Uncategorized – The Gunsmoke Diaries

He is not missing, he is here

In a previous Gunsmoke Diary entry (here), I told of the time I was cycling in Belgium, quite possibly the most boring country on the planet for such an activity. Geometrically flat, damp and insufferably dull I found myself almost delirious with delight when I saw a barn or a road sign and had an object on which to focus while I crawled past. And crawl I did due to the ferocious headwind which was doing its best to push me back the way I’d come.

It didn’t help that I was still feeling the effects of some exceptionally strong beer the previous night so by the time I finally reached the outskirts of Ypres, my goal for the evening, I was grubby, ill-tempered and very, very tired. A solitary meal in an overpriced restaurant a few miles back hadn’t done much to lift my spirits and I was just looking forward to a lie down.

Until I entered the town proper by riding through an imposing archway known as the Menin Gate. We studied the First World War in school, and I was already familiar with many of the names on my map. Ypres, Mons and Passchendaele had all been sites of bloody battles and the dull, flat fields which had bored me interminably as I rode through, had seen some of the worst carnage in human history only a few decades earlier.

North-western Europe is peppered with cemeteries holding the graves of the war dead. Geometric lines of brilliant white gravestones set on neatly trimmed lawns, they are sombre, moving places and it’s hard to leave without being touched by the sacrifice made by those young men. Throughout Belgium, Holland and France local families take responsibility for ensuring that “their” soldier’s grave will be kept clean, tidy and manicured. They have done so for decades and will continue to do so as long as the graves are there.

Yet it’s a tragic fact that many of the fallen, particularly from the first war, have no graves. Thousands of bodies were never recovered, and the official war records list those soldiers simply as “Missing, believed killed.” When peace finally came and all hope for their return was gone, the families of the lost men found their grief especially poignant. These relatives and friends had no grave to visit, nowhere to pay their last respects, nowhere to find closure.

So, it was decided that in Ypres, near where so many were known to have died, a memorial would be erected in honour of those whose bodies were never recovered. Originally there was talk of the British Government purchasing the land around the area and turning the entire town into a memorial to the Allied fallen. This was deemed impractical, however. While years of war had reduced Ypres to little more than rubble, many Belgians still considered it home and they were anxious to return. Instead, a memorial comprising of a mausoleum within a magnificent classical archway was built at the entrance to the town, over the river Menin.

Inside and out, huge panels contain the engraved names of the men of the Commonwealth forces who died in the Ypres Salient area but have no known graves. There are almost 55,000 of them and yet, immense though the Menin Gate is this still didn’t come close to recording the names of all the missing soldiers. The Menin Gate contains only the names of those who died in the area between the outbreak of the war in 1914 and August 1917. Those who died between then and the end of the war, a little over a year later, are listed at another memorial, located in Tyne Cot Cemetery, on the slopes just below Passchendaele. 35,000 more.

And remember, these are just those whose bodies were never recovered.

At 8pm prompt, every single night of the year, the traffic through the gate is brought to a halt. Police guard the entrance and stand at salute while buglers from the local fire department play “The Last Post”. This happens regardless of the weather and visitors from all over the world gather alongside the residents of the town to honour the young and brave who came to die in the defence of their town.

The service has taken place almost continuously since 1927. During the Second World War, when Ypres was occupied, the ceremony was banned. Yet the townspeople kept the bugles safe, and when the Germans finally left Ypres in 1945, the plaintive notes of the Last Post rang out under the Menin Gate that same night.

Evening was falling by the time I arrived in town and I knew I wouldn’t have time to find a hotel, wash, change and return in time. So instead, I sat by the side of the road and looked back the way I’d come. Across that vast expanse of flat nothing and tried to imagine the horrors that had taken place in those fields.

At a few minutes before 8, I smartened myself up as much as possible, and then stood at attention with the others while the haunting tune rang out into damp, cool night. Beside me stood an elderly white-haired gentleman, frail and stooped but at attention, nonetheless. This was in 1988, exactly 70 years since the war’s end. Was he old enough, I wondered. Old enough to have been there? I glanced over to appraise the lines on his face, but when I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, I looked away, embarrassed. Yes, he’d been there.

In sombre mood, I wheeled my bike away and went in search of a bed. In the days that followed, I clocked up many more hours in the saddle, crossing into France before turning north and heading up the coast to catch the ferry home. The scenery changed as the miles rolled by, with the flat brown fields giving way to rolling hills and flower strewn meadows. The headwind didn’t let up though, fighting me with every turn of the crank no matter in which direction I was riding. Each night I flopped into bed, stiff, sore, thoroughly exhausted, and glad that another day was over.

Yet of course, I knew that my aches were nothing. Nothing compared to the misery suffered by those young men who never left. All 90,000 of them.

“…and now it can be said of each one in whose honour we are assembled here today: He is not missing; he is here!”

Words from the inscription carved on the Menin Gate, Ypres, Belgium.

Against the Wind

Belgium’s pretty flat.

By that I mean it’s flat, I don’t mean it’s pretty. Oh, I know it has its attractive parts – some of the squares in Brussels, the inside of its chocolate factories, and the breweries. But the country itself is flat. And dull. Flat and dull. Maybe you already knew that. I already knew that. But I still opted to go there for a cycling vacation. I’m not sure exactly why now, although it had something to do with being able to get there cheaply via car ferry, and I only had 4 days, and I figured I could cover a lot of the country in that time. So, Belgium it was.

