There’s not a whole lot to do in Taupo except see the lake. I saw the lake.

The real entertainment, however, were my roommates. I managed to find myself in a dorm with four men, who, I was warned, had the tendency to be a little wild. I took my chances. They were nice enough, and long-termers who managed to NOT sprawl over everything.

In every few hostels there’s the problem of long-termers. They’re people who have found a job in the area, aren’t planning to stay too long, but have been there long enough that their belongings have oozed onto every chair (if there’s a chair) and into every crevice, and over every bunk-rung. It makes it hard to figure out which bed is actually free, and where one’s own, neatly (ahem) packed belongings might find a spare square foot or three.

Point being, they’re deeply annoying.

At any rate, these chaps were fine, compared to some I’ve seen. I was taking a nap one afternoon when one of them came in, and since he was cute we chatted a while, and he regaled me with story after story about various times and places that he’d gotten drunk/stoned on herbal pills.

There are, mostly in the cities, shops selling party pills, these herbal (“herbal”?) pills that are supposed to be illegal already, I believe, but from what I hear they’re having some trouble with it. So if you want to have a “herbal high,” whatever that means, now’s the time, apparently.

So it was boring.

One of the others was showing off an… extremely intimate series of text messages that he was getting from a woman that he’d, ah, befriended a few days prior. Since English wasn’t his first language, and since he wasn’t experienced in writing such explicit texts (and apparently had no imagination) he decided to have one of our other roommates compose a message, and add to the bottom “I had someone else write this.”

I told him that was a terrible idea, and he didn’t get why, so I explained that she just might not appreciate the fact that he was showing her texts to everyone, he said, “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

I honestly wish I was kidding.

In the meantime I learned how to snap beer bottle caps so they fly across the room, got nicknamed “America,” and met a Canadian who actually knew what contra dancing is (it wasn’t one of my roommates). Since, as I’ve heard, more people collect stamps than contra dance, this is saying something.

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The problem is that since most of the pertinent buildings are in the center of the business district, and most of them are two stories high, the storefronts have been ruined by becoming, well, modern storefronts.

So to get a sense of the way things were you have to keep your eyes up. It’s very touristy.

Like Oamaru, Napier seems stuck on the fact that their home is embodies a time period, and just hasn’t moved on from there. There are plenty of costume and antique shops where you can pick up classic clothing.

It made me covet a wool cloche hat something fierce.

Unlike Oamaru, people in Napier don’t walk around in period costume, but I like to think that they get together once a month and have a Roaring 40’s party, complete with Charleston dancing and cigarettes in long holders. There can’t be enough of a market for antique and costume shops otherwise, can there? Surely not.

One shop was even selling those spangly headbands with feathers on the side like flappers used to wear, and oh I wanted one! Never mind that I would never actually get up the courage to wear it, or that I could even necessarily get it home in one piece, I just wanted it. It didn’t matter.

I did manage to abstain, though. Because that’s fun.

Another thing about New Zealand is that there have been a number of very large sculptures made from corrugated tin. I don’t know if this is a cultural thing or what, but it surprises me every time.

And I saw a guy bathing his dog in a fountain. Apparently the dog had found something rather smelly to roll in.

The real excitement about Napier, however, is something that most people don’t think to do. It’s in the Lonely Planet, but when I mentioned it to people they said that if they’d heard of it it’d never occurred to them to go.

It’s the Penguin Recovery Workshop at Marineland. It might sound a little boring in that educational kind of way (or educational in that boring kind of way), but it was fantastic. Marineland is part rehabilitation center for marine wildlife, part Sea World, but much smaller. Injured marine life is brought to them, and if they can rehabilitate and release, they do, but if the animal can be rehabilitated and can’t be returned to the wild then they keep them at Marineland where they either hang out in their pens (getting fresh sea water, which is filtered through the sea floor and pumped into their pools) or they get trained and put on performances.

The penguins don’t perform. I don’t think it’s their “thing,” regardless of what Mr. Popper would have you believe.

So. I was the only person doing the tour that day, and was met by two penguin wranglers who looked to be about sixteen, which made me feel old and weird, but whatever. They took me into the kitchen and showed me the various kinds of fish that all the animals get, pointing out which were the “McDonald’s” fish, which the penguins loved but if they got too much of it they wouldn’t eat anything else and would, of course, get fat. And perhaps make a documentary about it, I don’t know.

They grabbed a bucket of fish slices and invited me into the first penguin area. This is Twiggy:

Twiggy would hang around for the food.

I was told who each penguin was, and why he or she was there (one has a hunchback, one has a cricked neck). They weren’t terribly interested in coming over for food (they’re very shy, you see), but I got to feed one or two, and watch as they got tossed in the water to get some exercise.

Then we walked over to say hi to the gannets. They only have a few that belong at Marineland, and a bunch fly in and stay for the posh life.

They said something about this black one, but – heh – I don’t remember what it was, aside from the fact that it was a fair bit older than most, and also is very pretty.

We hopped into penguin enclosure number two, where there was another set of penguins waiting for food. Well, not really “waiting,” since they never got the nerve to come over to me on their own, but they ate when they were wrangled to my feet for a snack.

It’s important to read signs, you know.

This is Draco.

Named, indeed, for the Harry Potter villain because he’s not so thrilled about being held, and has a tendency to poo on people. It was okay; I was thrilled enough for both of us. I fed him some fish, and he routinely mistook my fingers for food.

That’s right, I’ve been nibbled by a penguin. It was awesome. AND he didn’t poo on me, so that’s pretty good too.

The next stop on the tour was the very incapacitated penguin pen. This held one penguin with a flipper missing, one with a flipper AND an eye missing, and Gonzo, who was without a lower beak, thanks to some errant fishing line. He really did look like Gonzo from the muppets.

