La buena vida en Santiago

Thursday 15 March was the longest day of our lives so far. We lived it twice by the magic of time travel and a LAN plane from Auckland to Santiago de Chile - meeting Med's friend Chris at the arrivals gate.

Our first couple of days was a blur of dusty sunshine, 1 liter bottles of beer, language problems and stubborn body clocks.

We lusted after Cerro Santa Lucia, a city park crowned by a soaring system of staircases, fountains and towers with smog-filtered views of the urban jungle and the Andes beyond; we played food lottery (as we didn't understand restaurant menus) on small tables perched on bustling pavements; we walked, watery-eyed, though the hot streets of the city, stumbling upon cathedrals and narrow lanes leading nowhere.

Soon, Med and Chris headed to the coast for a week of surf and cervezas (beers) so, before I knew it, I was on my own, in a city I didn't know, unable to string more than two words together in Spanish. I was alone in the urban jungle and would be eating papas fritas for days on end if I didn't do something about it.

Over the next two days, I cemented my first South American friendships over asados (Chileno BBQs), pisco (traditional grape brandy), a U2 tribute band (for St.Patricks Day) and salsa clubs. I grappled with my first few words of Spanish and I managed to book myself onto a two week course in Latino Spanish. No more papas fritas for me!

But first, I had to learn to walk to the rhythm of the city. It is an endless maze of towering apartment blocks, delicate church spires and colourful residential areas. Most surprising of all are the ever-present Andes which, in the dense smog of a working day were all but invisible, their snowcapped peaks strangely detached like wisps of cloud against a dim blue sky.

Research tells me it's thermal inversion (a meteorological phenomenon whereby a stable layer of warm air holds down colder air close to the ground) that causes high levels of smog and air pollution to be trapped within the valley. My eyes and throat tell me to get out of the city to the fresh air of the mountains, but something is keeping me here, beckoning me to stay.

Perhaps it's the stunning architecture of some of the city’s buildings – the Museo de Bellas Artes, the Ex-Congreso Nacional, the heart-stopping Palacio de la Moneda and the surprising Bolsa de Comercio (far too beautiful to be a stock exchange) – little slices of Barcelona, Paris or Rome peeking out over the bells of tiny churches and ugly office blocks.

Then there's Plaza de Armas, the main square that seems to change it's characters, props and scenery to put on a new "performance" on an almost daily basis. On a bandstand at one end there are dozens of tables crammed full of old men stooped over chess games, a picture of concentration amid a flurry of activity.

Across the square, shoeshine boys (and men) taut for business; a comedian is surrounded by a hysterical crowd; tarot card readers are poised serenely over desks covered in red cloth; and artists fuss over exhibitions of varying quality.

There were some bizarre scenes too: moth-eaten toy ponies being ridden by children posing for photographers; a group of students dressed up on their way to an anti-government protest; hundreds of pigeons perching wing-to-wing on the roof of a sweet stall; and an information point on wheels that zips about the square far too fast to be of any help. Amid the chaos, church bells chimed and middle-aged men snored on benches. Yet somehow, everywhere I walk, people look at me as if I'm the strange one.

I was finally living my dream of being in South America. I had new friends. I was once again the obvious stranger in any crowd. I was finally adventuring again. For 2 and a half weeks, I would be living here in Santiago among life-size toy horses and a thousand curious eyes.

Hot springs and hot beaches

You can smell Rotorua before you get there: it has a permanent, stale whiff due to the plumes of sulphur rising from the earth's crust - it's very thin in this part of New Zealand.

So Rotorua stinks, but it's also a hotbed (I had to pun it) of thermal activity with hundreds of bubbling mud pools, frothing hot springs, and spurting geysers. Amazingly this doesn't seem to have deterred tourists from visiting; Rotorua is one of the most touristy and commercialised places we have visited in New Zealand.

Sadly, the entrance prices were stinking too, and so we only went to see the free areas of thermal activity: the splurging and splatting hot mud baths and steaming springs. Med and I aren't keen on paying for the natural things - I don't think Mother Nature hoped for ticket booths, overpriced cafes and a plethora of merchandise to litter her greatest work.

But the free bits were great to see too. Beneath the ground is a system of streams, which are heated by magma left over from earlier eruptions. Water reaches 300°C in places – creating the bad smell – hydrogen sulphide. A day was enough though - I'm not sure I could cope with the stench any longer than that.

