Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman| Front Page / New Zealand 2004 | ©will bryson |
| Up to New Zealand 2004 | Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman |
5 - Wellington to AucklandJune - July
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I arrived drenched, and stood dripping in their foyer for a moment, taking in the colourful posters and photos on the walls. The YHA was big and was trying hard not to be too institutional. As well as the colourful decor, there was a good choice of lounges and hanging-out space. My room was on the sixth floor, and past a corridor in the midst of construction work. It was also cramped and stuffy, and the bathrooms smelled. And it was expensive.
I chatted with one of my roommates at the YHA, an American guy who was doing particle physics at Stanford. I told him about a show at the Michael Fowler Centre that I was interested in. At 6pm, we set off in the wind and rain to the MFC. We bought the cheapest tickets they had, then went to buy some fish and chips to eat in the fifteen minutes before doors opened. It was only while quick-walking up the street, tickets in hand, that I realised I had no idea what my companion's name was. It was Rob.
Greasy fingered from the tasty fish and chips, we took our seats for the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra (NZSO) conducted by Yoel Levi, performing Mussorgsky's A Night on Bare Mountain, plus pieces by Mendelssohn and ... umm, was it Stravinsky - I don't think so... Another Russian, anyway. Shostakovich !
Our cheap, $15 tickets gave us an excellent view from behind the orchestra - though at times it was obvious the acoustics weren't set up for listening from the choir stalls.
- the violinists' bows all moving as one, especially at the crescendos
- the conductor and orchestra in tie and tails
- Deirdre Irons, the pianist for the Mendelssohn piece
She was amazing to watch. Before the piano part came in, she sat calmly, her eyes intent on the conductor, her hands flat in her lap. She was like this for even the shortest breaks in her playing. Her eyes would dart around, following the conductor's baton. Her head and neck would move too, and I felt she was sometimes ready to pounce, a cat freaked and excited on a windy day. Then she would rock back a little, reeling as if surprised by the piano, and her hands move with such speed it was as if the music had given them a life of their own.
The quieter parts she played with delicious delicacy.
It's a beautiful performance space inside. It looks futuristic in shape - all smooth round curves, with a lot of thought given to acoustics - but because its all in wood, it has a warmth and softness.
Went to an Irish bar after, one that advertised their live band, KGB, who played 'classic rock'. Rob and I chatted and drank with Simon, an Irish radio journalist about our age. We said mean things to each other about the quality of the band. I drank DBs. After five pints I was dancing to The Proclaimers.
Went on to another bar playing chart hip-hop, and danced a bit. Woozily stumbled back to the YHA at about 3am, as Rob and Simon set off to somewhere else.
I felt crap in the morning, especially as I had to pack and check out by 10am. Lethargic and dulled brain all day. Wasn't really in the mood for the rugby-based party in the hostel lounge/bar this evening (England vs New Zealand at Eden Park, Dunedin. NZ won). I sat and watched some of it, but the game meant nothing to me, and seemed to bring out an unpleasant side in the mainly English lounge audience. Mostly whinging and moaning (about the referee, the commentators), but also gloating. The Kiwi hostel owner (?) was doing this especially. Everyone was keen to be heard (shouting at the ref, at the TV, at everyone?), but not too bothered about hearing anyone else. I went for a wander around town.
Amanda arrived as I was sat on my bunk reading my Rough Guide the next day. I'd just had cheese and tomato on toast and was sitting for a few moments, trying to find out about any interesting independent galleries here - before going out to the Blue Note where there was an open mic poetry reading session.
Amanda told me about the retreat she'd done near Picton: various meditations throughout the day, but also breathing exercises and sessions of shouting, screaming and jumping. The food was vegan and seemingly lacking any spices - and there was no refined sugar. Amanda didn't like it much. The silent meditation for an hour, especially, she found difficult. I wonder whether I'd be able to do that and enjoy it.
The Blue Note was empty when we turned up. We left and went to a cafe instead. Amanda commented at the novelty of seeing homeless people here as walked down Cuba Street, and it's true; I've seen next to no homeless people outside Auckland and Wellington.
Looked around the huge national museum, Te Papa . Fascinating - you could spend several days there.
One morning Amanda and I set off down Cuba Street, not leaving the hostel until after 11am. Those were cold mornings. We both had to wear our woolly hats. The sunshine could still be warm though.
