Still Icy Monsters

After copious amounts of Diet Coke and a handsome helping of New Zealand's finest Blue Cod fish and chips, smothered in much needed salt and vinegar, I managed to shake off the ill-feeling attached to the night previous. Before the motion of the bus got a little too much for my fragile shell, we veered up on to a stony pathway at the Rainforest Retreat in Franz Josef. With an upwards glance towards the mountainside you could just about make out the crystal ice of the august glacier, cradling the moraine and peering lucidly towards the Waiho river trickling beyond its reach.



Once James and Jill had successfully bullied me into joining the advanced group of the hike, phrased loosely as the adventurous and slightly more extreme version of the expedition, we were introduced swiftly to our tour guide, a laid back Canadian by the name of Cat (or Kitty Kat as James was fond of whispering to him). We encountered a small problem within the camp as an elephantine gentleman from the depths of Lancashire appeared to believe that he knew more about ice features than our trained guide and spent much of the morning advising the group as to the safest routes to take as well as relaying any information that he had heard in passing on to us as if his very own. We christened him #2 / Gareth Keenan - Assistant to the Hike Guide, due to his lamentable attitude, and were in raptures when his true colours finally became apparent as he pathetically wimped out of taking on a steep and sheer cave feature with the rest of the team and instead recoiled in fear as he lumbered his heavy torso to the recess of the battery.


Franz Josef Glacier Hike

Afterwards, in reward for our pursuits over crystal blue mountain sculptures and arms heavy from pick axing (well, holding a pick axe briefly for the pursuit of an heroic photograph), a few of us decided to saunter down the road from our hostel towards the only Indian restaurant in town, Priya Tandoori. The meal was affective, soothing the roars from our lurching stomachs. On our dining table included the melancholic faces of Canadian Zoe and Anthony, whose morning skydive over Franz Josef (apparently one of the most scenic in the world, behind the $30,000 Everest dive) had earlier been cancelled due to the thick onset of cloud that dampened the mood and spirit of our two thrill seekers who had consequently missed their only chance for the day's glacier hike. James, Josepha (a young lady from Clapham who revealed foolishly to us that her middle name was 'Totten' in homage to her father's favoured football club) and I spent much time ribbing the pair and embellishing on the magnetism of the trips that they had missed out on.



We had a day in reserve, in between arriving farther South of the Island. On a gloomy and forgettable day the tyres from the coach halted abruptly at the sleepy town of Makarora, with its bustling population estimated at around fifty people, that we effectively doubled on arrival. The locals certainly knew how to entertain the travellers, and that was with the open palms of a karaoke competition. Anthony's eyes grew wide at the prospect of sharing his unique talent to the group, and roped me into serenading the hall with a rendition of Billie Joel's Uptown Girl that would have made Jeff Buckley swoon. By swoon, I of course mean retch violently in the current of Wolf River Harbour. An energetic girl from Michigan stole the limelight and won a prize of a pub crawl ticket in Queenstown, although she was pushed hard for the victory by a teenage school boy with a floppy blond fringe named Rhys, who broke hearts with his rousing version of Enrique Iglesias's warbling Latina ballad, Hero.



On the darkened voyage back towards our tee pee shaped huts after the singalong, I checked my flip flops for a troublesome stone. On seeing my arched back, Michigan Caroline, still reeling from her victory, ran up behind me and mounted me as if it was an opportune time for a piggy-back ride. Having lost a few lb's in muscle due to the trip, I buckled illustriously under the strain, Caroline crashing on the footpath head first, culminating in two chipped teeth and a bruised grill. Fortunately her burgeoning singer songwriting career was not to be in jeopardy by our clumsy endeavor and her black and blue features paled by comparison to my notoriety within the tour as the violent woman beater.

On to Wanaka, situated on the southern tip of the peaceful lake of the same name. We'd decided to break up the journey on to Queenstown and save some energy at our relaxing hippy commune of the Matterhorn South Hostel, complete with sprouting herbs in the indifferent garden and a library cannon featuring such literary gems as 'The 70's General Knowledge Quiz' which we spent unsatisfactory minutes guessing answers to questions ranging from Idi Amin's terror reign in Uganda and the members of the ECC.


