May 29th and 30th - Dunedin

It may be my city boy ignorance but I can’t think of a decent explanation for what happened to us on the way to Dunedin. We began the day with a measly, makeshift breakfast that was the result of someone helping themselves to a few of the more ‘I bet I can take a little without them noticing’ items in our food bag. Dissatisfied, we headed about as far south as we’ll make it in New Zealand such that we’d bypass the main highway in favour of the scenic route through the Catlins. We’d made it about 20km east of Invercargill when we came across a flatbed truck, sans hazards, parked in our lane with a hastily paint smeared message across its back windshield; ‘’STOCK’’. My first reaction was that the uneducated sod blocking our path had, in his haste, misspelled ‘stop’. With no one coming out to direct us and no apparent danger up ahead I indicated right and slowly inched past the barrier. Up ahead on our side of the barbed wire fence of the adjacent field I noticed a cow, then another, and another. They seemed content on the side of the road, casually savouring the forbidden, untouched grass past their usual world’s end and I was equally as content to let them be as they appeared to pose no immediate danger. As we continued forward the number of escaped bovines increased and the space on the shoulder decreased to the point that they began spilling over onto the highway. Now, not being a Southlander, or even remotely close to a kiwi for that matter, I was oblivious to the protocol for this particular situation. Do I wait? Do I go around? Would they feel threatened and ram our precious Demio? It was a frail and brittle rental to begin with and would not fare well against an onslaught of enraged cattle so we had to decide quickly. It was at this time that I thought back to the word written on the windshield; as you might have guessed, ‘stock’ was short for livestock, and evidently they were having issues either rounding them up or transporting them to whatever destination they had in mind. Rather than react incorrectly and embarrass ourselves we decided to put the car in reverse and say to hell with it, we’ll go around. Thinking ourselves terribly clever we thought we’d head back into town, take the main highway for a couple kilometers passed Cow’s Lane and bypass it from the north, connecting up with the scenic route somewhere down the line. This was easier said than done as we found ourselves cutting through unsealed roads and forcing a bewildered farmer to pull his giant piece of machinery onto the grass to let us through the one lane ‘’road’’. By the grace of some divine being we eventually found our way back on our intended path with only an hour lost and probably an eighth of a tank of petrol. Within 15 minutes however we had again ran into an even larger congregation of cows who, once again, appeared to have no intention of moving anytime soon. Luckily a young lad in a fluorescent jacket came roaring by on a quad who seemed to be a seasoned veteran at cattle roundup. To our great satisfaction the cows were scared by the sound of the quad and began scattering for safety, though many were literally scared shitless and defecated all over the road in their escape. I’m sure Kelsey was thinking the same thing I was at that time; ‘’this damn scenic route better be pretty damn scenic’’. Scenic in New Zealand means time consuming, at least with respect to the roads. In order to build roads smack dab in the middle of these natural wonderlands they needed to obey the lay of the land, and the land is full of twists and turns. We were able to stop for some cliff-top PB&J overlooking a resort-worthy bay, but it wasn’t enough to justify an extra two hours driving time. Speaking of wacky roadways, Dunedin has its fair share to boot. I figured this might be the case as one of the city’s claims to fame is being the owner of the world’s steepest street. It seems that the original Scottish immigrants of this place wanted to take the best parts of the European lifestyle, remove the nagging issues and make a paradise in the Pacific. They set aside a parcel of flat land around a bay in the Otago Peninsula upon which they built ‘The Octagon’, an 8 sided city center where they constructed many expensive and grand structures. This is all well and good, worthy of many a photograph but the city planners had not been considering a vehicle filled future. The Octagon is the focal point of a random assortment of one way streets and blind corners. Any street with the slightest semblance of straightness is immediately twisted out of proportion to accommodate their admirable attempt at the quintessential city center. The entire city maintains an aged aesthetic with its muted colors and colonial villas which, while not pretty, certainly has character. Our first full day in Dunedin saw us up bright and early for a tour of the Cadbury factory. It may be that I’m exceptionally tall in my hiking boots but our tour guide was short enough that I feel safe to call him an ‘oompa loompa’. He wore a pair of purple overalls with pockets to the knees containing all sorts of chocolates which he would give away as prizes for answers to his random trivia questions. The entire 90 minute tour was fantastic, partly because it smelled like delicious chocolate the entire time, and partly because we were loaded to the gills with the stuff. We even got to witness the world’s only chocolate waterfall which dumps one tonne of chocolate down 28m in an old storage silo, merely for the amusement of tourists. I counteracted the copious amounts of chocolate I consumed for breakfast with a vegan buffet for lunch. This was followed by the Speight’s brewery tour in the evening where we consumed equally copious amounts of lager, porter, ale, and apple cider. Such is the way that I’ve been filling the void left by our many adrenaline activities; replacing free-fall with free food, filling my stomach rather than rattling it about. All this eating reminded me of a goal I had before I left; I want to run another half marathon! After some fish and chips in Akaroa, which I hear are some of the best in the country, I’m going back on my workout regime. It’s been a great vacation but it’s time to bring back my six pack abs and put away my six pack of Speight’s.

May 27th and 28th - Milford Sound and Invercargill

Does subjecting one’s body to four straight days of decadence and adrenaline have an adverse effect on any subsequent adventurous experiences? Had I forever desensitized myself from enjoying the exploits of lesser excursions or even simpler pleasures? With no great heights, save for any metaphorical ones, left to hurl myself from, would I embrace the comfort of knowing I was safe on solid ground or curse the ground for that very attribute? Luckily we find ourselves with many more days on the open road with which to discover answers to these questions so I can thankfully put philosophy aside for the time being. Interestingly enough, the next stop on our journey, Milford Sound, was a point I could imagine most non-jumpers claiming as their highlight of New Zealand. One has to marvel at the tenacity of the powers that be in their pursuit to make the area around Milford Sound accessible. In order to reach it you must first find your way through miles and miles of sparsely populated mountainside farmland to the miniscule, lakeside town of Te Anau, which itself is barely a blip on the radar. It is here that you are forced to fill up on ludicrously overpriced petrol if you hope to make it to the Sound and back under your own power for there are no fuel stops from thereon in. The 120km highway from Te Anau takes two hours on a good day as it squeezes up, over, and through some of the most massive rock formations I have ever seen. Of particular note is the Homer Tunnel, a two kilometer stretch blasted through the bowels of a lonely mountain in a deep gully of imposing rock. One must continue to consider that for the entire duration of this highway there are no towns or true settlements, the length of road is there solely to bring those willing to travel it the opportunity to share a glimpse of Milford Sound. A true testament to the commercialization of the world, or of the hospitality of New Zealand, you decide, is that there exists a backpacker’s lodge a few kilometers from the end of the Milford Highway. Even in the farthest reaches of one of the most remote corners of the world we were able to cook dinner on a proper stove, stay warm with room heaters, and read by bed lamps. Appreciated, yes, though once we drove the final minutes to the Sound itself I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow cheating myself by enjoying the relative ease by which we were able to arrive at one of the most spectacular natural sights on the planet. Milford Sound is the kind of place you feel should be found as the reward at the end of some arduous multi-day journey, not at the end of some minor inconvenience like the Milford Highway is. Even on a fog filled afternoon where Mitre peak and the rest of the mountains were obscured, it was hard for us to really comprehend our place in the grand picture before us. All the postcards really didn’t do it justice, I could get all Shakespearean or I could just relate it to you as one of the most spectacular natural settings I’ve ever been in and leave it at that. To answer my preliminary musings, yes, I bet I was a tad desensitized by the previous days adrenaline highs to the point where mere natural surroundings could only affect me to such an extent, however the feeling was powerful enough to excite me at the prospect of returning for the Milford track great walk; a multi-day hike like the aforementioned ideal introduction which would see me finish at the peak of one of the surrounding mountains rather than the designated parking lot. As if to emphasize this idea, the following morning saw a prominent snowfall on the mountain peaks and tree tops which made us double back to catch another glimpse before departing, prompting me to underline my mental reminder to return one day soon. The snowfall also made the return journey more exciting, by making the already questionable roads that much more treacherous, I didn’t feel guilty crawling along and enjoying the view. With nowhere really screaming at us to stop between the West Coast and Dunedin we opted to take the scenic highway south to Invercargill, a proper city of some 60,000 inhabitants on the very southern tip of the country. Had we given more thought to the pit stop, we may have further explored the rugged coastline or taken a trip to the remote Stewart Island. As it stands, however, the only item of note from our layover was that we enjoyed a drink in the world’s southernmost Starbucks. I could dramatize the account of how we tried to go to the only movie theatre in town only to find it sold out, but that would be a precious waste of energy. Sadly, dear readers, my bloggery from now until its inevitable slow down (or, dare I say it, end) upon completion of this six week vacation does not have the luxury of another clear adrenaline activity like bungee jumping that I may describe to you in fine detail. This should not be cause for worry; I hope I have matured enough as a writer such that I may adequately convey how the lesser activities on our trip have amounted to much more than the sum of their parts. I hope I need not risk life and limb to paint an appealing picture of our incredible journey in this amazing country, though should this turn out to be the case I’m open to suggestions for a grand finale (that’s if our final stop of Christchurch doesn’t provide one for us by means of another earthquake). Next stop, Dunedin and the Speight’s Brewery, the Cadbury Factory, and the world’s steepest residential street!

