Hello Hobart!

All things said and told Tiger Airways ain’t that bad, especially when it costs less than a night’s sleep to fly two across the Bass Straight. The downside was a late arrival that saw us flag the last shuttle bus to Hobart. Once again we were a little too lax in our preparation, overlooking the fact that the Aussies were still on their school summer break and accommodation would be hard to come by. We got a taste of what it must’ve felt like for Mary and Joseph as we plodded the capital’s streets in search of a room, but fortune favours the brave and, after much searching, we landed the two final dorm bunks in some hostel called the Pickled Frog. As for food, we weren’t quite so lucky and had to settle for a slice of greasy pizza from some dodgy backstreet takeaway, which were washed down with a couple of pints of Cascade (the Hobart brewery and, believe it or not Aussie’s oldest) in the only “local” bar we could find. Straddling the Derwent River and backed by the towering Mt Wellington, Hobart has enhanced its rich colonial heritage with a lively vibe stemming from countless street festivals and old cobbled roads crammed with bars. Add to this its busy fishing port – a dozen of the freshest oysters we’d tried since Stewart Island for 10 bucks – and several funky suburbs all within walking distance and the city has it made.

With a population only just breaking 200,000 Hobart, the country’s second oldest city and smallest state capital, is a breath of fresh air. It’s easy to lose track of time simply wandering … and that’s exactly what the first couple of days were made up of as we explored till our legs would walk no more. The old port area of Battery Point, the buzzing Salamanca markets – a must see every Saturday – and the cool as a cucumber North Hobart suburb, packed with European style bars and eateries. For those who care, Hobart started life as a village of tents and huts with a population of just 262 Europeans; in 1804 David Collins, governor of the then known Van Diemen’s Land decided Hobart’s deep river location made it perfect for trading and further exploration of the island. The aborigines were beaten back in a bloody battle in 1803 by the first Europeans to arrive and their name for the region, Nibberloonne, was later changed to Hobart about 1842.

No trip to Hobart is complete without an exertion up to the peak of Mt Wellington, which is by no means high at 1270m, but offers breath-taking panoramic views for as far as the eyes can see. Most visitors tend to rely on their campervans or jump the bus, but in true Marit and Kris style we opted for the four hour hike from Fern Tree, and shit is it rewarding. Following the aptly named “zig zag” trail, you climb out of the tree line and weave around sheer granite rocks to reach the peak, where the reward is a view that stretches from the south west cape, east to Bruny Island and the Tasman Peninsula and north towards Mt Field and the Cradle Mountain national park.

But it’s a small world, not least when you’ve a Dutchie in tow! Just as we prepared to descend for civilisation but who should rock up at the summit in their newly hired campervan than our three amigos Annelies, Bart and Ray – complete with cold beers in hand. Somehow we managed to avoid temptation, preferring to descend by foot after arranging a catch up beer in Fern Tree, which led to two and a long night’s entertainment north of the city at the their well hidden campsite.

Melbourne - now that's what you call a city!

There were supposed to be three of us drinking flight ER407 dry but a certain Mr Elmore decided to relinquish his seat in favour of Mt Eden’s top boozer The Cloakroom (good luck with the new job Kyle). As it was, the two of us did our utmost to miss the flight, having overlooked the need for visas – and we call ourselves experienced travellers. The result: a frantic 30 minutes trying to secure the damn things before boarding. And it came down to the wire – a big thank you goes out to Emirates’ staff! Unfortunately, the delay meant no final Lion Red with Marit’s good friends Jenny and Jinx who’d insisted on driving to the airport straight from work to wave us off. Instead it came down to a quick kiss and embrace as our names bellowed out over the intercom. As it happened, once we’d dodged customs and side stepped the bar we found ourselves bringing up the rear of all other passengers - why do people make a run for their seats an hour before take off when they know the words “gate closing” actually mean “you have time for one more at the bar”? On the plus side, Mr Elmore’s seat had been left empty (no such luck when it came to eating his meal) affording us the luxury of all that extra space to spread out. Time to sit back, kick back, and enjoy everything Emirates could throw at us – and they did. The three hours passed in a heart beat, a tribute to Emirates’ flawless service and, for once, excellent grub. On arrival in Melbourne it was easy. Jump a cab and head to the suburb of East Brunswick where we were to ring on the door of yet another Dutchie, the good man Pim and his lovely Espanic girlfriend Yvonne. No sooner had we stepped through the door than we were treated to a selection of ice cold Aussie beer, if you can call Melbourne Bitter beer, and proceeded to chat the night away as though we’d know each other for years. There’s no denying, the Dutchies are everywhere and always make you feel at home!

