Air travel really is much more relaxed in this part of the world. Opposite Rarotonga’s international airport, I sit in an Army old boy’s club with a beer and re-pack my bag. Checked in, I move out and take a Coca Cola, before sitting out in the sunshine on the grassy check-in lounge. Hibiscus lines the fence, and we watch the jet taxi in as people disembark.
Equine flu. Beware. Danger. Etc. The security at the airport is good, with neither the jobsworth nature that permeates in Great Britain, nor the sheer attitude that you get when visiting the United States. I reach my hostel in Auckland on the wrong day, puzzled by the International Date Line. England are on their winter tour, I fancy taking in a game. Seemingly charmed, I find that they are playing New Zealand in a ODI here. Tomorrow. In Auckland. Because of the misunderstanding with the dates, I’ve also missed all but two hours of Valentines Day.
Good times.
Up early. I make my way to the ticket ground and buy tickets for the New Zealand vs. England ODI. Once that was taken care of, I dashed back across town to the Chinese consulate on the Great South Road – just in time, as it turned out. My Chinese visa a snip at NZ$60… so long as I can pick it up at 2pm and get to the airport by whatever time I need to be there for a 5.30pm flight.
Far from an easy morning, I have my first Subway. Eggs. Jalapenos. Sweet chilli sauce. Breakfast? Breakfast.
England make it a great contest. The big screen focuses on someone in the crowd dressed as Andrew Symons, complete with boot polish. Some time later, two folk emerge in an empty stand with a large banner that read “Symons – stop monkeying around!” I laugh like a drain as they are chased out by police. This makes for a nice distraction from the damned, ill-behaved children in my ‘family’ section. Little bastards.
Collingwood sees the tourists home. It’s Friday night, but I don’t feel like going out. Not even with the Barmy Army in full voice.
Shall we tell them?
Who we are?
We are the England.
The mighty mighty England.
We are the England. The mighty mighty England.
There’s an old Canadian gentleman in the room in the hostel. He offers booze. He’s extremely drunk as I go to bed, and needs help getting into his bunk – but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to do it.
The next day I start my tour to the far North of the country, and the Bay of Islands. I’m pretty despondent, truth be told. There are French, Swiss, Dutch and Brits on our bus, and I want to talk to none of them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they are all perfectly average human beings, but I listen to my iPod and generally seem aloof. We stay in Paihia. It’s small, but I find a place to sup on a Guinness and update my diary before wandering back to the hostel.
The highlight of the day has passed, undoubtedly – I just don’t know when.
I have my barbecue supper, and make no attempt at conversation, because, frankly, I don’t believe I want to. Well, I want to, but just not with the kind of people that I am happening across. I wonder if it’s general shyness manifesting itself as animosity towards people who I just judge, or whether I do actually dislike them. I’m sure it’s percentages of both, and whilst I’m sure that I could find conversations and friendship with any number of them – I don’t.
And so on, and so on
An ancient forest. Full of people. Pies. A highlight so far. Cape Reinga, where hills roll and gravel roads lay underfoot as we approach the lighthouse, and where Atlantic meets Pacific. Or something. The Maoris believed that the spirits of the dead made their way here, before finally finding rest somewhere in Polynesia.
Later, we sandboard. At the top of the dune – larger than I expected – I kneel, then lay my face down, and push off. Three times I did that, filling my clothes with sand when I ditch on the last attempt and thus ensuring mild discomfort until I can find a shower or rid myself of any retained modesty.
The spare day in Paihia comes in handy, as I watch TV with another comely couch potato. Drinks are taken with people, as I have been shunning people for some time lately. Giggles ensue when someone reveals their surname to be ‘Honeybun’. This fills me with some goodly energy, as the next day I head to colonial Russell – the birthplace of modern New Zealand. I stroll past small bungalows, the pretty town, and the odd immaculate garden and feel somewhat more content before my return to Auckland, and indeed, to the South Pacific Islands.
I collect my passport, and have my round-the-world flight ticket re-routed. Suddenly all the lights are changing to green, and the start to my day is a happy one at last as I pick up an excessive weight, and perhaps indeed quantity too, of books. This takes by bag up to 16kg, but with English literature likely to be thin on the ground for a while yet, it seems the most sensible course.
Stopover
The flight to Rarotonga is rough again, and I would say that flying across the South Pacific ocean is not something I will miss in a hurry. I gain a day, which disappears into a haze as I read and sleep during the day, but find the latter impossible in the darkness of night. Peanut butter toast happened somewhere along the line. A girl who looks like Scarlett Johansson checks in.
By jove, the next day I did something! Cycling a decrepit bicycle down to the shop for snacks and beer, I return only to need another shower, as I peel off my tshirt now stuck to my skin with sweat, and find solice by the pool. For some reason, I chat with a rotund American before making my excuses and making use of the free washing powder. With my clothes drying, I return to my room and beat back a scouting party of cockroaches with a liberal application of deodorant, which sets them scampering on their merry way. Buoyed by this cruelty, I chat with two English girls that evening. We share pawpaw and beer until a rather large spider disturbs the peace with it’s languid eight-legged shuffle up the wall.
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