Sunday 11th April 2010, 10.55pm, ACB Hostel - Auckland
Auckland is our last port of call, this sprawling and commanding urban jungle that houses over a quarter of New Zealand's population and is a subject of derision and callous mocking for the other three quarters. Everywhere we've been, non-Auckland inhabiting Kiwis have been merciless and unforgiving in their despising of the country's significantly largest city, criticising the suit-wearing, Latte-drinking, soft top-driving culture of Yuppies that is evidently so detestable to the hardier country folk that live everywhere else.
It's a more exaggerated version of England's North/South divide, Auckland being the commercial and capitalist beast, the rest of the country defensively proud of their rural roots. Aucklanders are referred to as JAFAS, which stands for (excuse my French) Just Another Fucking Aucklander, their abundance in numbers has earned them quite the unfortunate nickname. On the way back down from Paihia on Friday afternoon, our driver announced to the bus, 'OK folks, the good news is that we're making quick time and should be at our destination in under 3 hours, the bad news is that this destination is Auckland'. The teasing and slander are endless.
I feel a little sorry for Auckland and it's unwarranted reputation. It's a massive city, and comes with all the chaos and mess and noise and rat-race freneticism that should be expected of a fully functioning business and residential hub. What are they all griping about?! Sure it's not beautiful, there's not a mountain behind every McDonalds, public transport sucks, people don't wave to you from their cars, there are more humans here than possums or sheep, and no one's asking if you want to go white water rafting, but it's a city for god's sake! The people who live here like cities and are slaving away at jobs in investment, insurance, retail, banking, tourism, that are undoubtedly contributing more than their fair share to the whole country's economy, not everyone can be a sheep farmer! Everyone else should quit their bitching in my opinion. But then, maybe I'd feel differently about this battle between country and city if I were a Northerner, rather than the evil Southern monster of a Londoner that I am.
Despite all the warnings from the bitter country Kiwis, Ella and I have had a really good time here. A couple of lazy days of shopping and coffee shop lounging were punctuated yesterday afternoon by going to see a rugby match, the Auckland Blues versus the South African Stormers, and marked the completion of my New Zealand 'To Do' list. Do you remember my mentioning of this list? An agenda of activities that I hoped to tick off whilst here? Well I've done all of them:
- Sky Diving
- Glacier Hiking
- Find Blanket Man
- Rugby Match
- Learn about Maori Heritage
- Wine Tasting
- See a Possum
- White Water Rafting
- Something Lord of the Rings related*
- Caving
- Jetboating
- Try a Fergburger**
Oh boy it's satisfying to finish a list, it might actually be the first time I ever have, usually I become frustrated at their incompletion, throw them away, and pretend they weren't things I really needed to do anyway. (My apologies now to any former colleagues of mine who were left with a myriad of Health and Safety tasks to complete after my resignation. I swear I always meant to sort out the fire hazards and fix the broken window locks, it just never seemed pressing, or interesting. If of course you have had a burglary or the office has burnt down since my departure, let me extend these apologies, and simultaneously accept no culpability for afore-mentioned mishaps). The rugby match was a thoroughly enjoyable way to round off list proceedings, and a prime opportunity to drink beer, shout a bit, and ogle what have to be some of the finest male specimens ever created; I was quite regretful afterwards not to have taken a banner with my phone number on.
But as ever, more surprises were ready to bestow themselves upon us even after we thought we had finished New Zealand. This evening we went for dinner with our friends Mitch and Bert, two native Aucklanders who we had met and spent Christmas with in Cambodia. We reminisced about our days on the beaches of South East Asia, laughed at Bert's performance on Christmas Day which earns him the accolade of Drunkest Person I Have Ever Seen, drove up to the top of a hill where we could view the whole city glittering and humming away in the evening darkness, and expressed our hopes for the next few months of our lives over ice cream sundaes by the sea. It was so wonderful to see them and to have some local tour guides, if you're ever in London fellas, mi casa es tu casa.
Tomorrow, Ella and I fly to Fiji to begin the last stage of our journey together, one chapter ends and the final one must begin. It is with heavy hearts that we will wave off this time, this country where I did everything I set out to do, and so much more besides. New Zealand has been the gift that kept on giving, and if I could, I would give it to all of you. As ever, I just hope that in some small way my writing of it has brought it to you, that you were given it in fragments of my worded joy before you come here for yourself, and see that I never once over sold what a magnificent place the last place on Earth really is.
*Not to boast, but I feel I excelled myself with this 'to do'.
**Infamous New Zealand fastfood joint in Queenstown, and easily the best burger that has ever graced my lips. Ella had 4 Fergburgers in 3 days. Yes, she's always hungry, but they really are that good.
Friday 23 April 2010
Never Finding The Last Surprise
Friday 9th April 2010, 1.10pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
I've found that when we are nearing the end of our stay in any particular country, we have a tendency to wind down, to halt the daily need for excursions and activities and sight-seeing, and instead just sit somewhere and soak up our last days breathing that country's air. This is why we have spent the past 2 nights in Paihia, New Zealand's seaside and perfect vantage spot for reclining on the beach, basking in the last blessings of waning Summer sun, a time to be with the friends we've made who we will soon bid our farewells to, a time to reflect on this too quickly departed month. I have never expected much from these last days, and that is why I am so gratefully elated and surprised to have had one of my best Kiwi experiences this morning, when I thought I was too busy winding down for anything to wind me into action again.
Leaving Ella and the other girls to their hangovers and the beach, I went on a kayaking trip. Or more specifically, the Te Waka tour. 'Waka' is the Maori word for kayak, a 6-7 person wooden canoe boat that myself, my shipmates, and our Maori guide, Nick, pushed out into the water this morning and set to rowing out to sea in. We rowed to a small island called Tere Tere where we went on a walk through the forest up to a viewpoint from where you can look out across the Bay of Islands, 144 uninhabited pieces of land clustered sporadically off the coastline. We rowed again to a clump of sharp rocks in the middle of deep water between two islands, jumped over the side of the Waka, and went hunting for mussels, pulling those pesky morsels of seafood from the rocks they stubbornly cling to and throwing them into our collection bucket, holding on to each other for steadiness against the waves which crashed us in to the rocks and washed over our tired heads, Nick willing us on from the boat with cries of, 'just a few more guys, I'm mighty hungry today!'.
With mussel bucket in tow we rowed to a deserted beach where Nick boiled our catch up in a makeshift stove and poured us all a glass of wine from the stash he'd brought over in a cool box. Just as we were sitting down on the sand to our self-provided meal of freshly cooked mussels as big as your palm, and crisp, dry Chardonnay, the sun grew tenfold in strength, glistening on the peacock blue waves we had just supported each other in rowing across. It was perfect, just absolutely, in every sense, a perfect morning. The stuff that travelling and holiday makers dreams are made of. Invigorating exercise which made us a team and united us in camaraderie, spectacular scenery, delicious food that we'd worked for, wonderful company, a refreshing dip in the sea, a lunchtime tipple, and sunshine sat on the top of it all. I'm so thankful that in these winding down days, I found another reason to love this country, a morning I never could have predicted or expected.
Some people who have had varied and adventurous lives claim that because they have "seen it all", nothing can surprise them anymore. Think about it, you must yourself have heard someone of age and experience and supposed wisdom utter those very words; that they have been witness to so much, that nothing will ever have the power to catch them off guard again. I can't agree with the conditions of this statement, in fact I am beginning to believe that quite the opposite is true.
The more you see, the more you do, the greater the headcount of extraordinary life experiences that you can claim as yours, then surely the more you should realise how little you know, how we could live for eternity and still be blessed with mornings we never expected. All I know, is that the more I travel, the more I understand how little I have seen and done before. It is when you think that you can no longer be surprised that life will jump up and bite you in your blase behind. New experiences do not make me feel any more worldly wise, they only give me faith in what an endless multitude of surprises are still to come.
Thursday 22 April 2010
The Swim Back
Thursday 8th April 2010, 8pm, Pipi Patch Dorms - Paihia
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
I've moved a long way up the country since I last wrote. From the mid North Island town of Rotorua I went 3 hours with the big green bus up to Auckland where I spent one night on Tuesday. Then yesterday morning I dozily fidgeted around in bed and lent towards the window to get some light on my watch to see that it was 7 minutes past 7, the bus I had to catch at quarter past 7 that morning was already waiting for me on the pavement below. My alarm had made it's own decisions and obviously wanted to see me rush. It will be some indication as to the time I spend on my appearance and general grooming habits these days to tell you that at 16 minutes past the hour, I was sat on that bus, reading a book and eating an orange, backpack and hand luggage packed, locked, and stowed, pillowcase and key having been handed in at reception. Sure, I ain't pretty, but I'm punctual.
That nearly-missed bus brought me to where I now write to you from, Paihia, the Bay of Islands, New Zealand's Northern most tourist haven and beautiful beach town. I caught up with Ella here as she was one day ahead of me out of Rotorua, not wanting to spend the extra day white water rafting. The two of us along with two new friends (both called Emma) went on a day trip today to the tip of the North Island, Cape Reinga. It wouldn't be an excursion I'd recommend to anyone who may suffer from motion sickness. I am usually a thoroughly sturdy traveller who can read and write and eat and look out the window without so much as a single butterfly flapping around my stomach. Not today however. Sat up the back of the coach, because it's like, you know, the law for the cool kids to sit there (there were also no other seats available), and heaving on every bend that we span through during the 6 hour round trip, I officially experienced my first taste of car sickness. Thankfully no actual vomiting occurred, but I did feel so nauseous that I imagined a whole army of winged creatures fluttering about my digestive system.
By the time we arrived at the Cape, I practically rolled down the coach steps and inhaled that fresh sea air like I'd been underwater for 3 hours. Despite the misery of travel ills I am pleased I got to see New Zealand's last piece of land. This is the only place in the North Island which I feel truly rivals the South Island in scale, drama and rugged naturalness. I know I've used this word a lot to describe the landscape here, but when I'm floundering for ways to tell you about it, this is the one that my brain keeps repeating, it's the only word that satisfactorily encapsulates a view such as the one I have seen today; it is EPIC. A force of opposing elements in battle with each other for centre stage, a strip of craggy rock that stretches out into inky water where two oceans meet, the Pacific and the Tasmen Sea, colliding at the tip of this country, creating vast and swirling whirlpools where their currents clash, their waves travelling from half a world's distance to meet each other here at this agreed reunion spot. Sky and sea stretch uninterrupted for so many miles that it's hard to make out the horizon's separating line between them. This is the kind of view that would have made people of centuries past believe that the world was flat, and that you could fall off the end of it.
The black piece of rock that stretches out in to the sea has a single gnarled tree clinging to it. It's hard to determine proportion from where you view it on the cape, but it looks to be as tall as an adult Oak, as spindly as a Silver Birch, as black and withered as one often lightning struck. The Maoris believe that the roots of this lonely tree form steps from which the dead descend to the water below. It is here that Maori spirits climb down this woody ladder, dive in to the ocean, and swim across the Pacific to be reunited in death with the island of Haiwaiki, their ancestral homeland and origin of that first voyage to New Zealand. 'Reinga' is the Maori word for the underworld. This story, seeing this tree, is what made my car sickness a manageable evil today. Homecoming; it reminded me of the herons in Petulu, the swallows in Elm Avenue, of my own resistance towards the inevitable return journey. Everyone and everything it seems has a need to be reconciled with where they came from.
When I was 16 I started working for a company called Crossroads where my job was to provide respite care for disabled 5 to 18 year olds. This job was at times very difficult, emotionally challenging, physically exhausting, left me frequently covered in other people's sick and poo and spit, and my own bruises, and to top it all off... was based in Dagenham. I stuck with it though, in truth I absolutely loved it, and returned every school and University holiday to work for Crossroads and the parents and children there until I was 21. When I left University I accepted an equally strenuous and stressful (if not quite so messy) job, in Dagenham again, teaching Drama to children and teenagers of mixed ability at a school just off of the hell pit that is the Heathway. It was hard work, with much pressure and responsibility placed on my shoulders - but placed there by myself. One of the reasons that I saw a year in that job through whilst simultaneously working full-time for Social Services is that I felt, what I have only identified now, as an obligation of service to that small Dagenham community. I felt like that group needed me, I was told by parents and teachers what an important extra-curricular outlet this group was for those children, what a rare opportunity it was for them to be able to freely express some kind of creativity in a safe environment, it was, for a few hours a week, giving them a voice.
