New Zealand

Heart thudding, pulse racing, breath tight in my chest, I watched in disbelief as the stranger pushed my girlfriend out of the plane. The wind thrashed around me as I stumbled to the edge, gaze involuntarily drawn into the dizzying void beneath.

"This is fun", I instructed myself firmly, "And there's probably still time to back out without the need for further recklessness"

A firm hand reached around me from behind, gripped my forehead and wrenched my head backwards. My time was up. I gulped in a last breath, clenched my buttocks, tumbled out of a tiny plane 15,000 feet above Lake Taupo, and rapidly began to accellerate to over 200km/h.

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Let's pause there for a moment; as a tiny, terrified speck of a man, (with an equally tiny, although presumably less terrified stranger strapped snugly to his back), suddenly realises an awful lot of things in more or less the same instant: his piffling insignificance in the grand scheme of things; the fleeting, miraculous sweetness of life; the majestic beauty of nature - particularly the New Zealand landscape that seems to be getting bigger alarmingly quickly; and how deeply wonderful it would feel if his parachute would do him a massive favour and open like it's supposed to in just over a minute's time. We'll leave him frozen in that instant of revalation for just a little while longer while I try to explain a country that could affect someone with a phobia of flying so strongly that jumping out of a plane might suddenly seem a reasonable way to kickstart a sunny morning.

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The trip we made around New Zealand in our faithful campervan exceeded our wildest expectations. The six weeks we spent there, chugging our way from North Island to South and then back again, were over far too quickly, but also somehow stretched enough to squeeze in more memories, new friends, jaw-dropping landscapes and incredible experiences than we could ever have expected.

I'll list just a few of them now before getting back to the happy, terrified idiot we just left plummeting to his possible doom...

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Kaikoura, South Island:

Our whale-spotting boat was sleek, modern and reassuringly expensive-looking, but the enormous ocean swells beneath us were pitching it around like a drunkard staggering down an alley.

We'd already seen a couple of Wandering Albatrosses, which was pretty wonderful in itself, but we had been lurching wildly up and down unpredictable wavefaces for the best part of an hour, and already an impressive amount of sick bags had been enthusiastically filled by some of our fellow passengers.

Although I'd always quite wanted to see an albatross, that's not what any of us were here for. We didn't have to wait much longer for the main event though. The captain's voice rang out of the speakers, directing our attention off the port bow. I had just enough time, amidst the sudden thrill of anticipation, to wish he'd done it properly and hollered "thar she blows!" in a hearty pirate voice like any reasonable person would expect, when a wonderful thing happened: a male sperm whale popped his head above the waves and blasted out a mighty spout of exhaled air and sea spray. I have hazy memories of Herman Melville describing a first encounter with a sperm whaly in Moby Dick, and suddenly understood what all the fuss was about as the leviathan gracefully wallowed before my eyes. It was a more powerfully moving experience than I'd anticipated.

After 15 minutes or so of purging his old breath to make space for a fresh one, his gigantic tail rose serenely on the air before slipping under the waves; a sight that thousands of postcard images in the town should have prepared me for, but which still took my breath away. Everyone aboard our still wildly lurching boat shared warm smiles (even the sickbag-fillers managed a grin), and we headed back towards land, only to find ourselves about 20 minutes later in far calmer waters and surrounded by a pod of over 200 dusky dolphins, who then proceeded to frolick and somersault around us like happy, streamlined buffoons before the finest backdrop imaginable: the snowcapped mountains of Kaikoura running down to the turquoise sea.

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Pakiri Beach, North Island

There was a moment, a fleeting instant as I caught the sadistic twinkle in the grizzled cowboy's eye, when it dawned on me that the rest of this ride wasn't going to be gentle.

"You alright with a trot?", he asked me slyly - despite the fact that we'd trotted several times along the wide, windblown expanse of Pakiri Beach. The riding stables lay at the end of 10km stretch of unsealed gravel road that had shaken our van silly, and the entire place had a deserted, lonely, Mad Max sort of feel that probably went a long way towards explaining the mischevious look on our strange, untalkative and slightly grubby-looking guide's face.