We then went from hot water springs to a hot water beach on the Coromandel Peninsula. Usually, when you come across people with shovels on a beach, they are very young people. You know, little kids building sand castles, or just digging a great big hole because their dad has told them they can get to Australia (perhaps they say England here?).

So the scene at Hot Water Beach, then, was a little odd.

There were plenty of people digging with shovels in the sand, but none of them were children. At this beach in question, however, this was not out of the ordinary. Grown men (and women) bring their shovels at low tide and dig down deep into the sand. Because the beach lies atop a natural hot spring, the water that seeps up through the sand to fill the dug holes is hot - and I mean hot! It’s like digging your very own hot tub.

Med set about digging our little space (I was on the phone to family at home, so I "accidentally" avoided all the hard work) right by the cool, lapping seawater. We then set about wallowing in the really hot water in the early morning sunshine, watching other bathers in various stages of doing the same. This was genuinely the first bath I have had since leaving home in August, and it was bliss!

We then drove up the coast to the beaches around Cathedral Cove, famous for a huge hole cut into the cliff that you can walk through, making a Cathedral shape. It was just another stunning day in New Zealand - the sky cloudless, the water dazzling emerald, the air fresher than fresh. Oh and the wildlife, stingrays and hundreds of fish.

I had got my highs on the skydive, and it was now Med's turns to get the adrenalin pumping. We headed to Raglan on the west coast - beautiful because of rolling hills, filled with hundreds of sheep, that give way to the turquoise water of the sea and the occasional cliff dropping down to rocky beaches. The beaches, that are nearly empty, save for the few brave surfers that ride Raglan's famous waves.

Med hired a surf board, and took to the water where everyone called each other "bro", "man" or "duuuude". It was a reminder of my failed attempts at surf lessons in Sri Lanka - I must rectify this! Maybe in South America where the lessons will be cheap.

We then made a pitstop at 90 mile beach, which very long but actually 90kms (another classic, misleading Kiwi name). Then it was onwards and upwards to Cape Reigna, in the far north.

This cape is where two huge bodies of water, the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean, converge. It is a wild yet peaceful place, but has moments of feeling otherworldly and eerie. This place is held sacred to the Maori people, who believe it is the place where the souls of the dead leave New Zealand to return to their ancestral, spiritual home - Hawaiki.

We walked in the wind and mist to the end where a lighthouse stands, seeing the rocky point jutting out to sea - Te Reinga - the place where the spirits enter the underworld. Clinging to the rock there is the ancient kahika tree, named Te Aroha. The spirits descend to the water on steps formed by the tree’s roots.They then continue on their journey to Hawaiki.

What makes it even more dramatic is the oceans colliding before your eyes. They differ in colour slightly and the waves crash and boom into each other, shooting powerful spray upwards. We sat and watched. We were drawn back to this auspicious place the next morning to catch the first light on the cape. As the sun cleared the morning mist, a ribbon of rainbow appeared over the lighthouse, eventually turning into a complete bow with the pot of gold - the lighthouse - at the end. This really is a very special place, we could feel it.

The weather had really turned in our last few days, casting a grey light over this beautiful stretch of coastline. We decided not to push our luck with a trip around the Bay of Islands and instead enjoyed the delights of our campsite by a river - which featured both a passing wild pig hunt by local Maoris and then some kind of nudest convention. Our jaws dropped on both occasions.

And so we had arrived in our final destination, Auckland. We bid farewell to our cosy camper and the sun came back out for the final few days as we explored the big city.

"The sky is falling!"

As a child, I was read the story of 'Henny Penny' when a little chick is worried that "the sky is falling!" when an acorn drops out of the sky and hits her on the head. I couldn't help but think about this story, and what Henny Penny would make of what I was about to do: fall out of the sky like the acorn!

So back to Henny Penny. On my first day in Taupo I made a skydive booking with Taupo Tandem Skydive and, thus, sealed my fate. I would be jumping out of a small plane at 15,000ft with an instructor strapped to my back, with a parachute strapped to her back and just fresh air to see us through. Much like the acorn, it wouldn't be the sky that would be falling, it would be me.

After the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, we arrived in Taupo, the skydive capital of the world. Just before I get into story, here's a little fact we read about Taupo that made me go "wow!

Taupo, which is really quite small, is the same size as Singapore. Singapore, which we visited before we arrived in Australia, has the same total population as the whole of New Zealand. To put this into perspective, that's like the entire population of New Zealand, living in Taupo. Asia: the mind still boggles.