Dagenham isn't an easy place for a child to grow up; senior schools are fitted with metal detectors, gang culture is rife, it's a highly multi-cultural London borough that voted in the BNP, literacy rates and qualification tallies are significantly lower than the national average, teenage pregnancy, disability and crime rates are among some of the highest in the country, one statistic from late 2008 suggested that 55% of children were living in families affected by poverty, every other person you meet will be claiming some kind of state benefit, I could go on, but it only gets more depressing. Dagenham is where I was born. I lived there for the first few baby years of my life before my parents did the best thing they have ever done for me - they moved. I was spared a childhood growing up on the graffitied estates and syringe littered public parks of that borough; a self-conscious, bookish, sarcastic little swot like me would have had a bloody tough time at school with some of those streetwise, mouthy sweethearts I later volunteered to teach. I have always been immeasurably grateful to Pat and Ray Gillman for financially damaging themselves in order to save me from that possible outcome, and yet what did I do? The second I was old enough to take employment, I went right back to Dagenham, to see if there was anyone there who I might be useful to. Call it a payback, a reimbursement of debt through duty. I've always felt like I had a lucky escape, but knew there were other children who hadn't, and won't, and I went to them. If the right post came up I'd work there again quite happily, as much as I abhor it sometimes, I feel a tangible connection to the place and the people.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that after I die I can see my spirit hopping on the District Line and joyfully floating off somewhere between Elm Park and Upney, it won't be merrily clambering on to a 174 and gliding off the bus at the Civic Roundabout. But what I saw today reminded me of this half-hearted, partial return that I once made, back to good old Dagenham. Standing on that last piece of land, seeing that tree and the eternal ocean beyond it, imagining hoards of ghostly Maori spectres queuing around me, waiting for their turn to climb down the roots and go loyally back to Haiwaiki, it made me wonder, where, when it matters, will feel like home enough to me that I'd be willing to swim an ocean to reach it?
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Fear Factors
Monday 5th April 2010, 9.50pm, Lava Bar - Rotorua
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
I suspect that it will only be when I eventually return home that I realise how travelling for this long has changed me. I know I have changed, I do not expect that you can see the things I have seen and become used to the way of life that now seems normal to me without it affecting your outlook and aspirations somewhat. But maybe it will need for me to be back on the grey and familiar streets of London to realise that I will no longer settle for greyness, knowing as I do that there are some places on Earth so overwhelmed in colour, the familiar will be made unfamiliar because I will be looking on it with a brand new pair of eyes.
There is one thing about me though that I can recognise the change in without having to go home to feel it. It has been gradually but forcibly creeping up on me, promising to take me hostage before I have any time to protest. At first I thought it was because of the Kiwis and the affect their laissez faire attitude to everything was having on me, but when I dissect the matter I realise that it has been building for much longer than that, really from the moment I arrived in Thailand, perhaps even from when I boarded that plane to Bangkok alone. From the first time I got on the back of a motorbike, drank snake wine, abseiled down a waterfall, jumped off a cliff into a lagoon, cycled through rice paddies in the dark, went snorkeling with the risk of sharks in the water, scaled slippery jungle mountain slopes, showered beneath tarantulas on the ceiling, gave blood at a Cambodian hospital, jumped out of a plane; I have been getting braver.
My friends and family will no doubt unanimously attest to the fact that although I may be many things, brave has never been one of them. I worry with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and whilst I'm busy fretting about everybody else, they use theirs and my share of courage to make adventurous leaps and bounds ahead of me. Not any more though. Living as I have been for the past 4 months has taught me that all of these things I dread happening, will probably never happen. And if they do? Well I have the strength of character and support of loved ones to see them through, setbacks will not make me crumble, I will no longer be left shaking and crying and hugging my knees to my chest in the corner of the room if things go wrong. The exhilaration and breathless sense of being truly alive that I have earned from doing things that scare me is worth every remote risk I may have had to take.
The reason that I am caused to write about this change in me this evening is because I have spent the past 2 days indulging in activities that 6 months ago I would have shied away from. Yesterday, Ella and I went caving and underground tubing, and today I have been white water rafting. The Waitomo Caves trip involved climbing into a wetsuit and helmet, throwing a rubber ring over my shoulder and following our fantastic female guides through caves and potholes 65ft beneath the earth to an underground, freezing cold river which you by turns scale on hands and knees through narrow rocky alleyways, and at other times when the water is too deep and the passage opens up, sit back in your tube and sail along in the dank, dark, watery underworld.
At one point the only way of negotiating the path of the river is to stand on a slimy rock ledge, 4 metres high, and jump backwards off of it in to a pool at the bottom of the waterfall which you can't see. You only know it's there because of the splash and the scream others make after they have propelled themselves bum-first into the darkness. Small torches are fitted in to the helmets so you are not expected to navigate in pitch blackness for the whole 2 hours, but the guides like to make it more exciting by ordering everyone to turn off their lights so that you are able to marvel at the thousands of glow worms which glitter on the stalactites above you. I additionally quite liked having the lights off because it meant I couldn't scan the water around me for eels - the caves' only other living inhabitants.
White water rafting today was similarly nerve testing. On the coach on the way to the river the guides delight in telling you that the treacherousness and speed of rapids are measured on a scale of 1 to 6, 1 being a tame little river that even Nanny Gillman might enjoy a cruise down, 6 being the kind of currents and drops that even the guys running the rafting centre very rarely dare to take a boat on. Number 5 is the highest grade of rapids that it is legal to raft commercially with paying customers, so guess what level of danger I was about to set off on in a rubber dingy? Yep, 5 of course. Again, the guides were amazing people, and all looked like the kind of men who might happily stick their head in the mouth of a crocodile just to see what would happen, or set themselves on fire for a bet, or ask to be tattooed on their tongue, whilst bungy jumping, blindfolded, from a helicopter over the Grand Canyon. You get the idea; these are the adrenalin junkies and fearless extreme sports nuts that I was so careful to hide from in Queenstown, truly charming, completely bonkers blokes. I was only slightly concerned that a few of them seemed to be missing front teeth, but elected to conclude that this was down to drunken tomfoolery and bar brawls as opposed to a direct result of the activity I was about to participate in.
They really pump you up for it, instructing the 5 of you in your boat to raise your oars and clap them together in a symbol of tribal solidarity, whilst they pray aloud to the Maori ancestors to keep you safe. Then everyone is instructed to chant the Hakka, the chorus becoming louder, faster and more impassioned as you sit in the boat gripping the vines on the banks to stop yourself catapulting downstream before everyone is ready. The air vibrates with energy and expectation and a spine-tingling, hair-raising electric fear pulses through the water, around the boats and right out the top of your helmet clad head. The atmosphere was infectious and addictive, these men have realised how to market fear - the good kind of fear - and sell it to whingeing, cowardly Poms.
This is what I could never grasp before I came away, the fact that there are two types of fear. The kind that is quietly terrifying, gut-wrenching, appetite thieving, soul destroying - the one that makes you want to wrap up those you love in your duvet and never let them walk out the front door in case Something Happens. The kind you feel when your Mum is ill, or when your friend stays in a relationship that will damage her, or when one of the vulnerable teenagers at work who you so love and cherish stops answering their phone, or when you see your sister growing up and the world and it's disappointments gaining in opportunities to hurt her; these are real fears, the justifiable kind.
But the other kind, the one I felt today as me and my crew approached the top of a 7 metre waterfall that our raft then plummeted over the top of, this fear is fleeting and assailable, momentarily shocking your heart so that it beats with the fervour and intensity required sometimes to remind us that we are living, not merely existing. Feel your heart pound in your throat, feel it reverberate through to the trembling tips of your fingertips, scare yourself, stick it to the Health and Safety bureaucrats, put yourself in measured danger to see how jubilant you feel to come through it, and then try and tell me that good fear does not exist. It's purely and simply life affirming.
The Empire's Anomaly
Saturday 3rd March 2010, 9.25pm, Hot Rocks Hostel - Rotorua
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
I come from a country of conquerors. Of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, an ancestral legacy of men who found and claimed the remotest parts of the planet for their own. Whether I like it or not, I am descended from the Empire, the most successful conquering empire the world ever saw. There is very little in this for me to feel proud of - the history is chequered, the tactics underhand, the behaviour barbaric. I come from a country where the accruement of land came at a higher value than human life; indigenous human life.
There is no need for me to brief you on British colonial history, firstly because I am no authority on the subject and secondly because I acknowledge your intelligence dear reader - no one had to take a history degree to know the well documented catalogue of inhumanities committed by British settlers throughout the Americas, Africa, India, Australia... Yes, we were the winners, but winning came at far too high a cost for the communities throughout the globe which we "civilised", raped, stole from, imprisoned, cast out, disenfranchised, made slaves and circus freaks of. In New Zealand, I have found a gratifying and refreshing anomaly in a history so marred by cruelty and shame. Something happened here, something very different, and it makes me wonder why we couldn't have always got it this right.
When Captain James Cook moored these shores near modern day Gisborne, he brought with him a Polynesian friend who could communicate with the indigenous population - the Maoris. This proved to be an extremely beneficial decision to the Captain; the Maoris were a nation of warriors, fluent and accomplished in tribal warfare, guerrilla hit and run tactics and trench combat - they were progressively beyond their time in the rudiments of war, and a fearsome people under attack. But to friends, to people who claimed - as the Captain and Tupaia, his Polynesian translator, did - that they were coming in peace, they were and still are some of the most welcoming and accepting people on the planet. Guests are family, treated with respect and generous hospitality. Captain Cook did well not to make an enemy of these people, otherwise the course of history, and the nature of Cook's demise, may have been markedly different.
Thankfully for the eponymous Captain though, and for the Maori people, there existed between the two parties a mutual respect that was unique and so far unencountered throughout the colonised nations of the world. European immigrants in search of a better life soon began embarking upon this country in droves after Cook sent word back to the homeland of what a picturesque and habitable landscape this was, and these Europeans were rightfully impressed by what they saw. Not only the regimes of Maori warfare, but also their commitment to family and tribe, their advanced irrigation systems, their techniques for dealing with unpredictable weather conditions, and their early ideas and plans for tourism all garnered them the admiration of the settlers, this "uncivilised" nation taught invading white faces, for the first time in colonial history, what it really meant to be a civilian.
This was the first country in the world, where from day one, irrespective of race or religion, all men over the age of 21 were entitled to a democratic vote. It is also the first country that granted the vote to women. The year of 1840 saw the writing of a crucial historic document, The Treaty of Waitangi. This agreement was signed by the English dignitaries and ambassadors who had made the voyage out to the Southern hemisphere, as well as every chief from the 400 separate Maori tribes occupying New Zealand at that time. It decreed that this country would become part of the British empire, governed by English sovereignty, but the treaty similarly protected the Maoris' right to their country, stating that they would be the people who owned their land, it also gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. It was the first document of it's kind, the only written agreement in history which recognised the liberty of the indigenous race. It has been a subject of heated debate up until this present day, with many Maoris claiming that promises were not kept and using the Treaty as a legal document in which to reclaim land and money. For this reason the Waitangi Tribunal was established in 1975, to ensure the rules of this paper are adhered to and to take on any cases in dispute.
Compare this to the colonisation of Australia, where until 1970, Aborigines were not legally defined as human beings. Quite dramatically different stories I think you'll agree. In the 1860's, when a handful of Maori tribes decided they wanted rid of the settlers, the majority of Maoris fought side by side with the Europeans to quell the oncoming rebellion. And this is how it has been until this day, descendants of European settlers and Maoris, side by side, living, working, playing, celebrating their history together.
This causes me some sadness as I sit here and ponder on this now. What ills and atrocities in our world may have been averted if people had always shown each other such mutual compassion and respect? New Zealand just proves that it was possible, possible for England to expand her empire without the devastation to innocent people. Things could have been so different, the world could be so much better for the millions of human beings living under 3rd World classification today had their civil liberties not been so hastily and contemptuously removed from them. These wrong doings feel all the more painfully acute to me knowing that they were avoidable.
We arrived in Rotorua this afternoon to be greeted by hills of sublime rainforest greenery, gargantuan clouds of steam rising from the countryside in thick, fluffy white towers, landscape dotted with dozens of natural hot pools and the smell of sulphur, potent and odiously prevalent on every molecule of air - it's the capital of Volcanic geo-thermal activity. Tonight we have been on a Maori heritage trip to the Tamaki Village; a community of huts in the midst of the forest about 20 minutes outside of Rotorua town that is set up to precisely resemble a Maori settlement as it would have been before the colonisers arrived. We were entertained with music and dancing, taught about their culture, weapons and living conditions, fed a veritable feast of roasted meat and vegetables cooked in a Hangi - an underground oven - and treated to a performance of the Hakka.
