Getting Our Kicks On Route 66

Posted on July 28, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

The start of the Grand Canyon

Five hundred miles into the world’s greatest road trip, and already the landscape that surrounds the western end of America’s Route 66 has provided plenty to smile about.

From the swaying palm trees of LA, the baron plains of the Nevada desert and the bright lights of Las Vegas, its been an exciting few days – and today gave us perhaps one of the most spectacular natural features on Earth to look at.

The Grand Canyon was a must-do for us, despite time being against us if we are to reach our goal of the East Coast within six days. Its one of the planet’s most powerful and inspiring landscapes, created completely by Mother Nature, and somewhere I have always wanted to visit. There was no way it was going to be missed off the trip for the sake of the extra five hours it would take to make the detour.

Lake Mead comes into view

But first there was a wonder of another kind to visit, and this time its one of a manmade variety. The Hoover Dam is just 30 miles south of Vegas, and is one of the world’s greatest engineering feats. It pauses the Colorado River in its tracks, provides irrigation, helps prevent flooding and enables a huge swathe of the western United States to draw power from the phenomenal power of water.

The magnificent Hoover Dam

Built between 1931 and 1936, 21,000 workers helped construct the huge dam. It came at a huge cost, both financially and in human life – more than 100 people died during the building phase. Its sweeping, arched wall rises 726.4 feet from the base, topped off with what was once the main road between Las Vegas and Phoenix. Now, a new bypass goes over a breathtaking bridge which links both sides of the deep canyon. Its known as the Colorado River Bridge, and takes traffic across with both sides blanked off to prevent motorists becoming distracted by the impressive dam that dominates the view from whichever angle you look at it.

Passing under the huge new bypass bridge

And as we passed underneath the mammoth bridge to our right, the huge dam came into view on the left. At first it didn’t seem as huge as I remember from looking at photos or watching it take a starring role in the Transformers movie, but then I could only see a tiny part of it from the passenger seat of our Ford Fusion.

First glimpse of the dam

After parking up the car and stepping into the searing desert heat, we walked down to the road and along the top of the dam. It was surprising how low the wall was which separates the walkway from the sheer drop down the entire side of the structure to the pumping and generator stations at the bottom. Around them, the water visibly swirls as millions of gallons of H2O makes its way through the pipes and turbines at up to 85mph, generating up to 2,080 megawatts in the process, before reforming into the Colorado River and ultimately making its way towards the coast. There are 17 huge turbines, providing an annual power output of around 4 billion Kilowatt-hours to cities as far away as Los Angeles.

A long way down

The dam is also where two states meet, with clocks on the main inlet towers showing the local time for both Nevada and the neighbouring Arizona. At the centre of the dam, a plaque marking how it is officially classed as a modern wonder of the United States. The point offers perhaps the best view of Lake Mead, America’s largest reservoir created as a result of the dam being built. It was clear how the drought in the area had taken hold, with a white deposit on the rock faces, a bit like a bathtub mark left behind by minerals, showing the usual level of the water.

Lake Mead. Dam it.

It led me to think about what would happen if there was a sustained period of heavy rainfall, and the water level was to rise above the watermark to the height of the dam. Apparently, an overflow system, known as spillways, have been built into the design, a bit like the little overflow hole you find in sinks to stop you flooding the bathroom. Obviously, its on a slightly bigger scale, with millions of gallons of water being allowed to flow through special channels to bypass the dam. The system has only been used twice apparently, and that’s probably a good thing – the force of water gushing through the world’s biggest overflow pipe apparently wrecks the concrete and rock linings inside, leading to a fairly hefty patch up job afterwards.

It took five years to build the colossal structure, and when finished, the Hoover Dam stood as the largest electric-power generating site in the world, as well as the largest structure made out of concrete. Its an amazing thought when looking from above that what we were standing on contained enough concrete to build a road from San Francisco to New York, a fairly hefty six and a half million tonnes of the stuff.

Behind the dam

After an hour of wandering around the top of the dam, marvelling at the work that had clearly gone on many years ago to design and build it within the rock formations around it, it was time to move on. We left the car park and drove along the road across the top of the structure, thinking it would lead us out and away, only to come to a dead end.

The Colorado River continues on its way…as do we

“Oh well, I can say I drove across it as well as walked it,” joked Ian, looking for a place to turn around. We’d momentarily crossed into Arizona, but were soon saying hello to Nevada again as we searched for the road to take us across the new bridge and on towards the Grand Canyon.

To make up a bit of time, we cheated a little. Of course, the old Route 66 isn’t recognised anymore, with the road being declassified, but the giant Interstate system which took over does closely follow the old route. Infact, parts of it were built over the old 66, and for the hundreds of miles in the West until we reach Oklahoma, the Interstate 40 follows the old roadway, frequently crossing or going under the motorway of yesteryear. It means we can make up time by nipping on and off the Interstate to visit places of interest along the way, such as the countless small towns and villages that came into existence purely because of the through trade given to them by the 66.

Former Route 66 town

One of them was the town of Seligman, halfway between Vegas and the Grand Canyon, and so a great little place for us to break our journey, stretch our legs and take in a bit of nostalgia. It has the feel of a town whose heyday was a long time ago, yet is still dining out on its Route 66 past. There is an abnormally high number of shops and stores, still plying for the trade afforded to them by people like Ian and I, who have stopped off to have a look at what the R66 towns used to be like.

Its as if many of the store owners set out to have theirs as the quirkiest, most photographed outlet in the town, with anything from wacky signs to half an aircraft fastened to the wooden cladding and beams. On one building, a mileage chart showing how there was still 1,737 miles to go before we reach Chicago in a few days time. Right now, in the intense heat and dust of the Arizona desert, the Windy City seems a long way off.

Seligman

We stopped for a couple of drinks and snacks at one of the shops, opting to give them some of the trade they seem to so desperately need, as opposed to the countless multinational petrol stations dotted along the Interstates.

A quick breather!

It was another two hours of driving along endless straight roads through deserts and very flat scrubland before we reached the south rim of the Grand Canyon National Park, pulling up at a window with a very cheery park ranger and handing over the $25 admission fee. The road carried on to a car park, full of campervans and other motorists from across the States and as far afield as Argentina.

Heading to the Grand Canyon

We followed signs to Mather Point, which apparently gave a view of the canyon. I say apparently, because up to now there has been no sign at all that we were anywhere but a flat part of the Arizona countryside. With mountains, you get to see the land changing, gradually getting more and more mountainous. When you approach a major river, more often than not you’ll get a glimpse of it somewhere as you get nearby. A volcano usually has a conical appearance that you can see miles away – you get the picture. Here, there was nothing.

Breathtaking

Nothing, that is, until you reach a railing and some trees. That’s where the ground, terra firma, the rock I am standing on, just falls down to a mile below me. A huge expanse of the Earth’s crust appears to be missing, instead creating a strange, sub-ground level mountain range. As holes in the ground go, this one is certainly something to behold. I was in awe. Most people I had spoken to who have visited this huge crack in the ground had all told me the same, that is something hard to understand. It was certainly the case.

The Grand Canyon

My head was struggling to work out exactly what was going on in front of me. It was telling me I was at the top of some sort of mountain, looking out over a range below me, yet I had not climbed any mountains nor noticeably gained any altitude. Instead, far, far below and in the distance, the sun was glinting off the surface of a river, the Colorado River, and the creator of this incredible natural wonder.

Ian and I taking in the view

It’s the mind blowing scale of the Grand Canyon that has the effect on anyone who visits. Walking to a pinnacle that juts out just enough to enable you to look straight down into the bowels of the earth, I looked out ahead of me. Across the other side of the canyon, the north rim, some 10 miles away as the crow flies, but what would require a drive of more than 200 miles to reach by road.

The giant scale is pretty hard to show…

I couldn’t stop looking out, trying to comprehend the scale of what sprawled out in front of me. It was one of those moments when, as a mere human being and as a guest on the planet, you can feel very, very small and insignificant. A bit like when you try to get your head around how many stars and potential for other planets there are in the Universe, this was something that can almost mess with your mind.

Colorado River flows far, far below

Thankfully, there was plenty of information on hand to explain how a giant crack can seemingly appear in the surface of the earth the way it has. In a nutshell, its all down to the way the plates that form the Earth moved together, creating the layers of different rock, which were then cut away by the eroding force of the river over millions of years.

Shadowlands

But the information can just baffle your mind even more, like the fact that the rock you can see in the lower layers can be up to 1,840 million years old. Hard to get your head around the time involved.

Driving further along the south rim afforded us more spectacular views of the Grand Canyon, and as we progressed a few miles east, the valley widened slightly to give more expansive views of the river which over the millions of years before has cut its way through the rock.

A bit close to the edge!

With the sun beginning to get lower in the sky, we knew time was getting on and we still had the most substantial part of the drive ahead of us.

The sun begins to set over the Canyon

We thought we’d be on our way by the mid afternoon, but as we’re finding along the way, sometimes the journey can take a lot longer than planned. There was a growing concern we might struggle to make it across to the east coast in the timeframe we’d set, and so we knew we had some long stretches of driving ahead to make up time. But we said farewell to the Grand Canyon and watched through the window as the Arizona landscape showed us the start of the fantastic feature, with the canyon stretching out like veins across the surface. Memorable.

A good view of the Colorado River on the way out

We set off towards the Interstate, aiming to reach a point of interest marked on our map as ‘Meteor Crater’. Now, its not everyday you get to see a meteor crater, and with two blokes on a road trip, of course we had to go and see it. We were determined to get to see it before darkness fell completely, but by the time we reached Flagstaff, still some 40 miles away from said crater, the sun was rapidly disappearing over the horizon. But still we pressed on, arriving at the turn off with just about enough light to see over the surrounding fields. Unfortunately, it was also a quiet country road at about the right time of the evening for the local rabbits to be out and about looking for dinner.

Never tired of views like this

Sadly, one of them, a young looking little thing, went looking for food far too close to the front of my oncoming car. I could see there was a brief moment of confusion from the animal, a fleeting thought of ‘left or right’ before making the fatal mistake of trying to run back to where it had come from. Bad move.

With a thud, it disappeared underneath me. I immediately put my head in my hands on the steering wheel, trying to see in my wing mirror if by some miracle the rabbit had made it out of the back without being squashed by a wheel. I couldn’t see. I felt awful.

I know that from time to time, these things happen – after all, I never set out to be a rabbit killer. But I love animals, and its always hard knowing something has just met its end thanks to me. Unless it’s a wasp or a mosquito, because they don’t count.

We continued following the signs to the meteor crater, with Ian telling me not to worry about the rabbit. By now, its getting properly dark, and arriving at the gates to the crater, the place had closed an hour earlier anyway. We did, however, get to see the outline of the mound of earth created by the impact. Whether the view was worth the life of a poor baby rabbit was debateable. We turned around and headed back to the Interstate.

“Now just go careful, we don’t want any more casualties,” Ian joked as we set off back in the opposite direction along the single lane road, knowing we’d probably have to pass a horrible mess in the road that I had created.

“Knowing my luck, I’ll wipe out mum as she’s out investigating where her little Johnny has got himself to,” I joked.

It was a joke I was I hadn’t made. Approaching around the same point that I had wiped out baby bunny, suddenly a large grey figure jumped out of the bushes to the right of the road, about five metres in front of me. There was no time to react.

Thud.

“Woah, there goes another one,” laughed Laingy in his brilliant Aussie accent.

I have to admit, I laughed with him, mainly out of surprise at the chances of such a coincidence happening. I felt, and still feel, dreadful about what happened, but there was genuinely nothing I could have done. And now, according to Laingy, I’m a rabbit serial killer.

We stopped at a Dennys a few miles down the road, mainly to eat but to also inspect the car for any damage. Thankfully there wasn’t any, and we tucked into a huge meal. We’d originally planned to reach New Mexico by the end of the day, staying around Albuquerque, but progress was slow thanks to our sightseeing. Time was getting on, and we’d eaten far too much, yet again underestimating American portions. Ian came up with a great idea.

“Shall we just stay somewhere around here, have an early night and get away early in the morning?”

I agreed, and we found ourselves a motel in Winslow, Arizona. Tomorrow will be a very long day of driving.

Viva Las Vegas

Posted on July 23, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

Meeting my mate Ian in Las Vegas

I hit the jackpot in Nevada, and it wasn’t because I’d run into some luck on the roulette wheel.

It was where I met my travel buddy Ian, a good mate of mine known as Laingy, who had arrived on the Las Vegas strip in style – in a convertible Mustang.

It had been some journey for him too. While I had been driving through the night to this bright light city, Ian had been flying through the night to Los Angeles from his native Australia before hiring a car and making the same journey through the desert.

It all followed on from a conversation we had on my last night in Melbourne, where I’d been talking about my onward journey and how I’d quite like to complete the trip with an overland stretch going from coast to coast in America. One of the only problems back then was finance and the fact it would mean spending a long time on my own.

“I might be up for a bit of that – its something I have always wanted to do,” Ian said over a pint.

Meeting Ian – Mustang Laingy – in Las Vegas

And from there, the idea snowballed. Fast forward a few months, and in the searing Nevada heat, I’m walking across a dusty car park just off the Las Vegas strip to once again shake Laingy’s hand.

“Welcome to Las Vegas,” I said, laughing.

“Bloody hell, 24 hours ago I was scraping ice off my car, and now its 45 degree heat,” he laughed back in his usual Aussie accent.

It was a slightly surreal meet-up, orchestrated through free wifi spots and Facebook messages thanks to the lack of a mobile phone, but we’d managed it. I’m well on the way home now, but to have a good mate with me with similar interests will make this leg all the more memorable.

The end of Santa Monica Boulevard – and the ‘official’ end of Route 66

While Ian had to travel to Vegas the quickest way possible, I had begun my Route 66 adventure from Los Angeles by starting at the end. Officially, Route 66 was the way the population migrated west from the Chicago and eastern states following the war and great depression. Known as the ‘mother road’ it was built to help people make their way towards the Pacific in search of work and riches.

Santa Monica Pier

As a result, California is often seen as the end of the road, with Santa Monica pier the finishing point for this great American journey. And so it was only natural, making the first leg of Route 66 solo, that I took our car to the far end of the road, to Santa Monica Boulevard and to Santa Monica Pier, complete with its markers that this was, indeed, as far as you can go on the 66. Any further, and you’d end up wet, which is precisely what I did.

