Into the West

The final stretch of New Zealand looms on the horizon. It beckons expectantly, promising to be quite the send off. Lets just hope it follows through.

Rotorua is our first stop and we are greeted by the sulphur that perfuses the air here. The town itself is nothing to write home about, it is large and relatively characterless. And it smells. But it is the gateway to geothermal parks and to Maori villages; to geysers and mudpools; to kiwis, culture and the haka; to a small green village where the houses have round doors...

We arrive at our hostel which is altogether too far from the bus stop and get chatting to the wonderful and hilarious woman behind at reception. Within a few minutes of arrival she has arranged for us to get picked up straight from the door for our Hobbiton trip and has offered a lift back to the bus stop on the day we leave. She warns us of impending rain but we assure her we've dealt with worse. We set up our damp tent under the fringes of the storm and decide not to explore Rotorua that evening.

In the morning we walk to a nearby geothermal park and Maori village called Te Puia the next morning. We pass long stretches of wet cement, one of which someone appears to have cycled through, and Amy tries to use some to patch the holes in her ever disintegrating flip-flops. It doesn't work. Oh and while I'm here I'd like to mention that the Kiwis call flip-flops jandals. What's that all about? Apparently its a shortening of 'Japanese Sandals' and refers to a traditional Japanese footwear known as zōri but they aren't really the same thing. Thong sandals themselves, like flip-flops, actually date back to Ancient Egypt and at least 4,000 B.C. Perhaps they should be calling them Egandals instead.

We haven't been in the park for more than half a hour when the clouds above decide to release their entire beings upon us. We are on a guided tour from a guy with one of the best accents I've ever heard when the deluge hits. It is the heaviest downpour I have seen in a long time, the sort where even a five second sprint from one door to another will leave you soaked to your skin. Luckily we have finished most of the outside sections of the tour and are making our way between various workshops and schools of traditional Maori arts and crafts. At one point he has to ferry us across a courtyard in twos and threes beneath his extensive umbrella. He could stand under my umbrella.

Te Piua is home to the National Wood Carving School, National Weaving School and National Stone and Bone Carving School. The first two of these have rooms where you can see people at work making traditional Maori woodwork or weaving. The students of these schools have built and carved over thirty traditional Maori meeting houses throughout New Zealand since the school's opening forty years ago along with countless pouwhenua (similar to totem poles), canoes, ornaments and weapons.

After this we attend a 'Maori Cultural Experience'. We see traditional song and dance, often accompanied by 'games' such as elaborate stick throwing designed to increase the dexterity of the competitors. The music is catchy and cheering. It is the sort of music I would happily sit and listen to for hours. I would like to sing along but don't know the words or the language so  there's little hope of that. A couple of the songs are accompanied by elaborate Poi dances. When I was younger I used to play with Poi regularly but never realised that it originated with the Maori. They are much better at it that I ever was. At once point the four woman all had four Poi in each hand!

Following the Poi we got the haka, a traditional posture dance of the Maori, made famous by the New Zealand rugby team. There are many forms of haka, of which the All Blacks do one, some were used as challenges or war cries, some were for funerals and some for celebrations. The haka of the All Blacks perform is not a war haka as many think but a ceremonial haka that tells the story of a cunning Chief outwitting his enemies. It is very impressive and they put so much effort into it that by the end a few are pouring with sweat. I can easily see how it could inspire fear in the hearts of adversaries.

Representations of Maori Gods

Poor Kiwi. Spot the Kiwi cloak beside it.

They fairly go for it!

There are over five hundred steaming pools and sixty five geyser vents in Te Puia. The main contender erupts almost constantly, the height of its expulsions reaching anything up to one hundred feet in the air, though when we are there is is much lower. It is so odd to see boiling water expelled from the ground like this, so regularly and so frequently for so long.

Wide plateaus of silica surround the geysers, streaked with the yellow of sulphur and the red of iron, that have taken hundreds if not thousands of years to form. At their bases, away from the virulent fumes and the heat, orange algae clings to the mineral rock; the only life audacious enough to survive here. We walk around the geysers through clouds of vapor. We look over stretches of bush and columns of smoke drift from between the manuka trees. Steam clings to the ground, creating a pall in the air not unlike the mist of dawn. It is beauteous and captivating yet at the same time has a vague feeling of impending doom, as if heralding an oncoming desolation.

The next day is Amy's birthday. And what a birthday it is. Who could wish for any greater experience than the one we go on? Our bus picks us up at half past eight and we drive out into the countryside. The rolling green countryside. Hills and trees amble into the distance and I am reminded of two places I know very well. Home is one of them. Parts of the countryside we pass through could be slotted into the train ride from Edinburgh to Linlithgow that I have embarked upon oh so many times and I wouldn't even notice the difference.

