‘The paedophile used a parrot to lure children to a secluded spot, where he’d molest them.’ – American News Reader.

The drive to LA was largely uneventful until we arrived. Then it quickly became a series of jump outs to enquire whether or not that particular Motel had any rooms. They did not. Until we arrived at a pleasant little place which was also sorry to inform me that they didn’t have any rooms but that they did know a place that had a vacancy. One phone call and an efficient series of wrong turns later we arrived. At $70 dollars a night, it was the most expensive place we had stayed so far in the US, but, needs must and we gratefully accepted the keys from the man in the open dressing gown, the vest and the boxers before dragging our bags into the room. It wasn’t the nicest place. For one, it had a colony of Ants leading onto and off of a large brown stain which was half in and half out of the stinking bathroom. The sheets were a different shade of brown than the stain on the floor, but brown nonetheless and there was a pane of glass missing from the window. Emma and I scanned the room, seeing everything at exactly the same time before looking at each other with horrified expressions. Not only that, but there was a fucking parrot in the room next door and it was making a bloody racket all night.

The next day, the screeching of the parrot still ringing in our ears, we moved to a hostel on Venice Beach, which was a lot better. We dumped our bags and went for a walk along the promenade. Oh the humanity. Rollerblading cats being dragged by their owners as they skateboard along in a pair of stonewashed hotpants past the stall owners who proclaimed themselves to be ‘Kush Doctors’ – this being California, the same rules apply here as in San Francisco where cannabis is concerned – people dressed in every conceivable get up are parading their individuality up and down Venice beach. The place has a horribly fascinating aspect to it, as well as good bars, hustlers, players, the world famous ‘Muscle Beach’ and highly competitive games of Basketball, Handball and ‘guess where the ball is when I move these three cups around’. In a lot of ways it looks like the recreation yard at Pelican Bay. You’ll only get that reference if you have watched ‘America’s Hardest Prisons’ but I make no apology for it. We spent a lot of time there and, barring certain places in India, is my number one spot for people watching in any of the countries we’ve visited so far.

On our return to the hostel we got a couple of beers and went to the common area to drink them. We came in as the news was starting and in between the post Oscars chatter there was a story regarding a paedophile, now thought to be in the Los Angeles area, who was easily recognisable by the fact that he often walked along nearby Long Beach with a parrot on his shoulder. We both thought back to the previous night’s sleeplessness. The co-incidence was too great, surely not? The story continued and in rip roaring American broadcasting style ‘The paedophile used a parrot to lure children to a secluded spot, where he’d molest them.’ Should we call the police? Na, fuck it. We’re off to Rio in two days, what we should do, is get more beers before the shops shut. So we did.

The next day we took two buses, the car was parked in a non paying zone and we didn’t dare move it for fear of losing the spot, to Hollywood and walked along looking at the stars with people’s names written in them. That was pretty much that in Hollywood. I don’t know exactly what we were expecting, but whatever it was, we thought it would be better than that. So back to Venice Beach for some more gawping at the weirdos , a good old fashioned American bar meal and then bed. My cousin Marianne lives in LA with her husband Jose and their son Romain, possibly one of the cutest kids in the whole American continent, not too far from Venice Beach and we went round to hers for a delicious meal, probably the healthiest thing we ate during the entirety of our trip around the states and some excellent chat and insight into the LA way of life. A good evening was had by all and if you’re reading this Marianne, Emma and I would like to thank you once again!

The next day, our last in the US, was spent rollerblading from Venice to Santa Monica. I bought a silver banana hammock for the journey but Emma stopped me from pairing it with my rented rollerblades for an ensemble that really wouldn’t have looked that out of place next to some of the get up these uber cool LA hipsters were wearing without any hint of shame or irony. We had a nice blade around until we saw a bar offering some crazy deals on giant, American sized Margheritas. We met some characters in that place. One gay 40 something took a shine to Emma’s front boobs whilst we watched one of the cheesiest men in the United States chat up a girl. “Are you spiritual at all?” He asked. I involuntarily laughed at this toe curling attempt at painting himself as some kind of guru in the pursuit of ‘tail’ as the Americans charmingly refer to fanny. Even the flamboyant gay guy raised an eyebrow, but I think his face may have been permanently frozen in that position.

