Tokyo Limper

My first hours in Tokyo were coloured, to some degree, by a medical issue. The colour was tango pink and it appeared on a comically swollen right foot. Some combination of factors, including, no doubt, my hiking expeditions, had led to the formation of painful blisters between and on my toes. I began to notice them on the way to Auckland airport, and then most acutely shortly after I arrived. There, in the corner of a food court, I removed the shoe and sock from the offending foot and undertook primitive surgery before a gallery of horrified travellers. My toes red and weeping, I felt almost as if I were about to faint. During the flight I had to remove my shoe again and prop my foot up on my backpack in the very limited space underneath the seat in front of me. Rest was elusive. As we neared Narita airport I put the shoe back on and noted that it seemed an unusually snug fit.

Limping determinedly with my luggage and guitar, I managed to negotiate the airport's labyrinth of retail outlets and secure an adaptor, some shampoo and a SIM card. It was then a further couple of hours by train and about ten minutes by foot to my accomodation, where, over a tatami mat, the grisly discovery was made. It was as if, by removing my sock, I was unveiling a child's drawing.

One shouldn't catalogue one's symptoms into an online search engine but one invariably does. My research informed me I was in the throes of Diabetes. I imagined inscrutable Japanese clinic visits and tortuous exchanges with my travel insurance company. I took the only sensible course of action: I went to sleep and hoped the thing would bloody well deflate by the morning.

It didn't, at least not noticeably, but the pain had largely subsided and I was able to venture outdoors. Walking the grey streets of Suginami, the initial impression is of extreme uniformity; but gaze headlong down a road and you get the sense of a subtle aestheticism, signposts and lamps arranging themselves into fanned decks. Just remember to snap out of your reverie before you are cleaned up by one of the cyclists wobbling along the periphery.

It was raining on my first day out and even though I was among the skyscrapers of Shinjuku, shelter was scarce. I drew my umbrella from my bag with great reluctance, knowing I was trading the problem of being soaked with the problem of dealing with a wet umbrella all day. I then chose a direction at random and, after a short while, found nothing. Cursing Kerouac, I rejoined the ranks of tourists holding out their phones like bewildered dowsers.

Wistfully, Biggles

I was seated around the communal table with two hikers and a software engineer. In front of me were my remaining portions of toast, on which Marmite had been delicately applied, and a mug of tea. The English hiker, solid and tanned, was eating porridge from a saucepan. In between large mouthfuls he sketched out a narrative of the time he had had to bunk up with four shivering hikers in a two-person hut during a storm, the wild conditions lasting until they were almost out of supplies. Later we were told of a death-defying trek through fierce waist-deep rapids that had claimed the lives of previous hikers. When he finally made it across, having been pushed some way downstream, a couple of observing Australians called him a fucking idiot.

The Irish hiker, sandy blond hair, scruffy but fashionable beard, talked of returning to civilisation after days in the wilderness. The first day is bliss, every basic comfort feeling like the greatest of luxuries. But come the afternoon of the second day and a certain restlessness sets in. Soon everything feels hollow and you are yearning to return to the wild. Finishing the last of my toast, I was glad I was not similarly afflicted; I was glad I could find contentment sitting at a laundromat with a good book, watching my clothes crest and fall in the drum of a dryer.

Mountain Man

When I booked a place in Te Anau, the plan was to spend one day gaping at sounds and the rest of the time sitting in quiet areas of the national park, pretending to have profound thoughts. Toe-blistering hiking was very much not on the itinerary. It was a little strange, then, that I found myself setting off to scale a mountain on the first morning I was there. I had been looking into walking spots near my accomodation when I came across a one-day version of the otherwise multi-day Kepler track, one of New Zealand's Great Walks. You would hike up a mountain to the first overnight hut and then simply turn around and head back, investing about 10-12 hours all up. Sure, I thought: that sounds like me. As I had not really planned for it, I set off later than I should have, around 10 am. Knowing that if I were too slow I would be hiking back in darkness, I was somewhat panicked and hurried during the initial stages—which is exactly how I would recommend anyone embark on a 10-12 hour hike.

If you walk to the setting-off point from town, as I did, there is a preliminary white gravel trail that curls along the western shore of the lake. It takes about 45 minutes all told but the monotony of the scenery makes it feel longer, and no shade is cast to offset a beating sun. Had I the luxury of time I would have peeled off the path and sat for a spell by the lake, enjoying the pristine weather. Sitting is the method by which nature can be properly observed and enjoyed; barreling through it seems rather to defeat the purpose of being there at all.

The Kepler track begins in serene natural forest and continues to run parallel to the lake on a soft dirt path, where crosshatches of sunlight mark the way. Occasionally the foliage clears to reveal pebble or white sand beaches, the largest of which connects with a camping ground. You can break up the repetition of the forest by stopping at them. You could; obviously I didn't. At the camping ground the path veers suddenly inland and you are drawn towards the mountain.

