Invercargill/Fiordland Pt. II: Extreme Tea

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Spoiler alert: I jumped.

Our first impression of Fiordland, from the confines of our bus, was a sudden loss of wifi and mobile reception, which I hope ended up being a blessing for most of the people on board. I’m the kind of person who likes to stare aimlessly out of the window, but it seems that even in midst of the most lavishly grand scenery, surrounded by 1000ft waterfalls, glacier-topped mountains and mist-filled valleys, some people are just not that interested. I’m not one of those people who believes we’re all collectively turning into phone-obsessed morons who can’t cope without checking Facebook every five minutes; that’s a sentiment I find arrogant and self-righteous, and people can do what they want whenever they want. I just find it kind of confusing when you’ve paid over the odds to go on a tour of one of the most beautiful corners of the Earth, and you don’t feel like even looking out the window. Even more baffling are those who decide that the moment of entry to the Park was a good time to get some long-awaited sleep. Seriously. Why sleep through that?

All corners of Fiordland – particularly the Darran Mountains – are remarkably intimidating. This is not your typical Alpine landscape with wide rolling valleys and green, sloped foothills; this is difficult, uninvitingly angular terrain where giant granite cliff faces and piles of jagged rocks separate the peaks. We toured for a while, stopping by at various viewpoints including the remarkably bleak Eglinton Valley, but once we had climbed far enough into the park for the weather to have worsened considerably, we took a break at the entrance to the Homer Tunnel.

The Homer Tunnel is the most vivid time-capsule souvenir of the infamous early days of discovery in New Zealand. Once the dramatic vistas of the Milford Sound were discovered in the mid-late 1800s, it was decided that the world needed to be granted access to this naturally enclosed fjord at pretty much any cost. So, in very surprisingly preachy terms, we were told by our driver that the construction of this tunnel – which cuts through the Homer Saddle – took 19 years and cost the lives of numerous workers. As a result, after entering the tunnel and slowly descending into weird, claustrophobic darkness, our driver said something along the lines of ‘As we exit the tunnel, be sure to take in the surroundings. People died for this view’, then timed a piece of post-rock music to suddenly explode into a crescendo over the speakers just as the previously inaccessible mountains appeared. In all honesty it was kind of a cool – if a little overbearing – moment, but I am hesitant to praise the driver too much due to his conduct later on the trip, which I’ll come to later.

We began heading down into the Sound past more insanely steep and seemingly infinitely tall rock faces, until we reached the boat. We set sail in cloudy and blustery conditions, at which point I decided to take advantage of the unlimited free tea on board, and attempted to drink it on the top deck in gale-force winds. As my hood slapped against my face and most of my beverage went flying out of the mug into the deepest depths of the Sound, I realised I had discovered my favourite new sport; Extreme Tea. Attempting to pour, brew and subsequently drink tea in a natural wind tunnel as vicious as Milford Sound felt like a fairly comprehensive test of my Englishness, and I embraced the challenge with gusto, stoically defying wind speeds that would make Neptune seem calm. I quickly switched to beer.

After touring the Sound, which is surprisingly short in length if not height, and being joined by some dolphins for part of the journey (and stopping directly under a waterfall while I was stood on the front deck), we got back on the bus and headed back toward Queenstown. However, the trip had one more little surprise in store; the driver. As we approached a restaurant in Te Anau, a small village near Fiordland, the driver passed around a form that allowed us to pre-order burgers for our arrival. Typical tourbus maneuvre. By the time the form got back to the driver, it had four signatures on it, which he clearly did not bother cross-checking, as by the time we arrived at the restaurant, only three people went in for a burger. The driver got back on the bus and said ‘Right, before we go, I’ve just noticed that we’ve got a joker on board. There’s a signature here for a Ben. But there’s no Ben on board is there?’. To be fair there actually was a guy called Ben on board who I’d met while dolphin swimming the previous day. I almost called him out on it when he said ‘Yeah, Ben Dover? Very funny. You guys think it’s funny to waste people’s resources? There’s a burger in there with nobody to take it. You know what? I was going to put a movie on, but that person has ruined it for everyone. We can just sit here in silence.’ Now it may seem obvious, but two things struck me as odd about this moment.

The first is that he kept repeating the terms and conditions of his punishment. ‘Yeah it’s a shame we can’t watch the film but I guess that’s what happens when one person ruins it for everyone else. I just don’t feel like putting the movie on now. I’ll just take you back to Queenstown and you can entertain yourselves. You can figure out amongst yourselves who ruined it for everyone else. Yes, we get it you f*cking lunatic, you’re not putting the goddamn film on. Stop telling us to engage in a witchhunt because you can’t handle the emotional baggage that comes with a wasted burger.

The second is what the hell do you think you’re doing? You are an adult, right? And you know who else is? Everyone else on your busIt shouldn’t need explaining to you that you are not our father scolding us for making a scene, nor are you a substitute teacher on a school trip that’s getting out of hand. We’re all adults, some of whom are actually older than you, and none of whom know each other. Why on Earth should I take responsibility for some random cretin making a lame joke? And more to the point, we’re all adults who have paid your company a shit-ton of money for you to shut your goddamn mouth, get back up to the front of the bus and do your job, which is to drive us into a national park, and to drive us out again. It is quite definitively not your job to punish your own paying customers for some shit they didn’t do. I will not be spoken to like I am a child. I care about conserving the beauty of Milford Sound. I care about futhering the economy of small towns in the area so that they can continue to prosper. I care about the poor and the sick and the disabled. You know what I don’t give a shit about? A burger. One solitary burger. If it pains you so much, why didn’t you take the hit and pay for it? Why didn’t you chuck $10 of your money down from your moral high ground? What was really agonising though was that once we approached Queenstown, he suddenly went back to jokey, friendly mode over the tannoy. No dice, friend; you’re waaaaaay past the event horizon at this stage. No amount of casual chat is gonna erase you patronising us to within an inch of our sanity. Needless to say, I will be writing to Kiwi Experience about this matter. After all, I am English.

Skip forward a day and I found myself sat around in Queenstown with not much to do. Realising I had another three days here in The Adrenaline Capital of the World, I decided to hike up to the top of a mountain. Then I hiked back down again. I mean that was fun but not exactly thrilling. So I returned to my hotel room, stalled for a bit, and then impulsively booked a bungee jump.

This is not something I had ever envisaged myself doing. Not because of nerves or fear; it’s just not something I had ever had any interest in doing. What was the point of throwing yourself off a bridge attached to a rope? Yet, for some reason, impulse – and constantly being surrounded by bungee jumping adverts – convinced me I should do it. So I went to sleep dreading the next day. I awoke the next day, made some terrible breakfast, and thought – incredibly irrationally, I know – ‘if I’m going out today, I’m going out wearing the claret and blue’, put my 1963 replica West Ham home kit on, and headed out the door. The bus ride was annoyingly short; I felt like I hadn’t had enough time to gather my thoughts before passing a mountain to reveal an enormous ravine with a bridge spanning it. Oh shit.

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The worst moment ever.

I attempted to make it all as un-agonising as possible. I rushed in, got weighed, got my ticket, went to the bathroom (obviously), and headed out to the bridge. Sitting on the edge, my unnervingly-loose-feeling harness around my waist, I have never felt my heart pound so incredibly violently. They asked me to move down to the next platform, at which point they tied my feet together and surrounded in with a strange towel for padding. Then they hooked two carabiners to it and… that was it. Holy shit, you’re telling me I’m about to throw myself off a bridge to a river way below us connected only by a knot that you tied with your hands? My hands are actually sweating again as I type this out, and I’m in a coffee shop the following day. They lifted me up and held onto the back of my waist harness (which was attached to the rope too), but didn’t feel all that tight. They told me to shuffle to the very edge, so I did. They told me I needed to go closer. So I did. They were, however, insistent that my toes hung off the edge. Shuffling forward, feet tied together, and staring down off a 150ft drop into a ravine is a moment I will never ever forget. I’m not one of those people who ‘can’t look down’; I decided to embrace the moment, give a ‘what the hell am I doing?’ shrug to the camerawoman, took a deep breath and waited for the countdown.

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Grace and beauty

The nonchalance with which the bungee guys execute the countdown is really quite unpleasant. You’d think it’d make it seem all very routine and ‘well, here we go!’ about it, but you just want there to be a bit more ceremony. A fanfare or a flamethrower or something. Instead the guy just goes ‘right, hands off the railing – 3, 2, 1, bungee!’. And you can’t back out. If you hesitate, first, you’ll look like a total loser, and second, they’ll ask if you need a push. I decided to be a man and that I would just go for it. Prior to jumping he told me that because of my weight and the fact that I wanted to touch the water at the bottom, I’d have to give it a good jump away from the platform, rather than just dropping off like a corpse in a Mafia film.

