Abel & Willing

North of Kaikoura, the road and the coastline flirted like teens until the dominating terrain of the ‘Marlborough Sounds’ distracted the courtship, and we cut across to ‘Picton’. Being the marine gateway to the south island, and thus by definition (we assumed), a major port, it was a pleasant surprise as to what ‘Picton’ was actually like. By the low population (under 5000), and lack of gross developments, its simple threshold status seems never to have been surpassed, and it remains beautifully true to its surroundings of rainforest and golden coves.

Our unexpected appreciation of the area led to lunch and a short wander, and though we’d have liked to stay longer, all of us knew that another destination was calling. The distance to ‘Nelson’ was short, but the roads were procrastinating, so we didn’t arrive until early evening. This reduced our exploration to a hunt for the nearest decent meal, and we never saw more of the ‘world’s most art-deco city.’ Instead, when morning came, we journeyed away from the city and towards ‘Abel Tasman National Park.’

The road came to rest at a tiny bohemian-like village called ‘Marahau’, that held the keys for exploration in the park in the form of kayaks and water taxis, and sheltered a fleet of wood-carving herbalists, whose artistry was displayed in a makeshift gallery.

The park offers some of the best walking tracks & beaches in New Zealand, with an infinite supply of golden sand, perfect blue waters, rainforest interior, and limestone caves. The most appealing way of exploring the area was a 2-day kayak tour. This involves roaming the waters and resting on beaches during the day, feeding from barbeques, and sleeping through the nights under the watch of the stars. We imagined that it would be an amazingly relaxing getaway, and look forward to visiting the area again to try it. Unfortunately, our time was now finished in the south island. After only an inadequate wander on one beach, a drink in the café, and a chat with a hippy, we were forced to return to ‘Nelson’, drop back the car, and board the smallest plane I’ve ever been on. We thanked the heavens that the flying conditions looked perfect, and put our trust in ‘Air New Zealand.’

We used the last of the weekend to relax with my parents, and show them around the local area. Then it was back to work for us, and a little trip to ‘Rotorua’, ‘Hamilton’, and ‘Hobbiton’ for them. They joined us again on Tuesday evening, racing back from their new adventures outside Auckland, for a culinary seafood adventure at our place. The next evening they returned the favour, by taking us to the ‘Orbit’ restaurant at the Sky Tower, and we toasted our travels in New Zealand. Similar to the hellos that were said two weeks prior, our goodbyes took place before work commenced, and once again the moment seemed unreal. It was a different style on this occasion, but denial was undoubtedly the same culprit. It had become so normal for them to be living just down the road, popping over for dinner, or meeting us in town, that I’m sure we didn’t want to believe the truth was going to be a 24hr flight away again.

For many years now, I have considered my parents as friends more than guardians. This is not solely attributed to my independence, or my father’s immortal immaturity (don’t ever change dad), but due to the relationship that exists between us. True to any friendship, there were moments on the trip when fighting was imminent and distance was tempting, but on the whole, it’s a holiday I’d happily repeat again and again. The only possible problems would arise from our livers and hearts in attempting to cope with all the alcohol and fry-ups.

3 is a Magic Number

Wildlife has always played an important role in the attention connected to 'Kaikoura' (pronounced ‘Ki-ko-da’). Excavations have shown the area to have been a moa-hunter settlement approximately 1000 years ago - in fact, the largest moa egg (or pieces of) ever found (240mm long, 178 mm wide) was recovered from a burial site near the present ‘Fyffe House.’ This was built by George Fyffe after emigrating from Scotland in 1854 to join his cousin, and is one of the last remnants of that era. Robert Fyffe had previously established the first European settlement here in 1842, in form of a whaling station, and it remained the whaling centre for New Zealand until 1922. After the whaling ended, deer & sheep farming and agriculture flourished, until 1987 when once again the aquatic giants rose back into the spot-light, and the country’s first commercial whale spotting tours were established.

The reason for their abundance here is attributable to the convergence of warm and cold currents at the base of a steep continental shelf. When these mix, nutrients on the ocean floor are swept up into the light zone, attracting a vast array of organisms ranging in size from krill to the might blue whale.

