NAKED IN BUDAPEST
Travels with a passionate nomad
By Heather Campbell Hapeta
Copyright 2007 Heather Hapeta
Smashwords Edition 2012
This book is available in print from the author at http://www.kiwitravelwriter.com
Cover photo (Bali) by Heather Hapeta
The author has asserted her moral rights in the work
Travel, memoir
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ISBN 978-0-473-20542-3
~~~~
For Richard, Renée, and Gregory (1970-1990)
Having a nomadic bag lady for a mother has not always been easy: thank you for your love.
Special thanks must go to Renée for the hours of work correcting my dyslexic spelling, unusual grammar and strange formatting - any inaccuracies still here are mine alone.
Thanks must also go to the many friends of Bill and Bob who made these journeys possible.
I’m grateful for the financial support from Creative Communities NZ (Christchurch) while working on this project.
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A Sikh, Muslim, & the White House
Most Bombed Country in the World
~~~~
Mabel & I run away
‘If the exploring of foreign lands is not the highest end or the most useful occupation of feminine existence it is at least more improving, as well as more amusing than crochet work’ Mabel Sharman Crawford said in 1863. This feisty woman became my mentor as soon as we met.
We met; well I met her, in a book called Maiden Voyages I bought in Portland, Oregon. By then, I had already run away.
In my late forties, I still didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I just knew I wanted more. Widowed - youngest child dead, two adult children away from home - and a secret desire to ‘do something.’
Friends hitting the brick wall called ‘50’ were not happy about the event. It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming, drummed in my head: on its way ready or not. I needed to change the perception of that fast-approaching milestone that those friends were giving me - that it was the beginning of a downward slide. How could I look forward to this half-century event?
The germ of an idea was conceived. A late developer in some areas, perhaps I could play catch-up with the traditional Kiwi penchant for travel. Apart from six weeks in the USA and four in Australia, my travels had been confined to the length and breadth of New Zealand.
Thwarted at 17 by parents who would not sign the consent form for my passport, I angrily cancelled a booking to sail to Australia. Three years later, married and pregnant, all thoughts of travel flew to the graveyard for stymied dreams. But maybe now, now that my body and the calendar are screaming that time is galloping on, it’s time to travel. That germ of an idea, like all living things, divides and multiplies.
Serious goal setting starts. I confide in friends who support my dreams and ignore the rest who say I am crazy. ‘What about your retirement? What will you live on?’ they ask. ‘Who cares’ I think. I intend to live until I die: I know life is short, the too-early deaths of my younger son Greg and husband Danny have shown me the tenuous hold we have on life.
Defiantly I put a sign on my notice board, AGING DISGRACEFULLY it says. Alongside it a list forms, Italy; Scotland; Ireland; Alaska; Zimbabwe, Turkey. As my bank balance grows, I measure it in chunks: enough for the plane ticket and then in multiples of 50 dollars - each chunk equal to a day’s expense as a frugal backpacker.
What can I live without I wonder as I reduce my home to basics and treasures? Garage sale number one raises enough money for a backpack. The next purchases a fleece and waterproof jacket, while the third buys a sleeping bag and a purple and pink silk sleeping sheet.
Dreaming over the list, countries are added or removed as I devour guides and articles about far-flung places and daily my savings grow. No more Crunchie Bars or ice cream: I’d rather eat a meal in Istanbul I tell myself. Amazingly, instant gratification is learning to take a back seat after years of insisting I want it now.
Finally, right on target, I buy an ‘around the world’ ticket. My gift to myself for my fiftieth birthday: Mabel would approve and my paternal grandmother wouldn’t be surprised - ‘the how, why and when girl,’ she called me.
Farewell parties are held and responsibilities are jettisoned along with keys to office, house and car. Is this the ‘middlescence’ that Gail Sheehy writes about in her book ‘New Passages’? If so, I’m experiencing it. Middle-aged adolescence: just another Baby Boomer who wants it all.
So, was Mabel right? Is the exploring of foreign lands more improving and amusing than crochet work? Absolutely: for me it starts at the airport, even my body tingles with anticipation.
Maori friends arrive with a traditional bone carving for me to wear on my travels. It’s been made specifically for me, the shape and carving showing the twists and turns of my life. They tell me it also carries the expectation that I will return safely home. They sing a waiata and our tears flow - do I really want to leave my friends and family for so long? Can I really find my way around the world? On my own? Will it push the birthday crisis out of my life?
Wiping tears, I go through customs and suddenly I’m a traveller - focusing on my trip and dropping off my day-to-day life like an old cloak. Already I’m living in the present - friends and family left on the other side of the security doors.
