joeyseestheworld @joeyseestheworld - Tumblr Blog

Review: Dolphins, Bears and Sean Penn Being Smacked in the Face

First deviation from this blog's initial purpose as a travel diary, however I'm not below shameless plugging. Here's a short review of the recently read 'Eeeee Eee Eeee by Tao Lin

Read the review here on the short and weird writings of Lin: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/414370851

#Books #reviews #Tao Lin #Eeeee Eee Eeee #Goodreads

The Gappies- An Awards Ceremony of a Special Kind

I must confess to stealing this idea from our friends Tom, Becky and Michael who presented their ‘favourites’ in a very similar format. We have both had the most wonderful experience of our short lives and we thought this would be a great way to reflect on the very best bits of the trip. It also allows you to live the highlights without trawling unnecessarily through post after post of my rambling. Whether you’ve been a regular reader, an occasional observationist, or have accidentally found yourself on this page in a search for something else, I thank you all for your time and energy. I hope you have found something in it that made you smile, laugh, cry, gasp, cheer, moan or groan. If nothing else, I hope it killed a half an hour.

We had the time of our lives, and I immensely enjoyed bringing our experiences to your computer screens. Here, are the Gappies:

#End of Trip Awards #The Gappies

The Difficulties of Leaving the World in One City

Apologies for the late post; there's been a little adjustment over the last few days. The post below was written whilst sitting in JFK Airport's departure lounge, Thursday 16th August at around 19.00. Last in the series!!

Airports aren’t inherently exciting places. They aren’t particularly colourful; not really entertaining (quite the opposite) and the staff inhabiting them actually look as though they live there, unhappily welcoming you into their home with a grunt and the snap of a nylon glove. Also, there are no ball-ponds. If there were, you’d see far more smiling faces. Anyway, forgetting the primary reason for going to an airport they’re pretty drab. But the times I’ve actually remembered why I put myself through the rigorous security procedures and hours and hours of waiting, I’ve been as giddy as the puppy whose realised he can tire himself out by running circuits around the sofa (true story, thanks Bess).

The reason being, that boarding a plane and jetting off to a new city is exciting and this has been the reward for everything else one has to put up with in airports. But the latest airport instalment I fear will not have that same impending excitement, not least because it will be our final flight of our six month trip. Actually no, it won’t be our final flight. It will be our second to last flight, and maybe that is why I feel so indifferent.

It’s only Iceland that comes between New York and Manchester and whilst I’m very excited to come home, the prospect of transferring in Reykjavik has not filled me with the same glee as past sojourns to Bangkok, Hong Kong, Sydney, Auckland and New York. Speaking of the Empire State, there was plenty of anticipation coursing through my veins as we waited to board in Los Angeles ten days ago; enough for a transfusion in fact. We had enjoyed our stint in California and among the neon lights of the Nevada desert, but New York was the state I was looking forward to the most: the grade-A student among a mixed bunch; the favourite child.

From the moment we landed at New York’s JFK airport, I felt at ease. Excited, yes but more than anything, I just felt comfortable. Things just felt easy. Whether that’s more the result of being in an English speaking country allowing for easily navigable airport/metro/subway directions, or the culmination of various airports over the past six months, I’m not certain. With the direction of an extremely helpful cousin, we arrived in Brooklyn, tired but content.

After a bit of breakfast courtesy of our host and one (okay two) cups of revitalising tea, we did what any traveller is keen to do with their surroundings despite the six hour overnight flight: familiarise. We walked about the neighbourhood finding convenience at every turn: subways, restaurants, bars, restaurants that look like bars, card shops, butchers, pharmacies, pharmacies posing as mini-supermarkets and not far from our ‘door-step’ the man-filled island of Manhattan.

Above: Lower Manhattan's Financial district, as seen from Brooklyn

We got our first glimpse of Manhattan after taking a stroll to what used to be Brooklyn’s bustling docks but what is now largely a paved promenade and leisure space, complete with fountains/springs for Brooklyn’s pixies to prance about in and several beach volleyball courts, which were surprisingly still being used even after NBC’s Olympics coverage finished. From talks with the locals, it would seem Brooklyn has undergone some refurbishments in the past few years and this project is just one demonstration that this NYC borough is changing people’s perspective about itself.

I think I was hoping to be able to see the entire city at a single glance, but I’m glad that my naivety was dashed by the very large reality of one of the world’s biggest cities. The only skyscrapers in view were those of downtown (and when they say downtown it really is a different town), where the twin towers of the World Trade Centre should still be stood. But the part of town which includes Wall Street still engages the eye; not quite breath-taking, but mightily impressive. If you alter your glance north-east along the waterfront, you see the Brooklyn Bridge; all brown and ageing, basking in its own iconic-ness. Just one of hundreds of magnificent NY landmarks, we centred our first full day in NYC on this bridge, enjoying an ice-cream by the pier before beginning the walk across it.

Above: Brooklyn Bridge and part of the Manhattan skyline from the pier

We found out from a different but equally helpful cousin that a NY City Pass would become our best friend whilst in town, especially if we were keen to visit all the major landmarks, museums and galleries- which we were. For $89 the pass provided admission to The American Museum of Natural History, The Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET), The Museum of Modern Art and the Empire State Building. All these attractions charge a general admission of at least $20 so we had already paid for four of our ‘must-do’s’. In addition the City Pass also gave us entry to one of The Guggenheim Museum or The Rockefeller Centre (observation deck) whilst providing discount to the one you didn’t chose, as well as either a boat trip to Liberty and Ellis islands or a river cruise.

At risk of sounding like a publicist for the City Pass, it was well worthwhile and I recommend anyone visiting NY for its museums and galleries to purchase one. Not only did it save us money on all the attractions we would have visited anyway, more often than not the pass acted as a queue-jump, while the ill-informed suckers waited in line for general admission. Ha! (If you quote my blog when you buy one, I receive 50 cents and a bar of Hershey’s, as per our endorsement agreement…)

Thanks to our nine days in NYC, we were admitted to take our time without the risk of boring ourselves with too many attractions in one day. Deciding two attractions per day would be sufficient for our sanity, we snaked into the city underground and popped up on Central Park’s west-side to visit the American Museum of Natural History. After a spectacular planetarium show narrated by that famous advocate of space exploration, Whoopi Goldberg, and a long walk about the vast halls of the building, we had planned to take a brisk walk through the sunning park to the MET on the other side. Unfortunately the green grass, the warming sun and the strange feeling of serenity among a city of chaos was too much, and we surrendered to a short nap.

Above: looking west from our nap-spot in Central Park

But as I said, we had the time to allow for such factors beyond our control: weather, illness…sleep. We managed to get to all of the above attractions whilst also managing to go shopping too. Apparently “you can’t come to New York and not shop” so with what money we had going spare we took/I was taken to Madison and 5th Avenues as well as Broadway. On this particular occasion I was content to walk about the city in my usual manner, staring high and angular at street after street of buildings that reach seemingly forever upwards, each scraper trying to out-bid its neighbour in their American conquest of sky.

Above: looking up from the 9/11 Memorial, 1 World Trade Centre (or Freedom Tower) nears it's completion, due to become the city's tallest building.

When the weekend came around, we looked closer to Brooklyn for an afternoon of entertainment, assuming it would be even busier on subways and in museums during the weekend. We were pointed in the direction of Williamsburg- just a few subway stops from our Brooklyn base- which had a reputation as a ‘hipster’ hangout. The main street of Bedford certainly gave way to a trendy arts scene with an overkill of café’s, book shops, vendors on the streets selling books, CD and vinyl stores, cheap eateries and bars. At 3pm on a sunny Saturday, the street was buzzing with life, taking on a mini summer British festival, if only such events were allowed to take place on the street (and only if such fine weather found its way to our Isles). If you visit NYC/Brooklyn, you must sample the local brew: Brooklyn Lager. For American ale, it’s surprisingly un-American.

Above: a busy Bedford Avenue on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in Williamsburg- great for grabbing a drink, a bit to eat or browsing the many book shops.

It’s hard not to come to NYC without boarding a sea-vessel, and our nautical voyage in the harbour took us to the two famous islands after Manhattan: Liberty and Ellis. After the hour + wait to board the ferry from Battery Park downtown, we decided not to bother disembarking on Liberty; home to the Green Lady with the lamp. Firstly, we were given good views from the ferry as we approached the island, enough for a few photos, and secondly the queue to get back on the ferry looked too big considering we might only spend 20 minutes gawking at her feet.

Above: Lady Liberty, from the less-popular and more flattering rear-view

As such we stayed aboard till Ellis, getting off to look around the Immigrant Station where migrants coming into the country were initially brought between 1892 and 1954 (although form 1924 it was primarily used as a detention centre). It now houses a museum devoted to the city’s history of immigration but it also allows the public to scour the immigration records for a fee of $7. As it happens, my paternal Grandad was brought to these very shores in 1921, barely two years old and it was fascinating to track down his name and details, seeing the manifest of the ship he travelled on over 90 years ago.

It was only on our very last day of sightseeing that we took to the city’s most famous and iconic landmark: The Empire State Building. Unfortunately, we chose the only day of showers during our whole time in NY to go to the 86th floor of the tallest building in the city. Visibility was at a minimum, and the thunder that threatened nearby was no advert for us to stay too long. As we made for the nearest subway station having come down, a bright flash was followed barely a second later by a crack that seemed to reverberate around the city. We didn’t look back, but we assume the building is still intact.

Above: view of the Empire State Building from the top of the Rockefeller Centre. Amazing city palette as the sun was setting.

Luckily, we had ventured up to the top of the Rockefeller building a few days before and enjoyed much clearer and much drier views as the sun set on a lazy Sunday. Like most cities, when the sun goes down, the lights come out to play and after a fantastically filling meal at a cheap burger place, we went in search of the brightest of lights: Times Square. Now it’s a known fact that New Yorkers loathe Times Square, a point much emphasised by John Stewart on an airing of The Daily Show that same night. In similar form, Leicester Square (London), Fisherman’s Wharf (San Francisco) and Hollywood (LA) are only frequented by locals that are either working at or bringing tourists to or from said tourist traps. The lights were certainly shining, but that’s not to say there was anything of interest to see.

