:: Sunday, March 16, 2003 ::

New Zealand's North Island

Well, we've hit Fiji now, and with it a corresponding drop in the pace of life. So, before all our energies are sapped and we slip into utter idleness, here's a rundown of what we got up to in the North Island.


The first thing to mention is that, despite all the bad publicity which the North Island is given by South Islanders (and seemingly the rest of the world too) it does have some really spectacular places. After our day out in Wellington, we headed north to two towns - Napier and Hastings - billed as the Art Deco capitals of the world. Both towns were razed in an earthquake in the 1930s and rebuilt in a consciously Art-Deco-stylee. Lots of pastel colours, sharp edges and 'snazzy' (there's a word you don't hear often - circumbendibus - there's another) fonts advertising what each building does. Even McDonald's has a 50s American Diner feel to it with Elvis memorabilia and an olde worlde plane parked outside(?) Perhaps the best feature was the seafront boulevard - incredibly straight tree-lined roads with Art-Deco terraces neatly spread out along them. Nevertheless, the towns were not as overwhelming as the marketeers would have us believe, - parts of San Francisco seemed to do the job better.


From there we headed up to Lake Taupo and the heart of the North Island's geothermal, volcanic region. First stop were the 'Craters of the Moon' - an area of intense geothermal activity where steaming geysers and bubbling mudpools do their thing amid technicolour lunar plains. Needless to say, we took full advantage of the opportunity to enrich our knowledge of our planet's inner workings, and were not even slightly tempted by the idea of taking photos of ourselves with geothermal 'steam' and 'mud' emanating from our behinds.


Just south of the lake (which is a vast volcanic crater in itself) is the town of Whakapapa (just so you know, the correct Maori pronunciation is 'Fack-a-papa' Snarf, snarf). Nearby are several impressive volcanoes, including Mt Ruapehu, which last spurted forth ash and rocks in 1996. Needless to say, the locals didn't let it spoil their day, and simply carried on skiing or trekking in the immediate vicinity. Many were distraught to find the skifields closed in the following days - not for fear of further explosions (of which there were lots), but rather beacuse the ash/snow mix didn't make for good skiing. There is no snow at the moment, so we opted instead for the 'Tongariro crossing'. This is a famous one-day hike, covering a 17km track over two dormant volcanoes: Tongariro and Ngauruhoe. The walk started with a one-hour slog over slate and lava-boulders, then followed up with a knee-crunching 3 hour climb up loose scree and boulders to the 1967m high peak of Tongariro. From there it was mostly downhill (including some impromptu but 'gnarly' scree-running along the way). The best views were down into the red crater, and past the delectable looking Blue Lake and the Ketetahi hot springs (unfortunately too sulphurous for a dip these days). The 8-hour megatrek was only made bearable by regular intravenous chocolate and squashed tuna sangers. Mmmmm.


Feeling energised and fit (and just a tad creaky) afer the trek, we headed up to the geothermal town of Rotorua. Everyone warned us that this place stank, but by the time we arrived, we were way too cool to be fazed by guffy sulphuric niffs, and headed straight for a campsite right in the centre of the action. This place is 'world-famous' (their words) as the only campsite in the world with geothermally-heated tent sites, to say nothing of hot mineral spas and a geothermal steam oven. The tents were toasty warm (not too hot, not too cold), and the steamed chicken and root vegetable dinner which we left in the oven for 3 hours was just divine. Whilst in Rotorua we visited the 'Agrodome' which started life as an interactive sheep-shearing experience, or some such nonsense, and quickly developed into the (much more enriching) North Island's centre of extreeeme silliness. First up was Zorbing. For anyone not familiar with Zorbing's oeuvre, this is where you get inside a gigantic rubber ball-within-a-ball and they roll you down a hillside. To add to the fun, they lob in a couple of buckets of warm water to ensure an authentic washing machine-style panic as you career downhill in fear of your life, bouncing hither and thither like a cat in a box. This was something I (Barney) had seen on a video wall in a Spanish disco at the age of 11 - it had made a big impression on me so actually doing it 16 years later was a pretty rewarding experience. Next up was the 'Swoop'. This is where you jump into a giant sleeping bag next to your chum/s, and are hoisted 40m into the air on the end of a giant piece of string. Then you have to pull a ripcord (all credit to Claire for taking on this task - dangling at 40m there is a huge temptation to burst into tears and make them bring you down). This releases you and you hurtle towards the ground before swinging right up the other side. Sounds easy but the first few seconds of falling are petrifying.


