TRAVEL FEATURE: Hanging out, Canuk style

Hooray! It's Saturday and the get-off-your-backside part of the eight-day trip to British Columbia (BC) begins.
All that non-stop binge eating is cramping my style.
We pile into the dysfunctional minivan - I believe (no I insist) that it has a design flaw because the front door does not have a harmonious relationship with the middle one - for the Whistler and Blackcomb Resort, about two hours' drive from Vancouver.
"Careful with that door, Borat!" British Columbia Tourism guide Tom Ryan barks before we snake our way along the motorway, getting a sneak preview of what the world will have a glimpse of during the 2010 Winter Olympics.
Road construction crews ensure we make several stops, giving me enough time to reflect on how I inherited the name Borat. I'm mystified but do recall everyone clutching their stomach with laughter while watching the inflight movie, Borat, on the Air New Zealand flight to San Francisco the previous week.
I take it as a compliment. The team of fellow journalists on a familiarisation trip to BC to promote Air NZ's direct flight from Auckland to Vancouver last month are tickled pink with some of my zany questions and answers.
Ryan pulls over at the waterfall along the way and further on at the Brackenhead bald eagle reserve hugging the Squamish River (a beautiful name that just rolls of the tongue), which he says is chocka with the protected species.
Further up the road, he stops in front of a giant rock face with half a dozen cars parked on the roadside facing it. The spring morning has a bite to it and I'm the only one who ventures out.
"Spot the rockclimbers, Borat,' he says. I try but it's a bit like when I tried to focus on the target during a smallbore rifle shooting stint at the Pakowhai club. Just when the mob in the minivan start grumbling I detect rockclimber movements - ever so slightly, like spent ants caught up in a spider web.
We soldier on, my jacket-hugging fellow scribes constantly reminding each other of the drop in temperature as we arrive at the Westin Resort and Spa at the Whistler Village for a three-night stay.
Whistler Tourism media wallah Vanessa Murphy joins us for lunch at the Garibaldi Lift Company restaurant, overlooking the foot of Whistler Mountain covered in sheets of snow. Some bald patches suggest the season is almost over - in fact the Whistler ski slopes close at the end of the next day for the first time for regeneration, while Blackcomb stays open.
I wash down a chicken meal with a vodka-and-tea concoction, as mostly teenage skiers and snowboarders come to a skidding halt only metres from the deck. Reggae and ambient house music of the Gwen Stefani variety pump out through massive speakers on a stage at the village centre.
I sense my travel companions' apprehension over whether we really fit the teen scene.
After sorting out our ski equipment for the next day we meet two ZipTrek Ecotour instructors, Canadian Mitch and Duncan the Pom, who help us harness like paratroopers before we march off toward a flying-fox practice area.
Keep the body streamlined or face the dreaded "wedgie" is the rule drummed into us before we pile into a van for a parcel of forest sandwiched between the Whistler and Blackcomb mountains.
Vowing never to bungy jump, I have my reservations about harnessing up and dangling like a monkey along steel zip lines suspended above a mindnumbingly cool white-water river meandering between two mountains.
Ziptrekking is a discovery of mountain ecology, with five points of take-off that gain progressively in height (up to 28m canopies) and length, with the longest spanning more than 330m. Our guide/instructors lead us through aerial stairways and bridges, lecturing us on the benefits of preserving the forests and their habitats, before putting us through the zips, almost as if meting out punishment, lest we forget our moral obligations.
Our group's confidence grows by the third ride, some in the group courageous enough to let both hands go to dangle upside down. It's freezing, so why am I sweating? The digital camera around my neck is my pathetic excuse for not letting go but the smile from the jovial instructors tells me my eyes cannot camouflage the fear.
On the way back, Mitch slips his gloves off and I notice he has a pinky missing.
"Oh, no," four-finger Mitch explains after I ask the obvious question, much to the horror of my stunned colleagues.
"I lost it as a youngster while fixing a motorcycle chain," says four-finger Mitch, who becomes an instant hit with the girls and, accordingly, pockets a generous tip.
Saturday night fever is high and more than 15,000 ski lovers in designer clothing and sunglasses are pouring in and spilling out of the 90 restaurants, pubs and bars at the village for the closing of the Telus World Ski and Snowboard Festival.
We're happy Ryan's fixed us up at The Mix by Ric's where some of us have become hooked on ice wine (made from crushing wine grapes frozen on vines). After another sumptuous dinner it's into the thick of the "go big or go home" Big Air event. It's standing space only and our aching bodies are crying out for bed.
Whistler Tourism's Murphy had earlier told us when there's 10cm of snow on the slopes residents ski before work. When there's 20cm they are gone for half a day but when there's a 40cm-plus dumping, chances are their bosses won't see them for the day.
"When someone asks you how the skiing is and you've had a good day then you say, `It's sick, man!'," she explains to our amusement, but equally amused with the Kiwi "sweet as".
Minutes later, someone asks me what my lunch is like and I reply: "Sick, man. Totally sick."
"Oops, bad move, I wouldn't. Just for skiing, Borat," Murphy reminds me with a smile.
With that in mind, we hit the Olympic (warm-up) slopes the next morning. I look smart in my green outfit and feel like Neil Armstrong in moon boots, taking a giant leap for mankind, but I have niggling doubts about my ability.
Jumping into the skilift with all the equipment is a task in itself but our tolerant ski instructor, Jeannie, soon has us working on posture and braking.
She struggles with my first name and gleefully latches on to Borat. We in turn call her our "Jeannie in a bottle". With the patience of an angel, she lives up to her new name. Some of us already itching to hit the baby slopes.
I never thought I'd find anything more awkward then swinging a golf club. How wrong can I be?
I'm loving skiing and have a need for speed but suddenly I feel like one of Cinderella's ugly sisters. The moon boots are killing me and Air New Zealand's Tracey Palmer is also feeling the pinch. Ryan, who appears from nowhere, grinning from ear to ear, says: "Come on, toughen up, you two!"
Reluctantly, he takes us back to the village to try on bigger boots but minutes later, on the slopes, the excruciating pain returns.
Jeannie suggests lunch, so we take the skilift up for a quick bite at the Roadhouse Lodge perched on the peak, offering magical views.
The chicken chowder goes down well and I stash away a chocolate bar, just in case.
We take the escalator, akin to ones found in airports (no, no, no - it's a magic carpet, the ski worker manning it tells us), to a 200m gradual slope with Jeannie but halfway up it grinds to a halt, throwing wannabe skiers helter skelter. I find out later it's because of the multi-people pile-ups from novices like us whose transition from carpet to snow at the exit leaves a little to be desired.
I'm itching to crouch low for more speed but Jeannie barks: "No, Borat! Keep following me in a snake-line fashion."
Time flies after several attempts. All I'm thinking of now is soaking my poor feet in the spa.
The paranoia of feeling other skiers are laughing at us Cool Runnings types has all but evaporated.
I walk staunch, skis flung over my shoulder like a soldier carrying his rifle home after a dog-day afternoon in the frontline.
Later in my room I can barely walk but my cross trainers come in handy.
Some Aussie three-piece pop group called The Beautiful Girls are playing in the village but no one seems interested.
Swollen feet aside, it's been a "totally sick day, man". I regret not taking up offers to ski on the Cardrona and Coronet Peak slopes while living in Dunedin for 10 years almost two decades ago.
* Anendra Singh flew to Canada courtesy of Air New Zealand and was a host of British Columbia Tourism from April 18-28.
* Next week: Sinking my teeth into "Big Ass Ribs", snowmobiling and dog sledding in Whistler-Blackcomb resort.