May 24th, 25th, and 26th - Queenstown

Queenstown: the adventure capital of New Zealand, if not the world. Aptly named by its founder for its beauty being worthy of Queen Victoria, Queenstown curves alongside Lake Wakatipu at the doorstep of The Remarkables and features an endless list of businesses milking tourist dollars by subjecting them to all sorts of pants-on-head crazy shenanigans. I’m glad we had our activities pre-booked as every corner of the city center is littered with shops and stalls, brightly coloured and flashing neon lights to entice the money out of your pocket with the promise of a ‘’package deal’’. Despite the best efforts of the industry to sour your image of the picturesque spot through over commercialization, the natural beauty of Queenstown shines through around every corner and it’s hard not to feel alive and in awe of the wonders of the Earth. We stopped about 20 minutes shy of the town to participate in our 2nd bungee, the Kawarau Bridge. It was the world’s first commercial bungee jump when it was opened in 1988 by Mr. A J Hackett. I felt very much like a celebrity as I strutted around in my jump gear amongst all the onlookers and caught myself openly laughing on more than one occasion as they confessed their disbelief. It turned out I had no business being cocky having only jumped once before as I was immediately put in my place by the view from the platform. It’s a feeling you can never get used to; your brain isn’t wired to be able to accept the circumstance or be obliged to willingly orient itself below your feet rather than above them. The trick is two-fold, first you have to summon the courage to hurl yourself from the platform despite the warning signals released upon seeing the distance, and secondly you must do so in a graceful swan dive or else risk injury. I was unaware of the risks of doing just a regular upright jump on an ankle based bungee and my jump off the Kawarau Bridge could’ve been rather painful had I not titled myself just enough before the moment the cord caught. As it was, I got more of a thrill and a little spice of variety instead of a whiplash injury but I vowed that I would try my hardest to overcome my pre-jump anxiety and execute a proper dive, for the sake of safety. I also learned that it was a poor judgement call on my part to drink a coffee before jumping. The caffeine and adrenaline combo had me talking a mile a minute and feeling like my heart would tear itself from my chest. The next day we did our 3rd bungee at The Ledge, a platform that juts out 400m over Queenstown accessible only by gondola. Riding up said gondola was a bit deceiving as the angle of perspective made the jump appear much more large and unnerving that it was. On this particular bungee, your jump doesn’t end anywhere near the ground which was a tad strange to accept. We arrived an hour early to fully appreciate the view and I was once again faced with a battle within my brain. We brought our friend Andy with us who was anti-bungee but pro-view and his constant utterings of ‘’you’re absolutely mental’’ didn’t help my confidence. Other than the view and stopping point, this bungee is unique in that you are harnessed at your waist, allowing your feet proper mobility to get a running start. They recommend that you try something other than the usual swan dive so I fulfilled a superhero fantasy and did a jump kick while Kelsey decided to go backwards. It certainly helped to have the running start but what started as a graceful kick into thin air disintegrated into a flailing mess into oblivion. The photos I picked up afterwards were much more forgiving than the video. The employees at the bungee stations are real pranksters, they like to toy with you about things like safety or jump time to maximize your anxiety. The guy holding the cord keeping Kelsey from falling pretended to let her go at least twice before actually doing so which resulted in the first scream I’d heard from her in the course of all these crazy activities. Kelsey had otherwise been stone faced and unflappable in the face of all this madness. That shred of doubt that exists but inevitably disappears was to that point present on me only, thus it was understandably devastating to my confidence to discover the internal turmoil evident on Kelsey’s face as we drove to the big kahuna on day 3. The Nevis bungee is 134m, three times higher than the Bridge and the Ledge. Not only did we have to tackle this behemoth but immediately afterwards we knew we were doing the Nevis Arc, a canyon swing that is another 25m or so higher than the bungee pod. The sketchy gravel road drive up an astoundingly steep hill was our introduction to our D-Day. There were 6 of us on a bus that could’ve sat about 50, I wonder why? The explicit instruction that no refunds would be given to non-jumpers brought about a nervous chuckle from the group. The bungee pod itself is suspended on a series of wires about 150m above the Nevis Gorge, accessible only by a shaky cage that ferries you out to the seemingly levitating shelter. We were once again selected according to weight so I was 2nd to jump. Icy vein Kelsey remained visibly shaken which usually would’ve seen wobbly-knee Colin worse for wear but for whatever reason I had come to terms with my potential demise and felt, dare I say it, excited. If you recall, standard operating procedure calls for the jumper to reach up on the 2nd or 3rd rebound to pull a safety cord attached to their left ankle which swings them right-side up for the lift back up the top. I dove without hesitation, cool as a cucumber and straight as an arrow looking like a regular James Bond and was clear headed enough to appreciate the experience and remember the instructions. I did the mid-air crunch and found the bright red cord and pulled. No response. I pulled again, and again, and again. No response. Before I had time to panic I was being pulled back up so I just fell limp and accepted it. Thus it was that I was slowly pulled back upside down from 134m below a floating shack in the middle of nowhere in back country New Zealand. All the blood was rushing to my head and I was spinning circles in the wind but it was one of the greatest moments of my life. But wait, don’t get comfortable Colin, you have to go higher! Yes, always higher. To the swing pod we went. It sits at the end of a shaky bridge above the bungee pod like a watchful guardian. Kelsey and I decided on the tandem swing as a symbol of our pact that saw us through all this ridiculousness that may have otherwise gone undone. We suited up and sat floating alongside one another, fittingly at the highest point yet. The operator asked us if we’d like a countdown or a surprise, though I believe they give you a surprise regardless of your choice. Without warning you drop into the gorge as if someone cut out the seat beneath you and before you can open your mouth to scream or to curse the operator you find yourself hurtling towards the other side at over 100kph. From the viewing platform you become an infinitesimal speck amidst the rock before disappearing completely. Unlike the bungees, your brain manages to sort itself out in enough time to realize that what you are doing is immensely enjoyable. No matter how shitty you are feeling (and I will admit that on all the Queenstown jumps my stomach was off) these post free fall sensations cure what ails you. Perhaps in response to her moment of weakness before the bungee, Kelsey waylaid anyone doubts I had in her confidence when she opted to do the swing again, solo, and upside down! Picture me giggling myself silly watching Kelsey try to swing her legs through loops above her head while suspended almost 200m above sweet, safe and level ground. It was scarier watching her do that than actually sitting beside her all strapped in and swinging. Now that it’s all over and all I have left is the photos and the memories I’m sure I’ll be asked if it was worth it. My response; best $500 I ever spent. I’m sure Mr. Hackett is also happy as he sits in his office, feet up, smoking a cigar, laughing and counting the combined $1250 we gave his company. Combine all these jumps with some of the best food ever and you have another spectacular stop to add to an already spectacular trip. For all of you who woke up today feeling a bit bored with nothing to do, my advice to you is to come to New Zealand, jump the Nevis, eat a monstrous $17 Fergburger, put back a few pints of Monteith’s and sit back and enjoy the starry night sky. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

May 22nd and 23rd - Fox Glacier and Wanaka

My Holmes-ian sense of detection was waving red flags when we were trying to decide which glacier to explore. Both the Franz Josef and Fox glaciers are essentially identical, surrounded by townships purpose built to cater to tourists with Franz Josef being slightly larger and slightly more popular as it is a few kilometers closer to the main highway from Christchurch. Lonely Planet openly admitted that it was a coin toss to decide between the two. Oddly enough, there was a $25 price difference between the 4 hour ice treks on each glacier, despite our 2008 Lonely Planet stating that the price used to be the same. When we inquired at the info desk for the Franz Josef walk they claimed with pride that it included ‘’free entry to the hot springs’’ which would’ve otherwise cost us, yep, $25. Now I’m no conspiracy theorist but it would appear that the glacier folk are in cahoots with the hot spring folk. Since we aren’t suckers we decided to just spend the night in Franz Josef and make our way to the early bird Fox glacier walk. For the first time in a while we opted for a dorm room and we were made to pay for this slip in judgement. As previously mentioned, the body odor permeated everything to the point that it was almost a physical entity, floating about, mocking us in all its stinky pomposity. We were able to get to sleep just fine but a female roommate returned to the room around 3am and proceeded to organize all of her belongings in a systematic fashion designed to produce the most annoying noise possible. Luckily there were others in there that weren’t as good as I at holding their tongues and they let her have it, allowing me to save face. The awkward part for Kelsey and I came at 7am when we had to wake up to make it to the glacier in time and so we had to be exceptionally silent such that we didn’t awake the slumbering monsters that had exploded only four hours earlier. Climbing the Fox glacier was a treat, made infinitely better by the fact that I could make as many ice puns as I wanted and feel validated that they were appropriate. Our Argentinian guide particularly enjoyed when I said ‘’Ice to meet you’’ to Kelsey and I remarked that I’d let her use that to start her tours from now on. Those guides have it pretty sweet, getting to climb around on a glacier all day, wielding giant ice-picks and having the opportunity to make those ice puns, I am jelly. After the walk I was rather tired, having had a sub-par sleep and being subjected to the cold for that long. Unfortunately our map said we had a 6 hour drive down the remainder of the west coast and inland through the mountains to the Lake District and Wanaka. At first I thought that the map was telling the truth as I was forced to a near halt about 15 times in the first hour at the many one lane bridges that exist in this country. Perhaps because we didn’t stop for a pee break or for any of the minor natural attractions along the way we were able to make it to Wanaka in less than 4 hours. Simon had said that if there were one place he’d definitely consider settling down in for a little while, it would be Wanaka. It is a small town of about 3500 people sandwiched between a bunch of beautiful, mountain-fed lakes that acts as a base of sorts for some of the surrounding ski fields. We were overjoyed that our hostel had an amazing view over Lake Wanaka and we were even more thrilled to discover that we were the only two occupants of the en suite share room we were given! I especially was jumping for joy at this as I was looking forward to a solid sleep before our sky diving excursion the next day. We spent the evening at a New Zealand treasure, the Cinema Paradiso. It’s a small theatre and café about a quarter of the size of the Garneau theatre with a handful of interesting features. Firstly, most people arrive a bit early and enjoy a glass of wine in the attached café. The theatre itself is filled with couches and even an old car to allow people to either feel at home or like they’re at a drive-in. Before the movie they even have homemade advertisements for theatre etiquette as well as for local businesses. Lastly and most importantly, regardless of the film they hold a short intermission halfway through where you can purchase cookies that have been baked fresh to correspond with the timing of the intermission, or pick up a pre ordered dinner to eat at your couch back in the theatre. It seems to be doing quite well as they show the latest Hollywood fare as well as art-house flicks for squares like Kelsey and I. We were already in our bunks and reading when the proprietor opened our door and announced that there were two people taking the remaining beds in the share room. At first I was impartial as I figure I’d be asleep momentarily and I would barely notice their presence; this was not the case. One of the pair snored so loud I was worried for the foundations of the bunkhouse. It kept me up for at least an hour according to the indiglo on my watch. I tried everything, pillow over my head, plugging my ears with my fingers, wearing my DJ headphones, as well as combinations of these things, all to no avail. I pounced on the single opportunity where he made such a snort that he woke himself up and somehow willed myself to sleep. Luckily they disappeared early in the morning and I was able to rest my body and mind for skydiving that afternoon. I was introduced to my tandem diver who was a short, stocky Polish chap with broken English. He was a bit gruff, but I guess I appreciated it as it meant that he wasn’t taking any chances with safety or protocol. I never would’ve thought that I’d have appreciated being tightly strapped to a sweaty Polish man but New Zealand has been full of surprises. I was first into the plane which meant the last out. While ascending I noticed that my shoulder strap was loose enough to fall off my shoulder. I brought it up with Poland and he said ‘’uh oh, that’s not good’’ then laughed with another tandem instructor before assuring me that it wouldn’t be tightened until we were properly strapped together just before the jump. I didn’t appreciate the in-flight humor. The worst shock came with watching the others leave the plane. The first woman’s screams were the perfect indication of how fast you’re moving once you exit the aircraft. It looked like she was being sucked into a vacuum cleaner and her scream dissipated instantly along with her. The proper jump position has your head tilted way back, resting on the shoulder of your tandem diver. This is probably so that you don’t look down and panic. You really have no say in the matter as, similar to bungee jumping, they get you falling as fast as they can, no pun intended. The brochure claims that at 12,000 feet (the height we dove from) one can expect 45 seconds of free-fall reaching 200kph. I don’t know what terminal velocity is but it’s face-flappingly fast. It’s so different from bungee jumping where you can tell you’re falling whereas sky diving feels like you’re suspended while being bombarded with air currents. About 5 seconds after leaving the plane the instructor taps your arms signalling that you can let go of your harness and move them about. I couldn’t put them back on the harness if I tried with the wind pushing me like it did. After the parachute kicks in and gives you quite the startle you remember where you are as well as how much distance still exists between you and solid ground. I had a surreal little chat 9000ft. above the Earth with a Polish dude I hadn’t known 20 minutes earlier. The couple of minutes it takes to ride the chute down to the landing zone are really indescribable. The view alone made me swear out loud at least 10 times, I felt a bit guilty. I quickly forgot my bad sleeps and disgruntled body as we sailed through the sky, the instructor throwing in the occasional trick turn just to keep me on edge. I was able to land right on my feet, not on my bum like they tell you to. In the end, I couldn’t wait to do it again. It was so much easier than bungee jumping simply because of perspective. Speaking of which, there is no rest for the wicked; I have three bungees over the next three days, beginning with today. I should be able to upload video of them too as the place we are staying at in Queenstown advertised free internet!