After returning the skates we inadvertently stumbled onto the set of the American Torchwood filming on the beach, we only realised when the director came round to tell people what position to sit in as the wind whistled around the goose pimpled extras. “Are you with us?” He shouted. “Na” I replied. “LOVE IIIIT!” he stated before carrying on back to the cameras for another take. It was about then that we took our leave. After all, we were heading to Rio de Janeiro the next day and the flight was by no means direct, so we headed on back and packed our bags in readiness for the next stage of the trip. South America and Carnivale.

‘California’s nice but I like seasons’ – ‘So do I, that’s why I live in a place that got rid of all the shitty ones’ – Daniel Tosh (Continued)

We left San Francisco in the rain and were able to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge to view the full majesty of SF as well as Alcatraz in the blazing sunshine about a mile and a half away. Evidently, SF has its own meteorological prerogative and just refuses to fall into line with the rest of California like some kind of non conforming, LSD quaffing poet. I should point out that the view’s pretty nice once you’re over there.

We drove down the coast and gradually the built up areas thinned out and we were soon catching our first glimpses of the Pacific, and SF’s suburbs eventually became distinct towns and then we took our first stop. Santa Cruz. We were nearing the end of February and as such the normally bustling, college town of Santa Cruz was lacking its usual party spirit. An old wooden rollercoaster dominated it’s skyline and loomed imperiously over a rubbish beach which we went and sat on, almost out of a sense of duty, before wandering around its almost closed theme park. I say almost closed because we did stumble upon the most elaborate crazy golf course I’ve ever seen. With its Pirate theme and animatronic figures popping out from boxes it looked more like a Disney ride. It beats the UK ones hands down, where a badly made windmill with blades that don’t even turn pass for an activity worth £4.

The next day we drove into Monterey Bay, an upmarket resort town which we arrived, ascertained that we couldn’t stay there (even the Super 6 Motel was over $100, little in joke for all the American travelling salesmen reading this) and walked along the boardwalk before getting back in the car and driving to Big Sur National Park. We didn’t stay there long, I have to be honest. Drove in, looked for somewhere to swim, saw that the river looked like it would certainly take both of our lives should we be stupid enough to get in it and left before hitting the Pacific Highway, where the views suddenly got excellent.

Now that I’ve worked out how to put photos on I no longer have to bother describing anything anymore. Needless to say, we drove and round each bend came yet more breathtaking views.

We, or I should say, Emma, drove a long time that day, so far, that we had to kind of make an emergency stop a nightfall in an unapologetic college town, where the barmen in every bar we visited that night, looked and behaved like Stiffler from American Pie. The drinks were not cheap and the people, despite their perfectly straight, white, plastic teeth, weren’t really my cup of tea. But then most people aren’t. The next day, we went to the public library to use their internet and after ascertaining that there weren’t any rooms available, we didn’t let that phase us and battered on straight through to LA regardless.  The lack of accommodation would be an inconvenience, but would also lead us to within a hairs breadth of catching a wanted, Long Beach paedophile in a Motel just off Sunset Boulevard. Well, kind of.

‘California’s nice but I like seasons’ – ‘So do I, that’s why I live in a place that got rid of all the shitty ones’. - Daniel Tosh

After picking up a new and much worse hire car from the MGM Grand it was a long drive to Shoshone, a tiny hamlet with one motel, some trailers and a bar/diner that seemed only to sell Hash Browns. We arrived late after stopping in numerous other hamlets, each with fewer amenities than the last. Shoshone was the last stop off before entering the Death Valley National Park, a fact it seemed to be almost arrogant about, judging by the cost of the petrol, water and sandwiches available at the only store for 50 miles.

Death Valley, if you aren’t acquainted with it, is the hottest place on earth. It has the highest year round average temperature and was pipped by Libya for the highest ever recorded temperature (57°C if you’re wondering) as well as this inhospitable claim to fame it is also the lowest point on earth, 287m below sea level to be exact and within this hellish basin is contained impressive salt flats, cacti and various scurrying rodents and carnivorous birds who pick clean the skulls of deer and other unfortunate beasts who wander unaccompanied into a very bad time indeed. The park itself was massive, despite looking like the much quicker route to Bakersfield on the map the 30mph speed limits and exceptionally law abiding New Jersey and New England tourists made for another long days driving and we gratefully pulled into a crap Motel for some rest in Bakersfield before Emma steeled herself for the drive to the first major city we’d been to since New Orleans – San Francisco.

