Spent a total of two weeks in Cairns. Left on a Thursday morning. Had a flight with Virgin to Sydney, then Sydney to Auckland with Qantas. Had seen Paddy the Goldfish lose the race on three separate occasions. Seen enough Coyote Ugly in P.J. O’Briens and wasn’t sad to see the last of the Miss.Backpacker nights in the Woolshed. Saw Cape Tribulation, had a cruise on the Daintree, went for walks in the rainforest. Saw beautiful trees, endangered Cassowaries, and huge spiders. Heard stories of a Wild West situation north of the Daintree River. Used to be the place to go if you were on the run. The cops considered it a no-go area until the nineties. Saw immense thunderstorms, saw lightning hit a car ten feet away, and rain that could cause a river to burst its banks in a few short hours. Saw the world’s largest moth that had flown down from the rainforest to die. A colourful creature with huge wings. Watched a female crocodile protect her eggs. Had a short tour of Port Douglas where you can buy forty dollar cocktails or spend a 27,000 dollar night in one of the neighbouring islands. After all that, our time in Australia floated to a silent end. We eased out in the cover of darkness, a 5am taxi with a butch driver that talked too much. She wasn’t all that sure of the way either, but at least she got us there in time.
Both New Zealand’s islands are like a couple of fallen crumbs from the large cake of Australia. What most people don’t seem to get, is that they’re probably the nicest part. Landed in Auckland late. Got to our hostel around 11. Decent place, full of Indian men watching cricket. Like the vibe of the city. First thing we noticed was the air. It’s clean and crisp and completely without humidity. Had forgotten the joy of a light drizzle and a cold evening. Reminded me of home. Went to Kelly Tarton's under water museum on our first day. Great place. Kelly Tarton was a real entrepreneur/inventor type that wanted the whole world to appreciate ocean life. Credited with being one of the first scuba divers, he opened a museum that brings you face to face with all the creatures you’d never see if you’d never dived. It’s like a glass bottom boat, except it’s not a boat. You’re literally looking into the sea as you stand on a conveyor belt, cruising past the sharks and watching turtles do their thing. Each creature is explained in a plaque beneath and you can’t help but be mesmerised with it all. The highlight is the Penguins. There’s a pseudo-Antarctica with make-believe sunrise and sunsets and everything. They even keep the fake snow at Antarctic temperatures. You go through on a little train and you watch dozens of Penguins acting just like they’re in the South Pole. It’s amazing. They’re hilarious, with their small wings and fat bellys. They kinda just waddle around, alternating between the water and ice. Kept thinking of Danny de Vito off Batman. Some of them were even asleep standing up.
Walked round the rest of it. Big tributes to Amundsen for being the first to reach the South Pole. A sad story about Scott, the guy who arrived shortly after. He and all his crew died on the way home, overshadowing the glory of Amundsen. One of Scott’s crew, just before he died, was sitting in their freezing hut. Chronic frostbite was the least of his health worries. He stood up, turned to the others and said: ‘I’m just going outside for a walk. I may be some time.’ And never came back.
Went to get our car the next day. A new concept called the Micro-Camper. And they don’t joke about the micro-part. It’s basically a big station wagon with a bed built into the back. Spent the first day driving to Rotorua. Big change from the van. Can hit 120 without knowing it, and it takes the hills with ease. Don’t ever have to use the overdrive. And it’s got Air-con. Feel like such a flashpacker. Electric windows and all.
Got to Rotorua. Went to a Maori Concert. An amazing difference between the Aboriginal situation and the Maoris. The Maoris are almost totally assimilated, at one with Western ways and even have representatives in government. Alcohol is not an issue and they work hard to preserve their culture, while eager not reject European ways also. Learned a lot about their history. The Haka used to be a war dance, performed to a potential enemy. Saw them do it too, it’s savage to see it live. Glad I’ll never play them in Rugby. A lot of them are bloody massive. Saw some of the biggest men I’ve ever seen. One practically took up a whole elevator at the Sky tower.
