The Wellington Dominion Post is asking for well-written travel articles, so I wrote this. No idea whether they will print it - it's difficult to know what they are looking for.
We had a quick skim through their travel section for the past two months, just to make sure we didn't duplicate, and much had already been covered: Queenstown, Nelson, Chch, Dunedin.
So I chose to write about Haast because I think it's not an obvious destination, and because I think I'd found an interesting angle. Anyway, here it is:
Haast : Magnificent Desolation
Remoteness, isolation, desolation – three things you’re unlikely to demand from a holiday, I’m guessing.
Yet for some desolation can be inspiring and romantic. And so, yes, whilst New Zealand offers its fair share of extreme sports and snow-capped vistas, it also possesses something oft overlooked: nothing. Glorious, beautiful nothing.
If you’re someone who finds the idea of being miles from anywhere appealing, of being free from tinnitus-inducing ringtones and irate motorists, of finding space, then Haast, on the West Coast, maybe for you.
Myself and my girlfriend, travellers from the UK and Ireland respectively, never intended Haast to be more than an overnight stop en-route between Wanaka and Fox, but were soon won over by its rustic charm and magnificent desolation.
Nestling unassumingly on the West Coast, Haast consists of three main hubs: Haast Township, Haast Junction, Haast Beach. With a population of 297, the majority of “Haastafarians” live in the Township, a small pocket of civilisation, where you’ll find accommodation for most budgets, restaurant bar, mini-supermarket and, just up the road, the Visitors’ Centre.
But it’s not about Haast itself – it’s about its position within that beautiful nothingness. It was only when my girlfriend and I ventured out we really began to get a sense of the surrounding environs; the emptiness, the light, the space.
Heading South, we drove along a straight road that disappearing into the vanishing point, the ocean crashing on our left, clouds of wind-swept heather to our right.
Vast banks of wetlands soon scrolled into view, no doubt hiding a multitude of species. From bird life to seal and penguin colonies, nature is everywhere in the Haast region, as evidenced by the many organised river safaris running in the area.
Within a few minutes we had arrived at Okuru Beach, a deserted fishing hamlet, and took a walk along its craggy beach, the tide not so much coming in as seeping in from obtuse angles, sweeping into strange puddles, melting and eddying around jagged ancient the rock formations. We were the only people on the beach until a local resident joined us, a bright-eyed Labrador who insisted we play fetch with him. Soon he was gone, and we were alone once again.
From there it was on to Jackson Bay, about 45 minutes from Haast, and the southern-most point on the West Coast where the road just literally, well, ceases. Passing relatively few cars on the journey, we entered the village itself with a feeling that this really was New Zealand’s ultimate cul-de-sac. Not in a bad way, though; from Farewell Spit on New Zealand’s South Island to Land’s End back in the UK, there’s something inherently appealing about going as far as you can, venturing to the very edge, and this really was a frontier of sorts.
As if to echo my sentiments, hanging from shack, a splintered wooden sign, hand-painted in greasy green paint stated, “The End Of The Road ?”. I was intrigued by the question mark as, for me, there was no doubt – we really could go no further. Actually, it felt more like the end of the world.
Jackson Bay is another fishing village of some historical significance. Originally settled in 1875, immigrants hoping to start a new life found their hopes drowned as relentless downpours destroyed their farms. Pleas to the government for assistance in building a wharf were ignored, meaning the town was soon isolated and in need of vital supplies. Today, it is a privilege to actually enjoy that sense of isolation, for it was exactly that remoteness, that desolation that was be the downfall for those early settlers. Incidentally, a road to the village was not built until the 1960s and by then, the farming communities were long gone.
The modern day Jackson Bay has fishing very much at its heart. Rusted, salt-encrusted metal contraptions sit alongside all manner of hulking, spike-adorned paraphernalia. Meanwhile, below the wooden jetty, and amongst the frolicking seals, fishing boats bob on the grey water, their pilots clad in grimy waders and gum boots , their weather-beaten faces telling more than a thousand shanties ever could.
The Cray Pot provides the centrepiece to the village: a café in a portacabin serving fish and chips, whitebait and other locally-caught seafood. Totally authentic, it’s the perfect place to sit and tell tall tales of giant squids and mermaid sightings, and its reputation is such that blackboards advertising its wares can be found along the main road nearly all the way back to Haast.
After a day of big skies, near-silence and solitude we made our way back to Haast, calling in at Haast Beach on our return. A huge swathe of shale along the line of the coast, Haast Beach was, as expected, deserted, and strewn with oceanic bric-a-brac, the only sound the blustering wind and the crashing waves.
As the Sun cast long shadows in the golden twilight, and myself and my girlfriend meandered aimlessly along, I realised that Haast provided the perfect antidote to our previous two locations, Queenstown and Wanaka. Haast was quiet time. Haast was thinking time. Haast was alone time. Haast was great.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
When IQ Stands For “Idiotic Questions”
For as along as I can remember I’ve been a know-it-all. I’ve always liked knowing things. Facts, figures, nuggets of information - there always seemed to be something comforting about certainty, about the reliability and solidity of the truth.
I am aware that upon hearing talk of “truth” and “facts” the undergraduate-90s-me would immediately baulk, and claim ultimately a “fact” is something someone has subjectively deemed factual, and that in reality, truth is fluid and borne out of individual perspective.
Oh shut up. Bollocks to undegraduate-90s-me, frankly. Get back to your terraced house with the hilariously ironic posters and play Resident Evil instead of writing your essay.
I think it’s important to distinguish between contentious facts which would benefit from being challenged (eg The Vietnam War was a draw), and information which it benefits no one to over-analyse:
For instance, the following are definitely true:
* The UN replaced the League of Nations
* Czechoslovakia was split in two by The Velvet Revolution
* Spongebob Squarepants lives in Bikini Bottom
….and if any doubt remains, I looked them up on Wikipedia. And that really IS the truth.
But although my ability to retain facts, on occasions, impresses people, there’s always a few who apportion less value. In addition to dubbing me Rain Man and asking “how many matches?” at inopportune moments, Eavesie would also rib me by claiming I didn’t appreciate the difference between knowledge and, well, simply knowing things. I was good at trivia, he would declare, whereas he was knowledgeable. Knowledge was useful. Trivia was not. Ironically, I refused to accept that as fact.
But whereas Mark would claim there is only use for knowledge and not for trivia, I would draw his attention to that very British of institutions: The Pub Quiz.
Where else could fellow Smart Alecs demonstrate their skill? The sportsman has his field, the motoring enthusiast has his track, the artist her gallery. The pub quiz, then, is the domain of the Smart Arse.
We Don't Need No Education! Wait, Yes We Do
Now, I’ve been in a few pub quizzes in my time, and I’ve won a few too. But I don’t think I’ve been to any quite so poorly run as The Establishment on Courtenay Place.
Seeing as we’ve set up shop in Wellington for a while, we thought it would be good to have a regular social outing, and so Louise and I set out to find a pub quiz.
A regular team soon came into being, comprising myself, Louise, Katie and Tom (both who we met at Rowena’s) and we settled on The Establishment.
However, it soon came apparent, I think, within the first 8 minutes that, given the two “quizmasters” were seemingly about 12 years old, they should have probably concentrated on mastering reading, before they considered mastering quizzing.
Not only that, but despite my thoughts on the efficacy of the “fact”, I’m sure the undergraduate-90s-me would have been able to use their quiz as Exhibit A in demonstrating his case, for it’s been a while since I’ve seen facts being used in such a cavalier fashion.
We’ve attended a few times for the unintentional entertainment value and, over the weeks, the catalogue of errors has continued to build.
Crimes include, in no particular order:
* Reading out answers to questions not even asked, eliciting a unison chorus of “ Whoa! Eh?”
* Repeating the question, only to change the question second time round. “What’s the largest stone sculpture in the world?” was changed to “What’s the largest stone structure in the world?”.
* Playing music videos on the video wall for the “Name The Song” round, only for the captioned title to appear moments later, causing the gathered throng to throw up their arms in despair.
* Secretly dropping hints to teams at their table and then having to dash back to that table to exclaimed they’ve just realised they hinted at the wrong answer
* A reading age of around 7. “Answer to number 10……the capital of North Carolina is…..er…..oh….erm…… what’s that say?…..‘Relay?’”
* And then this beauty from earlier this week. One of them reads out: “The next round is the Linked Letter round. The first letter of each answer goes to making up a name. I’ll leave it up to you whether to tell the teams that the name is a recently deceased soul star turned actor….ah ….um……don’t think I should have read that last bit out”
….and of course we worked out quite quickly that the star was Isaac Hayes, meaning we now had the first letter to every answer. Nice going boys.
I think the problem is clearly that they are considerably less smart than the teams. Not that Stephen Hawking regularly attends or anything ( I imagine he could cheat by accessing Google from his chair ,anyway), but when you’ve got a room full of people who pride themselves on knowing things, on having the facts at their disposal, I suppose you need to be on your game, These two jokers are just completely out of their depth.
And now word reaches us that, down the road, the Cambridge’s Pub Quiz has a $200 first prize. So maybe we’ll give that a go. Who knows, maybe “trivia” will prove to be useful after all.
For as along as I can remember I’ve been a know-it-all. I’ve always liked knowing things. Facts, figures, nuggets of information - there always seemed to be something comforting about certainty, about the reliability and solidity of the truth.
I am aware that upon hearing talk of “truth” and “facts” the undergraduate-90s-me would immediately baulk, and claim ultimately a “fact” is something someone has subjectively deemed factual, and that in reality, truth is fluid and borne out of individual perspective.
Oh shut up. Bollocks to undegraduate-90s-me, frankly. Get back to your terraced house with the hilariously ironic posters and play Resident Evil instead of writing your essay.
I think it’s important to distinguish between contentious facts which would benefit from being challenged (eg The Vietnam War was a draw), and information which it benefits no one to over-analyse:
For instance, the following are definitely true:
* The UN replaced the League of Nations
* Czechoslovakia was split in two by The Velvet Revolution
* Spongebob Squarepants lives in Bikini Bottom
….and if any doubt remains, I looked them up on Wikipedia. And that really IS the truth.
But although my ability to retain facts, on occasions, impresses people, there’s always a few who apportion less value. In addition to dubbing me Rain Man and asking “how many matches?” at inopportune moments, Eavesie would also rib me by claiming I didn’t appreciate the difference between knowledge and, well, simply knowing things. I was good at trivia, he would declare, whereas he was knowledgeable. Knowledge was useful. Trivia was not. Ironically, I refused to accept that as fact.
But whereas Mark would claim there is only use for knowledge and not for trivia, I would draw his attention to that very British of institutions: The Pub Quiz.
Where else could fellow Smart Alecs demonstrate their skill? The sportsman has his field, the motoring enthusiast has his track, the artist her gallery. The pub quiz, then, is the domain of the Smart Arse.
We Don't Need No Education! Wait, Yes We Do
Now, I’ve been in a few pub quizzes in my time, and I’ve won a few too. But I don’t think I’ve been to any quite so poorly run as The Establishment on Courtenay Place.
Seeing as we’ve set up shop in Wellington for a while, we thought it would be good to have a regular social outing, and so Louise and I set out to find a pub quiz.
A regular team soon came into being, comprising myself, Louise, Katie and Tom (both who we met at Rowena’s) and we settled on The Establishment.
However, it soon came apparent, I think, within the first 8 minutes that, given the two “quizmasters” were seemingly about 12 years old, they should have probably concentrated on mastering reading, before they considered mastering quizzing.
Not only that, but despite my thoughts on the efficacy of the “fact”, I’m sure the undergraduate-90s-me would have been able to use their quiz as Exhibit A in demonstrating his case, for it’s been a while since I’ve seen facts being used in such a cavalier fashion.
We’ve attended a few times for the unintentional entertainment value and, over the weeks, the catalogue of errors has continued to build.
Crimes include, in no particular order:
* Reading out answers to questions not even asked, eliciting a unison chorus of “ Whoa! Eh?”
* Repeating the question, only to change the question second time round. “What’s the largest stone sculpture in the world?” was changed to “What’s the largest stone structure in the world?”.
* Playing music videos on the video wall for the “Name The Song” round, only for the captioned title to appear moments later, causing the gathered throng to throw up their arms in despair.
* Secretly dropping hints to teams at their table and then having to dash back to that table to exclaimed they’ve just realised they hinted at the wrong answer
* A reading age of around 7. “Answer to number 10……the capital of North Carolina is…..er…..oh….erm…… what’s that say?…..‘Relay?’”
* And then this beauty from earlier this week. One of them reads out: “The next round is the Linked Letter round. The first letter of each answer goes to making up a name. I’ll leave it up to you whether to tell the teams that the name is a recently deceased soul star turned actor….ah ….um……don’t think I should have read that last bit out”
….and of course we worked out quite quickly that the star was Isaac Hayes, meaning we now had the first letter to every answer. Nice going boys.
I think the problem is clearly that they are considerably less smart than the teams. Not that Stephen Hawking regularly attends or anything ( I imagine he could cheat by accessing Google from his chair ,anyway), but when you’ve got a room full of people who pride themselves on knowing things, on having the facts at their disposal, I suppose you need to be on your game, These two jokers are just completely out of their depth.
And now word reaches us that, down the road, the Cambridge’s Pub Quiz has a $200 first prize. So maybe we’ll give that a go. Who knows, maybe “trivia” will prove to be useful after all.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Faulty Towers
So we needed somewhere to live.
When we set off the next day in search of a new hostel, armed only with a mapful of scribbles, there was something gnawing insistently at the back of my bonce; a half-remembered thought or an idea trying to burrow to the surface. A bit like when you think: Did I leave the gas on? Or did I remember to Sky Plus Top Gear?
Speaking of burrowing, Louise had woken to find herself bitten by bedbugs in the night; a fitting send-off, I think. Double Vs flicked up to Worldwide Backpackers then. And a raspberry. I don’t know how you type a raspberry. Probably: “plbbbbbbblpblbplbpbb”
First contender for our new home: Lodge In The City - a dusty, balsawood museum of boredom with rooms straight out of a 70’s porno - 1870s that is (“Good morning Ma’am, I have come to fix your traction engine”).
Next were YHA and Wellywood, neither of whom would allow a longer term stay, and so finally, on the basis that initial examination deemed it “adequate”, we settled on Rowena’s.
Rowena’s
Over the course of the coming week, however, it became apparent that Rowena’s, too, was a nuthouse: There were huge bowls of fuzz hidden at the back of the fridge. There were ants in the kitchen. The TV room closed at 10.30 because a week previously a disagreement over the TV channel had resulted in someone being lamped.
The clientele were “unique” too, the most notable of which was “Star” the Samoan, who every night would sit at the piano (where did that come from?), turn on the radio, and start hammering enthusiastically away at random keys, as if playing along to the song.
It was clear, however, that Star had had little musical training and probably thought A Minor was someone who worked down a pit, B Major was the one in charge of the Bee Army and A Flat was what his Mum lived in
The result from the man who didn’t know one end of the piano from the other (and I suspect the difference between left and right), was a cacophonous jumble of mad, stomping, out –of-tune piano and the New Zealand Top 40. It was funny for the first 10 minutes. Then it wasn’t funny.
And then there’s Murray, the manager. Murray is a puckering sphincter of a man. A 65-year-old elephantine, hatchet-faced shitbag. A man so miserable and unhelpful he makes American Customs Officials look like The Red Cross. A man who views his guests like a boil on his cock. A man who reminds people their rent is due by accosting them with “You owe me money!”. A man who keeps the Sky remote behind reception and responds to guests requests to change the channel with “I’ve got better things to do than change the fucking channel”.
