Seeing as it is kind of hard to convey how cool the whole experiene was, I’m just gonna skip right to the pictures instead, as they sort of tell their own story (even though it’s hard to take pics in pitch black conditions)…

But underneath that veneer of Britishness, Christchurch is very much a city in its own right, with a very Kiwi atmosphere and a lot to offer that is not – or at least, not overtly – imitating imperial traditions.

Standing proudly as a testament to this mixture of modern and imperial, is the Canterbury Museum. At its heart, it does its best to give an overview of the history of the south island from the moa hunters of old, until the early 20th century. Now, Te Papa, this ain’t, but still they do an admirable job of making history come alive, with the obligatory mannequins dressed as Maori tribespeople, interactive displays, and even an entire street reconstructed from 19th-century Christchurch! Bonus display in that particular section must have been the museum-in-a-museum, a glimpse of what the museum originally looked like, with plaster casts of British Museum exhibits, a Ravenna mosaic (a small one!), a stuffed hippo: everything a New Zealand gentleman needs to feel worldly and wise. Fun! Also well worth fifteen minutes of your time is a reconstructed paua-shell-house-cum-collection-of-oddities, built in the early 60s by one of the cutest couples you have ever seen a 6-minute documentary about. If you grow old like those two, and get your house to be featured in a museum after your death, you must have done something right.

Much to my surprise, the idea of having a museum within the museum actually continues to this very day: on the second floor, a mummy was on display, complete with explanations on how mummification works, and also some dinosaur skeletons that were not native to New Zealand. It only then dawned on me that here, on the other side of the world (from my cozy European perspective), people have as much right to see the glory of Egyptian culture, or an actual, North-American Allosaur, as people in Berlin, Paris, Leiden, Trier (yes they have a mummy), London, or even Cairo! For some reason, this put the reconstructed meta-museum in the recontructed street in a slightly different persepective: the old function of the museum as an educative insitution instead of just something to entertain was in full swing here, and rightly so! I almost feel ashamed for expecting only galleries of Maori art, stuffed kiwis, and pictures of colonial art. Suddenly, Canterbury Museum, has become a museum for tourists and locals alike.

There are two more parts in the exhibition. The first features information about the area of Canterbury itself, with lots of helpful (coercive) information about recycling, sustainability, and how we must treat Mother Earth with respect or our kids (and mind you, this exhibition was geared heavily towards kids, who would undoubtedly proceed to cast apprehensive glances at their parents for fucking up the planet so badly) would have no liveable life to speak of. I always get terribly self-conscious at these kinds of exhibits. Really, I try to do my best to live as guilt-free as possible, but it seems I’m not even doing enough. Damn you, Museum, for pointing out my shortcomings to me!! Then, a vague feeling of dread creeps up as well: are others feeling equally guilty for not doing their part to save the planet? Do they even realise that the real-life counterparts to those cute enlarged animals are actually busy destroying the local ecosystem? That the comically presented statistics about water use are meant to change people’s behaviour under the shower (mea culpa!)? That this exhibition, in avoiding to be preachy, may in the end only reach those who are already aware of the problems that we are dealing with? Or are those the people who go to museums in the first place? Or am I just creating my own problems and should I enjoy the message? Questions questions questions… the fact that some of the photos, pictures and models look like they were made in the 1980s and that the problems they deal with have not yet been solved, does not help in alleviating my doubts. But hey! There’s a mummy! I wonder what its carbon footprint is – how did it even get here?

…

Oh, stop it!

Or actually, speaking of the environment and carbon footprints and unspoilt nature and all, the last bit of the Museum was about the Antarctic, and some of the people who had travelled there. Interesting stuff! They had Edmund Hillary’s original Hagglund there, as well as a coracle built by some sailors who were shipwrecked on the aptly named Disappointment Island in the early 20th century. They apparently used the only tree on the island to save their lives – how’s that for destroying an ecosystem?!? But I digress… These few rooms truly gave a fascinating insight into the lives and minds of the weirdos who thought it would be a good idea to reach the South Pole on foot or something – you know, the type who seem to have inspired the phrase “brave but stupid”. Turns out they weren’t all that stupid after all (or were they?), and reading the final page of Scott’s diary really shows the lengths to which these people went to uncover the earth’s secrets. These days, all you need is a really really powerful microscope, it seems (yes I know that’s not a microscope).

