SYDNEY - Hotpants and Fireworks

It's Australia Day week here in Sydney and yesterday I joined a rather large crowd of others crowded round a pair of slightly worn looking gold hotpants in a plexi-glass case. Said hotpants were the centrepiece of a museum exhibition dedicated to pop princess Kylie Minogue, who donated several hundred pieces of memrobilia for the occassion. I know what you're thinking (especially my non British/Aussie) readers: who cares, right? Well, if the proddings towards various features of the afformentionned hotpants are anything to go by, the answer is plenty of folks. Kylie is one of those interesting creatures who has resisted all attempts to curl up and dissapear, constantly reinventing her image yet somehow looking exactly the same as she did twenty years ago when she slapped on a pair of battered dungarees and made a mark for feminism by playing the ultimate tomboy mechanic, Charlene Robinson nee Mitchell in Neighbours. (Afformentionned dungarees were also in the exhibition, in all their tatty glory. Needless to say, amongst the spangles and sparkles, they were my favourite item.)


The transport room at the Powerhouse Museum. My favourite of the Sydney museums thanks to its bizzarely effective collection of both science and interior design. And, of course, Kylie. Incidentally I would, of course, have photographed the hotpants and dungarees had not a needlessly strict photography ban been in place. Obviously they're afraid of terrorists using information of Kylie in their fiendish plots, or they want to sell more brochures, or something between the two.

And I realise that, like it or not: Kylie has been one of Australia's foremost emissaries to the rest of the world for two decades. From the opening ceremony of the Sydney 2000 Olympics to her marvellous cameo as the Green Fairy in Moulin Rouge! she's managed to get herself almost everywhere. It's gratifying that the Australians do seem to like it. In the UK we're quick to savage our icons as soon as humanly possible. It's a fun exhibition, I was glad I got a chance to see it. (Kylie even donated one of her Smash Hits Poll Winners' lumps of perspex to be oggled over. Brits of a certain age will remember how exciting that used to be)


Another entry in the fast becoming 'nearly-as-tedious-as-from-the-air-and-weird-signage-shots' series of fireworks around the Phworld: fireworks. This time for Australia Day.

So, anyway, Australia Day. Actually, it was right to start with Kylie since, when the customary compliation of great Aussie songs started up to accompany the local Castle Hill fireworks display on the big day itself, there were at least three of Kylie's. And a whole bunch of country music. We decided to avoid the throngs around the harbour and stick to the suburbs for our choice of holiday entertainment (it seems more right, anyhow, since as I remember writing in my last post, Australia is a country of suburbs, not cities) It was all very civilised and family oriented fun. A particular highlight was seeing McDonalds' gaudy McCafe shoved back onto the fringes of the showground, with pride of place centre spots being given to Aussie brands. It's enough to make even a Pommie shed a tear or two.

SYDNEY - Can You Tell What It Is Yet?

You get all sorts of unusual oppotunities coming along when you're travelling. Fourth of July fireworks in the States, Oyster festivals in Brazil, even marking off Harry Potter filming sites in a British atlas for an Aussie family you'd met on a random New Zealand hillside. However, attending the Australian premiere of Walk the Line with a work party of eight Aussies will go down as one of the best of the year.

One of the wonderful things about being British is that we have an obsessive compulsive attitude towards queing. If we see a line of people anywhere in the world we know there's got to be something worth having at the end. So we'll always go to investigate. On this occassion, the line was doubly interesting as it was in the middle of th Botanical Gardens and in the blazing sun: signs that something interesting was obviously happening. It turned out that the line was for the Sydney Openair Cinema. Nine years ago, someone had the genius idea of putting up a large cinema screen across the water from the Opera House throughout January and screening films in the beautiful summer nights. It's grown since then into something of a mini festival, hosting several previews and even premieres. Such was the case this week. The well reviewed recent Golden Globe winning biopic of Johnny Cash, Walk the Line was premiering. The queue, it transpired, wasn't for the tickets which had sold out in about five minutes, but just to get in to the place to secure god seating (and this was about two hours before the gates even opened)

On my way out, I was accosted by a couple. They'd organised a work party some months back to see the film but one of their group had rung in a few minutes earlier to suddenly cancel. In their general pissed-off state they decided they'd scout the area and offer their remaining ticket to anyone they could find (Aussies do righteous anger very well) and so I got to join them swiping free samples of Lindt Chocolate and pulling up plastic chairs, waiting for sundown.


The Openair cinema in front of Sydney Harbour. If you've been to a more impressive cinema, let me know. But I think you're probably lying.

There weren't any stars in attendance (although, funnily enough, Charlize Theron was just twenty minutes down the road attending her premiere of her latest addition to the canon of worthy celluloid, North Country) but there was still glamour of sorts. The fish and chips, for example, came with little pots of gourmet tartare sauce. Classy. And the film was pretty good, too (Joquain Pheonix and Reece Witherspoon are both incredible and deserve as many awards as they can carry, everything else is a bit turgid) so, all in all, a good night out.


