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Southward Ho!

Tuesday, July 26th, 2005

Hi Everybody,
We made it. Finally Ger and I are on the South Island of New Zealand. From our vantage point in Wellington we stared longingly across the Cook Strait – two or so months spent imagining the colour and the shape of our next playground. If you meet Kiwis anywhere and tell them you’ve been to Australia they ask why you didn’t go to New Zealand. When you’re in Auckland or Wellington they wonder why you haven’t been to the South. Certain economic realities, airline schedules and a massive TV/couch postponed the journey a little. There was also the threat of a sudden painful death at the hands of Hummingbird’s maitre’d if I didn’t stay for the Lions Tour weekend. Having tied up loose ends, said our goodbyes to our flat mate, Grant, our mates, workmates, mates of mates and flat mates of mates and workmates respectively, we were on the ferry south as quick as Grant’s car could carry us.
Our boat was called Aratere. That translates as The Quick Path – a fanciful name for a lumbering block that would probably have to move over if a sea turtle or the old swimming man from the Guinness ad wanted to overtake. Not to pooh-pooh the Aratere. I forked out for the $15 upgrade on our tickets, largely out of curiosity, and was impressed with what we got: a private lounge with our own window, TV/couch, endless tea and biccies and best of all no children whatsoever. Don’t get me wrong. I love children as much as the next pompous bastard. On long journeys, though, children seem compelled to test the boundaries of that love with maximum volume and few parents are able or willing to contain them. In my defense, the lack of children was not a matter of luck or the ‘Fuck Off With Your Kids’ sign I hung on the door but actually the rules of the upgrade lounge. Should I be blamed for enjoying the hell out of it? I took a stroll outside to get a feel for the boat. With the exception of the humiliating wind and slippery deck, I made the crossing in style. Ger got to watch an impromptu silent film through our cabin window as I Chaplined about trying to take photos of a receding, mist-shrouded Wellington. Sadly, the photos and the rust stains would never come out. The exercise was repeated with far more success at the other end of our journey. Photos from guide books, cinematography in Lord of the Rings and loose descriptions from my co-workers pointed to the fact that South kicks North’s ass for scenery. My expectations were not just exceeded but politely drugged and packed into a retirement home. Our ferry went into hyper-slow as we cruised through the Queen Charlotte Sound with its breathtaking scenery. When I get the tech-know-how I’ll include the photos I took. The Righteous Brotherhood of Geography Teachers would probably give me 100 lines and a sudden painful death if I attempted to describe it. Check out http://www.qctrack.co.nz/ for a few photos and info that I’m too lazy to plagiarize.
After some time soaking up the views we docked in the town of Picton and were driven to our hostel by Rob, possibly the nicest hostel manager I’ve ever met. If you’re in Picton and don’t have a gold card, stay at The Villa. Our rooms (we stayed there twice) were warm and comfy, free apple crumble and ice cream, free breakfast, spa and did I mention free apple crumble and ice cream? Rob hooked us up with a hiking trip on the Queen Charlotte Track and all the info and transfers we needed. By dawn the next day we were in a water taxi, booted up with a bag full of sandwiches, speeding through the sound. There were some mail stops to make. One hotel got its daily papers and a trio of man-sized gas bottles. The next lakeside resident received delivery of a chainsaw – not in its box or wrapped up but ready to go. It had the guy’s name and address attached. I wondered if it was just for his firewood or some kind of Backwoods Mafia threat. On we pressed to our hike’s starting point but not before a pod of dolphins decided to race the boat. Almost on cue the playful little buggers took turns jumping from the water for successive photographs. Perhaps dashing around in the wake of a small boat is the dolphin equivalent of sitting on a washing machine in the rinse cycle or going over a hump-back bridge in a car. The boat slowed down as we entered the cove that would be kilometer zero on our hike. The dolphins seemed to lose interest at this point and broke off their pursuit but not before saying so long and thanking us for all the fish.
One of the great things about hiking in New Zealand (or tramping as it is called here) is that a huge number of tracks are maintained and improved by the Department of Conservation. You don’t need a guide or much experience provided you can read signs and don’t collapse and die every time you climb the stairs. Our first day’s walk went quite well. The initial uphill slog made us feel like a couple of Elvises but once we hit the ridge line the scenery opened out in every direction and Lord of the Rings music began to play in our heads. The view from the ferry the previous day had been a pleasant introduction. When you get up to 400 odd metres with clear skies, the water mirrors the trees perfectly and you’ll think you’ve stepped into a brochure of some kind (one for hikes probably). A couple of lunch stops and several instances of taking away of the breath later and we were descending to sea level and our bed for the night. The DOC provides huts and campgrounds along the track and you can stay there for slightly more than $0.00. You need to bring water purification shit, a stove and a whole lot of other stuff that needs to be lugged by its owner up and down hills. Given that its low season, we found the traditional bed and four walls both available and affordable (and a nice alternative to dented shoulders). A heavenly fish dinner interrupted our diet of sandwiches in the lodge’s restaurant. Only a few other people were staying the night and our tiny group surrounded by empty tables and the total silence outside gave the evening a Shining-esque feel, though pleasant.
Another dawn found us back on the track. The uphill slog back to the ridgeline felt easier, possibly tranquilized by buckets of early morning gusto – the kind you see in Brylcreem ads from the ‘30s. Are my lies that transparent? OK. We trudged cursing up the feckin hill and planned to forgive God and the world later on. The weather treated us well for the rest of the day and we finished up with enough time for a beer in one of the lodges before our water taxi arrived. It was an experience I’d recommend to anyone. All the wholesomeness and exertion of the two days tramping ensured a sound night’s sleep before our onward journey to Nelson. The next morning would mean a packed bus (actually a van with ‘bus’ written on the side), a bumpy road and some very sad and disturbing news from London.
Fred.

