Advertisement
Published: December 5th 2012
Edit Blog Post
And so my encroachment upon the south island begins, and a loosely planned one at that, looser than a Manchester Street hooker I headed out east along route 73, the Great Alpine Highway via Arthurs Pass. Thankfully, the daily grind and my scuzzy lifestyle was being left to one side for the time being, I now found myself with the freedom and time to assess what the south island had to offer, taking it at ease and not rushing it being the order of the day, it was time to be free again.
Route 73 runs from Christchurch some 255 km out to the West Coast though the Southern Alps; a route formerly developed in the 1860’s to transport gold from the West Coast to Christchurch. A somewhat perilous route that only ever actually saw one shipment of gold. But alas the route remained and in time became more developed, and it’s for this reason that at I am here today along with many others to soak up its glamour along the way.
To traverse New Zealand I got myself the popular Toyota Estima Van, a 1993 model, a fully equipped camping vessel ingeniously disguised as a bumblebee, in
fact, it used to be a taxi, so it certainly knows its way around. It’s a bit of a beast and one hopes it will do the trick for me. And for the past several months it has indeed done just that. A few miles down the road today however I couldn’t help but notice the vague odour of displaced meat making itself known to me. This of course wasn’t the cars problem, this was mine. Over the past week I’d bought a great deal of groceries to stock up the van to keep me going for a while and away from the fast food slutholes. Currently as I headed out upon route 73 one couldn’t help but notice that one product or another had shit itself during the night. For now I’ll probably just ignore the smell, perhaps in some hope that my senses naturally become accustomed to the stench of rot, it’s sometimes easier that way.
My first stop along route 73 would be at the small village of Springfield, now normally I wouldn’t have stopped apart from the fact that there was a massive monumental Donut dolloped in the middle of a park. The kind of
pink icing sugar coated donut that our favourite yellow slacker Homer Simpson would often be seen devouring, and why not, the town was after all called Springfield. Erected in 2007 to promote The Simpsons Movie it remained due to its popularity with locals and tourists. Then in 2009 it was toasted by arsonists, apparently some opposed it due to its relation to the promotion of a dysfunctional American family and it served no purpose in a Kiwi landscape. And after hot debate the donut was again resurrected, this time it was made of concrete, arsonists would have a tougher time taking it apart and so thus far it remains. Donut aside there is very little else going on in Springfield, there’s a few cafes, a bar, a motel and some restrooms and not a whole lot more, so apart from the 3.5metre donut there wasn’t really a lot of call to linger, which I should imagine would be a common feat for most heading along the highway from east to west. You get your novelty donut picture and you leave, just like the retired Aussie couple and their lacklustre white ball of fluff you could call a dog that arrived
just after me, setting the perfectly terrifying example for me as to what it might be like to be married and in my sixties. I was just sorting a few things out in my van, (mostly trying to find the trace of rotting flesh) and I could see that the man of the house was trying to get a snap of his Mrs and the ball of fluff with the donut, but they seemed to be having some difficulty in getting the ball of fluff to look directly at the camera, I can’t recall what they were calling the dog, but I remember it being something slightly off the cuff and un-dogly, like ‘Greg’ or something. “Greg look at the camera” said the wife trying to force the ball of fluffs head up towards the camera.
“Greg, c’mon boy, look over here” Said the husband. The ball of fluff didn’t know what was going on, head flicking back and forth
what! Where am I? Who are these strange people….what! Where am I? “Go on Greg, look at the camera” continued wifey.
“You shut the fuck up, Greg listen to me” said the husband rather abruptly. And there
it was, I wonder at what point in a relationship as to when it becomes perfectly acceptable to tell your Mrs to shut the fuck up, it has to be some sort of milestone you get to I suppose. The old
‘shut the fuck up bitch’ milestone, never the less, wifey certainly shut the fuck up, they got their picture and I can only assume that they fucked right off back home to Australia for a nice round of sneaky OAP style domestic violence, Ritalin in the tea, under cooked eggs, taking a few centimetres off the old walking stick, that sort of stuff, I’m sure you get my gist.
Anywomb, after my brief spell in Springfield I traversed down the road a little further before stumbling across the necessity to stop at Castle Hill Station. Consistent of what looks like a carpet bombed collection of huge limestone boulders just dumped right there in the middle of nowhere. I went for a wee waltz up the hill. I couldn't have asked for a better start to my campaign really, the sun was well and truly blazing, not a cloud in the sky, a brief nip in the air but
by no means a deterrent.
I continued out west, heading deeper into Arthurs pass, the further in you get the more one must prepare one’s self to become the more extraordinarily dazzled. Postcard perfect landscapes all over the shop, snow-capped mountains, waterfalls, a constant fixation of lush greenery, an abundance of wildlife, not a skag-head in sight!
As evening began to set in I looked for a plot to crash for the night, my first spot next to a river accompanied by fantastic views across a gorge were however hampered. Fucking Sand-flies. Shocked to say that I never did my homework in regards to these little beggars before leaving the house. Oh they are such little fuckers, biting at will, they will get in your hair, bite through your clothes, they get in your van, and I was just completely festooned as soon as I set foot outside. So I saw no choice but to change location, which of course would prove to be of no consequence.
I sought out a little place called ‘Klondyke Corner’. Upon getting out of my van I was struck with another menace, here I would be introduced to the Kea. A
parrot of exceptional intelligence, who’s only prerogative is to wind you the hell up. The thing literally made me feel like I was a lesser denominator in the food chain. They are such cheeky monkeys, threating to snap my radio antennae off, trying to tear off the rubber seals around my window frames, they are a real piece of work. They are like the kids on the estate that scratch your alloys or dint your paintwork whilst you’re gone. But if you were to give them a quid they would throw it back in your face because it’s just genuinely more fun to fuck shit up! Luckily another vehicle turned up, a newer swankier green vehicle, the clown pissed off then to wind them poor bastards up. Parrots have just got it so easy!
Then of course those bastard sand-flies caught up with me so I had to retreat quite swiftly to my van and make my sarnies in cramped conditions. I then called it a night and hoped that today’s little sand-fly scenario wasn’t going to be a prevalent thing as I traverse the rest of the south island….oooooh such wishful thinking!
Advertisement
Tot: 0.141s; Tpl: 0.012s; cc: 14; qc: 46; dbt: 0.0656s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb