Welcome to Noo Zulund

It’s an atrocious accent. Let me just get that out of the way, and thus fire the first arrow in a ferocious sledging match I’m sure this article will provoke. That is, after all, how Aussies and Kiwis do things. We live in a blissful state of disharmony, our ostensibly good humoured jabs at each other actually coming from a deeper, more bitter place than might initially be suspected. Kiwis have a chip on their shoulder because, essentially, they’re not Australian, and Australians have a chip on their shoulder because a) that’s just how we are and b) it kills us that New Zealand manages to do what we do with a fifth of the population. And a better rugby team. Sometimes.

Similar to the shame I feel when I admit I’ve never been to Western Australia, I am somewhat embarrassed to confess the two week road trip I recently took around the North and South islands was the first time I’d ever graced the luminous green shores of our cousin across the Tasman. Despite the fact it’s a three hour plane trip from Sydney (half the time it takes to fly to Perth) and about a fifth of what I’ve spent on airfares to Europe and the states. To be frank, I justified ignoring this tiny nation by telling myself it was bound to be quite similar to Australia, and why would I go somewhere that’s exactly like from whence I came?

And then the lure of an airfare sale beckoned. $400 return to Auckland. Absolutely. Why not? Who doesn’t want to see rolling emerald plains dotted with plump sheep and sleek dairy cows. And plump sheep. And sleek dairy cows. And the occasional farmer getting cosy with a sheep, if cultural myths are to be believed (and I’m of the school of thought that, when it comes to the kiwis, why not believe any cultural myth you like?)

So, to the uninitiated, New Zealand …

Contrary to an argument that broke out in a maxi-taxi, one balmy evening in Tauranga, in which a young Kiwi with an exceptionally large chip on his narrow shoulder told me I needed to read up on my New Zealand history because Noo Zulund was not discovered by the Dutch, but in actual fact by British explorer, James Cook, the first non-indigenous feet to walk upon the Land of the Long White Cloud were indeed Dutch. In fact, the name New Zealand is an anglicised version of its earlier Dutch name of Nova Zeelandia, but half a bottle of Cointreau later, this fact eluded me on the maxi taxi and the argument was never resolved.

I digress.

New Zealand, according to Wikipedia and the most inhumanely annoying British twit I encountered at a bar in Christchurch, is one of the most recently settled landmasses, which, okay, makes it pretty special. In the way the last child of the family is special. It was also, until 1840, officially part of New South Wales (which is funny because NSW is kind of like the North Island’s thirstier, browner twin).

So we have a few things in common with the Kiwis. James Cook and Dutch discover preceding settlement (the Dutch were first to do everything, let’s face it), our youth, a broken family bond, the Queen in all her glorious irrelevance, rugby and a lusty, competitive spirit that extends largely to our shared sporting obsession culture.

Of course, as siblings always do, we squabble. And we claim things belong to one another when really they don’t. Like, I don’t know, pavlova. I for one was mortified to see a café named ‘Café Down Under’ in Auckland airport. We are the land down under New Zealand. Not you. Did Men at Work sing about New Zealand? Are Americans referring to New Zealand when they say, in dreadful appropriations of our accents, ‘land down undaahhh’ … no, my friends, no.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel any more bitterness towards my neighbours across the Tasman, than is natural. For the most part, they’re a great bunch. When people talk of Australians being laid back, they need to meet a Kiwi. These guys operate on a whole different time frame. Just try and organise a car, it’s like watching a slug race**. Kiwis are as easy going as they come, they make Sydney-siders (who, I realise, are a poor reflection of Australians as a whole) seem painfully uptight … which, let’s not lie, we’re becoming, in our bid to emulate Manhattan. And, as our plane touched down in Auckland, my travelling buddy and I had no tainted misconceptions in our luggage, of what New Zealand and its inhabitants would be like. We also didn’t necessarily have a burning desire to see the country – the two of us were there as a result of the aforementioned airfare sale and an effort to be spontaneous and youthful. But you know what they say about best laid plans and high hopes - the best laid ones go awry, and the higher the hopes, the more room for disappointment. So we figured hitting Noo Zulund with no plans and no expectations was as good a way to do it as ever.

As an Australian, I am no stranger to odd flora and fauna. This great land is, after all, a ‘megadiverse country’ named so for being one of only a handful of countries that are home to the majority of the earth’s species (can’t take that one Noo Zulund). Nor, as an Aussie, am I a stranger to extraordinary vistas and improbable scenery. So, whilst I had heard endless tales of New Zealand’s mythological beauty, illustrated ably by Peter Jackson’s masterpieces, and I knew the South Island was rumoured to be exquisite in parts, I was quietly confident it was all part of New Zealand’s long-running campaign to ultimately step out from our shadow, much like a younger, smaller sibling yearns to separate themselves from their bigger, better known, more bolshy sibling.

However. And here, I must shake my head ruefully. And raise my hands and surrender (to the tune of Laura Pausini’s anthem, Surrender, because it’s suitably dramatic).

Driving down the west coast of the South Island of New Zealand, there was not a moment that wasn’t punctuated with slack-jawed ‘wows’ and ‘oh my Gods’ and the feverish click of a camera. Not one moment. And there was a stretch of about 100km where we literally got out of the car every fifteen minutes and stood, arms outstretched, screaming at the wide open spaces. Because that’s what wide open spaces seem to make you want to do. Just to see if you really are in a part of the world where absolutely no one can hear you. Ah, the freedom.

This corner of the world is quite possibly one of the most extraordinary places this self-professed jaded (in the area of improbable scenery) pair of eyes has ever clapped eyes on. Vast blonde mountains, dotted with foliage that runs the gamut of green, dip into impossibly blue waters. Miles of road winding through mist-draped rainforests (where you expect, any moment, King Kong to lumber into view) spit you out at a bowl of navy water fringed by green. You are sucked back into the mist for a while and then blink and you’re by a completely deserted beach in shades of grey, mussel-covered rocks poking out of the foamy water.

