thelongmosey

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.

To Conny and I, Texas was not high on our agenda of must do’s, largely swamp or desert, we kinda sorta thought we’d just drive through. Last minute, we decided to head to Big Bend National Park.

What a smart move that turned out to be.

En route, we had the worst nights sleep ever at a rest stop. These fucking trucks and there idle drivers idling their motors. Shit for the planet and even shitter for my nights sleep, plus the motorway stayed noisy all night, worse still, the god damn heat. Holy hell this was like, well, holy hell. So hot and sticky the place could be named the Batwing State (yes, some of you might need to look Batwings up, but if you do, you are probably going to wish you didn’t). I did however have a nice chat with a young truck driver called Santos. He is the future, thank God(in whom I do not believe) in that he understands that the current state of petroleum dependency and the nonchalance with which it is burned en masse in the US is abhorrent. He understands that it is killing us and the world, that the future is not in finding gasoline from other countries or melting the Arctic ice just to get to more. He sees a future in the alternatives, he even educated me on an electric vehicle, not an easy thing to do for the layman, and introduced me to the electric big rig truck (Nicolas I believe after Tesla, but will verify). Looks cool as fuck. So Santos, I hope you read this, it was a pleasure to meet you Sir, and it’s a shame we didn’t share a coffee in the morning, Keep on truckin’!

Big Bend, I assume, is named after the big bend in the state border of which it lies, but I’m not sure of that. Here desert sand and rock meet shrubs and brush with tree covered mountains and rivers dotted intermittently throughout. We pulled up to the park at night after some of the most intense rainstorms I have ever experienced. The road was swiftly more boatway than motorway, Byron would have been flinging his craft along with haste and joy abundant. As soon as the rainstorms hits however, they were gone, but thunder lingered in the air, spiking out a little rumble and flash here and there. Add to this the fact that on the way in to the park we passed another three rattlers roadside, Conny and even I with the thunder, were more inclined to sleep in the vehicle than atop her in our tent. We even cheekily parked up at the visitor centre, after all it didn’t say no overnight parking, just no camping and only in designated areas, so we didn’t put the tent up and parked in a spot marked RV, both arguable positions if the Law showed up to give us some shit. We even had a glimmer of hope with an internet signal, but the howl of the wind and stormy weather soon rolled back in and put pay to that. We had been hoping once more to find bears, but unfortunately the problem was the bears were too active and those areas had been closed off, due to bears wanting the human’s food and not being scared to take it.

We were also in mountain lion country, there was a life size replica of one in the visitor centre. I do not want to meet one of those buggers. You know how people say that if a cat were big enough, even your own house cat, they would eat you if they felt the will or need, these were big enough, more than.

We headed to Chisos Basin. A stunning basin amongst a few mountains, that revealed itself like the valley that the dinosaurs are all headed for in the Land Before Time or the new subterranean lands in Jules Verne’s Journey To The Centre Of The Earth (don’t know why the dinosaur related brain-links there, but they seem appropriate enough, the area does have more than a whiff of the prehistoric about it) . The mists gently lifting to reveal a relatively cool morning as we took a mosey through some trails in the park, closest to where we might have been able to (at least where we were permitted) to see a bear or two.

By midday however, desert sun was in full force, I even burned the nape of my neck. I had packed an extra jacket, ponchos, water, snacks, a knife, even headlamps…forgot the sun cream though didn’t I. What a nob. Still no worries. The valley was teaming with butterflies and crickets. At some points you wouldn’t realise until a patch of leaves on the ground shifted and circled in the air before assuming plant form again. The crickets, black and drab, burst into flame red colour and noise as you approach them and the half-leap-half-fly to safety.

Still no bears though.

We decided to head to the Rio Grande for the evening, but in fact it ain’t that Grande. More like the Rio Not Quite Small Enough To Be A Stream. Those of you from my neck of the woods, think more Churnet river than Mississippi. However the drive did bring us to a family of boar/hogs crossing the road and we did spot a few tarantulas running the gauntlet.

Our spot for the night is a rest stop on a quiet road in Big Bend Ranch State Park. It even has teepee picnic areas. A perfect night. So perfect in fact that after tea (barbecue sprouts and white beans with rice if you are interested…not as gassy as one might think, although you probably needn’t know that) Conny was stranded on top of the picnic table as a boar was attracted to the area by our food, and Conny didn’t dare come down, I had to wash up and then fetch her, armed with my knife. I kept telling her he’s just a cool dude, think Pumbaa without tusks, but she was having none of it.

