ARUBA TO CUBA
One hundred thousand lemmings can’t be wrong.
Dutch Sailing Song
The following is the sordid & salty struggle against the forces of nature & the lowlife hustlers encountered on a recent 1000 mile Caribbean passage. As always the truth in travel will strictly be adhered to.
We begin our saga on the odd little island of Aruba where I had flown to assist my brother Tom in moving his 42 foot sloop Hornblower Too 1000 miles north to Cuba where Tom hoped to find a paradise of cigars, rum, beautiful girls & ignorant lobsters. Assisting us in the passage would be fellow Buttion Steve Kortz, a local mason of unquestionable character & someone else’s money.
They met me at the airport, thrust a Polar “Pilsner Type Beer” in my hand & hailed a costly cab to the nearest pub.
Inside a dozen buffed & blonde Dutch sailors, connected by linked muscular arms, belted drinking songs at the top of their lungs. A small gaggle of admiring blonde girlfriends giggled from the corner. In an futile attempt to over power the sailors a Venezuelan Wanye Newton howled Latin love songs into a scratchy mike. The overall din resembled a international train wreck. A table of drunken Colombian drug lords beckoned us to join them & in the ensuing chaos not a word was comprehended till the wee hours.
Aruba, a flat, arid island was ‘discovered’ by a buddy of Columbus’, Alonso de Ojeda, who reported back to Spain that the place lacked anything of value but the inhabitants themselves, a peaceful fun-loving group of Arawak Indians. These, the Spanish promptly rounded up and shipped off to Haiti to toil out their lives in Spain’s copper mines. The place fell under Dutch control in 1800 & finally gained it’s independence in 1986. Today, what isn’t covered in cactus & iguanas, which are both the ingredients of a Viagara type soup, is covered in what could best be described as a giant shopping mall of Dutch type architecture. The shop owners are Dutch, the workers Venezuelan, the tourists American & French, the locals a mixture of all four. By the age of four a child in Aruba speaks five languages fluently. The fifth being a mixture of the other four called Papiamento.
At the west end of the island a series of huge smokestacks belch greasy clouds of black smoke into the sunset. Oil refineries I assumed, processing Venezuelan crude, an observation I deduced from the dozen or so mammoth oil tankers anchored a few miles out.
To confirm my observations I asked a waitress about the smokestacks.
“I dunno.” She said.
“Well what about all those gigantic tankers out there, aren’t they picking up oil? I asked.
“Never noticed them.” she said. “Been here 15 years.”
“Listen mister, here in Aruba we find it best not to ask questions.”
“Gottcha.” I agreed. “Good policy.”
Sunday morning dawned hot & brilliant, the equatorial sun reflecting off Aruba’s abundant pavement in a most disagreeable manner. I suggested we split, a proposal met with little resistance.
“We need to provision the boat,” suggested Tom. He’s good about stuff like that, that’s why he’s the Captain. “After all, we’re gonna be seven days at sea if every thing goes right.”
Now a tiny problem arose. Before we could leave Aruba we would be required to check out with customs, a process mired in bureaucracy during proper business hours, much less Sunday. We visited the customs house & encountered a bored official chain-smoking Craven cigarettes & entranced in a local talk show covering the burning issue of serving dog-meat at the soccer games. It seemed to be agreed upon that if the dog had never slept on a couch or had a name, it could be rounded up & turned into ....well...hot dogs.
When the dog-meat issue seemed settled we revealed our plight.
“Have you got a VCR?” He asked.
Tom & I looked at each other. Was he gonna give us a tape on how to check out of Customs?
“Huh?” We chorused.
“You must call immigration on your VCR” He explained.
“You mean VHF....the radio?”
“Whatever.”
We called immigration who explained there would be a tiny ‘extra’ charge for checking out on Sunday, but that he would meet us at the boat in two hours.
Next, the problem of procuring provisions as every grocery store in Aruba closed on Sunday. A short, sneaky pot salesman finally admitted there was a mini- mart open in fact & he would even escort us there for the price of a hot dog...a local favorite we assumed.
Provisioning a boat to meet the appetites of three fat white boys for a week at an already overpriced island Mini-Mart, is not the most economically sound endeavor & by the time a cab backed to the front door to begin loading we had spent 400 guilders or about $250.oo dollars on tiny single packets of every thing from Oreos’ to Spaggeti-o’s.
By 3:00 that afternoon we were ready to hoist the anchor & begin our soggy odyssey.
The belching smoke from the refineries produced a magnificent red & orange sunset as we trimmed the sails and set the course for our first landfall, Port Antonio Jamaica 800 miles north. A family of leaping, squeaking porpoises joined us. Sleek and powerful they surfed the bow wave and exploded from the ocean to make eye contact & grin at the Hornblowers delighted occupants.
A very good omen.
As the boat was on a steady course & running perfectly flat in the gentle lee of Aruba the Captain called for Mick Jagger, hot dogs & boat drinks to be served in celebration.
That’s when we discovered a major oversight. We had forgotten the rum. Certainly, a couple bottles of suspect bush rum graced Hornblowers cabinets, but your everyday brush your teeth, coffee additive, lunch enhancing, dinner necessity, midnight watch, sipping rum was sadly absent.
A very bad omen.
One hour later the salt water hit the fan.
to be continued
Aruba To Cuba Pt 2
When down in the mouth remember Jonah. He came out all right.
Dutch Sailing Song
YOU AREN’T IN KANSAS ANYMORE, DOROTHY! The first mate Steve yelled over the shrieking wind.
“I CAN SEE THAT AND DON’T CALL ME DOROTHY!” I didn’t like the way he’d been looking at me lately, but had to admit he was right about one thing. This wasn’t Kansas. In fact we were 500 miles from any dirt what-so-ever, smack dab in the middle of the Caribbean & getting our soggy bottoms spanked. From the moment we’d left the comfortable lee of Aruba, Hornblower Too had been tossed about like a pit bull’s rat. Twenty foot sea’s lifted the fiberglass sloop high into a howling 30 knot wind, knocking the port rail under water & threatening to toss the occupants from the wildly tilting cockpit, The boat would then surf madly down the waves face slamming with a teeth shattering crash into the foaming back of the preceding roller. In the bottom of this watery trough the wind died, cut off by the mountainous seas around us, the sails would luff & Hornblower jerked back up-right throwing us back across the cockpit, a violent motion only to be repeated seconds later. This had gone on every ten seconds, 24 hours a day for the past three days, & we were but half way there.
Picture if you will, a fifty gallon barrel half filled with freezing salt water, foul smelling sewage, & rotten fruit. Now imagine climbing into this barrel & being rolled to Denver over Pearl Pass...& back.
That is the glory of open ocean sailing.
To go below decks for any reason was a study in abuse. One minute smashed against the hull like a Velcro cat, the next flying across the cabin to connect soundly with the over flowing head. For three days it had been virtually impossible to eat, sleep or relive oneself, as to let loose of the crashing boat with even one hand invited suicide. Every third wave crashed over Hornblowers decks & poured into the cabin from leaky hatch covers & portholes, soaking bunks & clothing.
Brilliant painful boils had started to form on salt soaked skin, then were slowly rubbed raw by the constant violent motion. There was simply no escape, no quiet, dry refuge.
It would have been easier to sleep in the midst of a car crash, than in Hornblowers hull during those days & nights. The shrieking of the wind through the rigging, the crashing about of stores not secured, the bone shaking slam of the hull against the never ending rollers.
Yet sleep we did.
