Midnight Cowboy in Memphis

Memphis. The city that brought the world blues, soul and rock ‘n’ roll.

Home to Graceland, the legendary mansion of Elvis Presley, and Sun and Stax studios, the recording studios which introduced us to the King of Rock 'n' Roll along with other greats such as Johnny Cash, Little Richard, Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Isaac Hayes…

My ears were salivating at the thought of it all.

That is if they weren’t dropping off. It was cold - very cold - and my great floppy lugholes were bearing the brunt of it.

I was starting to bitterly regret the run-in I had with a rather enthusiastic barber back in Guatemala and wondered what on earth was going on with the weather in this country.

The day before we’d been in Jackson, Mississippi, where the sun was shining and the thermometer was reading 25°C (77°). We had been wearing t-shirts and sunglasses as we caught the Greyhound out of town, passing on the way an electronic billboard flashing a tornado warning.

And yet four hours later up the interstate, as we alighted at Memphis, Tennessee we were greeted by the kind of icy blasts you’d encounter in the depths of winter back home.

The thermometer had plunged to a meagre 3°C (38°F), and it was falling fast.

The rain was beginning to turn to hail and by the time we’d reached our new lodgings the promise of snow hung in the air.

As I stood shivering on the doorstep of our couchsurfing host, cursing the holes in my shoes I realised I couldn’t put it off any longer: the music would have to wait, it was time to go clothes shopping.

I loathe this mundane activity and was looking forward to it with a looming sense of desperation when the door opened and our host, a strapping Argentinian biochemist named Adolfo, opened it.

“Hi you must be Tom and Lara; would you like a beer?”

Things got even better as pizza was produced and Aaron, a fellow Memphis couchsurfing host, schoolteacher and fount of local knowledge, offered to give us a lift to the city’s finest thrift stores.

As we rode out there the next day he gave us the lowdown on the city. He seemed keen to tell us about the crime rate - the second worst in the US apparently. Lots of murders, crack, shootings, the lot.

I’d heard it all before. Austin, New Orleans, Jackson, and now here. The words wafted over me as I ruminated on this apparent obsession of Americans with crime.

It seems to be almost a source of local pride, each city hotly contesting for the sacred title of ‘most dangerous city in America’.

This baffles me given the number of cops there are over here. With all these fine fellows patrolling the street it's a wonder there's any crime at all.

You almost can't move in this country for bulky men in immaculately pressed uniforms and gleaming cruisers, officers of the law from the sheriff's department, the city police, state troopers and other assorted agencies.

It's almost as confusing as the number of radio stations here, all four letter acronyms beginning - now we're east of the Mississippi - with a W.

Still, looking out the window, it was easy to believe Memphis’s claim, the sprawling blocks of low-rise buildings growing progressively shabbier the further we headed out of downtown.

A sign hung outside a launderette, reading: ‘Jesus is Lord. Starch Pants’ (if that won’t make you wash your smalls, nothing will); another, outside a fried chicken outlet, offered ‘legs and thighs. Spicy’, suitably sited next door to a strip club.

We were approaching our destination, the suburb of Nutbush, and two large thrift stores, purveyors of used clothing to the poor, the unemployed and cash-strapped backpackers.

Inside the Disabled Americans Thrift Store, browsers perused pungent old clothing and cast-offs whilst a jumpy-looking cop with closely cropped hair scanned them with beedy eyes, his hand twitching on his belt.

Our accents were soon - once again - attracting considerable attention. Was I from Ireland? a heavily bearded customer with steamed-up glasses asked me, another - a heavily tattooed lady with a tough Tennessee twang - complimented my English tones - ‘your accent is beautiful.’

Gosh, I liked this town already.

And it got better when I reached the racks, the store proving, along with its neighbour next door, a veritable treasure trove of high-quality clothing for the aspiring yet budget-conscious cowboy.

It is always our aim to try and appreciate a country from a local's point of view; as part of this, I indulge, when the chance presents itself to indulge in another Tintinesque tendency and take the 'Thompson and Thomson' approach.

The hapless Scotland Yard detectives, faithful companions to the boy reporter, always like to adopt the traditional costume.

Here in Memphis that meant only one thing and soon I was striding out into our new wintery world with a brand new uniform. This consisted of the following:

One pair of cowboy boots - $10
One pair of jeans - $5
One thick corduroy jacket $5
One heavy check shirt - $3

Combined with my Mexican cowboy hat I thought I cut a fine figure, ready to blend in perfectly with the locals around me.

Striding down the street on my two inch heels I thought I looked like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy; Lara reckoned more like Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain. Better steer clear of the rainbow flags for a while.

By now the snow was falling thick and fast, it was starting to get dark and there was little sign of a bus.