Sydney Opera House and Bridge. Again. But this time, by night!

More fun and games have been had at my latest stopping point on my tour of old and new friends around the world (or: the 'see how many free nights you can get' tour) This time my hosts are Chris and the rest of the Croan family in the lovely little suburb of Castle Hill just outside of Sydney. I met Chris this summer at Aldersgate. (Two weeks on and off joke sharing being enough to secure at least a few days stay, you understand.) Australia really seems to have even the USA beat for leafy surburbs since there's a huge population trying to fit itself into a reasonably tiny space. The country is, of course, huge, but practically everyone lives in a narrow band around the coastlines. Especially in Sydney, which has sprawled for miles in all directions. Except, of course, into the water. The Croans have many wonderous things in their house, including most excitingly for a Pommie, two original Rolf Harris paintings. I was most impressed.


Rolf Harris. Adding colour to living rooms across the world for goodness knows how many decades.

So the plan at the moment is to stay in the suburbs for a few days, venturing into Sydney for the usual tourist behavior and maybe for some Australia Day fun and games. My passport is currently being babysat by the Indian Consulate (yes, another country, another Visa) so I won't be actively looking for work until next week. However, having now attended a film premiere and lost my favourite hat somewhere along the way, I've decided to forego the fruit picking and instead do temp work in Sydney. Which will mean wearing a tie for the first time in a while. Bleugh.

SYDNEY - Fame and Marriage

First, a sales pitch.


Reading Angel. Not sure why I'm posting the picture because, of course, you're all hopelessly devoted to me and, therefore, you already own copies. Right?

When I got to 21 I made a very short list of life's aims. Excluding the obvious ones (occassional meals, the odd cosy bed and worldwide domination by thirty) they were fairly straightforward. Leaving Britain as soon as humanly possible was one of them, subtitled with working my way around the world and living in some countries as well as travelling. Check.

Another was getting a first novel published. Hmmm... Well, I've still got time for that one. It's half finished. And another was publishing a piece of literary or film criticism. Somewhere. Anywhere. And, if possible, making it about Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Now funnily enough I thought that one was going to be the real toughy. Having avoided all MA and PhD related entertainment like the plague (because you guys doing it make it sound *so* inviting) meant that I'd never have the right combination letters after my name to be worthy enough for even consideration for publication. Of course, I forgot that I am obviously some kind of unmitigated genius because, on the first time of asking, I managed to get a submission accepted for the book Reading Angel by its lovely editor, Stacey Abbott. Fearing it was all some kind of trick I dutifully wrote the first draft months ahead of schedule (I think I started researching it at two in the morning moments after getting the e-mail that my proposal had been accepted) And, after four or five drafts and the series in question getting cancelled (hasty re-writes all around. Thanks a lot, Fox) I left it in Stacey's hands and promptly moved on with doing other things whilst the book's publication date got pushed back and back. It ended up coming out weeks after I left the UK and, then, the US date got pushed back so I missed it *there* by a month or so. I'd almost forgotten about it, assuming I'd maybe find a copy a year later on eBay or wake up and find I'd imagined the whole thing.

And then I arrived in Sydney. Which has, amongst other things, some truly excellent bookshops stocking the kind of TV tie-in trash which I enjoy immensly (as well as good children's stock. Found copies of Louisa M. Alcott's Little Men and Jo's Boys which have eluded me for some time. I know, there's probably only about half a dozen of you who aren't confused by that) and there it was. The first book with my name, essay and (snigger) biography in it. It's a strange feeling being a writer and seeing your first essay in print (well, actually it's my second. But, hey, I'm not one to boast. And, yes, that was a lie) and sitting on the glittery floor of this tiny bookshop reading it was a fun experience. It's not too bad, if I don't say so myself. The last couple of paragraphs are a bit too wordy but, astoundingly, it's all my words. Nothing has been added, deleted or reworded from the final draft I submitted. Of course, it did take six drafts to get that far but I remember from my Concrete days the occassional mauling which my articles were subjected to. So if it's rubbish, it's all my fault. And I like that.


That's an awful lot of words to basically so 'no qualifications, no real experience and who the heck is this kid anyway?' Still a fine piece of writing, though. Yes, it's mine too.


And here it is, in print. Of course, to read the whole thing you'll have to buy the book. I wasn't going to sit there and photograph the whole thing, thus breaking my own copyright (yes, I don't own the copyright on this essay. That's publishing for you.

You maybe wondering why I put lots of silly photos here instead of just buying and coverting the thing like I should. Well, the truth is that, irony of ironies, having written for an academic text instead of a nice little novel my first real published work is in a book I can't actually afford to buy. At least, not at Australian import prices. Nobody ever said this writing gig would make you rich or give any material gain. It does make me very happy though. Especially today.