And at first, it was really quite pretty. I rolled off the ferry in the early hours of a weekday morning and pointed my bike inland, towards the town of Bruges. This is a charming little place, with cobblestone streets, concertina trams and picturesque squares. Maybe if I’d simply remained there for the full four days, I might have retained my initial positive impressions of the country. Instead, I decided that as the town had yet to wake up, I wouldn’t hang around for breakfast, but would instead trundle on down the road.

But which road? Aye, there’s the rub.

In Europe, Michelin road maps are treated with the same sort of reverence that is reserved for AAA’s guides in the US. Inexpensive, reliable and easy to read, a Michelin map is an indispensable tool for any traveller on the asphalt ribbons of that fair continent and I’d made sure I had a Belgian one in my bag. Except on a number of occasions that first day, I had to check the cover to make sure it really was a map of Belgium and not somewhere else. The People’s Republic of Chad, perhaps.

I’m fairly competent when it comes to map reading. Oh sure, I have some challenges working out just how far apart the contours are, and it always throws me when the wee symbols aren’t reproduced on the legend. But I can usually do a reasonably good job of tracking my whereabouts. However, even I’m at a loss when the roads mapped on the paper bear no resemblance to those on the ground, which is what was happening here.

Every 1/2 hour or so, I’d roll into some tiny hamlet and pull over to check my progress. To my consternation I was usually unable to find the village. Initially I figured this was because they were too small to be marked and would continue onwards. Eventually I came to a larger town which simply had to warrant a mention. But, try as I might, I still couldn’t place it. Until I happened to glance some three inches lower and found it miles away from where I thought I was. On a completely different road. But here’s the thing. I was now able to locate some of the places I’d already visited. Except they were all on different roads. Figure that one out.

I’m not sure how many miles I rode that day, but I’m guessing it was around twice the 60 I originally intended. By the time I wobbled into Ghent, that evening’s destination, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, while my poor bum was on fire. The first job was to find a room for the night and while the young man at the tourist authority was very helpful, the address he gave me turned out to be that of a bank. I had no enthusiasm for riding any further, so I simply walked my bike around the streets until I stumbled onto a small, cheap but clean looking lodging house and checked myself in for the night. Out to dinner and I decided that a quick beer as an aperitif would be just the pick-me-up I needed.

“Would you like a light beer or a dark beer?” asked the barkeep.

“I dunno, dark I suppose.”

Apparently in Belgium, “dark” is a euphemism for “so strong it will knock out a horse”. I realized this was going to be a challenge when I placed my head over the goldfish bowl sized glass and almost passed out from the fumes but never one to resist a challenge, I manfully stuck at the task and after about an hour, finally drained the last drop. Problem was; I didn’t feel much like eating any more. I didn’t feel much like doing anything except lying down on my bed. And even achieving that goal was a challenge because my bed was some half a mile away and the pavements had decided to bounce up and down, whilst the walls of the buildings took turns at leaping out and punching me.

I awoke the next morning, fully clothed and half off the bed but at least that told me I’d made it home. Southbound today, with a target of Ypres, around 65 miles away. No real problems with the roads this time, it was a straight shot. No, today’s challenge came from the headwind which I would estimate was only a little below hurricane force. You know you’ve got your work cut out when you’re riding a 10-speed bike and have to use the lowest gear to climb the gradient of a motorway overpass. (I should point out; I was in much better condition in those days – but this really was a serious headwind.)

Every piece of garbage and debris in Belgium seemed to be blowing down that road too. No tumbleweeds, but sheets of newspaper, bits of cardboard, dust clouds and on one memorable occasion, an empty coke can which bounced up and hit me in the chest. You know those little wooden sandwich board signs some stores have out on the pavement? I watched one of those cartwheel towards me from several hundred yards away.

“That’s going to hit me.” I thought. “There’s no point in trying to swerve. Wherever I go, it will hit me.”

But I did swerve of course, right at the last minute. And for a brief second, I thought I’d outsmarted it. But it wasn’t to be – it swerved too. I zigged, it zagged and caught me a pearler, right on the knee. I protested loudly and violently, but my curses were simply snatched away by the wind. Darkness was falling when I finally creaked my way into Ypres. Dirty, tired and very cranky, I was wrapped in a cocoon of self-pity.

Of course, at that point I didn’t know that in Ypres, I would experience something which brings a lump to my throat even now, almost twenty years later.

To be continued…

First published: 23 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.

Sick Note

We had a wonderful trip, thanks for asking. The Light of my Life™’s folks recently moved from the Bay Area to Ventura, further down the California coast and we hadn’t seen their new house before. Their garden is a paradise for bird lovers like them and I spent a lot of time simply sitting outdoors reading. We still found time to explore some of the small towns nearby, sample numerous restaurants and take some long walks on the beach so it even felt like a real vacation.

Coming home, with all the real-world entrapments such as bills, laundry and work is never much fun but at least the dogsters were pleased to see us. (Although not quite as pleased as we’d assumed – it seems we’d made a good choice of boarding kennels.) Still, by Sunday night my shoes were polished, my lunch was made up and my laptop was sitting by the door, ready for another week in the salt mines. I was feeling rather tired so headed off to bed early, ready to be bright and cheery come Monday morning. Well, OK that was never going to happen, but you know what I mean.

By 2am I was awake again and paying a visit to the bathroom. No biggie, I’m sliding kicking and screaming towards middle age, and they tell me this is the sort of thing I can expect. Most nights I can get up, take care of business and be back in bed without really waking so I didn’t give it a whole lot of thought. Until around 4am, when I thought about it a lot. Not only was I now wide awake, it was becoming increasingly obvious I was going to be spending a lot more time in the smallest room in the house.

