Island Life

It may be only a few hours away from Auckland but life on Fiji, well Malolo Island to be more precise, couldn't be more different. And, whilst five days on an island resort may seem like an ideal holiday to some, it was a world apart from our usual kind of break. For the first time in fifteen years we decided to swap hiking boots for espadrilles and kick-back rather than clamber up. At least that was the plan - we were entering uncharted waters and didn't quite know what to expect. At just under 6kg, it was certainly the lightest suitcase I have ever had as shorts and t-shirts don't weight a great deal and the heaviest item was a pair of running shoes. Well some habits are too hard to break!

Within minutes of touching down into Nadi, the international hub for the mainland, it became clear that the hour difference in time zone was more of a concept than reality and that time was a bit more elastic than specific. Although we had chartered a seaplane to take us to our island resort, and did indeed had a departure time, this was clearly more of a guideline as no one really knew when it might depart. But it was all good, we were in no rush and quite enjoying taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling airport. Finally we were directed to the domestic terminal (shed) and told to report to check-in desk 6. This came as a bit of a surprise as we weren't expecting to check-in for our fifteen minute flight across the pacific. It was even more of a surprise that we, as well as our luggage, had to stand on the scales to be weighed. I did wonder, as the digital readout settled on a weight that was higher then I would've liked, whether they added a few pounds for the return journey. I was sure that a few days of doing very little would have an inflating effect. If you catch my drift.

Once checked-in we went through airport security, which was actually an X-Ray machine and not a bloke who rifled through your bags like I was expecting, and settled in the departure lounge. Well I say lounge, it was actually a couple of rows of chairs in a side room. We didn't have long to wait, and we were soon escorted across the aprointroduced to our pilot and helped up the steps into the plane.

It was the first time that i have been so close to the pilot that I could, if I had wanted to, actually tap him on the shoulder and point at stuff. But I didn't. I figured that he had more important things to do, like keeping the plane in the air, than answer my idiotic questions. I'm sure anyone else would've had the same questions; what does that dial tell you, how can you tell how high we are and why are you yanking that lever so hard? It was over all too quickly as we banked and started our descent into the bay of Malolo Island.

"Err guys", our pilot said, "I can't actually take you all the way to the resort". I was nervously wondering to myself that I may have inadvertently booked the economy flight and maybe we were expected to swim the final few hundred metres when he added "It's low tide and my wings would clip the jetty - the resort will be sending a boat to pick you up in a few minutes". Phew, disaster averted as was my gaze towards Sarah who I knew, from experience, would've been glaring at me.

The resort did indeed send a boat and we were soon on the aforementioned jetty, and shaking hands with the welcoming party who had turned up to sing us a Fijian greeting. It was a lovely welcome and quite a surprise to a couple who are used to dumping their luggage in the back office of a hostel reception whilst they went in search for some food for breakfast the following morning. I can only begin to wonder what they were thinking as two grubby northerners turned up having arrived by seaplane. Maybe they were expecting a celebrity; a pop star, rugby player or a minor member of the royal family. I can't help but think that we were a disappointment!

It's a commonly held opinion that island life runs at a different pace to normal life and within a few hours I became to accept this as a cast iron hard truth. For the first time in a long while we weren't on any timetable, didn't have any obligations to meet and could do as little as we wanted over the next five days. Then it hit me. Five days. Five. Days. Five days doing nothing, what on earth was I going to fill my time with? There was no mountain to climb, no road to run down and no sight to see. This wasn't working, I wasn't relaxing and instead I had managed to convince myself that I was very likely to go slowly mad. It took until later that evening to finally unwind and start to accept my fate. This was helped no doubt by the beautiful weather, the lovely staff and the fact that is was Happy Hour at the bar and I was part-way through my second cocktail of the evening.

So what does doing nothing feel like? Actually it's quite relaxing, once you get the hang of it. It does take a bit of effort doing nothing but it's worth it. After a day or two, it no longer matters what day it is, or what time it is for that matter, as bit by bit the mechanical nature of city life ebbs away and is replaced by island time. At around the third day in, time becomes a concept that other people need to worry about and the day is marked by other events, such as the twice-daily arrival of a passenger ferry, rather than the ticking of a clock. Oh, and Happy Hour of course!

I know this is going to be short lived and pretty soon I'm going to have to get back in the game. But I'm determined to enjoy it while it lasts.  On which note, I'm going to have to leave you, there is a cocktail at the bar with my name on it. 

Indecent Taste

It's a funny thing writing a blog. It really is. On one hand it's great to have to opportunity to share experiences; things seen, done, thought and avoided. But on the other, it can be a very risky thing, for once something is posted there is no going back. It's out there. On the web. For all to see.

So it is with some trepidation that I write this blog. It's contents are so shocking that I may never have the nerve to post it. Let's see….

