Day Tripping to Tijuana for Tequila Taste-Testing (I'm Tongue-Tied)...

When I would speak of travelling her native country, my mother always used to say to me, “Go to San Diego, but DON’T go to Tijuana”. Ignoring all parental advice, once in San Diego, I saw no other option than to cross this notorious border despite the U.S Department of State’s travel alert and mother dearest.


Border towns in general have bad reputations for people smuggling, and kidnappings, but Tijuana is ranked highly amongst the worst. However, on this day the colour and vibrancy of Mexico are calling to me.

I’ve met Breno, a Brazilian guy, at the USA Hostel, and he accompanies me on this day trip. We take a short fifteen minute tram ride from downtown San Diego, to the last stop – Tijuana Border Crossing.

We walk, with many others, across the border and into Mexico. This is more than easy to do, and there are no check points whatsoever. The walk feels exciting, like some great, big adventure with the prospect of facing danger - we’ve been warned of the violence and troubles of Tijuana, shoot-outs and gangs. I’m just coming for the Tequila and quesadillas man! And that’s exactly what we do.

We see the long curving line of the border, the fence that protects against illegal immigrants jumping across to the great and mighty United States of America. Breno and I attempt to take photos from the top of the ramp; a massive Mexican flag sails in the midst of the crowded sprawl of the city. Special police units yell at us from below, “No photos”! I guess they really take their border protection seriously. I don’t know what they thought our pictures would reveal – a hole in the wall?

We catch a five dollar taxi into town (although you can walk) and spend the day browsing markets, inquiring about and tasting local street vendor fare, and wandering the streets ambling in and out of different churches, shops and districts.

Pretty “school girls” with smudged lipstick sell themselves on the streets of the red light district. There are so many, it makes my heart hurt. I know I’m not seeing the worse, and I feel so innocent and naive. We look, but we try not to stare.

The pavement is often cracked and buildings are in ill-repair, but for the moment I am glad not to be in America. It’s a different taste of reality. Breno and I go in search of lunch – what shall we have? Mexican of course! A horse is a horse!

We end up in the tourist headquarters – the Avenida Revolucion, deciding to play it safe. We have fajitas and burritos and wash them down with Mexican beers, while musicians amble over and offer to play a tune. I happily oblige to pay a few dollars, and the first song is festive as one of the old men plays his accordion and sings, and the other fellow strings along. The second song he offers to play is “La Cucaracha”. It must be popular with most tourists, but he doesn’t really seem to know the lyrics or the tune.

Later, we wander through markets and various streets, getting lost and fighting over directions. For a world traveller, I still am often confused! In the cool of afternoon we seek out a dark and grimy bar for Gringo’s, and start our tequila taste-testing.

The tequila really is better in Mexico. Perhaps it is because of the old lady behind the bar who doesn’t speak a word of English, but selects the finest samples for us, offering me cigarettes while sitting back in her chair behind the bar and watching soap operas. A young guy who works on the door begins conversations with Breno and I. Breno speaks enough Spanish (Portuguese being his mother-tongue) to get by, and translates for me. The boy is telling him about how the people-smuggling works in Mexico. Apparently, it costs over 2000 U.S Dollars to get across the border, with the aid of “professionals”, and you only have to pay if it is successful (well, that’s nice isn’t it!). He tells us about various ways this is done, and how many people save for a long time to afford the fee and when they get to the U.S.A they are so poor they become homeless. For others, there are opportunities to be had, work the Americans do not want to do.

I ask the boy a question, and he begins to answer me. The old lady jumps out of her chair and starts yelling at him fiercely. Breno interjects to defend the boy, and I am lost in translation. Breno tells me the lady thinks that I am with him, and that the boy is trying to flirt with me in front of my “boyfriend”. We attempt to explain to her that it is okay, but she sends the boy away, and settles back into her television programs. We drink some more tequila – the Mexican way: First you pour salt over a thick wedge of lime, then you suck from the lime and sip a small part of the tequila, and then you taste the lime again. It is a slower process, and you can savour and enjoy the quality of the gold stuff. My chosen favourite is “Don Julio” and before we leave Tijuana I purchase a bottle from the supermarket.

We catch a taxi back to the border. Our driver tells us that he used to live in America, but he returned to Tijuana, because life is better here now, and he can make more money. Apparently, this is typical of the times – just as the Polish left England for home after the GFC!

Getting back into the U.S is not as easy as leaving (who would have thought?). There are passport checks, baggage scans and a much longer queue to get in. For me, a day in Tijuana is worth the tram fare. I’m sorry Mother Dearest.

Strolling Santa Monica and Venice Beach (Los Angeles)

Think over 300 days of sunshine a year, boulevards lined with palm trees and busty blonde women driving sleek convertibles with tiny dogs sitting in the passenger side wearing sunglasses, and ‘where’ comes to mind? The ‘City of Angels’ – I’m in Los Angeles, of course!

Getting off the plane I knew I had arrived. From the moment I saw that lady and her doggy in the car, and again when I saw a flock of paparazzi chasing a waifish woman into a parking lot, and finally when a limousine turned the corner with personalised plates revealing “Mr Lush”. Everybody is somebody in L.A, and they’re not too proud to admit it.