Almost 10 years to the day since we were last in Melbourne it was great to be back in a city that actually strikes you as a “real” city. Not knocking Auckland (we are) but Melbourne ozzes class. It has everything you want in a city and more, and so it proved as we walked and talked, ate and drank, and embraced everything this wonderful city has to offer. To cap it off the city was playing host to the Australian Open. The city was alive, with a vibe we’d not seen or felt for what seemed like years. First the Victorian Markets, next the newly established wharf. Onwards into the city centre for a stroll along the wonderful Yarra river, which is aligned with more bars, cafes and restaurants than you can poke a stick at! Everywhere you look the sky scrapers tower above as old architecture meets new. A walk through the beautiful botanic gardens, a visit to the outstanding war memorial (by which time we were shagged and decided to call it a day with a bottle of Maclaren Vale’s finest shiraz overlooking Flinders Station).

Of course, there’s no rest for the wicked so, a bit lighter for the vino, we teamed up with Pim and jumped a tram (we love cities with trams) to the funky Richmond suburb where we partied late into the night courtesy of Ray and his wonderful hospitality. And what a great night it was too matched by some wonderful story telling and … Among the group of revellers were yet more Dutchies, Bart and Annelies, the aunty and uncle of Pim and our good Auckland buddy Paul (it’s a long story). It’s with these guys that we hit the southern Melbourne suburb of St Kildas for a spot of sun worshipping, drinking and reminiscing the next day (it’s where Marit was based during her 2000 stay). Then back into the city centre – the public transport is perfect - where we all decided (madness) to grab a lift to the top of the recently completed Eureka Tower, the world’s tallest residential building (253.5 m). There’s no disputing the views are stunning, but Kris felt less than comfortable atop the 85 story beast – you should’ve have seen his face when he was invited out onto the top deck to pose for some pics!

Back on terra firma normality resumed, as did the colour in Kris’ cheeks, and we decided to see in the sunset with a couple of coldies almost forgetting we had some where else to be. Once again it came down to a mad dash and without Pim and Yvonne I don’t think we’d have got to the airport on time to board our flight to Tassie!

Hats off to Aotearoa!

So, after a wacky and wonderful 2 years, 7 months, 6 days, 5 hours and 4 minutes the sun finally set on our New Zealand adventure … but not without one final shindig with those familiar faces that helped make our stay such a great one.

The venue was always going to be our deck, which in the 18 months we’ve lived there had played host to its fair share of debauchery. Coming up with a theme for a party is never too hard when your man Glenn Smith is involved; so it proved – bring a hat, any hat, the bigger, the brighter, the better. There’s little else to say really, the pictures do most of the talking. A great day (even better night) thanks to all those who came from far and wide to join us.

Special mention has to go out to Collette whose bright, pink, feathered whatever you call it certainly stole the show. That said, Barry definitely ran her a close second with his outfit that would surely have guaranteed him free entrance to the Blue Oyster Bar for life (read Police Academy 2). Christ knows how much we’ve drunk, not that anyone was counting but once again a 2/599 Mount Albert Road party managed to fill the bottle bin twice over a week before collection.

Finally, a big thank you to all of those who made it. You helped make it a special send off. We look forward to doing another big night with you all sometime in he not too distant future. While we’re in the mood for a spot of reminiscing, we’d like it noted that there were certain folks, and certain groups that without whom New Zealand might not have felt like home. You know who you are and thank you. Make sure you stay in touch because wherever we end up the doors are always open and the couch is always free.

Despite a tricky first couple of months, when the weather was shit and the socialising was slow, New Zealand really did feel like home, thanks in no small part to the Kiwi generosity and hospitality. You JAFA’s know what we’re talking about. For those of you who’ve never been to New Zealand, just pack your bags and go. For those people in search of a taste for the good life, there’s surely no better place to go. Aoteraoa will always be our second home.

New Year's Eve in Ohope

Cue Ohope: it was after all December 31, 2009, not just New Year’s Eve but the dawn of a new decade. Here our thanks go out to Lucy and Liam, our wonderful hosts for two days of, well nothing really, just swimming, sunbathing, eating and drinking. Factor in their cool mom Lizzy, Jamie and Tom, Helen, Lance, Glenn and a few of the beach locals to boot and the scene was set for a cracking couple of days.

