Month: July 2022

Rendezvous with Destiny

“Well, if nothing else,” remarked The Light of my Life™ as we bumped and creaked our way along the forest service road “we’re seeing some good potential camping spots”.

I couldn’t help but agree although the further we drove into uncharted (at least for us) territory, the more I wondered just exactly what we’d find when we eventually arrived at the Mountain Man Rendezvous. It was our first, and we really didn’t know what to expect. 170 years ago, the Mountain Man Rendezvous was basically one big honkin’ party for the fur trappers, and natives who spent the rest of the year living off the land while they collected pelts of all descriptions to sell at this once a year get together. For most, it was the only time of the year they could let rip and have some fun. Not only was it the occasion to sell furs and trade for new supplies, but also to meet up with old friends, swap stories and lies, and most importantly, get roaring drunk on rot-gut alcohol. 

Contests were held as the trappers and Indians showed their ability with rifle, tomahawk and knife. There were also running races, jumping contests and horse races. Even better, there was gambling. Exciting times indeed and things only got better when the trading company finally showed up. Now, the trappers and Indians could trade their hard earned pelts for the items that they needed to get them through the coming year – powder and lead, blankets, utensils, clothes, tobacco, food, hats, rifles, knives and other items too numerous to mention. And, once all the year’s necessities had been bought, the rest of the credit could be spent on the serious business of partying. Alcohol and women were available for the asking and by the time things wound down, after about two weeks, few had any money remaining.

Within a surprisingly short time however, the west was settled by pioneers and farmers moving west. Top hats made of Chinese silk became the fashion and the beaver pelt trade disappeared almost overnight. The men who’d made their solitary living by hunting, fishing and trapping became an anachronism although like the cowboy, were still able to show off their talents at the rodeos, many of which survive to this day. Fortunately, historical enthusiasts have revived the traditions of the Mountain Man Rendezvous, and many use their spare time to travel to camps around the west where they dress in period costume, give classes in pioneer skills and as much as is possible in the 21st century, live the way the original mountain men would have done.

There are three rendezvous held each year in our area and while I’ve read a lot about them, have never managed to see one until now so was looking forward to it no end. But I was experiencing a nagging doubt that the whole thing might be overrated, and we were simply going to roll up to a campsite with half a dozen good ol’ boys sitting in lawn chairs and drinking Bud Light whilst wearing funny clothes. So, it was something of a relief to skirt a small hill and see an entire village of tepees, tents and other period looking shelters off in the distance. This, we later learned, was the ‘Primitive Camp’, for those who took their re-enactments seriously. There were two modern camps as well, one allowing generators, the other not, but they were parked discreetly out of sight. A gentleman wearing period costume and a red and white striped shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rodeo clown directed us into the parking area where we took our place alongside the diesel trucks and SUVs favoured by so many modern-day mountain men.

A short hike along the trail took us to the admission tent where a young man with a…’period’ accent directed us inside where a helpful lady gave us a leaflet explaining the rules (Primitive clothing must be worn in Primitive Camp between 6pm and 8am; No post 1840 weapons in camp; among others) and told us to enjoy our visit. That set the tone for the day. One in which we were visiting with some incredibly polite people. Not just friendly in the way that so many Americans are, but out and out gracious. I’m not sure if this was all part of the period act, or if these were simply exceptionally affable people but it became a little disconcerting after a while as we felt the need to respond in kind and each conversation took on an unreal tone. Everybody wanted to know if we were on holiday, or just up from the city for the day. As most were from out of state, few were familiar with our hometown of Bailey although one gent from Nebraska recollected that he got gas there. “What did you eat to cause that?” I asked, but as my humour so often does, it went way over his head. “I didn’t eat” he replied, “but I remember paying a lot to fill up my truck.”

The period costumes were a sight to see, ranging from ladies in gingham dresses to gents wearing anything from Davy Crocket style frontiersman outfits, to Last of the Mohicans type buckskin leggings. (Note to any prospective Mountain Man re-enactors – leather leggings with bare thighs is not a good look for most guys, no matter how dashing Daniel Day-Lewis looked in the film.) And so, we moseyed along the row of vendors selling reproductions of early 19th century goods. Period clothing, hats, knives, eyeglasses, and jewellery as you’d expect but each with that authentic home-made look that distinguished them from the modern day article. A lot of the stuff appeared to be genuine antique, others were obviously new but created with care to ensure it was as close as possible to that which would have been on sale 170 years ago. Sadly, the prices were quite definitely 21st century, and while there were lots of fascinating goodies, none of them quite fit into the ‘have to have’ category. I would willingly have paid over the odds for something to eat, and fully expected to, but it turned out none of the food vendors had arrived yet.

I saw a guy dressed in buckskin leggings working his way through a tasty looking turkey sandwich, but he told me he’d brought that himself. And so it was, that hunger drove us away. Back to our air-conditioned car and the paved road and the town, where food comes pre-caught, pre-packaged and in the fridge ready for consumption. Not very 19th century and I feel we’ve lost a lot of the charm along the way.

Didn’t stop me from eating it though.

