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The Voyage
...And finally, to Arthur's Pass
So I found myself right in the middle of nowhere. The air was wet and the road was quiet. There wasn't much to see but cattle. Lots of cattle. Lots of black, angry-looking cattle. Lots of big, threatening, menacing cattle. And they were baying for blood. My blood. When I told my mate Beth this story sometime later, she pointed out "They're herbivores - how the fuck could they be baying for your blood ?" Probably sounds a bit nuts. But I swear these big bovine bastards were following me along the fence, looking like they were preparing to charge. I started thinking about an escape route in case they found a weak spot in the fence. I worked out that I'd have to jump over the fence on the left-hand side of the road, and run to a nearby tree, climb up it, and phone for help from there. I looked at my phone. No reception. I saw an Australasian harrier circling about. No doubt if I got into the tree, she would assume I was trying to steal her eggs and peck out my eyes. My escape plan was clearly sub-ideal. It's funny where you're mind goes when you're alone in a strange place...
Fortunately, within a few minutes, I was spared the imminent stampede by the arrival of a car. I think this was one of the biggest reliefs of my trip, and it was a double bonus that they weren't creepy rednecks like the previous lift. Shae, Janelle and Kara were a bunch of really friendly gals in their late teens, on the way back to Greymouth from a DJ evening in Christchurch. Soon after they picked me up, the rain stopped and the mountains brightened up, which lends more credence to the theory that the weather is directly affected by my mood.
After a good old chinwag, they dropped me off in Arthur's Pass :
It's named after Arthur Dudley Dobson, a surveyor who found his way over the highest pass in the Southern Alps in 1864 (although I think Maoris used the pass prior to then). And it's pretty small - though a lot of people pass through, it only has a permanent population of 54. Here's a picture which - though not a great one - will give you some idea of the size of the mountains (look at the pylons) :
I dropped my stuff in the backpackers', and went for a drink at The Chalet. One drink turned into many, as I got chatting to a staggeringly beautiful gal called Jenny, with whom I discussed the idea for a tattoo I'd knocked up in Queenstown whilst influenced by Kilkenny, and who has the worst handwriting of anyone that signed my book. She was charming. I also chatted to the owner Hamish, who was the type of guy you couldn't not like, despite harbouring some pretty dodgy opinions; and I settled down on a sofa with a bunch of members of staff (hey to Rich and Stacy, despite the fact that she dissed the Super Furry Animals) to watch the rugby. I'm not really into rugby but, as this was the match that had caused me not to be able to party with a group of airbourne prostitutes that very evening, I figured I ought to make the effort. All-in-all, a very relaxed evening to end a surprisingly long day (two entire entries - phwew).
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Rain Stops Play
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.
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Once Upon A Time In Tekapo
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.
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The Road To Rouen
Something I read on Pog's blog reminded me of something that happened to me a few months before I went to New Zealand. Let us begin prior to the beginning...
[Abridged. Very]
I used to go out with a gal called Sarah. Now, she was stressed out with her job, and decided that she really needed a week off lest she removed her own face with a lemon zester. And so she invited me to go with her to Dieppe for an overnight. I thought this to be an idea of not inconsiderable brillitude. So I accepted. We were to leave on Thursday, at midday.
Wednesday night / Thursday morning, getting on for 1 a.m. Owe decides it might be time to pack. Looks in drawer for passport. Closes drawer. Re-opens drawer. Looks again for passport. Empties drawer, item by item. Puts stuff back in drawer. Wanders around for a bit, massaging his forehead. Empties drawer item by item again. This happens a few times. The passport never transpires. Owe applies himself. Where else would it be ? Half an hour and much futile rummaging later, it occurs to him - it's in the New Zealand Embassy in Haymarket, as he's applied for his working holiday visa. Fuck. Double fuck. Treble fuck. A vast multiplicity of fucks.
