To Catch a Fish

The seaweed was biting that day, my friends.

Every few minutes the fishermen (and fisherwomen, and fisherkids) would haul in their lines to find yet another long string of glistening fauna. Come to think, it probably wasn’t even seaweed, seeing as how we were at a lake some 1,300 miles from the nearest ocean.  But there was certainly lots of it and they excitedly compared hauls.  “Maybe we should take it back to the campsite,” said Mary.  “Make a seaweed salad?”

I’ve only been fishing a handful of times in my life.  The very first time was off a pier in Tarbet, Scotland where the fish were so easy to catch the whole sport seemed rather pointless.  Drop in the line, watch while the mackerel came up to check out the bait, jerk the pole (Note:  This is called ‘striking’ – write that down kids!) then haul up the fish.  Take out the hook; drop the fish back in the water, lather, rinse, repeat.

Any guilt I may have felt over the lack of sportsmanship on my first fishing trip was absolved on all my subsequent outings when I never came close to catching a single fish.

“I practice cruelty free fishing” I explain to anyone who will listen.  “No fish were harmed in the making of this day out.”

Possibly for that reason, I never really got into fishing and if I did go, it was usually to tag along with others who knew more about the sport than I.  Although curiously, they never seemed to catch anything either.  Maybe I was a jinx who had used my lifetime’s supply of fisherman’s luck on that first day out.

But really, that was OK with me.  I like fish well enough when they’re coated in batter and deep fried with chips but getting up close and personal with a wriggly one on a hook doesn’t particularly appeal.  Also, I’ve never had a desire to be one of those hardy souls you’ll see up to their privates in icy cold water while they try to trick the fishes into their nets.  No, when I go fishing, I want it to be a pleasant day out, preferably in beautiful scenery.

Which was the case today as I sat cross-legged on the shore of one of Colorado’s more picturesque lakes, with the sun on my face and the breeze gently ruffling my hair, simply watching as others went through the motions.

We were pretty sure there were fish in the lake.  The campsite host was certainly charging enough for the privilege of attempting to catch them, although as I noted, this would be the scam to end all scams.  Charge campers just to fish in a lake with no fish.  How neat would that be?  Sometimes I wonder why I’m not filthy rich.

Innyhoo, I questioned why Mary was using limburger cheese as bait.

“It may smell like old socks, but one of the old ladies I visit told me it’s the only thing to use.  She hasn’t fished in years, but she perked right up when I told her I would be going this weekend and she swears by it.”

“Not doing much good so far, is it?”  observed Ed, “Why don’t you try some salmon eggs?”

“I dunno, they don’t seem to be working too well for you so far, do they Hotshot” came the retort.

Ed looked sadly at his own pile of seaweed and had to conclude that she was right.  So, he hauled in his line and cast once more out into the big blue yonder.  Or at least, 30 feet or so out into it – he was only using a small fishing pole.

After a while, Sophie lost interest and wandered off to chat to the rest of the group who were busy catching seaweed further down the shore.  Her fishing pole lay unused near my feet and after watching Ed and Mary for a few minutes longer, I decided I could catch seaweed just as skilfully as them.

I checked to make sure both hooks were properly baited.  Sophie had been using a curiously unnatural looking attraction called ‘PowerBait’.  These were pea-sized balls of putty like material in a shade of orange not found in nature.  I would have thought this would scare the fish away, but what do I know.  Everything appeared to be in order, so I laid the pole over my right shoulder and deftly cast out into the deep.

The hook barely reached the water.

It took another two equally abysmal efforts before I noticed that the reel had a wee lever on it, which I discovered, was the brake.  Slide it the other way and the line has the opportunity to unwind as well as be reeled in.  Probably fairly important, that.  Flicking the lever to one side, I tried once more and this time, the line whizzed out across the water.  That’s better.

After a few minutes of not very much happening, I decided I would give my new found casting skills another go and hauled in the line.  I had to fight the urge to jump up and down when I felt an unmistakable tugging on the line.  Could it be?  Could I have caught a fish on my first cast while all these pros were hauling in nothing but seaweed?  Could it be?

Well, no of course it couldn’t.

