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.
Monday, 5 April 2010
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.
The Prayer
Sunday 21st March 2010, 6.35pm, Wanaka Ale House - Wanaka.
The big green bus has pulled in to Wanaka this afternoon, a small, placid town with carefully kept lawns, fields of fern trees, real Ale pubs, family bakeries and stone brick shopfronts, all set on a huge central lake, the furthest edge of which is too far away for my eyes to see, hidden as it is amongst the obligatory rugged backdrop of the Southern Alps. The sun is still high in the sky at just after half past 6 this evening, and I am sat outside Wanaka Ale House wrapped in a colossal green mohair cardigan/tent, overlooking the water and enjoying the evening sun warm my face whilst I sip my pint of cider.
Word spread at the hostel this afternoon that a group of local Christians were putting on a free barbecue for visiting backpackers on a field by the lake. Not to turn our noses up at the prospect of free sausages, a group of about 30 of us headed down to the waterfront, led by the smell of burning charcoal and frying onions. We were left alone for a while with our gratis meaty goods, before Scott, the man who had organised the event, stood up to speak to us. An American who came on the holiday of a lifetime to New Zealand a few years ago with his wife to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary, the couple moved permanently to Lake Wanaka having fallen in love with the country, and deciding that it would be a perfect place to reach young backpackers with their ministry. He said that he considered us the most important people on Earth. The adventurers, the educated, the free-thinking, the decision makers and the leaders of tomorrow. With this analysis in mind he had realised that us, these 'important people' should be the ones to whom he should pass the word of God.
There was nothing preachy about this man, nothing judgemental or austere, nothing defensive or antagonistic, nothing over-bearing or self righteous, nothing about him like some other "Christians" I have come in to contact with, always desperate to tell you why you're wrong and why you and all the homosexuals you hang out with are going to hell. He wasn't forcefully trying to convert us all on the spot and then rush us down in to the lake to be baptised. He just wanted to show us some Christian kindness via the means of hot food, and encourage us to take away any of the free Gideon Bibles or other literature on offer in the hope that we would begin to ask questions for ourselves.
He spoke for no more than 15 minutes, and after the event was over, scores of suspicious and frightened young backpackers could be seen hot-footing it away from the field, their pockets full of sausages, their minds resolutely closed and their gratitude disgustingly absent. This made me angry. How dare they abuse this man's charity without even offering him a word of thanks! They were all obviously terrified that he might, God forbid, talk to them about Jesus. Fair enough if Christianity isn't your game, but some human decency wouldn't have gone amiss. Some people are such morons aren't they.
I am not a moron, and neither am I frightened that a lovely, gentle man might be made happy if I let him talk to me about his religion for a few minutes, so I strode over to shake Scott's hand and to thank him for what he had organised. He was, as you'd expect him to be, overly grateful and visibly delighted that I'd gone over to say 'hello'; he must be used to 20-somethings running for the hills at the sight of his friendly face. After exchanging pleasantries he asked me why I am here. I was not prepared for this, it seemed like a Big Question. Here at the barbecue? Lake Wanaka? New Zealand? Planet Earth? I stuttered and stumbled my way around an inadequate and hastily muddled together lacklustre response that went something like, 'I've been travelling for 4 months because I had to get away. I wanted to see myself in a new light, to take myself away from everything that was trapping me in a future that just kept happening, without me ever taking time to wonder if I was doing the things I should be doing. And because my savings were burning a hole in my pocket.'
After listening to me ramble like this for a minute or so he calmly took my hands in his and tentatively asked if he could pray for me. Can't do any harm, I thought, and nodded acquiescence. He thanked God, thanked God for making me sincere and wise (!). Then, without knowing me at all, he voiced something which I hope for myself on a daily basis without ever being able to offer it up to the heavens on my own behalf. He said, 'Let her find the path she is meant to tread. Let her be guided by her own volition and your direction so that every day she is living she is not wasting herself, but fulfilling the purpose for which she was lovingly placed on Earth.'
A few weeks ago I was in Singapore and visiting the Fountain of Wealth which you are instructed to walk around 3 times with your hands in the water and make a wish. I promise you now this is word for word - everything I write here in this blog is the truth: what I repeated to myself on that day when I was walking round the fountain, what I wished is 'I want to find the path that I am meant to tread.' The exact and precise words of this stranger's prayer for me. I don't care if you don't believe me, this is what happened.
I would never call myself a Christian, but I do have a faith, and a firm belief that there must be a reason for me being here. Not fate, fate implies that we have no choice or power in the direction we take, fate makes us cogs in a machine, fate limits my possibilities and negates my own intelligence and will. Destiny is different. Destiny is there even if you never reach it. The great things of your life that you should do are waiting for you, but depend upon your ability to take the right road to them. This is why I'm looking for a path, my life will be short and inconsequential in the abyss of time, but I'm hoping to make it as worthwhile as I can for those I come in to contact with, not to just exist, but to live for a reason.
