Alabama

I’m only in Alabama for two weeks, and I may never be back, so I’ve been busy!

Huntsville seems to me untypical of most of the state, given that Alabama is in the bottom 3 poorest states in the country (poorer only are North Carolina and Louisiana). It’s a fairly affluent area, and, thanks largely to the significant presence of aerospace and defense industry, boasts a concentration of high-tech workers second only to Silicon Valley. 

Blackbird

Saturn V

I wasn’t previously aware of Huntsville’s illustrious history in aerospace. In the 1950s, Wernher von Braun spearheaded the effort to develop rocket science that culminated in the Saturn family of rockets, earning Huntsville the name “Rocket City”, which is a distinct improvement on its earlier claim to fame as “The Watercress Capital of the World”.

The US Space & Rocket Center is here, as are various branches of NASA. I was only able to visit the Center after hours – even so, The Saturn V rocket proudly standing outside is impressive, and the Blackbird (New York to London in under 2 hours) is equally as initimidating.

Alabama is definitely “the south” – in contrast, Texas prefers to think of itself as “the south west”. So there are everyday things here that I haven’t seen on my travels elsewhere – Sundrop and Cheerwine (caffeinated citrus soda and cherry soda, respectively), Piggly Wiggly and Publix supermarkets, Shoney’s restaurants, Krystal burger joints, as well as a different style of barbecue. Of these, probably only the last two are worthy of elaboration.

Krystal burgers (which I felt an obligation to try) would more usually be called “sliders” – small burgers, similar to White Castle, if you’re familiar with them. The “meal deal” I tried consisted of 3 “Krystals”, a medium fries and a medium Coke, with 3 “poppers” (which are really just donut holes). Not bad, as burgers go.

Memphis-style barbecue ribs

The barbecue, however, is a different story. It is mostly a dry-rub, “Memphis-style” barbecue, very different to the Texas barbecue I’m used to. It comes with a barbecue sauce, but usually served on the side, rather than slathered over the meat. The other side dish is potato salad – a traditional accompaniment.

It was delicious – although I would say “different”, rather than “better” (which is the same way I compare British and American beer). 

Once a year, Huntsville hosts a weekend long “Big Spring Jam” music Festival. The name is slightly misleading, because it’s in the fall. It’s held in Big Spring Park – hence the name. I saw Incubus, Sister Hazel and The Drive By Truckers perform, as well as a variety of lesser-known bands. The US Marines were recruiting. They had a HUMV with a large speaker system in back belting out heavy metal music at an impressive volume, and one of the Marines wore a t-shirt that said “Pain is weakness leaving the body”. I wanted to challenge them on whether they thought that such a supposedly elite group should align themselves with this music, and this sentiment, but they were sufficiently large and numerous that I chickened out. I wish I hadn’t.

Huntsville is in northern Alabama, and very close to Tennessee. More importantly, it’s very close to both Lynchburg (home of Jack Daniels) and Nashville (home of country music).

That's me - back centre

The Jack Daniels distillery seems a wonderfully tranquil place to work, and the tour was very interesting. Lynchburg itself is somewhat taken over by bikers, but is still proud of having no Walmart, no Macdonalds, and no cell phone reception – you have to admire that. The workers all get a free pint of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 every month – they call the day they get it “Good Friday”. Curiously, the distillery is in a “dry” county, so they don’t offer free samples at the end of the tour, and, with the exception of some special bottles, neither can you buy it.

From Lynchburg, I drove on back roads to Nashville. I’ve driven through Tennessee both in the east, and now the west, and I have to say it’s the prettiest countryside of any state I’ve traveled in. Green rolling hills, woodland that isn’t all pine, immaculately presented horse ranches – breathtakingly beautiful and relaxing to pass through.

