It's on the Meter

by Paul Archer

  The next big push was down to Florida where we had heard Spring Break was just about to hit with full-force. We all had visions of pretty college girls partying on the beaches of Daytona while 'roided up bros chest-bumped each other and chugged crates of Bud Light, and we were sure Hannah would make quite a splash. As we inched closer to the warm Atlantic sands we got more and more pumped up for another few days of partying, but as we hit Daytona and cruised along the strip we noticed there were surprisingly few keg-stands and sorority girls. Instead there was only sand. Sand and lots and lots of traffic.

  The road was packed, but not with the ubiquitous American pickup trucks or even regular cars. Hundreds of middle-aged men with moustaches, ample beer guts and leather jackets with little flowy tassels were sat upon large, noisy motorcycles; their legs wide apart and held up as though in medical stirrups. Tattooed women occasionally sat on the back, their pale wrinkled love handles spilling out of their leather. Sat in solid traffic, these hundreds of bikers would constantly rev their machines to ensure everybody knew that they were there.

  We pulled up on to the beach to find it almost entirely deserted. There was nothing but sand. We checked the dates – we had got it right, but maybe the revellers had all been scared away by the bikers. Sad and disappointed we decided we were going to embrace Bike Week instead. We headed to an interview that had been arranged with a local TV station.

  We got the lowdown from the cameraman. 'Yeah, the best thing to see this week is the coleslaw wrestling.'

  Our faces spoke volumes.

  'Yeah, they get the biker wives to wrestle in a huge vat of coleslaw.'

  'But aren't the biker wives a bit, um…?'

  He read our minds. 'They sure are buddy! They're all machines, they would tear you in half, they're worse than most of the guys. And speaking of the guys, if you see patches or colours, you just walk the other way; all these guys are armed and won't think twice about shootin' ya in the face!'

  The bar he directed us to was some miles out, and was halfway between Orlando and Daytona Beach, so we had to beware the rival biker gangs. It was odd that, although we had driven through some of the most supposedly dangerous places in the world, it was in the apparently civilised America that we were most likely to get shot. We drove for an hour or so and found the bar, where we also found out that the wrestling didn't start for two days.

  CHAPTER 51

  HOW TO RACK UP A $100,000 TAXI FARE

  We were now left with just two days to reach Pittsburgh and Jon's uncle and aunt's house. It was the most intense driving session of the trip; stopping only for a three-hour roadside kip and hotseating between the two cars so that we could get to Jon's relatives' house just in time for dinner.

  Jon had warned us that his uncle and aunt were very right wing ('militant Catholics and single-issue voters'). I had always been under the impression that far-right Americans are ignorant, pigheaded and racist idiots, and so I was expecting to spend an evening biting my tongue. When I found that they were a kind, loving family and that their politics were just what they thought, not a way of life, I was both relieved and humbled (although the anti-abortion picketing placards stored in the toilet did give me a jolt). The next morning we waved our goodbyes to Margarita the yellow cab – we were leaving her with Jon's uncle and aunt, mainly so as not to have to worry about (or pay for) parking for two cars in Manhattan – and set off towards another new country: Canada.

  A thick layer of fog had blown across Lake Erie, rendering our top speed to a walking pace and forcing us to camp up in an Indian reservation, the eerie mist clutching low to the dewy grass where we parked the cab. At dawn the mist still hadn't lifted and we crawled to the border town of Buffalo in upstate New York. We couldn't risk taking Hannah out of the country, after it had taken such an effort to get her here in the first place, but parking was incredibly expensive, especially for the whole night. However, we had a plan.

  We pulled Hannah up outside the front of a huge casino that towers over Buffalo and gave the keys to the valet, quickly briefing him on her driving quirks, and headed inside. Walking through the casino and out the side door, we crossed the river on foot and into Canada. We took the bus (public transport felt like a novelty after a year of driving Hannah) to Toronto, where we met my cousin and his girlfriend and all their Irish friends for some St Patrick's Day celebrations. Since the recession it appeared as though the entire youth of the Emerald Isle has migrated to either Canada or Australia – I'm not sure I spoke to a real Canadian other than bar staff the entire time we were there. The Irish were identifiable by the fact that they were the only ones not dressed up in lewd green outfits and orange wigs; the other revellers were seemingly under the impression that wearing something bearing the corporate logo of 'Guinness' is synonymous with wearing something saying 'Ireland'.

  We even got to squeeze in a quick trip to Niagara Falls, where the mist finally lifted to give us some spectacular views. Less than

  24 hours later we crossed back into the USA, hopping through the casino side entrance and handing the slip to the valet, who obviously thought we had returned from an epic night of gambling. They had no idea we had actually been to another country and back.

  As part of the sponsorship agreement we struck with GetTaxi, we had promised to do a load of publicity for them in New York. Saying our goodbyes to Jon, we made the nine-hour drive down to Manhattan, parked up and slept, ready for a few days of interviews.

