Bad Luck Tiki

I dont believe in luck, it's that simple. However, my belief was shaken recently. When I was in the Maori village, I bought a small Tiki necklace. It looked like this:



It's supposed to represent unborn children and bring you good luck. However, I wonder how wearing a fetus around your neck could bring anything good. I also was worried that wearing 2 necklaces, a nice watch, a leather cuff bracelet, a rubber wristband, an ipod (which is practically a fashion accessory), and an eyebrow ring would be a little excessive. I shouldve listened to my first instinct.

Things seemed fine. I bought the necklace, along with a little wooden statuette and a glass kiwi bird for my mother, had them all wrapped up, and brought back to my hotel. At the hotel, I unwrapped the tiki, and put it on its new home around my neck. Then I went out for lunch. At the first intersection, I was almost run down by a car.

Now, it didnt strike me as too weird. I mean, traffic is on the opposite side of the road, and it was possible that after 5 months, I still wasnt used to everything. However, my suspicion was aroused when at the next road crossing, I was almost bowled over by a tour bus. And just to top that off, a third car narrowly avoided my cranium on the return trip.

Maybe I was just having a bad day. I didnt think the tiki was doing it, because otherwise I wouldnt have worn it for skydiving. Luckily, my bad luck tiki struck early. Skydiving was cancelled due to high winds, and rescheduled for bright and early the next morning, when the weatherman predicted 70% chance of it being calm and beautiful.

So we woke up bright and early at 5am, and I dont need to tell you what happened next. It was shitty, windy, and drizzly out. I'd worn my necklace overnight.

Skipping skydiving for now, we made our way towards Wellington. Most of the time it was rainy and crap, obscuring our views of the famous Mt. Doom, among other things. The Lord Of The Rings dorks among us were sad, but I didnt mind, since I hate those movies. I'm glad they didnt yet realize I was to blame.

There was one stop we made, a town with a break in the clouds. Now, I know what they say about showers bringing flowers, but there's supposed to be a time delay. I stepped off the bus, and was immediately slapped in the face with the worst allergy attack I've had in over a year. I was sneezing, coughing, dripping, and my eyes burned. One sunny spot in the entire north island, and I'm agonizing.

When we leave the town, my allergies go away, but the sore throat and cough persist, and worsen. My lymph glands (wiki it) swell. My congestion reaches new highs. Yes, I have a nasty cold, the only cold I've had since I left America 5 months earlier, and quite possibly my only cold of 2007. It is here that I finally realize the bad influence of my necklace.

Mind you, it was entirely in jest. I didnt really think my tiki was really bringing bad luck. I mean, these are large scale climate things, and colds just happen. Even when I decided to go down the wet kiddy slide in the park, where despite its shallow angle I still ended up barreling off the slide, flying into the air, landing hard on my back, soaking my pants, and disintegrating my return train ticket, I didnt believe the curse.

No, I think when I finally started believing the curse was at Fox Glacier. We were supposed to take a helicopter to the top, but a sudden early fog grounded our flight. We begged them to wait, just a few minutes, but the schedule was tight. Flights were cancelled... That is, until the fog cleared up 20 minutes later, and every subsequent flight of the day went without a hitch. No, this was personal. This made me a believer.

Still, I carried a shred of doubt. I mean, this happened to my entire group. Maybe someone else on tour was cursed, right? Well, that doubt was squelched when we arrived at our hotel in Queenstown. The first bunch in, we took the elevator one floor down, because we were too lazy to drag our bags. We arrived at our floor, the bell dinged, but the door just kinda stayed put. One floor, and for the very first time in my life, I was trapped in an elevator. This time, the blame felt squarely on me, and my fellow trapmates knew it. I swore to them I'd get rid of the necklace at some point during the half hour wait we had for rescue.

Of course I lied. I paid good money for this thing! However, I had the good sense to not wear it during my hang glide or bungy jump. No, I only wore it when I was walking around the town. It's a respectable hike, so I brought my ipod, only to discover that while I thought it had charge, it was quite dead. Long boring quiet walk I had.

Wouldnt it be nice if that was the extent of my bad luck? When I returned to the hotel, I promptly plugged in my charger to refuel my baby. The comforting Apple logo popped up... and stayed. I rebooted. The ominous Apple logo popped up again, only to disappear. Then reappear. Then disappear. Over and over. My ipod was stuck in infinite reboot. Just in time, too. My 28 hour journey home was only a day and a half away.

On my return, I discovered 3 horrific facts. One, my ipod had its first birthday while I was in New Zealand. Two, its birthday was only 2 days before it broke. Three, my warranty only lasts 1 year. My ipod was totally and permanently fucked, and there was nothing I could do about besides buy a new one.

And there you have it. My tiki brought endless trouble to the tour, cost me 200 dollars, and nearly got me killed multiple times. But hey, atleast it looks nice on me...

... Psych! There's no way I was bringing that bad juju on an airplane! I tossed it into a creek in a small park in Christchurch. Leave it in the land of the Maoris. Hopefully it'll be purified before the next dumb schmuck who finds it thinks it's cool to wear a fetus around your neck.

Merry Christmas, Goyim

Tis the season for wonton commercialism and a perversion of Christianity. I hope you're all enjoying yourselves.

If you didnt already know, the sad truth is that I'm no longer in Australia. Hell, I'm not even in New Zealand. 28 painfully tedious hours of travel later, I'm home in the frozen north. So, the obvious and important question now, is "Where does this leave my blog?"

Excellent question. The blog has always intended to be a travel blog, though somewhere along the line it transmogrified into a steamy sex journal. But that's neither here nor there. The point is I'm now home. That should be the end of the blog, yes?

Well, sorry to disappoint. I have a few more Australia-In-Hindsight things to post about, so I'm atleast dragging this shit out to the New Year. After that... I dont know. Frankly, my real life is pretty boring. Who wants to read about some dumb shmuck who gets up, goes to class, sees nothing more glamorous than a squirrel, plays beer pong, and goes to sleep? I wouldnt. Only emo half-wits keep blogs when there's no point. So, lets hope for your sake and mine that I can learn to make my boring old life just a little more interesting.

