This Road

Barry Has Been SOLD

2010-10-29T11:49:00.001-07:00

Sorry...

1990 HJ60 Toyota Landcruiser (4L Diesel) For Sale

2010-10-25T06:37:00.000-07:00

Whilst we are ready to put our feet up for the foreseeable future, the Baroness is raring for more adventure and therefore requires a new crew. Yes, the White lady is for sale:

1990 HJ60 Toyota Landcruiser
(4L Diesel)
140000 miles
12 month MOT
6 month Tax
For Sale £6500 ono

e.mail: thisroadhq@yahoo.com
mobile: 07916268123

The car has extensive improvements for expedition travel:

The Final Push (ooh er missus)

2010-09-23T06:06:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, tout le mond! Well, that's about as far as I can go with practicing my French. We leave Canada's capital city, Ottowa, today and make our way to frogsville and Montreal! Sorry about that, I just know the French wouldn't have expected anything less than a little dig from their 'rostboeuf' counterparts..!
If you've been following the blog for some time, you will have noticed that we have tended to meander our way through countries. Not stopping everywhere, but certainly not blitzing the trail like someone possessed. All that changed when we got to Canada. We've already talked about the mammoth drive up from Vancouver to Prudhoe Bay to complete the final leg of the Pan-Am, and our subsequent return back down the Dalton Highway to Fairbanks on the back of a truck. Well, not content with that, we decided to really go for it.
Closer inspection of the road atlas once again revealed the enormity of the North American continent, and with the clock ticking (flights have been booked and shipping agents primed in NYC) another epic drive was in order. So we decided to go non-stop from Fairbanks to Calgary. A total of 2,000 miles. We did it in 52 hours straight! Liz and Ross Lakin (friends of Tim and I from the town we grew up in) greeted us at their apartment. Frazzled is an understatement describing how we felt! But a few pints later things were back to normal, and after sleeping horizontally for 12 hours, by the following day we were fresh as daisies.
There is quite a fair bit to see as you travel across the States/Canada, most of it more towards the east. And so, once again, the call was made to eat up some serious road. After waving farewell to Liz and Ross (cheers, guys!) we began the 1,600-mile trip to Chicago, where some friends we had made all the way back in Buenos Aires awaited.

Ladies and gentlemen I am sorry to inform you that those may very well be the last words ever written by Captain Thomas Ollier (Ret’d). Admittedly that would be quite unlikely, as he is perfectly fine and well and enjoying his return to Blighty, but you never can be quite sure. However like Emmett Brown’s Delorien these last few paragraphs have taken you on a rip-roaring journey across the space time continuum, and I fully understand your confusion. To bring you up to speed (88mph to be exact), we left Fairbanks (southbound) on the 20th August and arrived, via Cow Town, now much more disappointingly known as Calgary, in Chicago on the 30th of August. Chicago is probably my favourite city of the trip. It apparently only has two seasons, a wonderful summer and an absolutely miserably cold winter, but as we were experiencing it during the former we had little complaint with the weather. It’s a cool, buzzing city with the financial centre encased by a rectangular skyrail that leads to the districts typically American name, the Loop. It also sits beside Lake Michigan, one of the 5 Great Lakes that contain about a quarter of the world’s fresh water supply. And actually for all intents and purposes it’s a sea, because it’s big, blue and wavey. Chicago is also famous for it’s Jazz bars, as frequented by the tax dodging, baseball wielding Al Capone, and after several hours paying homage to the anti-phohibitionist hero we got to witness some truly mesmerising Jazz musicians. One of Chicago’s other accolades is North America’s tallest building, the newly renamed Willis Tower, previously and famously known as the Sears Tower. While you queue for the lift at the bottom there is a huge amount of information detailing the tower’s construction and history and vital statistics, and personally I now concur that all buildings should be measured by how many Barack Obama’s tall they are.

Along our long and dusty road we’ve experienced the full spectrum of accommodation, from the lows of a metallic picnic table in Death Valley to the extraordinary highs of a $250 dollar a night apartment a short metro ride away from Chicago’s downtown. Equipped with 3 double bedrooms, lounge, kitchen and most importantly a shower that can only be described as an all purpose aqua experience, we had well and truly lucked out. Thank you so much to our Chicago friends, I am sure we’ll all be back.

Next up was our final cross-border forage back into Canada before finally heading onto the east coast of the US and home. The drive from Chicago to Toronto was a respectable 500 miles and we again journeyed through the night to save time. Although on this occasion it was truly heartbreaking as we still had the free apartment at our disposal. Boohoo. Anyway just south of Toronto, actually about a 100 miles south but understandably our notion of relativity has been somewhat stretched, is a fairly famous stretch of water that also doubles as the worlds capital for barrel encased suicide. Niagara Falls was definitely on our wish list to experience and despite a few disappointments it was surely worth a visit. It’s tourist-tastic, even at 8am in the morning, and as tacky as you can imagine, and the waterfall certainly has bigger and more exotic rivals, but the fact you can stand 2 to 3 meters from the corner where millions of tonnes (or some more accurate but equally impressive amount) of water cascades noisily past is magical. Niagara I think is also the poster boy of waterfalls, it’s perfectly curved façade is everything you could wish for. After Niagara we had a quick stop in Toronto to catch up with an old housemate of mine, who was on a short training course before jetting off to Peru (There you go Katie not just a mention but a mini biography) and then we set off to Canada’s capital, Ottawa.

Ottawa hadn’t seemed to attract the greatest press from our Canadian friends on the west coast but that is probably due to the va va voom of party central Montreal on it’s doorstep. We really liked the city which was packed with interesting architecture, museums, cool British type bars and a happy mix of French and English speaking Canadians. Tom and I learned that Canada actually has a history, who knew, at the Museum of Civilisation while Phil pondered impressively at inexplicable artwork at another museum. We all toured the parliamentary building and, though interesting, couldn’t help but notice a suspicious amount of plagiarism from our own Houses of Parliament. They even have a replica of Big Ben that copycats the famous hourly chime and then breaks into their national anthem and then what I can only assume are a number of Canadian big hits. We listened out for Celine, Bryan and Avril but they must have had a later showing. When I get back to London I’m definitely going to suggest the idea to Boris though. The proper Big Ben ringing out the James Bond medley should no longer remain an idle pipe dream. Again we had free accommodation in the form of Phil’s university friend Simon who was another excellent host.

Our final stop in Canada was to be the very French and much celebrated city of Montreal, where the boys would be meeting up with the girl they eagerly replaced me with on the Bolivian salt flats while I was in New York. The night we arrived, Marie-Eve cooked us up a traditional French-Canadian storm and ploughed us with wine which needless to say was all very agreeable. The next day Phil made a quick break to visit his cousin in Vermont, leaving Tom and I to explore the city. And we did so in style completely thanks to Marie-Eve’s brilliant idea to use the cities rent-a-bike network. Apparently they are about to, or already may have, implemented a similar scheme in London but I’ve certainly tried to drunkenly borrow one in Paris so it’s probably a French initiative. Effectively you have a multitude of bike stations across the city, and for the tiny sale of a century fee of 5 Euros (okay, okay, Canadian dollars) you can hire one for the day as long as you park it at a new station every thirty minutes, which allows you to cruise in a typically nonchalant French fashion from tourist hotspot to hotspot. Montreal is also streaks ahead of London in terms of it’s bicycle friendly traffic system. They so vigorously defend the cyclists’ rights that we actually saw a line of cars parked seemingly in the middle of the road so as not to block the cycle path next to the curb. Montreal is also famed for it’s liberal attitudes and rocking nightlife and we weren’t disappointed, although I am slightly perplexed at how we managed to end up in an 80’s cheese disco on one of the nights. Probably Tom’s influence. I think, though can’t be sure, that that was also the night that we sampled Quebec’s most famous culinary dish. And for a province of French descent, it really is not what you expect. It’s called Poutine, and the post drinking crowd go mad for it. We queued with the other drunken hopefuls and were eventually led to a table in a very diner-esque restaurant, packed with red and glassy eyed locals in various states of inebriation. Poutine is clearly too classy to be smothered over and down yourself while stumbling back from a UK nightclub. The method of consumption is however the only classy thing about it as it is in fact a dish consisting of French fries topped with fresh cheese curds, covered with brown gravy. You mean it’s just chips and gravy, we said in a mock Yorkshire accent. No no, this is Poutine, a marvel of French Canadian cuisine. It has cheese…. I think I’ll stick to kebabs and curry.

One other event we were keen to tick off our what to do in North America list was their version of football. I would call it American Football but we were in Canada, French Canada to be exact. Canadian American Football is exactly the same as French Canadian American Football but they both differ slightly from American Football, and all of course fall woefully short of anything like proper English Football. I’ve watched a bit of American Football on the idiot box and it’s actually pretty exciting, particularly the college football where the mismatch of talent allows for much greater excitement as the incredibly athletic, destined for the big time, students race past the never going to make it professionally and will shortly wake up with no academics and no future no hopers. Which is unfortunately the dark underside of the of football scholarships. Anyway the professional league can be very slow paced as the teams are so well matched and so I actually thought if they reduced the number of plays available to each team, they have 5 tries to get only 10 meters which seems excessive, and maybe reduced the team size, the game would become more exciting. When I learned that this is exactly what Canadian American Football is all aboot I was tremendously excited. Again Anne-Marie had come through for Tom and I by procuring tickets for the mighty Montreal Thundercats verses the British Colombia Bulldogs. Okay these weren’t their real names but I neither know nor care. The game was rubbish. The Americans might have got the name wrong but their version of the game is infinitely more watchable. The only silver lining was that the one thing better than nubile cheerleaders is French nubile cheerleaders, dancing to Bon Jovi. Now we’re talking.

Montreal though was a fabulous city and Marie-Eve and friends really went well beyond the call of duty in looking after us, and so our final taste of Canada was a sweet one. We even powered over the border with little more than a cursory glance at the car and were quickly reunited with Phil at his cousins near Burlington in Vermont, whose adorable 15 month old baby girl Thomson had recently learned to point at herself when asked “Who’s the baby?!” Vermont is a beautiful state to drive through, it has an incredible outdoors feel with huge pine and maple forests and will be a beautiful winter skiing destination. The temperature was just starting to fall and we happily stacked a winter’s supply of wood for a couple of hours to earn our supper that night.

The next day found us hurtling towards the east coast and the Atlantic Ocean to sample the famous New England lobster dishes, however we still had a reasonable distance to cover over beautiful but windy roads and so either an overnight drive or camping stop was on the cards. Barry chose for us. It was to be fair her last in series of little hiccups, just to remind us that she was calling the shots. En route to Calgary her speedometer had ceased working but considering we couldn’t speed any way that was pretty much irrelevant. The loss of one headlight driving up to Montreal was also no major drama as we were travelling by day. However the loss of both headlights during the onset of dusk certainly got our attention and so we opted to camp. By lunchtime the next day however we were Lobstering on an inlet on the coast of Maine in the glorious sunshine and things couldn’t be better. We had a lovely stroll on a beautiful sandy beach and wondered how many people could say they have dipped their feet in virtually every sea and ocean from Buenos Aries to the American east coast in a single trip. Our Magellanic Penguin Jack in particular wondered whether any of his brethren, stuffed or natural, had journeyed as far as he. Seeing the ocean was a great way to appreciate the magnitude of the distance we had travelled, and somewhere far out in front of us, were English shores and home.

The Good, the Bad and the Fugly

2010-08-18T16:55:00.000-07:00

The Good

There is a little town called Deadhorse that borders our final destination, Prudhoe Bay on the north coast of Alaska. In reality Deadhorse and Prudhoe are only really separated by the security cordon that partitions the public area from the privately owned oil fields that stretch to the bay itself. From the beginning of the trip's conception this final hurdle had provided a number of conflicting accounts of whether ocean access would be possible, but I'm sure you can understand that driving 25 thousand miles to fall barely 4 miles short would leave a slightly bitter taste in our mouths.

From Fairbanks we headed due north to complete the final 500 mile leg of our north bound journey, a little stupefied by the epic distances we had already covered and slightly bemused by the weather, which was absolutely blistering sunshine. The last section of road is the famous Dalston Highway, about 400 miles in length and completely unpaved. The sign that marks the highway entrance is covered in graffiti and stickers from all the other travelers who have passed through, and we stopped for a moment to read the messages and make our own contributions to what felt like the collective commemoration to the final push.

100 miles later we hit the latitude of 66° 33. This is the southern most point (in the Northern hemisphere) where you can experience 24 hour sunlight or darkness, on the summer and winter solstices respectively. It's common name, is the Arctic Circle. And everything north of it is the Arctic. We crossed the line wearing t-shirts and sandals, happy in the knowledge that if we were there but even a month later, it would be a whole different story!

By midnight we were still driving north and the sky still held enough light to make our headlights redundant. The sun had actually set, we were too late in the season for a true midnight sun, but it was not far enough below the horizon to darken the skies. We finally crawled into Prudhoe Bay around 2am and began to test the security perimeter for weaknesses. We'd arrived in the middle of the "night" with the hope that some of the roads would be unmanned, providing us with the opportunity to make an illegal dash to the sea to complete our trip. Unfortunately the roads were very much guarded and our night time cover was decidedly more sunny than we had envisaged. We tried to befriend and beguile a few of the guards but they, although perfectly friendly, all had clearly encountered the likes of us before and were stoic in their refusal to do anything but point us to the nearby hotel. Tired and defeated we retreated towards the hotel and our slightly anti-climatic plan B, a tourist bus at 7 am laid on by the hotel to take us to the Bay, for the extortionate sum of $40. Each. The tightened security was apparently laid on after 9 11, which is an understandable and fairly rational option to take, but the fee made it feel much more like a tourist tax. We crept into the hotel around 3.30 am and, finding the reception deserted, bunked down in the tour briefing room we were scheduled to arrive at less than 4 hours later. I say scheduled because this really was a plan B, we had booked ourselves onto this tour and sent our passport details 24 hours earlier, so we could be security cleared for the trip. At this point things starting to run in our favour. There are many good reasons to drag yourself out of bed in the morning, but the best of these must clearly be the smell of frying bacon and other fatty fried goodness. And of course everything tastes better when it is free. Not that this was our initial intention, but although we'll happily pay for food, we draw the line at letting it go cold while we actively have to seek out someone to take our money. Particular when we knew we were already being subjected to the unjustifiable high price of the bus ticket. Which we ending up not having to pay for either. Oops. I'm sure it's morally, ethically and socially wrong, and I'm sure this electronic confession will come back to haunt me, but still, it was free.

The bus trundled up to the shore and we all hopped out, slightly peturbed both by the threat of bitterly cold water and the roaming grizzly bears that share this seaside resort. Luckily the bears were clearly off picniking but the water was shockingly cold. No real surprises really, it's the Arctic Ocean after all. High fives and not at all funny splashing (Phil) were followed by frantic drying and dressing as that morning the weather had decided to turn a lot more Arcticy. We shivered back on to the bus and by 9am we were back stealing free coffee from the hotel we weren't staying in. And that was that really. 25000 miles, the tip of South America to the north coast of Alaska. Freezing ocean to ocean with glorious summer and the world's longest road in between. We'd done it, this road lay conquered. We were pretty spectacularly tired, we were stuck in a rapidly freezing, wind swept, barren oil field town 300 miles above the Arctic Circle, and we had really quite a long way to go to reach New York and then Blighty. "Well, best be off then". So we did.

The Bad

New York was admittedly a late addition to the trip. But we had discussed it in detail and decided that we wanted to reach the East coast. Barry, apparently, had missed the memo. Eighty miles south bound, as opposed to the 25000 miles we had very recently completed north bound, we noticed that our temperamental twenty year old was guzzling fuel at over twice the normal rate. And sure enough when we popped the hood we found a glistening, diesel covered engine. It looked very clean, and it was very very bad. We'd twice had problems with our fuel filter, which is why we now didn't have a spare, and we were still well inside the Arctic Circle.

We limped a mile back to the cheerily named Happy Valley, which was little more than a gravelly runway strip and collection of RV's, to take a look at the damage. I may very well be the least mechanically minded individual that the DVLA have ever recklessly issued a driving license to, so I filmed while Tom and Phil pushed, pulled, poked and pondered. In Layman's, or indeed my, terms, the fuel filter stops big chunks of chunky fuel being injected into your engine. It's under pressure, so if it is cracked or incorrectly sealed, fuel will leak out. The fan at the front of the engine (to cool rather than encourage) acts like a hairdryer or, well fan, and sprays the leaked fuel all over the engine. This is bad for fuel consumption, as the fuel is making the engine go shiny not faster. It is bad for the engine itself as the fuel is corrosive. And it presents a fairly significant fire risk as the engine is hot and the fuel is flammable. Luckily diesel is a lot less flammable then petrol so we weren't quiet yet at the "Human Torch" stage. The RV park come airport was home to a few hardy locals who offered plane rides into the wilderness for hunters and semi permanent accommodation for scientists, and several of them had kindly popped over to help. Initially we / an expertly filmed "they" tried to seal the fuel filter with some appropriately sounding sealant but the newly sealed filter continued to leak. Unfortunately this process did seal the fate of our fuel filter, which although still leaking, could no longer be removed from it's housing. (Curiously housing has nothing to do with real estate, but is in fact what the fuel filter is attached to.) So the fuel filter and it's housing were removed, presumably from the housing's housing or street, and the fuel filter and housing conglomerate was coated in liquid metal. The leak had leaked it's last.

The Fugly

The liquid metal needed to be left overnight to set so a few of the locals offered to both feed us and put us up for the night. Exceptionally kind and very welcome at the best of times, let alone in the remote tundra plains of the Alaskan Arctic. On top of food, shelter, beer, poker and even a morning hot shower, Kevin, Ed, Jake and Louanne were great company and we cannot be thankful enough. The next morning our reinforced filter system basked in the glory of it's leak free filtering and we were once again on our way. For about 40 miles. The fuel gage had by then already dropped too far. We popped the hood and stared unbelievingly at our newly leaking filter. Damn.

Our options at this point were limited. Driving while spraying diesel onto your engine is not safe, and if it had been been petrol would almost definitely have resulted in an all consuming fire. We had a length of pipe to bypass the filter altogether, but doing that on the roadside without proper equipment would have probably sent Barry into her death throws. We decided there was no real point in turning back, as we needed the mechanics garage 120 miles south. We also decided that though not recommended, our free spraying diesel was unlikely to ignite, so we could probably limp on. (Diesel is flammable when hot enough, but combusts normally only under pressure, rather than being ignited like petrol in a petrol engine) If however we lost fuel so rapidly that we couldn't reach the garage, road side surgery would be the only option.

