First night in the city that never sleeps (New York). Sat in the basement of the ‘Jazz in the Park’ hostel, a vibrant, music-filled place of confusing proportions and hip-and-they-know-it staff, just off the north-west corner of Central Park (I can see it beckoning me just metres away at the end of 106th West Street). I arrived in the big city by train from New Jersey - my first double decker, very fancy too - during the early evening hours, taking a locally known, subsidised route from Philadelphia (saving myself $40 in the process - thanks Courtney and Kenada). Have a lot to thank those two for: they played the excellent hosts, allowing me use of their sofa for several nights, driving me around their wonderful city, showing me the sights, taking me to their friends’ parties and even making me breakfast. The smell of maple syrup bacon is still fresh in my nostrils. Courtney really can cook: her boyfriend Kenada’s a very lucky boy.
‘Philly’ was a nice city: much older architecture than anything I saw on or near the west coast (stands to reason, really), which a mix of Victorian and Georgian houses (lots of bricked terraces - not something I’m used to seeing in this country), open-air markets, large, trimmed parks, a Thames-like river lined with University owned boat houses (they have a regatta here) and many large, impressive government buildings. The city has a well known and celebrated history, being the birthplace of the constitution as well as home to Benjamin Franklin and, more recently, the setting for the Rocky films (there’s even a scarily popular - though understandably so - Rocky statue, located right by the steps he slogs his way up whilst training in the first film).
Whilst there, we went to a whopping three parties (two of those on Saturday night) and attended July 4th (Independence Day) celebrations on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway (a large, international flag lined road that runs through parkland from the centre, where sits a tall and slender, peaked, whitewashed stone city hall, bunched up amidst multiple skyscrapers, to a grand and ancient museum of art (the steps of which featured in Rocky). For the latter, the street was closed off to cars, busy with food stalls, thousands of people and giant TV screens, providing close-ups of the action on the stage, which was set up in front of the museum. Things were going on all day, but we caught up with it late in the evening, just as the R’n’B’ singer John Legend was performing his encore, which lead onto an enormous firework and music display. The crowds were absolutely lapping it up: it was an event for everyone - parties, couples, families and the like - and despite the huge numbers of people, the atmosphere was friendly and exciting, buzzing with catching enthusiasm. Those that weren’t present in the park were having their own parties in their homes, some of which spilled out into the streets, even taking over entire streets (with granted permission to close them off to traffic). Amazingly, I received next to no jibes for my nationality, despite being the enemy. As I like to look at it - they’ve got us to thank for that day, otherwise what would they have to celebrate? ;)
Thursday night was a trip to Courtney and Kenada’s local: a brewery bar right on a canal where, thanks to Kenada’s connections, we were granted free entry (they were charging $5 on the door) and an unlimited tab for next to no cost (even though it did cost a small amount, I wasn’t allowed to contribute). Like I said, fantastic hosts. It was great to see Courtney again, especially in her element showing me around her home town, and I had a top time getting to know her boyfriend Kenada, who apart from being an all round great bloke and incredibly easy to get on with, spoke like a true movie star. Fritzy’s definitely onto a winner there.
My last night, Saturday, involved a trip to a couple of house parties in New Jersey, the second having a Christmas in July theme. We stopped off at an enormous Target superstore on the way there - think Matalan, only slightly more upmarket and much larger - where I got myself a steal of a deal in a $2 red t-shirt as well as a quality trilby hat. Plenty of party games, some truly excellent vodka jelly (or ‘jello’ as they say here) and my first taste of a home keg and margarita machine lead to a memorable night, where I met a load of Courtney and Kenada’s good friends and family, as well as several they didn’t know. Special nod, winks and more go out to Shannon Murphy, a stunning red-head who I wish I’d had more time to get to know. Facebook, don’t fail me now.
First night in the Big Apple and time to hit the sack. Three nights on the razz and I’m done for. I’m getting too old for this ;)
p.s. Philly Cheese Steaks. Jaw dropping. Glad I waited (rather than buying one on the west coast; so famous, they’re even available three thousand miles away).
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
USA: The West and the Rest
22.5.08
Arrived in SF and met Lucie - all going swimmingly so far, except that the hostel is a bit of a party place, with ‘kids’ whooping, hollering, shouting and playing various instruments (like a loud horn) late into the early hours of the morning. Means no sleep and a grumpy Jake today. Glad I finally managed to find the hostel: it was scary going, not getting into town (via the BART sky rail system into the city) until near 11PM, then getting lost in scary neighbourhoods, hulking my bulging bags around streets laden with bums and druggies (people bent over in odd positions in doorways or in the middle of the sidewalk, lots of them black; police crawling the curbs, forcing tramps and beggars to move on). Such a relief to finally find the place - the directions were a bit weak and I’d forgotten to take a note of the exact address of the hostel (doh) - but on doing so, I said a quick hello to the extremely jet-lagged Lucie and grabbed myself some freakily enormous slices of pizza from a local Italian around the corner.
27.5.08
Ok, so the blog has taken a real backseat to enjoying my high life living crossing the States in a red shiny convertible (a fuel guzzling Ford Mustang) with Lucie. Unfortunate, but true: traveling with someone else is in most ways preferable to traveling alone - it’s definitely revitalised my love of sight-seeing, having someone to share it with - but at the same time is a distraction, meaning less time devoted to writing and more to doing. Speaking of doing, we’ve done plenty, barely stopping to rest until now, having reached the glamourous sights and sounds of Las Vegas. In the two full days we spent in ‘cisco, we fitted in a couple of cable car rides (amazing how many people can squeeze into the cramped, aged carriages, operated by a lever-pulling driver overly and hopelessly enthusiastic about clearing people out of his way and forcing everyone to the back), a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf (multiple piers, the most famous and touristy being Pier 39, brimming with cafes, restaurants and tourist shops: have been in more of these with Lucie during the week she’s been here than during the entire rest of my trip) and a boat ride out to a tour of ALCATRAZ (need I say more; well I COULD say that it once imprisoned some of America’s most notorious criminals under one roof, we partook of an excellent included audio tour, walked around and got a feel for the inside of the cells, the exercise yard, offices, kitchens, library, behind the walls - where several criminals escaped to the roof, having burrowed their way through their cells’ rear walls using handmade equipment and spoons! - and finally took in an awe inspiring view of the city and bridge).
We met a couple in the noisy hostel (it appears as good as USA Hostels are, with their free pancakes and wifi, they don’t have a curfew and they do play home to many under-21s, who are forced to party inside rather than out) called Josh and Leah (or ‘Ross’ and ‘Laya’ as I jokingly and absentmindedly called them, to Lucie’s utter despair), who we went out for some drinks with and accompanied on an organised tour of San Francisco: ‘Dylan’s Tours’. It was a great half day out in a van, taking in the business and government districts, as well as different parts of the cities belonging to different ethnic groups - Salvadorans, Latinos, Italians, Chinese (enormous Chinatown) - and a huge, dedicated homosexual neighbourhood (where the colourful stripy flag was invented and is still proudly displayed on many houses) and downtown hippy-ville (the corner of Haight and Ashbury, home of the swinging sixties, Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead). The cumulation of all this was a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge (so called because of the look of the land across the bay from the city and also presumably a reference to the gold mining that formed California’s beginnings), swinging by the ‘bay’ that Otis Reading famously wrote a song about, a hilltop viewpoint offering the most staggering views of the city and suburbs yet (San Francisco is possibly the most picturesque city I’ve ever seen, thanks to its sometimes impossibly staggered blocks of streets comprising of a multitude of brightly coloured, wooden Victorian buildings - these, by the way, go up and down at forty five degree plus angles seemingly arbitrarily). Before finishing the tour, we travelled a little way out into ‘the valley’ to see the Muir Woods, home to some neck craning-ly tall, massive Californian redwood trees. It was quite a day.
29.5.08
About to hit ‘the Strip’ on our last full day in Vegas, having spent the morning burning in the thirty degree sun.
15.6.08
Sat on one of two humongous beds in a motel in the swish town of Jackson - Wyoming’s most trendy residence - just south of the Grand Teton National Park (containing mountains that Teddy Roosevelt once said looked how mountains should).
30.6.08
It’s 10.22 AM and I’ve just had my first lie in since Vegas (over a month ago). Feel particularly good as I was terribly hungover yesterday, after spending my first night alone in six weeks at McMenamin’s ‘Edgefield’ hotel/winery/bar/brewery/concert resort, drinking an exorbitant amount of their excellent IPA (not to mention a couple of ‘Maker’s’ Bourbons) and chatting with as many random people as time would allow. I had dropped Dad off at Seattle Airport just prior, and after a three hour journey of nothing but highways and incredible heat brought on by a sudden heat wave (the journey we shared during our last few days in NW USA has been more on the bleaker side: grey, cool and cloudy, with the occasional few hours of blue sky and mild sunshine), I was more than ready to cool off.
Whilst at Edgefield, I managed to take in a couple of sights that Dad and I missed there during our stay a week ago, including a Jerry Garcia statue (very surreal monument, easily missed amongst the trees it lay situated amongst on the edge of a golf course, it looked like ‘Barnacle Bill’ from the latter Pirates of the Caribbean movies) and the distillery (a dimly lit, smokey, entirely wooden ‘shed’ of a bar, host to plenty of liquors - as they call spirits here - and, fortunately, beers too, a groovy, bearded hippy of a bartender, and a small television showing old reruns of Woodstock). Whilst there, I also took in a wedding reception party on the edge of a grassy, picnic tabled clearing, into which a fiddler and his band piped merry music until the wee hours (sitting there also had the advantage of being near a large, central bonfire, which wasn’t really needed until after midnight). I got chatting with many Americans - some staying the nights, others braving it with taxis or by driving - and even an English bloke, there on a working holiday.
Have just spent the night in the cheapest US motel I’ve ever stayed in: $38.50 for a decent, clean, pretty large room, right on the corner of the Crater Lake National Park in southern Oregon. Am trying to eat the cold pizza remains from last night’s tea for breakfast, but it’s not working as the in-room fridge has turned it into a huge, pizza flavoured ‘popsicle’. Yuck. Got to pack up now as its nearly kicking out time.
2.7.08
Sat in the cafe of the H.I. Fisherman’s Wharf Hostel in San Francisco, looking out of a window that overlooks the currently very foggy bay. It’s been a busy day today. I dropped off the car - said a weepy goodbye to the beautiful V8 driving deity the has been my trusty steed these last six weeks, in both red and white guises, clocking up 5,400 miles with Dad and almost 2,000 miles with Lucie. It was incredibly dirty both inside and out after such a magnum opus of a journey, having wrestled with so many hills and mountains, as well as the occasional dirt, stoney track: I gave it a once over with a hostel loaned towel and plenty of tissues, but it was all a waste of time in the end, as the Budget Rental people didn’t even bother leaving their desks to look at it. Had a heck of a time getting to the Hyatt Hotel (where this particular Budget office is based) to drop the damn thing off: I’ve never seen such a maze of one-way streets. Fortunately got it there with minutes to spare.
I spent a lot of time walking to and fro between the hostel, which is located on a state owned ‘national park’ campus called ‘Fort Mason’ (looks like an old fashioned army campus, sitting on a hill, between the wharf and a marina), and ‘North Beach’, San Francisco’s cafe-filled Little Italy. There I had lunch, took in the warmth of the sun and blue skies - what little of it there was, flitting between heavy bouts of California’s infamous creeping, coastal fog - and got a hair cut (at last!). I also confirmed my flights to Philadelphia for tomorrow, sorted out an early minibus collection to the airport (5AM: yawn!), mailed Courtney to arrange meeting her at the airport, booked myself into a hostel in New York for next week and contacted Qantas to bring my final flight home forward. I’m set to fly out of New York’s JFK Airport at 6PM on Friday 11th July, nine days from now. Decided I couldn’t wait another week for the original date, I’m wrapped up with this trip, very much ready to come home and besides, out of money!
Last few days traveling south, I’ve covered a heck of a lot of miles as well as a tonne of sights. It’s been a bit of a roller coaster ride, with me barely having time to assess what I’ve seen before flying onto the next attraction. Southern Oregon was awesome: having left the busy and boring Interstate-5 a hundred miles south of Portland, I entered the ever thickening woods of Willamette National Forest. To the south, these turned out to be on a larger scale and denser than even those I saw with Dad, lush with deep greens and rising as high as five thousand feet, where the forest fell away to reveal America’s, now, trademark snow-topped peaks (that of ‘Diamond Peak’, to name but one). Then it was a steady descent back to a hot, dry, sandy dust bowl close to Crater Lake, where I spent the night in the aforementioned cheapest motel I’ve ever been in. That same day though, even having driven over four hours with a hangover, I simply had to go see Crater Lake.
The drive to it was completely bonkers: a super straight road that would make the Romans proud, barrens gave way to yet more thick forest, sprawling for miles in ever direction. Though the road bobbled up and down over the fourteen miles to the northern entrance to the park, I don’t remember climbing a significant way up, but on entering it, all of a sudden there was snow everywhere. A heavy cloud also appeared out of nowhere, blocking the sun and sending the hot, steamy temperature I’d been experiencing yet minutes before plummeting to freezing. Madness. The park surrounding Crater Lake was almost as stunning as the lake: great snowy vistas, trees dotting the landscape and rocky jaggies protruding regularly to force the road off course. The snow was almost as thick as it was on the ‘Beartooth Pass’ in Montana, in fact the scenery was very similar. Leaving the park, and for what must have been hundreds of square miles surrounding it, forming a significant portion and southern Oregon and Northern California, there was nothing but uninterrupted tall, wild forest. Some of the twisting and turning and undulating roads (marked as ‘Scenic Byways’) were fabulous, the superb cornering on the Mustang making them a real pleasure to drive. But the biggest impression that the area made on me - especially around Crater Lake, before I hit the busier Highway 199 - was that of complete, vast solitude. There wasn’t a person, let alone a car or building, sometimes for miles, and looking into the depths of forest I could see only more trees and only for a short distance too, the shrubs being so closely packed the light barely filtered through. I heard Dad use a phrase - a ‘cathedral of trees’ - a few weeks back, and that’s certainly how I felt: traveling through a snaking, narrow valley of foliage, the only source of a light a narrow strip above me.
Crater Lake itself was a humongous, water filled, spherical, sudden drop in the ground, like as if a giant, circular scooper had been used to rip a city sized chunk out of the earth. It was surrounded all the way around by dramatically jagged peaks, rising steeply on both sides, which enhanced the overall strikingness of the ‘cavity’. It was so large, I couldn’t get far enough away to fit it all in one picture, so had to make do with several dozen instead.
The drive down to the northern tips of the coast of California the next day was another long one, mainly through lots of forest (as mentioned above), later on following a stunning river which carved up a increasingly narrow and steep valley. The temps really dropped as I got closer to the coast, from the thirties down to the mid teens, as I eventually hit the coastal fog (brrrr). Before hitting the fog, I made a stop at the ‘Jedidiah Smith Redwood State Park’, as recommended to me earlier in the trip, particularly focusing on ‘Stout Grove’. I was going to get to it by entering the park through the traditional entrance, but the lady at the gate explained I could enter via a back route, drive all the way up the the grove’s entrance that way, take in a six mile gravel road through the redwood forest all the way to the coast (she assured me it was in tip top condition and well worth it - it was too, great snaking corners, trees growing into and over the road, ethereally lit by dappled sunlight) and to top it all off, avoid paying the $6 entrance fee. It was a no brainer!
‘Stout Grove’ was a large collection of incredibly tall redwood trees, mentioned in Lonely Planet’s top twenty things to see in the States. The trees were massive, though their bases were not as thick as some Dad and I had seen, they made up in height what they lacked in girth (though don’t get me wrong, they were still several feet thick). What really struck me was how familiar that section of forest looked. It wasn’t until that night, checking into a hostel which was perfectly located right on the coast, opposite a stunning section of volcanic sanded beach, that I found out it was where George Lucas filmed the setting for Endor, the moon on which the Ewoks lived in Return of the Jedi!
Last day of driving to San Fran took in mainly Highway 101 - the fast freeway that bisects California north to south, where I saw the tree populated, green landscapes turn ever yellower and drier, then into vast swathes of grape vines as I entered wine country - as well as a three hour detour to the coast on the fabulous Highway 1 (I’d previously traveled several hundred miles of this scenic, mainly coastal hugging road north up from LA to San Francisco with Lucie, past places such as the bourgeois Santa Barbara and the sensational cliff sides of Big Sur), where I tempted fate by heading back out to the coast for a while, into the occasional clutches of ‘the fog’. (That particular journey was well worth it, by the way. The stretch of hill hugging, forest road that formed the part of H/W 1 leading out to sea was the most devilishly twisty one I’d ever been on, and brilliant for swinging round in the Mustang with the top down, each blind bend bringing with it a perfect blend of adult fear and childish excitement. Finally got to see what the car could do.) On hitting the coast, I lapped up the cliffs, ocean views and cool weather for a while, eventually giving in and headed back inland to the welcoming heat (extreme difference in temp. in just a few miles, yet next to no difference in altitude) on an equally bendy road.
Finished with the west coast now, off to do the east, catch Independence Day in the city it transpired in (Philadelphia), shop till I drop in Manhattan, then catch a plane home.
Arrived in SF and met Lucie - all going swimmingly so far, except that the hostel is a bit of a party place, with ‘kids’ whooping, hollering, shouting and playing various instruments (like a loud horn) late into the early hours of the morning. Means no sleep and a grumpy Jake today. Glad I finally managed to find the hostel: it was scary going, not getting into town (via the BART sky rail system into the city) until near 11PM, then getting lost in scary neighbourhoods, hulking my bulging bags around streets laden with bums and druggies (people bent over in odd positions in doorways or in the middle of the sidewalk, lots of them black; police crawling the curbs, forcing tramps and beggars to move on). Such a relief to finally find the place - the directions were a bit weak and I’d forgotten to take a note of the exact address of the hostel (doh) - but on doing so, I said a quick hello to the extremely jet-lagged Lucie and grabbed myself some freakily enormous slices of pizza from a local Italian around the corner.