Back to Sydney, then. Which, I'm pleased to say, is a dirty city. I love New Zealand to bits but the activist in me always felt a little uncomfortable in its shiny and clean streets. Where was the dirt? The homeless and the night shelters? They'd been swept somewhere tourists couldn't follow. But Sydney is a different beast. A true metropolis with plenty of disolussioned folks wandering the streets. Mostly, actually, they're not the locals but the throngs of tourists looking for work. It's the high season here and short term work is hard to come by. My travelling companion extrodinaire, Sarah, told me her woes of two weeks hard door knocking to no avail. But she's celebrating now, having find an au pair job on the south side of the city looking after a two and four year old. Needless to say, I was not envious.


Sydney's bizarre mix of high rise, Victorian facades and strange fountains. A little like Santiago, perhaps, but with much more green. Just not in this photo, obviously.

The other thing to be said about Sydney, besides the fact it can be brutally hot without a cloud in the sky, is that if you head to the park on a Saturday you're fighting for breathing space between groups of weddings. I counted at least seven wandering around the edges of the harbour looking for the perfect shot of the Harbour Bridge and Opera House in the background. It's always funny watching brides trying to get up slopes in their dresses. Or crossing busy intersections. One particular example was slowly picking a bunch of grapes to death whilst the groom, bridesmaids and camera man tried to set up the perfect shot. The poor woman looked bored out of her mind.


No idea who you are, Jacquie, but thanks ever so much for inviting everyone to share your nupturals lying all over the ground so we can pick them up and throw them away for you.

On Monday the great job hunt begins. I suspect it won't be so hard as many have found it as my intention is to get out of the cities and go do some hard, but rewarding fruit picking in the outback. But, of course, I doubt my new status as a published academic will turn many heads. No problem. We famous authors can't all be about big cities and constant attention now, can we?


Well, what did you expect in a Sydney blog post? Torquay, perhaps?

CHRISTCHURCH - Rooms with Views and Giggling in the Cloisters

The great New Zealand tour is almost at an end. And, yes, sad to say to all the Kiwis who shake their heads when I tell them, I really *am* about to hop over to Australia for a couple of months. (I don't think we're talking international hatred here, just a sort of 'why would you want to go anywhere but here?' sort of mentality. Can't say I blame them) But, before all the teary eyedness, there's the last few stops to talk about. And they've been good ones.


Queenstown looking awfully quiet and unassuming.

From the west coast and constant, constant rain I travelled to Queenstown and the furthest point south I'll be in the Phworld this year. And have since run into constant, constant sunshine. Funny New Zealand summers. Queenstown's high street is filled (and I mean literally, filled) with shop after shop selling bungee jumps, speedboating and the like. All sounded rather exhausting to my poor, tired, glacier shattered body so instead I took a stroll up to the enormously lovely Deer Park Heights. A huge, rocky hillock just outside the city offering lots of wildlife roaming about on rugged hilltops. Wandering up I bumped into a Kiwi called Stan who was on his way to feed the animals and who offered some impromtu touring. And so forgetting all my lessons about getting into strange vans with people, I went along for the ride.


Some animals know how to live in the most dramatic ways.

Seeing a fair few deer, sheep and the like in New Zealand it's funny how sometimes they lose a bit of their wonder. Because, you know, they're a bit numerous. And kinda dull. But wander up to them with a handfull of feed, especially when you have someone with you who can help coax over the newborn foals as well as their stagg and deer parents, and they're pretty awesome animals. Also handy to do it a few months before the staggs' antlers get all hard and they start hitting people and cars.

The other advantage of being driven around anywhere in New Zealand by the locals is that they'll show you, with much gusto, any Lord of the Rings locations in the vicinity. Deer Park Heights, a tiny little place has, bizzarely, at least half a dozen including a couple of my favourites:


No CGI necessary for this ickle tarn in front of the aply named Remarkables. Stick a few Rohan refugees in the background and you've got a scene.


And this cliff was where Aragorn got dragged to an untimely dream sequence and bout of kissing with a horse. Oh, sorry, I meant Liv Tyler... According to Stan, many women come here to shed some tears. I tried. Really, I tried. But, really, he's just a beardy guy with a hippy hairdo.

And so on to Lake Tekapo. Notable for being really, really, really blue. No, honestly. Let me prove it to you.


See, told you it was blue. Except the Church of the Good Shepherd. That's kinda grey.

I went to this tiny, tiny dot on the New Zealand map on the basis of a picture I saw in a book in Santiago similar to the one above. Probably the most spectacular setting I've seen for a church since, oh, August. It looked enormously pretty and peaceful, and I knew I wanted to go to a service there.

