saved him, because one must applaud such a laissez faire attitude.

The food was as you could probably guess, fantastic. Simple salads, some local vegetable like tapioca and taro plus meat cooked in the oven that Conny says was to die for. The highlight however was the taro plant leaves, wilted, and cooked with onions and coconut. It was similar to some Asian spinach dishes and entirely phenomenal. Danny insists that it is full of iron and as such is the men’s favourite as it will put lead in your pencil, but only for the taken man, as no one should have such lead in their pencil with no one to write to.

The evening was rounded off by a trip through various dances by descendants of the ancient clan that inhabited the hill. The boys were full of vim and vigour, leading to whoops and cheers from Conny’s side of the table. This might be as much to do with their talent as it was the fact that they were tall, chiselled, handsome Maori boys, full of stamina and athletic prowess topped by their glistening in sweat…that could also have been the case.

The girls up next, beautiful girls in coconut bikinis doing their thing. What can I say? Their thing is talented. I never knew the shaking of a grass skirt (in what can only be a precursor to twerking) could be so remarkable. By God those girls could get some speed up, stirring parts in me that I didn’t know were stirrable, let alone had been stirred before! The music was full of tribal drum and rhythm with fantastic singing, and although I make the show sound steamy, it’s not. It is done with the utmost respect and reverence to their history. All in all a proper win.

Now. To my horror.

The strange thing is, my horror was simply a bit of sunburn. The day Conny and I got to the hut we set out to buy some reef shoes and snorkels. We did, but in her haste to get in to the sea Conny’s response to my meekly raised question “Sun tan lotion?” was “FUCK SUN TAN LOTION!” as she strode on to the beach dropping layers as she went. At this point I should say, I knew better. I am a grown 35 year old man. I should have either insisted or at the very least, not followed, but no.

An hour or two spent dordling around the placid lagoon seemed no bother. The next day, a bit pink but no worries, the same on day 2. I remember saying to Conny when she mentioned our pinkness that it’s no bother. Been burnt before, probably will again, but it wont stop me.

I rue the day that I ever spake those words.

Day 3 past sunburn saw me wake at 3 am. Unable to sleep as an itch started growing. I left the bed several million different positions later and went outside with a cup of coffee and a book, all the while, uncomfortable at the ever building itch across my back. By 5.30 the coffee and book were abandoned as I ran to the shower. When Conny awoke at 8 this thing was in full force (even now as I write, a couple of weeks later, I am becoming aware of flashbacks and phantom itches)

I was jumping in and out of the shower, trying to make it fade. But no. This itch was the worst thing ever. Worse than AIDS I reckon. Conny had tried every aloe vera or tea tree thing we had by 10 am and the thing was only getting worse. At this point I was really hoping that the woman I love would show me exactly why I do love such a kind and caring lady. What I got was fits of laughter to the point of tears and no more breath. She did not get it, which is understandable, for I do not have the words to emote the sensation on my back. The following is my attempt to do so:

I shall name it the Hell Itch. For this falls not a millimetre short of what I imagine Hell to be. The skin on my back was warm, but not sore like those sun burns we all get, but it was something else. Not searing pain, but entirely unpleasant. However the horror is that it felt like a million Hell Fire Maggots had been spawned into my back and under the skin. The Broad sheet of my admittedly too fat back was alive with these fuckers. The sensation the worst thing I can remember. All the while moving, changing not a moment of respite. As it swept in unforeseeable waves across my back I felt various areas spasm due to the unexpected distress. All I was left to do was squat, naked in the shower with my back to the water bringing little to no relief, but with every time I tried to exit and take it like a man the intensity grew so fucking much I was back in in moments. It was at this point the pressure in me boiled over, Conny’s red faced cackle was the last straw. I unwittingly channelled my inner Regan MacNiel (Linda Blair in the exorcist) and the voice that came was frighteningly guttural and foreign. Even to me, this was visceral hatred in that moment for I was left with nothing else “Don’t you fucking laugh at me” boomed the voice. So shocking to Conny that even the penny dropped with her. She went online and the first thing she found was an account from a former US marine who had befallen the same fate. When she read that he had put it way beyond any of the physical difficulties he had endured as an active marine and that it’s relentless horror was far worse than any torture for which he had been prepared, she started to take me seriously. All I had at this point was the voice of Beezlebub shouting profanity from the pit of my belly through the top of my lungs emanating from the ever running shower. Bless her heart, this is when Conny showed what she is made of. She called the pharmacy and prepared to head out on the scooter we had hired (for which she is not licenced to ride). I had no fight in me and honestly didn’t think I’d make it with the spasms, so acquiesced to her going. Sadly, Conny is no expert, so mere moments later she is quizzing me on how to get it started. I explain, “Nothing” I hear from outside the bathroom window. At this point, full of fire, grunts and the purest evil, I decide enough is enough. I throw on a helmet, a t shirt and shorts, in that order. Stride out to Conny.

“Keys.”

“But will you make it?” She enquires worriedly.

“Have to.”

 

She gets on the pillion position as I pull out of our lot. At this point my mind has gone back to the days of Kung Fu, ages spent in horse riding stance burning my thighs, or the chuckle as we are in splits and Brian the instructor kicks your foot that little bit further*. My breathing becomes focused and meditative and for the first 5 minutes I’m still struggling. But then a breakthrough. It’s still horrible, but I can cope. The distraction of riding, the breeze on my back and the focus seem to align to make it seem survivable. This place becomes my Zen. If the itch becomes too much (which it does frequently over the next few days) I take to the bike. I did it at all hours of the day or night, even through torrential downpours. Zero fucks given. This thing was not winning. I would enjoy this week no matter what. Even the fact that the cream we got (Vitamin A is the healer apparently) didn’t stop me. You see, the thing is, I had basically fried all the nerve endings, of which there are many in ones back and that fiery tickle is each of them trying to repair, but by their nature, these things are receptive to sensation. Anyway the lady in the pharmacy neglected to mention that the vitamin A cream she sold us was “augmented” with cod liver oil. Holy fuck. Not only did I now itch like a bastard but I stank of fish. Not even a pleasant fishy smell, if there is such a thing, but noooooooo, that horrible smell you get when you walk by the damn of a reservoir and see that stinky upturned fish with half of it’s belly refashioned into a stinky cavern. That stink.

The cream was only applied once. Fuck that shit. Man up. I nearly died of pneumonia once. I once slipped a disc in my back into the spinal nerves. Both of these were preferable to this, but fuck it. Nope. This wouldn’t ruin me.

Somehow, in all honesty, it didn’t. There was only really one full 24 hours of nightmare horror. The rest it was there but I had it licked in my mind. But I shit you not I would not wish that upon my worse enemy. Well there are a few names that spring to mid, but they shall remain behind pursed lips.

Back to Rarotonga and it’s awesomeness. From the people on the island, to the Paw Paws and the chickens in the yard. A place could not be more perfect. Yes the weather was at times a little too sweaty and stifling, but that just made the breeze that followed that teensy bit more magical. Even the fact that wifi isn’t freely available there helps you appreciate the place more. We even stumbled across a Pirates of the Carribean themed porno movie on the hosts movie drive that he provided!

I really couldn’t have asked for more apart from a better girlfriend, with a love of sun tan lotion, and a better brain and set of balls combo from myself.

Next, on to New Zealand, a short hop, with apparently no vegetarian meal ordered, damn that guy on the phone! The lady did scramble together some fruit from the other meals and crackers and cheese from first class, which I thought was sterling work and deserved a mention.

