A Week in the Life of Buddha Down Under

Happy Black Friday, everyone. I hope you all had an enjoyable Thanksgiving, and none of your relatives got their eyes taken out by the button on your pants shooting across the dinner table. I figured since some of you might have some downtime this weekend, I should seize the opportunity to make sure none of my attention is diverted to your friends and family. If the conversation you’re ever participating in takes a turn for the worse or becomes static silence, just talk about me.

Nothing I have done in the past two weeks (or past 20 years, for that matter) can even begin to measure up to the fun and excitement of my New Zealand and Fiji journeys, but I think it’s time to finally divulge some information on what a week in the life of an American in Australia is like. We’ll start with Monday, because that just makes sense. As I arise from my slumber to the sun reflecting off of the South Accommodation Center directly into my face, my ears are perked every day to the sound of some absurdly annoying birds having their daily water cooler conversations. After I begrudgingly roll out of bed and check my e-mail, I slap on some horribly ineffective Australian deodorant (Rexona) and head to class. Call me a pessimist, but there are some days I wake up and say a quick little prayer for some overcast skies. Apparently, such a luxury is overlooked at God and Mother Nature’s breakfast table. Maybe they’re too busy reading the Classifieds. Back to my day. On my way to class, you could find me ever-so-meticulously balancing in the small shroud of shade that is offered by the “Arch Building.” Class is no more than a mere three minute walk from my dorm, but I only need about three seconds and some crappy deodorant to really get the sweat glands goin’. My first class is a three hour lecture for Australian Pop Culture. If you saw the professor, or “teaching fellow,” as she is so called, you would assume she missed her calling as a Sturbridge village butter churner or cobbler. Dr. Emily Wilson is a gem. After about one hour of her flapping her gums about who knows what, she usually (and often unsuccessfully) pops in a movie pertaining to what was discussed during her rambling. This is when most people just leave. Myself, on the other hand, can never pass up a good chance to sit in a dark room that has air conditioning while watching people surf. In the wake of this new vampire business, I’m starting to reconsider the possibilities of my past life. At 2:00, we are released from the Cerum Theater and usually take the time to grab some lunch from Bond Café. My standard meal consists of a small Caesar salad, a chicken focaccia sandwich, and a nice, cold Lift (sparkling lemonade, don’t judge me). After the hunger is satisfied, I relish in the four hour break I have ahead of me before my next lecture, which is when I get the chance to swim and stalk all of you on Facebook. By 6:00, I am sitting in my International Relations lecture, drenched in the sweat I have accrued in my endeavor to muscle through three flights of stairs. This class was taught by Anne Cullen, but then she just stopped coming to lectures, so her teaching fellow, Jackson Ewing took over. He is a great guy. I think he is roughly 13 or 14 feet tall, and hales from the state of Tennessee. Member how boring Al Gore’s voice was? Somthin’ to think about. It is nice to hear an American voice at the head of the class though. At 8:00 I usually grab a light dinner and head back to my sub-Arctic temperature room for some YouTubing, more Facebooking, and Snickers eating. Side note: the Snickers here are awesome. There’s 10% more nuts in the bars. I don’t understand what that means, but I’m way into it.

Tuesday is after Monday, so we’ll go there next. No classes for this guy on Tuesdays. It’s a rough life. Here is what is rough about Tuesdays though: it’s cleaning day. By about 11:00 on Tuesday morning, you can usually count on the cleaning ladies and one cleaning guy (haha) to knock on the door, say “housekeeping,” and then barge in like they’re there to save you. In these types of situations, I always find a way to make it as awkward as possible for everyone involved, including myself. It often follows the storyline of me “pretending I was leaving anyways,” then doing that awkward face-to-face shuffle in deciding how the cleaning lady and I want to get around each other, followed by her making a joke that I don’t understand because Australians speak really fast and I have my iPod in. All this, while fervently trying to avoid face planting because I run the risk of tripping on her vacuum chord. It happens, I’m just saying. I usually head to Bond Café while they’re cleaning my room and eat the standard lunch. As the day goes by and the sun begins to set, I head to the pool for a dip in an effort to stay as ghostly white as humanly possible.

