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.