Tag Archives: drugs

Art, consciousness and a whole lot of doof at Eclipse 2012 festival

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Recycling the eclipse

In my sheltered world, hippies and trancers don’t live harmoniously side by side. In my stereotyped view, people who dance to trance are off their heads on party drugs that sustain them through hours and days of dancing to a repetitive beat. In my head hippies are natural and flowing and mix with creative crowds, preferring didgeridoos to synthesizers. In my world, hippies don’t attend trance parties, or doofs (if you’re an Australian partyer). At least, this is what I used to believe.

The Eclipse 2012 festival would show me otherwise.

The event will host a huge music lineup of the world’s leading musicians and DJ’s, outstanding artists and decor crews, a dedicated workshops and intentional healing space, extensive food and market stalls and a perfect viewing platform only a short distance away from the eclipse centre line of totality path. Link

My world started to expand and any preconceived ideas about 24/7 beats and dancing, about everyone being cocktailed to the highest high, about being disconnected from the world in order to appreciate the world started to shift. I knew it would happen. Why else was I here?

Apart from the total solar eclipse itself. Oh yeah. That was the real reason.

But if it was just about being present at the total solar eclipse then I could have instead nestled in amongst astronomers from around the world on purpose built viewing platforms somewhere else, somewhere close.

No, from the moment I’d heard about the festival I’d been determined to go. I wanted to fling out my arms and dance uninhibited at whatever time of the day I pleased, I wanted to be filled with thoughts and ideas about the future direction of the world, I wanted to immerse myself in a new experience and surround myself with beauty in all its forms. What an indulgence.

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DJ set backdrop on the Sun Stage

The Eclipse 2012 festival ticket and website were the first giveaways to something beyond a primitive party, making reference to a ‘spiritual’ festival, to ‘healing spaces’, to consciousness raising, to an array of workshops and speakers and films designed to inspire change and open the mind.

And why else do we travel?

The music itself was not the catalyst for me to part with AU$350. Despite there being six stages, I barely recognised any names in the line-up, other than the likes of Fat Freddy’s Drop and Tijuana Cartel, both on the Earth Stage, the only truly live stage at the festival. If I’d ever been into the trance scene or had stood longer on Australian ground, I’d probably have been aware of the reputation of some of the other acts, but it was all new to me. No bad thing.

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Inspiration

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Flowertime

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Food and relax stops

Getting involved in yoga and craft classes, lounging out listening to learned folk discuss current thinking in relation to the upcoming cosmic and spiritual shift (including the impending end of the Mayan calendar), dancing under the sweet kiss of sprinkling water, of being surrounded by sculptures and murals and living art, that is what convinced me to join thousands of people for a week of celebrations rather than huddle quietly with the odd cluster of scientists and astronomers for one night only.

And so the days went by and people stomped and bounced day in, day out, taking moments to refresh themselves with fruit juices and wholesome, fair priced curries, to solar shower away a thick caking of dust, to chat and catch-up with friends, new and familiar.

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Daytime Sun Stage raving

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Sprinkler dancing @ the Sky Stage

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Doofer in training

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Beach feel flake out

Polka dot dresses and exaggerated face paints, tutus and lederhosen, basking on the branches of living art, taking dips in crocodile cleared waters, window shopping the work of artisans more concerned with their craft than making a sale, catching a ride on a motorised sofa, relaxing in the women’s shelter, watching fire art, learning to hula-hoop, re-gathering at camp for water refills and sustaining snacks.

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Daytime lazing

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Sun, shade and crocodile warnings

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Tutus and wobbles

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Doctor dress-up

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Parasols, fishnets and boat sails

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Brace dancing

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Sofa riding

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Art branch moments

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Face painting

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Base camp catch-ups

And sleeping. It’s amazing how one learns to sleep through a constant beat.

Through life and travelling I have had the good luck to meet and share time with a real range of people – a spectrum so broad that my mind should find no space for stereotypes. Yet I still have my assumptions, my preconceived ideas based on everyone I’ve previously met and everything I know. And of course it’s limited.

Stereotypes have some basis and function, maybe to act as a compass to enable us to find ‘our type’ and fellow ‘types’, maybe to guide the un-established personality and set them off in a specific direction. Maybe they offer some tribal comfort? I guess the only real danger is not being able to see beyond them.

