Brian Thacker's Blog, page 2

Vodou and headless chickens

I've had some pretty crazy experiences in my travels, but I don't know if I'll ever top the Vodou Festival in Haiti that I was at twenty years ago today. It was while I was researching festivals to go to for my book 'The Naked Man Festival' when I stumbled upon an article on the Saut d’Eau Vodou Festival. During the two days of the Saut d’Eau Vodou Festival, thousands of Vodouists strip and bathe nude under the Saut d’Eau waterfall to purify themselves. Many shake and cry when they become possessed by Erzulie, the Vodou Goddess of Love. Drums beat incessantly the entire time while regular sacrifices of chickens and oxen are made to Erzulie. Now that sounds like a party, I thought.But besides that, two words stuck out: ‘no tourists’. Up until then, I’d never really been anywhere truly off the beaten track before. Sure, I’d been to exotic places like Mongolia, Morocco and Tasmania, but I would always bump into a backpacker somewhere haggling over a can of Coke. Also, I found the whole Vodou thing utterly fascinating. My and, let’s be honest, most people’s idea of Vodou owes a lot to Hollywood: groaning zombies, evil possessions, human sacrifices, Voodoo doll curses and scantily attired voodoo priestesses (well, they’re in my version at least. I once saw this dodgy but brilliant film called Voodoo Academy in which a schoolful of hunky blond boys ran around in bulgy boxer shorts while their scantily attired Voodoo priestess headmistress slowly turned them all into flesh-eating zombies). So, I wanted to see and experience some real Vodou.

To relive that simply mad Vodou experience, here is an extract from my book (and some pics):

The normally quiet streets of the village of Ville-Bonheur were packed with cars, buses, taptaps, horses, donkeys and pilgrims on foot (it would have taken them a couple of days of walking just to get this far). Not much further down the road there was a massive car park in the form of a large muddy field. People were unloading bags, bottles of rum, palm-thatch mats and chickens (for sacrificing, I discovered later) as they began the final four-hour trek to Saut d’Eau. Our driver Jean-Robert ignored the small inconvenience that the road was full of people and drove straight through the middle of them, forcing donkeys as well as people to dive into the surrounding cornfields.

If it was at all possible, the new road was worse than the one across the mountain. It had holes so big that cars could disappear into them. And one had done just that. The rear end of a car was poking up out of a crater-sized hole in the middle of the road. Jean-Robert just drove around it, scattering a few more people and donkeys in the process.

When we finally reached the tiny village of Saut d’Eau, it felt as if I’d just completed 12 rounds with a couple of WWF wrestlers. My back had taken quite a beating, but I soon forgot the pain as we watched the sea of colour as pilgrims trudged up the narrow dirt track leading to the sacred waterfalls on foot, mules, donkeys, horses and oxen. The mambos stood out from the flock in their bright red silk scarves and cobalt blue dresses. Jean-Robert stood out even more. He was wearing his ‘guiding uniform’ of slacks, dress shoes and a business shirt.

Our first task was to find a room for the night (most pilgrims sleep in the open, while some dance to the drumming all night long). This involved walking up to people’s houses and asking if they had a spare room. The first ‘spare room’ we were shown was no bigger than a bathroom and had a dirt floor. They wanted $40 for it. ‘Are you possessed?’ Mike said to the owner. I'd met Mike at my hotel in Port-au-Prince. He was doing his Masters Degree and Thesis on Haitian Voodou.A few houses later we were shown another tiny room, but this one was a step up in the luxury stakes: it had a concrete floor, but no beds. The owner asked for US$60.

‘Have you got cable?’ Mike asked.

‘No, but they’ve got cockroaches,’ I said, pointing to our potential roomies scuttling across the floor.We took the room. We could have wandered around for hours and not found anything better. And besides, the house had a nice verandah overlooking the track up to the waterfall. Plus, it wouldn’t be too hard to find if we got lost: it was painted a rather garish pink and green. Jean-Robert told us we could buy our beds at the market.Most pilgrims complete the final five or so kilometres on foot, climbing up a steep stony path, crossing caverns by wading through waist-deep brackish water and crawling up cliffs. But not Jean-Robert. Oh, no. He decided that we should drive up. As the crowd snaked its way along the path through the thick vegetation, the shouts of laughter mingled with prayers were soon replaced with shouts that I imagine translated as something like, ‘What the fuck?!’ as we barged through them all. I had thought the previous stretch of road was bad. This was so bad that I couldn’t stop laughing. Well, when I wasn’t getting thrown around in the back like a rag doll. Jean-Robert was trying to drive with one hand. The other one was fixed to the horn. When we crossed a fast-moving river and the water was rushing by just below the windows I almost wet myself with laughter. The whole time Jean-Robert was screaming out ‘Terribull! Terribull!’ while sweat literally poured off his face. When we finally stopped at the gate to the waterfall and fell out of the car, Mike said, in between hysterical fits of laughter, ‘You’re a FUCKIN’ lunatic Jean-Robert!’

We stopped for a well-deserved drink before we tackled the final stretch of track. For only a few cents a fellow slashed the end off a coconut and we drank the sweet cool juice straight from the gaping hole. Mike had trouble drinking his as he was still laughing his head off. Troops of chanting people banging on drums passed us as we tramped up the final 500 metres to the falls. According to Mike, our resident Vodou expert, the different troops represented different Vodou sects. If that was the case, then they had some rather odd ones. The group that were all wearing LA Lakers tops must have been the LA Lakers sect. I wonder if they play the Chicago Bulls sect, which danced past after them, in a game of basketball later on. My favourite, however, was the condom-mobile-phone sect. A local health agency was handing out silver packets of condoms (three joined together) and this whole sect was walking along pretending they were mobile phones and having pretend conversations.

On the way down the narrow, steep and slippery path to the waterfall I stood on someone. The someone was a man in deep prayer sitting under a tree among burning white candles and calabash bowls filled with rum and sugar water. I knocked over one candle and stood on his hand. Oh well, here comes my first Vodou curse.

We rounded the final bend and there it was—Saut d’Eau. For minutes I was lost in awe at the sight in front of me. Three gleaming waterfalls cascaded down a rock wall onto thousands of people wearing only their underwear. They were singing, laughing and chanting as they bathed and scrubbed their feet, arms, legs and everything else under the pounding, 40-metre-high waterfalls in the tree-ringed ravine. The bathing in the waterfall, Mike told us, is the most important ritual at Saut d’Eau, which is considered a place of healing of both physical and spiritual ailments. From time to time, bathers would shout, suddenly possessed by Erzulie (the Goddess of Love—and Vodou’s equivalent of the Virgin Mary). Singing, rolling their eyes, collapsing into the water or onto the rocks, they were seemingly oblivious to the swift current and jagged edges. Fellow worshippers rushed over, taking advantage of Erzulie’s presence to whisper direct requests in their ears (they ask for everything from good crops to a visa so they can get the hell out of Haiti).

Mike scrambled down the mossy bank into the water so he could get a closer look at the largest of the waterfalls, which was hidden from view further up the ravine. I traipsed down to the bottom of the large pool to see if I could get a view of the big waterfall from there.

I did find a view, but not of what I expected. At the far edge of the pool there was an incredible collection of underwear. There were hundreds of discarded underpants and bras, with more shooting down in the water and adding to the pile. As part of the whole Vodou cleansing ritual, old knickers must be discarded and left behind in the water. I stood there for quite a while surrounded by old knickers because it was so deliciously cool. The spray from the waterfall was a wonderful respite from the suffocatingly hot and humid morning.

As I clambered back up the bank, I stood on a large and rather worn pair of Y-fronts. I couldn’t see the main waterfall from the bottom of the falls, so instead I decided to try to get to the top of them. This involved climbing a precipitous track up the steep cliff face. It was quite hairy and at times the only thing that stopped me from falling was clutching the exposed roots of trees.

As I squeezed around a tight corner, a woman staggered down the cliff track towards me. She was trembling from head to toe and her eyes were rolling around in her head. She was possessed by one of the Vodou spirits. Three strapping fellows were holding her, trying to stop her from falling over. It looked just like a scene from closing time on a Saturday night at the local pub.

At length I reached the top and the view was simply breathtaking. Looking back across the valley I had a long, sensational, unobstructed view across green rolling hills of palms and corn. It was particularly amazing when you considered that the other side of the mountain was nothing but desert.

