Tree hugging

28/1/2007 - 4/2/2007

cigarettes smoked: 4 (oops - had a couple - or four to be precise - of weak moments earlier on in the week), new sandfly bites: 9, sandflies killed: 2 (they're getting sneakier, the little bastards), surfing related bruises: 2, number of times sandboarded down dunes at high speed and splashed into the sea at the bottom: 9.

I made it most of the way through Northland to Ahipara -a stunning little spot at the end of ninety mile beach with a beautiful hostel filled with hammocks, surfboards for hire, free sandboards and boogie boards and lovely, pretty, clean, spacious rooms. After dumping my stuff I got a lift into the village with a couple staying at the hostel and bought just about everything I could find that was suitable for vegetarians (there wasn't an awful lot of choice). As it turned out, none of it tasted good, so after I'd given up on the revolting pasta sauce and the mouldy garlic bread, I switched to wine and chocolate (left over from the previous day) for my evening meal. Much better, and highly nutritious too. I then spent a drunken evening teaching a crowd of Canadians and Europeans from various countries to play "in the pot" and stayed up giggling until the early hours.

The next day I headed up to Cape Reinga - a beautiful area which is almost the northern tip of New Zealand (most people think it is, but the most northerly spot is actually the aptly named Northern Cape), where the Tasman sea meets the Pacific ocean, and where Maori lore states the entrance to the underworld is (the soul of the departed apparently slides down the roots of a pohutukawa tree there and rejoins their ancestral spirits). The carpark, the viewing spot on the nearby hill and the lighthouse area were rammed with tourists taking photos and reading the information boards, but 100m away from the carpark at the start of one of the walking trails, you couldn't see another soul. I had decided that, given it's mythological proximity to the underworld, here was as good a place as any to come and talk to Steve, and since I didn't want a bunch of tourists looking at me like I was nuts, listening, interrupting, or taking photos of me, I decided to go for a walk. After a km or two I found a quiet spot where the only sounds I could hear were the waves crashing onto the rocks below, where I could see the stunning coastline for miles and where the air was redolent with the scent of Manuka, and I sat and talked to Steve, describing the scenery and what I'd been up to in the last few weeks (I've no idea if he can hear me or not, but it gives me some comfort to do this, and it's worth a try in case he can hear me, as I'm fairly certain he won't have access to my blog). When I'd finished I sat and imagined what he would say by way of a reply - my guess is "You fucking tree hugging hippy!" said through gritted teeth in his mock-exasperated voice, followed by him passing me the spliff if there was one to hand. I walked on for a while longer, enjoying the solitude and thinking of Steve, imagining him walking beside me, and then I headed back.

I got up the next morning to be told that once again there was no space in the hostel (why didn't I ask last night?), so I arranged a lift down south for that afternoon and spent the morning "surfing". I attempted to ride a couple of waves, but they weren't very powerful and I kept falling off, then the waves just disappeared altogether, so I sat on my board, behind where the breakers should have been, waiting in vain for a wave and singing KT Tunstall's "Silent Sea".

That afternoon I made my way to the Waipoua kauri forest with Ramona and Brian - a lovely pair that I'd met at the hostel. They introduced me to some Kiwi music (the Black Seeds and Salmonella Dub - dub is apparently very popular in these parts) and we jabbered non-stop all the way to the camping grounds. When I arrived I went to my cabin (all to myself - wooohoooooooooooooo!), dumped my stuff and got chatting to the family next door. They very kindly invited me to join them on a kiwi-spotting walk that they were planning after dark. I decided, since it was highly unlikely that we'd come across any kiwis, much less that it would stay still long enough to get a decent photo at night with no flash, not to bring my camera. The family had been the previous night, but hadn't spotted any kiwis, and wanted to try again, this time staying further away from a guy who does nightly guided kiwi-spotting tours, and makes far too much noise. Sadly, the tour leader left later than usual and we encountered him again, so we hung back whenever we got too close to the group, or whenever we heard kiwis snuffling through the undergrowth, or saw glow-worms doing their thing, lighting up the forest like Christmas trees. At one point we'd almost caught up with the tour leader, and he rather rudely shushed us - the only person who was making any noise was Rachel with her wheelchair, which is rather unavoidable, and he was making 3 times as much noise shushing us, so when he started leading his tour group away, just as we spotted the kiwi they'd been looking for, none of us felt the need to call them back. It was just standing there, about a metre away from us, looking, frankly, startled. I think it had seen us the second I saw it. It darted off, parallel to the path, and we followed it slowly, trying to keep our distance a bit, then it darted across the path right in front of us, and carried on foraging on the other side. It was the most amazing feeling, standing there with our red cellophane covered torches (kiwis can't see the red end of the spectrum, and white light is bad for their eyes as they're nocturnal), watching this rotund ball of fluff rummaging around for grubs and worms with it's huge beak. The kiwi stayed within a few metres of us for about half an hour, seemingly becoming quite used to us. Lesson learned - always bring my camera (damndamndamndamndamndamndamn). Kiwis are such wierd creatures - they're the most un-bird-like-birds you could imagine - they can't fly, they're nocturnal, they're the only birds with their nostrils at the end of their beak and have a fantastic sense of smell as a result, but not that great eyesight, their body temperature is 38 degrees (lower than most other birds), they have two working ovaries (most birds have one), feathers that are more like hair, and they find their food by snuffling about in the undergrowth - occupying the niche that is normally taken up by rodents in other countries (there were no mammals in New Zealand until man came along, so the kiwi evolved to make use of this food source going spare, until the rodents turned up in droves, taking their food and eating their eggs and young). This experience was far more exciting than seeing the sperm whale, despite the cool pictures. Maybe it was the smaller group size, or the decidedly more low key, low-tech approach to locating endangered species. Either way, it just felt like a much more personal experience.

After the kiwi moved on to a different spot, we went back to our cabins, celebrated with a glass of wine, and went to bed. I stayed up until 1am finishing off "The Bone People" - an extremely heavy and difficult read, written by a New Zealander who won the Booker prize for it in the 80s. At 3am I woke needing the loo, and after my traditional 10 minutes of lying there, kidding myself that I can maybe go back to sleep without having to get up, I dragged myself out of the cabin, glanced up and woke up properly - the display the galaxy put on that evening was so amazing. It wasn't just that I could see the milky way, it was the detail of it that was astonishing. I've never seen the stars in the night sky so vividly - it's not surprising really, there are no lights on in the Kauri park, or for miles around at night and there's very little pollution. What a wonderful night.