There was only one thing left to do before our greed for extremism would truly be sated - the (comparatively tame-sounding) white-water rafting. We headed off in a van with a be-combed-over man who resembled Penfold out of Dangermouse, and after changing into a waterproof fleece (with a cheetah or Fresian Cow pattern on - our choice), we were given a safety briefing. 'If the boat goes over, hold onto the rope and get into the air pocket under the boat. If you get swept off, keep your legs up so you don't get dashed on the rocks' etc. Now feeling the fear, we decided to do it anyway, and headed onto the beautiful Kaituna river for fun and japes. We rafter over numerous rapids and two or three waterfalls but the real highlight was the 7m fall which we negotiated entirely without incident (see pix). It's hard to describe the rush of doing this - again a washing-machine spings to mind - but only when we saw the freeze-frame photos afterwards could we appreciate that this was a sheer drop, and we made it down safely. Nice. The guides added to the fun by making us steer the boat head-on into the base of a waterfall, thus ensuring we 'surfed' the wave at the bottom, which gave the person/s at the front (first Simon, then Claire and Sharon) an impressive soaking, and the rest of a good chuckle.


After Rotorua we headed for the unofficial capital Auckland. Simon accurately described it as a poor man's Sydney which is true, except that with the thousands of yachts on display (not just the ones from the recently-lost America's Cup) it certainly didn't seem poor. Apparently 1/5 of Aucklanders have a yacht - not a bad life really. We entertained ourselves with a trip up the 300m skytower. For once, we resisted the temptation to do the 'Skyjump' (you've guessed it - a ludicrous 20 second guided bungy jump down the edge of this, the city's tallest building). Instead we came down in the lift, and after a night on the town,we jumped in the car for our final NZ jaunt - up to the Northland.


This was to have included a trip to the fabulous Bay of Islands, amongst other things, but ended up being a total wash-out. It didn't stop raining for 3 days, by which time our enthusiasm waned and we headed back to Auckland for our flight to Fiji. Still, we managed to visit Waitangi, the site of the signing of the Waitangi treaty on 6/2/1840, which gave the British throne control of NZ's lands in exchange for protection and integration of the Maori people into society. This treaty is the reason that Maoris enjoy a much better standard of living, and much greater social and cultural integration than their Australian counterparts. Indeed everything in NZ is recognised as bi-cultural, so noone is perceived as more important than anyone else. It all works very nicely on the whole. The other highlight of the Northland were the Kauri forests. Kauri trees are enormous - the ones we visited had a girth of up to 17m and had been growing there for 2,000 years. Good use of arboreal longevity I say. Big up the Kauris! We'll get some photos onto the site as soon as possible.


More news from the sweaty, but relaxing South Pacific Islands in due course. Don't expect any urgency though. There's always tomorrow...
:: Barney 7:06 AM [+] ::
...

New Zealand's South Island

Invercargill to Picton

From Caledonian-wannabe Invercargill in the extreeeme South to Picton in the extreeeme North East, this has been an intense, adrenaline-fuelled three weeks. Now that we've reached the sanctuary of the North Island (no Al, nothing to do with the RAC and Ian Parsley), it's safe to say that any longer in the South Island and they'd have been burying us all in XXX-shaped coffins. Gnaaaaaaarly dude!


There's very little to say about Invercargill. It was settled by Scots (how can you tell?) and, perhaps appropriately, is one of the coldest spots in the whole of 'In Zud' (NZ). It's populated by chalky folk with orange hair, most of whom wear tartan shirts and proudly sport mullets. Had there been a saloon bar, no doubt silence would have fallen and be-mulleted heads turned as soon as we entered. Thankfully there wasn't, and the worst that happened was a flat tyre. After the rental company sent us fruitlessly round the houses, we finally found a mechanic who got it sorted, and even phoned the rental people to - successfully - insist they pay for it. We got the hell out of town and headed back onto the 'Southern Scenic Route' up towards Fiordland and the famous Milford Sound. This place is so remote, there's only one way in and one way out. We bushcamped for a night at 'Ten Mile Bush' and, once the sniggers and fnarr-fnarrs had died down, go tour first taste of the West coast sandflies which were to plague us over the next few days. These things are vicious - they don't suck blood like the humble mosquito but actually bite into your flesh to get what they want. The resulting itch is more intense, but thankfully not as long lasting as a mozzie's, but they swarm in such numbers that yours ankles, midriff, wrists and neck are left looking like a rugby player's ears for days.


