PROLOGUE
Vancouver, October 1990
Caligula was in fine form. He delivered the punchline to a long, complicated joke about a hockey player with a lisp who went looking for a puck. Julius Caesar burst into laughter. I laughed too, even though I didn't really understand the joke. The bar heaved with Romans. It was noisy and hot and I began to feel tired. I finished my glass of Rickards Red and figured I'd head for the sack. My two companions had other ideas.
“Hey, Rob, there's someone I want you to meet”. Caligula had to almost shout to make himself heard above the noise in the bar. He disappeared into the crowd in search of 'someone'. Caesar began telling me how much of a struggle it was to pay the rent each month. His sing-song voice melted into the general hubbub and I found myself only half listening to what he was saying.
We were in a neighbourhood pub in Kitslano, a trendy district on the west side of Vancouver. It was Halloween and the pub was packed with students from the University of British Columbia. The students were going to a fancy dress party later that evening. Everyone came dressed as an ancient Roman, except for me. I spoke with a London accent, and, in my mid twenties, I was a little bit older than the rest of the people crowded around the bar. Perhaps this had aroused Caligula and Caesar's curiosity. They came over and introduced themselves and we got talking. I'd had a late one the previous night and popped into the pub just for a quick drink. I now found myself on my third pint of Rickards Red.
Caligula returned.
“Rob, Rob, you'll never guess who this is.”
Behind Caligula stood a smallish man with long hair. The long hair partially obscured his face, making it difficult to distinguish his features. An array of bracelets and beads hung from his body. A red silk shirt was complimented by green corduroy trousers and a pair of dirty trainers. Nicotine stained fingers with long nails clutched a French cigarette. He had a lop-sided laurel leaf array on his head.
Caligula steered the man towards me.
“This is Ringo Starr's brother. He's a fellow Brit.”
Ringo Starr's brother let out a long chuckle and I could hear his beads and bracelets rattling above the general din.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, “what's your name?”
My question was met with more chuckles.
“His name's Zak,” put in Caesar, “he lives on a houseboat down at the harbour. He's a painter; well known in Vancouver.”
Ringo Starr's brother stayed with us for about twenty minutes. I noticed that during this time he never actually said anything. Instead, he chuckled continuously and threw back gin like there was no tomorrow. Finally a Roman Empress took charge of him and I heard his chuckles die away as he was led across the room to meet Nero. It appeared that being Ringo Starr's brother was a full time job. I wondered just how he had ended-up in Vancouver.
And you may be wondering just how I ended-up in Vancouver. Well, during the winter of 1987/88 I'd been living in Calgary, trying to salvage a failed relationship with a woman. The summer of 1988 found me in San Francisco with the beautiful people, trying to forget the aforementioned woman. During these trips, Vancouver had been on my list of 'things to do', but I never got round to it. After San Francisco I spent nearly two years working back in London. Then I just took off on my own for Vancouver, but not before the Inland Revenue had relieved me of most of the money I had saved for the trip.
So, there I am in Vancouver, autumn 1990. I had hardly any money and did not have a permit to work in Canada. Not that there was much work anyway, since the world was going through a bad recession at the time. Sounds pretty dumb, huh? but I often do things without really understanding why I'm doing them. It's only years later, as your life starts to unravel a bit more, that you realise there's some kind of rhyme or reason to what has gone before, however tenuous.
But at the time there didn't appear to be much rhyme or reason in trying to find a job that just didn't exist, or writing reams of bad poetry, or regularly getting soaked from rain that fell like stair rods from the tempestuous sky. Yes, the monsoon season had arrived in Vancouver, Canada's main western port and gateway to the Pacific, and a continuous flow of churning blue/black clouds rolled down off the surrounding mountains.
In these circumstances it is perhaps not surprising that I spent a lot of my time getting drunk in the neighbourhood pub.
Julius Caesar thrust another pint of Rickards Red into my hand and started telling me about the vacation he and Caligula had taken that summer, when they drove an old, beat-up VW camper van all the way along the Alaska Highway and up to Fairbanks, in the Alaskan interior. Now, I felt very tired that evening in the pub but their enthusiasm about the trip got me hooked and I was soon listening with rapt attention.