San Francisco is notorious in the rest of the US for the lack of kerbside parking, as well as the sheer expense of it, with space at a premium the cost of a days parking can be upwards of $9 an hour, a cost we could not accommodate given our limited budget so we set out with gritted teeth to look for one of the rarer than a Golden Eagle free spaces the woman at the front desk of our hostel had told us about. Although she did say ‘There’s so few of them they might as well not exist’ That’s good then. She told us where there was one and we went to look for it. ‘It should be painted green.’ She told us. We found the right street but each parking bay was of a depressing uniformity. Standard grey. I asked someone who looked like he may own a shop on the street. ‘Do you know if it’s OK to park here?’ I asked. He looked at me, blinked twice and without saying a word started dragging a motorcycle out of the way and gesturing for Emma to pull into the space it had left. ‘Thank you, thank you so much’ I said, he had after all, saved us about $250 dollars in parking over the three days we planned to stay there. He gave me a huge smile and waved his hand at me before scurrying back into his shop. ‘I think I just met the best man in the whole of the United States’ I told Emma as we took our bags up to the hostel.

Now, we’ve all seen the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz and that twisty road that featured in Bullit (I think) but what you won’t have seen unless you’ve visited certain parts of California, is the extremely laid back view that Californians take towards Cannabis, The Chronic, Sweet Mary Jane, Ganja, The ‘Erb, Marijuana, Puff, Weed or whatever else you kids are calling it nowadays.

The thing that made it so surprising, was coming so recently from States like Texas and Nevada where possession results in instant chemical castration and over 500 years in prison. Everyone was smoking mad blunts -On the way to work, dropping off their kids at day care, bus drivers, hipsters, doctors and tourists all at it - So that’s an exaggeration, of course, and what, I hear you ask, can you expect from a place that basically spawned American counter culture – Ken Keasey, Jack Kerouack, the Merry Pranksters and LSD all originated here – but the smell of it permeates the city, it’s even more prevalent than Amsterdam. The reason for this is a legal grey area and a source of much debate for San Franciscans. It remains illegal at a Federal level, meaning the FBI could basically close San Francisco down should the need arise, but on a state level, it is absolutely legal as long as you can prove that you have Glaucoma or a bad back or bunions (that’s not even a joke) to a doctor who will then write you a legal, over the counter prescription to be filled at a state sanctioned Marijuana ‘facility’.

That there, is how they roll (pun) in San Fran. Apparently they hate it when you call it San Fran. A lesson I learned the hard way in a bar on South Progress Street, a bar with over 150 beers on tap, putting to bed once and for all the myth that Americans only drink Coors Light, Bud Light and in certain states (Alabama)exclusively a home brewed 96% distilled spirit called Hooch. The Micro Brewing scene is thriving, particularly on the West coast and we sampled a great deal of them whilst chatting to a restaurant manager and head chef about subjects ranging from gun control, the cannabis question and why it’s frowned upon to call their city ‘San Fran’.  Don’t ask me the reason, I’d forgotten a minute after they’d told me but the main thing is that I won’t make that mistake again. Even, if I don’t know why.

We spent a number of very enjoyable afternoon hours in that bar, due to the fact that San Francisco - once again bucking the trend set by the rest of California; 75°F and sunny, every, single, day – was under a slow moving sheet of grey drizzle, which, in one of the very few walking cities in the US, was a real pain. We persevered anyway trudging from landmark to landmark in the rain like arseholes until nightfall when we found ourselves in China Town.  There’s only so many Tsing Tao you can drink however and we eventually returned to our hostel, the Green Turtle, drunk as bastards and went to sleep. The next day was more of the same if I remember correctly except that we ended the evening listening to some pretty good live bands in a few bars with some people we’d met at our hostel. A good night was had by all and we slept soundly for the drive south, towards LA, via the spectacular Highway 1.

How to beat the Casinos.

