The Mausoleum Inside

I said my fond farewells to the cheery spirited staff at The Coachman, who pleasantly enough remarked that I had become 'part of the family' and that it was a shame that I was leaving. I would have bought into this accented script had the manager, without missing a beat, harried the return of the now frayed sheets and pillow case from my bed as a matter of urgency, making me feel more like a part of the furniture. On a day borne of apprehension, light rain falling mercilessly from a darkened sky, I boarded the Stray bus heading onto the town of Kaikoura, 130 kilometres north on State Highway 1.

It became very quickly apparent that I recognised no one on the vehicle, and that the passengers themselves were in the midst of a tremendous group trip, speaking excitedly to one another before the ignition key was even turned. As the outcast, I took an isolated lone seat towards the back, looking ominously beyond the condensation impaired view out of the window. This was to be my role for the next couple of days. When we finally reached The Adelphi Hostel in Kaikoura, the driver and the hostile administrator of the bleak accommodation asked us all to organise ourselves as to who we'd like to share a dorm room with. I was cruelly overlooked by the party and embarrassingly moved into a room with the other loner in the camp, a quiet and plain girl made in Taiwan. I now know what it is like to be the slightly obese and clumsy kid who gets picked last at football in the playground.

Squint and you can see some seals

The upwelling currents brought from the Kaikoura Peninsula delivers an abundance of marine life to the town, and is a reason why it was originally a key area for the much maligned whaling industry. The only remnants of which are the stark whale bone arches leading towards the Southern Fur Seal colony. Something that I have observed on this trip, in any country graced with coasts, is that there is little more depressing than a small seaside town on a grey and morbid day, stripped wholly of any of its glimmering summertime charm. Even sitting on a wooden bench at The Why Not Cafe, a lukewarm chicken and vegetable pie before me that I harpooned with a silver spoon in homage to all those orca lives lost, skinned and cleansed of oil, whilst judging the local fools trapped in their daily routines was not enough to brighten the atmosphere.

Things were to get worse. With no real impetus to be a voyeur of the underwater activities of sperm whale and witnessing the likeness of the albatross to my nemesis - the seagull, on a cruiser (too cold and too expensive), I lurked my translucent presence to the warm fire place lit sitting room area of The Adelphi. Those in the room chose to watch a local film, to toast the best of New Zealand cinematography in The Return of The King, from an 80's millionaire's myriad of dated, dusty VHS tapes. On the two moth-eaten velvet rouge eight seater couches facing the television, seven backpackers sat cosily and intimately on one sofa whilst I sat on my own, stranded, on the other with only my Kitkat Caramel Chunky wrapper - silently and loyally beside me - for company. It was yet another low.

The coastline of Kaikoura (roughly translated as 'meal of crayfish' in Maori)

From Kaikoura we travelled onwards up to the Marlborough Sound region of the northern point of the Southern Island towards the ferry terminal in Picton, but not before passing a battalion of freshly sheared sheep, hounded and humiliated by their patrol of dogs leading them to up to the rolling hills, heavy with the burden of a recent downpour of precipitation. The vineyards that looked so rich in vanity and the grapes which hung like purple ornaments only a matter of months before, were now nothing more than a withered antique; their golden bowing leaves flying the half mast flag of a season of decadence. Nothing more than an artist whose cataracts have been removed. Actually, Claude Monet had eye surgery twice in his latter years and his perception of tones was still subtle in his weeping willow brush strokes. So, ignore my last metaphor.

The three hour ferry ride was not as turbulent as the Cook Strait hinted to us with its animated waves. However, I finally broke my silence with my fellow passengers from the Stray bus with touches of conversation. However, just about the moment when they were beginning to thaw to my voice I fell hostage to a daytime nap, the motion unable to stir me from a deep slumber nor my uncontrollable slither of drool, hanging from the corner of my mouth. When I awoke, we were finally on the shores of Wellington and my new 'friends' had all left without a word of warning onto their elusive destinations.

Typical window view

i-Pod Song of the Day: The Smiths - There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

Time now to take a winding bicycle ride with Morrissey down the cobbled streets of Salford. After humming along to this tune from The Smiths' seminal album, 'The Queen Is Dead', the i-Pod play list on the bus (which had been verging on farcical thanks to multiple plays of N-Dubz) debuted Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap which coincidental also featured on the soundtrack to 2009's quirky anti-love story movie: 500 (Days of Summer).

Here is a clip from 500 (Days of Summer) featuring There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.
What I'd do to be trapped in an elevator with Zooey Deschanel. Having said that, I'd probably just panic and go to my designated floor without saying a word to impress.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IltBcAmE9E