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?

Ice Axe Joy

Heading further east across the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand, it was time to take a pleasurable cruise through one of the deep fjords which create a heaven for wildlife (and sandflies).



Getting to Doubtful sound is significantly harder than one might imagine. First, you must drive to the far edge of the NZ road system, board a boat to take you across a river, then take a bus which can never connect to the rest of NZ, finally boarding the vessel which will be your home away from home for the duration of the cruise.



Leaving Lucy, our campervan, by the side of the road yet again, we boarded a small boat which would take us to the beginning of our trip. Something wasn't quite right though. Both Alex and I looked in dismay at the fellow travellers. Expecting the usual mix of back-packers, perhaps with some locals thrown in for good measure, we were rather shocked to find that almost all of the people on the trip were over the age of 50. Welcome to SAGA holidays!

Arriving on our vessel for which we would spend the next few two days, we swiftly realised that the tour was all about enforced enjoyment. At every opportunity we were told what the most fun thing we could possibly do would be and were expected to partake. For example, it may be freezing cold outside, but “Right now the best place on the boat is on the bow enjoying the scenery...” Apparently, when you hit the age of fifty, you loose the ability to make decisions for yourself. You also forget things alot, which accounts for why we were told no less than thirty times how the banks of the shore contained no soil, but instead were built on "lichens, mosses and other dead matter".

What made this even more amusing was the way in which it was said – by an over-tired crew-member, who had long since had all forms of personal enjoyment removed from their lifeless cask of a body.

What was more amazing though, is that despite the lack-luster crew the voyage was thoroughly enjoyable! The scenery was fantastic. The nature was even better.



Following a few hours of motoring, we were to come across our first pod of dolphins. Never getting that close to these creatures before has meant that I have been deprived of their company for many years. Sitting on the front of the boat however, it was a truly amazing sight as the pod slowly came closer to the boat, playing on the bow wave as dusk began to fall.


[Dolphin Video to replace this picture if I get a fast connection!!]

Over the three days we saw fur seals, dolphins and also penguins, not to mention a large number of birds and a few million sandflies!

Over the next twenty four hours, we would encounter fur seals and also some very rare penguins – all of this in almost “perfect” conditions; for Doubtful Sound. Unfortunately, with the great nature and green hills comes a harsh price – over 300 days of rain per year. Luckily for us, we were there on one of the few days that it was not raining!!

Leaving the serenity of Doubtful Sounds behind us, we took Lucy off towards another first for myself – a glacier. On the way stopping by a rather old-fashioned, but very good fun museum which involved different types of optical illusions and puzzles. I'm sure it was the first time my brain had been worked out since trying to learn Mandarin in China!!

One of the best parts was a two story maze, which was made to infuriate! After about 45 minutes, both Alex and I had found three of the four towers, but despite running to find the fourth, Alex managed to get there first - well, almost, as I slid under one of the gates in a desperate (and rather blatent) attempt to cheat! I conceded victory - anything else would be rather "un-British".



Arriving on the Franz-Joseph glacier, I had managed to coerce Alex to do a day's ice climbing. My thought was that if we were going to do a trek on a glacier, why not make it a little more hard-core and actually have some serious fun as well!?

After sleeping on the side of the road, we arose at silly-o-clock in the morning to be given our equipment. Tooling up with crampons, ice-axes and harnesses, it was time to be off into the driving rain. At this point, about five of our group, myself included, noted that our boots were a really bad fit, but that it would be okay “as long as we didn't go walking for the next two hours”.

Two and a half hours of walking through jungle, scree and finally the glacier later, we arrived at the edge of our first wall, and were shown how best to ice-climb.

Crampons – they are amazing things really, the guide demonstrated how one could quite literally walk up a wall, as long as the technique was right and the ice firm enough. The axes just made it look more hard-core. As we climbed up the first slope, we soon realised why the axes were there, as often the footing may give way, or just due to human nature, one would require something to hold on to in order to provide balance.