Well, it all started in the green grocers at the top of the street. Ours, being run by an Asian family, sells all manner of exotic vegetables, fruits and others items so odd that I can't tell which food group they belong to. Not that I have bought any of the exotic items. I mean, what am I supposed to do with a fruit that has spikes on it? Obviously nature put those spikes on for a reason and was determined that a casual passer-by, or curious shopper, wouldn't be tempted to put one in their mouth. No way. 

Then there are those that have clearly been made up, like the Tangelo for example. This, being a cross between a tangerine and a grapefruit, must have been the result of a drunken night at the food laboratory. Did the tangerine really need improving? I don’t think so. And as for grapefruit. Well they are a bit tart but does that really warrant experimenting with food?

We will soon be coming into Feijoa season and I can't wait....not! These fruit literally fall from the sky and New Zealanders go mad for them. With thousands of trees planted around the towns and countryside a bumper crop is guaranteed. And the things that they can do with them; added to pies, cakes, ice cream. Eaten on their own and with friends. By mid-winter the office is usually awash with the little green, tart fruit. "Free Feijoas in level two kitchen" boasts the customary near-daily email. Yes, by August it is fair to say that Feijoa Fatigue sets in. Although they won't admit to it, they are sick of the sight of the little bastards. "Please! No more!" they scream as yet another carrier bag full dumped unceremoniously in the kitchen.

And what amazes me is that supermarkets sell them. Who on earth buys Feijoas when they are rolling around the streets? Maybe they have to. Maybe, if supermarkets didn't take their fair share then roads would be blocked, footpaths closed and life would grind to a halt by the inundation of green fleshed fruit. Maybe that explains why Kiwis bolt down the fruit ten at one sitting.

"How many Feijoas have you had today?"

"Twenty or so"

"Twenty? That's not nearly enough!"

"But..but"

"But nothing. Get another ten down you - do you want to drown in fruit? We need to eat our way through this deluge..."

And don't get me started on Tamarillos. For the uninitiated, or rather the unwary, I will quote from Wikipedia;

“Tamarillo, is a small tree or shrub in the flowering plant family Solanaceae (the nightshade family). It is best known as the species that bears the tamarillo, an egg-shaped edible fruit.^[2] It is also known as the tree tomato,^[3]”

You will notice in that quote, the phrase "...edible fruit". Whilst that may be true - indeed the fruit won't kill you if you eat one - but I take exception with anyone who says they enjoy the experience. I, whilst on a trip to our aforementioned local grocers, decided to buy a bag. I was curious and besides, the dark red fruit looked so tempting. How could I refuse? I wish I had. I wish I had walked on by and stuck with the apples that I had came to buy. But no. I had to be adventurous. How do they taste? Well imagine a passion fruit crossed with a tomato. Imagine eating a fruit that tastes juicy and sweet only to be over powered by the taste of tomato. Oh I know that tomatoes are a fruit but I wouldn't want one in a fruit salad or on my ice cream. Similarly, I wouldn't put a passion fruit in my Ragù. Sometimes curiosity is best left where it it. I did my best to get through these devil fruit but still, every time I opened the fridge door, there was the bag of Tamarillos staring back at me. I did try, but failed and ended up throwing them out. They were past their best anyway. Not surprising as they had been in the fridge for months as the battle of wills dragged on until it's inevitable conclusion.

Anyway, I have digressed somewhat so back to my recent visit to the grocers.....

Learning from my lessons with odd looking or tasting fruit, I didn't give them a second glance but then something caught my eye. There, wedged between the carrots and cabbage was a bag of brussel sprouts. "Brussel Sprouts!" I exclaimed, getting some odd looks from my fellow shoppers.  

Without a second thought I threw two bags into my basket. Oh how I'd missed these little fellas. 

It was only when I started to put the shopping into the fridge that I realised I might have a problem. Just what was I going to do with two kilos of brussels? Although it was approaching Autumn and cooling down, temperatures were still hovering around the mid-twenties. Hardly appropriate for roast beef, veg and gravy. Nobody wants to sit down to a roast dinner in vest, shorts and flip-flops.

I was beginning to fear another plant based stand-off when it struck me. No, not a brussel but a brilliant solution. I'd barbecue them! Why not?  People seem to barbecue everything here so why not a brussel sprout? Buoyed by this wonderful innovation I set about preparing the delicacy; covering them in olive oil, adding some crushed garlic and a little salt. Perfect. 