27.5.08
Ok, so the blog has taken a real backseat to enjoying my high life living crossing the States in a red shiny convertible (a fuel guzzling Ford Mustang) with Lucie. Unfortunate, but true: traveling with someone else is in most ways preferable to traveling alone - it’s definitely revitalised my love of sight-seeing, having someone to share it with - but at the same time is a distraction, meaning less time devoted to writing and more to doing. Speaking of doing, we’ve done plenty, barely stopping to rest until now, having reached the glamourous sights and sounds of Las Vegas. In the two full days we spent in ‘cisco, we fitted in a couple of cable car rides (amazing how many people can squeeze into the cramped, aged carriages, operated by a lever-pulling driver overly and hopelessly enthusiastic about clearing people out of his way and forcing everyone to the back), a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf (multiple piers, the most famous and touristy being Pier 39, brimming with cafes, restaurants and tourist shops: have been in more of these with Lucie during the week she’s been here than during the entire rest of my trip) and a boat ride out to a tour of ALCATRAZ (need I say more; well I COULD say that it once imprisoned some of America’s most notorious criminals under one roof, we partook of an excellent included audio tour, walked around and got a feel for the inside of the cells, the exercise yard, offices, kitchens, library, behind the walls - where several criminals escaped to the roof, having burrowed their way through their cells’ rear walls using handmade equipment and spoons! - and finally took in an awe inspiring view of the city and bridge).
We met a couple in the noisy hostel (it appears as good as USA Hostels are, with their free pancakes and wifi, they don’t have a curfew and they do play home to many under-21s, who are forced to party inside rather than out) called Josh and Leah (or ‘Ross’ and ‘Laya’ as I jokingly and absentmindedly called them, to Lucie’s utter despair), who we went out for some drinks with and accompanied on an organised tour of San Francisco: ‘Dylan’s Tours’. It was a great half day out in a van, taking in the business and government districts, as well as different parts of the cities belonging to different ethnic groups - Salvadorans, Latinos, Italians, Chinese (enormous Chinatown) - and a huge, dedicated homosexual neighbourhood (where the colourful stripy flag was invented and is still proudly displayed on many houses) and downtown hippy-ville (the corner of Haight and Ashbury, home of the swinging sixties, Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead). The cumulation of all this was a trip across the Golden Gate Bridge (so called because of the look of the land across the bay from the city and also presumably a reference to the gold mining that formed California’s beginnings), swinging by the ‘bay’ that Otis Reading famously wrote a song about, a hilltop viewpoint offering the most staggering views of the city and suburbs yet (San Francisco is possibly the most picturesque city I’ve ever seen, thanks to its sometimes impossibly staggered blocks of streets comprising of a multitude of brightly coloured, wooden Victorian buildings - these, by the way, go up and down at forty five degree plus angles seemingly arbitrarily). Before finishing the tour, we travelled a little way out into ‘the valley’ to see the Muir Woods, home to some neck craning-ly tall, massive Californian redwood trees. It was quite a day.
29.5.08
About to hit ‘the Strip’ on our last full day in Vegas, having spent the morning burning in the thirty degree sun.
15.6.08
Sat on one of two humongous beds in a motel in the swish town of Jackson - Wyoming’s most trendy residence - just south of the Grand Teton National Park (containing mountains that Teddy Roosevelt once said looked how mountains should).
30.6.08
It’s 10.22 AM and I’ve just had my first lie in since Vegas (over a month ago). Feel particularly good as I was terribly hungover yesterday, after spending my first night alone in six weeks at McMenamin’s ‘Edgefield’ hotel/winery/bar/brewery/concert resort, drinking an exorbitant amount of their excellent IPA (not to mention a couple of ‘Maker’s’ Bourbons) and chatting with as many random people as time would allow. I had dropped Dad off at Seattle Airport just prior, and after a three hour journey of nothing but highways and incredible heat brought on by a sudden heat wave (the journey we shared during our last few days in NW USA has been more on the bleaker side: grey, cool and cloudy, with the occasional few hours of blue sky and mild sunshine), I was more than ready to cool off.
Whilst at Edgefield, I managed to take in a couple of sights that Dad and I missed there during our stay a week ago, including a Jerry Garcia statue (very surreal monument, easily missed amongst the trees it lay situated amongst on the edge of a golf course, it looked like ‘Barnacle Bill’ from the latter Pirates of the Caribbean movies) and the distillery (a dimly lit, smokey, entirely wooden ‘shed’ of a bar, host to plenty of liquors - as they call spirits here - and, fortunately, beers too, a groovy, bearded hippy of a bartender, and a small television showing old reruns of Woodstock). Whilst there, I also took in a wedding reception party on the edge of a grassy, picnic tabled clearing, into which a fiddler and his band piped merry music until the wee hours (sitting there also had the advantage of being near a large, central bonfire, which wasn’t really needed until after midnight). I got chatting with many Americans - some staying the nights, others braving it with taxis or by driving - and even an English bloke, there on a working holiday.
Have just spent the night in the cheapest US motel I’ve ever stayed in: $38.50 for a decent, clean, pretty large room, right on the corner of the Crater Lake National Park in southern Oregon. Am trying to eat the cold pizza remains from last night’s tea for breakfast, but it’s not working as the in-room fridge has turned it into a huge, pizza flavoured ‘popsicle’. Yuck. Got to pack up now as its nearly kicking out time.
2.7.08
Sat in the cafe of the H.I. Fisherman’s Wharf Hostel in San Francisco, looking out of a window that overlooks the currently very foggy bay. It’s been a busy day today. I dropped off the car - said a weepy goodbye to the beautiful V8 driving deity the has been my trusty steed these last six weeks, in both red and white guises, clocking up 5,400 miles with Dad and almost 2,000 miles with Lucie. It was incredibly dirty both inside and out after such a magnum opus of a journey, having wrestled with so many hills and mountains, as well as the occasional dirt, stoney track: I gave it a once over with a hostel loaned towel and plenty of tissues, but it was all a waste of time in the end, as the Budget Rental people didn’t even bother leaving their desks to look at it. Had a heck of a time getting to the Hyatt Hotel (where this particular Budget office is based) to drop the damn thing off: I’ve never seen such a maze of one-way streets. Fortunately got it there with minutes to spare.
I spent a lot of time walking to and fro between the hostel, which is located on a state owned ‘national park’ campus called ‘Fort Mason’ (looks like an old fashioned army campus, sitting on a hill, between the wharf and a marina), and ‘North Beach’, San Francisco’s cafe-filled Little Italy. There I had lunch, took in the warmth of the sun and blue skies - what little of it there was, flitting between heavy bouts of California’s infamous creeping, coastal fog - and got a hair cut (at last!). I also confirmed my flights to Philadelphia for tomorrow, sorted out an early minibus collection to the airport (5AM: yawn!), mailed Courtney to arrange meeting her at the airport, booked myself into a hostel in New York for next week and contacted Qantas to bring my final flight home forward. I’m set to fly out of New York’s JFK Airport at 6PM on Friday 11th July, nine days from now. Decided I couldn’t wait another week for the original date, I’m wrapped up with this trip, very much ready to come home and besides, out of money!
Last few days traveling south, I’ve covered a heck of a lot of miles as well as a tonne of sights. It’s been a bit of a roller coaster ride, with me barely having time to assess what I’ve seen before flying onto the next attraction. Southern Oregon was awesome: having left the busy and boring Interstate-5 a hundred miles south of Portland, I entered the ever thickening woods of Willamette National Forest. To the south, these turned out to be on a larger scale and denser than even those I saw with Dad, lush with deep greens and rising as high as five thousand feet, where the forest fell away to reveal America’s, now, trademark snow-topped peaks (that of ‘Diamond Peak’, to name but one). Then it was a steady descent back to a hot, dry, sandy dust bowl close to Crater Lake, where I spent the night in the aforementioned cheapest motel I’ve ever been in. That same day though, even having driven over four hours with a hangover, I simply had to go see Crater Lake.
The drive to it was completely bonkers: a super straight road that would make the Romans proud, barrens gave way to yet more thick forest, sprawling for miles in ever direction. Though the road bobbled up and down over the fourteen miles to the northern entrance to the park, I don’t remember climbing a significant way up, but on entering it, all of a sudden there was snow everywhere. A heavy cloud also appeared out of nowhere, blocking the sun and sending the hot, steamy temperature I’d been experiencing yet minutes before plummeting to freezing. Madness. The park surrounding Crater Lake was almost as stunning as the lake: great snowy vistas, trees dotting the landscape and rocky jaggies protruding regularly to force the road off course. The snow was almost as thick as it was on the ‘Beartooth Pass’ in Montana, in fact the scenery was very similar. Leaving the park, and for what must have been hundreds of square miles surrounding it, forming a significant portion and southern Oregon and Northern California, there was nothing but uninterrupted tall, wild forest. Some of the twisting and turning and undulating roads (marked as ‘Scenic Byways’) were fabulous, the superb cornering on the Mustang making them a real pleasure to drive. But the biggest impression that the area made on me - especially around Crater Lake, before I hit the busier Highway 199 - was that of complete, vast solitude. There wasn’t a person, let alone a car or building, sometimes for miles, and looking into the depths of forest I could see only more trees and only for a short distance too, the shrubs being so closely packed the light barely filtered through. I heard Dad use a phrase - a ‘cathedral of trees’ - a few weeks back, and that’s certainly how I felt: traveling through a snaking, narrow valley of foliage, the only source of a light a narrow strip above me.
Crater Lake itself was a humongous, water filled, spherical, sudden drop in the ground, like as if a giant, circular scooper had been used to rip a city sized chunk out of the earth. It was surrounded all the way around by dramatically jagged peaks, rising steeply on both sides, which enhanced the overall strikingness of the ‘cavity’. It was so large, I couldn’t get far enough away to fit it all in one picture, so had to make do with several dozen instead.
The drive down to the northern tips of the coast of California the next day was another long one, mainly through lots of forest (as mentioned above), later on following a stunning river which carved up a increasingly narrow and steep valley. The temps really dropped as I got closer to the coast, from the thirties down to the mid teens, as I eventually hit the coastal fog (brrrr). Before hitting the fog, I made a stop at the ‘Jedidiah Smith Redwood State Park’, as recommended to me earlier in the trip, particularly focusing on ‘Stout Grove’. I was going to get to it by entering the park through the traditional entrance, but the lady at the gate explained I could enter via a back route, drive all the way up the the grove’s entrance that way, take in a six mile gravel road through the redwood forest all the way to the coast (she assured me it was in tip top condition and well worth it - it was too, great snaking corners, trees growing into and over the road, ethereally lit by dappled sunlight) and to top it all off, avoid paying the $6 entrance fee. It was a no brainer!
‘Stout Grove’ was a large collection of incredibly tall redwood trees, mentioned in Lonely Planet’s top twenty things to see in the States. The trees were massive, though their bases were not as thick as some Dad and I had seen, they made up in height what they lacked in girth (though don’t get me wrong, they were still several feet thick). What really struck me was how familiar that section of forest looked. It wasn’t until that night, checking into a hostel which was perfectly located right on the coast, opposite a stunning section of volcanic sanded beach, that I found out it was where George Lucas filmed the setting for Endor, the moon on which the Ewoks lived in Return of the Jedi!
Last day of driving to San Fran took in mainly Highway 101 - the fast freeway that bisects California north to south, where I saw the tree populated, green landscapes turn ever yellower and drier, then into vast swathes of grape vines as I entered wine country - as well as a three hour detour to the coast on the fabulous Highway 1 (I’d previously traveled several hundred miles of this scenic, mainly coastal hugging road north up from LA to San Francisco with Lucie, past places such as the bourgeois Santa Barbara and the sensational cliff sides of Big Sur), where I tempted fate by heading back out to the coast for a while, into the occasional clutches of ‘the fog’. (That particular journey was well worth it, by the way. The stretch of hill hugging, forest road that formed the part of H/W 1 leading out to sea was the most devilishly twisty one I’d ever been on, and brilliant for swinging round in the Mustang with the top down, each blind bend bringing with it a perfect blend of adult fear and childish excitement. Finally got to see what the car could do.) On hitting the coast, I lapped up the cliffs, ocean views and cool weather for a while, eventually giving in and headed back inland to the welcoming heat (extreme difference in temp. in just a few miles, yet next to no difference in altitude) on an equally bendy road.
Finished with the west coast now, off to do the east, catch Independence Day in the city it transpired in (Philadelphia), shop till I drop in Manhattan, then catch a plane home.
Sunday, 15 June 2008
Hopping the Pacific
11.5.08
It’s an early Sunday morning, just finished my usual breakfast of coconut riddled muesli and fresh fruit, with a piece of coconut bread-cake on the side (you get coconut in everything here), and I’m sat bent over my computer on a wooden veranda, facing the beach and a breezy, blue-green sea. It’s my fifth day at the Octopus Resort and the fifth since updating my blog! This resort does indeed live up to its name: a proper tourist holiday destination, it has a long, white sand beach, lapped by a shallow ocean perfect for scuba/snorkeling (so I’m told - haven’t tested this out yet, but intend to this afternoon), a sand carpeted dining area, bar, pool, ‘bures’ (thatch roofed cottages, housing 2-4 people), a couple of dorm rooms (unusual for a resort but I’m not complaining as I’m staying in a really nice one, along with 13 others) and the obligatory palm trees, hammocks and sun beds (free).
Weather wise, Wednesday through to Friday were pretty miserable, with Thursday being the worst. I took a two hour boat trip to get here - was picked up from my hotel shortly after 9AM (worried they weren’t coming, but turns out they were running to ‘Fiji Time’, like everybody else), driven along with a few others to a small, very pretty jetty, where I had some yummy coffee (and found a free wifi hotspot, but alas, too late to use it) and then we jumped aboard a small, motor-powered boat, which whizzed us off to Octopus Resort’s own island. The ride started off fairly pedestrian but after we cleared the bay I made some stupid comment about the going being slow, which naturally prompted the driver to put his foot down, sending the boat crashing over the busy surf, everybody holding on for dear life. It was quite the thrilling ride - all of the flapping, plastic windows but my own were battened down to keep out the splashing water, I enjoyed the wind in my face and getting wet (that was until some less enthusiastic Fijians on the boat insisted I clip down my window too). When we got to the resort, a smaller boat took us and our bags to the shore, where we were greeted by a flowery shirted, guitar playing song and dance troupe: a traditional Fijian welcome.
20.5.08
Aloha!
Well, I got sidetracked from my blog for another nine days. Have been relaxing the last week away in Hawai’i, intent on getting away from it all, chilling out and making an reasonable attempt at updating my travel diary. Two out of three doesn’t feel too bad, but the guilt’s been eating away at me, so here I am, waiting for my plane to San Francisco (have to remember to call it ‘ess ef’ or ‘the city’, so not to sound too much like a tourist) at the amazing Honolulu Airport. Wish that it had made such a good impression on me on arrival: all there was to greet international flights was a long (LONG) wait for a bus, boxy, grey, concrete buildings, a noticeable lack of ATMs (did indeed find one, but took me almost an hour to) and then an even greater lack of shops to get change from (‘The Bus’, the Oahu public transport system infamous for its $2, take-you-anywhere charge, refuses to split notes). Leaving the country, on the other hand, presents me with wide, glorious lounges stacked to the brim with Starbucks, cafes and duty frees, an onsite Hawaiian band and a huge, central garden, open aired and kitted out with fish ponds, palm trees and stacks of tropical vegetation (has to be a first for an airport). Swish.
There’s been a few big differences between Hawaii (Oahu Island, that is) and Fiji. I spent six out of my seven days in Fiji at the Octopus Resort in the Yasawas Island group, a small, mountainous island with the one resort, a local village (very ‘local’, home only to around a hundred Fijian natives - the traditional Kava drinking, hut living, satellite TV watching, self-sufficient type - most in the employ of the resort), jungle, absolutely no roads and some long, sandy beaches. I spent most of my time socialising with the people in my resort (couples or girls mainly, the latter part being fine with me), reading on the beach or under the shelter of thatched roofs (about half and half - sadly the weather tended towards overcast and the rain kept on coming, most frequently over the first few days), eating (the inclusive three meals a day were excellent, the menu very varied), playing the odd game of beach volleyball (I was rubbish, but enjoyed it), going for walks on the beach, snorkeling (some beautiful corral and stunning, multicoloured fish) and taking part on the occasional organised (supervised) hike to the neighbouring village, up and over the other side of the mountain (two visits: one on a Sunday for a Christian service held at the village church, spoken entirely in Fijian but still very evocative, thanks to the powerful evangelical choir and the put-the-fear-of-God-into-you, just as loud preacher, the other to look around and join in a Kava drinking ceremony). Kava, by the way, is a local delicacy made from the roots of a special plant: it’s infused into cold water through straining it, rather like how tea is made. The result is a drug that’s supposed to get you high if you drink enough of it (rather like the effect of cannabis). I had several bowlfuls in one ceremony and can only report a slight fuzzy head, with a very noticeable numbing of the lips and tongue. Other things of note in Fiji: despite the crap weather (only one full day of sunshine, two partially overcast, the rest: rain) I had a great time, met lots of nice people (all Facebook’d), really enjoyed the absolutely fabulous resort (everybody staying there - and that was lots, what with each day interchanging new people for old, sometimes admittedly poignantly - said it was the best one they’d been to, throughout the entire of Fiji), feasted on some great food (too much food: a different three-course meal each night - curry, meat BBQ, fish, pasta - lots of continental breakfast to choose from, plus a choice of around ten dishes for lunch, with a daily changing special) and took part in/witnessed several entertaining shows (from a dance performed by the native villagers to beach party games to watching DVDs on giant, poolside screen). Everything had a polished, package holiday feel about it, without the tackiness.