  We had done a lot of interviews by this point and most of them were fairly repetitive for us as everyone wanted to know the same things. However, one particular interview stood out; it was with Angus Loten, a journalist from the Wall Street Journal, who turned up convinced that we were just doing this for a publicity stunt. After he heard our stories about Hannah's adventures, however, he quickly changed his tune and was eager to find out more.

  'So what's the meter on now?' It read somewhere around £60,000.

  'That's about a hundred thousand dollars – it's important I get the facts right,' he said, scribbling down notes as fast as he could.

  'Why, where's it going to run?' I asked.

  'On the front page!'

  The next morning our inboxes were full up with contacts, interview requests and some incredibly kind well wishes. What had started as a drunken plan in a pub had become front-page news in one of the biggest newspapers in America – we could barely believe it! As we drove around Manhattan people flagged us down to point at the newspaper in their hand and to try to hitch a ride. We managed to cram in an interview with ABC's Nightline before grabbing one last slice of New York pizza; I had to drop off Hannah at Lufthansa Cargo at JFK Airport by the afternoon, to take her across the ocean once more to the Middle East.

  But there was a problem. When we had collected Hannah and got away without paying the customs agency, they hadn't given us the import document. Without the import document, we couldn't export. However, we were dealing with a whole different calibre of people to the imbeciles in Oakland Docks. Our NYC shipping agents were used to shipping Lamborghinis for sheikhs and vintage multimillion dollar Mille Miglia race cars (I must admit, they were a bit shocked to see our battered black cab) and tackled the problem head on by calling a high-up official.

  'Hey, Joe, got a problem,' we overheard him saying down the phone. 'No import document on this car but it's got everything else… yup, got all the ownership docs… yeah, actually it's pretty famous… you got a copy of the WSJ there? Yeah, right, front page, see that headline that says, "$100,000 taxi ride?" It's that!'

  And just like that we were done.

  A few hours later and we were on a flight back to London for a couple of days of seeing family and stocking up on taxi parts, because before we knew it, we would be following Hannah to Israel.

  The beginning of the end of the trip was upon us: we were going to bring Hannah home – the longest way possible, of course.

  CHAPTER 52

  THE LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

&n
bsp; 'Which countries have you visited in the past ten years?'

  I felt deflated.

  'It's quite a lot,' I warned, 'do you want me to list them all?'

  Before I had even entered Israel I had been pulled aside, to be questioned intensely about minor things such as how long I had studied my degree for and the names of my former housemates, not to mention the exact purpose of my trip to Israel.

  The immigration clerk's eyes grew wider as I reeled off the 40-plus places Hannah had passed through over the previous year and she looked like she was going to faint as I got to the Arab states.

  '… Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan…'

  She stopped me. Israel is rather twitchy about letting in travellers who have visited any of the countries on the other side of the conflict, and vice versa. That had been one of the reasons for our original change of route the previous year, and why we had avoided Israel up until now. However GetTaxi had offered to pay to ship Hannah over, to put us up and show us around all at their expense, and it seemed too good an offer to refuse. Nimrod had been enthusiastic to say the least, singing the praises of Israel's nightlife, beaches, food, women and much more.

  'And what exactly are you doing in Israel?'

  I took a deep breath.

  'We're driving around the world for charity and we're being sponsored by an Israeli company; our car is waiting in Tel Aviv.'

  'So there are more of you?' she asked. 'Why aren't you travelling together?'

  'Look, can you just take a look at this.'

  I produced a copy of Israel's main national newspaper, in Hebrew, complete with a story on us and our pictures and offered it to her.

  She studied it for a while.

  'Wait here.'

  Eventually she reappeared with my documents and sent me to a special line of 'suspicious' travellers, to be searched extra carefully, until they were satisfied that I was telling the truth. I later found out that Leigh and Paul had gone through the exact same overblown procedure at their respective airports, and we were reminded why we had thought the bureaucracy might not have been worth it.

  Nimrod had been right about the food – it was truly incredible – but we started to think he had oversold us on his other promises; the beaches were rocky, the women were aloof and strangely immune to the British accent, the nightlife was cripplingly expensive and the drivers' bad habits easily kept pace with the rest of the Middle East. Still, we were probably always going to be in for a heavy landing after we left the USA, and we were happy to be in such a unique place where the combination of the ancient Middle Eastern setting and traditions with modern-day Western-style culture and values intrigued and impressed us.

  Since GetTaxi had come on board, the atmosphere on the expedition had changed, strangely. No longer were we three mates on an adventure – sleeping on floors and changing plans at the last minute for a possible random excursion. Now, we were in a hotel and doing interviews as part of a PR machine. This was the price we had to pay in return for the chance to circumnavigate the world, and we understood that and appreciated the chance we had been given, but airlifting the car to Israel for two weeks – just to then ship it out again – seemed so against everything that had come before. The air freighting alone cost more than our entire fuel bill to Australia.

