Chapter 2 - July (Part Two)
The north island of New Zealand was good to us in many ways. It taught us many lessons about life, our aspirations and, more importantly, why all McDonalds should be self service. Ronald McDonald, pull your finger out, son. That was in the past now though. We made straight for our campsite, just outside of Picton. It was empty, obviously. See, there was always this lingering insecurity as to whether we could get away without paying the $10 or so fee the campsites often demanded. I know, I know. Paying for them was hardly bidding a fond farewell to our life savings, but just a trifle unnecessary. Usually, it was a case of filling out some forms, sticking some credentials on the dashboard and leaving the dosh in a box for an off-duty ranger to collect whenever he felt like it. Half the time though, we were always the only ones there though! Man wouldn't charge a lonely couple to camp one night simply amerced by some trees, would he? Thieving bastards. We didn't feel all to much like doing anything that day and after having some food we just kind of perched and spoke. Truth be told, we were low. Frustrated a little bit by our lack of direction. We spoke a lot about home and, as we did in Auckland several weeks ago, whether or not we were cut out for this. We were situated basically on a beach front with some snazzy old walks either side of us. We were once again weirded out by this one chap at the beach on his own, walking around with his hood up and patrolling the shores. The eeriness was reoccurring. The quiet was deafening. Perhaps we were both just paranoid. He eventually scuttled off but was the very essence of our discomfort. We longed for a bit of company but when we got it we instantly wished that we were alone again. All a bit of a pickle, really. Nonetheless, we slept okay and geared up for the next day.
Whilst on the ferry, we were told of some earthquake damage to one of the main state highways, thus making our semi-routine trip down the east coast a now six hour inland quest. We still didn't have a great deal of direction but decided upon heading to Christchurch, the biggest city in the south island. The drive was easy on the eyes but not on my feet. We drove for hours and hours, praying for a respectable town that we could pull over in to freshen up. Bafflingly, there was hardy such a reward. The route was scattered with tiny farming villages, motels and vineyard which, as admirable as they are, did little in the way of helping us. The civilisation of the country is very much city heavy, we learnt that all too well upon driving into Christchurch. It’s not like it’s overwhelmingly busy but enough to wind you up when you’ve been roaming traffic-free for the best part of four hours. Some of the sights we saw on the way there, such as the Nelson Lakes, were fantastic, especially when the mountains were sprinkled with snow caps. It was completed different gravy to our trip last year where the snow was trumped by the soaring sun. We drove through the heart of the country, exposing ourselves to some remarkable mountain ranges and some mortifying tailgaters. The multiculturalism and diversity of nationality makes driving in New Zealand like a bloody game of Mario Kart. Honestly, some people are infuriatingly slow and others will be doing 150kph through some of the dodgiest roads you ever will see. I half felt like chucking a banana skin out the window to witness the carnage that would unfold.
Upon entering Christchurch, we still had no idea where we would be staying. The afternoon was just about hitting the wrong side of three o’clock. I suppose the idea of us moving from place to place was to find somewhere that we felt we could eventually settle down in for the long term. It came swiftly to our attention that this would not be the place. We were always quick to cut the town some slack given its history with earthquakes and what not, notably the one that hit the region five years ago now and caused vast desolation. I always maintained how admirable it is that they have got on with life and played the hand they were dealt. Some of the innovation and graffiti art work is so quirky but it works and it gives the town a fresh identity. Quite frankly though, it looks like the earthquake hit last week. The place is still a wreck which makes basic tasks such as parking your flipping car a much more tedious task then it needs to be. Our frustration was boiling over. We spent time pondering before heading slightly out of town to a campsite which was essentially a coned off area of grass on the verge of over flooding. It was just crap. I had driven for almost seven hours that day and was as snappy as you like. Apparently, the whole Canterbury district was on the mend from some severe rain in the last couple of days. We banged our heads against a wall before decided that another Air BnB would be our most soothing option. It was fast becoming a pleasurable yet expensive alternative. Blah, blah, blah. We got our heads down and had a well earned rest.
We shot off early the next morning, leaving the city of traffic cones and fenced off rubble trailing in our path. We knew that we were bound for Queenstown but would have to stop several times on the way there. The mountains were towering larger and the snow getting deeper as we crept inland. It wasn't a refreshing sight for the realist inside of us but the sheer beauty of it warmed our hearts enough to keep us going. We settled on plonking the car at Lake Tekapo, a small town with some big, rocky spectators protecting the outskirts of the lake. The winter sun was kind to us yet the wind was crisp.
