Always take the weather with you...

Ok, I admit it. Last weekend's warm temperatures led me to wrongly imply that Australia does not go through what you or I would normally classify as winter.

The last couple of days have been horrific here. Wind and rain is battering New South Wales - on a scale I have only witnessed perhaps on a handful of occasions. Five people have been killed in one day, the emergency services are stretched to the limit and it would take a fool to leave their home tonight (just as well I've got fuck all to do, really).

What has been particularly annoying today has been the constant remarks from Australians at work about how I "must be used to this" and how I've "brought the weather" with me. Yes, because every day back home is just one constant battle against gale force winds and torrential rain, with the occasional relief of a nice cup of tea and a rendition of God Save the Queen. Muppets.

Talking of Elizabeth II, it's her birthday this weekend. The only reason I know that is because here in Australia we get Monday off for it. I wouldn't want you to think the weekend turns into some colonial establishment nonsense - it really is just a Bank Holiday with a different name.

This is my last full weekend in Sydney. I would normally like to mark any occasion with a party, but as it's forecast to rain heavily all weekend I may just savour the memories of this city and re-invest the little money I have in new experiences elsewhere on this trip.

Make sure you're connected...

Ten days and counting now until this rather bizarre situation of working and hanging around people I will never come across again in my entire life comes to an end.

It has crossed my mind to leave Sydney in a blaze of 'glory'. Perhaps I should crap on my manager's desk, raise the Union Jack over the Opera House and deck some of the posh looking poofs who live near me and walk their stupidly small fucking dogs in such a way that always seems to annoy me.

Got to stay calm, Matt. Don't blame the dogs.

In a rather strange attempt to stay interested at work, our web editor and myself took a colleague's possessions last week and moulded them in jelly (see above). And the strange thing is we don't really know why. Boredom can do funny things to you.

Although I want out of Sydney now, one feeling I have never felt during this trip is homesickness. That, I am sure, is largely attributable to the internet. I can type bollocks on here, e-mail a bit more, read all the web pages from home and pretty much watch any tv programme I want through the truly remarkable phenomenon that is youtube. I can have all the trimmings of life in the UK in my Sydney bedroom.

There are some drawbacks - such as decent newspapers. The Australian media is appallingly dreadful - you struggle to finish a drink in the time it takes to read every article in a newspaper you are actually interested in.

Three British newspapers produce weekly editions here, charging around $5 for the privilege. There is the Express, which is so lamentable I wouldn't wipe my arse on it and has the dubious honour of exporting good old fashioned British bigotry to all the news stands in Sydney. Then there is the Guardian, my favourite paper back home. Trouble with its international edition is that it is just that - a small paper full of world news. I don't understand the point in it. Why would anyone pay five times as much for a weekly round up of international news they can read in the world sections of any other paper every day? I'm sure the Czech government's policies on climate change are very laudable, but I'm not really that interested.

That only leaves the Telegraph, which despite its objectionable political views does provide what you want - a weekly round up of the best news, sport and comment from home. It's actually even quite funny to read the bile that is spewed forth from its pages. I had almost forgotten how bitter, hate fuelled and prejudiced the Right was. Well, almost. I look at the subjects these people rant on about with utter disbelief. It's as if they occupy a different planet. Mind you, I am a metropolitan left wing homosexual. I'd be slightly concerned if my friends started becoming concerned about fox hunting, the monarchy, the erosion of 'country life', British pensioners in Zimbabwe Nursing Homes (I'm not joking - this is a regular topic on the letters page), the future of grammar schools, whether the Rev Ian Paisley is a sell-out and David Cameron is a dangerous lefty.

Christ I'm bored. Roll on Saturday 16 June and my flight to Cairns.

Winter?

On Friday (June 1), Australia officially moved into winter.

I had to help organise a press conference related to this, in which ministers from the NSW Government would warn of the dangers of house fires during the colder months. You would have thought bushfires were the biggest threat to life and property down under, but that's not actually the case. Basically, because most homes here are not fitted with standard central heating systems that you or I would have at home, Aussies are reliant on crappy little portable heaters to keep them warm for the brief periods of the year when it gets chilly. And these are invariably a bit of a fire hazard. Particularly when you dry clothes on them, which seems to be a rather unadvisable habit out here.