Ate a big Maori feast that night. Went on a guided walk after. Saw glow worms and Kiwi’s and ancient Sequoia trees. Great evening. Wrapped up with a local telling us a story bout his Rugby days. Had a bad scrum and went into a coma for fifteen days. Came out and went straight to the Maori doctors. They wrapped his skull in a traditional plant and it cured him in no time at all.
Hell’s Gate. Christened by George Bernard Shaw. Not a bad description either. The North Island is a very volcanic area. It’s not uncommon to see sulphuric steam rising from the water drains, or to get the overwhelming stench of rotten eggs when walking down the street. It all comes up from the bowels of the earth, like some kinda constipation waiting to erupt. In the parks, you can see thermal pools, mud baths and spluttering puddles of ugly brown stuff that looks and can smell like the bubbling interior of a sceptic tank. When in Hell’s Gate, you’re at the centre of this kind of activity. It’s just like you’d expect hell to be. With the cesspools and the steam and the molten rock. Possibly would be more eerie and impressive at night. During the day kind of robs the evil from it. Especially when in a crowd. Think some of the Lord of the Rings was filmed there too. Did the full lap around, took lots of pictures. Left for Lake Taupo the next day. A beautiful area. Former glacier. The ice melted, leaving the huge lake. They built a town around the new space. Don’t what they’re gonna do in the next ice age. Spent the night at a free camp site. Drank too much Woodstock. It’s half the price and twice as strong over here.
Drove to Togari. A rural drive, punctuated with mountains and lush green fields and plenty of sheep. Roads can get twisty too. The speed limit’s a hundred but the locals don’t like ya doing anything less. These are the nicest people I’ve seen anywhere in the world, but I can’t fathom their driving culture. Our first couple of days, people keeping hooting and giving us dirty looks when they’d overtake on the passing lanes. We couldn’t figure it out. Happened so much one day we pulled over at a petrol station, thinking we had a flat tyre, or an open door or somethin. A fancy white set of wheels pulled in behind us and a Michael Moore type jumped out. Keys in the hand, pointing. ‘Excuse me, are you on holidays?’ Told him we were. Strangest thing about the Kiwi’s is their accent. They pronounce the vowels all wrong. Most often, the E becomes an I and the C becomes a K. Like if they came to the bank and wanted to Cash a Cheque, they’d say: ‘Excuse me, Kin I kish a chick?’ or if they want to know where you’re staying they ask: ‘Whut beckpeckers you steyin it?’ It’s kinda like they have the vocal chords of a cockatoo.
This guy went on: ‘Will, it’s ok if you wunna go 80 or 90 and luk at the scenery, but you kin’t have kars piled up behinde you. They’ll get irate, hoot you and may even rear ind you in frustration.’ Wanted to ask: ‘Is there a law against overtaking?’ But didn’t think he’d appreciate it. He went on to say: ‘It’s ectually in iffence. Kaulled enkunsiderit dry veeng.’ Let him have his say and apologised. Told him we’d: ‘Go fister, or pull en at rist irea’s, lit the uther kars payss.’ He liked that, smiled a bit and said goodbye
Got to the Tongariro crossing in the afternoon. It’s otherwise known as Middle Earth and the home of Mount Doom. It’s an 18k hike and the whole area depends on people willing to do it. Saw the hotel where Peter Jackson’s crew stayed when filming. Got ourselves on a tour to do the hike the next day. There were pictures of Edmund Hillary types all over the place. Punters with hiking boots, jackets and masks for frostbite, sticks for the rough terrain. Scarves, hats, gloves, pouches, backpacks, water, food, tents, radio’s, phones, binoculars and every other contraption they could fit on the poster. We had twenty dollar walking shoes and a rain jacket. Bought some energy bars in the shops, charged the camera batteries and hoped for the best. The morning didn’t look good. A tremendous amount of fog, like Stephen King’s The Mist. There could be anything from King Kong to hostile Yeti’s up there. Met a few more at the bus stop. Mostly old American types tryna prove something. Some of them had done it ten years ago, wanted to know if they ‘Still had it.’ Others tryna beat a personal record. Didn’t see many Frodo types. Expected a few t-shirt of Bilbo Baggins and one or two wizard hats but they were largely absent. Mostly, there seemed to be a unannounced competition for the biggest camera. Some had tripods the size of an AK47. They woulda done more damage too. Most of the mist cleared in the first hour. It was all a bit of plateau with a gradual climb creeping it, but nothing to ignite the angina. We were just getting confident, thinking ‘this isn’t that bad...’ when we hit the Devil’s Staircase. It was like a local joke. Everyone you talked to said: ‘It’s alright, except for the Devil’s Staircase.’ When you asked why, they always kinda smiled and said: ‘You’ll understand why when you get there.’ And yes, we understood why when we got there. Things went suddenly vertical. The rocks got jagged and less easy to walk on. The day was just getting hot and the sun was coming over the peak. People panted, leaned against large stones, muttered things about being unfit, looked longingly towards where we started and asked, politely as possible, to repeat what the bus lady had said about the point of no return. We trudged on, in the ever increasing self-delusion that it would flatten out soon. Each time we reached what we thought was the summit, another higher peak rose before us. It really was like some kinda purgatory. Underlying it all was the challenge. The lactic acid screaming in your bones and the fresh air swirling in your lungs. And the cars and the mobile phones all far below and unimportant. Your endorphins are alive and kicking and you get a taste of why people do this all time. The weather conditions change from hot, to arctic breeze to shrouds of mist. Your cheeks are cold and your ears have that piercing feeling of frost, but your chest is hot and your breathings going hard and your heart’s beating like the sound of a fast train on an old track. Your fingers are scraping off the rocks but you stopped feeling it a long time ago. A sixty year old man runs past and it gives you energy. Another rock, another peak. Mount Doom appears to the right like it’s gradually growing from the ground. Emerald lakes form in the distance like the mirage of huge green gems. You stand in wide open expanse of rocky desert in a valley of dormant volcano’s, feeling like the smallest most insignificant thing in the world. I went to a talk by Joe Simpson once, the climber from Touching the Void. He said that reaching the summit is the worst thing about climbing. You spend years planning, organising, preparing for the worst. When you’re finally at the top, there’s a terrible feeling of loss, because the one thing you’ve spent all your time getting ready for is over. That may be true in the Peruvian Andes, but it didn’t apply at Tongariro. Probably because of the significantly less amount of planning and the smaller height. But there’s no denying the buzz of getting across it. It might be a relatively easy track, Joe Simpson might walk tougher ones in his sleep, but there’s a spiritual edge to Tongariro. The challenge is compartmentalised. From the early plateau, to the Devil’s staircase. Then down toward the Emerald lakes through a loose scree track that can cause treacherous falls into moon size craters. It’s stated in the guidebook as: ‘If you fall in at this point, you won’t be getting back out.’ There’s a another steep climb before you get to the Hot Springs and begin the descend to the Ketahiti hut. The way down is jungle-like, with plenty of bridges and mist and tall trees. By the time you get to here you’re in the zone. Tired, but ready for more. You’re pulling energy from reserves you didn’t know were there. Before you know it, you’ve arrived at the bottom with all the other trampers. It’s like the end of an exam you thought you were gonna fail but it turned out alright in the end. Back on the bus, people compare sights and pictures and walking times. A crate of water fell on an old guy’s head but he seemed alright. Stunned, but alive. Had a sneaky shower at the caravan park. Met some Americans from our walk at the cafe. They were the Grey Nomad types on the way to the North Island. Told us there were more sheep in the south. Said goodbye and faced the car for North Palmerston. Had a fit of inspiration and called the Micro-camper Geraldine. It looks like a Geraldine too. Kinda fussy about where it’s parked and the windows are cantankerous. Go all the way up, or all the way down. Really have to work to get them in the centre. She’s staring to growl a bit on the hills too, like she’ saying: ‘I don’t do hills, talk to the hand.’ Anyway, next big stop Wellington the capital and then the