I find my seat, stow my gear, put the seatbelt on and read the safety instructions as we taxi to the runway. The plane’s energy travels through my buttocks and on through the rest of my body until it’s quivering in my fingers, toes and scalp. It feels like I’m on a horse that’s straining at the bit. Let’s go, let’s go each quiver says. I agree. Let’s get out of here. My emotions, so raw, so close to the surface that it feels like fear: adrenalin is coursing through my body, my mouth dry and my imagination, always vivid, is running wild.
While I no longer think the plane is going to crash on take-off, or that this will be my last view of home, I still count the rows to my nearest exit. Four back, or seven forward, I note and settle down with expectation. An adventure is about to happen, announcing itself in every cell of my body: finally the engines have enough power and we are airborne - I’m jettisoned off to explore the world.
Did my maternal great-great-grandparents feel this thrill as they left Ireland and England in the 1860s, then my paternal ones from Scotland just a few years later? No matter how basic my surroundings will be, I’ll travel in luxury compared to their cramped quarters aboard clippers such as the William Miles, Labuan, or the Victory. Desperation or adventure, whatever motivated them to travel, has been passed down to me - a gift from the past that compels me to search, to seek, to explore, even when I’m afraid.
I’m not so much afraid of waves as they must have been, but fear of mundane things such as ‘will I get lost between the international and domestic terminals in Los Angeles? Will I find a bed each night? With my lack of other languages, how far will sign language get me? Were they afraid? Did they have long worrying conversations in their mind like I do?
‘Why travel?’ I’m asked and don’t have an answer: well not an immediate one that satisfies them or me. It makes me feel judged, strange. Travelling alone! Escaping? Keeping people distant? Escape or quest? I just know I’m travelling ‘to’ despite saying I’m ‘running away’ from home.
Hungry to travel, I don’t know what I’m hungry for and if I did, would I need to go? I don’t know where or what my private Arcadia is. If journeys are a way of gaining oneness with the world, then that oneness is my Arcadia - an emotional and physical trip to uncharted territories. Life will continue to chip away until whom or what I’m meant to be will appear - life will be the sculptor with me a block of stone. As I travel life will whisper or shout as it chisels and shapes me, showing what I need to learn.
Although I am not aware of it yet, I will be whispered to in a soup kitchen in New York, animals in Africa will ignore me - shouting in their silence how insignificant I am - and men and women in Turkey will tell me to be generous by their actions. OK Mabel let’s go exploring, let’s see if travel improves me: first stop, the U-S- of A.
~~~~
A bumpy landing and bears
‘Imagine yourself in the middle of this field.’ Ingrid had said in her letter. ‘This is where I’ll take you.’ The photo is of the Mendenhall glacier, the foreground a field of fireweed blooming.
Standing among the flowers the picture now comes to life. Purple plants nearly reach my head and I’m thrilled, absolutely amazed, to be here in Alaska.
Ingrid and I met during her New Zealand travels and the subscription to ‘Alaska,’ a monthly magazine she sent me, kindled my desire to visit so added it to my list of places to visit ‘one day.’
My first flight takes me from Auckland to Los Angles; my first hiccup is in Los Angles. Pointing to a blank gap on the immigration form, an efficient customs officer snaps at me, ‘Write the address where you are staying.’
I have no booking so tell her, ‘I’m not sure where I’ll be staying’
‘You have to have an address,’ she again snaps, ‘Stand over there.’
Worried I’ll miss my connection I rummage in my bag. I know I have the youth hostel address somewhere in my backpack, but that is on the conveyer belt on the other side of immigration. Even though it will be at least a week before I arrive in Alaska I write Ingrid’s Post Office address on the form. I’m beckoned back to the counter and present the modified form.
‘This is not an address,’ she snarls, getting agitated with me. ‘A post office box is this big, you are not going to stay in something this big’ she says as she draws the size in the air. Four times. Her loud voice, big hair and long, bright red, acrylic nails draw attention to us and I want to disappear. She continues her tirade, ‘No address no entry. Stand aside. Next.’
I slink to the side, again: I had not expected such a bumpy landing. Searching my address book once more, I find a one-time contact in Seattle. I don’t really know her but write her name, address and phone number on the darn form. Success, my passport’s stamped and I’m finally free to enter but my backpack isn’t on the carousel. Already it’s obvious that travelling is not easy.
‘Ms Hapeta?’ An airline employee greets me; my 16-kilo pack’s beside her. She’s here to escort me to the domestic plane. So much for all my worries about getting lost: stay in the now Heather, I remind myself as she hurries me to the plane; I have a short trip to San Francisco and my next problem.
I have mail to post for a friend - her friend is dying and if I post the letter here, she will hopefully receive it before her death. I put the dollar note in the machine but it’s rejected. I try again but again my note’s refused.
‘Surely this isn’t going to beat me,’ I mutter, but after a number of attempts to control the machine, I’m beginning to have doubts. How humiliating that it’s defeating an intelligent woman like me.
