Abel Tasman & The Sandflies

Days Hiked: 4

Sandfly Bites Incurred: 34

Sandlfy Bites Scratched Open: 31

Level of Insanity Reached: 9

I am COVERED in Sandfly bites. It is literally driving me insane. I had been advised to take an insect repellent with me and though I did, I find it hard to trust any company that makes both the repellent AND the bite-soother. They must not trust their own repellent very much. I may just have to tap off a bit of my blood into a cup and place it next to me at night as a peace offering: here, have a free drink, but please don't bite me!!! At least I now understand why all the locals are always covered top to bottom. I DID feel a little out of place in my T-shirt and shorts.

I'm relieved I came this early in the season. Abel Tasman gets about 200,000 visitors a year, the bulk of them between October and March, so I seem to have caught the silence before the storm. While the DOC huts along the track were full most nights, I only occasionally bumped into others while trekking from one hut to the next. There is no electricity, gas or warm water anywhere, so I had to drag a gasstove, food for 4 days, candles and a flashlight with me at all times. Luckily the pack gets heavier the more you eat. Which, incidentally, is something I'm very good at ;-)

Because of the lack of electricity, the pace of life along the track is very much set by the Sun. Each night, the huts went quiet by 8.30pm (generally when the candles died out) and by 5.30 am we were all up cooking breakfast, watching the Sun rise above the ocean or the mountains. Just as the Sun orchestrated our pace, so did the Moon. Abel Tasman is very much a coastal track and as such, the tides dictate when and where you can cross onward to your next destination. Everyone carries a tide timetable with them, ensuring they don't get trapped in any of the bays along the track.

Quite often, you reach a tidal crossing point too early and you're sat waiting for the level to drop:

It is greatly amusing when there are people waiting on the other side, hoping to cross over into the direction you just came from. It turns into a staring contest, waiting to see who will attempt to cross first, as most people are too impatient to wait for the waterlevel to drop entirely. Being a short-arse, I generally had to measure up my size against theirs to judge whether their "knee-high" would be safely below my waist-level or not.

Life along the track is really breathtaking. Even if you cannot name the birds back home, you are familiar with their calls. Out here, all sounds are new and unfamiliar. The screach of the Kiwi when you nip to the loo at night, the BellBird's wake up call in the morning and the Tui's happy chant all day long. I spotted Hector Dolphins, Whales and a Carpet Shark struggling for breath as it was stranded on the beach (A German woman bravely took it by the tail and pushed it back into the sea). At some point, you simply stop taking pictures because your eyes want to just take it all in themselves. No longer to be a distant observer, but to become part of the amazing surroundings.

While most people hike the track on their own during the day, at night, you all turn into one big family. You cook at the same time and for lack of light to read in, people huddle around the candles to tell stories. It's been a while since I've laughed so hard my stomach cramped up entirely. There are no beds, merely a few raised platforms on which you all lay yourself down to sleep. The heat of the other bodies keeps the hut warm enough and while I always assumed I'd find sharing floorspace with so many others disturbing, I felt comforted by their presence. I can imagine this is what life must have been like for centuries.

I marvel at the ability of humans to find a home amongst strangers so quickly. It must denote our inherent need for this group belonging. While I'd never before met the germans, swedes, americans, kiwis and dutch people I shared the huts with, it only took minutes for the group to find a routine, a base in which we all seemed to feel very comfortable. I think that as long as humans stay true to this part of their nature, travelling on one's own need never be scary or lonely again.

Bob and The Bunkbed

In all my planning, I forgot to account for Sundays. As in, days where everything is actually shut. I arrived in Nelson today to find I can't actually proceed with any of the preparations needed for my 4-day hike in Abel Tasman. The weather's also taken a turn for the worst AND I urgently need to find a piercer to reset one of my piercings, as it came loose in all the excitement of mountainbiking. I've had it reshot on 2 previous occasions already and as I really don't fancy another needle through re-grown cartilage, this takes priority. I'll probably delay my hike by a day or two.

In the meantime, let me tell you a short story about a teddy called Bob and a bunkbed. I generally don't have issues with bunkbeds. Or at least I didn't until yesterday. I was sharing a bunk with a Great Dane (The Viking variety, not the canine) and as I was on the top, I had only limited storage for essentials such as my flashlight, water, book, wallet and erm... Bob. After much faff, I'd finally found a good enough solution to fix them all in place somewhere and fell asleep.

In the middle of the night however, I got awoken by a loud thud. When I turned on my flashlight I realised to my horror that Bob had tumbled to the bottom bunk, alongside my book. The Great Dane on the other hand, was sound asleep and blissfully unaware. Now here's the dilemma: It's 3 am. Do you slip down to try and recapture your teddy and book at the risk of waking said Dane or do you wait till morning and ask him for it outright? I sat up for half an hour trying to make up my mind. When I finally slid off the ladder to try and recapture it, I noticed to my horror that the Great Dane was hugging Bob in his sleep. Seriously. Now you tell me, what is one suposed to do on such occasions?!? There's a serious need for self-help guides on Embarrassing Moments.

I decided to wait till morning. I had an early bus out so would be up before anyone else and hopefully by that time, the Great Dane would have parted with Bob. At 6 a.m. I found Bob on the floor. You've no idea how relieved I am that the Great Dane didn't wake up while I was crawling underneath his bed.

- Homes away from home, my hostel -

Grease Monkey

Location: Queen Charlotte Sound

Distance Cycled: 56 km

Bugs Swallowed: 5

Roadkill Inadvertently Caused: 3 (Beetles)
Injuries Incurred: 1 (wrist)

Tiredness Level: 9

Happiness Level: 10

It's been a long time since I've been this proud of myself. Even passing the PhD fades by comparison. Seriously. I'm a geek. Everyone expected me to get the PhD. But no one expects me to succeed at any of the "cool" stuff. So for me, this is by far the more satisfying experience.