So, the press conference was held and two ministers help up dodgy looking heaters and electric blankets. "It's freezing outside," proclaimed one of them. "Stay safe this winter!" A noble message, but it was 19 degrees outside. Watching Aussies behave in conditions that are perfectly normal to the rest of the world is highly amusing. The British in them comes out, they all complain about how cold it is and start wearing absurdly over the top clothing. But it is only marginally colder here than it is in the UK at the start of summer...

On Saturday I took a boat trip to Watsons Bay, a very wealthy retreat where the houses are jaw droppingly amazing. It was a gorgeous day, without a cloud in the sky and the temperature around 20 degrees. Families sun bathed on the beach and swam in the sea. And this is supposed to be 'winter'!

I will, however, be glad to leave Sydney in two weeks time and move north to hotter temperatures for a while. I'll also be glad to leave generally. I feel as if I have reached the end of my stay in the city and that I am hanging around somewhat. It is a fantastic, amazing place that I will never forget, but I feel as if I need to get on with the 'holiday' side of this trip now.

Part of this feeling has been caused by a particularly unpleasant break down in relations between me and Tom, who I had been seeing out here. I will not go into details. Suffice to say we had what might be diplomatically described as a difference of opinion over certain issues, and I decided that we shouldn't see each other any more. He will not be accompanying me to Cairns when I fly there in two weeks.

This has principally been my decision, and largely stems from the fact I do not want to carry on having a fictitious 'relationship' with someone I am likely to never see again as of a few weeks' time. It is rather more complicated than that and not my fault, but there you go.

Anyway, one of the consequences of this has been I am now persona non grata amongst his friends. Not quite how I envisaged leaving Sydney, but such is life.

Went on a tour of the Opera House on Sunday. It is a curious place in many respects. It looks best when set against the backdrop of the Harbour Bridge and the sparkling water, but inside it is slightly reminiscent of a 1970s car park. Its design is truly unique and iconic - it is actually two buildings, a stone exterior with wooden theatres inside. But there really is little you can say that is positive about its interior, other than the view ain't half bad across the harbour.

The Opera House was such a complicated design to build it actually took 14 years to complete - at a cost of more than $100 million. That's not an insignificant amount for a project commissioned in 1955. Puts Wembley into perspective, eh?

Eora

Recognise this? Thought so. It's Australia, land of the good life - where the people are cheery, the beer is cold, the sun always shines and there is always a barbecue on the go.

Recognise the colours on the map? Thought not. I didn't either until very recently. This is a map of Aboriginal Australia, detailing where the indigenous peoples of this country have lived for thousands of years.

Like me, you will probably be aware that there has traditionally been a degree of tension between the European settlers of the last two centuries and this country's ancient inhabitants. What you may not have known - like me until very recently - is that this is more than just a case of white settlers riding into town and there being a bit of 'bovva'. Over the last 219 years, this country has seen some of the most outrageous racial brutality I have ever heard of in a so called 'modern' state. So bad, in fact, that the thing that shocks you the most is that you had not heard about it before.

I had been meaning to write a post about the treatment of Aborigines for a while. After my trip to the Australian Museum in Sydney today, where there is an excellent display of both Aboriginal culture and the shocking treatment these people have been subjected to, it now feels appropriate to tell you about it.

Let's start from the beginning. The Aborigines have occupied land in Australia for at least 65,000 years - some recent archaeological discoveries suggest it may be more than 100,000. There is every reason to suggest they are the oldest human race on the planet - and not an unremarkable one at that. If you take the time to examine Aboriginal culture, art and spirituality over these many years, you cannot help but be impressed. They have also managed to survive and prosper in the most punishing country on earth. Even today, Australia remains overwhelmingly uninhabited, the vast majority of its citizens crowded along cities along the south east coast where the climate is at its most tepid. Aborigines have learnt to survive and adapt in all parts of this vast land - defying mother nature at its harshest and most extreme.

Everything changed in January 1788, when Captain Cook and his band of British sailors rocked on in. Nothing the severity of Australia's punishing climate threw at them for centuries could prepare these people for the perverted barbarity they would be made to suffer.