The next morning I wandered round the various walks in the Kauri park, going up to a viewing spot and seeing these enormous kauri trees that dwarfed the people standing next to them. The first one I went to see was the largest Kauri tree in NZ - Tane Mahuta - the God of the forest. I was just wandering along, asking the people I was walking with how to recognise a Kauri tree, the guy just laughed and said "You'll know when you see this one". He was quite right, a few seconds later we walked out into a clearing and the first words out of my mouth were "Bugger me" when I spotted the enormous tree in front of me. I was informed by a sign that the tree was 2000 years old, 51.5m tall and has a girth of 12.8m (I winced and regretted my first words). It was only when we went to see the 7th largest Kauri tree - Yakas - that I had a proper understanding of just how awesome these trees are. Yakas is the only one you're allowed to stand next to or touch (giving you a proper sense of perspective), the others you can't get within 5m of. I tried to hug Yakas - I couldn't quite get my arms around it. Kauri trees are not just awe inspiring, beautiful trees, they're also an important species environmentally, as Kauri forests are one of the most diverse types found in NZ. Add to this the fact that they're incredibly useful scientifically - you can cut a core from the trunk right to the centre without the tree sustaining any lasting damage, and the tree rings on that core provides all sorts of useful information about environmental conditions in the last 2000 years - particularly useful when studying phenomena such as El Nino or global warming. After about 4 hours walking I went for a swim in a lovely little swimming hole, then went back to the visitors centre feeling refreshed to collect my stuff.

That afternoon I made my way up to Omapere (annoyingly I had to go an hour out of my way to get to the nearest town with a cash machine as I hadn't seen one for days in Northland), located the charming Globe Trekkers hostel run by the extremely helpful Mike, who offered to run me down to the supermarket as it seemed to be quiet on the front desk. I spent the evening chatting with a Canadian couple - Kamil and his girlfriend (whose name eludes me), and my dorm mate Nicole, cooking food, and drinking pinot noir and later on hot chocolate.

The next day I took the boat across the harbour to a peninsula covered in enormous sand dunes that look completely incongruous next to the verdant hills opposite. Honestly, looking across the harbour on a sunny day, you feel like you're in Africa somewhere. The boat dropped me off at the bottom of the dunes with a sandboard, I laboured my way to the top of the nearest dune (only about 30m, but you take a stride of 40cm, then sink 20cm back down - it's bloody hard work), then took a running start, threw myself onto my front on the sandboard, and went flying down the sand dune. You go so fast (up to 20km/hr) that when you reach the bottom of the dune and hit the water, you go skimming across the surface for a few metres before you slow down and sink. I went up again and again (it was sooooooo much fun), and when I tired of climbing the dune, I swam in the water with a lovely Maori girl who'd just turned 11 that day. We did handstands in the water and I tried to teach her to do somersaults. At one point, standing on the top of the sand dune, I saw a stingray swimming through the water past a couple of other sandboarders (and christ did the birthday girl shriek! Unnecessarily I might add, they only sting humans when they're threatened, and then it just hurts like buggery, unless you're unlucky enough for the stinger to pierce a vital organ).

Lovely Mike joined us drinking that evening. He managed to get almost the entire hostel involved in a darts game called killer (you have to pick a number by throwing a dart left handed, when you've actually managed to hit the board, you then have to hit your number again - right handed this time - to activate it and become a killer, and from that point on you try to hit other people's numbers to take away one of their 3 lives, and eventually knock them out). Somehow my name appeared on the board, despite my protests, and inevitably I was shockingly bad at it. So bad in fact, that in the first game, the only person I managed to kill was myself. Twice. During the second game no-one really bothered trying to eliminate me (understandably), although I would have appreciated being put out of my misery as I tried again and again to hit my number and become a killer, while everyone around me massacred each other. Eventually I finally managed to activate my number and achieve killer status, only to find that I was one of three people left in the game, and the only one with all three lives intact. Mike knocked out a charming old duffer called John and started trying to kill me, but then something wholly unexpected happened. I actually hit the number I was aiming for on the dartboard and took away Mike's last life before he could kill me off. I started dancing around purporting to be a cold-blooded killer and telling everyone that I'd intended to be that bad, and was in fact a hustler. I don't think I convinced anyone. I taught the few people who were still up how to play "in the pot" and then stayed up chatting to Nicole and Mike until the fairly late hours of the morning.

The next morning after a slow start, I packed my stuff and spent most of the day heading off to the bay of islands on the East coast. I didn't realise just how far away from the ferry port the backpackers was and was in agony by the time I'd carried my numerous bags for about 20mins, only to be told by the owners that I should have phoned for a lift. Hmmmph.

In the morning I did my washing, including my bikini, but as the sun was shining beautifully (the weather in Northland is stunning compared to the rest of NZ, known in Maori as Aotearoa - the land of the long white cloud), I located the nearest nudey beach and went au naturel. After a relaxing morning I went back across the bay to Paihia to the treaty house - where the peace treaty between the English and the Maoris was signed on 6th February (Waitangi day) 1840. In the run up to Waitangi day there've been a series of concerts outside the treaty house, so I went along, discovered that I'd just missed one of the bands I wanted to see, and the other had cancelled, so I sat there in a bit of a huff. There was a toddler about 1 year old sitting near me. I pulled all sorts of ugly faces at her - she was amazingly fast on the uptake - quite an immitator - she kept trying to pull the same faces back, then would do a wicked little giggle that involved wrinking up her nose and dimples appearing in her hugely chubby cheeks. By the time I left I was in a far better mood, and she'd learnt several new facial expressions, including sticking your tongue out at someone else (an important skill in life), which she really had down to pat.

I went back to the hostel and slobbed in front of Finding Nemo with some very unimaginative pasta.