Touching the Pacific for the final time – next ocean, the Atlantic

Having spent six months with the Pacific being the ocean I have looked at off the coasts of Australia, New Zealand and Fiji, it was time to finally say goodbye to it. I had learned to surf its waves, been washed up onto its shores at Bells Beach in Oz, spent countless hours gazing at the horizon over its glinting waters and bobbed around on boats upon it, and now it was time for a final paddle and a photo. After all, you cant make the coast to coast trip over the States without the obligatory proof shots touching the opposing oceans of the Pacific and Atlantic.

I’ll become familiar with signs like this over coming days

I walked to the end of the pier, taking in the street entertainers, music and atmosphere along the way. The mist and smog which had shrouded LA during my three day stay began to lift, revealing the beaches of Santa Monica to be just as stunning as they appear on the big and small screen in movies and television programmes back home. They were full of people enjoying an extended holiday period, families from across the States who have made their own epic journeys to the coast. Now it was my turn to head east, and ultimately, back home – from now on, every mile I make in the car is a mile closer to home, and the end of an unforgettable nine months.

Tribute to Route 66 at the end of Santa Monica pier

The 66 starts at the junction with Ocean Boulevard, and after one last photo of the Route 66 marker tribute to Will Rogers, one of the world’s greatest celebrities back in the Twenties and Thirties, I got back in the car, took a last look at the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, and set my horizons to the Atlantic, more than 3,000 miles away.

Have map, have badge, and at the official end. Just 3,000 miles to go

It felt completely normal to be setting off, pulling away from a parking bay, knowing that there was such an epic drive ahead. It was slightly surreal if anything, getting into a car and turning the radio on as if I was just popping down to the shops. Yet for me, this was a one-way journey east.

‘Turn left at the traffic lights…and just keep going’

The drive through LA took me all the way through Beverly Hills and past the Hollywood Sign, where I stopped for one final look at the nine famous letters, before heading out to the Interstate 210 north.

Santa Monica Boulevard

Its not quite following the exact route of the 66, but then its impossible to follow it all of the way these days anyway, as much of the route has been repaved, re-routed and re-classified. Besides, passing so close to Las Vegas, it would be rude not to pass by and spend a while amid the bright lights and high rollers.

First, there was another minor detour. There was an interesting place I wanted to visit on the way, a place that I had seen on a Discovery Channel programme a few years back, and was amazed by the scale of it. All I will say is have you ever wondered what happens to aeroplanes when the airlines either go bust, cut routes or simply retire some of their aircraft?

Aeroplane boneyard in the Mojave

Well, they get sent to California and to the Mojave Desert, a place that I have to drive through in order to reach Las Vegas. Because the air is so dry, and days of rainfall are so few and far between, metal doesn’t rust. And a Boeing 747 is made up of a lot of metal, which if left sitting in the elements for too long without maintenance, will corrode and render hundreds of millions of pounds worth of plane useless.

Scores of planes doing nothing

So they get flown to the aircraft graveyards and boneyards of the Mojave Desert, where attempts are made to remove or disguise logos and distinctive paintwork before the planes are left to sit in the sun on an extended holiday of their own.

Mojave Airport

They are easy to find, with the bright metal fuselages and tails sticking out for miles in the flat desert plains. During the airline slump post September 11, hundreds of aircraft were once stored here as people stopped flying and airlines cut costs. While the numbers are nowhere near as high now, it was still quite a spectacle to see so many perfectly good aircraft simply sitting on the sand instead of cruising through the skies filled with hundreds of people.

The famous Rotary Rocket on display at Mojave

After being spotted by a security van taking photos, it was time to disappear, so I took off down the road towards the famous Edwards Air Force Base, a giant development that takes up a significant proportion of land, around half the size of LA, alongside the dual lane route 58 to Barstow, one of the first major towns on Route 66 outside of Los Angeles.

Cruising through the desert

From here, I picked up the interstate 15, a motorway that shoots straight up to the Nevada border and on to Las Vegas. While Vegas was never on Route 66, most people who make the journey divert themselves to the gambling and entertainment mecca for a few days, if anything just to experience it. It only adds a couple of hours onto the journey, to and from the city, but it was a definite huge tick on the bucket list to visit the place.

Watching the sun go down in the West, behind me

I had timed my journey to arrive in Las Vegas at night, driving for some five hours through the pitch black desert with a couple of coffees and a bar of Hershey chocolate for company. I watched the mile markers tick down to just 100 to go, while hundreds of Californian registered cars would fly past me, no doubt full of LA residents and workers desperate to get to the fun-filled spot in the desert for a weekend of excitement.

I was still 60 miles out when I first noticed the sky ahead changing. There was a distinct glow up ahead, while the blinking lights of aircraft began to appear around me as they circled before landing their Vegas-hungry payload at the purpose built airport by the main strip.

Driving into Vegas

With two long drags up some incredibly long hills, complete with warnings to turn off air conditioning to prevent engines overheating in the scorching desert heat, the glow started to get brighter, and with a final push over the hilltop, suddenly my windscreen was filled with the millions of dazzling lamps from the desert oasis known as Las Vegas.

It was incredible how the city seemed to appear from nowhere, and seemingly stretching for as far as the eye could see. It was a moment that I wished I had someone with me to share it – an almost magical time at getting my first view of one of the world’s most famous playgrounds, and a sense of achievement in the fact I had managed to somehow navigate there without the help of a satnav (paper maps – how retro!)

New York, New York – my first glimpse of the main strip

I continued driving, arriving on the outskirts of the city knowing that somewhere amid the neon glow was my hostel, which according to its website was near the famous Stratosphere tower on the main strip. I saw a sign for Las Vegas Boulevard, and knowing that was the main strip, made a left turn and headed straight onto it.

It was hard to concentrate on the road ahead. As I passed the huge, mock, New York skyline that marked the New York New York casino on one side, the famous MGM Grand on the other, I slowly made the stop-start drive along the main street. It was a Friday night, and I found myself caught up with scores of other Californian-registered cars that had clogged up the road as people made a similar getaway for the weekend.

Joining the jam with a view

For once, though, I was glad to be in a snarled-up traffic jam. It was the perfect way to take in my first Vegas experience, a place that was alien to me having never visited before, yet felt so familiar having seen it so many times in films or on television.

The names of the casinos alone roll off the tongue, mentally ticking them off as I made my way from intersection to intersection. The Mirage, Monte Carlo, Paris, The Venetian…and then on my left, the huge dancing fountains and music of the Bellagio, followed by the gigantic area taken up by Caesars Palace.

Everywhere I looked, there was something going on. From street performers to musicians, magicians and tourists all jockeying for position on the sidewalks, to fellow wide-eyed motorists driving along, taking photographs and smiling as this adult wonderland we’d suddenly found ourselves in.

It was quite a spectacle outside!

And still the familiar names passed by the window – Treasure Island, with its pirate ship frontage, Circus Circus with the huge clowns and big top, or the sleek-looking Wynn complex. In fact, while I was expecting a substantial amount of neon, flashing lights and huge, money-no-object structures and hotels, the overall size of the place was the main surprise for me. It took well over an hour to make my way in the car from the south end of the strip to the north, finally spotting the familiar mast-like Stratosphere structure, and eventually, after a couple of stops outside McDonalds to use their free wifi, pulling up at the Hostel Cat. My $19 bed couldn’t have come soon enough.

Friday night, my first night in Las Vegas, and I was in bed by 2am!

I’ve arrived!

The earlyish night, by Vegas standards, paid dividends the following day however. For one, the heat in the Nevada desert can sap the energy out of you – the thermometer hit 47 degrees, and just walking outside the air conditioned comfort of the hostel was enough to send you running for immediate shade. Door handles become red hot, the metal panels on the car could quite easily double as a griddle plate, and a day of sight seeing was out of the question.

“We’re going to the pool at the Monte Carlo,” came a cry from reception, raising a cheer from the fed-up looking hostel guests who were clearly sick of the heatwave gripping this part of the States.

It sounded like a good idea, and besides, it meant I would see some of the Vegas strip during the day, even if it was from the window of the hostel transport.

Erm, this could be a squeeze

Except, what the guys from the hostel failed to explain was that we’d be sneaking-in to the Monte Carlo casino, to use their pool, and that the transport was a beaten up minivan without any seats. And when they said it would be a hostel outing, it really was, as 26 hot and sweaty backpackers began the difficult job of packing into a van the size of a small Transit.

“Let me just close the anti-police device,” said Chandler, from the hostel, as he pulled a cloth curtain across the windows to stop authority eyes from seeing just how many people had been crammed into the back.

They’ll be my hands then…and i’m probably gasping for air

And still more people were climbing in through the door. I’d wedged myself into a back corner, where gradually the air began to thin and sweat began to drip from the mass of packed in bodies amid the heat and the greenhouse effect that the van had without a breeze. Thankfully, and with a record of 29 people once stuffed into the van, someone was prepared and brought along a water spray to cool us down as we made our way to the far end of Vegas.

And out everyone gets!

“Right, we can’t all go in as one group,” said Chandler as a steady stream of people clambered, fell and dragged themselves out from the back of the van, resembling something from a game of Twister that had gone badly wrong.

“They won’t let us in, so we have to pretend we’re going to the bar. Look at the menu, then just drift through the door to the left, grab a towel from the guy at the towel stall and meet back over to the right,” he continued.

Having sneaked into a fair few VIP areas over the years, I can honestly say this was the most blatant blag I have ever been a part of. Standing outside the glass windows of the bar, a group of 26 was whittled down into a few separated groups of threes and fours. Within a couple of minutes, we’d more or less tripled the patronage of the bar, yet nobody had ordered a drink. The barstaff looked confused at this mass of new customers, yet had very little to do. And as quickly as we’d all appeared, we’d all disappeared through a door and into a pool, amid a variety of excuses. I opted for the ‘I fancy a hotdog outside on the terrace,” excuse, before exiting stage left.

We’re in! Vegas pool party!

Somehow, we’d managed it. We had access to a huge pool, posh deckchairs, a river rapids area and even a DJ putting out some of the latest tunes for us all to listen to. It was a great pool party that we’d crashed, and all for the price of a dollar towards the hostel van’s gas account. I guess this was all part of the Vegas vibe.

Bright light city gonna get my soul…

After a few hours of doing everything I could to avoid the attractive, bikini-clad waitresses who were offering to fetch me a very expensive drink, I made my way to one of the casino halls to use yet more free wifi. Ian had arrived, according to Facebook, so I caught one of the Vegas buses and managed to spot where to jump off. As if by magic, and standing by his jet black Mustang that he’d hired for the same price as a flight from LA, was Ian. We headed straight to the airport, so he could return his car, get him signed up as a driver on ‘our’ car and headed back for more free wifi to book some accommodation.

Following Mustang Laingy down the Vegas freeway

Here came another surprise. I knew hotel rooms could be cheap in the city, but I had no idea just how cheap. For just £5 in the week, you can secure a double room near the strip. It was cheaper than my hostel, and I’d had no idea. It was partly down to this that we made a snap decision.

“I think we’re going to need longer in Vegas,” I said, knowing there was far too much for us to see in just the few hours we had initially put aside after Laingy’s arrival.

Brilliant rooms for peanuts

The fact that we could book a double queen bed room at the Stratosphere for just $35 was another factor. It would mean that we’d now just have just five days to drive the entire length of Route 66 and make the 12 hour trip from the end of it in Chicago to the east coast, but we’d calculated it was just about achievable.

Ignition on, aircon cooling the car – was a tad warm!

There had been a few people in recent weeks who acted with surprise when I told them about the short time frame we had to complete the journey. “You’ll never get to see anything, or stop anywhere,” was the usual word of warning.

But Ian and I were in agreement that driving the Route 66, and making a coast to coast journey and seeing all the changes in scenery along the way, was the experience and what we were both in the States to do.

Beautiful Bellagio gardens. Impressive, considering its next to the lobby!

It gave us a couple of days and nights to explore this magnificent place. From wandering around the incredible malls and hidden cities that lay at the base of all the casino resorts, to taking in some of the free shows on the street, to losing the obligatory few bucks on the casino tables and putting a couple of dollar bills in the penny slots, we pretty much managed to ‘do’ Vegas.

The Strip

It is a place that I am finding difficult to describe in words, which for a wordsmith, I know, is a pretty poor show. But Las Vegas is simply one of those places that it is very difficult to comprehend unless you experience it with your own eyes, ears and senses. We spent our sightseeing day visiting as many of the casinos as possible, and when I say ‘casino’ I don’t necessarily mean the gambling halls.

Film-set feel to malls in Caesar’s Palace

For Vegas is more than just Blackjack, Poker and Roulette, or placing bets of up to $15,000 on the roll of a dice (and that was just the top maximum bet we’d managed to spot) Deep in the bowels of the towering hotels and casino complexes, I was surprised by how much there was to do aside from feed money into machines. There are, of course, the glitzy big money shows featuring anyone from Celine Dion to David Copperfield, a whole range of restaurants and dining facilities, exciting white knuckle rides and experiences, but for Ian and I, the fun was in just being in Las Vegas itself.

Vegas -it even has curly escalators!

It was about walking around the streets and through the blissful air conditioned malls, complete with clever sky effects on the ceiling to make it feel like you’re outside, and the famous canals of the Venetian. It was wandering around and suddenly stumbling across statues that move and breathe fire as part of an hourly show. Or looking closely at the incredibly intricate detail on the walls, decorations, ceilings and décor that, at times, makes it feel like you are sightseeing on a big budget film set, rather than browsing through a shopping centre. Even the security people in each casino wear different outfits to match the surroundings.

And they sing on the gondolas too!

For people watching, soaking up the atmosphere, smiling at the power of the Bellagio’s water fountains as they thunder into the sky, watching the free shows such as the Sirens pirates at Treasure Island or marvelling at the fire and water show at the Mirage Volcano, there really was plenty to do – and on the whole, it doesn’t have to cost a penny. And, another surprise for me, was just how many families were in town on holiday to enjoy the experience with young children, even toddlers.

You don’t get this in Grimsby’s Freshney Place Shopping Centre

Infact, after hours – and miles – of walking around the desert delight, I think Ian hit the nail on the head when it came to describing what Vegas feels like.