Hump Day: Wednesday. The third day of my week once again, begins at 11:00 with my tutorial for Australian Sport in the Modern Era. Tutorials, or “toots,” are basically a smaller meeting of the class to supplement the material covered in lectures. This class is led by Glen Tunks, a thirty-something surfer who could talk a dog off a meat wagon. The tangents this guy goes off on are insane in the membrane. He is a great guy, always fun to talk to walking around campus, but has less than stellar Power Point abilities. After we’re let out of the Health and Medical Sciences building, we make our way over to Lake Orr, the lake in the middle of campus with a very blunt fountain that spews water out all day. This is the “Wednesday by the Water Sizzle,” where veteran Bond Uni students grill up some burgers and dogs for everyone to enjoy, fo’ free. The food is exceptional, but you know what’s not? The fact that Australia has no buns conducive to what you’re eating. Call me a spoiled eater, but a hot dog on a piece of bread was something I gave up in third grade. It gets the job done though. There is also usually some guy singing some sing-a-long tunes while lunch is served. Last week they were playing the didgeridoo. Sweet stuff. At 2:00, I have my final class of the day: a lecture for Australian History. The class is pretty interesting, but the teacher is even more interesting. Dr. Shirleene Robinson is another thirty-something professor who loves her Red Bull. She takes the train from Brisbane (almost 2 hours) every morning at like 6:00, so it is a rare occasion to not see her indulging in some form of caffeine. Her frizzed hair and 8,000 words per minute reflect her energy every day. Gives her wings, I guess. After released by 4:00, Bond Café is on the menu again for a light meal before my night swim.

Thursdays, the only day I have to ever see a single digit time in Australia, unless I sleep past noon, which, I never do. 8:00 is my one hour toot for Australian history that is filled with silence you couldn’t buy. After passing in my weekly summaries of the class readings, I am off to the lecture version of Australian Sport in the Modern Era. This class is looooong. I take the opportunity to do some work on one of my favorite hobbies: making lists. Lists of current and previous members of SNL, lists of every teacher I have had since Ms. Hebert, or lists of food I want to eat… The options are endless. A 2 hour break is in store for me after this lecture before my 1:00 toot for Australian Pop Culture. Easy, laid-back class, I just sit in the back and watch everyone Skype their friends and write on other people’s walls. I’m learning a lot here. Finally, my last class meeting for the week is my toot for International Relations. It is the most intimidating class I have ever been a part of. I am, by a landslide, the dumbest person in the class. Don’t pity me, I embrace it. Everyone’s so interested and asks like, real questions about globalization and stuff. Everyone speaks in paragraph form and uses unnecessarily massive words, while I’m sittin’ in the back row doing that thing where you draw a house with an X through it without picking the pen off the paper or retracing any lines. Funny story here: each week there is a case study in this class where a student is to analyze it, present it to the class, and lead a class discussion about the case. Mine was last week. I was terrified. As luck would have it, “that guy” who participates way too much didn’t show up, so I was out before it even began. After 45 minutes of talking about I think the Bali bombings in 2002, I patted myself on the back for wearing a black shirt to class because I was sweating a lot. During my presentation, people were asking me questions about stuff, and then I would just answer with whatever I wanted to talk about and wasn’t really too concerned if the question was adequately answered or not. You ask me about global terrorism, don’t be surprised if I just start talkin’ about taxes. A meal and a swim is a good way to relieve the stress of being severely inferior to my international peers. See Steve? I mentioned swimming.

This past Thursday was Thanksgiving, in case none of you were aware. It also, coincidentally, marked the last day of toots. Some professors brought candy, but my professor brought the class three bottles of wine to down over a nice conversation about Australia and the Vietnam War. Most of my AustraLearn group and a few others celebrated by having a huge feast over at University Place, a 5 minute walk from campus. The meal was a special treat. We also played a game some broad introduced us to, in which you place a piece of turkey on your shoulder, and whoever keeps their turkey there the longest wins. You’re reading the blog of the winner of the Turkey Shoulder Championships of Thanksgiving 2009. Makin’ the ‘rents proud…

Thursday’s International Relations toot marks the end of my academic week and the beginning of my totally non-academic weekend. Don’s Tavern, the on-campus bar always offers a night for the students to enjoy some adult beverages and blow off some steam. Themes are also a common event at Don’s on Thursday nights, including Tight & Bright, Movember Awards, and Duct Tape Parties. Friday is another classless day for me. As the weekends draw near, there are usually plans made to head to Surfers Paradise for some nightlife. The favored music usually tends to sway towards the techno end of the spectrum, lights flash as if everywhere you go is a haunted house, and the fashion statements are usually more along the lines of fashion exclamations. Some of the jeans the guys wear here are grossly absurd. Painted on. But once again, as I’ve said before, the kebabs make it all worth it.