And the thing that had been knocking on the door of my brain, finally crawled in through the back window. I remembered, weeks ago and 500 miles away in the relative comfort of the Brown Kiwi, Bev had warned me that there were no decent hostels in Wellington. None.
And now I could see what she meant.
So we needed somewhere to live.
When we set off the next day in search of a new hostel, armed only with a mapful of scribbles, there was something gnawing insistently at the back of my bonce; a half-remembered thought or an idea trying to burrow to the surface. A bit like when you think: Did I leave the gas on? Or did I remember to Sky Plus Top Gear?
Speaking of burrowing, Louise had woken to find herself bitten by bedbugs in the night; a fitting send-off, I think. Double Vs flicked up to Worldwide Backpackers then. And a raspberry. I don’t know how you type a raspberry. Probably: “plbbbbbbblpblbplbpbb”
First contender for our new home: Lodge In The City - a dusty, balsawood museum of boredom with rooms straight out of a 70’s porno - 1870s that is (“Good morning Ma’am, I have come to fix your traction engine”).
Next were YHA and Wellywood, neither of whom would allow a longer term stay, and so finally, on the basis that initial examination deemed it “adequate”, we settled on Rowena’s.
Rowena’s
Over the course of the coming week, however, it became apparent that Rowena’s, too, was a nuthouse: There were huge bowls of fuzz hidden at the back of the fridge. There were ants in the kitchen. The TV room closed at 10.30 because a week previously a disagreement over the TV channel had resulted in someone being lamped.
The clientele were “unique” too, the most notable of which was “Star” the Samoan, who every night would sit at the piano (where did that come from?), turn on the radio, and start hammering enthusiastically away at random keys, as if playing along to the song.
It was clear, however, that Star had had little musical training and probably thought A Minor was someone who worked down a pit, B Major was the one in charge of the Bee Army and A Flat was what his Mum lived in
The result from the man who didn’t know one end of the piano from the other (and I suspect the difference between left and right), was a cacophonous jumble of mad, stomping, out –of-tune piano and the New Zealand Top 40. It was funny for the first 10 minutes. Then it wasn’t funny.
And then there’s Murray, the manager. Murray is a puckering sphincter of a man. A 65-year-old elephantine, hatchet-faced shitbag. A man so miserable and unhelpful he makes American Customs Officials look like The Red Cross. A man who views his guests like a boil on his cock. A man who reminds people their rent is due by accosting them with “You owe me money!”. A man who keeps the Sky remote behind reception and responds to guests requests to change the channel with “I’ve got better things to do than change the fucking channel”.
And the thing that had been knocking on the door of my brain, finally crawled in through the back window. I remembered, weeks ago and 500 miles away in the relative comfort of the Brown Kiwi, Bev had warned me that there were no decent hostels in Wellington. None.
And now I could see what she meant.
Give It Some Welly
So, sadly, our South Island adventure was over. The plan was to make like Jonathan Ross and lay low for a bit.
Wellington beckoned, where we would set-up shop, restock the coffers and rest-up after a tough month of tourism. I say “tough” when, really, I suppose I mean “nice”.
Where There’s A Welly There’s A Way
Things didn’t go according to plan right from the off. We had decided to go all Phileas Fogg and use a combination of train and boat. Sadly, hot air balloon and camel were vetoed at the last minute.
We said goodbye to Louise’s friends and perfect hosts, Jye and Angie, at 6.30am, boarded the train at 7am, and by 9am we were already late. The only saving grace was that apparently the boat was late too. I bet Michael Palin didn’t have to put up with this.
After an uneventful boat journey where I was charged so much for a papercup full of chicken nuggets, I considered writing to Gordon Brown for a bailout, we drifted cheerfully into Wellington harbour.
Within an hour, we had already found our hostel, and already been disappointed. Steve, the bloke behind reception looked like he had been awake after a night at the Monster Truck Race, with his baseball cap and Castrol-stained lumberjack shirt. He charged us for our bedding, looked confused, confided in us that he “ran a Mickey Mouse operation”, and went back to looking confused again. This was the highest rating hostel in Wellington, by the way.
And he’d put us in Room 1. Room 1 is never a good room. Room 27 is a good room. Room 43 is a good room. It’s usually far away from other rooms, on a higher floor, or perhaps out back where it’s quiet. Room 1, however, is always next to something, like the reception, the kitchen or the TV room. In this case, we were slap bang in the middle of all three. And it was a Saturday night. And the rugby final was on. Not good if you’ve got up at 5am. Shit.
Put The (Wellington) Boot In
I think Steve knew I wasn’t happy. Maybe he was a people person, maybe he had a highly-attuned sense of empathy and was eternally hypersensitive to customer satisfaction. Or maybe he saw me continually re-shutting the kitchen door every 5 minutes to block out the noise and slowly twigged.
He found me in the TV room, and played it all matey. “Is it too loud?” he asked. “To be honest – yes” I said, being honest. “Oh I’m sorry” he started but then, just when I thought I had him onside, he changed tone “only I didn’t think with being in New Zealand’s most social city on the night of the rugby final, anyone would want to go to bed at 9.30”
“It’s a democracy” he added with a hurt expression “And I have to go with the majority, Phil” He added my name on the end in a passive-aggressive attempt to portray himself as the “reasonable one” – as if to say “I’m doing my best here – you’re the one who’s making hysterical demands” role.
But this wasn’t a democracy. It was more like tyranny of the majority. And we all know what majorities do. They do things like vote in George Bush. Twice. Imagine if Steve ran a pub: “Can I have a white wine please?”, “No sorry. Everyone’s getting hammered on tequila shots. I’ve got to go with the majority, Phil”
The best hostels are run so residents are free to fill their time how they wish without imposing upon each other. Steve should have been able to say: Want to spend the evening speed-reading Harry Potter? Be my guests. Want to get drunk with those other guests? Knock yourself out. Want to knock yourself out? My pleasure. Want some of my pleasure? Well I draw the line somewhere.
Democracy is also about choice. And I choose not to get hammered and watch the rugby, so can I go to bed please?
And I did get to bed eventually after a room swap and an elaborate system of sound dampening involving both my earplugs and my iPod. There wasn’t a lot of room in there when I’d done.
It was clear we had to find alternative accommodation. And so that would be our task for the next day.
So, sadly, our South Island adventure was over. The plan was to make like Jonathan Ross and lay low for a bit.
Wellington beckoned, where we would set-up shop, restock the coffers and rest-up after a tough month of tourism. I say “tough” when, really, I suppose I mean “nice”.
Where There’s A Welly There’s A Way
Things didn’t go according to plan right from the off. We had decided to go all Phileas Fogg and use a combination of train and boat. Sadly, hot air balloon and camel were vetoed at the last minute.
We said goodbye to Louise’s friends and perfect hosts, Jye and Angie, at 6.30am, boarded the train at 7am, and by 9am we were already late. The only saving grace was that apparently the boat was late too. I bet Michael Palin didn’t have to put up with this.
After an uneventful boat journey where I was charged so much for a papercup full of chicken nuggets, I considered writing to Gordon Brown for a bailout, we drifted cheerfully into Wellington harbour.
Within an hour, we had already found our hostel, and already been disappointed. Steve, the bloke behind reception looked like he had been awake after a night at the Monster Truck Race, with his baseball cap and Castrol-stained lumberjack shirt. He charged us for our bedding, looked confused, confided in us that he “ran a Mickey Mouse operation”, and went back to looking confused again. This was the highest rating hostel in Wellington, by the way.
And he’d put us in Room 1. Room 1 is never a good room. Room 27 is a good room. Room 43 is a good room. It’s usually far away from other rooms, on a higher floor, or perhaps out back where it’s quiet. Room 1, however, is always next to something, like the reception, the kitchen or the TV room. In this case, we were slap bang in the middle of all three. And it was a Saturday night. And the rugby final was on. Not good if you’ve got up at 5am. Shit.
Put The (Wellington) Boot In
I think Steve knew I wasn’t happy. Maybe he was a people person, maybe he had a highly-attuned sense of empathy and was eternally hypersensitive to customer satisfaction. Or maybe he saw me continually re-shutting the kitchen door every 5 minutes to block out the noise and slowly twigged.
He found me in the TV room, and played it all matey. “Is it too loud?” he asked. “To be honest – yes” I said, being honest. “Oh I’m sorry” he started but then, just when I thought I had him onside, he changed tone “only I didn’t think with being in New Zealand’s most social city on the night of the rugby final, anyone would want to go to bed at 9.30”
“It’s a democracy” he added with a hurt expression “And I have to go with the majority, Phil” He added my name on the end in a passive-aggressive attempt to portray himself as the “reasonable one” – as if to say “I’m doing my best here – you’re the one who’s making hysterical demands” role.
But this wasn’t a democracy. It was more like tyranny of the majority. And we all know what majorities do. They do things like vote in George Bush. Twice. Imagine if Steve ran a pub: “Can I have a white wine please?”, “No sorry. Everyone’s getting hammered on tequila shots. I’ve got to go with the majority, Phil”
The best hostels are run so residents are free to fill their time how they wish without imposing upon each other. Steve should have been able to say: Want to spend the evening speed-reading Harry Potter? Be my guests. Want to get drunk with those other guests? Knock yourself out. Want to knock yourself out? My pleasure. Want some of my pleasure? Well I draw the line somewhere.
Democracy is also about choice. And I choose not to get hammered and watch the rugby, so can I go to bed please?
And I did get to bed eventually after a room swap and an elaborate system of sound dampening involving both my earplugs and my iPod. There wasn’t a lot of room in there when I’d done.
It was clear we had to find alternative accommodation. And so that would be our task for the next day.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Life In The Freezer
Stoned
Back to Christchurch, then.
We dropped the car back at the airport, surreptitiously standing right in front of the newly-formed dent in the back of the bumper where Louise had reversed the car into a wall the night before.
Standing in front of the golf ball-sized stone-chip in the windscreen, however, wasn't an option, as this would have meant splaying myself across the front of the car like a starfish. And that kind of thing just attracts attention.
Fortunately, the Antarctic Centre was only stones-throw away from the drop-off point, although by that point if anyone had have mentioned the words "throw" and "stone" to me, I wouldn't have been best pleased as the broken windscreen ended up costing me $350.
So, The Antarctic Centre then. Now I've visited a lot of museums over the years, so wandering round I felt an overwhelming sense of "same old-same old" wash over me. You see the centre succumbed to a few of the banal museum-cliches. So, cue the Fluff Freeman music pop-pickers, for here's what Museums do wrong.
What Museums Do Wrong........
10. In at 10, the misapprehension that putting things behind glass automatically makes them more interesting. To make them even more fascinating, why not shroud them in darkness, and have visitors press a chunky button to illuminate the exhibit?
"Ooh I wonder what it is" (presses button) "Oh, a sepia photo of a quarry. Wow, didn't see that coming!"
9. New entry at 9 - shonky Marks and Sparks mannequins half-heartedly dressed in appropriate/period attire like some pikey Madame Tussauds, whilst an out of work "ac-taw" hams it up via concealed speaker, opining on the subject of wiping Edward II's arse or something, with a BBC special effects LP clattering in the background like it was recorded in an airing cupboard. Grrr.
8. In at 8, walls and walls and walls of writing. No one has the time or inclination to read what amounts to a chapter of history book. If they did they'd go around nailing Simon Schama books to the wall.
7. Down from 9, it's out of date technology. Flashing LED lights, green screened monitors, chunky Acorn Electron-style keyboards all seek to reinforce the fustiness and anachronistic nature of the exhibits. Anything that looks like the set of Blake's 7 is not good.
6. In at 6, barely-audible looped VHSs, burning themselves out on a 1980s TV in a deserted corner of the museum. People always miss the start, and are not exactly compelled by the bloke with big sideboards and leather elbow patches wandering through marshland pointing, whilst Dr Who-esque primitive synthesiser music buzzes in the background.
5....er....I've run out, but you get the general idea.
The Solution
We live in the information age. The internet can provide in-depth video, audio and text for anyone interested in any subject. So the museum must provide more: They must provide true interactivity and real experience. They must provide sensation and immersion.
I'm not singling out the Antarctic Centre in particular as, in fairness, it did go someway to addressing these issues:
First the Storm Chamber. Clad in an oversized Arctic jacket, we were ushered into a freezing frieze festooned with fake snow, where the temperature was slowly lowered to -8c, before the mighty fans started up, lowering it further, through windchill, to -18c. I felt like a freezepop, but it was an experience you would have been hard pushed to recreate in a library or sat in front of your PC.
Second, the Hagglund - a Swedish-designed, double-trailered, tank-tracked exploration vehicle. The Hagglung was advertised as providing an authentic Arctic experience on specially prepared hostile terrain adjacent to the musuem.
Better Than A Volvo
Louise sat this one out, so myself and Claire (an Auckland friend who had recently relocated to Chch) clambered in. It was only after we'd bought our tickets that we saw the warning sign saying "you must be fit enough to brace for impact".
By the time I was being rammed and slammed against the pointy metal interior and by the time the vehicle was powering down pyramidial mounds of earth at breakneck speeds, creating that stomach-churning drop felt during aeroplane turbulence, and by the time I remembered I didn't like rollercoasters, or anything like a rollercoasters, and despite the Geordie drivers alarmingly calm commentary about how explorers spent 5 hours straight in this thing spanning crevasses and tipping right over on their side, and by the time we submerged door-high in ditchwater, it was too late.
I was hoping Claire's rictus grin was also one of mild panic, echoing my own "why did I think this was a good idea?" sentiment.
But despite the fact I'd just spent the last 12 minutes violently lolling my head from side to side like Stevie Wonder in a Sherman Tank, it was an experience that could not be created elsewhere. And above all it was authentic - a window in to a different world. Literally virtual reality.
And that's what I want from a museum.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Akaroaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
One night in The Jailhouse and then we were off to Akaroa, a beautiful headland off the South East of Christchurch.
We checked into the deserted but homely hostel, snuck out for fish and chips, ice-cream and post-cards, and then readied ourself for the penguin safari.
Christ, that was hairy. Talk about expectation versus reality. I thought we'd just be driven to a beach, pointed at some waddling throng, and that'd be it.
This is actually what happened. A 60-year old woman turned up in a van, and then preceded to drive us up gradients so steep that only 4x4 were permitted along the path. If I'd let go of my camera it would have hit the back windscreen.
As time went by the path got narrower, the floor fell even further away, the engine note changed from a low D to a high C sharp as it struggled against the gradient, the concrete turned to chippings and everyone started to look a little bit uncomfortable and tighten their seatbelt. As if that would make a difference.
"Don't worry," said the ageing driver through her mounted mic "I've been driving along this road 30 years and I've never had an accident". Yes, I thought, but you weren't 65 for most of those 30 years.
After a 45 minutes of 45 degree ascent and then 45 degree descent along a track barely wide enough for a car, we arrived at her homestead - a remote shack in the wilderness - whereupon she ushered us out along a darkening cliff path to glimpse blue, yellow eye and white flipper penguins through binoculars. Hmmm... not exactly Attenborough. Don't think I'll ever become a twitcher.
After 30 minutes of squinting and pointing, it was back into the van for a less fraught return as, in the pitch black, I couldn't see the 200ft drops either side of the track. As Akaroa came back into sight, it was like coming to land at an airport -the Christmas lights of the town sprawling out in front of us.
We checked into the deserted but homely hostel, snuck out for fish and chips, ice-cream and post-cards, and then readied ourself for the penguin safari.
Christ, that was hairy. Talk about expectation versus reality. I thought we'd just be driven to a beach, pointed at some waddling throng, and that'd be it.