As the lovely lady's week of graft detox was building towards this event, to let her down would have been shameful. Plus, she'd have dumped me - no question. There was nothing for it but to get the earliest possible train from Brighton to London, and petition the embassy. I couldn't sleep anyway, so I hopped in the shower at about half past four, and made my way to the station. It is worth noting that the streets of Brighton are mobbed by huge, hideous seagulls at dawn o'clock, all slashing and scattering bin-liners, and being a general menace. This was unsettling. It is also worth noting that after my shower, I had dried myself off and dressed for the day. In case anyone was wondering.
The website had told me that the embassy would open at nine. I got there at eight, and found that it would - in fact - open at ten. Tits. So I went to St. James's Park to sit by the lake, read Empire and watch the ducks. I was very stressed. This calmed me down. Or at least it did for a bit, until two ducks started having a massive ruck, right in front of me. I hadn't seen ducks fight before. They twatted each other with their wings and quarked a lot (like a bark, in quack form). A policing swan swam over and broke up the argy-bargy; but by this point it was too late - my head was unquiet once more. So I headed back to the embassy.
There was already a bit of a crowd forming in the lobby. I sat down, clutching my phone. I had texted Sarah to tell her what was happening, and hadn't heard back yet. Then I started to think I was having a flashback. 'Why is my phone sweating ?' I thought. This train was hijacked by Russel; a fat, over-excited American. He wanted to talk to me. It occurred to me that most people there were excited about the fact that they were about to embark on a fab new adventure on the other side of the orb; and not sleepless, extremely anxious stress-goblins, shitting themselves over the thought of severely letting their girlfriend down and subsequently having their asses ditched. I still didn't want to talk to him, though. I thought it best that I was left alone, and hurried to the front of the line. So it was to my massive dismay that - when we were ushered up to the embassy at ten o'clock - the wretched rotund ratfucker (who had arrived after me) let two attractive young ladies (who has also arrived after me) ahead of him *and me* in the queue. If Russel had been privy to the deeply wrong thoughts I harboured about him thereafter, he would have spent the rest of his days in a shivering, sweaty, cold blancmange of corner-bound blubber. He was probably the swellest chap in the world; but right then I thought him the rottenest cunt.
The waiting room. TV screens showing a four-minute looped video of dancing, beaming, vacuous chefs / firemen / ballerinas, and pensioners waving frantically from lakeside hillocks as the camera flew overhead. Come to Life. Come to New Zealand. With the most horrific cheesy soundtrack, comprising of contrived tribal-style beats, wailing guitar widdlery, and Bill Medley and Jennifer Warns-style duetting, earnestly repeating the refrain 'Come to Life'. As I wanted to put my boot through each screen during the first airing of this vomit-sodden calamity, by the sixth time I was practically catatonic. I was still clutching my phone as if it were the only thing keeping me sane, but I was rocking back and forth much more visibly by the time they called my name. I felt like I'd been there a week.
They had my passport.
Everything lifted. It wasn't lost in the post. I could go to the ball. I told the young lady at the counter that I loved her, and explained how she'd saved my relationship. They even gave me my visa on the spot. I danced out of the embassy. It was sunny. I gave all my coins to a tramp. I got a tube. I got a train. I made the ferry (well, seacat). As we set out to sea, we cracked open champagne. Though, as Sarah's day was just starting, I felt like it was time for bed. But I had made it.
Epilogue
We'd decided to go a little deeper than Dieppe, and so got a train to Rouen. We drank, ate, laughed, drank, ate, made friends with the world's stupidest dog, drank, managed to eventually shake the dog, drank, and then went back to our hotel. I'm not going to tell you exactly what happened next. Although most of it was (exceptionally) good, through no fault of our own, something bad happened. We had a lovely following day wandering around, going to galleries, sunbathing, eating and drinking (well merde, we were in France)... But still there was the thing. And something would have to be done about it. This gave the lovely day something of an edge. We got back late on Friday evening. I didn't see Sarah on Saturday.