After a grueling two hour watch, two hours of being gripped to a wheel torn this way and that in the sea’s swells. Two hours of being strapped in with crossed life lines simply to be able to stand behind the wheel. Two hours of being smashed in the face every couple minutes by a freezing rouge wave. Your entire being screamed for rest & even though that soaked bunk was the equivalent of dozing on a mechanical bucking bull, doze you did until your watch was again called 4 hours later.
Meals consisted of one cup of morning coffee, a courageous feat of dexterity, the physical equivalent of making love during a train wreck. For lunch, a saltine cracker. For dinner, a saltine cracker...and for a very special moment every couple days...a soggy Oreo.
Another nagging problem had arisen. Out of a crew of three there were two Steve’s & two Church’s.
Steve: “Hey Steve, before this trip I was reading the story of the whale ship Essex, the one that was rammed by a Sperm whale & sunk a hundred years ago.”
Steve: “What happened next Steve?”
“Well Steve, these guys spent the next three months in rowboats, drawing straws on who would be shot next to feed the rest of the crew.”
Steve: “They ate each other Steve?”
“That’s right Steve....hey, what if you were alone out there, could you eat yourself?”
Steve: “I guess you could, carefully...where would you start?..what would be left?”
“Well I imagine nothing but a set of teeth clacking away...Steve.”
In four days we had seen no sign of life but for flying fish. One of which shot past my face like a wet quail.
“Hey Steve,” How would we go bout catching one of these buggers?” I asked
“With a shotgun.” Steve replied.
On day five, through salt encrusted ears, I imagined I’d heard a helicopter & suddenly over the horizon it appeared. The intimidating bright orange chopper flew straight at us & slowly circled while a crewman leaned from the open door video taping Hornblower. We smiled & waved happy to know the U.S. Coast Guard was on hand just in case an emergency might arise.
“SEND RUM!!” We yelled.
An hour later still trying to figure just where the chopper had come from we spotted the sharp white hull of a Coast Guard Cutter bearing down from the horizon. Within minutes the cutter steamed along side, a 50 caliber canon trained on Hornblower.
“PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!” Boomed a loudspeaker.
“I knew I should have paid that parking ticket!” Groaned Captain Tom.
An inflatable Avon with two large outboards was lowered over the side, a dozen men in black repelled into it, & shoved away from the cutter.
The Avon circled Hornblower, still under sail, then came along side the windward bow.
Now, Hornblower has a sugar-scoop transom, in other words a diving platform on the stern that one could step onto in an prom dress without a bit of trouble but a dozen men were now attempting to clamber up Hornblowers bow, 6 feet out of the water & leaping like a bucking bronco; the highest, wettest, wildest part of a sailboat under sail.
“HUT HUT HUT!” They yelled, clinging to the lifeline while clambering in black combat boots along the sailboats glistening sides. Automatic weapons slammed into Hornblowers hull as the boarders clung like wet cats to the thin cable line.
“HEY WATCH THE HULL!!” Yelled my brother who goes ballistic if a seagull lands on his boat.
“DOWN IN BACK!!” Snapped a crew cut officer who had finally gained the heaving deck.
“Now there’s your tax dollar at work.” Mumbled Steve.
With the help of the beefy crew-cut the rest of the boarding party was hauled over the rail onto Hornblowers topside. An ominous looking black fiberglass case was thrown on deck. Two crewman stayed aboard the Avon & motored along side, their ugly black automatics trained on us.
“MY NAME IS SERGEANT JOHNSON! WE WILL BE SEARCHING YOUR BOAT FOR NARCOTICS! “ The crew-cut barked at us. “YOUR PASSPORTS!!”
Only with great restraint I caught myself before something like “Well Sarge your about 20 years to late, the only narcotic on this boat is Geritol,” slipped out.
Sergeant Johnson studied the passports for a moment & barked, “WHO’S CHURCH?”
My brother & I pointed at each other.
“WHO’S STEVE?” He yelled.
“He is!” Kortz & I pointed at each other. “And why are you yelling?”
Captain Tom was herded below with three men in black & the ominous suitcase. Two of them started crawling about on hands & knees peering into every nook of Hornblowers bounding interior. The third opened the black case, retrieved a handful of cotton pads & proceeded to wipe chart tables & countertops. He then labeled & sealed each pad in separate plastic bags, secured them back in the case & handed it topsides. It was then passed to the two crewmen in the Avon & whisked over to the nearby cutter to be apparently tested.
Suddenly the two young crewman that had been poking about below came charging up Hornblowers stairs, white as sheets & sweating profusely they dove for the rail & vigorously blew chow all over Hornblowers white hull.
“HEY!” FOR GOD’S SAKE!! Yelled Captain Tom.
That was all it took. The crazy leaping motion of the sailboat mixed with the sudden stench of regurgitated government chow sent the other half dozen men in black scrambling for the sides. Only Sergeant Johnson now held his composure & his automatic weapon on us.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon fellas!” I offered to another raucous round of hurling.
A radio abruptly crackled on the Sergeant’s heavily laden war belt....”CUTTER TO JOHNSON! TESTS NEGATIVE! I REPEAT! TESTS NEGATIVE! RETURN TO BASE!”
Johnson holstered his weapon, barked at the Avon which slammed back alongside into which the half dozen retching sailors fell. Without a word of explanation or apology they scuttled back through the waves to the cutter, were hoisted aboard & disappeared over the horizon. The three of us sat in silence staring at our trashed sailboat. Below decks drawers were pulled out, soggy clothes, & staples flung about the cabin. The decks & hull of Hornblower were literally covered in black skid-marks from a dozen combat boots. The entire boat was awash in vomit.
Finally the first mate turned to the captain & said:
“Well it’s certainly nice to encounter some fellow Americans out here in the big old world.”
to be continued
Aruba to Cuba: Ghost Ship
Alone on a ghost ship in a world gone crazy I had lost my mind. Gripped to the helm of Hornblower Too, in the pitch black I had somehow, somewhere lost complete touch with reality. It was sometime around midnight I guessed, we were somewhere between Jamaica & Haiti. Both islands couldn’t have been more than 20 miles away, but I could see nothing of them. The lights of Kingston should be dead ahead & visible 100 miles out at night, yet I sailed in a total blackness , no stars, no horizon, no sky or water, only blackness...but wait, there were stars, only below me, not above. The sailboats bow, slicing the black waves, sent meteor showers of phosphorus, their tiny bodies sparkling blue’s & gold’s in our wake. Hornblower rose on 20 foot swells & sank with an eerie motion that only the stomach, not the eye, detected. The only other light visible in my entire universe was the compass’ green glow...and by that glow I steered. 330 degrees north...not knowing if I steered towards the gates of hell itself as the boat leaped & slid, rolled & righted in the total blackness. All normal senses of sight, balance & even sound came to me totally confused
For the past hour I’d heard strange noises drifting in from the inky sea. Women’s voices murmured, babies cried, dogs howled, the waves groaned. Squeaks & moans, yelps & whimper’s floated from the inky water. Yet it couldn’t be...I was in the middle of the freaking ocean!
Perhaps Zombies & ghostly Dumby’s walked the waves from Haiti, that poorest of nation’s, steeped in Voodoo, witchcraft, & starvation. Perhaps they called to me now, to abandon this doomed vessel & join them in their eternal watery wanderings.
Suddenly a low mournful groan announced the arrival of some undersea creature rising behind me in the night . I spun, twisting in the life lines that held me to the wheel. My eyes detected nothing, but every other sense screamed of a cold & lonely presence not yards away from the boats bounding transom. A great sadness gripped my soul, a unearthly chill blew up my spine...I wrenched my eyes forward....and there in the ghostly green glow of the compass stood a 6 foot tall somewhat portly Zombie.
