Visiting Trump's America

I boarded DL 41 from Los Angeles to Sydney late on Monday 7 November - just hours before polls opened on the East Coast for the 2016 US Presidential Election. I recall thinking with a touch of nostalgia as I passed through exit immigration, that no matter what the outcome - it would be the last time I would see a photo of a smiling Barack Obama on the wall behind the un-smiling immigration agent.

Twelve years I've been living abroad now, and I've been coming and going from USA at fairly regular intervals ever since. And for the first time ever, I'll admit I had some anxiety about my trip home - my first trip to Trump's America.

In all these years, I have only ever observed relatively modest changes between visits - better beer (or maybe I just have better taste now), the proliferation the of gluten-free industrial complex and toddlers with personal cell phones.

But when I visited in July of this year, I really did expect America to feel much different. And if I'm completely honest, it felt mostly like the America that I know so well: security guards dressed like storm troopers at suburban supermarkets, everything (that wasn't furniture) in my hotel room was for sale, and lots of neon-orange plastic cheese (for which I have a secret soft-spot).

It has taken me awhile to process this trip and my thoughts change daily alongside the breaking news. When I arrived back in Australia in mid-July, I had come to the conclusion that I was both relieved and a little impressed that people seemed to be bravely soldiering on despite the fact that Donald Trump occupies the White House.

But, there was also a tiny part of me that was a little appalled that it seemed to be business as usual - I mean Donald Trump is POTUS. I live 9,852 miles and 14 time zones from Washington DC and I'm freaking out. Daily.

Then Charlottesville happened.

And worse than being appalled, I was utterly un-surprised.

And that was when the unsettled feeling I had about how 'normal' America had felt came creeping back.

Now, Donald Trump is not personally responsible for Charlottesville.

If we are passing around blame, and let's face it, there is a lot to go around. The Republican Party takes the lion's share. The Republican Party has undeniably made the current situation 'normal'. They have been building towards this moment for years. Aiding and abetting the worst instincts of white America, every single step of the way. Voter fraud. Gerrymandering. Birther-ism. The list goes on.

Donald Trump is nothing more than a startlingly accurate caricature of everything they have embraced and who has turned out to be far more than they bargained for.

And don't start lecturing me on the plight of the white working class. I've heard it. I get it. I really do. I am a product of rural, white, middle America. This is just so much bigger. Quite literally according to Mother Jones:

Based on preelection polling data, if you tallied the popular vote of only white America to derive 2016 electoral votes, Trump would have defeated Clinton 389 to 81, with the remaining 68 votes either a toss-up or unknown.

So.

Do I think that everyone who voted for Trump is a dyed-in-wool racist? Of course not.

Do I think everyone who voted for Trump advocates sexual assault? Of course not.

But do I think if you voted for Trump, you did exactly as the Republican Party has been doing for years, and say: I have no fucks to give about anyone but myself? You're goddamn right I do.

White America, we fucked up. We fucked up bad. And we've been fucking up for a very long time. In his recent article, The First WhitePresident, Ta-Nehisi Coates, sums it up better than I ever could:

And so the most powerful country in the world has handed over all its affairs—the prosperity of its entire economy; the security of its 300 million citizens; the purity of its water, the viability of its air, the safety of its food; the future of its vast system of education; the soundness of its national highways, airways, and railways; the apocalyptic potential of its nuclear arsenal—to a carnival barker who introduced the phrase grab ’em by the pussy into the national lexicon. It is as if the white tribe united in demonstration to say, “If a black man can be president, then any white man—no matter how fallen—can be president.”

And before you puff yourself up into righteous indignation, I'm not schilling for the Democratic Party or even the left. I was never crazy-go-nuts for Hillary and liberals (real ones, not these safe-space, anti-free-speech pretenders) need to get their shit together. I'm looking at you, Southern Poverty Law Center.  But let's save that for another time.

So back to my original point. I've been to Trump's America and I will return to Trump's America, but next time I really hope it feels different. The right kind of different.

Or even better, let there be a new smiling face behind the un-smiling immigration officer.

Please just don't let it be Mike Pence.

Now, go grab ’em by the pussy America, and sort this shit out.

The Red Centre

Just because I've been on a long hiatus doesn't mean that we haven't been up to loads of exciting stuff. It's just that adulting really gets in the way.

Excuses made, one of our favorite recent-ish adventures was a three-day jaunt to the desert to get a good look at that giant rock that everybody goes on about.

I can see how visiting Uluru (formerly Ayers Rock) is one of those destinations that give people pause. It's expensive, it's a big rock, it's in the middle of nowhere. I was once such a sceptic, but if you asked me now, 'Is it really worth it?' I would give you a resounding, 'yes'.

We took gamble and visited in December, the hottest and wettest time of the year. The average daily temperature in summer is 38C/100F and 47C/116F is not unusual. There is almost literally no shade and most hiking trails close at 10am this time of year. The well-posted warnings about heatstroke/water/sunscreen are truly dire. The Australian outback is an inhospitable place, even if you're barely venturing 30 miles from the hotel pool.

However, braving the heat has its rewards, not only is it less crowded (Uluru receives about 250,000 visitors annually) but during this time the waterfalls streaming down the sides of Uluru are in full-flow and the sunsets are beyond spectacular.

The fun begins upon arrival at the tin shed that passes for an airport, where you are greeted with this:

Unfortunately, we did not encounter any dingoes

It's a short ride from the airport to the resort and from a distance the resort resembles a semi-permanent refugee camp in the middle of nowhere. This is not the kind of attraction where you pull up, toss your keys to the valet and find yourself just a few steps from the rock.

Uluru is a very sacred place for the Anangu, the local aboriginal people, and to have any man-made structures interfering with the landscape would be a tremendous affront. As a result, the resort is a nearly 20 minute drive from the National Park so there is no disruption to the landscape. Whoever came up with/instituted this policy is a national treasure.

Uluru has been a National Park since the late 1950s but control of the land was given back to the aboriginal community in 1985. Since then the Anangu have leased the lands back to the National Park Service and it is currently jointly managed between these two groups.

Back to our adventure.  So Uluru is big. Really, really big. The circumference is nearly 6 miles around and the only way to really take it in is to walk or cycle the base (we cycled, 10/10 would do again). From a distance you'd never see the waterfalls and 5000 year-old ancient rock art (no photographs please). Pardon the analogy, but Uluru is a bit like looking at an impressionist painting. From a distance, it appears quite uniform and coherent, up-close, it's a total mess.

If that isn't enough to convince you it's worth the trip, perhaps a trek down the road to the lesser-known, less crowded, but (controversially) in my opinion, even better Kata Tjuta (formerly The Olgas) will do the trick.

More big, old (like 550 million year-old), red rocks, yes - but due to weather patterns Kata Tjuta has endured more wind erosion, hence the greater variation in size and shape. Also, if you're itching to get your hiking boots on, this is the place to do it.

While you can technically climb Uluru, it is not only dangerous but extremely disrespectful to the aboriginal owners and these days very few people attempt to do it. Kata Tjuta, on the other hand, has a fully-sanctioned 7.4km circuit hike that takes you into the heart of the landscape and is handily one of the best hikes I've ever done.

While the rocks in and of themselves are staggeringly impressive, it's the overall landscape that completes the experience. As anyone who has spent anytime in the American Southwest will know, there is something almost intoxicating about the sheer space of it all. In a space like this it is dangerously tempting to load up a 4WD and carry on until you run out of road.

Just don't forget your fly net, the flies really are far worse than you can imagine.