Maybe it was part of my destiny to meet Scott, and to be shocked in to remembering that I came out here looking for a sense of purpose. I reckon God must really like Scott, so here's praying that his prayer works.
The big green bus has pulled in to Wanaka this afternoon, a small, placid town with carefully kept lawns, fields of fern trees, real Ale pubs, family bakeries and stone brick shopfronts, all set on a huge central lake, the furthest edge of which is too far away for my eyes to see, hidden as it is amongst the obligatory rugged backdrop of the Southern Alps. The sun is still high in the sky at just after half past 6 this evening, and I am sat outside Wanaka Ale House wrapped in a colossal green mohair cardigan/tent, overlooking the water and enjoying the evening sun warm my face whilst I sip my pint of cider.
Word spread at the hostel this afternoon that a group of local Christians were putting on a free barbecue for visiting backpackers on a field by the lake. Not to turn our noses up at the prospect of free sausages, a group of about 30 of us headed down to the waterfront, led by the smell of burning charcoal and frying onions. We were left alone for a while with our gratis meaty goods, before Scott, the man who had organised the event, stood up to speak to us. An American who came on the holiday of a lifetime to New Zealand a few years ago with his wife to celebrate their 30th wedding anniversary, the couple moved permanently to Lake Wanaka having fallen in love with the country, and deciding that it would be a perfect place to reach young backpackers with their ministry. He said that he considered us the most important people on Earth. The adventurers, the educated, the free-thinking, the decision makers and the leaders of tomorrow. With this analysis in mind he had realised that us, these 'important people' should be the ones to whom he should pass the word of God.
There was nothing preachy about this man, nothing judgemental or austere, nothing defensive or antagonistic, nothing over-bearing or self righteous, nothing about him like some other "Christians" I have come in to contact with, always desperate to tell you why you're wrong and why you and all the homosexuals you hang out with are going to hell. He wasn't forcefully trying to convert us all on the spot and then rush us down in to the lake to be baptised. He just wanted to show us some Christian kindness via the means of hot food, and encourage us to take away any of the free Gideon Bibles or other literature on offer in the hope that we would begin to ask questions for ourselves.
He spoke for no more than 15 minutes, and after the event was over, scores of suspicious and frightened young backpackers could be seen hot-footing it away from the field, their pockets full of sausages, their minds resolutely closed and their gratitude disgustingly absent. This made me angry. How dare they abuse this man's charity without even offering him a word of thanks! They were all obviously terrified that he might, God forbid, talk to them about Jesus. Fair enough if Christianity isn't your game, but some human decency wouldn't have gone amiss. Some people are such morons aren't they.
I am not a moron, and neither am I frightened that a lovely, gentle man might be made happy if I let him talk to me about his religion for a few minutes, so I strode over to shake Scott's hand and to thank him for what he had organised. He was, as you'd expect him to be, overly grateful and visibly delighted that I'd gone over to say 'hello'; he must be used to 20-somethings running for the hills at the sight of his friendly face. After exchanging pleasantries he asked me why I am here. I was not prepared for this, it seemed like a Big Question. Here at the barbecue? Lake Wanaka? New Zealand? Planet Earth? I stuttered and stumbled my way around an inadequate and hastily muddled together lacklustre response that went something like, 'I've been travelling for 4 months because I had to get away. I wanted to see myself in a new light, to take myself away from everything that was trapping me in a future that just kept happening, without me ever taking time to wonder if I was doing the things I should be doing. And because my savings were burning a hole in my pocket.'
After listening to me ramble like this for a minute or so he calmly took my hands in his and tentatively asked if he could pray for me. Can't do any harm, I thought, and nodded acquiescence. He thanked God, thanked God for making me sincere and wise (!). Then, without knowing me at all, he voiced something which I hope for myself on a daily basis without ever being able to offer it up to the heavens on my own behalf. He said, 'Let her find the path she is meant to tread. Let her be guided by her own volition and your direction so that every day she is living she is not wasting herself, but fulfilling the purpose for which she was lovingly placed on Earth.'
A few weeks ago I was in Singapore and visiting the Fountain of Wealth which you are instructed to walk around 3 times with your hands in the water and make a wish. I promise you now this is word for word - everything I write here in this blog is the truth: what I repeated to myself on that day when I was walking round the fountain, what I wished is 'I want to find the path that I am meant to tread.' The exact and precise words of this stranger's prayer for me. I don't care if you don't believe me, this is what happened.