Yesterday morning I went for another sun worshipping session, then headed off to Kerikeri, where the Black Seeds (a dub band that I've heard a fair bit of since being here) were playing that evening. I found a hostel, chatted to my dorm mates, went food shopping, then got ready. I got tarted up in my new skirt, and actually managed to leave the hostel this time. The gig was fantastic. It was held in a really small venue (there can't have been more than 100 people there) that felt really intimate. The band were amazing - nobody seemed able to stand still, and watching everyone throwing some very outlandish shapes on the dancefloor was a real treat. I danced with a lively Maori girl called Maria, who danced with roughly the same balance of not much grace, but an abundance of energy and enthusiasm, as me (if I don't almost fall over several times during a song, I don't feel that I've really gone for it properly). Later on I ran into Ramona - the girl who'd given me a lift to the Kaori forest, who'd introduced me to the Black Seeds' music in the first place. We had a good dance, and then I hung around after the gig for long enough to tell a couple of band members how much I'd enjoyed it.

Today, when I can be bothered, I'll head south to Whangerei where I will hopefully scuba dive the world class Poor Knights islands, and then I'll head back south to Raglan, where the weather is sadly less glorious, but where I will hopefully be able to retrieve my washing and surf a bit more.

Photos will appear soon, honestly. Watch this space...

Bashing Bible Bashers

18/1/2007 - 28/1/2007

Cigarettes smoked on 18th: 6. Cigarettes smoked 19th onwards: 0 (how good am I?). Number of people who have blown smoke in my general vicinity and who will now die screaming for the offense (I hexed them for tempting me - was that wrong?): 11. New sandfly bites: 7 . Sandflies killed: 4 (hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha). Places where skin is broken on hands and feet from surfboard: 9.

After a day of phoning round for jobs and discovering that the grape harvesting season wouldn't start for nearly a month, that all of the vineyards seemed to contract out the landwork, and none of the gangmasters give contracts (meaning I wouldn't be insured in case of industrial accident), I decided to give up on the land work and started phoning round teaching agencies - I then realised that I would have to set up bank account (so I'd have to be in one place long enough to get a bil, without land work to keep me occupied), and I still had to register as a teacher in NZ (a process which takes a month, and I hadn't been able to start until recently as I'd only just got my CRB check back). I started getting a bit stressed, then decided bollocks to it. Being stressed was not part of my travelling plan. Clearly this working holiday visa thing is overrated, and perhaps I'd be better of not banking on work being available, leaving the expensive countries (NZ and Oz) earlier than planned, and bumming around SE Asia where life is cheaper.

Having made that decision, I went for a 6km walk to a spot overlooking Picton and the sounds to de-stress. It worked - I stopped thinking about my bank balance and started thinking about my blisters again instead.

The next day, feeling far lighter of shoulder (despite the enormous backpacks), I set off for the N island (I haven't nearly seen everything that I wanted to see on the S island, but I'll be back for the last couple of weeks in NZ to do the Milford Track) to see the sights while I can.

I got off the ferry in Wellington and found a nice supermarket that had this wonderful range of exciting vegetarian food (rare in NZ). Imagine me jumping up and down, squealing. I actually did.

I found myself a youth hostel as close to the bus station as possible, then had a look through my guide to Wellington to find something to do that evening. Wellington, as it turns out, is not really a 24 hour city. I did discover that Wellington has an observatory with planetarium talks and telescope viewing sessions. I gave them a ring, but they said they were fully booked that evening, due to the comet. My ears pricked up. I managed to wangle myself a seat at the comet talk and a place on the telescope viewing sessions, despite both being fully booked (largely through beging, wheedling and the verbal equivalent of eyelid batting), then went to the observatory only to be told that the telescope viewing had been canceled due to cloud cover. I went to the comet talk anyway and discovered that this was to be the brightest comet in 40 years, has quite an impressive gas tail, that it is no longer visible in the N hemisphere night sky (soooooooooooooorrrryyyy) but should be visible here for the next couple of weeks. Given that Wellington was covered in cloud, I managed to blag a lift to a good viewing spot with a SW aspect out of town with a nice English couple (Jenny and Steve) - we had to leave the car and hike the last 2km to reach the top of the hill, only to discover that the cloud was appearing just 10 degrees beyond where the comet was. Bugger. We waited around for a while to see if the cloud would lift at all, got some good photos of Wellington at night, then gave up and drove back. I have to say, it was an excellent way to avoid thinking about how much I wanted a fag though (for those that didn't bother reading the first bit - I've given up (again)).

I caught the bus to New Plymouth early the next morning. I thought I'd better not inflict my smelly feet and travelling sandals on anyone else, so I sat on my own. Unfortunately the bus started to fill up and the frumpiest twenty something woman you've ever seen sat next to me. I chatted to her politely at first, up until the point when she asked me if I'd found Jesus yet. I had a horrible sinking feeling and tried to politely tell her that she wasn't going to convert me, so she'd probably be better off not trying. She carried on regardless, asking me if I'd ever lied. When I said yes, she asked what that would make me. She didn't seem to find my reply of "Human" a valid response and gave me a clue - "It starts with l and rhymes with tyre". I had already spent the last few minutes battling the urge to respond to her with extreme sarcasm, and her patronising me was not making it any easier to hold back the tirade of my thoughts on the matter. As I clearly didn't know the answer she kindly enlightened me by telling me that I was in fact a liar. She then asked me if I'd ever stolen anything. I told her that I really wasn't interested in having this conversation with her, but she carried on talking as if I'd said nothing. As she was no longer listening to a word that I was saying, let alone responding, I decided that I would treat her with the same courtesy and respect that she was treating me with. I got out my mp3 player, put the headphones in, but it on full volume then mouthed "I can't hear you" at her and proceeded to hum along and air guitar until she got off the bus half an hour later. Thank christ (was that blasphemy - oops). As an agnostic, I normally find it interesting, hearing other people's views on their chosen religion, but I can't stand it when some fanatical nutjob tries to ram their views down my throat (particularly when I'm a captive audience) and expects me to just politely listen, not respond in any way with my own views. After she got off, I moved and sat next to a local girl that I'd already chatted to while waiting for the bus (I was more concerned about avoiding lunatics than the smell of my feet by this time) - a student who'd just been dumped by her boyfriend and needed to moan and curse men generally. I joined in wholeheartedly, and when we ran out of new expletives to use, I got my MP3 player out and broadened her musical horizons (she needed some music that wasn't depressing and wasn't lovey dovey).

