Auto Shop

Our car has oil in the cooling system. From what I've learned a greasy, brown sludge is not supposed to appear alongside the water in the radiator. In fact, it is a very bad sign. Some phantom "head gasket", with a crown and scepter, is leaking. He lays on the his deathbed, surrounded by underling gaskets and leaks his lifeblood into our radiator.

We hoped to sell the car for a cool $1700(NZ), but after a few test drives and impartial examinations under the hood we know that our Mazda's head gasket is porous. This happens with Mazdas. It explains the exponential increase in over-heating incidents. Eleven months ago it took four hours of reckless hill driving and day time temperatures of 80+ to get the engine to over heat. Now it takes nothing more than a fifteen minute drive at a reasonable speed on a flat road in a chilly drizzle.

I suspect this is not a new problem, you may remember a post many months ago about our first overheating, it is just a worse problem. Chris and I are naive and trusting, this is something else I've learned, and thought the seller was honest and helpful. We did not wonder at his impatience to sign the papers and be rid of the car. I thought maybe he was late for Church, or his volunteering session at the Red Cross. It turns out he wanted to get out of sight before our car burst into flames.

On Sunday we took Hank to a Car Fair. This is where we learned his dirty secret. After a couple of people diagnosed the leaky head gasket and explained, sympathetically, that the fix costs more than the car is worth, I did not have the stomach to sell it. Should we lie to some poor unsuspecting backpackers, a couple guilty only of car-ignorance? We had sunk a substantial portion of our NZ savings into the car, and cursed the name (whatever it was) of the schmuck who sold us the car. Could we want to just turn around and swindle another group. No. We have saved lots of money by living in the car, not to count the bus-fares saved, and even budgeted our living expenses with the assumption that the car would be sold for scrap.

I felt a knot in my stomach when customers wandered over to our shiny red car. He'd had a wash and a vacuum and, together with the bed made up and all of our stuff piled on the ground outside, Hank looked sharp. Roomy. Cosy. Conveniently equipped with a Road Atlas and crockery. Go Away, don't buy this car!! It will only cost you thousands of dollars in repairs! He won't get you out of Christchurch! Run!

A nice, older gentleman, who moved slowly and smoothly like a ship in a calm, came up to the car. He asked me how many Kms on the odometer. I replied, "157,000, but you don't want to buy it it has a leaky head gasket". Hmmm, "can I take it for a test drive?". What? Chris looks at me and says, "sure". The gentleman climbs into the driver's seat and carefully, with years of experience, eases the car out of the parking lot. I stayed behind to watch our piles of stuff and chat with an 11 year old Kurd about WWE (wrestling). When they returned Chris and he are laughing. Chris has told him all about the car's problems but John (that is his name) wants to buy it for his grandson who's coming in a few weeks for three months. We agree on a very low price (but one that we both feel good about) and he is happy to let us carry on living in it till we hand it over when he'll take us to the airport.

So many times strangers have been kind to us, in this faraway land and it's nice to leave the country without screwing some new arrivals.

St. James, the Protector of Cows

We got back yesterday from another hike--the St. James Walkway--it was beautiful, calm, easy and in a bowl of good weather, whilst rain continued to fall in Christchurch. We met another couple in the first hut, and since we were the only two couples walking on that day in that direction we were together in each hut, every night for five days. They are an interesting pair; Dominik from Scotland is a researcher at Edinburgh University who examines FMRI scans of autistic, bi-polar and schizophrenic patients' brains; Shelley is a kiwi currently employed as a "professional traveller", who funds her explorations with nanny jobs and ski instruction.

The St. James Walkway starts at Lewis Pass, in the middle of the Southern Alps, and wanders through scenic reserves and private farm land for 67 km. We had one of four rushing, winding rivers as a companion the whole time, and herds of cattle to watch over us. Beef cattle are large, and when worried they stand still and stare down the danger. We are little, but apparently unnerving, and a couple times a day we approached a line of fierce, immovable cows. I whisper to Chris, "they're right in the way, I can see the next marker, should we edge around?". Gulp, what if they trample us. We'd carry on, timidly, and suddenly the ranks would break apart and gigantic cows would stumble over each other in their desperation to flee. Every time this happened, and every time I was sure they'd hold fast and kill us. The only brave cows, it turns out, are the mothers with their calves. These cows we would avoid, not because they seemed more aggressive, just more determined, but because you have to respect the cow-calf bond.

We saw wild horses too. I'm suspicious of the "wild" label, but this is the term we were handed, and it certainly sounds more romantic than mere "horses". Horses are cooler than cows, they hold themselves with poise and dignity, toss their hair and move with grace. The herds of horses usually kept to themselves, off on the side away from the clumsy cows. But sometimes they'd all feed in the same area, the horses absentmindedly swishing their tails against the ubiquitous sandflies, and the cows rigid with terror at our approach.

Before that hike we enjoyed my dad's company for two weeks! We saw it all: cities, tiny towns, farms, mountains, beaches, glaciers and a rainforest. We traveled by train, plane, car and dinghy (Chris and I were in a kayak). We walked through Botanic Gardens, along city streets, around the French town of Akaroa, through rain and fog to the silent face of Franz Josef glacier, up and over the "pancake rocks" of Punakaiki, across dark sand and past the pounding ground swells of the Southern Ocean.

Our diet was even more varied than the sites! After months of car-food (nothing too perishable, nothing too colourful or interesting) and tramping our little stomachs had shrunk, but we stretched them back out to post-Christmas levels in two weeks.

Now is the final month. We've got more tramps planned, and a general route south. We've also got the fidgety departure details to work out--sell the car, cancel the phone, get to Auckland, buy Christmas gifts, get some luggage from the Salvation Army to carry all of our Christmas gifts ...

Time Travel

Here are some photos from the start of our post-Papamoa travels (including the famous first Great Walk). There are a few duplicates, sorry we're new to Flickr, and technology as a whole.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/37421672@N02/sets/72157622545459432/

Queen Charlotte Track

We took to the hills once again last week. The Queen Charlotte Track from start to finish covers 71 km, but our version did not quite take us to the end, nor did we start at the very beginning. All in we still walked 76 km, but instead of strolling along the gentle slopes of the start, or the coastal flats of the end we spent six days walking up and along and over a ridge and then back again. Though the most arduous portion of the tramp is on these 600 m. heights, the views are also definitely the best. Instead of paying for the water-taxi (like everyone else does) which would drop us at the road-inaccessible start and then carry our packs to each campground each evening, we parked at the second campsite, made that our start and finish, and we carried our packs ourselves. Each of our hikes has had a flavour, and this hike tasted heavy! My backpack has straps for carrying a tent, Chris' does not. So I carried the 5kg tent, and he carried all of the heaviest food. I feared my straps would rip off of the pack it was so heavy. To complete the look I had a rolled up bright-blue mat strapped to the top of my pack, so that the whole mess stretched up from my knees and towered over my hat.

Have I mentioned the birds in New Zealand? If not my blog-rights should be revoked. The soundtrack to our life is like a Discovery Chanel special on birds. They fill the morning air with their cheerful chatter. The variety of sounds combine in such a way that it sounds like we're in a forest of wind chimes. In the afternoon the sounds thin out a bit, and you can hear the distinct pure notes. I wish I knew the names of the birds. I wish I could whistle.

We had two days of blustery winds, horizontal rain and see-your-breath cold. Other than that the weather was gorgeous, and if we had done the trip only one way, we would not have seen the turquiose waters and the green hills in all of their beauty. The hills claw directly into the water like tree covered fingers, and beyond each hill is another hill and another and then a mountain, and then further in the distance are more mountains covered in snow.

We rewarded ourselves with a hot, hearty meal at the local RSA (Returned and Services' Assoc.--the NZ version of the VFW). Armed with a full shaker of salt we enjoyed some stunning roast veg, roast beef and unlimited salad bar. Chris was particularly pleased...but he'll probably give you his perspective in his blog. On his blog. At his blog. What sort of preposition sticks to "blog"?