At Eclipse 2012, stereotypes loomed large, on an ocular level. If you wanted to see society’s versions of a dreadlocked, grungy hippy, a dancing nymph dressed in floaty tie-dyed skirt, a yogi in lotus meditation, they appeared. If you looked for the sweaty, gurning raver clutching a water bottle and repeating moves in their own little world or sporting Day-Glo, hot panted outfits, they too existed. The Japanese wedding in a fusion flurry of traditional-clubbing kitsch, the self-important eco-speaker, the meticulously costumed regular festival goer, the wise old earth mother. They were all at Eclipse 2012.

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Temples (and makeshift church)

But sometimes hippies chewed their faces up. And sometimes pig-tailed raver chicks needed no more than the music to get high.

Stereotypes flipped, were stretched and distorted. Earth mother surprised me with her mushroom journeys. Famous drummer intrigued me with his gentle nature. Dreamy types brought considerate, well-behaved children to basket weaving classes. And the raver sat with a stranger during a bad trip, talking them through some crazy moments until a place of relative calm was reached.

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Morning at the Moon Stage

More often than not, the festival was a whole lot more wholesome than one might expect. Good food. Good company. Good support. Good dancing. Beyond good.

Of course the craziness existed. As with many a party, a continuum of personalities coloured and enriched the event. But it’s what most those people did that made the event; they spoke, they performed, they danced, they painted, they played; they – an army of artisans and thought-leaders and revelers – created a beautiful visual and sensual feast of celebration.

If you believe this random mix of humanity, of intention, of consciousness, cannot exist side by side, then Eclipse 2012 was a great example that we can.

Let’s dance.

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Chill out and kick back stage

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Live creativity

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Light, sound and DJs

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Accessorising

 

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Getting told off at San Pedro Prison

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Hanging out in the plaza directly opposite the prison

Some guys at my hostel told me they’ll probably let us in if we slip them a twenty’, said Blair, my Kiwi travelling friend. I’d met up with him in the sunshine flooded San Pedro plaza where people sat around and socialised, seemingly oblivious to the criminals contained behind the gates of San Pedro prison just across the road.

Since Thomas McFadden, a Brit banged up for cocaine trafficking, decided back in in the late 1990s to start up prison tours and Lonely Planet jumped on board with unintentional promotion, backpackers have found ways to enter Bolivia’s notorious prison for a bit of a nosy. Bribing poorly paid guards, for example, seems to have worked for a fair few people.

But what are visitors actually hoping to gain from getting inside San Pedro’s belly? The legendary, cheap cocaine? Insight into a lawless society? The thrill of being so close to criminals and the taste of danger? Did anyone really care where their money was going? Or the underhand methods at play? Or, as with so many travelling experiences, was it just to see something different?

It was April 2012 and research told me that the San Pedro prison tours, despite being openly discussed amongst travellers, were banned once again. Brad Pitt’s upcoming film adaptation of the book Marching Powder is suggested to have panicked the government and triggered a clampdown on prison tourism. Bolivia is, after all, trying to build-up its reputation beyond that of cocaine and criminality. For the super keen, however, I knew that there was always a way around these rules. Whilst I’m no goody-two-shoes, did I really want to break these rules? And if so, why?

BoliviaBella.com makes a clear case for not supporting these illegal tours, asking instead for a more responsible, ethical approach. She adds that ‘there is nothing benevolent or altruistic about taking this tour’ and that, asides from the voyeuristic nature, it is also ‘a risk to you and your liberty’.

Like many other travellers before me, I stood outside of the prison and pondered: did I want to find a way to get inside? I wandered around looking up at the great grey mass of concrete, questions and butterflies flitting around inside me. Placed centrally within La Paz, it took five minutes to stroll the perimeters.

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San Pedro prison perimeters

What struck me about this infamous place was the size and location. I’d just started to read Marching Powder and as a result I expected these heavy, windowless walls to contain a massive village of activity, yet here, in reality, I couldn’t imagine it was actually that big inside. I guess that looks can be deceiving… but still… it seemed surprisingly small.

A glamorous girl in her late twenties balanced a young child on her hip whilst she rang the bell of a discreet side door. The door opened and a woman let her in. ‘Is this the entrance?’ we asked. ‘Are you here to visit someone?’ she quietly asked back. We weren’t. Time to move on.

A bustle of people clustered outside the main gate opposite the plaza. I walked over to get a closer look and saw a single iron gate leading into a courtyard crammed with men. Some waved. Dangerous criminals? High security? It all felt very close and accessible.