At that point I did what any red blooded sailor would do. I screamed like a schoolgirl.
“AAAAAIIIIEEE!!”
“What the Hells wrong with you!” Said my brother, Captain Tom, who before my eyes somehow transformed from his Zombie state.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!!” I yelled at him. In my mental wanderings of the past hours I had completely forgotten I wasn’t alone on this ship of doom.
“I’m here to relive you, your watch is up.”
“MY WATCH// WHAT WATCH?” I’VE LOST MY MIND AND YOUR WORRIED ABOUT A WATCH??”
“Get hold of yourself you stupid idiot.” said my brother who has a very consoling manner about him. “It’s just dark.”
“IT”S A HELL OF A LOT MORE THAN JUST DARK!!” I Yelled.
“It’s crazy out here.” I now whispered, my eyeballs squid big in the blackness. “Lookit out there, no moon no stars, yet the oceans lit up like a Christmas tree...”
“Phosphorous, little agitated animals...
“Ok then, where’s Jamaica, the GPS says we’re 10 miles away & headed straight for Kingston, a city of 2 frigging million, yet there’s no lights?”
“Fog.” said Tom.
“OK then, Captain Know -it -all, why is that dog barking.”
“What dog?”
“Listen man, I’m hearing all sorts of weird noises & don’t say I’m not....”
“Probably porpoises, they follow boats at night, quack up a storm.”
“OK bro, don’t blame me when the Zombies grab your ass right off of this boat.” I unclipped the lifelines handed over the wheel & crawled on all fours towards the leaping bow.
There I sat, staring into blackness, out of sorts as a man could be without a straight-jacket on. I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly but my mind was exceptionally un-settled.
Perhaps the location, smack dab in the middle of the two most dangerous places on earth. Kingston Jamaica, called the wickedest city on earth from pirate times till present, loomed dead ahead. In this teaming ghetto, fueled on crack & violence three fat white guys on a yacht had the life expectancy of a gnat.
20 miles to the starboard, Haiti, where starvation & chaos ruled. It was rumored among the sailing crowd, that to even sail within sight of the island was to invite disaster. So desperate were the Haitians, they’d paddle out and slit your throat for an Oreo.
However it didn’t seem to be the danger as just the incredible sadness of the place. Even though I could see nothing that gave that impression, the flat out melancholic depression that accompanied the darkness was practically overwhelming.
Perhaps the lamenting of a million struggling souls could create an arora so powerful as to actually be felt by a stranger 20 miles away.
Perhaps my carefree youth had left me one toke over the line.
It could have been the fact we were bounding along at 8 knots in a blackness so thick you couldn’t make out the other end of the boat. If a submerged log, a ships container, a banana boat without lights or a million other bits of flotsam large enough to pierce a third inch of fiberglass waited with our name on it, Hornblower & it’s occupants would be fish food before you could say ‘tread water’.
Either way, on the bounding bow of that ghostly ship in a blackened sea of depression I was as far from reality as I ever hope to be again.
Finally exhausted with simply trying to come to grips with this gloomy feeling I literally crawled to my soaking bunk & passed out.
“STEVE!!! STEVE!!!” Captain Tom was yelling from the cockpit.
“WHAT!” ‘ WHAT?” Steve & I yelled from the cabin. I checked my watch, it was 2;00 in the morning, pitch dark, the sailboats’ cabin leaping about like a carnival ride.
“YOU GOT A FISH ON!” Yelled Tom.
It’s was true, I could now make out the whine of 100 LB test line being stripped away at a tremendous rate of speed. But why now? We had been trolling for 6 days & nights without so much as a nibble, what had hit now, in this foggy sea of weirdness. I didn’t like it.
Kortz was groping past me in the darkness fighting the G forces in that bounding cabin to gain the cockpit.
“Be careful Steve.” I said as he past me. “I don’t like this!”
“It’s a fish, Church...a frigging fish!”
For the next 45 minutes Kortz fought that pole. Strapped to the leaping transom in that howling blackness he reeled & cursed. Whatever battled that line in the inky depths fought like a demon possessed.
“Cut the line, Kortz, I don’t like this.” I offered from the cockpit. “You got a shark or worse, which is now extremely pissed off & is gonna come exploding outa that water & rip your stupid head off any second now.”
“Church, you got a real flair for the dramatic...it’s a fish...dinner...now shut up & go below, quit bugging me.”
I did what I was told, not wanting to have to rescue Kortz from the demonic jaws of some demented denizen of the deep.
In the vaulting blackness I sat waiting for the inevitable bloodcurdling scream that would signify the horrifying demise of one Steve Kortz...mason...father...fisherman...
“I GOT IT!!” Yelled Kortz finally.
“WHAT IS IT?” I yelled from the relative safety of the cabin.
“I DON’T KNOW!!” Yelled Kortz.
“WHAT’S IT LOOK LIKE?” I Yelled, not liking this one bit.
“WELL.... He yelled, “RODNEY DANGERFEILD!!”
I scrambled on deck & peered over the stern. There sat Kortz holding in his arms a 3 1/2 foot fish with huge lips & bulging eyeballs...it looked exactly like... Rodney Dangerfield.
I clambered below & collapsed on the soggy bunk. What could it all mean? A million starving souls, water Zombies, a fish called Rodney...it was all to much. I passed out.
ARUBA TO CUBA : JAMAICA ME CRAZY
I had visited Jamaica before. 10 years ago as a matter of fact and I swore then I would never go back. I had never been in a place, where the locals tortured you more.
I awoke each morning in Negril beach to a wonderful old Jamaican Mama who insisted on you trying her banana bread, then demanding about 10 times it’s worth. I’d fetch the rental car from it’s locked enclosure to find the battery gone,or the distributor, or the front wheels. Each time the night watch man would ‘just hoppen to know’ where I might buy a battery or wheels or distributor to fit that car. Then my days were filled with battling crack salesmen, ganja salesmen, mushroom salesmen & pimps. Not taking no for an answer, great verbal abuse was hurled in both directions. It seemed Jamaican’s would not give you the time of day without demanding a sizable tip...
Well now let’s not be harsh. Jamaica is an incredibly lush & beautiful place, it’s people animated, witty & fun, but about 10 percent, the percentage unfortunately a tourist comes in contact with are aggressive butt-heads. Who needs to vacation in a battlefield I finnally conseeded & left early.
Now we were back.
Hornblower Too rode 100 yards off Jamaica’s eastern shoreline bound for Port Antonio by dark. In the golden sunset the island was stunning. From the foaming breakers exploding into irridescant showers on her rocky cliffs, to the rows of neatly planted coconut palm plantations, up into the fervent green tangle of Jamaican jungles the entire place bathed in a soft magical chroliform colored light. On it continued, up the steep hillsides shrouded in swirling mists the aptly named Blue Mountains appeared and disappeared again as if in some drug induced dream they floated in and above the golden clouds. If a pterodactyl had swooped from the peaks or Puff the Magic Dragon waved from the shore it would not have suprized me one bit.
Occasionally a brilliant white Roman style mansion stood stately & proud surrounded by blooming Jacarandas & Flamboyant trees. The gentle off shore breeze carried with it the scent of cinnamon & nutmeg, mango & papaya. Proud frigate birds & gulls rode the updrafts, dolphins frolicked about our wake, smiling fisherman in rasta colored panga’s waved as their sleek bows sliced the waves. If ever there was a paradise Jamaica looked to be it.
