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Feelin' hot, hot, hot! Not your traditional Christmas Carol we know but one that seems fitting for our festive period. With Christmas came the good weather and it was difficult to function let alone celebrate in such warm conditions. Never the less we persisted in true British stiff upper lip fashion. Because of the heat Kiwi Christmas' do not tend to include a roast dinner, but there was no way we were missing out on ours! After much research we settled on a suitable Christmas dinner that we could roast on the BBQ. The main event would be a chicken (no turkey could be found) roasted with a beer can pushed up it's *ahem* back passage. Greg was sent out the week before to gather the ingredients and was amazed to find the things that would be common place and almost forced into our trolleys in the UK were tucked away as if buying them at this time of year was madness. He dug out stuffing, brandy cream and Christmas puddings from the back of dusty shelves. Fortunately for both Greg and the already depleted o-zone layer above New Zealand he was unable to locate Claire's annual serving of sprouts.
The day arrived and we began gathering all of our ingredients out of the fridges and cupboards to prepare dinner. We had invited Fiona around for the roast and anyone else who was family-less for the day around for drinks afterwards. An orphans Christmas of sorts had been arranged. Greg excitedly fetched his all-important chicken out of the fridge and cut open the packaging. Ripe would be a good word to describe the smell that emanated from the chicken. It seems the fridge temperature had not quite been cool enough and if it was possible for a dead, plucked and de-gibletted chicken to die again then that seemed to be what had happened. Undeterred we came to the decision that, if roasted correctly and long enough, it should be fine. We therefore prepared it as the recipe instructed (complete with prostate exam by a beer can) and placed it outside to 'air'.
Overall the dinner was a success. The chicken tasted unique and no one became unwell, we call that a win. We celebrated with some Christmas drinks with fellow 'orphans' and a refreshing dip in the ocean.
The day after Boxing day the rodeo hit town. Having bagged our seats next to the girlfriend of a competitor, we had the insight of rules and insider knowledge. Men (and surprisingly some boys) rode untrained bulls and more viciously, horses, until they were bucked off or until their time was over, gaining points for both their skill and how ferocious their animal was. We were unsure at first of what to expect, it couldn't be any harder than those mechanical bulls they sometimes have at fayres. How wrong we were. The horses bucked kicked and leaped with all their might to throw the unwanted guest off their back, all the while being aggravated by the rodeo clowns surrounding them (trying to keep the riders safe). We were amazed anyone lasted 2 seconds let alone the full minute required to score points. We were concerned the terrifying "is there a doctor in the audience" was going to happen at any point. Fortunately the event passed without significant injury. Even more fortunate was the boyfriend of the girl we were sat next to won the main event (no doubt spurred on by our cheers).
The only New Zealand event putting Gisborne on the map is a festival running between Christmas and New Year. Baywatch, followed by Rhythm and Vines, is a five day affair, mainly consisting of dance music. Youngsters flock from around the country to enjoy the festivities amongst the beaches and vines. As we would never have this opportunity again we felt obliged to attend...all five days. We threw ourselves into it despite the music being not exactly what we'd usually go for. Needless to say it was excellent, we danced on the beaches and among the vines in party hats, we rediscovered our love of ring of fire, raved inside a walk-in fridge and saw in the new year watching Bastille. Despite the fun we had it was still liberating to cut off our 'over 18' wrist band at the end of it all...maybe we're getting old.
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