“Welcome to Stewart Island.” If you think those were the words my husband greeted me with when I finally arrived on Stewart Island after a 14 hour flight from Dubai to Christchurch and another 1 hour flight from Christchurch to Invercargill, followed by another hour on the ferry from Bluff to Oban and a 25 min Water taxi ride from Oban to Abraham block (yes, try saying all of this in one breath), you are mistaken. Those were the words written above the ferry office when you arrive on Stewart Island. My husband didn’t actually say anything, because he wasn’t there.

Yes, you heard correctly. After not seeing him for two whole weeks, as he had left early to stay with his Dad while I had closed up the house and then spent a week in Dubai for work, he wasn’t even there when I finally disembarked on Abraham’s Block, my home for the next seven days.

“He said you had given him permission to go hunting,” his brother said to me as I jumped from the water taxi into the freezing water to carry my suitcase high above my head towards the cabin that was half hidden by a Ponga and some other trees whose names I can’t remember. “What and he believed me? What a moron.”

I admit that I had actually sent an email to my husband telling him that he could go off hunting the day of my arrival, that I understood he was “only” ten days on this island and that I knew he wanted to make the most of his hunting opportunities. But seriously? Did he not get the manual? I mean every guy on the planet knows that a woman never means what she says. It’s a known fact that we say things but expect you to do the opposite. I mean they have made whole films about this, written books entitled Men are from Mars and Women from Venus. Could it be he hasn’t seen or read them? Does he really know me that little that he believes I’m actually that generous after making my way down here on my own, with two suitcases in hand, which by the way had generated a lot of raised eyebrows by the people on the ferry, who all looked like they just walked out of the latest camping and hiking advert with their perfect waterproof jackets and trousers, their Meindl boots and oversized backpacks fitted with water bottles and sleeping bags.

The water taxi driver too had only taken one look at me before pretending to speak the entire journey to some guy on the phone called “Bro”. To my question if there were any Kiwis on Abraham’s Block, he just smirked and said “Sure, I dropped three of them there two days ago, followed by “I can drop you off in the dingy,” when we had reached Abraham’s block with no-one in sight, but just a little dingy anchored in the bay. “Ok,” I said, still game, as the sun was shining, and penguins had been popping their heads up during our crossing. “But then how do I get from the dingy to the shore?”

“You have high heels in that suitcase?” he sniggered. “Then you won’t get wet feet when you walk across to the hut.”

Right, you smarty pants, I thought and was just going to put him in his place (I am a paying customer after all), when my father-in-law suddenly appeared at the edge of the water waving my boat shoes.

“Hello!” he shouted. “I have your shoes.” Really? My hubby is nowhere to be seen, but he has obviously given my arrival enough thought to dig out my beach shoes and to give them to my father-in-law with the firm instructions to hand them to me so that I wouldn’t have to get my hiking boots wet. How considerate.

Well, seeing that the sun was shining, I just smiled and said thank you before hugging my father-in-law and brother-in-law whom I hadn’t seen in what, four years? I dumped my suitcases in the cabin, which was as expected, very spartan. It had three bunkbeds, a stove and a work surface. Some thoughtful previous occupants had left a couple of empty bottles that now served as candelabras, while the wet clothes that hung from the ceiling were getting perfumed by the smoke of the stove.

“We have seen the tracks of deer right outside the hut,” my brother-in-law told me.

“Great, so have you shot anything?”

“Ehm, no. Actually, I’m the only one who has seen a deer, your husband hasn’t seen anything yet.”

Right, thousands of dollars for nothing, I thought, but refrained from saying. I know, I know, there is no guarantee that you will shoot a deer when you go hunting and there is still time, but as you know by now, patience is not one of my virtues.

I made myself a sandwich and then sat down to catch up with my extended family. Within five minutes of chatting, I knew the boys had already been in trouble as according to my father-in-law, they had not cleaned out the ash from the fireplace and so it wasn’t drawing and hence not heating the cabin. Ts, ts, ts……

I know all about making a fire, cleaning the fireplace, how to stack the wood, which wood to use, in fact, I learnt very early on in my marriage that making a fire is an art, which is not given to everyone. The little black thing that opens or shuts the grate to control the draw should never be touched unless by an expert, while stacking wood just any way is the sure sign of a total idiot. I do agree that some people are pretty useless at making a fire, but I am not convinced that there is only one way of making a fire. So, from time to time, when I feel the need to assert myself, I push that little black thing to the right and to the left and you know what, the fire doesn’t go out, well hardly ever….
Anyway, on this beautiful sunny day, I refused to get drawn into this discussion and instead poured myself a nice glass of Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc that I had purchased in the supermarket at the ferry terminal in Bluff. If I was going to survive, I needed all the help I could get. Bridget Jones, here I come. I might not count the units, but I am with you sister!