Fortunately NYC is not all about busy tourist spots, and the benefit of lodging with a resident local comes in the form of the everyday goings on of local neighbourhoods. On Monday for example, we went to a stand-up comedy gig, just a half hour’s walk from our host’s apartment in Brooklyn, and it show cased some excellent comedy acts. Typically fronted by Kristen Schaal of Flight of the Conchords fame- a Brooklyn resident who unfortunately had given over to other commitments (Edinburgh Fringe, if I’m not mistaken)- the final act of the night was a Wyatt Cenac who appears regularly on The Daily Show. If anyone is going to visit this wonderful city, you would do far worse than spend a lot of time in Brooklyn, more specifically at the Hot Tub comedy venue which fills up every Monday night.

Above: a rare wisp of cloud adds a bit of theatre to the evening Brooklyn sky

Had I stayed in the chaos of Manhattan I would have undoubtedly had a very different experience, probably one of considerably less space and far more pollution; noise, light, sewer, etc. But the luxury of being able to bathe in the splendour of the city without being drowned in it, gave us the perfect ending to a very special six month journey. As I said earlier, it was made comfortable from the first moment to the last. We saw everything we planned on seeing; did everything we planned on doing, and the great thing about NY is that we’ve realised there was so much more we could have done. NY gave us the perfect big city experience and like any good destination it should leave the appetite juicily whetted. Not only did we gorge ourselves on a very sizeable chunk of the Big Apple (bet you’re surprised I held off this long before resisting to the cliché?), it has left us wanting to go back for another bite. Now that’s a plane journey I can get excited about again.

#USA #America #New York #New York City #Manhattan #Brooklyn #Empire Stare Building #Rockefeller Centre #Ellis Island #Liberty Island #Airports

It ends in New York

Seeing as though I've missed out on the Olympics excitement in the UK, here's a special tribute to the gold winning Mo Farah, all the way from Warner Bros. studios in Hollywood, CA. Well done Mo!

#Mo Farah #The Mo #Warner Bros #Hollywood #California

US West Coast Part 2: Gambling & Golden Gates

Talking of crazies, after three nights in the LA sunshine we boarded a Greyhound bus to Las Vegas. The gambling capital of America is often referred to as the weird and the wonderful, and I can confirm that the concept and realisation of this desert city is both weird and wonderful as well as the posers that take advantage of the crowded strip (walking from the Mirage hotel to Caesars Palace we bumped into a few ‘celebrities’ including Alan from The Hangover- you’d think he’d have learnt from the first two hangovers).

Above: The Paris Las Vegas Hotel, as seen through the Bellagio fountains

We had scored a pretty good deal on a pretty nice hotel online and whilst we weren’t lodged right on the strip, we checked into the very nice Las Vegas Hotel just a five minute taxi ride from the major players. It was one of the better hotels I’ve stayed in and certainly the largest; you know you’re in big hotel when it takes 45 minutes to check-in. Having spent the majority of our five months so far in budget hostel accommodation- some lodgings consisting of a bed in a room with no heating (during a NZ winter)- checking into a 4-star hotel with its own casino seemed a little strange. But we welcomed the king-size bed and the en-suite and it took us to think twice before we realised we couldn’t afford room-service.

The first of our three nights effectively saw us go straight to bed, eager to throw off the effects of a six hour bus journey through the desert. But we woke up refreshed the next morning and plotted our doings for the day and the rest of our time here. We discussed booking a day trip to visit the Grand Canyon which is certainly a place I would like to visit, however the day itself would have us rise before 5am and not allow us to return to bed until after 11pm. Still suffering from the effects of jet-lag from our flight to LA, we decided not to visit the canyon, as grand as it may be. Just being in Las Vegas was somewhat of an added extra to our American itinerary, so we decided to spend our money a bit closer to home, booking to see the Cirque du Soleil produced show: The Beatles LOVE.

Above: New York, New York hotel on the left with the MGM opposite

I feel somewhat ashamed in admitting that I didn’t know that this particular show had come into existence before the similarly titled music album. Once I realised that the brilliantly produced album was an inevitable offspring of the brilliantly produced show, I had to see it. And we were not left disappointed. I’m pretty sure whichever Cirque show we had booked to see would have wowed us, but this one had a personal touch. The music, the performances, the visuals; phenomenally put together. I understand the scepticisms of hard-core music fans when another art-form gets hold of original recordings, but this was an experience of novelty and uniqueness and I can only applaud and admire the mind (or set of minds) that first conceived such a mind-blowing and never-before-seen show.

When we weren’t being wowed by professionals we were either being wowed (or harassed) by Vegas street-pretenders or else sunbathing poolside (warmth was not a familiar concept in a wintered Aus and NZ). We spent a night out on the strip, going from casino-to-casino enjoying a few drinks and even recklessly blowing a few quarters on the slots. I’d love to tell you we hit the jackpot and spent the rest of the night in a drunken stupor, however neither of us have the interest nor the longevity to gamble seriously. Our biggest win was Jo’s $7.25, which bought her a drink at least.

Above: Vegas moments before dusk, a softer view of Las Vegas

With the casino authorities clearly onto our suspicious streak, we called it a night knowing that we had a long day ahead of us. We didn’t leave the desert until 5pm but once we had completed the return journey to LA, we boarded another bus around midnight that took us north to San Francisco. The only positive to take from this gruelling 13 hour journey (other than that it wasn’t a 20+ hour trip from Thailand to Laos) was the complimentary wi-fi on board the express coach to SF. The wi-fi and I became well acquainted during the sleepless night ahead.

The other good thing about travelling through the night was that we arrived in ‘The City’ (I swear that’s the first and last time I refer to SF in that way) early in the morning, giving the sky-scrapered city an ethereal air as we crossed the San Francisco-Oakland Bay bridge into town. Of course we could not check into our room at our hostel so early in the morning, so we made good use of their common room couches and wi-fi before being unable to hold off our hunger. Rather than wait any longer for the bustling kitchen to free up (they had free pancake mix at the hostel) we ventured out into the streets of SF looking for Dottie’s True Blue café as recommended by a quick online search. From our hostel we turned left and found the café which was well worth queuing up for round the corner for a breakfast of sausage and egg, as well as breakfast-dessert of pancakes and syrup. However if the café had been a right turn from our hostel, we’d have had a much better first impression of SF. Whilst I don’t think we were really in any danger, we had chosen a rather unsavoury part of town to break our fast, with loud, animated and apparently homeless characters lining the streets. It was a shame that this was our first experience of SF for we left the city with nothing but good things to say, but the long sleepless journey coupled with the lack of food and lack of welcome from our hostel reception was only aggravated by our venture into “Bum Town”. But given a sleep, a shower and a full belly once we had checked into our room, we took the right out of our hostel and fell helplessly for SF, inspired by its ambitious sky-scrapers and charmed by its colourfully attractive houses.

We might not have been very appreciative of SF’s hills as we half cycled/half pushed our bikes from bottom to top, but the city owes much of its uniqueness to its topography and it’s hard to imagine what it would be like without it (maybe LA without Hollywood; not so bad after all then!). As well as biking-the-bridge and visiting the small seaside town of Sausalito from where we caught the ferry back to SF, we walked the city in much the same way as we have the major cities we’ve come across on the trip: wandering about with little plan hoping to come across something only known by locals (in this city, this came in the form of a brilliant book shop/museum devoted to the Beat poets of the 1960’s).

Similarly we avoided the queues for the famous cable-car, but that’s not to say we avoided all the popular destinations. We took an afternoon walking the esplanade on the east side of the city heading north until Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39. Strawberries and Ben & Jerry’s vanilla ice-cream was the perfect accompaniment to a day at the sea-side whilst a seal-colony provided the entertainment.

After four days in SF- which I’ve come to think stands for Supernaturally-fast Fog- we returned to LA for one last fling with the stars. With a day to kill before our flight to New York City, we decided to fill it with a tour of Warner Bros studios in Hollywood which- like our last venture into Hollywood- had us championing public transport. But this time we also returned having had a much more enjoyable experience, touring the back-lots and sets of a long-standing film and television studio. The guide may have been a little ‘obvious’ in that most of what was ‘revealed’ about the magic of making movies, included: “You don’t actually need to build a ceiling on a set, mainly because the camera never looks up”… But it was still fun and a nice way to finish our brief west-coast tour. I’m not sure if I would label LA phony or genuine. On the one hand, Hollywood Boulevard was a disappointment, rotten with lookalikes and desperate wannabes in the costume of the current flavour; trying to con the public into thinking they are getting a taste of ‘fame’. But on the other hand, it should have been exactly what I expected. After all, this is the long-established centre of the western film industry, where people spend their whole lives ‘pretending’ to be someone else, mimicking reality, while the whole world looks on in admiration, hoping to one day trade in their own reality for the virtual one of their on-screen heroes.

Regardless of the conclusions drawn, the convenient side-effect of visiting these places is to gain an experience and to recognise the value behind visiting somewhere unlike anywhere else I’ve ever been. So far, America has been just that and I’m hoping our last week in New York City will be the same.

#USA #California #Nevada #Las Vegas #San Francisco #Las Vegas Hotel #The Beatles LOVE #Cirque du Soleil #Golden Gate Bridge #Beat Generation

US West Coast Part 1: The Fabulous & The Phony

In New Zealand I commented in one particular post that one feels immersed in a large film set that encompasses the entire country. I spoke of the revelry in which we bathed as we traversed the two islands, as Peter Jackson’s vision of JRR Tolkien’s epic is made a reality. So there was every reason to expect a similar feeling of awe as we arrived in Los Angeles; home to the world’s most popular and highest grossing cinema: Hollywood.

Unfortunately the telling difference between the two is, whilst NZ’s film spectacle is natural, living and inextricably tied to the history of the country itself, Los Angeles and it’s Hollywood district has a disappointing air of phoniness. Yes, many of the big screen hits we know and love are made here, but that’s exactly the point: the manufacturing process, which ultimately leads to a fake sense of reality.

Above: no caption needed here!

On our arrival into downtown Los Angeles from the airport, it was difficult to grasp a real sense of size. Whilst we could see the west-coast city from the freeway (I’m sorry UK followers, whilst I’m in their country it’s only right I play by their rules) it was difficult to see much of anything else; the city just appeared to continue for miles in each direction, gradually scaling down from 60 floor high-rise to suburban bungalow. Due to the nature of our long haul flight that took us 12 hours back in time, we did little that same day but nap, exploring our downtown surroundings only to fill our stomachs at the pizza place on the same block.