Three attempts at the same 20m cliff, and we were all ready to go home. It was tiring stuff, and strangely more exhausting than normal climbing. When in normal climbing do you have to smack a hammer into a sheet of ice multiple times until you can get a good purchase??



A further hour's walk and the rain began to subside. As the clouds cleared from the glacier, the views were very impressive. From my perspective, I had never been on a glacier before, and had certainly never used crampons. I was loving it!



Arriving at a second sheet of sheer ice, this time with an overhang, we began to make the ascents. Each time or technique improved, and we could see that our skills were getting better. However, at the same time our physical stamina was waning. Making a crazy dash for the top on the first run proved very good, not only getting myself up there far faster than usual, but also preserving energy. However, when it came to the third attempt I was done for.



Dashing up the first 10m, I came to an overhang and just could not manage to bury the ice axe into the ice deep enough. Feeling like some feeble gerbil had swapped his muscles for mine, I tried to fling the ice axe at the edge, with no luck. Each time I tried, the axe would simply bounce off, or worse than that, not even make it to the ice surface. It was hilarious to watch, even from my perspective, as I had rarely encountered fatigue quite to this level!

Admitting defeat and descending back to the crowd, I was glad to see that almost everyone was having exactly the same issue. Often ascents were being called short, or axes or crampons would simply fall out of the ice just at the time of need. To all those ice-climbers out there – I'm impressed, you must have some serious upper body stamina to keep you going up any serious length edges!



Wrapping up the ice-climbing for the day with a three hour hike back, we released our feet from the confines of plastic hell which were our boots and wearily dragged ourselves back to the campervan. Forcing a late evening drive to push on to the north of the South Island, we arrived at a deserted lay-by next to a very under-used road just in time to see the sunset.

As the evening drew in, we both relaxed with a sense of accomplishment reinforced by the satisfying ache all over our bodies!



The next day it was time to explore Abel Tasman National Park.

With only a few hours to see the best of what it offered, we headed off for a three hour hike across the hills and to a secluded beach. After about one hour 45 minutes, we seemed to arrive and were constantly vexed by the signs which within a few hundred metres of each-other would vary the estimations of distance (measured by time!?) by half an hour or so!?



The beach was wonderful, although in a very depressing moment, Alex found out that not all beaches which look this good are actually hot. In fact, this beach was really, really cold. So much so that our legs were nub before we even had the opportunity to get deeper than knee depth. No wonder there were no swimmers!!



Taking a sea-taxi back, we left the secluded nature of South Island for the early morning ferry to North Island. With now three days of sleeping by the roadside, we were looking for a bit of civilisation. North Island was about to deliver!

Rough Riding NZ...

With some of the very dubious “must do's” of the South Island of New Zealand under my belt, it was time to turn up the tempo a little. Undoubtedly, in a country like New Zealand where tourism has been one of the primary sources of income for the past few years (yes, we have the Lord of the Rings to thank for that...) everything could be achieved, but at a price.

Leaving Duneaden, we headed for the most southerly city in the world! (Except for those in South America.) This was a set of claims to fame which many different places we were to visit would tout at us. Never did they do the place justice.

Always the claim to fame went something like, the fourth highest/largest/longest/biggest/smallest place in the South Island/New Zealand/Australasia/Southern Hemisphere. If only we were left to just enjoy the vista, the superlatives would have flowed from our mouths – and they would be far more impressive.

On the way to our destination, we stopped by a small cove which was to prove one of the most beautiful sights on our journey. Reminding me very much of the home which I left almost five months before, we walked to the end of a steep pinnacled ridge, lighthouse adorning the top, to view a few hundred sea-lions and seals wallowing in the morning sun. It was a sight to behold, and now something which constitutes my netbook's wallpaper.



A few hours of driving further on, just before night-fall, we stumbled across a small sign leading us to a waterfall. Here in the late dusk we walked through dense woodland before coming across a surprisingly majestic waterfall, made better by a total lack of any tourists. The sun setting, we enjoyed some sporting photos before we headed off to our spot on the roadside where we were to make the final stride towards the “activity capital of the world”- Queenstown. First it was time to take a few hours to undertake some activities of our own – some DIY caving.



