A man enters a room full of flashing lights and promises. He is damned and disowned. He has an erection. He has a gun. The gun this man carries can fire a thousand bullets in one minute.
Remember; this is the USA. This is the home of the brave; the land of opportunity…
Going North.
My last night in Colombia is spent on the deck of a boat, in Cartagena harbour. I’m couch surfing with a Californian sea gypsy, Jonas.
We sit on the deck of his little floating home and watch the city skyline drift past us as the boat gently bobs and turns on its mooring.
“I can’t believe I’m going to be in the United States tomorrow” I tell him.
Jonas grunts. “I can’t believe you want to go there. It’s about the last place on the planet I want to be at. Land of the incarcerated and home of the fat. I’ll have to go there again one day when I run out of money, but to tell you truthfully, it might be my country, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. You better be careful up there. You think Colombia’s a crazy place? I feel safer here than I do in the US. We Americans are crazy, man.”
I ride a crowded bus to Cartagena airport, dripping with sweat.
I watch the filthy streets and crowded bars slide past. Two teenaged girls are booty dancing outside a grubby pizza shop.
A mangy dog tears a garbage bag apart.
Graffiti says ‘USA $$$ = southern blood’.
I board a plane. So long, Colombia.
Dancing Without Guns.
My couch-surfing host,Rob meets me at the airport. The air conditioning in his car is cranked to 11.
Fort Lauderdale is everything America tells you it can be. Wide streets. Wide arses. Strip malls. Flags flying from every building.
The goodwill charity shop is the size of an Australian supermarket. The supermarkets are the size of Australian airports.
The scene isn’t perfect though. Flags in Florida are flying at half mast.
We sit on Rob’s couch and watch the news from Orlando.
A gunman enteres a disco. He is lost. He carries a loaded weapon. He wants the bodies of men. He dreams of strong shining American flesh. But he isn’t there to dance, get drunk, drop MDMA and flirt with boys. He’s there to shed blood.
This man’s father is a Muslim.
The words of the father to the son are clear; there is no place for a man who desires the love of other men. In this world you are disowned. In the next world you are damned.
A man enters a room full of flashing lights and promises. He is damned and disowned. He has an erection. He has a gun. The gun this man carries can fire a thousand bullets in one minute.
Remember; this is the USA. This is the home of the brave; the land of opportunity.
The boys and girls dance.
A man enters. He fires his gun and fires his gun and fires and fires and fires and fires and fires and fires and fires. He puts bullets in every human being in that disco.
None of the other humans in that disco were prepared like Donald Trump told their families they should have been. None of them had guns strapped to their hips or their ankles. They were dancing without guns and they paid the price for their carelessness.
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On Friday Rob takes me to the nudist beach at Sunny Isles.
It’s white sand and crystal clear water.
This is America. This is the land of the free.
Beautiful young men recline in the sun. Naked, sculpted, heroic bodies. Happy young couples, cuddling in the sunshine. Muscular arms twined around tanned torsos; oiled with sunblock, and dusted with sand. America’s finest. Brave. Heroic. Naked. Unbowed.
If Trump landed in his chopper and stepped onto the sand he would say “put on some clothes you irresponsible mother fucking degenerates. How are you gonna defend yourselves if a shooter opens fire? Where are you going to conceal your handguns if you haven’t even got your goddamn bathers on?”
And so it goes…
A lone gunman will never be able to kill America’s beauty. Only apathy and prejudice could ever accomplish that.
Blessed.
Rob drops me off at the interstate. The first American I met in America. A kind, thoughtful, gentle man. He wishes me good luck, embraces me and warns me to watch my back.
I’m excited. It’s my first day hitchhiking in the homeland of Hemingway and Kerouac and Hunter S.
A Jamaican guy in a van picks me up.
He asks me what I’m doing and I tell him about my travels across the world.
“You gonna hitchhike across America? For real?”
At first he is incredulous. Then he is excited.
“The word that comes into my mind when I’m talking to you… do you know what that word is that comes into my mind brother?”
“What word is that?” I ask him. “Crazy?”
He laughs a loud, Caribbean laugh.
“The word in my mind is apostle, man. You know what that is? Do you know the apostles? You are taking a message to the world. You are taking a message to people. You are an apostle my friend. Do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
I explain to him that I’m an atheist.
He shakes his head.
“The lord is preparing you for something greater! Yes. You are learning the skills and meeting the people of the world. You need evidence to believe, and I get that man. I was the same. I went to university, and I studied psychology, and philosophy. When He speaks to you then you will believe. You will know him when the time is right.” He nods emphatically. “I love what you’re doing man. You’re blowing my mind today. I am going to pray for your success in this journey you’re on and I know you are going to find your way. God has blessed you, man. God bless you!”
