On the road again

A TASTE OF FREEPORT BAHAMAS

ecrivain — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 20:43:00 GMT

It seemed like a good idea at the time – a quick day trip from Fort Lauderdale to the Bahamas to get a welcome Caribbean fix – sun, sand, sea breezes and a mojito or two. And a respite from the congested strip mall that is Miami to Boca Raton and beyond.

So armed with day return tickets on the recently-introduced Bahamas Express ferry service run by the Spanish Balearic line, we hopped into a taxi at 6.15am for the one hour drive to the port from Boca Raton. The ride had been pre-arranged for an agreed amount of $60 (plus the compulsory 20% “gratuity” of course!)

The driver spoke virtually no English and it soon became clear that he wasn’t too au fait with the geography of the area either. Eventually however, we arrived at the port only to find it in the throes of a security operation, bristling with police and security officers stopping and searching the trunk of every car and demanding to see everyone’s ID. We drove around for another half hour before we were allowed anywhere near the ferry terminal.

By now the meter read $106 and the driver( who was obviously having an each-way bet) was a little put out when we proffered the agreed fare – so much so that he suddenly became unavailable for the return trip.

We’d been told to check in three hours before departure which meant sitting on hard chairs in a bare hall with no coffee, internet or distractions other than our fellow passengers. Obviously the three-hour window was needed because the staff were so disorganised and inefficient that everything took far longer than necessary. They were also inflexible: a near-blind woman had come a day late for her voyage and the company refused to honour her ticket. She could not afford another and it was heartening to see so many Bahamian passengers rushing forward to each offer her a few dollars to make up the fare.

My travelling companion from the Boca hotel was a retired English widow of sixty-odd years with more spring in her step than most- thirty year-olds. We soon struck up a conversation with a couple sitting behind us – he an amiable American and she a tall, elegant Bahamian.

We learned that Amelia was about to open a B&B near Freeport and would love to have us as her first guests. We could think of no reason not to stay overnight on the island and attempted to change our tickets, only to come up with the same intransigence from the ferry company: if we wanted to stay over we’d have to tear up our return vouchers and buy entirely new return fares.

“Well at least let us show you around” offered Ed.

Three hours later we berthed in Freeport, Gran Bahamas Island, a sparse port surrounded by huge oil tanks purportedly holding Venezuelan crude waiting to be mixed with American oil to hide the fact that the US was trading with the South American regime.( It reminded me of the American embassy in Havana, Cuba, that is not an embassy but an “Information Office”. The Cubans have dealt with the irony by building a military parade ground in full view of the office tower, where their soldiers perform the military equivalent of thumbing their noses on a daily basis.)

A derelict two-storey fish restaurant sat behind a wire fence signposted “Shark Feeding Area, No Swimming”. We managed to resist.

Our new local friends drove us to a lunchbar for a taste of Bahamian dishes and after lunch we zipped along roads lined with abandoned hotels and empty shops, to the sprawling whitewashed villa on a palm-fringed canal that is both their home and virginal B&B. A yacht was moored at their jetty and Emile, a French Canadian engineer was busy doing maintenance on the hull.

Amelia took great pride in showing us our rooms, explaining everything in her melodious Caribbean accent. Hyperactive and intelligent, highly-strung and emotional, she talked quickly and precisely as if reading from a script. Over the next 24 hours as she expounded on myriad subjects, I came to feel she had rote-learnt everything she knew. She was fiercely possessive of Ed, even extending to his friendship with Emile – we were to see this in action and wonder at it before learning of her personal tragedy and the profound change it had wrought in her.

That evening the five of us went out to experience Freeport’s only nightlife at Lucaya Plaza – by day a collection of market stalls and clothing shops, and by night crowded and rocking to one band or another and overflowing with the local cocktail, a sweet concoction of rum, condensed milk, coconut and…?.

The next morning Amelia took us off to her local Presbyterian Kirk which unlike any churches I have seen in the past two decades , had every pew filled with everyone in their “Sunday best” and sweet little children trotting off to Sunday school. Ed asked on our return home if we had been “saved”! I said they were putting it to the vote at the next committee meeting! It wasn’t a matter of being part of the church, it was lovely to be welcomed into the community.

