The Last Go 'Round In Queenstown

Jaclyn had been all suited up and ready to go, her nerves being tested with every passing second as she waited, watching the group before her enter the plane to either have the best experience of their lives or to meet their maker. It had been a brisk morning but by the time we’d gotten through the formalities (like all that safety nonsense) the sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky; a beautiful day to fall at 60 meters per second from 12,000 feet in the air. We all watched the bright red plane take off and go back and forth, increasing in altitude as it went, but then it did something we didn’t expect. It came back. The winds had apparently gone past the threshold required for safe jumping and so everyone had to come back to Earth for a while and wait it out. At first I felt bad for Jaclyn who would have to go through the process of getting herself psyched up all over again, but in her wisdom she pointed out that those unlucky enough to be in the plane and on the precipice of the most monumental leap of their lives were the biggest victims and I concurred. We waited for half an hour while all the instructors played soccer in the hangar only to find out that the entire day was a no-jump day. The day, sadly, was a wash but we drank our troubles away with one of the many bottles of vino we had left over from our Marlborough expedition. To our immense satisfaction the next day was as clear as could be and first thing in the morning Jaclyn was being strapped up all over again. This time we got the pleasure of following the big red plane up through the sky and watching the little specks of white as they turned into human beings in flamboyant jumpsuits floating through the sky like petals in the wind. It’s at that moment when that little spot of color in the sky can be distinguished as be a person that all those waiting to go let out one synchronized ‘holy shit’. Finally, it was Jaclyn’s turn. She, along with 3 others, marched boldly to the plane while I sat on the relative comfort of a picnic table top. I watched the plane as it followed the same path as before and just as it reached the critical height something funny happened. I knew that Jaclyn had drawn the short straw and would be the first out of the plane and I did indeed see one white speck leave the plane and I let out a sigh that was a mixture of relief and pride. The strange thing was that no one else could be seen leaving the plane. Even after she had done her 45 second free fall at terminal velocity and her parachute had been deployed, no other person could be seen to have exited the plane. I could only think of two possible explanations; one is that the next person in line had decided that throwing themselves from a perfectly good plane wasn’t exactly for them, thus ruining it for the next people in line, or two, that the wind had picked up again and they needed to return which would’ve seen Jaclyn in a bit of a pickle. As soon as my little pocket camera could detect her I was filming her descent; for over a minute I captured her floating gently down and finally landing before walking over to me filming and repeating the pre-jump mantra of ‘holy shit’ only this time with a huge smile smeared across her face as opposed to a look of utter terror. Jaclyn got changed out of her jumpsuit and we were strolling back to the van having forgotten about the other jumpers when all three simultaneously swooped in over our heads and landed comfortably in the drop zone. Whatever the reason for the delay, they arrived safe and sound. Thus is the tale of how we started our morning that day before heading off to our final destination. I suppose the one regret I have concerning this massive trip is not saving the best for last. Queenstown would’ve been the place to do it too but the marathon of insanity I partook in last time I passed through kinda left the bar a little high. Still, with but 3 days left of my grand adventure (if you don’t include the 30th and 31st which will be spent globetrotting to various airports without a moment’s peace) Jac and I tried to soak in the experience as much as we could. The last night in Wanaka was the last we’d spend in our faithful little campervan Avatar. She’s been a real gem this whole time, making many a-traveller jelly and being kind to us on the fuel front. We decided to upgrade to a hostel for this last stretch for two reasons; firstly because we wanted the privacy to fully relax and enjoy our time here and secondly because we desperately needed the extra space to store and eventually organize all the shit we’ve bought and need to cart home. Personally, I will be donating the better part of my wardrobe to the good people at the Salvation Army and I have to say I won’t be sad to see a lot of it go having worn most of it far too often over the last 4 and a half months. I’ve even managed to fit all my belongings into my blue backpack despite having brought along an empty guitar case to act as my 2nd checked bag. One thing I insisted on having Jaclyn try was the phenomenon that is Fergburger. We walked by it on our tour of the town and found it just as it was when I was here before; packed. Only this time, there was something new for me to experience! Just next door they had opened a new shop cleverly titled Fergbaker where they’re distributing some of those amazing pies I mentioned before only infused with that same illicit, addictive drug (I’m assuming cocaine) Ferg puts into his burgers that makes them so damn tasty. Naturally we each had a pie for lunch saving the burger for dinner. Speaking of dinner at Fergburger, when was the last time you had been told there would be a 30 minute wait at what is essentially a fast food joint? Only at Fergburger would they dare have the nerve to say that with a straight face and only at Fergburger would you squeeze yourself inside like a pack of sardines and wait like an expecting father for your number to be called. Last time I was here I had gone in with the expectation that I would order the largest burger they had, and I thought that I did, but I was wrong. Mr. Big Stuff, despite the name implying the contrary, is not the largest burger on the menu. Not by a longshot. I rectified my error this time through by purchasing the $17 Big Al, a monstrous creation, presumably forged in the fires of Mount Doom by Sauron himself. It contains every item that your previously favorite burger has except in larger amounts and higher quality. It was a monumental occasion not only because it was easily the best burger I’d ever eaten but also because it holds the distinction of being the only burger that has ever made me full enough to not even want to look at the accompanying side dish. I’d love to tell you that we did something more exciting and productive than eat a burger on our first night in Queenstown but I’d be lying. We had made plans to head to a waterfront pub to watch the final rugby test match between the All Blacks and the Aussies but the burger sent us both into a meat coma which we wouldn’t awaken from until the next morning. On the second day Jaclyn took a 12 hour tour by bus to Milford Sound and I used that time to clean out the van, pack my bags and then just relax. I went down to a café right on the beach with one of the most spectacular views in the world (and I don’t throw that phrase around lightly), sipped a flat white and, inspired, wrote some ideas down into a notebook. I was so comfortable I didn’t notice until the last minute when some crazy person floated over my head in a paragliding apparatus. He had clearly jumped from a mountain top about 10 minutes previously and he executed a perfect landing on the beach not 10m from my table and proceeded to casually stroll into town (I’m assuming to Fergburger). Only in Queenstown would that be an accepted sight. I can’t wait to see what the reckless people here conjure up next in terms of adrenaline activities. I’m sure I’ll come back in a few years to find some company that’s offering to fire you out of a cannon into the sun for $50. Monday, our last day and we’ll be taking a cruise down Lake Wakatipu, playing some Frisbee golf in Queenstown Gardens, maybe even go skating on their ice rink. Jaclyn has been gracious enough to treat me to a classy last meal (that sounds ominous) for being the driver of this extensive road trip. Tomorrow morning we drop old Avatar off at the airport and begin the long journey home. The end has come.

August 23rd to 26th - The Fudge Principle

It was the best kind of déjà vu to be back on the wine trail in Marlborough though I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad worried that those manning their posts at the various cellar doors would remember the tall, pasty Canadian who was there only a few months before demanding all the free wine entitled to him. My worries were for nothing as even those I distinctly remembered didn’t remember me so I was free to sample to my heart’s content and sample I did. I had warned Jaclyn that the close proximity of the wineries means that pacing is very much a real issue. Had it not been for a number of closures for the final days of winter we may not have made it around the first corner as the distributors were being most generous on this lovely afternoon. Since leaving the blizzard-like conditions of Wellington we have been blessed with nothing but pure sunshine and a distinct lack of clouds. This last bit of holiday has been wonderful for the simple reason that choice has flown out the window; I mean this in a positive light so allow me to give you an example. We had just finished a giant lunch under the shade of an overhang and were consulting the map as to our next destination when a sign promoting a fudge factory caught my eye. It has come to pass that we no longer hold debate in our minds and weigh the pros and cons of a yes or a no decision, before our brains can process these things we have been in and out of said fudge factory with multiple flavors each. It didn’t matter that we were both immensely full after our big lunch, it was a matter of principle; if you are on a holiday and you see fudge you buy it, even if just to take a small piece and throw the rest away. We could’ve justified it by taking into account the ungodly amount of biking we did that afternoon but I’m talking about all the other times we were faced with similar decisions. At the beginning of a holiday you must withhold the thought process and go through with the something amazing yet essentially unnecessary like sky diving, at the end of a holiday the same applies to candy and baked goods. Anyway, just like last time we were unable to drink that sweet nectar without purchasing a bottle or two, or 8, which did require a small bit of justification which was found in the form of the souvenir. Ah yes, the souvenir, the delight of everyone else but the bane of my existence. Jaclyn has put me to such shame picking up everything from tea towels to possum fur nipple warmers for people ranging from grandparents to piano teachers. Not as if they needed her custom; the New Zealand knick knack industry is thriving as tourists congregate by the busload and pay through the roof for little stuffed kiwis bearing t-shirts that say ‘sweet as!’ or some other kiwi catchphrase. That being said, if this had been an off year for this particular industry then Ms. Fedorus would singlehandedly be putting these shop owners children through college with her many contributions. The upside to this for you the reader, which I now assume is limited to family and very close friends, is that it has prompted me to follow suit though with a noticeably larger amount of selectivity. Sorry neighbour’s children and 3rd cousins, you shall not be receiving a shirt with a sheep in sunglasses with the slogan ‘baaah’d to the bone’, not from me leastways. Despite our wishes to provide all of you with your own bottle of classy wine we realized that we wouldn’t be able to bring them all back into Canada with us. We therefore are faced with the arduous yet delicious chore of polishing off 4 bottles over 4 days so that our purchases were not in vain. With Christchurch still being under the weather and recipient of the world’s lumpiest roads award we spent a fine evening along the beach and away from most of the destruction watching The Two Towers over one of said bottles. Rather than linger we pushed off aimlessly southwards and into Central Otago’s Lake District. We put many miles under our treads that day, powered by sushi and chocolate milk, and made it all the way to Wanaka. We took the scenic route and stopped for photos and videos at all sorts of glacial lakes including a lunch break overlooking Mount Aoraki/Cook, the tallest mountain in New Zealand and the one that kiwi icon Sir Edmund Hillary cut his teeth on before becoming the first man to climb Mount Everest. I had wished to get some video of me playing ukulele in the presence of the mountain but to our horror we discovered that we had left the little guy on a log on the beaches of Christchurch. I proposed that there was a bright side; there would now be more room in our luggage for wine, but it was a small consolation. We will now have to pick up a better ukulele in Queenstown to replace our fallen brethren. That is of course if Jaclyn survives today! By which, of course, I mean her first ever (and probably only) skydiving experience! Since you have to take a mortgage out on your home to afford even the most basic jump package I will be jumping vicariously through Jaclyn and I’ll get to fix the mistake I made last time; not filming the experience! Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, the good folks who delight in hurling people 12,000 feet from airplanes will be kind enough to allow me near the drop zone so I can get all Spielberg with my angles and create a compelling documentary. This video and picture montage I will be putting together upon my return will be nothing if not random but it will feature bungee jumps, skydives and me juggling pinecones while singing in front of the tallest mountain in New Zealand. I expect to sweep the Oscars.