The whole journey started off on a much less confident note however. When I arrived at the bikeshop to pick up my stallion, the owner handed me all sorts of stuff I had no clue what to do with. A bikepump with three holes?!? Some type of wrench "to tighten the wheelbar with"?!? I simply took everything off the guy while thinking: I haven't a clue what to do with all this gear! When he handed me a repair kit, I decided it was time to speak up and said: "So erm... how exactly does one repair a punctured tyre?". The guy looked horrified at my asking, so I quickly added: "Just kidding!". I left the shop blushing and feeling rather more worried than I had been upon entering it.

It went rapidly downhill after that. When asking for an OS-map of the track, I got this. And when I asked if they had ANYTHING that showed the elevation of the track, they gave me this. So it's safe to say that from that point onward, I was close to panicking.

As soon as I got on the boat, I was informed that the Queen Charlotte Track is the least populated one in New Zealand. Going by the fact that there was only 1 other passenger on the boat besides myself, I'd say that's probably the understatement of the century. When I got dropped off, I decided there was no point in panicking. I would simply give it my best shot. Comforted by the fact that my mobile phone had reception on the track, I started peddling.

The track really was as deserted as they'd said. I crossed paths with all but 11 people, most of them on foot and I now understand why. Assigning the Queen Charlotte Track a mountainbike status is like saying every route in the Lake District is a mountainbike track. Well, yes, if you find enough fools willing to cycle them, technically they are all mountainbike tracks. But when one has to walk their bike uphill as much as they cycle it downhill, I'd be hestitant to call it a cycle track. One guy I passed was a fit and regular mountainbiker and even he proclaimed he'd been walking next to his bike for over an hour. Nough said.

-Sunset over Portage Bay-

I made it though. And what's more exciting is that I managed to do so in just an acceptable fraction more than the suggested time. It's amazing what you can push yourself to when you've no one to talk to but yourself for 8 hours.

I would also like to state that it is probably not a good idea to do any downhilling if you have an overactive imagination. The wrist-injury incurred is due to the fact that my overactive mind, for reasons beyond my grasp, mistook a tree covered in black lichen for some evil moster lurking on the roadside, making me jump off my bike in sheer panick. NOT a good idea when you're on a 26% downhill slope. To anyone else, I would highly recommend a go at downhilling, the adrenaline rush is almost better than going down a skislope in a straight line. And it's a very legit way for a 26-year old to relive their BMX days ;)

- Hot 'n Sweaty -

- Boat Pick Up Point, Anakiwa -

Don't Panic

Communication will be substantially less the next ten days, although not necessarily non-existent as I may get access in Nelson (blog will temporarily take priority over e-mails&chats).

I hired a mountainbike and booked a boat to drop me off in the Queen Charlotte Sound. I plan to cycle the length of the mountainbike track in two days, after which a boat should come and pick me up again. *Fingers crossed they don't forget*. I'm seriously doubting my level of fitness, but I supose I will figure out whether I'm up to it soon enough. This is hardly no man's land, so I'll be fine. Upon my return, I will head off for a four day trek around the Abel Tasman coastline. I've never hiked on my own before and don't have the sharpest sense of direction, but I did do the Mountain Leadership Training and there are presumably a lot of other people on the track so Pew should technically be OK.

I'm accompanied by Jack Kerouac's On the Road, Dostoyevski's The Devils and Sebastian Faulks's Birdsong (I've discovered my bargaining skills in local second-hand bookstores!!!), so I'll be in good company. If I haven't returned to the blog by October 1st, it's time to look for signs of the wee Belge's emergency flares ;-)

Bad Night

- Little Sleep & Music Therapy ;) -

I got blindsided by a nightmare last night and woke up in sweats. I've not had one of these for a long time, so the sudden force of it really took me off guard. While it was a faceless dream, I'm pretty certain it respresented one or the other of my two long-term exes. It's hard to tell which though, since both relationships ended in almost identical ways and the reference could have been to either one.

She's holding the etch-a-sketch on which we've been drawing our relationship with each day that progresses. I'm looking at her as her new crush walks into the room. For a second, I hope she's going to ignore it, but then I see her turn towards her infatuation while dropping our etch-a-sketch to the floor. In slow motion, I see myself rush towards the etch-a-sketch to try and grab it, but it's too late. As it comes crashing to the floor, the whole story of us is shaken into oblivion, as if it never existed in the first place.

It's strange. I'm not too fussed with either of my exes these days, as I've managed to reach an amicable stalemate with the first and am increasingly out of touch with the second. So I know this dream is less about them than it is about the feeling linked to those two particular moments. That moment when all comes crashing down around you so fast that when you blink, it's hard to find even the slightest proof that what you've lost even existed in the first place. And you find yourself desperately searching for something that validates your pain. That's what puzzles me most about love. It leaves no trace to hold onto upon its leaving.

Of all the emotions I've ever held, this one never ceases to haunt me. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much I rationalise it. Regardless of how happy I am or how far I've moved beyond the moment, or even when love's found me again... subconciously, I never seem to be able to come to grips with the intensity of those moments.

To flip or not to flip...

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I fear I may I have swallowed half the Pacific Ocean yesterday...

I get seasick on boats. I have a distinct dislike of open waters and an accute phobia of dangling my bare feet in places likely to house green-eyed monsters that might creep up to nibble them. Having said that, the sole intent and purpose of this Big Trek is to experience things well outside my comfort zone so as to probe my real and imaginary boundaries. As such, I simply could not pass up an opportunity to swim amidst wild Dusky Dolphins in the Pacific. While I have now established with certainty that my nautical-comfort boundaries are entirely real, the experience on the whole was more than worth the discomfort.

