Banks Peninsula, hazy Akaroa and the Port Hills - 27/10/2007

On Matt from New Zealand's recommendation, I went to Akaroa to swim with the dolphins, or at least see them, but sadly the weather and the off-season conspired to keep the dolphins and me separate. It rained and hailed on my journey there, which perhaps should have been a clue. I wandered around town like a tourist and looked longingly at the signs for sea kayak and mountain bike hire. Next time. Better weather, more time, completely healed back, etc. I didn't expect to be able to "do" New Zealand in just a weekend, so in essence, my trip was a taster trip, a scouting mission for a longer holiday.

After Akaroa, I took the scenic way back and got to flirt with the joys of steep precipices and erosion-prone roads. I misread the map and thought that the Akaroa road was the one that looped around the Banks Peninsula and back toward Christchurch. It wasn't. As if eroding paved roads weren't enough fun, I found myself on eroding gravel roads with Kiwi pheasants outrunning my misnamed Suzuki Swift on the uphill. By that point, I knew I was headed in the wrong direction. I was just hoping for a large enough spot to turn around, so as not to be admiring the harbour too closely with my turn.

I need to take a moment to share all of the joys of the Swift. I was happy for the fuel economy. I was happy for the means of transportation. I was happy for the lack of expense. I needed some adjusting to the controls. The Swift is almost a complete mirror of a North American vehicle. The pedals are the same, thankfully, but all of the switches, buttons, dials and blinky things were reversed. Every time I meant to turn or change lanes, I wiped my windscreen. Every time I meant to wipe the windscreen, I flashed my lights at someone. I don't remember which EKC friend had mentioned this before, it could have been Matt from NZ, but remembering that conversation gave me the giggles every time I did either of those things wrong. On that rainy, haily day, it happened a lot.

Finding my way back to paved Akaroa, I followed the scenic route back to Christchurch, which was the loop road that I had misread earlier. The road twisted around the mountains of peninsula, offering fleeting glances toward the harbours and occasionally the Pacific. The water was always an exceptional aquamarine, even when the sky was anything but.

Twisting and winding gave way to the flats at Little River and back to the mainland. I opted for the tunnel from Lyttleton, but perhaps should have taken the mountain pass. By the time I reached Lyttleton, the clouds had parted to bright blue sky. On the other side of the tunnel, I decided to stop at the gondola and enjoy the views from Christchurch's Port Hills. Once I reached the top in the gondola, I realised that I could have walked up the Bridle Path, though the views from the gondola were a tiny bit nicer. From the top of the gondola, several trail options were available. I explored each of them and enjoyed the wind and the panoramas. Finally, I followed the Bridle Path back to the car park at the bottom.

I headed back to the hotel plenty tired and looking forward to the next day's adventures.

Akaroa has French and British roots from the mid-1800s rush to settle and claim New Zealand.

Akaroa's modern side

Kiwi pheasants aren't any brighter than British pheasants.

My first view of this side of the Pacific Ocean.

Lyttleton, New Zealand, as viewed from the first "road" to Christchurch

The Crater Rim trail in the Port Hills

Do Kiwi sheep bleat with an accent?

Jetlagged in New Zealand - 22/10/2007

After a short nap in Dubai and otherwise not sleeping for the better part of two days, I arrived to Christchurch fueled mostly by anxiety and sleep-deprivations.

For clearing immigration, I had to provide proof I intended to leave the country. I couldn't find my initerary, but I remembered the flight and that was good enough. The hurdles in customs were unexpected. Basically, any food or dirt needs to be cleared by their Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry, so I got inspected for my dried soup mix, instant grits and instant porridge emergency rations, as well as my trainers that have seen Scottish dirt before, all of which I declared. Then all of my luggage got x-rayed by the MAF to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything, intentionally or not. The promo videos showed a woman trying to smuggle in a pineapple and a man smuggling a drum made of wood and a former cow. Large fines were threatened, but in truth it was a far friendlier process.

I was retrieved by one of the University of Canterbury faculty members and whisked back to my hotel. The quiet and the still made me very sleepy, but I didn't want to sleep at 2pm and be wide awake at midnight. I phoned parents, then took a walk and then phoned Amy in Denver. I made it to 8pm and gave up trying to prop my eyes open any longer.

The University of Canterbury is just across the street from the motel where I am staying. The mushroom building just won an architectural award and not in a good way.

