Gale force Wellington

I am back in Wellington, it's windy and raining. It has been for the last two weeks apparently, with 120 -140 kph winds. The inter-island ferry got stuck the other day in 27 foot waves, and had to turn back to Wellington. Passengers spent over 9 hours on the boat, cars were damaged in the hold, passengers and crew were horrifically sick. I definitely won't be going til the sun comes out.

But it was my first experience of familiarity. Returning somewhere I know people and know my way around. Home, almost. I absolutely must get some work over the next few weeks and then I will be ready to go to the South Island.

There is a Burt Munroe (World's Fastest Indian) rally and beach race in Invercargill towards the end of November. Something to aim for perhaps. I am guaranteed to make useful contacts. The biking fraternity here is strong. I met someone in a petrol station on Saturday, and after a 30 minute conversation enthusing about DR800s and exploring alpine scenery, I'd been invited to join a bike trip to the South Island in April. And a place to stay in Wanganui if I ever need it. Just part of the Kiwi culture. You can't beat it.

Sunrise epiphany

Annoyingly I woke up at 4.45am. Tried to sleep again. At 5.15am it dawned on me. I might aswell get up and see the sunrise from the mountain. I looked outside, still pitch dark. I put on a few extra layers grabbed my camera and went outside. In the time it had taken me to dress the sky had changed and grey-blue light was creeping over the horizon already. I had better get a move on. "It dawned on me..." must have different conurtations here. In the UK it means a slumbering realisation about something which is inevitable, because that is how the sun makes its appearance. Here in NZ is must mean a quick and startling epiphany. Turn-round-to-put-your-coat-on-and-it's-light kind of quick.

I jumped on the bike to race the dawn up the mountain. I only had 13kms to ride up Pembroke Rd, the tarmac road to the ski field. After 3 kms it got misty. Damn. After all the effort (of accidentally waking up early) I couldn't see more than 100metres and surely it would remain this way or worse as I got higher. I contemplated going back, but I was here now... I might see something... as I come up through the cloud, yes.... above it. Maybe. I put some more speed on, slicing through the fog, being wary of the surface condition. It didn't feel too cold but there might be ice.

Then amazingly it cleared. I could see the snow draped sides of the mountain, boom, in my face.

Its peak obscured by thick passing white cloud, coolly lit by the brighter blue-grey light behind me. Oh no, I am going to miss it. I pressed on. The mountain seemed to get no closer, the track not high enough or steep enough to warrant stopping and looking behind. In my mirror I could see more orange seeping in. Should I stop and get a picture of some kind of orange hue? Try and capture something even though I am only half way up? It might be the best I can get.

Then the road turned into a gravelly car park. I went up as far as the padlocked gate which guarded the rocky road to the ski field beyond. Orange still crowding past the cloud. I fumbled the camera out of my tankbag, my fingers working clumsily from the chill of the ride. I took some pics but the view wasn't brilliant. A thick band of cloud still obscured it, a partial sunrise. Not bad I suppose. At least I was the only one there, the exciting isolation of the mountainside and the cold wind.

Then I had a rebellious thought. I could squeeze the bike through the wooden posts at the side of the gate. The cloud started to move, brighter oranger light forced through. Amazing. I angled the bike through the gap. I felt like a naughty 10 year old sneaking his Raliegh Blazer through the turnstyle designed to stop bicycles in the local park. The handle bars are always too wide so you twist and put one through, then twist the other way for the other bar. I was through. Up, steeper on the voclanic grey gravel and rock. No one around.

A little way further up I stopped and turned to see the most stunning break of light, the dark side of the clouds moody against the bright orange as if they were frowning and grimmacing at being woken so early. Broken yolk all over the sky, deep deep orange like a free range New Zealand laid egg.

More pictures. A rush through different settings on the camera to capture the subtleties of the light. Then up again on the track to the base station: two lodges away round the mountain over a small gorge, linked to the landing area of a cable sled. Even if there was someone home, they wouldn't be down too quick to shout at me. A small glacier ran down the upper gorge, leading to it a concrete corridor built into the falling scree of the ridge to my left. I was suddenly in a war movie, the Guns of Navarone, an abandoned military installation in a rough volcanic grey-blue enclave. It was other-worldly. Triumphant, I soaked in the view. A spiritual moment.

I rode gently back down, 1st gear for control, standing on my pegs for a view that only an 8 foot person would have. That is why I bought this bike... not to become 8 foot, but to ride to locations like that. It had made my day.

