A Stranger in a Strange Land

Sometimes I almost feel at home.

At night, the city lights reflect against the windblown lagoon, like long yellow shadows. As I walk over the bridge, I can hear fish jumping in the darkness. The seagulls on the railing begin to squabble as I approach; then they take flight, returning with lazy grace once I've passed. The wind makes my ears cold.

During the day, the weather is warm, for winter. It is often sunny, and I can walk into town wearing only a sweater. As I pass over the bridge, I stop to watch the strong current pulling at the water, like the folds on the surface of a river. When the tide is low, oystercatchers run on the muddy sandbars, calling to each other and changing direction, moving according to their strange logic. I always see cormorants waiting on the rocks beside the road. They regard me aggressively from one wary yellow eye.

A few leaves still cling to the massive Kauri trees in town, but most have been left in big windblown piles, like snowdrifts or sand dunes against the buildings. They look very much like maple leaves, and they have that same russet colour. The clock tower declares the wrong time.

It feels like any other sunny autumn day I have known in my life.

Sometimes, though, I feel an inexplicable dread. At times, it seems like the streets are full of unfriendly strangers, and I feel upset. People are often rude to me, especially service people: bus drivers, baristas. 

Maybe it’s my accent, my shyness. I speak too quietly, anticipating and provoking a sharp tone, even if I just want to ask a question or order a coffee. It makes me wish I was brave enough to be aggressive, give attitude. 

I’ve made a vow to myself to always make outsiders and strangers feel welcome, if I ever have the opportunity, once I’m back home.

For me, the strangeness of New Zealand has mellowed and also accelerated over time. Sometimes I feel completely at home, but then sometimes I catch myself locked in a surreal mindset: I’ve become a stranger in a strange land. I am alone and without distraction, so that incidents of cultural difference compound upon me – events no longer isolated, and no longer surprising.

For example, in New Zealand, guys often wear their hair in mullets or rat tails. Teenagers walk through town, and into shops, barefoot, listening to loud pop music from the speakers of their cell phones. I can’t help but wonder if they own headphones – or shoes, for that matter – and why, in this country, a mullet is a totem of masculinity, whereas in my world, it’s an unfortunate relic of the 80’s, or at least a sign of cultural backwardness. 

New Zealand’s isolation from the rest of the world has its perks, though. In this country, one can feel truly free. I don’t just mean that standing-on-a-mountain kind of free (although that is here too). There is a certain cultural freedom that comes at the cost of isolation, a lack of cultural diversity that results in a kind of social unity.

For example, it seems to me that in New Zealand, everyone wears what he or she likes, without an ounce of pretentiousness. Running shoes and sweat pants are okay. Different fashions from past years are all mixed in together casually. With my complete lack of style and limited wardrobe, I actually feel comfortable, even stylish myself. It seems that most people couldn’t be bothered with this or that fad.

No one really cares to look the way so many kids do back home: there are no skinny jeans, no vintage sweaters, no leather satchels, and no wide-rimmed glasses; there are no old-lady dresses or beards or rock-star hairstyles. No one wants to be the first to discover a new indie rock band; no one has heard of Jack Kerouac or William Burroughs, and no one seems to be trying to outdo anyone else in the pursuit of belonging to an elusive hipster scene.

Instead, everyone seems to agree that bop-along hits are the only songs worth listening to. Unfortunately, there is not much choice, not much diversity – but they seem to like it that way, because there’s no debate. No one knows the band, but everyone knows the words.

Recently, in Tauranga, I went searching for some live music to keep me busy. I looked for posters on telephone poles and on café windows, but I didn't see much, and the few I saw advertised events that had already passed. A lot of pubs play live music on Friday nights – 90s rock, like Fastball, Oasis, and Green Day. The only official “show” coming up is a largely unknown, indie-looking rock band, and, while their music would undoubtedly fill the hipster hole in my life, the tickets cost an astounding $25. So, while I must concede that the indie rock scene appears to exist here in New Zealand, it may be too unreachably expensive to survive for long.

And speaking of expensive culture, I really am pissed off at the state of the book industry in this country. Most of the book stores are going out of business, and no wonder: they have no customers. They have no customers because the books are so bloody outrageously expensive. For example: a mass market paperback sold in America for $6.99 (or in Canada for $10.99) sells in New Zealand for $34.99. I’m not good at math, but that’s like, three or four times more expensive than in North America. And as a consequence, people read less. Who can blame them? Television is cheaper and easier. Even secondhand books cost twice as much as we would pay for a brand-new book back home. It breaks my heart. It really does.