Clearly I was ok with trotting; this seemed to be some sort of test of my Pommy manliness. We'd carefully explained at the start of the ride that although Tasha lives and breathes horses, my most recent experience had involved me bolting into an uncontrolled gallop and ending up flat on my back, miraculously just winded rather than horrifically mangled. I'd been pretty emphatic about my desire not to gallop on this ride at the booking stage, so I had a nasty feeling about this trotting question. I've seen Back To The Future enough times to know that if someone calls you a chicken no good will come of rising to the bait, so I did the only sensible thing under the circumstances; I met his eye with a steely gaze and said:

"Uhh, yeah...?"

And then all hell broke loose.

He turned his feisty Arab horse up towards the sand dunes, gave it a vicious-looking kick in the sides, and galloped up over the nearest rise. My horse - which had spent the whole ride completely ignoring me - suddenly seemed to snap out of its sleepy trance, and bolted off in close pursuit of the evil cowboy and Tasha.

We galloped up, down and sideways all over the unpredictable, narrow tracks amongst the dunes; Tasha and the cowboy looking exhilerated but in control, me hanging on grimly, bracing myself for imminent duney death, and sustaining nasty bruises in areas that should never be bruised.

For about half an hour.

When my ordeal was finally over, and our three sweaty steeds had slowed to a walk as we approached the stables, the cowboy swivelled around in his saddle, failed to entirely disguise his humour at my obvious pain and torment, and spoke to me for the second time that day;

"You enjoy that?"

I gave him a long hard look. The unmistakeable look of man unaccustomed to taking shit from cowboys (it's a complicated look, but an unmistakeable one). This was probably another test.

He sat back a little in his saddle - no doubt buckling under the weight of the look I was fixing him with - as I gruffly replied,

"Uhh, yeah...?"

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Tane Mahuta, Kauri Coast, North Island

Our trusty camper had held up well on the fiendishly winding roads of this part of the coast, as we wound our way slowly down through the forest of ancient Kauri trees on an epic roadtrip from the Bay of Islands down to the Coromandel Penninsula.

The Kauris are enormous, ancient giants of the New Zealand forest, and this national park is one of the few places that older, long-established trees exist in large numbers; most other Kauris have been chopped down for their wood.

We couldn't stop here for long. The twists and turns of this stretch of road had made the last few miles feel like a few hundred, and we still had a lot of driving ahead of us.

A coachload of tourists arrived just ahead of us and started shuffling sheeplike along the boardwalk towards the main attraction - mighty Tane Mahuta; the tallest kauri in New Zealand, named after the Maori god of the forest.

I gave an exasperated sigh as the tide of slow-walking sightseers clogged up the route in front of us, whilst feeling secretly superior that these people had undoubtably paid loads of money for a guided tour, while Tasha and I were seeing the same thing on the cheap. 'Pah!', I scoffed silently, 'Who needs tour guides?'.

We jostled through the crowd and beat them into the forest clearing from which Tane rises majestically to tower over everything around him. He was an awesome sight; he did somehow feel like the god of the forest.

As we stood there gaping upwards, the tour group gradually filed into the clearing around us. We were just about to leave them to it and get back on the road, when their Maori tour guide made his way to the front and proceeded to give the best bit of tour guiding I've ever witnessed.

After explaining Tane Mahuta's significance to the Maori people, he burst into a song to show his respect and pleasure at being there.

Now, trying this sort of thing back in England would be one of the most painfully awkward social experiences I could imagine. Standing in front of a group of strangers and, without warning, launching into a heartfelt bit of joyful singing is at best going to leave your audience squirming uncomfortably in repressed British embarrassment. At worst you'd probably get slapped with an ASBO or attacked by a group of chavs. But standing there in that peaceful clearing, in front of a magificent giant of a tree that has ruled the forest for centuries, and listening to this man's voice rising in an incredible tribute to Tane, the natural world around us, and his proud Maori heritage, was an incredible experience. He certainly pissed all over Susan Boyle.

When the song was over and the moment had passed, the herd of tourists shuffled back onto their bus after their exuberant tour guide. I looked bitterly at our camper and wished I was going with them. I've always thought there's a lot to be said for tour guides...

