Censorship.

Right so i’m fairly behind with these blogs, partly because I can’t stop writing and then they average about 2000 words a post. I was told off by the sister for this yesterday and so future entries will hopefully be a bit shorter.

Believe it or not i’ve still got the whole of Central America to blog about. I’m actually in San Jose, Costa Rica at the moment, flying to Havana, Cuba this evening.

Now i’m not too sure what the internet situation is like on Castro’s island. I hear they’re into censorship over there so whether any more blog entries will appear over the next 12 days or so I cannot say. Whatever happens it seems i’ll have to finish them all when I get back to the independent state of Yorkley on the 21st December.

Let’s go surfing now, everybody’s surfing now, come on and sufari with me, and Andrew.

The last day of Trek America was upon us. In the evening we planned to go out for a nice meal at some San Diegan establishment but the day was to be made up of more activities.

About half the group opted for world-famous tourist attraction, SeaWorld, where you can go and get soaked with water when Shamu the killer whale does his impression of Free Willy. The other half, including myself opted for another day on the beach. It wasn’t the sand or sun that was calling me though, it was the surf..

Obviously I know absolutely nothing about surfing. A wave is a wave is a wave, but luckily Andrew is a keen surfer and can often be found in the freezing waters of the British Isles trying to ‘hang ten’ (no idea what that means). The waves speak to him on a much deeper level than they do with me. The plan was for Andrew to introduce me to said waves and give me a bit of a surfing lesson.

Cowabunga!?

We found ourselves a surf shop one block from the beach and hired our equipment. A wetsuit and a surfboard. Being someone who knows how to stand up on a surf board and steer it in his desired direction, Andrew went for some sleek looking piece of surf engineering for maximum speed and control. Me, being someone who would probably be spending more time in the water than on the board was advised to go for a board with the biggest surface area possible. It was somewhat less sleek than Andrew’s and about twice the size. As a result, carrying it under one arm whilst heading down to the beach with it was an awkward and hazardous affair. Turning corners was a real problem as you have to keep an awareness of everyone else in your turning circle (which is very big when you’re carrying such a long surfboard). Fail to do this and there was a good chance of scattering unaware passers by all over the sidewalk.

On the beach we kitted up. Naturally I put my wetsuit on back to front (zip goes on the back apparently) and also nearly dived into the waves still wearing my sunglassesd. After these two false starts though, I was finally ready to follow Andrew into the water.

“Right, all you need to do see, is wait for a wave to break, start paddling, do a press up on the board, bring your knees into your body and stand up.” Andrew said in the pre-surf briefing. I had a feeling it would be a tad harder than that.

Surfing has a horrifically steep learning curve to overcome. The first obstacle is actually getting out to the waves themselves and where they’re breaking. This means having to paddle your way through all the already broken waves that are coming towards you first. You paddle forward a bit, a wave comes, and washes you back to where you started. Either that or it wipes you out completely so that you come back up coughing and spluttering a lungful of seawater.

Make out to the area where the waves are breaking and now the challenge is to successfully ride your board, back to the shore. This is basically impossible. The first hour in the water at least, was spent waiting for a wave, waiting for a wave, here comes a wave, get ready for the wave, start paddling, press-up and SMACK. The the wave decides it’s having none of this press-up nonsense, takes the board from under your feet and hurls it over your head. Whilst this is going on you’re being dragged at it’s mercy until it gets bored and spits you out quite violently. Rinse and repeat all that about 352395692 times and that is learning to surf in a nutshell.

Whilst all this is taking place, Andrew is effortlessly gliding about the waves on his board looking how a surfer should look. He’s catching the waves a lot further out as well (more difficult) whereas i’m waiting for them to turn into ‘little waves’ a bit closer to the shore. Eventually though, all my falling off and ingestion of seawater pays off. The key, I found, is making sure you’re perfectly balanced before you even attempt the press-up bit.

Laurence Castle, Surfing USA, Take 352395693: I paddle out, the wave is coming, I begin to paddle in front of it. Just as I sense the white froth of the breaking wave behind me I double-check, ‘am I perfectly balanced?‘ the answer is a confident yes. Trying to be as smooth as possible I push myself up onto the board, tuck the knees in and plant my two feet on the enormous board. I slowly bend my knees to become more upright and hey presto i am indeed standing up, on a surfboard, in that typical surfer stance. I am the lord of the beach, king of the Californian coastline, and somewhere out there, someone is listening to the Beach Boys, and they are singing about me.

My balance isn’t that perfect and I topple off about two seconds later. But now I realise that it wasn’t as impossible as previously thought, and i’m hankering to get back out and catch my next wave. Over the next four hours there is much falling off, but this is interspersed with the very occasional ride on the crest of the wave. Whilst each succesful surf for me only lasts mere seconds, the adrenaline rush and sense of accomplishment is huge. After trying my hand at skateboarding and ‘aggressive blading’ back in my teens, and failing miserably, could it be that i’ve found my extreme sport calling?

Probably not. But at least my shins, knees and elbows remain relatively intact with surfing and you feel darn cool wandering along the seafront with your board and wetsuit, getting nods of approval from the other board riders.

The final evening was spent with a farewell group meal at an Italian restaurant called ‘Lotsa Pasta’. The food was much better than the name.

Stay Classy

The time had come to return to California and pay a visit to Ron Burgundy’s stomping ground, San Diego, a whale’s vagina. This would be my final destination with Trek America (who were returning to LA after) and my final US city before I braved the drug cartels and mariachi bands and headed south of the border to Mehico.

A routine lunch stop on the way found me progressing from yogurt to luke warm soup. My first above room temperature meal since that fateful $6, 4am steak at ‘Bill’s’ in Vegas. Sandwiches with their tough crusty edges were still a no go for me but I was confident that finally i’d be an active participant in that evening’s campfire meal.

Walking back to the minibus and we chanced upon a small tarantula strutting it’s stuff across the gas station forecourt. It was small by tarantula standards but I’m fairly sure that if you found one in your bath back in Blighty you’d make it all the way to the ‘and finally’ slot on BBC Points West. We thought it prudent to leave it be. It looked fairly content patrolling the gas station perimeter.

Being warm and sunny outside, and San Diego being a coastal city, our first port of call was Mission Beach for some late afternoon frolicking in the waves. I made sure this time to not venture out beyond waist depth, the joys of nearly drowning still fresh in the memory banks.

Once wave time was over, the majority of the group arranged themselves artfully on the sand to catch the remaining rays of the day..

Now I’m an intelligent guy most of the time. But unfortunately I have never been able to get my head around sunbathing. I must be missing something here because to me, it seems like a complete waste of time. I understand that the ‘point’ in sunbathing is to get a tan, but I want to know why you can’t get a tan by doing interesting stuff in the sun at the same time. e.g. going for a walk, playing in the sea, eating ice creams etc. Perhaps it is impossible, i’ve been fortunate enough to have so far enjoyed a 4 month summer and am still a pasty white boy from Yorkley. I’m not all that bothered.

My problem is that I never know what to do with myself when i’m with others who are professional sunbathers. They always seem to arrange themselves immaculately beneath the mass of hydrogen holding our solar system in place. Lotioned to perfection, they spread their beach towels out in perfect rectangles, not a grain of sand  is out of place. They are at one, with the sun.

