Dude! Where's My Balls? Volume 2

Queenstown to Wellington

Having struggled to find the balls to do a bungy jump, I get to know the feeling of liberation and relief when I discover that they were attached to me all the time. Curious then that I do my best to batter, bruise and sever them for good on a gruelling jetboat ride and a horse called Wilson.

If you only do one thing in Queenstown then you really aren't getting out enough. Seriously, the one thing that everyone of all ages and sizes seems to sign up for in Queenstown is jetboating. There's an endless queue at the dockside for the hourly jaunts along the Kawarau and Shotover Rivers and the happy, chirpy people in the promotional literature look like they're having non-stop fun in the sun. As I pull on my heavy, wax, rain jacket, the thunder is rumbling overhead and I'm not smiling.

The next hour is a jarring roller coaster ride. Imagine though that the roller coaster cars actually leave the track for a few seconds and then come crashing back down without any consideration for the delicate parts of the passengers, especially the male passengers, none of whom are strapped in incidentally.

I'm sitting up front beside the driver, the best seat to occupy I'm told. It's only when we get going that I realise why everyone else is cowering in the back and why the driver himself is wearing something akin to an industrial welder's mask. The spray and rain pierce my eyes like daggers and the frequent 360 degree turns - the 'extreme' element of jetboating - have my head and stomach going in opposite directions. The Japanese girls in the back row love it though and scream for more. Crazy kamikaze chicks! By the end, I'm longing to be back in the warm, comforting bosom of the bungy community.

Now a word of warning. The next few paragraphs talk a bit about various film locations sites used for the Lord Of The Rings (LOTR) trilogy and make reference to miscellaneous Tolkien trivia. If you're not a big fan, I won't be offended if you scroll down past this point. Join us again at the paragraph that begins "After the arrest..." Just kidding. Or am I?

Queenstown is situated about half way along the right hand side of a large, s-shaped lake called Lake Wakatipu It's not difficult to see why the LOTR crew spent a considerable amount of time here shooting footage for all three films. Everywhere you look, the scenery is breathtaking and you only have to travel a few miles in any direction before stumbling across a multitude of film locations.

Directly opposite the town the skyline is dominated by a range of sharp peaked, craggy mountains called The Remarkables, surely the most aptly named mountain range in the world. This backdrop was used for various scenes including long shots of Mordor (where the bad guys live), the people of Rohan (some of the good guys) fleeing to Helm's Deep and Dimrill Dale, the bit in the first movie after Gandalf The Grey (good wizard) dies. Hope that didn't spoil the plot for anyone?

Nearby, in a lovely little gold mining town called Arrowtown, I saw The Gladden Fields, the place where the Ring goes missing for a number of years and also the Ford of Bruinen where the Nazgul (bad guys on horses) get washed away.

My favourite location though is the road that wanders 45 kilometres out of Queenstown, running north along the lakeside to a place called Glenorchy. The lake is hemmed in by steep mountains on both sides and along the way we pass Amon Hen (where Sean Bean gets killed - more plot spoiling, sorry) and Ilithien (getting bored with these LOTR names yet?), finally ending up at Isengard (big tower, bad wizard). High above all of this in the far distance is the permanently snow covered Mount Earnslaw which doubled as the Caradhras Pass (Fellowship's ill fated skiing trip).

We've come to Glenorchy because I've somehow been talked into doing an all day horse riding adventure that will visit Lothlorien, the magical forest where weird, telepathic elf, Cate Blanchett lives. Thing is, I've never been on a horse before.

On arrival at the stables, we get the news that the day trip has been shortened to a two-hour ride because the rivers are too high to cross due to recent rain. I'm pretty sure this wouldn't have stopped Aragon or Legolas but for a novice like me it's not too disappointing.

I was hoping for a horse with a gutsy or mystical name like Brutus or Champion or Shadowfax but up plods a nag called Wilson who, like me, has clearly not had his breakfast yet. I'm also a bit disgruntled to be made to wear a frankly, unstylish white riding helmet with a tight chin strap. I had been hoping to ride wild and free with the wind blowing my long flowing blond mullet behind me! Mullets are still all the rage back home, right?