I had however, caught a twig.  And quite an impressive one too; at least 6 inches long and quite formidable looking.  I added it to the seaweed pile and tried once more.  I didn’t catch a fish that time either.  Or the next time, or the next.  But you know what?  I caught one on the next.

Oh, it wasn’t exactly a record breaker.  At 5 inches or so, it was well under the limit which required me to throw it back, so no visit to the taxidermist for me.  And it was an ugly little bugger too.

“A sucker fish” explained Ed.  “A bottom feeder”.

OK, so not exactly the sort of thing you’d read about in Hemingway’s work.  Melville probably wouldn’t have written a novel about it (although if he had, it couldn’t have been any worse than Moby Dick.)  But it was the only fish anyone caught that day.  Mr. Rugged-Outdoorsman, that’s me.  When civilization crumbles around us, I’ll be able to provide for my family.

So, (lowering voice an octave and hitchin’ up pants) if you need any advice on fish catchin’, I’m your man.

Just don’t ask me what’s in PowerBait.

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

Let’s hear it for the I.N.S. (no, really)

I’ve said before, both here and many times elsewhere that there is a special place in hell reserved for the employees of the Immigration and Naturalization Service.  And not a very nice place in hell either.

To be fair though, this opinion came about from my experiences with the employees of the Phoenix office.  In all my dealings so far with the Denver office (two different ones), I have been more than impressed by the politeness, efficiency and overall friendliness of the INS employees.  If only I could say the same about all the government departments.  No, I’m not being sarcastic here, they really are a pleasure to deal with.

Although…the lady who greeted me at the door this morning and explained that she would be conducting my citizenship interview and civics test was, it has to be said, a little…abrupt.  Not rude exactly, but I suspected she had an ice-queen somewhere back in her lineage.

I really didn’t know what to expect at the interview.  I wasn’t sure if she would grill me about the intricacies of the Designated Hitter Rule, or my favourite John Wayne film, or ask for the ingredients of hot dogs.  As it turned out, that portion of the session was simply a case of her going through my application form and confirming everything was correct.  Yes, my name is spelled A-N-D-R-E-W, yes, I’m really from the United Kingdom and yes, that was a mistake where I’d said that The Light of my Life™ had previously been married to herself.

However, then we went onto the civics test.  While I’d prepared for this, I still wasn’t sure what was to come.  The gubmint sends potential citizens a handy-dandy booklet which not only lists the 96 questions from which the civics test is drawn (and the answers), but also a paragraph of history about each one.  It was actually semi-interesting, and I’ll bet many of my fellow Americans could benefit from it.  (Especially the girl who told me “Oh we did not fight against Italy in WWII – we like Italy).

Most of the questions were toughies such as “What colours make up the flag” and “Who is the President today” and so on, but others were a little more challenging.  Come on, hands up, who can tell me which Constitutional Amendments deal with voting rights?  (The 15th, 19th, 24th and 26th).  I’d also lost some sleep trying to memorize the original 13 colonies, which are, as I’m sure you know, Virginia, Massachusetts, Maryland, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire, North Carolina, South Carolina, -Take a Breath- New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware and Georgia.

And I’d had to promise myself not to get smart if asked “Which special group advises the president on policy?” Answer – “Whoever donates to his campaign fund.” Baddaboom tsssh! thank you, I’ll be here all week, don’t forget to tip your waitress.

But the thing is, I didn’t know what form the test would take.  Would it be written, oral, multiple choice, what was the required pass rate.  Nobody had told me this.  As it turned out, Ms Frostyface told me she would be asking the questions, and I had to get 6 out of 10 right.  No problem then, I had the stuff pretty well memorized and was even confident I could get all 13 colonies.  Should be a breeze.

And I did fine, right up until the second question.  “Where do congress meet?”  That’s an easy one, except I went into panic mode.  For some reason I locked onto the word “Congress” and couldn’t think of a anything else. For about a year I simply stared at her while my mind raced “Congress, congress…congress meet in…congress…it’s a trick question…congress is where they meet…I don’t get it…congress meets in…THE CAPITOL!” I really did almost yell the answer, then sat back chuckling with a relieved “Holy Crap!”

At that point she remembered she too, was human and laughed back

“OK, now we have that one out of the way, are you ready for the next question?”

And she didn’t ask me for the original 13 colonies, or the amendments dealing with voting rights.  So, I sailed it and it kinda looks like I’m going to become a citizen.