Only the sheer beauty of the area takes your mind off the swarms of killer flies. The roads from Te Anau to Milford Sound is one of the most scenic in the world. Its location on a major tectonic fault line ensure that the mountains are steep, jagged and plentiful, and the ludicrously high rainfall levels (8m a year) mean that the waterfalls, lakes (including the appropriately-named Mirror Lakes) and white water rivers are pretty spectacular too. Needless to say, the single-lane access road is jam-packed with busloads of Japanese (and German) tourists, who stop at 5m intervals to wield that video camera at yet another bit of rock. Even more obviously, we were just seconds behind them with our cameras sticking out of the pimpmobile's window and big grins on our chops. When we reached Milford, we made our way to the Lodge (the only budget accommodation option in the area), where the patronising receptionist informed us we could camp in their gravel carpark ('Well, it IS a World Heritage area - we can't possibly introduce foreign species like grass!') for a princely sum. We politely declined and asked if we could take a shower there anyway, to cleanse away the effects of bushcamping. After telling us that the 'casual' shower rate was nearly as much as the extortionate camping fee, we politely declined and decided to stick with the bushcamp. We then went to Milford Sound proper and booked our activities - Simon an afternoon's kayaking, and Barney and the girls a one-hour cruise to the edge of the Tasman Sea and back. The commentary informed us that Milford Sound was not actually a sound (didn't tell us what a sound was) but rather a Fiord carved out by glaciers over millions of years. As well as calm, crystal clear waters and sheer cliffs on either side, the peculiar history of the sound's creation meant it contained a wealth of deep-sea coral and fish species at a depth of only 10m. Here comes the science bit: This was an effect of the huge quantities of rain water falling (via the waterfalls) on top of the salt water of the sound. This created an unusually dark area of salt water under the thin layer of freshwater and along came all the deep sea (dark water) species. Got that? In any case, some smart bod had the idea of creating an observation deck at a 10m depth, and there we were treated to views of black coral (rarely seen by divers as it lives too deep), as well as some very silly-looking fish which lay on their sides all day perspiring and wheezing. Sound familiar?


A couple of days later we headed back South to Te Anau, then East to Mossburn, then North (in a giant U-shape) to Queenstown. Although only 100km or so from Milford, there is no direct road, so the journey takes several gruelling hours. Queenstown is a major tourist centre, and is known as the adventure-sport 'capital' of New Zealand. If you're not leaping out of a plane or hurling yourself into the ether with nothing but a glorified elastic band tied round your ankles, then it's cos you're too busy jetboating up the Shotover river or waterskied-up and catching some 'gnarly' hangtime on the town's lake. Or so the brochures would have you believe. In fact, we decided it was all overpriced and most of it could be experienced cheaper and better elsewhere. Nevertheless, in deference to A J Hackett, the self-declared 'Extremist' who brought bungy-jumping to the western world, Simon and Barney did 'the Ledge' - Queentstown's 'Urban' bungy: video evidence testifies that we hurled ourselves 47m off a perfectly good wooden platform which itself was suspended from the edge of a steep precipice, only to be spared our lives at the last minute by a length of rubber cord, but I don't believe we did it all. Having taken the decision to run off the edge of the platform, Barney then forgot to stop running, producing a comical 'cartoon character running off the edge of a cliff' effect. Only the beat of the bongo was missing.


Next stop was Wanaka, 100km North of Queenstown over the highest main road in NZ (1121 at its summit). This gave us yet more memorable views, this time more reminiscent of an extreme version of rolling green English countryside. Wanaka was a much smaller town less overrun with Miserablites and other tourists. We bushcamped North of town where the nighttime wind was so strong it caved our tent in, and the poles banged us on the head every time we nodded off. The town itself is situated on the edge of another beautiful lake and offers a similarly bewildering array of plain-silly activities to its larger cousin. This is where the fun really started. Claire and Sharon, both a touch wary of heights and having both admitted previously to the overwhelming urge to jump when faced with a cliff face or suchlike (but otherwise very sensible girls) decided that they couldn't possibly leave without lobbing themselves out of an aeroplane. With surprising calmness they were fitted up with jumpsuits and briefed on jumping and landing techniques as well as safety, and in two shakes of a lambs tail, were being whisked 12,000ft into the air in a plane with a hole in the side, only covered on the ascent with a sheet of clear perspex, accompanied only by their 'tandem' jump partners and a couple of camera-wielding nutcases. Those of us left on the ground (been there, done that, even got the T-shirt) were left to watch various dots hurtling out the back of the plane and guessing not just who was who, but also whether they were really supposed to be falling at such a rate of knots. Meanwhile the girls were being treated to a 45-second 200km/h whirlwind freefall, with views extending over snow-capped Mount Cook and the lakes of the surrounding area. It was a cracking day, without a cloud in the sky, so visibility was virtually limitless. Once the 'chutes were pulled we witnessed a few swirling stunts and other jiggery-pokery before the girls landed and came rushing back to the hangar bearing more teeth than is strictly healthy. Again, you'll have to wait to see the videos to get the full ground-rush gnarl of the experience, but there are a couple of photos in the gallery to whet your appetite.


