New Zealand Vol. II: 3068km, 8 extra kilos of belly & innumerable litres of wine...

After 18 days of fun in the North Island we boarded the InterIslander ferry timed, at the recommendation of Laura T, to do the Cook Strait crossing at sunset. Most picturesque.

Just in case our kidneys had started to recover, started the 1st day in the South Island with a self guided vineyard tour of the Marlborough region. A glass of champagne (pardon me, Methode Traditionale) with a Bee Gees soundtrack in Cloudy Bay got the day off to a buzzy start at 10am. I bonded with the initially standoffish cellar door manager at Serasin Estates over a shared love of the Everly Brothers. Amazing what dubious and far-ranging musical tastes can do for you. Now, if I can only strike up a conversation with a diamond merchant who is bang into Erasure and Bad Brains we're sorted... Another stand out point of that day was getting my first bowl of green-lipped mussels. Good lord, each one was the size of a child's hand (and nearly as tasty...).
And so, full up, slightly lit up (just me) and delighted with the scenic beauty of the area we rolled into Nelson. [A couple of days of non-eventful pottering ensue and so...]

On to the 429km slog to the West Coast, where we were warned to expect "real weather". If this means ENORMOUS rain then we got it. Apparently it's like this most of the year but I can't help but feel we were cheated out of some breathtaking mountain views, but hey, if you visit a country in the height of its Winter then what the f*ck do you expect?

The destination was the Franz Joseph Glacier, immediately rechristened the Franz Ferdinand Glacier. The options for diversion in the area are:
1. Walk up to the glacier and look at it
2. Climb the glacier
3. Take a helicopter flight over the glacier
All pretty much glacier related wouldn't you agree? And so, you would presume that any visitor to Franz Ferdinand would be aware of its icy nature, wouldn't you? Well, to prove that the statement "there is no such thing as a stupid question" is sometimes false, I would like to share with you the following story:

At the reception of the Franz Ferdinand Holiday Park the owner/manager was being harangued about the finer details of climbing the glacier by a middle aged lady of peevish disposition. She was being just generally low-grade annoying until she came out with the following gem: "Is it slippy climbing the glacier?" THINK, you dappy bint - the definition of a glacier is a slowly moving mass of ice, exactly how much traction do you think you're going to get??? Maybe 2.5 weeks in a campervan had made me slightly tetchy (actually, no maybe about it), but still, a lesson to us all: engage brain before opening mouth.

I digress. It was with much excitement that I strapped on my crampons and followed our cheerful Essex-Lad guide up the terminal face. To get the most out of the crampons you really had to slam your feet into the ice, so I was lost for a while in a Godzilla stomping through TokyoGlacier is encroaching at a rate of 1 meter PER DAY, almost as if it was trying to sneak up behind people and catch them unawares!

Another long stint of driving followed with only the occasional period of panic when one drawer, cupboard fridge or other would decide to burst open and vomit its contents throughout the van. Lively times for the co-pilot.

Lake Wanaka was the destination, and it did not disappoint. I made the ill-advised decision to get rid of the stale bread by feeding it to the ducks and gulls by the lake. I obviously didn't learn my lesson in Tahiti: FEEDING FRENZY! Slightly unnerving to see the baguette-lust burning in their eyes, but it gave Paul a good laugh.

The next day dawned bright, cold and clear-skied, the perfect day to ski Treble Cone. After a nerve wracking switchback drive up the mountain we got what appeared to be an excellent deal on an equipment hire & lift ticket package. However, this "deal" entitled you to skis with special sponge coated edges. And that's not just a bad carver blaming their tools, OK? It was a great day though, just look at the views:

After getting a nice man to cut a kilo of dead candy-floss hair from my head we headed out into the hitherto unknown Central Ortega Pinot Noir Wine Country. While some of the tasting rooms lacked the grandeur (think Portakabin on an industrial estate) of other more established places we had been, we did get a look inside someone's riddling room*.

The campervan's cellar thus replenished we arrived in QUEEEEEEENSTOOOOOWN!!! Dude! Awesome! Rad! Etc etc etc. Queenstown does not feel like a real town, the nature of the place results in a Whistler Village resort feel instead. Still steadfastly sticking to my 'no effing bungee' rule, we decided on 2 XTREME (dude) activities: Shotover Jet and the Canyon Swing.