We were all hoisted into very sexy wetsuits, goggles, snorkel and a set of flippers and while I was flattered that our guide had estimated my suit-size to be a small size 10, in hindsight, I probably could have done with a bit more breathing space. As soon as I slid off the back of the boat into the freezing water, I started to hyperventilate. While everyone around me fluttered off in the direction of the dolphins, I was busy trying to make up my mind as to whether I should die by drowning or of a heart attack. By the time I'd come to my senses, the sound of the boat's horn signalled that is was time to get back on board.

Determined to have a more successful swim on the second try, I mentally psyched myself up before plunging back into the freezing ocean. From that point onward, the experience simply turned magical. The dolphins were all around us. Because they are wild animals they will not accept anyone trying to touch them, but if you entice their curiosity enough by singing through your snorkel or by frolicking alongside them, they will come closer to check you out.
I worry myself sometimes, because for some reason I could think of nothing better than to burst out in a chorus of The Proclaimers' "I would walk 500 miles", much to the amusement of the people who'd chosen to stay on the boat. For all its silliness, it worked and pretty soon they were tumbling through the waters near me and one even swam up from underneath me.

I have to admit I got a tad spooked when an Albatross decided to dive-bomb me, but considering they have a 3 meter wingspan, I think I'd be forgiven for losing my cool.

Pushing the boundaries turns out to be a very rewarding life-strategy and though I have contemplated surrendering to a Benji-jump or a sky-dive, I figure I ought to save some stuff for when my midlife crisis hits.

Tim Tam Slammers

We always think we're unique until we realise we're not. Out here, it seems I am very much a product of my generation. And I while I often wonder where it is exactly that I belong, the answer seems to be quite simply that I belong wherever I end up going. My brother once dispensed some wise advice to me in an unguarded moment. He said: "If you want to find like-minded souls, it is essential that you do the things that are true to what you really feel and want, because you're most likely to cross paths with them there."

In a sense it's only logical that the emotions, fears and wants that drove me to travel, have similarly driven other like-minded people in the same direction. The more people I meet, the more I discover that my story is not all that different from the people around me. This transitory stage I thought my was my own, is that of many others.

Here in Kaikoura, my Single Serving Friends Ollie, Marta and John make it the place where I belong at this very moment. The commonalities are striking and sobering. Like holding up a slightly distorted mirror: Enough common ground for self-recognition and enough distortion to contrast your image by their differences.

- Ollie & Marta on our evening beach walk -

It's perhaps not coincidental then that while I've met few to no people in the last few years that have read my favorite book, my three Single Serving friends here have not only read Jonathan Livingston Seagull, but all rate it in their top five. One of them even carries a copy of it with him wherever he goes.

Last night, Ollie and I were sat in front of a log fire and attempted (not unsuccessfully) to engage a conversation in our respective native languages of Afrikaans and Flemish, while Marta was cooking us a real Italian pasta carbonara. I can't help but feel that it's a succession of moments like this, that make life what it is. I don't for a second regret the transitory nature of these moments, for while this group of Single Serving Friends will dissolve tomorrow, it's a moment had and stored.

Fact of the Day:

Local delicacy: TimTam Slammer. Bite two opposing corners of a TimTam cookie, and suck some hot tea through the resulting straw-like gap in the cookie. Once the tea hits your mouth, stick the cookie in your mouth in it's entirety. Messy Sugary Goodness. And if you would believe it, the slam actually warranted an entry in Wikipedia! Thanks to Ollie, for helping me make a mess of the dinnertable.

Faceless Crowds

When you're backpacking, you soon find yourself bumping into the same people over and over again. It IS a small island and backpackers tend to tread similar paths. I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd be recognized by someone whose name I'd forgotten. It seems yesterday was that time. A very cheery Scottish lass walked up to me in the hostel asking me how my time in Dunedin had been. I completely blanked. She did look familiar but I hadn't a clue where we'd met. I appologised profusely but she muttered: "It's OK, you were far more interested in that French lad back then anyway." Now that comment totally fazed me. Which French guy?!? When?!? And then... in walks Monsieur Paris and everything clicked.

"Ah voila ma petite Belge, comment ca va?!"

*groan*

I think I finally understand why people take notes of names, faces, facts and characteristics of the people they encounter. Although there is something to be said for forgetting certain encounters...

Anyway, this reminds me of a particularly funny incident last week that clearly shows that while we may all be united under the European flag and are more alike to each other than we are to the rest of the world, we are still inherently different and each european nationality has its own brilliant little quirks. We're in the hostel kitchen when some of the english people walk in trying to rouse everyone to go to the pub for a few drinks: "Common guys, it's happy hour, time for drinks. How bout you Monsieur Paris, are you game?!?!" To which Mr.Paris replies: "Ze French zey eat first and zen zey drink". Everyone burst out laughing and the collective decided it would indeed be wiser to eat first. So we all start cooking. I make a vegetarian pasta, the Swedish girls make toast with kippers, the Brits stick to bangers and mash, the American pours himself a glass of coke to accompany his plate of chips and Mr.Paris... well, he starts kneeding the dough for his bread, has a steak on the fire and a cake in the oven for desert. QED.

Kaikoura

I have just arrived in Kaikoura and I have to admit I am starting to be very thankful for my inability to NOT plan ahead. My weakness turns out to be an advantage after all. It seems I organised it all very well in terms of season, accomodation, activity and duration of stay in each place. The sun's out to play, just as I had hoped, and the hostel is right on the beach. I only have to open my window and cross the sand to be able to stick my feet into the Pacific.







I'm relieved I decided against booking a whale-watch trip, because it turns out that for the last three weeks a mother whale with her "teen" and newborn baby have taken up residence in the ocean inlet right in front of my hostel. I sat out on the beach for a while before unpacking and there she was... flipping around in the water. While I've yet to see her totally surface, I could see her spew air and water, and saw her flippers flop on the surface.

