Highway 101

The fact that I never go to casinos, play poker or gamble in any form now is less a question of moral fibre than it is the result of a lifetime spent on the losing end. I am hopelesly unlucky at the table.

At car rental companies, however, things are very different. South America aside, I have always been given an upgrade, often 2 levels up. This time, a Chevrolet two-door wheelchair that I booked from "Enterprise rent-a-car" turned out to be a silver Jeep Wrangler four-door SUV. It didn't have 4x4 but for goodness sake, we're in California.

While on the subject of car rentals, a tip. One way drop-offs in USA are far cheaper if done within a state - in my case, San Diego to San Francisco. Once you cross a state, the branch where you hired the car from will never see it again, which is why they charge quite a lot. Try avoid Avis or Hertz unless you absolutely have to - or don't care about money. Enterprise rent-a-car were cheap, fast, efficient and friendly. Go with them.

The 7-lane Highway 5 took me back to Irvine (where Paul dropped me off), then the 405 to Santa Monica. I'm not a fan of LA or any of its peripheral beach districts, including Venice, Santa Monica, and the nice-sounding but truly dismal Malibu. This stretch for me, then, was an unavoidable fly-by, the sooner I was out of it the better.

Once past Santa Monica, Highway 1 officially begins. The first two hours are unremarkable. Don't even bother stopping at Oxnard, Santa Barbara or any place along the early stretch. I made this mistake and ended up in another time warp. Stick to Highway 1, because where you want to be, in the fastest possible time, is on the Pacific Coast Highway, the 101.

There is an air force base on a coastal corner where the 1 turns inland and somewhere along the way morphs into the 101. As the road elevates and houses disappear, the Pacific breeze strengthens and you get your first taste of what, finally, can be called scenery.

The drive recommended by Paul (and my trusted Daily Telegraph travel section) starts at Morrow Bay, which is where I stopped for the night, some 300 miles north of where I set off.

Coastie Toastie

It was his way of explaining what life has been like for him since moving to San Diego from New York. Brooks, having struggled to scrape a living in the big apple for so long, is now the very personification of the American Dream, complete with wife,  house, weight problem, two cars, and a baby on the way.

It makes you wonder why the entire population of America doesn't just move to San Diego. Property prices, I suppose, but you get what you pay for because it really is a good life. For the next three days, Brooks went about showing me just how coastie toastie it is here, starting with a pancake, sausage-and-egg breakfast of ridiculous proportions at his favorite neighborhood breakfast joint, The Mission. 

North Park, the area where he lives, was in the 80s and 90s the part of town you didn't want to stroll into by mistake. Like Clapham and Brixton in London, it went through something of a renaissance in recent years among the trendies, the graduates, and the reasonably wealthy - and now it's the hip (and hippie) place to be. 

A twenty minute car ride from here took us to Ocean Beach where the 'haves' and 'have nots' live in peaceful coexistence along a 2km coastal stretch, although the recent influx of a 'new generation of bums' seems to have disturbed the equilibrium. 

Dinner at a place near the very cool Ray Street was my treat. Breakfast the following morning was his treat. We also went for a round of 'disc golf' - a bizarre and very popular game in San Diego that follows the same rules as golf, except you play it with a frisbee. (Photos to come when I get the chance.)

Three days was as much as I allowed myself to get in their way. With four weeks worth of photos finally backed-up and a suitcase full of laundry done, a little reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and once again took off for the open road in a rented car.

Amtrak

No point renting a car just yet. Following Paul's advice to the letter, I managed (with some difficulty) to get the Amtrak website to work for me, booking myself on the 5pm train from Irvine to San Diego. It's a two hour ride that follows coastline all the way to the bottom. For future reference, if you are going south, try and get a seat on the right, with views of the pacific sunset, as opposed to brick wall.

From what I noticed (and been told by die-hard motorists), the type of people who take the train in America are either travelers from overseas (like myself) or old retired couples. No one between the ages of 25 and 55 will usually consider this mode of transport, which surprises me because it's rather good. First and foremost, it's quiet, so you can enjoy the Californian coastal scenery while being immersed in your own thoughts. This state of bliss lasted for one stop, when a group of rowdy twenty-somethings invaded my carriage and turned the volume up to level 42. I've been on Brutish Rail before when yobs have walked on midway. The sort of experience that explains why I left the country. Thankfully this is America where yobs are unheard of. They were a good mix of guys and girls, Orange County kids, which also means university educated and affluent. Weekend reunion bender in San Diego, it turns out, heavy drinking ahead hence the need to stoop to train travel. One of them offered me some of their beer. Well, if you can't beat them, join them.

They were quite intrigued to hear about my journey, and for me it was refreshing to be found immediately interesting by strangers. This is the thing about ordinary North Americans; they don't leave their continent, country, or even city that much. Just by saying 'actually, I've been doing a bit of traveling all round south America' with a sort of James Hunt public schoolboy accent really made their eyes light up. 