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Main gate at San Pedro prison, La Paz

I crossed back over to the plaza and watched from a bit of a distance as a prisoner exchange took place. Above the archway into the jail, prisoners gathered at the window and watched the outside world and their new inmate arrivals. It surprised me how relaxed the whole operation was, how security was kept to a minimum.

And then suddenly two guards were in my face. They grabbed my camera from Blair. ‘Where is your camera?’ they barked at me. I told them that what they had was actually my camera. They refused to give it back to me. It was forbidden to photograph the jail, they told me, didn’t I know?

I thought quickly about everything I’d read and heard about San Pedro prison and wondered whether a bribe was in order, whether it was expected. Instead I persuaded them that I was sorry and would delete the photos.

They held on to the lead whilst I showed them the photo of the prisoner exchange. They weren’t happy. I got a lecture and a telling off in Spanish. And then I deleted the best photo of my trip to the prison. They seemed appeased and sent us off into a La Paz midday.

I feel like we’re not having the full experience’, said Blair as we skulked away from the prison. I understood what he meant yet, at the same time, prison tours have been banned (again) for good reason. All it took was a small photography altercation and my mind had been made up. I didn’t want to mess with these guys. Why had I even considered it?

So I dodged the con artists trying to sell tours that wouldn’t materialise and I avoided bribery of any sort at the gate. I left with mostly a clean conscience and only a few photos of the outside of the prison.

An eye-opening experience or a sensationalist enticement that ultimately allows the wrong people to profit? Without having done the prison tour proper, it’s difficult for me to fairly comment.

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Lining up at Route 36

The Guardian calls it ‘the world’s first cocaine bar’ and others have dubbed it ‘one of the greatest travel experiences in South America‘. Route 36, a late night lounge bar in La Paz aimed solely at a tourist clientele, has established itself firmly as a must-stop-off on the gringo trail by offering a relaxed club environment where you can buy cocaine and chop up lines in relative comfort.

Labelled ‘cocaine tourism’, other bars in La Paz are now starting to copy Route 36’s lead and tap into travellers’ spending power and intrigue. But how are these places actually able to exist?

The legality of such a place is of course at the forefront of conversations surrounding Route 36’s existence, an existence that sees the bar switching location every month or two in order to beat the authorities and avoid pissing off too many neighbours as a regular trickle of tourists make their way in and out of the venue.

Who knows how long it will be before the Bolivian government start a proper clampdown on corruption associated with the cocaine trade, and in turn this trend for coke bars?

Bolivia is currently ‘the world’s third biggest cocaine producer‘ and it’s going to be a struggle convincing the world that it’s actively battling the drug trade whilst they’re still pushing for global acceptance of the traditional use of coca leaves. There are clearly some cultural considerations that the wider world needs to be aware of and the country is taking steps to raise awareness whilst also making some significant changes. A recent increase in cocaine production, for example, has resulted in Bolivia putting to bed a previous public disagreement with the US Drug Enforcement Administration and accepting offers of help from the US and Brazil to fight this ‘war’.

But in terms of Route 36, cocaine with its low cost and easy availability forms the crux of its attraction, and the place itself is undoubtedly designed to appeal to the sensation seeking tourist and provide them with a story for when they return home. You went where? A cocaine bar? Really? No way! Imagine if we had…! The police would… blah blah blah. You get the drift.

So the novelty factor, maybe, plays a role in attracting in the punters. Nowhere else have I heard of a public bar where you can happily sit down, order up a few lines and snort them openly. It’s essentially the normalisation of drug taking; a place where you can indulge and party away from any critical judgement of non-drug taking friends and family. ‘It’s a pretty regular bar’ said one of my friends who found himself there on a few early mornings when he wasn’t yet ready for bed. The only difference between a ‘regular’ club and Route 36? Ask about the coke on offer, spend out 150Bs. (£13.69 / US$21.55) and you’ll get yourself a gram in the latter. No questions asked. No problems.

Why avoid the place? Other than the obvious health and legality issues, for what you pay, there is a far purer product out there at a cheaper or similar price. Friends and cocaine connoisseurs tell me that the quality of Route 36’s offerings is pretty pitiful, suspected to be cut with amphetamines that keep you uncomfortably awake way beyond the end of the party in a way that purer powder won’t.

Overall though, I can’t comment with any real conviction. I’m no expert and for various reasons I didn’t get around to visiting the place. Missed opportunity? Maybe.

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I should be at a trance party, so what am I doing here?

