Today’s Kiwese word: summer. Cook at a constant temperature, below boiling point
Tropical island? Actually no. Karori. A suburb of Wellington. New Zealand’s Capital. Tucked away at the bottom end of the North Island. Shows it doesn’t always rain here. Even in winter.
You’d be forgiven for thinking that Australians and Kiwis sound, well, Australian. But that’s definitely not the case. For the latter have a very distinct, and rather likeable, accent. Actually, it’s more than that. More pronounced. Literally. For they shift vowels. First in a word one to the right. Skipping over ’o’. And sometimes ’u’ as well.
So the ’e’ in "Ken" becomes ’i’. And I become "Kin". Has a rather nice, warm ring to it. And those padded gloves worn by cricketers? In New Zealand, betsmens wear betting gloves when playing crucket. This may be a fairly rough and ready rule. But it does seem to work for the most part. As these examples suggest:
Crosby, Stulls end Nesh – Sixties pop group
Ear – mostly oxygen and nitrogen
Ella buy – Proof of your whereabouts
Fibbery – Pretty chilly month of the year
Fuggers – Something accountants work with
Ed. That’s surely enough for now…
[With especial thanks to Ian for sharing his insights into the local lingo]
Today’s Kiwese word or phrase: "Weir Eagles Deer". Awesome war film
I offered them my table. There were plenty more. No one else in the small waterfront cafe. Despite the intoxicating aromas. Freshly ground coffee. Hot muffins. They were an elderly couple. They’d not asked to sit where I’d chosen. But I just knew they wanted to. It mattered to them. It was their table. Couldn’t begrudge them that. I’d be old one day.
Amy, one of my hosts in Wellington, had been quite firm on this point. Cafe culture was firmly part of the Capital’s landscape. And its coffee the finest in country. Couldn’t quite remember if I’d mentioned beverages had been something of a theme running through the blog. It probably didn’t matter. I’d already demonstrated a perchance for long blacks.
So I’d found myself in Kaffee Eis. Explaining to the staff it’d come highly recommended. By a local. Not disappointed. Either by the coffee. Or the music playing in the background. Dire Straits. Brothers-in-Arms album. Mid-eighties I thought. I was really beginning to like New Zealand.
Wellington. Small pedestrian precinct. Sat on a bench. Little overcast. Chill wind. Flask of tea. Tucking into my packed lunch. I’d spent the morning exploring New Zealand’s Capital. Visiting the information centre. Starting to shape my plans for the next few weeks. Dropped off earlier at the cable car on the hill behind. Fine vantage point.
Opposite sat a chap in shorts. Heavy fleece top. Another, nearby, similar. Down jacket. Hardy bunch. Lunch time joggers. Mostly office workers I thought. All shapes and sizes. Surprising number of them. Small groups. Individuals. One daring enough to plunge into the cold waters of the harbour. Quick then to sprint off. I’d winced as I’d watch him go in.
Today’s Kiwese word: nit. Used to ketch fush
I’d been getting ever more confident. Dispensing with guide books. Besides, never quite got around to reading them on the road. New Zealand. Seventeenth country. Probably. If you counted Hong Kong as a de facto independent state rather than just part of mainland China. Made sure I could get into NZ. Checked the visa and immigration requirements. Six months on entry. Outbound plane ticket. Evidence of sufficient funds to support yourself. But nothing more.
Overly relaxed? I knew of North and South Island. Heard about the Hobbits. But otherwise little idea about the place. However, I’d long since decided the easiest thing would be to chat to friends I was staying with for a few days. Seek their advice. And I’d already learnt of New Zealand’s very helpful network of iSITE visitor information centres. Besides, seemed rather fun to be starting with a genuinely blank canvas.
His name was Jasper. I knew because I’d asked his handler. The pair had approached each and every passenger. Waiting by the baggage carousel. The dog seemed disinterested. I was pleased.
With Emma, my trusty steed, safely parked up in Sydney, I’d decided to spend a few weeks in New Zealand. Visiting friends. Exploring. Alas, too expensive to bring the bike over. Flying into the Capital, Wellington. Southern tip of the North Island. The other one’s South Island.
Immigration. Six month visa. Of sorts. Just a quick stamp in the passport. Customs. Biosecurity. Terribly friendly. Terribly. I’d ticked a few boxes on my Declaration Card. In some countries that’d get you a full body cavity search. No lubricant. Here the worst you’d probably get is a soggy biscuit with your cup of tea. And they’d be very apologetic about it.
Struggled to find the very items I’d declared. Becoming increasingly concerned I’d forgotten to pack them. Medication mostly. Said so to the inspecting officer. We chatted for a while whilst I rummaged around in my bag. Weather mostly. Already knew I was going to like it here.
Today’s Kiwese word: peck. What you do before going on holiday
Alas, unable to bring Emma, my trusty steed, over to New Zealand for a few weeks. Far too expensive. Pity. Probably a bit quicker than this pocket sized pedaller.
Emma, my trusty steed, safely resting up in Sydney for a few weeks. Fleeting visit to New Zealand. Visiting friends. And a spot of exploring. In search of a glacier. Bit of practice for Alaska. Plus the usual cast of characters. One poor soul just waiting to cross the road before I pitched up. Got away after about twenty minutes.
Few insights into life travelling on the buses. And living in hostels. Not forgetting a few handy hints to help you sound like a local. But, alas, no Hobbits. Or French military tourists. Still, lots I hope for you to enjoy over the forthcoming days…
Acceptance. When you know you have to do something. Even if you really don’t want to. Makes it easier. Stoic. I’d pulled off the road. Dark in less than twenty minutes. Quick phone call to friends. They were expecting me. Wasn’t exactly sure where I was. Just an inkling I’d quite a way to go. Two. Maybe three hours. Could be more.
I’d reached Gosford at lunchtime. Making satisfactory progress from my overnight stop at Swansea. Brief break for coffee. Centrepoint town. Lower social demographic. Benefit office mainstay of the local economy. Cheap looking shops. Salvos – Salvation Army – second hand store doing a brisk trade.
Couple of cyclists had spotted Emma, my trusty steed, outside the cafe. Guessed it was my bike. We chatted for a short while. Soon apparent the final fifty miles into Sydney’s northern suburbs would be slow. Lengthy, if steady, climbs. Wooded valleys.
Sun fading fast now. Lights rigged. Fresh batteries in the rear set. Quick snack. Been on the road since eight. Anxious to press on. Headlights bright enough to be seen. But insufficient for picking my way along unlit roads. Needed to make the most of the last glimmers of daylight. Striving to reach the comforting orange glow of street lights on the outskirts of Sydney.
There’d been a steep gradient at the end. Too tired to ride. Suburban street. Checking letter boxes for house numbers. Needed evens. But which way did they run? Then a shout from down the hill. Welcoming party. We’d made it. Sydney.
