Day 4 & 5: Rotorua, Redwoods, Buried Village & Exhausting Myself

Days 4 & 5, Wednesday 9th, Thursday 10th,December

Rotorua, The Redwoods, and The Buried Village

Myself & Tonto (Walter Knitty's just too big for some of these journeys)

Walked about 40km (25 miles) - thankfully I could carry a light bag

Total Journey Distance: 752km

The plan: 

Walk to The Buried Village- a cross between Beamish (a Northern England Must See) and Pompeii (an Italian Must See)

Walk, in part, through the Redwood forest park

I'm writing this on the afternoon on my fifth day. I just couldn't find the energy last night. I could barely walk. So amazing to have a soak and a shower afterwards. I wasn't much better this morning, so this has been a bit of a lazy day. Just talking to whoever was around the hostel. I deserve it. Yesterday was nuts.

I guess I should have felt warned when I managed to, in the rush to get out of the door, forget the green stone pendent I was given by the practice as a leaving present.

Although, maybe I kept some of the effects. I was certainly determined. I did get plenty of walking in. Just not so sure how good it was for my short term health.

The day started at the hostel at 8am. The Buried Village site is 15km away by road. With a small day sack I can easily cover 30km in a day. In theory I would be there by 11am, before the day became far too hot.

The first few kilometres I steadily got into my usual rhythm wandering along watching out for traffic and ensuring I was alongside the correct highway.

I turned onto the road that lead to the Village. There was the entrance to the redwood site. 1km to the centre and start of their tracks. I had a memory of one route that would take me across the are to a place far closer to the Village. But if I was wrong I could be doing another 2km, and if I was right, with hills etc. I'd be doing another 3km minimum- but under the trees and through the forest. I might also lose and hour. I could still be at the village for 12 though, that was fine.

The route does have a proper name. Something long and in Moari which, for better or worse, I can't pronounce, spell, or remember. But it had black arrows showing the way, so I just called it the black route. Simple.

The problem was that there was work going on in the forest.

"Please ask inside about diversions"

Pay, no fear,I was just wanting to follow the road, I'd work it out.

The first 10km were up and into the forest. We travelled through a region filled with giant American redwoods, brought over for the timber industry,but here left as a recreational park, mostly for mountain biking. There are also fern trees and bushes interspersed, giving the place a "Jurassic Park" feel. If anyone remembers the Walking with Dinosaurs episode about the baby sauropod this is that landscape.

Up and into the hills, the vies we distupted by the trees, until we got deep enough to were vast swaths had been felled. This was the commercial area at the back of the park.

Eventually I descended and reached the roadside. The path was due to follow the road further, in theory. I should have gone with the plan and followed it. Yet it wasn't obvious, and there was the road. There were a lot of cars on it, maybe I could hitchhike?

I've done a fair amount of road walking in the past. I don't generally encourage it due to the dangers.  There are a few rules to make it safer, though.

Keep as far off the road as possible. 

Keep yourself aware of traffic, and get out the way! Especially big stuff.

When walking round a bend walk on the outside. Your more easily seen and people tend to drive towards the inside of a curve.

The forest walk, whilst nice, hadn't given me a short cut, or a decent time. It was 11am, the sun was hot, I was hungry, and I still had 12km to do. I fished out one of my small burger buns, a cold sausage and a boiled egg. Not much of a sandwich but it hit the spot.

Right. Hitchhiking. People still do it here. People on highways with too much time and too little cash. People just trying to go somewhere else. Successful people doing it either look sensible or have a low cut top and sweet smile. So yeh...

After 6km I'd given up and had my kindle out, reading the last of my Harry Dresden novel. The trees had grown closer, the traffic less, and my legs were in auto. I sipped water from my bag and hammered along.

 Reached the Blue and Green lakes at about 12.30. There were a lot of families splashing about, having fun. I was knackered. Why was I bothering? This wasn't worth it! Surely I would have had more fun staying in Rotorua. Maybe if I turned back now I could do more in the redwood forest, go have a sleep, have a drink with my feet up. I'd done enough for the day. I'd earned a rest.

"Buried Village 4km"

Sod it.

There were even fewer cars as I carried on, but more trees. I just keep going. Mindless, just carrying on.

"Buried Village 1km"

We can do this.

Where all the cool kids at.

"The Buried Village. Devonshire Cream Teas 10am-3.30pm"

Finally!

Have you ever sat on a train staring out of the window, only for when it stops to still feel like you're moving? Your eyes and brain make it seem as if everything is very steadily slipping past.