The next morning we awoke to a glorious desert morning and decided we would check out the little coffee shop we saw at a fantastically weird village called Terlingua Ghost Town. The coffee, we took on the terrace, it was delicious, bathed in the warm sun. I’m pretty sure one of the cast of Ally McBeal was there and I managed to smash my phone whilst I was there too.

The town itself is built in the ruins of an old early 1900’s settlement. But it isn’t the history or its ancient inhabitants that make this place wonderful. It is the current crop of desert dwelling hippies that live there that bring the oodles of charm to this place that one cannot help but find endearing.

There is a mixmatch of all things kitsch and Texacana there delivered with hippy laissez-faire attitude. The businesses all look kinda run down. There is a teepee, next to an airstream next to a spanish villa and so on and so forth. The graveyard looks like an ancient site until you get up close. Then you see graves as recent as 2014. The graves themselves are made of whatever suits the personality of its tennant. “Big Bird” has a grave surrounded by chicken statues. Then there are those who have shotglasses, or graves full of old beer bottles. Crosses made from salvaged scraps and shrines adorned with anything and everything the mourners see fit, jewellery, art, toys, poems, photographs, trinkets of all manner. From the ornate to the simplest scrap wood cross wit a nail or two in, it’s all there.

From here we set out to Alpine, our entertainment for the night was Saturday Night Lights. A local, proper Dillon TX style college football game between the local Sul Ross Lobos and the Yellow Jackets of some other place in Texas. It was a brilliant night, at first we thought there would only be us there with a handful of others, but the crowd built steadily, not huge, but they came to egg on their boys.

The sheer volume of players in one of these games is astounding. Between the 2^nd and 3^rd string players, the offensive and defensive folk and the special teams, there are upwards of 50 along the pitch side. I dare say some half of these guys must get suited every single week not even to get on the park. But still, those that do, they put on a good show. The Lobos are a middle table team in the 3^rd tier of collegiate football. So not outstanding, but they still hit hard and have some spectacular coordination at times. Just them reading the sign language from one of the 5 coaches is a marvel. The Lobos take the game quite easy, the opposition hasn’t won a single game this season, and thanks to a kindly couple behind us, Conny and I got to grips with the rules enough to watch and enjoy the game. Sadly, despite my having a slight penchant for the cheerleader, there were none. There were some local Mexican ballet (not real ballet but beautiful dances in flowing colourful skirts waved like fans) to keep us entertained at half time. Next was onwards towards El Paso, dodging the millions of jack rabbits that wanted to get amongst beauty’s wheels as we did. With a radar blimp parked up on the roadside (an odd thing to see for sure) and another noisy rest stop along the way. We really should look for train tracks when we park up. No more than 3 metres from the roadside these buggers were I swear.

We set for El Paso in the morning. The plan, as Conny and I liked the Bridge TV show, was to go to El Paso, cross on foot to Juarez, have a beverage and come back. However as we were drinking our morning coffee, looking for somewhere to fix my phone, Conny stumbled upon a nugget of information that would change our plans. Juarez is the number 2 murder city on earth. Now, everyone we met when we said we were going said to be careful, we brushed it off. Number Fucking 2. No Tequila was drunk by Conny this day. We got in the car and looked at Juarez from the safety of US soil as we drove by.

Somewhat bizarrely, as we left Albuquerque we stumbled upon 104.7 KABQ, a radio station playing jingle bells. Yup, we were in the desert, blazing hot sun beating down, in early November and we had come across a Christmas radio station. I love Christmas. This was awesome. We had about a good hundred miles of cheer filling our car as we plodded past all the casinos through the desert heat. It was an odd and somewhat delightfully confusing experience.

Next up. Sledging. Yes! Having just listened to all that festive wonder, what else would we do. We had heard that the first snows had fallen back home in Austria, so sledging was a must! It’s easier than one might think to sledge in the desert in New Mexico. About an hour from Roswell, is the White Sands National Monument. A bunch of brilliant white dunes (I know, that is a surprise) in the desert, where the eroded dust from the mountains circling the plains collects and we humans purchase little plastic discs and slide down them. Awesome fun. There was even one family in full Christmas pyjamas taking the photo for their Christmas card, I kid you not, could’t have dreamt that one up myself. I was overcome with the spirit and even gave them my sledge, I had no further use for it, and one can never have too many sledges with a family of four (plus dog) all decked out for the holidays.