The kebabs provide me with a nice segue for me to discuss my favorite topic: food. Australian cuisine is interesting. My infamous chicken focaccia sandwich is, shockingly enough, served on focaccia bread. In between the slabs of bread, you’ll find a wonderful combination of chicken, cheese, lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots. Get it toasted, too. You won’t regret it. As is similar to my life at home, a week without Mexican food is unacceptable. So a quesadilla at least once a week at Los Hombres Mexican Restaurant is always an option. No onions, extra sour cream. I still have yet to try any authentic “Australian” cuisine, as the Indian, Thai, Chinese, and Japanese influences on the food seem to be overwhelming. I have, however, found a restaurant that I am excited to go to so I can get my first helping of kangaroo, crocodile, and emu meat. Should be interesting. And finally, back to the kebabs. I just want to share with you my perfect kebab. I go for the large combo kebab that includes chicken and lamb as the base meats. Lettuce, and tomatoes are the next ingredient, not onions. Garlic yoghurt sauce is the preferred option after a heaping pile of cheese and jalapenos are added to the mix. Grilled up to perfection and served in a wrapper, you got yourself the Brendan kebab. Serves 3-4. Enjoy.

For now, that’s all I got for you. Just under a month left here in Australia. It is flying by. Hopefully I will be able to get to Sydney next week. Thanksgiving’s over, Black Friday’s getting there… Next stop: Christmas.

I miss you and love you all! See you soon! Keep giving me attention!

-Brendan/Bren/Sully/Dangy/Buddha

Fiji

Bula!

Now folks, I’m certainly no marketing major, but it seems to me that if I were on the executive board of a wildly successful bottled water company, and I wanted to name it after a country, I would more than likely start with somewhere that has drinkable tap water. Needless to say, I never received the memo that one is to boil the tap water in Fiji before he drinks it. I drank it. Remember that scene that follows the dinner scene in The Wedding Crashers after one of the guys got eye solution put in his water? Just somethin’ for you to think about.

Last Friday I left for Fiji at 4am. Those of you who know me might understand that I rarely am awake to see the number 4 preceded by the letters “am,” and when I am, I am less than thrilled. I left my dorm and caught a cab to the train station at 4:30, and was embarrassingly early. Almost an hour later, I boarded the train with my knapsack (ha) and was headed for Brisbane International Airport. My flight departed at 9:00am and landed in Nadi, Fiji at about 3:00pm. The flight was just a little over three hours, but due to annoying time differences and stupid daylight savings, everything was all screwy. I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the recent sensation of “Movember,” but, in a nutshell, it is a fad in which men abstain from shaving their moustaches for the month of November. Unbeknownst to me, some of the Fijian women were taking part as well. The lady (or possibly man) at customs had a full-fledged, Monopoly guy moustache. Her facial hair, accompanied by her thick accent and quiet voice got me all discombobulated as I struggled my way through security.

Nadi is pronounced “Nandi,” why don’t you just put the N in there. I hate subliminal phonetics. Now personally, I was anticipating Fiji to be a picturesque south pacific version of Sandals, Jamaica, one of Michael Scott’s most deeply acclaimed destinations. I was incorrect. Much of Fiji is rather impoverished. Pregnant dogs, malnourished horses, and untamed fires provide the decor of the Fijian countryside. After I landed, the only thing I could smell was the overwhelming scent of steaming tar. I hopped in a cab and made my way to Yatule Beach Resort on Natadola Beach. I didn’t think the cab was going to make it. We miraculously found our destination and the pregnant dogs were replaced by pristine sandy beaches and the friendly people of Fiji. I headed to reception and met the lady there. She and the rest of the Fijian citizenry account for some of the friendliest and most pleasant people I have ever come across in my travels. There’s something about the south pacific that just generally makes people more amiable. “Bula (Hello)!” was yelled every five seconds by someone to me. Apparently, white people are revered in Fiji, I wonder if it was exponentially maximized for someone as white as myself. I often wondered how they knew I even was white. Was it my skin the color of Casper the Friendly Ghost? Maybe it was the wig I was wearing that I stole from Annie’s dressing room. Or it could have been my “swagger?” More than likely “all of the above.” Anyways, I checked into my “bure” and settled in. My friend, Mike, from Bridgewater has been studying in Fiji for the past four months, and was the means by which this trip was possible for me. The good people at the Yatule Beach Resort were gracious enough to give myself, Mike, and his two friends a great deal on our bure. We got a family one that included two separate units, which even included a $50 discount. It was so nice. I think I got the parents’ unit, since I was the first to arrive. If the cathedral ceilings and air conditioning weren’t enough, two full action-packed hours of the Powerpuff Girls were just the taste of television I needed (Am I materialistic? Don’t answer that.). At home, I am a television connoisseur, and that void needed to be filled by Cartoon Network, Time Warp, and hours upon hours of Madonna and Lady Gaga videos. In the time I was anticipating Mike’s arrival, thirst and hunger were my arch nemeses. In my kitchenette one would find the sink. A sink is a simple, everyday kitchen appliance that can be used for the most common purposes. Also, a life ruiner; it ruins people’s lives. This sink held the fate of my intestinal health in its faucet, and as I took a few swigs of its water, I was unknowingly planning out the next week of my life. Details unnecessary and inappropriate for the blogosphere.