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Some day time revellers keep going at the rave (photo: Carl Maybry©)

IT’S FRIDAY AND I SHOULD be in Uyuni with new friends partying at a windpowered goa-trance festival on the Salt Flats outside of Uyuni in Bolivia, but I’m ill. Another bout of food poisoning has crippled me.

I let my friends know that I can’t come. A day on the bus followed by a weekend of all-nighter hedonism when I’m spinning out and have only just stopped puking? Not a great idea. But I’m gutted.

My day comprises of sleeping and Skype chats. It’s taking me ages to do anything. My eyes are heavy so after my lunchtime snack of cough medicine and probiotics, I end up snoozing some more.

One of my friends drops me a message to say that a local told him ‘the raves out on the Salar de Uyuni aren’t all that great anyway’. Momentarily I feel better but then I look at pictures of the salt flats, imagine 180° of starry sky and I’m back to frustrated envy.

I venture out of the hostel for the first time in a couple of days. Destination: pharmacy.  I need to stock up on potent cough syrup. Two more bottles, the doctor reckons, that’s at least another week of codeine stupor. I walk slowly with consideration; I am spinning out and not totally sure that I won’t faint.

The doctor has banned me from eating out, despite it often being cheaper, so I make myself a package soup and tart it up with some vegetables. Hopefully this time the food will stay down. It doesn’t.

I don’t have the energy to be my social self and initiate conversation with all the new people in the hostel, but I chat a little with the owner’s son. Spanish practise. He’s not feeling well either, although it’s definitely something different. His Bolivian belly is resistant to the food and water bugs. Tourists, he says, always get sick at some point.

I watch a movie but I can’t focus. I keep imagining a mass of bodies bouncing to a beat. I’ve never been to a trance party. Travelling for me is about trying new things and stepping out of my comfort zone. This would have been perfect. I’ve never liked trance music. I don’t think.

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Another whack of medication. Doped out.

I wake up on Saturday feeling pretty good considering that if you shook me, I’d rattle. I take a shower. I’m so spaced out from all the medication that I get stuck into a stare. I wonder if the way I’m feeling is anything similar to how it feels to be on ketamine. Why ketamine, I’m not sure. It must have cropped up in conversation recently. I’m tingly and dizzy and a bit numb. I’m trying to flip this on its head, trying to enjoy the feeling. I’m listening to Salmonella Dub and I wonder what genre Salmonella Dub is. I’ve never been good at classifying music. Whatever, it’s my own zone out party.  I’m sure I’m in the shower for far too long. Zombiefied.

The rain arrives. ‘I’ve never seen rain in Bolivia’, says a guy I meet in the kitchen over a cup of tea. Talking about the weather. I could do this in England. I do do this in England. Actually, I do this everywhere. My one bit of Englishness comes with me.

And the day continues pretty uneventfully. I manage to get out to buy a bus ticket to Uyuni for the following day. The rain makes me a bit soggy, which isn’t clever when I’m still sick. Bare feet weren’t the smartest move. I buy some shoes. Retail therapy, not my thing at all, but it works. If I’d gone to the rave I wouldn’t have been able to buy these lovely shoes. I’m momentarily consoled.

For the first time in a while I can focus on a screen so I watch a movie but fall asleep half way through. It’s isn’t a bad film at all, just sometimes something happens when I’m in bed watching a film, particularly when I’m drugged up to my eyeballs. I try to fight it but my body wins out.

Early Sunday morning I pay my bill and get a goodbye cuddle from my hostel hostess. She’s been worrying about me. Thinks I should stay longer. I think I need to get out of Sucre before I become yet another one of the travellers stuck here longer term. I don’t think the place is healthy for me.

Maybe Uyuni will be better? Somehow I doubt it. Sitting at an altitude of 3,669m, I know my pain isn’t over. But I’m on the bus and heading to my friends who will surely be buzzing with incredible stories of all-nighters and special connections and amazing skies and scenery.

And, probably because I’ve been so damn unwell, actually I’m not really jealous. Yet.

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What’s with the late night karaoke bars?

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Karaoke, baby. Just sing!

I hate karaoke but South America loves it. A slight conflict of interests, a potential deal breaker in our relationship. So when other travellers that I met in Sucre suggested that karaoke bars were the after bar choice, I can’t say that I was delighted. Hanging out with them, sure, but the singing? Really?

