New Zealand South Island Tour 2001

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Trip starts off on a bad note. 		1080886img.jpg
At the hostel, Christchurch Christmas Day 		1080893img.jpg
Patrick and Sean 		1080894img.jpg
Annalies and Patrick 		1090919img.jpg
Offroad on the way to Mt. Cook: Patrick 		1090922img.jpg
Offroad on the way to Mt. Cook: Sean
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Patrick in Collingwood, hooning it up. 		1090930img.jpg
Patrick in Collingwood 		1090932img.jpg
Sean in Collingwood 		pana1.jpg
Panorama: Caitlins, South Island
2000 x 306 		pana2.jpg
Panorama: 360 degree, near Queenstown
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Panorama: 360 degree, near Queenstown
3000 x 236
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Panorama: Takaka Hill
1500 x 594 		th_si2.jpg
Sean, Annalies, Patrick, Sheep		 th_si3.jpg
Causing environmental chaos		 th_si4.jpg
Taking in the sights near Queenstown		 th_si1.jpg
Suddenly this guy drops out of the sky....		 th_si5.jpg
Standing on a beach, somewhere.
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One jillion sheep, all looking at you.		 th_si7.jpg
Patrick and Annalies, Dunedin		 th_si8.jpg
World's Steepest Street, Dunedin		 th_si9.jpg
Near Nugget Point, Southland		 th_si10.jpg
Note pesky stoat under bike.		 th_si11.jpg
Yer classic NZ shot.
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Dust Storm, Near Wanaka		 th_si13.jpg
On the way to Mt Cook		 th_si14.jpg
Patrick blocking view of my bike.		 th_si15.jpg
Near Red Rocks, Wellington!		 th_si18.jpg
Something or other Falls, NZ		 th_si19.jpg
Ol' Crazy Face
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Hoon (noun): See bogan, hooligan, bevin.		 th_si21.jpg
Arthur's Pass

Travelogue

In December 2001, my good friend Patrick Burek from Canada visited and we did a tour of the South Island of New Zealand. I was riding my new BMW R1150GS, (which replaced my just-stolen Suzuki DR650), and Patrick was on a Honda Africa Twin 750. Up until this point, it had been a very cold and wet summer. In fact, it turned out to be the wettest December on record! Despite this, we managed to avoid most of the rain during our trip, mainly just skirting along the edges of storms. We did barrel directly head-on into one, sure, but that was a deliberate tacticle effort. More on this later.

We crossed the ferry from Wellington to Picton on the InterIslander, a sturdy if somewhat unglamorous vessel. One tip I do have to share though: Bring your own tie-downs, as the ferry supplies greasy yellow (?) ropes that I would be reluctant to touch without protective rubber gloves and a recent tetanus shot. We spent the night in Picton, and the next morning made our way south on the pleasant SH1 towards Christchurch, where we spent Christmas day. On Christmas day, our host, Marcus, prepared a hangi for us. Hangi is a tradional Maori meal, in which you bury your food, (wrapped of course!) in the ground, where it is cooked by hot coals. (This description makes it sound like the hot coals are already there... they're not. They have to be prepared too.) It was delicious. I contributed to the meal by washing some veggies and setting the table, Patrick made some fancy-schmancy folded napkin thingies. The other guests were agog at this display of origami wonder, and Patrick basked in the glory, looking all the world like a man who had crafted a grandfather clock out of a burnt stump using only a rusty fork.

The next day we loaded our third traveling companion, Annalies, on the back of the bike and set off. The road from Christchurch to Dunedin is mostly dull until you get closer to Dunedin, at which point it becomes mildly dull. I was in agony as I had suddenly become allergic to something, and no drug stores were open on boxing day. I decided to spread the misery by complaining loudly whenever I could.

Dunedin is a very nice city, and we stayed there for two days. It is home of the "Dunedin Sound," or so we were told. As far as I can tell, the "Dunedin Sound," is the sound of old Split Enz songs creaking out of tinny cafe radios, but maybe it was just the holiday season that caused this anomoly. I had my bike serviced, and we wandered around. Patrick bought a souvenir plastic soap dish of which he was inexplicably proud. I bought some anti-histamines, and the complaining died down to a semi-acceptable level.

From Dunedin, we skirted the south coast, the Caitlins. Absolutely gorgeous and great riding. We continued on and spent the night at Riverton, near Invercargill, (home of bad hair and checked shirts, so our guidebook claims. Stangely, Patrick claimed that he "really felt at home in Invercargill."). On the way we skirted a storm that painted the sky in the most amazing colors. Patrick couldn't be arsed to look though. ("Can't be asked to..." being a Kiwi saying that means, "Can't bother to....", which soon mutates naturally into "Can't be arsed.")

