What does an American look like?

"I was once in an elevator in Singapore" the Master of Ceremonies told us "when someone asked me where I was from."
"I'm from America"
"Really? You don't look like an American."

"Since that day," He went on "I've often wondered...what does an American look like? Well if you want to know, take a look around the room. Look at the person standing next to you. That is what an American looks like."

So I looked around the room and saw black people, white people, yellow people and brown people. I looked at the Asian man on my right, the African woman to my left. Young and old, male and female, healthy and infirm. The only thing we each had in common, was that a few moments before, we had been officially pronounced citizens of the United States of America.

We'd been told to 'dress respectfully', which for me meant collecting my good jacket from the cleaners and selecting a tie. One gentleman was wearing a tuxedo, most ladies were in smart dresses, but some were in jeans and one muscular gent, the combat uniform of the US Army. A well-worn combat uniform. I had a chance to observe all this as we huffed our way up the hill from the parking lot to the theater in which the ceremony was to take place. I noticed some people were finding this more of a challenge than others and I wonder if it was perhaps the final test to weed out those not fit enough to be US Citizens.

Once inside, we were met with a scene of mild chaos. People stood in lines chattering excitedly, while cheerful staff manned numbered card tables. Having not read my letter properly, I hadn't realized I was supposed to be in line for table # 1, so I took it as a good omen that by sheer chance, this was the table to where my line led. Once there I was given a blue slip of paper (others had red or white), which dictated where in the auditorium I was to sit. "Come back here after the ceremony," the lady said, "and collect your certificate." I was also given a touchingly dorky little American flag, which I was unable to bring myself to wave, although most other people had no such inhibitions.

Into the theater itself, and my allotted seat where for 45 minutes or so, I watched a much larger American flag projected on a large screen at the front while stirring march music played in the background. This included to my amusement, John Paul Sousa's "Liberty Bell", which may be more familiar as the theme music for "Monty Python's Flying Circus".

Finally the M.C. stepped up and the proceedings began. We started out with a short video showing similar ceremonies around the country and I think it was at this point I first began to appreciate the significance today held. Watching the emotions playing out on the screen, the people crying and laughing, praying and hugging, I'll admit I felt a bit of a lump in my own throat and even though Dear Wife was at the back of the hall with the camera, I wished I'd arranged for a few more people to join us for the ceremony.

There were a handful of speeches next; all blessedly short and for the most part, quite amusing. One guest speaker, a teacher originally from China explained that while he was comparatively well off by the standards of his village, his $7 a month salary wasn't enough to achieve the dream of owning his own car. "I wanted the feeling of speed!"

When he finally made it to the United States a friend gave him a Chevy Impala (a very large, boat-like car) as a gift. "That first day, I took it out on the freeway and put the pedal to the metal. I was doing about 25 miles an hour while all the other drivers blew their horns and roared past me but oh, it was great!"

The M.C. explained that we had 291 people here, from 68 different countries, which he then read out in turn, from Afghanistan to Zambia, while we each stood when heard our own country's name. In the interest of time, he had asked us not to clap until we were done; but when he called out 'Mexico' and almost half the room stood up, everyone spontaneously burst into laughter and applause. Almost the entire theater were on their feet by the time he called "United Kingdom" so I couldn't see who else stood then, but the next person up was my neighbor, from Vietnam.

Finally we were down to business, and with our right hands in the air and flashbulbs popping like the Superbowl kickoff, we repeated the lines which make up the oath of allegiance. I hadn't even realized how far along we were in the proceedings until the M.C. announced:

"Congratulations and welcome, to the newest citizens of the United States of America."

People began hugging each other and crying, and as I shook the hands of my neighbors, even I had to wipe a bit of grit out of the corner of my eye. Who knew it would be this emotional?

Admittedly, the mood was almost spoiled when they played a recording of Lee Hazelwood's saccharine musical diarrhea "Proud to be an American", which had me looking around for a vomit bucket, but soon we were outside taking photos in the sun, each proudly holding the certificates confirming our citizenship.

I hadn't been overly excited about today. To me, becoming a citizen was just another step along the road; like obtaining a driver's license, or renewing my passport. Just something one did. If it wasn't for the fact that after 14 years here, I wanted to be able to vote politicians into office, (and out of it), I may never have taken the leap.

My family didn't suffer any political repercussions from me moving here. I didn't swim any rivers, didn't run through a hail of machine gun bullets, or spend days floating on a raft in the open sea. I simply navigated through bureaucracy and while that may have been trying at times, it was small potatoes compared to what some of these other people had no doubt been through.

So to sit in this room and watch people sitting with tears streaming down their cheeks, or smiles splitting their faces, and in many cases both, I finally realized just what a big deal becoming a United States Citizen actually was.

So if you want to know what an American looks like...click here.

Things to do in Bega when you're broke

There isn’t all that much to do in Bega (Bay-ga) New South Wales, especially on a Sunday. I’d done the usual tourist attractions (walking up the main street, then walking back down again) and that had filled a little under 15 minutes yet the day stretched endlessly ahead of me.

The night had been seemingly endless too, being as it was, one of the coldest I’ve spent anywhere. The youth hostel was cozy enough, small and intimate, with a gas fire in the common room, which easily kept that space comfortable. A “Canadian” couple (Handy Hint: US Citizens abroad can be easily identified by the Maple Leaf patches on their backpacks) had shared their curry and rice with me and chatted pleasantly all evening, or at least until the talk turned to politics and I learned he was a Margaret Thatcher fan. It’s bad manners to insult people who’ve just shared their food with you so I did my best to change the subject and when that didn’t work, headed to the dorm room for an early night.

Even with the extra insulation provided by blankets swiped from empty bunks, it was a cold, cold night and I wasn’t at all sorry when dawn finally illuminated the room and prized myself out to face the day. I’d been in Australia for a couple of weeks now and had been deceived many times by sunny weather. It usually remained cold, even during the day despite spring being well under way and the shorts and t-shirts which I had expected to wear every day, were tucked well down towards the bottom of my pack. After such a night, I was anticipating another cold day so dressed accordingly so I wasn’t at all surprised when this turned out to be the warmest weather I’d had so far. Unfortunately, I was well overdue for a laundry, which meant each of my shirts were a little...ripe and I was forced to keep a sweatshirt on out of consideration for my fellow man.

The pub (singular) opened at 10 and while that’s earlier than I usually start drinking, I was bored out of my brains so stepped indoors for a quick one. Not surprisingly for Australia, the place was already packed. “Look at this fellah” says one character dressed in the Aussie uniform of singlet, shorts, work boots and bush hat, meaning me “He’s dressed for the cold weather!” I explained just why I was anxious to keep my sweatshirt on and this impressed them greatly. In not time I was seated on a stool at the bar, surrounded by a half-circle of locals all fascinated by this rarity – an outsider.

"What brings you to Bega, mate?" asked one.
"A bus" I explained, to a roar of laughter completely disproportionate to the quality of the humor.
"But why Bega? There’s bugger all here!"
"Yeah, I know that now. But it was a place on the map and I’m not in any rush."
"Well, we’ve got the rugby final on the telly this afternoon" explained John the landlord, "You’re welcome to come and watch it here if you like."
As the pub sported a color television, unlike the youth hostel’s portable black and white, this sounded very attractive so after determining that the majority of the people in the pub would be shouting for Canberra, as opposed to Sydney, the favorites, I set off back to the hostel to catch some shut-eye before presenting myself back at the bar a few minutes before kick-off.

The place was packed.

"Listen up everybody" yelled John above the din "This skinny bugger’s a pommie, but he’s alright so don’t give him any shit, OK?"
"Yeah but who’s he rooting for?" (Who is he supporting) came a yell from the crowd.
"Canberra of course" I shouted back, thankful that I’d done my homework earlier. Unfortunately, Instead of the approval I was expecting, this garnered a howl of derision. As I was to learn; in the 3 hours I’d been away, the Canberra fans had all left, presumably to watch the game at home and the place was now wall to wall Sydney supporters.

"Just you and me rooting for Canberra" John told. "But no worries. There’s free steak sandwiches in the back room so help yourself." If there’s one word that backpackers love it’s 'free' particularly when relating to food and/or drink and I was soon stuffing my face.

The game started out promisingly enough, with Canberra taking an early lead so John and I made sure to get our shots in early. Good job we did too, because there was precious little reason to crow in the second half. Sydney came out swinging and by the time the final whistle went, had delivered a trouncing of legendary proportions. Despite the incessant ribbing, I stuck it out to the end and was still protesting that Canberra were preparing for a late surge right up to the final whistle.

You can drink a lot of beer during an Australian rugby game, particularly when everyone around you is getting into the spirit of the thing, and I have to admit, I put away my fair share that afternoon. However, I was on a backpacker’s budget and a day of drinking wasn’t really in the financial plan. As the bar finally began to clear, I approached John with more than a little trepidation.

"How much do I owe you John?" I asked pulling out my wallet.
"No worries mate" he responded cheerfully without looking up from the sink where he was rinsing glasses. "All taken care of."

I never did determine if he’d given me my drinks on the house, perhaps as a show of solidarity for me sticking with his beloved Canberra despite everything; or if one of my other new friends had picked up my tab. Either way, I felt a lot of gratitude as I wobbled my way back to the hostel.

That night I chatted to the uh Canadians who had spent the day at an animal sanctuary, watching kangaroos, koalas and other native Australian species. They weren’t impressed when I said I’d spent the day in the pub.
"I think it’s important to spend our time here wisely" he said, a little sanctimoniously "We decided we want to see as many Australian animals as possible before we leave"

He had a point. Although by the time I departed Australia several months later, I’d seen all the animals they had, and none of them in cages. Even better, I'd spent a day in the natural habitat of that rare and delightful species Australius Egregius.