Even at that point however, it didn’t occur to me there was anything majorly wrong. I figured there was just some kind of icky stomach bug in there and all I needed to do was ride things out until it passed, then head into work, perhaps an hour or two later than normal. By 6am I was aware that whatever else the day might have in store for me, sitting at my desk and catching up on e-mail wasn’t going to be it. Shivering and aching, I was huddled beneath the covers wondering if I was going to live through this. By 7am I was wondering if I really wanted to.

Remember the chariot scene in Ben Hur? Remember the bit where the bad guy falls out and gets trampled by the horses as they drag him around the Circus Maximus. Well, I could empathize with him. (If you don’t remember that bit of the movie don’t bother renting it just for the refresher – those few minutes don’t justify the tediousness of the rest.) My whole body, head to toe felt as if it had received a good kicking, while my stomach and intestines appeared to be full of break-dancing flamingos.

Thinking it might settle my innards and replace some lost fluids, Dear Wife made me a cup of mint tea. It tasted quite refreshing but I managed only a few mouthfuls before heading straight back to the throne room. I’ve never really looked that closely at the inside of our toilet before; it’s quite unattractive although I did send up a silent prayer of thanks that I’d cleaned it just before we left for our trip.

Fortunately, by midday I was pretty well hollow so was able to devote my energies to squirming around the bed in discomfort. Whatever kind of cooties I had inside me, they were certainly having one big old party and were presumably enjoying the day a lot more than I was. Weak and trembling I may have been, but they were full of energy and ready to play.

By day 2 the pain and discomfort had subsided somewhat and while I still felt as though I’d been put through a wringer, I had at least regained enough strength to work the remote control on the TV. However, I’m not sure if that did anything to aid my recovery. There really is an astonishing amount of dreck on American television. The programming itself is bad enough but every five or six minutes each channel takes a commercial break, the sole purpose of which (as far as I could tell) was to promote the other garbage the channel shows. If nothing else, that was an incentive to stay employed.

That afternoon I was able to eat a slice of dry toast and miraculously it stayed down. Later still I managed a few chunks of melon. Maybe I was going to survive this after all. The biggest challenge by this time was that even though I felt completely exhausted, my total lack of physical exertion during the day meant that when night finally came, sleep was impossible and I spent the next few hours, flipping and flopping trying to get comfortable while I waited for morning.

On day 3, propped in a cocoon of pillows, I was able to sit with my laptop and take a look at some of my work e-mail. It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, and I was pleased to receive a number of solicitous enquiries after my health. A fair number of those were along the lines of “Oh, you’re back. Good. Can you do this for me?” but overall, it seemed as though I’d been missed. I didn’t last the whole day of course, there’s no point in being home on the sick if you’re just going to work but I did make significant headway. At least until ‘Dr.Phil’ came on and I had to go to sleep.

Thursday morning found me back in the office. Early Thursday afternoon found me heading home feeling like a wet dishrag and wondering if the steering wheel has always been so heavy. It didn’t help that the entire population of Colorado had decided to take off early for the 4th of July and were sitting in front of me. But I slept the sleep of the innocent (yes,me) on Thursday night and by Friday I was up and ready to take on the world.

A good job too. If there’s one thing worse than being sick, it’s being sick on a holiday weekend.

First Published: 5 July, 2005

I Didn’t Like the TV Show Either

First Published: 3 May, 2005

We’ve just passed the three-year anniversary of my moving to Colorado. And by coincidence, it’s one year this week since I returned to work for the company that brought me here. I say returned because I had a nine month “grass is greener on the other side of the fence” stint with a different outfit but wasn’t really happy there and was more than pleased when the original firm made me a generous offer to return. As jobs go, mine’s pretty good. My clients are pleasant people, I like my co-workers and I get to spend my days in a funky little office in Denver’s LoDo district. The only real cloud on the horizon (other than that we’ll be relocating to a soulless office park sometime this year – different rant) is that a few months ago, we were bought out by a large conglomerate based in Dallas.

Now I’m sure there are some perfectly good people who live in Dallas, just as I’m sure there are some folks who look on the place with fondness. I’m just not one of them. It’s coming up for thirteen years since I first arrived in the U.S. and in that time, I haven’t had a single good experience with anything Dallas related.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that I harbour a certain bitterness because of how the small company I worked for in Phoenix was swallowed up by a Dallas firm and the employment experience went downhill immediately afterwards. A corrupt and incompetent executive team stripped the company of everything decent and while it still survives, it’s become something of a laughingstock in the industry. And to the day I die, I’ll be angry about the fact that following September 11, the company accepted a $1.5 million Federal Government bailout, then promptly laid off 2/5 of its workforce before paying the CEO a bonus of (drum roll) $1.5 million. And yes, I was one of the 2/5 – why do you ask?

However, my dislike of Dallas as a city goes way further back than that. The summer of ’92 to be exact when I spent a total of 10 hours there and the residents gave me the distinct impression I wasn’t welcome. Now admittedly, I’d been living out of a backpack for a year, my hair was on the longish side and my clothes were certainly in need of a wash, but even so, I was barely off the bus before it started.

I’d travelled overnight by Greyhound, an experience not to be missed by any self-respecting masochist wishing to observe the seamy underbelly of America and on disembarking, shuffled over to the adjoining diner for a coffee to get my heart started. Engrossed in my book while munching on a piece of toast, I barely noticed the beefy middle-aged guy who’d taken a seat at my table. He got my attention by kicking my foot.