This is why I like to travel the way I do – not just to look in from the outside, but to become part of the culture, however fleetingly.

©FMPDH 2012

SANTA FE NEW MEXICO/ THE SOUTHWEST CHIEF

ecrivain — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 21:08:00 GMT

Alighting the train at Lamy, a blip on the train line between Los Angeles and Chicago, I wait for the baggage cart outside an old station building with two young men holding guitars, on a college holiday trip to Santa Fe.

Behind the station are two houses, a boarded up adobe church and a restaurant/bar with a couple of jaunty umbrellas above empty tables on the porch. No signs of life – not even a dog – the only reason for the hamlet’s existence is the train line in and out.

The boys are picked up by a young woman in a van and I wait by the shuttle bus with two couples off the Chicago train. They are dressed in smart city garb and probably on their way to their second or third houses in Santa Fe.

The confused old man driving the shuttle drops me at Santa Fe’s only hostel, a jumble of crumbling adobe buildings on Cerillos Avenue, one of the town’s main arteries, bordered by an untidy collection of fast-food bars, a tattoo parlour, film technicians’ office and a mechanic’s workshop.

The hostel, which according to the owner, has been de-listed from Lonely Planet, is run by a quirky character who somehow manages to keep it going.

Every morning each guest must sign up for a chore – unless excused by some whim of the management – before partaking of a breakfast cobbled together from an assortment of foods, “donated” by local stores. In reality, most are out of date and I suspect the spoils of dumpster-diving!

The next morning I arrive at the bus-stop just as two large men push and shove another, smaller, man, emptying his bag into the street. I spy a woman in the back of the bus shelter and approach her.

“If you don’t stand by the road, I’ll have to” she whispers “The bus won’t stop otherwise.”

The men disperse, only for the largest of the aggressors to re-appear and approach us.

“Did you see where that guy went?” he demanded, looming over us.

“We weren’t really taking any notice, but I think that way” I said, motioning vaguely across the road, away from where the victim had actually fled.

He strode off, all misplaced testosterone, and thankfully the bus arrived before he could return.

“There were three hundred murders in Albuquerque last year – it’s not so bad here, but this is where I’d hideout if someone was after me.” The woman offered.

Carole seemed to want to attach herself to me for the journey and proceeded to spill her life story – her estranged family in Hawaii, abandoned artistic career, ill-health, and quest for a soul-mate. She seemed fragile and sad but after chatting for a while and agreeing to meet for a coffee later that day, she flashed me a smile as the bus arrived In the charming town plaza.

Santa Fe New Mexico is quaint and, save for the tourists swarming down Canyon Road and the near-silent line of vendors at the Native American market in the Plaza, seemingly deserted. It’s obviously one of those towns where life simmers below the surface, and repays staying a while.

©FMPDH 2012

SANTA FE TO CHICAGO/ THE SOUTHWEST CHIEF

ecrivain — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 20:55:00 GMT

Lonely Planet USA describes Las Vegas, New Mexico as “one of the loveliest towns in New Mexico”: all I can say is, the “eminently strollable downtown (with its) pretty Old Town Plaza and some 900 historic buildings” was not on the side of town granted to the Southwest Chief. There were plenty of old houses, decrepit and surrounded by yards of assorted rubbish: the sort of abject dwellings where depression must be unavoidable.

“New York giants 20, Green Bay Packers 10 – it’s half-time.”

Amtrak train guards are almost universally chatty, humorous and entertaining, with witticisms galore for every whistle-stop: “We will be stopping at La Plata (or Lamar, or Trinidad) for five minutes only folks, so there will be time for a few quick sucks on your smokes if you have any – I repeat five minutes only, or this will be your last stop”…

”Our next stop folks, will be greater Galesburg, Illinois – greater Galesburg, a fine railroad town – so if this is your last stop, come on down –and for all those youngsters returning to school, remember, you are our future – Galesburg our next stop in approximately five minutes folks.”

“Ok folks, we’re back on track now, no pun intended”…

Our on-board railway staff could do with some Amtrak training: the difference is, here it’s a respectable career – in Australia it’s often seen as a last-resort job.

A couple of people behind me are lamenting the lack of snow this year: “I feel sorry for the folks that need it”…The truth is, everyone has a different story, depending on the part of the country: in New Mexico it’s either the mildest or the coldest winter they can remember; in southern California, it’s unseasonably warm…but everyone notices a change.