The air in the car was one of excitement as we started seeing the first Casinos in Nevada, big, tacky overlit Bastions, declaring Cabaret and all you can eat buffets started to appear on the horizon once we passed the Hoover Dam, the enormous feat of human engineering that marked the boundary between Arizona and Nevada. We also gained an hour, as the time zone shifted from Mountain to Western time. We came into Vegas at dusk, the lights were coming on just as we arrived onto the strip and tried to locate our respective hotels, Pat and Judge in the old school Circus Circus Casino, made famous by Jonny Depp hallucinating out of his tits in the film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which was about a mile and a half away from the main strip and Emma and I in the Imperial Palace, no less old school but right in the thick of the action, our balcony overlooked the Bellagio fountains and was closer still to some kind of outdoor club which played obscenely loud music until 4am every morning. No matter, we thought, we are in Vegas after all.

We met Pat and Judge, still sweating from their trek from Circus Circus and immediately embarked on a $1 frozen Margerita binge. This was to set the tone of our Vegas experience, the cheaper the better. The first night was a quiet affair and we split up at about midnight, Pat and Judge, after making sure they had enough water and hiring a guide so as not to get lost on the impressively long walk back to their hotel said goodbye and we got some beers in and went back to the room to watch how to play all the different variations of Poker and listen to the thumping Usher medley being played in the tent club just outside our balcony.

The next morning Emma and I awoke to the eerie quiet of no Usher and left our room to go out and try to find some natural light. As we made our way through the casino it was remarkably similar to when we had previously walked through it at midnight the evening before. A Tina Turner lookalike belted out Simply the Best before climbing off the stage and taking over from Lady Gaga on a blackjack table and dealing to the vacant eyed patrons who looked like they may not have seen their rooms that night. All the tables were full and almost everyone had a drink in front of them. Welcome to Vegas.

We went outside, blinking in the sunlight and got ourselves a beer, crossing the road we were just about to enter the Bellagio when I spotted Dog the Bounty Hunter chatting to someone at the entrance. If you’re not familiar with him then that’s your loss, the guy is a HERO. His golden mullet spilling onto his well muscled shoulders was just as I remembered it from the Bravo marathons I used to do as an unemployed gentleman. Best day of my life. I didn’t have the balls to go and speak to him so we went into the Casino and had a wander. The place is incredible, we walked past the $200 tables with little Chinese guys in suits betting more in one hand than we spent on a month’s accommodation in Bolivia, people playing that dice rolling game the rules of which may as well have been written in Hindi for al I understood them, but people seemed to be having a lovely time nonetheless. Eventually we entered the famous Bellagio buffet, the biggest all you can eat buffet in the world. We had many a discussion on how they could possibly run it at a profit and came to the conclusion that it was impossible. A sushi chef hand rolling sushi to order, Fillet steak, Pork Belly and gourmet Pizza sat side by side with Mountains of king prawn and lobster with about a hundred other things for you to eat in between. It was impossible not to feel guilty at the unashamed excess on display. I’m writing this in India and having seen full families sleeping on a blanket next to some of the busiest roads on the planet I can’t help but feel ashamed to the core of my being. Luckily, I’d never been to India at the time and I gorged myself with the other pigs blissfully unaware of what a horrible person I’d inadvertently become. It got to the stage, and I’m not proud of this, where I was filling a plate with steak among other things and eating only the pink bit of the medium rare cut of meat before discarding the ‘wastage’ and going up for yet another plate. After the first I wasn’t even hungry, any more, after the second dish piled high with all sorts of delicious stuff it was actually painful to eat and after the third, well I was actually worried about what was going to happen to me when I finally attacked the desert shelves. I stumbled out of there clutching my stomach and groaning in very real pain. Emma looked at me in disgust, shaking her head and scolding me like she’d caught me stealing 2 quid out of her purse, not angry, just disappointed.  And all this cost was 20 of your American dollars. Once I’d regained the ability to walk we carried on into the casino and going  entirely against the spirit of Vegas parked ourselves on the penny slots and did not leave until we were niiiice and toasty, me on free coronas, her on free double cosmopolitans. If you’re interested, we ended up about $16 dollars up with these pathetic, frugal bets so in your enormous bloated face Vegas, we took on your casinos and WON!

