After a night of drinking boxed wine in the woods, a distant part of my brain thinks it's weird that I'm brushing my teeth and washing my face in a gas station bathroom. I ignore it, and fill up some water bottles for the road.
Blenheim is a lovely town. My relatives settled here years ago, and with that in mind, I look around with a sense of curiosity. There are cobbled sidewalks, bright cafes, and gardens full of summer flowers. I tell myself to take pictures, but I'm too lazy (read: hungover). We pick up John from the airport without a hitch, though, and by mid-morning we crawl into a greasy spoon diner, where I gorge myself on fried eggs, hot buttered toast, a pot of tea, hashbrowns, and about two litres of cold water. Nothing fixes me like food and drink on a morning like this.
At 11:00 a.m. we pull into the first vineyard of our Marlborough Wine Region tour. The day is sunny and mild; in the distance, brooding indigo hills surround the crisp greenery of the orchard valley.
The vineyard lives up to its reputation: it's an unpretentious introduction to the art of wine tasting, and, as the Lonely Planet points out, it also has the laziest dog in existence, whose job it is to lay on the front porch and look cute and exhausted. The friendly woman behind the counter tells us about the grapes and varieties we're tasting, but doesn't get too caught up in lingo. She walks us through each glass with easy-to-understand descriptions like, "Doesn't this one smell floral? But you'll notice, it's going to taste sort of spicey in the back of your mouth with the finish." She is invariably completely right. Best of all, the tasting is free, and she cheerfully waves goodbye without expecting us to buy anything. We feel we've pulled something off, and enthusiastically visit two more vineyards over the course of the afternoon-- also free. The last vineyard even throws in a tour of the place, explaining all about the oak vessels and the bottling. In the end, we cave, and purchase a $15 bottle of Sauvingon Blanc (which the region is most famous for). We figure a little extra wine never hurt anybody.
By the time we weave our way from Blenheim to Nelson, the euphoric effects of the wine have worn off, though, and I'm feeling extremely sleepy. I've only had about two hours' sleep for the second time in three nights, and the early buzz from the wine has turned into a headache, as well as a stupid, wooly weight behind my eyes. I start to get extremely cranky, to say the least. I may actually have the worst meltdown of my entire trip so far, triggered by nothing more than sleep deprivation, some sarcastic remarks, heat, and a crowded car. Luckily, when we pull into Nelson to meet with Anna, she assesses the situation and kindly takes me under her wing. She brings me to her hostel bunk, where I crash for two hours while the others drink beer.
How do they do it?
****
We spend Christmas in a bach (pronounced like a batch of cookies) in the middle of an orchard near Motueka. Clare has been living here for about a month now, picking cherries, along with a few other fruit pickers, all also young adults travelling through New Zealand on working holiday visas. Some sleep in their vans, which have customized beds, curtains, and names like "Wally" painted on them. John and I somehow score the only double bed in the place, and Clare's friends actually cook dinner for us when we arrive.
The next day, Christmas Eve, Clare and her friends have to work, so the rest of us drive back to Nelson to pick up Anna and go to the beach. The drive seems much prettier to me this time. The ocean crashes up against the levvies beside the highway; it's a luminous, chalky tourquoise, very choppy; and there are islands very much like home out in the water, with lonely-looking pine trees and tall grass, and further out, purple mountain slopes.
In remenisence of my last beach day with Anna, we buy vodka, ice, cups, and cranberry juice, and head to a gorgeous beach with sandwiches and chips. It's the kind of beach that takes five minutes to walk all the way down to the water's edge, and the sand is soft and white. It's pretty windy, though, so John P and Medellee construct a shelter out of driftwood to screen us from the worst of the sandstorm. We don bathing suits and Santa hats and lay in the sun, listening to John's little iHome, mixing drinks, taking walks, and talking, until the beach is empty and we've run out of supplies. At the last minute Anna decides to join us for Christmas, so we spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for two days' worth of food and drink to last us all through the weekend.
John makes curry, and we drink beer, listen to music while we eat, and then gather around Clare's laptop to watch A Muppet's Christmas Carol. I go to sleep early, almost unaware that it's Christmas Eve.
****
Christmas morning and it's another gorgeous, sunny day. I snap some photos of the orchard. In the kitchen, Santa has left us socks full of chocolate, with cards and a note indicating that she would like her socks back. We set to work on the best breakfast we can imagine. I make thick blueberry pancakes, with fruit salad and real maple syrup; Clare fries two packages of streaky bacon (the good kind); Medellee scrambles two dozen eggs; someone fries up the most delicious lamb sausages ever; there are hot pots of tea, coffee, and mamosas with champage and orange juice. Everyone has something to unwrap under the tree, and we snap Christmas crackers, wearing the silly hats and asking each other the stupid jokes.
We leave a mess and head back to the beach for a picnic. I lay dozing in the sun all afternoon, and when we get hungry, it's back to the bach for a barbeque. We have steaks, potato salad, green salad, chicken skewers, baked beans, and lots of beer. Everyone sits on a big blanket with their plates in their lap.
Back home, it's still Christmas Eve. We plan to leave town tomorrow, "Real Christmas," as I think of it, and I hope I'm able to call my family. I'm on the other side of the world in the middle of summer, and I've had a great day, but it's not really been Christmas.
Cape Farewell, New Zealand
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Queen Charlotte Sound
The Interislander ferry turns out to be a surreal experience. We board in the romantic, orange light of the early evening, and we wander around, exploring all of the passenger decks, which seem, to me, to belong to Bizzaro BC Ferries. Eventually we find a pub on board (!), buy several bottles of beer, and lounge in The Atrium, enjoying the view from eighteen-foot windows. The sun sets against angry orange clouds as we pass Island Bay, now blue and black shapes in sea. Simultaneously, a full moon rises. The captain announces that tonight will be a full lunar eclipse. He's right. We can see the red shadow of the earth passing across the surface of the moon. The boat lifts and heaves on giant waves. By the time we pass through Cook Straight and into Queen Charlotte Sound, it's too dark to see; I am feeling sleepy, and more than a little seasick.
It's midnight when we arrive in Picton. The hostel owner greets us, which is a surprise, since he told me when I booked the room that he'd just put the key in the mailbox. He tells us at least seven times not to leave our valuables in the car, gives us our key, and bids us goodnight. I carry my packs into the dorm and realize that Medellee is holding my camera. "Hey," she jokes. "Someone once told me that it would be a good idea if we didn't leave valuables in the car." I feel like a complete idiot.
I have been using my sleeping bag for six weeks, and I can't even describe how luxurious it feels to stretch out my bare feet on cool sheets and snuggle a duvet under my chin. I realize that I have had two hours of sleep in the last forty, and fall into the pillow. I have the best sleep I can remember, not waking, not even moving for nine solid hours.
***
Hostel showers are always an interesting experience. You never get a private bathroom; instead, bathrooms are communal, co-ed, and usually consist of several toilets, at least two showers, and two or three sinks. Towel-clad boys brush their teeth and girls blow-dry their hair as you squeeze in to see if there's a shower free. If you're lucky, the shower stall includes a small area to change in, and ideally, a shower curtain to keep your stuff from getting wet. There are almost never shelves to put your soap and shampoo on, and you've got to put them on the floor, which is invariably littered with hairs of all lengths and colours.
Dorms are interesting too. The bunks are always towel-draped, and you tend to get a couple of half-naked girls changing, or putting lotion on their legs, or checking themselves out in the mirror, and as far as I can tell they don't have a shred of self-consciousness despite the half-dozen strangers nearby.
By ten o'clock in the morning we hit the road, and we decide to head to a camp site near the Queen Charlotte track. The weather has turned fine, and the scenery is lovely. We listen to The Rolling Stones and roll the windows down, stopping to hike around and take pictures now and then. By early afternoon, we've set up the tent at a nice spot, for less money than one of our beds the night before. The three of us laze around eating sandwiches and drinking red wine on the beach until it's dark. Some fellow campers offer us some enormous mussels they've gathered and smoked on their BBQ (the mussels are about the size of large oysters). I wonder about red tide, and discreetly spit mine into the bushes after two bites.
At bedtime, Medellee and I get the giggles. I guess we both start to feel so tired and happy that we get to that state where we can't stop laughing. Absolutely everything strikes us as funny. We're drunk on lack of sleep and euphoria and red wine, singing the worst Christmas carols we can think of, telling funny stories, making impressions, and laughing at each others' contagious laughter. John Antonioli puts up with us good-naturedly, grumbling that we should go to sleep but then hitting us with a hilarious one-liner when we least expect it.
I lay awake long afterward, listening to some unknown animal (possum? Stoat?) pace around our tent and steal away into the woods with our empty chip bag. Soon loud songbirds begin to call out in the dark, and I know that dawn can't be far off. By five-thirty I'm still wide awake and Medellee is stirring too. Before we know it, we're back to giggling as if we hadn't slept at all. We're completely dehydrated and have no water, which strikes us as something of an adventure. We have a long drive ahead of us, so we pack up, munch some muesli bars (which make us even more thirsty), and pile into the hatchback.
Our epic road trip is about to begin.
It's midnight when we arrive in Picton. The hostel owner greets us, which is a surprise, since he told me when I booked the room that he'd just put the key in the mailbox. He tells us at least seven times not to leave our valuables in the car, gives us our key, and bids us goodnight. I carry my packs into the dorm and realize that Medellee is holding my camera. "Hey," she jokes. "Someone once told me that it would be a good idea if we didn't leave valuables in the car." I feel like a complete idiot.
I have been using my sleeping bag for six weeks, and I can't even describe how luxurious it feels to stretch out my bare feet on cool sheets and snuggle a duvet under my chin. I realize that I have had two hours of sleep in the last forty, and fall into the pillow. I have the best sleep I can remember, not waking, not even moving for nine solid hours.
***
Hostel showers are always an interesting experience. You never get a private bathroom; instead, bathrooms are communal, co-ed, and usually consist of several toilets, at least two showers, and two or three sinks. Towel-clad boys brush their teeth and girls blow-dry their hair as you squeeze in to see if there's a shower free. If you're lucky, the shower stall includes a small area to change in, and ideally, a shower curtain to keep your stuff from getting wet. There are almost never shelves to put your soap and shampoo on, and you've got to put them on the floor, which is invariably littered with hairs of all lengths and colours.
Dorms are interesting too. The bunks are always towel-draped, and you tend to get a couple of half-naked girls changing, or putting lotion on their legs, or checking themselves out in the mirror, and as far as I can tell they don't have a shred of self-consciousness despite the half-dozen strangers nearby.
By ten o'clock in the morning we hit the road, and we decide to head to a camp site near the Queen Charlotte track. The weather has turned fine, and the scenery is lovely. We listen to The Rolling Stones and roll the windows down, stopping to hike around and take pictures now and then. By early afternoon, we've set up the tent at a nice spot, for less money than one of our beds the night before. The three of us laze around eating sandwiches and drinking red wine on the beach until it's dark. Some fellow campers offer us some enormous mussels they've gathered and smoked on their BBQ (the mussels are about the size of large oysters). I wonder about red tide, and discreetly spit mine into the bushes after two bites.
At bedtime, Medellee and I get the giggles. I guess we both start to feel so tired and happy that we get to that state where we can't stop laughing. Absolutely everything strikes us as funny. We're drunk on lack of sleep and euphoria and red wine, singing the worst Christmas carols we can think of, telling funny stories, making impressions, and laughing at each others' contagious laughter. John Antonioli puts up with us good-naturedly, grumbling that we should go to sleep but then hitting us with a hilarious one-liner when we least expect it.
I lay awake long afterward, listening to some unknown animal (possum? Stoat?) pace around our tent and steal away into the woods with our empty chip bag. Soon loud songbirds begin to call out in the dark, and I know that dawn can't be far off. By five-thirty I'm still wide awake and Medellee is stirring too. Before we know it, we're back to giggling as if we hadn't slept at all. We're completely dehydrated and have no water, which strikes us as something of an adventure. We have a long drive ahead of us, so we pack up, munch some muesli bars (which make us even more thirsty), and pile into the hatchback.
Our epic road trip is about to begin.
Windy Welly
The day is overcast, windy, and warm. I sit at the water's edge in Island Bay, Wellington, watching the waves swell and dip, swirling around the labyrinth of rocks. The salty wind tangles my hair and sends gulls reeling.
Medellee is due to arrive tomorrow. In the past month, we have been like ships passing in the night: I know she's out there, but I always miss her. Invariably, I get her machine when I call, and there are no messages waiting for me when I manage to get online. Even now that she's been here in New Zealand for nearly a week, she's still never called. Am I actually irritated at my best friend for the first time? Strange, the things that distance can do.
I still haven't packed. I've looked over the Lonely Planet for the South Island, though, and sketched out a rough itinerary for the next two weeks. We'll be traveling counter-clockwise, beginning in Picton and ending in Christchurch. Our ferry leaves tomorrow evening at 8:00, heading towards the looming Southern Alps at sunset. John has agreed to work until Wednesday, so we'll have to pick him up from the airport in Blenheim on Thursday morning, the day before Christmas Eve.
I think over my experience in Wellington, the windy city that has kept me captive these last six weeks. I will miss it. I have been bored, and I'm eager to continue my journey, but I have also made good friends here, had fun, and gained a measure of stability and routine. I will remember the barbecues at James and Jeannine's, with their stunning ocean views; I'll remember countless quiet coffees and walks to myself. Mostly though, I am overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of experiencing the vast landscapes of the South, spending time with friends from home, and also, meeting my cousin Dee, who has invited us to stay with her in Marlborough in the New Year.
I wonder what adventures await me in the coming months. Orchard work, undoubtedly; grueling treks in the mountains; scuba diving, if I have my way; and hopefully, a two-week trip to Malaysia that we've been cooking up on the back burner for awhile now.
It's nearly Christmas, but it doesn't seem that way to me. To me, it's the beginning of a long, outdoorsy and adventurous summer-- I'll miss Christmas in the wintertime. I still have nine months in New Zealand, and I have grown accustomed to feeling homesick.
My time here has only just begun.
****
When I have coffee with Jeannine, I eat banana bread and talk about the usual: her life, my life. I can't help but let slip my frustration with Medellee and how I wish I could see her now, not tomorrow. I wish she would meet me halfway, write to me, call me, tell me what's up. Instead the conversation reaches a dead-end, and we decide to pick up a bottle of cider and go home.
I'm just finishing the cider and watching the sunset when John calls.
"No," says Jeannine,"actually, Alieda got together with some other foreign guys she met. She told me to tell you that she's decided to travel with them from now on." There's a pause, in which I laugh and she resumes. "No, that's someone else laughing." Pause. "Yeah, no. Of course she's here. We're drinking cider." Pause. "Hmmm," she says. "Sure, you can come over."