The New Closet

Picking up my hanging thread, of course my other fear is the closet. I used to think there were monsters in my closet, and for awhile, I was pretty sure it contained a vicious velociraptor, toe claw prepared to disembowel my impressionable young self. Blame Jurassic Park. But later, as I knocked all my childhood fears down (girls, clowns, Indian food), I discovered that all I had left to fear was painful death, STDs, heights, and my own latent bisexuality. I set off to Australia determined to conquer atleast two of those fears.

If you've been reading this blog as religiously as Dan, you'd know that Australia, besides incessant binge drinking and my constant attempts to find life-threatening animals, was all about homosexuality. I managed to make a slut of myself, and in a short amount of time, fool around with more guys than I had in my entire life to that point. I even managed to get myself outed, to become the token College Fag at St John's, a visible symbol and lightning rod to attract people's acceptance, homophobia, and everything in between. But it was never honest.

I accepted a moniker, a cloak of homosexuality if you will, because I needed to finally understand that part of me. I ultimately found that while being gay is easier to get laid, I found it no more fulfilling than being straight. Which I suppose means that I'm either practically asexual (ROFL!), am picky as hell, or most normally, fooling around is only so amusing, and I need a real connection and affection to really enjoy myself.

So, lesson learned. Now it was time to return to the real world, having broken down my fear of the closet and being labeled as gay by my peers. I was ready to be a whole person. I just needed to take a detour through New Zealand.

I didnt expect any gay people on this trip, and I wasnt wrong, though that didnt stop me from prodding a few potentials (not literally) to find out. What I didnt expect was Ruth. I'm attracted to girls all the time, but its been a long time since I've had a real crush, and here I was smacked hard in the face by one.

The two of us got along well enough, and the possibility did seem to linger in the air. Then Louise got suspicious. We had another man on our tour, the german with the complicated name, who was being visibly discreet (if you get my drift) about his private life. So Louise, our loveably gruff and forward big woman on the trip started grilling him from her cozy spot in the hot tub. I walked in at the wrong time.

"Scott, do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, to which I honestly responded 'no'. I knew, or thought I knew what she was getting at. She must've thought I was a sexless dork or something, which frankly wouldnt be a bad assumption under other circumstances. However, I didnt want to have to maintain an imaginary girlfriend, and Ruth was in the motel room with the open door, very much in hearing distance. Then, I was proven wrong.

"Scott, do you have a boyfriend?" My eyes must've bugged out. Shit, am I that obvious? Have I suddenly transformed into total camp? The expression on my face was happily more confusion than fear, because G-man stepped in and explained that he was getting the same treatment. So I answered Lou, an honest "no". But, the look on my face was a precrafted and manufactured combination of frankness and disdain, designed to say "I'm not a homophobe, but I'm no fucking queer!" It was a look I perfected in the closet, a place I found myself again.

I can tell you now with all honesty, I was not afraid of being out. I was not afraid of being hated, shunned, or beaten up. I could take whatever anyone threw at me. No, the one and only reason I stepped back from the edge was Ruth. Long ago I had come to the conclusion that no one likes a bi man. Guys think he's a cheater, while girls think he's diseased. Hell, the reason I adopted the mask of gay in Australia was because I didnt want to deal with the hassle of biphobia while experimenting. But my experiments were over, and this was supposed to be my return to the real world. Well, welcome to the real world. If I ever want to be with a girl again, I'd better keep my mouth shut.

Putting me in the closet is always a bad idea. When I started in Australia, the strain of trying to say in the closet while being sexually active the first month caused me to pointlessly out myself to the entire StudLife newspaper staff back home and almost publicly out myself to the entire school in an editorial piece. Luckily, my mom talked some sense into me in the last minute. She was right all along. Girls equate bi to gay, and I need to carefully control who knows about me. Now here I was in New Zealand, trying to do just the same, but with newfound queer identity pride gnawing at my mind the whole time. I became obsessive, thinking about outing myself almost all the time, knowing that nothing good would come of it. Something had to break.

It's always alcohol, isnt it? When you get drunk, things happen. In Wellington, my streaking was an intentional and carefully planned experiment, albeit one whose results depressed the crap out of me. No, my real alcoholic slip-up was when I quietly outed myself to Lou at a corner table. But she's a big girl. She must know what its like, how the reality of herself prevents her from getting everything she wants. Fuck, it must be so much harder for her, since there's no closet to hide in. I hope she doesnt read this, but if she does, I'm genuine when I say I have so much respect for her.

Anyhow, she agreed that girls usually dont like bi guys, but figured it was pointless anyway, since she believed Ruth and I were too platonic and going nowhere fast. If its causing me strain, I might as well be out.

Well, I didnt take her advice, keeping it bottled up for more of the trip. Luckily, we gained some new members in Wellington, including one named Ash. Now, for any of my tourmates reading this, allow me to put a rumor to bed, permanently. Ash is straight. Ash is entirely heterosexual. I'm the fag, not Ash. You guessed wrong.

Ash, besides being 50% older than me, was very much like me. He was chatty, goofy, highly extroverted, and seemed to always be hiding his depths behind a thick but shallow mask. Hopefully I got atleast a glimpse behind it. But, more relevantly to the story, I realized right away I could talk to him. Perhaps more importantly, he's a lighting director for concerts and plays, and must have a high fag tolerance as part of the job requirement. So in Christchurch, without me even being too pissfaced, I outed myself to him too.

The irony of the whole situation was that we had our long philosophical chat sitting at the hotel (shitty dirty hostel) bar. I had no qualms talking about homosexuality surrounded by drunken and potentially hostile strangers, but I couldnt say a peep around Ruth or the rest of the tour. However, Ash could see I looked visibly relieved releasing some of the pressure, and he said as such. But, he also made the point that as much as I claim its all about Ruth, the fact remains that this is a matter of shame to me. I can pretend to be GAY all I want, but unless I can synthesize some pride in being BI, I'll never be happy with myself.

That hurt. I had pride in my newfound pride, but he was right. That shouldve settled the matter, but it only made it worse. So its no surprise this issue reared its ugly head again next time I got shitfaced. Queenstown this time. An even more drunken man came up to me without warning, grabbed my arms, and started dancing with me. To be fair, I was pretty unattracted to him, but my my reluctance, my limp posture, my rolled eyes and sour face, all consciously constructed. He wizzed off obliviously to go dancing with a girl, and almost immediately, Scissor Sisters came on. Gleefully, I cozied up to Emma to dance, expressing my strong liking for the group and secretly wishing someone would tell me that they're gay.