Our next stop folks is Princeton, Illinois – that perfect little midwestern town – Princeton, Illinois folks.” Titters roll through the carriages in appreciation of the guard’s droll humour.

Chugging and rolling out of arid New Mexico, leaving behind its attractively-curved adobe homes, ruined pueblos and a whole abandoned town with cars still sitting in driveways next to roofless houses, we dissect the south-east corner of Colorado and enter Kansas, crossing its vast plains and briefly flirting with the square towns of Dodge City, Topeka and Kansas City , passing giant silos and endless car dumps before finding ourselves in Missouri.

Crossing the mighty, half-frozen Mississippi at Fort Madison with the massive paddleboat ‘Catfish Queen’ iced to the riverbank, we sway from Iowa into Illinois, the air looking immediately colder and the snow seeming more prevalent. Quiet towns of white clapboard houses line the tracks, curls of smoke the only signs of life.

From here we run in a straight line north-east to Chicago, anticipating snowy blasts of air, a slice of deep-dish pizza and a cup of strong java in a warm bar to leaven the taste of its six-month winter.

©FMPDH 2012

A FLORIDA SOJOURN

ecrivain — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 20:31:00 GMT

A FLORIDA SOJOURN

The train line from New Orleans to Miami is out of service and no decision has yet been made to rebuild it, so I had to once again take a deep breath and board a Greyhound bus for Miami.

The bus station in New Orleans was hosting a motley collection of local men taking advantage of the television showing a Super Bowl semi-final.

Other than that there was the usual collection of junk-food outlets, a tired “souvenir” shop which probably seldom saw a customer, and the curious but usual line of people guarding their place in the bus queue for well over an hour before the departure time, rather than sitting and relaxing. For an extra $5 it was also possible to by-pass this line and purchase “priority boarding”, a questionable concept at the best of times.

The bus was crowded and uncomfortable and the journey long and uninteresting.

It also became increasingly claustrophobic – no more than usual inside the bus, but rather the view on the outside – it soon became clear that Florida was basically one long and overcrowded highway, and it seemed we were being sucked relentlessly into its belly.

The greyhound makes two stops in Miami: the first, a deserted office on the perimeter of the city and the second a small building across the highway from the airport. I chose the latter because it seemed somewhat more user-friendly, and managed to grab a taxi to take me to South Beach, which turned out to be a $40 journey.

Of all the money-grubbing people in the US, taxi drivers seem to be the worst – they turn off the meters whenever they can, or hide them under a paper flap so that they can charge a “whichever is greater” fare, add questionable charges for baggage (even when they say their trunks are full, refuse to budge from their seats, and require you to stow and un-stow your bags yourself), and refuse to give you change unless you demand it. It often seems better to negotiate a flat rate before you start your journey.

South Beach itself is quite interesting – some good Cuban and Mexican restaurants, blocks of art deco hotels and apartment buildings and a (largely man-made I learnt) wide white-sand beach. What spoils it however is the brazen soliciting by prostitutes on the main strips and the many “no-go” zones. The one hostel is also sub-standard, and some of the otherwise reasonable hotels seemingly can’t resist renting rooms by the hour.

On my second day I booked a tour to Key West, anticipating a string of sandy atolls with Caribbean-influenced restaurants and swimming and snorkelling off the beaches. I was to be disappointed – the keys are so built up that they are nothing more than a continuation of what had come before. The famous Highway 1 is no more than that: a straight road bordered by junkfood outlets and every imaginable attempt to grab the tourist dollar. The beaches too are pretty much non-existent. Marlin fishing seems to be the mainstay of the first few islets.

The highway tantalisingly bisects a section of the Everglades and the bridges linking the keys are interesting, particularly when they are put in context by visiting the Key West museum.

It was not until we reached the very end of Key West, with its colonial buildings and gardens, its sense of history and quirkiness, that the journey seemed worthwhile. Hemingway’s house may now be overrun with the descendents of his famous six-toed cats, and the beacon marking the “most southern point of the US” may be in the wrong place, but it all adds to the unique charm of the place. There are decent cafes and restaurants, bars trading on their links to famous and infamous past patrons and art and craft galleries. Some of the lovely old homes are now boutique hotels.

