There’s such a lot of world to see

A couple of months ago, I’d got an email from my friend Lisa, letting me know she was planning to be in New Zealand at the same time I was. This was outstandingly good news. Lisa and I met when we did our TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) course, we clicked immediately, and only afterwards discovered that we more or less worked at the same place (in the same building anyway, and for related employers), and were both there by stealth, planning to leave soon but not having told our employer yet. Cue lots of lovely ’secret squirrel’ emails and after-work emergency powwows when we were on the verge of handing in our notice and leaving. Lisa subsequently escaped to Spain, and I came off to see the world. Family events took Leese back to the UK, but her and her brother decided before long to come off and see what New Zealand had to offer.

I was on the Cook Islands when they got here, but by the time I’d got back, Leese had got herself a job managing a backpackers’ hostel in Taupo. I’d always planned to go there anyway; now it seemed the perfect way to round off my New Zealand time. I was desperately in need of an old friend, after my news about Fr Xavier, so the timing couldn’t have been better.

And it was wonderful! We had a great big hug when we saw each other, and I got to meet Lisa’s brother, Ki, as well. They were both working that afternoon so I settled down to a busy time of watching DVDs and reading. Oh, it’s a hard life. That evening, I had dinner with them and we began the long-awaited catch up, starting a non-stop conversation that would last four days!

Lisa had the next couple of days off, and we had a lovely old time, going for (gentle!) walks and exploring the area, good for both of us - me to get to see the place, and Leese so she can recommend things for the people staying at the hostel. We also both got to wear rather fetching raincoats, as it was raining, and took some lovely photos, in which we both look rather spesh.

The first afternoon, I was completely amazed that Ki had built himself a bedroom in part of the living room in just a day, and was more than happy to earn my keep and help paint the walls. All those many, many, MANY coats that my bathroom took (Sarah - once again I salute you for your help!) were good practice.

We spent more hours wandering through town, in the art gallery, and up at the gorgeous botanical gardens (I’d recommend these for sure for anyone visiting Taupo) - Spring was a lovely time of year to visit these as all the blooms were at their finest. One night, as a thankyou to them for their fabulous hospitality, I cooked them a roast chicken dinner (my first in a good while), they ate it all and nobody died so hopefully it was ok!

One of the reasons for coming to Taupo was that I’d intended to do a skydive. It’s the cheapest there in all of New Zealand. The first couple of days, though, it was impossible due to the bad weather. On my third day, though, it was a beautifully sunny day. I woke up, thought about doing a skydive, and just felt sick. I don’t know why. Maybe I’d had too much time to think about it? I’d always intended to do one in New Zealand, and now, when I could, I dídn’t want to. I wasn’t prepared to spend that much money on something I didn’t 100% want to do (especially something that I can do back at home, should the mood strike me). Reading that back, I sound like I’m trying to justify my decision, and to be honest, I’m still a bit mystified by it now, but, hey ho. Onwards and upwards.

And so the time came for me to leave New Zealand, and head on to my final continent, and another challenge. So, after a fond farewell to Leese (in which she managed to wreck a car… but that’s another story!), I was heading for Auckland to the airport. South America was waiting.

Rotorua is famous for a few things throughout New Zealand.  It has one of the highest concentrated Maori populations, and so is a good place to find out some more about Maori history, culture and traditions; it has lots and lots of thermal pools and geysers; and it is the home of zorbing.

As I´ve mentioned on an earlier blog, one of the things Andy and I did before we went our separate ways was to give each other loads of information about what was not to be missed.  According to Mr Jones, zorbing fell firmly into that category.  To quote him, “Go ZORBING - best fun you´ll have, and go wet!”  To those of you now sitting reading this with knitted brows, I shall explain.  Somehow, a landowner in New Zealand figured that if you get two large rubber balls, put one inside the other, fill the gap between the two with air, you could get foolish innocent tourists vistors to get inside the middle ball, have a couple of buckets of (thankfully warm) water chucked in there with them, and push the ball down a hill, like a gigantic hamster wheel. 

Yep, this is Andy´s idea of fun.  No matter how many times I tried to explain that my idea of ´fun´usually contained at least one of the following elements: wine, shoes, chocolate, shopping (or, in an ideal world, all of the above), he was pretty insistent I try it.  Any one who either knows me or has read even a tiny portion of this blog will know as well how very, very easy I find it to injure myself, and I was convinced I would hobble away with a broken ankle or something, but hey, even I´d find it hard to injure myself zipped into a big rubber ball, right?

So, on my first full morning in Rotorua, I went along to the zorbing site, on a kind of extreme adventure park on the outskirts of town.  I´d gone along there with one of my dorm mates, a lovely lass from Inverness, Debbie, who, in a moment of madness, had bought a ticket for bungee jumping and some kind of turbo jet as well.  These I shied away from, as I was getting nervous enough just about the zorbing.  And watching Debbie´s bungee swoop thing at such a close range convinced me that I was never, EVER going to do one.

