Monthly Archives: June 2015

A very grand canyon

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Sometimes you just have to embrace the tack. Don’t fight it, you’ll only come across as a grump. Embrace the kitsch and allow the awfulness to wash over you like a warm, badly made, slightly smelly blanket.

And you never know, you might end up enjoying some of it.

We embraced the tack – we went for the full experience. There’s no point merely going to the Grand Canyon, seeing how big it is and then going home. No siree. Not when there are other ways….

So we went on the train to the Grand Canyon. Not just any old train – but THE Grand Canyon train which takes you from Williams, Arizona to the south rim of the canyon in a gloriously tacky way.

They wouldn’t call it tacky, mind you. Indeed I didn’t find the word tacky mentioned even once on their website. They call it things like “exciting” and “adventurous” and words like that. They’re obviously entitled to choose their own words – I’m happy to stick with mine. I’ll stick with tacky.
The day starts authentically in exactly the same way it would have done in the good ol’ bad ol’ Wild West with an early morning cowboy shoot out in a mock-up Wild West street next to the platform: the Cactus Creek Gang had a run in with the sherif and he filled them full of lead. There was audience participation, mockery of Wisconsin folk, a bit of slapstick – all good clean fun.


(Another one bites the dust)

 

Once boarded, we had “entertainers” come along the train to “entertain” us. A guitar playing chap on the way out who had a moustache and a mouth organ, and then a truly manically and almost certainly drug inducedly-enthusiastic accordion player on the return journey who led a repeated singalong. A repeated singalong is where they play and carry on playing each song until you singalong. The trick was to avoid eye-contact at all costs or she stole your soul.

And we had a real life train robbery. On the return journey those pesky Cactus Creek Gang members reacted surprisingly well to having been shot dead that morning by riding alongside the train and, following a wonderful announcement from the conductor that for health and safety reasons we would have to bring the train to a complete stop for the robbers to be able to board safely (no one, not even hardened desperate cowboy baddies are allowed to board a moving train nowadays), they then came along the carriages robbing people.

It was all good natured, though you didn’t get anything back that you gave them!

I think the key ingredient missing from our carriage was children. There were no children. I think we probably needed some.

I inadvertently became the guy diagonally across from us’s best buddy by pouring him a glass of lemon from the buffet as I had the jug in my hand and he had an empty glass in his. This was apparently the secret sign that meant we’re blood brothers. He was on the trip celebrating 30 years of marriage. His wife uttered only one line the whole journey (coming up later). At one point, Hilarious Hal turned to me and said: “Hey buddy, I’ve got a drink problem!” at which point he put the open end of the glass against his forehead and spilled half of it down himself. He thought this was probably the funniest thing that had ever taken place.

His wife looked out of the window.

I smiled, politely, but hopefully not too encouragingly.

The most telling line of the trip was when the train robbers came along the carriage and one of them stopped by Hilarious Hal and said to Hal’s wife: “is this man bothering you ma’m?” She replied wistfully: “I wish!”

Hal, however, had just the best time.

They released a buffet shortly after the trip started and you would have thought people had been injected with poison and then told the buffet was the only known antidote. I think the received wisdom was get the antidote first or it may run out. It was also fairly clear they thought the more antidote you could get the better you’d recover. It was like velociraptors had been thrown a burger.


(“This man bothering you, ma’m?”)

But, say what you will, the day was memorable. I can remember every second of it. I’m even remembering the bits where Hal was involved in slow motion no matter how much I try not to.

And it was fun.

And the Canyon, when we got there, was absolutely spectacular.

A boy of about 13 had the best response. He was there with his family and as he approached the edge he kept repeating “that is so amazing: it’s incredible: it’s just beautiful,” and similar. Over and over again. I thought at first he was sweet-talking his mum, showing he loved it in exchange for a guaranteed ice cream, but a little later when the rest of the family were off away I saw him again, this time on his own and he was taking photos, still saying quietly to himself: “this is so amazing, it’s just too beautiful….” Even though my normal response to things is more along the lines of “it was alright” or, on an exceptional day, “it was alright” but with an upward inflection on the “right”, on this occasion, I was with the kid.

