http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2252263&l=20a94&id=61205739 (album one)
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2252270&l=60e13&id=61205739
(album two, including pictures from Uncle Brods Farm)
Thought it was about time to put something back up on here. The delay seems to have been heavily linked to the fact that Kiwi’s have no concept of free Wi-Fi.
Without wanting to have a Grandad rant (as Carly is frequently calling them) I just can’t bring myself to pay over the odds for tinterweb. I mean it’s a disgrace. I see the opportunity of honing into a stray wi-fi signal and cheekily surfing someone else internet as a challenge. This is what I said to Carly when I pulled the Campercar into a Holiday Park’s car park complete with board proclaiming “FREE WIFI.” Brilliant I thought. Within an instant I was delving into my backpack and pulled out the Macbook.
“ah, free you see Carly, that means we don’t have to pay them! We can do all we need to do online now, then camp up at the free National Park Campsite up the road!” This usually leads to Carly slowly putting her head down and adopting the little girl not getting what she wants face. Whereas I don’t mind 5 days without a shower, and the same Tutles underwear for a week, Carly likes campsites with showers and toilets. I prefer spades.
Anyway, I digress, the killer you see, is that after strategically positioning yourself and adopting what I like to term the descreet position, or DE-PO (the positioning of oneself discreetly close to a free internet café/restaurant/campsite, but not close enough to arise suspicion, and not too far such that your connection fails) you realise that the connection requires a password. This often results in a loud squark from me, which very often gets some rather worried looks from passing members of the public. On this occasion, which was the last one on which I could have updated this blog, this happened, as well as a rather annoyed campsite owner who charged out of the office quite blatantly knowing what we trying to do.
So we arrived in New Zealand nearly two weeks ago, and as briefly mentioned previously we met up with Tim, a friend and Professor of History at Bryanston. Well he might not be Professor but I think he should be cause he’s well up on all stuff History. We met Tim at the Bus Exchange in Christchurch City Centre and made our way to the suburbs, down by the bay in Sumner where we spent the first night before picking up our campervan for the next 4 nights the next morning.
Coinciding our arrival in New Zealand with the worst storm in the area for 50 years was perhaps not perfect timing on our part and with the Twizel to Queenstown road blocked with snow, along with State Highway One, blocked with flooding and landslides we were only able to make our way as far north as Kaikoura on the first day. With just an overnight stop at a deserted holiday park which didn’t look like it had seen visitors for many a year, we made our way up to Hanmer Springs and spend that night in the natural pools… Well enough hours to make us exceptionally wrinkly. The next morning I got up super early to climb Mt. Isobel, up over 1300m. With snow up to my waist in parts it was fairly heavy going, but sunrise half way up was spectacular. Before heading back to Christchurch we drove the Lewis Pass to Greymouth (the name gives you a clue as to what it is like) and the Arthurs Pass back across to Christchuch. The Arthurs Pass was definitely my favourite. The engineering and history of the pass is fascinating, as are the only indigenous Alpine Parrots that roam the area and are incredibly inquisitive over camper vans – much to our peril… They like to try and tear off windscreen wipers and wing mirrors. We had six land on top of our van!
After saying bye to Tim, Carly and I decided to downsize from the 4 berth camper to a 2 berth CamperCar from Wicked. Now, picture this. A vehicle that costs 8 quid a day. The petrol camp doesn’t shut and as we discovered a few days later, a vehicle with rear wheel tred with less than 1.5mm tyre grooves. Dents and scratches front, back and side. Living room and bedroom in middle, kitchen in boot. Whatever picture you have in your mind will not be any where near what our wreckmobile looked and felt like to drive.
The living area...and kitchen...
A few highlights from our 1700km jaunt around the south island has to be getting stuck in a bog coming out of a camp site just past Twizel on the way to Queenstown. After successfully navigating our way in, we, or rather I, struggled on the way out when I managed to firmly place the 1999 Toyota in wet grass I can only describe as a puddle. No surprise, the CamperCar started to cry. After a couple of days of realising just how bad this car was, even I thought it could pass through a puddle. Not this one.
Front wheels through, but as soon as the rear wheel drive 1.5mm treds went in, it was day over. With a squeel and puff of rubber mist the wheel was slowly digging its way deeper in. Now, I didn’t worry too much at the beginning, after all, these things usually just require a push. But after getting plastered head to toe in mud (including my new two dollar pinstripe trousers) the wreck was still stuck. The next ten minutes proceeded in rather cavemanesque style as I realised that we were miles from civilisation in a camp site I had chosen specifically for its deserted location (much to Carly’s dismay). I made use of every piece of the natural environment available, sticks, upon sticks and dug them underneath the wheel, anything just to give it something else to grip to. But it wouldn’t budge.
“Right, am off for a walk Carly, I’ll find a spade from somewhere and dig us out,” I roared in a manly style.
So off I trotted down a barren gravel track, headed to a tiny village marked on the map by a dot smaller than this -> . And that’s pretty small. 7 miles later, and with not one car having passed I arrived, feeling like Captain Cook. Within a few minutes it became apparent that although there were lots of rather nice houses, they all appeared to be Holiday Homes, and a few knocks later there was no one around to give me a spade to dig myself out. Obviously not peak holiday season. But lone and behold an open garage alongside the last home in town seemed too good to be true.
“I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I unfortunately drive a Toyota…”
20 minutes later Malcolm and I rode into the campsite in his Land Rover. One of those random instances in ones life when you meet a bloke from Sheffield in a tiny Kiwi village miles from anywhere, who although working on restoring a 1931 Raleigh sports car didn’t mind driving a few miles down the road to pull out a British tourist who’d got his Toyota Priaria lodged in 2cm of mud. With more torque than Byker chav we were pulled from our puddle and on our way.
Thanks to Malcolm I was skiing the next day in Queenstown where I took my Level 2. This is supposed to mean that I can now turn. Now, I thought I could do this anyway, and confidently rode the chair lift up to the top as soon as I arrived. Not only being cold anyway, but also cold on the skis (after all it had been a few days since I had skied last), I fell straight off at the top of the chair lift, much to the early morning amusement of some 19 year old gappie joker chairlift operator and tried myself at the intermediate ski run. After descending to the bottom (90% of it on my rear end) I realised that a level 2 lesson was definitely required. By the end of the day I did that Intermediate run far more successfully and was jolly pleased with myself. Pat on the back man….
… more to follow about Milford Sound, and Dunedin tomorrow…
