Cairns and the Great Barrier Reef--We've just finished up with a week in Cairns, northern Australia's major gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. We weren't too bothered about seeing much of the surrounding area (apparently you need a boat to go flyfishing because you'll get eaten by a crocodile if you stand on the riverbanks!!!...I didn't feel like paying for a fishing charter, so that's out), so instead concentrated our time in Cairns on our 3-day dive trip and on getting our website up to date (finally got those photos up!). On landing in Cairns, we found ourselves overwhelmed by a MAJOR CLIMATE SHOCK!!! Jeepers. After months and months of moderate (Janna would say cold) temperatures, we found ourselves thrust like a baby out of a birth canal into the sweltering tropics. Still sporting way too many layers necessitated by 65 degrees and rainy Christchurch, we found ourselves tossing out our longsleeve garbs and seeking out bargain basement deals on shorts and tanktops. ** EDITOR'S ASIDE: Being as it is, in fact, November, and most of our friends are back at home in the US or the UK getting ready for the onset of winter, we'd like to take this opportunity to make it clear that we're NOT COMPLAINING (well, as long as there's air conditioning) **

Anyway, we we're here to go diving and diving we would go. After a few days of running around, we got our first introduction to the Great Barrier Reef via something called Reef Teach, a 2-1/2 talk given nightly by this very strange, almost hyperkinetic "expert" who speedtalked in a really rich, hard to understand Irish accent, literally bouncing off the walls (I kid you not) as he explained the underseas mysteries of the GBR. He talked so fast, in fact, that Janna and I both had headaches at the end, though we were a bit wiser about the reef...from the coral to the various fish species to the other bits and bobs down there.

The next day...a very early start...6AM pickup at our hotel. After an hour or two of getting everyone accounted for and getting our gear sorted out, we made our way out to our home for the next three days, the ScubaPro. Over three days we would make 11 dives, four dives on days one and two (including one night dive each) and three on the last day before coming home. And man do they really pack them in. After a tossing two hour boat ride out to the first dive spot, the pattern of trip was established, to be repeated rapid-fire: dive-eat-dive-eat-dive-eat-dive-sleep...very little time for resting in between. The ScubaPro, as the name would suggest, is a boat built for scuba diving. As such, things ran pretty smoothly throughout most of the trip, though most of us thought that 32 people was a bit too many. After our first dive briefing, we we're ready to hit the water. Janna was intending to finish off her certification, so she joined up with the 10 or so other divers there to get certified. Unfortunately, the same old problem with her ears crept up (couldn't equalize), making it impossible for her to finish. She did, however, get to enjoy the reef as she went snorkling a few times, seeing some pretty cool stuff. I enjoyed my dives, especially that fact this was my first non-freezing diving experience (water temperature about 80 degrees), though found myself so completely exhausted by the frequency of the dives that I only did about 8 of the 11 dives. Who knew diving was so tiring? Some of my favorite dive memories include the reef shark I managed to photograph (with a rented underwater camera) and going on my first night dive. Surreal and surprisingly unfrightening. It's pitchblack but you've got 10 or 12 other flashlights to follow, making it difficult to get lost. And in the dark, some amazing creatures come out. We saw a huge turtle and loads of giant crabs and lobsters. Very cool.

Once back in Cairns we had another few days to kill before heading off to Singapore. As mentioned before, we spent that time putting our photos up, but also took in a bit of the Cairns nightlife. This included an evening of live jazz...which included some "professional" dancers, ostensibly there to liven things up a bit. Janna and I, however, with our highly developed senses of Lindy Hop/Social dance snobbery, found them completely laughable...hardly any rhythm and with really absurd looks on their faces. (Ms. Patneaude, they were really awful!) Not to let an affront to decency go without response, Janna and I hit the dance floor in our shorts and sandals and lit it up a bit, only to have our snobbery punished when the dancers came up to us after we got off the floor and we're really NICE to us! How can you be snobs to people when they're nice to you? Let that be a lesson to us, then.

So that was Cairns and the end of our stay in Australia and New Zealand. A finer time was never had, but now it's time to head to Asia.

Final thoughts. For the record, here are my New Zealand notables.

Food and drink:
Kumara, the New Zealand sweet potato, which we served in our curries and also mashed alongside Michael's famous poached salmon; Timaru Sauvignon Blanc, the cheapest stuff on the shelves but very much to our taste; Asian Home Cooking brand powdered curry packets. A slice of the traditional kiwi dessert, a meringue cake called a pavlova, we eyeballed briefly and declined politely. And though we bought green-lipped mussels in Havelock, the self-titled "Green-lipped Mussel Capital of New Zealand"(!!!), we distrusted our cooking methods to such a degree that upon sampling them, we both gagged. The remainder was chucked in the bin.

Place:
Kairuru Farm Stay: three days of blissfully spacious accommodation and lovely walks among birds and horses and hens and hundreds of pregnant sheep.
Dunedin, "The Edinburgh of the South": the quadruple daily delights of lattes, bookstores, the awesome public art gallery, and classes at the gym.  

Fright:
Michael told you I bungied off the Kawarau Bridge near Queenstown. I decided to do it preciseIy because the prospect scared me so much -- yah, feel the fear and do it anyway. I was hoping I could later apply this newly-acquired risktaking behaviour to my paralyzed career. I'm not sure it's quite translated, though -- we'll see how "aspirational" I get when applying for jobs next year.

Anyway, about the bungy: I have never been so scared in my life. If we hadn't already forked over the dough for it I would have turned and buggered off. But by concentrating on my form (perfect swan dive with arched back) and not the rushing river 43 metres below, I was able to leave the platform without disgrace. What observers (Michael, plus two busloads of Japanese tourists -- an enthusiastic audience shipped out there just to watch) did not know was that for the duration of my fall I was stricken with an involuntary chest-heaving mumble that went something like "HUMina-humina-humina-HUMina-humina-humina". Most embarrassing -- even as a private moment. 

Blight:
The inexpressibly sumptuous vistas of New Zealand are marred by one thing only: the ubiquitous Cookie Muncher. This mascot of the Cookie Time cookie company is a horrid red shaggy monster with big googly eyes, one rainbow'd eyelid, and a slobbery pink tongue, just the sort of "cute" character doodled by bored 13-year-old cheerleaders in history class. Though the company has been in business since 1983, every mom 'n' pop convenience store in the country is adorned by the Muncher's inartistic and unbearably jolly countenance in the form of giant looming particle-board cutouts. If only the tourism industry here would wake up and lobby to limit the visibility of this abomination, I would be able to tell you that New Zealand is a land wholly unspoilt. (Except, also, for the legions of sooty campervans barrelling through the countryside, Michael reminds me.)

During a "pee break" on the bus trip back from Christchurch to Dunedin, I finally caved and bought an "original" Cookie Time Cookie, an individually wrapped chunky chocolate chip cookie about 5 inches in diameter. Assessment: dry but edible, akin to our Chips Ahoy. Along with the pavlova, to be consigned to the "Disappointing Dessert Options" file.

