Breadfruit and Market Day

Under the tropical sun, lying in the shade of palm trees on a stretch of pristine beach, every care and worry melted away. In the blink of an eye, a week had passed; the days spent bumming around on the beach, swimming; or reading and drinking tea on cloudy days.

Saturday dawned sunny, complete with a chorus of roosters.  It was Market Day, and we’d set an (unnecessary) alarm for 8:00 a.m., determined to get to town early and score some premium produce.

In Rarotonga, there is one main road that circumvents the island, and two busses, a clockwise and an anticlockwise. They pass every half-hour, and are much different from the busses in Nuku’Alofa: these are large, clean, and full of tourists. In fact, whereas in Tonga I’d felt out of place, I believe that here I’m in the majority: there are more tourists than locals in the Cook Islands, from what I can tell.

The bus was even more crowded than usual: all the seats were taken, and we had to stand. John and I were referred to as “Backpackers” in stage-whispers as we got on the bus.

We didn’t really fit in with the crowd. Everyone else was very pink, soft, and late-middle-aged; the ladies wore trimmed hats and deck shoes. I have a distinct impression of close-curled hair, frosted gray, and glasses; a rather pinched-looking, birdlike face, with skin connecting chin to neck, and wobbly arms. The men wore polo shirts, if not something louder, with cameras and baseball caps, big bellies and skinny legs. They yelled across the bus to each other, jovially, taking the piss; the women complained in a delighted way about the roosters, being hungry and the distance to town. Most were from New Zealand, but some were also from Australia.

The good part about standing for the bus ride is that you get to exit first. We stepped down into the market: colourful chaos, music, and crowds of even more tourists.

The market was much larger than we’d anticipated, and musicians on a central stage blasted tropical-sounding music: dance-worthy, African-like drumbeats, and ukuleles played side-by-side. Polynesian dancers performed in costume, the women in coconut bras and grass skirts, with fans of feathers belted to their behinds, accentuating their curves and the swing of their hips.

We loaded up on everything we could find: lettuces, tomatoes, capsicums, sprouts, and cucumbers (apparently we’d be eating salad), fresh-baked artisan breads, taro, and breadfruit – a starchy, tree-growing fruit that is prepared very much like a potato, and even tastes a little like one. We hadn’t had breakfast, so walking through all the food stalls was masochistic torture. The barbequed satay smelled delicious, but in the end, we splurged on banana crepes. John also couldn’t resist an awesome silkscreened T-shirt (once you see it, you’ll know why).

Finally, we wandered through all the craft stalls – weavings, carvings, paintings, and more – where we picked up a few inexpensive gifts to bring home to our families. I wished I had all the money in the world to buy some of the amazing masks, artworks, bone carvings, black pearls, perfumes, and fabrics that cluttered the stalls.

I did treat myself to a gorgeous pueru (sarong), vegetable-dyed and hand-embroidered. I knew that the beet-coloured dye would rinse out, so to keep the rich colour, I couldn’t wash it very often. It is my favourite souvenir.

Back at the backpacker’s, John whipped up some breadfruit chips and declared himself a genius. I couldn’t blame him: they were outstanding, crispy on the outside but creamy-soft on the inside. It’s John’s new favourite food (way better than potatoes, he says). It’s better, we think, than arrowroot, taro, or even kumara. It’s too bad that they don’t sell it back home.  

Two Litres of Vodka in Rarotonga

It was dark when the plane finally touched down. The flight attendants rolled staircases up to the airplane doors, and I felt a little like a movie star as I stepped down, into Polynesia. The warm night air enveloped me in a familiar fragrance and humidity; palm trees were just visible against the sky.

There was a man in a Hawaiian shirt on a little stage near the baggage pick-up, singing and playing ukulele. I snapped a photograph and he winked and smiled at me. Many tourists were lavished with fresh leis, so the air was thick with the scent of flowers. However, since we were staying at a backpacker’s hostel, there were no leis for me. I looked on with undisguised envy.