On Sunday, my flatmate Nathan and I sat out in Brunswick Square, soaking it up and drinking beer. I texted Sarah, and she agreed to join us. Shortly after she did, Nathan went for ice-cream. Sarah looked at me earnestly. "Owe... We need to talk."
"Oh fucking hell... You're not going to dump me again, are you ?"
"Um... Well, yes. Sorry. I'm going for a walk now. I'll see you around."
"Bye."
Two minutes later, Nathan returned, brandishing ice-creams.
"Hey. Where's Sarah ?"
"She just dumped me and left."
"Shit. What am I gonna do with this third ice-cream ?"
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Puzzle Boggled
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.
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Under Construction
Is this blog ever going to get updated ? Am I going to ever finish writing about my jaunt in Kiwiville ?
Does anyone really give a fuck ?
I found someone else who seems to have been to all the places I went to and more, and could afford to do all the fun stuff where I couldn't. He even called his photoblog 'Travel Blog'. The cheek.
New Zealand seems a long way away now. Almost the other side of a world. But I owe it to myself to finish. And my dear old mum. And I think Pog reads it too, as she has way too much time to butterfly about blogs. So I will persist, goddamnit.
Tomorrow, mind. Today I might go down the pub.
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Opportunity Fox
I woke up fully reduced from the simmering heat in my room, and decided to stay in a different hostel. I made my way to the YHA, which is right on the lake (well - if it was on the lake, it would sink; it was a bit back from the lake). The gal at the desk told me "check-in time is 2:30, and the showers are on the second floor...". As I hadn't asked where the showers were, I guessed my pores were doing little to conceal what I'd been up to the evening before.
The next couple of days were spent pretty much twiddling my thumbs, waiting for Lachie (the guy who offered me work - see below) to come through. He didn't; and would ultimately end up dropping the ball. So no tandem paragliding for me. Maybe no bad thing, as someone died from a similar pursuit (this time tandem hang-gliding) in Queenstown a few days later when the 'professional' forgot to attach the passenger's harness to himself, and the tourist plummeted 150 metres to her doom. I spent the time going to the cinema, titting about (mainly on 20six) in net-caffs, playing pool and hanging out with Sarah, Beth and the flappy-headed moose-fuckers. It occurred to me that - in the absence of having any work to do, or extreme sports to dip into - there wasn't much to keep you occupied in Queeny, and it was an expensive place to be wasting time. My desire to stay there to live was waning. This wasn't helped by local excitement that The Feelers were coming to town; if this was the best that they could get in terms of touring bands, it wasn't a good sign.
So I elected to skip town. On what I thought would be my last night, I met a bit of a live-wire called Neil in a pool contest in the Hard Rock Café. Now, by this point I was getting people I met to scrawl in a (rather garish) notebook for posterity. I was envious of this chap's five volumes of collected scribbled wit and photos, including numerous famous signatures, a photo of him with John Major (which made me positively green - obviously), and even the odd pic of naked norks. Heavens to Betsy. He insisted that I stay in town for another night, in order that I be around for his leaving party. This appealed, so I agreed.
When I got back to my room at the YHA, it reeked of vomit. I was informed that this was because one of the backpackers (British, of course) had drunk ten shooters in 30 seconds. Students - don't you just love 'em ?
What will endure in my memory of the following evening is meeting a charming young lady called Vicki. Here is a picture of some folk at the party, with her in the middle :
My eyebrows were first raised by this highly amusing young lady after we'd taken a break from the party to go to a club. I was the only person in a group of about 8 or 9 not to be asked for ID. This disappointed me, as I haven't been asked for ID in 3 years (since I went to the US, natch). When I expressed this sentiment to Vicki, she fixed me with an authoratative yet sultry gaze, and asked "excuse me sir... Do you have some form of identification ?" My knees went weak. I gave her my passport. She looked at the photo. "Ooh, look at *you*," she purred. I told her that I'd obviously changed a lot since it was taken, and not necessarily for the better. "Oh, I don't know," she replied; "you still have the cute baby-face." I was won over.
