Whittoons

And so begins a tale of two river runs some forty years and half a world apart. The first run was on the Yukon River as a crewman working for the Yutana Barge Company out of Nenana, Alaska. The second run was up the Ayeyarwady River in Myanmar as a tourist with AMAWaterways River Cruises.

Though there were strong contrasts in the two voyages, there many parallel experiences. Let me set the scene:

The New York Times just ran a spread (Idyllic Island, Toxic Workplace 4/28/21) that obliterated one of our top epicurean fantasies.

Back in 2019, we had saved up to splurge for a Birthday celebration for Michele at the Willows Inn. We had stayed at the Inn before the “Before Blaine Wetzel” era. Before the place was on the map following gushing reviews in major papers. For us, the Willows Inn had been a quiet retreat situated on Lummi Island. A short ferry ride from the Lummi reservation took us to a less traveled island in the Puget Sound. Lummi Island had always been that mysterious place on the horizon across Bellingham Bay when I was growing up in Bellingham. (Orcas had been our retreat at the time when we were lucky to stay at a neighbor’s cabin.) Getting to Lummi meant driving through the rez, through a world unknown to me except for the annual salmon bakes and wild canoe races. The Lummi people were not a wealthy tribe at the time, rich in culture but not in financial equity. Now they have a casino, so perhaps they share some wealth. Houses were aging in the mossy forest. Old cars rusted in driveways.

On the last visit to Willows Inn, during the off-season several years ago, we and one family were the only visitors. In chatting, it turned out the father was the author of the first Lonely Planet guide to Cuba. He had led bike tours there and Lonely Planet brought him on. It was serendipitous, since we had been scheming for years on how to visit Cuba. [We did eventually make it – see Cuba-The Loveliest Land page on my blog.]

Even then, the food was well presented and lovely with taste treats…but nothing extraordinary by New York food critic standards.

This time, we booked the Willows Inn cabin near the main lodge and settled in.

We budgeted for one dinner and one breakfast at the Willows Inn. The rest of our meals would be elsewhere on the island, or we would make snacks at the cabin.

Preparations for dinner were underway around the BBQ pit as we approached the main lodge to check in for our reservations. All tables were outside. This was to be a total al fresco immersive experience. Having been forewarned, we dressed accordingly but some other guests were in lovely but thin diaphanous fabrics. Space heaters above some of the tables…(except ours), gave you some indication of the possible complications. Blankets on the seats were another clue.

As the twenty plus courses arrived, most of the women started to cover themselves in wool, losing the au couture look, though we were all still cozily wrapped in privilege. Don’t cry for me, bartender. But I must say, since the morsels were tiny, and the air was chilly, some guests started looking as desperate as the Donner Party.

Each course was basically a mouthful, with a few exceptions. We were sampling the “Best of the NW” ingredients from Lummi Island…supposedly. And getting chilled to the bone. Since pneumonia should not be part of the aftertaste of any epicurean indulgence, we requested to move inside near the fire for coffee and dessert. Soon other guests chose the warmth over the fresh air. When your are investing in a meal, you do not want to suffer too much.

The Willows Inn breakfast was served all at once, like on a Thali plate, with multiple bowls of organic goodies. This was a vast improvement over the outdoor dining. We had hot coffee and tea, and we were inside…and comfortable. The staff appeared more relaxed. And we could linger.

We thought it worth another visit to Lummi Peak for the beautiful view spot high above the Rosario Strait, with views of Orcas Island and beyond. We made sure not to step too far back for the selfie. It’s a long way down.

The artist Ann Morris opens up her Sculpture Woods once a month on the first Saturday (10 a.m. – 5 p.m.). Her gallery is open by appointment only. After a long conversation with Ann, we toured her studio to check out her boat sculptures. One of the boats sailed away with us, dangling from the coat hooks over the back seat. It bobbed and swayed with the waves of cross drafts.

Ann Morris’s earlier works are much more substantial metal sculptures of mythical proportions that inhabit the landscape.

The Beach Store Cafe offered a reasonably priced and very nice dinner. The cafe was packed with locals. People stopped by to chat with other diners. Two elder sisters next to us seemed to be the main attraction. This was much closer to the island life I was familiar with on Orcas.

So chock it up to Ignorance is Bliss, but our stay was restful, soothing and tasty. We used the time to recuperate from the stress we had been living with for a good while.

