The southerly storm blowing in from Antarctica is strong enough to rip clothing off the line, rattle the windows, spray salt water up the mountain; it's strong enough to knock over the wheelbarrow and push it across the yard, and strong enough to take the gutter off the house. 90 km/h winds have been blowing for days, howling through the buildings, whistling in through the windows: hurricane weather. They don't call it Windy Welly for nothing.
We're living on a cliff that overlooks the ocean, and through the rain-drizzled windowpanes, I can see white caps on the steely water, all the way out to the deep blue drop-off that marks the edge of the marine reserve. James and Jeannine have been kind enough to rent out their spare room to us for cheap: it's simple and cozy, with extra blankets for the cold nights.
In all of this weather I head out, resumes tucked under my arm, to pound the pavement in search of a job. I try everywhere: grocery stores, video stores, and book stores; pubs, cafes, and restaurants, movie theaters and employment agencies. Twenty C.V.s and a week later, no bites yet.
This situation is eerily reminiscent of my earlier time in Wellington. John works while I seem to float around the city, seeking employment or at least entertainment, feeling a little useless and a little homesick. Our dream of making it to Asia recedes as our savings evaporate.
In my heart, I decide to go home. I e-mail Paul, my travel agent back home, and ask him how much it would cost to change my ticket. I tell him that if I could go home tomorrow for $500 or less, I wouldn't hesitate - and it's true. There is nothing for me here. I have seen most of the country, I've met some great people and I've had a good time, but all of the other backpackers I know have left, with the season and with the end of work. I've got no prospects and I'm running out of money. Maybe it's time to cut and run.
In my heart, I want to settle for awhile. I want my home; want to surround myself with my things, put my clothes in a drawer and sit on the edge of my bed, see photographs of people I recognize on the shelf.
I have been living out of a backpack, on one pair of shoes, for so long that it seems like a great luxury, that memory of feeling my clothes hanging up in a closet - skirts, dresses, blouses, sweaters. Do I still own all that stuff? Drawers full of clean underwear and socks? Stockings? Gloves? A purse? A belt?
John and I discuss the possibility of going home. He would rather stay, and in fact, I realize that if I went home without him, he would probably be able to make it to Asia. I tell him that everything I want is back home: friends, family, work, weather. I tell him that I fall asleep each night visiting, in my mind's eye, familiar street corners of home.
It's not a sad thing. It feels more like a calming ritual, but I find myself doing it more and more, like when I look up from the book I'm reading, or when I look out the window on the bus. It's weird. I imagine the round sculpted trees that line Government Street - remember the smell of waffle cones and chocolate. I can see the details: the shopfronts, windows, alcoves and facades, the little lights in the tree-branches, the brick sidewalks (speckled with gum), the crowds, the silent well-dressed man who always stands on the corner. Or I can conjure up another corner just as easily. I know it all by heart - the whole city.
John reminds me of our plans to go to Tonga, for the work-for-accommodation gig. I'm skeptical. Somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific, between Fiji, Samoa, and the Cook Islands, Tonga just seems ridiculously far away. He shows me the computer: round-trip tickets, with baggage, fees, and taxes, would cost us a little less than $350 each. I can feel myself becoming hopeful, although I still don't believe it will happen.
In stubborn desperation, he phones Sven, the owner of the resort in Tonga. After a ten-minute chat, John has made arrangements with him to come and work for two or three weeks, beginning in mid-May. There will be another couple working there as well. We will be given our own room and breakfast, in exchange for four hours of gardening each morning. The rest of the afternoon we'll have off, to explore the island. Sven says he has bicycles and snorkeling gear we're welcome to borrow.
All of this means that we'll have too buy our tickets to Tonga and save up enough money to feed ourselves for several weeks. It means that a trip to Asia is almost certainly out of the question, at least this year. It might even be some kind of scam. But it might also give us the opportunity to have an adventure while we can. And, I admit, as I look out the window at the storm - the sideways hail and gale-force wind - a peaceful beach in the South Pacific sounds like paradise right about now.
I still search for work, a little desperately. We haven't bought the plane tickets yet, but any dollar I can earn will help. After two or three weeks in Tonga, we will end up in Auckland, almost certainly worse off than we are now: neither of us will have jobs, we won't have a place to stay, and we'll have even less money. There is a chance we could come back to Wellington, but who knows?
One thing I'm sure of, suddenly, with John's arms around me: no matter what, everything is going to be okay.
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