At first I may try and join them, hoping i’ll be able to channel some of their energy and the sun will speak to me. It never does, I tried this the other week in Tulum, Mexico. What it did instead was burn me in random patches on my body, like I was a forgotten piece of bread in the toaster. This was despite my efforts at plastering myself with factor 30 beforehand. My beach towel, far from being crisp and sand free looked like Neil Buchanan had come along and done an art attack with it and my legs were feasted upon by sand flies. I don’t sit well with sunbathing.

Fair enough if you’re a girl and waves don’t interest you. I understand you like to spend a lot of time preening yourselves and feeling beautiful. Whilst I don’t understand it myself, sunbathing is fine if you’re female.

Men who sunbathe. Perhaps i’m the outspoken minority here but in my mind, men who sunbathe are losing serious man points at a rate of knots. Men who have sunbathing down to an art, i.e. those who make sure each part of exposed flesh gets the perfect amount of time in the sun and those who roll up their shorts as far as they’ll go so that nothing gets neglected automatically relinquish masculinity in exchange for bronze skin.

I’d hate to get hung up about sunbathing so whilst the others were working on their tans, myself and fellow pasty white boy Andrew occupied ourselves with ice cream purchases. One good thing about the States is that at most food outlets (the faster the better) you can be fairly assured of getting a lot of bang for your buck. Portions tend to be fairly substantial. This beachside ice cream vendor was no exception. Ordering a cone each and expecting something about the size of a 99 we were instead given something about four times the size. These ice cream cones had some serious mass to them and the size made us appear like we were straight out of the cast of The Borrowers.

The downside to constantly big portions is that the final few mouthfuls are always a major effeort and therefore not as enjoyable as the rest of the meal. Like all endurance activities though, this is something that you get better at with practice. Looking at the physiques of those Americans with years of experience at this particular discipline, you could tell they had indeed done a lot of practice.

Ice creams > Sunbathing

Halloween is something of a big deal in the USA. For a country that loves the material of the late Jesus Christ they also love decorating their houses from late September onwards with cobwebs, pumpkins and all manner of unspeakable evil.

We were still a couple of days away from the 31st but preparations had reached fever pitch. Many people had gone away for the weekend to campsites like the one we were staying at in San Diego. It was late afternoon and we were just hanging around our pitch. I was basking in the glory of just having beaten Gowtham in a penalty shootout (England vs Denmark, it was a tense finish but Joe Hart came good). The mother from the pitch next to ours comes over. Early forties, going for that Dolly Parton look.

“Hey, would you guys mind ever so much if you could come on over, tell us if our decorations are aw-right?” She asked in a quaint southern drawl. Turning the corner from our ‘Camp Trek America’ we suddenly unexpectedly find ourselves in Transylvania. This family had gone all out to decorate their tent and camping area for the holiday weekend.

From the tree hung a giant cobweb complete with numerous plastic spiders. Leaning against it was a coffin with an arm poking out and expertly carved pumpkins were just about everywhere you looked. Somewhere hidden there was also a CD player on a loop playing various Halloween sound effects, creaking doors, evil laughs etc to complete the ambience.

“Do you think we’ve done enough with the graveyard?” Dolly asked, referring to the dozen or so painted cardboard tombstones scattered around the plot outside their tents. It was dedication to the Halloween cause and possibly the sign of a slightly bored housewife..

The evening meal of hamburgers was a Godsend. Those little antibiotics that I had been taking without fail had been working hard around the clock and I finally gave myself the go ahead to eat proper food once again. Instructing the raspberry yogurt waiting in the wings to stand down I crafted myself a hamburger cooked by Laura and her group. It had been over four days since that Vegas steak and I think my stomach and taste buds had all but given up hope of ever receiving real food again. That burger was an absolute joy to eat let me tell you. Unfortunately as a result of my digestive system being recently redundant I was done for the night after one burger, far too full for seconds. More practice was required until I was back on the 3 course meals again.

The plan for that evening was a night out in the Mission Bay area where there were a few bars and clubs. Sadly for the under 21s of the group, Jacob, Gowtham and Simone this was not something they’d be able to join in with. San Diego is just about the strictest place in the US for ID’ing people and if you’re not a local the only form of identification accepted is your passport. Naturally it didn’t stop them from trying and immediately failing, but being the Danes they had a plan B and switched to Operation ‘Hide a crate of beer in an alley and wander the street soaking up the atmosphere’.

For the adult members of the group it was time to find a bar. The bearded wonder that is Mex recommended a Cantina bar as a good launch point. This is possibly because drinks were 2 for 1. In a country of expensive drinks, that is the jackpot, right there. For those of the group who were on prescribed antibiotics and strong pain medication it was all meaningless. Guess i’ll go order myself another coke.

Actually one really good thing about America is that non alcoholic drinks are nearly always free. They’re not free if you’re already drunk, but if you mention you’re the designated driver (or if you can’t drink but lie about being the designated driver), then the folks behind the bar will keep you supplied with what ever your alcohol free tipple is for the rest of the night. What an absolutely excellent and responsible idea. Landlords of the UK take note. [STOP PRESS: Seems like the government only yesterday announced a Christmas anti drink drive initiative whereby drivers get free soft drinks, result!]

Bar number two had a nightclub out the back. It was being visited by some US Army servicemen when we popped in. This pleased the likes of Anina and Katherine, and I suspect the servicemen getting the attention, immensely. We know that they were servicemen because they had decided to go out clubbing dressed in their full red, white and blue parade ground uniform.

“When you fail with all other attempts of picking up chicks, that’s when you come to a nightclub dressed like that.” Mex told me through gritted teeth, “No one can say anything though, ‘cos they’re marines. They’ll snap you like a twig with their little fingers.”

Douchey marines aside, it was a good penultimate evening to our Trek America tour. Watching the Frenchman and the Korean, Vincent and Rum, get down to a dance off was the pièce de résistance and listening to Swansea boy Andrew’s critique of the music..

“I tell you what mind..I fuckin’ hate R’n’B” wrapped things up nicely.

On leaving the club the group separated a bit. Whilst the others went off in search of further entertainment, myself, the sober one, Mex the responsible one and Elicia, who’d been taking advantage of the two for ones, decided to get some food and call it a night.

America doesn’t have kebab shops. I don’t think I saw a single one during my travels. But San Diego, being literally on the Mexican border, is full of places doing Tacos and Burritos instead. Still full up from the burger I opted for a  Horchata instead. Horchata is a delicious Mexican drink made from rice and flavoured with cinnamon. Here’s a recipe http://allrecipes.com//Recipe/lolas-horchata/Detail.aspx .

The guy behind us in the que was very drunk.

“Man, I want a fish taco” he exclaimed incoherently. “If they have fish tacos i’m guna buy everyone, a fish taco.”

“Do it, fish tacos are the shit man” Mex egged him on. Mex is actually a vegetarian and doesn’t eat fish. But didn’t want to cramp the guy’s style and stand in the way of his ambition. Moment of truth came and turns out they did do fish tacos. The drunk guy looks around at us and the other bemused revellers in the que…The mexican serving asks for his order…

“Gime’ 12 fish tacos amigo” he blurts out. He’s questioned about his order, which comes to over $40 but he asserts himself and the kitchen staff get to work.

We give it a few minutes as Mex sits down to eat the salad he ordered and I drink my Horchata. Elicia gets talking to ’12 fish tacos’ man and mentions that I’m not eating and Mex is a vegetarian and so can’t eat a fish taco either. Fish Taco isn’t too happy when he hears this revelation and begins an emotional rant in the general direction of Mex and myself.