An urban concrete jungle, L.A in reality is one giant playground offering spectacles and events for any taste with Disneyland and Hollywood (same-same?), Rodeo Drive, the Sunset Strip, Beverly Hills and Universal Studios to name a few. Combine this with epic rock bands, grungy whiskey bars, and delicious Mexican food, L.A presents itself as a montage of colour and grime, cultures and sub cultures, and the archetypal rat race. Where do I sign up?

Luckily, I checked off most the tourist hotspots on my list when I was here last. I take a shuttle bus to Santa Monica and opt to go for the beach atmosphere and great shopping. I’m a block away from the glitzy shopping district of the ‘Third Street Promenade’. After a deep, comatose sleep to knock back my jet-lag, I wake up to another beautiful Los Angeles day – not even a spot of smog in sight! I walk a block (I love how American’s use “blocks”) to Ocean Avenue and walk towards the famous Santa Monica Pier, which has just celebrated its centennial.

I cross the bridge that leads straight down to the pier. To the right, a large blue and yellow striped tent has been put up for the ‘Cirque du Soleil’, and along the platform I see circus performers twirling purple and orange parasols and oversized vanity fans as they hand out brochures to onlookers. Santa Monica’s leisure pier is equipped with an amusement park called ‘Pacific Park’, a carousel, a trapeze school (why not?), an aquarium, arcade, shops, pubs and restaurants. I see caricature artists at their stalls, food vendors selling fresh fruit cups and churros (a Spanish doughnut), and one man engages a group of tourists with his colourful Macaw parrots, blue and green. Relaxed anglers try to get a bite.

A stroll along Santa Monica Beach transports me onto the set of ‘Baywatch’. I can almost see Mitch and CC running past me, waving. Towards Venice Beach the wide path is shared with people rollerblading, cycling and skate-boarding. On the suspiciously broad stretches of sand there are volleyball nets and gymnasium equipment, while surfers carry their boards out to catch a wave. I stop for a fresh juice at one of the beach cafes and people-watch for a while, an entertaining way to soak up the L.A lifestyle, as the American people show off their outgoing personalities.

In Venice Beach I stumble right into the commotion of the markets. Hippies of all ages, sizes and kinds are selling their wares. Again, the people-watching is extraordinary and I get caught up in a lengthy conversation, about Lemmy from ‘Motorhead’ (due bragging rights if you have spotted him around) with a local character. To my amusement, I see Botox clinics squeezed in next to ‘Medical Marijuana Evaluation’ centres. The people of L.A know how to get what they need...just a day on the coast!

Venice Beach is really funky. It has a street culture touch emphasised by graffiti art, surf shops and numerous tattoo and piercing spots. Not to mention the infamous basketball courts (where many-a NBA star has been scouted), prison-looking tennis courts and ‘Muscle Beach' (an outdoors body-building complex). Venice Beach pushes the concept of a “public space” to the max. A whole day can be spent simply exploring this stretch.

I make a quiet exit from the scene to find a little bohemian street I heard about. Literally, referred to as “the Street”, Abbot Kinney Boulevard is named after Venice’s founder, a tobacco giant who dug miles of canals just to drain the marshes for residential areas and built Venice from ground up. This creative district has been the stamping ground for artsy types since the Beat Generation made its explosion in the 50’s and 60’s, and on “the Street” I’m reminded why: modest art galleries and antique stores neighbour each other and boutiques theme designer-meets-vintage. I find a charming cafe, fittingly called ‘Abbot’s Habit’, which has great coffee and a selection of mouth-watering sandwiches and bagels. But more interestingly perhaps are the people the coffee shop attracts – low-key, informal, off beat. In fact, a replica of what Venice represents.

Choose a day, a location and an attraction and you can lose yourself for hours in Los Angeles, and when you wake you’re in the thick of a giant, colourful playground, watching as the merry-goes-round in “La La Land”.

Fiji Adventure Travel Holiday - Island Hopping the Yasawas on Fiji time!

After freezing in New Zealand it’s time for me to thaw out, and where else would be more desirable for a lazy vacation by the sea than the temperate climate of Fiji with its lulling tides, sandy stretches of isolated beach and soothing scents of coconut oil and dewy rainforest?

Alternatively, I find myself thrown into the mayhem of mainland Nadi, and it takes me right back to my travels through India, with a large population of Indians thriving in the business and retail sectors. The streets are dusty and consumed with traffic and touting taxi drivers rip you off with overpriced fares. As a local lady advised me, “you tell them to put the metre on”. It’s better to walk away and wait for an honest man, or a desperate one, than succumb to their tricks.

I escape the hubbub of Nadi and catch the big yellow catamaran, the ‘Yasawa Flyer’, I’m ready to island hop the Yasawa group. A seven day ‘Bula Combo Pass’ includes my ferries, accommodation and meals for many of the resorts, and the overnight stays are easy to book with reception on board the boat.

My first stop is at Coral View Beach Resort on Tavewa Island. A group of us are shipped from the ferry onto a dinghy, and then we trudge through the shallow water, greeted individually by each staff member with big smiles and handshakes. Coral View has a pile of activities on hand, including great snorkelling, lagoon trips, sunset walks and volleyball in the afternoons. The front beach is nothing spectacular and I mosey down a little village track to an alluring stretch of sand. At night we have a buffet dinner and are entertained by welcome dances, song and games. We participate too and the gardener chooses me to be his dance companion. How can I refuse? Except he is not the cliché of a sexy, muscle-ripped man – he is the gardener who has been pruning the bushes since the beginning of time! At least he is wise to the rules of the game and I end up winning a beer.

