Travel Biography - Week 101.

A Stag Night in England versus Ibiza.

Here we go again! As I read through the pages of today's Daily Mail national newspaper - this particular media aimed at a conservative middle-class society that is interested in every aspect of the Royal Family, politicians and wealthy celebrities, there is another two-page spread about us Brits on holiday, this time, at the Spanish Balearic island of Ibiza. This week, the article was written by the journalist Jane Fryer whilst in San Antonio, observing mainly the female tourists, "scantily dressed, and worn down by endless drinking, drug-taking, vomiting, fighting, and sex in the streets, along with inevitable hospitalisations..."

She then includes one example of a groom at a stag night party, leaving me wondering whether he would ever make it to the church on time. Should the reader think I'm one of those sad, prudish individuals who had never cracked a smile, I recall my stag night back in 1999. After I was treated to a slap-up meal at a restaurant in another town several miles from home, I was then taken outside and handcuffed to a sturdy metal railing of a garden fence and had water thrown over me. Then all my mates ran off and hid, leaving me drenched and immobile in the deserted street whilst they hid and watched from a distance.

But I wasn't drunk, as I hardly touched any alcohol that evening, save a glass of wine, perhaps. I wasn't sick, I didn't vomit, and I was fully dressed. Thank goodness. One of my mates, after handcuffing me, wanted to pull down my trousers as well, but the others didn't agree to that. Furthermore, I didn't see the inside of a police station or a hospital. Furthermore, there were no hard feelings. Rather, I was still in high spirits yet nervous for the coming wedding a week later.

Arriving at Santa Barbara, California.

At State Street, Santa Barbara.

An example of Spanish architecture.

An outdoor restaurant on State Street.

Yet, just over two years before that memorable night, I was at the AYH hostel in the Gaslamp Quarter of Downtown San Diego, preparing to leave the city to arrive at my next stop, Santa Barbara, 218 miles or 350 km north along the Californian coastline. For the first time, after 1977, 1978, and 1995, I didn't have a Greyhound Bus Ameripass ticket, leaving me with the need to pay the fare before boarding. Hence, interstate bus travel in 1997 was restricted, staying local to Los Angeles, where I would fly back to London after three weeks spent in California.

The journey from San Diego to Santa Barbara wasn't direct but necessitated a change of buses at the Los Angeles terminal. From here, I boarded the Los Angeles to San Francisco Americruiser which has a service stop at Santa Barbara. Los Angeles is almost halfway along the route. The distance north to Santa Barbara from L.A. is almost the same as from San Diego to the south.

Arriving at Santa Barbara.

As I was about to leave San Diego, like with Sydney, I didn't fully realise that this would be the last time I ever walked the streets of the city. The city bus terminal was still at the same location on Broadway, a few blocks east of the YMCA building. (The bus station had moved to a different location since.) Once boarded, I was on my way.

After alighting to change buses at L.A. and waiting a while before boarding, I was once again cruising along the route I was already familiar with, having travelled directly to San Francisco in bygone years. But unlike the previous overnight journeys done on this route, this was a daytime journey, having left San Diego during the late morning and arriving in Santa Barbara during the late afternoon or early evening.

After arriving at the Greyhound station and alighting, there were no adverts for hostels at the main foyer, as many bus stations have, including the one at San Diego. Therefore, I had to rely on the USA hostel guide I had, which I used in 1995. By then, it was already outdated. There was meant to be an AYH hostel just down the street from the terminal, but when I found the address, I saw that the hostel had closed down permanently. There was no alternative accommodation advertised, so I was left to look around the town.

And it took a long while. It was after someone suggested the hostel at East Ortega Street. It turned out to be a Banana Bungalow hostel, affiliated with Rucksackers North America, the first of its two hostels I stayed in California (the other being West Hollywood). It was housed in a disused military hut, a large arch-roofed chamber where the majority of occupants had a mattress arranged in two or three rows along the floor. However, for a higher fee per night, I was allocated a bed in one of the side bedrooms.

And that wasn't without an incident at the reception, located immediately at the entrance. The desk was staffed by two young men, I assume were the owners.

As I was greeted by one of them, and with the heavy rucksack on my back, I gasped, By heck, it took me a long while to find this place after arrival.

To which he replied, Oh! That's a great pity. All the beds here are taken.

When he saw the look of horror after so much searching, he broke into laughter and gave me a choice of the main hall or, with a higher fee, sleeping in a small side dormitory. I felt a great relief that he was only joking, and I was happy to pay a little extra for the dormitory bed.