There was an odd moment of silence after the word ‘bungee!’, as I realised I was about to leave the safe confines of the instructor’s grip on my harness. I looked down for a fraction of a second, with literally every muscle, tendon, nerve and pore in my body doing its best to tell me that I would die violently if I jumped. But you just have to tell yourself that all those millions of years of evolutionary instinct are not naturally ‘aware’ of the existence of harnesses, or of bungee jumping in general. In a way, it’s the experience of dying without the death; it hit me as I was about to jump that it’s a strangely morbid activity. Why do we want to know what it feels like to jump to our deaths? But f*ck it, no time to think about that now – I leaned out over the canyon, started to topple forward, extended my legs, and I felt my feet leave the platform. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was the most terrifying moment of my life. I will never ever forget it.

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More falling

There isn’t really much to do from then on if you’ve never bungee jumped before. To someone who has never experienced the mercy of the elastic hauling you back up away from the river, it’s just falling – not bungee jumping. My original plan was to pose for the camera as I fell, but the focus required to convince yourself to put your faith in a piece of rope is so all-consuming that you just kind of flail around. I for instance, I don’t remember putting my arms in the air as I fell, but according to the photos that is what I did, and it made for a couple of pretty awesome shots. As I fell, I shouted some non-verbal nonsense, until the bottom, when I was suddenly whipped round to find myself about a foot away from the water, just agonisingly beyond my fingertips. Then, part two of the bungee, which I was not expecting to be quite so dramatic; the return journey.

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The bounce-back

At the apex of the rope’s elasticity, staring down at the river, you could feel every square inch of the veins and arteries in your head and eyes being inflated like a car tyre – it feels like you’re about to have a stroke, aneurysm and brain hemorrhage at the same time. Your body feels like it literally could not take any more pressure, and then ping! You’re sent careening back up towards the bridge at breakneck speed. I was really not expecting to be shot up quite so high, but you almost reach the bridge again, this time flailing around even more as you’re not sure which way is up and which way is down. It’s just a total blur as rock faces and your own feet go flying in and out of your field of vision, like looking through a zoetrope. I found myself almost upright at the top of the bounce, at which point I loudly proclaimed ‘F***********CKING HELLLLLLLLL’ to the platform of – I assume – amused and pitying onlookers. As my profanity echoed across the canyon, I plummeted back down for another quick dose of air pressure in my brain, and then the final part of the bungee begins; the really shit part. The last few bounces are absolutely infuriating, as a couple of guys on a dinghy in the river set sail and hold out what looks like a shower curtain railing for you to grab onto, you just helplessly hang there like a dead pig in a butcher as your vision starts to blur and you feel like you may actually pass out. After not being quite close enough for a couple of swings, I finally got one hand on the pole, and almost ripped it out of the guy’s grasp, so desperate was I to get down. They pulled me closer, my shirt having almost lifted up over my face and veins popping out of my head, at which point I said ‘a dignified entrance I’m sure’.

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My dignified touchdown

This is the moment that convinced me not to buy the video. After letting me down and me sprinting back up to the top, I met a couple of people who said ‘holy shit your eyes are so bloodshot’, and headed inside to watch my video. As the guys in the boat are getting you down, they tell you to do a sit up so that you land on your back rather than your head, and this reveals your ‘hanging upside-down face’ to the cameras at the top. It was horrific. I looked like a man who had either just survived a decompression accident on the ISS or someone who was having to spend longer in the bathroom than they would have anticipated. I decided to just get the photos, head back to Queenstown, have a beer, treat myself to a fantastic burger and fries from Devil Burger (which is superior in every way to the greatly-hyped Fergburger), and watch some Seinfeld in my hotel room. I then found that the adrenaline was an extremely slow burner, and hit me just as I tried to sleep. I couldn’t do it. So after a fitful night of half-sleep, I’m here, living to tell the tale of the dumbest, scariest thing I’ve ever done.

I am pretty tired though.

Gabe

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Invercargill/Fiordland Pt. I: The Speakeasy

Before I came to New Zealand I was wholeheartedly expecting to say it was amazing by the time I left. However, after a week of Auckland, Queenstown, Dunedin and Invercargill, I was worried I was getting a little short-changed. People who have spent time in New Zealand rave about it more than anywhere else I know. Even the most idiotic English people I’ve met (including a guy I bumped into in a hostel who didn’t know who Charles Dickens was, and then accused me of being ‘posh’ for using ‘such an obscure reference’) find that New Zealand’s dramatic scenery and awe-inspiring vistas can conjure up words they (almost certainly) were not aware of before their arrival.