Mountain Biking over tricky terrain in Wanaka


The girls take a hike over a steady trail
l-r: Caroline, A-bomb, Zoe, Totten, Kate, Jill and Sophie

On our second day, the girls spent their day on an 18km hike, joined confusingly by Anthony who was scared to embark on the daring and adrenaline infused mountain biking haul that James and I had signed up to. After the four hour tour de force towards Albert Town and with calves strained from peddling frantically in between gears to remedy the on rushing headwinds, we gingerly clambered off our bikes to find Anthony and the girls watching Dirty Dancing back in the Hostel.

Next stop, Queenstown.

i-Pod Song of the Day: Bob Dylan - Just Like A Woman
I've actually only got Nina Simone's version on my walkman, but big bad Bob's original is far superior due to the evocative harmonica that frames the song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucu-ObHdf-w

Nobody feels any pain / Tonight as I stand inside the rain / Everybody knows / That Baby's got new clothes / But lately I see her ribbons and her bows / Have fallen from her curls.

She takes just like a woman / She makes love just like a woman / And she aches just like a woman / But she breaks just like a little girl.

Kayaking Towards Abel Tasman

And so to the Capital City of Wellington, welcomed by the promise of menacing winds and lashing rain to make Alfred Hitchcock flinch. At Nomads Hostel, a cheery fellow by the name of Dean checked me in, along with my new Midlands friends James and Jill, to the proclamation that we should dump our rucksacks with haste and join him on a Film Tour in the afternoon. Cordially, we agreed, but were not prepared for the two hour trip to constitute sitting on the back seat of Dean's wife's estate as he careered around the blistered tarmac towards various studios and workshops home to what is soon to be christened 'Wellywood' (and much to our guide's chagrin). Dean, bearded and towering, reminded me a little of Murray Hewitt from Flight of the Conchords, and not necessarily because of his loose projection of vowels. He was overly eager to please and mentioned, whenever he had a chance, that he was an established actor, starring in Avatar as a Helicopter Adviser (dies in the penultimate fighting scene) as well as his big break in the upcoming movie 'Yogi Bear' starring alongside Anna Faris, Justin Timberlake and Dan Ackroyd. On taking up his offer to view the official website for this feature, I was pleased to see that Dean was indeed not delusional. He is listed on the cast list as playing the part of 'Bodyguard'. His unquestionable resume was in question as we departed from his vehicle as he pleaded with us to give his tour a positive online review as he 'really needs the part time work at the hostel'. It's not all glamour in the movie industry after all.



After awakening from our star struck gaze, James and I ventured towards the new Westpac Stadium on the edge of town to watch the Black Caps take on Australia in a one day match, which we were aghast to find would be a meaningless affair as the Aussies had already tied up the series under floodlights the day before. In order to encourage our knowledge of the sport in our adopted country, we briskly stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Cricket Museum, where an elderly man with the stock of a greedy goat sparked his unfathomable dictionary of cricket expertise at our direction for the best part of an hour. The game itself was a leisurely affair that the battling Kiwis managed to salvage some national pride with a wonderful victory in the closing couple of overs. I had lost interest in the game at this point due to my basking in a victorious win at a stall where I successfully demonstrated my ball skills by bouncing a cricket ball into a small cardboard cut out hole to be rewarded with a New Zealand Official Black Caps Hat, which I sported to distance myself from the burning effects of the sun.



An early rise, as is now customary, and on to the Blue Ridge Ferry to Picton, located on the northern tip of the South Island. After being swayed violently in the manner of Jack and Rose for a few hours, we hopped back on to our orange coach and quickly dismounted at Marlborough for a brief and altogether disorientated tour of a winery where Pinot Grigios and Chardonnays were swilled with careless abandon before midday had even struck. We arrived, later that day, at our cabins located deep within Abel Tasman National Park, amid arching mountains and grass feeding Llama's questioning our intent with glassy stares and loose strands of pale hay falling out of their lacklustre jaws.