Parking Lucy on the side of the road to be taken advantage of by any passing motorist, we donned a jumper and grabbed a torch before heading off into the cave to locate some glow-worms. After a few minutes of tight squeezes, we came across a rather deep pool with only a fine ledge around the circumference. Time to get wet. Edging around the pool, I managed to make it to the other side, just in time to capture Alex falling in with my camera. Sorry Alex!



Queenstown has declared itself as the “Adventure Capital of the World”. With a title like that, both Alex and I were to see what it had in store for us. Splitting apart for the first time in over a week, we undertook our own separate activities. Alex did a [very high] bungee jump, whereas I decided to go jet-boating and then take an off-road motor-bike out for a spin.

Jet boats are a cunning invention, specifically designed to allow the boat to skim over only a few centimetres of water, floating on a “plane”. All the time they keep moving, they have incredible power and manoeuvrability through normally treacherous waterways. Couple this with a cunning design which gives the perception of the front being far further forward than it actually is, and what results is an excellent adrenaline filled ride – you just have to turn the scientific parts of your brain off!

Each edge is taken slightly closer than you would imagine is safe, but the drifts have been carefully choreographed to ensure that the driver is struggling to get closer to the cliff, with the power of the boat forcing it away from the hard granite edge. Still, there are no tracks under the water, no safety barriers on the rocks, and certainly a large amount of skill on the part of the drivers. Ours also had a well polished banter about being a novice, which went down well.



Finishing up with the jet boating, it was now time to put control in my own hands. I've never really been a fan of activities which one endures, far better are those which you can influence. Jet boating was thrilling, but you always know you will be safe, as you are in the hands of an expert. Give a 250cc scramble bike to a total novice and ask him to make jumps and ford rivers. Now that's a far more amusing adventure sport!

Despite the millions of companies within Queenstown which were happy to take the tourist dollar for anything from skydiving to white-water rafting, only one company actually allowed you to take your life in your own hands and ride a scramble bike. A few more offered quads, but with four wheels comes stability and safety. We don't want that now, do we!

Walking into the office, I did happen to catch a glimpse of the sign mentioning that you had to be an “experienced rider” to take their tours. Having ridden a motorbike pillion through India, I was very experienced – just not at driving. How hard could it be right???

Exaggerating my skills to the guy in the shop slightly, I managed to blag myself onto the tour. A short ride into the surrounding countryside later, and I was sitting astride the bike. Here I asked “just to be sure” what all the controls did, and received a very short answer. I also told them I was rather rusty, as it had been over 5 years since my last ride. This wasn't a lie, I had ridden one of these before, for about an hour, in my cousin's ranch in Australia. Time to learn, and fast.



Although the first half an hour of the session was certainly bumpy, with some very dodgy gear-changes and rather close slide-outs, I managed to hit the minimum standard, albeit just, was given a guide and sent off into the bush.

Being a keen mountain biker, I loved the feeling of whizzing over the rough ground. Power certainly gives you a warped sense of distance, with huge hills being just a thirty second activity, rather than the massive slog they would be with a mountain bike.



In a mother scaring moment, I want one of these bad-boys. Luckily, they are pointless in the UK, but if I move somewhere remote – watch out mum!

Wrapping it all up with numerous river crossings and a few baby jumps, it was time to end my activity filled day, dirt grinding against my teeth. Queenstown had done me proud. It was time for a more serene experience – the lost tranquillity of Doubtful Sound...

Cruising around NZ

Before I arrived in New Zealand, my fellow travellers advised me not to expect too much civilisation, but instead to revel in the spectacular scenery. Arrival in Christchurch served to prove them right.

Christchurch, the largest of all the “cities” on the south island, was surprisingly small. With a population of just 600,000 – it was about the size of my home town in the UK. It had one high-street, a small square, and was almost totally closed down as I investigated it at 5 minutes past 5 on a dreary and cold Saturday afternoon.