There are no beaches here, and so no pleasant swimming – snorkelling takes place offshore from a boat.

The waterfront has a worthwhile little market that springs up at sunset, with buskers and a spectacular view of sailing ships against the golden sky.

However, unless your idea of a holiday is shopping, eating and more shopping, or you are particularly interested in bridges, spend the day in the Everglades instead: I met (a day too late!) three young German travellers who had rented kayaks and spent the day paddling through this iconic area, sighting many alligators, birds and fascinating flora and loving every adventurous minute of it – much more my style!

ROAD TO VEGAS

ecrivain — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 12:35:00 GMT

We stopped in Barstow,midway between LA and Las Vegas...a bus stop consisting of an untidy jumble of fastfood joints - McDonald's, Panda Express, Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits – all leading to dozens of restrooms and souvenir stalls of the "I've been to Barstow" cap/t-shirt Betty Boop bags variety. Fridge magnets anyone?

Having spent the past few weeks on the West Coast - from Vancouver to Seattle, Portland, San Francisco and Santa Monica - I had forgotten how grimy America can be.

The stopped bus took on a musty air and I couldn't wait for the filthy vent to start spurting air again.

My fellow passengers kept to themselves - each holding their own purpose and intent close: the large latino girl wearing pyjama pants who gorged on burger, fries and ice-cream sundae at the bus stop and then curled up on her seat to sleep; the black man answering his cellphone "I'll call you when I'm situated - we're about 2 or 3 hours out of Vegas and I don't know what I'll find there"; the two heavily made-up french-speaking women who appeared ready to step straight onto a Vegas stage; and the old cowboy with the checked mountain shirt and grizzly white beard, his boots flapping loose and his possessions rolled into a blanket.

We took off again, the rolling tumbleweed hills looking like a moonscape of loose cement, grey and infertile, past signs advertising "Peggy Sue's 50s Diner", "Ghost Town Road" and "Mad Greek Best Gyros". A truck bearing the slogan "The Joy of Eating" passed to reveal a row of evenly-spaced signs proclaiming the Ten Commandments, though the Seven Deadly Sins may have been more timely on the road to Vegas.

We were still in California, but we were in another world from the coastline of Santa Monica and all the beautiful people with coffee cups glued to their hands striding to their daily yoga session. Here was all dust, bare hills, fast-food and truck stops, abandoned mobile homes and arid dreams. The fences partitioning the sad paddocks seemed pointless because there were neither livestock nor crops, nor hope of any. A lone horse, saddled, leant forlornly against a power pole and a goods train rattled past, delivering succour to the insatiable West.

Looking back, the hills seemed more interesting, more alive - not the first time I felt that on this journey through North America, that the past was more than the present.

I'm looking at millions of dollars’ worth of litter ("$1,000 fine for littering") alongside the road and wondering at how we just don't care…

The hills take on a more greenish hue, more mouldy than ferrous. They seem to be closing in on the road as if to squeeze us out of this pocket of the world.

There are Exit signs every few hundred meters but no discernible reason for them.

"Win before you sin in 45 miles".

Afternoon shadows stripe the low hills, adding character to their worn faces. The early settlers must have wondered if there was any point in continuing west from here, with no water, no animals or fertile land in sight. The January sky is pale, the air still, though there is nothing for any breeze to move anyway - the spindly Joshua trees starting to appear are rigid

Donkeys feeding on the saltbush - the first animals I've seen.

The hills are pleating with anticipation as we get nearer to Las Vegas, the driver riding the brakes on the descent into the vast caldera; "Trust Jesus" we are reminded by a bright yellow sign tacked to a pole.

A large solar power installation appears on the left. We seem to be in a giant diorama. The late afternoon sun throws the layered hills into relief.

"Welcome to Nevada"..."Gun Store - try one - shoot a real machine gun!"...

Rows of powerlines now seem to be competing with the highway to see which can get to Sin City first -the sky is striated with jet trails - even the saltbush is growing in lines parallel to the bitumin - all roads, apparently, lead to Vegas.

The poor cousin of casinos, on the outskirts of town: "Dealers' Blackjack $1"...

Another goods train heading for LA - this one 60 cars long.