We drove slowly, trying to make the engine work as little as possible, and taking every opportunity to coast when the incline allowed. Our luck held. We rolled into the truck loading and refuelling area called Coldfoot. Again there was little more there than a restaurant, motel, garage and camping ground but at least our options were better. Though still very far from good. The mechanics were busy and had no time to give us assistance, and certainly not for free. Attempting to bypass the filter ourselves had every chance of causing Barry's premature death, and limping another 250 miles to Fairbanks with a diesel soaked engine was not particularly promising either. Alaska is spectacularly remote, you can drive 150 miles without passing a building or another car. One advantage of this is that everybody at that station was either going back to Prudhoe or down to Fairbanks. We started to ask truckers if they had enough space to carry us and Barry and eventually we got a hit. The trucker, Jack, had a small but to our eyes Barry shaped space at the end of his rig, and, after double checking with his employer, he agreed to carry us the 250 miles for 250 dollars. If we'd driven it would have cost us $50 in fuel at best, in this state more like $100, so we decided to take the hit.

Barry was strapped into place and the 3 of us jumped into the cab at the front. Big trucks are awesome. They have as many dials as a light aircrafts cockpit, two chairs upfront and a horizontal bed behind that Phil and I sat on. We asked Jack if we could film. "No problem, I've just been filmed for three months filming Ice Road Truckers". How cool is that? It's one of America's many real life, real danger, day in the life of type programs and Jack Jessee was evidently one of the stars. We drove through the night, encountering three prowling wolves along the way, and eventually pulled in to Fairbanks at 4am. By my reckoning the 4th night in 7 without sleep. The local diner opened for breakfast at 5am, that was this morning, about 12 hours ago.

We have spent all of the day talking to every mechanic and dealership in town, who have all offered startlingly different opinions on what "fixes" we can effect. America does not have Toyota diesels. So the parts are well and truly unavailable. And any short term fixes are clearly not going to get us the 5 thousand miles to New York. We're still 2000 miles from Vancouver and there is not a lot in between.

As I wrote this story in my head while sleepily trundling around Fairbanks, things were looking pretty bleak. Skipping the east coast and just trying to get Barry to a port in Vancouver, Portland or Seattle seemed like the only real option left to us. However, there is now a glimmer of hope on our Arctic grey horizon. One recommendation led to another and we found ourselves at the door of the soul-warmingly exuberant, one man mechanic, Adam. His thick southern drawl and Woody Woodpecker laugh were enough in themselves to lift our moods but he attacked our seemingly insurmountable problem with gusto (not to mention a hacksaw) and we are now the proud owners of a completely bastardised fuel filtering system and significantly less piping. Still, it seemed to hold on the way back to our hostel and we will drive around tomorrow to see how we fair before, fingers, toes and eyes crossed, heading down to Vancouver. This Road is completed and we're on our way back home. In sincerely hope we make it. The other two are in bed, and I'm going to go and join then. Not literally, obviously.

Barry goes bananas

2010-08-14T12:45:00.000-07:00

We really should paint some racing stripes and a big black "53" on the Baroness, because she just covered roughly 2200 miles in 66 hours. Canada is one seriously big country. We drove for 35 hours from Vancouver before we managed to leave the state of British Colombia and enter the Yukon. 35 hours, one state, surely that must be some kind of record.

We were back to our starting team having subbed out Steffi for our returning wedding crasher, and immediately we hit the road for the long push to the north coast of Alaska, a drive not far shy of 3000 miles. Having endured the British like weather of Oregon and Seattle, British Colombia's heat wave had been a welcome reminder of our trips "follow the summer" theme. Alaska, on the other hand, was going to get cold. We mentally braced ourselves for the rain and wind, icy roads, snow storms and freezing temperatures with good old British stoic indifference and gallow"s humour. So the fact that our journey north was twice interrupted by fire came as quite a surprise. No more than a few hours outside of Vancouver, on a snaking mountain road encased by tall, green pine trees, we came across a blackened car wrapped in 20ft high flames. There was a queue of 5 or 6 cars in front of us, and we had arrived no more than twenty minutes since the blaze had started. A fire crew had arrived, but were evidently waiting on reinforcements before tackling the inferno.

Luckily no one had been injured. We learned a Russian tourist had been driving his rented 2010 Chevy up the steep hill when a local Canadian frantically flagged him down with, what I can only imagine is slightly disconcerting, "Pull over, your car is on fire". He did and it was. And twenty minutes later it was more coal than car, with a tank, thankfully leaking, full of petrol to keep the flames and the firemen happy. I say thankfully leaking because otherwise there would have probably been an explosion big enough to severely ruin your lovely afternoon drive in the country. The fire fighting reinforcements arrived, huffing and puffing and hosing and posing, and spectacularly failing to put the fire out. British Colombia is on an extreme fire warning, so much so that smoking in parks has been banned, so a car shaped inferno a few feet from the edge of a huge pine forrest is probably on the "things to not to during an extreme fire warning" too. The firefighters, realising that their jet of water was not actually extinguishing the petrol fueled fire, but merely pushing the flames dangerously close to the forest edge, changed tactic and spent a few minutes soaking every tree and bush instead. Oh dear, we thought, we may be stuck here for sometime. Happily this was not to be as some bright spark (sorry) realised that they did in fact have a much bigger hose at their disposal. 20 nanoseconds later the fire hissed into submission and we were all on our way. Well, those of us with fully functioning cars anyway, the poor old Russian was at the mercy of the police, who seemed suspicious that a brand new car would burst into flames. The Canadians suspected the (American made) Chevy, the police clearly suspected vodka.

Phase two of fire fury was going to potentially be a much larger problem. Highway 37 runs north near BC's west coast, connecting us with the AlCan Highway. It's a spectacular drive and probably the shortest route to Alaska from Vancouver, it's also a 1500 mile detour if for any reason it's closed. "Highway 37 is closed" the flashing sign read "Due to a forest fire". We couldn't face a 1500 mile detour, so we decided to press on and see what happened, knowing at least that we were 4 hours from the 37 turnoff so potentially they could have "fixed" the forest fire problem by then. And our luck did hold, because Canada's so ridiculously, spectacularly big. At the turn off we realised that only the northern part of the highway was closed, and that was a further 5 hours away. Yes, we were boxing ourselves into a very tight corner, if we weren't able to get through the detour would be 1500 miles, but we already felt committed and it felt good to be putting, potentially counter-productive, miles on the clock. Also to reach this point we had driven straight through the previous night, and irritable tiredness is a happy bedfellow of irrational dogmatism.

By 8pm, a mere 33 hours since having departed Vancouver, we pulled into a rest area opposite the road blockade and collapsed into our tents, although we did manage time for an invigorating and energising dinner of breakfast cereal. By 8am we were sat in a queue of twenty cars, trucks and RV's, waiting to see if a pilot vehicle would turn us up to lead us through the smoke and flames. And again our luck held out, or in this case fortune favoured the bloody-minded. By 8.15am we were happily convoying along, knowing that both because we had pushed on till 8pm the night before to reach the blockade point to see if we could get through and because we'd been forced to get up early to queue, the forest fire had actually gained us time. Although we saw flames, and huge swathes of blackened pine trees, the visible damage was not that devastating. For large parts of the 60 mile trip, we were completely engulfed in smoke, but the flames had moved so quickly through, that the forest had not been reduced to barren, ash covered wasteland. What was truly impressive though, was the scale. 22000 hectares had been burnt through and the authorities, some 60 firefighters supported by diggers and helicopters, were utterly powerless to stop it. Thankfully the fire is really only a threat to humans, or more accurately their homes, and any such destruction had been avoided. The forest fires (this one caused by a lightning strike) naturally clear space for new grass shoots to sprout through, providing a happy banquet for the wondering moose, dear and caribou, and most of the animals inhabiting the effected area would have long since scarpered towards slightly more fur friendly surroundings.

And speaking of our furry little friends, Highway 37 had provided us with no less than 7 bear sightings. Who in retrospect were probably taking the quickest route away from the fire. We don't normally pick up hitchhikers, and this was certainly going to be no exception.

Since our fiery escapades we have driven continuously through the Yukon and into Alaska, to the central city of Fairbanks. We're pretty tired, but we're oh so very close. Prudhoe Bay is 500 miles north. We set off tomorrow morning. The road may be a little bumpy, and the final part is not even open to private vehicles, but we can almost taste the sea air.

Canadia - It's not even a real country anyway

2010-08-10T16:48:00.000-07:00

That's country number 15 people. I know, I know. You're not angry, you're just impressed.

There is something kind of familiar about this beautiful country, and it's not just the fact that we're in "British" Columbia, or that it's raining, or that "our Queen's on your money" as one of my favourite anti-Australian rugby chants goes. (The other being, quite fairly I think, "Get your **** stars off our flag"). It's just that it really does feel like home. They have beer that is drinkable, they have pubs, as in real pubs, not just diners with a pub sign hanging outside. And in Vancouver, some of the streets actually set off at jaunty angles, some even curve. As easy as the grid system is to navigate, it is pretty sterile and you can't really lose yourself in aimless meandering.

All the American cars we've passed have state number plates, and each one proudly displays that state's nickname. Nevada is the Silver State, Oregon is the Beaver state (chortle, chortle), Texas is the Sorry about Bush State, and so on. British Colombia, on the other hand, is just Beautiful British Colombia. And it really is. But it's not just the countryside, the place just feels happy. I absolute love the American's enthusiastic attitude, and Canadians have something similar, but just a little more understated. Or basically, just a little bit more British.

The Canadian border crossing had been the easiest yet as a short car queue turned into a 2 minute conversation with a single border official, a quick flurry of passports and car docs, and away we went. I do always get a slight pang every time they ask "Do you have any guns or weapons". "No" we say, but sitting neatly on top of our camping equipment box is our "camping knife". You could also describe our "camping knife" as Phil's 2ft machete that his sister brought / smuggled back from her travels. It really only qualifies as a camping knife if you are attempting to cook a bear, that is still alive, and trying to eat you. Still we were on our way and, after a short interlude in Vancouver to allow Phil to ruin his brother's wedding with his best man speech and general attendance, would be pushing on to the official end of the Pan-American Highway, Prudhoe Bay on the north coast of Alaska.

Vancouver is internationally recognised as one of the best cities in the world to live, and it definitely is a beautiful city with an incredibly friendly atmosphere. It's difficult to not get into a conversation with a friendly stranger on the bus and even harder to stop all the other passengers from chipping in. Does everybody know each other here or are they just genuinely that friendly? The latter it would seem. Friendliness is a national stereotype but it does seem to fit. I'm not sure if it's true of all Canada, but Vancouver does unfortunately have the Yin to its Yang in the form of the Eastern Downtown sector. Tom's Vancouver based friend had emailed to say it was a real horror show of lives wasted by drugs and prostitution and that we should really avoid it. Cool, let's go take a look was our less than surprising response. However the reality is a long way from cool. Whereas the laid back attitude to drugs and the homeless hippie attitude of San Francisco, Portland and even Camden in London creates a degenerate but trendy, free-living vibe, this place was where societies outcasts eeked out whatever miserable living their mentally disturbed and drug addled brains could allow. And very few looked like they had more than weeks to go although I'm sure their purgatory will persist for months and years to come. They're almost definitely beyond help, but they're certainly not beyond care, and as limited as our exposure is you cannot help but wonder what the city is doing about it.

One hundred and thirty kilometers north of Vancouver, presumably we're using kilometers because of le french influence, sits the world famous Whistler Ski Resort. Unfortunately, for me at least, the winter season has long since passed, but for our lover of all things mountain bikey, Tom was in his element. Actually in all honesty I had an absolutely brilliant time watching Tom disappearing into the distance ahead of me while careering down Moab's mountains, and it was only cost-saving that stopped me indulging myself again. Anyway we headed up to Whistler last weekend with Steffi, a backpacking German from Munster, to check out the start of the Crankworks festival, for those in the know which I am definitely not, this is the number 1 downhill bike festival of the year, with a week of various race disciplines, stunts and aerials, and general mountain bike mayhem. Actually, I'll let Tom fill in the rest of the details as there's only so much alliteration around the word mountain I can use.

Our hostel in Whistler was a potentially inconvenient 8km from the main village. However on the three occasions I tried to hitch a lift I was picked up by the first car to come past every time, now that's friendly! Subsequently we rarely needed the car but on our first drive back from the village we very nearly ran over a large, dark brown creature emerging from the few trees that lined the central reservation. The creature was incredibly bearlike, perhaps because it was bear. Quick, grab the cooking knife we cried. Luckily the bear, after a ponderous glance towards it's impending Barry shaped death, scuttled across the road and away into the forest. As you can imagine, we were stunned. This was not the wilderness, this was about 100 meters from the biggest bike festival on earth, at the mountain bike Mecca of Whistler, absolutely inundated with tourists. One of which was probably about to get eaten. Either these animals are a lot less threatening than they keep telling us, or I'm going to go phone Jimmy.

Hoagies, Taxidermists and Tubing

2010-08-09T10:45:00.000-07:00

There really cannot be anything more pleasant, than a day in the sunshine, wandering from vineyard to vineyard, quaffing wine and munching cheese.

We had arrived in the vineyard hot spot of Napa Valley, California, the night before, and, finding the campsite devoid of any staff, taken it upon ourselves to allocate our own camping spot. The next morning we were awoken to a very loud "Gee honey, come take a look at this here motor veheeecle. They've gone got themselves a tent right there on this here roof. Gosh darn it I sure do like Nascar" Or something to that effect. Our friendly camp attendant, who by the way was an unpaid volunteer who lived on the campsite and drove a golf buggy, informed us that we could stay but we would have to change spots. More importantly he also told us that we were in walking distance of 3 or 4 vineyards, some of which offered free wine tasting. Lovely. Before we could embark on our senseless boozeathon masquerading as a highbrow wine tasting exercise however, we needed to drive the nearby town to pick up our own body weight in cheese. Which, unfortunately, is evidently not the cheapest wine accompaniment on the menu and wine and cheese day was threatening to become ludicrously expensive. It was then that we noticed one of the other great American culinary delights, the hoagie. To quote Wikepedia... "A submarine sandwich, also known as a sub, grinder, hero, hoagie, Italian sandwich, po' boy, wedge, zep, torpedo, bocadillo or roll, is a sandwich that consists of an oblong roll, often of Italian, Spanish or French bread, split lengthwise either into two pieces or opened in a "V" on one side, and filled with various meats, cheeses, vegetables, seasonings, and sauces." We've all seen them on TV, and I'm pretty sure Homer Simpson's goal in life was to eat the world's largest one. The hoagie is, in essence, a very big sandwich. They were on offer for $5. We bought one, and it fed all 3 of us. If you've ever seen Tom and Phil eat, you'll understand how big it needed to be. Anyway both to save money and to americanise the event, Wine and Cheese day had become Wine and Hoagie day.

The wine part of the equation was also a little more expensive than we had hoped, by virtue of the fact that the wine tasting was not actually free. On the other hand it was really good, and also very interesting to have each bottle thoroughly explained to you, even if some of the language was a little flowery to say the least. The final vineyard we went to was the Castello de Amorosa (The castle of love) and it was pretty spectacular. The Italian owners had gone to great lengths to reconstruct it using traditional materials and building practices and it was, in every respect, a castle. Surrounded by a vineyard. Which is a welcome addition. Again our wine tasting wasn't free but the old Italian padrone serving us seemed happy to keep filling glasses, despite the fact that we had only paid to taste 5 different wines. And with cheeks already glowing from the previous samplings, we were happy to indulge his forgetfulness. Free wine is not to be sniffed at, even if we are clearly taking advantage of an old man's lack of faculties. The only problem was the old man was a little wilier than we had thought, and he was also on commission for every bottle he sold. $200 and 6 bottles later, we stumbled out of the castle with one collective thought. Well played sir.

We rose from our heavy slumber the next day and headed north to Oregon, the penultimate state before Canada. Since leaving Napa Valley and returning to the coast, the weather had turned decidedly misty. And it never looked back. The coastline became increasingly rocky and rugged, or Cornish according to Phil "Brody" Bazlinton, and we started to wonder whether England's reputation as a rainy island could possibly be justified by anyone living north of San Francisco.

The nights camping since Napa were curious to say the least. At one RV park we were greeted by Jimmy, aka James Randolph the III. The "What can I do you for" quickly followed by a suspicious "Hang on now, where are you guys from?" and then a resolute "Engerland, hell." followed by a slamming door. Tom and I looked at each other, is this lunatic coming back? Do we want him to? Do you think he has a gun? Yes, he did have a gun. Probably many guns. Luckily the door-slamming was just a bit of thigh-slappingly good humour, and he welcomed us in to his office which was little more than a quadrupeds graveyard. It was here that we learnt his full name, which was on the taxidermist certificate on the wall, displayed prominently between the heads of all the animals he had taxidermied, having previously shot them, with one of his many guns. "It's a shame you turned up when you did" he said, then turning to his wife / sister "we was just about to get nekkid". We laughed uncomfortably and eyed the wall for any sign of human remains. To be fair they were perfectly good hosts, and that neither of us ended up hanging from the office wall was definitely a bonus. The next morning Jimmy the III did notice Tom and I reading while we waited for Phil to return from the shower. "Well now look here, educated folk, reading and everything". I think there is a lesson here for every parent. If you don't give you're children books to read, they will go out and shoot things. And then stuff them.

After a second nights RV park camping on a plot of land that made the average inner city Londoner's backyard look like Wembley, we had an excellent stroke of luck on our third night since Napa. Tom had spied what he thought was a nice looking diner in the familiarly sounding Dundee and while investigating we met Wolfgang, who had been picking up the restaurant's food waste for his pigs. Wolfgang kindly offered to let us camp on his farm and also also informed us that the restaurant, Tina's, was locally owned and one of the best in Oregon. And we were not disappointed. Wild boar ribs all round coupled with Oregon's other speciality, micro-brewery beer.

Wolfgang and his American wife Susan had spent the last few years rebuilding and extending her parents former home, on a lovely plot of sloping land with a wonderful view of the valley below and adjacent vineyard. They shared the spot with a sheep, their chickens, several pigs, up to 3 cats, probably the most energetic dog in the canine kingdom, three young girls and a recently sheared llama, mostly hiding from embarrassed nakedness. Wolfgang offered us a choice between camping or utilising their spare guest house. Please press the red button on your remote to vote. {Short musical interlude while the votes are counted} Envelope torn open. And the winner is...... "The guest house please".