AIDS volunteers

Nashville was neither more nor less than I expected. With such a brief visit, I was only able to visit the tourist area. I was there for the music, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was an AIDS charity event going on down by the river, and this was where I sampled my first barbecue lunch, as well as meeting some interesting people. A couple of girls came by with a basketful of free condoms – I declined at first, but then went after them to pick one up. Hell, you never know when you’re gonna get lucky … 

Buskers

Walking up the main drag, I stopped for a beer in Layla’s Bluegrass Hillbilly & Country Inn (with a live band, of course), and then on to the Cadillac Ranch. The guy next to me at the bar tried to chat up the barmaid with a rose he’d made from a paper napkin. A barman in Dallas showed me once how to do this, although I’ve forgotten now – anyway, it’s unbelievably cheesy, and she just responded politely (and dumped it in the trash as soon as he left). Out on the street, there were numerous buskers – some of them better than the bands in the bars. All of them, however, were musical – unlike, say, New Orleans, where there are mimes, jugglers and magicians, as well as musicians.

I’d seen all I wanted to see after a few hours, although I’m sure that Nashville has much more to offer if you have more time, and venture beyond the tourist traps.

Back in Alabama, there’s a concentration of places worth a visit about an hour west of Huntsville. The area is known as “The Shoals”, and centers around Muscle Shoals (famous for the FAME recording studios, who have recorded artists such as Aretha Franklin, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Eric Clapton, and many others). I’ve tried to find out the reason for the name, and the best that I can come up with (endorsed by locals) is that it’s related to the shoals of freshwater shellfish found along this stretch of the Tennessee River, and Alabamans are not very good at spelling. Helen Keller was born here, in Tuscumbia, and W.C. Handy was born in nearby Florence (if you’re not a blues fan, you’ll have no idea who he was).

The reason I came here, though, was to visit the Coon dog cemetery. Coon dogs are dogs that are bred to hunt raccoons. They’re not just mutts, as I had thought, but are recognized, and registered by, the Kennel Club. To be buried in the cemetery, the dog must have won competitions, as well as having a pedigree, and the owner must apply to the cemetery, who will decide if the dog is worthy of being buried there.

The gents

After roads that pass through endless cotton and pea fields, a well-paved, but winding, road leads up the mountain, through the woods, to the cemetery. Fall is approaching, and the dry, brittle leaves that are strewn across the road scrunch underneath my wheels. It is a fitting resting place for a faithful dog that obviously meant a lot to its owner. The graves are mostly well-tended, and lovingly inscribed.

As I drive down the back roads of America, mostly with the windows rolled down, without music, and usually without radio, I’ve often pondered what I’ll miss most when I no longer return.

It will be this: mostly the south – the north-east is too crowded, too consumerist, and too obsessed with themselves; decent hot dogs and barbecue; country music; wide (or not-so-wide) straight, empty roads; Click and Clack, the Tappet Brothers; family-style diners; Blue Moon beer.

I won’t miss American cheese, Walmart, or fast-food outlets.

Cotton field

Geocaching

My last free full day in Texas, and the 100°+ heat wave persists. I need a high note on which to exit.

Tim told me last weekend about geocaching (GPS-based combination of hide-and-seek and treasure hunt – see http://geoching.com for more). It’s been around for quite a few years, but it’s the first I’d heard of it. During the week I tried a couple of local caches, and decided this weekend to try for 4 caches – one in each of 4 states – in one day. That was today.

Oklahoma

It took me 12 hours, but was well worth it – I like to drive, especially in the States, and more especially in the South. My first stop was Durant, Oklahoma (N 33° 59.936 W 096° 22.190). North on 75, past one of many Choctaw Resorts. An aside: early in US history, the native Indian people were herded into “reservations” in typical colonial fashion. In these typically god-forsaken areas, they languished for many years, beset by the usual problems associated with unemployment, poverty, drugs and alcohol. That is, until a landmark Supreme Court case where it was ruled that the government had no jurisdiction over taxation of Indians living on the reservations, and more importantly, no authority to regulate Indian activities. It wasn’t long before casinos sprang up on many reservations, despite state laws banning it. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when the politicians realized this incredible loophole, which they are now powerless to revoke.

