Day 23: Franz Josef Glacier

Posted on February 26, 2010 by Christina Kenny

On Monday evening, we arrived at Abel Tasman National Park in time for a beautiful sunset, which we neatly missed due to a lengthy and painful check-in at our hostel in Marahau. My successful application to sleep in a ‘plush’ $20 tent (won in a quiz set by driver Hoff) was quickly upgraded to a $30 hostel room. While spacious, the four-bed tent also provided custom-built 2* accommodation for several thousand mosquitoes. The camp bed had terminal rust and looked as though it would either crumble or snap shut, locking me inside.

It was all a bit too real. Norwegian Nina and I dragged our packs through the darkness to a cabin at the opposite end of the site, which smelled strongly of damp. When I crawled into bed at 4.30 after Nina’s birthday party, it was to pull a duvet over my head that smelled as though someone had died under it. A while ago. By drowning.

I was beyond caring by that stage. Having spent the evening drinking red wine and a lethal punch concocted by Hanson, who had acquired three litres of Captain Morgan at Wellington airport, I slept soundly for all of 3 hours. At 8 a.m. I had to get up to walk 11.5K along the coast to Anchorage with the extremely well-slept and loquacious Eva, where we would meet a catamaran to take us back to Marahau.

I probably wouldn’t have drunk so much or stayed out so late if I hadn’t booked a skydive for the following evening. This wasn’t strictly planned. When bad weather afforded us a reprieve in Taupo, I had resolved to jump instead on my birthday in Queenstown. The idea was appealing for a number of reasons. Dying on my twenty-fifth birthday would make my dates easy for the stonemason. The weather in Queenstown wasn’t guaranteed to be clear on 1 March. Finally (and most importantly), 1 March was ages away.

This comforting state of apathy was destroyed by the blindingly good weather in the north of South Island. If Picton was warm, Marahau was veritably tropical, and I acquired an elaborate new set of tan lines during the morning hike. My skin tone, incidentally, has only just stopped attracting amused looks from other travellers, though most are still impressed by my ability to read a book by the glow of my inner arms.

Hoff had been insistent that potential skydivers should not delay but sign up as soon as possible during good weather. If you’re going to throw yourself into the void from a great height, you might as well have a good view, and New Zealand’s changeable weather won’t guarantee a clear sky. I mentioned that I might be interested. Hoff indicated that he might accompany me using his free drivers’ privilege. A deal was struck as regards the holding of hands and I was signed up for my first tandem skydive.

I tried to put the jump out of my mind as much as possible, referring to it as a ‘shopping trip’ and glugging the aforementioned medicinal rum punch on Tuesday evening. On the day, the awesome views of the Abel Tasman coastline, Split Apple rock and a healthsome swim helped to distract me both from the shopping trip and a not insignificant hangover. Nevertheless, with only three hours of sleep under my belt, it was with a distinct lack of GSOH that I received the news that Hoff wouldn’t be jumping alongside me after all. But by then the boat had reached Kaiteriteri and I was whisked away to the Abel Tasman Skydive Centre.

Much of the rest is a blur. I know that I didn’t cry. I didn’t hyperventilate. I just went very quiet and conducted all necessary communications in monsyllables from the introductory DVD onwards. This educational programme was primarily designed to to sell more DVDs and set footage of attractive, adrenaline-flushed young people jumping out of planes to generic extreme-sports music.

I must have looked pretty grim by the end because the lady from the desk came and put her arm around me. Then she took advantage of my fragile mental state and sold me their complete package for $499. The package included the dive, 50 photos, a DVD and a ‘free’ T-shirt. (For $499, my T-shirt is not complimentary. It’s a slap in the face.)  I only really wanted one photo, as proof, but as this cost only $30 less than the full package and would still require a cameraman to jump out with me, it seemed silly not to get the whole thing (think of the T-shirt!). I did have the option to take my own camera on a cord under my jumpsuit, but given my ability to lose my possessions anywhere (including in an otherwise empty hostel room), I thought this unwise.

As the most nervous punter, I was offered and accepted the chance go first. As soon as they had a firm yes from me and a signature on their legal disclaimer (‘warning: you may experience injury and / or death’), I was whisked away to don an unflattering jumpsuit, harness and Biggles cap. The plane would be shared with a couple of giggling Kiwi girls, their instructors and a solo jumper.

Despite my mounting panic I found time to become concerned about my own diva-like entourage comprising instructor James and cameraman Kevin. It seemed terribly self-indulgent to have all these people there just for me. When Kevin canvassed me for my opinions while still on the ground, I had to resist the urge to tell him it was really all right, he shouldn’t worry about me, and if he could just be a bit quiet now that would be really, really good.