Into the snug harbor of Port Antonio we coasted just at dusk, dropping the sails for the first time in a week, shaking the salt from the stiff fabric. Naked children ran along the shore smiling & waving as we glided to a stop in the smooth water of the tiny bay.
We dropped the hook & sat in stunned silence starring at our surroundings. For Seven days & nights our senses had been absolutely pummeled. For seven days & nights we had eaten nothing but saltines, heard nothing but the shrieking wind, seen nothing but water, smelled nothing but salt, felt nothing but constant violent motion. Our entire being, mental & physical sat vibrating from the experiance.
To us now drifted the sites, sounds & smells of Jamaica. Surrounding the quiet little bay a small ramshackle wooden town peered from the engulfing jungle. Smoke from cooking fires rose to join the swirling mists that shrouded the towering Blue Mountains. Rap music...dogs barked...a truck backfired...laughter floated across the still water. Then the smells. Sewage, fruit, jerk chicken being bbq’d, damp earth, rot...fresh bread ..death...life
It looked, smelled & sounded like Africa.
A small panga, ‘Hunter’ written on it’s peeling hull cut a gentle wake towards us. The driver cut the engine, coasted up to Hornblower & stood smiling.
From a stretched torn T-shirt hung two of the most massive arms I had ever seen.
“Welcome to Jamaica.” he said quietly, “My name is the Hulk, what can I get you?”
“Well Hulk,” we whispered, afraid to break the magic of the place, “We would like one very large Jamaican cigar, & 6...no make it 12 ice cold Red Stripe beers.’
“No Problem Mon,” Smiled the Hulk, & was gone.
“I like it.” whispered the Captain into the sultry dusk...which pretty much summed it up.
Our first steps on shore that night were to be into a sagging waterfrount establishment optimisticly called the ‘Marina’. We crawled from the dingy onto a cement peir that bucked and heaved below our feet. Staggaring across a leaping, bounding dance floor we gained the bar.
“Ja Mon.’ Smiled ‘Elvis’ the bar keeper.”Got dem sea legs?”
“Sea legs for sure Elvis, we’ve been a week at sea from Aruba and I’m telling you this place is leaping about like a beached mackeral.’
It was true the entire building looked to be swaying & leaping 10 feet in the air. It was all you could do to stay on the bar-stool.
“TICKIN!” Yelled Elvis “GET DEM BOYS SOM EATS!”
A hefty grinning teenager waddled to the kitchen.
“Tickin?” I asked.
“Ja Mon”, said Elvis “As a ute im tick, den e get ticker, now im ticken right up...we calls im tickin.”
“As a kid he was fat.” translated a well pressed local dripping in gold. “ Names’ Steve & I’m here to get you whatever you need....ganja... mushrooms”... Steve joined us.
Well Steve, I’m Steve, this here’s Steve, & this is my brother Tom, & what I really want, I mean after dinner, and all is a big fat piece of Key Lime Pie.”
“No mon, I mean Ja want some coke...mabey a girlfriend?’
“Key Lime Pie, Steve...that’s all I want.
He looked dejected.
We were served a small grilled fish, some rice & beans ....after a week of crackers it was’nt enough...I wanted that pie.
“Hey Steve, can three white boys go downtown at this hour & not get killed? Mabey get some pie?”
He looked at me like I was crazy.
“Ja mon, you could go....but you gotta watch out for two guys...Water Rat & Black Boy.”
“How we gonna know these guys?” I asked.
“Water Rat look like a Klingon, ya know...Star Wars...Black Boy him a bit harder to spot.”
“I’ll bet.” said my brother.
“Lookit,” said Steve “Mabeys how I outa go witch ya.”
So three Steve’s & a Tom headed for town.
A dark and cratered dirt street led into Port Antonio, lined by open sewer ditchs,& dead dogs. Collapsing wooden shacks held back an aggresive overtaking jungle. Boom boxes blasted rap music as ragged locals peered from blackened doorways.
“HEY STEVE” They’d yell at our passing “JA WALKIN DE DOGS?”
“I WALKIN DE STEVE’S” He yell back. “DIS ME BROTHERS STEVE & STEVE”
“ HOW COME DE DONT LOOK LIKE YOU?!”
We came to what apparently once had been the town square. The one remaining street light cast a garish glow on what appered to be every rastafarian drug dealer, drunk, beggar, crack addict, murderer, thief, pimp, prostitute & stray dog in Jamica.
And they all were now staring at what obviouslly was the only white tourits that had stumbled into Port Antonio at midnight in a very long time.
“We’re dead.” smiled my brother to the crowd.
“Oh Oh, said Steve “Here come WaterRat.”
He did indeed look like a Kling-on with a hair do that appeared his brain was inside out. He was well weighted in gold chains & braclets & smiled at us like a starving man might smile at a T-bone.
“Wecome to Jamaica my brudders. My name da Water-Rat, & I’m your mon.”
‘What you need now? Ganja? Buds?”
“No thanks... Mister ...ahh ..Rat? ...or Water..?”
“Water-Rat Mon, den how bout mushrooms..”
“Naw”
“Coke?” you boys like blow?”
“No thanks.”
“Crack? Rock? Base?”
‘Nope no, no, no.”
“Smack, Crank, XTC?”
“ Naw”
‘Well den, how bout a grlfriend” He spun around & yelled into an black alley. “NINJA!! COME WOMAN!”
Into that florescent light stepped Ninja...mounted on a pair of 6 inch red plastic boots she looked to be about 7 foot tall. Jammed into zebra stripped spandex with a bright red Ronald Mcdonald wig topping her off. Irridescant blue eyeshadow reflected the streetlight in a frightfull manor, & when she smiled what appeared to be gold teeth filed into points shone in the dark.
“NNNNUUUGG!”
Three Steves & a Tom grabbed each other lest she went for one of us.
“Ya Know what WaterRat, my wife told me no Hookers...I don’t know what her problem is”
“Oh Man.” He was crushed. “Well den what the hell you want den?” He was at the end of his merchindizing rope. I felt sorry for him.
“This is what I want Water Rat...A big fat piece of Key Lime Pie...Got pie?”
Aruba To Cuba: Jamacia Me Crazy
Swashsbuckling star of the silver screen during the 40s & 50s Errol Flynn was every kids hero. In the height of his career he had told Hollywood to kiss off & simply sailed away, disappearing into the tropical sunset, his real life mirroring his 50 some odd movies. Port Antonio Jamaica is where he ended up.
Hornblower Too now lay at anchor 100 yards off a beautiful tropical isle called Navy Island, Errol Flynns one-time home & tiny slice of heaven.
We woke early one morning headed over to Navy island, to see for ourselves if Mr. Flynn’s ghost still walked the place as the locals claimed. If there ever was a paradise this 64 acre island was it. Huge royal palms laying down gentle shadows where sweet smelling Hibiscus stroked the off shore breezes. On the windward side rugged cliffs bravely faced the foaming breakers, in the quiet lee of the island lay white sand beaches where long dead starlets frolicked. Flynn’s house itself, striped of anything of value by the locals, sits deserted, staring out to sea, as if wishing her master would return, longing for the good old days. Creeping vines invaded the living room where once the rich & famous of a bygone era toasted their success’s. A moldy elegance permeated the scene.
The island has since been sold to a Frenchman who in turn is in the process of selling to an American investor who plans a resort. The American paid 6 million for Navy Island.
We returned to the mainland, my brother off to clear customs, [a 2-3 day ordeal in Jamaica] myself to find out more of Errol Flynns life in this mysterious tropical port.
