Free Kiwi Tracks by Lonely Planet Page B

could be psychosomatic, but I am sweating despite feeling cold and shivering uncontrollably. Everyone avoids me as if I had the plague, just when I could do with some TLC. I have a cold, probably the flu, but I worry this may be a recurring bout of malaria. I had planned to walk up the glacier as soon as we arrived in Franz Josef but I feel too sick to manage that. The idea of a glacier extending down through rainforest almost to sea level had seemed incredibly appealing when I read about it. But now all I want to do is get into bed.
    At a hostel in Franz Josef, most of the backpackers sit hypnotised in front of a television, watching Seinfeld . Why come all this way and then watch TV shows from home? The owners of the hostel must love the television. Keeps their clients nice and docile. I watch for a few minutes and find myself even more alienated from my fellow humans. Never having owned a television, I find it hard to understand these sitcoms. Sometimes I think I must be a Martian, unable to relate to a vast component of earthlings’ lives. I feel as strongly about television as I do about recreational drugs. It can be such a waste of human lives, especially young ones. I catch myself again, being crabby, antisocial, although it can hardly be social to sit with a bunch of uncommunicative backpackers watching television. I crash on a bed and dejectedly study the poem pasted on the back of the bedroom door.

    Hostel Life

    Well, I’ve roamed the world, over many a day,
    And a hostel’s the place I generally stay.
    Now there’s some things about them that’s always the same,
    It’s a world-wide conspiracy, that’s what I claim.
    ’Cause there’s always one who stays out till three,
    Then turns on the lights ’cause he cannot see.
    He smells like a pub, and he’s usually drunk,
    And he steps on your arm when he climbs in his bunk.
    And then there’s the one who leaves pots in the sink,
    And when they run out, it’s your milk that they drink.
    They sprawl on the sofas so there’s nowhere to sit.
    Consideration? Hell, they don’t give a … !
    And the worst ones of all, they’re really a drag,
    Keep every bloody item in a different plastic bag.
    Now I’ve spoken with others, and they all feel the same,
    We’re all considerate and we are not to blame.
    So who is this group which disrupts hostel life?
    Who stirs us from dreams and causes such strife?
    Now I’m not paranoid, but it’s a thought that I’ve had,
    They’re all on the payrolls of our mums and our dads.
    They follow us around wherever we roam,
    Making life miserable so we will all go home.
    But the last laugh’s on our loved ones,
    And that is for sure,
    Because as for the travel bug,
    There is no real cure.
    They can torment us and tease us,
    But when all’s said and done,
    In spite of it all, we’re still having fun.
    Cathy ’90
    BC, Canada
    I feel sick. And empty. And I’m not having fun at all.

    I labour down the road to catch the bus to Greymouth, my backpack seeming heavier than ever. A team of sightseeing helicopters circle noisily overhead, carting passengers to the glacier and back. ATVs (All Terrain Vehicles) bounce away full of tourists and a light plane takes off with skis attached to its wheels. The
Franz Josef village is a staging point for an army of tourists on manoeuvres.
    I had really looked forward to climbing on this glacier. For five years I took groups of people up the glaciers in Norway. The magic of the glaciers was awesome, without intrusive sounds. All you could hear was the trickling of meltwater, the crunching of crampons on granular ice and the occasional almighty crack as a piece of glacier moved or dropped. No ATVs, planes or helicopters distracted from the intensity of the nature experience.
    In the bushes by the main road is a hut decorated with hobnailed boots, iron cooking utensils and initials carved into bunk beds and walls. This museum was the original shelter, now transplanted, where visitors overnighted