I hadn't told anyone, but Med, my sister, Beth, and my cousin Rachel - all of whom were sworn to secrecy. The aim was to avoid my mum having many sleepless nights worrying about a parachute, strapped to an instructor, strapped to her first-born child.

The morning of my skydive we woke up in a campsite 30kms outside of town. The day had arrived and while I was nervous, I wasn't paralysed with fear, more giddy with excitement.

When in 'the land of the long white cloud', you can expect to see many long white clouds. Today was one of those days, but this wasn't about perfect blue skies for me, this was about hurtling through the air at a speed of 200mph.

I was minibussed with a few other jumpers to the airport. Yes, to the actual Taupo airport, I don't know why I was surprised by this, but I was. They had one space left on a plane that was minutes away from taking off so I was bundled into the back, giving a very quick safety briefing while about 7 pairs of hands quickly suited and harnessed me up. One of those was my dive master, Chrissy, the only female instructor they have.

"Is it all done up properly?" I asked. Everything had happened so quickly and the group I arrived with had barely sat down on the sofas for their introduction. "Yes, don't worry, it's all safe," Chrissy assured me. And it was off to the plane we go.

We bundled in at the back, with me basically sat on Chrissy's lap and my cameraman (who would be filming my freefall and taking pictures) sat on my lap. I then learnt that I was the only one of the group going up to 15,000ft and the rest would be jumping at 12,000ft. I tried to think of a good reason I had chosen the highest one when everyone else went for the lower option.

The flight up to 15,000ft is probably the longest part of the the entire dive experience. We were in a rickety plane, which rattled it's way up over Lake Taupo.

While taking in the views, I was chatting to Chrissy about her job and life in general, as if we weren't about to jump out of a plane at all but were sat enjoying a cuppa. The only giveaway was having to shout over the noise of the plane. And the man sat on my lap.

As we hit around 9,000ft, I had a breathe through an oxygen mask, again, the only one doing this as I was going up so high. The air at that altitude is really thin and super cold. I could feel my toes getting cold in my very breathable trainers.

As we hit 11,000ft, Chrissy helped me put on my hat and gloves as I looked out to see Mount Ngauruhoe above the clouds.

At 12,000 feet, the instructor at the front pulled up the door and the altitude’s cold air came whistling in. The others in the plane started jumping out and disappearing before we had chance to hear their screams. I was looking after the girl to my side who was overcome with nerves, forgetting any of my own fear for a few minutes.

Once everyone else had jumped, the rolling door was closed again and we went up and up to reach 15,000ft. That is very high, in case you were wondering. Way, way above the clouds and mountains.

Chrissy strapped the goggles to my face. I knew as they dug into my face that I would have attractive red marks for the rest of the day.
The door opened and my time had come.

Chrissy and I, now moving as one, shuffled to the back of the plane. I swung my legs over the plane’s edge, my camera guy slid by and hung on to the outside rail of the plane (I remembered being worried for him, "quite dangerous," I thought), a mounted camera took a picture, Chrissy tipped my head back over her shoulder and we fell. And fell. (There really was no “dive” or “jump” out of the plane. It felt more like that team building game where you simply close your eyes, lean back – or in this case forward – and hope that the person behind you knows what they’re doing.)

I felt my heart lurch as I plummeted over the edge of the plane, but I did not scream. Perhaps I couldn't due to the wind that hits you hard for that instant facelift!

For about 10 seconds I had no idea where I was or which way was up. I thought the wind/air would stop us moving so quickly, but it did just feel like we were speeding to earth. It was like the lurch felt on a big rollercoaster, but never ending.

Chrissy levelled us up and tapped me on the shoulder to put my arms out. Now I could see clearly the clouds and lake below, and the never ending sky above.

Falling at terminal velocity is one of the best feelings in the world! My face was pummeled by the wind (some great photos of that!) but that couldn't do anything to move the huge grin off my face! I waved my hands around in sheer joy and felt the resistance of the air against me.

As I had 60 seconds of freefall, I actually had time to look around and enjoy the scenery. The lake peeping through the clouds truly looked amazing from way up there! Even the mountains came into view in the distance as we rotated around.

Just as I was waving at the camera, everything seemed to disappear and go blank. Time stood still. We had arrived into the clouds and were now cushioned by a parachute.

I felt like I'd lost all my senses in one go. I couldn't see anything but white, I felt quite deaf from a combination of cloud fog and painful ears from the altitude and it took me a while to recover from the shock and shout out in elation! "I did it!! Sorry mum!!"

