Queenstown

Destination Two was the self-proclaimed adventure capital of New Zealand, the bustling lakeside township of Queenstown. It was here that I was to meet my travel companions for the remainder of the fortnight – two friends, John, the relatively “spanking new” buddy, and Kray, already an “old” friend by good measure. These two would also be the ones benevolently chauffeuring our trio around from one end of the country to the other, and for this I am eternally grateful. I would not have been able to see and experience a fraction of everything I did eventually had this not been a road trip, but even my sincerest attempts at showing my appreciation by keeping awake through the long hours on the road weren’t perfect. Those who know me well know how nearly impossible I find it to keep awake in moving vehicles of any kind, so for the couple of occasions when I did loll around at eccentric angles, my deepest apologies. I did try my very hardest.

We had booked accommodation at the YHA Queenstown Lakefront, a stone’s throw (literally!) from the glassy, blue Lake Wakatipu. Typically, as with all YHAs in towns and cities promising to be hubs of activity, this YHA was well-equipped, busy, noisy, friendly, and very, very crowded. One of the best things about YHAs, however, is the fact that you can become an annual member of the association anytime and at any of their hostels. Which is what Kray and John did, shortly after we checked in and booked ourselves into a plethora of the aforementioned adventure activities. That out of the way, we pranced around town, getting our bearings and soaking in the vast expanses of visual gorgeousity that poured from every direction.

Queenstown is pretty darn south of the south island of New Zealand. Not as far south as Invercargill or Bluff, but low enough to have fabulously long days summer days, with darkness descending only well beyond 10 p.m. A natural consequence of this was that we spent most of our time outdoors, only heading back when the inadvertent glance at our watches revealed that going to bed any later would mean red eyes and flurries of contagious yawns the following day, something we could ill-afford when we had so much to do and so little time to spare.

The next day produced a further flurry of activity. A delicious breakfast, followed by a tandem paraglide off a cliff, headlong into a cloud-soaked valley, frozen hands and panoramic views, plenty of happy hopping and hollering, followed by a cheap (the price being of utmost importance, considering the amount of money we were pouring to feed our irrepressible adrenalin-addiction), wholesome lunch, and topped with a blustery jetboat ride.

By evening, mutual consensus decided that the best way to settle a positively sumptuous dinner of exquisite (and shockingly reasonable) Italian fare was to take the very inexplicably named Skyline ‘Gondola’ (better known as… er… “cable-car”!) up a neighbouring hill and reflect on the day’s exploits from above. After all the thrill therapy we’d undertaken that day, even more aerial views of this hyperactive town, albeit after a benign ride in a box, proved to be as rewarding as we’d hoped. As did the journey back down and around the quays as we watched the day fold in on itself. For me, in particular, it was the perfect prologue to the insanity that quietly lay in wait the following day.

There are a few “dates” that have permanently been emblazoned in my mind. The twentieth day of the twelfth month of the year two thousand and seven now joins those ranks, indisputably. Of all the insane things I’ve ever done, the one I hold most sacred is the one where I leaped off a tiny pod suspended 134 metres above the ground and hurtled towards the rugged chasm below. The Nevis bungy may currently be the highest in New Zealand, but regardless of that much-touted accolade, it will always fondly rest in my memory as the first time I took the plunge. And felt that horrifying lurch in the pit of my stomach as I plummeted towards what felt like certain death. It’s a feeling I’ve often felt while asleep, in dreams, of falling into blackness, only to jerk awake a second later. And I’ve always been left wondering what transpires next. I know now what it feels like to take that deep breath, empty your mind, and let go completely. To fall, to throw yourself off safety and security, off comfort, off sanity, and beyond the clutches of every chain that binds you tight. Clichés are unavoidable, I’m afraid, but it’s truly the most exhilarating, and most terrifying thing I’ve ever done, and the most free I’ve ever, ever felt. Futile as I’ve discovered this disclaimer to be, I say this without the slightest hint of smugness and with no desire nor intent to gloat – I truly believe this is something everyone should do at least once in their lives.