One of the things that amused me most before I came away was how many people said to me “gosh, you´re so brave”.  Well, let this be a lesson to you all; I am the most cowardly person on the face of the earth!  Even cowards can leave home.

So, time for the zorb.  We all got in a jeep and were clanged up a hill, literally holding on for dear life.  After one couple, I was next up.  Apparently, the best way to get into the zorb is to dive through the hole.  Not the most flattering way though, especially not when you get your feet stuck outside.  I had to stand up to get the zorb started down the hill, but after that, there was no chance of staying upright.  There was no chance of staying ANY way up - you literally slip your way downhill, completely disorientated.  I started to feel a bit pukey as I couldn´t tell which way was up (once more my legendary motion seasickness is a joy), and it felt much, much longer than it actually is - a couple of minutes at the most.  I had two goes, and I got a t-shirt.  And… yes, you´ve guessed it, I managed to injure myself.  Not seriously, but I cut my finger, it got caught in the zip.  So I was doing my “I told you so” dance in Andy´s direction.

The best fun I´ve ever had?  Erm, probably not.  For shame, I imagine that sentence for me, if answered honestly, would end in the words “Jimmy Choos”.  But, if you´re in the area and fancy seeing how it feels to be a giant, wet, upside down hamster, yeah, give it a go!

The afternoon was far more my kind of thing, and one I´d definitely describe as ´fun´.  Debbie and I headed on down to the thermal pools.  Overlooking Lake Rotorua, the spas and pools are the culprits of the famously sulphuric and eggy-smelling air in Rotorua.  Once you get over this, though, it´s a good way to spend an afternoon.  There are four public pools in all, the first one is the size of a swimming pool and is lovely and warm.  The other three, open air, are smaller and get progressively hotter and hotter.  Despite the chilly air outside, we could only stay in the last one (about 41 degrees) for a few minutes at a time.  Getting out, we got an inappropriate fit of the giggles when we walked into the changing room and were met with the lovely sight of about 50 Chinese women, completely starkers.  Of all ages.  Believe me, nobody needs to see that.  We were evah so British and snuck into the loos to get changed.

The next morning was a supremely early start, even by my standards.  I was getting up at 4am to watch England play the All Blacks back at Twickenham.  To my amazement, Debbie agreed to come with me, despite being both Scottish and not a real rugby fan.  It was actually quite a fun thing to do, huddled at that time in the morning with other rugby fans (to my dismay, though, most seemed to be Kiwis, not at all fun when we lost).  And no, I couldn´t get back to sleep later.

Instead, that afternoon we walked out to a thermal geyser park.  I´m never sure how to pronounce geyser - is it gee-zer or gay-ser (or something else? guy-ser?)  The earth´s crust is at its thinnest here, and it´s amazing to feel how warm the earth beneath your feet gets.  So we sat for a while (quite a long while, actually, we were beginning to get bored) and waited for the world´s most reliable geyser.  It was, admittedly, impressive, and quite scary to feel the earth rumble and feel the power of Mother Nature at first hand.  We also saw kiwis there in a special enclosure (up till then I´d not seen any; either they were a myth, or very shy, like the haggis).  They were huge!  I thought they´d be, well, bird-sized, but they were like big ducks.  And before you say it yes, I know that ducks are birds as well.  Hmmm… maybe they were big ducks in kiwi suits.

Our final ´to do´in Rotorua was to go to a Maori night.  We did this on our last night there (after not much sleep).  I made the fatal mistake of having a power nap in the afternoon, which just made me grouchy and snarly.  The Maori night would have to be pretty special to wake me up.  And it was actually really good fun.  Touristy, yes, cheesy, yes, but still, nothing wrong with that in moderation.  It started off with showing us how they´d cook our food, then we all traipsed off through the woods to see the show of traditional Maori skills, songs and dances, which were very slick and professionally done.  Then the food… mmmmm…. good, and lots of it.  We stuffed ourselves silly.  Finally, a walk through the woods to spot glowworms which was, to be honest, a bit dull, so Debbie and I entertained ourselves with amusing photos

Back to the hostel, ready for an early start the next day… my last stop in New Zealand, and one where I´d meet yet another lovely friendly face.

So, back in New Zealand, I began my two-week exploration of the North Island. After an admin-y couple of days in Auckland, where I was rejoicing in liberally available and liberally priced internet (or so it seemed after the Cook Islands), banks, shops, public transport and people (oh yes, and rain - though that didn´t get me rejoicing quite as much), I decided to head north.