In Long Beach Resort on Matacawalevu Island I am surprised by the solitude. There are only seven guests, but the beach is a fantastic long crescent of white sand and translucent water. A guided walk through the village reveals the islands industriousness. Coconut oil is produced to sell to the mainland, cassava plantations are abundant (one per family), and they host one of the biggest schools in the Yasawas. Most of the original houses are thatched bures, but now timber and brick is implemented to stand the cyclone season.

At White Sandy, deck chairs occupy the beach and in the shade hammocks invite relaxation. The local boys prepare a ‘lovo’ (traditional underground barbeque) for dinner and the end result is a subtle smoked flavour. The “bula boys” perform their traditional dances, resembling the ‘haka’ with stamping feet and guttural, rhythmic shouting. They are extremely fit and I hear rumours of their popularity with the visiting ladies. In the morning we make bangles out of coconuts and watch on as a stealthy lad scales a coconut tree with bare hands and feet, to roundup bunches of coconuts. He shows off by crawling down face first like a lizard and adds some acrobatics to the show. It makes the English guys nervous; they laugh it off pretending they can contend.

My favourite resort is the pretty Waya Lailai, where we partake in a kava drinking ceremony. Kava is made from the root of a pepper plant, it tastes like muddy water, but the ritual of the ceremony is engaging. One of the girls tells me that the chief of the village recently passed away. The village held a kava drinking ceremony that lasted ten days.

The snorkelling and scuba diving here isn’t as spectacular as in Koh Tao, Thailand where I got my PADI, but the whitetip reef sharks waiting for me at the bottom of the big deep blue are pretty heart-starting! Joe started the dive shop ten years ago and the sharks seem familiar with him, waiting to be fed fresh fish. They know Joe is boss as he pulls on their fins and smacks them with the metal rod. Joe points out giant clams and almost pushes me under a coral cave to check out a sheepish lion fish. The scuba gear is a bit old and it was hard to find a wetsuit to fit, so near the end of the dive I am covered with goose bumps and ready to surface. Also, make sure to check your oxygen level is correct before your dive; Joe had to top ours up before departure.

I splurge on an extra night on South Sea Island. The island has much better food and free water sports like sea-kayaking. I prefer to relax and walk around the entire island – it takes five minutes. In the evening there is crab racing, and plenty to drink. These small islands, like Beachcomber, are popular with party goers.

In the Yasawa’s, don’t expect shops and boutiques, roads (instead you will find long winding paths slashed back and worn down for local use from village to village), cars or hot water (unless you shell out on the luxury resorts). The only noise on the islands is of the local people working, well known Bob Marley tunes drifting through the air, and the occasional beat of the drum to signal meal times or organised activities. On the islands you feel how remote you are and removed from technology there is a reminder of a quieter life, a less hectic approach to the world, a different pace – its Fiji time! And with that a group of smiling, singing Fijians welcome you with a roar of “Bula Everybody!” “Bula!”

A Road Trip Through the South Island (NZ)

It’s pouring down rain. I’m with some lads I met in Queenstown and we are in Franz Josef wishing for the skies to clear up so we can climb the Glacier. The weather won’t cooperate. We pile into the car deciding to tough it out. After all, if I held my breath waiting for sunny days I would never see or do anything in New Zealand!
We reach a massive dried up river bed of grey stones and rocks. The glacier rises across the valley. It appears close, but takes a long time to trek. We pass waterfalls running off from the cliffs. At the foot we clamber up a steep incline and see the stunning mountains assembled before us, with the glacier the centrepiece.

Red tape runs around the base of the mountain, serves as a warning. There are workers chipping away with ice-picks at the glacier to make new staircases for the tours. We are making our own tour and without equipment we mostly scramble around the outskirts of the glacier over loose rocks that slip under our feet. Turning back the reward is an extraordinary sweeping vista of the canyon below. Eventually, as the tour groups are leaving we see a guide watching and waiting for us. I think our fun has come to an end, and he tells us later that we were walking dangerously close to a potential rock slide. Oops!
In the evening we head to the Blue Ice bar and watch the boxing, enjoying two-for-one house spirits after presenting our hostel key. It’s a very small town, but the whiskey helps!