The next day, by way of an activity, we made our way down the strip to Glitter Gulch in downtown Vegas, this is where the glory days of Vegas took place, the Vegas of legend and folklore where the gangsters ruled with impunity. It’s obviously not like that anymore, but still definitely worth a visit, the main strip where the battered old casinos, very obviously from the 70’s, scream at you for your business like tired 65 year old whores. The ceiling of the whole complex, lights up all day, trying it’s hardest not to look like the Rock’s skinny, balding cousin in comparison to the recent billion dollar refurbs that the strip has had in the past 5 years.

On our penultimate day, we had to up and leave the gloriously decrepit  Imperial Palace and carry our enormous rucksacks over the road into Caesers Palace, where due to the fact that people at Emma’s work actually valued her contribution, they had bought her a night in one of the major casinos of my choice. We went in early to leave our bags with the bellhop and see whether or not we could check in. We couldn’t so we went to try and find a waitress on the penny slots. We returned to reception, dragging our rucksacks past the tanned, fit and above all, rich clientele that usually frequents the lobby of such an establishment and, half cut from yet more free, penny slot beers, started trying to lay our ‘free upgrade’ spiel on Jason, who looked like a cage fighter in a suit. He was having absolutely none of it and Emma and I looked at each other with a disappointed face. Once the check-in was complete, Jason placed the key on the counter in front of us and said ‘So, I’ve given you guys a sweet upgrade’ He really did emphasise the ‘sweet’ like that. And he wasn’t lying. We arrived at the door and put the key in the lock. The door opened into a corridor which as we alked down it, opened out into a fucking SWEET room indeed. A Jacuzzi in the bathroom facing a flatscreen TV, a huge double bed in a room bigger the than the entire ground floor of my house with the window on one side facing out to the pools and the window on the other facing out onto the strip. I’m not lying when I say it was much better than an ETAP.

We really didn’t make the most of that room, apart from a Jacuzzi at 4am we just went out and found the most hospitable waitress, by that I mean one who didn’t get pissed off when she realised that we had blatantly not put another dollar into the bandit since the last beer we had about 7 minutes ago.

All in all Vegas was amazing, but I have to say, I’d love to go for two weeks with 3 grand to waste. Then I might have something else to feel bad about apart from gorging myself on fatty foods. Next stop, Californ I A.

I'm not paying 70 dollars for that......

In a rare act of altruism Judge left us in our Fort Stockton Motel to go and get the problematic Goodyear Interceptor fitted and it was later that morning that we left in high spirits to make our way to Flagstaff, the last populous town before the Grand Canyon. It was a long journey, one that took us through New Mexico and Arizona the temperature steadily dropping all the way as we rose in altitude steadily all the way to Flagstaff, a nondescript town, very similar to a lot of others in the States which when we arrived was under about three feet of snow. After the laborious all day drive we were more than ready for bed which we gratefully fell into without the regulation 5 or 6 beers to which we had become accustomed.

The next day was a trip of around 80 miles to the entrance of the Grand Canyon National Park. As we drove from Flagstaff the scenery gradually became more Canyon-like and the earth changed to the familiar red colour we all associate to the Grand Canyon through years of having seen it in Books and on TV, the temperature did not rise with the altitude and we stepped out of the car at the first look-out point to a fairly chilly 3°C. It shouldn’t have surprised us as everywhere we had been thus far, barring Terlingua which had been freakishly hot had fallen victim to the US’ worst snowstorms in 40 years, the inclement weather had been following us from New York and wasn’t about to stop here.

Despite the fact that we’d all seen the Grand Canyon before numerous times in both still and moving images the view was truly spectacular, it is over a mile deep and over 4 miles wide in places and gives such a breathtaking sensation of space where it drops off into nothing that any doubts about whether or not it had been worth the trip, fell away into the void. I could write a flowery and descriptive piece about the different colours that played about the shadows which moved with the sun, about how the whole thing was a deeply spiritual and moving experience but, I’m not a homosexual poet, so I won’t.

