Changi is a monster, with breathing parts and endless tunnels around every corridor populated with denizens scurrying around, the life-force of this indomitable machine. We eventually escape into its bowels and locate the metro system, praying we’re not too far from Mosque Street and where our hostel is located.

We emerge from the catacombs of sub-Sinagpore and into Chinatown, the hustle and bustle of a million restaurants and other forms of commerce a maelstrom around us. Sheila’s hastily scribbled directions prove fruitless as we simply can’t discern any of the street names. Not because we can’t speak Chinese, it’s literally because we can’t find any. After a brief walkabout, I gain my bearings and we stroll the few metres around the corner and locate Mosque Street.

I should note that, at this point in our trans-global adventure, we’ve probably stayed in a few dozen hostels of varying conditions ranging from luxurious to downright shambolic. Most are forgettable; austere cubicles to rest your head and hide your wares until the following morning. At which point you flee from the stifled starkness of your surroundings and soak up as much of the local curiosities as possible.

We’ve stayed in rooms with no paint. Rooms with no bathrooms and rooms with TVs that only show Malcolm in the Middle. In French. Putting this gamut of dodgy accommodation under scrutiny, however, I have to say that our Singaporean accommodation takes the fucking biscuit.

Tucked discretely into the wall of a long line of open-aired local restaurants, the (at least now, I may have involuntarily regressed it) nameless hostel is discovered by pressing some high-tech liquid-esque buttons on a control panel. It’s all very Bladerunner-ish, and I’m half expecting some sort of mechanised minion to open the door when it finally does show movement. Instead we get a slightly spaced hostel worker who seems to have trouble registering the fact that we have a reservation and, the bags on our backs a dead giveaway, would like to stay the night.

He takes us on a winding tour which includes going inside the adjoining karaoke bar. It’s a surreal environment, and one I’m unlikely to forget. Places that could be the location of my very own death-scene tend to have that affect. Smokey (despite numerous signs banning the practice) and replete with half-pissed Asians of every variation I can think of yelping and, in the case of two crooners, serenading each other across a bar to rumpus applause, the place is like something out of another world. Like the cantina scene from Star War: exotic, likely dangerous for an outsider, and undoubtedly a haven for more than one illegal alien.

The lackey finds the key and shows us to our room. When I see it, I almost wish we were down in the bar getting blasted by bad Asian pop classics or attacked with stick-knives. The windowless cell literally consists of just a bed and a wardrobe. As it measures merely six foot by about nine, there is literally no space around the bed itself, so in many ways we’re not renting a room for four nights. We’re renting a bed. That’s it. There is an air-con appliance, thankfully, which, some time later, I realise is a given if you want to live in Sizzlepore.

Being a mere 1.5 degrees (or about 100 kilometres) north of the equator, Singapore is quite literally in the firing line of the sun’s apathetic and perpetual wrath. And, considering we’re heading into the summer period, it can only mean one thing: we’re going to fry. Luckily, it appears Singaporeans of yore also twigged that, somehow – blame the cheap beer if you must – they’ve managed to build their city in one of the hottest locations on the planet. It’s therefore of little surprise to learn that, in reality, Singaporeans spend as little as time above ground as possible, and all abodes, no matter how dingy, come with an obligatory air-con device. It’s as if it has become one of their mandatory essentials. While Irish people viewing a potential new home might ask about schools, traffic and local crime rates, I’m willing to bet that Singaporeans ask but two questions: 1) How far am I from the nearest meat stand? and 2) Where is the air-con, and, if I turn it up, can I blast myself into the Antarctica?

This first question relates to the prevalence – to our eyes at least – of the city’s never ending fixation with meat and assorted meat products. On the corner of Mosque Street there is a successful shop (now a chain I believe) which only sells meat. We’re talking about meat by the truckload. Whenever we pass the establishment there is always someone endlessly cooking some sort of meat medallion over a stove by the window.

Everything in the above photo is made out of meat. Even the women. Near the shop-front and contained behind clear glass so as to cruelly tempt passing Singaporeans, there are literally kilo upon kilo of small, strangely shaped meat discs stacked high for the locals to glimpse and salivate over. The strangest thing is that, for the entire time we are there, I never see one person buy any of this meat. Not once. But they never stop cooking mound upon mound of it! Where does it go? Is this meat stockpile the answer to why Singapore has so many wild cats roaming the streets? I’ll never know it seems.

Maybe the natives do leave their gelid lairs at times to feast upon this sickly clarion. If they did, it would probably be only one of the very few times they actually endure a non-artificially controlled environment. Singaporeans live in air-conditioned homes. They travel to work in their climate-controlled cars or trains, and they work in similarly pleasant and almost frosty offices. And when free-time comes, they shop in malls that, in direct contrast to the blistering streets that house them, are cooled to such a degree they’re almost chilly.

Which leads us to the obvious: the shopping. Considering Singapore is a tiny island on the foot of Asia, with five million commercialism obsessed people milling about a place the size of County Dublin, it’s of little shock to hear that the city comprises of nearly nothing but shopping malls. I’m pretty sure that one could walk the length and breadth of Singapore simply by utilising the vast and labyrinthine network of tunnels, walkways and verandas that connect its malls like a giant mercantile web. You could likely even do it totally underground. We visit many of these multi-storey temples of trade, one in particular catching my eye as its entrance literally looks like the Tower of Orthanc – its escalator situated at the corner like a long tongue that leads up into its modern and chic belly where endless stores are stacked into the heavens.

Singapore is an epicentre for commerce, the range and abundance of products on offer nearly as diverse and eclectic as its population. Probably due to its strategic location as an aviation gateway from the west into the region, the city has flourished and become a microcosm of Asia; a melting pot where people from every corner of the Asian world have congregated and thrived. It’s as if some sort of all-powerful knell has allured them to this very spot, the promise of riches and freedom ingrained somewhere in the very fabric of the tiny island itself, forever within reach to any who answers its call.

It’s a multi-cultural city beyond any level I’ve seen before. Having dallied with membership of Malaysia for a mere two years, the island-state were kicked out (someone probably found its prodigious meat mountain) in 1965, since then promoting an open attitude to trade and work, managing to entice like-minded citizens from its surrounding countries to come, and work, and shop, and sweat.

Despite its historical connections with Malaysia, only about one fifth of the population are actually of Malay descent, with the majority of the inhabitants made up of a sizeable Chinese contingent. About 10% have an Indian background with the rest an assorted motley of Arabs, Eurasians and a smattering of other exotic nationalities that all merge together so seamlessly that it’s hard to think of them as, collectively, anything but Singaporean.

It’s a progressive town, with a travel network that puts Ireland to shame. (No shock there, the transport infrastructure of every single city we’re visited so far has surpassed the shambles of trying to get from A to B back home.) It’s not just the frequent and clean trains, it’s the attitude toward progress and investment that is refreshing. On a trip out to Little India I read an advertisement on the metro in relation to Singapore’s ongoing fibre optic cable upgrade. Want to know when the fibre is passing your business/apartment? Ring this number and we’ll tell you when it’s swinging by so we can hook you up with ultra high-speed internet. Not if it will be coming. When. And, trust us, it’s coming soon.