I've booked a dolpin-swim in the pacific for tomorrow, which will hopefully go ahead as planned. But if not, I will be quite happy to use the free hostel bikes and cycle around the bays or to simply sit out on the beach and watch the whales. It's three days of relaxing, doing laundry (finally!!), reading, writing and catching up with e-mails.

On Top of the World

My trip to the Franz Josef Glacier took me deep into the Westcoast region and the 8 hour busride passed by white beaches, rainforests, snowcapped mountains and... glaciers. It's like a microworld this little island. Everything you can possibly think of is right here on the westcoast.

Franz Josef Glacier is the steepest commercially climbable glacier in the world. And it's an impressive 12 kilometers long. When we first approached it I thought "piece of cake", until my guide told me to take out my camera and zoom in on the face of the glacier. My jaw dropped as quickly as my confidence did:

-Franz Josef upon our approach through the valley -

- Face of Franz Josef with zoom (people!) -

While I've climbed a glacier once before in Norway, the glacier there was retreating. Franz Josef on the other hand is actually growing at a rate of half a meter a day. A DAY! When you set off in the morning, the glacier will have physically shifted forward by the time you make your way back down in the evening. It's difficult to trace that growth while you're climbing, but you can hear the ominous rumbling and creaking of the glacier under its own growth. It's eerie and demands respect in a way only nature can.

We managed to get 6 kilometers into the glacier (about halfway) and our guide took us through several "wormholes", cavities which are formed when water seeps through the ice for a prolongued period of time.

- Into the Wormhole -

The Glacier appears blue there where the ice is packed most densely. Blue light (which has the shortest wavelength of all visible light) gets reflected while all the other colours of the spectrum are absorbed. Keas, abundant on glaciers and in the surrounding rainforests, are capable of seeing UV light, so to them, the glaciers will look blue and UV-coloured.

The Maori name for Franz Josef is: Ka roimata O Hine Hukatere, which means "Tears of the Avalanche Girl". According to moari legend, a girl called Hine was crazy about mountaineering. Her boyfriend prefered the beach, but to please her, he decided to accompany her on one of her mountaineering treks. When they reached the summit, he accidentally plunged to his death off the cliffs. Hine was inconsolable and cried for days. The gods didn't quite know what to do with all her grief, so they decided to freeze her tears as a constant reminder of what happened. Those frozen tears now make up the glacier.

- Checking out crevasses -

The Busnazi and the Morose Psychopath

I'm not particularly fond of busses at the best of times, but when you're on a tight budget and reluctant to become the 7th owner of a rusty Suzuki called Betty, busses are pretty much your only option at getting around the island.

The real bitch about New Zealand busses is that they happen to be driven by the Busnazi. Every single one of them in fact, for the woman's commandeered every bus I've been on in these last two weeks. If I was the slightest bit paranoid, I'd be compelled to think the woman is stalking me. Every time I board an Intercity Bus, I keep hoping against all hopes that I'd be granted a different busdriver, but to no avail. Each time, I'm greeted by Mrs.Busnazi, white hair tied back in a bun that seems desperate to escape from her ugly head. I swear the woman is the Devil herself.

On our very first encounter, she greeted us through her microphone: "G'day ladies and gents, I'm your busdriver for the day. I shall entertain you with comments about the places we'll be driving through. They are comments I find interesting, if you don't, then tough luck." On our second encounter, an unfortunate unknowing Liverpuddlian attempted to bring a tub of proteinpowder onto the bus and got swiftly tackled to the ground by Mrs.Busnazi. All 90 kilos of him plunged to the floor under her knee. Once he'd surrendered his tub and it had been confined to the hold-all, Mrs.Busnazi defiantly asked if anyone else was planning on smuggling food onto the bus. The group collectively muttered a terrified "no ma'am" before settling down in their respective seats.

Halfway through our third encounter, the bus broke down. We had been warned at the start of the journey that there would be no pee-breaks, but since the bus had been stationary for over half an hour and didn't seem inclined to take off any time soon, I figured the rules would have altered somewhat. I made the mistake of asking Mrs.Busnazi if she knew of a public toilet nearby. She barked: "NO PEE-BREAKS". A person can only take so much, so I replied: "Don't be stupid. We've broken down. My peeing is hardly going to cut into your busy shedule of waiting for a mechanic." She glowered at me and spat: "There are no public toilets nearby anyway." She was right. No restaurants, no cafes, no toilets. But there WAS a carpenter, so I walked up to the guy, flashed him one of my brightest smiles and got access to his Wallhalla.

Back on the bus (a half a liter lighter), Mrs.Busnazi was fuming and tutted loudly at my return. Four fellow travelers had cottoned onto my strategy and made a start at going for their own pee-break when Mrs.Busnazi shouted over the intercom: "NO PEE-BREAKS". I was shocked to see they all quietly sat back down. If there's anything I hate more than people on a power trip, it's pushovers.

Anyway. I stole 7 single-serving packets of sugar from a cafe yesterday and I'm convinced Karma's come back to bite me in the arse over it, because while I'd finally been granted a different busdriver this morning, I ended up wedged between the window and Mr.Morose Psychopath for the entire trip. I knew I was in trouble the minute he walked on: 40-odd years old, undoubtedly still living with his mum. Jam jars for glasses, white socks under unnecessarily short trousers. Jeans with a forward-facing crease ironed-in. You all know the type.

About half-way into the 6 hour drive, Mr.Morose Psychopath asks the driver to stop.

