The Wanderings of a Twenty-Something

In the Path of Ului

2010-04-21T22:13:00.003-03:00

Travelling towards the coast from Kroombit, even someone completely oblivious to the news could tell something was amiss. As the coast drew nearer the destruction from the cyclone became obvious, the first evidence being downed palm fronds. Then we noticed the small towns we were pulling through didn’t have power and our driver was to worry about finding a petrol station which had the ability to pump diesel. With a tiny tank, the bus needed fuel frequently and our main concern was suddenly getting to Airlie Beach. We hit a service station with a generator and we all hopped off the bus, buying any food supplies we thought we might need. We knew Airlie was without power, and estimates for restoration ranged from a day to five. The only thing that was for sure was that we would not starve, regardless of whether we made it into Airlie today or not. By some miracle we hit enough towns with open petrol stations and made it all the way to Airlie where the damage from the cyclone was very apparent. Trees were uprooted, palm leaves spread everywhere, windows blown in, some roofs showing damage and power lines down all over the place. Taking in all this destruction, it was hard to imagine they would have power restored to Airlie any time soon. As we pulled into the town itself, only ten hours after the most powerful cyclone in over 30 years, it was clear the town was not prepared for such a catastrophic event. We were dropped off next to the town’s swimming lagoon, not attended by sunning tourists but by cleanup crews removing the debris. Such was the story across town, crews working hard to clear tourist spots to safe condition. In a town so completely reliant on tourism, this interruption in service was devastating. I arrived at my hostel, a feeling of resignation heavy in the air. The staff sat around the reception desk, unable to do any of their usual tasks except check people in and try to help out with any questions – except, that is, anything to do with cruises. The official word across town was ‘no, cruises are not running, go talk to the company directly’. I was in the loft of the large Airlie Waterfront Hostel, a 12 bed dorm with only single beds, the sloped shape of the ceiling preventing the use of bunks. The air in the loft was unbearably hot as the windowless walls offered no relief, and the air conditioners sat powerless. I took a stroll along the waterfront and witnessed the destruction a major storm can wreak on a nautical town. Lucky sailboats sat at their moorings unscathed, but some sat in mangroves while extremely unlucky ones sat smashed against the rocks on the shore. It was a terrible sight, but my biggest question – ‘is my cruise boat ok?’ A local confirmed for me that it had moored offshore for the storm and was unscathed, but I wouldn’t know if or when they were running until I contacted them directly. I headed back to the hostel and settled into a numbness that would last until the power returned. I could do no work on my blog, no attractions were open, the lagoon was closed to swimming, the ocean was un-swimmable because of jellyfish, and come 8:30 the sun set and there were no lights anywhere. After an afternoon of reading, I took a very dark shower with my flashlight and enjoyed the cold water, a refreshing change from the permanently hot, moist air. I hit the pillow at around 9 and eventually got to sleep after some time restlessly worrying my way through the next couple days.

I slept until around noon, with nothing happening in the town there was no reason to wake early. A word with some cruise booking companies confirmed that even on Tuesday the Camira would not be running, and I would have to rebook my cruise. The problem for most boats was a lack of food, as they were equipped with their own generators and thus not reliant on power from shore. A couple were running and offering people an escape from the powerless town aboard a fully loaded cruise boat, a wonderful escape from the tedium of tourism without anything to see/do. One enterprising fish and chips store had a generator and was pumping out two orders a minute all day, his fryer working at a feverish pace. I contributed to the cause and enjoyed a wonderful plate of cooked food. Thus far I had been surviving on carrots I had purchased earlier and a loaf of bread. As the sun set once again over a darkened town, we noticed that street lights started to come on, and a peak around the corner showed that the main street was lighting up block by block. Within half an hour our block was also restored and we returned to the air conditioned glory of the hostel. I probably only went 30 hours without power in Airlie, but even that small time, mostly because of the lack of any activity, almost drove all of us crazy. The return of power was celebrated at the local Irish pub, a couple outrageously priced beers washing the tedium away. As it turned out, in the pitch dark of the night before, the Irish pub was nonetheless fully lit, had all its taps pouring cold draught, its fridges keeping bottles cold, and their stereo pumping tunes at full blast. Leave it to the Irish.

My cruise no longer running, I got up on the 23^rd and walked to the Cruise Whitsundays office to rebook. I had originally booked a package which would have me sailing for a day on the Camira today, and then a ferry would take me to Long Island where I would spend a night at the backpackers hostel before a ferry return to Airlie on the 24^th. I was informed that I could still take the ferry today, that the island was ready for guests and that I could be picked up on the 24^th by the Camira for my day of cruising. Perfect! I eagerly accepted the new offer and plopped myself at a cafe with internet to wait for my afternoon ferry to the island.

The ferry ride turned out to be empty, a total of five passengers on the large catamaran. I chatted with two Kiwi turned Aussies who were living in the Airlie area. They were going to the island to escape from home, still without power on the outskirts of town. He shared some of his beers in exchange for my stories of my travels in New Zealand. They enjoyed hearing about someone having such a great time in their home country and shared some of their own good times in New Zealand. As we alighted, we were told to wait for the resort’s passenger transfer cart, so we sat for a few minutes. A staffer loading onto the ferry told me to enjoy my upgrade and with nothing more than a wink left me rather confused on the pier. The driver of the cart instructed me to speak with the resort staff and they would sort things out, and a very confused me made my way to a very fancy reception desk. The receptionist explained that the cyclone was not kind to the backpackers lodge, also owned by the same company, so any guests who still showed (of whom there were few) were being upgraded. She gave me my key and directions to my room which turned out to be a double room, complete with TV, private bath, and beachfront view. Officially the best upgrade of my trip, for the cost of the cruise alone, I was in a private room in a resort on the beach. My door opened onto the beach and I didn’t have to share it with anyone. That turned out to be the problem though. The resort built for 300 was currently host to nearly 50 guests, none of whom were under 30, except me. Lovely surroundings yes, but a bit lonely. I took a walk to the aptly named Back Beach on the ‘back’ of the island and witnessed the destruction there. While the firmly rooted trees still stood strong, the beach was littered with all sorts of debris deposited high on the beach by the immense wind and waves. Slightly revolted at the sight of the beach so littered, I returned to the resort for some dinner at the bar, a very generous helping of nachos with chilli for a reasonable $12, certainly less than I expected at a resort bar. I lay in my double bed and did some blogging before catching the tail end of a Rocky film and an early bed time. Wakeup was early for the cruise and I couldn’t miss that!

The morning started with a ferry ride to Daydream Island where I waited for the Camira. I got talking with some other travellers awaiting pickup by the Camira, and we shared nasty comments about the rain which was starting to come down heavily. Miraculously, as we boared the Camira’s tender the clouds broke and didn’t reappear for the rest of the day.

The Camira is a 26m catamaran with an 80 passenger capacity for day trips on the Whitsundays. It is capable of 30knots in good winds, and proudly sailed by a crew of 6, all of whom are responsible for both keeping her sailing and tending to the needs of their passengers. Such needs as hunger were well catered to by a schedule of tea, breakfast, tea, lunch, and a final tea before the day was done. Our first stop of the day was reef snorkelling, which we were given an hour to do. It felt like everything was moving quickly, but a lot must be done in a day trip. The reef was impressive, but I was saving my awe for Cairns when I would get underwater with the fishies. After snorkelling the drinks cooler was opened and we were allowed unlimited beer and wine for the rest of the day, a welcomed treat, but one must be careful of liquor consumption in the strong tropical sun. Our next stop was Whithaven beach, one of the world’s top 10 beaches (that’s right, two top tens in a week!) where we had over an hour to enjoy. The beach had also suffered from the cyclone and its usual bounty of pure silica sand was scarce, most washed out to sea. It was still a wonderful beach and we enjoyed playing with a beach ball, swimming in the water (in our stinger suits to protect from jellyfish of course), or just laying and doing nothing in the sun. The time was not spent idle on board the boat and when we arrived back on board by tender, a wonderful BBQ spread was ready, including barramundi, a local variety of fish and salads galore. After some more sailing around, the return journey to Airlie commenced around the other side of Whitsunday Island. The seas were quite high today and we encountered up to two metre swells with winds upwards of 50 knots. Technically this was too high to sail in, but because winds in port were calmer, here we were, unable to put up the full rigging. We did manage 21 knots in a calmer section of water, but the wind made full sails dangerous, so we motored along for half of the trip under the Camira’s strong engines.

The whole sailing experience was terrific and made me crave more time on a sail boat. The company aboard the boat was amicable and I had no trouble finding people to chat with. The activities were wonderful, the food delicious and plentiful, and the staff were terrifically easy to get along with. While many people cruising the Whitsundays take three day live-a-boards, I found the daytrip to be a good alternative for the cash or time strapped (both of which apply to me). On return to Airlie I was sad to leave the boat, but more adventure waited the next day. I have decided however to look into sailing, maybe even learn to sail myself. A boat under sail is a very majestic sight, and there is something quite romantic about getting from A to B without expending any fuel, using only the power of nature. My evening in Airlie was contrastingly anticlimactic, and culminated with an ice cream before bed. Tomorrow I would find myself on board another boat for the trip to Magnetic Island, party central and my home for four nights.

PS: Ului made serious news because of its rapid intensification from Tropical Depression to Severe Tropical Cyclone Class 5 within 24 hours. By the time it made landfall in Australia it was class 3 and rapidly losing power. Airlie Beach sustained relatively little damage as it was sheltered by a nearby mountain range from the most serious winds. This was the most powerful cyclone to hit this region in a few decades and the town is not in any way used to abuse from such intense storms. On a side note, a Severe Tropical Storm Class 3 is equivalent to a Hurricane class 1 or 2, while the likes of Hurricane Juan which made landfall in my home city of Halifax was a Major Hurricane Class 3. Another example of a city unprepared for the fury of mother nature.

Giddy-Up!

2010-04-21T22:11:00.002-03:00

From tourism crazed Hervey Bay I was off to quiet Bundaberg on the 18^th, for what reason, I had no idea. Bundaberg is tiny town not too far north of Hervey Bay with little in the way of attractions. In the heart of sugar cane country however, Bundaberg is the home to the Bundaberg Rum Distillery, the only supplier of Australia’s ‘favourite’ rum. I got off the bus here with Andy, the only other OzEx passenger who was stopping in Bundaberg, and we made our way to the nearby Cell Block Backpackers. I had seen several of these prison themed hostels in New Zealand and Australia, but this was my first time staying in one. Perhaps there are some better examples of the hostel-in-a-former-prison than this one, or else the idea might not be as good as it sounds on paper. This hostel is host to numerous backpackers deciding to take some time away from travelling and pick some fruit. Yep, fruit picking. Getting paid an absolute minimum to break your back and burn your shoulders in the middle of Australian fruit country. Not exactly my cup of tea but the travellers I met at the hostel seemed to enjoy it – at least it pays the bills...barely. For Andy and I, it was not for the fruit orchards but the rum distillery to which we were headed. It cost $25, which is steep for a tour, but it did include two free drinks at the end and is on par with other distillery/brewery tours in Australia. The tour started with a seemingly unenthusiastic tour guide who took us to some very exciting parts of the distillery! But as the energy and familiarity amongst the group grew it quickly became apparent she was only suffering from a lack of positive feedback from the group. I guess I have done too many brewery tours, because I am no longer excited by them, blasphemous as that is, being in the presence of so much liquid gold. Maybe I should be doing more distillery tours instead! This being my first brewery tour I was thoroughly engrossed by the process of producing the elixir. Areas such as the molasses storage building and the ageing casks had me lit up with a dumb smile, learning the series of steps required to produce such a particular drink. At the conclusion, we were led to a bar where we would get our two free drinks. Recommended was the Liqueur rum which is only available from the distillery itself, so I went for that and a rum and coke, preposterously poured off tap as if it were a draught beer (and indeed they do call it draught rum and coke). The liqueur was delicious on ice with cream, while the rum and coke was spoiled by the bad coke syrup they use. As the other tour members petered off, Andy and I hung around talking to the guide about all sorts of things, like working at the company and living in such a small town. She told us about a staff favourite drink called ‘Fantasia’, which is a mix of the liqueur, Fanta orange pop, and a touch of cream. Sounding quite disgusting, she set out to prove us wrong and made us one. Surprised at the free drink, we accepted graciously, and after a sip agreed in similar surprise at how tasty it was. Joined by a male staffer who brought his tour to the bar, he asked us what our favourite drink was, and while preparing drinks for his tour made us each one of our favourites. On free drink number 3.5, we were quite happy and hung around, half seeing how far we could push it, half just wanting to keep them company and show appreciation for the drinks. Before we knew it another two drinks were up for us and we were hardly going to turn them down! Another free drink each came before they started cleaning the bar, the end of the day fast approaching. We took the hint and started to beat a retreat when we were offered ‘one for the road’. I’m not sure what we did right, maybe it was just being social and showing an interest in their line of work (the tour guides are also factory workers on a rotation scheme which has every employee doing every job to avoid tedium), maybe Andy and I are good looking guys – I’m not sure, but thank you!

Andy and I walked back into town a tiny tipsy, but not as much as I would have expected. Perhaps all the time standing around decreased the effect or maybe Aussie rum just doesn’t do the job. We went to a pub for a meal deal we spotted earlier, beer with a generous dinner for only $10. After some darned good steak we walked back to the hostel quite content after a surprisingly full day in the tiny town. Before we got to sleep, we talked with some of our roommates, all of whom were staying on the long term, working the fruit fields. Every morning the backpackers participating woke at around 5, getting into their work uniform and scoffing some breakfast before scurrying onto a hostel owned bus which shuttled them to work in the fields. I couldn’t help but think the hostel never actually changed roles from the prison it once was, the workers, now willing and coming from slightly more diverse backgrounds. Apparently these workers partied as hard as they worked and we were informed we were lucky to have missed Friday night when apparently the very room we were occupying turned into a bit of an orgy, each with their own partner in their own bunk bed, with varying efforts made in maintaining any degree of privacy. Yikes! Apparently one poor soul who found himself caught in the room on such a night slept in the hall to avoid the sight inside the room. I say again, Yikes!

Alright, enough of this freaky town, it’s time to move on. That’s pretty much how I’d sum up Bundaberg; a one day’er. Sure, the distillery tour is sweet, but you can’t drive after, so stay a night, just not at the Cell Block Backpackers on a Friday night!!! After catching the local fruit and veg market for some snack food we met the bus and got out of Bundaberg. I’ll probably never come back, and that’s ok.

The next stop north was the Town of 1770. That’s right, the town is a number. It was about this time we started to hear more and more about an approaching menace, Cyclone Ului. It was now headed for the coast north of me in Airlie Beach and it just happened to be that I was slated to arrive in Airlie on Sunday and so was the cyclone! Cruises on the Whitsundays were being cancelled across the board, offshore islands were being evacuated, and everyone panicking. Backpackers on their way north were stopping in 1770 and not going any further, creating a pileup of residents in the hostels, and tour companies were not helping any. Rumours were abounding, and an emergency Greyhound express bus which circumvented the rest of the east coast in favour of a direct trip to Cairns was not helping any. Before I knew it rumours of OzExperience ceasing service were flying from every angle. Even a call to the company’s office told me and many other backpackers that busses would not be going to Airlie until things were sorted out. One driver who found himself in 1770 on Thursday told his passengers they would be better off not continuing on to Airlie. Somehow he managed to convince all his passengers to stay in 1770 (probably had something to do with him telling them it was company policy, which it turned out was not) and he turned around and went back south rather than continuing his route (which was frankly a nasty thing to do considering he still had three days before the cyclone hit). Our driver, Kenny (aka ‘Jabba’, in the stupid nicknames they are forced to use on the east coast), refused to give in to the hubbub and said that regardless, he would be going north to Airlie. Unless the bus was caught in the very eye of the cyclone, he would be continuing on his route. All this tension and confusion created an indescribable atmosphere in 1770 as supposedly laid back backpackers panicked about reservations on boats, meeting flights, and money. Concerns regarding boats were fully legitimate as (if backpackers would only read the fine print in a tour reservation they would know) cancellations due to weather phenomena do not warrant a refund. Generally, companies were willing to give out a voucher for service, but for a traveller with a deadline and flight on the other end, this does no good. I seemed to be safe because while it was only Friday and the cyclone was landing Sunday, my cruise was supposed to be on Tuesday – nothing to do but enjoy the moment and hope for the best. Meanwhile, a weather system pushed ahead of Cyclone Ului brought torrential rains to the already rain soaked east coast by late afternoon and drenched us in 1770. The majestic sunsets, beautiful beaches and other wonderful scenery of the area was sheeted in rain so we stayed indoors. While the afternoon sun persisted, some went for a motorcycle ride in hope of continued good weather, but returned drenched to the bone and very unhappy. It was yet another drop in the already whirling sea of tension, frustration and trepidation dominant in the backpacker hostels. I’m sure we all slept with thoughts of what was to come, unsure not of our safety, but of the future of our well earned and carefully spent money.

Luckily, rather than going straight for Airlie and staying overnight while the storm hit, we were headed a couple hundred kilometres inland to a cattle station for a day in the shoes of a cowboy. One of the things that OzExperience throws in to distinguish itself from just another bus service, the stay at Kroombit Cattle Station is anything but thrown in. Costing another $45 for accommodation and meals, plus payments for any other activities in which you might like to participate, the stay does not lead to many positive feelings regarding the value of the OzExperience bus. This does not speak to the stay itself however, which turned out to be a highlight of my east coast experience. After a buffet style lunch we split off into three groups, those who wanted to go quad biking, horseback riding, or do nothing (and save money in the process). I sprung an extra $45 for the quad biking, a steal considering the comparative prices up the coast for a two hour guided quad ride. For what turned out to be more like three hours, I felt like a bona fide red neck tearing up the dirt trails on my very own overpowered 4x4 ATV. I shifted like an old pro, carefully descending the hills and shifting down just in time before a little bump to hit the throttle and get some air. Wow...what a feeling. It probably suits that I was wearing blue jeans, a khaki shirt and a bandana. That’s right, a bandana. The bandana was actually for later but it turned out to be a good accessory choice as it prevented me from breathing all of the dust thrown up in the wake of other riders.

After tearing up the trail for a while, we practiced some more cowboy skills, lassoing and clay pigeon shooting. The lassoing was free, but for another $10 you could take 5 shots with a 12 gauge at some moving targets. I had to have a go at it, and after some instruction, I was off, getting 4/5 targets, the first pulling further to the right than I expected. From here we all participated in a mock rodeo, after a demonstration from the smelly resident cowboys, trying our hands at catching, tipping, and ‘branding’ goats. Now, before I get emails from all my vegetarian friends (send them anyways though, its good hearing from you all!) please note that no goats were harmed in the making of this blog, well...one was, but we ate him and he was slaughtered humanely off site. Working in teams of three, one had to catch the goat in a small dirt arena; the second had to tip it gently and keep it down while the third ran and grabbed a brand, in this case only painted red to demonstrate the ‘hot’ end. After a proper branding, the time would be tallied with any penalties (from rough treatment of the stock, more than one teammate out of the circle at once, touching the wrong end of the brand, etc.) and a winner declared. Unfortunately, because of a particularly energetic goat (which saw fit to ram my crotch after caught and dragged back to the team area) we did not place in the top three but it was a riot and had almost everyone happy. Of course, any event involving catching and pushing around animals will garner some scepticism from animal lovers, and while no one was outspoken about it, there were a couple who silently refused to partake. We were given firm assurances that the practice as performed by us is fully ethical, and does not harm the animals. The head rancher pointed out that when he opened the pen to get a few goats to wrangle in the ring, he didn’t have to grab and drag them in, but they pushed to be first. He says that goats are more intelligent than given credit, are much like dogs, and don’t mind the attention given by the experience. While they give good pursuit, he demonstrated that some had the jig figured, and would in fact run to the person trying to catch them. In one hilarious case, a group’s catcher was trying to grab one goat, while another kept blocking him as it wanted caught instead. I can only explain it by assuring you it seems they like the attention! Of course, we aren’t causing any bodily harm or pain to the animals...when the ranchers catch them they usually have something more sinister in mind such as real branding, castration, or checking for infections.

Before dinner was served up we were treated to some roasted meat and the bar was opened. Anyone wearing a cowboy hat and bandana received a nominal discount, which made the $2 bandana worth it. Cruelly, the roasted meat was goat, but the carnivore in me didn’t mind at all. An evening of drinking, camaraderie, whip cracking (no really, we learned how to crack whips), more drinking, mechanical bull riding, and eventually sleep. Sometime in the night it started raining torrentially as the outer edges of the cyclone reached far overland and touched the ranch. We woke to a soaked landscape, more rain on the way, and anticipation as to what we might be driving into today as our determined driver took us into the aftermath of Cyclone Ului.

An Island in the Sun

2010-04-21T04:45:00.002-03:00

Picked up from Noosa in the early afternoon, the 15^th was a day for driving and not much else. After a few hours driving, the bus terminated for the day in Rainbow Beach, most popular as a base for travellers to Fraser Island. To this point I had not planned a trip to Fraser Island, saving money and getting my ‘off the coast’ fix at the Whitsunday Islands. Thus, the stop in Rainbow Beach was only because it was mandatory, and I was only staying the one night. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived and were settled, the sun had set and we missed out on the famous sands so I decided to catch them at sunrise, before the bus left at 7am. For dinner this evening I took advantage of my hostel’s dinner deal, $10 for a pretty decent dinner. The hostels in this part of the country specialise in self drive tours of Fraser Island, so it should come as no surprise my hostel was called “Fraser on Rainbow”. I’ll come to Fraser more a little later, but in summary; it is the world’s largest all sand island, a World Heritage site, and a very fragile ecosystem. Nevertheless, backpackers are allowed to tear all over the island in 4x4’s, 10 per SUV, doing whatever they please in the generally police-less wilderness. It’s a recipe for disaster and I’ll tell you why it has had unsavoury results later.

The next morning was slightly overcast, but cleared up quickly so I could catch some of the sunrise. Now, I’m not sure where these elusive sands are, but I couldn’t find any of them! While the beach was pretty (as most beaches in this part of the world tend to be) there were no multicoloured sands to be found anywhere. Perhaps I had to wander further up the beach. But, with limited time, I grabbed some breakfast, checked out of my hostel and hopped back aboard the bus for Hervey Bay. Now I know you’re going to look at the name and pronounce it “Her-vey”; don’t. I made that mistake many, many, many times, and it seems to annoy Australians almost as much as pronouncing Cairns the way it’s spelt. Nope, this is “Har-vey” – I don’t know why, it just is. I checked in to the well appointed – but slightly out of the way – Palace Backpackers (sounds way fancier than it is) and set about planning a two night stay. The OzEx driver was surprised to learn that I would be staying in Hervey Bay for two nights without going to Fraser Island, but my philosophy is that I bought a ticket with unlimited hop-on’s and hop-off’s, so I’m going to take advantage of that! I spoke with the friendly receptionists and was given a wide range of activities to enjoy in Hervey Bay, but the problem was that they all cost serious $$$. I opted for a day of bicycle riding around the extremely spread out town, but was unsure of my second day. The staff implored me to visit Fraser Island, and when I told them I just didn’t want to spend a few hundred dollars to join a bunch of backpackers who were visiting the natural oasis just to get drunk and tear up a beach in a big SUV, they offered me an alternative. Instead, I could do a one day trip at a very reasonable $170, including the ferry there and back, full lunch buffet, and a day of fully guided touring. After some contemplation, I agreed and got them to book it for me. The day of biking was slightly disappointing as by midday the temperature was in the mid 30’s, and while it was a dry heat, it made biking terrible. The ‘botanical gardens’ where I was told I could hand feed turtles turned out to be a grassy area in the middle of suburbia, with a tiny pond in the middle that had only a few ducks in residence. I biked along the esplanade and out the 1km long pier, watching the local anglers trying for a catch and the occasional ferry destined for Fraser. I got bored, tired, and sweaty pretty quickly and headed back for the hostel. Good timing too because within a few minutes of getting back the skies quickly turned dark and a torrential downpour was unleashed, lasting the rest of the evening and keeping everyone under cover. I will also mention here that it didn’t help that the bike was pretty bad, and in hindsight I wouldn’t have rented from the company I did. Some of their bikes were in a terrible state and even the one I got which seemed pretty good was nearly impossible to pedal. I spent my evening with some new acquaintances playing card games, which eventually turned to drinking games as the inevitable box of goon came out. I underestimated the power of goon and after a few glasses I found myself surprisingly drunk, collapsing in bed with a stern reminder to myself that I had to get up the next day for the tour.

Hung over as I’ll ever be, I somehow managed to pack my day bag, put sunscreen on, and get down to reception on time for the pickup for my tour. The second I was on the bus, I fell back asleep, probably not still drunk but very much regretting the last couple glasses of goon. There is no such thing as a good hangover, but if there were such a thing as a bad hangover, a goon hangover it would be. Not only did my stomach feel like it might rebel at any moment, but my head was squeezed between vice grips and I felt too tired to stand – and I know that wasn’t sleep deprivation because I got at least six hours of sleep. I woke as the bus stopped at the pier, delivering us to the boat that would take us the rest of the way to Fraser Island. It turned out the boat ride was exactly what I needed, and as I enjoyed the fresh sea air on the top deck, my hangover seemed to disappear (and not the way some people’s hangovers disappear over the side).

Fraser Island is the world’s biggest sand island and a UNESCO World Heritage site. At one point in history it was a mobile sand island, but the formation of coffee rock (a rock like sand structure) made the island permanent thousands of years ago and left us with the unique island we can explore today. The island is home to the most genetically pure species of dingo, one of the world’s top ten beaches, some of the world’s purest water, and lots and lots of drunken backpackers. Many of these backpackers have been given the keys to a large and powerful SUV, responsibility for the 9 other backpackers in the vehicle, and free rein to travel over the islands many roads, which can only be called roads because they are lines on a map but are in fact very loose sand paths through dense forest. A little more on the backpackers’ impact in a moment. I was seeing the island as part of a 25 person tour, taking a gargantuan 4x4 bus over the island to visit a few of the highlights. These drivers are highly skilled, well educated on the island, and highly critical of the terrible driving skills of the many tourists on the island. As we navigated the bumpy, ill formed roads, our driver navigated around many stuck vehicles, always muttering something about how bad an idea it was to unleash such unprepared tourists on the island. Our first stop of the day was in the centre of the island, a place where many camp while staying here. We enjoyed a walk through the rainforest while much of the ecosystem was explained to us and a few of the island’s features were pointed out. Acting like a giant sponge, the island sucks up ocean water from its base, filters it through the extremely fine sand, and from the middle of the island emerges a perfectly pure water spring. Millions of litres flow out into the ocean each day from the various streams around the island and create some of the richest breeding ground for crustaceans in this part of the world. It is for this reason, and because it is a Heritage site, that its waters will never be used to solve the nearby mainland’s water shortage, but that isn’t to say people haven’t tried. From the rainforest, we were back on the bus for the ride to this part of the world’s most famous beach, McKenzie Beach. Fed by the sponge effect of the island, the lake is entirely fresh water and as the pH sits at a constant 4.4, it is too acidic to support life, keeping the water clearer than a swimming pool. The sands here are famous for being almost pure silica, and are known to be a great exfoliant and jewellery cleaner. While the sky had threatened rain earlier, it cleared for us and we were treated to wonderfully blue skies, the sun’s warm rays, and the cool beach sand which doesn’t heat up due to it’s being too white to absorb the sun’s energy. After a plentiful lunch at an island resort, we took off down the beach for some more highlights. Here on Fraser the beaches are the highways, and thus the speed limit is 80km/hr. That doesn’t mean that one should always go 80, but you legally are allowed to. That also doesn’t mean people don’t go faster than 80, but it is the legal limit and it is supposedly enforced as it is on any Australian highway (apparently on many holiday weekends one may spot the extremely odd sight of police with radar guns on beaches). There is something very surreal about sitting in a bus some two metres off the ground, hearing the throaty roar of the massive diesel engine, and tearing down a beach at 80km/hr; an experience available in few places in the world. After a stop to see some multicolour sands (finally!) we were at the wreck of the Maheno. One of Fraser’s more photographed attractions, the former luxury liner paid service in both world wars as a hospital ship before scrapping in the 50’s. Unfortunately it never made it to the scrap yard as a cyclone broke it from its tow and it wrecked on the beaches of Fraser. Now it serves as one of Fraser’s most iconic symbols, although its steel hull is rapidly rusting away. Our next – and final – stop was Eli Creek, one of Fraser’s more serene stops. Its bed is open to wading and is one of the more popular walks on the island. Plenty of fish inhabit the stream and as you carefully keep your shorts pulled up around the top of your thighs to avoid getting wet, there is plenty to see all around. Unfortunately, as I drew near the end of the stream the skies opened once again and I had to make a beeline for the bus with my camera wrapped in my t-shirt. Luckily, this was our last stop of the day and as the rain beat down on the bus, we were all content knowing we had seen what we had come to see, and the weather cooperated at least that long. We climbed back aboard the ferry and after a precarious exit from a low tidal area, we were back on the sea towards the mainland.

If through reading this, you get the impression that Fraser is a delicate ecosystem which could be very easily upset, good, you have read my words as I intended them. Everything about Fraser screams fragile, and the government is well aware that the island needs protection. Unfortunately, those who cause the most harm are given keys to large vehicles and almost no supervision. While drunk driving (or drink driving as it’s called in this part of the world) is dealt with severely, that doesn’t mean it won’t still happen. In fact on my way up the rest of the coast I had more than one backpacker brag to me about driving drunk on Fraser Island. Such stupidity has, and will continue to result in collisions, roll-overs, injured wildlife, injured tourists, damaged ecosystems and more. The native dingoes are becoming so familiar with humans that the formerly shy K9 now boldly approaches camped tourists and seeks food. If that was a bear in Canada, it would have to be shot – here, they don’t know what to do about the protected species. One of the lakes on Fraser has been ruined by tourism as the high acidity strips any sun block and bug repellent right off of a swimmer. A build up of the chemicals eventually resulted in a deadly mix that flowed through the rivers and killed many fish and plants. While walking on most sand dunes is prohibited, many tourists seek the perfect photo of running down the face of a dune into the water below, many injured in the process, both dunes and people. The rusting Maheno is strictly off limits, yet irresponsible backpackers feel the need to get a photo while onboard the deteriorating wreck –dangerous, illegal and inconsiderate. The government sees only one solution and in a decision I completely agree with, the government decided in March that as of July, 2010, Fraser Island will be closed to self drives forever. It is unfortunate as I’m sure there are many eco conscious travellers who respect the fragility of the unique ecosystem, but as is usually the case, the few have ruined it for the many and the entire island must be closed to self drives. I hope that the change in policy has the intended effect, and I hope that Fraser Island is as pristine as it is now for my children and their children after. It is an entirely unique experience, one I am glad I partook in, and one I would recommend to others. If you can get there before July, do a self drive! They look really fun, especially if you rented a 4x4 from a rental agency. If you do one with a hostel, be prepared for a cramped, drunk, slightly dangerous, but all around fun time – but be warned, if one of your drivers is acting like a dick at the wheel, showing off or acting dumb, as a group you must be willing to remove them from the driver’s seat. Everyone’s safety is everyone’s business, and everyone has to be willing to step up and ensure the safety of everyone.

