If Texas exceeded stereotypes, then New Mexico lived up to them. To a tee. Barely a century into being, New Mexico is best defined simply by what it is, a desert willing itself into being by sheer persistence.
Best known for some of its most famous features - the junction of Route 66 and the Pan American Highway and that Bugs Bunny kept taking wrong turns at Albuquerque - there is little else going for this land-locked state.
At first glimpse there is little to distinguish it from north-west Texas - the area true, fiercely proud, Texans call the armpit of their state. Oil rigs dominate the desert, and near-abandoned towns selfishly cling to existence from out of the pale yellow sands and scrub. It is here that tumbleweed may just outnumber the cars that dodge the browning plant as it bounds across the roads, playing chicken with the fearless motorists, he'll bent on their destination.
But this is the land of the Pentecostal and the Episcopalian, where creationist roadsigns decrying Darwin almost outnumber fast food advertising. It is also, or perhaps fundamentally, Indian land. It is the land of the great spirit and the great Indian Reservation Casino - where the old, the feeble, the infirm and the poor can lose what little they have. Certainly give us your tired, your poor and your huddled masses and we will keep them entertained with blinking lights and the sound of the jackpot (pre-recorded because a good casino won't make a habit of paying out).
Just across the southern border, amid a return to Spanish signage, lies Carlsbad. Gateway to the Carlsbad Caverns National Park, the town is nothing more that a fuel and food stop.
The caverns, however, are different. The fence line of the park presents a portal to a different world as featureless desert gives over to rolling hills and picturesque valleys filled with pale green shrubbery. The Knights of Nee would be pleased.
Perched on a windswept hillside we huddle, chilled beyond the bone, as the visitor centre opens for warmth and coffee. We hear the tours of the world below are also good, so we pay our hard earned and descend to the cavern floor a way below.
The atrium to the caverns is surreal. It is dark and cool and humid. It may also be the only natural underground environment with a gift-shop, restaurant and clean restrooms. Where there is a buck to be made...
Beyond, however, is evidence of an active earth as evolved as any living species on this planet. Once hardened rock, then an underground lake and finally the expansive caverns that we are in, they are big enough to house Notre Dame cathedral and then some. Eons in the making and beautiful beyond words, it is difficult to believe that such awe could have been beneath the feet of ranchers for a century before discovery - and prompts thoughts about what else lies below us.
Back on the desert floor we make our way west again, to Alamogordo and the White Sands National Park. A tourist town as the gateway to the White Sands, Alamogordo is that in name alone. A strip of asphalt, with some side "roads" and the obligatory chain restaurants, the sole shining like is the bookstore/cafe that makes passable coffee.
Similarly the White Sands National Park is a conundrum. It has ecological value as the remanent of a great, ancient gypsum undersea mountain range. Now, it is sand dunes. In a desert. With nothing else around it... The irony is either deliberate or naive. Nevertheless, an hour of tobogganing on the dunes was fun and enough for us to have experienced the park and check another off our only partially adhered to list.
At night we find a campground at the mouth of Dog Canyon and are so pleasantly surprised at the find. Sitting slightly above the desert floor, the campground gives us the best view of the basin and, the following morning, a much needed walk up the canyon to some incredible landscapes. Unsung gem of New Mexico.
Onto Albuquerque and, ensuring that we turn left and not right, we stop for the night in the car park of an Indian Casino. Using their restrooms, we are depressed by the sheer magnitude of the pokies (slot machines) occupying the gambling floor. It is vibrant, offensive and depressing. But the bathrooms are clean, so we're happy.
At a movie (Date-night, NM) we are surprised by the level of security, but then remember past events...
The following morning we visit the university district and fall in love with this town. Once you look past the desert and into the lives of the people and where and how they live then the stark beauty of some of these "small" south-western towns comes sharply into focus, and perspective, and we find ourselves appreciating and loving their lifestyle. It proves that, if nothing else, that oases do exist.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Not Alone in the Lone Star State
If other countries in our trip so far have been full of contradictions, then the star of the south simply exceeded stereotypes. In a vast area, we were never alone. In a state so famous for its oil production, renewable energies were obviously being taken up. In a desert, we were surprised to find oases.