Due to a failed attempt to trust their transportation, Mike and company didn’t arrive to Natadola Beach until about 7:00pm. I thought they were dead. Just kidding. They finally arrived at our bure and we headed to the resort next door for some dinner. A Tandoori chicken pizza and a margarita were on the menu. The food was good, and let’s just say that in case you thought you’d find a great margarita in Fiji, you won’t. It got the job done though. The ambience of the restaurant was flanked with “bumping” tunes that made me feel like I was in an Abercrombie & Fitch, and middle-aged women with cornrows, a combination that called for hilarity. After dinner I got to experience my first kava bowl session. This was an opportunity for Mike, Jordan, and myself to sit Indian-style around a large “kava bowl” with about fifteen other Fijian people. They ferment a root called “kava” and squeeze it into a bowl of water. They then fill up half of a coconut with the “grog” and hand it to you. As is customary, you clap once, chug the grog, hand the cup back, and clap twice. It was a lot of fun. A custom worth bringing home. We got to hear some Fijian tunes played on the guitar as well. Contrary to what we originally thought, grog doesn’t make you drunk. There is a numbing agent in it, however, that makes your tongue feel fuzzy, kinda like novocaine. It’s great. As the late night encroached, we made our way back on the beach, caught a great show on the Discovery Channel about people getting brainwashed in Jonestown, Guyana (really interesting), and hit the hay.

Due to jetlag and time differential, I slept in for some of the day on Saturday. When I arose from hibernation, Mike and I took the opportunity to go explore our surroundings for a little while. As we crossed treacherous, chest-high waters to arrive on another island, we were able to catch up on some of each other’s respective foreign cultural immersions. We got some good pictures of hanging rocks and mysterious huts before we headed back to the resort. The four of us grabbed dinner with some more of Mike’s pals and soon arranged for a “mini-bus” to Mango Bay resort. There were eight of us now, and we rolled into camp just as the rain did. We were taken to our orphanage slash hostel before we took the opportunity to go have some drinks by the fire with some of the other clientele from the resort. I made fast friends with some Australians, but I remember 0.00% percent of their names or anything about them. They might not have even been Australian.

Sunday morning was a bit of a struggle, as we sauntered our way to breakfast, followed by about a 2 hour nap on the beach for everyone else, and a two hour nap for me nestled in the safety under a shady tree. Trees... SPF: Infinity. After taking a few pictures of the scenery and grabbing some lunch, Mike, his friends Jordan, and Theresa, and I hopped on a bus that was headed to the city of Lautoka. We didn’t arrive until about 8:00pm and found our way to our humble abode of the night: Auschwitz, I mean Cathay Hotel. After we were checked in by the mentally incompetent desk clerk, we were led to our room for the night. If the salamanders crawling up and down the wall weren’t enough to make me want to stay, the howling cats, chain-link door guards, and sturdy Holocaust bunk beds made the sale. Mike’s top bunk dipped down enough for it to be considered a hammock. Funny stuff. Jordan, Mike, and I ordered a cab to take us to dinner. After no more than ten seconds of driving, we made it. Should have walked. It was pizza once again for this guy, and it was surprisingly good. We were back in bed by about 10:30 and were awake and exploring the city of Lautoka by 10am. Affluence is rare in Lautoka, but it was, weirdly enough, nice to see an ounce of reality apart from the Fijian resorts. After venturing through the town for a little while, we arranged for transportation to the mud pools, located somewhere in between Lautoka and Nadi.