Roswell however was a damp squib. I was expecting alien stuff, the kooky nut jobs in trailers thinking they see them all the time etc etc. Nope. Just a dreary looking town. A bit dead, with your average set of fast foods and small malls, all looking a bit worse for wear to be honest. The dude in the tourist centre however, despite his cold, was a good dude. He was of good humour and disposition even when faced with a question he must have heard a million times.

“Where’s Rachel?”

“The village?” he replies “Oh that’s erm…let me check” he sachets over to his computer as if to pull up a map or something “That’s about 14 hours away, in Nevada”

“Fuck”

You see, Rachel is a village, close to Area 51. The secret base of alien technology study and potential alien house that is much talked about by conspiracy theorists, we’ve all seen it in the movies somewhere. Only, I thought it was near Roswell, given the hoo-ha around the incident in the 40’s (I think…don’t quote me). But no. It is bloody days away, and not even on our route.

We leave Roswell a little dejected and head off along what is the old Route 66, or what’s left of it, its now the I40 and most of Route 66 is shut. Occasionally you get to drop of the motorway and cruise through an old town that used to thrive on the through traffic, but these days not so much. However, one town that does do well is Williams. It was the last Route 66 town to be bypassed by the I40 in 1984 I think. It has a cracking location too, ten minutes one way you have summer lakes and mountain forests, in the winter skiing, an hour north is the Grand Canyon. Conny and I got a room for the night in the lovely Canyon Country Inn. Nothing flashy, but a little old school quaint cottage motel, it was clean and perfect. We thought this way we could clean up, grab a bite (at the local bistro/brew house…delicious, if a tad expensive), and watch Trump lose the election*.

Oh fuck.

*To be honest, at this point, I was already shitting myself. I had previously thought it unimaginable, but if the mosey had taught me one thing, it was this, Trump had a chance, not only that but I thought it a terrifyingly good one, still I did hope that reason would prevail.

Pulling up to the drive, Conny and I are unsure if we have the right place…a lovely, large house, on an estate full of lovely large houses we wouldn’t want to park black beauty on some unexpectors drive…then, through the window, I spot her, Kiera Baines. Sister to Joseph F. Sidley, wife to Gary ‘Bainesy’ Baines, former babysitter to one David Alexander South Esquire and eldest silbing of the(former) over-the-back-fence-dwellers that are the Sidley clan. We are in the right place.

Kiera, hasn’t changed a bit, only now she reminds me more in her mannerisms than ever before of her mum Bash, this is definitely no bad thing for I love me some Bash (minds out of the gutters please). The plan: meet the family, stay a couple o’days, go to New Orleans for a day trip, spy an alligator.

It was a good plan, but we decided it’s so nice being here, we’d stay 6 nights!

The first evening was a simple affair, a bit of relax have a natter, a good cup of Yorkshire tea, and catch up. Last time I saw their eldest, Oliver, he was a baby, I hadn’t even met Isabelle before, he’s now 11 and she is 9. An awesome pair of youngsters, with an appropriate love for football, a kind temperament and especially with Izzy, a hint of mischief about them. At this point, I should point out, that I am known only as DavidSouth, not David, Dave, Southy, or even Muff like I used to be, to Izzy, I am DavidSouth.

The heat here is ridonculous. I expected warm but this was a step beyond. Evening one saw me play football with Izzy in the back yard and between the climate and the fatness of my being, the back, elbow and eyeball sweats were all in full force. I was spent after 15.

Day two, another scorcher, but Conny and I had a plan. We had booked with the help of Mrs Baines, who by rights should be on commission from the Louisiana tourist board, an airboat ride, scheduled for 2 o’clock we had lunch and set out in good time, maybe 5 minutes late but we called, they said no problem. What we didn’t factor in to this equation, something that Garmin might want to write some code for, is the ineptitude of folk capable of following directions, but not capable of spotting a giant sign pointing to our destination. We followed the Garmin to a T. But no boats, we drove up and down the levee looking for it, calling Kiera, but no avail, we drove on and on till we tought we must turn back…30 mins later we hit exactly the Garmin spot. Right in front of our eyes, the biggest sign you can think of pointing to exactly where we wanted to go. We were simply looking at the wrong side of the road.