I had that when I'd stopped walking. Freaky. I must have been doing a very consistent pace.

I shook my head and sat down outside. 2 bread buns, a sausage, boiled egg, and an apple. A little bit of bread when to the friendly wee bird that cautiously came to say hello.

The Buried Village

In the year 1886 the most famous tourist attraction in New Zealand were the Pink and White Terraces.

I know, tourism on the other side of the world for the Victorians! Looking at some of their stuff they clearly didn't travel light either. Glad I'm not carting around half a dozen petticoats. One's enough for me.

The terraces were formed as hot, mineral rich boiling waters bubbled out from the volcano. The minerals were deposited as the water cooled, forming a series of terraces and small pools, not unlike a Chinese paddy field hillside. Tourists would start at the cooler bottom pools, working up to the warmer pools, then down again. Some items were pertained in the pools- there's a bowler hat someone left in a pool for a year in the museum. It's not unlike Mother Shipton's cave in Yorkshire- but the minerals are a pretty white or pink, not a rusty brown.

It wasn't to last though. On the night of the 10th June 1886 the ground shook and then exploded. The volcanoes heating the terraces had erupted. Rock and dust fell out of the sky onto the local village, destroying Maori and Pakeha buildings alike. Hundreds died via direct hits, buildings collapsing under the weight of debris, or from toxic gases. Many tried to run, or huddled together in larger Whares ("Fares"- traditional Maori houses). Some were successful- the main guide, Sophia, a half-Maori half-Scottish lady successfully sheltered many in her home.

It was all over by morning. Rescue parties were sent out, digging people out from the 2 metres of dust and mud up to 4 days after the event. Some were even deeper. Some too deep to rescue.

Initial reports proposed the the terraces had, in part, survived. This would at least mean the tourist trade could continue. Then the truth came. They were gone. Simply gone. The land had shifted, moved, flown. The lake had been altered, part of the mountains obliterated, and the terraces nothing more than a memory, other than a few chunks littering the land.

No more farming, no more tourism. Local Maori donated food, blankets, and even land to help their refugees. The Pakeha were not so lucky. Many went to find new work, but those who owned businesses were ruined. The insurance companies declared that no one was eligible for protection from volcanic eruptions so wouldn't pay out. Some items were retrieved, medals were awarded to people for bravery, but nothing prevented bankruptcy.

Vi Smith had begun a little tea room not far from Lake Tawera. She was effectively right above the original village. He sons, before WW2 began excavating the site, finding Victorian items, and them homes. After the war the excavations continued, and do to this day. They are steadily unearthing everything that had been left behind.

Thus, today, the tea room has a museum attached documenting the day the terraces were destroyed. The grandson of the Maori chief who saw the eruption guides some of the tours. Outside are a collection of the houses they have unearthed, including a few Whare and the blacksmiths. 

And finally, their waterfall.

Sorry, the rest of my photos are on my camera, which isn't as easy to move photos from right now compared to my phone.

Suddenly my day REALLY doesn't seem so bad

After my wander round, I'd missed afternoon tea. It was bang on 3.30pm and everything was shut up. I managed to find someone to fill my water though, then sat down for a little snack. Still had to get back.

So, I set off. I'd finished my book and wasn't in the mood to start another. I was getting tired. Very tired. Must have done 20km so far. I didn't have a great deal of food left either. I really wasn't in to mood to carry on. Why should I anyway? I could be back at 10pm and it wouldn't matter. I got to the Blue lake and had a lie down. Just a little nap, a sleep to help. The wind picked up. The clouds might have been a dark shade. No rain as forecast. Wasn't going to take the chance though. A cereal bar and I was off.

I'm not much of a music person. I like it, enjoy it, appreciate it- but I can never remember track names nor artist's names. So far I hadn't put in my earphones- the book was already an excessive risk when road walking. But without it, and keeping the volume down, I risked it. And I'm so glad I did! My legs got back into the rhythm. I was suddenly positive again, able to just keep going. We eve off!

So far along I noticed, as we passed a few redwoods 8km along, a little hole in the hedge. I pushed through and there it was, the black track that ran along the roadside! It had been so close throughout my earlier walk. Well, I'd missed this opportunity before, let's not do it again. Hearty pace, don't get run down by the occasional mountain bike, keep going. 

After several kilometres the road diverted off and a gully grew between it and the track. This must be a short cut around that, I decided. Keep going.