During the descent I saw a dead rabbit in the road. Then, disturbed from its about-to-be breakfast, a falcon rose up out of the hedge, swooped up, flapping against the chill wind, across the remains of the sunrise. Moments later, two ducks flapped up from the roadside in exactly the same fashion as the falcon, but closer. It make me smile and chuckle with child-like appreciation.

The sunrise was definitely a highlight of the trip. I was bouyed, triumphantly ready to start the day; bright, awake, alive. It is moments like these which are the colours of the abundance of life. I was so blessed with this chance encounter with life. It's like a journey of faith. It is easy to get discouraged in the mist, when you can't see through and expect that it can't possibly improve. Even when you push on and you can look behind and see that you are missing out- it's happening and you are not there yet. Do you stop and photograph what you can get? Make do with the view through the gap in the hedge, in case it's too late and that's as good as you'll get. Push on up and you will break through the cloud, to the spectacular view. Faith is a journey and when it dawns on you it will be like the radiance and nourishing beauty of the sun on Mt Taranaki. There is so much more colour to life than often we can see- search for the colours of abundance He's given us, seek it out. Share it out. Run to it. Get out of bed. Get out of bed and turn chance encounters with life into intentional encounters which celebrate the beauty of life.

Do you know what I am trying to say? I'll stop ranting now....

Otorohanga to Taranaki.

I said Au Revoir to the Swiss couple and headed off round the corner to the bird sanctuary to see Kiwis. These birds are now very rare, so much so that many New Zealanders have never seen one in the flesh. Wild Kiwis are mostly found on outlying islands where they are protected from predators.
Kiwi skeleton.

The Kiwi people name themselves after the Kiwi bird (not the Kiwi fruit by the way). Typically nocturnal and secretive, they are difficult to study and hard to find. (The birds not the people). They have long nasal protrusions which they are always sticking into things (again the birds, not the people). Flightless with no tail and no wings, the animal is basically a long beak on legs, well developed rotund legs at that. Very sexy in the bird world, I expect.


After, I pressed on towards the coast, I only had 80 kms left in the tank but there was bound to be a filling station before too long. The road was flanked on either side by some amazing scenery, volcanic hills either side of an (alluvial?) plane. There were numerous natural attractions along the route. I stopped to walk a 10 minute route to a naural bridge, a cave which had eroded into a deep cavern. Rainwater mixes with CO2 creating a mild acid which eats away the rock. The route got more and more rural and was more striking than the east coast. Really enjoyable. But the concern for fuel turned from a dripping tap into a nagging spouse in my head. "Told you you should have filled up at the hostel." Then a sign. Makoropa village. There's bound to be a little family-run pump in the village. I got there and had run low. 300 kms on the clock, the light had been on for the last 30km. I asked at the shop. "There's no petrol for miles" the woman crowed in a Kiwi crone's voice. Too far to go either way. I'd have to go find a farmer. This little miscalculation actually gave me a unique cultural experience.

I pulled up at the nearest farm building, which turned out to be a shearing shed. Whilst the farmer, Sandy, went to find a can of petrol, I got to watch the shearing. The set up was like an old-time barber shop, four stylists, in front of a wooden four-place salon, each with their own not-so-delicate shears and a row of dazed and confused punters lining up to be given a no-choice military hairdo. All that was missing were the mirrors and the combs in antiseptic.

Music blared from the CD player. Thankfully, pictures don't capture the stench of it all. The guys were quick and ruthless. The sheep seemed like stuffed toys as they capitualted to the strength of their coiffure. Suddenly the shearing stopped in balletic unison, a fifteen minute break decreed from somewhere amongst the cacophany of Dire Straits and bleating livestock. They had been working since 7am, shearing for an hour and three quarters at a time, then breaking for 15 minutes. Literally back breaking work. A strange thing I noticed, unlike their feathered namesake, these Kiwis each exhibited a striking lack of buttocks. Standard issue shearing pants with green belt sagged over non existent behinds. Odd that I should notice ( I hope you'd agree) but maybe it's the shearing. Maybe there's a niche market- forget bums and tums workouts ladies, sheep shearing shed pounds off the backside! You can imagine the work out videos.

On the road again, I headed south down the Whareorino (Farey-orino) Forest, and three scenic reserves to the Manganui gorge, Awakino and on to New Plymouth which didn't hold much of interest, and as the rain began to lash down, I continued on to Stratford on the east side of Mt Taranaki where I would find a hostel for the night. It said backpackers on the sign but all I could see was motorhomes and caravans. 'Holiday hell' as Jeremy Clarkson would put it. Have you seen last season's episode about caravaning? Outrageous, hilarious and bang on.