Customs was a breeze. A kind Maori man made a preliminary search of our food, but none of it seemed to interest him; he was far more concerned about why we might have brought a sheepskin, of all things, to the tropics. He felt the wool for some time, clearly fascinated. We explained that it was a souvenir from New Zealand, but he was not quite convinced. He had apparently never seen anything like it, and shook his head before letting us pass.

Each of us carried an enormous backpack weighing 23 kilograms and a cloth bag containing 7 kilograms of food. John also carried two litres of vodka in a duty-free bag. The vodka had been a bargain: a single bottle was $30, but if you bought two, it cost $45. We went back and forth about the vodka for ages, but in the end, I left the decision up to John. Hence the two bottles.

We were chatty and wide-awake with excitement as we drove to the hostel, pointing out as much as we could of the scenery at night. Then, with a crunch of gravel, we finally arrived at what would be our home for the next three weeks – the last backpacker’s hostel that we’d stay at for a long time.

Backpackers International is a simple hostel, to say the least. There are shared toilets and showers, a shared kitchen, and perhaps fifty beds altogether. There is no lounge or television, but there is a large patio furnished with picnic tables, which serves as a common area and meeting place. The kitchen is simply outfitted, with several gas hotplates and two sinks, plus basic cookware. Most of the pots have lost their handles and lids, and resemble cauldrons more than anything. I was a little disappointed that there was no oven (roast vegetables being my staple food), but we’d have to make do.

Our double room is nothing more than a cube of whitewashed brick, with a white tile floor, a shelf, and a mosquito-net, overlooking the tangled plantation in the back (not to mention a pile of rotten boards and a disintegrating truck). The mattress is threadbare; it’s actually painful to lie on. But there were clean sheets when we arrived, and we dropped our heavy bags with relief.

After a quick, cool shower to rinse off the grime of traveling, I was brushing my teeth when I noticed that we’d be sharing the bathrooms with more than just other backpackers: a train of sugar ants paraded up and down the mirror; several geckos clung to the corners; there were cobwebs everywhere, and a large dead moth lay upside-down on the counter.

Ah, the tropics.

We stretched out in our white room and prepared to drop off to a relaxing sleep, lulled by the beat of the ocean and the hum of insects.

Alas, we were not so lucky.

*                      *                      *                     

It began with a sound like a screaming wind, far away in the mountains – a siren of some kind. The sound rose and seemed to relay closer, many voices rising together, one after another, like an echo, or as if something was travelling toward us at great speed.

It was only when the plantation roosters began to crow underneath our window that I fully realized what it was.

Chickens. 

Hundreds of them.

The roosters engaged in a highly political competition all night. It was a game with their honor at stake. One voice was a challenge to all others; to be silent was to admit defeat. There could be no sleep for any of them: each had to stake out his territory, show his pride, and scream for victory. A moment of silence was a moment of opportunity. Sometimes the dogs would take up the call, and the night would become a relentless barnyard orchestra.

There could be no sleep for any of us. On the edge of drifting off, I’d be pulled back by another chorus, and one rooster in particular, who stood under our open-air window, crowing with all of his strength, would jerk me awake again and again.

The blasted chickens continued throughout the night, beyond the dawn, and then through the morning as well. At some point I drifted fitfully asleep, dreaming of trapping the birds and roasting them for dinner. Free range chicken at its finest – vegetarianism (and lack of an oven) be damned.

            *                      *                      *                      *

At breakfast, we rubbed our eyes in a dissatisfied way, and helped ourselves to the sweet green bananas and the papayas that lay heaped on the kitchen table. Tomorrow we’d go to town for eggs and bread and other necessities, but today was a beach day.

I put on my bikini and a sundress and packed my day bag. The heat seemed to roll over me, dampening my hair, radiating from my armpits. Beads of sweat were already forming in the hollow between my breasts, and my clothing seemed uncomfortably close.