August 16th to 22nd - Swanky Suites > Savage Seas

They called it a ‘once in a lifetime’ event; we call it routine. Yes, there was snow falling in Wellington (and even a little in Auckland), yes these cities are at sea level and yes it was all more than a bit out of the ordinary but while we Canadians got over it in a matter of seconds, it clearly was a bigger deal to New Zealanders. My old housemate Elspeth would always laugh at how the kiwi news programs love to dwell on the most inconsequential happenings around the country and then proceed to repeat them ad nauseum as if doing so will increase their worthiness to air. Two fine examples being the penguin that washed up on the Kapiti Coast which was needlessly named ‘Happy Feet’ and the scandalous scandal concerning the price of the All Blacks jersey on the local market (which saw some die-hards burning Adidas flags in the streets). This just goes to confirm that life moves a bit slower down here and that even people as nuts for rugby as kiwis can only stomach so many reports on the upcoming World Cup. Anyway, back to my tale of whimsy and wonder. The last you heard from our intrepid hero he was stuck in Wellington by a certain weather phenomenon that had the country in an uproar. Streets were barricaded and shops closed for business meaning we were essentially stuck indoors while we waited for the seas to calm. Jaclyn knitted and I wrote joke tunes on the guitar and before we knew it two whole days had passed and we were still no closer to the South Island than before. We decided to make a push on the Wednesday morning even though we called the ferry company who could only offer us something vaguely resembling an answer in response to our inquiries about the safety of a Cook Strait crossing. We left our van waiting in the queue to stock up on supplies for the journey and my umbrella blew itself inside out. A little side note here; for those of you that don’t know, kiwis love their pies. I’m not talking about apple or blueberry or the kind you find cooling on the windowsill of Grandma’s house but those of the mini, on-the-go and filled with savoury filling variety. It would be sacrilegious for a corner store (or ‘dairy’ as they’re known colloquially) to not have a hot box of heated shelves full of little meat pies. I mention this because I, along with Jaclyn, have fallen in love with this particular convenience, especially the butter chicken ones. If ever you get a chance to experience some kiwiana, you’ll be directed to either the standard meat pies or the bacon and egg, but trust me, in this every changing multi-cultural society of ours, butter chicken pies are the wave of the future. So we have our pies and we have our ferry tickets and we’re sitting in the van waiting for the go ahead. The strange thing is…it doesn’t come. We get requested to wait inside the terminal before a judgement call can be made because on what one dock worker reports as ‘8 meter swells’. Now I’m no sea salt but even I know that an 8m wave must be bloody dangerous so, speaking as someone who gets seasick on a waterbed, I’m thrilled at the prospect of postponing the crossing for another day. After an hour delay we are herded onto the boat where we are made to wait another 4 hours. Luckily (or, as some, myself included, would say, unluckily) for us they were kind enough to screen free Disney movies so we passed the time watching such Lindsay Lohan gems as Herbie Fully Loaded. Don’t watch it, Herbie wins, Lohan kisses the love interest, it’s appalling. I think the bigwigs at Bluebridge Ferries eventually realize that it’s mostly freight workers on board so they decide to say ‘best of luck’ to the general public and we go and attempt the crossing. The next 4 hours can be summarized as me lying on a bench much too small for my large frame, sweating and cursing Poseidon and all other sea deities I can remember, passing in and out of some nauseated existence some might call consciousness. All the while the ship (and a mighty large one at that) is getting tossed around like a rag doll by waves the size of apartment buildings. The greatest achievement of the evening wasn’t that we made it across but that I don’t vomit all over the poop deck. After recuperating in the port town of Picton we set off on the Queen Charlotte track. Even if I hadn’t been subjected to the nightmare that was the Lake Waikeramoana Great Walk I still would’ve looked favorably enough on this walk to include it in the top 5 highlights of my trip. For many miles after passing the Cook Strait before reaching Picton, one finds themselves in the Marlborough Sounds. A sound being identical to a fjord except that it is not glacial in origin. These fingers of land extend out from the mainland in all directions, some breaking off into sizeable islands but all sharing in one awesome commonality; private, secluded and picturesque bays. There are so many individual bays in the sounds that people who have built holiday homes on their shores have been able to apply their family names to them. We were taken by water taxi to the start of the walk at a particular bay in what is known as Ship Cove and the driver pointed out ‘Smith Bay’ and ‘Johnson Bay’, named solely for the family smart enough to have built a house there first. The best part is, being as there are so many, there is no overcrowding and so there exists this fascinating little community interspersed around the Sounds that get their goods and mail by boat and can enjoy solitude while still having a keen sense of camaraderie with the like-minded fellows about the waterways. It only cost us an extra $10 or so per night to stay at proper lodges as opposed to Department of Conservation huts but we had no idea what to expect since we knew they were only accessible by water. Let’s just use the metaphor of my head exploding to describe the accommodation. I mean this in the best way possible. Our first stop was the anti-Shining; a 120 person remote lodge where we were the only guests and as such, were upgraded to a luxury suite. Whereas our first night on the Great Walk we came perilously close to hypothermia, this go round we came perilously close to relaxing ourselves to death. The suite had two couches, a semi stocked fridge, one of the fanciest beds I’ve ever slept in (complete with electric blankets) and a shower the size of my house back in Edmonton. We felt like such rich playboys that we indulged on a dinner of Blue Cod and pumpkin with an apple and rhubarb crumble for dessert which cost as much as the room itself! The common room even had a piano and since there was no one else there to be annoyed by our musical indulgences we indulged away until we could indulge no more. This trend of excellent accommodation continued; we were always the only ones there and we always had million dollar views. The walk had its share of beautiful views as well and I would go so far as giving it 10 out of 10 were it not for one incident. It was the last evening of the walk and we were relaxing on the couch, watching TV and eating dinner at the same time. I had just finished my main course and fancied a bit of the dessert I’d packed myself; a lovely tin of rice pudding. Seeing as we were the only ones there and being that I am a filthy male I saw no reason why I shouldn’t lick the excess sauce off the lid of the tin. In my state of uber-relaxation I somehow managed to slice a significant piece of my tongue off on the razor sharp lid. I ran to the bathroom and immediately applied pressure while pinching off the wound with many layers of toilet paper. As this was the end of my tongue I still had the ability to communicate somewhat and I tried to explain the situation to Jaclyn. Now they say that laughter is the best medicine but I’m inclined to disagree because when Jaclyn sat there laughing at me it wasn’t as if I suddenly got a spring in my step. She did inform me that the tongue heals the fastest out of all body parts so in saying so she put my mind at ease and did her part (I suppose). Within an hour it had stopped bleeding and I was back to eating my supremely average rice pudding. Those 4 days of walking flew by and we have now moved on to Blenheim aka wine country. As this is getting a bit on the long side I shall end it here for now and fill you in on our wine adventures another time. 1 week to go; that’s both liberating and terrifying.

August 10th to 15th - Stranded!

It was the dawn of our first full day in Wellington and, trying ever so hard to be good, we went for a run and ate a decently healthy breakfast and enjoyed a late start to a full day. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect; each day we had a short activity or two to keep us busy during the day and every evening some form of entertainment was already booked and paid for, creating a stress-free, planned and precise sequence of events that went off without a hitch. I showed Jaclyn the giant squid at Te Papa, we had flat whites and chai lattes at countless trendy cafes on Cuba Street and Courtenay Place and we went souvenir shopping for friends and family. We hit all the Wellington hotspots like the botanical gardens, the cable car and the Mount Victoria lookout. All these things we enjoyable but all paled in comparison to our car journey around the outer bays that led us to the Weta Cave. If you know anything about Jaclyn and I at all then you’ll know we are huge Lord of the Rings nerds, capable of holding our own in any quotation battle or marathon viewing session. With Wellington being the site of much of the filming of the trilogy and the home of Peter Jackson’s props and post-production studio, we were naturally inclined to poke our heads into as much of these areas as we could. Weta is the company that made all the props and costumes for the trilogy as well as did all the special effects so we went down to their mini-museum for an insider’s peek. While browsing their collectables we overheard an employee telling some friends about his work on the upcoming Hobbit films; it wasn’t anything particularly juicy but it was interesting to hear him divulge that he’d been ‘designing orcs for almost 3 years already’ for the films. Such vast amounts of time and detail will surely result in a quality film I should think; the task is in good hands. We each purchased a book signed by famous members of the LOTR film project and left more than satisfied. Our evenings were an eclectic mix of theatre, sport and film. We saw a Canadian man perform Shakespeare’s Macbeth in Simpson’s voices; his Homer was a little weak but the fact that he did about 50 others, rapidly switching between them at a whim made it a thoroughly enjoyable experience. The rugby we watched at WestPac stadium was excellent simply because the home team demolished the opposition (that and because we got mini donuts). One afternoon we went to a chocolate festival where we did so many tastings I was sure I would enter a diabetic coma. I bought so much chocolate that I had to bring some to my flatmate at work just so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat it later. Though all these things I’ve mentioned were great, I think I enjoyed myself most at the International Film Festival. We saw two comedies, The Trip and The Guard, and one drama called ‘Drive’. We were lucky because all three screened at the Embassy theatre. I guess Mr. Jackson pumped a whole whack of money into a grand refurbishment of the place and now it stands as this super-classy one screen gem at the end of Courtney Place where you can get anything from popcorn to wine before settling into a wide seat in the most beautiful seating area in a movie theatre that I’ve ever seen. I must say, it’s an experience. All three movies were special; the first two were able to make me laugh in that particular way that is both painful and enjoyable at the same time whereas the final one had me as tense as humanly possible with its mix of beauty and graphic violence. I highly recommend them all and will be seeing them again at the first opportunity. As a final farewell to my mates we went out for a solid night of drinking at a bar that featured $4 pints all night (about $3 Canadian aka dangerously cheap). Normally I’m a lightweight but I put back a whole lot of beer while maintaining my composure all night. We switched to the only Welsh pub in the Southern Hemisphere around 1am to watch the rugby test match between Wales and England. There was a hearty uproar when Wales won and we stayed out celebrating until 4am. I learned two life lessons that night; that there are worse things in life than being the only guy in a crew of 7 and that Subway is even more delicious when enjoyed at 3 in the morning. We awoke this morning with the intention of getting on the ferry to the South Island, we even had bookings for a boat transfer onto the Queen Charlotte Track but as luck would have it we are in the middle of ‘the worst weather to hit Wellington in 40 years’. In Canadian terms, this is a mild snowfall, but over here its pandemonium. The ships won’t sail across the Cook Strait and we were forced to get refunds on our crossing as well as our walk accommodations. I guess there are worse places in the world to be stranded than in Wellington but I can’t say I was looking forward to being caught in a blizzard anywhere in this country, I get enough of that at home. We’re going to wait out the snow here which has been forecasted to last 2-3 more days and make cuts to our itinerary accordingly. There is lightning flashing outside the window now so I better end this and post it soon before we lose power!