We settled on a campsite that was caked in snow. Initially you would think it wasn't such a good idea, but we didn't have a great deal of choice, truth be told. It started off a quiet spot for just us and the ducks but filled up gradually during the night, the first time we were in the presence of other actual campers. It was a refreshing change but not enough to save us from what was going to be our most horrid night thus far. This winter freeze completed ate away at us as the night matured. I was fully clothed, submerged by a duvet and numerous blankets, but it wasn't a worthy shield. I could not feel my feet all night. I felt so vulnerable and weak - emotional and distraught. Was this the great life experience that travelling would throw at us? By God, it made me want the comfort of my own home, that’s for sure. Amelia felt the exact same. It was genuinely baltic and we were lurching from one disaster to the next. We didn't break down or lash out at any point, we opted to clench on to the funny side of the situation. It was a gruelling couple of days for us whereby we were seeing breath taking sights that were being counteracted by this dread of dealing with life after the sun went down. The scales were rattling on balanced but gradually tipping towards homesick. The insecurity persisted. Sure enough we made it through the night at lake Tekapo and in what was becoming a consistent routine we disembarked as early as we could. We used our brand new, state of the art window cleaner which we plucked from the shelves of the Warehouse for a measly $7 to deal with the condensation. The standout problem in this scenario however was that the condensation itself had actually frozen, making the interior of our wagon essentially a freezer. We cursed and we cuddled, but we couldn't win. Nature made us look like right fools.
It should be acknowledged that even though we were foiled by negativity, our astonishment of the country rarely went away. I wouldn't say we were positive because the working and living opportunities in the south appeared thinner by the day. We were indecisive. We still are. Some people who come out here obviously thrive on the spontaneity of not knowing where to go or what to do. One thing that myself and Amelia have realised is that we certainly do like security. Why wouldn't you? That’s what it’s there for. People talk about security and a ‘comfort zone’ as if it has so many limitations to ones desire to be free - it doesn’t. Trust me. We weren't proving anything to anybody or to ourselves by lying in a car freezing our asses off. We were just suffering for the sake of a story to write home about.
We stayed one more night, this time in Twizel, before eventually reaching Queenstown - the holy grail for travellers in New Zealand's south island. Conquering Mt.Cook, the countries largest mountain, was the goal for the day. The base of it was snowed over (typically and obviously) therefore the walking route itself was unreachable. We did find ourselves some nice hikes though and were in the slightly chirpier knowledge that we’d have a proper bed and a roof over our heads that night.
Now, upon entering the proclaimed backpackers lodge, I asked myself several questions about my expectations of society. For £40 - what should I be attaining here? A shower that has hot water? Wi-fi that…works? Apparently I had my hopes set slightly too high and a sum of almost $100 gets you a bed, a sink and some irritable floorboards in the lonely town of Twizel. I probably sound like a pompous little rich boy. But, forty English pounds is genuinely a fair bit of dosh for next to nothing, is it not? This was the minimum price lingering over our heads that we’ve been needing to fork out constantly to live anywhere other then our car. It was a self inflicted crisis which we should probably have been more braced for. To be fair, money wasn't particularly an issue at this moment in time and I guess that we were usually relatively tired therefore acceptably unfazed by our lack of facilities.
It was this very evening that I decided to FaceTime home having not done so for a few days. And, well, to put it bluntly, I cracked. Fortunately I was only speaking to my Dad, however I poured my heart out, unleashing a barrel full of frustration that had been bubbling relentlessly. We had hardly been gone that long in the grand scheme of things, but life just didn't seem right. I whimpered and I stressed about how I longed to make my parents proud of me. He understood the scenario and dismissed my claim, expressing that they weren’t ever not going to be proud of me. Such a parent thing to say, am I right? Despite my insistence that we were homebound he encouraged us to take a more relaxed approach to our upcoming visit to Queenstown to clear our heads. It was a simple bit of advice but it was nice to hear from somebodies mouth other than our own. We spent so many days beforehand stuck in obscurity, not knowing what to do and where to go. Whether or not our lack of sanity was justified or whether or not we were simply being brainless.
On top of all this, the bottom of my foot was agonising as well. I had scored myself a pretty irritating blood blister right on the palm of my heel as a result of driving. See, I’m pretty sure that you’re meant to drive an automatic car using only one foot - hopscotching between stop and go. I’ve found myself treating the break like a clutch still, so my foot is constantly in an arched position and my heel wedged between peddle and ground. Alright, Sam. This isn't an episode of Casualty, mate. But indeed, even to this day as I continue writing my blog some weeks later, it still hurts like an absolute bitch. Ouch McOuchouch.
