Travel Biography - Week 22.

Summary of the Grand Canyon.

Hiking down into the Grand Canyon wasn't my original intention when I planned this 1978 trip to the States. My purpose was to arrive during the previous day's morning, spend several hours at the South Rim, and then take the bus back to Flagstaff to continue with the main journey.

But as a simple request was made about some details of the trailhead I had just seen, an announcement was made about a cancellation at Phantom Ranch, right at the bottom of the Canyon, and a bed was offered. I snapped up the offer without the slightest hesitation.

Although I have done plenty of walking in the first 25 years of my life, and probably enhanced by not owning or driving a car, backcountry hiking was something I never took seriously before, thus to be faced with a challenge as this one - basically, mountaineering in reverse, with its first descent, then the return ascent afterwards when the body is already tired from the downhill trek. For a first-timer, it was a plunge straight into the deep end.

Indian Gardens on the Tonto Plateau seen from South Rim

Yet, I managed it. I was happy and exuberant. After spending the remaining hours of the day at the South Rim, I boarded the Greyhound bus back to Flagstaff, knowing that I had a film in my camera which was full of undeveloped images that will be processed into slides once back at home. Little did I realise that I was in for an awful shock, a terrible disappointment that would alter the future of travel.

As I sat on the bus, I believed that I would never need to arrive at the Canyon again, as this was already my life's ambition fulfilled. Instead, I could spend hours putting on slide shows in my apartment, whether it's for friends or family members or just to revitalise my memories and stir the feeling of nostalgia. Also, my interest in the geology of the Canyon began at that point. I wanted to learn more about it, how it got there, and in particular, whether the mesas, buttes, and pinnacles I have seen close up, have names.

Independent Travel. What a difference this is in comparison with the 1972 package holiday to Spain, only to get thoroughly stoned out of my wits with cheap wine, and then wake up in the morning from sleeping in the hotel bathtub soaked in vomit. What a far cry all this is!

To reiterate: My first independent trip to Italy in 1973 included a visit to Pompeii to see the excavation of a city destroyed by the AD 79 volcanic eruption of what was then Mt Somma. This was followed by a hike to the summit of the volcano itself, now Mt. Vesuvius, to gaze into the gaping hole of its crater. After that, a trip to Israel in 1976 to visit the Old City of Jerusalem, experience Middle Eastern culture, as well as to wade through a 2,700-year-old tunnel dug out of solid rock under the ancient Canaanite city. In addition, stroll alongside, and even swim in the Sea of Galilee made famous by the ministry of Jesus Christ in the locality some 2,000 years earlier.

And then, my first transatlantic flight in 1977 to Toronto to visit Niagara Falls, followed by a visit to Chicago, on the southern tip of Lake Michigan. Further on, a swim in the Great Salt Sea in Utah, and the fulfilment of my dream to visit California, inspired by watching Hollywood movies. This was finally rounded up by looking across Lake Superior from the Greyhound bus as it journeyed towards Toronto along the Canadian coastline.

And a year later in 1978, now, my two-day experience at the Grand Canyon. An experience that will remain with me for life.

Arrival in Los Angeles.

The bus pulled into Flagstaff Bus Station and here, I retrieved my suitcase from the left luggage locker and reserved a seat on the next bus bound for Los Angeles. Another overnighter and I arrive at the terminal around breakfast time. I recognise the bus station from the previous visit a year earlier. During the seventies, the Greyhound shared the building with the local bus, the latter I took for a ride to Disneyland, and in 1978, also to Long Beach. The bus terminal was located on South Los Angeles Street and 6th Street before it closed down during the 1980s and relocate to East 7th Street, a couple of miles away, where I alighted in 1995. From the bus station, the upper floors of Hotel Cecil loomed from the next block on Main St. At present, the hotel is renamed Stay On Main Hotel, perhaps in an attempt to rid itself of its shady past.

Even a year earlier, I was aware of the hotel's presence, but I thought that was one of those expensive 5-star establishments for the wealthy. Rather, as I found out, it was a budget hotel located in the Skid Row district as if deliberately because of the bus station. This time, I decided to try it.

In the States, what we here in the UK would call the Ground Floor or Ground Level, in America, the Ground Floor is the 1st Floor. Hence, from the entrance doors, one would count 14 floors up. But, after checking in and using the elevator to reach my assigned room, there was the 15th floor. I smiled. There was no 13th floor. There was the 12th, in which my room was assigned, and then the 14th. Indeed, the 15th floor was really the 14th.

The hotel has a shady past. At least 13 alleged suicides had taken place throughout its history, the first being that of a 52-year-old in January 1927, who shot himself in the head just three years after the hotel opened in 1924. Since then, up to 15 deaths were recorded at the hotel before I checked in, including two confirmed murders and one or two unsolved deaths. Three more deaths occurred since I vacated my room after spending three nights there. 