Once again New Zealand served up some of the year's best weather for New Year, with the wonderful sunshine forming the perfect backdrop to a cracker-jack party; perhaps the hardest thing to do in Ohope was say goodbye – Kiwi hospitality is surely second to none. On arrival we were warned, albeit loosely, by Tom that "no one gets a hangover in Ohope" which, of course, we laughed off. Remarkably the guy was right, you can't get a hangover in Ohope, no matter your poison of choice. Beer rolled into wine, rolled into vodka, rolled into whisky ... crikey even the absinthe made made a late night appearance in a bid to undermine Tom's statement but short of turning Glenn loopy at the sight of sparklers there were no obvious side effects!

Mind you, our saving grace was surely the wonderful spread provided by all. A banquet fit for kings delivered in true Kiwi style - on the barby! Add to this the beach cricket, swimming and body boarding (Ohope's waves were made for this) and there was no surprise that the first day of 2010 mirrored that of 2009's last; beer rolled into wine, rolled into vodka, rolled into whisky ... and no hangover on January 2!

But alas, all good things must come to an end. So onwards and upwards, as they say, as we set off for the Cormandel's stunning beach retreat, Whiritoa, a magical strip of beach that has seen more than its fair share of ex-pat fun over the past three years (thanks for the invites Rich and family) as host to our previous New Year shenanigans. A quieter affair this time round, however, with many of the usual suspects off doing their own thing - by the way Liz and Tim we hope you enjoyed Vietnam.

An early morning rise and one final long drive from the east coast to the west, and a date with rugged Muriwai one of Auckland’s most remote western beaches. A haven for surfers, this 30km strip of black sand is a designated highway and provides an adventurous alternative to Tarmac roads.

In contrast to the tranquil waters of the east coast, the treacherous western beaches are forever pounded by surf and all too often swimmers are lost to the powerful rips (unbeknown to us a fisherman was swept off the rocks to his death while we played chicken with 4ft waves). But with the sun setting on our final Kiwi road trip (at least for a few years) it was time to retreat to the safety of the sand dunes with friends Emilie and Dean – and little Carmen – fire up the bbq, and crack open the rum. Cheers ...

East Cape - Christmas 2009

Welcome to the awesome East Cape, New Zealand’s most easterly land mass, a remote but nonetheless stunning stretch of coastline spanning some 350kms from Opotiki to Gisborne.

Despite its beauty this is a part of the country all too few Kiwis, let alone tourists visit, but those who do venture this far off the beaten track are rewarded with their own beaches and bays where, with no one about, you can strip naked to your heart's content (there's no where quite like in New Zealand for filling in the white bits the sun missed!)

Nowhere else in New Zealand is quite like the detached East Cape; a Maori stronghold that serves as a warning of what was to come for yesteryear explorers like the infamous Captain Cook. We had always planned to tour the cape, but with our departure from Aotearoa only weeks away it made perfect sense to sign off in style, and so off we set on our final Kiwi camping adventure.

We had planned to make a run for the cape on Christmas Day, but that idea was shot down by the wonderful festive spread that awaited us in Devonport courtesy of Richard and Femke - our surrogate family here if you like. Without digressing, if it hadn't been for these two we wonder what might have come of our time in New Zealand, so Richard and Femke thanks a million, again.

Up early on Boxing Day – a special thank you goes out to Helen without whose generosity (she lent us her car) this trip would not have been possible – it was full steam ahead to Karangahake Gorge, the forgotten home of the north island's failed gold rush. Reach the far side of the gorge and the road splits into two: left to the beautiful Coromandel Peninsula (the scene for our previous two New Years), and right to the cape where people are few and the beaches are many.

Through the dump that is Whakatane and out the other side where State Highway 35 opens up in front of you like a race circuit straight. Visitors are spoilt by the wonderful views: bleak, postapocalyptic shores strewn with driftwood with no one to see for miles aside from a lone horseman.

On warm sunny days – as they all were – the Pacific shimmers turquoise, the water randomly punctuated by craggy slopes and steep gorges rich with the bright red blooming pohutukawa tree. Smoldering 50kms out to sea sits White Island, the country most active volcano, a stark reminder that this mere teen of a nation could blow skywards at any time. All too often you feel stuck in time (an often felt feeling living in New Zealand) and it’s easy to imagine yourself as a founding European settler locking horns with the native Maori in the early 1800s. “Time for a glass of wine,” pipes Marit, rousing me from my thoughts. “I think we should camp here tonight.”

And so it was, with day one drawing to a close on a deserted beach in Ohiwa; glass of wine in hand, crackling fire at our feet (note of warning: do not get caught lighting fires on the East Cape). If the Maori hadn’t been so recklessly divested of their land in the 19th century one wonders how this coastline might sit today. Much the same we’d guess, after all, the interior remains ragged and wild with the Raukumara creating the cape’s jagged spine.