I think I came out ahead.

Canberra

I’ve used these pages more than once to recount my progress as a fledgling mountain biker. After a lot of work this summer I’m finally reaching the stage where I can ride uphill for quite a long time and occasionally even reach the top. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have to explain that my first experience with a mountain bike came some (clears throat) years ago when I rented a bright yellow steed from Canberra Youth Hostel. (Where?) Canberra, Australia of course. Canberra. It’s the capital. Oh, go look it up.

Not that Canberra has mountains you understand, although it does have a couple of steep hills (the Youth Hostel is atop one of them) and one very long, drawn out slope leading to the Capitol building. This got longer and more drawn out when the gear cable snapped near the bottom and I had to complete the climb in the highest gear. The bike had 36 gears in all, which would have been around 33 more than I would have needed anyway but as it was, I had to content myself with 1 for the rest of the day.

Which all in all, wasn’t such a bad deal. With the exception of the aforementioned two hills and a slope, Canberra is more or less flat. Built over several decades through the mid twentieth century, (like Sydney Opera House, the design was chosen by competition) Canberra is by definition, a "planned" city and like most planned cities, it’s indescribably dull.

Oh, it’s pretty enough. And practical. It’s easy to get around, the roads are wide and uncrowded and the parks are really quite delightful. But that doesn’t prevent it from being dull. If you’re looking for a wild, crazy, drinking all day, partying all night kind of place, then Canberra isn’t it. In fact, despite spending an entire day cruising the streets on my bright yellow chick magnet, I never saw a single pub (which is my personal definition of hell). Now, as we all know, you can’t take a herd of politicians and lock them away from their families for weeks at a time without giving them a few places to undo their top buttons, but if said places are available to the hoi-polloi; then I didn’t come across them.

I did however, spend a lot of time going from public building to public building, like a good little tourist. The first port of call was the ANZAC memorial; a tribute to the fighting men and women of the Australia & New Zealand Auxiliary Corp whom the British used as cannon fodder during WWI. The building was impressive enough but paled in comparison to the view, which soared across the geometrical lines of the city to the parliament building some 4 miles away. Having a Y chromosome, I was also fascinated by the collection of antique aeroplanes.

The National Art Gallery next, free due to refurbishments, which was good because the vast majority of it was way over the head of an uncultured slob like me. Recently, I’ve been making an attempt to teach myself to draw again, and it’s slow going, but I think half the skill of these artists is to figure out how to get someone else to pay exhorbitant sums for the tripe they produce.

On then, to the parliament building; originally designed in 1913 as part of the aforementioned competition, but not completed until 1988, just a few years before I was there. What impressed me the most was the symbolism deliberately included in the design. For example, every color in the scheme, from the red gravel of the forecourt to the pale green of the seats represents the colors found in the Australian environment. Even better, the entire building is built into a hillside, with the roof sitting at around of the height of the original landscape. There is also a public walkway across the roof and these are both to show that the government does not sit ‘above’ the people, but that the people are above the government. A certain president whose party took a drubbing in the US elections last night could learn a lot from the Aussies.

The view from the roof was spectacular although I might have appreciated it more had I not made the poor choice of shorts and T-shirt, which were proving to be hopelessly inadequate for the early spring day. I must have been shivering because a little girl tugged on the leg of my shorts leg and asked me "Aren’t you cold?"

"Nah", I lied, "I’m British, I don’t feel cold." But the goosebumps may have given me away.

Back downstairs and off in search of some light refreshments. I didn’t find any, which considering Australia’s affection for the amber nectar, was astonishing. Locals have since told me that bars and nightclubs do exist in Canberra – one just has to know where to look. Sadly, I did not know where to look and after pushing the bike around the lake of a beautiful, but deserted park, (where for the record, I saw my first wild parakeets) I had to be content with wandering around a supermarket, purchasing groceries for that night’s dinner. Food in Australia is cheap when compared to Britain and as I was booked into the hostel for several nights, I came away with a rare haul.

Remember how I said the Youth Hostel was at the top of one of the few hills in Canberra? And remember how I said the gear cable had come loose, locking me into top gear for the day? Well here’s a tip kids, write this down.

If you have to ride to the top of a steep hill, on a bike which has only one, very high gear, and you have four heavy bags of groceries to carry up there with you…

Make sure you’ve at least had a couple of beers before you start.

The Grand Ol' Opry

The parental units made it to Sydney a few years before I did. Ma was attending an international conference so while she was listening to lectures and stuff, the old lad was left to explore the city by himself. Being a keen photographer he came home with armfuls of slides and we all got a lot of mileage out of the number of times he'd managed to squeeze the Opera House into the frame. Of course it wasn't until I was there myself, lining up a shot of Sydney's impossibly picturesque harbor, that I realized just how tempting it was to twist ever so slightly to one side and include the Opera House as well.

Every...single...time.

Sydney's Opera House has become such an icon of the land down under that it's hard to imagine there was a time, not so very long ago, when the locals were vehemently opposed to its very existence. Furthermore, given how its location enhances the beauty of this already almost perfect vista, it's astonishing that only a few decades ago, the site upon which it now stands contained nothing more tourist oriented than railroad shunting yards and the city's tram depot.

In the late 1950s the New South Wales Government established an appeal fund to finance the construction of the Sydney Opera House, and conducted a competition for its design. The commission eventually went to renowned Danish architect Jorn Utzon. It was his intent to evoke an image of a ship at full sail, (although more than one wag has remarked on the resemblance to turtles having sex) but what was especially interesting is that the design was arguably beyond the capabilities of engineering of the time. Utzon was forced to spend a couple of years reworking the design and it wasn't until 1961 he resolved the problem of how to build the distinguishing feature - the 'sails' of the roof.

The venture was plagued with cost overruns and there were occasions when the government was tempted to call a halt. By 1966 the situation - with arguments about cost and the interior design, and the Government withholding progress payments - reached crisis point and Utzon resigned from the project. The building was eventually completed by others in 1973.

During my first few days in Australia, the Opera House became a familiar friend, drawn every morning as I was, to its siren call. I often ate breakfast on its steps, lunch too, quite frequently. It was here I enjoyed my first Australian fish and chips (no vinegar, just lemon and 'flake' is apparently, 'shark'.) I read my first letters from home here after 3 weeks on the move and also had the alarming experience of being mobbed by a herd of pre-pubescent girls. It was only later I learned I'd inadvertently placed myself between them and a member of a boy-band called "New Kids on the Block". (I've never had the misfortune to find myself between a mother bear and her cub but I suspect it isn't dissimilar.)

I also enjoyed free concerts, heard political speeches, tried my hand at playing a didgeridoo (I failed) and on one memorable occasion, a buxom wench flashing her boobs for a photo with the opera house as a backdrop. Typically, I was facing the other way and missed it.

But for all the grandeur of the Opera House when viewed from the outside, it's not until one steps indoors that it's possible to realize just what an architectural marvel this is. No less than five theatres hang from the shells which make up the roof, like so much stage scenery. The Concert Hall and Opera Theatre are each contained in the two largest groups of shells, and the other theatres are located on the sides of the shell groupings. In addition there are three other restaurants, six bars, five rehearsal studios and numerous souvenir shops.

The Concert Hall seats 2,679 people and contains the Sydney Opera House Grand Organ, the largest mechanical tracker action organ in the world with over 10,000 pipes. The Opera Theatre, with 1,547 seats, is the main performance space for Opera Australia and is also used by the Australian Ballet Company, while the three other theaters can seat over 1,000 people between them. Unfortunately, the concerts were well outside my backpacker's budget so I'll just need to make an excuse and go back again someday.

Australia has many more readily identifiable symbols; the red sand of its interior, the majestic monolith of Uluru, and of course, the ubiquitous kangaroo and I saw all of those over the next few months. But for an introduction to the lucky country, you can't go wrong with a photo of Sydney harbor.

Just make sure you remember to get the Opera House in it.

Let's hear it for the INS (No Really)

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

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

Although...the lady who greeted me at the door this morning, and explained that she would be conducting my citizenship interview and civics test was, it has to be said, a little...abrupt. Not rude exactly, but I suspected she had an ice-queen somewhere back in her lineage. That is until I almost screwed up on the second question and burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So uhm, can someone explain the Designated Hitter Rule?

A Girl Called Emily

And so we wake to another beautiful day here in Bailey. The sun is lighting up the tops of the trees, the hills are positively glowing and it's impossible not to admit how blessed we are to live here.

But there are no school buses driving down the street this morning. No kids with backpacks standing at the end of their drives. The girls from the house up the streeet aren't outside playing with their dog. Because today isn't just any beautiful morning in the Rockies. Today is different.

Because yesterday an unidentified man broke into a classroom at our little High School and lined the children up against the wall before sending the boys out at gunpoint. Later, he released most of the girls, but kept two behind. Negotiations broke down a few hours later but by the time SWAT team broke in, the gunman had shot himself. But not until after he'd shot one of the girls. A beautiful 16-year old called Emily. Who later died in hospital.

I'm sure there will be a lot of words written and spoken over the next few weeks, as people try to establish what happened. Who was he? What was his motivation? What actually happened in that classroom during those long hours of the standoff.

For me, there's only one question at the front of my mind as I look out at this gorgeous Rocky Mountain morning.

How could this happen here?




May you find peace Emily.

When the Phone Rings in the Night

There are no good phone calls in the middle of the night.