The gully grew. Some hills were added to the ensemble. Big hills. A ridge. A long ridge. Ah. I'd missed the turning I hadn't taken that morning. I was lost. And going south- I wanted to go west, over the ridge.

Suddenly I came across a black arrow. So, i was in the right area. But do I go with the track, or against it? Against was uphill and south. With it was down into the gully. I followed it... Into a turning circle for log trucks. The path ended. Must have missed a diversion too. Oops.

I heard voices further down the gully. Young guys playing on mountain bikes. Time to ask for directions.

I know men traditionally are supposed to be too proud to ask for directions. If I have a map I usually am. But when I'm tired, the sun is setting behind the ridge I might have to climb, and I have no idea where I am pride can go (rude words) itself.

As I walked down I noticed an older man put his bike down and walk over the lip of the land into the gully. He'd know where I should go. I walked towards him. A head appeared out of the bush, his wife pulling up her shorts!

I blurted out something akin to an apology, then turned around for a few paces, trying not to blush. She came up the hill, pulling a bike I hadn't noticed out of the trees.

"You look lost"

I tried to explain my position.

"My husband knows this place better than me"

Her husband arrived out of the bushes with their daughter. He did a fair job of explaining were to go. But it wasn't exactly safe.

"Go over this creek, then climb up that bike track. You'll find a clearing. You see that gap between those two trees? Yeh, that's the exit of a bit track. You'll know it by the massive jumps it has. Follow that up to the track. Then do down hill to the filtration ponds. Take a right, follow that, it'll turn into asphalt. Follow that until the cross roads, take a right, you'll come to the end of the road the redwood centre is on"

Simple, easy, slightly dangerous and tiring, but God bless that man!

I followed his advice. He wasn't wrong about the bike jumps. The last one was like two king size beds at 30' angles, separated by a gap the size of another king size bed. The rest weren't much easier.

His was probably more dangerous than the roads. I took the earphones out and kept to the edges. I wasn't so much worried about anyone hitting m- I'd be able to get out of the way. But suddenly seeing a random guy when riding a bike at 20+km/hr through a forest- that could lead to some serious miscalculation and I didn't want to see someone crunch into a tree because of me. Keep close to the trees, be ready to hide well out of the way.

Is that a hare? What's a hare doing here?

The little fluff ball looked up at me. I wasn't going to get any closer. It wasn't quite right though.

Then it started hopping off. But not like a hare does. Just on its hind legs, holding its front paws off the ground.

A Wallaby!

There's not many in the park- they eye released by accident from a private collection. Now a few live out their lives amongst the trees. And I'd seen one!

I got to the entrance of the track without seeing any crazy humans trying out the massive jumps. At the top I got a confused but caring look from two mountain bikers who gave me the same directions as before and sent me on my way. I was so close that I had to celebrate. More music, my last half bread bun and an apple. Oh, splash out, have the other cereal bar.

There were more people as I got closer, a few dogs, families, walkers, asphalt. Finally I was back down to ground level. I found the information centre. It was 6.30pm and only 4km back to the hostel. I fished out the last of my food to help me finish off. A raw carrot. I'm sorry, who packed this bag? Where's the Jelly Babies, or the chocolate? Weirdo.

Once bag I hammered through 2 bread buns and a giant bowl of last night's curry. At 9 the Irish lass who's in the dorm room invited me to the warm spa pool. Oh, so good for the legs. She chatted with the old American lady we shared the pool with as I allowed blood to leave my head to do good elsewhere. 

After a shower I stumbled to bed and passed out. It was good night's sleep. 

Busy Busy Busy! And then to Hospital...

Hello, sorry I haven’t written any blog entries in a while, life’s been rather busy over the last few months.  However I now have some time to dictate a new entry for the blog.  Yes dictate.  Due to an injury to my right hand I now have a cast over it and am under strict instructions not to use the hand.  Hence my writing looks like that of a child, with me having to my left hand, and typing is becoming slow and laborious.  Therefore I have chosen to go back to something I did over a year ago, getting my computer to take down what I say.  The technology’s better than what it was last year, with only a few corrections needed, and I’m having to inform it as to when I want punctuation –so please excuse any mistakes I’ve missed out.  Conveniently it is also significantly faster than typing with a little practice.

I should probably update you on the last few months and what has been going on.

In July, as many of you will know, I return to the UK for my sister’s wedding and The Great Yorkshire Show.  I’ll give you a full round up of my trip in a later entry, as there is quite a lot to tell and it deserves its own post.  Not to mention that some of it might want running past my sister first!