The beach was a short walk down a sunny boulevard. The lush volcanic mountains loomed behind us, craggy and jagged against the sky.

The mountains in Rarotonga are, honestly, spectacular. They rise to 650 meters in crumpled ridges toward the center of the island, at some points rising like mossy crocodiles’ teeth, and at others, crumbling into rock faces. White birds fly in the distant heights. John and I will certainly climb them while we’re here.

We passed a decrepit cemetery, overgrown with weeds; and I was pleased to recognize many of the same trees that we saw in Tonga: papaya, coconut, mango, banana, and breadfruit, as well as hibiscus flowers and many others.

Straight ahead we could see the ocean: a shining, luminescent turquoise. Far away, the waves rolled into the reef, the whiteness of the crash so bright that it dazzled my eyes.

The sand was almost as bright in the sunlight. We chose a spot, spread out a towel, and stripped down, abandoning self-consciousness and charging for the water.

Against our hot skin, the water seemed shockingly cold at first. However, once we’d dipped a few times, we realized that it was actually the temperature of a comfortable swimming pool. In fact, I believed instantly that swimming pools everywhere were designed to replicate this: crystal clear, calming blue, and pleasantly cool, with webs of light reflecting through the water.  We waded in the soft sand before the reef began, and our bodies were very buoyant. We swam easily in lazy laps up and down the beach, played and laughed, and eventually, I lay on my back and floated with my ears in the water and my eyes closed, my senses filled with the memory of refracted sunlight, bouncing off the baby blue waves.

When I felt cool enough, I walked out of the water and lay on the towel, the beads of saltwater standing on my skin. I opened my book, a nice, fat fantasy novel: the first book in a popular series with devoted fans. So far, a wizard had shown up to let the protagonist know that, far from being a farm boy, he was actually the heir to a kingdom, and the prophesized one who would rid the world of a dark sorcerer. The wizard disappears mysteriously and the protagonist and his brother take off just in time to escape from creatures of darkness.

I read a little more, but after a few paragraphs I realized that I would never finish it. The writing was terrible, clumsy and forced, full of clichés and unnecessary adverbs. I didn’t feel too bad about giving up, though. After reading the number of trashy fantasy novels that I have, I could probably guess the plot, anyway.

It felt wonderful to be back in the sunlight. Since I was a child I’ve loved sunbathing, especially after swimming. The water tickles as it dries on my skin, and the sun warms me up like I’m a lizard on a hot rock. 

Soon I felt sleepy, and I shook myself awake, wisely slapping another coat of sunscreen on every exposed surface, so I wouldn’t become one of those sun-blistered tourists on my first day.

When the day began to cool, we wandered back to the hostel to make pasta. John remembered to put one of the vodka bottles in the fridge so it would be cold when we wanted a drink. We made friends with some of the other backpackers, a vast majority of whom were from England.

It turned out that some of the girls were just finishing their practicum and were working at the hospital. After a month, they’d go back to England to study in residence. They all seemed too young to be doctors, but I concluded that they must just be very clever. Later I did the math and realized that a person could be a doctor in residence at 25. I was just getting old.

The other travelers were from Europe or England, and most were on a round-the-world trip. All of them acted very wise and pretentious, claiming to have discovered themselves and everything that matters in life while traveling, and lamenting the fact that their friends back home lived sheltered lives with narrow worldviews. They bragged about yachting, scuba diving, Egypt and the Galapagos. Many of them had been to India and Thailand and had had spiritual awakenings. Others had seen poverty in South America. Still others were island hopping from Tahiti to New Caledonia, and had experienced their epiphanies because of the simplicity of island life.