Some are merely annoyances, such as the drunk people in Phoenix who used to call me in the small hours to ask why I wasn't in the bar with them and would never believe they had the wrong number, (ten years earlier I would have gone and met them), or whoever it is that's convinced my home office line is a fax number and insists on trying to contact me during the night.

Then there's the potential-to-be-bad-but-as-it-turns-out-not-really type of call such as when my mother phoned from Scotland at 3am to tell me my Dad had suffered a heart attack. Half asleep, I was busily giving her instructions on loosening his clothing, before she explained that a) as heart attacks go, his was very mild, b) it had happened three days earlier and he was already home from the hospital and c) she hadn't wanted to worry us so she'd waited until she thought it was Saturday morning. (My Mum has challenges with the time difference.)

But, when the phone rang a little after midnight on Sunday and a man introduced himself as a neighbor of Dear Wife's 90-year old Grandmother, we knew it couldn't be good.

Grandma had seemed in fine fettle when we visited last May. A little slower getting around but not bad considering. And her mind still appeared to be sharp so we left feeling confident about her ability to keep living alone. It was later in the summer she began to tell us of the visitors. At first they were comforting, people like her late brother and husband, leading me to speculate that as she was perhaps approaching her time, the walls between the worlds were somewhat thinner than for the rest of us. Then came the people she didn't know, sitting on her couch, talking among themselves but ignoring her. Recently a group of them were selling stolen goods at her back door. The fact that her apartment doesn't have a back door was of little reassurance. She has told them to leave, but still they come.

A retirement home would seem the obvious solution but like many elderly folk, she fiercely guards her independence and resistance is strong. Assisted Living is another idea; where she could continue to live by herself but help would be available if needed. Unfortunately, on a recent visit to check out one such community, Grandma claims she saw a resident face down in his soup in the communal dining hall and refuses to consider the idea further. A succession of in-home helpers have come and gone; all dismissed on one pretext or another.

Until now, there was no reason to consider she was actually incapable of living alone and as DW already had a visit scheduled for next month, we reasoned she could use that to assess the situation and decide upon the appropriate course of action. But then on Sunday night a group of people came through the apartment wall and began threatening her. Fortunately, she was cognizant enough to cross the hall and ask the neighbor, an angel named Gabriel, for help. He in turn, called us. Grandma had already dialed 911 and the police were on their way. It was my fear they may decide she couldn't be left alone and would take her to some institution for observation - a process which would be devastating for her.

So at our request, Gabriel had the officers call us and we were able to reassure them that DW would be on a flight out first thing in the morning. She's there now, and from a phone call last night, it appears Grandma is in good spirits. There's no doubt in her mind however, that the people really did come through her walls and will no doubt return.

Poor Grandma. I have no wish for her to die, but it's my fervent hope she at least retains her dignity to the end.

It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Autumn Within"

Hi! Remember Me?

So it’s been a while, huh? I suppose I could rattle off a whole bunch of excuses as to why The Gunsmoke Files hasn’t been updated in weeks, or updated with new material in even longer, work stuff, pipe band drama, personal headaches and general weariness coupled with a mere 24 hours in each day. But that wouldn’t really achieve anything.

Instead, I should just cut to the chase and say thank you for continuing to check the site for updates. (I’m assuming that if you’re reading this, then you are in fact checking the site.) I also wanted to let you know that the teeny part of my brain which looks after creativity has been giving signals that it’s ready to start work again, which means it’s time for me to put fingers to keyboard.

New Gunsmoke Files are on their way, although I’ve decided to dispense with the tyranny of my self-imposed 1,100 words, every Tuesday, rain or shine. Some anecdotes just don’t fit into such a neat window and I’m tired of trying to make them. Some might be longer, others shorter, as the tale requires. They’ll also appear on different days of the week, as the muse and available time present themselves. But they will be coming.

So again, thank you again for continuing to look in, and watch this space.

Getting There is Half the Fun

Hi everyone,
I know I haven't written anything new for 3 weeks now, and I apologize for that. I'm going through a rough spell right now, with problems at work, and pipe band drama (OK, drama's the norm for pipe band, but this one's a doozy and has the potential to bring it all to a halt). I've hardly been on-line and I'm afraid the muse has, for the moment, left me.

Instead, if you will indulge me, I'm going to rehash a Gunsmoke File from February 2004 which recounts our epic journey from Arizona to Colarado. It's a gesture of support for some dear friends who are undergoing some related, (but far worse) trauma of their own.

Getting There is Half the Fun

Recently I was asked if I had any travel disaster stories. My initial reaction was “yes, loads” but when it came down to it, I realized I’ve had many negative experiences, but none which truly stand out as being terrible. More like minor setbacks than true disasters and with the rosy-tinted benefit of hindsight, most of them were rather fun.

However, if I’d to choose one trip I’d least like to repeat, it would have to be when we moved here from Arizona. That was just plain ugly.

I’d been working in Colorado for a couple of months, while Dear Wife stayed in Phoenix, to handle the house sale. When it was time to move, I flew down on Friday night, anticipating that DW would have all our worldly goods and possessions packed and ready to go. We were scheduled to close on our new house, first thing Tuesday morning so intended to load up and get a couple of hundred miles under our belts by Saturday night. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. She’s something of a pack rat and after 18 years in the house, had found the task somewhat overwhelming so had barely got started. We worked through the night but by the time our helpers arrived on Saturday morning, had still hardly scratched the surface. Leaving them to continue, we went out to collect the hire truck I’d reserved earlier in the week.

Which wasn’t ready. “Nope, sorry, nothing available” said the clerk; making it quite clear he couldn’t care less. So, back home and a session with the Yellow Pages before finding a truck 50 miles across town. It was lunchtime by the time we got back so already we were seriously behind schedule. Next task was to collect the horse trailer, which had been in storage. One of the tires was blown. Not just flat, but completely exploded. Reflecting that on balance, it was better to have happened now than on the road, we decided it would be as well to replace all 4 of them. That neatly filled the rest of the afternoon so the planned Saturday evening departure was a complete write off.

We did sleep for about 4 hours Saturday night and on Sunday (most of) the friends showed up once more for an unscheduled continuance of the process. I never realized just how much stuff we owned and even after leaving a phenomenal amount for the new house owners, it was something of a squeeze when we finally pulled shut the door of the truck. Almost exactly 24 hours behind schedule we waved goodbye to our old life and set off towards that night’s target of Flagstaff, which is almost entirely uphill. With a top speed of around 45-50 miles an hour it was almost midnight when we pulled in.

Up bright and early the next morning and our first challenge was that the moving truck keys were nowhere to be seen. We hunted all over the room, in our pickup truck, the horse trailer and the ground around, before eventually finding them in the ignition. A good job nobody else had found them first. We made pretty good time over the next stretch of the journey and at Santa Fe, decided we had time to pull in and eat a proper lunch. Now Santa Fe is a beautiful town and quite rightly, is a Mecca for tourists from all over the world. So nice in fact, you can’t leave.

We now know that the while I25 does indeed head north after passing Santa Fe, it’s quite definitely an east-west route close to town. Which meant that there was no way to access it from the northern end of the city as we were trying to do. Or at least we would have tried to do if we’d been able to get out of city center. Built in a different age, Santa Fe’s streets are narrow and nowadays, thoroughly traffic choked. No place to be trying to maneuver a 24-foot moving truck when you’re so tired you can barely see. After about 12 circuits of the main plaza and multiple tours of the city’s residential districts (some of the gardens really are spectacular by the way, and you can fully appreciate them when you’re up high) I finally blocked traffic for 20 minutes or so while a friendly native explained the facts of life. After an initial misunderstanding, where I thought I was debating the village idiot (“You want to go south” “No, I want to go north!”) we finally got back on the freeway by going south, just like the man said.

One of our dogs was still in Colorado; DW had the eldest with her, while the youngest was with me in the moving truck. I’m told house moves are just as stressful for animals as they are for humans and in addition, we’d only adopted her a few weeks before I left for Colorado. She hadn’t seen me for weeks, didn’t know me all that well in the first place and now after all these strangers had emptied her house, I’d loaded her into this strange vehicle and was keeping her trapped for hours at a stretch. Perhaps not surprisingly, she began shedding hair at an astonishing rate. So much so that I spent large parts of the journey trying to de-fur my eyes, nose and mouth.

At around 3am we pulled into Pueblo and spent the next 45 minutes searching for a cheap place to stay, where we’d be able to bring the dogs inside without needing a room inspection before checkout. We finally paid $80 for 2 hours sleep and a hot shower and it was worth every penny. Breakfast was eaten at the wheel and after negotiating Denver’s rush hour traffic for the first time and grinding our way up the hill, we finally pulled up outside the realtor’s office with 40 minutes to spare. Only to find the office locked up and empty because the realtor had moved. Fortunately the office next door explained they’d simply moved across the road and we were still able to arrive on time. We looked like death, but we were on time.

Frankly, I have no idea what I signed that morning although should we ever have a child, I don’t believe it will belong to us. I also think I might be married to the village chief’s daughter. However, we must have done something right because after several hours, we were handed the keys to our new home and only a few hours after that, spent the first night, blissfully asleep. Under grubby blankets on the living room floor.

There’s no place like home.

In The Headlights

At the Denver BlogMeet last Saturday, FTS was doing his usual stellar job of promoting my Blog to those who hadn't yet visited. Specifically my first published article, written some 16 months ago, entitled "In The Headlights". At his suggestion, I'm re-posting it this week. Enjoy.

In The Headlights
I saw you up ahead, you and your mate, but only for a moment. I braked but didn’t swerve; stayed in a straight line just like we’re told to do. And if you’d only kept running I would have passed safely behind you. Your mate had already stopped and was safe. It would have been alright. Instead you panicked and turned back the way you came. You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time. And you were no match for me. You didn’t even make much of a noise. But I knew how hard I’d hit you. I knew.

