"In Switzerland, you buy watches. In Japan, you buy sushi. In London, you buy…I dunno, a bag of coke or something. In New Zealand, you drink.”

True to my word, last week was spent Getting On It in a very lively hostel bar in Paihia, a town in New Zealand’s northern Bay of Islands. After a few nights of excess, me and a Swiss Girl I’d got to know decided to have a a break from the booze, i.e. we’d still go to the bar, but just for One Drink. The perceptive among you will have probably already guessed that One Drink did indeed turn into many more. But with limited money in our pockets, the One Drink and the ‘many more’ were nooooo bought by us. It was brilliant. We walked into the bar, ordered our drinks, handed over the money, and then! A backpacker miracle. It was handed back.

“They’re paying” said the Maori bar lady, pointing to the three Kiwi blokes brandishing a credit card next to us.

As the drinks arrived at our up-turned barrel, so did the Three Kiwis and a random Japanese Girl who spoke very limited English. Luckily, the blokes spoke Japanese. Language barriers aside, we chatted, we pissed ourselves laughing for an hour or so, and any attempts to leave after One Drink were soon abandoned with the reasoning in this post's title.

So with our pints of cider abandoned for glasses of ‘C-C and ginger ale’, which I now know means copious amounts of whiskey, we moved from the Hostel Bar to the Bar Next Door. Then after picking up more booze, on to the Kiwi’s room at the YHA up the road. Unfortunately, being hostel rookies, the Kiwis hadn’t realised they would also be sharing with two unsuspecting backpackers. We clattered, we giggled, we woke them up and pissed them off (“Sorry for waking you all up." said the sympathetic Kiwi. "You’ll clearly need all the rest you can get before your day of scenic tours”), the Kiwis had a brainwave. We’d head to the beach, a whole 50 metres down the road in their car. That way, we’ll have music and won’t have to carry the alcohol all that way.

By this point, it’s 2am. After a stealth maneuver down the road, we’re parked next to the beach. Car doors open, music blaring. Corona and vodka flowing.

“I know!” said one of the blokes upon seeing that the seafront benches were wet, “There’s a tarpaulin in the car. We’ll make a tent!”

Next thing I know, the six of us have each latched onto this idea and a corner of a huge rattly plastic sheet, and, screaming with laughter, attempt to sit underneath it on a patch of grass. Then a voice pipes up.

“Umm, I think the police are here”

One head pokes out of from under the tarpaulin.

“Oh, shit. Everyone, out of the tent!”

One by one Three Kiwi blokes, a Swiss, Japanese and British girl emerge from underneath a huge blue sheet by the side of the road, just in time to see a second police car arrive on the scene. Swiftly followed by a third.

We hang back while The Kiwis turn off the music and do the ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’ routine with a group of five policemen. We watch as conversation turns into laughter. A cigarette is swapped. Then one of the Kiwis takes a seat on one of the police cars as they continue to chat. We approach. “Yeah, just a few noise complaints. It’s all good, we’ve just got to stop drinking.” More pleasantries, and we decide to make a move. And no, the police wouldn’t give us a lift up the road so that we wouldn’t have to carry the booze (we asked).

The six of us zig zagged back up the road to their hostel room, snorting, giggling the whole way, and continued the party in whispers outside their still-occupied room. The clock hits 4am before the Swiss girl and I head back to our respective dorm rooms and crash into bed. One drink my arse.

It’s 8am when the sliding door of my room crashes open.

“Fishing trip! Fishing trip! Where is she?” I raise my head off the pillow. “Ah! There she is. Fushing trup!”

“What? No! Mhhhrrrrrrr"

“Come on! Put some gel in your hair, get your swimmers. You’ll be right. Anyone else?”

The three pissed Kiwis poke their heads into the bunks of the roommates I'm yet to be acquainted with, also woken by the early morning call to arms. “Fushing trup? Where’s Swiss girl?”

“Bloody hell.” I said, to no one in particular as the call of ‘fushing trup' dissolved into the next room and the next, before disappearing altogether. “What a night.”

I have the distinct feeling that these three weeks are going to fly by.