Radio stations are pretty elusive in the wilds of New Zealand. Just as the road exits another one-horse township and the morose sports commentator
admits that The Black Boat breaking up and nearly sinking within 10 minutes of the opening America's Cup race is perhaps, after all, a bad sign, then the signal dies and you're left with the haunting sound of 40 million
sheep bleating in the wind. The other option was to buy the specially priced double cassette of Kitten, the nation's much loved and unique yodelling sensation, but her grinning countenance and the twin-set and pearls
was just enough to suggest it was 14 dollars too much to spend. Music or no music, the narrow, winding forest lanes, steaming in the sun after sudden bursts of frigid rain, were a welcome change from the endlessly
straight dust-tracks of Oz. On landing in Auckland I asked a nice old gentleman at the Information Desk how I could get into the city centre. "Sorry Sir, but it will have to be a taxi. Public transport
here is like travelling back in time". Hmmm. I hadn't really expected to walk out into the street and see people in tank-tops and Keegan perms driving MK1 Capris or little brown Datsun's. But it was reassuring to
note that Cliff Richard was currently touring (although apparently his post-Shadows stuff was considered a little too avant garde for these audiences).
In Rotorua, the north island's heartland of Maoritanga, hot mud
pops and burps, steam shoots out of people's gardens and former star of Shortland Street Temuera Morrison acts as your guide on a cinematic journey to the heart of the earth (Papatuanuhu), complete with moving seats
that jolt as the on-screen papier-mâché volcano erupts. In some places the ground is so unstable that visitor walkways periodically get blown away and replaced by craters, while another group of boil-in-the-bag tourists
are stretchered away.
From the eggy hinterland of the North Island the road shoots south to windy Wellington (currently home to the One Ring) where an old French ferry, not considered swanky enough for the
Mediterranean, has been pressed into carrying cars and campervans between the two lamb-chop shaped islands. The elegant brass 'Toilettes' plaque is now accompanied by a hand-written paper 'Toilets' sign, lest there
should be any misunderstanding.
The south of the North, and the north of the South is wine country. Which meant many an evening washing down 'fush and chups' with a crisp white (described like many things are here, as
'world famous in New Zealand') and being breathalised by the laid-back cops who sit (oh so sneakily) on the roads leading out of the vineyards.
The East coast of the South Island is dry (the west on the other hand is
the second wettest place in the world, after Manchester). Dusty, windswept fields, stubbly and spotted with skinny defrocked sheep, cover virtually the entire landscape from surf to sky. The seaboard is craggy and
dramatic and a haven for marine life. Dusky dolphins leap and frolic in the inlets, Sperm whales and Orca cruise the horizon, and fools in rubber dive into the cold currents and get tangled up in seaweed.
Passing
through Christchurch which, trapped in a bowl, experiences 50 days a year of worse air pollution than London, the coast winds down to the southern extremities. The 'r's start to roll with a Scottish burr and the cold,
southern ocean overpowers the warmer climes of the sub-tropical north. The sober, little Dunedin marks the start of a winding road that curls through some of the most varied and intensely beautiful lands I've seen. From
the wild Catlins coast where blue and yellow penguins scamper across petrified tree-trunks embedded in the sand and black rivers snake through salty groves of giant upturned broccoli, to the huge hulking darkness of
fiordland, shadowy ridges capped by cloud and split by deep, mirrored waters.
At this point Chris I feel I should confess that I have despoiled your nation. Whilst cruising the pristine water of Milford Sound, the
wind got hold of the wrapper from my packet of Choc Tammies (the no-frills version of the ubiquitous Australian Tim Tams) and swept it into the murky depths, where it will no doubt cause a knock-on trail of devastation
leading to a complete collapse of the regional eco-system. I am truly sorry. I also ran over a bird.
Sightseeing by air is furiously popular here, to the extent that many farms have fashioned makeshift runways amongst
their grazing herds and entering any of the rapidly growing townships near the 'must see' attractions (Milford Sound included) is like arriving in a war-zone, a constant parade of helicopters and small planes lifting
off, the Ride of the Valkyries booming from the PA (well, it would have been nice). Most people stay in the planes while gawping at the glaciers and Misty Mountains, but some choose to throw themselves out. At a price.
I can't quite decide whether the insatiable appetite for extreme sports is the flip-side of an otherwise overly balanced lifestyle (akin to the nice man next door's predilection for picking people off from the
clock-tower), or simply a neat way of fiscally milking the bus loads of hormonally-advantaged backpackers that queue up to be pushed off bridges.
Whatever the reason, there seems to be an undercurrent of fatalism here
that eats away at your sub-conscious until you succumb. Despite starting with the intention of doing absolutely nothing off the ground, I ended up doing a tandem skydive from 12,000 feet. My instructor happened to be a
former client of Coutts. That was before he decided that his city lifestyle had lined his nest to an indecent extent and now wanted to play a celestial game of dice with his maker. Fortunately it was also before my time
with the bank, so he had no excuse to pull the wrong release on account of any perceived bad customer service. Apart from a strong feeling that you've forgotten something vitally important when you exit the plane, it is
an awesome experience. The first 15 seconds are just a blur as the human brain can't rationally accept that it's allowed the muscles to overrule it's final memo clearly stating that under no circumstances should flight
be attempted without first investing in a project to develop wings. After that it's all a white noise, glinting lakes, crazy rabbit in the headlights feeling of impending doom or spectacular salvation. Certainly cleared
the cobwebs out.
In the interests of saving money (having lightened my wallet somewhat by jumping out of a plane, not to mention 10 months of general larking about) and making some sort of attempt at being outdoor,
many nights were spent in a tent in one of the many, excellent motor camps. Despite resembling those in the UK - a motley collection of mildewed caravans propped up on breeze blocks, geraniums wilting in old paint cans
- they lack any kind of pikey menace. Despite the ramshackle garage containing the standard-issue gleaming Pontiac or Dodge that plays Dixieland on the horn, the people are so warm and friendly they are more likely to
invite you in for a cup of tea and biscuits and a chat about sailing rather than rearrange your teeth, set 'Tyson' onto you or nick your car stereo. Same goes for just about everyone I've met here. Nice to the bone.
Time to go home now. Bye