Yes, we regret that so much abuse was taking place at the time, according to the NYT report. Mea Culpa. (And I am shocked that the some of the tasty morsels might not have really come from the island.. the Horror, the Horror.) The Willows Inn did finally reach a monetary settlement, and the chef and management claim they will do better. Right. But this is yet again another tale of arrogant chefs taking advantage of their staff, and many staff being too intimidated to do anything about the abuse. The culture of commercial kitchens needs a revolutionary movement to overturn the modern day tribal lords. As Che Guevara must had said at least once, Viva La Revolucion!

American Samoa and Western Samoa

Approaching a small island in the mid-Pacific, it is a bit of a relief to see land after flying above such a vast expanse of water.  On landing, my taxi driver tried to rip me off pretending to misunderstand my directions and mumbling responses, but eventually we reached the cheap motel that I had scoped out. It was full.  I ended up staying in an extra room at the home of Chief Napoleone A. Tuiteleleapaga. 

The imposing gentleman sat comfortably before a large TV, fanning himself and slapping himself under the armpits.  His card listed his various titles and interests: Grand Knight, International Mark Twain Society, Private Detective, Musician…member of the Samoan Church Unification Committee, Sierra Club and more.

On my first morning in this remote spot, I headed for the forest. Following a track below the ridgeline, I ended up on the far side of the island and dropped down into a valley. The canopy enclosed the moist space that I had all to myself until I heard the gun shots. Not wanting to be mistaken for a wild boar, I did my best to slip through the jungle following a stream towards the ocean.   I ran into the hunters anyway.  They were taking pot shots at birds. White seabirds flew overhead, their long 2’ tail feathers making undulating brush strokes across the sky.   Enormous fruit bats flapped to their roost.   My companions were on the hunt for the huge South Pacific crab that climbs trees in search of coconuts, which they break with their claws.  Their meat was supposed to be incredible.   I earned a jungle boy merit badge by learning to weave a palm leaf basket which they would use to carry back their haul of succulent critters.

Heading back along the ridge with the guys, they pointed out Western Samoa, its outline broken by a canopy of palm leaves.

My stay was brief since my destination was Western Samoa and Sava’ii.  I spent my first night in Western Samoa at a dive called the Casino that was on its last legs and about to be torn down.  The bar turned out to have been the local afternoon drinking hole for locals and Peace Corps volunteers.   Over beer the PC guys gave me advice and some contacts on Sava’ii.   As their story goes, you can tell how long a PC volunteer has been in Samoa by the reactions to a fly in their beer glass.  If he/she asks for a new glass of beer, they have on been on Samoa for a couple of weeks.  If they pick the fly out of their glass and drink the beer, they have been in country for at least 6 months.  And if they pick up their glass and drink the beer, fly and all, they have been around for at least a year.

That night I thought I would walk around town.  I did not get far before encountering two gangs doing some ritualized stand-off with rocks in hand on my side of the street.  I casually slipped across the street and headed right on back to the safety of the hotel bar.

My flight to Savai’i was canceled since all planes were undergoing repairs.  An airline worker invited me to spend the night with his family where cultural immersion began. His sister’s home was a “fale” house with a grass thatched roof.  I was given a lava-lava to wear.  The colorful fabric wrapped around your waist definitely beats wearing pants in the humidity. 

I was instructed in dining cross-legged on mats, eating with my fingers. Flies were buzzing during the meal as a young boy fanned my food.  Getting this much attention while eating was a bit disconcerting, so I tried to reduce my intake, and the kid could rest his arm.

Once on Savai’i, I had extra time waiting for a bus.  Two boys were fascinated by the “palagi” (white) and every move I made, so I used the time to construct a 5” outrigger with a few sticks and some grass to wrap them together. I advised them not to take it on the high seas. This activity then attracted 15 more kids who came to either admire…or maybe they were deriding my handiwork.

There was an Oregon based lumber company in one village, and my plan was to visit this American compound. But three local girls walked on by, asked what I was up to and invited me to their home.  The three lived with family in a beach village next to a bay enclosed by a reef.  How could I refuse the offer.   Escorted along the beach, they let me push an outrigger out into the bay and paddle.  They claimed that I looked like a fisherman, but by their giggling I may have not reached that status in their eyes.   Later on a walk (in my lava-lava) down mainstreet, as we carried our bottles of orange drink, Apaula insisted that I not sip from the bottle since these were the same bottles used for beer. Others might think we were boozing it up together.  With the guys watching us, I figured it was best to follow her direction.  Dinner was fresh fish from the bay, which did offer a change of pace since most Samoans seemed to rely heavily on canned fish.