Our cab driver got us there in about a half hour. We pulled in and convinced him to stay with us for the hour and continue driving us to our next destination. When he said he would stay, we thought he was going to wait in or near his cab, not creepily watch us bathe in mud pools and hot springs. He was useful for pictures though. The mud pools were interesting. We followed the lead of a Taiwanese broad in coating ourselves in the mud, letting it dry, and then wiping it of... $10. Whatever, it was cool, get over it. Now I knew the hot springs were going to be hot, but my heat threshold rivals that of an Inuit Alaskan tribe member. It literally took me fifteen minutes to get my shoulders even close to the surface of the water. After all of the mud had been cleansed from my almost-Santa’s-length beard, we got back in the cab and were driven to our final destination: Port Denarau.

Port Denarau was a mythical arrangement of resorts set across an island of tourist hot spots. It was couples galore. Young, old, Asian, not Asian, they were everywhere (peace signs included). We dropped our bags in our ocean view room, and planned out the agenda for the rest of the night. Eventually, we decided on dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe (haha) and resort hopping for the rest of the night. As many of you may know, I am chain food restaurant fanatic. There’s something about knowing what you’re going to get when you walk in that comforts me. Call me a romantic, but free refills, obnoxiously sized servings, and unnecessary garnishes are just my calling I guess. After heaping portion of the Hard Rock Cafe’s sampler platter, we headed back and went from resort to resort until we arrived back at the Sofitel. The first option had a 2-for-1 drink special starting at 9:00pm. So after waiting for fifteen minutes for the clock to strike the right time, our stingy wallets paid for two piña coladas, four “illusions” (ha), and two mai-tais. On to the next resort it was. As closing times encroached on our night, we took a cab to a bar off of Port Denarau, got over it, and came back to bed.

Tuesday morning was my final morning there. After purchasing a few final souvenirs from the Fijian empire, I was heading back to the Nadi airport by noon. My flight was at 3:30. There’s something about travelling by yourself that makes you realize how much you talk to yourself. Or at least I do. And I don’t just talk to myself in my head, I talk out loud to myself, in public places. On a number of occasions, I got caught talking to myself, and then thinking quickly, I had to immediately repeat the movement of my mouth repeatedly to make it seem like I had a facial tick, because something about a facial tick seemed more socially acceptable to me than talking to myself, I guess. After a three and a half hour flight back to Brisbane, I got on the wrong train because I’m smart. Don’t worry, Matt, this would never happen when it matters.

Since my return home from the one out of the 333 islands of Fiji, I have been finally getting back into the routine of school and life at Bond Uni. I feel like I haven’t been here in weeks. It was nice to have some me time and rest up from all of my travels. There’s already just a little over a month left here. Hard to believe! I gotta find more ways to spend more money before I leave. Side note: the Australian dollar is almost equivalent to the American dollar now. That sucks. If you could all do what you can to boost the American economy, it would be greatly appreciated. Gonna be a rough dollar next semester, Sara, G-Ma, and Savannah.

Anyways, Fiji was great. I’m still not sunburnt! I miss you all! Don’t forget to comment! Watch 30 Rock! Peace and blessings...

-Brendan/Sully/Buddha/Bren/Dangy

New Zealand!

Here’s a thought… Let’s heavily consider eradicating New Jersey from the United States of America, and replacing it with New Zealand. Now, some of you folks might read that and think, “Oh, that Brendan and his caustic wit, at it again.” Well don’t think that. I’m serious. We all know how people feel about New Jersey: it’s the armpit of America. So let’s take a heaping portion of New Zealand deodorant and make everybody happy. Who’s with me?

I would now say “but in all seriousness,” but I was dead serious about what I said before. Anyways, I now know where I want my ashes spread when I die. They are to be effervescently sprinkled in the melted glaciers of the beautiful nation of New Zealand. Many Australians say that they treat New Zealand like the United States treats Canada. Well if that’s the case, then consider my next stop America’s hat because New Zealand is the place for me. I loved every second of the five days we spent there. From the food to the views, and from the activities we did to the drunk people I laughed at, not a single moment passed that I didn’t savor until the very last drop. I like to refer to it as an Irishman’s Florida. It’s cold, often cloudy, and there’s no Miami. It’s a win-win situation. Another great part about it was the trash can abundance. I could stand on one street corner and count five trash cans within a five second walk from where I was standing. There was even one in the cemetery. We didn’t go in there, we were just observing. Normal.

Last Wednesday, my friends Zach, Brandon (more commonly referred to as “Coop,” on account of our annoyingly similar names), Iain, and myself met up near campus around 1pm. It was a stark, rainy, gloomy day that was blanketed with a horrendous humidity that made my shirt wetter than a glass of water. We took a cab to the train station with a jolly old driver and hopped on the train for our approximately two hour train ride to the international terminal of Brisbane Airport. As we got our carry-on luggage weighed, Zach had to unfortunately sacrifice comfort for weight, when he was forced to layer on three t-shirts, and shove all of his toiletries into his over-pocketed jacket. Let the fun begin!

