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.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
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.
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