June 29th - The Pretty Practical Parable

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

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

June 25th - Roll With The Punches

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

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

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

June 15th - Rejection and Rebuttal

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

June 11th - The Robotic Uprising of the CBD

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

June 8th: Wellington is Swell-ington

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

June 4th - The Worst Day, The Best Decision

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

June 2nd and 3rd - Christchurch

It feels as if we’ve stumbled through some tear in the fabric of space-time to a dystopia of the not so distant future. An organic grocery, advertised on a map to be on the opposite corner from our hostel, has been replaced by dust and rubble. We can’t walk left out the front door lest we run into roadblock of three fire trucks parked lengthwise across the street; one of a number of such barriers that make up the cordon around the CBD. It’s all more than a bit unsettling, and worst of all, inescapable. Reminders are everywhere; the parking lot of the nearby supermarket had become uprooted with many stalls being on miniature hills. The flow of traffic is jagged and unnatural with makeshift routes popping up around every corner. After checking in to our ground-zero hostel we planned to see if the local pub would be willing to put on the NHL playoffs. As I had only brought my hiking boots and my runners with me, I’d wanted a pair of shoes for bumming around the city since we’d arrived in New Zealand but had yet to find a deal that matched my backpacker frugality. Although the timing couldn’t have been worse, I was overjoyed to find a pair of shoes in a bin of free clothes that had been accumulating as a result of backpackers hastily leaving earthquake ridden Christchurch. Being that they were free, you’d think Kelsey would’ve been willing to overlook their many creases and overall dated style, however she was quick to let me know just how much they disgusted her, how much better she thought my hiking boots looked, and a thousand other excuses to get me to reconsider adopting them. I cared not, I was smitten, they have character and with a little TLC can be made to look like a perfectly respectable pair of old loafers. I responded with a simple ‘you’re just jelly’ and slipped them on and paraded back to the room, triumphant. Every third building we passed on the maiden voyage of my new favourite shoes had a caved in roof or bricks spilled about their lawns. Any gloominess we may have accrued during that walk was instantly quashed when we entered the pub to find that the game was already on one of the TVs! We enjoyed the game over drinks and pub grub and both agreed it was a marvellous way to pass an afternoon in an otherwise gloomy place. That evening, while eavesdropping on some fellow hostel mates who were in town working on clean up, I cut my thumb with a knife I was using to slice open my dinner roll. I knew it was a decent cut but I doubled band-aided the wound and wrapped it in toilet paper and thought nothing of it until the next morning when I was packing up my backpack in preparation for being solo once again. I separated all the shirts I’d received as prizes for completing the 4 bungee jumps I’d done into their own little pile as I’m planning on framing them along with their respective plaques. I noticed that, despite having not worn them, they’d become stained red. I must’ve been too delirious from the blood loss to realize that this was the result of my recent blood loss! I somehow managed to get blood from my cut thumb all over my white bungee shirts and blue backpack before putting two and two together and remembering that I was still the walking wounded. I had already donated my other two white shirts to the free bin to make room in my bag so it looks like I’m going to be Johnny Cash, the man in black for the foreseeable future unless I want people thinking I’m some homicidal maniac. In response to the closure of the CBD as well as most of their everyday haunts, the citizens of Christchurch have congregated upon the Riccarton shopping mall as an outlet for their boredom and frustrations. As sad as it was, we were really just killing time there. Kelsey’s suitcases were already at capacity and I was still intent on living on the verge of homelessness. All of the points of interest on our map were within the CBD cordon and even those on the outside were either closed or had disappeared off the face of the earth, presumably victims of the earthquake. So this is it, an unfortunately, but not entirely unexpectedly, depressing end to 6 weeks of colossal highs and emotional lows. Kelsey will get one last taste of the kiwi experience tonight as we enjoy our last local brews together before heading to the pub to watch some Super 15 rugby. Our paths diverge tomorrow morning at 7am when I hop on a bus back to the Marlborough wine region while Kelsey catches her flight to Auckland before heading back to Canada. I’ll leave it at that for now, rather than sum everything up here I’ll write a standalone epilogue to our 6 week adventure to be posted when I’m content with my summation. I will explain my favourite bits, parts I wish we could’ve skipped, and what lies on the road ahead, perhaps to gauge whether or not I will continue this blog. Any thoughts? Are you people out there in internet-land sick of me yet or do you believe I’ve only scratched the surface of this blog’s potential? Leave me a comment or better yet, a suggestion as to what you’d like to hear, if anything at all!

May 31st and June 1st - Akaroa

It was fitting that we were able to watch The Return of the King on our last night in Dunedin, completing the trilogy and signifying that our own journey of epic proportions is coming to a close. Albeit a bit late, a chance encounter at the Speight’s bar has led to one final resolution for our trip that I will continue to see enacted long after Kelsey has gone home. In a dusty, old visitors log we found that some cheeky bugger had filled in his name as Bilbo Baggins and his address as The Shire, Middle Earth. It astounded the both of us that we had, as of that point, never written a joke name into the endless number of visitor logs at the endless number of hostels we’ve stayed at. I rectified this error immediately upon reaching Chez la Mer in Akaroa and will continue to do so for as long as I am a backpacker. I have made it my quest, much like Frodo with the ring, to journey to the furthest corners of the map and see to it that Bilbo Baggins leaves evidence of his presence there. If I can get one person to react like I did at the Speight’s bar then I will consider the endeavour a resounding success. Anyways, Akaroa is a French influenced town in the Banks Peninsula, a hilly wart jutting off the face of Canterbury. Thus we are officially in earthquake country, passing within a few kilometers of Lyttleton, the epicenter of the February disaster on our way over here. Just when I thought we’d been passed all the breathtaking vistas the South Island had to offer we reached the top of the hill overlooking Akaroa and were immediately flabbergasted. Look up the word ‘quaint’ in the dictionary and you’ll get a precise definition; look up the word ‘quaint’ in the recesses of my brain and you’ll conjure up that first image of Akaroa. It seems that the French ventured here sometime long ago with the idea of turning it into an idyllic little slice of the motherland only to find its borders had already been soiled by an English presence. Most said ‘au revoir’ to this village on the bay but the street names remain ‘en Francais’ as well as the affinity for culture and high class. The twin room in which we’ve been staying for the past two days has pink sheets, pink duvets, and light purple walls. It couldn’t be fruitier if it tried. Everything about this town screams prettiness and we were content to merely bask in its beauty, eat sweets and sleep in. We did set aside some time today for healthy activity but I sit here writing this on my 3rd glass of Pinot Rose after having demolished a proper batch of fish and kumara chips, not to mention the Kapiti Ice cream, Irish Crème fudge, and charity cookies I ate earlier in the day. All that eating makes one tired so we retreated to the boutique cinema for a matinee. We convinced some girls we’d met to join us in seeing a kiwi Rom-Com. Admittedly we didn’t have high expectations but apparently they did as they walked out within 15 minutes. The only ones left in the theatre, Kelsey and I saw it through to the end and left indifferent. I wish all movie theatres were like small town New Zealand movie theatres; the seats give ample room for my gargantuan physique, they allow you to bring in food and alcoholic beverages, and they show rare flicks at peak times that dial back the fartsy in favour of the artsy. In fact, I wish more of the world was like small town New Zealand. We almost ran over an elderly man with a limp on our bikes today, and his response? ‘Welcome to Akaroa’ accompanied by a smile. What a gentleman! I guess it’s hard to find things to be upset about when you live in a country this pretty that has food and drink this good. Tomorrow we head to Christchurch and it will be interesting to see if the kiwi spirit has persevered through the utter devastation.