They’d never make it in the wild, but they were doing just fine at Marineland. Gonzo took a while, but finally learned how to eat, by hooking his beak over someone’s finger and gulping down the fish offered with the other hand.

See how the pool behind me is round? Know why? It’s for the penguins with one flipper. Because they swim in circles. That made me laugh far more than is polite. And then the penguin pooed on me. I guess he didn’t think it was so funny.

I got to meet the quarantined penguins as well, and then wander the park. The animals there are hilarious. From hearing-impaired seals lazing about,

to seals with itchy noses,

to the princess seal who whines until she gets what she wants.

When the show started one of the seals would hang out by the door, watch the dolphins and seals perform, and bray. I’m not sure if it was jealousy or protest.

Speaking of jealousy, I don’t think I wanted to work with animals more than when I saw this:

She’s a trainer and was great with them, showing how the huge male sea lions could talk, answer questions (pointing down was shaking their head no, pointing up was nodding), and do flips. I talked to her for while, and realized that if I was going to find myself stuck in anywhere in New Zealand it just might be there.

The reason I surely wouldn’t stay in Napier is that on Sundays the church bells start ringing at nine am and go on for a half hour. I would go some kinds of crazy.

Another charmer at Napier’s Marineland was a cockatoo who may actually just have a day cage there (a woman came by and took him away after a while). I was watching him and whistling, making due note of the “Bobby bites sometimes!” warning in the cage, when Bobby came over and said hello.

“Hi!,” I replied.

“Give us a scratch?” he said, cocking his head. “Oh ho ho ho,” I laughed, and braved that very large beak that parrots are wont to have, and skritched his neck. He tucked his head down and lifted some of his feathers to give me better access. Birds have very soft skin, I’ll have you know.

Some women saw me with my hands in the cage and came over. Bobby saw them and walked over. “Give us a scratch?” he charmed, offering his neck.

I’m in love with that bird.

Later I saw the women who had led me around take the quarantined penguins out for their daily exercise. There’s a waist-high pool in the middle of the walkway, filled with fish, and the penguins get tossed in one at a time. When they get to the edge they’re put right back into the middle again. After a few minutes they’re pulled out and toweled off gently, then put back into their pens.

My hostel, the Criterion Art Deco Backpackers, was mediocre. The living room looked rather spectacular, with very high ceilings, stylish (well, by 1930’s-1940’s standards) fireplaces, and pool table. My bedroom was small and packed tight with two bunk beds. Luckily enough I was the only one in there. I don’t know where anyone else would’ve put their luggage. I only stayed one night, and for the life of me now can’t remember why. I moved to Wally’s Backpackers, which may or may not have been a good idea.

It had just been purchased not a month before I showed up, and some of the transitions were a little sticky yet. Even so, for a supposedly established place it seemed pretty devoid of decoration. And it needed new carpeting something fierce. Oop, apparently it just opened it 2003. I wouldn’t have guessed that.

I didn’t get a great feeling from the owner, but that may have just been a reaction to his constant socks-and-sandals fashion abomination. Lonely Planet calls it “slick urban hostelling.” Clearly our definitions differ.

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This new perspective left me blinking and stupefied. I mean, sure, challenge is good, but… but… I mean… Well. There you go. And he is clearly not a woman.

Which is not to say that women aren’t adventurous, but that being female adds safety issues that are generally compounded in places where the “travel challenge” is higher.

I went back to Picton and spent the night at The Villa – the same hostel that I’d been to on the first go ‘round. It was my last stop on the south island. I’d been feeling really disappointed about leaving the south island because it’s been so damn good (even with the ease of hostel locating), but I heard there could be good parts of the north island, too.

As I was sitting in the hallway using the hostel computer for internet a woman walked in that I recognized. She had been one of my roommates at the Laughing Kiwi in Motueka.

I did most of the things there were to do in Picton when I’d been there previously, so I made myself some dinner and ended up chatting with an older American couple that was staying in the hostel. And when I say older, I mean that they were over 75 (they’d mentioned that they were – I wasn’t speculating). When it rains it pours, I suppose, because there were two other women of… non-traditional hostel age range staying there that night. I’m not sure I’d even seen one before then. After 40 people usually stay in motels.

He was rather quiet, and she was very talkative and I spent most of the evening listening to her various stories and opinions. Her husband was telling me a story of someone he met on a plane. They talked, as you do, during the flight, and he said “It was so nice to visit with him,” as though the guy had come by for tea. I thought was just the most charming thing.

I had time to kill before my ferry, and so wandered around the two main streets. There wasn’t anything particular of note (I went back to the bakerij and it was still awesome), except this:

It’s a war memorial to the “Glorious Dead” upon which they’ve put giant tinsel Christmas decorations.

I guess the glorious dead like to get gussied up for the holidays too.

I took the Interislander ferry on this trip (I took Bluebridge last time), and it was interesting to compare the two. Interislander smelled much better, but charged $10 to watch the videos they had on (Elizabeth and Die Hard 4). They also had lots more options for food, including a café, a different café with more selection, and a pub (complete with dark woods and stained glass). But I thought the viewing deck for the Bluebridge was better – more spacious and located at the front of the boat.

In the lobby of the ferry terminal I – again – ran into someone I knew – the very knowledgeable woman from Nelson, L, who helped me figure out what town I should go to for my Abel Tasman trek (the town whose name I got wrong and subsequently didn’t go to). We spent most of the trip on the upper deck, huddling away from the wind and trying to combat motion sickness.

The nice thing about arriving in Wellington was that I still (mostly) remembered where I was going. I went back to the Cambridge hotel, unfortunately not back to my single room, but to the backpacker rooms. I booked a single night, not sure if I wanted to stick around longer. The room was lovely – giant ceilings, exposed beams, and wooden walls, but not in that hideous 1970’s way, but in the older, architecturally authentic way. They assigned beds, which was stupid, but no one paid attention to the booking, so there.