Oil, fittingly, framed our time in the Lone Star State, but remarkably only in the first day and then the final hours. We crossed into Texas from Louisiana, via Sabine Pass, and it was immediately obvious that the black gold was one of the key drivers of this economy. Sabine Pass, Port Arthur and Orange are oil towns, and they don't let you forget it. Massive refineries sit alongside massive oil tankers, which sit alongside nature reserves. Here the oil well is king, and the locals think nothing of the irony of drilling for oil in a wildlife refuge - and will even defend the method of mining as "low impact." A stink hangs in the air, heavy with petroleum fumes and a haze of distopia. It is easy to see this place as the terminus of humanity, where our civilisation will end once the oil runs out, and as a consequence what it will look like. It is hard to imagine how people live and work in this environment, but they do, and the area surrounding the refineries is staggeringly beautiful. Heart-achingly so. It is easy to weep here, for what once was and what, seemingly inevitably, will be.
Similarly the road out of Texas reminded us of how this state functions. Microscopic "towns" exists solely to extract that compressed remains of the last species to dominate this planet, process it and ship it. It is here that the solar-powered streetlamp stands guard against the oil well and burners - a lone soldier holding back the hordes that have come and, are now, going.
However Texas refuses to be defined by its borders. What lies between is something that confounds anyone who believes that they know this state.
Putting the petrochemical plants behind us, we march onwards into Austin, via Galveston and Houston. Galveston exists as the coastal playground of Houston, and the once vital port for commercial exports from the republic. Nowadays, it is something else. Rundown is not the right word, it is certainly preserved, but it feels like a town of sometime importance that has lost its means for existence. The giant civic building towers over single story homes and businesses that persevere for the sake of perseverance.
Houston exists, seemingly, for the traffic police desperately attempting to maintain order on the fly-overs and for NASA.
But Austin. Austin is an oasis of charm, liberalism and good-naturedness. A Democrat stronghold in deep Republican territory, a "young" city in an ageing state and somewhere to find good food, great bars and cool live music. It is a city like Melbourne, if Melbourne was ever pleasantly warm for longer than five minutes.
On the edge of town the McKinney Falls State Park is our home for the night, and the ranger on duty provides us with the best example of southern hospitality that we have experienced to date. A late entrant into the Civil War, Texas is nonetheless distinctively southern, and proudly so. But the people are also proudly Texan, citing the republic as their home, not the state. If that's confusing to anyone else, don't worry. We spent a full afternoon in the state museum unravelling the rich history of the Mexican province turned republic turned state and are still only slightly clearer on who a Texan wants to be. Begrudgingly part of the civil war, if only to maintain the employment status quo of her slave population, then begrudgingly part of the union, if only for protection against the rampaging Mexicans.
In Austin you can eat genuine Mexican food, not Tex-Mex, and sample Mescal from a genuine Mexican in a cool bar converted from a car yard while holding long conversations with people you met a few minutes ago, and now can't remember.
Austin is a liveable city.
Fort Stockton is not a liveable city. Our van breaks down ten miles from the town that claims to be a desert oasis, but is so only in name. Wholly evacuated at several points in its history, we spend the night there only to repair the van.
South of Fort Stockton, over the fantastically named Six Shooter Draw, lies Big Bend National Park. Hugging the border with Mexico, the Rio Grande, Big Bend becomes our second National Park. Acres of hectares amid the Chihuahuan desert surrounding the Chisos mountain range are far more appealing than they sound. Here it is hot, energy sapping heat beats upon you from all directions and it is all that you can do in the early afternoon to set up the camping chair and pull out a book.
But beyond the pages of The Twelve the park calls and trails that lead off into the desert remind you that this is a living and breathing park.
A walk to the canyons along the Rio Grande remind us that Mexico is a matter of metres away and, in this border paranoid nation, only a swim away. Here there is no turning back the boats, as there are no border patrol officers to do the turning back. It is a matter of trust, and the souvenirs placed along the trail by the Mexicans of Boquillas are evidence of the goodwill between the nations at this section of the border.
Big Bend is a park of relaxing hot springs following desert walks and cooling river swims following canyon trails. It is simply beautiful, remarkable in its existence and a place of simply, understated, wonder that defies that which defines it.
The same can be said for Texas as a whole.