The bay of Islands are in the North East of the North Island, and basically they do what they say on the tin - they´re a bay full of small islands, only a few of which are inhabited. They´re also famous for being the point in New Zealand at which El Capitano Cook first stepped foot on New Zealand soil.

Paihia, known as the gateway to the bay of islands, was where I was staying. It was a lovely, quiet little seaside town with miles and miles of shores. Plus the hostel where I laid my hat (and my backpack) was one of the best ones so far. Really comfy beds, nice kitchen, good showers. Goodo.

The next day, I booked to go on a boat trip round the bay of islands. I was a bit suspicious and reluctant at first, for a couple of reasons - firstly, my well documented travel sickness (most recently experienced by Andy, whose shoes I nearly puked on coming back from Fraser Island), and also, my poor experience with dolphins. In Cambodia, the freshwater dolphins were distinctly average, and failed to impress.

However, there´s not that much else to do in Paihia, so I booked. And boy, was I glad I did. The islands themselves are very lovely, but numerous, and once you´ve seen ten or so, really you´ve seen them all. The captain kept opening up the throttle, so I kept muttering to myself, “focus on the horizon, do NOT puke on anyone´s shoes”.

Before long, we´d pulled round a corner into a bay where there had been reports of dolphins. And sure enough, just as we got there, one did a spectacular flipper-style backflip. As if it had been trained to do one on sight of tourists, or something, and hey, even if it had, I´m not complaining. Dolphin back-flips = A Good Thing, in my book, which this is after all (sort of).

Some people off our boat got off and swam with them, but I didn´t because 1. Sharks eat dolphins (probably), and 2. It seemed like loads of effort - man, can they swim fast! We had a brilliant view just watching from the boat though, and I took the million requisite photos.

As lovely as the scenery was after that, including a jaunt through a famous hole in the rock (the boat goes right through, then when you get to the other side you´re in the open ocean and whoomp! All these waves hit you), the dolphins were the absolute highlight. Apparently we got really lucky and they´re not often that playful, so I think they were making up for their dolphin cousins in Cambodia.

In the afternoon, I had a wander up to a Maori National Reserve, which includes a house where an important treaty was signed between the government of the day and the Maori tribes. It´s beautifully preserved, including a gorgeous flower garden, and was a lovely afternoon´s meander. Apparently there are kiwis in the surrounding woods, but I didn´t see any, further proving the theory that they are mythical, or just really shy, like the haggis.

It was an early start the next day, as I headed back down south to Rotorua. So all in all, I´d had a lovely old time by the seaside in Paihia, and I can say, albeit through gritted teeth, that I might have been wrong about dolphins. They are quite good, after all.

Back to Rarotonga, and to be honest, I wasn’t really in the mood for jollity and happiness.  I was still considering returning to New Zealand earlier than planned.

I was back at Varas, which had seemed to have had an influx of 18-30s new South Pacific venture.  Talk about making me feel old!  I felt like an outside observer, not really participating in, nor interested in, the antics of the younger guests who just seemed to be interested in partying.  Nice enough people, but just not a huge amount in common with them.  This was highlighted the first night back in the dorms there where the 18 year olds tripped back in at 2am, came into the dorm where I was sleeping, and put the light on.  This would have been bad enough, had I not raised my head off the pillow, and the culprit simpered to me, “oh, sorry, have I woken you up?”  “Yes”, I growled, at which point she just said, “oh, I am sorry” again, and sat down on her bed to write her diary.

There were some sane people staying there, fortunately, amongst whom were Malika, from Denmark, and Stefan, from Germany.  We three went on a night out to the cinema, the only cinema in the Cook Islands.  It shows one film every night, and is a rather wonderful lilac colour.  When we went, they were showing “Take The Lead”, which turned out to be a hybrid of Sister Act, Dangerous Minds, and Strictly Come Dancing.  Yes, it was wonderful!  Some of the best moments of the night were when they held the film until us three were sitting down (there were only about 10 other people in there), and when the film suddenly went off in the middle and we realised it was an intermission.  An intermission!  I haven’t seen one of those since God was a boy.  Wonderful.  Also, during the second half, the projector got knocked, and so we were suddenly watching loads of bums and tums having conversations.  I think that’s where we lost the plot, and giggled all the way through the rest of the movie.

Another real highlight during my time in Rarotonga was going to the church service along the road.  Missionaries got to the Cooks about 170 years ago, and they have taken to Christianity with real zeal.  They have their own church, the Cook Islands Christian Church, and a group of us went along on Sundays.  It was wonderful!  Probably the most welcoming service I’ve ever been to - special prayers were said for us visitors, and the welcome extended to giving us lunch afterwards.