The next morning was beautifully sunny and we set out to familiarise ourselves among the shade of the domineering skyscrapers. Our hotel was situated on Main Street, intersecting 7th Street and it was along the latter that we walked along for 15 minutes before reaching the 7th Street Metro Station. There were two recurring warnings from people we had met on our trip who had visited LA and these were: “It’s a very big place” and “There is virtually no public transport”. There is no doubt about the legitimacy of the former; we walked for some time without really passing anything of interest. However the latter we found out to be a victim of conventional wisdom at its cruellest. Whilst nowhere near as extensive as London’s underground network, LA hosts a number of city centre underground metro stations which offer access to the surrounding districts. As well as being relatively affordable, the stations are clean, well signed and the trains are punctual. What more could you ask for? As an extra, the ticket barriers they have in place don’t actually require you to scan your ticket, making certain excursions very affordable.

From 7th Street Metro we took the red line out of the city to Hollywood which has four stations, at least two of which give you doorstep access to the Walk of Fame. The sight of the Hollywood hills as you step out of Hollywood Vine station does give you a sense of perspective; however it is but a brief glimpse of perspective through the various concrete buildings that line Hollywood Boulevard. We were close to one end of The Walk so we decided to carry on to the end on one side of the road, cross over and turn back the way we came on the other side, thus seeing as much of the star-laden street as possible. I did enjoy the walk, strolling from one end of the boulevard to the other with my face cast down at the actors, singers, presenters and directors, but to look up and around was a more grisly affair.

Above: Hollywood Boulevard

Once you hit the central area of the boulevard, it’s a chaos of people not looking where they are going. Crowds form around the desperate wannabe’s, dressed head to toe in costume. Batman, Spiderman, The Joker, Bumblebee, Wolverine…the list goes on. Despite seeing a particularly convincing Michael Jackson, the place stunk of cheap mimicry and phoniness, and having survived the walk through families (the parents of whom were more often than not dragging the children about excitedly) back to the station, we left this crazy town to itself.

The following day we spent at Santa Monica and Venice Beach, which turned out not unlike Hollywood. Again, the public transport myth was further displaced as we hopped on a bus the street over from our hotel which took us directly to Santa Monica pier. Okay, it may have taken over an hour and it may have been pretty much full for the duration (often with the weird and…well weird), but that only proves the other pre-conception: “LA is a very big place”.

After two months in the southern hemisphere winter, Jo and I both enjoyed the beach part of Santa Monica, hoping to reignite the tanned skin we earned after two and a half months in Asia. It was a busy day, but we both had fun walking along the pier which hosted fun-fair rides, food stalls, restaurants/burger-joints, souvenir carts and most importantly, ice-cream parlours. The chocolate fudge sundae was necessary actually, necessary to the walk we were about to embark upon along the coast to Venice Beach, and knowing how big LA was, we were under no illusions as to how far we might have to walk.

Above: view from Santa Monica pier

After about 40 minutes of walking we had arrived at Venice, and there was no doubt that we had arrived in what we had previously read to be a quirky, alternative and even freakish kind of hang-out. Here there were far more street-vendor types, making the beach front walkway look more like the back-streets of Bangkok. It seemed anything and everything was available for purchase here, from the mundane beachwear stuff to the exotic and bizarre art-work/sculptures of the local ‘hipsters’. In a way Venice was not unlike Hollywood. People were out and about trying to promote themselves and their weird talents, often just shouting and raving in a deranged fit for attention. What may have once been the scene of a legitimate arty/alternative movement in LA, now looked to have become a second home for the Hollywood crazies.

#America #California #Los Angeles #Hollywood

Howdy Folks

Hello anyone. This is our 2nd bus journey of the day and the only thing making it more bearable than the last is that Greyhound have kindly provided free wifi on this one! Just to recap since my last post, which despite it going up yesterday only filled you in as far as our flight from Auckland to Los Angeles. We touched down in LA on 25th July, a day we had already suffered in New Zealand before travelling back in time 13 hours. We stayed 3 nights in the City of Angels before we took our first Greyhound to Las Vegas, arriving late Saturday 28th. We really enjoyed Vegas but I wont say too much here; you'll have to wait for a bulkier post in a few days time. But I will say that- unlike LA- it was everything I was expecting and more. And shinier. We left the self proclaimed (and perhaps deserving) fabulous Las Vegas this morning (Tuesday 31st) and at ten past twelve the next morning, we are still on the road, albeit a substitute of bus in LA. We hope to be in "The City" (a phrase I flatly refuse to use again) by 7am and we both have high expectations after glowing and often radioactive reviews from fellow travellers. If San Francisco can provide even half the wonderment that Vegas afforded us, then I'm sure we wont be disappointed. See y'all

Entries from the Jotter- Wednesday 25th July 2012

Well, the countdown is officially on. Yes, the ‘final’ countdown, if you will. Just over a week ago Jo and I realised that we had exactly one month left to enjoy our worldwide voyage before it comes full circle. I would like to describe it to you in the Hollywood style, where we both make the very sudden revelation almost synchronically and spout some cheesy line like: “well…let’s make it count”. Actually, that sounds crap. Luckily, the reality was nothing like this. The full, unedited, raw, hand-held-footage version was at least a week in the making, and if you managed to sit through this post’s predecessor without getting up to go to the bathroom, then you should have an idea why.

Our last week in New Zealand felt a lot like waiting in an airport departure lounge. Our business was all but concluded, our bags were somewhat neatly packed and we could see our plane through the departure gate window. More annoyingly, we had to sit restlessly as the frequent flyers and gold/silver/platinum/diamond/pompously precious stone members breezed past queues to take their seats on board. Seven weeks in a country roughly the size of the UK was- in hindsight- a little longer than was perhaps necessary, however as we arrived in the south island town of Blenheim on Tuesday 17th July, feeling the need to keep reminding each other that we only had a week left in NZ as well as a month left till arriving home, this feeling strangely disappeared.

Whether it was the surprisingly warm weather in Blenheim that welcomed us as we hopped off the Stray bus, or the two leisurely days of wine-tasting ahead of us that perked us up for the final leg of our NZ tour, who’s to say (you’re invited to make your own conclusions, using the evidence below)? Either way, we walked through the small Marlborough town feeling optimistic about the following two days. A few days earlier, we were reunited with our two Irish followers in Mount Cook, as the Stray bus pulled in on Saturday night.

Above: a sunny Blenheim shines from the back of our hostel

Okay, it’s impossible to say who had been following who since we first met Kerri and Cara over a month ago on our maiden voyage south of Auckland. But our paths were fortuitously intertwined and our similar schedules meant we kept catching up with one another on different buses. Sadly, all trips must come to an end and all mini trips within trips, when you’ve come to get to know people, must also expire at some point. Kerri and Cara took one final hop-off the bus in Geraldine- a small town not far from Christchurch- and we were destined to never again cross paths. Having spent virtually our entire time in NZ in the familiar company of people we had come to know through Stray, it was strange to finally say goodbye to some familiar faces. I think this, coupled with the nagging knowledge that our screen time in NZ was approaching its final frame meant we were looking past the following week or so to our flight out of Auckland. But Blenheim sought to save us from boredom and whilst it didn’t quite swoop in at the 11th hour like most blockbusters, it humbly went about providing us with one of our most memorable days on this trip. We discovered our hostel- on a quiet street just behind one of the main roads- which was a quaint bungalow-turned-hostel backing onto a peaceful little river that sparkled gloriously in the winter sunshine. The realisation that we were most likely experiencing warmer weather in the middle of a NZ winter than we would have enjoyed back home amid the indecisive British summer; this alone made us feel content to still be in NZ.

A cup of tea on the decking and a brief navigational talk from our host later, and we were off on our bikes eager to sample at least one winery before dark. A bit of pedalling and a few hundred metres of back-tracking brought us to Wither Hills where we sampled six (possibly seven or eight) wines whilst roaming freely from cellar door up to the roof which gave us a stunning 360 degree view of the vast flatlands, every inch of which seemed to be taken up by grapevines.

Above: from the rooftop of the Wither Hills winery, there is not much else but fields of fields of grapevine

Luckily the Marlborough region is a very flat expanse; otherwise we may have visited considerably less establishments the following day. In truth, we only made it to two wineries on our second day which isn’t particularly much: Rock Ferry and Allan Scott. However we also visited a fine brewery (I’m not sure I’m peasanty enough to pull off: “fine brewery”, but hey) - the Moa brewery- as well as the Makana chocolate factory. After a lengthy chat in between quaffs of beer samples with our host, we learned that Moa is a relatively new NZ beer; popular in its native and currently trying desperately to announce itself in the UK market. They have at least 12 different beers ranging from the bubbly pilsner to crimson stout-like ales and every one I tried was delicious. Moa will be sponsoring NZ’s athletes in the London Olympic Games, so if you see it appear on your supermarket shelves, give it a glug.

Above: relaxing at the Moa Brewery, Blenheim

We must have been just about the only people cycling around NZ’s most renowned wine region in winter; this careful deduction being made by the fact that in most places…we were the only one’s there. But it meant that we had the sole attention of the lovely wine-giver-outer-ladies and in each place we stopped for at least 45 minutes to chat, and not just about the wine which, after being told what aromas and flavours you’re supposed to be able to taste, leaves you looking for other subjects of conversation. But despite us feeling severely out of place in our bike helmets and high-viz jackets, we had a thoroughly enjoyable day. It was Jo who was most excited about wine-tasting before our arrival in NZ, and I’ll admit as a non-wine drinker that if I was on my own I’d most likely not have done it. But there’s something satisfying about cycling around wine country, with the most brilliant back drop of mountains standing over field after field of grapevines, with the sun beaming down and the mild breeze rushing past us. It must be something they put in the wine.