Needless to say, one of the first things I did upon arrival in Tauranga was to get a library card. The institution is a haven for book lovers everywhere, a source of free media, and free information – well – sort of – free-ish. Actually, the use of the libraries in New Zealand does cost a bit of money. Sometimes it’s $10 per month for the card. Also, it costs a couple of dollars to borrow CDs, DVDs, audio books, and any recent or popular books. The libraries in New Zealand have become more like video stores where you rent the books instead of borrow them.

Still, it’s cheaper than actually buying books.

Today I decided to sit and read the newspaper. But I didn’t want the Bay of Plenty Times (the top story was about school bullies): I wanted something broader, with more international and exciting news. The library didn’t carry international newspapers, and the lady at the book store just gave me a rude “do you mind, I’m going out of business here” stare when I asked her. She looked at me like I was a crime happening on TV.

The librarian recommended the post shop, but when I got there it was closed. So, I got myself a cup of tea and read the Bay of Plenty Times after all.

There was a story about a seniors dance club (they were really young at heart), a feature about the kiwifruit harvest (it’s over), something about the local politics I didn’t quite follow, and then of course the Facebook bully story. In all, I found myself wondering about the nuclear meltdown in Japan, the reaction to the recent gay rights laws passed in New York, the economic crisis in Greece, the developments in Middle East, and news from home. What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on The New York Times.

In New Zealand, internet companies charge by the megabyte, so it is generally pretty expensive. You are not likely to find free WiFi signals in coffee shops. Now, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I am something of an internet junkie. It’s always been my limitless source of entertainment, pop culture, and information. I’ve grown up with it, and I use the internet to do almost everything: it’s my map, my yellow pages, my encyclopedia, and my newspaper. I normally download films, music, and television as I desire them. I surf when I’m bored, checking out things that interest me, from recipes and knitting patterns, to sports, jobs, facts, bands, blogs, news, and travel articles. The internet is how I keep in contact with family members and friends. It’s how I entertain myself, and it’s how I stay informed.

I guess what I’m saying is that I am suffering from pop culture withdrawal.

What with the expensive internet access, the overwhelming mainstream music, the lack of international newspapers, and the high expense of books, I sometimes feel a little frustrated with the lack of media, the difficulty of getting information and international news. It makes me feel even more isolated from the world than I really am.

On the other hand, it makes me realize how dependent I was – am – on the mainstream culture in North America. If the Kiwis have a certain unity within their culture, then you could say that I do not fit into that unity, and I also feel disconnected from the unity – and the alienation and dissent – I felt within my own culture.

It is nice to be a stranger in a strange land, but also alienating. It makes me homesick and it makes me free. The whole experience is rather confusing. I guess I'm not quite at home yet, after all.

De Bier Haus Nights

De Bier Haus, a Belgium-style pub, is owned by a very young and very inexplicably successful entrepreneur named Matt. He’s in his early thirties, but the ball cap and clean-shaven face make him look even younger.

(At 27, I can only stress the fact that a successful person in his thirties is young. Too young to be that successful – since I’m nowhere close yet.)

Apparently, the original owner of De Bier Haus went bankrupt less than a year after building the pub, so Matt bought it at the perfect time – just as it was going under. From there, he’s turned it into the only positive-growth establishment in the area. I don’t know where he came up with the money to buy it, and I don’t know how he turned the business around. But he did. Nowadays, the place is crowded with drinkers and diners.

The pub’s interior looks something like a medieval castle, complete with long wooden tables, stone walls, iron-wrought chandeliers, dripping candles, and a fireplace. The fare is pretty rustic too: lamb shanks, chowder, antipasto platters piled with olives, cheese, meats, mussels, bread. Chilled steins of beer and glasses of wine clutter the tabletops, and there is the drone of conversation and the clink of cutlery.

I stand at the bar, dressed in black. My hair is twisted up into a straw-coloured knot, and I’m wearing eye makeup, for once, that smudges my eyes into a feline shape. I feel out of place, but I try to look natural, smiling at everyone who comes in, and greeting them warmly. Are you in for dinner tonight? Great. Just sit anywhere – I’ll bring over some menus.

Hi there. Just drinks? Sure thing. What would you like? Lake Chalice Pinot… Sorry – was that the Pinot Noir or the Pinot Gris?