I'm going to have to retell one of Susan's stories about the girls because it really did make us laugh. We'd already been impressed about how the girls had reacted to their new rural way of life, accepting that the little piggies would grow up to be sausages and bacon and even collecting hen eggs and marketing and selling them to their neighbours (presumably while parents counted the profits and made retirements plans). However in addition to the many live farm animals, there was also a fairly gruesome, mummified cat, sitting to attention on a wall outside the house. Apparently it had been there before they moved in (although they claimed they had never heard of Jimmy the III). For the unsqueamish girls this was just another part of their new farm life but one of their more delicate female friends was terrified. Luckily Susan was able to coax the precious girl back to the house by showing her the cute little piggies in the backyard. The plan unfortunately backfired when the girl turned up one day to discover that all the piggies had been sent off to the big chopping house in the sky. When her mother finally arrived to whisk her away she burst into floods of tears and begged not to be returned to "the house of horrors". At which point the middle of the three sisters piped in, "Well if you don't like that you really wouldn't like what we have hanging in our basement" Mwah hah hah haah!

The major city in Oregon is Portland, the city of roses. We had a few fairly restful nights there and then headed up to Seattle in Washington state, where we deposited Tom for the weekend so he could catch up with a friend and yet another uncle. Phil and I headed east to the predictably named east Washington, which was a good kilometer higher than the coast and subsequently sunny again. And it was just in the nick of time really as ever since leaving Napa we had been threatened with an acute onset of hyperchondriacal hypothermia. The reason for our jaunt eastwards was to go "tubing", pronounced toobing, that an American friend of mine had kindly invited us to. Tubing is America's leisure time equivalent to the lunchtime hoagie, ie a frighteningly simple concept done spectacularly well. Take a large number of family and friends, a multitude of inflatable rafts, the "tubes", that range from single seater's to the 12 seater rings you see in public pools, strap them all together to form one giant flotilla, load up with beer, food, water pistols, wine, alcopops for the ladies and some more beer, add a generous helping of fast flowing river and away you go. It's sunbathing, rafting, session drinking, picnicking, pub crawling, friendly family fun. There are hundreds of people on the river, from students in inflated truck tire inner tubes to giant flotillas like ours. It's unashamedly awesome, and depending on where you pre-parked your cars at the other end, can last between 2 and eight hours. Phil and I had so much fun on the river that we decided to follow my friend back to his house on the lake near Olympia, a little south of Seattle, picking Tom up enroute, to continue our induction to American watersports. If you like river tubing, then lying flat on a single tube and being dragged round the lake by power boat will be as much fun as it sounds. My single biggest memory was the massive grins of Tom and Phil's (and I'm sure to them my) faces as we struggled not to be sent skipping across the warm lake water. Thanks again Andrew and Tiffany for your wonderful hospitality.

That then, was the final highlight of America before crossing into the last country on our list, although of course we are planning to cross back into America, then back into Canada, then America, then Canada, then America again. Maybe we should take another look at that map.

They're Petrified And They're Ancient

2010-07-20T19:05:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this in a coffee house at the top of the campus of the prestigious University of California at Berkley, surrounded by other individuals all beavering away furiously on their laptops. Man do I feel studenty! I also am trying to suppress mixed urges to yell out at the top of my voice about sociopolitical issues that irk me, exercising my rights to freedom of speech (do those rights apply to me as I am, technically, an 'alien' - cool!) while at the same time wanting to slap every hippy-esque student 'right-on' type for displays of outrageous hypocrisy. We passed a street vendor selling car bumper stickers. Among the obvious ones promoting sentiments like 'Give Peace A Chance' and 'No Blood For Oil' were some other more worrying ones, like 'Fu*k Israel'. Now I don't want to stir up a political storm here, but surely that is blatant racism? It is almost akin to spouting off that "there are two things in life you hate, racism and Jews" I thought these hippies/lefties etc were all about equality, free love, fair trade and such like? Ummm, interesting discussion point... Well, ideologies aside and back to the next installment of our little road trip.

With temperatures soaring it was deemed necessary to make a break for cooler climes. Not least because coupled with our own inability to regulate body temperature, Barry was experiencing difficulties chilling out too, resulting in her throwing the occasional hiss-y fit (every glorious and unashamedly cringe-worthy pun intended) and spitting close-to-boiling coolant onto the road. In an effort to chill everyone out some altitude was sought which came in the form of a visit to the Grand Canyon National Park. A small detour en route meant we took in the slightly mythical and mysterious Petrified Forest. Forest is stretching the imagination somewhat; desert would be a tad more appropriate. And were we as scared of this 'forest' (more superb punnage!)? Certainly not! Well, apart from Tim keeping his ever-vigilant eye out for rattle snakes, which Phil and I continued to remind him were all over the place. And out to get him. Disdain over location descriptions aside, the petrified wood we encountered was oddly intriguing. These ancient, fallen tree trunks had indeed been transformed into stone. As ever, there is a logical explanation as to why. Go google it. Brownie points were lost slightly when, on our way back to the car, we spotted a sign pointing out petrified sand dunes. Really. Come on, isn't that simply average, common or garden sandstone? Well, perhaps there are those out there who were absent from school the day the geography teacher enlightened their charges on different types of rock. Or am I just being cynical?

This side-show over, we pressed on and arrived at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Wow. Simple as that. A bit like Argentinean steak, one should believe the hype when it comes to praise being proffered over this simply jaw-dropping spectacle. A big hole in the ground it may be, but some hole! Perched on the edge of the world it seemed, as we gazed over a mile down into the gorge cut by the Colorado river over the past few millennia. Granted, the world and his wife were there to gawp too, but there was enough of a vista spread out before us that the hordes of chattering RV vacationers melted into the background.

Not wanting to be caught up in a snap-happy tourist stampede we rose at some undogly hour in the morning to be one of the first to venture down a trail and into the canyon itself. Therefore following a sneaky spot of camping, coupled with an illicit bbq (the hyper-safety-concious park rangers deeming it too great a fire risk to allow city slickers to play with fire; us on the other hand deemed ourselves all but one step away from a Ray Meers level of ability to hack it in the wilderness and responsibly cook our catch al fresco), we joined a small handful of like-minded hikers and stomped off at 4.30 am down the trail. Not only was the temperature on our side, but the lack of the Jones' Big Family Grand Canyon Reunion 2010 (yes, we did spot a horde of such individuals, all sporting matching t-shirts emblazoned with the aforementioned slogan; we are in the States after all) and other such types meant that the sunrise we experienced alone, 3 miles in, was breathtaking. For me this vast abyss now holds pride of place at the top of my top-most-amazing-things-I've-seen-on-this-trip-so-far list. The only downside of walking an effective upside-down mountain was the 3-mile hike back up the way we'd come. By this time, the sun had not only got his hat on, but had well and truly come out to play. Phil decided to turn this return leg into an impromptu 'phis' session and stomped his way up as fast as his spindly legs could carry him. Tim also tried to stomp up as fast as his not-so-spindly legs could carry him, but it was the ginger wizard who hit the top of the rim first, looking, annoyingly, too fresh-faced for my liking. Tim redressed the fresh-faceness balance when he appeared. Although, to be honest, I was just glad to have got to the top myself. It didn't stop any of us, however from suppressing chuckles as we watched plenty more fat happy campers step off, knowing what would lie ahead. Snigger.

Realising we still had a full day in hand, the decision was made to push on north to Moab. We zipped through Monument Valley, gawping at the huge stacks of rock standing like giant needles rammed into the ground and trying to fathom just how they could possibly have been created. Tim corrected my mistake when I confidently pointed out the stack I was sure was the one that my namesake, all-round-good-guy and scientology-eschewing weirdo, Mr Cruise majestically free-climbed in the opening sequence of Mission Impossible. (It was actually shot at Dead Horse Point, for all you geeky film buffs out there.)

Now, I can understand why many of you dear readers out there would be wondering why on earth go to a place in Utah. That's Mormon-country, that is! But fear not, we are not now abound with multiple wives and spouting quite frankly ludicrous claims of the Risen Christ holidaying in America. Happily I can inform you that not only is the little town of Moab the gateway to the Arches National Park (more on that in a bit), it's also a bit of a Mecca for those who count hurtling up and down the sides of mountains on two wheels one of their primary pastimes. I am one such fellow, and a roadtrip to the States would not be complete without visiting the place us mountain-bikers in the UK talk about with wistful longing. While Phil decided that his man-suit needed a wash, the ever plucky Tim gamely joined me on what proved to be the most epic, adrenaline-fueled and bone-jarringly awesome rides I've ever done. Thirty five miles of mostly downhill, on bikes worth more that your average car that we'd rented from one of the many shops in town, left us exhausted, bruised, bloody but grinning from ear to ear. Moab, I salute you (in an gnarly, radicle, x-treme kinda way). (Which is more meaningful, I think.)

The Arches NP was as confusing and as spectacular as Monument Valley. Phil got all snap-happy and we scuttled around the place gazing in wonder at these natural stone bridges, giant rock fins and massive boulders balanced precariously upon the weakest looking plinths. Truly a geological marvel.

And then on to another of the States' marvels: Las Vegas, Nevada. When I say marvel, I do mean in a complete polar opposite to that of this country's national parks. A marvel Las Vegas certainly is. Marvelous it certainly is not. WIth Tim a Sin City veteran and Phil and I kinda ambivalent to spending any great length of time there, we decided to hit the Strip for One Night Only. We had driven through the night from Moab to get to the city that really never sleeps by the early morning. We checked ourselves into the Stratosphere hotel (the big, tall spacey looking one) and went for a stroll, trying to find a sports bar that would be showing the World Cup final. Blondies Bar proved suitable, and with a $20 cover charge affording us unlimited beer, we settled down for the big match. Happily the bar was also crammed with Dutch and Spanish supporters and everyone had a jolly raucous time. Which is where the raucousness ended as we miraculously transformed into lethargic old farts upon returning to our hotel room to freshen up, ready for this much-hyped big night out. We watched movies instead. Ahem. We are usually more rock'n'roll than that. We were just tired, y'know? A long night drive, and all that, right?? Who am I kidding. We wussed out in spectacular fashion. However, we were not that miffed. After exploring the Strip during the day, I think I can say with a degree of authority that Vegas is a decidedly odd and very tacky place, geared exclusively to relieve you of money at every opportunity and in every way possible. Casinos, bars, water, food, breathing; this all costs a lot if money. Now, I'm sure if you went with a big group of mates, with a wad of well-earned cash you had put aside and were happy to blow on a big weekend, and all dressed in dapper attire, then Vegas could be super fun. To three cash-strapped and slightly scruffy travelers, more akin to the great outdoors, the allure of this one-of-a-kind city simply didn't click. Definitely pleased to say I went but in no hurry to go back. Maybe some other time with a crowd, but not for now. Well, unless someone wants to change my mind. Which, being a sucker for a guided night out and happy to rescind all previous comments, I will gladly accept. Departing Vegas we nipped over to visit the Hoover Dam. Must say I was slightly disappointed to find it not constructed from leading-brand vacuum cleaners. A couple more hours on the road, and feeling peckish, we stopped off for a bite to eat in the town of Parhump. Yes it does rhyme with dump. And for a very good reason. There were more billboards advertising legal brothels (only in Nevada!) than could conceivably be contained on one place. One even promoted itself as an art museum too. Well I never!

Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Seems an appropriate enough phrase to describe our next little sojourn into one of the hottest places on the planet: The infamous (and reassuringly named) Death Valley. Duh duh derrrrr!!!! One again I can hear you all wondering why, given our aversion to all things scorchio, are we venturing into a place that Beelzebub would probably consider as a real-world summer retreat? Honestly, I don't know. In order to combat our clearly poor route planning, we again decided that the coolness of night would be our only chance to make it out the other side alive. This turned into us entering onto the valley floor by car (the real reason we were going was because the road from Vegas to the Yosemite transited through Death Valley) in the wee hours, 'camping' by the side of the road (Phil in the car, Tim and I on a park bench each and me in only my underpants it was that frickin hot) for a few restless hours before setting off at dawn. To be honest, the temperature was just about bearable, but one would be forgiven for thinking it was the middle of the day on a windswept desert outcrop. In the middle of summer. As the sun crept up, we found ourselves at the lowest point on the American continent, Badwater (a salt flat), some 235 feet below sea level. Cool! Well, not, but you get what I mean. We were not, however, alone. As part of our compulsory background information lessons to the area, Phil had informed us of this ludicrous-sounding ultra-marathon, starting at Badwater and going for 100 miles up out of the valley. The runners, at the hottest point of the day, have to run on the white road markings to stop their trainers melting on the black asphalt. Nuts. Well, turns out that we'd hit Death Valley bang on time, as we were soon passing these crazy individuals (and their support cars). The Badwater Ultra was in full swing! Seriously, you have to be slightly unhinged to want to do ultra marathons anyway, let alone ones set here. You could see Phil getting ideas in his head...

Safely out of the Valley of Death, altitude and latitude began increasing, resulting in temperature and testiness decreasing. Joy! Next and final stop on our detour off the Pan-Am was Yosemite National Park. Perched high up in the Rocky Mountains, this massive area of protected land really is something to behold. If you ever wondered where they did those Timote shampoo adverts, you know the ones, with the girl dipping her hair into some picturesque alpine mountain stream then flicking it back dreamily, while a fawn dear grazes nearby and a colourful butterfly flutters past, then this is the location for that shoot. The park rangers obviously do a fine job in managing the mass of visitors this place gets, as it almost looked too good to be true. But that is the amazing thing; this is exactly as it is supposed to look, as it always has done, way before humans deemed the outside to be reduced to a welcome distraction from built up suburbia. Managing to secure one of the last pitches on a campsite on the eastern edge of the park, an area known as Tolume Meadows, we got a well-earned night's sleep before striking camp and hiking a 7-mile round trip up to Cathedral Lake. This should actually be renamed Mosquito The Size Of Water Melon Heaven, for no sooner had we dipped our toes in the crystal blue mountain waters, our tranquility was shattered as these huge mozzies registered our presence and zeroed in. Tim actually struggled to do his laces back up as he was attacked from all angles by these flying parasites. No amount of DEET could suppress the sheer numbers, so giving it big legs, and with flailing arms like a bunch of hysterical schoolgirls, we dashed away from the lake shore and back into the relative safety of the forest. We regained our composure before we encountered the next pair of hikers coming up. Exchanging a brief hello as we passed each other, we nonchalantly warned them that 'there may be the odd mozzie up there, just to let you know'. Always ready to do a good deed to a fellow walker, us. We were soon back at the car and proceeded to drive the 50 or so miles across the park and back out the other side, stopping every now and again to gawp at the simply stunning scenery. Yosemite is now definitely well in my Top 5.

We soon found ourselves back by the familiar ocean as we rejoined the Pan-Am, or more accurately Pacific Coast Highway 1. This stretch of road that runs right up through California is a road-tripper's dream. A stop-over in the Cambria Palms Motel in the village of Cambria (funnily enough) was enhanced by the incredibly enthusiastic proprietor, Troy, who kept saying things like, "man, you guys are doing a sweet trip,' or 'man, I love your car,' which was all rather nice as we felt like minor celebrities, especial as we overheard him proudly talking about us and the car to other guests at the motel! Back on PCH1, we stopped by a certain Mr William Randolph Hearst's former coastal retreat, appropriately named Hearst Castle. A medieval castle it isn't; a magnificent example of European architectural fusion it is, housing priceless antiques; a real tasteful testimony to New World opulence. We toured the buildings, trying to conjure up images of what it must have been like to be one of Mr Hearst's esteemed guests. We also came away feeling rather poor. The road continued north past Big Sur, Carmel and Monterey, before we wound up at the self-proclaimed surfing capital of the world (presumably not counting Hawaii), Santa Cruz. Not really much to say about this place, especially as there was no surf to speak of what so ever. Ah well, never mind, we had a party invitation in San Jose anyway. A former (American) flatmate of Tim was visiting her younger brother who was celebrating his birthday. We checked into a very cheap and dingy motel nearby and partied with Jenny, her Yorkshireman boyfriend Brett (at last, another British accent!), Jenny's brothers Tristan and Gareth and Gareth's flatmate Eric. Muchos tequila was drunk. 'Nuff said. Eric happened to manage one of downtown San Jose's best pizza restraunts and gave us a free lunch the following day. Good work, fella! And so it was with fuzzy heads we left San Jose for San Francisco.

The City is a very cool place. Metaphorically and literally. As we arrived at the hostel at Fort Mason it was as if someone had decided we were missing England too much so turned off the hot and brought in a fresh supply of foggy coldness. Now I know we'd been stifling hot before, but this was ridiculous! At least it is far easier to get warmer than get cooler. Jeans, jumpers and hats were soon donned as we tramped up and down the City's streets. Tim was not on his best behavior, so was packed off to Alcatraz (Phil and I having done time on the Rock on a previous visit two years ago) and came back ashtounded that the Rock had become a tourisht atracshon (yeah, thanks Connery). Time was also spent hanging out with one of my friends and SF resident, Cameron; she was lovely and even cooked us supper one night. Setting off her apartment block fire alarm in the process then suffering the mortal embarrassment of explaining to the two fire-trucks that raced over, sirens wailing, that it was a pork loin that had got a tad smokey. The other residents huddled outside on the sidewalk weren't that impressed either. How we laughed! Time was also spent checking out places like SoMa, Haight Ashbury, Union Square and the iconic Golden Gate bridge. We also paid a visit to the Buena Vista Cafe, birthplace of the Irish coffee - one of those 11 am kick-starts that other beverages simply can't match. Not sure Tim was too convinced, though...

We have pencilled in a 'wine and cheese' day for tomorrow; we're off to Napa Valley and home to California's vineyards. I'm off to get some joss sticks. Till next time, peace and love, man.

All The Way From America

2010-07-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

Land of the free. Home of the Brave. ...... and England's equals on a football pitch. Because Robert Green couldn't catch a cold.

The mystery and myth surrounding the south and central america countries and the complete contrast with Western culture was always going to be a spectacular part of the trip, but the lure of the most powerful nation on earth grew ever stronger as we approached it. The film and music industries have referenced so much of this huge country that every name and location is wrought with familiarity, and the thought of actually being there fills you with a childish excitement. Especially if like us you are particularly childish and excitable anyway. And like the child who's visit to Disneyland rests on one good school report / week's behaviour / cessation of fraternal hostilities, we had but one hurdle to cross. Unfortunately that hurdle happened to be the same one that the US rightwing media would have you believe the entire Mexican population is also trying to cross, namely the US-Mexico border. Although we were all armed with our physical attributes of non-Mexican height and skin colour, coupled with our ability to speak English without sounding like Speedy Gonzales, the anally retentive reputation of the US Customs officials did give us cause for concern. The fact that I had flown from the cocaine capital of La Paz in Bolivia to New York for a weekend, and then proceeded back to the US via the historic Cali and Medellin cartel lands of Colombia and finally the smuggling hot spot of Baja California, Mexico, made me feel like a prime candidate for some explorative rubber glove treatment [You'd have happily volunteered anyway Tim - Ed].

