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.