Northern Island culture & a "Gay night out" in Auckland

During our time in South Island, we were always told how much more superior to North Island the sights were. The hills were bigger, the nature remoter and people more friendly. Putting this down to inter-island rivalry, Alex and I ventured into the Northern Island with a good week to do it justice.

Stepping off the ferry, the change was noticeable - there was a highway. Yes, six whole lanes of traffic joy to cut our navigational teeth on.

Finding a place to park, we took the time for some cultural outings. The first museum in ages was to grace my intellectual pallet. Slowly taking in all the sights that the best museum in New Zealand had to offer, including a giant squid of daunting size, we felt our brain-power expanding after weeks of adrenaline travel.



Now it was time to continue our journey, doing as many people do and skipping almost all of the “dead” land mass between the south coast and Lake Rotarura. This, of course, meant another illegal night by the side of the road. But wow, what a view!



Arriving in Rotarura, it was time to partake in a very New Zealand pass-time. Fishing.

I'll admit this now, it's been a while since I last went fishing. In fact, usually I get rather lucky whilst fishing, much to the annoyance of everyone I'm with. Often, it seems, that I go with people who are usually far superior fishermen, but I somehow manage to fluke catching bigger fish in larger quantities. With the fishing on this lake being pumped up as some of the best in the southern hemisphere, I was looking forward to our early departure...



With the mist still low in the air, hanging over the lake like an insulating blanket from the warm sun, we headed off into the unknown, Alex and I peering through the fog for moored boats.
This was war.
It was time to do battle.

Trout were our enemy.

Armed to the teeth with a very outspoken local guide and his armoury of trout-killing dredging lines, battle was to commence at 07:00 hours. Manoeuvring the boat into position, we readied the lines and began the fishing experience. One hour later and with no fish to add to our tally, the guide let out the famous war cry “Common you f***ing fish”. To our amazement this seemed to work, as within five seconds of this sentiment being uttered, both lines went taught and fish were back on the menu.

With the feeble trout being no match for our superior strength, intellect and skill, Alex and I slowly reeled in the fruits of our labour. Trout followed trout, as the all clambered to get onto our boat. It was carnage; it would go down in trout history as the “massacre due to the shiny spinny things.”

Seven trout later, with a few being released as we were over-trouted, Alex and I decided to call it a day. The fishing really was excellent, and the trout would become the bane of our life for the next few days.



Now, seven trout varying in size from three to five pounds is quite a lot it turns out. Quite a lot indeed. In fact, I think one would be at risk from developing trout poisoning if you tried to ingest them all at the same week. To add insult to injury, the trout's only line of defence from fishermen is the bone. Or should I say bones.

Instead of being like normal, nice, fish, trout have developed a way to combat their natural tendency to jump onto fishing boats by the hundred. A set of really annoying bones which make their filleting a pain in the royal backside. Especially when one is armed only with a Leatherman “Swiss army knife”. What they did forget to do though, was broadcast this whilst we were catching the darn things.

With so many trout on the “to eat” list, we came up with the cunning plan of getting them smoked by a local fishmonger. Failing to find a fishmonger who wanted to smoke some trout, we drove to a local's house and managed to coerce him into smoking them for us, giving some money and a trout in exchange for the service. Whilst the trout were being smoked to give up the secrets of their annoying bony-ness, it was time for us to find what makes the North Island famous – the geothermal activity.



It turns out that whilst the South Island has superior mountains, there is something still murmuring under the soil of North Island and it wants to get out. The North Island is highly active, and they have done a great job in harnessing the geothermal activity with numerous power plants and tourist traps. Although they are all pretty good.

Taking in some of the sights (and smells) of the geothermal activity was very interesting with more than a few weird and wonderful colours on display on their passage from deep within the Earth.



Alex even managed to drag me off to a place where you cover yourself with mud and pay them for the pleasure. Apparently it's good for you?? Hummn... [No posing could make this look any better than this - sorry and please feel free to gouge your eyes our after/before viewing]



With this ticked off our list of things to do, it only left a few more “must see” sights of New Zealand before our imminent departure. Two of them being really, REALLY touristy!

I'm going to gloss over this, as I had been expecting to make friends with a typical Mauri and get them to show me something more authentic. However, with less than a couple of days left, it was becoming rather apparent that we needed to see the Hukka – or dance of the native Mauri. As you can imagine, this is going to involve mixing rather liberally with some other tourists. Yes, it was as bad as you can imagine and about as authentic as watching Neighbours to see how Australians live.

Moving swiftly on was another VERY touristy item on the tick-list. A sheep show.