The view down into the ravine was even more amazing, although some of the Vodouists looked as if they were about to drown. Hundreds of them were standing under the massive torrents of the waterfall with arms stretched wide asking Erzulie for favours, while others were bathing themselves with soap and leaves. I spotted Mike in the midst of it all. He was taking close-up photos of women's breasts. By the look of his research, his thesis was actually about the role of large breasts in Vodou. At the bottom of the path a lady was selling bars of Cussons soap. If you’re going to cleanse away evil spirits, you may as well do it in style.

On the way back up the track to meet Jean-Robert we passed a bunch of well-dressed folk about to sacrifice a chicken. Six people stood in a circle around a design that had been drawn in white ash on the ground to summon one of the Vodou spirits. The chicken was clucking happily as they passed it around the circle.

Mike got out his video camera and started filming the chicken sacrifice. Although my guidebook warned that ‘violent incidents have followed unwelcome photography’ and Mike had already been abused a few times, he kept filming. Even when one of the sacrificers sneered at him and waved his arms angrily in his face. ‘I’ll keep filming until they physically stop me,’ he said. Stop him all right. They looked like they were going to sacrifice Mike instead of the chicken.

Which, when we saw what happened next, would have been rather messy. The houngan put the chicken’s head in his mouth and crunched it clean off. He then casually squeezed the neck like a tube of toothpaste and put the blood on the ground around the pattern. Mike almost jumped in the middle of the circle so he could get a close-up shot. I walked away. Watching Vodou priests biting the heads off Americans tends to put me off my lunch.

We were all quite hungry by the time we got back to what I’d dubbed the Ritz-Carlton. We wandered into the village and stopped at someone else’s house for lunch. The owners had converted their home into a restaurant/bar for the festival. Put a few tables out the front, hang up a hand-drawn sign saying ‘Restaurant’ and voila! you have your very own restaurant. They had something different on the menu, too. They had char-grilled chicken with char-grilled banana and beans. I wasn’t complaining, though. I love my char-grilled chicken. The owners of the house were incredibly friendly, too, and even shouted us a couple of beers. When I asked for the toilet I was led down the main corridor of the house.

‘Here!’ the man said. There were two doors on either side of the dark corridor.

‘Which one?’ I said.

‘No, here!’ he said pointing to the concrete wall and floor. ‘Right here?’ I stammered. After I’d said ‘You mean HERE!’ a few more times, I shrugged, dropped my pants and peed in the middle of someone’s house.

‘Don’t ask to use the toilet,’ I told Mike when I returned. ‘They’ll probably ask you to piss on their bed!’

Jean-Robert went back to the Ritz-Carlton while we went to buy a bed. The small village market had spread out onto the streets and into the front yards of people’s houses. Everything from food to bottles of rum, hats, drums, Vodou scarves and flags were on sale, but there wasn’t a bed in sight.

‘We’ll get the concierge to find us some beds,’ Mike said.

On the way back, the sound of incessant drums could be heard all around us. We followed the sound of the closest drums and, after negotiating a narrow path through a cornfield, stumbled across a Vodou ceremony in full swing. A crowd of around 40 people all dressed in white was standing in a circle around a houngan who was leading a small group of chanting drummers and dancers. It was a joyful uplifting beat and everyone was smiling and laughing.

Mike explained it to me: ‘This is known as a Rada ceremony,’ he whispered. ‘The houngan uses different rituals to conjure up different Vodou loa or spirits. They’re trying to conjure up either St Jacque or Ogou.’

‘What’s that all about?’ I asked Mike, subtly pointing towards the six-foot-three man wearing a white crocheted dress on the other side of the circle.

‘He’s dressed as a woman.’

‘Oh, that explains it!’

Mike got out his camera. Oh no, I thought, here comes the human sacrifice. One snap later a very large man sidled up next to us. He smiled and flashed a badge that said ‘Vodou Without Frontiers’. He was a Vodou PR man. His job was to spread the good word about Vodou to foreigners. ‘Take many photos,’ he said. We started snapping away only to get screamed at by a handful of worshippers. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘Take many photos.’ There was a slight possibility that he had made the badge up himself and liked nothing more than watching a few westerners get sacrificed and cooked in a pot (although, maybe I’m getting my religious stereotypes a little mixed up here).

Just to get myself even more confused on the religious front, we stopped at the small Catholic church. A large assembly of people was slowly trying to force its way into the church. Many were holding up copies of an American passport. Mike told us that the main thing people prayed for was an American passport. Actually, the whole Saut d’Eau thing started when a vision of the Virgin Mary appeared in 1884 in the foliage of a palm tree near the waterfall. Because Mary is also Erzulie, the Vodou spirit of love, pilgrims pay homage to both. I’m not sure how the whole waterfall thing fits into it, though. I told you I was confused.

We got back to the Ritz-Carlton just as dinner was being served. Jean-Robert had talked us into paying $10 to have a home-cooked meal. We reluctantly agreed only because we thought it would be fun eating with the family and at $10 each we were expecting an absolute feast. So you may imagine my surprise when we were served char-grilled chicken and rice in our three-by-three-metre bedroom with no family in sight. It was just the three of us, including Jean-Robert.

‘This chicken must have starved to death,’ I said. Our ‘feast’ was anorexic chicken, beans and rice. We’d had the same meal (with a better-fed chicken) for lunch in the village for just under $2.

In the middle of dissecting our dinner, Mike casually turned to Jean-Robert and said, ‘So Jean-Robert, where do I go for a shit? In the banana tree?’

‘What do you mean?’ Jean-Robert responded.

‘Are the family going to come out in the morning and see an American white ass shitting in the banana tree?’

Jean-Robert, quietly finished eating his meal then said, ‘So, now I go find where you shit.’

While we sat on the verandah having a beer during a brief torrential downpour, the owner of the house turned up with our beds. Well, when I say beds, they were actually incredibly thin palm-thatch mats.

‘We may as well just sleep on the concrete,’ I said.

‘Would you like a girl for the night?’ the owner asked casually. He was a real entrepreneur, this fellow.

‘How much?’ Mike asked.

‘Three dollars.’

‘We should have got a girl to sleep on!’ Mike said. ‘It only cost a dollar more than the beds and she would be a damn sight more comfortable than the mats.’ He was right. But we’d already bought the mats. Mind you, the prices of lots of things in Haiti didn’t make any sense. Like a concrete-floor room with a banana tree as an ensuite costing not much less than a room at one of the best hotels in Port-au-Prince, or a girl for the night for a third of the price of a rather dodgy chicken meal. Even the money itself made no sense. The gourde is the official currency in Haiti, but prices can be in gourdes, Haitian dollars (which are still gourdes, but five gourdes equals one Haitian dollar— which doesn’t exist as a note) or US dollars. Throw in the Vodou/ Catholicism thing and it’s no wonder I was confused the whole time.

When the rain stopped, we headed back into the village. It was lucky Mike had a torch. It was dark and the potholes in the road were now filled with water. In the village, pilgrims clutching rosaries or dressed in Erzulie’s red and blue colours were walking the streets singing and asking for offerings while noisy street bands played drums and horns made of sheet metal. A lot of people were very drunk on rum (or possessed, one of the two). The streets were full not only of drunk people, but also of donkeys, carts selling food and rum, and makeshift restaurants. Well, when I say restaurants, there were diners sitting on plastic stools in the dark. They would have had no idea what they were eating (which was probably a good thing).

We wandered the streets past ‘discos’ that had been set up in corrugated tin sheds that looked as if they’d been put together by me (which is the worst compliment you could ever get). Loud Rara music (a sort of drum-based hip hop Vodou music) blasted out from inside. We peeked through a gap in the wall of one shed to see people all doing the same dance. ‘It’s not the chicken dance,’ I said to the boys. ‘It’s the sacrifice-the-chicken dance.’

We stopped at another Rara music shed. This one just had tin walls and a large open tarp as the roof. As we tried to peep through a gap in the door, a big mambo stuck her head out and said, ‘Come inside my friends.’ A band of eight drummers, with bongo players and three singers, was up on a stage belting out a song using the different drums sounds as a melody. It sounded extraordinary. There seemed to be one member of the band, however, whose sole responsibility was to wander up to the other band members with a bottle of rum and give them long swigs while they were playing. Our big mamma mambo led us to the bar and gave us two beers each. She then dragged us to the front of the stage, threw some old people out of their chairs, and said, ‘You sit!’ The music was deafening. The PA system would have looked more at home at a Rolling Stones concert. We sat there mesmerised by the band, but that was probably because the music was so loud that our brains had shut down.

