The worst place in New Zealand goes by the tantalising and evocative name
of Bulls, population two men and a dog. It has achieved its dubious
distinction by having the bones of stranded hitch hikers scattered along all
points of egress. It is a shithole; if you manage to escape it within five hours of
having entered it, you can count yourself very lucky indeed.
All you need know when travelling in New Zealand is:
North Island = beaches
South Island = mountains
And don't go to Dannevirke, you'll hate it.
I was recently told about the perfect NZ tourist's map. It is a world map
produced by an English publisher for use in schools, probably in the 1940s
or 50s. It has marked on New Zealand three cities - Auckland, Wellington
and Bennydale. Go to Bennydale, it's choice. Mollusc's dad got beaten up by
a big Maori woman in the Bennydale pub in 1976.
If you're a Crowded House or Split Enz fan, a pilgrimage to Te Awamutu is
essential. You will see why Split Enz split, and why Neil Finn now lives
in Melbourne.
Hamilton is a strange place - very foggy in winter. If you are hitchhiking
in the area and somebody offers you a lift "as far as Hamilton", you can
guarantee you will end up walking from one side of town to the other. This
will: a) take about two hours, and b) not endear you to any part of the
stinky, boring, flat, green Waikato plains.

HISTORY
Many years ago a bloke called Maui went fishing with his brothers, using
his grandmother's jawbone as a fish hook (apparently his grandmother's jaw
fell off through overuse, an object lesson in verbosity).
He caught a big fish and hauled it to the surface. It was a big fish
(man). Like, really really big. About as big as the North Island. In fact,
if the truth be told, it *was* the North Island. But that's okay, because Maui's
canoe was pretty large as well, as big as The South Island (get the
picture?)

Maui's brothers, seeing the size of the fish, became jealous and laid into
it with their meres and axes and shit, thus conveniently terraforming it
into a fairly rugged bit of heavily forested fish (or land, as geologists
prefer to call it). A bit after that, in a huge migration from Hawaiiki
(probably no relation), the Maori people arrived in this new land of Aotearoa, The Land
of The Long White Cloud. After spending about 1000 years not inventing the internal
combustion engine, nuclear Weapons, those horrible guttering systems which
get clogged up with leaves and twigs and dead sparrows and need to be
cleaned out every six months; or Unix, the country was colonised (invaded)
by Europeans, bringing blankets, muskets, whaling ships, God, syphilis,
tuberculosis and guttering systems.
The Maoris, overwhelmed by the European's staggering generosity,
occasionally went berko and killed some settlers, but to no avail.

By 1840, the Treaty of Waitangi - popularly advertised as New Zealand's
founding document - was signed by the Governor of New Zealand
(representing Queen Vicky of England) and various Maori chiefs, representing
each tribe.

After another thirty years of bloodshed, things began to settle down a
little bit and the real business of farming sheep and building towns like
Bulls could begin in earnest.

Bulls was built. It still exists today. Aaaaaargh.
The capital was moved from Russell to Auckland to Wellington to London to
Washington. There was speculation during the 1940s that the new capital
might be Berlin or Tokyo, but such rumours were unfounded in the cold
impartial light of military superiority and nuclear weapons.
World War One came, and with it came the battle of Gallipoli, in which
heaps of Kiwis and Aussies got dropped on the wrong beach by a Pommie
Bastard who was probably marinating his brain in gin at the time. A battle
that should have lasted about twelve hours lasted six months, and cost
Gunner Spinley (Mollusc's granddad) his face, which stopped a Turkish
bullet.

World War Two rolled around, and thousands more Kiwis died displaying the
refreshing lack of self-preservation that Allied High Command was so
enamoured with. The score stands at New Zealand two, Germany nil.
The French blew up a Greenpeace ship, The Rainbow Warrior, in Auckland in
1985. We like the French slightly less than we did before. However, due to
the fact that we export dairy products and beef and lamb to France, we
don't dislike them enough to really do anything about it.

CULTURE:
Holden's: Holden is an Australian car manufacturer, a subsidiary of
General Motors (actually now owned by Toyota). Most Australiasians either
don't know this, or don't care.
The classic New Zealand car is a very old grey Holden station wagon, with
shot suspension and dodgy brakes. It is driven by Westies. They are
popular because they are cheap (because they are crap) and have big engines,
which may or may not be V8s. We don't know, nor care. We are cyclists, who
dislike most cars and hate Holden's.

Swannies: Woollen bush shirts and jackets made by Swanndri NZ Ltd. Very
waterproof, scratchy, rugged, warm and make you look like a mass murderer
when hitch hiking.

Pavlova:
3 egg whites 1 teaspoon vinegar
3 tablespoons cold water 1 teaspoon vanilla essence
1 cup castor sugar 3 teaspoons cornflour
Beat egg whites until stiff, add cold water and beat again. Add castor
sugar gradually while still beating. Slow beater and add vinegar, vanilla
and cornflour. Place of greased paper on greased tray and bake at 150
degrees C(300 F) for 45 minutes, then leave to cool in the oven.
(Courtesy of The Edmond's Cookbook (naturally).

This recipe never works, nor does any other recipe for pav, except this
one:
$15
Bicycle
Carrier bag
Ride bicycle down to supermarket, purchase pavlova with $15, place in
carrier bag. Ride home. Remove pavlova from carrier bag, place in cold
oven. When guests arrive, remove from oven and say "Look at this pav I just
made!"

Any Australians, South Africans, Yugoslavians or Tibetans who tell you
that the pav was invented in their country are full of shit and are not to
be believed.

Pies: North Americans may be unfamiliar with this phenomenon. A pie is a
savoury hors d'ouvres pastry thing, but three times the size, filled with
meat (from whence we can only guess) and with a lid on. The worst pies in
New Zealand can be had for NZ$1.60 a piece at a grimy, smelly,
cockroach-infested petrol station by Lake Karapiro. Coming a close second
are the infamous Putrid Pies of Panmure (a suburb of Auckland). They seem
to be available from all the bakeries - do not touch them, they are the
source of all evil.

There are some quite nice pies in Queenstown, but we really hate
Queenstown,and this ruins the whole pie eating experience for us.

There are also some quite nice pies in Onehunga (south Auckland). However,
it should be noted that pies can never be rated at anything above "good".
Also, pie criticism is one of the most subjective things imaginable!!