The driver behind me stopped as well and the pair of us walked back together.

"What was it?" he asked. I told him and his face mirrored mine.

I’m not a praying man, but as I made my way along the road I was wishing with all my heart. "Please let it be dead, please let it be dead".

We found you by the side of the road, much further back than I’d thought. You were lying prone and still, curled up as if you were asleep. As if you could be sleeping, here with all those vehicles roaring by only inches from you. I breathed as sigh of relief. Thank goodness, you were dead.

Then you lifted your head and those enormous liquid eyes looked right into my soul. You told me of your pain, your suffering, your fear.

"Why?" you asked, "Why did you do this?"

I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, I really didn’t. I was paying attention, honestly I was. I wasn’t even going fast. It’s just one moment you weren’t there, the next moment you were. And I braked. I was slowing down. But you turned and ran back. And there wasn’t enough time.

Cell phone reception is unreliable up here, but after a few moments hesitation the signal came through loud and clear. The dispatcher was very kind though it was hard for us to talk over the roar of the traffic so she suggested I get back in my car. And I had to leave you, frightened and in pain. I didn’t want to leave you.

"No, I’m not hurt. No, there are no other vehicles involved. Yes, my car is safely off the road." Then we started talking about you, the reason for my call. You were off the main highway, I told her, but in a turning lane. Another vehicle could easily hit you in the dark. I was worried about the additional suffering this would cause you. She of course was concerned for the other vehicle.

"I know this won’t be pleasant" she told me, "but could you drag it to the side of the road?"

"No ma’am" I told her, "I can’t do that."

She hadn’t heard me say you were still alive.

So instead she had me back my car up to you. My car, which had caused you so much misery, was now shielding you, protecting you. In a tragically pitiful way, helping to ensure you suffered no more than you had to for your final minutes in the world.

The local sheriff arrived first. A badge, a uniform, authority. Someone who could take charge. I explained what had happened. I took him to you and I could tell from his face that he was sorry too. I expected him to unclip his gun but instead he pulled out a billy club. A dead weight on a telescopic arm. Could I stand here and watch as he hit you? Break your neck, break your skull? Yes, I would have to watch it. I owed that to you. Squeamish cowardice at this time would be a further insult to the end of your beautiful life. But instead he merely reached forward and gently touched your eyeball. No reaction. Mercifully, you had finally moved on.

Donning protective gloves he carried you off the blacktop and onto the grass verge. I noticed there was litter by your head and absent mindedly, picked it up and took it away. Just a token effort but I wanted your surroundings to be as close to natural as was possible. We had to wait on the State Patrol; apparently you were their jurisdiction. So the two of us checked my car; the first time I’d really looked. A light cover was gone, part of the bumper was missing, the spoiler bent back. Nothing much really. Nothing to show how much the damage had cost you. I pulled the spoiler back into place. I can replace the light cover tomorrow. It would be more than the car’s worth to fix the rest so I’ll need to leave it as is. Which means I’ll see it every day. Which means I’ll see you every day.

State Patrol arrived a few minutes later. He looked half my age, but he carried an air of calm authority I suspect I’ll never have. He’s seen it all before of course, but really at this point, there was nothing more for him to do. I’d to fill out an accident report, which gave me fifteen lines to say what I was able to say in 2. I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you. What else was there to add? That you were beautiful? That you were only in your second or third year? That your eyes were black pools of pain that communicated your feelings to me as clearly as if you spoke my language? That I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my days? I couldn’t write that. So instead, I said what happened. "I saw you. I braked. You turned. I hit you."

"Try not to feel bad." said the sheriff "It happens. It’s part of living in the mountains."

"It’s my first" I told him.

"I’ve hit three. It doesn’t get any easier." He replied.

Business done, it was time to go. To leave you like any other piece of highway debris. In the next few days the county workers will come with a winch and take you away, who knows where. Hopefully you’ll provide food for some other animals, or nourishment for the soil. I took solace from the fact that you of course, were gone. This was just your body; the vehicle you used for getting around during your short time on earth. You’re running free somewhere, beginning the cycle yet again.

You almost made it, I thought you’d made it, but there wasn’t enough time.


This article appeared in Issue # 114 of Mountain Gazette in June, 2005.

The Love of the Game

So it’s over. Three weeks of getting up early to watch television before starting work, setting the VCR for the days I had to be in the office, and trying to avoid listening to the radio on the drive home. Because of course it would have been terrible if I’d learned the result prior to watching the game.

The World Cup of course – Do try and keep up.

I didn’t bring much with me when I immigrated to the US other than a funny accent and a love of football. And that’s football, as in "with the feet". I refuse to use the term "soccer"; that’s what rugby fans call it and you don’t want to get me started on them.

One of the things on my "to do" list is to dig out my parents’ photo albums and find the one taken of me when I was about 6. The one where I’m wearing my very first football kit. Not only is the strip a replica of the one Manchester United wore back then (what was I thinking?) and that’s shameful enough. But even worse, I’ve got my shorts hiked up almost to me oxters. The word ‘cool’ wasn’t around back then, but if it was, I can’t imagine it ever being applied to me.

But anyway, I digress. The point is that once every four years, my life gets put on hold, all other interests and pursuits are neglected and I park my bum in front of the television to watch the world’s finest on display. Of course it doesn’t usually live up to the expectation although the opening rounds are always promising enough. A bunch of third world countries whose players are just happy to be there get to take on the overpaid prima-donnas of the world’s major footballing nations and the result is exciting, free-flowing football with the inevitable upsets. Sadly, by the time we get into the second round, most of the minnows are out and we’re left with the big boys. Such is the nature of knock-out competition that rather than try to score, most coaches prefer to try and avoid being scored against. Tedious, low scoring games are the result.

Not that I care. After four years of American sports, I’m always chomping at the bit by the time the World Cup comes around. I don’t expect the game to ever really catch on here of course. Regardless of the pitiful showing by the US National team, (am I the only one who finds it odd that a country so obsessed with patriotism is unable to instill any sense of national pride in its athletes?) the media, especially talk radio, is determined to prevent anyone from taking an interest. In the weeks prior to the tournie, barely a day went by without us being lectured on what a boring game it was, nobody was interested, blah-de-blah, blah, blah. Alright guys, we get it; you don’t like the game. I don’t like golf, but lots of other people do so I don’t feel the need to badmouth them every chance I get. (OK, well perhaps I do just a little bit.)

Then there's the short attention span of most people nowadays which requires "something to happen" every few seconds just to keep them interested. I’ve tried explaining that it’s the passing, the dribbling and the tackling in football that is the action, while the goals are just the icing on the cake, but what’s the point? These are people who get excited by a 162 game baseball season, or a basketball game where 95% of the scores are meaningless, or football (sic) where there’s a break in the action every 6 seconds. You know who you are.

Of course, the off pitch drama is every bit as enthralling. Thanks to the wonder that is the IntraWebthingy, I get most of my football news from the BBC; which as we Scots like to point out, should really be named the EBC, as in English Broadcasting Corporation, such is the bias they routinely show at this time. England as you may know, once won the World Cup, on their home soil some 40 years ago (by virtue of a dodgy goal, I might add) and the BBC is determined never to let anyone forget it.

For weeks building up to the tournament we’ve been told how the English lions are world-beaters who’d be bringing the trophy home to the birthplace of the game. And you know what? This time I actually fell for it. That is, until I saw them in their opening game and realized it was just the same old, overrated England. And if you're interested enough to read this far, you probably know they stumbled through each game until they met some decent opposition, one of their aforementioned prima-donnas got sent off after a juvenile hissy-fit and they were eliminated on penalties.

As usual.

Fortunately there was a touch of controversy about the sending off, so now, rather than admitting that they are not, and haven’t been in years, a major footballing power, England can spend the next four years happily telling everyone they would have won the World Cup had it not been for the biased referee.

What’s that you say? Sour grapes? Moi? Well perhaps a little. It’s true Scotland decided to sit out this tournament by virtue of not qualifying yet again. And it’s also true that in the last few tournaments for which they have qualified, their track record has been less than stellar and they've never reaching the second round. There has been pain. None greater than during the Argentine World Cup of ‘78.

Despite the coach’s boasts that the cup was theirs, Scotland came out of the gate looking tired and stuttered to a draw against Peru. Defeat at the hands of Iran and the ignominious disgrace of a player being sent home for using drugs meant the campaign turned into a national disaster which left scars on the psyche of every Scottish football fan. The fact that in their third game Scotland took on and beat Johan Cruyff’s Holland, regarded by many as the best team ever to play the game, has largely been ignored by the historians. See me? See ancient wounds?

Which brings me to my last point.

The next World Cup will be held in South Africa, in the year 2010. By which time I shall be almost 48. Which means that by any realistic estimate, this is probably the last time I’m going to get selected to play. So, this is a private message to whoever has the job of coaching Scotland by then.

Hurry up and call me, dammit!

Run for the Border

A recent Gunsmoke File detailed some of my dealings with the fine men and women of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and the trauma which lies therein. In fairness though, it has to be said that no matter how problematic working with those folks might be, it pales in comparison to the challenges of dealing with their cohorts who man the borders of the nation. A group whose apparent frustration at their inability to stem the tide of illegal immigration manifests itself in a desire to make it as difficult as possible for anyone attempt to cross the border by following the rules.