We'd been instructed that the major border crossing of Tijuana on Mexico's western coast would be an absolute nightmare due to the volume of traffic. This coincided nicely with the testimonies from various friends that if we stepped into Tijuana we would be shot. Do not go there, as my Aunt relayed to us from her friend, "por ningún razón." (For any reason whatsoever!). Unfortunately consulting the Foreign Office website gave us little more encouragement, as every single border town had arisen specifically to assassinate British tourists, but happily Phil researched the nearby crossing point at Tecate, where apparently a small percentage of Westerners had actually made it through.

As we queued in our cars with hundreds of other hopefuls in the blistering sunshine, we decided to give Her Majesty's Passports a little vocal support by belting some Springsteen out of the radio. Although we weren't actually Born in the USA, we felt he could help us Across the Border (Okay admittedly I did Google that one; Born to Run didn't fit. Worryingly he also sang Wreck on the Highway and You're Missing. Steady there Bruce. We're all friends here.) Anyway little did we know that the Boss' influence really did hold sway as we had no problems crossing into the US and even less leaving Mexico. In fact in our haste to cross into the States we had somehow missed Mexico's half of the border. This was a problem for two reasons. Firstly Phil had left his credit card details with Mexican customs as insurance that Barry would leave the country (and therefor not be subject to import taxes) and secondly Tom and I were eager for another stamp in our passports. The chief objective was quickly overcome, at the advice of a US border official no less, by simply walking back into Mexico through a curiously unmanned gate and up to immigration, but disappointingly we could find no-one to register Barry's exit with. After twenty minutes meandering, which included Phil's illegal pedestrian border crossing back into the US to retrieve the car documents, we gave up. It would have been pretty easy for the 3 of us to simply walk back through the gate again but a vague sense of responsibility led us back to the official pedestrian border crossing 100 meters away. The official who had advised us to walk back into Mexico had told us that he'd make sure we had no problems crossing back in. That now appeared to be conditional on us making it back before he and the entire customs desk changed shift, and of course we didn't. Luckily what Her Majesty requests and requires, Her Majesty doth get, and again our passports and obvious Britishness (I'm frightfully sorry but one of your chaps said we could just pop back through, what what) overcame the confusion. Admittedly Phil has had to cancel his credit card, and hopefully will be at the center of some international extradition crisis, but we had finally crossed into country number 14 and were cruising Californ-I-A.

One of the things we had to look forward to in America are the number of friends and family we could drop in on, and consequently spunge off, all the way up to Alaska. First stop was Tom's Aunt and Uncle in Orange County. Home of the Real OC, Clueless and a plethora of spoilt pseudo-Valley Girls. Awesome. Tom's family, Murray, Catherine and daughter Olivia, were actually in a beautiful part of Orange County called Mission Viejo and immediately cooked us up a storm on the first night with a steak barbecue, champagne, wine and homemade chocolate cake. Not a good move, it took them a week to get rid of us. While we toured round OC, shopped at the mall, chilled on the beach, watched the daily world cup football and generally enjoyed all the creature comforts we'd been denied for so long. Barry checked herself into a health spa and slowly regenerated into the mighty force of nature she had been before Tom and Phil broke her. We'd all like to say a very big thank you to the Page family, it truly was the most welcoming way we could have begun our tour of the States.

Tom had yet more family members dotted around California, and having spent 5 months trapped in a car with him I can certainly understand their desire for separation, but again Tom's Aunt Jane made for a great host in the famous and flawless Manhattan Beach. That weekend I hopped on a 6 hour (small fry) coach to Las Vegas to catch up with a Uni friend / make my millions while Tom and Phil caught up with family in Los Angeles. This included Phil's cousins Jonathan and Mary-Jo who were exhibiting their ingenious PieceHomes at the massive Dwell on Design Exhibition at the LA Conference Center and his other cousins, Roo and Lisa. Unfortunately Roo was away in South Africa, editing the forthcoming Blue Crush 2 movie no less, but his young'uns Zoe and Charlie were keeping things ticking over at home.

Vegas, meanwhile, really is a weird and wonderful place but it also has that sordid juxtaposition of wealth and wasteland that puts you a little on edge. It's a sort of Disneyland meets Amsterdam's Red Light District. Stop sniggering at the back. Obviously I'd be hugely more flattering if I'd won anything, or at least stopped when I was winning, but there's a reason they bring you free drinks while you gamble. Anyway, potential maternal recriminations notwithstanding I think I'll leave the Vegas stories at that. The only other bit of excitement on my little interlude was the 3 hour delayed return journey that resulted in an after dark arrival in Downtown Los Angeles. Not a good place to be. After ransacking my bag for clothes that offered no colour affiliations to the notorious Blood, Crip or Republican gangs I dropped my eyes to the ground and quick marched to the nearest skyscraper. Considering I was dressed in traditional, post-Vegas, Hobo attire, I had figured that I would attract little criminal attention once among LA's financial elite.

Although our raison d'etre for this trip is the Pan-American Highway which hugs America's western coastline, the States has so much to offer that we decided we should have a little trip inland. And having loosely decided on where we were going, we then decided to incorporate virtually every bit of scenery within an unreasonable driving distance of said route, and eventually settled on a fairly large loop around Arizona, Nevada, Utah, Nevada, Arizona, Nevada and back into California. Maybe not a traditional loop then, but certainly loopy. Before setting off though we had one more box office to tick, the movie Mecca of Hollywood. Another member of Tom's not so extended family (Feel free to delete that one Tom!) is a comedian who performs at the Laugh Factory on Hollywood Boulevard. Which I think we all agree is pretty seriously cool. We had already caught one of Jim's gigs on our way through Southern LA but he was a real gent and took time out on our last night in LA to give us a quick tour of the Hollywood sites. We all readily associate with the mighty Hollywood sign and glitzy Walk of Fame but Hollywood's real charm is it's rich celebratory history. From Charlie Chaplin's former lodgings to Al Capone's safe under the floorboards of the Formorsa Cafe, every street and building has a story and the wonderful accessibility to such national treasures is enough to set your heart racing.

[Britney Spear's Star]

Our next friendly port of call would be at my Aunt's house in Tucson Arizona, right back down on the border with Mexico and more concerningly, right back into desert terrain. We broke up the journey with a overnight camping stop in Joshua Tree, the first of many truly spectacular American national parks. The landscape is flat, dusty and decidedly desert-like, but these beautiful trees (actually they're closer to cacti than trees) stand as silhouetted sentinels. Probably the most famous Joshua Tree adorns the cover of the U2 album of that name and it's easy to understand why they used it.

We had an early start the next morning, which was lucky as the early start was thrust upon us by a desert sun that shows little respect for nylon tents bereft of air conditioning. As Barry was back in flying four-by-four form we took a two hour detour over some spectacularly rocky terrain which would have been a struggle to navigate on foot, but Barry gamely powered through to let us all know she was back in the game. We then had a 6 hour drive along interstates (motorways) to Tucson that was to coincide with the hottest part of the day. We had been warned about the heat, and we had halfheartedly planned to drive in the cooler hours of the day, but it's difficult to take that kind of thing truly seriously when every windows-down, British summer drive you have ever taken has been absolute bliss. The difference, however, that accompanies an outside air temperature that is hotter than the human body, is remarkable. And all of those remarks slot neatly into the central theme of, Oh my God it's so hot I think I'm going to die. We don't have AC, and opening the windows felt like hugging a giant hairdryer set to max power. Which meant we were trapped between driving a greenhouse or the aforementioned hairdryer treatment. Obviously the other option would be to stop the car and hop out but I'm pretty sure that disintegration type thing that Vampires succumb to under sunlight would have been on the cards. It was at some point along this drive that I noticed a new physical feature in myself. Namely after sustained exposure to oppressive heat and blasting hot air the inside of my eyelids seem to sweat, and the subsequent stinging blindness is not conducive to interstate driving.

Finally though we hissed into Tucson and were rewarded with a lovely couple of nights at a blessedly air-conditioned hotel and two excellent meals with my Aunt's husband David (My Aunt had unfortunately by then made her annual escape to a cooler and nephew free climate!) Tucson is the second largest city in Arizona and seemed like a cool place to hang out, but with a pool, air-conditioned room, gym and most importantly world cup football to keep us entertained we only made one daytime foray, down to the Titan museum which houses the only viewable Inter Continental Ballistic Missile silo in the States. And yes, it is every little boys dream. Shy of a bespectacled, grey suited man stroking a chubby white cat, the ICBM silo was the perfect setting for a Bond movie. ICBM's are one of the three methods of launching nuclear missiles, hence Nuclear Triad, the two others being from submarines and stealth bombers, effectively land, sea and air. Titan is simply the name for this family of missiles and they were used both as part of America's nuclear deterrent and also as part of their space programme. The missile is housed underground, with a retractable metal covering that opens up to allow it to fire. It's underground so obviously those pesky Russians can't blow it up and nuke America without fear of reprisal. Actually this is all about thirty years ago as technology has moved on, and all the Titans have been decomissioned and deconstructed apart from the one in Tucson. The retractable covering is set half open and concreted into place, to prevent the missile from being readily recomissioned and launched, otherwise it would count towards the number of Nuclear missiles the USA is currently allowed to point at undisclosed locations that may or may not be downtown Moscow.

After visiting the second biggest city in Arizona, only the numero uno of Phoenix itself would be a worthy destination to follow up with. Phoenix is the most populated state capital in all of America, a question that my housemates and I once correctly answered in a pub quiz. The fact that one of those housemates, Rob, is actually from Phoenix meant that feat was marginally less impressive, but it did at least mean we had Rob's family to call in on once we had arrived. Again the transatlantic hospitality was hugely appreciated as Joel, Pam and son Mark welcomed us into their home. Even the ever so slightly grouchy German Shephard Bergen warmed up to us, although admittedly the dog biscuits helped. Our second night coincided with the 4th of July and the most spectacular fireworks display imaginable. Americans have an infectious enthusiasm and the celebrations of national pride was a riot. Admittedly we were teetering on the edge of dressing up in colonial red coats and powdered wigs and brazenly marching down the street, but who wants to lose the same battle twice? On our final day we got our own American on with a quick jaunt around the Native American museum and a baseball game which was excellent. Yes it was strange to see multi-millionaire sports athletes with physiques more akin to darts players, but it would be wrong to openly mock them. That's just not cricket.

Mexican Maneuvers

2010-06-24T18:08:00.001-07:00

Once reunited with Barry (see earlier post for details on shipping fiasco) we headed south west, from Veracruz, across the country to Acapulco on the Pacific Coast. Mexico had been described to us as "like Colombia 20 years ago". This is not an accolade; Colombia was not a nice place 20 years ago. Fortunately the very worst places were not on our route. However, we did get varying opinions on the level of peril we were setting ourselves up for by driving north along the coast road.

Our first stop after Acapulco was a campsite north of Ixtapa, conveniently located next to a 'nice break' (that's surf-break; see Point Break the movie for a comprehensive education on all things surfing, and bank-robbery); we got stoked and totally ripped some sick walls, I think.

Our next attempt to find a campsite was less successful. We got stuck. We're good at getting stuck, really good. Driving down a track along a dried riverbed trying to find a spot to set up camp we hit some soft sand. Unbeknownst to us our 4WD was broken so Barry stopped. Fortunately we had trees this time so we spent a couple of hours winching ourselves out of our predicament.

We continued along the beautiful Pacific Coast and, after camping on a beachside restaurant's lawn followed by a fair amount of searching the following day, managed to find a surf break known as Punta Burros. It was down a long twisty dirt track, the entrance to which is all but invisible from the road. In fact a lot of those surfing there had got there by boat from a nearby town. Our efforts were more than rewarded by perfect little waves served in a fresh ocean of warm water. The secluded beach also provided an ideal camping spot.

We were then Baja bound so caught a ferry from Mazatlan to La Paz. Dutifully arriving at the port at 4 in the afternoon we then sat around until midnight before being loaded. "It's always difficult" we were reassured. The very calm seas must have also made things difficult because the 12 hour crossing took 18.

Once in Baja California we were blest with more of the beautiful Mexican weather, a little cooler but just as sunny; very difficult of course! After watching the England vs USA World Cup match in the tourist hole of Cabo San Lucas we camped our way up the Baja Peninsula sampling some of the surfing along the way. This time a combination of Google Earth and our GPS made finding our way to the breaks a lot easier. The coast is littered with luxurious holiday and retirement homes in enviable locations in sight of the Ocean. A kind American chap by the name of Drew let us stay at one he was watching over for his business partner. An equally kind old Mexican guy let us camp the following night in the grounds of the offices of a marina-type place. He turned not-so-nice the following morning when his boss found out he'd let us stay for free and put on a comic finger-wagging, foot-stomping-performance presumably for the latter's benefit.

Whilst getting supplies in Loreto we bumped into a Brit/German couple (Bret and Sylvie) who were working on a house in the remote (15 miles down a rocky dirt track) coastal community of San Sebastian. They invited us to camp outside the house and so we got a unique glimpse of an ex-pat community hidden away from the the rest of the world. Fortunately we'd tracked our way in with the GPS (the modern equivalent of a Hansel and Grettel scenario) as people have been know to spend literally hours finding their way back to the road.

Once back on said road, after a hearty breakfast and a bit of DIY repair work to our disintegrating exhaust pipe, we continued to blast our way north through desert, mountains and cactus fields.

Mexico is a huge country; have a look at a globe (rather than a distorted map) to see what I mean. With that vastness comes incredible variety of landscape and climate. It has jungles, forests, deserts, mountains, coasts. The Copper Canyon is bigger than the US's Grand Canyon but few have heard of it. We only got to see a small fraction of Mexico but what we did see was stunning. Unfortunately Mexico is blighted by corruption and plagued by drug trafficking and drug wars (current 2010 drug related murder total in Ciudad Juarez: 1,400). There is a quote from the late Mexican dictator Porfirio Diaz: Poor Mexico, So far from God, So Close To The United States. Wherever one lays the blame (many blame not just the US narcotics market but also its 'War on Drugs' for much of the troubles - a saying about omelettes and eggs comes to mind) this has probably never seemed more true. Hopefully things will change because, despite its frustrations (as always its the people who mess things up), Mexico is an amazing country and in many ways sad to say goodbye to.

Central America From The Ground

2010-06-12T15:06:00.001-07:00

Now reunited with computers we can bring you some images from the last month or so of our trip. With the car sadly stuffed in a container at the port, we left hot and sweaty Cartagena and flew to hotter and sweatier Panama City.

We rattled through most of Central America in the frosty air conditioned confines of a bus. We only had a limited time in Central America so we chose to spend the majority of that time exploring one country. That country was to be Guatemala so we cruised on through Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras and El Salvador fairly rapidly.

On arrival in Guatemala we headed straight to the rather charming town of Antigua. Set at a moderate altitude it had a very pleasant climate. Whilst reasonably touristy it certainly wasn't spoilt by the fact. It also had the added bonus of a free meal in one of the smartest restaurants in town (thanks to Tom and Tim chatting up the guy who owned the place).

From Antigua we went north to the pretty town of Flores, the old town of which sits on a spit of land reaching into a large lake.

We spent an afternoon there wandering round, taking a boat ride, swimming in the lake and sweating profusely whilst sitting still.

The following day we arose at 4am and got in a minibus bound for the Mayan ruins of Tikal. We'd heard great things about Tikal but having done Machu Picchu were suspicious that old-hands like us would be so easily impressed. We were wrong. Tikal was quite incredible. Nestled in, and rising from, the jungle, these giant ruins were clearly someone's attempt to show off.

Star Wars fans can be forgiven for confusing the site with the jungle moon of Yavin 4.

Being set in the jungle we encountered all sorts of plants and animals including howler monkeys, frogs, racoon type things and rather friendly tarantulas.

From Tikal we headed south again to Rio Dulce. It was just how you'd imagine a tropical river to be. Very green and lush with trees growing out of the river's edges and sweltering heat and humidity. We stayed at a place built on stilts tucked away up a small inlet and paddled around the rivers edges in dugout canoes.

We took a boat trip out to the Caribbean coast and the town of Livingston.

On returning to Antigua we visited a nearby volcano and attempted to cook sausages on a fresh lava flow.

Two days later the volcano blew it's top and brought the surrounding area to a standstill for a few days. Guatemala was then hit by a hurricane and a large building in Guatemala City was swallowed by a sink hole. By this time however we were across the border and into Mexico (country number 13). We stopped for a few days in the beautiful city of Oaxaca where we enjoyed a bit of culture, art and finally good coffee.

We took a trip to see the largest (in circumference) tree in the world - it's very big - a traditional rug making factory and Zapotec or Mixtec ruins - not sure which; our tour guide was nuts and I don't think it's wise to believe a word she said.

Having thoroughly exhausted what Oaxaca had to offer, time had come for us to head to the port town of Veracruz to attempt to reunite ourselves with our trusty traveller The Baroness.

Free Barry

2010-06-01T17:00:00.000-07:00

Stressful. Not entirely unexpected, but stressful none the less. The colonial town of Cartagena is, as our blonde (and ginger) bombshell described, both incredibly pretty and predictably infested by parasitic street hawkers. It is also so spectacularly humid that you are probably at your dryest when standing under the shower. These conditions are not particular conducive to handling the Colombian unitards responsible for stealing our money and wantingly withholding any and all information related to freight shipping. South America, for all it´s scenic beauty and overwhelming friendliness, can be characterised by the unimaginable stupidity and complacency of it´s customs agents and officials. However, fast forward to the land of Tequila and tacos if you want to experience Latin America in all it´s glorious ineptitude. As the World Cup is approaching, the football one for those of you who think it´s upper middle class to pretend to not know, like all self-respecting footie fans I´ve been scouring the net for snippets of information I can impressively regurgitate in the pub. And I couldn´t help noticing a long standing contradiction that the international community needs to address. Mexico has qualifed for the World Cup, which is perfectly fair. They are a decent side with a good footballing history and a passionate fan base. However they qualified as one of the "North American, Central American and Carribean" teams, and worse still they are classified as North American. This is untrue. Doubleuntrue. The geography is irrelevant, they are clearly South American. Like all of Central America and in all likelihood the majority of the States too. In fact I strongly suspect we will not actually cross into North America until we reach Canada. And maybe then not until the French part. Merde.

