by Alan Carr
Obviously, this awakening was awaiting me on the other side of the Atlantic, but I was green and excited/nervous. Anyway, whatever happened, I wasn’t clocking in at Horiba Instruments at 8.45 a.m. the next day, so who gives a shit?
The flight took eight hours and, like all my favourite plane journeys, it was uneventful. I didn’t really want to spend all year saving up for this round-the-world trip only to go into the side of a mountain. No, the journey was fine, albeit a little cramped. But it was the height of luxury compared to what we had in store.
According to our Rough Guide, our hotel was near to La Plaza de la Constitución in the middle of Mexico City. Plaza de la Constitución or El Zócalo is one of the largest squares in the world. It is used for concerts, artistic celebrations, civic duties or, as it was on 7 June 1999, a demonstration where all the poor of Mexico City descend on the Zócalo to complain to the government about their poverty-stricken lives. You will not believe what greeted our tired eyes as we came up the subway. The Zócalo had been transformed into a shanty town. I say ‘transformed’, but I don’t know what it looked like previously – although I never saw chickens, women screaming and gangs of Mexicans banging makeshift drums out of bins in any of the travel information.
The only tip we had been given was not to look like a tourist. So there we were, standing in what can only be described as a riot, with a rucksack on, reading a Rough Guide and holding a camera. The only other thing that was pastier than our skin was the dead chicken that this 18-stone Mexican woman was waving around her head. It was pretty scary, but eventually we found the road we needed for our hotel and made a quick exit.
We decided to leave Mexico City and head down south to Oaxaca. Some surfers had advised us to get out of Mexico City and make for the coast, so that’s what we did. Looking back, I regret not spending more time in that city, with its striking architecture and its ruins, but the night before had shaken us up. Besides, I had seen a corpse in a doorway that morning on the way out for a croissant, and that really made my mind up. We’d been there a day and the only Mexicans we’d seen were either rioting or dead. We made it to the bus station and began our six-hour bus journey to Oaxaca.
The first thing that hit us was the massive shanty town embedded in the side of this hilltop. As you saw the corrugated-iron roof and cramped conditions, it made you think that it was a bit like being on this bus, only on the hill they weren’t swerving in and out of Volkswagens and being driven by a man off his face on tequila. I don’t care what you say, the scenery between Mexico and Oaxaca is boring. Cactus after cactus after cactus whizzing past my window, and then a few hills for six hours. Things must have been bad because I started reminiscing about the M6, with its delightfully coloured orange bollards and charming eateries like Little Chef. As the television wasn’t working, the driver popped on the Vengaboys album, and that was that. ‘The Vengaboys are coming and everybody’s grooving …’ on a loop for six hours, and all there is to look at is fucking cacti. I left Northampton for this?
All our fears seeped away as we arrived at this beautiful Zócalo in Oaxaca, dominated by a magnificent cathedral that itself was framed against the Sierra Madre del Sur mountains. On the top of these stood Monte Alban, these huge magnificent Zapotec ruins. The Zapotecs apparently never made as big an impact as their Inca cousins, so in fact they were a bit like a prehistoric Dannii Minogue, but don’t let that put you off. They are really impressive, these huge stones that some poor sod must have had to carry up the hillside from the valley down below thousands of years before. It is genuinely an eerie place, especially when you walk up the southern platform which was used for human sacrifice. As you stand there looking out across the valley, you wonder for how many people that would have been the last thing they ever saw. Brutal, yet beautiful. This was the Mexico I had waited for.
As we continued our journey through Mexico, we quickly found out that a six-hour bus journey was relatively swift. We were soon experiencing eighteen-hour journeys, weaving up and down mountains. Sometimes we were so high up, we were driving through clouds. In fact, we were getting quite used to the travelling. I don’t know whether we had resigned ourselves to it or the scenery had improved, but it seemed the deeper into Mexico we ventured, the more vibrant and lush our surroundings became. Women selling guava and mangoes, tiny churches teetering on the edge of a cliff, waterfalls, and not a cactus in sight.