August 5th to 9th - Coming Home Before Going Home

As much fun as it was to squeeze myself through exceptionally tight spaces 30m below the Swiss cheese hills of the Waitomo area I wasn’t keen to dish out another $150 to relive the experience. It was, however, something I couldn’t let Jaclyn miss out on so we made the slight detour northwest and while she was being frightened to death on a caving expedition I stayed back at the farmhouse hostel and did absolutely nothing. It was heavenly. My body was screaming at me after that full day of skiing and my face was threatening to fall off from the vast sunburn so I soaked up every last second of nap time I had afforded myself. There’s nothing like a double bed with an electric blanket to one’s self after weeks in a cramped van. I had considered doing a nature hike to kill some time before Jaclyn returned but then I discovered that the television had more than the standard four channels and so I glued myself to the recliner with a mug of tea, shut the blinds and had a fantastic time watching Letterman reruns. Just as Simon had stayed back and cooked us a gourmet feast upon our return from the caves, I whipped together a massive dinner of ribs, bruschetta and salad for Jaclyn and I. It was also my first foray into the use of dukkah, the heavenly concoction of spices I bought from the winery in the Bay of Plenty. Jaclyn thought I was joking when I said I liked it so much that I intended to use it on everything; I wasn’t. From sandwiches to zucchini to pasta, I slather my food in dukkah because everything tastes better with it. Naturally I will be ordering an industrial sized box of the stuff upon my return to Canada. A solid 11 hour sleep later and we were off on the road to New Plymouth. The particular highway we took was my old nemesis; the ill-fated site of my flat tire. This time through I drove like a grandma, avoided all the rocks and managed to cut my travel time in half (not stopping at the brewery along the way also helped). Having healed my weary bones I was excited to get back out to nature and enjoy some hikes up and around Mt. Taranaki though, as luck would have it, the entire mountain was obscured by cloud and rain the entire time we were in the area. We had to improvise something else to do but that’s surprisingly easy in New Plymouth. The city of 70,000 does remarkably well for itself and has the luxury of many amenities you wouldn’t expect for a city of its size. Since we’d been apart from a proper city for a little while we opted to head into the city center for a little night life. We found a classy tapas bar and found the All Blacks test match against the Wallabies playing on the big screen. We arrived just in time to see New Zealand do the haka, a pre-game dance ritual that is both a welcome and a challenge to the opposing team (though I can’t imagine anyone feeling very welcomed after a haka). Even watching it on TV gave me the shivers; if I were an Aussie at that time I would’ve been soiling my undergarments. The slow motion panning of the camera across the players’ faces reveals such intensity that it’s hard not to be moved. The kiwis dominated the first half and after 80 minutes they ended up with a solid 20 point victory over their rivals from across the ditch. The following day we laughed off the rain and did what was advertised as a 3 hour walk by the Department of Conservation at the foot of the mountain. I think we are seasoned vets by now because we breezed through it in an hour and a half. With so much time left in the day we went to the city gardens and played guitar in the sun. By some strange twist of fate, the 3 hour parking pass we bought managed to flip itself upside down on our dashboard and so we found a $40 parking violation between our wipers upon our return. I asked for advice on how to handle the situation at the visitor information center and they recommended that since we were leaving the next morning that we just not pay it (which was fine by us). I’m going to take the sensible route and write a letter along with our pass and violation as evidence to clear our good names. That last evening in New Plymouth we realized that we had arrived in the middle of their International Arts Festival so we booked front row seats for the local production of ‘C’mon Blacks!’, a one man act about a rural kiwi going on his first trip abroad to the Rugby World Cup in South Africa where the Springboks famously beat the kiwis in overtime. It amounted to nearly two hours of watching an overweight kiwi sweat, swear and drink beer while throwing around rugby terminology that made our heads spin but sweet merciful crap was it ever entertaining. The natural cheek and charisma of New Zealand was masterfully displayed and I thoroughly enjoyed myself despite not understanding half of what was said. The plan for the following day was to freedom camp somewhere around Palmerston North, the location of the New Zealand’s rugby museum. Upon arrival in the city we found out it was closed for renovations; we also found out that Palmerston North is frightfully lacking in things to do. Upon my recommendation we pushed forward to Wellington and it turned out to be an excellent decision. Little did we know but the arty side of Wellington was in full swing for this period we find ourselves here. The International Film Festival is in town; we have already seen The Trip and have tickets for two more films including the one on closing night. There is a food festival going on and we bought tickets for the exhibition devoted exclusively to chocolate. We have tickets to ITM cup rugby tonight with Wellington taking on Northland and we’ll have the opportunity to catch a couple former All Blacks in action. Tomorrow night we have tickets for MacHomer, a one man act from a Canadian guy who loosely does Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the voices of the Simpson’s characters. It really summed up Wellington nicely for Jaclyn and reaffirmed that maybe at some point in the future I could ditch the Edmon for the Welling, keep the ‘ton’ and still fit in nicely. It has been an especially nice homecoming after going out with all the flatmates last night and getting 2nd place (out of 13) at a big pub quiz. Admittedly Brendan did use his Iphone for 2 questions but I still say we earned our $30 bar tab prize.

August 3rd and 4th - Fresh Powder on Mount Doom

Continuing my plan to hit as many places I missed on my first go round as possible we headed northwest from Napier towards Lake Taupo. The lake is picturesque by itself but when combined with Mt. Ruapehu at its southern tip it makes for quite a sight. It was a little windy that afternoon so we decided to forego something on the water in favour of indulging our inner tourist at some specialty shops. One notable stop was a massive store dedicated to honey and honey related accessories where we got more than our daily dose of sugar at their free tastings and capped off the experience with some ‘fig honey’ ice cream. I had a hankering for some rock climbing 45 minutes south in Turangi to wear off my sugar high but to maximize our time on the slopes of Mount Doom the next day we decided to push back to my old haunt of Ohakune, the base for my river journey back in June. The Jasper-esque town is more happening now that ski season is in full swing so we actually got to go out and watch some rugby that evening rather than be confined to the cramped quarters of our Spaceship. We’d gotten conflicting reports from locals as to which of the two ski hills to choose but it was ultimately decided by the emphatic persuasion of the adrenaline junkies working at the rental shop that we go to Whakapapa over Turoa to catch the most rays. I got laughed at a little bit by these gentlemen as, being used to skiing in bitterly cold Canada, I was bundled up in an unsanitary number of layers to the point where my boots wouldn’t do up. Suffice it to say that the guys at the rental shop were right about Whakapapa getting more sun; my face got burnt to a crisp. It took only one run for me to remove all but two of my layers but after that I was in alpine heaven. New Zealand skiing is drastically different than say Marmot Basin. Firstly, there are no trees, secondly there are lots more rocks and ice and lastly, you get to ski up in the clouds. The day was a lovely slice of nostalgia, the only downfall being me not heeding the warnings for sunscreen and the overpriced muffin I purchased during a break. The Aussie woman working the concession told me I had a southern accent (think Texas, not Invercargill) which came out of left field. Despite the differences the core components of alpine skiing here are the same as in Canada; the lifties all have those catchphrases that only people really relaxed in a job they love have (‘sweet as’ and ‘cheers bro’ come to mind), you see kids who couldn’t be a day older than 4 that are carving down the hill at breakneck speed but amazingly in perfect control, and you even have the forced, awkward conversation with strangers on the chairlifts (though with kiwis it’s really easy to have a laugh). All the chairlifts had jokes written on their safety bars whose punch lines were all snow and ice puns, it made it easy to…break the ice…with any strangers you rode with (see what I did there?). We got a solid 7 hours in and no one could argue we didn’t get our money’s worth. We celebrated with an Ohakune après-ski staple; the Mountain Kebab. We’d gotten them after our river journey too, basically a well prepared flatbread full of beef, veggies, cheese, and any combination of sauces you could dream of. We were so ravenous from that full day of skiing that we weren’t satisfied with just the kebab; we did a late night supermarket run and got a random assortment of items to make the day complete. I had the strangest cravings at that time which saw my 2nd dinner consist of Cluster Crisp cereal, coleslaw, and pretzels but whatever, it was glorious and I felt more satisfied than I had in quite some time. Today I drove us north to the Waitomo Caves and am having myself a much deserved day of rest in a hostel I have all to myself while Jaclyn goes exploring in the caves amidst the glow worms. I’m surprising her with a dinner of bruschetta, salad, and ribs with a vanilla custard dessert because I am just that awesome. After all this rest, a gourmet meal in my belly and a solid 10 hours in the rack I think my face will have healed sufficiently that I won’t have to amputate it for a new one and we can tackle a couple epic walks up Mount Taranaki. One last thought…that day of skiing Mount Doom was my 100th day in New Zealand and it feels like only a blink. The saying that time flies when you are having fun has never been more apt. Regardless, I’ll see you all in 3 and a half weeks and the fun times shall continue.