I realise I haven't put in any interesting church stories during this blog. Which is a bad oversight because churches are such funny places. Except, well, there haven't been *that* many funny church happenings to report this year. It seems the Phworld has many upstanding, decent and frankly normal places of worship in it. Kinda sad, really. The First Methodist Church back near Camp Aldersgate deserves a mention. Mark, Laura and I used to go down there on our Sunday mornings off before heading back to arrivals day in the afternoon (we were, like, *so* holy.) The first time we went, Mark got slightly hysterical sitting in a window seat because he was reminded of the story of Eutychus (Acts 20, Bible fans)

Afterwards, being the young fit and trendy types we were, everyone tried to offer us Sunday lunch but we couldn't accept seeing as we were due to go back to work shortly afterwards. The same thing happened every week and we were obviously either being regarded as either (A) Extremley shy retiring types who'd never accept charity of any kind. This is, of course, insanity. or (B) Very rude types who just didn't want to eat with crazy church people. This is, of course, insanity. or (C) Very busy types who kept matyring ourselves because of our need to get back to work. We assume everyone thought (C) because, on our third visit, the very well manicured rector actually gave us money to go treat ourselves to food before work. And not stolen from the collection plate, actually from his own wallet. We went to Dunkin Doughnuts, and we ate well that lunchtime before the kids arrived.

So, anyway, back to New Zealand where the service at Tekapo was pleasingly low budget. One well recycled service sheet, one very tourist friendly rector (German, Japanese, he speaks 'em all) and music provided by anyone in the congregation who could play a piano without music. And they get away with it week after week. Bless transient tourist congregations. And extra marks for a very bizarre version of the peace using both hands. Sort of like dancing.


Another interesting fact about Tekapo is it has some of the best stargazing in the whole of New Zealand. Because it is jolly dark.

And so to Christchurch. The garden city. It has a Cathedral Square. It has a Christ College. It has a River Avon with punts running up and down it. Yes, it's a bizarre place for a British boy to end up halfway through his round the world trip. It's an astonishingly beautiful city, with some very special little corners. I spent an hour wandering around the Arts Centre. Basically an Oxbridge College with cinemas, theatres and practice rooms scattered around two quads and some cloisters.


Arts Centre at Christchurch. Can you spot the hidden sculpture in this photo, viewers? No extra no points bonus marks avaliable if you do, mind you.

You can walk around and catch an excerpt of someone singing opera, see the tops of a group of fingers as ballerinas stretch in an upstairs window and then descend into the bowels of a tiny cinema to catch obscure arty movies you've missed because you've been travelling and South Americans don't know how to do cinemas without blockbusters. (In this case, Pride and Prejudice, which turned out to be much better than expected thanks to Matthew MacFadyen's awesomely subdued Mr. Darcy, Donald Sutherland's mutton chops and some fabulously grungy set dressing, costumes and country dancing. Unfortunatley it's saddled with Keira Knightley's horrible, horrible performance as a giggling schoolgirl. If she gets nominated for an Oscar, I'm leaving the country. Whichever country it is I'm in at the time) Oh, and dogs and skateboard. No, really.


Don't ask me to explain why.

I'm glad I'm not anything other than a writer. Else I would always have places I needed to be. The Christchurch Arts Centre caters exclusivly for daydreaming types with far too much time on their hands.


The South Island line-o-map. Gotta love it.

And so, reader, to Australia.

FOX GLACIER - Check Out My Hook Whilst My DJ Revolves It

There's a law of the universe which thus far has not been documented but which I feel needs to documented. It runs something along the lines of: "If your volcano walk is undertaken in blissful heat, then your glacier excursion shall take place in driving rain and shivering cold." This is Colvin's First Law of New Zealand Glacial Thermodynamics.


Fox Glacier. It's like a really, really big block of ice and dirt rolling up and down a valley. Funny, that.

Going to the South Island is like entering another country in many ways. The hills get steeper, the towns generally get smaller and the already edgy people to animal ratios move steadily towards the farmlife (if they ever revolt, this country is in trouble. And I've walked past some *mean* looking cows, let me tell you.) It's pretty inspiring, though, that a country not much bigger than Great Britain can still pull off areas of isolated wilderness where technology is rare, nights are dark and power cuts are not a thing of the past.

Fox Glaicer is one such place. Tucked on the western coast in the shadow of the Southern Alps. Fox and it's slightly bigger brother, Franz Josef, are tiny alpine settlements which have grown in responce to the wonder/exploitation caused by their local glaciers. Nowhere else in the world besides southern Argentina (so I've been told many times this week) have glaciers retreated to such low levels of altitude. Which means that you can do what is usually only done in dodgy altitudes by much burlier mountaineering type people: go stamping across huge glacial landscapes and pull silly poses for cameras.


Now I know what you're thinking. And you may very well be right.