We then gently parachuted our way over the edge of the lake, whooshing around in 360 turns and dazed at what had just happened to my body and mind. After a few minutes of gliding, we came in for a very soft landing on the grass and I joined the other divers waiting for me in a victory dance.

Skydiving is one of the best, most exhilarating, most unique experiences I have ever had. if you ever get the chance to fall out of a plane (with a parachute on), don’t even hesitate. You won’t regret it.

*I will embed the video of my jump as soon as I have it uploaded onto a computer. In the meantime, here it is on YouTube!

Walking on volcanoes: celebrating 6 months on the road

The day we hit the half way mark of our trip was a special one.

6.30am is an early start and 2 degrees is blooming cold to suffer for something we weren't even sure we could do that day due to a rotten weather forecast. But up we got to do the 20km tough hike touted as the best day walk in New Zealand - The Tongariro Alpine Crossing - also known to the locals as 'The Crossing of Death'.

The crossing passes over the volcanic terrain of the multi-cratered, active volcano, Mt Tongariro, and also passes the eastern base of Mt Ngauruhoe. We heard it was a bit like landing on the moon, and I felt very under prepared!

In my rucksack I packed all the layers I own, including an extra pair of socks that today would double up as mittens if needs must. We were to climb up to 1,900m above sea level and it was already cold at 600m. What's more, there had been fresh snowfall the day before and we would be less than 400m from it.

Yes, yes it could.As we wiped the sleep from our eyes and drove to where we were to catch the minibus to the start, we eventually realised that the sky was clear and the sun was shining down on the spectacular landscape. Could this be our lucky day?

6 months to the day since we had left home, we were to hike over an active volcano - strangely, this day fell on a leap year, otherwise we wouldn't be able to celebrate our half way mark at all as we left on the 29th August.

It was so clear our bus driver, Steve, said it was just one of ten days like it all season as he eagerly pointed out the snow-capped peak of Mount Taranaki some 200kms away.

We could also see the snow up on the three volcanoes in the park: Tongariro, Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe. I felt quite giddy, the kind of giddy when travel moments like this take our breath away.

Our luck almost ran out as we got stuck behind a group of school boys who were dragging their heels under the enormous backpacks they had to wear. But, right from the start, there was a real sense of camaraderie between the trampers, as we made various amusing attempts to run past the already-flailing school boys to get ahead. And get ahead we did, now walking with a Canadian couple, Ems and John.

The most active of the volcanoes, Mount Ngauruhoe (which, geographically is actually considered to be a large vent of Mount Tongariro - incase there's any geographers reading this!), last erupted in 1975, and as we walked on volcanic soil and rock, we could see past lava flows layered ahead of us, with the lava monster, Ngauruhoe, looming behind.

It was nothing short of spectacular, and the best was yet to come.

We climbed the Devils' staircase, hundreds of steps cut into the side of the rubble and lava. They really were the work of the devil, but the view from the top was encouragement enough.

In front of us was Mount Ngauruhoe (Mount Doom from Lord of the Rings - some trivia for you, as the top of the volcano is heralded as sacred by the Maori people, the movie makers didn't film the top and superimposed another volcano top), to one side was Mount Tongariro and in the distance we could still make out Mount Taranaki.

We had reached the South Crater, an impressive plain to cross underneath the gaze of of Mount Ngauruhoe/Doom before the final, hard ascent up the Red Crater, which is the highest section of the trek. The ground underfoot is a bit like fine charcoal and you can see why this part of the trek is considered quite dangerous in high wind. It's bit of a slog and very steep in places - no handy staircase here.

The volcanoes and the inherent geothermal activity which comes along with it have created a spectacular landscape of steaming fissures and brightly coloured lakes.

The crater itself looks very demonic with huge vents that belched sulphuric gas. In fact, as we reached the top and looked around at the endless volcanic landscape, steam was rising from the ground, creating a suffocating, rotten egg smell when the wind changed direction and blew it in our faces. Even the ground was warm to sit on as we rested our legs atop the Red Crater, left dumbfounded by the view.

Apart from having warm bottoms, it was cold up here as the icy winds licked at our faces so I was glad I had decided to wrap a scarf around my head to protect my ears from the cold. A volcano is NOT a catwalk.

We had been warned that this beautiful weather would change in the afternoon, and decided the 2 hour side trip to see the opening vent of Mount Tongariro was probably pushing our luck. And we were being lured by the jade and emerald lakes down the steep slope, which could only look the piercing under blue skies.

