Noah looks a bit like a fish out of water. He’s wearing dark shades, clutching a beer can, and an unruly merkin is the only scrap of attire covering his, ahem, manhood. If it wasn’t for his staff and robe, which is sporadically lifted to reveal a pair of pale buttocks, I wouldn’t recognise this so-called pillar of Christianity. Around him a menagerie of wildlife is emulating an orgy of biblical proportions. Zebras, tigers, cows, hippos and a dominatrix rhino are writhing about on the floor, shrieking with pleasure and creating a beastly spectacle.
And here I was thinking the Rugby Sevens was all about sport. Maybe elsewhere on the planet, but this is Vegas, baby, and the party trumps play. Men in fluoro tutus and women in eeny-weeny stars-and-stripes bikinis shuffle through the turnstiles. Superheroes rub shoulders with jelly-bean men in full-body Lycra, a Statue of Liberty queues behind an Egyptian sphinx, and a pregnant nun waddles past carrying a tray full of beer.
“It’s like fantasy land, an escape from reality,” says South African Peter Busse, as he stands with a mate outside the entrance to Sam Boyd Stadium in Las Vegas, wearing a bright green mohawk wig and knocking back a can of beer. It doesn’t matter that it’s not quite midday.
Inside, the American national anthem plays to a hushed crowd, an Air Force flyover blasts over the stadium and the field erupts in fireworks. Sixteen nations from around the world have descended on Vegas for three days of brute contest. At stake is a berth at the Olympics in Rio, when rugby will return to the Games for the first time since 1924 (the top four teams at the end of the World Series season automatically qualify).
The Sevens is kind of like the Twenty20 of rugby. Based on rugby union, but with half the number of players (seven instead of 15), the game consists of two seven-minute halves and is lightning fast. In Vegas competition is hot and so is the weather. It’s winter but it is unseasonably steamy and feels like the sun is radiating off the Nevada mountains, which can be glimpsed through the open end of the stadium. No wonder the beer is flowing so freely.
On the concourse, a group of burly Samoan Americans has set up a three-litre keg of beer on a rubbish bin and has clearly had a few refills. One is dressed as a sheikh, another stands out in a high-vis vest adorned with a necklace of Christmas baubles and boobs. “The balls are Samoan, the titties are white,” he says, cracking up, clearly enjoying the gag. “We’re trying to film The Hangover Part 4.”
In the stands, there are many others who, if not nursing hangovers now, soon will be. “It’s unreal, sucking the life out of me,” confides one Aussie, who’s been playing the Vegas scene hard. Surprisingly, the Aussie contingent is quite small and relatively subdued. I find a young bunch of blokes wearing green and gold sitting on the back bleachers behind a man in khaki sporting a Bindi Irwin wig. They’re eating obligatory fried chicken and fries and have used the rugby as an excuse to come to Vegas. “It’s what you’d expect, just loose,” one of the blokes tells me as his “mad rugby mate” jumps to his feet yelling: “Smack him!” It’s the first match of day two – the USA versus South Africa – and the crowd, heavily weighted towards the home-side, is pumped.
Soon the Aussies take to the field, executing a blistering 26-nil lead over Scotland by half time. Brawn and bravado are replaced by bronzer and ballet kicks as the Sweethearts cheerleaders run onto the field, all hot pants, flicking hair and cute-as-pie waves. Play resumes and a lone bagpiper blurts a mournful tune from under a distant light tower, a woman wrapped in an Australian flag watches intently, while nearby a Scot in a kilt gesticulates wildly as a Loch Ness Monster bounces at his groin. There’s also a cow. A cow with a sign that reads “eat more chicken”. Before I have time to contemplate what that’s all about, it’s all over. Australia has annihilated Scotland 40-14 and ‘Down Under’ is blaring from the speakers.
That performance deserves a drink. Back on the concourse I bump into a Canadian–American wearing tight, red maple-leaf jocks paired with a sequined stars-and-stripes jacket with tasselled sleeves. Ardy Farhangdoost is part of an official rugby touring group and hasn’t missed a Vegas tournament since the Rugby Sevens first started playing here five years ago. He’s become something of a mascot for the sport, recognised by fans as ‘Canadian Speedo Man’.
“I have no shame and I just love the game, the atmosphere, the costumes,” he says. “I know with the fans the more obnoxious or ridiculous [my costume], the more it stands out.” Today Noah and his ark of animals are giving him a run for his money. They’ve commandeered an area opposite one of the stadium doors and have formed a human, or rather an animal, pyramid. Nearby, an eagle clutches a golden trophy – symbolising the host nation’s hopes for the tournament.
“One of the greatest parts about rugby fans is that they’re uninhibited, no judgement, it’s a very accepting culture,” says Noah, aka Johnny Warner. Quite profound coming from a man who looks like he’s wearing road kill for underpants.
These fans make the Ashes Barmy Army look coy. This is truly an event that transcends sport. And it’s so quintessentially Vegas – loud, proud and completely gratuitous. In the car park, scores of stretch limousines line up to take the punters home – most of them no doubt staying on the famous Strip. Few will get much sleep, and they’ll be back to do it all over again tomorrow.
On the final day, a crowd of more than 25,000 crams the stadium to watch the final between the Kiwis and Fiji. (For the record Australia came a respectable fifth, taking home the consolation Plate.) Pale blue flags billow over spectators, and the stands throb to a soundtrack of chanting and drumming.
Turns out I’m sitting among the Fijian supporters (who knew there was such a large population of Fijians in the USA?). By halftime Fiji has scored 21 and New Zealand has yet to hit the scoreboard. The crowd has been whipped into a fervour and a commotion of cheers and applause breaks out a few rows in front of me. A woman is sculling beer from her shoe, sufficiently sloshed that she doesn’t mind the foot-funk on her brew.
Two spectators – including a woman in a pink tutu – leap onto the field and a game of cat and mouse ensues as security guards chase them around in a scene reminiscent of a Benny Hill sketch that only serves to further enliven the crowd. A portly guard seizes his moment, throwing himself on the male invader, who is at once flattened and rendered immobile. The tutu woman continues to flounce around the field until two guards take her down. The man is cuffed and the woman is escorted off in a fireman’s lift, all the while the crowd chants: “Let them go! Let them go!”