We stayed most of the day moving from look out to look out getting different perspectives of the world’s largest overwater canyon. We had read of the Skywalk, which was a glass walkway which overlooked a part of the Canyon which remained in an Indian reservation and decided to try and find it. It was a long trip from one side of the Canyon round to the other. We were a little bit concerned that the price may be prohibitive to our backpacking budget we decided to chance it. An hour and a half later and after negotiating some of the worst roads in the United States, fearing for our lovely, shiny hire car all the way we pulled up to the entrance of the Reservation where we were met by a tall man with two long braids in his hair. Apparently alcohol is illegal on reservations such as these and so the two litres of Duty Free rolling around loosely in the boot could have made for some pretty serious problems, despite this and showing true British resolve we answered the man’s ‘Do you have any alcohol?’ question with a heartfelt and resounding ‘NO!’ Pat even managed to look a little hurt at the insinuation. And we were in. Only to be back in the car moments later moaning about how $70 was unacceptable just so that you could look through your feet at the floor of the Canyon a mile below you.

After our wild goose chase of the stingiest kind we eventually we found a nice spot to watch the sunset dip down behind the cliff line. We stayed in that spot for about an hour and a half, it was absolutely freezing and not for the first time we were all woefully unprepared for just how cold the place was getting. We were sorely tempted to leave before the sun had set but we talked ourselves into staying, citing the fact that our next stop, Vegas, didn’t spare much time for natural beauty, or for going outside for that matter, so we stayed and I’m glad we did. We stayed til the last rays dipped behind the trees and jogged back to the car, our breath, billowing clouds of smoke in the last of the evenings sun. And so it was back to Flagstaff for a nights rest before we left the natural wonders behind for a while and headed to the gaudiest, most decadent and in some ways most disgusting monuments to human excesses – Vegas.

Please could you step back into the vehicle sir........

I have to admit that the sudden rush of air from our brand new, rented, Goodyear Interceptors could have been construed, in a way, as being my fault. I was the one, after all, who had removed the inch long thorns from the sidewall and tread of the front right wheel. We had managed to cover about a thousand miles without any mishaps and I suppose fate had the right to deliver at least one such catastrophe. It could have conspired to immobilise us in the middle of a crowded city with three garages in plain view but instead we were 50 miles from the nearest ‘town’ which had 250 inhabitants housed in an assortment of crude tin shacks and tents, and 130 miles from a town that had a prayer of having a brand new Goodyear Interceptor in stock.

We made our way to Terlingua, with the onboard computer informing us of a flat tyre on our front right side and an unpleasant listing caused by the fact that the donut was a good 8 inches smaller than the other three, unpunctured tyres. We arrived at the tiny garage in the tiny town in the arse end of Texas with big dreams of a successful patch up job on the expensive, expensive tyre. The guys in the garage were real Texan men, with a robust dislike of the rest of the states and a strange kind of fascination with Pat, who as the self proclaimed least masculine man in the world, sent a confusing message to the mechanics. They looked at him, the smooth faced, bespectacled englishman who had so unselfconsciously asked to watch them fix the tyre, with a mixture of horror and confusion, but none the less gruffly nodded him into the workshop. By the time they had finished their unsuccessful attempt at fixing the tyre I’m sure they viewed Pat as a sort of daughter figure.

Unfortunately the tyre was a write off and we would have to negotiate the 80 or so miles to Fort Stockton in order to find a replacement, but the Texan kindness knows no bounds and the mechanics offered to put a spare onto our moribund rim free of charge in order to avoid having to crawl at 25 mph all the way to Fort Stockton on a donut. ‘We just want y’all have a good impression of Texas’ they said as they helped us fit the slightly balding interim tyre back onto the Chevy. The Mechanic in Fort Stockton wouldn’t be open until Monday we found out and so the weekend was set, we would be spending it in Terlingua, population 250, made up it seemed of Border patrolmen, Hippies and gun toting, 10 gallon hat wearing cowboys.

As we settled into our hotel, holding our complimentary Lone Star beers and overlooking the desertscape from the balcony of the El Dorado hotel, things started looking up. This might not be the wasted weekend we were all expecting we silently agreed as the sun went down, casting long shadows behind the cacti and taking the edge off the 95°F heat. A few beers later and we were ready for bed. We didn’t go to bed however, we took a stroll down to the local bar, along unlit roads periodically jumping out of the way of the ecologically irresponsible 4x4’s that ploughed past us.