South Island -
Hung out in Wellington for a couple of days. Nice city but difficult to drive around. A lot of one-ways and confusion. Took photos from Mount Victoria look-out. A high vantage point with a view of the whole place. Stayed by the beach on Shelly Bay Drive. A quiet suburb with too many teenagers in fast cars. Went to the Marine museum. Saw lots of stuff about boats that sank off the coast. Drank in an Irish pub that didn’t sell Guinness. J.J. Murphy’s. They were all about their own Murphy’s brew. Had a pint of it, didn’t taste good, like someone had spiked your Guinness with washing up liquid. Took the crossing over to Picton early. A small town that should be taking more advantage of tourists. Everybody there was just talking about ‘...goin down south...’ There was very little to do in Picton itself except get off the boat and leave. Went to Nelson. Looked into some Hang gliding but it seems I can’t cos I’m just out of an ear infection. Almost blew both drums on the way to Auckland. Pity we’re in a country that mostly involves adrenaline fuelled jumping from terrible heights. Doctor said to even think twice about flying. The major attractions of the South Island are the Bungy and the Skydive and lots of water sports if you’re into that. In fact, they have pretty much everything that goes under the banner of Extreme. Even things you’ve never heard of before. There’s caving, canyoning, canyon swinging, glacier hikes, Heli-hikes, jet boarding, skiing, gliding, mountain-biking and lots of colour coded things like White water and Black water rafting. They can be pretty expensive so if you’re on a budget you can get wrapped in a big ball-like bubble and someone will roll you down a steep hill for only forty five dollars. There’s also Whale watching and diving, Lord of the Rings tours and plenty of talk about Milford Sound, Doubtful Sound and other ‘Fantastic’ scenic locations. That’s about half of all to do and the rest is too much to write without an offer of commission from the New Zealand tourist board.
We left Nelson and drove straight across to the Heaphy Track. A walk just outside a town called Karamea. The drive was long and twisty enough to make you seasick. An hour long journey in Australia can take three hours in New Zealand. It’s mostly cos you’re driving round mountains to get anywhere. There’s an Arctic chill in the South too. The kind that gets right into your bones. You think it’s gonna be hot cos the sun’s out, but once you step outside the car it’s freezing. Stayed at a campsite in Karamea. Seemed to be mostly pensioners. Everyone wanted to know what we were doing, where we were going and all that. They all looked on us like we were their grandkids. One woman was making cookies and put in too much sugar cos she was talking so much. She got all worried then cos her husband was diabetic. Then she just went on talking again: ‘What kind of car are ye driving? Isn’t it lovely to be young.’
Went down through Greymouth and Westport and stopped by the Franz Josef glacier. It’s a small town, built around tourism and hikers. Lots of German looking climbing types roam the streets. Booked a hike for the next day.
Went for a look at the mouth of the glacier. You can feel the chill as you approach it. It expands over the hills like a huge white blanket. It’s melting a bit during the summer months so waterfalls run off the side from every angle. As you get closer, everything gets kinda crystallised. A river runs to your left with large clumps of ice floating along its top. It’s like walking around Superman’s cave. There’s no real colour, yet the resolution of everything is amplified. You can almost hear the huge bulk of ice breathe. It dominates everything in the surrounding area, a towering presence that might just decide it doesn’t like you anymore, spit some ice your way and kill ya. You know you’re in the home of something ancient and timeless and totally overpowering. It’s like a sleeping dragon that you don’t want to wake up. Everybody tiptoes over there, takes a quick picture and gets back. The river can easily change course, rock falls are not uncommon and the rain was starting to get heavy, enough to flood the area in minutes.
