We've been away a while, and I can only apologise one again for the titan delay between blog posts. I could - as was the case last time - write a paragraph or so filled with self-condemnation, begging forgiveness from the precious few followers left. After all, we've nurtured this blog about as well as a heroin-addict may nurture a new-born baby, but this is going to be a long'un and there's no use wasting your time and the page's space with empty apologies. We've had a brilliant time.
I think we last left you in the cosy middle-class haven of Carmel, California. We've passed safely through two phases (and entered into a third) of our trip since then, and there's no one way to approach them collectively. So, I'll walk you through the separate stages, hopefully going some way in helping you visualise the whirlwind roller-coaster of a ride on which we've been willing passengers since being tucked away on a beach on North America's west coast.
It seems like a lifetime ago now, but we hopped on a plane to cross the mighty Pacific at the end of the first week of April, having gone through another teary goodbye to my mother (a striking example of deja vu) at LAX Airport. For reasons unknown, Cosmo's driving license never materialised while the time was ripe, so reluctantly abandoned our somewhat over-ambitious plans to rent a campervan for New Zealand, and instead opted for a much more tourist-friendly bus tour across the country. With Katie and her troupe acting as a scout party, we were already savvy to the step-by-step nature of this journey, and we arrived in Auckland feeling very comfortable in our plans for what promised to be a pregnant month.
For once, and to our astonishment, our expectations proved to be more or less accurate. New Zealand is renowned (for better or for worse) as a nest crawling with young English backpackers, and we felt very much in the mainstream almost at once. There were very few "where shall we go next" conversations and even fewer "where the hell are we?!" moments during the proceeding weeks. There is often a negative corrolation, I find, between the quality of one's memory and the amount one has to remember (reading it back, I suppose that seems obvious!) so in this case I ask you to forgive me if at times my recollection is hazy. Having said that, my head's filled with vivid pictures from every moment while on this trip - the tricky part is merely placing them in a comprehensible order. Even so, I'll do my best to retrace our steps with a few (perhaps idealised and always, I'm afraid, generalised) judgements which will, hopefully, add colour to a picture I can only sketch with descriptive words.
The principle behind the bus tour - called 'Kiwi Experience' for those who are familiar with the concept - was very simple: pick a day to leave each destination, and hop on or off a big bus at your leisure. We had a jumbled and very changeable itinerary to begin with, so our paths were laid before us like carpets as soon as we arrived. So, having had a hazy day in Auckland (after a sleepless overnight flight, six cups of coffee and mythical jetlag) cramming in the museums, art galleries and sights the city had to offer, we headed north to the Bay of Islands. Paihia, the northernmost 'city' (its size hardly merits the label) was our first stop. Picture a long straight road along a shallow beach with a horizon stretching endlessly into the Pacific in one direction and green-clad hills in the other. The city itself was pleasant but hardly jaw-dropping and the weather was by no means flattering. That said, no gathering of clouds could dampen too severely a sunset over the clear unspoiled Pacific, and we breathed in the view with a newfound optimism that our time in New Zealand would, at the very least, be memorable. Having spent the night in the hostel bar in the midst of strange folk and even stranger pub-quiz questions (which was the first country to declare war on Germany in WWII? Anyone? Leave answers below, and now Wikipedia searches), I roused Cosmo at a respectable hour the next morning to trek through the hills to a waterfall - here my memory has gone completely haywire so I cannot tell you the name. Even though its name has slipped my mind, it's beauty certainly has not. It was lovely and, although in no way a reminder of the sheer power of the natural world, it served to demonstrate Mother Nature's serenity. Sitting on a rock on top of the Falls, I had one of those infrequent but familiar moments in which I realised how lucky we were to be there and how gloriously far away from home, not just in geographical terms, we'd come.
The next day we hopped back to Auckland to catch another bus over to Mercury Bay, the northeastern spot to admire the surrounding ocean. The Bay was dotted as far as the eye could see with small islands, all of which (including the surrounding ocean) were part of a protected wildlife reserve. It was breathtaking and, consumed by a smiling sun and a gentle breeze, a very small handful of us went on a guided sea-kayaking trip from island to island, pausing to admire the late afternoon on an all but deserted beach with mugs of hot chocolate and cookies (prepared for us by a guide who was no doubt very content in his career choice).
We then headed down to Rotorua, known in New Zealand (at least by appreciative tourists) as the traditional Maori capital. There we had the opportunity to enter a very old-fashioned (unfortunately but, I suppose, necessarily fabricated) Maori village in the woods where, having enjoyed several demonstrations and performances, we sat down to a huge all-you-can-eat buffet. Although the village, it has to be said, lacked any genuine authenticity, it was great fun nonetheless and our stomachs welcomed greedily the rare opportunity of being filled to the brim.
