It was on the following
day, the 22nd, that we said a fond farewell to Swedish Tomas, Caitríona, Bettina and
Agnes. Lisa was going to miss her Scottish pal a lot
as they had built quite a good friendship together,
while Dan's nascent rapport with Bettina was thus
abruptly cut short. But from the perspective of the
four Flying Kiwi deserters, I suppose it was of some
comfort not to be stranded alone as our bus pulled out
of Queenstown. So once again our Swiss contingent had
been drastically reduced, while we also lost two party
animals in the shape of Tomas and Caitríona. Still
there was enough critical mass on board to ensure that
the good times would keep on rolling. We journeyed
north to Lake Hawea where we stayed at a lakeside
camp, which would have been idyllic, were it not for
the extremely bumpy and dusty track which led to the
campsite and the swarms of nefarious sand flies who
continued to wreak their usual havoc. I think we all
looked forward to leaving the damp south-west corner
of the South Island, just so we could put some
distance between us as the sand flies, whose voracious
appetite was leading to many skin irritations among
us. At dawn we subsequently made for the beautiful
Blue Pools. Fed by mountain glaciers, the clear water
of the lagoon resembles the colour of Bombay Saphire
and were it not for the icy temperature therein, I'm
sure some of us would have taken the plunge. A
swinging rope bridge provided access to the pools and
Dan, Steve and I had some fun cavorting and bouncing
on the bridge while Neil, who suffers from mild
vertigo, was tentatively attempting to cross. Such
puerile behaviour. I'm beginning to believe that
while overland trips can force one to mature in
certain ways, they can also lead to infantile
regression in other aspects. Ah yes, it's all
harmless good fun until someone looses an eye! In any
case, Neil got away with just a case of wobbly limbs
and no deficiency in the ocular department.
We still had quite a way to travel and those aboard
amused themselves as always by reading, joking,
surveying the passing landscape or in Heide's case,
sleeping. Phil had bought an excellent book of New
Zealand Short Stories (Volume 4), the opening tale
from which, entitled "The Coffee is that Good"
entertained both Steve and I greatly. The description
of the main protagonist and the hurt the author felt
at the recent failure of a relationship due to a
painful betrayal led us to presume the writer a man.
Once we scanned the list of contributors we discovered
that we had been spectacularly wrong and had to read
the story all over again from a new perspective. I
guess that's why it is women who are generally
renowned as being sole holders of a sixth sense.
Anyway, when the passengers had boarded the South
Island bus in Picton, Monica had made an announcement
that we could all use the stereo except for me, as I
had apparently hogged it so much on the North Island.
Not being one to take any notice of protestations from
musical Philistines, I completely ignored this
conditional proviso. Nevertheless I was getting a bit
sick of my limited travelling collection of CDs, so I
was happy to listen to other people's albums, except
for Charlotte's that is, as she insisted on always
playing dolorous indie songs by the Pixies or the
Smashing Pumpkins. One day Simone put on a disc by a
group I had never heard of called Coldplay. I took an
immediate liking to "Yellow", one of the tracks on
their album. It soon became our anthem aboard and Dan
and myself made up suspect alternative lyrics
involving among other topics, jaundice, vomiting and
certain oriental folk. Such are the silly things one
must do to wile away those tedious transit hours. As
we passed the town of Makarora, I remember seeing a
young Jewish guy getting ready to pray. A white shawl
with two blue stripes was draped over his shoulders,
and a small box containing, I believe, verses from the
Torah was strapped to his forehead. It seemed an
incompatible scene with the verdant surroundings, far
removed from the arid climes of the Holy Land. Before
lunch we partook in a spot of hair-raising cycling
through temperate rain forest and past waterfalls,
part of which included a speedy downhill descent that
should have necessitated the provision of an airbag on
everyone's handlebars. The onset of more rain
literally put the skids on any further high speed
cycling. We made camp at Okuru, which was also
situated on the coast. There was a large empty beach
at hand, but once again the strong sea currents
prevalent on the west coast of the South Island
prohibited any swimming. Unsuspecting tourists have
known to be swept all the way to Tasmania by the
powerful undertow of the ocean here.