Huge Maori men wearing grass skirts and facial tattoos, and carrying foot long machetes, chanted and stamped, grimaced and gurned, waggling their tongues and protruding their eyeballs in a traditional demonstration of how rival tribes would greet each other - showcasing their ferocity and hopefully striking fear in to the hearts of any possible enemy. The threat that this dance carries would not be followed through however if the invaders signify that they are well intentioned visitors. After the Hakka a leaf is placed on the floor between the opposing sides and a member of our group was instructed to walk slowly forward and pick up the offering; a sign of a peaceful guest. If this ritual was carried through you would be, as we were tonight, welcomed in to the arms of the tribe with warmth and laughter and kindness.
I come from a country of conquerors, of settlers and invaders, explorers and militia, sailors and governors, the Great British Empire. The Great, but not the Good. Goodness is what matters to me, and how I wish I could say that I am descended from people who more often than they did, put down their hatred, and picked up the leaf.
Lazy Bathers
Friday 2nd March 2010, 6.40pm, Urban Retreat Lodge - Taupo
This country is full of surprises. On a baking hot day, the hottest since we've been here, you can be wandering around the lake side town of Taupo and decide that what would be really lovely after all this walking in the heat would be to go for a swim in the river. So you climb up and down a few hills before joining up with the public footpath that leads to the bank, drop your bag and shed your clothes, jump in to the water for that refreshing dip you've been after, and find yourself floating in the bath water temperatures of a natural thermal spa.
All this volcanic activity in the North Island has created pockets of land where the springs are heated to lava like levels, so much so that in some areas huge clouds of steam billow in soaring turrets from wells and potholes. The river that we went for a swim in had a small waterfall nestled in to the rock face and it was from this source that boiling hot water flooded in to the stream, so hot in fact that it was impossible to stand under it without being scalded; Ella went an alarming shade of rose pink that reminded me of a lobster in a saucepan.
We had had all sorts of grand ideas for our itinerary today. One of them was to trek the 24 kilometres of the Tongariro Crossing, up and over Mount Doom (yes, as in Lord of the Rings). That one soon went out the window when we realised that on a pain to enjoyment ratio, this activity was drastically imbalanced against us. The other idea was to do bungy jumps off of Taupo Bridge. After about 20 minutes of observing other people jump into oblivion, during which period I gagged 3 times and Ella's forehead came out in beads of perspiration, we hobbled away from the bridge on wobbly knees and concurred that bungy is just One Step Too Far. The last idea was to hike along the river for a few hours up to some waterfalls at the Northern most point, this plan of action was in full swing and looking quite promising, that is until we came across the natural thermal spa only half way on our walk upstream.
We did not make it any further. We sat around in that crystal clear outdoor bath like we'd popped in to use the jacuzzi at the gym, and all thoughts of hiking or jumping or any kind of exertive activity were quickly forgotten. Seeing as the weather was so perfect for it and having already given up the day to the pursuit of horizontal decadence, we then spent the rest of the afternoon comfortably snoozing on the riverbank in our bikinis, hoping to reinvigorate the tans that are fast fading from months in Asia.
The South Island was beautiful, too extravagantly magnificent for me to communicate adequately, but mountains do not make for relaxing playgrounds. However, outdoor thermal springs where the river is so blue that it just looks like a liquid continuation of the sky, mossy hillside lounging areas and cloudless yellow light, well, now we feel like we're on holiday again.
This country is full of surprises. On a baking hot day, the hottest since we've been here, you can be wandering around the lake side town of Taupo and decide that what would be really lovely after all this walking in the heat would be to go for a swim in the river. So you climb up and down a few hills before joining up with the public footpath that leads to the bank, drop your bag and shed your clothes, jump in to the water for that refreshing dip you've been after, and find yourself floating in the bath water temperatures of a natural thermal spa.
All this volcanic activity in the North Island has created pockets of land where the springs are heated to lava like levels, so much so that in some areas huge clouds of steam billow in soaring turrets from wells and potholes. The river that we went for a swim in had a small waterfall nestled in to the rock face and it was from this source that boiling hot water flooded in to the stream, so hot in fact that it was impossible to stand under it without being scalded; Ella went an alarming shade of rose pink that reminded me of a lobster in a saucepan.
We had had all sorts of grand ideas for our itinerary today. One of them was to trek the 24 kilometres of the Tongariro Crossing, up and over Mount Doom (yes, as in Lord of the Rings). That one soon went out the window when we realised that on a pain to enjoyment ratio, this activity was drastically imbalanced against us. The other idea was to do bungy jumps off of Taupo Bridge. After about 20 minutes of observing other people jump into oblivion, during which period I gagged 3 times and Ella's forehead came out in beads of perspiration, we hobbled away from the bridge on wobbly knees and concurred that bungy is just One Step Too Far. The last idea was to hike along the river for a few hours up to some waterfalls at the Northern most point, this plan of action was in full swing and looking quite promising, that is until we came across the natural thermal spa only half way on our walk upstream.
We did not make it any further. We sat around in that crystal clear outdoor bath like we'd popped in to use the jacuzzi at the gym, and all thoughts of hiking or jumping or any kind of exertive activity were quickly forgotten. Seeing as the weather was so perfect for it and having already given up the day to the pursuit of horizontal decadence, we then spent the rest of the afternoon comfortably snoozing on the riverbank in our bikinis, hoping to reinvigorate the tans that are fast fading from months in Asia.
The South Island was beautiful, too extravagantly magnificent for me to communicate adequately, but mountains do not make for relaxing playgrounds. However, outdoor thermal springs where the river is so blue that it just looks like a liquid continuation of the sky, mossy hillside lounging areas and cloudless yellow light, well, now we feel like we're on holiday again.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
April Fall Day
Thursday 1st April 2010, 4pm, Urban Retreat Lodge - Taupo
I don't know how to tell you this, because I can barely even convince myself that it happened. If it weren't for the photographic evidence and my complimentary t-shirt I think I would already believe that I was making it up. Today was a seminal day in my life, a day when I did one of the greatest things I have ever and probably will ever do for myself.
I put on a red jumpsuit, a black leather hood, and some plastic goggles. I climbed in a tiny little jet plane with 10 or so other people. The plane flew to 12,000ft in the air. I let a stranger strap himself to my back with a few harnesses. The door of the plane swung open. I sat on the edge with my legs dangling out into nothingness and oxygen stolen from my lungs. Then me and Matti - the most important stranger ever - jumped out of the plane, free falling at 200 kilometres an hour through 9,000ft of empty sky before the parachute kicked in and sailed us the other 3,000ft down to solid ground. Only when the leisurely descent had begun did I remark with alarm that 'we're quite high Matti.' I did a skydive.
The only reason I managed to do this without crying, or throwing up, or punching someone in the face, is that it happened as simply as I have just described it. I told myself when we first put our names on the sheet for this little afternoon activity that the only way I was going to get through it was by giving it absolutely no thought at all. I refused to ponder on it once. It has been my experience that the over-thinking and analysis of a thing can very quickly lead to finding lots of reasons why we shouldn't do it. I have rationalised my way out of many an opportunity in the past, due to that inner Doubting Thomas and fearful logic of mine, but I wasn't going to let myself miss out today because of my own cowardice, no Sirree, I was making a stand, or rather, a fall.
So whilst preparing for the skydive I succeeded in emptying my mind of all decision making powers by playing a little light music in my head, and singing along to it with the lyrics 'La la la, just putting on some goggles, nothing else, la la la, little plane trip, no reason for it, do wap de do, look at the view, mee mi mo, time to go...'. This nonsense melodic monologue is entirely what got me out of that plane. This, it has occurred to me, is why stupid people often do stupid things; because they do not allow their brain to function before their body acts. There must be people all over the planet singing inanely away to themselves in their heads as I did today.
In this instance though, I am glad to have joined their idiotic ranks. I doubt I will ever come so close again to feeling like I was flying. As you fall you have no perception of the ground gaining on you, no notion of danger, no fear, no moments of your life flashing before your eyes. All I felt was free. More free than I ever have, arms outstretched soaring above the world, up where only the birds knows what sky tastes like as it licks past your skin and cushions your limbs tumbling through it. The freefall only lasts 50 seconds, but it felt endless, this weightless sinking through an eternity of blue. It was truly incredible, so liberating and empowering, a magical and life-assuring experience.
Lots of people who dive mouth things in the direction of the camera, wave at their mum, write things on their faces, pose like Superman... lots of entertaining showy numbers for the benefit of the DVD filming of it. Not me. I couldn't have cared less about the camera and I didn't utter one word at all during the freefall, not even a profanity; I have a 50 second video of me falling like a lunatic, laughing my head off the whole way down. I laughed so hard and so loud that when I reached the ground I found that the wind resistance had partially frozen my mouth in it's expression of hilarity, and it hurt my jaw to close it again. I still feel as high as a kite, and I'm positive that my heart doesn't normally beat this fast. This must be the aftermath of the adrenalin high that all those daredevil junkies chase; I can see how this feeling might become addictive - always after the next fix of whatever can make you feel more than human. And it's definitely better for you than heroin.
It hasn't escaped my attention that I have done this skydive on possibly the perfect calendar occasion for it; April Fool's Day. Luckily this only occurred to me post-jumping, because had I realised prior to the event I believe my brain would have thrown down it's white flag in a fit of rage, turned off the music, and shouted at me to use it, 'Grace you imbecile! Who throws themselves 12,000ft to Earth on April Fool's Day, stop playing with your life and tempting fate!'. Thankfully though, it remained silently compliant, and I have never been happier, or prouder, to be April's Fool.
I don't know how to tell you this, because I can barely even convince myself that it happened. If it weren't for the photographic evidence and my complimentary t-shirt I think I would already believe that I was making it up. Today was a seminal day in my life, a day when I did one of the greatest things I have ever and probably will ever do for myself.
I put on a red jumpsuit, a black leather hood, and some plastic goggles. I climbed in a tiny little jet plane with 10 or so other people. The plane flew to 12,000ft in the air. I let a stranger strap himself to my back with a few harnesses. The door of the plane swung open. I sat on the edge with my legs dangling out into nothingness and oxygen stolen from my lungs. Then me and Matti - the most important stranger ever - jumped out of the plane, free falling at 200 kilometres an hour through 9,000ft of empty sky before the parachute kicked in and sailed us the other 3,000ft down to solid ground. Only when the leisurely descent had begun did I remark with alarm that 'we're quite high Matti.' I did a skydive.
The only reason I managed to do this without crying, or throwing up, or punching someone in the face, is that it happened as simply as I have just described it. I told myself when we first put our names on the sheet for this little afternoon activity that the only way I was going to get through it was by giving it absolutely no thought at all. I refused to ponder on it once. It has been my experience that the over-thinking and analysis of a thing can very quickly lead to finding lots of reasons why we shouldn't do it. I have rationalised my way out of many an opportunity in the past, due to that inner Doubting Thomas and fearful logic of mine, but I wasn't going to let myself miss out today because of my own cowardice, no Sirree, I was making a stand, or rather, a fall.
So whilst preparing for the skydive I succeeded in emptying my mind of all decision making powers by playing a little light music in my head, and singing along to it with the lyrics 'La la la, just putting on some goggles, nothing else, la la la, little plane trip, no reason for it, do wap de do, look at the view, mee mi mo, time to go...'. This nonsense melodic monologue is entirely what got me out of that plane. This, it has occurred to me, is why stupid people often do stupid things; because they do not allow their brain to function before their body acts. There must be people all over the planet singing inanely away to themselves in their heads as I did today.
In this instance though, I am glad to have joined their idiotic ranks. I doubt I will ever come so close again to feeling like I was flying. As you fall you have no perception of the ground gaining on you, no notion of danger, no fear, no moments of your life flashing before your eyes. All I felt was free. More free than I ever have, arms outstretched soaring above the world, up where only the birds knows what sky tastes like as it licks past your skin and cushions your limbs tumbling through it. The freefall only lasts 50 seconds, but it felt endless, this weightless sinking through an eternity of blue. It was truly incredible, so liberating and empowering, a magical and life-assuring experience.
Lots of people who dive mouth things in the direction of the camera, wave at their mum, write things on their faces, pose like Superman... lots of entertaining showy numbers for the benefit of the DVD filming of it. Not me. I couldn't have cared less about the camera and I didn't utter one word at all during the freefall, not even a profanity; I have a 50 second video of me falling like a lunatic, laughing my head off the whole way down. I laughed so hard and so loud that when I reached the ground I found that the wind resistance had partially frozen my mouth in it's expression of hilarity, and it hurt my jaw to close it again. I still feel as high as a kite, and I'm positive that my heart doesn't normally beat this fast. This must be the aftermath of the adrenalin high that all those daredevil junkies chase; I can see how this feeling might become addictive - always after the next fix of whatever can make you feel more than human. And it's definitely better for you than heroin.