Sunset at Abel Tasman

I took the option to take a kayak out after a gentle three hour trek around the park and on finding my two seater canoe, was advised to share with a smiling tourist from Hiroshima in order to make up the numbers. I was at first pleased to have a co-sailor on board but quickly learnt that her slender Asian physique made little impression when rowing, leaving us trailing behind the green bay from our guide, Gwyn, and my arms obtaining blisters and aches due to the amount of surplus energy used to carry the floating banana-yellow device to each crevasse and sweeping beach shoreline. Her slow circling strokes certainly were not atomic in any sense or manner. We paddled past baby penguins darting in and out of the sea as well as a few casual grey seals, scores of shining black mussels and a bobbing jellyfish whose translucent tentacles flowed admirably in the clear waters.

Kayak finds

With such grand scenery and the tranquility from the echoes from passing horses, buzzing mosquito's and soaring eagles, a few of us decided to stay on at the MacDonald farm cabins for a further day to pass time at the nearby beaches and to admire in the lack of signal from our cellphones.

The next destination on the roads with no end, was noted as a 'Cultural Stop' at Barrytown. There was nothing cultural with this stop at this sleepy West Coast village as we arrived tiredly at our worn down pub accommodation greeted with streams of green flyers and confetti in honour of St Patrick's Day. We were asked, politely, to wear customary fancy dress with the theme, aptly, of the shade of green. Myself and a young whippersnapper from Manchester, Anthony, decided to barge through the neighbouring Warehouse (the equivalent of Woolworth's, but without the recession hit hysteria) and bought green football socks, t-shirts and disturbingly, green and red silk boxer shorts emblazoned with the charming refrain of 'Hold The Pickle'.

As you can imagine, our sorry scene caused quite the stir with the tour group, but we were easily surpassed by a rather rotund young Englishman dressed as a perverted Gandalf, or Gan-green as we lovingly named him.
After rows of bar table jaeger bombs, catwalking on the benches to obtain free shots of a bright red drink with the taste of a poptart, the night concluded with the residents of the dorm room waking at 6am to find Anthony staring intently in a drunken haze at the cream wall rather than making way to the confines of his duvet and with James falling out of his top bunk in a catastrophic manner.

The Danes read my badge a little while after...

With an invigorating two hours sleep, I had to make my way across the path towards the bone carving workshop where my blood-shot eyes and violently shaky fingers created an ivory tinted piece which I managed to salvage after initially clipping off the base of the curved hook. Apparently my 'unique' necklace represents safe passage through the oceans in Maori.

It had better be.

Abel Tasman Song of the Day: Avalanches - Since I Left You
Ah, it's been a while since I'd heard this. Harking back at some glorious days in Norwich playing summer afternoon games of 'loon' (hot water bombs) and dodging the vomit that Matty so carefully laid in my bed after a heavy night culminating in forgetting which room was his. Great times.

Throw Me Out The North Island: Chapter Two

Through Rotorua, for a brief stop via another hot pool and a boiling mud bath, and on to Taupo, a town on the shore of the impressive Lake Taupo and named by the indigenous after Princess Tia as Taupō-nui-a-Tia / The great cloak of Tia. I had been tempted with a few of the more extreme sports and activities before arriving in New Zealand, a number of my friends who had visited and stayed here had enthused about the abundance of what was on offer. When the tour guide spoke with his Kiwi lisp down his microphone and asked who would like to take on the skydive that afternoon, my arm shot up, as if in nervous reaction. More likely it was raised at such velocity so as to reassure my body that the decision was based on a sound judgement.

The Chief, James and I with pre-dive nerves

My concerns for the dive were eased by a considerate young Dutch girl, who, on seeing my ardent hand pointed up towards the plane that would settle my fate, spoke to me flatly that only two weeks before, at the very centre we were to jump, a skydive instructor and tourist had plummeted to a bloody and instant death once their parachute had not deployed. I may have whispered out a silent prayer soon after this morose discussion. The lighthearted banter of the coach did not reassure me either once we skirted to the gravel of the Lake Taupo Skydive hangar, the jeers and 'Nice knowing you' hollers were wonderful to register.