In the evening, I was given the only bed in the hut. Apaula tucked the mosquito netting in around my bed once I was under the sheets…and then returned to the family compound.  I was having a Margaret Mead moment, wondering about Apaula’s expectations and intentions.  She seemed to be acting as a sixteen-year-old in search of a husband. From my perspective, she was underage and, though very kind, not eligible for any relationship.  Though hesitant, I agreed to stay another night.

Her father left at 4 a.m. to fish. At dawn, her mother, after cooking for the family with help from the children, started weaving mats as wind breaks. Younger kids went off to school. Between rain squalls, Apaula did my laundry.  This was getting a bit too domestic. Others might think I was living the Gauguin dream, but the reality of unmet expectations was dampening my enthusiasm. Time to move on after many thanks and profound apologies for any cultural snafus.

Even with reservations, the rush was on to get into Roozengaard. No reminders to stay 6 feet apart while waiting in line or in the bunched up starting gate. And they’re OFF!

We looked for the path less taken. The crowd thinned the further you walked away from the tulip store and coffee stop. The workers were taking a beer break outside the fence and then covered head to toe, they mounted their tractors and were off, the tractors’ blades tilling the rows. A nephew raced down the row and back again trying to keep up.

Would he be as excited if the machines were automated and robots did the work? Robotic machines are already on some farms zapping weeds automatically. How soon before they invade this Tulip world? Terminators eliminating migrant workers’ jobs.

On the way down the rows, everyone seems joyfully immersed in the Van Gough dashes of color, strollng through a impressionist landscape. This is probably more sensory saturation than I will get viewing the traveling 3-D Van Gough show.

Eddies in the stream of Agritourists allow for selfie and group photo opportunities, holding visitors’ attention briefly before the willing subjects swirl out and merge once again with the flow. The bright sun on this almost freaky spring day makes the colors pop.

But where are the birds and the bees? Nada.

There are inherent risks in Agritourism? The sign does not greet you when plunging into the fields of color, but it sits at the end of the rows facing away as if embarrassed to give the bad news. So the return trip can be clouded with doubt about acting in a “negligent manner”. What does that mean? Not paying attention to the chemicals, the dust, the run-a-way tractors and….COVID blended into the warm Skagit Valley air.

What the Heck! Throw caution to the wind, enjoy the bliss and let the tulip color spectrum sooth your troubles.

Not just the heat hit me, but the cost of everything was inflated. I clearly needed to get a job while I searched the docks for a sailboat to Tahiti.  Ala Moana shopping mall was looking for seasonal labor of the Christmas holidays so I managed to find a position at Liberty House.

This was not a job that taxed one’s critical thinking skills, or demanded analytical reasoning. Fill the shelves, and then restock filling again with product for all those desperate Christmas customers.  All the while I was subjected to the two Christmas songs that repeated over and over and over.  I came to hate one of them, “It’s a Small World After All” even though my intent in heading on a global trek was to become acquainted with other cultures.  I acknowledged this would take work. It would be complicated and entail risks.  Singing the refrain from It’s a Small World was not going to build fences.  The saccharine nature of the tune was unbearable. 

I had the unenviable task of restocking Playmate puzzles that were a hot item. Miniature pictures of the naked women kept disappearing from under the lids. I was not planning on tracking down the culprits. My vision of a sensual South Pacific indulgence was based on other cultural icons. As a stock boy, I was not getting anywhere closer to this romantic indulgence, skewed as it was by western misconceptions and misappropriations.

The was a real crisis at Christmas time.  The trees had not arrived.   The freighter was delayed.  Ala Moana customers were not happy.  The Christmas spirit was fraying by the minute.  When the trees finally arrived, the crowd surge looked like the mob who charged the stage at the Rolling Stones concert.  Everyone wanted Satisfaction.   The fragments of trees were strewn across the pavement like slow groupies.  Boughs too disheveled to rate for a swag or wreath, still gave a bit of seasonal joy to those of us not having a very merry Christmas.  The scent of balsam, spruce and fir was sufficient to lift our spirits.

Dinner at the hostel included turkey donated from a catering service, pancakes with coconut syrup, potatoes, Wassel and apple pies.    Some of us hostelers then headed for the community center for a second feast…and Santa Claus attended.

New Year’s eve was like a war zone, booms of explosions thundering and echoing off the high rise hotels along the bay. The bangs became so frequent that it sounded like a huge rain squall. Next day everyone headed for the Sunshine Festival at Diamond Head in the crater. Folk and rock bands blasted from several stages. One booth dispensed free condoms at a population control table, and at an anti-abortion table, one could gaze upon a fetus in a bottle.