“Hey man, I bought you a fish taco dude, and you’re not even going to eat it. Why didn’t you say? Why man? Why? What am I going to do with all these fish tacos?”

“Not my problem dude.” advises Mex. At this point, being the sober one I decide that things could get ugly and there would be enough fish tacos lying about where people could start getting assaulted with them. I shepherded Mex and Elicia out of the vicinity of the Mexican food shack and into the nearest cab. We never did find out what became of the guy and his food order.

First to arrive back at camp we find the Danes and Simone still up playing the umpteenth round of Danish Triangles. Turns out they abandoned their ‘beer in the alley’ stunt pretty soon after starting and headed back to camp where the cards and dice were waiting for them. They were now pretty merry, eager to carry on the night with further games.

Despite the fun, I was now eager to hit the hay. The sober thing is only fun up to a point and then it begins to get quite tiring. Drawing some comfort from the fact that I at least, would wake up feeling perfectly fine whilst others may not be so lucky I called it a night, drifting off to the sounds of Australians and Europeans getting increasingly unlucky with each turn of the cards or roll of the die.

Lake Havasu and “it’s been a while since I got my 400m badge”

Before our final destination of San Diego we made a stop off at Lake Havasu. A popular vacation spot for college kids during spring break, Lake Havasu was formed in the 1930s as a result of the construction of a nearby dam. Lake Havasu City, is home to the original London Bridge..

This unusual attraction came about in 1968 when the owner of the land surrounding the lake, Robert. P. McCulloch wanted to increase tourism to the area. He thought he’d spotted the perfect investment opportunity when he saw that London Bridge was being replaced and so the original bridge was up for sale to the highest bidder. He sent his best men over to London to measure the bridge. Turns out it was the perfect size to cross the river going through the city. With money no object McCulloch put in a bid of $2.5 million (‘buy it now’ wasn’t an option) in the last few seconds and the bridge was his. Once the Paypal payment had gone through the bridge was dismantled and shipped over piece by piece to Arizona by ‘Next Day Special Delivery Before 1pm’ for assembly.

It was all going well up until the point when McCulloch’s men followed the instructions that came with the bridge and put it back together. Turns out McCulloch had done something i’m sure we’ve all done before and bought the wrong bridge. Not the first, and i’m sure he won’t be the last.

McCulloch hadn’t done his research. The bridge that he imagined he was buying was in fact Tower Bridge in London, i.e. the one with the two big towers that raises in the middle to let ships pass through. London Bridge is somewhat less architecturally impressive. It doesn’t have any towers for one thing and looks like a fairly run of the mill river crossing. Nothing special let me tell you. Nevertheless there were no refunds and so they were stuck with this bridge. There are a bunch of signs advertising the bridge throughout the city and then, when you turn the corner there it is, a fairly average piece of distinctly English engineering amongst the palms and desert of Arizona. It’s an amusing sight.

Our campsite was right on the edge of the lake, in the middle of which was an island. Deciding to take advantage of the warm weather and  lakeside campground, the Danes and I decided to take to the water before it got dark.

With the island right there the goal inevitably became to swim towards it. Unfortunately I had overestimated my swimming ability somewhat. Whilst Jacob and Gowtham powered ahead towards the island in the sun, I felt myself going nowhere fast amongst the current and I was beginning to tire. I decided to be sensible and swim back to shore. I didn’t want to drown after all. Sadly this is exactly what I nearly ended up doing.

Still heading nowhere in the strong current I for some reason  decided it was a good idea to let go of the inflatable ring I had been trying to bring with me to the island. I anticipated that it would float out into the middle of the lake with the current, and that was definitely not where I wanted to go. It was a sacrifice of a perfectly good ring but at that point in time I was quite desperate to get back to the shore.

Instead, as if to spite me, the ring hurriedly sped away from, through the current and onto the beach where it mocked me in that oh so typical inflatable ring manner. I however was nowhere nearer and was beginning to run out of the energy needed to keep my head above water. Here’s a life lesson to you all: Never let go of the inflatable.

It suddenly dawned on me that unless I started to make some correct decisions, my death by drowning was becoming an increasingly likely possibility.

For those of you not stupid enough as to get yourselves into such precarious situations, you begin to get hit by waves of panic and adrenaline and your heart begins to beat much harder than it ever has before. All of a sudden I started to think of my family and friends back homeland how selfish and inconvenient it would be for me to drown in Lake Havasu. Not only for them, but also for my fellow travellers. It’s difficult to enjoy a game of beer pong when one of your travel companions is being ‘bagged and tagged’ having been fished from the bottom of the lake. I also realised that drowning was going to be an absolutely horrific way to go, not nice at all, and I still had a lot of travelling left to do.

I wasn’t quite ready to shout for help just yet and was unsure whether anyone would come if I did. I recalled a sign on the beach that mentioned there were no lifeguards and swimming was done at your own risk. I knew that if I shouted for help I had effectively given up hope and would be in a bad place. That was not a point that I wanted to cross. I still wanted to feel like I had some sort of control over the situation. It made sense for me to try and keep swimming, although I estimated that if things didn’t start improving within the next 30 seconds it was time for the ‘swimmer in trouble, arms waving in the air shouting help’ routine.

Swimming on my front wasn’t working too well. I found it increasingly hard to get my head out of the water to take a breath. I thought back to Sunday mornings in the pool at Five Acres with my Dad and Sister and achieving my swimming badges. (I think I got up to 400m). I accomplished them by swimming on my back. Those days were a good fifteen years ago at least, but I figured it worth a go with the other option being to struggle around until my lungs were full of Arizonan lake water. I flipped over onto my back and the panic subsided somewhat. With my face in the air it was easier to breath and I began to calm down and think with a little more clarity.

I kicked my legs and stared up at the cloudless Arizona sky, not being able to see where I was going. I was either heading back towards land or being carried further out by the current. I carried on kicking, blind to my surroundings. The only sounds were the water splashing over my front and the intense sounds of my lungs working overtime to keep me alive and buoyant. Meanwhile back at the camp I bet they were having a whale of a time, completely oblivious to my distress. Rum was probably taking photos of things and Vincent was probably making margaritas for everyone.

I was halfway through composing a eulogy for myself when my head crashed into something hard. I felt sand and grit against my back and stopped kicking. I had successfully ‘done a whale’ and beached myself on the shore. Providing I didn’t do the entire whale thing and just lie there for days until I dehydrated I would definitely survive. Now i’m tempted to recommend that you reading this go out and put yourself in a near drowning situation just so that you too can experience how utterly wonderous it is to return to dry land and know you’re going to live. Highlight of the trip I reckon.

I waved to the Danes from across the lake who had made it to the island and had stood and watched my entire ordeal. I added swimming next to dancing on my list of things to learn do well on my return.

Fairly exhausted after the whole lake drama, and pretty famished after only eating yogurt for the previous few days I was pretty peckish for something that wasn’t fruit flavoured. Noreen, Rum and Vincent were cooking some sort of Mexican dish that night and I must say that it looked delicious as it sat there, frying in the pans. There I was, front of the que, plate in hand, waiting in anticipation.

The trouble is that Rum is from South Korea and as such will always advice that a food could do with a little more spice if he’s asked.

“What do you think Rum?” asked Noreen.

