Kiwi Cousins, Continued

On Friday night - our last night in Blenheim - we decide to have a party.

It's a bit last-minute, but we call everyone we know, and everybody brings somebody (or in some cases, four or five people). Soon, our little flat is full of people, mixing cocktails and pouring wine, introducing themselves to strangers, and having those conversations that strangers have. Those of us who've been here long enough to spend time reminiscing, have those conversations that friends parting ways have.

A little past midnight, we walk downtown to go dancing.

John, who isn't feeling well, stays behind, and for once, I have the intoxicating feeling of being the center of attention. Everyone wants to buy me a drink, as if to make up for my birthday party, and I feel loved and powerful - if briefly. I charm the man at the karaoke booth, who turns out to be the owner of the bar. He puts my name on the top of the list and offers me a job on the spot.

Donelle picks us up the next morning. I have that incredible feeling of being completely packed and of owning almost nothing. My entire life is zipped into place and fits onto my back. It's actually pretty light.

My iconic badges of poverty turn out to be my duct-taped-together glasses (five years old) and my grumpy, yawning shoes, which I have trampled on every day for over a year. Feeling casually extravagant, I purchase two new pairs of glasses and new shoes before leaving town. I ditch a pair of shorts and several T-shirts, because winter is coming.

With enough money, everything I own becomes dispensable.

We drive south through bare yellow hills, which Donelle says were burned by the Maori to chase out the Moas, which they hunted to extinction a few hundred years ago. Moas were enormous, flightless birds, like ostriches, but much taller than me, and some as tall as elephants. You can see their bones in the museum.

Donelle explains that it's pretty slow at the motel, so she gives us our own room! Luxury! We have our own bathroom, kitchen, and living room, electric blankets, flat-screen television. For the longest time, we wander here and there, touching everything. There is a newspaper on the table, which I unfold as I make tea. John turns on the television, putting up his feet with a sigh of contentment.

That night, Donelle makes us salmon tapas, with fresh-baked bread and blue cheese, as well as lasagna and salad, and we drink sauvingon blanc and play backgammon. She tells us that her neighbor is looking for workers to pick saffron, if we're interested. Of course, we jump on the opportunity to make some extra cash.

That night, I sleep like the dead. The bed is already warm from the electric blanket, the covers are heavy, and the pillows and the mattress are perfect - not too soft.

The next day, Sunday, we relax. In the afternoon, we watch a Canucks game on the internet, and I talk to my mother on the phone for the first time in two or three months. Donelle talks to me about my family, my grandparents. We tell stories. I begin to feel less homesick. 

Early the next morning, we drive to the saffron farm. On the way, I receive a phone call from Patrick, the manager at a book store I've applied to. He is interested to chat with me when I arrive in Wellington, and I feel excitement. Imagine! A book store job!

The owner of the saffron farm is named Kate, and she becomes my hero instantly. She is slim and lively, with short gray hair and big rubber boots. Her dog tags along after her.

The paddock of saffron looks lovely in the morning light. There is a purple haze of crocuses, deep in the long grasses, which are filmed with silver dew. As the sun's angle lifts, the flowers open, and hundreds of humming honeybees accompany our work. We stoop to pick the flowers and drop them into buckets, talking in low voices, as though not to disturb the peace of the woods, the birds in the distance. Often, I have to shake a dozing honeybee from the mouth of a flower, and it flies of agreeably, landing in the the next one. Sometimes, the high-pitched hum of bees is punctuated by the diesel drone of an enormous, black-haired bumblebee, come for his share.

When all of the flowers have been gathered, we stop for coffee in the farmhouse, where Kate serves apple cake and biscuits. Then it's time for Processing. We open each damp flower and pull out the three red threads, or filaments, inside. We lay the filaments onto round paper for dehydrating, and gather the crumpled purple flower petals for compost. The women chat together, and the day passes. At one point, a sprightly fantail flies into the farmhouse, looking for insects. He chats to us as he lands here and there, his long tail seeming to throw him off-balance as he hops around cheerfully.

After two days of work, Kate pays us $300 and wishes us luck, telling us we are welcome to stop by anytime.

We plan to drive around the south island for a few days, mainly so that I can meet my family in Westport. Finally then, on Wednesday, Donelle drives us to Picton, so that we can pick up the car we've hired. On the way, Donelle points out the hillsides where she used to ride her horse as a kid, the house of an old friend. We pick up the car without a hitch, say goodbye, and drive west, through autumn scenery.

At first, the landscape is golden. The sun has the quality of early morning, pale and yellow, slanting from low in the sky. The grapevines have turned a deep umber, and the tall poplars are yellow. As we come further west, the road begins to wind through tall hills, which become more and more green. Eventually, we are driving past walls of ferns, and through tunnels of dripping foliage. We pass wide river beds, long bridges over exposed rocks, and tunnels under the mountains.

Finally, we hit the coast. We find the Eriksen's address in Westport, and stop outside their house. Again, like when I met Donelle, I feel a little nervous. But, again, there is no need. Jo, Barry, and Asha welcome us with generosity and love. By the time we arrive, they've made a beautiful dinner, complete with New Zealand food like whitebait and pavlova. Asha's little girls are perfect hosts, showing us our room, bringing us drinks, and squirming onto our laps to get a closer look at us.

We talk until late into the night. Jo makes us cups of hot tea, and we curl up by the fire, talking about Canada, family, and their lives in New Zealand. In the space of a few hours, strangers become family.

They see us off the next morning, with hugs and well-wishes. They hardly accept our thanks - instead, they thank us for coming and tell us how glad they are to have met us. They talk about wanting to visit Canada sometime soon.

I feel lucky to have such a welcoming family here, so far from my home.

By lunchtime, we're heading south along the coast, towards the Punkakaiki and Arthur's Pass.