However, I really had to wonder what about Dunedin’s student-borne sofa-burning rituals or Invercargill’s remarkably surreal atmosphere people had managed to become so emotionally enveloped in; sure the scenery of the coastline was fairly impressive, and observing the sheer number of sealions/dolphins/seals/[insert marine mammal here] felt like a fairly unique experience, but overall it felt like a slightly exaggerated England. The weather was slightly damper, the humour was slightly drier, the farmland was slightly more sheep-y, the rolling hills were slightly more rollingy-er. However, yesterday was the final day of the Deep South tour with KiwiExperience, and one word right now sums up just how wrong I was about New Zealand: Fiordland.

Before I get stuck into unequivocally praising Fiordland National Park while wiping tears of joy off my keyboard, I have to give a mention to two things that happened since my last blog post. The first; I swam with dolphins. Yep, in New Zealand. This wasn’t your luxurious azure-blue-bathwater Caribbean dolphin experience, no. This all started with our bus driver, an eccentric little old man, preaching to us about how we must go into the sea no matter the weather. As we approached the coast, some of us started getting psyched up, preparing ourselves for a pretty bracing experience. It wasn’t freezing outside, but it wasn’t exactly warm outside.

Then we arrived at the beach. Suddenly, everyone was a little more hesitant. As our van got battered by wind and rain, and the sea was throwing about some pretty harsh dark-grey waves. A few of us got out to survey the situation, which made the prospect seem even less inviting. Standing on a small hill in our waterproof clothing, overlooking rough seas, we then saw a tiny bit of movement – one little dolphin jumping out of the water for just a fraction of a second. I have no idea why we did this, but we all suddenly went ‘Let’s get in there’. It seemed an odd time to do it, just after seeing a dolphin. It’s like we thought the dolphins were just imaginary bullshit and had to see one before believing in them. But either way, we snuck into the broken showers to change, and emerged a couple of minutes later, walked down to the beach, and I was the first to go in. Holy shit it was cold.

Shortly after I was joined by the others, all of whom voiced their agreement with my analysis of the water temperature by using language that would even challenge post-watershed TV censors. After floating about for a bit and attempting to kid ourselves into believing we were adjusting to the temperature (then again I couldn’t even feel my legs by this point, so I guess that’s a form of adjustment), and taking a few fairly large sub-zero breaking waves to the face, we saw some dolphins, about 20 metres away, jumping out of the breaking waves, which was pretty cool. We attempted to make our way toward them, past some pretty sketchy rock formations under the water. They ended up coming fairly close, and they seem to love human attention, which is odd for a wild animal, but after a while I simply could not face that cold any more, so I headed up to the showers to discover two things. First, I had forgotten my towel. That’s cool – as long as the hot showers work, I’ll be fine. Second, the hot showers didn’t work. Or the cold one. I was just stuck in a metal shipping container masquerading as a shower, barely able to build up enough muscle strength to wring out my swimming costume, and feeling like I was about to freeze to death. I re-dressed while still covered in freezing saltwater, stopped by the cafe and grabbed an overpriced mochaccino and tiptoed back to the bus in bare feet, where those who hadn’t taken the plunge silently greeted me with a look that eloquently and efficiently mixed pity with ‘what the Christ did you expect?’

Heading south from here, we ended up on the highway, hitting some surprisingly and unnervingly high speeds, until it all came to an end in fairly interesting and shocking fashion. In the UK, you’ll often see kestrels or other birds of prey hovering way above motorways to wait for roadkill. You’ll often see them, about 100ft+ up, just waiting in place to suddenly swoop down. I don’t know if the birds of prey (usually hawks) of New Zealand were inadvertently the product of inbreeding, but their inability to realise they need to stay the hell away from the road is both painfully obvious and can also be, unfortunately, fairly dramatic, as was the case here. As we were bombing down the road at about 80mph, a hawk appeared from a tree, looking to swoop down and pick something up, but obviously got spooked by us. It had a good 5 seconds to get the hell out of the way, but instead just flapped about in a remarkably directionless manner. It looked like it might just about manage to clear us until bang; we nailed it face-first with the corner of the bus at full speed. It made the most almighty crashing sound, and the top corner of the windshield was splattered with the contents of the retarded bird’s head. I was the only person awake at the time (I mean I hope that’s excluding the driver), so everyone was suddenly jolted upright to a sight they probably weren’t dreaming about waking up to.

