Rock-n-Roll

Notes from the Road (pt2)

And so… a lot has transpired since our whirlwind swing through the New England and the D.C. swamps. To be more explicit, we’ve wrapped the HSoB tour in a bow visiting all 48 mainland states. Admittedly, some got less attention than fairly warranted. Texas most egregiously. So, after taking care of health, dental, optical, and vehicular care in good ol’ Hays, America, we (Rocinante and i) made our way south when the Late October chill started infiltrating the great state of Kansas. 

1st stop… Tejas…

Since the time is neigh for diving head first into the book project, i couldn’t in good conscience leave the current snapshot of Texas stand unfinished … we’re searching for that “fibrillating heart of our divided nation”. And Texas in an important pole in the current energy disturbance. So, we HAD to spend more time here. And so we did. Starting with a stop in Red Rock, a rural berg roughly 30 miles from Austin. We have friends there, including one bass player who i assume wishes to remain nameless. He’s the one from whom i learned the expression, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” He was a literal comrade in arms as we stumbled through a giant swath of the 1980s in the same Rock-n-Roll platoon… we took no prisoners. As well, a brief detour to celebrate Thanksgiving with a Texas comrade from a different war, the 2000s… the Bush years. Another fellow soldier whom i’m assuming wishes to remain anonymous. From him, i learned that there are no problems in Civil Engineering that, “can’t be solved with a bullet.” He has effectively estranged from his home state, but i suspect he still harbors a deep connection to this storied “whole ‘nuther country”. One thing for certain, he has a keen Texas ear for good music.

Anyway… Texas… after escaping the late autumn chill in Kansas, cruising over the vast tabletop of the Texas prairie, listening to Crime and Punishment via audio book, deep in a reverie, my concentration started wafting in and out with disjointed strains of a song i once knew by heart but hadn’t heard in many years. The voice was that “high lonesome” distinctly Texas lilt, and as the miles rolled by, the music grew more intense and i couldn’t ignore it any longer. When the song started drowning out the book, i turned it (the audio book) off, and racked my memory for a door that could lead me into the song properly, but it didn’t appear. Finally, wishing to get my concentration back in order to track the Dostoevsky novel properly, i pulled over in one of those Texas prairie parking areas for a quick Google search. I HAD to get a bead on that song. And here it is… Lilah, by Don Henley. From a record released the year my first marriage was falling apart. The song evidently embedded itself in the hole where my soul had been before the divorce. Anyway… it was the endless Texas prairie that stirred the song from its resting place, and that impression will be with me for the rest of my days.   

Now, in Rocinante’s slipstream as we made our way South, an early November arctic blast ravaged the Eastern Midwest, and more, reaching all the way to Georgia, even Northern Florida. And since we have no interest in climates dipping into the 30s, we beat a burning path to Corpus Christi after sharing a few beers, reminiscences, and current doin’s with my old Rock-n-Roll war buddy.

After crossing the prairie, escaping the white knuckle traffic snarls of Austin, and finally spending a few weeks here in South Texas, i have a better impression of the Lone Star State and with that, ready to dive head first into the book project. 

For that purpose, back to the River of Grass… back to South Florida and the Miami-Dade Public Library Network. I’ve begun the process of world building and character development, and i know i have a lot to learn before screwing up enough courage to present a manuscript to publishers. I also know the chances of snagging a professional deal are slim to none. But i’ve read Stephen King’s comments “On Writing,” and from that, i know rejections come in bushel baskets. So dear loopers, please understand, i don’t do any of this out of an expectation for something more than, how did Papa Vonnegut put it? Oh yeah, renewing, “feeding, and growing my soul”. And by some lucky coincidence, this has been my retirement plan all along… #winning.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Saudi Tour

SUMMER (1993): The nonstop flight from Chicago to Zurich began with warm cotton washcloths. These towels had a distinct citrus odor reminiscent of the towelette packets at KFC. Being unfamiliar with international travel, i was perplexed. After all, there was no food, yet. So, in order to attract no attention to myself, i waited to see what other passengers would do. Soon everyone was wiping face and hands with the fragrant rags, so i did the same. And with that we were underway. However, i felt strangely of out of place because apparently the only people speaking English on the flight were my bandmates and this guy sitting next to me (a U.S. jewelry broker).