It hasn't escaped my attention that I have done this skydive on possibly the perfect calendar occasion for it; April Fool's Day. Luckily this only occurred to me post-jumping, because had I realised prior to the event I believe my brain would have thrown down it's white flag in a fit of rage, turned off the music, and shouted at me to use it, 'Grace you imbecile! Who throws themselves 12,000ft to Earth on April Fool's Day, stop playing with your life and tempting fate!'. Thankfully though, it remained silently compliant, and I have never been happier, or prouder, to be April's Fool.
Wellywood
Wednesday 31st March 2010, 11.40pm, Base Hostel - Wellington
With a little bit of persuasive encouragement it's amazing what you can get people to do. For example, this afternoon I convinced Ella to come on a Lord of the Rings tour with me and crouch in the woods like a hobbit, holding a small gold ring in her palm and assuming all the correct actions and facial expressions of her allocated part - Samwise Gamgee. I was Pippin, I think it's because he has the scruffiest hair. Some stupid Chinese bloke got the part of Frodo, political correctness gone mad. I'm no ardent fan of the J.R.R. Tolkien film trilogy, but I did think they were excellent movies, and I enjoy a bit of geek appreciation every now and again, and that is why I booked the two of us on this hobbiting extravaganza this afternoon.
Ella was initially skeptical about this. She has only seen the first film (which she was strictly forbidden from disclosing to our guide from fear he'd set the Orcs on us) and pretty much the only thing she could remember from this was Viggo Mortensen as the mud-caked and sweaty warrior king... be still my beating heart. However, I was insistent that the tour would be a good opportunity to spend time with people who push their sellotaped glasses up their nose and mumble things under their breath like, "Erm I think you'll find that in Shot Four of Scene Two, Gandalf is actually holding his staff in his right hand. And you might want to check your Elven pronunciation of Mawdor." In other words: GREAT people.
The first and greatest person we met was our tour guide Ted. He has set up this company himself out of sheer and all-encompassing love for the films, and when I asked him if he spoke any Elven, he replied blushingly "not fluently". What a pro. Mega fans have the ability to make their object of affection seem fantastical and worthy of praise to even the most cynical of observers, and Ted's crazed enthusiasm for his subject only served to send Ella and myself into a raucous afternoon of dutifully posing in various stills from the film, in the precise locations where they were shot, aided in our method acting by Ted's Secret Prop Bag, from which, like a Mary Poppins carpet case, he pulled at random, pipes, a carrot, frying pans, fake horse poo, and of course, the one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.
I'd like to say now that I feel I may have been too hasty and harsh in my judgement of Wellington. Once you take yourself just 10 minutes beyond the city streets you find you are again driving along through thick forest and mountain bends, beautiful hilltop houses perch in leafy and undoubtedly exorbitantly priced suburbs, all with a view of a stunning boat bobbing harbour. That's the thing about New Zealand; no matter how urban a place is, you're never far away from vistas that are more or less untouched in natural splendour. It was in these forests and mountains that many scenes from Peter Jackson's blockbusters were filmed, with the additional help of a little CGI and green-screening here and there. I have utter admiration for people who work in these creative industries after my partial educating today. In one location we visited Ted pointed out a thoroughly nondescript field on which a whole encampment, "battle preparation" scene was laid out - for roughly 3 seconds of screen time. In another cul-de-sac corner of Wellington suburbia an entire pub was built (the Prancing Pony scene, in case you're one of those people who likes to check my facts) only to appear in the first movie for 30 seconds, before the whole thing was ripped down again. The words 'patience' and 'commitment' don't even begin to cover it do they. Although I reckon I could find it in me to be a tad more patient and committed to things if someone chucked 600 million dollars of funding my way.
At the end of the tour we visited the Weta Cave - Weta being the company behind the visual creation of such films as Lord of the Rings, Avatar, I Robot, King Kong, District 9, and most impressively... Xena: Warrior Princess. The "cave" is a glorified gift shop where you can learn all about the work that Weta does without breaching any confidentiality laws around current projects by wandering through the studios next door. I spent our time there telling Ella all about Bilbo's initial discovery of the ring, reliving the moment I fell in love with Orlando Bloom in that blonde wig, and explained why really, Gollum is a creature to be pitied, a character of truly Shakespearean tragic proportions. I quite surprised myself by the geek I had become in the space of 4 hours (yes, yes, I can hear you saying it, as well as the 23 years of practice beforehand). Ella handled me and my self-realisation very tactfully, and christened me instead Le Geek C'est Chic. I further earned this new accolade by buying myself a copy of all 3 books in one volume, I need a new book and I've never read these ones, disgraceful for a bibliophile such as myself, about time I paid Mr Tolkien his respects.
To round off our day of film based trivia we decided to treat ourselves to a cinema trip. This time it was I who needed convincing. I was all ready to settle down in front of Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, when Ella voiced her desire to see Shutter Island. Now, I know it's not a scary film, but I did know it had been coined a "psychological thriller". Being such a delicate little flower and prone as I am to quite graphic and sometimes terrifying nightmares, I tend to make a habit of avoiding anything which promises to thrill my psychology. It's also a very rare occasion that you'll get me in to a cinema to see a film with an age rating of 15 or over, 15 year olds these days are brave! Sad isn't it. But I have a wildly overactive and destructive imagination, things play on my mind for longer than they seem to dally on other people's, and I like being able to sleep at night, so I've adapted to my limitations - call it self-preservation.
Nevertheless, she played a blinding Samwise Gamgee today, and so deserved rewarding. Successful partnerships are built on compromise and ours is no exception - she makes a fool of herself and shatters her street-cred in the forest for me, I damage my mental health for her, fair's fair. She also had another craftily persuasive trick up her sleeve to get me trotting merrily in to the cinema behind her tonight, one of my all time greatest weaknesses. No, not popcorn... Leonardo DiCaprio. Oh my, even when he's playing crazy he's still too cute for words. Screw Viggo, forget Orlando, it's always been you Leo.
It was a terrific film. Good choice, well made by Ms Pritchard. Brilliantly shot, perfectly chosen locations, harrowing, truthful to it's era, and very cleverly scripted. A firm recommendation from this writer, who is now sat bolt upright in bed with the light on, hugging her pillow, jumping out of her skin at every howl of the wind or creak of the door, dreading what her imagination will be screening for her during sleeping hours. Le Geek C'est Chic indeed. Maybe in future I'll just stick to films about kind old wizards and friendly hobbits.
With a little bit of persuasive encouragement it's amazing what you can get people to do. For example, this afternoon I convinced Ella to come on a Lord of the Rings tour with me and crouch in the woods like a hobbit, holding a small gold ring in her palm and assuming all the correct actions and facial expressions of her allocated part - Samwise Gamgee. I was Pippin, I think it's because he has the scruffiest hair. Some stupid Chinese bloke got the part of Frodo, political correctness gone mad. I'm no ardent fan of the J.R.R. Tolkien film trilogy, but I did think they were excellent movies, and I enjoy a bit of geek appreciation every now and again, and that is why I booked the two of us on this hobbiting extravaganza this afternoon.
Ella was initially skeptical about this. She has only seen the first film (which she was strictly forbidden from disclosing to our guide from fear he'd set the Orcs on us) and pretty much the only thing she could remember from this was Viggo Mortensen as the mud-caked and sweaty warrior king... be still my beating heart. However, I was insistent that the tour would be a good opportunity to spend time with people who push their sellotaped glasses up their nose and mumble things under their breath like, "Erm I think you'll find that in Shot Four of Scene Two, Gandalf is actually holding his staff in his right hand. And you might want to check your Elven pronunciation of Mawdor." In other words: GREAT people.
The first and greatest person we met was our tour guide Ted. He has set up this company himself out of sheer and all-encompassing love for the films, and when I asked him if he spoke any Elven, he replied blushingly "not fluently". What a pro. Mega fans have the ability to make their object of affection seem fantastical and worthy of praise to even the most cynical of observers, and Ted's crazed enthusiasm for his subject only served to send Ella and myself into a raucous afternoon of dutifully posing in various stills from the film, in the precise locations where they were shot, aided in our method acting by Ted's Secret Prop Bag, from which, like a Mary Poppins carpet case, he pulled at random, pipes, a carrot, frying pans, fake horse poo, and of course, the one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.
I'd like to say now that I feel I may have been too hasty and harsh in my judgement of Wellington. Once you take yourself just 10 minutes beyond the city streets you find you are again driving along through thick forest and mountain bends, beautiful hilltop houses perch in leafy and undoubtedly exorbitantly priced suburbs, all with a view of a stunning boat bobbing harbour. That's the thing about New Zealand; no matter how urban a place is, you're never far away from vistas that are more or less untouched in natural splendour. It was in these forests and mountains that many scenes from Peter Jackson's blockbusters were filmed, with the additional help of a little CGI and green-screening here and there. I have utter admiration for people who work in these creative industries after my partial educating today. In one location we visited Ted pointed out a thoroughly nondescript field on which a whole encampment, "battle preparation" scene was laid out - for roughly 3 seconds of screen time. In another cul-de-sac corner of Wellington suburbia an entire pub was built (the Prancing Pony scene, in case you're one of those people who likes to check my facts) only to appear in the first movie for 30 seconds, before the whole thing was ripped down again. The words 'patience' and 'commitment' don't even begin to cover it do they. Although I reckon I could find it in me to be a tad more patient and committed to things if someone chucked 600 million dollars of funding my way.
At the end of the tour we visited the Weta Cave - Weta being the company behind the visual creation of such films as Lord of the Rings, Avatar, I Robot, King Kong, District 9, and most impressively... Xena: Warrior Princess. The "cave" is a glorified gift shop where you can learn all about the work that Weta does without breaching any confidentiality laws around current projects by wandering through the studios next door. I spent our time there telling Ella all about Bilbo's initial discovery of the ring, reliving the moment I fell in love with Orlando Bloom in that blonde wig, and explained why really, Gollum is a creature to be pitied, a character of truly Shakespearean tragic proportions. I quite surprised myself by the geek I had become in the space of 4 hours (yes, yes, I can hear you saying it, as well as the 23 years of practice beforehand). Ella handled me and my self-realisation very tactfully, and christened me instead Le Geek C'est Chic. I further earned this new accolade by buying myself a copy of all 3 books in one volume, I need a new book and I've never read these ones, disgraceful for a bibliophile such as myself, about time I paid Mr Tolkien his respects.
To round off our day of film based trivia we decided to treat ourselves to a cinema trip. This time it was I who needed convincing. I was all ready to settle down in front of Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, when Ella voiced her desire to see Shutter Island. Now, I know it's not a scary film, but I did know it had been coined a "psychological thriller". Being such a delicate little flower and prone as I am to quite graphic and sometimes terrifying nightmares, I tend to make a habit of avoiding anything which promises to thrill my psychology. It's also a very rare occasion that you'll get me in to a cinema to see a film with an age rating of 15 or over, 15 year olds these days are brave! Sad isn't it. But I have a wildly overactive and destructive imagination, things play on my mind for longer than they seem to dally on other people's, and I like being able to sleep at night, so I've adapted to my limitations - call it self-preservation.
Nevertheless, she played a blinding Samwise Gamgee today, and so deserved rewarding. Successful partnerships are built on compromise and ours is no exception - she makes a fool of herself and shatters her street-cred in the forest for me, I damage my mental health for her, fair's fair. She also had another craftily persuasive trick up her sleeve to get me trotting merrily in to the cinema behind her tonight, one of my all time greatest weaknesses. No, not popcorn... Leonardo DiCaprio. Oh my, even when he's playing crazy he's still too cute for words. Screw Viggo, forget Orlando, it's always been you Leo.
It was a terrific film. Good choice, well made by Ms Pritchard. Brilliantly shot, perfectly chosen locations, harrowing, truthful to it's era, and very cleverly scripted. A firm recommendation from this writer, who is now sat bolt upright in bed with the light on, hugging her pillow, jumping out of her skin at every howl of the wind or creak of the door, dreading what her imagination will be screening for her during sleeping hours. Le Geek C'est Chic indeed. Maybe in future I'll just stick to films about kind old wizards and friendly hobbits.
Cockneys, Tramps and Squids
Tuesday 30th March 2010, 6.05pm, Espressoholic, Cuba Street - Wellington
So this is my third day in the capital city, and the first place I have been to in New Zealand which actually looks like a city, I can't see any mountains! It's all high rise buildings, department stores, museums and terraced housing. Sure there's a beautiful waterfront, and some pristine Botanical Gardens that Ella and I wandered around this morning, but Wellington is most definitely a city in the truest sense of the word. It's also very windy here, the windiest destination in New Zealand apparently, so that even when the sun is shining - as it is doing so well today - there's a constant chasing chill in the air. You'd think I'd have more to say about a place other than 'it's windy' after spending nearly 72 hours here wouldn't you, but I'm kind of struggling to articulate it actually. It's, nice. That awful, inconsequential and unimaginatively bland adjective, perfectly NICE. But I am having trouble fathoming why if you lived in New Zealand, this would be your choice of residency - other than for employment reasons. I guess living in the remoteness of the countryside is only financially viable if you happen to be good at sheep shearing, and loneliness.
