Crank the engine for a holiday on wheels

Los Angeles

"Welcome to Hollywood! What's your dream?" The car bounces up and down with five excitable people and movie quotes fly out of our mouths as we drive past the LA Ink studio and I get my first taste of California. I'm half expecting to see Robert De Niro to walk down the street. It's day one of a five-day road trip with friends across Southern California and we're prepared for the open road in a 2008 kind of way - iPods are loaded, digital cameras charged, US candy bars we've stocked up on are melting in the humidity (travel tip: Reese's Pieces are surprisingly nice when liquefied). Checking into the famous Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard and I can barely hold in my squeals: the view from my window shows Grauman's Chinese Theater, where The Academy Awards are filmed each year. At the top of the grand staircase is a huge portrait of Marilyn Monroe, who lived in room 229 of this old school glamour hotel for two years. I had no idea what to expect of LA, except the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but in an instant I'm swept up in the stardom of it all. Later that night we take one of the legendary tours of LA, checking out the cribs of Quentin Tarantino, Will Ferrell, Scarlett Johansson and um, Billy Idol among others. The movie star magic is catching, stopping for a view from the top of the Hollywood Hills after taking in Chateau Marmont, Kitson and Dr Phil's house, I'm quite breathless with excitement. Or maybe it's the smog.



Jack Kerouac said "LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities" - and maybe it is to live here. But to visit is a travellers dream - an adult playground of entertainment on every corner where all the clichés are as true as I'd hoped. Shopping in LA I get talking to a Batman on Hollywood Boulevard, whose day job involves dressing in costume for the tourists. He tells me his "dream"; by night he's a hip-hop star and gives me a promo CD. After dinner at Katana and a few very strong freepour vodkas at SkyBar, I wake up at 4am with the raging thirst. A quick peek from the bathroom window on to the boulevard, I'm pleased to note that Batman is still patrolling up and down the streets, protecting the city 24/7.

The next day we visit Universal Studios which makes me feel eight years old again, as we rush from the Desperate Housewives' Wisteria Lane set to The Simpsons Ride and get a VIP tour of the props department, which contains over 2 million props! (Travel tip: if you pay extra for a VIP pass you'll get front of queue access on all rides plus an exclusive guided tour of the studio backlot).



San Diego

On the drive along Highway 101 into San Diego I breathe a sigh of happiness as we hit the California I've always imagined. We cruise past Baywatch style beaches with lifeguard huts, palm trees, paddle and kite boarders on the sparkly ocean and plenty of sunkissed eye-candy in board shorts. I keep my eyes peeled for a David Hasselhoff sighting. The Red Hot Chili Peppers' Californication begins our two and a half hour drive from LA. A popular holiday spot, the weather stays warm in San Diego almost all year round, which perfectly suits the headquarters of action sports. BMXing was invented here and skateboarding champ Tony Hawk calls it home. Checking into the Hotel Del Coronado, which trades massively on it's wonderful Marilyn Monroe connection - Some Like It Hot was filmed here, it's a real thrill to stay in a place which has its original 1888 furnishings, complete with a traditional bell boys and lift porters, who escort you into the lift, sliding open the grates as you step inside.

The Hotel Del is famous for it's spectacular Sunday brunch, held in the Crown Room. Its ornate chandeliers were designed by L. Frank Baum, who wrote The Wizard of Oz. Sitting down at 10am, to the sounds of a live old blues singer on a grand piano, the five of us don't leave the table until 2pm. Between us we attempt to sample everything on the huge menu: waffles, omelettes, pastries, every kind of fruit, shellfish and bread, fresh vegetables, fudges, ribs, cheeses, teas, bagels. Luckily the hotel has sunrise yoga the next day, which I do, plus an intense spin class taken by a type-A lady who bellows "good job, good job!" into the microphone every other minute. I swear I am sweating pastries.