The next day we drive through Arthurs Pass towards Christchurch. Snow sweeps past the car, horizontally. The enchanting and bold terrain is unique to New Zealand and we often remark on settings reminiscent of the ‘Lord of the Rings’.
Our road trip continues, after dropping ‘Curly Bob’ (as the Irish lads have dubbed Sean) at the airport, we cruise north past the sleepy seaside town of Kaikoura – famous for whale watching and home to vast seal colonies - further up to Nelson , a vibrant, fresh little city with plenty of class, before stopping in Motueka for the night. Our destination is the National Parks of the Able Tasman, our final wonder (or wander) before catching the ferry to Wellington.
After a blissful sleep I wake next morning with excitement and ready to jump out of a plane, literally. A shuttle bus picks me up and takes me to the Sky Dive centre. After getting the gear on and a quick debrief I’m ready.
The ride up has been the longest twenty minutes of my life, and I am all too aware that it will be over in less than five. A short English lad, Chris, is strapped to my back (I hope). I wanted a seven foot Serbian with massive guns and brooding good looks to protect me (think Mills and Boon), but you can’t always get what you want. Instead, I’m a foot taller than my man, and impressively I am not as scared as I am pretending. Chris has been trying to keep my mind clear by playing twenty questions. He reminds me of a dentist. But I want my fear. Isn’t it part of the process?
The door slides back alarmingly, too quickly. I expect a force of wind to suction me out of this light, rickety plane and send me twirling through the cloudless, blue sky plummeting towards my death. It is eerily still and not as cold as you would think at 13 000 feet, probably due to all the adrenaline coursing my blood lines.
The dive knocks the breath out of me. I can feel everything rushing past – all this air, and my stupid collar is slapping my cheeks and it really stings. I’m going fast, like 200 kilometres. Chris taps my arms, signalling me to bring them up in front of me like I’m flying. It’s indescribable, I’m Superwoman! All of a sudden, I’m lurched upwards as he pulls the shoot, it’s jolting but then I just laugh and scream with joy and I know I am alive. Everything becomes deadly silent, and after about ten seconds Chris asks, “Are you alright?”

Spinning the big, red canopy around I’m shown the North Island, which is visible on this clear day, and turning again the mountain ranges to the west and the Able Tasman are in view. The Motueka River snakes across the land meeting with the sea. It’s really peaceful, and actually feels a bit tame after the intensity of the dive. As we sail down to land I lift my legs up high in the air and we slide through the grass on our butts. Ecstatically, I feel like doing it again, like some ride at the show you can’t get enough of. I hug Chris and thank him for not killing me.
The boys are waiting. I am so high and feel like bouncing off the walls, they seem flat by comparison. I’ve already had the aerial view, but we drive to the Able Tasman and spend a glorious afternoon exploring the hills and beaches of this truly exotic paradise. Someone wise told me that when you go to New Zealand don’t expect big cities and night life, it’s all about the scenery.

Sea Kayaking the Milford Sound

It’s early and I am the only person awake at the Lakefront Backpackers in Te Anou. I’m making sandwiches and rushing around packing things I might need for my trip to the Milford Sound. Mental Note: Don’t forget the camera!
Outside it is cold and the lake is still and quiet, not yet awake. A small van pulls over and a kiwi guy jumps out and introduces himself to me as “Will”. He is my tour guide for the day from ‘Fiordland Sea Kayak’ and that is exactly what we will be doing.
The journey into Milford is mountainous through national parkland and the landscape is dramatic and rugged. We stop at a lookout for hot chocolate and biscuits that Will has brought along. I see for the first time the pesky but pretty parrots - Kea birds – known to peck the rubber out of a car window frame and scavenge for crumbs like seagulls.
Along the way we see the aftermath of snow avalanches that occur when too much snow has piled up on the mountains, and their path is one of pure destruction. We see where the road has been cleared in front of the Homer tunnel. It looks like a snow cave, and it is the only access into the Milford. Work on the tunnel began in 1935 and Will tells us that it started with just five men, picks in hand, and one wheelbarrow. Three were killed by avalanches. Sometimes for months on end they went without sunlight. Now that’s hard yakka! The project stopped during the war and then wasn’t finished until 1954.
We pull up at the basin of the sound and Will begins to unload the van. Before we are on the water we have to get dressed in layers and layers of protective clothing. First there are the very attractive thermals, then a rubber vest, a polar fleece jumper, a bright orange rain proof poncho and a strange contraption that looks like an oversized tennis skirt (a spray skirt) used to seal us into the kayak. And of course on top of that is a well coordinated, fashionably purple life jacket. We stand around our kayaks feeling completely ridiculous as Will gives us a briefing on how to paddle and so forth.
Most of the other people doing this sea-kayaking tour are on their honeymoon. I’m paired up with a guy called Paul who is training to be a tour guide. Chuck Norris comes to mind, and he and I are quick to start bantering and bickering as though we have met before. The sky is cloudless and as we paddle out we are joined by a family of dolphins. They glide underneath our kayaks and show off by spinning and leaping through the air. They swim so close to us that they tip onto their sides as they pass so they can peer up at us with one eye, and then empty their blowholes. It’s incredible! And Will agrees that this is quite a rare experience, possibly due to the amazing weather we are having. Oftentimes it is raining, which we are assured is very magical, but I am happier with the dolphins playing and warm sun on my face.
We are directed over to a large waterfall pouring out from one of the cliff faces. The watery mist cools our faces as we paddle ferociously up some small rapids to get as close as possible to the Bowen Falls. Actually, I don’t have to paddle hard at all. Paul (or Chuck) has announced that he likes to be “a very physical person”, so he doesn’t mind as I lazily sit back and take photographs. I think we make a good team, and I know that tomorrow my shoulders won’t be sore!
We discover, after tasting the slightly salty water, that the Milford is not actually a sound but a fiord. Further along the mossy banks we spot a young fur seal yawning sleepily after being disturbed by our loud cries. He poses for awhile, stretching and sighing before clambering down the rocks and slipping into the cool, dark waters.
The seal disappears as the dolphins reappear to host us down towards a rocky beach where we have a glorious view of the ‘Mitre Peak’, the tallest sea cliff in the world at 1692 metres about the sound. It gets its name from its appearance, similar to that of the mitre headwear of Christian bishops. We stop for lunch
sitting on uncomfortable rocks and sipping cups of hot tea while we take in the breathtaking vista. My sandwiches go down a treat after all my hard work.
After lunch there is more kayaking, and Will fills our heads with information about the region, and some of the Maori legends. He points out two prominent mountains called “The Elephant” and “The Lion” and with a little imagination we are supposed to see the forms of the animals. It takes awhile, but everyone eventually begins to see the shapes, everyone but me! The Milford is also used for Cray-fishing. The local fishermen make a mint off the tons of crayfish they catch in one season and sell to the Chinese. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are made very quickly in this industry, from heavy pots that are lying right beneath us – a gold mine.
We arrive back on shore late afternoon and pack the gear up, before heading back to Te Anou. Will gives us all cinema tickets to see a locally made documentary about the history of the fiordlands. I really appreciated the small and thoughtful gestures we received during the tour. It was really personal. I get back to the hostel and drink a little whisky with a friend and sit on the balcony in the freezing cold to watch as the sun melts away over the lake. The weather is changing back. It only lasted a day at the Milford, and it was magic. I can clearly see why Rudyard Kipling described it as the eighth wonder of the world. But now it’s time to get back to reality (as much as possible in this fantasy land they call New Zealand) and tomorrow I must hitch back to Queenstown to find out what’s been going on at the backpackers while I’ve been gone.

