Chapter: 2 - Central North Island
Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman| Front Page / New Zealand 2004 | ©will bryson |
| Up to New Zealand 2004 | Chapter: 2 - Central North Island | Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman |
3 - South Island to DunedinSouth Island (Apr-May)
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|  The World Wide Backpackers was friendly but not very clean. I missed the free wine in the evening, but appreciated the free cereal and toast in the morning. Instead of waiting for wine, I'd gone out for a wander around town. What an exciting place Wellington is! So many shops, cafes and bars! So many people!
I had a delicious meal and glass of wine at the Purple Onion on Cuba Street, a funky place playing hiphop, refreshingly. It left me really looking forward to going back and spending more time in Wellington.
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| Waiting in Wellington to board the ferry, I stood with other cyclists and a guy with a dog, as we couldn't board with pedestrian passengers. The cyclists, a family - with a girl my age and her parents - laughed and messed about, and the dog, a Labrador puppy, watched excitedly, wanting to join the game. I watched this, and the freight rail carriages rolling past us onto the ferry. Red-brown rails criss-crossed the road inset within the cement. Rust and water and wheels and oil.
The mother cyclist asked where I was from, and we chatted whilst boarding. We tied our bikes in place with inch-thick wet oily ropes in the rail level's shadowy electric lighting and booming mechanical sounds.
Untying my bike when we arrived in Picton, I chatted more with the cycling family. They were David, Heather and Stephanie. David and Heather live in Auckland. Stephanie, David's daughter, lives in Wellington. David loves his cycling. Turns out they were staying in the same backpackers as me, in Renwick, just outside Blenheim. So we had lunch together in Picton at a cafe on the high street they'd been to before. The staff recognised David and Heather. Afterwards, we headed off on our bikes towards Renwick.
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It was a very pleasant ride from Picton with great views down over the Marlborough Plains. David led the way.
Sacred Hill. Windy Valley.
We went to the pub. Bought food, cooked and ate together, more chat. Heather is a lecturer at AUT in Communications (did Juli go to AUT or Auckland Uni?) David helps Heather by doing tutoring work. He also runs a cycle touring website. What does Stephanie do? Marketing? No, maybe some fashion thing. I can't remember.
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New Zealand's an odd place - just one train south along this line each day, and it looked from the fittings like it dated back to the 1960s. There was varnished wood panelling in some places, but the seating was on an ugly metal framework, geometric and rigid. The train runs along single-track if you like, no room for trains coming the other way. I'm amazed. Are there really so few people here? Even northern Scotland has a better rail service.
Every now and then, though, the train manager would give some local information over the intercom, and his friendly, informed style was a breath of fresh air after Virgin's monotone, uninterested announcements. We passed Kaikoura, and there we passed seals sat on the rocks.
Train Manager: 'Some people have asked me, can you see whales from the train? Well the answer is no. Wales is on the other side of the planet, just next to England, I believe.'
The train arrived in Christchurch early. It was cold. I prepared myself for phoning around backpackers' for a bed - a stressful thing to do in a strange town in the dark. I ended up at a place targeted at language students and on the other side of town. I cycled, lightless, along pavements and cycle paths through the leafiest town I'd ever been in. I'd say greenest but it was too dark for that. Maybe dull amber-orange, and indeed, in the next day's daylight, a town of burnt autumn colours emerged. More greens and yellows and reds softened every street, often in drifting blankets and scattering confetti.
The cycle path skirted Hagley Park, and for a while I was back in Edinburgh, passing avenues of beech and the dark empty space of parkland at night. Glowing in the darkness there was even a fair, a circus tent with rows of lights and caravan trailers.
A river, the Avon, joined the squirming road and path and then I was in Cambridge, willows drooping over the river, small stone bridges, churches. Sometimes the neon light from hotel signs played on the river.
Was surprised to see Artesian on sale at a magazine shop here. I'm impressed it made it all the way out here!
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Took the Atomic Shuttle down from Christchurch as they're more bike-friendly that InterCity. I sat at the front and chatted with the bus driver and a nine or ten year old Maori girl. It rained most of the way. The driver put Finding Nemo on on DVD, fiddling with the DVD case and the player controls whilst driving. I looked the other way. Later I alternately watched the film, the picture perspective-distorted from my near and awkward angle, and looked out at the drizzle.
Rivulets and polka dots of rain formed on the windscreen, the wipers shoving great gobfulls off to the sides.
