Good as gold, cuzzie bro....

Winter's coming in. Colder in Lyttelton. Had to buy socks. Have to wear the socks. Don't like socks anymore. Lyttelton is separated from Christchurch by a long tunnel (one of nine in New Zealand, and apparently the cleanest. Kiwi bus drivers are full of interesting facts). As soon as you come through the tunnel you enter the bubble of Lyttelton. The Lyttelton Bubble. The bubble is nice - Lytteltonians (Lytteltoners? Lytteltonites?) are warm and friendly people. The main street is full of coffee shops and quirky little boutiques, busy enough on a weekend but quiter during the week. The town is wedged between the sea and the hills, so most pleasant strolls afford amazing views over the bay and to the cloud topped mountains on the other side. A cracking setting for a couple of months of money making.....money money making.

Big Rob Whiteford made a great appearance, and we did a grand turismo of some of the south island hotspots. We saw the Pancake Rocks at Punakaiki on the west coast. They are a natural formation of blowholes, plunge pools and rocks that look like hundreds of pancakes stacked one on top of the other. Imagine the Giant's Causeway, except good. No major disappointments here. The Pancake Rocks knock the Causeway into a cocked hat. Impressive, and daunting looking as the huge waves gallop down the eroded corridors and crash into the caves below with an echoing thud. Franz Josef glacier was equally impressive, although I think that maybe the safety barriers are a little too far away from the glacier. You could get a bit closer. Bit more. Bit more. Supposedly what tends to happen is that bits of ice will break off from the terminal face, unleashing the torrent of meltwater behind it and drowning the dicks who thought it would be a great idea to get a bit closer. Dicks. I still think we could have gone closer.

A Marlborough cycling wine tour was suitably fruity and astringent. Nigel the Knob hired us bikes, his parting words 'I'd like them back in one piece'. Cue wheelies, stoppies, wheelspins and huge skids on the gravel drive on the way out of there. Compared to the wineries in Argentina, New Zealand wineries are very polished and slick. I think there's less of the rustic charm, more in the way of organisation and marketing - hence the free tasters all across the board. Woody got a puncture by the third winery. Too many wheelies, Woody. So Nigel had to come out and swap the bikes over and he was a bit of a knob about it all. Hence the nickname. Good wineries though - they're very thorough, the Kiwis. A 'grape library' was a particular highlight - as many of the different varieties of grape as you can stuff in your mouth, and even a game of French petanque in between the rows of grapes. Attention to detail, well done you Kiwi wine makers.

Trooped down the west coast to see Jules, an old family friend. Jules runs a veterinary surgery, which is just on the other side of his driveway. In the morning we watched him open up a dog, pull the guts out, and then pull a big stone out of the guts, then put the guts back in and sew it up. Woody getting wired into the inapproprate photographs - the bloodier the better. Good for her, we'll get those framed and put up in the kitchen when we get back...

Checked out the Wellington International Ukelele Orchestra at The Harbourlight in Lyttelton. You've not seen ukelele until you've seen ten ukeleles combined in harmony, all playing Push It by Salt'n'Pepa. Genius. A thoroughly enjoyable evening of ukelele covers - bit of Outkast, bit of The Smiths, bit of Toto, bit of Hall and Oates. Bret McKenzie of 'Flight of the Conchords' fame cut his teeth in the band, and they had a similar brand of quirky comedy in between songs. Ukelele-ing and quirky comedy all under one roof....

One of the best things about being in New Zealand so far is the brilliant accent and everyday sayings that Kiwis have. 'Good as gold' is heard in the same context as 'nae bother' would be in Scotland. 'Sweet as' and 'choice' are great positive statements, and 'cuzzie bro' a brilliant alternative to 'pal' or 'mate'. It goes well with my favourite Kiwi saying 'box of fluffy ducks', meaning 'I'm very well', as in.....

"How are you today?"

"Ah, box of fluffy ducks, cuzzie bro..."

It can also be abbreviated to 'box of fluffies'. One to take home, I think. Met up with a clan of young Scots living in Lyttelton, including a childhood friend of Woody's who she hasn't seen in about 15 years. Neither of them knew the other was here, so you can imagine the screams of surprised delight when we met her in the bar she works. She has also been great in providing an inside lane for the New Zealand Job Hunt. It's a bit of strange experience trying to get back into the world of gainful employment after more than six months out of the game, but we've been really lucky with the people we've met and there are a few things going on. After only a couple of days of looking, Woody's got weekend work in a funky bar and I've managed to pick up some barista work - both in Lyttelton which is handy as hell. My cousin Anneli and her boyfriend Keith have very kindly let us stay on at their house on the hill for a couple of months. It's great to have a base this comfortable, and the fact that Anneli and Keith are possibly two of the world's most hilarious people gives us the feeling that the next couple of months in New Zealand really will be a box of fluffy ducks. A big box.

Kiwi go again...

