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TRAVEL DIARIES
Australia - March 2005
New Zealand - February - 2004
Tokyo -August - 2003
New Zealand - March 2003
Australia - March 2005
In which I let you read my exciting travel diary from my recent trip to Australia...
PART ONE - ADELAIDE
Tuesday March 8th
Potential trip-wrecking diseases apparently averted, I hit the familiar trail to Kansai airport. Only a week before I'd managed to do my back in while trying to prevent an ailing house-bound cat escaping over a balcony railing. And then an outbreak of influenza strikes down half of my mates, and I have to endure sitting next to people who claim that they are no longer contagious while sneezing out great gobbets of phlegm every few minutes. Charming!
Amazingly, everything seems to be OK on my day of departure, but at check in I shamelessly feign illness in order to try and get an emergency exit seat or even a business class upgrade. No dice, I'm afraid, for the long leg of the flight, but from Kansai to Hong Kong I'm sitting there on the half-empty flight with my legs stretched out in front of the exit and no bugger sat on the seat beside me - sweet!
Hong Kong airport - modern, spacious and over heated. Sweating like a pig and wondering if I haven't got flu after all, I manage to contract a severe case of tag nuts in a rushed bid for the toilet mere minutes before my next flight is due to board. That was probably more than you wanted to know, right?
On board the flight to Adelaide I sit in an incredibly cramped seat next to a young Ozzie girl fresh from a stint of nannying in San Francisco. Pleasant conversation enough, but how utterly unfeminine and vacuous most modern young Western women appear to be. (If you're a modern young western woman, and have been offended by these comments, please go and stick your head in a pig.
And another thing, Cathay Pacific Airlines is looking a bit rough these days. They've got the ol' TVs on the backs of the seats thing going on, but everything is looking a bit broken and threadbare.
Wednesday March 9th
I stumble out into Adelaide airport, which in stark contrast to that of Hong Kong, is small, shabby and 1970's-ish. It's also completely useless in terms of services. There is no information desk at all for poor bemused visitors like me who want to know how we can get into town without getting shafted by taxi drivers. Finally I spot what looks like the shuttle bus outside, but the bugger is just pulling away, so guess what, I end up taking a taxi after all. I didn't get shafted, though, and it wasn't very far at all to my hotel.
I'm staying at the Director's Studios, which sounds posher than it is. The hotel is located about a kilometer from the centre of town, slap bang in Chinatown with more restaurants than you can throw a stick at just within spitting distance. The hotel room is very well-appointed, and I'm pleased to note that there is air-con and a microwave, and more importantly, a great comfy chair in front of the TV - yes!
By this time I'm so knackered out from the relatively sleepless flight that all I can do is walk down the street to the nearest supermarket and gawk at the lovely goodies on offer. I grab supplies, return to the hotel, stuff me face, then feel duty bound to go out again for a brief stroll around the block where I hear the cacophony of unfamiliar birds that is a hallmark of Australia.
First impressions show Adelaide to be somewhat arid looking and much smaller than I would have imagined for a city of one million souls.
Thursday March 10th
A good night's sleep then up and out into amazing weather - pure blue sky with not a cloud to be ssen all day, with temperatures topping 29ºC.
I head out, map in hand, for Rundell Street, the main shopping area, in order to check out the tourist information centre and cash me traveller's cheques. On the way a weird thing happens while I nerd around the military history section of Dymocks book store. As I read, I notice a strange little homunculus of a bloke rooting around in the books to my left. Then his minder appears, and the two of them begin to enact, almost word for word, a Lou and Andy sketch from 'Little Britain', only with Australian accents. Of course, those of you who don't know what 'Little Britain' is won't know what the hell I'm talking about, but that's your problem for living in a cultural vacuum.
Next on to the Botanic Gardens where I spend a very pleasant few hours. And it is at this juncture that one of several epiphanies pounce on me, if you know what I mean. What's the great revelation? I really like trees. That's it! Trees are cool, groovy and happening, and there's nothing like dozing on a bench with your iPod pulsing some minimal Brian Eno pieces into your eardrums surrounded by a gently swaying collection of dormant Ents. Adelaide's gardens are particularly great, and the increasing heat does indeed cause me to nod off while viewing an Italian-styled grotto with twin rows of those tall thin pointy trees, whatever they're called.
To stave off the sleepies I retire to the cafe and indulge in a coffee while pulling out a bundle of pamphlets I'd grabbed earlier in the tourist information office, joined occasionally by a mynah bird, a duck and a funny pointy-headed pigeon.
Next I head up to North Terrace where all the old civic buildings are to be found, before crossing the Torrens river and heading up to North Adelaide, hoping for some spectacular city views which never quite materialise. The city of Adelaide is not in any way beautiful according to architecture or monuments, but the greenery surrounding it and intruding upon it is a delight.
On the way home I drop in at Coles supermarket and stock up on victuals, when another and altogether more weighty revelation awaits me. I suddenly decide to become a vegetarian and eschew my usual binge of fatty, highly sugared fare whenever I visit a western country. Actually, a semi-vegetarian, since it is only red meat I'm ditching. Why? Well, there are a number of contributing factors, but perhaps a catalyst was seeing the 'Supersize Me' movie a few weeks back. Those of you who have seen this documentary will no exactly what I mean. Wow, so there we are - no meat, no cakes, no crisps, no choccy, no fizzy drinks - sounds like a drag, but no! This night I prepare a feast fit for kings - a bowl of baked beans with low-fat feta cheese, greek olives, tomatos and hummous on rye bread, all washed down with a bottle of the wonderful bottle-fermented Coopers Sparkling Ale. Yummy! All this and the Simpsons and new episodes of ER on the box - hey!
Thursday March 11th
The heat goes up a further few notches to 33ºC and the ol' body is finding it a little difficult to handle, having just come from a still-wintery Japan. I walk up to the zoo, in itself quite a walk, then stumble around feeling a little groggy
The zoo is pleasant enough, but not a patch on Sydney's. But then again, nowhere is. The place was positively swarming with groups of school kids whose uniforms greatly amuse me - the girls, even those in their late teens, must wear these Victorian-looking checked cotton dresses which are unbelievably austere and frumpy.
The number of species on exhibit in the zoo which are labelled as endangered is quite staggering, and I begin to feel really moved and saddened by the plight of the planet's fauna which has been seriously threatened by centuries of greed and unbridled capitalism. Orangutans are nearly extinct in the wild, and the mind boggles that some people still hunt a creature that shares 97% of the same DNA as us and has the intelligence of a 6 year-old child. But then again, these are probably the same people who wouldn't bat an eyelid killing a fellow human. All for money, of course. Another shocking statistic I learn today - in 1800 North America was home to 60,000,000 bison; by 1890 there were only 600 left. Hats off to the zoo folks who not only show the cute animals to the kids but also, behind the public gaze, take part in international efforts to breed and reintroduce endangered species back to the wild. I wish I could help them, but me, I'm just a useless English teacher...
I head back to the city and have to shelter in a few shops to take advantage of their air-conditioning for a while, before taking the quaint old tram out to the beach resort of Glenelg. Well, what can I say - it's a bit like Brighton, only with scorching hot sun beating down on me. And it's completely different. I stagger out on the peer and that is about the extent of my exploration, as a beach in baking sunshine has little to offer the pale-skinned slouching non-swimmers of this world.
But salvation is at hand, as it is feeding time, and Glenelg sports a range of tempting-looking eateries. I dive into an Italian place and enjoy a great Fetuccine Puttanesca - olives, capers, garlic and anchovies, plus another bottle of Coopers. Afterwards I make another effort to stroll along the shore, but the heat has drained me and I surrender to knackered-dom and return to the city centre.
On the way back I can't resist the lure of the local offy and score a couple more bottles of Coopers Ale. In the shop there are a bunch of very scary looking Aboriginals who are buying gargantuan quantities of booze, and threaten, humourously I hope, to put the evil eye on the guy on the register. Earlier I'd seen a few of them coming down the street, one of whom asked me for money. Sad to say, but they look so out of place in the white folk's city. I wonder how they feel to be an underclass of outsiders in their own land, a thought too depressing to dwell on.
Watched 'Ocean's Eleven' on the box while quaffing the beer and eating grapes I'd got down the market.
Friday March 12th
It's supposedly 35ºC today, but it actually seems a bit cooler. I take the bus out of the city and head up to Mount Lofty in the Adelaide Hills to get my first taste of "nature". The sky is pure blue and the white lighthouse contrasts magnificently with it, and away below I can see the entire city and beyond to the South Pacific - quite a view, but such vistas never seems to translate to film very well. Judge yourselves how this one turned out! Apart from the scenic panaorama, there's nothing else to detain me here, so I'm able to jump back on the same bus and head for my main destination, Cleland Wildlife Park.
This place is just what the doctor ordered. I suppose it's a zoo really, but set within a National Park's beautiful forests far from the city, and many of the occupants are free to roam around as they please within the spacious enclosures. The park is teeming with wildlife, and while I don't get to see the Dingos (out for a walk with the Warder I hear), I do come up close with various kangaroos and emus, and am even able to stroke the head of one of the former.
I also see a mother 'roo with a 'Joey' sticking his head out of the pouch, all just a few feet away, as the animals are not seperated from us humans at all. The kangaroos are much more docile and approachable than I had imagined, with the exception of the big males whose swinging balls and enormous powerful legs make sure I steer clear. Funny to think that before the trip, and before becoming a vegetarian, I was actually contemplating trying kangaroo steak...!
I have lunch in the outdoor cafe, a great salad and tuna sandwich washed down with a bottle of that Coopers Sparkling Ale - very passable.
Back into town late afternoon to discover a big bookstore which keeps me occupied for a couple of hours before retiring to my luxurious hostellery for the night.
Saturday March 13th
I get up at an ungodly 7.45am, which is pretty bloody disgraceful when one is on holiday, to join a tour of the Barossa Valley and neighbouring areas north of the city. I'm a bit apprehensive, as I don't really like to do this kind of bus tour as they're always full of old retired folk and generally involve long hours on a coach and very little at the destinations, not to mention the fact that you are tied to a restrictive fixed itinerary. On the other hand, some places (like the Barossa Valley) just can't really be visited on public transport alone.