I went in to the office and asked about backpackers. The lady behind the desk greeted me in a Yorkshire accent. At least she wouldn't think I was German. In the short conversation that followed I discovered a lot. She had just come back from Bristol, having been on the road with a touring Country singer, somebody Hamilton the 4th from America. Originally from Barnet Castle (home of the Boothby's) she used to run the Old Oak Inn 4 miles outside the village. It was known for its chamberpots on display around the bar. That was 19 years ago. She hadn't heard of the Boothbys, but I bet they know of her. She produced a UK phone book and unearthed only one Boothby, probably the uncle... After further discussing the Fry's factory and the Cadbury Club in Bristol (I didn't have much to add, except the Cadbury Club is on the A38...) I found the cabin she put me in, and after a Subway sandwich for dinner and a few chapters of FireFox Down, I turned in for the night. Another room to myself.

To Otorohanga, Waikato Country

Last day in Te Puke was eventful it seemed. I saw a lawyer about the feasibility of pursuing the road contractors for leaving that gravel hazard in the road. Not surprisingly I won't get anywhere. But it's the principle. Surprisingly I have lost an edge of confidence when cornering on roads which might have gravel. But that makes me even more careful.


I went to buy flowers for my hosts that afternoon and ended up speaking some Russian. I spotted the flower seller's accent, and had to ask. I wasn't brave enough to just start speaking in case she was from Poland or something. That would have been bad politics. She had been in NZ for 7 years, so was as unused to speaking Russian as I have become. I even had to prompt her with vocab!

Then on the way home I got honked at from behind in a traffic queue. The animated gesticulator turned out to be pointing enthusiastically at my Buzz Lightyear. I twigged and expressed a laugh (wearing a helmet you have to be just as animated to express anything through a visor). A few seconds later he honked again. Still excited about my Buzz Lightyear, he produced one of his own from somewhere inside. His was only 4 inches, and wouldn't have played the sound effects. Some people just don't have it.

Unfortunately nor do I, because between that moment, visiting the supermarket and returning home, some low-life stole my Buzz Lightyear mascot and with it the flag pole and Union Jack. I only noticed the following day as I was leaving town. That put me into a disgruntled and annoyed frame of mind. I reckon it was the girls in the car next to me as I parked in the supermarket car park. They were eyeing up something as I strode from the bike. Apparently it wasn't me, but my cartoon look-a-like. I hope she gives it to her kid... then again, I hope she doesn't. "Here, sonny, have this Buzz Lightyear I stole from some tourist..." Hardly a good example.

So, the Te Puke experience was good, marred overall by hazardous gravel, a broken hand and a stolen space hero. Not to mention the flag. I have a reserve mascot in my bags in Wellington and the flag will be replaced. Maybe a Welsh Dragon.. for a bit of originality. Because I have realised, to my surprise, that British is just not that different. I expected to stand out like in America. It will give me an excuse to use my Welsh accent. Not that the Kiwi's will be able to spot it. One guy yesterday asked me if I was German. Nein. You are ze veakest link, auf wiedersen...

The Swiss-French couple at the hostel were nice. We conversed a little, I used a few French words, and wished my dad was there to help me with his shouted Franglais and special hand signals. The other guest was an American lady with bent hips, who evidently was a cyclist. I arrived at the hostel to find her mid-discussion with the Maori host who couldn't get a word in edgeways, about the politics of America, the merits of war in Iraq and the future of Bush. She was very circumspect sbout the whole thing. Quite widely read and certainly not a Bush supporter. As I sat writing my notes for the day's travel, she went out to fix a wing mirror. I wondered at asking if she had fallen in gravel. Perhaps that's how she bent her hips?

I was slightly envious of the feeling she must have of achievement. She would have cycled miles to be there. I felt short changed, all the poorer for not having exerted myself much that day, after a short trip on the bike. Thoughts flourished for a moment of how I might trade the motorbike for a bicycle. I'd get fit and have an even more organic experience of the country. Then reality returned and I snapped off some more chocolate to go with the biscuits I had just eaten. I really should get more exercise...

Pig Hunters of the world, Unite!

I only wanted pizza. I sat in anticipation of the take away lunch, the only person in the vinyl lounge that was the Pizza Hut waiting area. Then two guys entered. One in his early 30s and the other no more than 18. Wearing ragged jeans and work boots, the older one did the ordering. I tried not to look too hard. Was this guy for real? His voice rasped in a gruff chilled out tone that boasted 'Both my brain cells are working today'. He was like some kind of throw back cross between Bill And Ted (as in Excellent Adventure), Wurzel Gummidge and Krusty the Klown. Perhaps he was the Kiwi equivalent of a Zummerset Farmer. The conversation about the special offer on slab pizzas left me flabbergasted, thinking he actually was either a cartoon character or some kids' TV presenter who had burned out on drugs. Oversized, ape-like gestures, deep, rasping, slow voice. Perhaps he was Australian...