But I don't want to end on a negative note, which New Zealand has done nothing to deserve. This is an amazing place, and our experience here has been absolutely tip-top!

Rah, rah! Sis-boom-bah!

A Night of Maori Magic -- Tomorrow Deep and I fly up and away from beautiful Aotearoa, aka New Zealand, our velvety green home for two whole months. Both of us loved traveling here, especially with the autonomy provided us by our ever-faithful campervan Esmeralda. Even if her floors were getting a little stinky near the end.

For our final vehicular excursion, we finally made it to "A Night of Maori Magic" at the Nga Hau E Wha Marae (Marae of the Four Winds) in Christchurch. There are more than one thousand marae in New Zealand, and these gathering places are the focal point of Maori life. They provide a place for meetings and celebrations of all kinds, from political gatherings to weddings to a farewell for someone who has passed on.

Deep and I, a few other Americans, and about twenty French firemen (visiting Christchurch for the World Firefighter Games) were all abuzz in anticipation of our "Night of Maori Magic".  At the same time, we were silently hoping it wouldn't turn out to be "Night of Pseudo-Cultural Tourist Hell". It did not. 

Our Maori hosts were laid-back and friendly and very proud and serious about their heritage. Our evening began with a talk about Maori history and marae protocol. This took place in the wharenui (meeting house), which is a massive wooden structure elaborately carved and painted, inside and out, with figures of ancestors both godly and mortal. After the talk, one of the firemen was named spokesman for all of us pakeha (non-Maori) visitors; therefore, when the time came to offer a song to our hosts, we all had to up and sing the French national anthem -- you know, the one they sing in Casablanca. Boy, did we get more multicultural bang for our buck that night, hey?

Next there was a welcoming ceremony outside a second building featuring a challenge by a frightening warrior in order to determine our intentions -- were we friend or foe? Since we neither fought back nor did a runner, we were deemed friends, so the warrior placed a bit of leafy branch on the ground in front of us. This was duly accepted by our Frenchie rep. At last, a lovely Maori maiden sang a haunting a cappella welcome, and we all trooped in, giggling nervously.

Inside, further ceremony joining the two peoples (Maori and their pakeha guests) as one included the hongi. Though sometimes mistaken for rubbing noses, it's not. It merely involves the shaking of hands (right hand, showing you are unarmed) and a gentle pressing of noses. Frenchie and the male Maori elder, as the respective chiefs of the two groups, came together to hongi. In this way we all shared the breath of life and became one people. For that night, the Maori tribe's home was our home.

Then began the concert. The songs and dances, with and without simple guitar accompaniment, ranged from harmonious and graceful to keening and fierce. It was great fun -- especially when we got to join in. I and a few other ladies climbed the stage-platform to learn a poi dance. The poi are balls made of stuffed white plastic baggies on the end of a length of yarn. You swing them around in time to the music. It's very difficult. In general I dislike dancing with props. But I'm sure Michael will tell you I acquitted myself admirably. Won't you, Michael.

Later, the fiance himself ascended the stage with a bunch of firemen to learn and perform a kapa haka, that fierce warrior dance. This involved not only stamping and slapping movements, but the infamous protruding tongue action, by which men show their virility. The open mouth allows us to see into the heart of the warrior. Maori women are meant to find this very sexy. Anyway, Deep was right up there with all the macho moves. Moreover, he was even more frightening than expected as his face went very red. A woman seated next to us complimented him especially as he came off stage. Michael got all bashful and said "Aw, shucks, lady." (I'm just kidding. He didn't really.)

When you arrive in New Zealand, you see the words "Kia Ora" everywhere. This basically means "Hi, hello, welcome!" This came in handy at the marae, where we were enjoined to repeat it every time our hosts said it, which was about every five seconds. I enjoy that sort of beginning-language-mastery thing. My extensive experience in countless kiwi toilets bearing the sign "Horoi o ringaringa!" ("Wash your hands!") also meant I was more than prepared to join in what was introduced as a "traditional Maori song". We all stood up, the 7-foot Maori guy started strumming his little guitar, and we began to sing: "You put your ringa in, you put your ringa out, you put your ringa in and you shake it all about..." At this point, Michael leaned over and yelled in my ear, "We ARE at Epcot." But we carried on and had a grand time: "You put your tuku (right word?) (buttocks) in ..."

Lastly came the hangi, the feast cooked in the earth oven. Deep and I couldn't eat the meat. Fatty. We got into conversation with an American woman over from San Francisco to do special f/x for the Lord of the Rings movies. No, we didn't get free passes to the new one.

Epcot or not, the "Night of Maori Magic" made me feel very happy inside. It's a small world, after all! It's a small world la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaooooo.

NZ South Island, Vol 7--We're back in Christchurch...again...with only one more day before flying back to Northern Australia for some diving on the Great Barrier Reef. We've already dropped off the van and now we're pedestrians again. Since leaving the Fiordlands National Park and Te Anau, we've pulled back on the throttle and gone into not-particularly-ambitious mode. Our original plan was to spend the last two weeks of campervan time high-tailing it towards Auckland on the North Island, making whatever little stops along the way that the calendar allowed. Instead, we decided that we weren't really too keen on driving the entire length of New Zealand just to (hurriedly) see a bit of the North Island. So after a few phone calls to the van company and the airlines, we've changed our point of departure from Auckland to Christchurch, giving us nearly two weeks to spend, on our way back to Christchurch, in anyway we wanted. Let's go fishin'!

So from Te Anau we drove across to the east coast and the city of Dunedin, supposedly the 'Edinburgh of New Zealand'...whatever. A pretty nice town about 300 kilometers south of Christchurch, Dunedin became our home for two weeks, most of which I spent knee deep in my brand new hobby...fly fishing. As I mentioned in my previous post, there's something about New Zealand that make you want to stop and stand next to a river for hours on end...mountains, valleys, fresh air...ummm! But, not satisfied with normal, simple, sissy fishing, I had to become a fly fisherman...it's about the labels, innit? Fly fishing, the sublime art form that it is (that's what they say, I'm not makin' it up) requires an entirely differerent set of equipment (toys!!!), an entirely different approach to casting and s**tloads of patience. Jesus-H-Christmas is this a hard sport. I've seriously spent almost half of my time either tying nice knots or untying mean, nasty knots...not to mention all the times I've had to pull the hook out of either the bushes behind me or my own jacket sleeve. But I can actually say that after a few weeks of nearly daily battle with my fly rod...it's getting better. I've actually caught some fish (three to be exact, though Janna claims the second was only half a fish...and I think I actually agree with her) and I'm even starting to remember why I started in the first place...to enjoy the outdoors.