I checked into a lovely hostel in New Plymouth, booked a surfing lesson for the next day, then went to check out some live music and a festival of lights at the local park with a Finnish guy - the lights were quite sweet, if a little tacky, the local jazz band could have used a conductor (they were all over the place when they played Take 5), but there was a decent dj who did a set. After a few minutes a couple appeared with fire poi and a fire staff, so when they'd performed I begged a few minutes on the poi and had a bit of a dance. We kept an eye on the sky for any signs of the cloud lifting (I still hadn't seen the comet), but gave up after an hour or so, went back to the hostel and sweated in the rather wonderful sauna instead.

The following day I went to Oakura for my first surfing lesson. A slightly annoying bland guy who seemed so chilled out and calm that he didn't appear to have any sort of emotional reaction to anything (probably too much yoga, meditation and pot in his formative years) took me out on a tandem board for a couple of hours. Basically we'd both be on the same board, and when we caught a wave, he'd stand up, then help me up, just to get me used to the feeling of standing up and riding the wave without overbalancing. After an hour of this, he took the tandem board in, and brought me a beginner board to practice on. It was just ever so slightly more difficult catching a wave (without someone else to help me paddle), standing up (without someone else to haul me up) and staying balanced (without someone else to compensate for my wobbliness) on my own, but I managed a couple of short rides on my knees before I fell off the board.

I went back to the hostel thoroughly exhausted and spent an evening slobbing in the sauna and in front of the tv (and occasionally nipping outside to check the cloud cover - still no luck). I now have a new shittest film of all time - cheaper by the dozen 2. Don't even watch it if you have kids.

As the visitor information centre had told me the day before that the weather would be heavy, low cloud with a high probability of rain, I decided that it probably wasn't the best idea to climb Mt Taranaki (2500m) - the staff certainly didn't seem to think so (plus I still have all too vivid memories of the Scottish mountain rescue incident), so I took the bus to Hamilton in the morning and watched the beautiful cloud-free sky roll past, and tried not to get irritated with meteorologists (do they just guess?).

I found a lovely little youth hostel for the night (before continuing on to Raglan) with a cheap chinese takeaway nearby, beautiful Hamilton gardens a stone's throw away and a great DVD collection. The first thing I did, after dumping my bags, was to head for Hamilton Gardens to find a good viewing spot on top of the hill with a south-westerly aspect, in case the clouds didn't reappear, then I got myself an egg foo-yung, sat in front of the TV to watch Identity, and waited.

At about 10pm I wandered over to the gardens, walked away from the street lights, and there it was - and amazingly unobstructed view of comet McNaught, in all its glory and with no clouds anywhere nearby. For the benefit of people who aren't into photography (whether they know what they're doing or, like me, they fumble along, pressing buttons to see what happens), taking photos of stars in the sky without a tripod isn't bloody easy. After several blurry attempts I discovered a bollard, wrapped my legs around it, balanced my camera on it, balanced the lens on left hand, put my elbows on my knees, pressed the timer button, then took the photo and held my breath when the beeping stopped for 3 seconds. Tripods are overrated.

After I'd had my fill of comet-gazing in peace and solitude, I realised what a crime it was that I was the only person in this perfect comet-viewing spot, so I went back to the youth hostel and fetched everyone.

The next morning I caught the bus to Raglan and got picked up by the lovely staff at Solscape. I dumped my bags in the railway caboose that my 3 bed dorm was in, put my food in the fridge and went for a surf lesson. This time it was loads better - my instructor (Kyle) actually had a personality (and quite an aesthetically pleasing tanned, toned torso to boot), his teaching methods worked much better, he was much more encouraging, and towards the end of the lesson he seemed impressed when I managed to stand and ride a wave all the way without any assistance at all. Also, he didn't appear to judge me when I did a little victory dance in the shallows, yelling "Yeah baby".

When I got back to Solscape, I made myself some guacamole, stayed up drinking and playing cards for a few hours, and then collapsed when I was almost comatose.

Wednesday was another horrible day - I woke up thinking about Steve and burst into tears immediately. I spent most of the morning on the phone to my parents and Ruth, blowing my nose and trying to avoid eye contact with people when I inevitably had to venture into the communal areas for the phone and more toilet paper. The best that can be said about it is it's over now and I don't have to live it again. In the afternoon I decided to try to surf off my horrible mood and took a board out on my own. The waves were extremely "messy", the rip current was pretty strong and I just ended up taking out my bad mood on the sea by battling it. It fought back. And won. I didn't manage to stand up once - I barely managed to get out to where the waves were breaking. I did manage to wipe out quite spectacularly though. I went back to the youth hostel in a stinking mood still. Thankfully the thing that saved my sanity was my rapidly depleting food supplies (surfing is bloody hard work, alright?). I begged a lift into town from Pete and Matt (two surfer dudes from Bournmouth, which they claim is trendy now), bought some food, and then got dragged around trendy surf shops. I couldn't really complain, since they'd kindly given me a lift, so I thought I might as well try some clothes on. I tried on a short skirt (just for a laugh - I haven't work one since school, but my legs are less scabby and awful these days, and more shapely with all the walking), but then realised that a size 12 was far too big. I tried on a size 10, and that was on the large side too, but wasn't a bad fit. I left the changing room to give the boys a twirl, and bugger me if they weren't checking out my legs and evidently enjoying it (I'm allowed to gloat, this may be the first time in my life that anyone's ever done that). I now understand the term retail therapy, I just need somewhere with a dancefloor to wear my new skirt now.

Once again I spent the evening drinking wine, playing cards (I taught Pete and Matt's friends Tanya and Ollie how to play San Juan) and chatting shit until the early hours.

