On stage, a skinny, mohawked Australian contorts yet another shiny spoon using nothing more than his mind. I have to close my eyes. This can't be happening.
Cartoon-like I shake my head, as if to dispel the ridiculousness of what I'm seeing. Eyes open: spoon still twisting, snakelike, into a warped hunk of metal. All around, the audience is slack-jawed, silenced by disbelief.
This spoon-bending, sword-swallowing peculiarity of a man goes by the name of The Space Cowboy. With tattooed angel wings spanning the length of his back, ribs protruding in front, and enough silver appendages to buy his way off a pirate ship, his look is... different, to say the least. But for the next 10 days, nobody here in Christchurch is likely to give him the merest of second glances.
It's Buskers' Festival time, and that means streets of freaks from dawn til dusk. For ten days every January, the heart of Christchurch throbs with audience applause and laughter, coursing through the laneways and quadrangles of the central city.
Just this afternoon I spied an exuberant pink-haired woman addressing a crowd as she stood on a man's shoulders. The contrast between the woman - in teeny-tiny hot-pink hot pants - and her backdrop - the monolithic 150-year-old Gothic style Arts Centre - was as striking as her singing, somersaulting, giggling performance.Later I watched a Dutch woman immerse herself inside a giant orange balloon. Her feet and elbows pushed haphazardly against the thin rubber sphere as she popped her head out the top before bouncing around the botanic gardens looking like some obscure GE experiment gone hilariously wrong.
The World Buskers' Festival attracts street performers from around the globe. And every year, thousands of spectators flock to the city to watch the hilarious, the intriguing, the unexpected and the downright unbelievable.But as I said, there's only so much spoon-bending a girl can take.
So after two days of unicycling, knife-throwing madness, a group of us decide on an early morning drive to Akaroa. For 84kms the road twists and curves like a mind-bent spoon, but before too long we're cruising into the neat little pocket of a town on Banks Peninsula.
I suddenly feel very French as we pass the village petanque court and a row of vintage Citroens. The early morning breeze whips flags of red, white and blue into a flutter along Rue Lavaud and the only sign of movement is from the local bakery. The warm smell of what I romanticise to be pain au chocolat taunts us as we head in the opposite direction towards the charmingly ramshackle wharf and the rippling green sea.
Beyond its French-inspired attractions, Akaroa offers something uniquely New Zealand: swimming with the Hector's Dolphin. The smallest dolphin species in the world, the endangered Hector's Dolphins are found only in New Zealand and frequent the Banks Peninsula area year round.
Grappling into wetsuits and boarding our vessel, we cruise out into the Akaroa Harbour. As incredulous as it seems as we slice through the endless shimmering ocean, this area was once the crater of a 1400m high active volcano. The harbour's tiny inlets and surrounding hillsides exhibit striking rock formations - a throwback to their volcanic origins.
Despite the magical scenery, all eyes are glued to the rolling water, earnestly searching for a peek of the Hectors' distinctive rounded dorsal fin or sleek silver body. The skipper soon spies a pod flittering towards our boat. The tiny dolphins tumble playfully alongside us before streaking off out of sight.The next pod plays for longer. We execute a quick wetsuit waddle and leap from the stern - mask and snorkel poised at the ready.
Barely have I submerged myself in the cool, rolling ocean before two gorgeous, glistening dolphins pop their heads out within centimetres of my own. It's a fleeting moment of surprise and intrigue. Then they're gone.
Opting out of the increasingly colossal waves, I watch from the boat as the braver of my shipmates frolic in the surging sea with pods of surfing dolphins.
Dry, warm and with dolphin-swimming certificates in hand, we head back around the harbour for lunch at French Farm winery. The grandeur of the restaurant - a long, yellow stucco building with terracotta roof and Playschool-square windows - is surprising given its hideaway location. Through the ivy-framed wooden door we wander out to the flagstone patio. At a sun-soaked table half hidden by romantically overhanging tree branches we gorge on a grand platter of local produce, matched with a sweet Akaroa wine.The afternoon slips pleasantly away...
Back in Christchurch, dinner begins with a clatter and a ding. Onboard the Christchurch Tramway Restaurant a seemingly endless stream of food is delivered seamlessly to our teensy table. Whilst we feast on Akaroa salmon and local wines Mother Nature puts on a spectacular light show, turning dusk slowly, beautifully to night.And as she does, stage lights flick on within intimate venues around the CBD; firesticks are ignited in Cathedral Square; and the bevy of weird and wonderful international buskers command the attention of the city once more.
Sated and content I decide I've had enough pleasant tranquillity for one day: it's time to hunt out some more spoon-bending madness!
Amelia is Content Editor for the New Zealand travel and tourism website www.fourcorners.co.nz. She visited Christchurch and Akaroa courtesy of Christchurch & Canterbury Tourism.
The images of the Hector's Dolphin and the Christchurch Tram are copyright Photo New Zealand.