I would never call myself a Christian, but I do have a faith, and a firm belief that there must be a reason for me being here. Not fate, fate implies that we have no choice or power in the direction we take, fate makes us cogs in a machine, fate limits my possibilities and negates my own intelligence and will. Destiny is different. Destiny is there even if you never reach it. The great things of your life that you should do are waiting for you, but depend upon your ability to take the right road to them. This is why I'm looking for a path, my life will be short and inconsequential in the abyss of time, but I'm hoping to make it as worthwhile as I can for those I come in to contact with, not to just exist, but to live for a reason.
Maybe it was part of my destiny to meet Scott, and to be shocked in to remembering that I came out here looking for a sense of purpose. I reckon God must really like Scott, so here's praying that his prayer works.
Lust In A Cold Climate
Saturday 20th March 2010, 8pm, Rainforest Retreat - Franz Josef.
When we arrived in New Zealand on Monday morning I used some of the time spent in bed that day to be productive; I made a list. There's very few things more satisfying than a list are there. Or more specifically, there are very few things more satisfying than ticking items off of a list. I don't get much excuse to make lists these days, given that I have nothing to do (don't panic, I'm aware of how excellent a situation this is). Lists I make these days tend to look something like this:
- E-mail Hannah
- Put photos on USB
- Wash clothes
- Buy shampoo
- Ring Emma
- Find camera charger
- Get Ella to sew up hole in leggings
Or this:
- Instant Noodles
- Avocado
- Vegemite
- Tomatoes
- Eggs
- Spaghetti Hoops
- Box of Wine
The list I made on Monday however, was drastically more exciting than either of these mundane examples. New Zealand is a country of outdoor activity and of organised fun, and so I have made a list of all the things that I hope to do whilst here. I am a very forgetful human being, good with names and faces, but terrible at remembering the day to day things which I am meant to accomplish. This list will hopefully prevent me from leaving the country in a month's time and saying something like, 'Oh but we can't go yet, I haven't done a bungy jump!'.*
Today I have managed to cross off my first agenda item. Franz Josef, a secluded and sleepy little forest town on the West coast, is glacier country, surrounded by mountains and caves of blue and white ice. Earlier this morning, I spent 4 hours hiking across one of them. Clambering in to waterproof gear, a pair of sturdy hiking boots and a little woolly hat that I was very fond of, a group of us followed our ridiculously attractive guide up and over a steep, rocky mountain to reach the icy plains we would be trekking across.
I'm not sure why Stuart, our guide, was so appealing to me. Maybe it's because he was wearing a t-shirt and shorts in freezing temperatures, maybe because whenever we reached a part of the climb that was too dangerous he started hammering away at the frozen ground with his ice pick like some caveman barbarian. Maybe because climbing mountains every day of his life has given him thighs the size of building blocks, maybe because he told me that before he did this job he used to work for Mountain Rescue, maybe because he laughed when I made a joke about Woolly Mammoths (not worth repeating). Needless to say, I moved up that incline of ice with the speed of a mountain goat and a grin like a Cheshire Cat. It's amazing what a man like Stuart can do for a girl's ability to enjoy feats of physical endurance, swooooon.
Thankfully I did remember to occasionally take my lecherous gaze away from Stuart's boulder-like bum bouncing along in front of me to look at the scenery. That would have been embarrassing wouldn't it.
'Whats does a glacier look like Grace?'
'Errrrm. Well it has blue eyes and brown hair, a boyish smile, a little bit of stubble and very broad shoulders.'
Focus Grace, focus. I remarked to Ella as we were walking along that I felt like I had stepped in to Narnia and was wandering around the grounds of the White Witch's palace. A place where everything is coloured blue and white, the sky above, the ground below, and the cliff faces enclosing you. Everything is made of ice, and the landscape rolls away in front of you so that it seems like the whole world has been frozen. We crawled through crevices, slid down mushy slopes, dug our spikes in to the side of treacherous, narrow ledges to prevent ourselves from losing grip and falling a few hundred feet to our death, and pulled each other over melting pools of deep turquoise water. The water did come in handy though; during a brief lunch stop in which I found every excuse I could to ask inane questions of Stuart, we filled our empty bottles up in the freezing ponds. It tasted so fresh and pure that I am now convinced glacier water is actually The Elixir of Life, and that logically, probably, I am now immortal.
Immortal or not, it's been an incredible day. I am cold and tired, but buoyed by the views I have tramped through, a proud sense of achievement, and the relief that even if you have to go half way up a glacier to find them - men like Stuart do exist.
*I'm no wimp, but bungy jumping is markedly absent from The List. What a ridiculous invention.