August was a month of calvings!  Over 22 by the end I believe.  My recording system wasn’t perfect, either in my notebook or on Facebook.  Those of you who have been following me via facebook will, I’m sure, know that I was noting down each of the calvings giving each a number and describing them in the metaphor of pizzas.  I hope this didn’t put too many of you off pizza, it was either that or put you off all food with descriptions of what are the worst calvings can be like.  Instead I decided to save them all for another blog post!

And finally September.  The events of September really started on the last day of August.  However what happened that day has affected every day since and will continue to affect me until at least the 31^st of October.  As of this seems the most pressing topic, but also one of some interest, I will address it in this post.

Once upon a time (11:30 AM 31^st of August 2015) in a land far far away (or not, kind of depends on where you are) I was enjoying my typical lovely morning routine, once more trying to wrestle a small cow out of a big cow, while standing in mud, wind blowing in my face, and swearing like a Scotsman.  By this point we had been there for some time and were making slow but good progress.  As this was all going on I noticed one of my knives was out of its sheath and on the grass.  Thinking of my safety and of the safety of those around me I picked it up by the handle to move it out of the way.  However, my hands at this point were covered in a mixture of calving lube, pregnancy juices, cow dung, and mud, causing the knife to slip slightly in my hand.  As it was, with this being a knife I had a recently sharpened, this was enough to cause a small cut in my little finger, and an even smaller one in my ring finger.  I instantly dunked my hand in the large bucket of antiseptic solution we had several times before going to look for a plaster.  It was at this point that I realized that I could not bend the first joint of my little finger.  I had severed a tendon.

Having been bandaged another vet who was conveniently close by came to finish the job for me whilst I ran myself down to the local doctors.  Here the nurses cleaned and dressed my wound.  I was then refer to one of the local hospitals.  Technically we are closer to the Palmerston North hospital, but I live to the west of the Rangitikei river which puts me under the jurisdiction of the Whanganui hospital.  The difference is roughly 10 minutes and all the nurses reassured me that the waiting times would be shorter.  Thus, with my hand neatly wrapped up I was driven by a staff member from work to the hospital.

To some extent it is good that I am used to having a wait at a medical facilities.  With this in mind, before leaving, I grabbed my bag containing things to keep me occupied.  They were very useful.  I was seen to by a very nice English doctor who had arrived in New Zealand a week before.  She was originally from Southern England but had trained in Leeds.  She irrigated the wound, giving it a second cleaning, applied a new dressing, organized for radiographs to be taken, and went to try find her superior.  It turned out as I watched from my little room in the emergency department that it was turning out to be a very busy day for the hospital.  Multiple trolleys were being pulled through with what looked to be very severe cases as well as all the other spaces within the department being filled with patients.  Thus I was left there waiting.  And waiting.

Thankfully I was prepared for this with a book and access to free wifi.  So I quietly waited in the corner of the hospital, as the hospital manager swept the corridor floors and exclaimed that she had never seen it this busy before.  Thus I waited, a patient patient, knowing that there were cases far more in need of help than me.  My doctor was part of the orthopaedics team and her superior was in surgery all afternoon.  When she finally managed to get hold of him he informed her that they were limited in what they could do for my injury.  I would have to go 2 hours south to Hutt Hospital where there was a specialist department.  By this point it was turning toward evening, my injury was not life threatening, and I would not be accepted at the referral hospital until the morning.

I was rebandaged and sent off home for the night, with a few drugs to keep me going.

Saturday 1 September 6:00 AM, I left home to be driven to my next hospital by the practice manager.  The hospital opened at 8:00 AM and we hoped that by arriving early in the morning we will be there before any sports injuries and hoped to be seen to before the afternoon.  I was still going to bring the boredom busting bag though.

I slept most of the way there and arrived to find a waiting room occupied by only two other patients.  That the desk I began to try and fill out more paperwork.

New Zealand has a system called ACC whereby any taxpayer who sustains an injury that work will have the majority, though not all, of that costs of treatment paid for.  They will also cover certain costs such as travel expenses and a certain amount of wages depending upon level of injury and type of work.  Therefore from my point of view it effectively worked like the NHS, but probably better.

New Zealand also has an agreement with the British government.  Any Kiwi who sustains an injury or succumbs to illness within the UK will be cared for and looked after by the NHS.  The reciprocal agreement means that any British citizen who similarly requires medical help in New Zealand will get it, for the most part, free of charge.

