Being in Queenstown reminds me of Vang Vieng. Lots of partying, good atmosphere, and everybody knows everyone once they've been here a few days. I find myself being greeted (a nod or a smile) in the street by people I don't quite recognise, and I do the same to others. In the most recent instance, it's only afterwards my consciousness realises they're my Swiss roommates.
There's an inclusive cemetery here - no boundary fence nor wall. Chinese, Jewish, Anglican, Catholic - all together, side by side. Lots of McBrides and O'Neills, Galway and Tyrone. A Collins grave. Some older statues, dramatic against the mountains.
I've got this empty void within me. I'm not sure its root. Missing R? The whole gang of Strays? Or the fact that I'm only three weeks from the end of this adventure, never to be repeated. Or if it is, I'll be past thirty, and not really one of the regulars. I have this regret, that I should have done this years ago - taken a chance on a working visa, and taken off. but my sensibilities would never allow it, not then. Maybe now?
Kayaking this morning was just perfect. Up at 6am to make porridge and tea. Rendezvous in the lounge with four others - Lithuanians and Estonians. Skirts (Paul) is our guide for the morning. I'm paired up with him, the engine to his rudder. We suit up in the most ridiculous long-johns, while a long white mist hangs over the lake. It's as calm as a millpond, and the reflections are stunning. The others are first timers, so we have a leisurely pace, myself and Skirts chatting amiably while the others get used to kayaking.
We come out into the openness of the sound, following the far coast, hugging the rocks. We spy a couple of seals ahead. Around the corner, and there's about ten of them frolicking in the water. They're completely unafraid of us, slipping under the boats, waving their tails and peeking at us inquisitively. We paddle under Stirling Falls, a more dramatic encounter than yesterday - the wind pushing us back is mighty! We break on a small beachy out crap, after three hours on the water.
When we get back in the kayaks and attempt to head further out toward the Tasman Sea, a strong sea breeze has sprung up and battling against it is draining. We decide to raft up and hitch a lift instead. While we wait, Skirts entertains us with tales of life in Milford. They have a naked tunnel run every April 1st, with Ken and Barbie dolls for first placed guy and girl. [They also get completely cut off during the winter.]
The Balticians (I made that up) are like larger than life stereotypes. "Good is not bad". "Bad is not good". They related the tale of the fisherman they met who caught only one fish - "one fish is no fish".
There's an inclusive cemetery here - no boundary fence nor wall. Chinese, Jewish, Anglican, Catholic - all together, side by side. Lots of McBrides and O'Neills, Galway and Tyrone. A Collins grave. Some older statues, dramatic against the mountains.
***
I've got this empty void within me. I'm not sure its root. Missing R? The whole gang of Strays? Or the fact that I'm only three weeks from the end of this adventure, never to be repeated. Or if it is, I'll be past thirty, and not really one of the regulars. I have this regret, that I should have done this years ago - taken a chance on a working visa, and taken off. but my sensibilities would never allow it, not then. Maybe now?
***
Kayaking this morning was just perfect. Up at 6am to make porridge and tea. Rendezvous in the lounge with four others - Lithuanians and Estonians. Skirts (Paul) is our guide for the morning. I'm paired up with him, the engine to his rudder. We suit up in the most ridiculous long-johns, while a long white mist hangs over the lake. It's as calm as a millpond, and the reflections are stunning. The others are first timers, so we have a leisurely pace, myself and Skirts chatting amiably while the others get used to kayaking.
We come out into the openness of the sound, following the far coast, hugging the rocks. We spy a couple of seals ahead. Around the corner, and there's about ten of them frolicking in the water. They're completely unafraid of us, slipping under the boats, waving their tails and peeking at us inquisitively. We paddle under Stirling Falls, a more dramatic encounter than yesterday - the wind pushing us back is mighty! We break on a small beachy out crap, after three hours on the water.
 |
| Skirts |
 |
| Very hard to get a good photo when the seals and kayak are both constantly moving |
 |
| Stirling Falls |
When we get back in the kayaks and attempt to head further out toward the Tasman Sea, a strong sea breeze has sprung up and battling against it is draining. We decide to raft up and hitch a lift instead. While we wait, Skirts entertains us with tales of life in Milford. They have a naked tunnel run every April 1st, with Ken and Barbie dolls for first placed guy and girl. [They also get completely cut off during the winter.]
The Balticians (I made that up) are like larger than life stereotypes. "Good is not bad". "Bad is not good". They related the tale of the fisherman they met who caught only one fish - "one fish is no fish".
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