Everything was going so well. We’d had a week of exploring. Yes, the travelling had been a drag, but we were getting the gist – there are mammoth bus journeys, but at the end you’re rewarded with a little gem of a town or city. However, I wasn’t counting on getting ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’. Now when I mention ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’, I’m not talking about the video game for the Commodore 64, I’m talking about severe diarrhoea. ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’ is a ‘humorous’ name. It’s especially hilarious when you’ve shat yourself on an Inca ruin. It’s a myth to do with the Aztec god cursing the invading Spanish, but it’s technically a bacterial infection you get from eating the food that’s been washed in their water. Obviously when I was sober, I was vigilant about not having salads or ice cubes. But after a couple of 60p bottles of Corona, you get the munchies in a Mexican village and reading the label isn’t that high on the list of priorities.
It wasn’t too long before, thankfully, we went to a beautiful island, Isla Mujeres, a few miles off the Yucatán Peninsula in the Caribbean Sea. Maybe I’m a philistine; you can see all the history and ruins you want, but until you’ve popped on your Speedos, swung in a hammock and sipped a daiquiri your holiday hasn’t really started. Oh, just me then. Seeing that blindingly white sand and that turquoise sea was such a blessed relief. The last fortnight had been enjoyable, but it hadn’t been easy. Now we were in paradise. Whether it was my body slipping into holiday mode or the skip full of Imodium I’d been taking, my bowels had quietened down substantially.
We carried on our journey down the coast staying at more and more cabanas, beginning our metamorphosis into proper tourists. Our skins turning a lovely golden brown, sarongs replacing our shorts and our insides toughened up so much we were eating the local food off the stalls in the street. There was even no more screaming if a lizard jumped out from behind a cactus, well, maybe just a little gasp.
More beautiful beaches, more ruins and more bus journeys awaited us. The morning we were set for Acapulco we had overslept, and when we had reached the bus station the only two seats they had left were at the back next to the toilets. I didn’t think this would be a problem. I’d sat next to the toilets on school trips and on a National Express – how bad could they be? Fucking awful! They reeked. As we walked down the aisle, people were holding their noses and waving anything they could find to try and generate some air that wasn’t in fact rancid. It was dreadful.
Thankfully, the bus started quickly, and we were off on our way to Acapulco. The air conditioning on the bus wasn’t helping things in the least, and to make it worse, every time the bus went around a corner the toilet door would fly open and happy-slap us with its stench. I was gagging at this point and trying to find a gap in the window insulation where I could get some fresh, healthy air. As the bus trundled up a mountainside, the toilet door flew open nearly every few minutes. It became too much, I couldn’t take any more. I was so nauseous, I slammed it shut out of pure frustration. With a huge ‘clang’, the door remained shut, and the aroma seemed, thank God, to have abated for the time being. The back of the bus could take a deep breath, literally, take a deep breath.
We thought nothing more of it until a Mexican man from the front of the bus came to use the toilet. He grabbed the handle to pull it down. Nothing. He tried again. It didn’t budge. He pulled a bit harder – yes, it was jammed. Then he looked at me and pointed aggressively at the toilet door. Did I look like I had ‘Toilet attendant’ written on my forehead? Obviously, I didn’t say this to him, as he looked scary. He was gesturing to me that I had broken the toilet. That’s gratitude. I di
dn’t see anyone complaining when I had deadened the smell. I had gone from bus hero to bus villain in the space of fifteen minutes. What was I supposed to do? Buy a Glade plug-in?
By then, a couple of other Mexicans got involved, talking in Spanish, then looking at me and scowling. I looked away. It wasn’t my fault that we were one hour into a twelve-hour bus journey without a working toilet. They managed to force the lock and – ‘Open sesame!’ – the door flew open, offering up its eggy treasures for the whole of the back of bus. We would just have to make do with the smell for the next eleven hours. Not only did we now get the smell when we went round a bend, we got the sight of a Mexican sitting on the toilet as well.