I’ll admit, I deviated from the script somewhat in that I first entered this country from the Pacific, without the security of an onward ticket. My hair wouldn’t have passed muster on a parade ground, my clothes screamed ‘hippie’; and my passport was festooned with the colorful stamps of half a dozen Asian nations, many of them known for their uhm, pharmaceutical industries. But even so, I was in proud possession of a Visa issued by the US Embassy in Singapore and valid for up to 1 year, which by definition guaranteed me entry to the country.

Unfortunately, nobody told the Customs officials at Los Angeles International Airport. I was already in a state of some tension having gone 12 rounds with the booking clerk when attempting to board the plane from Hong Kong. He too, had misgivings about the validity of my Visa and was concerned that should US Customs decline to allow me entry, his airline would be forced to return me to Hong Kong at their expense. I assured him repeatedly that the Visa was issued by the US Government themselves, who employed said Customs Officials, therefore there wouldn’t be a problem and after a lot of wheedling on my part, he finally gave in. However, I suspect that had that flight been overbooked, as was common, I might have been bumped to make way for someone not expected to be back in a couple of days.

After 18 hours on the plane, all I wanted was a shower and a lie down, but instead I’d to run the gauntlet of an array of government officials, each determined to brighten his day by making mine miserable. At least, I think they were all government officials; one might have been the janitor because there were a heckuva lot of people taking turns at going through my backpack. They checked the pocket linings, confiscated my stove’s fuel canisters (which shouldn’t have been on the plane in the first place), took the batteries out of my Walkman, opened the back of my camera (ruining most of my photographs from China – thanks guys) and quizzed me endlessly as to my reasons for visiting Asia.

"Buy many drugs when you were there?" One asked.
"Why yes," I replied "They’re in the top pocket of my bag. Would you like some?"

OK, I didn’t say that. I just kept answering their questions politely until they released me to the next sadist. Finally they conceded that there were no legal grounds to detain me longer and I was released into the Land of the Free™.

It was a few weeks before I encountered Customs Officials again, following a sojourn into Mexico. To encourage trade along the border towns, no Visas are required unless you plan to venture more than 10 miles into the country but as I intended to do just that, I was careful to ensure my documentation was in order. There was nobody on duty as I walked across the border but a couple of days and several miles later, Mexican officials placed a stamp in my passport to show that I had indeed entered the country. The problems didn’t start until I attempted to re-enter the US at El Paso, Texas.

"Why didn’t you have the Mexicans stamp your US Visa as well?" asked the unsmiling official.
"Because nobody told me I was supposed to." I replied.
"Well, your Visa’s no longer valid. We can’t let you in."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" I pleaded, "I can’t stay in Mexico!"
"Go speak to the people in the office. See what they say."

And with that, I was unceremoniously bundled off the bus, which continued into town without me.

Much later, the official behind the desk deigned to acknowledge my existence.

"What are you talking about?" he barked "Why would the Mexicans stamp your US Visa? It’s nothing to do with them."
"I’m just telling you what the guy outside said."
"Get the hell outta here!"

It’s a long walk from the border into downtown El Paso, particularly when you’re carrying a heavy backpack, dusk is falling and you have the only white face for miles around. Still, at least it gave me time to invent various epithets for the customs officials.

Interestingly, I heard some of those soubriquets repeated back to me, by the customs officials when next I encountered this rare breed. This time I’ll admit, I had broken the rules, albeit inadvertently. Simon from Britain and I were exploring the delights of Southern Arizona and wound up one afternoon in the charming hamlet of Douglas. Wandering up to the gate we fell into conversation with the Mexican lady manning her country’s defenses.

"Are we allowed to come across and walk around?" we asked, thinking of the "No Visa unless you’re going further than 10 miles" rule.
"Sure, no problem" she told us.

So, come across and walk around we did. Of course, what we should have done; was ask the Americans if it was OK to do this. As we discovered when we tried to walk back.

Simon at least, had his passport in his pocket. As a legal resident, I had no reason to carry mine so it was safe and sound in a drawer at home. As was the letter from the US Government explaining that my permanent residency status had been approved and I would be receiving my new Green Card shortly. Which meant the only legal documentation I carried was my Arizona driver’s license. Which meant I could easily get locked up for this. Or worse. Much, much worse.

So as the official berated us for our faux-pas, I was frantically reasoning that while Simon’s English accent was a dead giveway, I had yet to open my mouth. Therefore, she didn’t know I wasn’t an American.

Fortunately she ran out of steam after a while and let us go. I’m not sure my John Wayne impression could have held up to the test.

This Gunsmoke File was nominated for in July 2006.

Bailey Days

For 27 years our little hamlet in the foothills of the Rockies has held an annual "Bailey Day"; a festival of fun with music, vendors, great food, a fun run and more. This year my dear friend Scarymarysasserfrass asked me to compose an article for the official Bailey Day Book.

For those of you unfortunate enough not to live here, or those too tightfisted to fork over the $2 for the book; here it is in its entirety.

Welcome to Bailey

I looks in the rear view mirror and sees my eyes starin' back at me like two cherries in a bowl of buttermilk. I'd been on the road for nearly 12 hour straight; ever since two wise-guys in a Vegas back-alley persuaded me to scram out of town. I was anxious to avoid a certain party in Idaho Springs to whom I owed a sum of money so I takes what I thinks is a shortcut and finds myself on some back road called 285. Not only does the altitude nearly set my nose to start bleedin' again, I think I'm gonna run into some grizzly bears or somethin'. I never seen so many trees in my life.

Denver was someplace up ahead so I keep pushin' my old jalopy along the road till I comes to this wide place in the road. "Welcome to Bailey" says the sign. "Yeah right" I thinks. "Bet they don't welcome the likes of me." Next thing I know, I almost drives straight off the road. I looks to my right and sees a giant hot dog starin' back at me. So help me God, a giant hot dog! I been on the road so long I'm whaddyacallit - hallucinatin'. I need coffee and start lookin' around. I wonder if they even have java up here, figurin' maybe the water wouldn't boil or somethin'.

Next thing I sees is steam comin' out from under the hood. Even more than a giant hot dog, steam from the hood is somethin' you never want to see when you're miles from nowhere, trust me on this.

I coast a few hundred yards and rolls into the parkin' lot of this diner on main street. "The Cuthroat Café" they calls it. "Whaddyaknow?" I thinks. "Somebody here must be in the same line of work as me." They even had pictures of fish up on the walls. Ya know, kind of a 'Godfather' reference. "Luca Brasi swims wid da fishes." Nice touch.

I ease my achin' back out of the seat and drags myself inside. The waitress is cute and sassy, just how I like my waitresses. The coffee is hot and strong, which is also how I like my waitresses. I sighs in satisfaction. "If you like coffee, you might also try Mount Bailey Coffee Shack - they make good stuff too." Says this number sittin' next to me.

"I need someone to work on my wheels" I tell him. "Someone who won't get wise and try to pull a fast one 'cause they know I'm not from round these parts. You got any auto mechanics in this town?"

"Well, sure we do." he tells me. "We got Rory & Lynn at Platte River, they'll fix you right up. This was good news so I decided I could take the time for some eats. I slides my behind onto the chair and groan as I feel the bruises under my sharkskin. A souvenir of Vegas.

"You look like you could use a little bodywork there." says this dame at the counter. "You should head up and see Doc Braun at the top of Crow Hill." I'm not sure I fancy some small town saw-bones workin' me over and say so. "No, this guy's good" says my new friend. "You could even get a massage while you're there."

"Bailey has a massage parlor?" I asks with eyebrows raised.
"Massage therapy" she says, settin' me straight. Cecilia works out of Doc Braun's office.
Her or the folks at Bailey Massage and Fitness." Pipes up some character to my left. This sounded promisin'.
"Suppose I wanted to chill here for a couple days" I says, "Is there a roomin' house or anythin', could put me up?"
"Bailey Lodge or Glen Isle" says someone.

I was startin' to like this town.

"What line of business you in, friend?" Asks this hombre wearin' a cowboy hat. I was used to dodgin' this question.
"Insurance" I tells him. I always say insurance - it sounds better than 'protection'. "Know anybody hirin'?"
"Well. We got James and Carrie at Crow Hill Insurance. You might try talkin' to them."
Two different outfits workin' one small town. Who knew there would be that much business. I could see I had a lot to learn. I walked over to the newsstand to pick up a local fishwrap; thinkin' I could get a feel for who the trouble boys in town might be. Turned out there was three papers. High Timber Times, Mountain Connection and The Flume. For a small town there must be a lot of action to keep that many newshawks employed.

Maybe I should stick around. I've a bit of rhino put by; perhaps I can make a go of it here. Now I'm no boozehound you understand, but some things in life are important.
"Any hooch stores around here" I asks no-one in particular.
"Bailey liquor, right across the street." Answers this skirt from across the room. I did a double-take. Now that's what I call a babe.
"Any other hash houses in these parts?"
"There's good eatin' at Crossroads, El Rio, Plantation House and Platte Canyon Grill too."
"I'm thinking I'm in heaven." I says.
"Well cyberspace maybe," she says back. "You can check your e-mail at the Knotty Pine."
Yeah, e-mail, me!
"You goin' to be in town long?" she asks me.
"I think so," I tell her. It sounds like there's a lot goin' on here."
"Oh honey," she says handin' me a copy of the Platte Canyon Chamber Directory, "you haven't even gotten started".

I smiled, and ordered myself another cup of Joe.

"Welcome to Bailey."
Indeed.

Resident Alien Abduction

The above application has been received by our office and is in process, but it has been noted with one or more of the following exception(s).
Missing evidence(s) - Your application was missing evidence(s) that you will need to provide at the time of your naturalization interview.