“Ah, more spice I think.” I watched in slow motion horror as Noreen took heed of his advice and emptied another packet of chili powder onto the stir fry. I’m not opposed to spicy food so much, and can’t wait for a decent curry on my return, but tonsilitis is a bit of a fussy eater. My throat burning a few mouthfuls later I surrendered the food and reached for the nearest ‘Fruits of the Forest’ flavoured yogurt for the third consecutive night.

The food eaten and my yogurt pot empty, the Danes and Mex cracked open the drinking games again. I watched (unable to drink still) as we were introduced to games such as ‘Danish Triangles’, ‘Electricity’ and a Danish dice game of bluff. As the night went on the shrieks of delight and horror grew louder and more frequent. Anina, one of the Swiss twins, was on the receiving end of some horrific luck in Electricity, whilst the dice game culminated in Rum having to take a dip in the lake. Sensibly he left the camera on dry land on this occasion. I took the time to note down all of the rules and will subsequently be unleashing them all on those who like to think of me as ‘friend’ when I return.

The Grandest of Canyons

I awoke, pretty pleased with myself at purchasing a fairly pricey sleeping bag earlier in my trip. With -10°C temperatures outside the tent at night, the warm canvas cacoon came into its own. If anything I was too warm. Although as Elicia pointed out, this was probably due to my slight fever from the tonsilitis.

Returning from the clinic after collecting my antibiotics I discovered the camp was empty and everyone had buggered off. Still feeling starving I took the opportunity to slowly but successfully eat a breakfast of painkillers and a yogurt from the Trek America trailer. My first sort of proper food since Vegas. Yogurt, it appears, was the way to go and I made a mental note to purchase some more later in the day.

I figured everyone had gone off on the hikes planned the previous evening. Myself and couple of others had planned to do a fairly nice hike to a place in the Grand Canyon called Skeleton Point. All the hikes are pre mapped out in a fair bit of detail so unless you possess no navigational skills at all it’s just a case of walking along the path until the sign that says ‘Skeleton Point’.

Having not seen the Grand Canyon yet (missed out on the sunset remember) I was eagerly anticipating the view from the top. Getting to the beginning of the trail involved a ride on the Grand Canyon shuttle bus, driven by the world’s most paranoid bus driver. I was waiting at the bus stop and as it pulled up I do that thing we all do for some reason and take a few steps in the direction of the bus as it’s moving towards us. Thinking about this now and i’m not really sure why we do this. Because we think we’ll get on the bus earlier and therefore reach our final destination in less time? Because we think walking a few steps towards the bus will in some way ‘help the bus driver out’? I’m not sure but I learnt that it’s definitely not the latter. I took two steps forward and suddenly an angry voice blasts over the bus’ external PA.

“DO NOT WALK TOWARDS THE BUS UNTIL IT HAS COME TO A COMPLETE STOP. ONLY ENTER THE BUS FROM THE FRONT DOORS.”

“Sorry” I muttered to the bus driver lady as I entered (through the front doors). Taking my seat near the back we headed on our journey through the pine forests towards the beginning of the trail. The bus driver took several opportunities to instruct passengers not to eat or drink on the bus, keep bags off the floor and never, ever leave anything in the aisle. Perhaps she used to drive an inner city school bus before transferring to ferrying tourists around National Parks because I think she was under the impression that we’d start opening the windows, climbing over the seats, shout and fight the second her back was turned. In fact i’d say we were a pretty reserved lot of passengers with me being the youngest by about 30 years. Possibly the only one there not on a retirement vacation.

As we approached the canyon itself I noticed an orange glow between the trees caused by the sun reflecting off the miles of orange rock that lay behind them.

You eventually reach the point where the treeline stops and sprawling out in front of you lies the grand canyon. When you reach that point you’re overcome by a sense of insignificance which i’d actually felt several times so far in the past week or so when visiting these natural (and in the case of Vegas, man-made) wonders of the American West. The Grand Canyon looks very much like it does in all the pictures you’ve seen. Although being american, it’s far bigger than you can possibly imagine. The banded sides of the canyon encompass the entire red, orange and yellow spectrum, the rock at the bottom being some of the oldest exposed rock on the planet.

The Canyon is not just made up of one canyon though. Cutting into it are huge side canyons that feature towering red rock monuments where the rivers meet. The South Kaibab trail that I was walking along started out in one such side canyon and the path made a steep descent down the side of one of the rock faces as it headed towards the main Canyon. This was the real American West. Cacti and tumbleweeds growing and blowing along the sides of the path and the intense heat from the sun beating down on you, the wilderness around you no doubt teeming with rattlesnakes, tarantulas and scorpions. Walking along this trail you eventually reach an unmarked viewpoint named ‘Ooh Ahh Point’. So called because this is the point where it opens out into the rest of the canyon and everyone ends up uttering the phrase “Ooh, Ahh” as they reach for their cameras.

The walk to Skelton Point was a much easier one than the epic hike in Yosemite a few days earlier. Sadly I was still in a fair bit of pain from the sore throat so it was difficult to fall completely in love with the place and fully appreciate it but it was still fairly stunning to behold. Looking far off into the depths of the Canyon you can just make out the Colorado river that’s been sculpting the rock for the last 17 million years. Numerous signs along the path warn visitors not to attempt hiking to the river and back in one day because of the risks of dehydration and exhaustion, which leads to deaths every summer.

Codeine time rolled around at 2pm and it sent me into an afternoon sleep on a rock on the Canyon rim. Probably one of my more spectacular dozing off locations. Eventually I set off back up the trail when I bumped into the rest of my group coming down the other way. Hiking alone is not so much fun so I turned around and hiked back to skeleton point along with Jacob, Rum, Elicia & Katherine and Anina. The route back was far more unforgiving than the way down. My knees remembered what i’d done to them a few days before in the Sierra Nevada mountains and protested profusely.

The need to keep hydrated was also a problem, what with my throat feeling like i’d inadvertently swallowed a lot of wire wool some point earlier. I’d taken a liking to lemon flavoured water during Trek America after inadvertently buying a pack in Wal-Mart on the first day and not realising it contained a splash de limon as the pack said. I ended up using the bottles as pain relievers for when I had to swallow some water. I’d take a sip of water, put the lid back on the bottle, and then simultaneously swallow the water and squeeze the bottle as hard as I could, thus slightly taking my mind off the pain that followed. Sort of like medieval physicians giving their patients something to bite on whilst they amputated limbs without anaesthetic. I do concede that perhaps that pain is somewhat worse than tonsilitis.

On the way back from our desert adventure we stopped off at the general store. Here I stocked up on various flavours of yogurt to make my breakfasts, lunches and dinners slightly more varied whilst the girls mulled over which little Grand Canyon ornaments they should buy for their loved ones back in down under land. I had a look to but unfortunately am rubbish at ornament buying and so if I were my loved ones, I wouldn’t count on getting Grand Canyon ornaments this Christmas.

On the final morning in Grand Canyon the rest of the group had elected to go on a helicopter ride over the Canyon. Despite it supposedly being a stunning way to see the Canyon in all it’s glory I was still feeling slightly bitter towards most things due to my throat  feeling like i’d been gargling battery acid. I wasn’t as in love with the Canyon as I was with Yosemite and was on a tight budget. (to Alan and Jocelyn, aka the father and sister managing my money and bank statements for me back home i’m sure it appears like i’m haemorrhaging  money all over the place, but I am honestly trying to be careful with it) I would instead decide instead to splash out on a scuba diving course in Honduras when my travels eventually took me that way.

