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  Detroit might have been able to cope with all these things but unfortunately there was economic trouble in the South and thousands of black workers were heading to Detroit in a fruitless search for work. They’d heard about the promise of three bucks an hour but when they got there, the cupboard was bare.

  Social unrest was inevitable. In 1967, the African-Americans took to the streets and had themselves the riot to end all riots.

  Bob Seger, who at the time was an up-and-coming rock and roller from Detroit, remembers coming home from a gig one night to find tanks on the streets. ‘I just couldn’t believe it. This was Detroit and the whole place was on fire. There were police everywhere. They’d got the national guard out. It was like a war zone. It was worse than a war zone. It was hell.’

  Shortly after, the White Flight began, as respectable middle-class white families packed up and moved to the suburbs, where half the factories had gone anyway.

  In ten years, the population of Detroit halved from two million to one million. Even the Motown record label, which had made Detroit a world capital of music too with its wealth of black artists like Stevie Wonder, Martha Reeves, Diana Ross and the Temptations, moved to Los Angeles.

  They weren’t ‘Dancing in the Streets’ any more. Madonna may have been born there but she left, too.

  And that was it. Detroit became a wrecked shell whose population is still falling. There are no jobs downtown today and when Hudson’s, the big department store, closed down, most of the city-centre retailers followed suit and went under too.

  It’s hard for a European to understand this because we have no equivalent, but there is a very real possibility that one day, Detroit will implode: that it will simply cease to exist.

  Already, there are people in the suburbs who are proud to say they haven’t been downtown in twenty years. The nineteen-year-old doorman at our hotel in Dearborn admitted one night he’d never been there.

  He simply couldn’t believe it when, every morning, we bundled our kit into the trucks and went off to the centre, even though it was only twelve miles away. He was even more amazed, though, when we actually came back each night.

  He obviously had a word with the manager who, one day, advised us not to go down there any more. When he found that we had to and that we preferred to drive in on Michigan Avenue, rather than down the safer expressway, he rushed off to explain to the girls on the reception desk that our rooms might become available sooner than he’d thought.

  Despite this attitude, the mayor, Dennis Archer, is ebullient, saying that Detroit was only murder capital of the world once and that no one will beat the city in making quality cars. ‘We’ll take on anyone, any time,’ he crows.

  But he’s missing the point because none of the car firms is dependent on Detroit any more. GM has a factory in Mexico for chrissakes. Honda is in Marysville, Ohio. Toyota and BMW have factories in the USA too, but they’re not even in Michigan.

  Sure, Ford, GM and Chrysler — the only remaining US car firms — still build cars on their home turf, but they’re in the leafy suburbs. And when I say leafy, I’m talking equatorial rainforest.

  Should you ever need to go to Detroit, drive west from the city centre on Jefferson, past Belle Isle and make sure your windows are up. Crash the red lights too, because to stop here is to invite the unwelcome intrusion of a 9-mm slug.

  And then, at one set of lights, you’ll notice that everything changes. On the east side, the shops are burned out and shabby. Black men shuffle around in the wreckage looking for anything that could be lunch — a bedspring or a butt end, perhaps.

  On the other side of the lights, the fire hydrants are painted Dulux commercial white, the street lamps are mock Tudor and the houses are immaculate and huge. Every fourth car is a police cruiser and every third person is out jogging. Welcome to Grosse Point, a lakeside suburb where the big car-firm bosses live.

  I hated it. This was like something out of The Stepford Wives and we’d only been there for five minutes when the cops arrived. They’d had a flood of calls about a group of guys in jeans. Jeans in Grosse Point. You’d get further in a G-string at Henley.

  I swear that before we left we even saw someone cutting his lawn with a pair of nail scissors.

  It’s not quite so bad on the other side of the city, north of Eight Mile Road which is the accepted barrier between rich and poor, black and white, civilisation and a Bronze Age war zone.