We didnt all make it to the next bar. The ratio was pretty highly skewed towards guys. But somehow, we all managed to position ourself with geometric exactness in ways that we all danced in the direction of one of our rare women. It frustrated the hell out of me. What if I wanted to dance with a man? I quietly raved to Lou, as Ash was long gone, but she could only offer my sympathy and the chance to dance with her as a cover. Soon, she too went to bed, as did everyone else, and it was only left to me and Hannah.

Walking back to the hotel, I outed myself to Hannah as well, but she could only tell me that she was right, that she wouldnt want to hook up with a bi guy. She feared that she'd never be enough, that even if they werent gay-in-denial, they'd still never be satisfied. I assured her that this was only her own self-doubt speaking, that cheaters are cheaters and it doesnt depend on sexuality. She agreed with me, on an intellectual level, but reminded me of the obvious: Relationships are never about logic. Regardless of what she knows, she'll always feel inadequate, and she couldnt maintain a relationship like that. Then she went to bed.

Pissed and pissed, there was no way I could go to sleep. I wandered back to town, the the only bar apparently still open. Inside, I started chatting with strangers, talking my problems with girls I'd never met before. I had no intention of hooking up with them, so it was no problem. At one point, a big towering man grabbed me by the scruff of my collar and threateningly asked me if I was hitting on him. I wasnt, but it didnt matter. I was drunk and queer and I didnt care. My eyes had no fear, so he dropped me and went back to drinking.

With the clock breaking 4 and twilight starting, I made for my bed, but only managed to make it to the lobby phone. I called home with my credit card, easily the stupidest decision I made in the entire country. My mom didnt have anything soothing to say to me. I used to think she didnt understand bisexuality, always asking me when I was going to pick sides because she couldnt wrap her mind around a grayscale. Now I knew she understood it better than me; I could be as gray as I want, but I'll be gray and alone. I dont necessarily need to pick a side in who I sleep with, but I need to define myself in a neat little box or walk around with this anxious self-doubting baggage the rest of my life. I went to bed that night firmly in a new closet, and $100 in international calls down the hole. No surprise I overslept hang gliding.

This new closet was quite comfortable, and I could hit on girls in peace, knowing that the only gay guys I may meet yet wont be on tour. Essentially, I was living the Down Low, something I deeply hated a few days earlier. I suppose now I understand bisexual guys who get married and have kids, but fuck guys through the personal ads behind her back. He wanted a normal life with a wife and kids, and were he to be honest with himself, he'd be stuck with the undesirable life of a marginalized gay activist. He wanted warm American Pie, and I cant blame him for that. But it's also something I couldnt maintain myself. The new closet lasted without cracks for approximately 2 days.

Milford Sound, as you already know, is gorgeous. A perfect backdrop to get shitted on cheap champaign and play Cranium. Homosexuality never even came up, but I snapped. Luckily, Ash was handy to scoop me up and deposit me outside before I made any lasting damage. We stayed up for hours, chatting on top deck with the mountains and glaciers silhouetted in the dark. With his hoodie on, he looked like silhouetted Grim Reaper himself. I dont think I'll soon forget the image of Death among the mountains, asking me to choose.

Our long talk didnt stay confined to bisexuality, though I selfishly always tried to steer it back. No, the topics ranged wide, and burrowed themselves deep into my unconscious psyche. Sure, perhaps that sounds like I'm saying "I dont remember what we said", and that wouldnt be entirely false, but I do remember the feelings it gave me. More importantly, I remember what I learned, which may sound obvious in retrospect. If I cant be honest with myself, I cant be happy. If I'm with someone, girl or guy, and I cant be honest to them or myself, it'll never work. This new closet may be designed to make working relationships, but it will ultimately destroy them all. It's only human nature to care about what others think, to want to be perceived 'just right'. We all have our own masks and closets; its simply part of how we interact with each other. The problem is when it hurts.

The next night was our last, at Lake Ohau. Perfect excuse for a toga party, and my last chance with Ruth. Needless to say, that went nowhere. Ruth and I also have alot of similarities in our personalities, which is why my last real moment of the tour was the three way (conversation) between myself, Ruth, and Ash at dinner. But that's irrelevant to this story. Far more pertinent was that Ruth was all over the dance floor, having a good time with everybody. She was here to have fun, and that's all she was here for. She enjoyed my company because I could be as extroverted and funny as here, but she was never going to be with me, or anyone else on the trip. Lou was right. Alittle disappointing perhaps, but a fairly fitting ending. She was the engine that let me learn that I wasnt done discovering myself after Australia.

One last surprise awaited me. Lorna sat at the bar, chatting up the bartender. Jokingly, I told her she should get his number... that is, his room number! I thought I was pretty funny shit, but she totally misinterpreted me. She blinked, confused, then asked in hushed tones "Scott, are you gay?!"

Well, I really didnt see that one coming. I stepped back, shocked, and exclaimed "Not for me, for you!!" She seemed satisfied with this response, but I wasnt. Instead, I leaned in and said "But good call, you were half right" with a smirk. A smile broke across her face. We spent the rest of the evening drinking colorful but disgusting shooters like a "Cocksucking Cowboy" and "Podocarpus" [a genus of Australian conifers, wtf?] and sizing up the boys around us. I hadnt done that since leaving Australia, and god it felt good!

She also told me she thinks bi guys are hot, but nothing came out of that. Still, amused the crap out of me. Maybe 1/4 girls find it irresistible. Good odds?

Two more people got their final say that night. Ash pulled me aside before he went to sleep to share a last secret with me. He'd alluded to being smitten by a girl on tour, but I had no idea it was Lorna. But, cest la vie, it didnt work out. However, the moral of that side story, if I wasnt too drunk to misinterpret it, was that people arent always like their first impressions. If we're all open, our true selves will eventually shine through, or atleast be pieced together from behind our masks. That's the only way I'll find someone genuine for me.