*Brian Nelson is a fine instructor of Kung Fu, I dare say the best. I would not wish that anyone think I thought otherwise for I would say I was privileged to have him teach me throughout the years growing up.

1-Things we liked.

2-Things we less than liked.

3-Things we learned.

1- Likes

Americans!

One of the most wonderful things about America was its people. Yes we felt that some of those with the exaggerated stereotypical ‘Murican traits were annoying as fuck, but really, on the whole, most of the folk we met were nice. Decent folk, although we may have differed on some opinions, they were generally polite in their own way, generous and extended plenty of love and kindness our way.

America

Such a beautiful country, so much diversity, so vast. Our trip was a paultry effort at exploration compared to what it warrants. Hopefully we’ll get to explore more when we can.

Tater Tots

Fucking blinding.

Grilled Cheese sandwiches

See above, with the added delight of greasy cheesyness.

Laurie at the Comfort Inn in Seattle

She’s a star.

New York.

New York!

Byron the ‘Gator Guy.

The gators were super cool, the fan boat was uber ace. Byron was the Man.

Welcome Centres

When you pass in to a state and they have Welcome Centres. There is usually someone there who knows exactly where to walk and spot wildlife (although found no moose nor bear!). Some even offer coffee free or at a voluntary donation. One even had a rocket, like a real proper space rocket.. The best we found were in Vermont and New Hampshire.

Cape Cod

Moby Dick Country, nuff said.

Friends

Going around seeing long-not.seen folk was awesome. The world turns on friendship and long may it do so.

Root Beer

Tastes like the dentist. Delicious. They even have some chewing gum kind of thing, normally Ice related that also reminds me of Root Beer. Equally delicious.

Gan Shan Station

Read the revue. Immense.

2-Less Likey

‘Muricans!

Yes those overly loud, brash, self important bellends who think they do everything best but in fact do quite the opposite. Fucks.

Roads

American roads are shit. Too big (although too small, see below). Too messy, I have never seen so much roadkill and bits of tyre and wreckage. It is somewhat astounding.

American Cars

Too fucking big, only ever carry one person. Ridiculous. The traffic of giant engined trucks lining up clogging the enormo highways to carry their oversized single occupant to work, choking the world with every splutter of their shit engines.

Oversized

Following on from the last point. EVERYTHING IS GINORMOUS. Coffees. Meals. Cars. Roads. Cities. Houses. PEOPLE. It seems America isn’t happy until it does everything bigger (and not usually better) than the rest of the world.

Rubbish

The amount of disposable shit that was everywhere sickened us. Every breakfast, coffee house, restaurant had some sort of unnecessary waste. I don’t get how happy everyone is to just use plastic wraps to wrap something already wrapped in plastic up, and then put it in a shiny plastic packet. Mind numbing. It leads to my next point.

Litter

Be it in the city, or be it in the Grand Canyon or anywhere else, there is a fuckton of that disposable stuff everywhere.

Tipping

I have long worked in service, I am definitely not averse to tipping, just the American way of doing it. Tipping is a gratuity, not part of the price. Fucking restaurant owners should pay their staff appropriately, not pass the buck and add a hidden cost to the patron. Price the menu accordingly and pay the staff properly. You fucks.

Christian Radio

I have no issue with Christians, or Christianity, so long as it lets everyone be themselves without condemnation and doesn’t play blind to solid fact science. These stations however hurt my head and my heart with their rhetoric and often their condescending tone toward the non-believer. Many of their messages are hugely contradictory but just said fast enough and often enough, occasionally loud enough, more often than not in old fashioned English, to make it sound authoritative and more authentic. If you buy that shit, you are a fool, and likely a poor one paying for some more godly man than yours’ opulent life.

They Elected an anti-human fucktard with no morals for the next president

I don’t care for the politics. I happen to know a lot about the politics but it is not worth the discourse. Simply put, people picked a vacuous PT Barnum character to rule them, for a change, or to make America great again or whatever. The guy is a soul less morally corrupt egotist with no desire to see anyone right or stick to his pledges and hasn’t even the gumption to even entertain the notion that the presidency will be his job and those people advising him ought be listened to. America. You fucked up. And we could all die as a result.

3- Lessons Learned

Americans like churches

In some areas, we entered into places that had virtually no people, but 7 churches. One street I saw started with a church, next to another church. Two houses up a church and up the street acroos the road, another. No wonder they love their Jesus.

Alligators aren’t vicious

No that would be the crocodiles. Byron said you can swim in the bayou there, the gators wont bite…they ain’t crocs.

Don’t start an 8 hour hike at 1.30pm

Quite obvious really

Always take a head torch

See above.

Frost in a beard isn’t pleasant

Exactly what it says.

They have some fucked up signs

No really. They do. I saw one for a BYOB strip club…that place can’t make money. A seventh day adventist hospital…which I can only imagine is a very big prayer room. A sign for a road called Zzyzx. Who the fuck called that road that, and how do you even start at pronouncing it? They are a mere snippet.

Someone thought it would be a smart idea to put an international gold storage facility opposite a max security prison

No really, they did that, can’t remember where, but literally right opposite. Talk about casing a joint.

Americans fucking love guns

It’s a true thing, and you can’t tell them that a gun free society works, because they’ll call you a commie, a terrorist or a denier of liberty for doing so. They will also try and tell you that you have been hoodwinked by the media and are a drone, or something along those lines. They will often ask for evidence, then when you mention UK, Australia, most of Europe, they tell you you are wrong. The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good one…that kind of shit.

No matter how nice and decent people are, they can live by their fears and their conscious and subconscious prejudices, and in doing so fuck it up big time

See who they elected and why. And don’t try and tell me it was a vote for a change for a guy like us who speaks his mind. That is a motherfucking cop out.

There is way more, but I am not of a mind to think about it.

America was great. I liked it. You might not think it from what I just wrote, but it’s true, we loved it. We loved the people, despite our differences of opinion, and surely that is what the world is about, or should be. Think differently, discuss, move on in a better way for everyone.

The end.

Our first night in San Francisco saw us do something of a rarity. It was almost a date night. Dinner and a movie. Both were excellent. Chestnut Street in SF boasts some fine eateries and he one we chose for night 1’s meal was excellent. An Italian by the name of Delarosa. We opted for a couple of starters and a pizza, in a bid to save money, however all that meant really was we saved room for a plate of doughnuts and an extra cocktail for Conny. However, all were deeeelicious and I would happily recommend to anyone. For the movie, we sat in an old school cinema to Fantastic Beasts, which we and the other four or so people in there enjoyed muchly.

Day 2 saw us meet up with an old flame/friend of mine from my very first summer in Nice, Miss Sara Whiteted. We went on a drive and a walk to see the sights. The palace of arts, the pier (including more fried food than you can shake a stick at at Bubba Gump’s) a store for the cack-handed (lefties) folk and a bunch of sea-lions, that kind of shenanigans. Most wonderful however to spend a day with a wonderful lady from my past, whom I introduced to the lady that is my present and future. Gladly, both got on fine! The real icing on the cake is that my present/future lady and I got to meet the lady that is Sara’s present and future…her fantastic daughter Eleanor. She’s one of those rare bright sparks where the mum says “Oh my kid is sooooooo smart.” and you actually agree. Not only that but she is charming and an overall genuine bundle of joy. Soooooooooo pleasing to see the mother that Sara has become and the astounding job she is doing raising such a child, on her own. If you are reading this dear Sara, I said it then and I’ll say it again, you should be very proud of yourself, I am!