The Chief and a young Welsh lad called Ollie were fortunate enough to fly out on the first plane ride. James, a lighthearted Brummie, and I were left waiting impatiently in our navy blue overalls and life jacket harnesses for the following voyage, not before we had hesitatingly signed what the instructors declared as, "the death warrants", ensuring that the company were in no way liable to any serious injury or death.

Hungo- "Do a stern face for the camera"

Stern = High camp, right? The pink plane does not help my waining masculinity either




We couldn't stop our laughter on seeing Ollie's face whilst sat shyly on the plane as it languidly ebbed away from view. His sheepish look (an apt description considering he was from Wrexham) was akin to Gareth from The Office when he was caught in the sidecar of the motorcycle after a regrettable night at Chasers in Slough:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycnhv2znhJY&feature=PlayList&p=57064E6CA1234016&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=1

My instructor, who I would be fastened on to and whose adept skills I would be relying on to preserve my life, was a Hungarian named imaginatively as Hungo. He spoke with the totalitarian authority of Arnie, his mechanical expertise and robotic responses to my twee comments were reassuring. So much so, that on boarding the bright pink plane, I pretended that I was Dillon and he was Dutch in the film Predator, focusing intently on the assignment ahead of us and ensuring that I would not offend Hungo with my pencil pushing.


You've got me, then who's got you? Oh, cool, a parachute

Once we were 12,000 foot in the air and the hatch was opened, with the incoming rush of icy winds, I began slowly to realise the task in hand. I had no time to change my mind and before I knew it, my feet were dangling off a plane, with only the wispy white stratus clouds and haze of green, brown earth below me. Hungo was gentlemanly enough to introduce me to the world of high adrenaline with a 360 degree flip, the first glimpse of the world I could see was the white underbelly of the plane I had just jumped off. The 40-60 seconds of free fall rushed by in a blur, all I can remember was that my face felt like it was being stretched and pulled out of the skull. When I came around, and looked down, all I could muster were huge bursts of laughter and whooping that can be heard on most weekends at the halls surrounding a frat party, as I looked across snow capped mountains to the side of the glistening Lake Taupo as it grew larger and larger in to view. Hungo's first utterance that I could comprehend, once he had deployed the yellow and blue striped parachute was (and remember to read this in an Arnie accent) "So, you have survived. I was dead tired before the jump so am as pleased as you"
I prompted reception to give Hungo another medical once I had landed.




Pilot headware? Winning look.

That night we retired at Taupo Urban Retreat, a smart little hostel where The Chief, James, Ollie and I relived the jump with our fellow travellers. However, my embellished stories of bravery were easily erased by mouse-like Nikki from Nottingham who recalled the time, completely out of the blue, mind, of when her martini was spiked in a grotty underground club and awoke the next day stark naked in her brother's cot. Bizarre people out here.

Day five, and with the epinephrine finally subsiding, we were carted to Mount Tongariro, to retrace the steps of Sir Edmund Hillary and conquer the 19km Tongariro Alpine Crossing. The panoramic scene across the volcanic terrain was breath taking, and to add to the marvel, we passed the dark tracks towards Mount Ngauruhoe, which was set as Mount Doom in The Return of the King. We all predictably spewed out numerous country tinged quotes from Samwise and Master Frodo whilst scrambling over the rocks and dusty rubble leading towards Mordor.