The pathway up the mountain takes the form of a rising zig-zag through dense forest. A few zigs and a couple of zags in, I realised I had been foolish to have wasted so much energy running along flat planes and downward slopes. It was here that energy was required. The climbs are manageable in and of themselves but there is a cumulative strain when they're piled one after the other, with little respite. It wasn't long before my footfalls fell heavier and I began to trudge. At my weakest I could only operate in short, pitiable bursts. Leaning back on a mossy stump, trying to make a meal out of Vegemite sachets and dry biscuits, I felt very unfit and very old.

Even now I'm surprised I persevered. I actually cleared the forest trail far sooner than I had anticipated. I was taking so many breaks by the end that I was sure I was well behind the estimated time, but it turned out the opposite was true. I was now on the final stretch, the mythical hut a mere 45 minutes away. The view from the top would have been breathtaking, had my breath not already been taken by the journey to reach it. The mountain was covered in straw-coloured patches of grass and a narrow path ran along its ridge. The inclines either side seemed relatively gentle, though I couldn't help but fixate on the ground most of the way. When I reached the hut I rested for a while in the sparse wooden living area, drinking water that a sign informed me was 'probably' safe to drink. Returning over the mountaintop with the knowledge of what was in store, I was able to enjoy the ludicrously clear vista of rivers and lakes and mountains more than I had the first time round.

My writing at this point is not concurrent with my activities. Presently I am seated in a McDonald's opposite Checkpoint Charlie, having left New Zealand some weeks ago. I am here only because my digestion is amis and the McDonald's presented the nearest toilet. Actually the nearest toilet was in Starbucks but—I guess fittingly—it was occupied. This information was imparted to me in an unfortunately graphic fashion, thanks either to the absence of a locking mechanism or the absence of mind of the young woman I stumbled upon. And now back to our story.

You would think a return journey that was largely downhill would be a breeze. In fact it presents a number of challenges. These include an increased pressure on your knees as well the likelihood of blisters forming on your feet from the friction inside your shoes. There is also the sheer strain of continued exertion after half a day's worth of hiking, whatever the topography. Even with the momentum of gravity, the descent seemed endless. When I finally reached the bottom I felt as if I could scarcely walk another step.

Unquestionably the worst part of the whole endeavour, perhaps discounting the obligation to exchange empty Hellos with fellow hikers, was reaching the entrance of the Kepler track and realising that I still had that dreaded lakeside path to walk. The hard gravel was punishing on my feet and it took me over an hour to get back to town, fortunately while there was still some light remaining. Falling on my bed, I vowed never to set one foot in front of the other again.

Two days later I tackled the other end of the Kepler track, a mostly flat trail to Rainbow Bridge. It would have been unremarkable but for the fact I had not sufficiently recovered from my previous hike and was in a measure of pain most of the way. A return journey was out of the question so I ended up hitching a ride back to town. 

I returned to bed and renewed my vow.

Lakefront Drive

Te Anau (pronounced 'tee-AH-noo') is a small lakeside town distinguished mainly by its proximity to Fiordland National Park. The town itself has little to recommend it, as with any town where the chief industry is tourism. A proliferation of overpriced restaurants, mostly serving greatest-hits Italian fare, runs along the main drag, competing for space with hiking shops and sightseeing merchants masquerading as tourist information hubs. It does, however, offer the single cheapest Fat Duck dining experience currently available, even factoring in the airfare. But no one comes here for the town.

I was staying in a hostel on the accurately named Lakefront Drive. After my last experience I was prepared for the worst but it turned out to be surprisingly decent. The dorm room, though comparable in setup, had its own bathroom and a separate living space. There was even a balcony from which you could comfortably study the lake. Best of all it was clean and neutral-smelling. At the end of my strenuous daytime excursions it was bliss to be able to sink into an armchair and read about peregrines undisturbed.

I would step out of a morning to a grey rolling lake and fog-eaten mountaintops. Whatever my destination, I would always start by spending a few minutes on the pebbled lake edge, often in enlivening briskness. In the evenings, an orange sun dipped to cast perfect light across the water and phone photographers lined the shore, offering their tech to the gods.

Outro

I had not travelled to Dunedin expecting to engage with a vibrant live music scene; rather, I was there to root around the remnants of a dead one. I did, nonetheless, make a few passing attempts to find out what the present sounded like. My research could hardly be called exhaustive, but there did seem to be a paucity of musical activity at the time of my stay. I ended up dragging myself to a relative few gigs and I can't say the presence of a thriving musical culture was felt at any of them. But the first experience may have soured the rest.

