Day 1--Christchurch to Queenstown

Day 1

Day one of our trip brought us from Christchurch down to the tourist hub of Queenstown. Originally our plan was to spend considerably more time in Queenstown, doing some jet-boating, watching some people bungy jumping (because there was no way we would do it ourselves, being the ground-huggers that we are), and a few other things. But our hobbled travel arrangements pretty much made that impossible. Instead, and possibly even better than our original plans, we decided to hit at least one attraction in Christchurch and then make a few stops along our way down to Queenstown.

The Antarctic Centre

After a light breakfast, we spent fifteen minutes or so driving around, following signs and avoiding traffic, and we eventually ended up in a parking lot that was perfectly adjacent to the hotel parking lot we had come from, though neatly concealed by trees and angles from our original vantage point. When we arrived at the Antarctic Centre, it was still closed, so we wandered around the outskirts of the building, waiting for it to open. Then, after a few minutes, we realized that, unlike any attraction I’d ever been to in the States, the front doors were open and we were allowed to wait inside while the employees counted down their drawers and prepared to open for the day.

It is a little known fact, at least in my circle of friends, that Christchurch is the primary jumping-off point for pretty much all Antarctic research that is and has been done through the years. There are no end of facts that I could share with everyone here, but I’m feeling far too lazy to look anything up. Just do a web search for Antarctic Centre and Christchurch and feel free to educate yourself as much as you see fit.

We spent the first forty-five minutes traipsing through the museum. I have always had a passing fascination with museums. If I can pass them, I stayed fascinated. Museums always sound like a great way to spend time, but, in reality, they are usually just a series of old things with informative yet strangely disinteresting information next to the display. This museum was pretty much like that, though they did have some truly ingenious interactive aspects was well. For instance, they had a “blizzard room” that, once an hour or every forty-five minutes, I’m not sure, would recreate the feel of an actual blizzard. Patrons were to put little booties on (to keep the snow inside clean) and layer up in some heavy winter parkas that the museum provided. Then we were to step into the room and experience first hand the freezing, blowing, snowy environment. This sounded intriguing to me. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to do it because we had also signed up to take a ride on the Hagglund, a vehicle used to get around in the unpredictable Antarctic, and the ride was set to start before the blizzard room reset again.

The museum had several other displays that piqued my interest and kept me, by museum standards, very well entertained. Since I apparently have the attention span of a five year old, this was a pretty impressive feat.

Then we began our Hagglund, or Haggy, ride. This mechanical marvel was created to cart people around the Antarctic as best as possible, which, considering that the “best” by Antarctic standards usually includes temperatures near absolute zero, ice floes that shifted on a near daily basis and any number of other obstacles, this contraption needed to be about the most versatile vehicle ever created. And from what I experienced of it, it might just be. The Centre had created, behind their main building, a vehicle obstacle course with steep hills and water hazards and whatever other facsimile of actual Antarctic conditions they could come up with.

Since we had not read any of the clearly indicated signs around the ride’s departure point, we had no idea what we were in for. I was expecting a short jaunt around the property, just to see how the machine worked and to get a feel for the way explorers and scientists trek out into one of the earth’s last frontiers. So it came as quite a surprise to me when, right in the middle of one of our tour guide’s sentences, we took an abrupt plunge down a very steep hill. We then quickly climbed another hill, sped down it, hit some rough patches and slowed down to a stop.

The tour guide then continued to share bits of information with us. And, again, without any real warning, we started careening around sharp corners and up and down steep hills. We were, for the most part, tossed around like a box full of dice, clinging to the ceiling stirrups for dear life. It was much like a roller coaster ride without safety restraints (which was fairly clearly indicated by the signs at the starting point, had we taken the time to read any of them, which, of course, we did when we got back). We also discovered how the vehicles could float in water and continue moving when our driver took us into a six or seven foot deep pool. All in all, it was a very interesting and strangely invigorating experience. After getting out, we shared a brief “survivor” moment with the strangers who had shared the ride with us and we moved on.