The Zurich to Zagreb flight was different. We rode a bus to the causeway. The mood in the bus was dark and active. Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll probably not on the minds of these folks as the Balkan war had been their steady reality. I assumed they had less frivolous matters on their minds.

I had previous experience in developing environments, and from that experience, thought i knew what to expect in the Balkans. I expected everything to be drab and run-down. To my surprise, Air Croatia was the best flight, service, and food we experienced that whole day. In fact, once over the Atlantic Ocean, food in general got much, much better… hmmmm.

As previously mentioned, Air Croatia’s in-flight meal was splendid, but the introduction to European cuisine had only just begun. After arriving in Zagreb, we were invited to a UN party sponsored by the Canadians. The gourmet nibbles consisted of treats such as this: Thick Dutch crackers, lightly covered with some sort of mayo/cream cheese goop, topped with a mini sweet pickle chip, petite stuffed green olives, and lightly salted anchovies (very interesting).

After the party, we trekked to a bistro in Zagreb to dine on pizza and warm Tuborg. The pizza was un-sliced and completely devoid of mozzarella, but it was great. Also, in contrast with standard U.S. expectations, the warm beer was an eye opening experience. I wondered if the US beer had to be served cold in order for it to be drinkable… 😉

Oh, on the way to the bistro, we picked up three attractive Swedish hitchhikers. We were in rare form (as an American rock band we had an image to uphold), and it seemed everyone but our elder statesman, Jerry (the sax player) was vying for the attention of the fair Swedes.

Toto… WTH?
What a place! According to our guide, the Croatian economy is so bad doctors make sixteen times less than the U.S. minimum wage… he said around $150 per month. Hard to fathom as the civil infrastructure (roads, bridges, buildings) didn’t look bad at all.

So far Croatia reminds me of Kansas. Wheat, corn, and oats grow in the fields, and were it not for mountains in the background, the environment and people would be like a mirror image of Midwest U.S.A..

There were, however, some clear indicators that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. For example, few Zagreb homes had access to the household gadgetry taken for granted in the U.S.. I could tell because over the edge of apartment balconies were line upon line of drying laundry. Oh, another long since seen sight… TV antennas on rooftops… nearly *all* of them.

Gotta go. It’s night time here; almost 10:00pm. However, i don’t really feel like going to bed since it’s only 2:30pm in Hays.

Bye!

BEWARE OF LANDMINES!!!
Slept like a rock last night. I did get up a couple of times to whiz, but thankfully never had a problem going back to sleep. The latrine was about a city block from our tent, so i planned to grab a coffee can for the nights with beer on the agenda.

The place was secure… in a way. After all, there were spools of concertina (razor) wire in some places, and there were some sandbag bunkers, mostly at checkpoints. We were given information on how to survive the visit. For example, in the initial briefing, we were told to stay on well-worn paths in order to avoid stepping on LAND MINES! They also warned us to stay away from the Croatian military camp. Because, we were told, the Croats had two Russian MIGs in their camp. If we were to venture too close, the guards would shoot first and ask questions later, rock star or not… hmmm.

Rockin in Zagreb:
The Croatian experience was great. Brits were a blast, and the troopers dispatched to keep an eye on us did a killer job. I don’t recall a time when we couldn’t get a beer, food, water, or anything else for that matter. Most everyone showed up for all four performances. I don’t remember all the nationalities represented, but here’s a partial list: British, French, Dutch, Jordanian, Swedish, Russian, and Canadian.

Parties after the gigs were a blast as well. I got thrown in the water blivet on the second night (a right of passage i guess). On a couple of occasions, Mo (the bass player) and i partied till morning with the holdouts… good times.

On the 4th of July, a couple Croatian skydivers landed in the compound square. The event was planned, and there were two other divers… both high ranking U.S. officers… they didn’t even come close… lol. It was a gala celebration of independence… 😉

Sometime during that 4th celebration, i got into smack session with one of the Brits about who was the baddest. He was saying something about how his countrymen were stationed near Bosnia with the express purpose of kicking ass! He said something like the following: “They’re sending Brits because we’re (the Brits) not known for losing.” I mentioned something about one that they did lose, so he said, “Oh yes, but that was for the greater good.” I quickly checked my wallet… yep still there.