And the drink was needed because that sunshine that had greeted me and made me hopeful of getting a tan, unfortunately disappeared all too fast to be replaced by rain, which brought out the dreaded sandflies everyone had warned me about but my husband had failed to mention.

The temperature dropped immediately and there I was, wearing every jacket I had brought with me, drinking white wine, whilst swatting away a million sandflies which descended on me with renewed energy.

Ah well, guess I will be perfectly acclimatised for when my hubby shows up tonight. I can’t wait to see him. I decided I will provide him with the perfect welcome, as I squash a little sandfly that had delicately landed on my hand…..

“Oh by the way, it looks like my Dad is finally going to come along to Stewart Island.”

Excuse me? What? I nearly dropped the frying pan I was holding and just managed to keep the eggs from sliding onto the floor. The Dude, who had been sitting quietly by my feet jumped up, his tail wagging furiously and his eyes full of hope as an unexpected second breakfast had suddenly become a real possibility.

I tried to breath normally, but my blood was rushing so loudly through my veins that I felt dizzy. Did I hear this correctly? His Dad was now coming? When we had first talked about Stewart Island, I had mentioned to my husband that he should invite some mates or his brother, but I was sure I had never mentioned his dad. A “family holiday” definitely had never been on the cards.

I mean don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind my in-laws, even though our relationship has always been difficult, as it was made very clear to me on my first trip to NZ that they would have preferred a nice Kiwi girl and not some European chick who obviously had no clue about anything. (I did pick daisies on the first day I visited their dairy farm and brought them into the house, thinking that his mum would love them. Instead her husband started screaming something about bloody weeds he was trying to eradicate from the farm that had no place in their sitting room. Needless to say I was not impressed, seeing that I was just trying to be nice, my kiwi husband was embarrassed by my ignorance and his mother just gave me this pitiful look that said it all….)

Over the years, they kind of accepted though that I was there to stay and in fairness, we have had some good moments together, like fishing, which to everyone’s surprise, (me more than anyone) I turned to be quite good at.

However, ten days with my father-in-law? I mean most of the time I manage to bite my tongue when we are together, as I don’t want to rock the boat for the short while we manage to be in NZ. But again, ten days? We are just so fundamentally different, even though my kiwi husband actually thinks that I’m exactly like his dad and that is why we don’t get on. Me? Like his dad? Really? Does that mean I am stubborn, opinionated and always believe that I’m right?

Don’t answer that!

Ever!

Anyway, from the way my kiwi husband is speaking, it looks like this is what it’s going to be. Ten days on an island with no electricity, no running water, no wifi, no hot weather, but with my father-in-law.

Maybe he is trying to tell me something here. Or maybe this is payback for all the times he had to put up with my Mum and Aunt? Or does he want a divorce?
He showed me some pictures of the cabin where we are going to stay in and it doesn’t look like it has any partitions or curtains. This basically means when I close my eyes in the evening, the last person I will see is not only my husband but also my brother-in-law and my father-in-law.

It reminds me of my sailing days and that was already a challenge without the addition of family. Many years ago I went sailing in the Clipper Round the World Yacht race and I slept in the forepeak with three other sailors. I didn’t know them from Adam before joining the fleet and while it was bad enough hearing them snore, fart and doing various other things that don’t bear mentioning during the night, just imagine I now have to endure the same situation with my father-in-law!

Seriously? At my age I should be sleeping in nice hotel rooms, alone or with my husband, not with the whole family!

While my Kiwi husband was busy making tea and coffee, I was trying hard to control my breathing and counting to ten so that I would not say something I might later regret. Twice I took a breath before I managed to squeeze out: “Really? I didn’t know he was interested in coming to Stewart Island.”

“Oh, he has always been interested,” my Kiwi husband pursued unaware of the frying pan that was still firmly clasped in my hand and hovering dangerously in the air. “He just didn’t know if he could take the time.”

He turns to me with a big smile, “Isn’t it great? I am so glad he is coming, it will do him a world of good.”

The eggs are now slowly turning crispy and The Dude’s tail is wagging a million miles an hour, as he knows the second breakfast is now definitely on his way.