We continue to watch the sunset, and before we know it, we hear John walking down the stairs. To my surprise, though, he has a camera when he comes around the corner, and I swear, on second thought, that I hear the distinct tones of John Antonioli laughing. I clue in, instantly. "No way!" I scream, and round the corner to see Medellee, looking radiant and travel-tired. I jump into her arms and scold her loudly for deceiving me, telling her that I was mad as hell-- how dare she surprise me!-- had she been planning this the whole time?!-- and that I had thought that she didn't care, I was so lonely. She only laughs and holds on. I alternate between squeezing, hitting, spinning and yelling before I realize that Jeannine is opening wine, and that she may have been aware of this surprise. I am suddenly heart-full and overwhelmed. I honestly can't believe that Medellee is finally here.
We take our time, drinking wine, and eventually, walking down to the shops to pick up some Indian takeaways. We spend the evening drinking beer and talking, but our Johns go to sleep by midnight. Medellee and I stay up talking until 4:00 a.m. I lie awake listening to everyone sleeping, too excited to sleep. I have booked a ferry ticket for tomorrow, and we'll be on the south island by dark.
Medellee is due to arrive tomorrow. In the past month, we have been like ships passing in the night: I know she's out there, but I always miss her. Invariably, I get her machine when I call, and there are no messages waiting for me when I manage to get online. Even now that she's been here in New Zealand for nearly a week, she's still never called. Am I actually irritated at my best friend for the first time? Strange, the things that distance can do.
I still haven't packed. I've looked over the Lonely Planet for the South Island, though, and sketched out a rough itinerary for the next two weeks. We'll be traveling counter-clockwise, beginning in Picton and ending in Christchurch. Our ferry leaves tomorrow evening at 8:00, heading towards the looming Southern Alps at sunset. John has agreed to work until Wednesday, so we'll have to pick him up from the airport in Blenheim on Thursday morning, the day before Christmas Eve.
I think over my experience in Wellington, the windy city that has kept me captive these last six weeks. I will miss it. I have been bored, and I'm eager to continue my journey, but I have also made good friends here, had fun, and gained a measure of stability and routine. I will remember the barbecues at James and Jeannine's, with their stunning ocean views; I'll remember countless quiet coffees and walks to myself. Mostly though, I am overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of experiencing the vast landscapes of the South, spending time with friends from home, and also, meeting my cousin Dee, who has invited us to stay with her in Marlborough in the New Year.
I wonder what adventures await me in the coming months. Orchard work, undoubtedly; grueling treks in the mountains; scuba diving, if I have my way; and hopefully, a two-week trip to Malaysia that we've been cooking up on the back burner for awhile now.
It's nearly Christmas, but it doesn't seem that way to me. To me, it's the beginning of a long, outdoorsy and adventurous summer-- I'll miss Christmas in the wintertime. I still have nine months in New Zealand, and I have grown accustomed to feeling homesick.
My time here has only just begun.
****
When I have coffee with Jeannine, I eat banana bread and talk about the usual: her life, my life. I can't help but let slip my frustration with Medellee and how I wish I could see her now, not tomorrow. I wish she would meet me halfway, write to me, call me, tell me what's up. Instead the conversation reaches a dead-end, and we decide to pick up a bottle of cider and go home.
I'm just finishing the cider and watching the sunset when John calls.
"No," says Jeannine,"actually, Alieda got together with some other foreign guys she met. She told me to tell you that she's decided to travel with them from now on." There's a pause, in which I laugh and she resumes. "No, that's someone else laughing." Pause. "Yeah, no. Of course she's here. We're drinking cider." Pause. "Hmmm," she says. "Sure, you can come over."
We continue to watch the sunset, and before we know it, we hear John walking down the stairs. To my surprise, though, he has a camera when he comes around the corner, and I swear, on second thought, that I hear the distinct tones of John Antonioli laughing. I clue in, instantly. "No way!" I scream, and round the corner to see Medellee, looking radiant and travel-tired. I jump into her arms and scold her loudly for deceiving me, telling her that I was mad as hell-- how dare she surprise me!-- had she been planning this the whole time?!-- and that I had thought that she didn't care, I was so lonely. She only laughs and holds on. I alternate between squeezing, hitting, spinning and yelling before I realize that Jeannine is opening wine, and that she may have been aware of this surprise. I am suddenly heart-full and overwhelmed. I honestly can't believe that Medellee is finally here.
We take our time, drinking wine, and eventually, walking down to the shops to pick up some Indian takeaways. We spend the evening drinking beer and talking, but our Johns go to sleep by midnight. Medellee and I stay up talking until 4:00 a.m. I lie awake listening to everyone sleeping, too excited to sleep. I have booked a ferry ticket for tomorrow, and we'll be on the south island by dark.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Too Hot to Hold Hands
The day of Anna's arrival begins like any other day in Wellington. I get up early and jog to Houghton Bay, using an old trail cut into the rough hillside. My old shoes slap on the hard-packed dirt, or whisper through the leaf mould under the trees. The air is already warm, and smells of wildflowers and mown grass. There is a cold wind from the ocean, and as I follow a short bridge over a muddy stream, songbirds echo everwhere.
At home I fix myself a cup of tea, a boiled egg, and some sliced cold vegetables. I can't tell if this is breakfast or lunch, but it's just past 9:00. I read while I eat, and afterward, I stretch out in the back yard to doze in the sun. I've found the perfect suntanning spot, and I take my time out there every day, ten minutes a side. The Tuis call all around me. A straw hat shades my face, and I relax, glimpsing the blue sky from under my eyelashes and beginning to feel the sweat trickle down my skin. Yuck. Time for a shower.
I get on a bus around noon and head downtown, to get a cup of coffee and check my e-mail. Anna has sent me an urgent message: "At the Base hostel in Wellington, recovering from last night. I got a phone! Let's meet up!" I call the number, but get no connection. Damn. Instead, I leave an urgent message of my own: "At Te Papa Museum, having coffee. I am dying of boredom! Meet me here!"
Our reunion is like something from a movie. Two friends meeting again, on the other side of the world. I stand up when she comes in and we rush together for a hug, loud hellos, laughing, more hugs. Can you believe it?! She gasps. We made it! Here we are, on the other side of the world!
My thoughts exactly.
We take off immediately and I give her the grand tour of the city. We stop at a sunny patio in Cuba Street Mall for gin-and-tonics. Sitting there, swirling ice and lemons around our glasses, which are sweating and cold in the sun, we catch up on our adventures. Anna has been in Taiwan for her brother's wedding, and has been touring New Zealand on the Kiwi Experience Bus-- a party on wheels for young tourists. Our glasses leave wet circles soaking into the wooden table and I idly make figure eights. We buy another round.
That night, we take a case of beer and some groceries back to my place, where we cook John dinner. We drink one beer after the other, listening to rock and roll and talking. Anna tells funny stories about the Kiwi Experience. I make pan-fried potatoes, steamed vegetables, and salmon on a bed of spinach; Anna makes sauteed prawns in garlic butter and we snack on garlic-pickled mussells between bites.
I am glad Anna has arrived. I have spent fifty hours a week alone and bored for about a month now, and although I do enjoy solitude, this level of peace and quiet is starting to drive me nuts. I feel helpless, waiting for work to start, and spending all of my time killing time. Anyway, it's going to be nice to have someone to talk to for the next few days.
The next day, Anna meets me in Island Bay after lunch. We have plans to go to the beach, and we've packed sunscreen, music, plastic cups, ice, cranberry juice, and a 40 of vodka. What a day. We spend all afternoon on the beach, which is empty and a little windy, drinking maybe five vodka-crans apiece. I know Anna through the book store, so for awhile we talk about the book business. It's what we know best, and we're both good at what we do. We talk about going into business together someday. Gradually, as the drinks take their toll, the conversation moves on to relationships, men, past experiences, future dreams. Eventually we wander into a bar up the street, where we meet No Service Sarah-- just our nickname for a very friendly, very drunk lady we meet before she's kicked out for being too inebriated.
Later, we meet John at James and Jeannine's, where we BBQ and I embarass myself a little, having had a few beers and some more vodka since the beach. Everyone laughs and John walks me home. I tell him he's sweet to take care of me, but our roles reverse just a few days later.
Anna's last day in Wellington comes too soon. We meet for coffee downtown, wander through the city, shop for clothes (neither one buying anything). Toward afternoon, we grab an innocent patio beer, then head to Anna's hostel so she can change. The weather gets cooler and we get hungry, so we decide to get a bite at the pub in Island Bay, where I live.
The pub is nearly empty, but I see someone I recognize right away. He's outside on the back patio, facing away from me, but when you've been sleeping beside someone for five years, you know their back anywhere.
John is the center of attention out there, telling stories, laughing, surrounded by his work mates and what I assume are their girlfriends. I sidle up and say, Hey Handsome, come here often? John exclaims something in surprise and gives me a big public hug-and-kiss. What are the chances! We say. We were just here for supper! He introduces us to his friends, and we pull up chairs, ordering beer and cheeseburgers. John's already pretty drunk. He tells me he's been here since three (it's seven-thirty). His boss is buying. By the time John finishes a pint, his boss has already brought him another.
At eight-thirty, Anna and I leave to catch a movie. Before I go, John's boss pulls me close and points out The Shed. It's across the parking lot from the pub. "That's where we'll be," he tells me.
"Are you serious?" I laugh.
"That's the Shed," he says, "We're gonna be there. You should come!"
I can't tell if he's joking, so I smile in a non-commital way and we take off.
The movie is good-- "The Social Network," about the guy who created Facebook. It's darker than I expect, but I enjoy myself, and besides, it's completely full of good-looking men. It turns out that the creator of Facebook might be a pretty big asshole. Or maybe not. This is the movies.
I walk Anna to the bus, then head to the pub to see how John is doing.
He's not at the pub, and I look dubiously towards The Shed, where, sure enough, I can hear music, loud conversation, and the tinkling of glass. I head over and look through the gate.
I see John right away, and he sees me. He looks blissfully happy, and completely surprised to see me. He confesses that he has no idea where he is. How did I find him? Nevermind! I should come meet these guys!
The crowd at The Shed are mostly Maori, and mostly in their fifties. They are singing loudly to Hawaiian rock-and-roll, blending harmonies and laughing. John joins them, and for awhile it seems that no one knows the words. The Maori men congratulate John on his pretty girlfriend, trying to charm me into dancing. I also meet some Pakea (Europeans), like Trevor from Texas, some more of John's work mates, and Maceala, from Maine. We spend some time dancing but eventually, after John has stepped on my feet twice wearing steel boots, I decide it's time to go home. John agrees readily, up for any adventure.
He's asleep and snoring instantly. It's just after midnight, and I'm not really sleepy, so I watch a late-night movie on TV. I must have dozed off- next thing I know, it's morning.
I let Johnny sleep in. Around noon, I make him French toast and bacon before dragging him to the beach to meet Jeannine. The day is incredibly hot. I can see the Southern Alps across the water, and I think, Anna is over there by now. It ends up being a perfect Saturday. We read on the beach, then rent a movie on our way home. As we walk up the hill, we nearly die, it's so hot. We can't even hold hands- we're too sweaty.
"Hey," says John. "It's really summer. It's too hot to hold hands."
My thoughts exactly.
At home I fix myself a cup of tea, a boiled egg, and some sliced cold vegetables. I can't tell if this is breakfast or lunch, but it's just past 9:00. I read while I eat, and afterward, I stretch out in the back yard to doze in the sun. I've found the perfect suntanning spot, and I take my time out there every day, ten minutes a side. The Tuis call all around me. A straw hat shades my face, and I relax, glimpsing the blue sky from under my eyelashes and beginning to feel the sweat trickle down my skin. Yuck. Time for a shower.
I get on a bus around noon and head downtown, to get a cup of coffee and check my e-mail. Anna has sent me an urgent message: "At the Base hostel in Wellington, recovering from last night. I got a phone! Let's meet up!" I call the number, but get no connection. Damn. Instead, I leave an urgent message of my own: "At Te Papa Museum, having coffee. I am dying of boredom! Meet me here!"
Our reunion is like something from a movie. Two friends meeting again, on the other side of the world. I stand up when she comes in and we rush together for a hug, loud hellos, laughing, more hugs. Can you believe it?! She gasps. We made it! Here we are, on the other side of the world!
My thoughts exactly.
We take off immediately and I give her the grand tour of the city. We stop at a sunny patio in Cuba Street Mall for gin-and-tonics. Sitting there, swirling ice and lemons around our glasses, which are sweating and cold in the sun, we catch up on our adventures. Anna has been in Taiwan for her brother's wedding, and has been touring New Zealand on the Kiwi Experience Bus-- a party on wheels for young tourists. Our glasses leave wet circles soaking into the wooden table and I idly make figure eights. We buy another round.
That night, we take a case of beer and some groceries back to my place, where we cook John dinner. We drink one beer after the other, listening to rock and roll and talking. Anna tells funny stories about the Kiwi Experience. I make pan-fried potatoes, steamed vegetables, and salmon on a bed of spinach; Anna makes sauteed prawns in garlic butter and we snack on garlic-pickled mussells between bites.
I am glad Anna has arrived. I have spent fifty hours a week alone and bored for about a month now, and although I do enjoy solitude, this level of peace and quiet is starting to drive me nuts. I feel helpless, waiting for work to start, and spending all of my time killing time. Anyway, it's going to be nice to have someone to talk to for the next few days.
The next day, Anna meets me in Island Bay after lunch. We have plans to go to the beach, and we've packed sunscreen, music, plastic cups, ice, cranberry juice, and a 40 of vodka. What a day. We spend all afternoon on the beach, which is empty and a little windy, drinking maybe five vodka-crans apiece. I know Anna through the book store, so for awhile we talk about the book business. It's what we know best, and we're both good at what we do. We talk about going into business together someday. Gradually, as the drinks take their toll, the conversation moves on to relationships, men, past experiences, future dreams. Eventually we wander into a bar up the street, where we meet No Service Sarah-- just our nickname for a very friendly, very drunk lady we meet before she's kicked out for being too inebriated.
Later, we meet John at James and Jeannine's, where we BBQ and I embarass myself a little, having had a few beers and some more vodka since the beach. Everyone laughs and John walks me home. I tell him he's sweet to take care of me, but our roles reverse just a few days later.
Anna's last day in Wellington comes too soon. We meet for coffee downtown, wander through the city, shop for clothes (neither one buying anything). Toward afternoon, we grab an innocent patio beer, then head to Anna's hostel so she can change. The weather gets cooler and we get hungry, so we decide to get a bite at the pub in Island Bay, where I live.
The pub is nearly empty, but I see someone I recognize right away. He's outside on the back patio, facing away from me, but when you've been sleeping beside someone for five years, you know their back anywhere.