Wellington

Thursday, July 21st, 2005

Hi everybody.
Ger, girlfriend of my dreams, illustrious partner in crime, irrepressible traveling companion left me. Well for a week and a half. She went to Melbourne and Adelaide with her friend Yvonne. Thankfully she returned. I smothered her with kisses and piles of my laundry. It was so hard without her. Living on pizza and action movies may be the single man’s dream but it has its disadvantages. Scurvy being one. Children ran with terror when they saw my swollen gums and bloodshot eyes. Conditions got steadily worse at home. I was forced to eat over the sink. The dishes ran out very quickly. One day, too weak to reach the shops or the yellow pages, I managed to get a tin of corn open but had to eat it cold. I began re-wearing the same dirty clothes. My boss sent me home from work because of all the food stains on my shirts. I tried to explain to him that I had no bibs left. He said I’d need to get a mistress to look after me for the time being. As if I was in any condition for that. No one thinks of poor me in any of this. I hate my life and I want to go home. If I had any teeth left I’d be on the phone to Qantas and have myself booked on the next flight.
In reality, though I had a great time in Wellington. Don’t get me wrong, I missed Ger but I survived. It’s a much smaller city than Auckland, but no less vibrant and a little more manageable on foot. It has a young character with lots of cheap flats and second hand clothing and book shops. I’m on a budget so it got my thumbs up. There’s the National Museum, Te Papa (Our Place- Maori), which is free to enter. It’s full of art, Maori cultural exhibits, historical stuff about the first Pakeha (Europeans) settlers and bits that I didn’t bother checking out about wildlife. I’ve been to a lot of museums this past year and Te Papa ranks pretty highly. I’d advise shelling out the $5 for an audio guide. No celebrity voices, but worth it. Wellington, so everyone says, has more restaurants per capita than New York City. This can’t be hard. After all, New York’s population is 2 or 3 times that of New Zealand. Wouldn’t this dilute the ratio a little? New places to eat open all the time. I was constantly reminded of this plethora of eateries by proud Wellingtonians and by the little Malaysian man who tried to set up a café in my wardrobe.
The recent test of the city’s limits was The Lions Rugby Tour. Soccer fans seem content with their weekly fix of league matches. The world cup comes along every four years and there’s the Copa America, African Nations Cup and European Cup etc to fill in the gaps. Rugby fills in it’s gaps with strange quasi-national combinations like the British and Irish Lions Tour. That’s when a team of guys from Ireland and Britain combine and travel from town to town in New Zealand playing as many matches as possible. As soon as a few of the small local teams wear the Lions down a bit, the All-Blacks move in and bulldoze their way to an easy victory, declaring themselves the greatest team of any kind in the universe. The 3 Test Matches (testing for what?) played to sell-out crowds in Christchurch, Wellington and Auckland respectively. Bad news for the Lions who took 3 straight pummelings from the team that has come to personify international rugby and hardness. Good news for Wellington when the circus came to town a few weeks ago. 80,000 people may not sound like a lot when you’re from a city of a million or several million. 80,000 is over half the resident population here. But Wellington coped. For any of you who watched news footage of the Lord of the Rings premiere, I worked on the street that all the fans crowded onto. There’s a panoramic photo in work of them lining Courtenay Place holding up plastic weapons, dressed as magicians with babies dressed as Gollum. The Lions weekend was similar. A few of the main streets were closed and huge screens erected for watching the match. The only difference in the crowd was that the costume had changed to either red or black jerseys and the weapons were now full of beer. The pubs were allowed to open up all-night bullpens for the extra people. Punters were still queuing up at 3am and paying $20 to get in. Nice if you own one of the places.
The bar I worked at was quite cool. It’s called Hummingbird. Great cocktails. Some of the longer serving staff will tell you about LOTR notables they’ve served. Wellington was pretty much the cradle of the production. Peter Jackson’s Weta Workshop is nearby and many of the cast had apartments around town. The papers refer to Peter Jackson as the most powerful man in Hollywood. I always thought it was Arnie (at least in a physical sense) but times have changed.
Working at Hummingbird meant late hours but there was always a bar open later. I did a couple of all-nighters with the work mates. To say they’re a lively bunch is an understatement. It’s a weird and slightly exhilarating feeling drinking beer at 5am and not being drunk yet. A pathetic sort of feeling replaces this as you stumble home with equal portions of tiredness and inebriation at 8am past people with real jobs (or at least jobs with real hours). I remind you all that the opinions and self-loathing expressed here are entirely those of the author and are not intended to reflect the feelings of other people in the hospitality industry. It’s not all bad. I get free food and the odd free drink (well, they tend to come in odd numbers). The boss is a bit of a party animal but he wears it well. He’s the self appointed lord and master of the CD player too – with mixed results. (Geddit? DJ… mixing…all of you who just sighed at that attempt at a joke have no comprehension of the pressure I am under). David Bowie, Rolling Stones and Louie Prima get plenty of air-time. Unfortunately so does a lot of loud loud children’s music with cockney singers and some ferociously happy monstrosity about the sinking of the Bismarck. Imagine Peter Sellers and Sophia Loren doing Oh Goodness Gracious Me and then exchange the subject matter for a naval battle with hundreds of men drowning and being burned alive. Odd, no? The Stones balance it out though, thank God. So to sum up, I liked the Hummingbird. I’ve had a lot of different bosses over the years and for sheer unpredictability this guy is near the top of the list. It’s time for me to leave town unfortunately. One thing that makes leaving easy is the realization that I’m not going to have a boss of any kind for ages.
Hurray.
Fred.