Mounting the horse (no giggling please, Russell) is a chore in itself. As soon as I get on to the saddle from a platform on one side, I'm sliding off the other because it hasn't been tied tightly enough. What is it about people in this country miscalculating my weight? Once secure though, I'm a picture of man and beast in perfect harmony. I get an overwhelming feeling that I was just born to be in the saddle - this is where I belong. Not actually out riding you understand, just sitting there slightly slouched looking cool like Steve McQueen recruiting potential gunslingers.

Finally, it's time to head out on to the plains of Rohan but not before we're given a seemingly endless list of instructions.

"Keep your heels down, knees in, back straight, hands up, reins short, do the hokey cokey and oh, did I mention, KEEP YOUR HEELS DOWN!"

My ankles joints are creaking at a tortuous angle and we still haven't left the stables. Just as I'm about to utter the macho, cowboy command, "Giddy up there boy" to get us going, Wilson takes off on his own accord, following the horse in front of him at a slow walk. I guess the novelty of carting tourists around all day wears off quickly. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he gets home to eat. My kind of animal.

Once we're out in the fields it's time to change gear and accelerate into a trot. More instructions.

"Heels down, stand slightly out of the saddle, grab the mane, a quick snap of the reins and Neil, will you keep those heel downs. PLEASE!"

As the pace of the horse quickens, I finally understand why more girls go horse riding than boys. This is absolute murder on the balls, the nuts, the precious ones, whatever your descriptive preference might be. No wonder John Wayne walks like he does. I pull Wilson up quickly and tell him either we walk the rest of the way home or we visit the glue factory, his choice.

After the arresting (see what I did there?) views around Queenstown, the road east towards Dunedin is no less interesting. Every few miles the landscape changes throwing up scenes and views reminiscent of other parts of the world.

The goldtowns of the Otago region with its scorched rocky mountains could be wild west Arizona or California. The perfectly ordered rows of vines at the nearby wineries bordered by tall poplar trees evoke images of Tuscany. And approaching the coast, the Scottish borders come to mind with their rolling green hills crammed with sheep. Talking of which, if you get a bit lonely in New Zealand... eh, never mind!

Dunedin ("Edinburgh of the South" is the Gaelic translation) was established as a Scottish settlement back in the 19th century. It's full of familiar names like Princes Street, the Canongate and Corstorphine and I was hoping to get a bit of a Scottish 'fix' by coming here. Unfortunately, it's shut. Well not shut exactly but a bit drab and lifeless and it's principal claim to fame seems to be that it has the steepest street in the world. Spend all of two minutes looking at this on the road out of the city.

Two days, and a lot of miles later, we're at the top of the South Island. We had intended visiting Abel Tasman National Park, "sea kayaking capital of the world" but in the end, we just can't be arsed! It's reputedly very busy and very difficult to access and we end up doing a relaxing sea kayaking day out around the beautiful Marlborough Sounds. Top tip for sea kayaking - always take the rear seat in a two-person kayak - you can have far more sly wee rests while your partner does all the hard work at the front! "Honest, I'm paddling!"

Next up, the North Island, where every town, big or small, has some kind of bizarre, international claim to fame. Gum Boot capital of the world anyone?

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Dude! Where's My Balls? Volume 1

Christchurch to Queenstown

True story. A few years ago, I was in a taxi in Las Vegas trying to escape from a seedy hotel in order to check in to an ordinary, gaudy one instead. The cab driver, in between shouting obscenities at well endowed women, asked me where I was from. When I told him, he replied,

"Aw yeah, Scotland. That's, eh, over da sea, beside Noo Zealand, right?"

Now this may say more about the fact that only around 20% of Americans are thought to own passports but from a certain point of view, he's not too far off the mark. In terms of spectacular scenery, changeable weather and friendly people, New Zealand is indeed a very close relation to Scotland.

The adventure starts before I even land as my plane from Brisbane glides perilously close to the majestic Southern Alps and then crosses the flat Canterbury plains to touch down safely in Christchurch, the biggest city on the South Island. For the first time on this trip I have a travelling companion, my friend Meredith from the States, who's flown in to tour around, see the sights and share some of the driving. However, when we're presented with a crappy looking, pale green, manual transmission Hyundai, she quickly books the passenger seat and stays there for two weeks.