After our ill-judged foray into high-velocity vehicular avian neurosurgery, we arrived in Invercargill, and man alive what a magically perplexing town. No joke; Invercargill is the strangest place I’ve ever been, and I’ve been to Liechtenstein.

Invercargill. Invercargill Invercargill Invercargill. That name will forever besiege the most anomalistic of my dreams and line my the overcoat of my imagination. A city of such grandiose peculiarity that merely writing (or reading) about it cannot fully propel one into the atmospheric void that surrounds and permeates its oddly wide avenues. A small sign marked ‘Invercargill’ stands way out in the countryside as you approach the city by car. Assuming a village will soon appear, you are instead greeted by more farmland. And some more. And some more. And then suddenly; a bungalow appears. And another. And another. I guess because bungalows are dreadfully inefficient when it comes to population density and floorspace, the suburbs of Invercargill – which are literally hundreds of copy-pasted rows of bungalows – are surprisingly vast in terms of area, particularly for a town of only 50,000 inhabitants. Which also lends it an unfortunately bleak atmosphere.

We kept on going and wound up outside Tuatara Backpackers Hostel on a deserted little street. After waiting outside for a fire alarm to stop ringing, the smell of dolphin still in my nostrils, we finally made it inside and pretty much everyone from the bus went straight to sleep. I, however, decided to take travelling alone to the next level; I decided to hit the town alone. By that point I had been on the road for almost seven weeks and covered just short of 18,000 miles; there was no way in hell I wasn’t going to do at least a little exploring. And a little bit it turned out to be. After stumbling across a map, I discovered that the quiet little street that our hostel was on was actually the city’s main high street. Ok, so it’s pretty quiet but there must be something going on, right? It’s 10pm on a Saturday night. I amble along the road, past all the closed shops and bars, when something remarkable happens; I walk past another human being. Trust me, this is a novelty in Invercargill; it is the most freakishly silent city I have ever been in. There is no noise, save the occasional police car that is aimlessly patrolling the empty streets. Then suddenly a light at the end of the tunnel; a bank. I felt like combining my exploratory evening with a beer, so asked him for the nearest supermarket, which he told me was a twenty minute (!) walk north from the centre. Sure it’s a long way but I guess then I see more of the city.

I left the main drag and as soon as I did so, I realised there was an unnerving lack of streetlights. So, walking a long an avenue/highway hybrid out of the centre with no man-made or natural light source, and feeling a little like I was in Pyongyang, I wandered for what seemed like an eternity until finally arriving at a Countdown, one of the main supermarket chains in the country. Ok so there’s the processed cheese, there’s the UHT milk, there’s the honey (they seem to make a lot of honey in NZ), there’s the excessive amount of dog food, and there’s… no alcohol. I approached the guy at the front counter and said ‘For fear of sounding like a total idiot, where’s the alcohol?’. He responded with a laugh and told me that I was currently in an ‘Alcohol Restriction Zone’ in the Southland region of New Zealand, and that supermarkets and convenience stores cannot sell alcohol by law. Seriously, kill me now, man.

(N.B. I just did some research on this and it turns out that Southland Council introduced this law – dubbed the Sale and Supply of Alcohol Act – in 2012. TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE. Four years ago! I’m sorry, but both that law and how recent its enactment was is an absolute embarrassment and something Southland should be ashamed of. How naive can you be? Are they not familiar with prohibition? Wasn’t exactly a success story, was it?)

Weary from the walk and my swimming antics in the day, and just wanting one goddamn beer, I asked him where I can get one, fully expectant of a response resembling ‘Nowhere’. Instead, he told me there are ‘bottle shops’, but they’re all closed. But then suddenly, he remembered something. ‘Go back into town. All the way back the way you came.’ A great start. ‘Keep going until you get to Calvin Street, then turn right and you’ll see the Calvin Hotel. Go in there and ask’. What in the hell does that mean? At this point I was so far gone, and on such a strange little adventure that I decided I would find out, so I headed back out into the obsidian streets of Invercargill’s drab suburbs until I hit Kelvin Street. Goddamn Kiwi accent. With still not so much as one other human being in sight in all directions, I found the hotel in question and entered the unusually green interior of its lobby, where the only person was a little woman behind the desk. This did not feel like somewhere people come to facilitate the start of a night’s drinking. ‘At this point it feels like it might have been a practical joke, but I was told that I should come here if I wanted beer’. The woman’s eyes lit up; ’Ah yes! Come with me.’