I spent a quiet evening in Hervey Bay, choosing not to partake in the St Patricks Day celebrations at the local Irish pub. It would have been good craic (a little speak I picked up in Ireland, meaning a good thing) but unfortunately the drinks were just too expensive and I needed a night off after the previous evening. I instead raised a cold glass of water to my Irish friends before heading to bed.

“Crikey!”

2010-04-21T04:39:00.003-03:00

From relaxed Byron Bay, I was off to Brisbane on the 10^th. A stop many Oz Experience passengers neglect, Brisbane is the modern and attractive capitol of Queensland. Most passengers prefer to stop at Surfers Paradise for the nightlife and – obviously – surfing. I took a miss on Surfers, recognising it for the over visited, over commercialised, tourist trap that it is (wow, that sounds harsh, but it’s true). Speaking with people who did visit Surfers, most enjoyed it but could have taken a miss on it after discovering things they could have spent their money on further up the coast. Hey, visit it on your way up the coast, but don’t expect anything in the way of culture or diversity unless you count the backpacker population. Brisbane was a wonderful alternative, a well kept and fully functional city filled with Queensland history. My first day was spent recovering from my night of no sleep and trying to find things to do in the city, activities which it turned out, were limited. For the first time in my travels I stayed at the Base hostel chain, prominent throughout Australia and New Zealand. Because I booked accommodation and tours through Backpackers World Travel – the parent company for Base – I would be staying with more Bases on the way up the coast. As most Base hostels are, this was a party hostel. The majority of guests are party animals set on visiting every club in existence, and drinking every bar dry. Differing from my travel style slightly, I would have to put up with a lot of drunken grand entrances throughout the night. (My consolation in these times usually involves noisily getting up at a very reasonable 8am, sometimes only a few hours after they have gone to bed. Immature, to be sure, but one feels satisfied in the moment.) I napped through part of the day before dinner at the Base associated Down Under Bar, a $10 meal including a steak, salad and chips, with a beer. Yummy. Speaking of beer, you’re probably asking, “David, what kinds of beer are they drinking down under?” Oh, you weren’t? Well why weren’t you!? Don’t care about beer? Must not be Canadian... Regardless, the type of beer depends on the state you are in. No no, not the stage of drunkenness to which you have drunk yourself nor your level of well being, the states of Australia! Here in Queensland there are only a few ‘respectable’ beers to drink. XXXX (Four ex) and Toohey’s are both brewed by the same company, are symbols of Queensland, and proof positive that ‘respectable’ doesn’t always refer to taste. Sponsoring cricket teams, volleyball teams and other local sports, and having been a part of Queensland for nearly a century now, what the iconic beers lack in taste they make up for in character. Sorry, I’ve got to go chop my nose off; it’s growing out of control for some reason. Actually, pretty much all of the beer down here lacks everything that makes beer good. I wouldn’t call the beer here terrible, but flavourless and rarely exceeding 5%, I feel like I’m in the US of A rather than a member of the Commonwealth (so I guess I would call it terrible). The amount of Four ex one must drink to get a buzz completely takes the fun out of getting drunk; chugging pint after pint becomes too much of a chore – and sinkhole in the wallet – to enjoy. But there’s history here, right? That’s to find out on the 11^th, when I visit the brewery where all Four ex is produced. Exxxxcellent... (hah, see what I did there?)

I started the 11^th with a walking tour around Brisbane. I have to admit it started a bit late as I was still recovering from my all nighter, but it turned out I didn’t need too much time to see the city. The main sights to see are on the West Bank (as in, West Riverbank) where the city has invested vast resources in producing a family and tourist friendly series of parks and leisure facilities. Brisbane does not actually sit on the coast and the only water front is a muddy river which fluctuates in depth with the tides. Because of the lack of swimmable water and the temperatures experienced throughout the year here, the city has made an impressive swimming lagoon here on the bank of the river. Complete with a shallow pool, adult pool, and sand beach for sunning, it serves as the highlight to the downtown area. Past the lagoon and down a very impressive boardwalk path is the very impressive museum for contemporary arts, next door to the Queensland State Library, an equally impressive new library. I parked myself here for a while to use the free wifi before heading off for the XXXX brewery. Walking through Brisbane I got the impression that it is a very clean city with every intention of keeping it that way, maintaining a professional image in contrast to some of the sights to see further up the Queensland coast.

I’ve been trying to figure out something nice to say about the XXXX brewery and tour, but frankly there’s not much to say at all. It’s a brewery, the tour is not especially original, the beer isn’t particularly terrific, and it’s a bit of a hike from the downtown area. There are also no photos to show for it because cameras aren’t allowed on the tour. I took from it that Four ex is favoured by most Queenslanders and there is a culture of loyalty as there is with any regional beer. The tasting at the end told me that most of their beers taste the same, except for their very special porter which tastes like someone tried to rip off Guinness, but died in his own brew along the way.

I spent my last day in Brisbane doing almost literally nothing. That’s right, another one of those days. Aside from some time in the library, I stayed in the hostel and did some blogging. Such was my time in Brisbane, a cheap stop to organise my thoughts and enjoy doing nothing before heading up the coast and doing nothing elsewhere.

After a morning visit to the library for a call home, I caught the bus around noon on to Noosa. Although there were many strangers on the bus, there were a good number of familiar faces from my earlier bus. From many of these people I heard stories of Surfers Paradise, most only contributing to my relief in not stopping there. I heard tales of riotous night clubs, over stuffed and dirty hostels, and high prices. I’m sure Surfers has a nice side, but I have yet to meet a backpacker who came away with an overall positive impression. As for Brisbane, it’s a neat city with a modern image, a great place to stop a couple days, but any more than that will have any tourist bored. Like most Australian cities, it has a happening night scene and will amuse any partier for at least a few days – or rather, nights.

Noosa is rather a collection of many villages, collectively known as the Town of Noosa. Most of these villages have their own beach and commercial centre. I was staying around 5km from the main centre where the bus dropped off, at the Dolphin Place Lodge near Sunshine Beach. While an inconvenient distance from the centre of most happenings, the hostel runs a convenient shuttle almost every hour for free. The walk can also be made in just under an hour along streets, or through the beautiful Noosa National Park in over an hour, or at low tide one can walk along the beach into town, a longer route but safe to say far more scenic. After settling in at the hostel, I caught the shuttle to meet with a friend I had made on the bus, Monica, from Edmonton. We fought our way through the rain which came and went the whole evening, to the local Irish pub. One thing that can be counted on anywhere in the world; if there are people, there will be an Irish pub serving decent food and good pints. Here in Queensland, it is uncustomary to serve beer in pints, rather in pathetic ‘pots’, or ¾ size pints called ‘schooners’. A bartender explained to me that the only reason some pubs serve pints is for tourists. I explained that the only reason we serve pints in Canada is because we like our beer (although I should mention that in Irish pubs, pints are used as per Irish tradition).

Monica and I met on the morning of the 14^th (she was staying at the YHA in town) to catch the free shuttle to the Australia Zoo, better known as the Steve Irwin Zoo. Calling Beerwah it’s home, the Australia Zoo was founded by Steve Irwin’s father as a centre to preserve the animals which are so important in Australia’s past and present, hoping to educate people so that these animals can remain a part of Australian life in the future. While the Zoo is actually closer to Brisbane, a free shuttle runs from Noosa and other stops between, making Noosa the unofficial centre for travel to the Australia Zoo. On the bus ride to the zoo, the video produced by Irwin on the beginnings of his life’s work in conservation and animal rescue is presented. This occupies the hour it takes to get to the zoo and somehow manages to check the building excitement of the children on board – children both young and old. I for one was grinning like a six year old as the bus pulled up to the zoo, adorned with banners proclaiming “Crikey!”, “Beauty!” and other such Steve-isms. Unfortunately the zoo has no student admission and I paid the full $44 adult admission which seems a bit steep, but by the end of the day I certainly felt I had my money’s worth. The range of included activities is impressive to say the least, although trying to catch all the included shows and demonstrations has guests scampering from side to side of the zoo. Hourly animal presentations are held in the less dangerous animal’s enclosures while more impressive demonstrations are usually held twice daily. The first such demonstration was the feeding of three Asian Elephants. As guests line up, they are given a piece of fruit to feed to the elephants. Simply step up to the line, hold out your hand, and before you know it the elephant is munching happily on a fraction of their daily intake of fruit. Of course, the true Steve Irwin innovation was the Croco-seum (a terrible play on Colosseum), an arena where crocodiles, amongst other animals, could be shown off. Everyone doubted Irwin could get a croc to enter the arena on command, but by putting his own body on the line, he enticed the crocs into the arena for feeding and a demonstration for the crowd. An impressive range of birds is displayed in flight as well as a repeat performance from the elephants who are paraded through the arena. From here visitors can go see a demonstration of the tigers, pat a koala, participate in numerous animal feedings, and more. The true value in the Australia Zoo is not in its range of animals – which is extensive as well – but in interactivity with the animals. The hope here is that positive interactions with these animals will lead to a better understanding, a more educated and hopefully more conservation active public. While the zoo does not specialise in endangered species, many of their animals are, and of course without vigilance, many of the animals in the zoo could soon find themselves at risk. By the end of the day, Monica and I were thoroughly exhausted from walking around the zoo and pretty wiped from the constant excitement of experiencing new animals. On the bus ride back to Noosa we were shown the video made after Steve Irwin’s death, showcasing all the highlights in his career, his accomplishments in conservation and his wonderful family life. It was a bit of a sad note to finish the day on and there were few dry eyes at the end at the emotional conclusion to the film.

I caught the shuttle back to the hostel for a relaxing night off my feet. I ate dinner at the nearby Fratellini Italian restaurant, where they agreed to turn on their free internet if I ate dinner there (they normally shut it off after 5pm to maintain a proper dinner atmosphere). I could have stayed at least another day in Noosa, soaking in the relaxed beach atmosphere and exploring the many villages, but the next day, the 15^th, I was off for Rainbow Beach. I hadn’t even tried surfing in Noosa, which is relatively famous – even playing host to a surfing competition during my stay – but Noosa was another pricy holiday town serving tourists who want beach time. As it would turn out, there were several more opportunities for that further up the coast. I was, however, happy that I saw the Australia Zoo, an opportunity available only here.

Next stop: Rainbow Beach, famous for its rainbow of sands and a major jumping off point for Fraser Island.

Surfers and Hippies Welcome You to True Australia

2010-04-05T04:00:00.002-03:00

There’s nothing quite like catching a bus before the sun is up, but cruising out of Sydney as the sun peaked over the horizon, I was off before a single ray graced Sydney’s famous skyline. Travelling up the east coast of Australia I had all my transportation and accommodation booked and was hoping for a safe trip the whole way. The OzExperience bus followed the same path as Greyhound, but offered a more backpacker friendly image while trying to distinguish themselves with drivers who also function as tour guides and some special stops along the way – anything to justify the extra cost vs Greyhound which also offered a hop on hop off service. My first stop would be one of those special ones at Spot X – also known as Surf Camp. This first stop would teach us the skills needed to surf so that we could at least pretend we knew what we were doing if we chose to surf on the way up the coast. After a few pit stops – a couple involving amusing sights such as the world’s biggest banana in Coffs Harbour or the world’s largest prawn in Biloai – we arrived at Arrawarra Beach, aka, Spot X, in late afternoon. Spot X is surfer talk for a surfing spot (usually with sweeeet surf duuuude) which you don’t want discovered, hence, the use of a code word. This ‘spot x’ however, defeats the purpose entirely with massive signs on the highway advertising its existence, thus exploiting an important part of surfer culture to earn money, completely contrary to surfer culture. Ahhh... I love the smell of a sell-out in the afternoon. At this point, people were starting to make friends with others on the bus, and when we were split off into our room assignments, most took time to better get to know our one night roomies. A quick introduction to surf camp from some of the instructors warned us that the night would be a big party, and we wouldn’t get in the water until the next morning. We were given the chance to go back into town to the bottle shop (the Aussie name for a liquor store) before dinner which was an all you can eat smorgasbord featuring a lot of bland and overcooked food. The party kicked off a little later with lots of loud drinking games and shouting in contrast to some quiet background music. The camp had 240 people, way over their usual numbers so the party was particularly crazy. My roomies and I, along with some new friends went back to our dorm (more of a mobile home) to sit and chat on the veranda to avoid the noise. This was my first experience with goon, a drink as infamous to backpackers in Australia as beer is to Canadians. Goon is just a name for what is usually called ‘boxed wine’, ‘cask wine’, or to locals, ‘chateau cardboard’. This is not a quality boxed wine however, this particular brew is made from ingredients that couldn’t cut it in wine production, filtered and processed with the aid of chemicals and other unspeakables. In fact, grapes do not even appear on the ingredients list. What’s more frightening however, is the warning that it “may contain traces of fish or dairy”, two ingredients which are apparently used to help it along in production. Despite the questionable ingredients list, terrible taste, and even worse hang over that is quintessentially part of goon, it remains a backpacker favourite, mostly because of its price starting at only $10 for 4 litres, at roughly the same alcohol percentage as wine. In short, backpackers like it because it gets you drunk on the cheap. I bought none, but sampled some which was on offer for free by those who purchased it and could not stomach it any longer. Sure enough, it worked its magic, and the next thing I knew I woke up with a terrible hangover at 8am, having to get packed up and changed for surf lessons.

At the breakfast table, most showed the usual signs of pain accompanying a hangover as few made it through the night sober. As with dinner the previous evening, breakfast was bland, but the grease worked magic on the hangover and getting us all ready to catch some waves. Our instruction started with the theory of surfing, and some practical safety info important for anyone wishing to play in an environment fraught with hazards such as rips, undertows, crashing waves and dangerous marine wildlife. From here, we suited up in wetsuits, rash guard shirts or otherwise and headed for the beach with our boards. We took a while practicing mounting the board, then headed out into the surf. The waves ranged from a metre to two, but were very constant and rarely crashed without warning. With assistance from the instructors, everyone was up on the board at least once, some taking to it with ease. I managed to stand a good number of times, but wiped out far more times as is the usual for a beginner surfer. The experience of surfing after some proper instruction was far better than the haphazard manner in which surfing is often attempted. No one was hurt, and everyone had fun. After cleaning up and grabbing lunch – which was equally as bland as dinner and breakfast before – we got back on the bus to continue north.

The next stop was Byron Bay, the most eastern town in Australia, home to lots of surfing, and nearby the infamous Nimbin. Because this was the bus’ final stop for the day, we all stayed in Byron Bay, although our accommodations varied. This was last time we would all be in the same bus together, but I would see many of these people again. I was staying in a hostel which would be more aptly described as a complex. A multi acre property, the Arts Factory has dorms, tepees, tent sites, private rooms and more. My first night I was booked into a dorm, but for my next two nights I would make use of the tent I had tried but failed to sell in Auckland. Here too, the price of accommodation was far higher than I was used to, $34 for a 10 person dorm and a far better $18 for a tent. I was glad to save any amount of money and more than willing to put up with nights in a tent once again. The hostel has its own pool, cafe, travel booking agency and across the parking lot the locally popular Buddha Bar. Making quick friends with Liz and Eliza, two Welsh gals, we had a quick swim in the pool before dinner at the cafe and a drink at the bar. That evening was my first taste of the usual Aussie hostels – filled with parties, drinking, and eventually, puking. As I got myself ready for bed, a guy I was talking to earlier was led into the room by a couple guys, apparently unable to stand by himself. He made a terrible racket getting into bed and apologised profusely to all of the room’s occupants. I’ve seen drunkenness before, been drunk myself as well, but this was an introduction to such ritualistic binge drinking on the backpacker circuit such as I have never before seen. Fortunately, he passed out and made no more interruptions throughout the night (apparently having already puked his guts out, multiple times).

My new Welsh friends and I took the 8^th to chill out, spending a good bit of the day on the beach. The ladies were quite content to sun themselves while I set off walking to the end of the beach, taking in the scenery and scouting out a good location to shoot from to take in the sunrise. Byron Bay’s geographic claim to fame is its easterly position on the coast, from where you can literally be the first person standing on mainland Australia to see the sun as it rises in the morning. I wasn’t aiming to catch the very first rays, but would return in a couple days to catch the sun rising over the most eastern points of land in Australia. Through liberal application of sunscreen I managed to come away from a long beach session with only a hint of red – satisfactory considering the number of people walking away lobster red. Part of my day was also spent troubleshooting a problem with vouchers from Backpackers World Travel, having been promised that I would receive hundreds of dollars worth of paid for vouchers in my email, and never receiving them; frustrating to no end to be sure.

Dinner that night was at the local backpacker haunt, The Cheeky Monkey. Offering all sorts of specials and theme nights, the Monkey is never empty so long as there are backpackers are in town. Tonight was Mexican night with themed food and drinks. I went with Liz and Eliza, and we enjoyed the food as well as the free margarita that came along with any themed food purchase! As is typical with the Monkey, the party picked up after dinner, gradually escalating from reasonably quiet dinner time to crazy dance party mode. We made our escape as the music picked up, exploring the town for a quieter venue to enjoy a drink and conversation. We stayed momentarily at a railroad themed bar, but retreated back to the hostel for an even quieter night and some sleep.

On the 9^th, I was off to see this part of the world’s sin central – Nimbin, Australia’s answer to Amsterdam. Admittedly, there is no prostitution, and drug use is – technically – illegal, but through the settlement of hundreds of hippies throughout the past decades and the hosting of Aquarius – Australia’s own Woodstock – the town and surrounding areas have become a safe haven for drug use. Police turn a blind eye to the use and growth of marijuana here, even though Australian law still prohibits it. Ironically, the only place in the country where marijuana use is legal, is Canberra, the capital. Aussies usually explain this away as politicians not wanting their kids to get in trouble with the law for their less than savoury habits. The best way to see the area is with a bona fide hippy, a guarantee if you go with Jims Alternative Tours. In the course of our day on the bus (the second oldest in Northern New South Wales) we listened to rants on the merits of natural living, the evils of the government and the benefits of marijuana and hemp. We stopped in Nimbin for an hour to get lunch and whatever other purchases members of the bus might like to make. Before stopping, the driver gave everyone the talk on responsible usage, not getting ripped off in a purchase, and not getting too high on his bus. I couldn’t believe my ears – instructions like this outside of Amsterdam!? But walking down the street in Nimbin, it’s impossible to ignore the prevalence of drugs. Constant offers for weed, cookies or mushrooms are hurled from all directions and more than a few people are interested in buying. Luckily, a simple ‘no thanks’ goes a long way and will generally keep the uninterested out of trouble. Also in Nimbin is the Hemp Museum, an educational experience on the history of the use of marijuana, the history of the local Aboriginal people, and Nimbin itself. After this stop, we were off for some driving through the woods. Along the way, he played some pretty trippy music for us, while describing the different types of ‘gasms’ one might experience in life. He said that while or-gasms were great, there were so many more ‘gasms’ to be had. He promised us a true ‘mountain-gasm’ and took the bus through a very hilly section of the road. The combination of music, amazing scenery, and hilarious commentary – while not giving me a ‘mountain-gasm’...at least I don’t think it did... – made for a memorable experience and is part of the quirkiness that makes the tour worth it. Our next stop was the forest home of a former New Yorker, come to Australia to live in peace away from the oppressive man. We took a hike through his woods, puzzling at the odd assortment of mannequins, dolls, kitchen appliances and more he has scattered throughout the woods (maybe they’re all protecting him against the government’s newest mind control methods...). We hung out in his hut for a while, sampling some of the local fruit and chatting before heading off for the bus again. After a look off stop we were back to Byron for the end of the tour. All in all, it was a hilarious and enjoyable day, one I would recommend to any visitor of the area, although some older minded travellers might not enjoy it quite the same...

Hanging out with some people from the OzExperience bus for the night, we ended up going out to Cheeky Monkey’s for some dancing and fun. We danced our way into the wee hours of the morning at which point I returned to my hostel for my camera and made my way down to the beach for the sunrise. While my two Welsh friends were underwhelmed, I was thoroughly excited as the sun came up behind some cliffs, gently illuminating the beach and surroundings. We watched as the earliest rising surfers hit the beach before dawn broke, as morning runners took to the beach and the town came alive. It was a wonderful goodbye to Byron Bay, as I was back on the bus in less than an hour, continuing my trek north.

Australia: Fun in the Sun…and Rain

2010-04-05T03:57:00.002-03:00

A new month, a new destination – off to Australia for the second time on my trip. The very convenient Auckland Airport Express bus got me to the international departure terminal for my flight with Air New Zealand to Sydney. While waiting in the airport I managed to catch the live results for the Canada-USA men’s hockey final in the Olympics, which finished minutes before my plane boarded. I felt much better getting on the plane knowing we can still kick ass at hockey on the world stage. Canada for gold! Flying into Sydney for the second time was less exciting, especially since the weather was terrible, rain and wind awaiting me on the ground. I caught the airport train to central station from where I walked only a couple blocks to YHA Railroad Square, in the very heart of the city. Sydney is of course, a big city, the city most often mistaken for being the capital of Australia. By the numbers however, it is only slightly bigger than Melbourne, a couple hundred thousand which isn’t much when comparing cities of over 4 million people. Somehow, however, Sydney manages to feel much bigger and far less relaxed. First impressions are of a city that’s too busy to care about anything other than being busy. Gazes are averted downwards, steps are taken in a short shuffle, and mere grunts are accepted as yes or no. I wouldn’t say I didn’t like Sydney from the start, but I certainly wasn’t impressed. As is often the case, the weather was playing a part as I was soaked walking a mere two blocks to the hostel, but beyond the weather, Sydney just didn’t impress. I fought the rain to get groceries, and did absolutely nothing the rest of the day, taking time to read, blog, and let home know I was still in the fight.

Continuing the same theme, the weather on the 2^nd was terrible and so I spent the day indoors. I did a tiny bit of blogging, and managed to plough all the way through a novel I picked up at the book exchange, cover to cover – pretty much my only accomplishment of the day. Dinner was of course, the same every night I was staying in Sydney, a pasta sauce I made tons of with pasta, this time with mince lamb. After purchasing my groceries however, I discovered that this was one of the few hostels where it might have been the same price to eat their food. Every night there was a dinner special, always $6 including a beer. Dinner was different every night with specials such as BBQ night, pizza night, etc. The social aspect would have been beneficial as well, but the groceries were purchased, and the sauce made.

Finally, on the 3^rd of March, the weather broke and Sydney showed off its sunny side. I made myself sandwiches before leaving the hostel for a day of city exploring. Walking all the way down George St, I was impressed with the number of skyscrapers reaching upwards, eventually petering off as I drew near the historic district. Like a good tourist, I took my photos of the Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House, before taking a long barefoot walk through the botanical gardens. Now these are impressive. The sheer size is enough to wow, but the variety of plants, the organisation, and the information available within the gardens for free is spectacular. Sydney’s Botanical Gardens is also home to a massive bat population, hanging in the trees and pooping on tourists below who retreat quickly out of fear of either guano bombing or the bats themselves. From the gardens I headed to the Sydney Tower, quite similar to the towers in every other major city in the world. For $19.50 I viewed a motion simulator video on all the things to do in Australia, and took the elevator to the top of the tower. From the highest point in the city, the whole city is spread out for viewing, except that is, for the world famous Opera House of which only a corner is visible. Oops!

I had planned to visit Bondai Beach on the 4^th with a new acquaintance, but the morning weather rebelled, dark clouds hanging in the sky threatening rain. We decided it was wiser to stick around the hostel and take a miss on the apparently overrated beach. We wandered through many of the same places I saw the day before, getting a bit more detail than I had earlier, and seeing a few sights I had missed. Frankly, I was already bored with Sydney. This isn’t just my own opinion, I hear from nearly every backpacker I talk to that they prefer Melbourne over Sydney – I have to agree. Unlike Auckland with its low priced activities and easy getaways, everything in Sydney is expensive. Performances at the Opera House are out of the question, none priced below $50AUD; museums tend to carry an admission fee; with the exception of Bondai Beach, trips out of the city tend to be multiday or require a guide, and are thus expensive. No matter what you end up doing, you should be prepared to spend money. Consideration also must be given to Australia’s higher dollar in relation to New Zealand, where $1AUD = ~ $0.95CAD at the time of publication. I had considered a trip to the Blue Mountains, just outside of the city, but a day trip needs to be guided or done by rental car, and a multiday trip was out of the question for me as my Sydney accommodation was already booked. I was stuck in the city, whether I liked it or not.

As if Sydney knew I wasn’t enjoying the city, I was treated to some more bad weather to dampen my spirits on the 5^th. I made the best of the day and found a cafe where the internet was free, and spent the afternoon there. After getting in touch with people and updating the blog, I set off for a nearby travel booking office for some serious itinerary work. I was going to see the east coast of Australia by the OzExperience bus, booked since before my trip began. A hop on hop off bus service, you can get off wherever the bus stops and resume your journey any number of days later. I had already booked my trip sectors while in New Zealand after researching locations worth stopping in. I made my way to Backpacker World Travel where I gave them my bus itinerary and asked them to help me book accommodation the whole way up. This is a different type of travel than I am used to, where my transportation is all planned in advance and my accommodation is not only booked, but paid for in advance as well. At the nearby OzExperience office I had firmed up my itinerary already, and booked a cruise on the Whitsundays, so my itinerary was rock solid, a decision which would later cause me worry, but which I would never seriously regret. Amanda from BWT showed me all the options for accommodation all the way up the coast, and booked my selections for me. We also booked a diving cruise out of Cairns and a couple of smaller tours along the way. All in all, a very expensive day, but in the end, I had guaranteed accommodation and spots on cruises all the way up the coast. At this point I crashed through the rest of my budget, and started on credit. Getting closer to the end of my trip, it started to become apparent I would run out of money, but I have decided to come away from this trip with no regrets, so I will not forfeit having a good time in order to stay out of debt. I am going back to work with the military in the summer, so as long as my spending remains conservative, I will have less debt than just one paycheque. I won’t regret short-lived debt as much as I would regret missing out on such things as Fraser Island, or the Whitsunday Islands.

I had a very early morning the next day, catching the OzExperience bus (henceforth known solely as the OzBus) at a very early 6am. This meant a 5am wakeup in order to finish packing, check out, and get to the pickup location. Unfortunately, I had not gotten out of bed until noon on the 5^th and trying to get to sleep at 10pm just was not working as the simultaneous excitement and apprehension of the next day conspired with the surplus of sleep to make Z’s impossible. I was unable to even get a yawn until 1am, at which point I decided sleeping would be dangerous as there would be little chance of me getting up on time after only four hours of sleep. I have made this mistake in the past (Canterbury and Antwerp), and wouldn’t make it this time. Instead, I stayed up through the night, getting some blogging done and watching some shows I have on my computer. When 5am finally came, I finished packing, made some sandwiches for the road, checked out, and went to the OzExperience office. My journey up the coast was about to get started.

The City of Sails

2010-03-27T00:29:00.002-03:00

I certainly didn’t look forward to leaving New Zealand, in fact, the more I thought about it, the more depressing it was. New Zealand was my welcoming host for almost two months, and now I was leaving, years until my next visit. Of course, the best way to leave a good friend is on a good note, so I was going to make the most of my time in Auckland, a city where fun is apparently hard to find. Making the most, however, doesn’t mean getting up early, and I furthered my lazy streak by getting up around 10 – I’m am on vacation aren’t I? After a full breakfast at a nearby cafe, I explored the city and quickly realised why people were underwhelmed by Auckland’s exterior: Auckland is just another city. Surprise! Of course, it’s not what’s on the exterior that matters and I set up at the library to enjoy their free internet and discover what was going on under the surface. As it turned out, a lot was going on and I eagerly recorded every possibility in the city to plan my next days. Walking to the nearby Town Hall, I purchased tickets for a concert then wandered downtown to pick up some groceries in effort to reduce my food bills. Of course, making your own food is always cheaper than eating out unless you are in a hostel with some seriously good food deals; rare, but it happens. In this case, $30NZD meant dinner for four nights, sandwiches for four days, and bread for breakfast if I ever get up that early. This evening I made a large pot of spaghetti sauce with fresh veggies and ground beef, making enough for four nights and putting the leftovers in the fridge, a time efficient method of cooking, only requiring me to cook some noodles each evening. Sound obvious? Apparently not to around a dozen people who marvelled over the next four nights at the idea of making too much and putting it in the fridge for later... yikes. Getting dressed in the best clothes I could manage (‘backpacker’ best is a little different from my ‘at home’ best) I headed off for the concert at the nearby Town Hall. The Auckland Philharmonic Orchestra was presenting Pictures at an Exhibition for their opening performance of the season. I personally had not heard much about the APO, but they performed a terrific set and their yearly programme was impressive to say the least, a wonderful selection of pieces in various venues, for various age groups.

One of Auckland’s distinguishing features is its diversity. Myself coming from a country that prides itself on its multiculturalism, I was quite impressed with the figures Auckland touts proudly. With a strong Maori population, around 20%, the city is strong in New Zealand’s roots. Auckland is also home to the largest Polynesian population outside of Polynesia, a population that is not segregated in one part of the city but spread throughout. There are also major populations of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Vietnamese amongst other Asian countries. It should come as no surprise then that the Chinese New Year, an occasion specific to the Chinese but celebrated by many people worldwide and throughout Asia, is a big deal here. While it is the Chinese New Year, Auckland involves the whole Asian community in what is one of the world’s biggest multicultural festivals, the Auckland Chinese Lantern Festival. Drawing over two hundred thousand visitors in 2009, the 2010 festival was expected to be equally as impressive. After a day of blogging at the hostel, I made my way down to the festival with a couple of new acquaintances. China, in specific, Shanghai, is responsible for the majority of the lanterns at the festival, impressive show pieces made of nothing more than bamboo, coloured silk and lit by regular light bulbs. Before night when the lanterns came into their element however, the daylight was used for martial art demonstrations from the various Asian nationalities in attendance. The festival was later opened by the New Zealand Prime Minister, John Key, and attended by many politicians and prominent businessmen/women. Everyone had to have their 15 minutes, and all of the politicians made a point of thanking everyone they could think of, making for ages of boring drivel. There was food by the cart load from every Asian group for dinner and dessert and I personally went for the sweet side, enjoying a couple ice cream dishes.