The hue of the sky and hills has softened to blues and pinks and pale gold - possibly a last respite before the assault of the neon noise ahead - or perhaps this too is artificially-lit by some supernatural technician.

Dormitory suburbs for a town where prostitution is illegal.

A fibreglass palm tree ushers us into Vegas proper.

(c)FMPDH 2012

CHICAGO TO NEW ORLEANS

ecrivain — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 06:39:00 GMT

The Spirit of New Orleans backed out of Union Station and sat on a flyover for twenty minutes in deference to another, favoured, train using the shared tracks before jolting forward to begin the long journey south.

Almost every seat was occupied in the designated rear carriage so my hopes for a comfortable night were dashed when a very tall black man indicated he had been assigned the seat next to me. Polite and affable, my fellow-passenger was easy to talk to and we soon found ourselves discussing everything from the best way of encouraging his six-year old daughter’s love of reading, to gun control, to his wife’s employment conditions as a blackjack dealer at a Native American casino in Missouri.

The windows of the carriage were opaque blackness as we left Chicago and a twenty hour journey lay ahead of me – I was glad of the good company until at midnight he decided to try and sleep and managed to find some empty seats with a bit more room to fold himself into.

The train lurched from station to station during the night – Champaign-Urbana, Centralia, Newbern-Dyersburg – sometimes whistling through, sometimes stopping to spill and retrieve passengers, a sad-looking group of smokers sidling onto the platform for a hasty puff at each stop. From Illinois we dipped into a corner of Kentucky, spent a little longer in Tennessee and fell into Mississippi at Memphis.

A drunk fell into the carriage, mumbled that there were ‘ too many black folks’ and to everyone’s relief, disappeared.

In the seats behind me: “What did he say?”

“Oh, you know, pay no min’…”

As another local said to me in another place at another time: “Racism is everywhere, especially in Mississippi.” Still.

Memphis appeared out of the darkness as a name and a Mississippi bridge with a guitar-shaped span, all lit up and ready to party – there were just no people in sight.

Morning brought green fields, dishevelled clapboard towns and swamps. Flocks of white birds arced and dipped above the bare winter trees.

By nine we reached Greenwood and my fellow-passenger got up to leave the train –just a coat, no luggage.

“I don’t know your name.”

“Calson” he said “You take care now.”

American names are intriguing.

Next stop Yazoo.

Overcast, breezy, with power poles leaning under the tangle of lines covering the main street, Yazoo was declared ‘open’ by a red neon sign on the nameless shack advertising ‘gumbo shrimp’ and ‘ribeye’.

As multi-cultural as America is, it is the most segregated country I’ve travelled in: from New Mexico with its dearth of African-Americans to southern towns like Yazoo where I didn’t see a white face, it is a nation made up of many separate worlds, sometimes intersecting but often spinning in different universes.

Flora, Slobovia, “Next stop Jackson, Mississippi.”

(c)FMPDH 2012

A SAN FRANCISCO STORY

ecrivain — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 05:37:00 GMT

A San Francisco night - walking from the Chinatown Gate up the steep hill that is Bush Street, just before the corner of Powell and the downhill jaunt following the cable car tracks to Union Square, I spy a face looking up at me from the pavement - bending down I retrieve an identity card showing a beautiful young woman identified as Ayfer ....., a Turkish national. The street is dark and other than our small group there is no-one in sight.I decide to hand the card to the first policeman I see.

Several steps further on, there is another card - this time showing the name and contact details for a women’s helpline. Were both cards lost by the same person? Was her bag stolen or were they deliberately thrown away, and if so by whom? The young woman herself? Someone else? Was she in trouble?

Glancing up at the dark windows of an apartment building I get no answer. Beside the pavement the border of scrubby bushes gives nothing away.

It was at this point that I realised I had not seen a single police officer during the two days I had been in this city. I would have to post the card to the Turkish Consulate and hope that rather than filing it away in Lost and Found, someone there would take the time to find Ayfer and ascertain if she was in fact alright, or in need of help.