Los Pedros provides a background for the Beach.

Pier Views.

At Santa Barbara Pier.

Pelican on the Pier.

The hostel was housed in a disused military hut, a building with an arched roof. Like all other hostels, whether affiliated with HI or Rucksackers, this one too had a member's kitchen with an outdoor verandah for the dining area. However, its downside was that it had only one single-occupant bathroom, creating a problem if I needed to use it. But for a place to sleep at night, the accommodation was adequate.

For the record, sometime after I stayed there, the hostel closed down, and the hut became a superstore before it was eventually demolished. This backed the warning on the front page of the guide. American hostels often have a short lifespan before closing and the building is sold or demolished. However, some have survived to this day, including San Diego Downtown on Market Street, West Hollywood Banana Bungalow and even its sister in San Diego.

Those staying at the hostel were mostly men, although there were a few women as well. Among fellow backpackers was a British chap who was studying to be a psychiatrist, so he says, although he looked more like a mature student rather than a typical undergrad. And I was with a gay couple one evening in the kitchen whilst cooking dinner. Of all the residents there, the gay men were the only ones whom I sensed that I wasn't welcome by them, although they weren't hostile.

Like at Byron Bay hostel in New South Wales, here too, the staff laid special events for the guests. One of them was a beach volleyball contest one afternoon. However, when invited, I refused to join them. The memories of losing the table tennis at Arlie Beach in Queensland, followed by a thrashing I received at snooker at Coffs Harbour, NSW, had made me somewhat phobic with ball games. However, I partook in one of their evening suppers served by the staff, like at Byron Bay, and enjoyed a social.

Santa Barbara is a coastal town with a wide sandy beach crossed by a pleasure pier. The main shopping precinct lines State Street, through which Ortega Street crosses at right angles as with all symmetrical grid layouts. Like San Diego, Santa Barbara is a handsome, subtropical city backed by the mountains of the Los Pedros National Forest and the foothills of the Rockies. At the city railroad station, an Amtrack train remained stationary at one of its sidings.

I spent three nights in Santa Barbara, or four days in all. As far as I remember, there was no SeaWorld or zoo, but the pier did house a small aquarium. However, one advantage Santa Barbara had that San Diego hadn't, was the mountainous countryside visible in the background, the Los Pedros National Forest.

One day, while I was browsing in a bookshop, I went to the local attraction shelf. Among the books there, there was a guide on hiking trails around Los Pedros National Forest. The nearest trailhead from the city goes up Rattlesnake Canyon to Flores Peak, from there, magnificent views of the city and the coastal region can be seen and enjoyed. However, the guide also warned me that a certain bug - a variation of the tick, if bitten, could end up having Lyme Disease. And medical treatment in the USA isn't cheap!

As I left the shop and headed for the beach, I thought about these things. While I was in the bookshop, I also came across a fiction story, 2001 A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke, and I bought the book. Having seen the film by Stanley Kubrick, I thought having a read would help pass the time during quiet moments. Also, at the pier, there was a jukebox with a selection of Northsounds CDs and cassette tapes. Not having a CD player at home during 1997, I was interested in some of the cassette tapes. One disc with its corresponding tape was Pachelbel Ocean, that is, Canon in D Major, with the sound of ocean waves crashing on the beach in the background.

I bought the cassette tape, along with two others I also like. Since then, I have always regretted not buying the CD versions. The tapes are no longer functional. Had I bought the CDs in addition to the tapes, chances I could enjoy such music now, reviving memories, especially of the Great Barrier Reef, whose picture adorned the lid of the cassette and disc cases. Oh, the lack of foresight!

A walk along the beach.

More Pier Views.

An Art Sale at a park.

An Amtrack train at the sidings, Santa Barbara.

Walking along State Street, the "High Street" of Santa Barbara and the hub of the shopping precinct, there were shops with these inflatable aliens on display. Not merely one shop but several shops in one street had them on display. They all looked the same - a humanoid with a large head on a skinny bipedal body with two skinny arms. Its face consists of two very large eye sockets, a tiny nose and a tiny mouth, not unlike a coin slot. The creature seems to indicate an advance in evolution with little use of food consumption and digestion, yet with vision and intelligence vastly superior to ours. What is this obsession with extraterrestrials? Are they seen as potential cosmic saviours with the power to save us from ourselves?

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Next Week: Hiking up Rattlesnake Canyon.

Travel Biography - Week 100.