Whilst they were flying overhead I took a trip to the nearby Imax cinema to watch a film on the Grand Canyon and waited around in McDonald’s for the group to return. Here I managed to drink an entire iced coffee with little difficulty. The antibiotics were beginning to do their job. I was particularly proud of this seemingly mundane feat which is why it gets a place right at the end of this blog entry.

Me bitching about my sore throat for 1443 words.

Travelling towards the Grand Canyon, tonsilitis in tow, I may well be the first person heading in that direction that was not the slightest bit interested in seeing what is often heralded as the greatest natural wonder on earth. My priorities were pain relief first, then, if there was time, 17 million year old stream and rock garden.

“Tonsilitis? Shit brother i’m sorry for you. That sucks” Mex replied when I advised him about my condition and subsequent desire to get an expensive medical professional to have a look at it. He wasn’t wrong. “There’s a clinic at Grand Canyon if you think you can hold out that long?” Inside a part of me was screaming a resolute ‘NO!‘, but it would have been a bit selfish to disrupt the itinerary that the other 12 had shelled out for and so I agreed and made a mental note to try not to use my throat muscles for the rest of the day.

At a routine Wal-Mart stop I attempted to eat an ice cream. Anything that wasn’t below 0°C or contained edges was a certain no go. Unfortunately even Ben and Jerries’ finest was rejected by my oesophagus and so I had to settle for just enjoying the taste of it instead. I was getting pretty hungry what with the last real meal being at least 20 hours previously. Watching the group return with shopping bags full of food for the evening’s meal was something of a low point for me.

Part of the journey to the Grand Canyon took us along historic Route 66 which used to be a major road connecting Chicago to LA. Since the birth of highways and freeways (aka motorways) however it’s now mainly used by people seeking an interesting road trip across the States.

As a result of it’s demise, many of the towns along Route 66 died a death as well. There are however a couple that have survived into the 21st century on the tourist dollar alone. One of which, Seligman, Arizona, we stopped off at to have a quick look round.

Seligman is a strange and eerie place. Almost every establishment along the ghost town street was a quirky Route 66 gift shop selling a bizarre array of tat to do with all things Americana. Inside, 50s rock ‘n roll songs played away on the jukebox as we walked the aisles wondering who buys half this stuff.

These vintage shops, the vintage owners manning them and the vintage Cadillacs parked up for photos along the street did make it all seem like you were stepping into a time warp. At the end of the street was the ‘Snow Cap’ where you could pick up a shake or sundae for the road. I boldly attempted a chocolate and malt shake and made a pretty good attempt at drinking it over the next hour or so but in the end had to admit defeat to the bacterial infection that was in residence.

We arrived at Grand Canyon National Park at about 5ish and the wait to hopefully get something to numb the pain was almost over. Whilst everyone else took a trip to the Canyon rim to watch the sunset and take photos I instead sat around in the clinic waiting room fiddling with a rubick’s cube that i’d bought for occasions such as these.

On entering the clinic I was all set with my travel insurance documents in hand hoping it would be a simple thing to organise. Although after working for an insurance company (big shout out to TWG, Motor Admin, Scott etc) I wasn’t holding out that much hope. Unfortunately it was worse than anticipated.

“We don’t deal with foreign insurance companies. You’ll have to pay now and claim it back later.” The lady at the counter said in a monotone voice. Well that’s just wonderful. I thought smiling back at her. I was given a lengthy couple of forms to fill in about previous medical history and what I thought was wrong with me and sat back down waiting for my name to be called.

When it eventually was called I was askedto take a seat in one of the medical rooms and a cheerful bloke with a stethoscope around his neck entered giving me a cheerful “Hi how’s it going?”

‘Oh just fine thanks. Had the option of going to watch the sun set over the Grand Canyon but heard it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be, whereas this clinic is mentioned in all the guidebooks.’ Is what I wanted to say, but instead I winced in pain at having to speak and mumbled something about my throat hurting. Unfortunately my ability to talk properly had vanished during the day and so whenever someone asked me something I took a few seconds to overcome the barbed wire in the throat feeling and come out with my reply in a sort of Dr Strangelove fashion.

The cheerful guy had a read through the papers I filled out and asked me exactly the same questions that i’d previously answered.

“Oh ok then, I think i’ve got a good idea of what’s going on. You sit tight and the doctor will be with you shortly.” He got up with his cheerful demeanour and both of them left the room.

Doctor? Who were you then? What was the point in you? I got the impression that his point may well have been to exist as something extra to put on my medical bill. The intervening moments between him and the actual doctor seemed to take a lifetime and the pain had reached a peak. Each swallow or neck movement resulting in someone aggressively shoving thistles and stinging nettles down my gullet. I had never felt worse.

Minutes pass and then in walks Dr Doroz with a choir of angels and a golden halo around her head. Dr Doroz asks me to take a seat on the bed,checks my vitals, has a peek at my throat and informs me that I do indeed have tonsilitis. She gives me codeine for the pain and a prescription for antibiotics. No alcohol for the next 10 days, by which time i’ll be in Mexico. Terrific.

After Dr Doroz and her choir of angels disappeared I head back over to ‘Monotone’ at the counter.

“The bill comes to $200 for the consultation, $10 for the codeine and $4 for the antibiotics to make a total of $214 for today sir. Please also note that the pharmacy is now closed so you’ll have to come back here tomorrow for the antibiotics.” $214?! What a hilarious joke. 23 years of my life i’ve spent in the UK… Why tonsilitis during the 2 months where i happen to be in a country where I have to pay for something that I think should be a basic human right. Hooray for the NHS. I obviously paid up, winced as the first codeine went down the hatch and waited for my lift back to the camp.

It gets pretty cold at night around Grand Canyon. -10°C anyone? There is however, something incredibly comforting about sitting round a camp fire with a bunch of others, when all around you the ground is freezing. The codeine managed to take away the wasp nest in the throat feeling although the rest of the pain stayed put. The cooking group had made burritos for dinner and I put a small amount on my plate hoping that i’d be able to man up and eat. I managed a mouthful or two before the tonsilitis decided enough was enough for the evening.

I sat there by the fire, unable to eat, unable to drink anything, let alone alcohol, and unable to talk. Desperately I wanted to do all three. Mex introduced the rest of the group to smores, which looked to me like the tastiest little creations imaginable. Get two crackers and some plain chocolate, toast a marshmallow and, when it’s ready, put it in between the crackers and chocolate (which subsequently melts). That dear friends, is a smore. Whether or not it is as tasty as it sounds I cannot say on account of being on the tonsilitis diet, but i’m betting that they most certainly are. I’m currently planning a little camping trip for my return to the FOD and smores will definitely be on the menu.

Finally after 2 nights of next to no sleep I got a few hours in at Grand Canyon. The codeine making me fall back into slumber pretty quickly after each painful awakening. Tomorrow I would start the antibiotics and hopefully begin my recovery. Maybe i’d go see the actual Grand Canyon as well, who knows?

The Valleys: Part 2

At 9pm we all met back in the motel lobby ready for the obligatory ride down the Vegas Strip in a limousine. The champagne was flowing, the phrase “Vegas Baby!” was shouted out numerous times and we stopped off at the famous ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada’ sign to have photos taken by an Elvis impersonator. Standard. No one was shy anymore and everyone had come out of their shells to have a good time. Andrew was given a Birthday Princess tiara to wear on account of just so happening to be celebrating his 30th birthday that day. Not a bad place to celebrate if you’re more used to going out in Swansea instead. Although perhaps Swansea rivals Vegas for a night out, I can’t really comment having never been, to Swansea.