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So as we return to that tiny (but noisy, and very, very sweary) little man plummeting to earth one sunny morning above Taupo, hopefully I've done what I promised at the start, and gone some way towards explaining the effect this incredible country could have on a happy idiot like myself.

There were other special moments of course; hundreds of them. It felt like everywhere we went in New Zealand we saw or experienced something special.

From digging a natural bath on Hot Water Beach, driving the terrifyingly twisty roads of the Coromandel Penninsula, and watching huge waves pound the coast (and the surfers) at laid-back Raglan, to being surrounded by bottlenose dolphins and their babies on a water taxi before walking an Indiana Jones style ropebridge with a couple of newfound but hopefully lifelong friends in the beautiful Abel Tasman National Park. From riding a cablecar up the mountain in Queenstown as some idiot jumps off a bungy alongside you, to getting thoroughly sloshed by 11am on free wine tastings in Blenheim - home of world famous Marlborough region Sauvignon Blanc. From kicking back in hot springs, to standing at the foot of a glacier, to meeting an incredible, inspirational Maori lady who gave us both beautiful moko (tattoos) that we will treasure for the rest of our lives; it's fair to say that Aotearoa, or New Zealand as it's known to the rest of the world, got under our skin in every sense. It's not just the post-skydive adreneline talking I promise.

We may have ended up spending a lot more money than we planned to there (so much that we've had to cut the trip shorter than we intended), but it was worth every penny.

Now we just can't wait to go back.

Aitutaki

Our little twin propeller plane bumped as it dropped down through a thin layer of white whispy clouds, before flattening out again in the bright Pacific sunshine.

Below us the little island of Aitutaki was suddenly revealed in all its glory; a band of coral reef thrown wide around a few scattered peaks of tropical islands poking their heads from the bright waters of the turquoise lagoon. Everyone gasped as our little plane banked unexpectedly and we dropped a few hundred feet. Suddenly we seemed to be skimming across the lagoon itself, and then with a jolt we touched down on the runway. I think I left my fear of flying somewhere high above the South Pacific, because I loved every minute of that journey, and all I could think about was exploring this perfect little paradise over the next 5 days.

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Rarotonga felt like a big shift of pace for us after the smogfilled, gridlocked, skyrise madness of LA, but sleepy little Aitutaki makes Raro feel like a bustling metropolis. Everyone you pass has a smile and a wave, the top speed on the few roads across the island is equivalent to a brisk jog, and there's nothing more hazardous than falling coconuts or the occasional daredevil rooster that wants to play chicken with your scooter.

We spent our 5 nights on the island in what will almost certainly be the nicest accommodation of our entire trip; a beach hut facing the perfect lagoon. It even had a palm tree growing through its balcony! The perfect spot to live out any bizarre childhood Swiss Family Robinson fantasies that might have lingered into adulthood (with a bit more time I might have been able to train some monkey butlers...). Normally it would have been out of our price range, but we got a good internet deal months in advance and it ended up costing about £25 a night. They could have charged us three times that and I wouldn't have felt ripped off.

After a couple of days we decided to stretch the budget even further with a day trip across the lagoon. Left to ourselves we might not have spent the money, but everyone we spoke to told us we'd be missing out, and I'm really glad we took their advice.

We were picked up by softly spoken, immediately likable Captain Puna, and clambered aboard his battered yellow pickup truck. Two other couples (tourists on Aitutaki are overwhelmingly couples) were inside the truck's twincab, so we had to ride on the back. I couldn't have been happier - we had a bumpy, windswept ride to Puna's little pontoon while the others looked at us a little jealously from their more comfortable, more boring seats inside.

Once we were aboard it quickly became clear why a boat trip is the only way to fully appreciate Aitutaki. The waters stay fairly shallow throughout the lagoon, although the water is so clear that you can see the bottom even in 20 metres or so of depth. Puna picked his way effortlessly through the hidden maze of underwater coral islands that can easily tear through the hull of a carelessly piloted boat, and soon we were in about 8 metres of water above one of the protected reserve areas of the lagoon.