She led me through the silent lobby, past the totally full rack of room keys, to a small frosted glass door. ‘Go through here, past the poker machines’. I stepped through the door into a tiny box of a room filled illuminated by the flashing of about 30 poker machines, all being used by tiny little old women, in some strange hidden room of a hotel at 11pm. What on Earth is this place. I walked past them to discover an even tinier box of a room with a bar in it, with one tap. I approached the bartender (I mean who else was I going to approach? The room was empty.) and asked if they had a menu. She handed me a menu with a full two items on; Hefeweizen and American Pale Ale. A choice of two is odd in itself, but those two? ‘I’ll take the Hefeweizen I guess’. Rather than getting my beer, she got her phone out, dialled a three-digit number, waited for a moment, then said ‘Hi yeah Bill? We need a Hefeweizen in here. Yeah. Yeah just the one.’

Without a goodbye or a thanks, she hung up and left us both stood there for about two minutes in a sort of strange state of stasis where time didn’t seem to exist. No words were spoken and no eye contact was made until a small little guy burst through the door and handed her a brown paper bag, then vanished before I could even acknowledge his dedication to the cause of late-night speakeasy beer delivery. She handed it to me, told me to have a good night, and in a delirious stupor I made my way back past the little old ladies and the receptionist, to whom all I could do was laugh and say ‘What the f*ck is going on?’. She unlocked the lobby door and I headed back out into the silence, until I found myself sat on a park bench watching an old man do some form of interpretive dance to the sound of his own rendition of a makeshift Rihanna medley. It suddenly hit me that, in retrospect, I probably should’ve just accepted the sweet embrace of sleep like everyone else with a brain.

The following morning we somehow made it back onto the bus at 8am, before stopping at the small village of Garston to switch to a giant coach with daytrippers from Queenstown who were also heading to Milford Sound. I have to admit, though the drive was long and the weather ended up being pretty terrible, Fiordland is one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.

And that’s where I’ll leave it for now. Unfortunately I am currently incredibly sleepy in a hotel room, but have a lot more to say from here, so will make this a two-part entry. Stand by.

Gabe

Queenstown/Dunedin: One Cemetery

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Hey Mr Sealion
It turns out that New Zealanders have a pretty odd sense of humour, which could be classified as ‘dark’, but sometimes overflows into ‘slightly cruel’. I’m currently in a hostel in the city of Dunedin, on the southeast of the South Island, having driven for five hours from Queenstown on the Kiwi Experience bus. On the way, a small speed limit sign in the village of Waihola is suffixed by another smaller sign (which is seemingly rather notorious judging by the Google results) simply reading ‘No doctor. No hospital. One cemetery.’

Yes, point taken, but another one that caught my eye in a more striking manner was just outside the tiny town of Milton, about an hour west of Dunedin. In the distance I saw a sign reading SouthKill, with the remainder of the sign blocked from view by a tree. I wondered what the hell that could be. As we got closer the sign revealed itself fully:

SouthKill

Abbatoir

So since my excellently brief flight from Auckland to Queenstown with Jetstar (it’s unbelievable how much less hassle a domestic flight is compared to my recent long haul internationals) I’ve been all over the place. After arriving in Queenstown at 9am and heading straight to my hostel, I was told that I couldn’t check in until 2pm. Fabulous. They allowed me to use their shower to get a night in Auckland Airport out of my system, so I did that then hit the town. After walking around the entire place in about 10 minutes (and pouring rain), I headed back to the hostel to wait.

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Flying into Q-Town

Queenstown is pretty stunning. The town itself is almost comically small for the number of tourists that descend on it each high season, and really there isn’t much to shout about in terms of shops or restaurant, but it has two things going for it. One is the scenery. It’s surrounded by incredibly dramatic, Canadian-style pine-forested mountains and overlooks an enormous lake. The other thing, as a result of the first thing, is its self-designation as the Adrenaline Capital of the World. Every glass-fronted shop seemed to offer some form of bungee jump, skydive or canyon swing adventure day in which you can put your life in the hands of some overly-eager Kiwis for £300 a pop. This bizarre collective hunt for adrenaline stretches to some pretty surprising places too. There’s a giant gondola/cable car going up the side of a mountain at the edge of town, which takes you to Skyline, a restaurant overlooking the bay and city below. And then when you’re done with your meal, you can take a luge back down.