I decided the next morning to leave surfing for a few days due to the shredded skin on my hands and feet (the soft top grip surface on beginner boards rubs every time you grip it hard - for example when a wave crashes over you, or when you try to stand up). I persuaded Tanya to come to the Bridal Veil falls and a beach nearby with a hot spring. Unfortunately, her friend Baz is very into fishing, and the entire van stank of the 3 day old squid he was using as bait. The falls were 55m high and were pretty stunning. Sadly we didn't make it to the beach as the road was closed and a detour would have taken hours. We went back to Raglan, went to fetch Baz (who was fishing by the side of the river), and came across a bunch of local kids all jumping off a bridge into the river and throwing mud at each other. I thought it looked like fun, so I got changed into my bikini, jumped into the river a couple of times and thankfully managed to avoid the projectile mud.

That evening it was Ollie's turn to cook for the Bournemouth crew, and he was a bit stuck for what to make, so I joined in and we cooked mushroom, asparagus and blue cheese risotto. After the meal everyone was talking about heading into town to hear a local band playing. I got all dressed up in my new skirt (I even wore make-up), only to find that everyone had already left and the remaining people had decided that they couldn't be bothered to go anymore. Arse. We sat around and played cards while I tried to get rid of my bad mood by eating chocolate. That didn't work - one of the American girls sitting with us was expounding on her philosophy of love, saying she falls in love 20 times a day when she "shares a moment" with someone, and that this love is as real as the love between people who've been together for years. I didn't want to be rude and take out my desperation for a fag on her by screaming "Get a clue" into her face, so I kept my thoughts to myself, got drunk instead, then promptly started crying uncontrollably about Steve again when I went to bed. Alcohol is bad, chocolate is good.

The next day I woke up in an altogether better mood, despite the slight hangover. I said goodbye to Bournemouth crew who were off to Taranaki (where I'd just come from, so I didn't want to join them). I idled away the morning by starting another drawing of Steve and doing a bit of Sudoku. After lunch, a couple of the girls persuaded me to go surfing again despite the cheese grater effect it had had on my hands and feet. It was an altogether different experience - the waves were much more clean, paddling out was easier, I had more experienced surfers to give me bits of advice and as a result I managed to stand up 5 times, including 2 decent length rides where I didn't fall off. It was nothing short of exhilarating - I can see how people get completely addicted to surfing (and they do - most people I've met in Raglan are just here to surf their way round NZ - they have no interest in tramping, kayaking, glacier walking, swimming with dolphins, bungy jumping etc).

The next morning (yesterday) I discovered that the hostel was completely booked for the weekend, so I took the opportunity to explore some more and arranged a lift to Auckland with Kyle in order to go beyond to Northland today. While I waited for Kyle to sort a few things out, I hung my washing out to dry for a bit longer (it's always horrible when you wash clothes, have to pack them before they're dry, and then when you get them out again, they're smellier than they were before you washed them). Kyle eventually arrived and we set off for Auckland, chatting all the way - about travel plans, surfing vernacular, life, the universe and everything. Kyle was very pleasant company and a good laugh, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself, when suddenly the niggling thing bothering me at the back of my mind came into focus: my washing was still drying on the clothes line in Raglan.

Shit.

Kyle seemed to find this funny (I don't know why), but quickly redeemed himself by offering to look after my clothes for a few days until I came to collect them. I suppose I'll just have to go back to Raglan then. And it would be foolish to go back all that way and not use the opportunity to surf a couple of times. Cést la vie. I'm choosing to take this as a sign that clearly I'm meant to continue learning to surf.

Kyle dropped me off at the airport and I caught the bus into Auckland, went back to Base backpackers (where I'd spent my first night in NZ), dumped my bags in the lovely all girls dorm, filled with the scents of flowers (and not men's feet), went up to the roof to use the sauna, then washed my hair with the free shampoo and conditioner, dried myself with the free towel and went downstairs for my free glass of champagne. Bargainous bliss.

I'm now staying on Shipwreck bay, near Kaiteae in Northland. It's at the southern end of 90 mile beach (actually it's about half that, but who's counting). I've already sorted out my food for the next couple of days, and tomorrow I plan to either surf or go to Cape Reinga. I'll see which way the wind blows.

As usual, photos to follow...

Rambling about rambling

12/1/2007 - 17/1/2007


Cigarettes smoked: far too many to count. Weight: oh really, who cares? Distance walked along the Queen Charlotte track: 71km. Distance walked along unplanned detours off the Queen Charlotte track: 6km. New sandfly bites: 7 I think. Sandflies killed: 3 (but my aim is getting better)

After waking up and discovering that Maz had eaten the last of the chocolate at some point when I was out of the room (she said she didn't think I'd notice - how long has she known me???), Maz and I got on the train to Picton (a pleasant break from all of the buses), found our old youth hostel (the Villa), dumped our bags and then went outside to wait for our wine tasting tour bus. Every bus or train driver in this country is a tour guide and a comedian - you'll find yourself half listening to an announcement in case it's telling you something relevant about your final destination, and you'll be given all sorts of wonderfully irrelevant information about the climate/ecology/geology/agricultural patterns of the area, or you'll find yourself cracking up at some daft throw-away comment the driver makes.

Maz and I found ourselves going to one winery after another in quick succession, throwing wine down our throats in order to keep up with each new vintage we were being offered. What was surprising was how different they tasted when we just had a bit of each. As we seemed to find ourselves liking different wines most of the time (Maz generally found herself going for the sauvignon blancs, whereas I tended to prefer the pinot noirs and the chardonnays - oh my God, am I a chav?), we didn't end up buying a bottle to go with our evening meal, which was probably for the best as I was feeling decidedly tiddly, and Maz was slurring noticably.

Maz and I went back to the Villa, made guacamole, and then went to sweat off the alcohol in the spa. Unfortunately there was a huge Scottish guy in the spa who just would not stop talking. He didn't seem to require anything by way of conversational interaction, he seemed quite content with the sound of his own voice, and it wasn't very conducive to the relaxation that Maz and I had in mind. Imagine sharing a spa with a more talkative Fat Bastard from Austin Powers and you're pretty much there. Every time I've seen him since, he's been in the middle of the same monologue, about escaping the rat race, directed at some poor cornered sap, who can't seem to get a word in edgeways to make their excuses and leave.