When we arrived in New Zealand on Monday morning I used some of the time spent in bed that day to be productive; I made a list. There's very few things more satisfying than a list are there. Or more specifically, there are very few things more satisfying than ticking items off of a list. I don't get much excuse to make lists these days, given that I have nothing to do (don't panic, I'm aware of how excellent a situation this is). Lists I make these days tend to look something like this:
- E-mail Hannah
- Put photos on USB
- Wash clothes
- Buy shampoo
- Ring Emma
- Find camera charger
- Get Ella to sew up hole in leggings
Or this:
- Instant Noodles
- Avocado
- Vegemite
- Tomatoes
- Eggs
- Spaghetti Hoops
- Box of Wine
The list I made on Monday however, was drastically more exciting than either of these mundane examples. New Zealand is a country of outdoor activity and of organised fun, and so I have made a list of all the things that I hope to do whilst here. I am a very forgetful human being, good with names and faces, but terrible at remembering the day to day things which I am meant to accomplish. This list will hopefully prevent me from leaving the country in a month's time and saying something like, 'Oh but we can't go yet, I haven't done a bungy jump!'.*
Today I have managed to cross off my first agenda item. Franz Josef, a secluded and sleepy little forest town on the West coast, is glacier country, surrounded by mountains and caves of blue and white ice. Earlier this morning, I spent 4 hours hiking across one of them. Clambering in to waterproof gear, a pair of sturdy hiking boots and a little woolly hat that I was very fond of, a group of us followed our ridiculously attractive guide up and over a steep, rocky mountain to reach the icy plains we would be trekking across.
I'm not sure why Stuart, our guide, was so appealing to me. Maybe it's because he was wearing a t-shirt and shorts in freezing temperatures, maybe because whenever we reached a part of the climb that was too dangerous he started hammering away at the frozen ground with his ice pick like some caveman barbarian. Maybe because climbing mountains every day of his life has given him thighs the size of building blocks, maybe because he told me that before he did this job he used to work for Mountain Rescue, maybe because he laughed when I made a joke about Woolly Mammoths (not worth repeating). Needless to say, I moved up that incline of ice with the speed of a mountain goat and a grin like a Cheshire Cat. It's amazing what a man like Stuart can do for a girl's ability to enjoy feats of physical endurance, swooooon.
Thankfully I did remember to occasionally take my lecherous gaze away from Stuart's boulder-like bum bouncing along in front of me to look at the scenery. That would have been embarrassing wouldn't it.
'Whats does a glacier look like Grace?'
'Errrrm. Well it has blue eyes and brown hair, a boyish smile, a little bit of stubble and very broad shoulders.'
Focus Grace, focus. I remarked to Ella as we were walking along that I felt like I had stepped in to Narnia and was wandering around the grounds of the White Witch's palace. A place where everything is coloured blue and white, the sky above, the ground below, and the cliff faces enclosing you. Everything is made of ice, and the landscape rolls away in front of you so that it seems like the whole world has been frozen. We crawled through crevices, slid down mushy slopes, dug our spikes in to the side of treacherous, narrow ledges to prevent ourselves from losing grip and falling a few hundred feet to our death, and pulled each other over melting pools of deep turquoise water. The water did come in handy though; during a brief lunch stop in which I found every excuse I could to ask inane questions of Stuart, we filled our empty bottles up in the freezing ponds. It tasted so fresh and pure that I am now convinced glacier water is actually The Elixir of Life, and that logically, probably, I am now immortal.
Immortal or not, it's been an incredible day. I am cold and tired, but buoyed by the views I have tramped through, a proud sense of achievement, and the relief that even if you have to go half way up a glacier to find them - men like Stuart do exist.
*I'm no wimp, but bungy jumping is markedly absent from The List. What a ridiculous invention.
Land Of The Long White Cloud
Friday 19th March 2010, 2.45pm, Rainforest Retreat - Franz Josef.
'Everything here is more magnificent. It's wild in a way that England isn't. If you are looking for what the poets used to call 'the awful' - a sense of awe - that is what you find in New Zealand.'
- Sir Ian McKellan
Alright, I'll give you what you want, I'm ready to talk about the scenery. Everywhere I look there is a mountain. Not just one, but a towering family of them forming the backbone of the Southern Island. In front of me, behind me, in my peripheral vision, right next door to the lodge or miles away in the distance, these giant, omnipotent forefathers of New Zealand crowd around me filling the sky with ground. Since Wednesday morning I have been gazing all around me wide eyed and open mouthed at the incredible topography and unmatched natural beauty of this country.
Not just mountains either, but vast still lakes the colour of Blue Lagoon cocktails, black sand dunes, rolling golden and rusty hills, active volcanoes, evergreen forests, tumbling icy waterfalls, plains of red grape vineyards and yellow rose bushes, snow-capped peaks, coved beaches with steep cliff faces and gargantuan grey waves, seal colonies sleeping on black stone boulders, limestone caves, sperm whales dipping above and below the tumbling sea, albatross gliding over a lighthouse on a craggy rock bay, and the long white cloud 'Aotearoa', laying atop this fiercely captivating country, the ceiling to this unspoilt Garden of Eden.