The view from a porthole in the stairwell to Civil Engineering.

The view from near the top of the Chemistry building reminded me of the drive west toward Denver with the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

The Concrete Jungle of Dubai - 21/10/2007

Flying with Emirates, I had a long layover in their hub city of Dubai. For waits longer than 8 hours, they give you a complimentary night's stay at hotel just outside the airport. Mine was the Millenium Airport Hotel. Given that their business was perhaps 80+% Emirates passengers, I wasn't expecting opulence like I would have if I booked the hotel myself. My room was huge and overairconditioned. Outside temperatures rivaled Nashville in late July, hot and humid even in the dark. I got in a little after 1am so didn't explore outside the hotel. The next morning, I went for a short walk after breakfast, surveying the concrete jungle and enjoying the last taste of freedom. Hot and humid at 7am was slightly better than hot and humid at night. I bet by mid day, I would have taken my jacket off. By mid day, I was somewhere over the Indian Ocean in the metal tube again.

The view from my hotel room at night.

The same view with natural light.

The airport hotels varied in size from big to huge. Mine was merely "big" but I think this one was where Emirates sent their first and business class passengers.

The roads in Dubai didn't seem for the faint of heart. The signs looked easy enough to follow, but speed limits were for sissies.

Mother of All Beginners Trips: River Tweed - St Boswells to Kelso - 7/10/2007

Announcement of a beginners trip to the Tweed brought all sorts of paddlers out of the woodwork. Lack of water and too much described the summer pretty well. I had been meaning to get out in a kayak for at least a month and others longer still. I'm not sure anyone bothered with a final count, but my guess was 45. Charlie had proposed the Tweed section that included the rapids at Mackerstoun, a longish 2+/3- (at low water) in an otherwise 1+/2- stretch of river.

Boatshed faff took less than an hour. More impressive, fearless leader David arrived on time. Fifteen beginners were outfitted at boated for the river and then all of us were minimised into vehicles for the trip to St Boswells. We were misinformed to find the car park in Newtown St Boswells, which made Callum and I, as well as our two teenage beginners among the last to arrive at St Boswells. Charlie led the caravan to the get-in. Once everyone was reasonably dressed for paddling, David divided us up into five groups for the river. The drivers ran shuttle and the rest of us socialised and eventually got into our boats and on the water.

Groups 1-5 did not necessarily run the river in that order. Groups 2 and 5 made a break for it and others followed not far behind. The intention was to spread ourselves out on the river. While we didn't quite succeed, it never felt too crowded out there.

We worked our way through each of the small rapids, making sure the beginners had a good sense of what was coming and how to run it. I never quite got comfortable in Amy's boat, but made the best of it. Dropping into anything, I submarined much more than expected. Toward the end of the day, it got funny, but during the early rapids, not so much. Our beginners did very well.

We stopped for a stretch break and lunch above Mackerstoun. I wished I had brought mine, because we spent probably the next two hours getting all five groups safely through the Mackerstoun rapids, a longish set of rapids that perhaps rates a 3- for requiring some maneouvering around rocks. The success rate for beginners was perhaps 50/50. There were some spectacular swims, including Charlie's with his open canoe. Perhaps needing assistance to turn the boat around in the eddy was a warning? His canoe ran the last drop expertly upside down and Charlie swam it well. The swimming beginners bought it in one of two places, either the sharp eddy line after the first drop or the bony entrance to the last drop. Borrowing Niall's camera, I took a lot of photos, which can be seen here. I was one of about 10 people who opted for the dry line, not really wanting to bump into any rocks at speed.

Once everyone was through safely, we set out again, sort of in our groups. I ran out of steam pretty quickly -- four hours on the water at that point -- so Niall fed me chocolate to fuel the last few kilometres.

Not that it was moving very fast earlier, but the last hour felt still and occasionally deep. The occasional gust of wind wasn't helping matters. The picturesque Kelso eventually loomed in the distance and we used the river left park as our get-out, avoiding the scrape of Kelso weir.

Sadly, Jean's car started misbehaving on the journey home. The power steering wasn't working, which made pesky things like turning very difficult. We reallocated boats and gear to reduce her hassle, got dinner at the Kelso chippie and headed for home. I crawled onto the couch beside Brian a little after 8pm beat-down exhausted. It felt good to be back in a boat.

Charlie and his Supernova OC-1 scouted the Mackerstoun rapids.

Charlie's face says it all.