Making Up The Numbers

There was a dizzying array of things on offer to do in New Zealand. We were continually bombarded with brochures, adverts and information on the places to do bungy jumping, skydiving, kayaking, white water rafting, caving, horse riding, fishing, swimming, sailing, jet-boating, whale watching, knife making, bone carving, gold panning, greenstone spotting, skiing, seal swimming, snow boarding, hang gliding, scenic flying and glacier walking. And these were just some of the things where I knew what they were. There's also zorbing, which I found out consisted of getting into a giant hamster ball and then being pushed down a hill. The real die-hards would have a bucket of water and/or a friend thrown into the hamster ball with them. There’s also swinging (no not that...), whereby after being strapped into a harness with bungy ropes over a large drop, you launch yourself into a free fall before the ropes change your direction and swing you into a giant arc.
There were gentler alternatives on offer, my favourite being the advert to adopt a tree. You can plant your own for an extortionate fee and in return you will get correspondence to let you know how your tree is progressing. You can expect pictures of it as it grows and a certificate of guardianship though no mention of how many other trees are destroyed to produce this literature was mentioned. Nor did it promise that the tree would show its gratitude by writing to you itself. 'You can come back one day and visit your tree!' exclaimed the text. I could only imagine the emotional scenes as trees cry out 'Momma, Dadda!' as they are reunited with their long lost parents.
* * *
"You guys should know plenty of New Zealand history," Noddy said to Denis and Liz. “Do you know how New Zealand got its name?”
"Ya, Zealand comes from the Dutch word, Zeelant!" said Liz.
"Spot on. Many of the first explorers came from Holland, there are places named after Dutch people all over the country. So do you know all about Tasman?"
"As in Tasmania?" replied Denis.
"Yep.”
“We know the name is Dutch but don’t really know much more then that.”
“I’m stunned. I thought this would the sort of thing that they would teach you guys in school! Well, let me tell you all about it then. Tasman was the Dutch explorer who passed through the area 100 years before Captain Cook got to Australia. When he approached the western shore near to where we’re driving to now, the local Maori tribe saw the ships coming in and they’d never seen the like of it before. It must have been like us seeing space ships landing.
“The Maori had sophisticated ways of communicating and struck up a welcome with loads of shouting, singing and the banging of drums. The correct response would have been to remain silent, but not knowing this, Tasman ordered his trumpeters to start playing in reply. The Maori took this as a declaration of war and attacked one of the boats, killing a couple of the men and dragging others away. The captives were later cannibalised. Tasman didn't know what else to do so he just upped sticks and left. He never set foot on shore but the part of the coast where we’re heading now bears his name - the Abel Tasman."
We had picked up a couple more passengers that joined us after making the ferry crossing from the north island in Picton. A German called Jo, began teaching me random German phrases, most of which involved an octopus. 'Ich Stehlen der tintenfish von die backerei,' - I steal octopus from the bakery and ' Ich speile fussball mit einen hund, einen katze, einen pferd, einen huhn und mit einen tot tintenfish.' – I play football with a dog, a cat, a horse, a chicken and with a dead octopus. She was carrying a thick book titled The Penguin History of New Zealand.
"That's a lot of information on Penguins," I said.
She looked at me as if I was mad, and then pointed out the logo of the publisher.
Titus from Switzerland was the other new passenger. He had the habit of making a noise that resembled a motorbike failing to start whenever you would talk to him.
"What are your plans in Abel Tasman?" he asked me as we stopped at one of the activity centres.
"I think I’m gonna stay an extra day,"
"Mmm hmmmmmm mmmmm,"
"To do the sailing trip tomorrow,"
"Mmmm hmmm mmm mmmm,"
"The one where you go sailing for the morning and later they take you out and drop you off part way along the Abel Tasman track where you make your own way back to the hostel."
"Mmm mmmmm hmmm mmmm."
It was hard decision to make, there was an almost gluttonous number of options along with the sailing that included sea kayaking and water taxis to various points on the Abel Tasman trail. The whole trail itself could take the hard-core walkers three or four days to complete and is one of the most popular places in the country for hikers. The half-day’s walk that came with the sailing trip would be enough for me. Seeing Liz and Denis book their water taxi and walk for that afternoon with a view to leaving with Noddy on the following day convinced me to wait behind. They were a lovely couple, but I couldn’t face another night in a dormitory with his snoring. It didn't take too much convincing to get Jo and Titus to join me sailing.