August 1st and 2nd - Art Deco Awesomeness

The burger with which we celebrated our survival of the Great Walk was appropriately titled the ‘Bastard’. It had everything; beef, bacon, avocado, beetroot, mango, relish, you name it. It was so big that the restaurant had to invent a foldable piece of cardboard that you used to grip it properly. It was a sweet affirmation of life after our trials and tribulations in the wild and rejuvenated me enough that I felt I could get back out and do it all over again (if only for another gloriously oversized meal I would undoubtedly consume at the finish). I hadn’t been to the Hawke’s Bay region on my first tour through the country and it really is a shame; Kelsey would’ve loved Napier for its art deco vibe and quirky clothing stores. After being destroyed by the country’s largest earthquake in the 1930’s Napier rebuilt itself in the above mentioned style and clearly put lots of thought and effort (and money) into making their city a beautiful place for the public to enjoy. The beachfront stretches for miles and instead of being burdened with tacky souvenir shops or the like it is separated from the main drag by row after row of gardens and courtyards where people lounge by fountains and sculptures and enjoy the region’s large amount of annual sunshine. We decided to indulge ourselves with a bit of shopping and specialty coffee before finding a vacant stretch of beach to have a little acoustic jam. While searching for parking we noticed a rental car that belonged to the only other people we met on the Great Walk, Matt and Paula from Michigan. We left a note on their windshield about potentially meeting up which I worried they would mistake for a parking ticket as they were in a 30 minute zone. We managed to find one another shortly thereafter and then spent a good half hour searching for someplace that would serve us pints at 11:45am on a Monday. After giving the Americans a crash course in kiwi brew I condensed all my knowledge of New Zealand into note form for Matt to try and give them some ideas for their holiday. I had lots of respect for that couple as they did the Great Walk in one less day than we did and camped outside rather than stay in the huts. They were definitely made of sturdier stuff than Jaclyn or I (and it helped that they came prepared with the proper knowledge and equipment). We walked back to our respective vehicles where we found that the Americans did indeed get a parking ticket, though over here they only cost you $10 so it’s almost worth it as it gets you the prime real estate. They headed south for Wellington as we found a holiday park and camped for the night. The next morning we headed to Napier’s twin city called Hastings to rent bikes and check out some of the areas famous wineries. We ended up in a small village called Havelock North where we cut a deal with the local information site to rent their bikes for about $6/hour and headed out into the country. It was a lovely sunny day and it was nice to casually ride out amidst the fields with Mount Doom looming off on the horizon. In our relaxed state of mind an hour went by before we reached the first winery. Just like in the Marlborough region the wine was too good not to purchase a bottle and Jaclyn and I each got a Riesling for our celebrations in Wellington. We were cutting it close timing wise but opted to try one last winery before heading back. The fellow manning the cellar door at this final place was a young chap named Simon who we ended up talking to for about half an hour on how he got into the business. He told us he had dropped out of school at 16 only to later discover a passion for wine and instead of becoming a wino in the derogatory sense of the term he pulled up his socks and went back to school to get a degree pertaining to the chemistry of the wine making process. In addition to some spot on reds, his winery produced olive oils, spices and sauces, all of which were bloody brilliant. We ended up buying more than we could carry so Simon offered to bring all our purchases into town with him when he got off work (a true kiwi gentleman). We hustled back to make the deadline for the bike drop off and killed the rest of the afternoon playing music in the village square. Simon came on time, as promised, and with our new items we cooked one massive feast of lamb shanks, sausage, kumara, sauerkraut, onions, mushrooms, salad, and pinot noir. I haven’t the foggiest idea where I am right now, some small hamlet on the east coast that happened to have a handy campground. We will be making for Lake Taupo in a couple of hours and then after that, skiing on Mount Doom!

July 28th to 31st - The Deathening

Albeit an admiral undertaking in the heart of winter, the Lake Waikeremoana Great Walk was unfortunately almost a complete disaster. The DOC ranger responsible for administering our hut passes was incredulous to our lack of knowledge concerning things as simple as the direction in which we intended to walk, though in our minds we weren’t there to think, just to walk. We figured we’d be able to hitch a ride to the beginning of the track with one of the regular tour operators but it came down to the last one on the list and even he was hard pressed to leave his home at this time of the winter to drive us. One of the few things we did do correctly in preparation for this undertaking was pack enough food though only because we got greedy at the supermarket with all the snacks that caught our eyes. So it was that we set off at 8am on Thursday morning on what would be a real test of our limits. The driver warned us that the track started with a massive uphill hike that was as frustrating as it was difficult because it continually deceived one into think they’d reached the peak when really they had not. I started the morning in three layers and a rainproof jacket but was down to a t-shirt only 10 minutes in despite suggesting we ‘’have a quick rest every half hour’’. If it weren’t for the spectacular panoramic views I might not have made it through that first day. We climbed to a cliff over 1100 meters in elevation that zigzagged through muddy, treacherous forest, all the while toting packs stuffed to the brim with snacks and multiple clothing layers. I was particularly feeling the strain as my pack had a few broken straps keeping it from staying upright properly which made the fact that it had our camping stove in it a…well, a bitch. When we finally reached the hut (otherwise only accessible by helicopter) I felt lightheaded. It was only then that we realized we had forgotten our cooking pot back at the motor camp where we’d left our vehicle. Luckily for us someone had left an old clunker of a pot behind and so we were able to cook our spaghetti dinner with a reasonable amount of dignity. That night was actually quite nice at first; we were exhausted but content after wolfing down copious amounts of pasta and chocolate which was followed by reading by candlelight. The elevation combined with the snow outside should’ve been a clear indication that we were in for a really cold night but we weren’t prepared for what was to come. We hauled the sleeping mats over by the fire and were able to fall asleep but were awake by 2am freezing our buns off. We were forced to build a heat trapping fortress in the darkness and I ended up wearing 5 pairs of socks and sticking my legs through the arms of my jacket. Regardless of our efforts it was a long night; a very real risk of hypothermia existed due in part to a finicky fire and our lack of sleeping bag but we somehow survived, physically fine but mentally shaken. It was a treat to boil our drinking water in the morning because we could hold the bottles in our hands and warm our frozen fingers. We once again devoured our meal; we were absolutely ravenous after using up so much body energy remaining properly heated. It actually felt nice to be walking again because it meant we could feel our toes once more. As I learned on my England walk, going downhill can sometimes be harder than up if it continues for long enough. My knees were starting to feel the burn and I was in a bit of a foul mood. The deity of the forest took pity on us and granted us a hot, short day and by 1pm we were at the 2nd hut, at lake level, basking in the afternoon sun. We applied all the lessons we’d learned from the previous night to avoid another disaster. I built us a heat fortress and insulated it with unused mats. I used some of the precious propane fuel to heat my hot water bottle and after emptying out my backpack I placed it inside to warm my feet as the backpack became a makeshift mini sleeping bag. We kept the hut fire running all afternoon so that our room would be as warm as could be and I actually managed to get a somewhat decent sleep that night. Jaclyn may shoot me if she reads this but the only thing stopping me from sleeping through the night was her snoring. After I remarked upon it she claimed that I was snoring too though I haven’t been told I’ve done that in years (and she’s done it every night!). I can forgive her nocturnal nasal noises because she can make a mean fire, and that kept me alive. Day three saw us walk the equivalent of a half marathon and it teetered back and forth between pleasure and insanity. The straps of my backpack cut into my shoulders at times making the hills unbearable but the vistas at breaks were exceedingly beautiful. Dinner and breakfast were the same as the past two nights, pasta for the former and oatmeal for the latter. We mutually agreed to indulge our gourmet fantasies upon our return to civilization. We settled upon burgers and shakes which we are leaving to get shortly. The good news is we didn’t die; the bad news is that with a little more careful consideration, the walk could’ve been a lot better than it was. That being said, I would still whole heartedly recommend it but do it in summer and take an extra day to fully appreciate the surroundings. We drove to Napier after finishing up today and, perhaps on account of my tiredness, I almost got us killed in a roundabout. I was listening to Jaclyn as she searched for street signs to give directions to our hostel and at the last second we realized I was in the wrong lane. I indicated to go left but didn’t notice the roundabout had started already and so I went in looking in the direction opposite to that of oncoming traffic. Luckily Jaclyn shouted in time and I swerved to miss a van coming right at us. I hopped up on a curb and came to a halt about a foot from a streetlamp. I’m sure to anyone watching it was a huge nail biter but I’m inclined to forget the whole episode. We survived, no one got hurt and we can forget and move on. This burger I’m about to devour is well deserved. After all the stupid things I’ve subjected myself to in the past three months, it would’ve been a shame to go in a low speed car wreck but for now I’m just going to call it another item in the laundry list of near death experiences that have happened to me in New Zealand.

July 25th to 27th - A Wizard Is Never Late

We set off on the Southern Motorway from Auckland just as I had so many weeks before only this time we drove past the turnoff to the Coromandel Peninsula and into the interior where we made for the town of Paeroa. The sole purpose of our stop there was so that we could get a bottle of their famous soft drink, L & P direct from the source. The ‘L’ stands for lemon and the ‘P’ stands for, you guessed it, Paeroa. It came into existence after the discovery of a clear spring running right underneath the town center and some bloke getting the idea to ruin perfectly clean water by saturating it with sugar, over 60 grams of sugar per bottle to be exact. Regardless of its nutritional properties, L &P is like Sprite’s larger, angrier and tastier brother. Each small town in New Zealand seems to have erected a giant statue of some food item by their welcome sign and I wouldn’t be surprised if the giant L & P bottle on the main street of Paeroa was the catalyst for that ritual. With excessive amounts of sugar flowing through our systems we made for Matamata. What was once an average sized farming town of a few thousand people has turned into somewhat of a tourist hotspot for one simple reason; The Lord of the Rings. A few kilometers up the road is the farm which was transformed into Hobbiton for the first and last films in the trilogy and it seems everyone in town has seized the golden opportunity to cash in on the namesake. While perusing the main street looking for a loaf of bread we found a place called Hobbit Sushi, it was shameful. Equally as shameful is the price we paid to take the official tour of the movie set but I won’t get into figures here. A brave few of us hopped onto their bus which they’d named Gandalf and took off down the road. We’d been forced to sign a confidentiality agreement with respect to any pictures or video we took and I plan to respect their wishes because after meeting the tour guide we found out that he and 20 other people would be out of work if their secrecy was compromised and I can’t have that on my conscience. The tour inexplicably began with a sheep shearing demonstration; it was something to just kill time while the previous tour group was picked up but it was still rather impressive and you’d have to have a heart of stone to not be happy bottle feeding a baby lamb. Once we entered the active set the tour guide asked as all sorts of trivia questions and everyone pretended not to know the answers (though we obviously all did but were too embarrassed to admit the extent of our love for Tolkien). It worked out fine though, the tour guide got to feel good about being knowledgeable and we got to keep our dignity. It was definitely surreal to see some of those places from the films in reality, the amount of detail the production team went into to give the place an aged look is nothing short of astounding. We heard stories about crazy Tolkien fanatics who could recite pieces of the story from memory and would put the set under intense scrutiny. We also heard tales about the lengths Peter Jackson went for authenticity like spending tens of thousands of dollars on a tree mentioned in one line of the book that got maybe a few seconds of screen time. I don’t regret for one second spending all that money on the tour, it was magical. I didn’t think it possible but I’m now even more excited to see the Hobbit films as I’ve seen firsthand the effort that’s going into making them amazing. After the tour we decided to push onto Tauranga where we would make camp at the base of Mount Maunganui such that we could climb it first thing in the morning. It was only 6:30 or so when we arrived but had been pitch black for almost an hour. I was aware of the effect this would have on Jaclyn as she couldn’t see the ocean only 20 meters away and couldn’t see the hulking behemoth that is Mount Maunganui right outside our doors. I’d never stayed in a holiday park before and I’ve certainly been missing out. For the equivalent of about $13 Canadian we got a little plot of land right on the first bits of grass touching the beach where we had access to electricity and all the amenities of a good hostel. We cooked a well-deserved dinner in the kitchen before rearranging our spaceship into sleep mode. This thing is cooler than cool; we were warm and cozy in our roomy back area, hot water bottles under our feet, tea in our hands with a DVD player showing The Fellowship of the Ring and a portable heater plugged into the provided power source. The best of part of all was we got to wake up to the sunrise over the beach. The morning’s hike was something we didn’t do the last time I was here and it’s a shame because the views over the Bay of Plenty are stunning as my photos will attest to. The hike was a difficult one but we celebrated by finishing off the last of our Lemon & Paeroa while I played guitar on some rocks on the beach. We spent the rest of the day driving to the east coast city of Gisborne where we sit now, preparing lists of food items for our big walk tomorrow. We will be tramping over 4 days and 3 nights around Lake Waikeramoana, one of the government sponsored ‘Great Walks of New Zealand’. Once that epic journey is complete we have promised ourselves burgers and a hostel in Napier to celebrate before roughing it in the central North Island. We will be out in the wilderness for a while without access to the World Wide Web but I will surely update everyone as soon as we make it back to civilization.