The kitchen, however, was filthy. Really disgusting. And there was almost no lounging room. So it wasn’t all good.

And who did I see coming in the door but the same woman who I’d met up with in both Picton and Motueka. We were roommates for the third hostel in a row.

We ended up going out to dinner, and as we were sitting I spotted L of Nelson and the ferry, and she joined us for dinner.

New Zealand can be really small sometimes.

What I didn’t know, when I checked into the Cambridge Hotel, was that the LA Galaxy soccer (or “football,” if you’re one o’ them un-AmERican types) team was coming to Welly and playing some team or other the next day or so, and oh my god, David Beckham was coming, isn’t that exciting, and beds were going fast. I tried to book my bed for the next night and couldn’t. I had to call the YHA (Youth Hostel Association) hostel down the street.

The YHA was bright, spacious, and clean, but totally devoid of character. M met up with me there, and as he re-uploaded music onto his mp3 player I watched a gang of schoolchildren on a field trip act out various skits in the dining room. Strange to think that on a school trip they’d have the kids stay in a hostel, but I suppose it’s cheaper that way.

It was six floors, though. That’s a lot of hostel beds. And there didn’t seem to be much-if-any interaction between people who didn’t already know each other. Lovely. But at least I got in.

Small victories.

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See, all the information about Abel Tasman is really confusing. It’s advertised everywhere, with these impossibly gorgeous photos of boats in water so clear it looks like they (the boats) are floating, and wee, adorable, big-eyed seals perched on the ends of kayaks. Everywhere. Seriously. But there’s no obvious town near to Abel Tasman to use as a base, and almost everyone does a 3+ day hike through the park, which I wasn’t planning to do, but there was some noise about permits and camping and aqua taxis and it was all terribly confusing.

Eventually I found that Lonely Planet said Marahau was a decent jumping off place for Abel Tasman, since most of the kayak/aqua taxis/whatever else were based there. So that was one thing more or less sorted. Maybe.

I asked a number of people about it, and couldn’t really get a handle on how this park thing could be done – until I got to Nelson. I stayed at Accents On the Park, which Lonely Planet says “feels more like a guesthouse than a hostel,” which is a lie. It’s pretty big, but decent enough, I guess. Anyway, one of my roommates had actually worked there for 9 months and knew plenty about this whole Abel Tasman thing.

She said Marahau was a good idea, and there are easy ways to figure out day kayak trips, which is what I wanted. Sorted.

Since I didn’t get into Nelson until after the info centers were closed and I prefer to make bus reservations with them than online or over the phone (I feel better with a confirming piece of paper in my hand), I ended up staying in Nelson two nights. I got along very well with L, the woman who’d worked there before, and S, who was in the bunk under mine.

Determined to not spend too much money, S and I wandered to a used bookstore, and – okay. Okay. The price of books here is outrageous. Completely outrageous. A new paperback is NZ$30-35. I’d finished my book ages ago and couldn’t bring myself to buy any more because they’re so heinously expensive. Most at the used bookstore were $10-12, which was okay. I tried to sell the one book I had bought new here (The Big Twitch, NZ$36) and he offered me $6 for it. I laughed in his face.

By which I of course mean I politely declined.

Then lunch and a good long wander. We compared educational systems – she’s German (yes, lots of German travelers here) – and GOD it’s not fair. They pay something like 500 euro for a semester’s education. That’s so little! Bah. Jerks.

We went to the beach to read in the sun, and (and I’m so tan! Whee!) I gave up after about 20 minutes, because – thanks to the breeze – no way I sat kept the sand out of my face. I watched the sand build up on my bag and on my feet before deciding to walk back. We’d taken the bus out with the plan to walk back. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The only bonus to the walk of eternal punishment was that as I passed some waterfront bar and heard The Hobnail Boots doing a sound check for their performance that night. If I hadn’t been tight on moneys and completely uninterested in walking back I would’ve gone to the concert. But I enjoyed listening to them play “These Boots Are Made For Walking,” even if I couldn’t see them.

Oh, and I got sunburned on the walk, too. That was nice. Humph.

On Saturday morning I went to the Nelson Market, which involves lots of crafts and food. Nothing much to note about that. I had a crêpe; it was good.

I’d gone to the info center on Friday and bought my ticket, and on Saturday, a few hours before I was to leave, I realized I’d bought it for the wrong place. I’d been planning to go to Marahau, and had bought my ticket for Motueka (ma-tu-EE-ka). It wasn’t that big a deal – they were close together, and in fact, Motueka offered better hostel options, but I still felt pretty stupid.

I got myself a bed at the Laughing Kiwi backpackers and got myself booked for a kayaking trip the next day. Turns out one of the kayaking companies Had bought up the rest of them just the month before, so it was difficult to get recommendations for which trip would be good, especially since it still kept all the different companies open since they attracted different types of people. So even though it was all one company there were still maybe five options of sub-companies to go through, with 3-6 day trips each to choose from. I chose the Kaiteriteri company and their… what was it called… Full Day Royale with Cheese. Something royale with cheese.

I went to The Warehouse – NZ’s equivalent of Wal-Mart – for a sun hat, bug repellant (which was on the same shelves as the insecticide, which made me a little concerned), and water. The Warehouse (“where everyone gets a bargain”) sucks, but I needed cheap and there it was. I’m so ashamed.

OH! I didn’t get any sunscreen (I had some already), but that reminds me – their sunscreen only goes up to SPF 30. Nothing higher. Weird.

The bus picked me up at, oh, 8:30am or so from the hostel. I boarded and was struck by some of the surliest holiday faces I’ve ever seen. I’m not really a morning person either, but crikey.