The trek, on average, should take an individual between seven and nine hours. The initial ramble up the South and Red Crater was a challenge, and one that my calves claimed the majority of the burden. Whilst attempting a delicate crab like shuffle up to the summit, the promise of spectacular mountainous views was enough to surge past the sweat inducing barriers. Once at the Blue Lake, almost 2000 feet from sea level, the trail opened up to be more pleasant as we descended with relative ease past splendid meadows, pine green forest and the Ketetahi Hut for a quick rest on the hardened wooden benches to flick the stray jagged stones out of my brown and orange hiking shoes. Welsh Ollie and I decided to push past the ache of our tired limbs and supplement in minimal breaks to finish in the walk in little over five hours. Our hard earned rest at the finish was spent searing our dollars and cents on guessing the order and timings of the remaining contestants in our loose pack. I lost the $1 bet quite comfortably, sulking like a coward as I realised that the loss of the $1 would lead to the sacrifice of purchasing an energising banana on returning to the alpine cabin.

After a sound night of sleep, we all took an express journey down to Wellington, where the first sight of warm weather was burst within minutes with the introduction of high speed winds, crashing rain and the promise that the Capital was long overdue a major earthquake. I'll be here for a few days before the South Island calls.



Taupo Song of the Day - Tom Petty and the Hearbreakers - Free Fallin'

A touch predictable, but our driver guide played this on the stereo moments before we hopped out gingerly on to the hangar to get the blood pumping in our veins. I forgot the lyrics and situation to throw myself in the euphoric convertible driving scene in Jerry Maguire.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FN89jWaw8s

Hoist Me Down The North Island: Chapter One

And so the Stray bus tour of the North and South Island begins. Barely awake at dawn and finding introductions difficult to muster under a canyon of yawns I jumped aboard the orange coach (called Leslie, oddly) that would, for the next week or so, pass through motorways and farmland with the casual verve of the ricochets of a pinball. As is my want, I avoided tiring in the transparent early patter of customary small talk between the excitable passengers for the warm cotton comfort of my window seat, allowing my rucksack to sit nobly beside me to ensure that no one would be tempted to cross the barrier and detract my gaze out beyond the custard coloured curtains and on to the running tarmac. Once the sun arced slightly higher, my person began to thaw, and with a shrug I began to speak to the group. This took more vigor than I had anticipated and so I quickly retreated to the icy solace of my headphones.

The vehicle glowed cheaply in the daylight and after a few hours of passing smooth curved green hills, the first of many flocks of docile cream sheep and a few organic fruit and vegetable markets we arrived in Hahei, on the eastern side of the Coromandel Peninsula, located in close proximity to the grandeur of Cathedral Cove, where we flicked on our jandals and walked across the pearly beach just after our lunch. Our guide explained to us that towards Hahei, the conditions are such that growing the marijuana plant in abundance is of relative ease. Those with criminal tendencies, who do farm this scented herb, contribute purposefully to the large portion of possums who feast upon the drug unknowingly and in their light headed daze lurch like lemmings on to the moderate heat of the roads where on a daily basis they crush under the weight of passing Michelin tyres. We must have passed dozens of corpses of the now bloodied Cheech and Chong Marsupials on the tracks.

Attending Rabbit Shearing (i.e. Bond Villain-esque Torture)

At low tide, around six o'clock, we ventured forth to the infamous Hot Water Beach where we carried with us a small green plastic spade as well as a bucket of enthusiasm and awe at the natural phenomenon of geothermal activity where magma is found close to the earth's surface and thus heating the rocks and sand. After digging a small hovel, the water that plunged into it created a man made hot pool where we sat back and watched the fighting tide before us. A leisurely elderly couple nearby sat in their custom made jacuzzi complete with picnic basket and bottle of red wine. They didn't care to share this with anyone else though the selfish harpy's.


Excavation work on vacation

In booking my Stray tour in March, I had the satisfaction of being presented with a large discount on the package as well as a commendable bottle of white wine, named entertainingly as 'Stray Dog Piss'. As most of the group qualified for this wonderful perk, dusk passed with a barbecue which included a lavender coloured sweet potato mash along with copious swills of the hideous Stray vintage, that we had no other option but to feast upon. Florian, an erratically permed German, fell foul to the intoxication during an arduous game of cards, where he continued to lose, quite briskly, as soon as his unfortunate hand was dealt.