On the other hand, Lou simply said "I've seen how you've been on this tour. You cant care so much about what people will think about you. I dont." If I'd followed her advice from the beginning, how would this tour have been different?

The last bus trip back was a sad one. Gifts were given, awards were given ("We're going streaking!"), and tears were shed. They asked us all to come to the front of the bus, get on the microphone, and say what they loved the most about the trip. Sitting in the very back seat, I expected to go last. Too bad Jenn pulled a fast one on me. We're going backwards order, and I was first.

Walking down the green mile to the front of the bus, I wondered what was most memorable. The seal swim was pretty damn cool. Hang gliding was unexpectedly pleasant. Skydiving was simply unforgettably awesome, and the U-Fly airplane was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I acknowledged them as such, but I told a simple truth:

"You probably expect me to say the coolest moment was the Canyon Swing or the U-Fly, and frankly, you'd be right. Thanks Jenn and Erin for the recommendations. But those arent my favorite or most memorable moments. No, what I'll remember the most was the discussions... oh, stop laughing! It's true! I'm going to remember the conversations I've had, the philosophical, the advice, even just the pleasant chatting, against the most beautiful backdrops like Milford, Queenstown, and Lake Ohau. That's what I needed, and that's what I'll remember the most. People, you know who you are. Thank you."

Atleast, that's how I think it went. I might've been stuttering and mumbling too much. You probably expected me to publicly and extravagantly out myself on a pedestal at the last moment, but then you wouldve missed the entire point. Grand declarations are just as fraudulent as manufactured facial expressions. Neither is natural. If I want to really be happy, I cant be gripped by a need to lie or a compulsion to out myself. I dont need to worry about what girls are pro or anti bi. I dont even need to tell every casual acquaintance or one night stand. I just need to be honest.

Feet On The Ground (part 2)

Queenstown isnt just the home of much of the Lord Of The Rings scenery (as well as the lake mentioned in Mission Impossible 3. Look it up). It's the adventure capitol of New Zealand, if not the world. The entire town's economy is based on rich idiots with suicidal fantasies, much like myself. This was going to be good.

We arrived at night, so the first order of business of course was to get totally shitted. After missing my chance in both Sydney and Auckland, I jumped on my chance to try a Minus 5 bar, a bar inside a walk-in freezer, where the walls, tables, chairs, sculptures, and even cups are made of solid ice. Once more I proved my newfound drinking prowess by staying out well later than everyone else, barhopping with strangers after my tourmates left. I got back after 5am and passed out, only to wake up at 8am.

Or, that was the plan. I actually woke up well after 9, with a splitting hangover and a realization that my hang gliding was scheduled at 9. I raced down to the shop, tired, sloppy, hungry, nauseous, and sick (I had a cold). But I begged, and they seemed to have sympathy on my haggard form. They let me fly at 10.

I was thankfully passed out for most of the drive up the mountain, and was still delirious as they set up the glider. Hell, I barely managed to zip up my flight suit. He even expected me to help him run off the side of the hill/cliff, when I could barely even stand.

Side note: You noticed a trend here? Its always an awkward one-piece, no matter if I'm 100 feet or 12,000 feet off the ground.

If there's anything I've learned from my time in New Zealand, its that hang gliding makes an excellent hangover cure. Moments after takeoff, I was wide awake and enjoying the view. Here I was, dangled by a string from a giant kite, and feeling fine. I was barely even shaken by the look back, where I realized my feet were danging over a particularly large void. I suppose the reference point helps. But it was much more relaxing than scary, to the point where I asked my pilot to dive bomb for me just to add a little adrenaline. He didnt disappoint. Hang gliding, despite being described as sub-par by our bus driver, ended up being one of the more memorable moments on the trip.

An extra side note: The hang gliding was especially pitched at the girls, as it was claimed that the instructors were particularly hot and tended to score with their clients. I'll admit this was a factor in my decision to chose hang gliding over river boarding, albeit a small one. However, I didnt find the instructors particularly hot, just average, with one good looking exception. But he barely spoke English and was particularly annoying, so he doesnt count.

Finally, we get to the Canyon Swing, generally hailed as the ultimate thrill in New Zealand. I didnt expect it to beat skydiving, but I took off my bracelet just in case. A canyon swing is not a true bungy; you're in a harness tethered at the waist, and instead of the sudden stop/bounce, you're swung in a gentle arc over the canyon. Ironically, I never got to do a true bungy in the international home of bungy jumping. Still, the swing has 60 meters of freefall, beating all but the biggest bungys. Its certainly no chickening out.

I got to enjoy one more complicated harness system and gimp suit, but atleast the boys at the canyon swing had a good sense of humor; a jump style where you fall vertically like a superhero is called "Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood". I wanted my childhood wish fulfillment of being Superman, but rather than be tied and dropped by my feet, I needed the experience of jumping off myself. I needed to face my fear.

The fear just didnt manifest. As they suited me up, we debated whether I should go for classic two-arms-outstretched Superman, or the new, hip, one-fisted Superman. I figured the second would be flashier. I stepped to the edge, surprising myself with how willing I was to jump. 1... 2... grab! I got yanked back last second by irritatingly playful jump operators. Time and again I tried to go, but they'd keep distracting me or trying to talk to me. Eventually, I had to shove them off and just jump midsentence.

My beautiful Superman Leap... wasnt. I jumped out, and rather than making a long graceful arc, I had to obey the laws of physics (unlike my plane) and immediately drop like a large red-headed stone. Adding to my ungracefulness, I was pointlessly kicking my legs as I fell. Giving up on my pose mid-fall, I tried to do a somersault. Instead, I just ended up backwards with my legs in the air. Why do harnesses always make me look like a slut? Ah well, so I ended up more like Bizarro Superman (look it up) than the real deal. Makes for a good DVD.

The important thing here was that it just wasnt scary. Plummeting to what I shouldve felt was sudden death, I just wasnt affected. I was calm and clear of thought enough to attempt (and fail) mid-air maneuvers. I didnt even care that a shoulder strap slipped off. It didnt even dissuade me from trying an upside down swing (the Elvis Cutaway), which gives you a pretty sweet head rush and bugs out your eyes from blood pressure as your head grazes along the canyon wall. Quite awesome in its own right, but awesome because of the strange sensations, not the fear and endorphins.