The limo stopped off at Fremont Street, where the casinos used to be before the Strip took hold. Every evening there’s an impressive light and sound show projected up onto the covered walkway. On this particular occasion the theme was Queen (Freddie, Brian, Roger and John, not Elizabeth). After that spot of impressive entertainment it was onwards to the Strip.

We were dropped off at the Bellagio, just in time I think. The copious amounts of champagne drunk during the ride meant that by the end of the tour, all that anyone was thinking about before throwing their money away, was using the first available restroom (I mean toilet, obviously). Urinating on yourself is possibly acceptable at the end of a night in Las Vegas, but you don’t really want to be starting one out like that. After using the Bellagio’s excellent bathroom facilities we walked outside to watch their famous fountains. If you recall the scene in Ocean’s 11 where they stand in a line and watch these tall fountains dance about to music then this is what i’m talking about. The fountains do their thing every half hour to a different song each time. On this occasion it was to some horrific country song entitled ‘God Bless the USA’ which contains the fantastic lyric “But i’m proud to be an American, where at least I know i’m free.”… Crap song, incorrect grammar, but impressive fountain choreography.

Mex was leading us towards the Flamingo where there were some cheap drink offers or something. It was all going well up until this point. There we were, drinking our Newcastle Brown Ales (they love that stuff out here) when along comes a bouncer.

Now up until that point, Gowtham and Jacob had done alright in terms of not having to show IDs. Anyone can walk into a casino and gamble, and as long as you don’t make a scene or win, no-one’s going to bother you. Alcohol it seems, is another matter. The bouncer walks up to Gowtham.

“Excuse me sir, can I see some ID?”

“My ID? Ohh, well I don’t think I have it with me..” he replies.

“Be honest with me sir, are you 21?” Just be honest Gowtham.

“Yeah..” Everyone starts to cringe, “I must’ve left it in my hotel room.” Gowtham, it seems, learned his craft at the Keanu Reeves School of Theatre.

“Please come with us sir” and just like that he is being escorted away, not out of the casino, but into a back room. I was under the impression this sort of thing only happened in films but it seems I was mistaken. Another bouncer advises us that if one of us returns with his ID, showing he’s over 21, he’ll be ‘released’. Now last time I checked my bearings, we were some distance from Somalia and you couldn’t just go around seizing people like that unless you were the police. Mex realised this too and began to kick up a fuss about Gowtham’s captivity. It was a tense stand-off and our group was asked to leave. Thankfully negotiations proved succesful.

“You’re friend has been released. He’s on the sidewalk at the back of the building. He’s not welcome here any more.” Jacob and Mex go off to find our fallen comrade and the group begins to separate in order to explore the rest of the Strip. I find myself wandering about with Vince and the Australians, Elicia and Katherine.

People begin to complain of hunger and we go off in search of food. Some of the best chefs in America call Vegas home, and so with that in mind we umm and ahh and settle for the nearest McDonalds. It did the job, got rid of the hunger and so we were now ready to do some gambling.

“Vegas Baby!” etc etc

Teaching the Australians how to gamble was an eye watering experience for Vince and myself. Katherine put two $5 bills into a machine, pressed two buttons and her $10 magically turned into $0. Elicia took the altogether more tactical approach of rolling her hand across the buttons in no particular order. Her results weren’t much better and a few minutes later they officially announced their retirement from gambling.

Early in the morning and the others retired back to the motel. I decided to go and check out the Mirage and The Venetian down the other end of the Strip. First though, more food was in order, it now being 4am. Now I don’t know about you, but when i’m still awake at 4am the words $6 steak and eggs come to mind.

It was actually a surprisingly good $6 steak and the ice cold glass of coke felt good against my sore throat that had reared its ugly head again.

N.B. Americans fill their drinks with ice so that the content is usually more ice, than coke. It’s pretty amusing to make a drinks order and tack onto the end “only 3 ice cubes please” and watch the bemused expressions that follow..

Anyway, the meal was going well until I finished my coke. Suddenly the sore throat seems to go up a gear, each mouthful of steak and eggs becoming increasingly more painful. I order another coke but it’s not as effective second time around. In some discomfort I have to leave the rest of my meal uneaten, admit defeat and head back to the motel hoping I’ll feel better in the morning.

What follows is the onset of the worst sore throat I’ve ever had and an awful night’s sleep as a result. Every time I swallow I wake up in agonising pain and I resort to lying there awake for most of the night. Luckily most things in Vegas are open 24 hours and I take an early 7am walk to the nearest Walgreens pharmacy. The pharmacist hands me a whole heap of drugs and I wander down the early morning Strip clutching a throat spray, lozenges, ibuprofen and some antihistamines.

Needless to say, none of it worked. Usually with a sore throat, I take a couple of ibuprofens and my troubles are gone, but these weren’t even taking the edge off the pain. I pass the rest of the day sucking on ice cubes, trying to look forward to a comedy show that myself, the Australians and the other two English people, Laura and Noreen, had elected to go see that evening.

Vegas is almost as famous for it’s top class entertainment as it is for it’s gambling. Each casino spends buckets on getting the biggest and best acts to perform on their stage. Cirque du Soleil is present in numerous guises on the Strip and caters for whatever themed circus you happen to have a hankering for that evening. Over the top illusionist David Copperfield has a slot at the MGM Grand, The Lion King is showing at Mandalay Bay, and, for his legions of fans, Barry Manilow performs such hits as Copacabana, Mandy, Could it Be Magic and I assume he does other songs too.

Vince opted for the Lion King, Andrew and Rum chose a Cirque du Soleil show somewhere, the two Swiss twins, Anina and Flavia, and German girl Simone decided to go a bit cultural and watch the Chippendales and the Danes ended up at a strip club, naturally.

The comedy club we were going to belonged to Brad Garrett of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ fame and was situated in The Tropicana. My throat, whilst incredibly painful, had been numbed slightly by an ice cream i’d eaten 10 minutes before and so I was looking forward to having a few laughs.

On entering the club we were immediately seated on the front center table, about a foot away from the microphone. The danger of this became quickly apparent. We tried to think what possible come backs we could use when one of the comedians eventually decided to pick on the English guy sat between the too attractive Australian girls right at the front. It was a surefire recipe for disaster and ridicule and all three of us knew it. With the table behind still unoccupied we moved back a row, hopefully a little less conspicuous now.

The show was a hoot with all but one of the comedians being very funny. The group that chose to sit at the table we had previously vacated were getting ripped on left, right and center whilst we escaped the comedian’s gaze. The last guy in particular, Ralph (not Rolph) Harris had a hilarious act and was a terrific end to the proceedings.

Post comedy club and the girls decided that, rather than repeat their gambling failures from the night before, they instead wanted to find a club to dance around in. They chose a club on the ground floor of New York New York called Rok Vegas. They all got in for free on account of having breasts. Sadly i’d left my pair back at the motel and so had to pay $10 to get in. They all got free champagne. I paid $10 for a drink. Joy. It was an alright club, and being Vegas there was a pretty impressive video wall where it was all synced to the music.