Cuba Street was interesting - with its different music shops, the dozens of cafes, the Anarchist shop (I did take a little look in there), several 'adult' shops, a few Asian and vegetarian food shops, more than one second-hand book shop. There's also all the young, interesting people on this street - from the dred-like wavy hair of the baggy-trousered skateboarders; the trendy, skinny girls with long hair and scarves and chattering teeth; the Goths with wind-swept flowing black coats and black looks; and others - the woman with a furry caramel-coloured jacket and matching furry caramel-coloured trousers, the young guy wearing an embroidered waistcoat and carrying a cane...
We had to stop for coffee before we reached the bottom of the street. While Amanda was in the cafe, I explored a neighbouring bookshop, reading through copies of the New Zealand edition of Picture Post from 1943. It was fascinating reading. One issue had an article on preventing future wars, written by Bertrand Russell. Various Hello! Style pictures accompanied the article: "Mr Russell at the fireside, reciting poetry to his wife."
We wandered over to Ferg's Kayaks, which also seems to have the only climbing wall in town. It was expensive, and without the range of climbs we'd need for good value. We sat and watched the climbers for a while. One guy was videoing his two mates - I wondered how much unflattering footage of an arse pointing down at him he would need. We thought back to climbing in Nelson. That had been fun, but we'd seen some dangerous climbing practice. One guy climbing a thick rope, had his partner looking on encouragingly, but not taking in his slack at all. He fell from about seven or eight feet, and somehow was okay.
Somewhere else, a guy was leading on an overhang. His partner, at the bottom of the wall, and out of his line of sight, was idly chatting with another climber.
We went to the dance school to watch the students' show, Intimate Space. It was in two parts, based, apparently, on the works of Rodin and Colin McCahon, respectively. I enjoyed it - it was beautiful and awe-inspiring to watch, but I don't feel I understood it. I was trying to fit some sort of narrative to what I saw, and maybe there wasn't one.
Managed to buy the Loop Recordings double-CD that Amanda has. She bought hers from the observatory when we went up there - the woman at the desk was happy to play us tracks and tell us her favourites. We didn't ask her anything about astronomy.
Went to the city library as it's somewhere quiet to sit and read or write - and it's shelter from the wind and drizzle outside. They've a good magazine section. I picked up April's Sound on Sound magazine and read their review of Ben's CamelAudio software, Cameleon. The review was very excited about it.
Read the Skeptical Inquirer magazine ('the magazine for science and reason') - with interesting articles debunking mystics and psychics, and a feature about how school students today aren't taught what science is as a process. They're taught current scientific thinking, but have little appreciation of the trail of hypotheses, peer review, disproofs, etc., that have resulted in where we are now. It's the lack of understanding of scientific rigour that results in a generation less able to think critically about creationism, psychic phenomena, etc., and even view them as equally valid with scientific knowledge.
I walked over to the City Gallery to watch Music 4 20 Computers - a public participation event held in the entrance hall, with some sort of network of PCs and Macs piping a series of squawks, whistles and tones through big speakers. Volunteer members of the public sat at the computers, occasionally pressing keys, and alternately studying papers beside them, or the face of the organiser (conductor?). The computer screens showed various white geometric shapes appear on a black background in time to the noises. I couldn't decide what was going on - how much control did the public have? Were the shapes predetermined? There was a respectably-sized audience for the event, and two camera-men recorded the computer-graphics and key-pressing. I think the visuals were as important to the success of the event as the 'music' was.
More music in the evening - the Alliance Francais sponsored Fete de la Musique. The music was good - four different venues playing different styles, but all pretty jazzy. Some Latin jazz, especially, to which I'd have danced the night away happily. Amanda's not so keen on jazz, though, so in the interests of getting us both dancing, we toured some other clubs. These included Bodega, Indigo, and finally Pound, the gay club playing a predictable mess of cheesy dance remixes and anything by Madonna. Amanda and I danced, and I looked around at the talent. All the good-looking boys clearly knew it. There was a show - various songs lip-synched and danced very well, and an impassioned plea to everyone to be vocal in support of the Civil Unions Bill.
We saw The Fog of War at the Regent, a documentary about the life and thoughts of Robert McNamara, US Defense Secretary during the Cuban missile crisis and the Vietnam war. It was fascinating viewing, and horrifying too - the firebombing of Japan during WW2, the luck that prevented nuclear war. McNamara acknowledged that he probably committed war crimes, but at no point did he show any remorse or regret.
The theatre wasn't full, but there must have been about a hundred people there - a good turn out for a documentary about a politician from another country. I think this (and the success of Fahrenheit 9/11 reflects a considerable increase in sensitivity world-wide to US foreign policy.