John is the center of attention out there, telling stories, laughing, surrounded by his work mates and what I assume are their girlfriends. I sidle up and say, Hey Handsome, come here often? John exclaims something in surprise and gives me a big public hug-and-kiss. What are the chances! We say. We were just here for supper! He introduces us to his friends, and we pull up chairs, ordering beer and cheeseburgers. John's already pretty drunk. He tells me he's been here since three (it's seven-thirty). His boss is buying. By the time John finishes a pint, his boss has already brought him another.
At eight-thirty, Anna and I leave to catch a movie. Before I go, John's boss pulls me close and points out The Shed. It's across the parking lot from the pub. "That's where we'll be," he tells me.
"Are you serious?" I laugh.
"That's the Shed," he says, "We're gonna be there. You should come!"
I can't tell if he's joking, so I smile in a non-commital way and we take off.
The movie is good-- "The Social Network," about the guy who created Facebook. It's darker than I expect, but I enjoy myself, and besides, it's completely full of good-looking men. It turns out that the creator of Facebook might be a pretty big asshole. Or maybe not. This is the movies.
I walk Anna to the bus, then head to the pub to see how John is doing.
He's not at the pub, and I look dubiously towards The Shed, where, sure enough, I can hear music, loud conversation, and the tinkling of glass. I head over and look through the gate.
I see John right away, and he sees me. He looks blissfully happy, and completely surprised to see me. He confesses that he has no idea where he is. How did I find him? Nevermind! I should come meet these guys!
The crowd at The Shed are mostly Maori, and mostly in their fifties. They are singing loudly to Hawaiian rock-and-roll, blending harmonies and laughing. John joins them, and for awhile it seems that no one knows the words. The Maori men congratulate John on his pretty girlfriend, trying to charm me into dancing. I also meet some Pakea (Europeans), like Trevor from Texas, some more of John's work mates, and Maceala, from Maine. We spend some time dancing but eventually, after John has stepped on my feet twice wearing steel boots, I decide it's time to go home. John agrees readily, up for any adventure.
He's asleep and snoring instantly. It's just after midnight, and I'm not really sleepy, so I watch a late-night movie on TV. I must have dozed off- next thing I know, it's morning.
I let Johnny sleep in. Around noon, I make him French toast and bacon before dragging him to the beach to meet Jeannine. The day is incredibly hot. I can see the Southern Alps across the water, and I think, Anna is over there by now. It ends up being a perfect Saturday. We read on the beach, then rent a movie on our way home. As we walk up the hill, we nearly die, it's so hot. We can't even hold hands- we're too sweaty.
"Hey," says John. "It's really summer. It's too hot to hold hands."
My thoughts exactly.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Mission for Youth
I am wandering around Wellington, trying to find an address for an interview, when James calls. (James and Jeannine are the couple we stayed with, if you missed that blog.)
"Hey, Alieda," he says cheerfully, "it's James. Would you like a couple of days of work? Are you free on Monday?"
James is a youth worker, and works at an alternate school for kids who, for one reason or another, have been removed from mainstream education. He explains that he's taking the kids on a year-end camp-out as a reward for their good behaviour. But, since the camp will be co-ed, he needs a female to help supervise. Would I be keen?
Since I'm free, and female, I accept immediately. We'll be going whitewater rafting, roasting marshmallows on the camp fire, and then something on the second day, maybe horseback riding or paintball, James hasn't decided. I will be paid a flat rate of $450 for two days.
In the meantime, it's Friday night. John and I head out for Indian, chatting over Masala and Tandoori and sipping cold beer. We've got tickets to see Harry Potter, and after the (magical) film, we head to a pub next door to meet James and Jeannine, who are coming from a party.
What a night. They seem excited to show us the night life, and over the course of five or six hours we see at least eight bars and clubs. Some are no more than a crowded room, standing-room-only, richly decorated but devoid of any furnishings save a crowded bar. Others are reached through unmarked doors and into basements, where suddenly there is a crowd and a happening club. We see live music at a pub, several posh nightclubs where James seems to pull the local strings, and Jeannine always appears to know the doorman. We pick up friends along the way, including a Malaysian-Australian chef, who has just moved to the city from Melbourne; he's on his own, friendly, and could use some company. He buys everyone drinks. We lose him at some point but he catches up with us again at another bar later on.
By the time we climb into a cab, it's past 5:00 a.m. Wellington doesn't shut down at 2:00 like Victoria. John munches late-night Chinese food; I fall asleep as the sun rises.
On Monday, I climb into a van with James and seven fifteen-year-olds. Many of the boys have strong Maori accents, which is harder for me to understand than a standard Kiwi accent. (Watch the movie 'Boy' sometime and you'll see what I mean.) At first, I can hardly understand a word they're saying, but I get used to it. We drive North for hours. The three girls seem to decide that I'm cool instantly because I'm North American, I can drive and I've been to California. Soon they're trying to teach me how to pronounce Maori place-names and asking me personal questions, like how old I am, whether I drink or smoke, and whether I'm a virgin.
The camp has been organized by men and it shows. The only vegetable I see for two days is lettuce for the burgers. Otherwise, the menu consists entirely of processed precooked crap, like canned spaghetti, white bread, precooked sausages, ketchup, hot chocolate, soda, and junk food like cookies, chips, and chocolate bars. I put my diet on hold and tuck in. James tells me that the next-day activity has been decided: a Flying Fox, like a zip-line over the river valley.
I set up my tent, change into my togs (listen to me, what I mean is a bathing suit), and join the throng as we head to the river wearing life-vests and red helmets. The rafting takes about three or four hours, and since I'm in the front, I get utterly soaked. The river winds its way through a deep canyon, the walls of which drip occasionally with green algae or even waterfalls. The beaches are cluttered with piles of round white stones like eggs. The sun casts a net of light on the currents of the river in calm moments. And when the currents quicken, the river froths over rocks, swirls in ominous vortexes, and falls over cliffs. I am the nose, falling downward and scooping up the water as the raft follows me. James starts a water-fight with the raft of boys, and we splash each other with our paddles before trying to get away. Now it's war.
Every stitch of my clothing is sodden and heavy by the end of the trip. I wring out my sleeves as best I can.
James has other outdoorsey survival-type activities lined up, like a fire-building contest and an orienteering competition. The kids smoke too much, but are otherwise well-behaved. Honestly, I expected worse. I expected juvenile delinquents who would swear at me, steal my stuff, do drugs and maybe beat me up. Instead I met a group of somewhat shy, mock-tough youths who are friendly to me, well-mannered, and help where they can. I remember that John himself was nearly kicked out of school for setting off a smoke-bomb in the hallways that Halloween, and I realize that these kids are completely normal after all.
That night a full moon rises, casting shadows on the field as the kids sneak off to play "Spotlight," a game like tag with flashlights. I am horrified to notice that the moon is upside-down. Can that be right?
I stay up past midnight watching the fire die, turning over my thoughts.
I'm the last one awake the next morning, and roll out in time for breakfast at 7:30. By 9:00 we're back in the van, listening to the kids' rap music and driving through the gorgeous countryside. It never fails to shock me, the beautiful pastoral hillsides, the wildflowers, copses of trees and red algae blooming in low ponds. At one point we drive through a snowstorm of floating fairy seeds.
The kids have no idea where we're going- James keeps them in suspense- but soon we see signs and they get a clue. Gravity Canyon has New Zealand's highest bungee jump, a terrifying swing, and our activity: the Flying Fox, a 1-km zip-line 200 metres above the river canyon. I start to get nervous as we climb the hill toward the launch point. By the time I'm strapped by my ankles facing the drop headfirst, I am shaky. The gate opens. There is nothing between my face and the valley floor but several hundred metres of air. I swear softly to myself, like a chant, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I can see the cables plunging down the valley before straightening out a few metres above the treetops. The anticipation is torture.
There's a loud bang before the drop, and I'm already screaming. They clock me going 160 km/h headfirst down the mountainside, and get my experience on DVD. By the time I'm horizontal, I'm laughing with relief. Back on solid ground, I still feel shaky, emptied out, all of that adrenaline draining my energy.
I fight sleep on the trip home, somewhat unsuccessfully. When I look around, everyone is
asleep but James. There's nothing to supervise, so I close my eyes again.
"Hey, Alieda," he says cheerfully, "it's James. Would you like a couple of days of work? Are you free on Monday?"
James is a youth worker, and works at an alternate school for kids who, for one reason or another, have been removed from mainstream education. He explains that he's taking the kids on a year-end camp-out as a reward for their good behaviour. But, since the camp will be co-ed, he needs a female to help supervise. Would I be keen?
Since I'm free, and female, I accept immediately. We'll be going whitewater rafting, roasting marshmallows on the camp fire, and then something on the second day, maybe horseback riding or paintball, James hasn't decided. I will be paid a flat rate of $450 for two days.
In the meantime, it's Friday night. John and I head out for Indian, chatting over Masala and Tandoori and sipping cold beer. We've got tickets to see Harry Potter, and after the (magical) film, we head to a pub next door to meet James and Jeannine, who are coming from a party.
What a night. They seem excited to show us the night life, and over the course of five or six hours we see at least eight bars and clubs. Some are no more than a crowded room, standing-room-only, richly decorated but devoid of any furnishings save a crowded bar. Others are reached through unmarked doors and into basements, where suddenly there is a crowd and a happening club. We see live music at a pub, several posh nightclubs where James seems to pull the local strings, and Jeannine always appears to know the doorman. We pick up friends along the way, including a Malaysian-Australian chef, who has just moved to the city from Melbourne; he's on his own, friendly, and could use some company. He buys everyone drinks. We lose him at some point but he catches up with us again at another bar later on.
By the time we climb into a cab, it's past 5:00 a.m. Wellington doesn't shut down at 2:00 like Victoria. John munches late-night Chinese food; I fall asleep as the sun rises.
On Monday, I climb into a van with James and seven fifteen-year-olds. Many of the boys have strong Maori accents, which is harder for me to understand than a standard Kiwi accent. (Watch the movie 'Boy' sometime and you'll see what I mean.) At first, I can hardly understand a word they're saying, but I get used to it. We drive North for hours. The three girls seem to decide that I'm cool instantly because I'm North American, I can drive and I've been to California. Soon they're trying to teach me how to pronounce Maori place-names and asking me personal questions, like how old I am, whether I drink or smoke, and whether I'm a virgin.
The camp has been organized by men and it shows. The only vegetable I see for two days is lettuce for the burgers. Otherwise, the menu consists entirely of processed precooked crap, like canned spaghetti, white bread, precooked sausages, ketchup, hot chocolate, soda, and junk food like cookies, chips, and chocolate bars. I put my diet on hold and tuck in. James tells me that the next-day activity has been decided: a Flying Fox, like a zip-line over the river valley.
I set up my tent, change into my togs (listen to me, what I mean is a bathing suit), and join the throng as we head to the river wearing life-vests and red helmets. The rafting takes about three or four hours, and since I'm in the front, I get utterly soaked. The river winds its way through a deep canyon, the walls of which drip occasionally with green algae or even waterfalls. The beaches are cluttered with piles of round white stones like eggs. The sun casts a net of light on the currents of the river in calm moments. And when the currents quicken, the river froths over rocks, swirls in ominous vortexes, and falls over cliffs. I am the nose, falling downward and scooping up the water as the raft follows me. James starts a water-fight with the raft of boys, and we splash each other with our paddles before trying to get away. Now it's war.
Every stitch of my clothing is sodden and heavy by the end of the trip. I wring out my sleeves as best I can.
James has other outdoorsey survival-type activities lined up, like a fire-building contest and an orienteering competition. The kids smoke too much, but are otherwise well-behaved. Honestly, I expected worse. I expected juvenile delinquents who would swear at me, steal my stuff, do drugs and maybe beat me up. Instead I met a group of somewhat shy, mock-tough youths who are friendly to me, well-mannered, and help where they can. I remember that John himself was nearly kicked out of school for setting off a smoke-bomb in the hallways that Halloween, and I realize that these kids are completely normal after all.
That night a full moon rises, casting shadows on the field as the kids sneak off to play "Spotlight," a game like tag with flashlights. I am horrified to notice that the moon is upside-down. Can that be right?
I stay up past midnight watching the fire die, turning over my thoughts.
I'm the last one awake the next morning, and roll out in time for breakfast at 7:30. By 9:00 we're back in the van, listening to the kids' rap music and driving through the gorgeous countryside. It never fails to shock me, the beautiful pastoral hillsides, the wildflowers, copses of trees and red algae blooming in low ponds. At one point we drive through a snowstorm of floating fairy seeds.
The kids have no idea where we're going- James keeps them in suspense- but soon we see signs and they get a clue. Gravity Canyon has New Zealand's highest bungee jump, a terrifying swing, and our activity: the Flying Fox, a 1-km zip-line 200 metres above the river canyon. I start to get nervous as we climb the hill toward the launch point. By the time I'm strapped by my ankles facing the drop headfirst, I am shaky. The gate opens. There is nothing between my face and the valley floor but several hundred metres of air. I swear softly to myself, like a chant, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I can see the cables plunging down the valley before straightening out a few metres above the treetops. The anticipation is torture.
There's a loud bang before the drop, and I'm already screaming. They clock me going 160 km/h headfirst down the mountainside, and get my experience on DVD. By the time I'm horizontal, I'm laughing with relief. Back on solid ground, I still feel shaky, emptied out, all of that adrenaline draining my energy.
I fight sleep on the trip home, somewhat unsuccessfully. When I look around, everyone is
asleep but James. There's nothing to supervise, so I close my eyes again.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Change of Circumstance
Up until now I have been on a holiday. My head space was still as if I lived in Canada, and would return in no time.
But recently I have begun to realize how long I will be in New Zealand, and what it means to travel.
My experience is changing from one of a short-term experience to a long-term, settling kind of mindset. I have developed a kind of panic deep inside me, a desperate ache for home. I can sense that, on the other side of this phase, I will probably develop a kind of acceptance of my life here as permanent and, possibly, hopefully,
of my entire life as one no longer belonging to an island in Canada, but capturing the possibility of belonging elsewhere.
At first the differences of New Zealand were novel and lovely, and they still are, but I have developed lately a kind of antipathy toward these differences, as if they have purposely chosen to remind me that I am not at home.
Here are some things that are different.
Light switches
Power outlets
Toilet flushing handles
Store names (i.e., there is no Wal-Mart, Future Shop, The Bay, or Macs. Instead they've got The Warehouse, Dick Smith, Farmer's and The Fix)
Road signs
Left-handed driving
Trees, birds, and landscape (although Scottish Broom is a plague on these hillsides too).