I was last to board the tiny, rickety plane and sat between James’s legs, ready to be secured to his harness. We took off and began to gain altitude, and, as we were forced into the back of the plane, I became acutely aware of crushing certain tender parts. James was either very polite about it or had lost all sensation by this, his eighth jump of the day.

The view must have been amazing, but I was in no state to appreciate it. Inside the plane, Kevin seemed very keen for me to be making a thumbs-up sign at every available opportunity. The thumbs-up sign does not make a regular appearance in my personal body language vocabulary. It seemed frankly bizarre that I should have been expected to incorporate it into this, the most terrifying experience of my life to date. Still, I went along with it once I realised it was the only way to stop people gesturing in my face.

After about ten minutes, James asked me to put on my cap. After another five minutes, during which I become increasingly preoccupied with the idea that he might forget to put my goggles on, James informed me that we would be exiting the plane in around 90 seconds, and put my goggles on. I felt the first stab of real, blind panic. The door was opened. The DOOR was OPENED. In a PLANE. Right NEXT to me. The slight man in his thirties who was jumping solo took a final look at his altimeter, swung his legs over the edge, and plummeted like a fucking stone.

This is the first time D For Dalrymple has dropped the F-bomb. I don’t do it lightly. These were 20 seconds of pure, primal fear, and the air around me turned a vibrant shade of blue. Kevin clambered out of the plane and clung on to the door. James instructed me to shuffle over, and was obliged to physically bump me along with his crotch when I decided that my current spot was perfectly comfortable, thanks. The wall of the plane was carpeted. Isn’t that strange? All of a sudden, my legs were over the side, and then I was over the side, hanging in my harness, totally reliant on the four clasps attaching me to James and his parachute.

This is where my memory cuts out and I have to refer to the DVD. There’s no sound, but a surprising clarity of visual detail. James points at the camera on the wing, instructs me to wave, and I very clearly tell him to fuck off. And then we jump.

I have patchy memories of the landscape lurching up and changing to sky and then land again, my mouth becoming dry, and feeling for my ring to check it was still on my finger. On two occasions Kevin floated up to incite me to make further thumbs-up signs and to shake my hand. It’s hard to punch someone in the face at 13,000 feet but I gave it my best shot.

The free-fall supposedly took 50 seconds, but seemed much shorter. With a whoomph and a sharp tug on our harnesses, the parachute unfurled and we came to what seemed like a complete halt. Kevin shot past us in freefall to be ready for our return to the airfield.

There was a sudden and complete silence which was broken when James told me he would loosen my straps for the glide to to earth. Reminded of the intimate nature of our aerial partnership, I was all to eager to agree. There was some fiddling and, without warning, I dropped 4 inches. For a split second I was certain that I was going to die, but when I opened my eyes, I was still attached and all was well. I looked down.

The landscape below had ceased to be a large blunt thing hurtling towards us, and was transformed into a endless vista of unutterable loveliness. You have no depth perception above 5000 feet, and all fear vanished. It all seemed strangely filmic: perhaps the only way my brain could understand the things it was seeing James pulled cords on each side of the parachute to direct our movement, and pointed out features of the landscape as we soared above them. There’s no other way of seeing that view. A part of me suddenly understood why people skydive. It’s not just for the adrenaline. It’s to know what it’s like to fly.

After five minutes of blissful floating, we landed smoothly a few feet from where we’d taken off. I babbled a bit to camera and hopped off to be de-suited. I waited a while for the adrenaline to kick in. Nothing. Drank some water. Still nothing. I collected my DVD and was driven back to the hostel. Had a shower. Had a beer. Waited a bit more. Nothing. I felt distinctly underwhelmed. Despite having faced and survived the greatest fear I’ve ever felt, I experienced no euphoria, no epiphany; nothing except relief that the biggest obstacle I would face that evening would be of the small winged and fanged variety.

I suppose that’s what high expectations do for you. I like to keep mine nice and low, so I’m always pleasantly surprised. If only I had saved my low expectations for Barrytown.

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Day 18: Picton

Posted on February 21, 2010 by Christina Kenny

This afternoon I arrived in Picton, gateway to New Zealand’s South Island and home to another scion of the Berry clan. Tessa welcomed me with open arms, which was jolly nice of her considering that I rocked up not only on her doorstep but at her workplace. While Tessa is busy teaching children about the marvels of the ocean (and keeping the little buggers out of the snapper tank), I’ve spent a beautifully lazy afternoon browsing in the small town centre, doing laundry, and sitting listening to old Adam and Joe podcasts on the foreshore beach.