Ems and I falling down. The slightly treacherous descent down the other side is softened by the spongy volcanic ash and soil, which is good as just as I was laughing at our new friend, Ems, falling on her bum and sliding down, I then wobbled, lost my balance and followed her down. If only we had caught it on camera, we'd be £250 better off courtesy of You've Been Framed for sure!

The fiery black and red beneath our feet was perfectly offset with the intense blue of the Emerald Lakes and the deeper blue of the Blue Lake in the distance. Every now-and-then you can see bubbles coming to the surface of the Emerald Lakes and there was an even stronger whiff of bad eggs.

We watched one man put his whole hand in, which Med said was probably a bad idea due to the sulphur content, but he then went to put his own little finger in. How often in your life do you get to sample the water in the midst of a volcano?

We got close to one of the vents and saw the bubbles of boiling water that we spewing steam into the chilled air.

After walking across a barren, moon-like expanse, we stopped to eat our packed lunch (cheese and pickle sandwiches again, what else?) aside the Blue Lake, moving on again before muscle rigamortis struck. We were only half way after 3.5 hours of walking.

On from the Blue Lake the view into the valley slowly swings into view with a spectacular vista down into farmlands and off in the distance is Lake Taupo. The mist that had threatened to ruin the day was slowly rolling in, mingling with the steam from the hot springs.

We walked the long, winding walk, through forest and down to the car park at the end of the crossing - somehow walking downhill can be more hard work than going up. Thankfully, we were happily chatting to new friends, adding Canada on our list of places we have to see on a future adventure.

With sore feet, knotted hair and wet socks, after a trip by minibus back to the village, we went for a celebratory beer. Our luck continued, we had already booked a car park spot outside a hostel in Lake Taupo, which meant one thing: a shower! What's more, Med had promised to take me out for a slap up meal for our 6 month traveling anniversary - and we had certainly earned it.

Giving it a bit of 'Welly'

We sailed on the car ferry from Picton to the North Island, pulling into Wellington, New Zealand's capital city known fondly as "Windy Welly".

Wellington has quite a arty, bohemian feel to it and has it's own fresh and forward-thinking spirit.

To give you an idea how incongruous 'Welly' feels compared to the rest of New Zealand, here's a few things you need to know: Kiwi towns have old, musty taverns rather than pubs or bars; there's usually just one shop that serves food, fuel and just about anything you might need; in some places you'd have to drive for 2 hours or more just to go to the cinema or shop for clothes; and perhaps my favourite example of all - one of the main state highways has parts that aren't sealed, just gravel track. A state highway, looking more like someone's driveway!

It's backward, in the most charming, arresting way. But Welly was a refreshing break from the quaint time warp that the rest of the country embraces.

Absorbing the sights and sounds of the city, we visited the Te Papa museum (it's free, so we naturally made a beeline for it!). It was vibrant and the amount of displays and levels was a little overwhelming. It certainly made a change from the dusty museums and fading displays on offer elsewhere.

Spending a day in a city like Wellington feels like we've pressed the pause button on our travels. So we happily pushed 'play' again as we headed to Tongariro National Park.

Sounds, seals and sea kayaking

After a rain-washed visit to Kaikoura, we headed to the far north east of the south island, to Marlborough Sounds. Here lies 1,500kms of breathtaking coast - one fifth of New Zealand’s total coastline - a maze of inlets, islands, headlands, peaks, beaches and vast expanses of water known as 'sounds'.

We drove the wiggly, stomach-tightening drive from Picton to the meandering Queen Charlotte Track, which we would spend the next few days dipping into. The whole track is 71kms, stretching from shoreline to ridgeline, exploring the hidden bays and coves of the Marlborough Sounds.

We made three tramps over three days, walking through lush, coastal forest to viewpoints overlooking Queen Charlotte and Kenepuru Sounds. To celebrate, we went for a dip in the sounds in the evening. Almost as good as a shower.

Just as we left Marlborough, the gathering clouds exploded overhead and rainfall erupted. After killing some time in the library and supermarket, we were campervan-bound for most of the day and night. Cheese sandwiches leave a lot to be desired as an evening meal, especially as we had already eaten them for lunch (we hoped the different flavour of pickle would make all the difference - it didn't).

We cowered in the middle of an isolated Lord of the Rings forest (known as 'Chetwood Forest' in the films) and hoped we wouldn't be floating down a newly-formed river when we woke up the next morning.