Above: vineyard after vineyard in the famous Marlborough region

Having biked all day- and drunk our fair share of alcohol- we arrived back at the hostel just as dusk was settling in and sat to catch our breath out on the decking of the garden. With a mug of tea to counter the coming night’s cold, we sat looking out over the river and the grassy goodness beyond it. In that moment, any ill-feeling that had crept in as a result of our long stay in NZ, sailed calmly down-river and was replaced by a feeling of contentedness that says: “you’re going to look back on this moment when your trip is over and it alone will instantly make it all worthwhile”. I’m not sure I quite realised it till after it happened, but another one of these moments occurred earlier on the same day we arrived in Blenheim. We had stopped in Kaikoura the night before- a whale watching spot on the south island’s east coast- and before we left the little seaside town, we stopped by to check up on one of the seal colonies that takes up residence at this time of year on the coast. Now seals are cool, but seal pups are cute and having been led a short way into bush by our driver- following a shallow stream inland- there was nothing more entrancing than the sight of a nursery full of seal pups playing innocently in a shaded pool. The pups follow the stream by themselves to this haven where the water is plentifully provided by the waterfall and predators are nowhere to be seen, making this the ideal spot for jovially playing, swimming and frolicking about in absolute seal luxury.

Above: a seal from the first colony we came across in Kaikoura

It was truly amazing getting the chance to see these animals in such a unique yet perfectly natural environment and looking back, despite not being able to take many photos due to the low light, I know I’ll never forget the image of 20 or so seal pups diving into and leaping out of the water in their own personal pool. I’d say it topped our penguin parade experience in Melbourne for its spontaneity alone. It’s reassuring to know that despite our growing feelings of indifference to the country as we plotted our next move, we still enjoyed some of the most amazing experiences of our trip. If anything else, it just goes to show what a fantastic country NZ really is. That I can at one point have made my mind up regarding all there is to see, only to be proved wrong a split second later.

And as we continue our onward journey, currently headed north-east, 30,000 feet or so somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, I’m glad to report that when I look back over my shoulder at the country we have just hours ago left behind and even when I think about our last week that was possibly ‘one week too many’ I’ll be reassured by memories like those above that it was in fact the perfect amount of time. Well look at that, it looks like I am capable of a cheesy, Hollywood line after all. Which is quite convenient considering the sunny west-coast city we’re due to fly into in seven hours’ time.

#Entries from the Jotter #New Zealand #USA #Hollywood #Final Countdown #Blenheim #Wine Tasting #Moa Beer #Wither Hills #Kaikoura #Seals #Auckland #Marlborough

Just When You Think You've Seen It All: Fiordland National Park & Milford Sound

It would be an understatement to say that- here in New Zealand- we are surrounded by natural beauty of the highest order. Whether it’s the rolling green pastures of the northlands, or one of the south island’s almost see-through lakes you get a glimpse of, only the very unobservant or the obtrusively uninterested can possibly ignore this near-untouched world. That said however, after nearly six weeks spent gawping out of our bus window, I‘ve found myself looking within the bus a lot more often.

The gripping plotline of Stephen King’s The Dead Zone may well answer for part of this, but I think what may be mistaken for an increasing ignorance of our surroundings is simply an on-going familiarity with our environment. Anyone who has taken the southern route along the south island’s west coast from Picton to Queenstown will hopefully be nodding in agreement with my admission and the following statement that this particular part of NZ is home to the country’s most majestic features.

The Queen Charlotte Sound, Abel Tasman, the rugged west coastline, the southern Alps which host the glaciers Franz Josef and Fox, Wanaka, and Queenstown; two towns that might once have slept quite soundly in the arms of encircling mountains before NZ woke up to its potential as an extreme sports and adventure destination (it would seem AJ Hackett set that particular alarm and made sure everyone heard it).

Above: centre of Queenstown, as seen from our dorm. If I'm not mistaken, the 'Remarkables' mountain range provides the backdrop

When we arrived in Queenstown almost two weeks ago, it had felt in many ways that we had reached a climax; that we had arrived at our desired destination. For many people, Queenstown is the sole reason they are in the country, at least at this particular time of year. NZ’s lovable Aussie neighbours flock here by the plane-load in search of snow, skis and Sambuca as the southern hemisphere takes a wintry turn for the worse. And in terms of natural beauty, it’s easy to think you’re trip has come to an end. Queenstown is tucked away between giant green hills and barren snow-topped mountains whilst Lake Wakatipu sits calm, reflecting the town back up at itself like Narcissus in unadulterated admiration. There’s a reason people come here for three days and end up staying for three weeks, and it is fairly obvious upon first sight.

But despite us not yet realising it, our search for breath-taking beauty was unfulfilled in Queenstown and after five days of skiing and drinking we rose early one Sunday morning, and sneaked out of town on a bus heading south. After a few hours of head-nodding naps, the early morning dark turned to daylight and our weariness turned into awe as we slunk almost unnoticed into the inspired territory known as Fiordland National Park. Unlike some people we had spoken to who had made this same trip south, the sun was in glorious form and treated us to a four hour drive about, around, within and in the end through mountains.

Above: one of the first photos taken as we entered the haunting Fiorlands

Our Stray driver, E.T (so called because he’s always phoning home, of course) stopped often enough for us to take in as much of this stunning parkland as possible and gave us commentaries on what we were looking at as we crawled through. Eventually, the mountains began to squeeze the road, making for a windier ride where cliff faces were often so close we could see fully formed, giant icicles where falling water had been stopped mid-air by the cruel conditions. The mountains soon released the road from its tightening grip, making way for vast expanses blanketed in untouched snow before the road led to what at first appeared to be a very obvious natural stop in front of a mountain. As we approached, the arc of the tunnels entrance became obvious and the surreal moment of winding through this earthly giant took over. With no time to catch our breath, we exited the other side to a steepening valley which wound from side to side for some time before levelling out at sea-level.

Above: just one of many 'mirror lakes' in the park

Without doubt, this was the most staggering drive through any country I have ever been to, and whenever I could close my mouth long enough to gather my thoughts, I remember thinking that I would struggle to top this experience anywhere else in the world. As with most drives, there is often a destination at the end and our final stop before turning back on ourselves just so happened to be Milford Sound: as though the morning hadn’t already been a feast for the eyes.

The boat cruise through the sound was an incredible experience and I struggled to put my camera away before we reached the Tasman Sea. Lush, forested mountains enclose you from all directions. In want of a better analogy, imagine playing with a toy boat in the bath: your knees are the mountains that erupt out of the water. Now just imagine you’ve got more knees and that they’re green from the tiny trees that cover them. You now have a madman’s interpretive image of the mighty Milford Sound.

Above: Milford Sound heading out of the inlet passages towards the Tasman Sea

The drive back the same way was just as impressive as the way there, and the day was topped off when at a brief stop to take a photo one of the resident birds popped by to investigate who had been trespassing on its turf. The Kea is reportedly one the smartest, if not the smartest parrot in the world and it is notorious for stealing food, which I imagine to be a lot cuter than angry baboons committing the same offence. Fortunately, we had been pre warned and the far from timid bird- with its blazing green feather coat- merely hopped on our empty bus’s step, peered down the corridor and hopped off. Clearly nothing worth stealing on our bus, at least not much worth anything to a parrot.

Above: the ever-so-clever Kea parrot, native to Fiordland National Park

Our lodging for the night was among this very beauty in the remote Gunn’s Camp, a small place by the Hollyford river valley, named after Davy Gunn who bought the land and helped open up this beautiful area to tourism. I wrote about our stay at Abel Tasman and how clearly the night sky shone for us on that occasion, but the piercing clarity of the sky at Gunn’s Camp was on another level and we all admired the stars on a late night walk through bush to see glow-worms (we also spotted a few possums clinging to trees on the way).

It was a shame to have to say goodbye to Fiordland National Park the next day but we were due in Invercargill where we would stop the night. From here, we had the option of heading even further south from NZ’s southern-most city to Bluff where a ferry would take us on an hour’s voyage to Stewart Island: NZ’s third island. Unfortunately though, this was a particularly expensive crossing ($75/£37.50 one-way) to a tiny settlement renowned for its conservation of rare native birds. It was a shame that we did not venture the stormy southern waters, but budgetary constraints meant that we stayed docked and dry in the quiet, Scottish-founded Invercargill.

The following day we did venture to the Bluff, picking up the solitary soul who dared spend the night on Stewart Island while we sheltered on the mainland. On our way there we stopped at many sights including Curio Bay where we observed New Zealand seals cavorting on the coast as well as a petrified forest. All around the southlands, trees small and tall bow in forced worship, bent and weathered out of shape towards the ground by the extreme winds and salt air from the Arctic.

Above: trees in the Southlands pummeled over by the Antarctic winds

Having left on Sunday, we were back in Queenstown by Tuesday where we kept a pretty low-profile in an attempt to repel the town’s money-spending monster. We spent Wednesday taking a late breakfast before walking up the Ben Lomond Scenic reserve and catching the gondola down, eager to treat ourselves to one last Fergburger before we said goodbye to the adventure capital of the world for good. Thursday’s bus picked us up at 9am and our driver Horse who had accompanied us on our southern loop to Milford Sound and Invercargill, drove us north to Mount Cook Village which lay in the shadow of NZ’s highest peak: Aoraki/ Mount Cook. Or at least, it should have lay in its shadow: for the most part of our three nights in this remote village (if you could even call it that) the 3754 metre mountain was hidden by cloud that had nestled in the valley.

Thankfully, our drive into Mount Cook was clear and we had ample opportunity to snap the peak before we lost it to the elements. We were indeed immersed in yet more unbelievable and unforgettable landscape but for the most part the weather ensured we were unable to fully appreciate its magnificence. And it was only leaving Mount Cook earlier this morning, as I found myself engaged by the snappy, hilarious sound-bites of Justin Halpern’s Sh*t My Dad Say’s, that I realised that despite the never ending mountain range that flanked us on one side, I wasn’t quite as impressed as I had been on the journey south (at the very least I didn’t have my face pressed up against the glass, which I’m sure our driver appreciated).

Above: first glimpse of Mount Cook (the peak to the left) before we drove into cloud

Having stayed at Mount Cook without really being able to see it, I realised that NZ as a whole had become Mount Cook and that our six week treat in this country, the constant bombardment of natural beauty had become the thick cloud that filled the valley. We had been well and truly spoiled and our over-exposure to NZ had clouded our appreciation of it. It was a sad thought, because we have come to love this country over the past month and a half, but Jo and I can’t help but feel that we’re ready to move on. We can’t help but feel that after all the sunshine, the clouds are descending on our time in NZ. But thanks to modern digital photography and the convenience of social media, we’ll never forget the country we have seen, and loved, and gawped goggle-eyed and open-mouthed at from our bus window.