Back at the house, she insisted on writing in The Book. A limmerick, no less. It went thus :
An ode to O from V.
There was a young chap named O,
Who wore his hair in a bow,
He looked so damn fine,
I wish he was mine,
But he's not so the time's come to go.
Wishing you great travels my lovely and a long & prosperous life. Stay safe,
Much love,
Vicki xxx
So I wrote her one back. It went like this :
There was an enchantress called V,
Who desperately wanted to ski;
But she didn't have the dough
To get to the snow,
So she stapled her tits to a tree.
Now, I think it's fair to say that hers was probably a signal. But I was a bit too drunk to properly pick it up. I thought things seemed to be going swimmingly, but then - unexpectedly (for me) - a taxi appeared to pick her and her friends up to whisk them home. We hugged, kissed (politely), and she was gone. It took me a full dazed ten minutes before I realised that I should have asked her for her number, or to meet me for lunch the following day. Aaaarrrrggghhhh.
I woke up the next morning with the intention of finding her, and buying her lunch goddamnit. I went to 'The Loaded Hog' - where Sarah and Beth worked - to see if I could find someone who knew her number. I spoke to Bell. Her name wasn't really Bell. I got in the habit of calling her that after a conversation that we'd had a few nights before, that went like this :
Owe : Oh, sorry - it's Owe by the way.
Bell : Hi Owe. I'm Bell.
Owe : Bell ?
Bell : No, Bell.
Owe : That's what I just said. Bell.
Bell : No, Bell... Short for Belissa.
Owe : Oh - Mel... Short for Melissa. Why did you keep saying "Bell" ?
Bell : I'b got a colb.
Anyway, Bell pointed me back in the direction of Neil's house. Neil didn't really know Vicki, but knew one of her friends; so in vain, I left my number to pass on. I was about to leave town, but I hadn't fully decided not to come back. A date with a charming, funny hottie might have swung it the other way. But - of course - I never got a call. I guess it had been a long-shot.
Hey ho - plenty more crabs on the beach...
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Li'l QT
The next fellow who picked me up - Ben the farmer - was possibly the soundest fellow that gave me a lift in the entire month. He was another that offered me the choice of music from a fine array of CDs, and I hadn't heard 'Pills 'N' Thrills and Bellyaches' for a *very* long time. He dropped me off in Lawrence. Here is a tree, which also lived in Lawrence. We were friends, briefly :
I didn't really bond too much with my next lift, so I wasn't too displeased when he dropped me off further up the road in apple-scrumping country. The next guy, Lachie, was a good chap. His car reeked of weed, he drove like a loon, and he offered me work. He was a rep for an adventure sports company, and he asked if it would be possible to pay me in the activity of my choice in return for making a website for his brother, a motocross racer. Considering I was too skint to do any extreme sports otherwise, and it's pretty much the thing to do in Queenstown, I thought that this was a pretty damn fucking fine idea. Though he tried to persuade me to go off-road motorbiking (not my thing really), I set my heart on paragliding off the mountain and over Queenstown. So we arranged to meet a couple of days later.
My next lift was from a family in a 4x4 (it's quite unusual for those type of folk to stop - see below), with two "playfighting" kids in the back. The lady - despite having a Kiwi accent - turned out to be from Dorset. She told me that - being a web-designer - I could most likely get a lot of business from the abundance of start-up companies in Queeny. They dropped me off a few miles from town, where I got picked up by a lovely lady called Jane (in her thirties, just to fit in with the model) before I even put my thumb out. She dropped me in the centre of town.
...And what a town :
I was gobtwatted by what was the most beautiful setting I'd been to in the South Island thus far. Snow-capped mountains surround a lake, on the edge of which a vibrant and colourful town is perched. I began to seriously consider staying here for a good deal longer than I'd originally planned. If I could get web work here, then it could be a stunning place to live. By this point I'd planned to move to West Wales for the summer, and learn to surf properly; but snowboarding could take its place. So what was persuading me to leave ?