Travel Tip: If you, like me, enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning (or afternoon or evening or pretty much any time drinking seems like a feasible thing to do, as I usually feel) I strongly recommend bringing a large parcel of your favorite brand along with you, and, probably, your own Mr. Coffee if you would like to prepare it. This could prove a logistical challenge, but I sometimes think it would be well worth the trouble. While New Zealand has feverishly grasped the concept of espresso bars (you can’t swing a dead sheep without hitting a café selling espressos and cappuccinos), hotels do not share this enthusiasm for coffee. Apparently, when not purchasing extremely over-priced designer coffees (and they are over-priced even by Starbucks’ standards), Kiwis drink a lot of instant coffee. Karen informed me that she and Libby’s brother John are the only two people they know in Invercargill who own coffee makers. Many people use French presses to prepare coffee, but no hotel we’ve been in has offered us even that option. Fortunately for me, I have always sort of enjoyed hot tea with milk and sugar, which has always been an option available to us in our rooms. The hotels always supply us with a “milk” of some sort. Sometimes it is, as near as I can figure, a type of creamer that comes in little, non-refrigerated plastic containers, though some places refrigerate it, which worries me a little when it isn’t. It is always called milk, but I have been loathe to try it in anything but my tea. After a few days, I am finding it a nearly suitable replacement for my daily coffee, though I expect I will drink nothing but coffee for several days when we return—even though it will still be in the upper 90s and it will surely cause me to sweat like a stevedore.

Note: Once we arrived in Invercargill, the coffee supply evened out thanks to John, who provided our room with a wonderful welcome basket, which included a package of coffee that we could prepare in a French press. A French press, for those who have never used one, is a container of varying sizes with a plunger. Coffee grounds are put in the bottom of the container and water is poured directly onto them. A plunger then pushes all of the grounds to the bottom of the container, leaving, in theory, just the coffee on the top. Sadly, these plungers never get all of the grounds, and by the end of the trip we were getting somewhat used to not drinking the last swallow of coffee in the cup, because it was usually a muddy slush of coffee grounds. How or why this is the standard versus a nice, clean, efficient coffee maker, I have no idea.

Down to Queenstown

From Christchurch we began our journey down to Queenstown. New Zealand’s road system is practical in the extreme. The concepts of super-highway and freeway are completely foreign to them. While this lends to a laid-back attitude to travel and affords travelers the option to visit many interesting sites and stop at every town and village that dots the landscape, it hardly lends itself to speedy travel from point A to point B. Frugality seemed to be the name of the game, and I would strongly recommend visitors never travel on their own until at least a nominal familiarity with the road system is established.

One interesting feature we noted several times on the trip was the single-lane bridge. This is exactly as it sounds. Drivers must make sure there isn’t someone coming the other direction on the bridge before crossing it, otherwise many horrible or inconvenient things will take place. I have noted several times in the past few days that city planners and engineers in this country must be at least partially insane for many of their plans to sound like good ideas, even if they did save a little money. Just how much money, exactly, one lane of bridge would cost versus two lanes is a question I would very much like to pose to the transportation department officials in this country, because I seriously doubt the extra expense would outweigh the possible problems a single lane bridge has.

While I’m on the subject, New Zealand’s roads, as I said before, are practical in the extreme. There is no road that doesn’t have a definite destination. From Christchurch to Queenstown, there was really only one travel option, and even that took us in a meandering path. Roads were installed where it seemed roads belonged, following old trails through the mountains or around even the smallest obstacle. And the roads are all two lanes with no discernable shoulders in case of car problems. Even though the country is relatively small, it takes as much time to travel across it as it would to cross twice the area in the States. Karen has also informed us that many Japanese travelers, who could never get a driver’s license in their own country because of the prohibitive costs involved, can easily get travel licenses that they can use here in New Zealand. How this process works, exactly, is a mystery to me, but the end result is that people who have never been behind the wheel of a car are somehow allowed to terrorize the good travelers of New Zealand. This has led to many, I’m sure, disappointingly non-comical events over the years. So far, we have not had any run-ins with horrible drivers, but I expect it is only a matter of time.

