I feel like I've entered a strange alternate reality. Auckland looks just like your average Canadian city, with streets named after the royal family and a nice selection of familiar-looking shops and restaurants. But then there are these little differences that can really mess with your head -- like the palm trees. I was walking through a nice pleasant city park, with flowering trees and, well, "normal" stuff, and suddenly there was a palm tree. There aren't many palm trees in Canada. The kiwi accents are amusing and occassionally bewildering. Middle-eastern restaurants (and in particular, kebabs) abound -- but that's okay, because I love gyros. The menu at Wendy's (the burger place) is normal, but McDonald's offers a McKiwiBurger with beet slices.
The strangest thing of all, though, is the driving on the wrong side of the road. And it's not just strange -- it's downright dangerous. The cars are turning in all the wrong places and I'm looking in all the wrong directions before stepping out into the street. It's really disconcerting -- at a sideways glance I thought one car was driving backwards, and the lack of people sitting in the left front seat (what I normally consider the driver's seat) is a bit weird. Fortunately, I've got Kate to keep me in line (and to keep me from stepping in front of a speeding bus), and jaywalking isn't nearly as necessary as it was in Mexico.
Kate and I have spent our time exploring the city. We went for a bike ride yesterday, out to a beach to the east, and to Kelly Tarlton's Underwater World where we saw penguins and sharks and manta rays and an exhibit about Antarctica. The beach area was nice, with restaurants lining the adjoining road -- much like any beach that is near a city, I imagine. Residents of Vancouver, picture Kitsilano; locals from Seattle, picture Green Lake. For dinner we returned to the beach area with Angie and Lenny, two of Kate's friends from the hostel, and had fish and chips (a New Zealand specialty, and they were quite good) and then returned to the hostel for beer and billiards. Today was more wandering -- this time through the city and up to Mt. Eden, which is a smallish volcano with great views over Auckland. We spent some time relaxing and reading in the grass, keeping an eye out for the odd cow that would wander by, before returning back to the city. Tonight we'll be dressing up for a fancy dinner (courtesy Mom and Dad) and then we'll check out Auckland's upscale casino, which is located at the bottom of the Sky Tower. In a few days I'll be heading off by myself to explore some of the countryside south of Auckland while Kate spends some time travelling with her mother. I'm looking forward to exploring Waitomo's glow-worm caves and hiking the famous Tongariro Crossing.
Even after nearly a week in New Zealand I'm still not used to the traffic being on the wrong side of the road. It's sinking in slowly, but every now and then I'll be riding in a car and as we round a bend a car will come in the other direction and I'll think, "It's coming right for us!" but of course it seldom is in reality.
New Zealand is a land of adventure. Everywhere you go, people are pushing it: fling yourself from here! Launch yourself off of this! Do smoething stupidly dangerous with us! (Un)fortunately, I've got a fairly strong sense of self-preservation. When confronted with a situation in which my physical safety is even mildly threatened, I find myself imagining worst-case scenarios that end with my untimely end. In the case of man-made adventure my imagined situations inevitably involve gear failure. This is what limited a very promising rock-climbing hobby. This is why I probably won't bungy jump, or paraglide, or skydive, or do any other similar activity which involves hurtling myself from a ludicrous height. Simply put: I don't trust the rope.
So it was with some small surprise that I suddenly found myself deep in the bowels of the earth, dangling over an inky black hole, my life very tangibly represented by a piece of rope attached to my navel, and generally appearing quite casual about the whole thing. I was nervous, to be sure, and more than a little excited, but I had a job to do, and there was no point in fretting and fidgeting at the edge, and so I just swung out and lowered myself down, down, into the earth.
Waitomo is famous for its caves, and specifically for the residents of its caves: the glow worms. As we stood in a narrow chamber inside the cool rock, waiting for our turn to disappear deeper into mother earth, they glowed above us, surprisingly bright, an alien green. Fine threads, each covered in dew, dangled below each inch-long worm with its tiny glowing end. They were quite amazing.