Well, the glut of Britlanders for a start. About 80 percent of the accents I heard were English, which - quite frankly - gave me the willies. I didn't travel 180 degrees around the orb to speak to a load of fucking pommes. I mentioned this to someone (an English bloke, natch) later on my tour in a list of points on Queenstown's downside, and he said - in complete earnest - "that's the best thing about it". It crossed my mind that the South Island was populated by fucknuts, none of whom were native.
I found a pub called 'The Cow' in a backstreet, and asked at the bar if they knew of any haunts that would contain few or no Britlanders. A dreadlocked Canadian called Mike told me that he'd take me to a place where they would be serving $2 pints (sorry - handles) for Happy Hour, and would that do instead ? I decreed that it would. He took me to Winnie Bagoe's (which was swarming with the UK Massive), and introduced me to a fab bunch - Sarah (Oirish), Beth (a Manc), and a consortium of Canadians. The ice was broken in a drinking game which involved participants giving different euphemisms for 'poling'. I like Canadians. They're usually bright, amusing, and will talk until the mooses come home about punk-rock; which suits me just fine.
However, a crawl around 6 or 7 venues - each wielding beer, tequila, or some creative cocktails - and things started to go a bit loop-de-loop. I'd like to tell you more but, being as my intake that evening could best be described as 'ambitious', I can't. So nur.
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Intermission : Who Picks Up Hitch-Hikers ?
Certain types of people will pick up hitchers, and others won't. The vast majority of folk that will give you a lift are friendly, sound and social. But how can you tell if they'll stop before you know this ?
Peeps that are more likely to pick up a tall, white, single male hitcher in his twenties :
- young blokes (often herb smokers)
- women in their thirties
- couples
- anyone English
Peeps that will invariably not pick up said hitcher :
- women driving new 4x4s (too middle-class)
- women over fifty
- people driving new hired camper vans (spirit of adventure my ass)
- fucking Mondeo drivers
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Sealion, Seawitch and Seawardrobe
Rather unsurprisingly, the following day was one of my most hungover in the South Island. I'd arranged to go on a wildlife tour along the Otago Peninsula; but even such a 'gentle' activity seemed like an acute ballache. The situation was aided little upon my learning that the group that had taken this tour the previous day had been circled and attacked by the sealions. Sealions aren't small. Nor are they afraid of humans. At all. We were told that - due to the lack of females - large male sealions take on younger 'boyfriends', and jealousy issues lead to rather fierce fights. These green-eyed sealoons even suspect that passing humans are trying to lure their 'boyfriends' away for some kind of unnatural tryst. So - in short - they're pretty volatile. When you're hungover, you want nothing more challenging that maybe having to pat a friendly seal. A ruck with a bunch of these massive grumpy twats is pretty far off the agenda. Here's a photo of a couple, complete with inset dismembered seal's head to show that the fuckers mean business :
We didn't get surrounded, or attacked. We did get barked at rather angrily, which was hairy enough. Considering how fragile I was feeling, the seals and penguins were a more than welcome alternative. We didn't see any albatrosses (albatri ?) though. It wasn't windy enough, apparently. This was a particular shame, as I was looking forward to calling this entry "Of course you don't get fucking wafers with it, you cunt. It's a fucking albatross". And now I don't get to. Boo. Anyway, here are some penguins :
The following morning, I went back to the Arc Café for breakfast, and to say my goodbyes. One of the ladies there fashioned me a sign to use in order to get to Queenstown. She used pink and purple pastels, "so that [I wouldn't] look hard". It would have been completely illegible to motorists, however; so I used a marker pen to give it some depth. And a kiss. So I wouldn't look 'hard'. My first lift was an 87-year-old cockney - Ken - who'd been on one of the boats landing at Dunkirk in the Second World War. He told me how the poor sods that they were rescuing were all covered in and coughing up crude oil. When I said "That must have been pretty scary, eh ?" ('eh' is a Kiwi-ism that I have regrettably picked up), he replied "Fear didn't really come into it. It's not like you had the choice - you just had to do it. It was kill or be killed." This is quite an alien concept, and one that I'm glad I've never had to get my head around. At this point I twigged that he was the second ride that had - in all likelihood - killed another human being (the first being Shalom). How bizarre.