Turns out I was right to feel apprehensive, since almost immediately things go pear-shaped. And yes, the bus is full of retired folk. Not that I have anything against retired folk, it's just that I have nothing in common with them. As I've observed before, there just doesn't seem to be any place for solitary travellers in their late 30's. Everything is geared to either the young thrill-seeking backpackers or the old folks with cash, with absolutely nothing in between. Fact of the matter is, there simply aren't any prople in their late 30's travelling around. Where the hell are they all? Dealing with young kids and careers, I suppose, which apparently precludes holidaying, apart from the package kind, but we won't go there.
Anyway, so I'd booked myself on a day tour which didn't include lunch, since I purposefully didn't want to be forced to make polite conversation with old folk in a restaurant I didn't want to go to. But as I board the coach, it seems that all the other people are going on a completely different tour which although going to the same places, includes lunch. What? The coach driver suggests that he drop me off somewhere while the real people tuck into their meal, but this is just impractical, so in the end - guess what - I'm forced to suffer tedious polite conversation with a bunch of wrinklies I have nothing in common with. Gah!
The tour turns out to be a mixed bag, aside from the meal cock-up. We drive up the Torrens Valley north of the city which is incredibly beautiful and spectacular. Thence to the Barossa Valley itself, which is the major wine-producing area of Australia. Indeed, I am very pleased to see the actual field where the grapes for my favourite wine (Jacob's Creek Cabernet Sauvignon) are grown.
The coach takes us to the massive Wolf Blas winery where we are allowed to sample a wide range of produce, and yes, I do get half-pissed. Apart from this, the winery visit is bobbins, since we don't actually get taken around to see the wine-making process, just the old 'let's whisk the punters in here, pour some old table wine down their gullets, then kick 'em out in time for the next bunch of retirement folks' routine.
Then on to the aforementioned restaurant, where at least my vegetarian fettucine is nice. Amid the tedium of the polite conversation from the wrinklies, something of interest does eventually emerge, however: the couple sitting next to me turn out to be Kiwis who live on the exact same road that my brother lives on in Tauranga, NZ - synchronicity or what?
Next we are taken to the historic German town of Hahndorf, where we are shown an amazing old hollowed-out gum tree that had actually been home to a huge family of impoverished German immigrants in the 1800's. They had sixteen kids, and they all survived, a miracle in itself for those years, and yes, they actually lived inside the tree!
The town of Hahndorf itself is a bit of a nothing, really. We are shooed off our coach and allowed to wander for a couple of hours, but there isn't really anything to see except lines of tourist shops on either side of the one major road. OK, there are German pubs and cafes and bakeries, but that doesn't mean squat to someone who has lived in the real Fatherland for four years. It's just one of those odd places which are on the tourist route simply because they have a bunch of touristy shops, not because they have anything else worth seeing.
Despite all of this, the day is not too bad, since we do pass through a lot of very beautiful scenery during the proceedings which I wouldn't have been able to see any other way. It's at times like this when I do wish I had a driving licence and could just hire a car and get out there myself.
Dine on a big Subway veggie sandwich later in the all but deserted city centre, then back to watch 'Windtalkers' on TV, the worst war movie ever made, or as I prefer to call it, 'Windbreakers'.
Sunday March 14th
Up and out and good to be fully independent again - yay! I head to the station and take a suburban train out to the terminus at Belair National Park. It's a beautiful day, still very hot, and I'm eager to immerse myself in more of that 'nature' stuff.
My navigational skills are such that I even lose my way to the Park Information Centre - duh! - before finding a helpful Park Warden who puts me on the right track and also gratuitously shows me some weird seed pods that a bunch of naughty cockatoos had knocked out of a tree.
Rebecca at the Information Centre gives me a map and makes me a little nervous by telling me that certain sections are poorly marked and confusing, while the other Warden compounds this by cheerily explaining that they are currently on a high fire risk warning. Eek!
I get started on the longest hike the Park has to offer, but it turns out to be fairly easy in that it is pretty much flat all the way. The scenery is utterly superb, immersed as I am in Eucalyptus forest with dry, red arid-looking soil and rocky escarpments. The place is supposed to be home to bandicoots, koalas and kangaroos, but I only encounter other critters - a dark brown snake which shoots across my path after I disturb it, then a flock of emu deep in the forest. I want to get closer to them, but after a few steps into the undergrowth I remember the snake, and beat a hasty retreat.
Later I get a bit freaked out when I lose the trail and hear what sounds like a siren in the distance, but nothing seems to be on fire, so I calm down. In order to find my way back I attempt to navigate using the sun's position, which, amazingly enough, works, and I rejoin the official trail.
A fine hike indeed, with the constant cackiling of colourful cockatoos, rosellas, lorakeets, mynahs and magpies making a great accompaniment. Afterwards I recouperate in the shade near a small lake and crank out the tunes on the 'Pod.
Back into town, a stint at a Chinese internet cafe, then haute cuisine in my hotel room with a microwaved spinach, ricotta and chicken lasagna - ah, the high life!
Monday March 15th
A bit of a nothing day. I planned to head out to Morialta National Park to do a 7km looped hike, but the weather had changed during the night from baking hot to bloody freezing. I think about switching to going to Port Adelaide, but then it begins to piss down, and my options shrinks considerably. I said options!
What's a good thing to do on a rainy day? Of course, go to the flicks! But it takes me a bleeding age to actually find a cinema, and when I do, there ain't shit worth seeing!
In the end I relocate to the very civilised Borders book shop where I comandeer a comfy chair and manage to read through an entire book in about four hours. And then I have the unmitigated audacity to put the book back on the shelf without buying it and waltz out. Thank you, Borders!
Back in the hotel a little early and I'm feeling rather annoyed at having been so unproductive. This state of mind is soon rectified, however, by a bowl of piping hot baked beans and some hotcross buns, consumed against a visual backdrop of multiple Simpsons episodes.
PART TWO - PERTH
Tuesday March 16th
Up at 9.30am, check out and dump the main rucksack at reception, then I go into town for a final mooch round the shops and a quick coffee in a Starbucks-clone, where I try to pen some lyrics.
By afternoon I'm back at Adelaide airport, the domestic terminal this time, which is rather nice, unlike its international counterpart. The three-hour flight to Perth is courtesy of Virgin Blue, a rather crappy no-frills outfit something along the lines of EasyJet. Yep, no refreshments (unless you want to buy 'em), and slighty suspect old planes that haven't been cleaned very well. Despite this, it is rather enjoyable, as my window seat affords stunning views of blue ocean dotted with red-coloured islands.
A bit later we are flying over an enormous flat plain whose natural tree cover has been almost totally removed, leaving a patchwork of dirty yellow squares bisected by roads and tracks which I can only imagine are wheat fields, or some other kind of grain. What's amazing is that these fields stretch as far as I can see in every direction - hundreds upon hundreds of kilometres of them.
Into Perth by a chirpy Afghan taxi driver with an interesting phlosophy of life, and soon I'm reclining in my pleasant, if generic, room in the Comfort Perth City Hotel with fierce air conditioning, which is necessary as even at 7pm it is hot and sticky outside.
I stroll into the CBD and spot a Woolworths, which I discover is full of Japanese birds. No!!!!
Wednesday March 17th
A quick breakfast in the hotel (included, which I wasn't expecting), then down to tourist information where I discover that reaching the National Parks is not going to be quite as easy in Perth as it was in Adelaide. Nonetheless, it appears to be a more likeable city looks-wise, appearing quite sub-tropical with an abundance of palm trees.
I take the ferry across the Swan river and try not to stare at the scarey-looking handicapped people travelling on the same boat. One of the poor creatures is strapped into a kind of boxer's padded helmet, while the other gurns alarmingly. [Me: "We can edit out this un-PC stuff later can't we?" Ed: "Er...no"]. On the other side is the Zoo, where once again amid the screaming schoolkids I am depressed by the plight of some of the world's animals such as the tiger and the orangutan. So there you go, mocking the inflicted one moment, the next a bleeding-heart tree-hugging hippie.
After leaving the zoo I decide to walk along the banks of the river and climb up an escarpment into the magnificent King's Park which houses the botanic gardens, and offers amazing views over the entire city. Here I spend a very pleasant few hours following the well-marked trails and enjoying the panoramas despite the cloudy skies. Very nice indeed, sir!
Thursday March 18th
Today the breakfast room is full of dithering dickheads, which puts me in a really foul mood. Why can't everyone be as decisive and manly as me, eh?
Today I take the train out to Freemantle, which the Lonely Planet guide talks up as being an historic, happening place where all the cool Perth folks hang out. What a load of arse, I say! To anyone coming here from Europe, Freemantle is really nothing much. I mean buildings dating back to 1830 - wowee!! OK, it's not really a bad town, but apart from a few old buildings there really isn't much to see or do apart from shopping and drinking down at the marina.
Since there's not much to amuse me in town, I head for the harbour where I indulge in a middlin' fish 'n' chips washed dwon with a very nice micro-brewery ale.
Next I take the train back to Perth, but I get off halfway at Cottesloe, apparently a popular a beach resort. I approach it with some trepidation, given my general dislike of all things beach, and my recent disappointment at Glenelg, but no! Today's cloudy weather is actually a boon, since it enables me to find a nice grassy incline above the pleasant beach and chill out with no fear of sunstroke as a real old sailing ship passes by. In addition, the beach is dotted with bizarre art installations which after a while I find I rather like.
Back into Perth, and I decide I should go to a restaurant for a hot meal. Lonely Planet says the Northbridge area is the place where the food action is, but then again, they don't know shit from shinola. I go anyway, but it's either posh places with waiter service or cheap food malls complete with shouting nutters, peas in every dish and pushy Chinese proprietors.
So it's Woolworths again for salad and hotcross buns, which are apparently called redcross buns here. But alas! later back in the hotel I find out that they haven't got raisins! Bloody sacriledge!
Friday March 19th
Up at seven for the trip out to famed Rottnest Island. The strange name comes from the Dutch, who set foot there in the seventeenth century and mistakenly identified the local diminutive marsupials as rats. There are, in fact, quokkas. So now you know!
I take the train down to Freemantle again, then queue at the quay to get on the ferry, where I am promptly sent back to the ticket office as my voucher isn't properly validated or somesuch crap. The weather had been a bit iffy the past few days, but Lady Luck was smiling, and lo! did the clouds part and azure skies cause one and all to reach for the double strength sun-blocker.
