Hi Everyone:
And just like that, it ended. Twenty-three days and 4500 kilometers after touching down in Auckland, and nearly three years after launching our initial plans, we head 17 timezones into the past with 2000 photos and enough stories to numb your collective crania. And here we stand, tired and exhilarated, accomplished and eager to plan second trips.
The slide back into the West begins with a few days in Christchurch, hub of the Canterbury region and perhaps the world's most British city outside the Isles. Punts glide along the Avon River, and fin-de-ciecle trams loop around the main streets. The town even has a resident wizard and town crier, the latter of whom ends his daily announcements by proclaiming "God Save the Queen". (And no, yesterday we resisted the irony and did not punt on the 4th.)
Although Christchurch has a strong Kiwi flair behind its English facade, it far from typifies New Zealand. The NZ is experience is one of sweeping wildnerness, one that defies logic to pack so much into two tiny islands. Simply put, NZ resets your standards - it doesn't just assault your senses, it razes them to the ground and sows salt on the remains. In a day, you can drive from golden, tranquil beaches to violent surf pounding limestone cliffs (as we did on 12/24), and in another drive from windswept, rolling, rocky hills, through pine forests, across flat plains and arrive at jade mountain lakes (last Tuesday). Add to that, the weather is so unpredictable that you may have a baking overcast day or see rain out of a pale blue sky.
But alas, it's over. Three years of anticipation, ten countries visited since to dub "Nice, but not New Zealand", and we are heading home utterly satisfied. If I thought my original standard was too lofty, the Kiwis saw it, said thanks, and blew it right out of the Tasman Sea.
Thanks to all of you who put up with my inane blabber about this mystical Garden of Eden that I hadn't even visited. And now that I have, brace yourself, since it's only going to get worse.
And thank you, New Zealand.
Showing posts with label New Zealand. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Zealand. Show all posts
Friday, December 15, 2006
Do Not Pass Otago (1/2/2006)
Hi Everyone:
All wasn't quiet on New Year's Day. Or Eve, for that matter. In perhaps the sauciest of Commonwealth celebrations, Chuck and I rang out 2005 with the Commonwealth's most esteemed sporting pastime, one which would likely cause wars were its participants all not subjects of Her Esteemed Majesty.
Black Caps vs. Sri Lanka. You got it: cricket.
And we understood everything. Here we were, two Yanks (yes, we suck) that get cricket. Never thought I'd be able to say that.
The 7-hour affair, a shortie even for one-day standards (most test matches stretch over 2-3 days), was thoroughly engaging. Even as the sun scorched us, the Caps and Ceylonites bowled, batted, ran, stood idly, screamed to umpires, and took the requisite tea break. And there we sat, enraptured. Cherrio, blokes.
Queenstown is NZ's party depot, a tiny town that goes positively bonkers for any occasion (I presume even Guy Fawkes Day). Since NZ is the first country to greet the new year (meaning, technically, my 2006 will be longer than yours), the Kiwis have a particular affection for the holiday. And so, on the beaches of Lake Wakatipu, with fireworks so close that ash fell on our shoulders, we rang in 2K6 Kiwi-style, slept, and THEN watched all the subsequent celebrations in Europe, Australia, and North America. Been there, done that, old news.
Before Queenstown, we explored the southwestern South Island thoroughly, and area whose luscious greenery is protected by UN dollars (meaning, technically, you're paying for it.) We took a morning cruise in the pristine Milford Sound; peered into kettle lakes that reflected mountains towering above them; pausted to stare at long, white carpets sweeping down glacial valleys; chilled with sea lions in forgotten coves; witnessed parts of a manhunt for asylum-seekers; and chatted nights away with numerous Kiwis and other worldly folk.
So today, it's back to the Southern Alps, skirting the mountains until the plains of Canterbury and Christchurch, our last hurrah in NZ. As always, the road goes ever on and on.