Stray bunch at a 'secret' hot water pool

The second day of the tour leaned towards more relaxation, this time within the quaintly painted walls of the surfing town Raglan. Any street where the al fresco diners bathe in warm sea air whilst consuming the sharp delights of an eggs benedict is fine by me. Our accommodation was a surprise, high up in the hills a bush lodge where a winding trail hung loosely around the enclosure like an aged leather belt, was to be our home for the night. From the terrace you could lose time in watching the surf boards trace the cool blue waves as the surrounding forest stirred gently or, like me, you could simply head down to the communal room to lay on an impotent beanbag and watch S.W.A.T. with Colin Farrell. The group were led to an astonishing observatory at twilight a few yards from the lodge. We were treated to a canopy of silver stars, the like never witnessed by myself before, flickering and burning with a certain knowing charm. Far in the distance you could make out the haze surrounding Auckland, a gentle reminder of the corruption of industry in such an unspoilt land.

Boiling Mud Pool

The clear environment enabled us to have plenty of rest, and the conserved energy was utilised the next morning during an abseiling and caving exploration of St Benedict's Cave in Waitomo. The abseil, 80 feet into total darkness was a treat, considering that I had never abseiled (nor wished to) before and as it was not even advertised on the pamphlet I had browsed. However, it's an easy enough activity for one as familiar with Ethan Hunt's nimble work in the Grand Canyon in Mission Impossible: 3. The cave itself was very enticing, the pink rock formations and army of silent stalactites and stalagmites stretching my Geography A Level considerations. The real highlight though was gripping on to a Flying Fox and swinging haphazardly across the cave, at speed, reminiscent of the talented and ingenious Data in The Goonies. On completing the circuit we were treated by our impish and comedic guides to a plethora of chocolate bars, where handfuls of Cadbury's Fish - a flagship candy bar on these shores - were shoved greedily into my pockets when not in view.

Once I had taken off my fetching blue overalls and hardhat, it was time to drive over to Maketu, a small coastal town on the Bay of Plenty, named by the Maori's after an ancient kumara pit. This was to be the ensemble's cultural exchange stop, and for me an important realisation of understanding and embracing the values and traditions of the Maori people. Our host for the evening was a kind and diabetic Maori called Uncle Boy, who created this cultural night to honour his Father and Mother and to harvest the importance of his heritage. We were given strict instructions to acknowledge the family with a hongi (nose to nose greeting) and a cry of Kia Ora! (it's too orangey for crows). The Tribe demonstrated a traditional Poi dance, where the females sang a lilting folk song with only the strumming of a guitar to guide the melody.

The climax of the show was the young men performing the Haka war dance, their eyes wide with hate and tongues protruding like daggers from the mouth to intimidate. We were not prepared for the next scene, which was the astonishing revelation that the tribe, fresh from scaring us with their thunderous rendition, were to teach the men from the tour group to complete the Haka in front of the girls and in the looming shadow of Uncle Boy. The eldest male was appointed as The Chief (no, not me, but an American chap named Tyler, though as he had just joined this leg of the trip an hour before, we had never been introduced to him formally and so we all delighted in calling him The Chief, for ease and to settle any possible confusion).

I had not envisioned taking off my shirt and shorts to wear a skimpy skirt whilst attempting to scare an audience with the moves that Richie McCaw could pull off but I could certainly not. After a performance that can only be described as ritual humiliation, our hosts were kind enough of heart to give us a score of 11 out of 10.
For the funniest Haka they had ever witnessed.
To be fair, The Chief did all he could to gee up his cowardly entourage, but with little success.

What? You're not petrified of these warriors?

When the time came to sheepishly put on our shirts and re-trace our lost pride, we all headed down to the neighbouring beach for a nighttime campfire. Luckily, no one had bought with them their rusty acoustic guitar and so I got away with listening to a chorus of fools, and instead could only repeat the echo of the Haka and how I had failed it with my jazz hands and tepid voice.