At the other end of the abseil (also known as a rappel -- basically, a descent down a rope) our adventure continued. Another abseil awaited us -- this one, shorter. I descended through a waterfall while the guide above me gleefully kicked more water onto my head. Once at the bottom I found myself alone in a large cave, with no light but that coming from my headlamp. "Follow the water," we'd been told, and I looked around. To the right, the cave ended in a dry heap of limestome. No water there. To the left, the cave also ended. Where was the water going? I looked down, and saw a small opening no more than two feet high. I squeezed in on my belly, cold water running past me, and then emerged into a narrow passageway. The other guide awaited around the corner where the stream emerged from its small chasm into a larger cave. We abseiled through that one, and then were lowered (well, dropped) through another waterfall while the guides screamed in feigned horror and splashed water on our heads. We continued through the caves, sometimes standing, sometimes stooping, usually crawling. One time we slithered beneath an arch on our bellies, with so little clearance that my chin was in the water.
Eventually we left the river and began to ascend. Two rock climbs awaited us; the first was easy, while the second left me struggling, stuck near the top of the wall with my destination in my grasp but no clear way to get higher. The mobility-limiting wetsuit didn't help. But I squirmed and inched my way up onto the ledge and eventually made it to the top without resorting to the ladder. a few more short climbs awaited us, and a final long ladder, and then we stumbled forth again into the light and warmth and fresh air, and man, did we stink.
After the caving adventure I wandered to Woodlyn Park where a drive-it-yourself jetboat awaited me. The place was deserted, but I eventually managed to track down the proprietor. He was a scrawny pinch-faced man with a bushy brown moustache and an oiled brown hat. I paid and we headed over to the man-made jetboat lake.
Jetboats are a proud kiwi invention. They are able to operate in just four inches of water exhibit incredibly tight control. The only caveat is that they are steered via their propulsion, which means easing up on the throttle when presented with a tricky manoever is the worst thing to do. Eventually I thought I had it all figured out and so I stepped hard on the gas pedal. The engine died. I puttered back to the pit, and the proprietor fiddled with the engine. I went back onto the course and again the engine died. More tinkering with the engine and again onto the course. This time things worked well. I roared around the course, anticipating the turns and swinging into them in a controlled slide. Clearly, I was a natural. The proprietor timed my final two laps. I was solidly average.
I took the train from Taupo to National Park, and was surprised at how bumpy it was. You'd think, what with the rails and all, that train rides would be smoother. But with the scenery it was still and enjoyable ride. We even went through the famous Raurimu Train Spiral. I arrived in National Park, found my lodgings, and proceeded to not-quite-enjoy the largest burger I had ever, ever seen. It was easily six inches tall. Sorry, I didn't get any photos.
The next day I did the Tongariro Crossing, New Zealand's foremost one-day hike. It is a 17 kilometer trek across a volcanic plateau. The landscape is surreal and empty, but I didn't get to see much of it: heavy clouds obscured the view and a heavy wind and light rain kept me from lingering too long.
The next day I took the bus to Turangi and did a whole lot of nothing. I enjoyed a wonderful meal courtesy Grand Central Fry (where they'll deep fry just about anything) and a horrific meal courtesy the restaurant at the hostel. The next morning I went fly-fishing on Lake Taupo, and I didn't even get a single bite. The time on the lake was still pleasant, though. That afternoon I arrived in Taupo and, based on recommendations from Kate, I half-heartedly signed up for Rock 'n Ropes.
"Are you ready?" Paul asked. I was squatting on a metal platform, swaying in the stiff breeze, fifteen meters (fifty feet) above the ground. There was a conspicuous amount of absolutely nothing to my immediate right.
"Yeah," I replied, and that was a Big Fat Lie.
I was most certainly not ready. A little prepared, maybe. High on adrenalin, definitely. About to do something dangerously silly? Yes, I think so. But then, I'd been doing dangerously silly things all afternoon.
It started inocuously enough: climb halfway up a telephone pole, then let go. Don't worry, the rope will hold you up (which of course it did). From there, it was on to the real thing: walking across wires strung between poles, fifteen meters in the air, using various handholds: two parallel wires, then one, then dangling ropes. Then no handholds -- just a rickety wooden bridge high above the woodchips. Then a wooden log, way up in the air, and nothing to hold on to as I inched my way across -- and then back again, backwards. Then, the infamous chicken walk: two parallel wires, one for each foot, and nothing but a safety harness keeping me from splatting on the ground if I didn't make it. Nineteen out of twenty don't. It took me a full minute, standing way up there, wind gusting around me, to find the balance and the balls to move my foot one inch. Fifteen minutes and ten meters of tedious, nerve-wracking, sweaty, toe-cramping shuffling later and I was on the other side. It was time for the final two activities.