I should probably explain how I got here. A popular way for backpackers to get around NZ – and for non-drivers like myself, perhaps the only feasible method – is by using one of several bus companies. I chose Stray, attracted by their unusually broad itineraries, smaller group sizes and relatively advanced age of its customer base (mid-twenties to thirties). Plus, in all honesty, travelling with an operator known locally as ‘The Fuck Truck’ didn’t particularly appeal. Stray buses are also easily identifiable by their colouring, a particularly garish shade of highlighter orange which makes spotting them easy for the navigationally-challenged.

Stray drivers, too, tend to stand out from the crowd. Most go by a ‘Stray’ name (complete with back story) in addition to the one on their birth certificate. Scratch, Metro, and Uncle Fug-Fug explained their names on the first days of their respective legs (the latter’s was fairly self-evident: ‘are all of youse, fuckin’, on the fuckin’ BUS? Fuuuuuuck’. I thought I swore a lot). Novice drivers Sue and Nick had yet to earn their Stray titles. I voted ‘Roadkill’ for Sue, given her habit of simultaneous driving and filing. Meanwhile, Nick seemed set to stick with with ‘Pops’ at our last meeting, due to his entirely admirable habit of turning in early the night before a big drive.

Stray’s ‘Max’ pass allows me to travel a fairly extensive route which I can book online or by telephone (or, at a shove, by turning up and hoping for the best). If I particularly like a place and want to stay longer than the current bus, I can ‘hop-off’ and re-book my itinerary at my leisure. In summer the buses comes through every one to two days, but the year-long expiry date of the pass means that people can, and do stay in places for weeks or months at a time. So far I’ve used three of my nine free days: one for this stop-off in Picton, and two days at National Park.

The latter aberration from schedule could not have been more fortuitous. When we rose early on Wednesday in Taupo, it was already clear that the adverse weather conditions that had prevented our skydive – shame – would also prevent us from walking the famous Tongariro Crossing in National Park. The Crossing is reputedly the best one-day walk in New Zealand and was one of the anticipated highlights of my trip. So, while the majority of our extremely convivial group left the next morning with the bus, a smaller group decided to remain for two days in the National Park in the hope that the weather would improve.

The gamble paid off. Not only did were we able to relax for three days in a venue more hotel than hostel (for less than £10 per night), but we had a wholly unexpected rainforest adventure, discovered my hitherto hidden talent for massage (a nice little earner and almost entirely non-seedy) and walked the Crossing in glorious weather in just under 6 hours. All things considered, a marvellous end to an action-packed week.

It seems strange that I’ve known most of my travelling companions (all of whom have now gone on ahead) for less than eight days, yet already feel so close to them as to have been genuinely moved by every goodbye. Denise from County Clare, Liz from London, Wendy from Holland, John from Southampton, and Noah from Michigan are just a few of the people whose acquaintance (read: Facebook friend) I’ve made, and who, more importantly, who might read this blog and whose blushes I will spare by omitting their innumerable character flaws from my copy.

Partings are made slightly easier by the knowledge that, sooner or later, you’re likely to catch up with friends made earlier on in the trip. Conversely, there are some people you can’t lose quickly enough (of whom more later). In some quarters I’ve witnessed serious tactical planning going on as people attempt to avoid buses that are likely to carry undesirable passengers. Either way, journeys are made more exciting by the knowledge that you are likely to meet with people whose reputation, good or bad, precedes them. I am, for example, hopeful of joining a bus carrying the Three Steves, whom I remember as being particularly good value during our recent stay in a marae.

I bring this altogether underwhelming entry to a close in Tessa’s boxroom, where I sleep tonight. It has been a successful evening. Not only was I permitted to watch Precious by myself in the aquarium’s deserted cinema – feet on seats and everything – but I have been mauled by a blue penguin (pictures to follow) and fed chicken and wine by an entirely like-minded new relative. Tomorrow: Abel Tasman National Park for adventure and, hopefully, more entertaining material.

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Day 14: Rotoroa

Posted on February 16, 2010 by Christina Kenny

Updating the blog has proved harder than anticipated. I had envisaged that the long bus journeys would be an ideal time to sit and tap away at my dinky new netbook. In fact, the journeys so far have been filled by chatting to other travellers, singing along to a succession of increasingly tragic road-trip soundtracks, livestock-spotting, and, of course, drinking in the spectacular scenery. Today everyone’s asleep, the weather is cloudy, and I’ve landed a double seat, so it’s all hands to the laptop.