"Aw, yergh. Look at that bike, all loaded up" he said to the lad. No answer. "I bet that lot's heavy. Them boxes.."

He was looking at the only bike in the parking area. I was the only leather clad martian in sight. Yet he seemed oblivious to my presence. He wondered a few more things and added some further admiringly gruff obscenities, he and the lad sat opposite me on the vinyl seating.

"Awgh" He rumbled "Is that your bike there?"
"Yes".
"You on some kind of trip?"
My short explanation of my tour was met with utterly enthusiastic, rasping acknowledgements. His head bobbed, his eyes dilated- not his pupils, his whole eyes.
"What do you guys do?" As the larger than life Simpsons character explained, I tried to keep my eyes from going wide with disconcerted fear.

"Work on the farms up there". He swayed, totally alert yet totally stoned at the same time. "Farmhand. Been there all ma life"
"How is life round these parts?"
"Good as gold"
I asked how the pay was. He seemed please enough to be earning what seemed to me to be far too low a salary for the hard graft.
"It gets me by, with enough to let me go do my hobbies."
Then I opened Pandora's box.
"What are your hobbies?"
"Pig huntin'."
My eyes widened with disconcerted fear.
"We are just taking off to go get my dogs and go find this BIG pig we been chasing for months."

I once read a motorcycle free-ads that the owner was selling his bike to focus on his hobby of pig hunting. I thought that was a humourous interjection for a light hearted ad. Suddenly, my understanding of the world transformed. People actually do go pig hunting. These sort of people do at least. I was horrified and fascinated at the same time.

"How does that work?"
There followed an explanation which could have been theatrical overacting, but wasn't.
".. we set the dogs, some dogs for chasin' and some dogs for bitin' an' tearin' at the pig."

His rasping descriptions continue: he's in there amongst them, pulling up the swine by the throat, jamming in the knife and ripping... He is suddenly standing and has one foot on the table, still with oversized gesticulations. Almost salivating. I get the picture.

Suddenly the pizzas are ready. We part company with more jovial rasping. They jump in their pickup and rasp off down the road.

And I look down, mildly appalled. Meat Feast. Pepperoni, ham, bacon.

They're not all caught like that are they?

Flea from fashion faux-pas

Fleas can get everywhere. They can live in sofas or mattresses. They can transfer to your skin by jumping 2 or three feet. That is the equivalent of you or I jumping 50 car lengths. They could be in the seat you are sitting on at the moment, climbing up your back, tingling through the hair on your arm, or possibly biting your ankles. They love the scalp, the warmth and comfort of a thick head of hair. If I was to tell you a story about fleas, then by the time you have read this far you would already have scratched your head or your side, probably more than once. See you are doing it again. Even though there aren’t really any fleas.

Last week I was bitten heinously. Some kind of sand fly that lives under the decking. Though it could quite easily be mozzies. These invisible ankle biters seem, in particular, to like my right ankle. It is evidently far more tasty than my left. Eighteen bites to three says it all. Just like with car thieves who nick your stereo, you never see it happening. The first thing you know is the stomaching sickening sight of the blue-green glass on the road, or in this case the red raised itchy lump on your calf. Something had turned my foot into the mozzie equivalent of a MacDonald’s drive-thru complete with free refills, so after 24 hours of me noticing more and more tell tale signs of the theft of my blood, I was beginning to get paranoid. Every little itch magnified in my mind as a huge flying bloodsucker bingeing on my AB negative. I awoke at 4am, itching like crazy, adamant that I was still under attack. There must be something in the bedding. Damn, that’s my ankle again. I scratched and looked. It was one from yesterday still playing up. And one on my calf, and then the other ankle. Arrgh. There are so many I don’t remember if they were there before.

I flapped the duvet vigorously to dislodge any monsters lurking there. Suddenly I saw something whisp out. A flaming mozzie. I envisaged him flying heavy laden, over-full with my blood, hardly able to fly, his belly dragging as he drooled in overdosed discomfort. Serves him right. Then he was gone. Was he working alone? Or was there a crack commando unit under cover under the cover? I had to know if I had banished him completely. I had to know if the itches were old ones or was I still being munched. So I got a biro and drew a ring round each and every flaming bite on both legs. ‘There’ I said to myself ‘If I find any more there will be hell to pay’.