Then we see a road sign titled Buckland Road and I know we are here. 'Oh that's nice', you think, 'they named the road Buckland Road because of Hobbiton'. No. It's even better than that. Buckland Road has had that name for over sixty years. Peter Jackson only discovered the name after he had already chosen the spot as the location of Hobbiton. It was meant to be!

Hobbiton is like nothing I could have ever dreamed of. It is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It is green and verdant, it feels as though it has always been there, but has only recently been discovered. I could spend my life wandering its narrow pathways and bursting gardens. Sitting in its wooded dells and by its frog filled ponds.

I am amazed, completely stunned by the effort and dedication that went into the creation, and re-creation, of this set. When it was first built for the filming of the Lord of the Rings trilogies thirty nine hobbit holes were built, mainly out of plywood and polystyrene (it is unbelievable what they managed to build out of polystyrene and made look authentic, if not ancient). When it was rebuilt for The Hobbit it was made exactly the same as before, with the addition of an extra area with five new holes, but this time out of permanent materials. And both times it had to be perfect.

One example of Peter Jackson's sheer dedication to this project, and to realising Tolkien's vision of this place, is the plum trees. There is a line in the Fellowship of the Rings that mentions Hobbit children building pyramids out of plum stones. Therefore it is only logical that plum trees must grow in Hobbiton. Unfortunately plum trees do not grow here so instead they turned apple trees into plum trees by removing all the leaves and fruit and individually wiring on plums and plum leaves prior to filming. The little grove of plum trees was only seen in the corner of one shot that lasted approximately five seconds. And the new area of Hobbiton built for the Hobbit didn't even make it into the film. But it's all there to see. And the gardens are real too and they are tended by five full time gardeners who produce fruit and veg for the Shire's Rest cafe.

We come to Bag End at the top of the hill, it is amazing amazing amazing. Thirteen different and exquisitely crafted windows peer out from the side of the hill and the Old Oak looms augustly over them all. It is an entirely fake tree with the two hundred thousand leaves individually wired on. A few days before filming it was decided that the colour of the leaves wasn't quite realistic enough so they had to all be removed, re-painted, and reattached. I open Bag End's delightful little post box and find one of the leaves inside. It hasn't left my side since.

We wind down the hill past lines of washing. During filming Peter Jackson had people go out every morning to hang up the washing and every evening to take it down. Why not just leave it up? Well because then there wouldn't be fresh tracks through the grass to the washing lines would there. Then we had the party tree and Sam's beautiful little home with the yellow door that makes the final shot of the trilogy. Then it was time for a pint. In the Green Dragon.

The Green Dragon is the most wonderful pub I have ever been in. It serves traditional ales, cider and ginger beer, all brewed in the pub itself and only available here. They are really good too. The interior feels like that of an old English countryside pub. It is cosy and warm and I could sit before of the fire with a book all the day long. Unfortunately we don't have all the day long. We barely seem to have time to dress up as Hobbits and take all the necessary photos with our drinks before we have to leave. We do however manage to get behind the beautifully carved bar and to take pictures with the kegs. Why does it have to be over??

What's that I see in the distance...

This is the new and so far unused section of Hobbiton.

Fair.

One of the best things I've ever seen.

I am sorry. I couldn't decide between any of these photos, I wanted to put even more in.

Oh Sam!

The Old Mill!

The Green Dragon!

When I get married...

We leave Rotorua with its odious fumes and fond memories behind and travel east to Waitomo, the site of a network of famous caves and underground tunnels. On the first day we go for a walk from our tent along the river and into the mouths of some of the caves. We see some beautiful and impressive things, we crawl through tunnels and stand in the semi-dark, where we can just about see the great caverns opening out before, above and below us. It's a good day, especially the walk home through the rain. But it is our second day in Waitomo that is truly worth writing about.

We arrive at the centre and are kitted out with headtorches and the dampest, coldest and most flattering wetsuits I have seen yet. The group is very mixed, from a couple in their fifties (a guess) down to people of our own age we set out. Along the way we pick up our tubes (like the inner tube of a truck) and practise jumping backwards into the water, landing floating in our inflatable rings. Then we reach the entrance of the caves, high above the river.

The next three hours is spent navigating our way through the hallways and delves of these great underground cathedrals. We jump off crystal waterfalls and float down pitch avenues, lit from above as if by a thousand stars. For these caves are one of the foremost homes of glow-worms and they adorn the tunnels as countless burning sapphires.