May 20th and 21st - Greymouth and Franz Josef

A liberal estimate places the population of the entire west coast of the South Island around 32,000, making our first stop there, Greymouth, a comparatively bustling metropolis in comparison to anywhere else with its 13,500 residents. Our trusty Lonely Planet guidebook struggled to drum up much that was positive to say about the place but as it was a convenient stop on our long road to Southland we booked a 6pm tour at the one item of interest, the Monteith’s brewery tour. Unfortunately for the poor souls at Monteith’s, I had been to the Guinness factory not once but twice; the standard setter for brewery tours. Thus my apprehensiveness was warranted as I paid my $18 and was led through an empty bar and past the washrooms to the beginning of the tour. Where the Guinness factory had countless videos, recordings, and interactive displays, Monteith’s had a heavyset woman struggling to read notes she’d clearly been supplied from a soiled clipboard. The fact that the woman had never given the tour, or any tour for that matter, became increasingly clear as time went on, but her preparedness was irrelevant as anything she said was drowned out either by the hum of the machinery or by her own accord as she turned away from the tour group to speak. The saving grace came with the tastings at the end which proved that the brains behind the entire operation had been spending all their time making quality beer and not organizing sub-par tours. Casual drinking has become somewhat of a motif on our journey through New Zealand. It’s hard enough when there are so many breweries and wineries about that when you figure in how damn good everything tastes, it really is a recipe for disaster. Even drinks that I’d normally avoid back home are finding a place in my heart. The Monteith’s Black is a gift from the treasure vaults of Xerxes while the Cloudy Bay Pinot Noir put a stop to my wine racism; no more whites only for me. We have a giant bag that we use to carry our food from hostel to hostel that contains so much wine and beer that we probably appear to be severe alcoholics. Kelsey is in dire straits about how she is going to get all her booze back through customs. Anyways, after the tour and a stir fry dinner (with wine, obviously) we had a lovely night of Scrabble with a pair of Welshmen while the rain poured down outside. It’s easy to make friends when the hostel has musical instruments in its common room, I just play a little Fur Elise on the piano or solo along with a guitar to someone dabbling in Coldplay and good conversation starts. The next morning, in Hokitika on the way to the Franz Josef glacier, we picked up our first hitchhiker. Mike lives in the township at the foot of the glacier itself and was just coming back from a climbing trip in Nepal, in other words, a true kiwi outdoorsman. We tolerated the body odor coming from his travel gear because he was a delightful fellow full of character and local wisdom. Best of all, he was a big Fleet Foxes fan and we both whistled along when I put it on through the car stereo. Speaking of body odor, what is it with dorm rooms and overwhelming stink? We’ve mostly been staying in share rooms meaning that they have 3 or 4 beds, any more than 4 and they’re officially considered dorms. It seems there is some universal rule that once a room has more than 4 beds, the people who fill the beds must have terrible BO (other than us of course). Despite opening both windows upon check-in, the smell seems to have intensified considerably over a couple of hours, thus we find ourselves watching the Two Towers in the common room, waiting for the morning where we will actually get to climb the glacier (though we are heading to the Fox glacier, 25 clicks further south).

May 18th and 19th - Kaikoura

It’s a few days from officially being winter here in New Zealand; The South Island mustn’t have gotten the memo. If this is the worst their weather gets then why bother calling it winter at all? Case in point; I shouldn’t be getting sunburnt every day if its winter. You wouldn’t know it’s the off season by looking outside, only by booking activities do you begin to realize it. The discounts on already discounted prices are becoming commonplace, much to the excitement of Kelsey and me. After a successful day of drinking and driving (or boozing and biking if that sounds a little more acceptable) we were faced with the tough decision of heading either northwest to Abel Tasman National Park or south along the coast towards Kaikoura and earthquake country. Our eventual decision to go south was based on the belief that another epic endurance activity like our river journey was not something we should be jumping into without proper planning. In the national park we would’ve been sea kayaking out into the wilderness with nowhere to stay but camped under the stars for at least a couple of nights. We’d enjoyed the creature comforts of wine country so much I doubt either of us was eager for the opportunity to become homeless mountain men again. Kaikoura is a couple hours south of Blenheim, between which there is a whole lot of nothing population-wise, but a whole lot of everything scenery-wise. When the earth was created and the ingredients of beauty sprinkled about, it was done so carelessly; New Zealand has been given more than the lion’s share. Whenever someone in Red Deer, or Flint, Michigan, or any other unsightly place looks out their front window and wonders where all the prettiness went, the answer is invariably New Zealand. I thought that on the whole, the North Island gave any place I’d yet seen in the world a run for its money in the looks department, but the South Island makes the North Island look like a steaming pile. We wanted to pull over every few kilometers as photo op after photo op revealed itself around each corner. We stopped for lunch at a solitary cafe on the ocean that appeared out of nowhere after miles and miles of remoteness. We may have missed out on it had it not been for a massive recommendation from our backpacking bible, the Lonely Planet guide we pinched from the hostel all the way back in Piha. The fare was worthy of the view; Kelsey’s piece of lasagne was forged in the oven of God himself, and my organic apple pear beverage was a tall, cool glass of angels’ tears. After our kingly meal we followed the recommendation from a couple we’d met from Los Angeles for a path off the highway where seals come in the winter to play under a waterfall. It was as cute as it sounds; fifty or so seal pups in a 5m by 7m pool at the base of a waterfall doing barrel rolls and chasing bits of plants that had fallen into the water. I bet we stood transfixed for a solid 45 minutes. Now, I’m trying to think of some terrible simile or metaphor to describe Kaikoura but am failing. What would be one of the most picturesque little towns on any bay in New Zealand on its own is given the extra gift of possessing an extreme proximity to the Southern Alps. I would often find myself forgetting that this mountain range lay behind me and would turn around and be astounded by its presence over and over again. Kaikoura is the place to be for marine life tours with whale watching and dolphin swims possible. In order to balance our recent comfort with our desire for adventure we chose to go out on a small fishing vessel to catch perch, blue cod, and crayfish for our dinner. The owner, however, was not feeling as adventurous and cancelled the trip due to poor ocean conditions. We were forced into eating crayfish fritters and garlic scallops from a seaside BBQ shack. Tasty, yes, but healthy, not so much, which had become a tiny bit of an issue for me. Back in Blenheim, and in the spirit of spontaneity, I had purchased an entire cake from a bakery simply because I wanted a slice of it. After cutting it with my finger and eating it with my hands in the car like a raging fat ass I set it out on the counter of the hostel with a handwritten sign stating that it was free for anyone to come have a slice. There was only one taker by dinner time so I ate from it periodically over the next few days leaving my stomach a bit off, partially from its sweetness and partially from the fact that it was from a discount shelf and had expired the day after purchase. I relate this to you because we were successful in our attempt to get aboard the fishing vessel the next morning and my upset stomach came back to haunt me in full force. We made it out to a depth of 80m and I’d cast my line in three times with but one fish caught when I realized that I couldn’t fight it anymore, the sea was having its way with my equilibrium. I handed my rod to the captain, popped two Gravol caplets and slumped into a chair while Kelsey continued to reel in the fish behind me. I managed to keep the embarrassingly unhealthy contents of my stomach inside me but it had taken all my strength and I was pale and sweaty by the time we reached the shore. I believe it was out of pity that the captain didn’t charge us extra money as he took us to his house and cooked the crayfish up nice and proper for us. We’d seen crayfish advertised at over $25 the day before at the BBQ shack so we felt as though we’d gotten away with murder as we escaped back to the car with both the filleted fish and two full crayfish. We are now stopped at Hanmer Springs, a small tourist spot that was convenient on the stretch to the opposite coast. After eating our crayfish dinner, complete with many ‘that’s what she saids’ and diarrhoea jokes as we pulled meat from their tails, we are now lounging by the fire and plotting our route down the sparsely populated West coast. Although we were unable to go surfing with him, we did meet up with our British friend Andy for billiards and a pint last night and he remarked on the poor choice of name for my blog (Colin in New Zealand), I have another name in mind but I’m open to suggestions for something with a little more pizazz.