  These are just like any American suburbs — until the Friday-night reminder that you’re in The Motor City. Or near it anyway.

  There’s a pretty vibrant classic-car scene out there as car workers past and present feel the need to restore and pamper great cars from the days when their city was great too. They meet up at weekends with their customised, power-packed Chevvies and Fords and discuss each other’s sometimes spectacular beards over a Bud or two.

  They even have their own radio station called Honey which is run from the back of a four-wheel-drive truck. It simply turns up at the meeting and plays a selection of good old rock and roll.

  I’ll tell you this. Wandering around a car park full of hot Mustangs and lowered Vettes on a hot summer’s night with Bob Seger belting out of a couple of hundred car radios takes some beating.

  What beat it was what happened when AJ’s Lounge and Eaterie closed. These guys didn’t simply get into their cars and go home. No, they got in, eased out onto the road alongside each other, waiting for the lights to go green and had a race.

  All over suburban Detroit every summer weekend every straight bit of road echoes to the sound of supercharged V8s doing full-bore standing quarters.

  Big money changes hands. Bets of up to a thousand dollars are not unknown as the cars line up… on the public roads.

  You can barely see through the haze of tyre smoke as El Camino pickups roar off the line at full revs. Wilbur and Myrtle can only stare in open-mouthed wonderment as their puny little Honda finds itself sandwiched between a lime-green Dodge Charger and an egg-yellow Plymouth Super Bird.

  This is as subtle as a Big Mac, as restrained as a can of Coke and as American as both. Big cars, big engines, big people and big beards, racing each other over a quarter of a mile straightaway.

  These guys spit at Ferraris and laugh at Lotus Elans. They are not interested in a car’s ability to handle the bends on a switchback mountain pass. They don’t care about pinball-sharp steering or five-valve technology.

  They’d drink a pint of warm beer before they’d own up to a fondness for European and Japanese engines that rev to 8000 rpm.

  They like their V8s big and lazy and their rear tyres massive. American street racing is straight down the line and simple. It’s a national characteristic. The only thing in the world less complex than a blue-collar American is wood.

  One guy watched a bright-blue Camaro launch itself off the line with its front tyres a foot in the air, then turned to me grinning and said, ‘Chevrolets and apple pie, baby, Chevrolets and apple pie.’

  It didn’t make sense but I knew exactly what he meant. This was heartland America.

  And the cops were not about to make waves, partly because they need the support of the white middle classes. A patrol car sat for an hour in a side street watching the action before moving in.

  Over the car’s public address system he announced that the show was over and that ‘anyone on the street in ten minutes is going to jail’. It would have been terribly authoritarian and effective except for one thing. I could see through the tyre smoke and the flashing lights that the guy was grinning.

  He knew that he was witnessing what the people of Detroit have been doing for 50 years.

  In the sixties, manufacturers used to bring secret new cars down to these meets and race them against the home-tuned opposition. Many remember Ford rolling up one night in the early seventies with some kind of Mustang which blew everyone into the weeds. It became the Mach 1.

  It’s stories like this which set Detroit apart. It doesn’t matter where
you turn, there is always a reminder that you are in The Motor City.

  There’s a comic book sold locally where all the heroes are cars. Take a stroll round the Detroit Institute of Arts which, amazingly, still exists downtown, and you’ll note that every single exhibit was paid for and is funded by the car industry.

  The poets in Detroit write about cars and within a twenty-mile radius of the city-centre grand prix track there are five drag strips. Ben Hamper, a local boy and the funniest author I’ve ever read, is a former GM worker.

  And downtown, there are the buildings, huge and solid monoliths whose foundations are set in V8 brawn. Pick any one of them and you’ll find it was built with car-industry money. They’re the American equivalent of Britain’s country houses, a solid and lingering reminder of a once-great past.

  And an inspiration to strive for a better future. The American car industry has owned up to the fact that the Japanese were an invented enemy dreamed up to disguise its own shortcomings and has now stopped making awful cars.