Oil, fittingly, framed our time in the Lone Star State, but remarkably only in the first day and then the final hours. We crossed into Texas from Louisiana, via Sabine Pass, and it was immediately obvious that the black gold was one of the key drivers of this economy. Sabine Pass, Port Arthur and Orange are oil towns, and they don't let you forget it. Massive refineries sit alongside massive oil tankers, which sit alongside nature reserves. Here the oil well is king, and the locals think nothing of the irony of drilling for oil in a wildlife refuge - and will even defend the method of mining as "low impact." A stink hangs in the air, heavy with petroleum fumes and a haze of distopia. It is easy to see this place as the terminus of humanity, where our civilisation will end once the oil runs out, and as a consequence what it will look like. It is hard to imagine how people live and work in this environment, but they do, and the area surrounding the refineries is staggeringly beautiful. Heart-achingly so. It is easy to weep here, for what once was and what, seemingly inevitably, will be.
Similarly the road out of Texas reminded us of how this state functions. Microscopic "towns" exists solely to extract that compressed remains of the last species to dominate this planet, process it and ship it. It is here that the solar-powered streetlamp stands guard against the oil well and burners - a lone soldier holding back the hordes that have come and, are now, going.
However Texas refuses to be defined by its borders. What lies between is something that confounds anyone who believes that they know this state.
Putting the petrochemical plants behind us, we march onwards into Austin, via Galveston and Houston. Galveston exists as the coastal playground of Houston, and the once vital port for commercial exports from the republic. Nowadays, it is something else. Rundown is not the right word, it is certainly preserved, but it feels like a town of sometime importance that has lost its means for existence. The giant civic building towers over single story homes and businesses that persevere for the sake of perseverance.
Houston exists, seemingly, for the traffic police desperately attempting to maintain order on the fly-overs and for NASA.
But Austin. Austin is an oasis of charm, liberalism and good-naturedness. A Democrat stronghold in deep Republican territory, a "young" city in an ageing state and somewhere to find good food, great bars and cool live music. It is a city like Melbourne, if Melbourne was ever pleasantly warm for longer than five minutes.
On the edge of town the McKinney Falls State Park is our home for the night, and the ranger on duty provides us with the best example of southern hospitality that we have experienced to date. A late entrant into the Civil War, Texas is nonetheless distinctively southern, and proudly so. But the people are also proudly Texan, citing the republic as their home, not the state. If that's confusing to anyone else, don't worry. We spent a full afternoon in the state museum unravelling the rich history of the Mexican province turned republic turned state and are still only slightly clearer on who a Texan wants to be. Begrudgingly part of the civil war, if only to maintain the employment status quo of her slave population, then begrudgingly part of the union, if only for protection against the rampaging Mexicans.
In Austin you can eat genuine Mexican food, not Tex-Mex, and sample Mescal from a genuine Mexican in a cool bar converted from a car yard while holding long conversations with people you met a few minutes ago, and now can't remember.
Austin is a liveable city.
Fort Stockton is not a liveable city. Our van breaks down ten miles from the town that claims to be a desert oasis, but is so only in name. Wholly evacuated at several points in its history, we spend the night there only to repair the van.
South of Fort Stockton, over the fantastically named Six Shooter Draw, lies Big Bend National Park. Hugging the border with Mexico, the Rio Grande, Big Bend becomes our second National Park. Acres of hectares amid the Chihuahuan desert surrounding the Chisos mountain range are far more appealing than they sound. Here it is hot, energy sapping heat beats upon you from all directions and it is all that you can do in the early afternoon to set up the camping chair and pull out a book.
But beyond the pages of The Twelve the park calls and trails that lead off into the desert remind you that this is a living and breathing park.
A walk to the canyons along the Rio Grande remind us that Mexico is a matter of metres away and, in this border paranoid nation, only a swim away. Here there is no turning back the boats, as there are no border patrol officers to do the turning back. It is a matter of trust, and the souvenirs placed along the trail by the Mexicans of Boquillas are evidence of the goodwill between the nations at this section of the border.
Big Bend is a park of relaxing hot springs following desert walks and cooling river swims following canyon trails. It is simply beautiful, remarkable in its existence and a place of simply, understated, wonder that defies that which defines it.
The same can be said for Texas as a whole.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
New Orleans State of Mind
So much exists in the collected awareness of what New Orleans, the Big Easy, is, or is idealised to be, that it is difficult to arrive in town without any preconceived notions of Cajun cool. The French Quarter, cool jazz, Bourbon Street and gumbo, streetcars and levees, Hurricane Katrina and the Saints. It is the epitome of cool and relaxed America, a city so un-American in its Frenchness, that it has become something of national pride.