Anyway as you have probably summised we are now in the latter stages of negotiating Barry´s release from Mexican customs. We had been told by our Colombian customs agent we could pay the shipping agent (Seaboard Marine) when our car arrived in Veracruz, and that on arrival we would have 5 days to clear our car before we would start incurring fees for the non-returnance of the ships container. Unfortunately customs agents only operate in their own country, so we had to find a Mexican agent to custom clear our car. The agency we spoke with informed us that we had to pay a deposit, in addition to the shipping agents fee, for them to to release the Bill of Lading to us. The Bill of Lading lists the contents of the container, ie 1 * Barry, white. It also appears to represent to the customs officals what the sun represented to the Pre-Spanish civilisations, the beginning of life on earth. So, reluctantly we rocked up to the shipping agents on Monday with a proverbial shed load of Mexican mula, only to be told that they didn´t take cash but that we could deposit the money at a bank. A little frustrating but, like a good doctor, we knew we would need patience. Unfortunately their fee needed to be paid in dollars, paying them the peso equivalent would be "impossible". A term we´ve grown accustomed to. Now although the shipping agent is confidant in it´s ability to withhold the Bill of Lading and subsequently my favourite member of Team Pan-Americana, they are not responsible for helping us with the custom clearing. They did happily remind us though of our 5 day deadline to release the car, and then gleefully informed us that even though we had been told nothing could be done over the weekend, this counted against the 5 days. Oh and also that Monday, the third day, was a bank holiday in America so they wouldn´t accept our payment, which we currently couldn´t make anyway, until Tuesday. Super.

So we decided to meet with the customs agents we had spoken with to start petitioning for Barry´s release (or whatever it is they actually do) with the hopelessly optimistic view that they might be able to help with our payment issue as well. It is here we learnt of the holy reverence in which the Bill of Lading is held. Nothing can be done without it our agent passionately decried. Worse still Barry´s release would take at least 5 days and the process, predictably "very difficult", would cost rougly the GDP of China. Obviously in addition to this we would incur the daily costs for the non-returned container. Hmm. We returned to Seafraud Marine to have another crack at their payment, hoping they could come with us to a bank where we could make a cash deposit. Instead they helpfully phoned a money exchange house, explained to them what we needed to do, wrote the address down for us and gestured to the door. At this point I broke ranks, more on that later. Tom and Phil dutifully took a cab to the address indicated, and then spent the next hour trying to find the actual address, only to be told that the Money Exchange House could not take any money from us. The boys left the House, with the Money, they had wanted to Exchange, a little perplexed.

This morning we went directly to a bank, a big bank, probably the biggest bank in Veracruz, a bank that our shipping agent had an account with, to try again. They happily accepted our deposit (which could be paid in pesos) but not the agent fee. "Que differenza?" you might reasonably ask. Well, the deposit is simply to cover any damage they may have caused to their container while mishandling our car, however the fee needs to be paid directly to Florida in northen South America, and can only be done in dollars. So be it. "Please change our pesos into dollars at the exorbitant rate advertised on your tacky sign please" we confidantly requested. Feel free to take a moment to try and guess the answer. You´ve probably got it right, but if not I admire your posiitve outlook on life and genuine belief in the goodness of humanity. The answer was in fact no, they wouldn´t change our money. "But you´re a bank, there´s a bloody sign advertising the exchange rate" we laughed. Still no. "You need to open an account". They said. "Well, how do we open an account?" we begged. "You can´t."

Eventually, we managed to procure the dollars needed to pay Seafraud. I won´t say how, but if you ever see Phil staring vacantly into the distance, please do not question him as to why. Seafraud were at least satisifed enough to reluctantly hand over our Bill of Lading, unfortunately Phil and I had had to shoot off to another appointment so did not witness the official handing over ceremony, but Tom said it was quite spectacular with a fireworks display to put Beijing to shame and the appearance of several minor celebrities. My earlier disappearance and Phil and I´s subsequent meeting were to follow up on the infamous and underused "Plan B". Prior to arriving in Veracruz we had contacted every company we had dealt with in the UK and Buenos Aires to see if they knew anyone in Mexico who didn´t make Wayne Rooney look like a dangerous intellectual. And shortly before our arrival two of them had come back with the same name. Step forward Victor Lau. Unfortunately Viktor was a busy man and hard to track down, but when we got him on the phone he was refreshingly direct, assertive and, God forbid, proactive. His proficiency in English also made us wonder whether he was not in fact Mexican but European, potentially Dutch. While Phil and I gushed over his claim he could release Barry in a day or two, Tom extracated himself from the Handing Over Ceremony After Party and joined us with the Bill of Lading. In a whirlwind of activity Viktor completed several of the steps that should have taken days, procured us our certificate to allow us to drive in Mexico and arranged for our container to be manoevered to the customs office where, with us present tomorrow morning, it will be opened, customs inspected and (as long as they don´t find Tom´s imported hair growth hormone drugs) released, all in a matter of hours. I should really say "touch wood" or something similar but I really don´t feel I need to. Why?

"Viktor, I can´t place your accent, are you originally from Europe?"
"No, I am Mexican. But my parents were German"

Forget the A-Team, the Ghostbusters or 118 118. If you need efficiency, contact ze Germans.

Uber und aus.

The Curious Incident of the Landcruiser in the ISO Container

2010-05-26T20:31:00.000-07:00

N.B. The following broadcast is sans-photos since we have no laptop at the moment via which to download them etc. This is because it is in our car, and we don't have our car, but more on that later.

We left Medellin (a little late after realising we'd left the locking wheel-nut key at a mechanic's) and headed north to the port town of Cartegena. Declared the jewel of South America by someone, possibly the Lonely Planet writter who labels everywhere in need of a good old spring clean as Bohemian, Cartegena is certainly in the top 100 or so cities we've visted so far. Without doubt the old town is pretty. It's also pretty small. The locals are outgoing and chatty though the conversations follow a similar form:
Cartegenian (in annoying Colombian/American accent whilst following one down the street): "Hey, my friend, my friend, where you from, my friend, you, hey, where you from? Hey! America?"
Us (Speaking correctly and continuing to walk): "No, England."
C: "Hey, England, I've spent much time in England."
U: "Oh, where?"
C: "London, Manchester United."
U: "Good."
C: "Hey my friend. You want sunglasses/necklace/giant-inflatable-frog/spatula/weed/cocaine (delete as applicable)?"
U: "No thanks."
C: "Hey my friend. I give you good price. Hey my friend. My friend. Best price."
U: "No thanks."
C: "Hey my friend. England. Manchester United. Good Price. Weed. 100% Best quality."
U: "No thanks. Go away."
C: "Hey my friend. My friend, man. You want party tonight? Manchester United......."
....You get the idea.

Cartegena not only provided a great venue for such rich discourse but also a home for us for a week as we serviced the car and arranged for its shipping beyond the Darien Gap. If you are unfamiliar with said gap, google it (I understand it as something like the Watford Gap but with no road and more guerilla forces including some chaps from FART or some such organisation). Originally our plan had been to send the car to Panama and then carry on up through Central America. Unfortunately Costa Rica (and possibly Nicaragua) does not like right-hand drive cars like ours and told us we wouldn't be allowed through. They brought this new law in a month ago and no-one we'd previously asked, including the RAC and various Latin and North American motoring clubs, was aware of it. We looked at many options including risking it and having a contigency plan in case we got stuck. In the end, since we would have to go through Costa Rica, the fact there are limited border-crossing points at which to try our luck, and the time and money costs associated with any contigency plans, we decided to stick it in an ISO container and ship it to Mexico, the furthest south we could ship beyond Costa Rica, before chasing it overland. We have since that day been travelling through Central America on something known as 'public transport'.

We flew to Panama City and then got a coach through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala and finally Mexico. We barely stopped en route; we had little time and we wanted to spend a decent amount of that time in one country rather than the odd day or two looking around the various towns the bus stopped in. We chose Guatemala and had a fun few days visiting Mayan ruins, sweating, showing the Guatemalans how to put 'style' into freestyle diving, sweating some more, paddling dugout canoes around jungle rivers and trying to cook sausages on a volcano whilst... sweating. We'll save the details of those exploits until we can add the pictures.

So we now find ourselves in Oaxaca, Mexico (pronounced slowly: Wha-haa-kah, Mere-hee-co). We're trying to make the most of the time before the ship arrives with its precious cargo, whilst at the same time sending increasingly terse emails between us and our shipping agent regarding classic Latin American hidden/unmentioned costs. We fear there may be a Mexican stand-off at the port. Or rather just a 'stand-off'; we think they drop the 'Mexican' here.

Incas, In Cars and Incorrigible

2010-05-02T09:50:00.000-07:00

Machu Picchu – The Lost City of The Incas

Hola faithful blog followers. Apologies for the lack of updates.

We spent a few good nights in Cusco getting our tourist on and mingling with the crème of public school gap yearers while awaiting the first available train to Machu Picchu. You don’t necessarily have to take a train, some people prefer to walk (The much publicised Inca trail) However, time constrained as we were, and much in need of the extra days relaxation, El treno won the vote. Particularly as it was not just any train, but the Inca Rail no less. Well ahead of their time those Incas.

Our evening train arrived in the modern Machu Picchu tourist Mecca in the late evening of the 8th, allowing us enough time to grab a bite to eat before catching some sleep. The modern Machu Picchu sits a 2 hour hike below the real Machu Picchu and our enthusiastic guide had told us we would need to leave at 4am to reach the lost city by sunrise. We duly arose as instructed and set off in the dark and rain, slightly too stupefied by the time of day to register how miserable the weather was. After completing the hard climb in only an hour and spending the next 60 minutes standing in the rain (we’re clearly too macho for our own good) we were rewarded by the most unremarkable sunrise you can imagine. The lost city of the Incas is hidden amongst a cloud forest, and along with being wetter than an otters pocket, the clouds are also quite the party poopers when trying to observe a sunrise. However, the additional advantage of being amongst the first 400 trekkers to the top each day is you then have the option of climbing one of the mountains that over look the city. Excellent, more climbing.

Our guide met us outside the main entrance (ie the touristy bit where they check you’ve paid rather than anything more Inca-esque) and, walking like blind men in the dense fog, led us to the outlying ruins. The tour lasted about 3 hours, roughly about the same time it took the burning Peruvian sun to lift the rain cloud above the city and reveal the absolutely majesty of Machu Picchu and it’s stunning setting, crowning the peak of a mountain with steep terraced slopes falling away to the churning white waters of the Urubamba river snaking along the valley floor. It really is one of the most breathtaking sights you can imagine. The mountains of Huayna Picchu and Machu Picchu (for which it was re-named, the original Inca name is unknown) stand like citadels either side of the city which is surrounded in all directions by jungle green peaks and valleys. It spectacularly underlines why those pesky Conquistadores had so much trouble trying to find it! And yet, the view struggles to compete with the city itself. The place is absolutely massive, dwarfing any other ruin we have ever seen.

As the weather had lifted during our tour we decided it would be worth climbing Huayna Picchu and taking a look at the city from above. It’s another tough climb up the original stone steps left by the Incas, and involves crawling through a small tunnel through the rocks and up steps that stick horizontally out of the rock face, with a fairly hefty drop beyond. On the way up you are rewarded with yet more ruins, as not content with Machu Picchu itself the Incas also built a temple for their oracle up here! The final 20 meters is an any which way you can scramble over massive boulders, and then you are at the summit with the morning sun blazing down and Machu Picchu spread out below you. It’s really not a bad view at all. In fact so much so that as we sat and took it all in an Argentinian guy next to us dropped onto one knee and (a little breathlessly) asked his girlfriend to marry him.

After climbing back down to Machu Picchu we ordered the worlds most expensive cheeseburgers and then spent a good few hours walking round (Okay okay, sorry girls. She said yes. All very happy. Round of applause from everyone at the summit. They even posed with my teddybear penguin and Tom may have caught some of the proposal on camera, which we promised to send to them. Go grab yourself some Kleenex and then read the rest of the blog).

The Inca civilisation was vast, stretching from modern northern Chile, across Bolivia and Peru and up into Ecuador. They had just shy of a 100 major cities however as the Spanish conquered their territories they razed each city to the ground and rebuilt and renamed them. (In bouts of nationalistic pride a lot of these cities are now being renamed). As Machu Picchu was not discovered until 1911 it stands as a living monument to all things Inca. Anyway, I think I’ve run out of superlatives for it so I’ll let Phil’s camera do the talking.

Lima

After another overnight drive from Cusco we arrived into the smoggy and much maligned Peruvian capital of Lima. Although we had been advised about the difficulties of driving through, we felt that having tackled La Paz at rush hour we were more than qualified. Unfortunately poor old Barry was still suffering from her salt flat mishap and decided that she wanted another new set of bearings for her other front wheel. Unfortunately she reached the decision while we were driving down the main freeway through Lima. Be a team player Barry. However our decision to buy a Toyota has definitely been a winner as, having limped to a slightly dodgy looking mechanics, they had little problem finding new parts and fixing it.

We decided to spend a few nights chilling out in Lima with a few friends we had been running into since La Paz. The city itself is not that much to speak of but we had a good couple of nights out, culminating in a Moby concert on the 15th which was excellent.

About an hour south of the Ecuadorian border is a little beach town called Mancora and after another overnight drive we reached it on arguably the most important day of the calendar year, April 17th. Since arriving in Peru we have been continually pestered by policeman who seem to view foreigners as a legitimate secondary income and we, not overly inclined to wasting our time or money or both, had decided to take the fairly comical action of simply not stopping every time we were waived down. This may sound a little dangerous but we think that at some time one of us may have read something somewhere on the internet that may well have stated something to insinuate that they probably wouldn’t bother to chase us, which seemed concrete enough (in fact have a gander at this blog for one appraisal of the integrity of Peruvian police). We decided not to be too blasé about it and every time a policeman waved us to stop, we simply smiled and waved back. The first couple of times were a little nerve-racking but as you can probably imagine it got pretty funny pretty quickly. Unfortunately a few hours shy of Mancora we probably overstepped the mark, having slowed to a near stop, indicated to pull in as directed, and then just driven off, again. 60 seconds later the flashing lights behind us indicated that a certain amount of music needed to be faced. We were prepared. “Why didn’t you stop?” said the policeman carrying an AK47. “Speak you the English?” we countered. “You were told to stop. Why didn’t you stop?” the second cop demanded. “Speak English amigo, speak English?” “Which country are you from” he shot back. “Englishy. You speak Englishy”. Phil was going for an Oscar by this point “You need to turn around and go back to the check point” He demanded, gesticulating furiously. “No problemo” Tom said, and handed him a receipt from the last toll gate we’d been through. (We’d decided that along with deliberately not understanding anything we’d uselessly offer stuff to appear helpful). It worked, unfined and most importantly unAK47’ed we were on our way.

Our hostel in Mancora would not have been out of place in the Costa del Sol with a plethora of pasty white English bodies crisping nicely by the pool, just in time for the “Baywatch” themed fancy dress party that evening. It was pretty much the best place I could hope to be to celebrate my 29th birthday. We’d also run in to an aussie couple in Lima and the guy shared the same birthday, so it wasn’t long before we were making heroes of ourselves dancing half naked on top of the bar. The next few days were spent chilling on the beach (never, ever let a girl talk you into going horse riding on the beach, they just hand you the reins and let you have a completely uncontrolled, ball-bustingly fun gallop) and Tom and Phil waxed off their boards and got all gnarly on me, apparently off in search of the ultimate ride.

Ecuador (as made famous by Sash)

Despite absolutely loving the 1997 dance track we had all decided that Ecuador would simply be somewhere we drove through en route to Colombia and most importantly Cartagena on the North coast, where we will inevitably spend at least a week trying to get Barry on a boat to Panama. Which meant that we rattled through pretty darn quickly. The Ecuador – Peru border had the dubious title of “The worst border crossing in South America” which predictably meant that we had no problems getting through. Well, except for actually finding the immigration building in Ecuador. Take a right at the roundabout if you want to go through customs, otherwise apparently just press on. Must make smuggling very tricky. We settled in Machala for our first night, which is pretty poor and scummy but at least the incredible humidity meant that we weren’t concerned by the lack of hot water in our hotel.

Colombia

Two more stops in Riobamba and Ibarra, which were both to be fair quite quaint, and we were on our way through the badlands to Colombia. South turned into north as we crossed the equator which lies just south of Ibarra. Actually, we crossed it twice due to the winding road but nonetheless it felt pretty cool now finding ourselves exactly half way round the Earth watching the GPS latitude count tick down to 0 then flip over to a northern scale. Thankfully, though, we've yet to come across men sporting flat caps, whippets on leads of bailing twine and saying "aye'oop," every now and again. And it certainly isn't grim! Onwards and upwards then to country number six... The Ecuador-Colombia border is one of those places the risk adverse foreign office website advises you not to travel through, so we set off at 6am to give ourselves a full days daylight as the one thing we didn’t fancy is cruising through FARC central at night. Although we probably did not spend enough time in Ecuador to give you a completely fair appraisal of it, one thing we can confidently say is that their road signs are absolutely useless and stand like a beacon of mediocrity amongst the rest of South America (which is saying something). Eventually though we reached the border and were instantly impressed by both the presence of the police and military in Colombia and their professionalism. We drove through a myriad of checkpoints on our way up to Popayan but happily they were more interested in doing their job than picking up a bribe. Once again the FCO scaremongering is being put to rest as we've made the call to take the western route up the country, passing through the previously notorious drug cartel hotspots of Cali and Medellin. Pablo Escobar and his cronies are now consigned to the annals of history (Escobar himself to a box six-feet under having been slotted by the police back in 1993 here in Medellin). Both cities are colourful, vibrant and very safe. As are the roads; the authorities are determined to ensure that visitors and locals alike can move around freely and without trepidation. Columbians are warm and welcoming and the country is one that we're all loving more by the minute.

We're just completing a few running repairs to Barry (the steering tie-rod has worked its way loose) before we tackle the next 650km to the Caribbean coast and the (reportedly) beautiful colonial town of Cartagena where we will pause to figure out the best way to get us all to Panama. A BBQ beckons this evening at our hostel. The sun is shining and I've just seen the fridge get restocked with the local brew. Happy times!