We woke the next morning with a slight grain of comfort etching into our minds. I couldn't manage to convince myself that this comfort was genuine. It didn't hinder my time in Queenstown at all nor did it stop me looking forward to it, but I knew that we would be moving on again before we knew it and be stuck in the same cauldron of insecurity. We had to laugh, we had to enjoy ourselves but we had to make some decisions.
Right, anyway, we left Twizel. My foot crisis was tittering on seriously uncomfortable but we made the two or so hour trip with ease. Saying that, the car did annoyingly get a chip in the windshield after a small stone ricocheted off the dreary road and into the glass. Absolutely classic, to be fair. Bloomin’ typical. It niggled at me a bit, but I soon got over it. We had fond memories of Queenstown but I was braced for a slightly less exciting couple of days without the death defying bungee jumps and shotover jets. Sure, Queenstown is called the adrenaline capital of the world, but it ain’t cheap. Nonetheless, we had our eyes on a few geeky tours and were keen to take in the atmosphere in this town riddled with seasonal skiers and snowboarders. It was almost like we didn't get the memo about the dress code - beanie hats, the biggest coat you can find and an annoying personality.
We arrived at our accommodation which was better than expected. Our room had a glorious mountain view and smelt like donuts. The holiday park that we were at was pretty empty due to the nature of the season, lots of skiers out all day and back late for a kip. We were happy and content. We spent the first day parading through the brisk streets, turning a blind eye to the chalkboards trying to flog last minute boat cruises and day tours. We plonked for the less conventional shop, Cookie Time, Amelia’s favourite place for all her synthetic, milk fuelled fantasies. It’s a quirky, happy place, run but what I can only describe as many pretty blonde girls with throbbing red lipstick and about 12 braincells to share between them. Nah, that’s harsh. I was only joking. I will say that they all have a striking visual similarity, so much so that the management must discriminate on employment big time. In fact, I noticed that being young, hip and good-looking does a lot for those seeking employment in the hospitality trade in Queenstown. It seems pretty brutal. I felt particularly bad for this one chap working in Cookie Time who was grafting his ass off while these four girls, laughing and giggling away, were doing sod all. ‘Oh, I’m doing promo’ one girl said in a pompous manner as she paraded around with a polaroid camera while he pleaded for a bit of help. My word, you should have seen this guys face. He’d heard it all before and he was pissed off, man. I saw it all over the place; cafe’s, Fergburger, the lot. I’m all for the town having a chilled out vibe, but work is work, wherever you live. I know what you’re thinking. Sam, you must be fun at parties, mate. Complete and utter fun sponge I reckon. A solid 9.6 on the boring scale, at least. Nah, i’m not that bad. Regardless, I got wound up by exploitation in the workplace, whether it’s at home or the other side of the world.
Anyway, having scored herself a pretty dandy milkshake and cookie combo, Amelia and I trotted over to the lake front to watch the rest of the day titter out. We stopped off at my favourite little Lord of the Rings shop on the way back through, purchasing some teabags with vintage pictures of Bag End and Bilbo Baggins on them. I don’t even drink tea. I’m a simple man though. I see a hobbit hole, I fork over the money. Cha-ching. I was positively overwhelmed with my purchases, chuffed as you bloody like.
We actually booked a Lord of the Rings location tour for the next day. Um, disclaimer, if you don’t like the epic work of the prestigious Sir Peter Jackson, I suggest you cast your attention several paragraphs down. Oh, and grow a heart while you’re there. I won’t actually say too much about it, albeit that is was the only interesting thing we actually did in town. We were picked up by our guide who told us that he hadn’t seen the films up until about nine months ago. Hold your horses, they came out about sixteen years ago, lad. And you’re from New Zealand!? Take a long hard look in the mirror, son. Anyway, upon picking up the other eight or so people, we embarked on our five hour tour. You know the old cliche whereby popular consensus suggests that it’s the people who make experiences all the more fruitful rather then the place itself? Yeah, nah, that isn’t true. Our companions for the trip did my head in. All of them were genuinely dis-interested. There was a family of three, Australian n’all - one little kid and his parents. The little shit (excuse my Australian) got a cheap laugh out of the rest of us early on about his endeavour to go for a McDonalds rather then be on this very tour. He said it once, then again and again and again. His parents were absolutely rooting for him, adamant that he was the best thing since the great barrier reef and howling at his smart arse remarks. A cataclysmic start to the tour. The other guys weren't too bad but didn't have a monkeys what was happening. One of them was Dutch, one just there to take photos and the other more interested in the weather forecast.