We could clearly make out the enormous stands of coral all around us as we peered over the deck and hurriedly got our snorkel gear on. The ripples of the waves broke up the outlines of what I first imagined to be chunky rocks dotted around the seabed, until Puna explained we were in a good area for giant clams. That was all I could take; a few seconds later I was over the side and splashing about in the stunning undersea landscape of the reef.

Giant clams! I have two vivid childhood memories of learning about these weird little beasties; seeing them in David Attenborough documentaries and reading the Willard Price novel South Sea Adventure, where a diver gets his flipper trapped in one as it slams shut. I swam down as close as I dared (well within snapping distance), but managed to survive unscathed.

The coral amongst the lagoon is like nothing I've ever seen. This is my first experience in tropical waters, and we found ourselves surrounded by huge 'forests' of coral standing tens of meters high, with dazzling clouds of colourful fish constantly weaving in and out of the multitude of sheltered nooks and crannies. It was like swimming in an enormous fish tank, but a more sublime fish tank than I ever could have imagined.

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After an hour or so of happy splashing about we climbed back aboard the boat, through a pulsing shoal of fish feeding on a tunafish tail that Puna had thrown in for them, and we jetted off for the second part of the trip.

We stopped at a few of the myriad little islands that pepper the lagoon; deserted honeymoon island, a beautiful, unnamed goldenwhite sandspit, circumnavigated the islands used on T4's Shipwrecked as Tiger and Shark islands, and then stopped for lunch on glorious little One Foot Island, where Puna cooked up an enormous spread of barbecue food that was worth the price of the trip on its own.

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Aside from the boat trip, the rest of the adventuring was left up to us. We hired a scooter and drove the circumference of the island, waving to the friendly locals and their playful kids, and scattering crowds of scuttling mudcrabs that bolted back to the safety of their burrows on the swampy, unpopulated area of island near the airstrip.

In no time at all we were watching the sun melt into the lagoon for one final spectacular sunset. We boarded our little plane again the next morning , and as we sat on the runway we caught a glimpse through the window of a pair of humpback whales blowing out breaths of salty spray just off the reef to our left. Our startled happy shouts weren't enough to keep the plane on the ground, and with a rush and a jolt we were launched back into that bright South Pacific sky, the stunning colours of the island shrinking away beneath us.

However long it takes, I know I'll have to go back there.

Rarotonga

Disappointingly, it was raining when we landed on the South Pacific paradise isle of Rarotonga, the capital of the Cook Islands. Yawning, we shuffled through the little arrivals lounge as an endearingly cheerful old man with flowers in his hair serenaded us with a ukelele, and soon enough we were through the tiny customs area (a world away from the US customs experience) and free at last to explore the island.

The little Raro Tours bus that ferried us from the airport was full of sleepy, happy tourists, and one wide awake, happy Cook Island driver called Willy, who gave us all an impromptu tour of the island as he dropped us off at our various hotels.

Unfortunately for us, our first 4 nights weren't going to be spent in any of the luxurious honeymooner retreats we'd just driven past; we were starting our stay on the island in a more budget-friendly guesthouse before moving upmarket later in our stay.



Rau's Guesthouse was basic, but set just back from what turned out to be our favourite beach on the island. It's other main benefit was the two resident dogs - Cheech & Chong - a pair of mainly Labrador mongrels that decided to follow us wherever we went; joining us for swims in the lagoon and then hogging our beach towels when we came back out.



There are dogs everywhere on Rarotonga, and most of them come over to say hello and follow you around for a bit. I've never experienced such universally friendly, unthreatening dogs anywhere else in the world - a nice surprise for the pair of us as we've both been missing pets back home.

We shared the guesthouse with the young Cook Island family that run it, and like all Cook Islanders they were friendly and hospitable. The two young boys, Kyle and Rafael, excitedly showed me their collection of ninja movies, mum Moka brought us fresh bread every day, and cute little baby Lillia gurgled and smiled at us at every opportunity.

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Our days were spent on white sandy beaches, or in the perfect waters of the lagoon as the rolling, white-tipped waves of the Pacific crashed like angry thunder against the reef.