Now what on earth could that mean, I wonder? The only "evidence" I’d been asked to submit with my Citizenship Application was a photocopy of both sides of my Green Card, two recent photos and a huge wad of cash in check or money order form. I’d made sure that these were all included before sealing the envelope, but as the next line went on to say "You will be notified under separate notice of the necessary evidence(s) that you will be required to bring to your interview. Do not submit any evidence(s) by mail." there’s not much I can do but wait to be told.

I knew this wouldn’t be easy of course; working with the Immigration and Naturalization never has been but it brought back painful memories of when I was first attempting to become a resident of the US.

On the advice of the US Embassy in London, Dear Wife had returned to the USA to file my petition there, while I remained in Britain, awaiting the nod to move. Things went smoothly at first with US immigration approving my application after about 3 months which was par for the course. Unfortunately, this news was never transmitted to the US Embassy in Britain who steadfastly refused to acknowledge my existence.

While nowadays, I would be able to check my status on-line, back then one had to call a long-distance number and be charged premium rates to listen to muzak for 6 or 7 hours (that’s not poetic license – I would begin the call as soon as the lines opened at 9am and sit there until late afternoon) before finally being connected to a person who would go out of their way to be unhelpful for a few seconds before hanging up, often while you were still talking. If you were lucky, the information you gave you was correct, but there was no guarantee of this.

Dear Wife, back on this side was going through similar pain but as the US had done their part, they refused to get involved further. Daily calls to the Phoenix office yielded nothing but stonewalling, while similar entreaties to the embassy in Britain merely racked up my parents’ phone bill. I was in effect, in limbo and there I might still remain if it weren’t for a little known law which requires any US government department to respond to an enquiry from a Congressman’s office within 24 hours of receipt. We enlisted the help of an assistant to our local politician and by the following day, my paperwork was miraculously found on someone’s desk. Two weeks later I was on the plane.

But of course, that was just the beginning.

Like all new migrants to the US, I had to follow a number of procedures as I progressed from Temporary Resident to Long Term Resident to Permanent Resident or the more endearing "Resident Alien". Applications to be submitted, forms to be completed, interviews to be held. That was all fair enough, but what astonishes me to this day, was the lengths the INS went to in order to make this as mind-numbingly difficult as possible.

To begin with, there was nowhere, nowhere one could find out what forms were required to be completed for the next stage. No leaflets, no recordings, no information booklets. The only solution was to sit on hold for the aforementioned 6-7 hours in the hopes that the drone on the end of the phone might tell you before they hung up. doG help you if you didn’t ask the right question (or tried to ask more than one.) They wouldn’t send you the forms, you had to show up at the local INS office for these. In a tidy display rack by the front door? Don’t be absurd. No, in order to receive a simple blank form, it was necessary to take a number and stand in line for, you guessed it, 6 or 7 hours. This just to be handed a form.

Want to know what happened once you’d completed it? Ship it in the mail, right?

Wrong.

Back to the office where after standing in line for 6 or 7 hours, you were allowed to hand it to a clerk, who turned and dropped it into an in-tray. I’m not making this up. From the early hours of the morning, people were standing in a queue stretching down the street with sandwiches and thermos flasks, ready to wait for the entire day simply to ask for a form, or to hand one in. When the clerk took his break, nobody relieved him so the line stopped for 15 minutes. When he took his lunch, it stopped for an hour. If you weren't through the door by a certain time, you got turned away. One time I arrived at the front only to learn that I hadn’t been told of a particular form I should have brought. It would have taken me 2 or 3 minutes to complete and I wanted to do it there and then but the clerk refused to allow this and I was forced to return and stand in line another day.

Fortunately my employers were very understanding and allowed me time off every few weeks as things progressed. Looking around at some of my queue-mates, I could only imagine the lost productivity, lost wages and lost jobs this was causing. By the time my application slowly ground towards permanent status, I was the supervisor of my department with almost 40 people reporting to me. I can’t imagine what would have happened had I allowed them to operate at this level of inefficiency.

Finally the day arrived when Dear Wife and I were ordered to report for an interview; the final step on the road to permanent residency status (just one notch down from the Citizenship for which I’m now applying). Despite having been assured that the movie "Green Card" is pure Hollywood (as long as no money is changing hands and you’re not breaking any other laws, the government doesn’t really care about your motives for marrying) we were prepared for an ordeal.

Instead, the gentleman turned out to be the kindest, politest and most helpful government employee I’ve every encountered, before or since. The whole interview was a pleasure.

Except for when he glanced at my form and saw where I’d given my nationality as "Scottish." He crossed this out and wrote "English", explaining cheerfully "Scotland is part of England".

I realized this man had the power to screw up my life in a million different ways, and as Dear Wife was already kicking me under the table I simply gritted my teeth and muttered.

"OK"

May William Wallace forgive me.

Chewing Gum for the Eyes

"Nah, it's dead easy. You won't have any trouble, trust me."

Of course I should have known better, particularly as these words were coming from an electronics store saleschild (See
"Many Happy Returns"). However, this kid seemed genuinely knowledgeable and helpful; and after all, he had no reason to cause me pain did he? A few hours later I was beginning to wonder.

I'd had misgivings from the get-go, of course. Ever since the picture on our trusty 18-year old TV had taken on a lozenge shape and gradually became smaller and smaller, I knew that this was going to cost me a lot of money and bother. It had seen good service, since long before I'd arrived in the States and considering the amount of use it's had (Dear Wife tends to use TV for background noise) and that it had been dropped from a reasonable height during the move when The World's Most Irritating Dog ™ knocked it off the couch, we didn't really begrudge it anything.

We have an almost equally ancient portable TV, which I won in a raffle many years ago so that was brought down from the bedroom, receiving a field promotion to main TV set. I was fine with this arrangement as I rarely watch the darn thing anyway, but as I said, Dear Wife is something of an addict and she was less than thrilled. So, after weeks of listening to her whine I finally allowed myself to be worn down and agreed that yes, we could dump a chunk of our dwindling savings into a new gogglebox. Anything for a bit of peace and quiet, that's me. And the World Cup was about to start and you can't appreciate the finer points of the beautiful game on a 12 inch screen now, can you?

I figured 3, maybe 4 hundred dollars tops and we'd be in business but as you may have guessed, it's a long time since I last bought a television. Pretty much, that would buy you a shoebox with a hole cut in the front and a puppet inside. No nowadays, TV sets, like apparently everything else, require an investment several times the price of my first car. And if you'd like it to work past 2008, when the whole world will be digitalized, they cost even more.

Dear Wife took copious notes as the saleschild jabbered on in that foreign language they all have. I can't even remember enough of the jargon to make fun of it here, but at one point I had to hold up my hand and ask "You do realize, we're both over forty and haven't the faintest idea what you're on about, right?" But of course, there was no stopping him and after a while, my eyes glazed over so I wandered off to check out the home theaters (which aren't going to be an option until I either win the lottery, or figure out how to rob banks and get away with it.)

Eventually I was called back and asked to choose between several dinner table-sized televisions. This didn't take too long, but naturally we'd only just begun.

"Now, you'll also need RF Cables, Video Cables, Audio Cables, Component Cables; a Monster Power Surge Protector, a kick in the nuts and would you like fries with that?"

By the time we reached the check out, it was all just so many numbers and I wrote the check in a daze. Still, it was exciting being the new owner of a flat screen TV and as we apparently had also bought a DVD player, I was looking forward to being able to watch my movies in the rectangular format in which they were filmed. We even stopped by Target to pick up a couple of DVDs in order to try it out (Apollo 13 for me, some piece of soppy junk for Dear Wife). It was heady stuff.

Unfortunately, pixies were not included in the purchase which meant I'd to complete the set up myself. I was a shade apprehensive about this, my track record with technical stuff not being exactly stellar, but the saleschild assured me it would be a snap. Plus, I've recently sharpened a chainsaw all by myself (albeit under supervision) so I figured I could probably handle this without too much problem.

OK, you already know where this is going, don't you?

Hours later, tired, frustrated and very, very cranky I sat amidst a pile of cardboard, Styrofoam and the remains of dozens of blister packs (oh, there's a special place in hell for whoever invented those fiendish items of torment), no nearer my goal of watching The Godfather in widescreen format. The TV itself worked OK, although the saleschild had warned us we couldn't expect the crystal clear, sharper-than-real-life picture we were enjoying in the store. Our basic satellite service uses low quality cables apparently and it won't be until we junk all our current equipment and upgrade to the nifty (read: expensive) High Definition stuff that we'll get the full benefit of the technology. I wasn't too thrilled about that but could see the logic behind it.

No, the big challenge came when we tried to hook the thing up through the VCR and/or the DVD player. It should have been very simple. The user manual (I can't call it an instruction book - I was assigned text books in college that were smaller than this) even contained the sentence "Connecting a VCR or DVD is very simple."

Pah!

Hooking up the VCR meant everything worked just fine until I hit the play button and received a fuzzy blizzard superimposed with the warning "No Signal". The DVD player on the other hand, worked just fine. As long as we were willing to forego actually viewing the DVD as it's running, that is.

I undid cables, did them up again, removed them from holes and pushed them into other holes. I even attempted to follow the user manual several times but nothing seemed to work. It didn't take long before I was swearing and throwing things across the room but even that didn't help. We've had the darn thing for almost two weeks now and I still haven't had the emotional wherewithal to call the store and ask them to walk me through the process.

And the World Cup went ahead and started without me. And the games are on in the middle of the day. And I have no way to record them.

It's a good job I get to work from home sometimes.

Many Happy Returns

So I’ve finally got myself an I-Pod.