For one who loves Travel, something weird dominated the newspapers this past week. This was the case of Magaluf in the Spanish Balearic Islands. Magaluf is a major resort located on the west of the Mediterranean island of Mallorca. Its main street is Carrer Punta Ballena, better known as the Strip, a venue for bars, clubs, and all-night partying. Report after report tells of young British holidaymakers abusing alcohol and drugs, of vomit polluting the sidewalks, fights breaking out, and the siren of police cars. Now, the authorities have imposed new laws - bars shutting before 10.00 pm each evening being one of them. Of course, the tourists resent this. How dare they tell them what to do or not do as guests in a foreign land! What a wonderful freedom it was for them to travel overseas without their parents' domestic watchfulness and restrictions. Furthermore, didn't Britain rule over a quarter of the world just a century earlier?

At the Old Town Heritage Park, 1997.

Main Street, San Diego Old Town.

At the Bazaar, San Diego Old Town.

Another view of the Old Town.

What I did find amazing was that this overnight partying wasn't confined to the working class, according to the newspaper. Reports of undergrads were in these alcohol-fuelled parties too, as they paraded noisily through the street in the small hours, totally uncharacteristic of the sober, quiet, self-reserved student from the English county of Surrey, and just out of school uniform.

Echoes of my own past?

Indeed. How could I ever forget 1972, its long arms of memory reaching to this day? In Week 3 of this Biography, I related in detail about a booking made to Tossa-de-Mar on the Spanish Costa Brava. The break-up with my first girlfriend earlier that year sent my emotions into turmoil, and therefore, in Spain, I suffered from alcohol abuse, leading to situations very much the same as in present-day Magaluf.

As already narrated in Week 3, my 1972 conversion to the Christian faith from atheism also changed me from a Sunseeker to backpacking - a wonderful travel transformation in itself. In leisure travel, both sun-seeking and backpacking are triune in themselves, with fun underlying both. According to my own experience as well as in present-day Magaluf, sun-seeking among the late teens and early twenties often involves Fun, Intoxication, and Violence. On the other hand, I could make backpacking a triune of Fun, Adventure, and Education.

Having read the papers this week, I thought how such a wonderful, noble adventure of overseas travel had degraded, along with the price, to intoxication, together with street fights between rival groups, with no interest in local culture and sights. Hence, the above review. And nothing new. As a teenager myself, I was no less guilty.

Forget Tossa-de-Mar! Forget Magaluf! The world of backpacking has always been healthy, edifying, educational, and adventurous. And yes, from my experience, I can write this biography. I have now reached the hundredth week. If I was asked to write about the life of a Sunseeker, I doubt that I would have covered more than a week, perhaps two weeks if lucky. And so, I bring this up to date, in 1997.

View of a marina from SeaWorld.

One of the screaming seals, SeaWorld.

San Diego Attractions re-visited - The Old Town.

Incredibly enough, although 1997, I spent eleven days in San Diego, I never suffered a moment's boredom. And despite having spent my initial five days two years earlier in 1995 after a two-day hike into the Grand Canyon, re-visiting some of these places brought back good memories. Two of these, the Old Town and SeaWorld, along with Mission Beach, revived memories of 1995. One difference was the number of people at these venues, as these 1997 visits peaked in the summer. However, La Jolla, Santa Barbara with Rattlesnake Canyon, St Lois Obispo with Avila Beach, and Malibu were Californian venues unique to 1997.

One afternoon, I boarded a bus for the Old Town. After arriving, I saw no change between 1995 and 1997. The street typifies the Wild West, featured in many Hollywood Western movies. Wooden shacks lined the street. There were also workshop exhibitions, even a wagon. But the central attraction was the bazaar, a garden market along with stalls stocked with souvenir trinkets and other goodies.

I recall two years earlier the stall specifying garden fountains. Perhaps the market demand was already diminishing, as I couldn't see any more of these fountains stocked. That was a pity. I remember the enjoyment I had by just watching one of those fountains on display, demonstrating its function to the potential buyer. (For full details of what is featured in the Old Town, it's in Week 65.) 

Like in 1995, I decided to walk back to the hostel rather than wait for a bus that might not arrive. As I headed towards the city, I approached the souvenir shop I stopped at two years earlier. I walked in and browsed the shelves. To my surprise, everything was as they were in 1995, including the rows of named mugs. Back then, I bought a mug with my name on it. Just as well. This time, I couldn't find my name on any that were in stock. Fortunately, I still have the cup I bought to this day. We don't put it in utility use. Instead, it's on display on one of our lounge shelves.

