Seeing New Zealand with Kiwi Dundee by Simon Heptinstall

We drove as far as the four-wheel drive truck would take us, then trekked on through the dank, dripping rainforest on foot. Along the floor of the gorge in New Zealand's Coromandel Peninsular exotic plants shone with slippery humidity, colourful birds chattered overhead and there were unidentified eerie rustlings in the undergrowth. Yet my mind was focused on just one thing... Kiwi Dundee's bare legs.

I, like any sensible city-dweller exploring the jungle, was wearing creepy-crawly-proof jeans tucked almost air-tightly into the thickest socks you can buy at Millets. My long-sleeved hooded top defied even the cheekiest mosquito to find some bare un-repellent-sprayed flesh. But my guide was care-freely striding through the thick vegetation in baggy shorts and T-shirt singing at the top of his voice. It was as if his tree-trunk legs were brazenly inviting any passing insects, snakes or spiders to "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough".

Suddenly he turned and beamed right into my face: "This is the greatest bloody country in the world, isn't it mate?" I confess there's something about a man with a face that looks like it is carved from concrete. I nodded with a weak smile. He slapped my shoulder just short of dislocation and we marched on. All the while Kiwi was jovially pointing out rare plants, insects and birds, and talking about the history, geography and ecology of the area.

For anyone used to experiencing holidays from the velour seat of an air-conditioned coach or through the misted windscreen of a hire car, tourism Dundee style isn't just a breath of fresh air; it's a tanker load of liquid oxygen. He can customise a tour to take in anything you want - but you'll see it his way. One of Kiwi's "Adventures" means feeling, touching and smelling New Zealand right up close.

The stereotypic New Zealand holiday may involve, in equal measure, mountains, beaches, bungee-jumping and sheep but stereotypes have their limits... apart from this bloke, who seems to have none.

Australian comic Paul Hogan may have been acting a fictional stereotypoic role as Crocodile Dundee but Doug 'Kiwi' Johansen is actually the real thing. His nickname was awarded by a New Zealand Sunday newspaper that ran a poll to find the man most fitting to rival Australia's fictional film star.There were hundreds of entries, New Zealanders love to try to out-do anything the Aussies boast of. Adventurer, environmentalist and tourist guide Doug didn't even know he'd been entered... but was the perfect winner.

He'd spent his whole life on Coromandel and was already well known as the man who had rescued a group of walkers from a ferocious flash flood by swimming through a swollen river... twice. He'd also single-handedly carried a dozen injured people out of the bush to safety one-by-one and he has survived falling 45 feet out of a tree. And he'd once jumped into the sea to ride on the back of a hammerhead shark. Oh, and his personal diving height record is 96 feet.

So now he's known as Kiwi Dundee and takes small groups of intrepid tourists on nature hikes and adventure tours. I joined him for a day on Coromandel.

Kiwi lives nearby in a ramshackle cabin with fellow environmentalist guide Jan Poole. Her party trick, incidentally, is to surprise her walking party by suddenly leaping from a rock into a tiny freezing pool far below. And evidently she has tamed an eel which she calls Piranha because it likes to nip people's toes. They seem an ideally matched couple.

Meanwhile I stayed at the five-star Puka Park Lodge in the upmarket beach resort of Pauanui. Puka Park is a series of individual wooden chalet on stilts in the rainforest halfway up a mountain. They are linked by wooden walkways to a central luxurious bar, swimming pool and very posh restaurant. In my crumpled white shirt, chinos and linen jacket I enjoyed a superb evening meal with the owner and my travelling companion, a chap from the Financial Times. We agreed that the southern hemisphere is much more sophisticated than us northerners generally give it credit for. I strolled back to my sumptuous single cabin feeling quite at home.

It didn't last long. As soon I stepped outside the next morning I came face to face with old concrete face. After a handshake that would uproot a medium sized tree he made me feel exactly what I was: a lily-livered city dweller from the other side of the world.