We awoke to sunshine and came out of our cheese-sandwich hibernation, glad to stretch our legs again with a wet walk to Harwoods hole - a 357m-deep sink hole.

The next day, with blue skies ahead, we were in Manauha to start our sea-kayaking adventure along the coast of the Abel Tasman National Park. We were going at it alone, but had a briefing from the kayak company, teaching us how to paddle, how to put the rudder down and use the foot pedals to work it, how to attach the spray skirt to form a tight lid between our waists and the boat’s opening, and — most important — how to detach the skirt if we capsize so we can swim free.

We should remember to face waves head on, not sideways, and if a wave hits the kayak parallel instead of perpendicular, then lean into it. We went over this last part about five times - anyone would think we were sailing to Australia (perhaps we would be, had they not been so thorough).

We packed all our gear into dry bags (mostly, I mean bin bags), including the tent we had hired, and soon we were on the beach, ready to launch. The water was a serene turquoise - so the chances of us needing the emergency procedures were low - and we set sail in the sunshine.

The Abel Tasman National Park (named after the mid-17th-century explorer who was the first European to site New Zealand, and Tasmania, funny that) crowns the top of the South Island with lush green mountain-sides that sprout tree ferns everywhere. The coastline curves out and in around points and bays, protruding like gnarled knuckles on a fist, and several islands with seal colonies rise up in rocky humps.

We got into our kayaking rhythm, feeling the muscles in our arms slowly getting used to this new exertion. In front of us stretched the aquamarine color of the water, white beach coves and cliffs with rope-like, black vines that hung and tangle around the shafts of giant ferns (called mamaku).

Singing British songstress Adele's back catalogue, we circumnavigated Adele Island and saw our first seal - a big fat one who was having a good scratch, indifferent to his audience.

There are seals all along the coast, and we spotted some tiny seal pups nestling up to mum on the rocks. The older infants played in the water, lying on their backs and flapping their tales in the air as if to poke fun at us.

We spent the day pulling into different bays for a swim, and finally docked up at Anchorage bay to set up camp behind the beach, where hundreds of blue starfish had been washed up in the rainstorm.

That evening, we met a great group of people (French, German, Israeli, American) and went to explore a cave alight like the night's sky with tiny glow worms. Then the stars came out in their thousands and we were unable to take our eyes off them.

After a cold night's sleep in the tent, we were back out on the water to warm up our stiff shoulders. We explored the lagoons along this stretch of coast, calm inlets that in just a couple of hours would be completely empty and dry because of the dramatic ebb and flow of the tides.

We pulled up on a very special beach for lunch: Medland's beach. It is named after the roguish Vernon Arnold Medland (known as 'Meddy) who lived here and refused to leave the island when instructed to by the authorities. In protest (he liked more than the odd tipple), we're told he blew up his house. I'm sure there's more to this story, but it goes without saying old 'Meddy' was a bit of a character.

After more seal-spotting and sun-lounging, we were picked up by a speedboat to take us back to Manauha. We gripped on tightly as it cut through the waves, rising up and slamming down with a force that sprayed water over the sides and sent shockwaves through our tired bodies.

The art of camping

After a few weeks living in a basic campervan, I now feel we can count ourselves as seasoned campers. We have perfected the art of cooking on both a tight budget and a single-ringed gas stove; we can sniff out a free campsite and spot a drinking water tap a mile off; and we don't think twice about putting on woolly socks with our flip flops to fend off the sand flies and evening chill.

Our days start by putting away the bed (stacking up the three foam mattresses and folding the duvet), putting on the clothes from the day before (why put on fresh clothes if you aren't clean?!) and then making breakfast. We sit on our fold-out camping chairs in the dewy grass, often surrounded by trees and mountains, miles away from anywhere. Then it's back on the gravel road to hit the main road and start our day of activities, filling up on petrol, water and food along the way.

There are no showers at the Department of Conservation (DOC) campsites, just a vault toilet, sometimes very clean, often not. And there's flies, lots of flies. I've learned that holding your breath to block out the smell only works if you are quick enough; a head torch should be used carefully as, really, you don't want to see too much; and hand sanitiser is a gift from the gods.

On a slightly different note, I've also learned that red wine makes you forget that this is the fourth veggie chilly you've eaten this week; sand flies and mosquitoes will find their way through the smallest gap; and you can never read too many books in a week.

