Auckland, New Zealand. My itinerary said: "Make your way to the Air New Zealand counter where you will uplift your tickets." Uplift my tickets? Were they very heavy, I wondered? But it would be ungrateful of me to complain about neologisms on my itinerary when everything on it was being paid for by someone else. And the tickets were first class, discretely stating that I am a Very Important Person.
So I was perfectly happy to uplift them, upheave them or suck them up on the end of a straw. I was easy. I'm on the gravy train. I move about in international airports with the unruffled brow of one who does it all the time and pays for nothing. Liberal capitalism has stamped my credentials and welcomed me aboard. If that means speaking American now and again, that's absolutely okay by me.
I am over here visiting a Kiwi friend I first met seven years ago at a party in Zaire. Before I came to the Land of the Long White Cloud (as the Maoris call it), I telephoned their tourist board and asked for suggestions as to what I could write about while I was there. When they asked me which publications I wrote for and I said Prospect, they offered me a week of "adrenaline activities" on the house.
"You tinny bastard," said Ian when I explained why I would be requiring his hospitality for only two weeks instead of the full three. I presumed "tinny" meant undeservedly fortunate.
Ian and Linda (Ian's new Australian girlfriend) live in a trim suburb of Whangerei, a largish town on the north island. During most of the fortnight I spent with them I was so jet-lagged I either slept or watched the television. During the day, while Ian was at work, Linda and I sat in the living room with the curtains drawn watching the soaps. Fortunately for me Linda is something of an expert on the soaps and was able to bring me up to date. She even showed me some vids from her collection of notable past episodes. But we looked forward to Ian coming home in the evening because, we agreed, when it comes to watching television, the more the merrier. We went out just once: to Ian's sister's house for tea. After the meal we watched a video of a celebrated Maori stand-up comedian who died recently. When it was time to say goodbye to Ian and Linda and put myself in the hands of the tourist board, I felt as languid as a three-toed sloth.
On the first day I was taken by power boat into the Bay of Islands and encouraged to jump into the cold water and swim among a herd of bottle-nosed dolphins. Through my snorkelling mask I saw their expressions change from lively enquiry to pity as they approached. One of them came up behind me and made a clicking sound in my ear. In the afternoon we went into a cave, abseiled down the inside of a waterfall and crawled for miles along a claustrophobically low tunnel nearly full of water. After that I checked into a five star hotel.
The following morning I awoke in a king-sized bed. From my en suite jacuzzi I watched an interesting interview with Charles Taylor-the legendary Liberian warlord turned suit-on CNN's International News Channel. (Who says Americans are uninformed about the rest of the world?)
After breakfast, I was taken up in a helicopter and made to jump out of the door with a length of elastic tied to my ankle. When I had stopped bouncing they lowered me into a jet-boat for a white-knuckle ride up a river running along the bottom of a steep canyon.
After lunch, the helicopter landed beside our picnic table, took me aloft for a series of loop-the-loops between the mountain peaks, then deposited me beside another river-this one more turbulent than the first one. While our guide tried to hold it steady (and failed), I managed to climb into an inflatable raft, already with a full complement of Japanese tourists, and off we went-shooting the rapids down to the sea for about three hours.
I was thrown out only twice and on both occasions, I really thought I was going to die. The Japanese tourists screamed continuously throughout our descent. When we finally staggered out at the other end, they gave us a nice cup of tea and drove us back to our hotels. The whole week was like that: a strange mixture of inconceivable luxury and panic.
On the last day they eased up on the terror somewhat and had me engage in some calmer outdoor pursuits. A gentle man took me for a hike in the mountains and showed me how to eat Rose Hips in case I survive a nuclear holocaust and have to live off the land. I learnt that it would be extremely time-consuming to feed myself-let alone my family-on a diet of Rose Hips, as it took about five minutes to get the pips out of each one.
We ended our hike at a lonely sheep station and had a beer with the manager. He turned out to be one of those people one meets in Australasia who claims to be the original "Crocodile Dundee." After relating some of his adventures in the outback of Australia, he took me into a shed and showed me how to kill a sheep-in case I survive a nuclear holocaust. He did it very ineptly, I thought.