On the 28^th, I decided to take a daytrip out of the city, and with my new Swiss friend, Sonja, boarded a ferry to Mt Rangitoto. The entire region has been volcanic at some point, and the dormant Mt Rangitoto in Auckland’s harbour is reminder of the area’s origins. Day tours of the harbour are also available with a brief moment on the island, but for anyone interested in exploring the volcano, a ferry pass is recommended. The island is covered with walking paths, ranging from easy roads to challenging treks through the woods. I found the landscape quite foreign as the ubiquitous black rock dominated the landscape, sometimes interrupted by the occasional foliage, often covered with lush forest. The tracks offer stunning view of the surrounds, whether of Auckland, the neighbouring island or the sight of hundreds of nearby sailboats under sail. Auckland is the city of sail, home to hundreds of thousands of moored sailboats and the start or finish line to multiple sail races. If the sun gets to you on the hot black rock, an intricate network of subterranean tunnels provides an escape so long as you’ve remembered your flashlight for the pitch black journeys. The island holds a unique military history; having hosted military installations as far back as the late 1800’s when New Zealand was worried about Russian invasion. More recently the island was home to the Controlled Mine Base from where sea mines were deployed to protect the harbour from foreign navies in both world wars. Little of the buildings remain after an 80’s demolition plan, but the foundations offer a glimpse into what it might have been like here 60+ years ago. It was here I ran into a group from Scouts New Zealand on their own day hike. I had a great chat with their leaders and discovered that Scouting in New Zealand is active, and well attended. I got some contact information and promised to keep in touch, especially if I ever come back to New Zealand. He reminded me that Scouting is a large network, and no matter where you go there are always Scouts willing to help out – after all, it helps towards your one good turn every day! For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’ve spent a good part of my life in Scouts Canada, participating from around 5-13 and leading for a couple years after that – and a good part of my life it was. I shan’t digress too much, but my time in Scouts taught me many of the skills I would use later in life, whether while camping, in the military, or just the good values which are important for everyday life. The survival skills not only teach young boys – and in many countries, girls as well – self sufficiency, but impart a strong self confidence which will help them to mature. Scouts (more specifically, Beavers, Cubs, and then Scouts) was an important part of my growing up, and I encourage participation. Mt Rangitoto was a wonderful day trip out of Auckland, and while both Sonja and I were quite happy to get off our feet after 25km of walking, we had thoroughly enjoyed our time on the trail. For the lazier traveller, there are road trains which pick up from the ferry and take visitors on a loop of the island and even near the summit; but the trail was not difficult and for anyone with mild physical ability the climb is rewarding and not terribly physically demanding.

My final full day in Auckland was spent exploring the further reaches of the city. Setting off with Sonja and our new Dutch friend Megan, we walked south towards Mt Eden, a location I was unaware of but is famous for its views and history. In this part of New Zealand, it shouldn’t be too surprising to learn that this “Mt” was once a volcano, but today it is a grassy hill which offers spectacular views. We walked the whole way up (not really all that far) and like proper tourists, got our photos. From here we spotted One Tree Hill further in the distance, and after conferring, agreed to walk the distance. Please, no jokes about the name, I’ve heard them all by now. We were semi lost along the way until we spotted the obelisk which crowns the hill, marking a site of historic significance. This was once a Maori Pa, a defensive hill which used European battle tactics to defend against the European threat and enemy Maori tribes. At the base of One Tree Hill is a large park with plenty of space for weekend tomfoolery with the usual free barbeques. We enjoyed a stroll through here before starting our way back. We only then realised how far we had come and how far we had to get back, but we decided against the bus and set off anyway. By the time we returned to our hostel we had walked a good 18km, not bad considering it was stifling hot city walking and we had set out in flip-flops in anticipation of a short walk.

After a Skype call home with birthday wishes for my mom (happy birthday Mom!) and the usual dinner, I was off to the IMAX Theatre at nearby Sky Cinema. Again joined by Megan and Sonja, we were in for a treat, the 3D IMAX presentation of Avatar. Wow, what a film! I know that some people claim there is no storyline, that it is only special for its effects, but I quite enjoyed the storyline – even if it was a bit unoriginal. But it is the effects that make Avatar special, and with the massive screen and characters you can almost touch in 3D, it was an amazing experience. Well done Mr Cameron.

Unfortunately, this was the end of my time in New Zealand. All that was left was a bus ride to and short wait in, the Auckland airport before heading to Australia. More adventures await in Australia, but New Zealand was a special destination along my journey. There is just so much to love about New Zealand that I couldn’t possibly fit it into one of my posts, so read the rest of my New Zealand posts to understand what I mean. But some stand outs are the amicable people, spectacular scenery, ease of travelling, catering for backpackers, lack of dangerous creatures, lush environments, and the list just goes on! I know already I will return to New Zealand. I will revisit some of the places I enjoyed most, check in on some of the places that were on the path to great things during my visit, and I will explore new things. Looking back on my time in New Zealand, I can hardly believe I spent almost two whole months, 53 days in total, because it passed so quickly and without worry. For the prepared traveller, there is nothing to worry about in New Zealand. Accommodation will never be a problem for one with a tent, towns spaced across both islands ensure no one will ever go hungry, and the locals are sure to provide the camaraderie desired by the lonely traveller. My parents and I have both come to the same conclusion regarding New Zealand while backpacking: of all the countries in the world, except Canada, I would most like to live in New Zealand. It has it all, and if it weren’t for my strong connections to Canada, it would have me too.

Paradise Left

2010-03-27T00:25:00.002-03:00

As perfect as Opoutere may have been, I couldn’t spend the rest of my trip there and it was time to move on. In fact, everyone had to move on as by 10am an invasion of around 40 12 year olds and their harried chaperones had the hostel overrun, a school trip which had been booked months in advance. The hostel manager seemed unfazed as the kids were the chaperone’s responsibility; she had but to hide in her office until the storm passed. I started the walk back to the main Coromandel highway (State Highway no. 25) but didn’t wait long before a car stopped – two actually. One car had two Canadian friends, Megs and Jesse, both in the mid twenties, and the following car was a German friend they had made who had his own wheels. They were spending another night on the Coromandel and offered to take me as far as I wanted, even as far as Auckland the next day. I agreed to think about Auckland while we continued on. Their – and now my – first objective was Hot Water Beach, famed for the thermal spring water which runs under the sand out to sea. If you arrive two hours either side of low tide, you can dig a hole big enough for yourself, and be amazed as it fills with hot-tub-warm water. We were a bit too late and unfortunately the effect had passed, but we enjoyed a leisurely stroll down the beach taking photos and testing out the water. I didn’t bring my camera along as I was still content with my beach in Opoutere but was happy to be Megs photographer with her digital SLR. After saying goodbye to their German friend, our next stop north along the 25 was Cathedral Cove (not to be confused with Cathedral Caves in the Catlins). This magnificent beach requires a 20 minute hike along the side of some cliffs before descending to the wonderful beach. We stayed here for a while to have a swim in the magnificent water, playing in the metre high surf and admiring the arched rock which separates the beach in two, also giving the beach its name. We swam, enjoyed the sun, and lazed for a couple hours before taking the far less attractive route back up the cliff. From here, we hit the road up to Whitianga, my original destination before the best sidetrack of my trip to Opoutere. We checked into a shared room, just the three of us, paying a couple extra dollars per person for the privacy. I thought about the rest of my time, trying to decide how I would get to Auckland. My flight out was on the 1^st and travelling to Auckland now would mean five nights in a city which I had heard many negative things about from other backpackers. On the other hand, it was a guaranteed ride with these Canadians all the way to Auckland, and they were willing to drive me to whatever hostel I booked. I decided to travel with them to Auckland and thanked them for giving me the opportunity. Dinner was at a carvery in town where patrons choose a meat and get to help themselves to a buffet of vegetables. Predictably, I went with the lamb and loaded on the crisp roasted vegetables for what turned out to be a delicious dinner choice.

I booked the YHA International in Auckland at reception the next morning before we set out to traverse the rest of highway 25. It was $23/night, which at the time seemed expensive, but only because I was spoiled by the cheap hostels throughout New Zealand’s more rural destinations. The rest of the drive was nearly as twisty as the Queen Charlotte Pass, but with a near empty stomach I managed not to feel sick as I read my way along the highway from the back seat. We reached Coromandel Town on the west coast and stopped for a short while, enjoying a hike to the shoreline which took only an hour return. The towns in this area have little to offer themselves in the way of attractions, although they all seem to have their own rendition of a gold museum, a gold mining experience, and a gold miner’s house to tour. One might start to suspect that the region was initially populated in the late 1800’s by opportunists seeking their fortune in the Coromandel’s own gold rush! One might also suspect that there is still a lot of prospecting going on, and Opoutere’s residents are currently trying to fight off a big mining company that wants to mine the region heavily. We hit the road and enjoyed a considerably straighter ride the rest of the way to State Highway 1, where we joined multilane traffic all the way to Auckland. This was some of the first multilane highway I’d seen in New Zealand, and as we approached the city and got stuck in gridlock (it was around 3pm) I appreciated the need for it. New Zealand has a funny population distribution: of 4.4 million people, just over one million live in the South Island. Of these people, around 400 thousand live in one of the two cities, Christchurch and Invercargill. Of the 3.3 million on the North Island, around 1.2 live in Auckland and its environs. I wonder why the majority of the tourism happens away from the main population in New Zealand, and the majority of the population live far away from the main sights the country has to offer, but I suppose I cannot work my way into the psyche of a Kiwi; or rather, an English settler. This uneven population distribution does leave Auckland alone in the category of ‘large cities in New Zealand’, and often times it shows – usually not in their favour. State Highway 1 for example, as it approaches the city, is nowhere near sufficient to handle the droves of commuting Aucklanders. The city streets – even in the newer parts of town – are far too small or poorly organised to handle the thousands of people who ride them daily. In fact, if Auckland is notorious for one thing, it is the hodgepodge style in which everything seems organised, from roads and public transit, to zoning and public works. It is a constant source of frustration for Aucklanders and – according to my Lonely Planet – tourists alike. This coupled with a poor reputation amongst backpackers for quality of accommodation, sights, and prices; and you might start to understand my apprehension at spending too much time here. Red flags were raised left, right and centre as we fought our way through the crowded city streets towards the hostel, my drivers having a hard time with oddly placed one ways, crowded intersections, and confusing roundabouts. I found myself rather dreading my time here, and even regretting a bit deciding to stay as long as I would. The YHA International however, was a delightful surprise. Lonely Planet says that when most people recount the terrible experiences with Auckland hostels, they are usually referring to the grungy central hostels, and LP recommends staying in the surrounding suburbs. Apparently they missed YHA International. After a quick visit to an incredibly cheap Asian food restaurant (yumm, MSG...), I set about finding things to do in the city back at the hostel.

As I read my way through some brochures, checked out online resources, and perused information on current events; I had to scratch my head when recalling all the Auckland naysayers who claimed it was a boring city with little to offer. During my visit there was the opening of the Lantern Festival, a documentary festival, a 24 hour observathon at the observatory with gold coin donation for entry, and more, plus, of course, the usual attractions. Whatever I ended up doing, I knew my visit to Auckland was not going to be boring and uneventful. The plethora of activities plus the generally cheap prices throughout the city had me thinking that my visit was in fact going to be quite enjoyable, a fitting end to a wonderful time in New Zealand.

A Brief Glimpse at Paradise

2010-03-15T10:20:00.002-03:00

Leaving Rotorua, I was headed for a different kind of vacation, the kind that people usually dream of when ‘leaving it all behind’ at home. Time on the Coromandel Peninsula is best spent lazing around the beach, reading a good novel, and forgetting all cares. In order to relax in paradise, one must first get there, and getting there is often more of an adventure, sometimes changing plans entirely. I started walking out of Rotorua until a car stopped, a Scottish man who was able to take me 10km until our paths diverged and he dropped me off, wishing me luck in the rest of my hitchhiking. I waited for a good 30 minutes with no luck before I walked a kilometre further down the road to find a better spot. I found a small town around the corner, the very slow traffic offering promise, and within 30 minutes a pickup truck had stopped. The driver was a Stihl sales rep returning home from a conference, and he was happy to have some company in the car with him. This is a generally recurring theme amongst drivers; most stop because they want the company in the car. Most of my drivers have been single male travellers who are happy for a bit of conversation and the same (but opposite) was true when travelling with Suzanne, where most of our drivers were single females. I believe that the fundamental benefit of hitchhiking is in the way it connects people. People need not travel alone when the chance exists to meet someone new. There are of course the dangers associated for both parties involved, but that is another matter. This man took me as far as his home town of Tauranga, but decided to give me a tour of the area as well. I had not planned to stop here, but he made a convincing case for it as we drove by stunning beaches on the peninsula which is also the home to a small hill called simply ‘Mount’, and through his relaxed and well cared for town. He dropped me off in the next town before heading back home. I waited here in Bethlehem (no kidding) for a mere 10 minutes before I was picked up by two twenty something gals local to the area, heading home a bit up the coast. Slowly, I was working my way up the east coast of the Coromandel, hoping to get to my objective of Whitianga (pronounced phu-ti-ang-ga), a small town north on the east coast. Dropped off by the two ladies, I found myself closer, but waiting longer as the local traffic petered off. Not many Kiwis find their way to the north of the Coromandel, and backpackers with their own cars are rare around these parts. A half hour later I was picked up by a man in a van with his five (that’s right, 5) young daughters (4-12) in the back as they returned from a shopping trip in town. They were going to a place called Opoutere (Oh-poo-ter-ee) which was down a side road off of the main #25 highway. He encouraged me to consider Opoutere because of its fine beach, the lack of tourists, and amazing solitude. I agreed to think about it but was dropped off as he turned down the side road. I waited here for 40 minutes, waiting for a ride but also checking out Opoutere in Lonely Planet. It was only big enough to warrant 1/6 of a page, but it was reviewed favourably as “a hidden jewel,” and “an untouched paradise”. Considering it was 3pm and the rides were sparse, I figured what the hell and started off down the side road to Opoutere. It was 6km down the road, but after walking only 10 minutes I heard a car approaching and quickly turned around to give them the finger – my thumb that is. The older English gentleman behind the wheel of the Mercedes had quite a posh accent and inquired quite properly as to my ‘business’ in Opoutere. Arriving at his summer home, he said quite abruptly, “and this is as far as I will take you.” Somewhat stunned, I hurried out and walked the rest of the two kilometres down the road to the YHA which sat near the beach.

As it turned out, the YHA was a collection of buildings built in varying decades with a few sites for tents. As reception was not present, I pitched my tent unobtrusively in a shaded corner, hoping there was vacancy for the night. I spoke with an older lady who was staying there four days on a vacation from work and she had nothing but good things to say about the area and its intoxicatingly relaxing qualities. After reception arrived at 5, I paid my $14 for the night, and got some advice on the area. Unfortunately, there was not a store for miles around and so I was stuck eating OSM bars, but I had enough to get by for two nights. There was not a lot to do in Opoutere, but absurd as it felt in the moment, the postcard views and salty ocean air were getting to me and I found myself considering a second night. I kept it in the back of my mind as I set off to find the nearby beach only a 300m walk down the road and a 700m through a wildlife reserve. I soon found myself on the most gorgeous beach I have ever seen, and was only sharing it with around 15 people – oh, I suppose I should mention it was 3-4km long. I instantly knew I would be staying another night here. The sand was soft and fluffy, the water warm and inviting, and with few souls to crowd paradise, it was an ideal stop. I went for a quick dip, enjoying the waves, before hiking back to the hostel for a shower and some dinner. The lady I was speaking to earlier noticed my diet of OSM bar and offered me some pasta she had leftover, as well as a bit of salad where the lettuce leaves had frozen and then thawed. I accepted with thanks and chowed down, filled by my OSM but happy to have some real food as well (the salad was decent, if a bit soggy as well). I spent the evening on the deck overlooking the estuary until the mosquitoes came out, and I headed into the main building to do some typing before heading to bed.

No sleeping in for David on the 22^nd. Oh no, this was my morning to catch the sun red handed as it rose from the horizon into the sky. I had intended to walk up the rather large hill behind the hostel for the show, but failing to find the entrance to the path up, I went back to the beach instead. Planning for an hour walk the hour to the top, I arrived at the beach a bit early around 5:45 and enjoyed the constantly shifting palette of pastels until 7am when the feature presentation first peaked its golden rays over the horizon and the climbed its way into the sky, through some clouds, and finally free into the open air. It was the most magnificent sunrise I have ever seen as the solitary setting, picture perfect scenery, and perfect cloud conditions conspired for an ideal experience. I returned to the hostel and to bed until 11am when I awoke, had another OSM and collected a kayak for some fun in the water. The estuary was now at high tide, ideal for the best kayaking, and I made the most of it, paddling from one end to the other. I took my camera along in a handy waterproof bag my mom had sent for Christmas, only taking it out when the water was calm and there were interesting things nearby to shoot. I got up and close with some of the more elusive coastal birds of New Zealand, experienced the tide rushing in, and paddled up a small river which fed into the estuary. It was a wonderful time and made me miss canoeing back home, prompting me to make more than one promise about returning to it in the summer. I brought the kayak back to the hostel and spent the afternoon reading, blogging, and socialising with the small crowd of people staying there. I was talking with an older lady who told me stories of coming to this YHA as a young adult, then bringing her children there, and eventually her grandchildren. She told me about their local fundraising efforts for getting the hostel a reliable and clean source of running water, and eventually electricity. The hostel today has all of the above as well as high speed internet. She spoke fondly of activities in the estuary and excursions on the beach, recounting shell fishing quite fondly. She told me that the local variety of Green Mussel were quite delicious though she had not had them for some time. I offered her a deal; I would collect an assortment of shellfish if she would cook them. She eagerly agreed and I grabbed an old onion bag kept for this purpose, and headed off for the estuary once again, now at much lower tide and continuing out. I collected cockles, tui-tui (a local variety of small white shellfish), and eventually very generously sized mussels. There are set limits on each, and I made sure I knew the limits before I collected any. The collecting was easy, the cockles and tui-tui in the tidal zone of the esuary, the mussels proving a bit more of an adventure as I waded out to my waist in the warm ocean water to where waves were breaking on a rock. Standing on top, I easily picked my limit of 25 before returning to the hostel for a shower. By the time I was clean she had them all in a pot and was steaming away. I got chatting with a group of middle aged Canadians and Americans travelling together, and found we all got along quite well. As the buffet of delicious shellfish was served, everyone looked hungrily upon what was apparently seen as my food. I invited everyone to dig in but the Americans and Canadians insisted they trade some salad and wine, an offer I gladly accepted. No OSM for me tonight, it was shellfish and salad all the way, with a lovely Sauvignon blanc to accompany. After the food was long gone, we hung around the table talking and drinking wine as it was decided their bottles needed finished, and I was invited to help them out. It was a great evening of amicable conversation and drinks, one I will long remember as the evening where food came from straight from the sea, and the accompaniments from the generosity of fellow travellers.

This was the end of my time in this paradise, but this is not the last time I will visit Opoutere. The next time I find myself in New Zealand, I am going to make a stop in Opoutere part of my itinerary. It truly is a hidden gem. Attempts have been made to develop the area for more tourism and more residential lots. The local council have flatly rejected any such proposals, and have vowed to keep the area a peaceful haven away from the tourist filled beaches to both North and South. I hope the area remains this way for a long time to come, but I invite you to discover this little piece of heaven for yourself.

Sulphur City

2010-03-12T03:13:00.003-04:00

I wasn’t really sure what to expect in Taupo, whether it would be a tourist heavy town with lots to do, or a chill jumping off point for other adventure, but I set off anyway on the 18^th, sticking out the thumb while again practicing my skills at walking backwards with a 20kg bag. I got a ride relatively quickly with an ex-rugby player (missing a finger to prove it!) who acted macho for the hitchhiker, but the assortment of baby toys in the back of his SUV gave away his softer side. He dropped me off at the edge of town where I learned that the main road to Taupo was unfortunately already up to 100km/hr and there were no alternative spots. I got my music out right away, now quite able to predict when a good wait is ahead, and stuck out my thumb, smiling pretty for the passing cars and mumbling immature things at bumpers receding into the distance. It took about an hour before a car of similarly aged backpackers stopped and let me in. They were passing through Taupo and offered me a ride the whole way. The four of them were Peace Corps members taking time off from their posting in Fiji. Hearing some of their experiences in Fiji made me want to visit, but that will have to wait for another trip. They explained that while it was nice to have the modern amenities of the developed world, not even New Zealand felt like a vacation after the laid back atmosphere of Fiji. We stopped off at a winery well off the beaten track and met a man who singlehandedly is running his own wine business and living a slightly alternative lifestyle, delighting in the simpler things in life such as building his own complex – his current project is a bell tower which will be over 10m tall upon completion. He was a Canadian (although for the life of me I cannot remember from where) who studied wine in university in Germany before moving to New Zealand in his late 20’s to open his own winery which he has tended to for the past 30 years; a fascinating story from a fascinating individual. I could have stayed all day and talked, but my drivers had a deadline to keep, and after all, they’re the ones with the keys!

We arrived in Taupo in the early afternoon and I checked into the Tiki Lodge before setting off to discover the town. As it turned out, Taupo is one of the latter categories of towns, a jumping off point for adventure – adventure which requires a generous budget. Finding nothing to do in town, I found a lovely cafe and restaurant on the waterfront and got out my computer, content to spend the day keeping in touch with family and friends back home while working on my blog. The restaurant, Dixie Brown’s, turned out to be a great place to stop and I enjoyed dinner here as well. Internet was free with purchase and I didn’t feel too much like an intrusion as I sat there literally all afternoon and into the evening, packing up around 8 and heading back to the hostel. The Tiki Lodge bills itself online as more of an experience than a hostel; run by Maori and featuring cultural touches. In reality, the Tiki Lodge is your average New Zealand hostel for around 100 people with average amenities and average hosts; albeit with an impressive Tiki statue on the front lawn. But, as they say, it’s a place to rest the head.

My next stop was Rotorua, famed as the centre of Maori cultural experiences and formerly home to the 8^th natural wonder of the world. Walking out of Taupo, I was quickly picked up by a Dane heading all the way to Rotorua. In his late 20’s, he was in New Zealand to hunt deer, a sport greatly endorsed by the Kiwi government for its positive effects on wildlife in the fragile ecosystem which has been invaded by four legged bull dozers. He had no trouble at all obtaining permission to hunt from the DOC, and had only to inform the proper authorities where he wished to hunt and receive a temporary permit for that area. The previous evening he had found himself lost in the bush as the sun set, and he pushed his way through the darkness, shielding his face with his hands which this morning bore the wounds of such a perilous expedition. After a quick lunch break on a lookout over Taupo, we were off and had some hilarious conversation the way up to Rotorua, a relatively short distance. I traded the usual stories of my travels for his entertaining tales of hunting.

I planned to stay only one night in Rotorua at the Crank Backpackers, and after checking in, saw the town at the required breakneck pace, getting in as many sights before closing time in the evening. First off, I should say this; Rotorua stinks! Surrounded by hot springs and thermal vents, Rotorua is permeated with the stench of sulphur, completely inescapable no matter where one tries to hide. Tours depart from Rotorua to geysers and thermal hotspots, some sporting fancy spas or cheap pools, but the absolutely budget option lies within Rotorua, their free-entry Thermal Park. Here I was able to witness the thermal activity which makes Rotorua famous. Wandering around the park for a while, I spotted bubbling mud, steaming sinkholes, and boiling water, all completely repulsive to the nose. Having had enough of the intense stench, I moved on to my next budget attraction. From Rotorua (and also Taupo) busses can take the curious to Maori settlements to experience Maori culture. Certain tours include dinner as well as performances, while others are limited to a walkthrough of typical Maori settlements. While these tours cost an arm and a leg, Rotorua is fortunate enough to have its very own settlement within the town, called Ohinemutu. While the settlement is modern and the inhabitants are dressed similarly rather than the flashy traditional dress of other locations, for a gold coin donation ($1-2) the curious can have a gander at a modern interpretation of the Maori meeting house, a Christian church with a uniquely Maori flair, and talk with some genuinely amicable Maori who are more than happy to discuss their history, culture, and politics – both past and present with a generally balanced perspective. Next, I wandered to Government Park, 55 hectares of land gifted by local Maori, and kept as the region’s best example of Victorian gardening. The crowning jewel of the park is the magnificent Victorian styled Bath House. Taking advantage of the local hot springs, the facility opened in the early 1900’s, featuring treatments to heal all manner of ailments. Whether dry skin, arthritis or anything else imaginable, they had a cure, and the wealthy and bourgeois flocked from around the world for the miraculous treatments. While the validity of the treatments remains dubious, the spa was used in both WWI and WWII, playing an important part in New Zealand for the treatment of the war wounded. Thousands of soldiers owe their speedy physical recoveries to the doctors, both conventional and therapeutic, who worked at this facility during that time. Seeing a decrease in use through the 50’s and 60’s, it was soon shut down and fell into disrepair, until rejuvenation as a tourist attraction in the 80’s. It remains today a reminder of Rotorua’s history as a resort destination, and is used to showcase the building’s history, and to house the Rotorua Museum, telling the history of Rotorua. Early settlers discovered the most miraculous series of pink and white terraces descending towards a lake, each fed by the hot springs, forming the most amazing of baths and once considered the 8^th natural wonder of the world. Before the local Maori knew it, the area was flooded by all sorts of tourists (sort of like today), from the wealthy seeking medical benefits, to the poor who sought the money of the wealthy (one way or another). All this came to an abrupt end with a volcanic eruption which destroyed the unique plateaus and erased Rotorua from the map as a spa destination until the foundation of the Bath House.

Having had my history lesson for the day, I settled in at the Pig and Whistle, an English style pub, offering English pub fare and live bands every night. I tucked in a chowder and pint before heading back to the hostel for a relaxing evening. I had planned to leave the next day, but after talking to the manager for a bit, I was convinced to stay an extra day to check out the mountain biking scene. Apparently world class, I would find out the next day, setting off to ride some trails and experience the legend myself.

All day bike rental from the hostel was $40, and I set off around 11am for the trails, happy to once again be at the handle bars of a mountain bike. Some of New Zealand’s best mountain biking is here at the Red Wood Forest, and I intended to ride as much trail as possible, aiming to push myself and get a good workout while enjoying the world class trails. There was a national mountain biking tournament taking place (lending credence to the claim of “world class” trails) during my visit, and at times I found myself being drastically outpaced by extremely fit bikers. Luckily I was sticking to the easy and intermediate trails and the instances where I was completely shown up by people who had been biking for three times as long as me that day was kept to a minimum. The trails were indeed amazing, and while there were some well run trails, most were rough enough to maintain the true rugged spirit of mountain biking. Unfortunately, I found myself peddling up enough hills to tire myself out after a mere three hours, and I headed back early, not wanting to give myself an inconvenient injury such as the hot spots I felt forming on my palms (the early beginnings of blisters). The good folk at the hostel were kind enough to grant me credit for the time I didn’t use on the bike, having paid for a full day and only using three hours; I got some free internet time and some beers from the bar, an entirely unnecessary but fully appreciated gesture. I spent the rest of the day enjoying my internet time and blog writing (it takes a while, a few hours per blog depending on distractions!) before bed where I passed out from the fatigue of three hours of the most intense peddling I have ever done.

My mom had spoken of Rotorua as a small town with strong roots in Maori culture, smelling strongly of sulphur but an enjoyable stop nonetheless on my parent’s trip around the world in their own youth. She mentioned how surprised she was to see more recent photos from a relative’s visit a decade back, and was curious about its recent state. Development wise, Rotorua has gone the same way as most other New Zealand towns. The usual suspects have moved into town, offering experiences for those with the money to spend, taking tourists to the sights they read about from home. It’s hard to find a quiet and un-commercialised Rotorua under the bustling tourist trade, but there are glimpses to be had, beyond the cookie cutter main street, through the tour pamphlets, and past the glitzy hotels. In the peaceful waterfront Ohinemutu Maori settlement, sitting and enjoying the erupting thermal springs of Thermal Park, enjoying the sun in Government Park, taking a day trip by bike in the Red Wood Forest; the old Rotorua is still there and open for discovery. How you see a location is entirely in your own hands. The touristy route can be taken, often the most enjoyable way to see attractions as an experienced guide dishes out information laced with enough humour to keep it interesting. But sometimes, the cheap option pays off and you discover something more past the facade. So yes, mom, the old Rotorua is still there, but to get to it you have to get off the mainstream and see the town on a different path – the route would recommend to all.

WellyWood and The Little Town That Could

2010-03-12T00:46:00.001-04:00

Having wined and dined properly in Blenheim, it was off to the North Island for both Suzanne and I. We walked to the road out of town and prepared for a good walk until the street was filled with more long distance traffic. On a whim, Suzanne stuck out her thumb anyway and wouldn’t you know it, a car stopped. The thirtyish lady driving was going all the way to Picton and was happy for the company. She was a travelling saleswoman for a medical supply company and would be arriving in Picton earlier than she needed, offering to drive us down the Queen Charlotte Pass a bit, before returning us to Picton. We gratefully accepted and I was happy I would finally get to go down the road I could not hitchhike on before. After a stop at Subway for lunch, we went 20 minutes down the Pass before stopping for a view and turning back. The scenery was quite spectacular but the ride was another story entirely. I had thought the coastal road through the Catlins was fraught with turns, or the Great Ocean Road in Australia, but this road redefined the notion of twisty-turny. No stretch of road was straight for longer than 10 metres, and turns were rarely less than 90 degrees; all this on a road where the speed limit was 80. Hah! Good luck! Arriving back in the town, we thanked our driver profusely for the sightseeing detour and found our way to a hostel to hang out until our 6pm ferry. Motion sickness is something quite foreign to me as I usually read with ease on most roads, but the Pass is not normal road and even I felt quite sick as we gathered ourselves and planned our stay in Wellington, calling some hostels and checking out some sights. As 6 drew near, we grabbed a couple pizzas and headed for the terminal. For pedestrian passengers, luggage is much like at the airport where your bag is taken, and you are given a luggage return ticket. The ferry passed through much of the Marlborough Sound and as the ferry cruised along we were treated to the sights which we found quite similar to Doubtful Sound and the Fiordland region. There was not much to do on board the boat except the $10 cinema, so we watched a movie on my computer (the for free option). As is the case with most ferries, everything was overpriced on board so we were glad we picked up some supper before we left.

