Ok, so I've not updated this blog for a fucking aeon, and I doubt anybody knows or even cares about the story so far anymore. But - even though I've been back from New Zealand for over a year, and my memory by now is probably entirely fallacious - I'm going to carry on anyway. We've got to the day when I was travelling to Rangitata to party with the 'Heli-Whores'. So I woke up pretty early, and walked a few miles out of Tekapo. The landscape went pretty quickly from beautiful to barren the further away you got from the lake, and the clouds threatened rain, so it was a pretty bleak hour. Then I got picked up by a couple of Dutch guys called Marten and Johann. Johann told me a story about one of his hitch-hiking experiences in France. He stopped to take a leak, and when he returned to the side of the road, there was a guy waiting who offered him a lift. The passenger-side door was jammed, so he had to climb in over the driver's seat and gearbox. Already a pretty worrying start. In his fabulous Dutch accent - which is perfect for enhancing stories of this nature - Johann continued "after a while, I could tell that thish guy wush obvioushly homoshexual, ash he kept talking about shex, and unbuttoned hish shirt. The nexsht minute I look, and he'sh taking hish dick out of hish shorts...". Fortunately, when he realised that Johann wasn't game, he didn't get nasty, but stopped and let Johann get out in a slight huff.

They signed my book (incidentally, can anyone here speak Dutch, as I don't know what one of them wrote ?), and dropped me off in Geraldine, where I grabbed a coffee and pressed on. I was picked up by an English bloke, who mistakenly accused me of being from Macclesfield. By the time we reached Rangitata, it was absolutely shitting it down with rain. It was good to see Karen and Neville again, but I was dismayed to learn that there'd be no 'Heli-Whores' that evening. This was gutting, as I'd entirely changed my plans in order to see them. This was partly because the weather was too sucky to be flying a helicopter in, and also because it was the semi-finals of a big rugby contest that evening; so the gals would presumably be spending a busy evening celebrating or commiserating with local fans. I left disheartened, with no convivial lady for solace.

I'd started early in case I had to push on for any reason, which I did, so I decided to try and get to Arthur's Pass before dark, half-way through crossing the island east to west. Luckily I didn't have to wait out in the rain for too long. I was picked up from the road opposite the Outside Inn after only two minutes by a chap called Mike. He was a really friendly guy, but completely mad for extreme sports and injuring himself severely. He couldn't turn his head too far round when speaking to me, as he'd broken his neck snowboarding. He'd actually filmed this happening, as he'd had a camcorder atop his helmet. He'd not yet seen the film, as the impact had been such that the tape had snapped. I told him that - so that he didn't have to relive the trauma - this was maybe just as well. He told me that, on the contrary, he couldn't wait to see it, and was going to take it to a pro in order to get it fixed. He was originally just going to drop me off at Ashburton, but instead went out of his way and took me right to the main road at Darfield, as the roads in-between were difficult to cob a lift on. All-in-all, a totally capital fellow.

This gave me a false sense of security before my next lift. I was picked up by Suzie and Bevan, for the most uncomfortable lift of the trip. Suzie, who was driving, was unbelievably stupid. She hadn't ever heard of Franz Josef, despite only living a few hours from there, and the fact that it's one of the biggest attractions on the island. But she was harmless, at least. Bevan was one of those guys that just looks like trouble. When I first got into the car, I introduced myself, but he didn't say a word. He sat for a while in menacing silence. I tried to get conversation going, and asked them where they were from. They were from Springfield, so I told them that they must get a lot of 'Simpsons' jokes, to which they responded "why ?". So that killed that one. They were full-on redneck back-of-beyonders, but I eventually found the level : "yeah, I like smoking dope and fucking my sister too". So, when they dropped me off a mile or so beyond Springfield, they did smile and wave as they drove off; but to be honest, despite the fact that it was pissing down with rain and in the middle of absolutely nowhere, I was pretty pleased to be out of the car. But hey, it could've been worse - at least neither of them took their dick out of their shorts.