Wellington's crowning glory, and the road on which I currently perch, is Cuba Street. Other Kiwi Experience travellers who have already been to Wellington before me are all exacting in their instructions to head here for any kind of stimulation or entertainment, and were all unanimously and curiously suggestive that it would be a good street on which to 'freak watch'. Well, I'm sitting here now and nothing about the passers-by is striking me as freakish at all. And I have just realised why. Cuba Street is East London. The buskers are drunk and incomprehensible, the restaurants are either Indian, Vegan or Bagel based, the shops sell Vintage, the pubs are uncompromisingly rustic and the dress code is "distressed", the coffee comes by the pint, and the characters are colourful and outlandish - in their clothing and their showmanship. But East London is where I spend most of my time at home, so of course none of this in-your-face individualism and embracing of ethnicity would seem strange to me, it's what I know! All is clear now, I suddenly understand why all the grounded, salt of the earth Northerners I have been talking to would consider Cuba Street's resident clientele an abnormal breed - they've not spent any time on Brick Lane. I'm such a sleuth.
The other thing of interest I will care to tell you about in Wellington is the presence of a colossal squid, not a giant squid, colossal squids are different, and much bigger. Uh-huh. Yesterday morning I spent a few hours perusing the artefacts and displays at Te Papa Museum. I like museums, especially when they are free, and they provide me with lots of information and educational facts that I can, at a later date, reel off the tip of my tongue in the semblance of being an informed and intelligent human being. However, my patience for them does have its limitations, and after a couple of hours I inevitably become bored of learning, and simply want to look at weird and wonderful things so that I can make appreciative 'oooh, ahhhh, ewwww' noises. This museum fit my specifications perfectly as it is the kind of interactive establishment that is aimed at engaging 12 year olds. I would always have been the child at the Science Museum moaning, 'I don't caaaaare how electricity works Da-aaaddd. Can we go on the space voyager ride now?'. So whilst companions of mine continued to dutifully walk around at a snail's pace, intently and with furrowed eyebrows reading each placard about fossils (yawn), I went with the other children to play on the earthquake simulator, watch the 3D submarine view film, run around a Maori village set, and look at the colossal squid.
In a 6ft long tank, a 495 kilogram beast, the world's largest invertebrate, lies preserved in death for the benefit of museum visitors. In February 2007, the long-lining vessel San Aspiring was fishing for toothfish in Antarctica when it got a bigger pull on the line than it was expecting. A live colossal squid was hauled up to the boat, and realising the value of such a catch, the crew put her on ice, freezing her to death. Under the conditions imposed on exploratory fishing in New Zealand and Antarctic waters by the New Zealand Ministry of Fisheries, the specimen legally belonged to them. In May 2007 the Minister of Fisheries, Jim Anderton, formally gifted the specimen to Te Papa Museum in a ceremony held at the Tory Street laboratories in Wellington. It's quite a thing to behold, lying there, a gigantic monstrosity, suspended and pickled in its watery grave, and in a city with little less charisma than Birmingham, to my mind, a giant dead squid in residence is more than worthy of my recording.
Neither could I write about Wellington without telling you about The World's Most Famous Tramp. He is known all over New Zealand, and apart from Cuba Street, the other highlight fellow travellers told me I should look out for, is Blanket Man, a permanent and unchanging fixture on these streets. I didn't have to look too far. Rounding the corner from the hostel on my first morning here I almost fell right over him, sat discreetly and quietly as he was on the corner. I had been previously concerned that I might miss this New Zealand institution, and so tripping over him so unexpectedly caused me to delightedly exclaim out loud, 'There you are!'. He looks like Bob Marley, but his skin is darker and more freckled, his dread-locked beard greyer. He is thin but lean and muscular, he certainly doesn't seem like he's been short of food donations. His expression is open and childlike and all he wears, as his name suggests, is a faded denim flat cap, and a thoroughly worn, blue tartan blanket thrown over his unmentionables. Blanket Man is apparently aware of his fame, as my outburst only elicited from him a smile and a cheeky, 'Here I am!'. He then held out one of his cigarettes in my direction, but remembering some childhood warning about not accepting gifts from strangers (which probably includes fags from tramps) I gratefully declined.
My apologies now to any residents of Wellington who feel I may have unfairly and too nonchalantly overlooked the charms of their city, do feel free to e-mail with your complaints and I'll be happy to list for you, ooh, 5000 other more interesting places to live. Let me extend to you though my partial congratulations for the areas you excel in: recreating Shoreditch, capturing giant sea creatures, and the world's most unflappable and amiable tramp.
So this is my third day in the capital city, and the first place I have been to in New Zealand which actually looks like a city, I can't see any mountains! It's all high rise buildings, department stores, museums and terraced housing. Sure there's a beautiful waterfront, and some pristine Botanical Gardens that Ella and I wandered around this morning, but Wellington is most definitely a city in the truest sense of the word. It's also very windy here, the windiest destination in New Zealand apparently, so that even when the sun is shining - as it is doing so well today - there's a constant chasing chill in the air. You'd think I'd have more to say about a place other than 'it's windy' after spending nearly 72 hours here wouldn't you, but I'm kind of struggling to articulate it actually. It's, nice. That awful, inconsequential and unimaginatively bland adjective, perfectly NICE. But I am having trouble fathoming why if you lived in New Zealand, this would be your choice of residency - other than for employment reasons. I guess living in the remoteness of the countryside is only financially viable if you happen to be good at sheep shearing, and loneliness.
Wellington's crowning glory, and the road on which I currently perch, is Cuba Street. Other Kiwi Experience travellers who have already been to Wellington before me are all exacting in their instructions to head here for any kind of stimulation or entertainment, and were all unanimously and curiously suggestive that it would be a good street on which to 'freak watch'. Well, I'm sitting here now and nothing about the passers-by is striking me as freakish at all. And I have just realised why. Cuba Street is East London. The buskers are drunk and incomprehensible, the restaurants are either Indian, Vegan or Bagel based, the shops sell Vintage, the pubs are uncompromisingly rustic and the dress code is "distressed", the coffee comes by the pint, and the characters are colourful and outlandish - in their clothing and their showmanship. But East London is where I spend most of my time at home, so of course none of this in-your-face individualism and embracing of ethnicity would seem strange to me, it's what I know! All is clear now, I suddenly understand why all the grounded, salt of the earth Northerners I have been talking to would consider Cuba Street's resident clientele an abnormal breed - they've not spent any time on Brick Lane. I'm such a sleuth.
The other thing of interest I will care to tell you about in Wellington is the presence of a colossal squid, not a giant squid, colossal squids are different, and much bigger. Uh-huh. Yesterday morning I spent a few hours perusing the artefacts and displays at Te Papa Museum. I like museums, especially when they are free, and they provide me with lots of information and educational facts that I can, at a later date, reel off the tip of my tongue in the semblance of being an informed and intelligent human being. However, my patience for them does have its limitations, and after a couple of hours I inevitably become bored of learning, and simply want to look at weird and wonderful things so that I can make appreciative 'oooh, ahhhh, ewwww' noises. This museum fit my specifications perfectly as it is the kind of interactive establishment that is aimed at engaging 12 year olds. I would always have been the child at the Science Museum moaning, 'I don't caaaaare how electricity works Da-aaaddd. Can we go on the space voyager ride now?'. So whilst companions of mine continued to dutifully walk around at a snail's pace, intently and with furrowed eyebrows reading each placard about fossils (yawn), I went with the other children to play on the earthquake simulator, watch the 3D submarine view film, run around a Maori village set, and look at the colossal squid.
In a 6ft long tank, a 495 kilogram beast, the world's largest invertebrate, lies preserved in death for the benefit of museum visitors. In February 2007, the long-lining vessel San Aspiring was fishing for toothfish in Antarctica when it got a bigger pull on the line than it was expecting. A live colossal squid was hauled up to the boat, and realising the value of such a catch, the crew put her on ice, freezing her to death. Under the conditions imposed on exploratory fishing in New Zealand and Antarctic waters by the New Zealand Ministry of Fisheries, the specimen legally belonged to them. In May 2007 the Minister of Fisheries, Jim Anderton, formally gifted the specimen to Te Papa Museum in a ceremony held at the Tory Street laboratories in Wellington. It's quite a thing to behold, lying there, a gigantic monstrosity, suspended and pickled in its watery grave, and in a city with little less charisma than Birmingham, to my mind, a giant dead squid in residence is more than worthy of my recording.
Neither could I write about Wellington without telling you about The World's Most Famous Tramp. He is known all over New Zealand, and apart from Cuba Street, the other highlight fellow travellers told me I should look out for, is Blanket Man, a permanent and unchanging fixture on these streets. I didn't have to look too far. Rounding the corner from the hostel on my first morning here I almost fell right over him, sat discreetly and quietly as he was on the corner. I had been previously concerned that I might miss this New Zealand institution, and so tripping over him so unexpectedly caused me to delightedly exclaim out loud, 'There you are!'. He looks like Bob Marley, but his skin is darker and more freckled, his dread-locked beard greyer. He is thin but lean and muscular, he certainly doesn't seem like he's been short of food donations. His expression is open and childlike and all he wears, as his name suggests, is a faded denim flat cap, and a thoroughly worn, blue tartan blanket thrown over his unmentionables. Blanket Man is apparently aware of his fame, as my outburst only elicited from him a smile and a cheeky, 'Here I am!'. He then held out one of his cigarettes in my direction, but remembering some childhood warning about not accepting gifts from strangers (which probably includes fags from tramps) I gratefully declined.
My apologies now to any residents of Wellington who feel I may have unfairly and too nonchalantly overlooked the charms of their city, do feel free to e-mail with your complaints and I'll be happy to list for you, ooh, 5000 other more interesting places to live. Let me extend to you though my partial congratulations for the areas you excel in: recreating Shoreditch, capturing giant sea creatures, and the world's most unflappable and amiable tramp.
Monday 5 April 2010
Of A Scientific Nature
Monday 29th March 2010, 3.10pm, Espessoholic Bar, Wellington - North Island
It will probably come as no surprise to a lot of people reading this for me to reveal that I am a complete technophobe. Generally, if you hand me any kind of electronic gadget, I will have unintentionally jammed a button or reset it or frozen the screen within about a minute and a half. I am not a practically or technically minded person. I cannot rewire a plug, or drive a car, or use any of the fancy settings on my camera, or work a DVD player, or download videos to my Ipod, or operate a tumble dryer without shrinking my clothes, or play a computer game without being told, 'You Lose. Return to Level One', and I definitely do not understand the mysteries that are Blackberry's, Apple Macs, Mail Merge, Blu Ray and satellite navigation. It's a small miracle I even managed to set up this blog really, it is my greatest computer based achievement to date.
If you want a discerning conversation, or maybe some help with an essay - I'm your girl. If you need a light bulb changing, then don't ask me unless you're prepared to sit in the dark for a number of hours. It's OK, no need to feel too sorry for me, I've come to terms with my character flaws and am just grateful for the fact that we're all different. If we were all like me then the human race wouldn't have invented the wheel yet, but we'd have had some lovely chats about our feelings.
The reason I choose to enlighten you about my 21st century failings is that this morning, I have made a remarkable breakthrough, only about 10 years after everyone else cottoned on. I have set up a Skype account! When I say "I" have set up a Skype account, I really mean that I have instructed Roz, my 18 year old bus companion, to stand behind me and direct every click of my mouse. Thanks Roz. I do not understand how it works, and I will not pretend to care, all I know is that I can now sit at a computer with a headset on, log in, call any phone number I want to on the computer dialling pad, and abracadabra - the wonders of technology will have me talking away to a loved one half way across the globe for no more than 80 pence a minute. Skype would have been a handy thing to investigate at the beginning of my travels, having made no more than 4 expensive phone calls home in 4 months, but hey, I get there in the end.
I had a lovely ambling chat with my Mum, Dad and Sister this morning and it was so refreshing to have time to talk about nonsense, rather than feeling rushed into giving them a bullet point account of my itinerary. As when I make any new technological progress, my pride at my accomplishment will clearly make me go nuts for it over the next few weeks, so come on folks, indulge me, send me a landline number and let me play with my new toy by giving you a call! I ran back to my dorm room after my conversation with the family this morning to excitedly tell everyone about the discovery I had made. This must be how Isaac Newton felt when the apple dropped on his head - although I bet no one rolled their eyes at him and said sympathetically, 'Yes, we've all known about it for years.' I am undeterred in my satisfaction. Isn't science great, I'm so pleased someone invented it.