In contrast, look at Ireland’s antiquated system of monopolistic skulduggery perpetuated by the main vendor in the country, blocking IPs and suffering coverage blackouts willy-nilly. That’s even if you can get internet in your area. Live outside of Dublin and it’s a complete crap shoot.

It’s easy to say that, considering Singapore’s diminutive size, it’s easy to get a small country right. This couldn’t be further from the truth. This is an island-state that has fought tooth and nail to be a hub for the larger and ultra-competitive area, enticing investors into the market and providing world-class services for its increasingly affluent inhabitants. Ireland, on the other hand, stutters from one bad business decision to the next, tarnishing its international reputation and crippling its citizens with bad banks and worse morals from the people in charge.

But back to Singapore. If I’m being honest, I knew very little about the island nation before I went there. For example, I wasn’t even sure if it was even a real country. I know, I know. How embarrassing. More accurately, I wasn’t sure if it was merely a city, and if not, if this country was still a member of Malaysia or where in the smattering of islands in that neck of the woods above Australia it actually was. I’m educated now and I feel all the better for it.

Singapore is not for me, however. Apart from the ubiquitous shopping, public services that work and a cultural crucible guaranteeing that things will always be at least interesting, there are, however, a few negatives to the place. Compared to the rest of Asia, it’s not cheap. It’s still cheaper than Dublin, of course. But where isn’t? Living in Ireland is like living in Harrods, a Harrods that’s on fire with you stuck inside, trapped and unable to leave. Still, there are other more attractive places in Asia to live in and, let’s face it, despite the large amount of Westerns walking/shuffling about the place in the heat, it’s not a city that caters or panders to Western tastes.

In other words, Singapore is not somewhere that is completely “foreigner-friendly” per se.  Not in the “we’ll kill you if you call a teddy bear a religious name” kind of way (though I’ll get to that later) but more how the commercialism has ballooned into a beast; an esurient monster which is not too amiable toward those of us not from the area. The biggest issue I can see is how Singapore has embraced Laissez-faire economics, a system with apparently no morals, no boundaries, and almost no regulation against rampant price-gouging, and run with it. I’m all for capitalism and chancing your arm to see what you can get for your product or service, but the practice has blossomed in Singapore beyond the usual and acceptable “fleece the foreigner” shenanigans. Call it entrepreneurialism if you will, but there is definitely a case in Singapore of one price for the locals, and one super-inflated price for the tourists. Of course, this sneaky inflationary trait happens all around the world. It’s just exceptionally devious in Singapore.

Wishing to pick up a new lens for her camera, Sheila and I walk through endless sterile shopping complexes in search of a particular optical device. When we do finally find a store that has it in stock – a respectable FujiFilm stockist no less – we’re confronted by a pushy individual who rolls out the red-with-the-blood-of-past-chumped-foreigners carpet. He opens with a price of S$285 which is roughly €135. Scandalous, considering we’re seen it online for US$60 (plus shipping).

We show no signs of interest and I tell him what I can get the exact same lens for back home. “Sixty dollars? Not possible,” he says incredulously. We still don’t seem like we believe his bullshit price. So he halves it. “For you? S$180. I can do no more.” I literally chuckle, in part because he’s just wiped roughly S$100 off the opening price in a matter of seconds, but also because I know what’s going on here and I want him to realise that I’m not going to fall for the banana in the tailpipe routine.

“No way,” I tell him with a shake of my head. Sheila is laughing along and uttering words like “rip-off” and “sixty?” to which his eyes nearly squirt out of his thieving head. He offers another price I can’t remember but I’m pretty sure it consists of another sizeable drop. We’re still not budging. Sheila tells him we’re going to go away and think about it, virtual sales death to the ears of any sales-man. He spins the calculator on the desk to face us. “How much you give me?”

Sheila looks at me with an expression somewhere between smugness and spitefulness. I say “one hundred”, trying to gauge the guy’s reaction from behind the counter. Before I can work out if he’s stopped breathing or not, Sheila asks, as coolly as you like, “Sixty?”

We settle on eighty and submit our counter-offer. He balks, probably curses our names in some ancient tongue and retorts with “eighty-five”, obviously feeling like he needs to have the final say or be eternally shamed when turning up at the weekly “We scam tourists for fun” poker game.

Later on, Sheila does some research on the web and finds out that we actually got a good deal. I’m sure he still made his mark-up – just not to the extent some other less informed people online were subjected to. We find testimonies from a range of enraged people claiming to have been charged anything up to S$500 for the same piece of equipment. In a way I think “more fool them”, but at the same time, it’s this practice of trying to gouge as much money out of someone that I just don’t agree with. I guess it’s the discrimination factor. We’re being discriminated against because we’re not local. At least back home everyone gets ripped off equally.

This treatment of tourists can be seen further in Singapore’s facetious self-christened title of “City of Fines.” You can get a fine for jaywalking, for spitting, for feeding wild animals, even for scratching your arse in the presence of the President. I don’t even want to mention what happens if you’re caught with chewing gum on your person. Some of the amounts of these fines will take your breath away, and if you’re stupid enough to try and import narcotics into this idyllic land of meat and frigid shopping complexes, I mean that quite literally. The death penalty is enforced in these parts, a terminal solution for the stupid and the naive. William Gibson, whom I mentioned previously on this blog, once wrote a famous article about Singapore entitled “Disneyland with the Death Penalty.” It’s an accurate portrayal of the city, and one that got the magazine it was published in, Wired, banned forever in the micro-state.

The fact is, Singapore is a lot more liberal and open-minded than the illusion of strict, hardcore police-state it sometimes likes to purport. It’s a flavour of hypocrisy in a way as, though visitors to the island must be on their best behaviour, the locals can do whatever they please it seems. We see jaywalking, we see spitting, we don’t see anyone insult the President (and chewing gum is actually available to buy, albeit in a pharmacy) but, in general, there’s one rule for them and another for you. Which is OK in a way as I believe visitors to any land should respect the local culture and obey all rules and regulations – even if they appear a little backward. It’s just a little difficult to understand what is a law and what is one of those “we passed it because we had to” type enforcements. Of course, best bet is to just treat everything as risky, but it’s a gray area that is a little confusing at times and one that will have you sweating when you innocently step off a path, technically on to a road, and a cop is looking straight at you.

Case in point. At one point as we saunter around the city, around Clarke’s Quay in fact, a man walks towards us, crossing one of the many bridges over the brown and slow river. I only catch a snippet of the conversation being held between him and an unseen person at other end of his phone, but I easily pick up the sentence: “Yes, the escort must be no older than 35.” Singapore is many things: modern, vibrant, opulent yet with equal amounts of poverty alongside the sky-scrapers and frozen malls. It’s also apparently leading a double life.