#Fiordland National Park #Milford Sound #Mount Cook #Invercargill #Gunns's Camp #Hollyford Valley #Queenstown #Fergburger #Stewart Island #Curio Bay

"Always Winter And Never Christmas"- But There's Still Fun to be Had in the Queenstown Cold

In New Zealand, it’s easy to get caught up in the idea that you are a tiny prop in an epic fantasy narrative. This is not only because of the obvious Lord of the Rings comparatives that have been exhausted since the trilogy’s film release. The work of fiction that comes to my mind as we brave the cruel temperatures of a NZ winter is that of C.S Lewis. Whilst the northern hemisphere prolongs its days and enjoys the fruits of a warm summer (that should be “mild at best summer” if you’re from the UK) the southern hemisphere is forever doomed to be: always winter, and never Christmas.

The words of the goat-legged Mr Tumnus from Lewis’ The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe have echoed in my head since we first arrived in NZ and the saying has only intensified during our three weeks on the south island. The usual annual reward for tolerating the cold and torturous winter months comes gift-wrapped and is usually brought down your chimney by a pie-eating, white-bearded, red-suited man (or so I’m led to believe). Yet on this side of the world there are no such rewards waiting for us under the tree. Disappointing, yes, but that is not to say that the NZ winter is bereft of any sense of anticipation.

Here in Queenstown more than anywhere else, there are figuratively gift-wrapped pearls of excitement by the bucket-load, and most of them yield some pretty amazing presents once unwrapped. Queenstown’s reputation as the Adventure Capital of the World is well earned and well founded. Just a brief walk along its main street brings you past row after row of ski and snowboard rental shops, winter clothing outlets, backpacker lodgings and adventure tour offices. Throw in a burger-place with a worldwide reputation and over 100 bars (Q’town only has about 10,000 permanent residents) and you’ve got the holy-grail resort for backpackers worldwide (change “holy-grail resort” to Rivendell for LOTR fans and Cair Paravel for Narnia nuts).

You can bungy jump from 134 meters, canyon swing strapped to a chair or an inflatable raft, sky-dive from 16 and a half thousand feet, ride a jet-boat around Lake Wakatipu, go white-water rafting or luge down a mountain side (luging is essentially go-karting, but down a mountain). If it’s crazy enough to be invented, it was invented and is practised here in Queenstown.

The activity that is more acceptably practiced as a sport rather than an adventure activity, is skiing and this is what we have been busying ourselves with. As the town is gently nestled among a host of mountain ranges, skiing, snowboarding and other winter related sports are on your doorstep. Neither of us had ever hit the slopes before, and seeing as though NZ is one of the most affordable places to ski, we thought we’d taste some powder.

We booked to slide down Cardrona, a range of mountains north-east of Queenstown, through our hostel, Base before getting fitted out in pants and jacket, ready for the next day. Our day began at 6.15 as the drive up to the mountain took about an hour and there were the formalities of equipment hire to negotiate once up there (the rental area resembled the Xmas past time of last-minute department store shopping). When we could bear to open our eyes, and once the sun had decided to rise from its own bed, we were rewarded with glorious scenes as our 1970’s Ford bus struggled up the mountainside. When we finally reached the top, sea-level disappeared and was replaced by an endless bouncy-castle floor of cloud, through which only mountain peaks penetrated.

As beginners we of course needed lessons and once we grabbed our gear (and paid a ridiculous $17 to rent goggles) we met with our instructor and the rest of our group. Jo and I were fighting for the attention of the instructor with six other beginners, one of whom was Tom who we had met whilst travelling. We actually first met Tom (or English Tom as he was known by another friend we made, who himself hailed from Canada) in our first week in NZ, on our first Stray bus from Auckland to Paihia in the very north of the north island. Whilst we stayed three nights there, Tom stayed just one beginning his decent south before we did. As things turned out, he was still in Queenstown when we arrived on Tuesday (3rd July) and happened to be staying in the same hostel, on the same floor. As many hobbits would agree: it’s a small world.

All three of us appeared to get the hang of things fairly quickly and from the simple step of taking our ski’s on and off to stopping ourselves by making our ‘pizza-slice’ bigger, we were confidently negotiating the starter slope whilst managing to manipulate our speed. We broke for lunch at 12 o’clock giving us 2 hours before our next lesson but we were all keen to keep skiing so we scoffed down food and got back to the slope in about 45 minutes, meaning we had an hour to better our (likely erratic) technique.

When the lesson continued at 2 o’clock we advanced from the pizza-shaped stop, to stopping and controlling our speed by turning. Whilst I could fairly easily change direction, I struggled in converting my wavy lines into continuous S’s, often gaining speed when I was meant to be reducing it and occasionally on my arse when I was meant to be upright.

Jo on the other hand took to turning and carving out S’s a lot more competently than I, and everyone else in the group for that matter. Our instructor didn’t seem to have any qualms about taking at least Jo (teacher’s pet) off the beginner slope and onto the slopes only accessible by ski-lift, but mine and Tom’s apparent confidence outweighed our ability and four of us took to the peak.

With a much bigger slope and the ability to gain a bit of pace without worrying about running out of hill, both Tom and I managed to ace the turning and the three of us were soon flying down Cardrona. Not as soon as we had liked though. One from our group, who was confidently turning- albeit very slowly- on the beginner slope earlier, appeared to lose all the confidence she had used to ski with previously. Perhaps the psychological effect of a much bigger slope, the whizzing by of experienced skiers and the damaging consequence of a few little falls along the way culminated in a severe loss of ability with the skis. As such we were held up considerably and only just made our bus back to Queenstown; our instructor understandably reluctant to let the three of us ski on ahead without supervision.

Yet we convinced her to allow us to go on ahead and we were all glad she did. It gave us the freedom to go at our desired speed without the stop-start and critical eye of the instructor. Once at the bottom, we felt all the better for it and rode back to Queenstown ecstatic that we had managed to not only get from the top of a slope to the bottom, but to do it competently and without falling over (much).

There was a moment in Wellington some three weeks ago, during one of those awful 10 minute evaluations of our finances, when I conceded that I might not ski in Queenstown. After some considerable convincing from Jo, I couldn’t be happier with our decision to actually do it. Skiing had always been on that to-do list that is forever increasing with activities both too crazy and/or too expensive to do. In hindsight, it was neither too expensive nor too crazy at all and I will leave NZ in three weeks happy in the knowledge that I have transferred skiing from that list to my other list of: Activities I Say I Will Take-Up At Home, But Will Forget About Tomorrow. These include: skiing, sky-diving, kayaking, water-skiing and wake-boarding. I’m sure I can add to that list before leaving NZ.

Of course no visit to Queenstown would be complete without at least one big night out on the town and at least one Fergburger, the legendary but by no means mythical burger that has retained its independence in repelling the evil of franchise. The only Fergburger restaurant in the world is here in Queenstown and despite its unusually long opening hours from 8.30am-5am (check this!!!) there are queues out-the-door and waits of at least an hour for most of the day. It would have been nice to have known these opening hours before we walked past an empty Fergburger on our way back from a bar at 3.30am, rather than wait an hour for a double-cheese Ferg the next day, but heigh-ho, as one hobbit might say. The Ferg had been recommended to us by anyone and everyone who had visited Queenstown and it lived up to its reputation.

The rest of our time here has been spent wandering about the town’s botanical gardens which gave us spectacular views of the town submerged in forested and bare-rock mountains, not forgetting snow-peaked ones of course. In fact, a walk around the gardens is not necessary to enjoy the views; everywhere you look, wherever you are, there is natural beauty.

As such, we have spent a lot of our time in NZ speculating as to whether a particular place had been used as a film location for that epic fantasy trilogy. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that every inch of this beautiful country made its way onto the silver screen, but regardless of whether it reminds you of Tolkien’s world or the Narnia of Lewis’ fiction- or any other fantastic realm for that matter- NZ has a knack of transforming you. Whether that’s into another world, into a champion skier, or into an adrenaline-seeking bungy-junky sniffing his next fix, is for individual taste. But here in NZ, it’s hard not to give into whatever the country has to offer, leaving you wanting more.

#Queenstown #Cardrona #Skiing #Lord of the Rings #The Lion the Witch & the Wardrobe #Narnia #Fergburger

Entries from the Jotter- Sunday 1st July 2012

An “Entry from the Jotter” is a post that’s been directly lifted, and then possibly edited after, from my handwritten scribblings. It allows me to document the “then and there” of certain experiences and re-tell them to you with as little hindsight as possible.

Two days ago we did something amazing. On Friday 29th June 2012, having arrived in Franz Josef town-ship the night before, we woke early and geared up to take part in a glacier hike. This had been on our list of Things We Must Do Before Leaving New Zealand, along with skydiving over Lake Taupo and black water rafting in the Waitomo caves. As with these latter two activities it far surpassed our expectations.

The south island’s reputation as the adventure capital of the world was well known to us long before we left England back in February meaning we were expecting much from NZ’s least populated island. Waking from a short nap aboard the Bluebridge ferry at 8am, as Wellington (NZ’s southernmost north island city) disappeared from view, the excitement began to grow. The north island had given us so many fantastic memories, but if the rave reviews we had received from other backpackers was anything to go by, then the south island was about to play its trump card.

Above: Approaching the south island through the sound

Access to the south island via ferry takes you through the scenic Charlotte Sound and into Picton, a modest port town. We soon learned from our new Stray bus driver, Beans, that out of NZ’s 4 million people, only 1 million people inhabit the south island. Is that because there’s nothing to do in the south? Certainly not. The real reason behind its low population is made very apparent just minutes after hitting the road.

The north island had a scenic beauty that was homely and agricultural; a landscape that is ancestrally familiar, even though you might never have lived in such a setting. The south island’s beauty is on an altogether bigger scale, with the picture of endless wineries broken only by mountainous regions all around you.