The Death Road & Perusing Peru

2010-04-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

So, back in La Paz and the ThisRoad team was reunited. La Paz was still as smoggy as ever, so in order to give our lungs a short respite we booked ourselves on a downhill mountain bike ride down the World's Most Dangerous Road - otherwise known as The Death Road. This turned out to be, as those kids with silly long blonde hair (or Phil) like to say, like totally awesome, dude! It was a descent of over 3km down 64km of road that claims an average of 300 lives per year. Nuts! We passed crosses on the way down at the spots where people have met untimely ends by plummeting, in some cases, 600m down a sheer vertical cliff-face into the jungle below. There was one point where a tractor pulling a cart with 95 people on board went over the edge. In 2006. Blimey!!

Suffice to say, hearts were racing slightly as we zoomed down this dry, dusty and stoney road (built by Paraguayan prisoners of war in the 1940s) and we were locked in concentration so as to avoid the edge where no hint of a barrier would save a slip up. What a rush!! And to put all our mother's minds at rest, we went with an extremely reputable company called Gravity so we were in extremely safe hands. Actually, this could be a new career move... Luckily the road was quiet so we didn't have much upcoming traffic to contend with, which was good as for the most part the road was only one vehicle-width wide. The other reason for this was because the following day was election day, so all the locals were going nuts about that in town. When we returned to the city we found that all bars were closed and not serving alcohol. Bummer! Apparently, Bolivians get very excited about elections and in the past would get totally tanked and go out for a spot of rioting. As you do. So the authorities ban booze the night before voting. Kinda goes to show how charismatic British politics is..! The two main backpacker hostels secretly kept their bars open so we were not to go dry on our last night in Bolivia. What a relief! Next on the agenda was to exit La Paz and make a break for the Peruvian border at Lake Titikaka. Now I don't want to come across as superior, elitist or anything like that, but I can see why the UK is such a great country. Road signs. We've got the whole signage thing nailed. It took us a bloody hour to figure out a way out of La Paz. Not one sign in sight giving any indication what road we were on, or where that road led to. A right pain in the backside! No wonder Bolivians are such pants drivers; they're all flippin lost! Our trusty GPS came to the rescue as we used the tried and tested method of navigating using compass alone. We wanted to go west (no outbursts of Pet Shop Boys warbling, please) so found roads that did that and by jove we ruddy well did it. Hurrah! The border crossing was another interesting experience and a classic example of IT not being the work efficiency saviour it is always touted as. Phil had to end up completing the electronic vehicle entry document on behalf of the somewhat befuddled (and senior in years) Peruvian official. We took the stamped up third attempted print-off and the smooth asphalt of Peru beckoned. Until said smooth asphalt gave up the ghost and became more pot-holled than a golf ball. Carry on into the night where headlights appear to be optional and we experienced an interesting drive to Puno, our stop-over on the drive north to Cusco.

And so we joined the thousands of other tourists that descend on the former Inca capital and Spanish colonial regional centre. In contrast to La Paz, Cusco is clean and fresh, with bright sunny plazas, stunning 16th century architecture and little back alleys populated with artisan shops and taverns. It also is crowded with peoples of all nations who flock to see arguably South America's biggest draw, Machu Picchu. In a vain attempt to get with the cool kids and be where it's at, we checked into Hostel Loki and instantly felt a generation apart. This place is full of gap-year backpackers, all wearing happy pants and llama jumpers, talking about how amazing traveling is, what uni they're off to come September and how no-one should need to, like, have to work or anything, all while never actually leaving the hostel bar (which, incidentally, is where I am typing this right now, having just watched Manchester United loose, sadly, to Bayern Munich on the widescreen. Pot, kettle, black, you say??!) Our plan to drive up to Machu Picchu have been scuppered for a variety of reasons and so we're hanging around here till the 8th when we catch a train for a 2-day visit to the ancient Inca ruins. To aid passing the time we volunteered to help clearing up some of the surrounding villages that had been devastated in the recent mudslides. Off we went with a few others from the hostel (Pauline, Tom, Don and Anya) to Taiy, a small village about an hour away where 120 homes have been wrecked of partially buried in mud. Phil went off to help dig out the ground floor of a old ladies house (by going in through the first floor) while Tim and I were tasked with commencing the demolition of a two-storey home with one of it's corners missing the mud-brick and plaster walls cracked and caving in and the roof being propped up with tree trunks. By hand. With no safety equipment or hard hats. And a ladder made from sticks. In an effort to rescue as much as possible, the roof tiles had to be removed individually and carefully so they can be reused. This took two hours perched upon a rickety building marked for demolition in the blistering sun. With a massive hangover. Yep, we got a little tipsy the night before. When will we learn? WIth the tiles down and stacked we attacked the rest of the roof. I must admit there is something decidedly counter-intuitave about removing something you are standing on that is stopping you from falling two stories to the ground. Well semi-stopping in Tim's case who half fell through, twice. The same hole both times; you'd think he'd have learned. Guess we used to call this sort of thing 'character building' back in the army. Bonkers if you ask me, but we persevered nonetheless and by close of play there was no roof to be seen. Other than the mass of detritus strewn around the base of the house. Tired, very dirty but satisfied we returned to he hostel where to cap off an otherwise fantastic day we won the bar-quiz!! Free shots and t-shirts all round! I'm off to join Phil and Tim on the pool table. Next post will be after Machu Picchu. Let's hope it lives up to the hype..!

Let Me Tell You A Heart Warming Tale

2010-04-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

Whilst Tim was away in New York for his brother's wedding, we headed on a detour south to the Bolivian salt-flats (Saltar de Uyuni). These, we were informed, were a must see. A classic tourist attraction, a number of agencies run trips from La Paz where tourists are bused south and hooked up with 4x4 tour operators in Uyuni who take them across the flats. We had a chat with one of these agencies to try to figure out their programs and the routes they take. Several routes dissecting the flats are mapped out and allow their traversing in various directions. We decided to head straight for the salt-flats, hitting them at the northern shore, rather than going to Uyuni on the east side first; a road less travelled, but what could go wrong?

Finally out of La Paz (possibly in the top 5 worst places on Earth by my book - the others include the centre of the Earth and a Kaiser Chiefs concert) we were able to enjoy some of Bolivia's amazing scenery. The approach to the flats took us through vast open spaces where the light is so bright you have to squint when wearing sunglasses, past huge meteor craters which hold blood-red waters, to eerily grey places as from some netherworld or post-apocalyptic vision, to valleys resembling good old Wales! As we made our way to the shores of the flats we picked our way past a volcano through deserted villages along bolder strewn tracks. Just as light was fading, from the crest of the pass, we were presented with the unforgettable and truly unbelievable sight of the Saltar's vast whiteness.

Darkness saw us reach our day's destination; the small village of Tagua. From here, the map told us, several routes spread out across the flats. We had planned to head out onto the flats to camp for the night. So that was what we did. The Baroness soon came to an abrupt stop and sat, up to her axles, in salt frosted mud. This was not good.

We tried to free the car and even after emptying it of all out kit (including the fridge!), letting down the tyres a little, digging and inserting the sandboards, we couldn't get it out. To add insult to injury, four local teenagers turned up on their push-bikes and asked "why did we get it stuck?". They then happily exclaimed that they would pick the car up and move it. It's a big car we pointed out. "No problem". Then to our utter amazement, they proceeded to show us an ingenious method for getting a car out of such a pickle. Using large rocks they gathered from somewhere out in the darkness, they created a firm base from which to jack-up the wheels (not the car), individually. They then dug under the wheels and inserted the sandboards and more rocks. Soon the wheels had something solid to grip. Although the car was still sitting on its underbelly, it was worth a shot. It worked! Reversing out of her near-grave Barry bounced back into life. We retraced our steps and set her on firm ground. The kids then told us that the way onto the flats was at the next village along. Turns out the map was wrong. There were two gateways onto the flats in the area; elsewhere the flats are quite soft around the edges. We turned in for the night incredibly relieved that the show would go on.

The following day, in our search for a safe route onto and across the salty wasteland, we stumbled upon a small museum curated by a rather cheerful man who gave us a guided tour. I'm not sure how many people had visited his museum since he told us most of his village had left and they never saw many tourists. This later predicament he was keen to see change. We're not sure what he had done so far to effect such a change although we suspected he had probably taken the usual Bolivian approach of just hoping; accurate maps and the use of clear signs would be a step in the right direction. Anyway, the museum was composed of two parts. One contained pots, grinding stones and stuffed animals. The other was a garden in which he had gathered rocks which looked like other things. Where those things didn't look quite enough like the things he thought they should, he doctored them. The garden also contained two human skeletons in a small rock tomb.

After our tour we were pointed in the direction of the entrance to the Saltar and off we went. What an utterly bizarre experience! The Saltar is huge (a good 3 hour drive across its width) and perfectly flat and the sensation of driving across it is not unlike flying through space as depicted in the likes of Star Wars; everything is coming towards you but you never seem to get anywhere.

The hard, crusted surface is covered in an irregular salt lattice (presumably from the evaporation process) which crunches under the wheels. Something else that crunches is the front left hub of your Landcruiser if you forget to take it out of 4-wheel-drive on the hard, crusted surface of the salt-flats. It's called 'wind-up', it's technical (email Tom for a full explanation if you have problems sleeping), and something's got to give.

The front left hub, possibly because it had had bearing problems before, was the weak link - it broke. We managed to get the car to Uyuni (after stopping off at Cactus Island) where a mechanic disassembled the hub by attacking it with various implements including an angle-grinder and installed a new one.

The garage kindly allowed us to do some of our own running repairs and servicing in their yard so we were off running about town trying to find various hardwear and auto-part shops. Again, Bolivia, signs (especially on the front of your shops) would be really useful; hiding your business is not good business. Finally, with Barry in an altogether better state (including a good clean) we headed back towards La Paz to find the third amigo.

Attitude at Altitude

2010-04-01T07:00:00.001-07:00

Valle de Luna is so called because it looks like the surface of the moon. It is also hotter than the sun and at night affords the most spectacular stargazing on the planet.

En route to putting me on to a plane from La Paz to New York we had dropped in to San Pedro de Atacama to take in some of the spectacular scenery, and the final site on our hit list were the hot pools and geezers, a further 2000 meters above sea level and the highest in the world. At 2500 meters we barely noticed any effects of altitude but it was abundantly clear from the stark warnings from traveldoctor.co.uk that attempting to climb more than 300 meters a day from that altitude would invoke a brutal enviromental retribution. 3 hours later we had driven to the edge of the geezers with the plan of a nightime swim in the naturally heated pool while supping on Chilean vino and barbequed steak. Unfortunately, having driven Macbeth to an untimely death, the three Shakespearan witches had taken it upon themselves to prevent tourists from any such nightime chennanigans and we were reluctantly invited to spend the night in a dormitary at their outpost, 2k short of our destination. (Apparently the fact that these geezers shoot out boiling water is not condusive to nocturnal tourism - there is no light, we will die! Phil eloquently argued that our car had lights but unfortunately snakes, snails and indeed puppy dogs tails would not have moved them)

So, having thouroughly ignored the traveldoctor´s advice regarding Altitude Sickness, we commited the final atrocity of spending the night at 4300m. This was a bad choice. The next morning (to borrow another bit of army slang that is contaminating my vocabulary) we all felt utterly rats. The general consensus was to just get 5 minutes of the glorified kettles on film and then descend quicker than a cliff-dwelling lemming. Upsettingly when we got there it was an incredible sight to behold. Deserts (particular at that height) get a wee bit chilly at night, and the subsequent heat contrast spectacularly illuminates the huge jets of steam that each of the 20 or so geezers shoot into the air. This really should have been Tierra del Fuego (the land of fire), although considering our current physical state Phil was keener on The Valley of Death.

When we had left the witches cavern earlier that morning, the first bus loads of tourists had started to arrive and so, keen to avoid the crowds, we drove over to the naturally heated pool to have a quick swim to ourselves. At this point it was still absolutley freezing and, feeling like death with the prospect of stripping down to swimming trunks ahead of us, morale was hitting an all time low. Luckily ThisRoad is made of sterner stuff, or more accurately we are all shameless exhibitionists in front of the camera. To be fair the swim was very pleasant if slightly unnerving. Rather than having a uniform temperature the gratifyingly steaming pool is a turbantly mix of cold currents to make you shiver and bursts of heated water that thankfully fall just short of scalding. Filming done we hurriedly dressed into every bit of warm kit we owned and pointed Barry down the mountain to the oxygen rich oases below. Admittedly not quite soon enough for my vaulting stomach, another lesson in altitude awareness.

Our final destination in Chile before heading over to Bolivia was the northern coastal town of Arica. Its a surfers paradise and although we had no time to experience it, the follicly challenged of our group were reliable informed by our Point Break wannabe, uberman companion that the surf was excellent. The next morning we began the long ascent to the Chilean Bolivian border, a mere 5000 meters above sea level (where we had probably lost any of the acclimatisation from the Atacama the night before!) Barry, as utterly inescapely perfect-in-every-way as she is, is not the best climber, particularly when struggling to burn diesel in the oxygen depleted air, so we spent much of the journey crawling along at 20 miles an hour.

We arrived at the Bolivian border and were greeted by utter third world chaos, not entirely welcome at the best of times but even less so when breathable air had been reduced to 40 percent plus car fumes. We spent an hour trooping back and forth between different offices, trying to work out the order of stamps, photocopies, signatures, counter-signatures and tickets each utterly unhelpful "official" required. Finally everyone was satisfied and we drove to the exit gate, only to be told that our right hand car was not allowed into Bolivia. Fortunately just before our sense of humour failures began to register on the Richter scale Tom produced his International driving licence and blagged the guy into believing this meant our car could go anywhere we were allowed to drive in. It was quite obviously unashamed rubbish but the military-clad muppet waved us on, clearly content that he had dilligently defended his country´s borders.

Now for the exciting part. After our previous altitude idiocy we had decided to camp in the lower plains (as indicated on our oh-so reliable Bolivian map) before driving up to La Paz, which stands around 4000 meters. Unfortunately from our border crossing at 500m to La Paz 300 kilometers away, we never dropped below 3800 meters. Which meant that we may as well stay in La Paz and hopefully not be too badly affected. We reached La Paz after nightfall which was by no means a good idea. Never in our lives have we experienced such incredibly chaotic driving conditions. It is a complete an utter free-for-all where cars and pedestrians, many carrying babies on their backs, compete for every conceivable inch of space to force their way forward. As we approached what we thought to be the centre, using our GPS as a guide, I congratulated Tom on the almost miraculous feet of not having hit anything. He smiled appreciatively. The driver of the car we crashed into was amiable enough, and having been directed by a traffic cop to a relatively safe place to pull over I agreed to pay him 8 US dollars for his broken tail light (we barely touched him but Barrys illegal Roo bars take no prisoners) However the dilligent traffic cop, obviously keen to ensure fairplay, decided that about 30 pounds worth of Bolivian Dollars would be a more appropriate remuneration. A cynical person may be inclined to summise that not all of that was going to the driver, we however held no such opinion. At least the cop gave us some proper directions and we finally learned a crucial fact about La Paz that is a huge benefit to navigating around it. It is absolutely massive and the city centre is 400 meters below the high point to which you enter (Actually named El Alto). As we finally cleared La Paz part 1 we could see sprawling benath us and absolutely breathtaking view of the second plateau below us, effectively a second city just as big as the first. And finally our maps made sense as up until then we had driven nearly 8kms through a city without a single road being on our map!

Having checked into our hotel we headed out for a quick bite to eat, and, at the advice of the hotel receptionist who definitely used the word commission while making our reservation, enjoyed our first ever llama dinner. The restaurant proprietor had warmly greeted us and, though he had to shoot off before our meal was over, promised us a free "snake schnapps" and unlimited access to the salad bar to welcome us to his restaurant. And on top of that I have to say that Llama is actually really good and definitely one of the better meals weve had on our travels. As promised the waiter brought over our free shot at the end of the meal, the bottle he carried covered by a cloth, no doubt to preserve the liquors intensity. Now, even if you havent worked behind a bar I am sure you are all aware that various drinks are not necessarilly named for their contents. Sex on the beach for instance is happily not a mix of sand and, well you get the drift. So when the proprietor had said snake schnapps earlier I hadnt completely prepared myself for the waiter to wip off the bottle covering cloth to reveal a goddamn boa constrictor staring 4 inches from my inadvisable inquisitive face. The other two may have delighted in the fact that I recoiled quicker than a cocktail bound cobra but seriously, who expects to be served that? The baby boa was sat, immersed in schnapps with its head bobbing from side to side as the waiter poured out 3 shots. Cheers.

The Big Push North

2010-04-01T06:40:00.001-07:00

One of the major aspects of this trip is the deliberate lack of timetabling where possible. We like to decide on the hoof where and when to go to next and how long we spend there once we arrive. Obviously we're following the Pan-Am, but little impromptu diversions and excursions here and there are all part and parcel of what makes this trip, well, this road. A combination of these, unavoidable holdups and general tardiness meant that the one deadline we did have to meet was fast approaching. Tim had to catch a plane from La Paz in Bolivia on the 25th so he could make his brother's wedding in New York, before returning to La Paz. Quite a distance to cover in a short time. Not impossible but we certainly needed to get our skates on. First stop, Chile's capital city.

In contrast to Conception, Santiago appeared far less affected by the earthquake. By the time we arrived it was hard to determine what was recent damage and what was existing decay. All in all Santiago felt very western and first-world as far as western cities blessed with a warm climate feel first-world; sunshine (and smog) cover a multitude of sins. We spent a day in Santiago and then left town in the evening with the aim of knocking out a 24-hour drive in order to eat up a serious chunk of the mileage to La Paz. Fuel tanks full we pointed ourselves north once more and set off into the inhospitable Atacama Desert. Despite our lights conking out (faulty relay) in the dark, in the fog, in the middle of nowhere, we made good progress.

Tired and grubby we nosed our way through the narrow streets of the little tourist oasis of (another) San Pedro, bang in the heart of the second-driest place on earth. Even though it hasn't rained here since records began, the Gobi Desert, north of the Himalayan mountain range (every day's a school day!) holds the title of world's driest place. Apparently. Anyhoo, we pitched camp and the next day took time out to explore the desert. And what a desert it is. Millennia of erosion and land-shifts have sculpted the salt, gems and nitrate encrusted land into weird and wonderful mountains, valleys and flats. The Valle De La Luna does indeed look like a moonscape and much fun was had speeding around, getting our Buzz Lightyear on!