Apart from our incessant ducking in and out of shopping malls mostly to stay cool, we decide one day to take a walk over what is probably the one part of the island that lacks any buildings, a micro-rainforest right in the centre of downtown. Our vantage point is assisted by a 9km walkway constructed over the foliage, numerous sections with their own quirks, names and qualities connecting one another to form a long and pleasurable forest walk – without actually setting foot on the forest floor. It’s hot and sticky, and we encounter numerous peculiarities during the two hour long preamble. Such as a troop of Chinese half-naked joggers who race along the tree-tops, sweating and swearing profusely in equal measure. What we don’t see are any monkeys, despite the numerous signs informing us of a S$1000 fine if we dare partake in the practice of feeding them.

Singapore is a strange collision of themes, sights and sounds. It’s an experience I would recommend to anyone – as long as they knew that there isn’t a great deal to see (or do) on the island other than shop, sweat and fret about committing some arcane crime that might lose you your hands, though more likely the contents of your wallet.

It was memorable, sometimes not for the right reasons but, as an experience, it was a intriguing part of our trip.

Note: Apologies for the lack of entries in this series of late. I’m back home after the trip, and though all of my travel logs were written before I left Asia (well, all but the final one), I’ve been so busy with settling back in and looking for work that I’ve neglected my blog. I have roughly six posts to finish the series out. Expect them all to go live this week.

Even now, sitting in Kuala Lumpur’s humidity and typing up my memories of the nightmarish event, I still can not fully comprehend, never mind see the funny side of, the absolute horror that befell me. I’m getting ahead of myself …

We decide to head north to the Whitsunday Islands by train. It’s a fourteen hour voyage through dark, inhospitable Australian hinterland, and considering it starts (or was supposed to start – the train was late due to overbooking and the company’s inability to find spare carriages) at 8pm, this part of our journey is going to entail sleeping through the night in a metal tube laden with some of the weirdest people on the planet. I’m not sure what attracts crazies to overnight train trips but, as we rocket north to a destination I’m not even sure exists, I soon have more things to worry about.

Myself and Sheila are separated during this ordeal (we go quietly, it wasn’t like Sophie’s Choice or anything) as, unless you fork out for a double berth (we tried, they were sold out), passengers are confined to sleeping with two other strange people of the same gender in a cabin that looks like it couldn’t adequately accommodate a pair of midgets never mind three grown adults.

I leave Sheila in a nearby berth with some peculiar woman rocking gently back and forth on the seats (which transform into “beds” upon request) and enter my berth. There’s one gent there, sitting and quietly reading what appear to be notes. He’s a man in his fifties, maybe sixty, and it’s only when he doesn’t move as I try to pass him with my bags do I realise that he’s disabled.

We never exchange names but talk a great deal over the following hours about a myriad of topics. He’s actually English and has been living in Australia since 1976 an, despite over thirty years on the continent, he has managed to retain his accent and a quintessentially British outlook on life. He tells me how much he enjoys travelling by train and imparts reams of local knowledge of the land we’re passing through I doubt I would have ever received if not in the company of such a sage-like elder of the area.

Soon enough it’s time to sleep, and I notice I’ve been lumbered with the top bunk, my new friend happy to simply lay on the seat below. The third member of our happenin’ gang seems to have never turned up, leaving the middle berth forever unused. This works out well for him though as he now has extra space between where he’s sleeping and the bottom of my bunk. For me, it makes no difference. I’m still entombed, vampire-like, in an area that is borderline torturous in size.

Sleeping on an overnight train is a little like eating on a rollercoaster. The practice comprises taking a very natural and common act you’ve been doing since the womb, twists it so that it is vaguely reminiscent of what you’re familiar with, and then injects it into a totally foreign and warped environment. I should add that this observation is not based on travelling by extravagant means such as the Orient Express, which I’m sure is a pleasant and thrilling experience. No, we were on the Sunlander – a train designed it seems to inflict as much discomfort on its sleeping inhabitants as possible.

I cagily climb into the top bunk and, though not usually someone who suffers from claustrophobia, the feeling of entrapment immediately grips me. My nose is about five or six inches from the roof of the cabin, and there are twin straps taut beside be between the bed’s edge and the roof, obviously to prevent me from rolling over in my sleep and plummeting to the cabin floor below. Or just committing suicide in general. Careening over the edge and just ending it all a remote yet plausible thought.

Just as I think my little capsule hell can’t get any worse, I hear the telltale sound of aerosol from below. The first thought that crosses my mind is that my new travel companion is simply freshening up. I’m not partial to dousing myself in spray before going to bed (or at anytime for that matter) but who am I to question other males of the species and their nightly rituals? When a foul smell hits me in the face like a thundering elbow, I rethink my theory to cover the possibility that the chap below has just let one off and is attempting to mask the foul stench wafting up toward me on the top bunk. It’s only when I realise the smell is less fart and more faecal matter do I understand that my unfortunate disabled bunk-buddy is attempting to cover-up something much more insidious and heart-wrenching.

Truth be told, I feel bad even mentioning this crazy episode from my around the world trip. It’s embarrassing, more for the guy in question that what I had to unfortunately endure. I’ll therefore leave it to your imagination as to what exactly was going on below me. Needless to say, as the stench lingers, I start to gag and my “shite or flight” tendency kicks into over-drive.

An hour into the endurance test I decide to escape. I’m not sure where the hell I’m going to go, but anywhere than here sounds good at this point. I somehow wriggle back into some combats and a pair of socks that appear intent on fleeing the room by their own accord.

I contort and twist my way out of the cramped sarcophagus, pain lancing through my feet as I unwisely balance on the rungs of the ladder as I try to shimmy my way down. He’s awake and asks if I want the light on. As imagery of what it must be like to spend time in the company of another man while incarcerated in prison clouds my mind, I utter no and bolt out the door. It’s nearly two in the morning. The train shuffles over the dark track below at a leisurely gait, secretly concealing the actual speed we must be travelling at.

The carriages are deserted, the only sound the repetitive hush as metal displaces air, starkly apparent when passing between the railcars. I find the dining cart and it’s empty. Considering it’s the middle of the night, I would have been more surprised to find it otherwise. I sit here for a few minutes feeling sorry for myself. Not angry per se, but definitely unhappy that, once again, things just can’t be simple. I had some idea that travelling by train at night would not be the most pleasant of experiences. I didn’t expect to be fumigated in the process, however.

After a short time trying to balance my feet on a nearby chair, I move to the next carriage where I find a more amiable sleeping set up. The crescent seating couches encircling the simple tables are perfect for curling up on. Apparently, I’m not the only person who has deducted this delicious realisation as there are two other people ahead of me wrapped around the tables and soundly asleep. A large, gruff man sporting a prodigious, white mountain beard sits at the doorway. I initially take him to be staff but, examining the redness of his eyes and the way he ushers me onwards, I quickly realise that he’s also in search of slumber, just too big to fit on the arc-like makeshift beds.