Ja know mon, his wife Patrice still live here.” Said Pepperseed the first cabbie I’d hailed.
“Your kidding!!” I couldn’t believe it. “She must be 110.
No mon she still spry, she run her own little shop”
“Take me there.”
And there Inside a stylish Island boutique fussing with a price tag was Patrice Wymore, film star, wife of Errol Flynn & still a looker. I didn’t know what to say.
“Can I chew your ear for a bit Mrs. Flynn.” I blurted.
“That would be lovely my boy, been years since someone chewed on my ear.”
‘It’s been years since someone called me boy.’
“Age has it’s privileges....I’m 76....not 110 by the way.”
I shuffled my feet. “I just wanted to tell you mam that I spent a year in the Virgin islands a while back rebuilding Sirocco.”
“Errols boat Sirocco?
“That’s right mam Sirocco, the most beautiful little schooner I’ve ever seen....when we launched her the entire island turned out.”
“Errol loved that boat, that’s how he got here you know.”
“Yes mam, ran into a storm, got blown into Kingston, rented a motorcycle, found this place.” Or so Pepperseed had told me.
“Stole it.” Said Mrs. Flynn.
“Excuse me?”
“He probably stole the motorcycle” She said. “Would you care for a rum & coke Mr.???.”
“Church.” I blurted. I have never refused a drink from anyone, I wasn’t going to start with Mrs. Errol Flynn.
“I’ve seen a couple of your films Mrs. Flynn”.
“Call me Patrice for Gods sake...everybody does...”
“Oceans eleven....with Frank Sinatra.” I recalled.
“Pretty heady stuff for a girl from Kansas...Frank Sinatra....But you came to talk about Errol, right?” She handed me the drink motioned to chair & lit a cigarette.
“I was out on Navy Island this morning“ I confessed. “Poking around the old house...must have been some good times out there.”
“You know he won that island in a poker game....good times, you have no idea, the likes of Noel Coward, Tyrone Power, JP Morgan....
“My fathers co -pilot in WWII was Tyrone Power.” I told her. “They flew together for six years, became good buddies, in fact my Dad moved in with Tyrone in Hollywood after the war. Spent in six months what he’d saved in six years in the Marines.”
‘Tyrone was a great guy.” Patrice took a deep drag, staring out to sea. “A real gentleman.”
“Was Errol Flynn the swashbuckler I’d like to believe he was?” I heard stories of Flynns appetites already in Pt. Antonio. Tales of him swilling straight rum & raw dolphin on the docks first thing in the morning. Tales of nights on the town, 4 & 5 starlets on his arm, parties that went for days, putting a crocodile in the Montego Bay Hotel pool...
“Oh yes he was a character...told Jack Warner, the most powerful man in Hollywood, to take a hike & sailed away in the prime of his career....a man’s man I suppose. ..did just what he wanted. He brought me here in 1950 you know...we had a lovely life, he was so much fun, sailing, rafting, parting, ranching, raising the kids.” she looked sweetly distant.
The Flynns had a daughter, Arnella, a beautiful girl that had made her own name modeling. Over-dosed on cocaine and died in Jamaica three years ago. Three other kids remain scattered about the globe.
“You know he did all his own stunts?’ she smiled. “ he was quite athletic.”
“I’d heard that he drove a Cadilac into the Titchfield Hotel pool, never even put out his cigar....was it his caddy?’
“Heavens no.” she smiled. “Belonged to Randolf Hearst.”
“Are you still ranching?” She and Errol owned Errol Flynn Estates, raised cattle, Jamaican Reds, a breed she had won numerous prizes for.
“Oh yes, it’s my passion..
Errol Flynn, married Patrice Wymore, because she could, “cook a mean curry, dance the salsa, & maintained a quiet private elegance, she also knew a leopard couldn’t change it’s spots, & allowed Flynn his carousing wicked ways. He died of a heart attack in 1959 at 50 years old.
“I still miss the bastard.” she murmered as we clinked glasses & I thanked her for her time.
First mate Kortz & I thought that rafting Jamaica’s Rio Grand river might be a relaxing way to shoot the day as the Captain continued to do battle with customs.
Pepperseed drove us high into Jamaica’s lush Blue Mountains & deposited us on the shores of the muddy Rio Grand agreeing to meet us 4 hours later at the take out.
A ramshackle collection of bamboo huts made up the rafting company’s headquarters, where we were immediately set upon by 30 rastafarian salesmen.
“$40.oo apiece seems a bit steep for a raft ticket...no thanks no ganga, no I don’t want to buy a carving of Bob Marleys head, yes we will need a small spliff, not a lb, no mushrooms, no crack thanks, no I’m not gonna need any heroin for this trip...yes a couple beers would be good...no thanks we don’t need our hair braided, no I don’t want any crack, yes a couple pieces of chicken would be good, What? I owe you $5.oo for the chicken, & $5.oo for handing me the chicken?...I think not...no thanks I don’t want to buy a straw hat, NO I DON’T WANT ANY CRACK!!”
We finally gained the shore battling salesmen the entire way. There, 30 classic bamboo rafts were pulled ashore. 16 feet long, lashed together to be about 4 feet wide, the 6 inch round bamboo poles made a sleek buoyant craft. A kind of 2 person bench sat to the stern, complete with storage bin & cup holders...all from bamboo. A local fellow poled, standing barefoot in the front half.
Amid the total chaos we were seated, handed the lunch of chicken, beer & spliff, where- upon a small fortune exchanged hands, introduced to our guide, & shoved into the swift current.
Within seconds I made the first mistake.
“Hey Jason...or was it Jackson...?”
Our guide for this next relaxing 3 hour trip spun around marched back to the bench & with his graying beard 6 inches from my face yelled:
“MY NAME IS JASPER ROBINSON! I AM A JAMAICAN! MY GREAT GREAT GREAT GREAT GRANDFATHER WAS FORCED TO CUT SUGAR CANE FOR YOUR PEOPLE...CAN I HAVE ONE OF THOSE BEERS PLEASE?”
Great...both Kortz and I had worked in the Caribbean in our past. Not sitting on the verandah with a bullwhip & a Mint Julep, but he stacking rocks, me slamming bulkheads into steaming hot hulls....we both had grown to hate that attitude towards us.
“Ya know what Jasper ? Believe it or not Steve here, & I are not the ones responsible for Slavery, or for any other tragic historical event...yes you can have a beer. If you might recall, the blacks sold the blacks into slavery...one Tippu Tib, a black king...sold more black folks into slavery than all the white men combined...”
“I DON’T CARE BOUT THAT!!” He yelled coming at us again.
Kortz & I instinctively pushed back...the backrest of the bench gave way, we fell flat on our backs on the partially submerged poles.
“LOOK WHAT YOU DONE TO MY RAFT!!” He Screamed & poled to shore. Where-upon a huge Jamaican appeared from the jungle with a rock in his hand. He lifted the seat back, produced a nail from his pocket & beat it in with the rock. He then stood back & glared at us.
“Pay the man.” said Jasper.
“I’m not paying him...for Gods sake this is your boat you pay him...it’s called matinence.”
Jasper growled something to the giant & we shoved off again.
Around the next corner two young lads stood strumming a guitar, beating a log & howling what apparently was a song. Jasper poled over next to them.
“Pay dem...de singin fo you.”
“I’M NOT PAYING THEM!!” I DIDN’T EVEN ASK FOR A SONG.”
“He grumbled something to the boys & we pushed off again.