Visually, the rest of the road trip paled in comparison. Hell, a good deal of the world pales in comparison. To rewind a little, we arrived from Sydney, flying into Auckland and drove to Rotorua the next day. The scent of Rotorua precedes the actual town, and indeed dictates its nationwide reputation. This conversation was a common one;

‘Where have you been in New Zealand?’

‘Well, Auckland, then we drove to Rotorua …’

‘Great smell ay?’

‘Oh, amazing. Amazing.’

The odour borne of the sulphur in the town’s famed hot mud baths and springs, is like nothing I’ve ever smelt before. Nothing. Rotorua is a great place, however, if you’re wanting to learn more about the Maori culture and geothermal activity, or into such extreme sports as luging, sky diving, paragliding and mountain biking. Now I may not be an extreme athlete in the vein of leaping out of planes, but I am an extreme eater and I can recommend experiencing a Hangi, a traditional Maori feast cooked in the ground. Not for the faint-stomached, or anyone who bothers to watch their weight. You need to dig in and embrace the heartiness.

From Rotorua, we drove back to Auckland and flew into the south island via Wellington (which looked pretty from the airport) landing in Christchurch late at night. Christchurch as a city, and I use the term city loosely, is somewhat eerie, and unless you have a car to see the surrounding areas, isn’t a must-see, per se. Sumner Beach and Littleton Harbour make for lovely lunch destinations, and there are no shortage of great cafes to choose from, particularly in Littleton where they literally line the streets.

However, all destinations happen for a reason, and it was in Christchurch that a barman drew a map on the back of a receipt for us. This tattered piece of paper became our route around the south island. We set off from Christchurch in our car that smelt of an old man’s pipe, bound for Nelson, our stop-over for the night, via Kaikoura, where we’d eat our thirty-sixth burger for the trip. Kaikoura is a pretty beach town with the requisite strip of white sand and slash of aqua water, and Nelson is a country/beach town which overlooks some of the bluest water I have ever seen in my life. From Nelson, we drove to Greymouth which, as the name suggests, is grey. I am not being needlessly nasty when I say the best thing about Greymouth is driving out of it. It really is. Grey by name and grey by nature, this is a small town with one blip of colour on its tiny horizon – a bright purple hostel that goes by the name of Dukes Hostel where we hung our hats for the evening in a room that looked like an exploded taco. And from Greymouth we made the utterly extraordinary trek to Queenstown, an 8-9 hour drive down the west coast, via Fox Glacier (shrouded in mist, but we did stop for a burger) and the Pancake Rocks.

Queenstown is just like a mini Whistler. It’s pretty and alpine-esque, there are several themed bars (most notably Winnies) and seriously, not a kiwi in sight. Loads of Brazilians, Germans, Australians and Americans, but spotting a Kiwi is like spotting the actual bird (look for small people with hobbit feet and scruffy hair). We did find a bunch of actual Kiwis in an Irish pub in Queenstown, one of which summed up his fellow country men and women by saying ‘how are you finding Kiwis? Yeah, we’re a bit sumple aren’t we?’

From Queenstown we flew back into Auckland and drove to Tauranga, a port city near Rotorua, about a two hour drive out of Auckland. Tauranga is like New Zealand’s Newcastle (for the New South Welshmen and woman amongst us) albeit a very green, luscious version. With deer (there are, weirdly, a lot of deer in New Zealand. They’re also plump and sleek). There’s a beach, there’s some farm land, there are scruffy haired youths doing scruffy haired youth things, like surfing. Everyone is chilled (chulled), Saturday nights centre around one strip of bars and Sunday mornings around the same strip of restaurants and cafes. It was in Tauranga that we fulfilled one of our two aims for the trip. We received a Maori Hongi (the other aim involved seeing a real Kiwi bird which, it turns out, is actually rather tricky). The Hongi is a traditional Maori greeting which involves pressing noses, the name translating to ‘sharing of breath.’ That’s me receiving my Hongi, to the left. Granted our Hongi was received in the less than stately setting of a pub, at around 2am, but it was a Hongi nonetheless. Mission accomplished.

Our last few days of this Kiwi Odyssey were spent traipsing the streets of Ponsonby, a rather hip suburb outside of Auckland which is home to some wonderful shopping, and eating (two top activities). You’ll be pleased to know the two of us finished the trip in a committed fashion, with a last supper of a … burger and fried camembert. Yes we gained weight. Yes it was worth it. Yes I have tried to recreate fried camembert.

New Zealand is a beautiful country. And while, for a visiting Australian, there are numerous comparisons to be made, and parallels to be drawn, and it’s hard to be there without feeling like you’ve left Springfield and walked into Shelbyville, Australia has nothing like what the south island offers – that tremendous fusion of landscapes, slashes of rich colour and mist draped mountains overlooking long, empty beaches. Our little sister nation may be a pain in the arse and occasionally beat us in rugby, but she’s not that bad. She might even be … I don’t know, kind of cool.

Go there for the views, the shoes, the chulled out atmosphere and for a road trip you will never forget.

Don’t go there for the accent.

Postscript … 

There are some things the Kiwis can do quite well … so, as it is in the best interests of my karma to give credit where credit is due, here are some wonderful products of this little nation that you need to check out.

Shoes: Kathryn Wilson and Sarah Riley

Skin care: Trilogy and Hema Oil

Music: the best of what is happening on their vibrant scene has been outlined here.

** On that topic, a word of wisdom on hiring a car, avoid Jucy Rentals, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.