“Patrick, I need you to come with me.”

“My name’s not Patrick” I replied. (For it isn’t.) Unfortunately, he didn’t believe me.

“I know you Patrick and if you don’t help me, I’m going to throw your ass in jail. You understand?”

“I understand, but I’m not Patrick.” It was at that point I noticed the police cruiser parked outside. “Look,” I went on “I’m a British tourist, and I just got off the bus half an hour ago. I have my passport in my pocket.” I told him, reaching for it.

“Hands on the table!” he barked causing the other patrons to turn in alarm. Many were already enjoying the show. Here was a real live police bust taking place, right in front of their eyes. The hippy was almost certainly going down. This was great.

“I know who you are Patrick” he told me again, “And you’re coming downtown with me. Don’t make me put the cuffs on you.”

“Does Patrick have a British accent?” I asked him and could see from the slight widening of his eyes that this point had hit home. Sherlock Holmes he wasn’t but even with his limited detective skills, he couldn’t help but notice the bus ticket on the table, the guidebook in my hand and the backpack propped against my chair. Without so much as a “Have a nice day”, he sloped off. I’m not sure if he ever did find Patrick, or if he would have recognised him if he did.

Leaving Dallas that afternoon proved to be almost as challenging. Greyhound has a rule stating that nothing can be tied to the outside of any bag going into the hold. I’d been schlepping my way around the States for several weeks at this point and had never known anyone enforce the rule until today. My backpack had a rolled-up foam rubber sleeping pad strapped to the base, but it had been so long since I slept in my tent, I barely noticed it was there any more. The Greyhound clerk saw it though and refused to take my bag until I’d removed the pad and put it inside. Which meant I’d to spend four frantic minutes rearranging all my other possessions and adjusting the straps in order to make it fit. Which meant I missed the bus by one minute. Which I’m sure was what he wanted. The next direct bus was four hours later but thinking I was beating the system I hopped aboard a local bus, just as it was pulling out of the station. It was only then that I learned “local” means “we stop at every single opportunity”. I arrived at my next port-of-call two hours after the direct bus I didn’t wait for.

I’ve been back to Dallas several times on business since then and never once has the experience been pleasant. From being given the wrong bill in a restaurant and having to explain to the manager that I hadn’t eaten four meals, to having coffee spilled on my only remaining clean shirt by a breakfast waitress. From spending two and a half hours in a cab, with the meter running after the driver took a short cut, to having my reservation be “lost” at a fully booked hotel. From telling a client I’d like to take them out to dinner so could they pick a place suitable for me, a vegetarian at the time, and being taken to a barbecue joint where the only non-meat option was bread. And don’t even get me started on their obnoxious sports fans.

I liked Austin, San Antonio was fine, and I’m told there are plenty of other pleasant places in the state of Texas. But Dallas? You can keep it.

Boiiinnggg!!!

First Published: 26 April, 2005

“Are you nervous?” asked the grinning Kiwi.
“Yes, I’m frickin’ terrified!” I replied.

Instantly his smile vanished, and he hunkered down beside me.

“OK, listen.” he said in a quiet but firm tone. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about and I mean that. This equipment can handle a strain more than five times what we’ll be putting on it today. In all our years of operation, hundreds of thousands of people have done this and we’ve never had so much as a single injury. We’re experts and won’t let anything happen to you. So, what do you say – are you going to give it a go?”

“Sure,” I replied “let’s do it.”

After the sincerity of his speech, I didn’t want to tell him that I wasn’t worried about getting hurt; I had every confidence in his operation. I was however, nervous that I might bottle out. Afraid that when the time came, I might be too scared to go through with it. I make no apologies for that. After all, it was the first time in my life I’d jumped off a 275-foot-high bridge with only a thin strand of elastic preventing me from doing a face plant into 6 inches of water.

Bungee (or bungy) jumping is a modern version of an ancient ritual which took place on the island of Vanuatu, in the South Pacific. Known as “Gkol”, it was a rite of passage whereby the young men would tie ropes made from vines around their ankles before hurling themselves off platforms high in the treetops, dropping like stones until the vines snapped taut and (hopefully) arrested their fall a moment before impact. There were no sophisticated formulas for calculating the length of the cord, or the body weight of the initiate, or the anticipated stretch – they worked that out by….well, nobody’s quite sure how they worked that out, but the trick was to get as close to the ground as possible without actually making contact. This had the desire effect of enhancing one’s status in the village. Particularly with the ladies.

Not surprisingly, it took some time for this activity to catch on elsewhere in the world and it wasn’t until the late 80’s when a semi-insane New Zealander named A.J. Hackett saw a video of the Gkol ritual being recreated by the equally loony members of Oxford (England) University’s Dangerous Sports Club. Hackett realized that others might be willing; not only to make such jumps themselves, but to pay for the experience and the germ of an idea was born.

With the help of a business partner and some Auckland University scientists, Hackett set about testing bungee cords and looking for suitable sites. In 1987, he himself jumped from the Eiffel Tower in Paris to make a very public display of his complete faith in the product – and to garner more than a bit of publicity. The world’s first commercial bungee jump opened in New Zealand in 1988 and was hailed as the birth of adventure tourism in New Zealand. A mere 3 years later, I stood on a platform on a bridge high above Skipper’s Canyon, outside Queenstown on the South Island, fervently hoping I wouldn’t wet myself.