Mr. MP: [panicked] Stop Please!
Busdriver: Why? What's going on?
Mr. MP: [hesitantly] I forgot something.
Busdriver: What?
Mr. MP: [morosely] I forgot something.
Busdriver: Yes mate, but what?
Mr. MP: My bag.
Busdriver: Your bag?
Mr. MP: My boots.
Busdriver: Your bag or your boots?
Mr. MP: [nervous] Erm... boots
Busdriver: Well no point going back now mate.
Mr. MP: [panicked] Maybe I should get off and hitch back.
Busdriver: Where are the boots?
Mr. MP: Somewhere.
Busdriver: I should think so, but where exactly?
Mr. MP: In a room.
Busdriver: Look mate, if you tell me where, I can ring them.
Mr. MP: Maybe I should get off and hitch back.
Busdriver: Nah mate, we'll get them sent on.
Mr. MP: Maybe I should stay on the bus.
Busdriver: Yes mate.

I know EXACLTY what is going on here. Mr.Morose Psychopath was desperately trying to get back to the scene of his latest crime. Psychopaths always do. I watch CSI. Trust me. I know. For the rest of the trip, Mr.Morose Psychopath kept fidgeting and muttering to himself and I ended up pressed up as close to the window as was physically possible. Five minutes before we were sheduled to arrive, Mr.Morose Psychopath as good as gave me a heart attack by suddenly shouting: "I need a taxi!"

Busdriver: What for?
Mr. MP: [panicked] To get to the airport.
Busdriver:"When's your flight?"
Mr. MP: I need the airport.
Busdriver: Have you got a plane ticket?
Mr. MP: No. I need the airport.
Busdriver: No ticket?
Mr. MP: No.
Busdriver: When's your flight?
Mr. MP: [hesitates] 9.30?
Busdriver: Whereto?
Mr. MP: Erm... I don't know.
Busdriver: You don't know?
Mr. MP: [stutters] Nelson

GREAT! Now he's trying to flee the country!!! That should somehow make me feel safer, but it doesn't. The busdriver agreed the guy had acted rather strangely and rang in his description to the local office, just in case.

Busdriving. Hours of fun! And should any of you ever find yourselves bored on a bus and not pre-occupied with a neighbouring psychopath, try to get a front row seat on the bus and every now and then, turn around WHILE yawning. By the time you face forward again, you'll be able to see everyone follow suit in the rearview mirror. Sod's sake, the stuff boredom can make you find entertaining...

Stencils

Does everyone everywhere reach a point where things just start looking the same?!? I'm only 17 days into my Big Trek and with each town I pass, that thought grows. It all does looks the same. On a grand scale at least. Don't get me wrong. I could never tire of the New Zealand outdoors. But when it comes down to the more urban areas, well, once you've seen one, you've kind of seen them all. Since I don't like doing the touristy routes, I generally pick a few sites I feel I ought to have seen and then wander around places haphazardly to get a feel for them. But wandering without a purpose at some point loses its penache. I've never truly believed that there is a purpose or meaning to life, but I'd say I'm fairly certain now that people created purpose simply to get through their days.


I started getting bored of the wandering. Just like one can get bored with having the same conversations over and over. You know... that standard routine we all go through when we first meet a person? Anyway... I sat myself down and decided that if I want to get the most out of this, I need to give purpose to my wandering and conversations. And then I thought about stencils. The type you see on walls, alleyways and fences in all urban areas. They've always fascinated me and when you start paying attention, you get sucked in.

I've decided to start fisheyeing stencils wherever I go. Not only does it give purpose to my wandering, it also gives direction, since you often need to get off the beaten track to find them. And you can't keep your eyes confined to streetlevel. I found this little gem (above) on a factory roofwall. Although I've only been at it for three days, I'm totally hooked. I've decided to include graffity too as it contrasts the soberness and finesse of the stencils. Purpose to the wanderlust taken care of, I'm now trial-running a little project for the conversation part of travelling. If it goes well, I shall undoubtedly blog about it before too long.

I'm off to the Franz Joseph Glacier tomorrow for a few days of glacier climbing and will most likely not have internet access till I'm back in Christchurch on Saturday. I will be in the hands of expert guides, so don't despair. I shall return at the weekend.

PS: Camille, "grand merci" for mailing me that mp3. And yes, I would welcome more of those on a weekly basis. Good thinking Batman!

Paradise Ducks

Despite being struck down with a 2-day fever, I managed to drag myself away from the hostel sofa to go to the Otago Peninsula for a round of wildlife spotting. I managed to get up close to a few very lazy furseals and a set of yellow-eyed penguins. I'll simply leave you with a few pictures of said seal and Tim, the special needs penguin. I was told Tim is the only penguin who tries to get out to sea every night, while all the other penguins of his flock generally make their way home from a day of fishing around that same time. Tim is generally seen waddling around in the water making clumsy attempts at swimming off at twilight. Tim generally fails. He's yet to reach his second birthday, which makes this story a sad one rather than a humorous one. Only 14 percent of yellow-eyed penguins reach their second birthday. This particular type of penguin doesn't teach their young how to swim or feed, so they are left to figure it all out for themselves. And Tim here appears to be having a very hard time.

Fact of the Day:

Paradise Ducks mate for life. You always see them in pairs. When the female dies, the male just sits around and stops feeding itself so it dies too. When the male dies, the female gets up and goes out to find herself another partner. Which was the stronger sex again??

You know you're in an exciting place when...

... the Civil Defense warning in the Yellow Pages reads:

*contented sigh*

How to survive a transport day when feeling miserable...

Once your alarm has succeeded in needlessly waking your entire dormroom along with you, mumble a lame appology before slipping out of your warm bed and into the freezing cold. Stuff all your scattered belongings into your already misshapen backpack. Skip the shower. You fell asleep with your clothes still on, so it'd be downright superfluous to change out of them at this ungodly hour. Fumble your way to the reception desk, hand in your key and demand your deposit back. On second thought, kindly request your deposit back. Demands rarely seem to have an effect on clerks on nightshift.

