Mea culpa. I’m still German, and in the year seven after “Geiz ist geil” we’re all finally the new Scotsmen of Europe thanks to Saturn. Lederhosen and laptops are a thing of the past; after the end of the world tomorrow, it’s all plaid skirts and energy-saving Ipads. So I can joke one last time about the lunacy of New Zealand pricing.
500 for a 4-hour ferry? Fine! 13$ for a muesli? Exemplary! 15$ for a “bag horsepoo” offered for sale in writing next to the road? Fertilises well according to Uli, great! 45 for old books with no historical value? Astrein! 50$ for geyser vultures? Awesome! But what we’re seeing today is the bottom of the barrel between megalomania and unquestioning obedience.
Yes, we knew that the Shire was on private farmland. We assumed it would cost something. We had the KMZ location on Google Earth, as well as mapped out back routes in case the doorman got a little too carried away with Peter Jackson’s fame. But we simply couldn’t be prepared for what awaited us.
A hundred cars and buses are parked between sheep pastures in the middle of nowhere behind Matamata in what appears to be a free car park. The crowds pour in endless streams towards Mecca. The shop sells tickets for the hefty price of $75. Nobody seems to mind. After all, Jerusalem wasn’t conquered by people living in poverty. The entrance fee doesn’t include the one-way growth hormone injection, nor the pulling an elf by the ear and – to my particular regret – the hot waxing of a hobbit’s knuckles. After all, this isn’t Bavaria Film Studios.
I honestly don’t know what makes me angrier. Is it the Kiwis who charge these insane prices to enter a pasture covered in sheep dung and a few neighbouring dilapidated film ruins? Or is it these masses of idiots who seem to pay astronomical prices for some stupid “most exciting moments” of their lives without batting an eyelid – and thus deprive me of the opportunity to enjoy nonsensical things myself for reasonable prices
I would have liked to call this article “Breaking into the Shire”. Unfortunately, however, I have to admit our failure. Neither very detailed satnav maps, nor driving down some dusty tracks, nor diabolical plans for an infantry attack across the forest behind the Shire could justify this title. The Shire is the Hobbit Zone. A restricted area surrounded by barbed wire and warning signs, interspersed with Checkpoint Charlie-like farm residences, secured with self-propelled guns and sheep-crowned death strips.
In the evening, the next hostel in Rotorua shows a 30-second advert for the Shire that must have cost $100,000. We learn that there is nothing to learn and see that there is nothing to see. Great! We could have finished the “greatest day of our lives” for a four-figure sum on the more than swanky “Farmstay” of what is surely the happiest sheep farmer of all time. His precious-wood-garnished pool looks about as out of place in the middle of the sheep pastures as a pile of sheep poo on the veranda of a Maldivian luxury resort. Must wash my precious…
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.