But there is something else to NOLA, a seething underbelly that is a mix of both unspeakable poverty, absolute desperation and celebrated depravity, that make this city one of the most human in the US.
Arriving in town, with views of the refurbished Superdome looming over us, we take the wrong turnoff and end up on the street where we're staying, just the wrong end. For anyone who is yet to visit the US, streets here are long. It is not uncommon to see a house with the street number 1200 - or higher. One end of a street could be one of the most affluent in the country, while the other end is usually on fire. That was certainly the case for us, as we were heckled and abused driving in simply because we had a car with four wheels - and our van is by no means flash. But that was the other end of the street to where we're staying.
Walking the 15 minutes along St Charles street to the French Quarter, you're immediately immersed in everything New Orleans claims to be. Streetcars with clanging bells clatter past old American mansions, while American Oaks drips with vines and gas lights on porches flutter all day. Then a beggar will harass you because he fought for this country and you haven't given him any money.
As a side note, the right to ask people for money - beg - has just been made legal in New Orleans, and the local beggar population uphold their civic duty to inform you of this legislative change.
The French Quarter, at first glance, is a window to the history of the Deep South. Expecting old terrace houses, balconies sagging under the weight of flower pots and the occasional clump of Mardi Gras beads, we are not disappointed. From Canal Street east exists rows of ordered, and orderly-unordered home almost falling onto the street.
The high levee on the banks of the Mississippi give over to the ordered Jackson Square - celebrating the famed civil war General - and the high tourist area. A bland coffee at the crowded Cafe du Monde has achieve legendary status despite itself and street vendors verge on harassment in an effort to eek out a living in the consumer country.
But down the road a contrast in the French Market as casual, cool cafes oozing the sounds of the house jazz band serve up traditional Cajun cuisine with a smile and a joke and a mix of American attention to service and the routine that defines servers. "Good morning/afternoon, my name is ____ and I'll be your server today", "Our specials today are ____", "Here's the cheque, no hurry, when you're ready", "y'all have a great day now."
Then you get to Bourbon Street. A small confession, I knew very little about Bourbon Street. My favourite coffee blend was called the Bourbon Street and I knew that it was the French Quarter's "Main Street", but not much prepared me for exactly what it is. Around the corner from the oldest convent in the State is a street of such naked depravity that it is difficult to contextualise. Bars, in such abundance, with American barflies - particularly sad people who seem to spend their existence somewhere between sobriety and a routine stomach pump - sit alongside strip clubs in a carnival cruise atmosphere - and as a small note to the owners of the strip clubs, if you want to successfully advertise, it is customary to put your good-looking, semi-naked models on the door, not the decidedly second-hand ones...
But you look deeper beyond Bourbon Street, at the places where the locals go. Beyond the charming, old-world Garden District to the trendy Magazine Street, and you are hooked on everything that this city promises. Cool cat jazz echoes from the charming bar on each corner - the kind where friends come to meet and share a drink, a conversation and a good time. Local food is served from family-owned restaurants and the girl at the gelato store dishes out the best advice on New Orleans as a side to the highly-sugared gelato.
New Orleans, NOLA, is everything it promises, and more that you haven't thought of, let alone asked for. I suspect that, like any city with an international reputation, there is a seething hive of tourist activity and, exacerbated in a city famed for its sinful existence, that hive is a dirty one. But like any city, find out where the locals go and you will find a real gem, and one that is deserving of a reputation.
But there is something else to NOLA, a seething underbelly that is a mix of both unspeakable poverty, absolute desperation and celebrated depravity, that make this city one of the most human in the US.
Arriving in town, with views of the refurbished Superdome looming over us, we take the wrong turnoff and end up on the street where we're staying, just the wrong end. For anyone who is yet to visit the US, streets here are long. It is not uncommon to see a house with the street number 1200 - or higher. One end of a street could be one of the most affluent in the country, while the other end is usually on fire. That was certainly the case for us, as we were heckled and abused driving in simply because we had a car with four wheels - and our van is by no means flash. But that was the other end of the street to where we're staying.
Walking the 15 minutes along St Charles street to the French Quarter, you're immediately immersed in everything New Orleans claims to be. Streetcars with clanging bells clatter past old American mansions, while American Oaks drips with vines and gas lights on porches flutter all day. Then a beggar will harass you because he fought for this country and you haven't given him any money.