“It’s like being part of a huge theatrical production,” he smiled as we dived for another blast of air conditioning in one of the malls.

The Stratosphere, my home for the final night in Vegas

He was right. It was so easy to lose all sense of reality here. There are very few clocks around, so time is no issue – as Elvis said in his song about the place, ‘turning day into nighttime, turning night into daytime’ – is a Vegas speciality. And the casinos have a very clever way of making sure everything is on hand, should you need it. The fact that most resorts have a McDonalds, Starbucks, Burger King or Subway incorporated somewhere within them is, of course, great for convenience, but the simple fact is that it’s a deliberate ploy to keep you in their four (or many more) walls for as long as possible. The longer you are, the more you spend, the happier the casino boss is and the bigger the next construction project for the brand will no doubt be.

Bellagio by night

You see, Vegas is a city built on gambling. It is only as stunningly impressive as it is, thanks to countless millions before me making a journey to the desert, and leaving with pockets and bank balances empty. It is a strange thought to look around and wonder at all the fortunes lost – and being lost at any one moment – which in turn will be put back into building bigger and even better resorts for future generations to enjoy. For this small part of Nevada, the recession is merely a word under ‘R’ in a dictionary.

Famous fountain fun

I could write for hours in depth about all that there is to see – in just a couple of days, we barely scratched the surface. My top tips will always be to make use of the free parking underneath each casino, and not to be afraid of driving half a mile down the road to the next complex. It really is a deceptively huge place, with the scale and size of the hotels proving deceptive when it comes to walking around.

And I could write all about the free shows too, such as the fountains set to music outside the Bellagio every 15 minutes. But I did very little research about attractions like these, and to be honest, it came as more of an enjoyable surprise when I watched them. I wasn’t expecting the fountains to be powered so high by some of the most sophisticated water jet systems in the world – the ‘boom’ that comes out of the fountain as air powers gallons of water into the sky is impressive, echoing around the strip and rattling through your body.

The Volcano erupts

The impressive jets of fire from the volcano, which erupts every hour outside the Mirage at night, combined with atmospheric music and lighting, attracted hundreds of people even late at night, while the Sirens pirate show at TI, complete with cast, fireworks, cannons and a sinking ship, brought the feel of a West End show to the street – and for free, four times a night.

Driving along the Vegas strip

Visiting Vegas on a backpacker budget was always going to be tricky, but with careful planning in the time we had, we set a schedule of all the free shows and made our way along the strip seeing all that there was on offer. It was proof that you don’t necessarily need buckets of cash to visit the place, and infact, there were many people using the cheap accommodation to relax by the pool by day, and just take in the atmosphere at night.

Backpacking…Vegas style!

I did, of course, have a flutter, setting myself a tight limit of $50 to play with during my three nights in the city. With $40 still burning a hole in my wallet on the final night, it was time to hit the blackjack table in the Stratosphere before bed. Well, you can’t come to Vegas without at least having a little bit of a gamble, right?

Half an hour in, I was holding my own. My piles of $5 had actually grown, and I’d hit blackjack a couple of times. I sensed I was having a run of luck, and started adding more chips to my stake. For a while, it went well, almost doubling my initial playing fund.

One of the casinos

And then I began to listen to the croupier, a lovely Chinese woman who I think enjoyed the experience as much as Ian and I, laughing along as we made jovial remarks about the way the hands were falling. But then, as quickly as the good run began, the bad luck came in, probably helped by her not so good advice. The dealer began hitting 21 on almost every hand, beating my 19s and 20s even when pulling up to five or six cards from the stack. By 3am, I was down to my last few chips. I put all of them on the table, apart from one.

I promptly lost, but put my final remaining, white, $1 chip in my camera case.

It’s true, the casino, in the end, will always win, especially here. But my last chip from Las Vegas wasn’t going back into the Stratosphere bank. It was joining us on the Route 66 adventure, and coming home with me.

I will…when I’ve saved up some more pennies!

California Dreaming

Posted on July 16, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

Hello Hollywood

Los Angeles – home to Hollywood, the most famous people in the world, playground of the rich and the birthplace of American cinema.

It’s the showbiz and glamour capital of the world, so it was only right that I spent my final night in Fiji with an acclaimed surfer, bikini model and filmmaker.

It wasn’t quite how you are thinking – she had kindly let me jump into her private taxi to the airport at Nadi after I, as usual, left things too late to get there in public transport.

For once, I had a decent excuse, having spent around half an hour searching for my camera that had managed to go missing from the resort reception, where staff were supposed to be keeping an eye on it while the battery charged. I was quickly sent into a mild panic when I returned from a shower to find just the charger beside the sofa where I had left it.

After much searching, hunting through my bags, shrugged shoulders from the security bloke who had been sat in the reception area the entire time, and almost a resignation that someone had helped themselves to my camera so close to the end of my trip, it mysteriously appeared again behind the reception counter.

Quite what was going on I don’t know, but with the time approaching 6.30pm, a two hour drive to the airport, and a flight to America leaving at 10pm, complete with a recommended three hour check in, it didn’t take much for me to work out I was suddenly cutting it far too fine. That’s when I met Alison, who for much of the afternoon I had seen draping herself over the hammocks on the beach while her friend took photos. I’d presumed they were making some kind of publicity shots for the Beachouse, but it turned out they were working for the man who makes the hammocks.

With Alison and Sarah at Nadi airport

With just $24 remaining in my wallet, after barely eating anything aside from free provisions in an attempt to save myself from taking any more cash out from a machine, I knew $15 would be needed for a public minibus back to the airport. But with barely enough time to catch one, I was pointed in the direction of the two girls who were busy loading tonnes of stuff into a taxi.

“I don’t suppose I can get a lift to the airport with you guys could I? How much is it?” I asked.

I was told it had set them back $120, so explained my situation and offered all I had in my wallet.

“Oh sure, just jump in its no problem,” she said cheerily.

It turned out they are both working on a freelance basis, as a model and photographer, specialising in some incredible surfing and underwater photography. It included promotional shots for Mojo Surf in Byron Bay, Australia, where I learnt to surf, and we talked about Adsy and the guys there I got to know in the couple of days I spent with them in the water. The girls dabble in journalism too, and both have websites that are well worth checking out here and here.

We spent the entire journey talking about our travels and line of work, looking at photos they had taken and finding out how they were managing to travel around from job to job, keeping costs and living expenses to a minimum. It was an exciting lifestyle, and one I could have talked about for hours, but sadly they were catching a flight back to their homes in Hawaii.

“Look, don’t worry about the fare, we’d have had to pay it anyway. Keep the money in your pocket and get yourself something to eat in departures,” Alison said as we arrived at Nadi’s international terminal. I tried my best to at least give her a few dollars, but she wouldn’t accept it. It was a lovely gesture, and yet again another example of the kindness you can find from complete strangers when you’re in a tricky situation far from home.

We had photos together before saying goodbye, promising to check out each others blogs when we find time. I left them as they made their way to the Air Pacific check in desk with the hope of avoiding another bill of more than $1,000 in excess baggage that they had been stung with on the outbound flight.

The next leg

And so I made my way to the Los Angeles check-in desk for the longest flight of my entire trip, a 10 hour journey across the Pacific Ocean and the date line to the west coast of America. My original plan was to tour the west coast, going as far north as San Francisco, before flying from LA to New York to see friends and then back home at the end of July. But then I had the brainwave of ending my travels with something special, eyeing up how much of the globe I had travelled overland, and thinking about how great it would be to drive from coast to coast across America.

Route 66, the Pacific to the Atlantic, more than 2,400 miles along America’s ‘mother road’ to Chicago and then over to the east coast. Its the stuff of dreams for any petrolhead, and I grew to think of it as a fitting finale to an epic adventure. I even had my friend Ian, from Melbourne, and who I met 10 years ago while working on a children’s summer camp in New York, interested in the idea. With just about enough funds, it was a goer.

Stupidly, however, I managed to forget it was my dad’s 60^th birthday on July 21, and had an awkward conversation a couple of months back where I had a slightly upset father who believed I’d snubbed him for an extra week on my trip. I had to explain myself and how I’d thought he was only 59 this year – well, he does look good for his age (I know he reads this!) – and being out of the loop on the other side of the world, events back home had passed me by.

With my sister Amy working for travel company Thomson in Cape Verde, dad told me how he wanted us all to be together for a week over his birthday. His idea was for us all to fly out to the island on July 19 for a week of sun, fun and relaxation together. It would be the first time in around two years we will have all been together, and a fitting way for us all to spend his birthday together.

The upshot of all this was that I had to shave some time off the end of my travels to get home earlier. I had to juggle around my plans to get back to the UK in time for the flight, meaning I am now flying out of New York on July 17. To do this, Fiji was cut from two weeks to six days, my time in the States was reduced by a week, and it would mean less time with my best mate Dan, wife Denise and my godson Nathanial in Connecticut before my flight back to London.

I was determined to still do everything I had planned, however, even if it did mean keeping to yet another tight schedule. I worked out the road trip of a lifetime was still possible, and my overland adventures that have become a bit of a theme of my journey would continue.

Big bird

I boarded the Air Pacific jumbo jet at Nadi knowing that as well as flying substantially closer to home, I was about to become a time traveller. The quirk about going fully around the world is that you gain time when you cross the International Date Line in the Pacific Ocean. It means you don’t lose any travel time, and even stranger, you arrive in America before you have even set off for the airport.

Touchdown in LA – before i’d even left my Fiji beach!

My 10pm flight from Fiji on the Tuesday landed at Los Angeles International Airport at 2pm on the same Tuesday afternoon. It would mean a single day lasting a staggering 42 hours, and with only a little sleep on the flight, I arrived in America with that horrible zombie feeling.

Nice wheels

Worse still, arriving at the Budget car hire centre at LAX, I had yet more problems with my bank thanks to the ongoing restrictions HSBC have put on my account after assessing I was potentially a victim of card cloning. With a £200 limit on transactions in any 24 hour period, the £400 hold that the hire company needed to take from my account wouldn’t go through. Neither would they let me ring the bank from the office to get them to authorise the transaction. Instead, it was a search for some free wifi at the hotel across the road, where yet again Skype got me out of a sticky situation.

“We’ve given you a complimentary upgrade,” said the assistant behind the counter before directing me to a parking spot outside.

And there it was. Gleaming white, sparkling in the California sun, and a lot bigger than the budget economy car I had booked for the trans-America drive. It’s a Ford Fusion, and for the next two weeks, it will become home for Ian and I as we make our way east.

Finally got wheels!

Ian doesn’t fly in from Melbourne for a couple of days, and we’d agreed to meet in Las Vegas, so for the first few days I was on my own. One of the advantages of having a car is that I’ll be able to get around so much easier for the next few days, but more than that, it means the days of lugging all my belongings around on my back are finally over. Most of my bags will be able to stay in the boot of the car, meaning after more than eight months of wandering streets with my entire belongings strapped to me, my back can finally get a rest

California plates

I stepped inside the car, put the air conditioning on full blast, and tentatively slipped the automatic gearbox into drive, inching my way out of the car park and onto the streets of LA. Being a fairly regular visitor to the States, I quickly got the hang of driving on the roads again, and headed to a McDonalds (where else?!) for some free wifi, booking myself into a backpacker motel near the airport.

It was a slightly strange place, with its fair share of odd people, but with a pool, free breakfast and dinner, unlimited coffee and wifi, all for just £12 a night, it was too good to turn down. I booked in for three nights, dumped some belongings and set off to explore the city.

My hostel/motel…and a plane going to nearby LAX.

And what a city it was. My first night I spent getting my bearings, working out the Interstate system and how to get around to the various famous parts of LA. I headed to the beaches, to find hundreds of people preparing for Independence Day with bonfires and beers. The famous Venice and Santa Monica beaches and resorts were thriving with people enjoying the start of the holiday period. There was very much a relaxed atmosphere about the city.

Beach bonfires for July 4

It left me with my own problem about what to do for Independence Day, a day when America can celebrate all that is good about being, well, American. I searched the internet and narrowed it down to a couple of options to experience the day. It was either a night at the LA Bowl for some kind of America-fest, with what was described as the most patriotic night and the most spectacular fireworks in California. Or there was a baseball game between the LA Dodgers and Cincinnati Reds. I could get a cheap ticket online, and was just about to book, when another sporting fixture flashed up on my screen. It was for LA Galaxy, home to David Beckham.

Now, I’ve not had much luck when it comes to watching one of England’s greatest ever players in action in the flesh. I missed opportunities when he was playing back home, and so thought I would get the chance to see him play when I watched Real Madrid take on Espanyol at the Bernabeu a few years back. Unfortunately, he managed to get injured again just before the game, and while it will always go down as one of the most exciting games of football I have ever seen – a dramatic last minute 4-3 win that saw Real go top and win the La Liga as a result – I resigned myself to the fact I would probably never get to see Becks play in person.

So, thanks to a $70 ticket being offered for just $19 online, and free Independence Day fireworks afterwards, my mind was made up. I would spend the night celebrating US independence from British rule by watching the most American of sports. Soccer, or football to give it the proper name.

Griffith Observatory, Los Angeles

Before that however I had my sights set on seeing possibly the most famous sign in the world, in perhaps one of the most famous neighbourhoods in the world. The Hollywood sign in, erm, Hollywood.

While picking up the car keys from my room, I said a quick hello to a tall lad with glasses, who asked if I was going to the beach. I told him I wasn’t, but was off to explore LA.

“I’m on my way to Hollywood, for a look around. You’re welcome to come along if you fancy the ride out,” I said, expecting him to say no.

Instead, he said he’d love to. His name was Tommy, who it turned out was quite a quiet bloke and who was slightly awkward to keep conversation flowing with, but he was nice enough and it was company for a few hours. He was from Washington state, and in LA searching for work in IT. Yet he had lived in LA for years, and had never been to visit the famous sign in the Hollywood Hills.

The streets of Hollywood

“I can’t help but laugh at the irony of an English bloke, on Independence Day, taking an American bloke to go and see one of his country’s most famous sights,” I laughed as we climbed the dusty pathway towards the huge white letters.

The sign was one of the sights I had been most looking forward to seeing in this part of America. It is something we have all been brought up with, and a sign we see thousands of times, usually without realising in cinema and television. Interestingly, it was erected in 1923 and originally said “Hollywoodland”, the main purpose to advertise the name of a new housing development in the Santa Monica hills. But for whatever reason, the sign was left up and became something of a novelty.