The moon is upside-down
Different stars, and Orion is also upside-down
The sun is in the north
No insulation or central heating in buildings
Everything is generally about twice as expensive
Music and fashion is pretty '90s, so it's either behind or way ahead of its time.
Television shows run several seasons behind, and there are only about ten channels.
Vocabulary and slang, for instance:
Interact/debit: Eftpos
Americano: Long Black
Latte: Flat White
Espresso: Short Black
Thanks: Cheers, or Ta
You're Welcome: It's all right
Awesome: Choice
Cool: Mean
Great: Sweet as
Into it: Keen
Expensive: Dear
Corner store: Dairy
Garbage: Rubbish
Garbage Can: Bin
Sweater: Jersey
Bell pepper: Capsicum
Zuccini: Courgette
Ketchup: Tomato Sauce
Sprite / 7-Up: Lemonade
Apartment: Flat
Friend: Mate
Fast food: Takeaways
Dessert: Pudding
Chips: Crisps
Fries: Chips
Gas: Petrol
Trunk: Boot
Car Hood: Bonnett
Truck: Lorry
Elevator: Lift
Flashlight: Torch
Swimsuit: Togs
Diaper: Nappy
Stroller: Pram
Cabin: Bach (pronounced like a batch of cookies)
Flip-flops: Jandals
It is startling when I hear a North American speaking. Their lack of accent seems so strange to me.
One thing that has surprised me about New Zealand is the poverty. Don't get me wrong: there's no rampant homelessness like we have at home. The poverty is less severe but more widespread. Any street you drive down, you'll see falling-down business signs, flaking paint, busted fences, boarded-up windows, graffiti, and weeds. Everything is incredibly expensive here, and it seems that the general population can never quite catch up. No one seems to have the time or money to maintain their yards or shopfronts. Stairways crumble, paint peels. It is a state we have seen in every town and city in the country so far. It makes me realize how much effort must go into the careful repairs of our sidewalks, gardens, shopfronts, awnings, and houses back home. I have always taken the pretty aspects for granted: tailored gardens, horsechestnut-lined sidewalks and beautifully painted Victorian homes. Free wireless throughout the city. How rich we are.
I suppose though, that the Kiwis are rich in another sense. The countryside is beautiful beyond anything I've seen. And expenses aside, the people are welcoming and open and more like Americans than they would care to admit. They complain about their government, but truly New Zealand has striven to set an example in the world. They were the first country to give women the vote, the first to instate a marine reserve, the first to refuse nuclear armament and mining and offshore drilling. They are maybe a poorer economy but a richer sense of conviction, I think.
And me here two months, speaking from the pulpit.
We have had a change of circumstance, by the way. The car we had bought was stolen, luckily before we had paid for it. So no car, but no skin off us, either. And I have found a job at a bakery-cafe.
Tomorrow I have short-term work, at a camp for disadvantaged youth. I will be working overnight as the female counsellor. On the plus side, it should be fun: I'm going white-water rafting and on a Flying Fox, having free meals and getting paid very, very well. On the other hand, I'm intimidated. I have no illusions. These kids are going to eat me alive.
But recently I have begun to realize how long I will be in New Zealand, and what it means to travel.
My experience is changing from one of a short-term experience to a long-term, settling kind of mindset. I have developed a kind of panic deep inside me, a desperate ache for home. I can sense that, on the other side of this phase, I will probably develop a kind of acceptance of my life here as permanent and, possibly, hopefully,
of my entire life as one no longer belonging to an island in Canada, but capturing the possibility of belonging elsewhere.
At first the differences of New Zealand were novel and lovely, and they still are, but I have developed lately a kind of antipathy toward these differences, as if they have purposely chosen to remind me that I am not at home.
Here are some things that are different.
Light switches
Power outlets
Toilet flushing handles
Store names (i.e., there is no Wal-Mart, Future Shop, The Bay, or Macs. Instead they've got The Warehouse, Dick Smith, Farmer's and The Fix)
Road signs
Left-handed driving
Trees, birds, and landscape (although Scottish Broom is a plague on these hillsides too).
The moon is upside-down
Different stars, and Orion is also upside-down
The sun is in the north
No insulation or central heating in buildings
Everything is generally about twice as expensive
Music and fashion is pretty '90s, so it's either behind or way ahead of its time.
Television shows run several seasons behind, and there are only about ten channels.
Vocabulary and slang, for instance:
Interact/debit: Eftpos
Americano: Long Black
Latte: Flat White
Espresso: Short Black
Thanks: Cheers, or Ta
You're Welcome: It's all right
Awesome: Choice
Cool: Mean
Great: Sweet as
Into it: Keen
Expensive: Dear
Corner store: Dairy
Garbage: Rubbish
Garbage Can: Bin
Sweater: Jersey
Bell pepper: Capsicum
Zuccini: Courgette
Ketchup: Tomato Sauce
Sprite / 7-Up: Lemonade
Apartment: Flat
Friend: Mate
Fast food: Takeaways
Dessert: Pudding
Chips: Crisps
Fries: Chips
Gas: Petrol
Trunk: Boot
Car Hood: Bonnett
Truck: Lorry
Elevator: Lift
Flashlight: Torch
Swimsuit: Togs
Diaper: Nappy
Stroller: Pram
Cabin: Bach (pronounced like a batch of cookies)
Flip-flops: Jandals
It is startling when I hear a North American speaking. Their lack of accent seems so strange to me.
One thing that has surprised me about New Zealand is the poverty. Don't get me wrong: there's no rampant homelessness like we have at home. The poverty is less severe but more widespread. Any street you drive down, you'll see falling-down business signs, flaking paint, busted fences, boarded-up windows, graffiti, and weeds. Everything is incredibly expensive here, and it seems that the general population can never quite catch up. No one seems to have the time or money to maintain their yards or shopfronts. Stairways crumble, paint peels. It is a state we have seen in every town and city in the country so far. It makes me realize how much effort must go into the careful repairs of our sidewalks, gardens, shopfronts, awnings, and houses back home. I have always taken the pretty aspects for granted: tailored gardens, horsechestnut-lined sidewalks and beautifully painted Victorian homes. Free wireless throughout the city. How rich we are.
I suppose though, that the Kiwis are rich in another sense. The countryside is beautiful beyond anything I've seen. And expenses aside, the people are welcoming and open and more like Americans than they would care to admit. They complain about their government, but truly New Zealand has striven to set an example in the world. They were the first country to give women the vote, the first to instate a marine reserve, the first to refuse nuclear armament and mining and offshore drilling. They are maybe a poorer economy but a richer sense of conviction, I think.
And me here two months, speaking from the pulpit.
We have had a change of circumstance, by the way. The car we had bought was stolen, luckily before we had paid for it. So no car, but no skin off us, either. And I have found a job at a bakery-cafe.
Tomorrow I have short-term work, at a camp for disadvantaged youth. I will be working overnight as the female counsellor. On the plus side, it should be fun: I'm going white-water rafting and on a Flying Fox, having free meals and getting paid very, very well. On the other hand, I'm intimidated. I have no illusions. These kids are going to eat me alive.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Round About Wellington
Still no job, although not for lack of trying. I have been to several interviews, wearing my best jeans and the new flats I bought just for this purpose. But most retailers and cafes want nothing to do with short-term backpackers, and as soon as they figure out I've got a working holiday visa, they clam up. Even if I bullshit to the utmost, about how much I love Wellington and how I'm planning to stay here for as long as I can, I still get no callbacks. I have submitted resumes to temp agencies, and to about five job openings a-day online. I had an interview this morning, and I have another tomorrow. Hopefully, someone bites.
Luckily, John is making a bit of money, so we're not hard up.
Unfortunately, John won an online auction for a car, so we'll have to spend a good chunk of money this week.
On the plus side, we are now the proud owners of a 1992 Subaru Legacy Wagon. We'll be roadtripping around the country in about a month, when John and Medellee get here in time for Christmas. Anna is already in the country, and Clare is in Nelson. Yes, it will be a merry Christmas this year, full of sunshine and friends, and with the car comes freedom.
Also next month, we are planning to book our PADI certificates. The course includes seven dives and all equipment, and the certificate is international, so we'll be able to scuba dive anywhere our travels take us from now on. It has been one of our main goals in coming to New Zealand, and I am excited to get underway. The course takes place between the 6th and the 19th of December.
The flat is working out. It's comfortable and cheap, and quiet, and has a nice view. Today I plan to patch our leaky air mattress, and it'll be perfect, once I start sleeping through the night.
I spend my time walking around Wellington, taking myself out for tea, visiting the libaray, and surfing the internet looking for jobs. I buy the groceries, do the laundry, and cook the meals. I am happy, if a little bored.
I am off to the library.
Luckily, John is making a bit of money, so we're not hard up.
Unfortunately, John won an online auction for a car, so we'll have to spend a good chunk of money this week.
On the plus side, we are now the proud owners of a 1992 Subaru Legacy Wagon. We'll be roadtripping around the country in about a month, when John and Medellee get here in time for Christmas. Anna is already in the country, and Clare is in Nelson. Yes, it will be a merry Christmas this year, full of sunshine and friends, and with the car comes freedom.
Also next month, we are planning to book our PADI certificates. The course includes seven dives and all equipment, and the certificate is international, so we'll be able to scuba dive anywhere our travels take us from now on. It has been one of our main goals in coming to New Zealand, and I am excited to get underway. The course takes place between the 6th and the 19th of December.
The flat is working out. It's comfortable and cheap, and quiet, and has a nice view. Today I plan to patch our leaky air mattress, and it'll be perfect, once I start sleeping through the night.
I spend my time walking around Wellington, taking myself out for tea, visiting the libaray, and surfing the internet looking for jobs. I buy the groceries, do the laundry, and cook the meals. I am happy, if a little bored.
I am off to the library.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Amazing Race
We head to the i-Site to catch our Intercity coach from Napier to Wellington. It's a five-hour trip, but luckily I have an engrossing crap fantasy novel, my music, and some snacks to keep me going. We sit in the sun surrounded by tourists, many hundreds getting dropped off in waves from a nearby cruise ship. I eat an apple. The minutes tick slowly past, until 1:15 or so when we start to worry.
Here's the thing. I didn't write down the exact time of the coach departure-- I just know it's sometime after 1:00, but it could be 1:30.
I go inside to ask and get a blank stare.
"The Intercity bus?" I say again, in case my accent is too strong or something.
"Oh, no," she says, "The Intercity Bus stops on Davis Street."
"Davis Street?" I echo, panic rising in my throat like bile. "Where is that, exactly?"
"I'll just help you in a moment," she says peevishly, motioning to a lineup.
I bolt.
"Davis Street!" I scream to John as I rush outside. He has the good sense to check a map while I scoop up my pack, my day pack, a sweater, a jacket and a book and follow him, no idea where I'm going. My belongings keep slowing me down, the sleeves of my jacket getting tangled with the straps of my pack, the slippery fabric threatening to abandon me as I puff and pant about a block behind John, shouting to the other pedestrians tardy excuse-mes and apologies. It's a long way. We have missed the bus, I'm sure of it. A wasted $80.00 and another night in the hostel, how embarrassing, how awful. Oh no! I am going to miss my interview. Shit!
But wait! I see a bus! It hasn't gone? Is that the bus to Wellington? Is it?
My chest is burning. I am sweating like crazy and I realize that I have forgotten to put on deodorant, the one day I will really need it.
We make it just in time. WELLINGTON says the bus. The coach driver laughs at us and stows our packs. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time. Maybe they should just move the departure location, I say, to the i-Site, where they dropped us off. Yeah, maybe, says the bus driver.
John does unfortunately have to sit next to his stinky girlfriend for five hours. But at least we are somehow, miraculously, thankfully sitting on this bus and heading to Wellington. The countryside is gorgeous. There are swamps blooming with rust-coloured algae, and miles of hills and farmland that begin to resemble some kind of elite golf course.
That night, James and Jeannine cook us dinner and make up their spare bed. I am given clear instructions as to which bus to catch (9:55), so I will be at my interview on time. I am heading to Cuba Street, and I have to be there by 10:30 a.m. The cat, Ludo, sleeps with us. I sleep uneasily, waking often, listening to the nighttime noises of the guinea pigs, feeling anxious about oversleeping.
I am sitting at the bus stop at 9:50, still feeling anxious. At 10:00, I am getting a bit panicked. No bus has come by. At 10:05 I start running down the hill, trying to head in the direction of the main parade, where buses go by every ten minutes or so. But this is an unfamiliar suburb, and it's pretty much a maze. I run downhill and am met by a dead end. I turn around and run uphill, soon encountering a fork in the road. I choose the left fork, which is leading downhill. It spirals down, cutting back on itself, and somehow, ten minutes of running later, I am actually on the main road. How did that happen?
At 10:25, I am still on the bus to town. I tell the driver I want to go to Cuba Street and he looks at me with hostility. I still have to make it past Cuba Street to a certain address I have to find. I have five minutes.
When the bus stops, I take a couple of breaths and make a run for it. Cuba Street Mall goes by in a colourful haze of cobbled roads, shops, statues, and people. Jeannine says it is the prettiest street in Wellington, but I don't have the time to look at it. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.
But I'm not the only one. Two people come into the group interview behind me, and I feel saved. Ha! They are even later, which makes me look better. All together, there are about fifteen people in the room, all looking for a job with Greenpeace.
The interview process is pretty stupid. It involves group work, role play, that kind of thing. But I have taken acting lessons, and I am pretty good at this kind of thing. I am one of three invited back at 2:30, to take the bus to some suburb and knock door-to-door, asking people to sign an environmental petition. This is volunteer work, I am told, but if I am successful, I can start training tomorrow. I agree. In the meantime I check out the city, looking in used book stores and having lunch at an Indian buffet.
Well, I am successful. I start training the following day. Although, no one told me that the training is also volunteer, and I'm furious that I have to work from 9:00 until 5:30 for free.
But that is neither here nor there. I can tell I'm not going to like this job. My first day on "the Doors" is okay, and I even get one man to sign up, but it's exhausting and I pretty much hate it. Wellington is built in a valley, and the suburbs on all sides are built into steep hills. You access each house by a long stairway. So, my bum is sore by the end of the day, also my calves and shins. It's also a strain mentally. I have to remember my speech about orangutans in Indonesia, remember to keep my posture, eye contact, voice pitch, and body language. I have to deal with "objections" and try to pressure people into a monthly donation using guilt, conniving, strong language, and plain bullying. If all else fails, I ask them to sign the petition. I get a lot of doors closed in my face.
I call the next morning and quit. John has found a good job, building a school for children with special needs. He tells me that we don't need the money and I can find something else, something I'll enjoy. We spend time on the internet, trying to find a place. I manage to get an interview at a pet shop, which sounds like it might be a fun job.