And yes, despite the fact that it was an upside-down swing, my shoulder strap did slip off again. I'm not entirely sure how I didnt actually plummet to my real death. I'll just assume its centripetal acceleration.

My fear of heights, it seems, was fully dead. Climbing rocks and ladders, flying airplanes, jumping off multiple rocks and cliffs and airplanes... I just beat my fear into the ground, again and again, until it begged for mercy. I granted it none.

This brings me to Milford Sound. Towards the end of the trip, we took an overnight boat in a big fjord. I thought those were confined to Norway, but Australia and its little brother New Zealand consistently surprise me. There we got to watch playful dolphins, go kayaking, and even swimming in the sub-Antarctic water, with yet another of the seemingly endless gorgeous backdrops.

I dont know who thought it was a good idea, but people started jumping off the top deck, from a height that seemed remarkably similar to my first jump in Kakadu. Of course I had to go up. Ahead of me in line was Ruth. She stood, quaking with fear, reminding me of myself just months before. I encouraged her, goaded her, prodded her, but nothing would make her budge. Finally, my patience running low, I walked passed her and confidently stepped over the edge.

Well, maybe that's an overstatement. I stopped for half a second to assume a pindrop position and sneak a quick thought. "Shouldnt I be afraid right now?" I figured, but I didnt wait for the answer before taking the plunge.

At the bottom, those of us already in called and hooted and cheered and cajoled, and finally the fearful form took her own fateful step. As the rest started to leave the water, I pulled her aside for a minute, asking her how she couldve possibly done the Canyon Swing three times if she couldnt even jump off a boat. She admitted she lied, and completely chickened out on the swing. So, I shared with her the fundamental truth I learned: Getting over your fear of heights has nothing to do with courage. In fact, what got me to take my own jump in Kakadu wasnt balls, it was a fear of humiliation. What I needed, and what she needed, was simply a swift kick in the ass. If you do it enough times, you'll eventually find your arresting fear dulled and rusted.

I made her promise before she left the water that she would return to Queenstown and she would do the Canyon Swing. I'll probably never know if she did, but maybe she too can bury her fears this bizarre land, where jumping off a bridge is to be expected.

That only leaves one more fear to contend with...

Feet On The Ground (part 1)

It's not a fear of heights, it's a fear of falling. And really, it's not a fear of falling, it's just a fear of that sudden stop. Standing on that short rock ledge in Kakadu (or more aptly, sitting and quivering) was terrifying. So why was I going to New Zealand, whose apparent philosophy is "Find a good bridge and jump off it"?

Caving, with its abseils and ladder climbs, was not so easy for me, but I managed to keep a stiff upper lip, look straight ahead and the rocks, and force myself to do it with no outward signs of fear. I even forced myself to look down. But, even though I was dangling from my crotch, I was aware of my relative safety. More importantly, it was nice and dark. Clearly, things needed to be turned up a notch.

That notch happened to be about 12,000 feet. Welcome to skydiving. I'll spare you the gritty details, but just know it involves slipping into a sexy flight suit, tying yourself into a complicated gimp harness, being strapped to a strapping young lad [tandem dive], and being hauled into the cargo of a remarkably small plane.

We sat on our instructor's laps during the trip up, where they grope you all over to check and recheck your harnesses. Under other circumstances, I probably wouldve popped a stiffy, but I'm sure you can understand my hesitation at the moment. I did however enjoy a small fart in his lap. It wasnt really nerve-racking; I never trembled or cringed. It was excitement and anticipation with a trace of anxiety. At the right height, they open the cargo door, scoot to the edge, and dangle you over the edge with nothing to hold on to, where you have just enough time to think "The fuck am I doing?..." before you're unceremoniously tossed from the plane. With no form and no stability, you tumble, doing essentially a cartwheel in the fetal position, giving you the briefest look at the plane already starting to escape you before all you can see is rushing ground.

I expected to be terrified, falling at almost 300 miles per hour to a particularly hard ground below. Even the clouds we dropped through looked like thick solid concrete until we slipped right through without feeling its touch. Perhaps I might even be awed by the scenery, a pristine national forest on my left, and the gorgeous blue sea to my right. With almost a full minute of freefall to ponder, I certainly had time to consider this, but to be honest, my all-consuming thoughts were "My hands are cold" and "I really hope my bracelet doesnt rip off". Famous last words, I suppose.

Luckily, it never came to that. With a few thousand feet to spare, he popped open the parachute, and I got to enjoy braking from 300mph to about 20, with all that force concentrated in my crotch. The harness really gave me bruises on my inner thighs, making me look like the slut I probably am. But, despite being remarkably high up, my fear of heights remained suppressed, and I got to enjoy a leisurely visual tour of the area. I even asked him to do a few spins for me, which he happily obliged, though I begged him to stop after about 5. I dont know what happens when you throw up at 2,000 feet.

What I do know is that falling from 12,000 with stuffed sinuses leaves you fully deaf in one ear for about 2 days. Popped ears and all that shit. But I didnt have time to worry about that, I had to go pilot a plane.

An hour after I came down, it was time to go back up. This time, I'd be behind the stick of my own acrobatic airplane. Sure, there was a pilot behind me, preventing me from killing us both if need be, but he spent most of the flight with his hands on my shoulder. Creep. Anyway, I donned an even sexier flight suit, and an objectively unsexy flight helmet, and let him take off. Then it was my show. Though instructed through the headset, he never showed. It was up to me to make our little plane loop, stall, barrel roll, fly upside down (and sideways), and other things that involve breaking fundamental rules of Newtonian physics. We skimmed the tops of the clouds I'd plummeted through so recently. Oh, and the Cuban Figure 8, which Wikipedia describes as "5/8s of a loop to the 45 degree line, 1/2 roll, 5/8s of a loop to the 45 degree line, 1/2 roll, 3/8s of a loop to level flight." I'm still not sure, but it was damn fun.

Before landing, I was feeling good. In fact, I was feeling great. He asked me if I wanted a scenic trip back, or if I wanted him to show me a few particularly tough tricks. Tough choice. A corkscrew, a reverse cuban 8, a hammerhead turn, and god knows what else later, I was definitely ready to land. I'm not sure what happens if you throw up at 2,000 feet.