Visiting that part of the Museum inpired me to shell out $55,- for the Antarctic Centre the following day, urged on by the promise on the leaflet that Antarctica would be “Mine For The Day”. Well, what can I say? It was … underwhelming, even though I do not really know why. Was it that the artificial -18C windchill can also be experienced on any given winter night in Berlin? That the groups or tourists were annoying as hell without even doing much?  That it was, maybe, just maybe, a tad small? I guess, in the end, none of the above. The Centre really does an admirable job of bringing the Antarctic over to a liveable climate, and I was especially struck by the descriptions and pictures of camp life, as well as by the hall devoted to the continent itself. And of course the Little Blue Penguins were as annoyingly cute as would be expected. I guess, without wanting to sound too emo, that this attraction really is geared either towards kids OR towards groups of two or more people. It’s fun of course, experiencing a Hagglund ride all on your own, but it would maybe have been MORE fun with someone to share it with. Like, someone you know. Same goes for the clothes that you can try on. Why wear 8 layers of wool if there’s no one to take your picture? I tried very hard to like the Antarctic Centre, but despite all its obvious qualities (and those awesome little penguins), I felt somewhat let down.

So there, two “educational” experiences to be had in Christchurch.  One, the Antarctic Experience, could well be worth a full day if you’re willing to make the effort to do all the activities and read all the signs, but to me, there seemed to be something off in the balance between education and entertainment. The other, the Canterbury Museum, is steeped in the British traditions that pervade the entire town – among which used to be the thought that museums are there to educate the people about the world around them (later on, after having read something about the first settlements on the Canterbury plains, I discovered that that seems indeed to have been the plan). Although this can be off-putting to people who aren’t into museums like I am, it still is a great way to spend anything from half an hour to an entire afternoon (I did both), learn something about the area and plan your visit to the Botanic Gardens behind the museum afterwards – I recommend the museum cafe, which offers great views on said garden.

Either way, your time will be well spent!

Check back regularly for more pictures, stories and other random stuff!

But anyway, today started early, with Anne running off to secure some almond-filled croissants from Pandoro, which she claims is the best bakery in the country (until now, she seems to be right), while I was off to my usual slow start. Long story short, we met up at the check-in lounge for the big boat that would carry us to Picton, on the South Island. Hooray! I’m on a boat!

Turns out, it’s not nearly as exciting as some people make it out to be. Most of the time, it was so misty that you really only could see white – although the blasts from the mist horn were pretty sexy – and the first on-board movie was Confessions Of A Shopaholic, which only made me sad. The second movie was Igor, a harmless little animation flick about a land filled with evil scientists and their Igors. It looked promising, but by the time the climax was just about to start, the boat had arrived. So it sadly goes. I might look into it again sometime, cause I missed most of the dialogue.

Once in Picton, I was introduced to Das Kleine, Anne’s 1984 dapper Toyota Starlet 1.4 Automatic (hatchback edition) that was to take us to Christchurch and beyond, along the East Coast. So off we went, after some much needed coffee.

It was my first encounter with the New Zealand coastline, and it was pretty adventurous to say the least! Also, the moment we had the chance (and lunch) I went and dipped my feet into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life. I think I only need the Indian Ocean now, to complete my collection of World Seas. Apart from that, I had a blast marvelling at the rocks on the right and the sea on the left – the absence of dunes or beaches made no sense whatsoever to a Dutchy like me, although I’m used to it by now – trying to take pictures from the moving car, catching up with my sister, and … oh look!! Baby seals!!

Yeah, that’s right! Hidden in plain sight on some rocky outcroppings was a colony of New Zealand Fur Seals (zeebeer in Dutch! Hooray for seabears!) and their young’uns (not the cute white variety but still pretty cutesy), minding their own business and having a good time. Boy did I feel close to nature! Of course, we couldn’t get TOO close, what with the big old pater familias eyeing us suspiciously, but it was enough for my very first brush with that famous NZ wildness. And I know I sound over-enthusiastic, but it’s things like this that really make a city slicker like me happy. So there.

