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Published: April 7th 2017
So, our hiatus from traveling drags interminably on. Meanwhile Ali is back in the UK visiting relatives and my co-blogger - for a carp fishing magazine – has just written an introduction to the up-coming “season” with an article detailing our back stories (reasoning that if Marvel and D.C. Comics can get away with it, again, and again…). Thus what’s a bored frustrated wannabe traveler to do? Seems a back story… Somewhat smug with 25 years of backpacking experience behind us it did make me titter (and cringe) to re-read our old diaries and see quite how clueless we once were:
December 1989. Vicar Lane bus station, Leeds.
Brian called over his shoulder as he waddled towards the Skipton-bound bus that he’d be driving. “Manager wants to see you int’ office”. Shit. I slid off the two bar railings that prevented overeager kids running directly from the Cowgate steps onto the bus forecourt, folded the
Telegraph and gathered my broom. That was me finally going to get a bollocking for skiving. I mounted the stairs, passed the staff canteen and rapped on Jack’s door. He actually looked pleased to see me, a rare smile definitely emanating from
beneath the permanent fixture of his peaked Yorkshire transport cap.
“Know why I want to see you?” he demanded.
Evidently I didn’t.
“Several old ladies been ringing me about you, and now they’ve gone to the local press”.
Damn, this was worse than I thought.
“It seems the bus station has never been so clean, that some young lad is forever jumping on any stray wrapper that blows in, or on any discarded butt that has just been trodden out. The
Leeds Gazette wants to run an article on you.”
The man from the paper and his notepad duly arrived several days later. We sat on one of my apparently now famously clean benches with my litter-free domain in front of us. “So,” he concluded as he produced a camera, “you have just graduated from the Uni and this job is to finance a gap year…” Obviously his human interest story, in what must have been a very quiet week for local news, was developing nicely. I’d glossed over the enormous debts accumulated whilst at said university (such things were a rarity back in the days of paid fees and full grants) and how,
in my apathy for a career, I’d taken this job until something better materialised. Instead I posed leaning on my broom, gazing into the distance; the photo later to be entitled ‘Andy dreams of far-away places’. On publication my Grandma, a local, bought every copy in her newsagents.
It was true though that my girlfriend Ali had, thanks to some great aunt Nora, just come into some money and over a Burton’s-fuelled sesh at
The Chemic we’d decided that we’d make natural travelers. On hearing our plans the other lads in the student house were skeptical to say the least at our, mainly my, ability to organise much more than a piss-up and bluntly chorused “Billy” (as in ….. bullshit).
The next day Ali booked one year around-the-world tickets: London, Los Angeles, Suva, Sydney, Hong Kong, Bangkok, New Delhi and home. We’d leave on the fifth of March.
January-March 1990.
There hadn’t been that much to plan. We’d got our
Lonely Planet books for the first few countries – America surely didn’t merit one. We’d had some jabs, rejected others (didn’t intend to stroke any rabid dogs), got malaria pills, water purification tablets, sun
cream in a mighty factor 8, sheet sleeping bags for YHAs, needles and cotton (on-the-road repairs), needles and syringes (just in case rabid dogs didn’t ask to be stroked), an international driving license for Ali (I’d not gotten around to learning) and our visas (some of which, we later discovered, would still be valid when we actually arrived in the countries). We’d read about travelling light and had, to our eyes, been ruthless in our packing selecting just our favourite five pairs of shorts, several pairs of jeans, our Barbour jackets that were still almost rain retardant, the odd jumper, a few long- and a few short-sleeved T-shirts, something smart… Of course there were also the bare essentials in entertainment: novels, walkmen and accompanying cassettes, but hardly anything it seemed for a year away. My mother had even thoughtfully provided a travel iron and hairdryer set that weighed but a few pounds. Nevertheless our rucksacks did seem big: eighty litre Karymores packed to bursting. Each pack had been cunningly modified with metal rings (care of, but unbeknown to, Yorkshire transport) riveted through the material enabling them to be padlocked shut and each paired zip, enclosing pockets and compartments,
were to be similarly padlocked (that was six padlocks per pack, not including the spares to go with our hefty galvanised chains – baggage security had not been overlooked). Then strapped below were the world’s cheapest sleeping bags; unfortunately cheap also equated to enormous.