I was lucky enough to be there on a national holiday, Gospel Day, which celebrates the arrival of the Gospel in the Cook Islands, and all the local churches get together and put on dramatic presentations based on Christianity and the history of the Cooks.  There was so much joy and enthusiasm put into their shows, it was impossible to watch without a smile on my face.  And the singing - the singing was something else.  A few times, we heard them sing one particular song, in the Maori language, which was in two parts, harmonised beautifully, and was just spine-tingling to hear.

On my last day there, I decided that it really was time I DID something on Rarotonga, so Malika and I booked a jeep tour round the island.  I was actually sorry I hadn’t done it earlier.  I’d got a pretty good idea of the geography of the island - it really isn’t big, and I’d done the complete circuit a couple of times on the bus - but this way, we got to see it from the hills in the middle, with gorgeous sweeping views right down to the sea.  We found out much more about the three main tribes of Rarotonga (all the Maoris who live there today are part of one of these tribes), each of which still has a king or queen running it.  One of them still has a palace in the town centre, which is lovely, although strangely not open to anyone. 

On the tour, there was an Australian woman who had me gritting my teeth literally within three minutes of being in her company.  Not only did she have a shrieking laugh, but she seemed to find EVERYTHING that ANYONE said completely hilarious.  Malika and I made a tactical move to sit in a different jeep to her, but it still didn’t work… we could hear her laugh lingering on the wind as we wound our way across Rarotonga. When we got to the waterfall, she decided to take a dive into it.  Fully dressed.  In knee length denim shorts.  She was still wet a few hours later.

And that was it, really for the Cook Islands.  Like I predicted, not the most exciting, action-packed blogs I have ever written, nor the most exciting, action-packed weeks I have ever spent.  But I got a really good tan!

After a week on Rarotonga doing blissfully little, I was ready to turn the activity level even further down, if it was at all possible. I decided to head over to the smaller island of Aitutaki. Rarotonga is the most-visited island in the Cook group, and Aitutaki is the second - but this is very much a relative term. It’s much, much smaller and much, much quieter.

It’s a 40 minute plane ride south of Rarotonga, and even this amused me, now that I’m such an international traveller and all. First I had to put my bag on a set of kitchen scales to see if it was overweight - it wasn’t, thank goodness, as I only really took a few bikinis and some books - then there were no security questions, no security screening, nothing. I made myself laugh when I asked the check-in girl what time my 1.30pm flight would be boarding. She looked at me like I was insane, and answered, “Erm, about 1.25″.

As with elsewhere in the South Pacific, we were greeted, at Aitutaki International Airport (an open-air shed) by a singer. I tell you, it ALWAYS puts you in a good mood, and I for one would campaign hard to see, say Oasis, playing in Arrivals in Manchester Airport. Or maybe Macca in Liverpool John Lennon Airport (Above Us Only Sky), now that he’s fallen on hard times? Think of the lawyer’s bills, Paul, and turn up with your guitar.

Within about 5 minutes of landing in Aitutaki, it was easy to see what the biggest problem would be. Mosquitoes. Relentless. Even smothered in 80% DEET, the little darlings were still feasting on me and, with an outbreak of Dengue Fever there, it didn’t exactly put my mind at rest. I spent a lot of time imagining I was coming down with a crippling headache. The rest of the time I spent counting my bites, putting antihistamine on them, and then for a double whammy, zapping them with my clicker thing that looks like it will give you an electric shock and/or waken Frankenstein’s monster. Hours of fun.

And, after that, I’m afraid, it really was a case of “and then I sunbathed and read and did nothing much else”. I hired a bike, which I used for my daily pootles around the island, to the shop and to various beaches. I read a book every day. I kept missing whales in the ocean, apparently, by about 5 minutes.

Oh, I did find a crab in the loo! To this day I still have no idea how it got there, but it highly amused me and a Dutch couple for a good while. Especially when we told the cleaner and she told us angrily, “Oh, just put the lid down and leave it alone”. Hmmm.

One day, I went on a Lagoon Cruise. It was stunningly beautiful. The water was turquoise, unlike anything else I have ever seen. Absolutely crystal clear; even at the deepest point, we could see all the way to the bottom of the ocean. I couldn’t bring myself to go snorkelling, but it was stunning to look at. We stopped at a number of tiny deserted islands, mounds of dazzlingly white sand marooned in the middle of the turquoise. It was just amazing.

I also got incredibly excited when we went past the two islands where the T4 series “Shipwrecked” is being filmed. Being Sunday morning hangover tv of the lowest mental denominator, I am obviously a huge fan. When it’s on tv, though, they make the islands look as if they’re in the middle of nowhere, rather than in a busy lagoon with tourist boats plowing their way past every few minutes, waving to the participants. It’s a beautiful spot, though, and I would be tempted to apply myself, were it not for the high eejit factor amongst the people who I’d have to share paradise with.

