Big Bend National Park, TX

Big Bend is named after the, er, big bend in the Rio Grande river separating southern Texas from northern Mexico. Don't worry if you've never heard of it, because I hadn't either until I started planning this trip. But I'm definitely a fan now. I have searched, in vain, for souvenir T-shirts declaring 'I'm a Big Bender'.

In order to visit the park I got a train from El Paso, Texas (pop. 800,000) to Alpine, Texas (pop. 5,786). Alpine is what they used to call a 'one-horse town', and on the night I arrived it was a zero-taxi town, which meant I had to walk a couple of miles from the station to my motel, complete with backpack. It was a proper old-school American motel like you see in the movies, basically a small car park with a single level of adjoining lodges all around it.

Alpine is a nice place, but I can't help observing that I have entered the Realm of the Banjo. In one shop I actually overheard someone referring to an absent friend as 'Cleetus'...

I did at least manage to hire a car, my third in the USA (this one's a Chevy Cobalt, a bit smaller than the Impala) and spend a day driving all the way round the park, followed by a day doing a couple of moderate hikes. I wanted to do one big hike, but my feet hadn't quite recovered from Guadalupe and then the walk from the station to the motel only made my blisters even worse.

Also I got quite badly chapped lips from the sun and the wind while out hiking. The swelling made it look like I was wearing lipstick. By the time I'd finished a very hot plate of tacos, I was beginning to resemble Pete Burns.

Nice tacos though (see picture), and nice locally-brewed beer to wash them down. This was the High Sierra Bar and Grill, part of the same establishment as the El Dorado motel, in Study Butte-Terlingua (pop. 267), where I spent my second night. Shortly after I finished eating there was a fight in the bar, and I couldn't figure out why the barman was just standing there until I realised that the chief aggressor in the fight was the guy who actually owned the place. Fortunately no guns were pulled.

Later on I went upstairs onto the roof terrace, and that was a bit of a special moment: the mountain skylines clearly visible by moonlight alone, the bats flitting around the neon signs, unspoilt nature stretching to the horizon in every direction, and no sound but the chirping of the cicadas. Really, it's a shame to be travelling by myself at times like that. But seeing it alone is better than never seeing it at all.

Santa Elena Canyon

View from the top of the Lost Mine Trail

Tuff Canyon.
It's rock.

Edd vs Food, #2.
Tacos de alhambre at the High Sierra Bar and Grill.

When I woke up in my Alpine motel, I discovered that I hadn't been sleeping alone.
Credit-card size room key included for size comparison.

Ciudad Juárez, Mexico

Ciudad Juárez - the place where Mexico's drug gangs meet up to resolve their differences - was officially the world's most dangerous city, outside of declared war zones, in 2009. Things have calmed down slightly since then but it's still pretty much off-limits to travellers. Which is why I'm staying over the border in Texas, in El Paso. The two cities form one huge conurbation divided by a wide and very securely fenced border. El Paso itself is safe as houses.

I did pop over the border crossing to take a photo, and to have an ice cream. As soon as you arrive you can feel the tension in the air, and the fear. Normally I don't mind being the only white guy on the street, but this time there was more than just curiosity in the looks I was getting, and so I was back over that bridge before I'd finished my ice cream. Annoyingly, I didn't even get a Mexico stamp in my passport.

It took a while getting back through immigration at the American end of the bridge. If anyone's ever felt like they got rough treatment when arriving in the USA by plane at JFK, well, you should try arriving on foot from Mexico when you're neither American nor Mexican. I got a very long grilling from Homeland Security...here's a word-for-word extract:

Homeland Security Man: 'Have you ever been to any camps?'
Me: 'Camps?'
Homeland Security Man: 'Terrorist training camps.'
Me: 'No.'
Homeland Security Man: 'You're sure?'
Me: 'Yes.'
Homeland Security Man: 'Hmmm.'

I suppose I can forgive them for being a bit jumpy right now.

On a happier note, El Paso contains by far the best pub I've ever found outside the UK. It's called The Hoppy Monk. (Considering that part of my day job is writing HTML, I should really include hyperlinks more often.) They have 70 craft beers on draught, plus 150 bottled beers and a fine range of whiskies, and the food is great. On Monday nights it's $3.50 a beer! Bud Lite is not stocked, and indeed you only hear it mentioned in the same tone of voice you might use to say 'rectal prolapse' or 'Kerry Katona'. 

Brews sampled by me at the Hoppy Monk included Dale's Pale Ale, Ayinger Brau Weisse, Deschutes Obsidian Stout, Avery Maharaja, and Stone Arrogant Bastard. (Not all in the same night, I hasten to add.) All very nice, and pretty strong too: your average English pub will usually have at least one session ale at 4% or less, but I've rarely seen any American craft beers at anything less than 5%.