This is actually what happened. A 60-year old woman turned up in a van, and then preceded to drive us up gradients so steep that only 4x4 were permitted along the path. If I'd let go of my camera it would have hit the back windscreen.
As time went by the path got narrower, the floor fell even further away, the engine note changed from a low D to a high C sharp as it struggled against the gradient, the concrete turned to chippings and everyone started to look a little bit uncomfortable and tighten their seatbelt. As if that would make a difference.
"Don't worry," said the ageing driver through her mounted mic "I've been driving along this road 30 years and I've never had an accident". Yes, I thought, but you weren't 65 for most of those 30 years.
After a 45 minutes of 45 degree ascent and then 45 degree descent along a track barely wide enough for a car, we arrived at her homestead - a remote shack in the wilderness - whereupon she ushered us out along a darkening cliff path to glimpse blue, yellow eye and white flipper penguins through binoculars. Hmmm... not exactly Attenborough. Don't think I'll ever become a twitcher.
After 30 minutes of squinting and pointing, it was back into the van for a less fraught return as, in the pitch black, I couldn't see the 200ft drops either side of the track. As Akaroa came back into sight, it was like coming to land at an airport -the Christmas lights of the town sprawling out in front of us.
Go To Jail
It seemed fitting that upon arrival in Christchurch, we were met with a torrential downpour. Four weeks ago, in this very city, and fresh off the plane we had been pelted by the elements.
We made straight for our hostel, The Jailhouse, through road-spray and the smudge of brake lights. The Jailhouse, as the name suggests, is a converted jail; the structure minimally altered, the rooms preserved, the modern concessions (internet/DVD lounge) hidden away.
Naturally, the rooms are former cells: whitewashed with a high-arched ceilings and a huge cast iron door which close with a jarring clunkthunk. Look down from the gantry and you'll see a long row of of dining tables deep in the bowels of the building. "Norman Stanley Fletcher...You are an habitual criminal, who accepts arrest as an occupational hazard, and presumably accepts imprisonment in the same casual manner"
Actually, though the Jailhouse was immaculate, well-maintained and, indeed, a novelty, it was a bit depressing: Cold and functional. It was an involving experience, but ultimately I wouldn't have fancied spending too much time there.
Later as I was packing the car to leave, an Maori bloke cutting the grass wandered over. "Is it still a prison" he asked "Er...no" I replied. "Oh" he continued "Only I used to live in that house there" he said pointing to a nearby estate ".... and prisoners who had escaped used to jump into my back garden".
I recounted this story to the guy on reception as I was checking out "Oh that's nothing" he added "We sometimes get former inmates back here, asking if they can have a reminisce. They wander round going 'Aaah, I was beaten senseless by a guard just where you're standing.....them were the days'"
Monday, October 06, 2008
North Of South
The next week saw us skittering across the North coast of the South Island, bouncing between towns, rarely staying anywhere for more than a night.
The Mad Mile
Motueka was first, a night's stop and up to Marahau to catch the water taxi, a deceptively fast boat which scythed through the waves and bombed and slammed along the surface of the water.
"Right,", said the driver after 15 minutes of spine-jarring, stomach-churning, slam-bangs into the water, "this stretch of water coming up is called The Mad Mile. It gets a bit choppy now". Great.
After being dumped as close as possible to the beach, and having leapt from the stern on to the sand (one woman, about to embark on a 6 hour walk, mistimed her jump and landed knee deep in the sea), we followed the Abel Tasman track for two hours from beach to beach, before having to reverse the process and, this time, wade out to the boat, floating nearby and trying desperatelty not to get stuck on the sand.
I had already mentally prepared for journey, as when I'd booked the hostel a few days previously the (Scottish) hostel manager had warned "Go steady on that hill, won't you?".
And, yes, Takaka Hill was steep. It's at times like this you wonder whether Chris Bonnington lives local and runs a taxi firm. Wishful thinking, maybe.
Tight turn after tight turn and identical hairpin after identical hairpin, I had an overwhelming sense of climbing higher and higher towards something significant. I wouldn't have been entirely surprised if the International Space Station had drifted past.
Now, as I reached the peak, the clouds were in, and soon I wasn't so much under the weather, as in it, and then above it. Solitary outhouses loomed out the mist, and road snaked away into wispy nothing.
1st gear, 2nd gear, 1st gear, 2nd gear, by now my arms and legs were getting tired: Accelerate and change up along the straight; brake and change down at the 15kph corner; full lock then accelerate away. Repeat the cycle every 30 seconds.
Suddenly the front of the car was pointing downwards; this was the descent. After another 5 minutes of vertiginous, downwards spiralling, I had reached the "other side". After the dingy ascent through crescent after crescent of hazy mist and grey drizzle, I had broken through, and there in front of me lay the greenest valley, speared by lattices of sunlight.
Spurred on by the sight, I continued to steer the car round the bends, diagonal double-back after diagonal double-back, filled an overwhelming sense of "coming into land", as I spied the main road through the base of the valley.
An amazing sight, but behind me the steady procession of drivers locked in concentration, prevented me from stopping to take a photo. And Louise was fast asleep through of this.
Takaka
After a 3 week run of great hostels, right from homeliest of homestays in Te Anau to the semi -hotel in Nelson, we were beginning to think that maybe the South Island knew nothing of the cramped room, the dodgy bed linen, the all-night raver, the apathetic hostel manager.
Ha. That changed when we arrived in Takaka. I found the hostel owner at the back, splayed out on a plastic chair, wearing a battered straw hat and smoking a fag and looking for all the world like she was on a sun-lounger in Benidorm.
She ushered me to the double room, and the moment the door swung open, I was just filled with a deflating sense of disappointment. The "room" was essentially a conservatory nailed on the front of the house, comprising 90% window (even goldfish have more privacy) and double bed wedged so tightly between the walls that to climb into bed you had to stand at the foot and scabbled on to it.
I can imagine the conversation that spawned that room: "I reckon I can get a double bed in there" says the first "You're joking. It's a conservatory, we're supposed to put whicker chairs and fit it out with Kerry Burgundy Tiles" says the second "Nope, I reckon I can do it...watch this" says the second, and then spends the afternoon taking all the paint off the room trying to shoehorn the bed in.
An early night wasn't the answer either: the staff decided to have a rave up with some French people until 3 in the morning. Brilliant.
Nelson -Blenheim -Kaikoura - Hanmer
We bolted from Takaka the next day, back over the mountain and back to Accents where we were guaranteed of a decent room. We picked up Louise's fixed lens from Peter and went out to celebrate our 1 year anniversary at a fish restaurant, The Boat Shed Cafe, located on its very own pier.
The next few days were all too brief. First, a short hop to Blenheim, permanently stuck in 1981 with its Tamworth-esque town planning, where I acted as taxi driver, ferrying Louise from tasting to tasting, before heading off to Kaikoura for the night.
Kaikoura was stunning. It's certainly the only place where I've ever seen snow-capped mountains fall into the sea. But, yet again, considering our previous whale watching trip in Sydney and with time running out on the hirecar, Christchurch was calling.
Another stop at Hanmer Springs for a full body massage (no happy finish, thank god), and we were heading back to where it all started at Christchurch.
Soon our South Island adventure would be over. We needed a plan
Kaikoura Beach
The Mad Mile
Motueka was first, a night's stop and up to Marahau to catch the water taxi, a deceptively fast boat which scythed through the waves and bombed and slammed along the surface of the water.
"Right,", said the driver after 15 minutes of spine-jarring, stomach-churning, slam-bangs into the water, "this stretch of water coming up is called The Mad Mile. It gets a bit choppy now". Great.
After being dumped as close as possible to the beach, and having leapt from the stern on to the sand (one woman, about to embark on a 6 hour walk, mistimed her jump and landed knee deep in the sea), we followed the Abel Tasman track for two hours from beach to beach, before having to reverse the process and, this time, wade out to the boat, floating nearby and trying desperatelty not to get stuck on the sand.
Climb Every Mountain
After another session in the water taxi, divebombing into the sea from what seemed an ever-increasing height, we were dragged to the shore by a 1920's tractor, and piled into the car ready for Takaka.I had already mentally prepared for journey, as when I'd booked the hostel a few days previously the (Scottish) hostel manager had warned "Go steady on that hill, won't you?".
And, yes, Takaka Hill was steep. It's at times like this you wonder whether Chris Bonnington lives local and runs a taxi firm. Wishful thinking, maybe.
Tight turn after tight turn and identical hairpin after identical hairpin, I had an overwhelming sense of climbing higher and higher towards something significant. I wouldn't have been entirely surprised if the International Space Station had drifted past.
Now, as I reached the peak, the clouds were in, and soon I wasn't so much under the weather, as in it, and then above it. Solitary outhouses loomed out the mist, and road snaked away into wispy nothing.
1st gear, 2nd gear, 1st gear, 2nd gear, by now my arms and legs were getting tired: Accelerate and change up along the straight; brake and change down at the 15kph corner; full lock then accelerate away. Repeat the cycle every 30 seconds.
Suddenly the front of the car was pointing downwards; this was the descent. After another 5 minutes of vertiginous, downwards spiralling, I had reached the "other side". After the dingy ascent through crescent after crescent of hazy mist and grey drizzle, I had broken through, and there in front of me lay the greenest valley, speared by lattices of sunlight.
Spurred on by the sight, I continued to steer the car round the bends, diagonal double-back after diagonal double-back, filled an overwhelming sense of "coming into land", as I spied the main road through the base of the valley.
An amazing sight, but behind me the steady procession of drivers locked in concentration, prevented me from stopping to take a photo. And Louise was fast asleep through of this.
Takaka
After a 3 week run of great hostels, right from homeliest of homestays in Te Anau to the semi -hotel in Nelson, we were beginning to think that maybe the South Island knew nothing of the cramped room, the dodgy bed linen, the all-night raver, the apathetic hostel manager.
Ha. That changed when we arrived in Takaka. I found the hostel owner at the back, splayed out on a plastic chair, wearing a battered straw hat and smoking a fag and looking for all the world like she was on a sun-lounger in Benidorm.
She ushered me to the double room, and the moment the door swung open, I was just filled with a deflating sense of disappointment. The "room" was essentially a conservatory nailed on the front of the house, comprising 90% window (even goldfish have more privacy) and double bed wedged so tightly between the walls that to climb into bed you had to stand at the foot and scabbled on to it.
I can imagine the conversation that spawned that room: "I reckon I can get a double bed in there" says the first "You're joking. It's a conservatory, we're supposed to put whicker chairs and fit it out with Kerry Burgundy Tiles" says the second "Nope, I reckon I can do it...watch this" says the second, and then spends the afternoon taking all the paint off the room trying to shoehorn the bed in.
An early night wasn't the answer either: the staff decided to have a rave up with some French people until 3 in the morning. Brilliant.
Nelson -Blenheim -Kaikoura - Hanmer
We bolted from Takaka the next day, back over the mountain and back to Accents where we were guaranteed of a decent room. We picked up Louise's fixed lens from Peter and went out to celebrate our 1 year anniversary at a fish restaurant, The Boat Shed Cafe, located on its very own pier.
The next few days were all too brief. First, a short hop to Blenheim, permanently stuck in 1981 with its Tamworth-esque town planning, where I acted as taxi driver, ferrying Louise from tasting to tasting, before heading off to Kaikoura for the night.
Kaikoura was stunning. It's certainly the only place where I've ever seen snow-capped mountains fall into the sea. But, yet again, considering our previous whale watching trip in Sydney and with time running out on the hirecar, Christchurch was calling.
Another stop at Hanmer Springs for a full body massage (no happy finish, thank god), and we were heading back to where it all started at Christchurch.
Soon our South Island adventure would be over. We needed a plan
Kaikoura Beach
Friday, October 03, 2008
Coast To Coast
"Greyhole"
The plan was to carry on up the coast to Greymouth for an overnight stop, before we had to peel away from the shoreline and head towards Nelson.
Greymouth was indeed preceded by its reputation. Louise's friends Jye and Angie had recently moved away from the town, and had given it the moniker "Greyhole", and then used it so frequently that a third friend, not a Kiwi, walked into a travel agent and asked how to get to "Greyhole" , and was met with a blank stare.
And, as if to confirm Greymouth's status as an undesirable location, upon entry we were met by a huge hoarding stating "Kids who are into sport, stay out of court". But if this was indeed a hole, we saw little evidence: it wasn't particularly dirty, or down at heel. It was just, well, a town. Like Leek in Staffordshire, except with a few more Maoris.
Admittedly, the hostel, Noah's Ark seemed misplaced. A huge wooden manor house with mid-air verandas on every side, massive and deserted. Each of its rooms featured an animal theme (ours was festooned with zebra stripes), and entertainment was provided in the shape of an old piano, log fire, the biggest TV I've ever seen in hostel and finally, Bez the four month old labrador, who came with an accompanying health warning magnetted to the fridge: "please do not give Bez milk - it gives him the shits".
Lord! Nelson
We left early next morning, after having another quick squint round the town and headed for Nelson.
Nelson's had a reputation too as, nestled in the North of the South Island, it had been dubbed "the most liveable city" in New Zealand. We arrived after 4 hour drive through the rain, saw little of the town and made straight for the hostel, Accents On The Park.
Accents On The Park. Best Hostel Ever. Fact.
Imagine your typical backpackers: run down building, former nunnery/Victorian manor house/borstal, crammed full with cheap bunk beds and even cheaper bed linen, kitchen consisting of a few electric rings and a microwave from 1983, and one dedicated "entertainment" room with a old TV overbalanced on a bracket high on the wall.
Not Accents On The Park. This was to be an exercise in what a backpackers COULD be if hostel staff weren't too drunk/idle/absent to do anything about it.
We entered onto a thick shagpile carpet, and approached the huge gold trimmed mahogany desk, certain we had accidentally stepped into The Ramada Nelson. Our double room was down the corridor past the thick armchairs in the lobby. Lobby. In a backpackers. The bedroom had bathtowels neatly folded on top of the snazzy, new bedlinen. There was a sink, his and hers bedside lamps, a wardrobe, a parking space and, the best bit, a double-sided Do Not Disturb/Make Up My Room sign to hang on the door. All this for $33 each. That's 12 quid a night.
Nelson didn't disappoint either. The next day the Sun was out, revealing a compact but pleasant town with some great cafes, and a beach 15 minutes from town. Indeed, it was a very liveable town. Big enough to attract a host of supermarkets and shops, but small enough to retain a sense of community and small town buzz.
Mr Fixit
A trip round Nelson's camera shops had proved disappointing: Louise's broken lens was eliciting a fair amount of gurning and whistling from the experts: "Hmmm.....I think that's going to have to go back to Auckland. Might be cheaper to buy a new one" some of them said before gesturing to the new lenses tucked inside glass cases in their window displays.
That was not an option and Louise maintained that we needed "a little man", meaning a boffin, an expert, an enthusiast, and not some Kodak-sponsored camera shop who had no real on-site expertise.
Luckily one shop knew "a little man", and scribbled a name and a phone number on a piece of paper, adding "Go and see Peter". After a phone call we were off round some more first gear corners, zig-zagging up a steep incline to the summit of a hill, possibly an old volcano, only a few minutes from town.
I pulled up on the 45 degree driveway and wrenched the handbrake up firmly. If the car rolled away here it wouldn't stop until it was back in Queenstown. I also stuck it in gear for good measure.