For most of the trip the girl and I had empty seats beside us. We shared conspiratorial grins and grimaces when we kept or lost our space.
The rain stopped before Dunedin, but it stayed overcast. The bus dropped us off at the railway station, and I set up my bike and luggage and cycled to the backpackers.
And here's George Street, Princes Street, Hanover Street, Frederick Street; here's a monument a lot like a miniature Scott Monument (but actually to Rev. Thomas Burns, the town's founder). I stayed at the Chalet Backpackers on High Street, one of the many long steep streets in town, and not the main street.
The Chalet was good, a converted hospital and an old building with creaky wooden stairs and floors, beds rather than bunks, and clean kitchen and living areas. From the TV lounge there was a great view over the city.
I wandered down High Street to The Arc (a cafe/bar/club similar to Edinburgh's Bongo Club), and bumped into Amanda and Robyn, two women staying at The Chalet. The music from the back room sounded sort of punky, with an MC shouting tunelessly over the top. Not the greatest introduction to the 'Dunedin Sound', but it looked like a good alternative venue. Earlier in the week they'd screened an indymedia newsreel, and it seemed that they have plenty of exhibitions and interesting gigs there.
Chatted with Amanda (from North Carolina) and Robyn (from Australia) about Iraq and 9/11 a little. I mentioned how in Christchurch I'd gone out for fish and chips (that's fush and chips, bro) and sat waiting for a moment and the guy next to me says, 'so what do you think of this Iraq thing, then?' What kind of answer can you give? There's no way I'd have more than two minutes before my food's ready. Amanda noted how the Iraq coverage is more graphic in NZ than in the US.
'But what about all the violent cop shows?' says Robyn.
'You can be as explicit as you like if it's not real. It's only real life that Americans have to be protected from,' explained Amanda.
On Saturday I had a look around Dunedin farmers' market with Amanda and Robyn, then they went to look around the art gallery while I had a quick look at the settlers' museum. At the museum there were diaries of people on the settlers boats, of gruel rations, of being woken up by storms knocking furniture over, of people and children dying, of births, of near-mutiny at the poor, meagre rations - all dramatic stuff. There was also an exhibition of contemporary photos from rugby matches - the players, the fans, the grounds, the commentators... There were many great photos and some mediocre ones.
We walked up The World's Steepest Street, along with a busload of Japanese tourists. It is very steep, probably the same as the driveway into Kaihu Farm. From the bottom, afterwards, we watched a cyclist power up to the top, then freewheel down, still looking as determined and emotionless as on the way up.
I went to Funq, a queer party night at the university student bar Refuel. It was fun, but not especially funky, and I danced a bit. No gossip though.
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Amanda drove us between tourist spots, usually dodging the potholes in the unsealed roads. We played music from her iPod, admired views, and chatted. We talked about growing up and school (she moved schools a few times, studied at a private school where her mum taught, and where she had one-to-one mythology lessons), about music, and about what we should do over the next few days.
As the evening began, we arrived at a friendly backpackers pretty much in the middle of nowhere - Surat Bay, near Owaka. I sat in the lounge drinking wine with Amanda, and two other Americans who're staying here for a few weeks studying the local sea lion population. After Amanda and I arrived here, we walked down the beach (one minute from the hostel), and there sitting in the last rays of the sun were over a dozen New Zealand sea lions. Most were sat quietly, seemingly asleep. They were large, surprisingly so, and seemed so calm and quiet, completely unbothered by our presence. We'd been told you shouldn't go any closer than 5m.
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The lodge near Niagara was an initially unwelcoming place, cold, dark and without fuel in the evening's miserable rain. When Amanda phoned about fuel, she was told at first to collect it from the unknown drenched darkness of the back yard - which had a dismaying lack of any wood, never mind dry wood.
Also staying there were Jon, Triona and Ben, who we got on well with.
Ben was the cutest, but he was very quiet (shy? tired? stoned?), and Amanda and Jon seemed to click.
The next morning Amanda and I bumped into them again just a few miles along the road at Porpoise Bay - a pretty and wild sandy bay, with chilled dunes and spaces of lawn between the tall grasses and pampas: it turns into a dolphin and penguin-spotters' campsite in summer.
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An overnight cruise on Doubtful Sound - an indulgence but so worthwhile!
Many passengers had a go at kayaking, exploring a little of the sandfly infested shore - green and mysterious with an occasional towering waterfall. The water looked clear and deep, but I saw no fish. My legs got very wet; my nylon army pants dark-patched and spotted with a few insect corpses.