It was while I was on Aitutaki that I heard about Fr Xavier. Obviously this would have been devastating news to take in anywhere in the world, but I felt especially isolated. I had no phone, very little internet access (that, when it was working, was expensive and slow), and no way of contacting people who I wanted to be with and speak to and be comforted by. For a while - and this feeling continued after I returned to Rarotonga - I was considering cutting my time short in the Cook Islands. There were people in New Zealand I could run to and be with. The Cooks were a lonely place right then, and I think more than any other point in my travels it showed me that, as much as I’m very happy with my own company and indeed need my own company on occasion to recharge my batteries, there are times in life when to be with others is essential.

I decided not to go back (and in hindsight now, I’m glad I decided this), but the rest of my time in Aitutaki was subdued. That said, I’m glad I went, and I’m glad I have the photos. It is, without doubt, the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my life, amazingly so. I would definitely, definitely recommend a trip. Just make sure you pack the mozzie repellant.

“South Pacific” is one of my favourite movies.  Many a time at home after a bad day in work (something that I only vaguely remember the concept of right now), I would sit down, put SP in the DVD player, open up a bottle of champagne - because I’m worth it - and sing all my troubles away.  OK, you have to overlook the casual racism (and even that gets its comeuppance in the song “You have to be taught”), but apart from that, what’s not to love?  Sailors, War, beautiful girls, great songs (”There is nothing like a dame”? “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair”? Come on, people!), including one that was covered in my youth by Captain Sensible, it’s a delight from start to finish.  Best of all, though, is the gorgeous scenery of the South Pacific Island where it was filmed.  (It was actually shot in Kauai in Hawaii, fact fans, but it looks much the same as other SP islands).

So with a great deal of anticipation, I boarded the plane headed for Rarotonga, capital of the Cook Islands, smack in the middle of the South Pacific.  It was my treat to myself, a holiday within a holiday.  I took about a million books, my ipod was fully charged, I just wanted to switch off and not do much, nor think about anything much, apart from the sort of navel-gazing that comes so much easier in a bikini rather than a few thermal layers, as was proving necessary in New Zealand.  And for the most part, this is exactly what I did.  So, apologies in advance because these reports from the Cook Islands won’t be the most riveting!  Expect lots of “and then I lay about on the beach for the day”, and similarly lazy notions.

I arrived late at night - actually, early morning, about 23 hours BEFORE I had taken off from New Zealand.  The Cooks are just the other side of the dateline, meaning they see today later than just about anywhere else in the world.  Now, I know technically how the dateline works, but it still doesn’t stop it messing with my head.  I mean, HOW?!  And what if it was your birthday that you missed, and does that make me younger than when I set off?  These and other such questions were troubling me as we landed on a balmy tropical night in Rarotonga.  Most flights actually arrive there at night - the locals say it’s because it’s such a short runway, it’s to stop the passengers panicking.  Due to the speed at which the pilot slammed on the brakes, and then executed what felt like a handbrake turn, I’ve got to say, the locals have got a point.

I was collected by lovely Lily, from Varas where I would be staying, and pointed, in the darkness, towards my bed.  I slept soundly and deeply, waking later than usual.  But oh my, what a sight awaited me!  Sitting up in bed, I could look out of the patio windows, and see the sea, not 20 feet from where I was sleeping.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen, except on Bounty adverts and South Pacific.

And so, as predicted, I settled into a lazy existence for the next week of meandering walks along the beautiful white beach, lolling around topping up my tan, and tentative swims (yes, swims!).  Rarotonga is completely surrounded by a lagoon, making swimming safe as there are no sharks or other nasties.  Or, not many.  One of the guys from my hostel was walking in the ocean, wearing reef shoes as recommended, stepped on a stonefish, and ended up being quite badly hurt.  Apparently the pain was so bad he was begging the doctors to remove his leg, so it was pretty serious stuff, and saw the end of my swimming career.

The nights were fairly quiet as well.  For some of the younger ones (how old do I sound?!) at my hostel, Raro was a party island, but this wasn’t why I’d gone - so I deliberately shied away from that, instead revelling in the solitude of early-morning peaceful sunrises, with the luxury of complete solitude that comes with being an early riser.  It was so refreshing.

The one night I did go out, though, was so much fun.  It was to one of the many Island Nights they hold not only in Rarotonga but throughout the Cook Islands.  It’s a chance to show off their cooking (traditional cooking here is done in an Umu, a pit dug in the ground where the food is cooked using hot rocks), their music, and their dancing.  Cook Islanders are known as being probably the best dancers in the Cook Islands, and it was easy to see why.  The guys were amazing - energetic, lively, and joyful, but the girls were just mesmerising.  They have a special way of moving their hips, keeping their shoulders entirely still so just their hips move.  And at what speeds!  They were absolutely hypnotic.  Needless to say, all us Westerners, emboldened by cheap cocktails, gave it a go later on, but with pretty shambolic effects.

