On returning back to our Alpine resort of Queenstown, James and I decided to embark on another activity that would adhere to the hook of epinephrine and adrenaline that had taken firm hold of the inky blue veins beneath the skin. We recalled the recommendation of Kitty Kat, our glacier hike guide in Franz Josef, who urged us to ride the luge tracks, as the advanced track was deemed to be 'crazy' and administered no 'health and safety at all'. As has been accustomed, Anthony, dropped out of our Days of Thunder inspired pursuits and instead recoiled to the dank womb of the Cyber Gate internet cafe to search for jobs, specifically as a radio sports reporter for the Pacific region.
The Skyline Gondola ride up to the summit of Bob's Peak (and rated as the steepest lift in the Southern Hemisphere) moved in a steady ambiance past the The Ledge Bungee and three swooping para gliders tracing the air with their brightly coloured wings on their way down towards the wharf. We passed numerous clattering turnstiles and sighed at the requirement to wear an awkward safety helmet; a shining plastic beacon of idiocy aloft the surface of the cranium. After a brief stretching of the legs on the final chairlift towards the start of the track, we earnestly inspected our cumbersome black carts, complete with confusing controls: Pull the bicycle-styled steering lever back in order to brake and push forward in order to add momentum. That was all the information that was passed on to us from the bored looking officials as we pummelled with reckless abandon down 800 metres of track through views of the town with its calm blue pool of water, and on to the photo finish beside the main complex.
Jeff Brazier...I mean JC, preps another lap of injustice
After an initial warm up lap on the scenic route (read boring geriatric route) we clasped the straps to our helmets tightly, checked our brakes and began a one on one race to the death. James took an impressive 2-1 lead after the first three races, happily flipping me the birdie as I tolled in close pursuit behind his bumper as he passed the finish line with consummate skill. The carts, deceptively childlike in the simplicity of their mechanism, disclosed a fervor for collecting startling pace when tearing round the tight and angular bends and through brief tunnels, leading us to drive on many twists solely on the dependency of the imbalance of two wheels. The fourth race was the creation of my sudden misery, my faulty cart with its penchant for an unexpected lack of interest in celerity handed the title to our blond locked Midlands jester and doppelganger of Jade Goodie's ex partner. I had firm reason to believe that he had tampered with my vehicle when my back was turned, but no video evidence was on hand to extinguish or inflame my concerns. I mustered a consolation victory in the fifth and final race to make it 3-2 but this did not prevent James from whooping wildly like a spoilt child in an ugly, tarnished cowboy outfit as he then climbed on to a wooden bench, arms aloft and teeth prominent, to bask in his worthless victory as if on a podium. This was a sad day for the sporting world, but more battles would be undertaken in the next few days to remove this onslaught of desolation.
On the Saturday, during a quiet Easter weekend, we decided to push for one final adventure prior to James leaving to head back up to Auckland and on to the islands of Fiji. We opted for a scenic helicopter ride over the mountain range in the Otago region known as The Remarkables (named as such because they are one of only two mountain ranges in the world which run directly north to south). Anthony, of course, shirked at the challenge and gingerly steered his sorry torso back to Wanaka, to stay with his Auntie and surrender in the lukewarm safety of a Mr. Matey whirlpool of a bubble bath.
We got introduced to our pilot within minutes of registering our details (including weight to ensure an even distribution whilst mid-air). Amusingly for me, he shared his name with Carl Weathers' CIA affiliated character in Predator, and so I had complete faith in Dillon and his agile abilities on controls. The effortless glide and guile of the helicopter was astonishing, drifting through the air so as not to disturb it, the military headphones adorned by the crew was a misrepresentation of the grace of the vehicle. We landed briefly, for a panoramic view on the summit of an elevated mountain, looking down upon Lake Wakatipu and the procession of matchbox lodges beneath us.
Dillon decided to add a measure of excitement to the flight by descending at an urgent speed down the contours of a mountain, then swerving terrifically so as to disorientate his passengers and to encourage a heady rattle of the ribcage, awakening the butterflies in cocoons, sleeping in bliss within the stomach. I at this point was sat at the front of the devise, (so you could call me the co-pilot, in fact, I insist you call me the co-pilot) next to a harshly chapped and weathered faced man from New South Wales, who, I was alarmed to discover, had placed his arm around me in a protective shield to ease his concerns on the trajectory of our flight. I did not like this. Nor did I appreciate mischievous James, sat upright and content on the back seat, taking photographs of my poor imprisonment.
Easter weekend, with many establishments closed for the holiday, we opted to play a few rounds of Frisbee Golf within the tree lined confines of Queenstown Gardens under the brisk autumnal breeze on a pale morning. The 18 hole session, whereby our red and violet discs were spun wildly in a direction close to forward and mostly canyoning off aged bark and planted beneath blankets of peat, concluded with a victorious James, once again reveling in his closely won triumph (he lost only one round, throwing Frisbees is not a talent I wish to pursue) and relaying onto every parent and child enjoying their picnics in the park exaggerated tales of his endeavor.
JC flings his red Frisbee into the wilderness. And wins.
Not to be outdone with his sporting achievements to date, I armed my way back to the echelons of prowess via a successful penalty shoot out competition played in the confines of our dormitory room to alleviate the onset of afternoon boredom, as well as a 2-1 victory in book tennis, played over a net made up of our flimsy and worn flip flops; our hard court being the upper corridor of Nomads Hostel.
The final send off though was to be at Fergburger, where James took it upon himself to gorge upon the infamous Big Al - constituting 1/2 lb of beef, two fried eggs, lashings of streaky bacon, beetroot, four slices of swiss cheese, aioli dressing, salad, and the clinical guarantee of obesity. On finishing this formidable ensemble, he was still, remarkably, hungry.
My rankings of the burgers I have consumed thus far are as follows:
Little Lamby - Yes, I may have cried a little when I sunk my teeth into the tender lamb and mint jelly festival
Sweet Bambi - It was a little deer, but it was worth the price
The Codfather - Battered Blue Cod in a bun? Yes please
Sweet Julie - Seared chicken with sweet chili and aioli. Brilliant
Bombay Chicken - Bit of a light sandwich with the lemon yoghurt dressing and grilled chicken
Cock Cajun - Nice hit of spices on this
Cockadoodle Oink - An obvious choice, butterfly cut fried chicken with streaky bacon, too much of a hammer blow though
Open 21 hours a day, seven days a week. Ferg does indeed love me.
http://www.fergburger.com/fullscreen.html
Queenstown Song of the Day: Audioslave - Like A Stone
At the Wharf Pub we watched a local band, whose name I forget, absolutely butcher the melody from the Supergroup made up of Soundgarden and Rage Against The Machine personnel. It was painful to see the limited singer shout out the chorus and the drummer's metallic abrasions on his skins deteriorate the raw qualities from Chris Cornell's evocative gravelly voice and Tom Morello's signature wiry guitar solo.
On a cobweb afternoon / in a room full of emptiness / by a freeway I confess / I was lost in the pages of a book full of death / reading how we'll die alone
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1dq78_audioslave-like-a-stone_music
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