It will probably come as no surprise to a lot of people reading this for me to reveal that I am a complete technophobe. Generally, if you hand me any kind of electronic gadget, I will have unintentionally jammed a button or reset it or frozen the screen within about a minute and a half. I am not a practically or technically minded person. I cannot rewire a plug, or drive a car, or use any of the fancy settings on my camera, or work a DVD player, or download videos to my Ipod, or operate a tumble dryer without shrinking my clothes, or play a computer game without being told, 'You Lose. Return to Level One', and I definitely do not understand the mysteries that are Blackberry's, Apple Macs, Mail Merge, Blu Ray and satellite navigation. It's a small miracle I even managed to set up this blog really, it is my greatest computer based achievement to date.
If you want a discerning conversation, or maybe some help with an essay - I'm your girl. If you need a light bulb changing, then don't ask me unless you're prepared to sit in the dark for a number of hours. It's OK, no need to feel too sorry for me, I've come to terms with my character flaws and am just grateful for the fact that we're all different. If we were all like me then the human race wouldn't have invented the wheel yet, but we'd have had some lovely chats about our feelings.
The reason I choose to enlighten you about my 21st century failings is that this morning, I have made a remarkable breakthrough, only about 10 years after everyone else cottoned on. I have set up a Skype account! When I say "I" have set up a Skype account, I really mean that I have instructed Roz, my 18 year old bus companion, to stand behind me and direct every click of my mouse. Thanks Roz. I do not understand how it works, and I will not pretend to care, all I know is that I can now sit at a computer with a headset on, log in, call any phone number I want to on the computer dialling pad, and abracadabra - the wonders of technology will have me talking away to a loved one half way across the globe for no more than 80 pence a minute. Skype would have been a handy thing to investigate at the beginning of my travels, having made no more than 4 expensive phone calls home in 4 months, but hey, I get there in the end.
I had a lovely ambling chat with my Mum, Dad and Sister this morning and it was so refreshing to have time to talk about nonsense, rather than feeling rushed into giving them a bullet point account of my itinerary. As when I make any new technological progress, my pride at my accomplishment will clearly make me go nuts for it over the next few weeks, so come on folks, indulge me, send me a landline number and let me play with my new toy by giving you a call! I ran back to my dorm room after my conversation with the family this morning to excitedly tell everyone about the discovery I had made. This must be how Isaac Newton felt when the apple dropped on his head - although I bet no one rolled their eyes at him and said sympathetically, 'Yes, we've all known about it for years.' I am undeterred in my satisfaction. Isn't science great, I'm so pleased someone invented it.
Sweet As
Saturday 27th March 2010, 1.30pm, Kaikoura Chip Shop - Kaikoura
'I can confirm that what you are proposing is good by me, my friend.'
- Definition of 'Sweet As Bro', Global Culture, (http://www.globalculture.co.nz/)
I already fear I may have to abandon my writing of this blog halfway through out of fears for my personal safety. I'm sat outside a Fish n' Chip shop (pronounced 'fush un chups' in a Kiwi accent) in Kaikoura with a portion of piping hot, thick cut, heavily salted chips. Sat on the floor around me and perched ominously on the parasol above me are a motley crew of hungry seagulls, beady eyes trailing each piece of potato that I dare to put in my mouth. The gang culture they've created around me will surely only goad them to attack, mob mentality and all that, they're baying for my blood and they may win yet. I feel like I'm in a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
The presence of my seagull bullies should indicate to you that I am on the coast, as indeed I am. After one more night in Christchurch we headed to Kaikoura this morning. It's an old fishing village on the East shore and due to a large ocean trench about 8 miles out to sea, has a population of 10,000 dolphins, Sperm whale families, and innumerable seal colonies lining the beach. The town itself is concentrated along one sea road, and is obviously less populated with people than it is with fish. It's small and almost eerily quiet, but has everything a happy village dweller might need: picturesque coastal views, clean and bracing air, Fair Trade shops bounteous in 'Save the Whale' t-shirts (which is a bit rich for a former Whaling community if you ask me), cosy pubs, and is the kind of place where everyone you cross on the street stops to ask how your day is going, and to comment on the weather.
I'd rather not comment on the weather actually, because the rolling winds and high seas have meant that my Whale Watching trip has been cancelled. There are a school of whales that have been spotted 6 miles out, but the unpredictable boating conditions and strong waves mean that my Good Ship Whale refuses to take me out to see them. Reassuring the Captain that I'm a strong swimmer didn't swing it for me. Oh well, C'est La Vie, the weather will change, the whales will wait for me somewhere else. All the more time to eat chips and be terrorised by seagulls... they're getting closer.
I was offered an alternative activity this afternoon, that being Dolphin Swimming. A boat takes you out just off shore, you jump in to the water, and 200 or so wild dolphins come along to investigate you. I hate dolphins. This is because I have quite a progressive and fully formed shark phobia, and it is my considered opinion that dolphins are just sharks pretending to be nice. For years they've been lulling gullible humans into a false sense of security with their faux friendly nudging and playful behaviour. It's surely only a matter of time before they reveal their true colours, that they've been in cahoots with the sharks all along, and once they've drawn all those stupid people in to the sea to have a swim and give them a cuddle, that's when the massacre will begin. Fish just shouldn't be that smart. To summarise, I politely turned Dolphin Swimming down.
Kaikoura marks our last stop on the South Island, tomorrow we are headed for the ferry crossing at Picton, and the new terrains of New Zealand's Northern territory. If I'm frank, which by now you should know I always am, I was never really that fussed about visiting New Zealand. Placing it in my itinerary was less of a deliberate decision and more of a 'well I guess if I'm the area I should pop by'. Generally, as a rule, I like heat, and tropical landscapes, swimming pools, excuses for wearing linen and not brushing my hair, spicy food, and places that make me feel like I'm on a different planet. The New Zealand of my imagination never seemed foreign enough for me to embrace it. However, what has been uncommonly foreign here for me, are the people, the Kiwis, and they have been the factor which has really made me thankful that I chose to 'pop by'.
In the spirit of well-meaning generalisation I will say that I've never met a nationality who so compatibly complement my personality. There are some things about them which I see in myself; their bone dry sense of humour, their tendency towards sarcasm and leg-pulling, their concerted efforts to enjoy themselves at all times, their no-nonsense, say it as you see it attitude, their desire to find the good in people. There are other things about them which aren't like me at all, but which encourage a more courageous, carefree side of me to emerge from it's shell of pessimism. They throw themselves into everything they do with exuberant gusto, they are fearless, and figure that life is not worth living unless you take a few risks, they are hardy and uncomplaining, they have unapologetic pride in their country, their glass is always half full, and in need of a top up. None of the latter are attributes which I have formerly possessed, but I'm starting to be positively affected by their sunny optimism; it's contagious, this "looking on the bright side" thing.
So I'm making a New Island Resolution. When I get to the North I'm hoping to challenge this new caution to the wind outlook I am adopting by throwing myself into a few activities which would normally make me, well, hide in Starbucks. I feel I owe it to the Kiwis, who have been so wonderfully warm to me, to be a little more adventurous in their country of opportunity. Life is good, I've no reason to be a scaredy-cat whingeing Pom any longer. As long as I escape from this table with my eyes un-pecked by seagulls, everything will be just Sweet As, bro.
'I can confirm that what you are proposing is good by me, my friend.'
- Definition of 'Sweet As Bro', Global Culture, (http://www.globalculture.co.nz/)
I already fear I may have to abandon my writing of this blog halfway through out of fears for my personal safety. I'm sat outside a Fish n' Chip shop (pronounced 'fush un chups' in a Kiwi accent) in Kaikoura with a portion of piping hot, thick cut, heavily salted chips. Sat on the floor around me and perched ominously on the parasol above me are a motley crew of hungry seagulls, beady eyes trailing each piece of potato that I dare to put in my mouth. The gang culture they've created around me will surely only goad them to attack, mob mentality and all that, they're baying for my blood and they may win yet. I feel like I'm in a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
The presence of my seagull bullies should indicate to you that I am on the coast, as indeed I am. After one more night in Christchurch we headed to Kaikoura this morning. It's an old fishing village on the East shore and due to a large ocean trench about 8 miles out to sea, has a population of 10,000 dolphins, Sperm whale families, and innumerable seal colonies lining the beach. The town itself is concentrated along one sea road, and is obviously less populated with people than it is with fish. It's small and almost eerily quiet, but has everything a happy village dweller might need: picturesque coastal views, clean and bracing air, Fair Trade shops bounteous in 'Save the Whale' t-shirts (which is a bit rich for a former Whaling community if you ask me), cosy pubs, and is the kind of place where everyone you cross on the street stops to ask how your day is going, and to comment on the weather.
I'd rather not comment on the weather actually, because the rolling winds and high seas have meant that my Whale Watching trip has been cancelled. There are a school of whales that have been spotted 6 miles out, but the unpredictable boating conditions and strong waves mean that my Good Ship Whale refuses to take me out to see them. Reassuring the Captain that I'm a strong swimmer didn't swing it for me. Oh well, C'est La Vie, the weather will change, the whales will wait for me somewhere else. All the more time to eat chips and be terrorised by seagulls... they're getting closer.
I was offered an alternative activity this afternoon, that being Dolphin Swimming. A boat takes you out just off shore, you jump in to the water, and 200 or so wild dolphins come along to investigate you. I hate dolphins. This is because I have quite a progressive and fully formed shark phobia, and it is my considered opinion that dolphins are just sharks pretending to be nice. For years they've been lulling gullible humans into a false sense of security with their faux friendly nudging and playful behaviour. It's surely only a matter of time before they reveal their true colours, that they've been in cahoots with the sharks all along, and once they've drawn all those stupid people in to the sea to have a swim and give them a cuddle, that's when the massacre will begin. Fish just shouldn't be that smart. To summarise, I politely turned Dolphin Swimming down.
Kaikoura marks our last stop on the South Island, tomorrow we are headed for the ferry crossing at Picton, and the new terrains of New Zealand's Northern territory. If I'm frank, which by now you should know I always am, I was never really that fussed about visiting New Zealand. Placing it in my itinerary was less of a deliberate decision and more of a 'well I guess if I'm the area I should pop by'. Generally, as a rule, I like heat, and tropical landscapes, swimming pools, excuses for wearing linen and not brushing my hair, spicy food, and places that make me feel like I'm on a different planet. The New Zealand of my imagination never seemed foreign enough for me to embrace it. However, what has been uncommonly foreign here for me, are the people, the Kiwis, and they have been the factor which has really made me thankful that I chose to 'pop by'.
In the spirit of well-meaning generalisation I will say that I've never met a nationality who so compatibly complement my personality. There are some things about them which I see in myself; their bone dry sense of humour, their tendency towards sarcasm and leg-pulling, their concerted efforts to enjoy themselves at all times, their no-nonsense, say it as you see it attitude, their desire to find the good in people. There are other things about them which aren't like me at all, but which encourage a more courageous, carefree side of me to emerge from it's shell of pessimism. They throw themselves into everything they do with exuberant gusto, they are fearless, and figure that life is not worth living unless you take a few risks, they are hardy and uncomplaining, they have unapologetic pride in their country, their glass is always half full, and in need of a top up. None of the latter are attributes which I have formerly possessed, but I'm starting to be positively affected by their sunny optimism; it's contagious, this "looking on the bright side" thing.
So I'm making a New Island Resolution. When I get to the North I'm hoping to challenge this new caution to the wind outlook I am adopting by throwing myself into a few activities which would normally make me, well, hide in Starbucks. I feel I owe it to the Kiwis, who have been so wonderfully warm to me, to be a little more adventurous in their country of opportunity. Life is good, I've no reason to be a scaredy-cat whingeing Pom any longer. As long as I escape from this table with my eyes un-pecked by seagulls, everything will be just Sweet As, bro.
The Suspicious Sheep
Friday 26th March 2010, 4.20pm, Cathedral Gardens - Christchurch
One of the things I love about travelling with Ella is that we have been together for long enough now to know exactly what will make each other laugh. Nearly 4 months of living in each others' pockets 24/7 means that we have developed a synchronised sense of humour that often seems strange to outsiders. It's only comparable to the relationship I have with my sister, 16 years of growing up in the same house have meant that me and my darling Emily will simultaneously explode into hilarity at things which other people remain stonily un-tickled by. With Ells Bells, Bella, Bellaboo, Ella Wella (miraculously she doesn't protest at any of these pseudonyms and terms of affection I have placed on her), these moments of sheer pant-wetting chuckling come from stimuli that in all honesty, are very ordinary, and not subjects of humour for regular discerning comics.