Acapulco was a bit like one of those ageing rock stars: they’re famous, but you don’t know what for, and even if you did, it all happened in the Seventies. By my reckoning, Acapulco needed a makeover and quick. As always with Mexico, they could try to be hip and ‘with it’, but they always seemed to get upstaged by their heritage. In Acapulco’s case, it wasn’t the bars or hotels, it was La Quebrada that stole the show. La Quebrada, made famous by the Elvis film Fun in Acapulco, is where these fearless men dive 136 metres off the top of the cliff into a sea. But if you ask me, if they really wanted to be fearless they should try to stroke one of the cats there.
These bronzed, lean, Speedo-wearing men would kiss the statue of the Madonna, lucky bitch, nestled on top of the cliff, and then dramatically leap into the sea. One error and theywould be dashed against the rocks and banished to a watery grave. It was all very exciting. Some people claim it’s only for the tourists – yeah right, as if these men are going to throw themselves off for a laugh. It was during this marvellous spectacle that Montezuma took his revenge on Catherine, but this time both ends.
So poor old Catherine was not looking so well at all. She was feeling weak and exhausted, exactly as I had done all those weeks ago. As we sat there, disheartened and looking at each other across the ripped linoleum, a noise began to fill the room, a noise that I’d heard so many times before in Mexico, a noise that filled me with dread. Oh no, it couldn’t be. Oh yes, it was. It was the fucking Vengaboys! ‘Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! I want you in my room. Let’s spend the night together.’ A so-called ‘party’ cruise ship was circling the bay and, like some tramp’s projectile vomit, that song had seeped out, to everyone’s inconvenience.
The Vengaboys’ music was becoming like the fabled Black Dog. Wherever it appeared, bad luck and carnage would soon follow. Catherine began to vomit again, not knowing whether it was caused by Montezuma or the Vengaboys’ B-side. I made up my mind we were leaving Mexico. I was sick of being ill. I was sick of being on a bus. The amount of money Catherine and I had spent on buying new underwear meant that, at the rate we were going, we would have blown our budget by Tuesday week. So the next day I bought two plane tickets to fly us to the border. This was a big step because I used my Visa card, a card I had promised to use only in an emergency. I returned to Catherine and told her the good news. Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful time. Mexico is an amazing place, but as you’ve read over the previous pages, you pay with your bowels. I can only assume it’s like being tagged: your options are limited, you feel trapped, and you are forced to stay in one place at one time – which, in my case, was near a toilet.
I guess I wasn’t the hardcore traveller that I thought I was. I’ll admit it, Montezuma won, my arse lost, but, hey, onwards and upwards. As soon as we crossed that border into California we both breathed a sigh of relief. I don’t know whether it was psychosomatic, but our stomachs seemed to feel better, the air seemed clearer, and we headed into America with a regained sense of optimism.
* * *
The contrast between Mexican and American life is so stark. Yes, boundaries are everywhere – whether they are emotional or social – but the physical one that lies between California and Mexico takes some beating. The poor, run-down Tijuana and the urbane cosmopolitan San Diego feel they should be continents apart and not just a few miles. I’m not going to get too much on my ‘Make Poverty History’ soapbox. The US gets criticised for being bigger and better, but that’s fine with me; as long as the Americans give good customer service, I ain’t complaining.
California went like a dream. The food was great, the weather was divine and the people were to die for. Admittedly, their friendly attitude can be quite unnerving to a cynical Brit. I was in a mall (shop) holding up some pants (trousers), and a passing shop assistant said, ‘Hey, you look good.’ I automatically scanned her face for sarcasm. None. Hmm! What was her game? ‘You’ll look hot in those. Trust me.’
It was a revelation. I’ve never had anyone say I was ‘hot’ before, well, apart from that man in Yates Wine Bar, but then again he was playing ‘Pull the Pig’. It was just the shot of positivity that I was looking for, and do you know what? I bought the pants (trousers). She was right: they were awesome (wonderful) because they showed off my ass (bottom) and weiner (penis). I know it’s not trendy, but I love Americans.