And there was. The next morning I counted two further bites, both on my right foot. That did it. Serious action had to be taken. I scoured the bedclothes, maybe it was fleas. It was time to resort to my anti-mozzie night time attire. Long sleeve top, with pyjama bottoms, which are actually green surgical scrubs from the ER of a now-closed Devonshire hospital, tucked into long thick walking socks. There is no way they’ll come anywhere near me dressed like that… would you!

..And no, I am not going to put up a picture. You can use your imagination… which is precisely what got me so wound up in the first place.

Still scratching? I thought so…

Arbeit Macht Frei

Gravel rocks are not my favourite thing at the moment. However, Maurice has earned his first Kiwi dollars (about time too) by taking the opportunity to bury about half a million of the little blighters in a foundation for a garage extension. Andrew, a builder from the Mount Vineyard, asked me to help him barrow more than a truck load of concrete into a not so shallow footing trench. I jumped at the chance to do something useful. Arbeit Macht Frei.

But I realised I don't have any gear I can get concrete on. So I went on a mission to find charity shop clothes for the occasion. The Salvation Army stores are in pretty much every town and I had spotted one in Tauranga. I went in. Its smell was reminiscent of one of those church hall bric-a-brac sales I remember from the early 80s. The fashions and the niknaks seem hardly to have changed. Misshapen suits and bedraggled woolen cardies hang forlornly, rejected and neglected, waiting for someone not quite as deceased at the previous owner to come along and wear them with pride again. My delusions of grandeur at finding a cheap pair of Levis were swiftly downgraded to delusions of slight apprehension that I might, if I am lucky, find a pair of BeWise seconds which would fit my still less than perfect but nevertheless average form. I was wrong at that.

Forgetting the woolen and polyester monstrosities that made up the men’s trouser rail, I had no choice but to rummage through the ‘unisex’ rail. Elasticated waistbands, drainpipes, stone bleached, more elasticated waistbands. This was going nowhere. 80% of these ‘unisex’ items were clearly marked and made for the larger lady. I don’t want to get concrete on my bootcut H&Ms, I can’t concrete in my underpants, so I have to pick something… I’ve never been on a Kiwi building site, but I can imagine it being a no less brutal place than home, if I were to turn up in slightly camp and effeminate pedal pushers. I looked to see if anyone had noticed me lurking so long in the transvestite’s trouser aisle. The only person near was a not quite deceased old man looking at the men’s trouser rail, facing away. Suddenly he let out a triumphant fart, noticed by no one and ignored by all. Indignant, I grabbed the only pair of men’s jeans on the rail (the 38” waist might just about stay on with a belt) and made a sharp exit via the shoes stand. There I grabbed a pair of tired old trainers marked up at $5 and headed for the door. At the cash desk, bizarrely, I picked up a panoramic camera for $1.50. It turns out that the shoes were on special at only a dollar so for less than a pint of shandy on the Gloucester Road I had scored myself a concrete-carefree builder’s outfit.

I was running late. I zoomed off to the site and went indoors to change. Whilst the 38” waist only just went round my 34” hips, the legs didn’t even make it close to my ankles. Bugger. In my haste I had in fact acquired the slightly camp pedal pushers of my nightmarish prevision. Or make that premonition? So scissors saved my bacon. I chopped the legs at a more trendy and respectable length just over the knee. You can see how I got it just perfect...




I pulled in my stomach, puffed up my chest and went to join the men with the concrete pouring truck. It all went to plan. And I only crashed the barrow a few times.

After a beer and some pizza with the foreman, and half an hour doing spelling homework with his 8 year old lad, I left with a huge sense of satisfaction. The first bit of hard graft in 6 weeks. It’s true. Work makes you free. Or in this case sets your fashion sense free.

Maurice crashes Honda and scrapes more than his pride.

I have crashed the bike.


Infuriating. All the more so because I could do absolutely nothing to prevent it. I was doing less than 30mph and turned off the main road into our road and suddenly, without any warning the bike disappeared from under me, the front wheel sliding away to the right because of gravel on the road. Bloody council. It hadn't been there the day before. A great bank of large loose gravel, left over and not tidied after foot path works I think.

Anyway the bike went down, trapping my left foot. Then as the bike stopped moving I continued onto my hands and knees, twisting back my little finger and scraping my knees, then my helmet chin bar whacked into the ground. If I had been wearing an open face helmet.... (shudder). Three cars stopped during the next minutes which was reassuring. I got off lightly, especially since I was only wearing jeans and shoes. I didn't even rip my jeans. But the handle bars are bent and the side is scraped. The engine bars did their job, minimising damage nicely. If I had been riding a Goldwing it would have been a very expensive night out.