Hey, where you from? Good to be back in New Zealand. Trying to learn how to speak english again properly. Properly again. Many a shopkeeper has met us with blank gazes as habit takes over asking for prices in Spanish and so on. For the first couple of days we really had to remind ourselves to say 'please' and 'thankyou' instead of 'por favor' y 'gracias'. We're definitely not in South America anymore, Toto. The prices of everything have told us that straight away - what it costs here to get a bottle of coke, two days before would have got us two ice creams and two juices, and probably a nice sit down. Another thing that'll take a bit of getting used to...

Four years ago we barely dipped a toe in exploring the North Island. This time we blasted through our previous stops of Auckland, Hamilton and bubbling Rotorua and headed straight for Taupo - beautifully situated in front of the snowcapped Mount Doom (Lord of the Rings) which can be seen on clear days over the immense Lake Taupo. We headed for Huka Falls, supposedly the number one natural tourist attraction in New Zealand, but neither of us had ever heard of it. On the way there we found a nice little natural hot spring spurting out into the Waikato River and we dipped in, a suitably volcanic New Zealand experience to kick things off. At the falls, thousands of litres of crystal clear water push their way through a narrow gorge, bursting out at the end like an advert for Opal Fruits or some kind of minty fresh Extra chewing gum. It is honestly one of the most delicious sights I've ever seen - so tempting to dive into the clear refreshing water, actually salivating at the sight of it.

Managed to drag ourselves away and continue on to the Honey Hive where we'd heard there were free tasters. Obligation to buy, shmobligation to buy. We began to disracefully take advantage of the dozen or so honeys (honies?) that were available for tasting. So much so that Lois, Honey Hive employee and general honeylover that she is actually slapped my hand and took some of the honey off my wooden tasting stick and put it back in the jar. "You'll make yourself sick like that." If you've ever seen Spiderman when Aunt May slaps away Willem Defoe's hand at the Thanksgiving table and he gives her a murderous stare, it was like that. But with more honey. " Well, bloody hell Lois I'll be the judge of that, don't you think. Yum yum yum give me that honey". It was good honey. Although I did feel a bit sick afterwards...

We enjoyed the Huka Falls so much that we returned the next day for a nice last look before heading up to the prawn park for a spot of prawn fishing. We sat crosslegged like a couple of old Japanese sages, waiting patient and zen-like for a bite, as the water gently rippled and there was not a sound but the wind and the soft breathing in and out, in and out. Patience. "Oh yeah, there's some shit goin' down at the end of this line, I can feel it. I've fuckin' got one! I've got one, I can feel him, the little bastard..." Only to pull up the line to see that the crafty little devil's taken my bait (cow heart) and I'm left with nothing but an empty hook and an empty bucket. Two and a half hours this process repeated itself until the master herself, little Woody, used her delicate touch and general love of prawns to hook a big blue pincered prawn from the depths and reel him into shore like Captain Quint to my Martin Brody - "We're gonna need a bigger bucket". We then ate that little prawn, ate him good and proper after they cooked him up for us with some lemon. There were Chinese families who'd obviously been there all day, who had a pile of cooked prawns at the end. Piles and piles of them. And us with only one. He was tasty though, little Shawn the Prawn.

Currently we're in Wellington, bottom of the North Island. Tomorrow we switch islands and head to Christchurch. Again, more familiar faces at the airport... Peace.

Haven't you got any Fanta?

.... and DangerMouse it is indeed. Always just started out with a little glass of red (for the antioxidants of course) and things just tended to escalate from there really. Mendoza - Argentina's premier wine region and a brilliant place for two scruffy scallywags to skip around the vineyards enjoying some of the finest wine this uneducated palate has ever sipped.

Our appreciation of Mendoza's greatest export began in typical classy fashion at a winebar called 'The Vines'. Me with my ever-present flipflops and holey yellow cotton shorts (the previous night's pyjamas no less) , and Woody, looking her usual ravishing self, but with an enormous ballpoint pen tattoo on her arm reading "No one on the corner has a swagger like me". And on the other hand of course there was the obligatory crudely drawn penis with the word 'GAY' written underneath. Just the sort of clientele that The Vines has been waiting for. Appearances aside, we were warmly welcomed into the winebar and presented with a menu, squinting through half shut eyes in preparation for the astronomical prices we expected. But nay, 'twas most reasonable and we sprung for a flight menu - five tasters of different Mendocinian wines. And delicious they all were - Woody favoured a juicy white despite her intolerance to it at home, me with a smoky red. Truth be told if I were ever to taste it again I probably wouldn't even recognise it, and the only reason I know it was smoky is because we had little notes so I knew what to look for. Still, it was delicious at the time and no doubt would be again, even if I didn't know it was the same one.

As we sat and giggled at how out of place we felt and thinking of different things we could say to the waiter - "Mate, have you got any Fanta?", "Can you top that up with Coke?", "Can I have some pizza flavoured Saladix?" (a hilariously named Argentinian cracker, most delicious in pizza flavour.) Woody carefully jotted down her taster's notes - a picture of a butterfly next to her favourite, and a loveheart next to the second favourite. We may possibly have been a bit drunk by the time we left because we were enthusiastically engaging the waiter in discussion of harvesting conditions, grape variety and soil composition, the details of which we'd completely forgotten on the doorstep. I also broke my flip flops on the way out the door. Damn you, flipflops. I love you, but I hate you.

