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“A place full of stinkin backpackers” |
And onto New Zealand we went after a brief flight across the Tasman Sea we plopped down into Christchurch. I´d always pictured Oz and NZ being quite similar but this turned out not to be the case. Whilst Oz is very similar to the US in it´s brashness and newness, NZ is very much a place that was part of the empire, nowhere more so than Christchurch. Gone were the fluroescent lights promising the delights of ´Pokies´ inside (fruit machines) and everything looked somewhat more subdued.
Lynds had booked us into what turned out to be a place full of stinkin backpackers. She apologised profusely as we walked in and were greeted by a far too excited French exchange student. However, I think he could see our combined distaste at the place and turned somewhat sour. Anglo Franco relations proceeded to go down le pan when he decided that the signature I´d given on the card receipt for the place didn´t look like the one on the card. After he´d removed my passport from his nasal passage he agreed that I was in fact John Snodgrass.
One look around our digs sent us running into town. And a town is all Christchurch is, and a pretty one at that. But a couple of days mooching about soon ran us out of sites and we grabbed another camper van and headed south. And as soon as we got out of town we realised why people raved about this country. The fields look very English except instead of being bordered by little stone walls they are surrounded by forty foot conifers. It can get very windy here and so the breaks are put up to stop the sheep from blowing away. Up hill and down dale we drove through the Canterbury plains until the hills started getting bigger and the view in the distance was snow covered mountains and we had entered the Southern Alps.
Around every corner was a glacial lake with black swans bobbing around on them with scenery the like that neither of us had ever seen. Just as dusk was arriving we arrived at the Eastern side of Mt Cook and parked up for the night. When we awoke the next morning at the bottom of a mountain we were both a bit shocked. It made us feel very small and a four hour hike to the bottom increased this. The snow on the mountain wasn´t a white I was expecting but an aqua blue (think toothpaste ads and you´re about there). The hike took us over our first rope swing bridge which Lynds loved no end. It was all I could do to pull her off the thing. But it did make me whistle the Indiana Jones theme tune for a good 20 mins. With our cheeks nicely rosy and the camera batteries having taken a hammering we decided to head off to Oamaru as we´d heard there were penguins there.
A couple of hours of scenic driving later we pulled into a campsite and Lynds asked breathlessly (she gets a bit giddy now about cute animals) where we could see some penguins. "Oh, they don´t come out on Sundays I´m afraid" said the bloke. Well she looked crestfallen bless her, until she wondered how penguins new which day it was, laugh.............I could have cried!
Off we went in search of the rare Yellow Eyed penguin. Now there are only an estimated 3000 of these animals left and they´re a bit shy. We walked down to the beach hide passing hardened twitchers going the other way. All of them muttering that they would come back again to try and spot the elusive bird. Down to the hide we stumbled looking decidedly unprofessional, with bright wooly hats on and jackets that are of that nylon material that is impossible to be quiet in, and chirping along to each other about tucking your socks into your trousers (we didn´t do it). But lo and behold out of the surf popped a little critter, and he proceeded to waddle up the beach and then up the banking for a bit of kip. We took his picture, feeling truly honoured and headed off further down the coast where the blue penguins live (they come ashore later in the evening). This was a proper sanctuary with a viewing platform and an expensive entrance fee, but by now Lynds wanted one for the bathroom at home.
We sat in the cold on this platform along with forty or so Japanese tourists. This is not ideal as I can no longer suffer the rudeness of Japanese tourists. We sit there while the in house expert on blue penguins gives us the rundown of what they do. All the while Japanese tourists are yapping on to each other. Fair enough, they might not speak English. The guide tells everyone to not use cameras and any other device including mobile phones as they spook the birds. Added to this the guides are asked to translate to their group and there were big signs everywhere. Five mins pass and a girl next door but one to us starts faffing on her phone. The guy comes over and asks her not to use it and she tells him in perfect English that its only a text message. Well thats alright then isn´t it you freaking idiot, cos the beeping it makes with every message is like a lullaby to penguins. And this happened more than once. When I get home and am sat in the pub I may just explode into a rant after a couple of beers on this subject so don´t bring it up. It´s all I can do to stop a full rant now.
Anyway after an hour of me sweating with pent up rage a raft of a dozen little birds shows up on the beach. They all spend 5 mins sorting out their feathers and then waddle up a beach for a nights kip. At least I thought it was for a kip until the guy told us that they sleep at sea and only come to dry land to make baby penguins. Poor buggers, out at sea all day and then meet a foxy looking penguin who fancies some lovin, and then you have to walk past 50 humans to get to your love nest. What a passion killer.
previous travel blog entry
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