The first shameful act was the declaration of terra nullius by the British - meaning the land they found was not occupied by anybody. To be fair, the good captain and his crew would not have been aware of just how long Aboriginals had been in Australia. But they were very much aware of these people's presence - they just chose to ignore it. Because Aborigines did not display the same social and administrative practices you would find in Britain, it was deemed they had no right to the land they were occupying. In other words, because there wasn't a parish council, a church, a cricket pitch, a post office or Mrs Miggins serving afternoon tea, these black savages had no rights to their home. Captain Cook duly claimed the land for the British Empire.

Having stolen their country in effect, the British then set about killing them. If it wasn't direct murder, it was indirectly through the arrival of European diseases like Smallpox, against which the Aborigines had no defence. It is estimated that there were almost a million Aborigines in Australia in the late 1700's - a century later that was down to 50,000.

If you think that's just an accidental medical consequence, on the whole you'd be correct, but most historians agree that around 20,000 were killed in battle by whites during the first century of British occupation. Now some of this may be have been in legitimate self-defence, but there are countless examples of genocide on a sickening scale. Allow me to just pick one, this from Myall Creek in 1838. I shall now ask a historian to enter the room and tell the story.

"A party of twelve men, consisting of eleven convict settlers and one free man, John Fleming, arrived at a hut on Myall Creek station on 10 June. They told the station hand there, George Anderson, that they intended to round up any Aboriginal people they could find. They claimed to be acting in retaliation for the theft of cattle, although they did not attempt to identify any individuals who were responsible for the theft. The men gathered up twenty-eight people, mostly women and children, out of a group of forty or fifty Aboriginal people who were camping in the area. They were taken behind a hill, away from the hut. The shepherd later heard shots. The twenty-eight had all been killed, and some of the young women had been raped."

There is only one thing remarkable about this incident - the people responsible were actually brought to justice. The first criminal charges after 50 years of British rule for the killing of Aborigines. I could have picked as an example the massacre of 200 at Waterloo Creek three months before, where the perpetrators were even regarded as heroes, but there's only so much I can type into a post without getting Repetitive Strain Injury.

In fairness, this did all happen a long time ago. So let's have some more recent examples. Let's talk about the Lost Generations instead. From 1915 right up until 1969, the Australian authorities forcibly removed Aboriginal children from their parents - particularly those of mixed race background - and took them to either white foster parents or internment camps. Up to 100,000 children were taken from their parents, in what was basically an attempt to kill off the Aborigines culturally and physically. The kids were brought up as if they were white, even though they were not. Some would have their mouths scrubbed with soap if they communicated in any language other than English.

I will probably never be a parent, but you don't have to be one to know there can be nothing more terrible or heartbreaking than to have your children taken from you. And, as I said, this was still going on until 1969. Most families did not start to be re-united until the 1980s.

If a government is prepared to indulge in such outrageous racial social engineering, it probably shouldn't come as much of a surprise that Aborigines didn't get the vote until the late 1960s either. They weren't even included in the official population figures - in other words, they were not even considered to be human beings. This only changed after a referendum in 1969. That's right - a referendum on whether people who had been living in a country for thousands of years should be granted such basic freedoms.

In fairness to most Australians, a lot of good work has been done since then to heal these wounds. Talk to most people (at least in Sydney) and they feel a very deep sense of shame about how the Aborigines were treated. The trouble is, although they don't go round stealing their babies any more, life for an indigenous Australian is still incredibly harsh. The average life expectancy for an Aboriginal person is 20 years - twenty years - lower than that of a European Australian. Any attempts at 're-conciliation' are surely exposed as very shallow when statistics like that - from today - exist.

It is the continued injustices that Aborigines face that is particularly galling. The life expectancy issue is a serious, but admittedly complex social issue. Some things are more simple. Like saying sorry. This country's odious prime minister, John Howard, refuses to. He says he will not wear 'the black armband of history'. This is a man who sees the world in a very narrow and conservative way. In other words, because he wasn't a member of Cook's crew in 1788, or holding the gun Myall Creek, or stealing babies, he has nothing to apologise for. In 1998 a National Sorry Day was instituted, to give people the chance to apologise for the past and heal wounds. John Howard boycotted every event associated with it.