Surprisingly, the waiter invited us back for a winetasting the next night. He said that there would be nice cheeses and bread, which was enough to sway us. We were on for it, so after a day strolling around Mendoza's many parks and plazas we headed back to The Vines for the tasting - offsetting the cost by not having any tea. The perfect setup for a night of drinking alcohol. As the winemaker described his six different wines - "You can taste the minerality, it's a stony..." me and Woody covertly stuffed our faces with some lovely herby cheese and soft bread. And that was tea... I'm not sure where I stand on the whole wine culture (drooling against a wall somewhere probably). I like the culture and I like the wine, but I don't know if it really needs analysing and complicating like that. Or at any rate I don't need that. Tastes good/tastes bad is about as far as I need to go, simpleton that I am. Words like 'astringent' just leave me cold. Mmm, astringent....

Morning hangovers are staved off with Fanta. i think I owe it to Fanta to say a little bit about Fanta. For the longest time I've craved Irn Bru, but in its absence I've sought comfort in the arms of another - Fanta. I think it's the most addictive drink I've ever tasted. It's cheeky, it's unassuming, it's refreshing. Fanta is my friend. They probably put crack in it, and more's the better for the taste. It's almost impossible not to drink it, the fizzy little minx. Irn Bru, you've got your work cut out son...
Back to the story - we hired a couple of bikes in a wee town called Maipu (yeah, like My Poo). What does Maipu smell like? Smells like wineries, my friend. We wobbled and swerved our way from winery to winery, doing little tasters, stopping once to have a wine-based picnic at the roadside, and generally absorb the great relaxed ambience that wine regions tend to have. There is a real pride and respect for wine in Mendoza - it's something that the people are very passionate about, and based on our time there they've every reason to be.

The Ridge of Zonda. Sounds like a geographical feature of some planet in Star Trek, looks like the perfect place for scores of American Indians to come screaming down on the unsuspecting village below. Me and Woody set out to walk the eight miles along the ridge in dehydrating conditions. Scrambling over jagged precipice and down narrow path we managed to get ourselves semi-lost, and all that stood between us and a cold drink was a semi-dangerous descent down a valley wall. This wall was about thirty feet high, with about four feet of incline but plenty of footholds. I'm sure that as time passes I'll exaggerate, and the wall will get higher and higher with less and less of an incline but you can trust those figures for now. Slowly but surely we negotiated a path down and followed the dry river bed to the bus stop, victory..... and Fanta. We managed to hitch a lift back to town with a nice Argentinian couple, Juan Jose and Celeste. They seemed happy enough to have us along for the ride (again, the Scottish card working nicely) as we explained haggis and the delicate relationship between Rangers and Celtic to them. Zonda is not too far away from San Juan which has been our base for the last few days. Kind of like a lo-fi Mendoza: just as leafy, equally as pleasant but much quiter and less winey.

Yesterday we returned to Zonda to float down the river in a tunnel which goes a few kilometres under the city and out the other side. Our hostel owner took us there for nothing: "I can't charge because it's not legal. Well, not illegal but not legal...you know?" We didn't really know, but satisfied that it was a sufficient enough grey area we headed out. The river is a kind of wild water rapids ride in the pitch black. We jumped off a water pipe and into the flowing water as we shot under the city. For eight minutes we drifted, unable to see in front of our face, just hear the whoops and yelps from the people echoing behind us. Exit procedure was taken care of by a few local boys with a bicycle tyre on a rope, who pulled us up the canal walls immediately wanting to know where we were from. They threw themselves off the bridges and walls with reckless abandon - huge arcing dives, half spins and flips (all to impress the bikini clad chicas, no doubt). More underground action this morning as we visited a cave network where they make champagne, all in all a daylight-free success.

As the trip is about to change shape and we leave one continent for another, it seems right to do a little numerical sum-up. After all, who doesn't love......statistics? Scores on the doors for the half are as follows:

Days: 183
Countries: 10 (debate still continuing over the validity of Peru and Chile)
Hostels: 58
Bus hours: 411 (approximately 17 days end to end)
Photos taken: 5000+
Mosquito bites: 300+
Flip flops destroyed: 7

At present we're due to leave San Juan for buenos Aires on our final Latin American nightbus. This chapter of the globe trotting adventure is due to close. indeed, it marks an agreeably symmettrical halfway point for the journey. I can safely say that if we were flying home tomorrow I'd be fine with it. So far we've had an incredible time, unforgettable experiences of sheer beauty and fun. I'm just happy that we're lucky and blessed enough to be able to continue on and add to those experiences as we go...

Thanks for everything, South America - you've been breathtaking.

Tomorrow we fly.... next stop New Zealand. Word.