Arriving in Wellington, we learned from Lonely Planet that InterIslander, the ferry we were on, drops off a few kilometres away from city centre, but provides a free shuttle to offset the inconvenience. Arriving, we learned this was not the case and were directed to a ticket machine where we each purchased a $2 ticket for a shuttle bus. After some confusion, a broken down bus, and some rude drivers, we were told our tickets were good for nothing and we would have to pay $5 to the driver directly, or $7 if we wanted to be dropped off at our hostel. After conferring, we both agreed to pay and were happy to be dropped off at the doorstep of the hostel. Our general state of happiness after wasting money, and feeling slightly ripped off, is another matter. So let this be a warning to anyone travelling as a pedestrian on InterIslander, the shuttle is not free, the shuttle is not the one you pay for at the ticket machine just out of the terminal – just wait for instructions from the drivers as the employees on board the ferry are not aware of shuttle procedures. We were staying at the WellyWood hostel for two nights, a tall seven storey hostel painted with bold zebra stripes on the front. Why WellyWood and why zebra stripes? Peter Jackson has had a large part, but is not the only one responsible for Wellington’s reputation as the New Zealand hotspot for movies. Lord of the Rings and Narnia are only two of the many films that have taken advantage of New Zealand’s vast landscape diversity in a relatively compact area. The zebra stripes...well, the hostel used to be the wild life hostel or something like that, and they just never changed it after the switch – I guess it suits the allusion to Hollywood as well.

The major attraction in Wellington is the famous Te Papa museum. Translating from Maori to “Our Place,” Te Papa is just that, a venue to tell the story of New Zealand, it’s land and the people who have settled it at various times. Te Papa aims at a highly interactive experience to keep the visitor interested and engaged, using videos, sound effects, interactive media, interactive displays, and even an earthquake simulating house to this aim. For the more intellectually interested visitor, there are panels providing ample information, but I found that in many of the exhibits the interactive content was perfect. A full history of the Maori settlement is presented, as well as fair and neutral information on the settlement of the Europeans and the interactions which were to come. An entire section is devoted to the Treaty of Waitanga, where the two officially signed a truce and the Maori agreed to be citizens of the Monarch. It was enlightening, and even after a good deal of reading on the internet I found myself learning many extra details along the way. We entertained ourselves with a brief ride in a motion simulator which presented a brief history of New Zealand along with demonstrations of the plethora of adventure activities which you can partake in the small country. Best yet, the museum is completely free. Like many museums I have run into on my travels, donation boxes are scattered throughout the museum and I believe that an experience enjoyed is an experience worth paying for, of course to the best of one’s budget. From Te Papa we wandered the rest of downtown Wellington, taking in such sights as the Parliament Building, nicknamed the ‘beehive’ for obvious architectural reasons (when you see the design), the world’s largest all wooden building, and the cable car. Wellington was built on a narrow strip of land with the harbour on one side, and mountains on the other. In order to expand the city, it was deemed easier to fill in harbour than knock down mountain, so fill in they did. Many suburbs of the city exist at higher elevations however, and the cable car was – and in one instance still is – the choice method of transportation to these higher altitudes. We found ourselves riding with other snap happy tourists, but also some locals returning from a day at work. From the top of the hill there are wonderful views of Wellington, a well maintained park and an observatory which was unfortunately closed for renovations. All in all, not bad for $5 return considering that riding an elevator taking you to a similar elevation in other cities costs upwards of $20. Once back at sea level, we went to a Thai restaurant for a tasty treat before heading back to the hostel and crashing after a day full of a lot of standing and walking.

I knew my trip North was going to be a quick one and decided to leave Wellington the next day. Having more time in the North Island than I, Suzanne was unsure but decided she’d had enough of Wellington and came along with me. We were heading for Napier on the East Coast, a twisty 4+ hour drive away. Checking in at hitchwiki.org, I learned that Wellington is not an easy city to get out of as drivers are prohibited from stopping on the motorway until well outside of city limits. The soonest they can stop is when the highway becomes the main road of a place called Upper Hutt, our initial destination by regional train. The ticket cost only $6 one way and we were soon 40 minutes out of the city. Furthering Suzanne’s good luck, we quickly got a ride another 10km away from the city and waited only a few minutes before being picked up by a lady going all the way to Napier – what luck! I dozed in and out during the twisty ride which took us through mountains and valleys while Suzanne chatted away.

We were staying in the Stables Hostel, a converted – you guessed it – horse stable. With plenty of character and the bonus of free internet, it was a great stop. We stayed in the hostel only long enough to drop our things before heading out to explore the town. Napier is famous for its art deco styling, featured throughout the old district, well maintained, and indeed, celebrated. Nearly the entire town was flattened by an earthquake in the late 1920’s, and the whole town needed rebuilding. New buildings were constructed in the style popular at the time, art deco. Unrecyclable rubble was dumped at the edge of the beach and filled in, forming gardens for which Napier is equally famous. Every year, the town plays host to an art deco festival featuring 1930’s cars from all over New Zealand, people dressed in period clothing, food, drink and film. Apparently, visiting during the festival feels exactly like stepping back in time. But a visitor need not visit during the festival to catch a glimpse of 1930’s living; locals (especially of the older generations) enjoy nights out dressed in 1930’s garb and cinemas year round show period films in and around authentic art deco buildings. A not too strenuous walk from the centre of town is a lookout providing views over the port area and ocean beyond, but not, surprisingly, of the town itself (as I expected it would). We refuelled at BurgerFuel (haha...?), a New Zealand chain of burger joints we ran into for the first time here. With burgers like the ‘Bastard’, and the ‘Freakout’ on their menu, they are obviously a chain trying to be different, and indeed their burgers are good, but even they are no competition for the famous FergBurger (if you are not familiar with the FergBurger, I wrote about mind blowing FergBurgers in my entry on Queenstown). For Suzanne and I, this was our last day together as I would continue on the next day inland to Taupo, and she would continue up the coast to Gisborne. We had a couple of beers and watched a movie on my computer to celebrate our travels together.

Napier was nice, but my travels north had to happen a bit faster than in the South Island. I’m not sure if I could have actively filled another day in Napier but was quite content with the day I had. For anyone who enjoys the art deco style, Napier is an obvious destination. For those short on time, Napier might not be in the list of top NZ destinations, but has a charm all its own you can’t find elsewhere in New Zealand. In short, it’s cute, but that’s all.

The Finer Drinks of Life

2010-03-08T02:27:00.001-04:00

Feeling much more rested on the 13^th after a solid night of sleep in real beds in Nelson, Suzanne and I packed up our stuff, left it in the hostel and set off to explore the town of Nelson, specifically hoping to see the Saturday market. The market is like any other, filled with local produce, crafts, preserves and the odd food cart. We explored the rows and grabbed a bite to eat at an Asian food cart. We sampled the preserves and were quite taken with some homemade liquorice which we bought to munch on while browsing. We treated ourselves to a cone of Penguino Ice Cream, an award winning locally produced variety – it was good, but overpriced and not quite Cows good. We wandered back to the hostel, got our gear, walked a few blocks to the highway and we were off for our next destination, Blenheim. It took 15 minutes this time as the traffic was faster here, but a 17 year old ‘dude’ stopped and we piled in. He was going half way, and was happy for the company. He did have to make a stop at his house to grab some ‘party supplies’ and since he didn’t want his father to know he picked up hitchhikers, we waited in a small town while he went home. We attempted to get another ride, but the only person to stop was a potentially stoned German who could take us only a little distance “if you’ve got ten bucks...” We thanked him, said we would wait for the next car, and soon our young friend was back with us. He was quite proud of the speaker system in his car, but was a surprisingly responsible driver. He wanted to demonstrate the full power of the bass in his car, and pulled over to the side of the road to do so, aware that it was quite distracting to manage all that and drive at the same time. Sure, it might be silly (in some people’s opinion) to aspire to having a massive, ground shaking speaker system, but serious kudos to him for being responsible and safe about it. Dropping us off, we got our next ride in another 10-15 minutes with two English musicians touring New Zealand. They took us all the way to Blenheim and even dropped us off at our hostel, The Grapevine Backpackers.

Blenheim is in the Marlborough Sounds region, famous for its wines, especially Sauvignon blanc, and soon Pinot Noir also. We were spending two nights, and our second day we would be doing an all out wine sampling tour. The hostel has a veranda on a river so after a quick trip to the grocery store we had a healthy supper here before enjoying some cheese and crackers with a bottle of local wine – life as a backpacker can be hard! We woke on the 14^th and had ourselves a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast before renting bikes from the hostel (only $15 for the whole day!) and setting off down the highway 10km to Renwick, the literal centre of wine production in the area. From here we visited three wineries with free open cellars to sample their best. Each winery tended to have a few Sauvignon blanc varieties, a Pinot Noir, a Chardonnay, and a few had a German wine which I cannot remember the name of. We went to the Arawai River Winery for lunch where I had delicious mussel chowder with a glass of Sauvignon blanc. Suzanne had a blue cheese soufflé and opted for the Chardonnay. From here we did another couple wineries before heading back to the hostel. All in all I estimate we sampled around 30 different wines from five wineries, and we didn’t spit one!

Lunch was so late neither of us was in the mood for dinner, so I made a slightly nutritious dessert later in the evening to compensate. Toffee covering sliced apples and brie cheese, baked in the oven until the brie melted was a delicious treat which filled us and left our palates happy.

I had planned to do Blenheim since I started checking out destinations in New Zealand, excited to sample the wines. It was great to have someone to sample with and we both had a fun time pretending to be a bit more posh than we really are and somewhat overstating our knowledge of wine. It was our observation that those who spoke more knowledgeably or looked more posh were given good samples of the wines, while the less informed (anyone else with me?) were given mere drops in the glass for tasting. After a winery or two we had some of the lingo down and were able to bluff our way through seeming well studied on the matter. The other tasters were a funny mix of backpackers and older moneybags, one of whom ordered “a bottle of that, two of that...no, make that three, and four bottles of that one” without a second glance. We did buy a bottle of wine at the end of the day so we did our part for the Marlborough Sounds wine region. Not only was Blenheim a stop for indulging in the finer drinks, but also food and it was a treat to the palate that I have neglected since Europe (especially Italy) and was long overdue. Blenheim was my last stop on the South Island before heading up to Picton (again) and catching the ferry to Wellington with Suzanne. I was happy that my last experience with the South Island was as pleasant as it was.

A Rainforest by Any Other Name…

2010-03-08T02:25:00.001-04:00

As it turned out, hitchhiking all the way from Christchurch to Nelson turned out to be easier than expected. As with my last departure from Christchurch, I walked to the bus exchange and caught a bus to the outer city limits. The driver, noticing my backpack (which is quite hard to miss), asked me if I was hitchhiking and dropped me off at a spot that would hopefully get me a ride as soon as possible. I just love the helpful Kiwis! I waited here only a few minutes before I was picked up by “Dennis the concrete replacer”, a jolly Maori man who introduced himself as just that. Not a kilometre down the road, he stopped to pick up another hitchhiker, a thirty to forty something lady from San Francisco. He dropped us both off down the road some 10km. The San Franciscan awkwardly hinted that we shouldn’t stand together, but I was already getting my bag on my shoulder to walk down the road. Somewhat firmly she said, “I’ll stay here”, insinuating that she preferred the location. I shrugged in indifference and walked along the road back towards town, hearing her shout in the distance “I’ll get there before you do!” In fact, as I was trying to understand what she was shouting, a backpacker van was stopping for me. In I climbed, tossing my bag in the back with me and after quickly introducing myself to the couple in the front, asked if there was room for one more. We pulled up the road the hundred metres to let the now very sheepish looking San Franciscan in as well. The twenty somethings up front were a guy from Alaska, and a gal from Alberta, having met on the road and taken a relocation deal on the campervan to get it to Auckland in a week for $1 a day. A bit too fast for my liking, but it suits some I suppose. They were heading all the way to Picton, the gateway to the North Island, and would take me the whole way before boarding the ferry. We dropped the San Franciscan off not too far down the road and I told them the funny story of her assuming a female would get the first drive. On the ride north we stopped for photos in Kaikoura, the famous scenic north east coast of the South Island. My only real trouble was how to get from the highway going north, west toward Nelson where I would meet Suzanne. Three well travelled Kiwis all concurred that the Queen Charlotte Pass along the North Shore, west of Picton was the best route to hitchhike to Nelson. Arriving in Picton, I walked the short distance to the entrance of the Queen Charlotte Pass and prepared to wait as long as it would take. I knew the ferry would bring my best chance as hundreds of offloading cars would possibly be going my way so I checked the schedule and was disappointed to discover the next arrival would be after 6pm while it was only 4. I stuck out my thumb to every passing vehicle anyway and soon enough a car was stopped. Unfortunately, it was only to deliver bad news, and the DOC officer behind the wheel informed me that I was on the wrong path and should backtrack some 30km to the more significant highway heading west before north again. This part of New Zealand has many roads taking you the same place, highly inconvenient for a hitchhiker as it splits traffic up and confuses route planning. I took his advice, walked to the other side of town and stuck out my thumb, happy to wait only a few minutes before a car stopped, taking me to a junction just before Blenheim, a town to which I would later return. The driver, a grape growing grade school teacher from the area had some good advice on seeing the Marlborough wine region and some interesting stories from his own days of travelling which I enjoyed, taking my mind off the annoyance of backtracking because of bad advice. I waited for around 30 minutes at the next junction, feeling a bit impatient and wishing I could just be in Nelson already. By this point it was 5 and I was getting tired of hitchhiking for the day. Luckily, it wasn’t too long before two Israelis stopped and took me all the way to Nelson after having taken a wrong turn around the Queen Charlotte Pass and done some backtracking of their own.

Finally I arrived in Nelson around 7pm, minutes before reception was going to give up my room to someone else. After checking in I searched the whole hostel for Suzanne but could find no trace; reception said she was looking for me as well but somehow we missed each other. I gave up on the search and used their free internet to catch up on photos. Around 8 Suzanne and I met after she returned from a yoga interlude to soothe the stress that I might not make it. We made a supper of burritos together before sitting down to plan the next days’ adventures. We were off to Abel Tasman National Park, something we each wanted to do, but neither wanted to do alone. How convenient that we were now together! We threw together a rough plan and decided much would have to be planned on the fly.

The next morning we each packed only what we would need for three nights in Abel Tasman and left the rest in baggage storage at the hostel. After booking our stay in the park at the DOC office, we walked to the main road out of town and practiced walking backwards before setting our gear down. Suzanne had done a bit of hitchhiking within cities in Australia, but hadn’t done longer distance hitching so this was a first for her, and was surprised at waiting over a couple minutes for a ride. After those couple minutes we decided to walk a bit further down the road. It was as she continued on her own and I fished through my bag for something that we realised I was a liability to her getting rides. Not one minute after she walked ahead a car was stopped with a seventy-something man looking slightly disappointed as I approached as well. Suzanne and I established that she would sit front seat, handling the socialising while I rode backseat, handling the navigation and ensuring we got off at the right spot. This would remain the same for the duration of our travels together. We were let out at the edge of town and set our bags down. I ran into a convenience store a few metres away to check on the price of One Square Meal bars and apparently as I entered the store’s threshold, a car was already stopping. I’ve heard of hitchhiking being easy, but this isn’t even fair. This time, a middle aged lady was stopped and she could take us as far as the main road into Abel Tasman, a 10km walk from there or another ride if we were so lucky. She frankly admitted that if she saw the two of us standing together she would not have stopped, but getting to talk to Suzanne first, and then meeting me before getting in, it was fine. She does not usually pick up hitchhikers but couldn’t leave a young lady on the side of the road. She dropped us off at the main road as promised and continued on her way. Here we faced a dilemma, wait for a ride that could potentially take ages to materialise, or walk the 10km and be tired before we even hit the park. We opted to wait, and setting down our gear we got ready to wait for a while. The road connects civilisation with a town called Marahau, and Abel Tasman, but aside from the odd local and campers, few travel this road. Suzanne set off to find facilities nearby and in her absence I scored my first luck of the day. Two English gals in the twenties stopped for me and offered me a ride all the way to Marahau. Like the older gentleman, they too seemed disappointed when I said I was waiting for a companion but agreed to take us both. Lucky for me, because if I hadn’t gotten us at least one ride that day, I’m sure I would have heard about it the rest of the time we travelled together, or at least until I got us a ride singlehandedly.

Park fees already paid for back in Nelson, we had only to get into the park and set off on one of New Zealand’s “Great Walks”. We hit the convenience store for supplies and a final ice cream before hitting the trail, happy to get started. I’m not really sure what “Great Walk” means specifically, whether it indicates some element of scenic superiority over other walks in NZ, but at Abel Tasman it meant wide, well developed paths and easy walking. The park is highly accessible and toured by many types of hikers and campers. As it is a coastal trek and graced with many stunning beaches, a water taxi service can whisk hikers to or from any part of the park, a service enjoyed by many day trippers, taking a morning taxi any distance into the park and walking back out before dusk or to a prearranged pickup. The more ambitious, like us, aim to tackle the whole 50km track from start to finish, ending in a place too small to be called a town at the north of the park. The official recommendation by DOC is to do the park in 5 nights, staying at each of their 5 huts and taking time during the day to participate in one of the numerous activities on offer, from day hikes to kayaking. We aimed to hike a third of the way in the first day, another third the next day, and be out of the park by the afternoon of the third day. As many plans do, these plans would change. The track is easy and by the end of the first day we felt like it was good exercise but nothing too strenuous. The scenery is striking coastline with rainforest foliage against a backdrop of aquamarine sea and tan beaches. Unfortunately, the weather did not cooperate and didn’t give us any of the famous blue skies of Abel Tasman. We camped the first night at Torrent bay, a lovely little beach with room for only a handful of tents. A tap with running water supplied a makeshift shower after a quick dip and water for cooking, but needed purified with tablets or boiling – how convenient that I always travel with purification tablets!

The rain started sometime in the night, a light trickle which woke me but did not worry me. It grew until it was a torrential downpour which my tent luckily stood up to. Neighbours were not so fortunate, and when we spoke the next morning they were hanging their sleeping bags to dry. Their tent had become a bath in the night, the walls not quite waterproof but the floor doing a sufficient job. We were spared a similar fate and woke dry and ready to tackle another day of hiking. Today we met our first low tide crossing, a part of the path which must be made at low tide. This day’s crossing had a high tide alternate, but it was extra distance to loop around, and the prospect of wading thigh deep in water was somehow exciting. We waited with a growing group of campers as the water receded, before finding a suitable route. Passing by Bark Bay, where many of the campers we met were staying the night, we came to another low tide crossing, this one with no high tide alternate. Fortunately, the low tide crossings all have a grace period of at least an hour either side of absolute low tide, and we made it past two low tide crossings a couple hours apart in one tide. The weather held in the morning, but no sun shone all day. Disappointed with the lack of sun and hoping maybe to catch a ride back to Nelson upon leaving the park, we modified our plans slightly to travel further this day, and be out of the park by noon the following day. Unfortunately, as we reached Tonga Beach, we realised we were faced by another low tide crossing, this one with no alternate route and were effectively stranded until the next low tide at either 5am or noon the next day. We set up camp and waited out the remainder of the evening, enjoying a quick swim in the still-too-chilly-for-me water (around 18 degrees). Again, water was supplied by tap, the pressure great enough to supply water to flush toilets, of which there were four including ample supplies of toilet paper. Maybe that’s why it’s a ‘Great Walk’.

The rain started as we were arriving at the campsite, but abated by dusk at which point we were treated to a subtle but fantastic sunset. Clouds moved back in and showers came and went throughout the night, finally settling in by morning and holding steady. We awoke to heavy rain and ran to the nearby cook shelter to congregate with the other travellers. A break was necessary as the low tide crossing could not be attempted until noon, so we killed time chatting. Other travellers brought discouraging news of continued rain showers in the most recent forecasts. Every now and then a drenched hiker would run into the shelter, having come from as far away as Bark Bay, experiencing nothing but rain the whole way. Looking at the mood of these incoming travellers, Suzanne and I had a chat about the rest of the trek. We didn’t come to Abel Tasman to hike in bad weather, and while weather is part of hiking, we are both on vacation and we agreed we could allow ourselves a little bit of luxury. We agreed to find out how much a water taxi would cost back to Marahau, and in the meantime, pack up to leave either way. As we were packing, a water taxi arrived to drop off some customers and we were informed a trip back to Marahau would cost $37. Without so much as a word between us we both agreed it was worth it, hurriedly packed the tent and hopped aboard. We didn’t finish Abel Tasman, but we wished those who persevered the best of luck.

The water taxi ride was also a sightseeing experience and as the driver spotted items of interest he slowed and gave us a chance to get our photos and make our memories. We saw a Blue Penguin in the water, some interesting geological features of note, and spent some time chasing a sting ray around. We arrived back in Marahau slightly tired and glad to be out of the bad weather – so much so that it made up for the disappointment of not making it to the end of the trail.

Hitchhiking back to Nelson was made easy by a lady who picked us up from Marahau, having gone out of her way to drop off two hitchhikers in Marahau and now travelling near to Nelson. From here we could have walked a couple hours but exercised the thumbs instead, quickly landing a ride with couriers, whose van we rode in the back of (quite illegally, I’m sure). They dropped us off at the limits of Nelson, where we quickly got a ride with a lady who dropped us off at our hostel. Maximum wait time was around 5 minutes. Unfortunately, the hostel had no availability so after picking up our gear and repacking, we headed across town for another hostel, the evidently quite popular Hostel Paradiso. Famed for its resort feel, we felt it was a bit too packed to feel as relaxed as they advertised, but it was a place to get a good night of sleep out of the brush and we thrilled with that!

The trek in Abel Tasman was wonderful and a pain all in the same. The blue sky, aquamarine water, tan beaches, and intense green foliage form a striking palate from what I gather of other photos. Ours are missing the former, and the loss is significant. It was nice to stretch the legs and really move, especially out of the city and experience sleeping quite far from real civilisation once again. I can confidently say however, that Abel Tasman must be seen in fine weather or the lure of paradise is lost. This part of the South Island truly lived up to the title of rainforest.

Little Flightless Friends

2010-03-04T23:35:00.001-04:00

My next excursion was on the Otago Peninsula, extending 30-40km south east from Dunedin. I had been very lucky in booking accommodation and managed a spot at the Penguin Place Lodge, reserving only the day before. Fully packed up, I walked the short distance to the main road onto the peninsula and stuck out my thumb. It wasn’t long before my first ride of the day pulled over and offered me a ride to a better spot down the road. This was the first of four locals on the peninsula, each taking me around 5km down the road. I eventually noticed the regularly spaced bus stops and was informed by a driver that I indeed could have caught a bus almost the whole way down the peninsula for some $3-4, but hey, where’s the fun in that!? My last ride was with a German backpacker (again, the Germans come through for rides) who took me up the road to the Penguin Place Conservation Centre where I would spend the evening. For a whopping $27NZD, I got a private room with shared facilities. Better yet, because of a large nature photography group who was staying there and because they preferred a room with two twin beds (the one I paid for), I got their room with a double bed for no extra price. Remember that hostels here are around $20-26 on average. Talk about affordable luxury! Dropping my stuff, I set off down the road for the rest of the 5km to the point of the peninsula. I was fine with walking without the burden of my full pack, but I was picked up after a kilometre by an older couple who saw me hitching earlier and stopped without prompting. Their son was hitchhiking at the same time in Europe and they were hoping on karma to send him some rides. At the point sits the Royal Albatross Conservation Centre, a couple beaches, and lots of fascinating wildlife. Anyone willing to pay around $40 (forget the exact sum) can do a guided walk in slight proximity to albatross colonies and observe a nest from inside a building. The entire point is fenced off and as the people at the centre explain, it is to protect the albatross’ environment. What they won’t tell you at the desk however is that only the cliffs and very edge are used by the albatross, the rest is fenced off to block any unpaid views of the colonies. Older reviews on TripAdvisor mention that the conservation centre is overpriced, and that the free views from the neighbouring field suffice for most viewers, but the field is now within the fence line and the price has only gone up. I’m all for paying to get a better view than those who don’t pay, but completely limiting opportunities for free viewing restricts a major demographic of travellers from experiencing some of the things that make an area special. Feeling slightly dejected, I walked to the nearby Pilot’s Beach and tried my eye at nature spotting, also hoping I might spot some albatross from there. Descending the hill I noticed Blue Penguin burrows and getting closer I was able to observe a few of them in their nest – my first opportunity to photograph a Blue Penguin. After observing some lazing sea lions and curious oystercatchers, I walked the 5km back to the penguin conservation centre – the whole distance this time – catching sight of a few albatross in flight in the far off distance.

Back at the conservation centre I paid the $40 for the tour of the penguin colony and was quickly directed into the briefing room. The company has a quirky resemblance to a military operation, and as I sat in the briefing room being told about the colony and how I will observe it through a series of camouflaged hides and trenches, I felt like I was back at basic training. While the staffs’ passion for the penguins definitely lends to the intensity of the experience, they are friendly and personable and help make the experience quite special. The centre has a colony of Yellow-Eyed Penguins and takes very good care of them. All of the property is privately owned, and the conservation centre runs off of the funds gathered through tours and the farm which was the original purpose of most of the land. Boarding an off-road capable bus my group (only 3 which is lucky but not too uncommon) was driven over the middle of the peninsula to the other side, to a beach which several penguins have currently made their home. The rarest species of penguin, the yellow-eyed is not actually the most endangered but still a treat to spot. The conservation is taking care of these penguins with an intensive trapping program, getting rid of such pests as stoats, possums, and rats. Feral cats are dealt with more directly, any sighting prompting a staff member to rush to the colony with a gun to...deal with it. Our luck started wall, watching one male returning after a day of fishing, pausing to take a swim in the pond, a rare occurrence. From there we rounded a corner and were immediately shushed by our guide, only two metres away from two chicks napping while waiting for their returning parents. Slowly bringing up our cameras we realised they weren’t that bothered by our presence and were happy to continue their napping while we snapped away. We observed them for a while before moving on to see other penguins, but no views were quite as spectacular – or as cute – as our super close up experience. As we re-boarded the bus to the other side I felt my money was quite well spent after all the amazing views and photo ops. The conservation is a great chance to see the penguins up close, but the staff truly makes the experience great. On TripAdvisor someone commented that they were appalled that the guide had their camera with them and were eagerly snapping away with the rest of the tourists. For me, that they still have so much enthusiasm after running this tour hundreds of times shows that they are well suited to the position and are the perfect guides.

The rest of the night was quiet, with a bit of conversation with the members of the nature photography group. A few of their number were quite dominant however, and wouldn’t tolerate the intrusion of a young’un, blatantly blocking me out of conversation. No matter, most of them were pretentious anyway.

The next day I packed up and started walking back towards the city, knowing I wouldn’t get a ride until I had some town behind me to supply the cars. It took one short ride to a town mid way before I caught a ride with a young...man... and his girlfriend heading all the way into the city. Why was it hard to say...man...? Let’s just say he liked to rev his engine...a lot... I was dropped near the holiday park I had spent my previous evenings in Dunedin, but decided on the one on the other side of town for its proximity to the highway for the next day. I walked the 8ish kilometres across town and settled down for a day in the park of typing, enjoying the sun, and being utterly lazy.

After only a day in Dunedin I was back on the road, continuing north in my last 22 days in New Zealand. My next stop was Oamaru – hopefully. I stuck out my thumb on the main road towards Christchurch and waited a surprisingly long time on the well trafficked and slow moving road. But by long I mean 40 minutes and eventually I was picked up by a British couple who were able to take me as far north as I liked, and fortunately, they were doing the touristy thing – always fine by me. The major attraction between Dunedin and Oamaru is the Moeraki Boulders, large spherical boulders on a beach, shaped by thousands of years of waves and on display for free. We parked and got our photos with the boulders, but I have to admit I had a good laugh at the thousands of tourists that stop here daily to see the boulders. I guess they are different, the size they are and shaped as they have been, but they’re just boulders and to someone who grew up in Nova Scotia, I wasn’t exactly awed. The next stop on the road was Oamaru, a small town where I would be staying the night.

I’m not sure how I decided to stay in Oamaru of all places. It doesn’t have a major draw, and while it is small it isn’t small enough to be on par with Omarama for absolutely dead pace of life. But stay I did at the Red Kettle YHA, so named because of the red tin roof and apparently for a red kettle on the lawn which I completely missed. The town itself was created post mid 1800’s with a naturally safe harbour ideal for farming as it was already devoid of trees. The lack of trees meant other building materials had to be found, and a nearby source of limestone was quarried for the town’s major buildings. As the harbour’s small size became impractical for the turn of the century’s steamers, the town was almost completely abandoned and left to sit for half a century. Opportunistic tourism tycoons saw the lure of Oamaru’s limestone (or as it’s called locally, Oamarustone) buildings in the late 50’s and almost overnight the town was back in business. The town isn’t quite a bustling tourist hot spot, but has its charms and is a good day stop. Travelling with a car, I could have seen the town in a day but hitchhiking as I am it was a good overnight, middle of the road destination. Favourite stops were at the whiskey store house where hundreds of casks of whiskey sit as they did the day the now defunct distillery went out of business. They remain for sale (by the cask) and a tantalising sight for any whiskey fan. I enjoyed a quick stop in at a local radio station, talking to an older gentleman who has been DJ-ing for some 12 years, helping to keep the all volunteer radio station going. My final stop of the day was over the hill to a beach where for free you can observe Yellow-Eyed Penguins coming in from a day of fishing, crossing the beach to their nests. Unfortunately the viewing is from hundreds of metres away and even a camera with powerful zoom fails to bring the subjects close enough for good photos.

One day was perfect in sleepy Oamaru and I packed up the next morning for Christchurch or beyond, hoping to get past but knowing I would probably end up spending a night in the sleepy city. Hitchhiking this leg was more difficult than usual, providing far more of a challenge than expected. While Oamaru might not be a big destination, like many New Zealand towns, the main highway runs straight through town. I walked along the main road as Oamaru became the neighbouring town, and the town after that, hoping the “main street” would end and the highway would begin. But after walking backwards for what I estimate as 5km, I was finally picked up by a local who took me to the next junction out of town where the highway forked, and traffic would slow a bit as it merged. Unfortunately, while there was tons of traffic, none of it seemed interested in stopping. I got my music out pretty quickly and stood on the side of the road with my best smile on, hoping for a ride. After consulting with the nearby gas station attendants I learned that it was a common hitching spot and people usually didn’t wait too long. After an hour I got out my pad of paper and wrote out “Please?”, hoping manners plus my backpack’s Canadian flag might score me points. But I waited another hour until a car finally stopped with two parents and their 19 year old son. From the Canadian prairies, they own a farm and the son has been practicing his skills in New Zealand to support some time backpacking. They were kind to have stopped and they seemed interested in what I was doing, but it was telling that the ‘men’ sat up front and wanted little to do with what the mother thought of anything. The son seemed arrogant and rude, spending most of the conversation telling his father how stupid everyone is; his co-workers, peers, and employers. After a short period of interest in my travels, they resumed talking and I was ignored. Fortunately I had some reading to do in my Lonely Planet anyway, and I was happy for the time to check out destinations past Christchurch should I get that far by night. The dropped me off a couple hours down the road where I waited only 15 minutes before a Kiwi lady picked me up and took me all the way back into Christchurch. She was an interesting lady with an interesting job, working at the Antarctic centre in Christchurch, dealing with the technical and administrative problems that come with sending expeditions to the Antarctic, having visited a few times herself. We shared tales of our travels and work, and she gave me plenty of good advice on New Zealand and some tips for Christchurch, although I wouldn’t get a chance to use many. She was going as far as Christchurch and I thought it was a good idea for me to stay the night there, late as it was by this point. I went to the iSite and found a hostel with availability and took my tired self there before wandering to an internet cafe. I got in touch with Suzanne, a backpacker I met on Doubtful Sound and we decided to meet the next day in Nelson, at the top of the South Island. I set a pretty ambitious hitchhiking goal for myself going Christchurch to Nelson, but the reward was worth it as I would have a travel partner for a while and see some sights I wouldn’t otherwise on my own. But more on that later! The Stonehurst Hotel and Backpackers turned out to be a bit of a factory, processing and churning out guests. The room heated like crazy overnight, my 4 person room had 5 occupants (figure that one out for yourself), there was terrible noise outside the window at night, the facilities were sparse, the kitchen was dirty, and the staff were wholly unfriendly. I was quite prepared to walk to the iSite the next morning to tell them to stop recommending the Stonehurst, but laziness kicked in and I focused on getting out of the city instead. Next stop, Nelson: a six hour drive. How long does it take David while hitchhiking, especially considering my last luck? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!

A Little Taste of Home

2010-02-26T08:49:00.001-04:00

With my scuba training done, I was finally able to put Queenstown behind me on the 2^nd of February. The only direction to go from there was south or east and up the east coast, so I decided to stop in Invercargill for a day before heading up the east coast in the last leg of my trip on the South Island. Without the help of Lance this time, I walked on the main road out of Queenstown, practicing walking backwards with 20kg of gear with the thumb out until a kiwi on his way out of town on a service call stopped to take me as far as he could. Happy to be moving, I didn’t consider that he was taking me out of the slow speed limits of the town. Dropped off on the side of the highway 5km out of town, I suddenly realised my error as cars whizzed by at 100km/hr. Hitchhiking is a skill only so far as picking the right spot. Sure, a hitchhiker must present a clean and welcoming image to potential drivers (which I manage by usually wearing a collared shirt and khaki pants), but the right spot is key. A driver already travelling at 100km/hr doesn’t want to stop, either because it is dangerous, inconvenient, or a waste of gas. The ideal spot is therefore within town limits just before the speed limit increases. New Zealand is perfect for this because unlike North American or European highways, New Zealand highways usually become a town’s main street before resuming high speed limits on the other side of town. Other considerations include a good place for the car to stop where a wide shoulder helps; being visible for as long as possible before being passed as blind corners are no good where the driver only sees the hitchhiker for a few seconds before passing; and not being within sight of the next speed sign because cars have a tendency to start accelerating before actually reaching the 100km/hr sign and are loathe to stop when accelerating. I waited only 10 minutes before deciding to hike back towards town, but as I was picking up my bag a car came to a stop a bit down the road. I jogged the distance with my bag and was surprised to see a middle aged lady stopped who was going all the way to Invercargill and could take me the whole distance as well! She later explained that her husband was having problems with kidney stones and was taken to the Invercargill hospital for diagnostic imaging, but had to go by ambulance. She was advised to pack him some stuff and go down on her own. She was happy for the company, and as she told me stories the whole way down, it became clear she may have burst from nervousness if she didn’t have someone to vent to. I was happy to listen, and frankly was glad I didn’t have to go over all the same stories every driver wants to hear.

Dropped off in Invercargill, I found my way to Sparky’s Hostel, which I had booked previously. Sparky’s is run by (as one might have guessed) Sparky who is a former Kiwi-Rail employee and remains fascinated with trains, happily sharing his passion with his guests. His hostel is clean, has personal touches (Sparky is also a fan of Sesame Street, need I say more?), and is a great place to meet people and hang out. After getting settled, I headed off for the town centre to get acquainted with Invercargill. Hmmmmm, now I just have to find town centre... Invercargill is the kind of city (the southernmost in the world) where you are never sure exactly where city centre actually is. Sprawling and flat, like most New Zealand cities (except Wellington and Auckland), the urban sprawl is interrupted only by Queens Park, an equally sprawling oasis of nature in the middle of urbanopolis. I headed for there and happily shed my flip-flops to wander the park bare foot. The park is probably the best part of Invercargill, and as if the city recognises this, the park is maintained spectacularly. Contained within the boundaries is a diverse aviary with native New Zealand species as well as other Australasian and a few African specimens. After enjoying the walk-in bird enclosure, I headed to the animal park, essentially a small and free zoo also in Queens Park. Here, introduced species live in large fenced in enclosures, but New Zealand species would be hard to contain considering the only land mammal native to New Zealand is a species of bat, and apparently fences don’t bother them too much... New Zealand is however, crawling with introduced species, each having their own effect on the ecosystem. Some, like the stoat and possum, wreak havoc on native species such as the Kiwi and other native birds by eating their eggs and young and are deemed a destructive pest. Others like the rabbit and deer are more an annoyance as they munch the same grass required by farmers for their sheep. Rabbits were recently decimated in numbers by intentional but illegal introduction of myxomatosis into the population by a pissed off farmer, and deer are actively hunted by helicopter to keep their numbers down. Needless to say, if you like rabbit or deer hunting, New Zealand is the place to come. As far as I know, you don’t even need a license to hunt either species, only permission from DOC (Department of Conservation) to hunt in a certain area to avoid hunting accidents. Other species such as the hedgehog are looked on more kindly and generally receive a warm welcome for their generally un-destructive cuteness, although a desperate hedgehog can also harm ground nesting bird populations. I enjoyed supper at a generic Thai restaurant before heading back to the hostel to plan the next bit of my trip. I had not considered what I was going to do after Queenstown, but still with little in the way of time constraint, I was free to take the east coast at the same leisurely pace I had been taking so far. I picked hot spots I wished to visit, but made no deadlines and booked nothing time restrictive.

On the 3^rd, I walked along the main road out of town with my thumb out, eventually getting a ride with a Maori man who gave me a quick lesson in the history of the local Maori, getting quite passionate in his lecture and completely missing my stop. Good spiritedly he turned around and returned to the main highway out of town before continuing on his journey. Here I stood for the next hour, contentedly listening to my music while nervously hoping someone would stop. I was thumbing in the direction of the Catlins, the Southern point of the New Zealand and a tourist hotbed. Sporting such attractions as the Petrified Forest, and the ever – if not over – photographed Purakaunui Falls, it is a haven of natural beauty and harbouring a distinct kind of flora from the rest of New Zealand as it lies on the cooler southern coast. Eventually an older van stopped and I hopped in, meeting the twenty something Swiss guy driving. He was working as a chef in Auckland for the past 8 months and was taking a couple months to see the rest of the country before heading home. He was doing the touristy thing in the Catlins, and that suited me just fine. We skipped some of the other sights in the south western Catlins, heading straight for Cathedral Caves, a sight which must be seen at low tide. When we arrived, perfectly on time, I paid his $5 to cross the privately owned land over which one must traverse to reach the famous rock formations. These sea caves have been carved out over thousands of years of wave action and have resulted in the caves visible today, with ceilings up to 30m high. Unfortunately I left my flashlight in the car as the rear of the caves can get quite dark, but we made do with the flashes on our cameras to explore as far as we could into the back of the caves before hiking back up the steep hill to the car park. My driver dropped me off in Papatowai where I intended to do an overnight self guided hike into the bush. Catlins Ecotours, the company that runs this as well as other guided and unguided tours has a bus halfway along their track in the middle of the woods which has been converted into dorm accommodations (I have no idea how it got there). I had booked my spot on the bus the day before, but arriving in Papatowai, no trace of the company was to be found. I got local directions to their base of operations, but discovered it to be accommodation of some sorts and completely deserted, and with no instructions for anyone who may have booked a tour. I weighed my options, waiting for someone to show up, or continuing on, and decided to carry on. I discovered that this part of New Zealand is much like home, in fact as I stepped onto the beach at the Cathedral Caves, I thought that I could literally be anywhere on the Nova Scotia coast. Does this make the Catlins unworthy of a visit? Certainly not, as even a Nova Scotian will be impressed with the rugged coastline and impressive caves; but for someone limited on time, the Catlins can be seen in a day. I returned to the village centre and once again stuck out the thumb. I waited only 30 minutes before a mid twenties English gal stopped and invited me to hop in. She was going as far as Dunedin, the next city on the trail and my new next destination. She was touring New Zealand and looking for some inspiration for her future career (hopefully) as a singer songwriter. We did the touristy thing on the way through the Catlins and again, that was A-OK with me. Our first stop was some waterfalls, taking in the dramatic sights, the aromatic forest, and enjoying the plentiful sunlight. Next we hit the Purakaunui Falls, the most photographed waterfalls in New Zealand before continuing on to Cannibal Bay, once again on the sea coast. While I thought Cannibal Bay was named for the rock formation that looks like a human face, someone discovered human remains that looked...nibbled on... a while ago and named it for the supposed past inhabitants. From here we continued on to Dunedin where she dropped me off at a holiday park before continuing on to her friend’s house where she was staying. My parents told me of their trip to New Zealand some 35 years ago when they would hitchhike, meet someone, and often receive an invitation back to their house to pitch a tent in their yard, or in the rare case even sleep on a spare bed. I have not once been offered such an opportunity. Maybe I throw off the wrong vibes, but people don’t seem to mind having me in their car so I have to assume that because of the fearful times we live in, people are no longer willing to extend such hospitality. It’s disappointing as I would relish in the opportunity to get to know locals and other tourists better, but at least it isn’t devastating as cheap accommodation is available everywhere I look and hitchhiking alone is providing a terrific opportunity to meet locals and tourists alike. I checked into the Dunedin Holiday Park and was surprised at the $21/night fee, especially considering their not exactly central location in the city, but was assured that as holiday parks went, it was the average in Dunedin. I probably would have been better off checking into one of the central hostels, but as always, I know that my tent is clean and private, the facilities at holiday parks tend to be good, and I at least saved a few dollars. I got a cheap fried supper at the camp store before settling in for a night of reading up on Dunedin and the surrounding area. What was I going to do the next day? Same thing I do every day, try to take over the...oh wait...wrong show. Never mind.

5-98ft Under

2010-02-25T07:51:00.001-04:00

I was heading back for Queenstown on the 31^st to finish my scuba course. That was really the only reason I was going back as I was tired of the hustle and bustle of the tourist infested town. But stick out my thumb I did, and I was shortly picked up by a German backpacker on his way to Queenstown to enjoy some of the plethora of adventures on offer. We had some great chats about our travels and all was going well until we saw the police car in the distance. The lights went on and the orange chequered car pulled in behind our car. According to the officer, he had my driver doing 110 on radar in a 100 zone and the New Zealand Police do not tolerate speeding. I was completely ignored during the whole process was left at a loss for words as we pulled away, an awkward silence hanging in the air for the next couple kilometres. New Zealand police have lost all tolerance when it comes to speeding and recently stepped up their efforts to bust speeders. Signs all along the highway warn of the danger of speeding with clever graphics accompanying phrases like “speed kills”, “who is really watching your speed?” (with a picture of a kid looking sideways to insinuate that kids are learning from their parents’ behaviour), and “finish line, or final destination?” (accompanied by a photo of a morgue). This campaign reminds me of the signs I saw periodically throughout England, but there it was more of a reminder whereas here it is a warning; New Zealand does not take kindly to any speeding and regardless of your home country, you will be fined and you will have to pay it (all rental companies take a credit card number to be sure of it). I felt bad for my driver, he’s a backpacker like me who is on a limited budget (and has the right kind of car to show for it) and for whom $120 is a lot of money. But unlike in England, the signs here are serious and you drive in New Zealand knowing that the New Zealand police will pull you over even for minor speed infractions.

A quick call to Lance (my dive instructor) upon arrival in Queenstown (the rest of the trip went a bit slower) and I was lined up for three dives the following day. I was back at the Lakeview Holiday Park, had another Fergburger, and was back into the ‘ol routine. While Queenstown might not be the ideal town to spend a lot of time (for cost, general ambiance and other reasons), there is a certain comfort in routine and regardless of which town I find myself in, it feels nice to get into a routine, to be familiar with my surroundings, to know what to expect. But one doesn’t backpack for a sense of familiarity with surroundings and I feel oddly at ease and uncomfortable at the same time when I’m in one place for too long. I believe Lance understood this and he accommodated me by finishing my course in one day on the 1^st of February. I was paired with Bo, a guy (slightly my junior) who’s goal in life is to be a stuntman. To get there he is acquiring as many certifications as he can, from paragliding to scuba diving, hand to hand combat to...well, I don’t know what the opposite of that is, but I’m sure he’s doing that as well. In my absence, Lance has quickly brought him along to where I was in training so we could dive together. The first dive of the day was a “deep dive” for me, and Bo’s navigation dive. For me, that meant doing a sobriety test of sorts above water, then repeating it at 30m to see if I was feeling the effects of nitrogen narcosis. On its own, nitrogen narcosis is not a danger, but is on par with alcohol intoxication. Intoxication (within safe limits) on its own is not immediately harmful physiologically, but put the same individual behind the wheel of a car and it’s a whole other story. Try taking that same individual, putting them 30m under water (or deeper), and giving them a regulator through which they must breathe (or die...). Sounds dangerous; no? The air we breathe is roughly 79% nitrogen, so nitrogen is nothing foreign to the human body, but as pressure increases, the effect it has on the body changes. Deeper = higher pressure = more noticeable effects; the effects of which are akin to breathing nitrous oxide, commonly known as laughing gas. The most important thing for a diver is recognising the symptoms and knowing how much one can take. If you got out of the water the second you noticed it you wouldn’t be a very effective diver in the 25-35m range, but if you tried to tough through some serious symptoms you could end up making a fatal mistake (you know, the kind you only ever make one of...). The test in this case is a slate with numbers written in circles of varying sizes and in random order. The test subject (me) must correctly find numbers 1-30 in order, the time taken used as an indicator for ‘sobriety’. This is done at the surface and at 30m to test for a time difference. The second test of the day was a far less dramatic but for the science lovers in the crowd (put up your hands, I am!) is just as interesting; testing the effects of depth on colour. Any object with the rainbow of colours from purple to blue is viewed at the surface, and then at varying depths. The test successfully demonstrates that as one descends in water, one by one each colour starting with purple is only visible as grey because of the filtration effect of water on colour. Arriving at 30m we observed the rainbow objects (hair bands in this case) and indeed the first few colours were only seen as gray. After a minute or so at 30m I attempted the number test a second time, seeing a decrease in my performance even though I didn’t feel any of the symptoms. After a safe ascent, I left the water for the other two to conduct Bo’s navigational exercises which I had already completed.

The second dive of the day was far more interesting, what PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) would call an “adventure dive!” Next to the tiny town of Cromwell, about 20 minutes from Queenstown, the local river had been dammed in the 90’s by a hydro- electric dam, creating Lake Dunstan, and sinking the Cromwell Bridge. The bridge was to be well under water when the lake reached its full height so it was left intact, a solid decision I would say when talking about a bridge made in 1864. So it remains under only 9m of water, an example of the quality steel work completed in the period. The visibility, or “vis”, was poor at only a couple metres, but added to the mystique of the dive as the bridge’s frame seemed to vanish into the murky abyss beyond. There were additional challenges working in three in such low visibility as the lead diver (Lance in this case) had to check every few seconds that the middle diver was immediately behind him, and the middle diver the same of the rear diver. Losing focus for a few seconds could mean losing a diver in the murky water, and the whole party having to surface to reunite. Fortunately, no mistakes were made and the dive was successful, my first wreck dive getting big thumbs up for coolness factor.

The third dive required a bit of a drive, taking us just outside of Wanaka. We drove to the mouth of the Clutha River where it drained Lake Wanaka. The current is swift but not out of control, although in rainier periods and especially in springtime, the river can flow much faster. Diving in such a river is called a river drift dive, as you allow the current to carry you along (that or it’s the fight of your life trying to stay in one spot!). This dive, as Lance explained on the ride there, would have 15-20 minutes of tomfoolery in relatively deep water, then becoming shallow in gentle rapids where the speed would pick up. Along the way there would be some hazards, but these were pointed out before hand and we would surface a few times along the way to discuss upcoming sections again. The first part of the dive was all laughs as we tested out our underwater acrobatics. One can drift dive in any position and we tried them all, swimming sideways, upside down, letting the current carry us while we “stood” on our heads, sat cross legged, laid perpendicular to the stream... Even more fun was fooling around near the bottom where we played leapfrog with large rocks and somersaults off of them. I did find myself having a bit too much fun at some points however and more than once I had to remind myself not to breathe too heavily lest I waste air. The rapids section went smoothly (as smoothly as rapids can go) and before any of us were ready to get out, we were at our exit. My first river drift dive also gets two huge thumbs up and I hope to do some more of those later!

Each of the dives successful, I was now a certified PADI Advanced Open Water Diver, and after some paperwork was signed back at Lance’s ‘office’, it was official. We had a beer to celebrate before I went back to the holiday park and crashed, not realising until then how exhausted the trio of dives had made me.

I didn’t initially know how I would take to diving as I have typically not been a fan of enclosed spaces. The mask especially, closing off the ability to breathe through my nose freaked me out and my first dive was quite a test for myself. But after the initial awkwardness was done with, I was hooked and found myself excitedly anticipating the next lesson. Due to the good ‘ol budget, I will hold off diving again until I get to do the Great Barrier Reef dives in Australia, but I find myself quite excited for the next time I get to don 20kg of weight, walk awkwardly to the water, then feel it all come off as buoyancy neutralises and I float effortlessly in the water. It’s a hobby I hope to bring back home, but the reality of diving is that it is not a cheap sport. The water temperatures experienced in Canada necessitate a dry suit, the warmer (and drier...duh...) cousin of the wet suit, and also the more pricy of the two. A good dry suit alone costs a few thousand dollars and you still have to get a buoyancy control device, all the gauges and hoses, a cylinder, mask and fins. And that’s just the necessities! Gear can be rented for the casual diver, but it is highly unlikely Halifax’s one dive shop (Torpedo Rays) will have the system I learned on – and prefer – in stock for rental. I suppose that’s another future purchase to put on the list. There is work to be had in diving, especially in a busy port like Halifax. One can find work retrieving lost items at marinas or scrubbing boat hulls at a reasonable pay rate, but there is only a requirement for so many hull scrubbers and glasses finders. I suppose diving is one of those things that I’ll just have to wait and see how it affects my future, and how I make it a part of my life.

A Doubtful Couple of Days

2010-02-19T22:37:00.001-04:00

Hitchhiking to Te Anau proved – as usual – to be terrifically easy. Lance (my dive instructor) offered to drive me to the edge of town, and gratefully I accepted, getting my thumb out around 11AM. I waited the usual 10-15 minutes before being picked up by a young German man, touring New Zealand on his own. He was heading all the way to Milford Sound and stopping in Te Anau on the way. The ride up was uneventful as we admired the changing scenery as we entered the Fordland. I told him stories of my travel (as is expected of a hitchhiker) and he shared some of his own experiences in New Zealand. He explained how his job as an architectural engineer affects the way he experiences tourist attractions. We all experience the world in a different way based on our skills, knowledge and hobbies, unknowingly living in a different world from everyone else. I tend to look for the mechanical, seeking a process which I can examine until understood or finding someone who can explain it for me. Architects seek out architecture; designers focus on design; engineers strive to understand the workings behind the ordinary and extraordinary. An attraction is interesting to many people on many levels, and talking with this man I felt myself wishing that for one day I could see some of the same attractions but through the eyes another. I was left wondering how drastically the experience and knowledge of another person affects how an attraction is experienced.

I was dropped off in the middle of Te Anau with little in the way of a plan, and even less in the way of expectations. I was expecting a few nights in a quiet town with little to do but write and enjoy the solitude and the break from Queenstown. I got what I expected, but was tremendously happy with my choice of towns. In Te Anau I found a sleepy but cheerful little town on the edge of the Fiordland; the gateway for thousands of tourists weekly on their way to the dramatic sounds in the west. I wandered into an information centre for information on accommodation and activities in the area. I knew there were cruises, but they are expensive and with the exception of bungee jumping, scuba diving, skydiving and canyoning, I have tried very hard to keep to a strict budget. But what is money for except spending, and what is vacation for except enjoying extraordinary things, and I figured I could afford to spend just a little on a nice cruise. There are two companies running on Doubtful sound, the less cruised of the Doubtful Sound/Milford Sound pair. Real Journeys runs the Fiordland Explorer, taking 70-some people on overnight cruises for around $250. Fiordland Expeditions runs the smaller MV Tutoko, taking 10 people on overnight cruises in the same area. My sister and her fiancé Paul had done the latter and gave rave reviews for the personal and refined quality of the experience – for anyone who can afford the $500NZD ($375CAD) that is. $250 was looking much more appealing and I had told myself while coming to Te Anau that I would not spend $500 on a one night cruise. But then the information staff told me they could drop it $450, the off season rate. Well, I just can’t resist a deal, and with the additional promise of a pickup from Te Anau by the company co-owner, I signed up for the cruise the following night. I had told myself I wouldn’t, but I left the information centre quite happy that I would be experiencing some of the finer points of the Fiordland experience. I settled in at the extremely impressive Te Anau Lakeview Holiday Park and got on the internet for some contact with home. Back in touch with everyone, I set off for the town and picked the lovely Naturally Fiordland cafe for late afternoon coffee then supper. Here I settled in for a few hours of typing; working to catch up on my blog. Te Anau was a very relaxing place, where the hurried stride of rushed tourists has little effect on the carefree residents. I picked up a bottle of wine for the cruise before heading back to my campsite, excitedly heading to the beach with my camera as the sunset promised to present some dramatic scenes in the dark clouds above.

As my tiny watch alarm chimed at 7:30 in the morning, something in my mind told me – even before I was fully conscious – there’s something important you have to get up for. My subconscious mind prevailed and I woke; packing and collecting my bottle of wine perfectly on time for pick up. Whew. I met Mandy who drove me along with a fifty-something American man and his decade (or so) younger Latvian wife to Manapouri, the departure point for the cruise. We met the rest of the 10 people we would be sharing the night with and enjoyed small talk. The group turned out to be as diverse as might be expected from such an excursion. There was a fifty-something British man (Dave) and his Kiwi wife; the previously mentioned Morgan and his wife Olga; forty-something Greek Costos, and his (I assume) German partner; and there was a group of three female backpackers, Patricia, Ricky, and Suzanne, all in their 20’s and from Switzerland, Germany, and the Netherlands respectively. Plus myself, we made ten guests from nine countries, covering early 20’s to late 50’s.

The cruise didn’t depart from Manapouri which is only a hopping off point towards the cruises. From here, we took a one hour cruise across Lake Manapouri to the Wilmot Pass, enjoying the scenery on the lake, close to what we would soon be enjoying on Doubtful Sound. We admired the hydroelectric power station on the other side before hopping aboard a small bus for the 20km journey over the Wilmot Pass. The Wilmot Pass was created in the mid 60’s to facilitate the construction of the hydroelectric station, and at its summit enjoys the most stunning views of Doubtful Sound by car. In fact, it enjoys the only views of Doubtful Sound by car. The road is completely cut off from the rest of civilisation, and any vehicle which traverses the Pass must come in by boat. Finally meeting the Sound at Deep Cove, we were introduced to the MV Tutoko and her crew of two; skipper Sean, and chef Jason. Of course – as was later explained to us – they don’t have those official titles, and anyone working aboard the Tutoko is simply a crew member, regardless of their training and primary roles. This is enforced by their flexibility in the many things they do on board the boat, but technicalities aside, Sean was an experienced skipper, and Jason a professionally trained chef. After casting off, Sean and Jason explained how the next 24 hours would go. We were told to treat the Tutoko as home; with the exception of the crew quarters and engine room, we were free to wander and free to make requests for stops or destinations. Immediately after, Sean had the Tutoko motoring through the Sound and Jason got to work on his first creation while glasses of champagne were passed around. This was exactly the tone for the whole cruise, a relaxed experience with good food, good company, good crew, and good experiences. As everyone got to know each other a little better, the Tutoko went straight for the entrance to the Sound from the Tasman Sea, getting there after a lunch of pasta salad. Bottles of wine were opened and by the time the Tutoko made the entrance of the Sound, everyone was warmly acquainted. The Tasman Sea treated us with a colony of Sea Lions and choppy water from which we hastily retreated back to the calm of the Sound. As we broke out the fishing rods, Jason donned scuba gear and went under, reappearing ten minutes later with a bounty of crayfish for dinner. That job done, we got to our ‘duties’, enjoying some fishing off the bow of the Tutoko. Fishing in 50m water, we caught mostly a fish which I cannot remember the name of, well known in New Zealand for its bland flavour and thus not particularly favoured. Jason however, knew better, and enjoys it for its ability to work with other foods without dominating the plate. A blue cod was also caught, and after consulting charts, it was confirmed we were allowed to keep it.

The work of the crew never ceased, and while we were enjoying some fishing, Jason kept busy making supper, a multi course treat to delight any connoisseur. A cheese board was laid out for a break from fishing, while a soup was made from scratch, crayfish were cooked and cooled, and vegetables were prepared for the main course. Before we got to eating, the Tutoko was anchored in a sheltered bay fed by fresh water from a stream of mountain water. Here we donned our bathing suits and jumped in the brackish water, reasonably warm at 19 degrees. The fresh water stream created a layer of cool fresh water over a surprisingly warmer body of salt water. The nearer to the stream you ventured, the colder and fresher the water. With kayaks we were able to get right up to the stream and I can assure you it was plenty cold, probably around 10 degrees. Frolicking done and appetites renewed, we towelled off and got warm, getting cosy in the overheated lounge with fresh glasses of wine. The lounge was kept warmer than necessary (around 23 degrees) because the warm temperature discourages activity from sand flies, and we were plenty happy to have them discouraged.

Maori tales joke that sand flies are the gods’ reminder to mortals that beautiful as Aotearoa (New Zealand) may be; it is not heaven. Sand fly bites itch like mosquito bites – for the first few minutes. As one becomes more irritated by them and continues to scratch, the itching increases to almost unbearable levels. Only by covering the area or through intense mental effort – of which I am incapable – can the itching be ignored until it subsides. Unfortunately, whereas mosquito bites might stop itching after a few days, sand fly bites continue itching for a week, sometimes as long as a couple weeks for some poor souls. The bites then scab before finally healing, often then scarring depending on how much one enjoyed the temporary relief of scratching. Fortunately, sand flies have poor temperature tolerance, and as the temperature of the lounge hit 23, they gravitated towards the windows, longing for the cooler air outside and distracted from biting. Come 10PM, the temperature outside drops too low for them, and they sleep in a near hibernation state until morning.

In the comfortable cabin we were fed a delicious pumpkin soup and half a crayfish each before taking a break from food. Full, we were astounded when Jason reminded us the crayfish was only the entree and served a wonderful plate of roasted vegetables and the fish we had caught earlier for the main course. Despite our best efforts, we had not been able to catch enough, and while we had been enjoying our pumpkin soup, Sean had taken the tender out and gallantly fished some more, bringing back a sizable catch which was able to feed the lot of us. Go Sean! Completely stuffed but all very content, we enjoyed an evening of conversation and drinks before finally heading to bed around 1AM. Accommodation on the Tutoko is familiar for a backpacker, all ten guests sharing one room complete with bunk style beds. The two married couples had double beds while the rest of us enjoyed comfortable single mattresses.

There was general consensus the night before that everyone wanted to enjoy a morning swim at 6AM before the Tutoko departed the bay at 6:30. I was, however, the only person to rise for a swim at 5:30. I enjoyed a cup of tea to warm my body and strengthen my resolve against the cold water outside before stepping out of the still warm lounge. My swimsuit was in the – out of bounds – engine room, so my solo swim was in my underwear which I stripped down to on the back of the boat. The boat’s thermometer later confirmed the water was in fact still 19 degrees, but at 6AM, with no sunlight breaking through the heavy clouds which themselves treated us to moderate rainfall, it might as well have been 0 degrees and while my body coped with the shock of the water, I made the decision to keep this swim short. I swam all the way around the boat, returning to the back where I promptly (and with a bit of difficulty) got back aboard, jumping into the shower at the stern, letting the hot water warm me back up. There was no sunrise, the rain was pouring, the water was cold, and I was alone; but I think that waking up with a swim in the fiords of New Zealand is something I will always remember. A pity for those who decided to sleep in, something one can enjoy any day on a vacation. The rest of the guests and crew eventually rose and we were soon under way, taking a scenic route back to Deep Cove. The silver lining to the clouds which were presently bringing the heavens down upon us was that the waterfalls, dried up from weeks of drought, were once again flowing, making our return journey a completely different experience from the day before. Gone were the clear blue skies and dry mountain sides. Today’s scenery was cloud shrouded mountain peaks accented by streams snaking their way to the Sound below. This was no longer a landscape of graceful, flowing mountains, but a mysterious valley surrounded by undeterminably tall mountains. Frankly, I think the weather was perfect for the cruise and I wouldn’t have wished for clear skies the second day at all. Sighting one particularly large waterfall, Sean took the opportunity to treat us to some fresh water and stuck the prow under the stream, flooding the deck with water. Jason served up a delicious (as if he could manage otherwise) full breakfast including eggs, sausage and toast, and accompanied it with a delicious mushroom in white wine sauce – unexpected for breakfast, but so good my mouth still waters for more.

As all things must, the cruise came to an end as we pulled back in to Deep Cove, I’m sure I was not the only one contemplating the possibility of hijacking the boat and turning us back around for another day of cruising; but we disembarked peacefully and boarded a bus ride for the anticlimactic ride back over the Wilmot Pass. The only excitement came from a malfunction in the cargo doors, causing some gear to go tumbling along the roadside but luckily no one’s gear was damaged (lucky, considering two of the bags to go tumbling contained at least $1500 in camera gear). At the power station I said goodbye to Patricia, Ricky and Suzanne (who comes back into my travels later) before boarding a boat back across Lake Manapouri. Here the rest of us said goodbye, going our separate ways on our own travels. For me, Mandy was waiting to take me back to Te Anau where I had one more night before returning to Queenstown. We had a great conversation on the way back to Te Anau and I learned a good deal about the Fiordland Expeditions, a small company for sure but one making a big impact on the touring scene in Doubtful Sound. The MV Tutoko is soon to be replaced, and its replacement should be in service not too long after I publish this. A slightly larger boat, the main differences will be the inclusion of an ensuite and private rooms, but the carried load will be below capacity on each sailing, maintaining the company’s dedication to a personal experience on the Sound. The difference between the 70 person ship and the 10 person boat is huge, and as we cruised in the Sound, all the passengers of the Tutoko (all 10 of us) were glad we paid the extra. It wasn’t just a cruise, it was a real experience with the Sound; one where we got to swim in it, fish from it (and later enjoy the fruits of our own fishing), swim in it again in an amazing pre dawn dip – for one of us at least – and get to know the staff who took us out on the amazing journey. We all commented as the skipper of the Fiordland Navigator walked by that probably none of the passengers on his boat got to get to know him, never mind steer the ship itself (as some of the Tutoko guests did). My thanks to Mandy were sincere, and if my writing here seems a tad commercial to any of you, perhaps that’s because it is. But that’s only because I enjoyed my experience on Doubtful Sound so much, it would be a shame for anyone to experience anything less. So if there’s one thing I’m sure of (unlike Captain James Cook when he doubted he could get the wind to sail back out of Doubtful Sound if he entered…), if you can spare the extra money, the payoff is worth it and the experience is invaluable.