Within a few minutes the barbecue was hot and without any further ceremony I threw my new creation onto the flames and looked heaven-ward……

Now there is one thing you should know about grilled brussel sprouts. They don’t go very soft. If mushy sprouts are your thing ,and by your book an hours boiling is not long enough, then these hard bullets are not for you. But, on the other hand, if you like your veg crunchy with a hint of garlic and not-so-subtle charcoal notes then these are just the ticket. Barbequed sprouts, who would’ve thought it? And not a christmas pudding in sight. Oh, wait. We’ve got two in the cupboard leftover from Christmas. What shall I do with them? Grilled christmas pudding. Now there’s an idea……

The Day Auckland Runs

It is definitely true that not all runs are created equal. On the face of it, an 8.4km run along the sea front should not really be a big draw. But of some reason, this odd distanced event has become a popular fixture in New Zealand's running calendar. No, wait. Scratch that. It is a popular event. Full stop.

At its peak, a few years ago, nearly 70,000 took part in the 'Round The Bays'; running, walking, pushing and rolling the 8.4km from the city centre to St Heliers and put the race in the top ten of world popular running events. 

Oddly, it's not really an event for runners. Not for those who slavishly pound the pavements week in and week out anyway. Unless you are right at the front of the mass of people at the start, you are going to find the first few kilometres a bit of a slog. Or if not that an extreme test of your ability weaving as pushchairs, scooters, fancy dressed participants and arm-linked walkers are negotiated. 

Having done exactly that last year, this year we decided to volunteer and help the race organisers in whatever way we could. It may seem like a very charitable thing to do but there was an ulterior motive. Kind of. You see our running club, The Auckland Joggers, set up the first RTB in 1972 when a few hundred negotiated the traffic on Tamaki Drive. Despite being handed to professionals to organise as the numbers got out of hand, it is our race. And with this honour also comes a large hunk of cash from the organisers in exchange for providing bodies to help with anything from manning information desks, giving out race bibs, marshalling crowds, blowing up start-line inflatables to protecting lost children. 

It is also because, while training in New Zealand in 1980, the former long-distance runner Brendan Foster took part in RTB and was so inspired that he set up the Great North Run. So for a northeastern lad, who has joined the founding Auckland running club, it was inevitable that when asked for volunteers a few months ago that my hand would shoot up. 

I must say that when the alarm clock went off at 05:10 this morning I did, for a fleeting moment, regret the enthusiastic manner in which I put my name forward. But promises are promises and so after a quick shower and strong coffee we stepped out into the cool Auckland morning.

I suppose wrestling with a stubborn giant inflatable start-line is one way to wake up in a morning. Not one I would recommend - try coffee or a nice cup of tea. This thing had a mind of its own, and once we had conquered this one, there was a second to inflate. At 60kg it wasn't light and just as we'd managed to get it into place, a truck wanted to get past to deliver some important event paraphernalia. After questioning the driver's parentage, under our breaths of course, we persuaded the giant inflatable to move to the side whilst the truck went on its way.

Thankfully a electric powered pump was on hand to provide the much needed air. I had images of trying to inflate the thing - it definitely would've delayed the start of the race. To maybe next Tuesday!

The second one was laid out and just as it was semi inflated, a large black SUV with blackened windows approached. The driver's window rolled down, a few words were exchanged and the SUV and its occupants reversed back down the road.

Now I'm not one prone to exaggeration, but I like to think that we stopped none other than the Queen of Pop Madonna in her tracks. Well it could've been her Madgesty. She was playing the arena next door and the time was about right. Possibly. Anyway, why let the truth get in the way of a good story.

So with Madgesty on her way back and the inflatables puffed up, we headed back and waited for the start of the race.

If anyone wants to know how do 30,000 participants travel across the start line and 8.4km down the coast, the answer is simple. Slowly!

We agreed that we would wait until everyone had passed the start before beginning our run to the end. We hadn't, after all, paid to enter so it felt right. But we had to get to the other end because we were needed to help out. And besides, there was food and drink laid on.

So for the second year running I didn't run to the end - I weaved, bobbed and darted between gaps. It's hard work on a hot day.

The difference this year was that I felt an inner glow - it was either the thought of having helped in one of New Zealand's iconic events or the copious amount of grilled meat I had just ingested. I'll be back down Tamaki Drive soon - it's one of the popular and scenic runs in Auckland - but it will be without the 29,998 other people. A straightforward straight run with no bobbing or weaving. Now wouldn't that be nice!

It Ain't Half Hot Mum

I know it will seem like a very British trait to write a blog about the weather, but after last night's meteorological shenanigans it's has to be done. And besides, you can take the boy out of Britain but you can't take the Britain out of the boy. 

In my defence, a quick flick back through the archives of this blog will reveal that I have only written two blogs that mention the weather. That is not a bad track record for a native of a nation that relishes conversation that analyses the minutiae of current and future climate. It is an unwritten rule that, after the usual greeting, the next question out of a British person's mouth has to be about the weather. It's compulsory and written into our DNA.

It's also an unwritten rule that you have to understate the current weather pattern. It may be ten below zero and your snot freezes before it hits the ground but a simple "It's a bit nippy today" would sum up the situation nicely thank you very much.

