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.

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.