But anyway, after a night in a hostel, I arose nice and early, left my travel towel in the hostel, and headed to the centre to catch the Kiwi Experience bus heading on the Deep South tour to Dunedin, Invercargill and Milford Sound, stopping at various sights on the way.

After a 4-5 hour drive through some pretty spectacular terrain, we arrived in Dunedin, which was just bizarre. It was a total emotional teleport for me; it was so much like being at home I actually found it a bit culture-shock-y. It was like a forgotten English town had broken loose from Lancashire and drifted around the world and crashed into southern New Zealand. And by the looks of it, it must have broken loose from England at some point in the 1990s.

Dunedin is not the most exciting place I’ve ever been. A student town of about 110,000 people, it doesn’t have much to offer on paper other than the ‘World’s Steepest Street’, Baldwin Street, which we stopped at and climbed up. And yep, it was pretty steep. That’s about as far as I can run with that story.

As we drove around the remainder of the town, we ended up going through the kind of frat-house neighbourhood near the university. And lo, more bellendery was on display. The tour guide said ‘have you noticed the high number of patches of tar in the road? It’s because the students, when they have parties, like to bring sofas out into the road and burn them. You should have seen this place when we won the Rugby World Cup. I don’t know why they do it here more than anywhere else.’ Cool guys, just keep that up. Being a town of students also means you get a lot of assholes who shout stuff at you from passing cars every three minutes, presumably because they’re too much of a coward to stop the car and say it. In fact, f*ck it; I’ll go so far as to say I really did not like Dunedin. It felt like an immature, drab little timewarp of a city where students think they rule the place.

Currently I’m back on the Kiwi Bus heading toward Invercargill. We stopped earlier to see some rare sealions, which was fun, and we’re driving through pouring rain to a beach where supposedly we’ll be swimming with dolphins. It’s about 12 degrees outside. Wish me luck.

Gabe

Auckland: Robert J. Oppenburger

 

At this point, I have no idea where I’m going to end up next. The last few days have been one theatre after another for confusing, manically-driven impulses, culminating in me not actually being in Auckland as I write this. That city, in the northern reaches of the North Island, is now a distant memory from the quaint-yet-spectacular South Island city of Queenstown, where I am now. Well, I say city, but on paper it’s merely a glorified village; a population of 19,000 sits on the shore of Lake Wakatipi, wedged clumsily between dramatic pine-forested mountains. However, my 48-hour stay in Auckland was pretty eventful, so I thought I should honour the city with its own blog post.

Air Tahiti Nui flight TN101 from Pape’ete to Auckland (the designation of which I only remember because I had to recount it to New Zealand customs officers about twenty times) was an interesting experience to say the least. A large Airbus jet, fit for maybe 300 passengers, took off in glorious sunshine with about 30 people on board, after which I promptly fell asleep across the middle four chairs while watching (or attempting to watch) a French-made documentary about Belgian singer Jacques Brel, which featured no English subtitles. I’m not entirely sure what my aim was here, but at least my inability to understand a single word worked as an effective sleeping aid.

I woke up to the smell of egg in the air. I sat up, seatbelt buckle stuck to the side of my face, and looked to the left to see a small sleeping Chinese lady, mouth open and fork in hand, slumped over a half-eaten omelette. I looked to the right and saw a guy also with a finished food tray (and five empty cans of beer. At 8:30am). NO! I HAD MISSED BREAKFAST.

I stood up and shuffled down the aisle in bare feet to the back of the plane and asked the steward if I could had some breakfast as I had missed it. He laughed with his colleague and handed me a two-inch diameter tuna sandwich triangle. I asked what he was doing. He looked at me like I was a bellend. I said ‘Petit dejeuner?’. He realised what I meant and handed me a tray of food that felt suspiciously light. I went back to my seat and peeled back the foil on the plate to reveal… an empty plate. Had they forgotten to put the omelette in there? Was this some form of Tahitian practical joke? I stood up and went back to the steward and showed him the empty plate. He looked at me and said ‘That was fast’.