TBC...
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Just a Day (and a bit)
I spent that evening in a fellow called Larry's house in Timaru. I'd been given a bunch names and numbers of folk to visit in the South Island by Woody (for those who haven't been paying attention, this is the fellow that painted my old house), and I'm not averse to gratis accommodation. Our Larry was an oddity, mind. He was a sturdy middle-aged journalist, and was seemingly one step away from a nervous breakdown. Every third word he said was "fuck" or "fucking". It's not like I don't have a gob like a fucking sewer; but even I can tell when the line into 'unnecessary' is crossed. Larry could no longer see the line with a telescope. And how often do forty-year-olds offer you a cone as soon as meet you ? I began to regret telling him about the 'Heli-Whores' (see entry below - this had made my evening, and I felt the need to share) when it occurred to me that nothing newsworthy ever really happened in Timaru, and I didn't want to betray Karen and Neville by handing a juicy tabloidy scoop to a local hack.
But he was decent enough to put me up for the night, so I watched 'Kill Bill vol. 1' and crashed. He dropped me off at the edge of town, and I walked up the hill with my thumb out. Since we'd arrived in Christchurch the weather had been gorgeous, so this was hardly a hardship. A fellow called Anthony - student and thoroughly good chap - picked me up and dropped me in Oamaru. I must show you a picture of his head :
It took two more lifts to get to Palmerston, where I took a wee break (in the Scottish sense) and popped into a junk shop called 'Trash Converters'. I got awful excited about the tat therein, but the need to travel light precluded me from buying an 80s-style 'Classic' Soda-Stream, like wot my grandparents used to have. I then got back to the road, where I'd hiked a reasonable distance out of town before being picked up by Thomas, whose 4x4 contained a very distinctive herbal aroma. He wouldn't be the last lift to offer me a bifter either; but being a good little citizen, I politely declined. I did accept his offer of choosing the soundtrack to his journey however, and Tom Waits was certainly a welcome change from the dire chart-pop that Astrid had been subjecting me to (no offence, hun). On the way into Dunedin we called at a hippy commune to rendezvous with Jeff, a dreadlocked fellow with a rainbow painted on the side of his old camper van. I also briefly met a chap in a top hat called Hank Mayhem, who owned a dog named Jesus who'd recently recovered from having been run over by a car. True but strange. He recommended a band to go and see in the Arc Café that evening, so I mandated to do so.
Dunedin (Celtic for 'Edinburgh') is pretty far from being a terrible place. The Scottish influence is fairly apparent - there's even a castle, which is certainly unique for a country with such a short history. There are plenty of students and hippies here, which gives the place a nice alternative atmosphere. And it's cheap. Oh yes. After a few ales and a great feed at the wonderful Inch Bar, the owner (Letch - another friend of Woody's) and his lady Sam dropped me off in town in a lovely old 1970s Merc, and I stumbled into the Arc Café. This was another fab place: free internet, one dollar pool, three dollar beer, brill vegetarian menu, and a music venue to boot. The band - Mëstar - were the best NZ band I've seen so far. Like a slightly more grungey You Am I. I was compelled to buy one of their 8" records, despite the rather obvious travelling impracticality (someone told me that if your vinyl gets bent, you can straighten it by putting it in the oven between two pieces of glass - apparently).