The thing is, even I have to admit that a road trip with his boys to Stewart Island will do my father-in-law a world of good. His wife recently had to be put in a home as she suffers from Alzheimers and after looking after her for as long as he could, he does deserve a bit of a relief. Alzheimers is a terrible disease, which affects the whole family, as it makes them prisoners in their own home. It is an illness with far reaching consequences and even though we are thousands of miles from New Zealand, it has hit my lovely Kiwi husband very hard. Funnily enough, his mother’s illness has brought him and his Dad closer together and if they can have a good laugh on Stewart Island, then good.
Where I fit in that set-up though remains to be seen.
I mean seriously, my Kiwi husband is very good with my Mum and Aunt when they come for Christmas or when we go to Mallorca, but there is always an escape. On Stewart Island there is nothing!

Yes, I can go looking for the Kiwi and that is probably what I am going to do, but there still will be loads of hours when my father-in-law and I will have to sit together in the cabin waiting for the brothers to come home. Because he is actually not planning on going hunting. He is just there for the ride. Hell, he’ll probably want to tell me all about fishing again, but then I shall remind him about something called a Jesus bird and that should shut him up (it’s another story, which I shall tell at some point).

Who knows though? Perhaps Stewart Island will bring us closer together as well. Or it will be a total disaster and I will be screaming my frustration at the roaring forties, desperately looking for a way off the island before I divorce my Kiwi husband.

Ah well, I sighed and put the frying pan back onto the stove. I scraped the burnt egg out of the pan and put them in Dude’s bowl.

“What happened?” my husband looked at me with wide open eyes. “Since when do you burn eggs?”

I could have said, since you dropped this bombshell on me. But I didn’t. That’s what marriage is all about isn’t it? Compromising and accepting. But I can tell you right now, I will have brownie points forever and he will definitely have to take me back to Bora Bora soon!!!

As I said before, one of the things I love about my Kiwi husband is that he will communicate and after we had written our thoughts down on paper, it didn’t take long before he warmed to the idea of adding a week’s holiday at our favourite hotel in Thailand to the Stewart Island trip.
We discovered the Pimalai and Spa by pure accident many years ago, when we decided that we didn’t want to fly the Air New Zealand traditional route from London via LA to Auckland any more. Apart from the fact that we were breaking up on that very first time that I flew to New Zealand (which was horrendous because imagine having to sit for 24 hours next to the person on the plane that you are breaking up with, while the third person sitting in your row is desperately trying not to notice the tearful discussions), which is another story, we hated coming through LA.

I don’t know what it is like now, but at the time, once you landed in LA, you were told to leave the aircraft taking all your belongings with you, then you had to stand in some sort of dark corridor with no shops or anything, shuffling your way to the immigration booth, before turning round to go back that same corridor and back on the same plane you had flown in on.

I was so tired from the flight and our arguing that I was pretty grumpy when I finally reached the custom official.

“I will only stamp your passport if you give me a smile,” he said.
If it hadn’t been the United States, which is known for the many horror stories of people that have tried to take on its custom officials, I think I would have ranted and raved, but as it was I just stared at him.
He grumbled and continued to tell the other people in the queue that a smile goes a long way, blah, blah, blah. Eventually he opened my passport and found the page with a type of visa that you only need when you enter the United States by boat.

“Why do you have this visa?” he enquired.
“Because I came by boat the last time I went to the States,” I answered.
“So where did you come from?”

“Cuba” I deadpanned.

His face fell and he finally got the smile he was looking for, albeit not for the reasons he was hoping for.

Anyway, I’m digressing. After that experience we decided that we rather go the other way round to NZ, with a nice stop in the middle, preferably somewhere warm and lovely.

Thailand was the obvious choice, but with thousands of hotels on offer in various locations, we were a bit lost for choice. However, following an encounter with a British Airways hostess in Mauritius who pointed us in the direction of the island of Koh Lanta and the Pimalai, we were all set. “It’s a Thai owned hotel that has just opened, you will see, it’s perfect,” she said. And she was right.

When you travel though, you always have to expect the unexpected and just as we were getting ready to pack our suitcases, the unimaginable happened when on Boxing day 2005 the Asian continent was hit by a powerful tsunami. As everyone else, we were watching events unfold on TV, knowing that only a few days later we were supposed to go on holiday in the area where the tsunami had done most of its damage.
My ever adventurous Kiwi husband was determined to go, while I was more cautious and less keen. In the end we called the Pimalai and were told that Koh Lanta had suffered very little damage, that no lives had been lost in the Pimalai and that we should definitely come as otherwise the hotel would face closure and many of their staff would lose their jobs.