Today on the big green bus, driving along from Queenstown back to Christchurch, we stopped momentarily at a road block. In a field next to the bus was a flock of white sheep - nothing unusual about that. In a field directly adjacent, but segregated from the main flock by a fence, was one solitary black-faced sheep. 'That sheep is all on it's own', my companion commented. 'Well yes Ella', I said, 'it's the Black Sheep of the family. They have to keep her separate otherwise she'll be a bad influence on the others.' This started the giggling, I am regrettably not adverse to laughing at my own jokes. Amongst our giggles we then noticed that this black sheep was staring at us intently. Not at the bus, but at me and Ella, it's gaze fixed solidly in our direction, feet fixed unmoving to the spot, it didn't even blink. The longer we sat there, and the longer the sheep held it's focus on us, the funnier it got. It's eyes did not move, and the spectacle was made comparably more amusing by the fact that all of the sheep in the other field were mindlessly grazing away, unaware of anything other than the patch of greenery at the end of their noses.
'That is one suspicious sheep', I noted, and aided my description with a wide-eyed, one eyebrow raised, scowling, pouting imitation of our black faced friend. 'What's she suspicious of?', Ella asked. 'Of the bus, of us. She's stuck in that field all on her lonesome while we're travelling around her country where sheep outnumber us 9 to 1. If there's one sheep that's going to lead the rebellion, mark my words, it'll be that Suspicious Sheep.' Well, we were infinitely amused by this notion, and were soon howling uncontrollably. On a coach full of sleeping, hungover passengers, we struggled to stifle our laughter as tears rolled down our cheeks. Once we start on something like this, it's very hard for us to stop.
Maybe it was the booze still in our system from the night before, maybe we were creating entertainment out of boredom, maybe we're both brain dead; all distinct possibilities. Just as we were coming close to containing ourselves and quietening down, the bus pulled away. As it did, the Suspicious Sheep stood stock still, and moved her head slowly in our direction, following us away up the road with her eyes, mechanically twisting her neck to watch us for as long as she could. And that, well that just set us off again. We laughed ourselves into hysteria all the way to Christchurch until we couldn't remember what we were laughing about anymore. Good to give in to nonsense occasionally, it's a real fortitude to have someone with me who looks for humour in the mundane as much as I do.
One of the things I love about travelling with Ella is that we have been together for long enough now to know exactly what will make each other laugh. Nearly 4 months of living in each others' pockets 24/7 means that we have developed a synchronised sense of humour that often seems strange to outsiders. It's only comparable to the relationship I have with my sister, 16 years of growing up in the same house have meant that me and my darling Emily will simultaneously explode into hilarity at things which other people remain stonily un-tickled by. With Ells Bells, Bella, Bellaboo, Ella Wella (miraculously she doesn't protest at any of these pseudonyms and terms of affection I have placed on her), these moments of sheer pant-wetting chuckling come from stimuli that in all honesty, are very ordinary, and not subjects of humour for regular discerning comics.
Today on the big green bus, driving along from Queenstown back to Christchurch, we stopped momentarily at a road block. In a field next to the bus was a flock of white sheep - nothing unusual about that. In a field directly adjacent, but segregated from the main flock by a fence, was one solitary black-faced sheep. 'That sheep is all on it's own', my companion commented. 'Well yes Ella', I said, 'it's the Black Sheep of the family. They have to keep her separate otherwise she'll be a bad influence on the others.' This started the giggling, I am regrettably not adverse to laughing at my own jokes. Amongst our giggles we then noticed that this black sheep was staring at us intently. Not at the bus, but at me and Ella, it's gaze fixed solidly in our direction, feet fixed unmoving to the spot, it didn't even blink. The longer we sat there, and the longer the sheep held it's focus on us, the funnier it got. It's eyes did not move, and the spectacle was made comparably more amusing by the fact that all of the sheep in the other field were mindlessly grazing away, unaware of anything other than the patch of greenery at the end of their noses.
'That is one suspicious sheep', I noted, and aided my description with a wide-eyed, one eyebrow raised, scowling, pouting imitation of our black faced friend. 'What's she suspicious of?', Ella asked. 'Of the bus, of us. She's stuck in that field all on her lonesome while we're travelling around her country where sheep outnumber us 9 to 1. If there's one sheep that's going to lead the rebellion, mark my words, it'll be that Suspicious Sheep.' Well, we were infinitely amused by this notion, and were soon howling uncontrollably. On a coach full of sleeping, hungover passengers, we struggled to stifle our laughter as tears rolled down our cheeks. Once we start on something like this, it's very hard for us to stop.
Maybe it was the booze still in our system from the night before, maybe we were creating entertainment out of boredom, maybe we're both brain dead; all distinct possibilities. Just as we were coming close to containing ourselves and quietening down, the bus pulled away. As it did, the Suspicious Sheep stood stock still, and moved her head slowly in our direction, following us away up the road with her eyes, mechanically twisting her neck to watch us for as long as she could. And that, well that just set us off again. We laughed ourselves into hysteria all the way to Christchurch until we couldn't remember what we were laughing about anymore. Good to give in to nonsense occasionally, it's a real fortitude to have someone with me who looks for humour in the mundane as much as I do.
The Older The Grape...
Wednesday 24th March 2010, 7.25pm, Base Hostel - Queenstown
I am a miserable failure. This is exactly why I never make New Year's Resolutions, I am always destined to break them. After considering yesterday that perhaps I should lay off the sauce for a while, do you know what I have done today? I have been on a wine tasting tour of the local vineyards. I am incorrigible. I don't feel too bad though, because today has been one of the most fantastic days I've had in New Zealand so far.
The Appellation Wine van picked us up at 2.30pm today, and needing a break from the young ones I was instantly delighted to discover that our tour party consisted of Kirsty the guide, myself and Ella, a Brazilian woman in her late 20's, an American couple in their 50's, and possibly one of the best human beings I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, a 70 year old Australian woman by the name of Judy. But we'll come to Judy later.
Over a period of 4 hours the van trundled us through 4 local vineyards, Kirsty providing information and education on wines along the way. I consider myself somewhat of an expert now, having been so thoroughly briefed in the difference that oxygenation period, barrel type and treatment of the grape can make to the taste of the wine, and I have come to the conclusion that if you care to buy me a glass, then please make it a Sauvignon Blanc harvested from 2006 or onwards. A regular connoisseur eh? In each vineyard we tasted somewhere between 6 and 8 wines and were encouraged if we felt able to, to finish each taster as opposed to the swilling and spitting method. That's the way the Kiwis work God love 'em, they like a drink and they don't see the point of wasting good wine. So after, ooh what's that, 30 odd samples of Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris, Cabernet Sauvignon, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc and even a little champers, I'm feeling a tad "squiffy".
One of the highlights of of the wine tour were the views from the hillside vineyards. All of them beautifully unique and elaborately envisioned in their own right - the Pergrine Vineyard's gigantic aluminium roof was modelled on the shape of a Pergrine falcon's wing, the Chard Vineyard looked like an old Spanish farmhouse - they sit high up in the hills overlooking Queenstown's urban sprawl amongst the lakes and the mountain range known as The Remarkables - which quite live up to their name. The cliff faces in this area are something of a sight to behold. In the 1880's during this area's gold rush the population increased from 8, to 8000 people. That's 7992 gold diggers who clamoured and pick-axed their way through the rock, flooding the slopes in the hope of a small rocky fortune washing their way. This bygone era has left the cliffs heavily eroded and smooth sloped, leaning in opposition from each other on 45 degree angles, parting like the Red Sea for the Israelites to cross, or in this case, for Queenstown to nestle among them; it looks Biblical up there.
So you've got the wine, you've got the setting, what earns second place in my breakdown of the wine tour's attractions? That would have to be lunch. There are a few food stuffs missing from menus in Asia, unheard of in Indonesia and out of our budget in New Zealand that me and Miss Ella occasionally take to pining for and discussing with greedy, mouth-dribbling wantonness. Olives, Brie, pâté, french bread, smoked salmon, mussels, cold Italian meats, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes. And there they all were, laid out for us on a china platter with silver cutlery. Not that we needed knives and forks. We must have looked to our dining companions as though we hadn't eaten in weeks, the speed and fervour with which we piled those longed for culinary delights in to our faces. We did ourselves proud, and cleaned that vineyard right out of Antipasti.
Number One, first place on the joys of our day in the vineyards ranking? The company; Judy. She reminded me of Jenny Joseph's poem, 'Warning';
'When I am old I shall wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.'
Read the rest if you haven't already, Joseph is one of my favourite contemporary poets, and worth your investigation.
She was glamorous, glamorous in a Marlene Dietrich, Sophia Loren ageing beauty kind of way that most young women will look at and hope beyond hope they might be able to emulate when they are even 20 years short of her 7 decades. Long grey-blonde hair, smart overcoat, leather boots, well fitting jeans, tastefully applied make-up. She was funny and self-deprecating. During one conversation, Kirsty remarked that the attributes which make humans the superior beings on Earth are their brain capacity and opposable thumbs, and Judy pipes up with, 'Well I got dementia up here and arthritis in my hands, you may as well shoot me now sweetheart'. She didn't spit out a drop of wine and therefore ended the day more blotto than the rest of us put together, so much so that when we dropped her back at her hotel she said, 'Best drop me at reception lovey, I seem to have lost my key'. When one of the staff at the vineyards told us that we could spit out any wines we didn't like in to the sink she chirped up with, 'I don't think that's going to be a problem son, I never met a grape that disagreed with me yet'. I also liked her for reasons relating to my own vanity; she spent a lot of time gazing in to my eyes telling me they were the biggest ones she'd ever seen. She even forced an embarrassed looking waiter to concur with her on this exclaiming, 'Tell me she doesn't have the bestest, biggest eyes you ever saw, tell me!'.
More than anything she had a completely enviable lust for life and indestructible enthusiasm for everything around her. Everything was 'beautiful, 'wonderful', 'glorious', 'sensational sweetheart'. She sat in the back of the van gasping with glee at regular intervals, causing Ella and myself to jump out of our seats at the surprise of it a couple of times. This is more astounding when you learn some of her history. She has been a live-alone widow for 30 years, her husband and the love of her life, a former professional test cricketer, was a famous sportsman and an infamous gambler who at the age of 42, crippled by his debts, shot himself in the head. Yet I'd be hard pushed to name anyone I've met who smiles wider, laughs louder and hugs with more sincerity than Judy. She left me her phone number and told me to ring her when I get to Sydney so that I can go and stay with her, 'don't stay in hostels darling, lots of hot, young Brazilian surfers where I live, bit too young for me but I'll love to introduce you.'
Feisty, gorgeous, irrepressible, wicked, gregarious, generous, frivolous, carefree, and just on the right side of senile. When I am old I shall wear purple... and hope that whatever life has thrown at me I'll still be able to throw my head back and cackle like Judy Burke.
I am a miserable failure. This is exactly why I never make New Year's Resolutions, I am always destined to break them. After considering yesterday that perhaps I should lay off the sauce for a while, do you know what I have done today? I have been on a wine tasting tour of the local vineyards. I am incorrigible. I don't feel too bad though, because today has been one of the most fantastic days I've had in New Zealand so far.
The Appellation Wine van picked us up at 2.30pm today, and needing a break from the young ones I was instantly delighted to discover that our tour party consisted of Kirsty the guide, myself and Ella, a Brazilian woman in her late 20's, an American couple in their 50's, and possibly one of the best human beings I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, a 70 year old Australian woman by the name of Judy. But we'll come to Judy later.
Over a period of 4 hours the van trundled us through 4 local vineyards, Kirsty providing information and education on wines along the way. I consider myself somewhat of an expert now, having been so thoroughly briefed in the difference that oxygenation period, barrel type and treatment of the grape can make to the taste of the wine, and I have come to the conclusion that if you care to buy me a glass, then please make it a Sauvignon Blanc harvested from 2006 or onwards. A regular connoisseur eh? In each vineyard we tasted somewhere between 6 and 8 wines and were encouraged if we felt able to, to finish each taster as opposed to the swilling and spitting method. That's the way the Kiwis work God love 'em, they like a drink and they don't see the point of wasting good wine. So after, ooh what's that, 30 odd samples of Pinot Noir, Pinot Gris, Cabernet Sauvignon, Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc and even a little champers, I'm feeling a tad "squiffy".