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At National Park Village in the evening, after two days on the slopes (see left), the sky roared with black wind and rain.
I sat in the hostel's 'hot' spa, wishing it was more hot, and watching rainwater drip from the leaking roof.
I braved the storm for the short walk down to National Park Hotel - a cheap food recommendation from the Whakapapa bus driver. Well it was cheap, and there was plenty of it. Shame that school dinners do better on flavour and atmosphere.
That night, as I lay in bed, I'm sure I felt the building shaking in the gales.
In the morning I was partly relieved to have an excuse to go back to bed, when Bert (the Dutch proprietor of the hostel) showed me the weather report: all closed. I slept in until 11.
I sat in the lounge listening to Ski FM (for weather updates) and doing some drawings in my sketch pad, a shaft of sunlight from the window behind me providing a little warmth.
Bert was showing a guy around - a dark tanned, good-looking guy with short, dark hair and a smile. Jeremy, at a guess a couple of years younger than me, and apparently here in NZ from Oz to work as a ski/board instructor for a while before he goes to university.
He was funny, and friendly, and very modest. He talked down any academic ability he might have.
We went to Schnapps bar/restaurant and ate pizza and had beer and a few awkward silences. I should have flirted more - he was very sexy (snowboarder's physique?) and didn't mention any girlfriend, or girls in general.
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The weather didn't look great for the next day at National Park, so rather than hanging about, I felt it was time to move on.
The train from National Park sat in the station for an age before setting off. Outside was grey and raining. My view was distorted by rivulets running down the window. I listened to Air on my MP3 player.
The wet window bent the rails into an erratic heartbeat, the waveform of rain's voice. The train went down the Raurimu Spiral (see link).
Outside, there were green fields, grey sheep and shy, and muddy wooden fence posts splattered with lichen and moss.
I was collected from Te Kuiti station by the proprietor of Casara Mesa backpackers. Just me and an Aussies couple staying there. It was a miserable cold rainy night. We watched a video (Who Is Cletis Tout?) with Christian Slater and Tim Allen. It wasn't very good. Thought it was clever (kooky even?), but irritating. The Aussie couple liked it.
A rainy Saturday morning: Breakfast (well, a morning cup of tea) at Tiffany's in Te Kuiti, watching the downpour outside. I found the giant statue of a shearer and sheep - Te Kuiti being the Shearing Capital of the World, after all. The statue looked rather cartoonish, and I squinted up at it, sat on my bike in the shelter given by the information stand. Record shearing times for the last ten years were there, and construction notes for the statue. I moved my bike an inch to avoid a drip-fall path.
I took advantage of a break in the drizzle, and cycled up to Waitomo, home of glow-worms and caves.
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As I neared Waitomo, the sun was out, and a rainbow was planted at the far side of the field to my left. Despite the sun, it was gusty enough to make cycling seem a chore. I suppose it was my first bike ride for weeks (months?) as well.
Juno Hall in Waitomo is a hood hostel: clean and friendly and warm. Met several very friendly folk, including a guy from Manchester, Charlie, who I thought might be gay after he mentioned Canal Street, but later realised he's not. Another guy, Sam (?) was a musician - a drummer - and hoping to become a graphic designer, or at least study graphic design. He was very chatty and friendly. He was in New Zealand with some mates and they all had special NZ '04 T-shirts.
I was there three nights. Played some cards - rummy (boring), Shit Head (I can almost remember the rules), Black Jack (Bryson rules, hooray!), and another one that an American guy, also from North Carolina, taught us. That last one was ridiculously complex.
Did one of the caving adventure trips, the Black Abyss:
- Abseil 30m down a tomo into the caves
- Walk through caves with headtorch and wetsuit
- Flying fox in complete darkness in the caves
- Tube-rafting in the caves (so called 'Black-water rafting')
- Amazing limestone formations and starry sky of glow-worms
- Very cold water. Much numbness
- Hot tea and chocolate in the cave
- Squirming, clambering and climbing
- Climbing up waterfalls - climbing chimney style
- Hot shower, soup and bagel back at base afterwards.
Very enjoyable.
The 'Waitomo Luminosa' museum: an interesting and detailed exhibition on the caves and the worms. Actually, they're not worms, they're insects, and their Latin name, Arachnocampa Luminosa, suggests they're like spiders. The museum had some skeletons from Moa that had wandered into caves and become trapped, and a selection of peculiar rock formations. I leant forward on the sill before the display to see better, and briefly set off a piercing woo-eep, woo-eep alarm. I walked away, looking guilty more than nonchalant.
