Peaceful nights in the student quarter as the Easter armistice winds down. As of the 9th of April the holiday had begun and students streamed out of town in their staggering thousands to exchange the boozy embrace of a government-funded Castle Street flat for what I assume is a slightly less boozy homestay, or perhaps a roadtrip before the winter takes the spotlight. Perhaps I am being too hard on my neighbors, only 1/3 of Otago's students receive government grants (and living off a NZ scholarship myself gives me very little room to sneer) but the streets have been oddly peaceful. You know most of the undergrads are gone when our geriatric guesthouse can throw the loudest party on Castle Street.

Easter here is taken very seriously. Not to say that people don't honor the resurrection by eating chocolate rabbits and marshmallow eggs, but the place shuts its doors for both Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Literally. In many parts of the country it is the law, and here in Dunedin nothing was open save for a few cafes. Which actually explains the absence of the student body, at least for those two days. No alcohol sales. With the dozen liquor stores within easy walking of the campus closed it is clearly high time to go home, let mom feed you, and raid dad's locked cabinet for some 12 year old home-made Kahlua. Beats those fancy Continental aperitifs anytime.

Come 12:01 in the morning the next days, however, the lines at the local quik-e-marts were pretty impressive.

But Easter. Once again I am surprised by the level of religiosity in this beautiful place. Where else locks up for Easter? Ireland, perhaps? There were three cross processions in the Dunedin area, not including the lost-looking undergrad knocking on the Abbey dining room window apparently looking for an open bar where he could park his cross. There were also the obligatory tire and electronics sales. Christ is risen, which means it is time to change your tires out for winter. The large oviparous rabbit with all the chocolate told me so. I'm really not sure what part of that is christian, what might be pagan, and what is simply mad. The cross processions even more so than the whole rabbit/chocolate/Cadbury thing. When I have a truly horrific experience, a day so terrible that I would gladly sleep with Morrisey in order to permanently purge it from my memory, the last damn thing in the world I would want is to have a bunch of folks re-enact it for me in all of its agony. Every year. As homage to me. Thanks for letting me get past it everybody.

But I suppose if nailing each other to crosses keeps them from thinking of reasons to nail me or mine to a piece of wood, I should just stay the hell away and mind my own business.

On the day itself several of us loaded up to drive to the Clyde wine festival. Gorgeous day, even if the 'musical entertainment' was a woman on a flatbed performing Karaoke (inflicting? oppressing? flinging? I never know which verb to use with that term) to the entire original soundtrack of "Grease". Great wine though, good food as well. The venison farm concept is one I am beginning to really appreciate. Best of all it was good people on a day that would make Van Gogh sing a happy little song. Days like that are a bit sacred, so it all came together. Thank you Easter Bunny.

Come Monday morning I was out the door for my own break, three days in the wooly south. The Catlins, the coast, and Fiordland. Nothing but sun, gorgeosity, mellow Kiwis, and sand flies. While I despise their vicious little essences, the little republican bastards do keep you reminded that the place isn't a dream. I have much to post regarding the vistas, but first a quick note on yet another reason why Kiwis are significantly more sane than yanks.

This is a hole in the ground. It cannot possibly be a cave. Why? Because it has a modest little sign pointing to it on a back road. It has a little map next to it with a brief note that if it rains heavily while you are inside it may flood and you will die, so you probably should reconsider entry if it is raining. There are not large, iron-bound doors like something out of a bad RPG. There are no sensors, no gates, no threats to trespassers. There are cute little stepladders to help you over the stock fencing. I did not have to sign a release. I did not have to verify gear or file a plan. I did not need a license of any kind. Living in a place where lawyers are not in charge is so exciting to me it is becoming vaguely sexual.

This is, indeed, a cave, Clifden Cave to be exact. I was not looking for it, I just happened to see it on one of a half dozen small signs on a rural signpost. No billboards and no concession stands. So a kilometer up one side road, a backtrack and a kilometer up another and there it is. Middle of the day, Easter break, and no one around. I did mention just how incredibly refreshing this is, right? Liability lawyers are like underwear. You have no idea how irritating they are until you give them up.

As a prophylactic measure may I say, yes, I went into an unknown cave on some back road in a foreign country alone and without telling anyone. Right. I have caught grief from about half a dozen folks for this thus far. So Mom, Karen already chewed my posterior for this. I recognize the foolhardy nature of my actions, and promise not to encourage the younger siblings or the next generation to engage in such behaviors. To anyone besides my mom that has a problem with it, if you'd come and visit I would have had someone with me, right? So keep that in mind next time I do something hazardous. Your fault.

So I grabbed my headlight, my mag light, and my bag of essential goods and jumped into a hole in the ground.

Clifden is a limestone cave with all the features you'd hope for, flowstone, floor and ceiling formations, small tunnels going off in random directions. Your path is marked by occasional pieces of reflective tape and there is no lighting (and not a damned piece of colored highlighting in the whole place. It isn't even electrified, god forfend). The glow worms give out a bit of light so you can locate them when you turn out your headlight.

The passage itself is generally pretty easy, though there were a few interesting squeezes, drops, and near-stomach crawls. You do have to look about for the reflector strips at times, and the whole path takes 1.5-2 hours.

This was the most interesting (read as oops) portion. On the very rough map of the cave at the entrance there is a formation near the exit marked 'swimming pool'. I still do not have a full grasp yet of the dry literalism of the Kiwi for I simply assumed that this was the name of a feature or a room. Nope.

This was a pool filling the entire passage to a significant depth. Apparently when the water level is low there is a ledge you can squeeze by on and only get your feet wet. The water was not particularly low. After some time pondering my options I threw my bag with all of my electronics/camera gear across figuring the drop damage was less than the certain immersion damage. I then took off my headlight (as I did not want an electrical source strapped to my forehead as I swam in cave water of unknown depth) and tried to throw it directly across. I then swam in the dark. It wasn't far, but it was cold. Try as I might I could not find the Ring, either.

Here lies the exit, even less prepossessing than the entrance. After a few 7-10 meter ladders bolted to strategic bits of the cave wall I emerged. Dripping, scratched, dirty, but with a dry bag and a big smile. Then had to walk back to the car. Showing my excellent sense of direction I walked a kilometer the wrong way to begin, but that did give me a chance to burn off the bliss.

Needless to say, it was not all pristine. Areas near the exits have been hit hard by idiots/kids/idiot kids/kids of idiots. This bit above charmed me, however. Nothing like crawling through a cave and discovering that Vlad had been here before you. For all you know he is still there.....