For the last time I look at the note, it should be simple, one letter, one vending machine and one one-dollar note. Perhaps my promise to post this letter immediately will not be fulfilled. I try again, not wanting an obstacle like this beat me so early in my eagerly awaited and saved for, trip. Again it refuses my offering.
I’m sure that people are looking at me strangely, sniggering and discussing me - a free floorshow for them between flights.
‘What is she doing? Does she speak English? Should we ring security?’ The imagined public humiliation makes me walk away in shame. The committee that lives in my head is beginning its litany of derogatory names. If a stranger said them, murder would be justified; however I can abuse myself with immunity.
I sit down with a coffee and contemplate a year of defeats. Maybe I should go home already. The greenback, still in my hand, laughs at me and as I gaze at it suddenly know what the machine meant. Of course, how stupid of me, face up means the face up! The guy’s face upward - how obtuse can you be? I’ve solved the problem - I’m not so dumb after all. My travels can continue I decide as I walk back to the machine. I know it will give me a stamp this time.
A few steps away from my destination a man blocks my path. I’m impatient, almost able to taste success. Moments later he steps aside from the vile machine. I take the last steps triumphantly, confidently.
Hanging over the front of the machine a sign has been hung. The large, red letters state SORRY MACHINE OUT OF ORDER. I laugh with relief, wasn’t me, just a faulty stamp dispenser. I buy a stamp in the bookstore. However, my day is not over, I still have one more flight and then I can go to bed.
I’m grateful for a lift to the Seattle Youth Hostel: I’m exhausted and looking forward to sleep after 20 hours of travel.
It’s full - 300 beds and not one for me. I can’t believe it. ‘Can I stay in the lobby; it’s only a few hours until daylight?’
‘No. Sorry Ma’am, you cannot stay in the lobby. Here’s a map of the area; there are many hotels in the downtown area.’
At 3:30am I’m on the streets with my head giving me a lecture about being useless, stupid and I’m wondering where to go. Struggling up a long flight of steps with my heavy backpack, I turn left, sure I’ll find something and I start walking.
‘Walk tall, act confident and look as though you know where you’re going,’ my mind tells me and I obey: all around me are the people of the night. Two drunks are arguing as I walk briskly past while others are sleeping - cardboard and newspaper their mattress and blankets.
‘I luuurrv redheaded women’ a man slurs. I ignore him and continue walking towards Pike Street Market where I hope to find a cheap hotel. Ten or 15 minutes are all it takes - but it feels like an hour - to find a bed. Already I’m learning; book ahead if arriving at night. When I wake, I ring the forgotten woman from my address book: the phone has been disconnected.
Two days into my travels, I’m unsure of my ability to travel solo for a year long adventure: how will I cope with fear, loneliness and officious people? I push these thoughts aside and, despite lingering concerns, I’m eager to move on to Alaska.
Bellingham, the port the ferry leaves from, is a short distance from the Canadian border and the youth hostel, an old cottage, is set in the town’s rose garden. Three deer are nibbling on the plants; lips curled back to avoid the thorns, under the ‘chase deer away’ signs. I photograph them rather than obey it.
Recovering from the suicide of my younger son, Greg, I’d worked as a social worker with an organisation that assists the friends and families of people who have died by suicide. I’m keen to unwind so starting my travels with a cruise, albeit on a ferry, is a sort of pre-trip holiday.
Perhaps this year of travel will help me decide on a new career: a new direction. A woman-of-independent-means sounds good but highly unlikely. I wonder how Mabel Sharman Crawford, my hero from the 19th century, got money to travel.
Travelling on a tight budget so my travels can be longer and further than I dreamt, I have a one-month Alaskan travel pass that allows me to use buses, trains and boats as I wish, the clock starts ticking when I step on board. One way I am saving money is by eschewing a cabin and sleeping on the deck.
The huge ocean-liner-sized ferry is backed into the wharf when I arrive. I’m at the front of the queue and as the gates open, I hurry up gangways to the upper deck. I’m surprised at how well appointed the stern sun deck is and I grab a sun-lounger in the front row, right under a heater. Rolling out my new sleeping bag, I stake my claim, rather as a gold miner might do. My bed for the next three nights looks good - my bag is purple with a bright green lining - and my view will be an ever-changing vista unfolding behind the boat.
Exploring, I find showers for us rough-sleepers along with spacious lounges, bars, TV and game rooms for everyone. Leaning on the railings, I watch people boarding and vehicles being loaded. A small plane that appears to have its wings folded along its side follows a huge grader and many four-wheel-drive vehicles. The sun deck is filling up, mainly with Alaskans returning home after summer vacations and other travellers and two small tents are being erected on the deck - I hope that they have heavy bags to stop them blowing into the sea.