As the closing line in Dassin’s 1948 film ‘The Naked City’said: “There are eight million stories in the naked city, this has been one of them”…

(c)FMPDH 2012

MONOCHROMATIC FOOD: EATING ON THE ROAD IN THE USA

ecrivain — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 06:21:00 GMT

Having now been exposed to the diet of the vast majority of the population for several weeks, I am dying for fresh salad, fruit, vegetables and low-fat milk for my (espresso) coffee!

It is of course possible to eat well - very well - in the US, but after leaving the West Coast and venturing into the vast hinterland that is the South-West (Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico...) I am craving a rainbow of colours on my plate. It just seems so much more difficult to not eat badly: everywhere everything is either white-bread -based sandwiches or deep-fried chicken and chips. It is also excessively sweet (bread, peanut butter...).

The Mexican food too that is such a staple is a bastardised version of what is found south of the border - here it is all corn and wheat-based and smothered in monterey jack cheese, with a token nod to salsas.

In New Orleans I tried the specialities such as beignets (deep-fried pastries drowning in icing sugar - reminiscent of Dutch ollebollen) and mufaletta (huge stuffed bread rolls) as well as creole dishes more often than not deep-fried - all tasty but definitely 'sometime foods'!

It was in New Orleans too that I found the first supermarket ever where there was zero fresh fruit and vegetables, leading to the discovery that often the healthiest food is to be found in fastfood joints - such as McDonald's salads.

Sitting in the Orlando greyhound terminal waiting for my connection to Miami, I bought the single lonely salad in the cooler and dressed it with vinaigrette before reading the package and learning that the ingredients were primarily soybean oil, corn syrup and artificial colouring and flavouring.

Every person in the cafeteria was tucking into either deep-fried southern chicken and chips or macaroni cheese, washed down with soda. The hamburgers with their token lettuce and tomato didn't seem to be as popular.

Of course if you are travelling with a little more style than I am at present, and are prepared to either spend quite a bit more or have access to a market and kitchen, it is possible to largely avoid such a health-compromising diet. But as a backpacker, you are limited in what you can stock in your travelling pantry - everything must be carried, without refrigeration and mindful of space and weight restrictions. It is too easy to get laden with extra supermarket bags, on top of your backpack, daypack and camera bag.

I am looking forward to what I can find in Florida and up the east coast, and shedding the extra baggage I have personally accumulated since hitting the road a month ago.

CHICAGO IN SIXTY MINUTES

ecrivain — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 04:42:00 GMT

We pulled into Chicago’s impressive Union Station in the dark, all columns and soaring ceilings.

Inside however, is another story. The building is bustling with attendants in their neat navy uniforms with the badges, patches and peaked caps so beloved of Americans, making each one look like a five-star general. But it’s all show: the restrooms are the sort you want to rush into and exit even faster, the food court is just that. After a day and a night on the train I would have loved a hot shower and a meal that wouldn’t add to my expanding traveller’s waistline.

And the generals? They didn’t seem to be doing anything but parading.

Trusting that my pack would be transferred from the Southwest Chief to the City of New Orleans … I found my way to the tour desk where a bored-looking black girl (I’ve only heard white Americans use the term ‘African-American’) was counting down the minutes ‘til the end of her shift.

“No mo’ tours today ma’am, sorry.”

Three hours in Chicago before my train to New Orleans: I had hoped to catch a bit of daylight but when I left the station and saw the City of Skyscrapers twinkling in the dark I thought that perhaps that was how it looked best – dressed in sequins, but tasteful not gaudy.

“I li’d heaa all ma life” the cabdriver assured me in a distinctive Caribbean accent, “I can show you aroun’.”

A handsome older man sporting a cloth cap over his grey stubble, my driver did his best to act as tour guide, though for the next hour we drove in decreasing circles, stopping frequently so he could check his directions: when I asked to see Cloud Gate he had never heard of it. Again we stopped and sat for almost ten minutes until he showed me his i-phone where he had typed in “cloud get”: the results, being in cyberspace, would have been impossible to get to by cab.

We pulled over again so the driver could answer his phone. “I tol’ you I’d get the fifty dolla fo’ you – jus’ be patien’ mon, ah’m busy ri’ now.”

Eventually we found the earth-bound sculpture and zipped by. Navy Pier, the Aquarium, the Natural History Museum and the Art Museum were all similarly ticked off the verbal list I had suggested: I found it extremely frustrating seeing the grand buildings and not being able to enjoy the more impressive exhibits they were sure to hold. Similarly the Chicago Symphony and the restored Chicago Theatre which were both lit up and ready for the evening.