Soon they decided to move on to the club upstairs. This place was an altogether dirtier affair with attractive ladies dancing on the bar and free shots for those girls in the audience who got up and joined them. Vince met up with us to watch the spectacle unfold. One particular girl was a bit on the tres grande side. The compere girls on numerous occasions, got her to stand on the bar and “Shake what she got”. She did indeed got a lot to shake.

“Eurgh, zat girl, I do not know why zay let ‘er get on zee bar, she was deezguzting no?” Vince said in his post match analysis. I couldn’t really argue with it to be fair.

Unfortunately at this stage the sore throat situation was deteriorating rapidly and I had resorted to buying glasses of coke at $5 a pop, purely so I could suck on the ice cubes contained within. Despite being fully aware that all that lay ahead was another sleepless night, I resigned myself to the fact that I was unable to party any longer whilst I was in that much pain.

True to form I didn’t get a wink of sleep and it was becoming clear to me that this was not your bog standard sore throat. By the next morning I was able to say with some confidence, that it was the worst pain I had ever experienced and none of the drugs that i’d spent my Vegas money on were doing anything. I would’ve happily traded that throat pain for a broken ankle or pepper spray in the eyes.

Scouring the internet lead to the most likely culprit of my discomfort, good old tonsilitis. With each inevitable swallow filling me with dread and causing me to wince severely in pain I knew I had to cave in and put myself in the hands of the infamously expensive American Healthcare system..

The Valleys: Part 1

I jest of course with my previous post. My life isn’t nearly exciting enough to warrant use of the phrase. But Las Vegas was indeed an incredible and unforgettable experience, up to a point…

I awoke in my tent in Bishop, miraculously with no hangover except for a slightly niggling sore throat. Not enough to cause any particular bother. Secure in the knowledge that we were on our way to Las Vegas that day, a city i’d heard a lot about from my time as an internet poker geek, there was not a whole lot that was going to bring me down.

A few hours of sleeping on the minibus later, and I awake again, this time to the sounds of Elvis Presley singing Viva Las Vegas over the minibus sound system. Looking out of the window was the harsh desert environment that is Death Valley. Far off in the distance on the horizon however, the huge man-made silhouettes of the Las Vegas casinos and hotels were slowly coming into view. The ‘ball on a stick’ shape of the Stratosphere, the enormous outline of the MGM Grand and the Great Pyramid of Nevada, belonging to the Luxor Hotel and Casino.

Most of the casinos that you will have heard of, i.e. those featured on Oceans 11, are all situated on one street in particular, known as the ‘Las Vegas Strip’. Along this huge stretch of road you’ll find such entertainment meccas as The Venetian, The Mirage, The MGM Grand, Paris, New York New York, The Flamingo, The Tropicana, Monte Carlo, Caesar’s Palace, Excalibur, the list does go on and on from here. Each of these hotel casinos is enormous. You could fit dozens of football (real football) fields on the floorspace that these concrete giants occupy, and on the floors above there are thousands of hotel rooms.

The enormity of these complexes means that simply deciding to ‘go next door’ is not a decision to be taken lightly. If you definitely do want to move on down to the next casino on the strip then understand that, like most things in Vegas, the odds are against you. First you have to get out of the casino you’re in. This is easier said than done and first involves navigating your way past a plethora of distractions, because, believe it or not, casinos are full of things to see and do. Table games such as roulette or blackjack, hundreds of slot machines blinking and jingling at you hypnotically and scantily clad waitresses handing out margaritas for tips, to name but a few.

Casinos are designed to keep you in. They don’t want you going next door to spend your money obviously. As such the floor plans resemble labyrinths, and maps are few and far between and in many cases, don’t label the exits. (I am curious as to what they’d do if there was a fire). The astute observer will also notice that there are no windows or clocks in the casinos. The idea being that any time of the day is a good time to indulge in Vegas excess. In fact, forget about the concept of time and days completely. 9pm is 4am is 12pm. In Las Vegas it’s all the same.

So if you do make it past all of the above and out onto the Strip, you’ll now be part of the throngs of slow walking tourists that line the streets night and day. You can see next door’s casino, it’s right there, but first you have to walk past the casino complex you’ve just exited. Recall that it’s the size of a few football pitches and realise that there’s a fair bit of walking to be done.

Now they don’t really do pedestrian crossings on the Strip. Instead you cross the roads by walking across foot bridges that cross over each intersection. Despite not having to wait for the little green man to appear, the foot bridges do take a fair bit of time to get across. There’s a fair few steps to climb for one thing, and then when you’re on the bridge, who can resist the urge to add a few more blurred snaps of the Strip illuminations to your camera. For the record, taking good pictures of night-time illuminations is basically impossible.

Cross the bridge, make it through all the attractive crap that they stick out the front of these adult playgrounds such as fountains, restaurants and street performers and well done, you’ve completed your own version of Oceans 11 and gone next door. On average it probably takes at least 15 minutes every time you want to do that. So you’d better hope it’s a good casino.

There are no campsites that I know of in Vegas so we were instead staying at a rather nice motel one block from the Strip, behind the ‘Paris’ casino.

On arrival it turns out that half the rooms are still being prepared by housekeeping. Being gentlemen we let the ladies have the available rooms and we’re left with 45 minutes to kill. In Sin City though, even off the Strip you’re never too far from a casino. In this case there happened to be one attached to the motel itself. It seemed appropriate at 2:45pm to use those spare minutes and take our first foray into Vegas gambling.

Compared to the giants on the Strip this casino was pretty tiny. For our first taste of Las Vegas however it was still an illuminating experience. The small gambling hall was packed with slot machines and video poker games. There was also the odd blackjack table and a busy bar in the center of the room. Going to the bar need not be a dull experience in Vegas though, to keep you entertained they have slot machines built into the bar itself.

So there we were, standing amongst it all going on around us. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to get started. The question was who to give our money to first. Andrew opted for the bar and disappeared to get a first Vegas beer. Vince also disappeared into the maze of slot machines and Rum was probably taking photos of something somewhere. I decided to do the honours of putting the first Trek America dollar into a video poker machine.

A minute of fairly random button pushing later and I was up 20 cents, early retirement fast becoming a real possibility.

A minute after that and that dollar twenty had disappeared, as well as another dollar that was independent from the first…

“Hey check that out, just won eight bucks on that machine there” says Andrew, returning with his beer. I’m in awe and suddenly his success makes it hard not sit back down at a machine and keep playing. It was time to go back however and so we wandered over to the machine Vincent was sitting at in the corner of the room. The Danes mentioned he was doing quite well.

Quite well?! The Parisian was up $50 from the $1 he put in originally.

“I do not know what ‘appened” the lucky sod exclaimed. “I just put in zee dollar an zee machine…it just went crazy, and zee waitress, she bought me a margarita and I only ‘ad to tip ‘er. C’est excellent, no?” It most certainly was.

Prising Vince away from that slot machine took some doing. “I will be zer in a minute, jus let me ‘av one more go..” Vince actually works for a French investment bank in New York, instrumental in the financial crisis a few years back. This probably explains why he was in his element gambling with reckless abandon.