Make your way to the busdepot. Backpack hoisted on your back, small carry-on bag strapped to your front, grocery bag in each free hand. Take it in your stride and don't ponder the "why's" when the local hobo decides to high-five you now while he scolded you last night upon your leaving the club. Surrender your breakfast sandwich to him when he approaches too closely. And when the tight-arsed busdriver finally decides to open the door when the clock strikes departure-time, make your way to a front-corner seat and zonk out.

Always side with your fellow travellers when they decide to stage a mutiny following the driver's failure to launch the heating system, even if your feet have capitulated to the early stages of frostbite and the -2 celcius on the indoor thermometer warns you it'd be unwise to surface from underneath your 7 sweaters and sleeping bag. And when two more busdrivers board the vehicle in an attempt to figure out the heating system, fight the urge to smirk. Even when all three of them hold their hands in front of what clearly is a speakerbox (the silver BOSE tag being a big hint) and declare that "sawrry, thire's no heat coming out of ut". Just settle back into your little nest and let the token angry french woman deal with it.

When the bus reaches its final destination and you're tossed out on the cold tarmac in the middle of nowhere, ask directions from not one but three individuals for accurate triangulation of your future bed. Once found, head straight to the reception desk and fall arse over tit when trying to unload your 4-bag burden. Squeak a feable appology and ask for a "bid & shower please". You'll know you've survived your day of transport and have reached a safe transit home when the landlady comes in to check on you while you're napping, shuts the curtains for you and "shush"-es the other backpackers in your vincinity to grant you a few hours hard-earned kip.

- mundaneness of travellife -
(laundromat sessions, ready-steady-cook style meals,
getting confused in the 200-variety bread section at the supermarket,
making a mess of my own little private nest, luxury hostel lounge)

Eel Testicles

Well that's almost it as far as Queenstown is concerned. Tomorrow I'm due to catch a bus headed for Dunedin and the Otago Peninsula. Time to say goodbye to my Queenstown Single Serving Friends. After posting this, I will have to get ready for the planned night out. Not that that will take me long, considering I'm living out of a backpack. Still, a girl can nonetheless attempt an effort with a non-creased T-shirt and fresh undie ;-)

Also... I was approached by a local today trying to convince me to take a river safari with his company. He garantueed me that no one had died on his trips for three years. The fact that he didn't crack a smile after this comment made me panic slightly, so I turned to a few others to verify his account. He wasn't lying. Three years ago someone died. But no one since. Guess that's allright then. *spooked expression on face*. I think I might just give it a miss just now *edges away quietly*.

Fact of the Day:
- Freud specialised in eel testicles as a biologist before finding his true calling. I thought that was worth a mention. There's hope for everyone out there stuck in a slightly deviant profession after all ;-)

PS: Jo chickie, a very happy 25th birthday for you tomorrow!!! Ye old git ;-)

Crispy Soft Center

- Arrowtown hidden under partial cloud cover -

- as seen from Coronet Peak -

It wasn't one of my cleverest ideas to go out on the piss the night before an arranged 8 a.m. pick up to go skiing. But when a bunch of cheeky Tazzie Boys try to lure you into a drink round the pub, it's very hard to say no. It's the accent is what it is. It makes my knees buckle.

Suffolk Boy was responsible for the drunkest quote of the evening by stating that while the Brits may have lost their empire, they will have it back before too long as Brits are surreptitiously buying back land in the form of holiday homes abroad, everywhere. According to Suffolk Boy, it's really just a matter of time.

Today's skiing was probably the best ski day I've had in ages, but not for obvious reasons. I was on my way to one of the slopes from my guidebook, when a bunch of Kiwi's halted me and said: "You're not seriously going to follow all the Pommies onto those crap tourist slopes are you?? We'll show you where it's really at". I found out the hard way that when a Kiwi describes a slope as being "crisp" on the top and "soft" at the bottom, in sane-speak it really translates to: huge sheets of ice up top and muddy sludge at the bottom. By all accounts, the slopes were in the worst state imaginable. But quite paradoxically, I managed to get over my phobia of ice and skied like someone who's been skiing since she was 4-years old is supposed to ski. Nothing could throw me today and it was such a buzz. I am growing more confident on all grounds it seems, now that I'm forced to take charge of everything myself. When you stop desperately trying to control things and just try to ride it as it comes, you actually end up gaining more control. As paradoxical as that may seem.

Anyway. I'm about to retreat to my room for the night. Got an early ski day again tomorrow and a few of the boys are watching Family Guy in our room. Since watching all Ryan's DVDs three years ago, I've not kept up with the show. But as far as being knackered goes, crashing out alongside them in my sleeping bag doesn't sound like too bad an idea.

Reason for Reason

I need to jot stuff down electronically this evening. The pen&paper method simply isn't keeping pace with the lightning speed of a brain in thinking mode. It's important I solidify this stuff in some way though. Ephemeral thoughts end up just that. A vanishing concept whose lingering remnants prompt your memory at inappropriate times and ever fail to reconstruct the true essence of their original form. I may have to start a private blog just for the purpose of speedy thought-solidification, as I suspect too many stream-of-conciouss-like posts might alienate the readers. But for tonight it will have to do. And you will just have to bear with me. Or simply skip this post. This is after all, a wonderfully free world.

I've had an "off" day. In the sense that I didn't have any specific activities planned. My next few days will be teaming with outdoorsiness. And for some reason I feel it neccessary to state the latter, as if I am somehow not entitled to just bum off on this Big Trek. It seems guilt guides more of my thinking and actions than I was willing to admit. In a sense the blog too was a drive for this guilt. For starting a blog inevitably ties you in with some virtual duty to report. I say "virtual" for the pressure exists only in the blogger's mind. And while I am aware of this given, I find myself going through life pondering the blog-ability of the way I choose to spend my time. The blog in a sense tallies up the scores of how one's achieved in the context of "making the most of things", "going the extra mile" and "how on top of things your critical self is". But when you really take a moment to ponder all of this, it brings you to one basic question: To what avail is all this guilt?