The rest of the evening was pretty odd. Bumped into Hank Mayhem again, whose top hat I had to try on this time (and it did look pretty damn fine on, if I do say so myself). Collared some random gal - Emma, a chef at the Arc - to be my pool partner, in order to do battle with Hank and his colleague. Emma then took me off to a rough-and-ready rock bar called The Crown, followed by a party in some art-student warehouse-cum-flophouse where the majority of revellers were mashed-up on mushrooms, and most of the furniture had stakes driven through it. Myself and one of said art students found ourselves falling into a bar at half-three with the intention of playing pool, but he abandoned me to my fate (presumably freaked-out by the bright lights and abundance of 'local' types). So I took on a couple of locals, and had a heated discourse about the merits (propounded by them) and demerits (propounded by me) of New Zealand pool rules. Whilst kicking their asses. Very satisfying indeed. There then followed a rather tired and drunken walk up a rather steep hill, towards a particularly welcoming bed.
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The Chopper-Riding Chopper-Riders
Not a great deal of note happened over the next few days. Astrid and I were stuck in Christchurch for longer than expected, as I had web-work to get done, and her car broke down. Hanging with JT and Mikie was great (cheers guys), but after five nights we were itching to get back on the road. We scooted off towards the end of my second week away, and Astrid and I parted in a tiny back-of-beyond town called Rangitata. When she dropped me off, there was only about ten minutes of daylight remaining, so getting picked up might prove to be a trial. And did anyone stop ? Did they fuck. This presented a concern, as there were only two buildings in Rangitata - neither of which provided accommodation. But at least one was an alery. So I phoned up to find out about passing buses, and headed to the Outside Inn for a few jars.
The place was managed by Karen and Neville. Karen instantly endeared herself to me by announcing in the first five minutes that "my daughter got me my belly-button pierced for Mother's Day. It's really sore - much more than I expected. It's really putting me off getting my clitoris done." It's amazing how unexpected filth from the mouth of a stranger can make you feel at home.
We nattered away for a bit before I was told about the impending visit from the 'Heli-Whores'. Now, as an annual knees-up, the staff from a nearby "strip-joint stroke knocking-shop" fly to the Outside Inn by helicopter, and there's a big private lock-in. Which involves professionals getting drunk, rowdy, and shaking their asses on the tables. I was told that the lid of the washing machine was still buckled from one of said staff bumping on top of it the year before. Karen noted that the girl in question had donned a chef's uniform to perform the deed. When the chef made a startled noise at this point, she was assured "don't worry hun - she was only wearing the top half". I was then cordially invited to attend the event, scheduled for the following Saturday. Now - this was an offer that would be difficult to refuse. It would throw me way off-route considering where I had envisioned myself being a week later. But there is something very compelling about the notion of being at a 'Heli-Whore' party. Not so much that I am a sleazy fellow... Don't get me wrong: I like naked tits as much as the next man - they certainly have their place (on ladies' chests, primarily). But it was just *so* conceptually amusing and intriguing, I found myself mandating to change my plans in order to show up. I mean - fuck - when am I ever gonna get invited to a 'Heli-Whores' party again ?
I left Rangitata a couple of hours later, and was sorry to be doing so. I couldn't believe that such an arse-end-of-nowhere nothing-town could yield such riches. So I swore to return, even though it would knock my intended journey out of kilter. But hey - my plan was to have no plan, so I guess I should remain fluid.
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There Is Nothing Like A Dane
After about 20 minutes walk, a young lady I recognised from the hostel the evening before pulled over. A good-looking, well-built Danish lady, no less. I thought that dumb luck like this was confined to American road movies, but evidently not. Astrid (for it was she) and I jabbered non-stop all the way to Christchurch; and by the time we were approaching the city limits, I was starting to become disappointed that the 2-and-a-half hour journey had gone so fast. I'd arranged to stay with JT, an Oirish friend of Watson's, who I'd met for a couple of days over Christmas in New Plymouth. When I realised that Astrid was at a bit of a loose end, I invited her to come and stay too. Which she was more than happy to do. Yay; and - indeed - woo.
