Las Vegas! Laughlin! London Bridge! The best $99 bus tour

Las Vegas

The online advertisement listed a jaw-dropping price: Three days of sightseeing, including transportation, hotels and entertainment, for $99.

“No way,” I told a colleague. “You probably end up spending $99 on the tour and $70,000 on a time share in Barstow.”

But the cheapie tour was a genuine deal — and there was never a timeshare pitch. For less money than I spent on my last trip to the supermarket, I was whisked to the Colorado River, the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas. I had some spine-tingling moments of adventure; I got a taste of international travel; and I had a little time left over to shop, gamble and sightsee.

I even acquired a new name: Tammy Chan. And Times photographer Anne Cusack, who accompanied me, was re-christened Becky Wong. But more about that later.

This low-cost bus tour was part of a burgeoning segment of the U.S. travel industry that caters to budget vacationers. Cut-rate companies, based mainly on the East and West coasts, advertise on the Internet and are sharply competitive, offering sightseeing tours for about a third the price of many long-established companies. They slash prices, cut corners — so there’s a definite element of surprise, risk and adventure in traveling with them. But the bottom line is this: With transportation and hotels included, this bus trip was a genuine travel bargain, albeit with some downsides.

Early start

Our trip began before dawn on a street corner in downtown Los Angeles. When we purchased the tour online at www.gotobus.com, we were given a choice of 10 L.A. or Orange County departure points; we chose L.A.’s Chinatown. When we arrived, several buses were already there, idling alongside the curb, diesel motors droning and exhaust fumes curling from their tailpipes. Dozens of travelers, pulling wheeled luggage or toting backpacks or suitcases, milled around.

Some of the buses were headed to casinos for the day, others were setting out on weeklong tours across the West. There was low-key bedlam as travelers from Asia, the U.S. and Europe — speaking a dozen tongues — tried to find their buses, no small task since there were no signs.

Anne and I joined the search, finally finding guide Chris Quach, who pointed out the correct bus. We boarded, joining a dozen people for an hourlong stop-and-go ride picking up other passengers. When we reached the San Gabriel Valley, we changed buses, picked up an additional 40 people and hit Interstate 10 in Big Yellow, a.k.a. Bus No. 18, our home away from home for the next 56 hours. A large sign on the side said Seagull Travel; a smaller sign in the window read Sincere Travel, a discrepancy that was never explained.

One good thing about Big Yellow: It was easy to spot in parking lots. But 18 had drawbacks too: It was vintage 2001. The front windshield was fractured in two places, the seats were frayed, and layers of grime coated the overhead storage bins and the velvety, rainbow-colored ceiling panels.

The best indicator of Big Yellow’s years of service became clear as it started to climb the Cajon Pass. The bus wheezed and coughed when the driver revved it for the assault on the 4,200-foot summit.

Big Yellow vibrated so loudly that conversation was impossible; worse, the elderly bus was shimmying continuously side to side on the twisting mountain highway. I made the mistake of looking out the window as the road looped around a cliff and saw the land drop off into nothingness.

The blood drained from my face.

“Dear Guardian Angel,” I said silently, as I always do when I’m on the edge of a panic attack, “please help this bus get to the top of the grade safely and I’ll be good the rest of my life.”

My fellow passengers had grown quiet, and I wondered whether everyone was saying some variation on this prayer in their own languages. Most of the travelers were Asian, but there were a few Europeans, Aussies and a handful of visitors from the Eastern U.S.

Our guide decided it was time to take our minds off the road.

“You know the words ‘outlet mall’?” he asked. “Today, our first stop will be to shop. Polo, yes!”

Quach, a Vietnamese native, had introduced himself earlier in English, Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese. Now, he told us about our route, again, in four languages. As the tour progressed, we became accustomed to this routine, which gave the journey an international flavor. It seemed, in fact, as though we were trekking across Asia instead of the Mojave.

We would stop at the Tanger Outlet Center in Barstow, then go on to London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Ariz., Quach said. (“You know the song ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down’? A rich man bought the bridge when it was sinking and moved it to the desert.”) Our stop for the night would be on the Colorado River in Laughlin, Nev.

“In three days, we’ll see three states: California, Arizona and Nevada. Of course, in the United States, there are 50 states,” Quach said, giving a social studies lesson to the international travelers aboard. In any language, he was an uncommon tour guide: clever and warm, able to soothe irate travelers and relentlessly cheerful.