The “Peeing Across New Zealand” Challenge

Personally, I found all of the towns along the way a small blessing. Since I have a notoriously small bladder, and I find myself a compulsive fluid drinker, it quickly became a running joke in our van that it must be my goal to pee in ever single town in New Zealand. This was a goal that I quickly and eagerly embraced, since it meant that I would be able to stop every forty-five minutes or so for a potty break, whether I needed it or not (and, more often than not, I did, in fact, need it, even if I wouldn’t admit it at the time). Libby constantly reminds me that “overactive bladder isn’t normal at any age,” as the commercial informs. I tell her to piss off and everyone laughs at my expense while I casually clench my legs together and wish there was some way I could purchase some low-profile diapers for the remainder of the trip. What New Zealand’s attitude is towards adult diapers I am not sure, but I expect someone will find out for me at my humorous expense.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t until after the first day that it dawned on us we should be taking pictures of each bathroom as we moved from city to city (or bathroom to bathroom in a single city as the case often was). This would have offered a visual tour of all of my bathroom visits. I could have given some descriptive detail about each bathroom, how well it’s maintained and so forth. This would have been a brilliant idea and a good novelty theme to sell to a book publisher. Unfortunately, we didn’t think of it until most of our driving was already out of the way. Oh well.

I will give everyone another brief travel tip here, though. In New Zealand, restrooms are called Toilets. We pondered over this one night for a good period of time and decided that we didn’t like this reference to the restrooms. It wasn’t euphemistic enough. On the other hand, we agreed, “restroom” and “bathroom” didn’t really fit the bill very well either, since very little resting or bathing ever takes place in them, in the public versions at least. This prompted a round of naming that proposed what I think should be the new standard around the globe—The Squat Spot. While it lacks much of the euphemistic charm of a restroom or powder room, it deftly describes exactly what it is being used for and it has a nifty little ring to it that will help foreign travelers remember what it is. Of course, this doesn’t include all male toilet activities (for which we briefly discussed the name Squirt Hole, but decided it was just a little too graphic). Actually, though this topic gave us much pleasure at the late hour we had it, we eventually conceded that Squat Spot was in no way superior to Toilet, so we abandoned our plans to get in touch with the Prime Minister of New Zealand to start pushing the new standard name.

Anyway, many of the toilets in New Zealand have two button options for flushing on the top of the tank. I, naturally, pushed them both the first time I saw them, and they both seemed to flush. After some further experimenting (and the compilation in my head of several dozen not-quite-helpful diagrams that accompanied these buttons in many different bathrooms), I discovered that these buttons are “half flush” and “full flush.” The full flush, obviously, needs to be used with the patron’s discretion, when a half flush simply will not do. Whether you need the full flush or not, though, often depends on the toilet. Most of them rush water from the back straight down the hole. In these, the half flush will take care of most anything (this also made it nearly impossible for me to get video evidence of the Coriolis Effect in action—I ended up taping the sink draining, which also barely worked). But in some, the water is barely a trickle from the half flush, and the full is needed if anything but water exchange needs to take place. Sadly, there is no way to know what type of toilet you will be using without trying it first. But you should always begin with the half flush option, just because it saves water, and if the country is conscientious enough to install toilets that conserve water, then we should be conscientious enough to try and push the smaller button whenever we have the option. Well, once the proper amount of water has been wasted on button pushing experimentation, that is.

Aoraki/Mt. Cook and High Country Salmon

Along the way we made numerous stops in numerous small towns. My only advice, if taking a road cruise through the country, would be to stop at as many small towns as time affords. Even the smallest, most desperate looking town will usually have a nice restaurant or interesting shop. Many of them have historic or educational points of interest as well, and New Zealanders seem very keen to impart as much knowledge and wisdom about their country to travelers as I have ever seen anywhere.

Two stops we made that bare brief mention were at Mt. Cook (Aoraki was its native name) and High Country Salmon.