Our two next little sojourns were closer to the ground, but technically not on it. First was the glacier walk. After a tramp through a temperate rainforest, you kinda find yourself on a giant ice flow. Wonderfully juxtaposed, but slightly unnerving. Brilliant ice formations, storybook backdrop, and fun company. But I think what I'll remember the most about it was the sheer futility of the guide's job. Despite our wearing of boots and crampons, the ice was still considered too steep and slippery, so the guides were sent out early in the morning to cut innumerable stairs in the ice with picks and chainsaws for our lazy use. But, since this is a moving ice flow, in an area well above the freezing point, the stairs would shift or melt away, and need to be recut the next morning, every morning. Seriously, I did not envy them.

Our other sidetrack was a swim in Kaikoura. But, we get to choose between two sidekicks: dolphins or seals. Since I had already swam with dolphins in my childhood, I decided to give fur seals a try.

Clearly, I had been spoiled by the Great Barrier Reef. Despite a two-layered wetsuit, I was still freezing my ass off in the southern New Zealand waters, which lie far too close to the Antarctic Circle for comfort. And I desperately wanted for gloves. But, the ceaseless torment was more than made up for by our swimming companions. The playful scamps would dash right between us, up and around, even jumping over our heads. They would hide behind us, or even right below us, and blazing off when they knew they were caught. The dark clumps of kelp were especially fun to play hide and seek in, and some would come within inches of your face and stare deeply into your eyes. There was no denying the intelligence behind their gaze.

Our bus driver mentioned we may have "a moment" with the seals, but mine was downright bizarre. While many of the seals would swim right up to you, they would just as quickly dart off. This one stayed, nose to nose. Then, it tilted its body down as if to dive, but stayed up. It began scratching itself with a flipper. Then, it began to rotate, spinning around in place a foot in front of my face, scratching and holding eye contact the whole time. I honestly think it wanted me to scratch its back. However, we were warned to not touch the seals, so I kept hands-off. After a few seconds, the seal got bored, and swam off with a palpable disappointment. But, that's his problem. No disappointment here, just elation and mild hypothermia.

I looked forward to what awaited me at the adrenaline junkie headquarters known as Queenstown...

Too Far For Pot

I've never claimed to be a big pot smoker. Maybe I'm a big drinker, and irresponsible in other ways, but my consumption of marijuana never goes above 'occasional'. So in retrospect, I dont know why I bothered.

The evening started out normally enough, with a gigantic overpriced dinner for 18. The booze started flowing with wine (red and white), scotch, and spiked hot chocolate. We were feeling good. Some of us headed for the bar at the hostel (and by some, I mean 4, which quickly became 2), which added some rum to the mix. But as 1am rolled around, 2 became 1, and I was now alone.

Let me tell you something about Christchurch. Despite its name and extravagantly isolated-in-public-square cathedrals, its actually quite a normal small city. Street malls, moderately sized buildings, and plenty of pubs. Except, considering this was a Sunday in Christchurch, pretty much none of them were open. Whether this is religious or simply a shit ass small town thing is beyond my knowledge. But I wandered around the city aimlessly, quickly losing track of my hostel, in an attempt to continue my feed.

A smattering of places were still open, but most were dull and unpromising. Only one, a bar called Taxi, showed any real signs of life. I went in, bought a pint, and nestled up to the cutest boy I could find. He seemed a bit younger than me (and was at 18), had bleach-blonde hair (I dont care if its fake, I still have a thing for blondes), and a piercing resembling my eyebrow, except halfway between his lip and chin. He told me he was half-Maori, which was funny because he was even whiter than me. Of course he was hetero, but I figure a little booze can always change things.

Apparently we struck up some rapport, because he invited me back to his hostel to smoke. This is a nice windfall in its own right, though the idea that more could come was still on the back of my mind. I didnt even mind when he asked to borrow 6 dollars to buy a beer, since I figured I'd be getting free weed within the hour.

"Hey, fatties, go home!", a call rung through the bar, vomited out of the mouth of an older, bald, dark, squinty-eyed man who appeared to have scoliosis. A belligerent lush is nothing new in a pub, but this one decided he'd have enough with his fat (actually rather fit and attractive) women and buddy up with us. He asked us our names, multiple times, patted us on the back, rubbed our heads, and at points seemed to try and kiss us. Irritating, plainly, but I assumed he'd just go away if we ignored him.

My half-Maori friend was not content to ignore him. The two seemed to buddy up nicely, and my new friend seemed to encourage the old drunk bastard. I on the other hand wanted to secretly slink out, but my friend was having none of it, and I wanted his pot. So stay I did, waiting for closing time.

Eventually, closing time did come, at about 2:30, and I assumed it was finally time to blaze. So imagine my surprise when my half-Maori friend continues to coddle the middle-aged AA dropout. Secret handshakes, shared stories of failures with women, and even an invitation to smoke pot with him. What the hell, did this boy just invite any weirdo he met to leech off his stash?

The weird old man seemed dead-set on starting a fight with the young German boys with the 'fat' girls. Basically, he was going to get his ass kicked. But my half-Maori friend pulled and dragged him along, determined to keep him out of trouble despite his insistent whiny complaints. This went for a good 20 minutes before the Germans were securely locked in their D-grade hostel. The old man was finally let on his way, and he bid us a pleasant goodnight, before banging on the iron door of the hostel, presumably until his fist bled or broke.

I asked my half-Maori friend why he ceaselessly babysat this cracked-out old timer. He told me he wanted to see a fight, so he could jump in and legitimately beat on the old man. Not sure what was stranger, that he had a strong urge to beat up a drunk old man, or the fact that everything he did was blatantly counterproductive to his goal. But I wanted free bud, so I didnt push the issue.

Soon, we realized we were completely and helplessly lost, and could not find his hostel/weed stash. So we went up to the first people we could find. It was an old Kiwi couple. The woman had a Lake Tahoe shirt, while the man opted for a more classy "Fuck The Police! Fuck The Man! Fuck The.." ect shirt. Instead of giving us directions, they opted to tell stories about their own heyday as over-the-top stoners, and share their whiskey with us. I suppose I cant complain.