May 15th, 16th, and 17th - Picton and the Marlborough Wine Region

We bid adieu to the North Island and arrived in the port town of Picton after a 3 hour ferry ride. Most North Islanders that we asked seemed to hold the South Island in high regard, and upon our very first impression we immediately concurred. The Marlborough Sounds welcome you to NZ’s larger, quieter half; abrupt, tree lined islands snake through the water like fingers and create picturesque landscapes in every direction. People have setup holiday homes (known as ‘baches’ over here) all throughout the sounds and they all have small bays which they can essentially call their own. The mail service doubles as a tour company as they bring letters and supplies to these remote establishments. We stayed at a hostel across from a cemetery known as Tombstones. It has been described as a member of the new sect of ‘flashpackers’, which combine the ideology of a backpackers (low price, communal kitchen, etc.), with rooms and amenities which mirror a proper hotel. We scored a double room for the price of a dorm and the hostel had a guitar, piano, hot tub, ocean views, internet lounge, and TV room to keep us occupied. After the frenzy of Wellington we chose to simply relax that day, cook separate meals and generally just recuperate. The following morning we went on a solid 3 hour hike to a point overlooking the Cook Strait and had a heart to heart on the first half of the trip, the good, the bad, and how we planned to tackle what was to come. We agreed to be more spontaneous and to try and make a few more contacts with other hostellers now that Simon was gone. It was great chat and I think I finally made Kelsey appreciate the appeal of the long, secluded walks and other nature activities I had planned because we both felt refreshed and vindicated having been granted an opportunity to air whatever grievances we had and discuss how to make the most of the South Island. After the walk we drove a bit inland to the Marlborough wine region, passing through the larger town of Blenheim for a small town right in the heart of wine country called Renwick. The most peculiar thing occurred just after we checked in and Kelsey went to take a nap. I was sitting alone in the common room, studying maps and guidebooks in an attempt to decided where to go next when a British chap entered, asking me if I knew the way to a particular well-reviewed pub in town. I admitted that I did not know the way but I pointed to the trusty Lonely Planet guidebook and proclaimed that it had never steered us wrong. Sure enough the pub was in there, and it did indeed have a glowing review. He was grateful for the advice and inquired if I would like to join him for a pint. How fitting, I thought, as we had just discussed that this was an aspect of our trip that had been lacking. Kelsey, having just woken up, was astounded to hear me inviting her to the pub for a pint at 5 in the afternoon, but gladly accepted. Kelsey, I, and our new friend Andy headed for the Cork and Keg, the only pub in this small town of probably 500 inhabitants. I bought us a round of the local brew, Moa, with each of us choosing a distinct variety. Within moments, one of the locals picked up our foreign accents and began introducing himself. He was the strangest looking fellow I think I’d seen since I’d arrived. He wore a long sleeved, plaid shirt, the type you would expect to see on the highlands of Scotland, as well as an old English cap and he was drinking a tall glass of red wine. He seemed more than pleased to have some new company to talk to and we soon found ourselves immersed in his story about life on a vineyard in the area. We found out that he had found himself a wife from Thailand who cooked him spicy food, which I could’ve never imagined in a thousand years given his character. He claimed he was an engineer, the kind who builds sheds for cattle and the like. He also told us of his cat who likes to sit on a chair with his paws on the dinner table, joining him and his wife for meals. He was so happy to converse with us that he eventually gave Andy and me his card. Oddly enough, it turned out he grew grapes for Oyster Bay, the one New Zealand wine I am particularly fond of back home, and the one winery I hadn’t been able to find. Along with his card he offered us a bed and some food if we were ever in the area again, and who knows, I might try to take him up on his offer, that is if he remembers me after all the wine he put back. The following morning we set off on hired bikes for a wine tour. It was sublime; the sun was shining, the colors were vibrant, and nearly all of the wine was free! One would only need to bike for a minute between vineyards before dismounting and being treated to 5 wines per establishment. We had Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Pino Grigios, Champagne, Cider, Dark Beer, Light Beer, you name it. By the days end Kelsey had 3 bottles of wine and 3 bottles of beer, while I picked up two bottles of wine which would go nicely towards easing the pain of my sunburn. It is looking as though our prayers were answered as these last couple of days have been exactly what we were both looking for. Instead of another multi-day wilderness trek we may follow Andy to the coastal town of Kaikoura where he offered to give us free surfing lessons amidst the mountain landscape. Worry not those of you waiting to hear another tale of us doing something outrageously dangerous as we are most definitely going sky diving, immediately followed by 3 bungees and 1 canyon swing in the very near future. Perhaps this wine is just the cure I’ll need to soothe my jangled nerves after tossing myself from this series of high places.

May 12th, 13th, and 14th - Wellington

The morning after our river journey we all agreed that the weather was too poor to be climbing around Mount Doom on the Tongariro Alpine Crossing. I suspect that the state of our bodies after three days of paddling combined with that beast of a celebratory dinner had a little to do with our decision as well. Rather than muck about in some of the small towns along the Kapiti Coast we decided to push forth for Wellington. I’d been especially excited about Wellington and its surrounding suburbs for a number of reasons; it has a renowned café culture, thriving arts scene, proper public transit, and above all else, natural beauty. Driving into the city we passed through Pukera Bay, the hometown of Peter Jackson of Lord of the Rings fame. Unfortunately nearly all of the hostels in the CBD had received mediocre reviews as they cater to the nightlife crowd with many situated above bars so we stuck to our golden rule set forth after the Tauranga experience and selected a place 20 minutes north of Wellington in Plimmerton called Moana Lodge. If my te reo Maori is correct I believe the translation of ‘moana’ is ocean, which is quite fitting as the only thing separating this hostel from the ocean was a thin strip of road. The proprietor, John, was an exceptionally bored old man who, for this reason, was uncomfortably welcoming and anxious to offer us every last bit of his knowledge of the area. It got to the point where each of us had separately tuned out his voice and were attempting to communicate through some form of telekinesis to devise a plan to kill him while outwardly retaining an image of mild interest. Hours must have passed before we escaped his siren song and we could read the disappointment in his face afterwards for, after giving us so many ideas for things to do, we instead did laundry. Let this be a warning to all potential backpackers in NZ; don’t hang your laundry out on a clothesline. The sunniest, most beautiful day will inexplicably turn to unrelenting rain for about 30 seconds, just to spite the dryness of your garments. Anyway, after slipping into my soggy jeans we hopped in the car and made for the city. I have to say, even though I’d seen many pictures of Wellington before coming over here, it still blew me away with how pretty it was. The three of us tried to name who the parents would be if Wellington were an illegitimate love child and we came to some sort of an agreement that it’s kind of like the offspring of Waikiki in Hawaii and San Francisco. As was the case in Auckland, it’s difficult to relate it to one other place in particular as it is very much unique. To see if the city passed the first Colin test I decided to see how long it would take me to locate and purchase the new Fleet Foxes album. What I soon discovered is that the main shopping district has multiples of everything, especially bookstores. Not only could I find the lesser known items I sought, but I had the ability to shop around. That’s an A+ in my books. I bought the album much to the chagrin of my pop music preferring travel mates but I had to put my foot down on this issue. We spent the rest of the day in Te Papa, New Zealand’s national museum on the CBD waterfront. It reminded me very much of going to the Space and Science center as a kid with all its interactive displays. We got to stand inside a model house and simulate an earthquake and learn how much devastation the European settlement of the land has inflicted. The highlight of the place was the skeleton of a pygmy blue whale that hung from the ceiling and the preserved carcass of the only giant squid on display in the world. Simon’s snoring had me up at 6:30am on day two so I went for a run along the beach, followed by a massive breakfast and a go on the hostel’s acoustic guitar and piano. That day was shopping day for Kelsey and we split up to let her do her thing, making bets on how much she would spend. Simon ended up winning but I won’t say what our guesses were. We found Simon an old copy of the Hobbit to read when he’s lounging on the beaches of Tonga and I mulled over a $20 pair of city shoes before realizing they’d do more harm than good. Simon introduced me to this interesting chain of sushi restaurants that have a changing daily special of 8 pieces for under $5 NZD. As a rule I’d normally avoid cheap seafood but in the spirit of being a backpacker I indulged and it was good enough that I bet I’d frequent the place if I stuck around Wellington. That evening, after cooking an amazing dinner of New Zealand lamb over rice, Greek salad, pitas, hummus, red wine, and Hokey Pokey ice cream (a kiwi original), we headed across the street from the hostel to the local boating club who let us in on members night to watch the Wellington Hurricanes NRL rugby match. Although the Hurricanes lost it was still a great time, and the $5 beers were a welcome change from the $8 beers in the city. On our last day in Wellington we left Moana Lodge for the city to stay with Simon’s old flat mate from his few days at university in Christchurch who had a place at the Massey University residence where we could crash on the floor. While waiting for the dryer and listening to the Fleet Foxes album in the car I drained the battery but bored old John was happy to have something to do and got us a boost. The flat at the University was really tiny but free, and beggars can’t be choosers. We did some of the tourist attractions that day, most notably the Mt. Victoria lookout which was both a workout and a revelation. It is the centerpiece of the city’s greenbelt, an amazing set of parkland that cuts through the city whose hills provide endless lookouts over the harbour. We walked the trails where the scene was shot from The Fellowship of the Ring where the four hobbits hide from the black rider and, being a huge nerd, I was giddy as a schoolgirl. We ended the day with a goodbye dinner at a place called Sweet Mother’s Kitchen which is like a better version of Dadeo’s in Edmonton. We got a heaping plate of nachos and a Tui each (my favourite NZ beer) to start followed by sizeable comfort food main courses with a side of bourbon mash. Kelsey did the unthinkable and ordered the $10 apple pie and Ice cream for dessert and despite my reservations I admit I was jelly. We caught a live cover band for free who played mostly West Coast ska music despite it being a mock Irish pub, but no one was complaining. I’m writing this on the ferry to the South Island, hoping that I don’t get seasick. I didn’t plan nearly as much for the South Island as I did for the North Island so it will be interesting to see what we get up to but naturally it will either be epic, or I will dramatize it to make it sound epic to justify keeping up with this blog!