Christchurch is a slice of middle England. Driving in from the airport through tree lined suburbs, we could easily be in Chester or York and the central, pedestrianised square is dominated by a huge cathedral. We're only here for one night because the quest is on to find Middle Earth and as many recognisable Lord Of The Rings location sites as possible. What a geek!

Decide on an anti-clockwise sweep of the South Island and begin with a crossing to the west coast, up and through Arthur's Pass. Arthur doesn't seem to mind too much. Immediately, this is stunning stuff. The road weaves through mountains draped in cloud and rises and falls through steep, rainforest valleys. It's high summer and the east of the island is suffering its worst drought since records began but you wouldn't know it here when the rain thuds off the Hyundai with a violent intensity bordering on assault.

Turning south to drive down the west coast, the Alps are ever present, squeezing the road towards the sea. Spend a couple of days near Mount Cook, New Zealand's highest mountain, which reaches 12,300 feet into the sky, three times the height of Ben Nevis. Nearby, two massive glaciers, Fox and Franz Josef, wind their way down and through the mountain valleys for nearly twelve kilometres each. I'd never seen a glacier before and when we hike up to the foot of Fox Glacier, it really is an awesome sight, an ice wall of 100 feet or more towering above us.

From the glaciers, the road south continues to hug the coastline and then turns inland through beautiful, sublime Mount Aspiring National Park. I know it's beautiful and sublime because my guidebook tells me so but the day we pass through, it's been swallowed whole by a dark, brooding thunder storm that's come straight from the land of Mordor.

Finally, we reach Queenstown, self proclaimed adventure capital of the world. It's a relatively small tourist town, a bit like Aviemore except nice! The number and diversity of extreme sports on offer here is exceeded only by the amount of adrenaline-fuelled idiots willing to sign up for them all - horse riding, jetboating, white-water rafting, white-water sledging, river surfing, canyoning, skydiving, paragliding, hang-gliding, off road driving, mountain biking and of course, bungy jumping.

Up until now, my idea of an adrenaline rush has been asking for an extra shot of espresso at Starbucks or scrambling about looking for the remote control when The X-Files is due to start on another channel. However, knowing that I would eventually reach New Zealand during this trip, I've had quite a committed notion in the back of my head that I would definitely attempt a bungy jump while I was here. For people who know me well, this may come as quite as a shock, especially since I announced my official retirement from rollercoasters a couple of years ago after a rumoured throwing up incident on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland Paris. Must have been a dodgy Pernod!

Despite feeling nauseous in my 23rd floor hotel room in Hong Kong and dizzy in a cable car ride in Singapore, the notion to bungy jump hadn't left me. That all changes however when I go and visit the Kawarau River jump site near Queenstown, the place where bungy jumping originated in New Zealand and one of many such places now dotted around the country. The notion disappears as fast as a Rangers fan at 4.15 every Saturday and it's an effort just to stand on the viewing platform and fight a losing battle with my buckling knees.

HOLY SH#T, what was I thinking? People actually throw themselves, WILLINGLY throw themselves off a bridge secured only by a strong(?) and flexible latex rubber rope, the same material incidentally that goes into your average condom... unless you order those 'special' ones from Amsterdam over the internet at www....., but I digress. Talk about ultimate protection! After recovering from my hyperventilation with a cup of coffee indoors, I decide that there's just too much of a chill in the air to even think about signing up for this madness today.

The next day I'm back, feeling pretty psyched. Slept fitfully during the night weighing up the possible outcomes and ramifications of jumping. Thirty seconds of heart pumping excitement if I do? Regret and permanently damaged self-esteem if I don't? Agonising, horrible death if they calculate my weight wrong? Hmmnn, interesting dilemma. It's blowing a gale as I get out the car and make my way down to the bridge and this time it takes me all of 3.6 seconds to decide that I'm definitely not jumping today. No way, not in that hurricane. Think how bad the hair would look in all those action photos.