July 22nd to 24th - Depature From Wellington/Auckland Part II

It was 48 hours until my departure from the city and I was beginning to get desperate to find someone willing to take my place at #1 Sydenham Street. I had arranged for one final viewing and while I waited in the kitchen with my fingers crossed one of the dogs felt it was necessary to sneak into my room and leave a steaming coiler on the carpet right before the gentleman arrived. I sprayed the area with stain remover and strategically placed a vacuum cleaner over the darkened spot but I’m assuming that the eventual refusal could’ve been influenced by that faint odor of canine fecal matter. Shit luck or not, pun intended, I hopped on the overnight bus to Auckland still paying for a room I wasn’t occupying. My stomach felt a bit off on the ride; I’m assuming it was a combination of stress over the room as well as the fact that I decided to try and eat as many of the things left over on my pantry shelf as I could in one odd last minute meal rather than throw them out. This was only exacerbated by the junk food I was limited to at the all night McDonalds at the rest stops along the way. I met up with Jaclyn at Auckland International having only had 1.5 hours of sleep through the night. Throughout the day that followed I was able to find my second, third and fourth winds from someplace within I didn’t know existed. We picked up our rental van, the ‘’spaceship’’ which they’ve labelled Avatar, and drove to the hostel I stayed at on my first night in the country. The mixture of déjà vu and nostalgia was overwhelming but in a good way. I seemed to be retracing the steps I took with Kelsey, so naturally we ended up at the Auckland Harbour Bridge Bungee. Jaclyn took it like a champ and I got some excellent footage of her leap of faith from a comfortably safe vantage point. Despite being high on life we couldn’t fight the exhaustion forever. We had thought of capping off a solid first day of NZ experiences by heading into town to find a pub to watch the first All Blacks fixture against Fiji. We first made a delightful dinner of kumara and chicken and afterwards I sipped tea and played my guitar under the overhang in the rain but by then we couldn’t keep our eyes open and ar 7:30 we were sawing logs in our hostel room. We awoke exactly 12 hours later feeling like a million bucks; we celebrated by doing a 5km run and Jaclyn fried up some French toast. We spent the entire day walking around downtown Auckland, checking out the Maori carvings at the museum and getting pictures with the Sky Tower. In the afternoon we hopped on the ferry to Waiheke Island, one of the highlights of my first adventure, only this time we would have the pleasure of staying the night with a local, a certain Ms. Jessica Alloway, a violin prodigy who I met while she was staying at my house in Wellington for a couple weeks. Before meeting up with Jess, Jaclyn and I ate Thai takeaway with Vanilla Coke on a beach that we had pretty much to ourselves. Thinking like true backpackers we decided to keep the Tupperware containers that the food came in so that we could reuse them when we were living like homeless people out in the bush. While on the bus to Jessica’s house, I spilled some of the sweet and sour sauce on my jeans and dropped all my belongings in shock after I noticed what I had done. After getting off the bus in pissing rain and pitch blackness I realized that I hadn’t recovered all the items I’d dropped, more specifically, my wallet. This was especially bad because I had taken out several hundred dollars from an ATM that morning to last me quite a while. Thankfully we were on a very small island and the bus depot was literally around the corner. The driver and his friend were in the process of coming back to the last bus stop to come return the wallet to me so what could’ve been a major disaster was averted and I was able to make it through that predicament without completely freaking out. Jess had just come back from a performance where she was trying to raise money to travel to Switzerland to study a Master’s degree in music. Her family were all dressed up in their nicest clothes but welcomed us filthy travellers with open arms all the same. Within the hour I had downed three tall glasses of wine and was being offered some homemade rum. What we had imagined would’ve been an early evening given our tiredness at about 8pm became a wonderful drunken mess that lasted until 2am and featured a late night jam session with guitar, piano and violin. I love how pitch black it gets here in the evenings with the lack of street lamps in lots of places. You are always met with a welcome surprise when you see just where you were the night before. The natural surroundings are always astoundingly beautiful. After taking the Alloway family dog Gypsy for a walk on the beach it was time to go. On the ferry back to Auckland I decided to head to the top deck for some pictures and the wind was so strong it blew my sunglasses right off my shirt and into the sea. Upon arrival we hopped on another ferry, this time to Rangitoto Island, and uninhabited volcanic mass that was the site of gun turrets in WWII. It was an epic walk to the summit but the views were worth it and I finally got perspective as to the size and prettiness of the Auckland region. After eating a massive dinner at an Asian cafeteria called ‘Food Alley’ we drove to my old roommate Elspeth’s sisters house where we were offered a free room with a double bed. So far we have been exceptionally lucky with all the hospitality we’ve been offered but despite the pampering, I’m excited to get out and try my ‘’spaceship’’. Matamata, better known as Hobbiton awaits, and our campervan has a DVD player and it just so happens we have a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring for after our tour of the movie set!

July 18th - The Trouble With Potterheads

I asked my housemate Brendan if he wanted to join my friends and I in going to see Harry Potter on my last night out in the city. He emphatically rejected my invitation on the grounds that he ''is an adult'', which apparently disqualifies him from the movie's demographic. Tell that to the sixty somethings who came dressed in wizard caps to bid farewell to their favorite fictional character. We opted for a touch of class and went to the famous Embassy theatre, home of the priemere of Return of the King where one can enjoy a glass of wine before the show for less than one can enjoy a coke back home. I enjoyed the film, much like I have with the entire series, but while it was nice to see the lovely Hermione finally admit her love for that goblin Ron, it didn't bring me to tears like it did for nearly everyone present. Since I have mere days left before my radical shift back to backpacker mode I have been in the thick of things trying to tie up all the loose ends of which there are many. Finding a replacement for myself in the house has been interesting to say the least. One fellow was supposed to come view the room last night but needed to reschedule because he ''needed to see Harry Potter''. Needless to say this doesn't have Brendan ecstatic to meet the Potter-head but, like I tell Brendan, don't judge a book by it's cover. The merit of all things Potter and their priority over flat viewings aside, I need to find someone for my room, and quick. Most people new to the city arrive convinced that they'll be able to find a place that isn't up a giant hill but how wrong they are. A little known fact is that Wellington has more cafes per capita than New York City, and even less known fact is that Wellington has the greatest calf muscle strength per capita in the world (note: I'm just guessing about that last one, all I'm trying to say is that it's very hilly here). So far we've had people interested in the room, the house, as well as the people living it but above all else are too concerned that they won't be able to bike everywhere. I hate to admit it to them but I think anyone who uses a bike as their sole means of transportation in this city is one of three things; an olympic athlete, extraordinarly cheap because they won't get a bus pass, or just downright crazy (or all three). I may have to start sweetening the deal by throwing in my bed for a reduced rate or by lying about certain aspects of the house like saying that Brendan is a chef in a Michelin star restaurant who regularly brings home leftovers or that Elspeth is Peter Jackson's cousin and he comes round from time to time and crashes in our ''hobbit room''. Supposing the situation remedies itself, rather than delay the inevitable I may go to Auckland a day or two sooner than planned and go poke around. In addition, I need to consider a unique way to get back to the Motherland after this final adventure with Jaclyn is complete. It's already $500 cheaper to get home via Los Angeles than it is to go through Vancouver but do I make a pit stop in Australia before then? It would be a shame to come all this way not to see at least one dingo eat a baby since I am no longer heading to Melbourne for the Wild Beasts concert. I'd settle for an extended layover in Sydney where I'd require just enough time to snap a generic peace sign photo with the Opera house, chug a Foster's, play knifey-spooney, say g'day to a mate, box a kangaroo and/or a koala, and examine which way the water turns when a toilet is flushed. That's not too much to ask right? The next time I post to this blog ought to be when I'm back to backpacker mode and can stop being self conscious and embrace my limited wardrobe and my constant bearded-ness. I shall do what I did the first time around and update my current city as well as my profile picture to instantly relate my whereabouts and the craziness I'm getting myself into.