The next morning, Maz and I packed our remaining things and went to meet the boat taking us to the start of the Queen Charlotte track. We gave the captain the majority of our belongings to be taken on to Mahana Lodge (our first night's accomodation on the track), so we'd be carrying the bare minimum (no, we're not lazy, really - read on before you judge us!) and sat back to enjoy the view. The captain pointed out New Zealand's largest offshore island (the North Island), then asked us for a moment's silence to think of those people stuck in offices. I thought of you all.

We arrived at Ships Cove, the spot that Captain Cook used as a base during his time in New Zealand, put yet more suncream on, filled up our water bottles and set off. The track went up at a steep gradient at first, then went up and down along the ridge of the peninsula with Queen Charlotte sound running down one side, and Kenepuru sound down the other. We passed through a range of gradually changing forest types, from dense, lush temperate rainforest at lower altitudes to beech forest along the ridge. At times the bush opened out and we'd be surrounded by meadow flowers - the smell was unbelievable as their scents weren't diluted by pollution. The bird song was remarkably varied, and was frequently joined by a chorus of cicadas (while they sound remarkably like crickets, they're not closely related and they don't make their noise by stridulation - rubbing their legs together, the noise comes from them wiggling their arses, apparently). Maz and I held off for as long as possible before stopping for lunch and after 15km, at 3pm we collapsed for a while and pigged out. After lunch the walk became harder and harder as the length of the walk passed anything either of us had done in a day before, and exceeded any reasonable definition of a distance that can and should be walked in a day.

At some point in the late afternoon, after trudging across a swing bridge we came across a llama in a paddock. I went over to say hello and get a photo and it promptly spat at me. Apparently the term spit is a misnomer - when llamas spit, it's a mixture of saliva and partially digested stomach contents. It smells. Awful. I would probably have been pretty impressed with the llama's aim and range, had I not just been covered in droplets of green, revolting smelling, partially digested grass all over my face and top. Maz was laughing so hard she was bent double and crying, but she did manage to straighten up for long enough to take a photo. For the rest of the day (actually until she left three days later), Maz would periodically suddenly explode with laughter, pointing at me, gasping the word "Llama".

After about 20km the mud started to change colour to a bright orange and became quite slippery. Maz and I had encountered this earlier in the day, but hadn't had any problems, but as we grew more and more exhausted and our leg muscles less and less responsive, we found ourselves grabbing each other's arms to stop us landing face down in the stuff. About 3km before Mahana lodge the inevitable happened and I failed to grab Maz's arm and slipped over onto my arse.

The last 2km were hellish - it took us 45 minutes as we hobbled through more slippery mud. We were sore, blistered and aching, our hands were so swollen we didn't recognise them, our skin was clogged up with sweat, sun cream and insect repellant and I was covered in orange mud and green, smelly llama gob. I don't think I've ever wanted a shower more in my life. After 27km we finally arrived at 7:30pm and were greeted by a grey heron standing at the water's edge in a gorgeous little private cove belonging to a beautiful little wooden hostel. The owner of the hostel was a lovely friendly lady who promptly gave us chocolate covered marshmallows, carried our bags to our dorm and showed us where the showers were. I probably would have kissed her if I hadn't been acutely aware of how little it would have been appreciated, given how rank I was. Maz headed straight for the shower, but I fancied a dip in the sea first. I shared the exquisitely cool and refreshing water with the grey heron, who didn't seem at all perturbed by my presence, I swam around for a while and then headed for the shore squealing when something scuttled across my foot. After our showers we started cooking the food, when a large extended family arrived after their own dinner. They were just sorting out a round of tea when one of the women started humming Mama Mia. I hummed the next line and we alternated lines growing louder and louder, until her son turned around in embarrassment, exclaiming "Mum..", and then stopped and stared in horror at me - unable to comprehend that someone who had not yet hit middle age was willing to make as much of an arse of themselves as I now was, dancing round the kitchen singing with his Mum (who was now using a wooden spoon as a microphone). We may have scarred the poor love for life.

After we had troughed our food in the most indecent manner imaginable (how do you eat fajitas with decorum - does anybody know?), we sat out on the deck with a Maori/Pakeha couple from Rotorua and a German lady and swapped travel stories until every last ounce of energy had drained from our poor weary bodies and there was nothing for it but to drag ourselves off to bed.

The next two days' walking was both painful and exhilarating. The worst bits were always first thing (when we'd leave the water's edge and climb 400m or so to the ridge again - it's not the longest climb, but it doesn't help when you know you're walking 25km or so each day) and last thing (when we were at our most blistered, achey and unbalanced in every sense of the word). Maz and I kept one another going by talking to each other in comedy Yorkshire accents (I'm not entirely sure why it worked, but it did) and hindered each other with unnecessary Terrence and Phillip impressions. By the second evening our feet were tingling in alarming ways and swelling. My blisters had blisters and standing up, sitting down, limping and even breathing made my arse hurt. Maz and I decided that the only thing for it was to collapse in the resort's spa and drink wonderful hot chocolates (the only two redeeming features of the Portage Resort Hotel which paled in comparison to the wonderful, superior Mahana Lodge of the night before).

The funny thing is that the third day wasn't that bad, despite my ever growing blisters and the fact that we climbed more than the previous two days, and we made it to Anakiwa ahead of schedule despite taking a 4km detour by mistake at around lunchtime. We must actually be reasonably fit now, or something. My calves feel rock solid (and coincidentally have roughly the flexibility of rocks too at the moment) and Maz is convinced that she now has buns of steel.

Right by the end of the track was an ice-cream van - I tried jumping up and down when I discovered that they had boysenberry ice-cream, but stopped quickly and squealed in delight, and agony, instead. We collapsed on the grass by the pier, took off our boots, paddled in the sea, ate ice cream and made pained grunting noises that were completely unintelligible to anyone who hadn't just completed the Queen Charlotte track.

Yesterday I escorted Maz to her ferry back to Wellington for her flight home. It was difficult to see her go as it's been so much fun travelling with my constantly entertaining, daft baby sister. Plus for the last two weeks, for the first time in all of my travels, I've been around someone whom the blood sucking parasites prefer to me - my feeble array of bites are nothing to the collection Maz acquired, and without her the bastard, evil sandflies have inevitably started making up for lost time with me.