We got a Greyhound bus up to San Francisco, a destination I was so excited to visit. When we arrived, it didn’t disappoint; it was everything I’d expected it to be. It was so fresh and open and one of those places that you could just walk and walk and walk. One thing that I found really strange was the sight of those Mexican pan pipers that seem to be in every town centre the world over. San Diego, San Francisco, they even have them in Northampton. What? They make Starbucks look like a cottage industry. But, bizarrely, we never saw a single one the whole time we were in Mexico. I never heard a single pipe being blown or any Mexican say ‘Hey Roberto! Let’s make some lift music with zee pipes.’ No, it seems the Mexicans didn’t want to piss off their own kind, oh no, they would irritate the rest of us in protest at being persecuted all those years ago. And where would they do it? In shopping centres. They know we like to shop. Very cunning, those Mexicans.
When I tell people I’ve been to San Francisco, they automatically raise an eyebrow and go, ‘Oh yes?’, naturally assuming that I popped into a sauna and partook in a down and dirty rampant sexathon for four days. I’m afraid the opposite is true. I found the Castro, the big gay area, a bit full on to be honest. San Francisco is big on leather biker bars which, as you can probably tell, isn’t really me. Obviously, I went to have a look – for research purposes, of course – but the bars terrified me. God knows what a heterosexual would feel. Approaching these bars that had names like ‘The Stud’, ‘The Cock’ and ‘Daddy’s’, I felt a lump come to my throat – and it wasn’t the kind of lump I was hoping for. Personally I like my gay bars to be a bit more subtle and have a bit of mystery, and besides, we were running out of money, I couldn’t afford a sandwich let alone a pair of bumless trousers to go partying in.
In saying that, we always seemed to have enough money for drink. Strange, isn’t it? Your face could be pressed up against the glass of a restaurant window like some urchin salivating at all the people eating, yet when it came to drinks I was as flush as Rockefeller. My Visa card was taking some battering, I’m afraid. This card, which at the beginning of the trip was for emergencies only, was now bearing the brunt of mine and Catherine’s drink problem. But then again, after a hard day taking in all the sights, in some respects a gin and tonic with ice and a slice could be seen as an emergency.
* * *
I was wary about returning to Sydney. I’d had an awful time the first time I’d gone. I had visited Carolyn with her new boyfriend in this dodgy cockroach-ridden youth hostel. Whenever you turn up in a strange city, accommodation is top of your list. If you’re a poor backpacker in Sydney, there’s only one place to head to, and that’s King’s Cross. This sleazy part of Sydney is like its London namesake, seedy and grubby and full of prozzies. Our hostel was right at the other end of King’s Cross. That meant walking past the neon migraine which was the titty-bars with their menacing, puffed-up door staff trying to lure you in.
Our hostel was friendly and clean, with a lovely roof terra
ce where you could look down on King’s Cross and see people being mugged, prostitutes getting arrested and drunk aboriginals shitting. But when the sun is shining and you’ve got a beer in your hand, you could be in paradise.
Accommodation was sorted. Now all I needed was a job. I bought myself a couple of shirts from David Jones, the department store. These were the cheapest shirts you’ve ever seen, they were one step up from tea-towels. 100% polyester – just ideal for a workday in a city that often reaches the late 30s Celsius, don’t you think? Let’s hope the offices aren’t too confined. The trousers were also cheap, my shoes were these disgusting black slip-ons whose soles were so slippy, you could do Torvill and Dean’s Bolero down the street without lifting a leg.
I went round all the temping agencies in the Sydney area with my CV. It’s refreshing to know that a 2.1 in Drama and Theatre Studies is just as useless on the other side of the world as it is here. Employers are keen to use us Brits over there, not because we’re hard-working or enthusiastic, but because they don’t have to give us benefits like sickness or holiday pay. So it was nice to know that even my pitiful CV would come good at some point. However, it was the same message from each agency – ‘No work at the moment. Come back next week.’
I needed work, and I needed it fast. It just so happened, as I was walking down George Street, the main thoroughfare in Sydney, Catherine spotted a friend across the road. This friend turned out to be Sarah, a girl Catherine had known in Kettering a few years back and had lost touch with. It’s ridiculous really that the backpacker trail is so well worn that you are more likely to bump into an old friend on it than in your own high street. Sarah was here with her girlfriend Cherry. At that point I did not realise that Sarah and Cherry would become two of my best friends, but let’s not spoil the story by getting over-sentimental just yet. I asked Sarah if she knew of any work going.