Conny and I headed out for another wander down Chestnut street intent on some other fare and stopped at a tapas bar(Mezes). Absolutely delicious once more. Small portions and the chips with greek cheese and stuff were a let down but still, the more authentic dishes were pretty spot on.

Day three saw the obvious trip to Alcatraz. As one can imagine an impressively foreboding place, with that sense that some serious wrongs had gone on there, but what did surprise was the brevity of which the island was indeed a full fledged prison. I thought it had been such since the early days of America. I was wrong. Merely a hundred or so years of history to it really, first as a simple fort during the civil war, then as a military prison, then a proper prison. Then abandoned and a reclamation attempt by the native Americans was stomped out in the 70s. I also learned that the Rock (action movie with Nic Cage and Sean Connery, not the wrestler/movie star of Polynesian decsent, wouldn’t dare say he is wrong) is wrong. That scene in the showers, couldn’t have happened. The showers were open stalls and nothing like those in the movie. I also learned that the families of workers lived and grew on the island in their own little community, which seemed both and odd yet strangely idyllic place to do so. The most interesting nugget however that I picked up was that during his stay there, Al Capone was a bit bonkers due to his syphilis.

Tour over we headed back to the mainland. Here is where Conny had the brainiest of brain waves.

“Lets hire some bikes” she says.

“Why not?” comes my equally brain filled response.

We hired the bikes, for 24 hours. Rode them along the waterfront and sat by the beach at the foot of the Golden Gate as the night drew in. The locals making the most of the warm evening, taking to the water on some very impressive hydrofoil kite surf thingymajigs. Nothing too alarming yet.

The next morning was Thanksgiving, we awoke to get our slightly stale breakfast and cups of coffee down us so we could head out across the bridge, again no hassle. Then came the tour of SF. The most god damn mother fucking hilly city on the planet. Swear down. Fucking stupid idea. I did only once get defeated by the hills and get off and push but I’m not sure the chaffe was worth it. Fuck that place is bumpy. Lombard street(that curvy one that you may have seen on the TV, I first saw it on record breakers with Roy and Cheryl back in the old days…If I am correct someone was doing a rollerskating/waitering/drinks-on-tray record in some very high socks and even higher shorty shorts…I’m not sure if it was real and scary or just a straight up nightmare but, hey that’s the memory in my head, anyway, I digress), if you are interested, don’t be. People queue for hours just to drive down that fucker in their oversized rental Escalades et al, snapping and selfy-ing away like proper bellends. At least one dude burnt the bajesus out of his clutch and managed to spin a tyre streak on to the road. Reet C-nuts the lot of’em.

Walked home, again via Chestnut street and really only intent on a beverage and a stool for our sore arses, we sat at a somewhat unassuming looking bar kind of place, with nothing really in it’s identity to suggest what lay in store. A quick glimpse of the ridiculously droolsome Thai menu saw Conny and I once again eating. This time sharing a fanfuckingtastic vegetarian sandwich with mounds of avocado and salad and Thai awesomeness alongside potato wedges. The best part however was meeting Sharif. A guy in his late forties or fifties I’d say, from Egypt. He’d come over here to work at Palo Alto and was properly living and loving life. The kind of dude you instantly warm to. A genuine smile and a hearty laugh. We discussed the usuals without getting too heavy, you know, those things I’m banned by Conny from discussing, politics, religion, life in general…the good stuff. I’m sure we may agree on some things and disagree on others, but we shared a very similar spirit about the importance of being honest with oneself, not being a general dick to people, and hoping that one day something we do will not only be beneficial to us, but also help or be beneficial to someone, anyone, that we leave a positive mark. Sharif is a good dude. That Thanksgiving, I can say with certainty that I was thankful to pull up a seat at his table.

The evening saw our laziness, unbeknownst to us at the time, take its toll on our credit cards. Grubhub.com sucks dick.

How a company can offer a payment system that automatically shuts down not one, but both mine and Conny’s Visa and Mastercards instantly, due to its dodginess is beyond me. Particularly when that company specialises in online credit card takeaway food orders and offers a ten dollar incentive to use your card. But that is exactly what happened. They were quick to respond with a 5 dollar voucher for my next order when I told them of my woes…which of course I can not use as the site wont accept my card and vouchers can only be applied to card transactions, therefore, an entirely useless offer, but hey, I learned a lesson. I say I learned a lesson. That didn’t actually come until a few days later. We hadn’t realise our cards had been stopped. So when we rolled up to procure our convertible Mustang for the trip down to LA, shit got real. Turns out the folk at Alamo SFO though are proper decent folk. When both our cards worked, for clearly no good reason, and given we had prepaid the hire, they just took a cash deposit. Now when I heard those words I was thinking probably what you are thinking now, that must be a shitload of cash. A brand new Mustang Convertible, cash deposit incase of any wrong doing. Minimum hundreds, probably thousands. Nope. 50 bucks. Seriously. 50 bucks. I laughed. Out loud. I actually properly LOL’d. So there it was. We had recently sent the Black Beauty to pasture, and I was about to sadly up my jumpy and twitchy young Mustang. Too fucking right.

Highway 1, with the top down is a dream. Winding along the coast, the haze of the sea, the colours of the light, the smell on the air and the wind through whats left of my middle aged man hair is ridiculous. We pulled in at Santa Cruz and got a quesedilla to share(from a little shack called the Steamers Lane Supply, and it was fantastic) with some coffees and watched the surfers doing their thing. The old and new surfer generations, all a bit hippy this was a proper little place. Kind of reminded me of the Lost Boys, without vampires/and or the Frog brothers. I could happily retire there. I suppose however, in order to do that I would have to get a job first. Big Sur is beautiful. We watched Star Wars (Return of the Jedi no less) while eating at a good friend of our’s recommended eatery, the Fernwood Tavern. He said it was the best he had in the US. He clearly hadn’t been to Gan Shan Station, but it was definitely good. So good we enquired about a room for the night. It wasn’t however 250 bucks for a room good however so we moved on. The next morning, we had backtracked a little to get a reasonable motel, we got to do Big Sur all over again, but in the morning light, then passing the quaint little seaside towns. Onwards and downwards we headed to the big smoke of LA. We went past a sign saying no parking, but clearly given everyone else had parked, we assumed there must be something to see and followed suit. A beach full of elephant seals, wallowing and, I assume at least, mock fighting. The big blubbery beasts barking and biting at one another to catch the female’s gaze. Certainly a sight to behold and quite unexpected too.

Our trip to LA however had been unwittingly abbreviated by our new flight date, so we didn’t get to hit up Venice as we planned, but as we got close to LA we kind of realised that was no bad thing. The weather was souring and the sky darkening as night stormed in. That’s not the real reason though, traffic there is fucking shit. The drivers get worse as you get closer and what are already terrible drivers become ludicrous. To be honest, by the time we handed back the keys and gave the car a quick adieu, we were suitably done.

Then. Panic.

I had stupidly, last minute read a horror story about someone wanting to go to Rarotonga but the flight crew then said they needed to prove onward flights from New Zealand, something I thought sounded off, but was perhaps plausible. We tried to book flights from NZ to Australia. But guess what. Cards didn’t work. We checked at the desk, but the check in lady seemed clueless at best. We made our way to the gate. Hitting bricks incase they asked. My phone stopped working as I tried to speak to my sister in law so if necessary she could back us up. My messaging apps decided to fully fritz out at this exact moment too, so Kerry was then only getting half messages in decidedly un-real time. I was getting nothing back. The internet then timed out. As did our wait for boarding. Here goes nothing. And that’s exactly what happened, nothing. Not a sausage of bother. Easy and peasy. Thos bricks that I shat were for nought. We arrived at Rarotonga, complete with Ukelele reception and flowers around our neck, zero hassles. Welcome to paradise.