Matt
All wasn't quiet on New Year's Day. Or Eve, for that matter. In perhaps the sauciest of Commonwealth celebrations, Chuck and I rang out 2005 with the Commonwealth's most esteemed sporting pastime, one which would likely cause wars were its participants all not subjects of Her Esteemed Majesty.
Black Caps vs. Sri Lanka. You got it: cricket.
And we understood everything. Here we were, two Yanks (yes, we suck) that get cricket. Never thought I'd be able to say that.
The 7-hour affair, a shortie even for one-day standards (most test matches stretch over 2-3 days), was thoroughly engaging. Even as the sun scorched us, the Caps and Ceylonites bowled, batted, ran, stood idly, screamed to umpires, and took the requisite tea break. And there we sat, enraptured. Cherrio, blokes.
Queenstown is NZ's party depot, a tiny town that goes positively bonkers for any occasion (I presume even Guy Fawkes Day). Since NZ is the first country to greet the new year (meaning, technically, my 2006 will be longer than yours), the Kiwis have a particular affection for the holiday. And so, on the beaches of Lake Wakatipu, with fireworks so close that ash fell on our shoulders, we rang in 2K6 Kiwi-style, slept, and THEN watched all the subsequent celebrations in Europe, Australia, and North America. Been there, done that, old news.
Before Queenstown, we explored the southwestern South Island thoroughly, and area whose luscious greenery is protected by UN dollars (meaning, technically, you're paying for it.) We took a morning cruise in the pristine Milford Sound; peered into kettle lakes that reflected mountains towering above them; pausted to stare at long, white carpets sweeping down glacial valleys; chilled with sea lions in forgotten coves; witnessed parts of a manhunt for asylum-seekers; and chatted nights away with numerous Kiwis and other worldly folk.
So today, it's back to the Southern Alps, skirting the mountains until the plains of Canterbury and Christchurch, our last hurrah in NZ. As always, the road goes ever on and on.
Matt
Ice, Ice, Baby (12/24/2005)
Hi Everyone.
Eight p.m. and the sun still hangs, seemingly immobile, above the Tasman Sea, not wanting to leave lush New Zealand for another go-around at blank Australia. We still have enough sunlight to get in 6 or so innings of baseball, if the Kiwis did that type of thing. I'm sitting here in shorts and a t-shirt, occasionally re-touching the much-needed sunscreen. And yes, it's Christmas Eve.
We are spending tonight and tomorrow in Franz Josef, a town at the base of the gigantic glacier of the same name. "One-horse" might be a bit generous for this place -- it makes Middlebury, Vermont, look like Manhattan. Nonetheless, its proximity to two massive ice rivers, their descendant kettle lakes, and even the shore make it a tourist haven (ok, trap) that has left us with some holiday comraderie and stuff to do while the natives celebrate with their families. The throngs of foreigners make it sort of like Christmas at the UN. With mountains.
Before me are palm trees and behind me are snow-capped peaks. To get an idea of the backdrop, pop in the lighting of the beacons scene in "The Return of the King," which was shot atop the range hovering over this town. Sadly, the view from here isn't as magnificent (they were shot from a helicopter), but the peaks are the same. The film speaks for itself, though, in justifying the place's strikingness.
NZ's ecological and geological diversity enthralls me. Three days ago, we were tramping through Abel Tasman National Park, looking down at white-sand beaches and a tranquil - hell, pacific - ocean. A few Miles from there, we passed through wine country and a few of NZ's award-winning whites (eh...). Shortly after that, we cut through some lucious, and yes, misty mountains before landing on the whitecaps of the Tasman. Then, from seemingly nowhere arose the most bizarre shoreline we've ever seen -- the "pancake rocks" (Google that), whose layers, caves, and crevices make the incoming ocean dance every time it hits them. Today, we crossed rivers and lakes that were periwinkle blue, royal blue, and battleship gray. And no, none of the above is hyperbole.
If our luck holds, the next few days will take us through glaciers, plains, fiords, and mountains. All this tucked in one corner of a (comparatively) small island. Ah, New Zealand.