May 9th to 11th - The Whanganui River Journey

New Zealand has a staggering number of government sponsored walks, hikes, and tramps, all of which take full advantage of the beautiful landscape of the country. Perhaps in a bid to increase tourism or perhaps out of genuine concern for conservation the powers that be decided to select 9 of them in particular and dub them as the Great Walks of New Zealand. For these walks you are required to pay extra fees for staying in the allocated huts and generally need to book months in advance as only a certain number of people are allowed on them at any given time. Starting on the morning of Monday, the 9^th of May, we set out on the black sheep of the Great Walk family, the Whanganui River Journey. Given that it’s a journey that is done entirely by watercraft, it seems a bit strange that it should be included in such an exclusive list otherwise comprised entirely of walks. I suppose the Department of Conservation was most concerned with including trips that succinctly capture the uniqueness of New Zealand in a relatively short period of time, and if such is the case then they have succeeded with the inclusion of the river journey. A small company called Yeti Tours rented us a canoe, a kayak, all the camping supplies we needed, and transportation to and from the river for a very reasonable price. I had been concerned about the amount of food we were bringing with us, partly due to not being certain on the amount of storage we would be provided with, and partly because I found it to be against the spirit of the journey to provide ourselves with too many small comforts. I suppose the others found it difficult to understand that I was chasing the same experience as my walk across England where an extremely arduous day makes one appreciate the taste and ease of obtainability of food that much more. It turns out we were supplied with plenty of barrels to store our belongings, perhaps at the expensive of some canoe stability but nevertheless it was welcome. The man who drove us out to the drop off point was a prime example of the dichotomy that separates the contemporary Maori people, at least from what I’ve experienced thus far. It seems as though you have some that have absorbed some of the worst aspects of European and Western culture, namely the obsession with fast, unhealthy food, and others that have retained their traditional morays and methods at the expense of seeming a little on the fringe. Despite this, they have all been amicable, if not downright hospitable to us since we arrived. Our driver was in the former category, one of many severely overweight individuals that appear to be more accepted by the Pakeha (European New Zealanders), as I will discover later. The drive from Ohakune was about an hour and a half, the better portion of which was spent on roads that appear to be driven upon about once every few months. We were amazed to see signs for a school out in the hills after having gone half an hour without any signs of civilization. There are minor colonies of people that have congregated on the secluded Whanganui River who probably receive some of their goods by boat lest they be forced to brave the treacherous, unsealed roads, laid down by logging companies that connect them to the outside world. We finally set off with myself in the back of the canoe, Kelsey at the front, and Simon paddling solo in the kayak. It started out a bit rough, I was unfamiliar with the handling and management of a proper, loaded canoe and was apparently so bad at steering during the first hour that Kelsey was convinced I was intent on sending us to our collective doom via an intimate encounter with the rock walls. Of course this wasn’t true, though I must admit I was pretending that I was in more control than I actually was. I was quick to realize that sometimes you just have to go with the flow; there are times where no matter what you do the river takes you where it wants to, and that despite our best efforts, what we are subjecting ourselves to is putting us out of our comfort zones for long enough to make us all act a bit funny. That being said, I think we’ve done quite admirably in coping with each other’s idiosyncrasies and all the curveballs this trip has thrown at us. We are, after all, vastly different people who just happen to share a hidden desire to do bungee jumps and other crazy things of that nature. The river journey was a good time to confirm our friendships with nothing to do but talk over a solitary candle. We shared this amazing experience with four other travellers; Yifat, Anselm, Emanuel, and Danilo. Despite a bit of a language barrier we were able to become quick friends over a shared love for an Israeli version of the card game Rummy called Yaniv. On the second day we went to the infamous Bridge to Nowhere which, as its name suggests, is a bridge in the middle of nowhere built to service two communities of people on opposite ends of the river that have since vacated the area. We found a small path from the view point that took us to a secluded rock ledge overlooking the bridge and it was there that we stopped for a snack of taco chips and salsa. It was one of those rare moments that, despite sharing it with some cool people, I wish I were alone as it’s something so perfect you just want to sit there in the silence and appreciate it for longer while it’s still there, unspoilt. The second night we encountered a Department of Conservation maintenance party at the hut. Among their ranks was a man who fit into the latter kind of Maori people I described previously. He was very much in touch with nature and insisted we enter through a ceremonial gate to be greeted by a statue built by his ancestors. I finally got a chance to use some Maori as I gave him a friendly ‘kia ora’ upon our meeting, though I was disappointed that he didn’t initiate a hongi. He had only arrived a few moments before us but had somehow managed to roll a joint within those first few moments and was soon getting high with the two German chaps who were setting up their tent. Another of the DOC wardens in his party was from small town New Zealand which we learned breeds a strong sense of racism. This old crackpot was unimpressed with our travel companion from Israel simply because she was from Israel and turned the whole hut deathly quiet with his remarks. The weirdest occurrence of the trip however began on the first day; we kept coming across dead goats with their heads and hooves cut off, hung on sticks at the river’s edge like grim warnings that we were about to experience the movie Deliverance firsthand. We had become sufficiently freaked out after about the 5^th corpse when we came across a jet boat with two hunters aboard. Upon exchanging pleasantries one of the men explained that they had been the ones who had killed the goats as they are considered pests to the native flora and they would be heading back up river to collect them soon. This was confirmed later as we saw another of their group with a hunting dog track a goat down into the shallows before blasting it in the face with a high powered rifle. I don’t see the excitement in this activity, the dog did all the work of finding it, cornering it and injuring it, which makes the final act just seem pointless and malicious. In the end it was an amazing but exhausting trip and we celebrated by pigging out. My dinner of a gourmet muffin and beef kebab seemed tamed in comparison to Kelsey and Simon who had chips, ice cream, and beer in addition to their kebabs. If I keep up these eating habits I might resemble our Maori friend come June.

May 7th and 8th - New Plymouth/Ohakune

With a whole bunch of activities needing to be sandwiched into a few days we drove south along the west coast towards New Plymouth. The big, and some say only, attraction of this small coastal city is its proximity to the mighty Mount Taranaki, a solitary volcano that seemingly rises from nowhere to dominate the horizon for miles around. What on paper appeared to be about a 2 hour pleasure cruise from Waitomo turned out to be a full day nightmare. Immediately after noticing a highway sign declaring the presence of falling rocks for the next kilometer I came across, you guessed it, some fallen rocks. I thought that I’d center them between my tires such they’d pass underneath the middle of the car, say hello to the axles and muffler, and carry on about their pointless existence. They, however, had much more sinister intentions as the largest of their lot took a bite out of our left front tire. The sound of escaping air was unmistakable and I was forced to pull over on the side of the single lane, mountain side highway. I’d certainly changed a tire before but only on the groundmaster tractors at my job with the city and that was with an impact gun and a tank full of compressed air. I was more or less on the right track when a lovely Indian man and his father pulled over, pushed me aside, and proceeded to secure our spare before we could comprehend what was happening. The downside of this occurrence was that for the remainder of the drive (well over an hour) I was forced, as per the instructions written upon the spare tire, to keep my speed below 80kph. Looking on the bright side, this allowed me to better appreciate the spectacular scenery of the Taranaki region. Our good friends from Lonely Planet steered us to an organic brewery on the outskirts of New Plymouth where our tensions were eased over the purchase of some fine ale, lager, and strawberry blonde beer. Our plans for a 5 hour walk around the mountain were ruined so we decided to use the day to take care of some minor business such as laundry and internet matters. Simon and I found ourselves in the middle of the unique New Zealand weather patterns as we hopped from overhang to overhang as the rain alternated between pissing and non-existence, separated only by a matter of seconds. That evening we had our first experience with one of the many takeaways which seem to litter the corners of every intersection regardless of population size. The format of these shops appears to be fish and chips that you order from a counter along with Chinese food served buffet style. Any way you slice it you get exceptionally greasy food for dangerously cheap. These places are buzzing after hours with people unashamedly bending the rule that states you must be able to close the lid on your all-you-can-eat container. Kelsey opted for an MSG fix while Simon and I went for the more traditional fish and chips, though I got kumara chips instead of regular ones (which are sweet potatoes in New Zealandese). Combine this with the beers we purchased on the way in and we had one hearty meal. This was followed by a rousing round of the Lord of the Rings board game and a stop at the local live music venue to see Nite Shift, a band of moderately talented forty-somethings who were in desperate need of a makeover. The following morning (Sunday) we found the only repair shop in town that was open and the guy was so bored he fixed the tire for free. With our car full of petrol and our bellies full of greasy food we finally made it to the mountain and justified the previous night’s meal with a nature walk. We got some great pictures of the peak and Dawson Falls and left feeling satisfied. I felt like a soccer mom driving my two tuckered out kids home from the big game as Simon and Kelsey passed out on the road to Wanganui. We discovered that despite the fact that I do the majority of the driving, it always seems as though Kelsey gets stuck with the scariest bits of road. The final push on Sunday evening was no different with more hills and turns than ever. At our final destination of Ohakune, a town in a similar vein to Jasper at the foot of Mount Ruapehu/Doom, we truly learned that we were visiting in the off season. Every local we met was delighted we’d bothered to come into their establishment and offered us discounts on everything. We got an en suite room with a balcony and views out to the mountain for the equivalent of $15 Canadian. In addition, we had two kitchens between us and a French couple; it was heavenly. It was my night to cook and I really stretched my culinary limits and whipped up soup and sandwiches, a fitting meal to prepare us for our early morning start on the 3 day journey paddling the Whanganui River.