It was strange landing in Krabi a few days later, where the airport hall walls were filled with desperate messages for lost ones. It felt odd to go on a holiday where many had lost their lives, but we also felt that we should support the country whose economy heavily relies on tourism .
Once we arrived in Thailand, we discovered very quickly that the TV reports were misleading in the sense that Thailand has 1200 miles² of coastline, but only 60 miles² had been affected by the Tsunami. Unfortunately, these 60 miles² included major Tourist destinations like Phi Phi and Kao Lak where most lives were lost.
It was terribly sad and most tourists had left the area, still in shock after this unexpected end to what was supposed to be a joyful holiday.

In the aftermath of the tsunami, many hotels were forced to close, as they stood empty and workers were let go as a result. As I said, Thailand depends though on the tourist industry and hence everything was done in the Pimalai to ensure that we would feel welcome and relaxed. The staff was extremely grateful that we had come to their beloved country despite the events and it was nearly embarrassing how often they thanked us just for being there.

Anyway, ever since that first holiday in 2006, we have made it a point to go back to the Pimalai as often as we can afford it. We love its location on the island of Koh Lanta, which is (thankfully) not as well-known as Phuket or Ko Samui and still retains that feel of being on your own private island.
The villas nestled high on the mountainside, overlooking the picture perfect white sandy beach, are stunning and the elegant spa with its professional staff is absolutely divine. The food is delicious and the restaurant at the top an absolute must for any couple in love (obviously as you can gather our 24 hour break-up plane ride ended in us not breaking up)

So the Pimalai it is, which definitely makes the whole idea of spending ten days in a cabin bearable. I will probably appreciate it even more than usual. There is a silver lining to the whole adventure.

So where were we? Ah, yes, Stewart Island.

“So why am I coming to this Island again?”

“Well, because we do everything together and I would like you to see it.”

I guess I should feel flattered that my Kiwi husband wants me to share his life. But somehow, I just didn’t get it.

“So what am I doing there then?”

“Well, you can go and look for the Kiwi. There are lots on the island. But you will need a compass, because it’s quite easy to get lost.”

“Ok, but then what? I mean that’s just like three hours in the day. What do I do the rest of the time?”

“Oh, just leave it then. Don’t come,” my Kiwi husband turned away, visibly hurt by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Honey, don’t be like that,” I pleaded. “But seriously, what am I going to do? I can’t just sit around for hours. It’s not like it’s hot or that I can go for a swim. And I can only read that many hours. Really, it’s not going to work. I’m just going to get grumpy and then we’ll argue.”

“We are arguing already.”

“I know,” I said. “I mean seriously, this is a recipe for divorce. Who in their right mind suggests something like this? I suggested you come to Bora Bora and you suggest a hunting trip?”

“But I went to Boring Boring for you, didn’t I,” my Kiwi husband spat.
“You got to be kidding,” I was fuming now. “As you found out it wasn’t Boring Boring. I seem to remember you had quite a nice time in the five star hotel and fishing off the private catamaran, no? I can’t remember that you complained much, do you?”

We stared at each other across the table. We were on completely different wavelengths here and right now, neither of us was getting what the other was saying. The good thing though with my Kiwi husband is that he is a great communicator. He isn’t the best listener, but he will talk. He will never run off in anger, nor will he sulk like I have seen some men do. However, at this point in time, we were not getting our messages across.

He thought I should share what was dear to his heart and I thought he should understand that I needed a bit more of an incentive to go.

I mean when we went to Bora Bora, I did take him on several fishing trips and we went diving, which he loves. The way my mind works is that he should offer me something in return for coming with him to Stewart Island. Like adding a few days on the Great Barrier Reef, or a few days back in Bora Bora seeing that we were in the vicinity.

That evening following our heated discussion, we both sat down and wrote on a piece of paper what it was that had upset us and what we wanted the other person to understand. As always, seeing it black on white on paper helped a great deal.

We discovered that it would all be workable, but that both of us had to make a few concessions to make it work. One of the main issues funnily enough was a financial one. Seeing that I had saved like crazy for Bora Bora, with the odd birthday and Xmas gift from my husband to bolster the funds, I felt that he had to pay for me to come to Stewart Island, which turned out to be quite an expensive trip. In fact, we could have gone back to Bora Bora for that money, but that is apparently beside the point.

Really? Just the ferry to get to his favourite hunting block Kelly would set us back several thousand dollars and there was absolutely no way you could hop on or hop off when you wanted to. Well, I’m happy to spend crazy money when it comes to the “end of the pontoon villa”, which will include soft beds, sheets of 400 Egyptian cotton, running water, private access into the warm sea, wifi, a bose stereo sytem, a minibar and loads of other things, but forgive me if I think paying 3000 dollars just for a ferry that takes you to a piece of land with no wifi, no nice beds, no electricity and long-drops is just mad. Also, I have an 86-year-old mother, so as much as I would like to cut myself off from the world from time to time, you have to be realistic.

