WRONG BUS, RIGHT MOVES
If you thought we spoke the same language as Americans, think again.
Through our totally misunderstanding the Greyhound bus operator, we switched buses at Salinas, California, and accidentally found ourselves driving for hours through the desert on our way to Las Vegas instead of down the coast, gazing at the beautiful scenery and opulent homes.
On the long trip through the desert, at times we found the passengers more interesting than the scenery.
One immaculate, solemn gentleman had neatly plaited, long black hair beneath his hat (a Native American, we presumed) and two other very scruffy-looking chaps on climbing aboard received a stern warning from the driver that if he smelt any dope at the back, he would chuck them off.
Two young Australian girls proved to be very friendly. We would later share a taxi with them to the Holiday Inn, in a very cold and snowy Flagstaff, which had not been on our itinerary.
And then, sitting in front of us, had been two, dear grey-haired ladies, powdered and painted and resplendent in fur coats, on a regular trip to Vegas. They were intrigued by our accents, and became very chatty, asking us many questions about our country.
“Oh yes,” said one, “Ian Smith is your president, isn’t he?”
We spent one night in Vegas, gazing, eyes boggling, at the extraordinary bright lights and sights. Then, with our resources so limited that we couldn’t even take in a show, we moved on.
We had not been blessed with a good exchange rate, and we still had a way to go. The desert was dramatic, and the lights of Vegas had been impressive, but there was nothing to keep us there.
A benefit of our Greyhound passes was that we could travel in any direction, hopping on and off at will. So which way now?
Early the next morning as we made our way to the bus station, we encountered two fur-coated, grey heads bobbing along the street. We were not sure whether our two old dears were on their way home after a night’s gambling or returning to try their luck once more. When they heard that we were uncertain of our next destination, they recommended we carry on to the Grand Canyon via Flagstaff. Apparently a magnificent sight, which we should not miss.
The scenery on the drive to Flagstaff and on the next day to the canyon was lovely – timber houses had icicles hanging from their peaked roofs, and many had candles and holly wreaths adorning their windows. Evergreen trees heavy with snow lined the route. For us it was pure magic.
At that time, water had apparently been a problem at the rim we visited, so the area had not been developed except for a few gift shops and a restaurant. Because of the heavy snowfall there were no trips down to the canyon. After a bit of exploring on our own we tagged onto a tour being conducted along the rim, strangely, by a real Mountie in a red jacket.
What can one say about the Grand Canyon in as few words as possible? Splendid? Magnificent? Majestic? Rugged? Unbelievable? A spectacle never to be forgotten?
All of the above. Or, as many of us say these days when confronted with something wonderful, just awesome.
L © Cynthia Hopkins