Getting into the Abel Tasman National Park felt like I was starting to see what the country really had to offer. The thick, lush forest of the park known as Marahau to the Maori was set next to golden beaches with perfect beautiful blue water and we were blessed with glorious sunshine during our stay.
Stray's tagline was 'Taking you further off the beaten track,' which was certainly turning out to be the case. Our hostel was called Old McDonalds farm, the facilities were basic but it isn't often that I had the chance to be greeted by pigs and sharmers - a half llama, half sheep animal - in the morning. With an oink oink here, an oink oink there, everywhere an oink oink....
The morning spent sailing around the bays was fantastic and it was a great walk along the track, stopping at some of the beaches to swim and soak up some sun. The three of us took it in turns to sing walking songs from their country, ten green bottles would never be the same for me again.
We were sitting on the porch area of the hostel when the follow-up Stray bus arrived. Off stepped Tracey and Toni, two women from Auckland in their late thirties that had such a similar manor that I constantly failed to remember which one was which. Their jet-black hair and pale skin made them look like they came from the UK, it was only their accents that gave them away as kiwis.
Next came Gemma from Dublin, her skin even paler despite the months she’d spent working as a geologist in Wellington. She was followed off by the driver, a fit looking Maori woman.
“Oh no,” whispered Jo.
“What’s up?”
“That’s Nancy, I was on her bus on the north island. She’s crazy,” she managed to say just before Nancy spotted her and I saw what she meant, Nancy’s enthusiasm for life coming to the fore as they greeted each other like old friends. Lastly came Anna, a tall, stick like woman whose loud Essex accent pierced my ears uncomfortably. We all spent a pleasant evening in each other’s company and I picked up some more teachings from Jo, though by the end of the night I’d also picked up the nickname of The Tintenfish from Nancy who had overheard our German mutterings.

After taking the morning to enjoy the sunshine over Abel Tasman at the beach whilst the previous evening’s arrivals did their boating trips, we travelled on to Barrytown stopping at the Pancake rocks, a unique rock formation on the coast. The rocks had been formed in hundreds of layers giving them the appearance of stacks of the foodstuff. They went on for a good stretch along the coast and blowholes had been formed in some parts of the rock formations, nature giving us a bit of a show with the rough sea causing spurts of water.
Calling Barrytown a town was pushing it with its population of just 92. On arrival I took a quick stroll around the hostel which also doubled as the town’s bar. I got around to the front of the building where a local who looked like he'd been drinking since sunrise, a full nine hours previously, stumbled toward me, spilling his pint. He managed to spit out the words "You louk dish-horientated mate." I looked disorientated?
“I’m alright mate, I thought I’d just have a look around, you know.” I said.
"Oi Tiny! Leave him alone," one of his mates called. I didn't get it. He wasn’t short. Nor was he particularly tall to deserve the nickname in irony. He was indistinguishable from his red neck buddies as he blended back in with them on the porch.
The next day, Gemma and I took a trip to the bone-carving workshop. The two of us made our own trinkets, Maori ‘fish hooks’ that were a symbol of strength and of good-luck when travelling over water. They seemed pretty apt. The rest of the group had opted for either the knife making workshop or a lie-in. Maybe they could combine the day’s activities. In the morning, people could make their own knife, at lunch they get to kill an animal with it and then carve the bones in the afternoon. It’ll only be a couple of years before it would happen I was sure.
We filled out the rest of our day with a visit to the beach and a chance to look for the precious greenstone. On the way we passed the town cemetery, a huge plot of land with barely six gravestones set in it in one corner.
"That's a good sign," Gemma commented, "Not many people die in Barrytown."
"That or the bodies don't get found," I replied.
I was hoping that Gemma’s geology knowledge would help with our greenstone search. She had me smashing rocks apart as she analysed potential specimens. They all looked the same to me. We returned to the hostel with our pockets full of rocks for the inspection of Dusty, one of the guys running the place and the resident greenstone expert. He must be sick of tourists like us coming back with crap from the beach.
In the evening, the hostel hosts put on a barbecue and we spent the evening eating and playing table tennis on the table in the bar area. As a group, we were getting to know each other well. Jo was the opposite of the German stereotype, very laid-back and fun-loving while Titus was turning out to be one of the funniest people I’d met on my trip. Toni and Tracey had the habit of the unsure, doing a running commentary on everything they did. They worried far too much, needing to know exactly what was going to happen. ‘When are we leaving tomorrow? … How long will it take? … Are we stopping for food?‘ they would ask me as if I knew, - I had no more idea then them. But being British, I would still try and be helpful and give them an answer.