The UK is certainly not without beauty. Whenever, if ever, I escape the city, I’m invariably surprised and mildly distressed to be reminded of the glorious countryside that is apparently going on all the time while Londoners fight over seats on the tube. I have particular fondness for Scotland and Cornwall where I spent most childhood holidays with my grandparents. For many of these trips I was more interested in my Gameboy than anything else, but the point stands: the UK has regions of quite outstanding natural beauty, even if you do have to travel a bit to find them.

You don’t have to travel far to find beauty in New Zealand. It’s everywhere you go. I’ve been in the North Island for 7 days and have already explored clouded mountains, lush rainforests, rippling dunes, sun-drenched beaches, intricate subterranean caverns, and acres of verdant farmland. I’m in a state of near-saturation. Every new view and experience brings with it a surge of happiness. Some even prompt tears of emotion. More cynical readers might attribute this reaction to nine-bed-dorm-induced sleep deprivation, but that shouldn’t detract from the main point of this paragraph, which is that New Zealand Is Awesome. Sweet as.

The Kiwi and Maori people I’ve met are hugely and deservedly proud of their country. The best part is that they seem to be more than willing to show it to foreigners, in their own relaxed, wry way. Tourism is huge, but so far appears to be respectful, ecologically sound, and for the most part locally-owned and run. I’ve seen and done so much in recent days that I just don’t have time to write about here, but see below for my top ten thus far. The New Zealand lifestyle has done nothing to cure me of my obsession with list-making.

1. Hugging a Kauri tree 7m in diameter: barely a teenager in Kauri terms
2. Learning about marine life on a glass-bottomed boat at the Goat Island Marine Reserve
3. Watching the clash of oceans where the Tasman Sea and South Pacific meet at Cape Reinga
4. Seeing wild horses grazing in the vast solitude of 90 Mile Beach
5. Surfing down sand dunes at 30 kmph
6. Swimming with a pod of wild dolphins in the Bay of Islands
7. Splashing in the crystal clear waters off the white sand beach of Cathedral Cove
8. Staying in a rainforest hostel on the slopes of Mount Karioi
9. Body-boarding at Raglan’s world-class surfing beach
10. Exploring caves illuminated by glow-worms at Waitomo

The tourist industry here simply doesn’t need to go for the hard sell, except when it comes to the more contrived ‘Adventure’ activities. So far, most of my dollars have been spent on accommodation, access and guides, save a few necessities such as hire of snorkels, flippers and boards. This afternoon, however, we reach Taupo, and all this changes. Today is Skydive Day.

D For Dalrymple readers who spoke to me before I left the UK might recall that I expressed feelings of mild trepidation as regards leaping from an aircraft in mid flight. During the extensive pre-skydive consultation process, I spoke to several people with skydiving experience ranging from one jump to thirty. They were unanimous in their praise for this improbable activity, with varying degrees of persuasion. My brother, Tom, was the least reassuring:

‘Didn’t you have to pay, like, a million pounds to do skydiving?’

‘Yeah. It was so worth it.’

‘For 45 seconds of free-fall?’

‘Best 45 seconds of my entire life.’

‘Could you just be saying that because the massive adrenalin surge caused by hurling yourself from a plane and living has wiped your memory of the fear you experienced and the utter abstract stupidity of the entire concept?’

‘Yeah, probably. I’d do it again, though.’

A gentleman I met a at a party by the name of Jamie was more helpful. Although his opening remark – ‘only 20 to 30 people are killed every year in skydiving accidents’ – was not exactly calculated to inspire confidence, his subsequent reassurances as to the computerized systems that guarantee the safety of novice jumpers were of some comfort. Less so was the YouTube video I watched immediately afterwards of a man whose parachute failed to open.

My travel insurance doesn’t cover this afternoon’s activity. Tandem skydiving counts as a UK Grade 3 Hazardous Activity, and adding it to my policy would have meant paying an additional £78.99. £78.99 is a lot of money. It’s not that I didn’t understand my parents’ argument: of course, preparing for all eventualities could have given me more freedom and peace of mind on my travels. It’s just that I honestly can’t understand how forking out an extra 80 quid could benefit me in the event that I hurl myself out of a plane at 12,000 feet and my parachute fails to open. Unless – as I drop, stone-like, towards a rapidly expanding landmass – I have the presence of mind to shout instructions to waiting ground staff to convert said 80 quid into cash in say, Zimbabwean dollars, and have it arranged into some kind of landing pad.

No, the extra money on the policy would most likely cover the repatriation of my mortal remains to the UK – an expense which, quite frankly, I am more than happy for my parents to cover. Plus, as several kind friends have pointed out – I love you guys – if you fall from high enough, further interral may be unnecessary.

UPDATE: it’s probably too cloudy in Taupo to do the jump. I feel like I’ve been spared from execution.

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