Safety ropes were attached to my harness and I, once again, began to climb a fifteen-meter pole. The climb up was always the most nerve-wracking -- the climb was a simple procedure, and it left the mind free to contemplate just what the hell I was doing. Once on the apparatus at top, my brain was too occupied with the task at hand to bother with such technicalities as gravity or the effets of sudden forceful deceleration.
This time, though, there was nothing waiting for me at the top of the pole. No logs, no wires -- just The Top, a twelve-inch wooden cross section. I needed to stand on it.
I got my left foot up easily enough. The pole swayed in the breeze and my hands gripped the iron rungs protruding out of the wood about an inch below the top. I balanced there, precariously, and slowly pulled my right foot off its safe position on a lower rung, and scraped it slowly up the side of the pole. Before it reached the top, though, it stopped moving. I willed it up; it stayed where it was, two inches below the top. My shoelace had become snagged in the wood. I slowly returned my right foot to its former perch, plucked the lace free, and tried again. This time my right foot joined my left atop the pole and I slowly unfolded myself until I stood, triumphantly, swaying in the breeze, king of my twelve-inch-diameter domain.
But I was not done: my destination lay in front of me. I thought to myself: you have got to be kidding. Surprisingly, that was the first time I'd thought that all afternoon. About six feet away, hanging above fifteen meters of empty space, was a trapeze bar. There was nothing between it and me. I had to jump for it. Let me take this opportunity to remind you that I was standing, unsupported, atop a swaying fifteen-meter pole. It was a long way down.
There was no way I was going to make it. It was too far away, and holy moley was I high off the ground. It was just impossible in too many ways. But then a breeze came up, and I thought, "well, gee, this tailwind will probably come in handy," so I leapt.
I caught the bar. For a brief fleeting moment I was invincible. I was superman. I was every animal instinct in the human body. But then I realized I had to let go of the bar if I wanted to touch terra firma again. I mean, do these people have any idea how high up I am? but eventually I relinquished my hold and was slowly lowered, shaking and high, back to the ground.
And so finally, a few minutes later, I found myself high on that steel platform, swaying in the breeze, for the big finale: a leap an great rushing swoop towards the ground. Paul asked if I was ready, and I said I was, but by god I so was NOT. Despite my previous three hours experience climbnig and clambering and leaping through the air, I was definitely not ready. How could I ever be ready? I was on the verge of simulating a leap to my death. I was not ready to die, even in simulation.
Paul, however, having believed what I told him, had counted down from three. Suddenly, amazingly, I found myself in thin air. Apparently, I had jumped.
I hung there like a cartoon, not moving, in complete disbelief. Had I really just done that? Of course, not being a cartoon character, it takes more than disbelief to defy gravity and so I plummeted earthward, swinging in a great grinding arc towards the green grass below.
My disbelief remained behind. I can still see it hanging there, a cloudy thought balloon: did I just do that? Meanwhile I plummeted, leaving the cloud of doubts to dissipate behind me in the stiff afternoon breeze.
I met Kate and her mother in Rotorua, about an hour north of Taupo, and we spent some time together in the town's famous natural hot pools, and got some massages. The massage was a nice luxury, but the sulphurous water was just a little too smelly and left me feeling unclean. It's reputedly very healthy, but I was left with a rotten-eggs smell clinging to everything -- in fact, the smell permeates the entire town.
Kate and I celebrated the two-year anniversary of our first date at an eerily empty restaurant high on a mountain overlooking Rotorua. The maitre d'/ waiter took our picture and our likenesses are now being proudly displayed on his wall of fame.
An early morning, and a long drive, and then two short plane flights, and then another long drive, and then Kate and her mother and I found ourselves in the small town of Te Anau, at the southwest end of the south island of New Zealand.
Early in the morning, when the light is dim, the road is a hazy grey ribbon winding through a murky suggestion of grass and bush. Rabbits like to accumulate on the road, for profound and mysterious reasons, and they make early morning driving a little more exciting. This is our second straight day of early morning driving, and today's early morning is even earlier than yesterday's, and yesterday's was at the other end of the country. We are all tired.
Another rabbit coalesces in our headlights. Kate slows and swerves while the rabbit stays frozen in front of us. Other rabbits have scampered into the grass, or directly away from us, or directly into the path of our avoiding swerve, and there is tension in the car as we rapidly eat up the intervening roadway. The rabbit does not move. The car passes over it. Kate glances into her mirrors with regret, and then relief. We drive on.