Vince and I were roommates for our time in Vegas and, after putting our bags in the room, we were straight out the door on our way to get a taste of the Strip. The closest big casino to our motel was ‘Paris’, and seeing as Vincent was from actual Paris, it seemed like a logical starting point. Paris is called Paris because on the inside and outside it looks like, Paris. So much so that the inside is all decked out to look like Parisian streets, complete with cobbled floors, French architecture and some Creperies thrown in for good measure. Out the front is a slightly scaled down replica f the Eiffel Tower. Scaled down or not it’s still pretty big, and if you’re a high roller you can pay to go up to the top for an expensive meal and fantastic view of the Strip.

Like Paris, all the big casinos have themes of their own and the casino designers go all out to impress the public. Both Vegas and New Orleans are on pretty much the same level when it comes to sin, excess and partying. But where New Orleans is a cheap and dirty (in all senses of the word) good time, you get the impression that with Vegas, no expense has been spared. Everything is of the highest quality. The hotels, the food, the decor and the entertainment. It is of course, incredibly tacky in places. Excalibur for example is designed to look like a fairytale castle. But nowhere does it come across as cheap.

That’s not to say you can’t enjoy Las Vegas on a budget. Obviously the more money you have then the more things that are available for you to do, but for the most part the casinos cater for everyone. Nice motel rooms can cost as little as $30 a night and slot machines start at a 1 cent per bet limit. The food in Vegas is some of the best in the world but you can also stop by ‘Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon’ for a $6 steak between midnight and 8am. Even the shows aren’t that expensive. This is thanks to a number of ‘Half Price Ticket’ shops along the Strip selling discount tickets to the famous Vegas shows.

After waltzing around Paris for a bit, Vince and I came across Andrew & Rum outside the MGM Grand. We popped into the MGM to have a look around. Inside there’s a $9 million lion enclosure where you can watch some of the casino’s lions enjoy their luxury accommodation. Like I said, no expense spared.

As well as being good for gambling, food and shows, Las Vegas is also pretty good for theme park rides. New York New York was just over the street and featured a rather exciting looking roller coaster that weaved in and out of the slightly scaled down replica of the Manhattan skyline. At $14 a ride it was a tad pricey, but then you’re not in Vegas everyday and it’s certainly not a city where you want to have your mind on your money. Think about that when you’ve left Vegas.

Viva Las Vegas

We all know that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas..

Sierra Nevada and the joys of Camping.

The stunning surroundings of Yosemite are all part of the equally beautiful and expansive Sierra Nevada region of Northern California. We were lucky enough to take a trip along the Tioga Pass that cuts through the Sierra Nevada mountains. I say ‘lucky’ because the pass is usually closed to traffic soon after the first snow fall in October. The pass had already experienced some snow a few weeks previously so we were unsure whether we’d be able to go across it until the morning of leaving Yosemite.

Tioga Pass is just another of those spectacular routes that California seems to be full of. You go from the bottom of the valley in Yosemite, to driving along past the peaks of the dome-shaped mountains I mentioned in the previous blog post. Before long you’re weaving in between rivers, lakes and snow-capped mountains on the way to the desert state of Nevada.

One particular place of interest that we stopped at for lunch was Mono Lake. Mono Lake is not an ordinary lake. If it was an ordinary lake I wouldn’t bother to write about it. Mono Lake is a hypersaline lake which, to non lake aficionados means that it’s got a lot of salt in it. As a result there’s not a whole lot living in the lake as far as fish go. It does however have a fairly vibrant ecosystem in terms of bacteria, flies and the birds that eat the flies. The earth around the edge of the lake looks black compared to the sandy surroundings of the desert. It then becomes clear on approaching the lake that the black colouring is due to the millions upon millions of flies sitting at the water’s edge. Walking amongst them and you really are Lord of the Flies as they swarm around your feet, parting for you like Moses and the Red Sea.

The stillness of the lake was echoed in the surrounding area. The sound of the swarming flies being the only thing I heard at Mono Lake. Way out in the middle of nowhere it has to be the quietest place i’ve ever been. No traffic sounds, no distant planes overhead, no “Oh my gawd this lake is sooo quiet! Hey Jerry, isn’t this lake just the quietest?! This is soo much quieter than the lake back home isn’t it?!” from any American tourists parked up in their 40ft Winnebagos. Hold your breath and stand away from the flies and you’ll hear genuine silence.

Now we were camping that night in a place called Bishop on the other side of the Tioga Pass. A fairly unremarkable place considering it’s surroundings, but a necessary stop over on the way to that jewel in the desert that is Las Vegas. It did make for some good camping though.

I hadn’t been a huge camping fan up until this trip. But I would now go so far as to say that it was this back to basics element that made the Trek America tour all the more fun. You can’t really retire to your hotel room when you’re out in the wilderness and so are instead forced to interact with your co-travellers in the evenings, making for a far more interesting trip.

For starters the group is divided into several smaller groups of three. Every day each group has a different task. It might be cleaning the van, waking everyone else up, doing the cooking or washing up. I volunteered at the start of the trip to be in charge of loading and unloading the trailer, what with my past experience as a band roadie. Because of this I was exempt from all jobs, but got to enjoy watching everyone else fretting over what to cook, or struggling to wash up the cooking group’s plates and saucepans. But it’s group tasks like this that provoke interaction and the evening meal was always an enjoyable occasion.

The other conversation and entertainment provoking situation was naturally drinking. What with a fairly diverse international representation in the group I now have the rules of various drinking games from various parts of the world (mostly Denmark to be honest) written down in the back of my notepad ready for introduction in back in the UK.

Bishop saw Mex introduce us to a great American institution in College life however. The institution of Beer Pong. Perhaps you’ve played this before at university, but it’s an American invention and was new to me and the rest of the group. Essentially it’s the greatest game in the world, both for participation, and spectating, this is particularly the case when the game gets down to the final stages.

Basically what it involves, without going too much into the nuances of the rules, is trying to throw a ping-pong ball, into one of the opposing team’s cups, which contain beer. Get the ball in the cup and team has to drink the beer. They can’t just be any cups apparently, according to Mex. It’s not proper beer pong unless you’re using Solo brand plastic cups. Solo cups are the red ones you see all the time in the movies when the scene is set at an American house party.

My description of the game is pretty basic, and there are a few caveats to the rules where you can make the other team drink two, and in some cases three cups if you’re particularly skillful. Obviously the more you drink, the harder it becomes to hit cups and eliminate them from the game. It usually comes down to both teams having one cup left on the table trying to eliminate that final cup in order to win. Let me tell you that there’s nothing more tense than the final rounds of a beer pong game. Each throw results in cries of agony as throws narrowly miss the target and play crosses over to their opponents, giving them the chance to wrap up proceedings with a well placed throw.

I was teamed up with Mex in the first few games, naturally our opponents were the Danes, Gowtham and Jacob. Now i’m not really sure what happened to be honest. On paper a beer pong analyst would declare the Danes the winners in all games played. Possibly because they did indeed win all of the games played. But let me tell you that it was much closer than that and really Mex and myself were just incredibly unlucky, and had the wind against us. Several times we had them down to one cup, but they just came back from nowhere to fluke a win. They did this several times in succession.

Further games were played throughout the night with the teams being mixed around somewhat. Me and Mex eventually tasting victory against the Danish-Korean powerhouse that was Gowtham and Rum. There was also an appearance from the England team as me and Londoner, Laura, teamed up to take on Gowtham and Vince (I think? But by this time beer pong was beginning to take its toll). An unknown number of beer pong games later and I was all but wiped out. I think we’ll put it solely down to exhaustion because I felt strangely compelled to take an early bath and retire to my tent. The less said about all that, the better.