Karaoke Chronicles (South Island)

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Ah yes, just when you thought that perhaps Tim and I had better things to do other than spend our days at the internet café writing blog entries we come back at you with yet another episode of the Karaoke chronicles. After working our way down the west coast of the north island and spending a wild weekend in the capital of Wellington for the “7’s” rugby tournament we decided that it was time to take our show to the south island.

The first signs of land started to appear in the late evening as we approached our destination. Tim stood on the deck of the inter-island ferry looking out seemingly unimpressed at the dense forest across the channel “where’s the hobbits?” he asked in a “their out there” tone that most of us Americans reserve for references to aliens or UFOs. After all this was the south island, home of the mighty Southern Alps, Fiordland and of course the Lord of Rings trilogy. Tim and I drove off the ferry in the dark of the night and headed straight for the tourist town of Nelson about 2 a hours drive. We drove through deep valleys with mountain peaks in the background, the light of the full moon giving us just enough of a view for us to fully comprehend that we were no longer in the rolling green hills of the north island, we had entered New Zealand’s back country.

We woke the next morning to the sunny skies of Nelson, it was the perfect little town boasting the most amount of sunny days in New Zealand, and accompanied by its white sand beaches, endless parks and its glaring lack of any ethnic diversity, it almost had an eerie Truman show like feel to it. But we didn’t come for long walks on the beach or strolls in the park, we came because we knew it would be an ideal place to watch the Superbowl. Like any good American I was not going to miss the big game especially when my Chicago Bears were making their first appearance in 20 years. I had been practicing the lyrics to the 1985 Bears Emmy nominated song “superbowl shuffle” and was ready for the game. We started off the day in style as I showed Tim the finer points of tailgating. We parked the Vannette in a residential neighborhood near the sportsbar and started off the day with grilled sausages and Tui beer whiling listening to 2Pacs “Me against the world”. Like clockwork, every 5 minutes a young white mother would walk by with her new white child in a stroller, seemingly appalled by such behavior in her white picket fence neighborhood, but we weren’t there to cause no trouble, we were just there to do the Superbowl shuffle. That was the highlight of my day as the game was forgettable and we quickly left Nelson for less perfect surroundings.

We than headed to Able Tasman national park where we enjoyed the Mediterranean like weather and beaches, the only difference being the huge amount of sandflies and the lack of men in speedos. Being annoyed by both factors we made our way to the west coast for more surfing. Let’s just start by making one thing clear, you ain’t seen coastal folk, till you been to the west coast of the south island. With the urban sprawls of Westport (pop. 6,000) and Greymouth (pop. 12,000) being the only 2 towns on the map we knew we were in for something special. Greymouth did however produce some epic surf and we knew that despite it’s sad similarity to some not so stunning towns on the Oregon coast we might be there for a while. Coming from Oregon I knew a little something about coastal folk, and 2 questionably heterosexual guys in a karaoke DJ vanette were not going to fair so well, especially in the water who’s local surfers were considered by our surf guide as NZ’s hardcore. So when the going gets tough, the tough get handlebars. And that just what I did, shaving in a solid handle bar mustache and purchasing a camouflage Army hat bringing out my alter ego. My alter ego doesn’t have a name, he doesn’t need one. He believes Nascar should be an Olympic sport, that “fuckin A” is a complete sentence, and when European backpackers annoy him with their opinions of “Jorge Boosh” he smiles and tell them they will eat their words when “Dubya gets the nobel prize for kickin ass”. That being said Tim was a little more than slightly embarrassed by the alter ego. But when the waves are overhead, glassy with nobody else out, it’s funny what Tim will put up with. It was a team effort, my alter ego kept Tim from getting beat up outside the water, and Tim kept me from getting beat up in it, and with our successful formula allowed us to surf until the wheels fell off, and that we did.

From Greymouth we made our way south into the Southern Alps, were we let our back and shoulders recover and put our legs to work taking on several challenging but rewards hikes at Fox glacier and Wannaka. The road down route 6 referred to by lonely planet as one of the top 10 most beautiful road trips in the world (and we know never to question such a source) eventually led us to the tourist mecca of Queenstown. Renowned for as the adventure sports capital, it was full of gap year teenagers running through the streets loudly talking about their “oh my god totally crazy”, “like life changing” bungy jump, even the stunning Remarkables mountain range couldn’t keep us there, we lasted 1 day. Our final destination on route 6 was Fiordland, home of Milford Sound and NZ’s biggest tourist destination. It did not disappoint, the deep valleys, jagged cliffs, waterfalls and snow capped peaks could only be out done by the number of tour buses filling the narrow road. Since we were in tourist central we decided to not fight against the grain and book an overpriced boat tour around the Milford Sound.

As we followed the masses towards the boat I felt as if we were preparing for battle, this was not conventional warefare. The soldiers were us, the tourists, our weapons were of a digital nature manufactured by the likes of Cannon, Panasonic, and Sony. The troops carried tripods, digital & optical zoom lenses, camcorders and digital cameras (sometimes 1 in each hand). Ready to shoot whatever our general (the boat captain) told us was picture worthy via his static microphone. Our goal was not to occupy Milford Sound, but rather do our best to experience the entire tour through our LCD monitors, and proudly come away with every inch of the sound on our camera. From the moment we got on the boat the frenzy began, people running from one side of the boat to the other on the generals command, some soldiers clearly confused whenever he took a moment to catch his breath and couldn’t tell us what to look at. And though a make fun of such blatant tourists it was only a matter of time until I caught the patriotic fever clicking away with every ounce of strength I had, Tim shaking his head in dismay, more interested in checking the Sound for any surfable breaks than joining the revolution.

I managed to come away from this tour of duty with cramping in my right pointer finger as my only injury, bidding farewell to our comrades as they loaded their “eco-tour” fuel hording buses we hopped in the vanette and hit the road, both dreaming of the days when we were miles away from the tourist trail. I doubt many people drive away from Milford Sound talking about the good ol’ days in Greymouth. So now that the sights have been scene, the pictures have been taken and our backs and shoulders are at full strength, the hunt for the perfect waves continues.