Ever since I was a thirteen year old girl thrown on stage with new holiday friends to sing a song I didn’t know, I have been scarred. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun came out as

Girls just Need To Have Singing Lessons,

or in my case,

Girls Just Need to Have Access to Modern Music and Listen To the Radio And The Top 40 (and Not Get Brought Up On Simon and Garfunkle, The Beatles and Beethoven) So That They Can Fit in With Other Normal Teenagers.

It’s only now that I’m grateful for the musical education of my childhood (which went beyond the aforementioned) but at the time it was crippling. I had a lot of catching up to do. Whilst I’d never be cool, I could at least work towards fitting in.

So now here I was in Sucre, a beautiful South American city sitting at an altitude of 2,750m and composed of colonial and neoclassical buildings, Bolivia’s judicial capital and a Unesco Cultural Heritage site. Somewhere, then, that I should be broadening my understanding of the country’s history and traditions.

But oh no! Instead I found myself with a great bunch of other travellers playing dice games in bars with locals and indulging in a few too many mojitos and tequila shots as evenings pushed on into early mornings. Capirinhas and coke flowed freely, propping people up for nights in the bars and the clubs… and the karaoke bars.

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Oh no! Tequila makes an appearance

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Pit stop for cow heart kebabs

Each time I ended up in Vitrolas Karaoke & Discoteque, I searched the song list for a good while. Maybe, just maybe there would be something that would jump out at me, where I’d think hell yeah, I know it so well, it’s the right pitch for my voice, I can get up and sing and not make a total tit of myself, but it never happened. Maybe I should have joined the coke crew. All I really needed was some courage. Some people had it in natural abundance. Not me, in relation to karaoke in any case.

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The terrible trio take to the stage. Not terrible singers, just terrible trouble. In a fun way.

And then after the karaoke bars I would dash back through a quiet, daybreak Sucre, back to my hostel and into a room of sleeping strangers that I knew I’d never meet because they’d pack up and leave before I awoke.

Too soon it would be midday; I’d get up and over brunch greet fellow partiers only just returning from continued hedonism. ‘Are you heading out tonight?’ they’d ask before disappearing off for some sleep. ‘Nah, need a break’, I’d say, but then night would arrive and peer pressure kicked in. Not that I tried very hard to fight it.

My will to go wild and have fun was strong, but my body wasn’t having it. It didn’t take long.

I crashed and burned.

So Sucre, time to see what else you have to offer. I sure love singing, whether it be in the shower, dancing about in my house or with friends around a campfire, but karaoke, save me the heartache.

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The typical gringo bars in Sucre include Joy Ride, Florins and the Amsterdam Bar (all with good WiFi), which also all serve (pricy) food – like pastel de quinoa – and regularly host cinema screenings. I spent a good few evenings in Biblio Café Classico to catch up with a friend who, following a midnight session dancing on the bar, had landed himself a job there.

Clubwise, I only got to Mooy, which cost $15b. entry for females and 20b for males. Saturday night drinks there started at 18Bs. for a caipirinha and 14Bs. for a bottle of beer. In Mooy the crowd was predominantly Bolivian and the music a Western-South American mix. And the oft visited karaoke bar Vitrolas Karaoke & Discoteque is an underground, under populated place fronted by a wild man with long, rock star hair and a well-rehearsed singing voice. Maybe he used to be a rock star after all?! The crowd in there was a real mix of locals and gringos. Friday nights were busiest.

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10 things I loved and hated about New Zealand

1) Open stretches of countryside, green covered mountains and palms and plants aplenty, New Zealand is undoubtedly a place of magnificent nature. Wild, unpredictable weather adds to the drama of the place and the lack of motorways enhances the romance of this wilderness. Mokau Road (which later becomes The State Highway) leading from New Plymouth towards Hamilton is such an example, a main route but a single lane that winds up Mount Messenger through a lush bush, fern and palm landscape. When I arrived into the country, a friend told me that New Zealand tends to get all weathers and all the seasons in one day, and boy was he right! I experienced beautiful sunshine, torrential downpours, serene evenings and battering winds. I also felt the force of the strong sun rays and the lack of ozone protection.

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New Plymouth getting a stormy, summer battering

2) A short and sweet entry, but as a chocoholic, I’m now so done with Cadbury’s having tasted the bliss of Whittaker’s chocolate. The Macadamia Block was particularly amazing. Less sweet and containing 33% cocoa compared to Cadbury’s Dairy Milk’s 23%, I was quickly addicted. Already I miss it.