I spent the afternoon and evening at the Olive Tree Cafe in Te Anau, enjoying coffee and snacks then supper while getting some serious blog work done, finally catching up to just before the cruise. Of course I’ve fallen behind again, but I have come to appreciate the gap between event and publication. The time between has allowed me room for consideration, and I have found my immediate reactions differing sometimes drastically from my later conclusions. My stop in Omarama at the time seemed terrible for example, but I made the most of it, enjoyed the quiet time to write, and now I am confident it was an excellent stop, a large part of my relaxing into a slower pace of travel. I slept well that evening, helped by just over four hours of sleep the night before, knowing that I had done well on my blog, and knowing I would be back to scuba diving soon.

Getting Under the Surface in Queenstown

2010-02-16T07:46:00.001-04:00

From quiet Wanaka I was off to bustling Queenstown, the adventure capital of the world. This is not an easy title to obtain, but it’s not just used by Queenstonians; tourism agencies worldwide will send you off to Queenstown over any other global destination for the sheer variety of adventure activities. This is of course even more impressive when you consider they only have a population of just over 10,000. As per usual, transportation was by hitchhiking and after magically stuffing all my gear into my bag, I walked a few hundred metres up the road to where the highway began. I was 99% guaranteed that any ride would take me all the way there as there are no stops between the two towns. I waited roughly 20 minutes before an oddly familiar pumpkin orange Toyota Camry stopped just ahead of me. The boot (trunk in North America) was popped and I tossed my bag inside, quite confident my gear was safe, before hopping in the passenger seat (still weird being on the left side and not driving). Looking over I saw a very familiar face talking business on his mobile. He looked over to greet me with a smile and almost dropped his phone as his jaw nearly hit the gearshift. No word of a lie, it was the same guy who picked me up in Mt Cook a full week earlier. He is a travelling businessman so the chances are higher...but still...every time I’ve stuck out my thumb since I’ve half expected to see the same pumpkin orange Toyota stop and hear him talking to his associates. About gear being safe in the boot even if I’m not in the car; a word with many Kiwis has reassured my feeling of safety while hitchhiking. Of course hitchhiking always carries risks and you can never be 100% sure that your ride is a safe one, but by being smart, you can have a good (and free) time while staying safe. As far as gear is concerned, there have been incidences of hitchhikers throwing luggage in boots and the vehicle peeling off as fast as the tires can carry it, but a quick memorisation of the easy six character NZ license plates guarantees a region wide police hunt for the vehicle in question. New Zealand police are highly active in ensuring everyone’s safety, and take complaints from tourists very seriously. I’ve heard that one such grab and run resulted in a manhunt lasting all of two hours after which the culprit was seriously penalised both on his license and criminal record, the gear returned with many apologies. A similar case where the hitchhiker didn’t think to catch a plate number resulted in a car hunt lasting almost 24 hours, police only working off make and model and approximate age, stopping any car that matched the description. Eventually the culprit was caught and again, the gear returned with apologies.

My reappearing driver had to make an hour long stop in Arrowtown, a small town 20 minutes away from Queenstown and I decided this was perfect for me. We arranged a time to meet back at the car and we went our separate ways. Queenstown, Arrowtown, and others were all established when settlers in the area discovered shimmering yellow stuff in the water. As it turned out, this was gold and the New Zealand gold rush began. Overnight, towns such as these sprung up all over the region, but as the gold rush slowly wound down, some survived and thrived, some survived, and others faded away as the prospectors took their leave. Arrowtown has survived and is recently making a name for itself as the cute little town just away from Queenstown. Many original buildings remain from the late 1800’s, and new buildings try to match the aesthetic to maintain the appeal of the area. There is an odd assortment of boutiques which offer some unique items, but most stores are either chain tourist souvenir shops selling generic NZ souvenirs, or overpriced food vendors selling overrated food. An exception lies in the Arrowtown Bakery, a company which I suspect by decoration and product line up is related to the Queenstown Bakery. They sell terrific pies (pastries with any assortment of thick stew inside) from pork or venison to apricot or tofu. I enjoyed a lamb and mint pie as I wandered the town, the streets lined with typical pioneer style architecture; wooden buildings with wooden porches and wooden vertical support beams with wooden signs above a slightly sloped wooden roof. I guess they had a lot of wood to build with!

We met back at the car and headed into Queenstown where I was dropped at the iSite for local information, but headed straight to the Queenstown Lakeview Holiday Park to check out their campsites. Unfortunately, Queenstown is Queenstown, not Wanaka or Te Anau or Omarma. Like everything else in town, the campsite was more expensive at $18/night, not including showers which are coin op at 8min/$1. I actually headed to the other campsite in town to check their prices, but was amazed at their $21/night fee (higher than a hostel in most NZ towns except Queenstown of course) and returned to the Lakeview. The park isn’t perfect; the spaces are too close together, tents get jammed up next to monstrous RV’s (in North American speak, or camper van – regardless of size – in Kiwi speak), reception is impersonal and completely clueless about some of the activities in town, and the list goes on. But it is cheaper than (Queenstown) hostels, the facilities are for the most part clean, and regardless of the obnoxious guitar playing backpackers, I get a better night sleep than I would in a hostel filled with party animals. My first priority in Queenstown was to make contact with Dive Queenstown, the diving company with whom I would be doing my scuba qualification. I called around 8pm and spoke to Lance (owner, operator, manager, trainer, etc.) and he told me he would drop by in an hour with the book I needed to read and he would get me in the water the very next day. This was quite alright with me, because while my time in NZ is very relaxed and unhurried, Queenstown a fast paced and hurried town, and even though I have to spend a good deal of time there, I will minimise that as much as possible. So it is a wonder that after a short talk with him, I decided to also do my advanced qualification on top of my open water qualification, adding another few days to the course and another $500 on top of the $600 for the open water qualification. He agreed to take off $100 and make it an even thousand (which was damned good of him considering the time/money ratio for his course, but was a relief to my budget). The two courses together will give me training and certification required to do paired dives (recreational dives are always done in pairs for safety) to 40m in fresh or salt water. We met just a little later and he explained the whole process of education and qualification, outlining how the next week and a bit would go. It was an exciting step for me and something that I will literally have with me my whole life.

Indeed the next day we got started right away, and showing up to his shop I was immediately shown the ropes of his gear, slightly different from the usual recreational diving kit. Lance combines the best elements of recreational diving with some of the more expensive but safer and/or easier to use elements of technical diving. He teaches PADI courses in scuba diving using this improved equipment system, allowing his graduates to go on and knowledgably conquer pretty much any consumer gear available. The first dive was what he would sell to a non qualified diver as a “discover scuba” dive; and indeed it is just that. Scuba diving is much more than just swimming underwater and breathing through a tank. There is a whole system of buoyancy control, air control, allowable time underwater at certain depths; far more than I could get into here. If I wrote it all down here it would take pages, but needless to say, on this first dive Lance takes control of pretty much everything for you except for the breathing...unfortunately only you can do that for yourself.

The 20^th to the 23^rd was spent simply living in Queenstown while doing dive after dive. During my walks in town I got to know the famous adventure haven, learned its small number of streets and found the nice spots in town for a view or a bite to eat. For a town of its size it is extremely busy, and crossing the streets you constantly dodge busses from mini to coach size. As far as actual tourist attractions, the downtown beach area is quite popular, and for good reason as the clean beach is a prime spot to sunbathe or go for a dip. On the other side of town is the famous gondola ride up a decent sized hill. From the top are amazing views of the town and you can package the gondola ride with luge rides at the top of the hill. I was spending some time with some British guys I met in the campground and we went up together, racing each other down the two tracks multiple times. Queenstown’s other claim to fame is the Fergburger, a burger joint in the centre of town dishing out hundreds of amazing burgers every hour. Open 21 hours a day, the usual busy times bring lines and around supper you can expect to wait between 10-20 minutes just to order, the burger coming usually around 10-20 minutes later; but boy is it worth the wait. My first Fergburger was the “Big Al”, a 1/2lb of beef, two egg, bacon, beetroot, veg., and sauce monster. I was hooked from the first bite and have had a few other delicious Fergburger concoctions since.

On the 24^th I planned to take yet another plunge, and come noon I found myself at the A.J. Hackett Bungee jumping centre for a bus 40 minutes out of the town. I was headed off for the Nevis bungee jump, New Zealand’s tallest at 134m from a platform suspended between two mountains. The whole experience was somewhat surreal and there was no anticipation of the coming danger. Even as I was fitted and rigged up with a harness and took the cable car ride out to the suspended platform it still didn’t feel real. As the door opened and the “EXTREMMMEEEE, MANNNNN!!!” bungee technicians (what else do you call them?) grabbed hold of me, rigging my ankles up in tight cuffs and ushering me to the edge where the cable was attached to my harness at multiple points, things suddenly became very real. As I stood at the edge of the platform, I looked down at the river bed 150m below and suddenly thought, “Wait, I don’t like heights, why the hell am I standing here!?” Like it or not, they gave the 3-2-1 countdown and I was encouraged to jump. Absolutely scared shitless, I more leaned out and let myself tip over the edge than jump, but the effect was the same and suddenly I was rushing towards the ground in eight seconds of freefall, accelerating towards the rapidly approaching ground. This was the feeling of weightlessness I was expecting when skydiving, and as I looked down at the river, my feet trailing above me, I had no sensation of being attached to anything at all, my brain sending frantic signals telling me to brace for the certain impact with the water below. Basically, the freefall was eight seconds of ‘HOLY SHIT!!!’, but as the cord started to tighten and I felt a tug on my legs go from gentle to firm, the situation felt a little better and I was able to appreciate the awesomeness of the moment. I was dangling – still bouncing up and down – 134m from a suspended platform above a lovely riverbed in a gorgeous valley. It was suddenly very elating, and probably about the same time the adrenaline hit my system I became very happy with the whole experience. I pulled the pin keeping my ankles attached to the cord which allowed me to sit in my harness and enjoy the views on the way back up. Worth the $250? Hell yes! Would I do it again? Of course! I think the first time you do any of these extreme activities is the worst because of the anticipation of what might go wrong. But once you experience the rush you’re absolutely hooked. Two gals about my age were terrified to tears watching people jump before them, but after their jumps they couldn’t wait to do it again! I went back to Queenstown for my last dive in my PADI Open Water course and by night time I was a certified PADI Open Water scuba diver!

The 25^th and 26^th were a break from scuba diving and I spent my Monday doing typical Monday things; barber (that’s right, it’s back to ¼ inch for me!), dentist, Fergburger, relax. The 26^th I took my trip up the gondola and had some fun lugeing with my British friends. On the 27^th I was back to scuba diving; now working on my advanced qualification and completing both my navigation dive (a bore) and my Diver Propulsion Vehicle dive (sweet) in one trip to the beach. Lance has two of the world’s fastest production underwater scooters, and with eight gears you can either meander through the water doing graceful underwater acrobatics, or cut through at maximum speed, getting where you need to be fast. I was able to pull some fun loop-the-loops, barrel rolls, helixes up and down, and more. The amount of fun you can have with one of these scooters is endless, and you can use them to get places underwater! Go figure, they can be practical too!

While the diving was a lot of fun and it was great to be actively involved in learning again, Queenstown’s busyness and the sheer number of tourists was starting to get to me, and I figured it was time for a break. On the 28^th I escaped the hustle and bustle, packing up my bag and thumbing out of Queenstown for lovely Te Anau, the gateway to the Fiordlands.

Not Always to Plan…

2010-01-31T08:27:00.001-04:00

A trip to Mt Aspiring National Park; what a dream! I had a brochure from the DOC, a plan for two nights in the park, and I was excited to set off! I eagerly hit the road with my thumb out, looking forward to putting the 86km between Wanaka and Mt Aspiring behind me. After an hour of no luck, I was finally picked up by a twenty-something who worked at a paintball place just out of town in a tiny place called Glendhu with one Holiday Park, and one farm. He wasn’t going all the way but he got me 30km down the road, a hopeful start to my day. As I stood with my thumb out for the next couple hours, I was rapidly losing hope as the day grew warmer and my prospects diminished. I checked out the park map and re-planned my time in the park, accounting for a later arrival time between hopeful smiles at passing cars. Unfortunately there was no shade on the appropriate side of the road, so I occupied my time by feeding the horses grass while keeping my mind off the heat and waiting for passing cars. As noon became afternoon, I lost hope and in a disheartening move for a hitchhiker, crossed the road and stuck my thumb out the other way. Going this direction it took me over 30 minutes to get a ride just the 30km back into town, and surprisingly it was with a family. Not at all used to families stopping, I was surprised when I climbed into the campervan to sit between the couple’s two young daughters. It was a very friendly family of Kiwis and they shared their wisdom on the region, informing me that hitchhiking in the Mt Aspiring direction is virtually impossible for a variety of reasons. They dropped me off close to the Lakeview Holiday Park and I went to reception to check in again, my head held a little lower. Hitchhiking is always hit and miss, but to strike out sucks, especially when you have such an awesome plan for such an amazing park. But there were things to do still in Wanaka, and I had decided long before that this would not be my only visit to New Zealand.

My plans for the day entirely out the window, I had a lazy day observing the races in progress, and took an evening walk out Wanaka’s other shore. I decided I wanted to go canyoning the next day, booked it, and had a relaxing night of blogging and TV.

So, what is canyoning? North Americans would call it canyoneering (but Word spell check doesn’t like that either) but it’s the same worldwide. On the most basic level, you hike up a hill and come back down through a canyon; abseiling, jumping, sliding, and zip lining the whole fun filled time. Canyoning can be enjoyed in numerous NZ locations and there are some famous runs in Australia, but I chose Wanaka because it promised to be the wettest experience, staying in the water almost the whole time. Departing out of Queenstown you are promised 3 hours wet out of a total 8. Unfortunately, you are in a wet suit the entire time, and anyone who has worn a wetsuit knows they get very hot very quickly in the sun; usually black and providing excellent insulation against body heat loss. I was picked up from my campsite in one of New Zealand’s ubiquitous minibuses (either really tiny busses, or slightly overgrown vans, always Mitsubishi or Toyota, usually bought second hand from Asia) and driven the lovely 40 minute drive into the Mt Pisa Range. There was a tour starting mid canyon, or for the more enthusiastic/advanced, the option to start nearer the top. Always following the rule of go big or go home, I went for the larger one, dishing out $290 plus a further $15 for the photos taken throughout by the guides with their waterproof/drop proof cameras. The whole experience was exhilarating and I faced more than a few scary situations – proudly – always coming out on top. Abseiling (repelling in a harness down a rope) through waterfalls, sliding down the rock face of a waterfall, or jumping into the pool below, the whole experience is one rush after another. This tour has you constantly wet, rarely getting out of the water (and then only twice for zip lines) but the wet suits are sufficient protection from the mountain cold water. I can proudly say I slid over a waterfall 12m tall, repelled over waterfalls up to 20m tall, and jumped off a rock face 10m to water below. It is only after the experience you learn how dangerous it is, but looking back on the previous seven hours the danger becomes quite obvious. Seeing far more injuries than skydiving, bungee jumping and most other adventure sports combined, the typical injuries include broken legs and ankles as well as facial injuries and the occasional hand problem. If you lose your footing on slick rocks while abseiling, incorrect recovery in the situation could find you with your face up against the same rock, maybe breaking a nose. When jumping into a pool, the guide gives firm instructions on where to land, and they mean it. Two feet in the wrong direction and you could end up landing on a barely submerged rock ledge and break a leg or two. Such an injury happened only a few weeks before my visit, but it’s made quite clear beforehand that following instructions almost guarantees a safe and fun trip. It was an excellent experience, and if I never canyon again, I can be happy knowing that I may not have done the world’s biggest, but I did one of the wettest and I had a great time (conquering a few fears at the same time!). The guides break out sandwich supplies at the bottom and everyone enjoys a great time chatting about canyoning, travelling, whatever comes to mind before packing up and driving back into the city. $290 (for the higher up option) was a terrific price for an entire day of entertainment and I left feeling like the whole experience was well worth it. I highly recommend it for the adventurous soul.

Wanaka was a wonderful time, and while it may not have an exciting night life or huge backpacker population, those exact same things are what make it a perfect alternative to Queenstown. In the winter Wanaka enjoys a healthy ski/snowboard season and the tourism keeps going all year round. The town is quiet and relaxing, while an escape to adventure is a minibus ride away. It was great having Glen to hang out and chat with, and he was a wealth of information for me to use on both the local area and New Zealand in general; he has spent years in the hospitality business before flexing his entrepreneurial muscles and his insights are highly valuable. I won’t find myself back in Wanaka on this visit, but I am 100% sure I will end up back in Wanaka on another trip to take in another movie at the Cinema Paradiso and take in another gorgeous sunset from Waterfall Creek.

Please note: the photos of canyoning are not my photographic work

Wana’ Slow Down and Relax?

2010-01-31T08:23:00.001-04:00

I woke late and discovered with delight that my ankle had stopped hurting, and after packing up my gear headed to the DOC office to inquire about camping in the park. Here, I made a big mistake. As it turns out, camping is a highly controversial issue in New Zealand and for good reason. Kiwis would like it if people were free to camp anywhere, especially in the gorgeous national parks which provide millions of acres of scenic delights. Of course, if even a portion of the millions of tourists to New Zealand annually decided to ‘camp anywhere’ in the national parks, the parks would be a much different environment to discover. So when I asked the slightly grumpy DOC officer about camping at Kea Point on the 13^th, I received the very firm instruction that camping in the park was allowed only at the huts, none of which were within a four hour walk from town. As I later found out from another, more open DOC officer, I should have just gone ahead and camped in the park, ensuring to pitch my tent only as dusk fell. I got the company rule at Mt Cook, and I got the practical insider’s advice later. No DOC officers patrol these walks overnight and if you are up with first light and hike out all your garbage, there won’t be any problems – the slogan take only pictures, leave only footprints seems particularly apt. Disappointed and not particularly feeling like testing the system and thoroughness of the Mt Cook DOC officers, I decided to move on from Mt Cook. I walked to the only road in and out of Aoraki and stuck out the thumb, this time with no sign. Turns out signs are unnecessary and within 10 minutes I had a ride with a travelling businessman (remember this guy for my later blogs) all the way along Lake Pukaki to where the road forked away from Wanaka (my destination) to Christchurch (his destination). At a very convenient intersection where traffic from Mt Cook has a stop sign and where traffic from Christchurch is instructed to slow, I waited for around an hour, eventually pulling out a book and sticking out my thumb only as cars approached. This was the beginning of some bad luck with hitchhiking, and although a friendly German couple eventually picked me up, they were only able to take me 20km down the road to the small town of Twizel (pop. 1020), home to...nothing. On a slow section of the highway just outside of Twizel I stood for almost two hours before the German couple returned from the town and took me 30km further down the road to the even tinier town of Omarama, home to a whopping 320 people. They were unsure if they were staying the night, but I decided that to break my bad luck with hitchhiking, I would stay the night and see what the tiny town had to offer. I checked in at the Holiday Park and for only $15 (that’s only around $12CAD) I had my own site with access to all the amenities, including their showers and paid – but cheap – laundry facilities. I wandered down the road to the Lonely Planet recommended Wrinkly Ram Cafe and Restaurant and was delightfully surprised by the service, quality of food, and spectacular scenery from the covered front porch. Here I perched myself for over four hours, pounding out a couple blog entries and reading while enjoying delicious coffee and a tasty chicken burger. I settled in for a quiet night back at the campground of blog writing (I got three done and posted that day) and laundry before getting back to the tent.

The night off from hitchhiking seemed to do the trick and when I stuck out my thumb the next morning I waited only 20 minutes before I was picked up by a Kiwi going all the way to Wanaka. As you quickly realise when hitchhiking, there are all sorts of people out there and there is no one type of person who picks up hitchhikers. This time I was picked up by a well to do farmer and land owner who was on his way to Wanaka to tend to his vacation home. He was an excellent source of information on the New Zealand economy and his background in farming leant an interesting perspective on recent economic changes. He dropped me off at Wanaka’s iSite and headed off for unknown destinations. iSites are New Zealand’s answer to consistent tourism information, not intended to push deals and packages on anyone. While different cities in Canada all might have their own local information centre (usually marked with the universal italic letter ‘i’), iSites are the same in every city of New Zealand, offering booking services for local attractions and accommodation, as well as attractions in the nearby regions and information for travelling the entire country. They are highly useful and their standardisation lends a sense of order and uniformity regardless of New Zealand destination. I checked with the local YHA but found cheaper accommodation at the Wanaka Lakeview Holiday Park for only $16/night in my tent.

In Wanaka I found a quiet town of only 3500, hitting far above its weight in activities and attractions. The gateway to the famous Mt Aspiring National park, Wanaka is also home to countless adventure activities and is often seen as the cheaper, less exploited version of Queenstown (more on that in another blog to come). I ended up staying in Wanaka for five nights and enjoyed every minute of it. As I was getting settled in the town, Wanaka was winding up for Challenge Wanaka, their annual triathlon event drawing hundreds from around the world for sprints, single events, and a full triathlon race. Tents were in various stages of completion in the city’s central park, staging was being readied to cross above the road, and local businesses were gearing up for a large influx of tourists and competitors. I headed for an internet cafe and filled my family in on the drama of the previous couple of days before enjoying a quiet night on the campsite, catching a bit of television in the communal TV room.

The next day I had some plans for serious sightseeing. Actually; no, not at all. Wanaka was clearly a quiet town uninfluenced by visiting thrill seekers and I quickly fell into the same groove, relaxing and taking it easy. Unlike my European trip, it was already clear New Zealand was going to be quite relaxing; and that is more than fine by me. This day was supposed to be fun filled, but one thing was cancelled and there was a mix up at another, so both were postponed until the next day. I occupied my evening walking out to Waterfall Creek, following a walking trail along the beach from Wanaka an easy few kilometres and was rewarded with wonderful views of the town, the rest of Lake Wanaka and surrounding mountains. Misnamed, the end of the trail does not have a wonderful waterfall, but does have a lovely creek to explore. I found a log straddling the creek on the beach and perched myself on it enjoying another supper of OSM bar. I spent some time skipping rocks on the serene lake and wandered around the creek. I practiced being a good tourist and tried to rescue a trout stuck in the stream, placing him in the lake to swim free, but was disappointed when he simply sank belly up to the bottom (but not before I got a photo with all 15cm of him to prove I did some form of fishing in the region famous for its trout fishing). I enjoyed a slow walk back on the beach as the sun set in a clear sky over the mountain peaks, reflected off the calm lake. A white faced heron even cooperated with me for an impromptu photo shoot, calmly fishing at the lake’s edge while allowing me to approach to within a couple metres to shoot numerous photos. What was supposed to be an exciting day became a relaxing and peaceful day, wonderful either way.

On the 16^th all my plans panned out as they were supposed to the day before and a wonderful day was set before me. I started my day with my new friend Glen, a former local of Wanaka who is doing his rounds through New Zealand promoting his business of teaching marketing through new social networking media. We enjoyed a wonderful full NZ breakfast and a typically delicious coffee at the Cheeky Monkey Cafe. I wandered back to the campsite where I was picked up at 11 by the shuttle for Skydive Wanaka and was off to the airport. I was going to test my nerve and bank account, ditching a perfectly good plane at 15,000ft with a guy and a parachute strapped to my back. I knew I wanted to skydive and it’s not every day you get the opportunity, but in New Zealand you can skydive just about anywhere. I chose Wanaka because of their perfect safety record (three words you like hearing before jumping out of a plane), the scenery, and their relatively small size. I could have waited until Queenstown but heard rave reviews for Skydive Wanaka and spent my $395 there. $295 gets you out the door at 12,000ft, and the extra $100 gives you 3,000ft and 15 seconds more freefall. Go big or go home...so I sprung for the 15,000 and before long I was circling above the Wanaka region in a small plane, in an extensive harness with a very confident tandem skydive master tightly fastened to my harness. I took confidence in the fact he had over 15,000 total jumps under his belt, and even greater confidence in his calm and casual manner. In fact, the whole experience with Skydive Wanaka was wonderful. From the moment I got in the shuttle van and gave the driver my name, I was “David” to everyone. Not once did someone squeak out of calling me by name and it was a refreshing experience to finally have a name at a tourism operation. The main benefit of Skydive Wanaka is its smaller size than the more popular Queenstown based operation. All the staff was friendly and smiled sincerely; I could tell they enjoyed what they were doing and their cheerful mood contributed to my confidence. But back to me in the plane! At 15,000ft, the door opens and you watch the people before you slip out the door into the abyss below, slowly moving down the bench until it’s your turn. The tandem master sits on the edge of the plane, which of course leaves you sitting on...nothing. Ass hanging out over 15,000ft of nothing, you assume the correct skydiving position, and out you go, tumbling through a couple somersaults before stabilising in the commonly seen spread eagle position. The flight down lasts 60 seconds from 15,000ft before the chute is opened at 5000ft, and it’s a minute of pure joy. Heights are not an issue; you’re so far up it looks like viewing a map. Backing out is not an issue; communication in the plane is difficult at best, and no refunds are given. Once you’re at 15,000ft, the only thing to do is enjoy the flight down. I’ve heard people speak of the joy of weightlessness which is technically correct, but I found holding my arms in the correct position difficult enough the sense of weightlessness was lost and it just felt like standing in an extremely powerful hurricane with winds of 200km/hr. Breathing must be done through the nose or the pressure difference between your open mouth and your nose make inhalation difficult – something not explained to me causing me minor difficulty in breathing. At 5000ft and with little warning, the chute is opened and you are jerked into your harness which is quickly readjusted to give you a little more wiggle room and to increase comfort, allowing you to focus on the enjoyment of the slow flight to the ground. I have to say I have no idea how long the parachute flight lasted, I was hopped up enough on adrenaline that nothing really mattered, least of all time. The tandem master showed off a bit by demonstrating some aerial acrobatics and sharing some positive G force before instructing on how to land. Both passenger and tandem master approach the ground with legs up, ready to slide to a stop on the rear, but if the approach is correct and the winds cooperate, a landing can be accomplished standing. Most injuries occur when the passenger doesn’t put their legs parallel to the ground and roll their ankles as they try to run upon touching the ground. The landing in this case was a perfect standing touchdown and I walked back to the hanger in a trance before realising I had the typical dumb grin on my face, the kind that usually hangs around for a couple hours after your first skydiving experience. I didn’t opt for any photo or video options as they start at $140, but the memory of the experience alone is still strong and I’m sure I will always remember my first skydive.

How do you follow up skydiving? I don’t think you really can beat an experience like that so I opted for a bit of relaxation and headed for the Cinema Paradiso, a Wanaka tourist attraction in its own right. Not just any cinema, here you enjoy a movie in an odd assortment of couches, lay-z-boys, airline seats, or even a car, while eating homemade ice cream, cookies, and any variety of drinks. Around the middle of the film, the lights come back up and you take the opportunity to stretch your legs, get some freshly baked cookies, or pick up a meal you ordered before the movie started which you are invited to take back into the theatre on a tray and enjoy during the rest of the film. I was at the cinema for Sherlock Holmes and I ordered the chicken quesadilla and a delicious (and still oven warm) homemade double chocolate cookie which accompanied me back into the theatre for the second half. The theatre is all about the experience of the cinema visit, and from the homemade goodies to the eclectic chairs, the Cinema Paradiso is purely original. Adding to the experience is the owner/projectionist, a man who refuses to properly study the art of projection and routinely messes up. The mix ups are accompanied by an apology and a promise to quickly right things. In my case, a completely different movie started and was promptly shut off, the house lights coming up with a shout of, “shit, my bad, I don’t even know what film that is. Gimme a sec!” Transitions between reels (because of course films are still stored on multiple reels) range from perfect to completely messed up, once in his first showing of the original Star Wars skipping from reel one to reel five and not even realising his mistake, never having seen the film before. To get mad at such mistakes would be silly though, it’s all part of the character of the cinema, and frankly, the projectionist is the funniest part of a visit. Love it; recommend it; and will definitely go back if in Wanaka again.

To Sum-it Up…

2010-01-31T08:20:00.001-04:00

If breathtaking scenery and landscapes are the real New Zealand, I was in for a magnificent start in this wonderful country. I was getting out of the city on the 11^th, hopefully getting as far as Lake Tekapo to the south west of Christchurch on the highway through the centre of the South Island. Hmmmm, hopefully...what does this mean? Yes; David is back to hitchhiking! I will be hitching my way around New Zealand my entire stay, saving plenty of money to spend on treats (big or little); of which New Zealand has many. My first stop of the day was to a bookstore where I purchased a Lonely Planet guide book to New Zealand, and a Lonely Planet guide book to hikes in New Zealand. Unfortunately, like all books in New Zealand and Australia, they were grossly overpriced by North American standards and each cost me $60NZD, just over $45CAD. I caught a city bus to the edge of the city, and took up my place beside the road. My goal was Lake Tekapo, around 220km from Christchurch, only waited 15 minutes with my sign in hand before I was picked up by a man who worked at a resort at the lake itself. It was a huge stroke of luck but also a sign of many good rides to come.

The ride from Christchurch was stunning and experiencing it with a local was highly beneficial. He was able to point out many features and landmarks, explaining the significance and history. We drove through the mountains to Lake Tekapo where he left me at the iSite – something I would become quite familiar with in the future – before proceeding to the YHA on the lakefront. For only $12NZD I was allowed to set up my new tent on the waterfront and use all the indoor amenities; my first introduction to the positive attitude towards tenting in New Zealand. My first impressions of Lake Tekapo were mixed, the amazing scenery offset by heavy fog and light rain. Fortunately, by the time I paid my fees the rain had stopped, and by the time I had set up my tent the fog was starting to lift. Once the view was clearer, I was able to fully appreciate the scenery the lake had to offer. One of many glacial fed lakes on the South Island, the turquoise blue water draws the eye while the backdrop of mountains keeps you staring seemingly for ages. Like glacial lakes in Canada, the water has a turquoise blue and almost milky colour because of tiny suspended rock particles from glacial movement thousands of years ago. A town of barely over 300 people, there is not much to do in the town, but the neighbouring Mount John offers many opportunities for sightseeing. One can climb to the top in a three hour return trip taking you almost straight up one side of the mountain while the other side is a meandering path along the lake side eventually climbing up (or down) a gentle slope. For the less able (or less motivated) there are nightly tours by bus to the top where you can visit Canterbury University’s Mt John Observatory, catching a glimpse of the stars through powerful optics on a clear night. Already late afternoon by this time, I opted for the hike, taking the sloping side up the mountain at the top of which I enjoyed ‘supper’ of an OSM bar while taking in the view from my vantage point.