So uhm, can someone explain the Designated Hitter Rule?

Diary of a Pipe Band Contest

Day 1:
Wake at 6am. Switch off alarm and go back to sleep – plenty time yet. Wake again at 8am. Way late; this is going to be problem. Look out window and am disappointed, yet somehow not surprised to see it’s cloudy, wet and grey. With sinking heart, realise this means endless jokes about “Typical Scottish weather”. Race around like mad thing, loading car, feeding dogs and wondering why didn’t get stuff together night before. In and out of shower in record time before beginning battle with band uniform. Kilts not designed to be put on in hurry. Bad mood intensifies while taking dogs out and feeling fat raindrops splashing on clean, white shirt.

Set off down hill driving faster than Highway Patrol prefer. Scan lead grey sky and wonder if weather will keep crowds away. Or at least enough of them to allow parking close by. Problem turns out to be not crowds, but over-zealous parking attendants.

“If you don’t have a parking permit (nobody has parking permit) then you’ll have to drive to the nearby High School and come back on the shuttle bus.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at all the stuff I have to carry! I’m one of the competitors.”

“You can park in the unloading zone for 10 minutes, no more.”

10 minutes! So-called “unloading zone” is more than 10 minutes’ walk from designated band site, especially with heavy drum, full cooler, uniform jacket in dry cleaning bag, folding chair, equipment bag and spare clothing. Loading zone also contains at rough estimate, 100 empty spaces. Spaces remain empty all day while band members struggle to carry gear from designated car park three miles away.

Drop off gear at band tent, move car to official car park and return on shuttle. Grunt “Mornin'” to band mates and set off in search of coffee. Negotiate complicated process of buying tickets from one tent before standing in line for breakfast at another. Vendor has run out of coffee. Explain to vendor that this is hanging offense in any civilised country.  

Head back to band tent and huddle with other sodden band members, trying to keep warm whilst whining about parking situation and attempting to practice drums with bloodless hands. Opening ceremony is at noon and by 11:30 mood changed to one of activity. Pipers are tuned, drummers are warmed up, ties are straightened. At 11:55, march in sort-of-formation over to join other bands in central arena.

Opening ceremony even longer than usual. Officials sit under dry tent whilst making interminable speeches, completely oblivious to participants standing in open field, exposed to elements. Official advises spectators of items on day’s program. Neglects to mention band competition, supposedly main event. Guest speaker conducts long prayer to Christian god, whilst non-Christian band members (overwhelming majority), make irreverent conversation. After opening ceremony, make second attempt to purchase coffee. Only decaff available. Wonder just how far up vendor’s nose drumstick would fit.

Not good enough drummer to take part in competition. Instead have official role of cinematographer. Or ‘video-bitch’ as boorish drum-corporal puts it. Take chair and borrowed video camera over to competition area and set up camp, wishing had remembered tripod. Competing bands take turns marching into arena before standing in circle facing one another with backs to audience while playing set, so camera focused mainly on kilted backsides with very little action. Audio more important really, however, did get humorous footage of Youth Band drummers grimacing at each other while arguing wordlessly. Finish filming competition before heading back to band tent to drink beer and make catty remarks about other bands. 

March back to central arena for closing ceremony. More interminable speeches enlivened by announcement band has swept board finishing first in all categories. Much back slapping and high-fiving. Point out that good looks of cinematographer probably swung vote but magnanimously concede that band members who actually played in competition also helped in own small way. More beer drinking ensues. Details hazy.

Day 2:
Wake on time to see beautiful, blue sky. Slather self with sun block and head down hill in buoyant spirits. Hit cloudbank at 7,000 feet. Weather below, cloudy, wet and grey. Ignore parking attendants and leave car in little known hideaway, not too far from band tent. Early arrival means have to help set up waterlogged tent. Discover shirt lying on ground, unmissed ’till now. Head over to food vendor to purchase breakfast. Coffee available, but no food. Think murderous thoughts about food vendor. Take sip of coffee and wonder if previously drunk by someone else.