When the final whistle blows, New Zealand has salvaged some dignity but goes down to the Fijian victors 35-19. A trickle of spectators breaches security, taking to the field. There’s a polite order to keep off the ground, but it’s too late. The floodgates have opened and a tide of fans pours onto the turf. This is Sin City and rules are made for breaking. I spot Ardy among the sea of people, running about in his jocks with a cape rippling behind him, and am reminded of something Noah said the previous day.
“Saturday shall be-eth a rugby day. And we’ll be here for evil Sunday.”
It starts quietly enough. Men playing an assortment of instruments – guitars, a violin, mandolin and bongos – are picking out a tune. Then a group of teenage girls starts singing, their voices transforming the music into something magical. “That’s a song about asking people to come back to your land,” says one of the men through a translator when the song is done. “A song that became popular after the independence vote.”
These are some of the local musicians in a small Timor-Leste village called Uai Gae, and the microphones they’ve been playing to on the patio of a small building have been placed their by Melbourne musician, songwriter and educator Jesse Hooper. In August 2013, Hooper, with the help of sponsors and money raised from a Pozible campaign, went to the island nation to explore its music and witness the country’s first-ever music and culture festival in Baucau.
“When I was there I spent most of my time looking at traditional music with the villagers, which was great, but at the festival they had much more modern rock music,” says the former Killing Heidi guitarist. “It was great – people wanted to rock out, they wanted to dance, they’d never seen a PA or big light rigs. From an audience perspective it was fantastic.”
While he was there, Hooper discovered a musical thread that seemed to connect the villagers, who often sing of independence, nation building and community, and a younger generation who are influenced by contemporary genres. One of the groups he met is called Galaxy.
“Galaxy fuse reggae and rock and are much more political about Timorese issues,” he explains. “That’s what excites me because it’s unique to that area and these are their stories. That’s what I’m curious about. In Dili, there are lots of youths, there are gangs, there’s massive unemployment and there’s tension building because what are they going to do? The guys in these bands are trying to provide some leadership through music to say it’s a new country, things are going to get better, let’s not forget our roots. That’s what I’d like to go back and explore.”
It’s not entirely surprising that Hooper was interested in their work, since Galaxy’s music has a definite synergy with his ‘day job’: one day a week he teaches at Melbourne music school Collarts, but he’s also a community cultural development artist at Artful Dodgers Studio, part of Jesuit Social Services in the suburb of Collingwood. There, he’s part of a team of professional musicians and artists that provides a creative outlet for refugees, asylum seekers and young people with mental health, alcohol or drug issues and other employment barriers.
Hooper’s connections with Timor-Leste go back some way. In 2001, he and sister Ella played there for the peacekeeping forces. On his return 12 years later, he noticed some big changes. “I remember going through Dili and most buildings were damaged or destroyed, but this time everything was rebuilt,” he says. “But when you go out to Baucau, the roads just drop away to nothing, there’s very little infrastructure and you can’t get phone or internet coverage most of the time.”
After returning from this latest trip, Hooper set about mixing the music he’d recorded. It’s now been delivered back to the people who originally made it. “I left some recording equipment there, but a lot of the people we met in the villages live in their own community and don’t really want to go to someone’s house to use the gear,” he says. “To get them the recordings was one of the main parts of the project and now they’ve got them and MP3 players and ways of listening to them.”
Now, Hooper’s working on the second phase of his grand scheme: to build a permanent recording studio for the musicians. Someone in Baucau has donated a plot of land, other groups have offered to design the facilities and people are helping with all-important fundraising to make it happen.
There’s another Timor connection at Artful Dodgers, through Hooper’s co-worker Paulie Stewart. Paulie’s brother Tony was one of the five journalists executed by Indonesian forces at Balibo in 1975. A member of seminal Melbourne rockers Painters and Dockers, Paulie now plays with the Dili Allstars (a Melbourne-based Australian and East Timorese reggae/ska band) and is a fierce supporter of Timor-Leste, as well as many other great causes.
“He’s got a lot of great connections in Timor,” says Hooper. “He and I have been thinking we’d love to take some young musicians from here to there to do a series of recordings and concerts, but also to bring Galaxy out here and share our audiences.”
I have travelled all around the world, from Chile to Cambodia, Fiji to Nepal, and the cheapest hotel I ever stayed in was the five-star Hilton Melbourne South Wharf, which cost me $1.
When I began my journey as a backpacker, I was interested in the lives of poor people in developing countries. Now I know how they live: they keep chickens, cut out pictures from magazines and stick them on their walls, carry stuff around on their heads, and wake up very early in the morning. They often don’t have toilets in their homes. Apart from that, they’re just like us..
These days, I’m more concerned with the culture of rich people, and I’ve devoted the last couple of years to trying to discover what we can learn from these simple folk, who are only concerned with luxury and money.
Business travellers inhabit a hidden world of airport and executive lounges. They belong to frequent flyer and hotel loyalty programs, which provide them with free stuff like beer, wine and food.
Let me explain how this worked for me. A couple of years ago, I flew twice to Europe with Qantas, and also took a number of Qantas domestic flights. I became a Gold Qantas Frequent Flyer, which entitled me to use Qantas Club. These are bland and uninspiring facilities, but offer great opportunities for rich-people watching.
At about 5pm each day, the cold buffet (with one choice of soup) is augmented by a hot food selection (usually a fairly crappy pasta). As soon as this occurs, dozens of business travellers hurry to their feet and rush the servery because, even though you wouldn’t pay five dollars for the meal at the restaurant, the chance to get something for nothing is valued very highly in the uncomplicated philosophy of people who wear suits to work.
In late 2010, in an attempt to win a bigger share of the business-travel market, Virgin Australia offered to ‘status match’ Qantas Frequent Flyers. In other words, if you were Gold with Qantas, they would make you Gold with Virgin, even if, like me, you never flew Virgin because you mistakenly believed their flights were always cancelled.