I reported it to the police, who advised the council (Ministry of Works) but they did not clear it until 8am today. Have photographed the scene and will be making a detailed complaint to the Ministry of Gravel Death Traps first thing Monday morning.

Today, Saturday, there was a fund raising gala at the Baptist church. My host was offering rides in his classic cars for a small gold coin donation. I was honoured to be able to drive the MkII Jaguar (which is 50 years old in December 06). Distinguished English drivers for distinguished English motorcars.



However, when we first began, everyone wanted to go in the open top Triumph (one of the 2 convertibles on offer). The Jag didn't get a look in. So I had to drive people in a 3 litre BMW Z3 (M-spec) with Tiptronic/auto gearbox. Hard life. Speed limits observed at all times of course, it was all about acceleration. 10 year olds are easily pleased. And so am I. The Z3 may be the rich hair dresser's alternative to the salon apprentice's MX5, but I wouldn't have to think too hard about owning one.



Enough for now. I am off to put more cold peas on my fat hand and draft up some polite litigation for the Ministry of Jerks.

And no, I do not think yesterday had anything to do with the fact it was Friday 13th.

It's getting boring...

It's getting boring. Every church I have been to I have met someone just one degree of separation away. At Te Puke Baptist, the pastor happens to be a cousin of my host in Wellington. At Te Puke Vineyard, I met someone I had met 10 days earlier in Wellington; we were invited to the same dinner party as visitors passing through town. But it gets more spooky...

Also at Te Puke Vineyard, I met Scot who spent time in Bath and Bristol, and almost married into the Corkey Davy family, whom I know for all sorts of reasons. Then Scott's friend called Warwick who briefly dated a girl called Jude from Bristol.
"I know a Jude from Bristol." I said, suspecting that it wasn't possible to know the same Jude.
"She's a teacher, just moved to London" he added.
"Used to live in a community house in Bristol?" I ventured
"Yeah..."
Warrick stumbled over the surname. I held back my suggestion like a trump card, just wanting to see how absurdly similar these two different Jude characters could be.
A competitive tone had arisen, his 'You can't possibly' versus my 'I bet I can and stranger things have happened'.
I gave the surname and the group fell apart in disbelief. Jude and I were friends for a short while, she used to go to Woodlands, lived with Andrew and Jackie at TCP in Cotham and was best friends with my most recent housemate (and landlord) in Bristol.

It is not really boring. I love it. You gain an extra edge of affinity with people who know people you know. And it confirms to me that God is ahead of the game by the simple fact that the affinity is a blessing and makes you feel less a foreigner and less alone than otherwise you might.

British High Commission, Te Puke

To the great disappointment of British readers, the place name in the title is actually pronounced Teh-Puh-Kee.

Mr Street is a distinguished English gentleman, with handle-bar mustache and impeccable social aplomb; the residence a little piece of England with a clear Kiwi
twist. I was invited in and immediately made to feel at home. I regaled them with stories and we swapped enthusistic opinions about quality motorcars. After being told by a Kiwi relative at the table that I have a Top Gear accent I had to confess that I am in fact a Bristolian born and bred. After the second post repast glass of wine the girls retired to watch some awful Jennifer Aniston movie about a break-up and the men topped up for a third - all in keeping with being good Baptists.

The following day, the Ambassador gave me a tour in the open top TR3



and afterwards helped me tinker with the bike and fix a problem with the headlights, caused by the most minute spring and copper contact. Finding it after an hour of dead ends made me feel triumphant. It is not often that things go back together again after I have dismantled them.

The evening barbeque party was thrown apparently in my honour (although the Kiwis don't need much of an excuse to fire up the gas coals). The banter flowed and was very entertaining: the British and Kiwi sense of humour has a comfortingly large overlap.

Church on Sunday was good, with a solid, well planned message which taught me a couple of new things. Then after lunch we headed down to Papamoa Beach. It turned out that fishing wasn't possible because the kayaks were elsewhere, but the crew were entertaining themselves with a 250cc beach buggy towing brave adrenaline-junkie Kiwis on a boogie board along the water's edge through the incoming shallows. I took a turn in driving the buggy, but didn't go in for the drag; I didn't fancy losing the skin off of my feet and knees and elbows.

Finally, we went inside to catch the end of a 1000km motor race on TV, the Bathurst V8 Supercar challenge which happens annually in Australia and is a derby between FORD and HOLDEN (which is GM-Vauxhall in the UK). Everyone here is a Holden fan. Therefore I was rooting for Ford, especially since they hadn't won in 8 years. Admittedly the last laps were very exciting. Most of the room had been there since 10am when the race began. (There are some REALLY committed petrol heads here). It must have been a long day, especially to see Ford romp home for a convincing win. Hooray the underdogs.