Meanwhile, my motel is basic but clean and secure. There's a swimming pool, but unfortunately I've had to give it a miss because I don't want to display my trademark two-tone travel tan: bronzed from the neck up, bronzed from the knees and elbows down, blotchy white everywhere else. And nobody needs to see that; least of all you, my dear readers.

The view from the Mexico side. 'Feliz viaje' means 'Happy travels'. Quite.

The border, seen from the bridge.

El Paso in a nutshell:
sunshine, mountains, billboards.

This guy's not sitting on the fence (see bumper stickers as well as licence plate).

The Hoppy Monk in all its glory.
I'm definitely coming back here one day.

Roswell, NM

That's New Mexico, by the way. What am I doing in Roswell? I really don't give a toss for all that nonsense about little green men. Once again I'm visiting a place just for the sake of being able to say, next time that place crops up in conversation back home, 'I've been there'. Shallow really.

But I was taking my new hire car (a Chevy Impala this time) on a big tour of western Texas and New Mexico, and Roswell was on the way, so I popped in. More significantly, I visited White Sands National Monument and Guadalupe Mountains National Park. My next blog will follow in just 1 or 2 days and will have a bit more detail about where I'm actually staying...in the meantime I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Roswell. Aliens. Etc. Yawn.
In fairness I think that sums up the attitude of the locals as well.

White Sands National Monument. You see how it got the name.
The sand is as soft and fine as flour, and it looks like snow even close up.

White Sands National Monument again.
Texas and New Mexico are full of public picnic stalls, complete with barbecue grill.
In this case, you just have to remind yourself that it's sand and not snow.

Halfway up Guadalupe Peak.
The National Parks website says this is a hike of 6-8 hours.
I presume their target demographic is the Golden Girls. I did it in 4 and a half.

View from the top of Guadalupe Peak, 9000 feet above sea level.
(The car park where you start climbing is 6000 feet up.)

Another view from the top of Guadalupe Peak

  

Looking back at the peak from Route 180

A typical view from a rural Texas highway

Tucson, AZ

I was probably a little bit too polite at the end of my last blog. Honesty is the best policy. LA is a complete shit-hole and I wouldn't live there even if you paid me to do so and threw in a free Hollywood Hills mansion, complete with limo and driver.

So I hopped on an overnight Amtrak. On arrival at Tucson station, I ordered a croque monsieur and a coffee, and went on the interweb to discover that SAFC 1 Everton 0 had literally just happened (this was at 4.50pm BST on Saturday). What a lovely way to start the day.

The hire car I collected from Tuscon Airport - 'guns in checked baggage only, not in the cabin, thank you' - was my first ever encounter with left-hand drive, unless you count dodgems. Fortunately I soon adjusted and my nice Nissan Altima 2.5S has served me well. 

As you'll see from the photos, my time here has been largely rural. Tucson itself is a really interesting place and it's much more funky and bohemian than you might expect, especially in terms of nightlife. I wouldn't put it in my all-time top 10, but I'd definitely come back if I was passing.

PS re my offer, in the last blog, of a free drink to anyone who guessed correctly where I was going next...nobody got it right. Thanks for trying anyway!

Tucson

Tucson Mountain Park

Saguaro National Park

Saguaro National Park.
The peak in the distance is 46 miles away.

Sabino Canyon

Sabino Canyon

Los Angeles, CA

On my previous round-the-world trip, I travelled west over the International Date Line, and ended up completely missing a day: July 2nd 2008. This time, going east, I've had to go through April 17th 2013 twice. It all makes my diary a bit complicated.

When I was standing in the immigration queue at LAX, a uniformed woman came round with the world's smallest and cutest sniffer dog trotting along after her. He made a beeline straight for my bag, sniffed at it carefully, and then sat down next to it while giving his owner a very significant look. (If dogs had eyebrows, one of them would have been raised at least half an inch.) The handler asked me if there was any food in the bag: I mentioned the egg sandwich I'd eaten at Sydney. She was happy with that, and gave the puppy a gentle telling-off. 'Snoop! That's residual.' But he still got a biscuit, and I still got allowed into the USA.

I spent my first night staying near the ocean, just off Hermosa Beach, and for my second night I moved inland nearer to Downtown. Inbetween I hired a bike and cycled up the beachfront from Hermosa to Santa Monica and back. I got a bit sunburned - I didn't realise how much until I was standing at a urinal later and I noticed the redness of my hands, which had been exposed to the sun, and were now in close contact with another part of me, which hadn't. The combined picture looked rather like one of those little sausages wrapped in bacon. Except much bigger, of course.