Got an early night, saving our energy for the big climb the next day. Some said it was easy, others said it was the worst and hardest thing of their whole time travelling. We didn’t know what to expect. The only thing we were sure of was the weather forecast had been right. 3 inches of rain in a 24 hour period. Didn’t sound too good. Weren’t surprised to find it was cancelled the next day. The ice steps had melted and the river had risen too high to be safe. We weren’t going anywhere. Didn’t have time in the schedule to wait around til it cleared. Hit the road again, disappointed, but kinda relieved. Thought they might go for the money and ignore the risk. Fire us all up there and never wonder why we hadn’t came back down. Took a look at Fox glacier on the way out. Equally as impressive. Lots of rain there too, and the fallen rocks on the road didn’t inspire confidence.
More rain. Big Maui speeding campervans. Waterfalls jutting onto the road. Wipers going full speed. No radio reception. Surrounded by hills. We were going nice and slow when I noticed the black car right behind me, like he wanted to over-take. Was just thinking of giving him space when he seemed to fall back a bit. Looked again and he was surging towards me. Then came the clatter. At first I thought we’d hit a road sign, or something had fallen from the hills, but our car seemed ok. When I looked back, the guy behind me was gone and there was a plume of smoke rising from the road behind us. Turned around. Got back to a corner where the barrier had been broken and he’d crashed into a stream about twenty feet below. I noticed all this after I first saw the driver. He’d somehow managed to get out and walk away from the car with one hand over a bleeding eye. He looked up at me all incoherent and fright.
Told me there was no one else in the toppled wreck beside him. The smoke, or steam, I don’t know which had stopped and it was only the three us on the road in the lashing rain. He made his way up the embankment. A young guy of about 22. His only injury was the eye but we tried to call an ambulance anyway. No reception. Something to do with the hills. Always figured it would hook up to a satellite in an emergency, but not in NZ. Flagged down cars. They all shrugged and tried using their phones. Nothing. A crowd had gathered in minutes. People from all nationalities. The guy from the accident was the only Kiwi there. An American man wrapped his head in a towel. We gave him one of our chairs and a bus load of Germans arrived with two doctors on board. The docs came off, all stern and full of German questions. The others waited on the bus, arms folded and looking put out. We had to tell the doctors to talk English. The injured guy was getting confused. Said he was on the way to his brother’s wedding. Been driving since two o’clock that morning. He was in a black shirt, stained jeans and wellies. Hard to put it all together. He complained about all his stuff in the car. Laptops, mobiles and all that, but everyone just ignored him and discussed what to do. Some said to bring him to a hotel five k’s down the road. Others said he should go to the town in the opposite direction, while more argued we should wait for the ambulance as a considerable amount of passers-by had vowed to send for one when they arrived at the next payphone. A neutral group just kinda hung out in the background, watching the drama unfold, wondering what would happen next. Ryan, as the injured guy’s name turned out to be, said: ‘Can’t we just wait here for the ambulance?’ but nobody wanted to know.
‘He’s in shock. He needs to lie down.’
‘No, the road’s too wet, leave him sitting.’
‘He can lie on the bus.’
‘I just want to wait here.’
‘Cover him up properly.’
‘Can you get my stuff from the car?’
‘Is that bandage tied tight?’
‘My eye hurts.’
‘Bring him to the next town.’
‘We’ll bring him in our bus. Here, take him under the arms and carry.’
‘But...’
‘1,2,3. Lift.’