The following morning we wandered around a nearby
unique ecological environment that included a forest,
a swamp and a beach. Overlooking the strand was a
large wooden watchtower. Clad in my green poncho and
with a rifle (i.e. a stick) in hand, I tried to beckon
Carsten, Jan and the other Germans into it so that I
could shout things like "Halt Englander!", "Hände
Hoch!" and "Nicht schiesen!" (basically all the German
that I learned from the wartime celluloid world of
"The Great Escape", "The Dirty Dozen",
"Stalingrad",
"Europa, Europa" et al.) at Phil, Steve, Neil and Dan.
To my surprise the English were aghast at my
suggestion, especially as they considered me such a
Euro federalist. I tried to explain to them how I had
lived in Munich and Hamburg, had many German friends
and had no hang ups about slagging young Germans about
World War II. Apart from ensuring that the history of
the war and the holocaust is taught to their children,
Germans born post '45 have in my opinion no crosses to
bear regarding the actions of their forefathers. Am I
to judge a Briton by the racist actions of their
ancestors in India, a Frenchman by the evil deeds
perpetrated by his forebears in West Africa or a
Spaniard by the genocidal actions the conquistadors
committed against the Native American populations of
New Spain? None of us are free from hereditary sin.
One thing I discovered while working in Germany is
that the Germans are the least nationalistic race I
have ever come across. They are almost embarrassingly
reticent to proclaim their roots, and often prefer to
be considered "European". Through no fault of their
own an invisible sense of shame hangs over their
heads. I suppose that is why the television series
"Allo Allo" was such a success there. It was the
first programme to portray soldiers of the Wehrmacht
as bungling buffoons rather than as depraved sadists.
I recall having many arguments with Denisse in Africa
over this very topic. And I speak as someone who has
visited the camps at Dachau and Auschwitz-Birkenau and
read of the horrors perpetrated there. We should
never forget, but we should forgive. The factors that
led to the holocaust were manifold and no nation alone
should bear total responsibility. To do so absolves
others of at best ignorance or silence and at worst
active collaboration. Ireland's much vaunted wartime
neutrality and refusal to accept any significant
number of Jewish refugees should rankle with young
Irish people. But it doesn't because the
extermination of European Jewry is seen as someone
else's problem. Young Germans are thankfully well
aware of their history, while this ugly historical
episode was wiped from the slates in other compliant
countries such as Austria, France of the former GDR.
But the point I was trying to make in the watchtower
was not to attack "ze Germanz", but to make them feel
normal, in the way that we could laugh at them and
their history without any latent xenophobic
undertones. The Irish are always the butt of British
jokes. Does it bother me? Not a jot. I make jokes
about the Irish all the time even though I'm a proud
Irishman. The most dangerous people are those who
cannot laugh at themselves. The type of individuals
who profess political correctness as their gospel and
who perceive innocuous statements or quips as racist,
sexist or homophobic slurs that will rock the very
foundations of liberal democratic society. But
freedom of speech is a unique tenet of our imperfect
but precious form of government that should be
cherished. If an Englishman wants to call me a "Mick"
or a "Paddy", I for one am not going to demand our
potatoes back. Sticks and stones. One should either
rise above it or respond with a witty reply. But to
consistently cry wolf and take umbrage where none is
genuinely intended is not the way. Otherwise we will
end up with a litigation society like in the US, where
lawyers get rich and manholes are labelled "personal
access tunnels". Political correctness is evil and I
will refuse to use it. Our language has developed
over centuries and I see no beneficial reason why as
to deprive myself from its full usage.
Hard though I tried to explain, I suppose Dan and Phil
had difficulty in understanding how I could point at
the Germans and make machine gun noises without
actually meaning to attack them or their nationality.