After Rotorua came Taupo (here's where I think I may have missed a step), celebrated as the country's adrenalin epicentre. We had a couple of days and nights here, and tried to cram in all the foolhardy activities possible in the realtively short time period available. In short, we both booked slots on a plane for the sole purpose of jumping out of it again. There's a long story behind this, and I'd dearly like to have this secure in writing: I didn't get to go skydiving, due neither to lack of courage nor lack of trying, but the company messed us about and I had my eyes on a bigger prize - more on that in a second. Still, Cosmo managed to get on a later flight and has told me that it was one of the thrills of his life, and that means a lot coming from a cliff-jumping, motorbike-riding, back-flipping maniac like him. I won't try to recreate his experience having missed out on the opportunity myself, but all his followers should know that he loved it and would, I'm sure, be more than happy to speak to you about it with the utmost enthusiasm, assuming of course that he hasn't already (and I suspect he has). Anyway, I didn't go skydiving and any sci-fi nuts amongst you will understand why. Taupo, I discovered only after arriving, is home to the Tungaruro Crossing, otherwise known to film buffs as the deadly Land of Mordor in the Lord of the Rings film trilogy. I've always been frustrated at Frodo for being unable to climb Mount Doom, and I was determined to rid my accusations of any hypocrisy. So, without any water (that, I assure you, was not done purposefully for the sake of authenticity but a silly miscalculation of supplies during the 20km hike to the mountain itself), I clambered through ash and volcanic rock to the top. The view at three thousand and something metres was surreal, and now I have only to laugh in Elijah Wood's face in order to die a happy man. Anyway, we both left Taupo feeling thoroughly pleased with ourselves for one reason or another, and we went on our way with a self-confident smirk for the next couple of weeks.
Next stop was windy Wellington, the actual capital of New Zealand. It was surprisingly, actually, surprisingly sweet and charming, not boasting the hectic buzz which capitals usually impose upon intimidated visitors. We spent a couple of days going to various museums and admiring the proud harbour and a couple of nights spending far too much money having what I can only assume were great evenings (needless to say, my memory fails me here for other, less romantic reasons). The city's gorgeous and surprisingly small and we had, by that time, made good friends in a few of our bus-trip comrades, making the days more colourful and nights, in Cosmo's case, more sordid.
Having said our goodbyes to the North Island, we hopped on a ferry and jumped into the 'canoe' (Maori legend has it that the two main landmasses of New Zealand were formed when a great ancestor in a boat [South Island] caught and dragged to the surface a gigantic fish [North Island]). We headed straight for Nelson, said to be the country's hippy haven. It does, more or less, live up to its reputation, and I spent a great afternoon wandering into old-school bookshops and visiting a modern yet good-looking cathedral.
I'm definitely missing a few out here, but I'll push on anyway. The next momumental stepping stone was Franz Joseph, home to the world-famous Fox Glacier. Although weather conditions could not have been worse, we gritted our teeth, put on some cramp-ons and started walking. The guide could only take us up so far while it was bucketing with rain, but the views were awe-inspiring nonetheless, trekking up a mountain of solid ice surrounded by hundreds (literally, hundreds) of vapourising waterfalls bursting out of the rock faces around us. Believe it or not, it got very cold very quickly (not helped by the fact that we were forced to stop for half an hour to hack a fresh way through the ice which had been coated by frozen rain). However, the pain was worth enduring as we strolled through ice caves and jumped from ridge to ridge in a setting that is almost impossible to describe. We were rewarded in full when we got back to the town with a long soak in the natural hot baths. The three pools vary in temperature from 36 to 40 degrees, and sinking into them was like thawing after a long, hard winter.
Last real stop on our coach was Queenstown, where we were determined to make a dramatic exit. Having won a costume competition (the theme being to dress up as something beginning with 'P' - I went as a picnic, complete with snacks that were gratefully but ungraciously torn from me throughout the night), I was given a free 'Canyon Swing' just outside Queestown. The name is pretty much self-explanatory: you stand on the edge of a canyon, jump off, freefall for 60 metres then swing at 200km/h or so in between two sheer cliffs. I had to wake up early for the privilege but, absurdly, it was only a warm up for the afternoon we'd had planned for a long time. Around noon, Cosmo and I downed a Red Bull and got on a bus to the location of the Queenstown Nevis Bungy. I expect some of you will have seen the video Cosmo uploaded, but for those of you who haven't, I'll tell the quick story. You arrive at a huge canyon and you're shipped in a tin can over to a stationery cable car in the middle of the canyon, standing 140 metres from the ground. The space is blasting with heavy metal music and you spend as long as you can shaking all over trying, inevitably in vain, to psych yourself up for the insanity ahead. When your name's called, you hobble forward, failing miserably to show signs of courage and optimism and, before you know it, you've jumped off a ledge and you're free-falling for eight full seconds. It's hard to say whether it was 'fun' or not - there isn't really a word in the English vocabulary that qualifies the feeling one gets when hurtling towards the ground from a 140 metre ledge for no apparent reason. Anyway, we were very glad to have done it but even more glad it was over, and we left feeling that we had abided to Cosmo unflinchingly narcissistic tattoo. "I came, I saw, I conquered".