One of the highlights of of the wine tour were the views from the hillside vineyards. All of them beautifully unique and elaborately envisioned in their own right - the Pergrine Vineyard's gigantic aluminium roof was modelled on the shape of a Pergrine falcon's wing, the Chard Vineyard looked like an old Spanish farmhouse - they sit high up in the hills overlooking Queenstown's urban sprawl amongst the lakes and the mountain range known as The Remarkables - which quite live up to their name. The cliff faces in this area are something of a sight to behold. In the 1880's during this area's gold rush the population increased from 8, to 8000 people. That's 7992 gold diggers who clamoured and pick-axed their way through the rock, flooding the slopes in the hope of a small rocky fortune washing their way. This bygone era has left the cliffs heavily eroded and smooth sloped, leaning in opposition from each other on 45 degree angles, parting like the Red Sea for the Israelites to cross, or in this case, for Queenstown to nestle among them; it looks Biblical up there.
So you've got the wine, you've got the setting, what earns second place in my breakdown of the wine tour's attractions? That would have to be lunch. There are a few food stuffs missing from menus in Asia, unheard of in Indonesia and out of our budget in New Zealand that me and Miss Ella occasionally take to pining for and discussing with greedy, mouth-dribbling wantonness. Olives, Brie, pâté, french bread, smoked salmon, mussels, cold Italian meats, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes. And there they all were, laid out for us on a china platter with silver cutlery. Not that we needed knives and forks. We must have looked to our dining companions as though we hadn't eaten in weeks, the speed and fervour with which we piled those longed for culinary delights in to our faces. We did ourselves proud, and cleaned that vineyard right out of Antipasti.
Number One, first place on the joys of our day in the vineyards ranking? The company; Judy. She reminded me of Jenny Joseph's poem, 'Warning';
'When I am old I shall wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.'
Read the rest if you haven't already, Joseph is one of my favourite contemporary poets, and worth your investigation.
She was glamorous, glamorous in a Marlene Dietrich, Sophia Loren ageing beauty kind of way that most young women will look at and hope beyond hope they might be able to emulate when they are even 20 years short of her 7 decades. Long grey-blonde hair, smart overcoat, leather boots, well fitting jeans, tastefully applied make-up. She was funny and self-deprecating. During one conversation, Kirsty remarked that the attributes which make humans the superior beings on Earth are their brain capacity and opposable thumbs, and Judy pipes up with, 'Well I got dementia up here and arthritis in my hands, you may as well shoot me now sweetheart'. She didn't spit out a drop of wine and therefore ended the day more blotto than the rest of us put together, so much so that when we dropped her back at her hotel she said, 'Best drop me at reception lovey, I seem to have lost my key'. When one of the staff at the vineyards told us that we could spit out any wines we didn't like in to the sink she chirped up with, 'I don't think that's going to be a problem son, I never met a grape that disagreed with me yet'. I also liked her for reasons relating to my own vanity; she spent a lot of time gazing in to my eyes telling me they were the biggest ones she'd ever seen. She even forced an embarrassed looking waiter to concur with her on this exclaiming, 'Tell me she doesn't have the bestest, biggest eyes you ever saw, tell me!'.
More than anything she had a completely enviable lust for life and indestructible enthusiasm for everything around her. Everything was 'beautiful, 'wonderful', 'glorious', 'sensational sweetheart'. She sat in the back of the van gasping with glee at regular intervals, causing Ella and myself to jump out of our seats at the surprise of it a couple of times. This is more astounding when you learn some of her history. She has been a live-alone widow for 30 years, her husband and the love of her life, a former professional test cricketer, was a famous sportsman and an infamous gambler who at the age of 42, crippled by his debts, shot himself in the head. Yet I'd be hard pushed to name anyone I've met who smiles wider, laughs louder and hugs with more sincerity than Judy. She left me her phone number and told me to ring her when I get to Sydney so that I can go and stay with her, 'don't stay in hostels darling, lots of hot, young Brazilian surfers where I live, bit too young for me but I'll love to introduce you.'
Feisty, gorgeous, irrepressible, wicked, gregarious, generous, frivolous, carefree, and just on the right side of senile. When I am old I shall wear purple... and hope that whatever life has thrown at me I'll still be able to throw my head back and cackle like Judy Burke.
Friday 2 April 2010
In Hiding
Tuesday 23rd March 2010, 3.20pm, Starbucks - Queenstown
I'm hiding. Staying undercover, keeping a low profile, in yes, you guessed it... Starbucks. But it's safe here! There are lots of people reading and keeping themselves to themselves, no one can find me here (unless of course they've read my blog, in which case they would know precisely where to look). So what am I taking caffeine supported pains to avoid today? Let me explain.
We got to Queenstown yesterday morning and I absolutely love it here. Of all the places I've visited in New Zealand this is the one destination which I could easily see myself returning to stay for a few months. It has all the dramatic scenery of the rest of the South Island , lakes, mountains, hills, forests, vineyards; but it's also a proper town! There are high streets and shopping malls, restaurants and nightlife - it's a clean and efficient city backed closely by rural splendour - what more could you want?
The thing that Queenstown is famous for, is it's adventure sports. This is the home of the first commercial bungy jump in the world. For the right price you can throw yourself down a 135 metre canyon with only a piece of elastic between you and instant death. You can ride the world's highest swing, complete with a 60 metre freefall over the side of a mountain. You can jump out of planes, chuck yourself head first off of bridges into icy water, slide at incomprehensible speeds down tunnel luges, ride cross-country on dirt bikes, nearly drown yourself in a rubber boat along white water rapids, trek to mountain summits, ride bicycles attached to bungy ropes over the side of massive precipices. We've landed in adrenalin junkie territory, and everyone is getting involved.
Hence, my hideout. I'm not soft, but there are some things I draw the line at! You can't walk down a street here without some long-haired, large-pupilled crazy man jumping out at you from behind a billboard, waving his arms frantically around his head and yelling in your face, 'Bungy man! Bungy is fucking awesome! Wooooh yeah, you have to bungy, yeaaaaahhhh!'. I've worked with drug addicts who have similar mannerisms. That's really wonderful sweetheart, I'm very pleased that you've obviously had a lovely day throwing yourself from great heights and addling together the few brain cells you have intact, but please do not tell me what I have to do, otherwise I will go to Starbucks to hide from you and your fellow fruitloops.
Maybe I've been getting on people's nerves. Maybe my sense of humour is too dry, my eyes too often rolled, my tolerance too often tested, my comebacks too quickly cutting. Maybe this is why everyone keeps telling me I am less of a human being if I don't join the adrenalin crew, it's obvious - they want me dead. OK, I'm getting paranoid, the peer pressure has got to me. I really admire people who can do these things, it takes an enormous amount of bravery or stupidity (stop it Grace) to participate in these activities. Ella herself is doing the Canyon Swing as I write this, and I'm immensely proud of her courage and lust for life, and looking forward to helping her celebrate her achievement tonight, when, judging by all the other adrenalin junkies I have witnessed, she will be running around like a rabbit in season, screaming excitedly at everything I say and talking too fast for me to understand her - I think the freefall screws with their heart rate and their perception of normal conversation speed.
There is another reason I'm hiding, and again, it's Queenstown's fault, stupid Queenstown. The bus load of us have been hanging around together for a week now, and I've placed my initial prejudices about their diminutive ages and bourgeoise, fascist schooling aside to become quite fond of the lot of them. Queenstown is a party town, and if you catch me in the right mood, I am a very willing and able party goer, a party starter some might say - if I've been given enough tequila. Last night we all headed out to celebrate our arrival in a place with more than one pub; and then it got messy. There is a bar here, World Bar, which serves some seriously potent cocktails, by the teapot. Now it's truth time... after swigging down half a bottle of fizzy wine (that was definitely not champagne) in the room, and a couple of rum and cokes in the first bar, Party Grace then apparently thought it was a great idea to drink 3 teapots worth of alcohol.
I was already in a jubilant mood because one of my roommates owns hair straighteners. I blow dried and straightened my hair for the first time in 4 months, and to be honest, I felt like a princess. Cindy Crawford didn't have shit on me last night. My new found self confidence coupled with vodka based intoxication sent me spiralling into some kind of Viking-esque raping and pillaging scenario that meant when I wasn't taking to the stage to showcase my hip hop dance moves, I was hugging, kissing and embracing everyone I came into contact with. There are some very smiley 18 year olds wandering around my hostel today.
I do not know what time it was that I crawled drunkenly into bed, and I do not know from whence I crawled, although I suspect that I continued the party when we had all returned home by making a show of myself in other people's bedrooms. Oh dear. Perhaps I will stay here in Starbucks a while longer, perhaps this will teach me to never drink again. Perhaps it won't.
I'm hiding. Staying undercover, keeping a low profile, in yes, you guessed it... Starbucks. But it's safe here! There are lots of people reading and keeping themselves to themselves, no one can find me here (unless of course they've read my blog, in which case they would know precisely where to look). So what am I taking caffeine supported pains to avoid today? Let me explain.
We got to Queenstown yesterday morning and I absolutely love it here. Of all the places I've visited in New Zealand this is the one destination which I could easily see myself returning to stay for a few months. It has all the dramatic scenery of the rest of the South Island , lakes, mountains, hills, forests, vineyards; but it's also a proper town! There are high streets and shopping malls, restaurants and nightlife - it's a clean and efficient city backed closely by rural splendour - what more could you want?
The thing that Queenstown is famous for, is it's adventure sports. This is the home of the first commercial bungy jump in the world. For the right price you can throw yourself down a 135 metre canyon with only a piece of elastic between you and instant death. You can ride the world's highest swing, complete with a 60 metre freefall over the side of a mountain. You can jump out of planes, chuck yourself head first off of bridges into icy water, slide at incomprehensible speeds down tunnel luges, ride cross-country on dirt bikes, nearly drown yourself in a rubber boat along white water rapids, trek to mountain summits, ride bicycles attached to bungy ropes over the side of massive precipices. We've landed in adrenalin junkie territory, and everyone is getting involved.
Hence, my hideout. I'm not soft, but there are some things I draw the line at! You can't walk down a street here without some long-haired, large-pupilled crazy man jumping out at you from behind a billboard, waving his arms frantically around his head and yelling in your face, 'Bungy man! Bungy is fucking awesome! Wooooh yeah, you have to bungy, yeaaaaahhhh!'. I've worked with drug addicts who have similar mannerisms. That's really wonderful sweetheart, I'm very pleased that you've obviously had a lovely day throwing yourself from great heights and addling together the few brain cells you have intact, but please do not tell me what I have to do, otherwise I will go to Starbucks to hide from you and your fellow fruitloops.
Maybe I've been getting on people's nerves. Maybe my sense of humour is too dry, my eyes too often rolled, my tolerance too often tested, my comebacks too quickly cutting. Maybe this is why everyone keeps telling me I am less of a human being if I don't join the adrenalin crew, it's obvious - they want me dead. OK, I'm getting paranoid, the peer pressure has got to me. I really admire people who can do these things, it takes an enormous amount of bravery or stupidity (stop it Grace) to participate in these activities. Ella herself is doing the Canyon Swing as I write this, and I'm immensely proud of her courage and lust for life, and looking forward to helping her celebrate her achievement tonight, when, judging by all the other adrenalin junkies I have witnessed, she will be running around like a rabbit in season, screaming excitedly at everything I say and talking too fast for me to understand her - I think the freefall screws with their heart rate and their perception of normal conversation speed.
There is another reason I'm hiding, and again, it's Queenstown's fault, stupid Queenstown. The bus load of us have been hanging around together for a week now, and I've placed my initial prejudices about their diminutive ages and bourgeoise, fascist schooling aside to become quite fond of the lot of them. Queenstown is a party town, and if you catch me in the right mood, I am a very willing and able party goer, a party starter some might say - if I've been given enough tequila. Last night we all headed out to celebrate our arrival in a place with more than one pub; and then it got messy. There is a bar here, World Bar, which serves some seriously potent cocktails, by the teapot. Now it's truth time... after swigging down half a bottle of fizzy wine (that was definitely not champagne) in the room, and a couple of rum and cokes in the first bar, Party Grace then apparently thought it was a great idea to drink 3 teapots worth of alcohol.
I was already in a jubilant mood because one of my roommates owns hair straighteners. I blow dried and straightened my hair for the first time in 4 months, and to be honest, I felt like a princess. Cindy Crawford didn't have shit on me last night. My new found self confidence coupled with vodka based intoxication sent me spiralling into some kind of Viking-esque raping and pillaging scenario that meant when I wasn't taking to the stage to showcase my hip hop dance moves, I was hugging, kissing and embracing everyone I came into contact with. There are some very smiley 18 year olds wandering around my hostel today.
I do not know what time it was that I crawled drunkenly into bed, and I do not know from whence I crawled, although I suspect that I continued the party when we had all returned home by making a show of myself in other people's bedrooms. Oh dear. Perhaps I will stay here in Starbucks a while longer, perhaps this will teach me to never drink again. Perhaps it won't.
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