Emeralds, Sapphires and Gold

We have just returned from our epic version of the Abel Tasman Coast Track. I power-washed off nine days worth of sweat and grit in the ridiculously strong and gloriously hot showers here at Old MacDonald’s Farm, and now I want to sleep. But I’ll play on the laptop for a bit and maybe write something that makes sense. Chris is up at reception paying for our site. (I see now, this blog is long, to give you a sense of how long we lived this glorious tramp…)

We awoke this morning from dreams of hot showers, bubbly shampoo, food and clean clothes. (Really, last night felt like Christmas eve, I was so excited to get clean!). Our food had been carefully, desperately rationed since the first day, and we were thrilled to have an extra packet of Barbeque Rice Crackers (when do rice crackers count as food, except when you’re very, very hungry) to chomp on all morning—thanks Andrew. We plodded along at a reasonable pace, had great conversation and gorgeous last views of the park, our temporary home. At last we emerged from the bush—that’s what they call it here, like in Oz, which is what they call Australia—and made the final push across a boardwalk over the Marahau estuary. We exited the park. High Five! And turned toward our old campsite, where our sweet little car patiently awaited our return in a locked carpark. As we turned up the road we saw the campground owner driving towards, and then past us. A few minutes later we reached the empty, dark reception and read; “Office will re-open at 3pm”. Over the road we could see Hank, but our shampoo and bread and laptop may just as well have been in Taiwan. No worries, the slow, calm pace of life on a hike carried over and kept us chill and happy. We sat in the sun with drowsy heads and happy hearts.

So, but the hike! That’s the thing. We loved it. We never went more than an hour without rounding a bend and seeing seas of emerald green and sapphire blue gently lapping golden-sand beaches. Truly the sand is golden, Chris called it “Ground-Up-Golden-Retriever-Fur-Sand” (Not, “Ground-up-Golden-Retriever”, which I accidently heard). The water so dazzled and enchanted us, I wonder why gems aren’t named after Seas. We had gorgeous weather every day but two, and so we spent many hours on secluded little beaches along the way. Most of the time we’d be in paradise, with no one else but birds and seals. Seals are very adorable.

No single day was exceptionally tiring, the huts are set about 4.5 hours walk apart, so we enjoyed the flexibility to stop anywhere we wanted, with no need to rush. The cumulative effect was quite tiring, however, and the meager rations added an extra will-power component to an already exhausting pursuit. Few other people we met would walk for more than three nights, they were all racing to the end, or near end to be picked up in a water taxi and whisked back to civilization. Jaws dropped when they heard not only were we headed for Wainui, the official end, but we would then turn around and walk back! This fact, and our charm, prompted people to take pity on us and supplement our Spartan diet with some much-needed calories. These trampers also gave us much-needed levity and joy. We ended up seeing the same people a few nights in a row and forming some genuine bonds with these strangers.

One day we tramped with the fast-talking, fast-walking Canadian, Sandy. She tells fabulous stories with great wit and enthusiasm, so we were entertained enough to not realize just how quickly she walks up those hills! Chris and I are used to a leisurely pace, Sandy, however, was determined to lose her miniscule “Tui-Tummy” (a.k.a. beer belly) and thunders up and down every saddle and hill. We spent a couple of evenings with Simon, a gentle and cheerful Taiwanese boy, and gleaned lots of information from his sometimes-limited vocabulary. Simon went against the wishes of his family and culture, quit his respectable and desirable government position (at a govt. operated power plant) and came to NZ to travel. All in he would walk as far as we did, but his second half was along a road to Kahurangi National Park where he starts another Great Walk. Simon lumbers steadily along under a teetering backpack that towers above his head, its orange bulk bulging past his narrow hips. One day he sat with us at a small beach and we all chatted while we rested. Chris and I sat at small beaches and rested at least twice a day, but not Simon, who remarked; “Sitting is nice. Not always walking, walking”.

We shared bunk-shelves with Brits, Germans, Kiwis, Taiwanese, Canadians, Austrians, Chinese and more. We passed people on the track and imparted important news, “the heater at Bark Bay is broken” or “the stream is real low right now, you won’t have to take off your shoes”. We were all friends in this common endeavour. We spent one sun-drenched afternoon with a German couple, Robert and Diana, who had us in stitches most of the day. Diana did not trust her perfectly-fine English, but gained confidence as we talked, and I think if we’d had one more day together we would’ve been fast friends. As it is Chris and I will have to think back on their home-brewed Manuka tea (which just tasted like the red plastic bowls we drank from, but smelled like perfume). Robert boldly snipped some rosemary-like twigs from a tree and boiled it up for us; like pioneers, we lived off the land!

Chris and I both have bow-shaped smooth walking sticks, from this same Manuka tree, I believe. We look official. We look like Prophets.

I carried one book, “Franny and Zooey”, Chris brought “The Bourne Identity”. We didn’t bring my journal—nine days of food weigh a lot, even if you don’t bring enough—so every evening we’d flip through our books and tear out a mostly blank page. Gasp! Don’t worry, they were 50 cent books, and “Franny and Zooey” had already led such a tough life it split in two at page 86. At the last two huts, Awaroa and Whariwharangi, we had beautiful wood-burning stoves. These stoves give off much more heat than the standard gas stoves in the more popular huts, and get hot enough to cook on. Buried in the old newspapers in the Wood Box we found a few sudoku puzzles and broke our heads trying to solve the hard ones.

Now for the worriers among you it's time to worry. We did have two days of foul weather. The first of which was quite grim. We were on our way back to the start of the track from the last hut at Whariwharangi. Between this hut and the next at Awaroa lay a massive estuary which can be traversed 1.5 hours before or after dead-low tide. Low tide that day was at 6:30pm, so we planned to leave at 12:30, walk the 4.5 hours and arrive exactly on time to cross. A win-win plan, no waiting and no wading in the dark. However, the driving winds and rains pushed us along at such an incredible, never before seen from Chris and Betsy, rate that we arrived at the 1-hour-to-go point at Totaranui campsite one hour early! What to do? We were drenched with rain and sweat. I suggested we hang out in the largish bathroom and unpack our sleeping bags—no hypothermia for us! Instead we found a group of stranded Germans whose water taxi refused to pick them up and was instead organizing, slowly, some land transport. They’d been sitting in the camp office since 9am. I peeled off my wet clothes and changed into my one dry change—no hypothermia for me! Chris decided to do push-ups and jiggle for the hour instead. As a result he chomped at the bit a mite more fervently than I did, and we set off to the crossing a quarter of an hour earlier than we should have. Once we got there we could see the hut across the estuary. But we could also see the bay was full of water. What can you do in cold, wet weather, when you can see your accommodation glimmering on a bank only 25 minutes away. Why, you hold hands and plunge through waist deep water for 15 minutes. The water wasn’t at our waists the whole 15 minutes, but it swirled around our thighs the rest of the time. I remember racing John at the pool at grandma’s, we didn’t swim, but we ran, as if in slow-motion along the shallow end. This crossing was a 15 minute, slow-motion, cold race. Then we were there, we chopped wood in our dripping clothes and built a roaring fire in no time. Ah. Bliss. As Chris said, it was as if this hut were a 5-star hotel we’d been waiting our whole lives to visit.

My camera stopped focusing on the second day, but Sandy has promised to send us some pictures she took with us, and I pressed my floozy of a memory chip into a couple different cameras along the way. Maybe some day we will patiently sit for hours and download all of our photos.

The 70 Dollar Mistake

Last I wrote we were waiting for the clouds to part in New Plymouth. New Plymouth is a pretty big NZ city with shopping malls, tall buildings, a haze of smog and a fancy, but not very helpful i-site (information center). It is also a free-camping void. I had noticed the absence of little blue tents—the Atlas’ symbol for “informal campgrounds”—for about a hundred km in any direction from New Plymouth. But, I thought, surely we can just park on the road, or ask at the i-site about informal informal-campsites. Either way we wouldn’t spend too much time near the city, New Plymouth existed merely as a gateway to Egmont National Park. We would spend the days hiking in the shadow of Mt. Egmont. Ha! Forget it! We were cursed with rain and a 5-day forecast of dripping clouds.