Palm Springs

For every city or state in America, a word association pops into my head. Hawaii: surfing. Minneapolis: Prince. Palm Springs: leisurewear. A place known for wealthy pensioners shuffling around golf courses in visors, we drive three hours south and the scenery changes dramatically to stunning mountains and brown and red earth. Soundtrack to here is a playlist that includes Kid Rock, Dolly Parton and Aerosmith. Plus more melted Reese's, mixed this time with melted Oreo Cookies. Checking in at The Colony Palms Hotel, I spy a temperature gauge: 102F (38.8C). Whoah.

Luckily the air-con is blasting in the architectural tour we take by car that afternoon. I discover some history: Palm Springs was a man-made playground cut into the middle of the desert, so Hollywood movie stars could be just 100km from LA but also have space to relax and party. There's a lot of Spanish architecture and many of buildings from the 1940s to ‘70s have stayed in tact. We pass the old holiday homes of Clark Gable, Kirk Douglas and, you guessed it, Marilyn Monroe (is she following me?). Even inside the car, sweat is pouring down my back and when our tour guide asks if we'd like a walk around one of the houses, I'm initially reluctant. Then he announces it's Frank Sinatra's old holiday home and suddenly I find myself standing in Frank and Ava Gardner's old bedroom, looking at photos of movie stars. Frank with Elvis. Frank with JFK. Wow.

The mountains in Palm Springs change colour as the day goes on and a walk in the Indian Canyons later that afternoon is a wonderful treat. All around are skyscraper palm trees, rocky gorges and barren dessert lands. The heat is intense and we come across a fall and wade in to cool down in the fresh water. That night, over Mexican and margaritas, the five of us are beaming as we shovel down nachos and share favourite moments of the trip. It's our last night, and despite being almost able to smell fame in the air, we haven't seen any Hollywood stars in the flesh. Though we did see fellow Aussies Megan Gale and Andy Lee!



TRIP NOTES
Getting there
Return economy airfares to Los Angeles Airport (LAX) flying Air New Zealand are priced from $1336 plus $426 taxes (ex Sydney), $1608 plus $410 taxes (ex Perth) and $1609 plus $426 taxes (ex Adelaide). The writer flew Premium Economy class. Visit airnewzealand.com.au.

The cost

Creative Holidays has great rates at hotels throughout southern California. Four nights at the Roosevelt Hotel in LA are priced from $624 per person. Its City By Night tour is priced from $77 per person. The Universal Studios VIP Experience starts from $285 per person. Four nights at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego from $892 per person. Visit creativeholidays.com for more information.

Before you go
Download a free historical walking tour of Sunset Strip in LA at weho.org - you'll save cash and burn off the kJs from In-N-Out Burger.

GAFA

I try the ignition for the fourth time, but it's completely dead. Our van has made a valiant effort on the decaying road out here but as we finally pull into the Wolfe Creek Crater campsite, seven hours after leaving the bitumen, it coughs, judders and cuts out. Things had started well. My university friend Heather and I could almost taste the sea air of Broome after a long dusty drive west across the ‘top end' from Cairns. The crater is our last big outback adventure before we hit the west coast. After stopping for fuel and supplies at Halls Creek - a service town in the heart of the Kimberly in WA, we picked up a young hitchhiker called John but soon regret it. He answers in monosyllables, doesn't share his chocolate and looks at us as if we're wacko. He's probably right; not many people drive into a desert in a dodgy 1979 Ford Econovan nicknamed Barbiemobile to satisfy a whimsical fascination for outer space. The garage guys at Halls Creek had assured us the road was well graded and the van would breeze it, so we drove to the turn off and began the bumpy 134km pilgrimage into what the is affectionately called "GAFA" - the great Australian f**k all!