One of my friends who did the Kiwi Experience herself a couple of years ago advised me to buy a travel pillow for the long journeys, before promptly telling me to scrap that idea because I wouldn't want to sleep anyway - 'the scenery is too beautiful to sleep through.' Laura was right, as she so often is. Being on the bus and looking out the window feels like an activity in itself. I don't even know how to begin to describe it to you, but watching Lord of the Rings might help. Nothing looks real. It is so epic, so ferocious, so primitively dramatic that I constantly feel as though I'm standing in front of a huge painting, rather than a landscape that could ever actually exist. This is creation on a new scale, New Zealand is the soil of God's imagination.
This soil is in a constant state of flux, organically shifting itself to new proportions. The whole country lies across 2 massive fault lines, in the South the tectonics push together buckling the land upwards causing the mountain ranges. If it weren't for the erosion from extreme weather conditions, scientists have predicted that the Southern Alps would be 20 kilometres higher. To give you some perspective on this, Mount Everest stands at 8.8 kilometres above sea level. In the North, the Pacific Plate slides under the Australasian Plate, the friction of which causes volcanic eruptions and hundreds of earthquakes every year. There are upwards of 3000 glaciers, they have snow storms which wipe out power and block roads for upwards of 2 weeks, rainfall in some Southern areas reaches 10 metres a year - in England we get an average of 14 inches, about 36 centimetres. Flooding takes out homes, covers highways, causes avalanches. The East Coast is vulnerable to tsunamis, weather conditions inland range from -15 to 35 degrees centigrade, on the South Island's West coast there are only 30,000 inhabitants on 600km of road. In the whole country there are 4 million people... and 34 million sheep.
Let me say that again for you. In London alone there are 8 million people. In the whole of New Zealand there are 4 million people and 34 MILLION SHEEP. Sheep outnumber humans by nearly 9 to 1. If they weren't so friggin' stupid they'd be running the place by now, monkeys would have clearly already staged a takeover bid. I guess what I'm trying to communicate to you is what a harsh, tough natural environment this country is to live in. It's a land where altitude and the elements rule, where human beings put up, shut up or ship out, and where lamb roast dinners are in plentiful supply. You'd have to be pretty hardy to live in the countryside here, as most Kiwis I've met have been, but oh it would be worth roughening up a bit for views like this every day. It's as though the land has gracefully allowed them to stay, permitting a few residents here and there to make homes for themselves on the sparse patches of workable ground it has set aside for human intrusion; the people do not make the country, the country makes the people.
I'm sat outside our lodge on a wooden bench, surrounded by rainforest. Directly in front of me is a mossy mountain range scattered with glaciers and there's a ring of fog sitting on the warm air, clinging to the slopes. If everywhere on Planet Earth looked like this, we never would have treated it so badly.
'Everything here is more magnificent. It's wild in a way that England isn't. If you are looking for what the poets used to call 'the awful' - a sense of awe - that is what you find in New Zealand.'
- Sir Ian McKellan
Alright, I'll give you what you want, I'm ready to talk about the scenery. Everywhere I look there is a mountain. Not just one, but a towering family of them forming the backbone of the Southern Island. In front of me, behind me, in my peripheral vision, right next door to the lodge or miles away in the distance, these giant, omnipotent forefathers of New Zealand crowd around me filling the sky with ground. Since Wednesday morning I have been gazing all around me wide eyed and open mouthed at the incredible topography and unmatched natural beauty of this country.
Not just mountains either, but vast still lakes the colour of Blue Lagoon cocktails, black sand dunes, rolling golden and rusty hills, active volcanoes, evergreen forests, tumbling icy waterfalls, plains of red grape vineyards and yellow rose bushes, snow-capped peaks, coved beaches with steep cliff faces and gargantuan grey waves, seal colonies sleeping on black stone boulders, limestone caves, sperm whales dipping above and below the tumbling sea, albatross gliding over a lighthouse on a craggy rock bay, and the long white cloud 'Aotearoa', laying atop this fiercely captivating country, the ceiling to this unspoilt Garden of Eden.
One of my friends who did the Kiwi Experience herself a couple of years ago advised me to buy a travel pillow for the long journeys, before promptly telling me to scrap that idea because I wouldn't want to sleep anyway - 'the scenery is too beautiful to sleep through.' Laura was right, as she so often is. Being on the bus and looking out the window feels like an activity in itself. I don't even know how to begin to describe it to you, but watching Lord of the Rings might help. Nothing looks real. It is so epic, so ferocious, so primitively dramatic that I constantly feel as though I'm standing in front of a huge painting, rather than a landscape that could ever actually exist. This is creation on a new scale, New Zealand is the soil of God's imagination.