And oh, boy do we like to complain about the weather. Too wet, too dry, a bit hot, cold, windy, humid and miserable. We are the Goldilocks of amateur weather analysis. 

Perhaps predictably, that's where I come it. It has to be said that, on the whole, the weather in Auckland does not lend itself to complaints. Not really. It can get a bit cold during the winter months but not enough to make you want to bulk buy anti-freeze. It's not needed. It is, during the heat of the summer months, a bit warm. And yes, it can rain when it wants to. But mainly the weather is just-right. 

And everything was ticking along nicely until last night. It had been a warm but wet day - not untypical for a sub-tropical climate in the late summer - and a little humid perhaps but the expectations were that as the evening drew in the temperatures would drop to a not-unpleasant 18 degrees or so. 

Except it didn't happen. Nope, the temperatures were locked in for the night at around 24 degrees and humidity started to rise. With not a breeze to be had, we were in for a sticky night. Just as we all should have been dropping off to sleep, the temperatures were hovering around mid-twenties and the humidity had just passed 92%. Seemingly the whole of Auckland had been turned into a giant sauna.

Nothing was going to help us sleep. Even with all of the windows open, the hot air seemed to invade every space. I will spare you the grim details of my sleeping attire, but needless to say I couldn't have worn much less. 

I resorted to grabbing the cushion covers from the our door loungers and sleeping as close to the open living room doors as I could. Yes I was risking becoming a midnight snack for the local mosquitos but I was getting desperate. I did contemplate, albeit briefly, getting the ice blocks from the freezer but common sense and a duty of hygiene intervened. I would just have to lie still, think about cold things and hope that exhaustion would overcome the insufferable heat. Eventually it did, or at least it must have, because I woke up again around 3am having become a tasty second course for Auckland's 1st flying squadron.

It was a long night and not one that I am keen to repeat. 

At least I wasn't the only one. Those without air conditioning, and that would be the majority of Auckland, had suffered the same ordeal. It made for an entertaining and occasionally dangerous day in work. Lack of sleep was making even the most mild mannered of people edgy, bad tempered and unpredictable. It was either that or the copious amount of coffee that everyone was drinking to try and get through the day.

And true to form, when a colleague stated that it was unbearably hot in their house last night, I simply shrugged and admitted that it "was a little warm last night," before adding, "but not too bad though"

Somewhere Down the Crazy River

When is a walk not a walk? When it's a river journey of course.

New Zealand, I guess to keep the unwary on the straight and narrow, has developed nine Great Walks. Most of these are, as you would expect, on dry land and covering mountains, bush, islands and of course the coastline. All except one.

The Whanganui Journey is actually not a walk but a kayak voyage on New Zealand's longest navigable river. The three day trip (not trek) from Whakohoro to Pipiriki takes in some stunning scenery and some challenging river rapids. Well, challenging enough when your chosen vehicle is a 14ft open canoe. Anyway, as this is not your usual multi-day trip, uncharted waters so to speak, I thought it would be useful to pass on what we learnt. So here it is, our handy cut-out-and-keep guide to the Whanganui Journey…..

Prepare for the worst - hope for the best

If we were anxious before we left the motel in downtown Taumarunui, it was nothing to how we felt after the safety briefing. The talk of losing canoes, rapids, eddies, submerged rocks, overhanging branches and of course accidental drownings had done absolutely nothing to calm our nerves. Quite the opposite really. Why on earth did we chose this as our hiking trip this summer. Couldn't we have done something less risky like climb a mountain or something? To make it worse, I knew it was my idea and as each new revelation was revealed in the briefing the glare from Sarah's eyes got sterner and sterner. I can't be sure but I think she may have mouthed "You're dead" at one point. Great, I thought, if the rapids don't get me then a whack over the head with a paddle should do it. 

It didn't get any better once we were kitted out with our river equipment. As well as the obligatory canoe and paddles, we were handed a river map which highlighted the rapids, a life jacket for when we capsize and waterproof barrels for our possessions. Oh, and the pièce de résistance, a cut off milk plastic bottle to help bail out the water. Nice. 

Take everything, including the kitchen sink

Although we are experienced hikers, we didn't have a clue how to prepare for a multi-day river trip. After much deliberation, research and discussion we did the sensible thing and took exactly what we would've taken had we been walking the 90km. Well, it was much easier, had already been proven and besides.... we had saved a packing list on our file server. 

As we packed our canoe at the waters edge,  we saw groups of people carefully lashing pots, frying pans and huge cool boxes to their canoes. What about the weight, the decreased manoeuvrability and the satisfaction in only taking the bare essentials? Oh how amusing. This smugness, which of course only manifested itself externally with welcoming smiles and handshakes, was to soon evaporate. 