All right, folks. Merry Christmas to all. And because I can say it down here, happy Boxing Day as well.
Matt
All's Well that Ends in Wellington (12/18/2005)
Hi Folks:
The South Pacific shimmered as we descended beside it, meandering between the sea and the Tararua Range, the hills (OK, low mountains) that taper off slightly enough to allow a city to punctuate them. Wellington, our location until Thursday, is the world's southernmost capital city, and damn it if it isn't one of the quaintest and coziest too.
The last few days have been filled with a lot of driving and exploring -- to and from the subtropical Bay of Islands up north, to Rotorua and its thermal pools and (true and fabricated) Maori culture, through Tongariro National Park and the shooting locals for Emyn Muil and Mordor, via Palmerston North and the NZ Rugby Museum, all culminating in Windy Wellington. Whew. All the driving took place amid luscious green meadows (think Ireland) and small towns (think Vermont) -- the latter of which the locals deem "townships". (Note to self: don't talk about them at an All Blacks-Springboks game.)
On the way, we have run the gamit on Kiwidom - participated in (I mean that literally), a Maori "hangi;" dipped into natural thermal pools; seen geysers blow off their steam, schmoozed with quirky natives, emigres, and tourists; and visited sites of natural (volcanoes), political (Parliament), and cultural ("Lord of the Rings") importance. You wear them well, NZ.
If Boston is a city on a hill, DC a city with a Hill, Auckland a city of hills, then Wellington is a city surrounded by hills - a green belt hugging the town and keep its coziness from sprawling -- one can traverse the whole thing in about 20 minutes. The pedestrian zone that bisects the centre is a nice touch, remiscent of a mid-sized European ville. Whereas my last email likened Auckland to NZ's amulet, Wellingtonians might refer to it as a choke chain -- though such nomenclature might exaggerate a bit, the capital's only visible fault thus far divides tectonic plates. Not too shabby.
One last thing: if "King Kong" opened to fanfare in LA, then Wellington saw said fanfare and raised it to "1812 Overture" proportions. Ads are atop every lamppost, proudly spouting "King Kong: 14 December 2005. Wellington." So tonight, it's off to the Embassy Theater - where Kong made his Australasian premeire five days ago - to see him on the largest screen in the Southern Hemisphere.
Take that, Montevideo.
The South Pacific shimmered as we descended beside it, meandering between the sea and the Tararua Range, the hills (OK, low mountains) that taper off slightly enough to allow a city to punctuate them. Wellington, our location until Thursday, is the world's southernmost capital city, and damn it if it isn't one of the quaintest and coziest too.
The last few days have been filled with a lot of driving and exploring -- to and from the subtropical Bay of Islands up north, to Rotorua and its thermal pools and (true and fabricated) Maori culture, through Tongariro National Park and the shooting locals for Emyn Muil and Mordor, via Palmerston North and the NZ Rugby Museum, all culminating in Windy Wellington. Whew. All the driving took place amid luscious green meadows (think Ireland) and small towns (think Vermont) -- the latter of which the locals deem "townships". (Note to self: don't talk about them at an All Blacks-Springboks game.)
On the way, we have run the gamit on Kiwidom - participated in (I mean that literally), a Maori "hangi;" dipped into natural thermal pools; seen geysers blow off their steam, schmoozed with quirky natives, emigres, and tourists; and visited sites of natural (volcanoes), political (Parliament), and cultural ("Lord of the Rings") importance. You wear them well, NZ.
If Boston is a city on a hill, DC a city with a Hill, Auckland a city of hills, then Wellington is a city surrounded by hills - a green belt hugging the town and keep its coziness from sprawling -- one can traverse the whole thing in about 20 minutes. The pedestrian zone that bisects the centre is a nice touch, remiscent of a mid-sized European ville. Whereas my last email likened Auckland to NZ's amulet, Wellingtonians might refer to it as a choke chain -- though such nomenclature might exaggerate a bit, the capital's only visible fault thus far divides tectonic plates. Not too shabby.