Hullywod

The sign isn’t the original, however. By the 1970s, that had fallen into a state of disrepair, and while various pranks have been played over the year where letters have been rearranged or covered up, the sign, having bits of letters broken or missing, once actually read “Hullywod”.

We came across a steep side track, where two guys were scrambling up to another path. We followed, eventually catching them up. I got talking to one, wearing a red shirt, who was called Justin. They were visiting the city from another part of America, and were excited about getting so close to the sign.

The track ended up on a former road that winds its way up the hillside, towards a communications mast at the top. At this point we still couldn’t see the sign, despite approaching the peak of the hill. We did, however, come across yet another dusty track to our right. We followed it, climbing up another rocky pathway and discovering a plaque dedicated to Hugh Hefner, clearly his favourite lookout over Los Angeles which sprawled out to the horizon in front of us.

Amazing views of downtown LA

To our left, we could see a fence, and just a few metres below us, the giant ‘H’ that starts what is probably the most famous sign in the world.

“Lets go down there and touch it, I’ve always wanted to do that,” said Justin, who we’ve only just met.

I wasn’t too sure what the legal situation was when it comes to approaching the sign, but there seemed to be a worn track down the hillside towards the six-storey high letters so presumed it must be ok to get a closer look. But then my conscience got the better of me, after all, there was a fairly hefty steel fence along the side of the road that I had somehow found myself on the wrong side of.

So close to the sign

In the distance I could see some form of warning sign, and a security camera that was pointing in our direction. Call me a chicken, but I decided the risk of arrest wasn’t quite worth touching the huge white metal letters.

Hmmm

Besides, I quite like America, and a ban on visiting the country after a spell of bird for touching one of their icons would be really annoying.

So I turned around and headed back for the relative safety behind the fence, watching Justin and his friend make their way down to the sign and touching it, making a metallic sound that echoed around the hilltop. They made their way up, laughing and joking about their achievement, and leaving me regretting not making the descent with them.

Back on the right side of the fence!

Then we all saw a police or ranger van pull up at a bridge far below, blocking one of the return tracks to the car park. Justin and his mate decided that they had better leave on a separate route, and took a trail through the bush back down to the bottom. Tommy and I made our way around the normal way – after all, we had done nothing wrong.

I will never know if the other two got arrested, as the last time I saw them they were stumbling down a rocky path, but I do know more about security at the sign having looked it up on the internet. As well as banks of CCTV cameras that I could see at the top, the sign is also equipped with motion sensors and infra red devices. Once they are triggered, the LAPD helicopter is automatically dispatched, and people are usually yelled at from a loudspeaker onboard and promptly arrested at the bottom of the hill. I’m just glad I didn’t take the risk!

Looking out for rattlers on the way!

After spending most of the afternoon looking out over LA and at nine huge white letters, I headed back to the hostel to drop Tommy off with a long drive down the Sunset Strip and along Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard to the main interstate. It doesn’t quite feel real to be driving along such famous streets, but the plush gated houses along both sides of the road in these incredible neighbourhoods are a reminder that the world’s rich and famous call these streets their home.

Driving along some familiar roads

Speaking of rich and famous, it was time to travel to the Home Depot Center Stadium to watch David Beckham in action for LA Galaxy. The stadium was smaller than I imagined, and it was festooned with Beckham memorabilia and photos, while almost everyone wearing a Galaxy shirt had his named emblazoned on their backs.

With Robbie Keane at the Home Depot Center Stadium

He really has become something of a cult hero over here, as well as back home. I arrived just in time to see the teams come out onto the pitch, amid much American fanfare and waving of flags. Fireworks were launched from the pitch, and everyone stood for the national anthem. A Saturday afternoon game at Blundell Park for Grimsby Town versus Fleetwood this was not.

After scouring websites for team news, checking out injury pages, even looking at the David Beckham fan sites to check he hadn’t been dropped or injured before the game, I looked for the familiar figure on the pitch. Except he wasn’t there. I checked the bench. No Beckham either. Others around me were asking the same question, including the family next to me who had turned up especially to see him.

Beckham no-show

“The same thing happened to me in Madrid a couple of years back,” I told them, before being accused of being the bad omen for the night.

And I was – despite my checks and research, Beckham had been banned after picking up a yellow card in the previous match. Instead, I sat through one of the most boring games of football I have ever witnessed (quite a statement from a Grimsby fan!) where even the likes of Robbie Keane and Landon Donovan failed to impress.

Robbie Keane taking the kick-off

In addition, sitting with American fans while watching the sport is a completely different experience to anything back home. It seems the actual action on the pitch is just a side show – the main reason for people attending the game is to try and eat and drink as much as possible within the 90 minutes of play. I swear some people see it as a challenge. A couple in front of me brought an entire coolbag full of pre-prepared meats, salads, bread and pasta. A full evening meal, to eat while watching football from the stands.

Candy Floss…can see that going down well in the Pontoon

And you can forget a meat pie and a pint here – it was all about candy floss, churros, nachos and hot dogs. Basically, baseball meets football, America meets England and everyone leaves the ground three stone heavier than when they went in.

Their keeper was a bit of a dinosaur

On top of all that, and not content with the action on the pitch, the crowd tries to entertain themselves too. At half time, a dinosaur came onto the pitch (I know Beckham is getting old, but that’s not me being funny – it really was a dinosaur) and families had to shoot the ball past the dinosaur to win tickets to some theme park. Kiss cam came on the big screen, forcing some of California’s most hideous couples to smooch in front of thousands, and in the process making far too many people gag on their nachos.

Blurgh

Then someone came out and launched t-shirts into the crowd. There was some kind of ‘lucky seat’ game that meant everyone had to search under their chair for a golden ticket. Then a row of people in front of me started jumping around after being chosen as the ‘lucky row’ to appear on screen and win something free (probably food related).

In addition to all of that, while the game was going on, one section behind the goal was constantly making noise thanks to being orchestrated by a man in a pit with a loud speaker, along with much arm swinging, chanting and the odd rhythmic ‘dee-fense cha cha cha’, the sound of which just makes me baulk at the abuse of our national sport.

Loudspeaker man. An idea for Blundell Park?!

I did, however, see the reasoning behind the loudspeaker man – without him, the atmosphere would have been deathly. Even the family next to me admit that Americans simply don’t know how to behave at the ‘soccer’. They don’t know whether to just stay quiet and eat (which on the whole they do) or let their inhibitions go a bit and cheer for their team.

Instead, they have many failed attempts at a Mexican wave, that old chestnut that was once common in the Eighties but probably hasn’t been seen at a football ground back home since, well, about the Eighties.

Glittery confetti for scoring a goal

Eventually they got it going, and I admit, I joined in. It wasn’t because I wanted to, or because there was peer pressure to join in with the Americans around me, who, by now, had embraced their English visitor who could explain all the rules and give stories of football across the pond. It was simply because it was something to do, and it took my mind off the banal game in front of me. It was either that, or buy something else to eat and drink. Perhaps we see part of the problem here.

The Beckhamless Galaxy went behind in the first half thanks to a weak goal by their Philadelphia counterparts, before levelling in the second half with a goal that sent everyone wild in the stands. There was even blue and silver confetti launched from the top of the stand that fluttered down on everyone to mark the momentous occasion.

Independence Day fireworks

They went on to lose by conceding a stupid and sloppy injury time goal, which left everyone heading to the nearest burger stand for a final feed before taking their seats again to sing ‘God bless America’ and ‘Born in the USA’ en masse while thousands of dollars worth of fireworks went up in smoke above one of the stands.

The smoke starts to take a starring role

It would have been a great display if someone had worked out which way the wind – and therefore the smoke- was blowing and planned accordingly. Instead, after half an hour of obscured flashes and flames, everyone headed out to the car park and joined a queue for the interstate.

I, meanwhile, headed back to the car with the knowledge it probably was, now, the last chance I will have to see Mr Beckham bend it on a pitch in person. I did see Frank Lampard and his missus in the ground, apparently meeting Becks to watch the game, but that was as close as I got to seeing a free kick expert in action on the night.

Back out in the famous neighbourhoods

I had a couple of visits to Hollywood Boulevard during my time in this famous part of America, enjoying a couple of strolls along the Walk of Fame. It was no other than Journey’s star that was the first one I actually recognised along the strip amid all the past movie, music, radio and television personalities who have their fame recorded in the most permanent way with a red marble star in the sidewalk.

Don’t Stop Believin’!

The walk of fame is surprisingly long, a good 20 minute walk in each direction, and it can be good fun spotting the names you know, from Elton John to Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera to Arnold Schwarzenegger. There were special stones for people like the crew of Apollo 11, including Neil Armstrong, who set foot on the moon for their special achievement, while the LA Dodgers and various industry partners get special mentions in the path for their help with promoting the area and the Oscars.

Grauman’s Chinese Theatre

After spotting Journey’s star, I didn’t stop believing at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where I marvelled at how small some of the world’s most famous hands and feet are in the cement stones that make up the famous forecourt.

Had to be done!

Grauman’s is known as one of the most famous movie theatres in the world, built by famous showman Sid Grauman who is seen as one of the key figures behind cinema. To have a hand and footprint taken here is often seen as a career highlight, even by the most famous of celebrities. Apparently, there are two stories about how the tradition began: one has Mary Pickford as the actress who stepped in wet cement on her way to see the magnificent new building shortly after it had been finished, and the other credits Norma Talmadge with the misstep. Grauman decided it was a wonderful way to have a permanent record of the stars, and began inviting selected film personalities to put their hand and footprints in concrete.

He might have saved Private Ryan, but he’s got skinny feet and tiny hands

To this day, the world’s most famous people get on their hands and knees here to leave a lasting impression – and their films are often premiered in the theatre within. It was fascinating to wander around, braving the throngs of tourists and spotting the many famous names and messages.

Parked up in Beverly Hills

Amid more driving through Beverly Hills, I called in at the Apple store in Hollywood to finally sort out the long-running saga of my iPhone, which has not been right ever since it was unlocked by O2 back home and upgraded to iOS5 through iTunes. Regular visitors to my ramblings would no doubt have picked up my frustrations at carting my iPhone around the world with me, only for it to sit in my bag redundant most of the way after it either breaks down or locks up on me. Since inserting a New Zealand sim card in it, once again it had been rendered useless, somehow locking itself to Vodafone Australia despite being supplied with an unlocked device in Sydney.

Having spent $40 on Skype credit with four separate calls to Apple support, who in turn pass me on to Vodafone, who in return send me an email three days later telling me it was an issue with Apple, who then send me back into this vicious circle by sending me back to Vodafone, I had grown sick of being passed from pillar to post.

Sorting out my phone in the posh districts around Rodeo Drive

I walked in and for once their sickly smiles and warm welcoming style couldn’t cut through my frustration. I went straight for the top, asking to speak to a manager, which resulted in me getting an appointment straight away at the ‘Genius bar’. Where I was told they wouldn’t unlock it, there was nothing they could do, and it was an issue with my carrier.

There was no way I was leaving until it was sorted out, and so I sat myself down and told them as much, fed up with Apple and the phone networks around the world constantly passing the buck. I dug my heals in. After being asked to explain the who sorry tale three times to three different people, eventually the manager was sent to speak to me.

“I have explained the story so many times, I have a case number, can you not call Apple support and get the rundown of what has happened before finding me a solution to all these problems,” I asked.

“I’m sorry sir, I cant call Apple support, they are nothing to do with us.”

So not only can they not communicate with the networks they sell their phones to, they can’t even talk to sections of their own company.

“This was a phone issued in Australia, we can only change phones issued in the States,” came another little gem, that only served to raise my frustrations.

“So, effectively, you can’t travel anywhere with an iPhone because if you get problems, you can’t get help, and the networks around the world lock your phone even it its unlocked,” I said.

“That is the case I’m afraid, yes.”

It was a ridiculous situation, and an area that really needs highlighting. Iphones, as great as they are – simply the best bit of kit around if I’m honest for ease of use and capability – have one major flaw. Once you put another sim card in, it will lock to that network. You then have to faff around getting it unlocked again, only for it to lock to the next network you put a sim in from. And when you need help from Apple, because it is officially a carrier issue, it can be like getting blood from a stone, constantly being batted away back to whoever supplied the sim card.

Not a bad area to be stuck in an Apple store!

This time, however, I wasn’t going anywhere, and they knew it. I was eventually given a phone to call customer support on, while sat inside an Apple story, because the different members of staff couldn’t possibly talk to one another. And there I sat, for the next hour and a half, to some engineer somewhere in America who looked into all of my accounts, replacements and problems over the past few years.

“As well as Vodafone Australia, your handset is locked to a network in Korea,” I was told.

The plot thickened.

“The serial number on your account is for a handset from Korea. Have you had one from there?” I was asked.

While I had visited Seoul for an hour between flights in November, there wasn’t enough time to have a drink, let alone buy a new phone. I repeated my serial number three times to make sure.

“I have spotted what it is – someone has written a digit down wrong on one of your replacements.”

Somehow, in Meadowhall, one digit went down wrong. Instead of my phone, it registered as a complete stranger’s handset in Korea. And since that day, their phone has been unlocked on numerous occasions by networks on my behalf, while being accused by me of not carrying out the procedure. It turns out they were, but not on my handset.

“I’m really sorry sir, it does seem to have been a mistake by one of our staff that has caused all of these problems.”

I relayed this to the staff around the Genius bar, who a couple of hours ago had adopted the ‘its your fault, your problem, deal with it,’ mentality in trying to get me out of the shop. Suddenly they had all changed their tune, and to be fair to the manager, he couldn’t apologise enough, even giving me a new pair of headphones for free.

So now, with one solitary digit being amended on my records, hopefully that will be the end of this long running saga that has driven me mad. Its just a shame that for the majority of this trip, I have been without my music, maps, phone, emails on the go, Facebook and Twitter in my hand, and everything else that helps while on the move thanks to the clever little touches incorporated into the handset. And Apple will be getting a strongly worded letter, complete with a claim for international phone calls and three new (cheapo) handsets I have had to buy in various countries just so I can make calls.

Woody loved getting in my shots

Relieved that I seemed to have finally got a result, I went for a pootle along Rodeo Drive, the shopping district of the stars, along Hollywood Boulevard to take in one last dose of the Tinseltown atmosphere, and smiling at how normal it felt to be cruising around one of the most incredibly rich and famous areas in the world.