Newly arrived were Kevin, Claire and Bryan who were from America. Making up the numbers was Machico, a young Japanese student who was studying in New Zealand at an English school and was taking some time out to see something of New Zealand.
Jo's real name was very hard to pronounce and so she had used Jo as her English name to keep things simple, though this didn't quite work when she met Machico for the first time.
"What's you name?" Machico asked of Jo.
"Jo."
"Joh?""No, Jo,""Joel?""Jo."
“Jowe?”
“Jo!”"Jeaw?" NO, JO!" cried Jo. At this point I got involved."Jo!" I said."Jeow?""Jo!" I shouted."Jo!" Jo screamed.
A pause.
"Johl?"
When she finally got it, she tried the next line she must have learnt from her last English lesson.
"What is your religion?"
"I am Catholic," answered Titus.
"I’m Christian but don't really believe in it at all," said Jo.
"And you?" Machico said turning to me.
"I'm Aquarius," I said.Next day we headed south to the town where we would see in the new year. In the mid 19th century, the German explorer, Julius Von Haast was looking for greenstone in the area when he stumbled into a valley containing a huge glacier. It runs up from one end of the valley floor into the mountains, covering an area of 30 square miles. Hot air from Australia rises up rapidly when it hits the New Zealand coastline and causes huge amounts of snowfall in the mountains, an average of seven metres a year. The weight of the snow causes the lower levels to compress turning the snow into ice and forcing it into the valley.
The moving glacier reminded the imaginative Von Haast of the Austrian ruler at the time due to his long white beard and so he named the glacier after him. The small town nearby that sprang up also bears the name of Franz Josef.
The Maori have their own mythical explanation on how the glacier came to be. The Kati Mahaki or south westland sub tribe, call the glacier Ka Roimata o Hine Huhatere meaning ‘tears of the avalanche girl’ after Hine Hukatere, a Maori woman who travelled into the mountains with her lover Tawe. He was not as skilled in climbing as his sweetheart and he slipped near to the top of where the glacier now stands and fell to his death. Hine’s tears were frozen by the gods as a testament to her grief, the huge volume of which formed the glacier.
It certainly was a unique sight, seeing so much ice surrounded by rainforest in a relatively warm place. Taking a climb up into the lower levels of it was certainly a good hangover cure and not a bad way to start the new year. We’d spent the previous night celebrating at a cheesy 70s theme party in the hostel bar. With such a multitude of nationalities in the group we had several cheers during the day’s hike as the new year got under way in our respective countries.
In the afternoon, Nancy called a group meeting after only just emerging into the new year, her hangover fully evident. “I think we should stay here an extra night. It’s a long drive to Haast and there’s nothing really there to see.”
Most people muttered their indifference.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing Haast, why are we not going?” said Toni. Or Tracy.
“Well, I just can’t be bothered,” said Nancy, her willingness to argue clearly lacking, her energy having been expended when she was dancing on the pool table the night before.
“We’ve got to cover the distance anyway, we might as well take a look at Haast,” said Claire.
“OK, if that’s what you guys want to do,” sighed Nancy, “But don’t expect too much when we get there.
With that, we got back onto the road and headed South for our stop over in the town of Haast. It may not be a glacier but at least Julius got a name check somewhere.
"Haast is a confusing place," Titus read out the first line on the town in his guidebook as we neared it. Though it was referring to the relative distance of Haast to Haast Junction, another small settlement nearby, the line was probably more apt in more ways then intended. The hostel was a strange affair, a large common room and adjoining kitchen was full of low-brow families with screaming young children. The dormitories were comfortable enough but were set right next to the chaotic common area. It was not the typical youth hostel environment and resembled more a refuge for disaster victims.
The town was even smaller then Barrytown. I was a little concerned about a notice in the hostel reception that also doubles as the town shop. It seemed that a crime wave had hit Haast.
'Criminal fisherman!' it read, complete with photofit. 'This man has been known to be fishing without a license. DO NOT approach him. He may be using the aliases 'Gordy' or 'Turnip'. Reward offered.'
I hurried back up the road, feeling the most threatened since my arrival in New Zealand.