As I said earlier, one of the most surprising facts about the history of Aborigines in Australia over the last 200 years is how little the wider world knows about it. We all know loads about Mandela, apartheid and the civil rights movement in America. Ask yourself the last time you read anything about the plight of Aborigines. And, finally, consider this. All of the murders, rapes, repression, the abduction of children - all of it - took place in a country with a British head of state. And we started it. Perhaps we're a bit too close to teach children about it in our schools, eh?

Reflections on New Zealand

On Saturday I headed roughly three hours west across NZ to Mt Cook - the tallest mountain in the southern hemisphere - before going up to Christchurch the following day to return 'home' to Sydney.

Once again each journey was totally different - the trip to Mt Cook across barren yet beautiful hills, and then through the greenest countryside imaginable to Christchurch.

My night at the foot of Mt Cook and by Lake Pukaki was special. Normally if I say that about a Saturday it will have involved a win for Norwich, shit loads of alcohol, a nightclub and then a random shag. On this occasion it merely involved the clearest night sky I have ever seen in my life (ok, that is officially the last of the 'I have ever seen' remarks from NZ), nice wine and keeping warm inside the van while watching DVDs.

On Sunday I awoke to find the sky dominated by the rainbow you can hopefully see in the photo at the top of this post. To say I was mildly disappointed to be leaving NZ after just eight days would be a bit like saying Guantanamo Bay isn't exactly a five star hotel. I can see why people spend months exploring these islands, doing little else but taking in the surroundings.

When I got to Christchurch - by far and away the most 'English' city I have come across during my trip - I had clocked up more than 2,600km. I felt tired, but apart from nearly running out of petrol on one occasion, it had been a remarkably stress-free experience.

My taxi journey to Christchurch Airport after dropping off the van epitomised the warmth New Zealanders extended to tourists - in my experience, anyway. The driver enthusiastically quizzed me about where I had been, what I thought about the country, if I would come back and so on. Then when we got to the airport, I realised I was roughly $3 short of my fare. There were ATMs at the airport, but the driver told me not worry. "Enjoy your flight. I'm glad you had a good time here," she said.

The flight back to Sydney was also great. It was an Emirates service bound for Dubai, so I was treated to all the trappings of a long haul flight but for a comfortable three hours.

A perfect end to a great week. Then it was back to work the next day...

glacier gurning

Sometimes on your travels you come across a place that you instantly feel comfortable in and at one with.

Franz Josef really did tick all the boxes. The township was small, yet well equipped for the hordes of travellers visiting the area. I spent much of my night keeping warm by a roaring fire in a great pub, while other patrons tucked into wintery meals like hot pots and roast dinners - all washed down with pints of local ale. It was great, and I only wish time permitted me the luxury of staying longer.

Today (Friday) I went to see the area's glaciers. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been near anything like it. Access to the glacier at Franz Josef was quite restricted - almost ludicrously so. A rope sealed off the pathway a stupid distance away from it, with a sign saying visitors 'should not' progress any further because of 'possible' dangers. What sort of a fucking warning is that? If you want to keep people out of somewhere, don't beat about the bush with the sort of language somebody uses down the pub when they are debating whether to have one last drink - 'well I really shouldn't have another beer, but as you're buying'. Anyway, you only live once, and so I ignored this weedy warning and climbed over the rope for a closer look at the glacier (when you get right up close there are more severe warning signs). When I made it back unharmed, a group of other tourists stared at me as I came back to the unprohibited side of the pathway. I was half expecting them to have a go at me, but as it transpired one said 'fuck it', climbed over the rope himself and then the others then followed. I like to encourage irresponsible behaviour on mountains.

It goes without saying the glacier was stunning, and I felt slightly cheated as I went back to the van that I couldn't see any more. I cast envious eyes up at the helicopters flying people to the top for a snow landing, although it was $300 a pop to go on one. I just felt like I wanted to see more. It was a bit like pulling someone, getting to the fondling stage, feeling a glorious sense of anticipation, before being told to fuck off home.