The next morning, the boat passed some beautiful scenery, lovely despite the mist and cloud. I sat in the Observation Lounge, looking out past the smiling, huddled, windswept people in their beanies, parkas and fleeces, to the mirror-still water, reflecting dense native bush. Much of the greenery clung to near-sheer rock faces, tiny capillary waterfalls carving great slices from the mountainsides.
The engine low, we drifted into the end of Hall Arm, and a misty cloud was revealed from behind a head of trees. Glacier scouring had left great vertical claw marks in the walls of the fiord.
A wall of moss and ferns glided past. Some of the mountain face was bare rock and scree - but only where it was so steep it was over-hanging or a 'tree avalanche' has stripped a patch like peeling wallpaper.
Dolphins had swum past earlier. They surfed and jumped ahead of us for a few minutes, and then in our wake. A rash of cameras soon disappeared when people realised the light was poor and flashes were counterproductive.
People were recording every moment in some way, just as I did in my journal, I suppose.
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Tea, revive me! A dazed day of tiredness, of broken concentration, of trance-walking galleries and bookshops: a necessary time of nothingness. The importance of inactivity: idle worship.
Amanda and I went out drinking and dancing - at Bar Deaux, Dux De Lux (an 80s night was on), Surreal (hiphop and breakbeat - very danceable for me, but not for Amanda), and back at Bar Deaux, where Amanda won a $50 bar tab in the prize draw. Amanda also insisted we looked in at World, which we'd been told was where all the bus tours sent their 18-19 year-olds to get pissed. It was pretty much as described, a nasty mini-Revolution, and completely packed.
Another night, we bumped into Jon, Triona and Ben again. We all drank the $20 I won at Bar Deaux just two nights after Amanda had her win. Later we went to Surreal and played pool upstairs. Jon and Amanda were good, but Triona wasn't, and I was comically bad. Nobody took it seriously though, so it was fun. Ben had left early as he was flying out the next morning.
Amanda kindly lent / gave me Dirt Music by Tim Winton, which she'd just finished reading. Just then though I was in the mood to write, to draw, to create. I'd seen so much great work in galleries, created by self-taught artists. I knew I could do that!
On the drive there, I looked at Amanda's WWOOFing booklet - a directory of farms, hostels, families, etc., that take on backpackers who work in exchange for food, board, and experience on organic farms, 'alternative communities', etc. Some do Buddhist teaching and meditation; some are vegetarian or vegan; some are overtly Christian. I wondered if any involve art studios or galleries.
Tried to find any evidence of a gay scene here, searching the web earlier. All 'Gay Queenstown' could tell me was that Camp Street and Shotover Road sounded a little gay.
Dreams. I'd been dreaming a lot: people back home, the cats, air flight, sex. In Te Anau, Amanda said I ground my teeth a bit as I slept. I wasn't sleeping well - even with eight or nine hours getting up was difficult and I felt tired and distracted much of the time.
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| Chinese gold panning community (now a walk through ruins and recreations, past information displays - and to be visited on Thursday by Helen Clark in some ceremony)
This backpackers has copies of Rainbow News, a new-agey magazine which makes amusing / scary reading. Amanda's agreed to explain some of the terms, as she's done some of this spiritual stuff. Here's some quotes:
EMF Balancing Technique (R) - Basic and Advanced Practitioner Training. Work with the electromagnetic field of the body for healing.
Numerology. Life does have an instruction book. Birth name and date tell. Five weeks, 7.00pm - 9.00pm. $40. Book early, class numbers limited.
Universal Calibration Lattice Workshop. Energy and electromagnetism awareness. Can follow up with EMF Balancing (R).
Emotional Freedom Technique - EFT (TM) - is a self help technique which can be used anywhere, any time... ETM (TM) is a form of Meridian Energy Healing which has been developed by Gary Craig. Gary believes that all discomfort is caused by a disruption in the energy system.
... Described as 'emotional acupuncture', EFT (TM) has been clinically proven to work 80% of the time in balancing the body's energy system.
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That day we'd both forgotten to eat lunch. We'd stopped to look at the A J Hackett bungy bridge, and at a cheese and wine place where we tasted both. Near Cromwell, we'd stopped at a fruit and vege (in NZ, it's vege, not veg) warehouse, and tasted their dried fruit and nut selections. Behind the tables of assorted apples, pears, kumara, etc., was a big conveyor belt and nut-sorting machine, full of walnuts and ready to go.