The Starlight bar was as much of a pleasant surprise as the rest of Terlingua, we met all manner of colourful characters there, an English guy who was in this part of Texas doing a documentary on a local woman who had emigrated from China 50 years ago and was a champion ping-pong player in her youth. He was in tow with an American called Cliff an Arizonian who, by his own admission had ‘a pretty extensive rap sheet’ and a somewhat sexually aggressive demeanour who made almost every woman he spoke to, feel visibly uncomfortable as well as an affable West Virginian with a flowing hobo’s beard who was in the process of hitch hiking all the way to Alaska to live out his favourite book ‘Into the Wild’.  Many beers and Margheritas later we all collapsed into bed lightly toasted  and pleased to have ended up here in Terlingua albeit by a cruel twist of fate.

The next morning we awoke with a need for a hearty American breakfast, this we found in the heart of the ‘town’ at an establishment called India’s Cafe. The place was little more than a tin shack with a stove in it and was run by a smiling yet formidable woman called India. And her husband, who it turned out was a Londoner. I think the fact she had the same name as the cafe was a coincidence. We spent the morning eating greasy yet satisfying Hash Browns and Eggs whilst listening to the stories that made up the daily lives of the locals in this sleepy back water. None of whom could have been more charismatic than Big Mac, a local man who came to India’s so regularly that he had a breakfast on the menu named after him. It consisted of 3 pork chops, 3 eggs, 2 Hash Browns, each the size of a dinner plate, French Toast and a Flaggon of Iced Tea. This guy was enormous. His round head grew directly out of his shoulders and the only suggestion of a neck was the 5 or 6 ample folds of fat that padded the back of his skull. At a guess I would say he must have weighed about 40 stone. It came as a surprise when I saw him get up and walk, unassisted, back to his pick up and struggle back into it before driving off.

Another night of beer and chat with the odd assortment of misfits at the starlight bar followed that evening and, slightly groggy we set out for India’s for our final Terlingua breakfast. Judge took the wheel and we set off from the El Dorado hotel at a brisk pace. So brisk in fact that as we neared the crest of the hill near the hotel Judge remarked that the 70mph he was doing was ‘so unnecessary’. Unnecessary indeed, so unnecessary in fact that the local sheriff, coming over the brow of the hill in the opposite direction felt moved to hit the lights and pull us over to impart some wisdom to Judge, himself on the front line in the war on terror back there in good old blighty in his role as PC Alex Judge, mover onner of drunkards in West Yorkshires market towns.

Judge got his driving license out of his wallet and got out of the car only to be gruffly ordered to ‘Please step back into the vehicle sir’ by the sheriff whose hand rested lightly on his service weapon and who sported a khaki shirt and a pair of blue jeans as though we may, at any point, forget that we were in Texas. When he was ready, Judge was ordered out of the car and received a stern reprimand. A reprimand, that despite rolling down all the windows and straining our ears, we could not hear over our own laughter.

We arrived at India’s for breakfast well within the speed limit and sat down for another hearty breakfast and amiable chat with India and her husband. Emma and I got around to explaining the full extent of our trip to India, who, like most Americans, was both confused as to our motivation as well as mightily impressed that we had chosen to venture outwith the borders of our birth country to see the world. ‘......and then after South America we’ll be heading to South Africa’ we were cut short by Big Mac who despite his enormous bulk we had failed to notice hoovering down the last Pork Chop on his three plate breakfast at the back of the cafe ‘Watch out for them blacks!’ he offered, before sucking the last of the meat off the bone in his hand and starting the laborious process of manoeuvring himself back into his truck.

And with Big Mac’s advice still ringing in our ears we left Terlingua and headed to Fort Stockton on the penultimate leg of our journey before Vegas. The Grand Canyon. Texas, you’re amazing, but not always in a good way.

Lots of driving through the Republicanist bit of America.

It certainly has been a while since the last blog and I sure do have alot to catch up on, so here we go.

After the wonder that was New Orleans we were all anxious to get in a car and spend sometimes in excess of 14 hours a day driving, so that is exactly what we did. Emma and Alex the two drivers went to pick up what I can only describe as a red Cheverolet and arrived, excited, back at the India House hostel where Pat and I had spent the the time feasting on gumbo and talking to an odd little fellow about marriage. On their arival we scooped up our bags and hopped in.