I seem to have this mindset that, being endowed with the ability to think beyond the instinctual line of thought, I have a responsibility to use it to the max. Being endowed with the freedom of choice in a very accomodating life, I have the responsibility not to achieve less than the ultimate achievable. And since I am naturally fallible and have a limited amount of energy to expend, I cannot possibly live up to the high benchmark. So I feel guilty for "slacking". Guilty for a day passed without excellence. Guilty for not linking arms with every opportunity that knocks.

Today I had NOTHING planned. I sat down with a coffee on the sofa of a tiny cafe and read my book for three hours. Every hour I looked at my watch thinking: "I should really get going". Despite the fact that I have nowhere to go to or nothing to do, I felt guilty. While I sneakishly enjoyed the three hours, I felt guilty about them. It's absurd to the extreme and I figure I urgently have to start re-aligning my thinking.

If you follow the existentialist thought (which I do), then the responsibility of the individual stands without question. Each of us has a responsibility for everything we do, for how we live and for how we spend our time. But "having responsibility" implies nothing more than "doing things conciously". To ensure that whichever action you take, you take full responsibility for that action. That you think things through and weigh your options off against each other. "Responsibility" however, implies nothing about a standard to which to weigh off your actions and thoughts against. So if today I decide to stare into space for 4 hours, then that is acceptable as long as I take responsibility for that choice and as long as I chose it conciously. There is no external "ultimate standard" my choices have to live up to.

I haven't quite got that part down yet. I still subconciously seem to feel that I need to reach the "ultimate" to everyone's standards. And that makes me bound to lead to a life of impasse, guilt and an unneccessarily negative drive. For nothing will ever be good enough. Everything will forever be restless and fluid. The grass will always be greener on the other side. Everything doused with guilt of things not done or not done to standard. We all know the quote: "I've never regretted something I did do, but always something I didn't do". How about barring that quote? Because really, why, at the end of our lifetime, does it have to come down to a weighing off of things we did or did not do? Why do we have to reach a target mark of achievements, which, falling short of, would invalidate the life we have? Why can't we simply start from zero and build up and however high we get, be happy with the fact that we've had a chance to move beyond zero. Merely that.

And if tomorrow I chose to sit out near the lake for a whole day, listening to my music, I should simply look upon that as: I was being part of life and things around me. And that the fact that I enjoyed that very simple passtime, is all the essence and validation that moment needed.

Addendum: Po-ta-toes

I can't help myself... but on the way to Milford Sound, I passed by the location where they shot the famous LOTR scene with Gollum and Samwise arguing over how best to consume the freshly caught hare (a.k.a raw vs. stew). It made me giggle all over again ;)

Milford Sound

Went down to Milford Sound yesterday (Fjordland) as the snow here has turned into a mere sludge and I couldn't be bothered spending NZ$ 150 on treading it. But the trip away was well worth it. While Milford Sound can technically be called Fjordland, it is nothing like its Scandinavian counterpart. For starters, it's beset with temperate rainforest. And it is far less jagged and edgy. It is also simply the most stunning scenery I've come across. It rains 200 days a year out here and the views are typically that of a lush-green, ghostly fogged-in paradise. My camera seriously underpeformed so I have decided not to post any pictures beyond the few basic ones, as it would simply undersell the place.

I've had my first encounter with wild seals and even came across a stray Kiwi (the bird) which, so I've been told, is a rare occurrence. In a nearby nature reserve, I also managed to get up close to a captive Takahe (see right) of which there are only 200 left. Because of the lack of land predators, birds here have been able to "evolve" into land-dwelling creatures that are often flightless. It makes them rather plump but I couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of this odd specimen.

Below is a picture of myself with my Single Serving Friend (SSF) of the Day in the Milford Sound. Should the thought "Corr, she looks well rough" cross your mind, ponder this: Thirty seconds after this picture was taken, we hit the Tasman Sea in windconditions of 150km/h and I threw up overboard. Environmentalists among you needn't worry. The contents spilt were apple and SSF's cookie, both of which I should hope were fully biodegradable ;)
Time for coffee.

-Pew with Single Serving Friend in Milford Sound-

Single Serving Friends

I'm slowely getting back into the swing of Single Serving Friend life. While it's not a new thing to me, it seems to be taking new dimensions this time around.

I've always considered myself an "open book". There are few things I would be inclined to keep inside, whether that be emotionally or ideologically. And as some of you may have experienced, that can lead to some unneccesarily intense and perhaps even awkward moments (for the other party, not for me). But I rather enjoy living my life that way.

Now, the strange thing is that all the Single Serving Friends I have consumed so far are exactly the same. They all seem to be game for in-depth, inimately personal conversation with just any stranger. And I'm pretty certain it has nothing to do with the anonimity of travelling life. They genuinely are like that. They are all about mid-to-late twenties and not as much in search of something, but rather, simply wanting to be part of all they can be part of. And doing so in as intense a way as possible. If they can put themselves and their own lives into perspective through contacts with strangers, they seize the opportunity with both hands. They seem very self-aware, which instantly reels me in. None of the floaty hippy stuff. Just plain grounded and ready to expose their weaker sides if it benefits themselves or others. It's great.

What's even nicer is that while I'm certain I could never feel at home in the Asian-Traveller's Party Life, here it's very much the opposite. By 7 a.m. everyone is out the house and ready to kick-start their day. And while there's the odd pub- and clubnight, often it's a communal wind-down and bed by 11. Just last night, my roommates and I decided to watch a movie together, but we never saw the end of it, for about half-way in, all of us had crashed out.

For once, the Single Serving Friend phenomenon appears to have upsides. And thank Sod for that.

Island Mentality

I really need to re-adopt the pen&paper method of writing. My blog's somewhat become my journal over the past few years and any time I want to jot down an observation, I find myself looking for an internet cafe. But at NZ$3 an hour, that would tally up to a rather expensive travel journal. Bring on the writing cramps...