Queenstown, My Fareweather Friend!

I pull into Queenstown late in the afternoon and drive straight into town in search of backpacker’s accommodation. I’m getting used to driving the campervan, but navigating through the small and busy streets in Queenstown’s centre is tricky – let’s not get started on reverse parallel parking! Fortunately, I park up on a hill and when I jump out of the van I find a small and cosy looking hostel directly on the corner. I take it as a welcome sign, and it also means I don’t have to cart my luggage far. I head to the reception of ‘Bungi Backpackers’ and after a quick check-in I go to drop the campervan off at the airport. I rented this camper cheap, through a rental relocation site online. It was only five dollars per day because I was returning the vehicle to its original rental place.
The previous night I stopped at Lake Tekapo and slept in the campervan, parked between large pine trees on the sandy bank. I cuddled up with blankets and a cup of tea as snow gently drifted down over the silt-blue lake. I took Route 8 towards Queenstown. It is recommended as an extraordinarily scenic drive. The lone highway intertwines through frosty mountains. Undulating hills are blanketed with golden tussock grass that bows in the wind, and small clusters of bright yellow and red shrubs flourish in the tough soil. This is Lindis Pass. Further on, the countryside alters and I cross wide, stony rivers and pleasant streams run in unison with the road curving through green pastures.

After I drop off the van at the airport, I walk more than six kilometres along the waterfront of Lake Wakitipu. A great glacial lake, it is third largest in New Zealand and mountain cliffs rise triumphantly from the southern embankment. In the distance, Queenstown’s famous snow-teamed peaks, ‘The Remarkables’ loom. By the time I arrive back at the hostel I am exhausted and hungry. I try the soup they give us for dinner. It is watery looking vegetable soup and the only taste is of chilli powder, and you have to get in quick otherwise all the potato and carrots disappear and you are left with murky barley water. It is a good conversation starter. In the lounge room I quickly make friends with James an English backpacker, Sean an Irish-Lebanese from Belgium, and from Florida the strongly confederate Beau. We all end up at the regular backpacker haunts – Winnies and World Bar – indulging in two-for-one drink offers and dancing to pretty bad music, the kind of clubs that repeat the same songs over and over. A few more people from the hostel join us. There are all types of
people in Queenstown - the hub of adventure activities for extreme adrenaline seekers and international travellers. We finish the night off at the compulsory pit-stop ‘Fergburger’. They boast the biggest burgers I have ever seen, with names like the “swineburger” or the “bun laden”, saddled with every kind of filling and generous portions of chips and aioli. It’s a pretty good deal, and after gorging ourselves on late night snacks, huddled outside under the warmth of heaters and listening to them play “The Prodigy” and various drum and bass (better music than the clubs), we climb up the hill to our hostel and “crash out”.
The next morning is a slow start, but its James’s birthday so we celebrate with a bit of adventure, choosing jet-boating. The shuttle bus takes us down into the ‘Shotover River Canyons’. We get suited up with rain coats and life jackets before boarding the ‘Big Red’ jet boat. The ride is for half an hour, and our driver takes us speeding through the canyon, with narrow escapes past the rock face. The emerald green rapids are shallow, but these particular boats have a perfectly flat bottom and apparently only need ten centimetres of water in order to skim the surface. Our man is cheeky and thrashes the engine down-stream, keeping us excited with plenty of full 360 degree spins, while we hold on tight. I’m in the back row, which is a good place to be as I watch the people in the front get sprayed with water, shivering already as the icy wind whips across our faces too.
For dinner, a small group of us from the hostel head to Church Lane to a pub called, ‘Ducks Deluxe’, and have dinner seated on tall stools at the bar tables. The food is good quality, with a selection of steaks, fresh fish dishes, warm salads and appetisers. I try an alcoholic ginger beer, which has a warming effect, much like the venue. By the time we finish our meals, a local band strikes up and they are amazing with experimental sounds, it seems a little prog-rock and I like it. The fire place is roaring and the atmosphere is jovial.
In Queenstown adventure and hedonism is the way of life. Time is spent skiing and snowboarding on the mountains, or extreme activities are available like bungy jumping, canyon swings and white-water rafting to name only a few. Ironically, my dorm room is called the skydiving room, and this is exactly what I choose to do. I booked with N Zone Sky Diving and am taken by bus past the airport to a small centre for skydiving. This day is bleak with plenty of cloud cover and I am told we can’t jump from 12 000 feet as I had wanted, but can only get to 10 000. After finally summoning the courage to embrace my fears of falling and of heights I don’t mind because I’m pumped up with excitement. We have our gear on and are watching the team before us land when we are sadly told that the weather is too bad and the dive is cancelled. It’s disappointing, but I can do this later on my trip. For now, I am in Queenstown and I can do anything I want (except what I really wanted), the only problem is to make the choice – hiking, hang-gliding or the luge? It’s a hard life but I suppose somebody has to do it!