As he predicted, everyone liked the outlet mall, which offered more practical fare than the souvenir stands that other tour bus companies seem to favor. London Bridge wasn’t quite as successful: Most of the group was underwhelmed. Its graceful 176-year-old stone arches seemed an odd backdrop for the nearby Hawaiian shave-ice stand, the Javelina Cantina and the Dixie Belle restaurant.

We drove 50 more miles and pulled into Laughlin just as a fiery orange sun was sinking below the foothills.

“Wait here while I collect our keys and room assignments,” Quach said, leaving us to wander around in the parking lot of the Colorado Belle Hotel. He returned about 20 minutes later with envelopes inscribed with names ... of other people. “Rosemary McClure,” he called, and handed me an envelope that said “Tammy Chan”; inside was a room key. He called Anne’s name and handed her an envelope that said “Becky Wong”; it also had a room key. Everyone got the room-key envelope with a name not remotely like their own, and everyone looked befuddled.

“Why?” I shouted over the din of several languages.

“We reserve the rooms months in advance under other names,” Quach said. “If the water leaks or you have any other problems, just call my cellphone,” he added, giving us the number. “And remember, tomorrow we leave at 5 a.m.”

Then he repeated this in three more languages.

We grabbed our luggage and trundled off to our rooms. Anne and I compared notes a few minutes later: Both rooms were clean, large, comfortable, adequately furnished with two double beds and two chairs. No flat-screen TVs or 500-thread-count Egyptian cotton linens but quite acceptable — especially for the price.

Then we walked outside and hopped aboard a floating taxi service that cruises the river, stopping at the larger casinos. Laughlin, a small-scale Vegas without the glitter and high prices, serves mostly blue-collar tourists. Several of the boat’s passengers were wearing message T-shirts: “American and proud of it”; “Beer is the reason I get up in the morning”; and “Freedom don’t come cheap.” We people-watched as passengers entered and exited the boat. Behind them, the casinos’ dazzling lights flashed and sparkled on the dark waters of the Colorado.

Anne and I searched for a good restaurant, but all seemed booked except the buffets. We ended up at the Edgewater’s Grand Buffet, where — for $11 — we had gristly beef, cold fried shrimp and lots of carbs.

‘The whole enchilada’

I awoke, startled. I had set my alarm for 4:20 a.m., but it was only 4:15 and my phone was ringing. I banged it off the receiver and hit myself in the face.

“This is Chris,” the cheerful voice said. “Remember, the bus will be leaving at 5 a.m.”

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound wide awake and just as cheerful.

Quach was not only our guide, I realized. He was our alarm clock too, jovially goading his charges to rise and shine each morning — and make it to the bus on time. His gentle good spirits were contagious, even at that hour.

Our itinerary that day took us back into Arizona, where Big Yellow shimmied and rolled over miles of parched desert to the mountains and pinyon forests overlooking the Grand Canyon.

Quach told us about our destination as the bus wobbled down the highway:

“United States history is not too long. A little more than 200 years. But the Grand Canyon history is very long.”

One passenger asked whether it was better to see the canyon from the top or the bottom.

“You go to the top and you can see the whole enchilada,” Quach said. “If you go to the bottom, you’re like a small ant looking up at a chair. You can’t see the top.” Then, of course, he repeated the comments three more times.

Our stop at the canyon was brief, just long enough to look over the edge and take a short walk. Then we stopped at the National Geographic Visitors Center to see the optional movie and shortly thereafter were back on the highway, bound for the neon of Vegas.

“We’re staying at the Plaza Hotel and Casino,” Quach announced. “It used to be in the Top 10 in Vegas. Now maybe it’s in the Top 30. Or maybe Top 40.”

Based on my room, I would have placed it in the bottom 10. The 1,000-room downtown hotel, at the western edge of the Fremont Street Experience, has seen better days. The carpeting looked as though it had once served as flooring in a preschool cafeteria. Maybe my room was next on the list for renovation because Anne’s room was fine, and others in the group were pleased too.

That night, Anne and I hit several Strip casinos and hotels, had dinner at the Bellagio, rode the inexpensive Deuce bus back downtown and then watched the big-screen Vista Vision light and sound show that plays nightly 90 feet above Fremont Street.

At midmorning the next day, Big Yellow 18 was waiting to take us home. I tried to sleep on the return trip, so I wouldn’t notice the shaking and shuddering. It worked, for the most part.

Would I go on another similar trip?

I would cross my fingers and hope that Big Yellow had finally gone to the wrecking yard. But you bet I’d go. Such a deal.

And besides, I sort of like the name Tammy.

rosemary.mcclure@latimes.com