Now, I know what you're thinking, I meant to say a sheep-DOG show. No. This was a show about sheep, and although there were sheepdogs, they weren't even involved for the vast majority of the show and were only brought out to really scare the living hell out of the sheep.

Being good touristy representatives, both Alex and I decided to go up to the stage – Alex to milk a cow (okay, so there were more than just sheep) and me to feed some lambs. This involved the usual piss-extraction from the guy demonstrating the show, by getting me to drink the lamb's milk for example, but was pretty whole-hearted “family fun”.



That's enough of that I would say.

Now it's time for some less “family” orientated fun.

At the beginning on the New Zealand section, I had mentioned that Alex was gay. Now, at some point during the trip, I had managed to get myself either drunk or very low on sleep, or a combination of both, agreeing to go to a gay club for one final “Big Gay Night Out” in Auckland.

Browsing through the wardrobe of permissible clothes, Alex decided to select the wonderful salmon pink silk shirt I purchased in China – despite pleas from me that it would give off the wrong signals to the other members of the club.

With this marking the one and only significant night out during our time in New Zealand, I decided it was time to take a “power nap” (read; old man's nap) at about 6pm. Luckily, as we had checked ourselves into a party hostel with this in mind, everyone else was doing the same. Correction, everyone else was *trying* to do the same. One wonderful person in the dorm of eight we had decided to sleep in had decided to set their alarm, proceeding to “sleep” the alarm every five minutes. As you can imagine, I was very pleased by this action and deemed it not selfish at all.

After the 7th snooze, I had had enough. I don't often get annoyed, and as it turns out, when I do, I get rather “British”. In fact, I become rather pompous and correct. Shouting across the room to get her attention, I stated in a very proper British accent “Excuse me inconsiderate person, but could you please turn that alarm off as it is rather annoying!” No kidding. Not a single swear-word was uttered – I was pissed off. I was a pissed off Brit.

With that minor incident out of the way, it was time for our gay night out. I was dressed in pink. I was scared.

Entering into a very gay pub, I did what all self-respecting straight people would do. I headed for a location where I could see all the exits and make a swift get-away. It was like I was under-age drinking again. I was petrified, but was trying to “play it cool”. To say that I was awkward would not even come close.

After a few minutes though I began to realise something really strange. Just like straight people, gay people are not going to try and hump you if you are sitting at a table. Wow. Amazing that!

Following a singing contest involving a man/woman thing in the worst drag outfit ever, I had to ask Alex (who had just won a signed copy of Kylie's new album, the jammy git) what etiquette demanded I call the “it” person.

A word for the wise – apparently you must call them by what they are trying to be. So, despite this person having a pencil thin moustache, and looking like a cross between a second world war air force colonel and Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, I should call it “Her”.


[All the photos of "her" didn't come out very well, so here's one of Alex on stage instead!]

The rest of the night went pretty well I must say, and towards the end I was really, really enjoying myself. The crowd were surprisingly normal, despite Dorothy, and most of them were pretty aware that I was straight, so I just concentrated on having a good time, instead of trying to look “cool” etc.

Dancing like a prat, I also realised that one thing about gay men isn't true. Not all gay men can dance. In fact, many of them don't have a clue!

At one stage, someone shouted in my ear that the lady (yes, there were a small splattering of straight people there too) I was dancing with was someone called “Anne Hathaway”. Answering “who?” the guy looked mortified, and three other people repeated this claim, saying that I was in fact dancing with Anne Hathaway, who apparently, is some kind of 'A' list actor. Well, whoever she was, Anne Hathaway or not, she danced pretty well, despite being rather desperate for attention.

All was going a little too smoothly until someone pinched my ass, before then feeling up my groin. The instinctive reaction was then to spin around, with combat in my mind. However, I quickly reminded myself that I was in an environment full of other gay people, wearing a pink shirt. Instead, I turned around and kindly waved at him, before shaking my head and hands indicating that I wasn't interested. Although great for my ego in retrospect, I think I could do without that kind of attention...

The big gay night out had been a success – and it was time to leave the company of Alex, to continue my travels alone.



With a few more days in Auckland to explore the city, I decided to check into a better hostel which wasn't known for being full of “inconsiderate people”. Here I met a fantastic crowd of three American lasses who were great to spend a few days with, exploring the city and doing some really silly stuff like playing on park benches and fox-lines at 2 in the morning. Unmissable! It was certainly nice to let my hair down before leaving to South America. I even managed to appear at the very back of an advert for some kind of soup which was being filmed whilst I was wondering around Auckland!



Now it was time for South America - could it live up to expectations?