The Catlins & Dunedin - 13th March 2009
After leaving Cascade Creek, we drive back once again through the beautiful scenery on the way Te Anau. Whilst our journey here was full of stops for snaps, the trip out is a lot speedier, and once again we pass at least thirty large tour buses on their way in to the Sounds.
It's a long drive today, as we plan to head south towards the Catlin and Dunedin, passing through but not stopping at Invercargill on the way. As we drive, the scenery gradually changes, moving away from mountains and turning into almost English rolling hills.
Reaching Bluff, we stop for an obligatory photo at a signpost which tells us that we're 18,958km away from London, 5133km away from the Equator, and 4810km away from the South Pole. Handy. We thought that this was as south as we would be going, as we haven't got enough time to get over to Stewart Island... however, one visit to a light house at Waipapa Point later, and a few more kilometres down the road we find a spot at Slope Point that's seven kilometres closer to the South Pole - Lat 46 40'40" South, Long 169 00'11" East, in case you want to Google Earth us!
We're definitely in the midst of sheep country now, with hundreds and hundreds of fluffy white blobs furnishing the hillsides and fields around us. Dave and I had actually had a lively discussion a few days previously, about whether there really were more cows than sheep in the country as a whole - Dave, I'm sorry, you were right, it's lamb chops a-go-go!
We arrive at a very basic, but cheap, campsite for the night at the sweeping sandy beach of Curio Bay. It's my turn to check in, but I end up nearly falling out with the middle-aged receptionist: she's not sure where we can camp, whether the toilets are going to be clean enough to use tonight, if there is a washing machine, or where the penguin colony is from here... managing to contain my frustration just long enough to get back to the spaceship, I moan at Dave until I feel better. Again, sorry Dave! On reflection, I was still feeling pretty grumpy from being ill in Queenstown, and that, coupled with a long drive, did nothing for my patience. I feel a bit less evil when Dave confirms that the proprietor was actually quite unhelpful and obstructive, although he did manage to charm both a laundry key and some directions to the penguins out of her before giving up too.
Upon securing a pitch for the night, we decide that as it will soon be dark, we'd better head out to see if we can see some of these penguins. There is a colony of the rare yellow-eyed penguins living just a few minutes' walk from our campsite, at the site of a petrified forest on the beach.
The forest is a bit hard to spot at first, and best viewed from the platform above - among the rocks are lots of straightish lines, which, when you look closely, are the petrified remains of fallen trees that grew here once upon a time. They are fascinating enough in themselves, but we are lucky enough to glimpse the star attraction: a lone knee-height penguin having a wash about forty metres away. He doesn't do much, but it's definitely a penguin, and we're lucky to see even one of these fellas. As sunset falls, two more waddle in, stopping for frequent washing and scratching breaks between hops and jumps over the rocks and trees, on their way in to feed the chicks in their nests.
The DOC lady working there is on top with policing the group of thirty or so tourists that have gathered during our time there - several German men with huge cameras, complicated looking tripods and brightly coloured hiking gear are getting closer and closer to the penguins, and a pair of intrepid young lads climb over the rocks with a view to getting much nearer than the requested minimum of ten metres away - all are reprimanded and told to back off. It's good that these rare birds have the DOC on their side!
The following morning, we decide to pack up first, before driving over to the showers, as they're quite a distance from our pitch. Dave finishes in his usual two minutes' flat, and I send him off to look for sealions, who apparently inhabit the bay, while I hop in for a soak. The showers are housed inside a large concrete tube, and are a bit rusty and very basic. The water is hot though, so I don't mind, and am busy rinsing out my shampoo when I hear a loud barking-roar noise outside.
I decide to ignore it, since there's no commotion, but it carries on. A minute or two later, just as I'm getting dressed, I hear someone outside the door, as they open straight out into the campsite. I decide that it's either Dave come to tell me to hurry up, or another camper after a shower, although when I peep out of a gap in the side, I can't see anyone. Not thinking anything of it, I pack my stuff up, holster my towel around my neck, and hop out... straight into Dave, who is standing outside, mouth agape, staring off just past the showers.