We left Las Vegas after gorging on a brilliantly mediocre breakfast buffet, hitting the road for Yosemite and looking to leave the desert behind us. As per usual we had looked up a few spots to camp but by the third one that didn’t look any good we were beginning to get annoyed. Night was falling, and night even fell before a couple more attempts at hot springs (that evidently sprung invisible hot air, as they were nowhere to be found) and parklands (at which we were oddly unable to park) we began to worry some more. I could however see signs to ski places and villages were going from ramshackle wild west toward down home alpine. We couldn’t see them, but we knew the snowy mountain tops were nearby. As we started to climb the mountain towards Mammoth Lakes we spotted a layby, containing another camper van, but big enough for us both. The cold of the night paled away into insignificance as the morning sun brought with it the sight of the snow topped mountains right in front of us, an as such warmed us from within and without. The theme continued, as we headed to Mammoth Lakes, a little resort town, but not the flashiness of those poncy European Alp resorts, pretty down to earth rugged awesomeness. We stopped at a bakery (Schatz) and headed on towards the park and lakes from which the town took it’s name. A stunning pine forest amongst the mountains, we got to the waterside and the bracing wind, not weak in its force but refreshing all the same, the smell of the pine on the air and the stunning lakes as birds played and fished was truly stunning. Conny said it was exactly the tonic she needed after desert and Vegas. I’m pretty sure she shed a tear as we sat there for a while taking it all in!

The ride over to Yosemite was again a marvel. The mountain domes surrounded by pines and crisp air, the frost on the meadows with brooks meandering through never fail to bring that viola driven hook back into my head and images of Daniel Day Lewis shouting to Madeleine that he will find her. I love that shit.

The views coming down the pass are incredible and finally we arrive at Yosemite. A little village nestled at the base of the steep walls, a hub of trails and where we will call home for the next few days.

Full of deer, everywhere was bear proofed, we prayed for luck. We spent the days walking, stunning paths to the awesome waterfalls, where you would see the water working under the frozen top layer, with icicles galore standing sentry… an oddly satisfying sight. We hiked up the largest set of falls beyond where the majority of the lightweights stop and as such got into conversation with a couple of Americans en route. It was also quite refreshing that given the political events of late, and that clearly the guy I was chatting to had very different ideas on what is good and right, that we could have a genuine discourse and even agree on some things. We also made Tarzan noises. Which is pretty neat too.

One of the days saw the most magnificent combination of light and weather I have ever experienced. The day was sunny and bright, warm even, but a foreboding dark loomed over the mountain, as it crept up to the precipice it spewed forth a biting shower of hail and then stopped, hanging there letting the still shining sun over the valley keep it’s place. Providing the most wonderful backlight to the falling hail you could think of. Better still was the hail once it was grounded. The warmth from the sun almost instantly turned each single hailstone on the floor into perfect miniature globes of water, the tiniest single drops you could imagine sat perfect, pure and clean on the leaves and pathways. Truly awesome. After the sun set behind the hills, the hail cloud decided to pop it’s self over the hill and throw some almighty wind and hail at us, now that it knew it was stealing none of the sun’s thunder. It was a shame because I was eagerly looking for bears with a hot chocolate in my hand, and between the hail and the condensation in the car my search was foiled yet again.

The evenings we parked just outside the park to avoid fees, a great little spot just across from the National Park’s maintenance hub. It was here we met a couple of folk. First up were India and Nick, a couple who were living in their homemade Jucy style camper (no tent on the roof but a kitchen in the back) having given up their jobs and were climbing their way around the US looking for the next place to settle.

Next up was the Germans: Max, Max and Patricia. One of the Max’s and Patricia were brother and sister, the other max was a friend of the other Max. I shall call them 1 and 2 to save hassle. 1 had popped out of his camper (they went big and posh and got a full scale El Monte RV) and as well as sparking a cigarette, he sparked up a conversation with Conny. Firstly in English, trying to find out if we needed to pay where we were to sleep. There was a sign that said yes, but there was also no one that had bothered any one for weeks. Then Conny bust out the German to give him a real surprise. 1 and 2 it transpires had just been for a month in Alaska. Something of which I am very envious. They saw bears, proper style grizzly beasts and they spent a month hanging around in one of the places I most want to go, but knew was too much for this trip.

We played UNO together in their RV and when we all left the next morning, we did so in convoy to the redwood groves. We braved the freezing cold (well Conny did) to make pancakes on our little outdoor stove, whilst Ze Germans cooked up some bagels and stuff so we could smash down a mighty breakfast in the RV before heading out to stroll around the behemoth sequoias. Those things are a wonder. The sheer age of their life and what they have lived through. We all know they aren’t sentient but the fact they are alive inspires a gleeful feeling and awe that if only they could share the wisdom and the things they have (figuratively speaking) seen. Thousands of years of change and life and the pest of humankind near bringing them to extinction. We even fucked them up when trying to help them, so brazen are we and our lofty opinions of our own import.

It was nice wandering around these things with our new friends, chatting about everything from travel to work and photography, music and cars and anything in between. I even managed to discuss thoughts on religion with a Christian and come to the agreement that we were kind of on the same page, only our terminology was different. Thoroughly decent people with a zest for life and the enjoyment of living it and meeting like-minded (or otherwise) folk. Max 1, Max 2 and Patricia are very awesome peoples. I do hope that when we get back to the Germanic lands to see them all again!

Next up, wine. For Conny at least. Sonoma was a short drive away, but it turns out, Sonoma isn’t known for its camping spots. Again we had to settle for the quasi-legal and hope that nobody minded our parking in a little dog park for the night as there were no campsites to be found. Unlike the last dog park however, no one showed up, not even in the morning. Turned out that despite the signs saying day use only etc, we had found a perfect spot.

We headed into Sonoma proper the next morning, a dank and drizzly affair, our intent was to perhaps get a shower by going to a local pool or something. Problem is, pools in Sonoma are called Spas, and the joy of a brief swim and a shower would cost the fortune of a day pass to one of these very spas. Even on the budget tour(the lady in the tourist office gave it an appropriately condescending title, but I can’t exactly remember it’s name, something along the lines of ‘economy’ like it was a terrible idea for someone to come to such a place and not be wealthy, anyway, she was otherwise very lovely and helpful). Not exactly what Conny and I had in mind though. We decided to cross the road and head to the local cafe/bakery Basque Boulangerie. The intent was to scour the internet for further option, but Basque being as delightfully Old School as it is, no internet. This however was a positive thing. Conny got talking to the old chap next to her, Art Douglas, he seemed a real cool dude, to be honest I would have really liked to have been more involved in that conversation, but I had my own to negotiate with our neighbour from the next side, Maureen. Maureen was, and probably still is, great. An Irish lady, from Dublin I believe, came over at 18 and got married months later. She was still very much in love to the man decades later when he passed on. He had done well for himself too by the sounds of it, not that Maureen was in it for the money, she was very much in it for the love and all that material stuff was just unnecessary. If she didn’t need it, she didn’t have it. I could have listened to Maureen talk for days. I real sparkle of a lady. We disagreed on many things, although I gently suggested my difference in opinion or didn’t bother at all, for we are from different generations and streams of thought, but really her heart is firmly in the right place. She regaled us the tales of her in the dance halls on her first dates and the lives her adoptive brothers and sisters have gone on to lead from the orphanage in Ireland. We were gossiping about the love-lives of the older daters amongst the community and the unfortunate circumstances that had befallen her friend at the whim of an apparently perfect older gentleman who turned out to be a cad and a bounder. Talk of one lady here who belonged to the “airport set” (Maureen and others liked to go and lunch at the local airport, where a mixture of arrivals both private and commercial would spur on the local gossip) or talk of another lady who was from some other set doing this that and the other. The details are irrelevant, she was just funny as fuck.