The ski-slopes here in Queenstown have been shut for two days straight now due to gale-force winds and high avalanche risk up in the mountains. People in town are becoming a bit restless over it, but it means good business for all the other activity centres here. I've decided to book myself a guided trip to Milford Sound (Fjordland) tomorrow and an 8-hour hike in what Lord of The Ring (LOTR) fans will know as "Rohan" on Wednesday. That should kill some time and save me from breaking a leg till the slopes re-open ;-)

- Queenstown, view from the harbour -

Queenstown seems very much like the "IT" place to be around here, with an average inhabitant age of around 25-years old. Half the people in town are either European or Asian. The funny thing is that the island mentality seems to get to the Europeans rather quickly, and the internet cafes are littered with Germans, French, Spanish and Brits all checking the news websites, rather than their e-mails. National newspapers or TV bulletins here generally only assign a mere page or a meager few minutes to international reporting. The international headlines that do make the news tend to cover the British Royal family's antics, such as the latest Prince Harry debacles or which wine the Queen deemed fit for consumption at dinner.

It seems us Europeans are a tad needy for global affairs info and we tend to go into withdrawal mode once too long removed from current affairs access. While a certain ignorant bliss comes along with the local way, it does wear off quickly. The general complaint of European backpackers here is then that the natural beauty would in the long run fail to outweigh the isolation and "lack" of cultural heritage. I always wonder exactly what people were expecting to find coming out here. It's an island, miles removed from anywhere, with a history barely a few hundred years old. So New Zealand is bound to be few things more than untouched natural beauty and wonderfully uncomplicated inhabitants. Five days into my trip, I personally am still simply awed by the stunning views.

- Queenstown, view from my dorm window -

On another note, my roommate Suffolk Boy crashed into the dormroom yesterday hurtling himself at the toilet to throw up. He emerged a few minutes later looking gaunt and ensuring that he wasn't drunk, but had merely received bad news from the home front. Turns out his ex of two years has in his absence decided to start sleeping with his best friend. Which makes me wonder about the "best" friend and the deadbeat who deemed it wise to inform him of such a thing while he's suposed to be enjoying himself on his Big Trek. People are so oblivious to the potential consequences of their actions. It seems all that matters to some people is the spreading of gossip and the temporary buzz of drama.

Right, I would now like to introduce a new item: "Facts of the day", which is to replace the "Fisheye of the day" and the "Mp3-repeat of the day" for the duration of my Big Trek. So before I head out for my first fix of caffeine for the day... here are the very first

Facts of the Day:

(1) "Whakatane" (a small town on the North Island) is properly pronounced in Maori as "Fack-a-Townie"
(2) "Trundle" is a shopping trolley and not, as I thought, a "tart" or a "slag" (embarassingly blonde moment there, I can assure you)
(3) "Heinz Ketchup" is known as "Watties Ketchup" and has the added ingredient of Clove (kruidnagel), which is erm... an interesting taste. Allright no... it's downright foul.

(4) The first two items to be thrown out of the backpack and into the bin are:
(A) my hairdryer, which decided to die on me this morning and I have come to the conclusion that my hair is as uselessly uncoordinated without it as it is with it, so I shall not replace it and
(B)my trainers, which have been banned to the bathroom by my fellow roommates an account of them being too "odour-full". In my defense, I HAVE worn them EVERY day for three years and they have holes in the bottom which suck up water on a daily basis, so ANY clean, nice-smelling individual would stink them up. I am now in pursuit of skate-shops to replace them.

Carpenters

I spent 8 hours on a bus from Christchurch to Queenstown today. I can honestly say it's been one of the most memorable scenic drives I've done in my life so far. Absolutely stunning. We drove through MacKenzie Country, which will please Dr.Jim. All I can say Dr.Jim, is that your clan sure knew how to pick their battles, because they got their hands on a mighty fine bit of land here... good genes *grin*

The ride was memorable for another reason: Busdriver Bob. A big burly softie, with the neatest walrus-moustache I've ever seen, and a tatoo of... a turtle. That's right, Bob's a right bad-ass like that. Bob switched off the radio about half an hour into the drive and put on his "Best of The Carpenters" CD. On repeat. For a whole 7.5 hours. Yip. And Bob belted along to "Top of the World" each time it came on. When Bob noticed I was getting queasy because of the hairspell turns in the mountains, Bob suggested I sing along with him. Because it always makes him feel better. Bless Bob. I think I'm going to feel right at home here in Queenstown ;-)

- MacKenzie Country, seen from the bus -

PS: A very happy birthday to Lynne !!! Have a fab time up in Scotland! :-)

Jetlag

I'm seriously jetlagged. I fell asleep at 5pm yesterday only to wake up at 3am feeling ridiculously hungry. After that, I couldn't fall back to sleep. It annoys me and I'll tell you why...

There's a type of Clam in the North Sea that opens and shuts its shell in synchronicity with the tides of the sea. Some researchers decided to play bully, shipped off a box of those clams to New Zealand and asked the receiving lab to simply keep them stored in the box and register how they did. It turns out that within a mere 4 hours, the clams had tuned into the rythm of the Tasman Sea tides and started opening & shutting accordingly.



Now this story annoys me because a clam... A CLAM... can tune its biorythm into its new location in a mere few hours. I on the other hand, with all my suposedly highly developed neuronal connections, am still raiding the fridge at 3am and staring at the ceiling till 9am THREE DAYS after arrival. Seriously. Something's slightly off here don't you think? *growl*

Anyway... I leave you with a wee piccie of a street in Christchurch. The town is suposed to be the most "English" town in the country, but to me it looks more Scandivian Methodist. At any rate, it's a style I really like, what with the wooden clapboard walls and the bright colours. And a Volkswagen up front. This could be me actually.