So for me, my time over the past two weeks has been spent driving from river to lake to dam in search of angling...for some reason, fishing is also known as angling...nirvana. It started with a trip to the nearby Taieri river, where, like most NZ fishing spots, you have to access the river by going onto someone's farmland. This being my first fly fishing attempt, I was engrossed in my knots (again...this sport seems to involve a ratio of about 75% messing with knots to 25% actual fishing), ankle deep in the muddy river bank when I looked up and found myself staring at a herd of grazing cows, intent on licking and sniffing everything I owned. After shoo-ing them away and finishing frustrated and fishless, I headed back to the van where I noticed these weird, muddy marks all over the windows...a bit perplexed until I realized the cows had also been LICKING OUR VAN!! Welcome to New Zealand.

A few days later, our first weekend since coming to Dunedin, Janna took a bus up to Christchurch to see her friend Kelly who'd flown in from London for work. So, a bachelor for two nights, I set off on, hey, a real fishing trip, to the nearby town of Gore, supposedly the brown trout fishing capital of the world...yeah, we'll see. After stopping into some local fishing tackle shops for advice on where to fish, I headed out to yet another river on a farm, ready for some righteous river adventure. Instead, after going the wrong way and an unfortunate 3-point turn, I wound up with my rear wheels stuck in the mud...some serious cursing, a couple of phone calls and $NZ 40 later, I finally got myself towed out. Did I cut my losses and go home. No sir, I forged on further towards the river and...got stuck again, this time in the gravel. Determined that I wasn't going to pay another $40, I marched with my tail between my legs to the farmer's house and knocked on the door. Fortunately, the nice farmer lady was home and, with her 4X4, helped un-stick me...yeah, then I gave up and went home.

The rest of the weekend was a near complete angling loss as gale force winds...well, they may as well have been gale force...made fly fishing nearly impossible, so I headed back to Dunedin, still frustrated and fishless, to meet my lady at the bus stop. The rest of the week was filled with more determined angling efforts (while Janna did wedding stuff, visited museums and went to the gym everyday), finally paying off on Wednesday with my first rainbow trout (released, of course) and then the next week, on our drive up to Christchurch, stopping at the mighty Waitaki...two fish (ok, 1 1/2 fish) in 20 minutes, woohoo, now we're talking!

So that's pretty much it for the last two weeks. Not nearly as exciting as jumping off of or out of something...but hey, not a bad way to spend a few New Zealand afternoons.

NZ South Island, Vol 6--We're heading deeper into the real heart of the south island now...the Glaciers, Queenstown, Mt. Aspiring National Park and the Fiordlands. Here's the a quick and dirty on the route we've taken over the past two-plus weeks...there's loads to cover. 

Leaving Greymouth the day after returning from our cross-country, TranzAlpine train journey to and fro Christchurch via scenic Arthur's Pass National Park, we headed south along the coast to the Fox and Franz Joseph Glaciers. A couple days in glacier country before heading over Haast Pass and down into the southern lakes region for a stop in Wanaka and the shores of Lake Wanaka. Then down to Queenstown, 'adventure capital of the world', where we blew our budget on every high adrenelin activity imaginable. From Queenstown we drove south and then west for a visit to the Fiordlands national park, basing ourselves in the tiny town of Te Anau while we explored the fiords by cruise ship and by kayak.

That's the overview, here's the detail...

First stop from Greymouth was glacier country and the Fox and Franz Joseph Glaciers, two of only three glaciers in the world that exist within a rain forest-like eco-somethin' or other (well, that's what the guide said, though I can't remember exactly what he said...the other one is somewhere in Peru...and it sounded pretty impressive). At any rate, when I used to think of glaciers I used to think of big enormous sheets of floating ice...you know, with penguins lolling about. Fox Glacier and Franz Joseph Glacier aren't really like that..they're more like big, enormous rivers of ice and snow sweeping down from the mountains, hugging a single valley, constantly either lengthening or receeding. We decided to take a half day tour of one of the glaciers, we chose the Fox glacier, which involved a bus ride to the foot of the glacier, a hike up into the hills and then finally about an hour of actually walking on the glacier itself. It was pretty cool and all (we even got to wear crampons...alpine-climbing-spiky-thingies you put over your shoes...doncha-kno), but after about a half hour of climbing over snow and ice I began to feel like I was back home in Chicago, trudging to the L-stop through heaps and heaps of January snow...I' m havin' a nightmare, somebody wake me up!

After the glacier tour and a bit of diddlin' around at nearby Okarito Lagoon, we drove down the west coast and then over and across the south island's mountain divide by way of Haast Pass....ok, time out, hold on a second...I'll tell you right now that I'm going to run out of superlatives with which to describe the scenery that we've been surrounded by over the past few weeks. So from here on out the only adjective I'm going to use is going to be bitchin'. That way I won't have to worry about constantly topping my last adjective and I'll leave the rest to your imagination....now, back to the story...a bitchin' drive cutting through Mt. Aspiring National Park. Cresting the pass we finally get a view of bitchin' Lake Wanaka as it stretches along the highway, shimmering in the sunlight, reflecting mountains off of its surface.

Sitting on the shore of Lake Wanaka is, oddly enough, Wanaka. Sort of the younger cousin of Queenstown in that there are lots of adrenelin activities in which to partake, though not nearly on Queenstown's scale. We spent two or three days there (eschewing the major activities in favor of waiting until Queenstown) most of which I spent, well, fishing. When we were in Africa, you'll remember, we found ourselves drawn into birdwatching by the stunning (sorry, bitchin') variety of wildlife. Here in New Zealand, however, it's not the wildlife that captures your attention, it's just simply the outdoors...there's something about New Zealand that makes you want to go and stand by a stream or river all day long...soaking in the fresh air, taking in the mountains, and basically being, well, outdoors. Back in Kaikoura a few weeks ago I bought a little compact-able rod and reel and now, October 1st, the fishing season has begun. So I buy my license (what a rip...you can either buy a one-day, one-week, or one-year license. No one-month licenses available...I have to buy a year long one) and head out to the local river...sorry, no fish to speak of but that's NOT the point. At least I keep telling myself that.

The other attraction in Wanaka that we just couldn't pass up was this place called Have-A-Shot...where you basically shoot things. We took our turn and clay pigeon shooting (those guns are really heavy...but give Janna credit, she gave it a real good go) and .22 caliber target shooting (give Janna more credit, she really kicked my a** in this one). A bit of gratutious fun, eh?

Next stop, Queenstown, by way of the scariest, windiest, switch-backiest road I've ever driven in my life. Queenstown is another lakeside town, this one on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, and at one point was probably a very bitchin' place. Anymore, however, the place is an overrun, overdeveloped eyesore...if for no other reason than the horrible gondola ride cut into the side of the big hill overlooking the town. A town completely, utterly and unapologetically given over to tourism. Oh well, who are we to complain, we're contributing more than our share of dollars to the cause.

Anyway, so here's where our budget goes straight to hell. Between us we did...