Other guests to this nautical buffet often include dolphins (Hector, Dusky, Bottlenose, & Common), fur seals, orcas (killer whales), pilot whales, and the charismatic sperm whale. From the skies, attendees include shearwaters, fulmars, petrels, and the magnificent royal and wandering albatross.

Any of these contenders would be a welcome sight on a voyage, but the star of the show is undoubtedly the sperm whale. As nature can never be relied upon to put in an appearance when desired, it is recommended that you allow a few days in the town to increase your chances of a sighting. We arrived late on a Wednesday morning and immediately reduced our chances by foregoing the trips available that day, and instead opting to go the next morning. It wasn’t the whales so much that we were thinking of at the time, but hopes of perfect conditions.

We’d escaped the worst of the weather, but were still within range of the storm’s mighty breath. It carried across the land in a piercing cold wind that made the people haunch over, and whipped the sea into frenzy. However, the end of the tunnel was well lit. The locals assured us that a cold wind is always followed by a calm sea and a content sky. As ever, we remained optimistic.

The afternoon was now free to relax, but never being able to sit still when there is exploring to be done, we were up and out of our accommodation before the 50th wink was reached. We wrapped up in pretty much every layer available and headed out to the fur seal colony. We encountered our first furry colonial, not a step beyond the car park, and with each step after, we noticed another. The trick wasn’t so much in spotting them, but in trying to not spot the dead ones, being stripped of their layers by the opportunistic gulls that resided next door. Thankfully, the undeniable beauty of the area, made the truth about the seals more deniable; in the end we reasoned that some of them were just a little thin and other were just taking a little nap.

That night, we dined on the town’s namesake, ‘Kai’ – meaning ‘food’, and Koura meaning ‘crayfish.’ Expensive and ultimately unfulfilling in terms of appetite, it was a delicious traveller-necessity of visiting the area, and I’d recommend a half to anyone.
Morning arrived and our hopes had been rewarded. Not only were the skies a perfect blue, but the mountains had been blessed with a covering of snow. The backdrop to our day was looking perfect. Now, all we needed were the whales.

I was impressed with the set-up of this trip from the moment we walked through the reception, past the gift shop, and into the departure lounge with flat screen TVs - The business of whale watching was clearly fruitful. This was obviously aided by the distinct lack of competition and thus monopoly on the experience gained by only one company having Maori consent to operate.

We boarded our assigned vessel and sat back to watch the mandatory safety video, before enjoying a special effects feature that illuminated the dark world beneath the surface. This was coordinated with our boat’s progress away from shore and out over the ocean trench, upating us on how quickly the shelf was dropping away. From there on out, it was a question of waiting, enjoying the view, spotting albatross, and waiting for the call from above. Spotter planes are the bringers of light on this expedition, which is why bad weather has such an impact on the success of finding whales. When the call comes in, and the coordinates are relayed, it’s hands to rails, and top speed to the vicinity.

The first thing that you can see of the whale is the spray from its blowhole. Apparently, this can be seen from miles around, but I question whether if not using magnifying apparatus or the eyes of a hawk.

It appears as nothing more impressive than a floating log at first, and doesn’t really get more exciting for 90% of the rest of the time it’s in sight. The strange thing is the effect that these things have on you, when they’ve had enough fresh air and take another dive. It’s this moment, when the body arches, the head dips and the tail rises to curl majestically before slipping below the surface, that grabs your attention like a perfect sunset. This is the moment that is captured for posters, postcards, and imaginations around the world. It’s another one of those things in life when the penultimate moment is followed swiftly by the end of the experience; once the whale dives, it is unlikely that you’ll see the same once again in that trip (being champion athletes, these swimmers can hold their breaths for up to an hour). So with a flip of the tail, the whale provides a final salute to the world, and a wave more recognizable than the Queen’s.

Into Hot Water

Our hopes of aerial exploration were renewed the next morning with the idea of doing a flight around the glacial region, but once again the weather decided otherwise. We walked around town with one eye on the shops and one on the skies, but knew our chances of flying were lower than a Bin Laden's. We checked out the famous glass blowers, and saw some Kiwis (birds not humans) and tuataras (native reptiles), and then got back on the road. We’d decided that if the mountains were bringing down the rain, then we’d have to cut across country, and go beyond their reach.