The walk from the Old Town to the hostel was a tag longer than the four-mile trek completed in 1995, as our present hostel at Market Street was further away than the old Broadway site. Had I known better, I would soon find out, at the Old Town, that the trolley tram line has a terminus station nearby, although the mainline carried on to Los Angeles. Nowadays, the light railway has been extended to La Jolla, although that was already on the planning table in 1997.

Second Visit to SeaWorld.

On the morning of another day, I bussed to the SeaWorld for another visit. However, this time, I made every effort to stay dry, and not allow the two marine mammals, the dolphin and the Orca, to soak me as before. If I wanted to watch their performances, I chose to sit right at the back, out of the splash zone.

And yet, although I thoroughly enjoyed the day at San Diego Zoo, I felt more enhanced by the sight of marine life than with land animals. The reason for that is simple. We are air-breathing land-dwelling beings who share the same environment with all land animals, whether mammals, reptiles, or birds. True enough, there are air-breathing full marine creatures too, known as the Cetaceans, and they too are classified as mammals. These include the whale, the dolphin, and its close relative, the porpoise. Then there are the seals, sea lions, and walruses, known as the Pinnipedia, that are classified as marine, yet they are amphibians, as they can spend as much time on the beach as in the sea. At the SeaWorld, I watched a group of seals literally screaming as if wanting food. Not believing that any form of cruelty exists in the theme park, I assumed that those screams were the natural behaviour of these creatures. However, I couldn't help but feel some pity for them. After all, they didn't exist for a life in captivity.

Yet, it's the fish species that intrigued me the most, whichever form it takes. For example, I could stand outside the moray eel tank and watch these fascinating creatures relax as their heads protrude out of the purposely designed holes in the submerged rock, thus imitating a real sea environment. From where I was standing, gentle instrumental music was constantly playing, the sound from nearby speakers blending nicely with the environment and behaviour of the eels. Another tank was the home of starfish and sea anemones. Other tanks held more active fish, such as groupers, swimming around as if not a care in the world. At this point of writing, I'm wondering whether there was a coral tank, like at Townsville in Queensland. Unfortunately, there seem to be no photos of coral at SeaWorld in my albums. Either there weren't any, which would have been surprising for a scientific-oriented theme park such as this one, or I simply missed it, a common mistake anyone could make.

Like in 1995, I watched both the dolphin and the orca shows. An occasional splash is hard to avoid completely, but on both occasions, I left the theatre in a drier state than I did two years previously. 

Moray Eels at SeaWorld.

Tropical Palms at the Bazaar.

I stayed at SeaWorld until it got dark and the park closed for the night. I made my way to the bus stop, and to my horror, I found out that the last bus of the day had already gone. I thought that was odd, as I'm sure that there would be those without a car in need to get home. Or wasn't it worth the time and effort to send empty buses to SeaWorld to collect the last of the visitors?

I looked around. Hitch-hike? I'm aware that was already illegal, but a short lift into town? It wasn't that I wanted to hitchhike across the USA. Just a lift back into town.

Pulling out of the car park was a car containing a couple leaving the aquatic zoo. On it was a distinct outline symbol of a fish on the windscreen, and I took this as a sign that they were committed Christians. Maybe they can help. So I approached their car to make a polite request. But as I drew near, the wife screamed, and the car pulled away with a screech.

That shocking incident has opened my eyes to the American life. It had all come together. The need for identification when buying an alcoholic drink. Even when on one occasion, walking through a residential estate, there were homes with a sign posted on their front door saying that they had a gun, so strangers beware! Now this. What a difference to the Old Wild West movies put out by Hollywood.

A walked along the deserted road in pitch darkness. I was heading east. The city was to the south, and across fields, I was able to see the lights of the city lighting the sky above the horizon. I kept on walking along the deserted road, hoping to see a sign pointing to the city.

Presently, a cyclist was passing by, going the other way. I called out, asking the way back to the city. Instead of pedalling off in frightened fury, the cyclist actually stopped and indicated a turning just a few metres ahead, and I'm to take it. After arriving at the junction, I turned, and not far off was the trolley tram standing at Old Town terminus station. I quickly bought a ticket and boarded.

Cooking supper in the hostel member's kitchen was such a relieving task.

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Next Week: I journey on to Santa Barbara.

Travel Biography - Week 99

Visiting San Diego Zoological Gardens.

