(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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Samuel FryTraveller Archives
June 2011
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