Finally, we agree to let an empty room in a nice flat with one flatmate, the man who owns the house. It costs $170 per week, but the place is furnished and comfortable. James and Jeannine loan us their air mattress and we sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags, stuffing our pillowcases with clothes to use as pillows. I spend the days wandering around Wellington, dropping off resumes, taking pictures, and trying to learn my way around.
For the first time I begin to miss home.
Here's the thing. I didn't write down the exact time of the coach departure-- I just know it's sometime after 1:00, but it could be 1:30.
I go inside to ask and get a blank stare.
"The Intercity bus?" I say again, in case my accent is too strong or something.
"Oh, no," she says, "The Intercity Bus stops on Davis Street."
"Davis Street?" I echo, panic rising in my throat like bile. "Where is that, exactly?"
"I'll just help you in a moment," she says peevishly, motioning to a lineup.
I bolt.
"Davis Street!" I scream to John as I rush outside. He has the good sense to check a map while I scoop up my pack, my day pack, a sweater, a jacket and a book and follow him, no idea where I'm going. My belongings keep slowing me down, the sleeves of my jacket getting tangled with the straps of my pack, the slippery fabric threatening to abandon me as I puff and pant about a block behind John, shouting to the other pedestrians tardy excuse-mes and apologies. It's a long way. We have missed the bus, I'm sure of it. A wasted $80.00 and another night in the hostel, how embarrassing, how awful. Oh no! I am going to miss my interview. Shit!
But wait! I see a bus! It hasn't gone? Is that the bus to Wellington? Is it?
My chest is burning. I am sweating like crazy and I realize that I have forgotten to put on deodorant, the one day I will really need it.
We make it just in time. WELLINGTON says the bus. The coach driver laughs at us and stows our packs. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time. Maybe they should just move the departure location, I say, to the i-Site, where they dropped us off. Yeah, maybe, says the bus driver.
John does unfortunately have to sit next to his stinky girlfriend for five hours. But at least we are somehow, miraculously, thankfully sitting on this bus and heading to Wellington. The countryside is gorgeous. There are swamps blooming with rust-coloured algae, and miles of hills and farmland that begin to resemble some kind of elite golf course.
That night, James and Jeannine cook us dinner and make up their spare bed. I am given clear instructions as to which bus to catch (9:55), so I will be at my interview on time. I am heading to Cuba Street, and I have to be there by 10:30 a.m. The cat, Ludo, sleeps with us. I sleep uneasily, waking often, listening to the nighttime noises of the guinea pigs, feeling anxious about oversleeping.
I am sitting at the bus stop at 9:50, still feeling anxious. At 10:00, I am getting a bit panicked. No bus has come by. At 10:05 I start running down the hill, trying to head in the direction of the main parade, where buses go by every ten minutes or so. But this is an unfamiliar suburb, and it's pretty much a maze. I run downhill and am met by a dead end. I turn around and run uphill, soon encountering a fork in the road. I choose the left fork, which is leading downhill. It spirals down, cutting back on itself, and somehow, ten minutes of running later, I am actually on the main road. How did that happen?
At 10:25, I am still on the bus to town. I tell the driver I want to go to Cuba Street and he looks at me with hostility. I still have to make it past Cuba Street to a certain address I have to find. I have five minutes.
When the bus stops, I take a couple of breaths and make a run for it. Cuba Street Mall goes by in a colourful haze of cobbled roads, shops, statues, and people. Jeannine says it is the prettiest street in Wellington, but I don't have the time to look at it. I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.
But I'm not the only one. Two people come into the group interview behind me, and I feel saved. Ha! They are even later, which makes me look better. All together, there are about fifteen people in the room, all looking for a job with Greenpeace.
The interview process is pretty stupid. It involves group work, role play, that kind of thing. But I have taken acting lessons, and I am pretty good at this kind of thing. I am one of three invited back at 2:30, to take the bus to some suburb and knock door-to-door, asking people to sign an environmental petition. This is volunteer work, I am told, but if I am successful, I can start training tomorrow. I agree. In the meantime I check out the city, looking in used book stores and having lunch at an Indian buffet.
Well, I am successful. I start training the following day. Although, no one told me that the training is also volunteer, and I'm furious that I have to work from 9:00 until 5:30 for free.
But that is neither here nor there. I can tell I'm not going to like this job. My first day on "the Doors" is okay, and I even get one man to sign up, but it's exhausting and I pretty much hate it. Wellington is built in a valley, and the suburbs on all sides are built into steep hills. You access each house by a long stairway. So, my bum is sore by the end of the day, also my calves and shins. It's also a strain mentally. I have to remember my speech about orangutans in Indonesia, remember to keep my posture, eye contact, voice pitch, and body language. I have to deal with "objections" and try to pressure people into a monthly donation using guilt, conniving, strong language, and plain bullying. If all else fails, I ask them to sign the petition. I get a lot of doors closed in my face.
I call the next morning and quit. John has found a good job, building a school for children with special needs. He tells me that we don't need the money and I can find something else, something I'll enjoy. We spend time on the internet, trying to find a place. I manage to get an interview at a pet shop, which sounds like it might be a fun job.
Finally, we agree to let an empty room in a nice flat with one flatmate, the man who owns the house. It costs $170 per week, but the place is furnished and comfortable. James and Jeannine loan us their air mattress and we sleep on the floor in our sleeping bags, stuffing our pillowcases with clothes to use as pillows. I spend the days wandering around Wellington, dropping off resumes, taking pictures, and trying to learn my way around.
For the first time I begin to miss home.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Napier
Only one hostel in Napier has a room available over Labour Day Weekend, and it's what the hostel owner calls an "internal" room-- meaning that it has no windows. The hostel itself is a converted office building, and the long gray corridors, monotonous navy carpets, and heavy office doors remind one of an empty medical clinic. The hostel owner offers us one day of work the following day, at a carnival. It's the biggest event of the year in Hawke's Bay, the Agricultural Fair, and over the long weekend more than 40% of the region's population will pay the absurd gate fee ($18.00 per person) to wander among carnival games, fair rides, and livestock competitions.
Over the next days we wake in the dark, never knowing whether it is day or night. At 9:00 am on the Friday, we go with three other girls from the hostel in the company van, towards Hastings, for the fair. The weather has turned cold, and it's cloudy and windy. The fair grounds are largely empty this early, and we have about an hour to wander before our jobs start. We examine all the classic carnival stalls, where carnies promise us prizes if we throw well, and we look at the haunted house, the carousel, the ferris wheel, and all the other rides, blowing on our hands and huddling in the wind. We get a cup of coffee and see all the wares for sale, woodworks, preserves, clothing, trinkets, jewelry, until we finally reach the animal fair, where we pet baby goats and even see a five-legged sheep. The llamas are having a competition according to their colour and the quality of their fleece, and the equestrian show is warming up as well. Little girls ride beautifully combed and braided horses, while others practice jumps in the ring.
We are split up to work in different stalls. John gets to work serving hot food near the rock concert and beer gardens, while I get stuck scooping ice cream, and also get to hand out candy floss and caramel apples. It turns out to be a pretty fun job. It turns out that I am wildly talented at scooping ice cream cones, and each one looks beautiful. But it is a cold day and I mostly stand around, chatting with the other girls in the stall. The carnival gets really busy, and all day I can see just a sea of heads walking around carrying balloons, big stuffed animals, chips, hot dogs, and ice creams. Mothers try to keep their flocks happy, and grandfathers spoil little boys with sticky faces. Distant screams in the direction of the roller coasters, crying children, and the tinkling sound of absurd carnival music drift across the crowd, which surges and leaves paper wrappers tumbling in its wake. The sun comes out, albeit grudgingly.
At the end of the day we are paid $115 each in cash. John agrees to ride the ferris wheel with me, and since the place is shutting down we're the only ones on the ride. It turns out to be the fastest ferris wheel in the world. It feels like it's going to jump off the hub and roll into the sunset, and each lift and drop makes me scream a little as my stomach lifts. The man running the machine stops us at the top so we can get some nice pictures. The sun is setting over the town, and we can see all the tents and rides gradually emptying. We plan to spend our money getting supper at the pub. I feel infinitely happy.
At the pub, I can hardly keep my eyes open. I don't know if it's the "hard" day's work, or what, but I don't know if I've ever been so tired. Back at the hostel, we move our things into a large dorm (the windowless room has been booked for the weekend). I shove my pack under a bed, crawl into the lower bunk, and fall asleep with the lights on, with my clothes on, in daylight, with everyone awake and talking unintelligibly in German. John halfheartedly shakes me, tries to coax me into pajamas, but it all seems very unimportant and far away to me. I sleep through the night, and before I know it, it's 6:30 a.m., and I am suddenly and completely awake. The sun is slanting in through the window and I don't know if I've ever been so rested.
It's the day of the Gypsy Fair, and the weather is fine. We lie on the warm, round pebbles on the beach, warming ourselves like reptiles. There is a large choir singing gospel music in the public park, and in between songs, a preacher invites us to praise Jesus in an enraptured voice. Eventually we wander down the beach on a concrete path, surrounded by baby strollers, and children with training wheels, wearing improperly placed helmets, who race each other, and show off by riding in the grass. The gypsy fair looks very much like Bilbo Baggins' birthday party. Hand-painted signs advertise pony rides, palm- and tarot-card readings, crafts, clothes, carvings, cotton candy, and jewelry. Each caravan is brightly decorated, and out front, there are tents made of beach-wood and bedsheets. Many of the caravans have additions and look just like houses on top, with windows, and shutters, flower-boxes, doorways, stairways, and front porches cunningly positioned and beautifully painted. And after the fair, I suppose, they pack up their tents and drive these caravans to the next town. We wander to each one. Some are selling complete junk. I buy a beautiful hand-made printed dress, and then we walk to the park for lunch, eating every kind of fruit on the grass, surrounded by palm trees and flowers and ponds full of lilies and goldfish.
We move hostels after the weekend. At the new backpackers, we sign up for orchard work, which is apparently forthcoming, and pay for a week. It's a busy hostel, to say the least. Twenty people are cooking together every mealtime. We meet a couple of Americans and spend time together at the pub in the evenings. We also walk to Cape Kidnappers to see the Gannet colony, and have lunch on the beach. We watch movies, and meet other travelers from Scotland, from Czech Republic, from Italy, Germany, England, and France. Everyone is waiting for work. On Halloween I sing karaoke in an empty pub, and we play epic rounds of pool and darts while drinking $10 "jugs" (*much smaller than Canadian pitchers). We spend time at the internet cafe looking for jobs, but they seem to all be in Wellington.
Finally, I get a phone call from Greenpeace. They want me to take a job in Wellington; the interview is on Tuesday morning. Since we are paid up until Monday, we decide to take the plunge. We contact James and Jeannine, John's friends from his travels in Australia, and let them know we'll be in town. They have offered to let us stay with them. We book a bus, pack our bags, and get ready to encounter Wellington, the San Francisco of New Zealand.
Over the next days we wake in the dark, never knowing whether it is day or night. At 9:00 am on the Friday, we go with three other girls from the hostel in the company van, towards Hastings, for the fair. The weather has turned cold, and it's cloudy and windy. The fair grounds are largely empty this early, and we have about an hour to wander before our jobs start. We examine all the classic carnival stalls, where carnies promise us prizes if we throw well, and we look at the haunted house, the carousel, the ferris wheel, and all the other rides, blowing on our hands and huddling in the wind. We get a cup of coffee and see all the wares for sale, woodworks, preserves, clothing, trinkets, jewelry, until we finally reach the animal fair, where we pet baby goats and even see a five-legged sheep. The llamas are having a competition according to their colour and the quality of their fleece, and the equestrian show is warming up as well. Little girls ride beautifully combed and braided horses, while others practice jumps in the ring.
We are split up to work in different stalls. John gets to work serving hot food near the rock concert and beer gardens, while I get stuck scooping ice cream, and also get to hand out candy floss and caramel apples. It turns out to be a pretty fun job. It turns out that I am wildly talented at scooping ice cream cones, and each one looks beautiful. But it is a cold day and I mostly stand around, chatting with the other girls in the stall. The carnival gets really busy, and all day I can see just a sea of heads walking around carrying balloons, big stuffed animals, chips, hot dogs, and ice creams. Mothers try to keep their flocks happy, and grandfathers spoil little boys with sticky faces. Distant screams in the direction of the roller coasters, crying children, and the tinkling sound of absurd carnival music drift across the crowd, which surges and leaves paper wrappers tumbling in its wake. The sun comes out, albeit grudgingly.
At the end of the day we are paid $115 each in cash. John agrees to ride the ferris wheel with me, and since the place is shutting down we're the only ones on the ride. It turns out to be the fastest ferris wheel in the world. It feels like it's going to jump off the hub and roll into the sunset, and each lift and drop makes me scream a little as my stomach lifts. The man running the machine stops us at the top so we can get some nice pictures. The sun is setting over the town, and we can see all the tents and rides gradually emptying. We plan to spend our money getting supper at the pub. I feel infinitely happy.
It's the day of the Gypsy Fair, and the weather is fine. We lie on the warm, round pebbles on the beach, warming ourselves like reptiles. There is a large choir singing gospel music in the public park, and in between songs, a preacher invites us to praise Jesus in an enraptured voice. Eventually we wander down the beach on a concrete path, surrounded by baby strollers, and children with training wheels, wearing improperly placed helmets, who race each other, and show off by riding in the grass. The gypsy fair looks very much like Bilbo Baggins' birthday party. Hand-painted signs advertise pony rides, palm- and tarot-card readings, crafts, clothes, carvings, cotton candy, and jewelry. Each caravan is brightly decorated, and out front, there are tents made of beach-wood and bedsheets. Many of the caravans have additions and look just like houses on top, with windows, and shutters, flower-boxes, doorways, stairways, and front porches cunningly positioned and beautifully painted. And after the fair, I suppose, they pack up their tents and drive these caravans to the next town. We wander to each one. Some are selling complete junk. I buy a beautiful hand-made printed dress, and then we walk to the park for lunch, eating every kind of fruit on the grass, surrounded by palm trees and flowers and ponds full of lilies and goldfish.
We move hostels after the weekend. At the new backpackers, we sign up for orchard work, which is apparently forthcoming, and pay for a week. It's a busy hostel, to say the least. Twenty people are cooking together every mealtime. We meet a couple of Americans and spend time together at the pub in the evenings. We also walk to Cape Kidnappers to see the Gannet colony, and have lunch on the beach. We watch movies, and meet other travelers from Scotland, from Czech Republic, from Italy, Germany, England, and France. Everyone is waiting for work. On Halloween I sing karaoke in an empty pub, and we play epic rounds of pool and darts while drinking $10 "jugs" (*much smaller than Canadian pitchers). We spend time at the internet cafe looking for jobs, but they seem to all be in Wellington.