OK, OK it’s not really an I-Pod. They cost several hundred dollars whereas mine was a freebie promotional item, with a corporate logo on it. Even so, it has astonishingly good sound quality, is about the size of a pack of gum and did I say it was free?

Sadly, it didn’t come with an instruction book, but there were plenty of twenty-somethings sitting around the conference room table with me.

"Switch it on by holding down this button here" explained Jassira patiently. "You can download songs to your computer, then save them to the device."
"Just like saving to a floppy disk?" I said enthusiastically, before noticing her blank stare and realizing she didn’t know what a floppy disk was. "OK" I sighed, "Go on."
"Its own memory will hold a few songs, but you’ll want to buy a memory card to store more."

Easy enough, and a couple of days later I could be found staring at a rack of tiny plastic squares in an electronics store near my office.

"So uhm, how many songs would one of these things hold?" I asked the 12-year old salesman hovering at my elbow.
"Oh, about 500." He chirruped.

500 eh? I’m not sure I have more than about a thousand songs on my computer. (The record companies’ jihad against free file swapping services put a crimp on my rapidly expanding music collection.) So, I reasoned, while it might be pricier than I expected, 500 should easily cover my needs.

Except of course, it didn’t store 500 songs. What the little twerp forgot to tell me that this all depended upon the file format. Mp3, which makes up the bulk of my pirated collection, is the largest file size and as a result, the memory card I’d bought would only hold about 250 before crapping out.

Another thing I discovered was that my little freebie player isn’t exactly overloaded with features. Among other things, it’s unable to sort songs by artist or folder; one can only scroll through them one at a time. I did however learn that the device’s own memory could store almost 150 songs and as saving and deleting was a snap, I reasoned it made more sense to dispense with the memory card altogether, and simply download whatever songs I felt like listening to before leaving the house.

Which also meant I could get a refund on the wad of cash I’d plunked down for the memory card. I checked the receipt and learned that all items could be returned within 30 days provided they still had the original packaging and were in ‘like new’ condition. No problem there so I was back at the store a little less than 2 hours after I left.

"I’m sorry, I can’t process the return" said the clerk.
"Oh, why not?" I asked.
"You paid by check so we’ll need to wait 2-3 days before giving you the refund." (Yes, I still like to use a check book. As you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t spent much time on technology’s cutting edge.) However, the explanation sounded reasonable so I put everything back in my desk before returning the following week.

"I’m sorry, I can’t process the return" said the clerk.
"Oh, why not?" I asked.
"You paid by check so we’ll need to wait 7 business days before giving you the refund."
"Really? The last guy said 2-3 days."
"Nope, 7 business days – sorry." He said; although he didn’t sound very sorry at all.

So back I went, on the 8th business day.
"I’m sorry, I can’t process the return" said the clerk.
"Oh, why not?" I asked.
"The receipt says (Dear Wife’s name) – that’s not you."
"No, that’s because her name appears first on the check, look." I showed him my check book.
"I’m sorry; she’ll have to be present for us to issue the refund."
"We live 50 miles away. Are you seriously telling me she’ll need to drive all the way in just because my name is second on the check I’ve just shown you?"
"Yes, I’m sorry Sir."
You know how some people can say "Sir" and make it sound like "You stupid piece of crap."? That was how he said it.

"Not to worry" I told Dear Wife. "You’re going to Safeway on Tuesday and the electronics store has a branch in the strip mall. You can return it there."

Except of course, she couldn’t.

"I’m sorry, I can’t process the return" said the clerk.
"Oh, why not?" Dear Wife asked.
"The package has been opened."
"Well of course it’s been opened. That’s how he learned it wouldn’t do what your salesman told him it would. And anyway, the receipt says ‘All items can be returned within 30 days provided they still have the original packaging and are in ‘like new’ condition’"
"But it’s been opened, so it’s not in ‘like new’ condition."

I was more than a little ticked off when she told me.

"Let’s have you come with me to the original store." I said "We’ll sort this out once and for all."

Dear Wife had to come downtown this week on a different errand, which is fortunate as we’re getting dangerously close to the thirty day mark and I had no intention of getting stuck with a memory card I didn’t want. She called my office when she arrived and the pair of us set off for the electronics store together.

I was pumped.

No crap this time. No excuses, no flannel, no weaseling. I would start out polite, but if there was any nonsense, I would switch straight into customer-from-hell mode. I’ve dealt with enough of them in my time to know how it’s done and I was loaded for bear.

The clerk whistled as he entered the information in the computer. I kept myself tense, alert, breathing steady and even but poised like a mountain lion ready to strike. I could take him, I reasoned. Drag his skinny little butt over the counter and bludgeon him to death with the display of cell phone holsters. Just give me the signal.

"There we go Sir" he said, breaking my reverie. "If I could just have you sign the return slip, we’ll be all set."

And so we were.

Moments later we were back out in the sunshine, refund in hand. No muss, no fuss. He didn’t even want to see Dear Wife’s ID.

"So you didn’t need me to be here after all?" she asked.

"Oh, I don’t know" I replied. "That little bugger might have been stronger than he looked."

Cruelty Free Fishing

Raven is competent at most things and does have some genuine experience as a fisherwoman under her belt so when she offered to get me started with my angling career, I accepted with grace.

I’ve had all the gear for some months now; since the beginning of last winter in fact. However as I’ve explained, standing up to me goolies in ice water doesn’t appeal and I’ve been depressingly busy for the last few weekends so here we are at the end of May and I’ve yet to get the stuff wet. The traditional holiday weekend rain didn’t appear to be materializing and the lake was still open despite a brief-but-nasty local wildfire so after a quick lunch, I loaded rod, reel, tackle box, fishing vest, cooler and Wiley the dog into the car and set off for Raven’s house.

The first step was to load line onto reel and as I don’t recall experiencing any challenges loading line onto reel the last time I owned a fishing rod, some (clears throat) years ago; I suspect it was already on when I bought it. I assumed this would be easy but experienced my first pang of concern when Raven’s SO, ‘storm took one look and said.

"Oh, you’ve bought one of those reels."

By "one of those reels" I learned he meant "open faced reels" whereby the line is wound onto the spindle with the aid of a wee hinged bar called a bail. A manly reel, as opposed to a "closed faced reel" where everything is enclosed – the type favored by amateurs and 7-year old girls.

One of those reels or not, we pushed on, emboldened by the assistance of the instruction book.

"Attach line to reel" it said. Well there you go – can’t get much more straightforward than that. So, attach line to reel we did and in no time Raven was winding furiously while I unrolled yard after yard of nylon thread from the spool. Everything was going swimmingly until we made the mistake of stopping to check our progress and for no reason at all, the line decided to spring back off the reel at a speed much greater than it had gone on. In less time than it takes to type, Raven was holding an armful of tangled twine and looking bewildered.

No matter, this gave me the chance to try out another piece of new equipment; a rather nifty pair of folding scissors and before long we had the snarl trimmed off.

"Before you unwind the remaining line and start over, this might be a good time to practice casting." Suggested ‘storm helpfully.

Good idea that, so after fastening a weight to the business end, we all made our way down off the deck to the open driveway.

"Watch me get it stuck in a tree now." I said; joking of course. The nearest tree was 50 feet away and obviously out of range. So, it was with some surprise I saw the line soar into its highest branches and secure itself there forever. Or at least, until the tree falls over for no amount of pulling, yanking or twisting would free the damn thing. I suspect some squirrel is still massaging the back of its head and wondering "What the hell was that?"

The day was slipping away but eventually we had a good length of line on the reel, along with a new weight and a hook and were bowling up the road to the lake. Quite sensibly, ‘storm decided to avoid any further involvement so it was just me, Wiley, Raven and of course, the fish. And most of the population of Colorado. Not only was most of the shoreline occupied, these people looked like they knew what they were doing. Anxious to find a spot where we could screw up without anyone noticing, we selected a place between the family with toddlers (no competition there) and the group of old folks with tons of gear and professional looking hats (maybe they would take pity and show us how to get started).

My first cast was a beaut. Way, way out over the lake almost beaning a duck in the process. You would think after a cast like that the fish would have been climbing over themselves to jump on the hook, but no, reeling in the line revealed that all I had caught was some straggly looking weed, which I suspect stuck just near the shore. Not to worry, I drew back and cast again. And again. And again. No fish.

As it turned out, that was the least of our worries. This darn line was making it clear it had no intention of remaining on the reel any longer than it had to and whenever the bail was open, it would spiral off into a ball of confusion. I eventually learned the art of snapping the bail closed as soon as the cast was complete, but not before several yards of line had sprung off and made friends with the nearby bushes. What a royal pain in the patoot that turned out to be and I was grateful to have Raven there to help me untangle things. I was less grateful to have Wiley there because the moment she saw us distracted, she would jump up and hop into the lake. She doesn’t smell too good at the best of times and wet she’s insufferable so we spent a lot of time yelling and causing chaos while the other anglers attempted to ignore us.

After a while you begin to wonder if you really want to catch a fish anyway. Let’s face it; fish are rather ugly creatures. It’s one thing if you're scuba diving on some tropical reef where they’re all psychedelically colored and cool looking, but their cold water cousins tend to have expressions that are invariably sour or grumpy looking. That or just plain angry. Maybe somebody should check why that is.

So we cast, and reeled in, cast and reeled in, untangled, cursed at the dog, tripped over and dropped things for the rest of the afternoon in blissful contentment. Remember the toddlers and the old folks? They spent their time reeling in fish after fish, with the youngters holding the lead until the end. Us? Well, we caught a lot of weeds, lost a lot of bait, accidentally threw the rod in the water on one cast and snarled somebody else’s line on another. Not the most successful fishing trip ever.