And before anyone knew it, least of all Ryan, he was on his way to the next town on a tourist bus. The driver took vague note of our position and kinda motioned everyone to hurry up. They took off in a hasty kinda ‘we need to make up time’ way and turned the corner into another world. Those of us left just looked at each other awkwardly, not knowing what there was really left to talk about. A line of cars had piled up behind a makeshift barricade and someone asked me if we should let them go. They all filed past with curious stares, dodging the broken glass on the road. After they’d left, we shook hands with the American guy and we all went our separate ways. Standing on the empty road, we had only our wet clothes and the bloody chair to convince us it had happened at all.
Arrived at gig called Hasst an hour later. Stayed in a hostel for the night. Place was run by a wacky man with grey hair. He was the edgy type, kinda paranoid. Always came from a hidden kitchen with lots of screens, like he was watching for somethin to happen. Almost annoyed to have to serve people and take his attention away from the stake-out. He looked us up and down, told us we had to be in bed by 9.30 because of the guy in Room One. Didn’t like that we didn’t have cash and had to use credit card. It seemed to make him itchy. He scratched the back of his head, wrote some figures on a piece of paper, seemed to think and said: ‘Ok, I’ll let you use credit card, then.’ Went on to tell us it was a small town. Only three hundred people. Went wide-eyed with: ‘No ATMS!’ Asked him why and he said: ‘I’ll put it like this. Why do we need them? Spending money is my biggest problem, not taking it out.’ He was deadpan. We smiled uneasily and asked him what room we were in. Didn’t see him again til the following morning. Some other guests had told us he’d hunted them into their rooms the night before. Freaked out at about 9.45 when they weren’t in bed. The man in Room One would be annoyed. Told them they were too loud and couldn’t stay up. Then he went into the kitchen and had a full-blown chat with the table. We saw him on our way out in the morning. I said goodbye and he got all conspiratorial said: ‘Ye did well, lads. Ye did well.’ And he pulled open a random door and disappeared. Left thinking it might be time to hit for Queenstown. A place with more than 300 people and a few ATMS. Supposed to be the ‘Adventure Capital.’ of New Zealand. Let’s see if we can ‘…do well...’ there too.
South İsland
Queenstown was cool. Went out a lot. Met loads of people. There was a blonde policewoman from England who was thinking of becoming a plasterer. Met a guy from Israel who wore a t-shirt that said “Mystery Man.” The most mysterious thing being that the more he drank, the more eager he was to drive. ‘I’ve had three Vodkas. Shall we drive to the next pub? My car is just around the corner.’ Hung out in a hostel called Southern Laughter. Met two girls from Australia that had lived in New Zealand the past year or so. They told us stories bout the Queenstown winter. When it snows they open the roof on the pub and everyone watches it float in. Met two French guys from a place called New Caledonia. A French colony off the Australian coast. Never even knew it existed. It’s somewhere between New Zealand and Oz.
Queenstown is all centred around extreme sports. Everyone is doing a minimum of a bungy jump. Watched a video of two girls jumping it from Nevis point. It was scary enough to watch it, can’t imagine doing it. Never knew New Zealand was where it all started. A guy called A.J. Hackett set it up sometime in the late eighties. Really took risks to get it goin. One of his stuntmen even jumped off the Eiffel Tower once. They seemed to have made it a lot safer these days. I always imagined they tie a piece of rope to your ankle and push you off. But they have it all harnessed now and everything.
Went to Mount Cook after that. Great sight. Apparently Edmund Hillary used it as a practice point before Everest. Saw more glaciers, glacial lakes, and miniature ice-bergs. Lots of memorial tombs for people that died on the mountain too. Some as young as eighteen. Died training, in avalanches, or just never came back down. The mornings were cold sleeping beside it. Everything was icy in the car. Took half an hour for the windows to clear from the condensation. Hit for Dunedin next. It was a long drive but the car’s holding up well. Hard to keep the speed down cos it’s so smooth. Corners are a bitch though and they keep you in check.