Camping can be quite a lonely affair, especially in the wilds of New Zealand. However, we do get to meet some great people in the busier campsites, from all walks of life. One night when camping by a river, we had finished dinner and were onto our second glass of red, when a woman starts yelling for help. We jumped up and soon saw what the problem was: from where we stood it looked like their caravan was going up in flames.

Med runs over while I run round the campsite, shouting for a fire extinguisher.

Soon, most people are out of their vans or tents and gathering to watch. It turns out their ancient gas lamp had set on fire in the woman's hands, inside the caravan, but luckily she had managed to throw it out. They were very lucky as the flames that shot up into the sky managed to miss the car and caravan by a whisker.

We all watched as it burnt out; people from all across the world coming together to stare at the demise of a gas cylinder, in a field, miles from the nearest town, as the stars came out in the clear night's sky.

The world's steepest street and rarest penguin

Feeling fully initiated into Kiwi culture after Orepuki, we trundled further south to Bluff (and it is a bluff, mascarading as the southern most point of NZ) and then to the true, most southerly tip of NZ, Slope Point.

Contrary to previous blog posts, we are not addicted to visiting the furthest extremities of countries, but there was something very appealing about knowing that the next large mass of land from where we stood was the Antarctic.

It was a 20 minute walk across farmland to a stubby beacon, and an even stubbier signpost (for our compulsory photograph), where we stood atop a windswept spur of rock with views up and down the wild coast. This also marked the sight of the most southern land Med and I have ever stepped foot on - maybe we should erect our own sign too.

We were now in the Catlins territory - a combination of lush farmland, thick, native forests and lonely, rugged bays. The sunshine soon disappeared, leaving us in the face of a grey, whipping Antarctic southerly, biting at my fingers and "jandal" (the Kiwi word for flip flops)-exposed toes.

Layering up in hoodies and jeans, grateful we had lugged them around in our backpacks all this time, we watched furl seals and sea lions laze along the coastline and walked through rich, damp forests, spotting red and white-spotted toadstools straight out of a storybook.

The sun did eventually come out when we reached Curio Bay, where fossilised, Jurassic-aged trees are visible at low tide. We got a close look at the solid, petrified wood and then, to our surprise, three of the world's rarest penguins.

The yellow-eyed penguins usually only come out at sunset, but there they were, drying themselves off in the midday sun. We watched as one of them waddled his way towards the water, across the petrified forest, and launched himself into the sea to chase after supper.

Hot on the heels of the world's rarest penguin, we then visited Dunedin (the name comes from Dùn Èideann - the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh - and it's trying with all it's might to be just like it) to walk up the world's steepest street: Barlow Street. It was very steep. I'm sure the residents have killer calf muscles.

In a week of the unique and downright unusual, we went to gawp at the Moeraki Boulders - a group of unusually large and spherical stone balls lying along a stretch of Koekohe Beach on the wave cut Otago coast.

According to the sign, the Moeraki Boulders are concretions created by the cementation of mudstone, from which they have been exhumed by coastal erosion. So in lay-mans terms (or rather, how Med explained it to me), they are giant, rock pearls, popped out onto the beach because the sea has worn away the cliffs.

As we moved inland again, we rediscovered the cloud-less blue of the Kiwi summer sky. Eating sultana porridge out of a pan on the morning shore of Lake Tekapo has to beat breakfast even in the finest of hotels.

Under a canopy of sunshine and clear skies, Lake Tekapo is the most astonishing blue colour I have ever seen. The glacial flour from the rocks make it look so clear and inviting, perfectly reflecting the the huge hills and snowy peaks surrounding it.

We walked up a steep, alpine track to the summit of Mount John for a 360 view of the landscape below. Mount Cook and Mount Tasman casually peep over the top of the mountains in the forefront on one side, and the many lakes are blisteringly bright in the midday sun.

New Zealand is endlessly beautiful.

Home, Sweet, Campervan

And so, it was back to being backpackers once more, in a town that is bursting at the seems with backpackers. People come to bungy jump, water ski, sky dive, ski and snowboard (in winter, sure), hike, mountain bike and more. Queenstown has an adrenalin-fueled atmosphere and you feel the buzz just walking around it's busy streets.

After hiking up steep tracks for lake and mountain views, breathing in the clean, fresh oxygen from the thick foliage all around and greedily devouring more Fergburgers, we picked up our Wicked campervan and bid beautiful Queenstown goodbye.

Having a set of wheels again - be they a tad clunky and exceptionally "well-loved" - reminded us of what real freedom felt like. In a campervan, every hour or every day is your own. There are no lost minutes zoning out in front of a television, no time waiting for a someone to finish in the shower (there are none) and no internet access offering hours of soon-forgotten entertainment.