It’s one place where photos fall so desperately short of capturing the true scale and scope of the scene. I could have happily sat for hours, just looking out over the extraordinary scale of just a fraction of the Canyon. I think they said it was 270 miles long and, at this point, 18 miles wide and a mile deep. Not everything in America is bigger and better, but in terms of canyons, I think they’ve got it sewn up.


(Photos don’t even get close to the scale. There are actually buildings down there you can just make out sitting just before the stretch of trees you can see in the valley foreground – – maybe they are actually matchstick houses but I think they’re probably bigger. I did suggest they should dump a double decker bus or similar onto one of the big stacks in the distance to give an idea of scale but the warden thought it might not be in keeping with their desire to keep things natural.)

I also had my first “birthday cake flavoured ice cream” from one of the shops there.

I’d been out in the sun for 2 hours and I think I was missing Hilarious Hal.

McDonald’s: no place for young men

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We popped into McDonald’s, mainly because they offer free wifi. We felt we should order something but couldn’t bring ourselves to get any food, so I ordered two coffees. It was proudly displayed on the board that coffee was one dollar for any size of cup. Sounded reasonable so, two coffees it was.

The 14 year old behind the counter looked at me, asked if I wanted cream or not to which I replied that milk would be fine – he said something to the effect of not having milk but cream was milk and then mumbled in juvenile-speak and asked me for one dollar twenty eight and lolloped off to fill something. I presumed he must have misheard my order and would return with a cup of something that wasn’t coffee as even with my dodgy maths I could figure that two lots of one dollar is a relatively straightforward calculation.
He returned with two cups that actually looked and smelt of coffee and placed my change and a receipt in front of me. On the receipt it said two snr coffees. We’re not a million miles from Mexico: there is a lot of Spanish speaking going on round about here and so I initially thought the snr meant señor, though why it mattered if you were male or female to order coffee escaped me. But the amount was clearly wrong.

Excuse me, I thought the coffees were a dollar each.

Yes sir, that is correct.

But you only charged me one dollar twenty eight.

That is correct sir.

That’s less than two dollars.

It is indeed sir. Would you like anything else?

No, just the two coffees really.

Very good sir. Have a good one.

Thank you. You too. But why are the coffees cheap today?

They’re not sir, they’re always a dollar.

I’m confused.

Did you want a larger cup? They are the same price.

No. I just wondered why you charged me less than 2 dollars.

Oh, I gave you a senior discount.

A what?

(Looks a little apprehensive and starts speaking as one might when faced,with a grizzly bear) A senior discount, sir.

When do you get those?

When you order, sir.

But how old do you have to be to get a senior discount? How old do you think I am?

Umm, over 50, sir. The manager doesn’t like us to ask so we just guess and if someone looks over 50 we give them a discount. (He looked awkward and stared over my shoulder to the next person in line hoping I would go quietly.)

I went quietly, hoping my joints didn’t creak too loudly and walked slowly off to join Ella at the booth, trying not to shuffle as I went. Happy to get cheap coffee of course, and pretty good coffee at that, but confused (it comes with old age I guess) that the 12 year old server had thought I was over 50.

Nobody thinks I look 50. I don’t look anything like 50. Admittedly I will be 50 in December but nobody thinks I look fifty.

OK, one person obviously does.

And where there’s one there are bound to be others. This sort of thing spreads like nasty disease.

50!

That’s what happens when you employ 10 year olds.

And what am I doing having coffee after 6 pm? I’ll never sleep.

So, that’s it. I officially look over 50 even though I’m not. I don’t want to return to McDonalds, ever – but they have free wifi and cheap (even cheaper, now) coffees and we’re sleeping in our car.

I’m an old, homeless, jobless person living in a car and existing on McDonald’s coffees, hmmm, I think it’s time we booked into a hotel. So I turned to Ella, (who looked to be suffering early signs of claustrophobia – the car roof is only 18 inches above us as we lie on the inflatable mattress) and say the words everyone woman is waiting to hear:

“Let’s go to Vegas, baby!”

Las Vegas

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We drove into the night, partially through the night and, having been pleasantly surprised at how much the petrol (or, gas, apparently although it’s obviously not gas) plummeted when you got into Arizona, had our first glimpse of Vegas from a full 45 miles away. It was still on the other side of some mountain range, but sat nav said 45 miles still to go and we could see a clear, strong glow in the sky from the city lights even at that distance.

