Date palm love

Some trees where clothes. Date palms, in particular, look pretty in hand-me-down dresses. I enjoy peeking beneath their skirts. Provocative, no?

This weekend I explored the stunning and unlikely China Ranch Date Farm. Nestled near the SE corner of Death Valley, this is about as unlikely a place to farm as any on earth. It's actually in the rain shadow of Death Valley, for cryin' out loud. Is that even possible? The drive to this place from Las Vegas is 80+ miles of sheer sun-blasted waste. You feel like you are driving on the surface of the moon, alone in the magnificent desolation, except there is a road cut through it ramrod straight.

Turning off that highway takes a bit of nerve. The side road that extends off to the far horizon of brown blandness has no definable sides because the sand is trying to reclaim the land. Scrub occasionally sprouts up, but even that is brown and begging for death. Eventually my wife and I drove down into a bizarre gulch with ugly conglomerate-stone walls. We dropped some 80 vertical feet and the narrow road snaked through the canyon dominated by towering, ugly walls that threatened to topple at every turn. Some places they had, as the loosely conglomerated rock just dissolved and poured over the road.

Then suddenly we came to an old sign with rusted barbed wire welcoming us to China Ranch. It was so-called because in the Old West days a Chinese man farmed here. When he became prosperous the local white dudes got jealous. Then one day the Chinese guy disappeared and the whites moved in. Once you look past the sign, though, you can see why this place was worth dying for.

China Ranch is a desert oasis. Ground water seeps out of the blasted rock and forms a sliver of a channel through the valley, complete with crayfish. Here is a surprising garden of Eden, complete with lush grasses, shady trees, and cool breezes. It's a salad bowl set in the most forbidding desert landscape in North America. And it is loaded with date palms.

The Brown family has owned and operated this date farm since 1970, and welcomes any and all to freely wander among their amazing palms. The fall and early winter is an excellent time to visit because they are loaded with ripened or nearly ripened fruit. Each tree has up to half a dozen old dresses, nightgowns, or dress shirts wrapping huge clusters of dates. This offers protection from wind and birds, and slows the bees down a little. Peeking from the bottom of these skirts are heavy clumps of dates, some ready for eating. It's fascinating to lift an old Hawaiian shirt to see if the treats below are fiery red, soft yellow, or nutty brown.

The grove itself is labeled so you can see the difference between Barhi date palms and Honey date palms. You can try them all in the gift shop, which we did. Gotta try em' all or you're missing out. I was amused at the ancient, huge brass spittoon near the samples, labeled 'Pitoon' for the pits. We chose three different batches to buy a pound or two of, and they were so fresh and juicy I just wanted to stare at them in wonder all day. But the best part of the gift shop, really, were the date shakes. Divine hardly describes it.

My wife and I managed to spend all afternoon here, but are eager to return. The stream wiggles its way right into Death Valley, which is just out back. There are half a dozen trails and miles and miles of desert solitude and beauty. The greenery marches deep into the valley, providing a hamlet for fox, bobcats, coyotes and all the jackrabbits you can imagine. And birds? They love it here. So do I.

Cruise Confidential meets Maxim

The word is most definitely out: cruise ships are wild places. 14 million passengers a year have as much opportunity for partying as they ever will in their lives. They are floating pleasure palaces with shows and casinos, with massages and feasts, and occasionally a port of call. And sex, drinking, sex and drinking. OK, that last part was more about the crew than the passengers.

The stories are growing more prolific about the licentious lives of the crew, and it was only a matter of time that a magazine that is really a Milkbone for Men (that is, Maxim) takes a peek below the waterline (a la Cruise Confidential). This is not surprising. Since Cruise Confidential was released last year, it has since won two national humor awards and is spawning a plethora of knock-offs. Maxim has the most fun with it, thus far.

Maxim’s November 2009 issue has an article, Wet & Wild, that takes a vivid, if glancing, look at the craziness of being a crewmember on a modern cruise ship. Considering the demographic of the magazine, it is not surprising that it pumps up the crew’s constant boozing and international sex-scapades. No less than three references to ‘threesomes’ come in a mere three pages, and each paragraph is saturated with alcohol. In a further effort to sensationalize the whole cruising experience, the article blends in the surprising side of ship-board mechanics. Surprising only for those who have never bothered to think about it. Case in point: dead bodies are stored in a walk-in freezer. Sounds intriguing but, really, what other method would you suggest?

Still, after living at sea four years and writing the authoritative book about the subject, I can honestly attest that 90% of the stuff is, if sensationalized, nonetheless true. Shall we take a peek?

True: passengers are not allowed in the crew bar, which is a dark, smoky sensual-naughty-fantastic place.
True: passengers are referred to as ‘animals’ by the crew.
True: crew members drink themselves sick and screw everything that moves (barring ‘animals’).

The article continues to grab at all the stuff people wonder in passing: what about falling overboard, what about rapes, what about murders? Do the cruise lines really cover them up? What about pirates and sinkings? All hurled at the reader with shocking suddenness and only a passing reference to how you really don’t need to worry about any of it.

The article has many little tidbits that are worth reading. We learn how hearing “Hey, Baby” 1,000 times a day will make you crazy. We learn of the guys who are fired for cooking in their cabin: an entire pig’s head roasting painfully slow over a hot-plate. We learn of the Pacific Islanders who are ‘gay at sea’ but have families back home. This is the stuff that makes ship life memorable.

After reading the article, the most fun is perhaps had in analyzing the illustration of a cut-away view of a ship, with all the article’s stories therein. My personal favorite is the captain at the top holding out a pair of underwear. I am reminded of the captain of Carnival Conquest, an old Italian fellow, who had a low-ranking officer invite various female crew to his cabin for a conversation about ‘possible advancement’, or whatever other excuse could be had. This one I know all about, because my girlfriend earned some enmity by declining.

Let’s see what else is in the illustration…

Dead body in the freezer? Check.
Sailor smoking a cigarette on the anchor chain? Check.
Hog’s head on a hot plate, gay at sea couple kissing? Check. Check.
Beer pong and beer bongs? Sorry.
Nope, no hookahs or boxing either.
Chef urinating in the soup? What, is this Fight Club?
And everywhere threesomes? You wish.