Finally, I get a phone call from Greenpeace. They want me to take a job in Wellington; the interview is on Tuesday morning. Since we are paid up until Monday, we decide to take the plunge. We contact James and Jeannine, John's friends from his travels in Australia, and let them know we'll be in town. They have offered to let us stay with them. We book a bus, pack our bags, and get ready to encounter Wellington, the San Francisco of New Zealand.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Rotorua
The thing about Rotorua is the smell.
It's generally a gorgeous little town, full of gardens and lamp-posts, cobbled sidewalks and cafe-bars. Our room comes with an en suite bathroom and shower, with a heated towel rack and an elegant design. There are candies on the pillows, free towels, extra bedding and a space heater. The fridge is full of beer ($2.00 each) and eggs ($0.40 each). It seems they've thought of everything.
But Rotorua is built along one of the most active geothermic fault lines in the world, and with that heat comes sulfur.
The people of Roturua don't seem to notice the strong boiled-eggs smell, so we imagine that we'll get used to it, too. We pack our bathing suits and visit the Polynesian Spa, where there are naturally heated pools surrounded by tropical gardens and steaming waterfalls. If you want, you can also pay for mud baths, massages, wraps-- the works. As we get closer, we can see the steam rising and we can smell the sulfur getting stronger.
The spa is full of Australian and Indian tourists who talk gaily and try to engage us in conversation also. We soak for hours, until we can't stand it. Afterward, I have that rubbery, drained, completely content feeling you get when you've been in a hot tub for too long. I order carrot-orange-cranberry juice and John gets ice cream. We stroll through the town, which smells better to us now.
That night, we visit a Maori village, where we pay for a tour, show, and traditional feast. We watch the Maori warriors dance the Haka, and the girls dance and play games. The chief explains their rituals and history. We meet a French couple from New Caledonia, and together we eat and drink wine before venturing into the bush to see glow worms at the Sacred Spring.
Possibly the best day ever.
On our final day in Rotorua, we hire a car and drive to Wai-O-Tapu geothermal park. (It turns out that we haven't got used to the sulfur smell, after all; or otherwise it is just incredibly strong here.) The park is amazing and should win a place on the top-ten must-do activities in the country. Pools of boiling mud erupt and steam; there are bright green and bright orange pools of steaming water. Everywhere the forest is steaming, the earth belching sulfur from frowning yellow mouths. Orange moss drips from the trees.
It's generally a gorgeous little town, full of gardens and lamp-posts, cobbled sidewalks and cafe-bars. Our room comes with an en suite bathroom and shower, with a heated towel rack and an elegant design. There are candies on the pillows, free towels, extra bedding and a space heater. The fridge is full of beer ($2.00 each) and eggs ($0.40 each). It seems they've thought of everything.
But Rotorua is built along one of the most active geothermic fault lines in the world, and with that heat comes sulfur.
The people of Roturua don't seem to notice the strong boiled-eggs smell, so we imagine that we'll get used to it, too. We pack our bathing suits and visit the Polynesian Spa, where there are naturally heated pools surrounded by tropical gardens and steaming waterfalls. If you want, you can also pay for mud baths, massages, wraps-- the works. As we get closer, we can see the steam rising and we can smell the sulfur getting stronger.
Possibly the best day ever.
On our final day in Rotorua, we hire a car and drive to Wai-O-Tapu geothermal park. (It turns out that we haven't got used to the sulfur smell, after all; or otherwise it is just incredibly strong here.) The park is amazing and should win a place on the top-ten must-do activities in the country. Pools of boiling mud erupt and steam; there are bright green and bright orange pools of steaming water. Everywhere the forest is steaming, the earth belching sulfur from frowning yellow mouths. Orange moss drips from the trees.
South to Rotorua
The only hostel in Kaitia is full.
We're forced to hike to the end of town, where we let a room for the night in the dodgiest hotel you can imagine. It's across the road from Liquorking, and up and down both sides of the street, the other businesses have been borded up. The common area is full of stale cigarette smoke and poor lighting, worn orange carpets and peeling wallpaper. The manager is missing most of his teeth and wears a dressing gown, but welcomes us very kindly before launching into reminisces about his glory days in the hippie colonies in California. He leads us upstairs, where the smoke smell is generously mixed with mildew. The bed in our room is made up, but we spread out our sleeping bags, feeling wary. Crumbs from someone else are scattered on the bedside tables and there are stale popcorn kernels on the floor. The ceiling is waterlogged, sagging under the weight of mold.
We take ourselves out for dinner.
Next day, we take the 8:00 am bus back to Auckland. It's a 7-hour bus ride, and I listen to an audio book while watching the fields and the rolling shoulders of land. At first I'm cheerful, but after four or five hours I'm starving and I badly need to use the bathroom-- but there are no breaks until 2:00, an hour from Auckland. I get really cranky. I haven't had breakfast and I slept poorly. My bladder hurts, my stomach hurts, and the scenery is redundant. I begin to complain a little loudly. It doesn't help.
We spend two nights in Auckland, which now seems amazing compared with Kaitaia. Our hostel has clean, crisp sheets and fresh paint. We brunch in a sunny outdoor garden, enjoying decadent pots of tea, fruit, and hot buttered toast. We walk among crowds, window shopping, getting lost in the glory of city lights and buzzing patios. We eat our fill of rich Indian food: Masala, Tandoori, rice, papadams, chutney, and naan. We have missed the city life.
On a whim we overnight in Hamilton, which turns out to be a bust. It's basically one or two streets, full of restaurants which have closed down. It's Saturday night, but the sidewalks are eerily quiet. A steady stream of traffic is leaving town. We find an empty pub, where we order sandwiches and plan our escape. The server brings us ketchup ("tomato sauce" in New Zealand) in a rubber tomato with a hole in the stem for squeezing. I think about stealing it, to send home to my father. That might sound weird, but you have to understand: he has always wanted a rubber tomato.
Maybe I will find some of those for sale somewhere.
John takes the reigns and decides on our next move: east, to Rotorua, land of volcanoes.
We're forced to hike to the end of town, where we let a room for the night in the dodgiest hotel you can imagine. It's across the road from Liquorking, and up and down both sides of the street, the other businesses have been borded up. The common area is full of stale cigarette smoke and poor lighting, worn orange carpets and peeling wallpaper. The manager is missing most of his teeth and wears a dressing gown, but welcomes us very kindly before launching into reminisces about his glory days in the hippie colonies in California. He leads us upstairs, where the smoke smell is generously mixed with mildew. The bed in our room is made up, but we spread out our sleeping bags, feeling wary. Crumbs from someone else are scattered on the bedside tables and there are stale popcorn kernels on the floor. The ceiling is waterlogged, sagging under the weight of mold.
We take ourselves out for dinner.
Next day, we take the 8:00 am bus back to Auckland. It's a 7-hour bus ride, and I listen to an audio book while watching the fields and the rolling shoulders of land. At first I'm cheerful, but after four or five hours I'm starving and I badly need to use the bathroom-- but there are no breaks until 2:00, an hour from Auckland. I get really cranky. I haven't had breakfast and I slept poorly. My bladder hurts, my stomach hurts, and the scenery is redundant. I begin to complain a little loudly. It doesn't help.
We spend two nights in Auckland, which now seems amazing compared with Kaitaia. Our hostel has clean, crisp sheets and fresh paint. We brunch in a sunny outdoor garden, enjoying decadent pots of tea, fruit, and hot buttered toast. We walk among crowds, window shopping, getting lost in the glory of city lights and buzzing patios. We eat our fill of rich Indian food: Masala, Tandoori, rice, papadams, chutney, and naan. We have missed the city life.
On a whim we overnight in Hamilton, which turns out to be a bust. It's basically one or two streets, full of restaurants which have closed down. It's Saturday night, but the sidewalks are eerily quiet. A steady stream of traffic is leaving town. We find an empty pub, where we order sandwiches and plan our escape. The server brings us ketchup ("tomato sauce" in New Zealand) in a rubber tomato with a hole in the stem for squeezing. I think about stealing it, to send home to my father. That might sound weird, but you have to understand: he has always wanted a rubber tomato.
Maybe I will find some of those for sale somewhere.
John takes the reigns and decides on our next move: east, to Rotorua, land of volcanoes.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Cape Reinga Trek
Day 1
The man with the SUV drops us off at Te Paki Stream. He's a lot like Sean Connery with a hearing aid, a Tilly hat, and binoculars. He wishes us luck and leaves a cloud of dust behind him; we hardly notice. Instead we take stock of our surroundings. There are enormous sand dunes on all sides of us, with a wide delta carved into the sand to create a valley floor like a scar. We splash through the river for awhile, getting our boots wet, before deciding to head up over the dunes instead. It is exciting. I feel like a Gertrude Bell, forging a path through the desert.
After about half an hour, we can see the ocean, separated from us by a belt of scrub bush and grass. We make our way in.
It's not as it appears. The grass, easy enough at first, proves deceptive: it becomes a stronger type very like copper wire, and grows too thick to wade through. John begins to push clumps of it down to walk over, avoiding the prickles and spiders' nests. I follow. Then, to my dismay, our footing gives way to marsh. The water smells awful, and is soon ankle-deep. I feel that this is not what I signed up for. We wander in a wide circle, trying to find some drier way. We have no luck. After half an hour, we're forced to turn back. The swamp has defeated us. I follow my own footsteps back over the dunes, to the river where we began. We've used an hour and I am hot, tired, and cross-- but we've learned not to take shortcuts away from the path.
It's hard to stay cranky out here. The river takes about forty minutes to hike, remaining, for the most part, shallow and sandy. We can hear the ocean's roar long before it's visible. By the time I catch a glimpse of blue it's already upon us: the Tasman Sea, giant turquoise waves curling and crashing over the hard sand. There is no one in sight for miles. This is 90-Mile Beach, but we'll only be walking the last three kilometers of it. After a well-deserved break, we turn our steps north-west, towards the Cape. I take off my boots and walk barefoot, in my underwear, in the long surf. The distant bluffs, at first indistinct gray-green shapes, gain remote detail as we walk.I don't hear them coming over the deafening surf. They're suddenly beside me and then past: a group of guys in an SUV, driving on the beach. I have just enough time to blush and put my pants back on before we're among them at the foot of Cape Scott. We make small-talk; they offer us a beer. I accept. Then the boys wish us the best day ever, and head off to go fishing. We sit on the sand and eat lunch. The beer is cold and tastes like celebration. But there are no garbage bins on this empty beach, and John will end up carrying our empty bottles for the better part of two days.
When we reach our camp, we're nearly out of water. The nearest stream is a one-hour round-trip away, so we drop our packs and head east, over sand dunes, this time following orange markers. Each time we reach one, we see another on the horizon. We point out animal tracks to each other, and try to guess their origin. Sheep? Possum? We see no animals. By the time we make the return trip, with a day's worth of fresh water, the sun is setting and the wind has already obscured our footprints.
That night, the roar of the ocean becomes deafening white noise. I sleep like the dead.
Day 2
John makes pancakes for breakfast, and then we head back over the dunes to Te Werahi beach. It's another hot day, and although I've been applying sunscreen, I realize that I've forgotten my ears. They've blistered.
The beach is a welcome sight, not least because it includes a wide, deep, cold river. Without hesitation, I grab some soap, strip, and jump in to bathe. The water is clear and icy, and I yell and blow and shiver as I splash water on myself, washing away two days' worth of sweat and grime before lying in the sun to dry off and warm up, completely content.
In the Maori language, Reinga means "place of leaping." Traditionally, it is the point of departure for Maori souls as they leave this life, and return to the homeland of their Polynesian ancestors.
We finish our day's hike at Pandora Beach, two and a half hours from the Cape. This is the Pacific Ocean side, and there is something decidedly familiar about the kelp and shells that have washed up here. Our camp is a formal DOC campground full of RVs and painted vans, and the crowd seems surreal after so much time spent in isolation.
I wake in the night to the splatter of raindrops. There is also a roaring sound that could be waves nearby, but turns out to be wind coming up through the trees. The wind picks up, billowing the tent inward, shaking the walls. John wakes also. We lie in silence, listening to the scream of the storm and the watching the tent heave and pitch under the weight of the wind. At one point the ceiling of the tent lays down on me completely. I try to push it back and hope that the tarp doesn't fly away.
Day 3
The rain stops just after daybreak, but the wind storm continues. We have to yell over the incredible noise as we pack up camp and head into an estuary, where we wade through the river and slosh through a strange landscape of crunchy mangroves and thick mud.
Finally, we reach an old rutted road and hunker down for breakfast. John puts on The Beatles and the sun comes out. The weather is very changeable, though, because the wind is blowing the clouds across the sky so fast. Over the course of the day, we climb three mountains and experience every kind of weather, from rain to sun to hail. The wind is constant. In the mountain passes we walk warily, conscious of the ridge, straining against the strength of the wind. At one point, we huddle under a bush, laughing incredulously, as horizontal hail comes stinging from the sky. I notice that someone has posted orange signs scribbled with sayings like, "you are the master of this moment," or, "joy shared is doubled, sorrow shared is halved," and some which have been erased by the elements.
Our last night on the trail is spent in a lagoon in Spirit's Bay, reached by negotiating rocks full of tidal pools and deep, dripping caves. We get into dry clothes, get warm, and fall asleep before it is fully dark.
Day 4
An old Maori chief once said that, after his death, his spirit would remain in this bay. I can see why. Spirit's Bay is one of the most interesting places I have yet seen in New Zealand. The sand we walk on is actually a mosaic of glassy shell-fragments, and what appears pink from afar turns out to include every pastel colour imaginable. But the shell-rubble is very deep and soft, and it's knee-bending work to reach the other side of the 8 km-long, crescent-shaped beach. John runs around, discovering empty glass bottles, coconuts, and bits of rubbish. We also see two beached Pilot whales, long dead, surrounded by gulls. They smell awful.
Sean Connery comes to pick us up in the early afternoon, and he drives us back to the tiny town of Waitiki Landing, where we treat ourselves to a pizza each, a couple of glasses of strong beer, and a game of pool. Every muscle hurts.
I think this is the best thing I've ever done.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Paihia and the North
In Paihia, we stay at a busy hostel. It's full of young people from all around the world, especially Europe and Asia. Fifteen or twenty of them crowd the kitchen and dining areas at dinnertime, eating noodles and talking. The noise is unbelievable. A huge flat-screen TV dominates the common room, where several Germans watch episodes of The Simpsons and Family Guy at full volume, with the English subtitles on, so they will have a better chance of understanding the jokes.