• Bungy jumping: The AJ Hackett Thrilogy for me (3 jumps, the highest of which, the Nevis Highwire, was a bitchin' 134 meters) and the Kawarau Bridge, the world's first bungy site for Janna. Janna was scared out of her wits but still went through with it...and did a great job.
• Skydiving: Just me for this one. Having made about ten or so jumps in Chicago, jumping out of a plane was nothing new to me, but the bitchin' scenery was new. Chicago...flat, flat and booring. Queenstown...big lake, snow capped mountains...wow! (I should have my photos scanned soon). And it really felt great to be up in the air again...I hope I don't get the itch...
• Fly-by-Wire: This one's a bit bizarre. Kinda like a tire-swing with an engine attached. The engine propels you as you swing around this gorge, leaving your stomach in your throat. Gotta check out the web site, it's hard to describe.
• Dart River Jet Boat/Funyak Tour: This one was out of nearby Glenorchy and into the heart of Mt. Aspiring National Park, on the northern tip of Lake Wakatipu. Jetboat up the Dart River, kayak (sorry, Fun-yak...yikkes, what a name...inflatable canoe-like things) back down the river. This one was special, though a bit wet, as we had the worst weather since arriving in Queenstown. All of those superlatives that I can't use now...this is where I'd really use them. Bitchin' squared! The Dart River Valley is one of the places where they filmed L-O-R, and it is, oh hell, amazing, stunning, beautiful, especially when the weather's crap, as the clouds and rain give it this surreal feeling as if you're really in Middle Earth.

But wait, there's more. From Queenstown it's on to Te Anau which was our base for exploring the Fiordlands. First on the list was an overnight cruise on legendary Milford Sound, which was great, although we almost enjoyed being waited on and cooked for (in sharp contrast to a typical self-catered evening) more than the scenerey. Milford Sound meant driving Milford Road from Te Anau, battling for position with the millions of tour buses ferrying the zillions of tourists to the sound. In sharp contrast to Milford, however, was our day tour of the much nicer and far less overrun Doubtful Sound. To get to the sound, you take a 45-minute boat ride across Lake Manapouri, followed by a 30-minute 4x4 drive over Wilmot pass, finally arriving at Deep Cove for an afternoon of kayaking (real kayaking this time, not funyaking). Unlike Milford, with it's sightseeing-plane-a-minute droning, Doubtful was all about the silence. Our entire trip was spent in deep silence, with only the sound of our guide over the 2-way radio to distract from the sound of the paddles hitting the waves.

Bitchin'

Speaking of silence, it's time to go say some silent prayers to the checkbooks gods, maybe they'll help me figure out how to pay for all of this.

Seated in comfy carriages with enormous picture windows, this four-hour journey took us across the breathtaking snow-capped Southern Alps, which lie like a crookedy spine just inland from the West coast; past enormous viaducts with rushing blue-white rivers; and lastly through the Canterbury plains, with their endless patchwork of farms dotted with endless cows and white-tailed deer and sheep and just-birthed twin lambs sleeping sweetly or taking a drink from mom or jumping crazily over her tail. There's also an open viewing carriage, where the feeling is completely different. If you're lucky enough to have it to yourself, you might just get that awe-struck pioneer sensation. Like Kate Winslet on the prow of the Titanic. With the icy September wind blowing through my jumper and a panoramic view of those soaring peaks, I did have just such a moment ... Michael was similarly lovestruck after hurtling through Albert's Pass, where the train crosses the Alps, in the open air. His cheeks were all ruddy from the wind, and from the emotion.

Having arrived in Chch, we immediately sought to engage in the high culture on offer. Thus we beelined for the cinema multiplex, where we saw XXX featuring our latest star-crush, Vin Diesel. Ever since we saw the fantastically unintentionally hilarious action-fluff flick The Fast and the Furious in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, we've been in (asexual) thrall to Vin. (We loved him all the more for having paid the equivalent of fifty cents a ticket.) We admired the way Vin could deliver the most ridiculous lines of script and still manage to retain his dignity. With our expectations raised, XXX wasn't as much fun as Fast, but we liked a few particular bits, which we will happily discuss upon request.

The next morning, having had a nice sleep at Dorset House, the b&b-like hostel we used during our initial stay in Chch, we boarded the train for another glorious journey on the TranzAlpine. The second time around wasn't as nice as the first -- with the sun blazing, sure, you feel cheery, but you miss the moody mystical panorama of those great peaks draped in cloud and fog and whispering mist.

NZ South Island, Vol 4--"The Tas" has featured here before (see Sept 21 entry by Michael). This time, we were headed for the coast on the east side of the Tasman Bay.

Since it was our first tramp, we planned a two-day, one night hike, sort of a baby step to see if we liked it. Tramping, which I'd never heard of until NZ, is subjecting yourself to a multi-day hike carrying everything necessary for survival and basic comfort. It usually involves arduous uphill climbs and buckets of rain. Oh, the anticipation.  

In preparation for our tramping adventure, we dragged our big rucksacks out of storage in the campervan and filled them with two days' worth of clothing, sleeping bags, cooking equipment, and lightweight food. What fun we'd had the night before, spooning raspberry jam and peanut butter into mini tupperware tubs. In our desperate, failing efforts to pack light, we were nearly brought to tears. Though really psyched about our new "billy" pot and Kovea camp cooker with gas canister (better than a Bunsen burner!), the weight was really adding up -- and we were to be walking the next day for five hours bearing these millstones.

Somehow, we bucked up, and in the morning boarded a water taxi from Marahau Beach north to Tonga Bay. From there we headed south along the Abel Tasman Coastal Track for two hours to Bark Bay, where a sunny and wind-sheltered lagoon made our PBJ luncheon quite glorious. After an hour or so it was time to haul the monstrosities up on our backs once more. Oh, the torture, the unmitigated pain! We decided we'd never again complain about dragging our daypacks around, so light are they by comparison.

As we left Bark Bay, so many people were hustling along the track that we began to worry we wouldn't get a bed in Anchorage Hut that night. (The Dept of Conservation doesn't take reservations until October 1st, so before that it's first come, first served -- even if you've already paid 10 bucka a bunk.) Our worry turned into hurry, which meant more blisters, fewer rests for birdwatching and ocean-view appreciating and for our achin' backs, and NO FUN. Nearly at Anchorage, we decided to take a tidal crossing route as a shortcut even though we weren't sure of the low tide times. With our books sinking in the muck to the ankle and water seeping between our toes, we finally took our boots off (a tough task, with the anvils attached to our backs) and minced through the icy waters, trying not to get our feet cut up by the squijillions of mussel shells littering the sands. Owwww.

Then it was a mad rush to the hut. As it came into view, the final water taxi of the day was just pulling in. I ran to see if there were any bunks left. No -- every single bed was claimed by a body or the body's sleeping bag. Michael, meanwhile, was down at the shore trying to hold off the pilot in case we needed to get the sam hill out of there. I ran back down to the beach, imparted the bad news, and the guy took our money and got us back to our van at Marahau Beach. Phew!

In the end we were secretly grateful that fate had given us reprieve from more of the same the next day. I certainly needed time for my poor tootsies to heal. Since we would've if we could've, though, no one can say we're just big sallies. Can they?

That night it was beer and burritos in the comfort of our toasty cozy van. Bliss.