The thing that Christchurch did have going for it though, was its charm. Everyone was smiling, people were waving at each other and even the tourists weren't hated as much as they are everywhere else in the world. New Zealanders aren't really internationally famed, but from my first impressions, I would put them up there as the “friendliest nation on earth”.



Shops were a time-warp of old English tradition, spliced with the Australian enthusiasm for the outdoor world. Although new goods, they were always serving them in an old fashioned way. For example, I went into an espresso bar, with Italian coffee maker at the centre and Kiwi greeting me with a wide smile, only to be asked if I wanted sugar with my latte – for it would be mixed in for me. On enquiring about where I could purchase some wool tops, instead of directing me approximately, I got directions based on people's names. “The fourth shop down is very good, as Ted sources the wool from the Walton's farm.”

To top it all off, I then went into a local bakery to try and pick up something to eat with my coffee, only to be told they were closing. However, instead of just leaving, they offered me a free scone!? If I hadn't had been so hungry, I would have taken a picture. Like all good fisherman's tales, I shall now say that it was huge. The best scone ever? Probably not, but good all the same!

Christchurch is tiny, but I don't care; it has the small town charm often lost by bigger cities. I hoped this would just get better as I move away from the “big smoke”.

Answering some adverts at the local backpacker hostel, I managed to locate a suitable travelling partner, with whom I would spend the next three weeks cruising around New Zealand in a camper. One, “speed questioning” interview later, and we had deemed each-other as suitable travel partners. Some hurried phone-calls to local renting agents ensued, and finally we had our own camper-van to travel the New Zealand islands with.

After five months on the road I finally had a home. “Lucy”.



She was a beaten up old pile of crap. But like a particularly ugly and lame puppy, we would love her anyway. Tough and high-revving love that is.

Now it was time to head south from Christchurch, taking in all of the spectacular scenery the South Island has to offer.

Our first night in the camper was on the shores of a lake, about 4 hours drive from Christchurch. Here, after stocking up with supplies from a local supermarket on the way out of Christchurch, we cooked our first meal, deep in the bowls of “Lucy – Protector from the evil sand-flies” as she shall now be known.



I'm going to admit this now, I was a little worried about the standards of cooking we would have to endure on this journey. I've seen what some people my age call food, and I must admit that the idea of eating that for three weeks was less than appealing. Consequently, I was very relieved when it turns out that my travel partner was actually a very good cook. Despite the limited resources in our cupboard, he always knew the best combinations and threw them together very well. He also didn't make it impossible to wash up the pan by encrusting the best bits of food onto the bottom – a definite benefit!



The next day we awoke and began to pack up the van. Starting at 8:15, with a 10:00 curfew, we thought we had loads of time. At 11:00 we decided to leave with it only partly completed; it was something we would need to improve in future attempts...

With a rather late start under our belts, it was time to head off to our first destination – the highest salmon farm in the world.

When I heard that, I had envisaged huge heights – perhaps 3000m higher than sea level, with snow cresting the sides of the farm. I had certainly hoped for more than the 800m height that we observed. Saying this, the scenery once again made up for it as we ate our freshly smoked salmon and blue cheese overlooking the vista. With a quick walk across the farm for DIY feeding time (don't you like those business models where tourists pay to do someone else's job?) it was great to feel like fish-god!



Following lunch, we headed off for Mt Cook – the highest point in NZ.

Unable to scale Mt Cook ourselves, as it requires mountaineering experience and much gear to get past the numerous glaciers, we had to be content with the view from the bottom.



Dropping the van off at the bottom of a valley split, we made the quick 90 minute walk to the front of the glacier, which was to mark our return point. Having never seen a glacier before I was struck by how cold it wasn't. Now, I know glaciers are made from ice, and ice is usually below freezing point, so, you can imagine my confusion when we reached the glacier and I was hot, whilst only wearing a very thin top. It must have been about 14 degrees – certainly no where near the 2-3 degrees I was expecting!?