An hour later the band was still playing the same song. We’d had enough (well, my ears had at least), so we nonchalantly got up and made our way to the exit. We’d thought no one had noticed us leaving until we turned around to see every single person in the place staring at us.

‘Let’s go back to our 150-dollar-a-night room (the price of our room had slowly been creeping up during the day) and order room service,’ Mike said as we stepped out onto the still-crowded street.

I slept on the floor in my clothes with my ears ringing. All three mats didn’t quite fit into the room, so I had Mike's feet in my face. Jean-Robert was already asleep.

I slept surprisingly well. When I woke up a little after four for a piss on the banana tree, the path at the front of the house was already full of people trudging noisily up to the waterfall. When I got back

to the room, the roosters started.

‘Hey, Jean-Robert!’ Mike said. ‘Go sacrifice those fuckin’ roosters will ya?’

By four-thirty we were all awake. Jean-Robert suggested we leave before the human traffic jam on the path to the waterfall built up any further.

‘Does our 200-dollar-a-night room include breakfast?’ I asked Jean-Robert. Not surprisingly, it didn’t.

Jool-Eye Fourth.

"Let's blow up some shit!" I do get a little bit excited when the Fourth of July comes around here in the U.S. (this is my fifth fourth here). Fireworks in Australia were banned when was about 12, so I regress to a pyromanical kid when fireworks start appearing in stores. Or my favourite - when the huge TNT Fireworks Tent pops up in the carpark of our local supermarket.

You do need some serious cash, though if you want some Brobdingnagian ballistic bedazzlement. For the BIG BANG box of Fireworks 'you pay only $549.99' That's about $850 Australian! That's a lot of bucks for your bang.

I just went for a couple of big ones, including the ominous sounding BOMB POP.

My first Fourth Of July I had in America was actually 20 years ago today, when I travelled to Capitan in New Mexico for my book 'The Naked Man Festival : And other excuses to fly around the world.' That was the first time that I got my hands on some fireworks (as an adult) - and I nearly blew up a farmhouse. Here's an edited extract from my book on that (nearly) fateful day:

I chose to celebrate the Fourth of July in the town of Capitan because I didn’t want the anonymity of a large city. I wanted a small town parade followed by a great big small town party. I stumbled upon Capitan by typing in ‘July 4th parade’ on Google and, on page 37 of my search, found the ‘Village of Capitan’ website with pictures of their Annual Fourth of July Smokey Bear Parade. The parade seemed to be entirely made up of fat people sitting on the backs of trucks waving American flags. It was absolutely perfect. That was exactly the Independence Day experience I was after.

I did find some other interesting ways to celebrate the Fourth of July, though. In Oatman, Arizona, for example, it gets so hot that they hold a massive egg-frying contest—on the footpath. Back in 1986 in Willimantic, Connecticut, they couldn’t afford a band for their parade so they asked everyone to bring their ghetto-blasters along. The local radio station then played band music. Each year over 10 000 people turn up to the Boom Box Parade with their ghetto-blasters. Also in New Mexico, they’ve utilised the large summer lizard population in Lovington by running The World’s Greatest Lizard Race every July 4th. In 1976 this inaugural event wasn’t too successful, though. When a large tub covering the lizards was lifted, the lizards didn’t move. They were so petrified by the large crowd that they began to eat each other. The lizard with the largest stomach won the title. Still more horrifying is the Rainbow Gathering held in a different ‘forest’ every year. On the Fourth of July, a haze of hippies (I believe that’s the collective noun) sit in a massive circle in a ‘meadow’, hold hands and chants ‘Om’ together for a few hours.

Capitan had no lizards, hippies, boom boxes or frying eggs to speak of but, besides the parade, they did have an Old West Ranch Rodeo, a Country Dance, a Chuckwagon Campfire BBQ and free tattoos for the kids. The Mayor of Capitan promised: ‘Our sleepy village comes awake with a parade and rodeo that’s just too much fun. We let our hair down and have a great old time.’ I pictured a hootin’, hollerin’ time with a bunch of rowdy cowboys and cowgirls accompanied by lots of knee slappin’, moonshine drinkin’ and general yee-haain’.

The entire population of Capitan was out to watch the parade. All 800 of them. People must have come from surrounding towns as well, because there would have been a couple of thousand people lining Smokey Bear Boulevard. Half of those people were sitting in the back of pick-up trucks that lined the length of the street, glistening brightly in the hot sun. They were all parked with the back facing the street and their tailgates down. A few enterprising folk had thrown couches on the back, while others had barbecues sizzling away. The rest of the townsfolk were sitting on fold-out chairs right on the edge of the road. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was decked out in red, white and blue. I ambled down the main street and it didn’t take me long to realise that I was, and I’m not exaggerating here, the only person not wearing red, white and blue. It was incredible. People were wearing T-shirts emblazoned with ‘America the free’, ‘I’m an American girl’.‘God bless America’, ‘God loves America’ and ‘God is America’. One lady just had ‘I’m proud to be’ on the front of her shirt. The full message actually read ‘I’m proud to be an American’, but the bottom line was tucked in between her ample breasts and even ampler stomach. People were dressed up in ‘stars and stripes’ pants, dresses, shorts, cowboy hats, socks, shoes and knickers (or so I imagined).

As well as street stalls selling American flags, stuffed Smokey Bears and cowboy hats, there was a stand giving away FREE hotdogs. Not shy when it comes to free food, I had three. Even if it was only nine- thirty in the morning. The bubbly lady serving said, ‘Happy Fourth, honey!’ ‘Why, thank you,’ I said cheerfully.‘You bet!’ she said.

The parade started with a bloke sitting in the back of a truck waving an American flag. Well, he wasn’t actually waving the flag because he seemed to be asleep (or dead), slumped in a huge lounge chair. He was Grand Marshall Ben Leslie and looked about 70. The woman who was driving the pick-up truck looked even older. What followed was a succession of pick-up trucks, tractors, cowboys and cowgirls on horses, and lots of red, white and blue. As each entrant (there was a prize for Best Float, Best Tractor, Best Dressed Cowboy, Best Dressed Cowgirl and Best Fat Bloke Sitting in the Back of a Truck) rolled by, the crowd waved their flags and screamed out ‘woo-hoo!’, ‘alllllright!’ and ‘you go girl!’.

First up after the Grand Marshall was Congressman Steve Price who was walking behind his truck shaking hands with babies. Cowboys and cowgirls were taking their horses through very impressive backwards and spinning around manoeuvres, but I was much more intrigued by the hefty members of the Capitan Hunting Club who were all clutching whopping big guns and straddling an incredibly large dead elk on the back of a truck.

As every truck went past, the occupants would throw handful upon handful of 'candy' to the crowd. The parade had only been going for 10 minutes and the young boy standing next to me had already filled a plastic bag. No wonder there was an abundance of abundant butts. Of course, not all the people sitting in the backs of trucks were fat. The Lone Tree Bible Ranch truck (well, actually a long trailer being hauled by a tractor) was loaded with gorgeously slim and sweet 20-something year-old girls with the Lord in their hearts (the boys with the Lord in their hearts were all piled on the tractor). All virgins too, I imagine. But then again they all probably went begatting like mad up in the barn loft after the parade (well, that was the vision I had in my head at least).

There were all sorts of things on the back of parading trucks. There was a team of boot-scooters, a pack of dogs, a bunch of folk wearing ‘Jesus Loves Us All’ T-shirts, a cowboy singing (well, miming) along to his ‘Big Hit’ and, of course, the star himself, Smokey Bear. The parade ended with a cavalcade of fire trucks blasting out their sirens so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think about getting a couple more free hot dogs.