The 5 days could not be borne for we had nowhere to live in the meantime. Our first, and last night, in New Plymouth left both of us law-abiding fools freaked out. It started out promising enough, when we landed on the outskirts of a small suburb at a town park looking out over the ocean. Families wandered past with their dogs, workers stopped in their cars to watch the sun set before heading home and we even had a picnic table to eat at. A friendly American couple (a doctor and a school teacher here with their four kids for at least five years, but maybe forever) eased our conscience. Sure we could camp out here, there’s no one who monitors the area and everyone breaks the rules on the board all the time—those families with dogs on the path for a start. At about 8:30pm as we watched the end of our movie, some guy pulled up in a truck, his headlights beaming into our car, he parked and we heard a knock on the glass. Move along, this is private land…Eep.

We moved to a row of parking spots across from the beach under the watchful eye of up-scale houses on a hill. Streetlights bathed us in orange light, I lay with my complimentary JetBlue eyemask squishing my eyelashes and flinched every time someone walked past. We survived the night. In fact I think we were incredibly safe in this quiet, upper-class suburb but we were rattled from our brush with the law.

The next morning I took my freezing shower and we walked along New Plymouth’s coastal walkway…

Once the rains came we hid out in the library and used their free internet, or tried to, so patchy was the signal. After about 4 hours of reading and dilly-dallying we faced a decision. Where will we stay the night and do we want to stay in this un-captivating city for five nights on the chance the weather icons of the future will show blazing suns? At 6pm that night we decided to flee New Plymouth, accept it as a waste of gas (a lot to swallow at 70$ a tank) and move along.

We came full circle back to Wanganui and spent a couple nights in a lovely, but windy, free campsite on the beach. Ahhhh.

Slips, showers and earthquakes

We've been on the road for two weeks now, although it feels more like two months. Our Great Walk in Waikaremoana was brilliant. Describing the experience tries my abilities; so to help you must go on a four-day "moderate" hike in beautiful weather through a stunning, tranquil National Park. Good. Now that we're on the same page...you must be filled with peace and a solid sense of accomplishment.

We all fell down during the hike. Wendy slid down a rained-out ditch and got the messiest, as her pants scraped along the miniature gorge. Chris caught his fall at the expense of his shoulder, and I took the prize with not one but 4 spectacular falls. I slipped on rocks three times and shuddered down one muddy bluff. Wendy led the way most of the time, and periodically called out "mud!"--we were trying to keep our feet dry. ha! After a while her voice would ring out, "mud! slippery rock!" and I'd come to a standstill. Muddy, wet feet or bruised bottom? By the end we recklessly splodged through the mud and then rinsed our shoes in the numerous crystal clear, cold streams only to muddy ourselves again minutes later.

The oddest day, and the best day, was our oasis of civilization in the middle of the bush. Our second hut is a popular destination for hunters and fishermen. Or at least this is the backstory they give their wives, it seems more like a hearty man-food and crates of beer sort of trip. We were given freshly caught and smoked trout, chips, oceans of hot water and the option of a full dinner with wine. We slept peacefully in a room with guns hung up next to our raincoats, as the air vibrated with a hundred thundering snores. In the morning they gave us oranges and hot coffee and we were rested and ready to carry on.

Our hike feels so long ago.
Now we're back in the car. This morning I took an invigorating, but much-needed, cold shower in a facility by the beach. Chris is holding out for something warmer. We both had delightful showers for 2 dollars in Napier in a public shower block, but since then the options have been free and cold.

A few nights ago we survived an earthquake. It felt like someone shook our car, or bounced the bumper, but Chris recognised the feel from his time in San Diego. Sure enough, the next morning we asked at one of the ubiquitous i-sites (standard information centers in every city and town) and they confirmed the earthquake! A 3.6 on the Richter scale.

We are hanging out in New Plymouth right now. It's a big city on the western thumb of the North Island with the only deep-water port on the west coast of the country. The internet is free, the library is spacious and nice (but nothing in comparison to "the living room of the city" in Palmerston North. Now that is a library!), and there's a beautiful coastal walkway spanning 7 km from the port across the town center and into the classy suburbs. We walked about 7 km this morning, while the clouds seemed disinterested, and it was lovely.

We're giving the car a break--and the driver--so we'll spend a few nights here and hope for an unlikely clear spell of gorgeous weather so we can hike. If the clouds and fogs left us alone we would be stunned with a view of the tall and perfectly symmetrical slopes of Mt. Taranaki (a.k.a. Mt. Egmont) a not-quite-defunct volcano. It was used as the backdrop in "The Last Samurai". Who needs to visit NZ, just rent a load of movies. One hike in particular would keep us below the tree-line (warmer) and far enough away from the Mt. to see it without breaking our necks.

East Cape

We left the "Sunshine Paradise" of Papamoa on a rainy, windy day and set off on our four-month tour of New Zealand. First stop: a luxury hotel down the street. Chris' parents generously and very thoughtfully bought us a night in the hotel they stayed at during their visit for Chris' birthday. We had until the end of August to book our room, and we decided one last night of clean sheets, kitchen appliances and hot running water would be the perfect start to our epic journey. The rain bleared our windows, but beyond the fog and streaks the beautiful, constant ocean pounded and sprayed amongst the rocks. The lady who showed us our room may have been confused, we came with no luggage, just a plastic bag with the essentials, and a huge teetering stack of library books. The first part of the day was spent on the couch going through all of our guidebooks and finishing off our "wish lists". We ate up the last of our refrigerated foods and enjoyed one last episode of our favourite-show-ever, "Grand Designs".

Since then, we have been driving east, down the coast to Whakatane (White Island departure point) and on to the East Cape, where the pace of life is slow. There are no real towns on the East Cape. Some little villages appear on the map, but their business district encompass a post shop or a motor lodge or maybe a small shop. These towns are few and far between. Most of the time we drove with no one behind us, no one approaching us, no one anywhere. The bulk of animal-life is clothed in leather and dragging a full udder, or showing off a wool jumpsuit. Spring has fully arrived: little wobbly lambs and leggy calves stumble around the hillside, never straying very far from mom.

Last night we slept in a very bare-bones beach-side campsite alongside a herd of cows, calves and horses. During the day we hiked a steep, unexpected, muddy track up into the hills to a lookout over the bay. The area must have suffered some heavy rains because much of the trail was washed out, the stream seemed to have meandered to uncharted territory and we found more than one sign post floating down stream. We persevered and made it to the lookout, breathed a sigh of relief that the track formed a loop, and skidded down the other side to our campsite.

Now I must hand the computer over to Chris. We're like greedy vultures when we come across free internet (Go Gisborne Library!), and this will be the last taste of civilization before we start our "Great Walk" on Friday.

Snapshots

Chris and I are the new proud parents of a Papamoa library card. Before, we went to the library without a card, lured by the ring of computers and rack of glossy magazines. The books tempted us, but we knew our relationship would never be more than casual, we couldn’t invite the books home. Now we can check out ninety-nine books and keep them on our bedside table for three whole weeks. Libraries, like ballet and music, make me proud of our species.

Over the weeks, in preparation for the Holiday portion of our trip, we’ve brought home dozens of books on New Zealand. Some of the books focus on the extensive National Parks, others describe urban highlights and regional quirks, and many provide little written information but dazzle us with hundreds of photos; sweeping landscapes, fiery sunsets, stormy coasts, majestic mountains rising out of lakes. These last books are my (ingenious!) attempt to draw Chris into the planning phase. We sit in the sun on our bed strewn with bookmark-riddled books, pens, lists and notebooks. Chris pores over the pictures, seeking out the most stunning locations or haunting sights, and exclaims, “Tolaga Bay, lets go there”. And I’ll shuffle through the wordy-books’ indexes until I can locate the bay, the wharf, the town, the mountain and we’ll work it into the route.