Feeling a bit cheated, Alex decided to go in for a dip and claim first dibs on a large chunk of ice – just to check that it was actually cold and not some Star Trek polystyrene prop. The screams he made and the moaning after the event confirmed various reports I had heard that glacial melt-water is in fact very cold. Let's just say that no one wanted to go swimming in that lake.



Pressing on to our next port of call, we decided to camp by the side of the road and welcome in the evening (and the ever present sand-flies) by the shore of another lake. Although this wasn't strictly legal, no-one seemed to care, and it did mean we didn't have a working towel rail or microwave – two things I'm hardly going to cry over. Although it did also mean we were lacking in power to charge our MP3 player/ speaker combination (as the van's radio didn't work), and any electronic devices such as cameras or laptops.

What we were also lacking though, certainly made up for the rest... As we laid back in our beds, blinds open to the world gazing at the foreign southern sky constellations, we couldn't hear anyone getting drunk and partying, no children screaming, no generators humming. Silence. This is almost like camping. Almost.



The next day was to bring with it the iconic New Zealand moment. No, it wasn't the shamefully childish Maori art, nor some sandstone cliffs. It was being stopped in the middle of the road by a few million sheep. Welcome to New Zealand.



This was then topped off by some oversized Malteasers, which apparently draw tourists from miles around – even though there's only about ten left, and those which are left aren't even that round.



Oh, and the best name for a boat I've ever seen.



By now, we were towards the southern tip of the South Island – a place called Duneaden to be precise. Duneaden's claim to fame in the world is that it has the world's steepest road. I don't really know why, but we were rather amused by this concept and so decided to take a stroll up it. When I say take a stroll, this soon degraded into a slow-motion race up the hill. For those who haven't tried, don't. It makes you feel really pitiful, as you run at about 5 mph up the slope, no matter how hard you try! What was amusing though, was thinking of the poor residents who must suffer the daily trudge of tourists and cars who drive up the dead-end street, only to then drive back down again a few moments later.



So far it had all been well and good, a few minor sights here and there, and some other things to see and do along the way, but nothing really earth-shattering. What makes people fall in love in New Zealand? Well, I think I was about to find out...

Swept along with the wind...

Following the diving course, it was time to head south and take in the sights of the “Golden [east] Coast” of Australia. Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, at the exact same time that I was planning to head south, so was a category five cyclone “Hamish” – similar to the worst category of hurricane there is. Consequently, the sailing, diving and pretty much anything else which resembles fun was called off. Darn.



This then prompted a series of events, culminating in multiple extended bus journeys to the subsequent southern town, just to be told that everything was being canceled from the day I had arrived.

After 38 in little over 52 hours of bus inducing boredom, I finally arrived in Brisbane. By this time, to make matters a little worse, I had a doctor take a look at my ear, only to be told that it had been perforated and that I would not be able to undertake any activities involving getting my ear wet.

To celebrate this news, I went jet-skiing.



Before I went on this adventure around the world, I had been a keen sailor for the past few years, learning the ropes, literally on a two man dinghy every other weekend. Whenever I was out and about, I used to discuss with my very experienced sailing partner about many things in life. One time, I rather accidentally wondered into a sailing minefield. Jet skiers.

In the same way by which classic car enthusiasts hate “Gary-boy” racers, sailors despise jet-skiers. I don't know if it's entirely due to the wake produced by these machines which they despise, more the attitude and total lack of respect for the invisible ten metre zone of control every sail boat would like to command. Either way, for one afternoon, I was to join the enemy.

Jet skis are easy enough to control, with a jet of water shooting out of the back in various directions being your only means of propulsion and steering. If you want to go fast, just crank the throttle. If you want to stop, don't. With that wonderful introduction to the world of jet-skis under my belt, it was time to take to the water and see what they could do.

It turns out that they are rather fast. In fact, they are very fast indeed – reaching top speeds in excess of 50 knots. When doing these speeds though, you have to cling on pretty hard, otherwise ripples on the surface of the water will do their best to throw you askew.