We passed the Cromwell turn-off noting the giant fruit they'd erected. A gallery appeared, a quick stop before lunch - it was already nearly 4pm.
Inside we met Pat and Joyce Turnbull and their yappy little dog Holly, who run this great little gallery exhibiting Pat's paintings. There were mostly good landscapes, a few still life, plus some interesting abstract work. Most of it was oils. Amanda mentioned that I was an artist, and Pat was excited, and full of interest, enthusiasm and advice. At his request, I showed him my sketches in this diary and in my sketchbook. I was a little embarrassed by their poor quality - none of them really reflecting the style of work I normally do. Amanda later told me that while I was out getting these from the car, Pat said to her, 'he's a bit shy, isn't he?'
Pat said I should sign my work with my full name - to be proud of the work, not to initial it as if you're ashamed by it. And people can remember names, and tell other people to look out for your work.
He said I should keep my job - it takes a long time for painting to be able to support you. He said I should find a good gallery and stick with it, make them feel they need you. Then they'll be more willing to help you with exhibitions and publicity. Amanda played with the dog.
Pat and I exchanged email addresses, and as Amanda and I were about to pull off in the car, Pat ran out and gave me a painting he'd done, of a train. Not a picture I'd buy normally, but a great memento of his kindness, generosity and infectious enthusiasm for art!
Clouds of birds rising from the fields we pass, scattering like seeds or blossom in our wake.
Amanda and I walked into the dingy dorm-cabin, and there's Triona laughing in her Irish accent, 'I don't believe it!' Already she'd had the coincidence of Jon being booked into the same room as her, the last free bed in the hostel.
It was a busy place, the Purple Cow. As I sat writing my journal one evening, I could see half a dozen people in the kitchen, and small groups sat chatting, eating and looking through photos, plus people sat singly, reading, writing, head down over a plate of spaghetti, face blue-white in front of a computer screen... There was chatter, the sound of people walking about, cutlery clatter, washing up sounds, coughs, door-squeaks...
Cinema Paradiso - so good Amanda and I went back a second night. Rows of battered, uncoordinated marshmallow sofas and enveloping easy chairs, with carefully positioned Morris Minor if you want more novelty. People crowded in, slouching with hot chocolates, snuggling with partners beneath blankets, and generally looking relaxed. The back wall was plastered with movie posters, all around the completely glass-fronted projectionist's room.
The film was Mystic River. It was unsettling, with oddly heartless female characters at times. There was an intermission, and many wandered out to collect food they'd ordered earlier. I went in search of a small savoury snack, but came back with a freshly backed sugary cookie, still gooey and hot from the oven.
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Drove to Kinloch, this time via the high road to Queenstown - with some excellent views, steep sections that Ruby (the car) really struggled with on the way up, sharp unexpected corners and a long downhill - Ruby's brakes were hot-rubber stinking half way down. We stopped at Queenstown for coffee with Julie, who Amanda and I had befriended at the hostel there. We chatted about the changing face and character of Queenstown, of Julie's flatmate, and of Julie's parents, who live further north.
Amanda and I set off to Kinloch, following the dipping and rising bucking lake-side road. Headlights of cars ahead surprised us at times as they illuminated the road's unexpected twists. Past Glenorchy, we couldn't see the lake, and soon the road turned to gravel and potholes. We chased a rabbit down the track for twenty metres or so. The headlights gave little warning of the potholes; we hit a few. I thought of the beginning of Psycho - a drive through the dark on an unknown back road.
We arrived at Kinloch Lodge, a very warm, light, welcoming hostel, with small clean dorms and a lovely log fire.
Amanda and I went out to walk up Mount Alfred, overlooking the norther end of Lake Wakatipu. We didn't reach the top, but spent about two hours climbing and an hour coming back down. We talked about sex. Amanda works in various countries organising health projects, of which sexual health plays a big part. She's pretty, erm, frank about sex. Unsurprisingly, I found the conversation a little awkward and uncomfortable at times.
At one point I'd seen a plaster. 'A sticking plaster.' I'd said it clearly, but it made no sense in the middle of woodland. Amanda understood only when she saw it: 'a band-aid!'
Sat in the spa in the evening, looking out across misty Lake Wakatipu towards Glenorchy, and the snow-topped mountains behind. The next day, I was hoping to start the Otago Rail Trail, a bike ride from central Otago right back out towards Dunedin along disused railway line.