The horn sounds and we are underway. Greg would be impressed that finally I’m travelling and, always proud of me, he’d be extremely confident of my ability to survive. It would amaze him to know I’ve had moments of insecurity already and, feeling sad that he’s not here to know of my trip, I snuggle into my colourful cocoon, watch the stars and am soon rocked to sleep.
Waking early, humpback whales are breaching off the port side. Throwing themselves skyward they crash back into the sea with a huge splash and a school of dolphins escorts us for hours. The ship’s speaker system alerts us to sights we may miss.
‘A school of Orca whales lie directly ahead of us,’ a voice comes through a speaker. ‘They are travelling in a northerly direction and it seems we will pass them on the port side.’ Immediately the left side is lined with people as we peer for our first glimpse of these dramatically patterned black and white mammals.
‘There they are,’ I hear and look in the direction the speakers are pointing. I see them. It’s wonderful; my eyes fill with tears. I never thought I would see these, what a bonus and privilege I think.
They remind me of the marine mammal rescue course I completed last year. While learning to refloat beached whales, it was a huge plastic Orca, filled with water and air that we ‘saved’ as the tide retreated from my local estuary in Christchurch. Seeing them in the wild reminds me how worthwhile such courses are in places that experience the inexplicable whale strandings.
Dinner over - dry noodles soaked in hot water, the travellers’ staple diet - I go to the front lounge to hear a talk by a park-ranger. He tells us of the scenery we will witness the next day: the Alaskan Marine Highway will take us past hundreds of islands covered with rain forests and through stretches of water that can only be navigated according to the tide.
A harp and violin duo entertains us until I go to the bow to watch the navigation lights. It seems as if we will sail onto the island we’re so close, but the bright lights lead the captain through what looks like a Christmas scene or cave of glow-worms.
At most ports we have a few hours to explore while cargo is loaded and unloaded. In one village, against my better judgement, I join a taxi with other travellers to go to the dump where, according to someone’s guidebook, we will see bears. The driver takes us up the hill at the back of the town where we find it has been bear proofed; a heavy wire fence surrounds the cast out rubbish to stop bears scavenging.
In Ketchikan, where we stop for some hours, I watch a concert put on by the local Tlingkit (pronounced with a K) tribe, my introduction to their legends and wonderful totem poles. One that looks like a frog as well as one with bears climbing down the pole particularly appeals to me. The noisy, shiny, black raven also plays a prominent part in many Alaskan legends and the dancers emulate it.
Our journey takes three days and as we sail into Juneau. I wonder if I will recognise my friend, but as with many of my worries, it’s unfounded. ‘Hi,’ she says, ‘I was wondering if I would recognise you’
‘Me too.’
Laughing at our common fears she throws my bag in the back of her pickup and we set off for Douglas Island where she lives. I recount my bumpy landing and immigration problems. ‘I’m laughing now,’ I say, ‘but at the time I thought my journey was doomed before it started.’ Ten minutes later, I’m ecstatic.
‘There’s a bear, a bear!’ A small black bear has run across the road in front of us, ‘I know I’m in Alaska now.’ Ingrid chuckles.
‘I think they were my first words in Alaska too.’
Over the next days we explore, hiking up the side of the Mendenhall Glacier, she points out the part of the glacier where she was married and I photograph mushrooms and other fungi. Eating at the Fiddlehead Restaurant I’m introduced to the one of the best fish I have ever tasted - halibut - and with salad and homemade bread, it’s a fantastic meal.
The harbour is full of cruise ships, the street’s full of people and I’m horrified to be taken as a tourist off one of the boats. Can’t people tell I am a real traveller I think - time rich and cash poor - travel snobbery takes many forms and this is mine.
An advert for a day trip to the Tracy Arm Glacier - one of the 5000 glaciers that inhabit Alaska - captures my eye. I feel nauseous in the little boat on the rough sea, but the scenery is well worth such a small problem. Seals - mothers and cubs - lie on small icebergs and all around us, huge brilliant blue icebergs float. I wonder how white can be so blue.
Leaning on the rails of this small boat: the sound of the ice cracking before it plunges, calving, into the sea is loud and our vessel rocks in the waves they cause. Again, I have tears in my eyes. I’m well-wrapped - hat, gloves, scarf and jacket - and I’m thrilled at the beauty and grandeur of the world, grateful to the genes and circumstances of my life that has invested me with a value for life, along with a burning desire to see the world.
The clock on my Alaskan ticket is ticking and I need to move on after I rid my pack of unwanted junk. Items that seemed absolutely essential are no longer necessary. Did I really think I would use these beauty products? Out they go. Why do I have a heavy case for my glasses when I rarely take them off? It’s discarded, as are books I’ve read and other odds and ends. Individually they’re light - collectively they add weight to my back.