The water is so clear that you can see fish swimming in the coral while you stand on the beach. When you strap on a snorkel mask and get in amongst it all it's just mindblowing; there are tropical fish everywhere - electric blue, hot pink and shocking yellow flashing bright in the warm azure waters of the lagoon. Some of them nibble your fingers or fearlessly try to scare you off their patch, while others dart off to hide, poking their heads out of the coral when they think you've gone.

There's nearly as much going on back on the beach, hermit crabs of all sizes, bums tucked securely into a variety of stolen shells, scurry about everywhere, happy to clamber over a foot or a leg until you reach down to pick them up and they realise you're a person not a palm tree.



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Tasha picked up a really nasty sore throat a few days into our stay - so bad that we had to go to Raro's nice little hospital that sits high up on a hill. Once again the people were friendly, and even though it wasn't a part of our plans we still got a great view of the sunset from the top of the hill! Poor Tasha lost her voice for a couple of days and was in a lot of pain, but the antibiotics the doctor gave her cleared everything up, and there are worse places than the South Pacific to spend a few days recuperating.

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When our time came to leave the island we did so with heavy hearts, but also with the knowledge that we'll have to come back as soon as possible.

At the airport we waited for our flight to get in from LA on its stopover before carrying on to New Zealand. There aren't many international airports in the world where you can sit in the open night air, rich with the scent of a hundred tropical flowers, and watch the sun rise over the mountains. When our boarding was announced and we walked towards the runway a mother hen scurried in front of us trailing her chicks. We'll miss this magical place.

Airlines

I had thought Air New Zealand was going to be the weak link in the trio of airlines on our around the world ticket. We've not had any of our Singapore Airlines flights yet, but the Air NZ red-eye from LA to Rarotonga was loads better than our Virgin Atlantic trip from Heathrow to San Francisco. More legroom, better food, better entertainment, better pillows; better everything. If it hadn't been for the screaming devilchild that ensured everyone's enforced insomnia it would have been a perfect flight. I was sure Virgin would win hands down... Nice one Air New Zealand!

Route 101: Our American Roadtrip

Public transport options from San Francisco to LA are basically non-existent. Back in the UK I was keen to take a train down the coast so we could pick up our flights from LAX, but there is no direct service, and the only alternatives involve changing stations and waiting for countless connections.

I looked into catching a Greyhound bus, but that seemed like a worse option than the train, with the journey taking about 12 hours before finally dropping you off at a dodgy terminal in Skid Row. The reports written by other travellers on sites like TripAdvisor made it sound like a fate worse than death.

That only left two options: yet another flight on top of our already monster total of 14 this trip, or renting a car and driving the 400 miles or so ourselves. Clearly, only one option afterall.

We picked up our trusty steed (a big, comfy, floaty-steering Hyundai Sonata) from the rental car centre at the airport, plugged in a wisely chosen optional sat-nav, and hit the freeway.

Route 101 started off as plain old 8 lane freeway as we left the outskirts of San Francisco, but the driving was smooth and easy, and before too long we found ourselves in the wide open spaces of California farm country. Every now and then your eye would chance upon a little group of migrant workers, or the occaisional tractor rumbling along a dirt track that veered off the freeway, but generally we found ourselves looking at a whole lot of nothing.

Eclectic radio stations set a strange soundtrack; Christian rock always swiftly replaced by whatever else we could find. For a few happy minutes I even found some guns and roses, but every station seemed to blur into static after few miles so we just kept on retuning.

Soon enough the terrain got a little more interesting, and it felt like we were driving onto the set of a Western; rugged hills, dry gulches, ranches everywhere and amazing made-up sounding place names like Crazy Horse Canyon Road and Coyote Lake.

I settled back and got into a comfortable rythmn with the driving; very nearly too comfortable... I came around a bend in the road about 10 mph over the speed limit, just as Tasha pointed out a Highway Patrol car sneakily hiding in the shade of some trees. Immediately he pulled out behind us, and I started getting all sweaty palmed and trying to put on my most innocent face. Luckily (for us at least) he pulled over the car that was just behind ours. I'm guessing that guy didn't have a trusty cop-spotter sat in his passenger seat. I eased off the gas a little as they shrank away in my rearview mirror, and we just kept on driving.

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When the Pacific suddenly appeared alongside us the rich blue of the ocean felt quite shocking after all those miles of dusty scrubland.