So one of the concessions we made is that we are not going to hunt on Kellys block, but on Big Glory Bay, which is much closer to Bluff and which doesn’t cost the equivalent of a round the world ticket to get to! Also, the name has a nice ring to it and apparently, I can just get a water taxi should I need to make a quick exit from that hunting block in case of an emergency at home.

After changing the hunting block I was a lot happier, but still felt another incentive, preferably one that included some warm weather and warm water was needed in order to persuade me to spend my main holiday of the year on Stewart Island.
I don’t think that I’m particularly demanding, but come on, I need a bit more than a promise that he won’t shush me to come to Stewart Island. I mean think about it, it’s like I would ask my Kiwi husband to go shopping with me ten days in a row, with no break and only a glass of wine at the end of the day to look forward to. You don’t think he would want a divorce after that?

I did put that argument to him the other day, but he only laughed “We have been married for more than ten years,” he said with a dangerous glint in his eye. “And you really don’t want me to count all the days I have come shopping with you, do you now?”

I did squirm a bit at that. He is in all fairness a very good shopper. He is patient, finds me some nice dresses to wear and always gets the size right!  

But come on, you cannot compare a few days shopping a year with ten consecutive days on Stewart Island, or can you?

I will admit that one of the best meals I have had in my life was indeed provided for by my husband. I think it was on my second trip to New Zealand. We had decided to go camping in the Coromandel Peninsula. Well, he had decided to go camping. I on the other hand positively loathed the idea of going camping. I have never been a fan of camping, mainly because I always have memories of tents leaking and having to step outside in the pouring rain if you want to go to the loo. I obviously have camped, like the time in Africa when I met my Kiwi husband, but those were different circumstances. Basically, I only camp if there is no alternative or like in Africa, if it was the best way to discover a country.

You have to understand, where I grew up in Germany, people who went on holiday with a caravan or a tent only did so because they couldn’t afford to stay in a hotel. So before you call me a snob, think of where I grew up. It was only when I travelled to NZ that I discovered that camping can be a way of life, embraced by young and old, rich and poor, students and bankers alike. I understand that now but then I was not amused.

Anyway, so off we went in his brother’s red little hatchback, filled with his sister’s tent, sleeping bag, a bottle of Cloudy Bay (my absolute favourite and a must on any road trip in NZ), a fish smoker, lemons, some manuka shavings and sugar, lots of sugar. The first part of the journey was fun. We listened to music, talked, enjoyed the scenery and stopped at some giant Pepper Tree Café for a bite to eat. When we left, the weather started to change and soon rain and mist started to come our way. By five in the afternoon, it was pouring and there was nothing to look at as it grew dark. By now I was getting pretty tired of the whole driving thing.

“How much longer before we come to the camp side,” I asked.
“Just a little bit longer.”

“Well, how long?”

“Look, I don’t know, just a bit longer,” he said. “You’ll see it’s worth it.”

I was not convinced, as all I was seeing was water on one side, with the road so close to the sea, the waves were nearly crashing over our bonnet. Then the road started to climb and simultaneously the weather took a turn for the worse. By now, I couldn’t see a thing. The windscreen wipers were going furiously and around us everything went black. The road had run out of tarmac and I could feel the tires slipping on the gravel from time to time. Conversation had completely ceased. Then I heard thunder and the next minute lightening lit up the sky. I screamed when I realised that the road had narrowed to a single lane and that we were driving perilously close to a sheer drop of several hundred metres.

 “What the hell? Stop! I don’t want to go on. Where on earth are we going? Is this the road?”

“Shut up, I need to concentrate,” my husband shouted with clenched teeth.

“Yes, concentrate on getting us back down this bloody mountain,” I shouted back. “I don’t want to go camping, I’ve had enough. We have been driving for hours without a break. What on earth is here that makes it so special?”

I was seething. And so was my Kiwi husband.

“Just be quiet and look somewhere else, we’ll be there soon.”

Shortly afterwards the road levelled off and I breathed a sigh of relief when I realised that we were no longer driving the pathetic excuse of a hatchback along a dangerous cliff, but were approaching what looked like a gate and a field.
It was still pelting down with rain when we stopped next to a lone campervan and my husband got out to pay the fee for what turned out to be a camping ground.
Not that you would know it. There was not a single tent in sight and in the black of the night it just looked like a giant field. Getting out of the car to pitch our tent, I was drenched in seconds, which didn’t add to my foul mood.
“I can’t believe you have dragged me here. This is great, man. What a stupid idea.”

