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.