Apart from this, the only time I ever left my sunlounger was to go and see the Rarotonga-famous Piri’s show.  I met Piri the day before in the supermarket, and he invited me along as his guest the next day.  He puts on shows of coconut climbing, fire making, Umu cooking, and 101 ways with a coconut (I chose not to share with him the fact that I hate coconuts!).  He informed me he would come and pick me up early, and I would help him gather leaves for the Umu.  Hey, I was getting a free meal, so I wasn’t going to complain at doing a bit of leaf-gathering!

The day, though, was strange, more than anything else.  As nice as Piri was, I got the impression he was a bit lonely.  The kind of lonely that could only be solved by spending quality time with a 30 year old English lass.  As fun and interesting as the day was, I spent most of it slipping out of Piri’s clutches as he came up behind me and tried to massage me.  He’s in his mid-60s, so it was a bit icky more than anything else.  And awkward, obviously.  There’s only so many times before you can say “no thanks Piri, I don’t want you to massage me” before you end up shouting it.  Ah, maybe I”m doing him an injustice, but that’s how I felt.  Still, at least I was on the Cook Islands, where it’s completely safe - just about no harm can come to you there.  Like I said, I think he was more lonely than anything.  And the coconut tree climing was very impressive, he shimmied up it in seconds.  The Umu as well, was just delicious.  Juicy chicken, tasty spinach, potatoes - wow, I was in heaven.

So after all this excitement, I was more than happy to take up my old position next to the beach, ready to return to doing not very much at all.

While I was away in the Cook Islands, I heard the tragic news that my good friend in India, Fr Xavier, had been killed in a car crash along with his brother. I was, and am, completely devastated by this. Fr Xavier was a wonderful man - intelligent, wise, compassionate, funny, and spent his life in the service of others. His brother was married with three young children. My thoughts and prayers are with their family, friends, and the community in India where I was given such a wonderful home away from home. RIP Fr Xavier. You are greatly missed.

Before Andy and I said goodbye in Brisbane (oh, don’t, I’ll start crying again…), we’d given each other loads and loads of hints on what to see, what to do, where to stay, where not to stay, and so on, for the countries we’d already been to that the other would visit. Within about 10 minutes of meeting him, he’d regaled me with stories of how much he loved Wellington, seemingly because he’d managed to find the sole Welsh bar in the Southern hemisphere. The owners, staff, and other regulars became good friends (no choice really with him spending so much time in there), and so, I had my orders to go in and say hello.

The first day in Wellington, I admit, I found it difficult to like. I went to the national museum, Te Papa, which was wonderful, and packed to the rafters with NZ history from both Maori and white settlers. I found it’s a bit too much talked up in the guide books though - they advise it would take more than a day to see it, when in fact I’d seen it all in one morning. My favourite exhibition was a Constable Paintings special show, which were just wonderful and made me feel not a small amount homesick, especially those beautiful, luminous pictures he’d done of the Lake District.

I had a glass of wine in Mac’s brewery (another instruction), and whiled away a couple of hours. When I came out, though, it was pouring down, and the rain, the homesickness, and just being in Wellington, didn’t put me in the best mood, so I gave up on the day, went and had a long soak in a hot bath in my hostel (a real first for a hostel to have a bath), and had an early night.

The next day was better, and I set about more sightseeing. A lovely breakfast on Cuba Street - known for its gorgeous coffee shops and boutiques - had me smiling. One of the career options I’m tossing about in my mind right now is a coffee shop, and this one was EXACTLY the kind of thing I would love to run, were it to become a reality. We’ll see. I had a general wander round town, soaking up the artsy atmosphere.

That night, I swallowed my (English) nerves, and headed into the Welsh bar. I knew the names of everyone I had to say hello to, and had even memorised the name of the place Andy comes from (English people, have a go at how you’d pronounce Tonyrefail. I can guarantee you, you won’t even be close). Luckily it was a quiet night in there, and it was a delight to meet everyone. Jo, the owner and Andy’s New Zealand mum, came over and took my hands, and said how lovely it was to meet me - I even got a glass of wine on the house, so Andy must have done something right - and before too long, I was laughing away like old friends with Jo, Mike, Scottish Duncan, and Terry, who would take so much explaining I haven’t got room here! Lovely people, all of them. They even let me sign the Welsh flag!