Hawaii, on the other hand, turned out to be incredibly civilised, trashy in parts and boldly American: leaving the airport and heading into Honolulu, I could have been entering any large, US city, such was the spaghetti-like entanglement of roads, each bearing witness to big, flashy cars (lots of 4x4s and sports cars), shopping centres and high rise office blocks. Waikiki, where I spent the first couple of nights and my last night, turned out to be a real haven for tourists - like a Disneyland for grownups, it had more sky scraping hotels than I could count, with as many again restaurants and cafes, likably clean streets (‘sidewalks’?) spilling over with holiday makers and the famous, but extremely tacky in my opinion, ‘Waikiki Beach’: a long strip of sand barely big enough to contain those splayed out upon it. Still, as bad as that sounds, it was fun for a while, especially nice after the remoteness and quiet of my stay in Fiji. Whilst staying in the Octopus Resort, I made countless friends with the girls in my beautifully clean and high sociable dorm (it WAS a lovely dorm too: fourteen extremely comfortable beds, equipped with mosquito nets, made every day by the friendly Fijian staff), but eventually got ‘in’ with a crowd of Irish girls who had their own bure (Alison, Grace and Frances). Turned out they were staying in the same crappy hostel as me back in Auckland - they remembered me, having asked for directions to the laundry (but I not them: naughty!) - and that two of them happened to also be going on to Hawaii next. So straight away I was keen to get to know them, also attracted by their entirely hilarious Irish (‘Oyrish’) accents - being from Cork and Dublin, they sounded exactly like any female member of the cast of Father Ted. Their accents and colloquialisms seemed really exaggerated as well as, at times, derived, yet completely natural too (‘feck’ was a constant feature of conversation). Brilliant :)
Anyway, I spent the first couple of nights in Waikiki with Grace and Alison, where we took in Duke’s Bar on the beach the first night (it came recommended - the cocktails were great, the view excellent, the food not so) and the delights of the ‘Cheesecake Factory’ (YES!!!) the second. The latter had an upmarket ‘TGI Friday’s’ feel to it: the food was good and massive, the cheesecake desserts exemplary. On the first day in the centre of the Pacific - a Tuesday, where I left Fiji at one minute to midnight on the Tuesday, flew for eight hours (sat with the girls, the flight took this long thanks to a stopover at ‘Christmas Island’: what appeared to be nothing but a pancake flat, sand and palm tree lined archipelago - no man made constructions in sight, other than a tiny terminal building and a caked, old runaway with cracks on its surface), then arrived at just after 10AM the same day, receiving a whole extra day, thanks to crossing the Pacific ‘date line’ - I had a sublime piece of Tiramisu Cheesecake (as good as it sounds) coupled with a super strong and sweet Mai-Tai cocktail (an atypical Hawaiian cocktail: Hawaii’s all about the cocktails and the leis [the flowery necklaces]). Cocktails have turned out to be a godsend in Hawaii: very suitable in the hot, sultry climate (unlike the heavy Samuel Adams beer I tried, but I can also see why ‘light’ beers - such as ‘Corrs Light’ - would be popular, though I hear that’s a trend that unfortunately continues throughout the whole of the US). The staff in the ‘Cheesecake Factory’ were also incredibly friendly and engaging, almost overbearingly so; the reason for which revealed itself when the bill arrived, where, as I expected, a 15-20% tip was expected, spelt out by a thoughtful gratuity advice slip for tourists.
So Hawaii has very much marked my entrance into the United States. Of the Americans I’ve met or happened across here, many have seemed friendly, those that I’ve spoken to very willing to engage in conversation, some most intrigued by my accent. The second day I spent in Waikiki I teamed up with a Canadian for a trip to Pearl Harbour, where just as many Americans were taken by his accent as by mine. Though his name escapes me unfortunately, the Canadian was a radio advert producer from Calgary, as well as a past radio disc jockey: an interesting, ginger bloke with a very loud voice (seemingly unbeknownst to him, which was a tiny bit cringeworthy in quieter places, such as on ‘the Bus’). The trip to Pearl Harbour was really satisfying: we went for a walk around and inside an old and very impressive battleship, the USS Missouri, built before the second world war, prior to the supersession of the aircraft carrier (several old veterans were employed inside, who were very chatty and helpfully explain the workings of the ship, the bus driver who took us round the sights was also jolly and talkative, but warned us not to take photos whilst traversing the still active - ! - naval base: all we really saw were streets upon streets of identikit officer’s home, looking as colourful and fake as those in the film ‘Edward Scissorhands’) and we also got to see the incredible insides of a submarine (built in retaliation of the Pearl Harbour attack, used to take out many Japanese ships and subs - as indicated by the rising sun flags painted on its side, as well as one French one, unusually). The latter was the best part of the full day, the worst (least exciting, anyway) was the free visit to the USS Arizona, the sunken, unsalvageable, rusting remains of a ship bombed during the attack of Pearl Harbour (preceded by the much more interesting film of the event, shown on a big cinema screen, including both American and Japanese sourced clips). Watching from a viewing platform above, I did witness a stingray pass through the waters above the wreck, which was by far and away the highlight of that particular trip.
Am typing this from my seat on an American Airlines passenger jet, some 25,000 feet above the ocean. I can’t believe quite how tight this airline is. Not only do they insist on charging for food - ooh, but at least we get a complimentary soft drink - but you also have to pay for headphones, in case you wanted to watch the inflight entertainment. It’s a joke. The American guy from the Napa Valley (famous for its wines he tells me, I’m sure I’ve heard of it before) sat in the seat next to me informs me that all the American airlines have started charging for these services. Won’t be long until England follows suit I bet, though perhaps because this constitutes a shorter flight - relatively speaking, being less than five hours long - that’s how they get away with it.
After the first couple of days in tourist hotspot Waikiki, I was ready to get away from it to the comparably quiet ‘North Shore’. Ooops, forgot to mention - one other cool thing I discovered about Oahu is that Lost is filmed here. Not only that, but later the same day, I was taking a stroll down Waikiki’s highstreet only to pass by one of the actors from it: the guy who plays Ben, leader of ‘the Others’. Feigned ignorance until he passed me then whipped out my camera to grab a clumsy back shot. Still got him though :) Anyways, Thursday I caught a bus up to the North Shore with my Canadian acquaintance, glad to leave behind the complete hole that was my hostel: no curtains, loud music late into the night from the next door neighbours, dirty and grotty rooms, annoying, ignorant staff, poor free breakfast (bread, a limited supply of peanut butter and crappy coffee basically). Passed a ‘Dole Banana Plantation’ en route, trading a fully urbanised landscape for a much more rural one. Had a long chat with an old and well informed American guy who seemed only too happy to tell me how his country was going to hell thanks to Bush and his cronies. Argh, the lady in front of me has just lowered her seat back as far as it would go - and then some - limiting my space to just a few inches, or so it feels. In front are a couple of loud, obnoxious, black Americans - their rudeness to the air stewardess said it all - so I’m not too inclined to argue.
The hostel I stayed in on the North Shore was a godsend - despite the crap the guys at the Beachside Hostel in Waikiki tried to feed me about it. The unfortunately titled ‘Ho Hostel’ comprised a couple of spotless, freshly painted houses, set within the landscaped grounds of well trimmed, plant filled gardens, equipped with seats and hammocks for lounging lazily in, run by a welcoming and helpful Latin American family who, through their constant attention, kept the place feeling fresh and homely. I had a large, astroturfed veranda to sit, relax, browse the web (free and FAST wifi) and eat on, adjacent to a pristine, new, fully fitted kitchen and several colourfully painted rooms, one of which played host to my bunk bed. For the entire duration of my stay - four nights, five days - there was only one other person in the dorm (if you could call it that), an American midget from Florida, who was considering Hawaii as his next place to live (it’s wonderful how the United States work). Like the old guy on the bus, he also had extremely negative opinions on his country, its current depression, how Americans appear to outsiders and the general ignorance of his fellow countrymen on these subjects. Appears defeatism could turn into a bit of a theme for my US trip.
Right across the road from my ‘hostel’ (like I said, if you could really call it that - more like a hotel or a ‘home’ in actuality) was a bike track, succeeded by miles of thick, behind a long strip of thick, creamy white beach (the sand particles were larger than the usual grain sized, appearing like tiny, smoothly rounded pearls or pebbles), stretching for miles in either direction, lined with some pretty expensive looking beach condos and picturesque palm trees (the really tall, swaying variety, like those you see in the movies). The beach directly opposite Ho was called Sunset Beach, barely distinguishable from its neighbouring beaches if I’m honest, except that some were considered safer for swimming in, thanks to the presence of jutting rocks in the sea, calming the ever-present, bone crushingly powerful surf (I can attest to this, my one experience swimming in the sea sending me crashing back into the beach). Speaking of the surf, I could see why Hawaii, and in particular the North Shore, is considered such a top destination for surfing: despite it not even being the surfing season, I bared witness to some of the largest waves I’d ever seen - some towering easily more than a dozen feet into the air, they’d crash into the beach with an incredible impact, enough to create a ridge in the sand whilst sending showers of white foam scattering in all directions (sometimes alarmingly far up the shore).
I did plenty of sunbathing, reading (finally completed the ‘Outline of American History’ book I ‘borrowed’ from a hostel in Kuala Lumpur, so now I’m fully clued up) and cycling. The weather has been wonderful for the most part (blazingly hot when the sky was clear), though disappointingly it occasionally got cloudy for long periods. What the locals call ‘VOG’ was mainly to blame, a misty settling of fog issued by the Big Island’s volcano. My experience of food in Hawaii hasn’t been all too positive - apart from the cheesecakes, cafe and restaurant grub seems largely to be based around the concept of ‘fast food’. Burgers and fries are very much on the menu, lots of sugar and salt form a large part of the island diet, everything is BIG and not fresh, and preservatives and colouring appear to be overly present in everything, from Chinese Spicy Pork to Chocolate Haupia Pie (a chocolate and coconut dessert from Ted’s Bakery, Hawaii’s most famous confectioner - pretty tasty but too artificial, too obviously the product of a machine). I really hope this isn’t indicative of America in general - it would go some way to explain my obsession with meals whilst touring the States when I was 15, however - but a lady at my noticeably nicer hostel last night, the ‘Polynesian Beach Hostel’ in Waikiki, kindly reassured me it wasn’t (what I’m to look for, it would seem, are ‘diners’). Here’s hoping.
After relaxing up on the North Shore and not taking advantage of all that free time to blog (!!), spent the last day in Waikiki, so to be closer to the airport. Had to make do with fast food outlets (Subway, Starbucks) as nothing else was available. Went on an enjoyable, though rather tiring, trip that took me all the way around the outside on a circuit of and up on top of the ‘Diamond Head Crater’: a large crater left by a long dead volcano, just past one end of Waikiki Beach. Got lost going there, wound up in a very posh, Beverly Hills alike neighbourhood of dead ends, retreated and made my way up along the coastal ‘Diamond Head’ road, which turned out to be the much longer way round to get to the entrance of the crater (took me a couple of hours, as opposed to the half an hour return journey coming back the other way). When I made it to the ticket office, the lady announced it was closed - it was 4.50PM, the park closed at 6PM and the round trip to the top was supposed to take 90 minutes (many signs bared warnings, for fat Americans no doubt, about the whopping 1.5km trip, without toilet and water facilities: oh my god!) - but she could see the anxious, tired and disappointed look on my sweaty face, as she very kindly let me through anyway (and for free, saving me a whole dollar - woo!). Speed walked my way to the top, up a windy path, through a dark tunnel, up some very steep stairs and finally up a spiraling staircase, before making it to a lookout point/defence bunker on the rim (the route was an old one built by the US Army). The views of the island and its tall mountains in one direction and the expanse of the city of Honolulu equalling towering in the other made it worth the walk (and just as the sun was going down to).
Made it back in time to the beach for another sunset: I’ve been watching these avidly and taking many photos since Granddad reminded me how impressed he and Gran were by them. Attracting whopping crowds every evening, they’re indeed a marvel, so long as the sky is relatively clear of clouds or VOG. The sun, like a huge, full, round, iridescent torch light, turns from yellow to orange, then to deep red as it descends, the sky taking on shades of pink then purple as dusk follows. Perhaps not quite as spectacular as those I witnessed in the deserts of India, but magnificent nonetheless. Unfortunately my new digital camera doesn’t cope with such shots half as well as my old one, so will have to rely on memory mainly for these.
So, just over three hours until I reach SF, then I’m all set to meet Lucie. Am excited to gain a companion for the next part of my trip, but also a little anxious. Hope she doesn’t get bored of me, plus I hope I don’t suffer too much for lack of private time. Am really counting on being myself around her, dunno if this will be the case as never spent so much time with her. We do get on really well usually, and I can’t wait to catch up. Doesn’t seem real yet. One really good thing I’m looking forward to is that I’ll have someone to share photos and experiences with, plus I know Lucie will have me doing all sorts of activities I wouldn’t normally be doing, as she’s one of those crazy, always active persons. Hopefully will keep the blog up too.
P.S.: The split between native Fijians and Indians is 55:45. The natives resent the (originally imported by the Brits) Indians, thanks to the latter’s ability to work hard and make money (explains the presence of so many Indian taxi drivers at the airport). Fijian dollar notes have the Queen’s head on them. Native Polynesians in Hawaii look more like their Maori counterparts than the African looking Fijians: a definite cross between a Asian and American Indian, which makes sense being that Hawaii is almost exactly in the centre of the Pacific. Didn’t notice too many native Hawaiians about, however, thanks to the heavy presence of multi-ethnic Americans (both tourists and residents). There’s a large Asian presence in Hawaii, especially Chinese (Honolulu has its own Chinatown). Being in the States, I’m really disliking the reintroduction of single and two cent coins (completely redundant, since you can buy nothing with them, and weighing down my wallet, I find myself dumping such change straight into a donations box on receiving it), as well as the paper one dollar note.
Really disappointed I wasn’t presented with a free lei by a beautiful grass-skirt wearing lady on my arrival at Honolulu Airport. The movies they lie!
The USS Arizona was still leaking oil fifty years on. You could see it floating on the surface of the sea above.
I saw a lady open her handbag and drop her pet dog into it, sealing the zip close around the neck so that it’s head popped out the top, before throwing the bag over her shoulder and entering Foodland (whilst on the North Shore). Only in America.
It’s an early Sunday morning, just finished my usual breakfast of coconut riddled muesli and fresh fruit, with a piece of coconut bread-cake on the side (you get coconut in everything here), and I’m sat bent over my computer on a wooden veranda, facing the beach and a breezy, blue-green sea. It’s my fifth day at the Octopus Resort and the fifth since updating my blog! This resort does indeed live up to its name: a proper tourist holiday destination, it has a long, white sand beach, lapped by a shallow ocean perfect for scuba/snorkeling (so I’m told - haven’t tested this out yet, but intend to this afternoon), a sand carpeted dining area, bar, pool, ‘bures’ (thatch roofed cottages, housing 2-4 people), a couple of dorm rooms (unusual for a resort but I’m not complaining as I’m staying in a really nice one, along with 13 others) and the obligatory palm trees, hammocks and sun beds (free).
Weather wise, Wednesday through to Friday were pretty miserable, with Thursday being the worst. I took a two hour boat trip to get here - was picked up from my hotel shortly after 9AM (worried they weren’t coming, but turns out they were running to ‘Fiji Time’, like everybody else), driven along with a few others to a small, very pretty jetty, where I had some yummy coffee (and found a free wifi hotspot, but alas, too late to use it) and then we jumped aboard a small, motor-powered boat, which whizzed us off to Octopus Resort’s own island. The ride started off fairly pedestrian but after we cleared the bay I made some stupid comment about the going being slow, which naturally prompted the driver to put his foot down, sending the boat crashing over the busy surf, everybody holding on for dear life. It was quite the thrilling ride - all of the flapping, plastic windows but my own were battened down to keep out the splashing water, I enjoyed the wind in my face and getting wet (that was until some less enthusiastic Fijians on the boat insisted I clip down my window too). When we got to the resort, a smaller boat took us and our bags to the shore, where we were greeted by a flowery shirted, guitar playing song and dance troupe: a traditional Fijian welcome.
20.5.08
Aloha!
Well, I got sidetracked from my blog for another nine days. Have been relaxing the last week away in Hawai’i, intent on getting away from it all, chilling out and making an reasonable attempt at updating my travel diary. Two out of three doesn’t feel too bad, but the guilt’s been eating away at me, so here I am, waiting for my plane to San Francisco (have to remember to call it ‘ess ef’ or ‘the city’, so not to sound too much like a tourist) at the amazing Honolulu Airport. Wish that it had made such a good impression on me on arrival: all there was to greet international flights was a long (LONG) wait for a bus, boxy, grey, concrete buildings, a noticeable lack of ATMs (did indeed find one, but took me almost an hour to) and then an even greater lack of shops to get change from (‘The Bus’, the Oahu public transport system infamous for its $2, take-you-anywhere charge, refuses to split notes). Leaving the country, on the other hand, presents me with wide, glorious lounges stacked to the brim with Starbucks, cafes and duty frees, an onsite Hawaiian band and a huge, central garden, open aired and kitted out with fish ponds, palm trees and stacks of tropical vegetation (has to be a first for an airport). Swish.