Couchsurfing in Christchurch

I’m searching the arrivals lounge at Christchurch airport, looking for the third row of seats. Yep, there they are, now the tricky part is figuring out which person is Evan. I have only seen one picture of him, and who knows if it was up-to-date. I’m meant to be staying with him at his place in St. Albans. I met him a few weeks ago online. Am I crazy? No, I’m CouchSurfing! And I’m slightly nervous because it’s my first time. In brief, couchsurfing.com is an online networking organisation for travellers and people-loving-people. You simply create a profile, get verified (for security reasons) and start searching locations for people and couches. You may only meet as a travel companion or for coffee if that is what you desire or you might crash on their couch. Alternatively, if not travelling you might put your couch up for grabs. Coincidentally, today Evan has arrived from Wellington and landed at the same time as me, which fortunately means I have a ride to his place too! So far so good, eh?

Evan’s street leads straight into the centre of town and the distance is manageable on foot. His large and rather oddly shaped house - two stories resembling a small cube on the bottom with a rectangular prism stacked on top – is found as most early-twenty-something boys homes often are: messy, dirty dishes, not vacuumed, and plenty of empty pizza boxes stacked as kindling for the fireplace he says he doesn’t use anymore! However, there are three couches so I can’t complain. After an early night’s sleep on the comfiest choice I wake reasonably refreshed and ready to take on the city.

I decide to visit the sites by walking the entire tramline circuit. Why spend money on what Evan damns as the “tourist trap”, when my legs can take me everywhere I need to go for free? I start on New Regent Street, a colourful promenade of pastel Spanish mission style facades nestled together above cafes, jewellers and various boutiques. The word “kitsch” comes to mind, yet despite borderline tacky tourism it works. I stop for a quick lunch and coffee at ‘Stir’, a popular alfresco cafe, and enjoy a perfect cappuccino while admiring the architecture and watching the tram rattling by occasionally.

Along the tracks, I discover the Christchurch Cathedral and Cathedral Square, equipped with a tram restaurant and a selection of cart food vendors - for that special kind of dining experience. Crossing the River Avon - a common occurrence as she weaves her way delicately through this small city centre - I observe groups of teenagers and families spending time leisurely on her green banks having picnics together or lying back in the sweet grass to contemplate the weather or whatever. On Worcester Street (all English names for this most English city) I find the Arts Centre – a series of Victorian Gothic Revival buildings hosting an array of exhibitions, crafts, theatres and cafes. Exploring this hub I find all sorts of exquisite and old-fashioned English elements and the grounds are immaculate. I feel across the world from Australia, not simply across the sea. Chef’s bustle through the courtyards carrying pints of cream or fancy cakes, and students read on the benches beneath the trees, while friends mingle and converse over a bottle of red on the wine bar terrace. At the end of the block I arrive at the Grand Hall where recitals and lectures once took place when the grounds were still used as the University of Canterbury. Passing through the exit gates, I cross the road to visit the Botanic Gardens of Hagley Park, making a detour first to the Canterbury Museum which neighbours the gardens. The first exhibition brings alive the extinct Moa bird, and moving along I work my way through the history of New Zealand’s Maori and Victorian culture and heritage. There is also a special interactive exhibition on entitled ‘Body in Action’ where I test my brain, lungs and muscles (perfect results) and marvel at a bunch of scales that tell me the weight of my skeleton, organs and body fat. It’s just what I have always wanted to know.

Escaping into the gardens, I pass the brightly coloured ‘Peacock Fountain’ (named after John Peacock and not the birds signified) and the flower bed displays of daffodils and bluebells to follow the winding river, as it borders Hagley Park. Ducks chase each other, splashing and plunging into the shallow water to fish out food, while black swans are demure, and the occasional punters make their way gently downstream in long, flat wooden canoes, pushed along by their guide. There is a lot of life on the water, and on the bank couples seeking romance settle in between the wildflowers on a grassy knoll. It is peaceful and friendly and I find a spot to read a book and observe life around me.