Dolby Theatre…home to the Oscars

But it was time to move on – I have the road trip of all road trips to begin, and it was time to get my kicks on Route 66.

Half A World Away

Posted on July 10, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

On the far side of the world…

I’ve set myself another travel challenge – to get myself to the furthest point away from home on planet Earth. I want to get myself to the complete opposite side of the world to Grimsby. But its going to take some doing.

It was an idea that came to me thanks to one of my friend Neil’s housemates in Alice Springs a couple of months ago. He was from Fiji, and handed me a magazine that outlined what there was to do in the islands. My eyes fell on a page all about the date line.

Now, this in itself is something very few people ever get to visit. The chance to stand half in today, half in tomorrow. Or half in yesterday, half in today. However you want to look at it. It confuses me to even think about it.

Anyway, there are only three places in the world where you can stand on the actual, true, international date line without getting wet in the Pacific Ocean. One is in Siberia, another is in the Arctic Circle, both of which I have no plans to go near anytime soon.

Which leaves one more – in Fiji. Which, incase you didn’t see my last post, is where I find myself for the next six days. It means I don’t have a great deal of time, and it’s a bit of a toss-up between switching off on a paradise island for a few days, or setting off on another adventure somewhere, seeing the country in the process.

Now, the thing that swung the decision for me was through a bit of research and slow realisation. The international date line sits on the 180° Meridian line, one of the imaginary lines used for time and dating around the world. And then I thought back to home.

Cleethorpes, the town next to Grimsby, has the Greenwich Meridian Line running straight through it. And that, it took me a while to realise, is in other words the 0° line.

The Greenwich Meridian, 0deg, running through Cleethorpes (©Steve Collins, Flickr)

Of course, a full circle, like the big circle that is the planet we all sit on, has 360° in it before you reach wherever you first started off. Which means 180° is exactly halfway around. Which means it is the exact furthest point you can be from 0°.

Now, for all of this, you can quite simply read that Fiji, or should I say, a part of Fiji, is precisely the furthest point away from Cleethorpes that you can get. And that, I think, is a fairly cool fact.

The slight snag is that the particular island the 180 line passes through is called Taveuni, and its pronunciation isn’t the problem. It’s the fact that it lies quite a long way north from Nadi, the town I landed in on the main island.

I looked into flights. There’s an airline called Pacific Sun that will fly me there from Nadi, but at a price. Over £300 return is a sizeable chunk of my remaining travel fund, and out of the question. I started to write off the idea. Besides, a week in the sun on an idyllic beach would be quite nice.

But then that nagging thought that has plagued me at moments like this throughout my journey came back. The voice in my head was telling me I’ll probably only ever be here this one time in my life. And once I have left these shores for Los Angeles, there will be no going back. No other chances to look on a map at where it says International Date Line and know that I have been there.

And I will always know that I had the chance to say I have been as far away from home as possible, but never took it.

A ferry cheap way to travel

That’s when I found out about a ferry. There are three a week, its relatively cheap and it leaves at a time that means I should be able to make it back to Nadi for my flight. But it leaves from Suva, on the south of the main island and a hefty drive away from Nadi. Already I have picked up that Fiji isn’t necessarily geared up for independent backpacking, but surely there is a way of reaching it.

Thankfully, while trying to drink the local poison of Kava, made from plant roots, I got talking to staff from a nearby hostel.

“You can do it, yeah you can do it. Infact, we have a trip leaving on Friday,” I was told

It was music to my ears.

And so, at 9.30am this morning, I had packed my bags, said goodbye to the staff where I had been staying and rolled up at the Bamboo hostel, where the travel guy was waiting for me.

Being waved off from Nadi

“Bula! Good morning Phil,” he smiled, directing me to put my bags down.

“So, you’ll get a driver that will take you to Suva for FJ$18 (£6) then its an overnight ferry that leaves at 6pm for $68. That will get you to Taveuni for lunchtime on Saturday, you can stop off at the line, then spend the night at the hostel there before coming back on the ferry on Sunday, arriving back here for Monday.”

It is a long way to go, but the way I see it, I will see far more of Fiji, and experience more of life in these remote islands, by travelling with the locals and making my way to the northern islands in search of my unique spot on the globe.

There were three others who will make the long journey with me, two American guys called Craig and Michael, and a Canadian girl called Marie. We loaded our bags into the back of the people carrier and set off down the dusty road towards Nadi, where we dropped off a couple of people in the town centre.

Stacks of fruit!

The drive to Suva took us through the lush fertile landscape that Fiji is famous for. It was a drive that took us past fields full of sugar cane crops and colourful pink and blue houses set on hills, surrounded by fresh fruit and vegetables growing all around. The beautiful deep blue Pacific Ocean was sending waves crashing onto the surrounding reef. Out to sea, some of the many small islands that litter the coastline around the main island, swathes of bright blue water marking the areas of coral. This was more like the tropical island I had been expecting to see.

Palm-fringed roads and beaches

It was a bumpy, dusty ride in places, the windows open slightly to let in a much needed breeze. Having thought we’d been put into a private transfer to Suva, we soon began to get some company in the form of locals along the way. With just one main road around the edge of the islands, hundreds of minibuses, like the one I’m on, ply for trade by cruising along the road, picking up anyone that indicates they need a ride. It’s a mode of transport that seems to work well, for just a few cents from the locals. Some would hop in and get out just a few miles down the road, some would climb onboard and stay for a while, getting out at a major town half an hour away. But all would jump in with a huge smile and a friendly ‘Bula!’ before settling into their seat. It’s a greeting we all return with gusto!

Mixing it with the locals

A couple of hours down the road we stopped at the service station, and while it was a welcome break to stretch our legs, a Welcome Break this was not. A small shack selling everything from toasted sandwiches and crisps to sausages and chips – pretty much everything you could want on a long trip, but in typically Fijian surroundings.

Service station, Fiji style

It was a typical small town on the island, and yet again the people were incredibly friendly. It was also cheap, with some fresh pineapple, a bottle of coke and three bags of crisps for the journey setting me back just over the equivalent of a pound. Maybe that was the biggest difference to the service stations back home – the fact you don’t need to remortgage your house for some refreshments.

Pineapple at the services

Another two and half hours down the road, we arrived in Suva, the capital. We called at the port first, catching my first glimpse of the ferry that will become home for the next couple of days. I say ferry, it was more of a rusting cargo ship, a former Greek vessel that sailed the Aegean Sea, shuttling between the islands since it was built in the 1960s. It was certainly showing its age in places, and that was just by looking at it from the shore.

Suva city centre

But there was still five hours to go before the 6pm sailing, so we were dropped off in the nearby city centre, and for me it was time to sort out a few errands while I was in relative civilisation – a new memory card for my camera, a postcard for the parents so it can be stuck on the world map they are plotting my journey on, a new t-shirt and a new towel, having left my Australia flag one in a hostel in New Zealand. I’ve replaced it with a Fiji flag – it’s a much nicer, bright blue anyway.

Leaving our mark in Suva

It was also a chance to grab a few supplies from the supermarket, as I’d been warned food onboard the ship was expensive. Having got fed up of bread and Vegemite, it was time for a change. Bread and peanut butter it was.

After a few photos around the city, it was time to meet the others and find a taxi back to the port and continue my journey to the far side of the world. It was FJ$68 for the one-way ticket to Taveuni, about £22. Considering I was paying more than that for one night at a hostel around Australia, it was a price worth paying for travel and accommodation for the night. The only catch is you don’t get a bed, it’s a case of sleeping in the seating area for the night, but having spent a fair few nights on Greyhounds or on planes in such a sleeping position, it shouldn’t be a problem.

We arrived at the port to find a completely different scene to the one we’d left a few hours previous, with crowds of people now gathered around the stern doors to the ferry, a busy scene of people saying goodbye to loved ones, hauling bags and boxes up onto the ship, and of lorries and vans trying to manoeuvre themselves up the steep ramp and into position in the hold of the ship.

“Taveuni?” nods a man from the ship, taking my bag and placing it with countless others that had been piled inside a shipping container. I made my way up through the fume-filled cargo area and up a steep rusting stairwell, covered in oil and grime, and across the decks towards the passenger area.

The main passenger ‘saloon’

It was there that I found most seats had already been taken, with an abnormally high number of mothers spread out and lounging around with their offspring on mats on the floor. Many were between the rows of seats, others just clogged up the gangways. I managed to find a seat next to an older Fijian man called Henry, who was interested in my journey and where I had been.

“I’ve just got a new job, working at a hotel in Taveuni. This is the furthest I have ever travelled, I’ve never been on a big ship like this,” he tells me.

“I’m hoping its nice on the island. I don’t like leaving my friends and family behind.”

Setting sail

It was interesting to hear one of the locals talk about the journey like that, and a reminder that while the price is relatively cheap for myself, even on my dwindling budget, it is still a lot of money for those who live here. It is a journey few will ever make, although Henry is full of praise for me making a break away from the well-trodden party island routes of countless backpackers before me.

Heading north

While Henry was a really nice bloke, he also happened to be one of the worst snorers I have come across on the trip so far. I had a warning when he took a very loud nap shortly after we drifted away from Suva, prompting me to have a good look around the ship. There were many more seating areas in the open air on deck, and people were already setting up to spend the night under the stars. I felt lucky to at least have a padded seat indoors.

After a round of peanut butter sandwiches, the lights suddenly went out. It was 8.30pm, and the crew had decided it was late enough for us all to still be awake, and so in a not so subtle manner, forced us all to bed. Thankfully I kept typing away under the glow from my netbook screen, while all around me began to settle for the night. I unfurled my sleeping bag and got as comfortable as I could before eventually trying to get some sleep myself. All was going well, even managing to fall asleep, until I heard a deep, bass-filled rumbling sound.

It was Henry, and he was fast asleep. And how. Amid all the background noise on the ship – the engines, the air conditioning, the screaming babies – Henry managed to outdo them all. Others, too, were looking over in my direction, having been awoken by Henry’s howls. My seat was vibrating with the force of his snoring, and there was little I could do but try to shut it out. I tried for half an hour, and then the baby right behind me began screaming. I couldn’t take anymore – I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, put my valuables in my pockets, and made my way to the top deck.

Trying to sleep under the stars.

It might have been outside, it might have been on a rusting, gap-filled bench, and it might have been at the worst point on the ship to feel the full effect of the rolling Pacific Ocean waves, but at least it was relatively quite, aside from the sound of the water crashing against the ship. That, combined with the rocking of the boat, actually sent me off into a relatively deep sleep, apart from waking up periodically through the night thanks to some agonisingly uncomfortable aches from the hard metal bench.

Morning!

It was lunchtime the following day before I finally got my first glimpse of Taveuni. It’s known as the Garden Island of Fiji, thanks to it being the wettest of all the islands, which in turn means it produces more fruit and vegetables than any other in the country. From across the magnificently deep blue sea we were sailing through, the island seemed shrouded in cloud, growing greener and greener the nearer we sailed to our final destination.

Approaching Taveuni

After almost 20 hours onboard the ship, we were finally allowed back down to the vehicle deck to collect our bags, and met by Rafa, who is part of the team from the delightfully named Tuvununu backpackers on the island. I asked him if we could stop off at the 180 Meridian on the way north to the resort, and thanks to a kind driver, he agreed.

We finally arrive at the date line

It was just a five minute ride to the actual line. It is marked by a sign, divided into two, which sits at the far side of a playing field. Unbeknown to me, I have already crossed the International Date Line into ‘yesterday’, but this is something that becomes normal for the 9,000 people who live here. Because of the natural problems that having a country split in half by a day (imagine the TV listings for a start – who knows when Coronation Street would be on?!) the date line, for the sake of countries and islanders like those in Fiji, actually zig-zags around the land masses in the southern Pacific. But the true date line is at 180 degrees, and as I walk over towards the sign, I notice a building with ‘2000’ painted onto the roof.

“That’s because so many people from around the world came here for the Millennium,” Rafa tells me.

“This was the first place where the new Millennium dawned, when sun first rose in 2000, and so they marked it by painting the roof.”

I approached the sign along with the rest of the group from Nadi who had been taken in by my story of how I was about to stand at the complete opposite side of the globe to my home town. Only a couple of them had actually realised the significance of the line until I told them about it.

Welcome to the dawn of a new day

The sign was rotting slightly at the edges, but there was all the confirmation still remaining painted on it that I was indeed standing on the 180 Meridian. I looked out to the north, knowing that if I walked in a dead straight line – or swam over the wet bits – I would indeed eventually walk straight up onto the beach at Cleethorpes and along the coastal path in the town near the Humberston Fitties. It was a baffling thought, and I looked through the gap in the sign showing where the Meridian passes through, gazing out over the Pacific Ocean and thinking of home so many thousands of miles away.

My next baffling thought was that of what day I was standing in. Strangely, I was standing in both – my right side of the body was in 1pm ‘today’, Saturday, June 30, while the left side of my body was standing in 1pm ‘yesterday’. A strange phenomenon, and one that raises further questions when the sun sets at that particular point. I puzzled over which night you are actually seeing.

Half in today, half in yesterday!

It was also a weird thought to look at how the island was divided by the line, knowing that in reality, two different days are ongoing. A few of us chatted about it, and agreed it changes your whole perspective on time, days and what actually constitutes a 24 hour period, as if by standing at that point had made us realise that actually, what we live our entire lives by is infact just a clever way of regulating life by the constant sunrise and sunsets that the revolution of the earth brings.

Relaxation awaits

Having spent 20 minutes taking in the odd knowledge that I am as far away from home as possible, we all made our way back to the minivan and on to the accommodation. And for a backpacker hostel, what accommodation it was – a wooden deck overlooking an amazing blue lagoon, opposite a tropical island and surrounded by hammocks and relaxing chairs. It was a perfect place to relax, and I was already regretting only being there for one night. With the ferry returning the following day, and it being the best part of a week before it returns, I had to catch it to go back in order to make my onward flight to America.

On another, slightly smaller, boat…

I made the most of my time at the Tuvununu lodge though, getting to know people, sharing Kava and even taking a canoe out in the afternoon, being set a challenge by Rafa to make it across to the island on the opposite side of the lagoon.