My Kiwi husband just ignored me and after we had put up the tent we went to sleep, each in our own sleeping bag, barely having kissed good night.
I woke up a few hours later and when I checked my watch I saw it was only 5am in the morning. The rain had stopped, and I could see sunlight was creeping through the zipper that hadn’t really closed at the bottom. Without making too much noise, I wriggled out of my sleeping back und opened the tent zip.

What greeted me was a sight that I neither expected nor shall I ever forget. Right in front of me, just a couple of metres from the grass, white sand covered with little grey pebbles stretched into crystal clear water, so still that you could have used it as a mirror. The sky, so black and threatening during the night, was light blue and the sun was already gathering some warmth. The beach was shaped like a horseshoe, with rocks on either end reaching into the water. There was no sound, just the far away cry from a pair of seagulls. As unbelievable it may sound, we were the only tent on this big beach. A couple of caravans were parked up in the distance, but at that time of the morning there was not a soul in sight. It was completely deserted.
This is bliss, I thought. I turned around to see my Kiwi husband awake and looking at me with a knowing smile on his face.
“Yeah, ok, I admit it’s pretty awesome,” I said begrudgingly.

“See, it was worth it, no?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was, but it’s still too early, so I am going back to sleep.”

I wasn’t ready to admit that the drive to Port Jackson had indeed been worth it and so I climbed back into my sleeping bag for a bit more shuteye.

“Ok, you stay here, but I am getting up. I’m going to see if I can catch us a Snapper from the rocks.”

Off he went and I turned over, leaving the tent door open and enjoying the sunshine tickling my nose. After a couple of hours of peaceful dreaming, I got up, dressed and decided to go for a stroll on the beach. In the distance I could see my husband coming towards me, fishing rod in one hand and a bucket in the other.
“Look what I got us,” he said with a grin. He lifted two good sized Snappers out of the bucket. “Fancy some breakfast?”

As a German, well half German, my father is actually English, I am used to having a savoury breakfast, but I was regretting a little that we didn’t even have bred or tea. However, half an hour later, the aroma that was coming from the Smoker where we had placed the Snapper loaded with sugar and lemon juice over the Manuka shavings, made not only my mouth water, but also attracted the Camping ground keeper’s cat, followed shortly….by the keeper.

I have to say, on any given day smoked Snapper, which is how the Kiwis mostly eat it, is a delicious meal. But on that day, literally half an hour out of the sea, it was divine!

Even the keeper couldn’t get enough of it. I thought he would have been getting this kind of meal every day during the season, but it turned out that my Kiwi husband was quite the lucky fisherman, as they had had no bites for the past week.
Personally I think there was someone watching over us, making sure we were well fed after such an exhausting night. So there we were, standing around the smoker, eating fresh snapper with our fingers, while enjoying a glass of Cloudy Bay. It was truly one of the best mornings and definitely one of the best meals I have had in my life.

The next evening, we sat down around the kitchen table with a glass of wine and tried to understand what each expected from the other.

“I just think it would be nice for you to discover where I have spent some of my happiest times as a young man. I just want to share that with you.”

“Ok, I get that, but seriously, what do you want me to do all day? You will go off hunting and it’s not like you are going to ask me to come, are you?

“Well, you could come maybe one day,” my Kiwi husband said in the hope that it would tip the balance in his direction.

“Really? You always complain that I make too much noise when we are out walking in the forest, so I don’t think this is a great idea.”

 It’s true, whenever we go for walks he inevitably tells me to be quiet. It’s not that I’m such a chatterbox, but while a walk for me is an opportunity to talk about things and point out a stunning view or a beautiful flower, for my husband it is always about finding the next deer. In fairness, he is pretty good at discovering animals. I grew up close to a wooded area in Germany and spent my childhood disappearing into the forest to build huts and play cowboys and Indians. It wasn’t the kind of forest where you could lose yourself as it was crisscrossed with pretty sturdy roads and frequented by lots of walkers and runners. However, I never saw deer and I remember when I first took my Kiwi husband to Germany he got really excited when he saw the woods.

 “Come on let’s go and find some deer,” he said after we had barely unpacked and spoken to my mother who was anxious to get all the news and gossip. “There is no deer,” I said. “There are far too many walkers and we are far too close to the houses, so good luck in finding some. I have only ever seen one deer and that was when I was about eleven, which is a long time ago.”