Sun makes weak attempt to shine in time for opening ceremony. Speeches even longer than yesterday, although largely same material. Announcer neglects to mention pipe band competition again. Observe loudly that “Bands required but not welcome” would be good motto for games. Announcer does remember to introduce every single breed in dog show. Remark on what a lot of breeds there are. By end of opening ceremony, food vendor offering limited menu. Menu no longer includes coffee. Reflect once more how should have brought own food.  And perhaps baseball bat to encourage better future performance from vendor.

Smaller entrance field for band competition so videotaping doesn’t take so long. Take mean-spirited pleasure at mistakes of rival band, then listen in bemused horror when rival band marches out to own band’s signature tune. Tacky enough but made worse by horrible rendition. Own band plays very well, so can only hope judges overlook early, but rather noticeable mistake. Other serious competitor makes couple mistakes too. Could go either way.

Closing ceremony ninety minutes away so pass time drinking beer, swapping jokes and making more catty remarks about rival bands.  Learn parking attendants are arranging to have cars towed from “unloading zone”.  Sympathize with band members hurrying off to move cars.

Grumble incessantly over new rule forbidding bands to take beer onto field for closing ceremony. Grumble even more when see official responsible for rule parading around field with beer in hand. “I’m not in uniform, you are.” Says official, with smirk.

Mollified by news that band has won competition again. Good looks of cinematographer must really carry weight with judges.

Pack up soaking wet tent and stare in dismay at amount of crap to be carried to car. Give thanks for helpful steward with golf-cart who carries heavy stuff. On to band member’s house for beer, pizza and more self-congratulation.

Reflect on how last two days have been nothing but cold, wet weather, irritating officials, and minor slights, incompetent vendors and petty annoyances.

Spent in company of great bunch of people while kicking arses of all-comers.  What a great weekend it’s been.

First published: 16 August, 2005

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.

On the Road Again

“To attract men, I wear a perfume called “New Car Interior.”
~ Rita Rudner

So Dear Wife’s truck broke down again the weekend before last. I say ‘again’, because this is becoming an all too common experience. It’s not a new truck and it’s racked up a fair few miles. Not as many as Angus the 4Runner mind you, but a hefty number all the same. Which means that it’s reached the stage where bits are starting to need replacing. Not just fan belts and hoses but expensive parts like the transmission for instance.

We’ve been nursing that particular piece of technology along for over a year now and when the truck left her stranded by the roadside about a month ago, the symptoms seemed to fit. Turned out to be the alternator instead which meant a repair in the hundreds of dollars instead of the thousands, which was all well and good but we know we can only dodge that bullet for so long.

However, common occurrence or not, this last breakdown was particularly unfortunate in that not only was I elsewhere for the day, I had committed the unforgivable sin of not having my cell phone on. Or at least it was switched on, but it wasn’t on my person. When I changed into my kilt for the band performance at the Polo Club, I forgot to transfer the phone to my sporran. Instead I left it in the pocket of my shorts, which I left in the back of the car. Which meant that Dear Wife was stranded in a supermarket parking lot for over three hours before she tracked down a friend to come and pick her up. Meanwhile, I was unreachable.

In a beer tent.

Having fun.

When she originally bought the truck, Dear Wife had a horse and needed something which could haul a trailer, along with bails of hay, saddles and other equine accessories. That hasn’t been necessary in a long time and for all that we love the truck, it isn’t an ideal vehicle for our lifestyle. The gas mileage isn’t that great, it’s a bugger to park and the air-conditioning died some time ago which makes things unpleasant in the summer, particularly with highs above 100 degrees like we had this week. Winter driving is even worse. It handles poorly on ice and snow, even with bags of sand in the bed and being only 2-wheel drive, requires snow tires to get any form of traction on the hills.

So, this week found us only semi-reluctantly, in the market for a new car. Travel anywhere in the 285 corridor and you’re going to see plenty of Subarus. (Generally from behind as they crawl up the hills blocking the left lane. Ha Ha!) No, that’s not entirely true although a large number of older models are still on the road and they don’t seem to have the same oomph as the newer ones. But there’s no denying they’re popular. They appear to be an ideal fit for those who don’t want to go the big truck/SUV route, but want something that can handle Colorado’s mountain winters better than a regular sedan. And they look kinda cool too.