The world faded away for a few hours after the jump. Shifting realities, shuffling perspectives, and immense clarity, all flavoured with choking happiness. Life suddenly seemed to make a lot more sense.

Rotorua

I flew into Auckland weary and grimy, after a ridiculous three flights from Australia, and tottered around the airport, practising maintaining a precarious balance between the towering backpack on my back, and the equally formidable ‘day’ pack resting conveniently on my well-fed tummy. A few immediate observations, a sign of things to come – the chirpy stewardess announcing, “Welcome to Eeh Newww Zeelund (Air New Zealand)”, the chirpier sign at Auckland airport announcing free coffee for all arriving passengers, an amazingly efficient Vodafone counter at the airport, the lime-green, bug-like minibus that whisked me off to the central bus station where I was to meet an old friend and head to Rotorua, four hours away. The jigsaw, all falling into place.

Rotorua is clearly a slightly insane town. And one that’s on fire, permanently. Mama Nature appears to be having one helluva fat chuckle with this Maori hotbed. How else do you explain walking down a street in the midst of sulphurous steam that spews all around you, from gutters, wells, pits (both natural and man-made), ponds, brooks, and from the very ground you walk on?

A stroll into the free-entry Kuirau Park only confirmed this suspicion; it was like walking into a scene from The Village. Events transpired such – so there we were, blithely walking along a lane now quite at ease with this odd landscape all around, and decided (as all such things are decided), without deep deliberation of any kind, to amble beyond a not-so-innocuous sign proclaiming “Thermal Park. Keep to trail else-terrible-things-will-happen-booo-haaa skull-and-crossbones-etc”. Unblinkingly, we walked on, and then on, for the next hour or so, gasped awfully much and took an inordinate number of pictures.

It was a world like nothing I’d ever seen before, awake or in dreams. One breath of clarity, the next obscured by the thickest thermal fog. Spines of long-dead trees, vitriolic blue ponds, bubbling mud, and heat, wet heat in every direction. Visions of angels, demons, and wraiths sprang to mind, and the dazzling scene before our eyes enmeshed with the urgent, pressing odour diffused everywhere. Sensory overload. Unspeakably fantastic.

On the other side of town from Kuirau Park lies Lake Rotorua, on whose shores the town was first built. While not as immediately compelling as the park, this lake has its own magic, once you’ve taken the effort to look beyond its decidedly unhealthy blue-green-yellow-brown hue. A brisk walk around the shore took us to even more thermal fields, each ceaselessly and angrily alive, hissing, sputtering, trembling, and threatening all who dared deny those precious lands the respect they own.

And finally, two things that cannot possibly miss mention – Treks Backpackers, and Fat Dog Café in Rotorua. The former is a spanking new backpackers that’s so cheap and so clean, you’ll spend hours fighting the urge to scan every corner with a fine-toothed comb for bugs or snakes or kiwis or something. Regardless to say, all we discovered were immaculate carpets, fluffy beds (yes, beds, not bunks! In a dorm!), fancy swipe-cards for keys, and very, very pleasant dreams. As for the café, a special mention in the Lonely Planet describing bright, quirky dog-prints painted all over the walls, and chunky all-day breakfasts drew us there like moths to a flame. Two fat breakfasts on, one of gloriously obese blueberry pancakes, and the other of the traditional sausage, eggs and toast deal, we moved on, along our separate ways. My well-fed tummy now reinforced, I turned south and hopped onto a plane headed to Queenstown, where the rest of the magic was set to unfold.

Wildfires

That's what the last few days have been like - an overdose of action squeezed within a woefully inadequate amount of time. And chaos in the sky, over the seas, on land, at parties, in conversations, in plans.

We can only wait, and watch the next adventure unfurl...

Hiatus