For in the British tabloid press, xenophobic
journalists have often led with headlines attacking
continental Europeans in general and Germans in
particular, especially when there is an important
football match or an EU summit on the horizon. "Up
yours Delors!" was one such memorable caption. There
is a strong sense of cultural isolation from mainland
Europe in Great Britain, not felt in my country. 1066
and all that. Britons should rightly be proud of
their resistance to Hitler, of their long standing
parliamentary democracy and of the relative lack of
racism in their large cities towards minorities in
comparison with France, Germany and other
industrialised nations. But the Battle of Britain is
over. The Eurostar runs daily from Waterloo to Gare
du Nord; thanks to considerable Indian and Pakistani
immigration the most popular national British dish is
now curry; their Prime Minister, Tony Blair, is a
committed Europhile; and half of the football managers
in the Premiership (and for that matter the England
coach) are foreign. The goal posts have changed and
interdependency is now the name of the global game.
It's just a shame the British media didn't feel the
need or duty to inform their readership of this. So
perhaps it is this uncertainty of their own identity
and their place in the world which makes it difficult
for a reasoned Briton to slag someone from another
country, for fear of being labelled a hooligan or a
little Englander. I hope in time this changes and
that in years to come kids in England will be able to
pretend to be Allied or Axis soldiers with the ease of
playing Cowboys and Indians. Know your history, learn
from it and enjoy it - just don't live in it.
Well, that was quite a significant tangent on which I
went off. Where was I? Oh yes, milling around a
swamp shouting "Achtung!" at my fellow passengers. My
finest hour. As we proceeded further away from the
southern wetlands, we once more saw flocks of sheep
feeding on grass in the many fields bordering the
state highway. Given the large amount of
precipitation in the south west, there are virtually
no sheep there. Their hooves would rot in the
waterlogged fields. So the sudden reappearance of
these generally abundant animals led Dan to exclaim in
his best Alan Partridge impression: "Look sheep, aha,
like mad snow on a hill, yes!". The sheep didn't even
bother to raise their heads to acknowledge our
presence.
The major activity in the afternoon was a visit to the
famed Fox Glacier. Like the cancelled jet boating on
the Waiatoto River planned for the previous day, the
bad weather precluded any chance of doing a Heli hike
to the higher reaches of the glacier. So instead we
settled for a guided walk on the ice. The Fox Glacier
and its sister glacier just to the north, the Franz
Josef, are two of only three glaciers which continue
to sea level. The third is in Patagonia in South
America. Seeing this huge mass of slowly moving ice
was all the more amazing as to get there we had to
ascent through what was basically tropical rain
forest. We were shedding layers and sweating buckets
by the time we made it to a safe place to cross onto
the glacier itself. We then had to don crampons and
fleeces and grab a large wooden pole each to steady
our progress. All (even Christopher) had opted to do
the glacier walk, except for Charlotte. We were split
into two groups and our respective guides cut swathes
of ice from our path with a pick axe as they made
temporary staircases that would be gone in the
morning. We learnt that the Fox Glacier used to
extend 16km into the present day sea, at a time when
the Earth was cooler and sea levels were subsequently
lower. But in the past two decades it has grown back
towards the coast by a kilometre, a fact that seems to
dispute the assumed relationship between glaciers and
global warming. On either side of the icy river,
forests full of dark green pine trees and South Island
Christmas trees with their red flowers blooming added
some colour to the otherwise polar scene. I was
initially amazed and a bit disappointed at how dirty
the ice was, but given that the glacier is constantly
moving and churning up soil and dirt from the land
beneath, I suppose this should have been expected. We
drank from streams of melted waters that occasionally
carved their way through the frozen surroundings. The
water was icy, but very clean and safe for
consumption. After about an hour investigating the
freezing nooks and crannies of the Fox Glacier, we
were led back to the rain forest and the at times
precarious cliff walk back down to the base of the
glacier. We received a certificate for our troubles,
but I doubt if I'll be hanging it beside my ones from
Victoria Falls and Swakopmund. Not unless I have a
serious amount of wall space to fill.
