Kiwi Cousin

My great-uncle Lyall settled in New Zealand in the 1970s, and lived in Blenheim for nine years before moving back to Canada. Out of his seven children, one stayed behind: his son, Barry, eventually got married and had a family of his own, which means that I now have a little brood of second cousins here in New Zealand: people who share the same great-grandparents as me; part of the Eriksen family that I've never met. I first got in touch with them before leaving Canada, to introduce myself and to let them know about my plans; and they've been kind to me from the start, telling me about themselves and even inviting me to stay with them. Donelle, Barry's daughter, has even called me on the phone since my arrival, kindly inviting John and I to come and stay as long as we like, whenever it is convenient.

I'm excited to meet her, and arrange to come on a Friday in early January.

In the afternoon, John and I take the Intercity Bus from Christchurch to Ward, a tiny fishing village just 50 km south of Blenheim. The town consists of a motel, a petrol station, and a cafe; Donelle runs the motel, and lives in a nice house on the property. We pass through dramatic yellow hillsides. At just past 8:00 in the evening, we roll in, step down from the bus, and heave our heavy packs onto our backs. I am carrying a straw hat and a pillow; John has his fishing rod, hat, and a little cooler (mostly empty). The bus pulls away with a screech, and we cross the empty highway toward the motel. I can't help feeling a little nervous.

Of course, Donelle turns out to be a warm, absolutely generous woman, and I needn't have felt nervous after all. She welcomes us with polished hospitality, and offers us cold drinks as we bring our stuff inside. I realize that our pile of belongings seems enormous, but Donelle doesn't appear to notice. We sit on the veranda for a couple of hours as the light fades, the ice tinkling in our glasses, talking about family and getting to know each other. We discuss our great-grandmother's garden, which was practically famous in my books; the Great Family Reunion on Pender Island in 1989 (she was seventeen, I was four, and we both remember it in detail); and a little of her travels through North America, Europe, and Southeast Asia.

After a tour of the house, my cousin sets up bedding for us and bids us goodnight, kindly insisting that we take advantage of the internet, telephone, laundry and car as much as we like while she's at work. John and I both relish the quiet peacefulness of the country town, and we crash hard, sleeping until late the following day. At one point in the morning, I smell coffee-- the strong kind you brew over the stove-- but even that doesn't rouse me. I roll over in the soft linen and listen to the utter quiet, dozing.

The light in the window is the bright gray of a drizzly morning. John and I spend all day recharging our batteries-- literally, it's been awhile since we've had reliable electricity and everything's dead-- and relaxing: drinking tea, snacking, surfing the internet, and watching television. Eventually, we borrow Donelle's car and drive to the beach, where we explore limestone rock formations and scout for Albatross. Although the weather is windy, the South Pacific still has that turquoise evanescence. We don't see any Albatross, just loads of cormorants-- or shags, as they call them here.

When we get back, Donelle roasts a chicken for dinner and opens a bottle of red. There is even a real salad with dressing (luxury). John tells her about his work, I talk about my family, and Donelle tells us about the area: there is a good day walk we could do, she says, called Saw Cut Gorge, and a market the following morning. She'll be selling some crafts she's made, and there will be local produce as well.

We plan to wake up early, but it doesn't quite work out: seduced yet again by the sweet lull of a sleepy morning, we're not actually out of bed until half-past ten. By the time we're up and showered, it's nearly noon. Still, we valiantly troop out to the market, and even check out the local museum. John finds loads of interesting artifacts from the area's history, like sheep-shearing tools and an old lighthouse crank (to me they mostly look like rust).

Donelle's friend Trav brings mussels over for dinner. He is a muscular, tattooed man with an easy laugh and a refined pallet. While he cooks, John and I poke around outside, watching the baby chooks (chickens) and wandering down the road towards more farmland, aimlessly. I spot two adorable brown calves, with round ears and sweet faces, and they lumber to the road to say hello. I get so excited I actually jump the ditch in my sandals to see if they'll let me pet them. I try to coax them towards me with long grass but they seem pretty stubborn, now they've come so far. Eventually, I give up. I lay my hands on the fence and

ZAP~!

jump back into the ditch, a startled little scream in my throat.

The fence bleeding bit me! Shocked me! ELECTRIC FENCE!

I feel a bit outraged, but mostly embarrassed. John doesn't even laugh, he just picks me up and hugs me. My hands and teeth hurt but especially my arm, where the electricity must have escaped. I had one of those elastic hair-ties around my wrist, and the little metal bit didn't help my situation. Poor cows! ... devil cows. No wonder they wouldn't come any closer!

