(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
0 Comments
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. (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. Cairns: the city with temperatures hotter than a game of monopoly at Alan Sugar's house and reefs too big to
hang on God's door at Christmas. Unfortunately for me it was also the city where I began to realise how expensive Australia could be. I was therefore stuck like a limbless man in a pool of Vegemite. I was poorer than church mouse in a town dedicated to Atheism. I was stumped like a cricket player who had lost his bat and had to make do with a chewed pencil. I was like a metaphor in a something or rather. At least it was hot. So after a week of sunbathing I proudly looked like an orange dipped in marmalade. Bank refunded, I jumped on a greyhound (unfortunately in this case it's the name of the bus company, although your original thoughts would have been much more exciting if not for my Cynophobia ...oh, come on, don't be lazy - look it up) and headed South for Airlie beach. As my mother has already informed me it was indeed the first time I've ever been so bright and Airlie for anything. The following day I hit the sea on an Ocean rafting trip. This semi inflated boat ripped through the water like a propelled Michael Phelps and blasted out tunes as varied as Jet to the Village People. We snorkled around Whitsundays and chilled across the white crystallised sands of Whitehaven. There was also a chance to restock on some healthy greens with the all inclusive lunch. Whitsundays, which is not simply our Lord's day of rest and weekly pun-a-thon, was beautiful and Whitehaven truly was. After this, an overnight bus left my neck creaking like Big Boy's floorboard. But a mere cuppa later and I was fresh and awake for our arrival in Hervey Bay and the start of a new tale. There was an Englishman, four Irishmen and two Germans in a 4x4 - no this is not the start of a joke, but the tale of my journey to Fraser Island: the largest sand island in the world. Having purchased enough beer to give Weatherspoons a run for their money and squeezed into the Jeep tighter than a fourteen year old Indie boy's trousers, it began to occur to me how difficult three days as a lone Englishman in a Jeep full of Irish men may be. Yet, after a couple of hours of ribbing over a few hundred years of oppression I was glad to be six foot higher up than expected and was able to relax into the next few days. Over the three days, I was surrounded by a jolly group of 27 twenty-some-things all up for a laugh. There was one wee lassie who grumbled more than a Henry hoover; yet, conveniently for us she ditched us before we could get round to doing the same to her. Fraser was full of lakes clearer than Volvic, roads that gave the clutches on our 4x4s a run for their money and Champagne pools where the sea did to our shoulders what skips do to tongues. We also saw a Dingo just after I had concluded that they were simply a myth created to prevent backpackers sleeping and dumping waste on the beaches. The few days were consequently one of the highlights of my time in Australia. Although, three days on beaches and staying on camp sites with limited shower opportunities meant that I would continue my travels flaking off sand in my tracks. It was time to say 'g'day' to Bruce and 'ows it gowin' to Sheila. Time to get down the bottle-o to grab me enough tinnies to make me chunder. But time most importantly time to re-Christian myself Sammo!*
Yes, I was in Victorian Australia; yet, without all those unsightly factories. It was of course the state of Victoria and the city of Melbourne where I was reacquainted with teen chum and minor giant man Simon; or to use his formal title Simmo. Baptism over, I headed down to the river to attempt some semi extreme sports. The sport in mind: wake-boarding, where the events of the day most definitely woke me up. Having watched others show me how it's done, I followed (swim)suit and slipped my size elevens (that's right ladies!) into the board ready to ride. Unfortunately, with another boat also trying to use the water, my abilities were slowing us down and so shortly after starting we changed plan and decided that it may be better idea for me to be pulled along in a rubber ring instead. Later, falling off the tube at 90km/hour toward the bank and hitting my head harder than a suicidal woodpecker it was safe to say that this hadn't been a good idea. After my neck had stop being such a... well, pain in itself. I decided to watch the Melbourne race in the 2011 Formula One Championship. Watching the race with Simon's family, it turned out this was quite the event: with cars, planes, scantily clad women and celebrities as famous as Brian McFadden all involved! Although confusing following who was winning, losing, in, out or how that safety car with the flashing lights was ever going to sell ice creams on that side of the fence, it was great entertainment as the F1 cars whistled along the track loud enough to multiply my ear drums into the entire Notting Hill carnival. For the next few weeks I spent my days throwing limited numbers of shrimp but a fair few sausages on the barbie - Ken was not best pleased after her face melted. I also, played more football than Charlie Sheen has tantrums, went drinking a fair few nights in Eurotrash and relived 90s shopping in both Woolworths and Safeway. I also began doing as Victorians do (no not colonising everywhere I visited): watching AFL, a sport where the players stampede toward their opponents with enough intensity to make rhinos squirm. Specifically, I went to the Melbourne Cricket Ground to watch Richmond vs. St. Kilda. Many handballs (which in this version of football is apparently legal) later and the game was tied tighter than a pair of oversized swimming shorts. A great spectacle for the neutral, but not for the saints who vowed never to slay any dragons ever again. It was also Melbourne Comedy Festival season. So our choice in act was David O'Doherty, a man who rambles enough to ware Janet Street-Porter out. Yet his songs made me chuckle so much that had I not been wearing thongs my socks may well have blown off. In conclusion, my stay was a relaxing and homely break from backpacking life. I am now leaving Melbourne for Cairns to head back on the trail. Apparently there are crocs in the sea, but I've never been afraid of shoe-ware. *Technically, I've never been Christened and as such can not be re-Christened. However, as God lives in the sky and I'm currently situated down under I figure I am far enough away that he wont hear me. Is that how it works? And does God own the Internet as that might scupper my theory? |
Details
Samuel FryTraveller Archives
June 2011
Categories
All
|