Once on the flat little car-free island itself, I thought I'd just poke me head in at the bike hire to see how much it was, but suddenly I find myself whisked into the well-oiled tourist-fleecing machine and pooped out on the other side of the building with a thinner wallet, perched on a mountain bike and wearing what looks like a polystyrene cowpat on top of my baseball cap. What a plonker!
I do a two-hour circuit which could easilly have been longer, but the old arse is as sore as...er...something that's really sore, so eventually I return the bike ahead of schedule.
Cycling around the island is fantastic, as I coast down into sandy coves at the edge of deep turquoise oceans, with rugged looking terrain dotted with stunted bushes and strangely twisted trees inland. Most of the tourists predictably stick to the beaches, but I find most pleasure in an area of dried lakes in the centre where there is not a soul to be seen.
Near the lighthouse I'm delighted to see a lone quokka is waiting for me, so I dismount and find that the little chap is so tame I can reach down and rub his head. He starts following me around and trying to get up my trouser-leg, which is quite amusing, but eventually I escape the little fellow's clutches and continue on my circuit.
After all this exercise I retire to a sea-side cafe and indulge in a pint of extremely pissy lager. At the table next to me are sitting a family of Greeks or Italians who have to be the ugliest people on the island. Impossibly thick eyebrows, and horrific protruding clumps of nasal hair, and that's just the women. What's more, they order this unfeasibly large platter of seafood that I swear could have fed 50 bods, the greedy bastiches.
Meanwhile, an extended family of peacocks has invaded the restaurant looking for scraps, as the poor waiter tries unsuccesssfully to shoo them out.
Getting a bit peckish myself, I indulge in another fish 'n' chips, then head out to the island's second lighthouse just around the corner from the jetty, but unfortunately this area soon transforms itself into a load of rather tacky holiday chalets and their occupants. But I do meet a few more cheeky quokkas hiding from the sun in the bushes.
I get back to Perth at long last after a bit of a detour, as I had inadvertantly got on the wrong ferry at Rottnest. I won't enumerate, but let's just say that a few months among Barbary Corsairs can make you walk funny.
Saturday March 20th
After a breakfast in which I get stroppy with a crap Chinese waiter, I set off for the AQWA aquarium at Hillarys Boat Harbour, a train and bus ride out of the city. Hillary wasn't there, but I did learn a lot about coral and those groovy sea horse thingies. A pretty small aquarium, actually, but still pretty good. Of course it would be even better if all the noisy little sprogs could be extracted (and perferably marooned on an island somewhere).
Next I check out the rest of the harbour, but it's just chocka with really tacky tourist shops and jam-packed with weekenders. However, there are some decent restaurants, so I opt for a splendid lunch of vegetarian pizza followed by an enormous slice of lemon meringue pie, which was mind-blowing.
In Perth again and I duck into an internet cafe, after which I walk out into the green space on the banks of the Swan River and watch the sunuset to the glorious accompaniment of Guided by Voices on the iPod. Lovely!
Sunday March 21st
Goddammit - some arsewipe calls me in my room at 2am and jolts me out of my slumber, which hadn't been that great anyway. In fact I was having an absolutely bizarre and freaky dream in which I was charged with keeping precious mosquitoes in small boxes - yeah, I told you it was weird. As a consequence of all this, I woke up feeling feverish and like a piece of poo. Hooray!
Not that it really matters, since my only task today is to do my last minute shopping before buggering off tomorrow.
And thus ends another pleasant trip down under. It really is an amazing country if you like the great outdoors, and so different from just about anywhere else. I mean, you don't find numbats and bandicoots in Salford, do you?
More images from this trip can be found here.
New Zealand - February 2004
Well, last years' trip to the South Sea Pommes was so successful I thought I'd go again, and this time I actually kept a diary during the trip.
PART ONE - NORTH ISLAND
10th - 11th February
Amid ubiquitous loud sneezes of Asian men (SARS? Bird Flu?) I manfully donate my complimentary Fererro Rochere chocolate to the shy Korean girl sitting next to me on the flight between Kansai airport and Seoul. On the second, and much longer, leg of the journey I 'luck out' and have an empty seat beside me, resulting in a thrombosis-thwarting spread. In this way I can actually sleep and so evade jet lag.
Into Auckland, and NZ Customs are becoming as paranoid as those in Australia, and I am forced to declare my Japanese green tea (a gift for my hosts). Next, the X-ray machine jams and some lucky employee has to actually crawl inside to untangle someone's mangled baggage from the workings - I can only hope he wasn't intending to father any more offspring.
Time is leaking away, the flight has come in an hour and a half late, and then the queue for passport control is of epic proportions! I make it over to the domestic terminal just in time to board the diminutive Beechcraft 16-seater for the 30-minute flight to Tauranga, my base for the first half of the holiday.
Matthew and Sarah's house is tardis-like: from the outside a little wooden bungalow, but once past the threshold all is transformed into a bright and spacious dwelling encrusted with more light bulbs than...er...someplace with a normal allocation of light bulbs. Around a large portion of this fine abode is a splendid veranda known in these here parts as a 'deck', which unfortunately is rendered 'dick' in the NZ dialect. So yes, Matt and Sarah have a very big one indeed.
Surrounding the house are a series of small paddocks and sheds, framed by some tall stands of unidentifiable trees. Everything is extraordinarilly green. Well, except for the animal inhabitants of the 'farm', two diminutive and shy cows and the stars of the show, a couple of white goats to whom I am introduced.
Amazingly, they are fun, affectionate and reasonably intelligent. And they don't stink, although they do enjoy coating one with a slimey goo from their mouths, and consider fingers fare game as snacks.
It is of course at this moment of rural bliss that I manage to electrocute myself since Matthew has failed to inform me of the 'live' fencing used to keep the cloven ones from escaping.
In the evening we dine on fish 'n' chips, which might seem mundane to you, but for those stationed in the Orient it is a commodity hard to come by.
As I slope off to bed, now considerably cream-crackered, Matthew thinks it might help me sleep better if he gives me the lowdown on the various deadly spiders that may or may not enter my futon during the night. Thanks!
12th February
Today begins a theme that will be a constant throughout this trip : pissing rain. I am later to discover that my trip coincides with the worst summer New Zealand has had for 60 years…yay! No matter, Matthew and I decide that the perfect solution is to stay home and play nerdy computer games all day while drinking way too much tea and coffee. Hardly a wasted day in my humble opinion, and of course my superior playing style results in a string of overwhelming victories, my Napoleon to Matthew's Homer Simpson, if you will.
In the evening Matthew redeems himself in the kitchen and whips up a fine dish of beef and roast potatoes with zucchini. "Success on a plate for you" indeed!
13th February
We are up at Dawn's crack in order to take Sarah into work, then off to the Tightwad emporium 'The Warehouse' (or as I prefer it, 'The Whorehouse'), where for no apparent reason I purchase a basketball. A swift caramel macchiato (once again the official beverage of the trip) is downed in Tauranga city centre, then on to a magnificent fish 'n' chips eaten in the shadow of wondrous Mt. Maunganui. The chippy is a marvel - situated on the sea front in a part of town that could be Salford if it weren't for the predominantly Maori inhabitants, and where the fish comes straight off the boat and into your mouth with only a brief interlude in the deep-fat fryer. Now that's what I call fresh!
Thus fortified, we scale Mt. Maunganui, puffing and sweating, and fumble around with my new digital camera and take exactly the same photos as I took last year. Over-familiarity however does not detract from the impressive views over the sweeping bay below us.
In the evening we make full use of Matt and Sarah's 'dick' and indulge in a steak, hamburger and sausage barbecue - nothing like healthy outdoor living, eh?
Later while hanging out with the goats I observe that (1) their notoriously 'demonic' pupils dilate to circles as the light fails, giving them a very different appearance, and (2) the fact that both of them are female does not prevent them from occasionally trying to hump each other. So there you go, it's not every day that one's knowledge of goats is expanded so dramatically.
14th February
During the night we are subjected to howling gales and lashing rain, during which I begin to wonder if this creaking wooden structure will be able to take much more of such punishment. Surprisingly, the day brings hot and sunny weather, so we go off by car to Rotorua through delightfully rolling green hills. We celebrate our climatic good fortune by consuming Big Whoppers at Burger Koenig before doing the obligatory 'walk around a smelly sulphurous lake', which is what Rotorua is all about.
Evening, a glorious tagliatelle Genovese with Greek salad is served up by yours truly, garnering a whole host of culinary compliments. Well, I liked it, anyway.
After sundown I take another look at the Southern Cross, which is not as obvious a feature in the sky as one might expect, but something unusual for us northern hemisphere folk.
15th February
In which we stay at home and play computer games once again. The results: two major defeats and one minor - eek! Must've had a bad pint or something.
Later on the neighbours in the shape of mother and daughter Linda and Shannon come over for a game of 'Yahtzee' and fruitcakes, and altogether too many cups of tea are consumed. Tipped off by Matthew, my well-trained linguist's ears home in on the Kiwis' patois and I am soon rewarded by multiple utterances of the ubiquitous native oxymoron 'Yeah - no!'. Later in the laboratory I am successfully able to recreate this expression and thereupon decide to let it loose at regular intervals throughout the rest of the trip, much to the annoyance of everyone in the vicinity.
16th February
Up at 6.30am with the intention of setting off on a road trip, but this has to be abandoned, as once again the elements were not in our favour - New Zealand is submerged under water! We venture into town and later in the day I chalk up another culinary victory when I try my hand at cooking okonomiyaki, a Hiroshima speciality consisting of cabbage, bean sprouts and pork grilled between thin pancakes and liberally adorned with the hard-to-get okonomiyaki sauce.
Matt and Sarah were astounded by the delicate and subtle tastes and textures of this fine repast, but I myself, constrained by my exacting standards of excellence, could only but declare said fare as 'middlin''.