The route across the south island at this point cut through a natural gap in the mountain range and consequently was a far straighter, easier, and faster drive than further south. It meant we arrived at the spa town, ‘Hamner Springs’ by early afternoon and had plenty of time to relax in the thermal pools.

This town strangely seemed to mark the furthest reaches of the rain as it was carried across the south island. The clouds approaching from the west looked dark, furious and unrelenting, but by the time they were above, their temperament had calmed, and only a light mist fell. If this pattern continued further east, then the future would be bright.

An Icy Reception

Heli-hiking on Fox Glacier was probably the main thing we were looking forward to doing on this trip to the South Island. It would be a first of many things for us: flying in a helicopter, seeing a glacier, and hopefully exploring some ice caves. When you’re looking forward to anything in life, you can’t help but picture how you think it might be. If you’re an optimist then this will always be perfect – perfect weather, perfect experience, and everything that you hope for. Unfortunately, the same curse that ridiculed our vision of ‘Mitre Peak’ in Milford Sound was back to taunt us again. Nothing personal; I've now discovered it's just an effect of meteorology and geography - the South-Westland lies in the path of a band of wind known as the ‘roaring forties’. Once this wind rises to pass the Southern Alps, it cools and drops its cargo as rain and snow. On the plus side, this is what feeds the Fox and Franz Josef Glaciers and keeps them in existence, but it doesn’t help much when trying to view them from a helicopter - our flight was officially cancelled.


In truth, once we’d seen the advent of rain, our desire to do the hike fell in a similar fashion. There was no point doing the trip, just for the sake of it, and we all knew that it would be miserable in the wet – especially considering the cost involved. No, it would have to remain on ‘the list’ for another day. However, just because the helicopters weren’t flying, didn’t mean we couldn’t take a peak at the base. No point, passing through the area without at least a glacial glance.


I’d previously only seen glaciers from the modest distance of the cruising altitude of a commercial aeroplane, or while snowboarding on top on one. Either way, it’s a little hard to properly gauge the monumental size of the things and thus appreciate how impressive they actually are. As well as the size, (13km long, 300m deep, and a vertical drop of 2600m) the glaciers of this region have a few extra attributes that separate them from those that reside elsewhere in the world: A high amount of snowfall on a nevés larger than cities, combined with basal sliding, and the incline, cause these glacier to have flow rates up to 10 times faster than most valley glaciers; amazingly the terminal face of Fox Glacier is just 300 metres above sea level, 20 km from the coast, and in the middle of lush rainforest. For these reasons, both glaciers are also easily accessible.

We left the car park with the simple desire to walk to the nearest view point and just see the glacier from afar, but once the beast was in sight, it beckoned us closer and we forgot about the rain. It looked massive from a distance, but was infinitely more impressive once we were standing beneath its jagged haunches and watching roaring white water burst forth from its mouth.


Once the rain had seeped through to the skin, we called it a day, and headed on up the coast. The plan was to stop at the next town as we knew how early people in these parts stopped serving dinner, but the first few options didn’t seem warm to outsiders. The only thing lacking was a banjo playing hick and the squeal of a pig. Dinner began to seem less important.


In the end our patience was rewarded, but our wallets were dented. Chosen for the fact there was a restaurant on-site, we stayed at a posh out-of-town place near Hokitika called ‘Stations Inn’ and had the best dinner and night's sleep yet.

Post-Haast

The route from Queenstown to the west coast has to be one of the most beautiful in the country. The road starts with a winding ascent to panoramic glory, takes a stroll amongst the hills, and then opens out to crystal lakes and never-ending mountains. It's the sort of journey that would never bore; offering a different experience with every subtle change of weather, season, or time of day. Breaks in the clouds creates spotlights from heaven that illuminate different aspects of the scenery like a gallery of the gods.

Our original plan was to drive straight through this area and make it to the coast before nightfall, but our delayed departure from Queenstown meant we needed to find accommodation sooner. It was this twist of fate that led us to 'Makarora'. It wasn't so much what was at this village that made it so special, but what wasn't. It was pure & peaceful, and oh-so relaxing. An occasional crisp breeze swept down from the mountains and cleansed the soul, while the surrounding greenery breathed good health. If we'd been road tripping without time-constraints, it's the sort of place we'd have stayed for at least a week just to revitalise in doing nothing.