If you’ve ever had a teenager you know the morning face. Teenagers can’t really recognize it among their peers, but if you’ve been an adult and faced with a teenager before 10am then you know the face I mean. And – oh. They looked like… how to put this… They looked like the type of people for whom MTV, reality shows, and “bacardi breezers” are made. They looked like they came from the Kiwi Experience bus– and, it turns out, some of them were.

The Kiwi Experience bus caters to… the more… social 20-30-something crowd. Rumor has it – and this is just a rumor, emphasis on rumor, though I could totally see it being true – they sometimes have kegs on the back of their busses. Because the best way to spend a vacation is drunk.

ANYWAY. I was sitting there, fairly bright-eyed (I think I just heard my parents snort derisively at the thought of me being bright-eyed at that hour), terrified that I would have to spend the day with these people. As we checked in and paid whatever we had yet to pay they stood around with their giant sunglasses (okay, I have a pair of those too, though not with me, which is a shame because the sunglasses I have look really dreadful on me) and short shorts and hangover chic, making me tired just to be around them.

Maybe I’m a little cruel; I can’t be sure.

By miracle of miracles they weren’t on my trip. I was sent over to the beach where I met the two guides, What’s His Face and That Other Guy, who was decked out in pyjamas and a flow-y, flowery robe. They handed me a cricket bat (those are heavy) and tossed a tennis ball to me until two others on our trip showed up.

We hopped onto an aqua taxi and took off for Bark Bay, where we unloaded and met the other three members of our crew. One of them was a woman I’d met in Punakaiki. I’m really glad she remembered where we’d met, because it would’ve driven me absolutely insane.

Kayaking is hard. If you were wondering.

It was a really nice trip – What’s His Face and That Other Guy were really excellent guides and very funny. After lunch they had us hit the tennis ball again with a half an oar (they didn’t bring the cricket bat).

Lunch was catered, and the drinks were pretty fancypants – they foamed milk for my coffee, and then sprinkled chocolate on top. I’ve been to coffee shops that haven’t done that much.

There were only eight of us – guides included – in four double sea kayaks. In the second hour or so we had a good wind and ended up sailing for a while. We got all the kayaks together (“rafted up”), then the front outside two held the bottom of a tarp, the other ends of which were tied to the ends of oars and held up from the back outside two. The inner folks had the task of holding the kayaks together.

I wish I’d gotten a picture, but I was busy holding the end of the tarp.

It was a gorgeous day, I didn’t get burnt, and only got bit by bugs a little bit (sandflies, for the record, are evil, evil creatures). We saw – and smelled some seals (none got up on our kayaks, dang it) (I think that happens 1. very infrequently, and 2. only when there are young, curious, and not terribly bright seals around) (it’s getting near mating season, which explained the extra pheromone-based funk that we smelled) and a bunch of cormorants.

Interesting facts: Shag = cormorant, which is one of two or three web-footed birds that can land in trees.

We saw split apple rock, which… you know. Was good. Big.

And boy did I sleep well that night.

The post Rainbow Lodge Backpackers Retreat, Napier, NZ appeared first on Travel Blog.

Speaking of eggs, they don’t refrigerate theirs here. It’s weird. In the supermarket they’re just on the shelves like cereal or something. Really weird.

Anyway. So. Not much obvious in Punakaiki, consumer-wise. Busses stop for an hour or two for lunch and so people can see the pancake rocks and blowholes.

The time to see them is during a rough low tide, when the waves crash up through the rocks.

I stayed in one of the two(ish) hostels in town, and ended up staying three nights instead of the planned two. The beach is gorgeous, and it’s really comfortable.

While there I went on what was, according to the map, a 15 minute walk through the bush, down to the beach and some limestone cliffs. What the map didn’t say was that it was a 30 minute walk to the 15-minute walk. Sneaky. Very sneaky.

No tremendously exciting stories from Punakaiki. A few games of Jenga that got pretty heated. The team from Holland trounced the team from America, even though there were two of us and one of him. That was a little embarrassing. But we finished it with a few beers at the local pub, so that was okay. Oh, and there were clear nights and shooting stars, which were pretty excellent.

In Punakaiki I managed to get hold of a contra dancer I know from NC – R – whose partner – S – lives in NZ. He’d said he’d be in the country starting in October, but I’d had his email address wrong and couldn’t get hold of him. Turned out, by freak chance, that his partner lived an hour from where I was staying. An hour in the wrong direction, but there it was.

They invited me to stay with them a few nights, and so I got a lift from the other member of Team America: Jenga-Style to Greymouth. He’s a very nice chap, but very talkative, and kept driving team Holland and I around and around Greymouth. I’ll tell you what there is to do and see in Greymouth: nothing. There is nothing in Greymouth. I know, because I had to spend 5 hours there, waiting until it was time to meet up with S. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t said something he would still be driving us around today.

R and S fed me whitebait, which, if you don’t know (I didn’t) is some variety of baby fish, served, in this context, in an omelet. I didn’t think it added much to the flavor, and knowing that all the little black specks in it were eyes, and seeing all the little fish bodies, wondering if that little extra texture was their bones, creeped me out pretty well. I don’t think I’ll be eating it again.

I hope I didn’t ruin it for any of you.

After a few days S dropped me back in Greymouth where I spent another 5 hours waiting for my bus. Seriously. Another 5 hours.

The post The Villa Backpackers, Picton, NZ appeared first on Travel Blog.

Right. Fjord = glacier.

At any rate, for Milford Sound there are no words, so here, have some pictures (click the photo for almost all of them – I look a LOT of pictures):

I took an extra day in Queenstown to relax (also I hadn’t booked a bus ticket, so I was pretty well stuck), and then headed up to Fox Glacier. There are two neighboring glaciers on the west coast – Fox and Franz Josef. Not much of a difference as to which you visit, but Fox is a little smaller.