To top it all up, shortly afterwards we strolled up to an idyllic waterfall where Anne took a swim, and then we bought a fresh crayfish.

After we had left the coastline, some more stuff happened involving supermarkets, gas stations and sweet sweet suburbia before we finally arrived at Anne’s place where we were enthusiastically greeted by Tobi, two cats, and one chicken.

We ate the crayfish, and all was well…

For the records, it’s not haute cuisine, but rather just some easy-to-prepare comfort food that, for once, does not involve tomato sauce.

Serves 2

Ingredients:

• 2 chicken breasts, (about 150 gr MAX each), cut into strips (or small pieces of whatever shape);
• 1 small onion, also cut into small pieces;
• 2 bananas, ALSO cut into small pieces;
• 200 ml double cream;
• Walnuts to taste (let’s say about 100-150 grams)(crushed like Conan’s enemies);;
• Rum;
• Liberal amounts of cinnamon;
• Freshly ground black pepper, some curry powder, and other spices to taste (go crazy);
• Enough vegetable oil to fry the chicken (I’d recommend against using olive oil).

So, prepare by cutting or crushing all the ingredients. Heat the oil, chuck in the onion, add some pepper and curry, and suatee until the onions look like they can be eaten. Add the chicken, fry it for a bit and add more pepper, curry and liberal amounts of cinnamon. Then, turn the heat down and add the banana. Stir! Stir like crazy (it sticks).

Add the walnuts.

Then, get ready to burn: open the bottle of rum, turn up the heat again for a bit, light a match, pour in some of that precious liquor, and light it on fire (this is where I tell you to be careful…). When the fire gets boring or when it has burned long enough, blow it out. Maybe it extinguished all by itself, which is OK as well I guess. Anyway, add the cream, stir for a bit, and voila! You’re ready to eat!

Provided you made some (basmati) rice to go with it, of course. The whole thing takes about 20 minutes to make, so if you just start cooking the rice before you do anything else, the timing should be just right.

Wanna add garlic at some point? Whyever not! I also considered throwing in an apple at some point, but that’s for next time (alternatively, substitute the banana with apple entirely, and the rum with calvados, for autumny goodness – serve that one with potatoes, though…)

Also, drink the rum if you don’t like the result – it will help you forget…

The name is apt, of course, because it once WAS part of the coach road traversing the North Island. And let me say right off the bat: man do I feel sorry for the horses all those years ago! Going up and down this supposedly historically correct track is no picknick, even if, as the touristy signs tell us, the actual road (mostly grass and gravel these days) was modelled after the Roman system which, in a nutshell, featured two “rails” to keep the carriage on the right track. The advantage for the passengers, however, was that they were sitting dry (albeit uncomfortable is the records are to be believed) and could rely on horse power to be drawn across the hill. We went up there, in the gradually increasing rain, with the Tongariro Crossing still in our legs, and boy did we get wet.

By “we” I mean of course “I”. Anne, the more experienced trapper of us two, had all kinds of fancy outdoors clothes, whereas I went up in my clean white shirt and cotton shorts. Score one for the city slickers: I did make it up to the end of the track, a beautiful old railway bridge spanning a beautiful deep gorge. But, alas, my poor white shirt did not make it through the muddy descent unscathed, and had to be soaked in lukewarm water immediately afterwards to rescue what was left of it. The pictures, I think, tell their own story (once I get around to posting them). But it was an exciting bike ride and it sure did pass the time!!

Speaking of time, excitement, and pictures, the DoC of Ohakune had really gone out of their way to make the trail interesting for tourists willing to learn something. Apart from the factoid about the retro-style Roman road built by the New Zealand settlers, we learnt about conflicts with Maori, how The Bridge was built, and how the frontier of New Zealand extended ever southwards. Also, there were some more fascinating insights in village life on that very frontier, from letters written by labourers, to a picture of the woman who practically ran Ohakune in the late 1800s. All that was on these tourist signs along the way, and I was smitten. Smitten with the New Zealand frontier, which seemed to me at first glance a somewhat more organised and less violent version of the Western frontier in the USA, but not by much. Additionally, that’s when it dawned on me that much of Ohakune, as well as some of the other villages we had driven through, actually did look like the towns of the Old West that we know from Leone, Ford, Eastwood, etc. I resolved then and there that I would keep my eyes peeled for more informations on New Zealand in the 19th century.

