There are prizes for good costumes, and it sure adds to the bizarre atmosphere. We see colourful superheros, cowboys with stuffed horses, lifeguards, soldiers, human-sized candies, video-game characters, and many of the barely-dressed. We see hats, body paint, sparkles, chaps, and wigs; there's cardboard clothing, bubble-wrap clothing, and clothing that may have fit ten years ago.
Four of us walk among them: myself and John, dressed down in sandals and straw hats; Rodolph, from Toulouse, France; and Maartin, from Belgium, wearing a vest and fedora. At noon, the heat is nearly unbearable. It radiates up from the pavement, making the air shimmer. I can't wait to sit in the shade, sipping cold beer and listening to the music.
We're checked at the door-- twice for I.D., and once for illegal substances (I think). Eventually, some officials tag us with arm bracelets and give us each a little beer mug (it's a souvenir), and we enter the festival proper. There is a lot to see. Besides the colourful and rowdy crowd, there are two music stages, probably fifteen beer tents, lots of BBQ stalls, and an enormous "shade tent" that dominates most of the field. The shade tent was sponsored by the Cancer Society, so you can get free ice water and free sunscreen there, but, ironically, lots of people are smoking anyway.
The deal is that you can taste any beer for free, but to fill your little handle, it's $4 or $5. Throughout the day, I try as many kinds of beer as they'll let me: pilsners, lagers, stouts, pale ales, honey browns, and IPAs. We go back for seconds of King Cobra, a double-fermented beer that is amazingly crisp considering it's 8%. Between beers, we lounge in the shade tent or join the crowds around the blues-rock stage, where there's always people dancing to that steel-string sound. We all join in, unembarrassed, just having a good time. Our glasses sweat in the sun. Later, we rest in the shade tent with hundreds of others. The grass feels cool and soft and I pick little spears absentmindedly as I sit laughing with the others. As if in revenge, it leaves imprints of itself on my legs whenever I stand up to refill my mug.
Before we know it, it's already 6:00. The festival is winding down, so we head back to the hostel, where a party is just starting up. The idea is to get to know each other, and everyone is meant to cook something from his or her home country to share with the others. John and I have decided to make grilled salmon and corn-on-the-cob.
It is quite a sight. We employ every table in the hostel to make an enormous banquet table, to seat thirty-five. Everyone participates, and soon there are crowds of bottles and plates on every surface. Someone starts a drinking game, and someone else starts a ping-pong competition. We all make an effort to meet new people and learn their names. As the sun sets, the crowd gets louder. Everyone tells his life story, and there's lots of playful argument and joking around.
At midnight, most of the hostel heads downtown to the night club. John and I stay behind to sleep. I can hear everyone walking down the street all the way to town, and if I wanted to, I could follow them just by the noise. In the darkness, I sink into the cool pillow and fall instantly asleep. The long, hot day has taken its toll on me (not to mention a little too much beer).
****
I have agreed to clean the hostel on the weekends in exchange for two nights' accommodation each week. So, on Sunday morning, I get up at 8:30, thirsty and with a headache, to face this enormous task. First I brush my teeth and have a cup of tea to get the taste of the brewery out of my mouth, but then I take serious stock.
Not surprisingly, the entire hostel is a disaster zone. Outside, every surface is covered in mess, including the ping-pong table and the ground. There are empty bottles and dishes everywhere. There are bottle caps, cigarette butts, and plastic bags; plates with ketchup, chicken bones, and corn cobs; spilled sticky puddles and melted candles in which ashtrays have been overturned. In the kitchen, piles of greasy pans clutter the sinks, which are full of standing brown water. Food has been left out, and everywhere, highways of sugar ants have invaded.
This is a terrible job for a hangover.
I start outside, filling an entire garbage bin with empty bottles and another with garbage. Then I collect all the dishes, scrape out the food, and get to work. The sinks have been clogged with some kind of matter, maybe vegetable, so that's my first task; then I fill them with hot soapy water and do load after saucy, crumby, sticky load of someone else's dishes. I kill the ants without mercy and wipe everything down, even the ping-pong table.
A couple of hungover Germans crankily ask me how long I'll be in the kitchen, they're hungry. I put down the greasy pan and tell them to wait, they can cook when the floor is mopped. They roll their eyes and mutter. I change beds, clean toilets, vacuum, and mop the entire place. I even have to clean the BBQ.
By eleven, I'm finally done. I feel disgusting, like I'm sweating out all that beer; I shower gratefully as John makes me Egg-in-the-Nest for breakfast. The cranky Germans get their chance to cook too. Of course, they leave their pans for someone else to wash tomorrow morning. Children. I ask them if these dishes belong to them, and they grouchily come over and wash them, leaving a pan-load of congealed egg in the drain. I leave it there: I've had enough for one day.
All day, I just try to make it. It is the hottest day I've experienced in New Zealand yet, and very humid. You can taste the heat when you breathe, like in a sauna. Sweat trickles down my skin as I lie in bed, hoping for a breeze. We listen to music and fan ourselves with newspapers. I hang the laundry out to dry, and drink cold apple juice from the freezer. Several times in the day, I get up and take an ice-cold shower just to survive.
When the darkness comes, it seems to be only a fraction cooler. John and I alternately read the newspapers, and swat heavy black flies with them.
I feel vastly recovered from my too-fun Saturday, but I still dread facing the week.
Come to think of it, after what happened last week, I wonder if I even still have a job!
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