There’s been a few big differences between Hawaii (Oahu Island, that is) and Fiji. I spent six out of my seven days in Fiji at the Octopus Resort in the Yasawas Island group, a small, mountainous island with the one resort, a local village (very ‘local’, home only to around a hundred Fijian natives - the traditional Kava drinking, hut living, satellite TV watching, self-sufficient type - most in the employ of the resort), jungle, absolutely no roads and some long, sandy beaches. I spent most of my time socialising with the people in my resort (couples or girls mainly, the latter part being fine with me), reading on the beach or under the shelter of thatched roofs (about half and half - sadly the weather tended towards overcast and the rain kept on coming, most frequently over the first few days), eating (the inclusive three meals a day were excellent, the menu very varied), playing the odd game of beach volleyball (I was rubbish, but enjoyed it), going for walks on the beach, snorkeling (some beautiful corral and stunning, multicoloured fish) and taking part on the occasional organised (supervised) hike to the neighbouring village, up and over the other side of the mountain (two visits: one on a Sunday for a Christian service held at the village church, spoken entirely in Fijian but still very evocative, thanks to the powerful evangelical choir and the put-the-fear-of-God-into-you, just as loud preacher, the other to look around and join in a Kava drinking ceremony). Kava, by the way, is a local delicacy made from the roots of a special plant: it’s infused into cold water through straining it, rather like how tea is made. The result is a drug that’s supposed to get you high if you drink enough of it (rather like the effect of cannabis). I had several bowlfuls in one ceremony and can only report a slight fuzzy head, with a very noticeable numbing of the lips and tongue. Other things of note in Fiji: despite the crap weather (only one full day of sunshine, two partially overcast, the rest: rain) I had a great time, met lots of nice people (all Facebook’d), really enjoyed the absolutely fabulous resort (everybody staying there - and that was lots, what with each day interchanging new people for old, sometimes admittedly poignantly - said it was the best one they’d been to, throughout the entire of Fiji), feasted on some great food (too much food: a different three-course meal each night - curry, meat BBQ, fish, pasta - lots of continental breakfast to choose from, plus a choice of around ten dishes for lunch, with a daily changing special) and took part in/witnessed several entertaining shows (from a dance performed by the native villagers to beach party games to watching DVDs on giant, poolside screen). Everything had a polished, package holiday feel about it, without the tackiness.
Hawaii, on the other hand, turned out to be incredibly civilised, trashy in parts and boldly American: leaving the airport and heading into Honolulu, I could have been entering any large, US city, such was the spaghetti-like entanglement of roads, each bearing witness to big, flashy cars (lots of 4x4s and sports cars), shopping centres and high rise office blocks. Waikiki, where I spent the first couple of nights and my last night, turned out to be a real haven for tourists - like a Disneyland for grownups, it had more sky scraping hotels than I could count, with as many again restaurants and cafes, likably clean streets (‘sidewalks’?) spilling over with holiday makers and the famous, but extremely tacky in my opinion, ‘Waikiki Beach’: a long strip of sand barely big enough to contain those splayed out upon it. Still, as bad as that sounds, it was fun for a while, especially nice after the remoteness and quiet of my stay in Fiji. Whilst staying in the Octopus Resort, I made countless friends with the girls in my beautifully clean and high sociable dorm (it WAS a lovely dorm too: fourteen extremely comfortable beds, equipped with mosquito nets, made every day by the friendly Fijian staff), but eventually got ‘in’ with a crowd of Irish girls who had their own bure (Alison, Grace and Frances). Turned out they were staying in the same crappy hostel as me back in Auckland - they remembered me, having asked for directions to the laundry (but I not them: naughty!) - and that two of them happened to also be going on to Hawaii next. So straight away I was keen to get to know them, also attracted by their entirely hilarious Irish (‘Oyrish’) accents - being from Cork and Dublin, they sounded exactly like any female member of the cast of Father Ted. Their accents and colloquialisms seemed really exaggerated as well as, at times, derived, yet completely natural too (‘feck’ was a constant feature of conversation). Brilliant :)
Anyway, I spent the first couple of nights in Waikiki with Grace and Alison, where we took in Duke’s Bar on the beach the first night (it came recommended - the cocktails were great, the view excellent, the food not so) and the delights of the ‘Cheesecake Factory’ (YES!!!) the second. The latter had an upmarket ‘TGI Friday’s’ feel to it: the food was good and massive, the cheesecake desserts exemplary. On the first day in the centre of the Pacific - a Tuesday, where I left Fiji at one minute to midnight on the Tuesday, flew for eight hours (sat with the girls, the flight took this long thanks to a stopover at ‘Christmas Island’: what appeared to be nothing but a pancake flat, sand and palm tree lined archipelago - no man made constructions in sight, other than a tiny terminal building and a caked, old runaway with cracks on its surface), then arrived at just after 10AM the same day, receiving a whole extra day, thanks to crossing the Pacific ‘date line’ - I had a sublime piece of Tiramisu Cheesecake (as good as it sounds) coupled with a super strong and sweet Mai-Tai cocktail (an atypical Hawaiian cocktail: Hawaii’s all about the cocktails and the leis [the flowery necklaces]). Cocktails have turned out to be a godsend in Hawaii: very suitable in the hot, sultry climate (unlike the heavy Samuel Adams beer I tried, but I can also see why ‘light’ beers - such as ‘Corrs Light’ - would be popular, though I hear that’s a trend that unfortunately continues throughout the whole of the US). The staff in the ‘Cheesecake Factory’ were also incredibly friendly and engaging, almost overbearingly so; the reason for which revealed itself when the bill arrived, where, as I expected, a 15-20% tip was expected, spelt out by a thoughtful gratuity advice slip for tourists.
So Hawaii has very much marked my entrance into the United States. Of the Americans I’ve met or happened across here, many have seemed friendly, those that I’ve spoken to very willing to engage in conversation, some most intrigued by my accent. The second day I spent in Waikiki I teamed up with a Canadian for a trip to Pearl Harbour, where just as many Americans were taken by his accent as by mine. Though his name escapes me unfortunately, the Canadian was a radio advert producer from Calgary, as well as a past radio disc jockey: an interesting, ginger bloke with a very loud voice (seemingly unbeknownst to him, which was a tiny bit cringeworthy in quieter places, such as on ‘the Bus’). The trip to Pearl Harbour was really satisfying: we went for a walk around and inside an old and very impressive battleship, the USS Missouri, built before the second world war, prior to the supersession of the aircraft carrier (several old veterans were employed inside, who were very chatty and helpfully explain the workings of the ship, the bus driver who took us round the sights was also jolly and talkative, but warned us not to take photos whilst traversing the still active - ! - naval base: all we really saw were streets upon streets of identikit officer’s home, looking as colourful and fake as those in the film ‘Edward Scissorhands’) and we also got to see the incredible insides of a submarine (built in retaliation of the Pearl Harbour attack, used to take out many Japanese ships and subs - as indicated by the rising sun flags painted on its side, as well as one French one, unusually). The latter was the best part of the full day, the worst (least exciting, anyway) was the free visit to the USS Arizona, the sunken, unsalvageable, rusting remains of a ship bombed during the attack of Pearl Harbour (preceded by the much more interesting film of the event, shown on a big cinema screen, including both American and Japanese sourced clips). Watching from a viewing platform above, I did witness a stingray pass through the waters above the wreck, which was by far and away the highlight of that particular trip.
Am typing this from my seat on an American Airlines passenger jet, some 25,000 feet above the ocean. I can’t believe quite how tight this airline is. Not only do they insist on charging for food - ooh, but at least we get a complimentary soft drink - but you also have to pay for headphones, in case you wanted to watch the inflight entertainment. It’s a joke. The American guy from the Napa Valley (famous for its wines he tells me, I’m sure I’ve heard of it before) sat in the seat next to me informs me that all the American airlines have started charging for these services. Won’t be long until England follows suit I bet, though perhaps because this constitutes a shorter flight - relatively speaking, being less than five hours long - that’s how they get away with it.
After the first couple of days in tourist hotspot Waikiki, I was ready to get away from it to the comparably quiet ‘North Shore’. Ooops, forgot to mention - one other cool thing I discovered about Oahu is that Lost is filmed here. Not only that, but later the same day, I was taking a stroll down Waikiki’s highstreet only to pass by one of the actors from it: the guy who plays Ben, leader of ‘the Others’. Feigned ignorance until he passed me then whipped out my camera to grab a clumsy back shot. Still got him though :) Anyways, Thursday I caught a bus up to the North Shore with my Canadian acquaintance, glad to leave behind the complete hole that was my hostel: no curtains, loud music late into the night from the next door neighbours, dirty and grotty rooms, annoying, ignorant staff, poor free breakfast (bread, a limited supply of peanut butter and crappy coffee basically). Passed a ‘Dole Banana Plantation’ en route, trading a fully urbanised landscape for a much more rural one. Had a long chat with an old and well informed American guy who seemed only too happy to tell me how his country was going to hell thanks to Bush and his cronies. Argh, the lady in front of me has just lowered her seat back as far as it would go - and then some - limiting my space to just a few inches, or so it feels. In front are a couple of loud, obnoxious, black Americans - their rudeness to the air stewardess said it all - so I’m not too inclined to argue.
The hostel I stayed in on the North Shore was a godsend - despite the crap the guys at the Beachside Hostel in Waikiki tried to feed me about it. The unfortunately titled ‘Ho Hostel’ comprised a couple of spotless, freshly painted houses, set within the landscaped grounds of well trimmed, plant filled gardens, equipped with seats and hammocks for lounging lazily in, run by a welcoming and helpful Latin American family who, through their constant attention, kept the place feeling fresh and homely. I had a large, astroturfed veranda to sit, relax, browse the web (free and FAST wifi) and eat on, adjacent to a pristine, new, fully fitted kitchen and several colourfully painted rooms, one of which played host to my bunk bed. For the entire duration of my stay - four nights, five days - there was only one other person in the dorm (if you could call it that), an American midget from Florida, who was considering Hawaii as his next place to live (it’s wonderful how the United States work). Like the old guy on the bus, he also had extremely negative opinions on his country, its current depression, how Americans appear to outsiders and the general ignorance of his fellow countrymen on these subjects. Appears defeatism could turn into a bit of a theme for my US trip.
Right across the road from my ‘hostel’ (like I said, if you could really call it that - more like a hotel or a ‘home’ in actuality) was a bike track, succeeded by miles of thick, behind a long strip of thick, creamy white beach (the sand particles were larger than the usual grain sized, appearing like tiny, smoothly rounded pearls or pebbles), stretching for miles in either direction, lined with some pretty expensive looking beach condos and picturesque palm trees (the really tall, swaying variety, like those you see in the movies). The beach directly opposite Ho was called Sunset Beach, barely distinguishable from its neighbouring beaches if I’m honest, except that some were considered safer for swimming in, thanks to the presence of jutting rocks in the sea, calming the ever-present, bone crushingly powerful surf (I can attest to this, my one experience swimming in the sea sending me crashing back into the beach). Speaking of the surf, I could see why Hawaii, and in particular the North Shore, is considered such a top destination for surfing: despite it not even being the surfing season, I bared witness to some of the largest waves I’d ever seen - some towering easily more than a dozen feet into the air, they’d crash into the beach with an incredible impact, enough to create a ridge in the sand whilst sending showers of white foam scattering in all directions (sometimes alarmingly far up the shore).
I did plenty of sunbathing, reading (finally completed the ‘Outline of American History’ book I ‘borrowed’ from a hostel in Kuala Lumpur, so now I’m fully clued up) and cycling. The weather has been wonderful for the most part (blazingly hot when the sky was clear), though disappointingly it occasionally got cloudy for long periods. What the locals call ‘VOG’ was mainly to blame, a misty settling of fog issued by the Big Island’s volcano. My experience of food in Hawaii hasn’t been all too positive - apart from the cheesecakes, cafe and restaurant grub seems largely to be based around the concept of ‘fast food’. Burgers and fries are very much on the menu, lots of sugar and salt form a large part of the island diet, everything is BIG and not fresh, and preservatives and colouring appear to be overly present in everything, from Chinese Spicy Pork to Chocolate Haupia Pie (a chocolate and coconut dessert from Ted’s Bakery, Hawaii’s most famous confectioner - pretty tasty but too artificial, too obviously the product of a machine). I really hope this isn’t indicative of America in general - it would go some way to explain my obsession with meals whilst touring the States when I was 15, however - but a lady at my noticeably nicer hostel last night, the ‘Polynesian Beach Hostel’ in Waikiki, kindly reassured me it wasn’t (what I’m to look for, it would seem, are ‘diners’). Here’s hoping.
After relaxing up on the North Shore and not taking advantage of all that free time to blog (!!), spent the last day in Waikiki, so to be closer to the airport. Had to make do with fast food outlets (Subway, Starbucks) as nothing else was available. Went on an enjoyable, though rather tiring, trip that took me all the way around the outside on a circuit of and up on top of the ‘Diamond Head Crater’: a large crater left by a long dead volcano, just past one end of Waikiki Beach. Got lost going there, wound up in a very posh, Beverly Hills alike neighbourhood of dead ends, retreated and made my way up along the coastal ‘Diamond Head’ road, which turned out to be the much longer way round to get to the entrance of the crater (took me a couple of hours, as opposed to the half an hour return journey coming back the other way). When I made it to the ticket office, the lady announced it was closed - it was 4.50PM, the park closed at 6PM and the round trip to the top was supposed to take 90 minutes (many signs bared warnings, for fat Americans no doubt, about the whopping 1.5km trip, without toilet and water facilities: oh my god!) - but she could see the anxious, tired and disappointed look on my sweaty face, as she very kindly let me through anyway (and for free, saving me a whole dollar - woo!). Speed walked my way to the top, up a windy path, through a dark tunnel, up some very steep stairs and finally up a spiraling staircase, before making it to a lookout point/defence bunker on the rim (the route was an old one built by the US Army). The views of the island and its tall mountains in one direction and the expanse of the city of Honolulu equalling towering in the other made it worth the walk (and just as the sun was going down to).
Made it back in time to the beach for another sunset: I’ve been watching these avidly and taking many photos since Granddad reminded me how impressed he and Gran were by them. Attracting whopping crowds every evening, they’re indeed a marvel, so long as the sky is relatively clear of clouds or VOG. The sun, like a huge, full, round, iridescent torch light, turns from yellow to orange, then to deep red as it descends, the sky taking on shades of pink then purple as dusk follows. Perhaps not quite as spectacular as those I witnessed in the deserts of India, but magnificent nonetheless. Unfortunately my new digital camera doesn’t cope with such shots half as well as my old one, so will have to rely on memory mainly for these.
So, just over three hours until I reach SF, then I’m all set to meet Lucie. Am excited to gain a companion for the next part of my trip, but also a little anxious. Hope she doesn’t get bored of me, plus I hope I don’t suffer too much for lack of private time. Am really counting on being myself around her, dunno if this will be the case as never spent so much time with her. We do get on really well usually, and I can’t wait to catch up. Doesn’t seem real yet. One really good thing I’m looking forward to is that I’ll have someone to share photos and experiences with, plus I know Lucie will have me doing all sorts of activities I wouldn’t normally be doing, as she’s one of those crazy, always active persons. Hopefully will keep the blog up too.
P.S.: The split between native Fijians and Indians is 55:45. The natives resent the (originally imported by the Brits) Indians, thanks to the latter’s ability to work hard and make money (explains the presence of so many Indian taxi drivers at the airport). Fijian dollar notes have the Queen’s head on them. Native Polynesians in Hawaii look more like their Maori counterparts than the African looking Fijians: a definite cross between a Asian and American Indian, which makes sense being that Hawaii is almost exactly in the centre of the Pacific. Didn’t notice too many native Hawaiians about, however, thanks to the heavy presence of multi-ethnic Americans (both tourists and residents). There’s a large Asian presence in Hawaii, especially Chinese (Honolulu has its own Chinatown). Being in the States, I’m really disliking the reintroduction of single and two cent coins (completely redundant, since you can buy nothing with them, and weighing down my wallet, I find myself dumping such change straight into a donations box on receiving it), as well as the paper one dollar note.
Really disappointed I wasn’t presented with a free lei by a beautiful grass-skirt wearing lady on my arrival at Honolulu Airport. The movies they lie!
The USS Arizona was still leaking oil fifty years on. You could see it floating on the surface of the sea above.
I saw a lady open her handbag and drop her pet dog into it, sealing the zip close around the neck so that it’s head popped out the top, before throwing the bag over her shoulder and entering Foodland (whilst on the North Shore). Only in America.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Eggy Breath
3.5.08
Man I’m tired. Dunno quite what it is, but I’ve had a distracting headache for most of the day - possibly from staying up late reading the excellent ‘Pushing Ice’ by Alastair Reynolds. It’s a real page turner and I’m unable to put it down, which was fine by me today: happy to spend most of the afternoon reading and nursing a coffee in a cafe on the tourist strip/central high street of the seaside town of Mt Muanganui (translates to ‘Large Mountain’ - sometimes referred to just as ‘the Mount’ - which describes an striking, steep, preserved hill that protrudes from the end of an otherwise flat, populated peninsula, across an inlet from the city of Tauranga, which is where I’m actually staying/typing from tonight). Especially happy to chill this afternoon, being so tired today I made some very elementary mistakes whilst driving: the usual mixing up which side of the steering wheel the indicator stick is on (left here, rather than right), instead turning on the windscreen wipers, but also, embarassingly, failing to stop at some roadworks - where traffic was directed into one lane. It didn’t help that the sign told me to stop when requested, but the workman was sat on his arse and not holding any signs (normally they do hold up a sign, and what a crap job that must be too!). In hindsight - such a wonderful thing (!) - I think this particular sign only had ‘GO’ printed on it. Not holding it up naturally meant I had to stop. Much waving of hands and irate gestures forced me to reverse and just in time too, oncoming traffic appearing seconds after I did so. Soon forgot about this when I arrived at the sunny marinas of Tauranga, leaving behind the bone-numbing cold of Rotorua (yes, it’s getting that cold again) for sparkling sunshine.