This soil is in a constant state of flux, organically shifting itself to new proportions. The whole country lies across 2 massive fault lines, in the South the tectonics push together buckling the land upwards causing the mountain ranges. If it weren't for the erosion from extreme weather conditions, scientists have predicted that the Southern Alps would be 20 kilometres higher. To give you some perspective on this, Mount Everest stands at 8.8 kilometres above sea level. In the North, the Pacific Plate slides under the Australasian Plate, the friction of which causes volcanic eruptions and hundreds of earthquakes every year. There are upwards of 3000 glaciers, they have snow storms which wipe out power and block roads for upwards of 2 weeks, rainfall in some Southern areas reaches 10 metres a year - in England we get an average of 14 inches, about 36 centimetres. Flooding takes out homes, covers highways, causes avalanches. The East Coast is vulnerable to tsunamis, weather conditions inland range from -15 to 35 degrees centigrade, on the South Island's West coast there are only 30,000 inhabitants on 600km of road. In the whole country there are 4 million people... and 34 million sheep.
Let me say that again for you. In London alone there are 8 million people. In the whole of New Zealand there are 4 million people and 34 MILLION SHEEP. Sheep outnumber humans by nearly 9 to 1. If they weren't so friggin' stupid they'd be running the place by now, monkeys would have clearly already staged a takeover bid. I guess what I'm trying to communicate to you is what a harsh, tough natural environment this country is to live in. It's a land where altitude and the elements rule, where human beings put up, shut up or ship out, and where lamb roast dinners are in plentiful supply. You'd have to be pretty hardy to live in the countryside here, as most Kiwis I've met have been, but oh it would be worth roughening up a bit for views like this every day. It's as though the land has gracefully allowed them to stay, permitting a few residents here and there to make homes for themselves on the sparse patches of workable ground it has set aside for human intrusion; the people do not make the country, the country makes the people.
I'm sat outside our lodge on a wooden bench, surrounded by rainforest. Directly in front of me is a mossy mountain range scattered with glaciers and there's a ring of fog sitting on the warm air, clinging to the slopes. If everywhere on Planet Earth looked like this, we never would have treated it so badly.
A Product Of My Decade
Thursday 18th March 2010, 7pm, 'Poo Pub' Hostel - Lake Mahinapua.
Tonight we have arrived at an infamous stop on the Kiwi Experience route, the 'Poo Pub', so called because of the area where it resides, MahinaPUA. I was about to write 'town where it resides...' but then decided that one pub and 2 houses does not constitute a town, or even a map-worthy place really. The Poo Pub is run by a gnarly, bearded old 80 something year old called Len in a possum skin gilet and a fondness for shouting too loudly, 'don't have sex in the laundry shed kids, last pair who did that got filmed on CCTV and I put it on youtube'. He may not know much about personal grooming, but technology sure ain't evaded him. His only staff member, a barmaid called Lynn, is heavily tattooed, faintly moustached, missing a couple of teeth and has bigger biceps and a deeper voice than Frank Bruno - they make them tough out here in the middle of nowhere. The West Coast is a rough landscape full of rough people.
I had a mini tantrum today. Not a full blown strop, just a momentary need to throw my toys out the pram. This is because part of the Poo Pub extravaganza is an evening of fancy dress. Call me a killjoy if you want, but I'm not a huge fan of costume parties. I like clothes, I especially like my own clothes, and I do not like having to spend money on things I won't wear again. There have been a few exceptions to this in the past, because I do really love dressing up as celebrities: Victoria Beckham, Lady Gaga, Marilyn Monroe, Lily Allen... and I make a particularly impressive Lindsay Lohan. The theme of our party tonight is quite frustratingly vague, 'I Can't Believe You're Wearing That'. The pinnacle of my annoyance and toy throwing happened earlier today when I stood in a charity shop in the town of Greymouth, threw a tattered old clown waistcoat on the floor, stamped my feet and declared, 'I've been to Uni and spent 3 years of my life in costume, I'm over this! Raaaaaarrrrrrr.'
But I've calmed down and dressed up, sat on my bunk bed waiting for the festivities to begin. What am I wearing? I decided to put on whatever the hell I wanted, all items from my own backpack but things that I wouldn't usually get away with wearing together. A blindingly bright green and pink sports bra, a baggy crop top with roses all over it, a denim and tie dye hooded jacket reminiscent of PJ and Duncan in Byker Grove, bright blue Rayban Clubmaster sunglasses, the biggest and tackiest medallion necklace ever created, black leggings covered in a gold and lilac floral design, and of course, my 80's Dream Shoes - the neon fantastic Nike hitops. Just to top it off my curly hair is high on my head in a side ponytail, I have blue glitter on my eyelids, and I've caked on some shocking pink lipstick. I look like I'm going to a Cyndi Lauper gig, 20 years ago. Tantrum over, I'm happy as a pig in shit. I must be a true child of the 80's, because only clothes this ridiculous can make me this content.