I give him a hug, as he looks a little traumatised, and it transpires that the loud bark-roar that I'd heard previously, coupled with the shuffling I'd heard outside, both belonged to the same animal: a large male sealion had charged up the ramp from the beach, across the campsite, past my shower, and on towards the other side of the promontory that the campsite was perched on, basically using it as a land-based short cut from one bay to the next.
We're both a little glad that I didn't get out of the shower to investigate, although it would have made a great photo, since sealions can be quite vicious if you get in between them and the beach, and are very territorial - this campsite was evidently his stomping ground. Recovered from our shock, we follow Mr Sealion at a discrete distance to his new location: a big patch of long grass near the other beach, where he is rolling around sunning himself. He appears to be slow and lazy at first glance, but Dave assures me that they can really shift when they want to.
Sealion excitement temporarily over, we go back to the petrified forest on our way out to check out the trees without the penguins to distract us. We get a good look, but are also lucky enough to spot a male and female sealion playing in the sea, and another rolling around on the beach. We've both missed the regular kangaroo and wallaby spotting that we were used to in Australia, maybe seals and sealions could become a temporary substitute?
Back on the road, we call in at the Lost Gypsy Gallery in Papatowai. Its home to one of those house-lorry contraptions that we've seen about (the NZ equivalent of a gypsy caravan), and inside it live a very friendly young man, the same age as Dave, and his dog, Cooper. This chap is from Auckland, but decided in his early twenties to drop out of society. He fitted out a mini with a hammock, and pootled down to Papatowai, where we presume he bought a bit of land and settled in. What makes this guy special, is that he has a gift for crafting and engineering the most intricate, ingeniutive and fascinating things, mostly based on cam systems, and all made from bits and bobs that are donated or found. Most of these things (I don't want to call them toys, but I'm not sure what to call them instead) are operated by turning a teeny handle or by pushing a button. My favourite is the small box that lights up when a button is pressed, and a conveyor belt filled with tiny parcels whirrs past a penguin, who rubber stamps each box as it goes by. Another is the 'thought train', that whizzes around the whole caravan, through various obstacles (including a tunnel , the entrance of which is a spitting-imageesque Prince Charles' mouth), and the paua shells filled with a little water, that turn on a crank, and make the most wonderful gurgling noise.
There is some stuff on sale, but it's expensive - our man gets by by selling a few to fancy giftshops in Dunedin every so often, and will often put the price up or refuse to sell if people get greedy and try to but more than two items at a time! We decide to pay the $5 each for the newly opened museum at the back, and aren't disappointed. More contraptions, of a much larger scale, are on display: Dave has a good pedal on the bicycle powered tv, we both spend ages on various other wind-up-and-see-what-it-does items; my favourite it a big old piano with each and every key linked up to something different - playing snatches from records, doorbells, doll voice boxes, cow-moo shakers and drums. It's fascinating.
After a quick press of the 'do not press' button (it squirts water at you), we drag ourselves away and head to Purakuanai falls for a brisk twenty minute trot down to this pretty waterfall. Next on the agenda is a steep one-hour return walk to Jack's Blowhole - a sea blow hole that has incongruously formed several hundred metres in land in the middle of a sheep field.
Our last stop in the Catlins is Nugget Point, another 30 minute walk, and again definitely worth it. I hone my hooning skills on the unmade gravel roads on the way (Dave holds on tight and tries very hard not to say anything), although he gently volunteers for the drive back. Nugget Point is home to hundreds of seals, all basking on the rocks in the late afternoon sunshine, and all making a racket.
We drive on, Dave at the helm, the last 122km through winding roads to Dunedin, and park up at a campsite that appears to be mostly populated by twelve year olds in sports gear. We're about to turn away and leave, fearing a repeat of either the Wellington teen party, or any one of our fun and exciting experiences with over exuberant and unsupervised kids during our Australian camping days, but our fears are calmed by the receptionist, who confirms that these children have just arrived for a weekend of athletics competitions nearby, and are still very excited from the journey. Apparently, they'll be in bed early and off and away first thing, and if there is any trouble we can feel free to grass them up.