Anyway...the bike ride was great fun, but switching between the two hostels was not. Using public transport, it took 4 hours to cover about 20 miles. Besides which, LA is grotty and smoggy and unfriendly and not all that interesting. So I'm going to be out of here pretty quickly, and a prize of one drink is on offer to anyone who correctly guesses my next destination.

Downtown at sunset

Marina del Rey

Hermosa Beach at sunset

Sydney, Australia

Just a one-night stopover. Nice place. Been here before though.

Very long flight coming up.

Sydney

Melbourne, Australia

Eagle-eyed readers will have noticed two innovations in the previous blog entry...

Firstly, I’ve never before included a picture of myself. This is because a) you all know what I look like, and b) there are always more interesting things to look at. However on this occasion I did feel that what happened between me and Libby off of Neighbours - and it was a beautiful, natural thing between a man and a woman - needed to be recorded for posterity. It does compromise me a bit for paternity suits and stuff, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.

Secondly, it was my first blog from a fictional location. Yes, Erinsborough doesn’t actually exist. And neither does Ramsay Street. The outdoor scenes are filmed in a real street called Pin Oak Court, in Vermont South. Any time you see a picture of someone next to the ‘Ramsay Street’ sign, you’ll notice that they always have a hand on it: this is because the sign isn't stuck to the ground. It arrives and leaves with the tour bus, and it has to be held upright. Sorry to spoil the magic.

Anyway, this is my second trip to Melbourne (see July / August 2008 below), and once again I’m indebted to my good friends Sarah, Sean and John for having the good grace to come out here in advance and prepare the way for my visit. Melbourne is a lovely place, overflowing with top quality restaurants, bars and everything else. It’s also rather frightfully expensive (a beer is usually anywhere between £6 and £10 at current exchange rates) but I’ve had free accommodation so who cares? You can’t take it with you, etc.

On Saturday the four of us spent the day in the Yarra Valley on a wine-tasting tour, which also involved sampling some delicious fruits and soft cheeses, as well as a three-course lunch. At first we were all being very cultured - comparing notes about tannin inflections, top-notes of elderflower, and voluptuous aftertastes – but the spittoon was left dry all day, and by hometime we were all pretty sozzled.

On Sunday Sean and I went to the Melbourne Cricket Ground to watch Aussie Rules football: Collingwood vs Hawthorn. The latter play in black and white stripes, so we supported the former, and the former won. 

Better still, at 9pm, along with Sarah and John and my new mates Paddy and Humphrey, we found an Irish bar in which to see Sunderland AFC open a big, fizzy can of freshly squeezed whup-ass all over our nearest and dearest from up the road. Paolo Di Canio has secured a warm place in my affections! The next day, at Subway, I paid tribute to him by having an Italian BMT on Italian herb & cheese for my lunch. La vita e bella. (Unless, of course, you’re a police horse getting punched by a rioting Geordie cretin.)

Melbourne

AFL at the MCG

Posh used-car garage car #1: vintage Ferrari

Posh used-car garage car #2: vintage Mustang

Sean and I have been enjoying some of this.
Sarah doesn't mind, but Libby isn't best pleased.

Erinsborough, Australia

Aaah...the English-speaking world. I've rather missed it.

This update will be mainly pictorial. If you've never watched Neighbours then you may want to give it a miss. Otherwise, see below.

Who would live in a house like this?
Harold, Madge, Scott, Charlene and Henry... also Beth (Natalie Imbruglia)

Who would live in a house like this? Jim Robinson, Helen Daniels...

Des, Daphne, Mike Young (Guy Pearce), Dr Karl, Libby (see below)

Me with Kym Valentine, aka Libby Kennedy, daughter of Dr Karl.
A woman's body language never lies.

Singapore

It's another epic fail on the language front, I'm afraid. I've been here two nights and I haven't learned a single word of Singaporese.

My hotel is in Little India, in the north of the city centre. On Monday night I went out and had mutton biryani for tea. How come I've never eaten mutton before? It tasted like lamb, which is fine by me. Lovely curry. Last night was Chinese food, in Chinatown (unsurprisingly): shredded pork and crispy duck, again delicious. 

Today I had a wander round Clarke Quay (very swish) and ended up taking a break from the local cuisine by stuffing my face full of grilled beef burrito, with nachos on the side. After that I was so bloated that I ended up skipping the intended Singapore Sling cocktail at the Raffles Hotel. I did have a look in, but just reading the menu made my wallet hurt.

I must apologise to all my readers for the fact that this trip has been a little bit tame so far. Nothing traumatic or unexpected has happened, really. Entertainment will ensue when it does. In the meantime may I just quickly use my little internet soapbox to complain about high-end hotels that charge you extra for wi-fi, after you've already booked and paid and arrived. Why not go the whole hog and charge extra for pillows? Or towels? Or hot water? Because you'd lose customers, that's why. Just like you've already lost this one. Tossers.