I'd been vaguely aware of the Alaska Highway and knew that it was a very long road that went to, well, Alaska. But I didn't know much else about it. I now heard tales of a 1500 mile dirt and rock road that ran through a vast wilderness, a wilderness patrolled by bears, wolves and eagles. A road that threw up rock slides and floods and mountain precipices. A road where you could drive for days and never see another human being. A road where danger lay around every bend.
Hey, this sounded like fun, so I pumped Caligula and Julius Caesar for more information. I suppose it was at that moment that I resolved that one day I, too, would drive the Alaska Highway.
I had no idea that the seed planted in my mind on that rainy evening in Vancouver would take nine years to germinate. I also had no idea of the drama that would ensue during my own trip to Alaska.
From Chapter Two: The Marie Anne…
Now that the Marie Anne had finally got underway the first order of business was to clean the ship. The white kaolin powder coated every surface and had congealed into lumps. Captain Markiewicz stood on the Bridge and watched his crew using pressure hoses to clear the kaolin. It took them most of the afternoon and at the end of it the ship was gleaming. Once the outside of the ship had been taken care of, attention then turned to the inside. While in port, cardboard mats were placed along the corridors to try and contain the mess that people brought in on their shoes. These mats were now removed and every surface received a polish. In the upper part of the superstructure, where the officers and passengers were quartered, Barry carried out this cleaning, and it was thorough. You could see your face in the polished walls and floors. When he wasn't presiding over mealtimes, Barry spent most of his time in an endless round of polishing. He wore a red bandana around his head to prevent drips of sweat from ruining his work. When making your way around inside the superstructure, if Barry was wearing his red bandana you had to be careful not to slip and break your neck.
On the morning of the second day at sea Barry, knocked on my cabin door: 'you ees moving todair'. True to his word, the Captain was letting me have a double cabin. Barry led me up to the deck above, where I was surprised to discover that my new quarters were in the owner's cabin, the biggest on the ship. The only other cabins up on this deck were the Captain's and Chief Engineer's. The owner's cabin consisted of a bedroom with a double bed and adjoining bathroom, and a large sitting room with two sofas, a low table and a huge porthole. The sitting room also had a desk. Perfect for writing bad poetry and the Alaska Challenge bulletins.
Once settled in my new quarters I sought out the Chief and asked him if I could get some of my stuff from the cars in No.5 hold. The 'stuff' included my typewriter and office equipment. The only access to No.5 hold was via a hatch on the cargo deck. A steel ladder ran down the side of the cavernous hold, 50 feet to the bottom. They told me that on a pitching, rolling ship it was too dangerous for a passenger to climb down that ladder. One of the crewmen would go down and get the things for me. The problem being, the cars contained so much gear that the crewman would never be able to find what I wanted. The Chief and some of the crew gathered around the hatch and I explained this to them. In the end they agreed to let me go down, but only with a rope tied around me. Two of the crewman held on to the rope while I carefully made my way down the ladder. They were right, it was dangerous. The sea was quite calm but the ship still moved around a lot and at times I had to halt my descent and cling on to the ladder for dear life. Eventually I made it to the bottom of the hold, where the two Citroen 2CVs had been out of sight and out of mind for the last five days. Seeing them again reminded me that this ocean voyage was just the start of an even bigger adventure. As I stood there alone at the bottom of the hold it felt strange, it felt exciting.
At the end of that second day at sea we left the English Channel and headed out into the Atlantic Ocean. A family of dolphins began following us. The sea was calm. The weather good. I stood on deck and gazed around: no land, no other ships, no nothing except the deep, swelling ocean. Gulp. I experienced a terrible anxiety as it hit home that I would be on this ship, on this ocean for eight more days with no escape, in the hands of fate and its servant, the cruel sea. I became acutely aware that the little white lie I'd told the Captain might well come back to haunt me.