I have a cold. Bridgette has had a rib-cracking cough for weeks while Chris and Wendy dabble with the flu off and on. We pump our frail bodies full of Echinacea, vitamin C, multi-vitamins and Ibuprofen. In the morning a chorus of coughs and throat clearing overpowers the delicate birdsongs outside.

Wendy’s parents’ church had a car-boot sale (i.e. garage sale) and I purchased a 500-piece puzzle of a Tall Ship. It only has about 200 pieces. The sea is half blue and half carpet, the ship itself will certainly sink with all of its holes and I can’t imagine ever setting the sails properly. The only complete section is the sky. It came with 150 identical blue pieces which I have carefully piled in teetering hill to be dealt with later.

It’s spring at last. The nights are still chilly, but we barely light the fire any more and during the day we can wander around the house in a reasonable amount of clothing. 5 layers are finally too many. One tree outside is shyly blooming, each day the pink and white flowers spread higher and higher. Today looks and smells like a perfect day for a walk on the beach. Talk of spring must be so last season for you Northern Hemispherians.

Visitors

My computer is dying. It may, in fact, already be dead. It’s on life-support for sure, but can it still hear...? If anyone out there knows a thing or two about PowerBook G4 batteries (That’s right, I mean you!), do let me know what to do. The little guy only works when plugged in to the wall, and the battery won’t charge at all. This happened one day, no slow decline of power.

We’ve been busy. Chris got a job as a stacker at the packhouse, so we work together much of the time. I also go in without him for “re-pack”, which is as exciting and productive as it sounds. On top of that, we’ve had a string of delightful American visitors. These are the concrete reasons I haven’t kept up the blog, or maybe like B.F. Skinner, I am using irregularity to keep my followers hooked. (assuming I still have followers).



Lee and I hiked the Karangahake Gorge. We stumbled through old mining tunnels by the light of our cell phone, forded streams, hiked up mountains and over rickety swing bridges. I don’t think we would have been surprised to discover an ancient civilisation. It was brilliant. We came back with muddy pants and a sense of accomplishment. We were so distracted by the beauty and our chatting to realise just how far the hike would take us.



When Eric and Elena visited we had many fun family-style meals; the four of us and Wendy. I think the calm, regular routine of our evenings-in were my favourite part of their visit. The kitchen was full of the sweet sound of sizzling onions and the even rhythm of vegetables being chopped, while around the corner our charming pot-belly stove roared with a healthy fire. After dinner Elena, Wendy and I enjoyed “Shortland Street”, the local soap. Eric and Chris played chess—but I’m sure they watched in secret.



Ok. All caught up.

New Flat, Take Two.

This paragraph has time traveled. I’ve written the rest of the blog, and see it’s another long one. I recommend you get a cup of tea and settle in for the long haul…

The day of my last blog was our last day living in the squalid “pee pee-soaked-heck-hole” of 14 Links Ave. Chris and I are naïve, too trusting and afraid of confrontation (this is what I’ve learned). At first, we suspected that no one else ever cleaned up. Not just dishes and music gear, but rubbish littered the floors. Chris found a carrot in the bathroom. I stopped cleaning the kitchen, resisted the urge to round up empty bottles and dirty dishes from every relatively-horizontal surface in the lounge and left the vacuum alone. The house quickly turned revolting. I bought slippers and Chris wore his shoes inside, otherwise our socks turned brown when we left the sanctuary of our room. The smell of kitty and litter box permeated every room but ours, no matter how many windows were opened. The vile state of the house was only exceeded by the vile state of Justin’s soul. Too cruel? Perhaps. I might be even angrier with him than he deserves, because I feel foolish for falling for his initial manipulative charm...

Now we live in at .evA skniL 41. The house and the people are opposite in every way! It’s glorious. Even though Chris and I came in clutching our newly hatched suspicion of first-impressions, we quickly saw what a good situation we had landed in. Right now I’m sitting at the beautiful, uncluttered dining room table (it has a table cloth!). The dining room melts into a clean, sunny kitchen and the wide-open lounge. Here dishes are rinsed and put in the dishwasher, real meals are cooked and shared, every Thursday one of us vacuums, tea towels (dish towels) are routinely washed and replaced. In short, this is a real home with mature people like us. I write “people”, but in fact our numbers have already dwindled. I first learned of this house from one of my friends at work. Ruth knew I was unhappy where we were, and here, some roommates were moving out. She offered to show us the room, which is a spacious, en-suite palace upstairs all on its own—we even have our own little balcony with a table and chairs. Obviously the gorgeous room was a draw, but bigger still was the draw of living with Ruth. She and I got along at work from word “go”, and I looked forward to living with good, solid people.

Ruth and her 10 year old daughter, Sky, are both South African. Chris and I are also huge fans of Sky’s, she’s a really neat kid. An animated bean-pole comes to mind when you see Sky skipping around the house. She plays the guitar and sings (well) and Chris and I both looked forward to her return from school each afternoon. Sky is a testament to the power of dedicated parenting. Unfortunately, Ruth’s former job was one of the victims of this global recession, and tied up in the job was her visa. The two of them have moved out to stay with Ruth’s mum in the neighbouring town, while they save up money and prepare for the next phase, now that the kiwifruit season is winding down.

So our final flatmate is Wendy. Wendy owns the house, and she’s also South African, there are lots of South Africans in this beautiful country. I have found another genuine friend in Wendy. She’s smart and sweet, she plays soccer, leads a home group for her church, and shakes lemon-pepper spice on everything savory. On Saturdays we hang out and watch DVDs, or read in companionable silence. Today we walked along the beach to the shopping plaza a few K away and indulged in girly activities that would’ve forced Chris into a coma of boredom. (Meanwhile he slaved away in the dish pit at work).

We don’t have internet access here, and that’s ok. It’s nice to entertain ourselves with conversation, two TV channels and walks on the beach. To get to the beach we climb over a little gate at the back of our garden, stroll past our neighbor’s house, cross the street and we’re at the dunes. We’re back in Papamoa Beach (which is where our old campground is) so the beach here is more rugged and beautiful than closer to the Mount. We have to walk along a path that snakes through the grassy, scrubby dunes, which have been set aside as a preserve, and are therefore quite expansive and wild. The path climbs up and down before opening up to that first stunning view of the ocean, spread out like a blanket as far as the eye can see.

I’ll have to post another blog soon. In fact I might write it right now (English: you are so funny) and post it with this one when we get to an internet café. I must tell you about my life in Class II. Ooh, doesn’t that sound mysterious?

Visitors from afar

This is going to be a long blog so if you have eye-strain or ADD, consider yourself warned...

For a few weeks our usual party of two was doubled to include Frank and Vicki (a.k.a Chris' parents). Our regular work schedule hemmed us in somewhat--though I was freer than I cared to be when it rained for days and days--but we made the most of our mornings, evenings and weekends. My favourite part of the day was the daily walk. We clambered all over and around the Mt., we walked along the beach, we walked fast and purposefully, we walked slowly and took photos at every bend, we walked to explore, we walked home to take the laundry off the line. We walked when it would've been a sin to stay indoors, and we walked in the pouring rain (but that was accidental, we're not crazy)

A close second for "favourite activity" were our evenings in; we'd make dinner together and then play cards till bed-time. "Sevens", an old family game, involves lots of bidding and then lots of anxiety about making, but not exceeding that stupid bid, which was clearly wrong and gosh darn it why didn't I just bid three to begin with, I never bid correctly. Apparently the card game has a different, ruder name, and was referred to as "sevens" to spare the children's tender ears. Each person starts out with seven cards, and then with each hand the number dealt goes down, till everyone has one card, and then it goes back up to seven. So, thirteen stomach-wrenching hands per game. Chris had a great idea one night: why not deal out all of the cards and start with thirteen. Twenty-five ulcer-oozing hands.