May 6th - The Waitomo Caves

I will gladly jump out a plane, throw myself from a bridge, or plummet off a 7m waterfall, but don’t ask me to go caving. The sport of caving, by definition, states that an individual in a cave is not a caver until they have attempted to find their way without maps or a guide. This often involves squeezing through tight spaces and discovering new passageways by travelling underwater. I can now officially add caving to my curriculum vitae. Kelsey and I, along with our recent addition Simon Lee, drove west from Rotorua to the Waitomo Caves, an area of hilly farmland that upon closer inspection resembles Swiss cheese. Waitomo is covered in hundreds of caves and holes of all shapes and sizes, many of which have tours running through them featuring various adventure activities. We decided upon one called Rap, Raft, and Rock. If you’re a bit slow that means rappelling, rafting, and rock climbing. I must add that I ate a massive plate of bangers ‘n’ mash before caving that was supremely delicious and reminded me of the monstrous meals I’d eaten to fuel back up at the end of a day in my walk across England. Back to the story, Simon had done a similar tour a few weeks back and had mentioned that caving is part of the overall experience. This had my heart going a bit; it was only recently that I’d watched 127 hours and the images were still fresh in my mind. Our tour began with a 27m rappel down a crevice literally in the middle of nowhere followed by a trek into the blackness lit only by our headlamps. We’d only been walking for a minute or so when the guide said that in order to prove ourselves ready for the rest of the journey we’d need to experience some proper caving. He sent the six of us in the tour group off down a separate corridor promising that he’d be waiting for us in a while once we’d found our way. Our corridor led upwards for a while, over sharp rocks that were barely suitable for climbing before descending sharply, leaving us facing a small hole with only one way to go, inside. It was a tight enough squeeze for me to feel quite uncomfortable but being in the middle of the group certainly helped. I was thinking to myself the whole time how nice it was to have lost so much weight. At the end of the squeeze we came to a wider room with two exits this time, though both of them were noticeably smaller than the one we’d just come through. Our guide was on the other side telling us that we needed to go on our chests with our arms straight ahead of ourselves, slithering like snakes. As much as I would’ve felt better crawling I was inclined not to argue with a professional and I found that when I eventually came to the end, it was so tight I wouldn’t have been able to fit my arms at my sides. In order to remove myself, I was told that I had to somehow roll myself onto my back and grip my hands to the rocks on the roof and pull myself free. Even though it probably took only 30 seconds to manoeuvre from my chest to my back, it felt like hours in my mind. Putting myself in a situation as claustrophobic as that is something I never want to do again. I am glad that I did it and overcame my fear but I most certainly wasn’t surprised when afterwards the guide explained that at least once a week someone loses their cool and just starts screaming like a baby. After that harrowing experience we were treated to a lightshow by the glow-worms that attach to the cave ceiling and illuminate it like constellations. The guide then asked that we turn off our headlamps to fully appreciate their luminescence. We sat in the dark for a while when suddenly their came a thunderous crack from somewhere nearby. The guide had slapped an inner tube against the water and the loud noise had caused our heart to beat faster and our pupils to dilate, making our eyes better suited to take in the light from the glow-worms. If we weren’t frightened enough by that, the guide proceeded to explain how 3m long eels swim around in the water we’d been wading through. Everyone moved a bit more cautiously after that tidbit of information. We were then allowed to float down the underground stream in our tubes which was relaxing for a few moments before we hit small rapids and waterfalls that had jagged rocks poking our behinds when the water became too shallow. We came to a point where the walls narrowed slightly and the guide stood up and asked the tour group if anyone could guess where we were heading next. After a few incorrect responses he pointed to a small hole in the rock wall, barely visible above the water level. Apparently we were expected to stick our legs through the hole, hold our breath and be shoved underneath rock and water such that we would emerge a few feet later on the other side of the wall. This was worse than the tight squeeze because at least in there I could breathe. It took all my strength not to panic under there and hit my head on the wall while passing through but somehow I emerged on the other side with nothing but lots of water up my nose. We were given hot lemon drinks and dairy milk chocolate for a reward before wading against the stream we’d just tubed down to make it back to where we’d dropped in. The last step was climbing back up the 27m we’d rappelled down in the first place. I found myself at the front of the line and went first while everyone watched my technique and choice of path from below. Hopefully they didn’t see me struggle and lose my footing near the top, or see the cuts I received all over my hands at the very end. I bet I made this tour sound absolutely horrible but it really wasn’t. For what I paid I certainly got my money’s worth which was an inexperience I’ll never forget. That evening we were the only guests at a hostel run by the tour company so we had an entire farmhouse to ourselves and after that ordeal the prawn stir fry and cheap wine was one of best dinners I’d ever had.

May 4th and 5th - Tauranga to Rotorua

Rotorua stinks, but please, allow me to clarify.  The town itself is curled around Lake Rotorua where geothermal activity causes steam to rise out of every sewer grate and the sulphur smell of rotten eggs to permeate the air. So yes, Rotorua does stink, but not metaphorically speaking. Kelsey and I put our new principle into practice and chose the hostel with the highest BBH member rating rather than the one that tempted us with its movie theatre and climbing wall. We weren’t disappointed; the Funky Green Voyager had a down to earth vibe that we immediately fell in love with, prompting us to book two nights rather than our usual of just one. We scored an awesome twin in a bunkhouse separate from the main house that had the greatest item of luxury in a hostel room yet; a table! Since we didn’t need to be out first thing in the morning I decided to unload all my gear onto said table and try to become a little more organized with the minor items I seemed to be perpetually misplacing. Kelsey got a good chuckle out of the horrible Chinese to English translation on my dollar store toothpaste and more chuckles later as it took me 4 disposable razors to shave my 10 days of beard growth. Not only had the rain ceased but the sun was out in full force that first day so we rented bikes from the motel across the road and took a little trip to the center of town to see some of the mud pits and thermal baths. We worked up a sweat and so, on a tip from our good friends at Lonely Planet, we took a 25 minute car ride south, turning onto a gravel road off the main highway to a place called Kerosene Creek. It was there that we found one of those fantastic word-of-mouth spots that are treasured by locals because the majority of the tourists either don’t know about it or don’t have the means to get there. Walking down a secluded path lead to a tiny waterfall that fed a small pool where one can take a bath in water a little milder than your average hot tub. We soaked in there for an extended period of time as it was nothing short of heavenly. After about half an hour I decided that I’d gotten too many little rocks in my trunks so we were got up to leave when some bohemian-looking dude, beer in hand and walking his dog, passed by overhead. I gave him a friendly peace sign which he returned though I could read the slightest hint of disappointment that he didn’t have the spot to himself. It took us all of 30 seconds to dry off and grab our belongings to leave but the hippie couldn’t contain himself and stripped down to his birthday suit before we’d gotten out of sight. Regardless, it was one of the highlights of the trip thus far, a testament to the uniqueness of New Zealand that one can find if willing to search. We decided that our nerves had finally settled since the Auckland bungee and it was time to get the adrenaline flowing again so we booked a tour with a rafting company that takes thrill seekers over the highest commercially raft-able waterfall in the world, a 7 meter drop. We got suited up in wetsuits and ugly sweaters before enduring about half an hour of safety procedures. This wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the francophone couple from New Caledonia who barely spoke English and were dumfounded by the thick kiwi accent of our instructor. It was a fresh and exciting experience that has me completely stoked for our three day paddle down the Whanganui River even though I did sustain a rather nasty injury. I was quick to realize that there is only so much that the company can account for safety wise, and that the insurance forms we signed prior to rafting were without a doubt carefully worded such that we were essentially signing our lives over. It really is every man for himself out on the water, you try and work as a team but when you’re hurtling towards a waterfall or rock ledge all you really care about is saving your own bacon. Oddly enough we made it down the 7m one relatively smoothly. I was curled up in a ball at the front and the worst I got was a bunch of water up my nose and a few seconds of disorientation. My injury came a little later when we purposefully paddled back into some rapids so that they’d pull us in and we’d get flung about. We were pushed at a decent pace towards the rocky sides of the valley and, being in the front and tall, I had to lean back because I was sliding underneath an overhang. The space got tighter and tighter and as a natural defence mechanism I raised my arms to protect my face resulting in a series of cuts and scrapes along the length of my left arm. The captain at the back of the raft was rather impressed and pondered whether or not to try that with subsequent tours. We got some cool pictures and I got the added bonus of cleansing my wound with some rub that stung like hell so altogether it was an amazing experience. We met up with Simon Lee later that evening and introduced him to another one of our resolutions; if someone isn’t jealous of the dinner we’ve cooked, we haven’t done our job. We got this idea after everyone in the hostel stopped to comment on our homemade pizzas that had mushrooms, spinach, and fresh mozzarella. That 2^nd evening we treated ourselves to hot dogs with onions, beans, pan roasted potatoes and salad. Everyone was jelly again. With our bellies full and our bodies broken we went to bed knowing that the next day we’d be squeezing through tight spaces 27m underground at the Waitomo Caves.