We made a pitstop at the fresh, salty seaside town of Pismo Beach, then pushed on again to beautiful Santa Barbara, where we had an impressive (but budget-straining) dinner, served by the best waiter either of us have ever seen.

Night fell as we made our way into the gridlocked madness of LA. The rental car return centre was in Inglewood, a place I only know from Tupac and NWA tracks, and we got there long after dark. We managed to make it out of there without anyone popping a cap in our asses though, so all's well that ends well...

5 Top Meals in California

As far as I'm concerned, one of the best parts of travelling is the excuse it gives you to try new and unusual foods. Most of the destinations on our trip are going to leave us walking a thin line between politely sampling local delicacies and ending up a couple of massive fatties.

The USA - with its supersized portions and endless choice of foods - was always going to fall squarely in the latter category; I've visibly expanded in the last 10 days.

These are my favourite snacks so far:

5. Burrito mojado - a gigantic 'wet' burrito, slathered in enchilada sauce, guacamole, salsa and sour cream. It nearly finished me off, but in the end I triumphed. Shortly afterwards I passed out, but that was completely unrelated and almost certainly down to the jetlag and not me being whoopassed by Mexican foodstuff...



4. Fresh tuna steak sandwich from the Ferry Building, San Francisco. Soooooo fresh, and cooked to perfection while we waited, tossed n soy sauce and ginger. Lush.

3. Vietnamese sandwich - Tasha's cousin Addy recommended a classic Vietnamese takeaway lunch, which consisted of fishcakes, salad and tasty dressing all served in a fresh bit of baguette. We ate it at Baker Beach with a stunning view of the Golden Gate bridge and the wild Pacific Ocean. Best lunch ever.

2. . Bubble tea. Neither of us had ever tried this before, and now I wonder what we were doing with our lives for all those wasted years. Basically a blended drink that doesn't have to contain tea and which can be hot or iced, but which in my opinion HAS to contain tapioca pearls, which sit at the bottom like sweet little pieces of treasure waiting for you to suck them satisfyingly up your straw in every gulpful of drink. This might well become my favourite drink of all time. I love boba!



1. Sushi. Hands down, the sushi here has been the freshest, tastiest, and cheapest that I've ever had. It's probably my favourite food in the world, and we've pretty much eaten it at least once a day.
The best of the best came from Nagayiro in Berkeley; so good we had it for lunch and dinner! It'll be interesting to see how it compares to the stuff we'll be having in Japan.

San Francisco - first impressions

I've never visited the States before, so San Francisco was my first opportunity to see what life is really like in the USA.

One part of growing up in the UK that must be the same for kids all over the world is that I've had a steady diet American culture through movies and tv for as long as I can remember. The majority of this, due to the nature of the entertainment industry, has more specifically been Californian culture, which makes this place seem like some kind of strange home from home.

As we made the short drive from the airport to Addy's house everything around us seemed familiar and alien at the same time. Big yellow school buses, over-sized cars, 6 wheel pickup trucks and shiny big-rigs, drive-throughs, freeways, brands and business names familiar from a thousand films and now suddenly here in real life. The overwhelming feeling is that you've somehow walked on the set of a movie.

One surprise was on the streets all around us, where people were the opposite of the obese, shuffling fast food fetishists that lazy stereotyping had lead me to expect. But then again, this is California - America's heartland for health freaks, organic eating and clean living.

San Francisco itself is beautiful. As soon as we arrived I started daydreaming about moving here sometime in the future. It's one of those cities where every sidestreet seems to have something new and interesting going on, and the different neighbourhoods all seem so different, but at the same they all have an undefinable San Francisconess to them. Or San Franciscocity. Or something.

The diversity of the city's population is reflected in the awesome selection of food choices available to you here. Food is really important to both of us, and we've been really spoilt by the quality of everything here - sushi, Vietnamese, Californian Cuisine; it's all amazing! Tasha's managed to keep me on the straight and narrow in terms of avoiding unnecessary fast food, but I did manage to sneak in a truly mammoth burrito. I fell asleep almost immediately afterwards though - think my body went into shutdown in an attempt to avoid any further calorie intake.