(Later that that day I went to the Capitan Rodeo, and after watching a whole bunch of lunatics getting thrown of pissed-off bulls, I got to see some Fourth of July fireworks)

As soon as it turned dark, much to my surprise, the fireworks started. I didn’t think I’d get to see any fireworks. Smokey Bear (well, not him personally, of course) had declared the entire area to be in extreme fire danger and had banned all fireworks. I later discovered that, only a few hours before the scheduled blast off, Smokey had given the organisers a one-off exemption from the ban. And, thank our dear Lord, was I happy he did. It was one of the most dazzling pyrotechnics display I’d ever seen. When you consider how small Capitan is, it really was quite amazing. The night sky was lit up with fizzing, spinning and exploding red, white and blue fireworks for over half an hour.

Five minutes into the show the fellow sitting next to me said, ‘Excuse me y’all, I have to go check on mah hoss.’ Good idea. I could see a line of them tied up to the corral and, boy, were they freaking out. Not that you could hear them. Despite the cacophony of explosions, the folks around me were hootin’ and hollerin’ and, I kid you not, yee-haain’ along to every bang and pop. (After the fireworks finished I had to look for somewhere to park my hire car to sleep. The one and only Motel in town had been booked out months before).

I drove a couple of miles out of town (looking for the perfect spot to park my mobile-motel) and, after driving down what may or may not have been someone’s driveway, found an idyllic little clearing just off the track. I stepped out of the car and was enveloped by complete and utter silence. For all of a minute that is, until I got my box of fireworks out. I hadn’t been able to resist buying some. On the way into Capitan, I’d passed through the town of Carrizozo which had tents set up by the side of the highway with large and brightly coloured signs saying ‘FIREWORKS FOR BRIAN’. They didn’t really, but they might just as well have. Fireworks were banned in Australia when I was 12 so, as soon as I saw fireworks for sale, I instantly regressed to being a boy who wanted nothing more than to blow up a few letterboxes. I did show some restraint, though. I only bought one box. Albeit a large one.

Even though there was a total fire ban, I figured I was too far away from Capitan for anyone to notice a couple of pissy little skyrockets. Although when I say skyrockets, there were actually eight large balls that came with a tubed launching device. I lit one up and bolted behind the car (I was a wuss when I was 12 as well). A pissy little skyrocket it certainly wasn’t. The ball whistled as it shot up high into the air then exploded into a mighty shower of green and red sparks that lit up the entire night sky. They would have seen it in Texas, let alone just down the road in Capitan. Before Smokey Bear and the sheriff’s posse turned up, I hastily got in the car and drove another five miles down the road. And let off another one.

Chuck Wagons and Roach Coaches

Neither of these sound very appetising - but we now know them as Food Trucks. I went to a Food Truck Festival today in the neighbouring suburb (here in Minneapolis), and there were over 50 of them (with no chucking or roaches in sight thankfully).

Food trucks were invented in America - predating even the invention of the automobile itself. The first chuck wagon was created by Colonel Charles Goodnight in 1866 from a rebuilt Army surplus wagon. Cowboys referred to their meals as “chuck” (an English term that referred to good, hearty food). This wagon would trundle around feeding cowboys and prospectors. It soon caught on and chuck wagons were seen serving up chuck all across the wild west.

It wasn’t until 1936 that the first 'automobile' food truck appeared when Oscar Mayer rolled out the first portable hot dog cart, The Weiner Mobile. And yes, you guessed it; the Weiner Mobile looks exactly like you think it would look like.

In the 1960s, larger food trucks hit the streets selling tacos and burgers. They were nicknamed “roach coaches” - as a result of their often-substandard health practices.Today, there are over 35,000 registered food trucks in the U.S. (up from 10,000 only ten years ago), and besides lifted health standards, they serve just about every cuisine you can think of. At the Food Truck Festival I went to today there was everything from Cairo Gyros to Amish Annie Donuts and Salvadoran Empanadas to Jamo’s New Zealand Pies. Here’s a few pics…

There weren't any real wacky ones there today, but there certainly are some wacky ones out there rolling around the streets of America. Here are some of my favourites:Taco beast

I love this. It’s a converted snowcat that roams the Steamboat Resort in Colorado selling tacos to skiers.

Sweet Jenni's Cupcake Truck

You gotta love a cupcake truck that looks like a cupcake - with sprinkled frosting in a pink wrapper. This frosty delight feeds the upper crust in the Hamptons.

Westport Flea Market Bar & Grill

Another food truck you want to eat. This one in Kansas City is a giant burger.

Company 77 Mobile Pizza Unit

This is fun as well as making stone-baked pizzas. This retired fire truck also has a working water cannon, a rooftop kitchen, a light show, a jump seat photo booth, and the pizzas come down a slide when they are ready.

SWAT Food Truck

It looks like a SWAT team is about to jump out, but this reused SWAT truck sells "Sandwiches With A Twist".

Kitchen Of The Unwanted Animal

This looks like something Americans would do down south somewhere with roadkill, but the Kitchen Of The Unwanted Animal is from Amsterdam in the Netherlands. And they actually do serve... Roadkill. Hunting laws in Holland outlawed hunting geese in the 1970s, and since then the population has gotten out of control and dead geese were being thrown away all the time after being hit by cars, so they use them to make, I'm guessing something like Goose Burgers.

Best beaches in the world

Minnesota is around 2,000 kms from the nearest ocean beach - but the state does have 11,842 lakes. And lots of them have beaches. The first time that I went to a lake beach here (at Lake Minnetonka) I was pleasantly surprised just how pleasant it was. First of all there was sand (I didn't expect that), and the water was clean and warm (I didn't expect that either when for a few months the lakes are frozen solid). The lake even had waves (you can actually go surfing on lake Superior).I do like the lake beaches. I love the fresh water - without all that itchy salt on your skin. And more importantly, there are no sharks or poisonous jellyfish.

My boy Luca enjoying the warm clear waters of Lake Minnetonka yesterday.

The beaches are popular too - particularly after everyone has been stuck indoors during the long bitterly cold winter. We went to Lake Minnetonka yesterday and there were lots of people swimming, building sandcastles, canoeing, paddle boarding and water skiing (which was invented in Minnesota!).

Look at all that sand!

I do miss the ocean sometimes, though. I spent most of my life living no more than ten minutes from an ocean or a bay beach, but there are so many other wonderful beaches in the world that I’m yet to go to. I have been lucky enough, though, in my travels to have gone to some amazing beaches. With so many to choose from these are my ten favourite beaches - based on a unique or stunning beach or simply just having that perfect beach day.

Alofi, Wallis and Futuna

Beach heaven.When I visited the islands of Wallis and Futuna for my book 'Where's Wallis?' I was staying on Futuna (which at the time got a whopping 150 tourists a year) when I discovered that there was a third uninhabited island called Alofi. So, I talked a local fisherman into taking me to the island and leaving me there for the night. It could have ended badly - like him forgetting to pick me up the next day because the locals liked to go on big kava benders. But, it couldn't have been more perfect. I had this long pristine beach to myself, where I snorkelled with hundreds of colourful fish over stunning coral reefs just off shore, ate my lunch and dinner (Sao crackers and spam) on the water's edge and slept on a bed I made from palm fronds on the sand. The only thing I had to worry about were the wild pigs on the island who I could hear snorting all night. Oh, and the cannibals. Futuna and Alofi were once full of cannibals.

Whitehaven, Australia

It was bit crowded when I went there.In photos of Whitehaven the sand is so white and the water so blue that it looks like its been retouched in Photoshop. But, it really is that white and blue. And the only way to get there is by boat (or seaplane for the cashed-up folk), so that means no high rises, restaurants, sun lounges for rent or people trying to sell you shit. And, if you get there early enough, you can have one of the best beaches in the world all to yourself.

Hanauma Bay, Hawaii

An Instagram pic before there was Instagram.During the day, Hanauma Bay is absolutely swarming with swimming tourists. It's only a 25 minute drive from Waikiki and people come in busloads by the hundreds. Which is not surprising because it is a stunning bay and beach with incredible snorkelling just off shore. But, I'd hired a moped and left before sunrise to beat the crowds (the buses don't start turning up until after 9.00). I was treated to a perfect Instagram sunrise (although this was 20 years before there was an Instagram) and then almost had the amazing beach to myself. I say almost because a couple of Germans had beat me to it.

Baucau, East Timor

All the other beach goers had been eaten by a large crocodile.

There was only one room (in one hut) to stay on the whole beach in Bacau (in fact, about four beaches). So, I had the beach and water all to myself - although the large man-eating crocodile in the water that I only learned about when I was leaving probably kept the locals away.