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| Past Cromwell, we saw the calmest clearest mirror lake, and followed the river that fed it through an otherworldly barren rocky gorge, not a blade of grass growing on the far side. By this time, Amanda had decided she'd stay the night in Clyde too. Very pleasant, empty little backpackers there, in an old-fashioned building with old-fashioned (50s?) plumbing and fittings. I put my bike together on the lawn in the fading light, and then we wandered into town for something to eat.
We talked about making friends and presentation: a question of honesty. Amanda said how she would act a false, more acceptable her in order to make friends. Initially, she won't mention some of her more new-age beliefs, or other things she's not shared with me yet, to people she wants to befriend. You don't want to scare people off. I confessed that if she'd told me all that right from the start, I would have judged her prematurely, and probably would have kept my distance.
I lie too. Amanda met a straight, fairly serious me, and later met a gay me, and later still, a silly, jokey me. I let people like Bill in Paihia, or Magnus in Omapere think I'm straight because it's easier that way - but at some point, if they stay friends, they need to be closer to the real you.
I did let Magnus know in an email, after he'd asked me, 'so, this American girl, is she good shagging material, or just a free ride (so to speak)?'
After eating, we went to the 'All Sports' bar, and we both sat drinking cider and watching the NZ Idol final, while chatting with folk about the competition. I wondered what my friends at home would make of it if they saw me now.
One guy came up on his way to the bar and we agreed with him that the wrong guy had won NZ Idol. And then:
Guy: 'You're American, aren't you?'
Amanda: 'Yes.'
G: 'Did you know there's over 14,000 Muslims living in this country?'
A: 'So? There's probably more than that living in my state.'
G: 'You know that they're brought up wanting to kill Americans, don't you? That it tells them in the Koran that if they kill non-Muslims they get to go to Paradise?'
The bizarre conversation went on. I gave Amanda some support, but how do you argue with someone that thinks that all Muslims are killers?
He felt that whatever Dubya's personal motives, the Iraq war was justified because Saddam was toppled. The dead civilians, crippled infrastructure, lack of security, lack of democracy in the newly 'free' Iraq, and the appalling precedent of pre-emptive invasion to defend against potential future threat, were all raised.
The US and UK abuse of Iraqi prisoners at Abu Graib, just emerging in the news then, was not mentioned.
While he went to the loo, Amanda and I went back to the hostel.
In the morning, I cycled and Amanda drove up to the lookout over the Clyde dam. Amanda told me it supplies 5% of NZ's power.
The sky was grey and low, rogue bits of cloud dipping down to dampen the bypass, the colourless hillside, and the blank grey sluice gates.
Amanda and I wished each other the best, and promised to meet in Nelson or somewhere near. Amanda said she was surprised she was becoming emotional. We embraced, then said goodbye, and I left, rolling back down the hill and through Clyde.
I had a quiet wander through the dripping misty graveyard on the way out, then joined the Rail Trail, and refound my enthusiasm.
She's given me a lot to think about, Amanda. Her openness about sex, her general assertiveness and her effectiveness at making friends.
As I cycled, I thought through and talked through some of these things - aloud, to the sheep, to the deer, to the dust on the track, to the rocks and boulders. Some things I'd almost forgotten resurfaced for the first time in years.
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On the first day of the rail trail, I was caught off-guard by the quiet of the track, the lack of distractions, and still thinking about Amanda's effect on me. She'd made me confront some things or at least acknowledge some things I didn't want to confront. On this trip I've been travelling light, but I've still a lot of baggage.
The rail trail was good, but the weather was rubbish. I felt like I'd been cycling inside a cloud, kept damp by a mist of water droplets, and generally unable to see any of the amazing mountains supposedly along the way.
Poolburn Gorge Tunnels: very dark, eerie tunnels, and a very stark, dramatic gorge - a few trees and grasses, but mostly muted lichen-speckled boulders scattered around the steep gorge walls, the whole in a washed-out grey sepia.
The railway straightness of the track did little to distract me from the cold and grey. I listened to my MP3 player as I cycled. The Cherry-Poppin Daddies pepped me up for a while, and crossing the plain towards Oturehua, Goldfrapp kept me going. By the time I stopped there (for hot soup at the tavern), I was singing along to Air.
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| I stopped at Hyde for lunch, and sat in my dripping anorak in a fine drizzle while eating the cold pizza I bought in Ranfurly. I looked across to the Hyde Hotel, now a private residence, but keeping its old style Western appearance. A woman drove past in a Range Rover-style car. She waved; I waved back. It was the only human interaction on the whole trip.