The bakery itself, by the way, is a veritable wonder. Masses of delicious looking breads, pastries and cakes all of them looking as scrumptious as the next, I could have spent many a morning and that place. As in fact many people do. I remember thinking to myself that this place either has a serious set of plums or it has some serious turnover with the amounts it puts out on display. It was clearly the latter if not both. It had been there for decades, Maureen explained, had been owned by a couple of families but they all did very well. They not only did the shop, but baked for the local hotels and businesses. It really was fantastic, the coffee was pretty damn tasty too. If ever there was a place to stop in Sonoma, that was it. If you pass by in the evenings you may even, as we were be given a free voucher for bread, as they give their leftovers away. Incidentally the voucher was given to us by a kindly gentleman, whose name I forget but whose gift for the gab in many languages was unforgettable.

The afternoon saw us tasting some wine, some bigger wineries, a couple smaller ones. The wine was all so so. I tasted a little, Conny tasted a little more. The overwhelming thought was California, or at least Sonoma wines tended to be heavy on the alcohol, but a little watery on the taste. Anyway, the most surprising thing was we got an invite to a thanksgiving dinner, in a real family household. BJ, one of the hosts at a tasting, heard of our travels and within 5 minutes had invited us to their celebration. How awesome is that? I cant put into words how much I would have loved to have gone. Sadly between our already booked hotel in San Francisco and our odd schedule change on our flights we couldn’t go. The offer alone warmed my heart fantastically though. The flight change, I have to admit was an odd one. Air New Zealand, called us up. No. Wait. They didn’t even do that, they sent us an email, saying Conny had to call them, upon which, after an arm achingly long time of muzac and travel officers, we got through to some poor dude who had the joy of telling us that our flight out to Rarotonga had been moved to a day earlier. Yes, a whole day. Not an hour or so. A day. I wasn’t sure this was possible and we had plans involving car rentals and such, what about later, he said they can do a day later, but we would be going via Auckland. Somewhat defeating the point. They did offer us our first nights’ accommodation and I was able to reorganise the rental, so apart from a shortening of our pacific coast Highway One trip, it wasn’t too bad. All I then did was check that my flights were earmarked vegetarian and we were grand.

We had decided that tonight we would stop at a local state park, called Sugarloaf Mountain. The ride up the mountain was deliciously dark and mossy, mists falling off the clouds sent a tumbling down the mountainside and along the creek. The rain was relentless, and the mists sat thick on the campsite, but the eyes of the deer still lit up with the lights of the car as we found our spot. Better still there were hot, clean showers and even the threat of a wifi signal, but alas, it was an empty one.

The morning saw a clearer day and a breakfast before we

Our last night in the van was not quite the luxury camp or wilderness beauty we had hoped for. We ended up parking upon a race track car park. We needed a spot no more than an hour or so from the Jucy HQ, and as mentioned, campsites around here were few and far between. We tried a trail head, but the trail head we tried was not even there. Still it was quiet, we had the chance to pack our shit together in peace and nobody gave us any shit whatsoever. All in all, a win I reckon! The next morning we moved on to San Francisco. We dropped the car off at Jucy HQ. No problems all good. Pleased to know we were not the kind of people dishing out the kind of nobbery that the customer that followed us let tumble from his mouth. Somehow, upon turning up late, he expected Jucy to wave the fuel refil fee because he hadn’t been bothered to fill it. He was adamant he deserved it as he had rented for a whole week, and that he had passed a station not far back. Jucy quite rightly said that if he left it, they would charge him, but they would let him go and do it to save the fee. He then aghast that they asked him to do it Ms Jucy pointed out that he is already late and that they were in fact being quite nice to let him go and do it to save himself the money, and that if he thought they would not only go and do it because he couldn’t be arsed, but also do it for free, he was in fact mistaken. I very much enjoyed that. I really do hate proper fuckers being proper fuckers, thinking that the world owes them their proper fuckerdom.

Anyway, we both got the piss bus and headed into San Francisco to transfer towards our home for the next few nights. The Inn at the Golden Gate. What we didn’t know though, was that the bus system in SF has several differently named but identically numbered bus companies. Luckily, when we got on the wrong bus that went the right way, and we didn’t have the change the guy was super nice and waived the charge(which should have in fact been double the usual fare). In fact for the most part we were the only people on the bus and he acted as our personal tourist information guy and guide to San Francisco.

Arriving at our stop, the driver practically dropped us at the door, here we were, home The Inn at the Golden Gate. Exactly the kind of drive up motel room like the ones in the movies that I had craved since landing in the US.

Conny and I thought to ourselves, let’s do Vegas right. A decent hotel. An allotted gambling fund. Enjoy the sights and sounds, maybe get lucky and not just blow a wad.

Turns out 4*+ in Vegas is the equivalent to 2, maybe 3 stars in the rest of the world. The hotel, which was under refurb in it’s whole pool area, was not exactly big pimpin’. Ok, it wasn’t the most expensive, but at the same time, those ratings are there for a reason, as a guide…didn’t even have tea or coffee in the room, that you could get via room service at about 5 bucks a pop. Now I know why there are 7*+ hotels in Vegas. They just shifteed the bloody goalposts. I suppose, this was all in keeping with the theme of the hotel. Building everywhere, overly costly prices for nothing special services and an air of pomp and circumstance with a whiff of pretentiousness just like the “for real” Monte Carlo.

Anyway. It was pleasant enough. Conny and I decided to head out for a look at the city, take in the bright lights and spectacle of it all, grab a bight to eat and watch some of the Rock n Roll marathon folk go by.

All of this was very pleasant. I didn’t quite expect to be as enamoured by the big lights and stuff but I found it quite enchanting. The city is clean, the people are nice, when not being super loud and pissed early doors because they are in “Vegas Baby” and “all in”.

Amongst all this excess and largesse we did come back to one salient point that has rung through during the entirety of our trip. Americans, when not in super great shape, are proper beasts. Big giant fat folk. Casually walking down the street in their enormosity. Now, don’t get me wrong. If a person is comfortable with their weight more power to them. If somebody is in a battle and needs help, then that should be afforded them. I definitely do not think that a person should be ridiculed or made to feel less worthy because of their size. I do however think that it becomes a problem when this is normal. Because straight up facts wise, it ain’t healthy. It should never be promoted as a lifestyle choice that is just fine and dandy, kids should be helped prior to becoming obese and educated accordingly, not satiated in their desires for fear of feeling hurts and told that big is beautiful. Big can be beautiful, in many ways, but healthy it never will be and people who are of larger frame should understand such implications.

The fountains at the Belaggio are a veritable wonder. Expertly timed to Bruno Mars and his funk from the uptown. I was surrounded by Spaniards and Koreans singing along, with volume and only about 3% of the words correct, but rightly they were digging it and having a good time. Who cares if the uptown funk is going to give a Tuna. It was all fun, if you don’t believe me, just rot.

