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.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
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.)
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.)
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!
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