And so it went around every corner sat a girl with a fried chicken, a guy with an ice chest, a guy with a baggy, two guys selling bamboo whistles, an old woman with bamboo coffee cups. At each corner we pulled in, were tortured & pushed back out, all amid Jaspers constant raving about having to pole our two fat white ass’ for the miserable Yankee dollar.
He had actually not lifted the pole twice but had stood directly in our faces, consuming beer after beer, all the chicken, all the smokes, till we were forced to restock every couple miles.
This wasn’t a raft trip..this was the fleecing of America.
The Rio Grande finally emptied us into the ocean at dusk. Along the beach lay another 50 rafts & Pepperseed the cabby looking at his watch.
Jasper poled our raft ashore, shook our hands, telling us what a wonderful time we had all had & demanded a 10.oo tip.
“I’M NOT TIPPING YOU A DIME!” Said Kortz. “You charged us $40.oo drank $25.oo worth of beer, ate all the food & screamed at us all the way down the river.’
We marched off to the cab, a cloud of obscenities erupted from Jasper.
“Howdy Pepperseed.” we leaped into the back seat. Pepperseed continue to lean on the hood. “You boys late.” He said. “Gonna have to charge you an extra $20.oo.
ARUBA TO CUBA: A Brief History
Fiveteen days after Columbus discovered America, the Bahamas actually, he spotted Cuba, named it ‘Juana’ and declared it the most beautiful land human eyes had ever seen.”
In 1515 Diego Velazquez established seven seetlements on the island and ‘in behalf of the Spanish Crown, proceeded in wiping out the local inhabitants, about a 100,000 peaceful Taino Indians. The last chief captured, a fellow named Hatuey, was condemned and led off to be burned at the stake, but not before a Franciscan monk tried to baptize him. Hatuey politly refused declaring that he never wanted to see another Spaniard, not even in heaven.
The Taino were able to exact a small revenge before being slaughtered, by infecting the Spaniards with syphilis with which they returned to Europe.
The Spanish then suddenly realized they had wiped out the entire labor force of the island, & in 1522 began importing African slaves to replace the Indians. Unlike slaves in America though, Cuban slaves were kept togeather in tribal groups, thus retaining certain elements of their African culture, resulting in the foundations of todays Cuban religions & music.
As the Spanish continued to pillage Mexico & South America, Cuba became the holding area resulting in massive fortress’ being constructed around almost every Cuban port.
In 1762 the British captured Havanas El Morro Castle by seaking up behind it...ingenious really seenings how all the guns pointed out to sea. The British held Cuba for a year then traded it back to Spain for Florida. The British also opened up trade during their year long reign & soon Cuba was Americas chief scorce of sugar, leather & tobbaco.
By 1825 Mexico & South America had won thier independance from Spain, their Great Liberator Simon Bolivar, on a roll, wanted to liberate Cuba as well but was stopped by the U.S. who feared that independance would lead to a slave revolt & threaten the U.S. supply of sugar & tobacco. By 1848 the U.S. was Cubas largest trading partner so we attempted to buy Cuba from Spain for $100 million, or roughly the price of a weeks grocerys from Clarks Market. Spain refused. We offered 130 million...they refused.
For the next 30 years wars of independance flared in Cuba. Hundreds of thousands were killed,the countryside ravaged...but Spain held it’s grasp on the island.
Still upset over Spains refusal to sell & fueled by William Randolph Hearst’s inaccurate & sensational accounts of Spanish atrocities, the US was ready to free Cuba...or Cuba Libre.
In January of 1898 the US Battleship ‘Maine’ was sent to Havana to ‘protect US citizens.’
On Feb 15th the Maine mysteriously blew up, killing 266 US sailors. The Spanish claimed it was an accident in the ships ammunition store. The Americans claimed it was a Spanish mine. The Cubans claimed the Americans did it themselves, as all the officers were on shore that night, & within a short time the Maine was towed to sea & sunk for good, so no one ever knew for sure what caused it. Eithor way all hell broke loose. The American people wanted war, but Presidant McKinley chose to resolve the matter peacefully and offered Spain $300 million for the island....Spain refused.
That did it. We declared war on Spain. Now, Spain knew they were going to get their butts kicked but to preserve machoism back home they sent 700 soldiers to defend a place called San Juan Hill. Led by future president Teddy Roosevelt, he & his 6000 ‘rough riders’ charged the hill. 223 Americans were killed, 1243 were wounded, & 79 turned up missing. 100 spanish were killed.
Had the Spanish not withdrawn, Roosevelt & his Rough Riders may well have been wiped out that day. The Spanish retreated to their fleet of wooden ships which promptly caught fire & killed most of their retreating army. Spain surrendered to America & the Cuban rebels. It was then that the US discovered the rebel leader Calixto Garcia, was actually a black man, to which they refused to turn Cuba over to the Cubans but instead made it a ‘US Military Occupation’.
I might add that at this point we were going to annex Cuba, which would have made it another Puerto Rico, or Guam...but due to the amendment of a Colorado senator by the name of Henry Teller, so impresed with the Cuban peoples self detirmination, that we passed the Teller Resolution and left Cuba on it’s own.
For the next 30 years we installed ‘Goveners’, intervened in elections, bought up 2/3’s of Cuba’s farmland & mines & leased Guantanamo Bay for 99 years. With the advent of proabition in the US from 1919 to 1933 we turned Cuba into our own mecca of gamboling, prostitution, & booze.
In 1940 Fulgencio Batista was elected president guaranteeing democratic rights & free elections to the Cuban people. The problem was for the next 19 years no one ever won an election against Batista. The two that did were esentually puppets, the others simply disappeared. One of the loser’s in the 1952 election for the House of Represenitives, was a charismatic young lawyer named Fidel Castro.
On July 26 1953 Castro led 119 rebles on a dramatic attack of one of Batistas army barracks. The attack failed, Castro escaped but half his small army was tortured to death.
Castro was captured a few weeks later, sentanced to 15 years in prison then released 3 years later on a campaine promise of Batistas. Fidel then was exciled to Mexico where he & his buddy an Argentine doctor named ‘Che’ Guevara formed a force of 80 comandos & snuck back into Cuba. Hiding in the Mountains of Sierra Maestra, Fidel was interviewed by an American journalist Herbert L. Matthews. Portrayed as romantic heroes Castro won a following in Cuba & the U.S.
For the next 3 years Castro & his growing band of rebels battled Batistas troops and on January 5th 1959 Batista escaped to Spain with 40 million & lived out a comfortable life.
Castro was named prime minister and the first thing he did was lower electric rates, rents, and abolish racial discrimination.
The second thing Castro did was plan a trip to Washington to explain his plans for Cubas future. Then president Eisenhower, who knew very little of Latin affairs immedeatly scedualed a golf trip & left vice -presedent Richard Nixon to deal with this bearded, cigar smoking rebel.
Nixon allowed a one hour meeting with Castro & in that hour managed to change the course of Cuba’s future. He accused Fidel of being a communist,and in cahots with the Russians, all of which Castro had always denied. He refused to listen to Castro’s plan for reform, & immedeatly set in process an anti- Castro subversion.
In one hour Nixon had so enraged the rebel & his entourage they returned to their Washington Hotel room & wrecked it, slaughtering chickens & coating the walls in blood.
Upon his return to Cuba Castro immedeatly nationalized all farms over 400 hectares, or basiclly seized all American land holdings.
The US responded by cutting the sugar guota we imported by 700,000 tons.
Cuba responded by seizing all American electric,telephone,& sugar companies.
The Americans responded by implementing a trade embargo on all imported goods.