Anyway, although I didn't see as much of the glaciers as I would have liked, my drive down to Queenstown in the afternoon was easily the most stunning of the trip so far. I had to stop at least ten times to take photographs of the scenery, such was its breathtaking quality. The highlight was driving around Lake Wanaka (spelling correct), where at times I physically laughed out loud at the ludicrously fantastic views. This truly is the most attractive country I have ever visited.

I arrived in Queenstown at around 6pm, which was a bit later than planned. This is the main tourist town on the South Island, and is famous for extreme pursuits such as bungee jumping. Indeed, this is where the first 'bungee' took place. I have not come here to partake in that. It's never been something I've been interested in doing, and I don't really 'get' why people do it either. A bit like voting Lib Dem.

There was another 'first' for me today, when I sent my meal in a Thai restaurant in Queenstown back to the kitchen for being utterly shite. If I order Chili Chicken, I expect the main component of the dish to be chicken, strangely enough. I do not expect a couple of small slices of poultry to be accompanied by about 456 bits of cauliflower. For the record, I hate fucking cauliflower. When the dish came back from the kitchen, about one malteser sized piece of chicken had been added to the dish. It was a clear 'fuck you' from the chef. I left the restaurant in a foul mood hoping the place burns down sometime soon.

Anyway, Queenstown is teeming with visitors and Friday night revellers. I now intend to get shit faced, explore the area a bit more in the morning and then head to my final destination before flying back to Oz on Sunday - Mt Cook.

God bless Murchison

I set off from Motueka at 10am today, bound for the glaciers on the west of the island.

It was another ambitious attempt for one day - estimated journey time seven hours - but driving in this country is an enjoyable, stress-free experience. It's also the best way of seeing it.

As I headed south, I noticed I had just over a quarter tank of petrol left, but thought little of it as I was bound to come across a petrol station sooner or later. I stopped off for tea and a toastie in a little town just south of Motueka, and read a NZ newspaper to get a feel for the news. There wasn't much of any interest. Like in Oz, news of the Royal Family always makes the papers here. A big story in today's editions was that apparently Prince William has got himself a myspace style web site where he can chat to friends by personal invite only. Well fuck me sideways. Young man uses Internet shocker. Still, he is destined to be NZ's next head of state I suppose...

When I hit the road again, it dawned on me I still hadn't discovered a petrol station and that the gauge was hovering disconcertingly above the empty mark. Time continued to pass and the closest thing to civilisation I could see was a man herding sheep. It was time to panic.

With the nearest town some 40km away - where, in all likelihood, the next petrol station would be - there was every chance I wouldn't make it. Particularly as the terrain was so severe and the roads literally went up and down the side of mountains.

There truly is nothing like an incident like this to shake you out of the 'tourist drives along past picture postcard scenery listening to music' syndrome into full-on, I'm fucked and in the middle of nowhere with only a few sheep for company reality. Add into the mix that my phone doesn't work here, and you truly have a recipe for being in the brown stuff. At best if I was to break down, I would be delayed getting to my destination and may have to re-think the rest of the trip's schedule. At worst, I could be stranded at the top of a mountain with nowhere to leave the car while I went for help. It did strike me, however, that if I managed to break down at a picnic site I was in the best possible form of transport to wait for help. I could lay down in bed, have some lunch, watch a favourite DVD and maybe even have a glass of Chardonnay...

The time it took to get to the next town - Murchison - seemed like an eternity. My mood wasn't helped by the fact I spent a considerable part of the journey trailing a BP petrol van, which probably had enough petrol on board to supply a small army's armour of tanks. It was as if somebody was taking the piss.

Finally, I just made it to Murchison. Never before in my life have I punched the air in delight at seeing a Mobil garage, but today I did. Murchison was one of those typical isolated, desolate towns that just had the one of everything - pub, shop, hotel, petrol garage. I was so happy it had the latter I thought it was a lovely place. When I told the garage attendant I had come close to not making it here, she told me it was just as well I had. There wasn't another station for 100km...

I continued my journey in high spirits. In a perverse way the experience had made me realise where I was, on the other side of the world, surrounded by nothing but beautiful landscape. The rest of the journey was very pleasant, and I finally got to my destination - Franz Josef - at 5pm.

