Road trippin'

Just as I saw Tasmania, I've seen New Zealand from behind the wheel. But I have not seen the same. I expected to. I was wrong.

I expected Kiwiland to be a "bigger, better, uncut" version of Tassie, with LOTR seasoning. I expected more nature, higher mountains, bigger lakes, wider rivers, higher waterfalls, greener landscapes, denser, thicker, lusher forests.

I kept comparing what I saw with what I was expecting to see, and everything kept looking so wrong and out of place. I finally had to surrender and accept the overwhelming visual evidence: Kiwiland is different.

Southland is mountainous, but mostly barren and dressed in yellow, ochre and khaki. Fiordland (the southwesternmost chunk) is the only part where mountain meets forest, and meets my expectations of "more". That is not to say Southland is not beautiful as well. When a new dawn dips the mountaintops in molten gold and soft waves wash the shores of a lake of pure aquamarine, no comparison can be had.

Northland is really beautiful in itself and closer to what I expected. And still, everything feels so... European-ish. Most forests I've been through, on both islands, were pine trees, and blackberries were easy to find. Roads are, just as in Tasmania, lined with roadkill, but it's still such a European sort. Rabbits, possums and the occasional bird or cat. No wallabies, no wombats, no pademelons in NZ. No marsupials at all, originally, until the introduction of the possum.

Most of the land I passed through was Cattle Country. On the golden hills, from behind fences on both sides of the road, paranoid sheep spring away and cows look at you with chewy apathy. Most of the northern part of Northland is Volcanic Country, which means that everywhere you go it smells like badly rotten eggs. There are a thousand "Volcanic Wonderland" parks along the road, where you can amble through the sulphuric fumes and take your pictures with the mud pools.

When you spend so long "on the road", you can't fail to have an opinion on the quality of the roads you travel. Kiwi roads are also narrow and frequently winding, with no sealed shoulders and less overtaking lanes than necessary. The speed limit is officially topped at an annoying 100km/h, but fortunately there are no speed cameras anywhere, so doing 140 is pretty common, when the slow trucks and sharp curves allow it.

The best thing about driving in Kiwi is that camping is such a big thing here. There are many free campgrounds in the most touristed areas, and on most stretches of main roads, "picnic" areas where you can stop to rest or to pass the night are plentiful, often every 10km or so. Sleeping in my car was so easy here.

This has been my longest road trip so far, incorporating the most nights in a row sleeping in a car. It was a good drive. But a long one as well. I've had enough for now. I'm tired.

The Other Side

I started my pilgrimage in Christchurch, after randomly bumping into Mark (mate from Fraser Island) and picking up my ridiculously cheap relo car to Auckland (5 kiwibucks a day!). I started the engine much later than planned, which meant flooring the gas all the way to Picton to get in time for the ferry to the North island. I did get there in time, after lots of speeding and crazy overtakings on winding coastal roads, but for the record the ABS kicked in just two times and I only bumped the car once (and, ahem, later sort of repaired it).


I enjoyed the ferry, probably the most scenic ferry crossing ever, just as they advertise. Really windy though. Too short anyway, I felt sorry when we arrived. As a sidenote, on the boat I met one of the guys who worked animating Gollum in the LOTR trilogy, a really cool geek I'll have to look up in the credits one day.

I stopped in Wellington as I arrived for a few hours to get supplies, fuel and information. I pinpointed the Other Side on Google Maps, noted down the exact GPS coordinates and familiarised with the map of the area. Later walked through the backpacker district in W and fell in love with the atmosphere. Gotta come back someday, I thought as I zoomed out of town.

I didn't want to spend the night anywhere fancy, just somewhere in Nowhereland, but ended up in this uber-cool place with palm trees and free showers, which enabled me to start the following day clean, happy and ready to rumble.

The GPS I rented for an extra $5 a day proved to be essential for negotiating the labyrinth of secondary roads dotted with nothing but farms. The drive was quite long, and I looked at the Distance To Destination on the GPS every 5km. I felt the wonderful thrill of anticipation.

Finally made it to the point where the roads became too secondary for Navman to bother having them mapped. There I discovered that Google Maps was wrong: there was nothing at all where a gravel road was supposed to be. So I stalked the area for a while and found a no doubt somehow private dirt track that went up a hill. I hesitated not and slowly drove up it. From up the hill I could make out approximately where the point I was looking for was, some 2km away. I surveyed the area and it quickly became evident that I wouldn't be getting much closer. Not on unmapped dirt tracks, being, as it was, 7pm, with the clouds rolling in and the rain getting stronger.

So, This Was It. The endpoint of my pilgrimage. My destination. The End.

I Made It. This was There, or rather, Here. The Other Side of the World. The Antipode. Almost as far away as the surface of the Earth would ever allow me to get from where I've been living for the last 17 years. The place where I would pop my head out after digging over 12700km in a straight line and brushing off the lava.


I sat and mused for a while, taking in the view and the bellows from the cows in the valley, while thinking I Made It, I Am Here... and now what?

At this point a big herd of sheep avalanched into the scene, closely followed by 3 dogs and a shepherd riding an offroad quad bike.

He stopped and we chatted for a while. Where are you from, he asked at one point.

