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FLYING SOUTH FOR THE WINTER
• HELEN GILCHRIST - our travel correspondent

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'Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death.'
Pascal, Pensees

ALL my life I have found it difficult to remain still, and, ever since reading Jack Kerouac's ON THE ROAD, aged sixteen, I have had a desire to pack my bag and head off somewhere without any plans, itineries or commitments... just to see what happens, who I meet along the way, and what landscapes I find myself in. I am well aware that this urge is by no means unique or original; the ever-expanding number of airlines and destinations, ever-decreasing prices, the strong Pound and changing social and professional trends mean that more people than ever before are packing their bags and heading for distant horizons. I, at the tender age of 23, have already been lucky enough to travel in Brazil, Indonesia and Europe, and to live and work in Spain for nine months. My quest is no different or more exciting than anyone else's, but, finding myself in a position where I had no relationship or work ties holding me back, a few pounds in my pocket after two and a half intensive months as a professional waitress, and an overwhelming itch to get on the move again, it was time to put my metaphorical stick and red and white spotted hankerchief over my shoulder and get on a plane.

This time I wanted to go somewhere where I could talk at as much or little length as I wanted to anyone I encountered, not to feel too conspicuous or vulnerable as a young, blonde female travelling alone, and where I could find work to sustain myself for as long as I wanted to stay there. This, combined with the worldwide reputation for people's friendliness, geographical and cultural diversity, widescreen landscapes, and the reverse climatic seasons of the Southern hemisphere led me to Aotearoa, 'the land of the long white cloud'... more widely known as New Zealand.

A good friend decided to accompany me for the first seven weeks, then, after a look around the North and South islands, I would be left alone, just before Christmas, to see what I could make of things...

A LITTLE BIT OF SEOUL
Cheap tickets with Korean Airlines meant that we found ourselves, 11 hours after leaving Heathrow, gliding smoothly through Seoul's shiny, clean, spacious subway. We gazed, bleary-eyed, at the immaculately dressed, politely postured Koreans heading home, heads lowered silently or speaking quietly into their credit-card sized mobile phones. Emerging out of the subway into the crisp night air at Samsung-dong, my first vision of ground-level Seoul was two guards armed with guns, truncheons and riot shields... then two more... then squads of twenty or so lined up in the shadows of the trees all along the avenue. Initial alarm gave way to understanding as I recalled that the third Asia-Europe Meeting (ASEM III) was due to commence the following day. With the heads of twenty five Asian and European countries converging on this district of Seoul, a little extra security was only to be expected.

Seven hours before take-off for the next leg of the journey gave us the opportunity for a brief taste of the city the following day. Flight-induced scratchy eyes and fuzzy heads kept us away from museums and galleries and led us to the shining metal, glass and neon of the shimmering appliance heaven of the vast multi-storey market which is Yongsan's Electricland... every imaginable electrical good under the sun as far as the eye can see, with young Koreans hungry for the hard sell awaiting the wide-eyed consumer at every corner. After a delicious, blind, lucky-dip lunch of green tea and fry-it-yourself rice, egg and seaweed in a hot stone pot (I'm vegetarian and didn't understand a single item on the menu), we took in a little of the more traditional side of Korean culture: the extensive palace and gardens of Kwanghwamun. Through the course of history, the palace has been destroyed and rebuilt several times after Japanese occupations, and now it was covered in green tarpaulin for restoration work. But we could still wander and gaze at towering layers of curved pointed rooves, royal appartments, pagodas, lotus ponds, a backdrop of misty mountains... and dozens of newly-weds dressed up in both traditional and western wedding attire, having their photographs taken in the photogenic paradise of the gardens.

SPRING IN THE CITY OF SAILS
Auckland: a city surrounded by water, extinct volcanoes, and islands; the bay and Hauraki Gulf filled with sails.

Walking around downtown Auckland and the trendy suburbs of Ponsonby and Parnell, the city has a young and vibrant feel to it; a mixture of young Maori, whites (Pakeha), Polynesians and Asians are hanging out in the bars, pavement cafes and fashionable and tasty fast-food boutiques -hip-hop, soul and 'urban jazz' floating on the airwaves. Described by RE:MIX magazine as 'nu-urban', these folk seem pretty happy with city life, especially as the cool air is warmed by rays of hot sun, the spring blossoms have burst into colour, and the blue sky and shimmering gulf give the promise of long days in the parks and on the beach, and nights in the waterfront bars. That first excitement of approaching summer is buzzing in the air, and we're all-too-happy to embrace it. We sit on the verandah of our small, relaxed, garden-set hostel in Parnell, enjoying the translucent early evening light and listening to the sounds of a city coming out into their gardens after the winter.