Dunedin is Celtic for Edinburgh and has the most Scottish influence in New Zealand. There’s a lot similarities too. The sense of culture is there, and it’s got the vibrancy of a good university town. The people are for the most part nice. Possibly a bit overkill on the coffee culture. Bit like temple-bar in Dublin. Had a run in with a guy in Cafe. He was all about the Cappuccino’s, but the place was supposed to be an internet cafe as well. The comp wouldn’t work and he wouldn’t do anything about it. Said he was too busy. Arms folded, eyes rolling in a ‘…Can’t believe you’d contradict me...’ attitude. At one stage he asked: ‘What do you want me to do, stop making coffee?’ When he said ‘Coffee’ it sounded like ‘Kuffy.’ I thought people like him only existed in Ross O’Carroll Kelly novels. I never knew how close he was to the truth. There was a girl working there too that he called “Honey.” She was nice and we dealt mostly with her. He’s probably still bitching about it. It was 9 in the morning and he was all up for confrontation over a computer glitch. You need serious energy to be someone like him, or issues, or maybe just intravenous Macchiato. This must is the art of a Kuffy-maker. A guy in Perth told me his coffee theory once. He was one of those black pants, black shirt and shoes, green apron, greased back hair guys. Out for a smoke, watching me power wash the yard, he said: ‘Thing about a coffee shop is you have to have the ambience. You can have a two-million dollar empty shop, or a packed kiosk at a petrol station. It’s all bout how you make ‘em, ask people if they’re ok. Walk by when you see they’re running low, offer them more. Ask them if they liked the cake. Tell them about the specials. There’s no point just making coffee, you have to love it, eh….? Put time into it. Spend time in coffee shops yourself. Ask yourself what you like and don’t like about the place, and bring the improvements home. Be receptive and perceptive. I like to whiz into a place and just send my energy everywhere. Make people feel like they’re getting value for money. Before I come in I drink about ten Baroccas and Red Bull and just smash it, eh...?’
Stopped in Oamaru on the way outta Dunedin. Waited for some Penguins that never showed. Watched seals basking in the sun. They have this look in their eye, like they can’t understand why everyone’s watchin them. Made it to Kaikoura the next day. Small gig North of Christchurch. Famous for Whales. Went on a Whale tour in a Catamaran. The weather had been promised bad, but it looked like a great day. They’d had a forecast of 35 knot gales that didn’t seem to be coming. We got out far enough to see a sperm whale and some dusky dolphins, but then the winds hit and we were nearly toppled over. The boat was like a waltzer gone wrong and the sea was playing Ping Pong with us. Just fired us back and over. Lifeguards weren’t that re-assuring either. They went pale and gave each other concerned looks. The lady giving a speech about Sperm Whales had lost her enthusiasm and just muttered into the mic, keeping an eye on the tremendous forces of water hitting the window. Some passengers were excited enough to take pictures. Others almost cried and one or two somehow slept. We made it back in the end. Lived to the tell the tale and got a sixty per cent refund. No complaints there.
Dropped the car back a couple of days later. A nice old guy that just seemed to be minding the place for the day. Gave it a quick check for scratches and said it should be fine. We moved out of our second vehicle in a month and left to book into a hostel. Time passess with the beat of a mans heart. The faster it beats, the faster life flies by. I once heard life described as a roll of toilet paper. The nearer you get to the end, the faster it runs out. We’ve got three days chilling' in Christchurch and we’re gone to Sydney for a one night stop over. Then Hong Kong for three days and home to Ireland to end an eighteen month Odyssey. Phone calls to the family end with: ‘I’ll see ya soon, anyway.’ Talk of catch up beers with friends. When ya tell other people you’re goin home it’s like saying you have a terminal disease. Everyone just frowns and extends pity but you know they’re thinking: ‘I’m glad that’s not me.’ Home is the dreaded word that breaks the illusions of freedom. It reminds you that whatever you left behind isn’t gone anywhere. I left behind a 12 year old car and a torrent of hailstones. Both are still there. My suggestion of a barbeque almost busted the phone with screams of laughter. Didn’t do any good for my eardrums. Talk of the future too. ‘What are ya gonna do now? Are ya round for long?’ Be home just in time for Easter too. Right after Paddy’s day. The whole country will probably go into meltdown. 10 days of drink and missed work and madness. Everything gets thrown aside. Statistically, it’s probably the worst time to try and do anything practical in Ireland. St.Patrick's day is on a Monday. Call up the garage to get your car fixed the Thursday beforehand and the mechanic’s already on the piss since yesterday. From about the 1st of March onward, the whole population slips into a: ‘Sure, we’ll wait til after Paddy’s before we do anything with that,’ attitude. It’s like a social cyclone and not everyone’s sure they’re goin to survive. Best option is to drink yourself stupid til it all blows over.
