One blog to rule them all, one blog to find them. One blog to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.
Leaving Australia and landing in New Zealand was in many ways a shock to the system. It left my mouth gaping wider than a Amish person with an Ipod as the scenery was more dramatic than a 7 year old girl who just lost her Polly Pocket. Yet, this shock was initiated mainly by my arrival on the cold decaying streets of Christchurch. Three months had past since the city had suffered an earthquake that reached 7.1 on the Richter scale and despite evident work, their empty streets felt as cold and deserted as a ghost-town. A walk through the centre choked my emotions. Signs everywhere, pleading to me let in 'to save buildings and business', cars deserted on the roadside with paper in their window requesting 'please don't take or tow, I'll pick it up tomorrow' and outdoor adventure shops with banners claiming that their tents stay erect, while their building's roof crumbled. After just a little time there you could feel the effects. Thus, after meeting up with a Danish travelling buddy I was glad to make tracks. After renting a car named ‘el cheapo’, which we swiftly renamed Silvia (partly due to its colour and womanly form - but mainly due to her love of Bell Jars), we began our five hour journey south to Dunedin. Our hostel for the night was an almost hauntingly large converted townhouse, run by a dressing-gown clad man accompanied by an equally haunting moustache; which, had it not been beginning to protrude from the bottom of his nostrils I could have sworn it winked at me. A four hour journey west and the scenery changed more often than a Guy Richie film. Rolling green hills stretched and sharpened into grey mountains with tips so white they might as well be on the end of a school child’s pencil, while clear blue lakes and fields lined with more sheep than a Welshman’s slumber party appeared and disappeared from corner to corner. We arrived in the ski and party town of Queenstown not only a tank of petrol shorter, but also with stomachs beginning to churn more aggressively than a milkman with a craving for a Muller fruit corner. New Zealand’s Queenstown was to skiing what Australia’s Byron Bay had been to surf, as backpackers lined the streets like fence posts. Unfortunately, our first stop in Queenstown was a short one. Before you could say ‘ball-ball’ we were back on the road and on our way to Milford Sound. Milford Sound is a fiord that cuts into New Zealand’ west coast like a knife cuts into Lurpack. Our boat drifted through the sharp cliff walls packed with waterfalls and seals that rested on the rocks with more sophistication than a glass of Jim Bean; yet, with a low mist clouding our path I suddenly felt far away from a ski lodge haven and more like I was on the set of Jurassic Park. Returning to Queenstown for a Friday night cashing in on free bar tabs and nineties dance tunes, it was clear why backpackers flock to this self-titled ‘Adventure capital of the world’. Had I the time or money, I could have stayed there indefinitely. Yet, after a couple of nights stay and a day trip across to the aptly named Paradise in the Glenochly region, it was time once again to pack up and hit the road as I began to feel like a junky addicted to the sound of revving tires. We arrived by the lakes of Wanaka for my first time couch surfing which sofa has been good. Staying with two English girls, eating Fajitas and cookies and watching Jeremy Kyle - Wanaka felt like a home from home. As was customary we moved on the next day, up through the mountains, past the Elves, Dwarfs and Wizards and on to Franz Josef. Here, we planned to climb on what I presumed was the worlds largest mint - but one lick of the Fox Glacier and a frozen tongue later and it was clear that in reality the only mint thing about this area was the view. We covered ourselves in more layers than an experimental trifle, covered our feet in sharp spikes and climbed up onto the huge glacier to trek through waves of frozen fun. Surfing the couches of some tour guides from a rival company, we were pleasantly surprised not to get too much stick (except the one for walking with). It was little surprise; however, as with a day off to create a giant Trebuchet in the acres of land surrounding their house - it would appear that they were happily preoccupied. Maybe becoming a tour guide would be a good plan for the future.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
Samuel FryTraveller Archives
June 2011
Categories
All
|