The next day was quite an urban interlude for us. We
stopped off at Hokitika to view the Greenstone factory
there. Greenstone is very abundant in this region of
New Zealand as is shaped into a wide variety of
statues, trinkets and above all else jewellery. The
other common stone used in jewellery in New Zealand is
the bright blue Paua shell. Paua is the Kiwi name for
the abalone. It made a nice change to have a hot
lunch in a café again, as opposed to sandwiches on the
go by the side of the bus. We drove further north
along the coast to Punakaiki, where we were due to
spend two nights, the first time that we had spent
more than a night in any one spot since the Bay of
Islands. I think everyone was relieved at being able
to stay put in a place for more than 24 hours. It was
just a pity that the weather was so crappy. Upon
disembarking from the Flying Kiwi bus, we noticed one
of the little birds that look like kiwis, but are
actually a smaller relation. One of them looked at me
inquisitively as I tried to tempt it closer with a
banana of all things! Its curiosity was
understandable, really. These little brown birds,
whose name I can't remember, are used to humans and
consequently provide much amusement to passing
tourists. Dan, Pete and I then went to have a look at
the popular Pancake Rocks. These unique rock
formations look like layered pancakes (hence the name)
and are littered with blow holes through which waves
from the raging sea rise and explode in a burst of
fine water vapour. With Caitríona gone, Lisa was the
lone "lucky" girl to lodge with Dan, Phil, Steve, Neil
and myself in a dorm room. It was getting to the
stage where to sleep in a tent for us would have
almost been nostalgic, but at NZ$6 (3.5 Euro) a head,
one could hardly argue with the price of the room.
Plus there was a pub next door that offered a range of
New Zealand lagers and ales and in which there was a
roaring fire, a pool table, a dart board and a large
screen showing Australian Open tennis from Melbourne.
No traipsing across a waterlogged field for us. I
taught Jan, Carsten, Peter and Dan how to play
"killer" on the dart board and we played some
enjoyable games. While my dart throwing was spot on,
my cueing action was all over the place, so I tried to
shy away from the pool table. Long gone the fluency
on felt that I had exhibited in South Africa. Ah
well.
By dawn the clouds had lifted to some extent and I
went horse riding with Dan, Pete, Harald, Lisa,
Annemiek and Yvette. My horse was called Clay, due to
the hue of his coat I wager, and our
instructors/guides were Leanne and Libby. It was
great to be back in the saddle again - the first time
since Lesotho. My affinity for horse riding has been
one of the things that have surprised me about my year
on the road. With my white helmet, shades and goatee,
Dan said that I looked like a mounted traffic cop.
And having seen some of his photos, there was an air
of highway patrol about me that day. So while he sang
the theme tune from the 1980's TV series "Chips", I
tried to spur Clay into a canter. I then discovered
that I hadn't quite mastered the art of horse riding
at speed. Ill timing the ups and down on horseback
can be quite a painful thing for a guy. We were led
down a beach and then into lush woodland when the
heavens promptly opened for a brief spell and droplets
of water trickled down my sunglasses. Harald was
talking to one of the guides at some length about his
experience at handling Icelandic ponies. Not being
paid to listen myself, I furtively dropped to back.
We met Mark and Mathilde out walking, but their lack
of a trusty steed led to some difficulties when they
had to cross a deceptively deep river in full flow.
It was a very pleasant morning, if somewhat short time
wise and I was pleased to brush up on my meagre equine
skills. The planned dolphin swimming in the afternoon
was once more cancelled due to rough seas. So we
adjourned to the bar for a hand or two of "Sh*thead",
a new entertaining card game that Dan taught myself,
Lisa, Phil and an English friend of his, Emily, who he
had bumped into. By evening we were well
indoctrinated into the new pastime and quite
passionate about it too. None of us wanted to lose as
the loser gets to be called "sh*thead" all the time
until another game is scheduled. I distinctly recall
Lisa attempting to throttle Dan with some force after
being labelled with this particular epitaph once too
often. It was all in jest of course, but I had to
prise her away from his throat with some force. Not a
lady to be trifled with, our Lisa. But they weren't
the only ones engaged in physical combat of sorts. In
an unusual approach to the mating ritual, Neil had
engaged shy Monika in several bouts of arm wrestling
while still in the pub. It was easily the most
bizarre form of seduction that I have ever witnessed,
but it seemed to do the trick and the next day on the
bus Neil and Monika were to be seen sleeping side by
side. More power to him!
After little sleep and much take out from the bar, we
were on the wilderness trail once again the next day.
We stopped briefly at Cape Foulwind to do a spot of
seal watching. Beside us was parked a green bus from
the Kiwi Experience, who we have successfully managed
to avoid the for the entirety of out trek around the
country. Monica said that this should be of no
surprise as we spend most of our time camping out,
while the Kiwi Experience stay in town based hostels.