The holiday park was practically empty when we arrived so we had the choice of two dozen 'A-frame' cabins of variant degrees of luxury. Lucie and I chose basic, whereas our more mature travellers on their gap month picked something a little more upmarket that included a bathroom. By the time we made it to the restaurant at the grand old time of 7:30pm, the chef had already left for the day so we were left with only what our caffeine-fuelled waitress could muster. This turned out to be a feast of toasted sandwiches, microwaved-quiche, and round after round of wholesome booze. It seems amazing that a location that had so little could win our hearts so quickly and provide so many warm memories.

The next morning we fuelled up on fry-up, and were back on the road early, giving plenty of time to get to Fox Glacier in time for our afternoon ‘heli-hike’. Soon after ‘Haast Pass’, we made our first stop of the day to check out the famous ‘Blue Pools’ of Mount Aspiring National Park. Although only a 15 minute walk from the road, these pools felt like stumbling onto another plane of existence. The contrasting colours are almost too rich to be anything other than a dream. Deep azure blue glacial water gathers in light-grey cradles of rock. The surrounding forest is covered on every surface with life and colour that appears prehistoric and preserved. The water is so impossibly clear that fish appear suspended in air.

The only thing that contradicts the lost atmosphere is the quality of the bridge that crosses the river and how well-kept the paths are. Like some route through a theme world of an amusement park giving people a glimpse of the past. We wandered around the waters, skimmed stones, and soaked up the surroundings, before reluctantly acknowledging the movement of time, and the need to move on. From this point on it was pretty much all downhill. The valley floor widened and the mountains on either side faded into the distance before meeting the ocean and disappearing beneath the surface. When we faced a similar fate upon reaching the town of ‘Haast’, the road turned sharply north and we followed the coast towards glacier country.

Demon Facing

When something scares you, a series of reactions occur that prepares your body for dealing with the threat. This is called the “fight-or-flight” response. A part of the brain called the hypothalamus activates the sympathetic nervous system and the adrenal-cortical system, releasing a flood of adrenaline, noradrenaline, and dozens of other hormones into the body. These cause a number of reactions: breathing speeds up to feed the muscles with oxygen; your heart rate increases to deliver the oxygen; stored sugar is released providing energy; digestion is inhibited reducing unnecessary blood flow; muscles tighten; sweat glands activate; and your pupils dilate allowing as much light as possible to enter and increasing your sensory awareness. You become a coiled cobra poised to strike, and remain in this state until the danger has passed. However, should the threat linger, then the body is placed under tremendous stress by attempting to maintain this position of action. If the threat is not immediate, and is only based on an idea of what is in the future, then the fear can be diminished with denial and a concentrated change of subject. However, fears that are not faced are placed deep in the subconscious where they fester and grow in strength every time the thought of the threat returns. These fears become a person’s demons.

I witnessed my first bungy jump when holidaying in Greece as a kid. A crane had been erected on the main beach providing a platform for any would be dare-devils and a stage for others to watch. In the space of two weeks, I watched 10s of people take the plunge. Each scream cut deeper into my mind and I felt a terrifying connection with every person that couldn’t jump. But I couldn’t look away; I was fascinated. Why were some people able to jump and others not? What compels someone to leap from safety & trust a latex cord? Was it something missing from their mind or missing from their life?

Over the years, my fear gained in strength, but it wasn't until I left the UK to start travelling that the official countdown began. I knew that New Zealand, being the bungy capital of the world, would be most appropriate field on which to battle my demon, and it would only be a matter of time before I arrived. Meanwhile, every traveller’s tale I read about bungy jumping caused the same reactions of “fight-or-flight”. I’d have to put an article down intermittently when reading it, to let my heart beat ease, and my breathing return to normal. I felt sick just thinking about it. Whether you can say it had developed into a fully fletched phobia by this point is arguable. My only strength was that I knew my imagination was far more terrifying than anything real. When I was a kid, standing at the bottom of the Eifel Tower, I became nauseous just thinking about climbing it, and yet when I reached the top, I was completely comfortable leaning over the edge. In fact I felt compelled to jump. I’ve always felt this desire when being at great heights - telling myself that “I could make it; it would be OK”. Then when the urge becomes really strong, base fear of survival kicks in and I physically pull myself back from the edge and breathe. This is a form of acrophobia – it is the fear of jumping, not the fear of the height itself.