Perhaps all this sudden attention (and booze) had gone to my head, because getting off the train, i managed to forget my big suitcase which was tucked behind the end seat. Slick, John So, really slick. The dash from the station, across the railway and tram lines, back onto the train was probably the fastest I have ever run. I searched every carriage, and was still on the train when the doors closed as it started rolling back in the direction of Los Angeles. I asked the security guy if this was the same train that came in from Irvine. No, that's the one on platform 5.

"Officer, please stop the train, my luggage is on that one over there," I said to the 6 ft 7 African American security official. You have to hand it to them. They're cool under pressure. They're really cool. 

"Sir, don't panic. This happens all the time. You can get off at the next stop and catch the next train back. It's likely they'll have picked up your bag and taken it in."

Half an hour later, back at San Diego station. By then, the 50/50 prospect of my friend turning up had materialized, and the 20/80 (against) chance of recovering my luggage also fulfilled itself as the station master individually opening every carriage of the train which, thank God, was still there.

14 years since our last road trip, 21 years since we were at school together, it was good to finally see Brooks, who found the suitcase heart attack much funnier than I did.

Hitching a ride

Lima seems an awful long time ago now, but following a gentle prompt from the ever vigilant and concerned Señor Cuthbert, I feel the abrupt ending to the last post did a great injustice to the whole South American experience, which has, in spite of he previous post, been the most extraordinary journey of my life. There are some great photos to show from Peru, and the healing power of time has made me think differently about the country now. Which is just as well, because having abandoned thsmblog for some time, I'm going to pick up where i left off, in Lima, Peru.

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No thanks to the incompetence of my travel agent in Hong Kong (who has, as some of you will know, been spoken to), the flight out of Lima had to be postponed several times before I was confirmed on the Taca Airlines all-dayer to Costa Rica and Los Angeles. You could say I was a bit  punchy during those few days in Lima, so when I arrived at the airport to be told I couldnt board because I needed a Visa Waiver ESTA code to enter the country, you can imagine the scene. I shan't go into it here, but suffice it to say, the world of business class travel has seen better moments.

You might also imagine my reaction when, applying for an ESTA at the airport Starbucks, I realized that I in fact HAD one all along. Another day in Lima, but at least now I was good to go. 

All through this journey, it has amazed me how random strokes of good fortune and the most interesting encounters have arisen from seemingly disastrous mishaps. And so it was to prove on this occasion. Had the one-day delay not have occurred, I would not have walked on the connection plane in Costa Rica (fuming from business lounge bloody marys) to find myself sitting next to a self-made, old-timer entrepreneur in the concrete business by the name of Paul. Equally relieved to be next to a kindred spirit, he proceeded to order drink after drink. Conversation surrounding my three of my favorite topics - sport, tech, and road trips - made the five and a half hour flight an absolute pleasure. Since he lived in Orange County, and seeing as I was heading in the direction of San Diego, he offered me a lift as far as Irvine, saving me from the depressing prospect of arriving without a hotel, car or friend of any sort (at midnight), and a good day of navigating the beastly Los Angeles sprawl.

Being a golfer, fly-fisher, and regular road tripper, Paul was extremely knowledgeable about all the best places in America to go to and the most scenic roads to take, so I milked hid knowledge for all it was worth. Although clueless and a little unsettled in Peru, by the time i checked into the Courtyard Marriott just off Highway 5, I knew what my plan was with cast iron certainty. First, though, I had to pay an old friend a visit. 

Into Peru. Cuzco, Machu Picchu, Lima

Perhaps this is a bit unfair to Peru, falling as it does at the end of my South American itinerary. Having travelled from the bottom of Argentina to the top, into the Atacama, and then again from bottom to the top of Bolivia, it has become noticeably more difficult to be ´wowed´ by things. In fact, it´s partly out of haste, and partly a sense of apathy towards what I have seen here that explains why I have crammed all three parts of Peru into a single post.

Often overshadowed by the iconic Machu Picchu, many people, myself included, come to Cuzco without realising that city itself is also a UNESCO Heritage site. From here, the Inca civilisation once ruled much of the continent until the Spanish came and built all their cathedrals and monuments over the original foundations. From the minute you land at the airport, the sense that you are surrounded by pirranhas is overwhelming. The sense that you are being taken for a ride by the taxi driver is even more obvious. My fault for not checking the value of the currency, but never mind, i compensated for that by staying at the very decent and well-located Pirwa hostel for just US$25 a night, 10 seconds walks from Plaza de Armas, the heart of the city.

By the end of the first day, I had already developed full immunity against the need to take any more pictures of colonial buildings, churches and cobblestone streets. I also learned to put the phrase "No, gracias" to great use. It´s an empty coconunt shell with Inca carvings on it for just US$30. No Gracias. Come on, look how beautiful it is, hand made. No, gracias. How much you want to pay. No gracias. Where you from? No gracias.

