Travel Biography - Week 58.

General Overview: New York to Albuquerque.

What was it that I loved so much about Travel? Between 1993 and 1994, I spent a total of fifteen weeks in Israel, also known as The Holy Land. How I loved Israel! Its history goes back thousands of years, and as such contains man-made relics going back to the time of Abraham, and even beyond. Therefore, I would say that Israel, and particularly Jerusalem, has plenty of historical and spiritual significance. But as for natural beauty, it's continents such as North America that have some of the most awe-inspiring and dramatic, large-scale scenery one can imagine. Later in this Biography, I'll detail more, especially subaquatic.

In 1977, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean for the first time in my life to visit Canada and the United States. Indeed, I was intrigued by the mighty Niagara Falls on the Canadian side and the Great Salt Lake in Utah. 

Then a year later, I returned to the States to visit the Grand Canyon, where I had an unscheduled hike down to the Colorado River to spend the night at nearby Phantom Ranch before hiking back up the next day. The hike itself was an incredible success, but the failure of the Instamatic 110 camera to take pictures at a proper exposure setting resulted in disappointment after arriving back home. Therefore, for the next 17 years between 1978 and 1995, I had a longing to revisit this dramatic location to complete the photography task.

And there I was in 1995, back on the Greyhound Bus, heading west after leaving St Louis in Missouri. And this was after spending two nights at the worst backpacker's hostel ever. As the St Louis Huckleberry Finn Hostel was the first on the continent I ever stayed at, I was, in a sense, thrown into the deep end of American hostelling, leaving me to wonder whether this rodent and cockroach-infested guesthouse with its swinging saloon doors infringed on personal privacy, was the norm in American hostels, or whether this was an exception, I have yet to find out. Then, I suppose, the ins and outs of independent travel - a culture shock is never off the cards.

By mid-afternoon of the same day, a Saturday, the bus crossed into the State of Oklahoma and arrived at Tulsa for a service stop. This allowed me to quickly check out this lively town, populated with shoppers, not unlike any British shopping precinct on a Saturday. Most notable were two outdoor theatre stages, each not that far from the other. At least one of them was performing Gospel music, and I lingered for a while to enjoy the free show. I took a liking to Tulsa straight away, although, as I will see, to arrive on a Sunday might have been a very different scenario, as was with Albuquerque in New Mexico the next day. 

Street Concert at Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1995.

At Albuquerque, New Mexico.

It was very early on a Sunday morning when the bus stopped in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I had thoughts of spending at least one night at a hostel if I could find one in this city. A night's sleep in a proper bed on the eve of my arrival at the Grand Canyon would have paid dividends! After freshening up and having breakfast at the bus terminal restaurant, I wandered through the deserted street, the air still cool after sunrise, and really, it was like walking through a ghost town - a massive contrast to Tulsa on the previous day. It reminded me of my day visit to Amarillo, Texas, in 1978. That too was like a ghost town, although I can't recall back then being an early Sunday morning - and also this time around, the bus had a service stop at Amarillo in the middle of the night. But I stayed in the station restaurant and didn't venture out.

As I approached a hostel in Albuquerque, there were three or four middle-aged gentlemen, I would say in their fifties, sitting at a table on the sidewalk, each deeply involved in playing cards. That was the only clue I saw that life did exist in this otherwise desolate town. Also, the main street was so traffic-free that I could have had a picnic in the middle of the dead straight road and still live to see another day!

I approached the backpacker's hostel, more of a wooden shack than a brick-and-mortar building. The doors were closed, and I was pondering whether the shack was full of sleeping backpackers or whether it was empty, even abandoned, as I was warned before take-off that often those American hostels, especially those not affiliated with HI-AYH, have short spans and tend to close down quickly and the property sold. I knocked on the door. No answer. Not a sound of stirring within.

As the morning passed, with my awareness that it was a Sunday, I felt that it would be nice to visit a church and partake in its service. Presently, I saw a crowd of people entering a Methodist Church near the city plaza. I actually wondered where all those people suddenly came from. Holes in the ground, perhaps? Other than the four card players I saw earlier, maybe there is some human life in this desolate-looking city. Although not a Methodist, attending a church of that denomination was better than not attending any church.

The service itself was a very run-of-the-mill liturgy with a sermon that failed to inspire - me at least. Yet the church was packed. However, it was the after-service lunch held in the more inspiring church hall. Many in that assembly were students, and there was a group of Chinese or Korean students who, seeing that I was a lone stranger, invited me into the dining hall and actually bought me a meal as I sat at their table. It was one of those very rare times as a lone backpacker, that I enjoyed a taste of fellowship. If only I had some of this fellowship while I was volunteering in Israel just a year earlier! Instead, suffering devaluation to a state of worthlessness brought me to the ace of destroying my faith completely.

After the meal was over, we all dispersed, and all the churchgoers seemed to vanish back into obscurity and once again I was alone in a dead city. I wandered around the beautiful but deserted shopping plaza until the evening when I boarded another Greyhound bus for an overnight journey to Flagstaff in Arizona. This time, I was glad not to have spent a night in Albuquerque, although my curiosity about how alive the city would become on a Monday morning remained unfulfilled, along with a lack of proper sleep before the hike.