The air lightens as the sun slowly ascends behind a thick quilt of cloud. The brown grassy plain has given way to mountains -- proud, rocky monuments sweating thin streams of water and cloaked in leafy trees. The road barely hugs the mountainside, occassionally squeezing to just a single lane, and we're all glad we're arriving ahead of the tour buses.
Ahead of us the road disappears into heart of a mountain and we follow it. The tunnel is long and dark and slopes downwards. Water bleeds down the rough-hewn walls. When we emerge from the other end, we are in Milford Sound.
From a kayaker's point of view, Milford Sound is simultaneously vast and intimate. While sheer cliffs roar up the clouds with youthful vigour, the steep mountainsides are coated with thin sheets of desperate trees and bushes that reach out to you at the water's edge. The Sound is quiet, majestic, and marvelous.
Well, actually, it's a fiord.
As we paddle along we marvel at the detail and are humbled by the scope. Our guide explains geology and history, flora and fauna, and then a call comes in on his radio: there are dolphins in the sound. He points across the water to where dark fins are churning the surface, about a kilometer away. Kate and I set out padles to the water and race towards them.
We pull ourselves across the deep flat water while the mountains loom above, and the dolphins do their part by swimming towards us. A few moments later, we are among them.
What happens next is a little indistinct in my memory. I remember straining on the paddle, and fumbling for my camera, and the undercurrent of joy and disbelief that accompanies so many wonderful things.
There are maybe five dolphins swimming with us, and they are right there -- I could reach out and smack one with my paddle. And they are swimming with us, darting and dancing along with the kayak. They flirt with the bow and one swims alongside, turning slightly, and looks at me. Its single eye, black and milky, unblinking, returns my curiosity. A younger dolphin breaks the surface and flies through the air a few meters away. Then, despite our efforts to keep up, the dolphins decide to move on and disappear into the distance, leaving us thrilled and exhausted.
Fundamentally, this is what was so incredible: that the dolphins came to us, and that we had entertained each other, and that they had left of their own accord, and that it had all been on their terms.
Kate, her mother, and I spent the afternoon and night enjoying a cruise around Milford Sound. The Sound sees several thousand tourists every day during peak season, and A Cruise is pretty much obligatory for the majority of them. The cruise took us through the sound where we got an up-close look at more of the amazing geology, flora, and fauna. Dolphins again joined our boat and swam alongside and under the bow. A naturalist gave a running commentary on the sights we were seeing. In general, it was a pretty good experience and provided an interesting counterbalance to the morning's kayaking. We had a decent dinner on board then retired to our cabins for the night. The next morning we were supposed to do more cruising but a mechanical problem forced us back to shore a bit early -- a good thing, too, since it meant we could be long gone before the day's horde of tour buses arrived.
We drove back to Queenstown, this time with me behind the wheel. It was my first time driving on the left, and it wasn't that hard, really. It was odd to have a fat lump of car on my left side, and occasionally I found myself drifting a bit too far towards the left hand side of the road, but all in all, it was pretty easy -- certainly easier than walking.
Upon arrival in Queenstown we checked into our hotel, took a fast ride in a jetboat along the Shotover river, enjoyed a nice dinner at a local cafe, and took in the views from Bob's Peak, a gondola ride up above Queenstown. Kate and I took a few luge rides -- a rather dangerous sport that involves riding a little wheeled sled down a concrete path. Due to her superior aerodynamics, Kate beat me both times.
In the morning we said goodbye to Kate's mother. She was flying back to Auckland to spend a few days on the North Island before flying home. I'd be wanting to get a new backpack for quite a while (my current pack was getting to be a bit small for the stuff I'd been accumulating) and so before she left I got a great new Fairydown pack (and gave her my old one to take home). My new pack is much bigger and much more comfortable, and I love it. The extra size means I can offload some stuff from Kate's pack onto my back, (although her pack is still heavier than mine). Both of our packs are way, way too heavy. That doesn't matter too much at the moment, as we're car-based and not having to walk around a lot. Things'll have to be lightened when we get to Asia, I think.
Kate did a bungy jump today. I happily took up the role of photographer for this death-defying leap, which was her second. It took her a while to get adjusted to the height, and when she was finally ready she took a long run and a rather short hop off the end of the platform. As she left the solid wood and gravity took hold of her she let out an audible, anguished gasp. It wasn't a gasp of pain or physical discomfort, but of realization. It was like she'd just had a mental kick in the head as the awareness of what she'd just done washed over her. Then she fell and bounced and had a jolly old time enjoying the view.