As a side note, the right to ask people for money - beg - has just been made legal in New Orleans, and the local beggar population uphold their civic duty to inform you of this legislative change.
The French Quarter, at first glance, is a window to the history of the Deep South. Expecting old terrace houses, balconies sagging under the weight of flower pots and the occasional clump of Mardi Gras beads, we are not disappointed. From Canal Street east exists rows of ordered, and orderly-unordered home almost falling onto the street.
The high levee on the banks of the Mississippi give over to the ordered Jackson Square - celebrating the famed civil war General - and the high tourist area. A bland coffee at the crowded Cafe du Monde has achieve legendary status despite itself and street vendors verge on harassment in an effort to eek out a living in the consumer country.
But down the road a contrast in the French Market as casual, cool cafes oozing the sounds of the house jazz band serve up traditional Cajun cuisine with a smile and a joke and a mix of American attention to service and the routine that defines servers. "Good morning/afternoon, my name is ____ and I'll be your server today", "Our specials today are ____", "Here's the cheque, no hurry, when you're ready", "y'all have a great day now."
Then you get to Bourbon Street. A small confession, I knew very little about Bourbon Street. My favourite coffee blend was called the Bourbon Street and I knew that it was the French Quarter's "Main Street", but not much prepared me for exactly what it is. Around the corner from the oldest convent in the State is a street of such naked depravity that it is difficult to contextualise. Bars, in such abundance, with American barflies - particularly sad people who seem to spend their existence somewhere between sobriety and a routine stomach pump - sit alongside strip clubs in a carnival cruise atmosphere - and as a small note to the owners of the strip clubs, if you want to successfully advertise, it is customary to put your good-looking, semi-naked models on the door, not the decidedly second-hand ones...
But you look deeper beyond Bourbon Street, at the places where the locals go. Beyond the charming, old-world Garden District to the trendy Magazine Street, and you are hooked on everything that this city promises. Cool cat jazz echoes from the charming bar on each corner - the kind where friends come to meet and share a drink, a conversation and a good time. Local food is served from family-owned restaurants and the girl at the gelato store dishes out the best advice on New Orleans as a side to the highly-sugared gelato.
New Orleans, NOLA, is everything it promises, and more that you haven't thought of, let alone asked for. I suspect that, like any city with an international reputation, there is a seething hive of tourist activity and, exacerbated in a city famed for its sinful existence, that hive is a dirty one. But like any city, find out where the locals go and you will find a real gem, and one that is deserving of a reputation.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Surprises in an Unsurprising Place
Chances are, if someone asks you what you think of Florida, you will answer Miami, beaches and, maybe, NASA. Certainly that was our impression before this trip. A pleasant diversion from road-tripping through prairies, mountains and deserts, but not something that we didn't already have at home.
How wrong we were, pleasantly.
Leaving the Everglades behind us we pointed the car north and west and headed towards the strangely Russian sounding St Petersburg. On roughly the same latitude as Melbourne, Florida, St Petersburg is, to this point, the surprise of the trip. Something completely Un-Floridian, and entirely pleasant. Nestled on the western side of the Tampa Bay, and home to the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team, St Petersburg is alluring and a little bit of San Francisco. The people were perhaps the friendliest we've encountered to date and the (gulf) beaches beautifully cool and clean.
Around the bay, in Ybor City, we met with Cuban immigrants in the process of hand-rolling cigars and heard the history of the area, but that was only after TripAdvisor sent us to a very dodgy neighbourhood...
Heading east for the final time in the holiday we arrive many hours later in Titusville, via Orlando and the Mickey Mouse shaped power poles, and the Kennedy Space Centre. A night spent parked semi-legally in the car park of the wildlife refuge and plagued by a million Mosquitos and one overly curious raccoon challenged our patience, but it was worth it the next morning to visit the Kennedy Space Centre.
Nestled on the east coast, at the, allegedly, best place in the world for space launches, the Kennedy Space Centre pays tribute to more than 50 years of space endeavours by the Americans and, grudgingly, the Soviets (now Russian) and other nations - although not, conspicuously, the Chinese.
I had high expectations from boyhood dreaming of space for this visit, and all those expectations were met. From the, obviously, older exhibits to the newer Saturn V/Apollo exhibition (standing under an actual Saturn V rocket) to the brand new Atlantis exhibition (standing next to the actual Atlantis shuttle and the experiencing what it's like to go through a launch, well, sort of but not really), it is well worth the extra three hours you weren't planning on spending there.