There were less impressive volcano displays, and even less poor approximations of Belaggio style water dances but all in all it was an excellent bit of fun. Dinner, was very USA. I have never delighted as much at the thought of a spike of onion rings. It is exactly what it sounds like. Onion rings, hooped over a footlong spike. Piled right to the top. Conny and I appropriately smashed it down. The thing about being in the international areas or tourist places or big smokes, is they kind of have to look after the vege-folk. Much of this trip I have been left wondering how vegetarians survive, and when you see the relative rabbit food they offer us vege folk in much of the US, it comes as quite the let down when you see the giant hearty fare that the omnivores get. Vegas saw me right with a giant vege burger and the lady even checked if I was ok with fries as there is a chance of cross contamination from cooking fat. What an eye opener!

Post meal, we had an interesting discussion with a few “Vegas Baby” types in a milliners store.

I had found my ideal hat. Conny does not appreciate the sweat and hard work I put into my John Deere cap to make it look as manly as it does, and wanted me to get another.

The moment I saw a trucker cap with a cock on it (bird, not phallus) with the word cock, I was sold.

The VB crew didn’t get that that was exactly why I was buying the hat and tried to inform me that cock in the US was something slightly suggestive. My accent also tickled them pink so of course I threw in a few “job’s a good’un”s “chuck a bevvy or two in you’s and finished with a “tally ho toodle pip”. I fear they think we genuinely are like Dick Van Dyke and speak in Dickensian terms like Russell Brand (for the record, I like the way he talks).

On to the strip to watch the runners go by. I recalled a facebook post from earlier that day seeing an dude I knew from school, at the Grand Canyon, a day or two after me. He had proposed to his now fiancee. I thought to myself… hmmmm, this dude is a runner….I wonder. I kept my eyes peeled for the green vests of Trentham running club but as the run was winding down I thought to myself no way. Then clear as day, walking down the street, three vests abreast, James Fowler, and two of Trentham’s finest, including wife to be. At this point, I must admit, I kind of fluffed my lines. Didn’t want to go and thrust myself upon someone’s evening after they just ran a half marathon did I. So I awkwardly shouted James…told him he probably wouldn’t remember me (I ain’t that memorable, and didn’t have 75% the fat or any of the beard at school), which he said, of course. I basically wished him and his lady friend well and fucked off. Very abrupt. Very strange, but hey, that’s me in a nutshell. It was only strange and awkward because I didn’t want to be strange and awkward.

Next up. Gambling. What a fucking damp squib that turned out to be. I basically realised after a couple of minutes that this wasn’t for me. I had no fucking clue how these people throw money after money in these machines or at games. Now I get that there are a couple of folk who actually have an idea of what the actual fuck is happening, but I, and I hazard to say 80% of those folk there, had zero clue. There is lots of jargon employed suggesting you can win this or do that…realistically I am pretty sure it’s all bullshit, but nbullshit but and pad for by happy bullshit punters. Conny lasted about thirty seconds and told me “Fuck this, I’ll be at the bar with a drink”. I basically lasted the length of that drink before calling it a night.

Vegas. Fucking weird. Kind of pleasant. Could only spend a day there.

So. Trump has been elected, we know my thoughts on that. If there was one place that could help me put that in perspective, it was here.

Really, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things and on a universal timescale what we humans do. We are merely a stain on this great Earth and the sooner it rids itself of us all the better, but either way, we are much more an irritation than a cancer. The earth will recover. It’ll be like when you washed the headlice out of your child’s hair. Yes it was unpleasant, but really it didn’t last long,

This place shows you the vastness and beauty of the earth and it’s hardiness through the ages. Ever evolving, ever becoming more stunning and fantastic. Some people think this thing happened in a few days some 6000 years ago. You can probably guess my thoughts on that. It truly is a testament to time and the forces of nature. The beauty is it is young, relatively speaking, about 6 million years, but it cuts through layers of rock that stretch back billions, providing a snapshot of time as it does.

The sheer scale is mesmerising. Then you have the stunning sight of the colours and shadows as they meander through the days light. The abundance of life in a place that appears so desolate and hostile.

Our first afternoon there was an easy one. A stroll along the rim, a few gawps at the grandure (really, we should have known, the clue is in the name), an encounter with a squirrel or two. Watch the sun as it fell for the evening and then we went to a local show. It was a day of celebrating the native peoples of the region.

We were treated to some traditional song and dance from several local native tribes. It again served to remind us that no matter what the evil folk do, you can cling on to some good and decent things with a little effort. These people were decimated when the Europeans came and stole their land, they were almost extinct, but although they still have to fight and they face many many troubles, their desire to keep their traditions alive lives on and in doing so, their traditions do also, in a beautifully peaceful and spectacular way.

The first dancers were the local children from the school at the National Park (the only US national park to have such a school). Their troupe leader tells us of the traditions and why the boys have their role and the girls have theirs. More important she tells us, is that they get them started early, learning the language and the traditions. She wasn’t wrong, some of those kids were knee high to a grasshopper.

Next up was a local tribe’s pageant queen, performing an eagle dance, with ornate dress, bells plus feathers and wings to boot. The dance is a meditative prayer, that was particularly useful to the young lady at the loss of her sister. Performing the dance obviously moved her and us equally.

The highlight of the evening for me came next. A group of dancers from the White Mountain Apache, doing a crown dance that is used in ceremony to this day and represents the sunrise and the dawning of everything from life to the day as per the creator with his blessings. It is a dance strictly for the men. The women of this tribe know nothing of the intricacies in how it is to be performed or even the sanctity of the garb in which the men perform. The announcer tells a story of how one day when a storm came she wanted to help clear the crowns from harms way, but was told a: she must not touch them, and b: they can only face in certain directions, in a certain order, but tradition dictates these things are only learnt amongst the boys in the sweat hut, they may be observed and picked up by the women, but it is not something they are taught. It does seem somewhat sexist, but all very polite, and not looked upon unfavourably by the women, who appreciate their role in the traditions, so who am I to judge?

It’s hard to explain how impressive (and, although I said this is a peaceful way of maintaining tradition, mighty intimidating) I suppose the best way I could describe it is as a Silent Hill version of Mexican-Ninja-Celtic-Morris Dancers. The first thing you hear is the drum, then the jingle of their bells as they jog in in line. The lead dancer, topless, painted all in white, with black tribalistic looking markings and a wooden crown not unlike a crucifix is first, swiftly followed by the other four, all topless, painted black with white markings. All of the men wear a black kilt if you will with yellow stitch work, a black hood with a red band across the nose, no eyeholes, just piercing looking coins where the eyes should be, adorned with great wooden crowns, painted white. They vary in their appearance, however the key crown is the deer. Much revered by the White Mountain Apache, as it is the animal that gives them life, from its pelt to its meat, it is seen as sacred, and although hunted, much appreciated. The dancer in this crown often mimics the head movements and gestures of such a beast in rut. In fact the whole group move in a way that is very much geared up for the fight. Light of foot in between song, they teeter and pace like a boxer in his corner before a fight, waiting for the drum and the whirl of the lead dancer’s bull roarer (Rememer crocodile Dundee, the thing that he and Joe whirl around to make a kind of buzz saw noise…yup, one of those). The men are of somewhat imposing figure too, not scrawny, not in the best of shape (I am amazed that they can keep up the dances to be honest as they are very active and go on for 20 minutes or so) but they certainly look strong, fearsome I’d say. They harangue the musicians like a herd of beasts, the leader at the back calling the shots as the others get to the business of calling them out…this isn’t what’s happening I may add, just how it appears, and I certainly don’t mean to detract from it’s majesty.

