It wasn't all serving
food and cleaning hostels in New Zealand. After I'd had a taste of
what both islands had to offer, I was keen to see more of my
surrounds. Between November and January I managed to do a few trips
away to add to my experience of NZ.
In early October, I
went to the cinema to see 'Two Little Boys', a slightly creepy black
comedy with a very Kiwi feel by South Island based director Robert
Sarkies. The action was all set in and around the Catlins coast, a
small strip along the southernmost edge of the South Island with
Invercargill to the West and Dunedin to the East,. It's an area known
for being a bit 'Deliverance', with no phone signal, scary local
yokels and more 'character' than you can shake a stick at, and it
pretty much lived up to expectations. I wanted to see several
locations from the film including the comically named 'Jack's
Blowhole', and managed to stumble upon a surfing and accommodation
package down on Curio Bay that seemed pretty reasonable. I hired a
car for the weekend and drove the three or so hours down the highway
to check it out. The journey down was pretty uneventful, especially
as there was no stereo jack in my 'Super Saver' hire car from 1974,
so I tried hard not to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of the Kiwi
version of 'Gardener's Question Time' on my way down there.
I took a few snaps of
the coastal drive as I winded my way down roads of utter emptiness.
Desolate, beautiful and undulating hills presented themselves, mixed
with a queasy grey sky. It really was magnificent in its quietness,
and lack of other people.
I managed to find the
hostel, 'Penguin Paradise' in a tiny village just outside Curio Bay.
A friendly French girl and a German girl who looked tired of meeting
and greeting were sitting in the kitchen by an open fire, and told me
to grab any spare bed in the outside dorm. The hostel was warm, cosy,
and by all accounts only had about five other guests. Perfect! I got
chatting to a Canadian girl called Zoe who had popped down for a bit
from Queenstown. We drove down to a nearby lookout point to try and
spot some rare yellow eyed penguins, which was a success after about
fifteen minutes standing in the rain waiting for something to happen.
A pair waddled slowly onto the beach towards their nests, calling to
each other as they went. It was a lovely sight, but one paired with
getting unreasonably wet, so we called it a day to go back and eat
biscuits by the fire. After all, we'd be burning off the excess
calories the next day.
The next day we were up
early and keen to surf. Kitted up in a full on warm and cosy suit,
boots, hood and gloves, I felt ready to take a dip in the freezing
cold Pacific.
Predictably I was
really bad at getting the hang of surfing's most basic principles,
but our teacher Nick was kind and patient, and I decided that
progressing to standing on the board for ten whole seconds was a
minor victory. The others who had come with us were, of course, able
to stand and almost hang ten within about three attempts. This did
not deter my optimism, and when we spotted dolphins in the water with
us, it made my year.
That afternoon I
decided to go for a drive up to Papatowai to check out a museum of
curios that had been recommended by Nick when we were putting our
civvies back on, in full view of the whole beach. I would have been a
bit embarrassed, only there was nobody on said beach, although it was
difficult to hold a towel, try to remove a wetsuit and put a pair of
jeans back on all with two hands. Picture the scene from Mr Bean
where he is changing for a day on the beach. More on Mr Bean in later
posts, by the way.