3) Arriving into Auckland, one can’t help but notice the racial diversity of the city, particularly a mass Asian population (the Chinese represent the highest amount of immigrants after the Brits) with over 350,000 making up 12% of New Zealand’s overall population. A lot of foreign students are also choosing to study here rather than in the UK because, as one Saudi guy who I met said, New Zealand came with higher recommendations, and ‘it’s just a better place to be‘. Come on! – the UK is okay!

4) I loved the musicality of the Maori language with its repetition and rhythm. Take some of the place names, for instance, such as Paritutu and Papatoetoe. With the language having somewhat of a resurgence and the fact that so many signs and names are in Maori, it gives a sense that there is pride in the culture alongside a real acceptance and integration between Maori and the pakeha (non-Maori New Zealander) populations.

5) Hitchhiking in New Zealand is easy with friendly people always willing to stop and give you a lift. When you meet so many good people, it’s easy to forget the reality of the bad people out there and the potential danger to hitchhikers.

6) I couldn’t get over the quiet emptiness of many places thanks to the low population of four million, two million of who live in Auckland itself. People are friendly and will stop for a chat and the roads don’t feel too crowded at all. This quiet, relaxed pace comes with its downsides, like the Yot Club in Raglan shutting at 1:00am just when my dancing feet had woken up, but overall it’s a laidback country with an attitude to match, and a real want to welcome you in. In fact, along the road from Taranaki back up towards Hamilton, two consecutive signs read: WHY? followed shortly by We’d love you to stay! Not surprisingly, they are trying to encourage folk to make New Zealand their home, especially now that the latest statistics show more people emigrating than immigrating.

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Another jar, please

7) I had always been under the impression that the Aussies were the big drinkers but as one guy brashly put it, ‘us Kiwis would drink them under the table’. This is supported by statistics that show 25% of the adult population are binge drinkers and where ‘harmful alcohol use’ is said to cost New Zealand somewhere in the region of $4.9 billion per year. The drinking culture in New Zealand, as in many places, ranges from tanked-up nights out in Auckland through to groups of lads refusing to hit the town until the crate is empty (‘it’s an NZ rule’, some told me) or sipping tasty home brew in a fairly mellow setting. Although young people are said to drink far more than recommended, the majority insist that they don’t go out with the intention to get drunk. Yeah right. In fact it seems like a fair few Kiwis are actually in denial about just how much they drink, so much so that FebFast has come into existence: get sponsored to go the whole of February without a drop of alcohol.

8) The romance-less nature of guys on the pull quickly became apparent. I had been told that Kiwi guys aren’t a good catch (by a Kiwi girl, before you say anything), that their style was overtly direct and that they played a game of averages. Others argue that alcohol is absolutely necessary to fuel the fire, so to speak. When I met Tim in a bar in Auckland he quickly said ‘I’m here to pick up a girl’, whilst another guy I barely knew from the hostel blurted out: ‘I’d love to see you in a really short skirt’. Eeeeuww! Well it’s never going to happen. Goodbye! But maybe this honest approach makes for less misunderstandings?! And it’s also worth remembering that on the whole, Kiwi guys are a good-looking, straightforward and athletic bunch. With a supposed drought of single Kiwi guys, if you’ve got a good ‘un, hang on to him!

9) People on P scare me. Since being in New Zealand I’ve been warned on many occasions to stay clear. And as one old boy told me whilst puffing on a joint: ‘I used to live in London back in the ‘60s, tried everything going, but I won’t touch P. It’s bad news.’ Clearly it brings out the worst in people and does some bad, bad stuff to the body.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthpicturegalleries/6454944/Faces-of-Meth-the-long-term-effects-of-crystal-meth-or-methamphetamine.html

P (standing for ‘pure’) is methamphetamine, often cooked up in ‘clan labs’ – people’s own kitchens. It is shown to be highly addictive and massively destructive to families and communities. Many Kiwis I met talked about problems with P, and statistically, it’s clear that New Zealand is doing some serious battle with the drug.

10) I was on the lookout for a hooded black top and decided to try on one of the Icebreaker merino tops. It was amazing. The sleeves were perfect for my long, gawky arms, the material lowered beautifully at the back and the overall fit was snug. On a travelling budget, I couldn’t justify the price but wouldn’t it be sweet if the guys from Icebreaker decided to send me a free sample so that I could advertise it in action as I travelled?! Ah! A girl can but dream.

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