The house was dug into the side of the hill, and was simple and residential. It was opened by a man, in his mid 60s, with greying hair. He was wearing glasses with a tiny binoculars attached. We presumed he was Peter. He ushered us into a tiny room, which was dominated by a desk with a white handkerchief spread across it. Minuscule cogs and machine parts were painstakingly laid out on the handkerchief in excrutiatingly neat fashion. There was a pile of lenses stacked at the side, and disguarded camera backs lay in one corner. Yes, this was definitely Peter. This was the boffin, the expert, the enthusiast that Louise wanted.
He chatted easily for a few minutes and examined the lens with his keen eye. "I think I can fix it, but I need to have a proper look" he said, in a clean, almost English accent, and we agreed if it was to be more than $100 he would call us before he started the work.
There was something reassuring about a man who does what he does for the love of it, and not for profit. And we agreed to call him upon our return from the Abel Tasman coast.
We left Nelson the next day, and due to return a few days later. And of course, we had already booked ahead for Accents On The Park......
The room at Accents. Jacuzzi not in shot....
The plan was to carry on up the coast to Greymouth for an overnight stop, before we had to peel away from the shoreline and head towards Nelson.
Greymouth was indeed preceded by its reputation. Louise's friends Jye and Angie had recently moved away from the town, and had given it the moniker "Greyhole", and then used it so frequently that a third friend, not a Kiwi, walked into a travel agent and asked how to get to "Greyhole" , and was met with a blank stare.
And, as if to confirm Greymouth's status as an undesirable location, upon entry we were met by a huge hoarding stating "Kids who are into sport, stay out of court". But if this was indeed a hole, we saw little evidence: it wasn't particularly dirty, or down at heel. It was just, well, a town. Like Leek in Staffordshire, except with a few more Maoris.
Admittedly, the hostel, Noah's Ark seemed misplaced. A huge wooden manor house with mid-air verandas on every side, massive and deserted. Each of its rooms featured an animal theme (ours was festooned with zebra stripes), and entertainment was provided in the shape of an old piano, log fire, the biggest TV I've ever seen in hostel and finally, Bez the four month old labrador, who came with an accompanying health warning magnetted to the fridge: "please do not give Bez milk - it gives him the shits".
Lord! Nelson
We left early next morning, after having another quick squint round the town and headed for Nelson.
Nelson's had a reputation too as, nestled in the North of the South Island, it had been dubbed "the most liveable city" in New Zealand. We arrived after 4 hour drive through the rain, saw little of the town and made straight for the hostel, Accents On The Park.
Accents On The Park. Best Hostel Ever. Fact.
Imagine your typical backpackers: run down building, former nunnery/Victorian manor house/borstal, crammed full with cheap bunk beds and even cheaper bed linen, kitchen consisting of a few electric rings and a microwave from 1983, and one dedicated "entertainment" room with a old TV overbalanced on a bracket high on the wall.
Not Accents On The Park. This was to be an exercise in what a backpackers COULD be if hostel staff weren't too drunk/idle/absent to do anything about it.
We entered onto a thick shagpile carpet, and approached the huge gold trimmed mahogany desk, certain we had accidentally stepped into The Ramada Nelson. Our double room was down the corridor past the thick armchairs in the lobby. Lobby. In a backpackers. The bedroom had bathtowels neatly folded on top of the snazzy, new bedlinen. There was a sink, his and hers bedside lamps, a wardrobe, a parking space and, the best bit, a double-sided Do Not Disturb/Make Up My Room sign to hang on the door. All this for $33 each. That's 12 quid a night.
Nelson didn't disappoint either. The next day the Sun was out, revealing a compact but pleasant town with some great cafes, and a beach 15 minutes from town. Indeed, it was a very liveable town. Big enough to attract a host of supermarkets and shops, but small enough to retain a sense of community and small town buzz.
Mr Fixit
A trip round Nelson's camera shops had proved disappointing: Louise's broken lens was eliciting a fair amount of gurning and whistling from the experts: "Hmmm.....I think that's going to have to go back to Auckland. Might be cheaper to buy a new one" some of them said before gesturing to the new lenses tucked inside glass cases in their window displays.
That was not an option and Louise maintained that we needed "a little man", meaning a boffin, an expert, an enthusiast, and not some Kodak-sponsored camera shop who had no real on-site expertise.
Luckily one shop knew "a little man", and scribbled a name and a phone number on a piece of paper, adding "Go and see Peter". After a phone call we were off round some more first gear corners, zig-zagging up a steep incline to the summit of a hill, possibly an old volcano, only a few minutes from town.
I pulled up on the 45 degree driveway and wrenched the handbrake up firmly. If the car rolled away here it wouldn't stop until it was back in Queenstown. I also stuck it in gear for good measure.
The house was dug into the side of the hill, and was simple and residential. It was opened by a man, in his mid 60s, with greying hair. He was wearing glasses with a tiny binoculars attached. We presumed he was Peter. He ushered us into a tiny room, which was dominated by a desk with a white handkerchief spread across it. Minuscule cogs and machine parts were painstakingly laid out on the handkerchief in excrutiatingly neat fashion. There was a pile of lenses stacked at the side, and disguarded camera backs lay in one corner. Yes, this was definitely Peter. This was the boffin, the expert, the enthusiast that Louise wanted.
He chatted easily for a few minutes and examined the lens with his keen eye. "I think I can fix it, but I need to have a proper look" he said, in a clean, almost English accent, and we agreed if it was to be more than $100 he would call us before he started the work.
There was something reassuring about a man who does what he does for the love of it, and not for profit. And we agreed to call him upon our return from the Abel Tasman coast.
We left Nelson the next day, and due to return a few days later. And of course, we had already booked ahead for Accents On The Park......
The room at Accents. Jacuzzi not in shot....
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Punakaiki
From Fox it was along to Punakaiki, home of the Pancake Rocks, a renowned rock formation on the West Coast, notable for two two reasons:
First, its appearance: like a million rock-grey beer mats stacked randomly and precariously in an elongated strata-esque formation . Second, it's name : that it's called Pancake Rocks, when in reality, the only time Pancakes ever looked this was when Fred Flinstone had that job at the diner.
The only way I can describe it is bloody weird, but interesting. Like jam on mashed potato. Or Bjork.
Later we visited a beach lagoon a few minutes down the road. I honestly can't remember what it was called. Something like Lake Poghognusnakakakakaiekaiakeiskapaokapolepaos. Maybe it has an extra "s" on the end.
Again, weird and interesting were the only and inadequate adjectives I could conjure. It was a beach where the tide had no so much come in, but trickled up, in , around, down and through, seeping in at angles and melting into vast, strange patterns and eddys around sand banks and rocks.
The upshot of which meant far away on the horizon, beneath the hue of the setting sun, we could see people seemingly walking on water, but actually jogging or taking their dogs for a stroll. Like Haast Beach this was another magic moment. Annoying, then, that upon opening her camera bag, Louise found her favourite wide-angle lens in pieces in the bottom. It would have to be fixed. That much was clear. As to how and when, that was more difficult. Amazingly, there are no Nikkon specialists in Punakaiki. Or the South Island. Hmmm......
And so to bed. We were staying in nearby Te Nikau Lodge, a collection of corrugated huts scattered throughout the cover of an adjacent rainforest. Clean, cosy, authentic but caused problems if you needed a wee in the night. I took a torch and pittled in a bush. I think Louise just held it and went back to sleep.
First, its appearance: like a million rock-grey beer mats stacked randomly and precariously in an elongated strata-esque formation . Second, it's name : that it's called Pancake Rocks, when in reality, the only time Pancakes ever looked this was when Fred Flinstone had that job at the diner.
The only way I can describe it is bloody weird, but interesting. Like jam on mashed potato. Or Bjork.
Later we visited a beach lagoon a few minutes down the road. I honestly can't remember what it was called. Something like Lake Poghognusnakakakakaiekaiakeiskapaokapolepaos. Maybe it has an extra "s" on the end.
Again, weird and interesting were the only and inadequate adjectives I could conjure. It was a beach where the tide had no so much come in, but trickled up, in , around, down and through, seeping in at angles and melting into vast, strange patterns and eddys around sand banks and rocks.
The upshot of which meant far away on the horizon, beneath the hue of the setting sun, we could see people seemingly walking on water, but actually jogging or taking their dogs for a stroll. Like Haast Beach this was another magic moment. Annoying, then, that upon opening her camera bag, Louise found her favourite wide-angle lens in pieces in the bottom. It would have to be fixed. That much was clear. As to how and when, that was more difficult. Amazingly, there are no Nikkon specialists in Punakaiki. Or the South Island. Hmmm......
And so to bed. We were staying in nearby Te Nikau Lodge, a collection of corrugated huts scattered throughout the cover of an adjacent rainforest. Clean, cosy, authentic but caused problems if you needed a wee in the night. I took a torch and pittled in a bush. I think Louise just held it and went back to sleep.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Fox Glacier: DOs and DON'Ts
Here is a brief and handy tourist safety guide to Fox Glacier:
DON'T assume that after spending the best part of a week driving round corners that require full steering lock, left, then right, then left, then right, you deserve a break. The road to Fox contains around 389,792,483 more 1st gear corners, some of them so sharp you could shave with them.
DO make sure you wear the correct footware for the terminal walk. If your girlfriend accidentally goes ankle-deep into a glacial stream whilst traversing some particularly unstable stepping stones, make every effort not to laugh.
DO make sure you wear the correct footware for the terminal walk. If your girlfriend accidentally goes ankle-deep into a glacial stream whilst traversing some particularly unstable stepping stones, make every effort not to laugh.
If, upon arriving at your hostel, you find that a Cessna, mistaking Fox airfield for Franz Josef, has crashed into a pylon, and taken out the power for the whole town, DO stockpile duvets and blankets from unused beds and DO use gas rings to heat saucepans of water for hot water bottles. You may also like to have a conversation with fellow backpackers in absolute darkness or, for the more enterprising, by the light of a laptop or mobile phone.
The next day, once power is restored, if you are going on a heli-hike, DON'T be alarmed if the pilot appears to be about 14 (youngsters catch on very quick). Also DON'T ask the pilot if you can have a go at flying it because you once saw an episode of Airwolf and wondered how hard it could be. Or, once you reach the glacier, DON'T ask if you can lower yourself off the skis and drop the last 10m, because you also saw an episode of the A-Team and wondered how dangerous it could be.
DO put your crampons on the right way. DON'T make reference to the fact they resembles a cross between a muzzle and an implement of sexual torture. DON'T refer to them as tampons. Even though this is funny.
DO find out where everyone in your group is from. DO express surprise when you meet a couple on honeymoon from Coalville (yes! honest!). And then DO express surprise when another woman overhearing that conversation says she has a penfriend in Hugglescoat (yes! I couldn't believe it either!)
DO be prepared to be adventurous. If the guide takes you down into an ice ravine by a rope/ice-pins she's just hammered in, take the opportunity to follow her. If, once at the bottom, and in an ice cave the size of a large built-in wardrobe, she advises to lie on your back and slide through an impossiby tight aperture, DO follow her, because you don't want to get left behind.
After 2 and half hours on the ice, when you get back home to DO have some Supernoodles and an afternoon nap, because you will be knackered
DO post your photos on your blog:
Haast
Like Twizel, Haast was always meant to be just a stopover. And, like Twizel, upon arrival we realised spending anything more than one day here would be difficult.
When I say there was nothing wrong with Haast, this was primarily because there's not enough for there to be anything wrong with. And, similarly, when I say it was nothing to write home about this, in turn, is because I doubt the post van/mail coach comes through here with any alarming regularity, so it would be ultimately fruitless.
With a population fewer than the dwindling bars on my mobile signal, Haast's self-proclaimed "township" status belies its size, significance and remoteness. It seemed only fitting, therefore, that for the second time in my life I found myself in accommodation eerily redolent of The Overlook Hotel from The Shining, with its 1970's faux-alpine furnishings and long beige and paisely corridors. There was even a child's plastic pushbike in the hall.
The kitchen was equally hilarious and looked like a set from an episode of Tomorrow's World from 40 years ago: "Welcome to the Kitchen Of The Future. By the year 1978 every home will have one of these - the Microwave Oven. It's a compact 14 square feet and can cook anything from a Sunday dinner, to a 14-course banquet"
But despite Haast Lodge's timewarp qualities, it was that sense of isolation and wilderness that became its appeal. A trip to nearby Jackson Bay revealed the tiniest fishing village at the most Southerly point on the West Coast's main arterial route - literally the road just petered out into nothing. It consisted of a few shacks, a wooden pier with accompanying seal, and a portacabin fish restaurant called The Cray Pot, advertised infrequently on roadside blackboards all along the 50km road in. A road which was effectively a huge geographical cul-de-sac.
Later, a stop at Haast Beach during the twilight hour, revealed a desolate shale beach littered with all kinds of oceanic bric-a-brac. The sun set. The waves crashed. The wind blustered. Magic.
Haast Beach Photos.........
When I say there was nothing wrong with Haast, this was primarily because there's not enough for there to be anything wrong with. And, similarly, when I say it was nothing to write home about this, in turn, is because I doubt the post van/mail coach comes through here with any alarming regularity, so it would be ultimately fruitless.
With a population fewer than the dwindling bars on my mobile signal, Haast's self-proclaimed "township" status belies its size, significance and remoteness. It seemed only fitting, therefore, that for the second time in my life I found myself in accommodation eerily redolent of The Overlook Hotel from The Shining, with its 1970's faux-alpine furnishings and long beige and paisely corridors. There was even a child's plastic pushbike in the hall.
The kitchen was equally hilarious and looked like a set from an episode of Tomorrow's World from 40 years ago: "Welcome to the Kitchen Of The Future. By the year 1978 every home will have one of these - the Microwave Oven. It's a compact 14 square feet and can cook anything from a Sunday dinner, to a 14-course banquet"
But despite Haast Lodge's timewarp qualities, it was that sense of isolation and wilderness that became its appeal. A trip to nearby Jackson Bay revealed the tiniest fishing village at the most Southerly point on the West Coast's main arterial route - literally the road just petered out into nothing. It consisted of a few shacks, a wooden pier with accompanying seal, and a portacabin fish restaurant called The Cray Pot, advertised infrequently on roadside blackboards all along the 50km road in. A road which was effectively a huge geographical cul-de-sac.
Later, a stop at Haast Beach during the twilight hour, revealed a desolate shale beach littered with all kinds of oceanic bric-a-brac. The sun set. The waves crashed. The wind blustered. Magic.
Haast Beach Photos.........
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Te Anau
From Queestown it was a 2 hour drive to Te Anau, base for our trip to Milford.
Initially, I was concerned about our accommodation as we had opted for a "homestay", kind of like a cross between a hostel and a foster home. A "Fostel", maybe?
I had visions of sitting with a family in their own front room, having to watch the NZ equivalent of Gardener's Question time, listening to the clock tick, and coughing every time you wanted to fart.
On arrival the Christian fridge magnets did nothing to dispel that notion, but it soon transpired that hostess, Rosie, was the most hospitable and easy-going of people, her home welcoming, her room cosy and her cake-baking first-class.
Alarmingly, as I was playing Nothing Else Matters by Metallica on the guitar, I heard her singing along from the kitchen. That must be one progressive church she attends. I restrained from pushing her into joining in on any Rage Against The Machine.
An early start the next morning meant we were on the road by 6.30. After a winding two hour track through snow-capped mountains and tunnels (in reality a cave with a hole at both ends), the visitors centre loomed out of the mist.
We boarded a boat with only around 8 other people, and drifted off through the haze, past giant rocky outcrops and tree-laden crags.
Grand, towering yet serene, Milford is undoubtedly impressive. Yet Lou summed it up accurately by dubbing it the Ayres Rock of New Zealand. And that much is true: the lengthy drive to counter its remoteness requires committment, and the terrain along the way is so magnificent, that by the time you reach the Sound, it's simply the best example of what you've seen on your way in, rather than the like nothing you've ever seen before.