Finally, we began to wrangle out directions from the old potheads, when a girl about our age wandered over, asking for a light. Before we had the chance to protest, the old woman started grilling the youngin about her life story. Frankly, I dont really care that she's run away from home and has to work as a skimpy-suited bartender in a seedy bar and has a restraining order on her adoptive father. I just want my Mary Jane. But the old woman turns shrink, and begins to diagnose her new protege's deep emotional scars, leading her away to a quiet corner while us three men sat patiently. I yawned ceaselessly, not even breaking when her bouncer/pimp came to cajole her back with thinly-veiled threats. But, return she did, and wait we did, as she offered to lead us back to the hostel.

"Are you gay?", he asks in boredom.
"What? Why?" I parry.
"Because you werent looking at her breasts, and you only gave a cursory glance at her ass tattoo. You were many looking at me."
I stifled a chuckle, before lying to his face.
"Nah, gotta remember I'm new here. I needed to judge your reactions."
This seemed to satisfy him, but only for a minute or so. Before long, he grew antsy.
"That bouncer better not have hurt her," he growled. "I'm going to go kick his ass."
And with that, he stormed into the pub after her.

Well, I sat with the old couple in waiting. It made me antsy myself. I've only known this boy for 2 hours or so, and I already feel a bind of loyalty. He might be in trouble, and I need to go help him, nevermind that I basically lack fighting prowess or muscles. I tell the old couple I'll be right back, and storm in the bar after him.

Looking around, I see no broken glasses, and hear no screams of pain. Just bored looking people drinking beer. So I push through the back doors into the smoking area. More people are in the back than the actual front. Looking around, I cant find the troubled girl. However, I spy my half-Maori friend with a little Asian girl. Has he found a new target. I wander over, but dont make my presence immediately known. Looking over his highly-distracted shoulder, I realize she's pouring pills into his hands. The fucking liar is in the middle of a drug deal!

Still, I figure if I dont get free pot, atleast I can get free pills. I pull back, recline against a pole, and wait. A few minutes later, they're done. He almost doesnt notice me, until I stick my foot out to trip him.

"Hey, I thought you might be getting beaten up, so I came to help", I offered as nonchalantly as I could fake. He just looked at me stupidly, before snapping to and introducing me to the Asian girl as his 'good friend'. I didnt hide rolling my eyes. Waving her off momentarily, he pulled me aside. "Hey, I'm almost done here, I'll be with you in a minute or two."

So, I made my way out to the sleepy main bar, and ordered a drink. Half the drink later, they did finally make their way out, breezing right past me without a notice. I quickly sculled the rest and followed them out, watching as they passed the now-vacant old couple's seat, passed the pole where the troubled girl flipped a shit and nearly broke her foot, and straight on till morning. I presume they're going to get high and fuck like rabbits. I dont bother trying to stop them.

It's been 3 hours. I've drank beer I didnt want, including some that wasnt mine. I fronted 6 dollars I'll never get back. I tolerated an inanely fucked drunk for an intolerable amount of time, recounted the old times with crusty stoners, life-coached a girl with a really bad history, risked life and limb to rescue a stranger, sat on my ass for way too long, and got basically stood up for pills and tight mongoloid pussy. I never even got my fucking pot. Children, this is why you shouldnt smoke.

Going Streaking

In retrospect, I have no leg to stand on. How can I sit at a computer and accuse my internet pal of living his life as a neverending performance, when that's exactly what I'm guilty of myself. Nearly every waking moment here with my group in New Zealand, I'm grandstanding, showing off, competing, lying, or simply acting. I've been performing so long, I dont even remember what my real personality is like anymore.

That said, I performed on my biggest stage last night. Australia has drastically improved my drinking ability, especially my shot taking ability, but I cant really claim to be in any competitive league. On the other hand, our group leader used to be a "pretty scantily-clad lady" for Jagermeister. So why did I challenge her to a Jagerbomb drinking contest? And why did I offer to up the ante and lay stakes?
The stakes were simple: The loser strips naked, smears Vegemite, that lovable Australian delicacy all over their body, and walks down one of the major streets (which still isnt saying much) of Wellington, the capitol of New Zealand. I purposefully mentioned my dislike of Vegemite when discussing stakes to have the topic brought up. To be honest, I directed where this was going.

We returned to the bar, and everyone crowded around me. Some of the guys were cheering me on and coaching me like Don King, antsy to see our attractive tour leader in the nude. The girls on the other hand were more keen to see me keep my clothes on. A real ego booster there. But, two glasses of Red Bull were poured, two shots of Jagermeister poured, and the countdown begun.

3... 2... 1. I immediately dropped both shots in their cups, and downed one back. The video footage shows I was way faster than our leader. I then went for the other one, but never really finished. Instead, I put it down without finishing, and watched our leader finish a significant time (a second or three) later, lean back, and take the victory Jager shot for the win. I lost.

But really, I didnt lose, did I? I finished the shots faster than her, but gave up. I wasnt full, I wasnt choking, and I wasnt nauseous, so what gives? To be honest, I wanted to lose, but consciously and unconsciously. As great as it wouldve been to see our nymph-like leader naked, I wanted to be the one with the attention. Everyone crowded around to snap our photos, and this was my moment in the sun.

A few more scotch and cokes later, I retired to my room with a jar of Marmite. This brown disgusting substance is the British answer to Vegemite, and the only thing I could find after midnight. Lines up and down my arms and legs, shoulders and back, waist and buttocks, all over my cock and balls, and a smiley face on my stomach with yeast-covered nipples for eyes. A site for sore eyes? Perhaps it made some. I sauntered into the bar and posed for photos, as our tour leader posed herself by licking some of the Marmite off my nipple. My consolation prize, I suppose.

I stepped out of the bar, and clutching only the empty Marmite jar for optional protection, dropped my towel and began to march down Victoria Street. I stopped at the roundabout and took a brief saunter down each outlet, waving at all taxis that sped past, completely butt naked and waving my empty jar in the air in victory. I relished in the attention my nude shit-streaked body garnished, and took my sweet time getting back, though I was polite enough to cover my naughty bits with the jar as I returned to the bar.