Both of these a very simple summaries of the situation but you get the idea.  And I was in the middle.  This caused some momentary confusion for the staff.  However I had already been seen by two other medical facilities and had been given up an ACC number.  This happened at work, I’m a taxpayer, and I was going to get significantly more benefit from ACC than I was from being British –it would later be very useful when they’re prepared to cover part of my wages whilst I am under doctor’s orders not too rectal cows for eight weeks.

After I sat down to wait some more a middle aged man came in with bandaged and blood soaked hands.  We would later be taken off together to both be examined by a doctor.  As it turned out he had also severed a tendon, this one for his middle finger on the right hand, but his cut was on the back of his hand such that he couldn’t straighten the finger.  He had also sustained a number of other injuries to his hands.  He was a site manager for building company and had gone in on Saturday morning to do some quick jobs that hadn’t been done during the working week.  One of those jobs involved cutting through a water pipe which he thought had been shut off.  As it was as he cut through water poured from the metal pipe.  This caught his hand forcing it upwards and into the sharp edge of the pipe above at high speed.

We were both seen by a young Irish doctor who took a history and examines our wounds in the large empty emergency department ward.  As it turned out the doctor used to work at Leeds hospital, and my fellow patient used to live nearby.  It’s a small world.

We were sent up to the plastic surgery department from which the hand specialists worked.  We were put in different wards though I would later see him that evening and he would be leaving surgery as I was about to go in.  In the ward I was given a bed which initially seemed unnecessary.  Out of the window sprawled the city with the hills in the background.  Across from me was an agitated Kiwi who had already been in the hospital since Friday afternoon.  During a last minute job at the lumberyard where he worked here caught his hands on a large circular saw and made a tear that didn’t quite make it down to the bone.  In the bed next to him was a very “interesting” American.  We never asked him a question but he chose to tell the entire hospital how the past month have gone to him.

He was a loud brash bald chap in early middle age.  Visiting him at this time was his elderly father.  Projecting with as much a volume as he could find he told his dad about all of the injustices that had befallen him during that month.  He had been traveling in South East Asia and whilst there had been assaulted and had had a his wallet stolen.  Somehow he ended up being incarcerated by the local police who then preceded to beat him in his cell.  He was then left their enough time such that the bruises healed leaving him with a no evidence of the event when he went to the American embassy.  After this he had come to New Zealand.  For some reason he had been walking through the streets of Lower Hutt.  This is not a tourist destination – Lower Hutt is not a prosperous area and is known for being a place where New Zealand’s criminal gang culture is abundant, as well as having a competitive crime rate.  It is not a place to be loud or brash, nor a place to show off your fancy new phone.  This unlucky American, whilst minding his own business, was once more assaulted, this time having his phone stolen.  He was beaten unconscious and left in the street later to be found and brought to the hospital.

Initially I had been sympathetic for this poor American tourist.  As time went by he continued to shout about his woes and made strongly abusive comments to his meek father, who was trying to help him to pack for the journey home.  Eventually he left and the Kiwi opposite me breathed a great sigh of relief.  Apparently this American had been similarly loud abusive and rude since he had been brought in the day before and then had loudly snored his way through the night.  We were both equally dumbfounded about the events he gone through.  The question was raised of what sort of person, having been assaulted twice in Southeast Asia, then travels to Lower Hutt?  And had he followed the advice many people give for not getting mugged in strange places –primarily keeping your stuff hidden and maintaining a low profile.  Probably not.  We decided that whilst he was very unlucky, there was a good chance he had also been very stupid.  At least we wouldn’t have to listen to him snoring all night.

By 6:00 PM I was guessing incredibly hungry but more importantly immensely dehydrated.  I had been fasting since 6:00 AM in the morning and was hoping the surgery would be done that day.  A nurse had come around earlier to put a catheter into my hand – perhaps they can attach me to a bag of fluids?

I managed to find a passing nurse who went off to go find out what was happening.  As it turned out for some reason the hospital only had one acute surgical suite open for the weekend.  The man opposite me as well as the man who I had come in with were both more serious cases than I and so would be going in before me.  But there also other patients, not to mention other departments, who also wanted the surgical facilities.  This meant that any car accident, caesarean section, or other life threatening problem would come long before us in the list who could wait for a long period of time.

And so it was that the nurse returned with not only news but also sandwiches and water.  Even without being told I knew this was not good news –I needed to be starved for surgery, if I was being given food my surgery would not be happening until the following day.  So I ate my sandwiches, drank and refilled my large litre jug of water a number of times, before finally being served a “spare” meal with ice cream and lots of tea.

