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.)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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 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!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 9, 2009
More Pictures
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| 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).
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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.
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.
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