Stopping off on an island just outside of Brisbane, the fellow jet-skiers an I discussed our sore thighs (for that is what you use to hold on) and sore everything else too. Everyone had a smile on their face though – so the pain can't have been that bad!



The return journey was uneventful, although did prove the ideal time to go flat out, trying to jump the wakes of various boats on our way back. Luckily, the wind was awful that day, so I don't think I was sworn at by many sailors – if I was, sorry, I know how you feel!!

With time rapidly running out, and a need to get to somewhere lacking in cyclones, it was time to enter Sydney before an early morning departure to New Zealand. There, I was to spend far longer than the ten days in Australia and hopefully achieve far more too!

Diving Deep

Australia. Let's be honest, it's not hard to travel around England down under. The language is the same, the food is good, the weather better and overall, life is easy. There's no coincidence that it's in the middle of my holiday – I wanted to have a break from travel; Australia made the logical choice.

To ensure I didn't just arrive and veg out, I had booked myself on a five day dive course in the Great Barrier Reef. First though, I had a day and a half to explore Sydney.

After arrival, it became apparent that the clothing I had on wasn't all that suitable. Wearing a wool top and thick woollen hiking socks was not going to cut it in Sydney, where the temperature was in the high 20's. Cairns (where the diving course was) was even worse, being about 30-35 degrees. Time to get some new socks and some swimming trunks. Whilst I was at it, a haircut would also help.

After I had all this sorted it was time to explore Sydney by night. I was staying in a backpacking hostel, with 6 people to a dorm and had been kindly invited out to a local bar by a promoter under the lure of free booze. Now, I don't know which business school the bar managers from the Kings Cross district in Sydney went to, but I hope it has since shut down. Almost every bar offers free booze, free entry, free pick-up and some even offer free food. No strings attached.

As you can imagine, this was rather appealing. We strolled from one bar to another, taking advantage of either one or two free drinks, before moving on to the next bar, again consuming the free drinks. Value for money wise, this was the best night out to be had anywhere!

Now that I had seen some of the night-life, it was time to see the sights Sydney has to offer. Historically, Australia is pathetic, especially when compared to the history of China, so I decided to focus on what it does better – sports and aquatic life.



Taking a guided cycle tour of the city, I picked up most of the “must do” sights of Sydney in little under six hours. Here I managed to befriend the two guides and spent the remainder of the evening with them, chatting about life in Sydney. One thing I had noticed from almost everyone that I had met – Sydney has sticky streets. Many people arrive for a short term event of activity and never leave. Before I was struck with the same disease, it was time to take in the aquarium to do some research on the fishes I would be seeing later, then departing to Cairns for the diving course.

Arriving in Cairns, it became apparent that it was a town focused on one thing only – diving. Every shop was related to diving or had diving in mind. Signing on for the diving course commencing the next day, it was time to ensure that I can pass the initial test.

To go diving, you first need to pass a swimming exam. Now, swimming is one of about two sports that I really don't like, the second being football. However, since the last time I went swimming, my personal fitness has vastly improved. In fact, the last time I went properly swimming, I think I was about 14 years old and struggled to make it past 100m. To pass the test, I had to swim 200m and float in the pool for 10 minutes. Gulp – literally.

Donning the new swimming trunks and looking rather spangly with my lack of tan fresh from the northern hemisphere, I jumped into the hostel pool and began to float. Timer started, I kicked around and flapped a little bit, after a while I rested into a nice rhythm. Getting a little tired, I looked at my watch, 7 minutes 48 seconds, TO GO. Oh dear. Luckily, at this point someone saw what I was doing and offered some advice. “Just float on your back and wiggle your arms”. This guy was a life-saver, so whoever you are, thank you so much.

Over the next five days, ten of us would learn how to dive, completing two separate courses and gaining both our “Open Water” and “Adventure Diver” PADI qualifications. The first qualification is what most people do, and allows you to dive to 18 metres, the second tags on another 12 metres, bringing it to a total of 30 metres. I had signed up to both as I really wanted the extra confidence the second course would give me.