A bunch of us had ridden up in a mini-bus that morning. A mix of wealthy tourists, two American oil workers taking the scenic route home from the middle-east, a young family and a handful of backpacker types like me. At the time, Skipper’s Canyon was the highest commercial bungee jump in the world although that record has long since been surpassed. It was plenty high enough though and those bungee cords looked awfully fragile.

We chatted nervously while the employees made their preparations. “I’m not worried about myself, so much as my son” confided the father. “He’s only thirteen and I’m not comfortable with him doing this.”

“Don’t worry.” I told him “You’re still a young man – you can always have another kid.” He thought this was hilarious but after seeing the look his wife gave me, I resolved to make sure she jumped before I did.

The two oil men swaggered confidently in public, but one confided to me “I just hope my buddy doesn’t realize how nervous I am.” It was very touching when a few minutes later, I heard his friend mutter the exact same thing.

A number of people had brought cameras but of course, it wasn’t possible to photograph yourself, so this required an assistant. A cute little British girl handed me her point n’ shoot with explicit instructions as to the compositions she was looking for.

“One of me on the platform, one jumping off, one swinging in the air and one of me being lowered into the boat.” She was the first to go and caught up as I was in the excitement of the moment, I totally forgot the camera in my hand until it was all over, and she was having the cords untied from her ankles. I fired off 4 snaps with my finger over the lens and when she later asked excitedly “Did you get them?” I fibbed and assured her they would be great. I’m afraid I don’t remember your name but if by any chance you’re reading this, cute little British girl then, uh…sorry.

Finally it was my turn and after receiving my little pep talk, I took a deep breath and poised myself at the edge of the abyss. “Look at the trees, let yourself go and don’t forget to have fun” advised my pal and after a bare moment’s hesitation, I bounced on the balls of my feet and leapt into space.

There was a brief moment of terror, then a mild concern that those trees were getting awfully near, then a close up look at the river and all of a sudden, everything was getting smaller once more. No jerk, no bounce, just a smooth rise back up towards the bridge. Then back down towards the river, then back up to the bridge and so on. I’d been zipping around for a few seconds before I realized I’d forgotten to yell “Yippee!” or anything else appropriate. Worried that people might think I was a fearty, I let loose a couple of “Yee-Haahs!” before being lowered into the waiting jet-boat and ferried back to shore where my new friends were waiting to give me a high-five. Then it was back to town for the obligatory souvenir T-shirts and a look at the video. By golly, I looked graceful.

And if ever I should run into a lady from the island of Vanuatu, I’ll bet she’ll be well impressed.

Wardrobe Malfunction

First Published: 22 February, 2005

The Light of my Life™ bought me a new shirt the other day. At least it’s new to me; somebody else owned it previously. No complaints about that; a lot of my wardrobe comes from thrift stores including most of the stuff I really like. Even better, it saved me the trouble of going clothes shopping for myself, something which as far as I’m concerned, ranks right up there with drilling holes in my kneecaps and watching programs on the Lifetime Channel. It’s an all linen number which hangs beautifully, feels great and if I say so myself, makes me look something of a stud muffin.

One downside of thrift store clothing is that no matter how good it looks, you’re never entirely sure of its past history so I added it to the bag of other shirts and dropped it off at the dry cleaners for laundering. It was a small pile this week, so I got something of a shock on my return, when the bill came to over $17. Turned out the cleaners had followed the instructions on the label and rather than simply laundering it as I had asked, had dry cleaned and hand finished it. As this extra service came to almost $10, it made my $5 shirt a little less of a bargain.

But as I said, it does look good, so I simply resolved to be careful when and where I wore it. I always wear an undershirt so if I avoided smoky bars and sweaty environments, I should be able to squeeze two or three wearings between launderings. As I dressed to wear it for the first time, I jokingly said to The Light of my Life™, “What do suppose I’ll spill on it?” “Don’t say things like that,” she replied, “you’re only tempting fate.”

She was right, of course. It was tartar sauce. I great big dollop of it, right down the front.

This didn’t really come as a surprise. Clean clothes and I never seem to get along too well and in fact I’ve often speculated at the mysterious forces that cause food, drink and other messy substances to be inexorably attracted to my outerwear. When I lived in Britain, I wore a tie each day for work and for the longest time I thought the only purpose they served was to keep my shirts clean. When dressing for an important occasion, I often had to ask “Do you think soup stains or chili stains go better with this jacket?”

The bottom couple of inches were usually discoloured after my tie had fallen onto my plate as I sat down so over the years I developed the habit of pressing it to my torso until I was seated. Even though I haven’t worn a tie on any regular basis for several years, the habit is apparently still with me as I learned quite recently while eating lunch with a co-worker. In an interested tone he asked, “Why do you always pat your stomach when you sit down?”

My office in Phoenix was located across the street from an excellent Italian restaurant. Their specialty dish was chicken cooked in a red wine sauce which tasted absolutely divine even though it was a rather unnatural grape colour. I had lunch there one day and as I had a client presentation that afternoon, was impeccably dressed. Anxious to maintain the smart appearance of my snowy white shirt and crisp chinos, I made sure to use my napkin. I’m aware it’s not socially acceptable to tuck one’s napkin into the shirt collar so like a good little grown up; I had mine spread over my lap. Although I should have known what would happen, I ordered my usual chicken-in-purple-stuff and in a matter of moments; had dropped a piece.