We tried to spend our days off productively (weather permitting). One day we went to Rotorua and visited a geothermal village. We met the tour guide and practiced pronouncing the town's full name: Te Whakarewarewatangaoteopetauaawahiao. Inside the village, which sits on a very active geothermal site, we saw bubbling pools, steamy clouds, pits of boiling mud. Only about 25 families live there now, but these lucky few have very small electric bills. Most of the cooking is done underground in a Hangi (steamed by the heat of the hot earth) or by dipping a sack full of food into one of the boiling pools of water. Water for washing is similarly easy to come by.

The other major outing was to the White Island off the coast of Whakatane (pronounced Fa-ka-ta-ne). It's not white so much as it's yellow, red, orange; the White Island is an active marine volcano. I loved it! We spent most of the day on a 75-foot motor boat, cruising to the island. The views were gorgeous, the sparkling Pacific ocean spread out all around us. The sun shone with gusto, and we soaked up the rays. Until Vicki got up to go to the toilet--there are no facilities on the island, and they recommend going before the two hour tour. She stood up, she walked, she sat in a tiny cramped bathroom, and her inner ear said, "what is going on????". She emerged green and wobbly. Fortunately we were close to the landing site, and stable land stood just minutes away. Unfortunately to get from the yacht to the smoking wasteland we had to board and disembark from a tiny wee zodiac. The sort of rubber boat we used on Sea Cloud for tendering to and from the beach. The same sort of rubber boat that will flip in rough seas. Again, I loved it! I felt like a Marine or a Navy Seal, but without the weapon.

Before embarking on the zodiac we were equipped with a yellow hard hat and a gas mask. The sea was quite rough, probably as rough as it'll get before the company turns back and refunds everyone their money. The zodiac rose up to meet your eager foot, and then dipped away like a naughty child. We hustled Vicki to the front of the queue, to get her on the first trip. She held one hand to her mouth and the other outstretched for support, and slowly carefully, tiptoed to the front, afraid to look anywhere but straight ahead. Apparently the men in the boat, and her husband from behind, got her onto the boat and then off the boat at the landing. The landing is a rusty, rocky outcropping with some old ladders running the length of it. The skipper carefully waited, and watched for a lull in the waves, and then raced towards the landing where everyone scurried up the ladders at once.

Chris and I watched from the yacht as the ragged group drunkenly stumbled across the rocky dock, their legs now used to the lurching deck. Then we watched as a large wave broke and sprayed them all. Chris and I enjoyed our adventure to the shore, and jumped off smiling, ran across the pier before we got drenched and met Frank and Vicki for the tour. The volcano is "active" and though it wasn't spewing ash and rocks, "active" struck me as the perfect word to describe the place. Every few feet were steaming vents, a faint whistling sound could be heard over the roaring winds. Steam and smoke blew all over the place. Water bubbled and boiled, mud splattered up from some vents. This was not an inert pile of dirt, but an excited display of energy. The gas masks were optional, to combat the smell and the tickle it can cause in your throat. Better than that we were given lollies (sweeties) to suck on for the same purpose.

The island shows some life--none human, despite our early efforts at mining--mostly ice plants and some birds. Mostly it's just a rugged, Marsian landscape, surrounded by the beautiful blue ocean.

The trip back home was memorable. Vicki braced herself for a miserable two hours, but in the end we were all fine. Chris sat on the floor in front of us, and I tried to distract Vicki from her own spiraling thoughts of dizziness. After a few minutes a snag in the plan staggered over to our area. A nauseas girl slid down the wall and sat, clutching her puke bag. I looked away in terror. Seas don't make me sick, but sick people make me sick. This is a nightmare. So Vicki and I spent the two hours talking and laughing with each other, from behind another (unused) puke-bag. Chris would tell us when it was safe to look. After he fell asleep there were a few close calls. I'd sneak a glance, just in time to see her lurch and raise the bag. Eek.

Now our buddies have left, they're back home in Denver, and we're on our way to a new house. (That's another long story.)

Life in New Zealand

We've settled into the labouring part of the "working holiday". Our life now is quite ordinary; we have a house, a routine, jobs, a rotation of meals and favourite TV shows. Our plan is to work and save till August and then tour around, sleep in our car at D.O.C. (Dept. of Conservation) campgrounds and see more of this beautiful country, until December. Yet, despite the normalcy of our life, the subtle kiwi differences are apparent.

The road signs here are very dramatic. When we approach curves, the road sign predicts probable death, with an image of an uncontrolled car careening from side to side. In areas of loose gravel the sign's graphic warns that one errant hit from a rock will destroy your entire windshield. And don't forget, a sharp curve will topple a semi.

The government sponsored advertisements don't hold back either. Judging by these somber ads the country must be in the grips of binge drinkers, tired drivers and careless operators of heavy machinery. We haven't seen too many tired drivers, I would have said this country is humming with "boy racers". The drivers scream out of their driveways, accelerate like they're being chased, and then screech to a halt fifty meters away at the stop signs, (there aren't actually too many stop signs, most of the time you just "give way"). I don't know how it's done, but every car is made to sounds like it's sick and angry. This rumbling, thumping, choking sound is actually sought after.

New Zealand has no indigenous mammals. All the hairy creatures came over on boats: the people, their pets and livestock, their mice and rats. Instead birds had filled the niche filled by mammals and marsupials everywhere else. When we camped the other week, we heard dozens of different bird songs, fed ducks, geese and swans, but didn't see a single squirrel or fluffy bunny.

There are some differences in language as well. In the kitchen you boil water in the "jug". The jug sits on the "bench". Spilled pasta is swept up with the "brush and shovel" (I know!). Peppers go by "capsicums", zucchini by "courgette". Our rooms have different names as well, there's the "lounge" with the TV, and then there's the "toilet" which is separate from the bathroom, where you really just bathe. If something's good or cool, it's "sweet as" or "primo". A greeting is the hybrid, "how're you going?". This last one was confusing at first; where am I going? how's IT going? how am I? What are you asking? Oh, I see, I'm fine, thanks!

The beach

The beach here stretches for miles and miles, I can walk the few kilometers from our house to downtown Mt. Maunganui all along the ocean. At that end the beach terminates at the feet of Maoau (the mount of Mt. Maunganui). Curving back even further in the other direction it leads to the more rugged Papamoa, where we first stayed. Underfoot the sand feels like sugar, and sometimes like sifted flour, it's off-white and with few pebbles. The width of the beach does the length justice. When the tide is out the beach becomes a sandy playground for children, couples, volleyball teams, dogs and joggers. The tide must come in, when we go for walks I can see the moist traces of a high tide, but I've yet to catch it in the act. It flows in secret.

If you walk in shoes they will immediately fill up with sand, it's so deep. Close to the water line the sand is firm and smooth, you can walk quickly here, but up by the dunes it's like walking through a field of pillows. In general barefeet are the way to go, and if you shuffle, just so, the sand squeaks.

In the water breaking waves kick up the fine and fluffy sand, it swirls around under the surface in chaotic silence. It's the sort of sand that fills the lining of your bathing suit in no time, but takes years of rinsing to get back out. Maybe each grain is shaped like a light bulb. The best way to fill your bathing suit is by boogie boarding. This way each tumultuous crash and swirl of sand is concentrated on your lower half, for maximum exposure to the particulate mixture.

Here the waves break in threes, so that the regular breathing in and out of the ocean is replaced with a steady roar. Waves topple over themselves and others as they clamber to the shore, and then stumble in excitement as they slide back into the sea. If you're in a bad mood, or a sad mood, just go to the beach. Bury your feet in the warm sand, scoot out an indentation for you bum and admire the clouds and sky, the tireless waves and the selfish seagulls.