Bokchito

Durant was an easy cache at the back of an old cemetery – it was quiet and peaceful. I took a small plastic doll from the cache and replaced it with a (plastic) gold medal. My next stop was Arkansas (N 34° 02.763 W 094° 21.414). I paused on the way at a gas station in Bokchito, to buy a cherry coke. Two rednecks lolled on chairs outside the door – they greeted me pleasantly, but I doubt they had a full set of teeth between them. Moving on, I just had to stop to take a picture of a garage where the owner had obviously had problems with non-paying customers. He said people often stopped to take photographs, but declined being in the picture. Apparently the sign had been up for 15 years.

I couldn’t help noticing, as I drove through the morning, that the church parking lots along the way (and there were many) were all full – folk in these rural areas are mostly “washed in the blood”. So very different from England, where there is an increasing population of those who claim no religious affiliation.

I slowed down through each town, looking for an old-fashioned burger joint for lunch, but they are few and far between these days. I had to settle for a Sonic in Broken Bow – a burger and an “Ocean Water” – Seven-Up flavoured with blue coconut.

The cache in Arkansas was on commercial premises – thankfully deserted on a Sunday. I left the doll from the last cache, and took a small plastic ring. The clue for the cache was “Matthew 7:24” (I told you they were serious round here) – “Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock”. As you can see, quite a good clue. It’s fairly common practice to hide something ugly (in this case, plumbing) under a fake rock.

Arkansas

Arkansas uncovered

On the way from Arkansas to the next cache in Louisiana (N 32° 53.624 W 093° 48.042), on Rte 1 near Rodessa, I passed a seemingly endless freight train being hauled by a Kansas City Southern engine, sounding its distinctive plaintive whistle at every junction. That always gets me.

It’s strange how the bayou landscape of Louisiana is almost immediately evident as soon as you cross the state line. On the country roads, the state line is hardly noticeable – just a “Welcome to Louisiana” sign. On the highways, there is almost always a visitor centre full of maps, leaflets, helpful staff, and the inevitable gift shop.

This cache was really in the middle of nowhere – several miles down a dirt track through luxurious woodland. Fortunately, GPS coordinates are pretty accurate, and enabled me to find the tree in which it was cleverly hidden. There was only enough space in the pill bottle for a small log book, so I signed it, and hung onto the ring for the next cache.

Louisiana from afar ...

... and close up

The last leg was back to Texas, to a cache near my hotel (N 32° 49.779 W 097° 03.431), where I left the ring, and picked up a plastic lego-type figure. This lucky chap will be going to a cache in England!

This area is becoming increasingly built up, which makes the sighting of a coyote crossing the road so unusual. I suspect he’s been around since before the construction started, and is now having to adapt, like the rest of us, to the changes that we euphemistically call “progress”.

Coyote

Odessa and Midland

Texas is in the grip of a serious drought. Ranchers are selling their cattle because they can’t afford to feed them, and crops are either withering in the heat, or non-existent. Just today, the temperature at 8am was 80°F (27°C); by noon it reached 90°F (32°C); and by 5pm it soared to a brutal 109°F (43°C). No relief is in sight as new meteorological records are broken daily.

So it might seem a strange time to head for normally arid West Texas, but I did it anyway. There are only a couple of corners of Texas that I haven’t explored during my time here – Houston is one of them, but it’s just another hot, humid and crowded city, so it’s way off my list. I remember when I first arrived in Texas, I asked the hotel concierge where the desert was – I had the same image of Texas that most Brits probably have, of cowboys and huge ranches and oil in an essentially desert environment. The concierge wasn’t sure, since he’d never seen any. I’ve found out since then that it’s West Texas, and that a large part of Texas is anything but desert – I mean, they grow rice here! So I wanted to see West Texas for myself.

