The wild west coast of the south island isn't the most picturesque when seen through a haze of cold drizzle, while shivering on an isolated lookout, but it sure captures the feeling of untouched, untamed wilderness. The sea crashes in white foam over the black rocks that cover the coastline as far as the eye can see, with no holiday home to spoil the view. Any holiday home would have been swept off the cliffs by now and the beaches there have certainly never seen any sunbathers. 
Grey sky, black rocks and white foam on one side of the road as we drive down the deserted highway, high green mountains covered in rich jungle palms populating the other. Towns along this way seem to be beating off the encroaching wilderness on every side, scrabbling to carve out a piece of civilisation in some Jurassic lost world. Barrytown, population 50, is one such town. Barely a blip on the radar screen, it's only claim to existence is being the only place to stay overnight between here and there. Out here in the sticks normal rules don't seem to apply, and they cater to the busloads of tourists that stop-over with the 
best in rural hospitality. Happy hour in the local/only pub lasts for two hours, but only if the drinkers are in their finest getup from the dress-up boxes provided. Half a dozen grown men in party frocks dancing on the bar is a sight to see. The g-string incident alone would stop me being able to look at our busdriver the same way again for the rest of the trip.
-- H in Oz
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