Rant over. In fairness I've kept completely quiet about both the arrival of Paolo Di Canio and the departure of Mrs T.

Anyway, see below for photos of Singapore. This is my second tour through South East Asia, and it's a part of the world which I really love - the scenery, the food, the history, the competitive pricing, and above all the people. I just struggle with the humidity. I've been sweating like a whore in church for the whole of the past week. So, for that reason only, I'm a little bit glad to be saying goodbye to the tropics.

Cable car on the way to Sentosa Island

Singapore at night

 

A ship on top of three skyscrapers. I don't know why.

Clarke Quay by night

It's a fashionable look, but I don't think I could pull it off.

Malacca, Malaysia

(The official spelling nowadays is Melaka, but I prefer to spell it Malacca, like in the old days. Giving a place an anglicised spelling is a compliment really - just like it is for Rome, Moscow, Cologne, etc.)

Malacca is a smallish coastal city, full of historical interest, with colonial influences from both the Dutch and those perennial colonial offenders, the British. It's also a popular holiday destination for Malaysians as well as Indians, Chinese, Japanese and Koreans among others. It overlooks the Strait of Malacca, which is one of the world's busiest shipping routes: it's the main shipping channel between the Pacific and Indian oceans.

The bus here from Kuala Lumpur was cheap as chips and very nice. After two nights in a quiet hostel, I then had one night in a plush Holiday Inn, where they kindly upgraded me to a Club room on the seventeenth floor, with a full wall window overlooking the Strait. A huge thunderstorm made for a rather dramatic night's sleep.

Otherwise, my three days here have been fairly quiet, so I'll keep this blog entry short rather than bore everyone senseless by writing about nothing!

View from the 17th floor

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A bit of local wildlife seen on the riverboat cruise. Eeek.

Monorail...monorail...monorail!!!!!!
Sadly it stopped working about 15 minutes after it was opened, in 2010, and has lain idle since.

Gardens of the Melaka Sultan palace

Jalan Kampong Pantai.
All the buildings in this road are lit up in red at night, and it looks really nice in real life.
Unfortunately it looks less nice through a cheap camera operated by an incompetent.

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

I hope you're all enjoying the April showers back home. It's 31°C here.

I failed miserably to bother learning any of the Malay language before arriving. Fortunately it turns out that Malay for hello is 'hi', which is handy. But most locals who interact with tourists start speaking pretty good English as soon as they see a white face anyway. 

I've had some interesting conversations with taxi drivers. One was a Muslim and he asked me if there were many Muslims back in England. I told him that there were, and that indeed we had plenty of mosques and halal food stores. I'm not sure he believed me on the latter point. Also, he had heard about Tony Blair reading the Koran and this amused him - why would you want to read about someone else's religion? For his own part, he found the Koran difficult to read because he had only a rudimentary knowledge of Arabic and translations were frowned upon.

Another driver was of Chinese origin, and spoke disparagingly of his Muslim countrymen. He said he preferred to go on holiday to Thailand, where things were cheaper and there were fewer rules. Here in Malaysia, he said, it was difficult to get cheap alcohol because of the Muslims, and also the prostitutes were too expensive because of the protection money they had to pay. I made sympathetic noises.

Having slummed it somewhat of late, I decided to treat myself to one night in a 5-star hotel, where I had a 'deluxe apartment', not that the kitchen or dressing room or either of the two big flat-screen TVs were much use to me. It was very nice though. 

Unfortunately I was to have one last reminder of the Clash Of Civilisations before departing: I failed to anticipate, from the preponderance of veils and headscarves among the hotel's female guests, that the breakfast menu would be entirely halal. No pig-derived products at all. No bacon, no sausage, no black pudding. And thus it was that my eagerly-anticipated full cooked breakfast, having made only the most half-hearted of beginnings with some rather watery baked beans, and then rallied briefly with the addition of an omelette, expired altogether in a limp morass of papaya and watermelon. To add insult to injury, they offered pretend 'sausages' made from reformed chicken. Is nothing sacred?

The massage/spa service at that hotel was called Telana Bunga. I hope this doesn't cause any misunderstandings if Signor Berlusconi drops in.

Sultan Abdul Samad Building, seen from Selangor Cricket Club.
Petronas Towers just visible in the distance.

One can't stay in hostels one's whole life.

Impressive pair, magnificent erection, etc etc etc

Petronas Towers, seen from the top floor penthouse of my hotel.
I'm not sure I was meant to be there, but the door was open and nobody was around.