(As of 06/06/2011)
Dear bru, Hows it going, ay? I felt it was time to send a very personal letter directly to you my favourite reader. My favourite of them all. Much better than wotsit, wiser than thingybob and far better looking than that other one. I write it for you and I request that only you read it. Anyone else but you, look away now. Oi! That mean's you. Look away I say. Yes, that's right, away. No not you, the other one. Yes, that's right - you. Well? We're waiting. Still waiting. That's right, go on now. Keep going. A bit further. Good. Well, now that they're gone, lets continue, ay. Now bru, a great deal's happened since we last chewed the lamb fat. I'm still travelling the lumpy landscape of green that is New Zealand; or as the Maori's call it 'Aotearoa' - the land of the long white cloud. Currently I have failed to see any clouds of particular length to date, but I'm not accustomed to dating any meterological feature. FYI I may have picked up some lingo from my Kiwi travels, so I'll endevour to translate any confusing terms in brackets mate. Strapped for cash and keen to meet some locals, I often found myself without a fart sack (bed) to call my own. So, couchsurfing became the norm and my first stop on this leg was a stay with some rugby loving blokes in Hokitika. When I first reached Hokitika I nearly carked it (died) for all the machismo but after skulling (downing) a few beers I realized they were as soft as cream cheese. After a couple of nights relaxing with the dags (chuckle-some chaps) both myself and my Danish travelling friend drove full tit (quickly) across to Arthur's pass. Arthur let us, but we had limited time to explore this area which was a natural blend of mountainous and tropical landscapes. We sought to find the Kia bird and instead found a waterfall hidden among the bush. Continuing on for heaps longer, we arrived back in Christchurch home and hosed (safely) at our next couchsurfer's house. 'Crikey dick!' (wow!), we cried when we first got there and saw his house filled with swimming pools, hot tubs and a 50" television. Full of other surfers and a room full of bunk beds we chatted, introduced them to the IT Crowd and drank enough home made vodka until we couldn't see the road to the dunny if it had red flags on it (erm, well intoxicated). By the end of the evening we grabbed our togs (swimwear) and slumbered in the hot tub like melting candles. Baring in mind this accommodation didn't cost me a penny, it seems that sometimes couchsurfing really is the only way. As we traveled further up the coast, New Zealand's landscape flattened like Ikea furniture. On route we continued along the metal road (gravel country road) to Kikoura, where we road bikes by the beach and saw more seals than a waterproofed sponge. Aside from this we did two-thirds of five-eights of f all (very little) apart from relaxing beach side and eating one two many avocado sandwiches. The following day we took our car Silvia on the ferry from the South to North Island. We arrived in Wellington and but a few hours later, I found myself playing Canoe polo and couch surfing at a canoe polo referee's house. Wellington was the most livable city I came across in the whole country with a great blend of culture, bars and sporting opportunities. Any city where I can go to a couch surfing gathering, view the lights of the city from Mount Victoria and then view the buzz of Glow-worms in a nearby wood seems pretty good to me. Had it not been for the strange men lingering in the woods like 90's pop band The Cranberries (yeah, that's right) it would have been the perfect night. Further north we visited Taupo and bathed in some natural hot pools that left me toasting like a pop tart. The pools themselves were steaming with natural wonder as I felt brought back to the Onsens of Japan. Unfortunately, even more wonderous was the stench of rotting eggs from the sulfur deposits nearby. We needed a few Tui's beers to remove the scent that had trapped itself in our nostrils. Further north and the stench and mist grew as we arrived in the mud-pool and laked land of Rotorua. The stench began clawing up our nostrils the closer we got, causing us to question the sanity of those living there. But, in truth, just a day later and that stench subsided - well, partly subsided. Believe it or not, the eggciting smell was not our main reason for visiting Roturua. We were there to engage with some culture and the Maori village of Whakarewarewa was the perfect place to start. Whakarewarewa, or 'the thermal village', is a village built around a geothermal area which has been inhabited by Maori's for 200 years. The tours, which have run since 1998, gave a great overview of the many Maori doodackies (thingymabobs) around there town: from their communal bathing areas and cooking methods to their local explosive geysers (not to mention performances of the Hakka and a variety of songs and dances). I even tried popping my eyeballs out and sticking out my tongue to join in the fun - I would not recommend practising this outside of village life. Unfortunately, all was left was a brief night's stay in Hamilton and a journey to bring Silvia back to her parents as we travelled up to Auckland. I left New Zealand with popping eyes and a protruding tongue ready to leave for LA; although, I had to do something to distract myself from that smell. All the best to the best, Samwise
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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. |
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Samuel FryTraveller Archives
June 2011
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