My New Zealand trip inspired 28 pages of journal and hundreds of photos but I will spare you a lot of those. The last shall be first on this blogsite, so to follow my progress day by day go
to number 1 in the New Zealand theme. Each two page text entry is followed by a group of photos . To see more of the best photos or even buy some click on the link at the right.
Travelling in New Zealand
Day one It was getting too hot in Brisbane so after a sweltering 33 degree Celsius day I got up early to catch a plane to New Zealand. Hey, this is March already and it is not fair that it
should be so hot. If you don’t think that’s motivation enough to go to New Zealand then how did I, Hugh, manage to get up at 4.30 a.m. and drop my car off to my sister’s place where my
brother-in-law (who always gets up early – it takes all sorts to make a world, eh?) very generously drove me to the airport. I’m glad I got to the airport nice and early as it took forever to get
through the process of getting from the front door of the airport to the front door of the plane.
Finally I reached my seat but because I was second last on board I had to put my cabin bag in a locker three or four seats back from where I was sitting. My flight was one of those cheap ones
where the usual amenities have to be paid for separately (apart from the loos, which are free) and when I got hungry I had to ask the hostess to get my wallet from my bag. The seats were covered in
vinyl, all that we cheapskates deserve, but comfortable enough for a trip lasting less than four hours. New Zealand is just on the other side of the puddle after all. I settled back in my chair and
relaxed, looking forward to a bit of a kip to make up for that hideously early rise.
It was then that I first felt myself being kicked in the back. When I briefly turned and glanced at his parents the toddler was made to desist for most of the rest of the flight. However, his
frustration at not being permitted to kick me repeatedly probably gave him sufficient reason for the screaming fits he performed for his fellow passengers now and then. Should I just have let him
kick me? Showing great results of the occasional meditation I do when I am awake enough in the mornings I calmed myself and coped with the intense noise. It might have helped that I was reading one
of James Redfield’s spiritual books. The fellow sitting next to me covered his ears and muttered things to his lady companion and released his stress that way when the screams reached excruciation
point. The child helped me to keep awake and watch the cloudscape, assisted by the narrowness of the vinyl clad seats and lack of a free pillow. Thanks James, for keeping me at peace and occupied
so advantageously.
Our plane crossed the coast of New Zealand at a height that gave an excellent view of the mountains and terrain. I wished I was still capable of roaming over the rugged mountains I saw below me.
They felt like a challenge to me, alas, not one I will take on. The watershed gave rise to a wonderful bright blue river that flowed through a bed of millions of stones that was too wide for it.
The river is the Waimakariri and is a braided river. The Maori have a term formed from words for water and hair because of the way the water divides into several channels to proceed. The
Waimakariri meets the sea not far north of Christchurch.
One feature of the Canterbury plains, the large agricultural area serviced by Christchurch, puzzled me. There were dozens of oval tracks spaced throughout the farmlands. My fellow passenger (not
the young one) informed me they are racetracks. That proved Kiwis are crazier about racing than Aussies. I was more familiar with the hedgerows. The climate, like England’s, is rich and moist
enough that hedges can be grown to save putting up fence posts. When I thought how the Canterbury Plains used to be a vast forest I was a bit sad, but I suppose we have to eat. When we landed the
air hostess who had fetched my wallet impressed me with her thoughtfulness. She handed me my bag. Jetstar is not all money saving.
There is a system of shuttle buses, people movers and mini buses, that take people to hotels and hostels for more than a public bus and less than a taxi. I found one that could drop me off at
Dorset House, which I had booked on line. The bus cost $20.00 but I later learned some are available for $5.00. The hostel is the nicest I stayed in, in regards to appearance and clean comfort. It
is a former monastic dwelling as are some others I’ve read of and some of the peace remains in its walls. Strangely, as far as staff were concerned I felt only disinterest and distance. In fact
after six o’clock at night it is impossible to contact a staff member, in my experience. More of that again. My room was shared with two Germans in their late twenties to early thirties. I am
always a little uneasy about sharing with strangers but really the unease is usually replaced by a sense of safety after meeting the people. I felt safe in the dorms all the way through my travels
in New Zealand.
It is a pattern in my life that upon arriving at a new and interesting place I don’t need to sleep, regardless of how little I have had for the previous day or two. I had a raging thirst and
soon set off to find refreshment. Following directions from the desk clerk I walked the few metres to the street bordering the huge and lovely Hagley Park and a smile transformed my face.
The South Island of New Zealand had many Scottish settlers and that heritage has a strong influence today. The sound that produced the smile was the skirl of bagpipes. I understand that
Englishmen are genetically designed to experience that sound in the way my fellow passenger experienced the toddler’s screams but for Scots it is not only a means of inflicting psychologically
effective torture on the battlefield but is also heart stirring and beautiful music. When I bought my drink I went into the park and sat under a large pine, perhaps a Kauri Pine, and watched and
listened to a practice session of a group of pipers and a group of drummers of the Canterbury Caledonian Society Pipe Band (I am not certain of the name so if I am a little wrong please excuse me).
It brought back a vivid memory of my Grampa Sloss in a high bearskin hat and with a leopard skin or some such as a cape leading the Vale of Leven Pipe Band when I was less than seven years old.
After a while I got up from my comfortable seat of pine needles and, my Scottish blood moving within me, made my way back to the hostel, exiting the park past oak and beech trees, more childhood
memories. When I reached my room I curled up in bed and went to sleep. The temperature was a wonderful 20 degrees. When do I emigrate? That was my immediate response but might never happen.
Christchurch is a city that is beautiful to me, with European style masonry homes and civic buildings and trees that are a rich green for half of the year and then russet clad and then bare
branches waiting for new clothes. Gardens are full of flowers. I felt peaceful in Christchurch. (to be continued)