  The chance to get away from it all came in the shape of a cancelled interview, so we loaded up the tents and headed out to the Dead Sea. Hannah plodded along over the low rolling hills and fruit fields of Tel Aviv, past Jerusalem and numerous checkpoints, and we wild camped and cooked over a fire. It felt like we were back to our old ways and the realisation that it was coming to an end started to sink in.

  The next morning, after a short and painful dip in the Dead Sea (we read the 'DO NOT submerge head' sign after we'd gone swimming and discovered what happens when that concentration of salt gets in your eyes) we got ready to go. Johno and Leigh had a flaming argument over whether we should go and check out a nearby waterfall or leave straight away for a PR call that, Johno insisted, would inevitably be cancelled. Leigh and I had showers to wash the thick salty water off, but Johno – still smarting from the argument – sat in the taxi looking surly while he dreamt of distant waterfalls. We started to drive back to the holy city and as the cool air flowed into the car, the gloopy seawater started to dry on Johno's skin, leaving behind a thick layer of salt. By the time we reached the Wailing Wall his hair had dreadlocked and his skin appeared to have developed a serious flaky condition, and anybody unfortunate enough to walk behind him when he ran his hand through his hair received a face full of crusty salt.

  The city itself is incredible – old winding streets where the clash of cultures and religion blend. We wandered the streets and enjoyed cool drinks in the baking heat, before returning to where we parked Hannah in the Hasidic Jewish area. We arrived to find a gang of lads in dark rekels and black hats, with their long sideburns peeking out, laughing and posing for pictures next to Hannah.

  One of Hannah's quirks after so many rebuilds and roadside repairs was that her alarm system was now hardwired into the car's horn – it meant that we could hear if there was any trouble with the car from about four streets away as the horn was so loud. It also meant the horn was set off whenever we locked or unlocked the cab.

  Sneaking up and hiding behind a wall, we pressed the unlock button on the keyfob. Two loud horn blasts blared, and the local lads who were posing were sent three foot in the air in a mass of hats and curls. They looked around just as we locked Hannah again – the look of puzzlement on their faces as this black cab turned Herbie on them was priceless.

  We crossed into Palestine through the famous 'security wall'. The difference between the two sides was stark – the Israeli side was immaculate; the Palestinian side was strewn with litter and detritus, and was covered in the most incredible graffiti – mainly political, but some just for the sake of it. We photographed Hannah by some of the most interesting ones (and even a few Banksy pieces) before heading to Bethlehem – we wanted to check out Jesus's birthplace before heading back to our hotel.

  The only thing that stood between us and our room in Tel Aviv was a short 50-mile drive, and of course the 8 m-high concrete wall. We had just passed through it with no problems but now, on our return trip, we seemed to have an issue.

  As we waited in the queue of slowly moving cars, trundling past the 20 m-high sentry towers and lines of barbed wire, I fished around for Hannah's registration papers to show to the weary recruits manning the checkpoint.

  'Er, guys, where's the machina passporta?' I asked Paul and Leigh, as I leafed through the mountain of documents but came up empty.

  'The V5? It's in the documents folder,' replied Leigh, 'where it always is!'

  'Um… no it isn't, any ideas Paul?'

  'Yeah, it should be in there,' he confirmed. 'Let me have a look… it's the only logical place it would be.'

  Leigh and I had learned that Paul never 'lost' anything; he merely misplaced things in 'logical' places that often showed a remarkable lack of any sort of logic.

  We inched closer to the checkpoint as he hurriedly flicked through a year's worth of unpaid (and hopefully untraceable) parking tickets and short-term insurance policies.

  'You're right, the bloody shippers must've lost it,' he concluded just as we got to the soldiers, 'just play it cool.'

  Thankfully our smiles and passports were enough to get us back over the border into Israel, where we met up with a guy called Eyal who had emailed us with an unusual problem.

  Eyal was an Israeli student who had visited Belgium the previous summer in order to study French. He met a Latvian exchange student there and they had a bit of a whirlwind romance. After visiting him in Jerusalem, she accidently left her favourite straw hat at his. He had read about our journey in the newspaper and sent us a nice email asking if we could possibly stick the hat in the back of the cab and hand deliver it to his Latvian sweetheart, Laila. Who were we to refuse to such a romantic request?

 
When Hannah and Laila's hat were loaded into the ship that would carry them from the northern port of Haifa up to Athens, the V5 was still nowhere to be seen. It was a pretty essential document we needed for taking the car over international borders, but with most of Israel shutting down for a long Passover weekend it seemed there was nothing we could really do apart from wait for the car to arrive in Greece and try to blag her into Europe.

  I had volunteered to fly ahead of Leigh and Johno to sort out importing the car. It was 4 a.m. and I had arrived in plenty of time for my flight to Athens. The young conscript whose unenviable job it was to interrogate foreigners started to go through the questions.

  'Have you ever been to the Middle East?'