To the furthest west in Florida, amid towns with names that are unpronounceable - Apple-cola, Pepsi-cola - lies some of the most beautiful land we have crossed so far. Expecting more swamps,we are instead presented with quintessential American farmland, that might be in Iowa or Missouri. Acres of rolling grassland, dotted with black-and-white cows and ringed with lush-green forests, white beaches with redbrick mansions and the winding country roads through small towns bearing charming taverns and the hope that Americans can actually brew good beer.
Florida was absolutely unsurprising in so man ways, and exactly what we expected, but as we enter Louisiana on the road to New Orleans we're looking back at the final 24 hours in the Sunshine State and thinking that there is so much more to it than the sunshine, skin and beaches of the south coasts...
I'm also aware that we're, dramatically, short-changing Alabama and Mississippi. This is not intentional, merely the unhappy roll of our road-trip schedule dice. In the two hours that we were in both states I was awed by the beauty of the Alabaman highway vista and the Mississippi grandeur, but sadly they will have to wait until a later visit,
How wrong we were, pleasantly.
Leaving the Everglades behind us we pointed the car north and west and headed towards the strangely Russian sounding St Petersburg. On roughly the same latitude as Melbourne, Florida, St Petersburg is, to this point, the surprise of the trip. Something completely Un-Floridian, and entirely pleasant. Nestled on the western side of the Tampa Bay, and home to the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team, St Petersburg is alluring and a little bit of San Francisco. The people were perhaps the friendliest we've encountered to date and the (gulf) beaches beautifully cool and clean.
Around the bay, in Ybor City, we met with Cuban immigrants in the process of hand-rolling cigars and heard the history of the area, but that was only after TripAdvisor sent us to a very dodgy neighbourhood...
Heading east for the final time in the holiday we arrive many hours later in Titusville, via Orlando and the Mickey Mouse shaped power poles, and the Kennedy Space Centre. A night spent parked semi-legally in the car park of the wildlife refuge and plagued by a million Mosquitos and one overly curious raccoon challenged our patience, but it was worth it the next morning to visit the Kennedy Space Centre.
Nestled on the east coast, at the, allegedly, best place in the world for space launches, the Kennedy Space Centre pays tribute to more than 50 years of space endeavours by the Americans and, grudgingly, the Soviets (now Russian) and other nations - although not, conspicuously, the Chinese.
I had high expectations from boyhood dreaming of space for this visit, and all those expectations were met. From the, obviously, older exhibits to the newer Saturn V/Apollo exhibition (standing under an actual Saturn V rocket) to the brand new Atlantis exhibition (standing next to the actual Atlantis shuttle and the experiencing what it's like to go through a launch, well, sort of but not really), it is well worth the extra three hours you weren't planning on spending there.
To the furthest west in Florida, amid towns with names that are unpronounceable - Apple-cola, Pepsi-cola - lies some of the most beautiful land we have crossed so far. Expecting more swamps,we are instead presented with quintessential American farmland, that might be in Iowa or Missouri. Acres of rolling grassland, dotted with black-and-white cows and ringed with lush-green forests, white beaches with redbrick mansions and the winding country roads through small towns bearing charming taverns and the hope that Americans can actually brew good beer.
Florida was absolutely unsurprising in so man ways, and exactly what we expected, but as we enter Louisiana on the road to New Orleans we're looking back at the final 24 hours in the Sunshine State and thinking that there is so much more to it than the sunshine, skin and beaches of the south coasts...
I'm also aware that we're, dramatically, short-changing Alabama and Mississippi. This is not intentional, merely the unhappy roll of our road-trip schedule dice. In the two hours that we were in both states I was awed by the beauty of the Alabaman highway vista and the Mississippi grandeur, but sadly they will have to wait until a later visit,
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Ever Glad for the Everglades
Leaving the neon Miami behind us, now in possession of Ruby, our Chevrolet van home for the next few weeks, we head south-west into the great Floridian grasslands known as the Everglades.
Occupying the southern tip of the southern-most state in the lower 48, the Everglades is as tropical as it comes. Once the widest river on the planet, taking up most of the peninsula, the National Park is the third largest in the US, behind DeathValley and Yellowstone, and the 114th declared national conservation area - including both National and State Parks and National Monuments - declared in 1934. It has been the boon of Florida, providing a vital cog in the ecosystem of the State and ensuring that the rich farmlands to the State's north remain fertile.