We arrived after midnight and thought the most sensible thing to do would be to head for the main strip and see if it looked like it did in the films. Not knowing where it was we pooled our Vegas film knowledge and came up with a few likely candidates to put into Ms Sat Nav. Caesar’s Palace, Planet Hollywood and Bellagio’s were our finalised list. They must be on the main strip – they’re on the telly. Caesar’s palace was acceptable to Ms Sat Nav and she directed us downtown.

Our sunglasses, having been placed in the cup holders in the doors earlier in the day when the sun had gone, came out again to protect tired eyeballs from the fallout of the sun’s explosion which seemed to have been captured and then poured over every building as far as the eye could (so long as you had sunglasses on) see. It’s like a Dulux paint shop had been hit by a sunburst and the whole lot had landed in a Fluorescent tubing factory.

Which had then been struck by an atom bomb.

Our black Jeep Patriot was just about cool enough to hold its own among the glittercarti strutting up and down the street, though it looked like the tiny baby of some of the ridiculous Hummers that towered over us. (Those, the eye-wateringly ugly cube cars and Fiat Multiplas are on my list of top three awful looking vehicles that should be banned from the roads.)

Having been well and truly wowed by the fantastic over the topness of the Strip we found a room in one of a large chain of cheap uncheerful hotels (spell check wanted to change that to cheap ‘n’ cheerful but cheap uncheerful sums it better). It was a hotel whose aspirations had long ago been knocked out of it and whose joie de vivre had become, after many disappointments and let downs, a tired, world-weary sigh.

On the bright side it had a bed and the bed wasn’t in a car.

I asked the guy behind the desk if there was a gym in the hotel. He said it wasn’t hotel policy to give out names of guests. I smiled. He didn’t. Even though I had had a very long day he looked like his had been longer. I went to search for the stairs.

While the hotel was cheap uncheerful, breakfast was included, though it wasn’t to be found in the hotel. To achieve breakfast you had to go into a neighbouring casino, in one corner of which was a tiny add-on in which you could decant a bowl of the dust that’s left at the end of a box of normal cereal when you’ve taken out all the reasonable sized bits, a glass of either vaguely orange or in another container, not quite green, and as many waffles as you wanted.

Five was the answer before I had one.

Not even one was the answer when I’d bitten into the first.

Even at 8.30 in the morning the casino was about a fifth full. Rows and rows of slot machines, many of which had people who looked like they were surgically attached, on some sort of bizarre life support machine as many of them had credit sized cards on leads that were attached to their belts while the other end was inserted into the slot machine. This joined human and machine and it wasn’t clear which thought it was benefiting more from the arrangement. Was adrenaline being pumped into the people through the wire connection, or was hope being drained out? I’ve not understood what’s going on with slot machines since the 1980s, simpler times when you simply had to line up fruit and then occasionally you could nudge wheels up or down and would peer up into the machine to try to see what symbol was three away. Now? Not a clue. There was certainly an awful lot of “winning” music blaring around – but I didn’t see anyone who looked like they’d won.

Slightly less zombified were the people playing on the craps tables (long oval tables with lots of numbers on and someone throws two dice to the other end and everyone cheers or groans at the same time depending on what’s thrown). There were, maybe, two dozen small tables for a whole variety of black jack type card games.

Add to that a smattering of roulette wheels and you had the carbon copy of every casino on the strip. Lots of drinks waitresses rushing drinks to people at the tables to keep them topped up lest they sober up and leave.

How I wished there’d been a table at which you could just have a simple game of Snap. Or a table at which 8 fancily dressed gamblers were engaged in a nail biting game of Happy Families.
People didn’t look too happy, but it was early morning and most of them probably hadn’t had breakfast yet and no one looks happy before breakfast and so we left them and went to explore the town.

Every 15 minutes the long, fancy fountains outside Bellagio’s hotel fire into life and shoot dozens of water jets high into the air to music. Some of the shows were brilliant, and the big lake also gives a great natural meeting place for people and draws in street entertainers and people dressed up so you can have photos taken with them. I had mine taken with a minion who must have been 300 degrees inside the huge sponge suit.