As we cruised along in our old Toyota Estima, windows down, listening to colourful local radio, we were reminded that, like Australia, real beauty lies firmly outside of towns and cities. Queenstown is set in the most spectacular location, up in the Southern Alps, amidst imposing, snow-capped mountains, gushing rivers and a seemingly endless string of lakes.

We headed to Glenorchy, at the far west edge of Lake Wakatipu, where we camped out on the edge of the water, surrounded by mountain ranges on all sides. Our camper already felt like home: we had decked it out with a duvet, blankets, pillows, kitchen bits and, most importantly, a food cupboard. My thrifty gene had also come in handy: we had tea (English breakfast, Ceylon, Earl Grey, Chamomile and Green), coffee and hot chocolate courtesy of the hotels we had enjoyed with Med's parents.

We had heard the word "tramping" murmured in the past week or so. As much as I wanted to believe this was some kind of off-the-wall, very un-politically correct Kiwi past time (I wouldn't put it past them!) where people hoik penniless rogues off the streets and lock them up/burn them at the stake, this was thankfully not the case. Tramping is the Kiwi word for hiking, and "tramps" are as firmly a part of Kiwi-culture as the cauliflower ear.

The next day, we took part in a little tramping ourselves, in the foothills of the mountains, before heading south. A brief chat to a fellow camper and an act of fate brought us to a place called Orepuki in the late afternoon. I'm sure this town once had character, charm and perhaps even people. Today, most of the houses are boarded up and all commercial buildings, bar one, have been derelict for years.

We found the one, resilient place still open for business: the Orepuki Tavern. We were lured in with the promise of a free campsite in their back garden, with a few mangy looking sheep and one, stump-legged pony. Ah freedom, there's nothing quite like it.

I was volunteered by Med to go into the tavern to enquire about the camping. This would be one of many times when Med used his new, ever-fuzzing facial hair as a reason why I should do something to "give a better impression".

So off I trot, pushing the smeared glass door of the tavern open. Seven pairs of eyes turned to watch my entrance. "Hi," I smiled meekly, met by silence. If there's one thing we've learned about the Kiwis, that while they're the most open, generous, good-humoured people you'll ever meet, there's no time wasted on pleasantries and how do you dos. "We saw the sign out the back and was wondering if we could park up our campervan, it's small and..." I trailed off as all seven pair of eyes continued to watch me. "Wait there," said the thick-set woman as she walked to the back of the bar.

Here, a man stood over two, large deep fat fryers - this was also the town's only restaurant. I was sad to see that we'd missed the 'Speed sheep sheering' contest the night before and we wouldn't be around for 'Sarah's Tarts and Vicars divorce party' "John, can these people park their van in the field?". John, eying me while he held a fozen bag of battered-something-or-other up, replied: "Yes, just tell'em they need to buy a $100 worth of beer though!" - his large gut shuddered as he chortled at his joke. The woman walks back over to me, all the while I'm aware of a old, toothless man staring at me as he propped up the bar, pleased with John's joke and nodding his balding head in agreement.

After signing my name, country and D.O.B in a book for no apparent reason but to amuse the locals, I made a run for the door and heard tinkers of laughter as I stepped outside.

As appealing as the deep-fried fancies on offer inside were, I cooked dinner and we decided we had better go in for a pint in return for our free pitch. To my surprise, the crowd inside had more than doubled by now and, despite it being 6.45pm on a Sunday night, everyone was in various states of drunkenness. We ordered two pints of DB, a local spin-off of VB that tasted just as bad, and walked across the threadbare carpet to find two stools around an old-fashioned barrel. As soon as we had sat and taken our first gulp, a ruddy-faced man in his 60s failed to walk in a straight line as he made his way over to our table.

In the conversation that ensured, we understood around 30% of what his inebriated words, we made for an uncomfortable 25 minutes. One part we did understand was when he pointed out his wife, the woman in her bike leathers, even more incoherent than her husband. We watched as she mistook the window for the door and her husband explained, "Shus pissed as uh fart". We drank up, thanked the drunk man for the 30% of information we could decipher and headed to the only reason anyone visits Orepuki: Gem Stone beach.

Sadly, we didn't knowingly find any of the precious gem stones that wash up on this shore all year round, but Orepuki was a shining treasure in it's own, sheep sheering, beer drinking way.