Back in Perth, we used to go to a nightclub called The Rock. It was the graveyard of all bad nights, when the war against sobriety hits Def Con 4. It’s one of the places you’d never even find in a sound state of mind. Somethin happens in the Kebab shop: a suggestion, an inspired idea, a renewed thirst; and before you know it you’re there. You walk in and the first thing you notice is the smell. It’s like someone got all the ash from all the cigarettes ever smoked and covered it in stale beer, then used it all to build the place. It’s one of those dark red gigs, the kind you’d see on a David Lynch film. The whole joint is like a mix of Twin Peaks, Futurama and Total Recall. You wouldn’t be surprised to find a three-breasted bar maid with an eye on her forehead, or grotesque female dwarves doing Coyote Ugly on the counter. If you feel something humping your leg, it’s probably a gremlin, and the pale bald guy staring at you from across the dance floor really is eight feet tall. It’s where you go when you’re goin nowhere else. No work the next day. No work the day before. No money. No other pubs open. Desperate, or simply just a backpacker that works evenings. You find them all and more with it. The staff serve poison from old dirty taps, but the time of night decreases your expectations of quality. It tastes like sulphur mixed with puke. You pay for it with cash got from a trip to the ATM that you can’t remember making. The illusion is that you’ve had a cheap night so far and things aren’t that bad. As far as you can tell, people are dancing. They might be just falling around the place with music in the background. They could be fighting or shagging either. One night, in the moment’s blindness as I took off my fleece, my pint was stolen. I took that on the chin and put the fleece under a chair as I went to buy another drink. When I got back, the fleece was gone too. Ten minutes later I clocked a guy walking round wearing it. Approached and politely asked him what the story was. He got all sorry, said: ‘Someone stole my jumper, man. So I felt, you know...I deserved this.’ He pulled it off and gave it back and took off with someone’s pint from the neighbouring table. Things happen in flashes. Your mate’s doing the chicken dance with an Aborigine woman. Your pint has transformed into a Vodka ‘N Red Bull. The guy that stole your fleece is over spitting in your ear. He might be American now, but your coulda sworn he was English. Maybe it’s not him at all. He’s got friends eyeing up the table of unaccompanied drinks to your left. The disco ball is spinning and those dodgy disco lights bounce off the walls. The music’s like the same song has been on all night. It’s like someone’s smashing plates in a room with an echo. Time passes. The lights come on. You’re on the way home. It’s morning. You have the first few blissful seconds before you open your eyes. The nether world between sleep and life. The calm before the storm. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, you know you’ve felt like this before. The sandy feeling in your joints, the dry mouth and the polypeptide massacre in your stomach. You can’t put your finger on it. Your mind’s too mushed with weird flashbacks. The day goes by in a haze of bad health and financial shame. If you walk the streets, you feel like a soldier suffering Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Every loud noise sends you running for cover behind the nearest bin, thinking: ‘Christ, they’re back!’ and when you finally return to proper state you realise why it’s all so familiar: It’s just like home.
Anyway, in Hong Kong for Paddy’s this year, but be home for Easter. Things should be in full swing by then.