The final dancers are the Havasu Ram Dancers. From the Havasu tribe, the elder quite amusingly yet quite poignantly alludes to the fact that when they come to grand canyon, it feels like a home coming, as they were the original inhabitants, until the National Park came (who were hosting this event) and forced them off the land into a res. 60 miles down the road. They get their name from one of their old tales. A great warrior was tired of the everyday existence he had become accustomed to, so he decided to go off into the canyon and find the bighorn sheep and join their pack. The bighorn sheep are elusive creatures, but known to be strong and proud, the hivisou, much like the Apache with the deer, respect and revere the Bighorn, they also see it as a guardian of the canyon lands and by proxy see themselves in the same light. Each time the warrior would go out, his tribe would seek him out and return him to the village, but each time he went and spent time with the Bighorn, he would take on some of their traits, starting with becoming more hairy, then plaiting his hair into large horns, which upon further visits turned into real horns and his feet cloved into hooves, until finally he was amongst the Bighorn as a magnificent Ram, to protect the Canyon evermore. The dancers, took their inspiration from this tale, the men dressed in Bighorn head dress, with tassels covering their face, and long fantastic robes, they walked with two sticks to represent the fore legs of their sacred beast.

The evening ended with the traditional native flute playing of a well regarded flautist and local chap from Cameron up the road. The chap had grown up in the area and had even worked in the Park. More wonderfully, he was equally adept at off the cuff comedy as he was the flute and brought the evening to a wonderful close.

The evening over, off we went into the nearby forest to find a camping spot. We found a beaut. Nice and isolated, flat and quiet we nestled in for the night. I awoke the next morning, having slept up top, to the unusual feel of dew in my beard and moustache. I dried it off and we headed for the canyon for a walk. We commenced our decent at a reasonable hour into the canyon in the cool of the shade and got about halfway down.

“Do it!” comes a cry from Conny.

“Do what?” I ask… At this point I must add that I am perched on a rock, hanging out over the sheer drop of literally the earth’s grandest of canyons.

“Fuck you!” comes my retort.

“I hear a couple of laughs as some passers by see the hilarity in what Conny had just said. Apparently, she was asking me to pose for the camera, not off myself, but clearly she didn’t quite chose the right English to articulate at this point!

I look to where the laughter had come from and saw a couple of dudes stamping on a Trump graffiti saying “let’s deal with that!” I gestured to Conny how great it was to see real Americans stamping over the “I heart Trump” that must have been scrawled the previous day, and that she ought to take a picture. The guy said that it was more the graffiti than the Trump sentiment, but that didn’t deter me. He asked about our trip and what was the most mind blowing thing I had seen. I don’t think he was expecting my response…”Well we saw the end of the world yesterday”. It did even get a chuckle, but that was skipped over and we learned that one of the dudes was in a race. A race with his daughter and a race I am envious of. The finish line is the visiting of each of the 47 or so National Parks in the USA, including the half dozen or so in the most remote of remote parks in Alaska. He fancied his chances, she was one up with here 26 to his 25, but he was in his mind at an advantage as he was about to retire. I didn’t want to tell him that in my head that meant he was perhaps at a disadvantage, as he was going downhill fast and she is merely in her mid twenties…so I let him bask in his joy.

As the sun reached it’s peak, we had to head back, for what you walk down here, you must also walk back up! Balls. No really, sweaty balls. Sweaty everything. It was quite the trek back up, but as I am swiftly becoming (in the local parlance of my youth) “A reet fat fat’un”, the exercise was welcomed. We hung out with the mules up top for a bit (big buggers these mules are, way bigger than I have ever encountered) and headed back for a bite of mexican food, which to be honest we shouldn’t have, although it was delicious. We had decided upon only eating our own food this part of the trip, but sucker for advertising that I am, and with a weakness for anything that was overtly vegetarian friendly, the sign that read “Excellent Vegetarian Food” was too much for this reet fat fat’un to resist. We did however share a plate, so that makes it acceptable.

We chose the same spot for our camp, but this time as we settled in at dusk, we collected some firewood an made use of the fire pit and the fact that I AM MAN. A beauteous blaze comforted us into the cool of the night and perhaps even dulled our senses to it’s vigour. That night was colder than I could imagine. The tent up top was so glass-cutter-pokey-nip-makingly cold that we both went to bed fully dressed. We awoke in the dark and cold of the pre-dawn (I say awoke, there wasn’t much sleep achieved) the previous mornings dew in my beard was today a full on frost. Conny in her anger even insisted that I strip the bed of all bedding because there was no way we would ever sleep in there again. I said perhaps that’s a little strong…

“No…WE ARE NOT GOING ANY FURTHER SOUTH! I AM DONE WITH SLEEPING UP THERE!

We headed back to the canyon to catch the sunrise. It was exactly as stunning as you would expect. Great life giving ball of fire lighting the sky as eat peaked over the horizon, spraying it’s warmth wherever it’s fingers of light touch, creating mists that amble along the where the wetness of the earth calls for it and leaving those parts that are blocked from it’s reach dark and cold. The disparity of the two creating a mosaic of colours that can’t fail to please the eye and warm the coldest of hearts.

Also, to add a more human touch, as we arrived we saw two young whippersnappers from the US scramble (with the assistance of a kindly father/uncle/guardian) on to a solitary looking butte*. The gap between where we were standing and this butte* was a superhuman leap away, and without searching for it one never would have assumed a way to scale it’s walls. This was highly amusing as the Asian tourists came a little too late to see the scaling of the walls in all it’s scrappiness. All they saw was two American tweens atop a rock that was impossible to reach. We could see them eyeing up the gap, and although my Mandarin isn’t strong, I’m pretty sure they were saying “No way!”

“How did they do that?” and “Well, if they can do it so can I…I’m gonna go for it…” the latter to which was surely dampened by a wife/better half point blank telling them not to be stupid their respective partner.

The sun arose, as one would expect, and with that and a glimpse of a few elk and mule deer, closed the chapter on our Grand Canyon experience, next up Vegas. Well…not quite…

First was lake Mead and the Colorado River. We spent one night on a little picnic ground, just by a park on the river. Sadly, we wanted to swim in the river, but signs saying we were not allowed to with the algae kind of put us off. Still, a cracking spot to wake up to nonetheless.

Next, was to swing by the Hoover dam on our way up Lake Mead. A true engineering marvel, a costly one too, at least 96 men lost their lives building that thing, but it is immense. Full of symbolism and art deco artistry too. Anything that makes power from moving water in my mind has to be applauded too, especially if it can help control and process water for a vast area as is required to boot I am all for it. We headed on from there toward our goal for the night, another picnic spot not necessarily made for camping, but it did include hot springs!

Conny and I went for a dip, to be honest it was pleasant, but odd. The water was not actually that hot, not like Iceland’s “boil your nuts” kind of hot. Secondly it was sign posted that one must not let the water up ones nose, for within dwells a nasty amoeba that will latch on to your brain and kill you. Thirdly, there was the fish. ‘Tis an odd sensation to have a surprise nibble from a fish at any number of ones bits and bobs.

We dried up and readied for the night. A middle aged man popped up and asked if I was camping, I said yes. We got to chatting and he asked if I had been for a swim I said yes. He then asked if I had seen anyone else go. I said no. He then tells me that he was asking because two Swedish girls had planned to come skinny dipping here and he said that would likely not be a problem. Of course I said that would definitely not be a problem*. So then he asks if I or Conny would be offended if he went. I of course said no, then he asked if we wanted to join, I also said no. The sneaky, devil. All that to check if he could swing his member about. Never did see those Swedes. It was a nasty ploy!