Ennui Creeps

Having been in Auckland for more than a week now, it's surprising how quickly I have gotten absorbed in the frayed tapestry of the city of sails. The daily, unbeknownst to them, actors on my observed stage of the municipality includes the obese tramp, whose misfitting tight t-shirt reveals his depressed paunch to the world along with the young transvestite, easily distinguishable with his towering 6'6" frame always found alone outside the McCafe with a milkshake clutched within his vainy hands. There is also a stumpy magician who tragically shadows passing children with his open palm of bent cards as his purple glittered top hat barely covers his wiry brow. Finally, there is the Quaker dressed God-fearers, proclaiming their desire to be freed from temptation. Their ruddy cheeks, coarse from icy hollers, is a strange reminder of faded oil paintings from a different time.

I've also encountered some unusual and colourful characters at my hostel. Those of you who have lived on the road will be aware of the strange people from around the globe who crawl out from the wooden floorboards and into the stale pit of a traveller's den. Some folk have been forgettable (though by writing about them, they will now be shamefully remembered), such as the brash Canadian boy who hilariously carried a dog eared copy of J.R.R. Tolkein's finest under his arm wherever he ventured, to add authenticity to his purposeful steps, I presume. Two other room mates of mine, Bart from Eindhoven and Anthony (not his real name) from Seoul provided many an entertaining evening. Bart and I couldn't really understand poor Anthony, but in his endearing attempt to improve his grasp of the English syntax, decided to stay within close proximity to us at all times. Sometimes too close. Once we established the neccesary parameters, we were quite the trio of hell raisers around town.


Bart-man and I at Albert Park. Anthony not pictured, for legal reasons.

In the month of February, Auckland hosts the Lantern Festival, a celebration of the Chinese New Year with, as the name suggests, softly lit lanterns hung solemnly around Albert Park. On a Friday afternoon, armed with a few copper tinged bottles of Speight Ale, a generous portion of grapes (red, seedless and quite sour) and packet of pale mini cookies, we headed down to the jubilee to glimpse the wonderful array of lamps on show. They ranged from a large laughing Buddha sat composed on the roots of an oak tree to the dangling monkey beacons from nearby branches next to the gold-yellow and red dragon lanterns peering out of the fountain, complete with mechanical twisting heads. Unfortunately, security at the festival were patrolling in numbers and on spying our crate of poison, asked us firmly to pour the liquid away from the bottles and escorted us, with more than a suggestion of hostility, out of the premises down the banks of the grassy hill, following the narrow bronze tributaries created by our lost beer.

Lantern Festival: Albert Park

On another occasion, whilst attempting to amuse ourselves, Bart needed advice on a New Zealand cruise tour as a request from his Mother back in Holland, who is currently planning a binge fueled journey to the Pacific next year. We headed to the third floor of the hostel where the tour guides held office and whilst conversing jovially with Dan, the local vacation expert, he mentioned to us that we ought to seek Anna from the SkyTower Tourism Information Centre for further help. Foolishly Dan confided in us that he held quite the flame for Anna and this coveted information was savagely divulged to the rosy cheeked girl once we arrived at the SkyTower. When we had returned to the hostel, Dan lynched us and could not hide his agitation as Anna had called him, soon after our visit, informing him that he 'was a total creep' and would slap him furiously across the grill when they next met. Mission accomplished.

Myers Park, Parnell

We also made a firm acquaintance with a bouncer from the downstairs Globe Bar. Tommy has most of his front teeth missing and his physique is that of a forceful mountain. However, he has a Pacifica's heart of merit, and on hearing of our consistent moans on our impeding hunger, provided us with a free large Domino's pizza voucher as well as treating us to a fine glass of Tui's to drown our sorrows. A far cry from the loathsome philistines guarding the late night holes by the cobbled streets of the Thames.