Still, I wasn't going to come all this way and not see it. And see it I did. And I'm glad I did.
Initially, I was concerned about our accommodation as we had opted for a "homestay", kind of like a cross between a hostel and a foster home. A "Fostel", maybe?
I had visions of sitting with a family in their own front room, having to watch the NZ equivalent of Gardener's Question time, listening to the clock tick, and coughing every time you wanted to fart.
On arrival the Christian fridge magnets did nothing to dispel that notion, but it soon transpired that hostess, Rosie, was the most hospitable and easy-going of people, her home welcoming, her room cosy and her cake-baking first-class.
Alarmingly, as I was playing Nothing Else Matters by Metallica on the guitar, I heard her singing along from the kitchen. That must be one progressive church she attends. I restrained from pushing her into joining in on any Rage Against The Machine.
An early start the next morning meant we were on the road by 6.30. After a winding two hour track through snow-capped mountains and tunnels (in reality a cave with a hole at both ends), the visitors centre loomed out of the mist.
We boarded a boat with only around 8 other people, and drifted off through the haze, past giant rocky outcrops and tree-laden crags.
Grand, towering yet serene, Milford is undoubtedly impressive. Yet Lou summed it up accurately by dubbing it the Ayres Rock of New Zealand. And that much is true: the lengthy drive to counter its remoteness requires committment, and the terrain along the way is so magnificent, that by the time you reach the Sound, it's simply the best example of what you've seen on your way in, rather than the like nothing you've ever seen before.
Still, I wasn't going to come all this way and not see it. And see it I did. And I'm glad I did.
Queenstown
First thing next morning, a quick trip to Mt Cook village to NOT see Mt Cook due to cloud, and then on to Queenstown to meet up with Pink Houser Chris.
We met at the world famous Fergburger, a quality burger establishment with a reputation stretching as far as the UK, and home to such classics as the Cockadoodle Oink, the chicken and bacon burger.
I was instantly taken by Queenstown. With ski-boots full of character, it's compact, clean and friendly and commands stunning views of The Remarkables and Coronet Peak. And whilst it's usually populated by people wearing idiotic ski hats and using phrases like "great powder today" and "have you seen my new gold-plated snowboard bindings", it still doesn't feel exclusive or pretentious.
The next day Lou and I were off up the hairiest of winding mountain tracks in a 4x4 bus to the summit of The Remarkables for a beginners ski-lesson. Unfortunately, however, although we did have a great day, it was no thanks to Diana, the worst ski-ing instructor in the world.
The only lesson we learned that day was never trust a Spaniard on skis.
Her crimes included:
* Waffling on in a thick Fast-Show-Channel-9 style eth-eth-eth accent. Slightly racist perhaps, but when you consider her sole task is to COMMUNICATE with people and CONVEY information, the fact that she couldn't pronounce the word "lean", or "wedge" or even "skis", was a serious problem. No one says Spaniards shouldn't ski. But a Spaniard who can't speak English teaching ski-ing ...that's different.
That was the least of it, however.....
* Texting some bloke she'd met the night before. Often whilst in the middle of a sentence: "OK, so eeeef you turn berry berry hard....(beep beep)....one moment................(giggle) (giggle)........"
At one point I'd fallen across the Travellator-type thing, returning skiers to the stop of the slope, and she didn't even notice because she was arsing about with her phone.
* Beginning the next wave of instruction for the few people who had made it back up to the top of the slope whilst half the group was still floundering on their backs like upturned ladybirds at the bottom.
* Forgetting who was in her group. She hardly spoke to Louise for the entire 3 hours.
* Issuing esoteric, non-sensical instructions. When I asked her what was wrong with my "snow-plough" manoeuvre, she responded "Tonight, take your girlfriend out in the moonlight and dance"
What does that even mean?
Aaaaaanyway, the next day we decided to abandon instruction and headed over to Coronet Peak for some self-tuition. And thank god we did. We learned more the second day without instruction than we did the previous day with instruction.
Purely by trial and error and practice, by the end of the day we had mastered left and right turns and even moved up to the next slope.
Still not a patch on Chris, however, who zipped in and out and round us on his super-duper new snowboard.
Queenstown. I love you.
We met at the world famous Fergburger, a quality burger establishment with a reputation stretching as far as the UK, and home to such classics as the Cockadoodle Oink, the chicken and bacon burger.
I was instantly taken by Queenstown. With ski-boots full of character, it's compact, clean and friendly and commands stunning views of The Remarkables and Coronet Peak. And whilst it's usually populated by people wearing idiotic ski hats and using phrases like "great powder today" and "have you seen my new gold-plated snowboard bindings", it still doesn't feel exclusive or pretentious.
The next day Lou and I were off up the hairiest of winding mountain tracks in a 4x4 bus to the summit of The Remarkables for a beginners ski-lesson. Unfortunately, however, although we did have a great day, it was no thanks to Diana, the worst ski-ing instructor in the world.
The only lesson we learned that day was never trust a Spaniard on skis.
Her crimes included:
* Waffling on in a thick Fast-Show-Channel-9 style eth-eth-eth accent. Slightly racist perhaps, but when you consider her sole task is to COMMUNICATE with people and CONVEY information, the fact that she couldn't pronounce the word "lean", or "wedge" or even "skis", was a serious problem. No one says Spaniards shouldn't ski. But a Spaniard who can't speak English teaching ski-ing ...that's different.
That was the least of it, however.....
* Texting some bloke she'd met the night before. Often whilst in the middle of a sentence: "OK, so eeeef you turn berry berry hard....(beep beep)....one moment................(giggle) (giggle)........"
At one point I'd fallen across the Travellator-type thing, returning skiers to the stop of the slope, and she didn't even notice because she was arsing about with her phone.
* Beginning the next wave of instruction for the few people who had made it back up to the top of the slope whilst half the group was still floundering on their backs like upturned ladybirds at the bottom.
* Forgetting who was in her group. She hardly spoke to Louise for the entire 3 hours.
* Issuing esoteric, non-sensical instructions. When I asked her what was wrong with my "snow-plough" manoeuvre, she responded "Tonight, take your girlfriend out in the moonlight and dance"
What does that even mean?
Aaaaaanyway, the next day we decided to abandon instruction and headed over to Coronet Peak for some self-tuition. And thank god we did. We learned more the second day without instruction than we did the previous day with instruction.
Purely by trial and error and practice, by the end of the day we had mastered left and right turns and even moved up to the next slope.
Still not a patch on Chris, however, who zipped in and out and round us on his super-duper new snowboard.
Queenstown. I love you.
Twizel
And so to Christchurch to pick up our hirecar. With 1.3 litres of pure power, representing the pinnacle of Japanese engineering, ladies and gentlemen I give to you the Diahatsu Sirion.
I was labouring under the misapprehension it was pronounced the Sir Iron, which sounded like a steel-clad Arthurian nobleman, proud and robust. In fact it's pronounced Syrian, a race of people next on George Bush's hitlist. Never mind.
Not the first vehicular-related mistake we made that day. The second, arguably more significant, was not taking the extra $17 a day insurance to cover tyre bursts and windscreen chips, as within 20 minutes of leaving Christchurch a passing lorry opposite hoofed a rock into the windscreen, leaving a sink-plug sized welt in the windscreen. So that's $350 up my shirt to start with.
But 3 hours and 250km later we realised why we were here, as the first snow-capped mountains were revealed, followed by Lake Pukaki, with its water so clear, and reflection so perfect, that if you stood on your head only the loose change falling up your nose would give away which way was up. Our first taste of proper New Zealand. And it tasted good.
By 7 o clock we had reached our destination. Eerily quiet, poorly lit and seemingly made entirely out of timber, Twizel itself was one of those towns where, if aliens landed, you probably wouldn't find out about it for about 6 weeks.
It was only ever intended as a pit-stop and not a bad place, but the sound of duelling banjos was ever-present in our ears.
I was labouring under the misapprehension it was pronounced the Sir Iron, which sounded like a steel-clad Arthurian nobleman, proud and robust. In fact it's pronounced Syrian, a race of people next on George Bush's hitlist. Never mind.
Not the first vehicular-related mistake we made that day. The second, arguably more significant, was not taking the extra $17 a day insurance to cover tyre bursts and windscreen chips, as within 20 minutes of leaving Christchurch a passing lorry opposite hoofed a rock into the windscreen, leaving a sink-plug sized welt in the windscreen. So that's $350 up my shirt to start with.
But 3 hours and 250km later we realised why we were here, as the first snow-capped mountains were revealed, followed by Lake Pukaki, with its water so clear, and reflection so perfect, that if you stood on your head only the loose change falling up your nose would give away which way was up. Our first taste of proper New Zealand. And it tasted good.
By 7 o clock we had reached our destination. Eerily quiet, poorly lit and seemingly made entirely out of timber, Twizel itself was one of those towns where, if aliens landed, you probably wouldn't find out about it for about 6 weeks.
It was only ever intended as a pit-stop and not a bad place, but the sound of duelling banjos was ever-present in our ears.
The Long Awaited Update...
What with internet cafes in New Zealand being more expensive, per minute, than the Iraq War, updates have been few and far between. What follows then is not so much an update, but more part one of a datadump, after saving up for a few weeks and selling one of my kidneys to pay time on a PC.
It begins in, appropriately, at the beginning.........
It begins in, appropriately, at the beginning.........
Monday, September 01, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Old Zealand
Regular readers of this blog (to be honest, I don't know if they still exist) will know that, occasionally, I like to have a bit of a moan.
And though the following entry may well look like a moan, it's not. And while it may document and detail annoyances, niggles and beefs, it is most definitely not a moan.
Nope. Not a moan. It's just not serious enough. But here goes:
I am beginning to think of New Zealand not so much as a 3rd World Country, or even a 2nd World Country, but more as a 1.5 World Country.
It's a country where everything is around 34% less efficient, less effective, less functional. I hesitate to use the word backward because, well, it's offensive. But perhaps lagging would be more appropriate (or maybe even lacking).
Here's just a few examples:
* Supermarkets are apalling. Drab, cramped and staffed by indifferent zombies. Last week Louise asked an employee where the tacos were. He shrugged and said "I dunno".
* Communications: misconnected calls, inoperative and inaudible phones, hilariously expensive mobiles, and 256k Broadband. Truly a modern oxymoron. 256k. Broadband.
* Journalism: incorrect captions, punctuation errors, photos printed upside down and, in some cases barely-literate articles. " I liked The Dark Knight. It was really good!!!!! I liked the bit where the man dressed as the bat punched the other man and the other man went aaaargh!!!!"
* TV: the two new formats unveiled whilst I was here were...wait for it.....Stars in Their Eyes and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. First shown in the UK in 1989 and 1999 respectively. Presumably, Blankety Blank and Take Your Pick will be next year.
I hasten to add this is not in anyway a comment on the people. In fact part of the the problem is that with 4 million people in the whole country (that's a 1/3rd of London), statistically their top 10%, their high-flyers are simply less in number.
And alongside human rights violations and American foreign policy, it seems churlish to moan about such triviality, but its just a simple observation that alongside the relative functionality of say London, Tokyo and even Sydney, NZ...well...specifically Auckland seems a bit lax.
Can't wait for the mountains, the snow and to meet more of the people. I think that's where NZ's strengths lie.
And though the following entry may well look like a moan, it's not. And while it may document and detail annoyances, niggles and beefs, it is most definitely not a moan.
Nope. Not a moan. It's just not serious enough. But here goes:
I am beginning to think of New Zealand not so much as a 3rd World Country, or even a 2nd World Country, but more as a 1.5 World Country.
It's a country where everything is around 34% less efficient, less effective, less functional. I hesitate to use the word backward because, well, it's offensive. But perhaps lagging would be more appropriate (or maybe even lacking).
Here's just a few examples:
* Supermarkets are apalling. Drab, cramped and staffed by indifferent zombies. Last week Louise asked an employee where the tacos were. He shrugged and said "I dunno".
* Communications: misconnected calls, inoperative and inaudible phones, hilariously expensive mobiles, and 256k Broadband. Truly a modern oxymoron. 256k. Broadband.
* Journalism: incorrect captions, punctuation errors, photos printed upside down and, in some cases barely-literate articles. " I liked The Dark Knight. It was really good!!!!! I liked the bit where the man dressed as the bat punched the other man and the other man went aaaargh!!!!"
* TV: the two new formats unveiled whilst I was here were...wait for it.....Stars in Their Eyes and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. First shown in the UK in 1989 and 1999 respectively. Presumably, Blankety Blank and Take Your Pick will be next year.
I hasten to add this is not in anyway a comment on the people. In fact part of the the problem is that with 4 million people in the whole country (that's a 1/3rd of London), statistically their top 10%, their high-flyers are simply less in number.
And alongside human rights violations and American foreign policy, it seems churlish to moan about such triviality, but its just a simple observation that alongside the relative functionality of say London, Tokyo and even Sydney, NZ...well...specifically Auckland seems a bit lax.
Can't wait for the mountains, the snow and to meet more of the people. I think that's where NZ's strengths lie.
Whether or Not...
Weathermen in Auckland have it easy.
Alongside guitarist in Wham, and singer in Milli Vanilli it must be one of the easiest jobs in the world, simply because with the same certainty that the Sun will rise, and the Earth will turn, it WILL rain.
I've never lived in a city so perpetually sodden, so cruelly hammered by the elements. Yet, conversely and seemingly at odds with this statement, the weather is still unpredictable because, though you know it will stair rod down, you never know exactly when.
Anyone who's popped their head out of the window, and seeing the sunshine, then thinks they can make the 100 yard mad dash to the petrol station for spaghetti hoops without a coat, will usually be hosed down within 40 seconds of leaving their front door.
Similarly, anyone strapping themselves up in Gortex and bubblewrap to defend themselves from a meteorological onslaught is bound to find the daily downpour a few hours late, and thus is likely boil to death in the afternoon sun.
Alongside guitarist in Wham, and singer in Milli Vanilli it must be one of the easiest jobs in the world, simply because with the same certainty that the Sun will rise, and the Earth will turn, it WILL rain.
I've never lived in a city so perpetually sodden, so cruelly hammered by the elements. Yet, conversely and seemingly at odds with this statement, the weather is still unpredictable because, though you know it will stair rod down, you never know exactly when.
Anyone who's popped their head out of the window, and seeing the sunshine, then thinks they can make the 100 yard mad dash to the petrol station for spaghetti hoops without a coat, will usually be hosed down within 40 seconds of leaving their front door.
Similarly, anyone strapping themselves up in Gortex and bubblewrap to defend themselves from a meteorological onslaught is bound to find the daily downpour a few hours late, and thus is likely boil to death in the afternoon sun.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Due South
This is the plan. It's already changed 9,237 times. It will probably change again.
Fly to Christchurch, pick up car, then on to
Twizel
Mt Cook
Queenstown
Te Anau
Milford
Wanaka
Fox
Nelson
Blenheim
Kaikoura
Christchurch
And that's just South Island. We're looking at returning to the North Island proper when the weather starts improving as there's no use sitting on a beach in mucky weather trying to convince yourself it's actually warm enough to sunbathe like people do in Morecambe.
Our hire care represents the very pinnacle of automative engineering - A 2005 Diahatsu Sirion which I am renaming The Die Hard Sirloin - and activities planned along the way include snowboarding, writing my name in the snow, having an argument about one another's map reading skills, shivering a bit, meeting up with me old mate Chris, cruising around Milford (not, I am told, the home of MILFs), climbing the Fox Glacier (which will be mint) and the Franz Ferdinand Glacier.... and probably a lot of driving.
