Good Times in Christchurch & Stunned in Milford Sound

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Video Clip - Getting Soaked Under Stirling Falls.

We arrived in Christchurch at 12:30 and were welcomed by our old school mate Linda from Stirling, who has been happily settled in New Zealand now for four years. The first thing we experienced on arriving was the cold, which was comparable with Scotland in January so it was a shock to the system given we'd been thouroughly acclimatised to the tropics for the past month. No more Daniel Craig/James Bond impersonations, emerging from the surf onto beaches, pouting the lips with the chest puffed out... Nevertheless, it was comforting to be safe in the knowledge that we could look forward to some respite from the mosquitos for the next wee while who had been making meals out of us in the Pacific.

When we reached Linda and Paul's house, we were on our last legs from the 6am morning flight from Fiji and crashed out hard, finally succumbing to the excesses and rigours of strenous island life. The next two days, Linda and Paul showed us around the sites of Christchurch and basically took Trung and I under their wing's. We checked out the old quarter of the town with the neogothic college buildings and quadrants then drove around the hills flanking Christchurch for great views over and across the city skyline. Thank you so much Linda - you guys were awesome hosts : )

The next day, Trung and I collected our hire vans from Escape Rentals which were to be our psychedelic homes and transport over the next two weeks in New Zealand. We'd planned on splitting up in New Zealand from the start of the trip and travel the one way route between Christchurch and Auckland to: a.) see what travelling alone is like; b.) to get a bit of solitude in the far out areas of the South Island; and c.) to ensure that we don't do each other's heads in too much. So off we went in our trucks, myself towards Milford Sound, and Trung, more or less in the same direction, towards Queenstown. I got a van called Walter with a bunch of rabid looking dogs on one side and what appeared to be a big deranged hound eating a Chinese man on the other. We think my artist was on LSD or something similar while concocting the design for my van. Trung definitely landed the wheels with the better paintjob, a Toyota called 'Soul' with designs of James Brown sprayed across one flank and Ray Charles serenading down a microphone on the other - very cool.

It was very scenic on the way down to Milford; however, the weather was pretty intense and involved mountain driving through snow blizzards at Lindis Pass and gritting (chattering) teeth while sleeping in freezing cold temperatures inside the van during the nights. It really emphasised the climatic differences between the warm and humid islands of Fiji in comparison with crisp and cold New Zealand. Thankfully, it's only NZ and Japan on the trip where it's going to be cold so it's a fair deal overall. In America, my watch read '41c' at Hoover Dam in Arizona but while in New Zealand, I awoke at 05:00 in the van one morning near Lindis Pass with frozen nose syndrome and the temperature reading '-1c' and ice on the inside of the windows. Just like Edinburgh in January :S

On arriving at Te Anou at 21:00, I had the heavy disappointment of finding a warning sign ordering that snow chains must be carried if driving the one-way mountain pass to Milford Sound and toll booth checks warning of fines of $750 for flouting the rule. For me, the main reason for going to New Zealand at all was to visit Milford Sound in the reputedly beautiful Fjordland region in the South so I was gutted. I considered chancing it but I really didnt want to be the numpty tourist that gets caught out on these trecherous alpine roads. It was late at night and dark by now, so I drove around the nearby countryside until I found a quiet picnic area in the middle of nowhere so I could park up and sleep.

The next morning was extremely cold in the van so I was up at the crack of dawn, around 6:00am to get the engine turning and restore some warmth. It was a long shot, but I just had to check the snow chain sign again to see if it had been changed; disappointingly, when I got there, it was the same. I was so determined though to make it to Milford, having come so far for the pleasure, that I decided to drive back to Te Anou and see if I could hire or even purchase some snow chains. When I reached a Mobil garage and explained to the woman at the desk, she told me, to my surprise: "Oh, it's all fine now. They've cleared the roads last night." Wow! So again, back in the van and up the road to the sign - which had now been changed! "Yes - you beauty!" I was delighted and roared the van past the toll booths and up towards the hills, lakes, mountains and glens of Fjordland.

That drive to Milford Sound was worth all of the freezing cold nights in the van and all the messing around and uncertainty in Te Anou. It's was one of the most scenic and gorgeous drives i've ever seen and I reckon the sharp winter weather brought out the best in the area. Very cold and crisp with clear blue skies and brilliantly bright sun, with clouds of evaporating ice rising and drifting off the early morning snow-capped mountain peaks. At points, I was driving around mountain bends and taking in awesome panoramas and saying "Wooooow!" out loud to myself, alone in the van. It really was one of my favourite days of the whole trip since leaving Scotland - and that was before even reaching the main event of Milford Sound itself.

After driving for 2hrs and taking countless stops at laybys to take in the scenery, I arrived at Milford Sound harbour and bought a ticket from one of the cruise companies that ferry tourists up and down the fjord. It cost $80 NZD which is pretty expensive but it was well worth it and although I'm not really into packages with other tourists, this one was pretty good. We were taken around the fjord and given waterproof macs so we could stand under some high waterfalls which was a pretty good laugh. Check out the clip at the top of us underneath Stirling Falls.

On leaving Milford, I wanted to put in some fast distance and get within the vacinity of Queenstown. Once I was within touching distance of about a hundred kilometers, I realised that it was nine in the evening, it was dark and foggy and I was far too woozy to drive smartly any further. It had been a long, hard day (x) and the most sensible thing to do was to turn my attention towards finding a campsite or discrete roadside layby to park in and fall asleep. It wasnt long before a familiar sign appeared from through the fog in the distance at the side of the road pointing to a roadside picnic area a couple of hundred metres ahead so I drove on and turned Walter off the deserted highway and into the gravelly opening of the layby.