  Sure, there’s still the Buick Skylark and the Chevrolet Caprice, brontosaurial machines which handle like lawnmowers and have all the visual appeal of dog dirt. But at least they’re well made these days.

  American cars, from the seventies especially, were not only hideous to behold but they were also prone to catastrophic bouts of unhelpfulness. It was not uncommon to find Coke cans rattling in the doors and a line worker’s tuna sandwiches under the seat.

  And GM’s answer to poor morale was to introduce the Quality Cat, a man in a moggy outfit who bounded up and down the lines, inspiring a cynical workforce to greater things. Trouble is, most of them were asleep in boxes at the time, or down at the shop-rat’s bar.

  Ben Hamper tells the story of new electronic boards which were erected throughout the factory. One day, the message read ‘Riveting is fun’, which made him ask the question, ‘Well hey, if it’s so good, how come all the management aren’t coming down here in their lunch breaks to have a go?’

  Those days though are long gone and even the designers are back on form with cars like the Dodge Viper, the Lincoln Mark VIII and the Saturn range. They’re good-looking, inexpensive, reliable and advanced. The Cadillac STS only needs servicing every 100,000 miles and, thanks to sophisticated electronics, can cross a desert with no water in the radiator.

  But if you want to spotlight one car which demonstrates Detroit’s new spirit, you should take a look at the Chrysler LHS.

  It’s made by a company which, in the early eighties, was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy but which is now posting profits which some say are obscene.

  Most American cars are too large, too thirsty and too ugly to have any appeal outside the States but the LHS is different. It looks wonderful, thanks to its cab-forward design whereby the engine is shoved right up to the front of the engine bay.

  That lets you have a short bonnet which means more space for passengers and luggage. It’s also quiet, well-equipped and fast, despite the absence of a V8 motor. I’m almost embarrassed to say it but here we have a car which, by global standards, is right up there with the best.

  It, along with the new Fords and GM cars, means that in the short term, at least, the big three American car manufacturers are safe. But what about their birth town? What about Detroit?

  Well there are some chinks of light. Today, right in the city centre, there is one 300-yard stretch called Greektown where trendy restaurants abound and where you can walk on the pavement at night in relative safety. There are lots of beggars but they only let murderers in in packs of ten.

  There is also the appropriately named Renaissance Center, which houses office blocks, a shopping mall and the world’s tallest hotel. You’re fairly safe in there too because armed guards outnumber visitors by 200 to 1.

  And there’s the people mover — a monorail which tours the city. Now sure, it’s pretty pointless offering a public transport alternative in a city where the public don’t go and where, even if they did, they’d take a car, but never mind; someone had the confidence to build such a thing.

  The trouble is, these are details. Building a shiny new monorail in Detroit is like cutting someone’s toenails when they have lung cancer. And Detroit, to pinch a line from Robocop, does have cancer.

  It’s called crime.

  The Mayor says Detroit will be the next great international city, and a great place to do business. Yes, and I’m a little teapot.

  I’m so mad, in fact, that I always list Detroit as one of my five favourite cities in the world. It is as soulful as the music it once made and, as Gertrude Stein once said, ‘There is a there there’.

  Iceland

  It’s the most beautiful terrain on earth, but to get there you need specialised machinery, satellite navigation and a guide. And a snowmobile. And a hat. And some soup.

  Iceland is not of this earth. It is a little piece of Mars stuck away on a barren rock in the middle of the North Atlantic. There are no reference points for the visitor, no little reminders of the civilisation that you’ve left behind, no clues that you’re in a fully paid-up NATO member state. Small wonder they sent Neil Armstrong here to train for his lunar walk.

  The countryside is weird. The people are mad. The weather defies belief and the laws and customs leave you gasping. But all of this is overshadowed by one important feature that, quite literally, turns your world upside down. In the summer, it doesn’t go dark.