37 days encounting......
Surfer's Paradise
So, I am leaving Auckland. The flights, the hire car and the accommodation are booked. The date is set. All I have to do is now is sit through another 2 weeks of, well, nothing. And that's harder than you think......
I joined this company during a staff shortage. And because there was work to be done, accordingly, I did it. But since that day way back in April, the company has hired no less than 6 new people, meaning that for the last 4 weeks I've been content to dawdle, dally and lozzock about on the internet, whilst work is actually taken off me by eager new beavers (probably an unfortunate choice of words given I'm still the only man here).
The problem with this is twofold. First, if it weren't for George providing me with a few choice websites, I would have bludgeoned myself into oblivion with a hole-punch by now through sheer boredeom. In your own home, doing nothing makes you the king of your castle - revelling in your inactivity and celebrating the stationary with no expectations and therefore no reproachement or guilt.
But to do nothing when you reckon you probably should be doing something. That's different. It's disquieting and makes for an uneasy day. Which leads to my second point.
I can't prove it, and it may well be a kind of mild paranoia, but I think the fact that my days are emptier than John Leslie's Diary is breeding a kind of polite but palpable sense of resentment among people who actually have work to do.
I have indeed telegraphed my availability on a number of occasions, responding to the Kiwi's wanky buzzphrase "Phil, do you have capacity?" with the reply "Yes, I'm not busy right now", although I would have liked to reply "Yes, I am indeed capacious right now", yet work has not been forthcoming. In my defence, all I can say is: it's not my fault I'm not busy.
Anyway, I have two weeks of surfing youtube and Facebook left, and then will have to find 3 weeks of temp work before I leave Auckland on the 25th August. If anyone fancies sending me some interesting links to browse whilst I glance over my shoulder to see who can see my screen, before flicking back to an empty Excel spreadsheet and punching a few random buttons on the calculator to make it look like I'm working, please feel free.
I joined this company during a staff shortage. And because there was work to be done, accordingly, I did it. But since that day way back in April, the company has hired no less than 6 new people, meaning that for the last 4 weeks I've been content to dawdle, dally and lozzock about on the internet, whilst work is actually taken off me by eager new beavers (probably an unfortunate choice of words given I'm still the only man here).
The problem with this is twofold. First, if it weren't for George providing me with a few choice websites, I would have bludgeoned myself into oblivion with a hole-punch by now through sheer boredeom. In your own home, doing nothing makes you the king of your castle - revelling in your inactivity and celebrating the stationary with no expectations and therefore no reproachement or guilt.
But to do nothing when you reckon you probably should be doing something. That's different. It's disquieting and makes for an uneasy day. Which leads to my second point.
I can't prove it, and it may well be a kind of mild paranoia, but I think the fact that my days are emptier than John Leslie's Diary is breeding a kind of polite but palpable sense of resentment among people who actually have work to do.
I have indeed telegraphed my availability on a number of occasions, responding to the Kiwi's wanky buzzphrase "Phil, do you have capacity?" with the reply "Yes, I'm not busy right now", although I would have liked to reply "Yes, I am indeed capacious right now", yet work has not been forthcoming. In my defence, all I can say is: it's not my fault I'm not busy.
Anyway, I have two weeks of surfing youtube and Facebook left, and then will have to find 3 weeks of temp work before I leave Auckland on the 25th August. If anyone fancies sending me some interesting links to browse whilst I glance over my shoulder to see who can see my screen, before flicking back to an empty Excel spreadsheet and punching a few random buttons on the calculator to make it look like I'm working, please feel free.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Flat Out
Lou and I finally have a flat.
I'm sad to leave The Brown Kiwi: the cameraderie was endearing, the host hilarious, the experience memorable. But this trip is all about what happens after Auckland, and for that we need money. So with the Brown Kiwi's double room costing us the equivalent of a return ticket to Western Samoa evey week, despite Nils gracious discount, we decided to move out into cheaper digs.
Conversely, and fortunately, over here cheap accommodation does not mean having to live underneath a railway arch with an itenirant jazz musician called Keith. Rather, rental prices are around 40% cheaper than hostels, and $200 a week has secured us a room in an apartment 15 minutes from town with bed, dishwasher and TV. Three of my key requirements.
Admittedly, it wasn't the first place we looked at. A trawl through some accommodation websites revealed that we weren't in the most favourable of positions - a non-smoking couple requiring a flat for only 8 weeks - especially considering the online adverts were very specific about the type of housemate required, some stating: must be smoker, must like cats and, my favourite, must be quiet.
Our first viewing was a place just off Ponsonby road which could only be described as a cross between Northampton Polytechnic student accommodation and an inner-city "housing project" for single mothers with learning difficulties. There's something very disturbing about a "TV room" consisting of four walls of powdery, unpainted breezeblock, together with 3 plastic school chairs pointed at a flickering screen.
Our second viewing was of house in Grey Lynn, and whilst the accommodation was fine, Lou and I both agreed the woman who already lived there, Camilla Ribena-Faqhuar-Camembert-Bibblington-Breadbin, was annoyingly wiffy-waffy and would have probably required throttling at some point.
And so finally to our current location just off the Great North Road. Initially, the signs weren't good: bottom of a hill, bright tangerine-coloured building, above a garage. But upon opening the door we were pleasantly surprised: spacious, clean and apparently new. The couple who already live there seem fine, and as a result of pushing two single beds together, we now have a "double" bed the size of a tennis court.
I am avoiding the obvious joke about "Love All"
Or "New Balls Please"
I'm sad to leave The Brown Kiwi: the cameraderie was endearing, the host hilarious, the experience memorable. But this trip is all about what happens after Auckland, and for that we need money. So with the Brown Kiwi's double room costing us the equivalent of a return ticket to Western Samoa evey week, despite Nils gracious discount, we decided to move out into cheaper digs.
Conversely, and fortunately, over here cheap accommodation does not mean having to live underneath a railway arch with an itenirant jazz musician called Keith. Rather, rental prices are around 40% cheaper than hostels, and $200 a week has secured us a room in an apartment 15 minutes from town with bed, dishwasher and TV. Three of my key requirements.
Admittedly, it wasn't the first place we looked at. A trawl through some accommodation websites revealed that we weren't in the most favourable of positions - a non-smoking couple requiring a flat for only 8 weeks - especially considering the online adverts were very specific about the type of housemate required, some stating: must be smoker, must like cats and, my favourite, must be quiet.
Our first viewing was a place just off Ponsonby road which could only be described as a cross between Northampton Polytechnic student accommodation and an inner-city "housing project" for single mothers with learning difficulties. There's something very disturbing about a "TV room" consisting of four walls of powdery, unpainted breezeblock, together with 3 plastic school chairs pointed at a flickering screen.
Our second viewing was of house in Grey Lynn, and whilst the accommodation was fine, Lou and I both agreed the woman who already lived there, Camilla Ribena-Faqhuar-Camembert-Bibblington-Breadbin, was annoyingly wiffy-waffy and would have probably required throttling at some point.
And so finally to our current location just off the Great North Road. Initially, the signs weren't good: bottom of a hill, bright tangerine-coloured building, above a garage. But upon opening the door we were pleasantly surprised: spacious, clean and apparently new. The couple who already live there seem fine, and as a result of pushing two single beds together, we now have a "double" bed the size of a tennis court.
I am avoiding the obvious joke about "Love All"
Or "New Balls Please"
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Rolling In The Aisles
Brave New World
New World on College Hill is not only the second most expensive supermarket in all of New Zealand, but it’s also one of the worst ones I’ve ever wheeled a trolley around. No New World Sympathy from me.
With all the glamour of Kwik Save, but with the price of Waitrose, the narrow aisles are blocked by undead members of staff unloading their Toyota Yaris-sized cages of Campbell’s Soup, whilst the meat fridges look like an explosion in an abattoir. Portions of meat come in two sizes: breezeblock or the entire cow, whilst the bagpackers clearly have no grasp of physics or the inelastic properties of polythene, loading up your carrier as if they’re trying to break some world record. Or at least the eggs they’ve put at the bottom the fucking bag.
All this means, then, that for a 30-something male who steadfastly rejects the Jamie Oliver-isation of his dinnertime (spinach and radiccio torte with warm parmesan squash, anyone?), for me trips to the supermarket are a perfunctory affair. A blank-eyed wander round the aisles, automatically and nonchalantly selecting items from the pre-prepared list in my head, never altering it from week to week.
Yesterday’s shopping trip, however, proved to be a little different in that three slightly off-kilter things happened within the space of about 12 minutes; nearly enough to wake me from my shopping somnolence.
Dwarves, Duncan and Drink
First, I saw a colleague from work. Not ordinarily confusing, if it weren’t for the fact that she was 6 inches shorter than the day previously. I immediately wondered if she had perhaps fallen down a pothole or had her legs severed, but since there are few potholes in supermarkets these days, and she was definitely still wearing shoes, I discounted this possibility.
No, the reason, I later concluded, was that most of the women in my office wear very, very high heels, possibly because in the world of PR, they equate height with stature. And it was heartening to see that although, at work, stood next to me she seemed a giant among men, in reality she was just a dwarf on stilts. One day, I may consider going to work wearing Elton-John-Pinball-Wizard boots to prove the point.
Three minutes later, a second thing happened. I realised, as I waiting for Louise to finish choosing an onion or something, that I was staring at someone I hadn’t seen in 10 years – Duncan. er….thingamajig….er…. Duncan....er….whassname.
Duncan, myself and a whole host of other people from various Manchester Universities helped set up Storm Fm, a student radio station in 1997. And as I looked at him packing away his shopping, I immediately realised who it was. He momentarily glanced up and looked down again. Then realizing, too, he’d seen someone he recognized, looked up and down again as if trying to place me, before pointing and saying “Phil!”.
I responded by pointing and going “Duncan!”. We had a brief chat, exchanged numbers and generally, mutually puffed out our cheeks and shook our heads about what a huge co-incidence it was.
Last, 5 minutes later and still trying to get my head around the fact that I’d bumped into Duncan, Louise and I had almost finished packing our stuff at the till, when the cashier refused Lou some cider because she looked underage.
Being nearly 32, this was obviously a shock to Louise and she immediately produced her driving licence. Yet, for the cashier, this was still unacceptable – “NZ Driving Licence or Passport only, please”. Now, I’ve never been refused alcohol in New Zealand, which meant that despite the fact that I am younger than my girlfriend, I am able to buy beer and she’s not. And the fact that despite the number of Europeans here, European Driving Licences are not valid ID seems to be ridiculous.
The upside to this, however, is that I am going out with a girl who looks young enough to be refused alcohol. And that can only be a good thing.
New World on College Hill is not only the second most expensive supermarket in all of New Zealand, but it’s also one of the worst ones I’ve ever wheeled a trolley around. No New World Sympathy from me.
With all the glamour of Kwik Save, but with the price of Waitrose, the narrow aisles are blocked by undead members of staff unloading their Toyota Yaris-sized cages of Campbell’s Soup, whilst the meat fridges look like an explosion in an abattoir. Portions of meat come in two sizes: breezeblock or the entire cow, whilst the bagpackers clearly have no grasp of physics or the inelastic properties of polythene, loading up your carrier as if they’re trying to break some world record. Or at least the eggs they’ve put at the bottom the fucking bag.
All this means, then, that for a 30-something male who steadfastly rejects the Jamie Oliver-isation of his dinnertime (spinach and radiccio torte with warm parmesan squash, anyone?), for me trips to the supermarket are a perfunctory affair. A blank-eyed wander round the aisles, automatically and nonchalantly selecting items from the pre-prepared list in my head, never altering it from week to week.
Yesterday’s shopping trip, however, proved to be a little different in that three slightly off-kilter things happened within the space of about 12 minutes; nearly enough to wake me from my shopping somnolence.
Dwarves, Duncan and Drink
First, I saw a colleague from work. Not ordinarily confusing, if it weren’t for the fact that she was 6 inches shorter than the day previously. I immediately wondered if she had perhaps fallen down a pothole or had her legs severed, but since there are few potholes in supermarkets these days, and she was definitely still wearing shoes, I discounted this possibility.
No, the reason, I later concluded, was that most of the women in my office wear very, very high heels, possibly because in the world of PR, they equate height with stature. And it was heartening to see that although, at work, stood next to me she seemed a giant among men, in reality she was just a dwarf on stilts. One day, I may consider going to work wearing Elton-John-Pinball-Wizard boots to prove the point.
Three minutes later, a second thing happened. I realised, as I waiting for Louise to finish choosing an onion or something, that I was staring at someone I hadn’t seen in 10 years – Duncan. er….thingamajig….er…. Duncan....er….whassname.
Duncan, myself and a whole host of other people from various Manchester Universities helped set up Storm Fm, a student radio station in 1997. And as I looked at him packing away his shopping, I immediately realised who it was. He momentarily glanced up and looked down again. Then realizing, too, he’d seen someone he recognized, looked up and down again as if trying to place me, before pointing and saying “Phil!”.
I responded by pointing and going “Duncan!”. We had a brief chat, exchanged numbers and generally, mutually puffed out our cheeks and shook our heads about what a huge co-incidence it was.
Last, 5 minutes later and still trying to get my head around the fact that I’d bumped into Duncan, Louise and I had almost finished packing our stuff at the till, when the cashier refused Lou some cider because she looked underage.
Being nearly 32, this was obviously a shock to Louise and she immediately produced her driving licence. Yet, for the cashier, this was still unacceptable – “NZ Driving Licence or Passport only, please”. Now, I’ve never been refused alcohol in New Zealand, which meant that despite the fact that I am younger than my girlfriend, I am able to buy beer and she’s not. And the fact that despite the number of Europeans here, European Driving Licences are not valid ID seems to be ridiculous.
The upside to this, however, is that I am going out with a girl who looks young enough to be refused alcohol. And that can only be a good thing.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Some Birthday Photos
Loulou checks the menu
Blurred photo from the window. That's the camera doing that - I'm not pissed
Always room for desert
My birthday cake(s)
Thursday, June 19, 2008
My Birthday
If 21 is key of the door, then I don’t know what 31 is. The key to the Volvo perhaps. Or maybe the key on the Dulux Colour Swatch - if you’re currently deciding whether to paint the nursery with Cinnamon Sunrise or Domestic Violets.
So anyway, 31…….
Lou arrived last Friday which of course is fantastic for so many reasons, not least because I get to move into my own double room free from people snoring and farting. Actually, come to think of it, that was me. Anyway, last night Lou wanted to surprise me with a birthday dinner, but ashamedly I relentlessly badgered her until she let slip the location: the revolving restaurant at the top of the Sky Tower.
As I’ve stated in this blog before I’ll go up anything high. If it’s got an observation deck, then in my eyes, it’s a winner. Thinking about it now, I’ve been up the Tokyo TV Tower, the Fuji Observation Deck, The Tokyo Government Towers, AMP Tower in Sydney, Eureka Building in Melbourne, the Sentosa Tower and then the Swissotel in Singapore, The World Trade Centre, The Empire State Building and even the Space Needle in Seattle. If I ever visit Dubai any time soon, then let me tell you……
I’m sure a philosophy student from Liverpool John Moore’s might say that, as a shortarse, it’s indicative of some subconscious desire to lord it over other people. He might call it something like “Ivory Tower Syndrome”. But he’d be talking nonsense. So I’d probably knock his beret off for that comment.