A shopkeeper had kindly looked up bus times for us, one of her customers had even offered us a lift and now we met yet another friendly local who offered us a ride.

‘Mah name’s Werr-sleh. People call me White Lightnin’. Wow - a bona fide musician, and a guitarist to boot. He reminded me of the purpose of our visit to Memphis - to seek out the blues - and we thanked him for his club recommendation, Wild Bills, a place we’d already heard of

White Lightin’ had another piece of useful advice: ‘You’re in Nutbush, maaaan - this is the hood’.

Time to go. A bus finally hove into view and we hopped aboard this skeleton service, the air inside so cold we could see our own breath, the seat cushions soaking wet from the leaking roof.

Once more I wondered what one would do without a car in a town like Memphis, marooned like a stranded sailor in an ocean of concrete.

We made to downtown and the one saving grace of the city’s public transport system - the Main Street Trolley.

This lovingly-kept line runs old trams which come complete with varnished wooden benches, odd knobs and levers. Ours also came with a friendly driver called ‘Mow-reece’ who complimented me on my new garb.

As the tram rumbled gently over the heavy rails I relaxed into its warm, comforting embrace reflected on the fine people of this city and the south in general. Once again the South had impressed us: the warmth of its welcome, the friendliness of its people; the kindness of strangers.

Half an hour later, as we kicked the snow off our boots back at our lodgings and brewed a restorative cuppa the news came through that we were in the middle of the heaviest snowfall for forty years, some parts of West Tennessee receiving up to a foot of snow.

We were back to survivalist shows back more. Snow-bound and stranded in the deep south: would Tom and Lara survive?

Stayed tuned and find out next week only on WISM.







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Tintin on the Pacific

As I type this the laptop screen rocks slowly back and forth with metronomic regularity, swaying in time with the desk, the floor and the entire room.

I gaze out of the window in front of me to take in the view: mighty waves slipping by; crests breaking; clouds drifting across an azure sky. And endless, endless water, stretching to the horizon and far beyond.

It’s not the most typical of sights. But then isn’t the most typical of surroundings. We are on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Having travelled most of the 21,000 miles we have covered so far by land (with the odd ferry thrown in ) we now take to the water, hitching a ride for 15 days aboard a container ship bound for LA, from the far east of the Pacific to the far west.

The Pacific Ocean - the very words conjure up images of ambition and adventure, it’s a byword for the exotic, the far-flung, the unknown. The neon-lit waters of Hong Kong harbour to the to the surf-bound coast of California - sounds far more interesting then Chek Lap Kok to LAX.

No identikit airports and long, dismal queues, no leg-crunching seats and foul, plastic food. No predictable movies or no 9/11 paranoia, no screaming babies or snoring adults.

Just the two of us and a few crew on a big boat. On an enormous blue ocean. With no land for days.
Just water. Lots and lots of it. We‘re crossing the biggest body of water in the world, one that covers a third of the entire globe.

My primal fears still to stir inside. Drowning, shipwreck, seasickness, scary monsters in the depths below and ferocious storms in the skies above.

Stirring up memories: seasickness and Stugeron on the ferry to Cherbourg; childhood stories of shipwrecked mariners; songs about drowning,; films about storms; news of sinking vessels; TV celebrity ‘survival’ shows featuring Carol Thatcher….

Too late.

We’ve hauled the anchors now, cast off the ropes. We’re heading out into the unknown, the unquantified, the unpredictable. There’s no way out at sea. No one can hear you scream…

Deep breath.

Take a look at our surroundings. It’s palatial!

As the only passengers we’ve been given the owner’s cabin - a bedroom, large living room and en-suite.

There’s a TV, DVD and Hi-fi, plus a fridge, a desk and large sofa. 15 days in which we can live out of cupboards and drawers rather than the cramped confines of a smelly old rucksack.

No dodgy Chinese wiring here, no leaking toilet or dripping taps, no filthy sheets or cacophonous street sounds.

Just a gentle hum from the engine, and the steady rock of the ocean.

There’s a laundry and mess room, where we dine with the officers. Three hot meals a day, served to us at our own table.

There’s a a small gym, with exercise bike, weights machine, table tennis and darts board.

There’s a sauna for Lara and even a mini swimming pool.

We’re are treated as honoured guests: the officers go out of their way to guide us around; the crew invite us to sing karaoke (I wisely turned down), play basketball (I was resolutely thrashed) and ping pong (ditto).

In between eating and fraternising we doze on the deck, stretched out on sunloungers or dip into the boat’s impressive DVD collection.

All the time we little moving world sways gently around, sometimes placid, sometimes vigorous.

This can present certain challenges: how to eat soup in a swell for one, and how to sleep when the boat’s rolling and pitching.