Kate and I pointed our car north and started driving. The whole South Island lay available to us, and we had a week to enjoy it. We drove past the Kawarau Bridge, site of the world's first commercial bungy jump, and into the low brown hills north of Queenstown. The landscape was smooth and uniform, like the hills had been covered with a fuzzy dirt blanket. After an hour on the road we set up our tent by a large and windy lake, ate sandwiches, and tried to sleep on achingly thin mattresses on lumpy grass.
The next morning we continued our northerly drive, past sheep, and sheep, and more sheep, and the odd cow or deer. The entire country is basically one giant pasture interrupted by the odd city or mountain. Sheep are everywhere. From a distance, they look like little white maggots, slowly munching away on the meat of the earth.
By noon we arrived at Mt. Cook where enjoyed some lunch and relaxation before embarking on a little hike. Mt. Cook is the tallest mountain in New Zealand and glaciers fill the valleys surrounding it. Our hike took us through grassy hills and japanese tourists as we followed a river to a lake at the foot of the glacier. The glacier itself was barely discernible beneath a layer of dirt and rocks. We sat by the lake, relaxing and reading and soaking up the sun.
I experienced something very cool there by the lake. The rocks by the lake were flat and smooth, ideal for skipping, and so I was picking them up and flinging them into the lake, bouncing them along the surface until they skidded into the water. The water itself was full of fine rock dirt (often called "rock flour") and it spiralled and churned in ghostly eddies along the shore. Anyway, I was skipping rocks and I had the single best rock-skipping throw I'd ever had there by the lake shore. The rock was perfectly weighted and shaped, and the throw was low, hard and straight. The rock skimmed along the surface, easily skipping a dozen times or more before settling on the surface and continuing to slide, water-skiing, and I believe it actually came to a dead stop before slipping in. I skip rocks pretty often, whenever the flat rocks and flat water present themselves in appropriate relation, and I've been doing it all my life. To suddenly and unexpectedly get to enjoy the Very Best Skipping Rock Throw Ever was great.
We continued on from Mt. Cook, through more brown grass pastures and more wooly sheep. We camped by Lake Tekapo, whose famously clear skies were unfortunately obscured by clouds. The next morning we drove east to the long plains that line the eastern half of the South Island, and then north to the prim and proper city of Chch, or, as it is more properly known, Christchurch.
Christchurch is quite a nice city, but suffers from excessive orderliness. It's hard to describe exactly how this is a problem, but one gets the sense that if there's a dark (ie interesting) side to the town, it's being seriously repressed. The World Busker's Festival was taking place, adding some much-needed levity to the city streets, and we threw a few coins into some well-proferred hats. The next day we drove further east, to the steeply rolling grassy hills of the Banks Peninsula, to visit Bob and Marilyn.
Sheep outnumber humans in New Zealand by a factor of six to one. They rate second in population among mammals, falling behind only the much-loathed possum. They are a constant in the New Zealand landscape. If you want to know New Zealand, you must know the sheep.
Bob and Marilyn own a sheep and cattle farm nestled in the idyllic valley of Gough's Bay. Kate met them when they rescued her and some friends from an uncomfortable night by the side of the road a few months ago. They are down-to-earth, smokin', drinkin', hard-workin' people: about what you'd expect from farmers. They cooked us dinner the first night -- steaks and vegetables from the farm -- and they put butter on their steaks. We had a fascinating (to us) discussion about the ins and outs of sheep farming and then retired for the night.
Our cottage, down the road from the beautiful garden that surrounds Bob and Marilyn's small home, was surrounded by sheep. These were rather unfortunate sheep, however -- they were heading off to the fat farm in the morning. And from there, to the dinner plate. Each of the sheep was marked with a spray-painted stripe, and the mass of them, scared, huddled, marked for death, was disturbingly reminiscent of the holocaust. When we awoke in the morning, they were already gone.
We'd intended to earn our keep by spending the day working: fixing fences, carting hay, or doing other farmy things. Instead, we just kind of hovered around Bob while he did his work. He had brought several heards of sheep in from the surrounding pasture and was going through the back-breaking task of "tipping the ewes". This involved turning each one over to check each of its hooves for rot. If you've ever tried to turn over a frightened 200-pound animal with a rather inconvenient lack of handles, you'll understand what hard work this really is. Bob did 200 of them the day we were there, and was barely able to stand by the end of the day. Kate and I each tipped one of our own, after a bit of a struggle. We also tried our hand at shearing, which was a bit of a novelty but not all that exciting.