You can do all sorts of ice climbing, helicopter assisted or just plain trekking in these towns. Being a hiker sort of person, and not knowing how my irrational fear of heights would extend to helicopters I plumped for the longest day walk. "Did you check the weather?" I was asked as I handed over my credit card. Of course! That little photocopied sheet on the wall (a staple of any New Zealand tourist attraction. Usually surrounded by beardy types shaking their heads) something about light drizzle, right? That wasn't going to stop us trekking though, was it? Rain being mostly water and glaciers being, pretty much, water as well. "Oh no," she cheerily replied, "we'll walk in the rain."


Hardy ice walkers between rain showers. And, judging by the expressions, I suspect I took this one well after lunchtime and before we stopped for lunch.

What we hadn't quite counted on, and what made glaicer walking a pretty unforgettable experience, was that west coast South Island rain is not just drizzle. It's rain. Real rain. It starts and then doesn't stop for around fifteen hours. Ice walking in the rain is a funny experience. Of course, ice walking in general needs some explanation. Basically, since you're outfitted with crampons (spiky bits for your boots) you can trudge about pretty easily by just stomping and looking out for hidden slopes. Since glaciers are such rapidly changing features (Fox is apparently retreating at a rate of three metres a day) there aren't set paths or anything really resembling steps up and down the near vertical cravasses. On a short walk you may stick in mostly flat areas but, on a day trek, the hard work of making sure you don't plummet to your death is left to your friendly guide who'll spend *hours* hacking out rudimentry steps from the ice. It means every walk feels like its going through completley unchartered territory. Because, even if you did it every day, the ice would change dramatically each time.


Jason our indespensable, somewhat crazy guide. We mutually agreed afterwards that he got a little too excited with that pick-axe.

And all this in the driving rain, when the surface of the ice gets just a little bit more slippery and even a small downhill step or two can look like a one way trip to broken bones. Thankfully, the New Zealand weather fairies decided to give us a break and we got a good hour or so of light drizzle and the chance to whip out cameras and sandwiches from soggy bags (for twelve hours afterwards, having sat in a pool of water for the best part of the day, my phone had a funny habit of constantly vibrating. It survived but it was an interesting massage tool for my left thigh)


Looking down from the ice into the glacial valley. It's a long way down. And, although Jason didn't tell us, we were betting it involved a pick-axe.


And here's me eating lunch and doing product placement for a bad Gore Verbinski movie. A fine moment wearing this hat for the first time having filched it from the University of East Anglia's Concrete office some four years before.

Either through brave resiliance or detirmination to make the most of our ninety dollars, we ploughed on for the entire four hours of the ice walk and managed to get up to some incredible crevasses and blue ice caves. Mutual agreement between myself, Sarah and Brooke (Aussie interior designers and good post glacier drinking buddies) was that it was more tiring than ten hours ploughing up and down Mount Taranaki, but worth every cold and wet cent.


It's blue, it's icy, it's a cave. That'll be one of those blue ice cave things, then.


Mount Cook and Tamsan viewed from Lake Matheson. In early morning this is one of New Zealand's famed postcard shots, with the view reflected in the lake. However, not having a car and having to walk an hour and back, a 4am start seemed pretty unnecessary. It was still jolly pretty.

WELLINGTON - Not a Speck

Wellington is one clean city. Barely a speck. And I can't be certain but I'm fairly sure, I passed one broken bottle on the ground walking up a street and, half an hour later coming out of a bookshop, found it was gone. On a Saturday afternoon. Now that's how to look after your capital city.


Wellington from Mount Victoria.

Funnily enough, wandering around here reminds me a lot of Rio. The scenery isn't so striking, or exotic, but the city lazily spreads itself around both water and between hillscapes in a similarly pleasing way. No favellas here, of course. Like Auckland, if Wellington does have a seedier side then it keeps it well hidden from the hordes of tourists who are fast becoming New Zealand's biggest industry (in fact, if they don't already in 2005/6, the yearly tourist influx will soon be greater than the entire population of the country. Isn't that interesting? It's the sort of random fact you'd only get from some strange person you meet halfway round a rainy mountain. Which is exactly where I got it from two days ago)

Due to various bus/boat/chaos theory influenced factors on my part I only got one day to explore the city, which is a pain as it was one of my more anticipated stops. Needless to say, a fairly hefty walking schedule soon developed to allow me to get up all the major hills, browse all the book shops and get to the post office to send back the key from my last hostel which I forgot to hand in when I left (sorry, Ski Haus) Mount Victoria was the first stop. Scenic views and open parkland coupled with large pine forested hills. I spent a happy few hours wandering around, completley forgetting I was in the middle of a city. And, because it's New Zealand, I even stumbled (quite literally, darn steep paths) onto a Lord of the Rings location:


"Get off the road!" This familliar bit of track isn't signposted and I couldn't claim to be able to give directions but you'll know it when you find it. There aren't *that* many paths with spooky overhanging trees in Wellington.