Then, New Zealand. We touched down. I had returned to the English-speaking world. I don’t care how bad it sounds, but God damn it felt good. And not only that, but it was New Zealand, a country I have always had a deep desire to visit. The first country to give women the vote. The land of Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Everest. The home of my boy Winston Reid (yet everyone here inexplicably thinks the West Ham 1962-63 away kit I’m so eager to show off is actually an Aston Villa shirt. Get the f*ck outta here).

Arriving in Auckland, I couldn’t help but notice two things. One is how incredibly clean everything was. Auckland is a very clinical, pristine city (or at least in the centre); all buildings are glass fronted, the boringly-named Queens Street is constantly being pored over by street cleaners, and there are bins literally every two metres. How nice.

The second thing I noticed didn’t hit me until I opened my phone. Using the fairly insane level of readily-available free wifi on the street and on buses (yeah have some of that, Tahiti), I opened HostelWorld and HostelBookers to discover that no hostels in the entire city had any free rooms for the entire week. Oh shit. Ok, not to panic, I guess I can just stay in a cheap hotel. But no, no availability there either. So what the hell do I do? I’ll tell you what I did; in a moment of frenzied panic, I booked myself into a King Bed Suite on the top floor of a 5-star hotel overlooking the city. Hell yeah bitches.

After five weeks of tents, hostels and even airports, to finally end up in a luxury hotel felt rewarding to say the least. After using as much of the sauna and steamroom as my body could physically handle, I lazily wobbled my way to the nearest supermarket, grabbed a bottle of local sauvignon blanc and a giant bag of crisps, got into my gown and slippers, revelled for a bit in my small moment of luxury and then brought the tone down horribly by watching Oren Moverman’s 2009 film The Messenger, in which Woody Harrelson plays a Casualty Notifications Unit officer in the US Army. That was grim to say the least.

After waking up and suddenly deciding I need to see the South Island while I’m here, I then booked a flight and a bus tour for the following day, and you know what that means? Cheapest flight = worst time of day = sleeping at the airport again. What a contrast from the night before.

So I headed out to the Britomart Bus Station (the hell is with that name?) at midnight to catch my bus back to Auckland Airport. And you know what I was greeted with? A totally transformed city. It was like the last days of Rome. Like Auckland was about to be ransacked by invading forces. Paramedics attending to passed out girls in the gutter, three-or-four-way makeout sessions on street corners and a ratio of male shirtlessness and lame-as-f*ck macho behaviour of 1:1. On my way to the McDonald’s (I needed overnight sustenance), I was stopped by a group of what looked like club promoters. I could see a table of free drinks in plastic cups behind them. Feeling like I maybe needed to take the edge off the evening, I approached the table to realise that they were all medics handing out free water. Why on Earth they thought a guy walking to the bus station wit h an inordinate amount of luggage was so drunk he needed to rehydrate I don’t know, but I accepted their delicious liquid and entered McDonald’s.

This particular McDonald’s had an interesting quirk; self-service screens with which you could design your own burger (at massively inflated cost). I started to design mine when a little Chinese man tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at his screen. He had designed a burger but for some reason he needed help. I said ‘press here’, pointing at the ‘Complete Order’ button, but he stopped me hurriedly. I said ‘What?’. He replied ‘No like’. Despite my bus coming soon and being surrounded by drunk Aucklanders in at 12:30am, I looked through the contents of his burger; brioche bun, lettuce, tomato, cheese, burger, pickle. Seemed like a fairly standard burger. But before I could say anything he destroyed his creation with gusto by slamming the ‘Reset’ button. I was like ‘Ok then… what do you want?’. Without saying anything, he turned back to the screen to start again. He skipped the bun, then added a burger patty. Ok, pretty minimalist. Then he added an egg. Personally not my choice but whatever floats your boat. Then he added another. I thought personally he’d be all egged out by the end of this faux-burger. Then he added another. And another. And another. Then looked at me.

‘Five eggs? Are you sure that’s right? Seems like a lot of egg to me, man’. He paused, lifted his finger slowly while maintaining eye contact, and slammed the reset button again with no regard for the burger’s feelings. To paraphrase Robert J. Oppenheimer, ‘now he has become death, destroyer of burgers’. He was Robert J. Oppenburger. I sighed, told him I couldn’t wait for his indulgent eggburger fantasies and quickly left to catch my bus.

God almighty I’ve just realised I have so much stuff to write about but don’t have the time right now. Expect another post within 24 hours!

Gabe