Ordinarily, the best way to face a fear is on impulse - a spontaneous action with the minimum amount of time to think about it beforehand. However, thanks to the seemingly inexplicable popularity of this type of venture, advance bookings are essential. There was no mobile reception in the protection of Fjordland National Park, but I knew this wouldn't last long on the journey back to Queenstown. For that reason, I handled my mobile phone like a remote detonator, knowing that it would be activated at any moment and I'd have to make the call. Booking this early should guarantee it being possible to jump, but it would also provide around 15 hours of agonising mental torture beforehand.

- When someone commits suicide by jumping from a height, it’s not usually the impact that kills them; it’s the heart-attack in the fall -

When that moment arrived, the polite greeting of the agent sounded like sinister mockery of my tortured mind. This messenger of Beelzebub, then explained that there were no jumps tomorrow morning due to training (“Why do they need further training? What's happened?”), so the earliest was at 12:00. An extra 3 hours had been added to my sentence. I dabbled with the temptation of using this as justification of not going through with it but I was tired of running from this. The longer it was, the weaker I became, and the stronger the fear. And so, it was booked. By reading out my credit card numbers like a prisoner ID, I'd confirmed Lucie and I would be leaping into nothing, sometime after high-noon. That's right, despite having no real desire to do it, and thus less motivation to face this fear, somewhere along the road to perdition, Lucie conceded to love or lunacy and agreed to join me.

- News Headline: Traveller dies whilst girlfriend and parents look on -

From the moment of hanging up the phone, to noon the next day, bursts of fear crept over my skin like an army of spiders. Temporary moments of blissful daydreaming were obliterated with remembrance of my impending doom and the feeling of sickness returned. The beers at dinner had helped kill some of those thoughts, but the effect of alcohol wears off if not replenished. When morning arrived, I was exhausted through living the moment of jumping again and again in my sleep. Lucie was holding up better than me and had only really shown signs of fear during the night when darkness and the nightmares took over. I’d been running hyper on adrenaline for 14 hours now and felt completely drained of life-force. At breakfast, I’d barely been able to eat. I had to coax my stomach into working again with tiny portions of food before it could handle a decent bite. I put 8 sugars in my tea to supply easily digestible energy and then moved onto the canned energy drinks. I’d become a tortured hostage to my own ambition.

We persuaded our bodies to actually get on the bus to the jump-site by reasoning that we didn’t have to jump at any point; this was our decision. Besides, we’d get most of the money back if we didn’t do it, so there was no reason not to go. On the way, we both had moments of clarity when we realised we were actually on the way to doing it.

The minibus slowed as we passed the Kawarau Bungy Jump – the first commercial jump-site in the world and no slouch at 43 metres in height. The driver allowed us all gasp at the thought, and then told us we would be jumping from nearly 3 times this elevation. “I want to go home.”

Our journey was delayed on-route by some explosives clearing an overhang above one stretch of road – it seems everyone wanted the build-up to last as long as possible. The only way to the ‘Nevis’ site is along a private road that winds around the hills and takes you further and further from safety. When the road opens out and the jump-pod first comes into view, it’s like stumbling onto a James Bond villain’s lair. No sane person would conceive such a thing. A garage suspended on wires 134 metres (440 feet) above a raging river. To quote Mr. John Patrick McEnroe Jr, “You cannot be serious”.

Suited and booted, harnesses on, and liability signed away, we all made our way out to the jump pop courtesy of a shopping trolley on a pulley system. My ass-hole could’ve made diamonds of coal at this point.

The first thing the instructor said upon my arrival was, “How are you feeling?” There was no point in lying, my emotions couldn’t be any clearer unless they were running down my trouser legs. “I’m f*****g terrified!” To which he replied, “Good, the more scared you are, the better the rush will be.” Well, that’s it, in that case, I’m about to embark on a trip to the moon.