After the girls had recovered Barney and Simon headed off for a spot of 'White water sledging'. This is a bit like rafting, except without the comfort of a raft. Each person has their own body-board and wetsuit and gets to hurtle over the churning white-water, dodging whirlpools and rocks and experiencing the 'river wild' at very close quarters. The first run (around 5km downstream) was mainly to acclimatise us, but the second time round we were lead right into the thick of things. Taking the racing line (ie the centre where all the currents meet), we were whisked through the 'rollercoaster', 'roaring Meg' and 'dead man's something' (I was too busy being sucked under and spun around to hear the full name) and spat out the other end. This was an experience I won't forget in a hurry, but also one I might be able to resist in the future.


After a North-bound evening drive through pitiless driving rain, we arrived at Makarora and decided to forgo the tents in favour of a dry, heated cabin. After pulling up in this township (population 30) another solitary car came into view. I (Barney) was approached by one of the occupants who started asking me something, before we both double-took and realised we knew each other. Those of you who know Gavin O'Keefe will know that he and his sister Sian (the stranger in question) live barely 2 minutes' walk from my house in Cambridge. And, just for the record, Sian was the FIFTH random encounter I've had with people I know from home since being away. The other four were:

• Bangkok, Khao San Rd (1): Tom, a friend who studied Spanish (and appeared in the Spanish play) with me at Bristol University


• Bangkok, Khao San Rd (2): Dave, a friend of Leila's from Sixth Form College


• Vang Vieng, Lao PDR: Jo, my ex-girlfriend's brother's ex-girlfriend (you do the Math!)


• Luang Prabang, Lao PDR: Leila's friend Keshi Bouri, who it transpires crashed my 21st birthday party

Ain't that bonkers? Not 'alf mate. Anwyay, back to Makarora. The following morning the rain cleared up and took off in a 'jet-boat' for an hour. This is pretty much what is says it is: a boat with a nozzle, which sucks up 60 litres of water per second, and shoots it out the back, creating very high speed and manoeuvrability in a boat which barely touches the water's surface. Our driver took us along the Wilkin River at frightening speeds, flying dangerously close to the river bank and then veering away just milliseconds before arboreal impact seemed an unavoidable certainty. About half an hour into the trip he turned round, grinning maniacally, and made a twirling motion with his hand. We soon discovered this meant we would be doing a '360'. Suffice to say the jetboat turned on a sixpence, so we 'pulled some serious G's' and emerged slightly greener around the gills, only to be whisked off for more white-knuckle extremity, with precious little time to enjoy the breathtaking snow-capped peaks surrounding us.


That afternoon, we headed North again to the town of Franz Josef and its resident glacier. After another night camping on gravel in torrential rain, we got up bright and early, got kitted out with waterproof trousers and jackets, woolly hats, mittens, walking boots and ice talons (spikes to attach to the boots), and headed off on a bus. This took us to within 2km of the base of the glacier. From there we trudged for an hour, in a group of 40 over a gravelly plain, to the base of the glacier. We were then split into four smaller groups. We fitted our talons and moved up the glacier. In all the hike lasted about six hours, and in that time we walked up and down ice walls, with our guide hacking out steps for us, crossed gaping ravines, walked through narrow splits in the ice and gaped in awe at the bluish colour of the glacier. The guide explained how glaciers form, advance and retreat, as well as keeping our spirits up as we trudged and slipped for hours - first through rain, then higher up snow. We got about 1/3 of the way up (only madmen, 'extremists' and helicopter pilots make it any further up), and then looped round and made our way down. Check out the pictures to see some of the views we got. Suffice to say, although it was less of an adrenaline rush than some of our other japes, this was far and away the most satisfying, and novel, day out in the South Island. When we got back, we stripped off our gear and ran back to the campsite's spa and sauna, where we all discovered our personal Nirvanas. We then headed off in the rain to the Blue Ice Cafe for a backpackers' pizza deal (including free hard-earned beer) and a perfect day was complete. That night wasn't so great, bringing a rain-storm so powerful it flooded our tent and most of the things in it, but fortunately the laundry's drier was on hand to save us in the morning.


