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?

Jungle training, part two....

Following a day to set up, over the next 6 days it was time to start learning the skills which would make life a little more comfortable...

We all bounded out of our hammocks after a surprisingly good nights sleep, to spend the next five minutes desperately hopping on the wet, sandy ground whilst trying to get our ant-infested boots on. It turns out that the conga line of ants running up the tree three of us tied our hammocks to, was now running down our hammock lines.

After a brief fire to get a brew on, conversation turned to the day's activities. It was decided that we would spend the next few days gathering food, before exploring and finally making a bush shelter on the final night.

The first food to gather was to be 'née bong' palm-heart. This is the central part of a large, spiny palm, often yielding as little as three coke-cans in size of asparagus flavoured flesh per tree. This gave rise to the name "Millionaires salad", of which it is the major constituent. It's also the answer to the question I posed on my previous posting.



To acquire the née bong is a relatively easy undertaking, especially given the yield of almost pure carbohydrates. One simply locates a née bong tree, an easy task despite over 800 species of tree per 5km square in the jungle (putting that into perspective, the UK has about 50 species overall), given the quantity and size of spikes all over the tree including every layer under the outer layer. We then chopped the palm down, selecting the top meter of the trunk, discarding leaves and all else. Now came the tricky part, whereby the outer layer was torn off and the section was chopped down until a distinct change in colour was noted. Once identified, the palm heart was removed for immediate consumption, tasting like chunky asparagus, or to be thrown onto the fire with a layer of outer husk to yield a more delicate flavour, akin to an asparagus and potato bake.

That was survival food one sorted. Now for some meat.

Large animals are surprisingly rare in the jungle. Thinking back to the New Forest back in the UK, there are many large mammals, whereas in the jungle many mammals are at best rare, if not endangered. Whilst good from a safety point for animals such as the bear and clouded leopard, this means reliable protein must be taken from an alternative source, in our case frogs.

With insects everywhere, frogs were abundant. So too were snakes, which feed on the frogs, but let's ignore that for now. We fashioned two types of spear to fell our dastardly foe, one made from a metal tip, purchased a few days before from a fishing shop, one from bamboo. Both were equally effective, but the durability of the metal tip was significant after the first struggle with a frog.

I was to draw first blood, but not on the intended target, a small (60cm) snake was also hunting that night, so I decided that adding it to the pot may be wise, not least in case it was venomous! With so many species of snake in Borneo, no-one knew what this one was, and many baby snakes are just as deadly as their adult counterparts.



So, with a small snake coiled around my spear, slowly dripping snake juice, I was feeling manly, almost Rambo-esque. Right up until I had to stumble in the dark, alone, to catch up with everyone else, fresh with the thought that mummy snake may be around. She would probably be rather irate, to say the least. Wait for me!

Hunting continued for about 90 minutes, using the reflection of the frog’s eyes to locate them. Often we were being thrown by large spiders, which also create the same reflection! At the end of the hunt, our haul was substantial, with my snake and two frogs adding to a tally of about 15 frogs. Dinnertime!



Each evening we would gather to collect water and wash in the lower pool, right next to a large colony of bats. Oh, and feed the local leeches, of which there were at least one per trip.



On return, still drenched from washing our clothes, we would eat, talk and undertake small projects such as carving items for traps the next day. Then it would be time to strip down to our boxers, check each other for leeches, removing with a lighter if necessary, and jump into the hammock. Once in our hammock, you had to position yourself carefully over the sleeping bag, as the mosquitoes can bite through the hammock and your clothes, as one guy found out the hard way. By now you are covered in sweat and have to powder your feet which have been in damp boots all day before drifting off with the sounds of the jungle ringing in your ears.

The next day it was the turn of more water-dwelling creatures to hit the menu. With a large bit of netting and some traps improvised from bottles and leftovers, traps were set in our local washing pool to catch shrimp and fish. No longer than 5 seconds after trying to peg out the net, it was teeming with shrimp. So bad was the infestation that often shrimp would jump into the pot you were washing up, whilst you were washing it up!



Two hours later, the traps were ready for collection, with the wriggling contents to be boiled in bamboo containers over the open fire. They were more than sweet enough to not need any butter or garlic, and vastly superior to the frogs. Yum.



The next morning, I was up significantly earlier than all else and began the task of getting water on the boil for breakfast. Whilst searching the camp for some additional water, I neglected the fire, which promptly set fire to the thatched roof, badly singing one of the tarps. Hardly my proudest moment. Although I contest that to design an elevated fire, which needs to support five people, putting a thatched roof at a low height above the fire is a rather flawed. After a quick repair to prevent the daily downpour from drenching our firewood, it was time to go fishing.

Using the central part of a large fern as a rod, and line and hooks from our sets, we were off to fish in the main pool, spear in hand. Here fishing proved less than fantastic, but one creature was attracted by our activities. A turtle. With bait used as a lure, Mr Turtle (or Mrs Turtle, one cannot really tell with turtles) was lured into spear range, before being brutally despatched. Turtles are hard to kill, very hard, even after lots of vital part hacking, they still have a tendency to try and limp off.



With more née bong and shrimp collection, our evening spread was impressive.



The remaining days followed similar formats, with downpours quickly swelling the river, preventing fishing.

On the penultimate day we decided to go exploring, following an established path. Everything in the jungle becomes overgrown very quickly, paths are no exception. However, they are substantially better than nothing, which results in lots of hacking, a blunt parang and yet more sweat.

After two hours of walking through the jungle we came upon a well established camp for the boarder patrol, which are tasked with preventing smuggling. Apart from the M16's on their beds, they didn't look very scary wondering around in shorts and a t-shirt in the hard-baked sand cleared by years of use. Mistaking us for a British military patrol, probably due to the excessive use of olive green, they smartened up and looked all busy, before relaxing once we told them our true purpose.



After a brief chat relating to why we would ever *want* to visit the jungle for pleasure, they took us on a guided tour to a local waterfall and we all posed for a photo shoot. It turns out we were the first visitors, probably ever!

Daylight hours running short, we returned to our camp by following "blazes", cuts on prominent trees, to lead the way. This route took us via a local swamp, ending up in a nice meal of army rations, before settling down for the night.

The final day's task was to build a rather involved monkey trap and make a shelter I was to "sleep" in. Everyone said I would get eaten alive by mozzies, but oh well!



With the trap constructed, focus turned to the shelter and all chipped in to help me build it before darkness. Although the shelter was pretty much completed, during some final adaptations too much weight was placed on one of the primary supports, which promptly snapped, shedding the roof and damaging the bed. After an attempt was made to fix it in the dark, the decision was made to abandon construction. Perhaps I will get the chance to feed some mosquitoes in South America instead!

The time had come to pack up and move on to the next stage of our journey - the x- headhunting tribe of the Iban, once used as jungle trackers by the British military….

Until then!