Glow-worms are another misnomer. They are not worms but larvae and they cling to the walls and ceilings reeling in insects with long draping tendrils, waiting until they are large enough to form the chrysalis that will turn them into a fungus gnat; a small insect that helps spread the spores of various fungi. Whatever they are though, they produce a tiny violent blue light part way down their body, and that is the reason we are here.

At one stage we are all in a line, floating down a long and deep passageway. Our lights are turned off and we are deadly silent. I lie back, letting the current lazily pull me along, and gaze upwards. I could be lying outside gazing up at the clearest sky, but the sky is too dark, the stars are too steady, the patterns are unfamiliar. I drift under this impossible sky and wish I could capture this moment in time, whole and unfettered. Not through the limits of a camera or a painting or this description. But wholly seize every sensation I feel in this instant to freeze it forever. As with everything else it is over the moment it has begun and we are trudging our way back to the van, cursing the face of the sun.

All these pictures are from our walk on the first day as we couldn't take cameras into the caves.

The Waitomo Cave Visitor Centre

Amazing.

We have a single day in Auckland before heading to our final destination together, Paihia and the Bay of Islands in the north. We spend the morning wandering around in the glorious sunshine (it's been a while) and then quickly  realise we have exhausted all the things to do that don't cost money. So we spend the afternoon lying in the park under the sun. Auckland seems like a nice city, there seem to be quite a few side streets filled with nice cafés and pubs. Overall though I was much more won over by Wellington, Auckland just feels like other city. And it has a giant Santa on the main street that to me seems so out of place smiling away in the sun.

I visit the art gallery and am overwhelmingly underwhelmed (I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever be just whelmed?). I enjoy the building itself quite a lot, the contents on the other hand not so much. There are a couple of paintings that I am captured by, one by one of the Glasgow Boys though I forget which one, and I spend a while admiring brush strokes and textures. Most pieces here are either contemporary in a way that I do not enjoy, or simply bad. I am sorry New Zealand, but I not find much I liked in the 'Art of New Zealand' section.

On the morning we leave Auckland we manage to sell the remainders of our bus passes to a couple of German girls for ninety five dollars each. It feels like winning the lottery. Ever since we booked the last of our 'expensive activites' (Hobbiton, Waitomo Caves, Te Puia) we have been on such a tight budget. When still in Wellington we worked out how much we would have left after the necessary food and accommodation had been paid for and it came to about twenty dollars each. For the whole of North Island. And food by the way we have been managing on about six dollars (three pounds) a day each which I think is rather impressive. So suddenly we find ourselves with all this money and only a few days to spend it. We can drink again! We can buy sweets and chocolate! We can eat out one day! Oh the world of the rich.

On the way to Auckland

I enjoyed this room. But again mainly the room itself.

Can anyone tell me who painted this?

We arrive in the Bay of Islands, jewel of the North Island. We can't see it for all the rain. Although our hostel is very nice! There is a group of people who are two hundred and fifty kilometres into the three thousand kilometre walk from the north of the North Island to the south of the South Island. Doesn't that sound like quite the task. In some ways I would love to do it, for the challenge, for the things I would see and the people I would meet. It seems a long time to commit to one activity though, about three months they think, but it would undoubtedly be worth it. Though I think I would probably rather do the Camino trail through Europe as there are so many places there I still need to see.

We spend that evening drinking wine with our new friends, at some point along the way someone brings out a delicious bottle of port and the evening fades into a warm glow. I find a kindred spirit and ebulliently effuse on Robin Hobb, Tolkein and Robert Jordan. I confide my secret desire of possessing Narya, one of the three Elven Rings, bound to and wielded by Gandalf. He admits the same yearning. As soon as I have a few hundred pounds to spare it is mine.

We go for a cycle despite the howling wind or the driving rain. This place has a wild beauty to it under these conditions and we can still appreciate the splendour of the coastline even if it is somewhat veiled. We visit our final and possibly worst waterfall. It's okay really, but after such things as the Huka falls little can compare. This one is wide and murky. Beige foam glugs and churns at its base. Just as I am thinking that it's the last river in the world I would like to get into two people climb out of it. What clothing they have on is covered in a thick layer of brown froth. One of them does happen to be exceedingly attractive which makes the whole situation slightly more appealing I guess.

