Well, the previous night turned out to be a bit of a bust. Got back to the hotel to find many of the others already gone, and no sooner did I get a cab down to the French Quarter then the power went out and they started asking people to go back to their hotels. Ike has hit. The French Quarter is usually a den of drinking and cheap thrills like strip clubs and the ladies of the night all dressed up. It looks like Sydney’s Kings Cross mixed with a French Colonial theme, and is a sure indicator of what we’d have been in for if La Perouse had started a colony first. I go back to the hotel – reluctantly and crash out with some takeaway.
Next morning, the high wind has been joined by rain. Torrential rain. Breakfast is a few pastries and dodgy coffee in the hotel’s lobby, followed by a mad dash to get stuff loaded onto the bus. The driver is sheltering under the bus’s baggage compartment door as he loads stuff. His name is Charlie, and is a pleasant enough sort of guy with a strong handshake. I settle into a seat and wait. It is warm and stuffy on the bus, but it beats standing in the rain.
The group gradually makes its way aboard in dribs and drabs. There wound up being a bit of a room party last night after the weather killed the mood, and those who are a little worse for wear are taking their time to get aboard. Charlie sends someone to grab people, as he wants to get on the road before we get cut off. Flooding is a big issue along the Gulf coast. Eventually, after a roll call and head count, we get on our way.
I end up sitting next to a North Queenslander who is friendly and chatty without being really interested. He seems in his element. He and his new wife have chosen Contiki for their honeymoon, and she’s a bit annoyed by the slightly raucous element on the bus. During an icebreaker game to introduce myself to the others as a “newbie”, I get some loudmouth catcalls from a fellow with a booming voice. I’ll meet him soon enough.
As the bus passes a sharp turn in the road, there are 3 SUVs tipped on their sides. Should be a great ad for these trucks. They’re useless on road in extreme weather. The state line into Mississippi passes without much fuss apart from a small welcome sign, and now we’re headed across a massive stretch of water. The bayou is spanned by an enormous road bridge direct from one shore to the other. The fastest connection between two points is a straight line I suppose. In any other country on Earth, the road would – sensibly I might add – follow the coast around to the other side. It’s weird to be on a bridge so low to the water that small waves are lapping up on either side. Slightly more unnerving is the new bridge under construction next to the existing one. It’s about 20 feet taller and the tide mark on the piles is about halfway up, which is over the roof of the bus. Would have hated to be here when that tide rolled in.
The bus ride is a little boring apart from that, but we cross into Alabama to the tune of “Sweet Home Alabama”…though the sky is running grey today rather than blue. Finally, we reach our midday stop just outside of Mobile…and there’s floodwater. We stop at the edge of a large pool with a single tree poking out. There are local cops standing around drinking coffee and enforcing a roadblock. As if anyone not in command of an amphibious jeep would even try going through that? Let me spell it out. It is not a small tree. Though it is a good hundred meters or so away, we can tell it is a good size. Diverted onto a side road we go up and over, passing by a restaurant with a red roof. Only the roof is visible, and that diner was our lunch stop for the day. The road along the scenic coast to where the USS Alabama is tied up for inspection by tourists is under a good 20 feet of water.
For those who’ve never seen semi-submerged buildings before, there is nothing quite like it. You get an incredible sense of how nature trumps people most of the time. We may build higher bridges and more sophisticated drains, but nature still finds her way around them. The rain has stopped here and the sun is starting to emerge, but we’re forced to make our stop at a strip mall just outside the city limits. The best food on offer is either a place called “Del Taco” or another “Wendy’s”. Everyone opts for the Wendy’s. Me included, though I lunch on a chicken sandwich rather than the unpalatable beef.
Done with eating, I duck into a nearby clothing store and buy some board shorts or “surf jams” as Yanks call them. The cashier asks me if I have a penny, and laughs when I say I’ll check. “Honey, everyone’s always got a penny,” she assures me. One thing I found out during the course of reorganizing my bag the night before was that my swim shorts were over 10,000 miles away tucked in a drawer. Not much good to me there. I notice that the sun is scorching hot, too. A bottle of water is purchased from the vending machine out the front of the store and emptied en route to the bus.
Just over the state line in Florida, a huge group of State Troopers wearing the uniforms of both Alabama and Florida officials is combing through the woods. They pull the bus up for a second and ask the driver a question, then wave us along. Everyone comments how strange they think this sight is, I would say that it would be wiser to be on the lookout for any guys in orange pyjamas carrying a hand lettered sign thumbing a ride to Tampa. Perhaps the officers would be better off a few miles down the road, as there are heaps of warehouse-sized stores with “Fireworks” “Liquor” and “Firearms” emblazoned across them. All are attempting to outdo each other with bolder and crazier signs advertising ways to drink oneself into oblivion or destroy parts of the landscape. There’s also a cheesy Mexican theme park called “South Of The Border”. Sadly closed, but we see from the bus a sort of Cha-Cha ride that is designed to resemble a giant sombrero and a statue of a guy who looks like the stereotypical image of a Mexican in poncho, sombrero and sandals with a giant mustache. This thing was probably built around the mid-50′s and from the looks of it, pre-dates Mr Disney’s far superior (but no less cheesy) offering down south.
After about 6 hours on the road, we pull in to Pensacola Beach. Pensacola is a US Navy town, famous for Navy fliers. The main beach is reached through town, though when we get off the bus, a gale is blowing. Walking down to the sand, the so-called “world’s whitest sand” is more like sandpaper. I pose for a picture on the beach, but that’s about as much as I can stand. The stuff is blowing everywhere, so with discretion being the better part of valor, all the Aussies and a few others retreat to a nearby bar called “The Docks” which butts right up against the sand. The barmaid is a chatty woman of about mid-40s who still dresses like someone 20 years her junior. But she’s quick with the drinks, and cheerfully dispenses Corona in little blue cans with a wedge of lime stuck in. I have never seen Corona sold canned before. I always have a Corona when traveling in tribute to Mark, a late mate of mine who died a couple of years ago. Meeting him for a drink while travelling up his way I ordered a Corona and for the rest of the night he was giving me crap about drinking “Mexican Horse Piss” and ever since I honour a funny and very positive man by drinking one – or more – every time I travel.
I get to meet the foghorn voice from the bus too. He and his mate are a couple of Aussie country boys at the end of a farm stay on an American farm. They booked this trip as a way to see more of the country before going home. They are an interesting pair, one is loud, boistrous and very “Aussie”, the other one quieter and more reserved. There are other interesting tales. A pair from Australia’s north who are trying to rack up as many lays as they can get before going home, a very colourful greengrocer from Johannesburg (“Jo’burg lad” as he would put it) and a shy Englishman who looks like a fish out of water. Barriers are broken down and much beer consumed over a casual game of pool.
The hotel that night is a continuation of the afternoon. After getting there, we repair to a dining room for an Indian buffet dinner (Curry in the US is more sweet than spicy and contains more vegies than meat). Here, I meet two lads from out west of Sydney who’ve been traveling together since LA and whom I get along with pretty well. Dinner serves as ballast for the evening, as we are miles from any nightspots we have to party in the hotel. More pool is played and the jukebox is monopolized for the evening. Which peters out a little earlier than expected, as it is a hotel bar and not a club or nightspot. Tomorrow, we’re on the road to Orlando, theme park Heaven.