In a little under eight hours, our three days rations of dehydrated hiking food would look severely inadequate against our fellow travellers' spaghetti bolognese,  chilli con carne and other such succulent delights. Rehydrated beef stew is a delicious meal when you have to carry it on your back for several days but not when you have to cook it next to those enjoying more sumptuous offerings. At the end of a day of furious paddling we were starving and the meal we had 'prepared' was delicious. We sat in silence relishing the flavours and textures whilst secretly wishing our companions choked on their Black Forest gateau.

The long drop

Whilst Whanganui may be blessed with some stunning scenery and a wonderful feeling of remoteness, it comes at a price. The loos. I have to say that I am no stranger to porta-loos. I’ve used them on construction sites, at festivals and at running events. But nothing, nothing prepared me for these long drop loos. Oh my god! The first time I used them I was simply not prepared. I walked in, sat down and took a breath……. bile churned in my stomach and I suddenly felt light headed. “I know”, I thought to my self, “I’ll simply breath through my mouth”.

This was not a good idea. Now, rather than smelling the poo I could taste it. I’m sure it had burned my taste buds because even hours later, whilst we were eating our breakfast, the taste of porridge was seriously…well…..poo flavoured.

I started to fear my early morning movements, so to speak, and calculated just how many times I was going to have to visit the toilets. Over time I developed a technique. The trick is to take a Buff, or some sort of scarf, liberally doused with deodorant or perfume, and position it tight against your nose. Then simply breath through your nose. Now don’t get me wrong, using this method you’re not about to sit their for hours on end doing crosswords but it will stop you wanting to throw up. Which has got to be an improvement.

It is no surprise then that the first flushing loo we encountered on the bus journey back to the canoeing centre was greeted with such enthusiasm. 

Whilst we are on the topic of bodily functions, an honourable mention has to go to the possum who kindly left a little present on the breakfast table. They were running around on an evening, clearly not afraid of humans, and I guess one of them decided to mark its territory. It could’ve been worse I suppose - river rats were also know to inhabit the area around the huts, no doubt attracted by the food that gets dropped. Which brings me on to…..

Take everything in - take everything out

A word of caution - everything that you take in, has to be taken out. Don’t fancy finishing that not-so-tasty rehydrated chicken curry? Tough. There are no rubbish bins so it has to be packed up and taken home. If you think the thought of eating a meal that you don’t like is bad, so is having a sloppy mess in one of your bags for another two days. Suck it up.

It’s not all downhill from here

I was under the impression that water flowed downhill. Not so. There are some seriously flat sections of river that need to be crossed. In my head, this trip was going to be a leisurely ride down a river with the occasional rapid. It is bloody hard work. When you are not furiously padding to navigate a rapid, you are furiously paddling to get through a flat section of water. If left to its own devices, the canoe with gently float through these sections but they have a mind of their own and have a tendency to float toward the nearest rock, tree or canyon wall. 

After 90km of paddling be prepare to have hands as rough as sandpaper; blistered and calloused. Or take cycling gloves.

Be Prepared for People

If you’re not a people person, then this is not perhaps the trip for you. Yes you do get some ‘me’ time on the river but at the end of each day all the paddlers end up at one of the designation campsites or huts. Ok, so its not going to be like the last evening in Glastonbury but with 25 bunks and 50 camping spots, that is a lot of people in one smallish space.

If you are a people person then be prepared to meet some interesting folk, and I mean that in a good and bad way. In many ways, this was the highlight of the trip. Within a few minutes of arriving we got talking to Pete from Taumarunui who is a keen disc golfer (think frisbee meets golf), Brady - an american finding his way in New Zealand and manager of a restaurant in Wellington, Anna - originally from Sweden but living in New Zealand and an amazingly competent woman. She was taking her son down the river for the first time. Natalie and Greg on a three month holiday from Canada, Francis, Troy and the rest of that family crew. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the Spanish guys who seemed to tackle everything with a smile and a joke.

It was quite comforting to know that, should you get into difficulty, there was plenty of people around to help out. And to provide some entertainment. On one particular long flat section on the last day we were slowly drifting through a narrow canyon with Peter, Brady, Francis, Troy and the rest of the clan. It could have been quite a trial - the river was moving slowly, it was very hot and it was taking a huge effort to get anywhere. Thankfully we have the melodious voices of our companions to keep us entertained. Their repertoire was eclectic to say that least, segueing from pop ballads, to haka, show tunes and easy listening classics. It was like having the most random of radio stations in your canoe with their voices in harmony bouncing off the canyon walls. Add to that the near perfect mirror reflection on the water and it it made for a truly memorable paddling experience.

