Back to the plot. We're about to leave Wanaka. I wandered out of town, and asked a lorry driver if I was taking the right road. He told me I was, and asked if I wanted a lift. I didn't manage to mask my excitement at the thought of riding in the cab of a lorry. I'm easily pleased like that. So John and I became acquainted. I told him about my Heli-Whore quest. He told me about his family tree, and a great story about how his grandfather had absconded from his ship whilst it was anchored a few miles off Dunedin, and swam ashore. Then he went prospecting for gold; which was fine until he had his entire stash nicked. Other people's lives are mind-boggling. John told me I could make his website for him, and dropped me off at Cromwell. Wot a fine chap. And to illustrate it, here are some oversized fruit :

I stopped for a beer, and consulted with a waitress as to where I should stay for the evening. The Heli-Whores weren't doing that thing until the following evening, so I had a chance to poke around (stop that) the centre of the island for a bit. She recommended I stay in Tekapo, and I didn't think that this sounded like a corkscrew through the shin, so decided to go with it. I didn't get far out of town before being picked up by Kathy. In this picture she looks a bit like a Borrower; but that rock was actually quite big :

She and I got on like a dwelling ablaze. I wish I'd met her prior to going to Queenstown, as she was a local and knew of all the places that the fucking pommes hadn't yet discovered. Her local knowledge came into play once on the trip though... How would I have otherwise known that folk painted on the rocks at the side of Lake Pukaki ?

After being dropped at Tekapo, I asked about hostels in the local internet caff. I was pointed towards the Scenic Resort. Now, I have a bit of a tip for travellers : if you're going hostelling, I suggest check out all of the local hostels before imparting your cash; and don't get suckered by names. The good folk at the Scenic Resort clearly thought 'scenic' meant 'dorms with no natural light and lots of arcade machines'. If they'd bothered to consult even the most off-centre dictionary, they'd have been informed that 'scenic' actually means none of these things. I'd already paid for my room when I saw it, and promptly regretted having done so. This remorse multiplied exponentially when I popped into the YHA for a bit of a nose, and saw the beautiful panorama of the lake from their living area. Thought I - 'I want to eat my breakfast to that view'; and was thus prompted to return to the Scenic Resort to ask for my money back. Another tip for travellers : if you plan on bullying the owners of hostels into giving you a refund, it helps to be 6'2". After that, I went for a walk. Now for some more pictures :

And furthermore :

And yet furthermore still :

You probably get the idea.

Despite the obvious surrounding beauty, Tekapo's equine population lives in solitude. I went for a beer at the local hick dive. There wasn't much else choice. There I was adopted by Adrienne and Charlie, a couple of smart Yanks. It's true - they exist. They theorised that most folks from the States you met on the road would be good representatives of the country, as they would be in the tiny fraction of Americans that realised that there was stuff beyond the U.S. This seemed reasonable. And as they insisted on paying for all of my drinks and took me out for dinner, I was quite happy to agree with everything they had to say. There was a lovely bit when they came to blows over their respective explanations of the U.S. electoral process. They were essentially arguing exactly the same thing; only Adrienne was putting it in as P.C. a manner as possible, whereas Charlie was less afraid to refer to "backward fucking redneck areas" in his version of the thesis. In doing so, they managed to enlighten me considerably more regarding their relationship dynamic than they did the electoral process. And they showed me how to play a wacky version of pool that used only three balls. We planned to meet again the following morning before they staggered off, and I was genuinely saddened that this never happened.

I spent the rest of the evening back at the dive playing pool. There were some fairly attractive girls playing, so I offered myself available for doubles. I was claimed not by some feisty young vixen, but by a pock-marked guy in his late forties, who was wearing what can best be described as camouflage jim-jams (is this what squaddies sleep in ?). Our cleaning-up was thwarted at the end of the game by the dumb NZ rule that a foul on the black is a forfeit of the game. So we left the table, and I spoke with this chap (Kit...) and his construction buddies. Quote of the evening : "I've got a cap that says 'Shit Happens'. And guess what ? I'm the safety officer". Don't let it be said that South Islanders don't have a sense of humour. After this hilarity, I decided to call it a comparatively early night. The following day promised to be a long one, climaxing with aerial strumpets; so I should save every shred of strength.