Triumphantly I finish my tramline circuit, rewarding myself at the Belgian Beer Cafe. I walk home in the crisp, cool of evening wondering if Evan has cooked me dinner. It’s a fairly tame start to my “OS” adventure, but this city is relaxing, easily navigated, and a good place for beginnings.

Time Travelling with Ash Grunwald @ Bombay Rock

We thought we were going to be so "rock" with our fashionably late entrance to last night's Ash Grunwald concert at Townsville's current music venue Bombay Rock. Doors opened at 7:30 pm. We arrived close to ten, when nothing appeared to be happening yet. I have to say, I really do like what they have done with the ex ‘Playpen’. The building was never put to proper use as just a nightclub with its undesirable location far away from the bustle of the Flinders Street night-life strip. The interior is the same as it was, albeit maybe with a new carpet and cleaner bathrooms, but the decision to use it as a venue for touring musicians mixes up a better flavour. Bombay Rock works as a small theatre for intimate shows and brings a fresh alternative to Townsville night life with its line-up of home-grown Australian talent. It's clean, smells fresh, the staff are fun with plenty of personality, the crowd are friendly too, and the drinks are at a reasonable price. The room is scattered with small groups of people - Townsville's trendy hipsters sporting dreadlocks and check shirts, and a wide variety of tattoos and piercings on exhibition. However, this event should have drawn a larger gathering, but how can you compete with the Full Moon Party on Magnetic Island on a Friday night Mr. Grunwald? You may bring the funk slash jazz n’ blues slash folk (feel free to add more to the list) with the voice of a black man from Mississippi in the 1920's, but all that can be said in your defence is the abbreviation "FMP" followed up by plenty of exclamation points - > !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We mingle by the bar anticipating the main act and hoping for some good support. Eventually a young boy comes on stage with an acoustic guitar tucked under his arm and introduces himself as Jason. Life’s number one lesson to be learned is not to have great expectations, and unfortunately the management at Bombay Rock did not listen to the demo tape first. Well, that’s how I imagined this debacle occured, because while Jason battled it out I was getting the impression that I was eaves-dropping, rather impolitely, on a teenage boy rehearsing in his bedroom and singing songs about his long-lost girlfriend. If a support act does not create atmosphere and warm the crowd up ready to dance and enjoy the main event it does not really achieve its purpose, and primarily this “genre” was out of touch with Ash Grunwald’s style. They were totally incompatible. The audience was taken from a teenage boy crying about losing the girl of his dreams to a smorgasbord of shoe-tapping and hip-swinging – moved directly from one end of the spectrum to the other!

I have to admit that I went to this Ash Grunwald concert primarily out of curiosity, and for the lust to see some quality live music (it has been too long), and for something different to do in Townsville on a Friday night. I previously was not too familiar with this musician, but I had that ‘crazy feeling’ it would all be worth the investigation. I did not recognise or know any of Ash Grunwald’s songs from his new album 'Fish Out of Water'. I could not sing along or claim to know the lyrics word-for-word. However, the audience doesn't need this familiarity in order to devour and delight in the music. As blue lighting washed the stage, Ash took his seat and perched centre-stage armed only with his guitar. Immediately, the crowd belonged to him, taken on a journey of energy,rock, roots and blues - comparable to John Butler live, Ash Grunwald is an artist with the ability to feed energy and positive vibes to the crowded sea of eager faces. The music seemed to enter through my heart and exit through my toes, translating the language of our human souls and the emotions we carry, and it seemed to echo the lives of many dead men housed in Ash’s fantastic, old black man’s voice.It was an extremely cathartic experience. How this voice came from him, with so much feeling and wisdom and depth was my only question. The small intimate crowd danced together and moved together, appreciating the gift of letting go and being absorbed into the music until finally floating away. At one point a few band mates came on stage to accompany Ash with bongos, drums and keyboard to mix it up a bit.

I would have to say that this investigation went very well really. I’m quite pleased. It was definitely worth the twenty-two bucks, and I will be waiting to see many more good things come from Bombay Rock. It is a breath of fresh-air to find a place in Townsville with a little atmosphere and the potential to host a more personal gathering than the Townsville Entertainment Centre. And for the record, I have definitely been converted as a fan of Ash Grunwald, who I thank kindly for bringing me an extra special night in Town to float away on air and to travel back through time.

Snow Falling on Soho for the Year of the Ox!

Living and working in Soho definitely has its perks when free time can be spent playing in this adventurous playground of colourful characters and charming old-school bars. Sundays, for me, are a precious and fleeting day that I anticipate all week long. And what better way is there to spend this particular Sunday, than by celebrating the Chinese New Year festivities in Chinatown. Alda and I share a live-in pub job at the infamous Soho boozer the Berwick Street Blue Posts, and because we live a literal stone’s throw and skip-hop away we decide to brave the fiercely cold weather, despite the forecasts for snow! I was, not so secretly, praying for the mother of all snow days to shower down upon us anyway...

We walk through our neighbourhood to Chinatown, observing as the crowd thickens and finally engulfs us into a human wave, floating slowly past the entrances to all the restaurants with their names written in gold Chinese letters. Small stalls are set up in front of the shops, while their owners sell hot food for us to eat out of carton boxes and sticky sweets like dragon beard candy made right there on the spot with a full demonstration for those who wish to listen. Other stalls display lanterns and children’s toys of all kinds, and hoards of people congregate to watch the ritual of the dancing dragon, as the streets congest with bodies. Children sit happily atop their parent’s shoulders and one small boy proudly shows off his costume of Chinese attire.