Mt. Cook is one of the most frequently photographed landscapes in New Zealand. I have no way of verifying this claim short of saying that two out of the four scenic pictures they had on the wall in the airport in Queenstown were of Mt. Cook. Of course this doesn’t take into consideration the fact that it’s just outside of Queenstown, but who cares. The mountain is strategically located immediately opposite a travel/information/gift shop building, which seems like good planning on nature’s part. In between the mountain and the gift shop, there is a beautiful, crystal clear lake, which, obviously, lends itself to the taking of many pictures. There is a story behind the lake and the mountain and its naming, but I don’t really remember any of it. Wikipedia, I’m sure, has much of the vital information if anyone is curious enough to want it. It was very pretty, though.

Next we visited High Country Salmon. Located near the town of Twizel (whose citizens, I’m sure, are called Twizlers, or should be if they are not) on “highway” SH8, High Country Salmon was a nifty little salmon farm. One of the owners cheerfully greeted us as we stepped down onto the dock area surrounding some of the salmon. As we approached, she gave each of us a handful of fish food, which we tossed, one piece at a time, into the water. The salmon were so impressively big that we played a game of tossing food in strategic places to see if we could prompt them to splash somebody when they surfaced for the morsel. This offered us nearly two minutes of entertainment.

I only mention this place, not because it was particularly interesting or informative, but because they had some of the most superb smoked salmon that I have had in my life. I am not, generally speaking, much of a fish eater. I enjoy the occasional plate of fish and chips and have craved Long John’s once or twice. Having grown up as far away as possible from any large bodies of water, my idea of fish is generally something white, flaky and only offering as much flavor as its batter has. Eating fish in Kansas is a risky venture at best—though in recent years, as freezing and shipping technologies have improved, the fish that we do get in Kansas has become increasingly better in quality and availability—and it is too late, I fear, for me to turn over a new leaf. I like the idea of salmon because I know it’s something healthy that I should like, but the taste just seems too fishy to me, and fish taste reminds me of fish smell, and I’ve seen the type of water that produces fish smell. It and the previously digested bits floating in it would seem less that tasty to my way of thinking.

But this smoked salmon had the consistency and, in many ways, the taste of summer sausage or other smoked beef or pork products. It was scrumptious and pretty affordable. Half a foot-long fish (one side, port side, maybe—do nautical terms apply to fish as well?—of a fish, that was twelve inches in length, to make that vague description possibly more clear) ran about $42NZ. It was, the lady informed us, a special, but that seemed like a very reasonable price for such a large piece of smoked salmon. Karen ordered some to have shipped to her house in Invercargill for our later consumption. And, if you ever find yourself in the Twizel area, I suggest you do the same (I know the Loves would appreciate the gesture, or you could ship it to somewhere that you, yourself, would be able to enjoy it, that might work too).

Queenstown

From there we made a pretty straight shot into Queenstown. The day was dragging and so were we by this point. We were still moderately jet-lagged and ready to settle in somewhere for the evening.

Since it was well past dark, we couldn’t see any of the town as we entered. We found our hotel, which was a three-bedroom condo that, for some reason or other, was cheaper than nearly everywhere else in town. It wasn’t because the place lacked quality, it was very comfortable and offered us every accommodation that our previous hotel had given us, it was just cheaper. We walked through a bit of the town’s main commercial area, found a restaurant to eat at (which was ridiculously over-priced, though the food was good) and sat down for some family stories and a little too much wine.

Here I will completely go back on my earlier promise not to discuss prices. So far, prices in New Zealand are not what I would be tempted to call bargains. Cappuccino comes in one size, small, and it runs $3-$4. A hamburger dinner will routinely run around $15. Granted their dollar is about $.60 to the American dollar, but that still ends up pricier than what I’m used to in middle America. Especially in Queenstown, expect to pay a hearty chunk of change for just about every attraction. It is a tourist hub and the prices reflect it. But the town itself has many charms, which I will get to in Day 2.