Destination Tāmaki-makau-rau

Ever since a few of my friends had compared my hermit like existence and lack of inner emotion to that of Smeagol in The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, I had been compelled to visit the prairies in which this creature fictitiously resided, tangled deep in its spider web of deceit and schizophrenia. In a landscape where Gollum could crawl in dank caves and devour raw fish from the springs was a place that I could call home for a few months with the soundtrack provided by the folk tinged musings of the Finn brothers.

Qantas Flight 43 from Sydney to Auckland arrived without delay, during which time the lamenting cirrus clouds and I embraced Taylor Swift's country pop recklessness on her debut album Fearless via the in-flight music playlist. I sliced through immigration with uncharacteristic ease over a pleasant spell of conversation from the courteous immigration official (she obviously admired the high volume of approved H1-B and H-4 visas that I had processed whilst working with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services in Manhattan). There was something inherently not right with such a smooth transition from one country to another, the process feeling more akin to a routine coach trip from an English seaside coast to another. My only apprehension arose when an outspoken and portly Australian lady clambered on to the airport shuttle bus, sat on the empty seat beside me with a thump and shrilled in my ear notes that continue to haunt my nights:

"Don't worry, I don't bite, they fed me on the plane....but I still have room for dessert"

I could only manage a pathetic gulp in response as I stared back in utter horror. The only other surprise for me was when I revised my STA Travel approved Around The World Ticket (a tattered and heavily creased piece of discoloured A4 paper rather than a shining golden token with promise of adventure) which informed me that I would be in this corner of the earth until mid June, rather than the month of May when I had assumed would be the time for my departure.


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The hostel that I am currently staying in is a slumbersome dinosaur, a concrete block in the CBD with a large grey roof over 500 dormitory rooms. The ACB Base Hostel is fairly impersonal whilst the reception staff distant and dull eyed. The room that I am imprisoned in is windowless, bare-boned and the walls share the pigment of the liver spotted loose skin of an elderly lady. It took the workforce a mere four hours (and three despairing prompts) to finally make my bed as I wasn't so keen on resting on a blood splattered pillow case (I assume from acne and a care-free razor) that resembled a Jackson Pollock that I inherited from the previous inmate.


View from Mount Eden

Mount Eden, the highest natural point in Auckland, is located only a few kilometres from the hostel, thus within walking distance, be it mostly uphill, to the walking path leading up to the summit, and therefore ideal preparation for my active tour of the country. There was a cruel lesson that was learnt from this steady trek up to the volcanic crater that the Māori tribes utilised as a fortified hill pa (hill fort): Do not attempt to conquer rocky and unstable routes wearing only your flimsy plastic-green havaianas flip flops. My throbbing feet have yet to forgive their oafish master on this occasion.

As if to mock me further, the following day on taking a brief ferry ride out to the island of Rangitoto, my left camel tan Puma Ducati's (limited edition, to honour The Kentucky Kid - Nicky Hayden - of MotoGP infamy) decided to split mid-walk. The devouring open mouth invited the scattered lava rocks and black dirt into my shoe and eventually bruised my tender sole. The breezy view from the summit was grand, searching over the calm waters of the Hauraki Gulf. However, after my trainer ordeal, I could begin to understand why the Māori name for the Island is translated roughly as 'Bloody Sky'.

That's not evidence of heavy perspiration. It's the pattern on my T

The sweat inducing trail was all the more light hearted thanks to sharing the route with a Brighton based Accountant who's Bambi-on-ice stumbles on the downhill leg was the most delicious sight of ill judged coordination I had witnessed in an age. Her admission to always strictly following the Brownie / Girl-Guide code of conduct in the countryside was fairly endearing until the banana peel that she refused to discard and clasped tightly in her palm led to a swarm of wasps to stalk and attack her until she finally fell defeated and threw the flaccid fruit far out into the bay along with her adolescent ideals.

The arduous hunt for employment in New Zealand continues in earnest this week. Having already been rejected by a number of catering companies (no relevant experience) and a Senior Director role for a leading advertising company (no relevant experience), I may have to concede to the warm embrace of a role I was always born to play a part: Fruit picking. Though I fear I may consume more than I could possibly deliver in this boyhood life ambition.

Auckland Song of the Day: Owl City - Fireflies
Everywhere I have gone on this trip, this fuzzy radio-friendly song seems to have followed me. I believe this tune is a big hit in the US at the moment, and although I'm not enamoured with the whimsical chorus, it's just about the only new music I've heard recently.

Disposable Fact: Adam Young, the singer, only turned to music to overcome his insomnia.


i-Pod Song of the Day: Fields - Brittlesticks
A good friend of mine and star of Hollyoaks (he's the Northern Irish cross-dressing troublemaker Kris Fisher: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kris_Fisher) and doppelganger of the disgraced London socialite Henry Conway, recommended this Anglo-Icelandic electronic/indie ensemble. We even saw them play heroically in an ale sodden Camden bar not so many moons ago. I like this folky song from their first EP. I don't think they really took off though, which is a shame...

Brittlesticks video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK16otAfLkc