This is Fox Glacier village:

All of Fox Glacier village. Two dairies, a few cafés/restaurants, and an info center where you can book your preferred glacier climbing experience. One hostel. The hostel – Ivory Towers Lodge – wasn’t too bad. My (small) room had only two bunks, the kitchen was well laid out, there was a nice dog, it was clean, and the guys running it were friendly. As always, though, a hostel can vary enormously depending on the people who are staying there.

So. One of my roommates – the woman sleeping on the bunk above me – was lovely. Friendly German woman whom I enjoyed talking to very much. That being said, she not only snored, but talked and laughed in her sleep. And she, um, was not the most fragrantly inclined person I’ve ever met. If you follow. Also on the first night one of my other roommates decided to leave the window way open, and since I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heater on (at 1:30am), I froze.

There was also some graffiti on the underside of the bunk above me about how menstruation was a virus and turns women into bitches and/or lesbians, or some such thing. There are quality people the world over, I tell you what.

Oh, and two of my beers were stolen. That was good, too.

But still! A fine time. No, seriously.

I decided on the half-day glacier walk since I’d been pretty tired. Other options were a full-day walk and a helicopter hike thing. The helicopter would’ve been the best (and coolest – I’ve never been in a helicopter), but it also cost a small fortune (upwards of $275).

They gear you up with thick wooly socks (washed once a week, they said! Thanks, guys!) and boots, and offer packs and windproof jackets if you need them. Considering my penchant for being piteously underdressed, I grabbed an extra jacket, thereby ensuring that it was warm and sunny the whole afternoon. Never mind that when I was wearing it I looked like a giant black sausage (ew), and when I took both my jackets off and tied them around my waist I added a good 6” to either side of my hips. Which is very appealing these days.

AND they have you tuck your trousers into your socks so they don’t get wet. That’s hot.

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If you’re more craftily inclined you can go to Just Jade Experience, where you can design your own piece and it gets carved for you, and then you spend the rest of the day hand-polishing it. Sort of – from what I hear the chap who does the carving is a little picky about what you design, and if he thinks it’s too complicated or whatever he may try to modify it. OR you can go to Bonz ‘n’ Stonz, which is a nicer workshop where you can design whatever you like and do all the work yourself instead of having the interesting part done for you. (There’s some entertaining drama between the two shops – go to Bonz ‘n’ Stonz and ask about it).

I met two people while I was there, and we, plus another, ended up going out for drinks and dinner that night. No terribly entertaining stories from that, but I did learn that there’s a New Zealand sheep farming board game, which sounds pretty awesome.

And the place I stayed. OH the place I stayed. This is what Lonely Planet has to say about Stumpers: “Stumpers has clean, neat, reasonably priced rooms above its café-bar. Doubles have TVs, dorms have a maximum of three beds; most rooms have shared facilities (this was pub accommodation before Kerouac invented backpackers).”

Now, how true it is that Kerouac invented backpackers I don’t know, but what I do know is that the author of that little description did not actually stay there. It’s true my room had three beds, and they had a ton of bedcovers, which was excellent. HOWEVER, as for the rest of it, they LIE.

You might want to get some tea. I’ll wait here.

Well. FIRST I went in, and there was no one at the reception desk. There was a sign saying if they weren’t there, to go into the café and ask. Fine. I went into the café and said hey, I’d like to check in. They said there was someone at the reception desk. I said no, there’s not. They said, yes there is, she just went back there. Fine. I went back to the reception desk. It was empty. And remained empty.

I rang their bell, and no one came. A chap at the internet kiosk suggested I go into the café, as the sign said. I said I had. I rang the stupid bell again, and FINALLY someone showed up. I had to write out my credit card number for security, I suppose, in case I decided to glue all the furniture to the ceiling or similar, never mind that no one else requires that. She told me that if anyone else showed up I might have to share the room, and I refrained from telling her, “Duh.”

THEN she said my room might not be ready (apparently she couldn’t be bothered to check), so I couldn’t get in until 2, which left me about three hours to kill. Fine. Whatever. I could, she said, leave my bags under the stairs until I came back and she would watch them. You know, because she’s been doing such a good job of watching the office.

I came back a little before 2 (the office was empty) and got into my room. Cramped, but fine. It had a sink, which was moderately exciting, though the foot of my bed was pressed right up against it. I unpacked the yoghurt I’d bought while waiting for the room to be ready, and went a-hunting for the kitchen. Down the hallway was a glorified closet with a sink, a very mini fridge, and some errant silverware and dishes. I went back downstairs and rang the bell.

“Is there no full kitchen?” She looked shocked. “No, this isn’t a backpackers. It’s a hotel.”

A hotel. Oh really. Go read the Lonely Planet description – no indication that that was a possibility, and nowhere on the “hotel” does it indicate that it’s anything but a backpackers.

Fine. Fine. I’ll just eat out then. See if I care.

After a walk on the beach to watch the sunset I ended up consoling myself with a very tasty steak dinner at the attached bar. And I got half a beer for free when I pointed out to them that the bottle they’d given me was two months past its “best by” date. I found myself to be a very delightful, if quiet, date.

I slept very well and woke up early, which is a good thing because one of the cleaners came into my room at 7:45am. Just walked right in, saw me, apologized, and left.

I still have yet to figure out why she was coming into the room since none of the beds had to be made up. Or why it would’ve been so hard to, I don’t know, knock. Or what the hell she thought I was doing up so early.

And she did it again the next morning.

I won’t even mention how they don’t have a phone for customer use, and how when I asked to use the office phone she looked as though I was planning to call order every set of tv-based, but-wait-there’s-more knives and hair products and charge them all COD. I’ve never seen someone look as frequently stricken as that woman did. Sheesh.