17th February
The road trip can be delayed no longer, so Matt and I head south for Taupo via Rotorua through strange weather patterns of alternating sunshine and bucketing rain. We check in to precisely the same Best Western motel as last year, and get exactly the same room, too. This time, however, I am not to be defeated by the arcane mechanisms of the en-suite whirlpool bath, and later in the evening I cavort in its fountains. I also forget to tuck in the shower curtain, and as a consequence the bathroom floor is awash.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The weather at Taupo is poor, overcast and amazingly windy on the lakefront (insert your favourite flatulence quip here). Despite this, we manfully battle the elements and walk about 16km around the lake, encountering the occasional downpour and a caterpillar of enormous dimensions.
On the way back to the motel we drop into Woolworth's for our supplies before returning to an evening of much welcomed goggle box viewing. As far as I'm concerned, no holiday is complete without stuffing your face full of bread rolls with cheese and salami in front the finest crime detection shows the English-speaking world can offer. Right on!
18th February
Definitely a day of anticlimax and anguish. The crap weather marches on and we depart Taupo for the Waitomo region passing through some very oddly 'sculpted' hills. Unfortunately yesterday's exertions have damaged my left toe and walking is becoming increasingly difficult. As if that wasn't bad enough, we end up checking in to a motel in the alleged town of Te Kuiti, both objects quite obviously falling into the category of shitholus maximus.
Despite these grim tidings we head off for nearby Waitomo to see the spectacular eighth wonder of the known universe that is the Glow-worm Caves. A chirpy Maori takes us down into the bowels of the earth through limestone formations that quite frankly aren't a patch on Wookey Hole back in the good ol' U. of K. Then we are squeezed into a boat and punted under some rocks containing thousands of small green lights (the mighty worms) before resurfacing on the other side. Wow - a heady 35 minutes of non-stop thrills! This, lamentably, was the sole activity of the day, so back it was to the rustic delights of Te Kuiti and our splendid 1970's motel room, armed with more bread rolls and cheese from the supermarket. Yes, Te Kuiti had a supermarket - so let's be grateful for small mercies.
19th February
A night of agony, as my damaged toe has swollen up to unfeasible proportions and protests at the slightest contact with anything - eek! To add to the gloom, it's still pissing down outside, although there is one metaphorical ray of sunshine - we get to leave Te Kuiti!
Back on the road again passing more of those odd wrinkly pastures that look as through a giant of an artist has sculpted them out of the hills. Soon we reach Hamilton - hooray for Hamilton, a city of some one hundred thousand souls and thus able to support a vendor of caramel macchiatos - yay!
From the giddy heights of Hamilton the road goes ever on to Pyes Pa Road and back to the farm.
20th February
Scrambled eggs and baked beans for breakfast - what could be finer, I ask you? I hobble into Tauranga wearing a pair of oversized boots of Matt's in order not to aggravate the throbbing appendage (my toe, I mean!). A day of shopping and fish 'n' chips before the late showing of 'Lord of the Rings : The Return of the King'. Enjoy the film greatly, and don't even notice the arse cramp after three and a half hours wedged into the seat.
21st February
Rain and gale-force winds, thus confined to barracks. Need I say we played computer games? Evening - a candlelit feast of cheese 'n' biscuits.
22nd February
Good weather returns, but the damaged foot keeps me on the farm, interacting with the goats. In the evening the time-honoured ritual of homemade pizzas is enacted with great success.
23rd February
My final day in Tauranga, and we spend it fishing on Mt. Maunganui, and yep, that stinky tuna as bait had us reeling 'em in like real fisherman who catch hundreds of enormous fish. The haul at the end of the day? - one red snapper of such astounding dimensions that it could barely be seen with the naked eye. We go to the chippy to dine on something more substantial.
24th February
Inexplicably there's a power cut during the night, from 11pm all the way through until 7 the next morning, so I'm forced to read by candlelight. Well, what do you expect if you choose to live out in the 'back of Bourke'?
Matt drives me to Tauranga 'airport' for a vomit-inducing flight to Wellington, where I notice an enormous model of Gollum reaching out for the ring above the terminal buildings. Then another vomit-inducing flight to Christchurch, this time made more entertaining by the presence of a teenage nutter and a Dutchman whose booming voice rambles on incessantly about everything and nothing for the entire duration.
From Christchurch airport I grab a minibus driven by an Asian named Dean, probably the only Asian I'll ever meet called Dean. The other occupants of the shuttle bus are all huge overweight Northern Brits with verbal diarrhoea. At the Belmont Motor Inn I'm informed that my single room has regrettably been upgraded to a three-roomed suite - sweet! Feeling rough after the flights I can only manage to walk up to the local supermarket, grab some provisions and return to a sprawl on the sofa and some well-earned telly.
PART TWO - SOUTH ISLAND
25th February
Glorious weather, and with a pounding headache I strike out for the city centre. However, a clear blue sky doesn't always mean that it's going to be a hot day. I'm wearing a shirt over my T-shirt, but this will prove to be not enough when I reach the small port town of Akaroa, today's destination.
From the vicinity of Christchurch's pleasant and very British cathedral I hop on the minibus for the two hour journey which passes through some grand countryside including one stunning distant view of the entire snow-capped Southern Alps.
All bus drivers in New Zealand seem obliged to give a running commentary via microphone, which is usually interesting and practical for the tourists, but must be a right royal drag to the locals who have to hear the same jokes time after time. The driver on this trip is unfortunately a bit of a drone, but he does redeem himself by dropping us off at a cheese factory where we can scoff plenty of free samples of the very passable smelly merchandise, and no, of course I don't buy anything.
Soon wonderful views of the Banks Peninsula come into view, a kind of enormous drowned volcanic crater, and then we are deposited in Akaroa itself, a small but endearing township which proudly flies the French flag in recognition of the nationality of its founders. Apparently in the mid 19th century the French were intending to compete with the British for the prize territories of New Zealand, and this was their starting point. It was of course not to be, but this little town maintains a vaguely French atmosphere complete with French street names. Didn't spot any striped T-shirts or berets, though.
The three hours I spend there pass very quickly even though I do little more than stroll up and down the promontory. It is at this point that I regret not having brought a jacket of some sorts, since the town is experiencing something approaching gale force winds (insert another flatulence joke here).
I indulge in a middlin' fish 'n' chips, which I eat outside while desperately trying to stop the wrapping paper taking to the air, all the time warding off the advances of numerous seagulls (or 'rats of the air' as I prefer to name them).
26th February
A long and knackering day which begins at 6.00am. I'm leaving Christchurch even though I haven't really spent any time here, much to my regret for it really is a very pleasant and laid-back place.
A taxi to the train station and it's a repeat of last years' train journey across the Alps to the western coast. I groan inwardly as my seat allocation puts me in among a group of 50-something Americans, but once again I learn that I mustn't prejudge, as they turn out to be enlightened, knowledgeable and very friendly, despite coming from the vaguely comical-sounding Wichita, Kansas.
The weather is reasonably good, but I don't spend much time out in the open viewing car with the herd mainly because it's annoying to jostle with the masses who are bent on taking shots that I know damn well will look like crap when they view them later. Also, I already took my pictures last year, and very good they were too.
Amazingly enough, the train that is renowned for being late isn't late! It is at this juncture that I make a complete knob of myself, not for the last time on this trip I'm afraid to say. I remember that last year there was a really mad scramble to retrieve the bags from the platform where they were unceremoniously dumped from out of the baggage van, and then an even worse panic to make it to the connecting bus that was to take me southward. So I elbow my way to the front of the waiting crowd and suddenly spot my rucksack being brought out, and like a spaz I lunge forward to grab it without noticing the three or four suitcases between me and my quarry. The net result is that I end up flat on my face on the platform looking like a complete arse. And to add insult to injury, I discover that I needn't have been in such a panic after all since the bus I'm due out on hasn't even arrived yet!
However, I believe I'm outdone in the arsehole stakes by a disgruntled Scandinavian weirdo who comes off the arriving bus and starts shouting at the driver because his suitcase has been slightly damaged. His parting remark before storming off is, "It's not a piece of wood, you know". Ha?
We cruise down the western coast and stop at Hokitika where I grab some good ol' bread rolls, cheese and salami from the New World supermarket, just like last year.
Unlike last year my destination is Fox Glacier rather than Franz Josef. The diminutive township is pleasant, and my motel room is rather good too, although the motel proprietor is a creepy Norman Bates-esque guy with watery blue eyes, a skull-like countenance and an insistence on coming over to my room to give me his "individual attention" - eek!
The bad news is that my toe is throbbing like a mofo and just doesn't seem to like my Reebok trainers any more. Nevertheless I sign up for the Lake Matheson 'Sunset Tour' and set off on the cranky old minibus at 7pm, driven by an incomprehensible old scallywag. I thought the idea was we were taken to the lake where we get out, gawp at the sunset, then piss off again, but alas no. Old scally dumps us in the car park and informs us that we have to make a 90-minute circuit around the lake while he no doubt smokes a few Rothmans and scratches his arse.
Still, the forested walk is a delight, despite the increasing agony in my foot, and the two noisy Swedish girls who are tailing me on the trail. The lake views are indeed stunning complete with mirror-like reflections, despite the fact that Mt.Cook and Mt.Tasman's snowy peaks are obscured by a veil of cloud.
Back at the car park by 9pm and a small miracle occurs - just as the sun is going down, the cloud evaporates before our very eyes, and we are rewarded with grand views of the aforementioned mountains, making the whole trip worth it.
27th February
Amazingly I'm not murdered or raped by Creepy Hotel Man during the night. It's a beautiful morning, but I decide to cancel the ice hike I'd booked the previous night due to the condition of my foot and the fact that it only gives an hour on the ice - sure to be an anti-climax after last years' helicopter exploits.
Instead I decide to make my own way to the glacier face after getting maps from a completely dippy woman at the Department of Conservation office who didn't know shit from shinola. I wrap my poor toe in a wad of bog paper and set off on what must have been 15 kilometres of hiking through some gorgeous rainforest and right up to the glacier. Here at the car park I wear a look of smugness and imagine myself as Aragorn out of 'Lord of the Rings' as I hobble past all the fat losers who've driven up here. Ha!
By late afternoon I make it back, do some emailing, and retire utterly shagged out to another dose of TV 'n' bread rolls.
28th February
Yippee! A nasty cold kicks in during the hefty 8-hour bus ride down to Queenstown, and I while the time away listening to CDs and trying to find material on which to offload the green and sticky contents of my nose. And what's more it's pissing down with rain.