On the flip side, the city exposed its greasy underbelly on each and every section of pavement along the strip. For every 100 metres you walked there would be at least one and up to four individuals or in some cases what looked like entire family groups handing out business cards promising to have girls delivered to your room. Lots of tee shirts declaring the same as well as A-Frame boards, advertising trucks and stands at the side of the pavement filled with leaflets.
People had brought young children to Vegas. Are they nuts? Are they selling them? Are they in any way shape or form responsible to look after children? You know the big buzzer on Family Fortunes that sounds when a contestant gets an answer wrong. (“Uh uh!!!) That was the sound that blasted in my head every time I saw families with children on the main Strip in Vegas.

Come to Vegas. Bring the kids. Uh uhhhh!

(If the French want their tower back, Vegas have got it)

We thought Caesar’s palace was going to be way over the top in its tackiness but I think the Trafford Centre out-tacks it. (Go Britain!) We drifted around and saw the sights, some of the free shows and played a fairly long game of “find the exit”. Planet Hollywood with its “Miracle Mile” of shops was great to window shop in and we saw an awesome Turkish ice cream seller who had a brilliant routine which involved elaborate methods of taking back the ice cream cone he’d just handed someone. One of the routines lasted about ten minutes until the hapless child finally got to gobble their cornet, followed by him dancing to hyped up dance music (the Turkish guy! not the child). He had a lot of photos taken of him but I bet his boss wondered why his ice cream sales were so low.

We went to a recommended restaurant in the evening which did big plates of steak and salad for about £4. Unsurprisingly it was a little busy and we were handed a buzzer thing which would buzz when a table was ready and we were asked to come promptly when it buzzed as they had lots of people waiting. Meanwhile we were to wait, unsurprisingly, in the accompanying casino.
Well, we managed to avoid putting a single cent into a slot machine or onto a roulette table the whole time we were in Vegas. But we didn’t stay entirely gamble free. While we were waiting for our buzzer to buzz we stood next to a craps table trying to figure what was going on. Lots of numbers, lots of people, four staff, one of whom kept pushing chips round with a long stick. Dice being thrown and people throwing chips round like they were confetti. The couple to our left decided we needed educating and tried to explain the game.

I am monumentally poor at describing games to people and always make things sound far more complicated than they are. These good people were from right out of my stable. In the end they said it would be good luck for everyone round the table if a dice virgin (I think he said dice virgin – he might have had a cold) threw the dice. Gamblers are superstitious sorts, he said, and someone who’s never thrown before always brings luck. Having less than no idea what she was aiming to do, Ella was handed the dice and told to throw them to the other end of the table. She duly obliged and was allowed another throw. Whatever she threw seemed to make people happy as they all shouted “hooray”, or American equivalents, and asked her to try the same again. They said throw a nine and lo and behold, Ella threw a nine. A couple of throws later they had changed their mind and seemed to want a 10. Duly dispatched. It was becoming the table to be at. Ella, the dice machine, churning out the numbers. It was a little like on the Bond films (and she had her sparkly dress on too). Bet, bet, bet, dice throw, roll, bated breath, stop. roar!! People were coming across to see what all the fuss was about. I expected a tap on the shoulder from security accusing us of dice counting, or something equally frowned upon.

Then, disaster. The buzzer went off and we said the words that not many hard core gamblers utter in casinos in Las Vegas:

“Terribly sorry, but we have go for dinner.”

You’d have thought we had just burned an American flag and said guns were bad. Apparently when you’re on a hot streak you don’t go for supper.

If that lot were superstitious before, they’ll only be extra so now because with the buzzer of doom vibrating merrily on the side of the craps table (couldn’t switch it off), Ella immediately threw a 7 (losing throw) and the bubble was burst. The couple who had drawn us in insisted we take the winnings they had bet for us as you can’t throw without being in the game so they had apparently staked us in and placed chips accordingly. We declined but they said that everyone around the table had won from Ella’s awesome throwing. They had both won handsomely themselves and even taking back their original stakes that they’d placed for Ella she had still cleared $110 from the small amounts they’d bet on her behalf. They had own much more themselves, so we said thank you very much and went to eat cheap steak. And ended up getting through three days in Vegas 110 dollars up on the house having bet nothing at all.
And yes, it was tempting to try again. But no, we didn’t. We still have a few weeks to go and the budget’s still just about on target.

