Although I let my alarm clock ring long before eight, nobody really wakes up. I wouldn’t have begrudged them that. I pack up my stuff slowly and loudly, slam the door and drive over to the Sin City Hostel right on the Strip. It’s better, cheaper, smaller, no pool and no loud booming, miserable fuck-me hip hop until after midnight.
Leaving Las Vegas. I head north-west along the Lost Highway towards Reno, to the rear entrance of Death Valley. Along the way are prisons, air force bases, a genuine desert whorehouse, Area 51, and I think ground zero of the first atomic bomb. Sand trousers whip through the desert.
Scotty’s Castle at the north end of Death Valley is sweet. In the 1920s, the resident claimed to have found a vein of gold. That was probably the only legal euphemism for a gay patron at the time.
Down into Death Valley, the temperature continues to rise to 47 degrees. It doesn’t seem so hot because of the dryness. The mountains glow in black, red, gold and all shades of brown. Almost like East Germany. I see a few convertibles. All closed. If you ever have the chance to survive heat like this, you should make the most of it. I drive most of the Valley from one to three with the top down. After that, I feel like a roast pig.
Death Valley is only really busy in the centre, north and south you often don’t see a single car for 40 miles. I’m beginning to think that the Americans have once again built a spectacular golf course as a sign of victory over nature. But in the Great Basin 100 metres below sea level, “Devil’s Golf Course” is fortunately just the name for a salt desert. [I have just learnt that the Americans have built a golf course there.
On the way back towards Interstate 15, the first petrol station wants a hefty $3.80 a gallon. Rescue for cars just before dying of thirst. Only 70 miles further on in Las Vegas it’s $2.60. I drive across the Strip…so more traffic jams. At least there’s something to see here: Disneyworld. The Sin City Hostel is smaller, nice people. I go for a meal with some of the boys, offer the owner my services as a web designer, smoke with a few girls. After a short hour of much-needed sleep, the nightlife begins.
For $20 each, 20 people from the hostel drive a Hummer limo along the Strip. There is champagne from plastic cups, “All you could drink”. The sound system is blaring bad gangster rap and the air conditioning is dead. After 10 minutes, my shirt looks like the “Crazy” video by Knarles Barkley. 45 minutes later we land in the New York casino. Entry to the Coyote-Ugly Bar is included.
The drinks are expensive and we all have a few. Everyone stares and shouts. Car amusement is apparently too strenuous for people here. Coyotes heat up the stage, then girls from the audience climb up to demonstrate. The principle is: first shake your bum, then come down, get groped and get free drinks. I can’t help but feel a bit like an execution in the French Revolution. Only voluntary.
The only loo is strategically placed behind 300 metres of gambling. I play roulette once. Bet $25 on black. Lose. Stupid idea to bet on black just because it was red. We head home around three. The boys drive, I want to walk. After four kilometres along the Strip, I’m soaking wet again. Behind the only dark bush, I step on a homeless man’s hand. Luckily he screams before I can relieve myself. Home on the bus. 4:30 in Sodom and Gonorrhoea.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.