With Rafa

From the hostel, it didn’t look too far, but it took a hard half an hour of frantic paddling to safely make it through the current and across the choppy waters to the palm-fringed island. I took shelter from the current in a small bay, even getting out of the Kayak to officially step foot on the island. There wasn’t a beach as such, just a rocky, shingle cove full of driftwood and rotting leaves that had been washed up onto the shore. I picked up a rock and a leaf to take back to Rafa as proof of making the crossing.

It was actually further than I thought – the dot is me, paddling furiously

Thankfully, the return back was a little easier with a back wind, and I arrived in the hostel to a congratulatory word from Will, one of the residents who would also be sailing back with me to Suva the following day.

“I’ve been here a week and I’ve not managed to do that, so fair play to you for doing it on your first afternoon,” he said. Craig, who I had travelled from Nadi with, even took a photo of me after being surprised how far I’d had to paddle.

“It really shocked me to see the perspective of how small you looked,” he said.

24 Hours later, heading back again!

My time in Taveuni came to an end far too quickly. Before I knew it, I was back in a taxi and heading back to the ferry terminal for the return trip onboard Sofi, the Spirit of the Fiji Islands. There was a bit of amusement for us all as we watching the crew of a neighbouring ship, the Lomaviti Princess, struggling to haul in a small boat that they had been using to bring in the mooring ropes.

The Lomaviti Princess sets sail, dragging a boat

Having struggled to slide the boat onto the stern door, they came up with a novel way of getting the problematic vessel back inside the mother ship – attaching it to a forklift truck, and driving the forklift as quickly as possible inside the ship. There was an almighty bang as it hit the door, but aside from that, they somehow got the boat back onboard.

Nearly there…

It was entertaining to watch, and laughed in the face of all our health and safety laws and regulations back home. I can’t quite imagine one of the ships leaving Immingham Docks carrying out the same procedure in the Humber. It was while doing some research into the ship that I found this little gem on Wikipedia, and it made me smile. Its about the launch of the vessel, formerly a ferry in Canada

All done and also heading to Suva

“The launching did not proceed without incident. The traditional smashing of a champagne bottle against the hull was to be performed by the wife of the Speaker of the Legislature, W H Murray. Moments before, however, a young boy ran across the dock and tripped over the rope which restrained the chains holding the vessel to the ways. Instead of being launched by the pull of a lever, the Queen of Prince Rupert was sent down the ways prematurely by accident.

Mrs. Murray belatedly pulled a second lever to propel the champagne bottle, but it missed the boat. Harold Husband, president of the shipping line, grabbed the bottle on its return swing and tried to smash it against the hull, but the bottle only bounced off. Then the winds pushed the unpowered vessel directly towards a grain dock. Nearby tugs quickly moved in to keep the QPR out of danger. To ensure that there would be no bad luck associated with an improperly christened ship, Mrs. Murray later “threw another bottle of bubbly at the frisky ferry” as it lay tied up to a pier.“

Taveuni bound again

There is perhaps no wonder the crew can find it a struggle onboard that particular ship. I decided not to look into the mishaps that happened when my particular mode of transport was launched, but thankfully I found a much quieter lounge for the night, setting up a proper bed on the floor like the locals and getting a decent amount of sleep before arriving in Suva at dawn.

Bed!

Sunset over the Fiji Islands and ocean

I had booked into the Beachouse, a place recommended to me by my friend Cat, who had stayed shortly before ending her travels around the world in March. It was also heavily advertised everywhere, so I thought it would be worth a try, and thankfully it was. With an early arrival at 9am, I was half expecting to be told to wait around until I could check in later in the day, but to my relief and surprise, I was shown to my room and told to help myself to breakfast.

Paradise found at the Beachouse, Fiji coral coast

“You’re only here for one night, but stay as long as you need and use all our facilities tomorrow too,” I was told. Refreshing.

I helped myself to breakfast, talking to the friendly staff and using the free wifi to catch up with events back home, while also making my parents slightly green by turning the camera around to show them my view of a paradise beach, turquoise waters and hammocks where I was to spend a lazy couple of days relaxing.

The Fiji i’d been told about

My Beachouse beach house

It was two days of perfect sunsets, afternoon tea and cakes (another great free touch by the Beachouse) meeting fellow travellers, catching up on the blog and exploring the shallow reef that was just a few metres from the hammocks I grew so attached to.

Peanut butter sandwiches in paradise!

Free afternoon tea and cakes!

One of the highlights was walking out to the coral drop-off at low tide, watching the Pacific waves pounding against the reef, and looking at scores of blue starfish, commonly found in these waters, but for me a totally alien species that I was amazed by. They were an incredible colour, and there were so many of them.

Blue starfish

I almost had to pinch myself on several occasions. Fiji is a country that lies so far away from home – quite literally on the other side of the world – that I am unlikely to ever visit again, yet I had found a place which summed up my expectations.

Fun in Fiji

This was the paradise people had been speaking to me about, yet there are dozens of other islands that I am told are even better. Hard to imagine, yet in a place where you can stand in two days at once, find drinking something that tastes like pond water as enjoyable, and almost shatter windows with a snore, there’s little that can surprise me anymore here.

A beautiful place

Combined with some of the friendliest people I have met – the Fijians are on a par with the Thais for the friendliest on the planet for me – it was a stay on a faraway island I will always remember

Bula! It’s Fiji Time!

Posted on July 5, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

Sunsets in the South Pacific ahead

Somehow almost a month has passed me by in New Zealand.

I arrived in Auckland as the Queen was sailing down the Thames on that soggy boat back home, watching online while trying to work out exactly how and what I was going to do in order to see the best of one of her Commonwealth countries.

Yet again, without firm plans, I was ‘winging it’, but like most times I have approached a new land with that sometimes scary theory, things worked out pretty well.

It was largely down to the great bunch at the Magic Bus headquarters in the city, namely Mike, Bobby and Daryl, who, after a tentative email from a prospective blogger with a strange website involving a fish, asked me to pop in for a meeting.

It was their offer of a north and south island pass, in return for documenting the journey, taking photographs and telling the world about the brilliant time I was having onboard their coaches, that opened up a whole world of adventure, adrenalin, new friends, nights out and memories that will live long.

My first Magic group, and driver Russ, in Wellington

I was lucky in that I had some excellent drivers and some great groups of people on my sections of the journey around New Zealand, and while it can be difficult to keep up to date with the website, particularly with the internet here often being slower than a snail working its way through treacle, it was good fun turning events by day into an online story by night.

Hard at work on the Magic Bus (and yes, that is the BBC Sport homepage…the free wifi helped me stay in touch with England in the Euros!)

While the offer helped me massively with my travel budget, little did I know that even more opportunities were just around the corner. I was put in touch with Julia, head of UK marketing for Tourism New Zealand, the people responsible for telling the world about what there is to do in this great country. After a couple of emails detailing my journey, my website and my day job back home, I was informed about a programme for members of the media and travel agents, and offered a pass. In a nutshell, it gives special discounts to enable those who spread the word about New Zealand to experience as much as possible during their time here.

If it wasn’t for Julia’s help, and the rest of the Tourism New Zealand team – including the Wellington office who at short notice helped issue my pass – I wouldn’t have been able to do half of what I have in the past few weeks. The blogs wouldn’t have been half as exciting, my bank balance would make even scarier reading than it does now, and I’d still be telling those close to me back home that I will never, ever do a bungy jump.

Still can’t believe I did that!

And so, for these reasons and to say thankyou, the least I could do was make some time to call back in to see everyone in Auckland, before catching a 1pm flight out of the city and to the Fiji Islands. I have a plan to spend a week on a beach in an attempt to bring my heart rate down and catch up on sleep after an exhausting but exhilarating few weeks.

But first I had to say goodbye to a bunch of people who had become good friends – my south island Magic Bus family. We’d spent the last couple of weeks falling about laughing, falling out of planes and falling over drunk together, but with the bus schedule to keep, they were heading up to Kaikora. It meant they had to leave me in Christchurch, so I woke up with everyone else in the dorm and made my way outside with them to say goodbye.

Goodbye to the Magic Bus, and some good friends

I was sad to see the bus disappear down the road. While most of my trip has been made independently, it was great to have a large chunk of stress, worry and organisation of the New Zealand leg taken care of. While the Magic Bus does function as a ‘hop on, hop off’ bus service around both islands, I, and many others, use it as a basic tour. It gives you the camaraderie and banter that you get on a full tour with the people you are with, the social time and the sightseeing, and of course you all end up staying in the same kind of hostels together. But you are not tied to that chain that sometimes comes with a tour – if you like it somewhere more than you were expecting, simply stay a bit longer and catch the next bus that comes along. Or the one after that, if you really like the place. And if you fall in love with the place, well there’s nothing to stop you continuing your journey in a month, in six months or even up to a year, thanks to the way the ticket works.

But I think the beauty of the Magic Bus way of travelling around the islands was that it never felt like a tour. It was more like one of the best road trips you’ve ever been on with mates, except your mates are new friends you’ve just met, and the driver happens to be in control of a huge bus. As they say in these parts, it’s ‘sweet as’!

Bye Magic Bus 😦

With just a day before I fly out of Auckland, some 1,000km to the north, it meant I was on a tight schedule – I had deliberately left my Air New Zealand flight from Christchurch until late in the day, giving me enough time to gather material for a feature on an earthquake-hit city that captured my admiration and imagination.

The bus drivers helped further grow my love of the Christchurch too. With my supply of New Zealand dollars dwindling in my pocket, trying to hold off withdrawing any more with my departure so close, I happened to find two incredibly helpful drivers who saved me a few quid on getting to the airport. The first, picking me up from outside the hostel I had been staying, simply saw the bags I was carrying, gave me a wink and said ‘sit down mate’ after I asked if I could get a through ticket to the airport.

“Its just easier to sort it out at the bus station,” he said with a smile.

At said bus station, I was pointed in the direction of the Number 3, which takes me up to the airport. Seeing that I only had a large note, the driver asked if I had any change on me. I did, all $3.50 of it, quite a way off the $7 needed for the fare.

“You’ve just asked me for a ticket to this little neighbourhood. Lovely place, here’s your ticket,” he said with a wink. I handed over my $3.50. It’s little things like this that just don’t happen back home, where rules are rules and the customer very rarely comes first. Two gestures that I think typify the Kiwi spirit that I have already grown to love, the laid back, friendly and helpful way of life that I could quite happily get used to.

Those drivers probably don’t remember me, and I hope I don’t get them into trouble by revealing the little favour they did for me, even if it was in the long run saving them a bit of hassle, but it meant a lot and it didn’t go unnoticed. Worthy of a nice note on here anyway.

My ride back to Auckland

A couple of hours later, I was back in the noticeably warmer, but far wetter, north island again and arriving back into Auckland. Having stayed at the Nomads hostel on my arrival, I opted for the Base hostel for my final night, having been looked after at the sister establishment in Queenstown so well. I’d been offered a discount on my room and checked in.

“Oh, Phil, there’s something here for you too, it was left a little earlier,” said the fellow Brit working on reception.

It was an envelope with my name on it. I was intrigued, and waited until I could drop my bags off my back in my room before I opened it.

“Please have 5x free drinks in Globe bar on your last night in NZ, courtesy of Base.”

Nice touch!

It was from Amy, another fellow Brit who has also made the move to the country and with few plans to return anytime soon. Part of the Base marketing team, I’d spoken to her on the phone earlier in the day while I was walking around the ruins of Christchurch. It was another gesture that put a smile on my face, and I made my way down to the bar to take up the kind offer while trying to plan the next phase of my journey.

Four pints later, little had been done in the way of planning but I had managed to read a Fiji leaflet in between watching a game of killer pool taking place on the tables in front of me. That counts towards research I guess, and besides, winging it is the way forward.

I was quite well behaved and managed to get to bed relatively early ahead of a hectic morning of meetings and dashing across Auckland to the airport. The first appointment was with Julia at Tourism New Zealand, whose office was a short walk away from the city’s iconic Skytower. Having only been in touch with Julia by phone or email, it was great to put a face to her name. We went for coffee nearby and could have talked for hours about the adventures I’d had in New Zealand, her advice on what else there is to do in the country, stories of other journalists who have spent time here from London and about how well the media scheme had worked for me.

With Julia at Tourism New Zealand HQ

Apparently, there had been some really good feedback, and I returned to Julia’s office to be introduced to a few people who had helped out with my last minute application, and who, according to Julia, had become fans of my blog and wanted to meet me! It was a real surprise – rather like when I’m writing for a newspaper or filming for television, where it becomes ‘just’ a job and you often forget that an audience will read or watch your work, it’s easy for me to forget that what I am writing for fun is actually being read by people. It was funny to hear them talking about some of the topics I had been blogging about, and I was glad to hear they had enjoyed them.

I was then told, as a thankyou for my work, that there was a small gift for me – and after being led through the open plan office, was presented with a fantastic Pure New Zealand outdoor jacket, and a warm Merino Wool thermal top. It was a lovely gesture, one I had not expected, and I will wear them with pride back in the northern hemisphere, remembering the brilliant three weeks I had spent in a stunningly spectacular country.

With time running out, and goodbyes all round, it was a quick dash down the road to the Magic Bus offices where I met Daryl, the manager of the company and a fellow travel enthusiast. It was more of a debrief and a mutual thankyou – I was glad to hear they had loved reading about my tour with them, and the company is sharing the blog through its social media outlets, meaning my hits are rising and they can spread the word about the product they offer. Win, win!

For me, the past few weeks and months have taught me something else about the creative art of blogging. Before this trip, I admit I’d never contemplated a blog before, thinking it was something that people do for a bit of fun, or, like me, to help keep a personal record of day to day life or a journey abroad. For the first time, however, I realised how much of a powerful tool a good blog can be, and that is being recognised by businesses as a useful marketing device. From a company perspective, giving up a spare seat or making time for an extra bungy jumper costs next to nothing. Yet the reach and publicity that a well written blog can offer, right down to a specific audience, can be invaluable. And, above all, I have realised it is a great way of keeping a note of everything i’ve done. Eight months in, and i’m already looking back at my first entries, surprising myself at what I have already forgotten.

Now time was really getting tight, and my plans to catch the regular airport bus had to be ditched. With less than two hours before my flight, I had to splash out on a taxi, a whopping £30, which for any backpacker, is a large chunk of cash. But it was either that, or miss the flight by catching a bus and paying out an even larger chunk of cash to Air Pacific for the next available seat to Fiji.