Odessa and Midland, two towns in the heart of West Texas, are 21 miles apart. Midland was thus named because it’s roughly halfway between Dallas and El Paso, and has the dubious notoriety of being George W and Laura Bush’s hometown; Odessa was named by homesick immigrant Russian railroad workers in the 19^th century. The only reason that these towns exist is oil. The guidebooks have nothing nice to say about either – for example: “… the area is dry, dusty and flat, with little physical or cultural interest.” Needless to say, my expectations are set low.

San Angelo mural

Midland is due West of Dallas on I20, but I chose an alternate route, to relieve the boredom of hours on the interstate, going via San Angelo to the south. I had lunch at Miss Hattie’s Café and Saloon – meatloaf and mashed potatoes, washed down with a Blue Moon beer and a tall glass of iced water. I decided against the Brothel Burger – “just the meat between the buns” – for which they’re well-known. The name is a tribute to the fact that the building, in times past, was a bordello, conveniently connected via an underground tunnel to the local bank. When the farmers and ranchers came to town with their families, they would send the family shopping, while they tended to their “banking business”. The restaurant brochure says that: “with deposits and withdrawals complete, they would rejoin the family for dinner.”

Nodding donkey, pumpjack, horsehead pump, ...

Driving from San Angelo to Midland, the landscape becomes increasingly unpleasant. The creeks and draws are all bone dry, and even the Colorado River looks brown and torpid. There are a few cattle, but not many – the sparse vegetation would not support a large herd. The terrain is desert scrub, and so flat that from the top of slight undulations in the road you can see for miles – the occasional vehicle on distant unpaved roads is clearly visible by the billowing clouds of white dust in its wake. Most of the landscape is peppered with the nodding donkeys that perpetually pump oil to the surface from far below; the parts that aren’t are either refineries or a graveyard for the rusting hulks of machinery that has outlived its usefulness. There is very little agriculture, although every now and then you pass a small oasis of crops that thrive only because of continuous irrigation.

Midland and Odessa are not towns I would choose to live in, but not as bad as I had expected. Odessa has a (passable) replica of Stonehenge, a (very good) replica of Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, and an 8ft statue of a jackrabbit. I happened to be close to the First Christian Church when the church bells chimed the hour – on further investigation, I discovered that the church has a carillon that not only sounds the hour, but plays what sounded like American folk tunes for some little time afterwards – beautiful!

Midland has nothing of interest to me.

Stonehenge

Jackrabbit

Driving west another 100 miles brought me to Pecos. It took some time to escape the oil-defined landscape, but once beyond it, and certainly to the south of Pecos towards Fort Stockton, parts as yet not despoiled by humans have a natural beauty in the same way that English moorland does. The sheer expanse is awe inspiring. Pecos’ main claim to fame is as the birthplace of the rodeo – obviously somewhere has to be – but is otherwise nondescript. Fort Stockton has a long military history, and has done a good job of preserving and exhibiting it.

Something West Texas has plenty of is dust and wind. The latter is put to good use by some of the largest wind farms I’ve ever seen on the drive up 385 between Fort Stockton and McCamey – hundreds of wind turbines atop tall mesas, all elegantly rotating in time.

I know that wind turbines are not to everyone’s taste, but to my eyes, they are majestic. Nodding donkeys and other artifacts of oil-based technology are ugly, and belong to a time that should by now be far behind us.

East Texas

It’s the 16^th straight day of triple-digit temperatures – above 100°F (38°C). It’s too hot to do anything much outside. One of my favorite routes out of Dallas is Route 80, eastbound – just past Fruitvale and down a small country lane, hardly even signposted, is Caney Creek cowboy church, which is where I headed. I’ve been there before, though only for the rodeo, and not for a service. The people, as in every cowboy church I’ve been to, are friendly, and not pushy. I lost count of the number of people that came up to welcome me, and shake my hand. Donations are purely voluntary – no plate is passed around. It’s not necessary to get dressed up, and you can get up for coffee and doughnuts from the kitchen anytime. You don’t have to sing unless you want to, and you can just clap along or tap your feet if you prefer. The band plays Christian country and gospel songs, and the octogenarian fiddler keeps up just fine. And always, the final song is Happy Trails.