Castro then seized all American buisness’ & banks along with the money in them. About this time anyone with an education or a position left Cuba. Half of Cuba’s 6000 Doctors fled to America. Castro then nationalised all free enterprize, and anything eles of value.
The Russions at this time offered Castro new doctors, & offered to buy up all Cuba’s excess sugar. With this new Russian threat 90 miles from US soil Presedant Kennedy decided it was time to get rid of Castro, & gave the CIA a 13 million dollar budget to do so.
The CIA offered the US Mafia 150.000 to bump off Fidel. They could’nt find anyone to take the risk. They then planted an exploding cigar, & somehow put a powder in Fidels shoes that was to make his hair & beard fall out. Both schemes failed.
The CIA then trained 1400 Cuban emigres to attack Cuba & with the US Navy covering them they charged ashore in the Bay Of Pigs invasion. Kennedy for some reason canceled US air cover for the men and 200 were killed and 1200 captured. Cuba then ‘ransomed’ back the 1200 men to the US for $53 million. A total fiasco for the US.
In April of 1962 Khrushchev decided to install long range missiles in Cuba as a barganing chip in the Cold War. Kennedy ordered the US Navy to intercept the missile laden ships in international water, which brought the world to the brink of an all out nuclear war.
Only after receiving assurances from Kennedy that the US would never invade Cuba, Khrushchev pulled back the missiles. It was at this point both Kennedy and Khrushchev realized how close they had come to destroying the world, and within a year they both signed a nuclear treaty banning more testing.
Because Fidel remains loyal to communism, in 1992 we passed the Torricelli Act banning
all trade with Cuba...a move that cost’s the US 2 billion a year and Cuba 5 billion.
Today in Cuba all free interprize is banned, all buisness being owned by the state. Any house or building of any value is owned by the state, all farms, cars, boats, planes.Most Cuban people own nothing but the cloths on their back. The Cubans in turn work for the state, making about US 10- 20 dollars per month. All health care, education, news networks, utilities, & food are provided by the state. The problem is, with the US embargo & Castros struggling economy there is no news, few utilities, no medicine, no work, no food...& they can never leave.
Welcome to Cuba.
ROAD TRIP
If we don’t change direction soon we’ll end up where we’re going.
Jerry Garcia
In my ignorant & carefree youth, until I was 45 or so, when someone yelled “ROAD TRIP!” you simply got off the couch, grabbed a small but powerful bag of assorted mind altering substances, a sleeping bag and headed out the door. You’d stop for enough beer to float a fraturnity, perhaps fill up on gas, perhaps not, & hit the road. The entire process took maybe 6 minutes. Any longer & you’d lose intrest or some substance would kick in and you’d be hopelessly distracted, ending up back on the couch.
These trips are allways the best. If you care to go somewhere, best to just get up & go. See, a road trip can get easily mired in planning. If the afore mentioned trip preparation dragged into say 12 minutes...the entire expedition could be thrown asunder. Someone will invaribly bring up something like...”Mabey we should take some food?” or “I’ve been there, the place sucked.” In moments the entire voyge into the unknown could be altered. Whether a place sucks should be left entirely up to the beholder..& if the beholder has consumed a different combination of aforementioned substances than the previous visitor then he may well find the place dosent’ suck at all. Therefore it is very important never to listen to fellow travelers or travel writers, such as myself.
So now, you have your baggy & you have your sleeping bag... you’ll need a vehicle. Generally the best vehicle for this type of spontaneous venture involving small but powerful baggies & massive quantities of beer, is someone else’s. The older the better, the more powerful & bigger the better. I have found for instance, for long range, high speed cruising through Mexico my car of choice would be a 64 Ford Galaxy. This 4 ton beast comes with 450 horsepower & seats wide enough to sleep a half dozen of your hairiest friends. Parts for the Galaxy can be found in every tin shack south of the border. Of course a big plus is that you’ll fit right in with the Ford Galaxy whereas say the Chevrolet Corvette will attract a bit more attention & suffer a much shorter life span.
And you can always walk away from the Galaxy, say it were involved in an altercation with a herd of burros or a high speed police chase.
For driving Africa I recommend a very late model Land Rover. Not the Yuppified leather seated power window modern version but one built post WWII with no windows or seats.
These beasts have the aerodynamics of a shoebox, a 4 cylinder tractor motor that can be changed out in about an hour & a top speed of about 30. They will run on diesel fuel, palm oil, kerosene, lamp oil, whisky, or even gas if you can get it. Having no suspension the early Land Rover will have shaken off every spare part leaving only the absolute basics needed for motorized travel. A motor & 4 wheels.
In Europe rent a 900 cc Ducati. You’ll probably be killed on it, but you’ll look good which is everything in Europe.
South America...taxi. They know where their going.
North America...rental car...they go anywhere with full coverage & it’s important to blend in here also.
Antartica-snowmobile, Sahara-Camel, ocean-boat....but I’m rambling.
So now, you have the vehicle, the baggy, the sleeping bag & the beer, only one other thing needed for a successful Road Trip. A destination.
Let’s say Moab...Utah...the White Rim Trail to Dead Horse Point. A hundred & twenty mile dirt track through the most pschyadelic landscape on this planet.
When I first started going to Moab in the late sixties, we were refused service for our hairball, wild-eyed appearance, by the God-faring Mormon sheepherders that called Moab home. Now I can’t get served there by the hair-ball wild-eyed locals cause I look to straight.
We used to drive the White Rim Trail, (a three day trip if you don’t get confused) with nothing more than a small baggy, 10 cases of beer and maybe a tube of toothpaste for nourishment. You would never see anyone...for sure...human that is...I think...
Now, the White Rim Trail must be booked months in advance, you must go through a Forest Service orientation that instructs you on the proper way to walk in the dirt & crap in the desert. You can’t bring your dog. You cant throw cat’s or beer cans from the cliffs. You can’t burn the vegetation, you can’t shoot at the wildlife or set off powerful fireworks. You must camp in your designated campsite & maintain a steady speed or risk getting run down by fifty tourists on a mountain bike tour or it’s half dozen support vehicles.
The White Rim Trail, once a place where a young degenerate could let down his hair without being scolded, has become the proverbial walk in the park.
I needed a new ‘Road Trip Destination’.
Enter Tony Huegel’s Utah Byways page 172. The Smoky Mountain Road. In Tony’s own words. “This road traverses one of the most remote regions in the lower 48. This red & yellow desert called the Warm Creek Badlands is forbidding, harsh and extremely barren, yet it’s stark beauty is overwhelming.” Tony goes on “Never mind the burning underground coal deposits of the Smoky Mountains, this hundred & twenty miles of dirt track will take you farther away from any civilization as you can get.”
“THAT’S IT!” I exclaimed to my leery family. “We have our destination...ROAD TRIP!!!”
To be...or not to be... continued
ROAD TRIP: Then and Now
Having children is like having a bowling alley installed in your head.
Martin Mull
In last weeks politically incorrect article, we discussed the speed, simplicity, & debauchery of a single persons ‘Road Trip.’ This week let us cover the family ‘Road Trip.’
Our story opens in Wal-Mart, as most family vacations do. The theme of this years vacation was ‘no money so let’s go camping in Utah,’ so it came as some surprise to see my wife staggering from children’s clothing dept. under the weight of $1500.oo worth of pint sized summer dress’s.
“Might I remind you we’re going camping?” I suggested. “As in living in the dirt cause we have no money, why do we need Shirley Temples wardrobe, camping?’