When I visited San Diego in 1995, I was impressed with Balboa Park. It was much more than the city's open green space. It was home to the city's museums. I visited two of them, the Science Museum and the Museum of Man. There was also the zoo which I didn't see on my first trip. But this time, in 1997, I had the zoological gardens on the cards. From the hostel, it was an easy walk across town to get there.

When I arrived and paid the entrance fee, I saw that the zoo was rich in natural beauty, with tropical vegetation flourishing in abundance. There was even a cacti garden, reminding me of the Papago Gardens in Pheonix, which I visited two years earlier in 1995. There was also a band playing, reminding me of Port Douglas in North Queensland, where a live band entertained the town.

A ravine or small canyon cuts through the zoo, and an outdoor restaurant overhung the canyon, offering splendid views from the table. Feeling hungry, I decided to have lunch at the restaurant for once, and the best seat on the verandah became vacant as its former occupants, a middle-aged couple, rose from their table at the end of their meal and moved on. From the table, I saw the aviary on the other side of the chasm, half buried in abundant vegetation.

Where I had lunch at the San Diego Zoo.

View of the Aviary from the Restaurant Terrace.

Abundant Vegetation, San Diego Zoo.

A variety of Traveller's Palms.

The zoo boasted a cable car, and I boarded one for a ride, taking in views from the air. Maybe not as dramatic as the Singapore cable car connecting Mt Faber with Sentosa Island, but not less thrilling. On the whole, San Diego Zoo provides the animals the closest to a natural environment possible. But no matter how pleasant the environment may be, with a warm, balmy climate to match, there will always be that difference between captivity and freedom in the wild. Matt Monro's 1966 song Born Free, was from a movie with the same title. It was about a lion or a pride of lions, roaming free in the wild as opposed to being locked in captivity for the benefit of human beings gazing at them.

The lion, along with other caged carnivores, is a good example of repressed instincts. Their natural instinct is to hunt, driven by their appetite. Instead, the lion in captivity is fed raw meat at times appointed by the zoo management. When a lion cub is born in a confined space, it will never develop its natural hunting instinct, neither can its parents teach it. Hence, I have read about how stressed a lion can be in a cage. It paces around the floor, its forehead crossed with furrows, and a large pair of adrenal glands continually discharging its adrenaline into the bloodstream, shortening its life. I guess that it was from this imprisoned, stressed state that the movie, Born Free, was made. However, at the time I looked into its cageless enclosure in San Diego, the two lions within looked relaxed and serene, like those in the wild when not hunting.

The elephants roamed in its wide fenceless enclosure and neither of them looked distressed. The same applied to the rhinoceros. In a nearby tank, two hippos were frolicking happily underwater as a few small fish swam around, undisturbed by the two giants. There were also pens housing goats and deer. In the reptile house, the sleepy crocodile lay totally motionless, and unlike the lion, its adrenal glands were most likely small and hardly active. However, the one set of species I can't remember seeing were the primates, whether gorillas, chimpanzees, or apes. I believe this variety of mammals needs to be caged like they were in the Zoological Society of London Gardens, but perhaps the zookeepers here thought that caging primates was unfair, if not cruel.

That was one observation I made while I was visiting the San Diego Zoo. Most of the animals, especially mammals, weren't caged. Instead, their homes were large pens enclosed by a low wall which kept both man and beast separated and safe without the need for iron bars. This made me wonder whether the 1966 film Born Free revolutionised the zoo environment throughout the thirty-plus years up to 1997.

Cacti at San Diego Zoo.

Cable car ride at the Zoo.

A View from the Cable Car.

A Band Entertains the Public.

However, the aviary was one facility I didn't get around to visiting. Here in the UK, as with most parts of the world, birds are abundant. Therefore, a flock of birds seen at home in the wild doesn't get me to gasp in the same way as an exotic bird might (although here in the UK there is a notable diminishing of the bird population in recent years due to human activity). Furthermore, with their natural freedom to fly great distances, I wondered whether the large cage wherein they were all housed had frustrated their ability for long-distance flight. One particular species was the Arctic Tern. I once watched a nature documentary about these terns on TV with a friend. One bird was tagged, so it could be monitored. This particular bird was able to migrate from Pole to Pole each year, following the seasons.

In all, San Diego Zoo is set in its natural beauty. Tropical and Subtropical trees and vegetation were abundant, the ravine enhanced the views, and even the band of musicians enriched the family atmosphere. Normally, I don't have a great love for zoos, due to the confinement of animal species and inhibiting their natural instincts, especially the carnivores with their hunting and migratory habits. But this southern Californian zoological garden was different. They made as much effort possible to thrive in captivity without the stress placed on them by cage confinement. Furthermore, the whole landscape itself was worth a day's visit.

