Travel Biography - Week 19.

Please note: Most of the photos I took in 1978 were slides rather than prints. Hence, with the projector at present in need of repair, I can only submit photos I took on the 1995 trip to the USA along with stock photos. I apologise if any originality is compromised. Just to remind you that all subjects taken in 1995 were exactly the same as in 1978!

As the Wheels of the Bus go Round and Round...

Perhaps some readers have wondered what it was like sitting inside a bus for hours on end whilst on a journey several hundred miles long. Actually, not that boring, as mini-dramas were quite a frequent occurrence on a long-distance Greyhound Americruiser.

Like a time in 1977 when a young 12-year-old occupied the seat next to me and then asked me if I wanted to smoke a reefer (marijuana.) I simply refused, but I still felt shocked at the request made by someone so young. Was he travelling alone? And why wasn't he at school? Such questions will remain eternally unanswered, as the least I wanted to do was to play the judge.

Greyhound Americruiser. Stock photo.

Then there was what I called The Gay Route, referring to finding myself boarding a bus and looking for what was left of a vacant seat. Then settling down next to a gentleman who eventually admitted his orientation. This occurred in 1978 on two stages of the westbound journey, first from Amarillo, Texas to Flagstaff, Arizona, and then again with a different passenger from Flagstaff to Los Angeles. Fortunately for those two, although I never had any interest in same-sex relationships, neither had I shown any aggression or avoided talking to them. Rather, I had found talking whilst on a journey to be very therapeutic whilst confined for hours on end sitting within a cramped space.

However, one of the most dramatic occasions occurred in Tulsa, Oklahoma service stop, also in 1978. After re-boarding the bus there for the continuation of the journey westwards, a hippie-like young man with shoulder-length ginger hair boarded just after me. He was angry as he refused to find a seat. Instead, he stood at the front, right next to the driver and saw the rest of us as his captivated audience whilst shouting invectives at the Greyhound Bus company, and even insulting the driver who tried to placate him. However, as he stood at the front, he was gazing straight at me, as if singling me out to receive special attention. He was thrown off the bus at Amarillo, and he was barred from reboarding at the end of its service stop.

Another incident occurred at the start of the overnight trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco, also in 1978. After settling in my seat I chose at random, suddenly a young black man arrived, and towering over me and in a raised voice, he ordered me to get out of there, as my seat was for his girlfriend. Shocked, and stunned for words, I rose up and took an empty seat directly behind. Then his girlfriend occupied the seat next to him. As the bus pulled out, a quarrel erupted between those two in front, which carried on for quite a while. Indeed, his girlfriend was not at all impressed with how I was treated!

Arrival in St Louis, Missouri.

Here, I will concentrate on the 1978 trip to the USA rather than combine the experience with the 1995 trip which was, up to this stage, practically identical. However, to avoid any possible confusion that might have occurred at last week's New York saga, from now on, I will try to keep up with the current ongoing holiday and comment on the 1995 trip later in this Diary. 

After an approx 22-hour journey from New York, I alighted at St Louis, a city on the west bank of the Mississippi River, and looked across the busy waterway at the western boundary of Illinois State. Dominating the city was the 193-metre-high Gateway Arch, marking the start of the trail set by the first pioneers to the West and ending at the Pacific coast in Washington State. Set in its own park, this striking monument is built of stainless steel. Inside the structure, a remarkable tram conveys visitors to the viewing gallery at the apex, to enjoy magnificent views of the city spread out, including the St Louis Courthouse. From the other side, the eye is drawn towards the eastern horizon, over the River which is almost directly beneath, into the State of Illinois which, surprisingly enough for me, includes the city of Chicago on the southern tip of Lake Michigan, less than 300 miles away.

St Louis Gateway Arch, Stock photo.

Cutaway diagram of the Arch Tram.

Inside one of the tram cars.

How each drum car is accessed.

The two trams, one on each side of the arch, are the most unique form of transport I had ever seen, and indeed, the most unique in the world. Each tram consists of eight claustrophobic drum cars strung together, and rather like the pods of any Ferris wheel, each remaining upright as they travel up the curve of the arch. Access is underground, within the museum, and as the stock image shows, each cylinder was accessible through a door reached by a stairway. Each drum accommodated five passengers, thus the whole tram conveys up to 40 people altogether at any one time. In 1978, I managed to ride the ascent on the north tram and return back to the ground on the south tram, hence travelling the entire length of the arch. Even the floor of the viewing gallery curved as it followed the contours of the arch, adding to the uniqueness of the experience.