As it is we’re sleeping in cars and in hotels that smell of sadness.

Vegas. Tick. Next stop, the Grand Canyon….

(They’re probably putting this photo out all round the casinos to warn them about the English broad who’s breaking the bank, little by little…..)

Christchurch

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The coach journey from Picton finished bang on time in Christchurch and we were picked up by Jill (cousin of a lady we were in the same church as 19 years ago) (on this trip that counts as a super close connection) with whom we’d be spending two nights before getting “The Beast” (our camper van for the three weeks on South Island).

Christchurch is an extraordinary looking place. Hit by a devastating earthquake 4 years ago it still shows the gaping wounds of a city centre torn to pieces. You’d be mistaken, walking around, if you thought that the earthquake had only happened a couple of months ago. Huge plots of land are empty. Half-torn-open buildings, mammoth chunks of masonry and long stretches of boarded up facades surround you. And you keep being able to see much further than you are used to seeing in any city. You look around and you expect to see office blocks, bank headquarters and department stores: not far off hills. It’s a place whose disaster currently defines it. Everybody talks about it. All of the time.

(A typical Christchurch city centre scene – 4 and a half years after the quake)

Many people here have mentioned the container “city”, a small area where 40 or so shipping containers have been put so that people could open small shops and coffee bars. We were there at the same time as Prince Harry who drove past us on a tram (he has been in Melbourne, Wellington and now Christchurch at the same time as we have and we get the distinct impression he’s stalking us).
More people talk about the “cardboard cathedral” – a structure that is causing huge division and upset and will lead to court cases and make people shake their heads in despair at the church in general.
Here’s the view of a (reasonably though partially informed) outsider. The cathedral in Christchurch (built in the exact centre of the city when the city was started to be being built (if that’s a tense) in the 19th century and a huge undertaking when there were only a couple of thousand people there) was damaged when the quake struck. It was at first thought that the whole structure would have to be demolished and a new cathedral built. The bishop of Christchurch went public and said this would have to happen but meantime a new temporary structure would be built half a mile away on the site of a demolished parish church – rapidly built and nick-named the cardboard cathedral because its main visual internal struts look like wellying great big cardboard tubes. Which, indeed, they are, but these are just convenient wrappings for the stronger-than-steel wooden poles within them which keep the whole structure ship-shape. The rest of the building materials are pretty standard – a properly weatherproof metal roof and polished concrete floors. And really ugly canvassy curtaining along the insides to form little rooms in the eaves – it has the feeling of a marquee inside.
Over 100 structural engineering experts have since stated that the damaged cathedral is restorable. None has been found to say it’s not. The cost of restoring the original will be a lot less than building a new one. Donations for restoring the original will be a lot more likely to arrive than donations for a new one. I don’t think it helps that the bishop is Canadian (no offence, Canada) and had only been in post a short time and by being Canadian therefore wasn’t a New Zealander and as such is seen as an outsider with different traditions and views (and is also much quoted as saying her cathedral in Canada looks like a grain silo so you don’t need a beautiful, old building as a cathedral). This is probably a deliberate quote out of context by the traditionalists who are agin her.
Anyway, the bishop’s dug heels in, those who want the original restored have mounted a campaign – everything is stalled and lots of lawyers will get fat on the proceeding court led stalemate and meanwhile what could have been an opportunity for the church to bear witness to God amidst calamity is just becoming another calamity.
Draw a line in the sand. Get a new study done in the light of new evidence as to the soundness of the original building and make a thought through choice.

(Inside the cardboard cathedral)



(The container city)


(And just behind the container city, right in the middle of town)

Camper Van

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Well, we’re now fully fledged camper vanners having been in our camper van for a couple of weeks. At the depot where we picked it up we had to sit and watch an informative video which included the awesome line…. “In New Zealand you should always drive on the left hand side of the road: if you find while you are driving that your passenger is in between you and the lines in the middle of the road please reorientate yourself on the carriageway.”

