Wanaka

It was in a bungy-daze that Queenstown was left behind for our next destination – yet another lakeside township, Wanaka. Chosen mostly for its convenience and proximity to nearby (in a strictly relative sense… a 2-3 hour drive, one-way, is what we would deem achievable and manageable for the duration of this very road-ey trip) places we wanted to visit over the following three days, we headed north in a blur of lakes, mountains, long and winding roads, and vain attempts at decent photography from car windows. Slouched in the back seat of a very comfortable and sleek white Toyota Corolla, which would end up being our semi-mobile home over the next few days, I watched countless sheep amble over grassy meadows lazily, chomping and chewing with disdainful laziness. It was only days later than John brought to my attention the fact that we were seeing two different kinds of sheep, white- and black-faced ones. I'm afraid I wouldn’t have known the difference; sheep whizzing by are just sheep to me. I guess I was too busy scraping my jaw off the floor.

Speaking of highways and animals, probably the saddest and most painful thing we would see in New Zealand was the incredible number of dead rabbits and birds lying in the middle of the road. The natural reaction is to blame rash, careless driving for the carnage, but we soon realised that most of these animals and birds appeared to have some kind of deathwish. Birds quietly pecking at blades of grass by the side of the road would suddenly be possessed with the most urgent desire to careen headlong in front of cars at the very last minute, and Kray probably had to concentrate more on avoiding these suicidal animals than on watching out for bad drivers approaching from the other side. Drivers in New Zealand, actually, are mostly wonderfully disciplined and courteous. Apart from the odd racer in a tearing hurry to get somewhere, most passes were decorous and very orderly. We found ourselves passing the odd sluggish campervan as well, including one run-down car with a dusty rear windshield that announced, “Pass us, we’re easy backpackers.”

Wanaka is only a little more than a hundred kilometres from Queenstown, but is markedly quieter and less blatantly touristy. Of course, it has its share of patented adventure activities, snazzy pubs, and plentiful accommodation, but even in peak season, its namesake lake is more the sunbathing and swimming playground of its residents, than of scorched, pink tourists and grubby travellers. Yet, as our dorm-mate, the seasoned, mountain-scaling Andrew would bemoan, Wanaka has become markedly busier than it used to be a two decades ago. While its modest population of 3,500 is still miles from Queenstown’s extroverted 8,500, a stroll around the town on a Saturday night revealed more than a handful of bustling restaurants, 24-hour supermarkets, and drunken brawls. Still, by any standards, Wanaka is the epitome of the lovely, quiet, and stunningly beautiful town that New Zealand possesses in such large numbers, along every single highway, beside every lake, and at the foothills of every mountain.

The hostel we lodged in for the three days that we were in Wanaka was the secluded, homely, and very charming Mountain View Backpackers. As our car rolled into the gravelly driveway, I noticed my name among others on a whiteboard hung next to the front door, the list indicating those due to check in that day, and that personal touch positively tickled me pink. A clean room, comfy beds, washing machines and dryers that didn’t shrink your clothes down two sizes, convenient bathrooms, and a warm kitchen. The luck hadn’t run out yet…

There were no shortage of eating options in Wanaka, but we often ran the danger of going to bed hungry, merely because, once again, the deceptively sunny skies perpetually belied the lateness of the hour. In any case, we grew partial to one particular eatery, Muzza’s Bar and Café. Dazzlingly huge portions, genuinely jovial staff (including a beefy bartender who cheerfully singled Kray out as his whipping dog for the night, all in good humour), and a substantial wine list were enough to make us return for our last dinner in Wanaka, despite the unexpected dent it made in our wallets. Also of note was Tango’s Café and Ice Creamery, where we plonked our weary butts for breakfast one morning. Despite a bewildered staff that seemed to largely be comprised of female Eastern European long-term-backpackers, the all day breakfast specials (delicious muesli, hearty steak burgers, daunting banana split sundaes... yes, we’re very strange eaters) were enough to induce very full, satiated, lopsided grins all around.

The town in itself doesn’t have a particularly dazzling array of conventional ‘sights’, but we did manage to grab an eyeful of elevated views from atop the 549 metre high Mt. Iron. Supposedly a gentle ninety minute return trip, I took my time ambling up and down the hill, especially on the way down, stopping so often to take pictures of stems and branches and rickety staircases and other such madly exciting (not) objects that the other two started to suspect I’d meandered off into the neighbouring town.

Wanaka’s other claim to fame is the New Zealand Fighter Pilots Museum, which, clearly, is dedicated to Kiwi fighter pilots and the planes they’ve used over the past century. Aircrafts aren’t exactly my forte, but I take to museums very easily, regardless of whether I have a decent knowledge in advance of what they hold. Museums are like those …for Dummies books. Most cater to the most ignorant.

It turns out that Queenstown hadn’t quite satisfied our adrenalin-cravings, because it took us less than an hour after we arrived in Wanaka to decide that it was imperative that we threw ourselves off a plane flying 15,000 feet above the ground. So jump we did, in tandem with ‘pilots’ we were each tightly strapped to, and clad in cheery jumpsuits, hilarious skull-caps, and eye-goggles half the size of our faces. Again, as with the bungy, the initial tummy-lurch as you’re launched outside the plane is what delivers the biggest rush. That instant where you’re one-hundred percent certain of your impeding death within the next minute. And then the sensation of falling, falling, falling… and of trying to take in as much of the blurry view as you can manage while sustaining a steady volume of screaming. Sixty seconds of free-fall, followed by the parachute launch, which is truly terribly exciting on its own too. Then, massive gasps of disbelief, more general hollering, and a wide variety of ecstatic sounds. I’ve been asked which I enjoyed more, the bungy or the skydive, and I’d be hard-pressed to choose between the two. In the end, I’d rate the bungy higher, but only just. And it has nothing to do with the length of time spent in free-fall.