New Zealand: Phase Seven - Pancakes, Beer, Wine, Abalone and Chips

We arose early, again. Not by choice but by habit - probably a good thing with the baby on the way. After a loud night with the ocean smashing into the beach below us we drove onto Punakaiki, or Pancake Rocks. I failed to see what was so pancakey about them, I thought that they more resembled the side on profile of a book that had been eaten by termites. I suppose the name 'Side on Profile Eaten Book Rocks' wouldn't roll off the tongue as well.

Conceptual culinary confusions aside, they were quite interesting to look at - especially if you like rocks like I do. I did geology at uni and was like, pretty good at it and stuff. I bored Stacey to death explaining how they were formed. She didn't seem to understand the petrified giant filo pastry and hungry, hungry hippo theory anyway.

Most of the country on the west coast seems pretty inhospitable, I imagine a bit like hanging out with David 'Golden Balls' Beckham at a tea party. Like typical Kiwis, however, they have not only managed to build a road out of cliffs, but put houses next to it as well. I reckon Blue Tac has to be a Kiwi invention. Uhu Tac would be Australian because it is gold and waaaay better.

We continued on to the appropriately named Westport. The Kiwis are as good at naming things as us Aussies are. The town, once a bustling port in the west is now but a port in the west. Apparently the sunsets are pretty good there, due mostly to the westerly aspect, but also because it is a port on the ocean on the west coast. Got it? Shut up Jum. If they named a town after you it would be called Tooltown, or Knobville.

They have a brewery at Westport, and if you haven't guessed it, I like the odd beer. Even at 10am as it happened to be that day. We dropped into the Miners Brewery (now West Coast Brewery) and I sampled a few beers, and then a few more beers. Thankfully the roads in New Zealand are straight .
Drink driving jokes aside we travelled up through to the north east again, sadly waving good bye to the west coast, and all other things west.

Over an hour the terrain changed from temperate rainforest to mountainy, rocky sharp stuff. We travelled up through Inangahua Junction, which was the home of a massive earthquake in 1957. Apparently it was one of those ones where entire chasms formed - kind of like an apocalypse I suppose. We didn't stop, even though we probably should have. It had this eerie unnatural feeling.

We continued to follow the Buller River which was typical of New Zealand in its clarity, power and beauty. Again the road there is hewn through the rock (no houses this time), but I thought this photo shows how crazy the Kiwis really are...

We ended up having lunch just east of Murchison, above the swift and clear Buller River. Again I was assaulted by these massive, loud killer bees. I mean they are friggin huge and bloodey inquisitive. I was not amused by this so we ate lunch inside the van. With the windows shut.

After a very hot lunch we continued eastwards. It seems that we hit every possible straight road in New Zealand, actually I am sure they go out of their way to make a straight road there. You can see the road workers standing around, cups of tea in hand:

Cuz: 'do we need a road here Bro?
Bro: nah, but boss sez we should do it anywayz
Cuz: why?
Bro: coz it will be the fucken straightest road ever made Cuz
Cuz: bitchen
After St. Arnaud (yawn) I was forced to do some of the worst driving in the worst conditions. Ever. It was so windy I could hear Mary Poppins screaming mercy. It was hot, straight, boring, windy, straight, boring and windy and hot. Everything was bent over like some twisted old sentinel of dry twisty wood. It was horrible. May we never go there again.

We made it to Renwick and headed straight for the Cloudy Bay winery. The only thing that impressed us was how pretentious the bitch was behind the counter:

'Oh lahdie dah this and schnooty that' with 'oh, our chaaardonnnays are $38 because they are so waaaaaarnderful'. 'My norse is schtuch up my baaam'

'This wine is a bit yeasty - like a thrush in the front of the palate - with that hint of chocolate that only comes when the bean is passed through the bowels of a meercat and licked by a sloth. There is an aftertaste of bulldust that lingers like tendrils of bovine spongiform at the back of the throat - yet overall there is the creaminess straight from a cats arse that is the true essence of this wine'.

I will tell Angry Man about you!