And here’s the good bit: the Hilton Honors program status-matched Virgin Frequent Flyers, so I was automatically a Gold Hilton guest, although I never stayed at Hiltons either. This meant that, at Hilton hotels throughout the world, I became entitled to an automatic upgrade to an Executive Room, free wi-fi and a buffet breakfast.
I paid $165 for a room at the Hilton Melbourne South Wharf. The extras – wi-fi and breakfast – were worth about $50, which theoretically brought the price of the room itself down to $115. Realistically, however, I’d have spent only $10 on breakfast and $5 at an internet cafe, so let’s call it $150.
But Gold Hilton Honors members also have use of the Executive Lounge, which serves free beer, wine and canapés from 6pm to 8.30pm. I arrived with a friend and her daughter at 6pm on the dot. We immediately began drinking Boag’s Premium and eating plates of antipasti – bread, cheese, olives, cold meats, nuts and salads, until the hot food arrived.
The samosas were delicious, although my friend preferred the gyoza, and we could go back for more as often as we liked. I ate five small plates of hot food, which amounted to one big plate. My friend and her daughter probably had another six between them, and there was a cheeseboard for dessert. In a mid-range restaurant, we would have paid about $30 a head – and at the Hilton we had a view of the Yarra.
So, by now, the room itself had cost me only $60. To my shame, I drank six Boag’s and a glass of white wine. My friend had four drinks, her daughter drank a single Coke. At $5 for each alcoholic drink – which would be cheap – and $4 for the Coke, our drinks bill in a bar would’ve totalled $59.
That’s how my room at the Hilton cost me $1. And that’s why rich people are rich.
Movie stars, rock stars, celebrities and a gaggle of the truly deluded… That’s West Hollywood. No one was born here or anywhere near here to be honest. People flock here – from Ohio, Minnesota, Australia, Russia – to ‘make it’. They pack their dreams into a suitcase and, with their best smiles on and pretty little faces, are lured towards the glamour. This is Hollywood, after all. But this town will very quickly steal your suitcase and punch you in your pretty little face. If you can handle the initial violent outburst from this fickle city though, you will discover a melting pot of cultures, an obscene amount of talent, and entertainment that will wow the organic green smoothie out of you.
West Hollywood is celebrity central, and you could spend the entire time hanging out in the same places as the TMZ paparazzi – Dan Tana’s, the Viper Room, Soho House and Urth Caffé – but there’s another side as well.
Are you kidding me?! This is Hollywood. There’s no eating. To survive here you must consume a mere kale juice in the morning, maybe some goji berries later in the day and that is it. However, if you’re not a psycho, LA has some of the best food in the world.
For a little known gem of a place go to Elderberries on Sunset. You could be mistaken for thinking you’d walked into someone’s house. The guys here make everything from scratch right in front of you in the open kitchen, and the food is so fresh they don’t even have a refrigerator. There’s an elderberry juice that isn’t always on the menu, but when it is you need to beat a path to the door – the locals come pouring in to get it and it never lasts long. A small glass of this thick, tart berry elixir will cure you of everything, they say, and I have to admit it got rid of my cold in one hit. Magic.
For a real Mexican experience, go to the Gardens of Taxco, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. Now this is a treat. You don’t order, they just bring you what they’re making that night, and there’s always plenty of it. Sit back with a margarita and let the staff make all the decisions for you. While you’re hoeing in, a three-man mariachi band will serenade you. When your mouth isn’t full, sing along – this is a place bursting with atmosphere and you’d be mad not to get involved.
If you want to eat like a true local though, you might have to travel a little bit further (go on, book an Uber) and head to Studio City. That’s where you’ll find SunCafe. This is what LA food is all about: organic, raw, vegan, namaste. If the idea of raw kelp noodles and a macrobiotic bowl seems scary, SunCafe will surprise you. I’ve taken the hardest of carnivores there and they have left the hippiest of tree huggers. The food really is that good.
The thing about Hollywood is that everything and everyone is on show, so to find the behind-the-scenes action you have to be very specific about where you go. To get inside Good Times at Davey Wayne’s, admittedly slightly over the WeHo border in Hollywood proper, you have to walk through a fridge door – and it gets more hilarious from there. Inside it looks as though the entire place has been furnished from a garage sale. For years it’s been a bit of a secret, but people are starting to talk and this quirky, second-hand bar will soon be exploited. Gasp! In Hollywood?! Never.
There are no TVs showing every sport known to (American) mankind here. At The Darkroom, on Melrose, it’s all dim lights and leather jackets. It’s one of those bars that you visit because it makes you feel a lot cooler than you actually are. Order yourself a can of PBR – don’t judge, it’s US$3, huge and a hipster’s delight. I don’t care if you don’t smoke – shut up, get a cigar, sit out the front and pretend you are a gangster. This bar is great.
Because this is Hollywood, a trip to the movies seems somehow essential. They’re the reason this place exists. The Sundance Sunset Cinema plays the sort of indie films you’re not likely to see at a suburban megaplex, but are the types of flicks folks in Hollywood make because they’re still passionate about movies. Bonus: on a Tuesday tickets are only US$5.
Hollywood is home to 90 per cent of the world’s best comedians, so heading out to see some stand-up is something you have to do. An obscene number of underground shows are waiting to be found and, more often than not, someone outrageous (and by that I mean famous) will pop in to perform a surprise set. The NerdMelt is a room behind Meltdown Comics on Sunset. It looks like it could be a barn, but they pack in more than a hundred folding chairs and have secret comedy shows. I’ve seen Aziz Ansari and Louis C.K. pop in here, and all without anyone knowing what’s going on. There’s another hidden show called The Goddamn Comedy Jam, held intermittently at the Lyric Theatre on La Brea (keep an eye on the Facebook page for upcoming dates). Basically it works on the premise that every comedian harbours a yearning to be a rock star. This is their outlet. After a short stand-up set, they perform their favourite song with a live band. This is not karaoke – it’s an actual rock performance. Bill Burr, Jim Jefferies and Rob Schneider have all taken to the stage and lived out their fantasies at this amazing show.