One last thing: if "King Kong" opened to fanfare in LA, then Wellington saw said fanfare and raised it to "1812 Overture" proportions. Ads are atop every lamppost, proudly spouting "King Kong: 14 December 2005. Wellington." So tonight, it's off to the Embassy Theater - where Kong made his Australasian premeire five days ago - to see him on the largest screen in the Southern Hemisphere.
Take that, Montevideo.
Auckland: A's (12/14/2005)
Hi All.
My uneducated inklings tell me that Auckland is the world's only major city to watch the sun rise and set over the same ocean. Sitting between two harbors like an amulet on New Zealand's neck, the archapelago's largest city is a hint of London, a dash of San Francisco, dabbled with tiny touches of Hamburg sans St. Pauli.
Its title, "The World's Largest Polynesian City," is misleading - perhaps concocted by desperate marketers (though I doubt it). By world standards it is neither large (only 1 million people), nor particularly Polynesian (major whitey mojo). The main drag is very similar to Washington Street in Boston, and the suburbs crawl out in rows where the bays let them. Then again, the Polynesians are far from the urban folk, and a million-plus city on any of their islands undoubtedly incites wowery. And as home to a quarter of NZ's population, it's hard to ignore or deny.
Undeniable, though, are its volcanic origins, as grassy peaks and craters jut throughout the town's complexion (picture a city with a major bout of green acne.) While wondering if -- or when -- a fault line will ever devour the city whole, one can't help but applaud the Kiwis' use of the Mantle vomit. Curbstones, walkways, and breakwaters are all black basalta, desendant from the magma that birthed the landscape. The volcanoes, though, bequeathed the Kiwis massive hills, and bequeathed Chuck and me massive thighs.
Perhaps Auckland's best title, though, is plastered at you when you cross through customs: "The Gateway to New Zealand." (This, incidentally, easily beats Indonesia's "Death to Drug Traffickers" welcome.) In this sense, the town served its purpose admirably, affording us a chance to sleep for the first time in 3 days, dabble in a bit of Kiwi English, and develop legs that could roundhouse kick the entire ANZAC army clear across Belgium.
But tomorrow, the trek begins.
Matt
My uneducated inklings tell me that Auckland is the world's only major city to watch the sun rise and set over the same ocean. Sitting between two harbors like an amulet on New Zealand's neck, the archapelago's largest city is a hint of London, a dash of San Francisco, dabbled with tiny touches of Hamburg sans St. Pauli.
Its title, "The World's Largest Polynesian City," is misleading - perhaps concocted by desperate marketers (though I doubt it). By world standards it is neither large (only 1 million people), nor particularly Polynesian (major whitey mojo). The main drag is very similar to Washington Street in Boston, and the suburbs crawl out in rows where the bays let them. Then again, the Polynesians are far from the urban folk, and a million-plus city on any of their islands undoubtedly incites wowery. And as home to a quarter of NZ's population, it's hard to ignore or deny.
Undeniable, though, are its volcanic origins, as grassy peaks and craters jut throughout the town's complexion (picture a city with a major bout of green acne.) While wondering if -- or when -- a fault line will ever devour the city whole, one can't help but applaud the Kiwis' use of the Mantle vomit. Curbstones, walkways, and breakwaters are all black basalta, desendant from the magma that birthed the landscape. The volcanoes, though, bequeathed the Kiwis massive hills, and bequeathed Chuck and me massive thighs.
Perhaps Auckland's best title, though, is plastered at you when you cross through customs: "The Gateway to New Zealand." (This, incidentally, easily beats Indonesia's "Death to Drug Traffickers" welcome.) In this sense, the town served its purpose admirably, affording us a chance to sleep for the first time in 3 days, dabble in a bit of Kiwi English, and develop legs that could roundhouse kick the entire ANZAC army clear across Belgium.
But tomorrow, the trek begins.
Matt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