  They can take you for a ride in a nitro-powered Jeep up a sheer cliff face. You can drive a snowmobile across the sea. You can pay £80 for a bottle of house white and you can have dinner with a girl who has completely see-through skin, but you won’t be paying attention because here, night does not necessarily follow day.

  Life for the rest of Planet Earth is a mishmash of unpredictability but there’s always one inescapable fact — every single night, without fail, the sun will set.

  But up there, from the end of April to the middle of September, night is like easing the dimmer switch down a couple of notches. And in the middle of June, it doesn’t happen at all.

  At three or four o’clock in the morning, it’s as light as it was at three or four o’clock in the afternoon, and that is spooky. You can go up to Sneffels Yokul, where Arne Saknussem set off in Journey to the Center of the Earth, to watch the sun kiss the horizon, and then start rising again.

  Not surprisingly, this peculiar aspect of life in the far north has had an effect on the people who live there. They don’t behave like human beings. If Darwin had come here instead of the Galápagos Islands, he’d have deduced that, on the evolutionary scale, man followed on from the hedgehog.

  In the summer months, the Icelander doesn’t really do much sleeping. And at weekends, he doesn’t do any at all.

  When they finish work in Reykjavik on a Friday night, they go home, have some drinks, get changed, have some more drinks and then at 11.00 p.m. they go out: all 125,000 of them.

  This can be a bit of a shock if you’ve arrived from Earth. The first time I went there, ten years ago, I wandered around at eightish looking for a restaurant, not really surprised that the streets were deserted. This, after all, was the northernmost capital city in the world and it was a bit chilly.

  But as I sat with a plate of fish and coleslaw, I couldn’t help noticing that as the night wore on, the tables were filling up, and then some. By midnight, there were queues of expectant diners going right out of the door.

  So I took out a mortgage, paid up and left, whereupon I was thrust into the world’s biggest party. If you could combine Live Aid with a papal visit to Rio, you’d get something that, compared to this, was a village fête.

  Everyone was hog-whimperingly drunk. As Björk put it recently, ‘What’s the point of having a glass of wine every day? It’s a waste of money, a waste of time and waste of wine. Why not wait till the weekend and drink a litre of vodka all in one go?’

  So they do. The teenagers, those too young to get into the endless array of nightclu
bs, fill massive Coke bottles with nine parts vodka and one part Coke and get so pissed most of them walk round backwards.

  And then, if they’re girls, they get pregnant. Iceland has the highest rate of illegitimacy in the world because most teenage girls have a child at sixteen which is then brought up by their parents. They are then free to have a life without worrying about the biological clock. They say Bangkok is the sex capital of the world: it isn’t — not by a long way.

  And nor is Monaco the epicentre of partydom. Reykjavik has that one all sewn up, too.

  The gathering, which starts on a Friday at midnight, goes on until Monday morning when people go directly from their disco to work. It’s bizarre but they really do seem to have developed sleep patterns based on the tortoise. You’re awake for six months, and then you’re not.

  Anyone planning to invade Iceland would be advised to hit the beaches some time between November and February because no one’s awake. Mind you, you could go in June too because everyone is rat-faced.

  Everyone, that is, except the huge gangs of bikers that roam the streets at night with massive Mad Maxian hogs and biblical hairdos. ‘What,’ I asked nervously, ‘do you do?’

  I expected them to say they barbecued virgins and danced naked in front of ceremonial fires but this was not quite the case. ‘Oh,’ said one. ‘We campaign for safer roads and lower insurance rates. That sort of thing.’

  How come you’re all sober? ‘Let me make one thing absolutely plain here,’ said another, who was wearing a US tank-driver’s helmet. ‘No one in Iceland drinks and drives. You see, this is a small community and if you get pissed and knock someone down, there’s a strong chance you will know them. And if you don’t know them, it is absolutely certain that you will know someone who does.’

  And feeling duty-bound to go to the funeral of someone who you killed is, well, a little embarrassing.