If you’ve trawled the internet and street press and somehow not managed to find anything that takes your fancy, do not panic. This is Hollywood and often the best stuff isn’t advertised. You will just be stumbling past some place and see a line outside a door. Join that line – whatever is at the other end of it is probably going to be great. I’ve seen Prince do a random performance at a tiny club, Snoop Dogg at a karaoke bar and talented people doing all sorts of weird crap at small theatres and venues all over the hood. Trust me: join that line.
Like a lot of places, you could spend a year in West Hollywood and keep on finding new and cool things to do. My suggestion is to just go exploring – walk around and you’ll find awesome stuff, from the old vintage stores on Melrose to the tourist explosion that is Hollywood Boulevard. There’s something new around every corner, but be careful after dark – those corners sometimes get a little shady.
There’s a billboard outside our hotel that reads ‘Be Who You Wouldn’t Be At Home’, with a supporting image of a wide-eyed thirty-something male grinning madly and clutching a two-metre long tube of margarita. I’ve been that guy. This is not my first time to Lost Wages. I’ve sat at one of the 200,000 slot machines, gorging on chicken wings as time disappeared with my money. I’ve had burgers and beer for breakfast and barely seen the sun, and what happened that time in Vegas will certainly stay there. This time, with my wife in tow, things will be different.
10.00am
It isn’t dark yet, but Vegas is a 24-hour party town – the average stay here is three days – and there’s too much fun to be had to limit it to the evening. After a 20-hour flight, an adrenaline injection is required, so we head to Dig This to drive some excavators. Yes, drive some excavators. One 30-minute briefing session later, we climb into two 50-ton hydraulic excavators and glare competitively at each other across the football-field sized sandpit we’re about to play in. Having seen my wife reverse park I am quietly confident. For the next hour we dig huge holes, build a pyramid with tyres the size of a small car, race each other across the lot and play excavator basketball. I struggle to change a light bulb at home but after an hour at Dig This I feel like building a casino. And then I notice my wife’s pyramid is twice the size of mine.
11.30am
I’ve never fired a gun. I’ve never really even wanted to. I’ve heard friends brag of firing rocket-launchers at cows in Cambodia and I’ve never seen any joy in that. After an hour shooting an actual Uzi at a 3-D Zombie, however, I’m feeling the buzz (though cows are still safe). Guns and Ammo is doing a roaring trade in Vegas, with a 12-lane range and weapons including shotguns, AK-47s and a Glock 9mm. Suddenly I’m Clint Eastwood lining up another dirtbag. I can feel the recoil in my kidneys as the adrenaline pumps through me.
12.30pm
‘Every City Has a Soul’ is the new slogan for Downtown Las Vegas. Only 10 minutes north of The Strip, Downtown Vegas is where it all began. Fremont Street is the epicentre, with an outdoor museum featuring the original Las Vegas neon signs. The bars and restaurants of Downtown have eschewed their garish Strip neighbours and the revitalised area now focuses on more intimate experiences. Mob Bar, a 1920s-style speakeasy with potent cocktails, is a great lunch spot, and if you end up staying until evening they set up deckchairs on the road and project movies onto the adjacent wall. Tonight The Hangover is playing. It’s a sign.
Mob Bar
201 North 3rd Street
(on 3rd between Ogden & Stewart)
1.30pm
The seal is broken and the drinking has begun. Downtown’s bar scene is very cool in a retro kitsch way. The Parlour Bar in the El Cortez Hotel Casino is worth a visit just to walk through the old-style casino. Like the decor, the clientele seem as though they’re out of a 1960s Elvis movie. A cowboy in a 10-gallon hat and tasseled boots plays the pokies and sips a Bud. We walk past him and into the leather-couched Parlour Bar, where I half expect to see Sinatra sipping a vodka martini.
2.15pm
Back on Fremont Street the neon lights burn bright even in daylight. Above, screaming thrill-seekers ride a flying fox running the length of the street. In a dark bar called Insert Coins, a wall of 1970s, 80s and 90s arcade games has me checking my pocket for coins. Grabbing a booth, we’re given a choice of almost every video game console ever invented, with a selection of games. I go with a Super Nintendo and a Sega Megadrive and a pint of Brooklyn Bitter. Suddenly I’m 14 again, until I’m dragged away sulking after my wife beats me at NBA Jam.
4.00pm
Show time. Elton John is playing this weekend, Celine Dion is raking in millions from a residency at Caesar’s Palace, Guns N’ Roses are soon to play at the Hard Rock and there are at least six different Cirque du Soleil shows being promoted, but Downtown has put us in a retro mood so we hit the Flamingo, one of the original Strip hotels, and catch the Nathan Burton Comedy Magic show. This is the essence of America. The land of opportunity, where a street magician can get a break on a show like America’s Got Talent and the next year have his own residency in Vegas. I suggest to my wife that she should disappear so I can gamble. She suggests I let Nathan do the comedy.
6.00pm
It is Happy Hour on the Strip (it has been since 11am) but we decline the cheap beer and three-litre margaritas and instead head upscale to Sage Restaurant in Aria Resort and Casino, one of the newer slicker casinos in Las Vegas. The bartender recommends I take the global beer tour, which involves a Dopplebock from Germany and a Trappist Ale from Belgium with a few chocolatey stouts in between. The long, dark bar and restaurant decor somehow make drinking eight beers in an hour a cool experience.
7.30pm
The show goes on, this time in the shape of KA, one of the more recent Cirque du Soleil productions and an extraordinary display of death-defying talent, performed on a stage that rotates vertically and horizontally to the beat of a thumping soundtrack. There are other themed Cirque shows, with The Beatles, Elvis and even illusionist Criss Angel carrying the Cirque moniker. For something very different, check out Zumanity, a sort of pornographic Cirque led by a Frank N Furter type transvestite. Just don’t sit in the front row. Trust me.
Zumanity by Cirque du Soleil
New York-New York Hotel and Casino
3790 South Las Vegas Boulevard cirquedusoleil.com/zumanity
10.00pm
Vegas has an eating option for everyone. We find ourselves at the Michelin-starred Michael Mina’s in the Bellagio, which instantly transports us far from this neon desert. After chilled shots of Grey Goose vodka to cleanse the palate, followed by a lobster pot pie, all of a sudden I am Bugsy Seigel, the founder of Vegas, ordering another bottle of red for my dame.