- Bungy jumping has been successfully used to keep heroin users clean from their habit -

Stepping into the pod was like entering a new world. I couldn’t believe the buzz in the air as everyone was in different stages of either getting ready to jump, or buzzing from their experience. A blend of punk rock and new metal was screaming from a stereo and feeding the electricity in the air. Instead of feeling sick, now, as the adrenaline was pumping, I felt exited. I knew I would jump. I was actually never afraid of jumping; I was petrified that I physically wouldn’t be able to jump - afraid of failing myself. The order was determined by weight so being about average, I was set to jump about halfway. Ankle straps were secured in place and then I made my way through the gate, into the jump area, and then into ‘the chair.’ Sitting in the chair is when most people give in to panic and pull out. It’s too much to be that close and not being able to jump straight away. This is the moment when they point out you are being filmed and ask you to smile for the camera. I always was good at smiling when nervous. I was then ushered to the edge, taking penguins steps forward due to the ankle straps, and forever paranoid of tripping and falling ahead of schedule into the abyss. The fact you have to position yourself with toes just over the edge makes it impossible not to look down. One last look at Lucie for a good bye photo and the countdown begins. I don’t remember hearing it, but I remember the moment of jumping. Looking straight ahead, I lent forward (so there was no going back), bent my legs and pushed myself out in the most elegant swan dive I could muster. And then, silence. Falling so quickly and none of it seemed real. A flood of endorphins, opiates, & dopamine were released into the blood and brought about euphoria. After 8 and a half seconds of freefall the bounce comes. There is no sudden jerk like you’d expect. In fact, it’s not even noticeable that you’re slowing down, until you realise you are going back up again. And then the relief intensifies “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. I f*cking did it.”

As soon as I got back to the top, Lucie was there with open arms. “It’s incredible. You’re going to love it” were some of my first words. Soon after that it was her turn. She wasn’t blessed with the nervous smile that did me so proud. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone looking so scared in my life, but she jumped without hesitation when the moment came, and gave the loudest scream I’d ever heard. When she returned to the pod, we must have looked like two loved up drug fiends; nervous hand movements, lots of hugs and kisses, huge grins, and both full to the brim with chemicals – it’s a lot harder getting the high when it’s natural, and it doesn’t get much harder than this. The ‘Nevis Highwire’ is the 2nd highest bungy jump in the world. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Showering in Sound

In the thousand words that each postcard picture of Milford Sound paints, there is no mention, not even a hint, of one very simple fact. It rains here 180 days a year - nearly half the year. And that's not just a subtle hint of water sprinkled lightly from the heavens; it's a deluge averaging 5.5m a year. Unsurprisingly, the day we chose to visit happened to be when they were expecting 120mm of freshly squeezed cloud juice. However, hope was not lost, (we were told) the best time to see Milford Sound is when it's raining, as 90% of the waterfalls disappear within 30 minutes of the rain stopping. This was not a timing that we would be able put to the test.

The only way to Milford Sound by road is via Homer Tunnel. Named after Harry Homer (discoverer of the Homer Saddle), it was dug entirely by hand and pick, between 1933 & 1953, and provided much needed relief to a Depression struck local population.

On one of those good days of the year, when you emerge from Homer Tunnel, the world drops away before your eyes into 'Cleddau Canyon', providing a spectacular sight and the sensation of falling into another world. When people first made this journey, they would have been entranced with every metre covered, as the landscape revealed more and more beauty from behind curtains of rock and rainforest. When they completed the descent and reached the shore, they would have seen a near perfect reflection of 'Mitre Peak' in the serene water. It would have seemed like finding a lost world – the only things missing were a bunch of dinosaurs, followed by a fat old Englishmen, a Chaos theorist, two palaeontologists, and some annoying kids.

Driving through the tunnel, you can’t help but notice the rough and unfinished interior surfaces, and thus how natural looking they appear. It’s like some geological phenomena has caused this portal through the mountain to open, or ‘Moses’ had been in New Zealand and was feeling productive. Water flows over the jagged surface and forms small waterfalls at the side of the tunnel adding to the mysterious atmosphere. When we reached the light at the end, the low cloud and thick moisture in the air reflected the light to cause a momentary blinding glare that was replaced by slow revelation of the surroundings. The mountains in front appeared, just as the ones behind were consumed. The rock walls stretched up to disintegrate in the clouds and fall back down as waterfalls.