Fatigue and relief in equal measures wash over me, and after curling into the foetal position, I’m asleep within seconds. Of course, it’s all too good to be true, and soon enough I’m dragged from my haven by a large female train employee who is now informing the four of us that we’re not allowed sleep here and that we’re to go back to our seats or cabins at once. One of my fellow stowaways contests the request, begging for clemency, stating how the woman in her berth is snoring like a pneumatic drill and if there is any spare seats anywhere. I feel like asking if said woman has shit herself because, if not, I have your hand beat, lady. The conductor flicks through a manifest and shakes her head, barks no, and moves off. We’re to leave immediately.

I contemplate just walking the train all night but know it’s probably impossible to hide from the people whose job it is to throw people off the back at night. I’m not sure how much sleep I’ve gotten but, and I can’t believe I’m contemplating this, maybe I could go back to the cabin and, somehow, sleep in my reeking coffin.

Returning to the scene of the crime it appears I was hardly missed. I am wise, however, that there is not a lot my stinky friend could really say regarding my absence. I make some excuse about claustrophobia (not really an excuse actually) and, still breathing through my mouth, I vault back up into the heavens and harden my mind against my dilemma; fortifying my thoughts against the reality of my surroundings and focusing on the task at hand. Sleeping in a sewer.

I awake what feels like minutes later and rendezvous with Sheila in the very dining carriage I was rumbled sleeping in only a few hours previous. She looks tired. I look furious. I don’t really know what to say. I want sympathy. I want to stop feeling like absolute rubbish. I want off this train. Now. I relay my ordeal and Sheila is a mixture of shocked, compassionate and amused all at once.

It’s bright outside now. While all this was happening the train has made its way dutifully ever-northward. Soon enough we’re slowing and my cabin-mate is leaving a few stops before us. He swings down to the floor and drags himself along the corridor as I carry his bags behind him. Reaching the carriage’s exit point, he waits for his wheelchair which arrives a few minutes later. I don’t know if he wants me to stay and help him on to the wheelchair but, considering he’s just literally crawled his way off the train, and the fact that there are train personnel at hand with the chair, I wish him good luck with his business up north and return to my cabin.

Sheila hasn’t had a too pleasant a night either, though her demons were more in the form of incessantly chatty older women who can’t take a hint while you’re trying to keep to yourself. Perhaps some old people keep talking for fear of spontaneously dying if they ever stop; their words a tangible connection to the mortal realm, the reaper patiently waiting close by for them to take a breath, be silent, and then never speak again.

We’re tired and I rest on the seat while Sheila reads, the train seemingly content to ramble the final few miles to Marlborough – our final destination – at a crawl.

“This cabin still smells of shit,” Sheila says as I try unsuccessfully to block out the memory.

“Tell me about it.”

What I can only describe as an inbred family has taken up a series of seats beside, in front of and, at times, around us.

They’re made up of a mother and apparent step-father who spend the next few hours slapping their children and laughing maniacally in the process. It reminds me of the saying: “It’s amazing how, if you want to own a dog, you have to get a licence, but any complete shithead is allowed to have children.”

Whether it’s the numerous toxins charging around my body or their corollary side-effects, by the time we hit the coach my head starts to pound as if pressure is being exerted from the inside out. My back is also acting up again and by the time the promised hour long bus trip expands into its second, I’m about ready to give up and die, or kill someone. I’d happily resort to either.

Eventually, we alight from the shadows of the bus and stumble around the Koala Beach Resort. It looks fine in the dark, and we’re eventually directed by what looks like a drunken taxi driver towards the rear and a bar where a fairly helpful barman takes our details – and strangely gives us blankets. I’m a little taken aback but maybe Aussies are of a more hardcore breed this far north and bury themselves in woollens when it’s over twenty degrees at night. All I know is that we won’t be mirroring the practice.

By the looks of things, despite Sheila having performed the exact same age-old sequence of registration steps with HostelBookers.com as before, we’re not booked in. He sticks us in a room where, after popping two painkillers and some weird Chinese herbal tablet that promises a restful night’s sleep, I happily collapse. As like most things regarding the Chinese, the remedy is suitably efficient.

We wake with sunlight assaulting the windows outside, our vaccination inspired sickness seemingly absent and a quest to sort out our accommodation hiccups from last night. Unfortunately, the bint behind the counter is about as helpful as testicular cancer, and just as welcoming. When she’s not blowing her nose at us or generally giving off a malevolent vibe, she’s asking Sheila to print out booking confirmation emails and other such random bullshit. After what seems like trying to teach a dog algebra, we eventually unravel the mystery and set about checking out Hervey Bay to see what all the fuss is about.

The sea-side town is deceptive in size with many of the town’s inhabitants living a little inland and away from the touristy beach. That said, the crux of the town’s focus is along a tree-lined strip that hugs the beautiful sandy coastline. We walk up along the beach and take a dip in the tepid waters, watching as children do the same while a film crew seemingly records a production just off the shoreline. From the setup (overturned boat with people in distress on top) I assume they’re purporting the illusion of being maritime victims of some tragic sea-faring event out in the middle of the ocean. Later on in the week and during another walk, we come across an odd gaggle of people dressed a little too formally for the sandy environment. With Ben Harper’s “Angel” playing on a nearby sound-system, a bride dressed in a soon-to-be sand-soiled wedding dress is slowly walked toward a make-shift altar by a teary father. In terms of wedding locations, you could do a lot worse than Hervey Bay.

Back at the hostel, and after another useless and condescending hoe-bag staff member practically tells a caller that she is, in fact ,the world’s stupidest woman, we decide we’ve had enough of Koala Beach and its temperamental prima-donnas and promptly check out. Through the wonderful use of the Internet we’ve found alternative accommodation up the road, and though it requires a 1.5km trek in about 30 degree heat laden with over twenty kilos of baggage, it’s a fair better prospect than suffering the whim and venom of two of the worst backpacker workers we’ve come across by far.

The Woolshed is pretty much what it sounds like: self-contained wooden apartments laid out amongst a series of vegetation and what appears to be early colonial buildings. We check in and lie on the bed with the overhead fan on full blast, frantically shedding clothing and taking on water to stem the onslaught of Extreme European Melting Syndrome. We talk to the helpful proprietor behind the desk and explain how our attempts to book an excursion to Fraser Island have so far proved troublesome, and, within minutes, he has us booked on the Fraser Experience for the next day.

We thank him and explain how our experience of Hervey Bay (pronounced Harvey by the way) has been less than spectacular thanks to the ineptitude and rudeness from the cows at Koala Beach. He responds with a knowing nod. “We get a lot of people coming up here after one night in the Koala,” he says without any sign of hubris or haughtiness, “place is a real shit-hole if you ask me.”

We rest up and prepare for Fraser the next day, having no idea of the adventure ahead of us.

