When The Abyss Is Not Bliss

Our bus made an encouraging stop at Mrs Jones' Fruit and Ice-cream store, on the outskirts of Queenstown, where a mixed berry hokey pokey wafer cone was licked and held with relish within sweating palms. So as not to diminish the flecks of colour received by the palette, the first establishment that James and I escaped to on landing in the ski town by the lake was the much praised Fergburger. I recall being in a cabin on the northern tip of Vietnam, whereupon J-Dizzle and Amanda, our friends from the golden state of California, disclosed fervidly upon the meaty treasures of the fast food restaurant. If an American salivates from the memory of a burger that they had consumed in New Zealand, then it would be foolish, and downright disrespectful, not to retrace their steps and dine upon the feast. On being handed my 'Little Lambi' burger by a sympathetic till girl, we skipped back to Nomads hostel recklessly and after our first hurried bite, were in raptures on finally stumbling on what seemed to be the chosen manna, descended from the arcadia and hidden within the confines of a brown paper bag; a jewel box for a pearl.

James and I had befriended two girls with a tempest manner from England on route to the AJ Hackett Kawarau Bridge Bungy. James adopted the vital role of photographer for the girls as they embarked on their downfall towards the river. Prior to getting strapped on to their umbilical chord of rope, the wavy haired member of the duo, covered in the tarnished compulsion of nervous energy, asked James if if would be weird if he gave her a supportive hug before her swansong. He cordially agreed but remained in hysterics after cementing such kinship within half an hour of their initial introduction. By way of thanks, they invited us to join them on a Kiwi Bar Crawl. As both James and I refused to pay the admission fee, in light of our miserly contortions, it was down to the bungy team to supply us with the free pizza slices and heavily fruity shots that accompanied the lacklustre hop through driving rain and up the stairs of attic like bars with minimal character.



To ensure that we would not spiral, yet again, in the dank mist of a suppressing hangover, James, Anthony and I decided to steal a rather flat football from behind reception and took her out towards Warren Park, just by the gondolas at the far edge of town, in order to add vigour to the lungs. Our enjoyable game of headers and volleys was made all the more memorable due to the grandiose setting beyond us; cold and steely snow capped mountains with plastic toy soldier standing pine trees caressing the sides, outlining our overhead kicks and dives towards the dry grass beyond the goalposts.


Milford Sound Cruise

We had delayed our trip farther south towards Milford Sound, as adverse conditions resulted in supplanted trees and fallen asperous rocks disturbing the peace and blocking the road towards the fjord that Rudyard Kipling stated was the eighth wonder of the natural world. Thankfully the authorities and their diggers worked rigorously and cleared the blockade, as if sweeping down a red carpet for the most illustrious of travellers. Having had the pleasure of cruising Halong Bay in South East Asia, it was another spectacle to find myself back on a boat, weaving carefully through the fjords, much like the poster for 'The Fellowship of the Ring'. Our bus driver, a bearded scamp, by the name of Mambo (or Manboobs as we fondly called him, on account of the generous pastures submerged within his pectoral region) ached upon a steady downpour of rain, to bring out the ethereal majesty of the glacier carved mountains. I for one was rather thankful for the cloudless horizon and took it upon my self to care more for the rushing zephyrs and the playful spray from Stirling Falls, surging down the side of sheer mountain surface.

Our night stopover was at Gunn's Camp, a mere ten minutes away from Fiordland National Park, which at first we toasted to the close proximity but later, on opening the doors to our dusty cabins, despaired at the sand fly ridden rooms and creaky bunk beds. The hovels were lost deep outside the trampled path of favoured necessities such as hot water and cooking utensils. To add to our marooned state of abandonment, we were advised by our sullen faced proprietors that we had only until ten thirty at night before they administered a 'lights out' policy in all rooms. We were seemingly a fragment away from receiving the cane or facing the wall for any indiscipline and lack of interest in reading from the tattered passages from our Gideon's Bible left lopsided on the cobalt blue shelf.


Gunn's Camp: A feeling rather than a photograph


We awoke before dawn, at 5am, with the slow and mournful constellations still breathing heavily in the late night sky, as we swatted violently at the tormenting sand flies on our way to the bus so that we could drop off a number of passengers to Stewart Island. The rest of us rode in relative silence, eyes heavy, on towards Invercargill, a nothing town in the Southern tip of the South Island, with the stern sheen of heavy industry tarnishing the clean air; grey ring roads and boy racers in box cars replacing the vibrant Cezanne backdrop of the ride down that we had been accustomed to. In order to pummel our boredom, Anthony and I took a stroll to the nearby supermarket where our silver feathered Mancunian friend dipped once again into his faithful femininity and purchased chocolate strawberries, costing an astonishing $8.50 for a measly handful - his budget for the day blown at a canter.


Baldwin Street in Dunedin, the world's steepest street

Our final stay on our South Island trip was to be at the student city of Dunedin. After another fine drive past idle cattle and flame tapered Cypress-like swaying branches, we yielded in the fifth largest city in New Zealand, not before a few detours to view, with strained irises, the world's rarest penguin - the yellow-eyed penguin - as well as walking nonchalantly by a few rotund silver seals in the picturesque Catlans. A group of twenty decided upon making the most of our time in Dunedin by absorbing the history of manufacturing yeast and hops into man's refreshing Achilles heel at the Speight's brewery. We had heard animated stories of hours spent under the free sampling taps at the conclusion of the tour and were immediately disappointed on finding that our session was cut short to fifteen minutes with only a small sample glass to sup the flowing and frothing ale. Not to be too disheartened we at least felt nourished in our understanding of the ancient art of brewery from the straits of the Nile to the lap of James Speight in the Pacific. A heady discovery to remedy the parched papier mache relic of our arduous journey.


Seal, sans Heidi Klum

Dunedin Song of the Day: Smashing Pumpkins - 1979
I almost howled with a blind joy, as if seeing an old forgotten acquaintance, when this steered its way out of a retro 90's CD player at our hostel in Dunedin. This song leans heavily towards the influence of New Order and the theme is all resolution and careless abandon as Billy Corgan's usual sneer is replaced with a more soothing tone.