After the service, I took Route 80 back west as far as the intersection with Route 19, and then headed north. At the intersection there’s a fruit stand, where I bought purple hull peas and melons – fresh fruit and vegetables are abundant at this time of year, and I’m staying in a “long stay” hotel that has cooking facilities – pure joy! About 15 miles north is the small town of Emory, where I noticed that many cars were pulling into the Y’all Come Back Café, so I stopped for lunch. Nothing fancy about the place, but it was packed, which is always a good sign. There was a single space at the counter, and I sat down next to an old guy who goes there every Sunday. His hands shook with a slight tremor as he ate the same lunch he always has. It turns out he was stationed at RAF Brize Norton during the war. I ordered Chicken Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, and sweet tea (yes – that’s it in the picture), and we chatted about his time there until my food arrived. It was delicious – succulent chicken, crispy on the outside, potatoes generously covered with gravy, with an extra dish of gravy on the side for good measure.

40 miles further on I passed through another small town – Celeste. I don’t know if anyone that lives there is proud of it – it sure doesn’t look like it. Almost all of the storefronts were boarded up, and the “City Hall and Police Department” building is seriously in need of refurbishing. I know it’s tough to keep rural communities going these days – we see it in England, too – but if nobody steps up to the plate to do something about it, we’ll all be living in cities like rats in an overcrowded cage. 

Today, the US Women’s Soccer team played Japan in the final of the World Cup. They lost after a penalty shootout, which is never a satisfactory end to a game – especially such an important one. After the game, the US team goalie, Hope Solo, had this to say:

“We lost to a great team, we really did. Japan is a team that I’ve always had a lot of respect for, and I truly believe that something bigger was pulling for this team. As much as I’ve always wanted this, if there was any other team I could give this to it would have to be Japan. I’m happy for them and they do deserve it.”

I wish we heard more of this sentiment in professional sports – I’ve had enough of these “overpaid soccer stars, prancing teens, Australian soaps, American rap, Estuary English, baseball caps”. I think it’s way past time we kicked men out of positions of power, and gave women a shot at it – they certainly couldn’t do worse.

Football

It’s been a football-themed weekend – American football, that is. Superbowl is coming up (this year it will be in the new Cowboys Stadium in Arlington – visible from my hotel room on the 7^th floor) – and we’re in the middle of playoffs. Superbowl is big. As well as athletes and fans, it is expected that 15,000 prostitutes will descend on the area.

A little background, perhaps, would be helpful. There are two “conferences” in American pro football (similar to “divisions” in the UK) – the AFC (American Football Conference) and the NFC (National Football Conference). Each conference contains 16 teams, and during the year, they play each other within their own conference. At the end of the year, the playoffs establish the best team in each conference, and the two winners play each other in the Superbowl.

The pro football teams are populated almost exclusively from the best college team players, and this, of course, means that college football is big money. The annual NFL draft, when the NFL teams select from eligible college players, is a huge, nationally reported, event.

The weekend is football-themed because there’s also a lot of college football activity locally – Texas A&M, the Aggies, played LSU, Louisiana State University, at the Cowboys Stadium; and the hotel is full of teams of cheerleaders from high schools across the country, competing in the National Cheerleaders Association championships. This is one of the things I like about football: a high school not only has a football team, but supporting cheerleaders and a marching band. It’s not only the “jocks” that can achieve.

An NFL football team (that is, in both conferences, 32 teams) obviously needs “understudies” for each position. If it’s possible to associate any cerebral activity with football, then the position of quarterback is possibly the most cerebral. For an important position like this, there are typically 3 players on the team. A statistic you won’t see quoted very often is that, out of the 96 quarterbacks on the 2010 roster, exactly 8 are black. This is a little on the low side, given that blacks constitute 12.4% of the population. Just another example of the many dual standards that exists this side of the pond – “racial equality” is sacrosanct, but football is even more so.

But I shouldn’t be negative – it is, after all, only a game. Which is why I wonder why they get paid so much …