So I walked out of town with my thumb out, heading in the direction of Wanaka. I'd originally planned to go next to Milford Sound in the far southwest corner, and then to Franz Josef; but the lure of the Heli-Whores (remember them ?) proved too great, so I decided to change my route.

I was dropped off halfway by a fellow called Luke, who used to live in the UK, but was scared back to New Zealand as he couldn't keep up with the dangerous levels of drinking that people in Britain seem to go in for. "My liver called me up and asked me to take it home," quoth he. So what is turning our isle into such a toxic boozy cesspool, guys and gals ? Anyway, I waited for no longer than quarter of an hour at the foot of the Crown Range, in which time a Swedish couple actually stopped to apologise for not picking me up, as they didn't have enough room. Unnecessary, but appreciated. The chap who took me the rest of the way there was a local called Craig, who was himself going to stay in a house that a mate of his in construction had built in his spare time. Why am I telling you this ? If you can be arsed to read on, you might find out. Now stop asking questions and pay attention.

I'd arranged to meet up with Astrid later that afternoon, but I had a bit of time to kill so I walked to Puzzling World.

I learned quite quickly that, unless you ski, snowboard, or drink away all of your waking hours, this is about the only thing to do in Wanaka. And if you spent a good deal of the day before doing the latter, Puzzling World might prove to be less than edifying. It features the world's first two-storey maze, which means that there are that many more corridors and turns to be boggled and bored by. Mercifully the wooden panels comprising the maze had gaps underneath, which made it a little easier to cheat, and a lot easier to just fuck it off and find something more interesting to do. The inside of Puzzling World itself was more engaging. I particularly liked the rooms which were at an incline of 15 degrees, but had platforms set to an incline of just 13, creating the illusion that balls, wooden vehicles (that you could ride yourself - woo) and water were all flipping Uncle Gravity the bird and running uphill. It was also, I might add, rather disorientating. My hungover head began to reject the information it was being fed, and I was spat out at the far end feeling more than a little nauseous. The fresh, open-air walk back to Wanaka was most welcome. Incidentally, on this walk, I learnt to my frustration that the many 'Fire Risk Semi-Pies' peppered over the land cannot be altered by scallywags like myself from 'Low' to 'Extreme', unless they happen to be carrying a spanner. I wasn't. I guess those arrows are probably bolted down for a good reason.

So I hooked up with Astrid, who'd spent the afternoon fishing, and offered to cook us both the mackerel she'd caught. As we drove to her new place, she told me that it'd been built by a construction worker in his spare time. For those with brains that can actually retain information, this may ring a bell. Sure enough, my lift into Wanaka was reclined within, enjoying an ale. This was the second big coincidence of the day. I had earlier found in my hostel that I would be sharing a bunk with a young Dutch lady that I met on the wildlife tour in Dunedin, almost a week before. The incidence of coincidences that were banking up on this trip led me to conclude nothing of design in the cosmos, but that there really aren't very many people on this Island, and the same faces will keep cropping up.

After a fish supper (fie on you smutty heathens - I mean an actual supper comprising of fish), Astrid and I went into town for libation. The first place we went to - The Red Rock - is the first pub I've ever been to that plays gansta rap classics (ah - sweet N.W.A. eases the pain). It is also the first pub I've been into where I've had to go behind the bar in order to make coffee myself as a paying customer. When Astrid asked for a cappuccino, quoth the barman : "I don't make coffee. I pull pints". Clearly the type of superhuman that could do both would have been head-hunted by some metropolitan über-bar a long time ago; Wanaka would be too small to contain such a talented individual. And I still got charged full price for it. Cheeky fucking perishers.

The next pub we went to had a hilariously awful band playing. It was a little like a sixth-form band's second jam. During their version of 'Killing In The Name', the singer/guitarist was sufficiently nonproficient that he had to do the guitar solo vocally (you know - the 'wee-oooo-weee-oooo' bits). This wasn't quite as comical as the version of 'What's Up ?' (4-Non Blondes) that was just so excruciating that they felt the need to play it three times in the space of half an hour. And the crowd loved it. Absolutely loved it. Which maybe says something about the South Island music scene. Time to move on, methought; the Heli-Whores are calling.