We went for cheap and cheerful. We had to go for cheap, we were hoping it would be cheerful. We booked the smallest self-contained camper; turned up to claim it and found they’d given us an upgrade (they always make it sound like they’re doing you a huge favour when it’s probably down to an admin error or the original vehicle being dead but we were very thankful all the same). Basically, it’s a Mercedes Sprinter van that’s been attacked with a chainsaw and had windows added all round and various ingenious storage units fitted in. It has the world’s smallest shower/loo – good for washing etc, bad for claustrophobics: fridge, microwave, sink, heater and gas hob and a barbecue which folds out cunningly from the outside of the van but as we’re into N Z winter now it’s probably going to stay firmly tucked away.

(Our sweet “wheels”)


(Ella cooking and either dancing with joy, or trying to keep warm. To her left is the world’s smallest shower/loo)

With the van having the world’s smallest shower/loo it means we are officially self contained and therefore can park pretty much anywhere outside of civilisation and don’t need to be dependant on campsites.

Brilliant.
However, what the blurb didn’t tell us was you can only use the heater (very necessary piece of kit in the increasingly cold evenings) and the electric sockets when the camper van itself is plugged in to the mains which, due to the plugs they’ve got, can only be done when you’re in a campsite. Similarly for recharging the reserve battery which they suggest you do every other day. So, we’re not quite as free-from-campsites as we’d hoped to be.
We have done some “freedom camping” (we stayed at a look out point on the top of a mountain our first night: awesome view – excruciatingly and literally mind-numbingly cold overnight) and also tried a few campsites along the way.
I must admit that, never having campsited before, upon successful completion of the first thorough excavation of the collection tanks lurking in the nether regions of the van into the imaginatively named “dump station” and refilling the water tanks I did feel very rugged and manly even though, as we were the only residents of that particular camp site there was no one around to be thralled at my rugged campsiteness. Ella dutifully swooned but that may have been the dump station fumes.
The main reason I thought it would be a good idea to get a self-contained camper van was so we could sit in the middle of absolutely nowhere (and in New Zealand there are lots of middles of absolutely nowhere) and, if I’m honest, more importantly, to not be on camp sites because camp sites tend to be a gathering place for campsite people. Campsite people are weird. They are permanently jolly and wear shorts they’ve long since outgrown and they always try to engage you uninvited in conversation from their deck chairs and always have kit you wish you’d thought of bringing but they have done this sort of thing for so long it’s a perfect art form for them now but because you are also on a campsite they assume you share some deep bond and, like them, have no shame.
I’m not so into all that chatty stuff. (Add that to the list, along with thumbs ups – see skydiving entry). I want to know how early is reasonable to pull all the curtains closed so you avoid that awkward eye contact of passers by, or neighbours, because when it happens I feel the need to make some ridiculous acknowledging gesture which is bound to be misconstrued as being friendly and they’ll take it to mean I want them to come over and chat. But it doesn’t, it really doesn’t.
It’s meant to mean “this is my cave: admittedly it has wheels and I’ve been forced to bring it into your midst for the purposes of having electricity and heat but it’s still, fundamentally, my cave. Go away.”
Ella has none of these hang ups.
However, as it’s turned out, it being winter here, unsurprisingly the camp sites are mostly relatively, and in a couple of cases mostly totally, deserted.
This is good, and in addition to that I’ve discovered the optimum angle at which to park to leave the minimum of window frontage on display to the passing world.
Ella says I can’t put a fence round the van.

(View from our pitch on one of the camp sites…… And below is the same  campsite the next morning. #perfectcampingconditions)

(And here is a lake I jogged to. Not too shabby)

It’s been fun driving a big long vehicle. I did almost get it inextricably stuck in a walled-in supermarket car park which, once you were in seemed irresponsibly small for large camper vans to be lured into. Nevertheless I managed to park as unobtrusively as possible (which was to unobtrusiveness the same as an elephant carrying a party balloon). Ella went in to the shop and I waited in the van in case people couldn’t get out of any of the parking spaces we were possibly preventing exit from. After enduring a few native hand gestures of welcome I figured it would be diplomatic to leave and find somewhere else to park. This however required me to wait for two cars to leave before I could achieve the right angles to safely manoeuvre out again and nearly scraped a sign on exiting which, I noticed when I looked back said “No Camper Vans Please”. I would contend that, by definition of my not having seen it on the way in, it wasn’t nearly clear enough.