Concepcion

2010-03-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

We had some discussion about whether we should alter our route in the light of recent events, namely the earthquake, and the potential dangers and difficulties it still presented. We were also very keen not to become disaster-tourists or whatever the phrase might be; voyeurs of others' misfortune. We decided that we would be in little danger and therefore not present a liability to ourselves or others (any more than normal, that is) and that since Concepcion and Santiago were on our original route and that the earthquake is perhaps the most significant event to have occurred along the Panamerican in recent years, and that the Panamerican was open again, it would be quite acceptable to go and see the aftermath for ourselves. We also had friends in Concepcion's neighbouring town of San Pedro who warmly welcomed us.

Prior to heading on to Concepcion we spent 2 nights in the university town of Valdivia. This gave us time for a routine service on the car and to have a bit of a break from the road. Valdivia felt the earthquake and still suffered aftershocks along with powercuts and phone and internet outages. We stayed in hostels in Valdivia and unhappy with the first stumbled upon a second hostel which although full was blessed with the most hospitable and helpful owner, Eliana Solis. Eliana arranged accommodation for us at a friend's equally agreeable hostel across town. She then treated us to a pot of tea as she explained some of the background of the town as well telling us about the recent earthquake; she had been in Valdivia at the time of the 1960 earthquake.

We moved on to Concepcion after our second night in Valdiva and arrived late in the evening. I guess it hasn't escaped your attention that a rather large earthquake hit Chile at 0334 on 27 Feb. It measured 8.8 on the Richter Scale, making it the third largest earthquake ever recorded. It also lasted around 3 minutes, making it the longest-lasting major quake recorded to date. Pretty powerful stuff. Especially when you remember that the Richter Scale is logarithmic, meaning a 2 is ten times more sever than a 1. Haiti was hit with a 7, meaning this ground-shaker was almost 20 times more powerful. What is amazing is how the country has coped with such a disaster. They learned their lessons after the 1960 hit and the majority of the infrastructure has not been badly damaged. Of course there were buildings and bridges that did collapse with the tragic loss of more than 400 lives. Some of the smaller towns along the coast from the epicentre (which was around 5km out to sea from Conception), including the surf mecca of Pichilemu were totaled by tsunamis; we gave it a miss so our surf boards remain untouched by the sea.

I think the most depressing and tragic aspect of this disaster is how people responded to what happened. Power was knocked out for quite some time and obviously the emergency services were stretched to capacity. Rather than coming together and uniting in an effort to sort things out and help the needy (of course there were many who did just this), people took to the streets and within 48 hours of the quake looting was widespread and lawlessness prevailed. And before you say well of course people will loot, they need food and water, those basic supplies were left untouched. As I said, Chile is used to earthquakes. It sits on a major fault line where the Pacific plate is being pushed down under the South American/Atlantic plate which gives rise to the Andes mountain range (see, there was a need to remember all about plate tectonics in GCSE Geography after all!) and thus can get its people emergency supplies when called upon. What was being looted were things like TVs, computers, microwaves. One guy was seen running down the street with a bacon slicer he'd nicked from a supermarket. To me this really exemplified the ugly side to humanity. The upshot of this woeful behaviour was that the emergency services had to be diverted from dealing with the quake to looting and riot control. The military had to be called in, which was a very difficult decision for the outgoing president Michelle Barchalette: think back to the '70s and 80's and a certain chap called Pinochet to get an idea of the average Chilean's perception of watching men in uniform carrying automatic rifles patrolling the streets again. See what I mean?

That said, by the time we pitched up to San Pedro (which lies the other side of the river to Conception) to be hosted by Ben and Kez, things were pretty much back to normal. Ben is a friend of Tim's who had only moved to San Pedro with his girlfriend Kez a couple of weeks before the earthquake. Some welcome! Ben and Kez are both teachers at the nearby English school, although the quake has delayed the kids in returning to class after their summer holls. For the past couple of weeks aftershocks have rippled through the region. They only last a few seconds, but some have been up on around the 6 and 7 mark. Aftershocks?? Not in my book! They’re bloomin’ proper quakes! Ben was quick to tell me to stop being such a wuss. Which is fine if you’re now quake-proofed, but I can tell you that in a 9th floor apartment a little tremor (this one was around a 4.5) feels rather scary. Especially when one is in the bathroom perched upon the porcelain throne at the time!

While Ben and Kez attended staff meetings at the school, we took the opportunity to drive across the bridge to Conception to see for ourselves what happened. The main road bridge has collapsed where it meets the Conception bank, so we found ourselves exiting over a military Bailey bridge. To be honest, the majority of the town looked pretty normal. There were a few cracks in the road here and there, some diversions in place, rendering and tiles fallen away from buildings and the odd small pile of rubble dotted about the place. One building, however, did catch our attention. It was a 15-story apartment block that has just been finished, fallen on its side and snapped in two. A classic example of construction firms cutting corners? Ummm, what do you think?? We stopped off to take a closer look (come on, it's not often you get to see a building snapped in two is it?). 'Hey, is that an English car? Where you guys from?' came a North-American-accented voice from over my shoulder as I was framing up a shot to film. Turning round I saw a guy with a hard-hat and hi-viz vest on, clutching boom-mic and sound recording gear. 'Umm, yeah, hi,' I said, 'we're from England too. On a roadtrip. Where are you from?' 'I'm Canadian, my name's Dave," he beamed extending a hand to shake, 'from the Discovery Channel. We're filming a program on why some buildings fall over in earthquakes and other don't.' With a wry smile he nodded over to the apartment block next door, twice the size and twice the age as the one lying before us, with not a crack to be seen. 'Think you've found yourselves a pretty good location, then?' "Right on!"

Volcanoes, Condors & Why Barry Is Not A Rally Car

2010-03-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

What the road from Chile Chico to Chaiten lacks in asphalt it more than makes up for in scenery. It's twisting gravel surface both meanders and thrusts its way through by far the most breathtaking landscapes we've seen so far. When its steep it's steep and when it turns it provides little purchase and vertiginous drops. Barry, Barry White or The Baroness Eugene White if you're not into brevity, was made for this. Three blokes, two fuel tanks, and more kit than is strictly necessary is not a problem for our faithful friend. It's quite clear that we are the weak link in this chain but more on that later.

Meanwhile, join us as we leave windblown Chile Chico, refreshed by our morning shower (courtesy of a mountain waterfall) and bouyed by our latest successful border crossing as we skirt round the shores of Lake Argentina. The choppy waters lapped the severe shores as we covered the rocky ground and wound our way past its parched but hardy vegetation. The road climbed away from the lake and into the folds of snow-toppped mountains before bringing us back down to the azure waters of a glacial lake and a place to sleep. The following day we continued along the Carrera Austral around its tight hairpins and up its steep climbs; The Baroness always a match for the conditions. A tyre blow out, caused by a mixture of conditions and tyre age and wear (driver error has been ruled out because I'm writing this blog post), slightly delayed our progress and precipitated the purchase of 2 brand new tyres in Coyhaique; a charming centre of civilisation and off-road vehicles in Chilean Patagonia. We then headed on into almost subtropical forests where snowcapped peaks stood incongruously in the distance.

Barry Doesn't Rhyme With Rally

This is where we come to the part about weak links. Now, a 20 year old Toyota Landcruiser is not a rally car. It has a large and powerful 4 litre diesel engine which sings with a deep throaty purr, a large, robust chassis suspended on equally sturdy suspension and an 80s style paint job. She currently weighs about 3.5 tons. The alabaster beast is the vehicular equivalent of Barry White and whilst no doubt Barry White was never a big cross country runner I'm sure he had staying power of one sort or another. And so it is with the Baroness. Off-road she's a cut above the rest. In 4WD in low gears she'll eat up most things you find out there in the way the real Mr White probably literally did. But could you imagine the late great Mr White take a corner at top speed on an uneven and gravel strewn surface without things getting a little out-of-shape? Well, apparently Tim could. I'll give you this: she will perform a neutral 4-wheel slide on a loose surface but such things require a driver with far more than 5 minutes' driving experience. Young Fossey has about 6 minutes. Young Fossey is lucky he's still allowed to drive. Barry isn't going Rally driving again.

Chaiten

With all happy and relieved to be alive, we took 10 minutes out to watch Condors soar on the wind seemingly just out of reach - seriously they were very close. That night, as dusk was falling, we rolled into what can only be described as a ghost-town. Chaiten sits on Chile's Pacific coast in the shadow of an active volcano. The ash of that volcano lines the streets and the inhabitants of those streets are gone. The eruption occured 2 years ago and whilst the town was not hit by the lava and thankfully no-one was killed, subsequent rains inundated the town with copious amounts of the ash produced in the form of a highly viscous mud. The towns-folk fled and have largely remained away. This entire episode was unbeknownst to us and as we entered this erie town in the near dark it was with a certain trepidation. Our chief concern however was to find the ferry port and to establish when the ferry would leave and how we could get on it. This was our link with the north and the next stretch of the Panamerican. We found the ferry ramp but typically no timetable or indeed any information about the ferry or how to get a ticket to get on it. We hoped the morning would provide answers so we set up camp on a nearby beach and warmed ourselves around a campfire.

In the morning, as we struck camp, dolphins swam past us along the shore. They couldn't appreciate our land-locked dilemma. Fortunately we found the ticket office and bought tickets for the following evening's ferry since that morning's was full. We then watched a half-empty ferry leave; funny and frustrating in equal measure. We had tried to persuade various parties to let us on the boat but in this part of the world the document is king and we had tickets for the next day.

Very Cross Borders

2010-03-18T16:50:00.000-07:00

It is an art, we’ve discovered, moving from one country into the next. This may not at first be obvious, particularly as back in the UK driving over to the continent is as simple and easy as pie due to the ever-so co-operative nature that exists between EU member states. Not so out here. And in particular not so when you are three Englishmen driving an English car. It is at national borders where the enormity of South American bureaucracy is realised and the unprepared can be left high and dry. Unprepared we were not, and the first three times we moved from Argentina into Chile and vice versa proved to be relatively painless (except when we tried to bluff the Chilean customs bloke at San Sebastian on Tierra Del Fuego than we had no food – see previous blog post for full, embarrassing details). We intended to cross for the final time into Chile at Paso Rodolfo Raballos which is about 70km south of Lagos Argentina.

It was going to be a cunning hop across the border as we would have been able to shortcut a massive loop round the Lago Jeinimeni National Reserve while taking in some awesome roads. By the time we arrived at the Argentinean border post it was dark. We had been driving for the past few hours on twisty singletrack, through mountain passes with not a yard of tarmac in sight, let alone any buildings. The small wooden collection of huts that greeted us really did look like some outpost to the final frontier in a western movie. We exchanged all paperwork with the one somewhat bored looking Argentinean officer before the gate was lifted and off we set into no-man’s-land.

A kilometre or so later the lights of the Chilean control post began to twinkle up ahead and soon we were standing in another wooden cabin scribbling out now familiar bits of seemingly unnecessary paperwork. “Where is your car from?” asks the officer. “England,” we reply. “The steering wheel. Is it on the right?” he enquires, to which we nod in conformation. We then hear those four horribly frustrating words. “There is a problem”. What problem? How could there possibly be a problem? We’ve crossed into Chile three times before with no problem. What now? The officer sighs and tells us that it is illegal to drive a right-hand-drive vehicle in Chile. Eh??? To prove his point he prints off some scanned memo dated 2005 with something to that effect. This guy ain’t budging. So we’re stuck, 10.30 at night in the middle of nowhere, with exit stamps from Argentina in our passports and being refused entry into Chile. Great. The officer leans back in his chair. “There is nothing I can do. You have to go away.” Sh*@±ar*et?tsb^l%cks!!! Despondently we turn the car about and pick our war back to the Argentine border. The same Argentine officer as before, looking somewhat confused, greeted us. He called for his Capitan and soon there were five officials and the three of us crammed into the office. The senior offer, an amiable chap in his uniform but with his boots off, padding around in his socks and ok with the fact we’d clearly disturbed his TV-time, took charge he even got on the radio to the Chilean jobsworth to ask what was going on, but to no avail. What he did suggest was to take the road north, hand-railing the border and try the crossing into Chile Chico. “There are more tourists crossing there,” he said, “so they will probably be more busy and not bothered to check!” Sweet! We waved them all goodbye, pointed our car north, drove a couple of k’s and camped down for the night on a dried-up mountain lake-bed. The next day we zipped into Chile unhindered. If you’re reading this, Mr Chilean-spotter-anal-border-guard, HA! IN YOUR FACE!!!!

Ferries, Penguins and Border Crossings – Ushuaia to Chilean Patagonia

2010-03-15T13:29:00.000-07:00

Apologies for leaving you all stranded at the end of the world but intermittent internet access is to blame...honest.

We spent a couple of nights in Ushuaia and then turned the Baroness north to begin our long hike to Alaska. We left Ushuaia a little later than planned having decided to get the ball rolling on filming the initial scenes of "ThisRoad the movie". ( The video will be blog-bound as soon as we come to an unlikely agreement on the backing track) Having knocked up some impressive distances cruising down the painfully straight Argentinian Ruta 3 "motorway", we felt we could cover the relatively short distance to the eastern coast of Tierra del Fuego pretty quickly, but the combination of a delayed start, filming, roads with actual bends and a slight run in with Chilean immigration meant we arrived long after dark (Tierra del Fuego is split into the Chilean west and Argentinian east so you cross into Chile before catching a ferry to the mainland). As the ferry was not until the next day (we assumed as we haven't seen a timetable since Heathrow) we camped down by the bay a little out of town.

Anyway, what run in with the Chilean immigration I hear you ask.... Particularly Chile, but also Argentina, have decided to combat the spread of dangerous bacteria by operating a zero tolerance policy against, fruit, meat and lettuce. All the previous checkpoints and borders we had passed through had never bothered to search our car and had indeed okayed various meat, fruit and veg so we assumed we'd get the same treatment this time and happily signed our declarations and then told the guard due to search are car that we were free of undesirables. At which point he asked us to open our fridge, which was a blow. Having since had time to properly read through which food items are banned I can quite confidently say that the whole bunch were present and incriminatingly correct, which, probably with some justification, el Chilean customs muchacho took umbridge with. Having been the one to boldfacedly lie to him I was marched back to immigration and accosted for my duplicity. However, we did have one (not completely unplanned) saving grace. I'd lied in Spanish. Conveniently all my Spanish left me and I explained in English that I hadn't understood the question. Thankfully they simply decided to make me sign a declaration saying that I did have fruit and veg (although this was no longer true since they had relieved us of them) and handed me a leaflet explaining the evils of taking food into Chile; spread of foot and mouth, transportation of little bacteria and beasties etc. They don’t see fit to spray your car for such threats but we are clearly in no place to point fingers.

The following day we rose early and trundled down to the ferry port to see when and if the ferry was departing for the mainland. Our first ferry trip towards the end of our marathon drive to Ushuaia had been pretty fortuitous, as having rocked up to the port at 1’o’clock in the morning we’d simply joined an already waiting stream of cars. This time there were no cars, no people, no information and only the vaguest indication that ferrys ever frequented the area. Our ever improving pigeon Spanish came to the rescue, discerning that there was in fact a ferry arriving at 11am. One of our continual little gripes about the helpful locals though is their inability to see the bigger picture. This chap had kindly answered that it arrived at 11am, and took 2 hours to reach Punta Arenas. We (I) had admittedly failed to ask when it left, but really you would hope at that stage that he might have inferred that that little nugget of information might be right up our strasse. Anyway we boarded the 3pm (departing) ferry and spent the two hours updating our journals and starting across the incredibly flat sea. A pod, school or potentially gaggle of dolphins kept us company for a while and, confident that little now stood in our way on our drive to the top of South America, our spirits soared.

Punta Arenas was our first taste of a proper Chilean city and it was perceptibly cleaner and more Western looking than Argentina. The downtown area was still relatively small but there were a good few bars and restaurants to keep us occupied. The next morning we paid a visit to the city cemetery, where the graves range from fairly typical to incredibly ornate tombs for the richer families. They also had beautiful tombs for their police and firemen. It was very calming and humbling to walk among the shrines and a lovely place to reflect on the trip so far. And we were almost completely reverent and respectful, except for when Tom pointed the camera at us, at which point we morphed into grounded but still flapping angels. Apologies.

After our brush with death we headed north to Punta Natales, via Los Penguinos! It is a genuine fact that penguins are the coolest creatures on earth and we were all incredibly excited to go chill out in their manor. These little super stars had arrived in October / November to begin breeding (they only come as couples) and, with their young finally old enough to take to the seas proper, were two weeks away from migrating north to Brazil (Apparently where Happy Feet gets it’s Samba influence).

That night we stayed in the quiet but pretty Punta Natales and then shot on to Chile’s most famous national park, Torres del Paine (The blue towers) for some luxury camping and car repairs. The park itself is absolutely spectacular. The lakes have been formed by a receding glacier and, according to the guide, the way the sediment particles are suspended in glacier melt makes them a strikingly, opaque turquoise colour that captures the sunlight magnificently. The mountains surrounding the lakes are also hauntingly blue and this gives the whole landscape a beautifully tranquil, almost fantasy feel. Our final night there we brought ourselves back to earth with our first (of no doubt many) all steak barbeques, with a little (a lot) vino tinto under a star-packed night sky.

12 Days On This Road: Time For a Photo Montage

2010-03-13T06:19:00.000-08:00

It's been 12 days since we started the Tierre del Fuego to Alaska stage of the trip so we thought we would share those dozen days in picture form. Fear not: The verbal will return shortly.

All Journeys Have a Beginning	Good Things Come to Those Who Wait - Leaving Tierre del Fuego
Punta Arenas Cemetry	Penguins
The Open [and Endless] Road	Tim Gives You: Torres del Paine National Park
Dusk Falls: The Jagged Torres Stand Silent	Lomo
The Star of The Team	The Road Beckons
Ice Ice Baby	This Thing Doesn't Drive Itself
Free Showers	Upon Closer Inspection We Deemed The Tyre Unserviceable
This Road is in Chile	Chaiten: Ghost Town

El Fin del Mundo - The end of the world

2010-02-28T15:11:00.000-08:00

It's 13,500km to London and we're closer to the South Pole than Northern Argentina. To our south is the Beagle channel that Charles Darwin sailed through enroute to the Galapagos Islands and to the north we're enclosed by snow capped mountains and cut off from the mainland by the Straits of Magellan. It's also a tad on the windy side.

We finally set off from Buenos Aires on Tuesday afternoon having cajoled our shipping agents into I suspect unprecedented levels of activity, by turning up at the port on Monday morning and harrying them along for 6 hours. Shipping a car to Buenos Aires requires patience. Fact. With the car prepped and good to go and the weather finally sunny side up our morale was soaring and though we've made some good friends there (special shout out to the girls at the hostel, particular Paula who had the unenviable task of walking round with Tom searching for parafin, of which there turned out to be a national shortage) it was great to be finally underway, particularly as our official starting point was over 3,000km away!

