The flight to Auckland crossed the international date line, as well as some time zones. When we arrive, they say it's early in the morning on January 18th. Fine. On a trip like this, it's best to just believe anything anyone tells you about the time and date (within reason; if someone hands you a Jacobean ruff and says "here, put this on", maybe you hesitate).
There are no short flights to New Zealand. The arrivals area of the international terminal might be the greatest concentration of disoriented, vulnerable people in the world. It's where I would come to recruit for a cult. There are two officials to see: A passport control officer and a customs officer. The passport control officer asks where I'm going, beams, and says that that sounds lovely. The customs officer wants to know whether I have any food, then waves me through with a sigh that says: You fill me with despair, but I accept that you have no food and no criminal intent -- indeed, that you may lack the ambition and the imagination to form criminal intent -- and are here merely to boggle at all the sheep and ask our citizens what Gandalf is really like. Welcome. You will find our nation's scenic trains and breakfast burritos to your satisfaction.
Spending your life asking one question would eventually break anyone. There are probably homes where former NZ customs guards mill about asking each other whether they have any fruit or vegetables. They're sacrificed in the fight against invasive species. A good cause, but not a thrilling one. Even if someone does forget a banana, it's not like catching Carlos the Jackal.
Auckland is something like Vancouver or San Francisco: New, hilly, beautifully sited, hilariously unaffordable, and in a certain amount of danger of falling into the sea. I'm staying in its largest hotel, which is a vast pink eyesore put up by architectural terrorists in the 1980s. The plan was an evil one: Inside the hotel is the one place from which you can't see the hotel, which immediately makes its rooms more desirable than the competition's.
The neighbourhood includes Albert Park, with statues donated by important locals in the early 20th century, rare and enormous trees that would fascinate anyone who knows anything about treees and that even I found pretty impressive, and a pair of naval cannon, presumably in case of war with a neighbouring park. No one wants the rivalry with Victoria Park to get out of hand, but that's exactly why a credible deterrent is so necessary.
I took a ferry to Rangitoto, a volcanic island hauled abruptly out of the sea only 600 years ago. The land itself is younger than, say, Oxford University. The 25 minute ferry ride to the volcano provides a chance to think about which of your fellow tourists you'd most like to tip into it. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a deep bowl of brushy trees, and not a smoking caldera. Not to say that sending them cartwheeling through the brush wouldn't also be gratifying, but that could be achieved almost anywhere.
Rangitoto has a cover of low, young trees split by seams of black volcanic rock. A strip through the centre of one of these has been pulverized to make a gravel path to the summit. It's strenuous, but not difficult. There are tourists even less prepared than I am. Some ask me for directions -- see me puffing down the path with my earbud headphones and nerdy glasses and think, "aha, no doubt this rugged outdoorsman will be able to direct us." At the crater there are picnicking families and the ruins of a WWII observation post established to watch for the Japanese, who never came.
The island's managed now to preserve its "native" species -- species that have found their own way there -- but before this kind of conservationism was fashionable, it was a holiday spot. A certain Mr. Wilson is cursed by modern ecologists for bringing in plants to try to establish a botanical garden. It's hard not to feel a bit sorry for Mr. Wilson, stranded by a shift in values. The island's shore is lined by "bachs" (cottages), and prisoners were brought over in the 1920s and 30s to build holiday amenities. The bachs are preserved as historic sites ("historic" in New Zealand meaning approximately "before New Wave"), and there are notes in the windows describing the efforts of local activists in this most desperate of humanity's causes.
Climbing volcanoes turns out to be tiring. When the return ferry comes, people sprawled in the shelter by the dock jump up like castaways. On board, there's a chorus of "unh" sounds as they flop into seats, and then each group elects one of their number to go to the bar. Of course there's a bar. Can you imagine a 25 minute ferry ride without a beer?