It is best known, perhaps, for the airboats that glide, barely touching the surface, over the river of grass, that vast expanse of green/brown grassland that gently sways with the tropical breeze and belie the swamp, gators and snakes that lie just below the surface. Frame by crystal blue skies that stretch for miles, and marked by the overwhelming heat, this is a completely unique environment, not just of the US, but in the world.
At the park's south, around the small park town of Flamingo, we pull up for two nights - one to the north or the visitor's centre and one to the south. Here, the mosquito and the fly are king. But we brave the horde and set up the camping table and stove to prepare a hearty curry - camping gourmet.
The following day we hire a two-man kayak, a first for us, and paddle up the Flamingo Canal to Coot Bay. In the searing humidity, and expecting to see alligators and, if we were lucky, crocodiles, we instead have to make do with semi-submerged logs that look like alligators and the occasional crocodile. Nevertheless, lunch on the water amid the beauty of this park remedies any misgivings.
That night we brave more mosquitoes, a few vultures, one bald eagle and one snake to camp by the water in Flamingo.
The following day, and a drive out of the park that included detour through some poor farmer's fields, we head into the park's northern entrance at Shark Valley. If we were disappointed at not seeing 'gators yesterday, we wouldn't be today. On bikes we only ride a few metres before the first sighting - only five metres away and with no fence between us. The following seven miles into the river of grass provide more gators, bird life and the occasional turtle. But that is nothing to combat the indecent heat. It is little wonder that the tourist high season in Florida is NOT summer.
As we leave Southern Florida for the gulf coast and beyond, I am a little sad to have left the immense grasslands be hind us.
Occupying the southern tip of the southern-most state in the lower 48, the Everglades is as tropical as it comes. Once the widest river on the planet, taking up most of the peninsula, the National Park is the third largest in the US, behind DeathValley and Yellowstone, and the 114th declared national conservation area - including both National and State Parks and National Monuments - declared in 1934. It has been the boon of Florida, providing a vital cog in the ecosystem of the State and ensuring that the rich farmlands to the State's north remain fertile.
It is best known, perhaps, for the airboats that glide, barely touching the surface, over the river of grass, that vast expanse of green/brown grassland that gently sways with the tropical breeze and belie the swamp, gators and snakes that lie just below the surface. Frame by crystal blue skies that stretch for miles, and marked by the overwhelming heat, this is a completely unique environment, not just of the US, but in the world.
At the park's south, around the small park town of Flamingo, we pull up for two nights - one to the north or the visitor's centre and one to the south. Here, the mosquito and the fly are king. But we brave the horde and set up the camping table and stove to prepare a hearty curry - camping gourmet.
The following day we hire a two-man kayak, a first for us, and paddle up the Flamingo Canal to Coot Bay. In the searing humidity, and expecting to see alligators and, if we were lucky, crocodiles, we instead have to make do with semi-submerged logs that look like alligators and the occasional crocodile. Nevertheless, lunch on the water amid the beauty of this park remedies any misgivings.
That night we brave more mosquitoes, a few vultures, one bald eagle and one snake to camp by the water in Flamingo.
The following day, and a drive out of the park that included detour through some poor farmer's fields, we head into the park's northern entrance at Shark Valley. If we were disappointed at not seeing 'gators yesterday, we wouldn't be today. On bikes we only ride a few metres before the first sighting - only five metres away and with no fence between us. The following seven miles into the river of grass provide more gators, bird life and the occasional turtle. But that is nothing to combat the indecent heat. It is little wonder that the tourist high season in Florida is NOT summer.
As we leave Southern Florida for the gulf coast and beyond, I am a little sad to have left the immense grasslands be hind us.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Heads in a Vice
"Where am i?"
"Miami"
I'm an unabashed fan of the TV series Burn Notice. Its frank and irreverent take on the spying profession is hilarious, but its setting in Miami is also something that is captivating.
Miami is a shock to the system, it is brashness, with pastel the order of the south. It is Napoleonic palaces in Neapolitan pastiches and skin is in more than ample supply. As a fan of Burn Notice, I had thought that the scene setting jump cuts of bikini clad women and shirtless men were artificial "glamour" for the show. Not so. From South Beach inland to Collins Avenue, or further, and along Lincoln Road, it is perfectly acceptable to be scantily dressed - even the norm.