I won’t bore you about the locations from the film that we saw firsthand but it was really cool to experience them in person. The tour guy lacked a natural passion for the trilogy but was informative nonetheless. He clicked on to the fact that I was a bit of an anorak early on and looked to me for answers to his pretty easy questions throughout the duration, knowing full well that the others were miles away. Truth be told, most of his ‘exclusive’ knowledge was off the behind the scenes DVD which I had watched religiously through my teenage years and beyond. Can’t fool Samwise, mate. The tour itself wasn't entirely LOTR driven as he touched on the general history of Queenstown quite a lot, provoking a livelier reaction from the halfwits in the minivan then necessary. The father to the Australian kid was devoted to taking pictures of houses that can be found around any rural part of the country. Idiot. I’m starting to sound a bit condescending again, but it was good fun. We stopped off for a picnic half way through and I drank a cup of tea for the first time in a about two years. I sheepishly asked for one sugar which was a bland mistake. The atmosphere was really nice and subdued though. I wouldn't do it again because, well, there would be no point, but it was a cracking little day out.
After the tour had finished we got dropped in the town centre and were on the hunt for some grub. We stuck with what we knew, pizza and tap water. The restaurant we decided upon, called ‘The London’, was a firm favourite of ours from last year, based almost entirely on the fact that the prices weren't completely eye watering. The food was fine, I guess. Given that we had been dining exclusively off the basics for weeks, it was a rewarding treat. Our server was from England and adopted the character of cringey, wanderlust enthusiast pretty well. While taking our order and bringing our food out, she managed to talk almost entirely about herself and her travelling plans for the future. We well and truly did not give a monkeys, but whatever keeps them happy. Overall, a good, productive day out and food that didn't taste like cardboard. Ideal.
To be honest, theres not much more to report from Queenstown, chaps. As I said, we were still in deep thinking mode and weren’t all too willing to haul ourselves off of anything for a bit of adrenaline. We sat at the lake front for periods of time while I skimmed some stones now and again. Basically, the kind of activities that children were doing back in the year 1356. My, how we’ve evolved. Oh yeah, we did get one of the infamous Ferg Burgers each as well. The iconic (Queenstown exclusive) burger chain reels in a jaw dropping amount of people on a daily basis. Truth be told, the burgers aren’t REALLY that amazing. The wait to get one of these bad boys can legitimately be up to about an hour but the sheer size of them makes them desirable. So yeah, that happened. I got annoyed by another female employee just waltzing around outside, chatting to the young and beautiful in her work clobber.
What else happened? Ah, yes. I actually saw a competitive game of rugby taking place, which was a first. I think I wrote some swashbuckling theory about the kiwis not actually playing rugby in the other blog, so trace your memory back and sneer in derision at everything I wrote, if you will. It was actually a pretty big deal, a regional final, I think. Man wasn't dressed for the occasion to watch the full 80 minutes, but it was nifty little experience. The crowd was pretty big and the backdrop absolutely glorious, mountains and all. I tell ya, if I got to play footy in that environment during my youth I would have surpassed Ronaldo. Shame, really.
Okay, we were well and truly done with Queenstown. We packed up our stuff, devoured some mini pancakes, topped up the car and made for the west coast. Before embarking on the west coast, we did actually sidestep inland, staying one night in Wanaka. It didn't take us long to feel the grim isolation once more though, ten minutes out of town and we were more lost than the lost boys. Siri was good company though. He might actually chirp up once every 40 minutes to remind us that we had to keep going straight for the next 63 miles. I had a smashing friend in him.
So that concludes July, folks. It was a difficult old month, marred with bad news with slender rays of sunshine now and again. There were tears, strange men and lots of petrol stations. Not in that order. We comprehensively found out that living and becoming settled was going to be harder then we ever imagined. Not necessarily because opportunities are few and far between but because work here largely dictates your lifestyle. You either work for three hours a morning, clean hostel dormitories and laze around for the rest of the day. Work your 35 hours a week to barely tread water. Or, you work religiously on a farm for six days a week for three months so you can accumulate enough money to go again and do as you wish before needing to do the same again. Truth be told, neither of the three given scenarios are jumping out at us. Our priorities are all over the place but we’re optimistic that August may well bid us greater fortune or perhaps a conclusive decision. Who knows, eh. We certainly don’t. Oh, my barnet and facial hair are still a monstrosity, thus the persistent hat wearing.
Until next time,
Samwise