A couple of friends own them, as does Dear Wife’s dad and we’d enjoyed driving his during our visit last month. We were sold on the manufacturer, so no problem there. The only challenge now was to decide whether to go with the Forester or the Outback. I’ve always been a fan of the Outback so it was with a sinking heart I discovered Dear Wife leaning towards the Forester. I don’t often win these arguments, but fortunately, once we’d had a chance to play in them both, she for once, agreed I was right.

I’ve never bought a new car in my life and have only spent a limited amount of time in car dealerships. I don’t mind looking at shiny new cars, but don’t really have much of a clue why this one is so much further out of my price range than that one. I’ve also heard horror stories of endless negotiation battles with tough as nails salesmen. Some people have told me they’ve sat in the dealer’s offices until the wee hours of the morning to see who would crack first. I don’t have that kind of time, and I certainly don’t have that kind of energy.

Fortunately, these days we have easier options. One of the best investments we ever made was membership in AAA. Not only does a helpful phone operator send a tow truck to pick us up whenever we ask, they also offer a car purchasing program whereby they pretty much do everything for you. You tell them the type of vehicle you’re looking for, the bits and bobs you’d like it to have and your choice of colors. They then scour the local dealers to see if what you want is available and (hopefully) call to say when you can pick it up. Not only that, but after using all kinds of complicated arithmetic they determined we could actually afford it.

AAA lent us one in attractive shade of metallic urine and more or less gave us permission to see what it could do. We put it through its paces in the Rocky Mountain foothills where it passed with flying colors so somewhat predictably, we were sold. Which meant that after a whirlwind of phone calls over an astonishingly short period of time; we were handing over the largest check we’ve ever written in exchange for a set of three (comically large) keys. Moments later, we were pulling out of AAA’s parking lot at the wheel of a very shiny and new smelling Subaru Outback. Well actually, it was quite a few moments later because it took some time for us to get acquainted with all those buttons, lights, levers and switches.

I’m old enough to remember when owner’s manuals were about 20 pages long and that included directions for rebuilding the gear box. This one’s thicker than the last Harry Potter book and takes 59 pages just to explain the function of the seat belts. We’ve owned the car for five days now and I’m still only about a third of the way through the darn book. I’ve figured out the CD player, the sunroof and how to make heated seats work – you know; the important stuff. But the boring bits like how to change a tire, or check the steering fluid, well that’s just going to have to wait.

Right now, I’m just having too much fun driving the thing.

First Published: 26 July, 2005

Sport of Kings and Warriors

“On the polo field, where else.”
British gold-digger Sarah Ferguson, when asked where she met her temporary husband, Prince Andrew.

True confession: I own a couple of Ralph Lauren shirts, complete with wee polo player logo. They both came from Costco and so, cost about 1/10th of their normal retail price but what the hey, I look pretty darn stylish when wearing them, if I say so myself. Not only that, I spent this weekend at the Columbine Polo Club, rubbin’ shoulders with the cream of Denver society. It’s true; I was there in my capacity as sort-of-a-drummer for the pipe band. And I was simply providing entertainment for the rich folk, but I was there all the same.

Other than the occasional rainstorm, my car Angus hasn’t had a decent wash since my parents came to visit almost two years ago. With his numerous rust spots, dents and bits hanging off, he didn’t exactly blend in with the gleaming Jaguars, BMWs and Lexuses (Lexii?) already filling up the grass parking lot. But to the credit of the parking attendants, they didn’t bat an eyelid, simply directed me to the closest available spot. A few other band members were already there, and it didn’t take me too long to swap the shorts and t-shirt for kilt and full highland rig ready for a pleasant afternoon in the sunshine.

And dearie me, did we get sunshine. It was a record breaking 102 degrees in Denver on Saturday apparently, and the only way to fully appreciate just how toasty that is, is to wrap yourself in eight yards of wool and go and stand in the sun for a couple of hours. Like any true Scot, all I wear under my kilt is shoes and socks, so I had my own little personal sauna going on down there. Oh dear doG, it was hot! Fortunately, the organizers had found the perfect spot for us to perform. On a patch of baking blacktop, right in front of the already aromatic port-a-potties and miles from the sanctuary of the beer tent. Somebody eventually took pity on us and brought water but mine evaporated with a hiss on the way down my throat.