Every few days I wandered along the marina docks to check on possible boats heading to the South Pacific. Not being a year of the Trans-Pacific race, the number of boats that might be crossing the Equator was limited.   One day I heard my name called as I strolled the dock and, amazingly enough, it was a college classmate who happened to recognize me.  His last name was Hornblower.  Now that may not mean much to many, but the Horatio Hornblower novels about sailing the high seas were an addiction for me.  My father loved them and I loved them.  It is a name that is hard to forget. 

Paul had invested in an old working schooner moored in the marina and invited me on board.  Given its wide berth, and heavy beams, this was designed for freight hauling in the South Pacific. Paul was determined to slowly renovate and take it back on the high seas. 

 I was invited to stay on board and I took him up on the offer since the hostel was packed.  Though furnishings were spare, they did have a piano below deck, beds for six, T.V. plus a stove and small oven.  It looked like this was as close as I was going to get to setting out on an ocean voyage.  I did find one sailboat that was headed to Tahiti but it had several drawbacks.  The owner wanted me to pay my way and the boat was a homemade catamaran.  It looked like the deck just might separate from the twin hulls in a storm.  Not the way I wanted to go.

My stay on board did not last long.  Paul’s fellow crew members thought I was a narc, probably because I did not smoke dope with them and my look was still pretty collegiate, not seafarer in manner or style.  I had enough money to buy a ticket south but Tahiti was a $100 more than a flight to American Samoa so I settled on the latter.  In the meantime, I hauled my backpack out of the schooner and flew to the Big Island.  My only regret in leaving was not being able to drop by the sailboat that two young beautiful women owned. I was infatuated with both…yet they were a couple.  They were my Sirens and I had to tear myself away.  This was to be forever unrequited love.

I spent a couple of nights around and up on Mauna Kea. Alone one evening before the ascent, the wild boar cries were haunting…the sound of lost souls wandering the wasteland. The hike up from the saddle between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa was not anywhere near the arduous climb of Mt Everest. Though it is 13,796 ft above sea level, from its base it measures 32,696 feet as the tallest mountain on earth, so it was a minor accomplishment summiting. The landscape was otherworldly. It was a moonscape…except for the snow.

I hitched a ride down thanks to a resident scientist. He said they never give rides to those climbing up, but going down is another story.

My next camp site was on Kealakekua Bay nor far from where Captain Cook met his end in a scuffle with locals.  Swimming in that bay is surreal as you float over the abyss of the old volcano. I am a strong swimmer yet the feeling is unsettling as you move from lapis blue green water with crystal clear views of the sandy floor, to a dark blue pool and a bottomless pit.  I saw a beautiful 118’ ketch that has anchored in the bay.  From my campsite, I looked closer and there appeared to be a crew of men and women…all naked.   A sailor making a supply run invited to come aboard, so I swam out and hauled myself up.   This was the Zaca previously owned by Erroll Flynn and acquired by one of the still surviving Pranksters.   I kept my swim trunks on but most everyone else on board wandered around naked and brown as the teak deck.  It was an awesome moment.  They were heading out to Honolulu for the Rolling Stones concert.  I also had tickets and so requested passage.   To clinch the deal, the crew said I would need to locate a brick of dope on arrival in Honolulu.  Now I knew some guys in the marina that could probably provide the connection but I was not about to put them in jeopardy.   The Sirens once again called, but I jumped ship and swam to shore.   It was shame, since I found out later that after they arrived in Honolulu, they gave the Rolling Stones a ride. 

In an instant, Mom transformed into Calamity Jane and went after the drunken Zombies. There was no stopping her. I was startled to watch my mother in action defending the homestead. They were dumbstruck and did not hesitate to leave the scene.

I had the suspicion that we must have had some back-up to cause such a reversal of fortune, and scare the living daylights out of Zombies. And then I looked behind us.

Now you might conclude that all I saw in the dark fir forest behind us were the sparks from the fireworks, but to my eyes (and ears) Suzette’s call of the wild had brought out ferocious defenders of our shared territory.

We reclaimed our campsite and settled down. Snug in my sleeping bag, I thanked the still and now quiet night for the magnificent, scary and magical time…and howled in my dreams.

Oh…DAMN!  Was I just too gullible?  Was this a “stick-up”?  Was he after my gear?  I had nowhere to go.  I had to just await what fate had instore.  I certainly was not going to wrestle “Lenny” for the weapon on a flatcar. 

He held up the gun. The end of the barrel was pointed my way, but then he swiveled and set his sights towards the Colulmbia…and took a shot at the geese floating just off the shoreline.   I took a huge gulp of the fresh air sweeping over us and felt the sweat of fear evaporate into the drafts.