Two weeks before leaving New Zealand I was having tremendous back pain and was unsure I’d be able to travel. After treatment, the muscular skeletal specialist told me, ‘Do these exercises before you board planes, between flights and when you get off. In fact, you will need to do them regularly.’
‘No way! Lie in the airport doing that? You must be joking.’
‘Well it’s your back, your choice.’
Vanity loses and determined to ensure my spine lasts the distance, I resolve to do them. In my vivid, often alcohol-fuelled, past, I have done more undignified and unseemly things in public, so in airports and bus stations around the world I resolve to lie on benches and stretch my muscles, twist my spine and pretend I’m alone.
Oh for the skills of another woman travelling in Alaska, Maud Parrish (1878-1976). She says in her book, Nine Pounds of Luggage that she travelled around the world with nine pounds (approx. 4 kilo) of luggage and a banjo: I’ve reduced mine to 15 kilos.
Back on the ferry for the last part of the travel by water, I’m about to leave the panhandle behind and head for the interior. Hours later I’m at the end of the road, or rather the end of the sea-lane, tomorrow I’ll travel by bus.
The Skagway Museum has good background to the history of gold mining days and the streets have a movie-like Wild West feel. Advertising for a local restaurant amuses me. Road-kill is on the menu; ‘You kill it-We grill it’ it says. Moose are huge; I wouldn’t want to be in any vehicle that hits the strange looking beast with huge antlers, drooping nose and a weird ability to eat under water.
The bus trip’s long, with an overnight stay in a tiny village and I’m annoyed I have to stay at the hotel with its high prices, it seems a captive market is being exploited: nevertheless, the scenery is impressive - wide expanses, plains, mountains and glaciers.
Anchorage surprises me with enormous vegetables and flowers growing at the visitors’ information centre. It’s early autumn with 15-hour days and daily the sunrise and sunset change perceptibly.
I am not the oldest ‘youth’ at the youth hostel. In the kitchen, I meet a 93-year old woman who helped start this hostel. Back for a school reunion, she’s staying in the hostel; affirming youth is a state of mind, of attitude not numbers and I wish I could spend time with her - like Mabel I know she has lessons to teach that I need to learn. Unfortunately, just as I can’t find Mabel’s 130-year-old books, I’m not able to ask her questions that race around my head.
Last night vivid dreams invaded my sleep just as they have for the past couple of weeks - bright, colourful and clearly remembered each morning - I should keep a journal of them I think, but don’t.
Days later I’m on the only train in Alaska. According to the guard it’s an engineering feat to keep it going as unstable permafrost makes it difficult to maintain the rails. Along the way, he throws newspapers and mail from the train, points out a beaver dam, and tells tales of weird and wonderful neighbours.
From the tiny Denali National Park train station I make my way to the hostel. The large tent the YHA use over the summer months has been dismantled; however, they have a bed for me in the main house, so I settle in then go to the park headquarters to plan my days.
Ingrid’s given me a little bell to hang from my daypack to keep me safe from bears. The theory is they will hear me coming and get out of my way as they prefer not to have contact with humans: I have heard many stories - true and urban myths - of people killed in bear attacks and don’t wish to be included in that number. I plan to stay on the track, whistling, carrying no food and ringing my bell.
The next day I climb aboard the park bus and get taken further into the park. Mt. Denali is a shy mountain and shows her head rarely. Over the past month, she has hidden herself for 25 out of the 31 days but today she exposes her lofty top.
Books I’ve read about Alaska tell of bears eating willow and I wonder where the trees are. The tundra is covered with short scrubby bush and plants and I’m amazed when I’m told that these 6-inch high shrubs are willows: stunted by the weather, the trees I was expecting did not exist.
I don’t walk far before I see a bear. I freeze. She has two cubs with her. I’m petrified, excited and amazed all at the same time and I sink to my knees to watch. Mum is large; her cubs are like bundles of lard, roly-poly and cuddly-looking. She looks towards me, almost nonchalantly and I remain very still, hardly daring to breathe, while the cubs appear to have no worries. I discard my plans for hiking - I can walk any day and prefer to sit and watch. A herd of caribou runs over the hill, a perfect silhouette for a photo and the tiny plants and berries fascinate me. Mostly I just watch the bears.
Too soon it’s time to return to the main camp and, silently, I gloat over the people on the bus who didn’t see any wildlife: as I recount my tale over dinner, I realise I hadn’t rung my bell. The next day Denali is hidden, so content myself with crunching over yellow leaves and admiring the cottonwood trees straight, white trunks closer to park headquarters.
Alaska’s most northern city is Fairbanks and I trade a few hours washing towels and sheets for a bed for three nights. At midnight I join Thelma and her daughter - African Americans from Alabama - and go searching, unsuccessfully, for the aurora borealis.