Oh, right. The menus. Hi guys, sorry about that. I’m Alieda, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Our special tonight is a pan-fried salmon fillet on fondant potatoes; it comes with a beautiful spring salad. I’ll just leave you with the menu and come back for your drink orders.

I clear some plates at the table next door. How was it guys? Good. Would you like coffee, dessert? Maybe another glass of wine?

One more thing to remember. Port, cheesecake, cappuccino. That wasn’t even my table. I write it down. My notepad becomes quickly ridiculous. I try to keep track of the table numbers, but they aren’t permanently assigned – they’re random. It’s like that in every restaurant, in New Zealand. The Kiwis love to put a random number on a wooden stand; they put it on any table. It confuses me. Why not just number the tables? One less thing to crowd the table, and one less thing for me to write down.

I serve more drinks at the bar. I remember to bring water to my table, try to decipher their accents, bring them the correct wine, and take their meal orders. I remember to punch it into the till, being sure to send the order to the kitchen. More people come in. The Friday night Happy Hour crowd is mostly populated by yuppies in suits, drinking Stella, or ladies grouped together drinking wine. Soon I have three or four tables, then five or six.

I try to juggle everything at once, but I’m not very good at it, at least not yet. I acquire new tables just by making eye contact.

As soon as they see me, some ladies want to order drinks and dinner (who gave them menus? Who do they belong to?), and before I can get to the till (my home-free), this group wants another round (that’s three Stellas, two bourbon & cokes, house Sauv). Darn, that’s the bell – that man’s steak is ready.

I am not very fast at the bar, but pouring beer and wine is easy and I know I’ll get faster. It’s the cocktails that trouble me. Kiwis call ginger ale “bitter” and Sprite “lemonade,” for example – not very helpful. I find the port glasses. I make the cappuccino. Someone orders Sambuka shots.

I hear the bell again, rush over, carry out food, clear more plates. More people wander in for dinner; they sit; I bring them menus. I must remember to come back to them.

No one brings you a check in New Zealand. It’s quite strange actually. When you’re finished your meal, you come to the bar to pay. You can’t just put your credit card on the table – no one would get it. Also, nobody tips a penny: if you pay in cash, you get your change.

I remember when John and I first went out for dinner in New Zealand, we thought that we were being ignored. We sat around waiting for our bill, and we waited and waited, finally getting fed up and marching up to pay very pointedly. When it happened again and again, we realized that, in New Zealand, a printed-out check is just not done; nor is leaving the cash on the table. You don’t even tip at the bar. It’s crazy.

I can understand now why servers sometimes avoid eye contact. They already have so much to remember – they’re probably chanting to themselves, an order, a table number, and if you interrupt them before they can get to the till, they’ll have to make the embarrassing spectacle of heading back to the table to say something like, “I’m sorry – it was medium well steak, right? And you were having the pork belly. Right. Just checking.”

A lot of the time, people order even faster than I can write - which is saying a lot. I'm a fast writer - I've written four years' worth of lecture notes. In that case it's up to me to remember calamari, risotto, mussells, chardonnay, sauv, flat white.

"Are you from New York?" someone asks me. 

"No," I say truthfully, and smile, and keep walking.

Sometimes people order food at the bar, to my immense relief. It makes things much easier. Food and drinks ordered all at once, while I’m standing at the till – no room for error. Then I make the drinks, and I know the food’s already on the way, and already paid for. The only issue is making a spectacle of myself, like a person learning how to type – one finger trained above the till, looking for the right button.

“First night?” they ask.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “How can you tell?”

It’s the walking that does me in. When tables are ordering from their seats, I have to write it down, walk back and forth, and it seems like every step holds the possibility for a distraction or an error. I’m bound to see something that needs doing, and someone’s bound to want something.

So far, I’ve been lucky. I haven’t forgotten any tables, and although I have made mistakes, none of them were very noticeable. My biggest issue is definitely the accents. I can imitate a Kiwi accent easily, but understanding one, in a loud room, is another matter. I don’t have the heart to tell the customers that I can’t understand half of what they just said. I just phonetically write down what I think I hear, and then check it against the menu.

Sometimes they ask me questions I can’t answer: Does the lamb shank come with gravy? So I have to level with them. Sorry, I’m not sure – it’s my first night? But I can ask. I’ll just be right back.