And then we were back at the station. I had actually ‘done’ Chicago in an hour.

I do know however that it's a city worth coming back to, perhaps even wearing sequins for a more leisurely night on the town.

(c)FMPDH 2012

Photos: USA 2011-12

ecrivain — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 01:01:00 GMT

SEVENTEEN MILES TO LAMY

ecrivain — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 23:27:00 GMT

The mini-van swerved into the dusty yard of the Santa Fe International Hostel – a collection of low adobe buildings surrounding a courtyard filled with old Silver Streak caravans , building detritus and a wordless rusty sign swinging off a leaning pole. A round-faced, smiling Native American man swung out of the driver’s seat and ambled towards me, hand outstretched : “John. You’re it today “ and good-naturedly, as I automatically made for the left-hand door, “ I think I’ll drive, if you don’t mind”!

On the seventeen mile drive to Lamy, a whistle-stop on the Southwest Chief route between Los Angeles and Chicago, John chatted non-stop about Santa Fe and its numerous rich and famous inhabitants: Ali McGraw - she’s in her seventies now – does a lot for all the migrant children here; Greer Garson and her husband lived on a ranch a little out of town – have you heard of her? - there’s a theatre named after her – she put a lot of money into the Santa Fe college – the kids can do all sorts of arts programs there; Gene Hackman; Oprah Winfrey has a house over there; Robert Redford still has one here I think … a lot of them have houses here – a bit different to my house”…

“Mine too!” I said.

My ‘lifesaver’ who picked you up at the station the other day - his father was Jack Schaefer - wrote westerns – have you heard of the film ‘Shane’? He lived here too, been dead a long time though – maybe fifty years”…

“So how long have you been here ? What did you do? Have you been to the pueblos?”

There are about twenty ancient pueblos in the area north of Santa Fe, which are home to several Native American tribes, including the Navajo, Zuni, Apache and Laguna, as well as the sites of several ruins. John told me that I should visit when the festivals are on: “Write to the Pueblo Council to get the dates. Of course you would be welcome.”

“I’d love to” I said.

Lamy is so small it was immediately familiar after my thirty-minute wait there of several days ago. So little happens that any small change is immediately noticeable.

“They’ve painted the roof of that old engine black since I was here last” said John.

Amtrak did itself proud and was only forty minutes late into the station.

Only nineteen hours, give or take an hour or two, to Chicago.

(c)FMPDH 2012

FLAGSTAFF ARIZONA TO SANTA FE NEW MEXICO/THE SOUTHWEST CHIEF

ecrivain — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:44:00 GMT

I left the hostel at 5am and walked the icy block and a half to the Amtrak station for the 5.41 train to Santa Fe (peculiar how precise the timetable is when the trains are invariably up to 2 hours late). Several goods trains rattled past - over 130 per day pass through this station - before the Southwest Chief from LA en route to Chicago pulled into the station.

The air outside was freezing in the early morning darkness and the small group of passengers - myself ,a Sikh man in a faded blue turban, another Australian backpacker, several American women and a young Amish couple - the man chatty and smiling, the woman quiet and reserved - were glad to finally board the train. The Amish woman double-bonneted, putting her stiff black travelling hat over the identical white one she had worn in the waiting room. They were obviously blessed in the kitchen department too, as her husband's bowl cut was slightly longer and more even than usual.

Having had little sleep the night before I attempted to doze until I gave in to the incessant announcements and went to the dining car for breakfast. I was seated opposite a man and woman from close to my destination of Santa Fe - he not particularly friendly and she raising her voice every time she spoke to me as soon as she heard I was Australian, Like almost all food in America, the breakfast was unnecessarily sweet and I would have loved a dab of David's emergency vegemite from the hostel in Flagstaff.

Leaving the hamlet of Gallup, we rode through endless vistas of valleys leavened by pleated mesas - snow-covered to the south and clear to the north save for patches of frozen melt. Just after Milan the train ran alongside a band of jet black volcanic rock, fissured and broken like the ugly mouth of some Hadean monster.