Privately, I assumed that, like all the backpackers I’d met, these teenagers were from privileged backgrounds, almost never spoke to locals, and were just as likely to get wasted as anything else. They believed that world travel had opened their eyes, and maybe it had, but they were still just tourists, speeding through eight or ten countries in a matter of months. Then they’d head home, to their lives and jobs and families, just like I would. Still, they patronized their peers and even their parents, whether they had been to university or had settled down to work, calling these people small-minded. It seemed preposterous to me, although I can’t quite articulate why.

Lying in bed that night, I wished for earplugs. The cockerels seemed to taunt me as I tossed.

Hello, Goodbye

I spent my last De Bier Haus night at Alley’s.

She threw a midnight dinner party that Sunday, and everyone dressed up. All the girls wore dresses and brought desserts, and all the guys brought savory. Everyone brought a bottle. (My contribution was, admittedly, pretty lame). Aaron and Ryan mixed cocktails, while the rest of us sampled everything from cheeseburgers to cheesecake. We played Drinking Jenga, and within hours, the couches were pushed to the walls to make room for dancing. (Within hours of that, blankets and pillows were laid down for an epic slumber party. Everyone slept fairly comfortably, considering.)

We went out for sushi the next day and spent a little time playing in the park. Then, after a much-needed nap, my next concentrated effort was killing time until Wednesday, when John would arrive.

I kept myself as busy as I could: doing the predictable things, namely, reading a trashy sci-fi novel and watching even trashier television. At night I’d count down to myself: two sleeps left. Not tomorrow but the next day. Finally: tomorrow. Twenty-four hours. Eight hours!

I spent Wednesday mostly shopping. After lunch, I took the bus to the Pak-N-Save, and filled a cart with fruit and vegetables, pasta, cheese, beans, tortillas, soup – enough for three days. Then I went home, put everything away, and started to bake bread. I measured the water and the sugar, added the yeast, and waited for it to bubble; then added flour and salt. When the dough was formed, I pushed it against the floured countertop, concentrating on the music playing, allowing the rhythmic motion to calm me.

While I waited for the dough to rise, I made a pasta casserole ready for John’s arrival. After nine hours on a bus, I knew he’d be hungry.

Almost before I knew it, the clock read twenty past seven, and I started my walk to town to meet him.

On a normal day, it took me half an hour to walk to town. Today, though, I was there in fifteen minutes (although I wasn’t consciously rushing). With more than fifteen minutes to wait, I decided I had time to pick up my glasses from work.

I couldn’t help myself from half-running back to the bus station.

I saw the Intercity bus pull away from the curb, and after it had passed, it revealed a familiar figure watching for me in the wrong direction.

I ran full-stop toward him, across the street. He heard my footsteps approaching and turned. A foot away I almost hesitated, but then threw myself in his arms and breathed in deep.

It was the best hello I’d ever had.

We took a taxi home, not allowing the air to separate us, putting aside John’s bags and the flowers he’d brought me. We ignored the driver completely, but tipped him well when we arrived at home.

After two months’ separation pining for each other, it is no surprise that we spent the next three days in bed. With difficulty I convinced John to come upstairs and eat – he followed close on my heels, and kissed me in the kitchen.

Unfortunately, we did have some practical matters to take care of. We had to pack, for one thing: we would leave for Rarotonga the very next day. We also had shopping to do (we planned to take as much food as we could), and a million little errands -  library books to take back, film to develop.

Donelle called, and it was hard to say goodbye to her. Meeting her and her family, spending time in Ward and hearing the stories of her life, these were some of the highlights of the trip for me. New Zealand would have been a very different place without Dee, and I am so grateful for her time and love.

I stopped by De Bier Haus to say a final farewell to my co-workers. I would miss them all too, I realized, but I was also so looking forward to the next leg of my adventure. I was anxious to be home, and I was ready to be back in Polynesia.

So, with an early day in front of us, packed and ready, we went to bed for the last time in New Zealand.

We rose with the sunrise. On the kitchen counter we found two tumblers of rum and a note: “Happy travels and take care. To start your trip off right, drink in one. Andy.”