Other challenges lie ahead no doubt, but in the meantime I admire another sunset and gaze at the horizon.

I feel like Tintin, my hero, the daring young reporter.

He regularly set off on his adventures by boat, where exciting events would take place: Snowy would get attacked by a shark; Thompsons would wear old-fashioned bathing costumes and Captain Haddock would invariably get drunk on whisky.

And always there was some shady type on board, a stowaway, or a crooked crew member, usually a shifty Balkan-looking type with crossed eyebrows and a dodgy ‘tasche.

Best keep an eye out. After all, anything can happen at sea.

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Laos - Thailand

Crossing from Laos into Thailand, on the ‘friendship bridge’ spanning the Mekong River is a relatively simple affair.

Indeed, if it wasn’t for the painfully slow queue at immigration, standing in line in the baking heat for some dead-eyed, moustachioed chap to staple yet another piece of paper into your passport it’d feel more like a little jolly across the Severn Bridge rather than crossing an international border.

But low-key as it is, the differences between these two countries start to become apparent the moment you reach the other side.

Goodbye sleepy little Laos, hello thrusting ‘tiger economy’ of Thailand.

Within minutes the tiny, winding bumpy roads of Laos became a fading memory, as we sped along a smooth, fast dual carriageway, heading south for the second city of Nakhon Ratchasima. We travel a good inch across my battered map of the world in a few hours - something that would have taken a several days north of the border.

The scenery has changed as well. Gone are the wild mountains of the north, smothered in dense jungle, the jagged limestone peaks peaking through low cloud and teak forests teaming with wildlife.

Instead we speed through the pancake-flat plains of north east Thailand, a land of coconut trees and paddy fields where water buffalo submerge themselves in an effort to escape the searing heat.

And gone are the villages of little rattan, thatched huts, perched precariously on their stilts. Now we pass shopping complexes, car showrooms and steakhouses.

It seems south of the Mekong they have plumped for one form of imperialism for another: forsaking old Europe for the New World; French for American; colonialism for cultural and economic imperialism.

In the land of the Thais Uncle Sam has found himself some followers as the economy as expanded. Thais drive their pick-ups to the parking lot, they shop at the mart, they go downtown at the convenience store.

But the US isn’t the only country to get a piece of the action. Even dozy old Britain is represented, albeit by Tesco superstores (sweetly branded ‘Tesco Lotus’ in order to give it a nice, suitably exotic-sounding appearance) and the overpaid primadonna footballers from the Premier League, gurning across many TV screens and newspaper back pages.

Still the Thais are not ready to disown their own identity just yet. Indeed in this land you need only look at the nearest fencepost to be reminded of where you are, for the national bunting is permanently on display. The Thai flag festoons every frontage, usually accompanied by the yellow Buddhist flag.

This practice in itself would seem odd if it weren’t overshadowed - often literally - by the enormous portraits of the reigning monarch and his family, given pride of (public) place on every road, in every street.

They gaze down serenely upon you from every available space: on roundabouts and above pavements; along central reservations and across bridges, on calendars hanging in shops and outside municipal offices.

I’ve even seen soldiers sporting the kind of plastic wristbands worn in the West to pledge allegiance to a particular cause, yet their ones proclaim ‘Long live the King’.

As the longest reigning Thai monarch ever (60 years and counting), and indeed the longest-reigning current monarch in the world (he even puts our Brenda into the shade) His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej (Rama IX)’s is particularly popular.

Blinging up his his bespeculed, rather straight-laced appearance as elaborately as possible has ascended to almost an art form, albeit one that is perhaps more in keeping with Posh ‘n’ Becks rather than a refined royal.

Entering this country from Laos, where the monarchy was overthrown by the Communists and the Hammer and Sickle still flies from government buildings, it feels rather surreal - like travelling through a Tintin comic set in some obscure East European country where all the names contains lots of z‘s.

Unlike Laos, where tourism has only recently taken off, Thailand is now well-established as a firm favourite for Western tourists. The Thais have got it sussed: they dazzle you with their smile, enchant you with their accessible exoticism and leave you happy to be relieved of your Baht.

They have had time to develop this winning formula, benefiting from their climate, cultural and natural attractions and the kind of fully-developed infrastructure needed to draw overseas visitors.

The Lao have all but the latter: it’ll be interesting to see whether they will be as successful as their southern neighbours.

All this is immaterial however, compared with the surely the most reliable indicator of a nation’s greatness - its food. Thailand is rightly famed the world over for its fantastic fare and, despite all the differences we had noticed since crossing the Mekong, it wasn’t until we had tasted a Thai Green Curry that we could be sure we were in a different country.

Now all they need to do is take a lesson from their northern neighbours on how to brew a good beer to accompany it.

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