A long days driving followed past the oil fields and refineries, as well as the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, alot of which I hear is now underwater. It is a long flat drive only broken up, with alarming frequency I might add, by Penetentiaries. We counted a dozen in the 4 hours it took to leave Louisiana and enter Texas.

During the drive we had alot of time to listen to local radio, which is always a good way to guage the lay of the land in the area you happen to be driving through. As we left Louisiana ad entered the wilds of Texas the radio took a turn for the weird.

"Boycott Home Depot" one particularly fervant preacher screamed into his mic. The reason? Well they employ the most homosexuals of course.

"If Ahmed or Fahmed or whatever he's called wants to get reparations after we LIBERATED THEM..." This was a particularly measured and thoughtful talk radio debate about the mayor of Baghdad having the temerity to ask his liberators for reperations to rebuild his crater ridden, yet free, city back to it's former glory.

All four of us looked at each other open mouthed. There is no doubt, that had this been the UK, the preacher and shock jock alike would have been hauled up on charges and rightly so. This, was all we heard for the remainder of our time driving through Texas. Which took a while.

After a fine drive from Alex and Emma we entered Texas and at roughly 10 o'clock pulled into a horrible little Motel in Beaumont Texas. Beaumont seemed to consist of about 10 churches, the same amount of Fast Food outlets and about 5 Motels. I wouldn't reccommend it as a relaxing holiday destination.

We dragged our bags up into our room and stretched our legs and tried to remove the car journey from our muscles. As I went outside I noticed a car with absolutely irresponsible rims park up as three guys emerged from one of the other Motel rooms. The tinted window came down and something was passed from the window into the eager hand outside it. As this happened, the driver looked up and saw me, seeing him. I put out my cigarette and went back into the room to push something against the door.

The next day we piled into the car and drove most of the day to Austin, which is like a weird island of liberalism floating in a T-Party heartland. The radio stations all retransmogrified from shrieking preachers telling us all gays will die to a plethora of excellent music channels.

We had a good couple of days in Austin, visiting many bars and as well as the state capitol building, which they delighted in informing us was roughly 2 feet taller than the Capitol building in Washington. It's an almost pathological need of most Texans for Texas to be biger and better than everywhere else in the states. Any amateur psychologist could offer you an explanation of why that might be. It was illustrated beautifully while we took our guided tour of the capitol building. I asked a question with regard to what kind of legislation was being passed and we got into a chat with a group of schoolkids, creepily dressed as adults, there with their teacher. The teacher offered extra credit if they could answer me. No driving whilst texting, one proffered.  Something I always thought would be covered by basic common sense. Along with a couple of other things that would be so frighteningly obvious you shouldn't be doing them that I had to stifle a laugh. After enlightening us, one of the girls stepped forward and awkwardly whispered "y'all are in the BEST state" then looked at the ground and stepped back into her group. "Oh, right, I see" I replied. The teacher was explaining about a new law they were passing in order to up the minimum fine for being caght driving without a license. "Alot of people just take the fine rather than apply for the license" And by way of further explanation she clasped her hands together with a pained expression and said "We have alot of immigrants".

Austin was excellent, warm all year round with superb bars and live music, something we wouldn't see again for quite some time as the landscape turned to desert.

We drove alot the next few days, through tiny town after tiny town, pausing only to venture into a gun range to see if we could fire some guns. We got three quarters of the way through the process which involved only handing over my fake ISIC student card and writing my name on a bit of paper before we hit the first stumbling block "What gun dy'all want?" The nice lady with the perm and a huge handgun strapped to her side asked. "Errrm, a wee one?" I replied. She eyed us suspiciously and went to talk to her supervisor.

Back on the road not having shot any guns but thankfully, not riddled with bullets we made our way to the Big Bend National Park. Right on the border with Mexico. So close in fact, that at one stage we were skimming stones that were landing on Mexican soil. After walking, woefully underprepared, in heats well in excess of 95F, we rolled over the nastiest looking thorn I've ever seen, in one of the most remote areas I've ever been. We fitted the donut and started to drive, slowly, to the nearest town. 50 miles away.