Nilaveli, Sri Lanka

Fishing boats from a nearby village.

When I went to Nilaveli Beach Resort (near Trinomalee on the north-eastern coast of Sri Lanka) for my book 'I'm not eating any of that foreign muck', the gorgeous palm-fringed beaches were empty. Although that probably had a lot to do with the fact that the famous Sri Lankan football team 'The Tamil Tigers' were still running amok. There was a couple of other resorts way up the beach, but they were burnt out shells after had been blown up by the Tamil Tigers. Sure was nice having the beach to ourselves, though.

Pelican Beach, Australia

I didn't take this pic, but wanted to show the scale and beauty of the 'island'.

Pelican Beach is actually a tiny island about twenty minutes by boat from Hervey Bay in Queensland. My brother Bruce (along with his family) took me and my daughter Jasmine out there on the way to Fraser Island. And, best of all, we had the entire island to ourselves. I could wax lyrical about the perfectly white sand and perfectly aqua water, but I think these photos will give you a good idea how simply stunning it is.

Blue Lagoon, Malta

Just getting one boat in the pic is impressive - by lunch time there are dozens of them.

Boatloads of day-trippers pour into Blue Lagoon on the island of Comino (two islands across from Malta), but because I was staying at the only hotel on the island I got up ridiculously early (for someone on holidays) to have it to myself for a couple of hours. And yes, the water is as iridescent blue as the pic.

Paleokastritsa, Corfu

Fresh clear water and fresh calamari.

Paleokastritsa Beach was the first beach I’d ever seen outside of Australia - on my first ever trip overseas 35 years ago. I went to Corfu with a couple of Antipodean friends from London, and our week long package holiday had us staying by a tiny muddy bay. We didn't complain though - we left cold London and the package holiday, with flights and accomodation, cost us £79 (which was around $AU220 or $US120). We hired scooters to get to Paleokastrista on the other side of the island, and because it was May (and 35 years ago!), there were no crowds. But what made this beautiful beach even more magical was sitting in a quiet taverna right on the beach eating delicious fresh calamari while knocking back a few ouzos.

Lizard Island, Australia

Your own private beach.

Lizard Island is so exclusive that you get your very own beach. You are given a little chug-chug boat and a map and sent to your own beach (there is one for every guest!). You also get fold-out sun beds, a big umbrella and a huge hamper full of food and wine. And you can go to a different beach every day you are there. And yes, it was absolute heaven.

Ipanema Beach, Brazil

Where is the girl from Ipanema?

There certainly are crowds on Ipanema Beach, but boy what a nice crowd – girls wearing barely anything, skilled footballers showcasing their skills and oh so cool Cariocas. And the beach is beautiful, too – particularly at sunset, sitting at a sand-side bar with a tall glass of caipirinha (the local tipple) in hand.

My quest for the perfect beach isn't over yet, though. There are plenty of other amazing beaches out there that I haven’t been to yet (Seychelles, Maldives, most of the Caribbean islands just to name a few).What's your favourite beach?

A beach in Minnesota?

Minnesota is around 2,000 kms from the nearest ocean beach - but the state does have 11,842 lakes. And lots of them have beaches. The first time that I went to a lake beach here (at Lake Minnetonka) I was pleasantly surprised just how pleasant it was. First of all there was sand (I didn't expect that), and the water was clean and warm (I didn't expect that either when for a few months the lakes are frozen solid). The lake even had waves (you can actually go surfing on lake Superior).I do like the lake beaches. I love the fresh water - without all that itchy salt on your skin. And more importantly, there are no sharks or poisonous jellyfish.

My boy Luca enjoying the warm clear waters of Lake Minnetonka yesterday.

The beaches are popular too - particularly after everyone has been stuck indoors during the long bitterly cold winter. We went to Lake Minnetonka yesterday and there were lots of people swimming, building sandcastles, canoeing, paddle boarding and water skiing (which was invented in Minnesota!).

Look at all that sand!

I do miss the ocean sometimes, though. I spent most of my life living no more than ten minutes from an ocean or a bay beach, but there are so many other wonderful beaches in the world that I’m yet to go to. I have been lucky enough, though, in my travels to have gone to some amazing beaches. With so many to choose from these are my ten favourite beaches - based on a unique or stunning beach or simply just having that perfect beach day.

Alofi, Wallis and Futuna

Beach heaven.When I visited the islands of Wallis and Futuna for my book 'Where's Wallis?' I was staying on Futuna (which at the time got a whopping 150 tourists a year) when I discovered that there was a third uninhabited island called Alofi. So, I talked a local fisherman into taking me to the island and leaving me there for the night. It could have ended badly - like him forgetting to pick me up the next day because the locals liked to go on big kava benders. But, it couldn't have been more perfect. I had this long pristine beach to myself, where I snorkelled with hundreds of colourful fish over stunning coral reefs just off shore, ate my lunch and dinner (Sao crackers and spam) on the water's edge and slept on a bed I made from palm fronds on the sand. The only thing I had to worry about were the wild pigs on the island who I could hear snorting all night. Oh, and the cannibals. Futuna and Alofi were once full of cannibals.

Whitehaven, Australia

It was bit crowded when I went there.In photos of Whitehaven the sand is so white and the water so blue that it looks like its been retouched in Photoshop. But, it really is that white and blue. And the only way to get there is by boat (or seaplane for the cashed-up folk), so that means no high rises, restaurants, sun lounges for rent or people trying to sell you shit. And, if you get there early enough, you can have one of the best beaches in the world all to yourself.

Hanauma Bay, Hawaii

An Instagram pic before there was Instagram.During the day, Hanauma Bay is absolutely swarming with swimming tourists. It's only a 25 minute drive from Waikiki and people come in busloads by the hundreds. Which is not surprising because it is a stunning bay and beach with incredible snorkelling just off shore. But, I'd hired a moped the day and left before sunrise to beat the crowds (the buses don't start turning up until after 9.00). I was treated to a perfect Instagram sunrise (although this was 20 years before there was an Instagram) and then almost had the amazing beach to myself. I say almost because a couple of Germans had beat me to it.

Baucau, East Timor

All the other beach goers had been eaten by a large crocodile.

There was only one room (in one hut) to stay on the whole beach in Bacau (in fact, about four beaches). So, I had the beach and water all to myself - although the large man-eating crocodile in the water that I only learned about when I was leaving probably kept the locals away.

Nilaveli, Sri Lanka

Fishing boats from a nearby village.

When I went to Nilaveli Beach Resort (near Trinomalee on the north-eastern coast of Sri Lanka) for my book 'I'm not eating any of that foreign muck', the gorgeous palm-fringed beaches were empty. Although that probably had a lot to do with the fact that the famous Sri Lankan football team 'The Tamil Tigers' were still running amok. There was a couple of other resorts way up the beach, but they were burnt out shells after had been blown up by the Tamil Tigers. Sure was nice having the beach to ourselves, though.

Pelican Beach, Australia

I didn't take this pic, but wanted to show the scale and beauty of the 'island'.

Pelican Beach is actually a tiny island about twenty minutes by boat from Hervey Bay in Queensland. My brother Bruce (along with his family) took me and my daughter Jasmine out there on the way to Fraser Island. And, best of all, we had the entire island to ourselves. I could wax lyrical about the perfectly white sand and perfectly aqua water, but I think these photos will give you a good idea how simply stunning it is.

Blue Lagoon, Malta

Just getting one boat in the pic is impressive - by lunch time there are dozens of them.

Boatloads of day-trippers pour into Blue Lagoon on the island of Comino (two islands across from Malta), but because I was staying at the only hotel on the island I got up ridiculously early (for someone on holidays) to have it to myself for a couple of hours. And yes, the water is as iridescent blue as the pic.

Paleokastritsa, Corfu

Fresh clear water and fresh calamari.

Paleokastritsa Beach was the first beach I’d ever seen outside of Australia - on my first ever trip overseas 35 years ago. I went to Corfu with a couple of Antipodean friends from London, and our week long package holiday had us staying by a tiny muddy bay. We didn't complain though - we left cold London and the package holiday, with flights and accomodation, cost us £79 (which was around $AU220 or $US120). We hired scooters to get to Paleokastrista on the other side of the island, and because it was May (and 35 years ago!), there were no crowds. But what made this beautiful beach even more magical was sitting in a quiet taverna right on the beach eating delicious fresh calamari while knocking back a few ouzos.