One of the folk at Juno Hall was a pig hunter. The first day, he got back from a hunting trip in the afternoon, looking tired and a little muddy, in T-shirt, shorts and baseball cap. On the phone he explained loudly how they'd won the competition, with a big beast, and some other guy with a bigger pig had been disqualified because it wasn't in a fit state to eat. There was also some discussion about recent changes to competition rules. Outside, in a small paddock beside the hostel's driveway, a young pig slept, a bag of bristles with two pairs of fearsome tusks neatly interlocking.
Phil was funny: a very outgoing, friendly, Australian guy. He's the most sociable person I've met, stopping everyone he saw at Juno, introducing himself. He must have a great memory for names. His girlfriend, meanwhile, was very quiet, but she was friendly. Phil spoke for her sometimes, which irritated me a little.
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I cycled from Juno to Otorohanga. No wind, but smothering fog. Cars had their lights on. I passed various B+Bs with glow-worm and cave themed names.
Otorohanga's declared itself the New Zealand Kiwi Capital. Giant kiwi sculptures are dotted around town, and kiwi motifs feature on all the street signs. I passed the kiwi-house and bird centre on the way to the hostel, Oto-Kiwi.
The kiwi house was very good - though I enjoyed the raptors as much as the kiwis. I felt sad seeing them in their cages, even though they had been handed in injured, and wouldn't have survived in the wild.
Went for a walk around Rotary Park - the gates with the Rotary Club logo, and a big plaque on a boulder - where the Rotary Club thank themselves for their efforts.
Had a swim in the Otorohanga pool, my first swim in months. The pool was nearly empty. Swimming warmed me up enough to brave the damp cold air outside, and gave me an appetite for a pub-grub style chicken curry at The Thirsty Weta.
I saw it was still grey-skied and foggier than ever, so decided to get the bus to Hamilton. Killing time before my bus, I wandered the high street, past the wool shop with The World's Biggest Spinning Wheel. Another shop had an anti-Harrods display. It seems that in the late eighties, a Mr Harrod from Hamilton was asked by Harrods of London to rename his restaurant from Harrod's. In support of the Kiwi Harrod, nearly every shop on Otorohanga high street changed its name to Harrods: the Harrods baker, the Harrods newsagent, the Harrods fashion store. One shop changed its name to Marks and Sparks, to be in with the spirit of the thing. The town sign was changed to say, Welcome to Harrodsville. According to the news clipping, the name of Otorohanga 'became known world-over.'
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On this stay in Hamilton, I was at The Flying Hedgehog, across the road from the YHA where I stayed first time around. The Flying Hedghog was an unexciting place, with mini-flats like The Purple Cow in Wanaka.
Maybe it's something about Hamilton, but I felt a cold's rasping tickle form in my throat and behind my nose.
Wandered into town, regretting leaving my woolly hat behind as I left the hostel. Five minutes on, though, and the sun was out and warming.
I went to the Victoria cinema and watched In This World, which I really enjoyed. Stepped out afterwards to dark sky and pouring rain.
Had steak and chips and a pint of Mac's Copperhop for my tea at Biddy Mulligan's Irish bar on Victoria Street. In the evening, I watched A Beautiful Mind on Sky Movies, with Scott, one of my room mates.
I realised I'd be back in Auckland in just a day or two.
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I had just over a week in Auckland.
- shopping, shopping and shopping (prezzies for folks)
- Pilates with Julianne
- Swimming with Julianne and Pete
- Gardening with Lyn last weekend
I caught up with David Stillaman again. Heather was away. I cycled across to their house in Ponsonby. A bright winter's day on Summer Street, a little tail-less cat sunbathing on the front deck. David was all smiles, curly hair, schoolboy energy and paternal kindness, bouncing down the wooden steps in his shorts.
Walking down Ponsonby, we chatted a little about travel, and a lot about creativity in New Zealand. David, as a writer, feels the country is cut off from the rich interplay of ideas, and the rich human history of the landscape in places like Europe, and England in particular.
So my time in New Zealand was over, for now at least.
No more backpacking then. No more hostels. Had I had enough? Had I achieved what I wanted to?
I don't know what I wanted. Five months' escapism, wallowing in self-indulgence. Seeing amazing things, travelling, being independent, challenging myself, learning about people, considering my priorities. A lifestyle subdivision.
Now the real challenge would begin - applying all this to life in the UK, life where I have to earn money to live.
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| Up to New Zealand 2004 | Chapter: 4 - Aoraki, West Coast and Abel Tasman |
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