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17th Mar 2006 - 24th Mar 2006
One woggle to rule them all.
Arriving in Auckland, little Matthew was readily aware that the global sojourn embarked upon in August had endured some sudden and significant changes. Country, continent, hemisphere and language were all different, but in addition there were sweeping personnel changes. Indeed, pop-pickers, rather like Sugababe Keisha, Matthew found himself to be the only remaining original in the touring party, as the temporary revellers from Cancun, Chris and Sam, were replaced by the doctoral presence of Richard Kowenicki, and Thomas "I`m the laziest person you`ll ever meet" Peck was transferred for an unfamiliar face, Robert Baden-Peck.
While Matthew already knew that Richard would be more than adequately amused with grooming, gurning and the occasional discussion of phosphozane macrocycles, the other newcomer, Baden-Peck, was a completely unknown quantity. As it turned out, time would reveal him to be a young man who liked nothing better than an early rise after a night under canvas, setting off into the depths of a dense forest with shorts pulled up, map and compass in hand, and accompanied by an unswervingly chirpy spirit in order to spend a wholesome day`s orienteering and imitating bird calls, before walking the ecoli gauntlet on an open fire started with nothing but a twig, a rock and a nod to the Good Lord. When asked what he liked doing in his spare time Baden-Peck listed two hobbies - practicing reef knots and wink murder.
Our stay in Auckland was fleeting, although we did manage to squeeze in a look across the city from the skytower and a Super 14 encounter between the Blues and the Brumbies. But within what seemed like moments of arriving in New Zealand`s largest city, we found ourselves jumping into a hire care and heading north to the Bay of Islands, le singe at the wheel, le Maureen from driving school in the back. After a long drive we reached Pahia a small coastal town looking out over the numerous islands. Having finished playing chicken with ferries in our rented kayaks, we took to our third means of transport for the day, albeit a contraption that proved to be Baden-Peck`s own Everest. Used to walking everywhere, Baden-Peck has neither need nor desire for mechanical propulsion, and so it was that when Richard and Matthew presented him with a bicycle, his Polyphonic Spree-like joviality showed signs of fading for the first time. However, after staving off one or two naughty curse words, our very Magneto of the cycling world stood by scout law number eight - `A scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties` - and prospered, riding off into the dim late afternoon light to claim his very own yellow jersey. My, how we smiled and whistled.
New Zealand is quite aptly billed as a breathtakingly beautiful country of glacier-capped peaks plunging down to glassy lakes and rugged coastlines. Such conditions may be a manifestation of bliss for the David Baileys of this world, but the same cannot be said for those who ply their trade over the airwaves. As such, sources of entertainment in a car entirely devoid of CD playing facilities were severely limited, especially when the protracted three week continuation of the singles game - the objective being to identify the most singles by a particular artist - is indefinitely suspended after being plunged headlong into a spiral of controversy by a pudgy woggle wearing prick who seeks to further his own chances of success with spurious on-the-spot compositions. To compound the problem the kids of today seem to prefer to purchase their so-called musical racket in megabites rather than a good old-fashioned record sleeve. As a result tape cassette sections of petrol stations worldwide are shrinking at an alarming rate every day, a catastrophe unjustly overshadowed by the whining complaints of green-fingered busy-bodies entering into tirades of fury every time someone snaps a twig in Brazil. And thus with debate still raging over whether Robbie Williams ever released the track "Crock PJ" after the infamous Bykergrove paintball in the eye incident, we found ourselves in possession of two Jive Bunny type super mixes, one spanning 60s and 70s, with the other a more concentrated effort focusing solely on the 80s. I doubt even now that Andrew Ridgeley and George Michael realise that forty-five seconds of "Freedom" sung by a ropey sounding impressionist against a karaoke backing track could still in 2006 be awaited by three twenty-somethings with such eager anticipation.
With Spandau Ballet still ringing in our ears we arrived in Rotorua, the self-proclaimed heartland of Maori culture and the centre of New Zealand`s geothermal activity. With time at a premium we drove almost immediately to a Maori marae in order to watch rotund ladies attempt to dance seductively and witness fat blokes with their shirts off getting aggressive. Just another Friday night at The Event in Brighton, then? Yes, but also part and parcel of a Maori powhiri, haka and a whole range of traditional dances and exercises. A bit staged and cringe-worthy in parts, but also pretty interesting, especially the part when the menacing yet respectful warriors, firmly instilled with the responsibilities and the traditions of their centuries-old history, all cram into a hatchback and swing past KFC before settling in for a midweek Fifa `05 tournament on the PS2.
