In the Haight: San Francisco's Hip Movement!

Despite the rumours, San Francisco is easily navigable to tour. Each district comes with its own unique culture, history and vibe to experience. From The Castro to the Marina and back to Chinatown there is a colourful list of neighbourhoods mixed with raw energy and eclecticism.

 I’m making my way on foot to The Haight. The commonly known cross streets of Haight-Ashbury (or “hashbury” as dubbed by Hunter S. Thompson) are famous for being the founding place of the flower-power hippie movement of the 1960’s. This was due basically to cheaper rents. In 1967 the “Summer of Love” was the catalyst of the movement with an influx of people from all social backgrounds in excess of 100 000 moving to the area, creating a hippie revolution. Sharing became an aspect of everyday life with communal living, sharing of resources (whatever they may be), a free clinic and of course, free love.

Puffing my way from Lower Haight to Upper Haight I pass the usual array of cafes and restaurants. Lower Haight is not as developed as Haight-Ashbury, but it has an equally, yet only smaller, eclectic mix of merchandise. It creates a prequel of charm leading up to the main attraction.  The record stores are tiny and cramped, but with big personality. 

I step into Rookie Ricardo’s Records and see the owner and his friend at the back of the room casually chatting. There are retro orange plastic records hanging like mobiles and orange plastic coverings over the lights. African dancing murals are painted on the wall. For a small shop they have made use of space well to produce a decent selection of old soul music and rock with a few turntable listening stations.

The next shop reeks of reefer. There are a couple of T-shirt racks and in the back in a small room there appears to be a team of people producing music. Everything here has that alternative, underground, rough and dirty feel. This is perhaps due to its past – “stemming” from the movement of the 60’s, which originated or “flowered” in the Haight!

My appetite for Russian Literature is whet at the aptly named anarchist bookstore, 'Bound Together'. Shelves of old hardbacks and mainly Dover publications (an American publisher that reprints books that are no longer issued by their original publishers) are stacked together in this second-hand store. There’s a musty smell, but the vibe is buzzing with plenty of young folk stopping in to find a good read. I leave with six or seven new titles for my “to-do” list. Unfortunately, I can contain myself better in a clothes store than a book store, and clothes are usually lighter in the backpack!

Walking through the Haight it is easy to forget you are in a neighbourhood where people actually live (some with homes, some living on the street). Looking up there are reminders in the architecture. All the buildings and apartments are renovated Victorians and Edwardians, colourful and iconic of San Francisco.

I walk past a costume shop, and laugh to myself because many of the people in this area have their real life costumes on and they are often scarier! People-watching has never been more of a revelation. I see one lady has taken to her face with a black marker, drawing big racoon-like circles around her eyes and black clown lips. We can thank Reagan for this.

I find a routine of tattoo parlours and psychedelic head shops. Creative shop-front designs evoke a sample-taste of what you may find inside. Street art and graffiti is a viable product in Haight. ‘Soul Patch’ offers henna, tattoos and piercing and has a painting of a skull sitting on a lotus flower to allure customers. Insightful murals decorate the street, making the walk more enjoyable.

Vintage goes with Haight like cheese goes with wine.  There are an abundance of stores to get lost in like ‘La Rosa’ and ‘Held Over’.  I meet with Cecily Ann, somewhat a veteran of the Haight scene of the sixties. Fashion model-come-vintage entrepreneur, Cecily’s store, ‘Decades of Fashion’ has apparel dating back over a century showcasing an expansive collection of vintage cowboy boots, classic ladies hats, and Edwardian attire. Cecily informs me of the up and coming Edwardian Ball where her shop will have a stall and without doubt will be where many of the costumes hail from. ‘Decades of Fashion’ is kind of like the Museum of Vintage - you can write off the experience as “educational” or it can be a shopper’s heaven with a plethora of exciting new wardrobing opportunities!

At the end of the road, just before you hit the Golden Gate Park, you will come across a famous record store, ‘Amoeba’, with its vast collection of records, DVD’s and more. Amoeba is a fame of its own, regularly hosting both international and national bands, playing in store. 

Across the road is San Francisco’s first ever metal only record store, ‘Shaxul’, which offers a niche market for those head banging “dirty vinyl pushers”.

My mother shared some memories from her youth with me, when young girls and boys would pass out flowers to pedestrians. This no longer exists. However, each unique shop, pub, cafe and specialty store in the Haight has its story. As gentrification makes its way into the district plenty of the power of the sixties remains intact here, a little piece of hippiedom remains, like the scent of ganga in the air, the glimpse of a Seargent Pepper’s T-shirt, and the disconnected eyes and murmurings of the lost souls wandering the street searching for something they gave up a long time ago...

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!