Auckland, and New Zealand, disappears from view

Thankfully, I made the flight. I was lighter in the pocket, but I even had time to spare. With no accommodation booked, it surprised the older couple I was sat next to on the three hour flight.

“Aren’t you worried about what to do when you get there?” they asked me.

Landing in Fiji – greener than I was expecting

I told them that whenever I ‘wing it’ something usually works itself out. And the theory was proved right in front of them when I turned my phone back on upon landing in Nadi. It immediately sprung into action – a text from Graham and Kelly, my friends from Australia who I’d met up with in Queenstown. They had also flown to Fiji on the same day as me, and had set themselves up in a backpackers hotel on the nearby beach.

“I’m going to meet my friends – looks like my accommodation situation has been decided,” I joked with the couple, who seemed glad that I at least had someone to go and meet.

There was one major problem I had to overcome before then, however, thanks to my lovely bank HSBC. I’ve not really touched on this in the past, but since Darwin I have been unable to use my Visa card as a debit card in shops, hostels or anywhere else with the swipe card system we are so used to paying for goods with. It is all because my details were apparently recovered by the police in some sort of raid, somewhere, and there is a risk my card may have been cloned. So, for the past two months, I have been forced to take out large sums of cash from ATMs everywhere I go, at considerable expense thanks to the overseas bank withdrawal charges (imagine how much the banks are making thanks to this convenient ‘security measure’) and pay for absolutely everything with cash.

Bula Fiji! Touch down in country number 12.

Arriving in Nadi, with no Fiji money – or any other currency, for that matter – I headed to the cash machine at the airport.

“Transaction declined by issuer” are not words you need to see on the screen in that situation.

So, I needed to ring my bank. Except the time difference means it’s the middle of the night back home. And besides, my New Zealand sim card, nor my calling card, work in Fiji. And I have no cash to buy another phone card, or to make a call. And that was the vicious circle I found myself in. No cash, no way of calling my bank to get more cash, which means, I have no cash.

After about half an hour of scratching my head, searching for any leftover money in my bag that I could perhaps change, and trying not to scream at the woman who kept coming over and asking me ‘Do you have a problem sir. We have lovely hotel,” I came up with a plan – Skype.

I haven’t used it to make proper phone calls to anyone before, mainly because I just use the free webcam chat to speak to family and friends, but now it was about to help me out in a massive way. The only problem was I needed the internet.

I made my way to departures to use the airport wifi – which I had to pay for. Thankfully, my card still works online (strange, because if I was to clone a card, I would probably use it online?!) so I bought wifi access, to then buy Skype credit, to then have an infuriatingly difficult conversation with an overseas call centre who couldn’t quite get her head around the fact the call quality wasn’t great because I was using a poor internet connection for a call due to the situation the bank had left me in.

Anyway, it was yet another frustration with my bank (I won’t get started on that stupid calculator thing…I’ll be ranting for some time) but I was glad to finally get hold of some cash, jump in another taxi (only £5 here, for about the same distance as in Auckland!) and I was glad to see Graham and Kelly smiling as I reached the reception. I was definitely in need of a beer – and to ditch some of my layers from the cold of New Zealand. It was nice to be digging around in my bag for the shorts rather than a scarf again!

With Kelly and Graham again, after arriving in Fiji

We walked along the beach and had dinner at a nearby restaurant, being entertained by Fijian dance and watching one of the best fire shows I have seen on my travels. They were a great bunch of performers, and we all ended up taking part in the show towards the end, complete with some wacky dancing from Graham.

Kava time…

Graham and I went for a couple of beers at a nearby backpackers, where we were handed a special drink. Its called Kava, a Fijian speciality, drunk from a hollowed out coconut shell in a social setting with everyone sitting around a big bowl of the stuff.

About as appealing as a glass of water from the Humber

Its is actually made from the ground up roots of a plant on the islands. It looks like pond water, smells like pond water, and strangely enough, actually tastes like pond water. So why does everyone drink it here?

Down in one

A few seconds after being cajoled into downing an entire shell full in one, I began to find out why. My tongue and lips began to feel tingly, before getting that weird numbed feeling, rather like when the anaesthetic is wearing off after having a filling at the dentist. Consumed in large amounts – as the Fijians do – it has the same effect on much of the body.

Struggling to control the gag reflex!

I stuck with just two shellfulls, the second time coming close to vomiting the entire lot over the people kneeling and sitting in front of me, which probably wouldn’t have been the best way to make new friends. Graham, too, had a try of the brown Fiji wonder water. He wasn’t a fan either. And come 5pm the following day, when I still had a peculiar headache, I was becoming even less of a fan.

Graham tries the local loopy juice

There was one benefit of being at the Bamboo Backpackers drinking muddy water though – I got talking to one of the staff, who told me about some of my options for the islands. Graham was tempting me to join him at 7am for a trip with Kelly to Beachcomber Island, a place that is apparently like paradise, although from what I have heard, is also home to all-night partying. For now, i’m done with partying, and there’s a big part of me, now I am here, looking for a bit of an adventure. With the beaches around Nadi being just ok, the one bit of advice everyone gives you and agrees on is to get away from the airport area as soon as you can. So I have to go somewhere.

The beach at Nadi

While beaches are blissful and relaxing, they don’t give you much to write home about. But then to go island hopping, and see the country, costs a fortune, and funds are low. There is one place I know of though that might just solve all of my problems. The only problem is, its off the beaten track and will take a mammoth journey to get to – but then, I will probably only ever have one chance in my life to reach it.

I’ve got a night to sleep on the decision, but its a decision that really could take me to the far side of the world.

Like what you’ve seen and read about New Zealand? Visit the official website at www.newzealand.com

And if you’ve loved the Magic Bus journey, find out more at www.magicbus.co.nz

Christchurch: Rising from the Rubble

Posted on July 3, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

Christchurch Cathedral – a symbol of the city’s loss

“Ive just been watching my old offices being pulled down.”

“Weird isn’t it – I had to watch mine on video as we weren’t allowed nearby.”

Just a snippet of the conversation behind me in the corrugated steel shipping container-cum-coffee shop where I’m waiting for a cappuccino in the centre of earthquake-hit Christchurch.

A devastated city

Since February last year, this has become a normal conversation in this southern New Zealand city. A few blocks away, I’d just been watching yet another building being pulled down, as the long, ongoing process of flattening an entire city centre and rebuilding the whole lot from scratch continues.

Another building starts to come down

Almost every high-rise building in the CBD is set to be demolished – or deconstructed, to coin the phrase being used here – after the 6.3 magnitude quake wrecked foundations and left entire swathes of the city in ruins. Along with the devastation to the city and infrastructure, the February 22 disaster claimed the lives of 189 people, and daily life in this part of the south island shuddered to an abrupt halt.

A once bustling shopping area

It was the nightmare scenario many believed the area had avoided, after an even greater earthquake just a few months previous. Back in September 2010, the area was shaken by a 7.1 magnitude earthquake, which caused damage but no deaths. The city lies right on top of previously unknown fault lines between two tectonic plates, a part of the infamous Pacific ring of fire. But people in New Zealand are familiar with their country’s unique geological make-up, and when the first major quake struck in 2010, causing relatively minor damage and injuries, there was a belief that the area and its people had dodged a bullet.

But there was a major difference in the type of earthquake that struck last year. In the first earthquake in 2010, the two plates largely slipped side by side, and in a much deeper location some six miles underground. In February last year, it was much shallower, at three miles deep, and there was a huge vertical shift – so much so, the hills around the city rose by an estimated 40cm in an instant. With the epicentre just 10 kilometres south-east of the centre of the country’s second largest city, there was only going to be one outcome.

Work ongoing at the city’s main theatre

Almost 18 months on, and parts of the city centre are still so unsafe, the public are kept away. Known as the red zone it covers most of the central area, and while some parts have recently reopened, there is still a long way to go with demolition work before the rest of the city is made safe.

One of the huge areas of space from cleared buildings

Yet this is a city, that despite its loss and devastation, is already looking forward. Speak to anyone on the streets, and it is more than likely you’ll get the strange response that the earthquake, aside from the loss of life, could actually be a good thing for the area.

The Red Zone

“It means we can start again. It’s quite exciting,” said one taxi driver as he drove me around the edge of the red zone.

And inside the city centre, there are already the green shoots of recovery thanks to one of the most surprising and novel ideas – the Re:Start Mall, an entire shopping precinct full of stores and cafes trading again from inside brightly-painted shipping containers.

At the Re:Start Mall

Container village

The bank

“I don’t know who thought about the containers, but it’s a great idea as we needed something to stimulate the city again,” says Bronwyn Jones, an assistant at Johnson’s Grocers.

Bronwyn with some Yorkshire Tea at the Grocers

“Christchurch is nothing like it was, and you need something positive to give people something to look forward to, to bring the community together again and be joyful.”

The owner, Colin Johnson, had been feared killed in the earthquake after the imported foods and produce he specialises in were shaken from the shelves, landing on top of him. At 72 years old, he was knocked unconscious.

Colin Johnson in his old shop

“He came out after a while, covered in red. It was tomato sauce, but everyone thought it was blood,” laughs Bronwyn, before revealing the store is doing better than it ever has done after relocating inside a number of black containers more commonly seen on the world’s largest ships.

“Colin’s busier now than he ever was before, and despite the earthquake, he’s still going,” she said.

“The shop has always been part of him – I can’t imagine him ever giving it up.”

Colin’s new shop…in shipping containers

But the costs for Colin, and every other home and business owner, can be crippling as insurance prices reach record levels.

“The excesses are so high now as a result of what happened. If anything breaks here now, it will have to cost thousands to replace or repair to even consider claiming on the insurance.”

The busy shop

Amid shelves full of Yorkshire Tea, Sherbet Fountains, HP Sauce and Tunnock’s Caramels, 82-year-old Christchurch resident Marianne is looking for a replacement for her beloved New Zealand Marmite.

There is currently a national shortage of the red-labelled yeast extract – a different flavour to the British version – after the Marmite factory in the city was badly damaged by the events of last year. So sought-after is the foodstuff by locals, it can sell for many dollars a jar online. Instead, I persuade Marianne to try the yellow-labelled variety from home.

Marianne, with my mate, Marmite

“If I don’t like it, I’ll come and find you,” she laughs, before revealing she’s only just plucked up the courage to return to the city centre.

“A lot of older people have been nervous about coming back into the city, but I have found it in me to return and I love it,” she said.

“I think the people who have stayed here and haven’t moved away from the city are handling it better than those who moved away. I think they have almost put a barrier up against a return now, so find it hard to do.”

But there is also a feeling that what happened in Christchurch has largely been forgotten by those overseas. While the death toll was limited, the cost will run into billions of dollars, with an estimated rebuild time of around 20 years. Most other cities around the world would have been obliterated by such an earthquake, but strong building regulations had helped minimise casualties. Yet few people know exactly what happened, largely because just over two weeks after the earthquake hit, Japan was devastated by a tsunami – directing news crews and the world’s attention to the far east.

The devastated main shopping street

“There has been 11,000 tremors since the earthquake – that’s one every four hours,” says Ross, a driver and tour guide of the London bus that now takes tourists around the ruined city.

“You don’t feel them all, particularly if you are out on the road or driving, but there are some 4,000 that have been strong enough to be felt.”

Ross heads back to his bus amid the ruins

On the bus are around 15 people who are all keen to have a look around the city and take in the damage. It follows a growing trend in people travelling to centres of natural disasters, either to pay their respects, volunteer or just to try to comprehend the events of the past year and a half. The tour is popular, running twice a day, and includes a stop at the once iconic cathedral, its famous façade now a gaping hole and mass of rubble.

Christchurch Cathedral

What will happen to the cathedral is perhaps the most controversial subject to have come out of the whole disaster here. There has been a huge argument between supporters of the church and the authorities who have deemed it unsafe, and more importantly, unsalvageable. While the cathedral still stands for now, the likelihood is it will be demolished, much to the anger of those who have been campaigning to save it.

But the tour isn’t the only indicator that tourists are once again beginning to return. Having scrapped Christchurch from its route map, Magic Bus, one of the three main backpacker buses that tour the islands, has recently put it back on the stop list, citing pressure from those who were using their services.

Magic Bus product manager Daryl Raven said: “The time was right to bring international tourists back to Christchurch. They were curious about what had happened and wanted to learn first-hand about the earthquakes and their impact on the Canterbury region.

“We want to give passengers the chance to say they were present during the rebuilding and rebirth of one of New Zealand’s most iconic cities, and to help the Christchurch economy get back on its feet.”

Christchurch YHA, a once popular spot for backpackers

One of the problems now is a lack of accommodation – most of the beds in the city centre, from backpacker dorms to five-star suites, were located in buildings which have now been condemned. Work is rapidly ongoing to refit, rebuild and repair some of the city’s main hotels, but in the meantime accommodation can be tight.

Christchurch railway station

As the bright red London bus passes the former railway station, the clocks are frozen in time. One is them is the time of the 2010 earthquake, a poignant reminder of how time has stood still for Christchurch.

4.35am, the time of the first earthquake

“We watched as it took just a week and a half to pull down a seven storey building,” says Hester Moore, who runs the Base Woodfired Pizza stall with Andy Thomson in the Re:Start Mall.

Hester and Andy at their pizza stall

“The whole façade was ripped away and people’s belongings were still there. It was like looking into people’s lives as they were a year ago,” she added.

But Hester agrees that as a city, the people of Christchurch are moving on with their lives.

“Generally, people are just happy to be here. You just have to accept the circumstances as they are and as they change,” she said.

“It is such a great opportunity now for business, and what they have done here with the containers is a unique and individual way to resurrect the CBD from the state it was in this time last year.”

In a ghost town area of Christchurch

While there are pockets of new beginnings springing up around the centre, there is still an eerie feel as you walk around the deserted city streets. The sound of clinking coffee cups and the hustle and bustle of business has been replaced with a permanent din of jackhammers and drills.

Familiar names like Starbucks and STA Travel sit boarded up and covered in dust and grime.

Markers left by search teams

In a newsagents, bars of chocolate lie scattered around on the counter in the places they came to rest after being thrown around by the force of the tremor. The walls and windows of buildings still show the spray-painted messages left by search and rescue teams from around the world in the immediate aftermath of the quake. Billboards in the red zone display posters for shows and concerts in March last year – a reminder how beyond the barriers, it is still February 22, 2011.

