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.