Travel Biography - Week 62.

In a Midst of a Contrast.

All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

This week's blogger post, like any other, was written on an ordinary weekend, except that this time, we're amid a rather spectacular contrast between two women who have made or will make headlines in the media. One is Sarina Weigman and the other is Lucy Letbe. Maybe, you're not so familiar with Sarina. She's the manager of the England Lioness national women's football team. And for the first time after 57 years, she has succeeded in leading England to reach the World Cup finals. And so, by tomorrow afternoon, we'll know whether or not England won the cup by defeating Spain. (Final update at footer.)

The other female is graduate Lucy Letbe. By contrast, she has already made headlines after the jury convicted her of seven confirmed killings of newborns during her five-year career as a nurse in a neonatal unit of a Chester hospital. The destinies of these two couldn't be any different. One is destined for national glory. The other will be locked up for the rest of her life. According to the media, she would never be freed and will die behind bars.

Downtown Flagstaff.

I have opened this blog with such news, as both occurred on the same weekend. And amid such a contrast, I stand in the middle, perhaps, knowing full well that on one hand, I will never lift a trophy high among a crowd of happy, cheering supporters and TV cameras. On the other hand, neither would I ever see the inside of a prison cell for committing a crime and suffering as a social pariah and outcast.

Maybe, I'm like an imaginary flat plain of a wide landscape wedged in between a very high mountain range and a deep valley like the Grand Canyon. With either landscape contrasts, both extremities attract attention and have become well known. A featureless flat plain may not be so well known or touristy, but at least it is put to good use - whether by nature itself or cultivated by man.

And here, I'm referring to the semi-desert of mid to south Arizona, especially on the route between Flagstaff and Phoenix. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At Phoenix, Arizona.

Arrival at Flagstaff from Grand Canyon NP.

That evening in September 1995, I alighted from the coach that had stopped at Flagstaff bus terminal and checked out the Greyhound Bus departures for the next day. One was destined for Phoenix, leaving mid-afternoon. I booked a seat for the next leg of the journey. Next, I began to look for accommodation preferably a hostel, to spend the night. The Motel de Beau was a suitable backpacker's hostel that catered mainly for those who are on their way to or back from the Grand Canyon. I entered and enquired whether a bed was available, not forgetting my failure to find a hostel bed in New York City due to student and gap year tourist overcrowding.

I was offered the last bed available, and I took it without hesitation. After locating my bed in one of the dormitories and preparing it, I went to the kitchen and I was told that free coffee was offered at all times. I almost jumped for joy, declaring, Wow! This is just like in Jerusalem! - I remembered the availability of free coffee throughout the day at the New Swedish Hostel in the heart of the Old City, and therefore I was able to compare.

I felt elated as I strolled through the street of Flagstaff to buy some groceries, just as the last of the daylight was fading. I was also looking forward to a bed for the night. I had not slept in one since I left Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, Missouri, and that was five nights previously. Whether I did this the right way or not, this was backpacking on a shoestring, spending five consecutive nights either seated in a Greyhound Americruiser or as with the case of the Grand Canyon, sleeping under the stars or in a trail rest-stop hut. Despite the roughness, I believe all this made the whole experience a lot more adventurous and rewarding, let alone saving money. After all, I would have never felt fascinated by the display of stars above me had I slept in a hotel room, or even in one of the huts at Phantom Ranch.

The following day, after checking out of the hostel, I strolled through the town of Flagstaff. It wasn't a large settlement but more of a spot on the road. I entered a bar and watched two players at the pool table, the loud crack of the coloured balls struck gave an atmosphere of a Western movie.

On to Phoenix.

That late afternoon, I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser for a three-hour journey to Phoenix. Unlike most of the stops, this was a new place to visit. It had the right climate for cacti to flourish abundantly, and Papago Park Desert Botanical Gardens, near Scottsdale, proved a worthwhile visit. Throughout the route, as it was a daytime ride, I was able to see plenty of cacti, mainly of the tall Saguaro species, flourishing in the otherwise semi-desert countryside. Such a scene provided quite an astonishing difference in roadside vegetation from a typical English scene of Oak, Silver Birch, Spruce, and other native trees and hedgerows. 

Indian Park, Phoenix.

After arrival, I found Metcalf House Hostel which was HI-AYH affiliated. The property, an average-sized house in a residential estate, was owned by a single middle-aged lady, who reminded me at the reception that duties were carried out in the morning by all guests. But unlike Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, this one was clean and well kept as well as more comfortable. Again, I stocked myself with groceries and settled in for the evening.

After I had dinner, I sat in the lounge with the owner and some other hostellers, including a couple of young Jewish men. We talked for a good part of the evening and then came a bit of a shocking surprise. The owner wanted to go out for an errand. She said she will be out for quite a while. Then she asked me to do her a favour and take charge of the hostel whilst she was away. It was a bit of a shock, having just arrived. But I said that would be okay and took on the responsibility.