For some months I'd been experiencing an uncomfortable feeling in my lower right abdomen…
From Chapter Two: The Marie Anne…
Barry told me about a barbeque he'd attended on another shipping line. It was a wet day and the 3rd Engineer tried to get the barbeque going with a petrol can. The petrol reacted with the charcoal and caused a huge flare-up. Two of the crewmen were badly burnt. One died in hospital. Filled with remorse, the 3rd Engineer later threw himself over the aft rail, where he plunged into the depths below and was cut to pieces by the ship's propeller. Barry said that they never did find all the pieces of his body.
Every morning Barry came to my cabin to make my bed and tidy up. On the morning after the barbeque he looked hung over. He told me that at midday the ship's general alarm would be sounded. We were having a lifeboat drill. When the alarm sounded I must put on my lifejacket and go to the Boat Deck as quickly as possible. The Captain put Barry in charge of Kurt for the duration of the lifeboat drill. It would be his job to get Kurt into a lifejacket and up to the Boat Deck. Barry cursed his luck.
Sure enough, at midday the ship's alarm sounded. I grabbed my lifejacket and wrapped it around me. I couldn't figure out how the straps connected together and so I just let them hang loose. Up on the Boat Deck most of the crew were already assembled. The lifeboat drill had been no secret and everyone wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible. Captain Markiewicz held a stopwatch in his hand. He explained the safety regulations to me and took me through what was happening. First of all we gathered around the port lifeboat. It was painted bright orange. Five of the crew jumped inside and the lifeboat was lowered off its derrick. It hung there, gently swaying in the breeze. The five crewmen began peddling furiously. We could see the propeller whizzing round. Captain Markiewicz explained unnecessarily that this lifeboat was driven by peddle power.
Next we all went over to the starboard lifeboat. This was driven by a petrol motor. Two of the crewmen jumped inside. The winch was started and we could hear a grating, grinding noise. The lifeboat remained on the derrick. The engineers fiddled around with the winch but the lifeboat still wouldn't budge. The Chief went off to get a crowbar. Barry told me about a lifeboat drill he'd been involved in while crossing the Pacific Ocean. A big wave had landed on the deck and swept three crewman overboard. Barry said that the Pacific rollers were the biggest in the world. The three crewman were never seen again.
The Chief returned with a crowbar and did some violence to the winch. Still the lifeboat wouldn't budge. In the end we all got fed up with it and called it a day. So ended the lifeboat drill. If the Marie Anne ever ran into difficulties only half the crew would be able to get off, and they would be the fittest ship wreck survivors ever found.
For more than a week the radio bands had been awash with static. On the morning of 14th July they came alive again: Dunkin Donuts, Dodge dealerships and Dolly Parton announced the lurking presence of America. Small, colourful fishing boats began to dot the ocean and jet planes arcing high up into the sky left vapour trails that looked like giant party streamers. The loneliness of the open ocean was coming to an end…
From Chapter Three: Into The Arms Of America…
The next morning, Friday 30th July, we said goodbye to sweltering Savannah and set out on the road journey to Canada. Our original plan was to follow the coast north via Washington DC and New York, which would provide some great photo opportunities with the cars in front of the White House, the Statue Of Liberty, etc. However, both Jose and I felt a need to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big population centres, so we decided to drive up to Canada via the inland route, on Interstate Highways 26 and 77, up through the Carolinas and on to the back roads of West Virginia.
We were insured for the road. We'd stocked up with cheap cigarettes and filled the cars with the cheapest petrol in America. We were taking part in a road movie and the cars were the stars. We got just twenty miles from Savannah and then the No.1 car developed engine problems. I contacted Jose on the walkie-talkie:
'This is yellow duck calling green duck, can you give me a big ten four, over.'
'What?!.'
'Er, green duck, I'm having problems with yellow duck, do you copy?'
'Oh fuck off'
'Green duck, yellow duck has engine problems, over.'
'Bloody ducks'
'Suggest we pull off the freeway at the next gas station, copy green duck.'
'Copy what?!'