We picked up some 'Starburst Babies' as a present for JT, met up, and yer man whisked us off over a hill and into Lyttelton - where we called for a few ales at the Wunderbar. It was a great little place which combined the kitsch with the creepy; the bathrooms were wallpapered with 'incorrect' ads from the 50s, and there was a lampshade made of dismembered dolls' heads - amongst other things - to feast over. After knocking up a curry for our hosts, JT and his flatmate (the permasmiling Mikey Nooney) took us out for a night in Christchurch.
The lowlights : the first fight I've seen in New Zealand; and being scuppered by bullshit NZ pool rules (only one shot after a foul - what the fuck's that all about ?).
The highlights : much everything else... Particularly a semi-acoustic three-piece in an Oirish pub playing a 15 minute folky medley which included snippets from 'Livin' On A Prayer', 'Sweet Child O' Mine', and 'I Believe In A Thing Called Love'; all sandwiched between two slices of '500 Miles' by The Proclaimers, which worked up into a furious jig at the end. Sweet.
We were staying in Sumner - a pleasant out-of-town area right on the beach. Seeing waves from the window first thing on a hungover Sunday left me with no choice. I hired a mini-mal and a suit from the local surf shop and headed for the crescents. Despite the fact that it was a glorious warm sunny day, the moment my toes touched the water, everything shrivelled. My hangover and my manhood disappeared into a gasp of misty breath. Today was the first day I felt the real benefit of 'warming' my wetsuit. Although I did feel a little bad about handing it back to the lovely young lady in the surf shop having done so. But I sincerely doubt that I was the first; nor will I be the last...
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Half-Nelson
So I had to say goodbye to the Finnish lovely, as she was heading up to Wellington; whereas Amelie, Sandy and I were heading west. As we parted, I told her that she was wonderful in Finnish (a surprisingly useful trick). And meant it. *Sigh*. Anyway, after a very twisty and palm-sweat-inducing ride in Amelie's camper over the mountains, I was dropped off in Nelson and then there was one.
Nelson was a bit of a waste of time, quite frankly. The outer regions weren't really worth visiting on account of the weather; and the town centre was filled with either faux-Oirish bars or sports/casino bars. The backpackers I stayed in the first night (Central Backpackers) was a big ole sack of ming; it was grubby and unfriendly (unless you count the thirty-odd mosquitos in the bathroom, who were a little too friendly for my liking). A character with whom I was sharing my dorm - Dennis - was so creepy that even looking at him made my ring clench. Not the best day I've had since I've been here; I ducked into a cinema and away from people.
Things picked up when I moved to a different hostel the next day. There I bumped into Amelie and Sandy again (it's a small island), and we got drunk, made merry, and offended the shit out of some South African bloke. Oops. The following day, Amelie went west, and Sandy and I hitched down to Kaikoura together. Our journey was broken into 4 rides (all guys, which I'm guessing Sandy was responsible for); one Englishman who came over for a holiday in the late 80s and never went back; a kayak instructor whose oar Sandy would have gladly grappled with; a kiwi chap who was a fountain of local knowledge (he even told us where we could buy some disused Harrier Jump-Jets); and an Israeli fellow called Shalom (great name). This fellow was kinda quiet but very direct and intense. All the Israeli blokes I've met seem to be like this - I guess the army'll do that to ya. He even had his old military goggles hanging from the rearview mirror. Nice touch.
Kaikoura is known for being quite a dramatic little place, with snow-capped mountains descending into the ocean; andf also for its marine life - you can go whale watching, or swim with dolphins or seals. All of this was lost on Sandy and I however, as we arrived after dark, and the following day was foggy and freezing. As such, the swims were cancelled, and the visibility was favourable for seeing a thick veil of dense wet cack, but whales and mountains were a lost cause. Boo. So we parted slightly disappointed. It was only as I was skipping town that a break appeared in the mist to reveal the peak of a massive snow-topped mountain looming over the town, and I got some vague idea of what the place was really all about. I mandated to return for another try before I left the South Island, and stuck out my thumb.
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