We clearly needed to be brought down a notch, and some lovely person in Queenstown took it upon themselves to relieve us of our newly discovered (at least in my case) sense of invincibility. A creepy little swine pickpocketed our last working credit card on our last full day in New Zealand, leaving us penniless (save for the shrapnel buried in my rucksack) and facing four journeys (Queenstown - Christchurch - Sydney - Hong Kong).
Here's where, for me, the coolest part of the story begins.
We arrived in Hong Kong feeling weary and uncomfortable, but with a glimmer of hope. Having passed on the fateful news to my parents at home, they clearly mobilised at a speed which made the Queenstown fall seem slow. My dad sent cash via Western Union to keep us going in Hong Kong while my mum spoke to a friend of hers who lived in the city, begging him to put a roof over our heads. For the first time on our trip, we had no real clue what we were doing there, but the next two weeks were a delicious dream.
When we got to Jeff's and Christina's flat in HK, we were hugely grateful for a good meal and beds for the night. In the end, we got so much more than we'd bargained for. I was rooted until my card could be re-issued and couriered from London, and I was more than willing to move out as soon as we outstayed our welcome. Having said that, I was willing, but I really didn't want to! Christina's two beautiful young daughters, Athena and Cat Cat (12 and 10), adopted us almost immediately as, well, horses, insisting on offering further bed and board in exchange for piggy back rides across the city. The deal, to us, seemed more than favourable and we quickly, very quickly, felt that we'd found a home away from home. Travelling on the proverbial 'open road' is wonderful, and the feeling of complete freedom, for us at least, suffers only one rival: the cosy, warm, snuggly feeling of home. We were offered, and found, just that in Jeff and Christina's place and, although we made visited all sorts of exotic places in and around Hong Kong, the highlight of the time spent their was, for both of us, the kindness and warmth of our hosts. You'll hear all sorts of stories from both of us when we get back to our respective countries, far more than I can recount in an already oversized blog post, but know for now that Jeff, Christina, Athena, Cat Cat and their maid, Trini, not only sheltered us when we needed it most, but revitalised us emotionally (and gastronomically!) for the home stretch.
I'm wary of embarrassing anyone by singing their praises on such a public stage, but one thing needs to go into the blog. Jeff, one of the wisest and most interesting guys either of us have come across while away, left us with the following quote. You'll understand, of course, that it is the inspiration for the above title and, indeed, for our trip and beyond:
"If I had my life to live over, I'd try to make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have on this trip. I would be crazier. I would be less hygienic. I would take more chances, I would take more trips. I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers, and watch more sunsets. I would burn more gasoline. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would have more actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones. You see, I am one of those people who lives prophylactically and sensibly and sanely, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I have had my moments and if I had it to do over again, I'd have more of them. In fact, I'd try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another. Instead of living so many years ahead each day. I have been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do it over again, I would go places and do things. I'd travel lighter than I have. If I had my life to live over, I would start barefooted earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would play hooky more. I wouldn't make such good grades except by accident. I would ride on merry-go-rounds. I'd pick more daisies!" Nadine Stair, aged 85.
We're now in Vietnam with high spirits and, although itching to get home, ready and willing to pick as many daisies as we can before we're through. I've likened this stage of the trip to the feeling of intense anticipation a child experiences after going to bed on Christmas Eve. Home will be glorious, but it's not a light at the end of the tunnel. With the end in sight, we're redoubling our energy and (I'm afraid, mum) our recklessness to squeeze everything we can out of a healthy but relatively microscopic time in South East Asia.
Life out here is fast-paced and all over the place, but we're getting by with broad grins on our faces more often than stressed-out frowns.
Love to you all - we'll see most of you before long, but I'll try my hardest to keep you filled in on our stories before you get to hear them all over again in person. I've missed out so much in the post, mostly by necessity, but no doubt I've given you enough fuel to light a blazing conversational fire upon our return.
Email or phone if you need either of us or just fancy a bankcrupting chat. Remember to pick daisies!
Louis and Cosmo
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
No comments:
Post a Comment