The wimps! I could have sworn that I saw several of
their passengers eyeing our mountain bikes and canoe
perched atop our trailer with a hint of envy. Above
the seal colony there was a large signpost that
informed anyone who wanted to know that it was 16,286
km to London, 16,376 km to Paris, 15,869 km to Rome,
9,717 km to Cape Town, 1,719 km to Sydney and 11,080
km to Rio de Janeiro, but we were only 243 km from
Wellington. So though globally we might have seemed
to be in the backside of beyond, there was light at
the end of our particular travel tunnel. We quit the
west coast and ventured inland through Kaiteriteri to
Tasman Bay. As we were back in a sunny part of the
South Island, we left Monica to her own devices and
walked the final few kilometres along the strand (I
took more time than most as I was busy collecting
exotic seas shells along the way) to Marahau. It was
here that we would be passing our last two evenings
camping in a place called (and I jest not) Old Mac
Donald's Farm.
Old Mac Donald's Farm actually did seem like something
direct out of a nursery rhyme. At the entrance to the
farm lay a cool café/restaurant and a craft shop,
which contained excellent wooden sculptures from Maori
legend, including the stories of Maui and the fishing
trip, Papatuanuku and Ranginui and the tale of
creation and the fable of the Maori Ghost Canoe. A
long gravel driveway led into the farm and camping
ground proper. On either side there were many farm
animals including a couple of giant pigs (for whom we
had been saving our scraps from the past few days) and
incredibly a herd of llamas. I had thought that
llamas were unique to South America, but here they
were, brown, beige and white alike. They really are
bizarre looking creatures. They resemble a mix
between a camel and a sheep, as if these creatures had
been crossbred by some new form of genetic
engineering. They were relatively timid, but when I
picked up some long grasses and held them
outstretched, one of them came over to investigate and
have a nibble. I also learned that they don't take
too kindly to having their mane stroked, so having one
as a domestic pet is probably out of the question.
I'll just stick to meercats. It was actually quite a
pleasure putting up the tent and laying out the
sleeping mattresses with Phil for the last time as the
sun was shining brightly through a cloudless sky. The
north part of New Zealand is its sunniest area, and
the nearby region of Marlborough, which we still had
to travel through, is famed for its white wines. A
sandy volleyball court was at hand and I would have
joined the others in a game, but for standing on one
of Steve's tent pegs and piercing the sole of my foot.
So while the gang played with relish, I patched
myself up, read a bit and attempted to let the sun's
rays restore the tan that I had had when I flew in
from Australia. In the evening we played more cards,
this time also joined by Pete and Steve, to whom we
explained the rules of "Sh*thead". As we dealt by
lamplight, several large kamikaze bugs flew either
into the glass of the lamp or indeed into us, which
was slightly off-putting. Still, these giant moths
were less annoying than the sand flies that we had
thankfully left behind in the wetter climes to the
south.
The next morning we set off to the adjacent Abel
Tasman National Park for some sea kayaking. We had
booked a day excursion with the Sea Kayak Company for
NZ $85. Our guide, Peter, paired us off (Dan got
lumbered with me) and we had to don lifejackets and
splash guards that looked like waterproof tutus. In
my humble opinion, the sea kayaking was the most fun
thing that we did since the sailing cruise in
Northland. For someone who suffers from chronic sea
sickness, I can at times be quite the water baby. Dan
and I made swift progress, and while we couldn't
entirely keep pace with Jan and Carsten, the four of
us left the rest in the ha'penny place. True, as we
were often reminded it was not a race, but speed over
the open stretches of water allowed us more time to
explore the caves, inlets and other points of interest
along the coast. We rowed from Marahau north past
Guilbert Point to Apple Tree Bay. The light
aquamarine colour of the sea was at times magnificent
and there was lots of indigenous flora and fauna to
look at. Abel Tasman National Park is quite a
stunning nature reserve. I could see why the guides
who worked here seemed so content with life. No
traffic jams, no smog, no noise pollution; just
forests, beaches and the gentle movement of the ocean.