Money was in travellers’ cheques, a few loose dollars, and a Visa card each for unforeseen emergencies (hopefully very few as my bills would be heading straight to my unsuspecting parents), all safely tucked away with our passports and tickets in snazzy nylon money belts to be worn beneath our trousers (pickpockets: I’d like to see them try). On the subject of money: this was to be one super-budget trip, inspired largely by my total lack of funds and the look on Ali’s parents’ faces when she’d informed them that she was funding everything. We would, however, work. Australia was to be the place to boost our finances, even though I’d not dared apply for a work visa fearing that this might result in closer scrutiny and that a prior minor indiscretion with Leeds’ finest might jeopardise obtaining one at all.
5th March 1990. London/Los Angeles.
So, we were set. Said
our final goodbyes to my parents who’d been putting us up for the last few days, took the underground to Heathrow and proudly displayed our bulging pile of stapled air tickets to the B.A check-in. Whopped our sacks onto the conveyer belt, each under thirty kilos to which we exchanged sapient nods. Pahh, and we thought the packs seemed heavy. Ambled through to boarding where the ‘little bag’ (daypack in our new backpackers parlance) was x-rayed and our needles and syringes swiftly confiscated. The security staff here seemed to care little for the potential future hazards to our health at the hands of India’s medical system.
Safely on-board our first ever long haul flight we soon discovered that international air travel had certain benefits over charters… We shared thirteen mini bottles of wine with our Swiss neighbour and stashed a few more in the daypack for the tough times ahead.
Touched down safely in L.A. at 5 p.m. local time: so far so good. American customs, however, were not quick and it wasn’t until 6.30 p.m. that we finally reached the exits. Finding somewhere to stay couldn’t be that hard and sure enough before us stood a hotel
board. Thinking budget I scanned the pictures of various motels.
Caesars Motor Hotel looked seedy and cheap. Ali looked dubious. I rang them and informed Ali that a bus would come to collect us. She immediately cheered-up. Obviously it couldn’t be that bad then. Indeed the battered old van came to pick up various people, us aside, all Chinese and from all over L.A. We arrived somewhere – no one on board the van spoke English – and the partially blinking sign greeting us announced “CAES MO R H EL”. We weren’t too sure about the broken windows adorned with chicken wire, whilst the hole in the reception roof and subsequent floors, where you might have expected a staircase, added further doubts. A quick glance out into the night at the assembled local youths soon put paid to any plans of an alternative venue for tonight though. Asking for the lift we received a puzzled look, although pointing upwards was rewarded with directions to the elevator. The elevator did elevate and in our room the bed was clean-ish. So we dined on saltine snacks and mini bottles of Bordeaux lifted from the plane before sleeping, fitfully, vaguely comforted by the
fact that it would take a person of considerable strength to gain access to the room with our monstrous packs wedged behind the door.
6th March 1990. Los Angeles.
Awoke early and peered through the chicken wire. Shit. It was grim. Now fully motivated for evacuation I flicked on the telly as Ali went in search of a shower. “This section of the morning’s television is sponsored by Imodium A.D. It makes your first dose of diarrhoea your last!” Pissed myself laughing; there’s no way we’d ever have such an advert on British T.V. Stranger still there was then a live link-up with.., of all things, ‘
Good Morning’ from back home with that geezer on his floating weather map. At least there were no gales here.
Stuck for a better plan we used the same free hotel shuttle back to the airport and from there a bus to downtown. Half an hour later and we noticed that most of the people getting on the bus looked rather rough and none too friendly. Not too perturbed we kept our heads down, London Underground style, until we reached the end of the line
Hollywood sign
Web stock photo- L.A. penitentiary: not exactly our intended destination.
Two further remedial buses and we reached the heady heights of Hollywood which did at least seem less imminently life-threatening. Hey, we’d even seen the sign. Packs on - thirty kilos was beginning to seem rather hefty - we trudged off in search of a motel, inquiring at every one we passed. The day was hotting-up, we were getting mighty sweaty and the nylon money belts were beginning to chaff. The cheapest ($35) looked OK from the outside so we checked-in. Outsides can be deceptive. Inside it was a filthy hole. Complained about the lack of functioning lights and dead T.V., but guessed that mentioning the dirty, stinking room itself would not get us far. Maybe, in future, asking to see the room before paying might be a sensible idea. Nevertheless, we did have a free breakfast to look forward to and we’d found out how to get to Universal Studios tomorrow.