Perhaps if I’d simply sat still, I might have got away with little more than a nasty stain or two where it landed. Instead, in my frantic attempts to get out of the way, I did a series of hip-hop style dance moves and as a result, managed to steer the chicken-in-toxic-sauce all the way across my chest, down one arm, over my (now napkin-less) crotch and the full length of one leg before it finally came to rest in the cuff of my pants. The waitress did her best to help but really, only made matters worse. There wasn’t enough time to go home and change so I made my presentation to the clients looking like an extra from a slasher flick. The sad thing was; nobody seemed overly surprised.

It hasn’t always been my fault. One time I was flying on a business trip. My fellow passengers and I were just settling down to the highlight of the flight, namely the plastic glass of soda and the bag of pretzels. I’d taken no more than a couple of sips when the lady next to me spilled her drink over my right leg. The flight attendant raced into action and using no more than a glass of club soda and a paper napkin, did a quite serviceable job of removing the stain while leaving the crease in my pants reasonably intact. My seat mate was mortified and full of apologies. No real harm was done, we had a joke about it and the flight attendant brought her another drink.

She reached for her fresh drink and as we both watched in horror, some malevolent force caused her to throw this one over my right leg too. Again, the flight attendant did her routine with the soda and napkin but this time, my pants were beyond salvation. My left leg was still sporting a fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners razor sharp crease while the right looked as though I’d been swimming. My business trip was a fly out in the morning, give a presentation, fly home in the evening kind of deal and for this reason, I travelled light – just my laptop and my notes, no change of clothes or anything. Still, at least I had an opening anecdote.

Coffee, ketchup, red wine, baked beans, anything that can leave a mess has at some time or other graced my apparel. The cleaner the clothes, the messier the stain – it’s just a fact of life. I’ve never been known as a close follower of the fashion world, but I keep hoping that one day I’ll turn on the news to see some anorexic model strutting down the runways of Paris or Milan wearing a white blouse with a big dollop of mustard on the front. When that trend finally arrives, I’ll definitely be ahead of the game.

The Natural

First published: 15 February, 2005

Although many of our neighbours own and ride horses, we’re currently an equine-free household. At least in terms of living, breathing animals. The house is full of books, photos and other artworks of an equestrian theme. This is The Light of my Life™’s passion rather than mine, and when we first met, she did in fact own a horse on which she competed in three-day events. Although I frequently tagged along to the stables it was more in the role of official photographer, dog minder and fetcher of things. But it’s not as if I’m completely inexperienced when it comes to horse riding. I have sat on several horses in my time, occasionally even while moving and on one occasion the term “natural” was used to describe my horsemanship. Although admittedly, not for very long.

Several years ago a group of us were making our way up the West Coast of New Zealand’s South Island and decided to try our hand at this horse-riding lark. So, bright and ugly one morning we found ourselves yawning and stretching outside a stable among some breathtakingly pretty farm country. There were eleven of us altogether and Wendy the stable owner spent some time matching us to various horses depending upon our respective sizes and levels of experience. Jonathon, at 6’7″ was assigned a 14-hand monster, while Helen, who barely reached his rib cage, was given something not much larger than a Shetland pony. I myself was paired with a gentle looking nag called Honey, which sounded just fine until I learned she had a penchant for rolling on her back in the middle of rivers. Hmm.

After bribing our way into the horses’ good books with a slice of bread away we went. One of the downsides of most trekking schools is that the horses are conditioned to simply follow the one in front. The clients tend to do little more than sit on the back and it can be rather dull. Not so with this group apparently, who each had day jobs and only did service for the tourists on weekends. All well and good, but I was secretly hoping mine didn’t become too independent.

As it turned out the first river crossing wasn’t too traumatic, and we made it across without mishap. The only snag so far was that my steed was becoming bored with my pedestrian pace and would occasionally break into a jog in order to catch the more experienced riders up ahead. I found that as long as we never went any faster than a canter, I was able to keep my balance quite easily and was really quite enjoying myself. That said, I was uncomfortably aware that Honey was paying very little attention to the signals I was attempting to send via rein and stirrup but was instead operating on her own agenda. We ran when Honey wanted to run, we stopped when Honey wanted to stop.

Knowing I was out of my depth, I solicited Wendy’s opinion. “Keep your elbows in. Shout ‘whoa!’ Pull on the reins like you mean it.” was her advice and I’m sure it was perfectly sound even though it had no effect whatsoever. There were a handful of occasions where I thought I was running the show, but I suspect this was simply indicative of my naivete. Still, we’d been going for some time, had crossed multiple rivers and cantered several times without mishap so my confidence was growing.

Even so, when the more experienced riders broke off and took a separate route to try some gallops, I elected to remain with the rookies, much to Honey’s disgust. She fancied herself a thoroughbred and was becoming visibly frustrated at my reluctance to open the throttle. Nonetheless, once the others were out of sight, she resigned herself to being a wimp transport and plodded along sedately without complaint. For oh, about twenty minutes.

That was the point when we rounded a corner of the trail and saw way, way off in the distance, the departed members of our group racing across a meadow. Tails up, manes flying, legs stretched out it was a picture of primal athleticism. And Honey decided she wanted to tag along. I kept my elbows in; I shouted “Whoa”, I hauled back on the reins, I swore incoherently. Nothing. Honey was going to join those other horses, she was going to join them as soon as possible and if I wanted to come along or not, that was up to me. It didn’t take long to realize my actions were not only futile but were actively increasing the likelihood of a fall. So, I leaned over Honey’s neck as I had seen the pros do and concentrated on maintaining my balance.

Then I saw the log.