We eyed the alcohol without much enthusiasm, and finally downed our glasses after our cornflakes, shuddering a little. Straight rum at 7 a.m.? I hoped I would not regret it on the bus.

Our journey was underway without a hitch, though. We hadn’t forgotten anything, the bus was on time, and, miracle of miracles, when we arrived at the airport, it turned out that our luggage was exactly the right weight. If we had brought just one more can of vegetables, we’d have been done for.

John was so excited to be going. He curled up in his seat with a movie and a grin, rubbing his hands together with mirth and anticipation.

As the jet engines propelled us away from New Zealand, I felt ready for the next page of my adventure.

Breadmaking and Other Mysteries

Since John has been away, one thought has kept me appreciably distracted from the whole situation – missing him; the molasses-drip of time. Sure, I’ve been planning for the Cook Islands, dreaming about going home, working, socializing, watching films, devouring books, and obsessively checking Facebook – but besides all that, John has also put a bug in my ear that’s been whispering exciting and far-fetched ideas for weeks.

It all started with our friend Russ, a Political Science major who is due to get married next month, and who’s apparently starting to ask some important, penetrating and worrisome questions. What he proposed to us was this:

Given that the world’s economy, at this stage, is entirely dependent on an infinite supply of cheap petroleum; and granted that this supply is actually neither cheap, nor infinite (it’s getting more and more expensive – and it’s expected to disappear within the next few decades); perhaps the world economy is due for a major collapse in the foreseeable future. Maybe, he suggested, we shouldn’t be quite so dependent on the world economy, if we hope to save our own skins.

Supermarkets, he argued, carry a three-day food supply: if their shelves aren’t replenished by then, they run out of food. Having seen the empty supermarkets in the South Island following the earthquake in Christchurch, I believe him. After the earthquake hit, people started to panic, buying more than they needed, stocking up on anything that was hard to get.

It doesn’t take much to tip the scales. In one day, the bread isle was completely empty, and entire shelves of canned goods were missing, like a Jack-O-Lantern’s teeth. The next day, most of the vegetables had been cleaned out, too.

I did some research of my own, and found that Russ may be right. Scientists and researchers at top universities in fields as diverse as economics, sociology, environmentalism, and future studies have been saying the same thing for years: this system will inevitably collapse. And, far from having any kind of game plan, those at the top seem to be merely attempting to portray a public persona of concern, while urgently reaping whatever profits they can, while they still can.

Because of the decline of cheap petrolium, food prices are expected to increase by more than half in the next decade. This means that, by the time my generation is busy caring for young families of their own, we will need to work harder and earn more money just to get by. On the other hand (and this should concern us), somehow earning more income in an economy that is rapidly declining may not be a viable option.

So what can be done?

For himself, Russ plans to buy land, and grow his own food – to become self-sufficient, if possible. He wondered if John and I would consider pitching in with him and Colleen on a hundred-acre farm and embarking on (I imagine) the kind of homesteading project that I read about in The 100 Mile Diet and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.

I have to point out that all of our high school friends had been half-joking about this kind of thing for years. If the world ever ended, we said, we’d all get together and farm some land, can tomatoes and make soap. We’d make The Commune. We’d survive.

But Russ, of course, was no longer joking.

Even though John and I are in no position to buy property, and although none of us has ever farmed a day in our lives, we all felt the adventure that such a project would entail.

I can’t help but also feel that it’s got the potential for disaster.

Still, John has started to send me retail listings for properties all over BC, alongside the Craigslist ads for apartment rentals in Victoria. And even though we were both doubtful, we also looked longingly at the sunny cottages, farmhouses, fields of hay, orchards, and greenhouses, noticing things like water and electricity supply, total arable acreage, latitude, and the distance to the nearest town.

Granted, any house out there would be isolated. On the plus side, we could potentially purchase a house and quite a few acres, for a fraction of the cost of a house in Victoria.