We drove onto Blenheim. Ahem, yes, the town did fit under the van. From there we went to Picton, our last stop on the south island. We had some absolutely fantastic paua (abalone) and amazing chips (a secret - it is right up the top of the town and the inside of the shop kinda reminds you of the inside of a fridge built in 1962). We then packed ourselves into our little van park, had big, fat, warm showers and packed ourselves away for a wonderful nights sleep. After a couple more of those Miner's beers mind you.

New Zealand: Phase Six - Easter Monday on the West Coast

We both woke up to a new and very special day; the sun was barely showing itself in the mountains to the east and the ocean was barely taking notice of anything - smashing big rocks into smaller rocks and entire trees onto the beach nearby.

We hopped out and looked around, noticing in particular that I had parked the van surprisingly well into the coastal heath the night before. The coastal heath itself was thick, rough and sharp. A bit like Britney Spears if she didn't shave. We mucked around in this inhospitable, yet beautiful place and then moved on at a leisurly pace northwards to the glaciers.

After a slightly windy, yet beautiful drive we found ourselves at the Fox Glacier. I stand corrected, we didn't find ourselves there, we found our way there. I found myself back in 1998 when I drank too many pints at the Phoenix bar on a 32 degree night. I also found myself being pretty sick too.

The glacier was much greater, majestic and mysterious than I expected. Its peaks rose above us like the icy crown of a King that struck down all before him. The glacial valley was steep and powerful in its immense silence. It made me think how I really can't stand it when people say that things make them feel insignificant, like 'when I think of how large the universe is it makes me feel so insignificant'. The glacier didn't make me feel insignificant - it certainly made me feel a bit smaller than the boulder the size of a house that I was standing next to (I think the glacier dropped it there). It didn't, however, make me feel insignificant. Being crushed like an ant by the glacier would, on the other hand, make me feel insignificant because I would have to be so pathetically slow for it to catch me.

Stacey and I have a knack for getting ahead of the various packs of dickheads that are as much of an inevitability in tourist areas as a wedgie is when you wear satin boxers on a long drive on a hot day. On this occasion we managed again to get ahead of the tool box and enjoy a moment of silence with our friend the glacier. There were a pack of young American idiots that decided to jump the well sign posted (you will DIE if you go beyond this point) rope and head up to the glacier and climb on it. Just as Stacey and I had left we heard the most almighty crash, similar to the sound you hear when standing on the precipice of Yasur volcano. A large chunk (probably the size of four or five buses)had fallen from the roof of the glacier mouth - right next to the stupid Americans. I bet there were some brown dacks that day.
After this we went on to enjoy a lunch with the ducks and trout at Lake Mapourika in the Westland National Park.

The Rain forest on the New Zealand west coast is impressively dense and mysterious. I could easily find myself dreaming of Maori legends, and running from mythical beasts through the thick foliage. Oh wait, that was those mushrooms I ate at lunch - no wonder the duck was looking at me kinda weird...

We pressed on through the forest to Hokitika at the heart of greenstone (jade) country. We had a look around, shrugged our shoulders at the expense, bought some groceries and again moved on to the suitably named Greymouth. Looking at my travel journal I used words like 'pooh', 'featureless' and 'violent in its mediocrity' to describe Greymouth. On hindsight it was more 'bleg'.

We drove on north from there to seek out our place of rest for the night, and did we find a cracker of a spot. Fourteen Mile Beach, stirringly beautiful, rough and peaceful. The sand was a funny grey colour and holy crap there were a lot of friggin BITEYS. AAAAAARGH BITEY! I have mentioned the sand flies before, however up until this point in time I hadn't come up with a name. At this beach I did. Friggin Biteys. They suck. They are all up and down the west coast and they are way worse than mozzies. FRIGGIN BITEYS!

Stacey had been feeling the baby up until this point, and increasingly so over the last few days, and this night I felt the little fella for the first time. I didn't know if it was a 'he' or a 'she', all I knew was it was an incredible moment and I couldn't get over how happy it made me feel. Try and spot the third person in the photo...