I'd say everyone was quite famished when we stopped
for lunch on one of the hidden beaches. Kayaking can
be hard work at times. Though Dan and I cut through
the waves quite fast, we, unlike some of the others,
seemed to have difficulties with the concept of
synchronous rowing. Dan was at the front of the kayak
and was consequently responsible for speed. Being at
the back, I was in charge of directional changes. But
something tells me that we won't be appearing at the
Henley Regatta just yet. After lunch Peter our Kiwi
leader took us on a stroll through the native woods
overlooking the strand below. Fisherman Island was
visible in the distance. Peter told us all about the
fragile ecosystem and the history of the region. Then
it was time to jump into our kayaks again, but only
after Dan and I had a good chuckle at Simone and Heide
who were stuck on a sand bank and going nowhere fast.
The journey back was more difficult than before as we
were paddling against the current, but everyone
eventually made it safely back to shore.
Back at camp Monica was selling the last of the light
blue Flying Kiwi T-shirts. After much procrastination
and a certain amount of thumb twisting, I succumbed to
peer pressure and bought one. So Monica, Phil, Steve,
Simone, Yvette, Annemiek and I all looked like
siblings on a day out. Aussie Pete had to leave us in
the late afternoon to catch a flight back to Sydney,
after having got everyone to sign his souvenir
T-shirt. He consequently missed out on our very own
last supper. And in the true Flying Kiwi tradition,
our last chance to break bread together proved quite a
lively event. Colette got quite plastered, started
breaking into Inuit, and ended up throwing her drink
over a hapless Dan, who she perceived was making a
move on Simone. Lisa and Dan got their revenge on me
by leaving me alone in the company of Harald who
blathered on and on about something or other while I
tried to maintain a straight face, despite their best
efforts to make me cry with laughter. I mean, he's a
nice chap and all, but Christ, he'd cure an insomniac.
I had a good chat with Thomas in, as always, a mix of
garbled German and English. His literal translation
of German sayings into English just kills me.
Otherwise, Neil and little Monika were still getting
on famously. Never say never. I can't recall seeing
Christopher. He was probably off somewhere communing
with the pixies. By now the wine was flowing good-o
and Colette wasn't the only one to get a touch
inebriated around the dinner table. Steve and myself
were quite merry, but Annemiek of all people stole the
show by getting uncharacteristically wasted and
managing to giggle and grin non stop for roughly three
hours. Even when we tried to provoke or insult her,
her beaming smile remained constant. Yes indeed, she
was happy in la-la land and there was nothing we could
do about it. True, the poor girl paid for this later
in the evening and was looking seriously worse for
ware the next day. At one point in the evening we
thought that something was going on between her and
Phil. After all, she was drunk and he's a guy. But
Phil was quite the gentleman/loser (depending on how
you view these sorts of things), and much to Yvette's
relief, steered her friend all the way back to the
camping ground. Why am I telling you all this? I
suppose it's because I want to share a bit the good
vibes and craic that such last group evenings produce.
It was the same story for me in Bulawayo, Cape Town
and Sydney. You just can't beat the juxtaposition of
good group dynamics and emotional partings.
Thus arrived January 29th, our last day on the trip.
By late morning we had pulled out of Old Mac Donald's
Farm and headed east to Nelson. Monica's worst fears
came true when I stuck the Eros Ramazzotti song,
"Musica è", that had been sitting idly beside her for
two weeks, in the CD player and soon all the
continentals were singing along in dodgy Italian to
the Eurovision vibe. The English lads looked on half
in amazement, half in fear. On the outskirts of
Nelson we dropped off Dan, Neil, Monika, Yvette,
Annemiek and Dutch Peter, all of whom had decided to
do a skydive. Phil had chickened out. Instead he
accompanied myself, Simone, Charlotte and Steve into
the dead zone that was Nelson on a Monday morning.