Above: the drive from Picton through the Marlborough region gave us stunning views

This was our road pretty much all the way to Abel Tasman; our first overnight stay in the south island having driven though Nelson along the north coast. Abel Tasman offers sailing trips and sea kayaking for those willing to get wet, and remote national park lodging for those looking to stay dry. We took two nights of rest at Old Macdonald’s Farm (not joking) where Jo and I huddled together for warmth in a one-room hut with a single electric heater. Only the sky of Paihia in the northlands could rival the clarity of the night and the never ending illumination above us. Surrounded by luscious green mountains and coastal beach, it was easy to find a sense of peace just looking above you (and a sense of neck soreness).

Above: walk back from the coast to our campsite at Abel Tasman

With our free day here we took a walk along the coastal track, persisting in grey clouds and showers before a blue sky moved in. From here we headed south making a few stops before we arrived at our intended lodging for the night. We drove through the west coast town of Westport, passing the Buller River in one of the quickest onsets of snowfall I have ever witnessed, and eager not to get stranded in a town our driver told us we really don’t want to get stranded in, we carried on to Punakaiki (Poo-na-kye-key).

The area surrounding Punakaiki is dotted with tiny settlements that once pulled a big crowd. Between 1864 and 1867, the influx of people looking for gold drove town’s populations of a couple of hundred as high as 25,000, and as a result it wasn’t just the landscape and natural rock formations that gained a reputation for being rough and rugged. We stopped at the Pancake Rocks, which have (surprisingly) gained their name because of the rounded, stacked formations in which the wild western waters have shaped them over years and years of battering. With the occasional blow-hole going off, the conditions we Brits would often bemoan during winter actually enhanced the experience of seeing nature at its most dramatic and forceful.

Above: west coast waves at the Pancake Rocks

Once again we lodged in the middle of native bush, in a charming homestead complete with wood-burning fire. I know this kind of accommodation has been built with the southern hemisphere summer in mind, but winter seemed to be a perfect companion as we sat around the fire armed with a steaming cup of tea. Forget summer beach huts and long drawn out sunshine; a roaring fire and a mug of PG is all I need whilst the cold-dark descends outside.

We left the next morning as late as 10am (yes, that is a late start) as some people took the morning to partake in kayaking. We again stopped at a few more historic gold mining towns, the most notable being Greymouth which hosts NZ’s Coast to Coast racing event, taking contestants from west coast to east coast with some tricky alpine negotiations in between. We stopped in this town of 14,000 to withdraw some money, buy some shopping and pick up a few people before heading further south along the coast to Franz Josef.

The moment we had been waiting for was upon us, and it was time to see if the hype surrounding the south island was justified. A matter of seconds into our drive into town gave us confirmation of this, as the single main street of cafés, shops and hiking offices sits mercilessly in the shadow of enormous snow-capped peaks. This view alone made the trip south worthwhile and we had not even booked our hike yet. Guided walks from the bottom of the glacier had- unlike the glacier itself- come to a grinding halt due to the discovery of a hole that was increasing in size at an astonishing speed. As such, the helicopter hike that would previously have out-priced most backpackers was made available at a much discounted rate. For $250NZ (£125) we booked a four minute helicopter ride onto the glacier itself, followed by a three hour hike on the ice before the return heli-ride back to town. This may be the one and only time you’ll hear me champion the actions of global-warming.

Above: approaching the glacier- view from Franz Josef town

As with the sky-dive in Taupo, the means in which we got to the main attraction was an experience in itself. Neither Jo nor I had ever been in a helicopter, so our excitement levels were at a constant high from the moment we awoke to the moment we went to bed later that night. Anyone who has been on a helicopter will agree that the choppers appear to be completely out of control as they approach to pick you up. Similarly when they take off, they appear to nosedive as if about to churn up the grass before it (or perhaps our pilot had just had one-too-many the night before).

Once we landed on the glacier itself, we were utterly overawed. The initial, breath-taking moment of realising exactly where you are was an unforgettable one, with the glacier steepening behind you and sloping ahead of you whilst mountains flank you on both sides. You’re in another world; unrecognisable and seemingly inhospitable.

Above: Jo and I on the Franz Josef glacier

Whilst the buzz coming down wasn’t quite as vehement as that of the sky-dive (for obvious reasons) Jo and I -and our room-mates for our stay in Franz Josef, Cara and Kerri- talked non-stop about the experience for the rest of the day. How cool it was wearing and walking around the glacier in crampons. How, because it had snowed the day before, we got a unique opportunity to enjoy the glacier as others do not get the chance. How we pummelled each other, including our guide, with snow balls on our three hour hike. And how every once in a while you would simply look around you, and feel incredibly lucky to be standing on a glacier at about 700 meters.

Our guide told us that, whilst NZ has about 3000 glaciers, there are only three in the entire world which gives you the opportunity to walk upon (one in Argentina, and the other just down the road from Franz Josef: the Fox glacier). When you start to rank the different kinds of everyday walks and hikes you’ve done over your life time, there’s no doubt that this one sits unchallenged at number one. South island, if you continue to give us experiences like this, then the hype will have been well and truly justified indeed.

#Franz Josef #glacier #hike #Abel Tasman #Punakaiki #Greymouth #Westport #Pancake Rocks #South Island #New Zealand

Walk like a Kiwi, Talk like a Kiwi- An English Guide to Talking New Zealand

The longer I spend in New Zealand, the more I feel myself becoming a Kiwi. Whether this is through some transient ancestral instinct to invade and adopt or whether the native dialect is simply an infectious tongue, I’m not sure but I find the need to annoy Jo with various NZ-isms all too often. 90% of this influence is sourced from our Stray bus drivers, from whom seemingly eternal monologues of a town’s history or a waterfall’s Maori significance spills forth. And whilst we are extremely grateful for the talks and brief run-downs of the country’s past, the most memorable parts of their speech and therefore the aspects of the dialect that haunt passengers thereafter are the simple beginnings and ends of conversation.

For example, “Sweet as” or “Sweet as bro” could well be mistaken for a mode of punctuation indicating the end of a sentence; much like an exclamation mark or a full-stop. Apparently the saying originally had “pie” on the end- as one bus driver recalls when the saying was first inducted into national phraseology- and was used as an expression of positivity, i.e. everything’s okay/that’s good. I can only guess as to the age of the driver, but he recounted that he was a relatively young man when he returned south from a trip to the Auckland region (north) where he first encountered the expression, so I’m speculating when I say that the phrase began its viral voyage nationwide in the early-mid 90’s (any Kiwi’s reading, please feel free to correct me).

Above: View from atop a hill in Whakahoro

Fast-forward 20 years to 2012 and you have a common, national saying that seems as old as the country itself, and as such it is almost impossible to come across a Kiwi who does not use this phrase in their everyday vocabulary. The reason I bring language to the fore in this travel blog, has something to do with an English woman living in Wellington. Jo’s sister Carla has a school friend, Rachel who has now been living in NZ for about a year. Upon learning of our visit to the country on our round-the-world trip, we arranged to meet up in the country’s capital and whilst she still largely retains the neutral and worldwide friendly Chester accent, there are very fine but very noticeable cracks forming. The NZ tongue is forcing its way to the surface, whether she realises or not. The slips of the tongue are a lot less obvious as “sweet as” but they are there, eh? Ah yes, “eh”, the second-most common NZ-ism which might be used as a sort of ellipsis, or to try and transfer the responsibility of the conversation over to the other person; kind of like a cue: “The game last night was really close, eh?” I suppose the Wallasey equivalent would be to replace “eh?” with “wan’it?” (pronounced “one-it”) which is a contraction of “wasn’t it?” It’s a bid for confirmation from the other side of the conversation: “this is what I’m proposing/suggesting, don’t you agree with it?”

Above: Kapiti Island from Waikanae

Coming back to Rachel, our English friend in NZ, we asked her on the first day we met up whether she has picked up a local twang, to which she replied, not really but little bits every now and then. I spent the rest of the day trying to catch her out but we eventually let her get back to work with no proof of this change in accent. However it was over last night’s dinner in a Malaysian restaurant on Cuba Street that the incriminating evidence of her year’s NZ residence showed up, as she finished one of her sentences with the conversation filler: “eh?”.

The slip of the tongue made me feel better for my wanting to repeat these various NZ-isms. The way I see it, this can only mean that I feel comfortable enough in the country; welcomed enough by the people; and at ease with the culture enough to adopt these phrases as my own. If anything, NZ should feel complimented by this as well as happy in the knowledge that visitors may leave the country with more than just photos of themselves and the Franz Josef glacier. As Jo and I prepare to leave the north island for its colder and crazier sibling, the south island, I feel happily influenced by half of a country that has given us nothing but homely landscape, warm welcomes, friendly advice and adrenaline pumping thrills (and we’ve still got the south island to go!).

The last thrill I documented here was the sky-dive in Taupo and we spent three nights beside NZ’s largest lake recovering from this. When we hopped on the next Stray bus that pulled into town, we found it a lot less busy than our previous one which was almost full. Our driver, Scratch, was cheerful despite sporting somewhat of a hangover from the night before; not that we would have noticed unless one of the passengers had told us, as he successfully delivered us crash-free to our next lodging at National Park.

Above: walk about Whakapapa (National Park) not far from the waterfall used in The Lord of the Rings. Incidentally, this place reminded me of the Dead Marshes from the Two Towers

The popular activity to be done here- and apparently NZ’s best one-day hike- is the Tangariro Alpine crossing which takes you across two of NZ’s biggest mountains, Mt Ngauruhoe and Mt Ruapehu (the former incidentally leads a double life as a film star having masqueraded as Mt Doom in the Lord of the Rings trilogy). The crossing takes an energy-sapping eight hours and requires a very good level of fitness to complete as well as specialised hiking gear. Unfortunately the weather-gods in this region were raging war with each other which meant that no crossings could take place. What was just as disappointing was that the clouds that swept in gave us no visibility whatsoever, so whilst we took a wet walk about the moorlands surrounding the tiny village of Whakapapa there was no view of the imposing summits to cheer us through the wet and the windy.