12.00am
Midnight means live music and one of the more unusual experiences in Vegas is the dueling pianos in the Bar at Times Square, tucked within the New York-New York Hotel and Casino (yes, it’s a hotel designed to look like the Manhattan skyline). Two amazing musicians face off on separate pianos and bang keys against each other, goading the crowd to pay a few dollars to hear their favorite songs. The pianists duel to the most popular (read highest paid) tunes and the crowd goes wild. It is unpretentious, fastpaced and very entertaining. A bucket of Bud helps keep the fun flowing. Get a table on your right as you enter – for a few dollars more it’s well worth getting table service.
2.00am
Nightclub time. Mandalay Bay’s LAX is the place to be seen these days, with private booths circling the heaving dance floor. It’s loud and sweaty, and at 3am there’s no sign of it slowing. We luck out and are invited into Saville Row, a slick smaller bar annexed to the main club. The music is still loud but after a big day in Vegas it is the perfect spot to sip a nightcap and people watch. Vegas has clubs galore. Call early in the day to secure a spot.
…10.00am
Pool parties are almost as famous as the nightclubs here with most hotels proclaiming theirs is the biggest and best. The Hard Rock Casino’s Sunday ‘Recovery Party’ is rock ‘n’ roll, with swim-up blackjack tables and margaritas on tap, all to the thumping rock of Aerosmith and the like. We go Royal though and head to MGM’s private Sunday pool extravaganza ‘Wet Republic’. My wife, hoping to sun away her hangover, packs a book. She has no idea what we are in for. There are two huge pools teeming with a bobbing mass of party people. There’s so much silicone on show I doubt any of the waitresses could drown. This is Vegas as the sun is rising, and it’s almost as raucous as when the sun sets. This was where Prince Harry’s day of debauchery began, but for us it was the end. By midday we are back in our room, sound asleep and too tired to dream.
Wet Republic Ultra Pool at MGM Grand
3799 South Las Vegas Boulevard wetrepublic.com
We smash through the glass wall of a skyscraper, clinging to the towline behind a speeding Autobot, who has just pulled us from the clutches of a very angry Decepticon Megatron. We must be travelling at over 100 kilometres an hour as we splinter through the interior and out the other side. For a split second we hang in the air, slowly turning to stare at the street that is thirty-odd floors below. Then, we plummet.
My heart races as fast as my stomach churns; the wind chills my face as we gather speed. Our Autobot saviour hits the afterburners at the very last second and we shoot forward as missiles come at us from the side. We’re so close that I can feel the heat from one explosion. Megatron fires a fusion cannon. It heads straight towards my forehead and if it were not for some extraordinary evasive action from Evac (the Autobot we’re clinging onto for dear life), I’d be scrap metal. This is like some incredible dream, but it isn’t. It is the latest simulator/roller-coaster amusement park thrill – Transformers: The Ride-3D at Universal Studios Hollywood.
My addiction to thrill rides can be traced back to a holiday in California in 1983. I was 13 and we were visiting Six Flags Magic Mountain, an amusement park that was built not on cartoon characters, but simply on thrills. The Colossus was the source of constant screams. At the time, it was the largest wooden roller-coaster in the world with two drops over 30 metres long and old carts that threatened to derail at any second. It had recently gained notoriety as the roller-coaster that featured in Walley World in Chevy Chase’s comedy National Lampoon’s Vacation. Like the Griswold family, the Jamieson family were enjoying a vacation. We continuously dared each other to ride the Colossus, and when it came time, I was the only Jamieson that did. Perhaps it was this coming-of-age moment, where for once I was braver than dad, which has since attracted me to such rides.
When it comes to amusement parks, California is somewhat of a Mecca. Wide-eyed pilgrims flock to Disneyland, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Universal Studios, SeaWorld and Knott’s Berry Farm, which is the oldest park of them all. Knott’s began life as a berry farm back in 1920. This is where founder Walter Knott created the boysenberry, by crossing a red raspberry with a blackberry and loganberry. But it was Walter’s wife Cordelia who cooked up the Californian thrill-ride storm. Customers at the farm loved Cordelia’s chicken dinners so much that demand grew until thousands of customers were lining up waiting, often for hours, to dine. To entertain the crowds, Walter introduced some rides that were based around a Wild West show.
From these auspicious beginnings, things gathered momentum faster than a Colossus carriage. Knott’s launched the Corkscrew – the world’s first 360-degree roller-coaster – in 1975. This was followed by the Sky Jump in 1976, which was the highest ride in the park until it was overtaken 25 years later by its successor – the 30-storey-high Supreme Scream. In 1978, Montezuma’s Revenge was introduced, a coaster that shoots you to speeds of 90 kilometres per hour within five seconds (and is still there today). Knott’s continued to stay at the forefront of hair-raising roller-coaster rides, while it’s world-renowned neighbour continued to focus on entertaining the kids with Mickey and Minnie.
These days, the advancement of technology means that old roller-coasters like the Corkscrew have been replaced by the Boomerang, a ride with six loops – three facing forward then three facing backwards. It is this ride that, today, almost reintroduces me to the chicken dinner I ate the night before.
I continue to feed my addiction at Knott’s on the Silver Bullet, a rollercoaster that has us hanging in the air, feet dangling as we loop, twist and corkscrew. It suddenly stops and I’m not quite sure if I’m upside down or not. Next up is the GhostRider – currently the longest wooden roller-coaster on the USA’s West Coast. I have flashbacks to the Colossus as we rattle up the first climb and then plummet down a 33-metre drop. It is old and rickety and by the end of it I realise so am I. My neck has a crick and I can barely see the top of the next ride, the Xcelerator, which takes willing passengers from zero to 130 kilometres per hour in just three seconds. People say I am very much like my father and today I agree – I decide to sit the Xcelerator out.
On that family trip back in 1983, we spent one day at Universal Studios. It was enough time to get a Polaroid snapped of ET and I jumping a BMX over the moon. We also took the studio tour and screamed as Jaws creaked out of the lake just as we passed by. ET is long gone these days, though my fear of sharks in fresh water is not.