Stephen Fry, in his series in America noted that Miami is full of the beautiful people, who, as a consequence of being beautiful at the same time look hideously ugly, and I see his point, if only in the abstract. Along Miami Beach, the essential bikini uniform somehow makes the unideal body shape look appealing. But of course this is America, and the extreme is the norm. Unideal is healthy in comparison to the obese, still obvious in this most body conscious of cities.
Almost destroyed by consecutive hurricanes during the 1920s, Miami Beach is a homage to the Art Deco period, almost suffocatingly so. There are strict building codes enforced on any building that maintains an Art Deco facade and, as such, much modern development has been constrained. In the Miami Vice days, this meant that Miami Beach was a ghetto, with few people able to afford the vast amounts needed to make the buildings habitable while maintaining this stringent code. More recently, however, the rich set have moved in, led by the New York snowbirds who flutter down during the winter to avoid the cold.
Consequently, Miami Beach is expensive. From Spring Break onwards, South Beach is the domain of the locals, and the occasional traveller, but there is no mistaking that this is a tourist town. Lincoln Avenue cafes and grills, will shower you with drinks and burgers, at tourist prices, and the three Starbucks for every city block will make sure that you have the caffeine induced energy to paint the town pastel pink.
But there is a lot of charm to Miami Beach, and her people. Polite to a fault and helpful to the last man, woman and child, this is a snapshot of modern America. Consumerism is king here and where there is a buck to be made, someone is making it. But they are nice about it, and will help you in any way they can - provided it can be written off as a business expense.
It is easy to spend a day on the beach, baking in the hot, yet surprisingly gentle, sun. It is even easier to escape the humidity in the cafes or designer stores on Lincoln Road. But it is far more worthwhile to brave both the sun and humidity in search of Miami Beach's deco past and it's all evident rich past.
"Miami"
I'm an unabashed fan of the TV series Burn Notice. Its frank and irreverent take on the spying profession is hilarious, but its setting in Miami is also something that is captivating.
Miami is a shock to the system, it is brashness, with pastel the order of the south. It is Napoleonic palaces in Neapolitan pastiches and skin is in more than ample supply. As a fan of Burn Notice, I had thought that the scene setting jump cuts of bikini clad women and shirtless men were artificial "glamour" for the show. Not so. From South Beach inland to Collins Avenue, or further, and along Lincoln Road, it is perfectly acceptable to be scantily dressed - even the norm.
Stephen Fry, in his series in America noted that Miami is full of the beautiful people, who, as a consequence of being beautiful at the same time look hideously ugly, and I see his point, if only in the abstract. Along Miami Beach, the essential bikini uniform somehow makes the unideal body shape look appealing. But of course this is America, and the extreme is the norm. Unideal is healthy in comparison to the obese, still obvious in this most body conscious of cities.
Almost destroyed by consecutive hurricanes during the 1920s, Miami Beach is a homage to the Art Deco period, almost suffocatingly so. There are strict building codes enforced on any building that maintains an Art Deco facade and, as such, much modern development has been constrained. In the Miami Vice days, this meant that Miami Beach was a ghetto, with few people able to afford the vast amounts needed to make the buildings habitable while maintaining this stringent code. More recently, however, the rich set have moved in, led by the New York snowbirds who flutter down during the winter to avoid the cold.
Consequently, Miami Beach is expensive. From Spring Break onwards, South Beach is the domain of the locals, and the occasional traveller, but there is no mistaking that this is a tourist town. Lincoln Avenue cafes and grills, will shower you with drinks and burgers, at tourist prices, and the three Starbucks for every city block will make sure that you have the caffeine induced energy to paint the town pastel pink.
But there is a lot of charm to Miami Beach, and her people. Polite to a fault and helpful to the last man, woman and child, this is a snapshot of modern America. Consumerism is king here and where there is a buck to be made, someone is making it. But they are nice about it, and will help you in any way they can - provided it can be written off as a business expense.
It is easy to spend a day on the beach, baking in the hot, yet surprisingly gentle, sun. It is even easier to escape the humidity in the cafes or designer stores on Lincoln Road. But it is far more worthwhile to brave both the sun and humidity in search of Miami Beach's deco past and it's all evident rich past.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
In the Company of Giants, Evidence of Geologic Tantruming
It is ancient in so many ways. Both geological and societal, Bolivia is the very essence of the age old.
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
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