The venue was the Inch Bar, conveniently located an the bottom of the hill I was staying on. I turned up an hour prematurely, as I'm wont to do, and sat in the band-room listening to a cycle of '60s pop on the PA. Two nursed pints later and the beer-keg stools were filled for the show. The opener was a young woman who sang competently over an occasionally fumbled guitar accompaniment. At the insistence of friends she closed with a couple of her comedy numbers. My joy was incandescent.

Actually, she proved to be the highlight of the evening, if you discount the radio and the bar's ambient noise. The headliner, as it were, was a three-piece outfit whose signature song, 'Funk It!', detailed the singer's predilection for righteous funking. I should clarify that it was their signature song in the sense that terribleness was their signature and it presented them at their most terrible. Or perhaps I'm being unfair. I mean, they were functional. They were in key. The tempos were adhered to. And their friends—or the crowd minus me—bopped along supportively. But holy hell. The only mercy was that the thing was free. Of the handful of songs I stayed for, at least half were covers, betraying a warranted lack of faith in their original material. Juxtaposing tunes about funking with a rendition of 'So Real' would be enough to make the latter's composer roll in his ocean grave. A weak-willed critic, I opted to walk dipsily uphill in the rain instead of enduring another note.

The second gig was one I actually paid for, the band being enough of a known entity to command a $10 cover. Preliminary YouTube research convinced me Auckland's Dictaphone Blues were decent enough to justify the expense—crisply melodic indie pop with a varyingly successful sense of humour, though they were often poorly serviced by their video clips. The location was a bar in Otago University that was strangely absent of life for a Friday night. I was the first there at doors and remained the only patron for at least an hour. The opening act was passable, though I forgot there was one until I got around to writing this sentence. By the time Dictaphone Blues emerged the crowd had swollen to 10, maybe 15 people, most of whom sat or leaned around the perimeter. Though the band put in a creditable effort, they can be forgiven for not generating much energy from an empty room.

The next excursion wasn't exactly an attempt to locate a new Dunedin Sound. At the recommendation of my housemate, I headed down to Dundas Street one night to check out the Dunedin (nay Edinburgh) Folk Club. The attendees, all of whom had a couple of generations on me, were gathered on plastic chairs in a temporarily repurposed church. The event was split between local amateurs and a nomadic folk group called The Bollands. Tea, coffee and homemade cakes were available from a side room during the break—rock and roll. I bristle at elements of the folk ethos but there was an undeniable charm to the proceedings, thanks especially to the night's affable host, who had to do double duty as the sound man due to an unforeseen absence. The main act was solid, though I can already feel them evaporating from my memory. Before I left I was thanked by an elderly lady for bringing down the median age a shade.

"Is it as bad as it seems?" I asked, my nerves making the question blunter than I had intended. It was posed to a panel that included, among others, Graeme Downes and Francisca Griffin, of The Verlaines and Look Blue Go Purple respectively. I was referring to the current music scene, rather boldly considering I had scarcely seen any of it. Abby Wolfe, a young artist based in Auckland, countered by enthusing about the diverse music coming out of Dunedin, and the rest of the panel politely agreed. Closer to my corner, in fact the other end of my row, a former resident commented on the fact that there were no longer any venues you could trust for good new music. I met him and his wife at a nearby bar shortly after the discussion and he said he had formed a similar assessment to mine, having lived in Dunedin during Flying Nun's heyday.

Later that evening Flying Nun alumni traded sets in the seniors' centre to a well-mixed crowd. Francisca Griffin appeared to have acquired her rhythm section from a shady bus shelter, but they gave the material a kick that was lacking from most of the other performances. For his set, Graeme Downes played guitar only, outsourcing the vocal duties to a local singer named Molly Divine. This would be forgivable if he had not opted to perform to a sterile backing track. Maybe it was the speakers but the instrumental flourishes had all the grandeur of a Midi symphony. Sporting a slept-in suit and wild greying hair, The Verlaines' mastermind attacked his complicated chord progressions with proud vigour, but there was something faintly embarrassing about the whole affair. I caught The Verlaines a few years back on an Australian tour, and they were similarly problematic, though at that time the issue was grating lead guitar parts. So yes, The Verlaines have a live problem. Like a tonic after poison The Chills' Martin Phillipps closed the night with an on-point solo performance that even made something of the Tears For Fears-via-Gary Jules track I thought I never wanted to hear again. After the show, Francisca Griffin rather kindly introduced herself to me to provide some tips about how to find local gigs, though I was flying out the next morning.

I by no means possess enough information to make any sort of assessment on Dunedin's current music scene; this is merely a series of stray observations and opinions. The most interesting groups I was aware of, courtesy of my brother, were not in town, and I'm sure there was plenty of other things that sailed right by my notice. No matter; on the next leg I will be an outdoorsman.