A good 3-4 feet high, it lay completely across our path. There was no room to ride around it, even if I’d had the skill. Stopping was out of the question. We were going over it. 3-4 feet doesn’t sound that big if you’re only familiar with watching the professionals in the show ring. But it’s way higher than even many experienced horsemen would be expected to tackle. And I was no experienced horseman. I set my feet firmly in the stirrups, clutched the reins as if my life depended upon it (as perhaps it did) and gibbered helplessly as Honey set her feet, bunched her muscles and sailed out into the blue.

Horse and rider soared, as one, over the log and landed, safely, comfortably and beautifully on the far side. My compatriots were in raptures. “That was awesome”, they yelled, “You did that perfectly” and so on. Even Wendy gushed admiration. “You did everything right.” She told me, “Your posture, your balance, your technique. I couldn’t have taught you that. You’re a natural”.

I sat back and basked in the praise. Yep, Mr. Horseman that’s me. I was finally getting the recognition I was due. Maybe I had a future in the equine field. Me being a natural and all. Although I had to admit, my butt was getting a touch tender, so I sat up on the back of the saddle to massage the muscles a little. It was at that point one of the other horses leaned forward playfully and nipped Honey on the flanks. She shot forward, I stayed momentarily in place. Then I was sitting bewildered on the ground, wondering what had just happened as my companions dissolved in peals of laughter.

Oh yeah, I can clear a 4 foot log with perfect style, but fall off my horse when it’s standing still. That’s me. The natural.

Working on the Railroad

First Published: 25 January, 2005

Like many kids, I had a train set when I was growing up. And like many kids, I didn’t appreciate just how lucky I was. The layout was permanently attached to a huge board and therefore had to live out in the garage. Every few months I would badger my long suffering Dad until he dragged it into the house and set it up for me. Once he’d devoted most of his weekend to getting it working, I would kneel in the center of the board and play with my toy cars, completely oblivious to the model train running around me. Truth be told, for all that I loved my train set, I was really more of an automobile man in those days. In time, my train set became just one more outgrown toy, forgotten and neglected, never to see the light of day.

It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I began to feel the lure of steam, the smell of grease and hot coals, and the haunting cry of the whistle late at night. Now that I was a grown up, I desperately wanted a train set.

The biggest problem was one of storage space. While my Dad had the right idea in mounting my childhood set on a board, storing it outdoors in a damp garage was no way to keep the tracks in smooth running order. They rusted horribly, which caused a marked decrease in the train’s performance even though he painstakingly sanded them clean as part of the set up. (I learned later, that this increased the tendency for the tracks to rust – there are better tools than sandpaper). I needed room not only for when the set was in use, but for storage when it was not. In my bachelor days, this was out of the question as I lived in a small flat. After marriage, the size of the home increased slightly but being the male in the partnership, my share of the storage space dropped significantly. I was lucky to have a place for my socks, much less a train set.

Our current house, while tiny by today’s standards, is (arguably) large enough for a modest set up, perhaps in one of the smaller scales. However, the next challenge is that Santa Claus has long since given up checking to see whether I’ve been naughty or nice and is simply assuming the former. At least I think that’s why he no longer responds to my repeated demands for consumer goods. Either way, my family, friends and workmates are long accustomed to my annual bleating that once again; I found no train set under the tree come Christmas morn.

Recently, a friend told me (probably in an attempt to shut me up) that a local model railroad club meets each Friday evening, in the basement of Denver’s Union Station to swap model train information and gawp at an elaborate layout permanently on display. While I’m well aware this might take me dangerously into ‘Star Trek’ style geek territory, it does sound like a good way to get my model train fix. Even better, Union Station is close to my office so the meeting would be simple enough to attend before going home from work. However, this is still a short-term solution – not the same as having a train set of one’s own.

The hard truth remains, that if I want a train set, I’m going to have to buy it myself. Or so I thought.

Last weekend I joined a bunch of friends for a social gathering at a local hostelry where to my surprise, I was ceremoniously presented with a large polystyrene box containing a second hand, but obviously well loved, toy train. 4 carriages, a station and a plastic bag full of track, realistic choo-choo noises and a light on the front. I was in heaven.

The only challenge was; I couldn’t get it to work.

The batteries live inside the coal tender; the lid of which completes the contacts. Sadly this had two broken snaps but the good news was; the manufacturers had thoughtfully backed them up with two tiny screws, thus assuring a tight fit. But one of those was missing. Replacing it proved, as visits to the hardware store always do, to be harder than I expected although with the help of an enthusiastic employee, I eventually found one that looked as though it would work. I nipped off the extra 1/8 inch with a hacksaw and I was in business. Or rather, I wasn’t. Even with both screws cinched down tight, the locomotive refused to do locomotive things.

Until later that evening, as I was forlornly fiddling with the lid of the coal tender and nearly had a heart attack when the locomotive suddenly came to life in my hands. With bell ringing and lights flashing, the wheels began to spin and I nearly lost the whole thing for good by dropping it on the kitchen floor. I’m no spring chicken and frights like that aren’t good for me. Turned out, one of the screws wasn’t seated correctly and the contacts weren’t being made. It was the work of moments to correct that and in no time I had a working train set for the first time in 30 odd years. With the plastic track laid out on the living room floor I can scare the heck out of the dogs to my heart’s content.