Hotel Cecil, Los Angeles.

One mystery occurred in February 2013, 35 years after my stay, and concerning 21-year-old Elisa Lam. In the days following her disappearance, guests at the hotel started to complain about the taste and the discolouration of the water supply. When a member of staff went up to investigate the cause of the problem, he found the decomposing body of the female in one of the rooftop tanks. Whether it was murder, suicide or an accident, this remains unknown to this day.

Then there is the case of a serial killer, Ricardo Ramirez, a handsome 25-year-old of Spanish origin who, between 1984 and 1985, went out on killing sprees within the city whilst staying at the Hotel Cecil. He returned to his room in clothes stained with the victim's blood. It was while returning with blood on his clothing that he was seen as a suspect and held secure by fellow guests. He was handed to the police and in Court, given a death sentence. But he died of cancer on June 7th, 2013 whilst still on death row.

Yet, despite such a dark history, both before and after my four-day stay at the hotel, each night, I slept well with no bumps in the night. During the day, many other guests sauntered around, and all the elevators were busy. A very ordinary day at an average American hotel. Of course, at the time, I knew absolutely nothing about its past. Instead, I made note that my room was rather small, and it was meant to accommodate a single person, and at the rear face of the hotel block. From the window, the view took in the Greyhound Bus Terminal. Thus, each morning during my visit to Los Angeles, the day began with a short walk to the Bus Station cafeteria for breakfast and a meal during the day or in the evening. 

On the first day of arrival, I returned to Disneyland for a second-year stint. And I also visited Long Beach for the first time. A long stretch of sand and a gentle breeze blowing along the Californian coast cancelled out the heat from the sun. But it wasn't until I had returned to the hotel that my shoulders felt tender to the touch. The coolness of the air did not mitigate the strength of the sun. My shoulders were sunburnt. And as I turned to look in the mirror, the redness of the skin was obvious. And it was aching.

It was my last day in Los Angeles before moving on to San Francisco. After checking out from the hotel and depositing my luggage in a locker, I spent the afternoon at and around Pershing Square, just a few blocks up 6th Street and in the heart of Downtown L.A. I remember the area from the previous year. Little had changed. It was later, in 1995, that there were massive changes in the city skyline. By then, not only Pershing Square had changed its layout but a series of new skyscrapers had shot up nearby as well.

As I was sauntering along, two rather pretty young women were out and about. They set their eyes on me and approached.

A Potential Danger.

When I'm by myself, thousands of miles from home, family and friends, and far from my church too, then I welcome any form of friendship offered. I can say that at that moment, I was in a vulnerable position. However, had they been young men instead of women, I would have politely acknowledged their greeting and then move on, even putting up resistance if such men persisted. But with women, I couldn't help feeling elated at their attention pouring out on me. By not having a girlfriend since 1972, how nice it would be to have a female I could call a friend. Even if I knew that later in the evening, I'll be out of the city, heading north.

The two girls asked whether I would like to attend a church meeting at a particular address nearby, close to Pershing Square. Being Christian, I thought that would be a splendid idea. Something spiritual in a midst of a very secular holiday. And here's the rub. Cults in particular often hide behind an orthodox Christian front and do not realise the heresy behind it until it's too late. All this reminds me a little of the deep sea Angler Fish. This rather grotesque creature swims with a lamp-like bait attached to the predator by a rod just above its mouth. Another fish swims up to the bait out of curiosity or in anticipation of a meal. Then snap! The potential predator becomes prey in the Angler's mouth.

Deep Sea Angler Fish.

Those two females were the bait that attracted me into the arms of the cult. At the agreed time, I made my way to the designated building in the hope of meeting those two girls. From the front door, I went up a flight of stairs and entered a room which was filled with other young people. All attention was drawn to a thin, weasely man at the front. He delivered a lecture about his faith and how we all can participate.

After his talk was finished, I approached him and looked hard into his eyes, and asked,

What is your view of Jesus Christ? Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God?

The man could not answer. Instead, looking very agitated, he ordered me to leave the room and the building. He signalled to someone, probably one of the elders, and he escorted me down the stairs, out of the door and onto the street. I was free to make my way to the Greyhound Bus station.

My own faith in Jesus of Nazareth saved me from what would have been a potential disaster. That group was made up of Moonies, followers of Sun Myung Moon, a false messiah from the far east who arrived in America during the 1960s and proclaimed himself to be the awaited messiah. A devoted supporter of President Nixon at the time, and a staunch capitalist, his anti-Communist stance had attracted a large following, especially from the younger set.

But supposing that I had no faith at all and I have gotten myself sucked into this cult? And what happens to those who are caught in its meshes?

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Next Week:  Beautiful mountains? Or potential Catastrophe? The Journey Continues.