Once I had a guy come up to the bar while I was in the middle of a nervous attempt to punch in a table’s orders (five lamb shanks, one pork burger, a bottle of wine, some beer). I looked up and he just started firing away drink orders. He got as far as a Stella, two Pyos, a Roan Mig Marlow, a Buhbin Bitta, a Mick Kinna – I had to stop him. I’d found the Stella button, but had forgotten the rest of what he’d said. Pyos? Roan Mig? What did that mean?

He wasn’t saying Pyo, it turns out, but Pure, which meant Steinlager Pure – a Kiwi beer, don’t worry about it. I found the bottles behind me in the fridge. The Roan Mig, I deduced, was the Roaring Meg Merlot. And the McKenna is a pre-mixed bourbon-and-cola. You’d never see something like that in a pub in Canada, I don’t think. Buhbin Bitta – bourbon bitter – bitter meant ginger ale. Golly.

The man was completely affronted. He must have thought I was an idiot – he had to repeat his order three times before I understood him. I explained that I was new, didn’t know the till, but the truth is I just didn’t know the lingo, and couldn’t understand his accent.

After my shift, I take my free glass of wine into a corner and read Truman Capote, alone. The restaurant is just warming up - there is hardly a seat anywhere. I notice that there is a storm outside. The rain is immense: a halo of water is bouncing off the tables, lights, and street. At one point there is a clap of lightning like flash photography, making everyone pause and look out. I feel relieved that I remembered an umbrella.

This morning, Saturday, John left for Wellington. He'll be working there at least a month. It's the longest I'll have been parted from him in five years - the longest I've been alone too. I already feel his absence: his empty bed has been made up for the next guest. He won't be there when I get home from work tonight. It will be strange to cook alone, eat alone, sleep alone.

But it's Saturday, and it's time for work. De Bier Haus is going  to keep me busy tonight.

Kiwifruit and Other Jobs

There is not much to say about working in the packhouse.

Like the wine bottling factory in Blenheim, the kiwifruit packhouse is essentially a steel building, full of backpackers and the din of machinery. My job (along with maybe thirty others) was to stand beside a conveyor belt which emptied fruit into a box. I didn't even have to count the fruit: the machine did it for me. All I had to do was close the box.

John's job was more difficult, and involved stickering the boxes and loading them onto a pallet.

We worked from 7:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m. - thirteen hours - unless it rained, when there would be no picking going on, and hence no work for us either.

We ended up with a weekday off (thanks to the weather), so we headed into town, where I printed off ten resumes and went door-to-door looking for work. I mostly tried restaurants, but also the local movie theatre (you never know).

After three shifts in the packhouse, I got my first call - Starbucks.

Days later, I'd had four or five phone calls and as many interviews. I was offered 20 hours a week in a kitchen, or 20 hours a week bar-tending and serving at a pub (the hours were the same, so I couldn't do both). Surprisingly, the movie theater called too. I am heading out to an interview this afternoon.

Annoyingly, everyone wants me to "trial" before hiring me, which is basically like a job tryout where I work for free. The kitchen has "trialed" me and has decided to start paying me, but the pub wants to "try" me on Saturday. I'm beginning to feel a little anxious - like I'm juggling, and trying not to drop anything. The kitchen will want me to work on Saturday too, and I'll have to make some excuse.

John has decided to head down to Wellington for about a month while I stay here and work. That way, we can make the optimum use of our time, and save up funds for our last adventure in the South Pacific - in the Cook Islands, in August.

At the moment, I am about to watch the final hockey game of the season, streaming live on the internet. The Bruins have already scored the first goal.

The game is now, the cinema interview is later, and my first paid kitchen shift is tonight. Tomorrow is the last day of work at the packhouse, and Saturday I am essentially double-booked, but will try to win hearts at the pub (I think pouring beer would be a fun job for my last few months).

We have less than eight weeks left in New Zealand.

Penniless in Tauranga

After picking up our luggage, we passed through customs in Auckland a little before 2:00 a.m.

Surprisingly, they let us keep the salt, rice, and cooking oil we’d bought in Tonga. Our passports were stamped yet again.

Next, we searched for somewhere to rest – finally settling on a booth upstairs, near the fast-food chains. 

Beside us, an older couple drank cups of coffee and watched us, suspiciously, from the corners of their eyes. I think I fell asleep sometime after 4:00, feeling a little paranoid about our unwatched valuables.

Two hours later, I woke up (a little disoriented) to the alarm. Our bus to Tauranga would depart in half an hour. Groggily, we carried our things downstairs, through the bright and chaotic airport. Everyone seemed to rush toward us, and we wheeled our trolley through the crowd, like a shield.

