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.