After a bite to eat in the airport and a few short games of Skip-Bo, the four of us boarded the plane and were taking off for the city of Christchurch, New Zealand. Because we were traveling with time, it was about 1am by the time we landed and made it through security. The New Zealand dollar works even more in the American dollar’s favor too, so that was a perk for sure. We made our way over to the Hertz Car Rental desk and got everything into place. As we walked out into the frigid “Kiwi” (adjectival form of something from New Zealand) air and saw our breath for the first time since last March, we knew we had made it. That’s when we laid eyes on Gloria, our beautiful lady in red. Gloria was a 2009 Toyota Corolla hatchback. She was such a gem. I miss her. We threw our luggage in the trunk, put the car in drive and we were off the Base Backpackers, our hostel for the night. After about a half hour of searching for a street that did not exist on our map, we followed a cab driver to the hostel, Amazing Race style. This hostel was hurtin’ for certain. It was a dilapidated old building with squeaky floors, leaky roofs, gender-bending clientele, and some raunchy graffiti that I won’t detail.

We took a few moments to soak in the culture that was seeping through the oversized cracks on the walls, and went to bed. We slept for the length of a moderately long movie, and were up and on the road by 7am. We grabbed a quick bite to eat at a fancy lookin’ McDonald’s and we were officially on our way down the South Island of New Zealand to Queenstown. It was about a 6 hour drive to our destination that was jam-packed with views you see on postcards and a playlist one could only dream of creating on his own. Let me just enlighten you on some of the Grammy hungry radio tunes our ears were kissed with while in New Zealand:
-“Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus
-“Ignition (Remix)” by R. Kelly
-“Love Shack” by The B-52’s
-“Soul to Squeeze” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers
-“Call Me” by Blondie
-“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” by The Police
-“You Can Call Me Al” by Paul Simon
-“Play That Funky Music” by Wild Cherry
-“Life After Love” by Cher
-“Bailamos” by Enrique Iglesias
-“Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden
-“When Doves Cry” by Prince
-“Karma Chameleon” by Culture Club
I know, just when you think one song in this compilation of crooners is enough, the next one tops it. We really had a great time with Gloria’s radio. We stopped about once every hour to take pictures of the seemingly fake views and to stretch our legs. We eventually drove to Lake Tekapo. It was a lake that we figured out was filled with the melted snow from the exiting winter. The water was as blue as Gatorade Frost Glacier Freeze. It was literally the same exact color. Nestled in the towering mountains of the Kiwi landscape, the lake provided us with an opportunity to take a ridiculous amount of pictures in a very short period of time. I think I had already over 80 pictures before we even arrived in Queenstown.

We rolled into the city by about 2pm and found our hostel. It was another Base Backpackers right in the heart of Queenstown that was exponentially better than our previous hostel, except for the elevator that was decorated like a torture chamber from one of the Saw movies. Once we walked in our room our jaws dropped with our bags when we saw that we got a corner office with a view you couldn’t even make up on your own. Another good thing was that the gym was right next door, so we… looked at it all week. We grabbed some pizza from the local pie shop and were getting ready for our first activity. If any of you are familiar with the most recent installment of “The Dual II” on the MTV the kids are watchin’ these days, you might remember a few of the activities the cast did that we also got to do. The luge was our first one. The two course options (scenic and advanced) sent us swerving and curving around hairpin turns to a finish line at the base of the chairlift that brought us back up. We got five rides included in our package, and I’d pay for 50 more. It was so much fun and a great way to get a jump start on our fun filled week of extreme stuff. I think if everywhere that had an airport in the world had a luge by the runways, there would be a lot less jet-lagged people on the roads. Food for thought, world. After our luge rides were over we took about 500 pictures and headed back down for some leftover pizza and a movie called “Taken” before we went to bed before our next even bigger day.