On the drive here we had discussed the terrifying movie Wolf Creek and, as I try the ignition one more time, it's not lost on us that the murder spree of the film begins when a trio of travellers break down in a spot similar to ours. We try to look on the bright side, we may be teetering on the on the cusp of a grizzly desert death but, at least we made it. About 300,000 years ago, a piece of universal bric-a-brac charged through the protective sheath of our atmosphere and gave the earth an almighty thwack. It created the second largest meteorite crater in the world, Wolfe Creek Crater, and right now I am sitting in its shadow. I curl into a ball to meditate before rolling onto my back. Opening my eyes I look up and the desert night sky fills my vision. As I sink into feelings of insignificance in the face of enormity, I sigh a great sigh, spy a small rock and move it about 15cm, just to prove I have some power to change the world. Later I walk back to camp and take my gnawing worries to bed.

Sunrise

I can't sleep so I lie there for hours pondering life until the denseness shirks off to the other side of the world. The others can't sleep either so shivering in the pre-dawn chill, we leave the campsite and climb the 35m embankment to the crater's rim. We huddle together for warmth until the first beams of sunlight peek over the lip, washing over us in a warm wave of positivity. It'll be fine, our van will get fixed and we will make it out of this beautiful place alive.

The morning sun illuminates the crater like a giant red plug hole. I feel tiny. On impact, the solid iron meteorite would have weighed more than 50,000 tonnes and been travelling at 15km per second - that's fast enough to cross Australia in five minutes. It would have instantly vapourised and punched an 880m wide, 120m deep hole in the ground. It's scary, but much less so than the crazed bushman in the film who laughs in all the wrong places.

"G'day!" We're joined by a couple who have driven the long dirt road from Adelaide via Alice Springs and Uluru. The guy turns to John and says, "Yer van sounded pretty ropey last night mate." Heather and I harness our feminist high horses and reply in unison, "it's our van". The guy gives his wife a wink, "Girls, I reckon I know what ya problem is, and I said as much to the nag last night," he cocks his head towards his wife. "I told her, ‘they've popped a spark plug.'" He winks at us, hooks ‘the nag' with an enormous hairy arm and offers to take a look. Er, is that an under-the-breath chuckle I hear? Before my imagination goes to bad places, Heather turns on her heels announcing she's going to check the spark plugs. John mooches off too but I can't bear the suspense so I squat in the dirt to stare at the crater. I'm interrupted by a honk and look down to see Heather sticking double thumbs up out the van's window as the spark plugs fire and she revs the engine back into life. Never was a sound more beautiful.



A lasting impression

After a round of high-fives and a campsite breakfast we pay the ancient crater a much happier visit, I even see a smile escape from tight-lipped John. We scramble down the rocky incline but apart from a few lizards leaping from rock to rock it's as quiet as a cathedral. By 9.30am it's seriously hot and by 10am I'm medium to well-done. It's time to bid the crater adieu. I have a quiet word with the van; patting her and whispering, "you've only got 134km to get back to the smooth bitumen, then I promise I'll never take you off-road again," (I feel now isn't the time to mention the rest of the 13,500km journey back to Sydney). The bumps and dips in the road on the way back are as teeth-rattling as ever but we're in good company. The nag and her husband have appointed themselves our guardian angels and with plenty of smiles, they leap-frog us all the way back to the bitumen. I feel giddy with relief as we turn the final corner and watch as their van hoons off in the opposite direction.

Getting there

Wolfe Creek Crater is on the edge of the Tanami Desert in Western Australia. It's accessible via the Tanami Road which is signposted on the Great Northern Highway about 18km east of Halls Creek. Drive 112km south along the Tanami Road before turning on the crater road. It's a further 22km from the Tanami Road to the crater.

The cost

The only costs are fuel and supplies. There is no cost for the campsite.
The road is only accessible during the dry season which runs from May to November. It may be closed during the wet season which runs from December to April.

Before you go

It's essential to check the road conditions before you travel with Main Roads Western Australia (138 138) or the Shire of Halls Creek (08 9168 6007).

Day 1

My knees are wedged under my chin in the back seat of a tiny transit van with no suspension, climbing higher and higher into the Bolivian Altiplano (high plain). We'll be reaching 5500m today, our guide Heraldo informs us. 5500m? New Zealand's Mount Cook is only 3750m - we're virtually going into space. A quick survey of my fellow travellers reveals no one's brought any altitude sickness medication, so I ignore the increasingly loud pounding in my head and hope for the best. I've been desperate to go to Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest and highest salt flats, since seeing stunning photos of the vast white desert in a guidebook a few years back. The gang on the trip are a good bunch, and we democratically take turns on the fairground ride that is the back seat. The tiny hillside roads are terrifyingly narrow with a sheer drop on the left. Just before motion sickness overwhelms me, we pull over to eat lunch off the bonnet of the van in a field full of llamas, and I remember why I'm doing this.

Many, many kilometres of increasingly barren landscape later, we arrive at our destination for the night. In an isolated village at 4000m, we unfold from the van and are immediately surrounded by local children who demand we play them at football. Soon they are laughing and pointing at the Westeners as we puff and stagger round the pitch, our heads spinning and hearts racing, failing to get anywhere near the goal. After twenty minutes of being thrashed, we head to the village shop to buy the kids their prize of a huge bottle of cola and slump off to bed with our tails between our legs. The night is spent shivering beneath alpaca blankets as the temperature drops to -20C.



Day 2 and 3

An ancient abandoned town, believed to be haunted by the devil himself, is our first stop. As we walk among the ruins, I hear a funny squeaking noise. Our guide points out some incredibly cute little creatures called viscachas, a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel, with long droopy whiskers. They're everywhere, scampering up and down walls and hopping among rocks. My new favourite animal! Travelling on across the endless plains, we visit bright turquoise sulphurous lakes, bubbling mud pools and violent stinking geysers.

The next day we drive past more chemically-coloured lakes, this time bright red and teaming with flamingos, but we can't go near the water as it's toxic to humans. We stop at the Daliesque ‘field of rocks', full of huge ancient stones. After more lakes, more flamingos and more kilometres of vastness, the turns in the tiny back seat of the suspension-less van are wearing thin and I am filthier than a night with Colin Farrell. I have dust in every pore and my hair looks I've been riding in a convertible. I start wishing I was, but then the landscape begins to change; the ground gets whiter. We're getting near the salt! I'm desperate to see tonight's accommodation the Marith Hotel de Sal as it's made of entirely of salt - the walls, floor, the tables and chairs are cleverly arranged salt blocks. I run to my bedroom and sure enough, the bed is made of salt. It has a mattress on top, luckily. After a hot shower and a lama steak I drift into savoury dreams.



Day 4

I'm roused at some unholy hour and we pile sleepily into the van. Soon enough we stop and Heraldo chucks us out into the freezing blackness. We wait, yawning and shivering. Eventually a tiny orange blob appears on a very distant horizon. As the sun rises, I see the ground beneath us is as white and glistening as snow. It stretches blankly away in all directions, as far as the eye can see. I'm awestruck at the beauty and the bleakness - I've never seen anything like this. We warm up with the sun, and eat bread and cheese off the bonnet again in surely the most surreal breakfast location I'll ever experience. After playing at being Annie Leibovitz with the camera we get in the torturous van for the last time and as luck would have it, it's my turn in the back. I adopt the usual uncomfortable yoga position but as we drive away from this unreal white expanse, I'm not thinking about the pain.

TRIP NOTES

Getting there

Fly to La Paz, Bolivia. From there, take a bus to Tupiza where the trip begins. Tours are available all year but winter (May to October) is drier so driving conditions will be better. Some people may be affected by altitude sickness, so consult your doctor before you go.

The Cost

Tupiza Tours run four-day trips from Tupiza to Salar de Uyuni for $125 - $160 depending on the number of people on your trip.

Before you go
Take colouring pencils to give out to the local kids instead of money or lollies.