As if travelling in one swoop from the magnificent chaos of South
America to the orderly dinkiness of New Zealand wasn't disorienting
enough, they somehow steal a whole day from you in the process - we left
on the 22nd March and arrived 13 hours later to find it was the 24th.
Still, there were consolations, however small - keyboard's with
apostrophe's, for one, and to our delight, toilets down which you could
flush paper without threatening the plumbing arrangements of the entire
republic. After four months of sitting next to repulsive, overflowing bins, this was no small joy, I can tell you.
Mischka found an added consolation in the form of her boyfriend Jason,
who'd flown out to join us for a couple of weeks, and whisked us off
with admirable efficiency from Auckland airport to the pretty beachside
house he'd booked for a couple of days.
NORTH ISLAND
Auckland was shiny but soulless, and dominated by the huge ‘Skytower’ –
which also sums it up; the obligatory visit here involves entering and
leaving through its labyrinthine gift shop, after which higher-priced
options for going that little bit farther up the tower are continually
shoved in your face. The views of the harbour were spectacular, although
the surrounding sprawl of car parks and suburbia was less impressive.
We did spot Jonny Wilkinson and Rob Andrew there, though.
We drove down through a pretty, almost chocolate-boxy, green countryside
of lumpy little hills and isolated farms to the Waitomo Caves, where
we were going black-water rafting. Discovering the next morning that it
was booked until the afternoon, we decided to go quad-biking, and were
accordingly picked up shortly after by kindly, rat-faced Bill, an
ancient old man in an ancient old van, who made me think of Old Scrotum,
the Wrinkled Retainer (a reference to an ancient comedy, rather
appropriately).
The quad-biking was absolutely brilliant, revving the little brutes all
over the small knobbly hills, and chasing sheep at top speed. They're
amazingly manoeuvrable and will shoot up (and down) almost vertical
slopes - it's great! I even managed to take off briefly, going over a
ramp, although was told off for that. Trust Mischka, however, to notice
not just Bill's several missing fingers, but a developing partiality for
me, which I only became aware of when I pulled up behind him and he
commented that if he were 20 again he'd be chasing me all over the
hills! As he was pushing 75, this gratified no-one but my evil
travelling companion, who found it hilarious - almost as funny as when,
shortly afterwards, I nipped behind a bush for the usual reason and fell
into a bog, emerging wet and muddy to uproarious laughter from Mischka,
Jason and Bill. Mischka did ride into a tractor and get stuck right at
the end though, which was some consolation.
Black-water rafting involved putting on the foulest gear I've ever worn,
including damp, smelly wetsuits, old soggy shorts and balaclavas, and
cracked white plastic boots. It started with a 35-metre abseil down into
a cave, which was one of those things that's absolutely terrifying
until
you're doing it, when it's fine. Then you get to do a 'flying fox' ride
in pitch blackness; also a little scary, but fine. Then you get to jump
off a twelve-foot cliff, clutching a rubber doughnut, into cold black
water, which is not fine at all. It's bloody freezing, and I mean
bone-chillingly, miserably cold. We paddled gamely along to go and see
the glow-worms up above us in the dark; they looked pretty, although
less so when we learned that they're actually just maggots with luminous
poo. We linked our rubber doughnuts together and sailed off down the
Styx-like, silent black river until the peace was shattered by the
guides telling us to leave our doughnuts and swim for about twenty feet,
at which point icy water cascaded into our wetsuits and I began to hate
the world. Climbing an underground waterfall was great, but the best
bit was when we stumbled out into the beautiful world again - it was one
of those experiences that you're glad to have done once, but never
again…
After all this excitement, a visit to Waitomo's only pub was inevitable,
and we headed out with an Asian-Canadian girl, Roxanne, who was sharing
my room. It being Saturday night, we were greeted
by a DJ playing the Grease megamix and a load of drunken, mulleted
locals. I played pool with the drunkest of these, a charmless redneck
who spent the time between shots mooning, taking off his top, and so on,
but more of him later.
Mischka still hadn't stopped laughing about Bill, so when an aged Maori
bloke with a serious limp started talking rather a lot to me I didn't
even dare look at her. Later on, a guy we'd laughed at because he looked
like ZZ Top's granddad also started chatting to me at the bar,
completing the day's hat-trick of OAPs... I still haven't heard the end
of it.