The drive was fairly
long, but eventually I got to Papatowai to be greeted by The Lost
Gypsy Gallery, an old bus that has been converted by an eccentric man
with a love for inventing things out of rubbish. For $5, I was
entertained for an hour by an exercise bike that converted kinetic
energy into a television picture, several dioramas of varying
weirdness, and a whole lot of shells connected to crank handles that
made funny watery gloopy noises when turned. In all, it was very much
worth it. I wished someone were with me to enjoy the weirdness, but I
feel a series of photographs will illustrate it nicely enough for
you:
A further drive led me
to the DOC maintained Purakanui Falls walk, a ten minute stroll to
some rather lovely waterfalls, and a bunch of people taking pictures
of them. Somewhere in the Catlins, almost busy? What the hell was
going on? I left, winding my way around various bays, taking pictures
and enjoying the end of the earth feeling. Eventually I reached the
one that took me to Jack's Blowhole, which was a good 30 mins or so
along an undulating (read: mostly uphill) track that led to the
natural phenomenon. Allegedly, every so often, the tide is just right
and the sea spurts out from the top, like a whale's blowhole. This
didn't happen this time, but it was impressive all the same, and a
good walk on which to build up an appetite for fish and chips, which
I bought from Owaka, a very odd town to the east of the Catlins
coast. I did get a 'you're not local' speech from the bartender I
ordered my food from, along with an invite from an incredibly drunk
man to go and 'party', followed by the bartender joking that I would
probably get myself killed here. Jolly good. I took my fish and chips
and enjoyed them alone, by a roadside, about as far away from Owaka
as I could get. I will say this for Owaka though, they do lay claim
to 'Teapotland', a creepy-as-hell collection of teapots and dolls in
someone's front garden.
I returned to my
paradisical home to find the fire lit, a space for me on the comfier
sofa, and the remainder of a bar of Whittaker's Macadamia Milk
chocolate in the fridge. Bliss.
The next day I found
surfing a real struggle. I hadn't really appreciated the amount of
physical effort it takes to get on the board, get up and get chucked
off, then have to drag the board back into the sea before. Well, I do
now. I think I managed to stand once, with no real progress to
report. Oh well. I saw some dolphins close by, and a sealion walked
down the beach without so much as a by your leave.
Pretty soon after my
Catlins trip, I found that one of my work buddies, Daniela, wanted to
go 'tramping' on one of the Great Walks. I think I've explained
before, but if I haven't, tramping is hiking. I'll call it tramping
on this post in deference to the Kiwi lingo, but I will try not to
use it too much in real life...
We decided to tackle
the famous Routeburn track, as we'd heard great things about it and
it seemed do-able in the time off that we had. From the topographical
map, it appeared to have less of a steep ascent than the Kepler or
the Milford tracks, and we both agreed this was a good thing. We
managed to organise ourselves pretty well before the off, which is
unusual for me. We had packets of noodles, woolly hats, water
bottles, Cadbury 'Energy' chocolate (can't get it outside of NZ as
far as I know, which is a sad thing indeed), a map and even a couple
of beds for the night, in huts along the route. New Zealand's outdoor
activities are so well-organised and maintained that you could turn
up with a wheely suitcase and still make it from one end of the walk
to the other, safely. I've used this example because according to the
hut ranger on our second night, this actually happened.
We even managed to
score ourselves a free lift, by relocating a car for a local man who
was going tramping with his wife and wanted a car at either end of
the route. He didn't seem to want any payment for it, and wasn't
worried at all when I drove off with his vehicle, him knowing nothing
about me except for my name and phone number. I laughed when I
thought about trying to do that in England – there would definitely
be a deposit involved, some sort of identity check and probably a
contract drawn up between both parties ensuring the vehicle didn't
end up on bricks somewhere on a motorway hard shoulder. Anyway, we
filled it up with petrol for him and bought him some beers to say
thanks, which was probably entirely unnecessary, but I felt guilty
nonetheless.
We arrived at the
Glenorchy end of the route safely, left the car behind and strapped
on our backpacks. For some reason, they were feeling heavier than
when we tested them out at home. I made sure all the straps were
tightened. They were. I lifted the pack onto my back and groaned.
There were 32 kilometres left to go, and it felt like forever after
about five minutes. However, I was distracted by the delightful
appearance of several waterfalls and fast-flowing rivers, even at the
beginning of the walk. It certainly was pretty, and I could see why
people came from thousands of miles away to do it.
Our first river
crossing was hilarious, with Daniela, prepared to the max, using her
walking pole to nimbly skip across. She offered it to me, and I
decided I would probably be ok without it, which of course was a
massive balls-up, as I slipped from a rock into the water and
entirely soaked my left foot. This was about fifteen minutes from the
start of the walk. I decided to take the offer of the walking pole
from that point onward.