That evening, with curtains satisfyingly completely drawn I managed to destroy 20% of my entire wardrobe in one fell swoop. 6 night light candles burning merrily, giving a bit of ambient light and even a little extra heat, placed in a bread tin (cos we’re safety conscious and the bread tin would keep them safe). Someone opted to place the bread tin onto a dinner plate in case the bottom of it got hot and burned the camper van worktop. Still looked pretty safe. Then someone (I know I keep using the term someone but I’m trying to protect the guilty by keeping her identity hidden) opened an overhead cupboard and a loaf of bread fell down, hit the edge of the dinner plate which launched the bread tin and candles in an arc of waxy warmth all over my trousers and shoes and (my only) jumper.
Never fear, thought I, if there’s one thing being a vicar has taught me it’s how to get candle wax off things (mainly carpets and pew kneelers). So, after buying some brown paper from the local post office the next day I commandeered the camp site ironing board and iron. Unfortunately, in my uber-zealous ironing on the dirt-cheap, waffer thin ironing board I managed to imprint long lines of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxs from the metal mesh the board was made of and which were hidden under its micron thin cover. Top + trousers ruined. Happily, we’ll be off to the States soon and it’ll be hot so I’m consoling myself with the thought that a.) they would only have been unnecessary baggage in the heat and b.) I might legitimately make the 7kg carry on luggage allowance on the next Qantas flight.
New Zealand is by far the prettiest country we’ve visited. When we were in Queenstown we drove the road to Glenorchy which is on the list of the 10 most beautiful drives in the world. Stunning – with a new reason to stop and take photographs round each of the very, very many bends. We also visited Arrowtown which was pretty and stumbled across a little museum in which many of the exhibits were touchable, climable on, sittable in and contained stuff like huge saws and tools U K museum curators would have slapped barriers round and shouted “health and safety nightmare”. A printing press was there, open to the touch, with a massive roll of newsprint stretched across rollers – you could just reach out and stick your finger through the paper if you wanted. And yet, no one had.
Either, New Zealanders have and use far more respect and common sense than we do and this magically rubs off on visitors. Or, some oik had nicked the barriers and we weren’t actually meant to touch any of the stuff we were handling. Oh well.
Some of the early medical exhibits were interesting – including this everyday essential….

World travel – it’s an eye opener.

Sky Diving

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Sky diving. You get in a little plane, ascend very quickly to 16,500 feet and then get out.

It was one of those things that we had agreed back in England would be one of the “specials” on our trip. We’re watching the budget on everything but had said if there were one or two once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that came along then we should feel able to take them. (I’ve got an “everything on red!” feeling coming on for when we get to Vegas……)

Sky diving above the Fox Glacier was on the short list. On Tuesday this week we found ourselves only a few hundred km away from Fox and woke up to the most glorious crystal clear, calm sunny winter morning so we thought, let’s go and see if there’s room for a small one. Ella figured that we needed a strong “ground support team” and so wisely opted for the “terra firma” option. I went for the terror affirmer choice.

I’ve bungy jumped before – from a tiny platform high up on a cliff face above a cave in the South of France. High on the list of the 5 coolest things I’ve done was catching my “Englishman abroad” straw hat in one hand as it flew off my head mid-jump and holding on to it so at I could then replace it while being lowered to the ground at the end of the jump – but there was not to be another hat incident at the sky diving. Sadly, you had to wear a fairly unfetching swimming cap affair.

I had no idea how I would feel in the plane. As it was I felt entirely emotionless. Not only no nerves at all, just nothing at all, really. I was interested, but not what I’d call excited. I think my body just couldn’t figure what it should do or how it should feel and so flicked onto a Trade Test Transmission mode, a bit of holding music until something happened that it could link to a known, appropriate response.