"All right?" says Trav later, serving up mussels and beer. "How was your walk?"

"All right," I agree, and then add: "I found out that the fence is electric."

There's a pause before he roars with laughter. "I'm a city girl," I explain feebly, but that just makes him laugh harder.

The mussels are delicious. We have a lively conversation during dinner, and afterward, watch a New Zealand film called Boy. I am content, curled up in my pajamas, electric shock forgotten. There is even chocolate.  

We have been talking about going to Blenheim to try our hand at vineyard work. Donelle has to go to town on Tuesday, and offers to drive us. In the meantime, we plan to walk the Gorge she's told us about.

****

Monday morning turns out to be the most glorious weather we could have asked for. The sky is a clear blue, and the air is so calm that the wind turbines on the hill are completely still. We actually wake up at a decent hour, and Donelle has packed us a picnic lunch: sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies, the works. John throws some laundry into the machine at the last minute, and then we finally jump into the car, headed South.

The road winds through the jagged shapes of yellow hills, with valleys of wildflowers nestled in the recesses like lavender and periwinkle shadows. The car crawls up a white chalk road, into the mountains, and we park at a farm house that marks the beginning of the walk. We can see the white riverbed curling into the distance.

It is only a short walk downhill to the river itself. Large white stones cobble the way, and the water rushes through them, clear and cold. The stones look like eggs or like bubbles of chalk rising from the river. Underneath the surface though, the stones have turned the colour of rust. We see no little fish darting into shadows, so there may be nothing to eat the algae, I suppose. In some areas, large kelp-like plants are growing, bent under the weight of the water like long grass in a strong wind.

We pick our way over the stones, but soon give up and wade ankle-deep in the cool river. Loud birdsong pierces the afternoon all around us, chirps and whistles that sound for all the world like we are deep in the Amazon jungle. The sun is hot, but the water is refreshingly cold; we boulder, climb, and wade through the serene morning. Sometimes, we see bits of trail leading off into the woods, and we follow the shady paths upriver whenever we can. Eventually, the boulders get bigger-- bigger than cars-- and the water gets too deep to wade through. I have been waiting for this moment. I strip down and plunge into the cold water, dark green under the chalk-white canyon. The icy water shocks my skin, and I dunk my head, coming up yelling and gasping. Even John goes for a swim, although he usually avoids cold water.

Afterward, we sit on the rocks in the sun, eating soft juicy plums and sipping from our water-bottles. I feel dazed and refreshed and surprisingly clean.

Too soon it's time to move on. Within moments, my hair is dry, and we are both warm again. We see a few other hikers coming back from their overnight stay in the huts, and after that, it's not long before we reach Saw Cut Gorge.

The Gorge is an impressive sight. Over centuries, the river has carved a deep canyon into the limestone, resulting in a deep, thin gorge that looks just like a tool may have sawed the 75-metre rock down to the riverbed. We walk through, and inside, it is dark like a cave. Above us, a thin streak of sky is visible, and swallows are darting into their nests with long wings and crossed tails. I snap a photo of John approaching the other side, the silhouette of his body illuminated by the bright daylight.

We sit by the water's edge and eat our lunch, in the sunshine, and John puts his water-bottle in the river so it'll be cold for the walk back. We both feel a sleepy contentment and linger there, breathing deeply, a crisp metallic smell like asphalt after rain, the smell of earth and grass, observing the river and the little trees, the wildflowers, feeling the sun on our skin, on our hair, a soft breeze on our shoulders, the birds in the branches and the light on the water.

All the long walk back we take our time, dragging our feet, not wanting the afternoon to end. The place has cast a kind of spell over us. There is nowhere I would rather be than here, walking through the water, in this river that reminds me of my childhood. When my head feels hot from the sun, I see a path and walk in the shade of the trees, leaf-mould soft under my feet, coins of sunlight dancing.

****

Donelle makes us quiche for dinner and we pack up our things, getting ready to leave the following day. Our laundry has been miraculously washed, dried, and folded.

The lady at the Lemon Tree Hostel in Blenheim says she's got work for us, and she even has dorm beds available (although we are welcome to sleep in our tent). I fall asleep feeling a nervous excitement about our upcoming life, settled and working in a noisy hostel, doing physical labour on the farms for as long as we can stand it. I hope we make enough money for all we want to do.

I guess we'll see.