Indeed, we had a good time on the 4th. Here’s an interesting note… during our stay in Croatia (one week), we rarely saw a French soldier, even though they were the biggest contingent in the camp. Apparently the French were bad boys at the camp, always starting fights and all. I actually met some friendly Russians at the Independence day party, but not hide nor hair of the French… hmmm.

MASH:
On our last night in Croatia, i was taken on a moonlight MASH tour with one of the more adventurous nurses. She was bold, and urged me to explore the full experience. Of course, being a proper ambassador for the church of Rock and Roll, i dutifully complied. As we explored the compound’s secret places i felt strange, but still sort of familiar in the light of the Croatian moon. It was sort of eerie, and i couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. I was expecting Hawkeye, or BJ Honeycutt to appear, martinis in hand teasing us with witty one liners and cat calls.

The next morning, we flew good ol’ Air Croatia to Frankfurt Germany. In Frankfurt we spent the night… and what a night! You see, we figured that it would be our last chance to party because our next stop was Dhahran, Saudi Arabia (no booze is allowed in the land of Allah).

So… the decision was made. We would get dressed and ask one of the German cab drivers to take us to the BOOZE & WHORES! For a few marcs, the cab driver took us to a quaint looking, off the beaten path square (now we’re talking). It looked like we’d been transported back in time. The streets were cobblestone and narrow… very narrow. We ended up in a place that looked like the Cavern Club (the one the Beatles made famous)… of course, it wasn’t the Cavern Club. This one was called “The Irish Pub.”

LISTEN:
When it occurred to us that we were in a place called the “Irish Pub” (in Frankfurt); with a California “Valley Guy” performing a solo act; a place where most of the clientele carried pocket German books; a place where bartenders and servers brandished “i hate Americans” scowls that the cab driver had stiffed us. We were in a place with booze, but there were no red lights, pimps, dope dealers or opium dens anywhere. Oh well, we managed to have a good time anyway (i don’t think Jerry was up for any of it).

It was fun. The Irish Pub was fairly empty when we showed up, but it filled to capacity when we began singing harmony to the songs the Valley Guy was singing. We sort of stole his show, but he loved it… he raked in the tips.

Goodbye Europe… Hello Saudi Arabia:
Anyway, when it was over, we caught another set of cabs back to the air base, washed our laundry, and crashed. With dreams of dancing camels we drifted off for a couple hours rest before hopping a military flight to Dhahran.

Before the end of our first week in the Arab World we were provided an opportunity to experience Riyadh’s downtown bazaars, and in effect, thrust into the most strange and compelling world i had ever experienced… but we’re jumping ahead… let’s start from the start of the start shall we?

No one escapes the Government of Allah:
Our trip through Dhahran customs was the first blow. Upon arrival we were briefed by people on the military air base. The form we were compelled to complete had an important detail highlighted in blood red print.

WARNING!
Death to drug traffickers!

Scary huh? What about my No-Doze? What about my funky vitamins? That was only the beginning however. When we got to the civilian airport, there was a line. No, there were four lines all the way to the rear of this gigantic room (the size of a 747 jet hanger). Almost everyone in those four lines were ether Pakistani or Indian… half of them were squatting. Some were well dressed, but the rest looked just like those people you see on those “save the world” commercials… emaciated and filthy.

The US nationals in our line started telling stories about people who are body cavity searched for looking suspicious and wrong. And, oh yes, we looked suspicious and wrong! A particular story that caught my ear was about a Brit who had been taken to jail and given a haircut… wtf? With my 16″ ponytail in full view i began to feel a tightening in every muscle. You see, nearly everyone in the airport was looking at us with expressions that can only be interpreted as disgust… i felt confident we’d be run through the mill.

It didn’t help that i was carrying an M-16 bullet (just the bullet… not the cartridge) in my hip bag (something I’d picked up in Croatia). Contemplating the bullet and knowing that my every move was being watched made me shiver with… “the fear.” Luckily i stayed calm and nothing bad happened. We were run through customs without so much as a bag being opened… great day in the flippin’ morning!!!

The next day we hopped another military flight to Riyadh. The local flyboys gave us a ride downtown, and that’s how we learned about the “Allah Lane,” “Double Headers,” cheap gold and the strange and exotic world of the Riyadh Bazaars.