Really this time though, we were headed for Vegas. We thought we’d stop en route to find a place to stay on some interweb and abuse some wifi whilst drinking coffee. Instead we stumbled upon this very strange, middle of nowhere hotel casino, with a classic car meet in the parking lot. These things were fantastic. Beautiful pristine machines, engines gleaming, even the rust buckets were immaculately so. Modern American cars have the world’s worst interiors. They really do suck balls, but I do not know where it went wrong because these things were lush, plush and spectacular. Moving forwards I dare say car makers could learn a lot looking backwards. In modern times, I am all about the eco-car. The world requires it. The gas guzzling superperformance things in my day are a thing for yesteryear and as such it is my opinion that there should be stricter limits to what is permitted. However, I do not hold these sensibilities against these beautiful machines, for they were from a time of different sensibilities, when folk didn’t really know better. These should be maintained admired and adored for their awesomeness. It certainly is not their fault we never learned the lessons and got lazy getting the oil men, their wallets and their guts fatter and fatter until we got to where we are now where it is too late, we do know better and those fat oil men are too powerful that they willingly block progress to keep it so…anyway, I digress.

If you are thinking we stayed at this delightful place…no shame on you…the scoundrels that we are, we raped their internet, used their bathrooms and moved on to the hotel we booked via the aforementioned rape of internet.

*I have been to Sweden, and know many Swedes. Chances are, there would be very few problems my end from letting two Swedish girls skinny dip amongst us. Also, they would likely have very little problem with this too.

America. What have you fucking gone and done?

What a god damn clusterfuck of horror this election has turned out to be. I know it isn’t even my country, but FUCK. The world has just ended.

I know some of the people I have met along the way here will disagree with me. I know some of those I have known for much longer will think me a twat. But hey ho. So be it. I know you are decent enough folk to realise that despite our massive difference of opinion on this, we can still get along. That said, my opinion is this:

I, in no way shape or form can get my head around the fact that people with hearts and brains could openly support and rejoice at the election of such a vile human as Donald J Trump.

I am sorry, it just doesn’t compute.

Who could possibly think it acceptable to vote for a person who is:

Sexist?

Racist?

Homophobic?

Bankrupt (both morally and financially)?

Tax fraudulent?

Politically inconsistent and incoherent?

A liar?

A bully?

I could go on for days… but you have heard it all before. Yet you don’t care.

The answer to all of those questions, sadly, is many Americans. Enough evidently to get him the presidency.

Say what you want about Hillary Clinton, I don’t care, I didn’t like her either.

Corrupt, yes. Who in the White House isn’t to some degree?

Cold and deceptive. Yes for sure, but really is that the worst thing you can pull up against a politician?

In the pockets of Wall Street. Indeed, but the country has been since it’s birth, as have most.

Misrepresents her philanthropic agenda for personal gain. Definitely, she does some good, she takes more than she should. (Trump is no better in this regard for sure)

Don’t even mention Benghazi.

All of this and all of the others are by the by. There is one question that needs be asked to which the answer, even without Trumps bigotry, puts her poles apart from Trump.

Is she reasonable?

Trump has the temper of a 5 year old only with a nuclear arsenal. He has stated he has no qualms about using it in Europe. He even called the SNL skit about him mean and unfair and threw his toys out the pram. He thinks that climate change is a hoax and he thinks that coal is clean energy.

Again the list of the ways this man is the exact opposite of reason is unending, even without the talk of the things like the business and sexual harassment suits/allegations, ongoing but you’ve all heard it before, I will be just regurgitating stuff and the lazy Trump fan will just say things along the lines of it’s made up, or its just bashing him ‘cos I’m a lefty. But sadly, they are all clear as day fact. Not speculatory as much of Trumps pointed tongue was toward the other side. I am actually no lefty either. I am a person, with a conscience that simply believes a good society looks after, respects and cares for one another. I’m bashing him because he warrants bashing.

On top of this, much of Trump’s support has come from the good Christian folk of the US. I have nothing against the believers. I do not want to be preached at but that is fair enough, believe what you like. But this has come down, in many peoples eyes as an anti abortion vote. Which astounds me that any good Christian could put aside all that other stuff, or worse still support it is beyond me.

The sad thing is, the republicans have the senate, congress and now the president. This is dire for all the progress for rights of people that don’t fit the Uber-God-Squad profile. Trump’s VP believes the earth is only a few thousand years old. For fucks sake. These people are not fit to govern a village, let alone a country.

Hillary at least would look at things with a cool head, things might not get much better, some would get better some might get a little worse, but nothing maddening and potentially catastrophic. At least there would be some diplomacy in negotiations. Trump has precedent in his negotiations being simply “I’m too rich for you to hurt me…take it or leave it”, I’m paraphrasing, it’s no direct quote, but it’s all there in the open for you to see what kind of person would go to bat for the US.

Some say it was the fact that Hillary is a woman. That to me is a lazy argument, she is a woman, which may be a part of it, but she was a flawed, deeply so to many, candidate. The misogyny may have played a part but I don’t see it as the main factor.

Trump was also a deeply flawed candidate. Many people state a need for change. I get that. I really do, but USA and democrats in particular, Bernie was the only humane chance for that.

This leads to my final point(not final, I have days of things to write, so much so that my brain is imploding and this piece has become the inarticulate drivel it has ended up, but I don’t want to put up the same lazyman arguments the rest of the world has cut and pasted on Facebook, not to say many aren’t valid).

The big question for me is where the fuck did your humanity go America? I had it levelled by a friend of mine (admittedly I had just made many of the points I had left off this piece in an ill-timed rant due to my anger and probably undeservedly so at its target although, they did think it jolly good Trump had won. But then again, I know that I would not a good president make) that they thought that I was more open minded, that a change was called for and that this was the way the folk saw fit. The change being called for I get. Too right. Change for the better though. Stepping backwards is not even close to a change for the better. This prick and his ideals at best belong in the 50’s and probably feel more at home in the dark ages. It is exactly my open mindedness that rules out any inkling of support for this cock-end. He is oppressive to those who make a different lifestyle choice to that of he and his followers. A proven misogynist and racist. A would be war criminal (bomb the shit out of them/take out their families/take their oil…just in case you felt like debating that). A pledged suppressor of religious freedom. An open denier of science. He has openly ripped off the working and middle classes to afford himself the lifestyle he has. He even gloats about not paying his due taxes. No person of open mind could support such closed minded values or comprehend anyone that does. That is my big problem. America you have lost your integrity and your humanity (as have many recently with Brexit, Le Pen et al.). The world is turning on it’s head and compassion and good old human decency are being lost to fascist and self-centric thinking and sadly your President Elect is the damning yet terrifying proof.

 

ADDENDUM: Between writing this and publishing, there have been numerous protests, violence and riots from those not happy with the outcome. Those same folks that (rightly) decried Trumps insistence he would not accept a loss. The shoe is on the other foot and those hypocrites are acting exactly no better. Elections are stacked, Often in the favour of conservatives, that’s true. But change the system, find real people to represent you not caricatures and for the love of all that is good vote for them, but when a vote is cast, that adhere’s to the rule of the land, you better accept it, for that is democracy. This all really only shows that the common person, man, woman, white, black, brown, blue and red have as a populous become so far removed from democratic, socially responsible folk that the only conclusion I can draw is that no one idea is better than another, that we are all fucked, because the world goes “All In” for “their” team. It is mindfuckingly ridiculous.