• Photos of New Zealand: Helen Gilchrist

HITCHIN' AND CAMPIN'
Time to indulge my Kerouac-inspired fantasies... and what better place to start out than the safe haven of Great Barrier Island, 80 km off Auckland but a million miles away in pace and ambiance. The island has 3 or 4 villages connected by unsealed roads, good trekking in the hills and sub-tropical forests, thermal springs, lush beaches, and a host of friendly islanders who are raring to pick you up and chatter as much as possible before dropping you off. There is hardly any crime on the island; most poeple leave their houses unlocked and their keys in the ignition of their cars, so we felt relatively safe and confident stood on the side of the track, tent, sleeping-bags and food on our backs, sticking our thumbs out straight and proud... ... and the lifts came thick and fast; we were sure we had magic in our thumbs. A cloud of dust on the dirt track came to a standstill beside us, and settled to reveal a clapped-out 1975 Ford, unidentifiable colour, with a cheery looking young family inside. 'Hop in girls,' shouts the driver, leaning out the window and beckoning us with a strong, dusty arm. The bottom of the car nearly touches the ground as we load our packs and ourselves in amongst the paint cans, tool box, spare tyre and small child in baby-seat. Chrissie, Pete and 'little Rickster' introduce themselves, give us oranges from their garden, bombard us with questions, introduce us to their friends as we stop to chat to various people along the way, stop to water their horses, and chuckle when we tell them that we are heading for 'Mickey's Place', an isolated camping ground in the remote north east of the island. 'When we came to this island, we had no preconceptions about anything, and that's the best way,' explains Chrissie.

Our next lift, a crazy laughing Maori truckie with a huge white-toothed flashing smile, drops us at the rusty gate of 'Mickey's Place'. We begin to see what Chrissie had meant as we stare at the derelict shacks, peeling paint, broken glass, crumbling woodstove in the middle of the field, faded curling photographs stuck to the rotting wall with rusty drawing pins, the incessant buzzing of flies, and the visitor's book which has two entries only since 1998...

We are back on the road astoundingly early the next morning after an eerie night with the spirits of campers passed. A succession of good rides took us down to the quay; a Maori bone-carver; a man who told us all about his travels around both islands selling teddy bears, and a truck with three guys out from Auckland on a plumbing job, loaded to the brim with tools, pipes, wooden boxes... we climbed on and held tight as we sped, wound, rattled, laughed and sang up the hills around the bays until we arrived at the quay, sunburnt faces and salty hair. In the golden late-afternoon sunshine, with seagulls circling and water lapping, they lift down a large canvas-covered object which turns out to be a bar-b-que... then another which is a cooler box full of chilled beer. Six freshly caught red snapper are piled onto the grill, and the scraps thrown over the wallprovide two huge sting ray with their dinner too as we sit waiting for the ferry. The joys and random luck of the road!

ON THE ROAD WITH THE SPIRITS


A quick stop back in Auckland and we're back on the road, heading north; this time in a sea-green 1985 Toyota Corolla, acquired after much bartering, chin-rubbing and sucking in air through teeth, for NZ $1000 (about 300 quid!) at a car fair in the city. Maori legend tells that the North island was a giant fish which was pulled out of the sea by the demigod Maui, on a fishing trip with his brothers, with the help of a a magic fish-hook made out of the jaw of his sorcerer grandmother. The fish became the North Island, Te ika a Maui (the Fish of Maui), and the South Island, Te Waka a Maui, was his canoe. We're heading up the long, narrow strip of land which is the far north of the North Island, Te Hika o te Ika - the tail of the fish. And it's fascinating, looking out of the window, as kilometres of asphalt are swallowed up beneath us as we burn up the long straight road north. This land is confused. The proximity of two great oceans means that it doesn't know where it is and what climate it suits. We pass through vineyards, avocado farms, orange trees, echoing the Mediterranean. Five minutes on, I'm gazing at lush green hills, grazing sheep, dark pine forests, bracken, cherry blossom and heavy grey cloud taking my thoughts home... But then there are flashes of red Pohutukawa flowers, yellow Kowhai, huge white lilies growing wild in the fields, tree ferns, palm trees, mangroves - and we're in the tropics. The road snakes on and the mist descends, the dark high hills in the distance mark the end of the fish's tail. This area is immensely sacred to the maori; the spirits of the dead travel this route to cape Reinga, the most nort-westerly point of Aotearoa, which is 'the place of leaping' - from here they depart for Hawaiiki, the land of their ancestors. And, weaving up the unsealed road towards the tip of the cape, the mist turning to a thick fog shrouding the dark hills, it is easy to imagine this place as the final outpost of the land of the living... Finally we reach the car park, and leap out of the car into the howling damp wind. We gaze down on the famous lighthouse, the crashing white waves on the Columbia Bank maelstrom (where the waters of the Pacific and Tasman Sea meet), and the lonely 800-year-old Pohutukawa tree whose roots the spirits slide down into the ocean. I look into the fog, the howling wind whistling around my ears, see those spirits slipping down into the ocean... ... then the click of a camera behind me and another yellow-rainmacked tourist, like myself, is recording the most-northerly point before going for a pee in the most-northerly toilets in the most-northerly car park down below.

That's it. We've gone as far as we can possibly go, so we swing the car round and start the long journey south.

© Helen Gilchrist November 2000.

More from Helen in New Zealand
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