May 3rd - Hahei to Tauranga

As someone with a little more experience in the hosteling universe, I attempted to dissuade Kelsey from choosing the particular hostel in Tauranga she was interested in. Although it has a population similar to that of Red Deer, Tauranga is the 6^th largest city in New Zealand meaning that it would have more of a big city feel than one might expect. After our week of solitude on sparsely populated tracts of beachfront, Kelsey was ready for a night on the town, and I’ll admit I was too. For this reason, she suggested we consider the most centrally located hostel called Loft 109 Backpackers. I had my heart set on a little place 20 minutes from the city centre called ‘Just the Ducks Nuts’; the name alone being a sure sign of an off-beat, welcoming place. Since our arrival in the country we had been blessed with a series of amazing hostels, all of which were clean with spacious, well stocked kitchens.  Their main selling point however had been the amount of privacy for the price we paid. We’ve been paying on average about $25 NZD (under $20 CDN) for a twin room each night, and on those nights where we opted for a share (up to 4 people) or a dorm (4+ people), we’ve been lucky enough to find most of them empty of other travellers. Loft 109 broke our chain of good luck in every way possible. Our hostel guide advertised that it had parking available but upon inquiry the young girl at the desk denied this, taking our money before we could reconsider. A small, handwritten sign behind her head declared that all prices had increased as of May 1^st (yesterday), making our plan to save some cash by sleeping in a dorm irrelevant. Entering the dorm room brought a punch to the face courtesy of a pungent mix of body odour being battled by too much axe. We took the two empty top bunks and escaped immediately, holding our breath. Passing through the common room, we ran into the creatures that had produced the stink, a posse of nerds playing World of Warcraft at the shared computer terminals. Their leader was some short, repugnant German freak who was fond of chasing the female guests around with busy fingers. Easily the greasiest human being I’ve had the displeasure of sharing company with in recent memory. We decided then and there that we’d leave the hostel immediately, returning only to eat and sleep, and that at first light we would hop in the car and switch to another place. This experience brought about our 2^nd resolution; to only stay in hostels with ratings of 80%/4 stars or higher in our trusted hostel bible. We parked the car in an overnight garage which was a tad pricey, though not as bad as some other cities I’ve been to. We wandered the city centre buying toiletries to replace the ones I’d left in a bag sitting on the windowsill of the last hostel. We eventually found ourselves at Mount Maunganui, a coastal suburb dominated by the mountain in question that is in possession of one of the most congenial beaches I’d ever seen. Generous portions of white sand stretch as far as the eye can see in both directions, complimented by interesting rock formations here and there. This place exists on a small strip of land, culminating in an oval whose pinnacle is dotted with luxury lodges and cute coffee shops. We lay on a grassy outcrop that was practically floating in the sea and relaxed, eating mandarin oranges straight from a tree at the last hostel. It was soon time to return for dinner where we were greeted with a kitchen that would be best suited for about 3 people, though at this particular time it was attempting to accommodate about 12. Apparently the nerds were in dire need of sustenance to continue their gaming marathon, so a handful of their minions commandeered the entire kitchen space at the precise time that others were looking to cook dinner such that they could conjure up a variety of sugary desserts. It was impossible for us to use the internet to pass the time as their gaming was taking up all available bandwidth. We were eventually able to secure a hob and make pasta which we devoured hungrily and then proceeded to escape back to the sanctuary of the outdoors. The evening found us in the Crown and Badger pub, right on the waterfront. It turned out that Tuesday’s are game night, so Kelsey and I entered as Team Canada while we sipped some local brews brought to us by a bartender who happened to be from New Brunswick. Despite most of the trivia being very much kiwi-oriented and being on a team that was only a duo whereas most had 5+, we found ourselves leading after 2 rounds. I guess the flabbergasted locals didn’t count on two university degree holding Canadians to waltz in and steal their thunder. Our success was short lived as the later rounds held many questions related to rugby and shitty New Zealand sitcoms, but we did admirably enough and had the host singing O Canada throughout the evening. It turns out that linens, duvets, and towels were all extras that required purchasing so we slept on empty beds out of spite. Kelsey used my hoodie as a quilt, I used my Spoon t-shirt. We were awoken several times by the nerds, often arguing in French, and a cell phone that went off periodically through the night. We were up at first light and got the hell out of there as fast as we could. At checkout, some different employee at the front desk informed us that street parking was indeed free and available after a certain hour. Needless to say, we were not impressed. Rather than risk finding another hellhole of a hostel we decided to continue on the ol’ dusty trail and leave the otherwise beautiful Tauranga behind with hope that the known tourist hot-spot of Rotorua would welcome us with open arms. It did.

May 2nd (Coromandel Town to Hahei)

We put the ghost town of Coromandel in our rear-view accompanied by, you guessed it, more rain. The weather was slowly turning our post-Auckland quiet time into an indoor only experience and I think it’s fair to say that no one in New Zealand should be confined to the indoors. Even if our plan was merely to relax in quaint, coastal towns for a week before our trip really took off, was it too much to ask for a little beach time? As we traversed the hilly highways at a mind-numbing 30kph towards Hahei, Kelsey and I began discussing the first of many stipulations for the rest of the trip. This first stipulation was that we’d try to summon everything within ourselves to make the most of any situation, regardless of the weather. We were both still in high spirits at the time, remaining mentally stimulated by the ever changing scenery and physical stimulated by our fantastic home cooked meals. This, however, could only carry us so far so we decided to give the rain a big old middle finger and push forward for Hot Water Beach (an area where underground heating allows one to dig their own hot tub). Well the rain retaliated immediately; the windshield wipers on our rental car become overworked and one of them lost its grip to the rubber casing, causing it to come loose and not clear the water away adequately. Within moments I realized that unless the rain calmed down, I couldn’t drive safely. After being reassured by a phone call to the manager of the rental car company that they’d compensate us if we paid for any repairs, we found a service shop in small town along the highway and got the problem fixed for a mere $6.50 NZD. We finally reached the hostel (which we pretty much had to ourselves) and asked to borrow spades to dig holes at Hot Water Beach. We received the same reaction we’d been getting for the past few days; a double take from us, to the rain, and back again, followed by an awkward silence, followed by a reluctant acceptance. Most locals had a hard time understanding our motivation to do some of the things in our Lonely Planet guidebooks given the current conditions. We bit the bullet and sprinted from the car to the beach amongst the downpour only to find a stream of water that had formed, separating us from our destination. I took a first step into the stream and sunk a little, the second step saw me fall a solid foot and a half, bruising my ankle in the process. It was back to the car after that. Dejected, we decided to follow signs to some hot springs, which, in the spirit of the new promise we made to ourselves, we regarded as the lazy man’s Hot Water Beach. After driving to a dead end we concluded that the sign had been lying to us and that some higher power was mocking our attempts at making the most of the day. The saving grace came on the barefoot drive back to the hostel where the rain paused for a moment allowing us time to check out Cathedral Cove, a rock formation at the end of a beautiful 45 minute coastal walk. This was particularly nice for me as it was a precursor to what I imagine some of the multi-day walks I plan to do will be like. Back at the hostel we decided to do the only truly New Zealand-ish thing we could find available; watch Lord of the Rings. It was a rather lovely ending to an otherwise almost entirely lousy day, although even the DVD skipped enough that I once again wondered if we really had done something to upset the gods of New Zealand weather. Before I have everyone worried that this trip is taking a turn for the worst and that we aren’t having as much fun as we should let me assure you that the next blogs concerning Tauranga and Rotorua amount to a return to form for the trip. I’ll put it in plain English; it feels as though I’ve lived and done more here in a week than I otherwise might have done in a year. I love driving from town to town, sleeping in a new bed every night, and meeting new people every night. I feel guilty buying food from a restaurant because I’m having way too much fun cooking exciting dinners in hostel kitchens each evening. I’m excited that this trip has got me thinking about a new lifestyle for myself, but above all I’m most excited by the fact that after all that pre-trip research, most of which went into the early hours of the morning, I’m liking  New Zealand as much as I hoped I would.

April 30th/May 1st (Piha to the Coromandel Peninsula)