Search and rescue teams from around the world helped here

Vast areas of the city have already been made safe – empty spaces left behind on the footprints of huge office blocks have now been turned into carparks. All of the city’s multi-storey parking facilities remain closed, deemed unsafe for use. As a newcomer to the city, its easy to think that it just had an open-plan feel to the place, easy to forget that the streets here were once lined with shops, restaurants and places of work.

New initiatives have been started to help move the focus away from the city’s loss, to looking towards a brighter future. One of those is Gap Filler, filling the spaces left behind with anything from crazy golf to live music events. Others, like artist Mike Hewson, have created huge works of art that fill the gaping spaces left in many of the damaged buildings and walls.

185 Chairs.

But perhaps the most thought provoking is that of 185 chairs, a collection of white chairs arranged in a neat square on the site of the former Oxford Terrace Baptist Church. It’s a reminder of the loved ones the city lost on that awful day,

No words needed.

each chair being different to the next as a symbol of the individual people that lost their lives. On a railing to the east of the city centre, yellow ribbons still flutter in the wind with messages of love and hope for those who perished, and for the city as a whole.

As you follow the barriers that section off the ruined city, flowers and messages from loved ones catch the eye. Many are recent, having been left for birthdays or anniversaries.

Just one of many messages

By a huge empty space, once the home to the Canterbury Television Building, I find Tomo, a young Japanese man who is saying prayers and attaching a bunch of yellow flowers to the railings. More than 100 people died in the building, over half of the total fatalities in the city, after it collapsed within seconds of the earthquake. As well as being home to the local television station, an English languages school was situated inside.

Tomo tells me how 28 of his fellow countrymen died in the building, either killed by the collapse or who died in a subsequent fire. Visibly moved by being at the site, he struggled to contain his emotions.

“Those Japanese students came all of this way from home to study English, but died in the earthquake,” he tells me, eyes welling up.

Tomo remembers

“I have come here to learn English in their honour, to do it for them. They are no longer able to learn, but I am, and they inspired me to come here and study.

Looking back through the railings at the levelled-off rubble that remains, he sighs.

“I am doing it for them.”

There is no doubt that Christchurch will rise again from the ruins, but the human tragedy from one of New Zealand’s worst ever natural disasters will take a long time to heal. Now though, all thoughts are focussed on getting this city back on its feet as a fully functioning place to live and work.

New building regulations have been brought in – a seven-storey limit has been imposed on new structures, and strict earthquake proofing standards will have to be met. Early plans for the new city layout will make the picturesque river and parks a focal point, while an entirely new infrastructure, including potential for a light railway system, have now become a possibility.

It will, however, take time. It will be years even before the final damaged building has been made safe. The manpower alone to rebuild the city is phenomenal, aside from the incredible demand for building materials and supplies. Conservative estimates put the rebuild duration at between 15 and 20 years to complete, but that doesn’t bother Ross on the city tour bus.

“Our forefathers planted trees around the city, knowing they would never see them reach maturity, but instead they planted them to bring pleasure to others in the future,” he says.

“We’re rebuilding Christchurch. We are starting again and making it somewhere to be proud of again. But its not for us that live here now – it’s for our children, and our childrens’ children. And I’m happy with that.”

The End of a Magic Wander

Posted on July 2, 2012 by afishoutofgrimsby

Cold

Its fair to say the Magic Bus that left Queenstown was full of people desperate to get away from the place.

It wasn’t because they didn’t like the town – far from it – it was purely because everyone was exhausted from the rigors of one of the best places in the world for partying or pushing your body and senses to their limit.

To say the bus was a little subdued is an understatement. Blurry eyes, dazed expressions and an overwhelming desire to sleep were the telltale signs that everyone had done themselves proud. Queenstown had officially got every single one of us, and there were plenty of stories to catch up on from an eventful seven days.

Back on the bus, daft hat and all

As Jack, our new driver, navigated us away from our hostels, we said goodbye to Fergburger, the Remarkables and all the little watering holes that had become second nature to us over the past few days, watching as the scenery changed back into the open countryside. After a few minutes, we passed the Kawarau Bridge, the place where the first ever bungy jumps were made, and one final reminder of what this area is so famous for.

Having said goodbye to our driver Soap, who left Queenstown a couple of days after our epic night out with his new group, we had also said goodbye to his huge bus in which we would all sprawl around in absolute comfort thanks to it being largely empty because of the low season.

Full of energy on the (smaller) Magic Bus

Jack had a nice, small bus, but he claimed it felt like a rocket after downsizing for the low season. He’s only been doing the job for a few months, and has lots of enthusiasm for it. He admits he’s still learning about the route, what there is to see and the activities on offer in each place, but for that reason he also sees the fun side of it too – he’s discovering parts almost as much as we are.

For me, this is the last leg of the Magic Bus adventure. My final destination is earthquake hit Christchurch, from where I’ll be catching a flight back to Auckland and then on to Fiji. That’s in a couple of days time, but first we were making our way back through the mountains and making our first stop of the day.

Kate and the ‘real’ horse

“Is that horse real?” asked Kate, probably too loudly bearing in mind everyone else could clearly see it was a model horse and cart.

We were at a small village called Cromwell, and Kate’s alcohol intake of late had somehow affected her perception of reality. But that was something I could completely understand, with a lack of sleep thanks to a final night out to blame for my higher than normal clumsiness levels. I was also desperate for a coffee, so we headed to a lovely little café with a roaring log fire to while away the half hour break.

After much talk of events in Queenstown, we were back on our way, making a later stop at a salmon farm surrounded by snowy mountains. It came with free food to throw to the fish, and after much fun making them fly out of the water at the little brown pellets, Jack, our guide, had a great idea.

Feeding the fish

“See if you can launch them across the whole area from your pot,” he said, throwing his out in a nice arc across the whole pond.

I gave it a try, and somehow overestimated my strength, pretty much making all the bits of food clear the water and hit the path on the opposite side. It at least got a laugh from a few off the bus, in particular Becky, who continued giggling until we all got another bowl of food and had another go at said exercise.

“Right, everyone together, spread out around the water, and on the count of three,” he told us.

With cameras at the ready, we all launched our food together and ensured we made a lot of salmon very happy.

Salmon, doing a very good Piranha impression

The next bit of fun was a stop at a nearby lake, surrounded by rocks and huge boulders. Sometimes you have to make your own entertainment, and Liam and I decided to have a race down to the water by jumping from rock to rock.

A lake and a challenge…

Liam won it, although he’s a bit younger and a lot more nimble than me on his feet. I did, however, raise the stakes down at the bottom by challenging him to get the furthest out into the water.

He wasn’t quite expecting to see me quickly taking my shoes and socks off and rolling up my jeans, having spotted a protruding rock I thought I’d be able to wade out to.

Liam still beat me

The rocks were slimy and slippery underfoot, but I managed to make it to the rock without falling in, while Liam once again beat me by making it to another rock even further away from the edge of the water. It was simple, but gave us all a few laughs, and was followed by the usual manly stone skimming competition, that later turned into a full on ‘how far can you just chuck the thing’ competition. Jack, funnily enough, had a surprisingly good throw.

The rest of the Magic Bus group at the top

And that was about as exciting as it got for the day. Anything after Queenstown was always going to be a bit of an anticlimax, but in some respects it was exactly what we needed. There was some further excitement down the road, however, when we climbed up into the mountains high enough to reach the snow line.

Snow!

Arriving into Lake Tekapo, it was the first time we’d hit the ‘proper’ snow of New Zealand away from the artificial stuff that had been thrown around at Coronet Peak for the masses to slide down on skis. We checked into the Lakefront Hostel where there was a frosty reception. Not from the staff – they were quite nice – but it was by far one of the coldest hostels I had stayed in yet.

It had a log fire in the lounge, but the lounge was massive and probably not insulated a great deal judging by the fact I could see the condensation on my breath just sitting in it. I kept my hat and scarf on just to stay warm while moving all my belongings to the room I was to share with Becky and Liam.

Great view from the hostel, shame it was just as cold

After Becky finally managed to open the door following a 10 minute struggle with the lock (again, the after effects of Queenstown can be the excuse) we got into the icy cold room to find a cat had left muddy footprints all over the beds. The window was open (in the middle of winter) and one of the resident moggys had obviously found a sneaky little way of getting some kip on a bed.

One room change later, we had moved into another equally icy room and fathomed out how to use the cumbersome wall heater. Various buttons were pressed until finally we could feel some heat coming from the vents.

Brrr

We all headed out to have a walk by the lake (and a warm up!) where we took in the spectacular views across to yet more snowy mountains. There had been some recent snowfall, as the alpine trees were still covered in the white stuff, while a mist was drifting from the surface of the lake, catching the sun and giving a strange eerie effect.

With yet more stone skimming, we were joined by a golden retriever who decided it would be quite fun to try to chase the stones as we were throwing them. He’d wait for the splash, run for a while and then stop, before looking at you.

Here boy!

It didn’t take long for me to twig that he might like playing and chasing snow, so I scooped up a decent snowball and compacted it in my gloved hands. I launched it into the air, only for our new friend to jump up and catch it, covering himself in snow and then excitedly looking for more. It would have provided hours of fun, but the biting cold started getting to us all so we retreated back to the marginally warmer hostel, threw some logs onto the fire and admired the view through the window.

Fun in the snow

And that was about it for the day. It was very much a relaxing stopover. We could have gone to the hot baths or gone snow tubing, but to be honest, most of us were just happy to be relaxing around the fire, reading, writing, catching up with relatives back home on Skype and watching the television. It sounds boring, but after such a hectic week, on reflection it was perhaps just what we needed. What wasn’t needed was an extreme allergic reaction to the two resident cats at the hostel, but i’ve regained the use of my eyes now, and the redness has gone down, so i’ll let the hostel off for that minor down point.

I’ve always loved snow!

With an 8.30am start for the leg to Christchurch, we needed to be up relatively early, but there was an important game taking place on the other side of the world – the small matter of England versus Italy in the quarter final of the Euros. I woke up at 5am and made my way into the communal area of the hostel, turned on the television and tinkered with the digital receiver, only to find it had just six channels. Four of those were showing kids programmes, and not one had anything that resembled football. I checked my laptop to see if the internet bandwidth was any good – it could barely load up the BBC Sport home page. There was no way it could cope with video, and so I gave up, settling for just checking the score every 10 minutes.

By the time we got on the bus, it had gone to extra time and sounding every bit like it was heading to penalties. I feared the worst, and my fears were confirmed when Kate logged onto the free onboard wifi.

“England have gone out, they lost on penalties,” she said. Brilliant.

I can’t say I was surprised, bearing in mind how little time Roy Hodgson has had with the squad, but having seen little of the competition thanks to the time difference, it didn’t seem to matter too much.

Sombre arrival in Christchurch

It wasn’t too much of a drive to Christchurch, with only a couple of stops for coffee and some fuel, before we began to reach the outskirts of the city at around 1pm. Last year, the city was devastated by an earthquake that claimed 185 lives and shook most of the city centre from its foundations. The entire central business district will have to be knocked down and rebuilt, while with more than 11,000 tremors since the 6.3 magnitude quake that brought so much carnage to the city, this is still very much a city living on the edge.

Christchurch Cathedral

There will be a feature on Christchurch, what happened and how it is recovering, online here in the next day or so, which in part has been helped by a double decker tour of the city that we were supposed to be catching at 2pm.

Checking in at the Old Countryhouse hostel, I began to wonder if backpackers were still visiting the city judging by how quiet the place was. It also took a fairly long time for us to be checked in.

“Are you the bus driver,” I was asked out of the blue by the receptionist. It took me by surprise, and I wondered what I’d done to give that impression. Everyone found it amusing.

“Oh, its just you look like you have authority,” she smiled awkwardly. I laughed it off, joking that Jack, our driver, only looks about 12 anyway. Bang on cue he walked in, looking slightly concerned about time.

“Guys, we need to meet the bus in 10 minutes for the tour,” he said. We asked the receptionist how long it would take to walk to the meeting point at the museum for the tour.

“Oh, 25, 30 minutes,” she smiled.

We were in trouble.

“Right, get your stuff in your rooms as quickly as you can and I’ll drive the bus down there,” said Jack, putting in calls to the office to try and delay the tour.

On the way we managed to hit just about every red light that Christchurch had to offer, before eventually getting to where there were two tour buses waiting on a stand. There was nowhere to park, and Jack’s phone was ringing. It was someone asking where we were.

Running for a bus!

“We’ll be sixty seconds,” we overheard him say. He parked up in some parking bays, about 100 metres away from a double decker London bus, and we all ran back round to where we’d seen the tour buses. Jack and I made it first, to find a guide who didn’t seem to have been waiting at all.

He handed us a leaflet, and I pointed out the $79 price tag. Ours was supposed to be around the $25 mark. It was the wrong tour.

Wait for me!

We took to our heels again, and back around the block to where the double decker bus was parked. There we met Ross, the driver and tour guide, who mentioned how he’d been waiting for us and saw us all run off in the opposite direction. We were just grateful he’d waited around for us.

Our London bus tour of Christchurch

All aboard!

Again, there will be more on Christchurch in an upcoming post, but it was a thought provoking look around the city. Few of us have ever been to somewhere that has been obliterated by a natural disaster, where buildings even now are still being pulled down and an entire city has become ghostly eerie, sealed off to the public, frozen in time to the moment that the earth shook the area to its knees.

My Magic Bus group at the Cathedral

We looked at the Cathedral, its famous façade now just a gaping hole, its history laying in ruins. It’s a hugely controversial area in the city, as there is a campaign to have the Cathedral made safe and rebuilt. Sadly, the condition it is in means it is likely to be demolished.

We headed back to the hostel after a sobering hour-long tour. I was fascinated by the city and its people, and I wanted to learn more. My journalistic instinct had kicked in. I had a choice – to chance a mad dash up to Kaikora, at considerable expense, for a chance to watch whales off the coast, or to stay in Christchurch and find a way of meeting and talking to the people here about their experiences.

I think you probably know what my final decision wa

Sounds like fun? Find out more about the Magic Bus at www.magicbus.co.nz

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Swapping deadlines for discovery

Monthly Archives: July 2012