The singing didn’t stop there, unfortunately. When we arrived into the Marae at Tieke Kainga we were asked by the warden if we would like to take part in that evening’s welcoming ceremony. “Sure,” I said. I’m all for new experiences. Five other male travellers also volunteered to take part. “Excellent!,” said our host, “What song are you going to sing?”. Song? Sing? In public? This wasn’t part of the deal. Why had I been so hasty to get involved? Never volunteer for anything had been my mantra and it hadn't steered me far wrong in all those years. Eighteen months in New Zealand had clearly had an effect. 

What on earth was I going to sing? My only other public performance had been in a Karaoke bar nearly thirty years ago. I did’t think ‘Wild Thing’ was going to cut it somehow. It was agreed that I would go second, after Angel one of the Spanish contingent. Up he stepped, with the rest of his fellow countrymen, and gave sterling performance, including harmonies and a rhythm accompaniment. The bastard! How was I going to follow that? It was my turn. Shite!

The only song that I could think of that was remotely appropriate, from my home region, and one that I stood a chance of being able to remember, let alone sing, was “Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits. There I stood, out in the middle of the field in front of our host and the rest of the hut occupants and wondered if I could go through with it. I opened my mouth and took in a gulp of air…….

“These mist covered mountains are a home now to me. But my home is the lowlands, and always will be………”

As I sang I looked over towards our host who had his eyes closed. I’d like to think that he was concentrating on the melody and the moving words of my rendition of the rock classic but I rather think that my singing was causing him pain and he was willing me to stop. Ah well. I should’ve gone with Wild Thing. 

Expect to get Wet

It may sound obvious but you are going to get wet at some point on the journey, either deliberately or by accident. Probably both. Our paddling experience and skills had been steadily improving over the first two days. Yes, there had been a few close calls and one or two times where the canyon wall got a little too close for comfort in one of the rapids, but we were doing ok. Certainly better than some of our travelling companions who seemed to get dunked at every possible point. Well, with the exception of Natalie and Greg who were experienced canoeists and did this sort of thing for fun back in Canada. They took capsizing very seriously - primarily due to the fact that the water they were used to was glacial and a bit on the chilly side. Nothing like the Whanganui in the summer - the water temperature was like a tepid bath, albeit a bit muddy from a recent tropical thunderstorm.

Obviously the biggest risks are the rapids that pop up every now and again.  But add to that other canoes and jet boats and you have quite a potent mix. The jet boats, in particular, were a risk. These took holiday makers up and down the lower part of the river - thrill seekers and those less inclined to canoe. Their wake was immense, especially when it started to bounce of the canyon walls. To only warning that was given was hearing another canoeist shout “JET BOAT!”, perhaps preceded by the faint roar of an engine. If you were lucky, there was enough time to rotate the boat so it was perpendicular to the wake. Too slow? Well you’re going to meet the wake side on and that is no fun. 

Yes we were doing ok and were even starting to anticipate problems before they arrived. So by the time the last day came around - the day with the biggest rapids and a particularly tricky set called the 50:50. So named because you had a 50% chance of making it through upright. After negotiating the first set of rapids that day we were getting confident without being too cocky. With an hour to go before the end of our journey, we had made it through the majority of the rapids and were almost congratulating ourselves when we came across a monster set of white water. This was a rather tricky s-bend in the river with enough of a gradient drop to make the water rip up. At this point in the journey eight boats had congregated together at the mouth on the rapids and we lined up in turn to take a run through the white water. There we sat, the sixth in line, watching each boat got through - keeping an eye out for tips on what to do, or more accurately what not to do. Of the first five through, four had tipped out. The odds were not looking good. But still, we had made it the far without getting wet so surely we would be ok. 

We lined up out canoe and started paddling furiously - the one thing that we learned is that you need to be going faster than the surrounding water in order to have any control over your vessel. “Faster!” we shouted as we entered the foaming water. We were in control and well through the first part of the rapid. “Change!” I shouted, indicating that we needed to change the side we were paddling on. “Faster!” came the response as we hit the most turbulent part of the rapid - the water was reflecting off the left hand canyon wall, the one that was getting closer and closer as our canoe sped into the right hand bend of the rapid. 

It all happened so quickly. We hit a trough in the waves, another wave came over the front of the boat and we were sucked under. Rapids 5 - Canoeists 1.

Being suddenly dunked under water is quite an experience. By the time your realise what has happened other thoughts take over. “Now what?” being the most prevalent. We still had the canoe, one of the paddles (Sarah’s) and we happily floating through the backdoor of the rapid towards a rock. The rock was already home to two soaking paddlers; Anna and her son, so surely there would be room for two more? Ahh, make that four more - the boat behind with Pete and Brady had also succumbed to the rapid. My the river was doing well today. 