After leaving Queenstown for 'extreme' adventure elsewhere (see Volume 2), it's a couple of days before I'm back in the area for a last chance to tame the bungy beast. If I'm ever going to do this, I have to turn up as soon as it opens and get it over and done with so I can enjoy the reward of a massive cooked breakfast, free from regret and feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing. Step out of the car at 9.05am with the feeling that there's no turning back.

9.06am
Get an overwhelming feeling to turn back, start the car and the find the first flight home.

9.09am
Stagger nonchalantly (yes, it is possible to do both) up to the booking desk.

"I'd like the combined jump and video package please," I squeak in a pitch that only dogs can hear.

"I'm sorry, did you squeak something sir?" replies the nice girl behind the counter, smiling sympathetically.

I point to the relevant part of the promotional leaflet with a grunt and she gets busy on her pc.

"Leet's see," she muses. "We're eectually preetty fully booked thees morning" (Kiwis use the 'ee' vowel sound A LOT!)

My heart leaps. I don't have the time to wait around all day and Nice Girl is going to deny me my dream of jumping. I'm going to be able to say that I really wanted to jump but it was full up and a third party just wouldn't let me. YES! Virtual triumph snatched from virtual disaster!

"No, heeng on. We can eectually feet you een streeght eeweey sir. Just steep on the scales please."

"Great," I whimper. "That's really... great news."

9.12am
After wrestling the credit card from my cold, paralysed hand, nice girl writes my weight on my left wrist, giggling to herself quietly as she does so.

9.15am
Remove my jacket and make my way out to the bridge, resplendent in my new Falkirk away strip. I had thought about wearing my Celtic strip to delight all you Rangers fans but I don't want to spoil it in the event of any accidental bowel movements.

9.18am
The walk to the centre of the bridge is actually quite relaxing. The weather is sunny and calm and it's not easy to see down through the railings to the river below. When I get to the ledge, the p.a. system is pumping out "Pride" by U2. "Is that what I'll really feel when this thing is over?" I ponder to myself.

9.20am
"Over here mate. Leet's see that wreest of yours," shouts the jump guide. I get a little concerned when he makes a double take of my weight and then starts to test the latex rope by pulling and tugging it vigorously with his fists. With a kind of resigned shrug (did he cross himself as well?) he starts to bind my legs together and tells me everything's going to be just fine.

9.22am
The construction of the ledge means that I still can't see down but when he gets me to my feet and tells me to shuffle to the edge, the river comes into view. At least I think it's a river. From this height it looks like a mountain stream! The music has changed to U2's "Angel of Harlem" and I struggle hard to hold on to the hope that this prophetically means that they're watching over me rather than I'm about to join them.

9.23am
For a split second, my knees are weak and I feel like I'm going to cave and take the long walk of shame back along the bridge. Before I have time to deliberate though, my guide is shouting out the countdown with my rapid, panicky, breathy swearing punctuating every number.

"5" Oh f#ck! "4" Oh f#cking f#ck! "3" Oh f#ckity, f#cking f#ck! "2, 1, GO!"

And I do. Arms stretched out before me like Christopher Reeve (well, not these days obviously), diving furiously for a hill in the distance trying to replicate the action that I've practiced from the safe height of 18 inches on to my bed for the last few nights. I try to yell but I've stopped breathing and then a remarkable thing happens. After the initial rush of the first two seconds with the river accelerating up to meet me, time seems to almost stop and everything happens in a quiet, peaceful slow motion. There's no sound, no rush of wind or shouts from the onlookers that I can hear. There's no violent jerking of the rope or strain on any part of my body. I come to a very smooth stop just a few feet above the water and then immediately fire upwards, repeating this cycle three or four times. If I didn't know better, I'd describe the whole 30 seconds as one of the most relaxing experiences of my life.

9.25am
I don't feel overly excited or energised as I lie quietly in the boat that's come out to retrieve me but I do feel that overwhelming sense of pride... or is it just merciful relief that the whole thing is over and I'm still in one piece? The Kawarau River jump, at 141 feet, is by no means the highest bungy jump in New Zealand but as we say in the bungy game, the only distance that matters is the first twelve inches.