Friday was finally here and I was in love. We were awake and heading to “The Station” two blocks down by 10am. We arrived and checked in for out A.J. Hackett bungy jump package. They weighed us and gave us each questionnaires about our health conditions and all that hoopla. Knowing I was going to be bungy jumping from a high platform, I felt compelled to ask how close I was going to be to the sun, as some health issues may have risen depending on the answer, but I found the strength to refrain from such a question. By about 10:30 were on a bus heading to the bungy site about 40 minutes away. We got to revisit some of the countryside from our drive in on the way before turning off the main road onto a gravel path that took us up the side of a mountain. I don’t know how high we were but we were up there when we arrived at the bungy site. They wasted no time briefing us and we were on the basket thingy slowly moving out to the bungy “pod” in no time. Iain was up first. Without an ounce of hesitation he pounced off the platform like a leopard on its prey. I was next. I made quick friends with the guy who was strapping me in, as his name was Sully as well. I thought, “Really? Your name is Sully too? Well why don’t you shut up and make sure I don’t die, sir.” I didn’t say it, but I thought it. I smiled for one last picture before Sully had me waddle my way over to the jumping platform. Pringle, you might be happy to know that I got to work on my starts in New Zealand, except instead of diving into a pool, it was into a 140 meter deep abyss of nothing but air. Sully counted down from “3”… “2”… “1…” and then my whole life flashed before my eyes and I was like, “I’ve never been to Disneyland… not yet Jesus…” and then I came to and I was falling 140 meters straight down to the earth, with nothing but a bungy chord tied to my ankles and liiiiittle bit of pee in my pants. Just kidding, I didn’t really pee myself. I actually wasn’t even nervous. I just did it (Nike). I don’t know how familiar some of you are with distances and depth perception, but let me enlighten you. When Michael Phelps whizzes down the pool once during the Olympics, that’s 50 meters. Twice? That’s 100 meters. I think you understand the gist of it now. We plummeted to the bowels of this canyon almost three times the length of an Olympic-sized pool. It was insane. I would do it again in a heartbeat. By far, it was one of the coolest things I have ever done, and it wasn’t even noon!

We were driven back to our hostel by 12:30 when we grabbed some grub. In that it was fish and chips Friday, a fish burger was on the menu for lunch. Furthermore, considering I was a little timid to eat something for breakfast in an attempt not to barf all over myself, the lunch was gone in a matter of five minutes. By 3, we were awaiting out next activity: The Shotover Jet boat. This was one of the “Fast Forwards” a few seasons ago for all of you fellow “Amazing Race” enthusiasts. It is essentially a super fast boat that can travel up to 80 kilometers per hour. The driver takes the riders through the pristine waters, just barely dodging fallen trees and rocks that jetted out into the boat’s path. Throw in there some splashes from the water below and some 360 degree turns and you got yourself the ingredients for a recipe I like to call a good time. Our eyes and mouths were a little dry after the ride from the wind blowing in our faces and through our luscious locks of hair. The ride itself was a little short for my liking, but the length of the ride was completely full of thrills. It was great. Day number two was coming to an end, so we headed back to the room and caught “88 Minutes” on the movie channel before we passed out.

On Saturday morning, Zach and I were scheduled to do a canyon swing. This activity was also on “The Dual II” on the MTV. Explaining it is a little tricky, but you essentially are a pendulum after you fall off a ledge into a canyon. There are certain “types” or “styles” of jumps the crew offers you to choose from before your turn comes. I decided I wanted to go first, and I was going to do “The Chair.” After you are all harnessed up, they strapped me into one of those white plastic backyard chairs and slid me over to the edge of the platform. They explained the technique of successfully maneuvering the fall. After all of the information was relayed to me, they had me lean back for a picture that was taken above my head. While I was looking at the camera, one of the blokes tased my hand with an electric shock that ran up my arm. The noise I made as a result was something I’m not certain I could ever repeat. It was really something special. After the picture they began a cordial conversation with me. They seem to want to be friends! Score! I fell for it. They tell me to lean back one more time to make sure I got the technique down and I do. They say “Good…” and just as they get to “job,” they let go and I’m gone. I did a back flip or two and I’m falling down swinging to and fro in the depths of a canyon. It was awesome. I thought my hands were going to fall off though. But any canyons swing is certainly worth gangrenous limbs. Who needs ‘em? Zach’s turn was a few minutes after mine. He chose to do the backwards jump accompanied by a little disco flair on the way down.