The city of Tauranga that I’m staying in boasts a large harbour, whilst the township of Mt Tauranga, stretching across the bay on the cape opposite, is lined with beaches, set back from which are rows of expensive condos and spectacularly tall pine trees (a touch of the Australian influence there: very ‘Manly Bay’-esque). Both urban areas, part of one of the country’s sunniest regions, known as the ‘Bay of Plenty’ (a popular hotspot for New Zealand holiday makers, named so by the Maoris thanks to the fertility of the land, now used mainly to grow kiwi fruit), are tourist heavy and commercialised, centred around their own stylish tourist strips, lined with the usual trendy cafes, restaurants and shops. Am getting used to this feature of the north island, though I can’t help feeling a bit short changed at times: swapping the remote and spectacular of the south for the busy and touristic of the north. I guess I have to get used to it - I doubt California will be any better! ;)
Fortunately, there’s still occasions that slaps me in the face, bringing me back to reality by reminding me I haven’t left the New Zealand I love yet. Today’s was the walk up to the top of Mt Muanganui. After lazing most of the day away in a cafe, in the early evening I set out on a pretty heavy going walk up a steep, muddy path that encircled the forested hill, surprisingly busy with joggers, sight-seers and, heading out to sit on rocks in the sea, fishermen (a very big past-time in NZ). The view from the top made the climb worth it - I hadn’t even realised before heading up there, but I made it out above the tree line and onto a grassy plateau (with landmark to prove I’d made it to the top) just in time to witness a breathtaking sunset: a golden torch melting into the sea, spreading a warm glow over the blue carpet, the fabulous, hill crested, partially urbanised coastline (with small mountain range in the distance) and tree layered archipelago that stretched out to the horizon. Ahh, this is more like it.
Am about to head out and catch some grub now, having not eaten anything since this morning’s adventure to the amusing ‘Fat Dog Cafe’: a cartoon dog themed eatery - very popular with kids, for obvious reasons - where I was served an unfairly large slice of bacon and egg pie (I mean, how can they expect a normal human to eat that much - filled layer upon layer upon layer of alternating bacon and egg), plus a much easier to digest strawberry smoothie. It wasn’t a bad breaky, but nothing to write home about after yesterday’s culinary lunch time delights. Will get on to describing that and my day in smelly Rotorua later.
4.5.08
Yummy grub last night at the ‘De Bier Haus’ - little that was German about the fancy bar, other than the appearance of Bratwurst. On recommendation of a saucy Canadian member of the bar staff, I had a delicious chicken, salad and sweet chilli sandwich (made even tastier by the sumptuous guacamole) and the lovable beer-battered chips (or ‘frites’ as they called them here: large, extra breadcrumb encrusted, salty chips), washed down a ‘handle’ of my now favourite Kiwi beer, Speight’s ‘Sassy Red’. I was actually recommended this place by a girl working at my hostel (a small, busy but fairly impersonal YHA, about ten minute’s walk from the waterfront), on account of their divine CHEESE CAKE! Ummm. So obviously that was a no brainer for desert, and like the girl at the hostel, the eyes belonging to those working in the bar (a couple of girls and even one bloke!) whom I mentioned the pudding too soon glazed over. Good cheese cake seems to have this effect on people! (Especially the sort that is butterscotch flavoured, with lumps of chocolate and marshmallow scattered throughout.)
I gleaned some information off one bartender about why the place was so empty. Apparently most people hit the bars starting at about 11PM, thanks to New Zealand’s long standing late drinking laws (3AM being the standard for most establishments). I was there between eight and ten, meaning I was joining the ‘eating crowd’. Also, I questioned him on speed cameras, or the lack thereof, and was informed that the stationary ones had been taken out of commission, leaving only the occasional mobile one. Scarily, they don’t require any warning, but as usual, drivers that know about them will warn oncoming traffic with a quick flash of the headlights (have seen this many times whilst driving: warming, small community behaviour that’s long disappeared from England).
So, what happened between Taupo and Tauranga? I was typing my blog for so long in my hostel in Taupo - cheekily long after officially checking out (handing in my key) - that it was lunch time by the time I had finished. I decided to pop back to Rotorua’s voted best cafe, the ‘Bodyfuel Cafe’, to give it a second chance at proving itself. Once again, the coffee proved average, but this time the food was just inspired! I had an incredible venison pie - the meat was amazing: stringy, lean (absolutely no fat), dark, tender and juicy, it and the delectable, large pastry ‘pot’ it sat in were divine, melting right off the tongue. Venison is now a firm favourite of mine, definitely. Somehow, this was if not topped at least equalled by the desert, a slice of ‘caramel crunch’: take the caramel from a normal ‘caramel slice’, make it super rich and sumptuous, then add toasted oats and a biscuit base. Ummmm :)
Good food has definitely been on the menu these last two days. After chilling out in that wonderful cafe, reading my excellent book and letting my food go down, I struck out north to Rotorua. About an hour’s drive away, I drove through densely forested, green parkland, with trees so tall that they interrupted radio signals. The weather was playing silly buggers, trading heavy grey clouds for blinding sunshine, then just as quickly swapping that for a fast flowing rainstorm. Am definitely beginning to feel an affinity for New Zealand - the climate, the countryside, its friendly people and their wicked humour feel alien, but at the same time pleasantly familiar. Am going to miss this place.
Arrived at the hostel in the lakeside ‘city’ of Rotorua (again, I have difficulty acknowledging this ‘town’ as a city: they work it out by numbers here, not cathedrals), greeted by the amusingly sarcastic jibes of the owner (quite a character, instantly likable!). The place I stayed was really a large, converted house, very busy and homely with backpackers who seemed to know one another, intermixing with the owner and his family. I dropped off my stuff and set out to investigate the city. To be honest, the place felt fairly boring and uninspired, especially whilst I was busy getting drenched by heavy rain showers, following Lonely Planet’s recommended walk by the black swan studded lakeside. However, this soon changed when I discovered Rotorua’s novelty feature: white, sulphur-rich, clouds of gas creeping up out of drains, from warm, bubbling rain puddles (!!) and fissures - any small gaps in the ground, basically. These smelly (think rotten eggs), dense billows of smoke shoot up from the ground all over the place, giving the impression that the town is perpetually on fire (like, say, Gotham City). Rotorua sits on New Zealand’s most dynamic thermal area, cluttered with small but active volcanoes, as well as geysers, boiling mud pools and thermal baths. These makes it a major tourist attraction, plus adding to the fun is a whole host of Maori buildings: I took in an intricately carved meeting house, as well as an Anglican church, which combines Christian and Maori art under one roof. They, as well as some of the surrounding lakeside buildings, employ a mock tudor style, painted a mix of cream white and red. Bit of an eyesore if you ask me.
The highlight was without a doubt Kuirau Park, a fenced off, free to roam cumulation of volcanic behaviour, all under one leafy roof. I wondered pathways that led through blindingly thick layers of dense, white steam, past several boiling, bubbling pools of mud, lots swamp-like fauna and sick looking trees, and a number of hot, crater lakes (with warnings not to go near: according to LP there’d been an eruption here as recently as 2003, splattering much of the park in mud). It was eerily exciting: like taking a stroll through a horror movie set or perhaps a scary Brother’s Grimm faery tale. It also goes without saying that it was the smelliest part of Rotorua too. The novelty of which I’m sure you soon get used too - the bored kids in the park would attest to that.
Ok, I’ve been kicked out of my hostel, as they’re now cleaning the kitchen/living area and, having already checked out, I’ve got nowhere else to go. Am finishing typing this up sat in my car, the steady rain dripping noisily on its roof. Worryingly, I’ve got to head to Auckland today - was going to stop by en route for a paid visit to the official set of ‘Hobbiton’, but little point in this weather - and haven’t got a copy of the street map and directions Scott Pederson sent me (he’s an old work colleague of Dad’s whose kindly offered to put me up for the night). Got to find me an internet cafe, pronto.
Didn’t do a huge lot else in Rotorua. Could have gone to a Maori concert (the most famous is ‘haka’ - think of the unique ‘dance’ that New Zealand’s rugby union team ‘the All Blacks’ perform, to intimidate their opponents) or a Maori meal (‘hangi’, where food is cooked in the ground over hot river stones), but both sounded very heavily commercialised and therefore off putting. It was getting pretty late when I left the park, so I headed to the ‘Pig and Whistle’, a popular tavern that used to be a police station - hence the name - with its own microbrewery (didn’t find their homemade ‘Swine Ale’ very palatable, unfortunately). One unusual feature was the large, bulbous, leafy tree growing on the street just outside of it: it was humming with noisy birds - there must have been hundreds of them, all singing, making a tremendous racket. Whilst I sat in the bar reading my book and snacking on some nachos, the lights must have dimmed three times on me, making it harder each time to make out the words on the pages. Kiwis really like their bars to be dark (very atmospheric!).
The walk to the pub took me up a steep hill on which sat a hospital, providing me with some great views of the lake. On the way back down I felt almost as if I was back home: the weather was cool, wet and fresh, the yellow leaves of autumn coating the ground, hospital staff and visitors were beginning to leave for home. It was only the Maori-inspired names of surrounding buildings and the occasional Maori, wooden carving that offset this fantasy. It’s great to see such a natural fusion of two cultures, working alongside one another (seemingly) harmoniously. I imagine it must be a source of envy for their Australian (and even, if they bothered to look, American) cousins: a sign of what could have been. I guess it’s thanks to the cultural and technology divide not being so wide that the two races managed to combine, not to mention how originally both they and the colonialists depended on one another for resources. The Te Papa museum described how things didn’t always go so smoothly - many wars broke out - but, perhaps unsurprisingly, the Maoris were able to put up a fierce resistance and survive (I mean, have you seen the size of these guys??).
Finished the day with a trip to the cinema, where I watched a new superhero movie called ‘Iron Man’. A silly but fun action-romp, like a cross between Transformers and Robocop. Bit scary half way into the film when it was interrupted by a member of the audience who appeared to have a fit. After much general confusion, some running about and a call for an ambulance, unassisted he was able to get right up from his seat and walk away. So not sure what happened there.
Right, time to make the 200km trip to the great city of Auckland. I’ve got the feeling it’s a bit on the large side, what with the maps of it spread over several pages in my guidebook. I may get a bit lost.
Man I’m tired. Dunno quite what it is, but I’ve had a distracting headache for most of the day - possibly from staying up late reading the excellent ‘Pushing Ice’ by Alastair Reynolds. It’s a real page turner and I’m unable to put it down, which was fine by me today: happy to spend most of the afternoon reading and nursing a coffee in a cafe on the tourist strip/central high street of the seaside town of Mt Muanganui (translates to ‘Large Mountain’ - sometimes referred to just as ‘the Mount’ - which describes an striking, steep, preserved hill that protrudes from the end of an otherwise flat, populated peninsula, across an inlet from the city of Tauranga, which is where I’m actually staying/typing from tonight). Especially happy to chill this afternoon, being so tired today I made some very elementary mistakes whilst driving: the usual mixing up which side of the steering wheel the indicator stick is on (left here, rather than right), instead turning on the windscreen wipers, but also, embarassingly, failing to stop at some roadworks - where traffic was directed into one lane. It didn’t help that the sign told me to stop when requested, but the workman was sat on his arse and not holding any signs (normally they do hold up a sign, and what a crap job that must be too!). In hindsight - such a wonderful thing (!) - I think this particular sign only had ‘GO’ printed on it. Not holding it up naturally meant I had to stop. Much waving of hands and irate gestures forced me to reverse and just in time too, oncoming traffic appearing seconds after I did so. Soon forgot about this when I arrived at the sunny marinas of Tauranga, leaving behind the bone-numbing cold of Rotorua (yes, it’s getting that cold again) for sparkling sunshine.
The city of Tauranga that I’m staying in boasts a large harbour, whilst the township of Mt Tauranga, stretching across the bay on the cape opposite, is lined with beaches, set back from which are rows of expensive condos and spectacularly tall pine trees (a touch of the Australian influence there: very ‘Manly Bay’-esque). Both urban areas, part of one of the country’s sunniest regions, known as the ‘Bay of Plenty’ (a popular hotspot for New Zealand holiday makers, named so by the Maoris thanks to the fertility of the land, now used mainly to grow kiwi fruit), are tourist heavy and commercialised, centred around their own stylish tourist strips, lined with the usual trendy cafes, restaurants and shops. Am getting used to this feature of the north island, though I can’t help feeling a bit short changed at times: swapping the remote and spectacular of the south for the busy and touristic of the north. I guess I have to get used to it - I doubt California will be any better! ;)
Fortunately, there’s still occasions that slaps me in the face, bringing me back to reality by reminding me I haven’t left the New Zealand I love yet. Today’s was the walk up to the top of Mt Muanganui. After lazing most of the day away in a cafe, in the early evening I set out on a pretty heavy going walk up a steep, muddy path that encircled the forested hill, surprisingly busy with joggers, sight-seers and, heading out to sit on rocks in the sea, fishermen (a very big past-time in NZ). The view from the top made the climb worth it - I hadn’t even realised before heading up there, but I made it out above the tree line and onto a grassy plateau (with landmark to prove I’d made it to the top) just in time to witness a breathtaking sunset: a golden torch melting into the sea, spreading a warm glow over the blue carpet, the fabulous, hill crested, partially urbanised coastline (with small mountain range in the distance) and tree layered archipelago that stretched out to the horizon. Ahh, this is more like it.
Am about to head out and catch some grub now, having not eaten anything since this morning’s adventure to the amusing ‘Fat Dog Cafe’: a cartoon dog themed eatery - very popular with kids, for obvious reasons - where I was served an unfairly large slice of bacon and egg pie (I mean, how can they expect a normal human to eat that much - filled layer upon layer upon layer of alternating bacon and egg), plus a much easier to digest strawberry smoothie. It wasn’t a bad breaky, but nothing to write home about after yesterday’s culinary lunch time delights. Will get on to describing that and my day in smelly Rotorua later.
4.5.08
Yummy grub last night at the ‘De Bier Haus’ - little that was German about the fancy bar, other than the appearance of Bratwurst. On recommendation of a saucy Canadian member of the bar staff, I had a delicious chicken, salad and sweet chilli sandwich (made even tastier by the sumptuous guacamole) and the lovable beer-battered chips (or ‘frites’ as they called them here: large, extra breadcrumb encrusted, salty chips), washed down a ‘handle’ of my now favourite Kiwi beer, Speight’s ‘Sassy Red’. I was actually recommended this place by a girl working at my hostel (a small, busy but fairly impersonal YHA, about ten minute’s walk from the waterfront), on account of their divine CHEESE CAKE! Ummm. So obviously that was a no brainer for desert, and like the girl at the hostel, the eyes belonging to those working in the bar (a couple of girls and even one bloke!) whom I mentioned the pudding too soon glazed over. Good cheese cake seems to have this effect on people! (Especially the sort that is butterscotch flavoured, with lumps of chocolate and marshmallow scattered throughout.)
I gleaned some information off one bartender about why the place was so empty. Apparently most people hit the bars starting at about 11PM, thanks to New Zealand’s long standing late drinking laws (3AM being the standard for most establishments). I was there between eight and ten, meaning I was joining the ‘eating crowd’. Also, I questioned him on speed cameras, or the lack thereof, and was informed that the stationary ones had been taken out of commission, leaving only the occasional mobile one. Scarily, they don’t require any warning, but as usual, drivers that know about them will warn oncoming traffic with a quick flash of the headlights (have seen this many times whilst driving: warming, small community behaviour that’s long disappeared from England).
So, what happened between Taupo and Tauranga? I was typing my blog for so long in my hostel in Taupo - cheekily long after officially checking out (handing in my key) - that it was lunch time by the time I had finished. I decided to pop back to Rotorua’s voted best cafe, the ‘Bodyfuel Cafe’, to give it a second chance at proving itself. Once again, the coffee proved average, but this time the food was just inspired! I had an incredible venison pie - the meat was amazing: stringy, lean (absolutely no fat), dark, tender and juicy, it and the delectable, large pastry ‘pot’ it sat in were divine, melting right off the tongue. Venison is now a firm favourite of mine, definitely. Somehow, this was if not topped at least equalled by the desert, a slice of ‘caramel crunch’: take the caramel from a normal ‘caramel slice’, make it super rich and sumptuous, then add toasted oats and a biscuit base. Ummmm :)
Good food has definitely been on the menu these last two days. After chilling out in that wonderful cafe, reading my excellent book and letting my food go down, I struck out north to Rotorua. About an hour’s drive away, I drove through densely forested, green parkland, with trees so tall that they interrupted radio signals. The weather was playing silly buggers, trading heavy grey clouds for blinding sunshine, then just as quickly swapping that for a fast flowing rainstorm. Am definitely beginning to feel an affinity for New Zealand - the climate, the countryside, its friendly people and their wicked humour feel alien, but at the same time pleasantly familiar. Am going to miss this place.