After a hearty fry up (or a vegetarian quiche in
Charlotte's case) , we decided to kill a couple of
hours at the cinema. However, all that was showing at
that particular time was "Bedazzled" starring Brendan
Fraser and Elizabeth Hurley, easily the worst actress
of her generation. But there wasn't much else to do
in town, so we took the popcorn option. By the time
we joined up with the others, they were understandably
still on an adrenaline high. It's not everyday one
throws oneself out of a light aircraft. I think Neil
enjoyed needling Phil on this point. We then sped
through the vineyards and hops plantations of
Marlborough towards Picton. Monica informed us that
the hops grown in New Zealand are exported to Ireland
in order to make Guinness. I'm surprised Guinness
haven't therefore thought of sponsoring the All
Blacks. After a narrow vote it was decided that our
last stop would not be at a winery (too many sore
heads), but at some mountain pools for a spot of
diving and ice-creams. The chilly stream into which
we plunged reminded me a bit of the kloofing I had
done in the Transkei in South Africa, only this time
the jumps into the water were not so high. Steve took
a photo of Phil, Dan and I attempting synchronous
dives. But if mere rowing proved a problem, then
synchronised diving was definitely beyond our scope.
With ice-creams in hand and hair still wet, we climbed
aboard the bus for the last leg of our journey. Most
of the passengers were overnighting in Picton before
continuing on to Christchurch, while Phil, Steve,
Neil, Thomas, Harald, Heide, Mark and Mathilde were
heading up to Auckland on the Northern Express for two
days. But for me it was the end of the road. I said
goodbye to Monica and the crew and boarded the Lynx
ferry to Wellington with the English lads. Upon
arriving in the capital I saluted Phil, Steve and Neil
and took a taxi to the suburbs where I would be
staying with Aoife, my old school pal.
The few days that I spent in Wellington allowed me to
take stock somewhat, wash clothes and do some writing.
One evening I even played indoor football with Aoife
and her work colleagues. She remains the keen sports
enthusiast that she was all those years ago in St.
Fintan's National School in Sutton. Despite some deft
touches on my part, I realised that I was far from in
shape, something I would have to rectify upon
returning home. Aoife plays in a mixed five-a-side
league that insists that at least two team players on
the pitch at any one time must be female. Plus if a
girl scores it counts double. I think it's quite a
decent idea as it stops things getting too serious and
also serves a social function for couples. The
following evening our mutual friends Dervilla and
Mark, invited myself, Aoife, her Kiwi boyfriend,
Darren, and his young son and daughter over for a
barbecue with Derv's parents, Cathal and Marjorie. We
were also joined by two more girlfriends of Derv and
Aoife. The meal was sumptuous in the extreme and I
ate far too much. Marjorie started a wee sing-song
after dinner and cajoled me into belting out one or
two traditional folk tunes. Mark was quite reticent
for an Irishman about singing, but Darren in fairness
did his share of crooning when expectant eyes were
cast in his direction. It all had the air of a family
Christmas dinner, albeit without the silly paper-mâché
hats and the crackers. I also got to see some of the
hilarious new Ali G video "Ai", including the
unwittingly impertinent Borat from Kazakhstan.
One or two nights later I went out to dinner in town
with the Mark and Dervilla and her folks again in a
chic restaurant called "Zibibo". Only recently
opened, the downstairs section included a fashionable
bar, while upstairs in the restaurant, one could
choose from a wide selection of international plates
including tapas, mussels, pasta, fish, poultry and
meat dishes. was After a lovely meal, I stopped off
in a bar around the corner on Courtney Place to hook
up with Steve and Neil, Phil and his girlfriend Trish.
The lads had just returned from Auckland and said
that the atmosphere on the bus on their dash north to
the big city just wasn't the same, because so many of
us had left in Picton and as they had a new driver.
We ended up in Molly Malone's, an Irish pub (why break
with tradition?) and a succession of shooters passed
our lips long after Trish had abandoned the four of us
to our fate. The lads wanted to take me to the
cricket the next day. New Zealand were playing a one
day series against Sri Lanka, a close match the Black
Caps would eventually lose in the final over. I was
interested in seeing the game, especially as I didn't
have the chance to see any Kiwi rugby union (this
being the off season), but the game didn't start till
14h00 and I had an early evening train to catch to
Auckland. Fiji was calling and the cricket would just
have to wait till the next time I ventured this side
of the Tasman Strait.
Gav (31 January 2001)
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