But I digress (which is, of course, what makes this blog so fascinating to read!). After we had gotten back, taken a shower, sort-of-cleaned my white shirt, and had some lunch, we resolved to visit every store in town. I almost bought a ukulele. I bought the first (of many) postcards (and one stamp). I looked for a book on New Zealand frontier history – halfheartedly at first. Anne almost bought a shirt. But in the end, it turned out that Ohakune was just that: a ski resort with a supermarket and a nice YHA hostel. And one bus stop, which we used to get back to Wellington, looking back on some memorable days, and looking forward to a nice boat ride to the South Island.

But that’s a story for another time…

Ohakune itself is … rather quaint, but ultimately harmless, it seems. We traipsed around the center for a while, only to discover that this was essentially a ski resort and that there was not much going on in summer. In winter, it has got to be a blast, though!! Restaurants pretentiously called „Matterhorn“, chairs made out of skis, and even a true apres-ski scene (currently dead): everything was there, only closed. What we DID find were an excellent lunch room, a possible starting point for a later expedition (more on that later), and of course the largest (fake) carrot in the world! Ohakune: carrot capital of New Zealand! According to the few touristy signs in town, they had the Chinese settlers to thank for that, but there really was nothing to celebrate these Oriental immigrants: no street names, no monument, not even a Chinese restaurant – although the Carrot Carnival is celebrated in their honour. Weird. Then again, seeing as this did not seem like the kind of town that attracted visitors who would actually read signs like these, I doubt anyone noticed. At least not the Chinese population, as they had all left.

But enough about this village, that ultimately had no purpose other than providing us with a place to sleep before attempting the Tongariro Crossing, and a place to recuperate afterwards (but more on that in a later update!). So there we went, early in the AM again, in a bus to the official start of the Crossing.

I have to say, I was a bit nervous about the whole endeavour. I had tried my best to work up some kind of endurance before leaving, but still – it had been a long time since my feet had seen any kind of proper mileage, especially any involving inclines, slopes and altitude. On top of all that, I was underdressed to the point of embarassment: there I was, in my old jeans, Ikea backpack and a dainty cap I had bought the day before, surrounded by people with all kinds of professional pants, shoes, and – *shudder* – nordic walking sticks. Anne, being the fanatical hiker that she is, was no exception of course. A slight unease crept in: should I have prepared, like, properly?

But no, of course we are talking about the idiot who walked the Inca trail on a pair of worn-out Vans, so clearly this 19 km walk would not be a challenge, would it? This time, at least I had proper shoes!!

As it turned out, the Tongariro Crossing was not only doable – give or take a few steep climbs – but also, simply, beautiful. From the aptly named Devil’s Staircase, where we lost most of the wholly unprepared crowd, to the long, long, looooong descent to Ketetahi Hut, where we had lunch, and from the first view of Ngauruhoe, AKA Mount Doom (we elected not to climb it, seeing as it is essentially a mountain of sand and grit) to the ensemble of the Emerald Lakes and the Blue Lake, the Tongariro Crossing is breathtaking in all possible senses of the word. And boy were we lucky with the weather!

I could go on for hours about all the impressions I had while walking, but I think the pictures I took may tell their own story – and for the rest you just have to go see for yourself I guess! What I can say is that the sense of accomplishment I felt upon finishing the trail (and putting my feet in an idyllic cold stream by way of reward) may well have been worth the experience in itself. Another mountain conquered, and I actually lived to tell the tale! This update is living proof.

Come to think of it, the hamburgers we promised ourselves when we got back in Ohakune turned out to be more of an ordeal than the Crossing itself. Made me miss Berlin… but only slightly! I’m having way too much fun here!

PS: Yes, I kept the Lord of the Rings-references to the barest of minimums. Once you’re on the slopes, you forget the movies in favour of the actual experience…

Of course, the fact that I had been cooped up in several airplanes for about 40 hours, touched down on three different continents, and was served the worst coffee in the world and beyond (more on that later) did help somewhat in amplifying the alienating effect intercontinental flights have on me, so it might be that my esoteric theory about faster-than-walk-travel has to be tweaked ever so slightly to take into account variables like airline food, screaming children, and nights that last 24 hours or more.