Finally my doctor arrived to inform me that they should be able to get to me by the following morning and that I was to be starved from 2:00 AM.  This would mean that I would be able to go home Sunday evening.

Later on that evening the patient opposite me was taken down surgery, had the paperwork done, was prepped for surgery, and then sent back to the ward.  A caesarean section had come in and he would be pushed back to the next day.

The following morning he was taken away early and returned 5 hours later.  Some time later a friend came to pick him up from the hospital and to jubilantly left, finally free after nearly 48 hours in the ward.  That got me to wondering how long it would take offense to repair the site manager.

Eventually they came to collect me at two o’clock in the afternoon.  Despite the fact that I could still walk very well the staff insisted that I be pushed on my bed through the hospital and down to surgery.  Here the paperwork was done, as I watched the site manager brought out of surgery.  I was up next only for a patient I never saw with an injury more serious than my own to be taken into surgery before me.  Only time would tell if I was to be sent back to the ward or actually manage to get surgery this afternoon.

The estimation was good the surgeons believing that they would be able to get to me soon enough.  I curled up on my bed.  The nurse who is looking after me took out a blanket from a heated cabinet by the anesthesia department’s central console and place to over the top me.  Under a nice warm blanket and surrounded by pillows I quickly drifted off to sleep.

When I eventually work nothing appeared to have changed.  The site manager was still opposite me recovering and I could see no nurses thereby.  However I did feel that now was a good time to go for a wee.  So I got off my bed and wandered out, dressed only in a hospital gown, to find a toilet.  Opposite the anesthesia department with two toilets marked “staff only”.  I didn’t know how far I would have to go to find other toilets and it seemed like a waste of time to go find them.  What the heck, there was no one around anyway.  Such a rebel.

It was as I dutifully attempted to wash the one hand that was not covered in bandages that I heard a commotion outside.  I waited a moment by the door of the toilets that hospital management said I shouldn’t use before noticing that someone was saying my name.  I cautiously opened the door to find to agitated nurses who were looking for me.  The surgical table was free!  It was my turn!

I walked into the surgical suite and jumped up onto the surgical table where I would be having the operation.  I was hooked up to a bag of hartman’s solution, electrodes were attached, connecting me to the machine that goes “BING!”, and talked to my anaesthetist.  They were going to use local anesthetic on my arm, excellent idea, and I’m sure he said I’d be put on Halothane, which made me wonder about my recovery.  I had a vague memory of being told something about Halothane being used for humans, but couldn’t remember if it has a good or bad thing.  Either way, I treat animals not people, and a lot of other people had been through this hospital over the course of the weekend and they all seemed fine.  They placed a mask over my face, I took slow deep breaths, and then groggily woke up back on the ward with a new set of bandages.

And that was that.  It would not be until the following Thursday at physiotherapy that I would see the surgical site.  I sat up in my bed with a sore throat and a second catheter in my arm.  The fluids must have worked as I no longer felt so dehydrated, but I was thirsty and hungry.  It wasn’t a long before I was brought a double helping of dinner and 2 litres of water.  I was still groggy and took a couple of naps as I worked my way through the food.  At the end I was offered a cup of tea, and managed to get hold of more ice cream, and began to feel a lot better.

Still recovering from an anesthesia I stayed on the ward overnight.  The next day at 8:00 AM the department handed over to the weekday staff.  They did Morning Rounds, visiting all the wards so the weekday staff knew what was left.  I was all set and ready for home, given the all clear by my Irish junior surgeon.  This only left mean with 3 hours to wait whilst paperwork was completed, just enough time to practice manager to drive back down and pick me up.

Following on from all this I was put on antibiotics, three forms of pain relief (mostly just to keep the swelling down), and am visiting a specialist hand physiotherapist.  I will be back in Hutt hospital on Monday for an appointment with the head surgeon, and going to a hand clinic at Palmerston North hospital in a month’s time.

So, that’s my experience of the New Zealand Health Care System.  It effectively the same as the British one, although they will ask for a bit of money up front to help keep out the riffraff and the time wasters. 

Oh, and its better if you say you did it to work.  Provided you can be back at work within 48 hours after the injury.  Otherwise OSH, which is the New Zealand equivalent of the HSE of the UK start asking questions.  Although that 48 hours doesn’t include the weekend.  I’ll stop now, it’s amazing what you learn off people hospital when you get talking.