Sweatshop

For those of you who don't know, I abandoned my soul-numbing role as a cafe assistant and spent a couple of weeks sponging off Chris while I looked for another job. And boy, did I hit the jackpot! Most would find my new job abhorrent. I consider it freeing.

For three or four days a week--or more or less depending on my desire, and their need--I am on-call at a kiwifruit packhouse. Don't know what to do with your degree? Get a job rolling little brown fruits into boxes and trays for ten hours a day.

It sounds like we're in a bowl of rice krispies. The main conveyor belt carries the fruit in cups which snap and flip the fruit into the appropriate lane. A rapid increase in snaps alerts the packer to an imminent load of fruit--magically the system sorts the fruit by size and dumps the correct number into each lane. Then the hard brown fruits rumble en-mass along a mini conveyor belt and fall a few inches into a waiting tray. We have control over the trays' conveyor belt, but not the fruits'. So if the tray-prep boys are too slow, or too overwhelmed, and a gap appears, all of the fruit will frantically tumble to the floor.

A sheet of thin molded plastic lines the tray and crackles with each deposit of fruit. By manipulating the tray belt, you can get the fruit to fall in place, mostly. If the fruit's coming really quickly no manipulations will help and you're forced to push tray after tray of mounded fruit down to the wrapping ladies. Ha, the idea of rapping ladies is much more fun, I love silent letters.

The packhouse is loud, not in a permanently damaging way, but in a memorable way. To understand the sound, close your eyes--but squint through them to continue reading--and imagine the sounds from a bowl of rice krispies, an enormous vacuum and a bowling alley. The fruit is all hard because it's export quality--they'll be systematically sprayed with ripening agents on the way over and appear perfectly ripe in your supermarket. We pack boxes as well as trays, and as the fruit cascades into the cardboard box it sounds just like a strike in a bowling alley.

Most of the time the fruit comes too quickly to be bored with the repetition, it's like a game to try and keep up. We have two fifteen minute breaks and one half-hour lunch, which help divide up the day. Apparently MPAC is a small packhouse, and so the employees all get to know each other quickly, during breaks, or in the baptizing fires of the job.

Forklift drivers and floor supervisors wear florescent vests, the rest of us don green aprons--a la Starbucks--and disposable red hair nets. Sometimes I forget and think I'm working in a High School cafeteria.

Though it takes a toll on the feet, back, shoulders, neck and knees, ten hour days mean I can spend only a few days a week at work, and the rest of the time on the beach.

14 Links Ave

The rooms in this house look as if a concert has just ended and the crew haven’t yet wound up all of the cords and cleared away the gear. It turns out all sound gear comes in a black box with silver rivets and edging. Or perhaps our flatmates are stockpiling automatic weapons, but they don’t seem the type. I mentioned my upcoming birthday—it was upcoming at the time, now it’s drifting into the past—and Justin and Sarah decided we should have a barbeque, and cake, and balloons. They’re definitely too sweet to establish an arsenal.

Around 7:45am a flood of green and grey students, on bicycles and on foot, rushes past our window to the intermediate school (middle school). About fifteen minutes later the tide begins to turn, and a stream of white and dark grey students coolly make their way to the college (high school) in the other direction. When we first arrived, Chris and I went for a walk to the beach at 3pm and were practically trampled to death by the little darlings in uniform as they fled their respective schools in droves.

Yesterday we went to the store as a foursome, Chris and I with Justin and Sarah. We needed cookie mixes--something for the girlies to do while the boys virtually slaughtered each other with some rented video games. As well we raided the pick-and-mix sweets aisle and left with bags of colourful candies. Even the boy who checked us out, and he was indeed a boy, exclaimed, “20$ worth of lollies, now that’s alright, eh”. We had a silly night of Guitar Hero, WWE Smack Down, Call of Duty, gingerbread cookies and left over pizza. This house is fun.

More Pictures

New Zealand 2

Our new home has wifi, so we don't need to buy a muffin or peppermint slice to get a measly hour of internet access. Instead we can spend hours on end uploading and captioning photos. Chris did all of the captioning again, so take up any comments and questions with him. I'm watching a Flight of the Conchords documentary while he super heats his legs with the laptop. The house also has Sky TV, and a spare room (for you, our eager visitors).

Supermarket Sweep

Does “awful” come from “offal”, because that stuff’s not great. Yesterday Chris and I went to the supermarket and, as we perused the countless colourful choices of fruit and nut themed snack-bars, were plunged into utter darkness. Supermarkets are never dark, they hum and crackle with light, but this supermarket fell darker than dark. Because I’ve seen too many horrible movies I assumed the Woolworth’s was being taken over by crazies in ski masks, with Russian, German or Middle Eastern accents. The bad guys would communicate with each other in accented English, not in their native tongue. I scooted closer to Chris, angled the shopping cart in front of us and then for good measure pinched his T-shirt so he wouldn’t disappear into the darkness without me. Five seconds later the lights flickered back on, powered by the generator. Not all of the lights shone, the refrigerated sections lost their lustre to keep their cool, the offal section sat dim. I hadn’t noticed that refrigerator before. In America I thought Scrapple was the greatest most hilarious food product ever, and here an entire case is devoted to gastrointestinal odds and ends.

I don’t have a hat, but Chris does, and soon it will be hanging in a new home—a home with walls, a roof, carpeting, three flatmates and no wheels. We’ve had a few days of rain and wind and realised this caravan is far from water tight. When the rain really comes down we have a xylophonic symphony of drips and dribbles into pots, pans, teacups, a bucket and the rubbish bin. Apparently winter around here is quite wet (though it’s still gloriously summer for now) so we’ve decided to look for an actual house to stay in. Oh yeah, and we’re not able to camp for free as we’ve passed the mark into “permanency” and that costs 130 NZ$ a week. Rainy weather can be born if you’re living for free, but since we’ll have to pay regardless we may as well move closer to the town and enjoy centralized heating.

The first place we looked at was perfect. It’s only a bit further from the ocean, though still very much within walking distance, and it’s much closer to a bus stop and the major supermarket/indoor mall/batting cages(!!) part of town. Our flatmates seem wonderful, the perfect mixes of geeky and interesting, shy and friendly. Since they have wifi we’ll both post a blog soon and tell you all about Sarah, Justin and Kieran. And the cats. It’s sad to say goodbye to the friends we’ve made at the lovely Beach Grove Holiday Park, but we’ll be only minutes away and hope to visit from time to time.

Coffees, Dishes and a Brat

In New Zealand a black coffee is a “long black”—made from a shot of espresso added to hot water, not out of a filter or press, while a “short black” is just the shot. If you prefer your coffee with milk, order a “flat white”; a shot of espresso with some carefully steamed and slightly “stretched” milk poured in. This is not a latte or a cappuccino, for those you must stretch the milk even more, however all three require a foamy plug on top so that you can saunter around without spilling a drop.

I prefer my coffee chugged, so that it touches my tongue as little as possible. It seems I lack the “passion for coffee” desired in all baristas.

At Oceanside Café, we also offer a range of yoghurt-based smoothies and ice cream milkshakes. These are much easier to make as they don’t require artistry or experience, you just plop approximate amounts of yoghurt, fruit and icing powder into a blender. One of the blender’s bearings must be wonky because it screams bloody murder and starts to smell like melted plastic and bad wiring after a few seconds.

In the way back, past the grill and burners and around the corner from the chaotic coffee/smoothie bench is where the dishes get done. Here, where the hot water tap lets out a stream of scalding water that will burn you, and the cold water tap should be labeled tepid, is my favourite place to work. No cat swinging here, it’s a cramped, steamy, tight space, even a swung mouse would hit its head on something. On a single little trolley we stack teetering towers of plates and cups. When the cooks cover this surface with their hot pots and pans or their dirty bowls, knives and food processor bits, we dump dishes in the sinks. I like to tackle this mess, armed with only a tatty old piece of steel wool and a single dishwashing machine.

