Football Brazilian style.

There were of course many incidences of early afternoon beer and Capirinha sessions and I could devote about 4 pages to recounting them in list form but we did also do some other stuff. One of my personal favourites was going to see one of the many local derbies that take place between any of the 4 teams who play in Rio. Unfortunately we didn't get to sample the unbelievably spicy atmosphere stirred up in the cauldron-like Maracana as it was, and as I understand it, still is closed for renovations for Brazils hosting of the World cup in 2014. A tournament which promises to be one of the best yet in a country that is truly fanatical about football as we found out when witnessed the 0-0 draw between Flamengo and Fluminese. We sat with the Flamengo fans who are without doubt a set of the maddest, meanest looking boys I've ever seen in my life. The police who swarm within the stadium at every game I've ever been to back home, were no where to be seen, there were a couple with guns, but they seemed to be there only to open fire from the other side of the huge moat that seperated them from the pitch and opposing fans if things got even more out of hand then they seemed to be already and the game hadn't even kicked off yet.

Emma and I had consumed a couple of Brahma before the game and decided to use the facilities before kick off, I think the womens were alright but I'd never seen such a big group of muscular men standing together in a toilet before, much less a large group of muscular men standing together in a group openly taking cocaine in a football stadium, the worst I'd experienced is the smell of a crafty cigarette floating out from under one of the cubicle doors, this was something else altogether. I studied the floor as I relieved myself for what seemed like a tortuously long time before checking that the floor was still an inch deep in piss on the way out as it had been on the way in. It was and as I left what felt like a very real and immediate danger and re-entered the area underneath the stands a manic drumming began.

I met Emma and waited for the group of about 50 coked up drumers and fans dancing wildly and chanting with such fervour that they looked like their jugulars might start exploding at any given moment, to move out of the way politely and let us past. During a lull in the drumming Emma and I took our opportunity and tried to slip through the group. The timing couldn't have been worse if we'd planned it that way. The reason they'd stopped was to give themselves a chance turn around and make their big entrance into the stadium. As we entered the middle of the group the drummers resumed and we were almost lifted off our feet as the group which had by now swelled to number closer to one hundred and fifty bounced into the stadium screaming in heavily accented Portuguese something about the rape of the referee, not even a joke.

We got to our seats largely unscathed and with another beer to settle the nerves the game began. Not that the seat came to be any use to us at all. The game finished 0-0 but it could have been 4-3 for all the difference it would have made. We couldn't see a thing the whole game. Flags, the smoke from the flares and the height of the average Flamengo fan being roughly 6ft 5 conspired against us. To give you an idea, watch this video.



I've never experienced an atmosphere like it. If you stopped singing or clapping there was always a crazy looking guy with an enormous scar running the full length of his face on hand to remind you not to. The game was exhausting for us, but not as exhausting as it was for the guy standing directly in front of us waving the 20ft flag for the entire 90 minutes. The game was awful, but I don't think I'd have watched the game even if the flag infront of us hadn't reduced our visibilty to 0. The passion displayed by the fans, possibly aided by pharmaceuticals granted, was a spectacle in itself, one that may well have ruined european and the ever more sterile and subdued British game for me, for ever. The ticket to a Rio de Janeiro derby cost in the region of £1.50, there are some clubs who charge a minimum of £50 for a ticket in the UK, that to me is like a savage mugging. I'd rather run the risk of an actual savage mugging every week for £1.50 then get get a guaranteed one once or twice a season like the majority of fans of the top 4 EPL clubs personally, but that's just me.

It wasn't comfortable, at times I felt downright unsafe and the standard was probably the second worst I've seen after the SPL (Despite Ronaldinho having played for Flamengo for a season or two) but my god when you came out you felt like you'd experienced something. I wouldn't have minded seeing what happened when a goal was scored but something tells me we probably would have simply tumbled 15 rows over the barrier and fallen a further 20feet into the moat so maybe it was for the best that we didn't! Admitedly, it may have been frightening and at times, scary. as. shit, but if going to a game was like that in the UK, I'd be there every week.

South America and in particular, Rio.

 Rio is one of those places that everyone wants to go to. Its iconic topography, beaches and of course Carnavale makes it one of the top destinations to visit anywhere in the world. Tourists flood here during the moveable feast of Mardi Gras when the whole city erupts in a festival of debauchery unparrallelled anywhere else in the world. Unfortunately for us and our meagre, backpacking budgets this also means a 1000% increase in the price of what can only be described as filthy and in some cases gangster infested accommadation. But let me start at the begining, or at least the beginning of our trip to Rio.

We arrived after three flights and about 24 hours, from LA. This was the first country neither of us had visited, the first country where neither of us spoke the language and the first country neither of us had visited previously so we were apprehensive anyway, but when you add to this apprehension a terrifying propensity for violent crime, I'm not ashamed to say, we were downright paranoid.

We stepped out of the Terminal with our bags and the first thing that happened as we sat waiting for our bus to the Bota Fogo (Mouth of Fire) area was that an insect the size of a Golden Eagle flew directly into my face. OK so that was an exaggeration but I'm not exaggerating when I say it was actually the size of a sparrow and that vehicles actually swerved to avoid it when I saw it again later. I jumped up, wildly swatting the empty air around me to the unsympathetic laughter of Emma and about 5 or 6 locals. It would not be the last time that locals shook their heads and muttered 'Gringo' under their breaths in an apparent attempt at exacerbating my already keenly felt embarrassment.

The bus journey did little to put our over active imaginations at ease. The traffic was awful and the ride into the city was beset on both sides of the highways with sprawling Favellas, all housing, to our paranoid minds, armies of handgun toting armed robbers just yawning and stretching and looking forward to a lovely day of relieving us of our possessions whilst facing minimal resistance.

The bus dropped us off in Bota Fogo and we scuttled as fast as we could to our hostel. Which it turned out, as with the rest of Rio, was absolutely fine, if a little crowded. Its hard to write about long, irresponsible Capirinha sessions, but that is what we did for extended periods of our time there. Not our fault you understand, we were merely immersing ourselves in the culture, but in between liver punishment we also found the time to do a few 'activities' too. I'm in danger of making this post far, far too long to be read with any discernable level of enjoyment but boy did we enjoy them. We should really have gone to bed when we arrived in order to catch up on the sleep that we didn't get on all three of our flights, but the resident barman in our hostel was having none of it. What felt like hundreds of Capirinhas later and with the hours spent awake, or at least semi concious, standing at a respectable 50 hours, we felt that we had indeed not disgraced ourselves in the entering of the Carnival spirit and collapsed into bed to sleep for about 18 hours.

‘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.