A short hop, jump and cable car ride later (grr...) I was off to Wellington's second hill. Covered with its very pretty botanical gardens and equally pretty historical graveyard. Rose gardens, observatories... It's a walker's paradise and startingly empty for a Saturday afternoon. Maybe because it's just so darn huge. I was impressed by it all. My hayfever wasn't.


So, here we have typical Wellington. In the back, Mount Victoria. Then the city and, in front of that, cricketers. Finally, the famous red cable car/train type thing. And there you have it. Serve with sunshine and a side order of nice Kiwi people.


Roses in, funnily enough, the rose garden.

So leaving behind the hills I headed for that little world we like to call history. Being a stunningly new kind of a place, of course, Wellington doesn't have much in the way of historical buildings (and if there are ancient Maori sites around then they look surprisingly like glass fronted skyskrapers to my untrained eye) but there are some interesting spots hidden down side streets. Old St. Paul's is the impossibly pretty Anglican church in the city centre. Deceptivly non-descript from the outside, the interior is all neo-Gothic wood and stained glass. Most impressive. And popular with the wedding crowd. I managed to get in during the twenty minute interval between weddings.


Old St. Paul's. Even prettier when you use someone else's wedding decor for your composition. Well, they don't have any further use for it, right?

And so that is Wellington. And that really is the North Island. Where everything is pretty and shiny, and if it isn't pretty and shiny you have no idea where it's been hidden because even the dirty bits are, actually, pretty and shiny. I tried to find the dirt, I really did. But, like so many broken bottles, it had all been taken away before I got there.


The North Island line-o-map. Not in strict chronological order, you must understand but you get the jist of it, I'm sure.

NATIONAL PARK - It's Wet and Cold, It Must be my Birthday

There's a grey and white cat here in the Ski Haus, National Park village, which sleeps for about twenty hours a day. Whether it's curled up in the corner of the couch, or slumped in front of the roaring fire. I've seen it poke its head up occassionally when burgers from the bar across the street find their way into the main room. But aside from that, it's a lethargic life for this little cat in the summer season Tongariro National Park.

In the winter months this place would be heaving with skiers. And snow. Instead, it's the summer. Which means its practically empty. And raining. Remember I mentionned the randomness of New Zealand mountain weather? It's been a particularly grey couple of days here, which makes me jolly glad Bronwyn, Chris and I saw many of this region's highlights last week. Which has meant I've spent a pleasant couple of days curled up next to the cat, reading half a dozen books and popping out for the occassional mad dash up the nearest footpath for a couple of hours before the sky opens again.


Cat and fire at the Ski Haus. Cozy.

The reason for the not-so-great weather is, of course, that it's my birthday. Nature has a way of telling me that it has noticed I've survived another year in the midst of it. And, therefore, I have suffered many a rained out walk to either a student newspaper office or a chaplaincy over the past few years. This does not surprise me. And it's good to have a little time to sort through bags and photos from the past few weeks.


The spooky, sulphorous delights of the Craters of the Moon.

Leaving Taupo (waterlogged, messy, not-very-nice little town on the edge of Lake Taupo. Don't bother with it, I say) with the Aussies last week we stopped off at a Department of Conservation administered geothermal area called Craters of the Moon. The centre of the North Island is riddled with all manner of geothermal activity - remember those volcanoes I was wandering around a couple of posts ago? - with geysers, mud pools and hot spas just a short tourist trap away. Craters of the Moon is Government protected, though, and thoroughly unexploited. Basically it's a collection of steaming craters and mud pools in an easy to navigate landscape. And it's an eerie place to go wandering for a morning. Kinda like spending the best part of hour in the kiddie playground area of hell.


Another geothermal attraction, this time a hot water stream at Ketachi, towards the end of the Tongariro Crossing.

Astoundingly, the weather is beginning to clear so I'm going to grab my waterproof and make for the intriguingly titled 'Fisher's Track' just a few hundred yards outside of town (and by 'town' I mean 'down the street') I would ask the cat to join me but, well, I've been typing furiously for the past ten minutes and he really doesn't seem to care very much. He's probably seen more rained out days than I have, and I bet he's not twenty four.


Sunset just outside of Auckland.

AUCKLAND - City of Sales and Just Call me Susan

Seeing as it was filmed here in NZ, it seemed only fitting that once the Aussies had returned across their pond that I should go to go see The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. As usual, non-fans of my usual brand of rambling ignorance should ignore the next few paragraphs and head for the pretty photos and tales of daring do in Auckland.

(Usual spoiler warnings apply)

Well, this one was always going to be a hard sell for me. I have a fanatical devotion to this series of books and an almost obsessive devotion to the last filmed adaptations of Narnia on the BBC in the late eighties (only intensified, incidentally, by the very sniffy way all the tie in materials for this new film have shrugged them off) It's really rather difficult to accept any new kid on the block who's going to threaten some of your earliest childhood experiences of fantasy. I've always felt that this film would turn out okay, thanks to both good casting and the blessing of the C.S. Lewis estate. But I feared the magic would be gone, replaced with post-Lord of the Rings helicopter shots and war crys...