Amarillo, Texas.

The name of this Texan provincial town was made famous by Tony Christie's hit song, Is This the Way to Amarillo, released in 1971 and well established in memory. As the overnight bus traversed the utterly flat, rather boring Texan landscape under the rising sun, I began to sing that song in my mind, aware that Amarillo was to be my next stop,

Amarillo's bus station was where we all alighted for its scheduled service stop before carrying on its westward journey. The ginger-haired lad who caused such a commotion earlier was banned from reboarding, and his luggage was removed from the vehicle, along with mine. We both made our way to the station bathroom, and it was he who washed his face at a basin in which a huge cockroach was resting. He was totally unperturbed whilst I felt slightly uncomfortable as I washed and shaved next to him. Although he still spilt out his angry invectives against the Greyhound Bus and how they operate, he wasn't hostile to me at all. Rather, he needed someone to listen to what he had to say, and so something of a nodding acquaintance developed between us.

However, after breakfast, he insisted on remaining at the station lounge to book a seat on the next bus out whilst I deposited my luggage in the left luggage locker and check out the town, perhaps staying at a hotel if one was nearby. 

But I didn't see any hotel, and even if I did, I began to doubt whether I wanted to spend more than a day here. Despite the warm sunshine illuminating a cloudless sky, the streets were deserted, and free of traffic other than an occasional passing vehicle. The shops were shut, so it seems, no other pedestrian was using the sidewalk, and furthermore, I believe it wasn't even a Sunday - something I would have understood in this area of the Bible belt where a strict Sunday observance would have been the norm. Could it have been a national holiday? Who knows. No wonder Tony Christie wanted to put Amarillo on the map! We might have enjoyed listening to his song, and record sales might have reached a million, but I bet that not many living in the UK would have realised that while I was there, Amarillo looked more like a ghost town, with me being the only visitor. Indeed, I was glad to settle comfortably in my seat as the Greyhound Americruiser pulled out of the station, this time without an angry hippie letting off steam.

Arriving at Flagstaff, Arizona.

I boarded the Americruiser at Amarillo at 4.00 pm for a 13-hour journey to Flagstaff, with a service stop at Albuquerque, New Mexico. When the bus pulled into Flagstaff, I was the only one who alighted. I collected my suitcase and as usual deposited it in one of the left luggage lockers. My intention was to arrive that same evening, pick up my luggage, and proceed overnight to Los Angeles. Instead, it was not to be.

Except for the overnight desk clerk, I was the only person in the bus terminal. I checked the time. And my heart fell. I had already crossed into the Pacific Time Zone, which was 4.00 AM Daylight Saving Time. That means I had a four-hour wait at the deserted bus station instead of the intended three hours before a special Greyhound Bus service took me to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Sometimes I just sat in the waiting lounge and watched the lights flash at the amusement machines, each standing in line like a row of soldiers, and each waiting for a coin to be inserted. Along with the flashing lights were matching sounds, giving some form of life to this deserted bus station. One of those machines intrigued me. The player would select a fighter to represent him and fight the machine's opponent in the street. A free replay would be awarded if the player wins. Another machine was about a fast motor race track, and yet another was for something else. But all were for amusements, a way of parting with your cash whilst enduring a long wait.

Outside was dark, the town of Flagstaff as still and as quiet as a picture postcard image, but I managed to leave the bus station for a short stroll.

Flagstaff, Arizona. I remember walking through here.

As the time for the transfer approached, a crowd of people began to build at the bus terminal. By then, I had already purchased my ticket to the Grand Canyon, as this special service didn't honour the Ameripass. Around 8.00 that morning, the empty Greyhound Americruiser pulled in. By the time we pulled out, the bus was full of anticipating visitors, the majority planning to return later that evening, including me.

Arrival at the Grand Canyon.

The distance between Flagstaff and the South Rim Village is about ninety miles. As the road traversed across a semi-desert environment, spirits were high as the driver gave a running commentary of the Canyon. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was reaching high in the sky as the bus, having entered the perimeter of the national park boundary, made its way to the car park. We all alighted, and with my Instamatic 110 camera ready, I made my way to the rim to see for myself this magnificent wonder of nature.