Within a few minutes, I had come to the conclusion Franz Josef was the best place I had visited during my trip. Set at the foot of snow tipped mountains, it is a very small place yet resplendent with great bars and restaurants. My parking spot for the night was in a log cabin park, where the air is filled with the smell of wood fires keeping people warm. It was worth the seven hour drive.

South Island

The best thing about your accommodation also being your transport is that when you have to be on the move at some ungodly hour like 6.45am, you can literally just slip from the bed into the driving seat, stick a few mints in your mouth, drink some water and clear off without all the normal getting ready charade of a normal existence. Perfect.

As I arrived at the port and wind battered the Spaceship, I thanked God I had actually driven all the way to Wellington the night before. God only knows what time I would have been on the road at otherwise.

When I got on board the boat, I was intrigued to see that ferries in New Zealand have all the classic hallmarks of those back home - i.e. being glorified floating tacky seaside resorts, resplendent with amusement arcades, god awful restaurants, a horrible bar and a faint smell of puke. Is it really too much to ask for these vessels to offer edible food? In the 21st Century is the best we can be offered by means of entertainment really a few fucking fruit machines? It was like a Little Chef and a Great Yarmouth pub rolled into one - only this experience cost me $180.

The big, big difference though is that Wellington certainly ain't your average British port. Managing to tear myself away from the temptation of eating in the restaurant, I looked out at the captivating sight that is NZ's capital city from sea. It really does look impressive, nestled at the foot of steep and rolling hills. Arriving in the South Island is no less enjoyable. You can easily run out of superlatives to describe the natural beauty of this place - I think I already have.

After arriving at Picton on the South Island, I headed west to the Abel Tasman National Park. This only took a couple of hours, which was a welcome relief after yesterday. Again the drive took me through some of the most stunning scenery I have ever come across. When I got to Abel Tasman, it was with a tinge of regret that I saw you can do three to five day walks through this coastal park, stopping in campsites or huts en route. I would love to do that, but such is my limited time in NZ I was restricted to an afternoon's walking and a couple of Steinlagers on the beach. This was still fantastic.

I found a lovely campsite in nearby Motueka, which also has plenty of bars and facilities for winding down. An early night was now necessary.

thermo frolics

On Tuesday morning I had more sulphuric fun and games in Rotorua, sampling the geysers, mud baths, eruptions and other strange looking stuff.

It goes without saying I have never seen anything like this anywhere before, and apart from the rotten egg smell, it is fascinating to walk round what looks like one great big science experiment taking place in some of the most stunning scenery you could hope to come across.

I would only make one criticism. That being I don't understand why the Kiwis charge so much to look at this stuff - $25 to each village/park/reserve. Granted, it's actually worth every cent, and I understand the need to maintain these places and stop the lowlifes from drinking Meths in the mud baths, but these are natural attractions. They don't belong to anybody. At the very least I did hope for some kind of explanation from one of these places as to why, exactly, this stuff is here at all. I can see there's boiling mud being spat into the air, but why is this happening in Rotorua and not in Romford? Some kind of basic scientific explanation - a few sentences would have sufficed - was surely required. Or maybe I should have paid more attention during GCSE Science classes.

Anyway, it was very nice. At around 1pm, I set off on the long drive drown to New Zealand's capital - Wellington - where ferries to the South Island leave from. My guide book put the estimated travelling time at six hours, but I assumed this was based on the journey time of a go slow couple in a huge campervan who stop every half hour to look at gift shops. I fully expected that my dusk at 5.30pm I would be there or thereabouts.

As night fell, I was a full 180km from fucking Wellington and feeling like a bit of a twat. Still, the afternoon's driving had been a pleasure. The scenery in NZ is every bit as breathtaking as you would expect, to the extent that I would openly say out loud how beautiful a view was, even though I was on my own. Or perhaps that's just me.

Driving through this country at night is an altogether different experience. Whilst during the day you can see the full splendour of NZ's terrain, at night you really do get a feel for its isolation. Driving through souless town after town, it reminded me of journeys through Lincolnshire on the A17 coming back from Norwich away games. I considered stopping in one of these places for the night and continuing the journey to Wellington in the morning, but such was their eerie desolation I couldn't bring myself to.