Suitably reassured, we settle in and cook up some sausage and egg sandwiches for tea, a treat, as we're even having real 'pork flavoured' sausages (despite the name, they actually have around an 80% pork content - compare that to smart price's 12% or so back home! ). Sure enough, the kids settle down, and we get a good night's sleep, only slightly disturbed by the boot sale that starts up at the crack of dawn on the other side of the fence.
We venture into Dunedin the following day, our first stop being Baldwin Street, officially the world's steepest, with one section having a gradient of 1 in 2.86 - we both wonder firstly, why on earth anyone would voluntarily buy a house where they would either need to be coached by Mister Motivator to walk to and from the shops, or have a gearbox of iron to negotiate the slope (we see a couple of failures sheepishly reversing); secondly, where busloads of Korean and Chinese tourists stop off every day, and appear to be oblivious to daft things such as the potential of getting run over, whilst posing for photos in the middle of the road; and thirdly, who would be mad enough to be the postman in this area.
We fail to get answers to these questions from the potter who has a gallery at the bottom of the road, and for that, we decide not to buy his slightly rubbish home made certificates for climbing up the street, preferring instead the glossy, $2, official version that can be had from the enterprising gift shop around the corner (the friendly owners speak fluent Chinese, and sell lots of Chinese products: they're definitely on to a winner!). We do economise slightly by putting both our names on one certificate though, worrying only briefly about who will own it, should we break up.
Driving on into Dunedin city, we park up at the Octagon and trip around the free Art Gallery (an amazing space, but nothing mind blowing on display), we decide it's time for lunch. I have decided that we're eating out today, and rather than our usual tactic of looking for somewhere that smells good and looks busy, I have picked a cafe out of the Lonely Planet that has a great recommendation for steak sandwiches, although it warns that the service is a little slow - no problem for us, as we're in no rush.
We walk into the bar-cum-cafe, and, feet sticking to the floor, enquire if there is a food menu. With hindsight, we should have backed out slowly, but there was rugby and football on tv, and the food was cheap. We paid for two cokes and a Pepperoni pizza to share, and settled down to find a good view of the football. We noticed a few people looking in and laughing as they walked past, but thought nothing of it, assuming they were either commenting on the game or knew people who worked there. However, after polishing off our ok pizza (a frozen one with extra bits of tomato stuck on) and cokes, we walked outside to see what everyone was sniggering at: it turned out that this establishment had been recently visited by the health department, who had given it a Grade D for hygiene and food preparation - a sign explaining which, in very large letters, was proudly displayed in the front window.
Apparently it wasn't bad enough to close them down though, although I'm not sure they will be given a repeat appearance in the next Lonely Planet (considering our book is the most recent, published September 2008, they must have gone downhill pretty quickly). We decide that it was meant to be when we hear strains of Hotel California wafting out from the lodgings above - a song that has haunted us throughout our trip so far.
Having survived our near-death experience, we potter around relaxed Dunedin for a while, and take some photos of the station, which is apparently the most photographed building in New Zealand (how do they know?), before going back to the campsite and it's barrage of hyper-tweenies to cook dinner.
The following morning, we are up bright and early, ready to drive on to the Mount Cook region, via the Otago Peninsula. Our escape from the campsite is hampered slightly, when we get to the exit and find it blocked by a coach and a big pile of bags, all apparently belonging to the athletic champs swarming over the play equipment next door. We decide to try the other exit, but are stopped by a teacher - he tells us that we can't go that way as it's the fire exit (?), and that we should go back the other way. We tell him that it's blocked, but he quite forcefully insists that it isn't... only to emerge red-faced and a little bit shouty-at-the-kids when he walks around to prove us wrong, only to find that he can't, and has to order a military manoeuvre from the other teachers (the ones who'd let things slide while he was away for a nanosecond), to get the bags and kids out of the way while we and several other camper vans attempt to squeeze past without scratching anything or squishing anyone.
We emerge onto the main street, feeling very sympathetic for the 6-berth camper that is stuck on the campsite behind the school bus for the foreseeable future, and keep on trucking...