We round a corner and come across a stage with Chinese school children performing synchronised dance routines. We stop nearby for lotus-seed pastries, a white bun with fleuro green paste - unfortunately not really my cup of tea, a bit too sickly sweet for my tastes. After purchasing some fortune cookies and checking out a few other market stands we make an escape from the world of China to the Mediterranean to rest up on strong coffees and some much needed lunch away from throng of people. Looking out the large glass windows onto Shaftsbury Avenue I notice snow begin to twirl down in rhythmic circles. It is very pretty, but quickly clears up and is replaced with sunlight beaming down to melt away the tiny sprinkles.

Alda and I missed the parade at Trafalgar Square, but manage to catch some great dances, drumming, and other shows happening. I decide to take a stroll alone down to the royal gates of the Buckingham Palace to enjoy the afternoon air as the day slips away into dusk. The sun is transforming the high gates into glowing bars of gold, as it streams through the royal strip. I meander down the grandiose avenue, becoming excited like a small child as snow starts to billow down. I could see it coming as the dark clouds rolled over from the west, and then a heavy dusting of snow covered the street, and the soft green hills turned a powdered white in the gardens surrounding the Queens estate. I love this walk, moreso for the natural scenery than the everpresent palace waiting at the end of the road.

I meet Alda at the Blue Posts on Rupert Street for some Sunday evening jazz, and we dance and listen to the resident band, ‘The Fallen Heroes’, playing their usual set to the usual crowd that gets up and boogies away, as usual! It's a really fun place and has that feeling of being transported back in time occasionally. We talk a little with the band outside while they smoke cigars and down pints of Guinness. I sip on a couple of halves of cider, before we depart to Leicester Square for the Chinese New Year fireworks!

The fireworks are lit in the garden square. Children have piled into the phone booths, edging the gates of the small park to watch. It is jam-packed on all four sides of the court. The Chinese are known for their aptitude when it comes to fireworks and we are not disappointed. I enjoy watching the reflection of all the colours splattering across the Odeon, and the final big bang echoes after in the silence. Smoke rises from the square like fog on an early morning.

We meet later with our Canadian friend Matt and take him with us to the ‘Cellar Door’ - an unusul jazz bar in Adlwyche that perhaps would be better named "Toilet Door". The gimmick is that this classy little, mirrored lounge once used to be a set of public toilets back in the day. The entrance is barely noticeable with its small sheltered roof covering the stairs that lead you down to a big heavy door. Inside it is warm and all smiles. The bar tenders are friendly, and make fabulous cocktails. All the seats are occupied (pardon the pun) and the venue is as tiny as you could imagine an underground public urinal to be. The Cellar Door boasts some fancy toilets of its own. When you are in the loo doing your business you can see through the door the people waiting outside, although fortunately they cannot see you. It still made me too nervous to go. I had stage-fright!

We arrive in time for the music to begin with Pete Saunders, who insists he is not the resident DJ as suggested in last week’s ‘Time Out’ review. He is clearly a jazz musician playing keyboard and vocals. He introduces the magician-cum-comedian for the night, who entertains us tirelessly, with the support of audience members, in the art of card tricks and illusions! Later in the night, a women (a lady in red) - Emmanuella - who has been standing near us most the time, gets up to sing a few songs. She and her pianist friend leave the Cellar Door with us, in search of some midnight madness.

Outside the snow has been tumbling down. London has never (recently) been whiter. We walk for awhile and then scramble into a black cab, which slips and slides its way back to Soho. Roads have already been blocked so we venture further through the snow on foot to ‘Trisha’s’ on Frith Street - an inconspicuous, underground club Alda had acquainted herself with somehow. The entrance is a closed blue door to a private apartment building. After buzzing in we head downstairs to the basement and open the door to another classic Soho scene - plenty of gays, different assortments of hat-bearers, and gentlemen of all ages socialising in their natural environment. Imagine braces, walking sticks, top-hats and people so drunk they spit their words out in frothy sentences. Typical London conversations filled with anecdotes all landing in the perverse spectrum, like someone elses spittle flung on to your lips.

One such man remembered me from a rainy day in Soho many months passed, when he and a friend had ducked into my pub to escape. He was so miserable that day, down-trodden by the down-pour, and I remembered how I tried to cheer him up in conversation. He said he recalled this because it had changed his day completely. He was so intoxicated at Trishas, he seemed as out of sorts as the occasion I first met him. Matt and I danced stupidly (moreso on my part) and drank whiskies, and later we take a walk through the mounting snow in my "neighbourhood". I remember being dropped in the snow, dragged through the snow, and sleeping in the snow! It was so light and fluffy and cold!

At home very early in the morning I sleep peacefully and easily. I wake many hours later with a big smile on my face and I fling the bathroom window wide open expecting the snow to be just where I left it, only to find out that those damn snow-plough men had been through to destroy all my glory!!!!!! "I don't believe it" as grumpy Arthur Mildrew would say from ‘One Foot in the Grave’. But the forecast is on my side for at least another few days.