Fortunately, Saturday’s gig was mercifully short, and we were soon inside the tent, which frankly, wasn’t that much cooler. There were large electric fans but none pointing in our direction, so we had no choice but to replenish our lost fluids by making frequent trips for free beer. There was free food too although it wasn’t until we’d each laden our plates that one of the organizers pointed out we weren’t supposed to be helping ourselves; it was reserved for the paying guests. “You can eat as much as you like tomorrow,” they said, “but not today.” Having been firmly reminded that we were merely the ‘help’, we settled in to an afternoon of people watching.

Now I’m well aware that when it’s over 100 degrees in the shade and you’re dressed in the aforementioned eight yards of wool, with a black hat, tie and vest, and effeminate little bobbly covers on the top of your socks, you aren’t really in a position to critique other peoples’ clothing choices. But that didn’t stop us. Because oh boy, there were some doozies here to choose from.

I’ll never be mistaken for a GQ model, but I have at least seen enough episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to know there are certain combinations which aren’t done. Lime green pants with canary yellow shirts, tailored shorts with black socks and lace up dress shoes, competing stripes, the works. For the most part, the women were dressed sort of tastefully but then, their outfits were often overshadowed by the feats of engineering which had gone into creating their physiques. So impressed were we guys by the plastic surgeon’s art that the girls in the band had occasion more than once to reprimand us for staring. I suppose we were lucky none of us got our tongues trodden on. Joking apart, I’m really not a fan of false boobs but some of these were truly uhm, eye-catching.

Sunday dawned with the promise of slightly cooler temperature and while the clouds kept the mercury down, it was still plenty steamy out there. We had a bit more work to do this time in that they wanted us to march from behind the goals, out to the centre of the field, then turn and head towards the main stand where we could cook a little longer during the singing of the national anthem. Polo fields are pretty big, so this involved quite a hike but at least they didn’t make us stand out there while somebody prayed, as they do at most of the Highland Games. A few more tunes up by the entrance and we were done for the day.

Remember how they told us “You can eat as much as you want tomorrow.” Well, we should have remembered the adage “Tomorrow never comes” because by the time we hit the buffet line, the wait staff were clearing things away. Yep, the food was all gone and while a couple of folk managed to snag a wee prawn salad thing in a wine glass, the rest of us went hungry. Personally, I hadn’t felt the slightest bit guilty about snagging a plateful the day before, but I know it was preying on the consciences of one or two band-members. Not any more it wasn’t and suitably chagrined, we fell like a plague of locusts on the beer tent, ready to make up the missing calories.

As I said, we weren’t the only ones in strange attire but perhaps because we were all dressed alike, and possibly because at least two of us had funny accents, we attracted a certain amount of attention. In the same way anthropologists might be attracted to a new and hitherto undiscovered tribe of jungle savages. I didn’t receive any dinner invitations but I did talk to some very charming people including one young lady called Dannell (sp?) who endeared herself to me by constantly replenishing my beer supply, bringing me a fresh glass as soon as the level in my current one neared the bottom.

Mind you, even she put her foot in it as we packed up after our final performance. She asked me when we were due to play again.

“That’s it; we’re finished.” I told her.

“Oh,” she replied “but weren’t you just warming up?”

Ouch.

First Published: 19 July, 2005

Saturday Night at the Movies – Redux

There are many things I haven’t done although I wish I had. I haven’t stood on the summit of Everest. I haven’t played football for Scotland (although if I had, I don’t think I would have been any worse than some of their current representatives), I haven’t seen the Great Wall of China and I haven’t ridden a bicycle across the United States. And that’s just off the top of my head – there are many more things I’d like to do but still haven’t managed. However, this weekend I did manage to mark one more item off my “things to do list”.

I finally made it to my first drive-in movie.

Generally when I tell people that I’ve yet to undergo this life experience the response is one of incredulity. How could I not have been to a drive-in movie? It is after all, a rite of passage for most Americans and almost everyone I know has fond memories of teen weekends spent in the front seat of a car watching the legends of the silver screen in all their 50ft high glory. But the crucial word in that sentence is “Americans”. I of course, grew up on that sceptred isle across the pond where drive-ins never really caught on.