Lizard Island, Australia

Your own private beach.

Lizard Island is so exclusive that you get your very own beach. You are given a little chug-chug boat and a map and sent to your own beach (there is one for every guest!). You also get fold-out sun beds, a big umbrella and a huge hamper full of food and wine. And you can go to a different beach every day you are there. And yes, it was absolute heaven.

Ipanema Beach, Brazil

Where is the girl from Ipanema?

There certainly are crowds on Ipanema Beach, but boy what a nice crowd – girls wearing barely anything, skilled footballers showcasing their skills and oh so cool Cariocas. And the beach is beautiful, too – particularly at sunset, sitting at a sand-side bar with a tall glass of caipirinha (the local tipple) in hand.

My quest for the perfect beach isn't over yet, though. There are plenty of other amazing beaches out there that I haven’t been to yet (Seychelles, Maldives, most of the Caribbean islands just to name a few).What's your favourite beach?

The Alamo and war tourism

Last week I went to the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas. This was the site of a famous battle. I'm talking about the battle to get a margarita at the bar. It was the closing party of the IPW travel convention where 5,000 delegates from more than 60 countries partied like it was 1836.The (real) Battle of the Alamo was a pivotal event in the Texas Revolution. Following a 13-day siege, Mexican troops under President General Antonio López de Santa Anna reclaimed the Alamo Mission killing most of the occupants. Motivated by a desire for revenge, the Texans defeated the Mexican Army at the Battle of San Jacinto paving the way for independence, forming the Republic of Texas.

The Alamo is the most visited site in Texas with more than 2.5 million people visiting it annually. The main attraction is the chapel of the Alamo Mission (shown below from last week being attacked by a huge electric guitar made up of hundreds of drones). There is also a museum attached which, amongst other old stuff, houses over 400 pieces donated by part-time Texan historical artefact collecter Phil Collins (yes, that Phil Collins).

It’s actually quite amazing how many war related ‘tourist’ sites there are to visit in the world (possibly because the world has had too many wars). Other war related tourist attractions in the U.S. include the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C. (4.7 million visitors annually), World War 2 Memorial in Washington D.C. (4.6 million visitors) and the Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia where over 400,000 military personnel are buried. There would be a lot of visitors there today because today is Memorial Day here in the U.S. Originally known as Decoration Day, and first observed in 1868, it is a day for honouring and mourning the U.S. military personnel who died while serving in the U.S. Armed Forces from 1868 to 1970.

I've been to quite a lot of 'War Tourism' sites in my travels. Some are moving beyond words, while others demonstrate the futility of war. Here are the 10 most interesting and poignant sites that I have been to:

Cemetery and Trenches Somme, France

You can’t help but be moved when you stand in the middle of the stark yet beautiful cemetery dedicated to the more than 23,000 Australian troops that died during the Battle of Somme. It’s hard to imagine that this stunning landscape of lush green farmlands and hills was a muddy battlefield strewn with the destruction of war. We also visited and walked through a small section of trenches in the middle of a farm, which also housed a museum. The collection in the Franco-Australian Museum includes uniforms, letters and documents illustrating the role of the Australians. However, it is the photographs of weary soldiers and bombed-out buildings that truly evoke the sad reality of war.

Imperial War museum Manchester, England

I went to the Imperial War Museum with my dad and uncle (from Birmingham) and a whole bunch of cousins (from Manchester). The museum, which is a massive open space, doesn’t glorify war (or Britain’s victory). The museum adopted a more human approach, examining peoples experience of a world destroyed by war. One of the most bizarre pieces was an ornate Gold Mother’s Cross, which was awarded to German mums who had more than eight children. For us the most interesting part was when we put great Uncle Arthur’s name into a computer (the computer listed all the servicemen and servicewomen killed in the two world wars) to see if we could find out what had happened to him. It only took us a few minutes to find his name. The family were amazed to discover that he he was a gunner with the Royal Artillery and he died in Dunkirk on the 27th May, 1940 (he was also buried there).

Cu Chi tunnels Vietnam

These infamous tunnels, from which the Viet Cong mounted surprise attacks on the South Vietnamese and Americans stretched 250 kilometres around and into Saigon. The tunnels were incredible (and incredibly narrow), but my favourite part was the serious documentary film that was screened before you go to (or into) the tunnels. It was one of the funniest films I’ve ever seen. Although the roomful of American tourists didn’t seem to find it quite as funny. The film opened on a sweet-looking girl standing in a rice field. ‘This is Sang. She is an American killer hero.’ Sang then casually started shooting an AK47. ‘It is good to kill Americans,’ the commentator added matter-of-factly. It then went on to show lots of Americans being shot. ‘The Americans shot our men, our women, our children, our house…even our pots and pans.’ And just in case you didn’t believe them, they showed a pile of pots and pans peppered with bullet holes.

Dachau Concentration Camp Munich, Germany

This is sombre war ‘tourism’ as its most poignant and moving. These atrocities can not even be imagined. I have visited Dachau concentration camp around 15 times (it was part of the itinerary when I was a tour leader in Europe). Dachau Concentration Camp was Germany’s first, opened only 45 days after Adolph Hitler came to power in 1933. One time, while I was standing inside the compound explaining to my group about the atrocities that took place in concentration camps during the war, a very pale and severely hungover young lad put his hand to his mouth, took a few wobbly steps across to the nearest thing to lean on, and threw up. I don’t think I have ver been so embarrassed. He’d just thrown up all over a monument to all the jews killed in the war.

Pearl Harbor Honolulu, USA

What were the Japanese thinking. Didn’t they figure that the Americans would be just a little bit pissed off when 350 Japanese warplanes bombed the hell out of the US Pacific fleet in Pearl Harbor on December 7th 1942, killing 2,403 Americans. The memorial to the bombing is the premier tourist attraction in Hawaii and the most visited war memorial in the United States. The memorial itself has a sagging centre with ‘strong’ ends expressing ‘initial defeat and ultimate victory’.

Kasier Wilhelm Memorial Church Berlin, Germany

The church was built in 1891-1895 and was an important Protestant church for the city’s residents, but it is now more a commemoration to World War II than the emperor it is named after. Damaged in a bombing raid in 1943, the church was deliberately left unrepaired to testify against the horrors of war and a reminder of the will of Berliners to rebuild their city after the war. It’s so hard to imagine that most of Berlin looked like this by the end of the war.

Anne Frank House Amsterdam, Netherlands

I’d read the book. I’d seen the film. So, the Anne Frank House was on my hit list when I first visited Amsterdam. It certainly was eery passing through the doorway to the hidden annex, which was concealed behind a moveable bookcase. It was in this secluded area that Otto, wife Edith, two daughters (Anne, the younger) and four other Jewish people hid for over two years (without stepping outside). Of the entire group in hiding, only Otto Frank survived the war. Anne and her sister Margot are taken from Auschwitz-Birkenau to Bergen-Belsen in October, 1944 and they both died of typhus in March, 1945 – only a few weeks before the concentration camp was liberated by the British. Anne’s diary has been translated into more than 70 languages (more than any Dutch-language book in history) and to date over 30 million copies have been sold.

D-Day beaches Normandy, France

Seeing the D-day beaches made me feel sick. Okay, it may have something to do with the terrible hangover I had and it was cold and miserable on the beach. The advertising agency that I was working at in London had taken us all to France for the weekend and the bosses thought that it was a great idea to get us up early after our Christmas party for a bit of culture and history. It was on this stretch of beaches on the Normandy coast where the infamous D-Day Landings of June 6, 1944 took place, changing the course of the war. The five beaches—Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha and Utah—were where the forces of the French, British, Canadian and American armies successfully landed and commenced an operation that changed the tide of WWII in Europe. Most of the hungover and predominantly English advertising folk on our tour of duty didn’t even leave the bus to walk on the beach.

The Bridge on the River Kwai Kanchanaburi, Thailand

The movie, The Bridge on the River Kwai brought notoriety to this otherwise unremarkable town just a few hours bus ride from Bangkok, where a newly constructed bridge attracts thousands of photographers daily. The original bridge, still standing close by, was built in 1943 with the purpose of aiding the transport of supplies for the Japanese in Burma. Over 12,000 POWS and 90,000 civilian workers died during the construction of the Death Railway and the POW cemetery made for a humbling visit.