The next day, I'm tired and sore. The problem with a trip this varied is that you can't really train for all parts of it. I trained intensively for sitting in a compartment and eating six meals a day, but that meant neglecting the parts where I'd be hiking around islands.
There are no short flights to New Zealand. The arrivals area of the international terminal might be the greatest concentration of disoriented, vulnerable people in the world. It's where I would come to recruit for a cult. There are two officials to see: A passport control officer and a customs officer. The passport control officer asks where I'm going, beams, and says that that sounds lovely. The customs officer wants to know whether I have any food, then waves me through with a sigh that says: You fill me with despair, but I accept that you have no food and no criminal intent -- indeed, that you may lack the ambition and the imagination to form criminal intent -- and are here merely to boggle at all the sheep and ask our citizens what Gandalf is really like. Welcome. You will find our nation's scenic trains and breakfast burritos to your satisfaction.
Spending your life asking one question would eventually break anyone. There are probably homes where former NZ customs guards mill about asking each other whether they have any fruit or vegetables. They're sacrificed in the fight against invasive species. A good cause, but not a thrilling one. Even if someone does forget a banana, it's not like catching Carlos the Jackal.
Auckland is something like Vancouver or San Francisco: New, hilly, beautifully sited, hilariously unaffordable, and in a certain amount of danger of falling into the sea. I'm staying in its largest hotel, which is a vast pink eyesore put up by architectural terrorists in the 1980s. The plan was an evil one: Inside the hotel is the one place from which you can't see the hotel, which immediately makes its rooms more desirable than the competition's.
The neighbourhood includes Albert Park, with statues donated by important locals in the early 20th century, rare and enormous trees that would fascinate anyone who knows anything about treees and that even I found pretty impressive, and a pair of naval cannon, presumably in case of war with a neighbouring park. No one wants the rivalry with Victoria Park to get out of hand, but that's exactly why a credible deterrent is so necessary.
I took a ferry to Rangitoto, a volcanic island hauled abruptly out of the sea only 600 years ago. The land itself is younger than, say, Oxford University. The 25 minute ferry ride to the volcano provides a chance to think about which of your fellow tourists you'd most like to tip into it. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a deep bowl of brushy trees, and not a smoking caldera. Not to say that sending them cartwheeling through the brush wouldn't also be gratifying, but that could be achieved almost anywhere.
Rangitoto has a cover of low, young trees split by seams of black volcanic rock. A strip through the centre of one of these has been pulverized to make a gravel path to the summit. It's strenuous, but not difficult. There are tourists even less prepared than I am. Some ask me for directions -- see me puffing down the path with my earbud headphones and nerdy glasses and think, "aha, no doubt this rugged outdoorsman will be able to direct us." At the crater there are picnicking families and the ruins of a WWII observation post established to watch for the Japanese, who never came.
The island's managed now to preserve its "native" species -- species that have found their own way there -- but before this kind of conservationism was fashionable, it was a holiday spot. A certain Mr. Wilson is cursed by modern ecologists for bringing in plants to try to establish a botanical garden. It's hard not to feel a bit sorry for Mr. Wilson, stranded by a shift in values. The island's shore is lined by "bachs" (cottages), and prisoners were brought over in the 1920s and 30s to build holiday amenities. The bachs are preserved as historic sites ("historic" in New Zealand meaning approximately "before New Wave"), and there are notes in the windows describing the efforts of local activists in this most desperate of humanity's causes.
Climbing volcanoes turns out to be tiring. When the return ferry comes, people sprawled in the shelter by the dock jump up like castaways. On board, there's a chorus of "unh" sounds as they flop into seats, and then each group elects one of their number to go to the bar. Of course there's a bar. Can you imagine a 25 minute ferry ride without a beer?
The next day, I'm tired and sore. The problem with a trip this varied is that you can't really train for all parts of it. I trained intensively for sitting in a compartment and eating six meals a day, but that meant neglecting the parts where I'd be hiking around islands.