(Also, the most hilarious thing about Hokitika? Is this:

You know what it is? I mean, obviously it’s an eco center where you can see kiwi and fish and what have you, but you know what else it is? A yarn shop. I am not even kidding. You can see kiwi, and then buy yarn).

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BUT, the good part about Dunedin was that though the magic of the internet I got hooked up with S, who invited me over for dinner with her family two nights in a row. She and her husband C have two kids who think that visitors are the coolest ever and did I want to see this pokemon game and look at this dance and it was all very entertaining. S even let me embarrass myself heartily on her spinning wheel. It trounced me and I was demoted to spindle practice.

As a quick aside I’d like to note that if there’s anyone out there with an entrepreneurial spirit, you should think about bringing bathroom ventilator fans to this country. In lieu of fans they just leave the bathroom window open. Now, I’m all for saving the planet and whatever, but one of the main places I want warm is the bathroom, thank you very much. So, you know, if you’re into that sort of thing, go for it.

Right! Anyway. After the second dinner with S and her family, we went to my first knit night. It was small but friendly, and nice to be around so many knitters. I managed to almost finish a sock, which got completely ripped out the next day. Alas.

From Dunedin I went to Queenstown, a place I was steeling myself to have to endure rather than relax in. Lonely Planet had it described as adrenaline-junkie, party-animal town, which, as you may have gathered, is not so much my scene. Fact remained, however, that there were plenty of athletically-inclined things to do there, from bungee jumping (oh HELL no)¹, a canyon swing (a “bungee variation,” according to Lonely Planet), jet boating, white-water rafting, river surfing & sledging (sledge = sled), skydiving (NO), and plenty of other things, all of which are quite expensive ($100+).

I decided to be frugal and pick two. With the canyoning ticket, the trip to Milford Sound, and the hostel I was spending $350 for 2.5 days in Queenstown. Ouch.

That being said, canyoning was awesome. And terrifying at points. I didn’t know much about it, and actually have no idea why I picked it over all the other non-height-based options, but after I got the brochure (after I booked it) I started to get worried that I wasn’t going to be fit enough to do it. There was noise about how you should be an active adult, and considering I couldn’t make it up the bitch of a hill getting to my Queenstown hostel (well done, self, picking hostel on a worse slope than the one from the night before) I wasn’t feeling terribly “active,” and there were noises about climbs and other things that I wasn’t fully sure I was able to do, and what if they had to stay behind because of me? Augh, that would be so embarrassing, and maybe I should just cancel now and hide under my bed for the rest of my trip. Or intentionally sprain an ankle or something.

I did go, and the first thing they did was to suit us up in the appropriate protective gear – oop, no, the first thing was to have us sign away our right to sue them should they screw up and break our legs or kill us or whatever. Woo hoo! Love those. Right. So, full body wetsuit, socks, booties, head sock, harness, life jacket, and helmet. I felt like the queen of style, right there, let me tell you.

After a brief hike through the woods they had us submerge in glacier water 6º C, or –595º F – the water we would be spending the trip trudging through – and then climb a ridiculously steep hill to a zipline. I haven’t done a zipline since middle school, and all I remember was that I spent most of it backwards and trying to turn myself the right way around. This go around was about the same.

Then they had us abseil/rappel down a vertical (vertical) cliff. For those who aren’t In The Know, abseiling involves attaching yourself to a rope and having someone lower you down the cliff while you walk backwards, perpendicular to the rock. Ha.

The trip involved a couple of slides, and at one we couldn’t quite see what we were in for, but followed directions just the same. They held our life jackets, we crossed our legs and arms, and they let go. Next thing you know it’s not the easy drop you were thinking, and your sinuses are packed with water. Mine felt larger when it was over, and I haven’t been nearly so congested since. Scrambling to the surface and looking back you realize the it’s actually quite a fall and what were they thinking and GOLLY that was cool.

Some (easier) slides and jumps later there’s the option of climbing up to a ledge, what I estimated to be about 4 meters high, and jumping off into the water. Being a little delirious from having an unstuffed nose for once, I decided to go. After climbing up a vertical cliff face involving clipping carabineers to safety lines and hauling oneself up with ropes and things, you look out what is, in fact, a six meter drop, eeeeee.

It turns out that my comfort level for jumping into water is at about four meters. When I’ve gone that far and still haven’t hit the water I panic. Lived to tell the tale, though, and enjoyed the adrenaline rush.

And I might’ve come out and hugged the rocks, laughing and wide-eyed with terror.

The other zipline offered a little more responsibility than I was happy about. We ziplined over the deepest pool, then unhooked our safety ‘beener, pulled on the rope that was keeping us in the same place, and lowered ourselves down to the pool.

As soon as I undid the knot that would allow me to get down my lifejacket shifted right up under my chin, which was very attractive, which is, of course, when the camera got pulled out. Foxy lady!

The final jump was about as high as the previous big jump, but more exciting because you had to be specific about where you jumped so as to not hit a rock, and had to bend your knees, because the water wasn’t tremendously deep. I almost didn’t do it, but did, and may have yelled “ OH FUCK!” on the way down. I also jumped wrong, but managed to keep from injuring myself.

A few more easy slides and the group emerged the freezing water fast friends. The fear and cold bonded us together. They don’t have you wear gloves because you need to have good grips on the rock (I guess), and their recommended method of warming up your hands is to straighten your arms at your sides, hands flat and pointing out, and pumping your shoulders up and down. I came out of a pool at one point to find four of my compatriots standing in a line, arms straight down, hands out, bouncing their shoulders. It was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time, and I told them they looked like a chorus line. One guy started can-canning.

My fears about being too weak were denied, though it’s three days later and I’m still sore. Two women didn’t make it through – they (or maybe just one, and her friend joined out of solidarity) was too freaked out by the heights and who knows what else.