Why Visit a Zoo?

Exotic landscapes, plants and animals. The English language sometimes uses the word exotic to mean glamorous. But its proper meaning is from far away. The UK, and England in particular, is very modest in the natural world. For example, the highest mountain in England is Scafell Pike, at 978 metres. It's the lowest of the three highest mountains in the United Kingdom, with Snowdonia the highest in Wales, and Ben Nevis the highest in Scotland, hence the whole of the UK, at 1,345 metres. Yet, Ben Nevis is dwarfed by Mont Blanc in the Swiss Alps, at 4,805 metres, nearly four times higher than Ben Nevis.

As for exotic plants, indeed, I could go to Kew Gardens in West London. At Kew, there is much exotic vegetation flourishing under glass and prepared locations, so far, totalling nine houses where temperature, humidity, lighting, and airflow are carefully controlled for the plants within to flourish. A Traveller's Palm, for example, can flourish under a special, artificial environment in Kew Gardens. But this doesn't compare to the Travellers Palm flourishing in its own natural environment, such as Singapore and Australia. The same with mangroves. The only country in the world where I saw mangroves flourish in its natural environment was Queensland's coastal regions.

As for fauna, or exotic animals, the zoological gardens are an ideal environment as long as each is housed closest to its natural surroundings. That's where San Diego got it right, and the animals seemed to be happy and well looked after. Indeed, I could go to London Zoo and see the exotic fauna there. (I took my wife and our daughter to ZSL London Zoo on her second birthday in 2003.) But the nearest zoological gardens to where we live didn't hold a candle to San Diego, simply due to our cool temperate climate and the need for greater protection for warm weather fauna during our cool, wet summers.

Therefore, for where we live, if we want to see some exotic fauna and flora, ZSL London Zoo and Kew Gardens are ideal places. At least, in a zoo, there is no risk of a lion, tiger, or even an elephant charging towards us, or snapped by a crocodile while visiting their natural environment. Similarity with exotic vegetation. Trying to grow many of these species naturally in our back garden, I doubt that would be much of a success!

Lions, San Diego Zoo.

At the Elephant Pen.

Rhinoceros.

Two Frolicking Hippos.

As for landscapes, well, trying to house a mountain the size of Mont Blanc in a giant glass case in the centre of London might be just a little awkward! I guess we have to make do with a vastly scaled-down model of the mountain in one of the museums. As one friend once said to me during the early nineties, if the Grand Canyon was in Britain, running east to west, then it would divide the country into two parts with the sea flowing between its rims. The point I'm trying to make here is that although zoos and botanical gardens provide convenient access to the natural world, seeing these things in their natural environment involves long-haul travel for a much greater reward.

But not all travel destinations are ideal for the likes of me. For example, visiting a Safari had never grabbed my interest. The Safari isn't a place for anyone to hike, whether alone or in a group. Instead, every visitor to the Safari, as far as I'm aware, must be in a group escorted in a jeep for their own safety. True enough, there were locations I could only reach as one in a group. All three locations on the Great Barrier Reef have escorted day trips. But even then, once in the water, we were all left to ourselves to explore the corals making up the reef. We didn't need anyone to lead us. Instead, he took care of the on-board lunch. To me, the Great Barrier Reef was the greatest experience I ever had on this Round-the-World trip.

Deer.

Goat Pen

And that was why I felt that a second visit to the SeaWorld was also on the cards in 1997. Personally, I always had a greater interest in marine life, more than land animals. Visiting the Great Barrier Reef has intensified my interest in marine life, and just watching diverse species of fish swimming casually in well-maintained tanks has brought me back to the Reef experience. Only this time, I made sure that I stayed dry (unlike in 1995 when I was soaked by a performing Orca.)

But left stranded in the middle of nowhere after dark? I'll leave that for next week.

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Next Week: Some 1995 reminiscences in 1997. Left in the middle of nowhere at night.

Travel Biography - Week 98.

The eleven days I spent in San Diego was the longest continuous stop of the whole 1997 Round-the-World backpacking trip, beating Sydney by just one night. This was due to a night spent away at the Blue Mountains National Park, around 100 km or 60 miles out of Sydney. I stayed the longest at any YHA-affiliated hostel, worldwide, in the HI-AYH San Diego. However, the honour of the longest unbroken stay at any hostel was at the privately owned unaffiliated New Swedish Hostel in the Old City of Jerusalem, where I stayed for 27 nights in 1994.