We locate luggage (thank you Virgin Blue for not losing it) and take a courtesy shuttle into the heart of Brisbane. Even in the gloom of Australia’s forever marching spring-time dusk, I’m impressed with just how open, clean and seemingly modern Brisbane is.

A short walk later and we’ve located our hostel; one of a trio in a line next to one another, all apparently resembling a reckless fusion of sorority and frat house. Somewhere near its corrupt heart an Irish bar festers, the strange sound of inept warbling permeating through the walls in sickening waves like drowning sheep.

We find our room, and it’s around this point that a repeat performance from the morning in Sydney when my back decided to painfully entangle itself flares up again. At some point in the middle of the night, as sex-starved backpackers race around the complex in search for the willing (or the drunk) and with the neon sign outside bleeding an amber glow into the room, my back explodes in pain. It’s excruciating and, soon enough, I have Sheila up and delving into baggage in search of narcotics. I take two (I wanted to take ten) and Sheila proceeds to massage an enflamed bundle of sinew and nerves in my back. With tears streaming down my face, I’m vaguely aware of my surroundings as painkiller, massage and fatigue eventually drag me under.

Sore, tired and generally of a pissed off disposition, we walk into Brisbane and take a look at Queensland’s biggest city. My impressions of the previous night are only compounded by how clean and well planned out it all seems in the light of day. Brisbane is a new city, with a genuine sense that some degree of thought has been invested in its layout and construction. Unlike Dublin, which resembles the planning deftness of a demented child. We hit the high-streets and walk in to a medical centre and book vaccinations for tomorrow. The rest of the day we spend walking around or relaxing back in the hostel and availing of the free wifi; a veritable treat in these parts.

Day two in Brisbane we walk back into town for our appointment with various innocuous forms of modified viruses. We’re on time, but in the great tradition of medical centres, we’re kept waiting for over an hour. A young and visibly upset Asian girl comes in during this time and announces that she is in need of an “emergence appointment”. She goes in before us but is literally walking out the door about three minutes later. I don’t want to judge, but, the only emergency I can think of that can be described, diagnosed and prescribed in such a short time is emergency contraception. But who knows.

The doctor (eventually) sees us both at the same time, and as Sheila lies on the bed dreading the needles and I sit in an arm-chair not really giving a shit, a batty nurse comes in and asks us where we’re going so as to know what to inject us with. We give her our itinerary, and she starts pulling out boxes from a fridge that appears to cater for every disease known to mankind. I see names such as diphtheria, polio, typhoid, dysentery, malaria, Japanese encephalitis, hepatitis, yellow fever and all forms of gypsy magic.

We’re immunised against typhoid and hepatitis A, the B flavour reserved for those who consider themselves at particular risk due to certain activities in Thailand. As I have no plans to sleep with any Thai prostitutes, I think I’m fairly covered. The two vaccines are injected in one cocktail of protective goodness and, truth be told, I barely feel a thing. Sheila also doesn’t pass out despite a history of fainting at inopportune times. It’s at this point that the Doc asks us if we want Swine Flu. Well, not actual Swine Flu per se as I’m pretty sure he’d lose his licence if he infects us with the actual H1N1 virus, but the vaccine is available – only if we want it of course. As we’re moving back into Ireland’s flu season, and we’re here anyway, we sign up and it’s soon prepared in a separate needle.

This one I do feel, whether because it’s a bigger needle or simply because protection against virulent pigs needs to go that little bit deeper. The nurse mentions diarrhoea and suggests antibiotics which we accept but end up not paying for. She also explains that we should expect headaches, fatigue, cramps, and general malaise due to the vaccinations. Basically I’m about to get my period. She also reveals that my left arm will probably ache for a while. “That will be the typhoid,” she says, knowingly. Great. Though being dead would undoubtedly suck more.

Food wise, Brisbane is a success during the day and an absolute disaster at night. For lunch I seek out sushi in great platters while Sheila avails of wraps and other chicken based products. We suck on half-priced smoothies and walk around admiring the city, from its university grounds to a pleasant park nearby. At night, however, everything “does a New Zealand” and shuts up early and we resort to Hungry Jack’s. Which is actually Burger King under a different name for some bizarre reason. Probably something to do with copyright.

At one point in a food court I spot a Japanese guy labouring over some text. I take a peek and I notice that he’s translating some English into his native tongue. Ironically, as I waited for Sheila to return from the bathroom, I was translating some Japanese into English on my iTouch. The irony that, somehow combined, we would make a formidable opponent, isn’t lost on me.

Having survived the madhouse that was our accommodation and a flirtation with some life-crippling diseases, we walk down to the train station and board for Maryborough West, a train station that will allow us to connect to our next port of call – Hervey Bay. Temperatures are high in Brisbane as we leave, knowing full well that we won’t be experiencing anything cooler for a long time.

For this part of our journey we’re staying with an old friend of mine, Jonathan, a fellow Irishman who I worked with in my last job and someone I was happy to stay in touch with when he fled to Oz.

A tech guru with a disdain for the Java programming language and a penchant for charity work (or at least trying to drag charities into the 21st century so they can generate more money for their collective causes), Jonathan has magnanimously offered to put us up for a few days in his apartment.

Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, we gratefully accepted.

Jonathan, or JC as we affectionately call him, once endured an exceptionally long distance relationship with his girlfriend Kisu whom he met while working in China some years ago. As she continued to add a myriad of letters after her name, headlong on an unending journey through medical practice, JC braved some time back home in Ireland writing applications that, ironically, I had to use as a Project Manager and would often eternally curse. When it was time for them to reunite, considering Kisu is Nepali, a nationality I soon learn comes with its very own asterisk next to it in terms of international recognition, their options were fairly obvious, with a move to Sydney being top of the list.

There’s a moment of apprehension as we walk out into Sydney Airport’s arrivals. I had fired off a mail to JC that morning from Queenstown, New Zealand armed only with the knowledge that, as JC is pretty much jacked into the nexus of the Internet at its very core, he’d ultimately get the email. It’s like dialling the operator and just knowing someone will be at the other end of the line. JC is connected, and any digital message directed toward him was sure to be digested, logged and catalogued within nanoseconds. Lo and behold, just as I’m contemplating flagging down a cab and playing address-roulette with some strange driver, there he is, bigger than life and as welcoming as ever.

We grab a taxi and hit the hot Australian streets bound for Newtown, a suburb of Sydney I don’t even remembering existing the last time I was in Oz. That said, that was twenty-five years ago when I was a child. We run through the obligatory “Have you heard about …” series of questions with numerous stories flying about the cab regarding old acquaintances from back home. A short while later we’re in the Newtown district and outside JC’s apartment on Georgina Street.

I’m not sure just how new Newtown is but it definitely gives off a strong Soho vibe. We see more restaurants and coffee-shops at a glance across one small stretch of real-estate here than we saw on the whole of New Zealand’s south island throughout our travels.