On pulling in, the van struggled to get much purchase from the deep surface gravel that covered the area and I suddenly had flashbacks to an almost forgotten childhood memory where my father got the car stuck in loose gravel at a building site in Leuchars while on a family drive. I remembered the hassle it involved to get the car out that day so I was reluctant to concede any momentum the van still had as I slowly turned the steering wheel around to enable Walter's headlamps to sweep the area and illuminate what options were there. In the corner, I could see a clearing of the gravel and a narrow track disappear through the foggy trees bordering the picnic area. These are common in New Zealand and as I'd reliably followed these tracks in other picnic areas before, I pushed stubborn Walter on through the loose stones and onto the harder ground of the track. I continued around a sharp, blind bend and suddenly found myself reacting suddenly and slamming my foot on the breaks... immediately in front of the bumper loomed dark and still water, given away by a subtle sheen from the moon's reflection and under a wide blanket of silver fog. Too still for a stream or river - a lake. Before I could appreciate the relief of just how close I'd come to driving into this water trap in the middle of nowhere at night, I realised that the hard support of the soil covering the track had softened to a more muddy and loose consistency - the van was listing.

"What are my options?" Forward - into the lake. Backwards - blindly around a corner and into the deep gravel trap i'd just hauled the van out of. To the left - trees. Damn it Beyonce'!! To the right, next to my window - an opening! Enough width to fit a car, probably a parking or turning place for vehicles requiring lake access. An abandoned fridge-freezer, large trees on all sides but with some smart manouvring, enough room to perform a sharp turn and get the hell out of this fix. I selected reverse and Walter reluctantly jolted back and after some wheel spinning in the sticky mud, I threw him around quickly into the enclosure of trees to turn. As soon as I stopped the van to start my tight turn, the ground below started to sink below the van! Shit - the enclosure is worse than the track! I slammed him into reverse again, gave full gas but the van wouldnt move. As I revved the engine to it's maximum, watery mud flew past the window of my cabin and uncooperatively, the van pirouetted out of the mud but not in any direction dictated by the steering wheel.

For the next five minutes, I rapidly drove forward a few inches, then back a few inches, trying frenetically to obtain a degree of direction, momentum or control. I was getting none of these requirements from my reluctant wheels. With each half-second the car stayed still, the tyres would sink deeper into the welcoming mud while each futile effort of moving and turning would churn the ground up more and more into a quagmire and reduce the area of viable ground that the wheels could possibly gain grip and drive from.

At this point in the battle of the bog, while still willing Walter to turn properly in the mud instead of lolling around like a tranquillised hippo, I started to consider the context of the situation. Its 9pm, in the middle of nowhere in rural New Zealand. It's freezing cold outside, it's foggy and it's beginning to rain. There are no house or farm lights in the distance and cars passing on the main road are seldom. I've no cell phone, no way to contact the 24hr roadside assistance and i'm miles from the nearest town, let alone phone box. Just a sinking Toyota campervan with an insurance excess of $1200 and a mud-bespattered paintjob of a man being eaten by a dog. How ironic! "Theres no bloody way this is happening!!"

So there I was, postured bolt upright but angled up over the steering wheel, willing my vehicle to respond like an anxious robber, who's just stalled the get-away car outside a heisted bank. I was giving the throttle laldy with maximum gas but by now, Walter was beeched, the only thing the engine moving being more spray of thick, runny mud past my window and into the illuminated bushes ahead. Forward/reverse, forward/reverse - he's not moving - "Bullshit...BULLSHIT!!"

Finally, from nowhere, a response from the mud-clarty wheels! He's moving! Like a greyhound from a trap, Walter took the throttle I was offering him and lurched out of the mud in reverse and BANG!, right into one of the shadowy and thick oak trees immediatly behind the rear of the van. "Shit!" No matter - whatever the damage done is acceptable given the circumstances. I'll gladly drive away from here with a van with minor, cosmetic shell damage in exchange for a van moored chassis-deep in a metal-hungry bog in the middle of nowhere. With the adrenalin pumping, I somehow kept Walter moving and with some kind of miracle traction in the mud and some quick turns, I managed to get him round 180 degrees and facing the right way out of this situation. I floored the gas out of the enclosure, past the lake, round the blind bend and plunged him into the deep gravel sending a flourish of chipped stones into the air either side of the van as if driving through deep water. The fast momentum gave the stones no chance and I bounced poor Walter through the 'picnic area' and back onto the highway with a swivel before speeding up to leave a trail of mud behind me and winding down the window for a sobering blast of cold and dry New Zealand night air. What a stresser that was! What an escape!

I drove on to the next village and pulled into a deserted but illuminated old country garage to survey my champion of a truck. He'd sustained a couple of superficial bumps on the back that might, just might be pardoned or overlooked by the rental company but regardless, what a relief! I drove onto a far more safer looking picnic area and parked up and zonked out. The following morning, I awoke and pulled back the curtains in the van to find myself overlooking, from a distance, the evil lake that almost swallowed Walter and I. Predictably, yet deceptively, it silently stared back like a picture postcard angel of a lake incapable of eating a van. It was starting to rain then and on the final leg to Queenstown, Walter got a welcome soaking to wash off the mud from the night before.

As if the excitement of the night before wasn't enough, onwards we drove to Glenorchy with a surprise urge and improptu curiosity to find out if I could jump out of a plane later on that very morning...

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