Feeling somewhat less conspicuous having dumped our packs we set off in search of food. It was really bloody hot out now so on spotting a hole-in-the-wall vendor I asked for a diet coke. The Hispanic-looking
guy bobbed out of view and a few, not short, minutes passed. We were just about to give up when he re-emerged with some sort of Mexican food. “What’s this?” I asked. “Ta-co” came the reply. I was beginning to wish that we spoke some Spanish. Well, at least our first American meal wasn’t McDonalds.
Wandered around, along Sunset Boulevard, and purely by chance happened upon the Chinese theatre and the famous handprints. We were not overly impressed, having previously imagined there’d be far more. However, we were learning and had already found and booked a better place to stay tomorrow. We had also discovered some decent looking, though pricey, restaurants. Our second American meal was McDonalds – you do get more chips though.
7th – 14th March 1990.
The free breakfast turned out to be a doughnut. Really, a doughnut for breakfast…
We were pleased just to be able to escape from L.A. (having to return there at some stage anyway to catch our onward flight). It seemed Greyhound were on strike; drive-aways - where essentially you drive the car of someone who’s moving to a new
house there for them - were few and far between; long term car rentals were extortionate and buying a car seemed complex (and none too cheap); standard air fares were expensive and ‘red eyes’ didn’t seem to exist anymore. This, bar hitching, left a single option: Amtrak, the train. Consequently they were packed and booked for days in advance. The result was a series of pre-booked train journeys – not much room for spontaneity there then.
On our first link we caught the
Desert Wind to Las Vegas. It has to be said that Amtrak pisses on British Rail: the carriages, some ten feet off the ground, have wide, fully reclineable, armchair-style seats with masses of leg room (they are also spacious across the beam for obvious reasons: doughnuts for breakfast); there are leg and feet rests; a written guide describing the scenic features and towns you’ll pass through; decent restaurant cars (if you could afford them); glass-walled viewing carriages with swiveling chairs; and even video screens.
The train pulled directly into a casino; obviously impatient to lose their money some people. Unfortunately, with our total lack of planning, we’d arrived at a weekend when demand,
and hence prices, increase. With no idea where the peasants were meant to stay we ended up at
Binnion’s Horseshoe which was the cheapest place we found on the strip, but still a scary $58 per night. I guess that even this price might have been subsidised, the hotel/casino believing that anyone staying is a captive punter (but surely that would be the same for all casinos then). Judging by our appearance/smell after days without a shower they were not fussy about clientele, and I was damned sure that they’d not get much richer on the back of us. Still… there were no sticky carpets or soiled bedspreads up on the ninth floor; equally there were no opening windows.
We reduced our gambling funds to twenty dollars to offset the room price and it was only embarrassing the first time you asked for $1 worth of 5c coins. Waiting staff here were cannier than we gave them credit for in terms of dolling out free cocktails to punters. Our frenzied slot machine activity, initiated at the first sign of an approaching potential freebie, was met with mixed success. Of course you can only look so worthy when pumping
5c pieces into… a 5c machine… Our later gambit of hovering around the 1 million dollar spin wheel simply got on other punters’ nerves.
Vegas is certainly bright, brash and wild, but a more unsuitable place for tight backpackers is hard to imagine.
Circus Circus came up trumps for a mighty, if greasy and lukewarm (and pretty damn poor), all-you-can-eat brekkie at $2.29. Dumped travel iron/hair dryer set - what was the foolish woman thinking of?
Found plenty of tour operators willing to take us to the Grand Canyon, but it’s so close (barely an inch on the map) we thought we’d make our own way there. Hired a basic saloon for two days at $30/day plus insurance, reasoning that if we slept in the car… Plus the car had unlimited mileage as long as you stayed in Nevada; actually I think the car wasn’t legally allowed to leave Nevada… Fearless Ali at the wheel we cruised the strip, exited baking Vegas, passed through Reno (apparently even more of a gambling heaven), crossed the Hoover dam and were soon on Interstate 66 and in Arizona. The straightest, heat-hazed roads took us past various Native American reservations,
the scant remaining cars now solely 4x4s. We’d just commented on the lack of any wildlife when we saw a bird flying directly in front of us. We stopped to wipe its remains off the windshield and pushed on. Then still some hundred miles or so from anywhere we passed a cyclist! Arrived in the dark and parked up (hid) behind an advertising hoarding (were told in Tusayan, just outside of the National Park, that it was a federal offence to sleep in your vehicle). It was one cold, cold night and on waking we realised why: there were banks of snow everywhere and the sky promised more. Ali’s night time ablutions had frozen solid in the carrier bag outside the driver’s door. Nevertheless, the canyon itself along the west rim was still spectacular, even if pastel shades aren’t best viewed through a grey haze. Brief stops in Seligman (beef sandwiches - with gravy: novel) and Kingsman for rest bites from the blizzards saw the car returned minutes before the rental deadline. Actually we felt pretty chuffed with ourselves for having gotten away with our out-of-State jaunt.
On the train through to Chicago we perfected the art of
dashing off to procure cheap supplies, although I almost missed it pulling out of Salt Lake City. Got chatting to our fellow Amtrakees and whilst loitering near the bar area looking needy we met some extremely sweet and generous, if overly dramatic, people who thought our trip was “awesome”. Such phraseology was easily overlooked: they were sweet and generous and we were near the bar… There was also a foxy model who offered us a bed if we made it to New York and Tony the Jehovah’s Witness who was kind enough to inform us how to avoid prostate cancer (cranberry juice and pomegranate seeds) and poor circulation (two shots of vodka). We were also forced to reprimand a couple of brats behind us who thought we were French.
Unfortunately we just made our connection in Chicago: we’d had visions of being put-up at Amtrak’s expense.
15th March 1990. New Orleans.
Arrived in New Orleans - not at all what I’d expected, but exactly as Ali had predicted: it looked rough, industrial and dangerous! At the station we were accosted by a giant white South African and a rather weasily, moustachioed Irish guy. They
handed us a flier for
India House that promised an 18th century historic house, no curfew, open 24 hours/day, five minutes from the French Quarter and new international management; all for $8 a night. We were skeptical, but we went…
Ohhh, we liked! Trust is good! The hostel was a cross between a student digs and a hippy commune. The other guests included Germans, Finns, Swedes and fellow Brits. Most of the lads running the place were much travelled ex-students who’d decided to simply sit awhile, rent and sub-let. We rapidly figured that this was the sort of place we might have found before, if we’d had a guide book… Our room had various trippy murals, one of which depicted a carnival scene with a rather spaced-out clown subtly levitating a few inches off the floor in front of some oblivious revelers, as a dog with square false teeth and the hind legs of a rabbit looked on.
I was immediately chomping at the bit as I’d been informed that there was a bar selling pitchers of beer for $1. However, typically the weather is against us; a mean thunder storm had rolled in and it
Bourbon st.
Web stock photo was lashing it down. The bar was out so, braving the elements, one of the lads went out to buy bottles of King Cobra Premium Malt Liquor, a total steal at $1.59/litre bottle. This beverage was/is considered little better than Buckfast in these parts, but was not far short of a miracle to us who thought that an American alcoholic beer was an oxymoron. Things were definitely looking up.
A week later we’d experienced a New Orleans St. Paddy’s day and, in so drunkenly doing, latterly only narrowly escaped from a couple of pushy old swingers – our dodging circuitous route back from the French Quarter taking us squarely through one of the most notorious projects, not that the inhabitants were even slightly interested in pestering us. We’d hung-out in pretty much every free-entry Trad. Jazz or Blues bar (ducking and diving between happy hours and more often than not supplementing our alcoholic intakes with corner shop bought – and smuggled in – 20:20 Mad Dog), although we did actually pay to go into Preservation Hall (and I was tempted to request New Orleans’ Hula, but took pity on the clarinetist – he was no
Monty Sunshine). On an
India House night out I’d held court on the pool table until – stupidly – I snookered a local who then flashed his gun in my face and stated that I was extremely fortunate we were not playing for money (those weren’t his exact words). The house lads hosted several barbeques for the masses, we partied, made friends with strangers and, two weeks in, that was it: we were sold on backpacking.
However, obviously, we did still have certain subtleties of the art to master…
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Home and Away
Bob Carlsen
I love backstories!!!
Keep them coming.