July 12 - Loopholes in Logistics

Meeting Jaclyn first thing in the morning at Auckland International is a bit of a logistical nightmare for me but that’s fine because I am partial to the idea of an airport reunion. I could fly in a day early and stay at a hostel in the city and organize some rendezvous with the help of public transit but that’s just not how I operate (too expensive). Instead I am posting ads on Gumtree and other social networking sites hoping that some random traveler with a vehicle is heading up that way in my window of opportunity and would be willing to accommodate me in return for the splitting of petrol costs; think of it as high tech hitchhiking. If that should fail I will see if any of the car rental companies need vehicles relocated to Auckland and thus afford myself a bit of flexibility as well as the chance to take a speedier yet more interesting route than the bus. Speaking of the bus, it takes 11 hours, which in all fairness would put me on an even keel with Jaclyn who will be fresh off a 14 hour flight but while it is cheap, the fact that my Ipod has recently kicked the bucket doesn’t make that long haul sound too appealing. This may sound like a nightmare scenario to most people but it’s the kind of interesting situation that I love working my way around. One of the first things I wanted to show Jaclyn in Auckland was Waiheke Island. It is the little tropical island 35 minutes by ferry where we spent our second day in the country and first got to drive on the left. Luck would have it that I made a friend a few days ago who grew up there and, despite being away from home frequently these days playing violin and touring with the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, she will be there the weekend that we had planned on spending in Auckland and has offered us a place to crash at her house which is by one of the more congenial beaches on the island. I hope to capitalize on the opportunity to jam with someone of her musical experience; maybe I can capture it on video with a vista of sea and sand behind us. I guess I’m getting soft after being away from Canada so long as I’m starting to grumble about the cold weather even though it still floats casually around 10 degrees every day. I’ve caught a cold for the first time in many months which threatens to put a damper on my last few days in the city but I’ll have to just acclimate to the situation. Since I was bedridden last night I reviewed all the short videos I’ve taken since arrival and I’ve got to say, once I compile them into a neat little package they’re going to make about an hour long film that will surely have people laughing. Hopefully this movie will include performances of the few songs I’ve written about my trip. I’d pondered about what I’d do on an 11 hour bus ride to Auckland sans Ipod if it came down to it and I figured that since I can’t write songs on the bus it would be an interesting experiment to write a short story with the duration of the bus ride as the time limit. This may be especially tricky if I take the overnight bus but that just means I’ll have the added advantage of writing the nonsense that can only be generated by the sleep deprived brain. Naturally I would post it in the blog should it occur and should I be satisfied with the results. I need to start thinking of a proper way to cap off my stay here in Wellington because as of right now, the only thing I’ve got planned is a little gathering for wine on Saturday before seeing the Harry Potter finale. There is however a bungee pod in the city center…

July 7th - The Best (and Worst) Things In Life Are Free

Lesson learned; the free gigs on Wednesday are free for a reason. Twice now I’ve gone to a venue on Cuba Street and had to wait hours for the band to take the stage only to be subjected to noise so heinous that my crew and I end up leaving after only a few ‘’songs’’. Tonight was especially excruciating and in hindsight, we should’ve gone and judged the book by its cover. They were a man and a woman, both dressed to the nines in makeup, wigs and skin-tight jeans with a random assortment of items for instruments including an Optimus Prime mask that modulated the user’s voice. They pranced about on stage to a pre-recorded back track, throwing candy at the audience and howling off-key. The man fell off the stage and broke his microphone stand during the first song but didn’t seem too concerned. I found it ironic that they were persistent in wasting precious minutes of stage time on tuning their guitars when it was clear they had no idea how to use them properly. Chelsea was wise enough to capture some video evidence of the affair on her smartphone though I’m not entirely certain I wish to relive that anytime soon. As poor as the music is on Wednesday nights, I’m going to miss the experience of it. Sadly there will not be too many more trips to the city center in the evening to meet up and continue our quest to find the best chai latte. After some serious soul searching I’ve decided to let Wellington go. After weeks of being in a jobless limbo the map of the country that I hung on my bedroom wall is speaking to me more clearly. I’ve decided to get back out on the road to see all the places on that map that I still haven’t seen. Chance would have it that Jaclyn arrives in Auckland on the precise day that my rent covers up to in Wellington so on a whim I asked if she’d agree to us meeting up and her letting me drive her about the country in a campervan that we’d split the cost of. It turns out she was more than game, perhaps influenced by my promise to take her to the Lord of the Rings filming sites that are so carefully displayed in the map book I bought. Now that I have something concrete on the horizon I suddenly find my optimism reignited. I’ve rekindled that indescribable feeling I had throughout my journey with Kelsey and upon my arrival here in Wellington. That spark has been sorely missed over the past couple of weeks as I became too caught up in my job search and forgot what was important. Even though it will be the polar opposite of my first road trip (I will be eating lots of budget beans and generally living like a homeless man) it will be just fine because the best things in life, aside from Wednesday night concerts in Wellington, are free. We’re going to do two more of the Great Walks, bringing my total to three, we will scale Mounts Maunganui, Ruapehu, and Taranaki in some form or another, and we will snap pictures of us doing the peace sign in all the famous film locations we can get to. I’d say it’s fair to say I’m as giddy as a schoolgirl. To conclude this preliminary farewell I must add that even though my time here in Wellington has been short, I will miss Sunday evening meals with my roommates. I will miss the pets, our Three Stooges; Pirate, Ninja and Morris. I will miss movie Tuesday and shitty gig Wednesday with Chelsea. I will miss running to Stellin Memorial park in the mornings but I won’t miss sucking wind on the way up there. I won’t miss getting cramps walking down the hills into the city center. I won’t miss having only 4 channels on the TV and I won’t miss not having central heating. Oh who am I kidding? I’ll be gone from here two days and I’ll be missing all those things. I really wish I could’ve had a bit more of a proper run at Wellington, it definitely has potential. That being said, I still have two weeks left here which includes two Sundays so I must be sure to cook up something extra special for our weekly flat meal. It will be hard to top my Canada Day feast from last Sunday that included poutine and pancakes. It’s always nice to be the one who introduces poutine to someone who’s never had it before.

June 29th - The Pretty Practical Parable

I’ve decided to take a different, albeit familiar approach to my current predicament as I’ve found that my current choice of wallowing in self-pity isn’t an efficient tool to dig oneself out of a period of stagnation. Allow me to explain; it’s no secret that I still have a laundry list of huge and ambitious endeavours I wish to accomplish and that by being so damn meticulous in my pre-trip planning and so scrupulous in my saving I have afforded myself the luxury of being able to survive, if not laugh in the face of this lull in progress. In retrospect, times like these are a forgotten part of the reason I came here. In that funny way that the worst times of Ireland became my fondest memories, so too shall I make the hardships of New Zealand become my greatest triumphs. The satisfaction of outsmarting all the curveballs life throws at you trumps all the other cheap thrills combined. Yes, the chink in the armour of this particular roadblock will be found and exploited the same way any steadfast traveller will find it, with a little luck and a lot of hope. While I was once of the mind that one couldn’t influence the other it has never ceased to amaze me how the former resulted from the latter ever since I arrived here. A big reason why this trip has been a resounding success so far is because of the positive outlook I’ve had since arrival because, if you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of making a dream into a reality. Rather than continue to bore you all with more longwinded prose that flirts with the idea of divulging some life lessons I am henceforth declaring a return to form; a resurrection of the fun-filled stories of yesteryear when I was not a cynical jobless pessimist but a free spirited bohemian with nothing plaguing my mind except the desire to regale everyone with the sensationalized accounts of my exploits. So, without further ado, I present the following true stories; here’s to hoping they incite me to implant myself into more situations worthy of retelling and thus revive the blog to its former glory!

My Californian friend Chelsea and I decided to take advantage of ‘Wellington Open Day’ this past Sunday where all the city’s attractions were available to enter by gold coin donation. Our first stop was the zoo which, like most other tourist traps, would normally cost one about $20. Upon entering we noticed a clever money-saving technique being employed; rather than actually housing any animals in the cages it appeared as though they just filled them with props to make it look like the animal’s habitat and neglected to actually have put the animal advertised on the sign inside. It’s actually rather ingenious; think about it, if anyone asked one could just say that the critter was sleeping or hiding and the illusion created by the carefully staged habitat would satisfy most people. Then again, maybe they were indeed sleeping or hiding and my lack of patience got the better of me though I prefer my reasoning to anything more rational. Being that it was essentially free to get in the zoo was especially busy that afternoon which meant we had to contend with armies of hyper children and parents with strollers. Despite arriving 15 minutes early for the endangered species viewing we still had an obscured view. The zookeeper was trying earnestly to give a speech concerning the conservation efforts for some of the animals in question but was being constantly interrupted by a six year old out front who was intent on being the center of attention. While explaining how a tuatara can hold its breath for over an hour the kid began boasting how he could easily outdo the lizard in a breath-holding competition. Before I could ponder whether or not to fight my way to the front of the crowd to slap some sense into him, the star attraction was unveiled; Tahi the one legged kiwi. They are a lot bigger than I’d anticipated but because he only had one leg he didn’t do much other than just sit there. Luckily for me there was a kiwi enclave nearby where a few are free to run around in a simulated environment. Unluckily for me, kiwis are nocturnal, and the room was near pitch black and filled with screaming children. I wanted to punch this one father who was gleefully stripping leaves from a tree in an endangered species zone and throwing them on his son’s head. Who does that? That’s like taking a famous painting off the wall and using the corners to scratch your ass. Other highlights of the zoo included seeing an otter trained to do tricks, being inches from two giraffes that got their necks entangled, and finally seeing a kangaroo. That evening I put forth an admirable effort to cook Cornish pasties for my roommates and Chelsea but it ended in failure, though nothing a little re-fry couldn’t fix. The chocolate chip cookies I baked for dessert more than made up for the undercooked main course and all was forgiven. It was a full day, and a fine one at that, a welcome change from the crushing disappointments and stress of job searching. Perhaps inspired by the day’s events I awoke the next morning and decided to pursue the gig as a delivery driver such that it would force me to purchase a vehicle making it easier to recreate days like last Sunday. I now play the waiting game, I find out this afternoon if I have the job that will see me make $5.50 per delivery and if it is a go then I am getting the car I went to inspect last night. Much like the shoes I got for free, to the chagrin of Kelsey, the car is about as ugly as they come. The upholstery is falling apart and the passenger side window was smashed by some hooligans, but most importantly it runs just fine. Most people would be put off by the aesthetics of the beast but thus I will be able to take advantage of the low price tag (about $750 Canadian) and with a little TLC, the car, along with myself will be back on our feet. I's not pretty but it's practical, like how I plan on tackling things from now on.