He'd been bought up among Maoris who taught him how to survive by eating what you can find in the bush. It's not as romantic as eating berries and nuts from an English hedgerow. In the rainforest I saw him put things in his mouth that I wouldn't want on the bottom of my shoe.

No wonder Kiwi has become a tourist attraction in his own right. Fodor's Guide says: "A trip to New Zealand wouldn't be complete without a Kiwi Dundee adventure." He has been awarded the Queen's Medal for services to tourism, voted New Zealand's Guide of the Year and has won national awards for eco-tourism.

It's true that Kiwi likes to point out the pertinent environmental factors during the expedition. "Look at this mate," he suddenly boomed at me. "The air's so clean here you can't bloody well see it." There's a moment's silence then he breaks into a huge craggy smile, wallops your shoulder and you're off again.

Kiwi was finding paths where anyone else would have just seen a blank wall of trees, ferns and creepers. At one point he stopped, pulled apart the leaves of a giant Kauri fern as if he was the Queen unveiling a plaque... to reveal a stunning view of black jagged volcanic mountains poking up through a white lacy sea of mist.

"I know a path up that one, if you fancy it mate," he said pointing at an impossibly vertical pinnacle.

"Err, perhaps if we have time," I said, looking at the man from the FT struggling up a slight incline behind us.

Further on Kiwi cheered us up by eating some really disgusting looking things he found under a tree and then washing the slime off his hands using a plant that acted as a natural soap.

Coromandel boasts fantastic scenery but it is constantly under threat from companies wanting to dig open-cast gold mines. "There's hills in them there gold," is Kiwi's favourite protest. Then in a more considered voice he reveals his more intelligent environmental side. "The real treasure here is the nature not the gold," he says sadly.

After a while I felt we'd bonded enough to ask Kiwi the big environmental question. "Why do you wear shorts all the time?"

He looked stern for a moment then broke into a big smile, saying: "Heck mate. It might be cold on my legs but I reckon it makes the tourists feel warmer. They see me this strange bloke in shorts and think it must be hot!" Cleverly Kiwi arranged for our day's 'tramp', which is what local call walking, to end at a deserted mine dating from a gold rush that ended 100 years ago. He was subtly making a point about the short term gain from mining compared with the timelessness of nature.

With great persuasion verging on downright bullying I was cajoled into a disused tunnel by torchlight. When the torches went off I realised we were surrounded by millions of glowworms. It was a strangely beautiful moment, like being God surrounded by the stars.

Encouraged by that, I willingly entered a smaller tunnel. We gathered inside, bending low to avoid the roof hewn from the rock. Kiwi stood blocking the entrance. I wasn't suspicious. Kiwi would save us whatever happened. He folded his arms and delivered a talk about how difficult it was for the men to sleep in tunnels like this.

"Why's that?" I asked. "Because of these," said Kiwi, shining his torch on the roof right above our heads. It was a nightmare vision that will remain with me forever. The whole roof writhed with shiny seething insects the size of CDs. They looked like huge cockroaches. The man from the FT yelled something unprintable and, completely losing his demure manner, rushed at Kiwi trying to push his way out.

"Those beauties are giant wettas," explained Doug as Mr FT bounced off his chest. "They are the biggest, heaviest insects in the world. They weigh over 70 grammes. You wouldn't want to sleep in here because they have a habit of dropping off the roof onto people."

At that point, national hero or not, no man could have withstood the onslaught of two feverish Brits desperate to escape a cave full of dropping wettas. Kiwi stood aside with a smile. And when we'd stopped running around in circles checking each other's backs for clinging creatures, he shouted to us. "Hey fellas, don't worry, they're harmless."

I may have felt like I'd had a near-death experience but we started tramping back to the hotel quickly, there was no sense hanging around the tunnel entrance. Kiwi might get hungry and start chomping on one of the wettas.