Tonight we have arrived at an infamous stop on the Kiwi Experience route, the 'Poo Pub', so called because of the area where it resides, MahinaPUA. I was about to write 'town where it resides...' but then decided that one pub and 2 houses does not constitute a town, or even a map-worthy place really. The Poo Pub is run by a gnarly, bearded old 80 something year old called Len in a possum skin gilet and a fondness for shouting too loudly, 'don't have sex in the laundry shed kids, last pair who did that got filmed on CCTV and I put it on youtube'. He may not know much about personal grooming, but technology sure ain't evaded him. His only staff member, a barmaid called Lynn, is heavily tattooed, faintly moustached, missing a couple of teeth and has bigger biceps and a deeper voice than Frank Bruno - they make them tough out here in the middle of nowhere. The West Coast is a rough landscape full of rough people.
I had a mini tantrum today. Not a full blown strop, just a momentary need to throw my toys out the pram. This is because part of the Poo Pub extravaganza is an evening of fancy dress. Call me a killjoy if you want, but I'm not a huge fan of costume parties. I like clothes, I especially like my own clothes, and I do not like having to spend money on things I won't wear again. There have been a few exceptions to this in the past, because I do really love dressing up as celebrities: Victoria Beckham, Lady Gaga, Marilyn Monroe, Lily Allen... and I make a particularly impressive Lindsay Lohan. The theme of our party tonight is quite frustratingly vague, 'I Can't Believe You're Wearing That'. The pinnacle of my annoyance and toy throwing happened earlier today when I stood in a charity shop in the town of Greymouth, threw a tattered old clown waistcoat on the floor, stamped my feet and declared, 'I've been to Uni and spent 3 years of my life in costume, I'm over this! Raaaaaarrrrrrr.'
But I've calmed down and dressed up, sat on my bunk bed waiting for the festivities to begin. What am I wearing? I decided to put on whatever the hell I wanted, all items from my own backpack but things that I wouldn't usually get away with wearing together. A blindingly bright green and pink sports bra, a baggy crop top with roses all over it, a denim and tie dye hooded jacket reminiscent of PJ and Duncan in Byker Grove, bright blue Rayban Clubmaster sunglasses, the biggest and tackiest medallion necklace ever created, black leggings covered in a gold and lilac floral design, and of course, my 80's Dream Shoes - the neon fantastic Nike hitops. Just to top it off my curly hair is high on my head in a side ponytail, I have blue glitter on my eyelids, and I've caked on some shocking pink lipstick. I look like I'm going to a Cyndi Lauper gig, 20 years ago. Tantrum over, I'm happy as a pig in shit. I must be a true child of the 80's, because only clothes this ridiculous can make me this content.
The Kiwi Experience
Wednesday 17th March 2010, 11.50pm, Bazil's Backpackers - Westport.
Travelling overland in the back of a coach has formed a large part of my backpacking experience, it's the cheapest way to get around and once you've taken your seat you can let someone else worry about getting you to your destination. In Asia this had it's own difficulties. Will my bag get stolen from the hold, will the driver overcharge me, will the air conditioning work, how many times will we stop to pick up locals who fall asleep in the aisles on the floor, are the tracks we travel on going to be so dangerous and bumpy that I am frequently thrown out of my seat, will I be dumped by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere without explanation etc. etc.
Well, it's quite different here. Before coming away, Ella and I booked what is called the Kiwi Experience package. A travel company aimed at 18 to 30 year olds who transport you from one New Zealand highlight to another with the driver acting as your informant and tour guide. Today marked the beginning of our Kiwi Experience when we were collected from our hostel by a mini van and taken to meet the bus and our fellow travellers at a roadside stop somewhere between Christchurch and Westport, on the North-West coast.
There's no mistaking it; it's a 55 seater big green beast that I imagine Kiwis all over the country dread pulling in to their town, carrying with it tens of cheapskate, rowdy backpackers looking for the nearest pint. Our bus companions who we will be spending the majority of the next few weeks with, are young, very young. There's a few other decrepit twenty-somethings but there are also a large percentage of private schooled, hair flicking, rugby shirt wearing 18 year olds on a gap year with Daddy's gold card. Bless their privileged cashmere socks. They seem pleasant enough though, so I'm resolving to throw off any reservations, proletariat class system biases and the feeling that I've returned to work - although my 18 year olds would eat these ones for breakfast, nick their wallets and then probably set fire to something.
