"What do you mean, wear shorts? It's freezing up there" I protested.
"Naah! Don't be such a great galaaah, you'll be fine mate!" replied the guide. He lied. Climbing New Zealand's Franz Josef Glacier in shorts is a palpably bad idea. It's freezing up there.
The Franz Josef is found plum in the middle of the Southern Alps, the backbone of the South Island and metamorphic heart of the nation's outdoor sports obsession. True, its not one of the most demanding activities you can do in this antipodean island. But the scenery has something wild and dark about it, that takes away more breath than the climb, and unlike when you're extreming it on the 'North Face', here you can actually appreciate the view on your way up. It's not without its pitfalls though, quite literally, and they'll rope you up on the trickier bits to make sure no one takes an icy tumble.
Once at the top it's out with the thermos of hot tea. In the time it takes to have one cup the weather can cloak you in fog, blind you with the sun and hurl you with sleet. All of which leaves you longing for the hot sauna that awaits you back at the lodge and not a little annoyed that you're wearing shorts.
Of course, those looking for a little more adrenalin in their afternoon tea, or who are even happy to miss it altogether, can find plenty of more outlandish activities in nearby Queenstown. Whether it's skiing, Bungee jumping, riding 'The Luge', or even paragliding its all there to be done, and you will probably get talked in to doing it.
Something that seems to figure highly in the many subsequent tales of derring-do in the land of sheep and lambs are the thrills and spills to be had in a Shotover jet. Shotover jets are 15 seater speedboats that hurl you along mountain gorges at upwards of a squillion miles an hour. But let the Guardian here bring you an exclusive, because few seem to know about a similar 'treat' offered by the ever-competitive North Island.
North Islanders are renowned for having their feet a little more on the ground than their Southern brethren, but not in the case of one Taupo farmer. This entrepreneurial individual who lives next door to a well-frequented coach stopover, has built in his backyard what can only be described as a cross between a pond and a racetrack. About a foot deep at best, and featuring chicanes, flats and the works, he floats upon this aquatic Brands Hatch a boat of his own fashioning. Essentially a modified bathtub, it sports an engine of a former aircraft that rotates on its axel, allowing him to turn on a button.
The acceleration of the 'boat' heaps petrol-spitting scorn on the space shuttle, and as the driver takes you - one at a time - towards the first dead end (he hasn't told you he can turn on a button yet) he turns to look right at you, and asks, almost as if making polite conversation, when precisely you would like him to turn.
"Now!!" you might well venture.
"I'm sorry" he says, endearingly leaning forward like a patient grandfather used to mishearing what year of school you are now in.
'"Now!!!" You scream, willingly accepting the loss in bravura if only he'll turn the damn boat before you crash.
"Right'O" he beams in a well-practised (and fortunately well-timed) manoeuvre, and swings you round to hurtle back towards your friends, who up until they see where you are heading, and the size of the bow wave they are about to be drowned under, were laughing heartily at your expense.
Somehow, he manages to fit all this into the 15 minutes of your coach stop, taking you from travel-weary slumber to near heart attack quicker than you can realise he's charging you fifteen bucks for the privelege. Next time it'll be the relatively languid pace of the shotover jet for me, either that or I'll stick to the mountains where it's safe!
So, New Zealand...dontcha wanna?