Having plotted our
course with regard to our lack of physical fitness, we had given
ourselves about six hours to reach the first hut. Of course, we
reached it within about three hours, and found ourselves at the hut
just after lunchtime. We took in the views, checked out the 'beds',
luxuriously laid out, barracks-style, in bunk beds, and had a quick
look at the falls that gave the hut its Routeburn Falls name.
Suitably impressed, and with lots of time to spare, I decided to go
for a nap. This turned out to be a few hours' kip, and I woke up in
time for dinner, a spectacular three course affair involving packet
soup, packet noodles and a packet of chocolate drink. A kindly soul
cooking next to us had too much instant mashed potato, so we got a
bit of that too. I decided to combine it with the soup as I only had
one bowl and it was going cold. All goes down the same hole, doesn't
it?
We got chatting to a
British guy who was there on his own, and busted out the time
honoured entertainment for any place lacking in electricity and
proper lighting, a pack of cards. Head torches on, we played variants
of 'Shithead' into the evening, and then called it a night at around
9 as we were going to get up early and be on our way to the next hut.
We had been assured that this would be much further and more
challenging than our previous walk, so we decided we ought to be
prepared, Boy Scout style. It also seemed like everyone else had gone
to bed, and it was probably going to be awkward waking them up at
3am, giddy and high from too many games of Chase the Ace.
Waking early, at our
pre-arranged time of 8am, we ate a breakfast of tramping bread and
honey, and set off to hike the Everest that awaited. The walk on this
day was quite terrific. It took us up past large waterfalls and a
beautiful lake that was so still it resembled a mirror and was
surrounded by huge peaks. Most impressive. What was also impressive
was my lack of falling over; only once did I slide gracefully onto my
arse, alarming and amusing a German couple walking ahead of us.
Daniela and I took
copious pictures, the like of which you can see on Facebook, but
here's one to keep the blog interesting:
We ate delicious
Scroggin Mix, a nut, Smartie and raisin combination that ought to
have an award for being the best combination snack, as we reached the
apex of our walk at Harris Saddle. There was an emergency storm
shelter next to the Ultimate Hikes hut that contained small plastic
cups of OJ and biscuits. I ought to explain here – Ultimate Hikes
is a company that will take you on the Routeburn for a horrendous fee
if you are the kind of person who wants to experience outdoor beauty
but are a bit afraid of falling off of a cliff edge by accident. A
nice guide pins badges on you all to keep tabs of you, reassures you
that no cliff edge tumbling will occur if you're not a total numpty,
and leads you to the Ultimate Hikes rest stops and huts which are
separate to and far more luxurious than the DOC huts. These hiking
companies do very well out of people who aren't used to walking, such
as overweight Americans (and other nations of course), and although I
could bang on about the ridiculousness of carpeted huts and needing a
down pillow to rest your precious head on at night, I have to say the
guided hiking companies have their place, and they make good walks
accessible to people who might have been too afraid to tackle them
otherwise.
Anyway, semi-rant over.
We took our lunch on a ledge overlooking our next stop – Lake
Mackenzie and Mackenzie Hut. Lake Mackenzie really is wonderful.
Here's a picture of it being wonderful:
After our rations of
plasticy Pam's Cheese Slices and crackers, along with the life-giving
honey and bread, we stumbled downhill (always so much more difficult
than uphill) towards the part of the walk known as the Fairy Forest,
which looks like an enchanted forest as it's all below the bushline
and the tree trunks are covered in a very dark green moss. This was
pretty tough going after all the uphill climbing and our knees were
complaining quite horribly. It was a treat as we suddenly reached our
destination, quite surprisingly soon after spotting it.
The Brit, James, had
beaten us to it, along with a family we kept bumping into along the
way. We selected the remaining bunks (all the other beds were lined
up along one wall, so you'd literally be sleeping nose to nose with
strangers) and went for a wander down the Split Rock track which
curved towards the campground an on to a massive, well, split rock.