A German woman on the trip, K, and I decided to go out for a coffee after the trip, and we found a café and sat as close to the fire as we possibly could to warm up.

We ended up getting dinner as well, and I splurged because it’s not often I actually allow myself to do that. It did involve some measure of plugging my ears and going LA LA LA LA NOT THINKING ABOUT MONEY LA LA LA.

During dinner we discussed tattoos, and I learned that the popular tattoo for women these days – the one on the coccyx – what some of us in America call the “tramp stamp” is, in Germany, called “arschgweih.” Literally, “ass horns.” HA!

We went to a bar afterwards (LA LA LA LA LA LA LA) and played no small amount of pool. A Dutch gentleman who was being summarily ignored by his two young companions was watching us play, and I think my lack of natural billiards-ability was causing him actual physical pain.

In the end I was reminded why I don’t go out to loud, busy pubs at night, and was happy to head to bed early. I took two Sudafed to keep the snoring/7am sneezing down, and while my body felt like a sacka hammers, I couldn’t sleep. I saw 4:30am and was awake before my 7:30 alarm. Nice.

¹ When I told my mom that I was headed to the bungee-jumping capitol of the world she said “Don’t do it,” in that mom-to three-year-old-with-a-hand-in-the-cookie-jar voice. “Or at least don’t tell me about it.”

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This is actually my third stop in Christchurch. The first I didn’t think I’d stick around, but at 6:20pm I was browsing the internet for local swing dances and found a big workshop happening that night, starting at 6:30. I checked my watch, booked it upstairs to get my shoes, and took off into the night.

Two lindy hop workshops later I learned there were more workshops and a dance the next night, so I decided to stick around. Budgetary concerns kept me from the next workshops ($20 each adds up, even when hostel living is relatively inexpensive), so I just went to the dance. It’s a small scene, but generally friendly (for the uninitiated, it’s much easier to get into a dance scene if you’re relatively competent at the relevant style of dance).

J told me that I had to go to Cave Stream while I was around. I had no idea what it was, but apparently it was one of the coolest things to do. Unfortunately, and naturally, you can’t get there without a car, and it’s a fair bit of trouble getting there by bus as you’d have to ask especially to get dropped off nearby, and then walk. But! He might be taking the lindy teacher who was there for the workshops next Tuesday, so if they went and I was around I could tag along. That, combined with my offer and acceptance to teach a workshop for the Charleston Stroll at the classes the next week, and my interest in seeing Akaroa, led to me heading to the Information building the next morning.

I got there, bags in tow, at 10:05am, and asked for a ticket to Akaroa. The woman’s face fell – the last bus had left at 10am. Superb. I bought a ticket for the next day instead, and hauled my things back to Fraureisehaus. A whole day now at my disposal I checked my email, and learned that the leaders of the local swing dance couldn’t make my workshop happen, and so they were sorry but they had to cancel. Things were going my way!

(The view down to Akaroa)

The bus ride to Akaroa went off without a hitch and I settled myself into Chez La Mer backpackers. I booked myself for a Swimming With Dolphins tour for the following morning and wandered up and down the one main road in Akaroa. J sent me a text and said Cave Stream was on for the following Tuesday if I was interested.

Swimming With Dolphins was cancelled in the morning due to bad weather (just as well since it was freezing cold and cloudy), so I rebooked and went back to bed for another two and a half hours.

It was sunny and warm the next afternoon when I got suited up for dolphin-related adventures. The company takes a picture of you in your wetsuit before you head out, and takes another picture of the boat heading out. It was far more successful than my last venture. They managed to find two Hector’s dolphins who seemed interested, and they dumped us in the water, and we bobbed around as the dolphins wove in between us.

A tip, should you ever go swimming with Hector’s dolphins (unlikely, since they’re only found off the coast of New Zealand, but just in case) – bring along two small rocks to clack together under water. They think it’s the most fascinating thing. They also seem to like bright colors which does no one any good since you’re likely going to be wearing the tour’s black wetsuits. Different species like different things. Dusky dolphins (which are found in Kaikoura, which I almost got to swim with) like it when you squeak and hum and generally make a ruckus into your snorkel. Bottlenose dolphins like quiet. Who knew?

On the ride back in I chatted with a fellow scuba diver (he’d brought his own suit with bright green on the sleeves – he was very popular with the dolphins) who told me I absolutely had to dive the Poor Knight’s Islands, which north of the north island. Suddenly I’m thinking three months isn’t enough time. And we saw a penguin. It was cute.

There was little other excitement in Akaroa – it’s just quiet and calm and lovely there. Monday I went back to Christchurch and to Fraureisehaus. I asked J what to wear for the trip, and he said shorts and a t-shirt would be fine. Shorts. Great. I didn’t have shorts. Well, I did, but they weren’t terribly flattering. So Tuesday morning I raced around Christchurch trying to find a not-awful pair of shorts that didn’t cost $100. Not as easy as it sounds.

(Outside of the cave)

At noon I met up with J, and we picked up S before heading off to Cave Stream. Cave Stream, it seems, is an underground cave with a stream and a series of waterfalls running through it. You start at the exit (really) and climb through the water, up the waterfalls (1-1.5 meter high) before climbing a ladder and emerging at the other end. Seems backwards to me, but what did I know? I read the sign outside that said you should wear a long sleeved shirt – I didn’t have one – and a hat – didn’t have one of those either – and recommended closed shoes with thick socks – I was wearing sandals and feeling woefully unprepared.

We pranced down a steep hill to the mouth of the cave. It should be noted that it’s a mountain stream, and with the warm weather the snow on top was melting. And heading into the stream. T-shirt and shorts. What a splendid idea.