I was nervous when I bungy jumped, which was about ten years ago. I went with my two sons and as they were both due to jump ahead of me I was secretly hoping one of them would wimp out so I could escort them back down the mountain without losing face – but they both executed ridiculously cool swallow dives and muggins was left with no choice but to go through with it. And then, I was nervous. I remember standing on this tiny platform with two French guys shouting French stuff and thinking: “Why would I want to do this? I’ve got a rubber band round my ankles and the floor is a heck of a long way down and at some point I need to turn upside down. How does that happen? How do I turn upside down?” Then some more rabid French insults from behind (I was the last to go and they wanted to pack up and go for their garlic croissants or something).

So, with my main reason for going through with it being not wanting to offend, I stepped off. My hat, which they had gesticulated I should take off and I had made clear was staying with me, flew off – caught it – was so pleased I then didn’t really think anything else apart from wishing I’d stop bouncing. But climbing the mountain, watching the boys, standing on the ledge – really nervous. Sky diving – nothing.

Older? Closer to death anyway? Fully confident in Nico, my jump partner who did have very cool sunglasses and looked the sort who’d own a cool flying jacket too? He’d be doing all the work, after all – I’d merely be his parasite for the duration. Or was it just my body saying “Didn’t we agree no more jumping off high things? You’re on your own pal, I’m off to my happy place.”

Probably a combination of all the above. But no nerves on the way up. There were two others jumping and when we got to altitude they both sodded off, leaving me and Nico. I had been sitting in his lap for the past fifteen minutes which was odd, and he shuffled us along towards the door – shouted “remember the banana” (stick your legs back, head back, and make like a banana) and slipped out of the plane.

That first two seconds is indescribable. So, to pick up from there…… Initially you’re facing the sky, which is absolutely fine because there was nothing to see really, – just sky, and a perfectly good plane disappearing which brought a pang of separation anxiety. Then you flip over and there’s a really big planet rushing at you full force. It was at that precise moment my feelings decided to rejoin the party. If they’d been off in a strop in the plane they had come back with a vengeance. The free fall was 70 seconds and you could see both West and East coast at once, and straight below you, Fox Glacier, Mount Cook, beach and rainforest, all in one vista.
To be honest, the most awkward bit of the descent was neither battling the pain of the goggles digging into my face, nor my eyes watering, nor my ears popping, nor my feet being freezing. No, it was Nico trying to get me to give a thumbs up so he could capture it on film. I’m not a thumbs up sort of guy though. I’m more a casual nod of acknowledgement sort of chap. He took about 70 photos on the way down and seemed to want a thumbs up in over half of them.

“Wahay! Give me a thumbs up, Jonathan!”

“No, you’re alright, Nico.”

“Thumbs! We need thumbs up in photos.”

“Honest, we’re good thanks.”

“Give me five then!” And holds out his hand.

“You’ve got entirely the wrong continent, mate. I’m English.”

“Righto, just one last photo before we open the chute. At least give me one thumb!”

There were replies to that.

Is he paid according to the number of digits he manages to capture in his photos? He had said in the plane that even if he had a heart attack on the way down the parachute would open automatically. I wondered if I could punch him unconscious. In the end I gave him a solitary thumb up along with what I hoped was a suitably ironic facial expression and he seemed happy enough and opened the parachute and we continued our fall at a more leisurely pace.

With the chute open we could take the goggles off and that gave an even better view of the ground. Parachuting is definitely the way to go. Free fall – too fast. Floating down – absolutely perfect. Nico gave a running commentary of all the sites to see and tried to get some variety in the photos he was taking by throwing in a “what about a salute then?” to try and get through the plucky Brit’s defences.

We landed, not entirely in the Bond-like pose of my imaginings, skidding in on our backsides. Then it was a quick unclip and one last “Thumbs up? No? OK” and a hand shake sealed the deal.

I couldn’t find a box of Milk Tray to present to Ella so she had to make do with a bar (slightly broken after the landing) of Cadbury’s.

Can’t help it – now feel invincible. It’ll probably wear off soon enough but I’m on the lookout for kittens in trees and falling things I can catch and forest fires to extinguish.

For, now and forevermore – I am a skydiver – (or, as spellcheck just suggested…… a screwdriver.)
 (Quite a good view. Quite a bad cap)

 
 (Nico waving to the camera. Me having facial reconstruction.)


(Down safe and sound and forever more……. A screwdriver)