But who cares. There was leftover shepherd’s pie for tea.

Damn you, Green Mountain!

Green Mountain, near Morrison Colorado isn’t one of the loftier peaks in the Rockies. The top is around 800 feet higher than the base and it’s only because the latter is a mile above sea level that it qualifies as a "mountain" at all. Sitting on the edge of the prairie it’s a mere wrinkle in the landscape before the foothills begin and the real Rocky Mountains get underway.

Even so, being handy for metro Denver it’s a popular haunt for local mountain bikers, the ranks of whom I’ve recently joined. My guide book describes the trail as "Ideal for beginners, as long as they don’t mind a bit of a climb." As it happens, I’ve been blessed with strings of spaghetti instead of legs, so am no great fan of climbing but I figured I could handle "a bit". After all, hadn’t I once made it to the top of Hardknott Pass in the English Lake District on my trusty 10-speed, an achievement that defeated most cars for the first few decades of motoring? Admittedly, that was a fair few years ago and I’m having more trouble than I care to admit getting back into shape but even so, how hard could it be?

Very hard as it turns out.

Not in a technical sense; the trail was smooth and manicured with none of the roots and rocks which have tormented me so while grinding uphill on my previous rides. However, the guide book had failed to impart an adequate sense of just how steep the climb was. Oh not for other people you understand, I was passed by several pedallers including one guy who looked like he’d died some time ago (and even he was breathing easily.) But me, I was in bottom gear before I was two hundred yards out of the parking lot and trying not to think about the sight of the trail winding up into the sky and the tiny dots that were my fellow bikers.

As part of the transition from road to mountain biking I’ve had to learn not to pull up on the handlebars while climbing; this having the effect of de-weighting the front wheel and lifting it off the ground. Instead the trick is to pull back on the bars, keeping the weight over the front wheel. But not too much weight, or the back wheel loses traction and spins in the dirt – see how hard this is? I was pulling back so fiercely I’m pretty sure I was dragging myself back down the hill. Still, on and on I ground despite receiving no help at all from my legs, who tend to be rather selfish at the best of times. They made their displeasure known by sending sheets of pain through every muscle to which they had access. Just when I thought the agony could get no worse, I made the mistake of glancing once more at the path ahead. A new curve had opened up showing the summit to be even further away than I’d originally thought.

My legs stopped turning of their own volition.

I sucked air for some time causing a concerned biker to stop and check on me.

"Are you OK?" he asked "Did you have a breakdown?"

"Nope, just can’t get up the hill." I told him.

He gave me an odd look, as well he might. Here I was astride a very expensive and well made mountain bike - a bike to make the most serious mountaineer drool. And yet I couldn’t make it up this beginner’s trail. What was up with that? Still, I’m plenty used to looking like an idiot so resisting the urge to invent a cover story about how I’m in rehab from some dramatic but crippling disease, I merely smiled weakly and watched him push on.

Once my breathing was back under control I made a half-hearted attempt to restart but it was obvious I wasn’t making it to the top today. Instead I contented myself with tootling around the base of the hill along with the kids on tricycles although even that had some challenging rises of 10 feet or more. Soon I was back at the car, munching on an energy bar and wishing I’d had the foresight to splatter my legs with mud so I’d blend in with the other hard cases standing around.

Still, I wasn’t beaten. This was an opportunity for a spot of character building and I vowed to return and tackle this hill again. I could come after work I reasoned, two or three times a week if necessary and push myself harder each time. If I could get a little bit further up the hill on every outing, I’d soon have it beat. Sure, it would be tough going but what a good exercise it would be. My leg muscles might be atrophied right now, but in time they’d develop and pretty soon I would laugh (ha, ha, ha, hah!) at such a trifling hill as this. You just watch. Why, I’ll start this very Tuesday!

Of course I didn’t. Two out of town conferences and a family visit to California got in the way, but I did make it back last Thursday for the rematch.

I’d eaten a solid breakfast of a bowl of oatmeal, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana. I had me headphones on with rock music a-blaring. I was wearing my favorite orange T-shirt and my lucky socks. Never mind this "a little bit further" crap; it was the top or nothing. I was invincible. This was to be my day.

Unfortunately, my legs didn’t get the memo.

"Sod off! Sod off! Sod off! We’re not doing this!" they yelled mutinously. Muscles I didn’t even know existed started to get into the act and my entire lower body was a riot of colorful pain. The PB&J started doing a polka with the oatmeal and banana and before long the bike too, started to rebel.

"Well if you’re not going to give me any support, I’m not going to do the work myself" it said and with a wobble, came to a halt. I doubt if I’d even made it half the distance I covered last time.

Oh the humiliation. At least there were fewer people to see me turn and head back down. But, once more I vowed to return and try again. And again, and again. And I’ll keep trying until I beat the bloody thing.

Perhaps if I wear my blue T-shirt…

Motorcycle Diaries

"Do you have the brakes on?" I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the torrential rain.
"It doesn’t make any difference!" Michael shouted back. "Look, brakes on, brakes off!"

It was no surprise that the motorcycle’s brakes were ineffective. I harbored no doubts about their mechanical efficiency, you understand. It’s just that the tropical storm had turned the road surface into river of mud and rocks and whether the brakes were engaged or not, we were being swept down the hillside with only gravity as our guide.

The day had started off so well too.

Michael of "Oh Rats!" fame) and I were enjoying a few days R&R on an island in the middle of Indonesia’s Lake Taupo. At the time, I was recovering from a bout with a rather nasty intestinal parasite and while I won’t gross you out with the details, let’s just say I felt very homesick for western plumbing. Over the course of a week, I’d lost around 15 pounds from my already scrawny frame so wasn’t at my usual Olympian peak. However, a couple of days of sleeping, playing chess, reading, and enjoying the afternoon thunderstorms from the sanctuary of the palm frond roofed restaurant had done wonders for my constitution and I was now ready to get back out and explore.

Car ownership isn’t too common in rural Indonesia and motorcycles are far more ubiquitous. The law requires helmets to be worn by the driver but not passengers and it’s common to see a whole family on one bike; Dad piloting the craft with mum sitting sidesaddle behind; one or two kids behind her with baby lying on the gas tank holding the handlebars and sporting a huge grin. Many people, particularly the younger guys will offset the monthly payments by renting out their steeds to tourists like us.

Being a couple of manly biker outlaws we naturally planned to hire one each, but a late start to the day coupled with a leisurely breakfast meant that by the time we were ready to hit the highway, there was only one bike to be found. No matter, it was a new-ish looking machine and appeared powerful enough to handle us both. So, after a few minutes haggling, currency was exchanged and we wobbled off down the road, a latter day Hopper and Fonda in search of adventure. That came some 10 miles out when the back tire went flat.

The next town was some three miles away, which is quite a distance when you’re pushing a motorcycle. We took turns, but it wasn’t long before the ever present humidity had us sweating buckets and it was with some relief that we saw two guys in pick-up truck stop to offer us a ride. Except they weren’t offering, they were selling. For a sum equivalent to about a month’s wages for the average Indonesian and about 10 times the amount we were carrying. A full and frank exchange of views took place and we agreed on a more realistic sum. The four of us hoisted the bike into the bed and while Michael rode along (to make sure we saw the bike again), I completed the journey on foot. Even though the town consisted of about six buildings, one belonged to a mechanic who had the flat repaired by the time I arrived and we were soon back on the trail.

The next bit of fun came a few miles further when we came to a bridge. "Bridge" as in "two parallel lengths of wood about the width of railroad ties but three times as long, stretched across a ravine". Another reason not to own a car but as this was the only road around the island, we were going to have to cross it somehow. Fortunately, a group of young entrepreneurs sitting by the road had just the solution.

"We take you across, no problem!" they advised us, while quoting their price.

This was extortionate and as with the pick-up driver, I began some aggressive re-negotiation. While this was taking place, Michael took a few tentative steps out on the plank, before returning to suggest I reconsider their offer. Noticing for the first time just how narrow the wood was, and after checking out the drop below, I conceded he was right and with a sigh, handed over the cash. From the expression on the faces of our young friends, it was obvious this was how the procedure usually played out. I have to say though, any resentment I felt was quickly assuaged as I watched the skill with which this kid steered our bike over the chasm. I felt nervous simply walking over and am sure if I’d been attempting to push a motorcycle, a dunk in the river would have been inevitable.

The day was getting on and we were some distance from home when we first noticed the ominous thunder clouds which had been gathering to our rear. A soaking looked on the cards so we checked the map to determine our options. No shelter was apparent on this side of the island but a narrow line indicated a short cut we could take over the center and hopefully back to what passed for civilization by the time the storm hit. Of course, you know there’s no such thing as a short cut. The road we’d taken turned out to be a narrow, winding pass which took us up, up and further up into the clouds. We were just about at the summit when the rain began.

Growing up in the Northwest of England, I’m no stranger to rain but nothing truly prepares one for the force on an equatorial thunderstorm. In no time visibility was reduced to a few feet while the force of the deluge pushed our heads down into our t-shirts. There was nowhere to go but down although it was soon obvious Michael had very little control over the bike. Before long the road itself began to move beneath us and like any other piece of flotsam, we slid and slithered down the hillside. There comes a point where you simply can’t get any wetter and it was about that time we both began to giggle. Chuckles turned to laughter and soon we were hooting and roaring hysterically as we tumbled, bounced and fell in the slop.

Some time later we found ourselves a café and sloshed inside in search of a hot drink. There we sat and dripped mud onto the floor while a party of Dutch tourists looked down their noses in disgust.

I turned to Michael and remarked “Yep, now we know how the Hell’s Angels must feel.”