Oradour-sur-Glane France

This small village in western France was the site of one of the largest Nazi massacres on French soil. On June 10, 1944 SS officers stormed the village and killed the vast majority of residents (642 men, women and children) before doing their best to destroy the village. Though officially rebuilt a few kilometres north, the French government ordered the original site to be untouched and to stand testament to the horrors committed there. Walking through the ruins was like wandering through a broken ghost town.Have you been to many 'War tourism' sites?

A Minneapolis Bike n' Brew

Last weekend I went on a Bike n' Brew with a bunch of Minnesota friends. The name pretty much explains it - you ride a bike between a bunch of breweries. It's great fun because the Twin Cities has 'miles' of great biking trails and an abundance of top-rate breweries (we stopped at ,Pryes, ,Utepils and ,La Dona Cerveceria). What city do you think would be the most bikeable city in the U.S? You might say Portland or New York, but according to Redfin and Walk Score, Minneapolis is the most bikeable city in the United States. Minneapolis also became the first American city to be named as one of the top 20 most bike-friendly cities in the world by Danish design firm, Copenhagenize. All this is even more impressive considering that for at least four months of the year the bike trails are covered with snow and it never gets above zero degrees.

Utepils Brewery beer gardenMinneapolis has almost 400 kilometres of bike lanes and is home to some of the largest pieces of bicycle infrastructure in the U.S., like the Midtown Greenway which is used year-round by more than 4,000 cyclists a day. I can jump on the Greenway just down the end of my street and in long stretches it's a two lane (both ways) freeway - just for bikes. You can even ride into downtown without crossing a single road. There are a few other bike trails around Minnesota I'd like to try, too (even if there are no breweries to stop at along the way). One of them is the185 kilometre (115-mile) Paul Bunyan State Trail, which is the longest continuously paved rail trail in the whole country. The route starts in the town of Brainerd (not Brian-nerd) and ends up north in Bemidji, which is home of the famous Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox statues.

I do love doing a bit of cycling about when I travel. It's a great way to get a feel for a city or just a pleasant way to amble through the countryside. I haven’t done any serious bicycle journeys (and I would like to one day), but these are my top 10 bike rides from my travels:

Beijing, ChinaI lost my city map in the first 15 minutes then spent a wonderful day riding around completely and utterly lost - and loving very minute of it. I trundled around the Forbidden City, discovered hidden back streets, stopped for delicious Peking duck and somehow made it back to my hotel.

Comino, MaltaMy 73 year old father and I rode around this tiny, barren island looking for the remaining four ‘locals’ who live there (we found all of them plus a donkey). The good thing about the small population is that we just about had the beautiful island to ourselves.

Santa Fe, USAThis was my first serious attempt at ‘proper’ mountain biking. Beginning at around 2,500 metres I rode over boulders, jumped logs, shot down steep embankments and negotiated narrow tracks along precarious ridges. Well, I actually wasn’t that good at negotiating the precarious ridges and I ended up getting thrown over the handlebars and tore my knees to shreds.

Lauterbrunnen to Bönigen, SwitzerlandThe 20 km easy ride was pretty much all downhill through a stunning Alpine landscape. We rode by a raging river, through fields of snow (and cow poo), past ever-so-cute villages, through the charming town of Interlaken (to pick up some grilled chickens and some wine) then finished in the town of Bönigen with a picnic on the shore of Lake Brienz.

Mandalay, BurmaBesides the incessant honking of car horns, riding around Mandalay was a relaxing way of seeing the town and its many and amazing sites. Oh, except at night when the streets were pitch black and you couldn’t see the road in front of you.

Root River, MinnesotaThis was my first go on a tandem bike (with my girlfriend Beth sitting at the back) and it was great fun (although I had my suspicions that Beth was just pretending to peddle – although she might say that I was doing the same!). The 42-mile Root River (no sniggering, please) State Trail is in southern Minnesota and is built on a former train line. We rode through forests and farmland and past cutesy little towns and stopped for lunch at a cutesy little restaurant overlooking Root River.

Hoi An, VietnamI hired a bike from a 12 year old boy and spent the day trundling around the countryside, through villages, past rice paddies and along the coast. And the whole time – because the bike was so small – I looked like Kermit the Frog.

Amsterdam, The NetherlandsWhen in Rome… or when in Amsterdam, it’s great fun to cruise around the city and along the canals on one of those clunky, cumbersome Dutch bicycles. I’ve done it many times, but my favourite is on a warm sunny day cruising around Vondel Park watching the locals getting stoned.

Yosemite, USA I spent a whole day cycling around the valley from amazing waterfall to amazing waterfall, being befriended by gophers, chasing raccoons and looking out for hungry bears.

Bangkok, Thailand I went on a ‘Bangkok Back streets Bicycle Tour’ and, although I had been to Bangkok a number of times, I got to see many ‘hidden gems’ amongst the back streets and canals (although I did fall off twice and took out a fence).

Have you been on any great bike rides?

USA! USA! USA!

Okay, I'm getting a bit carried away there, but I have been living in the U.S. now for almost four years. And golly gee whizz did that just fly. Mind you, it was a very strange introduction to life here in the U.S. of A. I don't know if you heard about the virus that was going around, but not long after I moved to Minnesota the Corona Virus reared it's ugly spiky head. And we were all locked up inside. For a long time. So, my dreams of gallivanting around the country came to a sudden halt.

Then, after ten months of travelling not much further than the supermarket, we were finally set free to travel domestically. And lucky for me, no Australian journalists could leave Fortress Australia, so I was getting sent all around the country. In the space of two years I went to Wyoming (twice), Colorado (three times), Utah (twice), Idaho (twice), Nevada, Florida, California, South Dakota, Wisconsin and South Carolina. There have been many highlights, but in no particular order here are my ten highlights (so far!):

Rocky MountaineerColorado to UtahI do love a train journey - particularly when it includes three course meals delivered to your seat and free cocktails. Oh, and the incredibly spectacular views help, too. The new Rocky Mountaineer ',Rockies to the Red Rocks' route, travels for two days from Denver to the red canyon country of Moab, Utah. The first day is eight hours on the train, but you don't want to miss a minute looking out the window.

Read my story about the Rocky Mountaineer in Vacations & Travel magazine ,here.

Elvis & Frank's HousePalm Springs, CaliforniaI'm a big Elvis and Frank Sinatra fan, so it was such a buzz stepping into homes that they both lived in when they resided in Palm Springs. I was in Palm Springs for ,Modernism Week and their former homes, plus many more, were open to the public. It was surreal standing in Elvis and Priscilla's bedroom knowing that they conceived Lisa Marie here on the first night of their honeymoon, while over at Frankie's house standing by the piano-shaped pool imagining him having a cocktail or seven by the pool with Dean Martin and Humphry Bogart.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IpV8nN4bxs

Skiing with Olympic Gold medallist Tommy MoeJackson Hole, WyomingThe skiing at Jackson Hole is phenomenal, but it was made even better when I had day skiing with Tommy Moe, Jackson Hole ambassador and double Olympic gold medallist (at the '94 Lillehammer games). We started an hour before the lifts were open to the public and headed out to ski some Cowboy Powder. What is Cowboy Powder? I didn't know either, but I soon discovered it's some of the best skiing you can do. It's when there has been a big snowfall after the groomers have groomed the runs the night before and you get to ski powder runs on ski runs. The rest of the day was a blur - but that was mostly me just trying to keep up with Tommy!You can book a day skiing with Tommy Moe ,here.

Neon MuseumLas Vegas, NevadaI'd seen pics of the 'neon museum' (also known as the 'Neon Graveyard') and always wanted to see it, so I was very excited when I actually go to visit it. I went there during the day and night, but it was at night when it was the most magical. It's actually quite a small space, but there are 800 old signs from around 200 Las Vegas properties.If you go to Vegas don't miss the ,Neon Museum.