John and I go out for pizza, sipping beer on a patio overlooking the boardwalk. We pick up a cheap bottle of red wine and a bar of dark chocolate on our way back, which we enjoy in the company of the dinner crowd at the hostel. Many comment on our healthy "dinner of champions," not realizing that this is dessert. We agree. I tell them that antioxidants are essential to a balanced diet. We offer them chocolate.
We wake up early the next morning and take the free kayaks out on the water. They are really cheap little devices, full of air and made of plastic, with holes in the bottom designed to take in a boatload of water for stability. The weather has turned cold and cloudy overnight, though, and the icy water is not welcome. We sit on our knees on the hard plastic, trying to stay dry and upright as we row across the bay to a nearby island. Ten minutes in, I am no longer having a good time. The wind is picking up, my feet are painfully asleep, and I am wet and cold. Worse, boats going by are creating big waves that threaten to topple me. The island does not appear to be getting closer. I want to go home. John, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. He's a few feet ahead of me, cackling madly and shouting insults at the weather and the waves ("is that all you've got?!"). We reach the island finally, where we see orange-breasted sandpipers and black oystercatchers searching for snails.
Two hours later, having explored the elusive island, I am once again miserable, resolutely steering my stupid kayak towards the beach. The weather has, if anything, gotten worse. The current is fighting me. My ankles are killing me. John is trying to convince me to stay out longer, and I pointedly ignore him, teeth clenched.
That night, we meet a couple of girls in the common room who are eager for conversation as they plan a road trip around Northland. Alexz is a 19-year-old Abercrombie & Fitch model from Canada, who's just completed a one-year tour of Australia. She is tanned, blonde, beautiful, and outgoing. Her favourite expressions are "Oh, my GOSH!", "WOW!", and "That is, like, SO GOOD!". Her goal is to travel the world. Olivia, the Brit, is more serious. She always has her Lonely Planet guidebook in hand, and organizes every detail of the road trip, from hiring the car, planning the route, wine tastings, hikes, and hostels. She's 28, and starts a lot of sentences with "To be fair..." or "To be honest,..." in a somewhat posh British accent. Alexz has nicknamed her "Oblivia," for her tendency to jump into and out of conversation at random. Finally, Ezzy, the Scot, is our favourite of the bunch: she's 23, and just graduated from "Uni" in "maths." She is hard to describe because she's completely unique and unpredictable. She can make realistic bird calls, wears interesting clothes (i.e., a Spiderman-Venom hoodie that zips all the way up over her face to make a mask), and carries a trashy romance novel with her. She's up for anything, like singing campy songs, going for a bike ride, or joining a road trip with strangers without hesitation.
When the girls invite us on the trip, we weigh the cost, and accept with a sense of exciting spontaneity. They leave to go to the pub and ask us to join them later. We do. The pub is in chaos by the time we wander in. A costume party is in full swing-- we see a huge colourful sombrero, brightly coloured wigs, coconut bras, flashy dresses, bright sunglasses, cowboy hats, and men in nightdresses. Olivia, Alexz and Ezzy dance around in full costume, drinking cocktails out of teapots. We end up staying out most of night with a German guy we've met, Benny, who is friendly and interesting, and invites us to visit him in Germany someday.
Needless to say, our 8 a.m. departure the next morning, and the windy country roads, don't go over too well.
But the road trip is a blast. We stay in 5-bed dorm rooms and hike to waterfalls, taking photographs of giant Kauri trees. We pull over often to take pictures of the rolling hills, lakes, livestock, and beaches. We detour to take the scenic route at every opportunity. After just three nights, the road trip is over. The girls drop us off in Kaitaia, and continue on, back to Paihia where we met. John and I are on our own again, heading north.
John and I go out for pizza, sipping beer on a patio overlooking the boardwalk. We pick up a cheap bottle of red wine and a bar of dark chocolate on our way back, which we enjoy in the company of the dinner crowd at the hostel. Many comment on our healthy "dinner of champions," not realizing that this is dessert. We agree. I tell them that antioxidants are essential to a balanced diet. We offer them chocolate.
We wake up early the next morning and take the free kayaks out on the water. They are really cheap little devices, full of air and made of plastic, with holes in the bottom designed to take in a boatload of water for stability. The weather has turned cold and cloudy overnight, though, and the icy water is not welcome. We sit on our knees on the hard plastic, trying to stay dry and upright as we row across the bay to a nearby island. Ten minutes in, I am no longer having a good time. The wind is picking up, my feet are painfully asleep, and I am wet and cold. Worse, boats going by are creating big waves that threaten to topple me. The island does not appear to be getting closer. I want to go home. John, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. He's a few feet ahead of me, cackling madly and shouting insults at the weather and the waves ("is that all you've got?!"). We reach the island finally, where we see orange-breasted sandpipers and black oystercatchers searching for snails.
Two hours later, having explored the elusive island, I am once again miserable, resolutely steering my stupid kayak towards the beach. The weather has, if anything, gotten worse. The current is fighting me. My ankles are killing me. John is trying to convince me to stay out longer, and I pointedly ignore him, teeth clenched.
That night, we meet a couple of girls in the common room who are eager for conversation as they plan a road trip around Northland. Alexz is a 19-year-old Abercrombie & Fitch model from Canada, who's just completed a one-year tour of Australia. She is tanned, blonde, beautiful, and outgoing. Her favourite expressions are "Oh, my GOSH!", "WOW!", and "That is, like, SO GOOD!". Her goal is to travel the world. Olivia, the Brit, is more serious. She always has her Lonely Planet guidebook in hand, and organizes every detail of the road trip, from hiring the car, planning the route, wine tastings, hikes, and hostels. She's 28, and starts a lot of sentences with "To be fair..." or "To be honest,..." in a somewhat posh British accent. Alexz has nicknamed her "Oblivia," for her tendency to jump into and out of conversation at random. Finally, Ezzy, the Scot, is our favourite of the bunch: she's 23, and just graduated from "Uni" in "maths." She is hard to describe because she's completely unique and unpredictable. She can make realistic bird calls, wears interesting clothes (i.e., a Spiderman-Venom hoodie that zips all the way up over her face to make a mask), and carries a trashy romance novel with her. She's up for anything, like singing campy songs, going for a bike ride, or joining a road trip with strangers without hesitation.
When the girls invite us on the trip, we weigh the cost, and accept with a sense of exciting spontaneity. They leave to go to the pub and ask us to join them later. We do. The pub is in chaos by the time we wander in. A costume party is in full swing-- we see a huge colourful sombrero, brightly coloured wigs, coconut bras, flashy dresses, bright sunglasses, cowboy hats, and men in nightdresses. Olivia, Alexz and Ezzy dance around in full costume, drinking cocktails out of teapots. We end up staying out most of night with a German guy we've met, Benny, who is friendly and interesting, and invites us to visit him in Germany someday.
Needless to say, our 8 a.m. departure the next morning, and the windy country roads, don't go over too well.
But the road trip is a blast. We stay in 5-bed dorm rooms and hike to waterfalls, taking photographs of giant Kauri trees. We pull over often to take pictures of the rolling hills, lakes, livestock, and beaches. We detour to take the scenic route at every opportunity. After just three nights, the road trip is over. The girls drop us off in Kaitaia, and continue on, back to Paihia where we met. John and I are on our own again, heading north.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Whangarei & Paihia
Whangarei
We come north to Whangarei through the rain. North of Auckland, the landscape turns swampy, with reedy wetlands and mangrove pools giving way to sticky inlets and muddy beaches. From my seat, the landscape seems to roll by. Rainwater runs in little rivers over the coach windows. We ascend the mountains, and the bus circles as it climbs, like a Roadrunner cartoon, and then rushes down the other side so fast I feel my stomach lift. On either side of us, thick rain forest crowds the road. Waxy-leaved palm trees tower over dripping deciduous. Low clouds lay in recesses in the hills. It reminds me of home.
Gradually, the forested hills give way to rolling countryside pastures. Bright and overlapping hills are stepped like rice fields, as if the sheep are inclined to eat their grass in rows. Pockets of trees cluster, like shadows, in huddled copses. I see small homes with cozy smokestacks, and livestock grazing in the rain.Calla lilies stand crowded under trees, catching drips.
Strange, in a flash and gone, a forest of totems, each tall staff bearing a stoic carved face. John and I glance at each other and shrug, bewildered. We plug in our ear-buds and watch the greenery for awhile. He plays backgammon against the computer; I read my book in snatches.
It is still raining when we arrive. Whangarei is a truck-stop town, dominated by car lots and box stores, like Liquorking and Pak-n-Save. We see a lineup almost down the block at the local KFC. Somehow, this doesn't seem promising.
Peter, the hostel owner, picks us up from the bus stop and takes us to his rambling Victorian house outside of town. It's got floral wallpaper, epic ceilings, and a confusing array of hallways and hidden doors. Also an ancient, toothless retriever with hairy paws, named after some herb or other. Our apartment is at the furthest end of the house. It is cold and the windows are open. There is no heating.
But then the sun comes out, and we sit happily on wicker furniture on the back porch and warm up, reading until we are hungry. There is an aviary in the garden. A black-and-white kitten watches the birds with calculation.
Eventually, we wander into town and find a pretty Victorian quarter with shops and restaurants. We walk further to the grocery store, which is enormous! There are no hand baskets here; only industrial-sized carts. We want to buy, at most, two days' worth of vegetables and a bit of tea. We negotiate the tedious crowds, our cart nearly empty, and at the checkout, realize that we have forgotten to buy a lemon.
We spot a cheese cart in the parking lot, climb aboard, and taste every goat cheese on offer.
Next day, the sun is hot. We hike 15 or 20 km to Whangarei Falls and back. It's a gorgeous, shady track that winds beside a river, through tree ferns, over suspension bridges. The waterfall is impressive. It sends mist out in rolling clouds one hundred metres down the river.
That night we venture out to hear live music in a dark little Irish pub. There is a lady harmonica player wailing out CCR covers. I am really impressed and want to tell her so. Middle-aged people are dancing and drinking pints of Guiness by the fireplace. We talk to some locals and wander around town, looking into other bars, of which there are a surprising amount.
It is past midnight when we get in.
Paikia
We roll through more countryside on our way north to Paihia, a pretty seaside town in the Bay of Islands. The wind blows cloud-shadows across the hills. I see a cow scratching herself on a low tree-branch, liquid eyes bright and tongue lolling. Hawks glide overhead. Islands of hairy trees shift in the wind, the forest somewhere between palm and pine. We pass wide muddy rivers, tire-track rutted driveways, and orchards blooming.
The bus drops us off beside the wharf in the center of town. The ocean lays all to one side, with a long boardwalk, shops, and sailboats. It reminds me of the Oregon coast. Tourists mill about barefoot, eating ice cream, tossing footballs on the beach, and sitting on patios. I kick off my shoes and feel the freedom of summer. Our hostel offers free kayaks, so we make plans to paddle to a nearby must-see waterfall in the morning. In the meantime, we get lunch and stroll down to the beach, where John makes friends with a puppy. We dip our feet.
I have made it to the south Pacific.
We come north to Whangarei through the rain. North of Auckland, the landscape turns swampy, with reedy wetlands and mangrove pools giving way to sticky inlets and muddy beaches. From my seat, the landscape seems to roll by. Rainwater runs in little rivers over the coach windows. We ascend the mountains, and the bus circles as it climbs, like a Roadrunner cartoon, and then rushes down the other side so fast I feel my stomach lift. On either side of us, thick rain forest crowds the road. Waxy-leaved palm trees tower over dripping deciduous. Low clouds lay in recesses in the hills. It reminds me of home.
Gradually, the forested hills give way to rolling countryside pastures. Bright and overlapping hills are stepped like rice fields, as if the sheep are inclined to eat their grass in rows. Pockets of trees cluster, like shadows, in huddled copses. I see small homes with cozy smokestacks, and livestock grazing in the rain.Calla lilies stand crowded under trees, catching drips.
Strange, in a flash and gone, a forest of totems, each tall staff bearing a stoic carved face. John and I glance at each other and shrug, bewildered. We plug in our ear-buds and watch the greenery for awhile. He plays backgammon against the computer; I read my book in snatches.
It is still raining when we arrive. Whangarei is a truck-stop town, dominated by car lots and box stores, like Liquorking and Pak-n-Save. We see a lineup almost down the block at the local KFC. Somehow, this doesn't seem promising.
Peter, the hostel owner, picks us up from the bus stop and takes us to his rambling Victorian house outside of town. It's got floral wallpaper, epic ceilings, and a confusing array of hallways and hidden doors. Also an ancient, toothless retriever with hairy paws, named after some herb or other. Our apartment is at the furthest end of the house. It is cold and the windows are open. There is no heating.
But then the sun comes out, and we sit happily on wicker furniture on the back porch and warm up, reading until we are hungry. There is an aviary in the garden. A black-and-white kitten watches the birds with calculation.
Eventually, we wander into town and find a pretty Victorian quarter with shops and restaurants. We walk further to the grocery store, which is enormous! There are no hand baskets here; only industrial-sized carts. We want to buy, at most, two days' worth of vegetables and a bit of tea. We negotiate the tedious crowds, our cart nearly empty, and at the checkout, realize that we have forgotten to buy a lemon.
We spot a cheese cart in the parking lot, climb aboard, and taste every goat cheese on offer.
Next day, the sun is hot. We hike 15 or 20 km to Whangarei Falls and back. It's a gorgeous, shady track that winds beside a river, through tree ferns, over suspension bridges. The waterfall is impressive. It sends mist out in rolling clouds one hundred metres down the river.That night we venture out to hear live music in a dark little Irish pub. There is a lady harmonica player wailing out CCR covers. I am really impressed and want to tell her so. Middle-aged people are dancing and drinking pints of Guiness by the fireplace. We talk to some locals and wander around town, looking into other bars, of which there are a surprising amount.
It is past midnight when we get in.
Paikia
We roll through more countryside on our way north to Paihia, a pretty seaside town in the Bay of Islands. The wind blows cloud-shadows across the hills. I see a cow scratching herself on a low tree-branch, liquid eyes bright and tongue lolling. Hawks glide overhead. Islands of hairy trees shift in the wind, the forest somewhere between palm and pine. We pass wide muddy rivers, tire-track rutted driveways, and orchards blooming.
The bus drops us off beside the wharf in the center of town. The ocean lays all to one side, with a long boardwalk, shops, and sailboats. It reminds me of the Oregon coast. Tourists mill about barefoot, eating ice cream, tossing footballs on the beach, and sitting on patios. I kick off my shoes and feel the freedom of summer. Our hostel offers free kayaks, so we make plans to paddle to a nearby must-see waterfall in the morning. In the meantime, we get lunch and stroll down to the beach, where John makes friends with a puppy. We dip our feet.
