Where've you been? It seems that the brief return to normality that life in Lyttelton has provided has also resulted in a distinct lack of action on these here pages. Apologies. Work is finished, a nice little top up for the travel fund. So much so that we were able to hire a little hippie van to cruise around the parts of the South Island that we've not seen yet - a welcome spell of unpredictability and a return to the road... Finding it difficult to keep the van puns to a minimum. For that reason the road mix did not include any of the following: Van Morrison, Van Halen, Ludwig Van Beethoven, KC and the Sunshine Van, or the Carly Simon hit 'You're so Van'.
Wagons rolled on a nice sunny Saturday morning, as we headed south to the old Scottish settlement of Dunedin to watch the last ever rugby match at the famous Carisbrook Stadium - aptly named 'The House of Pain'. All Blacks to take on Wales. The town was absolutely rammed with rugby fans and we were lucky enough to get a space in a hotel carpark which would act as our campground for the night. The stadium itself is just wee - only a 29,000 capacity, but there is also the 'Scotsman's Grandstand' - a main road which sweeps up and over the floodlit arena, affording a pretty good view from a distance at no cost. Tickets were already bought, so after a few pre-game pints we took up our seats behind the posts as the bagpipers did their final circuit and the All Blacks intimidated the Welsh with the famous Haka. The crowd all joined in with the exhaling 'HUH' sounds and you could almost feel the colour drain from the reds as they were completely dominated throughout the game. Mexican waves circled the stadium, flecked with sparkling green plastic bottles that were thrown in the air and the 'Brook vibrated as the All Blacks racked up the points. I've always wondered what it must be like to have a sport that your nation is actually good at... Former All Black Jeff Wilson dug up the first square of turf and jumped in his helicopter as the stadium had it's send off - fireworks and fifty fully-kilted bagpipers whose skirl tingled the spine in the chill of the night.
We got straight out of town the next day in search of the beautiful scenery that New Zealand's South Island has been promising for the last two months. It didn't disappoint. The hub of our tour was Mackenzie Country. Named after Scottish outlaw and sheep rustler James Mckenzie who migrated to New Zealand from Ross-shire. He was a double-hard bastard who could walk hundreds of miles at a time, escaped from jail on more than one occassion before walking over 100 miles to Lyttelton where he was captured and placed in irons before escaping and setting sail for Australia from Lyttelton harbour. In a way we were retracing his steps, although with less emphasis on stealing sheep.
Mackenzie Country is also home of the tallest mountain in New Zealand - Aoraki Mt Cook. Blanketed in snow we coaxed our little wagon through the winding valley, past the deserted airport, up and up to the foot of the mountain where we got some warmth into our bones with a coffee beside a roaring log fire. We sat by the very same fire where another double-hard bastard - Sir Edmund Hilary - also warmed his cockles back in the day. Mind you, he probably had a brief sit by the fire
after climbing all 3, 754 metres of the giant, having had an ice cold bath at the top and drying himself with powder snow. We, on other hand, happily stewed in front of the fire playing dominoes with our feet up before scampering back to the relative warmth of the hippy mobile.
This really set the mood for the next couple of days on the road - snow covered mountains, perilous looking alleys and aquamarine lakes. We sat under the stars in some hot pools at the base of Mount John in Tekapo after getting ourselves stuck in the snow and spinning the wheels to the point of desperation. A kind hand from a Kiwi with a jeep was the rescue of the day. Many a helpful stranger lent their help in one form or another as we trundled along from place to place. There was Stewart Sullivan, the helpful man who offered his advice on a place to park the van and joined us for a few drinks outside of Lake Wanaka. Did make quite a lot of references to 'those bloody Japs', though. So - part good samaritan, part racist. Bit of an interesting mix really.
Schoolboy mistake - flattened the battery. Beans on toast, radio, heater and light all on. The dull click of an engine that refuses to turn over. Cue one of the true heroes of the trip - a farmer named Andrew Currie. A man of ancient Scottish heritage (as most Kiwis seem to be) he was first on the scene of our troubles and more than happy to help a couple of 'fellow Scots'. Not only did he locate us a vehicle with a big enough engine to jump start our van, he then took us back to his farm, charged up the battery, phoned the local cinema to tell them to wait for us and gave us a lift back into town. We went from the cinema to the youth club he helps run. He then gave us a lift back to the farm where we played board games with him and his son until well after midnight before we decided to head off toward the Banks Peninsula to be closer by sun up the next day.
Why did the possum cross the road? Not another car for miles as we trucked on after midnight to find a suitable place to sleep. The full beam headlights picked up the glinting eyes of wee creatures in the trees and bushes by the side of the road. As we eased The Big Blue Beast around a corner we noticed a pair of sparkling eyes on the other side of the road, not ten feet away, looking innocently into the windscreen. A little possum. About the size of a small dog, with an orangey brown body, bushy tail, curious expression and a death wish. Possums are treasured in Australia but detested in NZ due to their destruction of native plants and carrying of turberculosis. Many Kiwi drivers actually aim for possums if they see them anywhere on the road. I wasn't aiming. He gave one last accusing look just before we carreered over his little body, the double tap - front and back wheels. If you've ever seen the film called 'In Bruges' where Colin Farrell plays an assassin who accidentally kills a little boy, and has a scene where he's sobbing and utterly inconsolable: 'I killed a little boy'. Well, it felt just like that, except more possum-based...
Other than the Midnight Possum Assassination and the occassional freezing spell, life in the van was a great deal of fun. The ten days seemed to blur into one huge, jam-packed day of fun combined with breathtaking scenery. The best thing is the freedom of it all. We could stop at the top of passes or by the side of lakes for a brew up, choose to push on down the road or stay for a little longer. It was all up to us and I think that's the winning difference between travelling and sleeping on the road or taking buses and sharing hostel rooms with annoying eighteen year olds. How else can you sleep by a snowy lakeside one night, in a forest the next, and by a waterfall the next? It does have drawbacks - one shower in ten days is a bit of a push, even for the most understanding of girlfriends.
After touring round the bays of the Banks Peninsula (Lyttelton is one) we took a rarely travelled dirt road up and over the hills. In the silent mist we even saw a wildcat sauntering down the road in front of us, a magical end to the roadtrip. 850 miles, 8 different sleeping locations, 3 snow rescues, 6 tins of soup, one flat battery and one flat possum later we rolled into rainy Lyttelton on Sunday morning with the feeling that we've seen a lot of what the country has to offer. At time of writing we have about a week left in Lyttelton before we head off onto the next chapter of the journey. Photos to follow. Peace...