The next couple of days were more of the same really - sightseeing during the day (I even made it up yet another cable car, though this time was less impressive), people watching and daydreaming from Cuba Street coffee shops, and the Welsh bar at night (it becomes a habit after a while!). I’d been promised a big Friday night out by Scottish Duncan, and he certainly delivered on that - we started off in the Welsh Bar, by the time we left we were singing “delilah” with great gusto, and moved on to Kitty O’Shea’s, another local drinking spot, only this time with a dance floor. We busted some moves on the dance floor - Duncan’s a big bear of a guy, and I remember he kept picking me up and swinging me around - and all was going great guns until someone stood on my toe - yes THAT toe that was broken in Vietnam and then stubbed - and took half my toenail off. And man, does that bleed. Painful yes, but the blood’s the worst thing. Luckily it’s the top end that’s come off, so hopefully it’ll just grow back. After that I lost my enthusiasm for the night, so took myself back to the hostel.

The next day was a bit of a write off, nursing both a hangover and a gammy toe, and despite nagging from both Duncan and my dorm mate Rob, I couldn’t face going out. So my last day dawned. A bit more wandering round, taking the photos I’d promised myself (and Andy), and then into the Welsh bar for goodbyes. It was another quiet night in there, with just Tom the barman at first, who would then be joined by lovely Jo,

me, Rob, Duncan and Jason (another regular). It was a perfect way to end off a great week with new friends who feel like old friends already. And - best of all - they even let me sign the right flag this time!

So, sad to be leaving Wellington and all those lovely people, but I was so excited about my next destination that I didn’t have time to dwell. Since I’d booked this trip I was determined to go to the Cook Islands and, after a brief stop in Auckland (I’ll spend more time there on my return), that’s where I was heading. I was FINALLY going to Paradise.

I didn’t really know what to expect on arrival in Queenstown. I’d heard it was the adventure capital of New Zealand, the home of the Bungee Jump (yeah, thanks for inflicting that on the world, guys), and close to a lot of good ski resorts. But apart from that, none of which was my thing, I knew nothing. Nothing new there, then.

The journey there was great, really great. I’d booked on a bog standard Intercity bus, but the drivers were worth their weight in gold. It became like a tour. They gave us commentary about the areas we were passing through (including some of the areas used in the Lord of The Rings films), and, when we passed a particularly scenic spot, would stop the bus for 5 minutes while we all got off and took photos. Marvellous, a real credit to the company.

We arrived in Queenstown, and I was instantly dazzled by all the sun (and bleach) bleached hair. LOTS of adventure junkies around, with trousers you just want to yank up, and who say “dude” far, FAR more times than is necessary (i.e. never). I’d chosen to stay (and thankfully, nobody talked me out of it this time) at the Lakeside YHA - unknowingly following in Andy’s footsteps - which was great, big kitchen, nice views, nice staff. Poifect. I really wanted to go over to the coast and see Milford Sound, which I knew would be a huge daytrip but probably worth it, but I arrived too late to book it for the next day. So the next day I spent happily getting lost and wandering round Queenstown, which surrounds a very pretty lake, then heading back to the hostel to relax with my book.

I was up bright and early the next day, had my toast and peanut butter, and was ready and waiting for the bus to take me to Milford Sound. As soon as I saw it I dashed out the door, eagerly asking, “Milford Sound?” “Yeah”, the guy sighed, “But it’s not happening”. He explained further - apparently the road leading to Milford Sound had been closed due to a very high avalanche risk. Darn. There was no chance of getting near it that day (poor bloke didn’t get paid either, so I tried not to be TOO much of the pouting princess). So, there went my plans for the day, and I don’t respond well to not having plans. I rebooked for the next day (even though it was unlikely to happen), and meandered aimlessly around the town again, though I was quite excited to find another Hitchen - albeit in the wonderfully picturesque graveyard.

Another early night, this time in the hope of Milford Sound the next day, though that hope was fading fast. And I was right. Despite another early start, another early round of toast and peanut butter, the trip was no-go yet again. Damn avalanches. Realising I would continue to be scuppered by the weather (and yes, feeling a bit sorry for myself), I decided to call a halt on the South Island and head back to Christchurch the next day, and so booked a bus.

The rest of the day in Queenstown was very good. I made the journey up the Gondola, and was rewarded with some pretty spectacular views.

Up at the top, I took a half-hour (steep!) walk on a circuit that again, took in some lovely views, only this time less crowded. Well worth the effort, and lovely to get the feeling that nobody else has been there for a long time.

So, the next day saw yet ANOTHER early start, only this time with purpose. I headed back to Christchurch and the blissful familiarity of family, booked myself on a flight to Wellington a couple of days later, and enjoyed Sheila’s incredible hospitality yet again. I was headed North, to meet up with old friends - well, not my old friends, but they would soon become them.

It was really sad to say goodbye to Sheila (even knowing I’d be back later on in my travels), but I was also excited.  I would be leaving Christchurch on the Tranzalpine train, which goes from Christchurch in the east to Greymouth in the west, via the mountains that run down the middle of the South Island.  I’d heard so much about this train journey, mainly from Mum, who’d completed it on her visit to New Zealand early last year, and who’d told me many stories about how her, Sheila, and Phil had, by all accounts, disgraced themselves by giggling like children all the way there.  Shocking behaviour.  Andy had also done the journey when he was in NZ and again, had told me how great it was.  I was really looking forward to it.