I've spent the last couple of days lazing in the spa, trying to block out the sound of Fat Bastard's repetitive monologue, slapping on insect repellant (come back Maz - your freakish ways are forgiven!!!), reading, poking at my blisters to see how they're healing and trying to sort out some sort of paid work.

I'm likely to remain in the Picton/Blenheim area if work miraculously appears, if not, I might try the north island, or I'll find a hostel in the middle of nowhere with a decent book exchange where I won't be able to spend much money.

Ciao for now.

I'm a luger, baby...

6/1/2007 - 11/1/2007

After a day of slapping on moisturiser, after sun, aloe vera creams and yoghurt (it works, trust me!), we ventured back into the complete-lack-of-sun again with our noses peeling, in order to go glacier walking. It was a cold, unrelentingly rainy day. Our clothes were quickly soaked through, despite waterproofs, we had water in our waterproof boots - our socks were squelching with every step, water got into our waterproof bags and soaked everything - miraculously our cameras survived (though sadly Maz's phone didn't), we only had 10 minutes for lunch in order to avoid hypothermia, and there was just no way in hell I could roll a cigarette. We were walking round terrifyingly vertiginous crevaces and over morraine that slid under-foot. Despite this we absolutely loved it! Most of the walk was between (or sometimes going over) sheer ridges of ice that were a foot or two apart, and we'd have to choose between walking straight through pools of freezing glacial water at the bottom or digging the spikes on our feet into the walls of ice on either side and walking along looking like a bizarre cross between Spiderman and John Wayne. I usually chose the latter as it felt more adventurous and didn't make my feet any more likely to have to be amputated. Maz was far better at glacier walking than me - much more sure footed and less wary (I kept stopping at the edge of deep pools of glacial water looking at the next place I'd have to put my foot 3 feet away and saying "eeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrmmmm, I'm not sure my legs are long enough for this"). Sadly we didn't get many photos as we were worried about our cameras in the rain. Six hours later, when we came off the ice, Maz and I practically crawled the 3km back to the bus, smiling happily, while shivering and talking about hot chocolate and spa pools through gritted teeth.

When we got to the youth hostel we queued for the shower in our underwear, as we couldn't bear to wear our sopping wet clothes anymore. When we were warm and dry again, we ventured out into the rain, to find a restaurant (the main criteria being that they served good quality milky hot chocolate with marshmallows on top - none of that instant shit). As it turned out, the food was spot on at the restaurant too - Maz had some sort of fish thing (Ed: the yummy local fish was called Hoki) that she raved about in the enthusiastic tone of voice she reserves solely for food and Johnny Depp, my soup was just the most delicious, warming thing ever, and they let me taste a couple of wines before I chose a wonderful pinot noir from the Stoneleigh winery in Marlboro. Bloody marvellous.

Once again we got up at the crack of dawn to catch the bus (to Queenstown) and once again the bus was late and we could have stayed in bed for longer. Bus journeys are getting a bit boring here as my brand new mp3 player seems to have stopped working (it doesn't want to charge), and I get travel sick if I read. I mostly slept or stared at the scenery rolling past while listening to the bus radio. I was horrified to discover that Maz knows all of the words to "As long as you love me" when she sang along, despite my begging her to stop. I've been trying to disown and desert her ever since, but she keeps following me.

We arrived at the black sheep lodge in Queenstown and were greeted by an energetic lady at the desk, who managed to say "Awesome", "Sweet" (surweeeeeeeeeet) and "Cool" repeatedly in the 2 minutes we were talking to her. She gave us the key to our room and directions. In our search we walked past dorms named after various aspects of the sheep rearing industry (the lambing shed, the woolly jumper, the shears). We found our dorm (the sheep shagger), dumped our stuff, got changed and went to lie in the spa. When we felt adequately relaxed, we wandered off to the supermarket, came back and smugly cooked our fancy risotto while people around us made beans on toast, or pasta with salad cream and mountains of salt (why?).

The next day Maz got up early again to go white water rafting while I stayed in bed, hugging my pillow and smiling infuriatingly at Maz while she got ready. I've already been white water rafting several times in various countries around the world, so I decided to stem the tide of money pouring out of my bank account, have a long overdue lie in, and then go to the kiwi and bird park.

My visit to the park started with a very informative talk about the various rare birds and other creatures in captive breeding programmes in the park, and the reasons behind these conservation efforts. We were shown a tuatara (an endangered species of lizard belonging to a family of its own that has been around for 200 million years, lives for around 200-300 years and has the remnants of a third eye on top of its head), a new zealand pigeon (the second largest species of pigeon in the world) and various other birds that I can't remember the names of. After the conservation talk came a Maori cultural show which was fairly cheesy, but fun. We were taught the names of various body parts in Maori and then sung the hokey kokey, putting our left ringaringas (arms) and waewaes (legs) in and out. They showed us the haka (Maori war dance that the All Blacks do), did some poiing and then there was much sticking out of tongues and widening of eyes while photos were taken, and I had a go on proper Maori pois while one of the women showed me a couple of tricks.

After the show I went round the kiwi houses, trying to spot the elusive and endangered flightless birds. Kiwis are nocturnal and burrow underground during the day, so in order to see them, the staff keep the kiwi houses in the dark during the day, and light at night. It takes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, then you have to spend several minutes peering round the enclosure until you spot a rotund fluffy thing poking around with its long beak. These birds are often described as hopelessly naive because they evolved without the pressure of predation before humans appeared in New Zealand 1000 years ago, bringing with them mammals such as rats, cats and stoats, and as such they have very little defence against predators. The biggest threat to the kiwi is the stoat, which frequently eats young kiwis, so the department of conservation has started a programme in which they take kiwi chicks into captivity until they're old enough and big enough to defend themselves by kicking the shit out of the stoats.