I’m offered a job - looking after the hostel for the winter - so the owner can go surfing in Hawaii but uncertain of my ability to cope with an Alaskan winter and with many plans, refuse and move on. Time is passing quickly, winter’s nipping at my heels and to get value from the travel-pass, I need to move on: resisting an invitation to visit North Pole, a tourist town that hosts Santa, despite being nowhere near the North Pole.
Before leaving, I visit a club for people with alcoholism where I am greeted warmly. I spend the day there and they tell me about Alaska and some Alaskans. ‘This State is a magnet for drinkers, nomads, criminals on the run and just about anyone else who doesn’t fit into society’ a guy tells me. ‘I qualified on all counts before I got sober’ he continues. I admit that I too could have easily escaped to Alaska and fitted in. A woman gives me a coffee mug for my travels Stark Raven Sober in Alaska it proclaims: she’s wearing a sweater that says Alaska, where the odds are good but the goods are odd. She tells me the male to female ratio in Alaska is good for women but that the sweater says it all.
Back over the same route to reconnect with the ferry, I meet an Australian woman who has spent the summer cycling around this huge state: she offers me a night in her tent to avoid the hotel costs.
The ground is hard and stony and the wind creates a yellow, leaf-storm but we erect the tent quickly, share ingredients for a meal, then settle down. I’m not equipped for sleeping outdoors and need to improvise. Every piece of clothing that I’m not wearing is stuffed into my purple and pink tie-dyed silk sleeping-bag liner for a mattress, and with the hood of my sleeping bag pulled snugly around my head, I lie down.
I can feel the contours of the ground, every stone and lump. I’m also aware of the permafrost, frozen ground half-metre below me - my makeshift mattress does not remove the chill. Listening to the night sounds I wonder if I will sleep and soon its morning - I have slept like the proverbial log. Biscuits and coffee for breakfast taste like a banquet, the sun is rising between the mountains, birds are singing: all is well with the world.
When the bus stops for lunch, I visit the little museum, just in time for a sled dog display. The woman who owns the dogs tells me about the famous Iditerod Race, in which she’s participated. She too is wearing an Alaskan message-sweater: Alaska - where men are men and women win the Iditerod and she chooses me for the demonstration ride. The dogs, a mixture of colours, race over the ground with me being pulled behind them: an exhilarating highlight as I travel on the last scheduled bus out of the interior before winter sets in.
Sitka; Haines; Denali; Fairbanks; Skagway; Juneau, names linked so romantically to the last frontier: Alaska, you have ensured I will take heed of your little blue state flower and I will forget-you-not.
~~~~
Wandering in the West
Two harpists accompany us on the ferry trip south; I stop for a last night in Juneau, disembark for a trip around Petersburg then, leave the boat in Prince Rupert, Canada. After a couple of days I head overland for Vancouver where I see my first racoon and a baby beluga whale; it’s eight weeks old and today is making its first public appearance - staying close to mum.
At the bottom of the Lynn Canyon, I look up at the steps I need to take - 206 of them. On day 35 of my round-the-world travels I feel a little fitter but this will be the proof or otherwise of my fitness. I tackle them one at a time, concentrating only on the next step, counting as I go. At step-number 149, I pause for two minutes then push on - when I reach the top I’ve impressed myself.
The woman beside is getting up my nose - literally. I refuse to suffer any longer and move away from her acrid body but at the next stop a man boards and sits side me: he too gets up my nose. Every few minutes he rubs a pungent cream on his brow, under his nose and even pushes his hand down his shirt to massage the cure-all ointment onto his chest.
The seat beside the driver is empty so I move to it and introduce myself as a Kiwi-on-tour. He responds by pointing out places of interest as we travel to Portland, Oregon, home of some shirt-tail-relatives - the ones that don’t really belong, but get you by marriage and they’re waiting when I roll in on the Greyhound bus.
The balance between sightseeing and feet-on-the-ground stuff like family meals, travel talk, relaxing in the hot-tub and lying-on-the-floor-exercises each morning is enjoyable. Portland’s a great city and at the biggest bookstore in the world, I buy Worst Trips, which I find funny and reassuring: I meet Mabel in the same shop.
Seattle baseball team - the Mariners - acquires me as supporter and I watch Doris and Bob’s grandson play American football: memories of winters of watching Greg playing rugby football brings a wave of sadness - the loss of his leg changed his life and ultimately led to his death.
My accent causes problems. ‘Pardon? I didn’t get that.’ I repeat my name again. And again and again, ‘Oh Heather’ they finally say - I think, that’s what I said the first time.
Up the Olympic Peninsula we drive, past Mt St Helen, ferry to Whidbey Island and leave over Deception Bridge then through the Cascade Mountains to Lake Chelan where we spend a week exploring even more. Autumn colours are everywhere and as well as the usual flags flying in the USA, a power station has a huge garden with flowers painting the stars and stripes and I see my first woodpecker.