I grinned a big grin, swung my arm in a big arc, solemnly thrust my finger downwards, and said "there". I was so happy.

I explained my mission to him. He listened politely, with the expression of someone who, while not having a clue, is observing a particularly abstract piece of modern art involving colorful vaginas.

His house was a few hundred metres away. So we're neighbours of a sort, I said. Yeah, the farthest sort there is, he said. Good point. He was, though, happy to learn that Madrid, Spain lays exactly on the other side of this hilly, sheepy planet.

I was extatic to learn that on this side of the world, my neighbour shepherd herds his sheep every day through a valley flooded by mist among golden hilltops.

Kiwiland

It was during the Aussie leg of my journey when I learned that New Zealanders are more commonly known as "kiwis". The explanation for this, however, has remained elusive until now.
I have at last found out why. In much the same way that the kangaroo is the symbol of Australia, the symbol of New Zealand is the Kiwi: a flightless nocturnal bird that looks like... well, like a kiwi would look if it had two stubby legs and a long thin beak. In order to differenciate national symbol and food, the fruit is called, in an explosion of creativity, a "kiwifruit".

As for the symbolism of the national symbol, you could argue for the nocturnality of the New Zealanders, but the one thing they're not is flightless. The kiwiest thing there is is to throw yourself off any number of heights, using any number of sophisticated devices for keeping you alive after the fall. Any mountain, bridge or tower you see, chances are you can jump off it for a reasonable sum. Jump down caves, into the rivers, or from any number of planes, over mountains, lakes and cities.

As for the bird itself, for all you see statues and pictures of it, it's practically impossible to see it in the wild and very difficult even in captivity. You can, however, be lucky and spot it on a road sign:

Queenstown

Queenstown is, to all effects, a tourist resort. It's widely known as the place to go for all your physical, adrenaline-rush activities on the South island. Bungy jumping, skydiving, paragliding, hanggliding, parasailing, white water rafting, jetboating, jetski, abseiling, and of course ski and snowboarding in winter are all just a few hundred kiwibucks away.

Swimming against the current as usual, I came here to rest. And I managed to, again against the strong current that wanted to drag me out for drinks.

I loved Queenstown. Wonderful place, lovely scenery, great atmosphere, vibrant nightlife, and very well situated. Who wouldn't?

From the range of outdoors activities available, I only did the bungy jumping (the highest jump in the southern hemisphere, blablabla, and certainly the most expensive), the louge* and hiked up the mountain. I had a brief night out and loved it, spent the remainder of my 5 days stay just chilling out. Ooohh... I needed that.

I was sad to leave, and promised myself: I'll be back .

* louge: It consists in rolling down a winding circuit on a small bike-kart. Funnier than you would imagine!

Homesick

Just as Australia was sinking under the horizon behind me and the stars were starting to pierce the night sky, my spirits took a dive down into the deep dark pit of utmost misery. I was a wreck. I felt what I never expected to.

I was homesick.

I was stunned. I couldn't explain it, it made no sense. Why would I miss a place I don't even call home, a place I've only been wanting to get as far away as possible of for as long as I can remember.

I skimmed Christchurch quickly on the surface. It's not a bad place at all, but I was tired beyond description, dazed and confused, jetlagged and on a tight schedule.

But most importantly, I was bonjovied out of the city. Bloody Bon Jovi was in town, so every single hostel was tightly packed. Not a single bed available. I had no time to recover and no choice but to move on. Was lucky to get a relo* to Queenstown, which secured me transport and accommodation for the next days. Slept the first decent night's sleep in a long, long, long time, ironically, in a car. And a bad one for sleeping in, come that.

But I got half my mind back and managed to understand my unexplainable homesickness. For the past 16 days I had not had many a chance of sleeping more than 6 hours in a row, and that was in cars, overnight buses, a boat and 4 different hostels. I had been diving, snorkelling, hiking, walking, climbing, drinking heavily, surfing and kayaking, and repeatedly stressed out of my mind.

I was knuckered. Dead tired. I got to the point where I could no longer understand: why am I doing this to myself?

It's no great mystery then that my subconscious conjured up images of home, a place where you always have a bed on which to rest as much as you need, where you don't have to worry and plan constantly, where a day spent on not doing anything much doesn't feel like a day lost. And sure, a place where the comfort and protection of your family is close at hand.

I understood what I needed, so I made up my mind, lowered gear, revved up the engine, veered and swished over the winding roads all the way home.

For a few days, my home was Queenstown, New Zealand.

*relo=relocation deal. When a car rental company needs to move a car to another depot, they rent it at a much lower rate, usually ridiculously cheap. Not in this particular case though.

Bungy

I jumped the Nevis. Here's the proof:

Get your motor running

I'm about to set out on yet another road trip, now through the North island of New Zealand.

I still carry many stories in my sack. I can feel their weight, I can see them piling up, impatient to be written. I still have to tell you about surfing and kayaking, Fraser Island and New Zealand, Queenstown and bungy jumping. And many other things, too.

But for now, I cannot. With a bit of luck, in a few days, so please hold on through yet another commercial break. Now, it is the time to accomplish my mission, to finish my quest. I'm going to try and get as far away from Ascobendas-Safghanistan as the Earth will allow me.

Onwards, to the Antipode.