It was no surprise, when we arrived at the shore, that there was no perfect reflection of 'Mitre Peak' in the water’s surface. We were slightly surprised that we couldn't even see it. What we could see was a dozen different boats docked and ready to be boarded next to a terminal building that was larger than a Greek airport. Not exactly being prepared for this weather, we had to purchase four of the finest cagoules the shop offered before proceeding further. After this, we used the voucher we’d picked up at the Hollyford cabins, and waited for our departure time on the ‘Encounter Nature’ tour. This was a longer, more relaxed option, involving more ‘participation’ and allowing a ‘closer’ look at nature. In retrospect a prolonged trip in the pouring rain that involved going under one waterfall may not have been the best option at that time.

Bathing in nature, I thought back to what Billy Connolly said when travelling around New Zealand – “there is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.” Our clothing was definitely not appropriate, but the scenery here was fantastic. Breathtaking waterfalls brought life to every surrounding. The runoff for the entire country seemed to be cascading down the sides to fill the valley. A waterfall in any setting is worthy of a quick snapshot, but these demanded multiple clickings. The only thing is, it was only a matter of time, before the action of drying our camera lenses became too repetitive so we sought shelter inside, and the warmth of a cup of soup. We still ventured outside for outstanding moments of beauty, sights of sealions, or to get drenched under one waterfall, but the rain was swiftly washing away our enthusiasm for the voyage. It’s the sort of experience that has got better with time, as wet memories are dried up and the beauty of the photos takes over. I’m still keen to return one day and get that perfect picture that we see on so many postcards, but I’m glad we saw it in all it’s wet glory.

Queenstown again

When you suffer from sleep depravation, nothing seems real, everything is distant - like watching TV with the sound turned off. I’m not sure if it was because of the lack of sleep I’d had the previous night, or if it was the shock of looking up and seeing my parents smiling and waving at us, but it just didn’t seem real when we first saw them again. Or maybe it was because I had gotten so used to only seeing them in photos and over a webcam, that all it took was the glass of the lobby window separating us, to make it seem like looking at a moving photo. Well, that, the inane grins on their faces, and the ecstatic waving you’d associate with a one-armed window cleaner, sponsored by "Redbull". I’m sure they were thinking similar thoughts as we looked just the same.

For the next 24 hours, it was like I was living 60 minutes behind life; it wasn’t until after I left my parents, that I started to believe I had just seen them again. "Did I speak to them? Did I manage a conversation? Am I talking out loud? Man, I need some more sleep."

The day passed with the simplicity of extended confusion and the anticipation of waiting to see them again. By the time, I'd finished with work for the day and met them in front of the harbour, I was well and truly ready for a holiday. We guided them through the immense 300 metre distance back to our apartment and asked them about their travels so far. It was strange to be discussing “travelers’ tales” with my parents, and for once, not being the teller. We then took them to dinner at our favourite Japanese restaurant before leaving them at their hotel, and returning to our apartment and blissful unconsciousness.

We left the airport in our newly hired Subaru Legacy, sped down memory lane into Queenstown, and went straight to “Ferburger”. When my parents first confirmed they were coming to New Zealand, I knew I would have to introduce them to these monstrous burgers. Plus, it was just a good excuse for me to return.

The sun was looking favourably on us now, but the forecast was less encouraging so we decided to start the journey to 'Milford Sound' a day early. Stopping en-route for coffee and Kodak breaks, we reached our intended accommodation in Hollyford Valley just in time for dinner. Described as quaint, beautiful, and historic, it was a museum of cabins from the 1930s with wood burners for heating and insects for companionship. Dinner commenced the moment I stepped out of the car and the first little sucker announced to his friends there was new blood in town. Thankfully, mum's expression of initial impression left no doubt over our desire to stay, and the owner bade us farewell with a smile and a blessing.


We now had no choice but to backtrack 50 km to the nearest alternative accommodation, without knowing if they had any availability, or have any mobile reception to call them. There was also the important factor of whether we would arrive in time for a restaurant to still be serving food, so we had to move quickly. However, when you have 4 tourists in hire car, who are armed to the teeth with photographic technology, there is always something to stop and have a look at on the way.

As it turned out, our timing of arrival was impeccable; there were a couple of rooms left, the majority of the dinner guests had finished and vacated the dining room, and the French chef had just packed up to leave. True to his nation, he surrendered to our orders easily, and swiftly returned to the kitchen to cook up some dinner.