JC apologies in advance for the condition of the apartment, a tactic pretty much everyone but royalty or rappers on Cribs deploy as some sort of pre-emptive strike against what is basically people’s normal living conditions. This time, however, there’s some heart-felt meaning in the apology as the place has just been fumigated for cockroaches. Apart from a telltale tang in the air, it’s actually barely noticeable, though we do come across some of his arthropodan sub-letters of varying sizes during our stay.

Kisu is a delight, fussing over us and cooking non-stop while making sure we have everything we need. There’s a lot to be said about long-distance relationships; why people do them, why most times they invariably don’t work, but in the case of JC and Kisu, you can see why they toughed it out. They were determined to make it work and endure the time apart for a future together and are now living what must have felt like a distant dream for so long.

JC has taken some time off work and also has the luxury of working from home a couple of days a week. Kisu also does a lot of out-reach work at medical centres and hence works abnormal hours so we’re pretty much under their feet for the most part. Considering he’s also studying for his M.Sc., we make a concerted effort to get out and about and give them their much needed space. Also, we’re here to see Sydney again, and as much as we enjoy Kisu’s Dahl (a Nepalese dish featuring lentils, vegetables, chicken and a spicy curry sauce) and the free Internet access, we also want to see as much of the city as possible during our short time here.

We’ve both visited Sydney before. Me when I was still in short-pants and Sheila back in 2001 as part of her New South Wales trip. That said, it’s hardly familiar territory, and the last thing we want to do is miss out on one of the biggest cities on our global excursion.

Sydney is nothing like I remember, and apart from a few obvious local attractions capable of engraining themselves into the mind of a young boy of six years of age, it’s all new sights and smells as we soak in Australia’s biggest metropolis. We do the mandatory trek from Newtown into the city (it takes about 45 minutes each way) and enjoy the balmy breeze wafting in off the harbour. We locate the Opera House perching proudly into the bay as a throng of people both local and those here on vacation mill about enjoying the sounds and charms of Circular Quay. We join them before taking in the adjacent botanical gardens which offer a pleasant, if notably humid, walk.

We spend most of our time in Sydney either talking and enjoying good food with JC and Kisu or walking about the city’s busy streets. We eat at an authentic Chinese restaurant where Kisu orders in Mandarin and we dig into the likes of peppercorn fish, a dish that literally melts in our mouths, along with other assorted spicy fare. On one night JC throws an impromptu barbeque and some of their friends come over. Sonny, a tall shaven headed Indian, is charming and confesses that he loves breasts. He just also loves the cock. And Mitra, an Iranian born Canadian who educates us on the fine nuances of Persian New Year.

As we devour wave after endless wave of assorted meats, our hosts regale us with a flood of Sonny stories, each tale usually featuring equal parts alcohol and foam party. Sonny coyly deflects the encounters with good-humour and feigned shock, promising us that he’s not really that bad. It’s a great night as I drink beer and wine while eating what is truly the best barbeque food I’ve probably ever had. We then have two desserts and the guys head off home; jobs to go to and commitments to keep the following morning.

During our stay, JC also introduces me to Campos, a gourmet coffeehouse around the corner which smacks of coffee-acumen on a scale that I’m unlikely to see again. The narrow store is full of java-heads picking over the many blends. One such on offer, the Obama, is a heady mix of American and African beans, and though I’m tempted to taste what the President’s namesake is like, I end up picking a bag of the house speciality. I ask if the beans can be ground and the barista bombards me with questions of how I’m going to drink his prized elixir. Am I using a coffee machine? If so, what type? How hot is my water? Has my apartment recently been fumigated for cockroaches?

I end up conveying my basic knowledge of coffee consumption without making a total tit of myself. Maybe. He nods and promptly hands the bag to a cohort who then pours the contents into a grinder before selecting the appropriate texture for my needs. After I’ve returned to the apartment I brew up some coffee for myself, JC and Kisu and we all agree it’s damn good … considering the reduced price.

Sydney is also the start of our journey where the climate takes a noticeable surge towards hot and humid conditions. We take a short walk up the road to a clothes station and dispense of numerous heavy garments including my long suffering jacket. I just can’t see myself using it in the rest of Australia or Asia so in it goes.

On our last day in Sydney I wake up on JC’s couch with a strange ache that starts somewhere near my right collar-bone and quickly spreads inward and into my right-upper back. It’s uncomfortable but I think little of it. Out seeking some lunch and gifts for JC and Kisu, however, things take a turn for the worse and my back tenses up like someone has inserted a ratchet, cranking the muscles together into a tight pinch. A dull persistent pain starts to build, and by the time we’ve picked everything up and eaten some pasta, I’m ready to pass out in the apartment. I lie on the floor in the foetal position and try to rest but the pain soon becomes so nauseating that even thinking straight becomes problematic.

JC is in work so I log on and message him enquiring about painkillers and analgesic ointments of any description. He directs me to his medicinal stash, and after some paracetamol and a weird foul smelling emollient I eagerly rub into my back, the pain eases and we pack up.

We’re to meet JC and Kisu after work in Hyde park at the centre of Sydney for a food fare. We walk in and wait at the fountain while a cheesy yet talented mariachi flamboyantly charges through a set list of well-known guitar greats. Hyde Park is decked out in streamers and small white stalls containing an eclectic array of dishes are erected in a common ground area catering to a throng of people milling around sampling everything in sight.

JC soon appears followed by Kisu and we quickly discover queuing for the culinary delights would leave us late for getting to the airport. We detour to a Korean restaurant where Mitra from the night of the barbeque joins us. Ordering pretty much everything on the menu, the table becomes a riot of colour and peculiarities. Unfortunately we have to leave early, saying our goodbyes to Kisu as JC walks us to the bus-stop with the assurance that he’s welcome in our house anytime along with our free Internet.

A short bus journey later we have our bags followed up by a taxi ride to the airport. We check-in and everything seems to be going to plan until the guy at the gate stupidly announces that we’re missing our cabin crew. They’re somewhere in the airport, however, though there will be a half an hour delay.

Just as the mob are losing patience, the blushing blondes dragging tiny carry-on luggage behind them like petulant children finally arrive and scuttle on to the aircraft. We’re not far behind them and soon rocket up the eastern coast of Australia to Brisbane.

Sydney was a highlight for us despite not actually doing much in the city. With New Zealand being a series of adventures interspersed with constant and often slow travel, relaxing in Sydney with friends was just what we needed. Not to mention the free Internet …

Surprisingly, the southern city follows more the Wanaka model than it does the likes of Wellington and is nearly as scenic as the lakeside town we’d just left, albeit with a few more streets and people.

Queenstown is the end of our New Zealand road, and we’ll fly out of here on day #54. Before then we’ll spend a few days here with Te Anau and Milford Sound sandwiched in between.

The mountaintops and lake are on the left this time (unlike front and centre in Wanaka like a daring invitation to just keep going and explore) and we take in the natural environs as we walk from the bus station down by the water’s side to our hostel – another YHA. This one features loopy desk-people and a labyrinthine layout. The room is a twin, again, though we spend little time there.