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A car followed us off the freeway and on to the gas station forecourt. The driver was a young man who introduced himself as Billy. Billy wanted to video us and the 2CVs and kept saying 'Wow!' He asked us to wave at the camera and say hi to Hank. It was Hank's birthday. We tried to be polite to Billy, but in that sweltering heat, and nursing a car with mechanical problems, we were polite behind gritted teeth. Jose lit-up a cigarette, despite all the 'No Smoking' signs, and spoke to Billy. Fortunately, Billy couldn't understand Dutch.
Ever since driving away from the Marie Anne a steady stream of people had been filming and photographing the cars. It was nice that people took an interest in us, but at times it got a tad annoying. We were somewhat surprised at the reaction to the cars. People would toot at us, wave at us, give us the thumbs up. Mostly, though they wanted to film and photograph the cars... Billy sensed the tension in the air and didn't linger long. He told us that Hank would be thrilled when he saw the video and thanked us profusely before driving off, leaving us to figure out what was wrong with the No.1 car.
It didn't take long to figure it out. Whenever I eased off on the No.1 car's accelerator the engine started spluttering. When the revs dropped down to tick over speed the engine cut out completely. The engine could be restarted without difficulty, but would only keep going if high revs were maintained. Easy. Now all we had to do was figure out how to fix it. Hmm...
From Chapter Three: Into The Arms Of America…
Just north of the Falls is the Rainbow Bridge, which joins the USA and Canada. At lunchtime on Tuesday 3rd August, two Citroen 2CVs trundled across the Rainbow Bridge into Canada. It had taken us five days to drive the 1500 miles up from Savannah. At the border post we were told to pull over at the Customs Office. Jose and Rob and the cars were closely inspected by Erin and Harry, Canadian Customs and Immigration Officers. The prognosis was good. We took a picture of Erin and Harry standing by the cars. Erin gave Jose and I a Maple Leaf badge each. Welcome to Canada. We thanked the two of them and then made to drive away. The No.2 car wouldn't start. Jose kept turning the ignition key but the engine wouldn't fire. An embarrassing moment as Erin and Harry grew tired of waving at us. We let the No.2 car sit for a while and tried starting it again. With much spluttering and coughing the engine finally fired into life and we were on our way.
“We're on the way to Hog Town, Green Duck, and I'm smoking the brakes comin' off the Cabbage”
“...”
“Did you eye that Crotch Rocket at the cash register?”
“...”
“It's a ten nine. Buddy's after those Lot Lizards but there's a smokin' scooter taking pictures.”
“Oh for christsake, SHUT UP!”
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Niagara Falls consists of two cataracts. The Horseshoe, or Canadian Falls, and the American Falls. Every second, more than half a million gallons of water dive into the wide canyon and explode on the rocks below; although lord knows how they calculate these things. At night the falls are lit up, and the churning waters tumble dramatically into blackness, while in winter the whole scene changes as the falls freeze to form gigantic razor-tipped icicles which give statisticians multiple orgasms.
Niagara Falls is up there with, say, the Taj Mahal or The Great Wall of China. It's one of the world's top tourist attractions and no commercial opening has been left unexploited. The Canadian side of the Falls affords the most spectacular view. Here, hotels and apartment blocks have sprung up beside the canyon like giant steel and concrete weeds. There's a Hard Rock Cafe and a casino, a plague of gift shops, and to make it even easier to part with your money a variety of methods have been laid on to help you get closer to the Falls: boats, catwalks, observation towers and helicopters all push as near to the curtain of falling water as they dare. Even one hundred years ago, Oscar Wilde found the tourist operation at the Falls tacky. Oscar quipped that he would have been more impressed if the falls ran upwards.
From Chapter Four: The Wild West…
… the fan cover was bloodily removed and the fan was taken off by means of the two Billys' wrench and a big whack with a hammer. The whack caused a huge cloud of rust to fall from the No.2 car. We tactfully ignored it and put in a new set of points and condenser, and it worked: the engine fired into life at the first attempt. For a moment we were stunned, then, Whoopee! We were on our way once more, for about 100 yards, when the No.2 car's engine died again. The ignition timing needed doing, and we were doing it for another two hours before the car deemed to start. The feeling of getting a knackered Citroen 2CV working again can be compared to childbirth... and so we continued bowling westward, chewing up the miles/kilometres across the spectacular scenery of northern Ontario.