The following morning we were up bright and early to visit the bubbling volcanic pools and geysers for which Rotorua is celebrated. First up was The Lady Knox, a geyser that spouts water to a height of ten metres every day after being given a helping hand by a park ranger who simply pours a generous dose of washing powder down its neck. An imaginative take on the Daz challenge it certainly is, but as little Matthew made use of both hands to count the number of days his undergarment had been about his being, he couldn`t help but feel that it was a chronic waste.
A walk around the colouful yet stench-ridden geothermal pools followed, swifly proceeded by a quick dip in the hot springs before it was back in the car to make the short trip to Taupo, where the plan was to get pushed out of a small aircraft with a funny-sounding Antipodean and a circular piece of canvas strapped to our backs. "I`m a wee bit nervous" conceded Richard en route to the jump site. "I`m bricking it," concurred little Matthew. "Ging, gang, goolie," added Baden-Peck.
Before long we looked round to discover that we were all sat in a cramped aircraft at 12,000ft donning identical jumpsuits, harnesses, and hats and goggles of which Biggles would have been proud. Without wasting any more time describing the symptoms of his manic depression (ha f**king ha), Matthew`s jump-master pushed the trembling ginger to the edge of oblivion and leant forwards. Baden-Peck soon followed suit, and finally a reluctant simian was sent plummeting through the clouds. Twenty-five seconds of freefall were ended with the jolt of the parachute and a massive rush.
An evening at Taupo`s finest pub quiz was marred by malpractice, intrigue and allegations of match-fixing that put Major Charles Ingram`s ill-gotten millions firmly in the shade. To build on Lemar`s promising beginnings, "If there`s any justice in the world, correct answers would get rewards rather than a meagre concession that `you`ve got a point, mate.`" And thus the following morning we moved on with the bitter taste of being cheated still tangible, the disappointment made all the more pressing for Baden-Peck with the inkling that our new found friendship with the delectable young Irish lass, Aoife, conflicted irrecoverably with the tenth Scout Law - `A Scout will be clean in thought, word and deed.`
Indeed, Aoife`s final act was to heap disappointment on to our already demoralised souls, informing us that temporal conditions unquestionably ruled out any attempt to walk across Mordor, otherwise known as the Tongariro Crossing. Never before had we considered that the fickle climate of the evil heart of Middle-Earth could well have overwhelmed Frodo and the Riders of Rohan, the freedoms that we today take for granted thus being similarly lost in the misty gales. However, had Frodo met with inclement conditions on that fateful day he would have almost certainly followed in our consolatory footsteps - am impromptu wine-tasting tour around Napier and Hawke`s Bay.
With a barely inperceptible let-up in the rain we arrived in New Zealand`s windy capital, Wellington, where Rachel Margrett provided home comforts and home-brewed beer and a brief tour of the lazy student hangouts. And after that brief visit it was time to relinquish the wheels and board the ferry for the South Island. Dib, dib, dib, dob, dob, dob.
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Diary Photos
| 17th Mar 2006 |
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| Thomas did not want to hear a crack |
| Almost as much as the people of Auckland did not want to see one. |
| 18th Mar 2006 |
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| It's behind you . . . |
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| 19th Mar 2006 |
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| Matthew was delighted |
| With his matching canoe and toupee box set. |
| 19th Mar 2006 |
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| Yes, his balls still ached, |
| But now the chubby one felt even closer to Lance Armstrong. |
| 20th Mar 2006 |
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| Though they'd clearly put in the effort, |
| The New Hall Nymphs still had a lot to learn about the formal scene. |
| 21st Mar 2006 |
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| With the success of Lord of the Rings, |
| Only one location would suffice for Rocky VI. |
| 21st Mar 2006 |
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| The Lady Knox Geyser. |
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| 21st Mar 2006 |
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| The pool had looked better in the brochure. |
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| 21st Mar 2006 |
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| How we smiled, |
| Before noticing the lack of parachutes. |
| 22nd Mar 2006 |
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| I wrote a song for you... what a thing to do... |
| ...and it was called, Ginger. |
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