Wouldn’t you like to make coffee, wait tables, stand at a till, roll cutlery, clean glassware, wash dishes, scoop ice cream and at the end of the day clean, sweep, mop and carry in dozens of tables and chairs? I don’t mind it, except one of my coworkers (of which there are only two or three at a time) is a nasty little girl. She giggles and flirts with the cooks, talks trash about the manager behind his back, but uses a sugary singsong voice to his face, and ignores all of my questions, even if I have customers waiting. I didn’t much care for High School when I was legally bound to go, and this girl is everything gross about high school, put on two legs.

Neighbours

Over the road is a little standalone white and faded-blue caravan. It’s practically hidden behind a leafy wall of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, herbs, and melons all grown in pots and buckets and lovingly tended by a lady, Patricia. Her second domain is the communal kitchen, which sits in a block next to her site. Almost every day she’s got something going; soup bubbles on the stove, bread browns to perfection in the oven, jars are sterilised for preserves, chutneys and pickles or the sounds of chopping and a blender echo out into the yard. As Patricia explains it, she’s a descendant of French-Canadians, and cooks for therapy, to relax and recover from 40-odd stressful years of working as a nurse in NY city hospitals. Everyone knows she’ll magically transform any bit of food into a meal, so before they leave for home they’ll drop off their eggs, potatoes, lettuce, un-carved watermelons, and let her create something delicious. All that she creates is passed around and shared with her neighbours, we’ve had coleslaw, country vegetable soup, avocado ice cream, banana cake and, last night, spicy beef and potato pie. She made it for us to celebrate my new job.

Next door are Ron and Liz, an older couple that periodically gets run off their feet by herds of grandkids. Both are always ready to offer a kind word of support or ask an interested question, and make us feel like we’re looked after. On the other side of their site live Paul and his 11 year old daughter, Alex. Under his bandana Paul’s got a shaved head. His arms are freckled with homemade tattoos and he sports a nose ring, and this is the generous guy who brought over our beloved beach chairs and table. When we first arrived Alex ran around with all of the other kids, but most of them have returned to their winter homes, and left her with only one playmate, Tioriori, a scrappy and silly Maori. Alex and “T” ride around on their bikes, make fun of each other, and come over to our site to be entertained. One night Chris had them run a race, and then he had to come up with about two dozen variations and pull out his stopwatch to keep them happy. The next day we ran into Alex and her dad at the supermarket, “can we please do more races tonight?” she asked, as if it were difficult for Chris and I to sit on our chairs and send them dashing off. Soon he made them wriggle under picnic tables, climb over trees, do push ups and star-jumps and sprint hither and yon in between. Snaking through the campgrounds are little gravel paths and roads, but even these feet-killers don’t slow the kids down. Alex navigates over them, skips the worst bits and leaps and stretches for the spits of grass. Tioriori in no way changes his stride, his little piston legs continue unabated and clouds of dust and gravel puff up under his barefeet.

Can I Take Your Order

For about two weeks we’ve been on the job hunt. To begin with my criteria were strict, detailed; the winning job would involve boats, beautiful days, perfect hours, a convenient location, and a jolly boss. With each pavement pounding step, however, my little spirit sank further and further, whilst my stipulations evaporated, one by one. Yesterday I was on my way to apply at Subway—the twelve hours a week of sandwich artistry sounded sufficient to me. But before I got there some sort of work-god intervened, lowered a blessed finger and pointed me towards a handwritten sign for a “Café Assistant”. I strode in, talked to the silly boys behind the counter and received instructions to go over and disrupt the owner, who was having a chat and a drink with some friends. This is pretty much a shy person’s nightmare, but I did it. I stumbled over, quivering CV in hand and asked for Gordon. He led me back into the café, out of the sweet breeze and away from the soothing view of the ocean, and looked over my CV, asked some questions and offered me a “trial” for the following morning.

A trial is the opportunity for a boss to get a sense of the newbie , see if she’ll be able to hack the work, or just suck. A trial, also, is a good way to have some free, and awkward, labour. The trial went well, the two hours passed fairly quickly and my duties seem diverse enough that the work won’t be too boring or mechanical. Amongst other tasks, I will fill those little espresso handle things and clatter, tap and press them authoritatively.
I must’ve done alright, because I start tomorrow.

In other money related news…Last night, still buzzing from the trial offer, we were hanging out when Management came down to our site. She told us a couple had reserved our site from Friday on, till forever, but that we could just shift to a different site. Then, she said we should just park next to the Bach, or up the hill, and not even pay at all. This was Management, the lady who runs the place, the woman in charge, she suggested we stop paying. Welcome to New Zealand.

Raindrops Falling on My Head

After a few days of sweltering, oppressive sunshine we were thrust into a cloud. Even when it wasn't raining, an ultra-fine mist covered every surface and made everything stick to everything else; hair stuck to foreheads, T-shirts to backs, little blades of grass and sand clung to our ankles and sodden towels stuck to the car like glue. Pretty much the only thing that did not stick were the strips of velcro ("hook and loop" here) that we glued to the windows to hold up our curtains.

The sound of rain on the roof of the car is endlessly soothing, but trying to brush off our muddy, grassy feet before getting into the car is endlessly impossible. The Mazda Capella has power windows so, although we won't get achey forearms, when in starts to rain in the middle of the night Chris has to knee me in the head, crawl over the front seats and strain past our backpacks to reach the ignition and roll the buggers up.

The night before the first big rain was the night I realised we really had to get the laundry done. I decided we'd do it first thing in the morning and the clothes would dry on the line in no time, it's so hot you could cook a chicken in the noonday sun. Then the rains came and now our laundry bag is almost bigger than the backseat, we'll probably have to sleep on the floor tonight.

This morning the wind came in and kicked the rain out, it just screamed and screamed till every last drop of humidity upped sticks and left. It's the sort of wind that immediately rips your towels and washclothes off the line and buries them in the dust. A perfect day for a hike up Mount Maunganui, another expired volcano. The hike up was gorgeous, hot and steep, so the winds were a delicious treat. From the top we saw the Pacific ocean rolling out to forever on one side, and the busy little harbours and bays to the other. I know we'll upload more photos, but they cannot capture the beauty and subtleties of colour and light, or the enormity of the views. Sigh, you'll just have to take my word for it.

Free Stuff

The car, our humble abode, gets pretty toasty when parked in the sun, so in the afternoon when we want to sit and read, or during dinner, we have to sit in the dusty, tickly grass outside. The results of this sort of seating are achy knees and the nagging sensation of ants climbing up your shorts' legs. We were in the dirt yesterday afternoon, having a snack, when a neighbour came over with two rainbow-striped beach chairs. After he set them up he came back with a little wheely table, "for our chips". This is the life!

Not long afterwards another pair of neighbours offered us their spare bed. I thanked them, but declined, explaining I didn't know where we'd fit a bed, folding chairs are one thing...But no, they were actually offering us use of their place. It's an old caravan doubled in size with an addition, and they only use it as a holiday home, so it sits unused 90% of the year. This morning they invited us over for coffee and left us with a spare key, to use the "bache" (beach house, short for bachelor pad) whenever we please, as they're going back home.

Tauranga means "safe anchorage" and so far it has lived up to its name!

Photos

After hours of downloading, uploading and commenting, we have a link for the photos we've taken so far. The link'll take you to Chris' public album, so the captions are all his!

New Zealand 1

Coromandel Peninsula

We've fled the confines of Auckland and spent the past few days in calm and friendly campgrounds all around the Coromandel Peninsula. Camping is the way to go if you want to fall asleep to the sound of waves, be surrounded by cheerful families and only pay about 12 dollars a night.

The Coromandel peninsula has a rugged mountainous interior, most of which is preserved as parkland, and a stunning coast. The mountains (you Coloradans would call them hills) are covered in dense forests of ferns, palms, kauri and countless species I've never seen before--in New Zealand ferns grow as trees. We went for a couple of hikes through this tangle of life and were at times deafened by the chittering, buzzing drone of millions of insects. These insects do not sleep, they just desperately click twenty-four hours a day.