That evening my companion decided not to continue to the City of Roses. As we passed over the I-5 northbound lanes, Lenny jumped off into the darkness to hitch the rest of the way to Seattle.  On arrival in the Portland yard, I must have looked lost because an engineer up in the engine cabin asked where I was going.  Once I confessed that I was looking for a ride to Seattle, he told me to hop on one of the cars on his train.   I finally felt I might now have gained some legitimacy as a hobo.

Now my plan was to seek some ship-board adventure across the Pacific, starting from Seattle.  After wandering down from the Seattle freight yard to the working waterfront, I stood for long while watching the longshoremen going in and out of the pier gates…and I realized I was not going to find easy passage anytime soon.  I was totally intimidated by the looks of the hardened workers.  They all were huge with fierce looks of determination.  They looked like they could grind me to a pulp. No way I was going to fit in or have access to maritime employment without connections.

Plan B – I pulled out some cash from my money belt and took the cheapest flight to Honolulu.  My hope was to find a sailboat that would take me on for the next leg to the South Pacific. 

HAWAII

The rush of warm tropical air on arrival was intoxicating. I had grown to love a tropical climate after the several monkey-research trips in the Caribbean and down to Colombia.  My down jacket got squished into the backpack and I headed for the Honolulu backpacker’s hideaway, the Waikiki Youth Hostel, right off the beach. 

The Zombie Apocalypse was here. The inebriated undead attempted to move right into our campsite. Well OK, they might not have been quite undead, but they were in a drunken stupor as they crept towards us. With mush for brains, they were zombies as far as I could tell…and we might just be their next meal. Mom was having none of it.

I felt like a cornered rat.  I had no place to hide so I just froze in place in my mummy bag and sneaked a peek. A flashlight beam moved over the interior yet never moved in my direction. I heard the steps head towards the door, and then the door opened.  Just as the door was about to close, I heard a deep, gravelly voice quietly state, “I never seen ya.”  And my guardian angel disappeared into the night. 

Next day I did get rousted by a Bull but with kind words.  He felt I should not occupy the caboose since hobos had been known to destroy company property,  but I was welcome to find a freight car further up the train.  I was surprised at his consideration. Somewhere I had heard that since the hobos helped build this line, so the company let them ride.  Whether apocryphal or not, I appreciated his approach to this novice hobo.

I had plenty of time to choose my car since I did not have to worry that security would be targeting me. I found a brand-new car.   Wood floors were smooth without stains. Paint job sparkled. No stench from previous occupants.   And both doors slid with the slightest of tugs.   As we moved across the Montana plains and Charles Russell landscape, the Rockies started to emerge along the western horizon.  I had vistas both north and south with bright sun dazzling my eyes.  Certain motions of the train would send one door closing and opening the other. Other motions sent both open. My giant camera obscura shutters were opening and closing on magnificent images.   A chill set in as we climbed into the mountains.  The peaks were staggering, after so many miles of flat or rolling ground.   My two doors remained open for the climb, and I sat in the center of the car like some wandering Sadhu, seeking enlightenment.  When we hit a rough section of railbed, the bounce set me levitating. 

Lucky enough to make a pit spot in Spokane with friends, I returned to the rail yard to find a train headed for Seattle or Portland.  One box car offered good views.  As I was about to hop on, a tall swarthy guy with swag inquired where I was headed. He had seen me scrutinizing my map and made the assumption that I knew what I was doing and where I was going. Huh.  He asked if he could join me. I was not sure if the question was rhetorical or not, but I accepted his company.

Once on the car I had a chance to stare into his face which had a most prominent feature- a nose that clearly had been fractured a couple of times. With a prominent brow ridge, and square jaw with a couple days growth of stubble, he looked forbidding.  I wondered if he possessed any Neanderthal genes.  Our conversation was limited given the wind and sound along the route.  When we reached a junction to a line headed south, we hopped off to find a direct route to Portland. 

There along the side of the track lay about 50 hobos complete with gear. I was more that glad to have this huge companion as an escort as we walked past the crowd.  This was an Of Mice and Men moment.    They were all waiting to climb aboard the next train headed south. Like geese, these guys were seeking warm weather for the winter.  No one questioned my crashing the party.

We left the guys behind when we found our train to Portland and a flatcar with great views of the Columbia River. The ride was risky. Moving around was not advised. One good bump and I would be in the dirt. Yet it was a rush.

In the sunny afternoon, my companion started to search through his bag and out came a single shot pistol that he proceeded to load.  Oh…DAMN!