Thankfully, as it turned out, my flight only had well-behaved children, the food was moderately tolerable, I had plenty of legroom thanks to SeatGuru and its interactive maps of planes, and was given the choice of about a gazillion movies to get me through the night – the long, long night that really only ended in Sydney, during the transfer to the final leg of my journey (during which I was served that fateful cup of coffee, but more on that later).

And watch movies I did!! In no particular order: Michael Jackson’s This is It! – proof positive that the old king of pop still had the moves;  Fame 2009 – a disjointed and unbalanced remake of an otherwise equally predictable original; I Am Legend – turned it off after 15 minutes; It Might Get Loud – but it didn’t: as much as I like to hear guitarists talk about their craft, the idea behind putting The Edge, Jack White and that dude from Led Zeppelin together still eludes me; Law Abiding Citizen – reminded me somewhat of Collateral, did its job but will ultimately be forgettable fare; The Invention of Lying – a good idea with some major flaws that ruined the experience for me; The Good German – a good movie? still not sure; and maybe one or two more that I have already forgotten about. Also, I listened to Nirvana’s Live at Reading, The Velvet Underground and Nico (for some reason I had never gotten around to listen to that one, and it will be some time before I go there again), and John Fogerty’s new album of country classics (surpisingly good!), while reading Bill Bryson’s Neither Here Nor There (not his best work) and A.A. Byatt’s The Children’s Book (definitely shows promise!). Clearly, BA takes care of its customers! All in all, I had a decent flying experience – no large Albanian women with excruciatingly severy body odor, and no Pauly Shore movies – and was only moderately unsettled when I had finally conquered the last hurdle (NZ customs officials curious about the Gummibärchen I had brought) and stepped out into the real world once more.

Of course, being reunited with my sister was great! We’re still very much in the process of catching up and that will be an ongoing process, but I was glad to see she was doing okay even without my continuing presence. Also, I finally got to meet the famous Tobi in the flesh and that was quite a success as well as far as I can see now.  He had even arranged for a barbecue party on someone else’s porch! (Well OK that was not really how the barbecue came about)

My first, and only, encounter with Wellington was quite OK as well. For as long as we were there, I can say that the weather was excellent, the Te Papa museum is awesome (both museum- and collectionwise), and the city looks like a fun place to hang out. I’m almost ashamed to be so unabashedly positive about this whole New Zealand experience, but up until now the islands have treated me well so … there you have it! Anne has assured me that there is a wealth of problems hidden beneath the surface, but she has lived here for four years after all, and I haven’t even been here for 24 hours. Who am I to judge? I’m just glad to be out of the ice-and-snow-fest that is Berlin at the moment.

So anyway, we strolled around Wellington for a bit, went to a barbecue get-together, had to run to catch the last train home, and then went to sleep in order to catch the bus that would bring us to Ohakune and the Tongariro Crossing the next day!

Thus condludeth my first day in New Zealand. Thanks to the movie selection aboard the plane, I have largely been able to avoid the jetlag, but boy was I tired from sheer exhaustion! More interesting stories and insights will undoubtedly follow shortly, but for now this should do the trick I guess.

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Oh, and that coffee you ask? Well, on the Qantas flight from Sydney to Wellington, I honestly thought the stewardess had confused „coffee“ with „tea“: I could see the bottom of the cup! It smelt of nothing instead of coffee! But no, the lady assured me I had been served to correct beverage –  ’twas a sad day for coffee everywhere…

Oh well, I finally got to play some guitar again (although the deep cut I made in my index finger is making life tremendously difficult in that regard as well), saw Crossroads (not the Britney Spears one!), The Hangover, Charlie Wilson’s War, and, at the urging of The Nostalgia Critic, The Rescuers Down Under. I also thought some very deep thoughts about my thesis, and now I know what I am supposed to do again, so I guess it wasn’t a TOTAL waste, but still … it’s one of those weekends that just leaves you feeling slightly guilty. At least I didn’t have a hangover.

Man, I love this city…

My phone takes HORRIBLE pictures, but here is proof positive that I was present at the Dallax gig @ Wild at Heart! Next time, I'll bring an actual camera...