A few more poses and a long hot shower later, it was over. It surprised me how little trouble I had streaking down the street in the second biggest city in New Zealand, even if it was midnight and Wellington is pathetically small for a capitol city. Why wasnt I feeling any embarrassment or shame? It's not that I simply dont have these feelings, because I know I do, kept under lock and chain, let out only when I know I'm secure and alone. No, much like the streakers in the WashU performance of Hair, it was just that, a performance. I wanted the attention, and I loved every minute of it. I set up, manipulated, and threw the competition for a few camera flashes, bewildered stares, and belly laughs. I dont know if they were with me or at me.

In the meanwhile, I'm 20. Still waiting for reality to catch up to me.

Bunny Torture Rack

My first impressions of New Zealand have been, well, odd. In fact, my first impression was actually back in Australia, when I boarded the plane next to a Kiwi woman and her braced-laded daughter. It took all of my power not to laugh at their horrendous accent, but on top of that, they were the most shallow, needy, irritating jap bitches I've ever found outside of Long Island. Bad start.

The airport was normal enough, if you ignore giant Maori wood carvings and a jungle soundtrack next to the carousel, or dipping my shoes in antibiotics. Let me just say that between Auckland and Brisbane airports [back in Oz, they couldnt find my ticket in the records, passport check took forever, and I almost missed the plane, which still managed to be an hour late], I'd really be happier never going to an airport ever again. Bonus if it means I get to stay in Middle Earth.

If you get German TV on your digital cable, you may find me in a few months. The airport shuttle to my hostel also happened to double as a movie set for a German travel documentary starring two overpierced young ladies of the Reich. But the cameraman was actually pretty funny, and I think he rewarded me by taping me chatting with the two girls. I'm about to cash in 20 more seconds of my 15 minutes.

Auckland is a pretty mediocre city. Its got 1.5 million (a third of NZ's total), and yet, its most thrilling aspect is just how close you are at any given moment to a kebab shop. Like every city I've been to down here except Sydney, it was basically pointless. So I continued my tradition of takeout asian noodles, and called it a night.

The tour bus came to pick me up the next morning, but I think I'll save the details of its passengers for another post. Lets skip to the Sky Tower.

I lied. There is one thing of interest in Auckland. Sky Tower, the largest tower in the southern hemisphere. It does not have much competition. An elevator up to the top gives you some pretty nice 360 views of the city and harbor. There's also a cafe. There's also a camera you can operate that can zoom in all the way in on people's faces in the streets below. You can also jump off it with a rope tied to your feet, from about 200 meters up.

Generally speaking, the rule of thumb in New Zealand is "If it's tall, you can probably jump off of it."

Escaping the city as fast as our little diesel engine would take us, we hit the road for a hot spring Maori village called Rototura. The town sits over a geothermal hotspot, so plenty of hot pools, boiling mud, and geysers to go around. While waiting for dinner to cook, I decided to go nosing around the steam vents, clamoring over hot sulfur rocks and poking my head over the steam holes. It's not a death wish; its just a scientific curiosity flavored with a healthy dash of reckless stupidity.

We returned to the village the next day to get a guided tour from an older Maori woman with a sharp sense of humor. In fact, everyone in the village does. They gave us a rather fun song and dance performance, where the performers would be playing with the kids, fucking around with each other, and making stupid poses for the cameras. This is called a Haka. They also cooked us a pretty spectacular lunch in their underground geothermal ovens (Maori Microwaves). It was actually a pretty enjoyable time, though it wasnt worth missing Zorbing for. I will always regret this.

The next day, we made our way to Waitamo caves, infamous for Blackwater Rafting, where you cruise on an inner tube down a river in a pitch-black cave. I didnt go tubing. Instead, I went on something called the 'Haggis Honkin' Holes', which is essentially a taste of spelunking. Starts off by squeezing underground through a narrow hole, then abseiling (dropping down a rope) down a 100 foot or so cliff to the cave floor. Easy enough. Then you crawl around through a few other low celings and wade across some puddles. Also no problem. Then another abseil.

This one was far shorter, only 20 feet or so. Only problem was that this cliff happened to double as a waterfall. I strapped myself up, leaned over, and jumped off. My feet went up to find purchase, but slipped off, where upon my helmeted head bashed into the rocks and the icy waterfall filled every wrinkles in my clothing. Smooth. I instead opted to slowly lower myself down the rope manually while periodically slamming my head, hips, or knees into wet pointy rocks and desperately gasping for air, before finally settling into (splashing down into) the plunge pool in the bottom.

Because I'm an apparent masochist, this was the highlight of the cave trip. But points for getting to see glowworms (carnivorous cannibalistic maggots with bioluminescent feces that catch prey with fishing lines of sticky mucus) up close. They make the roof of the cave shine like a sky of stars, which is quite pretty, even if they're horrifying and hideous up close.

After caving, we had time to kill before the bus. We didnt have time to watch the competitive sheep shearing competition, so we settled on rabbit shearing instead. If you think that sounds odd... you'd be right. These werent just any rabbits, but genetically mutated freaks that belong on "Monty Python and the Holy Grail". Soft though, with cute little noses and a heart beating a thousand miles an hour in anticipation of what comes next.

The woman who works the shop picked up one of the rabbits, and set it down on the shearing table, where a set of electric shears hung from a missing panel in the ceiling. Very James Bond-esque. It looked absolutely terrified, but stood still. This was not good enough for the shearer. She grabbed its back legs, and yanked them out. Then, to our group's collective curiosity and mortification, she tied ropes around the rabbit's back legs, securing them to hooks on the shearing table. She repeated the process with the front legs, then began to turn a crank, which raised the rabbit and stretched it out over the platform like a Jew during the Spanish Inquisition. Then, just for good measure, she spun it over like a pig on a spit.

The rabbit, overheating from an insane amount of fur and held captive by a strange woman, tied by its arms and legs, stretched out and suspended upside down, looked like it was about to die of a heart attack. It looked at us with pleading eyes. The woman began to shave its stomach.

When she was done, she took the rabbit off its torture device, set it rightside-up, and let it hop around on the floor in peace. The only problem was that "when she was done" was only when the rabbit was half-sheared; half giant fuzzball and half bald is simply too avant-garde for even New Zealand.

So basically, after Day 3, I've decided that the Kiwis are just totally fucked. I love them, but they seriously need help.