Even though this kind of thing is probably out of our reach at the moment, it got rekindled a lifelong dream of mine: an orchard, a kitchen garden, flowers, chickens, and a bee hive. Maybe I could grow peppers and lemons in a greenhouse. I’d bake bread, can vegetables, make pies and soup, and maybe even make my own cheese and butter. It would be hard work, but if I had time off, I could spend it with my dog, taking long walks in the country; or spend it in my library, reading near the fire. I could paint landscapes and portraits, throw clay pots, and at the end of the day, I’d curl up with my husband feeling utterly content.

Sigh.

Am I getting clucky, or what.

Screw this doomsday talk – I want my farmhouse for its own sake.

Speaking of which, I attained one of my New Year’s resolutions today: I learned to bake bread. All I needed was flour, water, yeast, sugar, and salt. I served it up, buttered hot from the oven, with a bowl of homemade cream of cauliflower-broccoli soup.

Midnight dinner for one!

Here is a recipe for what I did:

Traditional Hearth Bread

2 cups body-temperature water                                                  

5-6 cups whole-wheat, spelt, or all-purpose flour
1 tbsp sugar, or a mix of honey and brown sugar                                

½ tsp salt
1 tbsp active dry yeast                                                                    

1-2 tbsp oil

Pour the water into a bowl; add the sugar and make sure it dissolves. Sprinkle the yeast on top. Let it sit for 10 minutes, until bubbles appear.

Stir a cup of flour into the water before adding a pinch of salt. Stir the rest of the flour, a little at a time. Use your hands until it looks like dough, and then start kneading on a floured surface. Knead for at least five minutes; when it’s smooth and elastic, you’re finished. Form it into a ball, coat it with oil, cover and stash it in a warm place to rise, until it doubles in size. (This should take about an hour.)

Punch it down and knead it again; then place in a greased loaf pan. Cover with a towel and let rise again (about half an hour). Preheat the oven to 400 F.

For crusty bread, put a roasting rack in the bottom while you preheat the oven; when ready, carefully pour a cup of water into the pan. Steaming the dough before baking produces the famous crust.

Bake for 35-45 minutes.

The View is Worth It

Tauranga is situated on a network of inlets and channels that snake in all directions: when you’re here, you’re near the ocean, no matter which side of town you’re on. Vast stretches of mud run underneath the bridges at low tide, and fishing boats huddle together in the deeper pools.

Mount Mangenui stands across the narrow water, dominating the view. It’s a volcano, and emerges from the flat surroundings, impossibly lush and green, like a child’s drawing of a mountain, with the snow part cut off. A thriving town known locally as The Mount clusters in its shadow.

Naturally, with a volcano on the horizon, I had no other impulse than to climb to its summit and look around.

After six weeks living in Tauranga, my opportunity finally came disguised as a shopping trip.

One afternoon, Bridgette, the sous chef, came over and sat down at the bar. She looked different with her hair down, without the white chef uniform. She’s quite a beautiful girl, to tell you the truth. I plunked a Cherry Coke down in front of her, and she and Alley began to make plans for their day off.

The conversation quickly turned to Alley’s recent discovery: the fact that, in New Zealand, I don’t own a hair dryer, curling iron, or make-up; don’t have high heels or stockings, nail polish or a cocktail dress – not even a bra with an underwire.

After expressing incredulity that I would voluntarily live without such necessities, Alley had a moment of inspiration.

Thus, the shopping trip officially came into being.

*                             *                             *                             *                             *

Alley and I work closely together. She’s such an easygoing, positive person, full of energy and conversation, that it’s easy to pass a day at work with her. She has a bit of a femme fatal look about her, with her dark hair, dark eyeliner, and signature red lipstick – but she’s way too sweet to be dangerous.

As it turned out though, Alley wasn’t feeling well the next morning. Bridgette texted me and offered to pick me up anyway. We weren’t necessarily going to buy anything, but we wanted to look around, and maybe have lunch.