Queenstown appears to have materialised right out of the wilderness, managing to marry the wilds of New Zealand back-country with a fairly sizable and thriving small city. We walk the streets and enjoy Japanese food (with real Japanese waitresses. No, I don’t speak (much) Japanese to them this time) while developing a fleeting love-affair with a Mexican restaurant called Sombreros. On our second night (in a row), the waiter welcomes us with open arms and giant pink sombreros. “Back for more, eh?” he asks. It’s hearty fare and I drink huge bottles of Mexican beer; a fitting sign-off to a New Zealand trip that featured kayaking, sky-diving, bungy jumping, road trips and nearly getting assaulted by a toilet in Wellington.

We check-in with the car rental people just to make sure that we’ve got the right place and we don’t have to do anything funky to get our hands on our rental car to Milford Sound the next day. No, just turn up and it will be outside for us to drive ourselves westward. The following morning we check-out of the YHA (for now) and do just that.

The mountains we viewed at Fox Glacier remain for the duration of the trek, forever towering in front and beside us, the coach traversing narrow vales and crossing rushing fjords under their ancient watchful eye.

We’ve been joined on this leg of the trip by a couple of German guys who proceed to document the journey extensively, snapping anything that looks vaguely interesting from the comfort of their seats.

Our guide for this section of the trip, a good-natured and informative ex-Liverpool bus driver who left Britain twenty-six years ago for the allure of New Zealand, stops regularly to allow us to take better pictures and informs us about the history of the area with genuine affection. He’s been back home twice in that quarter of a century since leaving Britain. Two times too many he informs us. We take an abundance of pictures, the rugged and extreme scenery too inviting to not try and capture for posterity.

Our destination today is Wanaka, a small lake-side town further south and ever closer toward our end-goal: Queenstown. After finally leaving the vertiginous raw beauty of the southern pass from Fox Glacier, we’re subsequently shocked into silence upon entering Wanaka. The pictures here try to capture the sheer scale and picturesque wonder of the town’s namesake but, in reality, no image will do the vista at Wanaka any justice.

We pull right up to Lake Wanaka, sheer and pure blue while, just on its sparkling horizon, a range of perfect ice-capped mountains sit squat, casually reflecting their grandeur into the lake’s mirrored waters.Thundering peaks, stark and imposing sit right at the edge of tranquility, a huge crisp and cerulean sky washing the scene almost as if it was just for us; inviting us to the area. It’s one of those sights you’re sure must be computer generated when seen on film.

I don’t get impressed with scenery that often. I like a good view as much as the next guy but rarely do I get all gooey when planet earth throws up something pleasant. I know what planet I live on (most of the time). I know there are more visual splendours on this blue orb of ours than most of us will ever see. Driving into Wanaka and being hit with that vision — I was awe-struck. I utter “Holy shit …” and take a breath. Not my most eloquent of expressions when faced with something spectacular, but I was literally on auto-pilot at this stage.

We’re staying at X-Base Wanaka, a chain of hostels throughout Australia and New Zealand noted for their efficiency and friendliness. The room is fine and there’s a bathroom, always a nice extra. We enquire about snowboarding in Wanaka but, just our luck, the season ended that very day. We end up going for a ramble by ourselves up into the cliffs that surround the lake.

It’s a five kilometre journey to a map-marked cove, and soon enough, we’re in the wilds of New Zealand. It’s basically hobbit country as we watch rabbits prance about the green patchwork grasslands as the lake rolls softly beside us on our right. Joggers and mountain bikers of all ages greet us on the trail, and when it takes our fancy, we sit on dedicated benches and just watch brilliant mountains and serene waves shuffling with unfathomable power toward the shore. It’s quiet and perfect and, finally, we’ve found one of the many spots in New Zealand capable of completely enchanting people.

The kebabs in Wanaka are also awesome.

Another point of interest about our time at Wanaka is that it’s here Sheila decides it’s time to cut my hair. Apparently it’s far too long and, in the interest of public safety (or at least my own embarrassment) she fervidly goes at it with a head-clippers in the tiny bathroom. In fairness, she does a pretty good job. Sure, there are bits on one side that are obviously longer than the other but, to be honest, I’ve paid a lot more for a lot worse. She spends the next three weeks eyeing my head salaciously and I can see her itching for another shot. As we’re heading into Asia, and higher temperatures, I’m predicting I’ll have no hair left by Kuala Lumpur. It’s ok, it grows back. Well, not all of it I’m discovering.

If there is one thing I don’t like about Wanaka it’s that it espouses the standard NZ trick of shutting up as soon as the sun goes down. We walk the streets one night in search of sustenance and end up back at the hostel bar begging the bar-man for any form of nourishment. He dishes us a giant bowl of chips each with the knowing quip that it’s: “Hard to find grub around here at night, ain’t it?” It sure is.

Finally, and I think this is a first for me, I was served in a restaurant by a ten year old boy in Wanaka. That doesn’t happen every day of the week.

Six hours south and we pass through New Zealand’s numerous and varied climate zones. The trip itself is thankfully non-descript with only a mild feeling of nausea intensified whenever I try to read for long periods. With the west coast of the country tearing along beside us, hammered by giant waves that appear to break just at the edge of the very road the bus is taking, we’re treated to some truly epic scenery.

We doze and amuse ourselves by either catching up on TV shows we’re missing back home or playing numerous PSP games which induce only a milder form of stomach-churning sickness than what trying to read on a bouncing coach does.

Fox Glacier (note: it’s GLASS-cier, not GLAY-cier apparently) is a half-a-horse town hidden in the shadows of its namesake, an impressive and ever-moving floe of ice guarded by ice-capped mountains from every angle. Reaching dizzying heights, the peaks encircle the speck of buildings below, hiding the gelid wonder somewhere within. The town (or, more accurately, townlet – considering it’s literally two restaurants, a petrol station and two backpacking residences) pretty much exists for one singular purpose: to enable helicopter pilots the ability to set down and pick up tourists before sweeping back into the mountain ranges.

For us Fox Glacier merely serves as a handy half-way point between Nelson and Queenstown/Wanaka. We check-in to the small but pleasant hostel and spend our time in the area enjoying the view and the food. Well, not the hot chocolate – we didn’t enjoy that.

With night fully enveloping the area, we walk a little out and away from the offending glare of the few lighted establishments and into near complete darkness. The night sky is peppered with an abundance of stars, an eerie neon electric glow touching the mountains’ stark outline, the remnants of the now departed day illuminating their black edges in a soft azure shroud.

Though the mountains are exceptionally impressive, we have long ago decided not to partake of the glacier walk. We saw glaciers back in Iceland and we’re a little jaded from all the journeying to willingly get in a helicopter and be whisked off into a frozen environment we no longer have adequate garments for. The next morning we board for Wanaka.