It was cold outside, and suddenly quiet. The dawn was just a distant light beyond the eastern mountains and we could see our breath, clouds of vapour escaping as we talked in low voices.

It was four hours to Tauranga, and we had barely eaten or slept. The bus did make one rest stop, at a café that served premade sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, watery coffee, processed hashbrown patties, pre-cooked mystery sausages, runny eggs, and toasted white bread.

Starving, we settled for meat pies, and then felt sick all day.

By the time we pulled into Tauranga, we were exhausted. We hiked our packs a few blocks, and then caught a city bus to our chosen hostel: “Just the Ducks Nuts.” (The logo entails a cartoon duck looking down his shorts with an expression of bewildered delight.)

We rang the bell, and were admitted by Ken, the owner, and his utterly beautiful little girl, who ran up to introduce herself as Tai-Li and announce that she was two. I congratulated her on both counts, and she proudly showed me her kiwifruit, which she ate in dramatic bites before it fell off her fork.

Ken recommended that we sign up for work at all of the employment agencies in town, and he marked them on a map for us. He said that he’d do his best to find us orchard or pack-house work in the meantime.

So, without food, rest, or even showers, we dropped our packs and walked back into town.

We managed to hit all five of the agencies (and even a pet store and an Asian market) before finally stumbling through Pak-n-Save for some much-needed groceries. We spent a small fortune on meat and cheese, eggs, bread, vegetables, fruit, noodles, spices, and soap.

By the time we made it back to the hostel, it was after 6:00 p.m. We hadn’t slept in two days, and we had spent most of the past few hours walking around in an unfamiliar town. Strangely, we seemed to gain energy as the dusk thickened. We met some of the other guests – many of them from Korea, Malaysia, and Taiwan – who were having a little party.

The other guests were very refreshing to me. They were polite, very generous, kind, and funny. A few of the boys built a cozy fire, and the kitchen filled with the delicious, and slightly unfamiliar, smells of Asian cooking.

Finally, the two of us showered and ate.

A full belly, a crackling fire, my hair drying after a hot shower – it was time for bed. I heard the familiar tune of “happy birthday” sung in a mixture of foreign languages, and felt happy.

The next day, at 7:00 a.m., we had an appointment to sign up for work at the local fish factory. Once more, we made the half-hour walk into town. The induction lasted all morning, and it was past noon by the time we’d had the necessary interviews, filled out the hours of paperwork, and listened to the important safety talks.

I didn't relish the thought of gutting fish for a living, but I was feeling a little desperate.

We hadn’t had breakfast, so we were suckers for a $12 Chinese food buffet we happened to walk past – especially after the succulent meal we’d missed out on the night before. We agreed to go in with hardly a word passing between us, and joyfully indulged ourselves in sushi, spring rolls, salads, noodles, rice, soup, pork, and saucy vegetable dishes. When we were so full we couldn’t finish our plates, we had coffee and dessert. We had been eating for more than an hour.

$24 poorer but content with life, we walked belly-out into an internet café to look for jobs. We ended up chatting with John’s mom on Skype, and decide to print out resumes for walkups the next day. On the downtown waterfront, there are dozens of bars and restaurants, so we planned to look for kitchen work.

As it turned out, though, Ken had found us a few days’ work in a kiwifruit pack-house. The season was 90% finished, so it would only be temporary – but it was still work, and we were in desperate need of it. We’d start in the morning – and Ju, our new Korean friend, offered to drive us.

With the kitchen once more full of friendly voices and good smells, with an income on the horizon, with the fire glowing and a new book to read, I felt utterly at home, welcomed and safe.

I felt that I was going to like living here for the winter.

Goodbye to Drinking Coconuts

At the bus station in Nuku’Alofa, you can buy a coconut from a street vendor for $1.

He’ll bring one out of his cooler, dripping with melted ice, and with a quick movement, cut a hole in the top and insert a straw. The coconut milk is cold and refreshing, thirst-quenching and a little sweet.

The man also sells cheap snacks, like peanuts (a local crop), and packages of raman noodles – which the locals crush up and eat raw, like we used to as children.

We happened to witness an important event in Tonga’s history: on Tuesday, the first-ever session of Parliament opened. This was the beginning of a new government in what had been, until now, a basic monarchy advised (but not necessarily influenced) by village chiefs.

To celebrate the country’s first democratic process, all of the citizens decked out in traditional garb. There were parades and costumes, music and dancing, food and drink. Throngs of people crowded the streets.