Taking a Bite Outta Crime:
You see, i thought the practice of chopping a person’s head off as a crime deterrence measure was ancient history. However, it is not. Every Friday, in the Riyadh town square, people actually get their heads, hands (the right one see… they wipe their bums with the left), or fingers lopped right off. These festivities are open to the public, and whenever US nationals are present, they are pushed to the front of the gawking crowd. You see, Arabs want Westerners to witness Allah’s brand of swift and terrible justice first hand (pun intended).

After shopping for gifts at the bazaars we began the journey back to the base. On the way, we saw many people engaging in what our guide described as normal behavior (with the blessings of the Government of Allah, of course).

First, in the car next to us, it looked as if the woman in the passenger seat had committed an unforgivable breach of social grace… she brazenly gazed at a busload of US GIs and rock musicians (that would be us). Of course, the guy in the driver’s seat promptly slapped the shit out of her… twice.

Later, after dark, we observed several families sharing quality time together by the side of the road… in the dirt… women sitting in a circle on one side of the car, and men, standing in a circle on the other side of the car. This, we are told, is considered quality rec. time in one of the richest countries in the world… THEY SAT CROSS-LEGGED… IN THE DIRT!!!!

Hot Hot… Hotter Than Hell:
As i scratched this entry, the band was unwinding following a performance in Riyadh. Somewhere between 9:00-10:00pm… the outside temperature was around 89f. Very cool compared to the daytime temp of 115f… We are told that 115f is not bad for this area. You see, the hot season hadn’t started yet.

We set up our gear just as the sun was going down… still hotter than a ByGawd. How hot was it? It was so fucking dry-hot my “fast fret” string lube, which usually lasts weeks, was drying out within minutes… MINUTES!

Rockin’ in Riyadh:
The gigs were lackluster to be kind, but it really wasn’t that bad… the crowd was every bit as immobile as we were. You see, these people average 60 hour work weeks in this blinding heat… needless to say, when they have time off, they don’t move much.

Let’s Hear it For The Troops!
I had come to the conclusion that these people are truly bad-ass! I also wished i could do something for them other than slogging through half a gig drinking water like it’s going out of style.

Anyway… it felt like Hell and there were two weeks left on the itinerary, but i was proud to play for the gulf troops.

–Good Night–

Camel Meat!!!!
July 13th, 1993 (2:00am): We played a final gig in Dhahran… and now we had a day off. Our visas allowed only one trip to Bahrain (the one Arab city in our agenda that allowed booze), so we decided to spend the break exploring Downtown Dhahran, saving Bahrain for later. Suzy (our guide) thought we could find a place that served camel meat, so we’d shop at the Dhahran bazaars then settle down for some native cooking (yum).

I found myself acclimating to military life in Saudi, but some things still seemed strange. Like the fine line that separates a person who is free, from one who is in jail or worse… chop chop!

Strange.

Our guides were treating us well. They seemed genuinely interested in our mental and physical well being. Case in point, it was Suzy that found a doctor when my bladder infection kicked up (damn water blivet). In addition, she was on the lookout for things to keep us occupied when not working. We owed her a lot. And the pièce de résistance?      Camel Meat!

Bored in Dhahran:
And we did it… we finally got a hold of some camel meat. It was awful, but at least we tried it. My infection was pretty much gone by then, but i still needed to finish the meds. At this point in the journal, i thought i had something important to say but forgot what it was…. lol… losing it… 😉

Ready to go home…
July 13th, 1993

Saddam’s Speed Bump:
Moving on to Kuwait… we were given a tour of the city. Kuwait City looks like many waterfront US cities (burnt out buildings, bomb craters and all). If only our guide would stop looking under the bus for bombs, we could relax and feel at home.

You see, according to our military guide, the base for which we were providing entertainment (“Camp Doha”) would be no more than a speed bump should Saddam decide to make another push toward Kuwait. I asked him what we should do in the event something as unlikely as that were to occur. He said they would hand us M-16s and invite us to join the festivities.

He was a glib fellow… i wasn’t amused.

Anyway, he gave us a tour of Kuwait City, and we ate lunch at a Sbarro (the kind found in most U.S. malls). The food was killer, and i passed up a great photo opportunity. This sheikh looking dude was sitting across from us. Of course i chickened out: I didn’t even ask to take his picture. It turns out he was a minister in Kuwait’s parliament. Rex (the sound man) stood by him at check-out. Rex said “hi,” and the sheikh dude said to Rex: “Looks pretty busy today aye?”