We make a brief rest stop at a salmon farm (huh?) where in my dozy condition I once again make a tit of myself. Standing near a large group of Northern Brits, I pull a bottle of Vanilla Coke out of my bag and unscrew the top while looking dreamily around at my surroundings. I notice a few people staring, glance down and see as if in slow motion the contents of my bottle gushing out fountain-like all over my jacket. For the rest of the journey the sweet aroma of a certain caramel beverage pervades the entire bus…
I also discover that our Nordic Nutter with the damaged suitcase is on the bus too, and this guy just reeks of weirdness the way I'm reeking of coke.
Into Queenstown late evening, and the place looks nice, much bigger than I thought it would be. I take a quick stroll around town and due to my worsening health condition decide that the only remedy is a takeout order of two Quarter-Pounders and chips. Just what the doctor ordered!
29th February
Turns out to be a 'nothing' day due to my cold and the fact that the clouds refuse to budge from the mountains all day, thereby rendering all of the activities I have in mind pointless. I don't get bored, though - I spend hours in a huge supermarket gazing at the wondrous products on display - the cheese! The salami! The bread rolls! A veritable paradise indeed.
Feeling very fuzzy and disconnected with humanity in general I slope into the cinema and watch a film called 'Timeline'. Let me advise you now, if you ever happen to see this title at your local video rental store, avoid it like the plague! I have only ever once walked out of a cinema - that was back in the mid-80's when I made the mistake of going to see 'Star Trek 34 - The Search for Intelligent Life in Hollywood' (or whatever it was called) on a boring Sunday. Well, it would have been twice were I not so dozy that I could barely stand. What a crock of shit! Billy Connolly, who can't act his way out of his own nut-sack, is cast in a serious role in a plot so laughable and riddled with impossibilities and inconsistencies it was embarrassing.
1st March
At last! The clouds part to reveal large chunks of blue and a level of heat permeates through that actually forces me to don sunscreen once more. Oh happy day!
I ascend the side of the mountain in a gondola and spend hours at the top just stunned by the views of the Remarkables range. The high point of my journey, both physically and metaphorically. Well, if you don't count the flight over.
At close quarters I view the hapless souls who must jump off the sheer face and into the void strapped to an instructor and a paraglider thingy. It looks terrifying and I want to try it. But not with this cold. When I check out the prices I suddenly don't want to try it so much.
Later I take the old coal-powered steamer across the lake to Walter Peak on the other side and chat with a Tranmere Rovers supporter. I'm tempted to sing him 'Friday Night and the Gates are Low', Half Man Half Biscuit's hymn to said football team, but as the geezer is well into his fifties I don't bother. Probably just as well.
The steamer is a little dull, actually. I didn't realise that this is what the old biddies do while the young thrusting body-pierced goatee types face death on the bungee ropes. I should have done the jet boat thing in retrospect.
In the evening I watch the Oscars on the box - usually a dull and superficial event, but it was great to see 'Lord of the Rings' get 11 awards - yay!
2nd March
I have to kill time as my bus to Te Anau doesn't leave until 2pm, so I go down to the harbour and zone out among the ducks. I try a falafel at a Turkish takeaway, but it ain't that great, not a patch on the ones we used to get at Goerlitzer Bahnhof in Berlin near our band's practice room.
The road to Te Anau is winding, wet, and flanked by enormous quantities of sheep and deer, neither of whose flesh the Kiwis seem to like eating themselves very much.
When I get to my motel the reception desk is inexplicably manned by a small ginger kitten, who doesn't seem at all interested in my reservation. Luckily additional help is soon at hand, and I am able to successfully check in to this pristine new establishment.
Te Anau is a much sleepier and lower key version of Queenstown, and possibly the better place for it.
I make a beeline for the supermarket and stock up on cheese and bread rolls.
3rd March
Mr. Disaster strikes again!
The weather is gorgeous so I head for the bicycle rental place to get me a mountain bike. The woman running the place is as chatty as hell and swears that she knew a Lightfoot when she lived in Invercargill - well, good for you, but can I go now?
Eventually I make my exit from this verbal onslaught, don a silly regulation helmet and head off along a charming lakeside track that is totally deserted. It is peaceful and idyllic: snowy mountains on the distant shore, rainforest and scrubland surrounding the path, a pure blue sky and the twittering of birds. This delightful image is only somewhat marred by my ever-increasing agony as the bony saddle plays hell with my arse.
After two hours and quite a few kilometres my rear end has had enough and I decide to take the bike back, despite having it at my disposal for the rest of the afternoon.
By this time I'm on the central promenade and in full public gaze, and of course it is at this opportune juncture that I manage to crash and wreck the bike. Quite what happened I can't really say - one minute coasting along without a care in the world (except for the arse-cramp), the next sprawled over the tarmac next to a machine whose front wheel had turned back on itself and severed and/or destroyed various parts essential to normal forward motion. Amazingly I'm undamaged, but I don't have feel like a plonker.
I grab the bike and hurl it behind a nearby bush where I can try to fix it away from the cruel scrutiny of the uncaring masses. Alas, the bike is beyond all hope…how to get it back to base when the front wheel no longer turns?
In the end I manage to drag and push the damn thing only as far as my motel (thankfully not too distant), whereupon the kind manageress, suppressing laughter, calls the rental shop and arranges for it to be picked up later. Thankfully the rental woman seems more concerned about my well being than the wrecked machine, and I'm not forced to shell out for my transgressions.
For the rest of the day I decide to trust in my own two feet as a mode of propulsion, and walk nearly 20 kilometres around Lake Te Anau, stopping at a small nature reserve where various endangered bird species are on show. I walk up to the enclosure housing the huge green alpine parrots which are unique to this country, only to be greeted to the nearest fowl turning its arse towards me and doing an enormous poo. Thanks for that, mate.
What with the earlier cycling adventure I really overdo things and get a bit of sunstroke too, so I feel like shite when I eventually get back to the hotel. Still, a great dose of nature was had by all, and very nice it was too.
4th March
Wake up feeling wobbly 'n' weird with a dry mouth : the cold has made a comeback!
Today I take a day trip on a luxury coach to tourist trap Milford Sound, a spectacular fjord a couple of hours away from Te Anau.
Initially the weather looks dodgy with a solidly grey sky over Te Anau, but once the scar-faced redneck picks me up in the minibus to take me from the motel to where the coach departs, it starts to clear up. Within half an hour of us leaving, the sky is miraculously transformed into pure blue which manages to endure for the whole day.
Both the coach ride and the subsequent 2.5 hour cruise along the fjord and out to sea are very scenic indeed, despite strong sunlight and gusts making it difficult to stay our on deck for long. It's quite difficult to comprehend the sheer scale of Milford Sound when you are there looking at it, let alone in photos which just don't seem able to capture its towering majesty.
The walls of the fjord are at times nearly vertical and it is only when the boat gets in really close that you can begin to appreciate how huge everything is. At one point we are brought in close proximity to a waterfall that doesn't look like much from a distance. As we begin to be drenched in its spray the guide informs us that it is in fact 500m high - amazing, a waterfall that goes half a kilometre up!
A very good trip. As with many major attractions, it's a tourist trap for good reason - it's a very wonderful and unspoilt place indeed.
5th March
Why are the bus drivers of New Zealand so damn cheerful? They all appear to be about 50, wear shorts even when it's cold, and are quite knowledgeable and witty.
Personally I find it very difficult to be cheerful at 7am, and so it is that I fall asleep on the bus ride from Te Anau to Dunedin, waking myself up with a loud snort. I check the other passengers to see if anyone heard me, but fortunately everyone else has got their head down too.
Dunedin, my final port of call (and it is a port, you can't catch me out there) is full of bloody students. Everywhere you look, those smug tossers are there. And don't think that I dislike students because I'm an old crusty git. No, I hated students even when I was one myself. Ha!
The city looks fine and actually has some semblance of nice old architecture, but to be honest my thirst for adventure is at an end. I chose Dunedin not for what touristic pearls it had to offer me, but because I wanted a reasonably big place for my final destination so that I could do me shopping. There, I've said it. No offence, Dunedin! (a town, incidentally, that I always want to call 'Dunedain' - only the 'Lord of the Rings' anoraks among you will get that…).
In the evening I decide to forgo the now traditional bread rolls and cheese and opt instead for haute cuisine in the form of a microwaveable Rogan Josh purchased from the local supermarket. Well, I manage to decipher the instructions all right, and soon enough the piping hot curry is ready and waiting to be removed from the hotel room's microwave. Unfortunately I have not anticipated quite how 'piping hot' it really is, and as I attempt to convey the brimful dish across the room to the bed from where I can eat as I gawp at the box, Mr. Disaster strikes once again! Yes, there is spillage, and the burning hot fluid burns my fingers and I'm left there juggling my meal as I try in vain to stop it from slopping out all over the place. Really, it's like some bad 70's comedy show as a stream of red curry splatters all over the bed cover and at multiple locations across the carpet as I try to bring the out of control dish to a safe berth in the bathroom sink.
Much of the rest of the evening is spent trying to remove the stains.
6th March
I mooch around the centre of town glad to be back in civilisation, or at least someplace that has a café selling caramel macchiato. Next on to an internet café where I am amused to see a bunch of middle-aged Germans downloading their digital holiday snaps and viewing them on the PC before their holiday has actually finished.
Eventually I can resist no longer, and hop into the local cinema to see 'The Return of the King' again, and I am not disappointed, although it is somewhat marred by the annoying bitch next to me who insists on giving a running commentary to her son throughout the entire film. I forgive her, though, when I noticed how teary-eyed she gets at the 'Grey Havens' scene.
Good news: the curry stains on the bed cover are barely noticeable, especially if you fold it back over itself. Not such a rosy picture with regard to the unfortunately light-coloured carpet, though…
7th March
The final day, and it must be celebrated the only way I know how: caramel macchiato followed by the flicks again. In short, exactly the same as yesterday! This time, however, I choose to see Cold Mountain, and very good it is too.
8th March
And so it ends with an early flight from Dunedin back up to Auckland where I endure a 9 hour wait at the airport by writing an album's worth of lyrics for the next STAVKA release and sneak in a crafty Quarter-Pounder or three…
I will certainly be returning to New Zealand in the not too distant future…
More images from this trip can be found here.