After we had all done our jumps and made our purchases, the Scottish lad drove us back into Queenstown. Zach and I headed to the hostel and got a quick rest in before our final organized activity. At 2pm we were picked up to go river boarding. For all of you swimmers out there, river boarding is basically an hour and a half kick set, with fins, a full body suit, and a helmet. We were all given a boogie board each, and went through the training in about 20 minutes. After that we were off and down the river dodging treacherous rocks and soldiering through rough rapids. One of the coolest parts about rover boarding is called a “spit,” which is when you push down on your board right before a rapid and if you catch it right, you are shot forward under water before you even know what hit you. River boarding was quite the workout, so Coop and I took every opportunity we had to take a few gulps of the water we were submerged in. I’m sure Iain would have enjoyed it too if he wasn’t so busy trying to get Zach off his legs so he could kick. When river boarding was over the leader asked us if we wanted to go to the “hot springs.” Naturally we all said yes. They took us on about a half hour drive and dropped us off at a little Colorado-like hot tub place. It was awesome. We walked into our room and saw a hot tub that was overlooking the Kiwi mountains. There was a garage door that retracted so the crisp. Mountain air was at our nostrils. It was the perfect finish to something as tiring as river boarding. As many of you may know, I loathe hot tubs, but I took one for the team. When in Rome… After drying off and getting dressed, there were hot dogs waiting for us upstairs. They might have been waiting for about two hours, but food was food at that point. I would have eaten anything, as long as it came with, yup, you guessed it… AMERICAN MUSATARD. You never really know how much you miss something until you don’t have it anymore. As much as I miss my family, friends, and my dog, there’s something about a hot dog smothered in mustard that trumps everything else.

Saturday night was our night to go out on the town. We got back to the room, showered, and pounded a Red Bull before any feelings of tired could overcome us. We went to dinner at Sombrero’s, because if you go to New Zealand, you should try their Mexican food. That motto is pretty much echoed in the back of my head when I go anywhere ever. You wanna hear a small world story do ya? Well here you go. When our waitress asked us where we were from we all said Massachusetts, Oregon, Chicago, and Iain said Michigan. The waitress replied with a “Oh, I know some people from Traverse City.” I don’t know if it was the margarita talking for me but I got pretty excited, maybe too excited. That’s where Iain’s from. Small world! Who knew!? After dinner, we went to a bar called The Thirsty Ram and had ourselves some beers and laughs. Most of these laughs came from watching people. There’s something about drunk people that has always made me laugh. My favorite thing to see while out on the town is a really drunk person who is being helped by his equally as drunk friend. That’s funny, but it gets funnier. Imagine that same situation, but drunky #1 is dressed up as the guy from “Scream,” and drunky #2 is wearing a tight, bright pink VeggieTales t-shirt and a tutu. It was a real knee-slapper. The rest of my night was sprinkled with losing games of pool, winning games of pool that I cheated in, and a whole can of Pringles.

Sunday was our day to do whatever we want. We woke up at around 11am and headed to the infamous Fergburger for lunch. The burgers were amazing. White Hut still has my heart, but these guys were definitely top five. Zach eventually decided to go on a bike ride, while Iain, Coop, and I decided to go exploring. We wanted to get as high as we could (in terms of elevation). We found a road that went up the side of a mountain to a ski area and we drove it. We drove it like it’s never been driven before. We got a good amount of the way up when we realized we were losing the view so we took the opportunity to take some pictures of where “The Dual II” eliminations were and do some graffiti on some contraption we found. The roads were windy and the weather was… windy, so we headed back down for some dinner and packing before our departure the next morning.

“Valkyrie” was the night’s movie, and I spent most of it buried in my pillow. We all did our packing as the credits rolled across the screen and we nodded off to sleep. Monday morning we made the drive from Queenstown to Christchurch in five hours. If any of you are looking for a good oblique workout, I suggest you take a ride through the countryside of New Zealand. They really haven’t grasped the geometric concept of “that fastest way from point A to point B is a straight line.” We boarded our flight at about 4:30pm. I think this flight was the designated trans-Tasman Sea flight of baby transportation. There were 4 babies within an arms length of our seats, none of those 4 babies being quiet ones. The awesome part was they were fine the whole flight, and only cried when we had to turn off our electrical devices. I love kids, and MYOPs. We were back on the Gold Coast by about 8:30pm. As we hadn’t had Mexican food in 18 hours, we headed to our favorite hole in the wall Mexican cantina for dinner and headed our separate ways before we had to get back into the routine of things the next day.

New Zealand is made for me. I loved every single moment we were there. Even when Zach ruined the end of “Taken” for me. Just kidding. But seriously. I loved it. I want to go back right meow. I never thought I would ever be upset to be on a plane that landed in Australia. Oh well, good thing I won’t be here for long. I’m leaving for Fiji Friday morning suckaaaaaas. I miss you all! Don’t forget to comment! Don’t forget to vote! Swim fast Bears!

I love you!

-Bren/Sully/Dangy/Buddha/Brendan