Muirs’ tours continue through Spokane, Superior and over the continental divide. I’m again amazed to see snow on trees - I’m used to seeing trees stop at the snowline. In Chubbuck, Idaho, I’m bid farewell: my new room has deer heads gazing sightlessly down at my bed. Dave introduces them to me. ‘… and that beautiful little hind is the last thing I killed. She looked straight at me as pulled the trigger and I immediately knew I didn’t want to shoot ever again.’
After exploring Yellowstone, with its herds of bison with their thick carpet-fur, I weave south, watching a 300-head herd of elk travelling along the Grand Teton Mountains to their Jackson Hole winter-feeding area. Finally, after learning to make applesauce, going to a party, a craft show, buying a cowgirl type fringed-top and developing my tenth film, I head south to Salt Lake City when the snow starts.
In Temple Square I check the Mormon records and add another layer to my genealogical research and when I get back to the hostel, the soles of my feet are blistered after hours on hot pavements.
The hostel is grotty and testosterone smelling: most of the seedy-looking guys are not travellers but living here while working in ski resorts. The only other travellers are three young French students who also hate the place: the next day we share a rental vehicle and head south.
We talk our way out of a speeding ticket, stop every hour or so for them to smoke and I laugh at signs at an animal shelter: ‘self-cleaning cats available’ says one, while another declares ‘our pups runneth over.’
Bryce Canyon has more animal signs - warning the prairie dogs have fleas that are infected with bubonic plague. In the most advanced country in the world I am at risk of being infected with a 17th century disease. I don’t see any dogs, however the monoliths - which the Paiute Indians believe are people who have performed bad deeds during their lifetime - are impressive: prosaic scientists say erosion created the sandstone pinnacles and mazes. A cheap motel, over-decorated with homemade frills, flounces and flowery prints, provides a good sleep on soft beds and the hotcakes, maple syrup and bacon breakfast fuels us for the day. We’re soon in Zion National Park, driving down a kilometre-long tunnel - getting tantalising peeks through window-shaped holes at the sculptured canyons and cliffs.
Walking up to the waterfall grotto, I meet an escapee from a health-farm. She is a doctor’s wife and tells me that she needs to lose weight and tone her body: ‘It’s not good for a doctor to have a stressed wife - I do so much for his career and have to get away every few months.’ She also tells me she envies my casual life style and wishes she had the money to do the same: I don’t tell her of the tight budget or deaths, alcoholism and other emotional pain that’s allowed me to value life.
An hour later I am dozing in the back seat when I’m jolted awake: an old couple has hit us in the rear. It takes two hours to fill in the forms at the police station. ‘We are so very happy you are travelling with us. We couldn’t have made this problem be solved without you. Our English is too bad and the police very confusing. Thank you, thank you.’ They present me with free accommodation in Las Vegas where the four of us will sleep in a king-sized bed - it seems they have paid for two people. The evening’s spent eating; I put two quarters in a slot machine - unsuccessfully; walking the warm neon-lit streets and watching a Rod Stewart imitator: it’s my elder son’s birthday and I leave a message on his answer-phone.
I ring another shirt-tail-relative - my sister-in law’s auntie - and leaving my 21-year-old companions continue onto Palm Springs. I soon realise that most Americans find our casual Kiwi just-turn-up or ring-the-day-before attitudes hard to understand and resolve to be more considerate despite usually making travel decisions daily.
For two weeks, Margaret is a wonderful guide to California: Palm Oasis, the Saltern Sea and San Diego are on the list and over Halloween we go to San Diego - we eat out often and again I am fooled by chips on the menu. Just as my taste buds are salivating for big, fat, long, hot, chips I’m dashed into reality and my saliva dries up as I’m presented with a small pile or packet of crisps - something that’s never on my shopping list. I’m taken on expeditions to explore the Living Desert, eat apple pie in Cherry Valley, drink date and cactus milkshakes and we wander among the wonderful rocks of Joshua Tree - nature is really showing off on a grand scale.
I tell her of my only other time in Southern California when I stayed in house with piranhas in the fish tank and how days later, in another house, I had been woken by a gunshot. ‘I was sure it was a burglar and then wondered if my host had killed himself. When I got brave enough to explore I find the coffee pot on, toast and eggs cooking and the home owner thrilled he’d killed a gopher - shot it from his bedroom window.’ La Quinta is more subdued and Margaret eventually catapults me towards my next destination.
Williams, Arizona has the dubious honour of being the last town to be bypassed by Route 66 and we travel through there on the way to Flagstaff, Sunset Crater and Wupatiki National Monument: then onto Sedona, down to Montezuma’s Castle and Apache Junction and onto Tucson. A Mission Church we visit has a spiritual atmosphere to it and, among the painted walls, at the base of one called ‘the sorrowful mother’ I light candles for Greg and three other young people who died too young. I wonder if there’s life after death: will Miako, Andrew, Chop, or Greg know I’m thinking of them?