Arrived at the hostel in the lakeside ‘city’ of Rotorua (again, I have difficulty acknowledging this ‘town’ as a city: they work it out by numbers here, not cathedrals), greeted by the amusingly sarcastic jibes of the owner (quite a character, instantly likable!). The place I stayed was really a large, converted house, very busy and homely with backpackers who seemed to know one another, intermixing with the owner and his family. I dropped off my stuff and set out to investigate the city. To be honest, the place felt fairly boring and uninspired, especially whilst I was busy getting drenched by heavy rain showers, following Lonely Planet’s recommended walk by the black swan studded lakeside. However, this soon changed when I discovered Rotorua’s novelty feature: white, sulphur-rich, clouds of gas creeping up out of drains, from warm, bubbling rain puddles (!!) and fissures - any small gaps in the ground, basically. These smelly (think rotten eggs), dense billows of smoke shoot up from the ground all over the place, giving the impression that the town is perpetually on fire (like, say, Gotham City). Rotorua sits on New Zealand’s most dynamic thermal area, cluttered with small but active volcanoes, as well as geysers, boiling mud pools and thermal baths. These makes it a major tourist attraction, plus adding to the fun is a whole host of Maori buildings: I took in an intricately carved meeting house, as well as an Anglican church, which combines Christian and Maori art under one roof. They, as well as some of the surrounding lakeside buildings, employ a mock tudor style, painted a mix of cream white and red. Bit of an eyesore if you ask me.
The highlight was without a doubt Kuirau Park, a fenced off, free to roam cumulation of volcanic behaviour, all under one leafy roof. I wondered pathways that led through blindingly thick layers of dense, white steam, past several boiling, bubbling pools of mud, lots swamp-like fauna and sick looking trees, and a number of hot, crater lakes (with warnings not to go near: according to LP there’d been an eruption here as recently as 2003, splattering much of the park in mud). It was eerily exciting: like taking a stroll through a horror movie set or perhaps a scary Brother’s Grimm faery tale. It also goes without saying that it was the smelliest part of Rotorua too. The novelty of which I’m sure you soon get used too - the bored kids in the park would attest to that.
Ok, I’ve been kicked out of my hostel, as they’re now cleaning the kitchen/living area and, having already checked out, I’ve got nowhere else to go. Am finishing typing this up sat in my car, the steady rain dripping noisily on its roof. Worryingly, I’ve got to head to Auckland today - was going to stop by en route for a paid visit to the official set of ‘Hobbiton’, but little point in this weather - and haven’t got a copy of the street map and directions Scott Pederson sent me (he’s an old work colleague of Dad’s whose kindly offered to put me up for the night). Got to find me an internet cafe, pronto.
Didn’t do a huge lot else in Rotorua. Could have gone to a Maori concert (the most famous is ‘haka’ - think of the unique ‘dance’ that New Zealand’s rugby union team ‘the All Blacks’ perform, to intimidate their opponents) or a Maori meal (‘hangi’, where food is cooked in the ground over hot river stones), but both sounded very heavily commercialised and therefore off putting. It was getting pretty late when I left the park, so I headed to the ‘Pig and Whistle’, a popular tavern that used to be a police station - hence the name - with its own microbrewery (didn’t find their homemade ‘Swine Ale’ very palatable, unfortunately). One unusual feature was the large, bulbous, leafy tree growing on the street just outside of it: it was humming with noisy birds - there must have been hundreds of them, all singing, making a tremendous racket. Whilst I sat in the bar reading my book and snacking on some nachos, the lights must have dimmed three times on me, making it harder each time to make out the words on the pages. Kiwis really like their bars to be dark (very atmospheric!).
The walk to the pub took me up a steep hill on which sat a hospital, providing me with some great views of the lake. On the way back down I felt almost as if I was back home: the weather was cool, wet and fresh, the yellow leaves of autumn coating the ground, hospital staff and visitors were beginning to leave for home. It was only the Maori-inspired names of surrounding buildings and the occasional Maori, wooden carving that offset this fantasy. It’s great to see such a natural fusion of two cultures, working alongside one another (seemingly) harmoniously. I imagine it must be a source of envy for their Australian (and even, if they bothered to look, American) cousins: a sign of what could have been. I guess it’s thanks to the cultural and technology divide not being so wide that the two races managed to combine, not to mention how originally both they and the colonialists depended on one another for resources. The Te Papa museum described how things didn’t always go so smoothly - many wars broke out - but, perhaps unsurprisingly, the Maoris were able to put up a fierce resistance and survive (I mean, have you seen the size of these guys??).
Finished the day with a trip to the cinema, where I watched a new superhero movie called ‘Iron Man’. A silly but fun action-romp, like a cross between Transformers and Robocop. Bit scary half way into the film when it was interrupted by a member of the audience who appeared to have a fit. After much general confusion, some running about and a call for an ambulance, unassisted he was able to get right up from his seat and walk away. So not sure what happened there.
Right, time to make the 200km trip to the great city of Auckland. I’ve got the feeling it’s a bit on the large side, what with the maps of it spread over several pages in my guidebook. I may get a bit lost.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Middle Earth
1.5.08
First day of May and the signs of winter are here! I reached the pretty boring ‘village’ of ‘National Park’ not long before six last night (the uninspired name should have been a warning, but I’m sure this place had been recommended to me), going against the recommendation of my guidebook to stay in the highest rated BBH establishment in the area (BBH = [NZ] Budget Backpacker Hostels: picked up membership on my first day in this fine country, entitles me to $2-3 discounts in all participating hostels). Needless to say, I should have trusted my guidebook: this place is more like a motel - clean but impersonal - my roommates are moody Germans, the other, Chinese occupants appear stuck-up (more fool them, I ‘borrowed’ some of their milk this morning - that’ll teach ‘em!) and the owner but an immediate downer on things when he told me the ‘Tongariro Crossing’ was closed, thanks to snow (!) reaching as low as a thousand metres. I haven’t seen any yet though - just miles of rolling parkland around here. The ‘Tongariro Crossing’ is New Zealand’s most popular one-day trek - it crosses a volcano - and also my only real reason for coming here, so hearing this on my arrival was a bit of a ‘bummer’. I went out in search of a place to snack, found a nice cafe cum restaurant and befriended the smiling staff - people in the service industry are SO much friendlier and happy here, but you could say that applies to just about everybody, as a general rule of thumb. A very congenial, helpful Maori guy sat at the bar suggested I go take a look around in the morning anyway - near a ski lodge there’s an area that was used when filming Lord of the Rings, plus the nearby ‘Mount Ngauruhoe’ IS Mount Doom (only less digitally enhanced in a sort of non-erupting kind of way) - but informed me that preparation for the upcoming ski season was underway: this was to be the first round of snow, followed shortly after by the second and then, once that was set, the third, etc. It’s as regular as clockwork each year. Wish I’d done my research! Everybody around here is really excited by the upcoming snow, and presumably the business that comes with it (ski-ing etc.). Can’t say I share their enthusiasm for the cold!
I left ‘Windy Wellington’ a couple of days ago, to head up north along the west coast. (It is so called because it’s constantly buffeted by winds - and rain, in my opinion - as I found out when, on stepping out into the rain on leaving a book shop on my first night, the owner came floundering forward, telling me not to bother with my umbrella. “No-one uses them around here,” she said, and she was right too. It wasn’t too windy on my arrival, but the next day kicked up a real gale: the annoying kind of unpredictable wind that changes direction on a whim. I only saw one other umbrella in my whole time there. Obviously an outsider!) I was a bit disillusioned with the north island so far: lots more people - including lots more Maoris (there’s a considerable presence, many place names are Maori, plus Maori translations appear all over the shop, such as in the Maori-titled ‘Te Papa’ museum) - which translated to lots more cars on the road, lots more houses running alongside it and, on the good side, more radio stations, less white noise. Most of Tuesday was grey and overcast, sporadic showers turning into a serious downpour when I reached Wanganui in the afternoon. The journey to there took me at first along the coastline, where I went through Scottish Highland country: heavily populated, furry green hills, dipping their toes into salt water lochs on one side, the sea on the other. I could make out an island, struck several miles off the coast, as little more than a black blob in the steady rain.
Then the road - State Highway 3 - struck more inland, across English dales, occasionally providing quick glimpses of the blue ocean. Was like this all the way to the city of Wanganui: more a town than a city, it had a really long central, leafy, shop-lined strip, running westwards, perpendicular to the ‘Whanganui River’ (notice the additional ‘h’: a recent modification to indicate that ‘wan’ is breathy and aspirated, inserted by the Maoris, whilst the ‘Pakeha’-dominated town - that’s outsiders or English to you and me - kept the old spelling), New Zealand’s longest, navigable river. The tree-lined river turned out to be fairly pretty when the sun peeked out for a couple of hours: smoke-gushing paddle boat meandered its way at impressive speed along it, a path cut through grassy park running alongside the water’s eastern edge, behind which a road granting access to residential neighbourhoods ran parallel for several miles, part of which included my amazing, show-stopping ‘hostel’ (if you could call it that). The ‘Anndion Lodge’ was a large house, fitted out with comfy, clean leaving room, kitchen (with not only the usual free coffee/tea, but free milk and biscuits too!), lounge with free pool table, a rear garden with swimming pool, spa and sauna, very tidy, hotel-like rooms (chocolates on pillows) and completely free wifi! At $35 it cost a fair bit more than I was used to paying, but throw in the free internet and you’ve got a bargain :) The owners were a super-friendly Kiwi and Maori couple, treating me more like a house guest than a paying customer, offering up maps and advice on my next destination. To top it all off, there was barely anyone staying in the hostel - nobody in my room, which meant I had all that comfort to myself! The locals say that not many people stop in this city, and it shows.
The only slight downer was the distance from town: a good 3km, but not a problem with my car. I spent the whole afternoon researching Fiji and Hawaii on the web and downloading my favourite podcasts and updates for my comp (so happy to get free, unlimited internet, I entirely forgot about the world outside!). Am very happy to say Fiji is completely sorted now - thankfully, stress levels were starting to peak - but Hawaii still needs doing, as I’m stuck between sticking to the fairly featureless but does boast Peral Harbour Oahu (which is where I land at Honolulu), or catching an internal flight to Maui (heavily recommended by everyone I speak to: sun, sea, sand, small volcanoes) or the Big Island (volcanos, some beaches). The latter two will probably have to include car hire too, so it could get fairly complicated, especially trying to fit it all into a week. Must decide today - have to sort this before I land in Fiji next Tuesday, as I’m almost 100% confident there’ll be no internet there.
I did make time for a gourmet pizza at Stellar in Wanganui - a bar whose name I think I may have seen before, but despite being a chain had talkative staff and served an excellent gourmet, mexican pizza (with my favourite sour cream topping, plus plenty of tasty jalapenos: happy to see my tongue can still take the spice!). Yesterday started off beautiful, the sun had his hat on and the blue skies were out. A perfect day to hit the aptly titled ‘Forgotten World Highway’ (SH43), something I had been saving up since finding out about it from an old English couple on the cruise in Milford Sound (my gratitude goes out to them!). It’s a road that has restored my faith in New Zealand’s north island and then some: taking me away from the busy streets, it twists and winds its way 150km through central, north island countryside, occasionally brushing past tiny villages, reducing to unsealed gravel for 12km, even dropping mobile coverage for the most part. It’s a perfect journey to take you outside of the grips of civilisation, you could say like going back to the south island.
It was the sun that made my mind up to do it: the end of my journey was National Park, only 80km or so north of Wanganui up SH4. I think that and the fact I was knackered - stayed up late exploiting my free internet the night before: surfing the web last night, finalising my Fiji details (sorted: yes!), speaking to Gran & Granddad over Skype then getting up early to do the same with my sister and Mum. The detour ahead of me stretched over three hundred kilometres, heading west, north, east, then back south again, in a completely round about way. Throwing on some shorts and a t-shirt, I fueled up at a petrol station, took some advice on a cafe from the workers there (yet more friendly Kiwis in the service industry) where I headed to grab an ultra-strong, ‘long, flat white’ (a ‘flat white’ is Oz/Kiwi speak for a standard coffee, you can work out the ‘long’ bit) and hit the road.
When I hit the start of the infamous highway I felt fully awake at least, but I was gutted to find dark clouds had gathered threateningly, and upon reaching the welcoming sign I was indeed ‘welcomed’ by a heavy, stormy downpour. The first part of the journey was filled with intermittent rain showers, some occasionally stopping me from stepping out the car to take photos of the fabulous views on offer, but not always. It certainly didn’t stop me from gaping at the awe-inspiring vistas: the perfect curves of bulbous hills, creating a rippling blanket of green countryside, impossibly green (truthfully, the grass here is so divinely green, it looks luminous at times, almost radioactive - it screams GREEN at you, as if some godly figure has played havoc with the turf’s colours: do not adjust your television set, it IS meant to look this way). Put this in contrast with the just as vibrantly coIourful trees (reds and yellows and golden-orange blends of in between) and you’ve got yourself a sight for sore eyes. I had a great time whizzing along listening to the sublime ‘Rock FM’, playing classics from the likes of Dylan, the Stones, Metallica, Guns ‘n Roses, for as long as the signal lasted (the first few hours). Rocking along, I passed through several aptly named ‘Saddles’, where deep valleys were met on either side by the tall slopes of hills. Heavy rain saturated the ground in parts - gentle streams in valleys turned to gushing torrents - whilst rounding a very sharp, U-shaped bend (as there were many: once again, perfect biking country) could lead to dazzling sunshine and blue skies, where the fields looked untouched. Continuing on the ‘Lord of the Rings’ country theme, this could easily have been the setting for ‘The Shire’ in ‘The Fellowship...’.
Half way along the highway, I met the hamlet of ‘Whangamomona’. This was another secret I was keeping until now, and in truth my real reason for heading out this way. In the late eighties, the local councils threatened the township with transferral from one region to another, a change which brushed its forty odd residents up the wrong way (it’s hinted that the last straw was telling them they’d have to play rugby for a rival district). In defiance, the citizens threatened to separate from both councils entirely - something which went from being I imagine an off the cuff remark to a reality when they declared themselves an independent republic. Now the small village - only fifteen people actually live in it - has its own ‘republic day’, which is celebrated on every second January (my guidebook tells me 8,000 people descend on the single pub in the village, it’s owners told me it was more like 15,000 people last year; in fact, just in the hour or so whilst I was there, they received two calls inquiring after it). Anyway, it all sounded absolutely fantastic and completely barmy, so I just had to drop in and see it.
The village was preceded by the Whangomomona Saddle: an incredible transformation in landscape that lead from quasi-English countryside to sub-tropical jungle. Mud and rock walls stood inches from the roadside, looking threateningly fragile, leading to both sheer drops and climbs on either side, the effect somewhat softened by a thick coating of dripping wet, lush forest: a diverse mix of palm trees, shrubs, tall grass and more familiar bush, compacted so tightly together the barely allowed for any light to filter in. A foggy mist sat in the gaps as well as hovering above the road, helping to enhance the mysterious, solitary feel. ‘Lost World’ indeed! I’ve been thinking more about that name, and it really does apply to the north island, where most roads and places are populated by cars, buildings and people. During my time in the north, I haven’t managed to find an landscape devoid of civilisation - a far cry from the south. However, this journey was THE exception: I only came across three vehicles going in the same direction as me for the whole 150KM/4-5 hour journey (that should give some indication of how tight the corners were). Going the other way was a tiny bit busier, the majority of which consisted of camouflaged, khaki-coloured trucks and motorbikes. I guessed this must have been the army - perhaps they were there to check that there wasn’t any trouble brewing on the borders of its neighbouring republic? :)
Whangomomona proudly sported a big, red sign welcoming travellers into it (on the reverse it informed passersby they were now re-entering New Zealand). The village sat in the lieu of some hills, five or six buildings strong, the biggest being the president’s house - a small, fairly rundown, white (hey, at least it was white!), wooden bungalow (sadly he wasn’t around to be seen, busy doing his other, day job) - and the other the infamous ‘Whangamomona Hotel’, the only pub for over a hundred kilometres. (There’s also supposed to be a border guard, in the form of an outside toilet or ‘dunny’, but I didn’t spot this unfortunately.) The pub was fantastic: I ordered myself the a pint of the ‘national ale’ (‘Republic Ale’: fabulous, it was the first beer - a dark bitter - I’d had in two months that dared not to have any fizz in it!) and topped it off with a ‘Whanga Burger’, an extremely greasy egg, bacon, beef burger and coleslaw concoction (though the owner insisted it was meant to contain lettuce instead, it was just that her husband was on a day-long expedition to restock on groceries). Perfect food for bikers, many of whom I was informed past through here (including something known as the ‘Tiger Rally’).
The owner and barmaid were so welcoming, they invited me to sit with them for lunch, while I fired away with my questions - something they are used to, no doubt. I even got chatting with the one other couple who popped into the place - also to investigate the novelty - other than that the pub, and village, were empty. It seems it’s not always that way though: their twenty three rooms in the hotel are normally always full, the village reaching incredible heights of popularity after their 1989 ‘separation’. It’s really a bit of a gimmick: their president used to be a goat, until it passed away at the grand old age of fourteen. For their ‘republic day’, live bands come and play, they skin possums and race sheep, amongst other hilarious activities, I’m assured. You need to purchase a ‘passport’ in order to attend the event; of course I had to have it - at $3 it was a no brainer, guaranteeing me entry for a bargain-tastic ten years! I did, however, pass on the t-shirt. It turns out the reason they don’t celebrate their independence every year is simply a matter of logistics. It takes a whole year to plan the thing! Surprisingly, there isn’t much competition to the pub; the president used to run a cafe outside of his house, but alas no longer.
Anyway, will have to finish this account later as I need to shoot. It’s raining this morning and chilly - the cold weather (end of an ‘Indian Summer’: turns out the balmier feel to the north island wasn’t just my imagine, my stay in Wanganui topping twenty three degrees, when it wasn’t raining) the radio has been forecasting has finally arrived, bringing with it wind and more wet. I really am glad to get out of this place - the owner is a grizzly, old, moaning bugger with a stupid ponytail: he just gave me a lecture about leaving lights on, but I didn’t even put them on in the first place (deep at work on my laptop, I don’t notice these things). Time to split. Am heading to Lake Taupo today, a place where I was considering doing a skydive, until I found out it costs $500. Of course, you can do it for half that, but then you don’t get any photographs (they chuck in a *ahem* ‘free’ DVD of your experience with the photos - how kind of them!). So now not sure about that. Still, any place is better than here :)
2.5.08
Don’t know why I’m so afraid of updating this damn blog: had a few days off to de-stress - it may just be the pressure of deciding upon and sorting out accommodation for not one but TWO countries in the next couple of weeks, I don’t know - and now the amount of things to report on has increased two to three fold. Doh.