Instead we stopped at a waterfall which was also recognisable from the big screen, making an appearance in Peter Jackson’s trilogy as the falls in The Two Towers where Smeagol sings a fishing song to the tune of fish being smacked upon a rock. In a bid to make up for the poor weather, a few of us jumped into the outdoor hot-tub where we wasted a few hours chatting about the recent Feyenoord FC revival after 10 years out of the European scene with two Dutch guys from our bus. Throw in a couple of beers and you’ve got a “sweet as” evening.

From National Park we drove west to Whakahoro which is a very remote part of NZ (the childish/funny thing about Maori words is that “wh” is pronounced as an “eff”- hehe, you can work out the rest). We stayed the night at Blue-Ducks conservation lodge where an ambitious chap had begun work for the very worthy cause of trying to save the country’s blue-duck population. The owner was extremely passionate about his work and he spoke candidly not only about the blue-duck’s chances of avoiding extinction but about New Zealander’s attitude towards conservation and their perception of what he is trying to achieve as a conservationist. NZ is perceived internationally as a “green” country however he was brutally honest about how the country isn’t actually living up to this false reputation, whilst talking painfully about NZ government’s failure to prioritise their country’s natural bush and its native inhabitants.

Above: taken from the front porch of our lodge at Blue Ducks, Whakahoro

We didn’t get to see any blue-ducks but we did manage a two hour walk to the summit of the nearby hill that gave us luscious and far-reaching views of wild bush, whilst we were later rewarded back on ground level with a delicious goat-curry cooked by an Irish chap. He was so impressed by the work done here that he decided to jump off a Stray bus like ours nine months ago and has stuck around ever since. The setup relies on volunteers who work in the lodge café and office in exchange for food and accommodation. Under different circumstances, this was one place I’d have happily jumped off the bus at to live and work in the beauty and remoteness of the bush, helping just one of many conservation projects that struggle to stay afloat across NZ.

The following day we departed early for the capital which was about six hours drive from Whakahoro. During the ride to Wellington we had time to reflect on our time in the north island which was soon to come to an end and we couldn’t help but agree with what we had felt all along: that NZ (so far) was a beautiful country inhabited by some of the best humoured and friendliest people of any country we had visited. Tomorrow we leave Wellington and the north island for Picton in the south, and from the many, many testimonies from travellers and locals we can expect much, much more from the south island.

Our tour of the north ends here, in Wellington where we were treated by our friend Rachel to a personalised tour of parliament. If you go to the parliament buildings you’ll see that the majority is made up of neo-classical architecture (double check!!) which was the popular European choice of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. But to the left of centre you’ll notice the alien shape of a rocket ship, which landed sometime in the 70’s and has set up home as a section of parliament ever since. Dubbed “The Beehive” because of its tiered rise and circular shape, the building is usually buzzing with the footsteps and voices of politicians and MP’s but the day of our tour was a Friday and, as Rachel who works in the adjacent parliamentary offices informed us, the MP’s were not in office. This gave us an opportunity to get access to the underground tunnel which runs from her building to the Beehive and which no public tour is allowed access to (I loved Rachel’s description of walking through the tunnel as akin to being in a James Bond film).

Above: middle section of Parliament Buildings, Wellington

We also paid a visit to the Te Papa Museum on Wellington’s waterfront which is one of the best museums I’ve ever visited. It covers everything from space, geology, topography, science, natural history, colonial history and of course Maori history and culture. The museum was so big that we ran out of time and energy during our visit, meaning that a return to this city in the future is absolutely essential. Being the country’s capital you would expect the main streets to be heaving with people over a weekend however we found the city centre to be almost deserted during the day which give Wellington a uniqueness we have never encountered in a capital city. For anyone visiting this city, Courtenay Place and Cuba Street are must-do’s; we could quite easily have spent the whole day just walking about, stopping in various shops and cafés which cater to the artistic and alternatively quirky.

Above: The Beehive, Wellington (more recent Parliament Building)

On Saturday night however, the same deserted streets begin to thrive with alcohol infused activity. No visit to NZ’s capital would be complete without an evening visit to an Irish pub showing the All Blacks vs Ireland and we enjoyed a few drinks with Rachel while soaking up the friendly atmosphere that seems commonplace of pubs watching rugby in NZ. We felt there was no better way to end our north island stay and I think you’d agree, eh? You do? Sweet as.

#New Zealand #Tangariro Crossing #National Park #Whakahoro #Blue Ducks Conservation #Wellington #The Beehive #Sweet as

The Silver Fern- Part Three: Success

Considering the reality of free-falling from 15,000 feet, Jo and I were fairly calm about the prospect. We had talked about doing it since leaving England and in my estimations, it was a whole lot less terrifying than doing a bungee-jump; mainly because of the trained professional nut-case attached to my back.

Even our arrival at the airfield failed to release the proverbial butterflies in our stomachs and we both put on our jumpsuits and geared up feeling relatively relaxed. But stage by stage the nerves began to filter through, first with the sight of the plane pulling up; then hopping aboard. Our initial ascent did away with worrying as it’s hard not to notice the spectacle of the lake and surrounding landscape that demands your undivided attention. The views afforded from this tiny plane were enough excitement without the thrill of what was to come.

But then you get to such a height that your tandem puts the oxygen mask over you, and the butterflies- mocking you with their perfectly functioning wings- start to flutter about. Then you’re taken through the procedure and actions for the day’s fall:

“Arms across your chest, head and legs back”, you think you hear as his voice just about carries over the plane’s roaring engine.

“When I tap you on the shoulder, spread your arms out”. Then the driver gives the man nearest the cockpit the “OK” which happens to be my tandem, so I know exactly what’s coming. Then the door flies open, and the bitterly cold air floods in, biting at your exposed face. And one-by-one bodies disappear from the plane and you shuffle down to the back to realise that other than the pilot, you are the only ones left. Everyone else has gone; there’s no backing out now.

My tandem shuffles to the doorway and strapped to his chest, he dangles me out of the plane like a piece of bait on fishing wire above the surface. “Legs under!” he shouts and I obey, tucking my legs underneath the plane. “This is it!” and as he’s counting down I’m staring out into the abyss. Without much time to truly comprehend what I’m about to do, were falling and we tumble once, once only before I’m looking straight down at the tiny objects below. The initial fall from the plane was akin to that feeling you get at the very tip of the highest point of a roller-coaster; that moment when you get the tumbling knot in your stomach. I stress that it was like that, but on an unprecedented level.

I was worried before the jump that in the madness of jumping out of a plane, my brain might spend the first few seconds in sensory overload, and that I’d be unable to process exactly what was happening. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Once we had straightened ourselves out, I couldn’t help but grin with amazement at what I was seeing and feeling. I loved every single millisecond of the jump, especially the 60 seconds of free-fall.

Once the parachute was pulled, I was jerked into an uncomfortable state that only my male readership will truly understand, but the four or five minutes that followed far outweighed the pain. The madness and the rushing winds have ceased and suddenly there is calm, and I experience one of the most beautiful moments of my life so far. Being high above everything, and I mean everything in sight and having the feeling that I was seeing and experiencing something that humans were never meant to see was a sensation beyond words.

We reached the ground with a soft bump and I immediately felt the urge to do it all over again. With adrenaline still racing through me, I jogged back to the hangar and embraced Jo, who in turn gave me the same hug that said we had just shared something incredible.

A day later, I am still coming to terms with it and I still get excited thinking about it. Thinking back further to our past 10 days, I can’t help but conclude time and time again that NZ is by- and-far my favourite country on this trip. Already it has provided so many highs in its very short term and we are not yet half way through our stay here. I can’t help but come back to the silver fern, NZ’s national symbol and consider its Maori significance when I think of what we’ve been through here and what we hope to achieve in the coming weeks. We know where were going; we’ve got direction. We know what we want to get out of it; we’ve got purpose. And if our memories so far are anything to go by, we’ll end our trip with much success. The sky-dive if anything perhaps best epitomises this: I had direction, I had purpose (115mph of purpose!) and as this very sentence serves to prove, I had success.

#New Zealand #Taupo #Skydiving #Lake Taupo #Silver Fern

The Silver Fern- Part Two: Purpose

I loved hearing about the Maori culture from the drivers and the locals who know their land intimately, whether they be of white descent or Maori. The survival of, not only national treasures like kiwi birds and kauri trees but also Maori culture, gives the people of NZ a common cause; a purpose to strive toward. We had only spent three days in the Northlands of NZ yet we felt deeply immersed in the real NZ after a- enjoyable, yes but- largely commercial few days in Auckland.

A packed schedule gave way to a morning of respite as we checked out on Wednesday (13th June) and lazily awaited our bus. Bear, the same driver who brought us from Auckland just a few days ago was kindly taking us back. We made a nights stop in the capital before arising early for our southbound bus. Admittedly we hadn’t looked ahead with any great detail as to our next destination. We had such a positive experience on our first Stray bus where everything was made easy for us with random visits along the way and activities organised daily, that we were happy to just go with flow. Plus, we had chosen Stray because we wanted to meet people who we could talk to, spend time with and potentially extend our time with on the bus. We felt if we planned everything too far in advance, it would be harder to tear ourselves away from a group that we might come to enjoy the company of.

All we knew is that we would be ending this leg of the tour in Taupo where we planned to stop for three nights. In between we had two scheduled overnight stops where we left the next day and our first port of call was Raglan, on which Stray pride themselves for being the only tour operator to visit the famous surf-town. Not that I knew before we stayed the night that it was famed for anything. The Endless Summer was filmed here in 1966 and- not that I know what this means- it is also famed for its left hand brakes (surfers, please feel free to enlighten me).

Here we relaxed beside the Tasman Sea before a group of us split off to walk through some largely unspoilt local bush and just in time we made it to one of the lookouts which gave us some breath-taking views of the setting sun. A little later, dusk would give way to a pitch black night’s sky which was covered in the brightest blanket of stars I have ever seen.

The following day we arrived in Waitomo, a very sleepy town of 48 permanent residents, which has been attracting visitors from the late 19th century to its network of glow-worm caves. Another proud and informatively dreadlocked local provided us with this information, telling us that Waitomo was the first holiday destination in NZ as he pointed out the town’s three main over-ground points of interest: the store, the rugby fields and of course, the pub.