Beach after deserted beach, bay after secluded bay, the Pacific Coast Highway threads its way north through small townships offering little more than a church or marae. Past Whanarua and Cape Runway the road juts inland reconnecting with the coastline at the idyllic Hicks Bay.

“Time for a glass of wine,” pipes Marit, rousing me from my thoughts, again – you get where we’re going with this, eh. Drive a few kms, stop for a swim – often a naked one – take in some rays and move on. There’s a lot to be said for having your own beach, where you can light a fire, chuck on some meat, and chill till your heart’s content. This is the real New Zealand, the one we fell in love with and the one we’ll pine long after we’ve gone. And given the cape’s remoteness, try not to make things more difficult for yourself than necessary - in our case, running down the car battery by playing music late into the night; trying to find someone who’s carrying jump leads in this part of the world is harder than you think! Another piece of advice: conserve your energy because you never know what’s around the corner. Take the East Cape lighthouse, for example. The views our breath-taking, but not quite so much as the 750-step climb to get there – a test of stamina that will have your legs aching for days.

And while we’re reeling off the health hazards, try to avoid driving into townships where the only sign of life are the patched gang members lining the street. We’re sure Tikitiki has more to offer, but we’ll try and time our next visit so the Black Power are out of town; just the look in their eye was menacing enough to prompt a premature shift into reverse gear!

Quickly, we headed south through Waipiro and Tokomaru Bays, and on to Tolaga Bay, home of the longest wharf in the southern hemisphere – and probably the worst fish and chips! To be fair, it’s about here where everything good about the cape ends and everything that’s shit about New Zealand begins.

If you like Kiwi wine as much as we do then you must have been to the Poverty Bay and Hawke’s Bay regions – you must also have a bright red nose and pock marked skin! Some of the country’s finest wine has its roots in the dozens of small boutique vineyards that scatter the area. But we already knew that coz we’d already done it. Our reason for being in Gisborne was less about vino and more about music; the Rhythm & Vines festival to be exact.

Whatever the locals might say about their town being overrun by tens of thousands of pissed adolescents for three days at the end of every year there’s no ignoring that R&V is New Zealand’s top music event (perhaps only decent music event given that the country’s top visiting act of 2009 was probably Iron bloody Maiden!

Fortunately, as a much admired member of the New Zealand media (cough) I was handed VIP tickets, which meant no queues, great views and a few interviews with some of the event’s star studded acts. Moby headlined, but it was The Editors who perhaps turned most heads (they were exceptionally easy to interview, a very likeable bunch unlike Moby whose interview was more akin to pulling teeth) with a stellar set that, certainly in our eyes, put all the Kiwi artists to shame.

The choice for Waiohika Estate vineyard to host the yearly gathering was inspired as the terrain slices into the land creating natural amphitheatres which each play host to the stages. That said, we’d strongly advise against trying Witters’ 2009 vintage given the number of people who substituted the vines for Portaloos. From Gisborne – where on the delightful Waikanae Beach we stood and watched as Moko, the resident dolphin, played in the shallow waters with holidaymakers – we backtracked to Opotoki through Gisborne Gorge.

Here we took time to walk the trail blazed by failed European farmers (the muppets persevered trying to sheep farm the Raukumara Range for 30 years before calling it quits), another little adventure that ended with a naked river swim; there’s a lot of nude frolicking to be had on the East Cape given how there’s never anyone around!