It was mildly entertaining but we were happy to head back to the hut
after a quick nose and photo op at Lake Mackenzie. A cuppa later and
we were soon to have our hut lecture from our comic hut warden, who
told us many a tale (and he did go on for quite some time) about
others who had visited the hut, and what it was like to live so far
away from civilisation. It was all very jolly and entertaining, but
we were thankful to be excused so we could cook up some more
fortifying packet noodles (nutritional value questionable) and
instant mash.
That night, I stuffed
earplugs in as I had noticed a couple with a very young baby arrive.
To their credit, the baby didn't make a sound, and I had to be shaken
awake by Daniela as my phone alarm was going off and I couldn't hear
it. Woops.
The walk on our last
day was great, and mostly downhill! Firstly, though, we encountered a
film crew on the path right outside our hut. The hut warden had
mentioned that Bear Grylls was filming around here, and we might bump
into him. We didn't, but we did have the experience of having the
path blocked by a helicopter, and seeing a harrassed looking runner
carrying a lifesize and like emu costume. We tramped through some
more fairy glen-like scenery and got some great shots of distant
waterfalls, and more close-up waterfalls. We laughed, we cried, we
conquered. We didn't actually cry, by the way, I totally lied about
that.
We ate a lot more
Scroggin Mix, and marvelled at people with bigger backpacks than our
own. Mine was barely carrying anything, me having eaten most of the
provisions and thus lessening the weight on my shoulders (but not the
weight on my arse). We passed a couple of American girls who looked
as though they were carrying a fully sized refrigerator on each of
their backs. When pressed for the reason, it turned out they were
camping, and had tents, rollmats, billy cans and other essential
accessories such as refrigerators to cart about. I was secretly
pleased we had paid through the nose for hut tickets, as the thought
of carrying much more was quickly deadening my pace.
Daniela soon caught a
glimpse of civilsation: a main road! We hurried down the path, and,
although we wanted to reach our final destination and get a snap of
the sign at the end with us entwined around it in victorious ecstasy,
we also wanted to savour the last few steps of the Great Walk. Sooner
than we thought, however, we were lolling towards the end of the
track, where James, and, shortly after us, the American girls stood
taking a few pictures and generally savouring the moment of achieving
a goal.
The adventure didn't
stop there though. We still had to get home, and we were hitchhiking,
as the bus wasn't coming for another three or so hours.
A nice but vaguely dim
girl picked us up about five minutes after we started hitching. She
had come about 120km the wrong way after attempting to drive back to
Invercargill from a friend's in Te Anau, so she kindly picked us up
on her way back and dropped us off in the Middle of Nowhere ie:
Mossburn. A short, but slightly longer while later, a school bus
picked us up. We were shocked when it actually stopped for us, but
the driver let us on and warned us to keep our heads down in case the
police came past. They didn't like strange hitchhikers mixing with
the kids, for some bizarre reason. Conversely, the children
absolutely loved it, and looked with interest and fascination at a
pair of women so clearly ill suited to high intensity physical
activity, wearing hiking gear and carrying backpacks. The kind driver
only took us a little way up the road because she had to turn off,
but we were only waiting five minutes before a man pulled over to
give us a lift all the way back to Queenstown. It turned out he was
relocating cars for walkers on the Routeburn. This is a prime example
of the friendliness and it's-a-small-world-ness of New Zealand,
particularly the South Island. We chatted away to our new pal, and
although he had some slightly eccentric ideas about the Green
policies of the current government and the 'conspiracy' that CFCs
caused the hole in the ozone layer about NZ, he was a pretty nice
chap, and he dropped us off practically at the door of our
destination.
Well, what else could I
do but immediately plan my next tramp? I decided I wanted to try and
attack the Kepler track next, an undulating and fairly challenging
Great Walk accessible via some more creative hitchhiking....... to be
continued (when I am next not half-asleep).