We came to NZ hoping to participate in white water rafting’s edgier cousin, black water rafting and also visit the caved glow-worms. Here we killed two caves with one stone, taking to the earth in wet-suits and tubing through the Tumu Tumu caves in icy cold water often up to our necks. When we weren’t almost fully submerged in freezing water, we were shutting off our headlamps and walking through the caves passages with only the greeny-blue glow of what are in fact insect larvae, to show us the way. The subterranean setting and minus reaching water could not stop us having one of the most enjoyable experiences of the trip.

From Waitomo we eventually arrived in Maketu where we were offered accommodation at a traditional marae, a structure of spiritual significance to the Maori. The stay was optional and those wanting to stay need pay $75 (£37) which included a bed for the night (Maori style), dinner and breakfast the next morning. In addition, we were treated to a traditional culture show or concert by the Maori people who lived there as well as being taught a couple of traditional acts: the haka for the boys and the poi for the girls. Now, I needn’t explain what the haka is, however the poi is a dance performed by the females of a tribe involving string with a ball attached to the end. Without meaning to cause offence, the accompaniment looks kind of like a child-friendly nun-chuck and is coincidentally much less threatening than the haka.

Uncle Boy was the man behind the operation and welcoming us to the marae, he explained exactly what was in store. Uncle Boy and his people are very proud of their heritage and as such he put across to us in no uncertain terms just how we were meant to behave whilst we were staying. As an “invading tribe” our bus had to elect a chief: he had to be male and he had to be the eldest. I was beaten to this honour by a 33 year old German called Tom, and whilst I was disappointed at the time, once I found out what was in store for our chief I felt a twang of relief race through my body.

Uncle Boy explained that there was to be a ceremony which is traditional of his people and was important for them to be performed at such occasions in honour of their ancestors. The basic message was that we were not to laugh during this ceremony and that if we were thought to be disrespecting of them and the culture at any time during, that we would be made to leave at once. A ‘warrior’ would perform a greeting of sorts to us, the invading tribe, and by laying down a leaf at the feet of our chief he basically meant “we welcome your tribe into ours”. If we were to laugh or smirk or show any sign of disrespect of any kind during the warrior’s performance, then we would be thrown out.

The warrior was essentially showing how strong, powerful and skilled a fighter he is so for any of us to smile was to insult the warrior. Uncle Boy told us that the point of the performance was to frighten us, as it would have frightened tribes hundreds of years ago but that this feeling of fear or intimidation should be welcomed. He wanted us to have an experience, and it was safe to say that we got a lot more than that out of it.

Uncle Boy waved us off the next morning as we left the Bay of Plenty for Rotorua where we enjoyed an hour and a half walk about the Hells Gate geo-thermal park where the landscape resembled that of a pre-historic age of spewing pools, boiling water and mud. In this scene, the only thing missing was the scaly (or debatably feathery) dinosaurs. We stopped briefly in the town centre of Rotorua, and made one or two stops at a few more thermal pools as well as the Huka Falls. The water fall is not exactly the biggest of falls, but enough water hurtles through the gorge every three seconds to fill two Olympic sized swimming pools.

This is where our group temporarily parted ways. Some of us got back on the bus and headed for our night’s accommodation in Taupo, whilst the rest of us hopped in an unnecessary limousine which took us, in something bordering style, to an airfield. If you haven’t guessed yet, this second group were taken to perform a sky-dive and yes, I was in this group of insanity.

#Silver Fern #Raglan #New Zealand #Maketu #Maori #Haka #Uncle Boy #Poi #Rotorua #Hells Gates #Taupo

The Silver Fern- Part One: Direction

“Direction, purpose and success”. These are the qualities that New Zealand’s beloved silver fern- the fern that adorns their rugby team’s jerseys- comes to stand for. At least this was the explanation from the Kiwi who led us about Rotorua’s geothermal-park, Hells Gates yesterday. Plucking a leaf from the native bush, the guide turned the glowing green side over to reveal its shiny, silver coated underside. It wasn’t difficult to guess where the name for NZ’s favourite flora had come from, however the reason for its use as a national symbol (other than its status as a native plant) is a little harder to second guess.

A quick Google search brought up various explanations for the fern’s use on the All Black’s flag, from independence and defiance due to the fern’s ability to reproduce without the need of seeds or foreign pollination, to sincerity which apparently stems from its use in Victorian burial ceremonies. Whilst the former does seem to apply to a country who threw off the shackles of colonialism, the explanation given by our guide is much more attractive. Like many Kiwi stories, this one begins with rugby.

According to our guide, on a tour to England to play their former oppressors, the NZ rugby team realised that unlike their hosts there was no emblem on their jerseys. A few suggestions were made, first by some of the squad’s white members who suggested using the lovable kiwi bird, another native species which was recognised the world over as a NZ symbol. On revision, the small, furry and particularly timid bird was not the kind of image the team wanted to use in their bid to intimidate their opponents (although I can’t say that England’s red rose is a particularly frightening symbol either- prickly yes, but not intimidating).

It was at this point that one of the Maori members of the team suggested the use of the silver fern. It is said that before white man’s intervention, Maori would use the plant to aid them in their attacks and raids on rival tribes. Under the black of nightfall, the ferns were turned upside down and placed on the ground, pointing the way towards their enemy’s camp and allowing other members of the tribe to follow the ferns that lit up in the darkness. In this tradition then, the silver ferns came to represent “Direction, purpose and success”.

It may seem a fanciful tale but one which I very much believe to be the true story behind the silver ferns use as a national symbol. Speaking of direction, when we were last together reader, Jo and I were due to head north, to the very northernmost parts of the Northlands. As well as it being our first major trip in NZ, it was our first experience on the Stray bus that we had booked to take us on our tour about the islands. And following a 5-6 hour ride that started at 7.50am and ended in Paihia (pie-here), we were happy with our decision to choose Stray as our mode of transport. We had researched various bus operators in NZ, including the renowned “party bus” that is Kiwi Experience.

Apart from the ludicrously cheap Naked Bus, InterCity was the only bus we could find that was within our price range, the only downside being that it was simply an inter-city bus operator that would get us from A-B okay, but would provide nothing more than that. We were hoping for more of a social occasion each time we got on the bus and luckily we stumbled upon Stray who were offering a fantastically affordable bus-pass (a Kiwi Experience pass would have set us back NZ $2000/£1000, whereas for the same type of pass, Stray offered it for a mere NZ $800/£400).

As we left Auckland behind, sleepily waving goodbye as we crossed the coat-hanger bridge, our driver began by introducing himself and explaining a bit about the company, how the buses work (it’s a hop-on-hop-off operator), and what we could expect from him and the company. He gave us commentaries of the surrounding areas, telling us about Auckland before we left, and letting us know approximate times for stops including exactly where those stops would be. It couldn’t have been more different from our gruelling bus encounters in south-east Asia, and simply for that we were thankful.

After a coffee/toilet stop and a brief visit to a natural water-fall and a kauri tree which was a mere 800 years young (as we’ve come to learn, Kiwi’s are very proud of their kauri trees which are again a native species harking back to a prehistoric age), we arrived in the sunny and picturesque town of Paihia. We had a three night stop in Paihia, located on the shores of the Bay of Islands and it gave us access to the Hole in the Rock via a morning boat trip which took us around the stunning bay. The Hole in the Rock is quite literally a hole in a rock which we managed to sail through thanks to the calm sea waters, but on the way we were afforded time and time again with wonderful scenery of blue waters and green hillsides, even stopping for a short while to spot a pod of dolphins who were feeding in the bay.

Our third day in the Northlands was spent on a day trip to Cape Reinga which we were happy to find out was paid for and included in our Stray bus pass. It was another early morning start and whilst we didn’t quite get the cloudless skies and warm sunshine of the day before, we packed the day with plenty of activities from sand-boarding down the dunes of Ninety Mile Beach, to the more pedestrian walk around a gum-field reserve (gum or sap from the kauri was a commodity for diggers in the late 19th/early 20th century and was mainly used, but not exclusively, for varnish).

I’m sure for most people, Ninety Mile Beach shouldn’t need an explanation as to how it got its name. I too was fairly happy with the self-sufficient name, however our friendly and very knowledgeable driver gave us the story behind it. The beach is not 90 miles long; not even close. It is measured at approximately 60 miles, however the cattle-owners who would walk their stock up and down this stretch of beach would do so in what must have been three inaccurate 30 mile walks. The estimation found its way into the beach’s title before it was accurately measured and as such, the name has stuck.

Cape Reinga and Ninety Mile Beach are particularly significant to the Maori people. It is said that the spirits of the dead travel up along the beach, to Cape Reinga which is the northernmost part of the country. From the tip of NZ, the spirits submerge under water before the last leg of their journey which takes them back to their ancestral home of Hawaiki. Unlike the Maori spirits, our route from the cape was not northbound but southbound, and after a bite to eat we turned back, heading for Paihia.

We did however get the chance to see the two waters of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean come together. The reality was a little less dramatic than I had pictured, but a torrent of white frothy water marked the point where the two met and the water surrounding the coast was a crystal clear bluey-green colour as a result. The Maori interpretation of these two waters meeting is of one representing man whilst the other represents woman, and the two coming together symbolises creation; no doubt a fitting yin and yang as the spirits of the dead depart NZ at the point where life is symbolically made.

#Silver Fern #New Zealand #Paihia #Bay of Islands #Cape Reinga #Maori #Ninety Mile Beach

I read your tale about New Zealand and loved it! However, I would just like to say that Auckland don't represent the majority of kiwis! I'm not sure if you ventured anywhere else in New Zealand, but trust me, all the small town locals are amazing! I say this as an Australian with a New Zealand family, so I'm a tad bias, but the people in country towns are so lovely and welcoming! They are warm hearted and are so kind to everyone, so I encourage you to visit there if you get the chance!!

Thanks very much! I realise that just one city cannot represent an entire country. It was a combination of factors that led to our initial feeling towards Aucklanders/Kiwi's. We are embarking on a 7 week tour of NZ (both north and south islands) and we expect to meet many more friendly people. In fact we have spent the past few days in Paihia and everyone we have met, from the tour guides to the shop owners, have been extremely helpful and welcoming.

I guess in a similar way, I get annoyed by people assuming were from London when we tell them were from England...there are other places!! And cities can often be quite impersonal. We are very much looking forward to exploring the REAL New Zealand!

Thanks again!

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