“Right, so let’s just go for a walk.”

Off we went then and as I was pointing out the field where I used to ride my pony came the inevitable “shush”. Excuse me? What do you mean “shush”? I’m in the middle of talking here. My husband shook his hand at me, stopped dead and put his finger on his lips. I think the last time I was shushed was when I was six years old, so it took me a moment to realise what had just happened. How dare he talk to me like that I thought, and I was just about to have a go at him when low and behold this blooming deer poked its head out of the trees. My husband turned to me and whispered “See”.

Yes, thank you, I do have eyes and yes, I do see it. And no, no need to say I told you so. After watching the deer for a few minutes, we walked on, passing a jogger and a man with a dog, and just as I was about to have a very important discussion about things one should not say to one’s partner, which definitely included “shush”, my husband managed to spot another deer that was munching away under some trees. So not one, but two deer on the first day my Kiwi husband ventured into my woods, in my country!

What a cheek. We told Mum about the deer when we came back and just like me she couldn’t believe we had actually seen one. “Really?” she said, which drives my husband mad. She just about managed to put on a smile, but I could see she wasn’t really convinced. It got me thinking though. Maybe Kiwi husbands are born with a special “find that animal” gene. I mean whenever someone from Europe goes to New Zealand they come back and rave about how everything in that country is still so untouched, so quaint, so fifty years behind everyone else in the world. So maybe Kiwi husbands still have that instinct, that hunter gatherer mentality, that urge to provide for the family.

I finally had saved enough and off we went to Bora Bora. We had the most gorgeous “end of pontoon villa” and I think it is fair to say that my Kiwi husband had a whale of a time. While we were in French Polynesia, which I discovered operates its own version of the Euro, I ended up paying everything with my credit card (which worked out cheaper than changing money on the islands) and when we came home after four weeks, there was still this whack of money, which represented ten years of birthday and Christmas gifts, sitting in the safe.

It must have been when my Kiwi husband returned the passports to the safe and saw the envelope that this idea about going to Stewart Island popped into his head. “You know we went to Boring Boring for you, now we should go somewhere where I want to go,” he declared after coming back downstairs into the kitchen. “Hmmm, sure my love,” I said, half jet lagged after the 22 hour trip back to Europe. “Naturally, we can plan our next holiday to a place where you want to go.”

Obviously, I was thinking he would suggest something like Namibia, which remains his favourite country in Africa and one I haven’t visited yet. Or maybe Colorado with its breath-taking scenery. But Stewart Island?

He’s been there already, so why would he want to go back? And why with me? And why would he even think that I would like it?

Does he know me that little????? I like islands with exotic names, like Hawai, Mauritius, Tahaa, Fiji or Koh Lanta, not an island that was named after some first mate on a sealer! What is he thinking?
Well, as it turns out, my Kiwi husband was thinking that I would love to discover the island where he had such a great time as a young man when he went there with ten of his likeminded mates to hunt. “You don’t look convinced”, my husband said with a hurt look on his face.

“Well, I’m not,” I replied. “Why would I want to go somewhere where it is cold, and I have nothing to do? It’s not like I hunt.”

“You can enjoy the scenery.”

“What scenery? I thought you said it was all bush and jungle?”

“Why don’t you want to share something that is important to me?”

My husband glared at me and I could see his lower jaw setting and his lips forming that straight line, a sure sign that he was getting pissed off.

“Honey, I just don’t understand why you don’t want to go there with your mates. I mean why do you need me?” I tried to pacify him.

“Why is it always so difficult for you to do something I want?” my Kiwi husband moaned. “You did say we could go where I wanted to next, so why are you being so difficult now?”

I didn’t answer. He was far too wound up to understand my point of view, so we decided to drop it and continue our discussions the next day.

Ten years ago, I started saving for Bora Bora. We could have probably gone earlier, but I wanted the proper holiday, the five-star experience, the end of the pontoon villa. From the word go, my Kiwi husband was not terribly impressed by Bora Bora, which for the next ten years he would refer to as Boring Boring. Needless to say, it annoyed me, but I ignored it. Every birthday and Christmas I asked for cash gifts. I started to save as much as I could while said Kiwi husband made fun of my obsession with the “end of the pontoon villa”. I think he would have driven me insane with his constant moaning about why anyone would need an “end of the pontoon villa” if we hadn’t gone to visit Lake Inle in Myanmar.