Our last night in Ontario was spent in Terrace Bay. This little town sits at the northernmost point of Lake Superior. Terrace Bay is known as the "gem of the north shore". It's surrounded by rugged beauty which to the north is total wilderness. The tourist office town guide lists “54 things to do in Terrace Bay”, amongst which are walking along the beach and visiting the tourist office.
Jose and I did neither of these things. Instead we had a row. Well, it was due, we hadn't had a bust-up since the car collision in Quebec City. The cause of our conflict began as soon as we got up to the hotel bedroom, where I immediately started working with the laptop computer. The Alaska Challenge bulletins were a bit behind schedule and this was an opportunity to bash one out. Jose had been growing increasingly annoyed over the amount of time I was spending on the laptop. I told her to get lost. After all, there were 54 things to do in Terrace Bay, and one of them most definitely did not involve unplugging the mouse from the laptop just as I was reaching the end of my scribblings. This caused our feeble little computer to go into a spin. I lost my work. I had to re-type the bulletin all over again. I was not pleased. In the dining room that evening we sat at separate tables…
From Chapter Four: The Wild West…
It was then that I hit upon the idea of taking a sex doll up to the Arctic with me. It seemed a good way to end the Alaska Challenge, which had been a wacky venture right from the start. More than anything, though, I find all those 'adventure journeys' that one sees rather tedious. It's all the same sort of macho rollocks; 'endurance', 'hard going', 'gee aren't we tough guys'. I was both the producer and the director of the 2CV Alaska Challenge, and now that the leading actress was no longer sticking to the script it was time for a bit of improvisation.
The following morning we checked out of the Comfort Inn and I took a room at the Captain Bartlett. This was Jose's last day in Alaska. The plane for Seattle left at midnight. But first, we had to buy a sex doll. This didn't prove easy, because despite the large military presence there's no red light district in Fairbanks. In fact, there didn't seem to be any sex shops at all. We pulled into a gas station. A young chap lounged behind the counter. Jose asked him where we could buy a sex doll. The young chap's mouth dropped open and for a few seconds he was speechless. It was an interesting meeting between American prudishness and Dutch liberalism. The young chap recovered his composure and became bashful. It turned out that in the whole of northern Alaska, a place the size of western Europe, there is just one sex shop. Luckily, though, it was situated only twenty miles from Fairbanks, out in the wilderness. We headed off down the highway.
We'd never have found the sex shop if it wasn't for the fact that the chap told us it lurked near a small lumber yard. The sex shop was set back from the highway, down a small dirt track that led into thick forest. We pulled up outside a long, wood cabin without any windows. It looked abandoned. There were two cars parked outside. Ah ha.... we cautiously pushed open the battered metal door and found ourselves inside a large emporium of the flesh, no different from any you'd find in Europe. A bored, fat guy sat at the counter. He was watching a ball game on a small portable tv. His eyes met ours for a fraction of a second. The only other customers in the sex shop were a GI and his girlfriend. They were holding up and admiring various sized dildos. Their eyes met ours for a fraction of a second.
We wandered around the shop. There were videos titled 'Sex the Greek way', 'Cowboy Brothel' and 'Masturbation Danish style'. There was the 'Orgasmo electric vagina', the 'Clitofing', 'Chinese Erekto Cream', and the 'Giant Strap-on Cocky'. There was also a large selection of sex dolls. Linda Lovelips, 'fully equipped with three holes for pleasure'. Doll Mate, 'you can vary the grip of her soft, inviting vagina during intercourse'. The Sexy Doreen Doll, 'with lifelike pubic hair'. Naw, I didn't like the look of any of them. I plumped for Jamie the Love Doll, because at forty bucks she was the cheapest. I handed over my cash at the counter. The fat guy's eyes met mine for a fraction of a second.
Now that I'd acquired my new co-star I just had to get some good shots of her, to put up on the web site. So, the three of us drove to the airport…
Media Coverage of the 2CV Alaska Challenge
rob@spiderbomb.com
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