I met Louise on Queens St and we wandered round to the Tower to collect our reserved tickets. Once in the lift, however, as I was staring down through the glass floor, it was obvious that Louise was not comfortable with the ground falling away beneath her and was now peeking through splayed fingers. The actual observation deck was pleasant if unspectacular, and whilst Louise gingerly remained at a safe distance from a glass floor revealing a 328 metre drop, I failed miserably to take any decent night shots, each successive image resembling more and more the daubings of a child let loose on black sugar paper with an army of crayons.
To the restaurant, then. And whereas Lou had been a bit fazed by the height issue, after sitting down at our table, I realised my middle-ear had a movement issue. After a few moments, I felt a little queasy and as I looked across the table at Lou, I could sense I was moving I just couldn’t tell how, or where I was moving to. Similarly, one thing they never tell you about a revolving restaurant that when you go the toilet, you come out 3 minutes and 18.4 degrees later only to think your girlfriend has buggered off, when in fact she hasn’t left her seat.
Soon, however, the feeling had passed. Enough for me to order beef filler with kumara mash (NZ Sweet Potato) and a triple chocolate icecream.
Last year I was on Bondi Beach for my birthday. This year I was up the Auckland Sky Tower. I’ve set the bar high for my 30s. I only hope I can keep this up.
Photos to follow............
So anyway, 31…….
Lou arrived last Friday which of course is fantastic for so many reasons, not least because I get to move into my own double room free from people snoring and farting. Actually, come to think of it, that was me. Anyway, last night Lou wanted to surprise me with a birthday dinner, but ashamedly I relentlessly badgered her until she let slip the location: the revolving restaurant at the top of the Sky Tower.
As I’ve stated in this blog before I’ll go up anything high. If it’s got an observation deck, then in my eyes, it’s a winner. Thinking about it now, I’ve been up the Tokyo TV Tower, the Fuji Observation Deck, The Tokyo Government Towers, AMP Tower in Sydney, Eureka Building in Melbourne, the Sentosa Tower and then the Swissotel in Singapore, The World Trade Centre, The Empire State Building and even the Space Needle in Seattle. If I ever visit Dubai any time soon, then let me tell you……
I’m sure a philosophy student from Liverpool John Moore’s might say that, as a shortarse, it’s indicative of some subconscious desire to lord it over other people. He might call it something like “Ivory Tower Syndrome”. But he’d be talking nonsense. So I’d probably knock his beret off for that comment.
I met Louise on Queens St and we wandered round to the Tower to collect our reserved tickets. Once in the lift, however, as I was staring down through the glass floor, it was obvious that Louise was not comfortable with the ground falling away beneath her and was now peeking through splayed fingers. The actual observation deck was pleasant if unspectacular, and whilst Louise gingerly remained at a safe distance from a glass floor revealing a 328 metre drop, I failed miserably to take any decent night shots, each successive image resembling more and more the daubings of a child let loose on black sugar paper with an army of crayons.
To the restaurant, then. And whereas Lou had been a bit fazed by the height issue, after sitting down at our table, I realised my middle-ear had a movement issue. After a few moments, I felt a little queasy and as I looked across the table at Lou, I could sense I was moving I just couldn’t tell how, or where I was moving to. Similarly, one thing they never tell you about a revolving restaurant that when you go the toilet, you come out 3 minutes and 18.4 degrees later only to think your girlfriend has buggered off, when in fact she hasn’t left her seat.
Soon, however, the feeling had passed. Enough for me to order beef filler with kumara mash (NZ Sweet Potato) and a triple chocolate icecream.
Last year I was on Bondi Beach for my birthday. This year I was up the Auckland Sky Tower. I’ve set the bar high for my 30s. I only hope I can keep this up.
Photos to follow............
The Breakfast Club
A while ago now, Pink House crew members Chris and Simon launched Lunch Club.
Whilst the moniker they bestowed upon it best conjures up images of captains of industry meeting at an Edwardian high-rise in Mayfair to discuss the Gold Standard and have a spot of tiffin, it was in fact an excuse to spend the hour between 1pm and 2pm stuffing their faces with home-made burritos. And most of the time, Chris and Simon were the only two members.
One year on and here in NZ I find myself one of the inaugural members of what I am calling Breakfast Club. Not a reference to the daft-haircut-sporting, none-more-80s film of the same name, but rather a meeting of like-minded people whose only thing in common is that they have to get up bloody early for work.
Initially Breakfast Club was just Bev and I, but its ranks are slowly swelling with new bleary-eyed additions of Nick from Seattle and Benjamin from France. There are also honorary mentions for Jens who, being German, is up and gone long before the rest of us, and Manu who, despite being German, stumbles into the kitchen at 7.55am looking like he’s been woken by binmen emptying the skip he lives in.
Breakfast Club has a fairly loose agenda. If you feel like joining, here are some of the regular activities:
* Wearily watching the kettle boil as you ask your fellow member if they heard some twat in the top bunk snoring last night
Whilst the moniker they bestowed upon it best conjures up images of captains of industry meeting at an Edwardian high-rise in Mayfair to discuss the Gold Standard and have a spot of tiffin, it was in fact an excuse to spend the hour between 1pm and 2pm stuffing their faces with home-made burritos. And most of the time, Chris and Simon were the only two members.
One year on and here in NZ I find myself one of the inaugural members of what I am calling Breakfast Club. Not a reference to the daft-haircut-sporting, none-more-80s film of the same name, but rather a meeting of like-minded people whose only thing in common is that they have to get up bloody early for work.
Initially Breakfast Club was just Bev and I, but its ranks are slowly swelling with new bleary-eyed additions of Nick from Seattle and Benjamin from France. There are also honorary mentions for Jens who, being German, is up and gone long before the rest of us, and Manu who, despite being German, stumbles into the kitchen at 7.55am looking like he’s been woken by binmen emptying the skip he lives in.
Breakfast Club has a fairly loose agenda. If you feel like joining, here are some of the regular activities:
* Wearily watching the kettle boil as you ask your fellow member if they heard some twat in the top bunk snoring last night
* Groggily reading instructions from a Weetabix Box (“Oh look I’m getting twice my RDA of nyacine”) and missing the bowl with your milk
* Staring blankly at the newspaper. Deliberately ignoring stories about Obama vs the Superdelegates because it’s too early, and instead settling on an article about a man who crossed the Attacama on a spacehopper
* Yawning while you hack your toast to splinters with the rock-hard butter you forgot to take out of the fridge last night
I suspect, however, that Breakfast Club is not exclusive to The Brown Kiwi
I suspect, however, that Breakfast Club is not exclusive to The Brown Kiwi
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Ou-es Tu?
Of late, readers of this blog, of which I sincerely hope there are some, may have noted a recent drop off in the frequency of posting.
It pains me to report, then, that nothing really has happened. I am currently locked in a cycle of alarm clock, breakfast, front door, work, lunch, work, front door, TV, curry/spag bol/supernoodles, more TV and then bed as I wait for the cash to roll in and for lovely Louise to arrive.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a routine, but I am closer than I have been in two years to recreating my past life in London. This is both a blessing and a curse: although this rediscovered “routine” rewards me financially and also career-wise, I can’t help hearing the echoes of people who have returned permanently to Blighty, their travelling and perhaps their youth firmly behind them, moaning about how they’ve found “settling down” inherently depressing.
Still, regrettably, I can’t travel forever - I am not “The Littlest Hobo” – and so at some stage a return to orthodoxy and normalcy is as expected as it is inevitable.
I can’t complain at the moment, the hostel is as empty as my work email inbox, and my bank account is filling up faster than my internet browser’s history bar. Work alternates between a mad flurry of presentation writing and frantic bash-typing of emails, contrasted with extended lunch breaks, lengthy pisses and Youtube afternoons. Feast and famine. Bella Emberg and Kate Moss.
It’s not long now though, I think, until I’ll have something blogworthy. So hang on in there…..
It pains me to report, then, that nothing really has happened. I am currently locked in a cycle of alarm clock, breakfast, front door, work, lunch, work, front door, TV, curry/spag bol/supernoodles, more TV and then bed as I wait for the cash to roll in and for lovely Louise to arrive.
Not that there’s anything wrong with a routine, but I am closer than I have been in two years to recreating my past life in London. This is both a blessing and a curse: although this rediscovered “routine” rewards me financially and also career-wise, I can’t help hearing the echoes of people who have returned permanently to Blighty, their travelling and perhaps their youth firmly behind them, moaning about how they’ve found “settling down” inherently depressing.
Still, regrettably, I can’t travel forever - I am not “The Littlest Hobo” – and so at some stage a return to orthodoxy and normalcy is as expected as it is inevitable.
I can’t complain at the moment, the hostel is as empty as my work email inbox, and my bank account is filling up faster than my internet browser’s history bar. Work alternates between a mad flurry of presentation writing and frantic bash-typing of emails, contrasted with extended lunch breaks, lengthy pisses and Youtube afternoons. Feast and famine. Bella Emberg and Kate Moss.
It’s not long now though, I think, until I’ll have something blogworthy. So hang on in there…..
Friday, May 09, 2008
Brown Love
The Brown Kiwi is smashing. I liked it as soon as I arrived, and it still continues to please.
The secret to its success lies in its positioning. It’s not a hostel where you’ll find football-shirted twunts called Darren from Leicester, with over-gelled hair and meaningless yin-yang tattoo, guzzling boxed wine and bellowing across the street at some slapper with a watchstrap for a skirt.
And it’s not a hostel where some blank-eyed receptionist, themselves a backpacker working to pay off rent, hands you a threadbare set of sheets and casually motions towards your room next to the bog.
In fact, it’s more like a shared house. But with lots of people. We already have our in-jokes. Our characters. Our catchphrases. Our nods and winks that indicate so much.
We’ve already started having our little adventures too. Last Wednesday was Mini-road trip day. Stefan from Heidelberg had just recently purchased a camper van to tour NZ , but it had already developed a rather ominous rattle. Frustratingly, it was a rattle which disappeared completely whenever he was in 10 metres range of anyone with any mechanical knowledge. Our trip, then, was designed to make the rattle come back so, should we actually be in earshot of anyone who knew anything about engineering, we could get an opinion.
So Stefan, Jens (also from Germany) and I set off with no particular destination in mind and made our way North. After about an hour we decided we really should be going “somewhere” and so, as I had the map, I selected what looked like the nearest geographical feature of interest: a 4 mile long peninsula stretching out Westward from Auckland.
Once at the tip, we disembarked into the Shakespear National Park encompassing a beach, a lookout point and a hill full of sheep. After a brisk 2 hour walk we returned to find there was indeed a problem with Stefan’s van. Not a rattle, but rather that he had left the lights on and flattened the battery. So much for German efficiency.
Luckily, this is the 21st Century and whilst Stefan didn’t have any jump leads, he did have a solar powered recharger. And so after a failed bump start, we duly wired up the recharger and played Ludo in the back of the van until we thought we could risk turning the key.
As the engine coughed into life, we all breathed a sigh of relief: I don’t think I could have handled another round of Ludo.
The secret to its success lies in its positioning. It’s not a hostel where you’ll find football-shirted twunts called Darren from Leicester, with over-gelled hair and meaningless yin-yang tattoo, guzzling boxed wine and bellowing across the street at some slapper with a watchstrap for a skirt.
And it’s not a hostel where some blank-eyed receptionist, themselves a backpacker working to pay off rent, hands you a threadbare set of sheets and casually motions towards your room next to the bog.
In fact, it’s more like a shared house. But with lots of people. We already have our in-jokes. Our characters. Our catchphrases. Our nods and winks that indicate so much.
We’ve already started having our little adventures too. Last Wednesday was Mini-road trip day. Stefan from Heidelberg had just recently purchased a camper van to tour NZ , but it had already developed a rather ominous rattle. Frustratingly, it was a rattle which disappeared completely whenever he was in 10 metres range of anyone with any mechanical knowledge. Our trip, then, was designed to make the rattle come back so, should we actually be in earshot of anyone who knew anything about engineering, we could get an opinion.
So Stefan, Jens (also from Germany) and I set off with no particular destination in mind and made our way North. After about an hour we decided we really should be going “somewhere” and so, as I had the map, I selected what looked like the nearest geographical feature of interest: a 4 mile long peninsula stretching out Westward from Auckland.
Once at the tip, we disembarked into the Shakespear National Park encompassing a beach, a lookout point and a hill full of sheep. After a brisk 2 hour walk we returned to find there was indeed a problem with Stefan’s van. Not a rattle, but rather that he had left the lights on and flattened the battery. So much for German efficiency.
Luckily, this is the 21st Century and whilst Stefan didn’t have any jump leads, he did have a solar powered recharger. And so after a failed bump start, we duly wired up the recharger and played Ludo in the back of the van until we thought we could risk turning the key.
As the engine coughed into life, we all breathed a sigh of relief: I don’t think I could have handled another round of Ludo.
PR Does PR
Well, as some of you may have gathered, I am now gainfully employed. A random email to an old contact yielded a temporary two month position at PHD here in Auckland. Luckier than examining a four leaf clover and finding it contained a horseshoe attached to a rabbit’s foot.
The interview wasn’t so much an interview as “what’s your name?” and “when can you start?”, to which my response was obviously “how much” and “give it to me”.
On the face of it, the position seemed pretty similar to what I’d been doing in the UK, but a few days in and the gap between my expectations and the reality appears to be widening. This is definitely a more PR-based role. “Can’t stop, I’m off to take the editor of Cosmo to a macro-biotic spa and women’s retreat”. That kind of thing.
Not only does this make me the least experienced in the office by far, but also the least attractive on account of all 16 other (female) employees here looking like they’ve just stepped out of a Max Factor advert. I can only imagine how my UK high street attire is going down here: “This season, Phil is wearing a 100% Polyester T-Shirt from Matalan, featuring some logo or other. He is also wearing a pair of blue stone-washed jeans from Primark. In his spare time, Phil likes taking afternoon naps and eating Batchelor’s Supernoodles“
There is the possibility, however, that I may actually learn something new here. Maybe PR will be my true calling. Maybe I’ll take to it like a duck to Evian. Maybe I’ll be air-kissing Nigella Lawson in no time. Maybe.
The interview wasn’t so much an interview as “what’s your name?” and “when can you start?”, to which my response was obviously “how much” and “give it to me”.
On the face of it, the position seemed pretty similar to what I’d been doing in the UK, but a few days in and the gap between my expectations and the reality appears to be widening. This is definitely a more PR-based role. “Can’t stop, I’m off to take the editor of Cosmo to a macro-biotic spa and women’s retreat”. That kind of thing.
Not only does this make me the least experienced in the office by far, but also the least attractive on account of all 16 other (female) employees here looking like they’ve just stepped out of a Max Factor advert. I can only imagine how my UK high street attire is going down here: “This season, Phil is wearing a 100% Polyester T-Shirt from Matalan, featuring some logo or other. He is also wearing a pair of blue stone-washed jeans from Primark. In his spare time, Phil likes taking afternoon naps and eating Batchelor’s Supernoodles“
There is the possibility, however, that I may actually learn something new here. Maybe PR will be my true calling. Maybe I’ll take to it like a duck to Evian. Maybe I’ll be air-kissing Nigella Lawson in no time. Maybe.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Why Are We Waiting.....?
Meanwhile, in Auckland, things have stalled somewhat.
The last week has been spent in industrious pursuit of employment, with my days consumed by a mix of glacial bureaucracy, futile filling-out of forms, elusive recruitment consultants (and their feeble, feeble excuses), queuing, more queuing and boo-hooing.
Yes, the job hunt has started alongside a wade through the mire of household chores that inevitably accompanies a move to a new country, including a chat with an Indian call centre, a suburban bus trip to a place with a name right out of a Carry On film and several pointless interviews where several pointless recruitment consultants asked questions straight out of "Interviewing For Dummies" eg "Now, what would you say your strengths and weaknesses are?"