I dragged myself away to go and meet Maz after her white water rafting, and then we went on a cable car ride to the top of a hill overlooking Queenstown to have a go on the luge. A luge is sort of a three-wheeled sledge with brakes, they look like they're just for children, but if you're not careful, they can pick up speed dramatically, and on a fairly steep track with corners you have to watch it. Maz and I went on the scenic track, then I went on the faster track afterwards. I only came off once on the third consecutive tight turn after a decline when I'd picked up just a bit too much speed. I managed to get back on and get going quickly before anyone hit me and was a bit more sensible watching my speed after that. It's the sort of silly, but thoroughly enjoyable entertainment that, if it doesn't have you collapsing in fits of giggles afterwards, you're completely humourless and there's no hope for you. Maz and I chatted about how much Steve would have loved luging and the glacier walk the day before. I think we both feel that we should be throwing ourselves into things wholeheartedly in the same way that Steve always did, doing things that we know he would have loved and making the most of our travels.

On the way back to the black sheep we saw a bungy trampoline - you get strapped into a harness attached to bungy cords and jump up and down on a bouncy-castle-type-inflatable-thing. You can go about twice the height that you would on a normal trampoline. I couldn't resist, despite the fact that everyone else on it was a child (but it was only about 4 quid!), and spent 10 happy minutes doing aerial sommersaults, screaming "weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" and giggling like a maniac.

We went back, slobbed in front of the communal TV for a bit, cooked and then I ran into a charming Canadian acquaintance, Ian, who I'd already made on my first night in Auckland. We chatted and met the young English crowd that he'd spent the last few days with (Maz seemed to get on very well with Ruth - the only person I've ever met who can do a monologue at a great speed and for longer than Maz). They were heading out for a night on the town, so Maz and I were just heading to bed and feeling very old when Ian made a concerted effort to drag us out too. Maz was fairly easily persuaded as we'd been having far too many early nights and mornings and were behaving in a manner unbecoming of twenty-something Londoners. I'm not sure how keen I'd have been if Ian wasn't quite so charming and, well, foxy.

They went off to the pub and Maz and I packed frantically for the next morning, changed, threw some make-up on and dashed off to the pub feeling far less skanky. Our intended one drink somehow became two, and then people were dancing, so Maz and I decided to show them how it's not done and hit the dance floor in a big way. I think the dead giveaway that we were not going to be loving the crack of dawn bus to Christchurch the next morning came at about 3am when I found myself being spun around the dancefloor by Ian (who had taken it upon himself to teach me to salsa properly when Shakira came on) at roughly the same rpm as a spinning top (good God the man could dance), and I caught sight of Maz and Ruth - they had given up trying to battle each other for a word in edgeways and were now dancing on top of the bar with great enthusiasm. Maz still believes that they looked cool (Ed: we did look damn cool. And managed not to fall off!).

Miraculously we did make the 7:30am bus to Christchurch. We both felt like we were at death's door, but we made it, and proceeded to miss most of the scenery by sleeping most of the way to Christchurch. We were woken up by the bus driver periodically stopping the bus for toilet and food breaks. We kept going in search of food, and each time Maz declared that this was the miracle food that would sort her out, would then have one bite, turn a shade of green and push it away. Eventually spaghetti on toast did the trick.

We arrived in Christchurch, the nice bus driver man took pity on us and dropped us at the door of our hostel as it was on the way, we dumped our stuff, showered the residual alcohol and stale smoke smells off ourselves and went in search of food and train tickets. In the evening we met up with Hannah, a friend of Maz's who had just returned home after living in England for a year and a half, and tried to summon up the energy to be good company. I think we probably failed, but we did our best and had a nice quiet drink before we went back to the hostel and collapsed.

Unfortunately we had to get up at 5:15 the next morning (why, why, why?) to catch the shuttle bus to the train station for the 7am train to Kaikoura. It was actually dark still when we got up. In summer. Hmmmmph.

The scenic train journey unfortunately consisted mostly of our train going through fog, so we slept some more and read a bit. When we arrived we decided that, despite exhaustion, we should make the most of having most of a day in Kaikoura unplanned. We found a loop walk that involved walking along a clifftop for an hour, then along a long stretch of rugged coastline for a couple of hours. We were told before we left that we should see plenty of fur seals, but to stay at least 10m away from them as they can get territorial, and bite if you get too close. This was fine, up until about half way through the walk when we started coming across so many bloody seals, dotted all over the beach, that the optimum path through them took us 3 or 4 metres away from two seals on either side. They growl. Quite loudly.

We spent the early evening doing boring jobs at a slow, easy pace that our exhausted bodies could handle. In the evening we collapsed in front of the tv and watched Spy Game - I'd highly recommend it to anyone who is feeling the pangs and shakes of 24 withdrawal, or anyone who just wants to ogle Brad Pitt.

After a long lie in (10 hours sleep - I didn't know I could do that) Maz and I went off for badly needed haircuts (I couldn't untangle the massive knot that my hair had become, and Maz looked like she was trying to grow her hair out already), and paid about 8 quid each for our haircuts, including being picked up and dropped off at our hostel - it was a bargain, but often with these things, you get what you pay for. The layers in my hair are now virtually non-existant, and it ends in a great big wedge shaped thing at the bottom. Thankfully it's just long enough to go into a ponytail, where it will remain for several weeks until it grows a bit and looks a bit less daft, or until I can justify the expense of cutting it again.

This afternoon Maz and I went whale-watching (sadly dolphin-swimming was all booked up when we got round to organising ourselves, so I'll have to do that at a later date). Just off the coast from Kaikoura is the edge of the continental shelf, and the sea bed plunges to a depth of 1000m. At this point, warm and cold currents converge here, creating an upwelling zone, where nutrients that have sunk to the sea bed in the form of detritus well up to the surface to be used by photosynthetic algae and other producers that then feed larger organisms, and so on, up the food chain. The result of this is that the coastal waters near Kaikora are home to a huge variety of marine life, including fur seals, dolphins and various different whales. It is apparently the only place in the world where sperm whales feed close to the shore. We were lucky enough to see one, just a few metres from our boat - it came up for air, blew bubbles through its blowhole for a while, then slowly rolled downwards and flashed its tail at us. Very, very, very cool!

Maz and I are now going to slob in front of the TV, or possibly play San Juan (Ed: a bizarre but fun card game) before an early night, and tomorrow we go back to Picton for a spot of wine tasting, and then the 3 day Queen Charlotte Track...