This week I aim to find work, visit Mount Maunganui and get out on the sea.

THE AMBASSADOR PENS A RESPONSE:
"11th October 2006: Confidential. Blog Eyes Only.

The Special Envoy from Pomgolia seemed to have all the right credentials, known and highly recommended by my brother and niece back in Blighty.

But sadly he has two serious shortcomings.
We call them Jappas in the antipodes. No self respecting Pom drives/rides a Jappa here. Not without a wig and dark glasses.

And then he admired my 'Citroen' in the drive - 'it's a Ford' I hear you all cry - and I nearly did.




He has however some redeeming features - dishwash hands have earned him serious brownie points from 'her who shall be listened to'.

And he likes his cars, not that he knows his Alvis from his E type.
And he speaks proper. He hasn't yet used the annoying Kiwi term of satisfaction 'sweet as'. "

END TRANSMISSION

Gisborne Spink to the Plenty Embassy?

After a comfortable and quiet night in the Flying Nun, I stacked the bike and headed to the local Honda dealer for an oil change. The customer service was excellent. They booked me straight in, the manager on the front desk was from Devon so we swapped notes about pastures green. It is different from travelling in America when someone hears the accent.
"Where you from?"
"Bristol, England." I reply in anticipation of the predictable
"Oh, I have a relative in Yorkshire."
"Do you? That's great.. No, I don't know Bill from Hull."
I usually don't use the biting sarcasm I'm tempted by. A simple retort "That's a nice part of the world." (even if he did ask about his Great Aunt Ethel from Scunthorpe) usually kills the conversation in precisely the intended manner.

People here are tempted by the same mind dumbingly improbable comment - except the odds are relatively realistic. Let's face it, I had a different connection with each of three housemates I met in the same flat in Wellington. Keith, one of the mechanics, linked my Britishness to the fact that his grandmother was an ex-pat, who married into the Family SPINK, nee Amey. At this point, I am genuinely intrigued. The family SPINK in Bristol could well be related (how many Spinks have you ever met?!) and I leave the garage pleasantly lightened by the (still) minute possibility that I might be separated from Keith the mechanic by just 2 or 3 degrees of separation. Oh, and the fact that my bike is freshly oiled and my head lamps work again. And the fact that all the time I have been swapping family history with Keith, I have been sealing my boots with liquid rubber. Which stopped the leaks by the way, and because I had to leave before the rubber was dry, I gathered most of the gravel dust between Gisborne and Wairata to what are now two-tone black boots with a sandy speckled set of go faster stripes.

The rain kept coming but I didn't care. When your feet are dry the road can be awash and you sloosh on through. I took the gravel route along the Whakerau Road, 50 odd kms through a winding valley with fjords, and up hills to the Kaipono peak (927m/3000ft) where there was snow on the roadside and low hanging mist just above my head. Then down to Matawai and up through the Wairata Gorge. At the top, looking back down the valley gave breathtaking views. The hillsides with neat sections of trees, some dark green, some light purple, forming round the pointy volcanic slopes like a stepped military haircut.

Ahead, at last, was the blue sky I had been chasing. The rain and wind behind me seemed unable to surpass the top of the gorge, stopping at the peak as if on a meterological restraining order, banning it from coming any closer to the Whakatane District. The road was dry, almost empty and a fabulous ride. The very edges of my road knobbley tyres scrubbing in round the grin factor 10 twisties. (Apologies to non-bikers that I sound like a pretentious bike journo).

I arrived at my Te Puke hosts and the most excellent hospitality. The long driveway, lined with Kiwi trees, led to the house nestled in it's own three acre plot, classic Jaguars and a Triumph TR3 lined the forecourt (all cream with red leather). The Union Jack wafted elegantly on the lawn. I had, it seemed, arrived at the British Embassy, High Commission, Te Puke.

Nikon CoolPix bounces over 4 feet

A Nikon CoolPix camera, when dropped from a moving motorcycle at only 30mph, will bounce over 4 feet on the first bounce, whereupon the battery will eject itself and fly in the opposite direction. Fact.

Which was annoying. More so because I could not capture some of the scenery I saw yesterday, which was the only redeeming highlight of a thoroughly frustrating day.

I slept badly. The dorm in the hostel was next to a noisy social area, with mostly loud Americans til about 1am. Then there was a trickle of people coming in til 3am. Noisy door handle. Then a trickle of people up from 6am. Noisy door handl. Creaky bunks. The acrobat beneath me was obviously practising for some international event. And he snored like a nail gun.