At just after 7pm, I made it to Wellington. It then took me a full hour to find my intended destination, which was a campsite in the middle of the city. The only campsite in the city. After a lot of swearing and several near accidents, I found the place. Only problem was it was a campsite for tents only - there was no space for my van and so I would have to look elsewhere, after all that hassle.

I consulted Lonely Planet and decided to head for the nearest possible site I could stay for the night. Techinally I could park anywhere, but slap bang in the middle of a capital city was not ideal.

Eventually I found a place 13km outside of Wellington. It would do for somewhere to sleep, but there were no shops or anything near by and I was hungry. After another drive, I found a Chinese takeaway and then headed back to the site.

After handing over my $15 for the night, I asked the receptionist to book me a ticket for the 11.45 sailing to Picton in the morning. There was a slight problem with this request. That being there was no such sailing in the morning, only the 8.25am journey. Ouch. Which required my arrival at 7.25am. Ouch. Which meant leaving the campsite at 6.45am. Ouch. Which meant waking up at...etc etc

I retired to the Spaceship for a few medicinal glasses of wine and to watch a DVD. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.

sulphur and spaceships

After a hearty breakfast by the harbour, I go to collect my transport for the remainder of my stay in New Zealand.

I'm hiring a 'Spaceship', which is a cross between a car and a campervan. It includes a double bed, cooker, fridge, DVD, CD and MP3 player. The price is also very reasonable, and I am excited by the prospect of six days on the open road with it. When I arrive to collect the vehicle, it is clear the company that lets them out is staffed by wasters. The girl who took my payment and showed me around could barely string a sentence together, such was the obvious affect of whatever she had been doing the night before. Anyway, after a few formalities I was on my way.

I can't say I would have wanted to spend any more time in Auckland. It is a perfectly nice, pleasant and affordable place. I challenge any visitor to dislike it. However, it is hardly the kind of place you yearn to return to. It reminded me bit of the multitude of river/water side developments that have sprung up in the UK over the last 10-15 years. Lots of apartments, office blocks and bars all offering nice views ... but little character. On Sunday when I was with the Kiwi Who's Name I Have Forgotten, I remarked that much of central Auckland looked like it had been built in the last few years. "That's because it has," came the reply.

After an extremely embarrassing incident when I attempted a u-turn on a one way street by mistake, I was heading south. The only thing north of Auckland is the attractive sounding Bay of Islands, but having taken travel advice from my good friend Lady Corlett of the Refuse Collectors and her sister (who used to live in NZ), I decided to drive to Rotorua, which is in the middle of the North Island.

After a good three hour drive, I arrived and headed to a supermarket to stock up on food and drink. I then drove around trying to find somewhere suitable to park the car for the evening, before deciding that a campsite would be the safer and more practical option than the side of a random road.

Although my Spaceship does have numerous entertainment facilities onboard, I didn't fancy sitting inside it all evening and so instead ventured into Rotorua. The place was deserted. I appreciate it was a Monday night, but I don't think I've ever been to a city (population not an insignificant 76,000) so devoid of human activity.

Eventually I stumbled across a bar that was open and began reading up about the local area. Rotorua is nicknamed the 'Sulphur City' because of the odour of the place - it is a thermal area with active geysers, hot springs and exploding mud pools. As there didn't appear to be much going on by way of nightlife, I headed to the Polynesian Spa to sample my first ever dip in a natural pool. Apart from the stench of sulphur, which can get a bit much after a while, it was a great experience. There certainly can't be more relaxing activities than to lie in lovely warm water by the side of a lake on a cool, crisp evening.

It goes without saying this establishment had a more respectable aura than some of the bathouses I've visited - particularly those of the male only variety. It was something of a relief not to see some old geezer wanking himself off in the baths whilst sniffing poppers. Then, my illusion was shattered. A young straight couple were getting 'intimate' in one of the pools, and although it was dark, the motion by which the girl's arm was moving could mean only one thing - she was tugging him off. It wasn't even subtle. Not wanting to watch straight sex in an egg smelling bath, I got changed and headed back into town. Whatever happened to good old fashioned morality?

I grabbed another beer on the way back to the Spaceship, where I spent the rest of the night eating crisps and watching porn.