I have made it to the south Pacific.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Heading North
Well, we have walked all over this city. In our first days, we explored Ponsonby, Parnell, Newmarket and the city centre on foot; we took a harbour ferry tour, and even climbed to the summit of Rangitoto, the youngest island volcano in the world. Yesterday we hiked the 16 km "Coast to Coast" trail through Auckland City, from the downtown harbour, to the Domain, Mount Eden, and One Tree Hill. We have seen a lot of Auckland in a week, but our adventures are only just beginning.
Today we are packing up and getting ready to travel north, to Whangarei, Paihia, and Kaitaia, where we will try to orient ourselves towards Cape Reinga. This is the very northern tip of New Zealand, where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific. No buses travel that far north, but we hope to arrange a shuttle to Waitiki Landing, where there is one last Backpacker's Hostel. From there, we can hire a ride to Te Paki, and arrange a pick-up four days later, in Kapowairau. In the meantime, we plan to hike the 40-km stretch of trail from Ninety Mile Beach, to the Cape, and around the ridge to Te Horo Beach. (That practice run on the Juan de Fuca trail would have really come in handy.) Our supplies are packed, with dried food, water, tent, stove, and a good map. The weather forecast is 17C and sunny for the next two weeks.
Adventure... here we come.
Today we are packing up and getting ready to travel north, to Whangarei, Paihia, and Kaitaia, where we will try to orient ourselves towards Cape Reinga. This is the very northern tip of New Zealand, where the Tasman Sea meets the Pacific. No buses travel that far north, but we hope to arrange a shuttle to Waitiki Landing, where there is one last Backpacker's Hostel. From there, we can hire a ride to Te Paki, and arrange a pick-up four days later, in Kapowairau. In the meantime, we plan to hike the 40-km stretch of trail from Ninety Mile Beach, to the Cape, and around the ridge to Te Horo Beach. (That practice run on the Juan de Fuca trail would have really come in handy.) Our supplies are packed, with dried food, water, tent, stove, and a good map. The weather forecast is 17C and sunny for the next two weeks.
Adventure... here we come.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Round About Auckland
I wake at dawn to unfamiliar birdsong: a loud, varied, and hollow-sounding flute. There are no crows here, and no seagulls call. Hundreds of years ago, British settlers brought blackbirds, magpies, and song thrushes with them to New Zealand, to make them feel more at home; but in my case, the strange sounds remind me that I am far away.
Next day, we take the impressive Shark Bus (free) to an Antarctic Adventure Park (overpriced), where we see penguins, manta rays, sharks, lots of fish, and a pretty decayed giant squid in some brine. Honestly, the whole place was a little run-down and sad... but, come on. Check out the ride! We also scale more than 1,000 feet to the top of Auckland Sky Tower (okay, we just take the elevator), for some really breathtaking views of the city at sunset.
The trek to the summit takes about an hour. We marvel at the way the oak-like trees cling to the volcanic rock, the roots twining without soil. Everywhere, piles of black rock, crunchy beneath our boots. John spots several fast brown lizards, and the birds call across native trees that bloom with yellow flowers. Finally, we reach wooden stairs and the summit platform. The view is completely worth the sweat. We sit and unpack sandwiches, cheese, and wine, listening to the accents of the Brits and Australians all around us. On our way down we detour to explore lava caves.
We breakfast in a small cafe and catch the Link Bus downtown, where we photograph architecture, get lost, and stroll past the harbour, train station, library, hospital, central park, and shops. We take brochures where we can. We accidentally wander into the art gallery (free), where we see portraits of Maori men and women, and, after some wrong turns and deliberate map-checking, eventually find our way to the Auckland Museum and Domain. The Domain is a huge expanse of jungle almost in the heart of the city. We find a trail that leads us over bridges, past waterfalls, through the lush rainforest. Fern fronds the size of watermelons uncurl. In the green, I see movement and a flash of red: a parrot! Making sounds like any budgie, it's a wild parrot having a bath in the stream. There is an awesome greenhouse structure, called the Winter Garden, full of tropical plants from all over the world.
The Auckland museum (also free) has a very impressive, very extensive display of Maori artifacts. Carvings, weapons, clothing, fishing nets, canoes, houses. Did I mention weapons? No wonder the Europeans were terrified of these tattooed warriors, bearing frightening war clubs and shark-tooth knives, making faces. Displayed under glass, the relics still chill me. There are also taxidermied animals and bones, and I see the true size of the Moa, an extinct flightless bird maybe twelve feet tall. The drumstick alone is almost as tall as me!
After dinner, we venture back into the city in search of some live music. So far, Aucklanders seem to be keen on mid-90's pop music, so we have suffered through everything from Brittany Spears and Pink to Maroon 5 and Train. Our Lonely Planet guide boasts about a little spot at the end of a dark alley where The Rolling Stones once played. Unfortunately, tonight it's just J Lo and Shaggy.
Next day, we take the impressive Shark Bus (free) to an Antarctic Adventure Park (overpriced), where we see penguins, manta rays, sharks, lots of fish, and a pretty decayed giant squid in some brine. Honestly, the whole place was a little run-down and sad... but, come on. Check out the ride! We also scale more than 1,000 feet to the top of Auckland Sky Tower (okay, we just take the elevator), for some really breathtaking views of the city at sunset. Later, back at the hostel, we meet a couple of Scots and a Maori man, and all of us sit around the kitchen, drinking beer and eating dinner, talking. I am mistaken for an American ("So, what part of the States are you from?") and I answer that I am Canadian, actually. The poor Scot falls over himself apologizing, sure that he has offended me unimaginably. I assure him, honestly, that I take no offense: see, you can see the States where I'm from, and the accents are identical. Also, my best friend is American. He continues to mutter apologies ("... may as well call me English...") but the conversation moves on eventually.
Our third day in Auckland starts early: the ferry to Rangitoto Island leaves at 9:30 (right John?)... well, actually, 10:30. No problem. We get tea and some breakfast while we wait, which is my ideal way to kill time. Rangitoto is a young volcano just off the coast, and the speedy little ferry gets us there in about fifteen minutes. We snap photos of the receding skyline, wind in our hair.
The trek to the summit takes about an hour. We marvel at the way the oak-like trees cling to the volcanic rock, the roots twining without soil. Everywhere, piles of black rock, crunchy beneath our boots. John spots several fast brown lizards, and the birds call across native trees that bloom with yellow flowers. Finally, we reach wooden stairs and the summit platform. The view is completely worth the sweat. We sit and unpack sandwiches, cheese, and wine, listening to the accents of the Brits and Australians all around us. On our way down we detour to explore lava caves. Waiting for the ferry back, laying barefoot in the sun, I feel sleepy from the wine and completely content.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Kia ora
From my window seat on the plane to L.A., the landscape resembles a crinkled beige blanket. The sunny ridges contrast with dark slopes, and they're punctuated by tufts of cloud, which make bold shadows. The clouds become thicker and out of the midst, mountains' heads rear up, isolated. Later, we sit for three hours on rows of stuffy airport seats, getting hungry, waiting.
Finally, I board the flight to New Zealand. To my right, an older man is already asleep with his pillow against the window. He must be drugged. I recline my seat and snuggle in with a movie. The flight attendants, all Kiwi men, bring dinner around, surprisingly good: braised beef with green beans and potatoes, cheese and crackers, two glasses of red wine, and chocolate cake. Through the night I doze, unable to sleep deeply, my head lolling from side to side and my neck cramped. If not for John's shoulder, I would go slowly mad. In the night, I make the mistake of visiting the airplane toilet without replacing my shoes, and, caught between the suspicious wet drops on the floor and the pressure of the lineup behind me, step gingerly, feeling foolish.
Later, in the darkness, I wake to turbulence: the plane rocking, jumping, and seeming to plunge into the air before catching itself. The seatbelt light comes on with a loud bell. I sit holding John (who easily goes back to sleep) and wait it out, outwardly calm. All around me, people sleep, no one worried. Eventually, the plungings and joltings calm down, and I go back to sleep, somewhat reluctantly.
The kiwi men wake me just before dawn with fruit, yogurt, tea, and orange juice (strangely sour). There's an hour left of the flight, and I spend it watching a tourism program on Auckland, where we'll be landing. The sleeping man beside me wakes, and initiates a cheerful conversation about his work in New Zealand as a professor of history. The author of A Penguin History of New Zealand is a colleage of his, incidentally; although, it turns out, the two of them don't get on personally.
Customs is, of course, a drag. Many lineups later, we learn that the customs officers want to thoroughly clean our hiking boots and tent-- microspores in the soil could contaminate their forests. So, again, we wait.
Finally, though, at daybreak, we emerge into fresh air and a mild spring morning. The airport bus is waiting outside, and we climb aboard, stowing our packs and looking out the windows eagerly as the landscape rolls by. Strange trees! Huge arbutus-looking trees, with dark, wet-looking leaves; small palm bushes with fan-like leaves; spikey, upward-facing pine trees that seemed manicured; tall palm trees, like in L.A.; tree ferns; and even what might be been banana trees, with large wide leaves and scaley trunks.
Auckland is very like Vancouver. Billboards, graffiti, and bus stops pepper the sidewalks, and young people jaywalk everywhere. Tall glass skyscrapers seem to sway in the air as clouds pass. On our way, we stop for a coffee (which, by the way, is not an Americano here, but a "tall black"), and we try unsuccessfully to pay by interact (called eftpos in New Zealand) before finally arriving at our hostel, tired and dirty. I take a break for a much-needed nap and shower. We wander up to Ponsonby (our hostel is on Richmond), and walk up and down both sides of the street, reading all the menues. Finally, we stop at a corner grocer to pick up camomile tea, chicken soup, and crackers, which I make at the hostel before falling deeply, deliciously, asleep. My first day in New Zealand has been a whirlwind, and it's already over.
Later, in the darkness, I wake to turbulence: the plane rocking, jumping, and seeming to plunge into the air before catching itself. The seatbelt light comes on with a loud bell. I sit holding John (who easily goes back to sleep) and wait it out, outwardly calm. All around me, people sleep, no one worried. Eventually, the plungings and joltings calm down, and I go back to sleep, somewhat reluctantly.
The kiwi men wake me just before dawn with fruit, yogurt, tea, and orange juice (strangely sour). There's an hour left of the flight, and I spend it watching a tourism program on Auckland, where we'll be landing. The sleeping man beside me wakes, and initiates a cheerful conversation about his work in New Zealand as a professor of history. The author of A Penguin History of New Zealand is a colleage of his, incidentally; although, it turns out, the two of them don't get on personally.
Customs is, of course, a drag. Many lineups later, we learn that the customs officers want to thoroughly clean our hiking boots and tent-- microspores in the soil could contaminate their forests. So, again, we wait.
Finally, though, at daybreak, we emerge into fresh air and a mild spring morning. The airport bus is waiting outside, and we climb aboard, stowing our packs and looking out the windows eagerly as the landscape rolls by. Strange trees! Huge arbutus-looking trees, with dark, wet-looking leaves; small palm bushes with fan-like leaves; spikey, upward-facing pine trees that seemed manicured; tall palm trees, like in L.A.; tree ferns; and even what might be been banana trees, with large wide leaves and scaley trunks.
Auckland is very like Vancouver. Billboards, graffiti, and bus stops pepper the sidewalks, and young people jaywalk everywhere. Tall glass skyscrapers seem to sway in the air as clouds pass. On our way, we stop for a coffee (which, by the way, is not an Americano here, but a "tall black"), and we try unsuccessfully to pay by interact (called eftpos in New Zealand) before finally arriving at our hostel, tired and dirty. I take a break for a much-needed nap and shower. We wander up to Ponsonby (our hostel is on Richmond), and walk up and down both sides of the street, reading all the menues. Finally, we stop at a corner grocer to pick up camomile tea, chicken soup, and crackers, which I make at the hostel before falling deeply, deliciously, asleep. My first day in New Zealand has been a whirlwind, and it's already over.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Weeks away...
Well, we've done it. After months of dreaming, planning, and perusing guidebooks, it's finally happening. We've got return flight tickets, 12-month work visas, and money in the bank. Our stuff is half-packed and it's only now becoming real to me: we're going to New Zealand!
Why bother trying to describe how I feel? I've never been away from home before-- never even left the coast. Now I'm leaving it all: my friends, my family, my job, my belongings, and my apartment. I'm going to leave my comfortable life behind and embrace the unknown. With my best friend and a backpack, I'll be taking each day as it comes, halfway around the world.
There will be unfamiliar landscapes and unknown cities. People will think I have an accent! I'll meet all kinds of people: those who have walked on several continents, and those, like me, who have never left their place of birth. After looking out to the western horizon my entire life, I will finally be on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, stepping on the sand of a distant shore. I will be amazed; I will be afraid; I will probably get lost. The fear is exhilarating. The excitement is excruciating.
Three weeks before our flight, there is a lot to do-- one hundred and twenty working hours apiece, first of all. We are dismantling our apartment slowly, giving away furniture, donating clothing, and storing books. I have made an exhaustive packing list. There is a long list of ends to tie, documents to scan, and necessities to acquire.
Beyond all the work, I'll be playing. In the next few weeks, I'll be attending a wedding, a baby shower, a book club meeting, two birthday parties, a family reunion and of course, my own farewell party. These are big occasions, and last opportunities to see everyone dear to me.
People everywhere ask me if I'm getting excited. Yes, I am. But that doesn't begin to describe the nerves I've got, bare weeks away from what can only be the greatest adventure of my life.
Why bother trying to describe how I feel? I've never been away from home before-- never even left the coast. Now I'm leaving it all: my friends, my family, my job, my belongings, and my apartment. I'm going to leave my comfortable life behind and embrace the unknown. With my best friend and a backpack, I'll be taking each day as it comes, halfway around the world.
There will be unfamiliar landscapes and unknown cities. People will think I have an accent! I'll meet all kinds of people: those who have walked on several continents, and those, like me, who have never left their place of birth. After looking out to the western horizon my entire life, I will finally be on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, stepping on the sand of a distant shore. I will be amazed; I will be afraid; I will probably get lost. The fear is exhilarating. The excitement is excruciating.
Three weeks before our flight, there is a lot to do-- one hundred and twenty working hours apiece, first of all. We are dismantling our apartment slowly, giving away furniture, donating clothing, and storing books. I have made an exhaustive packing list. There is a long list of ends to tie, documents to scan, and necessities to acquire.
Beyond all the work, I'll be playing. In the next few weeks, I'll be attending a wedding, a baby shower, a book club meeting, two birthday parties, a family reunion and of course, my own farewell party. These are big occasions, and last opportunities to see everyone dear to me.
People everywhere ask me if I'm getting excited. Yes, I am. But that doesn't begin to describe the nerves I've got, bare weeks away from what can only be the greatest adventure of my life.
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