There are a number of reasons for this. Britain doesn’t share America’s obsession with the motor car for one. This is partly because the enduring image of motoring in Britain is not freedom and the open road, but gridlock and congestion. British cars are generally much smaller too so snuggling with your honey takes a lot more dexterity than on the bench seat of a Detroit land ship. Then of course, there’s the weather. The whole concept of outdoor movie-going more or less demands that the weather be warm, and the sky above filled with stars. It’s hard to fully appreciate the nuances of the filmmakers’ craft when you’re freezing cold and watching through a windscreen streaked with rain.

“Ahah!” I hear you say. “But you’ve lived in the USA for over 12 years now – there’s no excuse for you still not to have been to a drive-in.” Yes, but you see, most of those 12 years were spent in Phoenix where the opposite is true when it comes to the weather. The idea of sitting in a car with the engine (and therefore the air-conditioning) turned off while the ambient temperatures hover around the 100 degree mark holds little appeal for me. There was a drive-in there, not too far from my house, but I believe the majority of the patrons were teenagers whose rampant hormonal drives overrode any discomfort from the heat. Even so, after three years in Colorado, where the summertime temperatures are far more conducive to motorized movie-going, and despite passing a drive-in almost every day, I still haven’t made it down there.

The challenge recently has been that they never seem to show films I want to see. I’m not really that big on brainless action movies and those seemed to be the staple fare of the drive-in. However, a friend recently put this in perspective for me when she patiently explained “It’s a drive-in, it’s not a frickin’ art-house. If you’re waiting for ‘Bob le Flambeur’ to show up, you’re going to be disappointed”. This logic was inescapable so I decided that the next time they showed a movie that didn’t actually promise to kill off my brain cells in measurable amounts, I would go.

I still had to wait a while, but this week the main feature turned out to be ‘War of the Worlds’, a Tom Cruise flick which has received mixed reviews. I’ve never been a huge fan of Cruise’s; either as an actor or a human being but some of his stuff has been passable. There are other places on the web where you can find reviews of the movie if you’re interested; suffice to say, it wasn’t as cheesy as I expected, and Cruise as usual, played himself very well. The effects weren’t bad, and Dakota Fanning is rapidly becoming my favourite actress.

But you see; that’s not really point. The movie itself is secondary to the experience; the novelty of watching a film in a setting that was totally new to me. That’s what made it such a fun night. Spoiled as I’ve been by multiplexes, it’s a few years since I’ve queued up to see a movie. However, that’s what we did here. Not shuffling along on foot like in the olden days, but in one, then two and finally three lines of idling cars, inching our way along the street. Little cars park at the front, bigger ones behind and the biggest of all at the back. Just like in school photos.

I was familiar with the concept of the speaker hooked onto the car door (I have after all, seen the opening credits of ‘The Flintstones’ many times) but what I was totally unprepared for was the option of listening to the movie via FM radio. I had never heard of this although I later learned it was introduced in the 1960’s as a way to reduce costs incurred by boneheads driving away with the speaker still attached to the door. Our truck has a factory issue, but quite acceptable sound system so the audio quality was way better than the crackly resonance I expected from the speaker.

A number of folks had brought along lounge chairs, others parked backwards so they could sit in the bed of their trucks or tailgates. I saw two small girls in sleeping bags on the roof of a Ford Explorer and one enterprising couple had brought along a couch which they set up to watch in style. I was more than happy to sit in the cab and watch the show from there although I did wish I’d thought to bring along a bottle of Windex and some paper towels like the folks two cars down from us. Our insect graveyard of a windscreen didn’t exactly enhance the viewing experience.

All too soon the film was over and as nobody else seemed to be in a hurry to leave, we were out of the parking lot and on our way home while most people were still packing up. It was kind of hot and rather sweaty, and I didn’t get as completely absorbed in the movie as I normally do in a theatre. It was also somewhat alarming to have people walking by your head every few minutes, so I doubt I’ll be seeing too many movies in this format.

Mind you; if I ever invent my time machine and get to become a teenager again…

First Published: 12 July, 2005.

Footnote 1: We learned later that we’d paid for a double-feature of which ‘The War of the Worlds’ was simply the first. Yep, we left halfway through. No wonder nobody else was in a hurry.

Footnote 2: Sadly, this particular drive-in was flattened to make way for an apartment complex less than a year after this post was written.

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