The roads through this land were built by a bunch of men having a laugh. They twist and turn and wind over themselves, you speed downhill winding right and then complete the turn and start a sharp ascent, veering left. Over and over again. I felt like a ballerina, Chris felt like a race car driver, a nauseous race car driver.

After chugging our way up and down, left and right, to the top of the tippiest toppiest top of a mountain we pulled over for a scenic overlook. I slammed the door, camera in hand, and skipped to the ledge. Goodness you can smell the rubber off the tires, golly you can smell something else too, something more sinister. It is the smell of the car oozing plumes of steam and who knows what else. We threw the hood open and watched in horror as water bubbled and danced on top of the radiator. Fortunately in this parking lot there was no shortage of holiday-makers to offer advice and condolences. The crowds agreed that the car had overheated and lost water, this was clear from the not-so-clear stream of water trickling out from under the car. But why did we lose our water, overheat, this was up for debate. Every man had his own opinion; leaking hoses, too much water, too little water, bad radiator, holes in the radiator, one pessimist even speculated it was our head gasket. The head gasket is not something you want to lose, or so it seemed from his expression.

After a bit, and the help of an older couple from England, we decided it had been the fan. Apparently in a Mazda Capella you must turn on your AC to cool off the engine, their is no other overheat fan, and as the morning had been cool and shaded we hadn't use the air at all. All day today we've had the AC blasting and the engine seems fine, so don't worry!

Right now we're in an internet cafe in Tauranga, one of the larger cities on the coast of the Bay of Plenty. We stopped in Katikati (this doubling up on words is pretty common) to talk to a man about a job, but he regretfully informed us he doesn't have work for ladies, he's looking for more lads to help prune and clean up his kiwi orchard. In a month there'll be picking to do and anyone can pick. Even we feeble ladies. He also requires his workers lodge in the hostel he owns, so you have to pay 120$ for a dorm bed to work for him.

Vroom vroom

We bought a car! It's not exactly cherry red, more like wine-made-from-cherries red. I looked at the engine (saw that it was still pretty shiny) and tried to make my face look like the face of a real auto expert. Poke, pause, peer. Hmmm. Yes, I am a force to be reckoned with, I know how to use a dip stick.

The seller, an older gentleman called Brett, talked a mile a minute and offered all sorts of tips and advice, from when to replace the tires to where to find cheap camping gear. He took us out for a test drive, during which he'd point out the passenger-side window (on the left hand side of the car) and emphasise that to stay safe you just have to keep a good distance from the curb. This is obvious advice, I'm sure that when you drive (whoever you are) you keep yourself towards the center line, and avoid breaking off parked cars' side mirrors. But when Chris got behind the wheel, and I got into that passenger seat, we realised how difficult it is to keep away from the curb. Instinctively, Chris pulled away from the screaming tide of oncoming traffic, and drifted closer and closer to parked cars and cyclists. I'd say, "keep to the left", " but watch out for that biker", "you actually are kind of close to the curb" and my body would tighten and lean towards the middle of the car, away from the inevitable disaster that was gonna happen right outside my window.

In the end we were fine, and after frantically searching--frantically is how we did everything--for a parking lot that wouldn't cost more than the car, we frantically pulled down into a parking garage beneath Sky City. This Sky City houses a big fancy casino, hotel, restaurant and the sky tower (think Seattle's Sky Needle or whatever it's called). I was sure we'd be stuck, paying a million dollars just to exit back out. But I was so wonderfully wrong and for two days parking we'll only pay 10$ (NZ) and know that our cute little stationwagon is safe and sound.

Devonport

This morning we took a passenger ferry over to Devonport, the trip only takes 10 minutes, pier to pier. It turns out the suburb of Auckland is one of the best places in my world. We stepped off into calm. The architecture is Victorian (I know this from a guidebook) so all of the little houses are very sweet and ornate, made of lace and cookies. The busy front gardens flow over the retaining walls and drip colours and scents.

The view across to Auckland is impressive from sea level, and spectacular from 282 feet above, atop Mt Victoria, a defunct volcano. We could see all around the harbours and bays, full of sailboats and green islands. The steep hike uphill was its own reward, for the first time since we arrived we felt far away from the hustle and bustle of New Zealand’s biggest city. The buzz of cicadas sounds wonderful after the relentless drone of traffic and air conditioning.

Back at sea level we ate a delicious lunch—so far from the normal fare—and set off for the beach. King Edward's Parade leads you down along the waterfront, between houses and the gently lapping sea to a sandy beach. We found a public beach, populated by older couples and families, and had a nice swim. Well, I had a swim, Chris had a frantic dive in and out. The current current (that’s not a typo, just an example of how silly English is, you’ll work it out) was a cold one, but it felt gorgeous.

Mentally I've already bought a little gingerbread house, planted some hibiscus and found a job as a letter carrier.

Ramen Noodles versus Salad

The picnic table barely fits in the kitchen, and as soon as you add some Swedes and Germans—who prepare genuine, well-balanced meals—there’s no counter space to assemble a PB&J. Not that we only eat childish sandwiches, we also enjoy Ramen Noodles, or oatmeal with peanut butter. “Do all Americans add peanut butter to the porridge?” one incredulous Swede asks. Well, do we?

The hypoglycemic do. I’m just along for the ride, it’s like when your parents go out and let you have pancakes for dinner, at first Ramen Noodles sounded like a delicious idea. The other night a pack of Germans made mussels in a Thai coconut sauce. More than the cockroaches, the threat of a nightly throw-down keeps us away from the kitchen during the normal dinner rush. It’s only 6:02pm and dinner’s already a distant memory.

Yesterday I went to the National Maritime Museum and it was awesome. There was so much I couldn’t take it all in. My favourite exhibit was a replica of life in steerage. The dark and dingy room was cramped with bunks and the creaking and groaning of wood could be heard all around. Man, I thought, they really hit the nail on the head, my legs even seem a little unsteady. As I looked at a humble wax figure, I noticed the floorboards creeping up the wall. Oh my goodness, they even duplicated the heaving floor!

Campervan, tent or hostel?

We're here in New Zealand! I've lost my wallet--but that was in America, so New Zealand's cool--if someone shows up pretending to be me, stop her.

Chris and I checked out of the heaving ACB hostel, it's like a backpacker-factory with some 500 beds. The common room crawls with tanned twenty-somethings, and percussive music plays continuously. The new hostel is "cool" too, but a bit smaller and across the street from the library. The lady at the desk, Valeria, radiates enthusiasm and happiness. We came for the cheaper rates, but will stay (a week) for the cheer.

We're just off Queen St., which slopes down to the waterfront. I discovered the tall ship Soren Larsen yesterday afternoon and had a good chat with a few of the crew. She's a beauty, and the crew are fueled by love, not money. Going on board was a highlight for me.

Up the street is a labyrinth of lights, sounds, staircases that skip floors and elevators that skip floors, all disguised as an entertainment center. Last night we tried to find the cinema's ticket booth, we took an elevator too far up, a staircase too far down and in the end only found an enormous concession stand. Maybe someday we will understand, and then we will know we have arrived.

Ms. Pack-man

Over the past few days we've deconstructed our apartment, scattered our furniture to the four winds and relegated our worldly possessions to a pile of old luggage in a crawl space. Instead of buying boxes, or scrounging around supermarket dumpsters, we borrowed countless carry-ons, broken suitcases, and outdated purses to hold all of our life.

No matter how much we put away, little piles of crap and mismatched odds and ends litter our floor. For every piece of furniture moved, a dented rectangle of carpet and dust appears.

According to Blogger "deconstructing" is not a word. What about Harry? From what I hear, he was deconstructed...

So to all you naysayers, Ah ha! Here is another post. Not the sort you drive into the ground, mind. Right, so I will continue to bloggggggg, even if you don't continue to read.