Damn! I missed out.

We’re told many Kuwaitis are educated in the U.S., and as a result understand westerners and their ways. When their education is finished they come back to Kuwait and, according to Muslim law, can have as many as four wives (if they can afford it). The eldest sits shotgun on family outings… there is a definite pecking order.

There are other differences from the heavy mood of Saudi; Kuwaitis don’t lopp each others heads off. Nevertheless, the Government of Allah still prevails.

Also… we were told Kuwaiti drivers are wild. They careen through the night without turning on headlights! We are told the some Kuwaitis believe headlights run down batteries (i think we are being fed a pile of camel shit). However, there are hideous accidents on the Kuwaiti highways.

July 18th, 1993 (6:00 AM)

Mohammed and the Hand Jive:
On our first night in Bahrain, a guy named Bob took us to a “country music” bar filled with Americans and Brits. There were Filipino waiters and one or two Arabs.

YES………!

They played country, and the band did a pretty good job. The songs were pure, down-home Americana, but the stage banter was PROPER BRITISH. (what’s wrong with this picture?) The place was small, with an even smaller dance floor, but there were times when it (the dance floor) was filled with Brits and a smattering of Americans doing the LINE DANCE….. arrggghhh!! Needless to say, neither Mo nor i were happy campers, in fact we were plotting revenge as i penned this entry. Jerry looked like he didn’t care, Mark (keyboards) was engaged in a stimulating conversation with a blonde British flight attendant, and Rex was doing the two step with an assortment of Aussie girls. Later, when we realized there was no escape, Mo and i loosened up and began watching the festivities. It’s funny the things you notice when you aren’t preoccupied with escaping. The moment that came next is one that will live in my memory forever.

LISTEN:
The band was playing a Bo-Diddley sounding number and there were cowboys on the dance floor doing the “Hand Jive” with zeal. In the background, across the railing and somewhere near three nice looking U.S. girls sitting at the bar, was an Arab gentleman. He was dressed in his whites, headgear and all. Yes, he was doing the “Hand Jive” too. It was incredible. Mark said the Arab gentleman looked like an antichrist dancing a jig. Jerry said he’d never seen a proper towel-head do an “American” dance step, and i was happy to see a gap between the Arab World and ours melt before my eyes. I wanted to hug the sheik and dance with him. The whole thing was one of those moments… pivotal, i guess.

July 19th, 1993 (4:30 PM)

Ah… Bahrain and Beer:
We had done our first gig in Bahrain. Maybe twenty people showed up (a dismal turnout). We rocked their world anyway!

At this point in the tour, i was bored to tears. The Arab world was starting to grow on me, but i was more than ready to go home. Unfortunately, we still had a couple days before we could start heading that way. How bored were we? We were watching Arab soaps on the hotel room TV (no English subtitles). Yes… we did… that’s how bored we were.

July 20, 1993

Oh Give Me a Home…
The flight home turned out uber-interesting. We seemed to be stopping everywhere around the Mediterranean. First stop… Nos Sigonella in Sicily, then Naples Italy, then Spain. That’s where we were when i penned this entry. Our last stop before Philly would be some Atlantic Islands known as the Azores. It would be approximately 18 more hours before the home team would leave Hays to pick us up at KCI.

Yea… a long way to go.

When we hit altitude above Bahrain, i felt a tremendous pressure lift as i was no longer in danger of losing a finger… a hand or… [gulp] my head… i had finally escaped the Government of Allah. I wanted to scream but i didn’t have the energy. I slept instead. Besides… (i learned this on Arab TV) “Allah knows your inner thoughts. In addition, he knows your outer deeds and utterances. There is no escaping the Government of Allah, Peace be with him.”

After this public service announcement came the news, which was dominated by authoritarian Royal Family posturing. Believe it or not, i was trying to appreciate the Arab World. And though exposure to different cultures is highly recommended, a great contributing factor to global understanding, i arrived back in the US with a heightened appreciation of home… YES… Kansas!

Finally… homeward bound… on the second to last flight of our tour (Philly to Detroit), we had to spend the night in the airport. All the while silently singing “Home on the Range.”

As i penned this final entry, i was looking down at the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. It was beautiful!

Cheers, Rohlfie