From Abel Tasman, we drove south to Greymouth, founded on the Gold Rush of the 1860's, and now the biggest town on the West Coast.

Tempestuous rain coming in from the ocean, just meters away, buffeted our campervan the whole night through. I thought we'd tip over for sure. Now, this morning, as if it never happened, all is calm and bright. But we know that those wild storms can descend again in a moment on the western coast of the South Island, just like they do in Ireland. So I keep my awesome new rainjacket (from the children's department, thus bargain-rate: 7 dollah!) close by.

Wherever we go, I buy the local rag to check the town's social calendar. One rainy night in Greymouth we had a hot tip on The Duke Tavern, just to watch the local karaoke action. But there were so few people, and those few so friendly and encouraging, that we were soon taking our turn at the mike.

Though I've been on stage plenty, it was my first time karaokeyating, ever. Michael and I debuted with "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." We weren't too bad! They were screaming for more! They were yelling our names! Unfortunately, it was a case of raising audience expectations too high, for on our next foray, "You're the One That I Want," Michael and I made a mockery of that old Travolta/Newton-John chemistry. It was awful. We didn't know most of the notes, and those we did know we couldn't hit. Oh, the pain. Graciously, our new pals kept the winces to a minimum -- though their disappointment was palpable. We realized later that what we'd meant to perform was "Summer Nights". Surely this would have met with more success. I theorize that it rewards acting abilities as much as singing talent. Michael and I can carry off 3 minutes of cocky Danny vs sweet 'n' saucy Sandy, wouldn't you agree? "Saved her life, she nearly drowned/ He showed off, spa-lashing around..." If only it had been on the playlist...

Undaunted by glaring failure, Michael treated us to a number of solos, including "Mack the Knife", "Copacabana", "Maggie May", "Lyin' Eyes" (this one was really good). Also, "Two out of Three Ain't Bad", though it was more like 1 out of 10, as, once again too late, he discovered he doesn't know the song at all. Ho, ho!!! But "Lyin' Eyes" was very nice.  

A lively girl called Rana, who by day guts fish down at the wharf, was so tickled by our rhyming name-scheme ("Janna ... Rana!!!!") that she insisted we do a duet. She chose "Surfin' USA". The result, thanks to my straining cords (private note to Deena Weena -- that's vocal cords, not wide-wale) was particularly nails-on-chalkboardesque. I decided to quit while I was somewhat ahead.  

There was much to enjoy as spectator. Amid the friendly conversation with Rana and her colleagues, and a lovely Maori woman and her pakeha (non-Maori/white/of European heritage) husband, there was, for example, the raucous ciggie-lung'd barmaid taking her turn. In response to our applause she was wont to shout, "Who asked you in the cheap seats?" I liked her. Rana, for her part, liked to yell "Skank! Skank!" at random. One elderly fellow did a duet in which he prefaced his every turn with a sonorous belch. Class. You could barely hear him sing, though. Barkeep lady later led us in a "Simon Says" song. At that point in the evening we were able to perform the kindy-garty actions without self-consciousness or embarrassment. Particularly touching: a young white girl pairing up with an old Maori man for ... "Ebony and Ivory". (I tell ya, we've learned more about NZ race relations in the pubs than we ever gleaned from the papers or on talkradio.) Michael and Tania, the nice Maori woman, did "Babe -- I Got You, Babe"; their talents were well-matched, and back in the cheap seats I was swelling with pride.

You might know that New Zealanders call themselves Kiwis, after their odd, nocturnal, flightless national bird. The people we've met certainly are nocturnal (though what else do we expect, socializing in ye olde taverns?), and after six or seven hours of "same, please!", decidedly flightless. That night Michael and I were out till two a.m. Though we didn't overindulge in the demon drink, we're not used to such late-nite carousing. The next day we were wrecked. What pantywaists!  

NZ South Island, Vol 3--It was with misty eyes that we left "Pipit", our spacious, toasty, tv-equipped cottage on Kairuru Farm Stay. But fresh thrills were just in the offing at the Nelson Arts Festival.

Nelson's the biggest city on the Tasman Bay, nestled in the very crook of the claw that forms the north side of the South Island. Reportedly it gets lots of sun by NZ standards, and yah, we got some, but I was holed up in aerobics classes much of the time. Anyway, I'd booked ahead for two shows in the arts festival. On Saturday night at the Theatre Royal was a one-man show called "The Daylight Atheist", temptingly billed in the festival bumpf as "a cracker of a yarn -- harsh, bittersweet and hilariously funny..." Despite these unmistakeable early warning signals, we went. It was well done, but nothing most of us haven't seen before: drunken Irishman goes to war; sticks by his mates; physically and mentally abuses his wife, son, daughter; retains fantastic sense of Celtic humour. Yadda, yadda, yadda ...

The following Monday, Michael, feigning sorrow and regret, sent me off all on my lonesome to see a show called "Mika Haka". Mika is a Maori choreographer, singer, and showman. (As Michael may have told you, the Maoris are the Polynesian people native to NZ.) The haka of the title is the terrifying Maori war dance-cum-chant executed in prep for battle.

I'd never seen a haka before -- just some very brief tv clips of the All Blacks (the national rugby team) doing it before their games, with the aim of scaring the bejeezus out of their opponents. Each tribe has its own haka, but the All Blacks' performances have ensured that the one most widely known is that of chief Te Rauparaha (1768-1849) of the Ngati Toa tribe. This chief is famed for the merciless slaughter of not only Euro-whitey settlers but also other Maori tribes, and his famous haka goes like this:

Ka mate, ka mate
It is death, it is death
Ka ora, ka ora
It is life, it is life
Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru
This is the hairy man
Nana i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra
Who caused the sun to shine again for me
Upane, upane
Up the ladder, up the ladder
Upane kaupane
Up to the top
Whiti te ra
The sun shines

When Mika's dance troupe, Torotoro, took the stage to perform this traditional haka, I kept having to remind myself to release my raised eyebrows -- which were exacerbating my worry lines -- and to breathe. No instruments are needed; just six men and one woman, clothed in little but flaxen skirts, silken skin, impressive musculature, and elaborate tatooing to the chin. I do wish I'd had a pal to nudge in the next seat. (Don't worry about me, Michael, I'll just sit here alone in the dark.) With eyes bulging like Obie dolls and tongues thrusting meatily at their hapless audience, the dancers chanted, shouted, stamped their feet, pumped their fists and slapped their formidable thighs, the ineluctable rhythms weaving together to unnervingly powerful effect. Whoa!

This did nothing to prepare me for Mika himself. He's beautiful, with strong Maori features and glistening black hair pulled up in a topknot. But when he opened his mouth to grace us with his oh-so-witty narrative patter, it was all lisps and "darlings" right out of La Cage Aux Folles. Ah ... I began to see his outfit in a different light. While his dancers cavorted in "primitive" grass skirts, Mika appeared solely in floor-length capes of flaxen fringe. The weaving of cloaks is one of the most respected Maori art forms, but Mika's seemed to be made of green tinsel and filled out by massive shoulder pads -- what might happen if Krystle Carrington guest-starred as a tribal chief on Gilligan's Island. This tribal trannie business started to get on my nerves, if only because he wouldn't shut his gob and stop bragging between numbers about how he's been wowing 'em, darling, in glamorous LA, NYC, Barcelona, etc. Show, Mika ... don't tell.