Tokyo - August 2003
Friday, August 1st
There's nothing like a domestic flight for ease of travel - no bags to be checked in, no interminable immigration papers to be filled out, and no uncomfortable scrutinization of passports and visas by sour-faced officials. Oh, and no food on the plane, either.
And so it was that I touched down at Tokyo's Haneda airport amid the grey business suits, dressed in black jeans, a stripy T-shirt and carrying a minimalist rucksack. I thought I looked the epitome of the seasoned traveler and lazy-git-at-the-start-of-a-two-month-holiday, but someone who shall remain nameless noted before I set out that I more resembled an overgrown schoolboy.
Well, I've been in Japan a good many years now, but most of them have been spent in Hiroshima which qualifies me in Japanese eyes as a country bumpkin. So there I was, chewing a piece of straw and mumbling 'carn't make 'ead nor tail of the bugger, me!', totally flummoxed by the intricacies of the Tokyo transport network, and this just minutes after getting off the plane. The problem was that the big network map with helpful English transliterations in the main arrivals hall bore absolutely no resemblance to the one next to the ticket machines. After much to-ing and fro-ing like a yoyo, and determining steadfastly that a person who has been chased by water bison in Laos can not possibly be defeated by the Tokyo subway, I was forced to eat humble pie and ask for assistance. The humiliation!
Soon afterwards I made my triumphant return to Shinjuku's New City Hotel , an appellation which when rendered in Japanese syllables comes out rather undeservedly as New Shitty Hotel. Here it was that I had stayed during last summer's visit, and here I would be for a couple of nights before moving to a better located joint.
The New City Hotel is just the wrong side of Shinjuku, Tokyo's most vibrant area, making it too much of a hike to walk in, leaving the only option a rather confusing subway ride which deposits you deep in the bowels of Shinjuku station, the busiest in the world. It has been said that 2 million people pass through it each day - well, most of them seemed to be there when I dropped by at 5pm. When eventually I emerged at street level, I was of course in a completely different location to the one I wanted to be in, but that is the nature of the beast.
Shinjuku takes some getting used to. It's not just the fact that it's packed. In summer it's also like being in a clammy humid sock in 35°C of heat which is absorbed by the concrete thereby ensuring even after sundown the temperature doesn't drop much.
Everywhere you go you are assaulted by noise: blaring advertising jingles, touts barking incomprehensibly at you, other people thrusting unwanted flyers or packets of tissues in your face as you stumble along trying not to bump into your fellow pedestrians.
Even more interesting is what happens to you, as a single male, if you enter the infamous Kabukicho area of Shinjuku. Every few yards you'll find an African gentleman tailing you, giving you the lowdown on what his particular establishment can offer you. Tonight I was promised that in return for ¥6,000 I could 'drink and touch as much as I wanted'. But touch what, I wondered?
Despite the obvious fun in taking a stroll around this den of iniquity, there are unsavoury differences between Kabukicho and, for example, Amstersdam. The former is totally controlled by the Yakusa (Japanese Mafia), and more recently, the Chinese Triads. The area is a hive of illegal drug smuggling, money laundering and murder - a surprisingly large number of unidentified corpses are found in the area each year.
Ironically enough, as I exit the area and head back to Shinjuku station, I notice a cheerful little police station sitting incongruously in the middle of a street full of 'massage parlours' and 'pink salons'. Amusing, since the Japanese police pretty much turn a blind eye to the obviously dodgy goings on in the area (prostitution is illegal in Japan).
I return to the hotel and decide to indulge in my own thankfully legal vice - a bag full of high-calorie junk food from the local convenience store, to be consumed in front of the TV. Paradise!
Saturday, August 2nd
Japan loves its shopping centers and flocking to a new one is considered a day out for the whole family. Some might consider this indicative of Japan's materialism and lack of meaningful leisure pursuits, but I have to say that I quite agree with them - there's nothing like a flashy new architectural wonder in which to enjoy another caramel macchiato. And what's more, it's good to see great swathes of ugly little old shanty town-like dwellings get bulldozed and give way to the clean lines of modern erections (there's a joke in there somewhere, folks).
And so it was that I journeyed to Roppongi Hills and gawped with the masses at the towers, the shiny plates of mirror glass, the trendy restaurants, the sparkling new toilets and the greenery (yes! It has green things, surely a first for Tokyo!). And, as I had predicted, a certain purveyor of caffeinated beverages was present on site to provide me with my favourite coffee.
It was while imbibing that very refreshment that I saw something that really made me do a double-take. A young Japanese guy was showing around what I imagined to be a foreign male dressed in black. Nothing strange in that, except that this singular entity thought it was cool to be attired in a black leather hood which concealed his entire features. Not some surgical mask to hide deformity, this was the full-on S&M 'gimp' thing straight out of Pulp Fiction. Wow! I wish I could achieve such dizzying heights of hedonism!
Next, despite it being early afternoon, I decided to have a look round the nearby and notorious Roppongi nightlife area. It didn't look like much, but I'm sure it comes into its own at night (steady on - another joke lurking there, methinks). There they were, the famous bars and clubs where so many people tell you that the girls will pick you up, the all-conquering gaijin god, rather than the other way around. Sounds great, doesn't it? Well, it's probably true, but what these people fail to mention is that if you go there, you'll find you and several hundred other guys all hoping to get picked up. And thus begins the decent to the lowest common Neanderthal denominator, as US servicemen, English teachers and businessmen all try to outdo each other in drunken macho buffoonery in order to get the prize. But remember, folks - nothing is ever free!
Shibuya, teeny central, was my next port of call, to check out CDs at the well-stocked HMV before returning hotel-ward for a siesta.
Come evening I hiked back into Shinjuku to enjoy a very passable pasta genovese, after which the Irish Pub beckoned but proved to be so packed that I had to make a hasty withdrawal. No matter, the sought after pint of Guinness was duly obtained in a place which billed itself as an 'English Pub', but where somewhat surprisingly I was the only foreigner present. Again packed, but this time there would be no retreat - I drank standing up at the bar in true pub fashion, much to the amusement of some of the young Japanese therein.
Near Shibuya station I stayed a while to watch a competent and energetic rock band playing live out on the street, amps 'n' all. This seems to be quite a trend around Tokyo, and they were pretty good too. What really made it enjoyable though, were the antics of a tiny grey-haired homeless man who insisted on dancing around among the band members brandishing a plastic umbrella in lieu of a guitar.
The number of homeless people sleeping in cardboard boxes around Tokyo is really quite an eye-opener: the park between Shinjuku station and my hotel has been transformed into a veritable shanty town. Some of these folks are the hardcore drunks, wizened old men with beards and skin so tanned they could be Africans. Others, however, look like completely ordinary guys, young and neatly dressed, yet still dossing down in the park - a sobering reminder of Japan's economic and social difficulties of recent years.
Sunday August 3rd
Computerised toilets - a fairly commonplace item in Japan, but still I tend to avoid the arcane mysteries surrounding their functions. But today I tried, just because the new hotel I'd moved into was equipped with one.
On the wall of the bathroom was a pressure meter, and having been caught out once before, I scaled it right down, then hit the 'spray' button, helpfully labeled in English as well as Japanese. Yikes!! Still, the geyser-like jet of hot water aimed directly at my exit had me yelping and hunting feverishly for a way to stop the damn thing. Won't be trying one of these again in a hurry.
As I had to wait so long to check into the new hotel, today didn't really kick off until late afternoon, when I ventured ou t to Ochanomizu, the student area, and also home to vast unfeasible numbers of guitar shops. Way more tempting than anything on offer in kabukicho, I manfully resisted the lure of a $1,500 Rickenbacker bass and instead walked down the road to the nearby discount electronics area Akihabara. Brash, noisy and neon, the high temperatures and humidity prevented me from really hunting out any bargain goods that I didn't really need - perhaps my head was still full of guitars to be able to fully concentrate.
As I got on the Yamamote-sen, Tokyo's inner circular train line, I couldn't help comparing the large patches of sweat which had formed on the front and back of my T-shirt to the pristine and immaculate condition of those of my Japanese fellow passengers. I felt positively unclean, and for once could sympathise with them for not wanting to sit next to me.
I skipped an evening meal as I'd made the mistake of ordering two double chesseburgers at Wendy's, so instead I loitered near Shinjuku station and pretended I was waiting for someone while perusing all the people who really were waiting for someone. After a while I began to feel like an idiot, so I went home!
Monday August 4th
In the morning I got a call from my friend and former Japanese teacher Hanae, who six months earlier had moved from Hiroshima to Tokyo. We decided to head out to Odaiba, another of those new redeveloped areas turned into a flashy shopping center/attraction. This one promised to be a little different as it is located on the coast and possesses a beach and splendid views over the city.
The reality, however, was soulless and dull, and surprisingly crowded for a Monday. Endless generic arcade shops and restaurants swarming with kids on their school holidays - all a bit too much.
Finally we settled for lunch in a bizarre establishment called 'La Boheme', which resembled a Victorian gentleman's club (not that I'd really know what one of those would look like), with red velvet drapes and ornate brasswork. But the plastic tumblers for the water should really have been pewter for full effect.
After this we tried to enter the Fuji TV building, but suddenly found ourselves in the midst of an audition, surrounded by literally hundreds of gorgeous teenage girls. Can't say I minded much, but we were shortly evicted by a security guard.
Back on the train, the next stop was Shiodome : here, finally, was architecture to really make you gasp - the area consisted solely of enormous futuristic buildings housing some of Japan's top companies. It's difficult to capture in words just how impressive these structures were (so look at the pictures!), but one tall thin wedge of a building was chillingly reminiscent of the ominous monolith in Kubrik's 2001.
The rest of the evening was spent in style - Hanae took me for a sightseeing trip around the city in her flashy car. And what a great way to see the nighttime neon of Tokyo, racing through ultra-posh Ginza, skirting the Imperial Palace, viewing the illuminated Eiffel-derived Tokyo Tower, before returning to Odaiba. Here, finally, it all made sense. The view over the entire city with a large lit-up suspension bridge in the foreground was very evocative indeed.
Tuesday 5th August
Unless you're talking about Sydney, most zoos are fairly bleak places in my humble opinion, and Tokyo's Ueno Zoo is no exception. Hanae and I went there on a day threatening rain, and even the beer I consumed as I toiled around in the excessive humidity could not distract from the small confined cages from which the inmates stared out at their tormentors.