Needless to say, the bus station was packed, and since Tonga only runs eight busses, we’d have to wait for quite awhile. We stood in the sun with our bags of vegetables, and drank the sweet water of green coconuts.

Luckily, by a happy accident, we met up with Carolina, Sven’s wife, on her way from the fish market, and she offered to drive us back to the resort.

The groceries were to last us for the remainder of the week. Our diets had become very simple - fruit, bread, vegetables, rice, meat, and rainwater. We prepared our food in all of the various ways we could think of using a hot plate, oil, salt, and herbs.

Our time in Tonga seemed to slip away. We did some gardening, cleaned up the beach, and built a shelter in our last days before it began to rain. I managed to speak to my family on Skype, for the first time in months. I felt that my return home was around the corner, and at the same time, I began to dread returning to New 

Zealand. I did not relish the thought of lasting out the winter months, pruning orchards or working in a factory for minimum wage.

Too soon, unfortunately, our last day in Tonga was upon us.

The dawn was pale and overcast; and then the sun came out, as if to wish us well. 

Of course, we spent the day at the beach, snorkeling and laying in the sun, reading aloud to each other and enjoying the heat. We ate lunch as late as we could.

In the afternoon, when the shadows grew long on the grass, we took the bicycles for a ride to the next village.

I wove awkwardly around potholes (my bike tended to lean to the right – like a stubborn grocery cart), and as I passed the small tin-roofed dwellings, I noticed the gardens full of medicinal plants; in the yards I saw abandoned cars rusting to soil, and here and there, crumbling foundations of houses , which the jungle was slowly reclaiming. Everywhere, there were plantations of taro and tapioca, pigs, dogs, children; and colourful laundry lines in the spaces in between. Giant fruit bats began to take flight as the shadows grew cool under the mango trees.

It was the hour before dinner, when children are free from chores and have nothing but games until dark. They called out to us as we passed: “Bye!” Sometimes running toward the road in packs, as though watching a spectacle. They yelled to us from across yards, interrupting village soccer games, called out from porch stairs and from weelbarrows, every child and many aduts called to us (perhaps the only English word they knew):  “Bye!”

The peace of the evening was prevalent. From the open windows of churches, we heard congregations of many voices blending in harmony, drifting over the road. The bells rang out for the Monday evening service, and in the background, we could hear the distant, rythmic sound of women beating tree roots, slowly making tapa cloth from the fibers.  

We arrived home in time to watch the sunset.

For dinner, I made chicken soup from scratch (amazing what you can do with chicken bones and water, salt, a handful of pasta, half a carrot and some beans). John pronounced it to be the best chicken noodle soup he’d ever eaten, and I was surprised myself. Considering that I had literally thrown all of our remaining food into a pot, it actually turned out well.

Well, not all of our food: we also had a single cucumber, which we cut up, and left in tuperware in the fridge, for a snack.

Outside, the colours left the world as darkness crept into the corners.

As I surveyed the situation, I realized that, for the first time in my life, I was heading towards relatively dangerous waters.

We were totally out of supplies and short on money. We had no jobs, and for that matter, almost no prospects. Not only did we have no food at all – besides the cucumber – we had no soap or toothpaste either.

What we did have was a flight to Auckland – which would leave at midnight – and $20 Tongan in cash.  We had enough money left in the bank to pay for bus tickets, and a week’s accommodation (maybe two) and some basic groceries. With this in mind, we put our ears to the ground, listening for whispers of work. We decided on Tauranga, in the Bay of Plenty – we’d have to take a leap of faith and try our luck, hoping for immediate work.

On the plus side, Carolina offered us a ride to the airport, so we wouldn’t have to spend any money on a cab. 

We had to spend the $20 somewhere, though, so we decided to spend our last hour in Tonga having a beer and uploading our photos.

Sven wanted to thank us for all of our work, so he brought over two slices of cake and insisted that we didn’t owe him a thing – not even for the beer.

We paid him anyway.

We were sad to leave. We had both fallen in love with Tonga – but an income couldn’t wait.

So we boarded our flight at midnight, back to New Zealand.

It was only when we felt hungry that we remembered we’d left the cucumber – and the tuperware – in the fridge.

After nine months, we were becoming forgetful; things were getting lost. I had left my jeans and touque in Wellington; John had also left his shorts and fishing rod behind. It was a worrysome trend, especially considering that we didn’t own much.

However, things began to fall into place, in the end – as you will see.