Fine Architecture at Mission Beach.

Summer Scene at Mission Beach, San Diego.

A hired bike at Mission Beach town.

The Ocean is seen from the Pier, Mission Beach.

A Listening Ear at Mission Beach.

Hence, I had plenty of time not only to revisit venues I had already seen in 1995 but also to visit sites I had yet to visit. San Diego Zoo was one venue, and La Jolla was another. Also, at Mission Beach, not only had I bathed in the sea this time, but while I was visiting its pier, I became friendly with the lady who was manning an ice cream kiosk.

I have found it amazing how some people open up to those who have a sympathetic, listening ear, and this was a case in point. After buying an ice cream, by some instinct within, I gently asked her how she was faring. She then answered that she was still recovering from an operation she recently had. Since she didn't reveal the site of her procedure, I didn't ask. Instead, I gave her some encouragement, and introducing myself as a world traveller, remarked how impressed I was with San Diego, its environment, and its balmy climate.

When the talk ended, it looked as if I left her feeling better than before, having seen and respected her as a human being with her own thoughts and emotions, and not treated her as a mere cog in a machine that had to meet the customer's high expectations.

As for bathing in the sea, this was my first open-water swim of any kind since at K'gari, or Fraser Island, off Hervey Bay in southern Queensland, where I had a swim in Lake McKenzie, the world's natural cleanest inland body of freshwater. However, as for sea swims, my last snorkelling swim was at Border Island of the Whitsundays, off Arlie Beach. Therefore, it felt good when, once more, I plunged into the sea in the San Diego area on the far side of the Pacific Ocean from Australia. What about my concern with sharks, like I felt in 1995? This time, it was the presence of other bathers that neutralised any fears. In 1995, I was there during the Autumn, when the beach was almost deserted.

A Day Trip to La Jolla on Two Wheels.

Back at the hostel, one morning, after looking at the wall advert of La Jolla, I was inquisitive about hiring the hostel bicycle to get there. So, after I had breakfast, I approached reception to ask about this. At this instance, I pronounced the town's name as it was spelt - La Jolla. The receptionist was keen to rent out the bike, but he also corrected me on how the Spanish name was pronounced. It was pronounced La Hoya. I was mildly disappointed, as La Jolla sounded such a happy name. I couldn't help feeling jolly about it! It was like when my accountant friend Tim corrected me on the Welsh name Llanelli during a Welsh Rugby tournament we were watching together on TV. The name of this town is pronounced, Flan-efli. For me, I have wondered how the Italians would have pronounced La Jolla. Italian is the only language I know of that pronounces each letter in a word as it's pronounced in its alphabet. 

The Rocky Coast approaching La Jolla.

Another view of the Coast as I approach La Jolla.

La Jolla Town

La Jolla Cove - where I swam.

It was a little over 13 miles or 21 km from Downtown San Diego to La Jolla, and it took over an hour had I rode direct. Instead, I stopped at Mission Beach and at other points further along the rocky coast to take in and enjoy the scenery. Although the ride started off along the main road out, passing by the back of the airport, once I arrived at Mission Beach and also passed by SeaWorld east of the Pacific Coast, a combined cycle and walkway ran along the beach, providing a very safe route to La Jolla. I remembered this cycleway from two years ago. Not only cyclists use it, but pedestrians and joggers use it regularly. I believe it has always been an excellent training route for runners and aspiring athletes.

The last time I hired a bike during this world trip was from Jeff's Hostel in Byron Bay, New South Wales. I recall the soaking I got from the heavy rain whilst I was on the return ride to the hostel. The Aussie out-and-back distance I covered was approximately 17 miles (27 km). In turn, the round trip to La Jolla from Downtown San Diego and back was around 26 miles (42 km) thus a day's smooth riding in far better weather! And, unlike Malibu being outside the Los Angeles administration area, La Jolla was just within the administration of San Diego, despite this coastal town being 13 miles north of Downtown.

North of Mission Beach, the sandy strip became a series of flat rocky ledges protruding into the sea. They make excellent sunbathing platforms without the inconvenience of sand getting under the toenails. This part of the coast was already in the southern stretch of La Jolla. Further on, the town appeared. It was at this point that the coast swung to the east, with the north-facing curve forming La Jolla Cove, a popular bathing area dotted with swimmers and snorkelers.