As the rock got closer I stretched out an arm and flailed as I tried to get purchase on the jagged rock. I felt my fingernails scratch at the surface but I couldn’t get enough of a hold to slow the canoe. Blast, we were going to be dragged further downstream and possibly into another set of rapids. Suddenly I felt an arm grab my wrist. It was Anna. She had managed to secure her position and that of her son’s and then was able to grab me as we floated past. It was good timing because almost at the same time, Brady had grabbed our boat to slow their descent down the river. Anna now had two canoes and four people in her grip. 

I managed to get a foothold on the rock and slowly dragged myself out of the water whilst Anna held onto the boat. Damn! I’d lost my hat. “Is this yours?” came the voice from a kayaker who had seen our predicament and came to help. He had found my cap floating downstream and had paddled back up to return it to its owner. 

Pretty soon all three boats were upright and the process of bailing out started. This was not as easy as it seemed on dry land. At one point, Brady was scooping water out of his boat and accidentally tipping it into ours. “Do that once more and I’ll kill you”, Sarah shouted. Ah the camaraderie of canoeists!

Once more of our travelling companions came over to help, and returned my lost paddle, we were soon back on our way. Natalie and Greg floated past. They were dry and clear hand;t been one of those unfortunately to get a dunking. These were experienced canoeists and obviously knew how to negotiate rapids - they had taken one look at the water, and the drop in the river level at this point, and decided to get out and walk the canoe over the gravel bank. Discretion being clearly the better part of valour in this instance.

We soon passed the sign that said “Pipiriki 500m”. Our destination was in sight. We’d done it! Not quite, as it turns out. Just around the bend and less than 100m from the end was the 50:50. A foaming, frothing double rapid that was right int the middle of the river. No going around. No gravel bank to help out. “Here we go again,” I shouted to the front of the boat before adding, “at least we won’t have far to float!”

Miraculously the 50:50 didn't claim any of our canoes that day - the river was in flood and so this set of rapids was not as viscous as usual It was still a close run thing though - no sooner had we got out of the rapid then a sideway current spun the boat through 180 degrees and nearly, nearly tipped us out. 

It’s Nice to be out of the comfort zone….and to return to comfort

We could have quite easily gone hiking, as we did last year. That seems more natural to us. If we haven’t quite got the magic 10,000 hours under out belt we must be pretty close. After all, walking is something that I have been doing for a while. All my life actually, give or take a few months at the start and a couple of occasions after particularly heavy nights on the beer. 

Canoeing, on the other hand, is not something that either of us had done a lot of, especially if you discount the couple of trips on the municipal pond in Scarborough.

Just as it was great to get back onto dry land for the last time, it also gave an immediate sense of self-satisfaction. We had spent three days out of our comfort zone and had lived to tell the tale. Before we started the trip, the biggest fear had been capsizing and being out of control. The strange thing was that, it wasn’t all that bad. Once you had actually been through it, and had the soaked undies to prove it, the rest was a doddle. Everything after that point did’t seem too bad. Maybe the trick was to capsize on day one? Maybe not.

As we sat on the air conditioned bus, eating the homemade chocolate muffins that had been provided, we could finally reflect on what an amazing three days it had been. Yes, it the scenery was stunning, the weather was perfect and the river was exciting, but above all we got to meet some really great people.  

Ready to put-in

"Another day, another blister"

Home for the evening - watch out for possum poo!

Not sure the floppy hat is appropriate paddling attire.

But it did stay on, even when we capsized 

The only way to travel

Starman

Since arriving in New Zealand I've been regularly amazed, surprised and sometimes shocked by the choice of stories chosen to grace the front pages of the national newspaper, The New Zealand Herald. Sometimes it's the choice of the actual story that is on the cover but occasionally it is the story that is not. 

Now I haven't done any actually numerical analysis - I'll leave that to the experts - but I get the impression that the prevailing headlines fall into one of three categories;

Rugby - the national sport graces the front of the national newspaper more often than not. Let's, for the sake of argument, say 70% of the time. This may or may not be true but why let the truth get in the way of a good story. The All Blacks are surprisingly good at Rugby and so should get a fair smattering of coverage but what is surprising is the length that The Herald will go to ensure that happens. Whether the team win, lose or draw then a picture of a player will beam (or frown) appropriately from the cover. If there isn't a suitable game to cover on the, err, cover then how about linking the story to an All Black player?Hopefully the victim is a relation of a player. A distant cousin will do - it doesn't pay to be picky. Perhaps they met an All Black player once? If that doesn't work out, then a good fall back is to simply get the opinion of a player on the story. Easy as.

Auckland House Prices - another favourite topic of the New Zealand Herald, which let's face it is the Auckland local paper, is the astronomical rises in the Auckland property market. Debates roll on endlessly about the cause, the duration and whether there is a bubble that is about to burst. With a population of 1.4 million there are plenty of newspaper column inches to be had. Yes we know the prices are high, and that individuals are stupid enough to fork out over $1m for what is basically a wooden shed with curtains, but does it really warrant repeated reporting? Apparently the answer is yes. No wonder Aucklanders are Jafas to the rest of the country.