It’s pissing with a ferocity I haven’t seen since Rotorua as we locate the YHA Hostel, drop off our bags as we can’t book in before 2pm, and then brave the rain again in search for coffee and muffins. We find both at an almost hidden cafe on one of the town’s main-streets run by friendly Chinese ladies. A veranda protects us from the bad weather as we sit and eat and talk.

If there is anything to do in Nelson we don’t find it. There’s a McDonald’s, which we zero in on like a pair of meat-eating homing pigeons, and we play with the idea of going to the cinema before realising that there is not one film showing at the local theatre we’d consider even mindlessly sitting through. I am cornered in the McDonald’s bathroom by what appears to be a retarded gentlemen who desperately wants to know where I’m from. I tell him “”Far away” with the vain hope that it will confuse him enough so I can make my escape. But such an encounter could happen anywhere and is not a local trait of Nelson itself. At least, I hope it’s not.

Our time in the town is treated as an interstitial day. One of those non-events in your holiday where the idea is not to do anything. We accomplish this feat with aplomb, sleep well in our twin room and wake up the next day ready for what I’m sure with be an adventure in vomiting. Six hours on a coach. Can’t wait.

The ferry is busy and seemingly overrun with the Kiwi army. I’m not sure if this suggests the north is invading the south or if this is a common sight on the cross-channel journey, but there definitely appears to be an abundance of soldiers in various states of disarray flopped about the place. Most seem dog-tired and have suitably collapsed in numerous camouflaged mounds peppered about the ship. Other more intelligent warriors bulwark themselves into the canteen on a mission to relieve the vessel of all rations and nourishment.

We take up residence in the bar and try to rest while the ship does its best to launch itself off the city-sized swells and complete the remainder of the trip by air. Crossing over to the south island the weather takes a turn for the better, and though it’s still spitting rain by the time we dock at Picton, for some unexplained reason things look clearer and more pleasant.

Picton is very much a commuter town accommodating northern Kiwis venturing into the wilds of the south island and vice versa. The north of the south island is surrounded by a beautiful collection of lush green islands dotted about an aquamarine bay with towering tree-covered mountainous ridges reaching into the water like the arms of a protective deity.

The view is almost tropical and the area reminds me more than a little of the vegetative regions we traversed through in Hawaii. It’s as if during the islands’ tumultuous separation millions of years ago the north of the south island shattered into an abundance of islets and hidden marinas. As the contents of the ferry trickle away and out into the wilds of the south island, we walk to the Picton Lodge to check-in and then up into the quiet sea-side town itself to get a look at where we’ll be staying for the next couple of days. The fact that Picton is quite tiny just makes it all the more quaint. Of course it would be hard for the town to be anything but idyllic with it sitting quietly among the high lush peninsulas that contribute to a perfect blue shoreline.

We enjoy some lunch in a restaurant under new management where who I suspect is the new manager cocks my order up and then sits himself down to eat the bowl of soup (with the same spoon I might add) I didn’t actually order. The pace and niceness of the place just makes the delay funny while anywhere else I’d probably be warned by my travelling companion to stop taking everything so seriously and calm down.

Possibly the main reason we’re at Picton is to partake in the pleasure of dolphin swimming. Perched at the side of the harbour in a tiny white container are two marine biologists, a husband and wife team who will take those interested out into the tranquil waves of the northern tip of the south island and personally introduce visitors to Picton to a family of dolphins. We ring up on numerous occasions but get jibbed every single time as it appears no one else has signed up for the excursion and, unless we’re willing to pay for a phantom third person to cover the costs (we’re not), the trip will not be going ahead. We’re disappointed but vow to swim with dolphins in Australia instead.

To pass the unexpected free time in Picton we enquire about a forest walk over across the bay area. After all, the only other option is to stay back at the lodge in the company of one of those backpackers who has decided to stay on permanently and make up his rent by cleaning tables and mopping floors. This one looks like Rob Zombie, however, and seems to be constantly eating ice-cream and staring at people intensely – especially when it comes to changing the channel on the living room’s TV. I’m not sure what this unholy trinity of traits might spell (ice-cream, zombies and a ten-yard stare) so we’d much rather be walking into the jungle than in his presence if at all possible.

We board the Cougar II which is a sizable speed-boat type vessel captained by the affable Chris, a fair-haired tour-guide who gladly ferries us across the glistening bay while regaling us with stories featuring a veritable cast of unfortunates.This is what happens when you add degenerates to water. Idiotic kids, blind billionaires getting stranded and other such fanciful nautical faux-pas make up his repertoire of sea tragedies. Just as he’s telling us one particular tale of watery woe, a tiny sailing boat manned by two hapless children is detected off the starboard bow on a direct collision course. Their sail is down so they can only see about 180 degrees of the bay – which just so happens to be the half that doesn’t contain the huge speeding vessel to their port.

Chris slows down and waits for them to see him as they pass across the Cougar II’s path. At this point they do see him, smile, and then do an about-turn and sail back over his sailing path again to wild chuckles and hand waving. Chris swears at them but then quickly admits that he performed the exact same chicken-runs against bigger boats when he was a whipper-snapper himself.

We’re let off at a remote scenic alcove and wander into the lush environs. We’re told to find Queen Charlotte’s path and walk for a few hours in the direction of another jetty where we’ll be picked up. With a deadline in our heads and a bag full of chocolate (the ration choice of champions) we stumble onward with the vain idea that the trail will be well sign-posted, scenic and proffer a nice leisurely stroll. Well, it was scenic. One out of three isn’t bad.

I literally crawl up an over-grown dirt track that can only be used by rabbits, fallen trees blocking access like fabled Bouncers of the Woodland. Forty-five minutes later (of a four hour trek) we find the trail. Three quarters of one of our four hours we’re completely covered in sweat and scrapes from over-zealous brambles, panting, and, technically, the journey hasn’t even started yet.

Our walk to the pick-up point takes us up and into the temperate jungles of New Zealand’s south island. We follow an ever-winding dirt trail through dense overgrowth and over babbling streams, our legs starting to ache from the constant climbing and then rushing down winding paths after about the hour three mark. At times the canopy breaks and the trail leads us to beautiful bluffs, the tranquil and insanely turquoise waters of the marina a still reflection of the forest covered islands all around us.

We make the pick-up twenty minutes early and return back to Picton harbour. After some marine machismo from Chris as he bullies some burly fishermen out of his parking spot, we check in with the dolphin people only to be told, — and it’s final this time — that we’re not going to make our date with the friendly porpoises of the area. Bastards.

Our stay in Picton is brief though memorable, and the tiny coastal town comes heartily recommended. The locals are charming and full of character, especially the group of middle-ages alcos in the local pub who, after racking up a table-full of empty beer bottles, decide to get into a fist-fight when one of them attempts to leave early – who then insults one of the women by slurring something about a dildo. I’m not sure, I was eying exits at the time and figuring out who I should plunge my steak-knife into first if anything went down.

Next up: more buses with Nelson and Motueka on the agenda.