First Published: 9th August, 2005

One Night in Bangkok

The air has a tangible quality. Heavy with moisture and thick with the pungent smells of Asia; a combination of spices, rotting vegetation and stagnant water. I stare at the rain washing down in sheets and try not to think about the sunshine I left the day before. The voice in my head suggests simply spending the rest of the night here at the airport, where it’s clean and safe and familiar. If I did that, I could set out for the city in daylight. Things would look better in daylight.

Instead, I hoist my backpack, its crisp, clean freshness marking me as a beginner, onto my shoulders and step out into the rain, the oily syrup coating my new white Reeboks as I wade across the concourse to the highway where the buses run. I know the bus I want, Bangkok buses are numbered and run frequently. But I’m still not sure how I’ll know when I’ve arrived at my destination. No time to worry though because in moments the bus arrives, and I clamber aboard. The conductor is a young boy; I would guess around 12 or 13. I attempt to pay the fare, but he waves my money away contemptuously. Worse, he indicates that I must disembark at the next stop; some 200 yards from the airport gates. A few minutes later another bus rolls up and I try again. This one takes me out of sight of the airport but once more I’m deposited unceremoniously on the curb. The conductors speak no English and of course, I speak no Thai, so it is not for another 2 days, and many more failed bus rides that I realize I’ve been attempting to purchase a 3-cent ticket with the rough equivalent of a $50 bill.

Wet, cold, and thoroughly dispirited, I make my way back to the lights of the airport. I see signs for limousine service to the city centre, but backpackers don’t travel by limo; and for me, it was public transport or nothing. This perverse determination prevented me from learning that in this instance “limousine” simply referred to government authorized taxis, with fixed pricing and honest drivers. Far safer and much cheaper than the rent-a-cab I flagged down to take me into town.

“I need a cheap hotel.” I tell the driver, “Somewhere near the Grand Palace.”
“No problem meestah” he replies, with a smile and a flick of the meter.

We pull away from the curb and into the Bangkok night. Bangkok’s traffic is gridlock on a scale we can barely imagine. Lines of vehicles spread from one side of the road to the other, eight or nine deep, with no respect for lane markings, traffic lights or the smog-masked traffic police waving futilely in the centre of each intersection. It’s every man for himself and in the black rain, the steel river ebbs and flows with glacial slowness. Several times my driver pulls off the road and bumps his way along dirt alleys and beside swollen canals. Away from the streetlights my sleep-deprived paranoia takes on epic proportions. Where are we going? Is he planning to pull a gun on me? Take me away from the safety of the main thoroughfares, to where accomplices lie in wait? A professional gang preying on naïve foreigners, fresh off the plane in a state of wide-eyed innocence? Or as invariably turns out to be the case, is he simply attempting to beat the traffic by taking a short cut.

After about an hour where we barely cover 5 miles, he turns to me with his big smile once more in place and asks

“So meestah, you ready to see Bangkok?”

I stare gloomily into the darkness outside my window and wonder if there’s anything I’d like less right now. Because of course, he doesn’t want to show me Bangkok the city; but its seamy underbelly. I’m so tired I can barely hold up my head, but he assumes I’m simply one more European guy in Bangkok for the sex trade. I place my palms together by the side of my head and tell him no, I’m too tired. So instead, he does as I ask and takes me to a hotel. But not the cheap lodgings I wanted.

Most backpackers traveling through Asia in the early 90’s would eventually gravitate to Bangkok’s Khao San Road, where inexpensive hostels, travel agencies and cafés make it a crossroads for travellers, as Kathmandu was a generation before. A year later when I pass this way again on my way to China, I steer newcomers round the area like the veteran gypsy I am. Except this night, only 20 hours into my round-the-world adventure, I’ve never heard of Khao San Road; don’t even know of its existence and am at the mercy of a cab driver who can take me anywhere he pleases. I was budgeting $6 a day and anticipated paying no more than $2 for my lodgings. His choice, at $90 a night was too rich for my blood. As was the next at $40. By the time we find a place for $20 I’m too tired to argue further – it will do for tonight.

Checking me in, the reception clerk wags a finger in my face and warns

“Welcome to Bangkok Sir, but tonight, you sleep alone!”

Yes, I smile, tonight I sleep alone. Except sleep doesn’t come. Jet-lagged, exhausted, and more than a little overwhelmed, I lie in bed and listen to the roar of the air-conditioning as it fights ineffectively against the oppressive humidity. I need to keep it turned on however, to drown the noise of the bullfrogs in the swamp outside. By 1am, I’m sitting upright and reading my book. By 2am, I’m dressed and heading back out into the streets. I don’t even know where in Bangkok I am although it’s apparently one of the city’s nightlife hubs. Every other building is a bar, or a massage parlour or a hotel with rooms by the hour or the night, horizontal mirrors extra. The sidewalks glow red with the reflections of the neon lights. Even at this hour, the streets are filled with foreign visitors. Sailors, tourists, and businessmen, each dressed in the uniforms of their respective callings. Breathtakingly pretty girls clutch my arm and ask if I would like to be their friend. I smile politely and keep walking.

Am I ready to see Bangkok? No, I’m really not. Right now, I just want a beer, and a cigarette, and a sit down. But tomorrow, ah, who knows what will happen tomorrow.