The whole bungy operation is very slick indeed and two or three other jumpers have dived off the bridge by the time I make my way back to the top. It doesn't take much to persuade me to add the three commemorative photos to the video package I've already bought and I carry the whole lot around with me for the rest of the day in my special, jumpers-only, carrier bag. I'm dying to wave it in the faces of everyone I meet like a VIP back stage pass but think better of it.

Finally for Volume 1, a quick update on the lyrics game, remember that? Some of you might know that the Daily Record have just started publishing abridged versions of my e-mails in their Saturday magazine and I was surprised but delighted that they decided to include the lyrics game. Because I drone for so long when I write, I had to edit my previous e-mails into smaller, more palatable chunks which meant, in turn, that I had to think up some new song lyrics for the newspaper articles.

Rest assured however that the original lyrics game will continue in these e-mails and a separate, stunning prize will be available to all of you who so wisely subscribed to this service some months ago. Your are, and will remain always, my first and most important priority. You are the wind beneath my bungy wings. (NOT this week's lyric!)

In Volume 2, I'll have a full Lord Of The Rings location round up for all you fellow geeks including a thrilling journey with the Riders of Rohan and a river adventure to the Pillars of the Argonath.

Till then.

Love, Neil x

Frying Nemo

Cairns to Brisbane

“...it's only when I get back from what seems like quite a long trip and check the map that I start to get a sense of how big this country is; it's absolutely huge!...”

Wise words from an astute and perceptive traveller only two short weeks ago. Pity then, that I didn’t heed my own advice in tropical Queensland and end up taking three bus trips totalling 33 hours to get to where I need to be at Christmas.

Originally, I intended to leave Sydney and fly to Melbourne after which I would fly up to Brisbane for Christmas with my Mum’s brother Hughie and his family. But the prospect of another city left me feeling a bit fatigued so I decided to get out into the wild, battle with nature and munch a little bush tucker (NOT rhyming slang!!!).

Landing in wet and humid Cairns, I’ve got a week to get to Brisbane so I’ve already decided that I’ll trek through the rainforest for a couple of days, sail round the Whitsunday Islands and then go off on safari to Fraser Island. It’s only then that I check the map. All three of these activities are hundreds of miles from each other and Brisbane itself is 1,000 miles away so after spending all of 16 hours in Cairns, (more than enough, actually) I’m on a bus heading south for Airlie Beach, gateway to the Whitsunday Islands.

Now I’ve never been much of a water baby. “Aw look at him splashing about, he’s at one with the sea” is not an endearing compliment I’ve ever heard heading my way. More often than not I’m signalling for a lifebelt. So signing up for a three-day sail around the islands on a boat that once took part in the Americas Cup is enough to have me breaking out the travel sickness pills, or crèche boy pills, as they’re more fondly known.

There’re 19 passengers and 4 crew in total and as we amble along the dock trying to identify which boat is ours, my mind is desperately trying to find a comforting image of a happy, seafaring movie where nobody dies, gets eaten by a shark or is subjected to Celine Dion. But I can’t think of one. Are there any? Scrambling on to the deck to find a spot to sit, only one thought lingers – we’re going to need a bigger boat!

There’s a little light rain and a stiff breeze (The Perfect Storm?) as we leave the safety of the harbour and with the sails up, the boat is soon zipping along at a seemingly impossible angle that only The Poseidon would be proud of.

The Whitsunday Islands, like most things in the southern hemisphere apparently, were named by Captain Cook back in the 18th century as he was spreading his travel agency business across the globe. He named them after the day he arrived, not the most original idea in the world but one that could have been worse I suppose. The Pancake Day Islands or National No Smoking Day Islands just don’t have the same ring.

There are 60 to 70 islands in total but only a handful are inhabited with resorts so they maintain the appearance of being very unspoiled. Sitting in the clear blue and green water of the Pacific Ocean and surrounded by the Great Barrier Reef they are nothing less than spectacular.

My strategy for the three days is to keep the heaving and retching to a minimum, work on my tan on deck or on the beaches and at the very most, try a bit of snorkelling in the shallow waters of the reef. However, before I realise what I’m doing, a very funny sales pitch convinces me to sign up for an introductory scuba dive and I’m pulling on the second skin of a wet suit and strapping on the air tanks convinced that I’m going to find Nemo.