Transformers: The Ride-3D has replaced the old ET Adventure ride. It cost a reported US$100 million and is at the forefront of fairground attractions. It is designed to suspend all sense of reality (unlike the very real screams coming from the people on the nearby roller-coaster rides).
How does it compare to freefalling 30 stories down in an open outdoor carriage though? Both are thrilling, both are chilling and both are definitely fulfilling, but roller-coasters win for the sheer fear factor. With Six Flags Magic Mountain now boasting 18 roller-coasters, more than any other park in the world, I decide to leave it to my next visit, when I think I’ll bring dad.
It’s early morning in the tiny Himalayan village of Machermo, and Dr John Apps is leading one of the weirdest patient transfers the world has ever seen. With him are a few Nepalese porters, a large but ever-depleting canister of oxygen, and one extremely sick man being carried down the mountain in a wicker basket.
Every time John tries to ease off the oxygen, the patient gets closer to death. The UK-born, New Zealand-based doc knows the man, who’s suffering from a bout of pneumonia made worse by the 5000-metre altitude, will only survive if this unlikely troop makes it to the nearest hospital, which is several hours away. It’s a race against the clock and the elements, but thankfully this kind of environment is where John does his best work.
“We couldn’t get a helicopter because of the weather conditions,” John recalls of the dramatic morning, “so the only option was to carry him down to the local clinic at Kundi, just near Namche Bazaar.
“We were just legging it down the trail as fast as we could go,” he adds. “It was quite amazing; we dropped about a thousand metres in altitude and the guy just suddenly woke up.”
John has spent nearly 25 years of his career practising medicine in harsh, isolated environments like this, where improvisation and survival know-how are as important as medical skill. While on the job he’s climbed glaciers, weathered tent-flattening Arctic storms, and learned to build a mean snow shelter. He’s even run extreme marathons – through the Everest region and across the freezing plains of Antarctica – as the medic responsible for the health of his fellow competitors.
The adventure began in 1992 when John, a former full-time GP who still practises rural medicine in New Zealand about 90 days a year, took time off from his UK job to do a three-month stint in Svalbard, Norway’s northern archipelago. A few years later he quit the rat race to go freelance, enabling him to blend work, travel and adventure into one unusual, ever-changing lifestyle.
That decision has resulted in nine seasons providing medical support in Antarctica, a stint with the British military in war-torn Afghanistan, journeys through the untamed lands of Tanzania and countless expeditions as a wilderness doc in the Nepali Himalayas – the unifying factor being his love for “mountains and snowy places”. Of all these locations, the most isolated stands out as John’s favourite to work.
“I think Antarctica’s probably the number one; it’s just such a unique environment, and also such a unique bunch of folks who go there to work or to visit,” he says. “What’s really different down there is that virtually everyone has such a positive, can-do attitude, which is such a contrast to a lot of the places you work in, where there’s always folks who try to see the negative in everything. It’s just an absolute joy to go to.”
Living the dream comes with its challenges, but the freedom to travel and immerse himself in some pretty wild places has been worth it for John: “I suppose if you put the sensible hat on it seems pretty daft to walk away from a very well-paid, secure job, into essentially, the unknown. But I always take the philosophy that when you close one door about three other doors open.”
While the transition was difficult at times, preparing financially over several years helped John and his wife find their feet once they moved away from full-time work.
“The first thing is to plan ahead and get some money saved up,” he advises anyone considering a similar career shift. “Trim your expenses back, so if you’ve got an expensive car or something, get rid of it. Just go minimalist, so that if you don’t work for a couple of months, it’s not a concern. It might be a little painful, but it’s no big worry.”
Nowadays, John imparts his wilderness medicine knowledge to other intrepid doctors through his role as an instructor for World Extreme Medicine, a global organisation that trains ordinary docs to become survival specialists. Along with several colleagues, he delivers polar medicine courses in the mountains of New Zealand’s South Island, as well as high-altitude training in the Himalayas. Part of that role is reacquainting experienced doctors with the basics of medicine when there are no nurses to do it for them.
“Time and time again the hospital docs say, ‘I would do this,’ and we say, ‘Well, get on and do it,’ and they’re absolutely lost because they expect someone else to provide or do it,” John says.
While his marathon-running days are probably behind him, the adventure is far from over. John has his sights set on Mongolia, Ukraine and Namibia for future journeys, although they’ll probably be for leisure rather than work.
His final piece of advice for those looking to integrate travel into their career? “Get used to the idea of improvising and – my favourite bit – don’t be afraid.”
The helicopter skims across the bright waters of the Coral Sea, revealing a chain of emerald islands at my feet. Untrammeled nature lies in every direction, from golden sands to coconut palms and coral reefs – the embodiment of tropical north Queensland. Shadows of a couple of large late-afternoon clouds pour over the ranges like spilt paint, as an island of considerable size (the second-largest in the Palm Island group) comes into view.
Orpheus Island, where I’m about to land, is located in a region of Australia shrouded in as much mystery as there is history. It’s 80 kilometres north-west of Townsville and a 10-minute chopper ride (or 20-minute boat trip) from Palm Island, which was described as an ‘open-air jail’ for Indigenous Australians during much of the twentieth century. Between both islands lies Fantome Island – a secret leper colony right up until the end of the 1970s.
As I step out of the chopper, I’m thankful that tourism has never really taken off in these parts. A national park and a Great Barrier Reef sanctuary, Orpheus has just one boutique resort, catering for up to 34 guests on the whole 1300-hectare island. Walking across its pretty, manicured lawn, the wind sings a light melody and there’s not a souvenir seller or cork hat in sight.
Whereas XXXX Gold-guzzling Aussies flock to Magnetic Island, or ‘Maggie’, the seclusion of Orpheus has attracted the likes of Elton John, Vivien Leigh and Mickey Rooney. But don’t let that fool you into thinking this place is only for the exceedingly well heeled. Food is delivered here once a week by barge, so at other times you’re expected to get down and dirty with the cooks and catch it.
