It was still a shame to leave The Ranch today, but I doubt we’d have had much choice. There was a scheduled resort-wide power cut today, which meant no light switches, no charging your phone and, crucially, no air conditioning. Definitely the right time to skedaddle. We packed up and decided to hit a few key sights in Death Valley before our trip to Vegas (and before the sun reached its peak). It was still swelteringly hot. Each stop consisted of a hasty jaunt up to the viewing platform, a view photographs and then back to the blissfully cool interior of our car. But the views are spectacular. The word ‘desert’ conjures visions of absolute arid emptiness, but the reality is that Death Valley (possibly the archetypal scorching wasteland) is a variegated patchwork of terrains. After taking in the vista of Zabriskie Point, where the undulating stone resembles the waves of a fossilised tide, we went down to Badwater Basin. Here, the word ‘emptiness’ rings true, but it’s a serene kind of emptiness. Located 282ft beneath sea level (a sign marked ‘Sea Level’ could be seen dizzyingly far above us on the mountainside), this is a small pool of water beside a vast white tract of perfect white salt. It’s said that the basin got its name after a traveller realised his mule wouldn’t drink from the massively saline pool, and he therefore devised the moniker of ‘Badwater.’ Walking along these surrounding flats, which stretch unimpeded into apparent infinity, save for the distant mountains beyond, is like traversing the surface of an alien planet. The salt reflects the sunlight to blinding levels and the heat is truly singular, but the overall effect is one of awesome tranquility. We walked out until there were no more fellow travellers in view, so that we had a full view of the empty expanse. Then, dry-mouthed and sweating, we beelined back to the car and drank gallons of water. The salt clung to the soles of our shoes and, despite our best efforts, we tracked white footprints into the black carpet of the car. Whoops.
The next stop was a region known as the Artist’s Palette, so named for the eclectic mix of colours in the stone resulting from a volcanic cocktail of different elements. Reds, pale greys, deep browns, even greens and blues. In our boldest venture yet, given that it was by now past noon and the glare of the sun was only intensifying, we decided to walk up to the apex of the nearby ridge to get a proper view of the land. Dad and Brother took the direct route up the hill, while I followed Mum and Sister via a detour through a narrow canyon to get close-up to the multicolours. I took a full bottle of water with me and had emptied it by the time we got to the top. I had to keep reminding myself it was still April. What this place is like in July, I dread to imagine.
Having experienced Death Valley to our satisfaction, it was time to make the journey to Las Vegas. The first major settlement I recall was a hilariously-named place called Pahrump (like a lyric from the Little Drummer Boy) which boasted a casino called the Nugget. You have to respect the temerity to imagine that punters would prefer a trip to the Pahrump Nugget over the casino capital of the West only 1 hour away. Kudos for ambition. I was excited to get into the hotel, but as we came into Vegas, little did I know how much I’d miss the peacefulness of the desert.
What is there to say about Vegas that hasn’t already been richly documented in popular culture? As I’ve said before, I have a soft spot for good theming, so the massive, fantastical facades of the various Strip casinos – pyramids, medieval castles, 1/3rd replicas of New York’s iconic skyscrapers – impressed me as they loomed over us on all sides. But there is an instant and lingering sense of artifice all around. It is the foundation on which the city has built itself. As the desert sun beams down from all sides, reflecting off the gold-tinted windows of the towering hotel blocks, the whole place is a flurry of overwhelming stimuli apparently designed to strobe you into submission. Flashing lights, thumping pop music, gaudy billboards advertising everything from designer bags to tribute concerts to local X-rated clubs, the stink of sugar, sewage and cannabis floating through it all. This region is called Paradise, but it is perhaps only a paradise for the megarich or the aspirational, to whom the endless barrage of advertising and bottomless opportunities for financial ruin present a convincing façade of affluence while shamelessly plundering your pocket and your soul. As we wandered the Strip to and from the aptly-named Bacchanal buffet at Caesar’s Palace, which was so expensive and huge that it nearly killed me instantly, we passed several rough sleepers at the roadside, and I realised how uniquely awful it must be to be homeless in Vegas. To sit all night long in the heat of the desert and engine fumes while tourists waste money on nothing and then walk past without a backward or inward glance. It’s at moments like this where the whole place feels less like a glittering nirvana and more like a theme park for the spiritually bankrupt. The best you can do is grit your teeth, try to bury your shame, enjoy yourself and ignore the fact that your wallet is rapidly emptying.
Mercifully, our hotel was away from all the noise, tucked behind the MGM Grand. I can safely say that if this is the standard of a 5-star hotel, I’ll happily settle for less. It’s nice to have a large bedroom and a balcony, but where our previous (much cheaper) accommodation has provided clean rooms and complimentary water, we discovered spots of dried blood on Mum’s sheets and the bottles of water were provided only at a fee of $9 PLUS TAXES. I wonder if these places are designed to take advantage of folks who spend money like it’s nothing, rather than cautious Midlanders enjoying a vanishingly rare taste of high society. Already over-budget, the parents nearly turned to ash when it became clear how much it would cost to eat out here. With a bit of when-in-Vegas spirit (and feeling ashamed that my parents were footing the weighty bill for what is supposed to be their 50th birthday trip) I bought us some tickets to the resident Cirque du Soleil show Kà at the Grand, and it’s safe to say that it was the right thing to splash out on. I’ve seen the troupe once, a long time ago, when they brought a touring show to Birmingham, and I still remember being awed by what I saw. Kà was similarly extraordinary. Even besides the stunning acrobatic work, including a staggering sequence of performers climbing and brawling between narrow poles on an rotating stage like balls in a spinning pinball machine, every aspect of the show was painstakingly detailed, from the set design to the giant musical instruments in the foyer. Studying the costume showcases after the show, which included headpieces that took 30-40 hours each to craft, was reminded of everything I love about the arts, and the things that triggered my love of filmmaking – the maximum effort taken to perfect minuscule details in the creation of fictional characters and environments. While there is no way to completely shrug off the innate guilt of being surrounded by such excess (nor should there be!), there is perhaps nowhere else that a performing arts company could acquire the budget to produce shows of this kind. If the arts scene in the UK had even half the funding and attention paid to the shows in Vegas, the industry would be in a much better place. But of course, these are the gilded products of filthy wealth. How could you replicate it elsewhere?
I was in the desert this morning. The land is vast, barren, simple and quiet. I miss it already.
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