Anyone familiar with PowerBars knows that not only are most ‘energy bars’ generally unhealthy, but disgusting and lacking some crucial dietary requirements. The Kiwi solution is the One Square Meal bar. Made from all natural ingredients, two OSM bars = One Square Meal – literally. Two bars contain 1/3 your daily requirement of everything, from calories to carbs, from fat to fibre, not to mention all the vitamins and essential minerals. Technically, one can live on nothing but OSM bars, and while it would be a bland existence it would be calorically well measured and nutritionally fulfilling. That they taste pretty good certainly helps their popularity (especially with the chunks of either apricot or cranberry and glue made of honey), and their endorsement by such outdoor legends as Olympic triathlon gold medal winner Hamish Carter gives them a certain authority in the field of sport and ‘on the trail’ healthy eating. I have spent a couple days eating nothing but OSM bars, and while you don’t feel quite full, a little water helps the oats expand some and leaves you feeling satisfied. I have heard that sales will begin soon in the USA and hope they might find their way into the Canadian market as well (that is, unless I’m sick of them by the end of my time here). After enjoying my nutritionally fulfilling meal I descended the steep path on the town side of the mountain. The free map recommends doing things the other way around, a steep ascent followed by a slow walk down the other side and finding my ankles in pain after the quick descent I understood why this was recommended. The continual shock of stepping downhill on a steep grade leaves the ankles a little tender and for the next couple of days I had to take it easy on them. Still quite cloudy at dusk, the sunset was less dramatic than I was hoping for, but I enjoyed some time blogging indoors before spending my first night in my wee one man tent. As it turns out, the tent is perfect for one person around my size with little extra room lengthwise, and just enough room to take a bag full of equipment spread out all around you, creating a cosy nest which I feel quite comfortable in the middle of.

I woke early on the 12^th and walked a short distance to the iconic Church of the Good Sheppard on the lakefront of Lake Tekapo. Built in 1935 in respect and commemoration to all the sheep farmers who at the time – and to some effect, still – kept the New Zealand economy going, the all stone church was built on the shore, respecting the natural surroundings with as little destruction to the surrounding flora as possible. Bushes were only cut back as far as they needed to be and only local stones were used. Large stones in the ground became part of the foundation and the result is a church which feels like it belongs there, like it has always been there. The interdenominational Christian services are run at least weekly and the congregation (non-locals welcomed) is treated to spectacular views of the lake from the window behind the pulpit looking out over the lake to the mountains in the distance (no need to snooze in church with a view like that!). I wandered the premises around 7am as recommended in the Lonely Planet guide book and was able to avoid the droves of tourists that show up around 9 by the bus load. 7am on a lake like Tekapo is a wonderful time as such a small town has little nocturnal activity and the town is just waking up around then, treating the early morning tourist to carless roads which lend to an amazing quiet ambiance.

After packing up my tent and gear I wrote out my sign for Mt Cook while still in the hostel and was quickly approached by a young Swiss couple offering me a ride for in the same direction. No money was asked and I gladly threw my gear in the back of their tiny car (already heavily laden with gear) and climbed in with it. If I thought nothing could beat the ride through the mountains to Lake Tekapo, I was delightfully surprised by the ride to Mt Cook. For the last 30km on the ride to Mt Cook, you drive alongside the glacial Lake Pukaki where you gaze in awe at Mt Cook which looms at the end of the lake, overshadowing any surrounding peak as it stands the tallest mountain in New Zealand at 3755m. Arriving in the town of Mt Cook or Aoraki (Maori name), you are surrounded by mountains and overwhelmed by the enormity of the scenery. Taking it easy on my tender ankle, I checked into the only hostel in the town (a YHA) at $30/night since no camping was allowed, and enjoyed some time with my feet up. Feeling a little too lazy, I got out and visited the Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Centre in the Hermitage Hotel/Resort. A national icon, Sir Hillary was the first man in the world to summit Mt Everest, and this along with his later philanthropic work in the Himalayas has made him a source of great national pride (even getting his face on NZ money!). The centre presents the history the area, its exploration and settlement by New Zealanders, and its Maori history and cultural significance. Remember when I was disappointed in Cardiff because the so called Welsh Museum failed to present a distinct reason why Wales is any different from the rest of the UK? That’s not something I expect to run into here.

Another of the Edmund Hillary Centre’s attractions is its planetarium, offering an intense glimpse into the universe’s wonders and mysteries. Seated all the way back in your chair and looking up into the spherical screen, the show feels 3D and their programming gives wonderful insight

into the stars in the sky, the phenomena of black holes and other astronomical delights. I thoroughly enjoyed the shows, but sitting and watching intense shows works up an appetite and I went to the overpriced but luxurious Old Mountaineer Restaurant for a meal deal from YHA, $30 for an appetiser and main with a glass of beer. It was tasty and thoroughly enjoyed, although the price tag was still a little hefty, just one of the consequences of eating out in a town with two restaurants and under 50 permanent residents. Later in the evening I took a casual two hour round trip walk to Kea Point where I enjoyed the views toward Mt Cook and the nearby glaciers. I found a lovely spot I wished to camp at and decided on asking the Department of Conservation (DOC) the next day about camping there. As the evening wore on I spoke with some of my international roommates before enjoying a solid night of comfortable sleep in what would turn out to be my last real bed for over two weeks.

Across the Tasman Sea

2010-01-31T08:16:00.001-04:00

Sorry about the lack of photos, I just wasn’t feeling all that inspired to take many photos around this time…

Farewell to Australia (for now) and hello to New Zealand; land of Kiwis (and kiwis), friendly smiles and sheep...lots and lots of sheep (48 million in fact). I will be in New Zealand from the 8^th of January to the 1^st of March when I will fly from Auckland back to Sydney for the rest of my time in Australia. My flight New Zealand started from Melbourne Tullamarine airport at a highly civilised 5pm and landed at Christchurch International at an uncivilised 7am. I said my goodbyes to Jenny the night before as she had work in the early morning, and said bye to Paul on the way out the door around 2. I did a thorough sweep of the apartment to make sure I had not left anything, and away I went, catching the tram two blocks before getting the sinking feeling I had forgotten something. Now, some might find this funny (I certainly do), but as I rushed back to the apartment I couldn’t help but feel stupid up for leaving my towel somewhere yet again! I knew it was hopeless going back and indeed Paul had left for groceries, so this makes the second time I have lost a nice travel towel. Sighhhhhh. I hopped back on the tram to the rail station and caught the SkyBus to the airport on the return ticket I had purchased on arrival. The first real snag was upon check in at the airport.

A moment to discuss New Zealand visa regulations: A Canadian traveller need not apply for a visa in New Zealand unless travelling with the intent to work or stay longer than three months. A quick search of visa websites will confirm this, but make no mention of the need for a ticket out of the country. This might be obvious to some, and indeed in retrospect it seems obvious to me, but unless you are travelling under a paid visa (eg. working holiday or long stay visa) you must have proof of a ticket out of the country. I suppose after being spoiled by Europe where the continental nature means you could exit the Shengen area any number of ways, I forgot about the possibility. The lady serving me at the Air New Zealand check in counter told me that the number of people who forget or do not know this stipulation is very high, and it is quite common for her to refer a customer to the ticket sales kiosk before allowing them to check in. Fortunately, to save money I had already booked my ticket out of New Zealand with Air New Zealand and only had to run to an internet kiosk nearby to get the booking number for her to print out a ticket. Now everyone can learn from my mistake and be prepared!

Having gone the cheap route, my flight first took me to Wellington with an overnight stopover before continuing to Christchurch. Cheap or not, flying Air New Zealand was an absolute delight. By far my favourite airline thus far, the cheerful tone is first set by a friendly welcoming and with a preflight safety video featuring naked flight attendants, their uniforms body-painted on. Safety objects and seating are used to obscure any unmentionables, but for the first time I have ever witnessed, everyone on board actually paid full attention to the video; men no doubt checking out the hot flight attendants, women surely keeping an eye on the buff pilot wearing nothing but paint. It’s more than a safety video; it’s an advertising campaign for which the company is very proud, using television commercials to promote their dedication to safety. Whether they’re promoting safety or not, I think there are more than a few guys who will be flying Air New Zealand again! The landing was extremely turbulent, jumping and plummeting like a rollercoaster for 20 minutes before landing. Passengers on board were clearly worried and I saw more than a few faces buried in hands or partner’s arms, but would you be worried if I said I sort of enjoyed it? I paid good money for a flight, might as well get some entertainment in there as well! Think of it as a free rollercoaster ride with your ticket. The plane touched down very softly – especially considering how rough the approach was – and there was a universal sigh of relief, just short of a round of applause for the pilot. Disembarking, I had the chance to speak with the pilot who admitted that Wellington is the only city he has ever landed in which is windier than Chicago (famed as ‘the windy city’). After a thorough but polite visit through customs, I had the lovely prospect of seven hours in the airport – hopefully. See, Wellington is not a large airport and the terminal closes after the last flight. I spoke to an airline representative just before customs about staying in the airport overnight and quietly, almost in a whisper, she told me to “speak to one of the men in orange vests at baggage claim”. Feeling all of a sudden very clandestine, I approached one of these orange clad men and in a similar near whisper said to him, “I was told to speak to a man in an orange vest about staying in the airport overnight.” He studied me carefully, looking me head to toe before replying in a hushed tone, “Which airline are you flying with tomorrow morning?” I told him Air New Zealand, and with one last evaluating glare, he told me simply, “follow me.” So I did, with my bag in a cart he lead me to the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. “Outside the elevator, turn left then go straight ahead until you come to a lounge area. You can wait there overnight, but you are not to leave that area. Understood?” I nodded eagerly in agreement and rode the elevator up a floor alone. Following his direction I came to the aforementioned lounge area finding a dozen travellers apparently in the same situation as me. Welcome to the Wellington Overnight Club! Well, not quite a club, we are the special few who apparently rode the right airline and have the privilege of occupying a cafe bench for a night of sleep or boredom. Frankly, I did feel special. I hung out with an Aussie mother with her two daughters making small talk as the night became morning, and enjoyed watching the airport come alive around 6am. Did I say enjoying? Whoops, I meant to say enduring. A night of no sleep means a grumpy David, but effortlessly checking into the next flight and sitting through the amusing pre-flight video put me in a humorous mood. The flight was uneventful (as all good flights should be) and I was soon in Christchurch. I took a local bus into the city and a very friendly driver helped me get off at exactly the right stop for my hostel. Ahhh; my first experience with a regular, working Kiwi. Yes; Kiwis refer to themselves as Kiwis, and yes, they are proud of it. This Kiwi always had a smile and greeted every rider with a friendly greeting; from the first minute, I was hooked on New Zealand. The Dorset House hostel was a great pick, the only hostel in Christchurch featuring free WiFi, and situated in a lovely old building. Of course if I thought Australia redefined my concept of “old”, I was in for a shock with New Zealand. While cities like Christchurch feature a good amount of the Victorian architecture popular in the mid to late 1800’s, the rest of the country has little in the way of old architecture.

After a phone call home to check in and assure everyone my plane had not crashed, I set about exploring the city and searching for a towel. The city of Christchurch is flat...no kidding, the tallest building might be five storeys, and it stands out like a sore thumb. One thing the city has in abundance is land, and as such the city has sprawled out rather than building up. Never before have I seen a city of over 300,000 look so dead, but wandering the streets of Christchurch one is left wondering where all the people went. There is the usual mix of backpackers and tourists to whom I would grow accustomed to over the next month, but locals seemed few and far between. Here I also had my first run in with the South Pacific brand of backpacker, and here I would learn to wish they didn’t exist. In Europe most backpackers are the practical ‘take a year off from school and work to sightsee and learn about the world before getting back to real life’ type. New Zealand and Australia attract a different type of backpacker, more the ‘I hate life because I’m so much more individualistic than anyone else so I’m going to run away from everything and just bum around the world because life can’t catch up to me as long as I have my shitty old van and guitar kum-by-ah’ type (try saying that 10 times, fast). I could rant on all day about how much I dislike so many of these people, but I will save you. For a personal rant, feel free to contact me, I love to rant about this particular brand of backpackers. Finding a towel at one of the city’s many outdoor stores, I returned to the hostel and crashed, sleeping through the evening. I woke around 10 and scrounged around in the free food bin, making myself some rice with tuna before returning to bed and passing out again.

I spent the 9^th exploring the lovely city of Christchurch from corner to corner. Oh wait...no I didn’t; I spent the day being a lazy bum. I ventured out into the city, and quickly returned to the hostel to laze around somewhere else. Christchurch is a pretty city with a lovely city centre, but it is mostly a point of entry for New Zealand and lacks much of a tourist scene. The city is best characterised by the English architecture and design which speaks strongly to its founding as a most English of cities in the late 1800’s. And indeed in a time when Australia was a penal colony only suitable for those who are tough enough to brave the rugged outback and those who didn’t have a choice, New Zealand was the civilised ‘England away from England’ many sought. A model of the perfect Victorian town, Christchurch was founded and advertised to settlers as the England of the Southern Hemisphere. To this day Christchurch is a quiet and conservative city which peacefully goes about its business, only asking that visitors follow suit with its upright and proper atmosphere. There are attractions in the city and one can spend a lovely day punting on the River Avon in front of City Hall and through the numerous, well maintained green spaces or enjoy a refined lunch before visiting the Canterbury Museum and the neighbouring Botanical Gardens. Christchurch really is though, a haven of civility in a country swarming with bumming backpackers and voracious party animals. I took in the Canterbury Museum (named for the province of Canterbury in which Christchurch resides) which has a detailed and well presented history of the local area and Maori and European settlement, before grabbing a humongous burger at a burger joint.

The following day was more of the same. I briefly enjoyed the Art Centre Market, exploring the handmade items from local Christchurchers and enjoying the local rendition of the Doner Kebap. I wandered out of the city centre to the Pak’n’Save – New Zealand’s discount supermarket – and stocked up on One Square Meal Bars (more on these in another blog post) and other high energy, low size food before another lazy night at the hostel. I scavenged through the free food bin and enjoyed a lovely curry on rice. Fortunately I was spared cohabitation with the aforementioned annoying backpackers, but instead dealt with 20 or so spiritual wanderers. A conference was held in Christchurch during my visit, an interfaith emporium on the magic of meditation. Nothing against meditation, I believe it is a wonderful way for one to get in touch with themselves and their spirituality, but their conference literally involved over 1500 people (from all over the world) simultaneously meditating, “sending each other strong spiritual vibes and exploring other’s inner soul.” I won’t judge, if this sort of thing helps people to learn and explore their personal spirituality, that’s cool, but it sounds like a pretty convenient excuse to claim time off work for “religious reasons” while visiting a conference with an official timeline of two weeks while actual meetings were scheduled for three days.

Christchurch is a very proper city, certainly not the kind to which one pilgrimages for the outrageous nightlife. It was a very quiet and gentle introduction to New Zealand and while there wasn’t a heck of a lot to do, I enjoyed the comfortable bed and chill atmosphere in which to recover from a crappy flight schedule. I don’t imagine it would be an exciting city to live in, but it is the type of city where one could easily balance amenities and events with a quiet and peaceful atmosphere. I will find myself passing through Christchurch again but there aren’t too many reasons to stay any length of time. It is the type of city one can easily see in a couple days with lots of room to spare. Of course, New Zealand isn’t a country you visit for the cities; you visit for the breathtaking scenery and landscapes.

Note to reader: this would make the blog post with the least photos so far! What can I say; losing towels, visa regulations, airplane travel and waiting overnight in terminals is boring…

When in Melbourne…Relax!

2010-01-23T00:04:00.001-04:00

Back to Melbourne, and back to the summer vacation routine. Noooo, not sightseeing; lazing around! I took the opportunity on the 4^th to buy a tent and some other assorted supplies for my upcoming trip to New Zealand. I purchased from a surplus store called Aussie Disposals that specialises in military surplus and cheap camping supplies. For $80AUD I got a small one man tent with a fully waterproof fly and floor, weighing only 1.6kg. It’s no professional hiker’s tent and the materials are not quite top of the line, but if it lasts me two months in New Zealand, that’s all I can ask of it. I hope to resell it before I come home for at least $10-20, but after almost two months of sleeping in it (I hope) it will have more than paid for itself.

As if it were possible to do less than I did on the 4^th, I managed it on the 5^th, and if I recall correctly, I didn’t even leave the apartment. Gosh, I do love vacation!

The 6^th was my last day in Melbourne and my last day for a couple months in Australia, so I decided to be the good tourist and do some sightseeing. What to see...what to see... Ah yes, St Kilda! An area as famous for its beaches as it is for its posh, laid back residents, St Kilda is the beach haven of Melbourne. I borrowed Jenny’s bike for the day and biked 8 kilometres south and voila; white sands and blue water as far as the eye can see! The area of St Kilda is built up with trendy pubs and restaurants, a mecca for backpackers and everyone looking to chill out. The beach front itself stretches on and on, and is best seen by bike from which one can appreciate every bit of the waterfront scenery. I worked up quite an appetite biking an hour down the coast’s well developed bike trails, then biked back with the assistance of the wind at my back for a tasty early afternoon meal. I chose a popular beachfront restaurant (nameless because it was pretty average and thus I forget) and enjoyed their lunchtime special; $25AUD for an entree (I chose mussels in chilli sauce), a main (lamb chops and veg with potato), and a glass of beer. Yummy! Refuelled, I enjoyed a relaxed bike ride back to Melbourne. Once Jenny was off work we left the apartment for the Queen Victoria Market night market. Not really sure what to expect, I was delightfully surprised by the hodgepodge of aromas emanating from the food area and the wonderful assortment of crafts and wares available for sale. Unfortunately, hundreds of others were similarly impressed and the tents were absolutely packed, lines for food extending to 10m and beyond and crowds almost impenetrable. Fortunately, Jenny and I are both skilled crowd-breakers and we navigated our way through the throngs to have a gander at the crafts before deciding on African cuisine for supper. Our sampler plates were accompanied by a refreshingly cool, iced sangria and followed by a delicious Nutella and banana crepe for dessert. I'm glad I got the chance to explore the night market, but I was happier I got the chance to hang out with my sister; something I don't get to do often enough. Definitely a great way to spend my last night in Melbourne.

All said and done, my stay in Melbourne was a sanity saver. I was able to kick back and relax for a couple of weeks, letting someone else do the planning for any trips. The trips themselves were great and a wonderful sightseeing experience on the south east coast of Australia. Relaxing was far easier staying with family, and the relief of not having to worry about locking up my gear was as welcomed as the comfy bed. Most importantly, I was able to spend Christmas with my family, and while I had to take miss on the at-home Christmas traditions, it was far better than Christmas in a hostel. Eight months alone is a fine amount of time to travel, but after a while the solitary nature of it gets to you. Staying in hostels, you virtually have to be a hermit to not meet people, but these are temporary acquaintances. Occasionally you stay in touch and perhaps even meet again – as I did with Shimrit – but in most cases, these are people I will never see again in my life. You quickly realise that adding everyone you meet on Facebook is impractical, to the point where you can pick out the new traveller by whether they tell you to add them on Facebook (I was there for the first couple of weeks, you meet someone new and hey; ‘add me to Facebook!’). Staying with family is the perfect break from this marathon of temporary acquaintances. Even relaxing and doing nothing, I was perfectly content in Melbourne.

Melbourne itself is a city I quickly grew to like. From my first moments in the city walking to my sister’s apartment, to my short trip to St Kilda, I enjoyed every minute of my time there. I’m sure my experience with the city is coloured by the enjoyable stay with Jenny and Paul, but on its own merits Melbourne is a city that impresses. By day, Melbourne is a lively city with plenty facilities for tourists. From its free tourist bus to the free city circle tram, transportation is cheap and easy. I think I’ve started to base my ‘sightseeing’ standards on what I saw in Europe, and by those standards, Melbourne doesn’t have a lot to offer. But a 175 year old city can’t have a Colosseum, a Tower Bridge, or a Blarney stone and as a tourist I have to change my mind set for the next four months, enjoying a different kind of scenery in countries that aren’t even as old as my own. But Melbourne knows that they don’t have the long history of Europe, and they have created their own brand of sights for seeing. Melbourne has a large portion of the old architecture in Australia and proudly displays its short history in stone. A wide variety of ways to relax are on offer, many entirely for free. The city has a facade of seriousness, its Central Business District home to many impressive skyscrapers and important businesses in the Australian economy; but at heart, Melbourne is a laid back city. Dotted with parks and recreational areas, family time is enjoyed to the max outdoors with free public BBQ’s and plenty of space to play a game of soccer (they call it that here) or Frisbee. Melbourne is subject to cold winters (by Aussie standards at least) and the locals appreciate a warm weekend, taking full advantage of these awesome public facilities. This is just the Aussie way of life and they are surprised to learn there is any other kind of attitude. Any visitor to Melbourne should soak up some of the history, go to the Melbourne Museum (I didn’t, but I hear it’s worth it if you have the spare time), take the free tourist bus; but most importantly, relax. See Melbourne like the locals do, with a cool drink in a sunny park on a warm day.

A Temporary Lapse in Laziness

2010-01-22T23:41:00.001-04:00

January 1^st, 2010; it was the start of a new year and the start of a new journey. This was a trip Jenny and I had been discussing for a while, and she planned quite a voyage for the three of us down the Great Ocean Road, a coastal route to the west of Melbourne. Soldiers returning from The Great War faced the prospects of an economy with few jobs for them, so to keep busy they were put to work building a road which would follow the many curves of the coast for a couple hundred kilometres, occasionally going inland for a different kind of scenery. The scenery is phenomenal and hugely popular, taken in by thousands of tourists daily. Kilometre after kilometre of spectacular views awaits for over 200km.

Stopping in the town of Apollo Bay, we enjoyed a quick fish and chips supper before going to learn horseback riding. Opting for a 2.5 hour ride, we were kitted up with old boots and smelly helmets before meeting our 16 year old instructor, Will, and meeting our horses. First off, I know 21 isn’t all that old (my age, in case you forgot...) and I still feel quite young a lot of the time; but when I am being taught to ride horses by someone five years my junior...yes, I feel old. I was introduced to Sylvester, an independently minded horse quite used to being ridden by instructors. He tolerated my initial jitters and lack of confidence and with the help of Will, I quickly became confident in my ability to stay on, steer and give speed instructions. Jenny and Paul seemed to be doing quite well, although Jenny’s horse did two of the three necessary actions of life whenever the opportunity presented itself (or made its own opportunities) and Paul’s horse was quite indecisive about speed. The three of us were soon able to trot with some confidence and Will introduced us to the speedy canter. A few minor chaffing injuries aside, the ride went well and was an excellent experience, my first time riding a horse! We all did our own renditions of the cowboy walk (unintentionally) back to the car and tenderly sat down; horseback riding is something you get used to over time. We checked into the simple but clean Great Ocean View Motel in Apollo Bay for a highly anticipated night of sleep.

The 2^nd was a day for sightseeing and we made the most of it, driving to the end of the famous road. The road has frequent pull off areas for sightseeing, each with its own magnificent view. We visited such misnamed sights as the 12 Apostles (rock structures just off the coast, and no, there are not 12 of them) and London Bridge (a formerly dual arched rock structure which collapsed earlier this year, leaving only one arch). We tried to spot a ship wreck in Loch Ard Gorge, named for the ship which crashed there over a hundred years ago (we were unsuccessful, and I believe the ship itself is long gone, smashed to pieces on the rocks). We took a trip down a side road and spotted at least 20 koala bears in the wild, getting as close as 2m to one which was happily munching away on eucalyptus. It was a wonderfully relaxing day filled with gorgeous scenery and scenic drives, but after a full day of sightseeing, bed back at the Ocean View Motel was the most welcome kind of attraction.

On the 3^rd we drove back to Melbourne taking our time to do some hikes through the forest, having mostly recovered from the horseback riding. In this part of Australia, you can park in the middle of a eucalypt forest, walk five minutes and suddenly find yourself in a hot and humid rainforest. Trekking through the rainforest, your ears are treated to many foreign sounds of animals heard but not seen and your nose is gently assaulted by the smell of dead flora decomposing on the moist forest floor. The rainforest holds many scenic delights; waterfalls, great fern forests and streams are just a few of the things we admired on our hike. Getting late, we continued our drive back to Melbourne in time for Jenny to go to work that evening (what a trooper she is!). The roads are twisty-turny, but well maintained and a pleasure to be a passenger on. Paul expertly navigated the car despite the cliff edge roads, erratic tourists trying to sightsee and drive simultaneously, and managed to stay positive through the whole experience. Serious kudos to Paul for that one!

The Great Ocean Road is frequented by hundreds of busses loaded with tourists, and if you intend on seeing sights like the 12 Apostles, be prepared to battle your way through great tourist hoards. Locations like the rainforest walk are less popular and far more solitary, but regardless of the presence of other tourists (as much as I would like to deny it, I’m just another tourist) all of the sights hold their own allure. There’s a reason thousands of tourists travel the road daily and the feast for all five senses is guaranteed to leave awestruck. Yes, there are annoyances; but past the crowds, price gouging, erratic drivers and tourist traps is one of the world’s must do drives – and it’s a must for a reason.

Life is Good Down Under

2010-01-15T08:12:00.001-04:00

Ahhhh, life down under... It doesn’t get much better than this. Warm weather and lots of sun are only made better by a people who seriously know how to kick it back and relax. Of course by the time I came back to consciousness after my long slumber, it was Christmas Eve and there was lots to do! Actually, there was nothing to do which was quite to my liking. Definitely not feeling quite in sync with the local schedule, I desired nothing more than a good relaxing day. After getting some groceries, we did just that with a short break to go to a Christmas Eve carol and children service at a small Anglican church. The service was an interesting mix of Anglican tradition and story/song to keep the kids interested. The priest was friendly and welcoming to all, and it felt good to keep at least one tradition from Christmas at home; although regardless of how friendly the priest, it still wasn’t Grace. I went to bed that night quite happy that while the family may be separate for Christmas this year, the three of us had made our own little family and kept some Foster traditions alive.

Christmas morning!!! Of course, they’re a little different these years from when I was young and couldn’t wait to wake everyone up at some ungodly hour. We woke at a civilised hour and opened presents as we had breakfast. I honestly was not expecting anything except the deposit in my account mom had told me would be my Christmas present. But mom being mom, she had mailed a small parcel in advance for me, and Jenny contributed with a stocking and some other gifts. Completely unexpected, but gave me a nice feeling for sure. I certainly have a thoughtful family. The rest of the day we spent watching classic Christmas movies (A Christmas Story, Charlie Brown’s Christmas and others) while Jenny laboured over supper. It was a labour of love, and at supper time she was beaming as we admired the magnificent spread on the table. Recipes from mom in hand, she had made a wonderful Christmas dinner; I was happier than ever for not being in a hostel over Christmas. It was an uneventful day, just the way Christmas is supposed to be, and I loved it.

Boxing Day was a different story. Jenny had heard that the cricket Boxing Day Test Match was quite the Australian tradition, so we decided to watch Australia take on Pakistan in the first of five matches at the Melbourne Cricket Grounds. Of course, cricket is not all that big back home so I wasn’t sure what to expect, maybe something like baseball. If you watch the highlight reels or advertisements on Australian TV it seems like quite an exciting game with lots of running, crazed fans body painted on every inch of legally displayable skin, and tons of cheering. Cricket is SO not that exciting. In fact, cricket is one of the most boring sports I have ever witnessed (with the exception of golf; that was never meant to be a spectator sport). On the field there is the occasional moment of action, but with a vague understanding of the rules, it was a tad confusing and there didn’t seem to be anything remotely exciting about it. Fine, like the commercials show, it’s the action in the stands that make it exciting, right? No...not quite. The fans here are quite sedate, clapping politely when the opposing team made a good catch, and even in the ‘crazy’ section where all the body paint was, the festivities were limited to a rather un-insane wave. We stayed for two hours of the match which continued who knows how long, and set about exploring some of the city. Jenny had seen a lot of it already of course, but she seemed enthusiastic to show me some of the city she called home for the past year, and I was happy to be shown around, taking in the sights of a city which was growing on me by the minute. We walked to the sombre Shrine of Remembrance for the Australian soldiers who fought and died in WWI and conflicts since; to the stunning Royal Botanical Gardens in the height of its glory in the beginning of summer; through the busy Central Business District, and back to her apartment. She went to work for the night and I sat around and was lazy. Being lazy was excellent.

On the 28^th, Jenny and Paul had planned a trip to Phillip Island to see the Koala Conservation Centre and the nightly Penguin Parade amongst other stunning sights. Collecting a rental car, we set out on our day trip driving south east of Melbourne, eventually making it to Phillip Island which conveniently has a causeway attaching it to the mainland. This was my first exposure to the Australian coast and it was as stunning as I had imagined it might be. We made it to the Koala Conservation Centre and did a walk through the forest, coming face to face with koalas. Talk about cute! And when you think they don’t get any cuter, you see a young one! I’m not 100% sure why there is a Koala Conservation Centre as the population isn’t endangered at all, the populations very healthy in the wild. While the conservation status differs by Australian state, the national population is healthy and the federal government has them listed as non endangered, but it is noted that a close eye should be kept to make sure the population stays that way. In a little twist, the USA government has the koala listed as a threatened species – right, because they would know better than the country that actually has them. The Koala spends 16-18 hours of the day sleeping, and the rest eating. They eat half a kilogram of eucalyptus leaf a day, obtaining approximately the calories from one bowl of non sugar breakfast cereal and due to a slow metabolism, the eucalyptus they eat today will come out the other end in 20 days. Sloth aside, they are unbelievably cute and the urge to take one home is difficult to fight off. Unfortunately, koalas don’t like being handled and will scratch and bite if you try to touch it. Oh, and it is protected from handling by Australian law as well... From the conservation centre we went to the famous Philip Island Penguin Parade. Blue penguins (or small penguins) are another un-endangered species that is under protection by Australian law. They are also almost as cute as koala bears, although only from afar watching them waddle, not so much up close. Reaching an average of 14” tall, they are the smallest of the penguins and live only in Australia and New Zealand. Here you pay to sit in bleacher like seating to watch them as they come out of the ocean after a day of fishing. They come out of the water in small groups, checking the beach for danger, proceeding cautiously if none is apparent, retreating quickly if they spot anything that spooks them. Oddly, the presence of around 1000 tourists on bleachers does not bother them but that’s because they are keeping an eye out for aerial predators. The presence of sea gulls doesn’t bother them either, as the gulls suspiciously eye them waddling by. The second a gull takes flight however, every penguin on the beach simultaneously flees back to the safety of the water. The gulls do not pose a risk themselves, but the smart little penguins aren’t taking chances. After watching this incredibly cute display for over half an hour, you get the chance to walk the boardwalks through the park and watch the penguins return to their nests. As with all species of penguins, they are monogamous and nest with only one mate unless their mate dies. Once they are in the safety of the grass, they make their specific call which their mate hears and returns, helping them to find their way back to the nest. When they reach the nest (it could be either the male or female who spent the day way fishing) they preen each other briefly in a fantastic display of partnership and then return to the nest where earlier in the season they would have had an egg or chick. The sound as you walk down the boardwalk is amazing, the calls of hundreds of penguins around you searching for their mates. Still, the penguins are not bothered by the presence of hundreds of humans on boardwalks just above the sand and fearlessly scurry under the boardwalk to find their way home. Unfortunately because a good number of people don’t know how to disable the flash on their cameras, the safest policy is to forbid any photos at all, and a camera out of its pouch will get you a warning from the constantly patrolling park staff. Thus, I have no photos of the wonderful event, but I hope I will get another chance to catch penguins in the wild where I can go shutter happy and take millions of photos to share with you like I did with the koala photos – although we both know you love the cute photos...