Just outside of the zoo grounds, however, I spied the most extraordinary apartment building I have ever seen - tall, spindly, futuristic, the kind of thing you would think would just snap like a twig if there was an earthquake. Despite this, we both agreed immediately that it would be a cool place to live in.
Wednesday 6th August
In the morning I popped into Shibuya to buy some CDs at HMV. Whilst there I browsed through a few music magazines before a strange-looking publication caught my eye. Flicking through it, the first part consisted of naked tattooed Japanese ladies and all things S&M - fair enough, I thought. But then the rest of the magazine regressed into what I can only describe as the pornography of death : page upon page of all the images edited out of the TV news - severed limbs, moldering corpses, the immediate aftermath of road accidents, decapitations and all things necrotic, all in colour and crisp close-up detail.
I'll be the first to admit that there is a certain morbid attraction to the subject, but to freely allow such a publication to be openly on display in a CD store where anyone could see it? Truth is, sadistic pleasure seems to be a dominant (no pun intended) and barely suppressed theme in Japanese society.
Meeting up with Hanae again, we set out for trendy Harajuku, a mecca of crowded narrow streets dedicated to teen fashion and featuring an array of cool eateries. At the establishment we ended up in, I was delighted to find that they served my old alcoholic staple from Munich days, Franziskaner Hefeweizen. One of these was soon gurgling down the hatch nicely, but only after showing the bemused waitress the correct way of pouring it from the bottle into the special glass.
After Hanae departed to do whatever it is that doctors' wives do, I headed back to my hotel for a nap, followed later by a medicinal pint of Guinness in the Irish pub.
Thursday 7th August
My final full day in Tokyo, destined to be spent in the company of old mate Paul Bradbury and his friend Tom. Paul is an aspiring travel writer and Balkan property magnate who resides on an idyllic Mediterranean island. Tom is a knob. Nuff said.
I met up with them at Tokyo station, from where we proceeded on a circuitous route to an exhibition on Palestine that turned out to be housed in a tiny black room in an obscure suburb. We compensated for the event's minimalism by consuming large amounts of beer in a nearby izakaya (Japanese eaterie/pub). By about 8pm I'd already my fill, but the other two were only just warming up after a mere six or seven beers, so I bailed out and went in search of a techno club in Shibuya which I didn't actually manage to find.
Friday 8th August
Just my luck - it turned out that a massive typhoon had chosen this day to begin making its way up the Japanese archipelago causing transportational havoc in its wake. My flight back to Hiroshima was scheduled for midday, but I decided to head for the airport earlier, a tactic which paid off as I was able to get on a morning flight. Lucky really, since my afternoon the airports had all been shut down.
And so back to Hiroshima - funny how a city of more than a million souls can seem so small and parochial after a visit to Tokyo.
New Zealand - March 2003
The older I get, the lazier I get, and this applies to traveling too. Before embarking on my three-week trip to New Zealand I had barely glanced at the Lonely Planet guidebook I'd purchased. Well - it wasn't Mozambique, was it? And, what's more, I was going to stay with someone, for at least part of the trip. So what was there to plan?
All I knew about New Zealand was that it was the set for the Lord of the Rings movies, that it was like Britain in the 1950's, and that all Heinz products had been inexplicably renamed "Wattie's". For the previous two years I'd taken my spring break in New Zealand's more populous neighbour 'across the ditch', so I didn't reckon it would be that much different.
I arrived mid-morning at Auckland airport suffering from the usual effects of an overnight long-distance flight: skin dried out and blotchy, contact lenses glued to my eyeballs, you know the type of thing. No matter, I thought, the shuttle-bus driver is waiting to pick me up and in just a couple of hours I'll be able to have a nice warm shower. Wrong!
I entered the arrivals hall to find any number of characters holding up cardboard signs to make contact with their charges, but among the business suits and Asian study abroad kids my name could not be found. Several hours and a few phone calls later and it appeared that a mix-up meant that there was in fact no lift for me at all. By now totally knackered, I crossed to the domestic terminal and booked myself in on the next flight to Tauranga, my destination. By rights I should have been extremely irate after having spend six hours at the airport, but it was with some amusement and not a little trepidation that I clambered aboard the Beech aircraft for the 25-minute flight. This tiny propeller-driven machine had a grand total of 10 seats! With a cheery thumbs up the pilot commenced to take us up in this flea of a plane for what I can only describe as 'real flying'.
Tauranga
My brother Matthew and his wife Sarah had chosen Tauranga on the north coast of North Island as their base for a year out which was then drawing to a close. Tauranga, reknowned for being…er…well, the nicest retirement town in New Zealand, had an astonishing 'airport'. I clambered off the diminutive plane straight onto the tarmac and walked over to a small building which was the 'terminal'. Straight through, and then some bloke dumped all of the bags from the plane directly onto the pavement outside!
Matthew met me and drove me to 33A Pillans Road, a rather pleasant residence with mock-Tudor frontage overlooking the sea and nearby Mt.Manganui.
I spent the next few days enjoying the local splendours but not necessarily the humid and frequently wet weather. By day we hiked, fished and visited supermarkets (yes, I admit it - I love going round foreign supermarkets, and in fact I'd go so far as to say that one can judge the state of a nation by the quality of its food emporiums). By night we shunned the local burgeoning blue-rinse bingo scene and instead lived it up at home by playing cards and talking bollocks, a language which all three of us found we could speak quite fluently.
I was immediately struck by the richness of the local flora; not just because New Zealand is sparsely populated and 'greenness' is everywhere, but by the stunning variety of trees on display, most of which I couldn't put names to (except helpful monikers the likes of 'nice tree', 'big tree', and so on).
By contrast, there is a definite dearth of fauna, the most visible exception being the obligatory squashed possums which seem to decorate just about every road. New Zealand was never blessed with its own indigenous quadrupeds as Australia was, and its unique flightless birds were mainly wiped out by hunting, both by humans and by the foreign animals so unwisely introduced such as the aforementioned possum.
They have plenty of mosquitoes, too.
As for cuisine, it was wondrous indeed to see the supermarket shelves full of well-known British staples. Sausage rolls, black pudding, hot cross buns and smarties - how dare the rest of the world mock our cooking? And to cap it all, ubiquitous fish and chips: you may have to get use to ordering 'hoki' and chips instead of cod, but it tastes the same. No, it tastes even better than the UK original.
THE NORTH ISLAND ROAD TRIP
1. Rotorua
There's nothing like jumping into the car and heading off with only a vague idea of what you're going to do and where you're going to stay: one of the best trips I've ever done was just such a jaunt through the US states of Maine and Vermont and on into Quebec in Canada. Matthew had a car, I had a credit card, and New Zealand was generously endowed with motels, so off we went for a couple of days heading south.
At first we skirted along the coast for a while, driving through the charmingly named town of Te Puke in search of a giant Kiwi fruit statue which Mathew claimed was along the roadside. Needless to say said oversized food item did not materialise, but I did find out that the fruit with which New Zealand is synonymous is in fact none other than the Chinese Gooseberry and not native to the islands at all. I wonder how the Chinese feel about this shameless scam?
Turning south at last, we headed inland through rolling green hills. Many of the forests on either side of the road were actually part of the lumber industry, and much of the original tree cover has long since been chopped down.
Before reaching our main destination, we took a detour which brought us to the imaginatively named 'Blue Lake', which was green. No, just kidding - it was exactly as billed. A bit further down the road, however, was the far more spectacular Lake Tarawera on whose shores we rested up, took in the breathtaking and tranquil splendour, and made the acquaintance of a black cat named 'Gubbins'. Actually I'm not sure if his name really was 'Gubbins', but he looked as though it should have been. He was desperately eyeing up the ducks and black swans waddling around on the shore, but was smart enough to realise that it would be them having him for dinner and not the other way around, were he to try it on with them.
After a couple of hours our first port of call came into view, or rather smell, and it wasn't a port at all. Rotorua has been called the 'Las Vegas' of New Zealand, but probably by people who haven't been to either. The only similarity is that the town is a centre for mass tourism and is awash with motels. Another, more subjective opinion might be that they both stink, Las Vegas metaphorically, Rotorua literally, since it is in the middle of an area of subterranean thermal activity whose sulphurous odour permeates everything. You can close all of the windows in your chalet, but that reek still manages to work its way in.
Surrounding the town are numerous areas from which you can watch these noxious emissions emerge. I wasn't entirely convinced at first, but the Wai-o-Tapu Thermal Park has some surreal and otherworldly mud pools and rock formations to take your mind away from the constant egg-like pong.
Our evening entertainment consisted of my glorious return to Burger King, an establishment sadly missing from my adopted home of Japan, and I must humbly admit that this night's Double Whopper was not the last to be consumed on this trip. After that, what better way to round off the evening (at least for someone who like me is normally starved of western media) by watching endless British sitcoms and Police dramas?
2. Lake Taupo Region
The next day we left the noxious odours behind (except for the ones of our own making, of course) and drove southwards to our next destination, the picturesque resort town of Taupo, situated at one end of the large lake bearing the same name. As we drove along the shorefront in search of suitable accommodation, the twin volcanic peaks of the Tongariro National Park were visible in the distance, spectacular formations which had featured in The Lord of the Rings and which looked mysterious and foreboding indeed.
Accommodation found, shortly followed by lunch at - guess where - no! wrong! We went to Pizza Hut instead of Burger King. Matthew, behing something of a tightwad, spotted the amazing all-you-can-stuff-down-your-gullet special, so we tucked in to innumerable lukewarm semi-congealed slices of pizza, with the tiniest of salad side-dishes to convince ourselves that we had indeed eaten a balanced meal.
But alas, we were soon to regret our midday binging. Matthew had decided that we were to ascend a 'gentle slope' not far away, from where we would be afforded splendid views over the lake and distant mountains. So, back to the car, and off we headed into the countryside. As we set off on foot through the fields, Matt casually gestured to the nearby towering Everest-like form of Mt.Tauhara and jokingly stated that it would be about two hours before we reached the summit. At least I thought it was a joke. But no, we were soon panting and sweating our way through steaming jungle-like pathways, savaged by giant insects, the occasional wild bear or crocodile, and all the while taunted by groups of school kids on the way down who enjoyed enormously the sight of our wheezing and altogether miserable countenances. And how we cursed our earlier greed as our distended bellies full of grease weighed us down. Damn you, Pizza Hut! Matthew of course complained ceaselessly, mumbled to himself about the imminent need to call the rescue helicopters, and it was only through my own sheer strength of will and determination than we finally broke through the tree cover onto the rocky summit in one piece.