Every journey needs some drama and in this case it was supplied by all the toilets running out of water and backing up. The only exception was the one in the cafe car. The observed American unwillingness to get involved in unpleasant situations meant that the train staff were initially unaware of the problem (which doesn't say much for their sense of smell).

The ‘rear’ guard informed me tartly that "this always happens in New Mexico" and proceeded to lock off all the restrooms - considering there was another 14 hours or so until Chicago, I was glad I was de-training in Lamy.

Lamy is another story. Originally I was scheduled to have a two-hour wait here for my twenty minute shuttle to Santa Fe, but Amtrak had thoughtfully reduced this to only one hour by holding the train back.

(c)FMPDH 2012

OH GLORIOUS GREYHOUND

ecrivain — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 16:40:00 GMT

Creeping out of Los Angeles Union Station 40 minutes late on the Greyhound bus Amtrak had offloaded us onto, I was immediately reminded just how "sketch" this bus company can be; sitting down in my seat I glanced up to see a ribbon of toilet paper flapping out of the filthy air outlet above my head and probably ten years’ worth of grime stuck to every surface, both hard and soft. The driver turned on the engine and the sudden spurt of air shot the toilet paper and other soiled detritus out of the hole and onto my head. Five and a half hours until a shower and change of clothes.

My skin started to itch as my mind went back to the cleanest, most luxurious buses I have ever travelled on: the first-class buses in Mexico!

But Central America also possesses the most hair-rising bus rides, journeys that reinvigorate you just because you survive them. Right through the region the local buses are old American school buses(universally dubbed 'chicken buses',some still in their original livery, others painted and adorned with garish religious talismans in lieu of regular mechanical maintenance.

I travelled through several countries over the space of three months, always by bus and usually with the locals. I was usually also the only "gringa" on board.

In Guatemala the luggage was stored on the roof, the passengers packed five or six across four seats designed for grade-school-sized bottoms, leaving no aisle. I always tried to grab a window seat so I could watch if my blue pack was offloaded before me, only to disappear into the colourful jostling mass at some crowded market or other.It never happened and I found the Guatemalans I travelled with solicitous with my luggage and polite and patient with my faltering Spanish.

On routes through known bandit areas I would usually befriend an old woman or a family. Once in the southern part of the country I transferred to a longboat for the journey downriver to Monterrico and spent a couple of hours in the company of two laughing old toothless women and their collection of roosters which they tended like children, stroking them and sitting them on their knees. But they were also ready to grab any chance to earn a peso or two and in the blink of an eye one hapless rooster had his tail feathers plucked out so they could be offered to me with clear instructions on how to turn them into earrings.

It was in Guatemala too, that I experienced the most hair-raising bus trip of my life: careering down the mountain from the famous market town of Chichicastenango to Quetzaltenango (Xela), with squealing brakes, grating gears, clouds of black smoke which entered the open windows on every hairpin bend and a kamikaze driver intent on taking us all with him.

The local passengers sat stoically and inscrutably having no choice but to accept the “In Dio Confiamos" above the Christ with his eyes raised to heaven in front of the driver. Not so the two Dutch students sitting opposite me, whose knuckles were beyond white as they gripped the seat in front of them, absolute terror on their faces, averting their eyes from the sheer drop of hundreds of meters just millimeters from our wheels. Our driver obligingly hung off the edge repeatedly to let ascending buses by. Not a single passenger spoke while the driver and his side-kick laughed and joked together, obviously secure in their faith in divine protection.

I wasn't. Climbing over the bodies in the aisle I made it to the front of the bus and said I wanted to get off. They laughed. I insisted. The bus stopped and the two Dutch girls and I tumbled out with relief. The off-sider feigned surprise and after I said the driver was "loco" their derisive laughter still hung in the air after the bus was out of sight.

"Thank you so much for saving us" one of the girls said, clutching my arm, not so much melodramatic as relieved.

The faces of the locals looking impassively at us as they drove off were burnt into my memory: I fully expected to read the next day that the bus had fallen off the mountain. It hadn't, this time.

So bouncing out of Los Angeles towards the hills and a "McDonald's Stop" in Barstow, brown sky behind us, slightly bluer ahead, I became nostalgic for Central American adventures but was happily on the road again, the unknown always enticing.`

(c)FMPDH 2012