So I started the day with a fuzzy head and heavy eyelids. The night before I bought cereal and milk for breakfast over the next few days. So I prepared myself a healthy muesli breakfast with sliced banana. I sat, took one mouthful and promptly proceeded to fling it from the tabletop to the carpet. So, after my second breakfast, I departed to return my mp3 player to the store because it was only 2 days old and faulty. They replaced it, I went 20kms up the coast and stopped to take a picture. The mp3 player suddenly packed up again. After fiddling with it for a few minutes, in my annoyance, I turned the bike round to zoom back. I had forgotten the camera was balanced on the tankbag. It was out of sight below my visor view. I felt a thud on my leg as it slipped off. Bugger. I gathered the remains and headed back into town. Damn. And I also left the breakfast ingredients at the hostel.


The last picture before the bounce.

After a new mp3 player and a McDonald's coffee, I was ready to start the day, 3 hours after I started it before. Then the rain came. I set out anyway, it got wetter and the wind from the coast got more angry. I saw some amazing views through the hills of the Mohaka Forest and took some gravel roads out into the Mahia Peninsula. It was ferociously windy, but still manageable. The new tyres make a huge difference on the gravel, giving me extra grip and confidence, even though I am loaded up with boxes. It was amazing to be out in this wilderness, but I had wet feet again. I had had enough. So I headed to Gisborne and the Flying Nun Hostel. It seemed to be an ex-convent. I got a single room (no noisy handles, beds or Americans) and a gas heater to dry my leathers. Sweet. Through my window I could see over to the herb garden with a white marble statue of Mary. I'm sure she turned her head and winked at me...

The bike is in for an oil change at Gisborne Honda right now, where the manager, originally from Devon, was very accomodating and booked me straight in for immediate attention. Also, they have a part number for the blasted cog. I can order it and it will be here by 18th Oct. Interesting how the guy in Wellington said I had to buy the whole unit.

So let's hope today is better. Heading to Te Puke (teh puh-kee) to visit an uncle of Karen from Woodlands in Bristol. Maybe then I can seal my boots, buy a new camera and get a decent breakfast.

Itchy Feet, Wet Boots

Itchy feet. Gotta get on the road. Weather is too bad to go to South Island. Head north. Bay of Plenty looks good. Know some people. Take three days to get there. See the east coast. Hawkes Bay is vineyard country. Shall I go there? Wine not? Then how about up round the east most peninsula, which is almost totally Maori? Interesting. Gisborne. First city to see the sunrise each day. Cool. Then across to Plenty. Karen's uncle will put me up. Loads of guys to meet. I have their details. I have been warned about them...

I set out today in filthy weather. I was wet down the neck by Featherstone (60mins), and my used-to-be-waterproof boots we sodden by Masterton (2 hrs). I changed footwear at a service station. Packed the boots with paper towel and set off again. The rain let up slightly, but it remained grey. Nothing much to report, except sheep. I know there are lots of sheep (more than the population by 15:1) but I was tickled by this view
which doesn't do justice to just how funny it was, to suddenly be seeing more fleece than grass out the corner of my eye. Fluffy fuzzy sheep everywhere. It was like they had spilled out of some sheep-volcano, and were sprawling down the hillside, chomping, chomping, chomping on grass. (Which is all they seem to do. No card games, no roulette, generally no gambolling at all (!-groan)).

In Napier now. Youth hostel for the night. Oil change needed tomorrow ... and find some black silicon to bodge job my boots and fill the leaks where the upper meets the lower. A trip is all the more interesting for having to mend and make things. I'm damn well not going to buy more boots...

Two men in a bath, one says...

But just before I go, a quick bath in the paddling pool...

Blasted cog, Bodge it and Scarper

Well, I simply cannot find a replacement used speedo cog for this bike. So, I took to heating a screw driver on the electric hob and melted and formed a new square edge to the tab which is driven by the wheel and then drives the speedo cable. And cor blimmey gov'ner it works!

So I went on a test drive and realised the revs I was counting to determine speed were too high. I was going faster than I thought all this time, through GATSOs and speed traps. These, by the way, are intentionlly disguised behind trees using camoflage, unlike our UK cameras, which under the auspices of playing fair, HAVE to be bright reflective yellow.

Slightly concerned that I might have amassed hefty fines, I found a non prosecuting speed camera which informatively displays your speed in big yellow LEDs as you approach. After a number of passes in different gears I determined that the speedo is actually reading 10% over. So, to my relief, I am probably okay. And now I know exactly how fast I am going, I can really push things to the limits. (only joking mother...)

So I am ready to scarper, hit the road again and head out. I am going to the Bay of Plenty (plenty of what? I hope to find out...)