Snowcat skiingSoldier Mountain, Idaho"Yippe-Kai-Yay!"That's what I was hollering out when I was skiing the untracked and untouched bowls of Soldier Mountain on a cat skiing day out. I was hollering that because until recently, Bruce Willis used to own this little know ski mountain that's tucked away in the middle of Idaho. I skied down a wide-open, serenely undulating valley, then jumped back in the snowcat and did another nine times, and each time in a new valley. Pretty much skiing heaven.Check out Cat skiing at ,Soldier Mountain.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vpxYyeREfU

Yurt dinnerMidway, UtahI could go on about the incredible skiing I had at the Utah resorts Snowbird, Snowbasin, Powder Mountain and Deer Valley on this trip, but I really did love this unique experience we had where we hiked (normally you snow shoe in winter, but there wasn't quite enough snow) to a yurt for dinner. We hiked two kilometres through the star lit forest of Soldier Hollow to a warm and inviting yurt where we had a delicious 4-course fine-dining meal. And of course there were marshmallows on the open fire outside.The ,WAO Yurt Dinner is

Custer State Park Buffalo RoundupCuster State Park, South DakotaEvery September, the ground rumbles and dust flies as 60 cowboys and cowgirls saddle up to bring in a thundering herd of over a thousand buffalo (or bison). Around 20,000 people watch this spectacular event, but I didn't just watch it. I was in it. On a back of a truck getting thrown around while we were recording a podcast for South Dakota tourism. You can take a sneak peak (or is that a sneak listen?) of the podcast ,here and hear how crazy it is!,Custer State Park Buffalo Roundup

First family holiday after CovidMyrtle Beach, South CarolinaNot only was it nice to take our first family holiday for over two years, it had also been almost three years since the kids had seen a beach (it's around 2,000 kilometres from our place in Minnesota to the nearest ocean). Myrtle Beach in South Carolina has over 100 kilometres of beach, so it wasn't hard to find a place right on the beachfront. It was wonderfull - although we did almost lose a kid to a crocodile.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsIIXchR6pY

Sun Valley LodgeSun Valley, IdahoYou can't escape the history and understated glamour of Sun Valley ski resort in Idaho, and from the moment I walked in the 1930's-inspired foyer of Sun Valley Lodge, I felt like I was walking onto a classic Hollywood set. It was (and still is) a hot spot for A-list celebrities, including Clark Gable. Marilyn Monroe, Clint Eastwood, Bing Crosby, and Ernest Hemingway - who wrote, For Whom the Bells Toll, while staying in room 206. I spent ages wandering the corridors of the hotel gazing at framed photos of stars living it up at this grand hotel.

,Sun Valley Lodge

Snowmobile tourTelluride, ColoradoI almost wet my pants a few times on my first ever go on a snowmobile, but what a fun (and fast!) adventure. I went on a twilight tour with guide Matt who went at ridiculous speeds along narrow tracks that twisted and turned through a thick forest. The wetting the pants part was me trying to keep up with him. I loved every minute of it, though and our reward at the end was a spectacular alpine sunset.,Snowmobile Tour

No more boarding passes?

I have a shoebox filled with old boarding passes. When I was home recently in Australia I was going through all my stuff (that I will eventually send here to the U.S.) to try and 'mimimise' my junk. But, I just couldn't throw them out - and my other shoeboxes filled with city maps and coasters and restaurant business cards. Both boarding passes and city maps probably won't exist at all in a few years. My boarding pass 'wallet' now looks like this...

I do love my old boarding passes (by the way, I haven't kept them all - the Jetstar flight from Melbourne to Sydney isn’t that exciting). And yes, it may be a little sad, but I have a rather impressive collection even if I do say so myself. Here's just a sample of some either interesting airlines or an interesting story that accompanied that flight…I flew Business Class (or the rather flash-sounding ‘Club Class’) with Uzbekistan airways and the only difference between Cattle Class was that we got a linen tablecloth with our ham and salad roll.

My name may have been Bryn Thacker and Indonesia ranks as one of the worst countries for air-safety records, but boy are they cheap. And at least Merpati have been around a while and they haven’t run out of planes yet. Oh, and ‘Say No To Drug’ – they just don’t specify which one!

The ‘Treasure of Myanmar’ was actually very nice. The plane was relatively new, we departed right on time and the very full plane landed in Bagan (from Mandalay) to let just two of us off, while the rest flew on to Yangon.

To be honest I wasn’t expecting much from Kenya Airways, but the plane was brand new, thefood was excellent and the service was impeccable. They could teach a few other well-knownairlines a thing or two.

Pan Am. Remember them? I took this flight from London to New York in October 1989. The flight number was originally PA103, but they changed it to PA011 after the Lockerbie bombing in December 1988.

When the flight from Lome, Togo to Lagos, Nigeria landed the whole plane broke into rapturous applause. Not a good sign particularly when the plane was so old. Mind you, they they did do a lovely pasta salad and chocolate mousse.

I do have about another 200 boarding passes, but I won’t bore you any further. There is, however, just one boarding pass that I really want to add to my collection. It’s this….

Eva Air in Taiwan have Hello Kitty planes where everything, and I mean everything, is Hello Kitty themed – from the fuselage to the flight attendants, cushions, check in, baggage tickets, and even the food is Hello Kitty themed (I’m talking pink spaghetti and kitty shaped buns).

Bloomin Onions and Ox Penis

Last night I went to the Outback Steakhouse Restaurant here in Minneapolis. It's an 'Aussie; themed restaurant, but it couldn’t be less Australian if it tried. There are over a thousand of them in 23 countries and their most popular ‘Aussie’ dish is a thing called ‘Bloomin Onions’. Yes, what? It’s a deep fried battered onion entree that’s 1950 calories (the recommended adult total daily calorie intake is 2000 calories!). And it was as disgusting as it sounded (and looked). The restaurant didn't even have Vegemite sandwiches. Then again, according to an article I read that listed the most disgusting foods in the world (by country) and amongst the camel’s feet, tiger’s testicles, pork uterus, ox penis, cow urine and maggot-cheese was Vegemite. Come on. Vegemite is not disgusting. Yes, it doesn’t look the most appetising, but it fair dinkum tastes good on ya toast in the morning. Also under the ‘Australia’ list were witchety grubs and beetroot! I’ve eaten some pretty disgusting foods in my travels, so here’s a taste of some of the most disgusting foods I’ve eaten (and of course I have to show you pics of all the grossness in all it’s glory):

,African sausages – KenyaOtherwise known as goat’s intestines. The boiled intestines, which were grey and slimy, were served dangling daintily from a stick. Looks nice doesn't it?

,Rancid shark – IcelandHakarl, or rancid shark, is traditionally prepared by digging a hole, placing the shark in the hole, pissing on it, then burying it for about six months until it rots. It’s then served cold ala sashimi style.Nowadays they don't piss on it, but it still smells like a rotting corpse. I was told to eat it blocking my nose, so I wouldn't smell it. When I finished eating it, my Icelandic friend told me me to smell it. It took me a few days to get the small out of my nostrils.

,Burned sheep’s head – IcelandAnother delightful Icelandic dish, but the good news is that If you’d like to prepare this at home, it’s very easy. Get a sheep’s head, burn it to remove the wool, cut it in two in order to remove the brain, boil it, then serve with mashed turnip.

,Fried grasshoppers – BurmaA local girl brought me one and when I said, very politely, that it was quite nice she brought me a whole bowl of them. It wasn’t nice – sort of burnt with gooey horrible stuff inside. And I had to eat about 20 of them - and this pic is seriously the size of the bowl that she got me!

,Worms – South AfricaI had a traditional South African entrée of fat black slimy Mopani worms that were ‘gently simmered’ and came served with peanut butter and tomato relish. They tasted like burnt sausage, and then the second crunch let loose the slimy insides which tasted exactly as I had feared a worm would taste like. As if someone had blown their nose into my mouth.

,Frog’s brains – IndonesiaI’d eaten frog’s legs in France before, but when I ordered frog in Yogyakarta, Indonesia I got the whole frog – including legs, eyes, stomach and brain.

,Goat soup – KenyaI’m pretty sure this mug of soup isn’t in the Continental Cup-a-Soup range: Hearty Goat with Fat Globs and Grey Sludge.

,Foetus eggs – VietnamIt’s as horrible as it sounds. It’s duck eggs with the foetus inside only a few days away from hatching. And it’s eaten raw.

,Offal sausage – FranceI ordered this by accident. I thought I was ordering some gourmet sausages in a very nice restaurant in a Paris, but instead I’d ordered sausages stuffed with smelly and grey offal bits.

Anyway, so what's for dinner tonight?