We knew our British plates would probably attract attention and within the first hour of leaving Buenos Aires we were pulled over by a slightly rotund policewoman (I'm not fattest; she was) who inspected Phil's passport, driving license, international driving license, insurance, port entry stamp and finally his passport again. Satisfied, potentially disappointedly, that everything was in order she then proceeded to check that our car was ship shape. Surprisingly, it was not. Unbeknownst to us and no doubt all other western travelers, she kindly informed us that our "Roo" bars were infact illegal in Argentina. This constituted an offense that was punishable with an on the spot fine of $300 US that could be conveniently paid directly to her. If however we wanted to pay at the police station it would be a lot more expensive. Apparently it was not necessary to state how much more expensive. After a fairly brief huddle we informed her that we had no money and would happily drive with her to the nearest bank which she had informed us was 60km away. This solution was unfortunately a "grande problemo", we countered with varying degrees of gallic shrugs, it was a stand off, the atmosphere was tense. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Go, she said, and go we did. Proudly displaying our unaltered Roo bars and resisting the temptation to wave considerably more than 300 US dollars at her.

The rest of the journey was pretty uneventful. We camped for 3 nights at Azul, Rio Colarado and Comodoro Rivadavia which were all pleasant enough. Each day our distances improved as "faffing" (potentially caused by the only member of our team not inclined to wear green and shout hoo-rah after each press up) was replaced by "good admin". On our 4th day we reached Rio Gallegos and then had a bit of a Forest Gump moment. Having missed out on the first ship due to sail Barry to BA we had waited around for 3 weeks for the next boat, then waited in BA for that boat to turn up, then waited for our shipping agents to do anything shipping agent-esque, then waited for customs inspectors to inspect it.... The starting point was finally so close we drove all night, took the ferry across the Straits of Magellan, crossed into Chile, drove over Chile, crossed back into Argentina and finally down to the south coast of Tierra del Fuego to Ushuaia. The drive across the Patagonian mainland had been mind-numbingly dull, with roads so straight you could see the white lines marking the road aligning perfectly all the way to the horizon and with buildings so sparse that our map actually named a hotel on it. But Tierra del Fuego is mountainous terrain and as we twisted and climbed along the steep bending roads the sun crept towards our most southern dawn and the scenery was spectacular.

We drove straight into town and, having only managed an impromptu in-car sandwich for dinner while waiting for the ferry, went straight for the first open cafe. Thank God Ushuaia is a tourist town (and a cool one at that) because eggs and bacon was on the menu. Back of the net! Obviously having had next to no sleep we were keen to get our heads down, but being the kind of macho men that Chuck Norris has nightmares about, we spent yesterday looking around the town instead and then steaked, wined and beered ourselves all the way to the nightclub dance floor for a devastatingly impressive display of British shape-making.

Tomorrow we are onwards and upwards, literally, with the aim of taking in penguins, icebergs and all the spectacular scenery southern Chile has to throw at us enroute to Santiago. Obviously the unfortunate earthquake is going to make things a lot more difficult, something like 500 roads are now impassable, including parts of the Pan-Am, but those difficulties pale into insignificance when compared with the plight of all those Chileans... No doubt my keen wit, Tom's spectacularly lunging and Phil's boyish arianism will cheer them up.

Tender by Blur has just come on the radio. Tender, Tenderloin, Biffe de Lomo, it's steak-o-clock.

Mutiny

2010-02-27T11:25:00.000-08:00

I´d be surprised if anyone were to argue against the fact that the dynamics of a group involved in a journey of this magnitude are extremely important, and each potential member's personal characteristics must be carefully considered in order to not just allow the selection of genuinely talented individuals, but also to lay the foundations of compatatibility that will support the development of a fluid and functional team.... And it is with a furrowed brow and heavy heart that I commit the first seedlings of doubt to this Utopian ideal to text. But no longer can I remain silent. A growing resentment festers within me that casts an ever darkening shadow over the noble ambitions of our trip. A resentment that, if left unquenched from the springs of honesty, could threaten the solidarity and subsequent success of ThisRoad and all it stands for.... Ladies and Gentlemen, all is not well aboard our fair ship Barry. I have been constantly undermined, marginalised and indeed belittled by my alleged crew to a degree so staggering I shy from regaling the magnitude of their mutiny. It was clear, unequivicollay, irrefutably crystal clear, that after showering the boys would join me in the pub to watch the second half of the England vs Ireland rugby game. But their malevelont absence was rivalled only by their obvious and inherent disregard for the protocols of rugby and indeed all sporting voyeurism. You may argue that they hadn´t slept after a 24 hour drive to Ushuaia, you may proffer a defense of ageistic lethargy and forlorn beauty sleep, you may scoff at my manufactured misery and self-indulgent scorn. But I ask you this. Would you have left a friend, a friend so close that you could reach over and touch him from your car seat and / or bunk bed, to the incessant badgering of an irrepresible waiter? A waiter so merciless in his pursuit of further assistance that his pitiful victim is compelled to order an ever growing tide of cervezas that carry him tragically towards a state of undesired drukenness? I think we all know the answer to that question. And I can only hope that some residue of our splintered trust will flourish anew, and heal the wounds of it´s contemptible past..... Hola chico, una mas cerveza, grazias...

It's all got rather moist!

2010-02-20T13:29:00.000-08:00

Ok, I think we've been smited for our earlier gloating about the distinct lack of clouds here in BA. The heavens have opened up and what could only be described as a tropical storm has hit the city causing entire blocks to black-out and turning the street system into something more resembling Venice...

We went to an open warehouse on Monday to see a precussion band, La Bomba de Tiempo, who were unbelievable good. It was kind of like Space in Ibiza with Latino beats. While we were making shapes on the dancefloor the weather decided to take a turn for the worse. As the old adage goes, the rain in Spanish speaking America falls mainly in an uncontrollable down-pour causing flash floods across the city, crippling the transport network and causing city wide blackouts. I’m not sure how common an occurrence this is but we’ve been here a week and it’s happened twice. Last night we weren’t far off swimming back to the hostel, which was in the dark. Still, it’s a lot warmer than Blighty, which we hear may have been crippled by a snow flake.

Donde esta our car?

2010-02-20T12:32:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Buenos Aires. Still Buenos Aires... That’s right, we are well and truly grounded. There is an extremely strong suggestion that are ship did in fact arrive on Thursday (several days late) however the Argentine approach of casual nonchalance means we cannot be sure, about anything. Having called everyday for non-updates they finally contacted us yesterday morning to say we needed to be at the port (half way across the city) in 15 minutes and so after a fairly frantic journey we rocked up, foolishly optimistic that the necessary haste might mean that we were going to get our car... Not so. Our contact at the port said hola, introduced himself, and then suggested we go for a beer, at 11am. Iḿ supremely confidant it was not his first of the day.... Anyway, after much tooing and froing between our agent, our agent’s agent, the agent’s agent’s port contact (aka Fat Tony) and Fat Tony’s customs officials, we still don’t have a car. They told us we can pick it up on Monday, though I suspect they’re fairly casual about that, perhaps even nonchalant.

The upside to this inspirational ineptitude is that Buenos Aires is brilliant. I’m sure the boys (who are currently shlaffing after a fairly heavy night on el towno) may have more to add but I’ĺl give you a quick brief.

We spent the first 3 nights in a nice little apartment in Palermo Soho, a very trendy area of Buenos Aires exactly 2 hours walk from the city centre (2hrs, not the 45 mins my map reading skills expected)

We have since moved into a backpackers just round the corner as this area and Palermo Hollywood next to it are definitely the coolest places to be. The nightlife is excellent but does not get started till late, around midnight is a good time to go to dinner and then hit the bars afterwards. Dinner, as you can probably imagine, is mostly cow related, although you can branch out with some bovine if you’re feeling a little risqué. The first night we had 750g T-Bone steaks, and we have now covered, chorizo, lomo (the best for me), cow cheek and cow intestine. Actually there’s probably more but the meat sweats are making it hard to concentrate.

On Sunday we went to see Boca Juniors play. The atmosphere is unbelievable. The fans don’t stop singing and the noise is incredible. We were in the less rowdy of the two (all-standing) stadium ends, with the away fans in the tier above us. We were warned not to go to the front of our mostly covered stand as the away fans have a tendency to throw missiles. And when I say missiles I means plastic cups filled with, errr, let’s just go with not-coke. Nice. Apparently it can get very dangerous but with a guided tour you feel completely safe, the opposite end had a massive drum and trumpet band that kept the fans bouncing and singing for 90 mins.

Anyway, I’m going to go work on my tan and bone up on my Spanish. Stay classy planet earth.

In Buenos Aires

2010-02-20T07:45:00.000-08:00

Getting all touristy...

Buenos Aires Rocks the Party that Rocks the Party

2010-02-14T06:51:00.000-08:00

Hola amigos,

This Road has started! We've departed the UK and have touched down in Buenos Aires. What can I say, this city rocks. The weather is on the dangerous side of pleasant, or scorchio, as the locals say, and the whole atmosphere is just cool. A contradiction one may say, but hey, deal with it.


The sky in BA	Looking at the sky in BA

ThisRoad Hits the big time

2010-02-07T13:44:00.000-08:00

Consumed by the negativity surrounding John Terry's philandering and Tony Blair's warmongerering (presumably I should say alleged), the national media have hurriedly turned to an altogether more happier tale to lift the countries spirits. It is a story of daring and dastardly deeds, of courage and indeed courageousness, of promises made and records broken (as in we all sound like a broken record)

In today's increasingly Orwellian society the Camberley News stands like a beacon of hope for those who seek the truth. Never afraid to compromise it's integrity for material gain, it's devil may care attitude and razor-sharp reporting have revolutionised local media. And among this throng of journalistic giants, one man stands taller still. A fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants maverick with a nose for a story and a dream of the big time, Mike Wright has galvanised the Camberley News with sensational scoops of the likes of "Who shot Robins family cinema" and "Is my old headmaster a sexual predator?"

And his latest work, incitefully entitled "Intrepid trio ready for Pan-American trip", has all the hallmarks of another best-seller. It is a classic tale of boy meets boy, boy and boy discuss a trip, nobody cares, boy and boy ask handsome boy to come along, handsome boy says yes, people care....

For those of you living in a communications vacuum that even Vodafone can't penetrate, I have reproduced the article below. It is, however, merely the beginning.

Oh, there are prizes for counting the number of mistakes in the picture and the article...

Tom's big fitness plan...

2010-01-27T15:19:00.000-08:00

In an effort to remain reasonably healthy and maintain a modicum of fitness, trainers have been loaded and we plan to intersperse the driving with bouts of 'jogging'. On Sunday 9th May 2010 the Bristol 10K Race takes place. We're gonna be well up the PAH by then (sorry, Pan American Highway; there are some army traits that are just too hard to shake), however the guys at my church back in Bristol (Christchurch) have joined forces with other churches (notably Woodlands, who started it all) and our friends, work-colleagues, the wider community etc. to do something a bit special... From their Facebook group:

'It’s not often you get to do something where everyone benefits, but what makes Love Running so special is the unique combination of health and fitness, social action and community engagement. Not to mention the fun of having a go with loads of other people, and the big party at the end of it. The plan is to create one of the largest sporting event mass-entries of all time in a UK road race; five hundred people entering the Bristol 10k while raising money for some incredible causes and getting involved in some community action. For more info check out www.loverunning.org or watch the video of last year's event.'

On the same day we're going to be donning the red 'Love Running' tee-shirts and doing 10K in support, wherever we find ourselves (I think we'll probably be somewhere like Colombia or Panama by then). We'll post a video of our efforts so you can see me looking somewhat sweaty, Phil looking nonchalant and Tim looking like he's in a state of exhausted delirium...

Help for Heroes

2010-01-19T10:49:00.000-08:00

http://www.justgiving.com/This-Road

It's for charidee mate.

We are sailing, we are sailing (etc)

2010-01-18T03:29:00.000-08:00

Expectations are now running high in the ThisRoad camp – we’ve managed to fix Barry (big thanks to Mike, Malcolm and the chaps at Harding Auto Services – Mike, I want discount for the free plug!) and on Tuesday completed the trip to Felixstowe. Has anyone else been to Felixstowe? Why is it that for an island nation we are positively rubbish at creating seaside towns of any merit or redeeming features? Who actually frequents amusement arcades?? I cannot begin to fathom how there can be anything approaching ‘amusing’ in such establishments. Anyhoo, she was squeezed (just) into a 20-foot ISO container and on Saturday departed on some massive ship for Buenos Aires, due to arrive on Tue 16 Feb. Fingers crossed she will emerge in one piece! Managed to attach a couple of surfboards too (purely, in my case, for the image). Due to the radiator ‘issue’ we’ve delayed our flights (although Tim was slightly upset by this as he wanted to put in a good 3 weeks before Barry’s arrival pesting the local girls in BA...) so our D-Day is now Wed 10 Feb – sweet!

PS – As I’m getting slightly board of having to explain (often to blank and/or slightly unimpressed looking faces) why we’ve named our beloved Landcruiser ‘Barry’ when she is clearly a ‘she’ (certainly don’t wish to be seen driving round in a ‘he’; that just isn’t cricket), can we have suggestions for a suitable alternative name?? Answers on a postcard to the usual address. Thanks!

Slight Hiccup...

2010-01-06T13:21:00.000-08:00

Dr Fossey's cure for the common cold and other related winter ailments

2009-12-22T02:39:00.000-08:00

The amount of information you can pick up on the internet for a trip like this is truly amazing, particular if hours of procrastination have honed you into a lethal Googling machine like me. As with anything, you need to exercise prudence and carefully weigh up competing data in order to determine the most appropriate course of action. For instance the Foreign Office's "We continue to advise against all but essential travel to Honduras due to the ongoing political crisis" and "(Re: Colombia) You should be aware that the long-standing policy of the British Government is not to make substantive concessions to hostage takers" is blatant xenophobic scaremongering and can be summarily dismissed, where as Nigel Soladu from Nigeria's business opportunity offering a 3000% return is clearly a must have, particularly as he has chosen me out of the literally hundreds of people who use the internet.

Medical advice is equally forthcoming, and while at times I have resembled a poorly shaved porcupine while receiving a myriad of expensive and questioningly necessitated injections, it is of course better to be safe than sorry. Especially when safety and cost are so neatly correlated. However, one thing we have all ascertained from the internet is a hitherto unexplored cure for the common cold and other related winter ailments. The practice is only in it's testing phase but they are now about to begin clinical trials on people, which many of you will be aware is the final level of testing before a medication can be released. The medication itself has one of those pseudo-latin type definitions which tends to take a particular scientist's name and add "anusanitis" on the end, but the more common name is "six and half months of summer". Phil, Tom and I have all been accepted onto the trial program and we can't stress enough for you to do the same. Here's a quick look at the prognosis.

Disclaimer:

I am not a real doctor. I'm more of a doctor in the sense that Dr Pepper is a doctor. Although my advice is clearly sound, we take no responsibility for anything, whatsoever.

Please be seated

2009-12-21T07:00:00.000-08:00

This is my first contribution to our website primarily due to the fact that I have been mostly sat on my derriere over recent months, so it's seems only fitting that my initial comments should focus on the comfort levels of the aforementioned posterior. One thing I have discovered about teaming up with two ex-forces chaps is their incredible appetite to cut, carve and bastardise their way through virtually every bit of perfectly serviceable kit we have, in order to create something tailor made to our needs that in no way resembles my GCSE Design Technology project. The latest effort involved taking out the rear bench seat in Barry (the Toyota) and replacing it with a single seat to free up some apparently much needed storage space. I was tasked (when did I start using phrases like that?) to locate and procure a single right hand side rear passenger seat from a geographically appropriate salvaging unit. However, as I was not overly keen on spending 6 months sat on something about as secure as the ejector seat from James Bond's DB5 my lack of enthusiasm no doubt led to my failure to find and buy one from a nearby scrap yard. Luckily for all of us Phil managed to acquire a suitable seat from a Citroen Synergy and happily informed us that the seat is in fact designed to be removable. Quite right, although the intention is you put it back in the Synergy, not a Toyota. Of any description. Regardless we pressed on and after quickly removing the bit of the seat that made it detachable, which was in the way, Tom fashioned a supporting bracket out of his former wooden kitchen work surface and bolted everything together in a euphoric explosion of rugged manliness, back to basics handiwork and most importantly overriding safety. Unfortunately it didn't fit. Not even close. But again unperturbed by this minor set back Tom returned to the drawing board, as opposed to the ironing board that was no doubt next on his kill list, and re-fashioned another bracket out of yet more wooden kitchen work surface.... And you know what? It's bloody ruddy brilliant. It fits, it's secure, it's kept it's original reclining function and it's startlingly comfortable. Which means I can go back to sitting on my a*se. Three cheers for the army, hurrah!


Tom in action	The seat	Tim breaking out a mental sweat	Phil enjoying a post-installation espresso

Survival Training

2009-12-10T11:19:00.000-08:00

Decided to learn the art of sourcing ones food from off-of-the-land so hunted down and dispatched the wild beast known as the chicken. Pics here show the plucking and gutting of the ferocious creature; it was actually a cockerel known as Tiger to some and feared by all. He was laid to rest in the form of a very nice curry. We imagine that turning llamas into food will merely be an extrapolation of the process.

Mud Wrestling

2009-12-06T11:40:00.000-08:00

This weekend saw the truck's first outing doing what it does best. Lots of mud, water, muddy water and gnarlyness (including wet muddy gnarlyness!). We deployed on a miserable December Saturday night in preparation for the main event on Sunday (Note to those who care: roof tents are for winners). Under the proficient tutelage of Tom Millward we put the beast through her paces on Salisbury Plain. The pictures tell the story better than I could, though it suffices to say that we were impressed, not only by our innate skill, but by what these 4-wheel-drive machines can do. Final score: Tom 1 (despite getting the truck stuck twice), Phil 1, Tim DNS. However, at the end of the day, off-roading was the real winner.

Vehicles, Jabs, Cameras, Espanol

2009-10-22T06:54:00.000-07:00

We are still at the planning stage (admittedly possibly one of the longest planning periods for such a venture given that the trip was conceived of approximately 2 years ago) but are now putting our time and money where our dreamy little minds (and big bragging mouths) are. We are also now a 3-man outfit, with the addition of Tim, who clearly knows a good idea when he sees one. So we are currently getting hold of the kit we need, trying to learn the lingo and getting clued up on all the detailed requirements of such an undertaking.