All I had to do was make sure that everything was secure before retiring to bed. It meant a tour of the whole house and ensuring all was well and the kitchen was in order. Later that night, the bed was a welcoming sight.

The Ride to Papago Gardens.

The next morning, which happened to be my birthday, I made breakfast before I was assigned a duty by the owner. Earlier, before breakfast, I made use of one of the shower cubicles, as was my custom when travelling. There were two cubicles, and she asked me to clean the inside of one of them, the one I used earlier. This task has set a record for being the most remote hostelling duty I had ever carried out. All other hostel duties were wholly within the United Kingdom. However, not everyone favoured these duties - I believe one of the main causes of hostel decline and the need for change, as narrated earlier in this Biography. Therefore, it came as no surprise that before the rest of us got up that morning, a couple of hostellers arose, dressed, packed their bags and sneaked out, thus avoiding the duty altogether. 

 

Saguaro Cactus, Papago Park.

After the duty was done, I set out to check out the city. At the shopping plaza, I was impressed with how the square was laid out with shops, palm trees, and a decorative canal winding through, the clean pebble bed seen through the clear water flowing above it. However, for the first time, I saw notices displayed in some shops warning us that a shirt or top must be worn when entering the shop. I felt a slight unease. Being hot, I was wearing a singlet, a coloured vest. Was that permitted? Apparently, it was, as I was browsing, no one approached to turf me out or to chide me. It became apparent that it was toplessness that was forbidden - perhaps due to a strong Spanish/Catholic culture in the city.

That afternoon, I strolled into Indian Park, a series of low buildings baking in the sunshine, the whole environment giving an impression of Little Mexico. Although the square was deserted and the shops closed, I was half-expecting to come across a sleeping gentleman reclining outside his residence, the huge-rimmed Mexican hat shielding his face entirely from the sun. But no such luck.

General view of Papago Park from the trail.

In the evening, after dark, the city was alive with people attending a free open-air concert, like the one I saw at Tulsa. As I looked around, the scene was so like that of a Western movie, that I could almost sense the ghosts of old-time cowboys riding into town on their horses, with the leading rider holding a rope and swinging a lasso. The sensation was strong enough for me to wonder whether the atmosphere was really telling me something, as the historic square had that authentic look and feel.

The next morning, after a second night was spent at the hostel, no duty was assigned to me this time. Maybe this might have been due to having completed the duty once, and instead, they were assigned only to first-nighters. However, I didn't complain! Instead, I saw her talking to two students I saw for the first time. They were asking the warden about where to visit a botanical garden. The hostel had some bicycles stored for hire. When the two students accepted the idea of riding into town, I felt keen, and I asked them if they minded me accompanying them. They seem keen and said that they were about to visit the Papago Botanical Gardens near Scottsdale.

The three of us set out, and we rode on the path which parallel the straight road. It was already sunny and warm as I followed the lead rider, as he seemed to know where the park was. I certainly didn't.

The walk around the gardens was a worthwhile experience. Here, cacti grew to their full size, and there were a variety of species, from the impressive Ball Cactus to the tall Saguaro variety. There were notices explaining how water, being naturally scarce, is maintained through conservation methods. But what intrigued me most of all was the walkway through the gardens. Here in Phoenix, the path was known as a trail. Yet, when I imagine a trail such as the Bright Angel down into the Grand Canyon, this looks nothing like it.

Ball Cacti - spectacular.

After the walk around, we had some refreshments at the site's cafe. However, maybe it was due to being old enough to be their father, or perhaps not, but no special friendship developed between these two students and me. Maybe, I was seen as a hanger-on or someone who couldn't gel into their way of thinking or feelings. But they weren't hostile and made sure that I was okay. Whilst riding both to the park and back to the hostel, they made sure that I didn't fall behind. After returning to the hostel, we parted, the students went their way and I went mine.

This was to be my final evening at Metcalf Hostel, as later in the evening, I was due to board the Greyhound for an overnight journey to San Diego, another "virgin city" that is, I hadn't visited before. As I will find out, for me, San Diego was the best city I had ever stayed at in the whole of North America, and second only to Jerusalem in the world.

Once again, I found myself preparing for another night spent sitting upright in a seat instead of lying flat on the bed and my head resting on a comfortable pillow. But by now I was well used to it.

The following morning, the bus pulled into San Diego Bus terminal, back then located at Broadway. I freshened up and walked west towards the harbour. There was a large building, once a military centre, but by 1995, it was bought by the YMCA. However, on one of the floors, perhaps the third one up (from the ground, as in America, the ground floor is also the first floor) was the HI-AYH hostel, a set of bedrooms surrounding a common atrium. The hostel, like all other hostels, included a kitchen and dining room combined, and a large, military-style shower and bathroom. I checked in and paid for the next five nights. This hostel will set the pace for future travel.

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Update on Sunday, August 20th, 2023: England lost to Spain by one goal to nil. Therefore, Sarena Weigman won't receive her honours in full glory, as predicted above.

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Next Week: Life in San Diego.

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.

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.