What the snorkelers were looking at beneath them, I never found out at the time, as I couldn't see a snorkel hire station anywhere nearby. However, I thought about the Great Barrier Reef, and Low Isles Coral Cay and Border Island fringe reefs in particular. Since then, I learned that what lay beneath the surface of the sea lapping the Cove was an artificial reef created by laying rubble of quarry stones on the seabed to encourage the growth of reef life, very much like that of a decommissioned ship deliberately sunk for the same reason, creating a diver's aquatic paradise.

No doubt, to snorkel over these reefs would have been intriguing, and perhaps impressive. But, as I see it, an artificial reef doesn't hold a candle to a natural reef, unless this would have been the first time ever to set eyes on a reef. As one who was impressed enough by the splendour of the Great Barrier Reef to be fully converted, my case is one of "seeing Naples and die." Therefore, I have at times some regret in not snorkelling over the La Jolla Cove reefs, nevertheless, it wasn't a do-or-die deal. But that didn't mean I stayed dry. Since I was wearing quick-dry shorts, I stripped off my shirt and footwear and plunged straight into the sea, relishing the cool water of the Pacific Ocean holding me off the seafloor below.

A Lonely Gull on the Rocky Coast

Sandstone Cliffs, La Jolla.

One of the caves in the sandstone cliff.

Inside the entrance of Sunny Jim's Cave.

Another attraction I was interested in visiting was Sunny Jim's Sea Cave. Although accessible from the sea, it was the only one of the eight sea caves into the sandstone cliffs that were also accessible from land, and the entrance was through a grocery store on the clifftop. 

Having found the shop, which was near the Cove, I entered and bought some light refreshments. On one side of the shop's interior was a closed door. After buying what I needed, I asked whether this was access to the cave. It was, and I paid a small fee over the counter. I was left to myself to proceed through the door which was the entrance to a well-lit man-dug tunnel with steps leading underground.

I was thinking as I descended the wooden steps, how similar this was to Hezekiah's Tunnel, a much older water conduit located just south of Israel's Jerusalem Old City. However, the 2,700-year-old Biblical tunnel was very precise compared to this one here in La Jolla. It had to be. It served as a channel to convey water away from the threat of the Assyrian king and his forces attacking the city during the reign of King Hezekiah. This South Californian tunnel was much younger (completed in 1905), shorter and less precise in its engineering skills, and its sole purpose was for its original owner, Gustav Schultz, to make money by allowing access to paying tourists at the turn of the 20th Century. To this day, visitors are still obliged to pay the entrance fee.

When the cave entrance appeared through the other end of the tunnel, its outline resembled the profile of a human head, and it was given the name Sunny Jim's Sea Cave after a cartoon character featured on a breakfast cereal box. From the entrance, the sea lapped below, as it was low tide when I was there. During high tide, the sea floods the floor of the cave, making it an ideal site for illegal smugglers in the past centuries.

I spent some time alone in the cave. Despite having been rated as a tourist highlight, as far as I'm aware, nobody else entered the tunnel to join me in the cave. But I didn't mind. It was a good spot to meditate, as the sound of the lapping waves outside echoed within the cave walls. The rock in which the sea eroded into the cliffs was sandstone, the same material that some layers of the Grand Canyon strata of the Outer Gorge are composed of.

La Jolla was one of the highlights of the 1997 visit, as I had not seen that area before. By looking around, I have gotten the impression that the locals are well-to-do, even wealthy. I saw that, like Downtown San Diego, the town was neat and well-kept, having a beauty of its own.

A Shock at a Californian Bar.

Back at the hostel, after handing the bicycle safely to its owners, I prepared dinner as usual. Like at all other times, nightlife wasn't particularly attractive. I prefer to leave all that for the rising generation, people in their twenties, maybe into their thirties. However, one evening, I did fancy a drink in a bar. Not knowing any better, I ordered a half-litre of ale (that is about an imperial pint.) I watched the barman fill the glass, but just before he was due to hand it over, he asked for my identification. I was shocked. This was unknown in Britain, Europe or Australia. The only identification I had in those days was my passport. And it was safe in the hostel dormitory, a short walk away.

The barman apologised and explained that showing identification was mandatory before an alcoholic drink was served. He had no choice but to pour the drink down the sink, a sheer waste of a good beverage, just because some idiot in the echelons of power believed that every fully grown adult citizen, whether American or foreigner, was a potential threat to society! 

I didn't return to the bar with the passport, although I could have done and be served. Instead, the comfort of the hostel was more welcoming.

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Next Week: San Diego Zoo and Other Attractions.