Am in Taupo, having got away from the grumpy hippy and the dead village of National Park. The hostel is wonderful: a (Maori) family run place - the clues in the name: ‘Tiki Lodge’ - where they actually share the facilities with the guests (always a good sign), with big rooms and kitchen, and an enormous balcony overlooking the horizon spanning Lake Taupo (New Zealand’s largest lake, at 606 square kilometres, sitting in a still active, large volcanic crater - or ‘caldera’ - formed by one of the world’s largest eruptions, over twenty thousand years ago). Had some nice pleasant chats with the owners (including one frantic one this morning, where I couldn’t find my car keys - turns out they were in my shoe all along). Taupo is a large town - or city, if you go by Wanganui’s principles - that sits lakeside. Unfortunately it’s bustling with people - many if not more Kiwi tourists than foreigners - and is also a shining example of how much more commercial the north island is than the south: McDonald’s sits next to Burger King, which is next to KFC, which is beside Subway, all littering the waterfront. I guess that’s what comes with more people: more buying power. I’m still noticing how easy and comradely Kiwis are - at first I thought perhaps they were more so than those living in the south, but it’s dawned on me I’m noticing it more there’s more of them. Up here, New Zealanders outnumber the foreigners.
Taupo is also the sky-diving capital of the world, being one of the cheapest places to do it. Unfortunately, I’ve decided that, as good as sixty seconds of free fall offered by a drop of 15,000 feet sounds (you could say), $500 for it is still too much. It’s also completely overcast today so I wouldn’t see much doing it: a shame, as yesterday, after a grey start, the blue skies came through bringing with it some warm goodness, facilitating some great views of the lake and surrounding, bumpy, house and tree lined landscape. Sounds like I’m making nervous excuses doesn’t it? Maybe I am ;)
The latter part of my ‘Forgotten World’ journey was just as beautiful, if not more so, as the first. It certainly helped that the rain had stopped. The hills and valleys took on a completely new shape and look: instead of rolling slopes, the land became much more prominently staggered and ‘boxy’. So very different to anything I’m used to seeing, so hard to explain, but incredible in its alien-ness. The best way I can describe it is to imagine taking a slightly scuffed, aging snooker table cloth (felt like in texture, but thicken it up for the purpose of this example), blowing it up to landscape conquering proportions, then laying it over to entirely cover an enormous rubbish tip site. Envisage the sorts of weird shapes that would be formed by throwing such a large ‘carpet’ over a great assortment of random junk and that gets you half way to conceiving the amazing scenery that I drove through. Litter it with autumnal trees, wooden fences and the occasional wood house, and you’ve got it. Probably best you just look at the pictures :)
On the way to National Park, I passed a cafe, the ‘only cafe for one and a half hours’ as it merrily informed me. Also, I came across a river, alongside which a fence ran, upon which somebody had laid out to dry the tanning hides of what, judging by their sizes, must have belonged to cows. Creepy. I crossed through a narrow tunnel cut through a mountainside, so thin I futilely held my breath as I drove through, as well as yet more, even thicker, jungle, this time encompassing sheer rock walls, glistening in the wet, as well as a muddy, winding river. As I neared my journey’s end, I had to swap lanes to swerve out of the way where dodgy cliff walls had predictably crumbled and fallen into the road, as well as stop on one occasion where the road was swamped with sheep (I seemed to do a better job herding them out the way with my car than the farmer with his sheepdog did). I also passed some spookily crooked and leafless, grey trees, worthy of a Tim Burton film.
The end of the ‘Forgotten World Highway’ was signified by my arrival at ‘Taumarunui’: a town made pretty by the slender bowl of a picturesque, ripe green valley it sat in. Wish I’d stayed there rather than National Park! At least I got to NP late, meaning I didn’t have to suffer it much. It was raining by the time I arrived there and still raining when I got up in the morning. Heard on the radio that Wellington had suffered some flooding, especially the centre (where I’d stayed)! The weatherman was also predicting snowy showers for the south island too. I can’t get to Fiji soon enough :) Speaking of snow, I took a meandering road through the ‘Tongariro National Park’ to head to Lake Taupo - the park forms a significant part (the south-west) of what is known as the ‘Central Plateau’ of the north island - and headed just off it, along ‘Top of the Bruce Road’ (who is Bruce?) to the ski-village of Iwikau, at the foot of the 2800m, snow-capped ‘Mount Ruapehu’. The national park consisted of miles of grassy, undisturbed plains, punctuated by great forests, the occasional lake and some cloud scraping mountains (including - did I mention - Mount Doom!!!). As I drove up the steadily rising, newly surfaced road to Iwikau, I passed through lots of dry looking brown/yellow shrub and grass. I gathered the landscape must remain this way throughout the summer, its plant life never really prospering, thanks to heavy, lasting snowfall over the winter. The large number of neighbouring ski lodges and related buildings give clues to this (as they did whilst I passed through parts of Arthur’s Pass).
Nearing the top of the road, the distant landscape became quite clouded, but as I drew closer the view of the impending, tall Mt Ruapehu loomed ahead of me, glistening white on top (and quite a few hundred metres below too). It’s the highest and most active VOLCANO in the park: the area surrounding Iwikau was completely devoid of any plants or grass, thanks to hot mud and volcanic eruptions occurring over the last few decades (the last spectacular one was as recent as 1995!). What’s left is kilometres of nothing but volcanic rock: thousands of black and grey, sharp rocks and boulders litter a brown and yellow, ragged landscape (thanks to moss and dirt). It looks like being on the surface of Mars or perhaps the moon. It also looked eerily familiar: somehow, on reaching the village, I bumped into the Maori guy from the cafe the night before, who pointed out an optimum viewpoint - a five minute scramble up a mountain of rocks, just past a ski-lift, closed under testing - where I could really appreciate the area where they filmed Frodo and Sam’s walk up to Mount Doom!!! So that explained where I’d seen this area before, also where they filmed some of the fighting scenes in ‘Return of the King’. A nearby DoC store (Department of Conservation) provided me with a leaflet that had a small section on the area’s starring role. Plus, and really annoyingly, they told me that, despite the tour agencies calling it off today, I WOULD have been able to do the Tongariro Crossing that day - especially as it was now brightening up - but that now it was a bit late to contemplate doing it. Damn that miserable old fart at the hostel! I asked after whether I’d be able to get to the ‘Emerald Lakes’ - brilliantly coloured (aqua green) volcanic lakes they are the highlight of the trek - but was told that that was a six to seven hour return trip alone. So that was a no then :(
Still, one good thing was that the clouds were beginning to dissipate, so I was able to have a good gawp at Mount Doom on my drive back to the highway. The volcano was still fairly clouded at its table top summit, but it was still recognisable (and definitely the most volcano looking of the park’s selection). I stopped beside the Chateau Tongariro’s (as pretentious as it sounds) golf course to grab some decent photos. Then I was off to Lake Taupo, a drive that took me through the parkland, past one sign-posted Maori historic site - a stick encircled, grass clearing that led to a lake with some geese and couple of (fishing?) boats bobbing on it - then onto a viewpoint of Lake Taupo and its surrounding valley (one prominent bulge of a hill, countless green and brown pastures, clumps of trees, the first settlements for miles around and that enormous lake, world famous for its trout fishing, spanned the horizon: it was so clear I could see for miles. Driving along the lake’s edge - which may as well have been the sea, it being so vast - I headed to Taupo, leaving behind the magnificent mountainous, volcanic part of the central plateau for less remarkable wooded dales and plains.
Taupo sits at the mouth of the Waikato, New Zealand’s longest river. Having checked in my stuff at the hostel, I took a short driving excursion out to Huka Falls, where the wide and fairly shallow Waikato is slammed into a constricted, narrow, deep chasm, increasing the force of the river into a fast surging torrent of white-water as it crosses the ten metre falls. What’s special about this stretch of water is that it feeds a hydro electric dam that provides 65% of the power for the north island of New Zealand. Great to see how far ahead they are at using renewable energy. After seeing this, grabbed me a muffin and coffee from Taupo’s best cafe - the ‘Bodyfuel Cafe’ (was reminded of home when I sat next to an old, moaning couple: the guy seemed incapable of not cussing after every sentence, but he and his wife turned amusingly polite whenever a member of staff brought something over) - and headed back to the hostel, where I spent yet another afternoon browsing the web, this time sorting out the details of my Hawaiian trip (this needed doing too, as I’m under the impression I’ll be without my precious internet in Fiji, and perhaps even power to boot!). So pleased to have this off my chest, I headed into town to have a, what turned out to be fairly naff, pint of ‘Whaikato Bitter’ at a rowdy sports bar (for the first time the barmaid appeared disinterested in banter, which came as a shock!). Having had barely nothing to eat all day, I rewarded myself with a fairly tasty pizza from the amusedly named ‘Hell Pizza’, then hit the sack.
It’s rained a bit this morning and feels pretty cold - doesn’t help I’ve chosen to wear shorts! Sat in the living room in my hostel, checked out over a couple of hours ago (been writing this for over three!) and so really need to get a move on. Heading to Rotarua today - a Maori hotspot (think someone mentioned they considered it their capital), which is also home to some impressive geysers and smelly boiling mud pools (the stench of sulphur is all pervading, so Marie and family informed me back in Oz). Sounds like it’s going to be a blast. Time to go: I’ve done ENOUGH writing already! :) Photos will come later.
P.S. Have had to put up with some crappy drivers whilst staying in Taupo: on the way to the falls, I had to take a left off of a busy road followed by a quick right, and got pipped at for the pleasure of doing so by some obviously blind bint of a woman. Had a few drivers turn off in front of me not bothering to indicate too. More observations:-
‘Ratana’ is a national Maori religion - fused with Christianity, they both share Sunday as the Sabbath - and the Maori lady owner at the Taupo hostel informs me that Wanganui hosts their main church (if only I’d known!).
The flies here are REALLY annoying (think I’ve mentioned that one before). How is it they know to get indoors when the cold weather starts? Apparently they all gang up inside for the duration of winter, just starting to die off when it gets seriously cold, before hitting the outdoors again as spring picks up. Seems to me they have disconcertingly clever insects in this country.
New Zealand has some world famous wood, sourced from trees known as ‘kauri’. Having vast, incredibly firm, straight trunks and reaching sky-rocketing heights, these were much sought after during the early colonial days (both for export and for settlement). Most of the older houses in New Zealand are built from it. Now these trees are protected, being few and far between. Speaking of trees, I passed my first stretch of harvested timber coming into Taupo yesterday: several square miles of deforested land, piles of wood laid out crudely, looking like a large, wood landfill site. I think I could make out the trees surrounding the manmade clearing quivering.
First day of May and the signs of winter are here! I reached the pretty boring ‘village’ of ‘National Park’ not long before six last night (the uninspired name should have been a warning, but I’m sure this place had been recommended to me), going against the recommendation of my guidebook to stay in the highest rated BBH establishment in the area (BBH = [NZ] Budget Backpacker Hostels: picked up membership on my first day in this fine country, entitles me to $2-3 discounts in all participating hostels). Needless to say, I should have trusted my guidebook: this place is more like a motel - clean but impersonal - my roommates are moody Germans, the other, Chinese occupants appear stuck-up (more fool them, I ‘borrowed’ some of their milk this morning - that’ll teach ‘em!) and the owner but an immediate downer on things when he told me the ‘Tongariro Crossing’ was closed, thanks to snow (!) reaching as low as a thousand metres. I haven’t seen any yet though - just miles of rolling parkland around here. The ‘Tongariro Crossing’ is New Zealand’s most popular one-day trek - it crosses a volcano - and also my only real reason for coming here, so hearing this on my arrival was a bit of a ‘bummer’. I went out in search of a place to snack, found a nice cafe cum restaurant and befriended the smiling staff - people in the service industry are SO much friendlier and happy here, but you could say that applies to just about everybody, as a general rule of thumb. A very congenial, helpful Maori guy sat at the bar suggested I go take a look around in the morning anyway - near a ski lodge there’s an area that was used when filming Lord of the Rings, plus the nearby ‘Mount Ngauruhoe’ IS Mount Doom (only less digitally enhanced in a sort of non-erupting kind of way) - but informed me that preparation for the upcoming ski season was underway: this was to be the first round of snow, followed shortly after by the second and then, once that was set, the third, etc. It’s as regular as clockwork each year. Wish I’d done my research! Everybody around here is really excited by the upcoming snow, and presumably the business that comes with it (ski-ing etc.). Can’t say I share their enthusiasm for the cold!
I left ‘Windy Wellington’ a couple of days ago, to head up north along the west coast. (It is so called because it’s constantly buffeted by winds - and rain, in my opinion - as I found out when, on stepping out into the rain on leaving a book shop on my first night, the owner came floundering forward, telling me not to bother with my umbrella. “No-one uses them around here,” she said, and she was right too. It wasn’t too windy on my arrival, but the next day kicked up a real gale: the annoying kind of unpredictable wind that changes direction on a whim. I only saw one other umbrella in my whole time there. Obviously an outsider!) I was a bit disillusioned with the north island so far: lots more people - including lots more Maoris (there’s a considerable presence, many place names are Maori, plus Maori translations appear all over the shop, such as in the Maori-titled ‘Te Papa’ museum) - which translated to lots more cars on the road, lots more houses running alongside it and, on the good side, more radio stations, less white noise. Most of Tuesday was grey and overcast, sporadic showers turning into a serious downpour when I reached Wanganui in the afternoon. The journey to there took me at first along the coastline, where I went through Scottish Highland country: heavily populated, furry green hills, dipping their toes into salt water lochs on one side, the sea on the other. I could make out an island, struck several miles off the coast, as little more than a black blob in the steady rain.
Then the road - State Highway 3 - struck more inland, across English dales, occasionally providing quick glimpses of the blue ocean. Was like this all the way to the city of Wanganui: more a town than a city, it had a really long central, leafy, shop-lined strip, running westwards, perpendicular to the ‘Whanganui River’ (notice the additional ‘h’: a recent modification to indicate that ‘wan’ is breathy and aspirated, inserted by the Maoris, whilst the ‘Pakeha’-dominated town - that’s outsiders or English to you and me - kept the old spelling), New Zealand’s longest, navigable river. The tree-lined river turned out to be fairly pretty when the sun peeked out for a couple of hours: smoke-gushing paddle boat meandered its way at impressive speed along it, a path cut through grassy park running alongside the water’s eastern edge, behind which a road granting access to residential neighbourhoods ran parallel for several miles, part of which included my amazing, show-stopping ‘hostel’ (if you could call it that). The ‘Anndion Lodge’ was a large house, fitted out with comfy, clean leaving room, kitchen (with not only the usual free coffee/tea, but free milk and biscuits too!), lounge with free pool table, a rear garden with swimming pool, spa and sauna, very tidy, hotel-like rooms (chocolates on pillows) and completely free wifi! At $35 it cost a fair bit more than I was used to paying, but throw in the free internet and you’ve got a bargain :) The owners were a super-friendly Kiwi and Maori couple, treating me more like a house guest than a paying customer, offering up maps and advice on my next destination. To top it all off, there was barely anyone staying in the hostel - nobody in my room, which meant I had all that comfort to myself! The locals say that not many people stop in this city, and it shows.
The only slight downer was the distance from town: a good 3km, but not a problem with my car. I spent the whole afternoon researching Fiji and Hawaii on the web and downloading my favourite podcasts and updates for my comp (so happy to get free, unlimited internet, I entirely forgot about the world outside!). Am very happy to say Fiji is completely sorted now - thankfully, stress levels were starting to peak - but Hawaii still needs doing, as I’m stuck between sticking to the fairly featureless but does boast Peral Harbour Oahu (which is where I land at Honolulu), or catching an internal flight to Maui (heavily recommended by everyone I speak to: sun, sea, sand, small volcanoes) or the Big Island (volcanos, some beaches). The latter two will probably have to include car hire too, so it could get fairly complicated, especially trying to fit it all into a week. Must decide today - have to sort this before I land in Fiji next Tuesday, as I’m almost 100% confident there’ll be no internet there.
I did make time for a gourmet pizza at Stellar in Wanganui - a bar whose name I think I may have seen before, but despite being a chain had talkative staff and served an excellent gourmet, mexican pizza (with my favourite sour cream topping, plus plenty of tasty jalapenos: happy to see my tongue can still take the spice!). Yesterday started off beautiful, the sun had his hat on and the blue skies were out. A perfect day to hit the aptly titled ‘Forgotten World Highway’ (SH43), something I had been saving up since finding out about it from an old English couple on the cruise in Milford Sound (my gratitude goes out to them!). It’s a road that has restored my faith in New Zealand’s north island and then some: taking me away from the busy streets, it twists and winds its way 150km through central, north island countryside, occasionally brushing past tiny villages, reducing to unsealed gravel for 12km, even dropping mobile coverage for the most part. It’s a perfect journey to take you outside of the grips of civilisation, you could say like going back to the south island.