Lake Inle is one of the most beautiful places we visited on our travels and one of the treats is to stay in the then still very much affordable hotels that line the border of the lake. Each room in those hotels is a private little hut on stilts that extends into the lake and from where you can observe the famous fishermen of Myanmar that use their legs to paddle. That is, you can observe them if you are in the “end of the pontoon villa”. You won’t see them from the cheap room at the very start of the pontoon. Yes, the one next to the staff quarters and the one they all have to pass to get to that “end of the pontoon villa”!

In 2013, when we travelled to Myanmar, we innocently thought that we were one of a few to venture to this foreign country that for such a long time had been more or less closed to the public. I mean, they only got Coke Cola the year before, but now I wouldn’t be surprised if they have things like KFC or McDonald’s. So we travelled to Myanmar without making any reservations, thinking that we would easily find hotels, youth hostels and B and Bs. As I said earlier, at that point we still enjoyed roughing it and going where the wind would take us. However, we were not the only ones who had the bright idea of travelling to Myanmar and there was not a bed to be had in this country whose infrastructure was nowhere near ready to accommodate all the different nationalities that suddenly embarked in Mandalay or Rangoon. After driving for hours after our arrival in Mandalay in search of a room, we ended up sharing the last room to be had in this fascinating place with a German couple and some cockroaches. The following morning, after having stepped my way around the many tourists who were sleeping on the bare floor of the hotel corridor, I quickly went to the next travel agency and started booking ahead, as I was in no mood to find myself sharing another night with some weird strangers or worse, outside in the wilderness with no tent or sleeping bag.

Lake Inle, which was one of our main destinations, was solidly booked and the only room available was the last or first hut, depending how you see it, at the beginning of the pontoon. We took it and even though the people who passed it day and night got on our nerves with their constant chatter, it served its purpose, as my Kiwi husband finally understood that when one goes to Bora Bora, one must have the “end of the pontoon villa”.

In fact, it all started in Bora Bora. When we got married ten years ago, his parents and his sister flew over from New Zealand to attend our wedding in Mallorca. His parents had never been to Europe and so it didn’t seem fair to disappear on a honeymoon straight after the wedding, but instead we invited them back to our flat in London. In hindsight, that was a mistake. We were on such a high after the wedding that it would have been nice to disappear, just the two of us, to savour the memories of all the different parties we had during that week, to talk about our friends who had flown in from all over the world, to laugh at all the silly things we did. But then again, our in-laws had flown a hell of a long way and we wanted to show them London. So we came back to the city in the middle of the night after one of those cheap and cheerful flights that sees you arrive at some godforsaken hour when the tube has stopped running and you have to take the awful nightbus. But I am digressing.

Seeing that we never had a honeymoon, I decided that we would have one when we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. It was always very clear in my mind that we would go to Bora Bora, which sounded so exotic and which, because of its unique location in the middle of the South Pacific, was like a magnet to me.

I have always been fascinated by anything that involves many hours of travelling to get to, hence it didn’t really come as a surprise that I ended up marrying a Kiwi. I did want to marry an Australian, as I prefer the weather in Australia and I absolutely love Sydney, but even though I spent some time over there, I found Australian men just had no guts when it came to chatting up a girl. I mean seriously, I came from France where you couldn’t even get a foot in the door of a bar without having at least two or three guys rush towards you. In Australia, when a girl goes into the bar, the guys will clock her and then they will do all this male shoving and slapping on shoulders, whilst drowning one beer after another. They will throw you the odd look and while it’s obvious they like you, do you think they will make a move? Never. They will just order another beer and then go all weird if you actually get up and talk to them.

My Kiwi husband on the other hand did not waste a second once he laid eyes on me in the bar in Africa. In fact, the attention he was paying me was actually really annoying. He kept asking me if I wanted beer and I just don’t like the stuff. I have since found out that Kiwis in general will never trust anyone who doesn’t like beer, but then, all I could think of was how I was going to go on travelling. What my Kiwi husband didn’t know then was that I had just been told that some idiot had stolen my car in London and used it to rob two petrol stations. My flatmate, who had been sleeping fitfully alongside his new girlfriend was less than impressed when our flat was stormed by some heavily armed police demanding where I was. His reply: “She’s in Africa”, did apparently not go down well.

Anyway, that said, my car was gone and I was in a bar in Africa where some Kiwi was desperately trying to pour beer down my throat. Also, when I did tell him about my car trouble, he went into fits of laughter because he thought it absolutely hilarious that my car was stolen in London, which was supposed to be safe, while I was backpacking in Africa, which was considered not safe. Needless to say, he didn’t particularly endear himself to me. But then then next day, he did save me from drowning in the Nile and so I married him. And this is how we ended up ten years later in Bora Bora.