Apart from the disappointing revelation that I am in fact an old lady, I'm feeling so much more excited about being in New Zealand. It strikes me as a place where anything can happen if you let it. Quite unexpectedly I went Jet Boating today, 20 passengers sit in a huge speed boat which race along the Buller River, the driver pulling sharply to one side at very high speeds or narrowly missing the rock face by centimetres in water no more than a foot deep - it was like a ride at Alton Towers, but with better views. Then this evening, in the secluded, backward little town of Westport, the 50 or so of us descended on the only pub in town (instantly doubling the number of drinkers and quadrupling the profits) to celebrate St. Patrick's Day by dancing Celtic jigs to the twangs and strains of the town's Irish band.
The Kiwi Experience is so practised, so meticulously organised, that all I have to do is sign my name on the few clipboards that are passed my way and I will find myself with accommodation booked, dinner cooked, sporting activities planned, directions to night life pointed out, and history, geology and culture tidbits fed to me through the tour guide's microphone. This is travelling at it's easiest - having other people rigidly and competently arrange my fun. Tomorrow I am told I will be going on 3 walks around various locations along the West Coast, I will look at Pancake Rocks and Limestone Blowholes (?) and cliff-lined bays and I will be happy that someone else has made this happen for me.
All the more time for me to worry about nothing and stare vacantly out the coach window at the South Island landscape, which, you'll have to forgive me, we'll come to in a later blog. I haven't the words for it now - too much Guinness. Let me just say this though, yesterday I wanted to get back on a plane to Thailand. Today, because of the scenery and the scenery alone, no beach or sunny day in the world could tear me away from the next month I have here... prepare yourselves for some over egging of the superlatives guys, I ain't seen nothing like it yet.
Travelling overland in the back of a coach has formed a large part of my backpacking experience, it's the cheapest way to get around and once you've taken your seat you can let someone else worry about getting you to your destination. In Asia this had it's own difficulties. Will my bag get stolen from the hold, will the driver overcharge me, will the air conditioning work, how many times will we stop to pick up locals who fall asleep in the aisles on the floor, are the tracks we travel on going to be so dangerous and bumpy that I am frequently thrown out of my seat, will I be dumped by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere without explanation etc. etc.
Well, it's quite different here. Before coming away, Ella and I booked what is called the Kiwi Experience package. A travel company aimed at 18 to 30 year olds who transport you from one New Zealand highlight to another with the driver acting as your informant and tour guide. Today marked the beginning of our Kiwi Experience when we were collected from our hostel by a mini van and taken to meet the bus and our fellow travellers at a roadside stop somewhere between Christchurch and Westport, on the North-West coast.
There's no mistaking it; it's a 55 seater big green beast that I imagine Kiwis all over the country dread pulling in to their town, carrying with it tens of cheapskate, rowdy backpackers looking for the nearest pint. Our bus companions who we will be spending the majority of the next few weeks with, are young, very young. There's a few other decrepit twenty-somethings but there are also a large percentage of private schooled, hair flicking, rugby shirt wearing 18 year olds on a gap year with Daddy's gold card. Bless their privileged cashmere socks. They seem pleasant enough though, so I'm resolving to throw off any reservations, proletariat class system biases and the feeling that I've returned to work - although my 18 year olds would eat these ones for breakfast, nick their wallets and then probably set fire to something.
Apart from the disappointing revelation that I am in fact an old lady, I'm feeling so much more excited about being in New Zealand. It strikes me as a place where anything can happen if you let it. Quite unexpectedly I went Jet Boating today, 20 passengers sit in a huge speed boat which race along the Buller River, the driver pulling sharply to one side at very high speeds or narrowly missing the rock face by centimetres in water no more than a foot deep - it was like a ride at Alton Towers, but with better views. Then this evening, in the secluded, backward little town of Westport, the 50 or so of us descended on the only pub in town (instantly doubling the number of drinkers and quadrupling the profits) to celebrate St. Patrick's Day by dancing Celtic jigs to the twangs and strains of the town's Irish band.
The Kiwi Experience is so practised, so meticulously organised, that all I have to do is sign my name on the few clipboards that are passed my way and I will find myself with accommodation booked, dinner cooked, sporting activities planned, directions to night life pointed out, and history, geology and culture tidbits fed to me through the tour guide's microphone. This is travelling at it's easiest - having other people rigidly and competently arrange my fun. Tomorrow I am told I will be going on 3 walks around various locations along the West Coast, I will look at Pancake Rocks and Limestone Blowholes (?) and cliff-lined bays and I will be happy that someone else has made this happen for me.
All the more time for me to worry about nothing and stare vacantly out the coach window at the South Island landscape, which, you'll have to forgive me, we'll come to in a later blog. I haven't the words for it now - too much Guinness. Let me just say this though, yesterday I wanted to get back on a plane to Thailand. Today, because of the scenery and the scenery alone, no beach or sunny day in the world could tear me away from the next month I have here... prepare yourselves for some over egging of the superlatives guys, I ain't seen nothing like it yet.
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