Turning 30 in Ha'apai islands

TONGA wasn't my original choice for somewhere to 'forget' my 30th - I'd not had a choice, not really thought about it. Truth is, just before Crimbo, Pacific Blue offered a seat sale. I thought sod it, two returns to nowhere in the middle of nowhere for 600 bucks, why the heck not. So I did. Both been working real hard and worn out, like everyone these days. The thought of a week in paradise drove us through and there we were at Auckland airport, drinking a beer for breakfast toasting my 30th. And that's the last of it. From that point on we were on 'Tonga time'. No time. Chill man, relax. The flight from Auckland is two and-a-half hours. It sits about 8 ks from the international dateline. In fact, the dateline jags around it so the 170-odd islands' 80,000 islanders are an hour ahead of Kiwi time - weird. Some say Tonga is 'the place where time begins'. We'd be more inclined to say it's a place where 'time stands still'. Because, on first impression, no one seems to do sweet bugger all. Even getting a taxi is difficult - and they ain't really taxis. More locals looking to offer a ride, with 'taxi' scrawled on a piece of cardboard, taped to the dashboard. The ride into the capital of the kingdom - yes, it's home to a royal family, quite a strange bunch by all accounts - is nowt special. In fact, for a nano-second, you question whay possessed you to visit Tonga ("No one goes to Tonga" said our friend Angelena, and shes a native for Christ's sake!) We jumped in with Tony's crowd. His name is mentioned in some guide books - some northern English fella who arrived 16 years ago, married a local and opened a backpackers. Turned out to be a right moaning bar-steward. 16 years and not a word of the local lingo. "They have to speak English, I speak English," he boasted. Marit couldn't stand the bugger, full of more crap than any Indian city we ever visitied. We stayed in the 'Blue House'. A great little place with spacious bedroom, running 'hot' water and a sweeping balcony. Course, we never saw that. Off to town for a mooch and a few more birthday beers. "You won't like town," piped Tony, there's nowt there. Quiet like c'ept when it'b chuck out time, then they like to duff each other upp." And so it proved. Nufu'alofa, the capital, is a small dump. A splattering of cafes, a market and a handful of decent bars. But the waterfront is home to half a dozen half sunken boats and looks like a construction site. Still, we knew that anyway. Found a few bars, teamed up with a few like-minded folk and took advantage of the 'VB promotion' at, wait for it ... Shooters. Yeah, real Tongan this is. Gatecrashed a kava session and called it a night!

Nuku'alofa is on the main island, Tongapatu. You can drive around it in a day. There are a few beautiful sights. But we headed straight to Ha'apai, the middle island group where, it seems, very few people go. It was an eventful 40 minute flight in a little eight seater. The pilot's words when we landed on a stretch of road in Lifuka: "Welcome to Lifuka, the time is, no time, and the temperature is beautiful." He wasn't wrong. Wow. The sun and the small breeze, perfect. It's difficult to explain, but like going back in time. There's nothing that resembles the 21st century here. The government offices look more like empty farm shacks, there is no real road, and the bank's windows are wide open when the front doors are supposedly 'locked'!

Pangai represents the only hive of activity on Lifuka, one of the 62 islands in the group - 45 uninhabited. Out to the west, pyrimidal Kao and its smoking partner Tofua belch fumes into the air. Here we managed to find a guy with a boat, who 'knew' a guy on the island of Uoleva where we were keen to stay. Much waiting later we were aboard a tin pot dingy idling our way out of the small harbour - there were a few jumpy moments when the island dipped out of view - and into the great expanse of water that is the Pacific. After an hour of inhaling diesel fumes we finally caught sight of land and, once our hosts came into view, bailed over the side into the blue waters below. Here we are, our own slice of paradise. Not another westerner in sight and nothing around us but pristine white beaches, coconuts and fish the size of small cars. No running water, no electriciy, no cafes, restaurants or bars. Two hammocks, a bed and mozzy net, and a local Tongan couple to cook us up wholesome goodness - fish, pork, chicken and a whole load of stodgy yam!

Tongan culture is pretty simple driven by a strict family hierachy. In short, they're a pretty darn religious bunch who, when they're not bellowing out hymns at church, can be found licking out the inside of corn beef tins. Yet, you forgive these people their obesity and laziness because they;re just about the friendliest people you'll ever meet - and they boast a wonderful sense of humour to boot! They have no money and crave to move away - a lot chose New Zealand but in reality, unless they can break into the All Blacks first 15, there's little hope for them there outside seasonal labour. Such good people though. We stayed with Sonny and his wife Maria. Christ were those two funny. And Sonny, so many stories to tell. About diving with sharks, discovering bodies on beaches, and sneaking aboard the passing ocean liners - of course, all his yarns stemmed from too much local rum!

And they cooked the tastiest food imaginable. Fresh snapper every night, chicken and mutton cooked in fresh coconut milk with onions, wrapped in Taro leaves. Didn't have to slaughter a pig, but if we had I don't know where we would have put it! Both put on pounds forcing down the fresh pancakes, fried bananas, curries, and an unbeatable 'umu', the traditional Tongan dish where everything is wrapped in Taro leaves and burried in the ground with boiling hot rocks. Dinner table chatter was hilarious, perched around a rickety table under which the mozzys hammered ya ankles.

During the day it was as though we were on our own island. Days were spent circumnavigating the island, the untouched beach laced with coconut drenched palms. Felt like Robinson Crusoe a number of times using shells and driftwood to price open coconuts and slurp the ice cold milk inside. The hardest part was deciding where to stop for a swim!