June 25th - Roll With The Punches

I guess this is what quitting smoking feels like; compare my bank account to a smoker’s lungs. Millions of years of evolution have made the human respiratory system an incredibly remarkable apparatus, capable of withstanding even the worst of what humanity has cooked up and inhaled for one purpose or another. While it didn’t take millions of years for my bank account to grow as much as it has, it certainly felt as long. I’ve been extremely blessed by family and well-wishers who, before this journey, padded my account with a donation here and there though in the grand scheme of things it has largely been by the sweat of my brow (drumming at Guitar Hero does make one rather sweaty) that I was able to amass the respectable amount I departed with. As the smoker is able to enjoy the occasional cigarette and not expect instantaneous death, I was able to be frivolous from time to time and not risk putting the long term life of my trip in jeopardy. Flash forward two months and while I’m no longer throwing away cash as fast as a chain-smoker relights, I am still unemployed yet responsible for the everyday expenses it takes to keep someone like me alive and stimulated. To be fair, even still I have more than enough money left to keep me alive and kicking until well after the Rugby World Cup but as I struggle to find employment, in spite of my credentials, the idea of going back to school becomes that much more appealing, and school doesn’t come cheap. There will come a time, potentially very soon, that I have to decide whether it’s in my best interest to continue waiting around for someone to hire me while my bank account dwindles or to take action, cut my losses and start conjuring some new plan, whatever it may be. Busking suddenly doesn’t seem like such a strange way to make a living anymore and I’ve seen countless guys out on the street who are infinitely worse than I am at the guitar. I took out the songbook for the Beatles album ‘1’ from the library yesterday; perhaps I should commit the entire thing to memory and tour the country as a one man tribute act. One way or another, my trip may take a dramatic turn in the next few weeks. More to come on that soon…

June 20th - Revelation/The 2nd Coming (Home) of Colin

Much like how the blind man develops a compensatory heightened sense of touch; the jobless man loses the ability to silence the particular voice in one’s head that compulsively, impulsively, and pointlessly narrates the minutia of everyday life. I find myself much more in tune with my severely idle brain in the sense that I’m noticing things that would otherwise go unnoticed, conjuring thoughts that ordinarily wouldn’t have neuron real estate in a fully functioning brain. I’m wishing to humour every half-baked idea that pops into my head with a well-intentioned effort but everything ultimately boils down to principle; I’ve spent a lot of money, and while I have much more I am inclined to hold onto as much of it as I can for as long as I can. One week has become two, much like one month became two in Ireland; either history is repeating itself or this is me applying a lesson learned from that experience by being especially cautious. I edge closer and closer to that precarious point where I may be forced to make a bold decision toward some unexpected action because being idle here, in a place with much potential, is exactly what I was doing back home and I came here for a change, or at least some perspective. Yes, that old chestnut, it happened much sooner in Ireland but I’m glad my stubbornness saw me through to the end such that I could properly reflect upon it. I’m referring of course to that light bulb that unexpectedly turns back on, reminding me of squandered potential back home. Kelsey saw it too, she had lots of fun and experienced a whirlwind of emotions to go along with the excitement which allowed her to realize how much we take for granted the little things that go to make home what it is. One of the things that I’m severely lacking over here, but which continues to shape my future is music. My Ipod still only holds a handful of songs and internet is a precious commodity in this country, limiting my downloading ability. I immediately remedied the situation by purchasing that acoustic guitar but I’m continuously left wondering what I can do with any songs I write. The answer took an unexpected form; all those at the hostel I hang out at who I showed my recorded tunes to truly, honestly enjoyed them. One made my day when she remarked that one sounded like ‘’it could’ve been pulled off the charts on iTunes’’. I never really admitted to myself how much fun it had been jamming with Tom, Will and Kayla, and now I realize how much I miss it. In Ireland I had a number of songs and artists that I played repeatedly that I now associate with my times there. For those of you who know my guitar playing style it will come as no surprise that it was there that I came to appreciate Horse Feathers. Their song ‘’Working Poor’’ felt as though it were written for me at the time (except for the ‘’working’’ part). Over here I haven’t had nearly as much choice or chances to find my way through a bunch of songs but I’ve found one and that’s all I need. In the early months of my Europe experience, In spite of all my bad luck, I kept having this dream where I found myself back home and wanting but unable to get back to Ireland to see my trip through to the end. It felt eerily real every time I had it, which was more times than I could count. I had that same dream last night which made me think of my New Zealand song so far, ‘’End Come To Soon’’ by Wild Beasts. I think the title speaks to me now more than anything, with respect not only to New Zealand but even more so with everything back home. I’m hoping that it’s been fate that has kept me from securing one of these long term positions I’ve been so keen to vilify because I think I’ve discovered what I’ve come here to discover which is simply this; New Zealand is an amazing place, but it’s not going anywhere. I love it here, one day down the line I can see myself returning to set up shop for good but I don’t believe that it is here and now. Just as I didn’t want to settle into anything back home I’ve found out that I don’t want to make any decision regarding settling anywhere. I am forever grateful to Kelsey for sharing those six weeks with me because it’s shown me that it’s what I want to do here and now. I miss being out on the open road with only the vaguest sense of direction. It was exhilarating knowing that I had minimal obligations and the ability to change my mind at the last minute, sorry Swampy. It isn’t hard to see that I could easily fit long-term here in Wellington; I don’t need a full year to figure that out. What’s important to me here and now is chasing those feelings of the six week holiday again. It may mean bungee jumping or skydiving again but I’m sure the thrill of discovery is waiting around many corners I’ve yet to turn. Although I have had some awesome jobs in my life, I have paid my dues, as most my age have, in some not-so-awesome ones. If this were the beginning of some long career then I’d expend more energy chasing something bigger and prestigious but I am henceforth gladly resigning myself to anything and everything because I know it will see me back on the road again soon. What this means for everyone else is that yes, you will see me back sooner rather than later, but not before I squeeze every last drop of fun out of this country that I, and my bank account, can handle. This may require me working at Pizza Hut but so be it. Jaclyn, if you are reading this, do you want to go bungee jumping? Mac, if you are reading this, come sooner and let’s go sky diving. Parents, I know you’re reading this, so come whenever and let’s do both (or you could just watch me do them if that suits you better). To everyone else reading this, if you have the time, money and inclination, come here while I still am and let’s go do what this should’ve been in the first place, a holiday, not a new life. See you all when I see you, it will not be soon and the precise details will continue to remain a mystery but prepare thyself nonetheless.

June 15th - Rejection and Rebuttal

As the rejection e-mails threaten to overload my inbox I’m feeling an odd mixture of frustration and relief. You see, in my blind pursuit of employment I’ve applied for some incredibly unappealing prospects; I often consider myself fortunate that the hiring system in place lacks any sort of personal interaction. If I were to actually be granted the opportunity to interview for these positions I feel as though my lack of enthusiasm has potential to become increasingly apparent if their questions are even half as inane as their job descriptions. On the other hand, at least then I’d have the opportunity to gain some self-satisfaction from proving that I am indeed an intelligent, literate individual rather than being judged and sequestered to the rejects based simply on a few sentences of a CV. The other day, shortly after being rejected for a receptionist job at some run of the mill business downtown by a letter pre-written to sound minimally offensive (but failing to do so in its condescension), I was feeling particularly disgruntled. I found another ad from the agency and clicked apply with the full intention of making an online scene before remembering that when your medium is the internet, flat-out trolling is futile at best. I took a deep breath, paused for thought then settled for a legitimate inquiry with a tactically placed missile of sarcasm aimed straight at the dignity and credibility of the temp agency. The pre-requisites they sought for the job in question were the usual balderdash, though one stood out perfectly for my purposes; ‘’a keen eye for detail’’. I seized this phrasing and used it as a weapon to attack the agency. I wrote a cover letter as I would any other job, stating my experience with the slightest hint of embellishment, but this time I followed it up with a concrete example of my skills. I proclaimed that my eye for detail was so keen that I could easily point out all the spelling mistakes and grammatical errors in the advert, of which there were a surprising amount. I felt no qualms about including that I hoped whoever had written the ad would not be the one deciding my fate regarding the position. I had a little spring in my step after that but it was short lived for shortly thereafter I received another of the identical rejection e-mails but this time with an extra note thanking me for rectifying the errors in their ad. In essence I merely allowed them to save face while I still sit here unemployed. As Andy Bernard so eloquently put it, ‘’they may have won the battle, but I will win…the next battle’’. Apart from my woes on the job front continuing I have precious news to relate. My adventure plans are a costly bunch that I am not willing to justify undergoing until I have earned back some of what I’ve already spent. In the meantime I continue to do little things that add up to make Wellington a cool place to be alive. My days consist of watching playoff hockey, eating sushi lunches and writing songs. I try to add spice where I can; I picked up a library card and am studying some guitar theory in between reading some easily digestible fiction. In other words, I’m actively trying to live rather than be a vegetable in this transition period. I’m crossing my fingers and sacrificing animals to the gods in a vain attempt to conjure up some luck in my job hunt. Once it’s sorted out I can once again shock and awe you all with something with a little more substance. Until then, bear with me. Oh, one more thing, about my little joke against the temp agency, I’m fully aware that my grammar probably hasn’t been that of a Harvard professor over the course of these blogs so there’s no need to go over it with a fine tooth comb, I merely saw an opportunity and used it to my advantage, so sue me.

June 11th - The Robotic Uprising of the CBD

Are you passionate about accounts receivable? When you put your head on the pillow do you dream about data entry? Do you love filing things in order? If you answered yes to any of the above questions, you’re an idiot. You’re apparently also a prime candidate for one of the many jobs on offer in the Wellington CBD. Isn’t it a tad overdramatic to throw around words like love and passion as prerequisites for duties at a temping agency? In this city, filled with free thinking, liberal arts aficionados, whose youthful exuberance is a result of menial office work? Maybe I’m wrong, maybe all the cool people I’ve met here at shows or at the pubs have been getting high off life at jobs that involve alphabetizing for eight hours a day. I don’t believe that for a second, instead I believe that the majority of the want ads have been written by Satan himself. Just kidding, though in all seriousness these jobs must truly suck if they have to be advertised so incessantly by these various temp agencies with their similar sounding mono-syllabic names which are always obscure English words presumably meant to sound edgy. I don’t know what’s worse, the soulless robot programmed to write this drivel or me for actually applying for them and pretending like I’m the person who fits their bill. All I know is that I can’t afford, both literally and metaphorically, to have another transition period experience like that of Dublin. With that still fresh in my mind I am applying feverishly for anything and everything just to have some form of income while I search for a job that will live up to my lofty standards (read: Activision). In the meantime I found myself on Friday afternoon without any concrete plans. I texted the few contacts I’d made but they were either broke or searching for flats. I decided not to let that deter me and made the 25 minute downhill stroll into town solo. I’d found this handy online gig listing called Groove Guide which reaffirmed that Wellington, for a city of its size and population, has a disproportionate number of music venues and thus frequent shows and multiple options. In my excitement I forgot to write down the addresses for these places so on my way into town I thought I’d pop by my old hostel to see if I could snag directions. Just as I’d expected, my friend Mikey was on the front porch again, smoking a cigarette and playing his guitar, just as he had been doing each night that I stayed there. Not only did he give me directions but he came to the gig with me and we discovered our mutual respect for many artists and made plans to jam on Sunday. On Saturday afternoon I went down to the Four Kings pub again, grabbed a seat in a recliner and watched the Canucks beat the Bruins on 18 screens (yes, I counted). For whatever reason, everyone who bothered to come and watch the game (mostly kiwis as their accents suggested) was a Canucks fan, which was fine by me. Many even had Canucks jerseys! For a second there I’d thought I’d stepped through a portal into a Vancouver pub until the commercial breaks came and two back to back adverts for rival worm medicines for sheep brought me back to reality. I guess my hard work in trying to make friends has paid off as on Saturday night I had not one, not two, but three official invites to social gatherings of one form or another; one house party, one concert, and one dinner party. Despite having just eaten I settled on the dinner party because I didn’t know the address for the house party and had been to the exact same concert venue the night before. The dinner party was at one of the flats I’d went to on my flat hunt. They had offered me the room but I’d already accepted the place I’m in now. It’s not so bad though, I can have the bigger room and extra privacy here (not to mention some pretty cool flatmates) and I now have some awesome mates just up the street. Continuing my streak of meeting like-minded individuals, these guys have a ‘’flat band’’ in that most of the flatmates play an instrument or sing and have decided to form a group because apparently there is a contest or something that will get you free tickets on the ferry to the South Island. I found this out after hearing Fleet Foxes on the Ipod playing over dinner. One girl mentioned something interesting when she related her story of seeing the new X-men movie as the guy she went with was part of the special effects team at Weta, Peter Jackson’s company that worked on the Lord of the Rings films. I’d forgotten that much of the CGI on these big movies is being done right here in Wellington so it shouldn’t come as a surprise when people get excited in the theatre at random moments, the scene might just be something they worked on! So there you have it, my good luck goes on as I continue to meet intelligent, artsy locals who are as welcoming as they are interesting. Who knows, maybe I’ll regret buying a van because it will mean weekends away from all the excitement right here in the city.