After half a day in the classroom getting bored to tears by the most fundamental of dive videos (do you know that things less dense than water FLOAT? - WOW) it was time to go into the pool for our swimming test (which turns out was easy after the practise) and our first confined water session.

Setting up our diving gear as instructed, we all waddled into the pool, feeling about as graceful as an elephant asked to hop through an army assault course wearing a tutu. Once in the pool though, our huge SCUBA system was transformed from a weighty cumbersome object into a miraculous device. Putting the regulators into our mouths for the first time, we breathed in... yuck... plastic air!

Now it was time to submerge and try the same thing, just under water. The initial response of one's body is to fight the urge to breath in. You're under water after all, so you would normally be holding your breath. Once the initial panic was suppressed though, you soon became used to breathing in under water. This was strange, but it was also darn cool!

Over the next two days we would hone those skills, diving to the full depth of 4m the pool allowed and practising breathing from an alternative source and clearing one's mask after full removal. All these skills would become invaluable when we finally hit the sea, so practise in this environment was very useful. We were all paired up with someone, who would become our “buddy” if we got into issues, or ran out of air and needed to borrow some rather quickly. I was 'devastated' to be paired with officially the coolest of our crowd.



Before the end of the second day I was confident underwater with my kit. It was just like swimming, with the tiresome problem of breathing and holding breath taken away! Of particular fun was the joy of doing endless back-flips whilst underwater – I'm easily amused.

Completing our confined water section and the easiest written exam known to man, it was now time to jump aboard a boat and join some already qualified divers for our open water sessions – 8 dives in all. It's a hard life learning in the Great Barrier Reef, but someone has to do it! The only draw-back was the all in one "Smirf-Suit" which we wore to protect us from jellyfish.



Given that I was blown away by the whole process whilst in a pool with nothing to look at except for the tiles, you can imagine how happy I was to see some real scenery and fishes. Unfortunately for you though, we weren't allowed to take a camera on any training dives, which were all but one of our dives.



The practise continued as we completed our qualifications, gradually diving longer and deeper, whilst performing more technical tasks. On the final night though, there was a bit of a change. A night dive. Until this point, we hadn't seen any sharks - probably because sharks hunt mostly at night, being either docile, or asleep during the day. Most people would count their blessings at not seeing a shark, especially as there were two shark attacks in Sydney the week before I arrived. I really wanted to see a shark though, and I got my wish.



Now, if anyone has seen the film Aliens, whereby the marines all had puny little torches, which they were waving around frantically in the dark, searching for the aliens which were hunting them, you now know pretty much what a night dive with sharks is like. With our group of four people in the water, we dove into the pitch black water and quickly whipped our torches around, searching for the tell-tell signs of sharks; the reflection of their retinas...

Suddenly, the lead torch of our instructor stopped moving from side to side and seemed to “lock on” to a target. Through the gloom, the target grew larger and larger, until it came into clear view. A 2m reef shark. Luckily, humans aren't on the menu of that species!

Over the next 30 minutes we not only saw the sharks, but in a few moments of insanity, I actually joined my instructor in giving chase to a shark, in an attempt to touch it. Although I didn't succeed, getting within two metres of one of these creatures was close enough. Their power and grace is something that many other fish are still yet to acquire. I can see why they are top of the food chain – one I was very glad not to be part of.

With our trip drawing to a close, it was time to complete some final dives and paperwork before I was now officially qualified to dive to 30 metres. Hurray!

Back on land, and with what I thought was water in my ear, we had one final night celebrating our newly found diving qualification. Here at the very prestigious establishment of the “Woolshed”, we observed a wet t-shirt competition before dancing the night away like idiots. I even met someone who had trained with the military based in my home town of Poole, before discussing the intricacies of Australian special forces training – whilst drunk.

Bidding my buddies farewell, it was time to depart to the south with a view to taking a couple of days of sailing around some deserted islands.... little did I know that Mr Hamish would have other ideas...