Clearly, we missed the boat, in a very real and unfortunate fashion, still there was one at 4 we just had to wait, have a beverage and scour the net for some interesting stuff. The airboat was awesome.

Byron, our captain/pilot/guide looked tough as old boot leather, pretty sure he grew up here and lived here all his life, unless he spent a stint in the military, that wouldn’t surprise me. He knew those swamps like the back of his hand.

“It’s d’afternoon nah, so ahm gon take ye up a canal straight away where we can see some gators, cos dat’s whut ye folk normally curm fer.”

We all smile and done our ear muffs in the sweltering afternoon sun and bust out the dock and across the swamps. Never thought I’d say this, but I didn’t half like the wind in my beard, made me feel all gruff and manly. I get a tap on my left shoulder and follow where Byron’s finger is pointing, as we motor by a fat alligator waddles into the river. Now here was I thinking that was cool, good enough, alligator at distance is a nice and rare enough experience…but then he shuts the engine down and gestures to us to remove earmuffs.

“Ahn jus’ gonna idle up this canal, theys usually some gators up there, ol’uns un young’uns”

We gently cruise up and to the left, on the sunny banks a few small, say 5 feet, beasts plod into the river. The occasional set of eyes stare intently at our boat and slip beneath the surface. Byron perks up and says

“Oh y’all might be in luck…if this is de big dude, he a beast,, I can maybe get him to come closer, hand me dat cool box would ya?” he gestures at the feet of one of the passengers. Upon throwing a piece of steak in the general direction of a pair of eyes he says “ aww shoot, if that was him, he’d be making waves bah now…haven’t seen dat dude for a week or so, ever since this cold snap”

Cold snap?! COLD SNAP?! I’m sweating me pills off here and I got a serious case of batwings on the go, how on earth is this a cold snap?

“Aaaw no bother, ah’ll take y’all t’see his gurrlfriend up the way here, she’s a big gurrl and she’ll come to the boat”

We mosey on up and he points her out, about 8 or 9 feet, he brings her in with hand splashes in the water. Yes. He splashes his hands in the water in an alligator infested swamp. He says they won’t bite him or attack when Conny poses the question. “We got no crocodiles here! Dem dudes gonna bite ya, these’ll leave ya be ‘cept to protect dere babies or if ya provoke ‘em. Now…” he says grabbing some steak “if I don’t do dis right she gon take ma hand, she don’t know the difference between a steak and a hand, she cant see it, but if ah git bit, it’s mah fault, not hers. But we bin friends a long time now, she ain’t gon hurt me. You see families on here doe, alligators pa’em no mind. Crocodiles, demm nasty dangerous doe, we ain’t got none here, but dey big suckas too, dem dudes can be 22 feet or more” At this point he casually just puts the food in her open mouth and then lets her back off and slip under, he pulls the boat away and just as he does SPLASH! Something dark and slimy leaps for the boat right by my right shoulder. A jump and a pant stain later Byron laughs “no worries, dat jus an Asian-carp, dey do dat, th’other day a tour boat of ol’folk had one of’em jump on to de boat, hit an ol’ lady in de hed, sent her to hospital…huhuhuh, but yeah, dat furst time mek ye jump, huhuhuh”

He pulls us up to the bank and explains, this is his friend’s lair. As we get closer we see loads of baby alligators on the bank, he chips in, again “nah, like ah said, she and I are old friends ‘bout 20 years now, normal folk she’d be up on us, if I try and handle one, she’d be right in this boat, it’s amazin’ how fast she could join us on this thing if we push her, an’ you don’t want dat, huhuhuh”

No, we don’t. Byron, upon my question the size of his motor, then takes us for a spin on the water and into the shallows where that thing can hit 60 mph, and gives it a flex, with a couple of turns and donuts to boot. Airboats, if one ever visits this place are defo a must. It was phenominal and I could not recommend Byron and his impeccably trimmed beard any more.

That night we head out for dinner and drinks with some friends of the Baines’s, Lou and John, and Sandy and Kevin. A nicer bunch of Americans one could not meet. I was Mr David, and my cohort Miss Conny, Lou as she welcomed us into her home had already taken time to note my non-preference for booze and flesh and offered me a choice of beverages accordingly. She also noted Miss Conny’s preference for booze and flesh and also offered Miss Conny a drink. I think she has a heavy pour. Miss Conny and Kiera were already sozzled one drink in by the time we headed to the restaurant.