The views from the top of Mt.Tauhara were splendid, taking in the whole of Lake Taupo and the town beneath us, with the volcanic peaks of the Tongariro National Park now dominating the horizon. Add to that a beautiful clear blue sky, and Bob's your Auntie.
We rolled and stumbled our way back, and retired totally knackered to our chalet for another night of the best of British TV. At around ten, I decided to try the en suite whirlpool bath, which I deemed to be the perfect remedy for my poor aching limbs. But bugger me if I just couldn't work out how to switch the damn thing on! I lay in the tub, and poked and pushed at anything that looked like it might be the 'on' button, but in vain. It was only after towelling off that I noticed the switch on the wall near the door - Goddammit!
3. The Return of the Kings
Next morning we set off at dawn's crack for a brief incursion into the Tongariro National Park before heading back to Tauranga. We had previously considered doing the gruelling 'Tongariro Crossing', a seven-hour hike through some of the most amazing scenery New Zealand has to offer, but remembering our less-than stellar performance on the comparably tame Mt.Tauhara, thought 'sod it'.
After having our respective mugs taken in front of the peaks, we motored back to Rotorua where we stopped for a quick 'caramel macchiato' at Starbucks, yet another Double Whopper at Burger King, and then made our way back to Tauranga.
SOUTH ISLAND
1. Christchurch
The next few days I relaxed in rain-drenched Tauranga, enjoying a bit of fishing, a mooch around the town's discount emporiums, and lengthy head-to-head games of 'Combat Mission' on Matt's computer. And then it was time to move on to the next leg of my journey, which would be undertaken solo. Matt drove me to Tauranga 'airport', where I boarded yet another diminutive plane bound for Wellington, then made a quick transfer to a more worthy aircraft for the ride down to my destination, Christchurch.
South Island - well, it's certainly different from the north. Gone was the semi-tropical humidity, in was the temperature plunge after sundown. The friendly shuttle-bus driver informed me of the very reasonable local house prices (50,000 quid even in Christchurch) as she brought me to my decidedly 70's motel, a mere ten minute walk from the city centre. The word 'city' is perhaps something of a misnomer here, since my first impression of the South's biggest urban area was that it was akin to a modest English county town complete with cathedral and leafy parks.
I soon felt at home as I spied a Starbucks on the main square and indulged in yet another 'caramel macchiato,' which was fast becoming the official beverage of the trip. What also made me feel at home were the hordes of young Japanese exchange students milling about and the hilariously out of place OAP tour groups being shunted into position for the obligatory photo in front of the cathedral.
That afternoon I headed off for the central but well-sized Botanical Gardens. I used to think that such places were for old fogies only, but recently I've found that it's well worth spending a few hours of relaxation and reflection amid the wonders of nature. Or perhaps I've just become an old fogey myself. Either way, Christchurch's gardens are a fantastic collection of trees, flowers, and er…more trees.
Nearby, the Christchurch museum introduced me to a skeleton of the extinct Moa, an enormous 2-metre tall flightless bird who was apparently so dopey he would just stand there as the Maori carved steaks out of his sides. Silly buggers.
Next day I decided to head for the sea and took the bus down to Lyttleton, an early port from which intrepid settlers would trek over the mountains and fan out onto the Canterbury plain beyond. The town itself was billed by one of the famously erroneous Lonely Planet guides as being quaint, scenic and historic, but in actual fact it was a bit of a dump, a one-horse town without any horses, but with a really unfriendly old cow in the tourist information office. In addition, the otherwise beautiful bay view was marred by some horribly industrial docks, which made for a lot of camera-jiggling so that I could get photos that made the place look half-decent.
In a fit of mad irrationality and stubbornness, and in an inhospitable 32°C I decided to attempt the Bridal Path, a steep track which wound its way up from the town to cross the peaks which divided Lytlleton from the inner plains. For an hour I manfully huffed, puffed, wheezed, coughed and spat my way upwards feeling just like those original settlers from the 19th century, only with Reeboks instead of a donkey. The views from the top were fantastic, on the one side the turquoise of the Pacific, on the other the distant shimmering haze over Christchurch.
2. Franz Josef
Previously I had always thought that Franz Josef was some turn-of-the-century Austrian git in a funny hat, but no, it's the name of one of the two mighty glaciers that reside within the Southern Alps, a mere hop, skip and a knackering journey away from Christchurch. So off I set for a two-night jaunt, getting up at some unreasonable hour to locate Christchuch's annoyingly uncentral station where I boarded the Tranzalpine which would take me on the first, and most spectacular, leg of the trip.
After passing through the flat Canterbury plains we soon began ascending the foothills of the Alps, eventually reaching spectacular heights made all the more impressive by the presence of open viewing platforms on the train. Luckily the day was a splendidly sunny one, which by all accounts is a rarity in this region, and it wasn't long before the chorused 'oohs' and 'aahs' were resonating among the well-healed tourists busy taking way too many shots of the same mountain.
As we reached Arthur's Pass, what little cloud there was floated noticeably lower than the peaks, and pristine blue glacial rivers bisected the valleys between the snow-capped mountains. Although wary of travel guide hype, I had to admit that this was indeed one of the most scenic railway journeys I'd ever been on.
A few hours later, as the arse-cramp began to take hold, we had descended onto the Tasman Sea side of South Island to a town with the alluring name of….Greymouth. As luck would have it, my punishing schedule did not allow for any sightseeing, only for a quick melee to retrieve my baggage and sling it on to the waiting bus that was to take me to my final destination that day.
We set off heading south along the coastal road, entertained by the cheery bus driver and his constant historical insights to the region and jokes about possums. Stopping only for a quick slash and a dive into a nearby supermarket in Hokitika, we had by late evening reached Franz Josef, a tiny tourist community nestling among the peaks.
After I had been safely installed into my new lodgings, I walked out onto the nearby riverbank to enjoy the views as the last rays of the sun turned the dazzling white of the glacier into a rosy glow. I sat down on rocks encrusted with orange lichen and breathed in the amazingly fresh air. I suppose we never really notice how bad the city air is (especially in Japan) until we encounter a place such as this, and as I stretched out on the rocks and soaked up the tranquility, I couldn't help but think that this was a veritable Rivendell, only with sweaty German students instead of elves.
To complete my moment of natural bliss, there was only thing for it: I took out my CD Walkman and cranked up some good ol' Death Metal.
3. The Glacier
Next morning I set about organizing what I had come here for - to take a 'Helihike' up onto the face of the glacier and manfully stride about with ice-axe in hand. I booked myself in on a midday trip, then spent the next few hours hanging around and getting increasingly nervous about the whole thing - would the other group members all be testosterone-filled musclemen? Was I so out of shape that I wouldn't be able to hack it? Would we be attacked by yetis? Just as I was contemplating these possibilities, I heard a couple of the tour operators casually discussing how a woman had just broken her legs and was to be brought down by a rescue helicopter - ye Gods, that was exactly what I didn't need to hear!
At that moment our group was called and I joined up with a reassuringly motley collection of Italian students, Japanese nerds and middle-aged Swiss. We got our ice boots and axes, then moved out to wait for the helicopter, as a mirthless dragon shouted at us to keep our heads down lest they be removed by the incoming rotor blades. The first shock was the size of the helicopter - like a gnat! Six of us were peeled off from the group and bundled in amid the deafening roar of the engine. We all donned ear-protectors, and the jolly pilot told me not to lean against the door, as I might fall out. Then we took off and made our way up to the glacier. I can only describe the ride as akin to a vomit-inducing roller-coaster ride in a rattling bubble, only without being actually connected to anything. The worst thing was the way the chopper seemed to be perpetually on the point of toppling over, not helped by the pilots 'jokes' which consisted of hugging the face of the glacier, then unexpectedly plummeting like a stone over the steeper ridges.
Soon we were deposited on the face of the glacier and donned our ice boots while we waited for the rest of our party. The guide joined us, a cheery Jim Carrey-look-a-like with shades 'n' shorts who instructed us how to walk on the ice and how to avoid impaling ourselves or others on our axes. It was breathtaking and exhilarating just to be up there on the blue-white ice with stunning views down the glacier whose immense size seemed to blunt any accurate perception of scale.
A few minutes later and the group was off on our two-hour loop, the guide leading us in a line and cutting footholds and steps for us along the way. It took a while to get used to walking with the ice boots - the key was to tread firmly and trust in their grip, whilst utilizing the axe as a pivot for the more difficult sections. Looking back, I'm amazed that I nor anyone else fell arse over pocket, although there were some decidedly dodgy moments, including places where it was necessary to leap over nasty-looking crevasses whilst hoping that the ice-axe had the strength to take the weight if the feet failed to get a good enough grip.
The camaraderie among the group members grew as we reached the end of our trek, and we all began to feel like seasoned veterans and tough adventurers, despite this being in fact a pretty safe option for the well-healed middle-class tourist. The only regret was that it all ended so soon - I think we all would have liked another couple of hours on the ice, but the aerial puke-bucket was already waiting to take us back down to the heliport. Knackered, but with a great feeling of achievement, I spent the rest of the day in time-honoured fashion stuffing my face full of British supermarket food in front of the TV, which appropriately enough, was showing Lord of the Rings II that night.
The ascent to the Franz Josef glacier marked the high point, both literally and metaphorically, of a very good trip indeed. The following day I retraced my steps up to Greymouth and took the train back over the alps to Christchurch, where I spent a couple of days stocking up on things to take back home and overindulging in 'caramel macchiatos.' From there I flew up to Auckland, where I stayed overnight and had a chance to briefly look round New Zealand's biggest city, but was somewhat unimpressed by this fairly featureless metropolis the majority of whose inhabitants appeared to be Asian. Rather than its urban areas, New Zealand's charm and uniqueness undoubtedly lie in the sparsely-populated natural landscapes of both of the major islands.
More images from this trip can be found here.