The show was billed as a "high energy performance merging ancient traditions with fresh urban styles, to a rich soundtrack of big beat dance anthems with lyrics in the Maori and English"! As every Gypsy Rose Lee knows, you gotta have a gimmick if you want to get ahead. Indeed, this old/new gimmick is what's gotten Mika -- and Maori culture, to his great credit -- worldwide attention. But in every routine where the Maori dance techniques were combined with techno tunes, I was disappointed, for the complex rhythms that made the haka so mysterious and fascinating were completely lost to the monotonous "bomp, bomp, bomp" of the recorded music. I was secretly gratified when the little boy sitting next to me fell asleep on my shoulder. Good night! 

I hope to learn more about Maori dance and traditions at the marae (sort of like a cultural meeting house) in Christchurch later on in our travels. I'm definitely dragging Michael along next time.

Enough of the city life. We were off to Abel Tasman National Park -- and our first tramping experience.

NZ South Island, Vol 2--After our final night in Picton we took a short drive to a small area known as Te Mahia, a tiny place...a campsite really...which provides a stopping place as well as auto access to the middle of the Queen Charlotte Track. Sitting on top of a tiny bay in the Marlborough Sounds, we chose Te Mahia as a way of seeing a bit of the Queen Charlotte (one of the many 'tramps'...multi-day hiking trails...scattered throughout New Zealand). When we arrived, however, all thought of a strenuous hike went out the window...after getting our van plugged in and sorted out, we took a walk down to the waterfront and fell victims to the lure of a bright sunshiny day, choosing instead to spend the afternoon in lazy mode. When we finally did get off of our bottoms, we only had time for a two hour walk up and over the hill to the other side of the sound, where we were rewarded with another bay, loads of birds and more stunning beauty. Who says laziness doesn't pay off.

After a night in Te Mahia we headed off in the direction of Nelson, the north coast of the south island's largest town. Stopping only for a quick lunch (we're coming back later in the week for the arts festival) we continued on through some winding roads...actually, I think that's all New Zealand has...I haven't seen a straight road since we got here...over Takaka hill into Golden Bay and the tiny town of Pohara, our base for the next few days. Our goal in Pohara was to visit some of Golden Bay  as well as using it as a northern base to do some day walks in nearby Abel Tasman National Park. Our first stop in Golden Bay was an easy day hike through the Te Waikororpupu Springs (aka, Pupu Springs...loads of bad jokes were had throughout the day), one of the largest freshwater springs in New Zealand. After that the weather turned a bit sour, stormy and gusty, forcing us indoors for a while. Finally, we decided to venture out for a rainy visit to Abel Tasman, just up the road. As we made our way towards the park and turned on the the access road, we noticed a sign suggesting that this particular road isn't terribly suited to campervans. As I saw that I slammed on the brakes and started to reverse to get a second look at the sign...yeah, well, I knew the ditch was there but I anyway managed to back us right into it...and then got more and more stuck with every attempt at extrication. But sometimes the sun shines on you even when it's pissin' down rain...we're in the middle of nowhere, stuck in a ditch, and almost the minute we get stuck a farmer tractors by..."you stuck?"..."yeah?"..."lemme get a rope"..."sweet!" So instead of a distress call to AA and a wait of who knows how long, we're outta the ditch and on our way in seconds. We weren't completely oblivious to the writing on the wall, however, and took this as a pretty clear sign that Abel Tasman maybe wasn't in our best interest that day...so, hmm, let's go have a beer somewhere!

After bailing on Golden Bay, we decided to get out of the van for a few days and booked ourselves into Kairuru Farm Stays...a B&Bish place...with big, spacious cottages (we stayed in Pipit) set on a working sheep farm spread over Takaka hill with views of Abel Tasman NP and Tasman Bay. Kairuru was another piece of advice from our friends Jeff and Sara...while you'll remember from a previous post that we fearlessly ignored (at our own peril, of course) their advice not to rent a van...we were mighty greatful for this snippit of info. Kairuru was awesome...animals everywhere, a gorgeous view of the bay and in the rain upon arrival we were treated to the most amazing rainbows. Our one night stay easily turned into two, with additional lazing and relaxing, and we were extremely sad when it was time to pack up and go...

...but go we must and now it's off to Nelson for the Arts Festival...

...until then!

NZ South Island, Vol 1--We've had our trial run on Banks Penninsula and now it's time to start the Notworkin in a Van in New Zealand tour for good. We head out from Christchurch after a really bizarre night out at a local pub, watching what was billed as a band, but what was, in fact, some strange-ass karaoke...two band members, one playing (was he?) keyboards, the other singing over karaoke tracks?!? The guy (somewhere in forties, we're pretty sure and looked like he figured that this was his sure-fire to get chicks...though he's probably not doing too well) was such a horrible singer...think really dorky guy singing..."Love shack, baby. Folks linin' up outside just to get down..." The woman, the lead singer, wasn't much better...a bit younger and a bit more talented (really, though, not much more talented) and spent the entire time singing longingly into the eyes of this drunkin dude who was probably the nerdiest kid at school until he realized that dreadlocks might cure him of that affliction. It really was high comedy. I can't be sure but I think they were staring into each others eyes while she was singing "Wind Beneath My Wings".

Next day and we're finally out of Christchurch and on the road, headed north to the mountain foothills and the resort town of Hamner Springs, so called because there some hot water coming out of the groung. It's a tiny, one/two horse town built around the pools they've made out of the springs, but staggeringly beautiful, with mountains rising in every direction. (I happened to wake up early on the first morning, looked out the window and watched as the mountains glowed bright orange with the sunrise).  We made camp there for about a day and a half, the second of which was spent on a five hour hike through the nearby forest and into the foothills of Mt. Isobel. Two hours straight up, though the effort really paid off when we got to spend our lunch break at the foot of a raging waterfall, not another soul in sight.

And so far the weather was really holding up. The first rain that we saw was the morning we left Hamner Springs, though it cleared up the minute we left the mountains. Next stop, the tiny coastal village of Kaikoura, about two hours up on the east coast. We decided to take the smaller of the two highway options, and were rewarded with a really pretty drive...winding roads, hills and valleys, river crossings...cool stuff. Kaikoura, with its beautiful snow-capped mountain backdrop, is a pretty well known on the New Zealand circuit for its oceanic activties, most notably whale, seal and dolphin watching/swimming. They're the only home to the world's rarest and smallest dolphin, Hector's Dolphin (which I saw...more later) and apparently also get loads of bottlenose and dusky dolphins as well as loads of whales, including orcas and some big ass sperm whales.