The following day we took another marathon drive which returned us to Christchurch where it had all begun. First we headed North up the West coast, then East over Arthurs Pass. This is supposedly one of the most stunning drives in the South Island (they all say that) but the weather conspired to keep it hidden from view behind a thick layer of mist and rain. When we emerged on the other side into the Canterbury plains, it was a different story: the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless. Having taken up residence at Steve Macklin's house once again, all that remained was to get some fresh blue cod and chips down us (not bad at a quid a pop), and do our laundry. We had a day of 'admin' in Christchurch, then stocked up ready to take off again. The next morning brought tearful (yeah...) goodbyes from Steve (who was due to start his photography course at Christchurch Polytechnic the following day) and a drive North to Kaikoura. Here Simon went swimming with dolphins, where - after encouragement to 'talk to the dolphins as you would want them to talk to you' - he delighted in calling them 'tw@t' and 'w@nker' in a parrot-voice. Meanwhile Sharon was whisked off in a helicopter to view the local resident whales from above. After that, we jumped in the car and drove South-West to Maruia Springs. These are natural hot-water springs open to the public, where you can sit and enjoy the health-giving hot water while enjoying views of the snow-capped mountains all around. Not bad in winter, apparently, and very close to numerous ski fields. Hmmmm - I sense an idea brewing.


Anyway, we bushcamped nearby, then headed up for a night at the Nelson Lakes National Park. Again we were besieged by sandflies, but the campsite had a trampoline, so that was OK. The following day we headed to the Northernmost part of the South Island and the Abel Tasman National Park. [Abel Tasman was the Dutch dude who first sailed into this area and SE Australia - Tasmania - geddit?] We embarked on a 3-day mega-hike along the famous coastal route here. The first day we sea-kayaked around 20km in a small group, guided by Carlos, a local hippy who treated us to a gourmet packed lunch washed down with cappuccinos and mochas on the beach, and pointed out the local seals and other wildlife along the rugged coastline. He also took us to some lovely bays and caves. We had booked beds in a hut at Bark Bay. These were in side-by-side dorms of 14, and would have been fine were it not for Pat Flora the Fat Snorer, aka the Bovine Behemoth, who occupied the mattress next to ours. Her 'congestion' caused her to snore like a roaring steam train, to the detriment of the 13 other long-suffering huttees. Despite waking her numerous times and threatening her with numerous things (including, in Sharon's case, outright murder), she did not stop storing all night. On next-to-no sleep, we roused ourselves and headed off for a 4-hour hike the next day. All along, as we walked through lush forests and passed the stunning coastal scenery we joked of what we would do if Pat Flora turned up at the huts we had booked for that night. Needless to say, we arrived in the early afternoon, and Simon nearly had a coronary when he spotted her Bovineness walking out of the dorm. The rest as they say is history. Of the six people on the same row of beds as Pat, five took their mattresses into the communal kitchen or slept on the beach. Of the rest of us, only those with earplugs got any sleep at all. The rest suffered in grumpy silence.


After another four-hour hike we arrived back in Marahau, caught a taxi to Kaiteriteri (where the car was parked) and drove off towards Belnheim. We stayed at a hostel in Renwick - bang in the middle of the Marlborough wine-producing district - and spent the following day touring the vineyards. We visisted, and sampled the wares of Cloudy Bay, Mud House and Nautilus, as well as some fantastic cheeses, liqueurs and vinaigrettes also produced nearby. That evening we gorged on cheese and wine, and went to bed in our cabin in Picton for a much-needed comfortable night's sleep. From there it was up to the ferry terminal and off to the North Island. The trip to Wellington took two hours and passed through the beautiful surroundings of Queen Charlotte Sound.

With our final South Island pie inside us (this time venison and red wine) we hopped off the boat and drove into the nation's dockside capital. First stop was the Te Papa (Our Place) museum. The plaque outside the main entrance informs us it was opened in 1995 during a visit by 'Kuini Erihapeti' (Queen Elizabeth no less). The museum itself showcases the history of Maori and European New Zealand, but the real highlight was a Lord of the Rings exhibition. Along with cast and crew interviews on video, the exhibits include all the main costumes and props from the film (iuncluing the ring itself), and interactive bits (such as the perception-distrorting photos of big Barney and little Claire which we hope to scan for the website). Gor blimey gov, they sawed a metal pipe into over a million millimetre-long sections to make the genuine chain mail for the fight scenes. And they made most of the sets in triplicate - each a different size to allow for different sized characters. And that's just the start of it. A wicked day out! Now we're off further North for some white-water rafting, zorbing (don't ask), volcano-climbing and more ludicrous activities. We're even hoping to make it to Auckland in time for the Massive Attack gig on the 8th March. Aaaaah, so much to do, so little time. Roll on the beaches of Fiji...


:: Barney 1:29 AM [+] ::
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