Some of you may be curious (and if not, why not) as to how one can fill a day, what without the security of a job or any family or friends to dictate the calendar. Much like Will Freeman in the Nick Hornby novel About A Boy, I fill the void of the passing clock with units of activity to flesh out the bare bones of the waking hours. As an example, here's a brief run through as to how I spent my Monday this week. Not to worry, It's not as thorough as James Joyce's Ulysses:

8am, woken up by camp Israeli groaning in his sleep in dormitory. Take shower. 10 second timer on power jet is infuriating. Utilise posterior to keep water button constant. Hands free to lather and rinse. Dress hurriedly in room. Buy banana from grey haired Asian newsagent. 70 cents. Cheapest banana yet. Walk to Gloria Jeans Coffee House. Order Flat White. Browse Time magazine. Blitz free wi-fi on PSP. Unable to view sites due to lack of memory. Too many special images on my portable. Shan't delete them. Grab sushi at Black Roll. Four pieces. Under $4. Still hungry. Go to Shoe Warehouse. Buy trekking shoes. Kiwi size 10. Orange and brown. Awful. Purchase regular trainers. Make: Sopranos. Kiwi size 8. Pretty bad design. Very economical. Go to Albert Park. Read in the shade of a totara tree. Can't concentrate. Girl beside me speaks at break neck speed to her friend in a high pitch and with subtle lisp. Teenager asks for some water. Provide him with some water. Fills flask. Walks away briskly to his friends. Utilises water for bong. Teenagers smoke bong. Security catches them. Teenagers get arrested. Walk to harbour. Take photos of boats. Photos are dreadful. Delete photos. Go to Right Track bar. Promise to play rerun of Carling Cup Final at 5pm. Break promise. Speak to Italian guy about merits of Serie A. Does not rate Manchester United. Quickly leave. Walk down the High Street. Two Hare Krishna's approach me. Like my name. Invite me to Full Moon party. Dispose of flyer. Dinner at Japanese restaurant Kiraku. Order Gyoza with cabbage and rice. Too much soy sauce. Visit Jax Irish Bar. Promise to play rerun of Carling Cup Final at 8pm. Keep promise. Turn down offer to play Monday Night Bingo with locals. United victorious. Celebrate with caramel sundae from McDonalds. Go to dormitory. Israeli guy already asleep. Israeli guy talking in his sleep. Keep i-Pod on. Sleep.


View from Myers Park out to Judge's Bay

I have resigned to postponing my work commitments (or lack thereof) for now, instead to embark on a bus tour of the North and South islands before the conclusion of summer, beginning early tomorrow morning with Stray travel. A Chinese proverb states that the journey is the reward, but spending time crammed on a coach with an over eager guide may prove a step too far. We'll see.

Auckland - A week in Pictures
I've satisfied my appetite to view some recently released films, and have now seen Shutter Island and Crazy Heart at the local IMAX towards the peak of Queen Street. Shutter Island, the new movie from Martin Scorsese and his current muse, Leonardo Di Caprio, is a film of the unexpected. Scorsese seems to have found a new genre of film, in between Horror, Suspense and Psychological Thriller. http://www.shutterisland.com/

Crazy Heart, which many have dubbed this year's The Wrestler, stars Jeff Bridges as an alcoholic country musician whose star is dramatically on the wane. The score is brilliant (I've always had a soft spot for the slide guitar and charming prose from some of the finer country music performers such as Gram Parsons, Glen Campbell, Johnny Cash and Whiskeytown) and Bridges is excellent - hence his Oscar nod for this year. The film was rather stale though and did not linger in the memory like the redemption and failings that were found in Mickey Rourke's career defining performance in The Wrestler as he sighed "I'm an old broken down piece of meat".

I've also spent a little time in the hostel TV Room, and saw the just above average Yes Man (though I haven't read Danny Wallace's book, so can't really compare). I may have raised this above mediocre because of the co-starring - and once again fine like an Italian wine - Zooey Deschanel. Finally, on a big screen frenzy of a week, I watched Marley and Me (please don't think little of me for this confession) and the hemorrhoid inducing Meet Dave - the Eddie Murphy vehicle where Prince Akeem plays an alien landing on Liberty Island in a quest to find a fallen asteroid.
Oh, dear Lord.