After spending the first afternoon looking around and getting an idea of what activities we'd do (the evening we spent celebrating the two year anniversary of our first date...nice dinner, a bit of vino...tres romantique), we were ready to participate in some of Kaikoura's attractions. The local flying club had an introductory offer of three "training" flights (out over the bay with great views of the mountains), which I thought was pretty cool and was ready to sign up for, except the weather didn't feel like letting me...too much wind up at altitude...too turbulent. This same bad weather also scuttled any hope we had of climbing up to the top of the local peak, Mt. Fyffe. So in the end I settled for a single scuba dive, in and around the local reefs...krikin' cold (about 11C/55F...nice 7mm thick wetsuits, except that the gloves and booties were only about 2mm thick so my hands and feet were about to fall off)...while Janna took advantage of my absence to explore the town. The dive was pretty fun, freezing notwithstanding, as we saw loads of Hector's dolphins on the boat ride out and had 5 or 6 seals swimming around us as we were about to exit the water, checking us out...their big saucer eyes looming larger as they swim to less than a few feet in front of us until the last second when they dart away.

After Kaikoura, we headed up north to Picton, a small town nestled within the Queen Charlotte Sound (part of the larger Marlborough Sounds). Picton itself is a nice little town, but mostly serves as a base for exploring the sounds and also is where you catch the ferry to the north island...which means we'll be back there when it's time for us to head to the north island. The sounds are striking. Lush green, hilly, twisted fingers of land extending in every direction, enclosing crystal clear water and, like the rest of New Zealand, home to a seemingly endless of activities. We decided on a bird watching tour to the Motuara bird sanctuary, a tiny island towards the northern tip of the sounds. The other highlights of Picton were of any entirely different sort...evenings spent in the town's watering holes, which seem to consistently end up with us deep in conversation with the locals...extremely nice, typically very generous but consistently very, very drunk. Our first night had us listening to a drunken, often repetitive monologue about how to cook mussels and where to find really large penguins. The second and third nights we spent in the company of a group of really fun, friendly (oh, and also very drunk) Christchurch guys in town to help a friend build a house. In fact, as a theme develops, on the last night the bar's feature entertainment was JACKIE!, yet another psuedo-karaoke entertainer.

That's enough for now...we're leaving Picton and heading west to Nelson. Check back for more.

Deep and I have been traipsing from bridal shop to bridal shop looking for the dream dress. Thankfully, Michael is an adept campervan driver, and neither parallel nor lot parking leave him the least stymied, even on a busy Saturday. What a good doobie. Lugging us all around kingdom come for nearly the whole day ... only to be sickened by silvery-white confections of increasing frilliness. In the eight or nine places we visited, I tried on a total of two gowns. Both highly unsatisfactory. Ain't they got no Filene's Basements in New Zealand?

Not that we are absolutely set on a kiwi wedding. We've actually been doing some research on the legality of southeast asian weddings. Bali is out -- civil ceremonies are not allowed. The couple must announce themselves to be of some (recognized and approved) religious bent, and Deep is loath to declare himself a Christian, or Buddhist, or Hindu of any colour.

What about Thailand? We looked it up in google.com. Beware! Keywording "thailand weddings" brings up a plethora of mail-order bride sites -- as does "petite bride". I was merely trying to find a dress, not a "beautiful petite caring lady" named "Boonyaunch" or "Kanokporn" who "like cooking and swiming and all king of music, want meet a nice gentle man financially secure no need handsome." Despite these red herrings, Thailand sounds like a really cool place to get married. A business called Canna Weddings offers a traditional ceremony, with real live monks -- but you must begin at 5 crikin' a.m. Still, Deep and I remain excited and interested, more than in any other place we've investigated. Michael is just now emailing the Canna Wedding lady with some exploratory questions ...

Bopping around in the campervan is turning out to be really great. It gives us so much freedom. We can take off whenever we care to, stopping wherever we like, to view purty land- and sea-scapes; to pet one-eyed skanky love-starved cats; to answer the call of nature in some discreetly dense woodland; to prepare a timely meal. Though we were afraid we'd revert to form and eat out all the time, we've stuck to our vow to self-cater once we got the van. Tonight we're fully utilizing the camper's fine double burners and grill with a luscious menu featuring fresh fillet of salmon. The only downside: will we ever get the fish smell out of the curtains? With the bacon, it took three days.

From Oz to NZ, from Kangaroos to Campervans--As alluded to, we've made the decision to limit our stay in southeastern Australia to just a couple of weeks. No offense to our Aussie friends, but it's really painful coming back into the first-world (yeah, I know, South Africa is a first-world country, but their currency is positively third-world...much to our budgetary joy!) and having to pay first-world prices again. So, having spent the better part of two weeks in Melbourne and Sydney, we're taking the remainder of our Antipodean-earmarked dollars and spending them in New Zealand. (Actually, we are planning a stop in Northern Australia for some Great Barrier Reef diving, but the point is...crikey, what is the point...oh yeah, we're headed to New Zealand).

Before leaving Sydney, however, we did have two final excursions worth noting. The first was a walk through the Sydney botanical garden, not something I would normally write about, but there was a difference in this botanical garden. As you wander around and look up into some of the trees, you notice these funny greyish, cylindrical looking pods or fruits...you can't really make out what they are...until all of a sudden one them FLIES AWAY! Hundreds, thousands even, of bats just hanging out, claws clinging to the branches, wings folded over their bodies and faces. UGGGH, creepy. Then, just for kicks, a few dozen of them drop off and buzz the treetops until they're ready to resume their swingin'. The amazing thing is to watch them fly toward the tree branch, grab it with their claws, and then just drop into a hanging position, pulling their wings over their eyes with their little wing-arms.

Our other excursion was a day trip to the nearby Blue Mountains, featuring: some nice hiking, our first (and only) kangaroo sighting, a boomerang throwing lesson (we felt like such tourists) plus some cool bird sightings (screeching cockatoos, colorful galahs and laughing kookaburras). The next day we had to make our way up to Brisbane for our flight to Christchurch (no, you can't take a ferry to New Zealand!), an 18-hour bus ride notable only for our fond memories of the drunken lout three rows behind us and his repeated attempts to enjoin the entire f***ing bus in conversation...you gotta love local flavor!

We arrive in Christchurch a bit late and check ourselves into a nice little backpackers' hostel, the Dorset House, overlooking the local park. The next day we're all rockin' and roarin' and ready to dive into our chosen task for the day...rent a campervan! (Except that this day is Sunday and all the places are closed so we wait til Monday). We've decided that a campervan will be our chosen means of exploring the "land of the long white cloud", anticipating the freedom of unfettered travel as well as the pleasure of life off of the backpackers' trail. It must be pointed out that this decision was reached in spite of some dire warnings given to us by my old boss and our New Zealand travel guide, Jeff Hoffmann, who (along with his wife, Sara) only last year traveled New Zealand by motorhome (read this, it's hysterical). We did take one piece of Jeff's advice, however, and didn't get the "model mit wasser kloset", deciding instead to put up with the middle-of-the-night walks to the toilet in exchange for piss-smell-free living quarters. Hey Jeff, if this all goes tits up, feel free to tell us...ITYS!