“Take a look at this!” yells Arie, a fine-dining chef from Melbourne who’s only been on the island for three weeks, yet hops around the rocks, spear in hand, like a pro. It’s been a couple of hours since my arrival and the tide is low. All the dinghies that were earlier bobbing happily in the water now look like they’ve been washed up onto the moon.
I pad after him along the shore, struggling to carry a bucket of the biggest oysters I have ever seen. “Stingray for dinner,” he says, smiling at his prize as he holds it high in the air with one hand, the bloody spear in the other.
Later that night, at a candlelit table on the deck of the outdoor restaurant, I’m thankful the Queensland heat permits me to wear a loose dress. The feast that’s laid out before me – oysters baked in sesame crust, seared Harvey Bay scallops, Burgundy-style crayfish, snapper ravioli, kangaroo fillet with smoked potato puree, and banana curry – would surely break top, middle and bottom buttons.
I pull up a log on the beach next to the campfire and take some time out to digest with the handful of other guests. We chat, laugh, drink far too many lychee martinis and watch as the sky turns a kaleidoscope of red, pink, mandarin and golden yellow. I feel a galaxy away from city life.
I wake early to the trill of little birds and rainbow lorikeets dancing in the trees. Eager to learn more about the origins of the area, I join another guest and take a 10-minute boat trip over to Fantome Island for a walk with Tom, a local guide from Palm Island.
Fantome is a startling mix of tropical paradise and prison. A leprosarium for Indigenous Australians, it was run by nuns from 1939 to 1973 and kept secret by the state government. Queensland’s answer to stopping the disease was to take Indigenous Australians from their families and confine them to this lonely outpost. When it was closed, it was purged by fire. Later it became the site of more than 200 graves.
“My grandmother is buried on this island,” Tom tells me, looking away, like he’s plucking up the courage to share what he says next. “I like to come here camping with my daughter because, on a clear day like today, you can hear all the old people talking. It was scary at first, but now it’s nice and soothing and you know they’re looking after you.”
We walk through the waist-high grass, down the ‘High St’, past an abandoned tin shed and bits of corrugated iron – remnants from Cyclone Yasi last year. We follow the bleating of goats and their little tracks in the sand. We stop every couple of strides as Tom points out a plant, tree or flower that has some important purpose, like Chinese apple trees (a sign of early Chinese settlers in the 1900s) and wild lemons. “Good for cooking – and hangovers,” says Tom, as he collects some for Arie and I pocket some for later.
Back on the boat, as we begin to head out to sea, a group of turtles joins us in the spray. A slight taint of turquoise indicates shallow water where, to our delight, they perform a ballet, while white eagles circle overhead.
Our skipper, Paul, takes us out to Coral Garden – one of his favourite reefs and a popular spot for divers. “Just remember I can marry you at sea,” he hollers above the engine as he puts the boat in full throttle and I lunge for the side rope. “Or bury you.”
We approach ‘the green zone’, a protected part of the Great Barrier Reef, pull on our masks and fins and slip off the edge into the 28-degree water. I take a breath and then swim down, kicking to the bottom and gliding over the coral-strewn seabed, as tiny, multi-coloured fish dart out of my way.
The next couple of hours somehow meld into the next couple of days. I snorkel an area inhabited by hundreds of giant clams, take a sunset cruise and watch for manta rays and humpback whales. I explore Yanks Jetty and pretty pockets of secluded beach, where guests picnic and goannas are said to stroll. Then finally, I swap flippers for flopping and perfect the art of dozing in a hammock, fruity cocktail in hand.
I’ve spent a lot of time travelling and trying to avoid the tourist traps and crowds. And in the space of just a few days I’ve discovered that the best spots are often hidden in the most unlikely spots – not too far from home.
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil’s sexy seaside city, is celebrated for its sandy beaches, samba and sensational futebol skills. Cariocas, as Rio’s residents are called, spend their days worshipping the sun in the surf or on the sand. Yet they love their evenings equally as much. They easily while away an entire night, bouncing between neighbourhood botecos and samba bars. So I, too, decide to give it a go.
5.00pm
The cariocas’ energy is legendary. Their nights end late, but their days begin early. The secret to surviving the long day and night? An energy-packed, vitamin-laden juice known as a suco. Sipping a suco on one of the beaches – Copacabana, Ipanema or Leblon –is a twice-daily ritual for many locals. Almost every block has a juice bar with glass counters decorated with colourful displays of fruit and menus listing countless varieties of freshly squeezed juices and blends. The most popular drink is a vitamina – a thick smoothie of juice, milk or yoghurt, honey, wheat grass and guarana (a Brazilian caffeine berry). I knock mine back at one of Ipanema’s most beloved juice spots, Polis Sucos, opposite the Nossa Senhora da Paz (Our Lady of Peace Church). I’m not Catholic, but I cross myself after I down the drink, praying that it gets me through the long night ahead.
Polis Sucos
R. Maria Quitéria, 70, Ipanema, Rio de Janeiro polissucos.com.br
5.30pm
It’s hard to decide whether Brazil’s national drink is coconut water, sipped from a straw in a freshly cracked coconut shell, or the caiparinha cocktail, which is a mixture of fresh lime, sugar and cachaça: the potent Brazilian sugarcane spirit. Both are sold for a couple of dollars from the tiny bars dotted along Ipanema’s beach. I order one, then pull up a plastic chair to watch the sky turn pink, peach and tangerine as the sun goes down and my night begins.
6.00pm
Caiparinhas are definitely more-ish. I stroll down to nearby Leblon to the Academia da Cachaça – a bar that has shelves weighed down by dozens of different types of cachaça bottles, most of which are unavailable outside Brazil. The Academia serves up more creative concoctions, such as pineapple, orange and passionfruit caiparinhas. Cachaça comes infused with everything from cashew to cinnamon. I try one of the juice-based cocktails, the cocada geladinha, made from coconut, coconut juice and cachaça, of course. I also order some scrumptious hot snacks, including bolinho de quejo (cheese balls) and queijo coalha asado (roasted curd cheese), both which are considered an excellent hangover prevention – or cure.