... And, sadly, this time I was pretty much right. As film making, it's fine. But as an adaptation of Narnia, it just doesn't work. And it's frustratingly easy to see why. The problem with Narnia is that it is not and never will be Middle Earth. Narnia isn't the swords and socery ruled realm under a shadow of impending doom that Middle Earth is. It's a quintissentally fairytale land in which refugees from Greek and Norse mythologies struggle under the inconvinence of a long winter and a despot ruler, and where stopping for tea every ten minutes is far more important than the sharpening of swords. Of course there *is* a war in The Lion... and I have no problem with a script adaptation which connects the dots between the war which Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy have escaped in wartime London and the one they stumble into fighting through the wardrobe. (Although I'm not quite sure of the historicism of them actually being asleep in bed when the Luftwaffe comes a-bombing.) But that doesn't mean that an adaptation of that story will fit into the structure of a war movie.

The problem for me with this whole film is that it's constantly rushing to get the real world out of the way and get to the fantasy sword swinging. We enter Narnia after only about ten minutes, and before Lucy has barely uttered a single word. What's the rush? There's a fatal misunderstanding (and this applies to most filmic adaptations of fantasy work) that all the important bits of fantasy stories happen within the fantasy worlds. And therefore the job of the film makers is to get us there as quickly as possible. Not so. Lucy's delight and lack of fear of both Narnia and Mr. Tummnus (more on him in a minute) only makes sense if you understand her desperate isolation in a large, scary house with two matter-of-fact elder siblings and bullying, imagination deficient Edmund. (Who, similarly, is underdeveloped before he steps through the wardrobe. He's not a bully, he's not even that annoying. If I were him I'd feel rightfully pissed off that everyone treats him like dirt) I don't like making the comparison (actually, that's a lie, I *do*) but the BBC did this much more thoughtfully.

But things don't improve that much when Lucy finally does step through the wardrobe. There's something badly, badly wrong with her first meeting with Mr. Tummnus. I was tempted to blame James McAvoy for being too young and too playful but, as his performance is vastly improved in every other scene of the film (and he has a fine trade in interesting facial hair), I'm going to have to assume it's director Andrew Adamson's furious editing which once again glosses over the tea drinking and sardine eating to get us to some CGI fire dancing.

All that said, Narnia does do many things right. Pretty much all the scripting is good and the dialogue, often, hilarious. "We're not heroes, we're from Finchley" is a line for the ages. James Cosmo is great as Father Christmas; and it's great to see that moment from the books actually work on film as it's never done before (kudos to the design team for getting away from that silly red outfit and going with a more earthy St. Nicholas ensemble) And then there's the presentation of evil. 2005 has been a fine year for the dour and depressing in Hollywood when even Spielberg made the incredibly nihlistic War of the Worlds Not surprisingly, Narnia does a fine job with its scares. Tilda Swinton is wonderful as the White Witch. A combination of Boadicea, a sex siren and Satan who is geunianly unsettiling but, yet, never less than majestic. I look back fondly on Barbara Kellerman's more pantomime take on the role back in the eighties, but realised watching this version how Jadis' seduction of Edmund desperatly needs to have an element of seduction. The massaging of his ego and the rivalry with his elder brother doesn't make a lot of sense otherwise. And I love the fact that Tilda Swinton in her full makeup and dress bears more than a passing resemblance to Cate Blanchett's Gladriel in Lord of the Rings. Also great is Michael Madsen as Maugrim. By far the best of the CGI characters and scarier than I'd ever imagined him. The extra scenes to buildup his antagonism to Peter and, therefore, prelude the boy's passage to becoming a man (since that's what's going on here) are fabulous.

And, yet, Maugrim's final confronatation with Peter is a complete cop out. Does he kill the wolf or does he just jump onto this sword? Why on Earth would any Narnian follow Peter's lead after such an abysmal display? In the book (and, yes, in the BBC adaptations) this duel is the traditional joust on the road to knighthood and the defining moment of Peter's character. He doesn't just wave his sword at the wolf, he *kills* it and therefore proves his chilvaric worth in a way Lewis would have approved. If we are going to have to accept Narnia as a war movie then it has to get those elements right. But time after time it trades human moments and genuine fear at what's coming for long, loving and lingering looks at swords being drawn and swung. I like, for example, the idea that Mr. Beaver might pull on some armour and bravely go to fight for a land he believes in. But I expect him to be at least slightly concerned about the prospect. I was also concerned about the truly horrible moment when eight year old Lucy throws a dagger at a bullseye for (we presume) the first time in her life and looks all pleased with herself. It was at that point that I realised I didn't know what this film was trying to tell me. And that's the heart of my problem with it: because I know the sorts of things Narnia has been telling me for the past couple of decades.