A right grilling, I can tell you.
Had one interview so far with the Radio Bureau where, curiously, the woman knew nothing about me, or what I was looking for, despite having the email I sent her printed out in front of her throughout the meeting. Thanks for that, duck. I could have spent that time being fobbed off by Madison Recruitment. For instance:"Yes, she's just picked up the phone"; "Yes, she's just stepped out" ; "Yes, she's just accidentally been taken hostage by rogue Shia cleric, Muqtada al Sadr. Can she give you a call back tomorrow?"
Anyway, I've about done all I can do now. I just have to wait for the offers to come rolling in.
The last week has been spent in industrious pursuit of employment, with my days consumed by a mix of glacial bureaucracy, futile filling-out of forms, elusive recruitment consultants (and their feeble, feeble excuses), queuing, more queuing and boo-hooing.
Yes, the job hunt has started alongside a wade through the mire of household chores that inevitably accompanies a move to a new country, including a chat with an Indian call centre, a suburban bus trip to a place with a name right out of a Carry On film and several pointless interviews where several pointless recruitment consultants asked questions straight out of "Interviewing For Dummies" eg "Now, what would you say your strengths and weaknesses are?"
A right grilling, I can tell you.
Had one interview so far with the Radio Bureau where, curiously, the woman knew nothing about me, or what I was looking for, despite having the email I sent her printed out in front of her throughout the meeting. Thanks for that, duck. I could have spent that time being fobbed off by Madison Recruitment. For instance:"Yes, she's just picked up the phone"; "Yes, she's just stepped out" ; "Yes, she's just accidentally been taken hostage by rogue Shia cleric, Muqtada al Sadr. Can she give you a call back tomorrow?"
Anyway, I've about done all I can do now. I just have to wait for the offers to come rolling in.
Monday, April 07, 2008
From OZ to NZ
Sorry have been quiet for a bit. I've been swapping countries. I'm now in a place where "Bread Pat" is the actor out of Seven and "Jungle Bills" is a Christmas carol.
Yes, I am now in New Zealand. Home of the Maoris, Crowded House and Russell Crowe. The first English speaking country to see the new day, the first country to give women the vote and last country I'll probably visit on my worldwide jaunt.
I arrived in Auckland a week ago, but lets rewind to the last few days in Oz.
G'bye Mate
After 1770 I arrived in Brisbane with the express intention of visiting Moreton Island after Lou's recommendation. Clearly my intentions were not sufficiently express as I'd left it too late to phone and the tours were all full. My fault, but a lack of signal in 1770 and a lack of accommodation in Brisbane meant my attention was elsewhere for a few days.
Speaking of accommodation, Cloud 9 in Brisbane, where I ended up staying, was a last minute choice, and I certainly paid the price for it when, really, I would have preferred them to pay me to stay there. Grubby, sweaty pits for rooms, toilets in darkness and a "DVD lounge" comprising a chair with no back and a sofa with clouds of yellow stuffing billowing from holes in the PVC. Both chairs were pointed at the TV in a rather perfuctory effort. The room looked like it had previously been used as an arena for fighting pitbulls.
Brisbane itself was like Leicester. Generic, unimpressive and utterly acceptable: one main high street with regulation McD's, HMV and Dick Smiths (Oz equiv of Dixons). So no Moreton Island trip meant no point in hanging around a town whose chief accolade was that it wasn't particularly awful.
Actually, since you ask, though not mentioned on this blog, I did visit Canberra before Christmas and although it attracts much criticism for being "dead" and "boring" and "dead boring", let me tell you, it was far more interesting than Adelaide and Brisbane put together.
I returned to Sydney two and bit days early and stayed in Claire's flat which, after the hoo-hah of wondering whether you would be sharing your room with a bunch of hard-drinking Geordies or drink-hardened Glaswegians, came as a relief.
When I put things down, they stayed put down. No one woke me up unzipping their rucksack into its 49,3287 constituent parts, and no one came into the room at 4am, turned on the light, and treated everyone to a lesson in how to take your jeans off whilst drunk.
Then it was back to the Pink House for a few days to be reunited with the my giant red suitcase, and triple the amount of pants and socks at my disposal.
On the Monday I was off. Goodbye Australia. Hello New Zealand.
Wizard of NZ
I arrived in Auckland about 6pm and grabbed the shuttle bus which dropped me at the door of the Browm Kiwi, my hostel, all being well, for the next couple of months.
Initially I was apprehensive as choosing somewhere to be your home for 10 weeks without actually seeing it is a risk. But luckily Chris's recommendation was spot on; the Brown Kiwi is clean, quaint, quiet and well-resourced and most of all friendly. It's almost a cross between a backpackers and a B&B, with it's huge kitchen table around which the "family" gather.
Its receptionist, despite talking of his "ex-wife", is clearly no stranger to the music of George Michael, and has a keen wit. He's like a cross between John Inman and Pete Waterman, and fires off one-liners for his own edification. When I commented the NZ money contains the Queens face, he replied with lightning speed "Oh, we all love a Queen in Auckland, darling".
Despite people's warning of the soullessnees and dinge of Auckland, I've warmed to it quite quickly. Not the best place for a tourist destination, but it seems fine for a base for a couple of months.
And so all that remains is for me to go through the ritual rigmarole of getting a job. The emails have been sent, the phone calls made, the agencies contacted. All I have to do now is wait. And if it's anything like Sydney, I should have a job by this time 2012......
Yes, I am now in New Zealand. Home of the Maoris, Crowded House and Russell Crowe. The first English speaking country to see the new day, the first country to give women the vote and last country I'll probably visit on my worldwide jaunt.
I arrived in Auckland a week ago, but lets rewind to the last few days in Oz.
G'bye Mate
After 1770 I arrived in Brisbane with the express intention of visiting Moreton Island after Lou's recommendation. Clearly my intentions were not sufficiently express as I'd left it too late to phone and the tours were all full. My fault, but a lack of signal in 1770 and a lack of accommodation in Brisbane meant my attention was elsewhere for a few days.
Speaking of accommodation, Cloud 9 in Brisbane, where I ended up staying, was a last minute choice, and I certainly paid the price for it when, really, I would have preferred them to pay me to stay there. Grubby, sweaty pits for rooms, toilets in darkness and a "DVD lounge" comprising a chair with no back and a sofa with clouds of yellow stuffing billowing from holes in the PVC. Both chairs were pointed at the TV in a rather perfuctory effort. The room looked like it had previously been used as an arena for fighting pitbulls.
Brisbane itself was like Leicester. Generic, unimpressive and utterly acceptable: one main high street with regulation McD's, HMV and Dick Smiths (Oz equiv of Dixons). So no Moreton Island trip meant no point in hanging around a town whose chief accolade was that it wasn't particularly awful.
Actually, since you ask, though not mentioned on this blog, I did visit Canberra before Christmas and although it attracts much criticism for being "dead" and "boring" and "dead boring", let me tell you, it was far more interesting than Adelaide and Brisbane put together.
I returned to Sydney two and bit days early and stayed in Claire's flat which, after the hoo-hah of wondering whether you would be sharing your room with a bunch of hard-drinking Geordies or drink-hardened Glaswegians, came as a relief.
When I put things down, they stayed put down. No one woke me up unzipping their rucksack into its 49,3287 constituent parts, and no one came into the room at 4am, turned on the light, and treated everyone to a lesson in how to take your jeans off whilst drunk.
Then it was back to the Pink House for a few days to be reunited with the my giant red suitcase, and triple the amount of pants and socks at my disposal.
On the Monday I was off. Goodbye Australia. Hello New Zealand.
Wizard of NZ
I arrived in Auckland about 6pm and grabbed the shuttle bus which dropped me at the door of the Browm Kiwi, my hostel, all being well, for the next couple of months.
Initially I was apprehensive as choosing somewhere to be your home for 10 weeks without actually seeing it is a risk. But luckily Chris's recommendation was spot on; the Brown Kiwi is clean, quaint, quiet and well-resourced and most of all friendly. It's almost a cross between a backpackers and a B&B, with it's huge kitchen table around which the "family" gather.
Its receptionist, despite talking of his "ex-wife", is clearly no stranger to the music of George Michael, and has a keen wit. He's like a cross between John Inman and Pete Waterman, and fires off one-liners for his own edification. When I commented the NZ money contains the Queens face, he replied with lightning speed "Oh, we all love a Queen in Auckland, darling".
Despite people's warning of the soullessnees and dinge of Auckland, I've warmed to it quite quickly. Not the best place for a tourist destination, but it seems fine for a base for a couple of months.
And so all that remains is for me to go through the ritual rigmarole of getting a job. The emails have been sent, the phone calls made, the agencies contacted. All I have to do now is wait. And if it's anything like Sydney, I should have a job by this time 2012......
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Vicious Cycle ....Or Who Am I Eddie Kidding?
From Airlie Beach it was another 11 hour bus journey to the town of 1770, allegedly the only town in the world with numbers for a name.
It's typical of Aussies to spend little effort in naming anything when they could be barbecueing a possum or something . Hence The Snowy Mountains, The Great Sandy Desert and inevitably 1770.
"What shall we call this place? Well, what year is it? 1770? Right that'll do.....Right, now to pick up some supplies from Fly-Infested Shithole"
In fairness 1770 is so called as it was the original landing point of Captain James Cook, expert cartographer and "discoverer" of Australia who, in 1770, set in place a chain of events culminating in the creation of Home and Away and Rolf Harris. Thanks for that, Jim. Thanks.
Chris recommended 1770 as a kind of antidote to Airlie. It's a quiet town with a strong sense of community and no mobile phone signal, and with only 120 beds in the whole town, booking ahead is essential. I was already in at Cool Banana. A great hostel, brightly decorated and clean, it showed the Pink House in a new light. Or rather a new dinge. They get extra marks for hammocks. Hammocks rock. Literally. Obviously.
A free morning tour revealed an idyllic town with no drugs, no crime and no McDonalds. Land here goes for millions of dollars, yet prospective residents are still only allowed to build Deliverance-esque shacks. It's commonplace to see stainless steel Porsches next to wooden porches.
Our tour guide for this activity was a man whose name I didn't catch, but who had clearly wandered off in a purple haze during a Grateful Dead gig in 1970 and woke up in 1770. Like, wow, man. He resembled a cross between Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider and a Mexican bandit, and spoke with a thick South Afreeeekaan accent.
The real reason I was here was for Scooteroo: a kind of cross between a daytrip, theme park ride and a quick burn with the Queensland chapter of The Hell's Angels. Once again hosted by Johannesburg's answer to Carlos Santana, Scooteroo gives backpackers the opportunity to get out on the open road, riding in a convoy of 100cc scooters, all of which look as if they have been decorated by the band Iron Maiden on a particularly interminable Sunday.
Alarmingly, it all seemed rather too relaxed with the thick gutteral Afrikaans tones of "Bob Harley" reassuring us "eef you kann rade a pushbake, you kann rade a scootah". We gathered in a huge parking lot and selected our bikes from a neat square of rowed up machine, each of them tipped slightly on to their kickstand. And, after the briefest of demonstration, "this is the throttle. This is the brake. Any questions?", we set off on an experimental and wobbly lap of the carpark.
At first I was veering wildly from side to side, every attempt to correct and adjust sending me careering. "Oh no" I thought "Supposing it turns out I'm shit at it". Potentially embarrassing. By the time I had reached the drive way I was met by the Durban Warrior's Oriental wife.
"Everyfink OK?" she said
"I think there's something wrong with the bike. It keeps veering left and right" I replied
"Oh that normal . Bye" she said and ushered me on to the main road
Great. Soon, though, I had the hang of it and was razzing round the narrow roads of 1770 with 30 other backpackers on what looked and sounded like Devil's Hairdriers. It was a 60km round trip finishing at a beach to take in the Sunset.
After I took stock of my trip:
* Flies in the face - 24
* Times I hit 80km an hour - 1
* Unscratchable itches inside helmet - 34
* Re-overtaking people who had overtaken you 30 seconds previously - 9
* Kangaroos seen - 11
* Kangaroos hit - 0
* Times I pretended I was Street Hawk - 1
The bikes rowed up during a break.
Me with the town's local bike........
Like, wow, man.......
It's typical of Aussies to spend little effort in naming anything when they could be barbecueing a possum or something . Hence The Snowy Mountains, The Great Sandy Desert and inevitably 1770.
"What shall we call this place? Well, what year is it? 1770? Right that'll do.....Right, now to pick up some supplies from Fly-Infested Shithole"
In fairness 1770 is so called as it was the original landing point of Captain James Cook, expert cartographer and "discoverer" of Australia who, in 1770, set in place a chain of events culminating in the creation of Home and Away and Rolf Harris. Thanks for that, Jim. Thanks.
Chris recommended 1770 as a kind of antidote to Airlie. It's a quiet town with a strong sense of community and no mobile phone signal, and with only 120 beds in the whole town, booking ahead is essential. I was already in at Cool Banana. A great hostel, brightly decorated and clean, it showed the Pink House in a new light. Or rather a new dinge. They get extra marks for hammocks. Hammocks rock. Literally. Obviously.
A free morning tour revealed an idyllic town with no drugs, no crime and no McDonalds. Land here goes for millions of dollars, yet prospective residents are still only allowed to build Deliverance-esque shacks. It's commonplace to see stainless steel Porsches next to wooden porches.
Our tour guide for this activity was a man whose name I didn't catch, but who had clearly wandered off in a purple haze during a Grateful Dead gig in 1970 and woke up in 1770. Like, wow, man. He resembled a cross between Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider and a Mexican bandit, and spoke with a thick South Afreeeekaan accent.
The real reason I was here was for Scooteroo: a kind of cross between a daytrip, theme park ride and a quick burn with the Queensland chapter of The Hell's Angels. Once again hosted by Johannesburg's answer to Carlos Santana, Scooteroo gives backpackers the opportunity to get out on the open road, riding in a convoy of 100cc scooters, all of which look as if they have been decorated by the band Iron Maiden on a particularly interminable Sunday.
Alarmingly, it all seemed rather too relaxed with the thick gutteral Afrikaans tones of "Bob Harley" reassuring us "eef you kann rade a pushbake, you kann rade a scootah". We gathered in a huge parking lot and selected our bikes from a neat square of rowed up machine, each of them tipped slightly on to their kickstand. And, after the briefest of demonstration, "this is the throttle. This is the brake. Any questions?", we set off on an experimental and wobbly lap of the carpark.
At first I was veering wildly from side to side, every attempt to correct and adjust sending me careering. "Oh no" I thought "Supposing it turns out I'm shit at it". Potentially embarrassing. By the time I had reached the drive way I was met by the Durban Warrior's Oriental wife.
"Everyfink OK?" she said
"I think there's something wrong with the bike. It keeps veering left and right" I replied
"Oh that normal . Bye" she said and ushered me on to the main road
Great. Soon, though, I had the hang of it and was razzing round the narrow roads of 1770 with 30 other backpackers on what looked and sounded like Devil's Hairdriers. It was a 60km round trip finishing at a beach to take in the Sunset.
After I took stock of my trip:
* Flies in the face - 24
* Times I hit 80km an hour - 1
* Unscratchable itches inside helmet - 34
* Re-overtaking people who had overtaken you 30 seconds previously - 9
* Kangaroos seen - 11
* Kangaroos hit - 0
* Times I pretended I was Street Hawk - 1
The bikes rowed up during a break.
Me with the town's local bike........
Like, wow, man.......
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