I had another rest at a little red hut just before Ngapuna. I stood in the doorway, looking out at the greyness and the rain, munching nuts and raisins.
It wasn't entirely miserable. Bridges over little streams revealed havens of colour and life - strangely rich green grass and deep red brown bushes and trees. Compared to the greys and whites elsewhere, I was surprised at the saturation of these wet dips.
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| So I arrived in Middlemarch at around 4pm, soggy and caked with rail trail. I checked at a comfy little hostel just as the folks looking after it left. So I was there by myself entirely for the night, damp shoes and troos draped over chairs before the fire.
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I went to the unfortunately named new gay club, Pitt, actually the only permanent gay club or venue in Dunedin. There were no signs on the street (Princes St) saying the club was there - but I'd called past earlier in the day after reading about it in the Otago Gaily Times. I'd found an unmarked black door. Only by squinting at the small print of the liquor license pinned there could I confirm this was indeed the Pitt. Inside, down some steps, there was a bar, a dimly lit seating area with tables, and a dance floor. And about three people. It was only 11pm.
I went around the corner to Arc (see left).
At around 1am, I went back to Pitt. It was still nearly empty, but I bought a drink and chatted with some guys at the bar, mostly about how empty the place was and the lack of any gay scene in Dunedin, and why Pitt was unpublicised.
And I'd already seen another guy, slightly stockier than myself, or rather, more solid, with a broad, worked-out chest. His name wasn't Joe, but I'll call him that here. He had thick black messy-slicked hair and a fun, naughty-boy grin. We chatted for a while. He was from London, there for a few weeks to see friends in Dunedin and family elsewhere in NZ.
We danced together on an almost empty dance floor, laughing in the dry-ice fog and the mirror ball beams. I hated the music, dum-dum-dum hard house boring crap.
Joe was staying with his friend, Simon, a feminine-looking guy who was also there. I joined them in the taxi to Simon's flat in Corstorphine. (Corstorphine, Dunedin is much closer to the town than Corstorphine, Edinburgh. Its roads are steep and it's on a hill closely overlooking Dunedin) We had some more drinks there. It was an impressive flat for one person. A generous living room, big TV, new furniture, French windows leading out to a little garden (and great view down over Dunedin). The shelves framing the TV were filled with CDs and DVDs. Simon's two kittens woke up and ran about, curious and excited at the late night company.
Joe and I went to bed. In the morning, in the light, I could see Joe more clearly. He was still very good-looking. I guessed 25. He's 30. I looked at his skin, a slightly oily light chocolate with a respectable black-haired chest and slightly hairy arms. My own hairless pale chest and arms seemed odd.
Joe has a boyfriend, working at the same place in London. His name is Will. He texted Joe while we were shagging. 'We don't have an open relationship as such, but we have an understanding that while I'm right over here...' He paused.
'You're just being realistic?' I suggested.
'Yes, that's it.'
The existence of a boyfriend didn't/doesn't bother me at all. I didn't expect a relationship. Possibly a friendship. Most likely an occasional keep-in-touch, drifting to nothing, but you never know.
I thanked Joe after sex, and he thanked me and smiled at the novelty, after taking it for granted while living with Will. They've been together four years. I think perhaps Will and Joe are individually realistic about monogamy's chances, but I doubt they've discussed this, and that Will hearing of me would be A Bad Thing.
Had a bleary-eyed tea when we got up Sunday lunch-time, then the three of us drove up to Signal Point (Signal Hill?) with Jerry, a camp Yorkshireman who was also at Pitt. In the car, Jerry and Simon (and Joe too, a bit) exchanged rather queeny comments, particularly about Joe being an easy lay with a small cock and lots of hair. Meanwhile Jerry had an arsehole you could park cars in and an unhealthy appetite for elderly men.
Good view of the town from up there. It was a clear sunny day with plenty of blue sky. The peninsula looked small.
Strange to think of Dan and Jus living in this little town.
After the one stop on our Grand Tour of Dunedin, we went for a stroll through the university buildings, far prettier than Edinburgh's. We ogled students.
I was falling asleep on my bed at the hostel, with the hostel cat sleeping beside me. A roommate came in and we laughed at how he interrupted our intimate moment.
I went around to see Joe again that evening, but we both left Dunedin to go our separate ways the next day.
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| Up to New Zealand 2004 | Chapter: 2 - Central North Island | Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman |
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