By the end of day 1, I found it irritating that I had to be here just to see Machu Picchu. Correction, that should be, just so that I can say to everyone when I get home that I have seen Machu Picchu. On day 2, having shopped around half-heartedly at a tour agency down the street, I just settled for the resident operator in the hostel, who explained to me the various costs involved. The train, the various classes of train carriages, the entrance fee, the bus up to the top, the return trip - all incurring their own individuyal charges, mostly in US dollars. "Just tell me how much it costs in total and let me get it over with. No tour guide please."

When it comes to cuisine, Peru has in recent years developed a massive reputation for being South America´s finest. So as I walked around town looking for a good restaurant, my heart sank when i saw all the usual hallmarks of tourism gone foul. Paddy´s Irish pub, the all-day breakfast joint run by some trollop from England, burger/pizza parlours galore and fucking Swiss fondu. In the end, I ate all my meals at the retaurant just acorss the street from the hostel - a newly opened Peruvian restaurant El Tiburon, where, for the most part, I was the only customer. The chef became my own private chef, serving dishes off the menu (for a price, obviously), and food was superb. The ceviche - Peru´s answer to sashimi - in particular, was outstanding. By the end of my stay, they were actually starting to get customers.

So, here goes. Machu Picchu.

The day started with a taxi ride at 5:30am to a station called Puroy, where the train commences its 3 and a half hour journey through the Urubamba Canyon. For most of the way, I had my headphones on because I couldnt stand the conversation that was going on around me. It was only towards the end that i started speaking to the girl sitting next to me, a dentist from Costa Rica, who was here with her mother. She´d been studying in Peru for a year and was lamenting about the fact that she had one more year to go before she could go home. Kindred spirit. I could feel her pain.

Like me, the canyon looks much better in real life than in photos, so i won´t bother showing the shots from the train. I wouod say though, as the destaination nears, it is very impressive. The vertical walls of the mountains seem to go up into heaven. At no point can you see Machu Picchu itself, you just know it´s somewhere up there. It{s another 30-minute bus climb before you reach the entrance to the site, and short 10 minute hike (along with all the other tourists) before you actually see the exact same image, from the exact same angle, as you saw on Google.

Certainly the story of its discovery is a fascinating piece of pot luck, and I suppose what is most interesting about the place is what you don´t see and don´t know. I eavesdropped on some guided tours but they were mostly concerned with how the stones were shaped so I lost interest. It´s a place of astounding beautiy and mystery, but unlike, say, the Tower of London which is in fact much older and steeped in centuries of recorded history, there really isn´t much to keep you absorbed. Half way through, I was bored and decided to head straight back to the exit.The Costa Rican denstist and her mother, I noticed, left even sooner.

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I'll add photos later, but as I write this, the taxi from Lima to the airport is waiting to pick me up so, with a great deal of haste and regret, this concludes the South American leg of my journey. I'll be off the air for a while but will post the next story as soon as I get the chance. Cheerio!

Back in La Paz - Day 2

"I need something equal to, or greater than, the Death Road" was my brief to the tour operator at the Bash & Crash. It was really half in jest as I didn´t think it was possible to beat the previous day´s downhill thrill.

"How about going uphill this time," was her response.

"Forget it, I can barely climb up the stairs here without getting a seizure." The idea of trekking Mount Illimani or Huayna Potosi was romantic but simply not plausible, and in the time I had there was no way of reaching the 6000M plus summit, defeating the whole purpose of the expedition.

"I didn´t say climbing," she said, "Quad-biking."  Eyebrows raised.

"How much will it cost?"

"350 Bolivianos for 2 hours. 650 for 5 hours. All with your own personal guide."

50 quid for five hours of burning petrol. "Sign me up."

10am, a half hour taxi ride from the hostel.

After 5 minutes of practicing circles around the shop, I was a fully qualified quad-bike expert. You can choose fully manual (which operates the same as a motorbike) or semi-automatic whereby the gears are controllable with your thumb. I also had the option of renting a motobike instead, but as this was something I had already done several years ago in Thailand, I went for the new experience. When the guide arrived, he took my camera and off we went into the valley of the Choqueyapu River.

A few nerves to begin with...

...and the penguin learns to swim.

I wish I had kept the camera for the part of the journey that falls in between these two photos because it was a stunning picture of contrasts. The 20 or so kilometres of the valley is the greenest farm country dotted with grazing cows, with half broken wooden bridges crossing the streams that irrigate the land. Really quite out of place against the arid Bolivian mountains. At some points the tracks were so waterlogged I didn´t think I could make it through, but the machine ate it all up with ease.
 

Mid-morning snack.

In this distance, Mount Illimani. That´s where we´re going.

From here, the guide shot off ahead to take photos.

That black dot is me.

There i am again.

Getting used to the corners now, although vertigo is starting to set in.

Seems like miles up but only half way.

Cool.

4200 Metres. As close as I´ll get to Illimani.

About 4500M. The high road to La Paz.

Leaving Illimani behind.

Suddenly, I´m in Baghdad. The one final steep climb...

To the top.

One of the best views from here.

On the left, Bolivia´s incredible mountain range.

On the right, La Paz.