Small Differences

It seemed fitting that the day after the #Brexit vote I was astride the continental divide in Montana where one drop of rain, by the difference of a few centimetres could end up in the Pacific or Atlantic. Sometimes the differences can be so small yet the end effect so dramatically different. What would have happened if David Milliband had won the labour leadership contest, if David Cameron had taken the decision not to hold a referendum he was so confident of winning, and if Boris hadn’t gambled his future premiership on leading the Leave campaign? Nevertheless, this is the mess were are in.

Dillon, Montana

In the quiet 5,000 person town of Dillon, Montana, nestled amongst snow-capped mountains that seem to capture the twilight for the majority of the day, these questions can seem far away. Which would be true if it wasn’t for the fact that it is – and still pretty well remains 2 weeks later – the opening question of a conversation once it’s clear I am from the UK. Whether I am in a shop, restaurant or, as seems not uncommon here, just sitting minding my own business “So what’s going on with Brexit?”. These last 3 weeks we have been a showcase for the world. The night of the vote I watched on CNN as it was wall-to-wall coverage (interrupted only by adverts of overly sincere “honest, hard-working people” telling people that “I work for this company, they care about us – the people – and that’s why you should come and buy an RV from us”).

It’s easy to see the parallels to the Trump “Make [insert country] great again!” scenario, people want to exercise a desire for isolationism and control of immigration. I have found it surprisingly hard to draw many people into declaring their voting tendency on the trip so far. In a similar way to Brexit, as one very friendly man put it, “once they get into the voting booth it’s their “guilty secret” to vote for Trump”. Scarily, and only having been here a few short weeks and visited a few places, I think he might win. From people I speak to I don’t get the feeling people like or identify enough with Hilary, especially to compete against the bold, brash and proud Americans (who I have to admit have all been incredibly welcoming and kind to me all the way through the route) who want to “take back control” of their country and see Trump as the modern day hero who can do that for them.

Westport. Credits to Ed for excellent photo

The epitome of this feeling was in the fishing town of Westport, South Washington where Ed and I arrived, slightly damp after battling a headwind from Aberdeen, the suitably oppressive hometown of Kurt Cobain. On the road we had only passed “Trump for President” signs. One house in particular was entirely bedecked with Trump signs and the accompanying “Hilary for Prison” sign. We didn’t stop as the elderly man and presumably owner of the turf stood by and watched over his creation. The town of Westport stood like a chessboard on the end of a sandy spit at the mouth of the Chehalis river and was the culmination of ever more ragged, bearded and rundown settlements heading westward. From our campsite, we hitched into town for dinner where we fortuitously bumped into the only taxi-driver in town who offered to take us back when the time came. For a slap-up dinner Bennett’s fish shack managed to deep-fry everything in sight for us requiring us to head to the local bar to try and settle our stomachs. As we walked in conversation stopped but heads refused to turn, the quiet eventually punctuated by the end barstool being knocked to the ground. The bar lady (and the taxi-mans' last customer) sent out a controlling missive to the punter while the NBA play off’s game 6 ran silently in the background. Ed and I ordered and slank off to a table on the far side of the bar. Gaining in confidence we sidled over to the table tennis table where, after a few rallys we noticed the wiped bloodstain across the corner of the table and onto the floor. This was the Monday after the weekend before. I couldn’t imagine any of these residents of Westport having any time for the political elite that Hilary represented or the vague elements of social welfare that she stood for. For this American town, the men of whom were seemingly a mix of fishermen, veterans and jailbirds (or all 3) and a single one of whom we were yet to find without a speech impediment, Trump seems the logical option.

The beginnings of an acrimonious campaign

 At the centre of both Brexit and Trump campaigns is immigration. One fellow cyclist told Ed and I that, when Trump said he would build a wall between the US and Mexico and make Mexico pay for it, a friend (to his horror) had said to him “finally, I’ve been wanting to do that for years”. As we travel south, the Mexican influence becomes greater, but my favourite immigration story comes from back in Dillon where we started this blog and only 3% of the Montana state population are Latino. The story was actually covered in the LA times, but is now woven into history of the town. Los Koritas the local Mexican restaurant serves the entire community delicious (I can vouch for this) Mexican food including a weekly breakfast meeting held by Mayor George Warner and his colleagues. For the last 3 years the restaurant has been run by Yeni, who lives in the town with her 3 children. The article describes how Yeni’s and her children’s story of illegal entry to the country 10 years ago was told to this group. Their response? Illegal immigration is still wrong, but “as far as we’re concerned, she’s one of us”. In the time since the article was written nothing more has been mentioned at the breakfast table and Yeni continues to serve George and the rest of her customers.

If it started fittingly for Brexit, it ends ironically. As I write this article I’m sitting at Cape Arago on July 4^th on Independence day. The sun is setting over the Pacific and it’s warm bar the odd ocean breeze that brings with it a shiver. It’s a peaceful and stunning view, the sea-lions pop to the surface intermittently and gray whale’s rise infrequently in out at sea to let of steam. The couple next to me (predictably) began by asking about Brexit, which led us to their disenfranchisement with politics in general. But, they have found their solace here “last year on this day, we sat and watched 3 humpback’s breach and blow bubble nets in the bay in front us, I never realized the come so close to shore” the lady says “when you see things like that, politics seems less important."

Cape Arago: Sunset on Independence Day