“Little A has no clothes.” Answered my wife, which is not exactly true. We just had to build a new house to accommodate Little A’s wardrobe. The child has racks of dress’s never worn as she outgrew them before we got home with them.
Now mind you this was not the first Wal-Mart spending spree in anticipation of two or three nights in the Utah desert. For what I had already spent on camping supplies we could have flown the Concorde to Monte Carlo for a week of manicures & gambling.
We had now accumulated a double-wide sleeping bag, easy to assemble tent, camping grill, complete camping cookware, water purifier, water tanks, portable shower, 2000 diapers, plastic dinner ware, maps, guide books on reptiles, bugs, stars, & best western motels. There were folding chairs, inflatable air bed, & pump. Two giant ice chests, filled with tiny juices. Knives, machetes, slingshots, two cases of sunblock, two cases of wet wipes, stereo with a dozen Raffi tapes, backpacks, strollers, 3 dozen hats, 15 sunglasses, night vision goggles, binoculars, flashlights, $150.oo of batteries, pillows, bug spray.
We could have rebuilt Afghanistan.
There were three mountain bikes, one burley, four fishing poles, five suitcases of ‘camp cloths’ and now $1500.oo of tiny summer dresses. I’d had to buy a new truck to carry it all.
Buy all estimations camping in Utah would run about $12,000.oo per night.
It was a cold and miserable Sunday morning, after weeks of expensive preparation, we departed Crested Butte. With the family accompanying Raffi we headed south...
“Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea, swims so...
“CHRISTO Quit kicking me!!” Get your feet off my new seat’s!!WHAT”S THAT SMELL?? “LITTLE A THREW UP!! GROSS!! DAD YOU’D BETTER STOP!!!.
We had made it to Almont.
“Hey Dad, why can cows fur be both black and white?”
“Ahhhh...”
“Hey Dad, where do diamonds come from?” “Why is the sea salty?” “What is air?”
“Wellll, ahhhhh...
“BABY BELUGA IN THE DEEP BLUE SEA!”
“OH GROSS!!!LITTLE A THREW UP AGAIN!! HER DIAPER STINKS!! WILL JUICE COME OFF LEATHER SEATS?? I GOTTA GO TO THE BATHROOM!!”
We had made it to Montrose.
“Hey Dad, where does all the rubber go that wears off tires...Why does the Chinese alphabet have more letters, why do they call them ‘Horny Toads?”
BABY BELUGA IN THE DEEP BLUE....
“Let’s go to Moab, there’s great camping around there...” offered my wife.
“Fight a bunch of granola eating pedal heads for 5 feet of trampled dust? No way! We are taking the road less traveled, we’re explorers, we’re fully equipped to drive to the Moon & by golly that’s where we’re going. The most remote road in America..the Smoky Mountain Road!!. Moab HAH!! Why I used to go to Moab when everyone there wore canvas underwear, had ten wives & herded sheep for a living. Now it’s all spandex & smoothes!”
Off Utah highway 191 the sign said Canyonlands National Park 30 miles...Gas available.
“Perfect!” said I. “Save us driving clear to Blanding.”
20 feet from the entrance of Canyonland National Park a wood sided mobile home squats. Camping $17.oo per night, a sign reads. Gas $2.75 per gallon.
I pump in $20.oo worth. The gauge never moves. My family descends on the place, begging me for a milkshake...a scorpion in plastic, a candy bar.
Milkshake $7.oo says a sign. Cheeseburger $9.50. Scorpion in plastic $10.oo.
Irate at paying a kings ransom for the gas I mention to the bearded proprietor that I had only one other time seen a milkshake priced at $7.oo....St. Barths...the Caribbean.
“Go to St. Barths & get one then.”
“Well maybe I will...at least their nice about it ...and they’re FRIGGING FRENCH!”
“Well why don’t you go hang with your skinny frog friends & LEAVE US ALONE!!”
“MAYBE I WOULD IF I COULD AFFORD THE GAS TO GET OUTA THIS STINKING DESERT!!”
“Come children, your father’s about to be shot.” My wife steered the kids toward the door.
“Can we watch? Can we watch?”
We entered Canyonlands National Park.
“Good afternoon folks, day pass or camping?” Inquired an immaculate female ranger.
“We’d like a campsite.” smiled my wife as I was still to irate to talk.
“I’m sorry, all our campsites are full...but there’s a fellow back by the entrance that rents campsites for $17.oo per night.”
Two days later we’re racing across a landscape that could be Egypt or Mars in a howling sandstorm. Great dust clouds of red sand smash into my new truck pitting the windshield & stripping the paint. I’m cursing and whining each time another tumbleweed explodes on the shiny grill.
BABY BELUGA IN THE...
“TURN THAT THING OFF!” I scream over the shrieking wind & engine.
“Well maybe if you’d slow down”...suggests my wife.
“My dear.” I growl through clenched teeth. “As I have explained before, I am racing across this howling wasteland to get to Halls Crossing by 4:00. At 4:00 the last ferry departs for Bullfrog. I am racing because we do not want to miss that ferry.”
“Why?” She asks. “What’s in Halls Crossing?”
“NOTHING!! THAT’S THE POINT!!!
At precisely 5 minutes to 4:00 we screech to a halt on the ferry ramp at Halls crossing. A rental car with graying occupants waits ahead of us.
We wait....watching the howling winds whip foam from the whitecaps on Lake Powell.
We wait...listening to the screaming sand strip paint from the Chevy.
Finally a white pick-up, Lake Powell logo on the door pulls along side, cracks the window & yells over the storm.
“NO FERRY TODAY! TO WINDY!!” Screams the hefty Indian driver.
For those of you not familiar with Halls Crossing let me describe the place. There are no hotels, no restaurants, no trees, no grass. It is 120 in the summer and 20 below in the winter. There is a ferry ramp, a tiny store and a shabby trailer park in a rocky wasteland.
Into the store we now fought our way against the wind. The toothless proprietor grinned a gummy smile. “Howdy Folks, blustery aint it?”
“How far is the nearest motel” I asked, fully aware that setting up a nylon tent in a 75 mile per hour wind would be akin to shoving an angle worm up a wildcats...well you get the picture.
“Blanding...hundred & twenty miles back...but I’ll rent ya a trailer thar for 200.oo bucks.
“WHAT!!” WHAT IS IT WITH YOU UTAHIANS, UTAHITES, UTOPIANS!!!”
“Well buddy you jus go ahead & sleep in your truck thar with the little family cause here come more customers & I aint got but one trailer.”
Sleeping in the truck, which now smelled like a mal-functioning waste treatment facility was not an option.
“$150.oo.” I snap as the occupants of the rental car burst through the door in a blast of flying sand.
A middle aged woman, her wind-blown red hair looking like her head had exploded snapped at the gummy store-keeper. “ERE”S THE BLEEDIN LOO?”
“Huh?”
“She’s asking if you have a bathroom, she’s speaking Australian.” I said.
Before the befuddled shop keeper could answer, her huge gray husband blew-up.
“WHA THE ELLS WRONG WIT DAT FERRY? IN MY COUNTRY WHEN THE BLEEDIN BOAT SAYS IT’S GONNA SAIL IT SAILS!!YOU CALL DIS A BLEEDIN WIND??ELL DIS AIN”T NUTTING BUT A BREEZE?NOW ERE DE ELL WE SPOUSED TO STAY!!”
The store owner narrowed his eyes & stared at both of us. You could read his mind.
A foreigner huh....at least the fat guy could speak English.....
He handed me a key
“Don’t know buddy...jus rented these folks the last trailer.”
to be continued
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