It didn’t disappoint in the slightest.  For very good reason is it classed as one of the top rail journeys in the world.  The scenery is just spectacular, no other word for it.  To pass by so close to beautiful, snow-capped mountains, and over incredible viaducts, well, is just wonderful.  And best of all, they serve muffins!

I’d been told about the muffins in advance - a lovely lady at one of the stations bakes them, so they get them fresh and warm every day.  As soon as the announcement came over the tannoy I was off, elbowing old dears out of the way (don’t look at me like that, as if YOU wouldn’t do the same), and soon settled back into my seat eating my delicious orange and choc chip delight. Mmmm.  Much of the rest of the time I spent either getting blown to bits on the observation carriage (open to the elements, I was glad I’d brought my wooly hat!), or sitting and happily daydreaming from my seat, watching the world go by.  Real Middle Earth stuff.

It takes a few hours to get to Greymouth, but I didn’t hang about there, and instead booked myself on the next bus to Franz Josef.  There are many glaciers in New Zealand, but Franz Josef and its neighbour, Fox, are the two most accessible.  I’d heard and read about the glacier climbs, and was planning to go on one the next day, but first I had to survive the bus journey.  Not only was I getting very, very travel sick on the twisting New Zealand roads, but I’d also been inexplicably tagged-on-to by the coach doofus, I’ll call him Geoff from Brisbane (because that’s his name and where he was from).  He spent most of the journey telling me stories of how he’d been mean to other people, and only when I threatened to throw up on him did he shut up.  Unfortunately, he’d overheard me tell the driver I hadn’t booked anywhere to stay that night in FJ, and so he persuaded me to stay at Rainforest hostel, rather than the YHA as I’d initially planned (note to self: must learn to say “no”).  The hostel was fine, but it wasn’t as good as the YHA, which even had a sauna (I ended up transferring there a couple of days later).  The wonderful staff there put me in the same dorm as Geoff, so I had a fun couple of nights with him farting every five minutes and not even attempting to hold it OR disguise it, he just kept saying “pardon me”.  I even ended up on the same glacier climb as him.

We had to set off early for the glacier climb, and be at the HQ for about 8am.  Looking gloomily out of the window, I noticed that the incessant heavy rain showed no sign whatsoever of stopping.  Once there, we were fully kitted out with waterproofs, boots, spikes for the boots, hat and gloves.  The gear was quite heavy, and quite hardcore.  I started to be a bit concerned about what the day would hold.

We drove the short distance to the glacier car park, then walked for about an hour before we got to the glacier itself.  By this time, the rain was really coming down, and before too long, the waterproofs gave way, and we were literally soaked to the skin.  We’d been advised to wear three layers - I was wearing four - and every single one of them was sopping wet through.  Not only does this add to the weight of all the equipment you’re wearing, it also makes things uncomfortable and, to say the least, cold.  Ideal for climbing a glacier, eh?

It’s really tough to get the hang of walking on the ice.  You’ve got to dig your toes in hard so that your boots can grip it, otherwise you slip all over the place.  The first hour or so we were walking on marked paths, often with a rope to either guide us (or stop us falling down deep crevaces, in which we would surely die), but after that, we went off-path, with our guide choosing where to take us.

I have to admit, I should have done more homework on the subject.  When I thought of a glacier walk, I had a mental image of Sir Ranulph Fiennes trekking across the ice, led by a team of Huskies.  Yes, I’m THAT stupid.  Instead, it was sliding through skinny gaps between ice walls, using a pick to pull yourself through, convincing yourself you won’t make it, stepping on a loose bit of ice that gives way and plunges your foot into a puddle.  Am I selling it enough?  Truth be told, it wasn’t the greatest day of my life.  Yes, the scenery was, admittedly, spectacular:

but I spent the whole day shivering, soaking wet, pretty miserable, and glancing at my watch every 10 minutes.  Going off-track meant waiting around a lot of the time for our guide to carve his way through the ice to give us a way through, which exacerbated the coldness.  I was one happy bunny to get off the glacier, I can tell you.  Maybe it’s for some people, but definitely not for me.  Still, I’ve done it, and it’s one to cross off the list, for sure.

I had another couple of days in Franz Josef, which I started to enjoy a lot more after a scalding hot shower.  Geoff left the next day (yay!), so I mooched around town, transferred to the lovely YHA, and generally enjoyed the small town.  My next stop would be Queenstown, the adventure capital of New Zealand, so it was important to me to enjoy the peace and quiet while I could.  Little did I know that the weather would continue to work against me.