Kate and I offered to help out, but Bob would have nothing of it. We rode his horses and his ATV, and then hung out some more. A customer came out to buy some rams, and we all retired back to the farmhouse for tea. Bob had already warned us that this guy was a talker, and he was right. The customer just wouldn't shut up, and eventually Bob found a good reason to escape the non-stop gossip: it was time to collect paua down by the beach, while the tide was out. Paua is a shellfish (also called abalone) and they grow among the rocks of Gough's Bay. They are fiendishly difficult to remove from the rocks -- at the slightest touch they'll grip the rock with all their might. The trick is to be fast, wrenching them off before they get a chance to hold on too tightly. Bob quickly gathered together a half dozen while I, a city boy to the core, failed to pull off a single one. Bob cleaned the paua for us then took them up to the farmhouse where he and his wife marinated half of them and made paua cakes with the other half. Kate and I ate them for dinner and, despite their rather nasty appearance, they were actually quite good, if a little rich and chewy.
Despite his exhausting day, Bob was still tearing around the farm on his ATV when we went to sleep and he was doing it again long before we got up in the morning. Farming is hard work. We packed up our gear, loaded the car, said our goodbyes and headed south.
Bob and Marilyn's hospitality was wonderful, and the chance to spend some time on a farm and experience one of the real Kiwi lifestyles was priceless.
Today Kate and I incurred a rather long drive as headed from Gough's Bay back to Christchurch and then down to Dunedin. It was a pretty long day in the car, broken only by a break for lunch and to see the vaguely intriguing Moeraki boulders. It's times like those that I really appreciate how wonderful it is to be travelling with Kate. We've had many great discussions that help to make the miles fly by. Today's topic: whether unions are good or bad.
The next day we were up at an unfortunate hour to drive back to Queenstown, to catch our flight back to Auckland. We roared through more sheep country, and then through hilly brown ravines, and arrived back at the adventure capital of New Zealand before noon. Our flight had us back to Auckland by mid-afternoon, and we had just enough time to check into our hostel, read some email, have a shower, and get all prettied up for a night at the circus.
To me, the Cirque du Soleil is about as close to perfect entertainment as you can get. I've seen five of their shows, and their better ones (Allegria, Mystere, O) are absolutely amazing. Even when they're not at their best (Saltimbanco, La Nouba) they're still very, very good. They combine beauty, emotion, and the perfection of human ability in a profound and magical way. It's worth the ticket.
I walked around by myself today, doing a bit of shopping and a bit of writing and a bit of reading and a lot of relaxing. Kate did the same.
The Kiwi Experience is a well-known bus company in New Zealand. They travel around on fixed routes between interesting, and with a moderately-priced pass you can hop on and off all over the country. It's a bit of a party bus (although nothing like the Green Tortoise in the USA) and Kate and I figured we should give it a try before finally leaving NZ. We booked a trip to the Bay of Islands, a scenic little beach resort about four hours north of Auckland. Aside from the tendency of one of the (female) drivers to flash oncoming trucks, the ride was pretty uneventful.
We spent the next day aboard the sailboat She's A Lady (and I spent the entire day singing the Tom Jones song of the same name). The trip was great -- we spent some time snorkeling in a secluded lagoon, and had a nice hike on one of the many islands in the bay. Then we sailed across the bay to a secluded beach for lunch, and then did a bit of tubing behind the sailboat's zodiac. Finally, we caught the afternoon breeze and did some real sailing back to harbour. It was a great relaxing day -- we just sat on the deck, and read, and watched the day roll by.
That evening we went to one of the local nightclubs which had advertised a beach party (beachwear mandatory). The crowd was a little more... umm... "mature" than we were accustomed to, and the music frankly sucked. Kate saw the warning signs early, but I tried to be more open-minded to experience a bit of local culture. However, when they started playing a remix of the witch doctor song ("ooo eee ooo ah-ah...") I just had to leave. The song was so bad, I was actually offended.
This afternoon we left New Zealand for Sydney, Australia. I suppose some final and/or summarizing thoughts are in order:
There is a lot to do in NZ. The whole country is knee-deep in tourist activities -- most of them of the extreme nature. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it feels like all this adventure is promoted at the expense of the country's culture. If you're not out bungying or skydiving or river rafting (all of which are pretty expensive) then there isn't a lot to see or experience in the way of interesting (which to me, implies different or exotic) culture. Unless you are really fascinated by sheep.