Shopping crowds on a Saturday, Tulsa.

Arrival at Flagstaff.

I arrived at the Arizonian town of Flagstaff at four in the morning, a bit of a shock that I had gained an extra hour's waiting time after entering the Pacific Time Zone. The very fact that my arrival here was identical in the time of day as my first arrival in 1978 meant that the bus schedule hadn't changed over seventeen years. Like in 1978, I was the only one who alighted at Flagstaff. Except for the night staff, I was the only customer left to wait there. Upon enquiry, I found out that the connecting Greyhound Bus to Grand Canyon Village no longer operated. Instead, a private minibus service operated to the South Rim from Flagstaff. And I had to pay the fare directly to the driver when the minibus arrives - four hours after my arrival.

Also, another change was made here at the terminal, the removal of luggage lockers. Such a locker was a big bonus in 1978, as with a much lighter load, I was able to hike a round trip into the Canyon with hardly a hitch. This time, without a locker, I'll be carrying a much heavier load on my back. I was hoping that I will be able to cope with a demanding trek fully laden.

At the small terminal cafe, a bored-looking female assistant was at the counter. I asked her,

Excuse me, but if I was to buy something, would you be able to cash a US Dollar Traveller's Cheque?

She looked at me with an element of surprise. She then answered:

Yes, I'm able to cash a Traveller's Cheque. You are the first tourist who asked me so politely whether I can cash a cheque. All the others demand as if taken for granted.

I ordered a coffee and a bar of chocolate, and with my passport as proof of identity, one of my cheques was exchanged for a much-needed wad of cash. I then returned to the waiting lounge with the refreshment.

Sunday at Albuquerque, New Mexico.

By eight that morning, a few other travellers arrived at the bus terminal. Eventually, the minibus also arrived. We all paid our fares for the driver to transport us to the Rim. When he saw that there was one person too many, he approached me and asked if I minded waiting here at the terminal while he took the others to the Village, and then he'll come back for me.

I stood my ground, and firmly replied,

I have just paid my fare. And you are taking me to the Rim. NOW!

The driver baulked, as if shocked at my reaction. He then answered that he can take me as long as I'm happy to sit on the floor. I preferred to accept his concession rather than endure a further three-hour wait on top of the four-hour break in the journey I had already endured. After all, a single journey to Grand Canyon Village from Flagstaff was close to eighty miles, an approximately ninety-minute drive one way.

Arriving at the Grand Canyon!

The drive through the near-barren Arizonian desert was long and somewhat tedious, and I was unable to see much out of the window except an expanse of a clear, cloudless sky, I felt relieved that I was at last on my way to my destination and not stuck at Flagstaff and wondering whether this guy would have returned to collect me, forget me, or not bother - after having received his money and not wanting to refill his tank. However, by stretching my neck, I was able to catch a glimpse of the horizon, a vast expanse of countryside with areas of pine forests and semi-desert scrublands.

Eventually, directly in front, there appears to be a distant gash in the ground. As we were actually driving a very gentle and barely noticeable uphill gradient, the Colorado Plateau, through which the Canyon cuts, slanted southwards, hence the North Rim is higher than the South Rim, to where we are approaching. Hence, even from a distance south of the National Park, the Canyon appeared as a narrow gash in the ground. I was intrigued, and becoming excited.

The van stopped at a shop as we approached the park boundary. We all got off and had a look around. There was all sort of trinkets, including Grand Canyon calendars for 1996, jigsaw puzzles, pictures, and specific food needed for hiking. I managed to buy several calendars, one each for three friends back home, one for my parents as well as one for myself. I also bought some nuts to feast on. Later, I'll learn how important it would have been to eat those nuts during the hike, especially whilst climbing back out.

The minibus at last pulled into the village. The driver told us to meet at a certain spot at a given time for a return journey back to Flagstaff. When I said that I will be spending at least a night here as a hiker, he offered a lift to the North Rim for an extra fee to cover a 200-mile, 4-hour drive. I refused. He then drove off, and I never saw him again.

At Albuquerque, 1995.

I made my way to the Rim lookout and beheld nature's workmanship in front of me! The sheer beauty the glory and splendour. Already, I felt a partial fulfilment of my dream. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, I was already feeling warm, and the chasm in front of me was so foreboding, yet I felt that it was tugging at my emotions, enticing me into its mouth as if ready to swallow me into its depths.

But as reality goes, reality hits hard! I approached the Bright Angel Lodge and asked whether there were any beds at Phantom Ranch. Any cancellations like in 1978? No, there weren't any free beds at the Ranch this time. And this was my mistake. A properly-planned night spent at the Ranch calls for a booking made several months in advance. I didn't realise that in 1978, I was offered a place like a bolt from the blue due to a last-minute cancellation. However, I was instructed to visit the Visitor's Center. There, I would be assigned a number on a ticket. The following morning at seven, all of us would gather at the Center, and a small selection of numbers would randomly be called out, like that of a lottery. Those who held tickets with those numbers were given a Camper's Pass and allowed to hike down for the night. The others either waited until the next day or go home. In turn, any day hiker was able to descend without the lottery draw. The Camper's Pass was for overnighters only. 

I thought: By heck! What am I going to do now?

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Next Week: I Make a Decision.