Shotover Jet was hilarious good fun with relatively little danger of damage to physical or mental health. Basically it's a very, very powerful speed boat that can blat along at high speed in 4 inches of water, spin you around 360 degrees, and make you scream your head off when you think your driver Troy is going to drive you straight into a cliff face. Wheeeeeee! After this we squelched off to a local micro-brew pub, sat round a fire pit and traded logic puzzles and bad-taste jokes with some local lads.

Next day was meant to be the Canyon Swing, but I was secretly delighted when it was fully booked. Not to be deterred from doing something really dangerous and stupid Paul booked us in for the following day at High Noon. This meant we had an empty day in Queenstown with nothing to do but go fishing or do a bungee jump - all other activities were cancelled due to non-stop rain. So, we did what 82% of the rest of Queenstown did and went to the cinema. Have you seen "My Super Ex-Girlfriend"? If not: DON'T.

***WARNING - Mam, don't read any further, go and look at this for a while instead http://www.mycathatesyou.com/ WARNING OVER***

On to the day I was sure I was to meet my maker: the day of the Canyon Swing. Now I know these activities are meant to be fun, but the idea of launching myself into a 109 meter canyon attached to a rope seemed fraught with possibilities of physical injury, namely (don't ask me why) my eyes popping out of my head. I was unable to speak or express emotion all morning, gripped tight in the jaws of terror. Paul on the other hand was beside himself with excitement. I asked one of the staff Johnno if indeed, anyone's eyes had ever popped out, or even if anyone had over pissed themselves with fear. Being a kindly Aussie he spent a good few minutes answering my earnest questions with pure wind-up answers, until the vice-like grip I had on his hand began to cause him considerable pain, and he realised I REALLY was frightened.

Our group shuffled out onto the platform where they had the Nevermind album blaring out. Now, believe me, you do not want a Nirvana soundtrack to throw yourself into a canyon - too many negative connotations. A music change request was made, the Prodigy came on and the group mood lightened considerably.

Apparently I would make a good soldier, because in times of extreme emotional excitement (let's say, terror) I will follow instruction to the letter, not question authority and complete my mission whether I want to or not. Once safely strapped into my harness I was led out onto a ledge (in a voice 3 octaves higher "are you sure everything's attached properly? is that tight enough? what do I do with my hands? am i going to be ok? promise?") and told to not look down, don't hang around too long and just step off ("just" - ha!). So the good soldier did as she was ordered. For the first part of the 60 meter freefall there is no air in your lungs to scream, but that doesn't last too long and I managed a good manly roar for most of it. Then you're swinging through the canyon in a 200 meter arc at 150 kph, which made me laugh and laugh and laugh. I was hoisted back up to the platform and immediately announced my intention to do another jump. Such is the power of adrenaline!

But next up was Paul, who had decided to kick proceedings off with the "Pin Drop" - the scariest style of jump. As I say, a few weeks in a campervan puts you in a slightly odd frame of mind... Of course he loved it too and signed up for a second jump.

Back in soldier mindset I asked Johnno what style of jump I should do next. "The Chair!" he proclaimed, and so the chair it was. I initially thought he was taking the piss when he brought out a rickety plastic garden chair with a tattered seat belt attached, but oh no, no joke. I had to balance on the edge of the platform, leaning back on the back two chair legs, ready to tip myself backwards into the canyon. Laughing adrenaline had been replaced with my old friend terror and for a while I couldn't find the courage or leg strength to tip myself off the ledge. However Private Craig always follows orders, so after one last "Go on tiger!" from Crispy the safety technician (comforting, non?) I bellowed "F*CK IT) and off I went. A very odd but exhilarating experience to watch a chair leg, then a rock face, then the sky, then a river rotate past your vision as you tumble through the air.

Paul's second jump was the "Elvis Cutaway" I’ll let a picture do the talking: Adrenaline surged for the rest of the day, and I wouldn't be entirely surprised if one or both of us had used the word "dude" in a non-ironic fashion.

A calming couple of days in Christchurch followed. Everyone says it is a very English town, but I think this is just because there's a river called the Avon you can punt on, and all the streets are named after English towns or counties. Nice place though. From Christchurch we were flying on to Sydney, Australia, so it was time to relearn the art of stuffing 80 liters of crap into a 65 liter backpack. Fun! Although still nomadic while traveling in the van it was comforting to have the form of routine and familiarity that the mobile home provided.

Farewell sweet campervan: it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Alas, we never did figure out how to turn on the hot water.

*look it up yourselves.