The restaurant, although not massively vegetarian minded served me up a treat. Restaurants for me are more often than not a place for me to eat as much fried stuff as I can as we don’t fry at home. This was a veritable banquet for me, cheese sticks, onion rings, chips and a grilled cheese. All that batter and fat and friedness. Amazing. Miss Conny tried catfish and ate some shrimp, she also grabbed Kiera’s boobs in a surprise attack, but that is a different story.

We headed back to Lou and John’s where they put the game on their big screen, Sandy, a native Chicagoan and Cubs fan, explained to me that this world series was a big deal as one team hadn’t one in 40 something years and the other in 108. To me it seemed like a game of rounders, but these folk love it. When I say big screen…this thing was ridiculous, a ten foot high projection in crystal clear image, the players were life size at times. I want one (TV, not player, gutter folk).

The night done, we said goodbye after many laughs and good chat with a thoroughly lovely bunch.

The next morning we were greeted again by the lovely Lou, this time bringing a box of delicious donuts complete with scary Halloween teeth. She gave us some tips for our impending trip to New Orleans and away we went.

New Orleans is a place apart. The old french quarter pretty much what you’d expect. The architecture, Bourbon Street is fun, but messy, worth a pop in small doses, there are definitely some sights to see, the people in costume and smashed at 3 in the afternoon are quite amusing, the dancers and acrobats, the bands playing in the bars. Worth a walk. We ate gumbo at Palace Cafe, we listened to jazzy blues on Frenchman Street and ate beignets at Cafe du Monde. We bumped into another pair of van travellers in a coffee house, saw the gothy art of the markets and passed the Halloween parade, then decided to head home. Conny and I have become old and dull, so we left the night to the revellers. I am saddened however, as a man and lover of the boob, that I saw not a single one exposed. I pretty much thought that was why New Orleans was famous and is about 93% of the reason I went, the other 7% is a split between fried things and music. Heartbroken we moseyed back to Baines Basecamp.

Sunday, was football day, Oliver scored the winner in his game a perfect penalty, worthy even of the youtube and Izzy ruled the roost in her game, a towering central defensive display of brawn and skill. Sadly her team was overcome by a couple of nippy wingers but still, she impressed enough to have the coach of the local select team come over and discuss her potential and highlight their interest in her joining their ranks. Pretty good day I’d say.

The Tabasco factory was the outing for Monday. Incredible really, given the standards of hygiene for food production these days that they are still allowed to age their pepper mix in those old crusty barrels and that all of the worlds Tobasco comes from that warehouse. We tasted their wares, Sweet and Spicy along with the Raspberry Chipotle were clear favourites and the ketchup with a punch is not too shabby either. We even encountered some casual racism at the door when the guy in the cabin at the barrier, upon learning we were from Austria said “My glocks are from Austria. Got 4 of’em. I used to be a cop. Good guns”

“I wouldn’t know” I replied “we don’t have many glocks in Austria, I think they all came here”

“Well you can take some back then…take some them black folk too” he smiles and wishes us a nice day as the barrier lifts. That guy used to enforce the law. Imagine that.

Monday evening was Halloween.

We euro folk kind of get Halloween, but not like the yanks. They go all out. Shawn and Kelly came over with a few costumed kids and they set about collecting their haul. The boys with giant buckets, Izzy even bust out a wagon for hers. It is quite sweet to see the kids and give them a little fright. There is some debate as to what level is appropriate. Conny and I may have crossed the line a couple of times. We definitely had a couple of runners before they even got the candy, a couple of non-footsetters-even-on-the-driveway when they saw us. We did get a couple of cynical little blighters “This isn’t scary” or “That axe in your head isn’t real, you’re a fake”. My retort “Well you’re not a real Elf!” I know I should have let it slide, but I just couldn’t.

Tuesday came and it was time for the day of doing stuff…Conny made a to do list…book accomodation for Rarotonga, clean van, do laundry, write website, find San Fran accomodation, prolong Black Beauty. Some was accomplished, some semi accomplished but at least now we are ready for the off. Well sort of, it’s now Wednesday and I’m writing this last bit, but hey, next it’s onwards to El Paso!

Thank you Baines’s. You have been wonderful. Your home, friends and family have been fantastic to us and Conny and I have really had a blast getting reacquainted or acquainted with you all and must do it sooner rather than later if we can!