7.00pm
It’s no surprise that Brazilians are passionate about futebol (soccer). The most exciting game is a clássico or derby between rival clubs such as Flamengo and Fluminense. I head to a clássico between Botafogo and Vasco de Gama at São Cristóvão Stadium. There are 20,000 people in the stadium, though this isn’t much for Rio – the largest match, between Flamengo and Vasco at Maracana stadium, attracted close to 80,000 fans. The tension, nevertheless, is palpable. In the lower seats behind the goalkeepers, organised groups of hardcore fans motivate us as much as the players. They beat drums and chant songs, and the fans surrounding me soon join in. Throughout the game, they cheer, scream, applaud, hug each other, dance and leap into the air mid-song. The atmosphere is electric.
10.00pm
In need of some respite, I flag down a taxi to take me to the posh residential neighbourhood of Urca. Bar Urca is situated at the end of the quiet peninsula. There’s a seafood restaurant upstairs, but it’s the simple bar below and peaceful waterfront location that attracts most cariocas. I do as the locals do and buy a bottle of cheap cold beer, which the bartender tops with plastic cups. I cross the road to find a space on the crowded wall. Friends sit cross-legged and chat, while couples swing their legs and sip beers in between kisses and cuddles. I watch the planes fly in over the still waters of tranquil Guanabara Bay.
11.00pm
Ready for some music now, I head out in search of samba. While I could probably dance the rest of the night away at one of Rio’s popular (albeit very touristy) spots like the colossal Rio Scenarium, I opt instead for Bip Bip: a compact backstreet Copacabana botequim or neighbourhood music bar. I sway my hips to the beat of the cuica, a Brazilian drum that sounds like a cross between a monkey and a car horn, and help myself to beer from the fridge at the back of the bar. The bar operates an honour system where you pay for what you drink on the way out.
12.30am
I’m hungry, so I make a beeline for bohemian Santa Teresa. Bar do Mineiro is hidden around the bend from a handful of more expensive restaurants that the guidebooks recommend. With fluoro lights and walls covered with black and white photos, the white-tiled eatery is packed with locals. I’m tempted to try the restaurant’s specialty – the traditional feijoada – a bean and pork stew, but the more-than-ample-sized dish will probably make me want to head home to bed. Instead, I order baskets of Brazil’s national snack, delicious bolino de bacalao (cod balls).
Bar do Mineiro
Rua Pascoal Carlos Magno, 99, Santa Teresa bardomineiro.net
2.00am
With my stomach lined, it’s time to begin the popular Rio ritual of the boteco hop or bar crawl. Botecos are local neighbourhood bars – simple places with stainless steel counters, rickety wooden chairs and retro menu boards. Full of atmosphere, they’re often packed with locals, young and old, until the wee hours. First, I head for the street of Rua Visconde de Caravelas in Humaitá. There are a dozen botecos here. The Botequim Informal has footpath seating, friendly waiters and just a few foreigners, and Cobal do Humaita is a fruit and vegetable market with outdoor plastic tables and chairs. The guidebooks recommend Espirito do Chopp, but I wait for a table at Joaquina, where all the cariocas are.
Botequim Informal
Rua Visconde de Caravelas, 123, Humaitá
Cobal do Humaitá Rua Voluntários da Pátria, 446–8, Humaitá
3.30am
I take a taxi back to Leblon, but before I wind up the night there’s a couple more botecos to try. Bar Jobi and Bar Bracarense haven’t changed their decor in 50 years. At Bar Bracarense, I start to feel weary among the tables of young friends. Yet, I still spy some sprightly, silver-haired seventy-somethings chatting animatedly as they sip their beers. It must be those vitamin-laden sucks.
Bar Jobi
Av. Ataulfo de Paiva, 1166, Leblon
Bar Bracarense Rua José Linhares, 85, Leblon
On a scale of get-me-out-of-here white and I’m-going-to-be-ill green I’m presenting somewhere in the middle. It’s no surprise really, because I’m on the floor of a tiny tin can, 1500 metres up in the air and strapped to my back is a man with a proven track record of hurling himself out of planes. With each clip locking us together capable of lifting a truck, escape is unlikely. “It’ll either be the longest or the shortest 30 seconds of your life,” Sam, my human sinker, chuckles into my ear. “Now,” he says, “do you remember the banana position?”
On the ground, before we hurtle along the tarmac and rattle into the thick Northern Territory air, we practise curling our legs under our torsos and tilting heads towards the sky. All while wearing a pair of baggy red pants over our own – insurance perhaps, in case we make a mess in the first set. Once our banana poses – the stance we’re to hold seconds before tumbling from the plane – pass Sam’s test, a baby-faced senior pilot unshackles the plane from its parking spot at Uluru Airport and we were on our way.
At the halfway mark the mugginess dissipates and the cool air wicks away the worst of the nerves, though my mouth still feels as parched as the desert. From here Uluru, taller than the highest skyscraper in the Southern Hemisphere, rests on the rusted soil like a crumpled blanket. In the distance the boulders of Kata Tjuta erupt from the earth but it’s the ridges snaking like veins across the skin of the land that are the most striking.
Over the hammering engine Sam explains that more than 300 million years ago salt water pooled over this part of Oz, depositing coral and marine fossils into layers of soil. It’s the type of wet that explorer Captain Charles Sturt went searching for when he set off from Adelaide back in 1844, carting a whaleboat and 200 sheep on his now infamous expedition – a voyage that started millions of years too late. The dunes we see from our little plane have existed this way for the past 30,000 years, with just their crests wandering in the desert.
Our pilot, also sporting a parachute “just in case”, twirls up higher and higher. Perspective disappears. The scene below appears like a page from a map with the horizon smudging into pale blue haze. I begin to see why Sam repeats this trip time and again. Well, that and the freefall, he says. With 5000 jumps on his tally, a newbie would have to dive every day for the next 13.5 years to clock up the same lofty number.
At 3600 metres we reach altitude – high enough to plummet for 30 seconds before a parachute sprouts open and slows us to a graceful descent. Flying this high, Uluru looks unnaturally small. I’m about ready for a closer look.
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