Our instructor informs us that the only thing we have to concern ourselves with underwater is breathing, first in and then out. Smart ass! I’m relieved because I’ve had a knack for breathing almost effortlessly for a good number of years now. This is going to be a doddle. It’s not.

To have to consciously think about and then execute the act of breathing in and out through my mouth is a LOT harder than I imagined, especially when I combine it with blowing my nose to pop my ears and clear my mask of water.

Then there are the hand signals to remember so that communication underwater is straightforward and unambiguous.

We learn how to ‘say’ “I’m Okay”, “I’ve Got A Problem”, “Up”, “Down”, “Left”, “Right”, all of which I forget the instant I have to breathe, blow, pop and clear. Instead, I introduce a couple of new phrases to the international scuba language.

“What the fuck was that dark shadow?”
Continuous flailing of the right arm coupled with frantic pointing with the left.

“Watch out for the f#cking jelly fish!”
A frenzied turn of the head together with flippers flapping in the opposite direction.

“The next time you kick me you Swedish b#stard I’m gonna rip that f#cking tube from your mouth!”
A very determined hard stare and a lot of expletive bubbles

However, after fifteen minutes of this initial panic and terror, the sales pitch comes good. It IS a different world down there. The coral sways and comes alive in the current and the fish are everywhere, all colours and all sizes. They encircle and envelop me and at times I don’t seem to be able to move in any direction, a spider web and I’m caught in the middle. I didn’t find Nemo but I did see a big turtle and a small shark and collapsed exhausted half an hour later on the beach to tell the tale. Easily the best thirty pounds I’ve spent so far on this trip.

All meals are provided on the boat although the price of good food is a meticulous washing up rota that everyone follows without question. We also spend both nights aboard and are allocated bunks that are only slightly roomier than a coffin. I endure this on the first night but on the second, I need more space and fresh air so I grab a mattress and sleep up on deck. It’s calm and peaceful and there’s only a slight breeze to bounce the ropes against the mast sending an occasional, hollow cowbell sound across the flat, dark water of the inlet.

With no artificial light around, the sky above appears overwhelmed with stars interspersed with satellites speeding from one side of the horizon to the other. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this and at first I think it’s some kind of UFO phenomenon but the skipper puts me right before I can get too excited about the possibility of a close encounter of the Agent Scully kind.

Arriving back at Airlie Beach after three days, I’ve managed to avoid being sick but I’m quite sunburnt and in desperate need of a wash. We were rationed to one, thirty-second shower during the whole three days! 24 hours after alighting from the boat, I step off a bus on the Gold Coast of Queensland only slightly behind my clothes with have developed a ripe smelling, active life of their own. Nice!

For the past ten days or so then, I’ve been enjoying all the traditional features and activities of Christmas and New Year with family. Lots of food and drink (excellent pies and fish & chips!), some seriously average television, pulling a few crackers, barbeques by the pool, lying on the beach and going to surf school, which turns out to be bloody hard work. I now have even more respect, if that’s possible, for the cast of Baywatch!

My cousin Susan and I also went for a day trip to The Australia Zoo, home of Steve ‘Crocodile Hunter’ Irwin, where “Crikey, Crocs Rule”! He’s actually there in person, a rare event apparently, and we witness his exhilarating crocodile feeding display with only a slight sadistic hope that it’ll all end in tears. A few days later, he's splashed all over the news media feeding the crocodile with one hand and holding his four week old son in the other. Crikey!

The zoo is run in a very impressive manner with lots of interactivity for kids and adults alike. I get to fondle a koala bear and touch a snake and everyone can wander freely in the grassy areas where the kangaroos roam...

“What’s that Skip?” I ask a hyperactive joey. “Ten percent off in the gift shop, today only? No worries mate!” These animals are well trained.

Anyway, now it's a new year and having just watched Celtic win the league, I’m leaving my Rangers-loving uncle to fly to Christchurch in New Zealand to journey across Middle Earth. I’ll no doubt encounter Wizards, Kings, Hobbits, Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and the mystical Ring of Power, which is… eh… nothing to do with my toilet blocking escapades!

Till then.

Love, Neil x