Except now I’ve really got the bug and more than ever I want a proper train set. With electric power and a metal track, and hills and tunnels and a signal box and and and…

We were in town on Saturday afternoon so I persuaded The Light of my Life™ to take me to a place called Caboose Hobbies which is basically a model train shop on steroids. Apparently it’s the largest of its kind in the world and I spent a happy couple of hours wandering the aisles and lusting after all the model train related do-dads I’ll never be able to afford in a million years. Despite my whining, the big meanie refused to let me buy the set of my dreams, but she did allow that I could save a bit of cash from each month’s housekeeping until I have enough to pay for it outright. So, it will take a while but by next Christmas at least, I should be the proud owner of a working train set. Woo hoo!

I wonder if my Dad will come and set it up for me.

Barbacoa española

~ Spanish Barbecue

First Published: 23 November, 2004

To many Americans, the term “Barbecue” conjures up images of Dad in the back yard, grilling hot dogs and burgers. However, to young Brits, enjoying cheap vacations on the Spanish Costas during the ‘70s and ‘80s, a barbecue meant a bus trip up into the mountains where for a paltry sum you’d be fed mounds of roast beef, chicken and pork. All washed down with lashings of low-quality beer and wine. Traditional Spanish entertainment would be laid on, with singing and dancing into the wee hours before you were poured back onto the buses for the journey back to your respective resorts.

Having holidayed in Spain several times with my parents, I was something of a veteran of the Spanish barbecue, although this was the first time I’d attended one as a grown up. (I use the term loosely – I was only a little past my 17th birthday and very immature). Still, I was able to fill my friends Steve and Graeme in on the routine.

“All the drinks are included in the price.” I told them, “So you can get totally wasted and it costs virtually nothing!” This was our kind of night out and we signed up for the trip with enthusiasm. Now we weren’t totally without street smarts and realized it wouldn’t be smart to go with no money whatsoever. We each took along a healthy sum, perhaps the equivalent of about $3. You know, for emergencies. We were on the bus and listening to the spiel from the courier before we learned of my misunderstanding. He explained that all the drinks during the meal were free. After that you were on your own. This was a blow.

“Not to worry,” I reasoned, “we’ll simply drink as much as we can get our hands on while they’re serving the food; and that should keep us nicely pickled through the rest of the evening.” This sounded like a plan and as the waitress filled our plates, I did my best to vacuum up any alcohol that came within arm’s reach. Being a few months older than me, Steve and Graeme displayed a level of maturity I wasn’t to enjoy for another decade or so and while knocking back a fair few themselves, weren’t going over the top at anywhere near the same rate as me.

To be clear; even at this tender age, I was an old hand at the art of drinking too much and I felt little concern as glass after glass made its way down my throat. Red wine, white wine, beer, are you going to finish that, course after course, drink after drink, we’re almost onto dessert, port, champagne, sure I’ll have some more, that’s it, fill the glass, good man. Finally, the meal came to an end, but I was quietly confident I’d imbibed enough during this limited time to keep me comfortable for the remaining four hours ‘till night’s end. If I’d given little thought to the effects such a large volume of mixed drinks would have on my system, I’d given even less consideration to how it would react when mixed with a healthy dose of beef, chicken and (probably undercooked) pork.

It was maybe twenty minutes before I first received signals that all was not well below decks. “You know,” I announced to the world, “I have a feeling I might need to puke fairly soon.” I decided it would be good tactics to make my way to the bathroom and simply hang out there for a while. That way, if the worst happened, I wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of a Technicolor yawn in public. I found myself a small but serviceable bathroom, took a whiz and observed with a note of smugness that some lightweight was already passed out in the single stall. I washed my hands, took a step back to check my appearance in the mirror, and promptly let loose with a deluge of projectile vomit that would have looked clichéd in a horror movie.

It was the beginning of one of the longest evenings of my life.

Looking back, it was the sheer volume I find most astonishing. We’re not just talking about a couple of heaves here, but wave after wave of semi-digested food and unprocessed alcohol. I knew I’d put away a lot but still can’t comprehend how that translated into the gallons of waste my body was now expelling. Think Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote. In no time the tiny bathroom was awash in chunder and while my body was doing its best to reject the poisons, enough had made their way into my bloodstream that despite my best efforts, standing up was simple impossible. Over and over, I would use the sink to drag myself gasping and weeping to my feet, only to slip and fall once more into the mire. Great pools of barf covered the floor, the walls and even to my bemused astonishment, the ceiling, hanging in grotesque stalactites some six inches long. It simply went on for hours.

Finally, after eons of this torment, I was able to stay upright. I wiped the crud off the mirror and stared blearily at the circus freak looking back. It was in my hair, all over my face and my clothes were simply coated in the stuff. What a mess. Throughout the whole ordeal my bathroom companion lay in the stall, completely comatose, even though he, like everything else in the room, was bathed in my bulimic symphony. Curiously, nobody else had attempted to enter the bathroom the whole time I’d been in there. Until now. Slowly, the door opened, and a middle-aged guy took two steps inside before stopping to stare in horror at the nightmare facing him.

“Pretty bad, huh?” I mumbled. He simply stared.

“It wasn’t me!”

Amazingly, his faced cleared in understanding, as if I could be standing here, covered from head to foot in stomach contents and yet, have nothing to do with the gallons of vomit adorning the room. I pushed past him and out into the main hall where Steve and Graeme met me with relief. They’d spent the entire evening trying to find me and had scoured the building without managing to find the one bathroom where I’d been trapped for almost four hours.

Over the years there were many more nights when grain and grape colluded to make a fool of me. Thankfully, I never quite replicated that performance. Yet for me, the word “barbecue” will never invoke an image of Dad with a spatula in his hand.

Pity, really.