Mischka & Jason having already left, Roxanne and decided to call it
a night about midnight; as we left, however, the redneck from earlier
kicked her from behind for no apparent reason. She went absolutely
mental, shouting that his mother was a prostitute, etc etc, in her
well-spoken but very strong Indian accent. He and his mate just laughed,
so she went inside, grabbed a glass of beer, and threw it in his face;
he merely laughed harder, so she hurled the glass at his head! Luckily,
it didn't break, but I found myself in the bizarre position of uttering
the immortal words 'Leave it!! 'E ain't worf it!!!' to an almost total
stranger. I eventually managed to drag her away, still shouting
elaborate insults about his mum that sailed straight over his head, only
to find out the next day that she'd gone to the police about it!
We headed swiftly off to Rotorua the next day, where we toured various
geysers and stinking, sulphurous mud-pools. I have no idea how anyone
can live in a town that smells as if its inhabitants live on baked beans
and strong curry.
On the way out of Rotorua, we went Zorbing. Have you ever rolled down a
hill in a large inflatable ball with only a bucket of warm water for
company? Well, I can recommend it - it was completely ridiculous,
sloshing about inside a giant beach ball, and I found myself laughing
all the way down.
Having driven down to Wellington, the first thing we did was buy
tickets to see the Return of the King for the third time - sad, I know,
but this was in the cinema where it had premiered! There were little
plaques in the seats showing where all the actors had sat (although those of
Aragorn and Legolas were missing) - it was so exciting! We spent a
couple of days in Wellington because it's gorgeous - one of those places
with a lovely, relaxed vibe, loads to do and loads of nice bars and
restaurants.
SOUTH ISLAND
Mischka and Jason had flown across, and were planning to go round the
island fairly quickly, as Jason had limited time; I had quite fancied
the idea of doing a bit of solo travel for this period anyway, so when I
got chatting on the ferry to James, a guy from Manchester I'd met a few
times in Wellington, I ended up making an impulse decision to strike
out alone! Well, not quite alone, as James and I were going to hike the
Abel Tasman National Park for four days together, but after that it
would be just me and my rucksack: daunting, but also quite exciting.
James looked a bit like David Beckham but sounded a bit like Ashley
Peacock, so I knew I’d be safe with/from him. We hitched up to the Abel
Tasman, stocked up with six litres of red wine from the supermarket (his
idea - really!), and spent the next four days walking round some
stunning coastline, lighting illegal campfires because it was bloody
freezing at night, and getting progressively smellier, as there weren’t
any showers. It was great. And I learned how chopping wood with an axe
can be a social activity!
Hitch-hiking with James (for only the second time on my life) had
reminded me how much fun it is, so when we said goodbye I decided to go
round the island that way. It’s not as mad as it sounds – NZ is about
the safest place there is, and loads of solo women do it here. And
ironically, given its bad press, it really does restore your faith in
human nature. The absolute max I waited was about 15 mins, and it was
usually about five. People would go out of their way to drop me where
I’d get another lift, or take me round several hostels if the first was
full, or offer me places to stay if it looked as if there wasn’t a bed
free anywhere. And they’re so interesting! Some of them were just lovely
people, but it’s also restored my faith in stereotypes… among others, I
met a fast-talking salesman who was so dodgy he’d had a radio installed
so he could monitor police movements and speed at will, a god-bothering creationist who saw no irony in spending his weekends slaughtering
wildlife, and a computer technician who was quite stupendously,
world-beatingly dull.
The rest of the island was all pretty scenery and bizarre activities;
white-water rafting, jet-boating, walking on glaciers, and swimming with
dolphins. Of these, only the last really lived up to my expectations –
along with about twenty other people, you’re given a wetsuit and
snorkel, taken out to sea, and dumped in the freezing water near a group
of dusky dolphins. You splash about for a bit, feeling stupid as you
make noises and hope they’ll come near you… and then one does, and it’s
utterly amazing. They appear from out of nowhere and start circling you,
and they’re so swift and graceful you immediately choke on your snorkel
with excitement and surface, gasping for breath. The next time, I was
more prepared, and circled with them, but they go so much faster than
you they quickly get bored and dart away, leaving you feeling bereft,
until another one comes along and, if you’re lucky, two or three at a
time. They swim right across your front, so close you can almost touch
the graceful curve of their backs and their smiling, stumpy noses, and
you forget the cold and everything else as you gaze after them.
After they call you out of the water, the boat follows the school for a
while, and the dolphins leap out of the water and turn somersaults,
sometimes two at a time, and just play with the boat – it leaves you
with a huge, silly smile on your face for ages afterwards.
And I'll end my tales of New Zealand on that note. It’s cute, it’s
purty, it ain’t South America, but it’s got a charm all its own. Tune in
soon for another rambling epic about the Land Down Under… I promise
it’ll be shorter this time :o)