This Narnia's got all sorts of CGI whizzes and bangs but it's just not magical. It's got all sorts of great jokes and genuine laughs but it's not any *fun.* Our world may be a place with problems and the kids may have lives that need fixing, but I don't understand what those are. Instead I get stuck watching scene after scene of prosphetic wearing centaurs clearn their swords. Or, in a crucial moment when the White Witch has just finished a conference with Aslan and we're watching Edmund's reaction, I'm distracted because a CGI leopard walks across the back of shot. For no reason whatsoever. Narnia isn't a good example of world building. It doesn't earn any right for us to believe in it. It simply presents all the glitter and sparkle and expects us not only to believe but to actually care, love and embrace war as a glorious activity for children. And that sure as heck isn't what Lewis was getting at.

I haven't mentionned Aslan so far and, really, there's no need. Liam Neeson is fine but this too literal adaptation keeps Aslan on the sidelines the whole way along, even most of the time when he's on screen. Aslan should be *all over* this film. He should be the King, the Wizard, the Saviour, the loyal sidekick and the trusted friend all roled into one. Instead, he's just the general of an army.

All that said: I do like the look of the thing and all the acting from the kids. I'm interested in seeing how these actors will do with the challenges of Prince Caspian and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (which, truth be told, are both much better books than The Lion...) anyway.) I was particuarly struck with the film's treatment of Susan. Who's basically cast as the voice of wartime London throughout the journey through Narnia. Everyone else gets their moments of awe and wonder and gets taken into the fantasy. But Susan alone is always stuck on the edges, wondering what mother would do and why everyone seems so intent on throwing themselves into mortal peril after their family made such sacrifices to keep them out of it. She's this film's tragic figure, because nobody ever helps her to understand the fantasy (One of the reasons I dislike this film's Aslan is that he has all sorts of encouragement for everyone else but barely ever says a word to her) or help her to love Narnia in the way that everyone else does.

Now this may be some very clever foreshadowing to future events since Susan will become the one and only person to reject Narnia and choose to spend the rest of her life preoccupied with the many distractions, pitfalls and pleasures of our world. Or it may just be some sloppy writing. Nethertheless, it made a great impression on me. The last time I entered the filmic Narnia I was six years old and it was all wonder and magic. I was Peter in my new fantasy world. Now, at twenty four, I went back through the wardrobe hoping to find the same thing there, only to discover that the world had changed and that I was now Susan.


The faithful gathered around the clock at the Auckland Concert Hall waiting for the big moment...


... When the Sky Tower exploded. Well, not literally. But it was still very impressive.

Happy New Year, y'all! Auckland, City of Sails, did a pretty spectacular job of greeting 2006. Of course, New Zealand has to make the effort as it is the first place to see it in (and not Australia as the BBC reported. Boo shucks to you, Aussies!) Lots of fabulous bands, Maori chanting and opera singing in the square followed by fireworks. Saying any city is diverse is a horrible bit of cliche these days. So let me begin 2006 with a clunking great cliche: Auckland is an incredibly diverse city and all the better for it. Stay in the part of town I'm in and you'd be convinced you were anywhere. It's in the middle of Chinatown. Which means Chinese, Japanese and Korean siganage as far as the eye can see. Of course, New Zealand is a country of immigrants but it's still pretty spectacular to see multi-culturalism that (mostly) works.

Wandering down through the city and closer to the sea front and you're in more familliar ground for a fairly modern city. Lots of big, shiny buildings and the odd not-quite-so-pretty Sky Tower for the tourists (why does New Zealand have this continuing preoccupation of building tall things just for people to throw themselves off?) but generally just a beautiful bit of city building with constant nods to New Zealand's indigenous Maori.


Maori carving in the War Memorial Museum.

New Zealand clearly feels a great desire to atone for much of its colonial past and, I feel it does a much better job of it than many other nations (no names necessary) The very impressive Auckland Museum is built on ancient Maori land but is not referred to simply as a museum but also as a war memorial. The memorial has gradually been expanded to encompass the World Wars, Korea, and all the other conflicts in which New Zealandars have lost their lives. It's a bit of a sobering place at times, which is why the exciting Maori dancing on the ground floor is all the more welcome.

The other thing which needs mentionning about Auckland is how keen it is to sell things. One of the funny coincidences of a summer Christmas is you get your New Year and summer sales all at the same time. So everywhere (and, I mean, everywhere) is desperate to offload vacumn cleaners and widescreen plasma televisions. It's enough to make you want to escape to another national park somewhere. Beautiful city, but time to make a break for the South Island, methinks.


Bright and shiny Auckland viewed from Mt. Eden. Actually, that Sky Tower isn't quite as bad as I thought. Good for navigating, and casting really, really pointy shadows.