June 8th: Wellington is Swell-ington

So far the stereotypes about Wellington have only been partly true. Luckily for me, it has been the positive ones that have manifested themselves. The city is known for a few things in particular; coffee, the arts, and wind. Each of my days so far has indeed been filled with these things, often at the same time. Bearing in mind that I am still an unemployed bum, the lifestyle I’m experiencing is one I could easily see myself becoming accustomed to. The hostel has so many people with guitars that I’m confronted with porch front jams at every turn. When the wind picks up to drown out our sound I stroll into town for a delicious flat white, maybe drop off a CV or two. Things seem to be falling into place to the point that it feels scripted. I met up with a guy who placed an ad online for band mates and, oddly enough, his middle name is Peter (like me) and his last name is Jackson (like the celebrity). What are the odds? I offended my new friend by stating that he even somewhat resembled the fabled director, though I didn’t mean in body proportions, only in facial hair. We moved past this faux pas and bonded over our mutual music snobbery and have been navigating our way through our pretentiousness on the path towards rock stardom ever since. After seven weeks I’d understandably become sick and tired of sleeping in a new bed nearly every night so the inevitable quest for a flat began. I made the requisite calls and was able to secure three viewings on only my second night in the city. I was made quite uncomfortable upon discovering that the first flat, which had the advantage of being only 20 steps away, was inhabited by an emotionless zombie who made no attempt at being personable. It felt like I was in an interrogation with a high ranking Gestapo. I didn’t even leave my number. The 2nd and 3rd flats were the polar opposite; both parties were, in true kiwi fashion, as friendly as could be. Both essentially offered me their rooms on the spot and I was truly torn when it came to decision time. In the end I chose option 2 because it offered slightly more privacy, a slightly bigger place, and a roommate who brews his own beer! I found out afterwards that this roommate and I share the same birthday. Was it meant to be? Only time will tell. In the meantime I think I will teach him a thing or two on guitar in exchange for some of that homemade brew. Flash forward in time and I’m now in my new place. This first day has been bliss; I’d forgotten what it felt like to have an area all to my own. It was sublime to just lay in solitude, grooving to my tunes in peace, knowing that I’m finally where I want to be with enough freedom that the possibilities seem endless. This afternoon I worked up a sweat getting my bearings around Northland, wrote an interesting harmonic-heavy guitar riff, and capped off the evening with a huge plate of bangers ‘n’ mash. As soon as I land a job I’m going to go purchase a van with which to help me with my plan to work through my book of 52 tramps in New Zealand. I also mustn’t forget that we’re entering winter over here, which means…skiing! My Canadian-ness shines through regardless of where I find myself and who am I to deny it? So there you have it, I’ve got some plans and I’ve almost got the means to execute them. The crazy stories are sure to follow suit. I’ve been invited to a house party on Saturday where my musical skills have been requested, it should be a solid opportunity as any to churn out some more juicy details which I am more than willing to continue to relate.

June 4th - The Worst Day, The Best Decision

“Where the hell is that?’’ is not the response you want to hear from your InterCity bus driver when he asks you which town you want to get off at. Such was my experience, the first of many bad ones that plagued me from the moment I parted ways with Kelsey Fernuik. It was 6:45am and I was the world’s largest hermit crab standing with all my life’s possessions at the makeshift bus depot just north of the CBD. My backpack alone weighed enough to cripple most mortals but add to that a food and laundry bag filled to the brim as well as a full daypack and I was one overburdened packhorse. Luckily I had remembered Spring Creek from when we passed through on our way to Renwick and was able to convince the driver that, yes, it existed and, yes, I really did wish to be let off there with all that weight to carry. A few weeks ago I somehow managed to erase all the songs of my Ipod and was only able to salvage about 10 tunes in time for the bus ride. At first I was a tad disheartened at the lack of selection but when this little boy behind me starting singing ‘Friday’ by Rebecca Black ad nauseum I was grateful to play those 10 on repeat. Young Sinatra’s sister also had awful noise coming out of her mouth, but hers was the kind that resulted from some horrendous sickness and a lack of education on her parent’s part to teach her to cover her mouth. I alighted at Kaikoura on our half hour tea break and went into the 4square in search of a muffin. I settled for some banana loaf before being guilt tripped into buying a sausage on a bun for the local Lion’s club charity. I should’ve just donated the money and told them to forget the sausage because, as I soon found out, they don’t really go with banana loaf. Seagulls don’t seem to be critical of the pairing because they harassed me to no end, clearly accustomed to being spoiled by tourists and brazen enough to come within inches and shout demands rather than wait from afar. Five hours later and I finally got off the bus and was delighted to find that my destination, Swampy’s Backpackers, was right across the street from me. I was lucky it was where it was as any further and all the things I was carrying would’ve preventing me from making it. I had called Swampy from the bus and had told him I was almost there and wanted to begin my long term accommodation. There was the slightest hesitation in his response, which I thought nothing of at the time, but he confirmed that he indeed had a place for me. At first the hostel seemed legit; the common room had a fire around which a few people sat quietly chatting, there were many ordered bookshelves and it didn’t appear overly messy. Swampy wasn’t around so I was introduced to a really nice young bloke who was in charge for the time being. I forget his name but I will remember him as the one bright spot in that unfortunate series of events. He took payment from me, a weekly rate, then gave me a tub with cutlery and bowls that I was to use. It was at this point that I started getting a little uneasy. You see, most hostels have communal kitchen items because they trust that people as a whole have enough dignity to clean up after themselves such that everyone can enjoy the use of the kitchen. This was not the case at Swampy’s. The kitchen was in shambles, the sinks full with greasy pots and pans, smothered with soap in some feigned attempt at ‘cleaning’. There were literally flies buzzing around pockets of filth that had become encrusted on the countertops. A fine way to begin the tour I thought to myself. Now, the selling point for many backpacker hostels is the lack of bunks. Many aggressively advertise that they don’t have bunk beds in their dorm rooms because everyone hates them; they’re noisy, uncomfortable, and tall people (like myself) don’t appreciate whacking their heads a hundred times a night on the bed above you. In addition, as a rule, the less people in a dorm room the better. You may keep costs down and profit up by squeezing people in like cattle but most travelers have enough sense to spend the extra dollar to get a good night’s sleep and avoid the feeling of being in a prison cell. Swampy’s had none of these redeeming qualities; I was sandwiched between two sweaty, stinky men in the middle bunk of a three tiered bed in a dorm room that slept 11. Worse still, when I went to inquire about what kind of job I’d be doing, the back-up manager said he’d never heard that I was coming for work and couldn’t find my name in any of the contracts. He assured me there was plenty of work to be had though and that I should just wait to talk to Swampy. Against my better judgement, I waited. Unless you want to drink your face off, which I didn’t, there is really nothing to do in Spring Creek. After 6 weeks of over indulgence I was ready to get back into a routine of normality. Just to throw me further off balance, someone made a formal announcement that that there would be a costume party that night to celebrate their birthday. I thought this was just a joke and that no one would indulge him but how wrong I was. I’d met two guys from Scotland in the dorm who had come all the way from Auckland and were going on two hours of sleep, they were just as tired, if not more so, than I was. Around 9pm, after watching four consecutive episodes of The Simpsons, the three of us agreed it was time to consider getting some much deserved sleep. Just as we were on the brink of dreamland someone in the common room turned on some dance music and it didn’t cease until the early hours of the morning. I can’t remember too many specifics but, suffice it to say, some crazy shit went down. It wasn’t just a party; it was a drug fuelled freak-out. There was constant screaming and yelling, at least one fight and some French guys came into the dorm at 3am, turned all the lights on, and proceeded to smoke about a pound of dope, all the while commenting on their various methods of joint rolling. I was woken up a solid 20 times thinking the apocalypse was nigh. Around 4am I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion, and I wasn’t even a part of the party! This however, like the rest of my bursts of sleep, was short lived for at 6:45am, exactly 24hours since this nightmare began the mini manager burst into the room and threatened to soak us all with water unless we got up to clean the mess. He apologized to the Scots and I, knowing we weren’t a part of the shenanigans, but I had been so frightened I fell out of bed and got a cut equal to the one I’d received rafting the 7m waterfall on my opposite forearm. I knew I wouldn’t be getting to sleep again after that so for some reason I went out to survey the damage. It was like a scene out of the Hangover, though the only item you really need to know is that some long haired guy was passed out in a chair in a toga outfit with a giant, golden cross adorning his chest and a 10 stitch worthy gash on the inside of his hand. Manager junior then told me that he didn’t think I would have work until Thursday which was 5 days from then. I decided then and there that I couldn’t do it, I’d never last here if I wanted to have any degree of privacy and any sort of routine that involve cleanliness and healthiness. I asked for a refund from Swampy himself (who was actually pretty nice but surprisingly unconcerned by the carnage) and packed my things and was out the door before 8am. Best decision I ever made. I didn’t have anything waiting for me in Wellington but I couldn’t have cared less. I braved my first hitchhiking experience and it was a breeze; only 15 cars passed me by before a super cool local boat builder picked me up and drove me the 25km north to the Interislander ferry. I bought a ticket for the 10:30am crossing to Wellington with my refunded money and said farewell to the South Island without looking back. Upon checking into a downtown hostel in Wellington I have further confirmed that this was the smartest decision I ever made. For the same price as a night in hell I am in a 4 bed share room, though I have it all to myself. I rang up some people to play music with on the kiwi Craigslist called TradeMe, I found a guy staying here playing The Tallest Man on Earth and sang along, and am going to a flat viewing tomorrow night where the couple already living there has two dogs. Now I understand the bus driver, he probably knew of Spring Creek but, like any sane person, had wiped it from his memory entirely.