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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.
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(As written 11/05/2011)
The latest headlines from Samuel Fry news worldwide: ‘Sandman returns in the form of twenty something Brit’, ‘Beware: Goon Brings Travellers to their knees faster than Drop-Bears!’ and front page big seller ‘Cameraman shrieks as ‘up skirt shot’ turns nasty when Man walks onto beach with Crotch hole in Board shorts!’ I arrived in the smart surfer town of Noosa in a naturally charming fashion. Noosa was of course the first stop on my hopscotch tour of Brisbane’s beaches. The beach was strange as the first things I noticed were surfers, skaters and more turkeys than Christmas at Britain’s fattest man’ house. Yes, the streets were full of turkeys! It was like the black plague, but with less vermin and much more gobbledygook. Linguistically, I was right at home. I spent my time in Noosa sunbathing, searching for koalas and trying to rinse every last bit of sand out of my rucksack: to this day I haven’t won that battle. Next was a night’s stopover in Brisbane. Aside from a trip to the Modern Art Museum, Brisbane was relatively uneventful. Except of course for the biggest event in modern history. Ignore the recession, ignore the conflicts in the middle East: It was time for the Royal wedding! Woo! Royal Wedding! Yes, you heard me, Royal Wedding! Why aren’t you cheering? Royal wedding! Leaving aside any puns referring to surfers riding the royal wave, the Royal wedding was big news down under as around 40 people from various nationalities crammed into our one TV room to watch out for celebrities old and new, horsy faces both royal and not and of course, that dress. Unfortunately, I missed some of the build up and so was unable to see the footage of Prince William drunkenly singing ‘Old McDonald had a Farm’; whilst, being tied to a lamppost alongside Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Equally, Australian television opted not to show the cat fight between Kate and Pippa Middleton in the downstairs toilets of Flares Nightclub. A fight which ended with a black eyed toilet attendant after she had a plastic tiara stuck directly in it. An occurrence which Pippa has since pointed out was lucky to have occurred prior to the wedding as that toilet attendant would have been in a lot more pain had she come across Kate with her gold crown and staff at the ready: an outfit that Kate has already expressed a determination to wear every Saturday night on her regular two pitchers at Wetherspoons followed by 3 Tequilas and a White Russian at a local nightspot. A White Russian a controversial drink of course for Kate as it also describes the wife that Prince Philip had previously had in mind for William. A day later and I was on the beaches of Surfers Paradise. A beach which mirrored huge buildings on one side with huge waves on the other. Unfortunately, the weather was less impressive and so I was limited to surfing the internet and eating my far share of McDonald’s soft serve ice creams: officially the cheapest snack in Australia (according to my newly released novel ‘Down and Under? Aussilicious Street Bargains’. In the words of W People, 'Moving on down' it was time for Byron Bay dude. Imagine a group of surfers went up to a group of hippies and said, ‘Hey man, fancy building some huts and shops and bars dude? ‘cos this place has like some totally rad waves!’ and you’ve got Byron. Staying at the Arts Factory Lodge, a large hostel and camping complex built originally to host the musicians playing at Byron’s Blues Festival, this concept was heightened to the size of a tree fit for hugging. The Arts Factory was undoubtedly my favourite Australian hostel. It had a big pool, wildlife mixing with some wild looking people as well as daily bush tucker walks and didgeridoo lessons. I was sad to leave Byron, but it was time to enter the city built for grandparents. Sydney: famous for Opera and Bridge. Although, on first impressions it seemed this was more like a city for Dutch. No there were no pancakes, illicit drugs or passionately coloured light districts. Actually, in truth, all those entities were almost definitely present; but, I wont take your xenophobic attitude no matter whether I wrote it or not! Simply, there were a lot of Dutch people in my hostel. My days were spent guided from sight to sight, walking across and taking in the panoramic view from the Harbour Bridge and chilling out on Bondi Beach. The week ended on the rocks with climbing and drinking the main priority. I left in style, eating cheese and drinking wine at my hostel - unfortunately the wine was goon and the cheese was more plastic than Jessica Simpson's lips. |
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Samuel FryTraveller Archives
June 2011
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