The first pool is the deepest, and where you gauge everyone’s comfort (according to the sign) and the feasibility of the tramp (slosh?). Normally the pool is waist deep. When we were there it came up to J’s armpits. J is not a short man. I’m short. We aborted the walk.

Instead we walked to the other end to see how going was from that direction. At the entrance is a waterfall maybe 3 meters high with a ladder at the side for clambering purposes.

WHY NO, I DON’T MIND HEIGHTS, HA HA HA.

J made it all the way down the ladder before deciding that the force of the water was too much, so we wiggled back out again.

Fail.

A quick clothing change later and we went to Castle Hill where they filmed parts of Narnia and wandered through the surprisingly big stones. People climb them apparently. Know why? Because they’re crazy.

(J trying to climb the rocks)

The next night I went to another swing dance in Christchurch. It wasn’t thrilling. It was Halloween and apparently a memo had gone out that costumes were encouraged, and they could choose from 1. devil, or 2. angel. There were also two lions and two witches. Someone should’ve gone as a wardrobe. HAR!

I took off Thursday for Akaroa again and didn’t end up doing any of the tours I was thinking about doing (or hit the walks as much as I’d intended), but got a lot of sun. My poor nose is peeling away, and if this keeps up I’ll end up with one similar to the nouveau Michael Jackson.

I’m tan, though, which is very exciting. I mentioned this to P, a chap I met in Akaroa. He noted I was still pretty pale. “Pale!” I squealed, ever graceful under pressure, “I have tan lines,” I yelled, pulling up my sleeve and wielding a bare shoulder at him. “Look at me! I’m the tannest I’ve been in years! I’m like toast I’m so brown!“

He didn’t buy it.

Now I’m back in Christchurch for the third time, a place that I hadn’t even intended to spend three days. And today I’m leaving, thank you.

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1. If you’re just wandering around a shop you’re not browsing, you’re “having a browse.”

2. Apparently I am very obviously a tourist, though twice I’ve been mistaken for being British.

3. Construction workers often wear shorts. Sometimes rather short shorts. It’s unnerving, like stumbling into a photo shoot for a special edition of Playgirl Magazine: The real men next door!

4. It is damn hard to find healthy food here. There’s plenty of fish, which all the newspapers and gossip magazines tell me is good, but 3/4 of the time it’s fried in some way. Which isn’t a bad thing, to be sure, but doesn’t add much to the health benefits (never mind the ambitious serving of fries or “chips” that are added to the side). Aside from that there’s a lot of fried, a lot of eggs and bacon, pies, cakes, breads, and not a whole lot in the manner of “vegetables.” I’ve spotted a few salad cafés, but only in Auckland and Wellington. AND gyms seem to be exceptionally rare, even in the cities.

As a result this isn’t a “thin” country. I’d call it rather curvy, actually. And yet in clothing stores (not of the department variety, but of the fashion variety) the largest size is still just a 16. But on the local television shows they employ a lot of “regular-looking” people rather than the standard strong-jaw, slim-legged, glasses-free actors that are so popular in other first-world countries.

There’s also at least ten stories per newspaper/magazine/news hour about how New Zealanders are overweight and are eating poorly. There’s a big fuss now about how processed meats are being linked to colon cancer. I don’t think it’ll change much for BBQ season.

5. It’s really not “pedestrian friendly” here. They will mow you down. When they have to wait for you to cross the street they’ll creep up slowly as you walk past, and zip by as soon as they can clear your heels. I’m pretty sure there’s some kind of reward system for hitting someone not in a car. But I could be wrong about that.

—

In the meantime I’ve been staying in hostels and it’s been decent. A good technique is to be the last one to go to bed. Cuts down on the number of people who will come in and bash around while you’re trying to sleep. Having a few beers beforehand doesn’t hurt either.

I went to Akaroa last week and stayed at Chez La Mer. The first night I lucked out and got a dorm room to myself. As nice as it was to spend $25 on a room to myself, having four empty beds in the room felt lonely. Bitch, bitch, bitch, that’s all I do. It filled up fast enough, and every now and again there’d be good conversation.

I didn’t get the best reception from one of the owners, though. Our first meeting was when she yelled at me for having my towel on the heater. Then she rushed off and the only time I saw her direct any happy feelings towards me was when she was waving me goodbye. Nice!

I’ve also spent more than a few nights at the Fraureisehaus Hostel in Christchurch. When I’ve told people that it’s women only they get all flustered and say they wouldn’t want to stay somewhere like that. I didn’t think I would either, but the fact is that the kinds of people who would stay at a women-only hostel are not usually the kind of people who stumble in drunk at 3 in the morning and do unspeakable things to the floor/bed/whatever. They’re more the kind of people who tuck up in the evening and watch a movie. And who are considerate and respectful. I can see why some people wouldn’t be into that.

This hostel is really cushy. Big screen tv, a plethora of videos to choose from, a garden to lounge in, resident pets, free coffee/cocoa/bikes/laundry/use of nice hairdryers, and no more than 4 beds per room. It’s wonderful.

Except that one morning when I woke up absolutely covered in bug bites (they changed my sheets and didn’t see anything, and suspect a spider had gotten in and thought I was delicious and/or threatening). And this morning when I had a very confusing series of interactions with one of the women who works here. When I dropped off the DVD of Frida that I’d borrowed for a bunch of us to watch she was very friendly. I was sitting in the garden some hours later and she came out of the building lugging my big bag which I’d left tucked in a corner of the hallway (under a sign that said “Leave your luggage here if you’re checking out before 8am” which makes no sense to me. If you’re leaving then you’d have your bags with you, and you surely wouldn’t leave your luggage there the night before). She asked if it was mine, and said it was to go into the shed until I left. She was downright frosty. There was nothing to indicate that that was protocol, and I hadn’t thought to ask. Silly me.

Other than that it’s been great.

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