Deaths - Quite worthy of reporting but depressingly frequent are the stories about accidents on New Zealand's roads, beaches and mountains. Any outsider reading these articles would get the impression that New Zealand is a dangerous place in which to find one's self. It's not. Not like its neighbour Australia, where every living creature seems to be hell bent on shortening your life in some gruesome way. But the sheer frequency of accidents in a relatively small population surely must give pause for thought? Not at all. Road crashes, drownings, collisions with trains and falls from mountain tracks are all too common.

With all this stuff going on, world events don't get a look in. Nuclear testing in North Korea? Page 35. The rise of fascism in Europe? Page 38. I started to wonder what would it take to relegate the All Blacks, house prices or another accidental death from a freak wave to the inside pages. The death of a monarch? World war? Maybe.

In the 11 January I got the answer. David Bowie. Yes David Bowie. The headline on the national newspaper on the 11 January 2016 reported the sad loss of one of music's true geniuses. This, of all of the media's worldwide glowing tributes, perhaps spoke the loudest. It was a moving and heartfelt report. 

Admittedly, as the article continued to later pages, they got the reaction of his death from an All Black, but it was tastefully done and genuinely touching. Being a relatively recent arrival into the country, I had no idea that what could be the farthest country on the planet from his home had such a deep respect for him. Well done New Zealand.l and well done The Herald.

Of course, within a few days, normal service had resumed and once again Auckland was the centre of the universe. The 'wobble' in world's stock markets and the crashing of oil prices caused the paper to wonder just what this would mean for Auckland's house prices and just what would Richie McCaw make of it all......

Hot on the Heels

I know the ink is still drying on my last blog but I just have to share this.

We have been, of late, relaxing in a sleepy town called Raglan. Nestled out on the west coast of the North Island it is an ideal place to while away the time, take in some sea air and let the stresses of modern life ebb away with the evening tide. 

Until tonight. 

So there we were, minding our own business (which admittedly is unusual for us) idling away the time on the verandah of the Harbour View Hotel with a cold beer and reflecting on the activities of the day which, being Raglan, had involved drinking tea, eating ice cream and sleeping. You see Raglan is a place where even the sleepy go to relax. It is so laid back that the place is positively horizontal. Where was I?

Oh, yes. So there we were relaxing, when the wail of a siren could be heard in the distance. Then, a small sporty hatchback hurtled down the main street. Well, I say main street but it is only a couple of hundred metres long. But anyway, this car hurtled down the street, windows open with the arms of several young men waving enthusiastically to the static and slack-jawed onlookers. They were, several seconds later, followed by the pursuing siren and the accompanying police vehicle who were giving chase.

Now, I feel that I have to stress, if it has not already been made clear, that Raglan is not a big place. There can't be more than two roads into the town and, as it is on a peninsula, there are not a lot of other roads in between. A handful at best.

Almost as soon as the police had passed out of sight, the protagonist appeared once again and sped in front of the onlookers, or if you prefer spectators, and hurtled down the main street. Inevitably, the police followed and they both successfully completed one lap of the small town. 

After the third lap, the police had clearly spotted the developing pattern and wisely decided to despatch a second police car. This should have quickly resolved the problem except now we were witnessing what seemed to be a police car being chased by a small sporty hatchback, which in turn, was being pursued by another police vehicle. Much, it had to be said, to the delight of the spectators who cheered their support for their new underdog. With each competed lap, the arms in passing car waved more furiously and the cheers grew louder.

At this point occurred to me that the police would surely be better off regrouping and simply blocking the two roads into the town? Eventually the speeding car would run out of petrol, cigarettes or, even worse, crisps? 

But no. The pursuit continued. Except this time, the perpetrators had changed their tactics. Cunningly, they were now going in the opposite direction. It took the police a while to cotton onto this and for a short period of time we witnessed the strange spectacle of a police car chasing a police car around the town centre. Or at least that's how it looked.

But it was getting out of hand. The speed had increased, as had the desperation and there was a real chance that a serious accident could occur. By this time, the sporty hatchback was driving on the wrong side of the road, going the wrong way around the mini roundabout and narrowly avoiding on coming cars and strolling families out enjoying the summer evening. 

It was after one such near-miss that the chase left the town and we never got to see the final scenes play out. Hopefully the police came to their senses and let the perpetrators go. Surely by now they had enough details to pursue them from a safer distance? Either that or they were too dizzy from the pursuit and needed a sit down.

Thankfully the excitement of the rest of the evening did not follow the opening act. Within minutes Raglan had returned to its sleepy state, the spectators to their beer and, as the early evening relaxed into the night, Raglan raised its arms above its head and let out a contented sigh on a day well done. You've just got to love this place.