Waiting for Bridgette to arrive, I had a moment of nerves, worried about hanging out with someone new. What would we even talk about? Since Bridgette and I work in different spheres, I hadn’t had much opportunity to get to know her.

Of course, I had a blast. I felt at ease around her right away, and soon we were chatting and laughing like we’d done it a hundred times before.

The day was sunny and warm. Magnolia trees were opening their tulip flowers, and orange butterflies were dancing in the long grass. We drove toward The Mount, and I watched the volcano as it spun toward us, drawing us inward on bridges like the spokes of a wheel.

We ended up at a shopping center called Bayfair. (The exact marriage of Bay Center and Mayfair – at last!) We had Indian for lunch, and wandered from shop to shop, trying on clothes until we grew bored. Knowing I couldn’t actually afford a single stitch of clothing took some of the fun out of it for me, and I think Bridgette could tell that my head wasn’t really in the game.

“So what do you want to do now?” she asked, as we finished lunch.

“Um,” I said.

“Hey!” she said. “Want to go up the Mount?”

“Yes!” I said. “Yes I do!”

That I could afford.

So we jumped in her car and drove toward the hulk in the distance, along ocean-view boulevards, past tall apartment buildings and expensive-looking chalets, until we came upon a gorgeous stretch of beach and the foot of the mountain.

On our way to the top, we were stopped by a bug-eyed man wearing a bike helmet, who warned us about the imminent doom of humankind: the nuclear meltdown brewing in America.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I told him and we made our exit.

The trail leading to the top was virtually one immense staircase – a little like the Aztec pyramids, only taller and more intense. The stairs, although helpful, appeared to have been built for people with enormously long legs and tiny feet, and zigzagged to the top without remorse. We hoofed up, Bridgette leading the way easily.

“Come on,” she encouraged me. “The view is worth it.”

I stopped to take pictures of sheep grazing in terraced meadows, and impossibly cluttered boulders that seemed to boil up out of the tall grass, like tombstones. They cast long shadows in the winter sun.

Sometimes I took pictures just for an excuse to rest.

Finally, we crested the summit, the trees giving way to a stunning view. I felt triumphant (and winded) as we followed the trail from one lovely vista to the next. By the time the trail bent downhill again, I had regained my breath and felt ready to go up again.

Or, I at least felt ready for some water.

                *                             *                             *                             *                             *

The following week, I received another text from Bridgette, inviting me on another hike. She’d mentioned a waterfall on the outskirts of town, and I was keen (of course) to check it out.

The day was, if possible, even more pristine this time. It was so warm in the sun that I ended up stripping off layer after layer – gloves, jacket, sweater – until I felt comfortable, finally, in a T-shirt. We drove with the windows down.

This time, the trail led mostly downhill toward the river. (I knew I’d have to regain the altitude at some point, but I pushed those kinds of negative thoughts away.) We rushed down, through mud and down rough staircases, until we reached a trail that led us along the river’s edge.

There were several waterfalls, actually. And someone had (ingeniously) cut stairs out of the clay, making quite a spectacular sight. I even managed to snap a couple of photos before my camera battery died.

Eventually, the staircases led us back up to the car park. Bridgette drove me back to town in time for our weekly work meeting, at noon.

Since it was so sunny, everyone clustered outside, drinking coffee and waiting for a manager to show up and read us the sales figures for the week. It was a boring half-hour, but we all liked to see each other anyway.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in pleasant solitude, mentally preparing myself for the work week ahead.

I couldn't help but mull over the fact that, like a long and rewarding hike, sometimes it's the struggles in life that make happiness more worthwhile. Toiling up the side of the mountain is more sweet for the feeling of accomplishment and reward you get when you stand at the top and take in the view. For me, although my time here in New Zealand has not always been easy, the view has definitely been worth it.