From Riverton, we were in a bit of a quandry. Our original plan was to head off to Fiordland, but it looked grim weather-wise. Instead we decided to head inland, through some fairly dull country. We ended up pretty tired, and about 100kms away from Queenstown at some little town whose name I couldn't be arsed to remember.

The next day we spent in Queenstown, which is a fantastic place. The city is surrounded by The Remarkables, a towering mountain range. It is absolutely stunning. We took a ride on the Shotover Jet boat, which was highly amusing because Patrick got totally soaked, whereas everyone else on the boat remained bone dry. No one was able to figure out how he did it. Unfortunately, we couldn't spend the night in Queenstown, as there were no rooms available due to the Christmas holidays. We headed off to spend the night in Wanaka.

Wanaka is a traditional Kiwi holiday spot, and it was crowded with kids in for the New Year's celebration. We personally were reponsible for raising the average age by ten years. We looked forward to moving on, but fate had different plans for us, (note forshadowing). It was still raining on the West coast, so we thought we'd spend one more day here, then hoping it would stop raining, move on to Fox Glacier and the rest of the West coast.

We set off for Fox early the next morning, despite the fact that it was pouring. We hoped that it would miraculously clear the next day, and decided to stick it out for one day in the rain. My gear began leaking immediately, and it wasn't too pleasant. Making it even less pleasant was the fact that Patrick's gear wasn't leaking at all! About half way to Fox, Patrick's bike mysteriously died. In the pouring rain, we tried to diagnose the problem, and we were pretty sure it was the fuel pump. No amount of fuse checking, pump jiggling or fuel line staring would get it going, so we hid Patrick's luggage in the trees. (I heard a tiny voice in the trees at one point, and going by its echoey-ness, judged it to be about two kms away. "Can you still see my bag from there?" Patrick shouted. "Yeah, keep going," I replied, having lost sight of him and the bag about 20 minutes earlier.) We headed back to some small service town we had passed about 8km earlier to call for help.

We called NZAA, and they promised to send a truck out, although it would take a few hours as the deluge had caused massive problems all over the south island. While waiting, we had what had to be the worst flat white (kind of a latte without much foam) ever produced anywhere. I couldn't believe something so foul could be produced from the raw ingredients of coffee beans. Speaking of flat whites, you're probably wondering, "How did Sean and Patrick communicate on the road while riding their bikes in such a daring manner? Did they simply crash into each other or force the other off the road when they wished to communicate?" The answer is no, not usually! Let us take a break to explain:

On our trip we had worked out a series of hand signals so we could communicate on the road: Point to head: "Feed the head, ie: I'm hungry, let's stop." Flat hand over head "Let's stop for a flat white." Open and close fist stealthily near rear indicator light: "Cops ahead, get on the brakes." Pulling over to side of road suddenly, opening fuel cap, peering into tank: "I might be out of gasoline." Peace sign: "My ear is folded over in my helmet!" Two peace signs: "Both my ears are folded over in my helmet!" Pantomiming a wedgie: "I have a wedgie, can we stop to rest?"

Now back to our story! When the driver arrived and we told him we suspected the fuel pump, he suggested we hit it with a rock and see if that helped. "Hit it with a rock," is always good advice, and we were happy to take it. The NAZZ guy drove Patrick out to the bike, and not long after, Patrick came riding back, the freshly whacked fuel pump delivering a steady and reliable stream of fuel to the engine. Patrick had the air of a man who had just fixed the Hubble telescope.

It was too late to continue on to Fox, so we reluctantly turned around and headed back to Wanaka. We gave up on our dream to do the West Coast, and the next day headed back across to Christchurch. It seems that the motorcycle Gods were looking out for us however: Two days later, a Canadian hiker was washed away and killed in the same spot that the bike had broken down. Fox Glacier was preparing an evacuation due to flooding, and a bridge near the area washed out, sending a train into the drink. Thank-you Motorcycle Gods!!

We travelled back across the island via the Lewis Pass the next day, then headed north towards Nelson. We spent a few days exploring the northern part of the South island, and two nights in Nelson. Our trip out to Farewell Spit was gorgeous, with dramatic weather and vistas. There was also a sweeping panorama and a cystal-clear spring-fed lake at some point too.

We returned to Wellington on the Ferry after a nice ride from Nelson to Picton via the Queen Charlotte Highway. It would have been an even nicer ride without all the Sunday-driver yahoos clogging it up, but really, how could I complain? We had just survived the rainiest month in NZ history, and had a great time doing it.

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