Despite travelling on a non-stopping highway, we make a fast photo stop: ‘State Prison,’ the sign says, ‘don’t stop for hitchhikers.’ Further along the highway to Phoenix we hear a helicopter near us - we eventually realise we’re making the noise - it’s a flat tyre. I take the flat one off and just as I am ready to put the spare on, a Mexican man stops to help. At the next garage we have the puncture repaired: while we wait Margaret introduces me to a Mexican fruit cup - a bowl of pineapple, Mexican potato, coconut and watermelon - cooling and tasty. Our final destination is De Grazia’s gallery - an interesting mixture of good, great and indifferent artwork - then I’m deposited at the Phoenix backpacker hostel where I again become a traveller instead of a guest and Margaret’s home will return to normal. Bizarrely, I find the hostel expects all travellers to do a task each day - I sign up to vacuum the women’s dorm.
At a display of native museum crafts and history, I watch a young Hopi man carving a kachina doll. ‘We make these for our daughters and nieces. They contain the spirit essence of everything in the real world so when they get married they will have about 15 or 20 of them to bring them luck.’ They are too expensive for me and I’ll have to rely on my own luck: luckily, I’m lucky.
The bus fare to New Mexico is the same as a flight so I save a day and fly. Santa Fe is beautiful and once again I have to sign up for a chore: I sweep the front of the adobe building. The town-square tempts me with Indian artefacts and two days later, when I get to Albuquerque, I follow up on my Indian education.
Noise from a drum rolls through the courtyard and reverberates off the walls as the dance performance begins in the Indian Pueblo Cultural Centre. The young dancers are traditionally dressed and the eagle dance is evocative of the North American symbol. One of the elders explains another dance: it starts as a child’s game with hoops being jumped through and moved over the body at enormous speed and dexterity. As they get older, more and more hoops are added and we all burst into applause when an agile young man dances with seven hoops.
After soaking up the sun and history it’s time for more excellent Mexican food. Dishes I’ve never heard of have become part of my vocabulary: sapodillas, enchiladas, burritos or huevous rancheros now trip off my tongue and the meals - accompanied by the wonderful red or green chilli - go down my throat. I could live here I decide: the warmth, the food and the people all appeal.
Is it really only five weeks since I left Alaska, only three months since I ran away from home? It seems as if I’ve been travelling forever. Conversely, it also seems as if time is flying so fast my year is being swallowed, that I won’t have enough time.
~~~~
Music and Murder
‘That’s not too far away’ I think perusing the map of America. I’m still in Albuquerque, New Mexico and my finger is on Memphis, Tennessee, home of my heartthrob, Elvis: The King.
I have just experienced my first Thanksgiving with friends I met in New Zealand: my contribution was to clean the silverware and make a kiwifruit pie. Amazingly, in this land of pie-lovers, it’s the first time any of them have eaten such a pie - while they’re eating it, I devour one of my favourites, their traditional pumpkin pie.
I’ve loved my time in New Mexico: Santa Fe, walking by the Rio Grande, exploring the old town, watching dinosaur bones being cleaned the museum and observing otters build a dam at the IMAX theatre. I also went to an art gallery opening, a thanksgiving service in a building that has stained glass windows celebrating many of the world’s religions and was given a massage to celebrate my 11th sobriety birthday. Remembering the saying about guests and fish going off after three days - and I’ve been with my hosts for two weeks - undeniably it’s time to move on.
I’ve got to know quite a few people in this great mile high city. On most mornings, I joined a group of people for breakfast at a Mexican restaurant, where I surprise them - a Kiwi eating real chilli on eggs for breakfast. This morning, as I say goodbye, a Mexican woman gives me a T-shirt with huge red chillies on it, a reminder of our dawn patrol breakfasts.
Now on a Greyhound bus, I’m off to see the King: it will take about 24 hours to cross Texas, Oklahoma and Arkansas then into Tennessee: I’ve been cautioned about this form of transport.
‘Oh you shouldn’t travel on them. They’re dangerous; the penal system uses those buses for sending prisoners home and transferring them too. I think you should fly.’ When they realise I still intend to use the bus despite the warnings they say ‘Well you be very careful you hear.’
I look around, wondering if convicts surround me. I see a cross section of people; the usual noisy talker, the nose-picker, the smelly ones and crying kids, interspersed with the compulsory stupid-question-asker and the deep sleepers. It seems no different to any other bus I’ve been on. The worst part of travelling by bus is getting to and waiting at, depots that are always in the most dubious part of town and the hangout place for some of society’s unfortunates.