Look who it is! (17 page)

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 didn’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 they
would 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 terrace 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.

My first mistake was to say ‘I’ll do anything.’ She was working at a restaurant called Café 191, and they needed a ‘dishpig’ ASAP. Sarah informed me that a ‘dishpig’ was polite Australian slang for a washer-upper and that Café 191 was on Oxford Street – slap-bang in the middle of Australia’s gay scene. Oh, what with the excitement of finally earning some cash and the chance of maybe finding a possible holiday romance, I accepted and told her I’d meet her there at half seven.

Café 191 was a very swish, modern, cosmopolitan establishment where the gay glitterati dropped in for cocktails and people-watched before swanning off to a club or a private members bar. Not that I saw any of this because I was round the back, sweating profusely while scrubbing at a wok with a
scourer. The gay world has a hierarchy, and never was that more in evidence than at Café 191: lesbians and ugly gays out the back and pretty boys and muscle Marys at the front. I wouldn’t have minded, but some of these gays were retarded, mincing around taking the wrong orders, ignoring the ugly customers and serving the good-looking ones first. Huh, maybe if I’d had streaks in my hair I might have been able to fraternise with the customers, too. Instead, the only time I was spotted on the restaurant floor was when my pink marigolds would come through the serving hatch to collect the tray of dirty plates and dishes.

Any mystique I’d conjure up with those marigolds would be destroyed at midnight when my true identity would be revealed as I took all the kitchen waste out the back and popped it in a giant tin bin, situated conveniently next to the entrance of Sydney’s premiere gay nightclub. Sarah was right, I was meeting lots of gay people; they were scowling in their minuscule muscle vests while I was standing with a binliner and half of Café 191’s menu down my pinny. Surely one of these men would slip their phone number down the front of my apron? Alas, no.

Despite all this, Sarah and I had a right laugh, especially when the owner grabbed a pot from the top of the cupboard and a rat jumped down the front of his ruffled top. And you think I can scream! As always, it’s the grim occasions that bond people, and among the drama and stress of the kitchen the seeds of our friendship were sewn. I was introduced to her girlfriend, Cherry, who was working in a fish-and-chip shop under Sydney Harbour Bridge. She was just as lovely as Sarah,
and we were relieved that we weren’t the only ones enduring a mundane job in the name of travel. I lasted a couple more months at Café 191, but then thankfully my CV finally bore fruit. I got a job at HIH Insurance in an administrative role. It seems those polyester shirts I bought were going to come in useful after all.