It was the sun that made my mind up to do it: the end of my journey was National Park, only 80km or so north of Wanganui up SH4. I think that and the fact I was knackered - stayed up late exploiting my free internet the night before: surfing the web last night, finalising my Fiji details (sorted: yes!), speaking to Gran & Granddad over Skype then getting up early to do the same with my sister and Mum. The detour ahead of me stretched over three hundred kilometres, heading west, north, east, then back south again, in a completely round about way. Throwing on some shorts and a t-shirt, I fueled up at a petrol station, took some advice on a cafe from the workers there (yet more friendly Kiwis in the service industry) where I headed to grab an ultra-strong, ‘long, flat white’ (a ‘flat white’ is Oz/Kiwi speak for a standard coffee, you can work out the ‘long’ bit) and hit the road.
When I hit the start of the infamous highway I felt fully awake at least, but I was gutted to find dark clouds had gathered threateningly, and upon reaching the welcoming sign I was indeed ‘welcomed’ by a heavy, stormy downpour. The first part of the journey was filled with intermittent rain showers, some occasionally stopping me from stepping out the car to take photos of the fabulous views on offer, but not always. It certainly didn’t stop me from gaping at the awe-inspiring vistas: the perfect curves of bulbous hills, creating a rippling blanket of green countryside, impossibly green (truthfully, the grass here is so divinely green, it looks luminous at times, almost radioactive - it screams GREEN at you, as if some godly figure has played havoc with the turf’s colours: do not adjust your television set, it IS meant to look this way). Put this in contrast with the just as vibrantly coIourful trees (reds and yellows and golden-orange blends of in between) and you’ve got yourself a sight for sore eyes. I had a great time whizzing along listening to the sublime ‘Rock FM’, playing classics from the likes of Dylan, the Stones, Metallica, Guns ‘n Roses, for as long as the signal lasted (the first few hours). Rocking along, I passed through several aptly named ‘Saddles’, where deep valleys were met on either side by the tall slopes of hills. Heavy rain saturated the ground in parts - gentle streams in valleys turned to gushing torrents - whilst rounding a very sharp, U-shaped bend (as there were many: once again, perfect biking country) could lead to dazzling sunshine and blue skies, where the fields looked untouched. Continuing on the ‘Lord of the Rings’ country theme, this could easily have been the setting for ‘The Shire’ in ‘The Fellowship...’.
Half way along the highway, I met the hamlet of ‘Whangamomona’. This was another secret I was keeping until now, and in truth my real reason for heading out this way. In the late eighties, the local councils threatened the township with transferral from one region to another, a change which brushed its forty odd residents up the wrong way (it’s hinted that the last straw was telling them they’d have to play rugby for a rival district). In defiance, the citizens threatened to separate from both councils entirely - something which went from being I imagine an off the cuff remark to a reality when they declared themselves an independent republic. Now the small village - only fifteen people actually live in it - has its own ‘republic day’, which is celebrated on every second January (my guidebook tells me 8,000 people descend on the single pub in the village, it’s owners told me it was more like 15,000 people last year; in fact, just in the hour or so whilst I was there, they received two calls inquiring after it). Anyway, it all sounded absolutely fantastic and completely barmy, so I just had to drop in and see it.
The village was preceded by the Whangomomona Saddle: an incredible transformation in landscape that lead from quasi-English countryside to sub-tropical jungle. Mud and rock walls stood inches from the roadside, looking threateningly fragile, leading to both sheer drops and climbs on either side, the effect somewhat softened by a thick coating of dripping wet, lush forest: a diverse mix of palm trees, shrubs, tall grass and more familiar bush, compacted so tightly together the barely allowed for any light to filter in. A foggy mist sat in the gaps as well as hovering above the road, helping to enhance the mysterious, solitary feel. ‘Lost World’ indeed! I’ve been thinking more about that name, and it really does apply to the north island, where most roads and places are populated by cars, buildings and people. During my time in the north, I haven’t managed to find an landscape devoid of civilisation - a far cry from the south. However, this journey was THE exception: I only came across three vehicles going in the same direction as me for the whole 150KM/4-5 hour journey (that should give some indication of how tight the corners were). Going the other way was a tiny bit busier, the majority of which consisted of camouflaged, khaki-coloured trucks and motorbikes. I guessed this must have been the army - perhaps they were there to check that there wasn’t any trouble brewing on the borders of its neighbouring republic? :)
Whangomomona proudly sported a big, red sign welcoming travellers into it (on the reverse it informed passersby they were now re-entering New Zealand). The village sat in the lieu of some hills, five or six buildings strong, the biggest being the president’s house - a small, fairly rundown, white (hey, at least it was white!), wooden bungalow (sadly he wasn’t around to be seen, busy doing his other, day job) - and the other the infamous ‘Whangamomona Hotel’, the only pub for over a hundred kilometres. (There’s also supposed to be a border guard, in the form of an outside toilet or ‘dunny’, but I didn’t spot this unfortunately.) The pub was fantastic: I ordered myself the a pint of the ‘national ale’ (‘Republic Ale’: fabulous, it was the first beer - a dark bitter - I’d had in two months that dared not to have any fizz in it!) and topped it off with a ‘Whanga Burger’, an extremely greasy egg, bacon, beef burger and coleslaw concoction (though the owner insisted it was meant to contain lettuce instead, it was just that her husband was on a day-long expedition to restock on groceries). Perfect food for bikers, many of whom I was informed past through here (including something known as the ‘Tiger Rally’).
The owner and barmaid were so welcoming, they invited me to sit with them for lunch, while I fired away with my questions - something they are used to, no doubt. I even got chatting with the one other couple who popped into the place - also to investigate the novelty - other than that the pub, and village, were empty. It seems it’s not always that way though: their twenty three rooms in the hotel are normally always full, the village reaching incredible heights of popularity after their 1989 ‘separation’. It’s really a bit of a gimmick: their president used to be a goat, until it passed away at the grand old age of fourteen. For their ‘republic day’, live bands come and play, they skin possums and race sheep, amongst other hilarious activities, I’m assured. You need to purchase a ‘passport’ in order to attend the event; of course I had to have it - at $3 it was a no brainer, guaranteeing me entry for a bargain-tastic ten years! I did, however, pass on the t-shirt. It turns out the reason they don’t celebrate their independence every year is simply a matter of logistics. It takes a whole year to plan the thing! Surprisingly, there isn’t much competition to the pub; the president used to run a cafe outside of his house, but alas no longer.
Anyway, will have to finish this account later as I need to shoot. It’s raining this morning and chilly - the cold weather (end of an ‘Indian Summer’: turns out the balmier feel to the north island wasn’t just my imagine, my stay in Wanganui topping twenty three degrees, when it wasn’t raining) the radio has been forecasting has finally arrived, bringing with it wind and more wet. I really am glad to get out of this place - the owner is a grizzly, old, moaning bugger with a stupid ponytail: he just gave me a lecture about leaving lights on, but I didn’t even put them on in the first place (deep at work on my laptop, I don’t notice these things). Time to split. Am heading to Lake Taupo today, a place where I was considering doing a skydive, until I found out it costs $500. Of course, you can do it for half that, but then you don’t get any photographs (they chuck in a *ahem* ‘free’ DVD of your experience with the photos - how kind of them!). So now not sure about that. Still, any place is better than here :)
2.5.08
Don’t know why I’m so afraid of updating this damn blog: had a few days off to de-stress - it may just be the pressure of deciding upon and sorting out accommodation for not one but TWO countries in the next couple of weeks, I don’t know - and now the amount of things to report on has increased two to three fold. Doh.
Am in Taupo, having got away from the grumpy hippy and the dead village of National Park. The hostel is wonderful: a (Maori) family run place - the clues in the name: ‘Tiki Lodge’ - where they actually share the facilities with the guests (always a good sign), with big rooms and kitchen, and an enormous balcony overlooking the horizon spanning Lake Taupo (New Zealand’s largest lake, at 606 square kilometres, sitting in a still active, large volcanic crater - or ‘caldera’ - formed by one of the world’s largest eruptions, over twenty thousand years ago). Had some nice pleasant chats with the owners (including one frantic one this morning, where I couldn’t find my car keys - turns out they were in my shoe all along). Taupo is a large town - or city, if you go by Wanganui’s principles - that sits lakeside. Unfortunately it’s bustling with people - many if not more Kiwi tourists than foreigners - and is also a shining example of how much more commercial the north island is than the south: McDonald’s sits next to Burger King, which is next to KFC, which is beside Subway, all littering the waterfront. I guess that’s what comes with more people: more buying power. I’m still noticing how easy and comradely Kiwis are - at first I thought perhaps they were more so than those living in the south, but it’s dawned on me I’m noticing it more there’s more of them. Up here, New Zealanders outnumber the foreigners.
Taupo is also the sky-diving capital of the world, being one of the cheapest places to do it. Unfortunately, I’ve decided that, as good as sixty seconds of free fall offered by a drop of 15,000 feet sounds (you could say), $500 for it is still too much. It’s also completely overcast today so I wouldn’t see much doing it: a shame, as yesterday, after a grey start, the blue skies came through bringing with it some warm goodness, facilitating some great views of the lake and surrounding, bumpy, house and tree lined landscape. Sounds like I’m making nervous excuses doesn’t it? Maybe I am ;)
The latter part of my ‘Forgotten World’ journey was just as beautiful, if not more so, as the first. It certainly helped that the rain had stopped. The hills and valleys took on a completely new shape and look: instead of rolling slopes, the land became much more prominently staggered and ‘boxy’. So very different to anything I’m used to seeing, so hard to explain, but incredible in its alien-ness. The best way I can describe it is to imagine taking a slightly scuffed, aging snooker table cloth (felt like in texture, but thicken it up for the purpose of this example), blowing it up to landscape conquering proportions, then laying it over to entirely cover an enormous rubbish tip site. Envisage the sorts of weird shapes that would be formed by throwing such a large ‘carpet’ over a great assortment of random junk and that gets you half way to conceiving the amazing scenery that I drove through. Litter it with autumnal trees, wooden fences and the occasional wood house, and you’ve got it. Probably best you just look at the pictures :)
On the way to National Park, I passed a cafe, the ‘only cafe for one and a half hours’ as it merrily informed me. Also, I came across a river, alongside which a fence ran, upon which somebody had laid out to dry the tanning hides of what, judging by their sizes, must have belonged to cows. Creepy. I crossed through a narrow tunnel cut through a mountainside, so thin I futilely held my breath as I drove through, as well as yet more, even thicker, jungle, this time encompassing sheer rock walls, glistening in the wet, as well as a muddy, winding river. As I neared my journey’s end, I had to swap lanes to swerve out of the way where dodgy cliff walls had predictably crumbled and fallen into the road, as well as stop on one occasion where the road was swamped with sheep (I seemed to do a better job herding them out the way with my car than the farmer with his sheepdog did). I also passed some spookily crooked and leafless, grey trees, worthy of a Tim Burton film.
The end of the ‘Forgotten World Highway’ was signified by my arrival at ‘Taumarunui’: a town made pretty by the slender bowl of a picturesque, ripe green valley it sat in. Wish I’d stayed there rather than National Park! At least I got to NP late, meaning I didn’t have to suffer it much. It was raining by the time I arrived there and still raining when I got up in the morning. Heard on the radio that Wellington had suffered some flooding, especially the centre (where I’d stayed)! The weatherman was also predicting snowy showers for the south island too. I can’t get to Fiji soon enough :) Speaking of snow, I took a meandering road through the ‘Tongariro National Park’ to head to Lake Taupo - the park forms a significant part (the south-west) of what is known as the ‘Central Plateau’ of the north island - and headed just off it, along ‘Top of the Bruce Road’ (who is Bruce?) to the ski-village of Iwikau, at the foot of the 2800m, snow-capped ‘Mount Ruapehu’. The national park consisted of miles of grassy, undisturbed plains, punctuated by great forests, the occasional lake and some cloud scraping mountains (including - did I mention - Mount Doom!!!). As I drove up the steadily rising, newly surfaced road to Iwikau, I passed through lots of dry looking brown/yellow shrub and grass. I gathered the landscape must remain this way throughout the summer, its plant life never really prospering, thanks to heavy, lasting snowfall over the winter. The large number of neighbouring ski lodges and related buildings give clues to this (as they did whilst I passed through parts of Arthur’s Pass).
Nearing the top of the road, the distant landscape became quite clouded, but as I drew closer the view of the impending, tall Mt Ruapehu loomed ahead of me, glistening white on top (and quite a few hundred metres below too). It’s the highest and most active VOLCANO in the park: the area surrounding Iwikau was completely devoid of any plants or grass, thanks to hot mud and volcanic eruptions occurring over the last few decades (the last spectacular one was as recent as 1995!). What’s left is kilometres of nothing but volcanic rock: thousands of black and grey, sharp rocks and boulders litter a brown and yellow, ragged landscape (thanks to moss and dirt). It looks like being on the surface of Mars or perhaps the moon. It also looked eerily familiar: somehow, on reaching the village, I bumped into the Maori guy from the cafe the night before, who pointed out an optimum viewpoint - a five minute scramble up a mountain of rocks, just past a ski-lift, closed under testing - where I could really appreciate the area where they filmed Frodo and Sam’s walk up to Mount Doom!!! So that explained where I’d seen this area before, also where they filmed some of the fighting scenes in ‘Return of the King’. A nearby DoC store (Department of Conservation) provided me with a leaflet that had a small section on the area’s starring role. Plus, and really annoyingly, they told me that, despite the tour agencies calling it off today, I WOULD have been able to do the Tongariro Crossing that day - especially as it was now brightening up - but that now it was a bit late to contemplate doing it. Damn that miserable old fart at the hostel! I asked after whether I’d be able to get to the ‘Emerald Lakes’ - brilliantly coloured (aqua green) volcanic lakes they are the highlight of the trek - but was told that that was a six to seven hour return trip alone. So that was a no then :(
Still, one good thing was that the clouds were beginning to dissipate, so I was able to have a good gawp at Mount Doom on my drive back to the highway. The volcano was still fairly clouded at its table top summit, but it was still recognisable (and definitely the most volcano looking of the park’s selection). I stopped beside the Chateau Tongariro’s (as pretentious as it sounds) golf course to grab some decent photos. Then I was off to Lake Taupo, a drive that took me through the parkland, past one sign-posted Maori historic site - a stick encircled, grass clearing that led to a lake with some geese and couple of (fishing?) boats bobbing on it - then onto a viewpoint of Lake Taupo and its surrounding valley (one prominent bulge of a hill, countless green and brown pastures, clumps of trees, the first settlements for miles around and that enormous lake, world famous for its trout fishing, spanned the horizon: it was so clear I could see for miles. Driving along the lake’s edge - which may as well have been the sea, it being so vast - I headed to Taupo, leaving behind the magnificent mountainous, volcanic part of the central plateau for less remarkable wooded dales and plains.
Taupo sits at the mouth of the Waikato, New Zealand’s longest river. Having checked in my stuff at the hostel, I took a short driving excursion out to Huka Falls, where the wide and fairly shallow Waikato is slammed into a constricted, narrow, deep chasm, increasing the force of the river into a fast surging torrent of white-water as it crosses the ten metre falls. What’s special about this stretch of water is that it feeds a hydro electric dam that provides 65% of the power for the north island of New Zealand. Great to see how far ahead they are at using renewable energy. After seeing this, grabbed me a muffin and coffee from Taupo’s best cafe - the ‘Bodyfuel Cafe’ (was reminded of home when I sat next to an old, moaning couple: the guy seemed incapable of not cussing after every sentence, but he and his wife turned amusingly polite whenever a member of staff brought something over) - and headed back to the hostel, where I spent yet another afternoon browsing the web, this time sorting out the details of my Hawaiian trip (this needed doing too, as I’m under the impression I’ll be without my precious internet in Fiji, and perhaps even power to boot!). So pleased to have this off my chest, I headed into town to have a, what turned out to be fairly naff, pint of ‘Whaikato Bitter’ at a rowdy sports bar (for the first time the barmaid appeared disinterested in banter, which came as a shock!). Having had barely nothing to eat all day, I rewarded myself with a fairly tasty pizza from the amusedly named ‘Hell Pizza’, then hit the sack.
It’s rained a bit this morning and feels pretty cold - doesn’t help I’ve chosen to wear shorts! Sat in the living room in my hostel, checked out over a couple of hours ago (been writing this for over three!) and so really need to get a move on. Heading to Rotarua today - a Maori hotspot (think someone mentioned they considered it their capital), which is also home to some impressive geysers and smelly boiling mud pools (the stench of sulphur is all pervading, so Marie and family informed me back in Oz). Sounds like it’s going to be a blast. Time to go: I’ve done ENOUGH writing already! :) Photos will come later.
P.S. Have had to put up with some crappy drivers whilst staying in Taupo: on the way to the falls, I had to take a left off of a busy road followed by a quick right, and got pipped at for the pleasure of doing so by some obviously blind bint of a woman. Had a few drivers turn off in front of me not bothering to indicate too. More observations:-
‘Ratana’ is a national Maori religion - fused with Christianity, they both share Sunday as the Sabbath - and the Maori lady owner at the Taupo hostel informs me that Wanganui hosts their main church (if only I’d known!).
The flies here are REALLY annoying (think I’ve mentioned that one before). How is it they know to get indoors when the cold weather starts? Apparently they all gang up inside for the duration of winter, just starting to die off when it gets seriously cold, before hitting the outdoors again as spring picks up. Seems to me they have disconcertingly clever insects in this country.
New Zealand has some world famous wood, sourced from trees known as ‘kauri’. Having vast, incredibly firm, straight trunks and reaching sky-rocketing heights, these were much sought after during the early colonial days (both for export and for settlement). Most of the older houses in New Zealand are built from it. Now these trees are protected, being few and far between. Speaking of trees, I passed my first stretch of harvested timber coming into Taupo yesterday: several square miles of deforested land, piles of wood laid out crudely, looking like a large, wood landfill site. I think I could make out the trees surrounding the manmade clearing quivering.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)