So anyhoo, we've rented our bed and now we're sleeping in it. After a day of sorting our groceries (we're gonna cook!) and other supplies (i.e., stove-top espresso maker...this isn't the dark ages, you know), we're ready to hit the open road. Before beginning our loop around the South Island we'll take a two-day jaunt to nearby Banks Penninsula, a little pimple of a landmass sticking out into the Pacific. Our first stop was the tiny harbor town or Lyttelton, from where we got our first taste of New Zealand traveling freedom as we drove up the road to Godley Head, the northern tip of the mouth of Lyttelton Harbor. There we were treated to our first views of scenic New Zealand...rolling hills, crystal-clear blue/green waterways and intricate layers of clouds jostling for position in what sky is left over after the mountains have had their say. As we were sitting looking out over the harbor, I couldn't help feeling like we were the luckiest people in the world...and also hoping like hell that this great weather holds up!

After finishing with Godley Head, we drove the scenic Summit road, twisting and turning through the hills until we reached Akaroa, another harborside town further down the penninsula. Spent the night and had a quick look around before heading back to Christchurch, stopping for an hour or so at the Little River Bird Sanctuary (I looked for Baker Street, but couldn't find it). A bit of a peculiar place, this bird sanctuary, in that though the sign said closed, nobody stopped us from walking around for free. The only really interesting thing here were the peacocks, the males of whom strutted their hugh feathers for all the females to be impressed by. I could hardly hold Janna back!

And then back to Christchurch for a few more days to see if we could sort out Janna's wedding dress dilemma. After Christchurch, the plan is to do a counter-clockwise loop around the South Island...from Christchurch up through Kaikoura and on to Nelson and the Abel Tasman national park, down the west coast towards Queenstown, the Fiordlands and Milford Sound, hit Stewart Island and then back up the east coast to take the ferry to the North Island. We'll see what runs out first, our itinerary or our tolerance of campervans!

Check back for more.

And they really say 'g'day mate' in Australia!--The morning after our Soprano-style sendoff from South Africa (see final Africa entry), we flew via Perth to Melbourne. After the risibly generous exchange rate we were able to exploit in southern Africa, Australia was painfully expensive. It was as if life were suddenly checkin' our candy-asses into Smackdown Bank.

Since (it became quickly evident) the charms of Melbourne somehow escaped us, we decided to find a nicer city to waste our money on. But before we boarded that Greyhound to Sydney, we suffered through a few extortionate days and nights -- seeing movies, eating Thai, searching dark streets for swing clubs that did not exist. Oh, and I managed to find a hip hop class. Taught by a weedy character named Etienne Khoo, I couldn't decide whether we were dancing, or performing some sort of amphetamine-warped Tae Kwon Do. Not a terpsichorean highlight in my world dance annals! So, finally, we skedaddled for Sydney.

It was like the promised land. Still relatively expensive, but so clean, so green, such lovely watery postcardy views! Other bonuses -- great bookstores, feeling safe at night in a big city, a Starbucks on every corner. We stayed in an area of Sydney called Potts Point, which is as far as I can tell a gay mecca not unlike the South End in Boston, or (Michael says) Lakeview in Chicago. Which meant: well-manicured residential streets lined with shady trees, and the attendant trendy-with-a-neighborhoody-feel restaurants, all with flattering sepia lighting. Yay!

And when I discovered the classes at the Sydney Dance Company, I thought I'd landed in heaven. If anyone finds my dance-talk tedious, feel free to skip ahead. My favourite class was that given by Juliette Verne (talk about Around the World!), who teaches 'New York Style Hip Hop'. I loved her style and her tunes. At the end of the second class I took with her, she asked me to do the combination alone in front of the class. No, but I'd do it if she did it with me. So she put the music on, and we did it together. We wuz like J-Lo times 2, I sweah. For a moment, I thought, ohhhh I wanna move here and take this class every day ...

I also wandered into another class disarmingly labeled "Intermediate Funk". However, as I warmed up a little beforehand, I began to get scared when the other students swanned in, all dressed like Billy Idol and discussing their most recent pro gigs. This "funk" class was actually a much more technical jazz class than I am wont to take -- given that my own technique has deteriorated due to a reluctance to spend my limited time and funds on ballet classes when I could be having a grand old time in hiphop. And in this "funk" class -- the nerve! -- neither the music nor the choreography evinced the least trace of funk. The selections ranged from a sort of flamencoey thing to Joan Jett's "I Love Rock'n'Roll"! I nearly left during the latter combination, which involved a lot of feeling oneself all over, on and around an outsized wicker chair. Not the kind of thing you'd see in a Wu Tang video, sister! I was pleased with myself for not ditching, though. I guess if you're dancing professionally and what you want more than anything is to wow 'em at that 'Cabaret' audition, it's a fine class to take.

I hope not everyone minds these very Janna-centred entries. I will endeavour to tell you more about Deep-inclusive experiences. Many of you will already know this, but I must again regale you with the news of our latest brush with greatness! While on the phone to our families in the US, who should stroll by our little booth but Richard Branson, dapper founder of the vast Virgin empire. And, when Deep and I later repaired to Sydney's Botanical Gardens to view the frighteningly abundant bird- and bat-life, there he was again, indulging in a leisurely stroll with his three trendy and winsome teenage daughters (or hired escorts -- I can't be sure). It was all Michael could do to prevent me from accosting Richard to tell him how much I love Virgin Atlantic airlines (I do!!!), how superior the meals and movie selection, how warm the complimentary fuzzy socks, and did he have any sort of Complimentary Flight Vouchers languishing on his person? It's a good thing Michael Keeper of Wisdom convinced me to abstain. My effusive speech surely would have covered the magnate in spittle.

Speaking of trendy. On a chilly Thursday evening, Michael and I took one of Sydney's clean and efficient trains to the suburb of Ashford for a swing dance. Although it turned out to be a pretty dire rock 'n' roll band with dancing of a similar order, we had a great time dancing together and people-watching. (If you're wondering, there were only a few with a slight 'Strictly Ballroom' look about them.) It was in a veteran's hall. We were among the youngest guests. We found out that they call a pint of beer a "schooner", and that slot machines (of which there were many in the adjacent room) are called "pokies". In the end, you see, a worthwhile excursion.

Sydney is a wonderful city for strolling. At night, it's safe to walk almost anywhere, so Michael and I could often be seen enjoying a postprandial. The famous sight of the Sydney Opera House is truly impressive lit up in the darkness, although it looks more like a stack of dirty dishes when viewed in the daylight hours (with apologies to my aussie friends).

We can also recommend the Manly Scenic Walkway, a nice little 10km, 3-hr hike that meanders along the north side of Sydney Harbour through gorgeous bushland and even some rainforest enclaves. It was there we saw our first sulphur-crested cockatoos (white with yellow crest feathers) and rainbow lorikeets (yes, all seven colours! Wow!).