Kelsey and I met two Swedish girls in Piha who had just graduated from high school and were nearing the end of a trip eerily similar to ours. Sometime in the middle of our conversation I excused myself to check on the raspberry Jello we had placed in the fridge a couple hours earlier. Undoubtedly intrigued by the exquisite dinner they had just seen us devour, one of the girls inquired into what we had for dessert. As I brought it over it became clear that they had either don’t have Jello in Sweden or it exists in some other form under some other name because they regarded it with caution bordering on unease. I relate this to you as a preface in explaining our one and only in-joke of the trip so far. Kelsey and I have constantly been either boasting over our possessions or jokingly attempting to one-up one another for one miniscule reason or another ever since I asked her if she was ‘jelly’ (read: jealous) of some sushi I had bought in Auckland. The phrase ‘you jelly?’ has become something of a contest whereby we try to evoke jealously, all in good fun of course, towards a cause that is ultimately pointless. If I’ve lost some of you, here’s an example. Kelsey bought a fairly large chocolate muffin so, naturally, I needed to buy a massive chocolate frosted cookie with macadamia nuts generously embedded within. Kelsey takes a bite thinking I will be jealous of its tastiness and says ‘you jelly, Colin?’ My response being to produce my oversize cookie, take an inappropriately large bite and reply ‘YOU jelly, Kelsey?’ while I smile with chocolate stuck in my teeth and crumbs falling all over my lap. I figured this explanation would be important so you could appreciate my amusement in asking Kelsey if she was ‘jelly of my jelly’ in reference to the raspberry Jello, to which the Swedish girls became infinitely confused but Kelsey did not shy away from trying to explain our stupid joke. We started out the next day with the intention of going to the town of Thames on the west coast of the Coromandel Peninsula, hoping to either do a bush walk or rent some kayaks. Being a gentleman I manned the wheel for the 3 hour drive only to discover that Thames was kind of a dive. This judgment was probably compounded by the torrential downpour that tormented us the entire way so we decided to buy some groceries for dinner and push on to the next big town on the map, appropriately named Coromandel Town. Despite it being a sublimely gorgeous drive, akin to what driving along the fjords of Norway must feel like, I was not jelly of Kelsey who had taken over command of the wheel. The highway, if one can call it that while keeping a straight face, was nothing short of a deathtrap. In fact we did end up having to stop the next day to receive instruction from a police officer in how to bypass the queue of police vehicles present to deal with a van that had plopped off the side of the road. In the end we were quick to realize that some small towns could exist anywhere and no one would be able to distinguish them. Although it wasn’t quite yet the off season, the town was still completely dead. Our hostel guide certainly had no reservations about hyping up the hostel we ended up staying at as a hip, happening place. What we found was an empty dorm room and a common room populated with five morose-looking people outside the backpacker age demographic reading bad fiction. Luckily Kelsey had planned ahead for this sort of thing and picked up a 6 pack of kiwi beer at the supermarket. We almost felt guilty making noise as we fried up our mushroom cheddar burgers for dinner in the kitchen attached to the common room. Our escape plan was to head down to the local pub and see what was going down but we bumped into a woman from London, Ontario who managed to keep us occupied with conversation until about 8pm. By this point it had been pitch black outside for a couple of hours. Feeling adventurous, possibly due to the brews we’d put back, we ventured into town only to find that everything was shuttered up and it resembled a horror film set in a sleepy western town in the late 19^th century. Store signs creaked in the wind and the few streetlamps on the main drag cast an eerie glow, emphasizing the emptiness in the immediate surroundings. We returned to the hostel a little dejected but glad to have burned off a little of the beer and beef. The bathroom attached to the dorm we had to ourselves had the delightful quirk of having no shades on its windows. Had the hostel been anywhere else but the middle of nowhere, some lucky passerby would’ve been treated to a show of our naughty bits as we took our showers. The rains intensified overnight with the wind being so powerful that it pushed open the door that I had purposefully shut. I know now that I’m never going to be cut out for small town living. Seclusion within reason, yes, but I’ll always need a little action to compliment my remoteness, in other words, it’s all relative. To sum this up succinctly with everything I’ve just written, let’s just say that I’m not jelly of anyone who lives there.

April 30th (Ahipara to Piha)

Unable to reach the northern tip of the country due to flooding, Kelsey and I were faced with what might be the longest drive of our stay here. A few hours into the journey down the west coast of Northland and I had officially confirmed that the highway system of New Zealand is one punchline after another. In short bursts, the single lanes, endless curves, and fluctuating altitudes are heaps of fun making you feel like the world’s slowest performance driver. In the long term you begin to notice how fundamentally flawed the position of posted signs are as constant reminders of the 100 kph speed limit are sandwiched between turns so close to cliff edges that you’d be foolish to round them doing more than 35. Kelsey and I made a pact to never drive more than 4 hours in a day and never at night, if we can help it. Even with riding a car ferry to cut out a substantial portion of the road, the drive from Ahipara up near the southern tip of 90 mile beach to the coastal town of Piha, 45 minutes west of Auckland in the Waitekere Ranges took about 7 hours. I can imagine the distance between them ranges somewhere between 350 and 400km, in other words it was excruciatingly slow going. The drive itself was punctuated with highs and lows. The tallest kauri tree in New Zealand, Tane Mahuta (aka Lord of the Forest), greeted us in the Waipoua forest. We stopped for lunch in Dargaville, the sweet potato capital of New Zealand (yahoo!). While shopping for the evening’s dinner Kelsey was overcome with a craving for a hot dog and I thought to myself, who am I to deny such a request on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday? We poked into a tiny takeaway down the road and Kelsey inquired after one despite it not appearing on the menu. 10 minutes later she was issued a lukewarm corndog complete with a frozen core, possibly a kiwi delicacy, I’m not certain on that though. With our spirits dejected we pushed forward; luckily New Zealand is so damn pretty otherwise the grind of the drive may have driven us to start singing 90s pop tunes or playing I spy. A scenic lookout here and there eased us along and despite not having a phone number for the brand new hostel in Piha we decided to attempt it anyway, knowing full well that a lack of vacancy meant we would probably be sleeping in the car or on the beach. The road into Piha was the worst of all, with 30 minutes of signs politely asking you to accommodate bicycles while doing 70 down near vertical cliffs. Being in the southern hemisphere it turns pitch black just after 6 so we rolled into Jandal Palace in the dark. The owner, Geoff, was born in Toronto, raised as a child in Banff, but a kiwi at heart as he lived the majority of his childhood here. While probably only in the dying stages of his 20s his brain appeared to have succumbed entirely to the beach lifestyle. He spoke slow and childlike, and was nowhere to be found around 8 when the power went out as he had driven himself to the local pub, a 10 minute walk away. We were a little wary as this was the most we’d paid for a place yet, and for the $30 we were only getting a bunk in a dorm room, however this was easily the nicest hostel we’ve stayed at yet. It would be the equivalent of a $150 stay in some larger tourist trap but we were treated to a glorious, modern villa with spectacular views of the hills with a roaring fire by its spacious kitchen. Never again will I pay more than $30 for a room if I can find places like this all over New Zealand. We’ve been cooking in every night, half to save money and half because we enjoy the process. Kelsey makes a mean chicken fajita and I dabble in the breakfast process. After the immediate thrills of the bungee jump I am very much in love with the relaxed pace we’ve settled into these past few days. Early to bed, early to rise, while good homemade food, great views, and interesting company greet us every night. I should have no trouble settling into a carefree lifestyle in a single place once this holiday is over.

April 27th to 29th, Northland (Auckland to Ahipara)

I'd read a million times that the weather here is unpredictable but I'm inclined to disagree as I have already come up with a little trick to figure it out in advance. Simply take whatever you have planned for the day and imagine the ideal weather, now take that image and toss it into the trash. That won't be the weather for the day. This may sound like a complaint against New Zealand however it is rather the opposite as I've come to find that changing your plans accordingly often results in unexpected delights. We had planned to spend day three on Waiheke Island and rent scooters because, let’s be honest, who doesn't want to scoot around on a tropical island with no real destination all day? We decided to move this plan up to day two to capitalize on the decent amount of sunshine we were getting and expedite the beginning of our road trip but the off-and-on rain decided to intensify just as we were boarding the ferry from Auckland, quashing our plans. As a last minute plan B we chose to rent a car instead which happened to lead to two positives; firstly, I got in some much needed practice driving on the left and secondly, we were able to go much further than the scooters were allowed which amounted in access to some spectacular, secluded bays. I've decided that over the next 6 weeks I'm going to make a list of 10 places which I could see myself returning to for work after Kelsey goes home, eventually narrowing it down to a single winner. Waiheke Island is the first on the list; it is only 30 minutes by ferry from the Auckland CBD, it is a full degree or two hotter on average than the city, and it still falls under the city's jurisdiction meaning that it has all the public services and amenities (trash pickup, post, etc) that distinguish it from some of the other inhabited islands. It could be called a suburb of Auckland, one that has managed to retain its do-it-yourself aesthetic, complete with non-linear streets that service tiered houses built to maximize sea views. Far enough away for one to feel solitude but close enough to the city to avoid isolation. Keeping with the wacky weather motif, our first day with the rental car saw a downpour of rain which seemed a tad cruel considering I was already nervous about getting through the major city motorways alive. Auckland's seemingly inept traffic patterns were a blessing in disguise as their extended red lights gave me ample time to remind myself the proper protocol for turning into the left lane. We stocked up on groceries at a local supermarket, plugged in the i-trip and set off north aiming to be in Paihia for the late afternoon. About 5 minutes out of Auckland the highway cuts down to only one lane and it remains that way for as far north as you can go. The speed limit remains 100 kph and this made for a few nail-biters as I was unaccustomed to judging the distance between the left side of our vehicle and the ditch. We decided to stop at as many points of interest on the map as possible which had a success rate of about 50%. One detour led to a refinery tour which we decided was a bit too dry for our tastes while another led to the Hundertwasser Public toilets, an Austrian artist's brainchild which sees unique design choices go towards building a room in which many people relieve themselves daily. Paihia turned out to be about as tourist-y as can be with advertisements for overpriced cruises everywhere you turn. The surrounding bay was undeniably pretty but the boutique shops mixed with the pouring rain have me deciding not to add it to the top 10 list. We were only there for the one night, the highlights of which include biking along the beach in the pouring rain and watching what appeared to be the town's entire police force hop the fence at the neighboring hostel to apprehend someone who had probably  just forgotten to pay and was a victim of the cops off season boredom. This morning we drove inland to the west eventually crossing from the Pacific Ocean to a small town called Ahipara on the Tasman Sea. We took what we were told would be an 8km detour to see the 8th largest kauri tree in New Zealand which turned into an hour long grind up an unpaved mountain road. At one point I thought that we'd reach the top only to find a sign that read ''gotchya you stupid tourists'', but it turned out to be worth it, even if Kelsey nearly got us into three accidents. Speaking of which, I hope the rental car company doesn't inspect the bottom of our car because It's more than likely riddled with dents and scrapes. Our second night post-Auckland added another place to my top 10. Ahipara, how I love thee. No shops or anything in sight, just 1800s villas that dot the beachfront and the surrounding hills. Our hostel had dogs, cats, hammocks, a herb garden, and an acoustic guitar to play, just to name a few of the cooler aspects. We were told by the proprietor that most people who stayed one night decided to stay a second, and we were inclined to agree. However flooding on the road to the northernmost point in New Zealand (Cape Reinga) has forced us to ask for a refund for our second night and we now sit, scanning our maps for adventure along the west coast of Northland, back towards Auckland and beyond.