Now around 10:30, we departed for the city, stopping for supper on the way (see mom, they weren’t feeding me well!) and arriving back at the apartment around midnight. I enjoyed crawling into bed after a long day, and I’m sure we all dreamt of cute animals all night long; talk about cute overdose in one day!

The 29^th I had a dental appointment to take care of a little problem which is unfortunately still unresolved, but seemed alright at the time. Afterwards, Paul and I took a run to the store for groceries and I got the stuff to make my not so famous spaghetti. I enjoyed an afternoon on their covered balcony (the benefit of warm air without the harsh sun) while doing some blog writing before making supper. My spaghetti was generally enjoyed all around, and I think I got the thumbs up from Jenny and Paul. The 30^th I spent doing absolutely nothing except more writing and lazing around before joining Jenny and some of her colleagues at a wonderful dessert shop around 9PM. Brunetti’s is a chocoholic’s fantasy land. Making all variety of gourmet dessert, at least a hundred varieties of sweets from truffles to cake, liquorice to fancy puddings, it’s one of those difficult decisions in life. It brings a whole new meaning to “kid in a candy shop”. Again I did absolutely nothing on the 31^st but laze around (it’s amazing I didn’t catch up on my blog!) and it was terrific. I spent almost four months speeding around Europe and taking in as much as possible with occasional breaks and down time; but in general it was a busy period. Relaxing in the warm weather was fantastic, and it was so perfectly timed in the middle of my trip.

Of course the 31^st was New Years and you can’t not celebrate such an occasion! In Australia, Christmas is a quiet holiday for close family, whereas New Years is an insane holiday for many friends to get together and have an wickedly good time. We enjoyed a quiet time in the apartment watching movies and sipping champagne which was popped before midnight (sorry to all you traditionalists). Small as our party was, there wouldn’t be much in the way of post midnight celebration so we sipped champagne waiting for the New Year to officially be upon us; 15 hours before everyone back in Atlantic Canada. Consider this: not only was it a different day for me than everyone back home (which it still is for seven hours every day since I’m now on New Zealand time), but for 15 hours, it was a different year for me than everyone back home. Now if that doesn’t blow your mind, I don’t know what will! When 2010 finally did come, we finished the movie and went to bed. It might have been anticlimactic, but we had exciting things to do the next day!

10 Things I Hate About Flying

2010-01-15T08:08:00.001-04:00

On the morning of the 21^st, I readied myself for the long trip to Melbourne from Frankfurt. With a quick train ride to the airport, I was in the impressively large –and somewhat confusing – Frankfurt airport, second busiest in Europe (after Heathrow). I was flying Air China all the way to Sydney via Beijing, a trip that would depart at 4PM on the 21^st in Germany, and arrive in the early morning on the 23^rd in Sydney. From Sydney I would catch a 1.5 hour flight with Tiger Airways to Melbourne after a five hour wait in the terminal; 23 hours in air, 13 hours on the ground in Beijing and Sydney. The flight to Sydney was a cheap $740CAD because I booked so early, back in the middle of September. The same flights with Air China were going for around $1600 at the time of my flight, especially as the British Airways workers strike scare made any flight in and out of Europe skyrocket in cost. Booking is usually a case of which is cheapest, and I am usually willing to take any flight, regardless of stopovers and departure time. But in this case, it was a serious decision because of the length of the flight. Air China was cheapest by around $350, the next cheapest being Emirates Airlines, famous for its luxurious in-flight comforts. The big question; could I justify $350 extra for some more comfort? In the end it came down to budget and I decided that no, I couldn’t justify the extra expense. While we boarded our A330 nearly on time, the flight didn’t actually leave the terminal for an hour as we had to wait for a de-icing crew to come along and spray the wings to make sure we were ice free. Frozen Frankfurt was not used to this kind of cold so early in the year and the de-icing crews were lagging severely behind schedule. That was alright with me, because I only had to wait in Beijing either way. Finally getting off the ground, I discovered my seat back entertainment system was not working, and despite the number of attempts by the stewardesses to mash buttons until it worked, it remained broken. This was fine until I discovered that the seat back remote also controlled the overhead light, I was irritated by that and again asked the stewardesses if there was anything that could be done about it. She asked the man in front of me who was alternating between sleeping and movie watching if he would switch with me. He looked a bit confused, but said it was alright (I assume, but the exchange was in Chinese so I can’t be sure what was really said). It was not alright with me however. It’s a luck of the draw sort of thing; I got the bum luck and I would have to suffer through with it. To compensate, after the dinners had been served and garbage was being collected, I asked the stewardess (wait...is that even the politically correct term anymore...?) if there were any more dinners remaining. Slightly confused but ever perky, she said she would get me one right away! It didn’t quite compensate for the malfunctioning electronics system, but it was a start.

Landing in Beijing was quite an experience, and even though I would not actually step onto Chinese soil, I had to go through all the standard medical and customs checks. I signed a medical declaration stating I was not sick in any way, walked past a thermal camera to detect persons with a fever, and my hand luggage was again put through an X-Ray. All these checks complete, it was just me and the terminal for the next seven hours. In Beijing Capital Airport (Peking) Terminal 3, I was in the newest terminal in China, created specifically for the Olympics. It seems however that the 2008 Olympics were the last serious use it saw. Maybe the terminal was built with expansion of services in mind, but in the 8 hours displayed on the departures/arrivals board, 10 flights departed and 7 arrived. Even Halifax International handles more traffic than that! But please, don’t take my word for it, consider the size of the terminal; I was departing from gate 62. Luckily wireless was free in the terminal and while it was late back home, I got a call to my family in to update them and was able to browse the internet to alleviate my boredom. I tried blog writing but my tired state would not allow it, every time I had a solid train of thought, fatigue would come in like an avalanche and destroy it. I gave up and sought food. I discovered that the terminal only dealt in Chinese Yuan, not Euros, American, Canadian, nothing. I could have used my credit card but remembered I had given MasterCard a list of countries I would be visiting, and China was not one of them. If I used my card the transaction would probably be declined and my card blocked until I could call them. So I sought a money converter. It turned out that the commission fee for conversion was around €5, and the food itself was around €10. It didn’t seem worth it at all, so I decided I would be tired, restless, and hungry for the remaining time in the terminal. I amused myself walking around the terminal trying to spot funny examples of Engrish (Chinese badly translated into English) and seeing how ludicrously priced items were in the duty free shops. Then I went back to the internet. Then to the gate threee hours early. Then back to the shops. Back to the food shops to drool over the delightful smells. My restlessness was driving me crazy. The one saving grace was that I did not have to deal with my backpack, it was in the safe (hopefully) hands of the airline and I wouldn’t have to look at it for another 14 hours. Finally it was time to board, and I discovered that all 200 and some passengers on the flight would board the plane on the tarmac after transportation there by bus. In typical Asian fashion the bus was packed far beyond capacity and as the driver sped around turns it most definitely felt like the bus was going to topple (to clarify, I’m not racist, but who hasn’t see the videos of train conductors shoulder checking as many people onto a train as it can possibly hold?). What a situation that would have been! We boarded uneventfully, departed, and I was on the 12 hour flight leg of my trip.

This time the entertainment worked, but because of my fatigue I actually managed to sleep around 4 hours – sleeping on planes is usually hard for me because of the noise, the babies, the general feeling I get being in a seat for x number of hours at 35,000ft, etc. I tried my luck again with the asking for a second dinner, and wouldn’t you know it, it worked! I’ve caught onto something, and I’m going to try it every time! Sorry to anyone I ever travel with in the future, I’m sure it will be embarrassing for you but what can I say, I like free food! Another country to land in, another customs form, and on this flight I was introduced to the disinfecting spray routine. By Australian law, every international arrival must be ‘disinfected’ to prevent arrival of disease and fire and brimstone. They announced that babies’ mouths and noses should be covered with cloth during the procedure, and tissues would be provided for adults. It was ‘strongly recommended’ that everyone cover their mouths and noses during the process. They had me thinking it was the end of the freakin world! As it turns out, it really just means two stewards walk down the length of the plane – one in each isle – each with a can of Glade of Fabreeze spraying the whole way they go. ‘This is it!?’ I’m thinking... And it really was. Sigh. FEAR AND INTIMIDATION! BE AFRAID!!! Australia had relatively light customs procedures, I was hardly questioned (nothing like I was in London that’s for sure), and moved through quite quickly, although a dog and dog handler were in the baggage claims area sniffing around for drugs; the dog that is... After catching the $7(!!!) bus between terminals, I was informed by Tiger Airways staff that check in would not commence until two hours before departure, and I was stuck in the check in area until then with no internet, and no reasonably priced food (three hours...sighhhhh). After the unbearable three hour wait, I was the first in line to check in, got through security quickly and got a Subway sub. I found relatively cheap internet and Skype called home, catching everyone in the middle of the Christmas party at my house. The laptop I had called to was passed around and I was reminded of the fun I was missing out on. Whatever, it was negative something ridiculous degrees there, and it was a sunny 25 in Sydney. The flight to Melbourne was uneventful and short. We landed on the tarmac and were nearly swept off our feet as we exited the plane into the 30 degree heat. I caught the SkyBus service – paying for a round trip ticket for my departure from Melbourne just over two weeks later – and took their free hotel transfer service to a hotel close to my sister’s apartment where I would be staying with her and her fiancé (another future sibling in the family, yay!) until a week into January. Arriving at her house at around 4:30 was an amazing feeling, both seeing my sister whom I have not seen for a year, and seeing a bed that was mine for the next couple weeks. It was exciting, and as she went to work for the night shift I was left in a dumb, tired stupor to be somewhere permanently for the next short while, especially for Christmas. I told myself that in the interests of establishing a regular sleep schedule as quickly as possible, I would hold off on sleep until 10PM, but nodding off on the couch, I went to bed at 6 and couldn’t have been happier. Things couldn’t get much better. I was in Australia; I was with family; I had a place to just be for a while. And it couldn’t have been timed better, because I was going to experience Christmas down under!

Frankfurt, Frankfurters, but no Hot Dogs

2010-01-14T07:07:00.001-04:00

This article has no photos of Frankfurt because well…Frankfurt was boring. So instead I’ve included some of my favourite photos from my time in Europe since this is my last stop. Hope you like them too!

Arriving on the 19^th in Munich on the overnight train from Florence, I immediately caught the next high speed train to Frankfurt. The relative comfort between DeutscheBahn fast trains and EuroCity overnight trains is indescribable; suffice it to say I fell asleep quickly on the fast train. The trip was just over an hour however, and woken by a ticket checker, I was disappointed the journey was so short and my nap couldn’t go on. I found my way through the bitter cold of Frankfurt to my hostel only a couple blocks from the station, and dumped my stuff, looking longingly at the bed. But now was not a time for sleeping, today was an exciting day, because for the first time in over three months I was going to see family! My brother (Brian) and his wife (Karen) were visiting Germany and the Czech Republic as a small vacation, preceding a conference they were attending in Cologne. I wasted time on the internet until noon and went to the Hauptbahnhof to meet them. Never before has it been so good to see family as that moment. We thought we would spend some time seeing the Christmas market which Frankfurt does like every other German city – well. Unfortunately as we wandered the streets, it quickly became apparent that Canadian or not, without proper winter gear we couldn’t take much of the negative 14 degree temperature. We decided on a cruise on the River Main (hence, Frankfurt am Main, sort of like Stratford upon Avon) as long as it was heated, and had some good German beer. We were informed that we were the first to arrive for the departure in an hour, and unless 15 guests showed, the cruise would not run. We went to a small cafe and grabbed hot chocolates, hoping that when we returned there would be the required number of guests. It was great catching up with my family, hearing some of their travel stories, happy to finally have some of my own to share. The hot chocolate did the trick and we left the cafe much warmer than we had entered it. As we headed to the boat launch I think we all were hoping it would run just so we could stay out of the cold, but satiate that deep tourist need to do at least some sightseeing. We came within a hairs width of not going, but because of a New Yorker who absolutely HAD to go on the cruise and was thus willing to pay double, we got the required 15 and set sail. Frankly (no pun intended), there is not a lot to see in Frankfurt. It is a big modern city, the centre of European banking, the founder of some great things (including house trance music, but that’s up to you whether it’s great or not), but especially in such cold weather, it’s a wasteland. The cruise was a great opportunity to get out of the cold and the three of us enjoyed the chance to talk in a warm room, with a cold beer, and at least some scenery going by. The occasional narration came over the loudspeaker, but for the most part we were left on our own to admire the ‘view’. When the tour came to an end, we decided it was time for supper and after some fruitless wandering, coming across nothing but overpriced eateries, we went to my hostel where Brian and Karen researched on wikitravel (works every time!) while I set up my dorm room. We ended up at an Ethiopian food place where a heavy curtain hangs forebodingly over the entrance. Inside is completely the opposite, where warmth and dark lighting set the mood for a welcoming and quiet ambiance. Adding to the relaxed ambiance was an interesting seating scheme, where the restaurant was divided into nooks for groups of 2-20 to hang out, usually sitting on cushions rather than chairs (although one ‘nook’ was a two wheeled wagon cart with an animal skin for cushioning). We quickly snatched up a tree fort, climbed the 8ft ladder, and enjoyed the overhead view of the whole restaurant. The food was traditional Ethiopian and we were delighted with our sampler tray, an assortment of six Ethiopian dishes from stewed spinach to lamb, all eaten in the typical manner using spongy bread to scoop up the delicious meal. We were advised to try the apple wine, and we ordered a litre expecting to share it amongst the three of us. As it turns out, apple wine is more like beer, and a litre translated into a litre for each of us, but considering the lightness of the elixir, it was a welcome treat to the palate (and for me at least, went miles in cooling my tongue after some of the spicier dishes). We hung out in our tree fort for a couple hours, enjoying the ambiance, apple wine, and good company. It was a great find and one of the best parts of my visit to Frankfurt. Regardless of venue though, the best part of Frankfurt was seeing Brian and Karen. While I was going to see my sister (Jenny in Melbourne) a few days later, it was a terrific finale to my trip in Europe.

I was stuck in Frankfurt on the 20^th, a day filled with the pain of anticipation before my big trip halfway around the world. I decided to shorten the day as much as possible and slept past noon (a welcome sleep after the sleepless night before) before even contemplating doing anything. When I finally got my travelling shoes on to tour the city, I was surprised to find the city blanketed in 15cm of snow with more piling up by the minute. I donned my warmest clothing, a scarf and toque, and braved the storm...for about 5 minutes. After enough snow for a snowman blew into my eyes, I called it quits and went back to the hostel to hang out for the afternoon. Frankfurt’s a boring city anyways, no point in trying to see any more right? I ventured out again only for dinner at a nice Chinese restaurant just down the street, but spent the rest of the day nice and cosy. This was my LAST day in Europe, and it was snowing. I guess the Northern Hemisphere was getting the last word on my departure from winter (which I have endured for the past 20 years), but I’m having the last laugh, sitting here in sunny New Zealand typing this in January on a cafe’s patio.

I suppose this is where I do a rough conclusion on the city I’ve been visiting...nope...can’t think of one. After Antwerp, I didn’t think I would ever again visit a city and see so little of it, but then came Frankfurt. I suppose by walking the main drag, doing the river cruise, and searching for restaurants I did see a good deal of it, but with my chin tucked in my jacket against the wind, hurrying from location to location, I didn’t actually take in very much. Maybe one day when I’m rich enough to buy a small country I’ll end up in Frankfurt on business, but that’s my impression of Frankfurt, a city of big business. Next stop...a little warmer. Actually, a lot warmer.

Those were just some of my favourite photos. There are more photos I am very happy with, but this post was too short to show them all. Remember, you can check out all my photos at: www.picasaweb.google.com/fosterd3 .
Feel free to leave comments and tell me which are your favourites!

David gets some traveling company

2010-01-14T04:43:00.001-04:00

Next on my journey, I was going to be joined by some company for a while, someone with whom to share the splendours of Italy. Shimrit is a gal I met in Hamburg, and after getting along well we decided to meet in Italy since we would be there at the same time anyway. I caught the high speed train from Rome to Milan where we met at the station, and continued on together by regional train to Torino (Turin in English, but I have noticed it being used interchangeably between languages). Torino hadn’t originally been on my itinerary, but then again, I was never really sure where I wanted to visit in Italy. We arrived in Torino to chilly weather, overcast skies, and moderate wind. Not a typical tourist destination, there wasn’t a heck of a lot to do in Torino but we both enjoyed having someone to share supper with; not sitting alone in a restaurant of couples while alone, perusing a book (been there, done that, am currently doing it as I write this). Torino is a city blessed with good food, and with Shimrit’s smattering of Italian, she helped along the ordering process greatly where I would have been completely lost. Because of the sorry state of hostels in many Italian cities, and because Shimrit had had some terrible experiences in them in previous visits to Italy, we opted to split the cost of hotel rooms for the time we travelled together. Roughly the same per person as a hostel dorm bed, it worked out well and offered at least semi privacy; certainly eliminating the concerns of sharing a room with seven complete strangers. We pre-booked a couple weeks in advance and discovered that even the cheap hotels (roughly €40-50/night) were well appointed, for the most part quite clean, and well situated.

Moving on from bleak Torino (it is much better in other seasons I hear) after two nights, we took the fast train to a tourist hot spot, Firenze; more commonly, Florence. A city steeped in almost as much romantic lore as Venice, it is famous for its artwork, old buildings, and food. While we were lucky that the usually booming tourist industry was a little lacklustre in the cool early winter, it also meant we were usually cold while exploring and missed out on some attractions which don’t open in the less lucrative months. Staying for four nights, we took things at an easy pace, interspersing outdoor exploration with indoor activities to beat the frigid cold outside. On the 15^th we visited Veccio Palace, one of Florence’s many famous palaces. This is one of the oldest of the old and has seen use as Florence Town Hall, accommodations for royalty and visiting dignitaries. The building itself is stunning enough, but paying the €4.50 entrance guarantees you will be awed by the extent of the artwork inside. They don’t need to set up galleries to display the work; the rooms themselves are the galleries. Much like the Sistine Chapel, room after room is covered floor to ceiling with spectacular art, most of it Christian inspired. We were amazed to discover that the building is still used by the city, offering meeting space for conferences and council meetings. Moving on from the palace, we braved the cold for a short while, admiring some more of the spectacular architecture Florence has to offer. A short walk took us past the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence’s cathedral famous for its rose and green granite exterior; through the Piazza della Repubblica with its Column of Abundance; and finally to the Ponte Vecchio, the only bridge in Florence to survive WWII. The bridge is lined with shops and stalls – as most older bridges in Europe were - almost completely blocking the view of the river it passes over, and giving you the impression you are not actually on a bridge (perhaps that’s why they were done that way!). Neither of us had any part in the overpriced souvenirs for sale on the bridge, nor any of the illegal knockoff merchandise for sale all over the city. Sternly worded signs warned that individuals purchasing knockoffs were subject to fines from €500-10,000; the buyers, not the sellers. Any non brand named products were alright, but those Gucci and Prada bags that are so lusted after and are for sale for only €25...ever hear of too good to be true? The police chased down the sellers with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and with varying levels of success.

The police in Italy are a whole other subject, thus I have hit ‘Enter’ twice for a new paragraph to show you how serious about the police in Italy, and so I can rant on for a bit. There are three main police forces in any Italian city; the Carabinieri who act as a federal, paramilitary police service, the finance police and the local police. Inexplicably, the Carabinieri frequently patrol city streets, usually leaving tourists alone but ganging up on locals in overwhelming numbers and creating rubbernecking worthy scenes. The finance police, equally inexplicably, are involved in patrolling the city streets, but logically (if anything in Italy is actually logical) are usually seen chasing down perpetrators of knockoff selling (more on that in a second). The municipal police on the other hand, are usually seen in large groups smoking and talking on their phones. Oh wait...so are the rest of them. These are not the professional police officers we are used to seeing in North America; they often act like street gangs, choosing when to uphold the law and when they would rather finish their smoke peacefully, when they want to stop for traffic violations and when they just can’t be bothered. In Venice, I saw two young men in the finance police walking down the street on their cell phones, clearly amorous of whoever was on the other end of their call, oblivious to their surroundings and walking by numerous knockoff salesmen. In Rome, an older member of the finance police who was patrolling the Castel Sant’ Angelo approached a cabinet with bold “DO NOT TOUCH” signs on it, and used it as a clipboard for a note he had to write on a Post-It. Later, I successfully passed through Vatican police security with a pocket knife in my backpack which went through the X-Ray, and I set off the metal detector. No problem, the guy manning the X-Ray was on his phone with either a girlfriend or something close, and the police manning the metal detectors were 10 metres away smoking and having a great chat. Noticing a pattern yet? There is a huge amount of apathy amongst police in Italy. Some of it is characteristic of the general Italian attitude of ‘I don’t give a f*%&’, but I blame most of it on laziness. Unfortunately, sometimes even when they do feel like doing something about flagrant lawlessness, they find themselves unable to stop it. A potbellied 50-something finance officer noticed three very fit looking African-Italians selling knock offs around the Vatican and started scolding them. They took little notice of him and walked away. He pursued them, continuing to lecture them in rapid fire Italian. They continued to ignore him, but started to jog away. He did his best to keep up, holding his belly and giving chase, but as they escalated into a run, he found himself huffing and puffing and rapidly falling behind. He passed by another finance officer – this one young and fit – who, with a cigarette in hand, thought the situation was hilarious. He stood on the side of the road laughing at his colleague who quickly lost the trio around the corner of a building. I thought it was a good laugh too, but was seriously concerned with the state of the older man’s heart which he seemed to be grasping as he bent at the waist trying to recover. I guess what got me about the Italian police is the utter lack of professionalism.

On the lighter side of things, ‘people watching’ in Italy is absolutely brilliant, and can be enjoyed hour after hour. Italians are well aware – and often proud – that when they talk, their hands become part of the conversation. It is quite fun to watch, especially as conversations turn ugly, the hand movements speed up along with speech, making it quite dangerous to come too near a pair engaged in an argument. Of the most hilarious sights I saw in Italy was five Carabinieri surrounding two people they had pulled over. Picture five relatively large police officers, all talking agitatedly at once, while the two they had pulled over were talking back at the same time, equally as angrily. Hands fly, injuries are imminent, and you are well advised to stay away. Ok, I can’t stay away from the topic, it bugged me a lot while I was in Italy...the fact that police argue with individuals guilty of something says a lot about their conviction in upholding the law. Someone caught doing something illegal usually wants to have their say, and it sometimes works out well to let them talk, as they often reveal stupid things which come back to bite them in court (remember “...anything you say can be used against you in a court of law...”?). But the even hand of the law always reminds the guilty (well, once they are proven guilty) that they will get their day in court, and for now, the officer’s opinion is the law. In Italy it becomes an argument where the police have to defend their opinion to the individuals they have arrested. It’s almost like the perpetrator is getting his day in court the second he’s caught. Maybe they say more stupid things this way, helping the prosecution on later, but from the outsiders prospective it seems just damned unprofessional. The sight of five officers surrounding and speaking angrily with two citizens, who are talking back equally angrily – while hilarious because of the physical comedy – is unimpressive. Alright...rant finished.

Shimrit and I checked out the restaurant recommendations on wikitravel.com and decided to try a new one each night, hoping to find something cheap but delicious every time. The first stop was Leonardo’s Self Service Restaurant. Established in 1963, it feels more like a school cafeteria than a restaurant and as you take your tray down the steam line, picking out your selections and paying for what you choose, a part of you feels like you are back in high school. The food is delicious, and served by wonderfully friendly and bilingual staff. While the prices were below average for Florence, I couldn’t help my scrutiny of the sparse decorations, but the restaurant has been in business for around 46 years, and on serving good food alone, they have survived this long.

Only an hour by train to the famous city of Pisa, we decided we couldn’t come this far without seeing the leaning tower so we hopped aboard a regional train on the 17^th and soon found ourselves in the famous city of Pisa. The entire city is as beautiful as Florence, streets lined with old buildings, a lovely river running through the middle, and small parks and recreational areas thrown in to the mix quite generously. Tower aside, we enjoyed a good few hours wandering the small and winding streets and taking in the sights. But in Pisa, all roads lead to the tower (I like to think that’s to help dumb tourists), and we inevitably ended up at the amazing spectacle. Now, we all know it leans, and seeing photos we all think, ‘oh wow, that’s impressive’. But what most photos fail to convey is that the building is on a serious tilt. Seeing photos you think, ‘man, its leaning quite a bit,’ but in person you think more along the lines of ‘holy SHIT, how is that still upright!?!?!?!’ It really is amazing, and I think it has to be viewed in person to truly appreciate. Why does it lean? Because it was built on a foundation of sand; oops... Even after the builders discovered that the building was leaning almost immediately after construction began, they built onward and upward. Construction was interrupted by financial shortages (like any good building project), wars, and political conflict, but the tower kept going up, and kept going over; construction taking almost two centuries. By the end of the project, the tower was leaning significantly, but the church to whom it belonged decided to let nature take its course. Science intervened in the late 20^th century and cables were attached, pulling the tower back a little bit and concrete was injected under the tower, stabilising the foundation and allowing the cables to be removed. Thankfully, the tower is now quite safe and tourists are once again allowed to climb to the top of the building through the significantly tilted staircase. The cathedral, the tower (Torre pendent di Pisa), and the baptistery are all made of similar white granite, a striking contrast against a deep blue sky, and leaning or not, the whole complex is a treat to the eye. While going to the top of the tower costs some €20, the views are free, and highly recommended. We wandered the city long enough to catch the sunset at the tower for some amazing photographic opportunities before catching the train back to Florence for another amazing meal. We opted again for a local venue recommended on wikitravel, finding ourselves in a very cramped Italian trattoria. A tip for dining in Italy: never dine somewhere that advertises itself as a Pizzeria/Ristorante. Those two words together mean you will possibly get good pizza, but not much else. On the other hand, trattorias are exactly what they sound like, traditional Italian restaurants; cramped, cheaper, and usually serving amazing food. This was a trattoria was probably not frequented by tourists, and we only got a table to ourselves after insisting we would rather that over sharing one with complete strangers (as interesting an experience that might be, English in Italy is not as common as other European countries). The menu was in English as well however, and the staff spoke passable English. We ordered a full meal of Florentine dishes, from primi to dessert, and awaited the feast. A soup, a 600g steak, stewed veal, and two desserts were shared between us and we savoured every bite, a meal worth every Euro. On the way back to our hotel it started to snow, and while it didn’t stay on the ground, it was amazing to see snow in Italy. Shimrit, who hails from Tel Aviv, had experienced snow on the ground before, but had never felt the snow coming down from above. I guess it’s an experience we take for granted in Canada, and while mid winter we are tired of the stuff, the first snow of the year in Italy had the same effect as it does at home, putting a smile on everyone’s face as the delicate flakes fall slowly to the ground.

The 17^th was our last day sightseeing, and our last day in Florence together. We made use of it by wandering around the city some more. We started our day with a hike to the top of Piazzale Michelangelo on the south side of the River Arno, high above the city. The view is spectacular and gives you an appreciation for the sprawling old city of Florence. It is also the only viewing point with parking spaces for busses, so while it was not busy when we visited, it is crawling with tourists in the summer. From here we walked back to the main city and decided on a museum visit to get away from the cold which was gradually getting worse as the day wore on. Most of the museums in Florence are brutally expensive, and while some are world famous, the admissions which usually average around €20 are a bit much on a backpacker’s budget. We opted instead for the Leonardo da Vinci museum, cheaper admission, and touting working models of 20 of da Vinci’s ingenious inventions. Unfortunately they deviate from original designs and use modern materials such as metal screws and bolts, but it offers an intriguing look into the mind of a genius, someone who was far ahead of his time in mechanical engineering, not to mention a gifted artist, musician, mathematician, geologist, writer, and more. Getting out of the cold, we enjoyed a thick, custardy hot chocolate before retiring early to get away from the now intolerable cold.

The next day we walked to the train station and said our goodbyes as Shimrit caught her train to her next destination, and I headed back to the hotel to hang out in their lounge until supper. I did absolutely zero sightseeing but I managed to finish one blog entry and write two, so all in all I felt pretty good with the day’s work. Come supper time, I thanked the hotel staff for letting me hang out all day and headed back to the Leonardo Self Service Restaurant for another tasty supper. They didn’t fail to deliver and I went to the train station quite satisfied. It started snowing again late in the evening, but this time it snowed with a purpose. The snow was coming down hard and staying down, eventually piling up to some 20cm. Italians everywhere looked confused and wandered the streets with umbrellas, looking fearfully at every snow flake as if it might melt them – or worse, freeze them completely! At the train station I was catching an overnight train (barf) to Frankfurt am Main, (generally known as Frankfurt, but not to be confused with the other Frankfurt, Frankfurt on the river Oder) my last stop in Europe. The train arrived 40 minutes late, and once on board we were informed of a further half hour delay. A man in our coach got off the train and inquired about the delay, and it was revealed to him that the conductor with our locomotive had decided to take it elsewhere, so we were waiting for another conductor to come by with another locomotive. Go figure. From there, it was a night of frequent stops, the train slowly separating as different sections had different destinations. I had maybe an hour of sleep the whole time, and come morning, I generally felt like shit. But that’s a story for the next blog.