That evening the hostel gathers again, lamenting the relentless rain, it has been almost two days so far and shows no sign of letting up. We have an evening of music and whisky (oh the things we can do with ninety five dollars!) and I awake to rain worse than ever. Our friends on the walk head out into the flood, two days rest would be two too many for some of them. The morning of our last full day together is spent on the sofa, under our duvets, with huge cups of tea, watching videos. Actual videos. Videos that need rewound and flicker and have lines across the screen. It is wonderful. We watch Shrek and Four Weddings and a Funeral then, suddenly and joyously, the sun emerges. Cheers resonate through the room. Me and Amy hurriedly get changed then dash down to the beach and take in the Bay of Islands as it is meant to be seen. We bask in what is most likely Amy's last sun for the foreseeable future and vow to tell no one about the rain. I guess I've broken that already.

Ew.

The worlds best fish and chip shop.

The return to Auckland.

Our final morning is mostly taken up with a bus journey back to Auckland. I am filled with apprehension. Soon I will be alone on the far side of the world. I will have to arrange everything, I will have to make new friends alone. The XX sing appropriate songs in my head.

You leave with the tides. And I can't stop you leaving.

Would I want to though? If I could stop you leaving Amy, would I? I don't think so. You have been away for so long and I know you want to go home now, even if just to check in for Christmas. It makes me want to go home too at times. I on the other hand have only been away for three and a half months and still have so much to do.

Just two nights ago I got a confirmation from Sydney Harbour YHA saying that I can work there for accommodation upon my arrival in Sydney. This is the best news I could possibly have had. On my remaining funds I could afford to live in Sydney for about a week, possibly two. And besides that there isn't any space left the hostels now anyway, the entire Christmas period has been booked up for months. I was expecting to have to go woofing, or head out into the mountains, while I waited for a job in a hostel to come up. That or abandon Sydney altogether.

This hostel, along with almost every other on Sydney, had told me that their work for accommodation positions were all full. I emailed again to check a few days ago and once again received a negative reply. I must have been somewhat convincing because almost instantly afterwards I received another email telling me that they were having some trouble with someone so I could take his position. So now I will be living in Sydney, and not not just in Sydney but in the oldest part of Syndey. The Rocks, Sydney Harbour, about five minutes down the bay from The Opera House. So we can safely say I am quite excited about the next stage of my life and the challenge of doing it alone only serves as a greater incentive.

We have one final meal together then head to the harbour where we wait for the bus. We find an outdoor area full of games and stalls. There is ping pong, giant scrabble, jenga and chess; huge comfy cushions cover the floor and a DJ fills the air with summer. We stay and play for about an hour then it is time to go. We hug and say farewell and wish each other all the fun in the world. Then she boards the bus and is gone. I can't believe it has been so long. I don't feel as if it's really over. But we'll see each other again, at some point in the future. How distant that point is, and where that point is, remain completely unknown, though I feel that it won't be in the U.K.

Tonight I am couchsurfing for the first time in my life. I am staying somewhat out of town with a forty year old woman and her twenty year old son. I arrive with trepidation, unsure whether or not this is a good idea. It turns out it is, Levi and his friend are the only ones there when I arrive. He is warm and friendly and interesting. We chat about the environment and music, we have more in common on the first subject than the second, not that that makes it any less enjoyable. Lauren arrives home and is just as welcoming. We have a lovely tea and I am shown to my couch which thankfully folds out into a double bed. I haven't had this much space in months. I spend a morning with Lauren exploring some interesting markets then I head back to the city centre for my final night.

I am exhausted now. It has been about two and a half months since I've spent more than three nights in one bed (and even that many was rare) and I can't wait to settle down somewhere for a while. I spend the evening writing, catching up on some TV and watching 'The Perks of Being a Wallfower'. Will someone please remind me not to watch emotional films in a dorm full of people, especially when I am feeling tired or fragile, let alone both! It is a brilliant film though. The next morning I blow my remaining New Zealand Dollars on a sublime Eggs Benedict from a rather upmarket cafe before I get the bus to the airport.

Right now I sitting waiting to board the plane back to Australia, still tired but glad to have some time away from my bag. Amy is home by now, twelve thousand miles west and north, and is no doubt having the best time catching up with her friends and family. Not to mention eating all the food that just isn't quite the same over here. I have my own journey to take, though not nearly so far. New Zealand has been amazing. It is more varied than I could have ever imagined; at the same time both more familiar and more exotic than my expectations. And even in five weeks I feel I have managed to see so little compared to what there is. There are so many more sights to see and things to do, and there are so many people from home I would like to see and do them with. I may just have to come back.

So I bid farewell to Middle Earth to make my journey West, and leave you with a song designed for this very moment. A song that fits with where I am, with what I am doing, with how I am feeling and  with where I am going all at once. I am lucky that Australia is not east, or this would not have been nearly as appropriate: