Back to the future...
I know I am still far behind in the updating, but just a quick real time post.
Currently in Adelaide. Spent the afternoon in a beach suburb about a half-hour tram ride from here, dipped my toes in the SOUTHERN Ocean (not Arctic...wrong hemisphere), and then came back to the "city" to enjoy a delicious glass of Australian Shiraz outside on the patio of the Australian Wine Centre, located within Adelaide's botanical gardens. Life is good.
I'll be leaving tomorrow to take a trip into the middle of nowhere, the red centre of Australia, the Outback. I will be out of touch with civilization, most likely, until the 8th of November. If you want to check out the tour upon which I'll be embarking, it's here:
www.headingbush.comI'm doing the 10-day Adelaide to Alice Springs tour.
See you all on the other side! Unless I decide to go bush permanently, that is...
XOXO
A
PS: Sorry for the double post. The internet at the hostel where I was staying (Cannon St Backpackers in Adelaide--DO NOT EVER STAY THERE, they suck) didn't really work. Oh, and I am updating right now from the middle of the Outback... literally. I also have ochre all over my face. I will take pictures. You can't escape technology, no matter where you are. The tour so far has been incredible, but I'll detail more next time.
Oh Queenie (Queenstown, NZ)
My lovely journey with my 26 Kiwi comrades ended, sadly, in Queenstown. After the QT, we'd, for the most part, be going our separate ways. Most would be heading on to Christchurch, but Joey and I would be doing the Bottom Bus, exploring the, this is a stretch, bottom of the South Island.
So, Queenstown. What can I say? Well, our welcome into the city: a bungee jump at Karawau Gorge, where bungee was first commercialized by AJ Hackett and his friend. Did you know they got their inspiration from Vanuata? In Vanuatu, young men leap off of rickety wooden towers with vines strapped to their ankles as a rite of passage. They're more hard core: their vines lack elasticity, and their jumps end not in a peaceful few bounces, but a faceplant into a pile of dirt. The funnier thing, I think, is that this rite actually used to be a fertility rite, and women used to do it, not men. The Christian missionaries, when they arrived in Vanuatu, were absolutely aghast, and, while they couldn't eradicate the practice, "at least" managed to turn it into a male ritual.
Anyway, after a few people on the bus (not me), did their bungee, we took a group picture and then headed into town to rest up a bit in preparation for our impending big night. I'm not going to bore you with all the stories, but I'll share a few little anecdotes to give you an idea of how the evening transpired. We'll start with LJ. Oh, LJ, our endearing driver. When we met him at Altitude, the bar downstairs from our hostel, at 9:30 PM, he was already exceedingly drunk. He was also dressed in a lovely outfit he'd acquired that afternoon at the Salvation Army: skintight green pants that reminded me of a Little League uniform, and a matching skintight green t-shirt. It was slightly obscene. Altitude was hosting that backpacking staple: karaoke. As people went up on stage to sing their songs, LJ stole their thunder by leaping onstage with them (complete strangers, mind you, not people from our bus) and doing little leaps and jigs and struts. Then we did an encore of Sweet Child of Mine, lifting LJ up above us as though he were crowd surfing. He started doing push ups off the ceiling, and then we all fell over on top of poor Joey. It was classic.
In terms of the rest of the night. Well, all I'll say is this: Joey visited Fergburger, home to ridiculously large burgers, 4 times in one night, I went to bed at 8 AM, tossed and turned until past noon, slept until 5 or 6... It was like I was back in Madrid. Took it easy the next night, and then sadly saw Pete, Ric, Tyrone and LJ off the following day. The Kiwi crew had officially been splintered. After wandering around the beautiful city of Queenstown (which is absolutely gorgeous: on the edge of a lake and framed by the snow-capped Remarkables, the scenery is breathtaking. Unfortunately, most usually miss it by sleeping all day. Queenstown, the birthplace of the bungee, plays hard), Joey and I hung out with the remaining crew that following night, then left at 8 the next morning for our venture down south. I had a relatively early night, turning in at 1 AM. But Joey got in at 7. Our alarms went off at 7:30. Needless to say, the trip down to Dunedin was a sleepy one for all.
And continued some more...
The Dive:When we boarded the bus again after our adventures in the Bushman Centre, LJ got on the microphone and let Cheryl, Barbara and me know that the skydive was a go. Ready or not, here I jump! We drove a bit further and LJ dropped the 3 of us planning to do the dive on a corner in the middle of nowhere. Literally. It was surreal. Keri was there from Skydive NZ to drive us first into the Franz Josef township to pick up a Chinese couple who would also be jumping, and then out to Fox Glacier, where our plane would be taking off to carry us up 12,000 feet before opening its door and releasing us.
Keri, in a very soothing voice, informed us of the basics on our ride out, pausing every once in a while for Phyllis, who spoke English, to translate for her boyfriend, who did not speak English and who was very nervous. We pulled off the road into a dirt driveway and up to an airplane hangar, where I spotted our plane outside. It was absolutely tiny. The "office" was one small room, with, fortunately, a bathroom attached. At least I'd lessen the risk of peeing my pants on the way down. Behind the office, in the same building, were 3 or 4 bedrooms. Surrounding this building were another 3 or 4 trailers. The people who work at Skydive NZ don't live in the township. They're gypsies of a different type, coming into Fox Glacier when the weather is good to live in their trailers or small rooms, sharing the one bathroom, throwing themselves out of planes with people attached to them, and then going back home when the weather's not good. Not a bad life. Sign me up!
So we walked into the office, suited up in our very sexy red and black jumpsuits, and worked out who'd be jumping when. The plane could only accomodate two tandem jumpers at a time. Phyllis and her boyfriend would be going first, followed by me and Barbara, and then Cheryl, who'd be jumping with the owner's 11-year-old son (not as her tandem; he'd just be going with her since there were only 5 people jumping that day). The owner's son would be doing his 23rd skydive that day. He first dived when he was 4. Not a bad life.
Rod went through explaining precisely the process that we'd be following, again pausing for Phyllis to translate. By now Phyllis's boyfriend was very nervous. He only wanted to jump from 9,000 feet and was concerned about not being able to breathe. I was glad that I was somehow nowhere near as nervous.
Cheryl, Barbara and I waited outside while the other 2 boarded the plane and took off. We followed the plane in the sky for a while, then could only hear it as it went above the clouds. Rod was outside with us. I asked him if anyone had ever passed out on the way down. He said yes, but for no longer than 20 seconds. Oh, that's good. Then I asked him if anyone had ever thrown up. He said yes, and I laughed as I got an image of a farmer in the fields with his sheep, getting rained on by puke descending from the heavens. Imagine if he looked up and got blinded. Wouldn't that be an awful way to lose your sight? Anyway, the next thing we spotted was Phyllis and her boyfriend, floating down in their parachutes. It looks like they both decided to jump from 12,000 feet afterall! Good for him, but... holy crap they're high up!
We heard the plane draw near, and next thing I knew, down the runway it came. I took a deep breathe. Here we go. Rod, who'd be jumping with me, helped me into my harness, and we walked out to the plane. I practiced hanging out of the plane, curled into a banana with my feet under the bar and my arms crossed at my chest, had a pre-boarding interview for my DVD, and into the plane we squeezed. Literally. The only seat in there was the pilot's. Barbara, her tandem jumper, and Rod and I huddled on the floor. I was sitting right next to the see-through door. The ground was rushing away below the plane outside until, suddenly, we were up in the air. That was the only point at which my stomach rose into my throat, but it quickly went back to where it was supposed to be, and I took a deep breath and decided to focus on the scenery. Somehow, I found some meditative power within myself to stay calm and collected. Every once in a while I'd get worried about peeing my pants on the way down, or I'd notice my blood pressure rise a bit, but for the most part I happily looked around at the scenery--Mt. Cook! Fox Glacier! How could you not be blown away?-- knowing that it was silly to worry about anything, as it was all outside of my control anyway.
We got to 9,000 feet. It was time to put the videocamera away, tuck the digital camera into my jumpsuit, and don the lovely cap and goggles. The (very handsome) pilot gave the thumbs up, letting us know we'd arrived at 12,000 feet. And then. The door opened. No turning back now. The wind blew past furiously. How in the world would I be able to push my feet out into that resistance? Well, here we go. All I need to do is put one foot out at a time. That's all. I won't think of anything past that, let's just slide my legs out. First the right. Ok, it's over the edge. Now the left. Ok, my feet are out. Rod twisted his body with mine and pushed himself to the edge. And there I was, dangling, nothing below me but 12,000 feet of empty space and nothing affixing me to the plane but my harness, attached to Rod. I dangled for what felt like an eternity, as Rod got the camera out, took a bit of footage, and I posed a bit for the camera attached to the wing. I looked out at the mountains, then down towards Earth. It wasn't a question of whether I could do it or not. I had no choice in that matter. The only thing I was feeling in that eternal yet brief moment was, "What is this going to feel like?" I knew I'd find out in a matter of seconds. Dangling into the unknown like that, literally, with no idea of what to expect next, is a very odd sensation. My only other concern was that feeling I hate, of my stomach in my throat and not being able to breathe. Would that happen?
And then. Rod slipped off the edge and away we tumbled, doing somersaults out of the plane. The ground was above me, then below, I spotted the plane as it zoomed off. And what did I feel? Nothing but the purest, most unadulterated joy I've ever felt in my whole life. No exaggerating. There was no stomach in the throat, I could breathe fine. And I was happy. So happy! I grinned like a kid at Christmas the entire way down, staring at the ground below us, then the mountains in front of us, feeling the wind rush past my ears. It was amazing.
Too soon the parachute opened. There's nothing like that rush of the freefall I'd just felt, but the second stage of skydiving, though completely different in nature, is equally amazing. After a bit of a jerk when the 'chute opened, we drifted peacefully downward. Everything was quiet and calm, especially when juxtaposed with the speed and noise of the freefall. I took my camera out of my jumpsuit, and snapped a shot or 2 as Rod pointed out everything around us: Fox glacier, the mountains, a lake, the Tasman Sea, rainforest... Skydiving at Fox Glacier is supposedly the second most beautiful place to jump in the world. I'll have to do it again, because the first time I was so excited that I wasn't able to really soak everything in.
Down we drifted. I watched as Barbara jumped out above us, Rod let me steer the parachute, we spun around a bit... Then, again, too soon, the ground drew closer and closer. I drew my legs up into a pike, and we landed sitting. Keri was there to pick us up. She and Rod helped unhook me, I got up, gave Barbara a hug, gave Rod a hug, took some pictures, gave my post-dive interview for my DVD, gushing like a little kid. I was ready to do it again. Alas, we had to pack up the parachutes and head back to base.
When we got back, Cheryl was still preparing outside the plane. I shouted to her that it was amazing, watched her take off, and then went to watch my DVD as it was being edited. The guy who did the editing for the videos, a young guy, had a cane and a limp, and his leg was bandaged. Apparently he'd gone out hunting with a friend and his friend had accidentally shot him in the leg. Oops.
By this point, the adrenaline rush along with the air pressure was worsening that headache I'd woken up with in the morning, and had turned it into a full-fledged migraine. Silent and trying my hardest not to vomit, I headed back into Franz Josef with the others. I knew I needed some food desperately, and some chocolate, if I didn't want to be miserable the rest of the night. So I headed to the grocery store with Cheryl and Barbara. As soon as I walked in, who did I spot in line? Why, none other than my partner in fate, Tamas--remember? I'd first met him in Wellington. And guess what? He'd jumped that morning, and had tandemed with the same guy I had, Rod. How funny can fate be sometimes? We met up later that night to relive our experiences over hot chocolate, one of the few times we've actually successfully hung out after planning to do so, and then, all adrenaline-rushed out, it was early to bed for me. After all, I had a glacier to climb the next day!
Franz Josef Day 2:After jumping out of a plane, a glacier hike seemed like cake. Although I must admit I was slightly frightened I wouldn't be in adequate shape for it after having spoken to a girl in Auckland: Natalie, from Minnesota (Out of the 7 or 8 Americans I've met so far, 4 have been from Minnesota. Guess they just want to get the hell out.) Natalie, younger than I and thin, warned me about how exhausting the full-day hike was and advised me to do the 3/4 day one. I followed her advice. Honestly, I should have just done the full day one. It was cake. It took about an hour to actually hike out to the glacier, and as we strapped on our cramp-ons (I was the first to get them on properly! Are you proud, Dad?), our guide, Kate, warned us that the next 45 minutes would be a sheer vertical climb up the terminal face, and told us to not worry if we felt our lungs were about to explode. Once we got past the terminal face, things would get much easier.
Well, my lungs didn't explode. I don't think I even got out of breath. I'd like to say it's because I'm so in shape now after having carried my too-heavy backpack around so much, but it was a universal opinion that the climb up the face of the glacier had been pretty tame. Once we got up the face, we only had about an hour and a half, including lunch, to explore the more beautiful blue ice. We had some fun shuffling through crevasses (sp?) and sliding down worm holes, but I would have liked to spend more time up there. So, word of advice for anyone heading to NZ sometime during this lifetime: just do the full-day hike. If I can do it, you can too.
Oh yeah, the cold front that was supposed to arrive yesterday (but that waited so that I could jump out of a plane) was finally on its way through, and the skies were overcast and threatening all day. The rain held off for us, though, until right before we boarded the bus to go back into town. I'm telling you, karma's been good to me on this trip.
After some time in the sauna and the hot tub (who said backpackers had it tough??) we headed to the hostel's bar for some chocolate cake (hey, I'd hiked a glacier) and that backpacker staple, karaoke. Groups from a Stray bus and a Magic bus (two Kiwi competitors) were there as well. I am proud to say that our bus put everyone to shame. All 26 of us got up to sing Sweet Child of Mine, doing a push up instead of saying the word "mine" each time. It was a sight to behold. I also finally caught Pete, whose sole purpose of existence the past week had been getting people to say "mine". Ah, sweet revenge, as, much to his chagrin, he got down and gave me ten not once but twice. We were then entertained the rest of the night by an insane Australian girl who kept getting up and singing with people she didn't know, when it wasn't her turn, and dancing around the bar like a hippy at Woodstock on LSD, getting in the way of everyone playing pool and nearly lighting herself on fire from the fireplace. It was a good night.
Wanaka:The next day, we departed for Wanaka. It was rainy and cold. I however chose to wear my flip flops on this day (Why? Who knows?) and promptly fell flat on my ass when my feet slipped from under me at our first bathroom stop. Of course.
Wanaka is a sweet little town, surrounded by a lake and beautiful mountains. People compare it to Queenstown 10 years ago--the scenery without the craziness. Unfortunately, it was too rainy to truly enjoy the surroundings, but no matter. Wanaka is home to a place called Cinema Paradiso, a movie theater with couches where you can order food and beer. Perfect! Some of us made a group meal of fajitas, and then we headed out in the rain to the Cinema.
Apparently, Wanaka being a small town, there is not much else to do on a rainy Sunday evening other than go to the Cinema. We couldn't even get in the door. Joey made her way to the desk to see if there were still tickets. There was a waiting list... Ok, nevermind. It was off to the bar and in front of the fire for us instead. I'll just have to add Cinema Paradiso to my list of things to come back and do.
My Kiwi Experience continued
So...
Lake Mahanapua:
In Lake Mahanapua (whose name I kept forgetting and so kept calling Lake Wannapupu), we stayed at a pub owned by Les. Les was the ultimate Kiwi character: a former All Blacks player (All Blacks= Rugby team in NZ) with a penchant for the word "bloody" who could now easily fill in for any of the members of ZZ Top. Les's pub is literally in the middle of nowhere, and so, to prevent the Kiwi Experience kids from getting into trouble out of sheer boredom, it is a tradition that, during our night at the Pupu Pub, we have a fancy dress (read: costume) party. I had suggested the theme of pirates, and after a vote, the pirate theme had won. So, on the way down to the Lake, we stopped in a small town called Greymouth to purchase our costumes. It was here that I discovered I had lost my ATM card, but no worries, I'd deal with that later. For now, I had to find a costume. I decided to dress as a bottle of rum: it was cheap and easy. So after an hour at the Warehouse (NZ's version of Walmart...The Warehouse! Where everyone gets a bargain!), spent running through the aisles and playing with various items for sale, in the manner of an unruly child with ADD, I emerged with my roll of brown paper and a party hat that would act as a bottle cap. LJ, our driver, emerged with a pirate costume whose size was appropriate for a 6-year-old. LJ, possessing quite a fondness for tight clothing, drove the rest of the way with his skintight, black and white striped belly shirt that was already starting to rip in some places.
After arriving in Lake Wannapupu, Les boarded the bus to jovially warn us (if warning can be done in a jovial way) against bringing alcohol on the premises (he'd search our bags during dinner and smash the bottles!) and doing naughty things in discreet hallways (there were cameras!). He also related the story, more than once, of how he hurt is arm after, would you believe it, falling out of the bloody bed. An endearing curmudgeon, Les had us at hello.
As we had arrived right before sunset, after our talking-to, we grabbed a couple bottles of wine and a few plastic cups, and headed down to the beach. Sitting shivering on a log, we watched the boys toss a frisbee in front of a frothy sea with a quickly setting sun as the backdrop. Then it was time to prepare for the party.
My costume was easy enough—cut an adequate length of paper, color in the word "rum", fashion some straps, and slip my bottle over my head. I was bunking with 3 other girls. Katy, a pirate, and Cheryl, Tinkerbell, also got ready quickly. Then there was Joey. Joey had decided to dress as a parrot. Getting ready proved more complicated than her wedding day will probably be, as she sat affixing feathers to her shirt with a 2 dollar stapler. We aided in her preparation by helping to construct her tail and beak, and fashioning her hair into spikes, loops and swirls with the aid of pipe cleaners. It would have made an interesting picture: Tinkerbell, a pirate, and a bottle of rum, gathered around a redhead betrothed in a rainbow of feathers and streamers, sticking pipe cleaners in her hair. When we were done, Joey was truly a masterpiece.
We headed off to the pub, giddy like high school girls on prom night. Would everyone else be as dressed up as we were? What would they look like? Would we fit in? Beyond feeling a bit self-conscious and silly, we were also aware of the prize to be won: the person with the most original costume that night would win a free Canyon Swing in Queenstown. Canyon Swing? It consists of a 60 meter drop, like a bungee. Unlike a bungee, your cord was affixed to a platform across the canyon from the platform from which you leapt, meaning after free-falling 60 meters, you weren't done yet: you'd swing back and forth another 200. Me? I was all set. I'd have been glad to have faded into the woodwork. No prize for me, thanks. Joey, though was keen on winning, and I was confident she had a chance.
And win she did. Well, second place. First place was won by Ric, who'd dressed as "The Plank". I ruined his costume later in the night when I decided it would be fun to make him lie on the floor so I could walk the plank. Of course, I wasn't content with just walking; I had to do a little dance as well. Joey came in second, as I mentioned, and third was won by Kirk, who'd fashioned a treasure map out of a brown sheet and a sharpie. Les was so impressed by our group's kindness and courtesy that he decided to award not just one, but two Canyon Swing vouchers, so Ric and Joey both won the freebie. He also awarded Kirk a voucher for free photos and DVD at the K-bridge bungee jump in Queenstown, site of the first ever commercial bungee jump. Kirk was less than thrilled. He's not really the thrill-seeker type.
Apart from the winners, it was an impressive outing by all, from Carly and Sam, the couple from England who'd fashioned themselves a pirate ship, to Daragh, who wore the symbol for Pi on his head and a T-shirt with a farting rat (Pi + rat = pirate. The farting was superfluous.)
The night reached its peak as Tyrone, a half-Irish half-Spanish guy from Bilbao, Spain, lined us up and taught us how to take tequila shots the Spanish way, which involved licking salt off of the neck of the person behind you and retrieving your lime from his mouth. I was unluckily positioned in front of a very young local, whose facial expression was equal to someone who'd won the lottery. He was not so happy when I informed him that I don't take salt with my tequila shots. I don't think he quite understood, and spent a few minutes saying to me "What about the salt? You forgot about the salt." Then Joey was nearly abducted by a drunk local man who had bought her a bone-carving necklace and who also kept trying to steal her away to see the glow worms in the caves nearby. She escaped unscathed, with a story to tell. Fun was had by all.
Franz Josef:
A bit too much fun, perhaps. As I woke up the next morning on my top bunk, my head slightly throbbing, I remembered what awaited me that day. Provided the weather was nice, which, seeing as it rains over 200 days a year in the Franz Josef region, was on the unlikely side, I would be propelling myself out of the door of a small plane with a hopefully capable stranger strapped to my back. I stole a glance through the curtain of the window at the head of my bed. The sky was bright, sunny, and blue. So much for the past week's forecast, which assured that a front of messy, nasty weather would be heading through the area starting that morning. Was this good luck or bad? I was happy, though still a bit anxious: if you thought the weather in New England is finicky, go to the South Island of New Zealand. I just wanted to know definitely: would I jump or would I not? I still had to wait and see. At any rate, I was happy the weather was nice, but my happiness was more out of complacency rather than eagerness. As is typical of its behavior, my brain refused to process the fact that, within the next 6 hours, I'd be jumping out of a plane. Instead, it looked at the situation the way a dog may perhaps watch as its owner does jumping-jacks. Mildly interested, perhaps even amused, its tongue rolling out of the side of its mouth, he watches this bit of odd, foreign activity being performed not by him, but by someone familiar and somehow connected to his reality. That was how my bemused brain was looking at my impending dive.
At any rate, there were a few hours to go still, and a good deal of surreal absurdity, before I could even ponder the reality of what I was about to do. On the way to the Franz Josef glacier, we hopped off the bus at a place called the Bushman's Centre. I just didn't quite know what to make of this place, a small museum that celebrated the Wild Wild West of southern New Zealand. You haven't seen pride in place until you've been to the South Island, let me tell you. They put America's biggest patriots to shame. The excited owner of the Bushman Centre, we'll call him Mac, boarded the bus, decked out in short shorts and hiking boots, the western man's uniform, to excitedly tell us about the fun that awaited us. I call it a museum (well, they call it a museum), but it's the oddest museum I've ever seen. They had 3 main exhibits. The first consisted of a wild pig we could pet and feed. From Mac's description, we were expecting an angry bohemoth to come charging out when we opened the gate. He was a bohemoth alright, but barely angry, and more like ambling than charging. When he was done happily munching on his bread, he laid down and rolled over to have his tummy rubbed.
The second exhibit was a possum. Yes, a possum. As in the animal that ends up as roadkill in NZ with an even greater frequency than in the States. Apparently possums are different from o'possums, or whatever we have in the States. Instead of a white rat-like animal with a long snout and tail, this guy was actually pretty cute--wide-eyed and brown. We fed him Chex.
The third exhibit was actually a film. The film celebrated the brave men who leapt out of helicopters and tackled deer a couple of decades ago. Yes. They jumped out of helicopters. Moving helicopters. And jumped on top of deer. To capture them. And string them up in nets dangling from the helicopter. And bring them to farms. See, deer are not a native species, and had become an enormous nuisance, chowing through and ruining thousands of acres of grassland. So the Kiwi solution was to capture them and put them in farms. Kiwis enjoy their venison, so may as well farm the deer for the meat. Why use a net, though, when it's more fun, and more extreme--Kiwis love the extreme--to tackle them from the air? So the Bushman Centre described and celebrated this process, in a film set to the tune of Danger Zone.
I don't think any other day could have provided such a satisfying lead-up to me jumping out of a plane.
What's the matter?!-- My Kiwi Experience (South Island, NZ)
Well, my adventure on the Kiwi Experience bus started as only an Allison adventure can start. I almost missed the bus. No, I didn't wake up late. In fact, I was outside and waiting 15 minutes early. I was just waiting in the wrong spot. When it started getting a little late, out of curiosity, I walked around the corner of the building. There was the big green Kiwi bus, alright...pulling away. I had to run up to it and flag it down for it to stop. At least it did. I grabbed my bag awkwardly and stumbled onto your bus, very nearly forgetting to say "Ditte" when LJ, the bus driver, asked me my name. Out of breath, my heart racing, this was not the optimal way to embark on a journey under an assumed identity. All the double seats were taken up by at least one person, so I grabbed a seat next to Pete, my first Kiwi Experience friend, and my adventure had begun.
LJ, the driver, was about as much of a character as a person can be. On the short side, with spiky hair, he resembled Sonic the Hedgehog's little sidekick on speed. This guy had the type of energy I can only imagine. I was really lucky ending up on LJ's bus; he had the perfect personality for the job and really brought everyone together. I don't think I would have left the Experience with as many friends and memories had I been on someone else's bus.
After the three-hour ferry ride down to the South Island, we hopped back on the bus, and things turned awkward again, as they are apt to do in my life. This being my first time on the Kiwi bus, I didn't really know how things worked. LJ first asked who was new to the bus. I knew, from having talked to Pete, that most of the people who had taken the ferry over had been travelling together for a while, so I assumed he meant "Who's new today?" So I, along with 2 other girls, raised my hand. But, no, he meant, "Who has never travelled on Kiwi before?" Well, I (as in Ditte) had technically travelled through the North Island with Kiwi, and seeing as LJ had my ticket in front of him, with the places I'd already travelled to initialled by the drivers I'd gone with, I looked like an idiot. Anyway, LJ asked us our names as a means to introduce us to the bus. I responded, "Well, I go by Allison." Everyone looked at me a bit quizzically, because what is Allison short for? I felt myself go bright red. Then, to make matters worse, LJ said, "Allison, I see you had a driver named Buzz."
"Um, yes."
"When was that?"
"Oh, I don't know, February sometime?" (Fortunately the real Ditte had told me when she had used the northern portion of the ticket.)
"Yeah, I figured. He hasn't worked for us for a while. So what have you been doing since then? Working in Wellington?"
"Um, something like that..."
A little put off, LJ responded, "I'm not trying to be nosy or anything, just trying to make some conversation."
I wanted to die. I also felt like a jerk.
Fortunately he left it at that. Thanks to my guilty conscience, I'm so awful at lying, it's laughable. My conscience pecked at me the rest of the day, and that night I had a dream that I was at the airport for my flight to Sydney and they wouldn't let me out of the country because the name of my Kiwi Experience ticket didn't match the name on my passport.
Fortunately nothing even close to that drastic happened, and it was pretty much smooth sailing the rest of the time, although I'd have a bout of nerves anytime I got on a bus with a new driver or had to pay with a credit card for a booking under "Allison Jensen".
Anyway, the itinerary of my journey went like this:
Day 1: (Tuesday) Picton (where the ferry drops off) to Nelson
Day 2: (Wednesday) Nelson to Westport (land of the mullets)
Day 3: (Thursday) Westport to Lake Mahanapua (Lake Wannapupu)
Day 4: (Friday) Lake Mahanapua to Franz Josef (skydive!!!)
Day 5: (Saturday) Free day in Franz Josef
Day 6: (Sunday) Franz Josef to Wanaka
Day 7: (Monday) Wanaka to Queenstown (big night out with the bus before everyone went their separate ways)
Day 8: (Tuesday) Queenie
Day 9: (Wednesday) Queenie
Day 10: (Thursday) Queenie to Dunedin
Day 11: (Friday) Dunedin
Day 12: (Saturday) Dunedin
Day 13: (Sunday) Dunedin
Day 14: (Monday) Dunedin to Curio Bay
Day 15: (Tuesday) Curio Bay through Invercargill to Te Anau
Day 16: (Wednesday) Te Anau to Milford Sound and back to Queenie
Day 17: (Thursday) Queenie
Day 18 (Friday) Queenie
Day 19: (Saturday) Queenie to Christchurch
Day 20: (Sunday) Christchurch to Sydney, Australia (That was yesterday)
Anyway, I won't bore you with the minutia of every single day, but I will include some highlights from each location. I already know I won't get through everything in one sitting, but, to give you a preview, some highlights:
Scaling glaciers! Jumping out of planes! Dressing up like a bottle of rum! Late night hummus fights! Falling into a tree in a graveyard! Lots of karaoke! Playing groupie to a band in Queenstown! (Not in the biblical sense, don't worry.) Nearly getting trampled by sea lions! (Well, not really, they were sleeping.) Almost getting beaten up by drunk and stoned locals!
Are you ready for my Kiwi Experience? Here we go!
Nelson:
Situated near Abel Tasman National Park, whose wonders I did not get to enjoy (weather was crappy), Nelson, a low, quaint, pleasant place, is the sunniest city in New Zealand and home to the true Centre of New Zealand (as in the middle of the country). Upon arriving in town, I decided to take a walk up to the Centre with Joey, a girl from Surrey, England who has become my greatest travel friend, and Jon, from London. The walk was grueling: a ceaseless, steep uphill. I felt accomplished having done it though, and we of course stopped at the top for the token scenery pictures and a shot with the compass marking the center of New Zealand. Afterwards, we went back to the hostel/hotel for dinner and a free beer tasting. My favorite was called sassy red. Played a few card games, broke the foozball table, and headed off to bed. I was rooming with Joey and Ric and Pete (my first Kiwi friend), 2 guys from Leeds, England, who are at the tail end of their year-long RTW trip. Since that night, it became a running joke that Ric and Pete were gay lovers, after they had a bit of a quarrel in their bunk bed (Pete slept on the bottom bunk, Ric on top. Know that hostel bunk beds are notoriously squeaky.):
"Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting, you're fidgeting."
"No, I'm definitely not fidgeting."
"Well, someone is, so stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting..."
Et cetera...
I never let them live that down, and, in return, Pete was after me the whole time of travelling to get me to say the word "mine". Well, like a little kid out to pester people, he was after everyone, but I think was especially gleeful when he tripped me up.
What's so special about the word "mine", then? Well, LJ had these games we played as a bus. First, he had dice hanging from his rearview mirror. Everytime we either boarded or got off the bus, we had to touch the dice or it was 10 push-ups. We also faced the same fate if we said the word "mine", so it was a constant game of, "Whose bag is this? Is this your bag?" "Yes, that bag belongs to me." This led to some truly hysterical moments, like when we stole Ric's beer and passed it around the room until he answered the question, "Whose beer is this?" with "Mine."
At any rate...
Westport:
On the way driving to Westport, we took an hour-long walk in Nelson Lakes National Park that was muddy and strenuous. I was proud of myself as many around us moaned and groaned, out of breath. My vertical climb yesterday must have helped; I wasn't out of breath at all!!
After lunch outside by the lake, accompanied by sandflies, it was on to Buller Adventures, a company that ran a jet boat ride through Buller Gorge. As Craig, the driver, steered the boat into 360 degree turns (actually leaving the water at times, I think), water streamed into my shirt and down my back and I may have cracked a rib from the force of people crashing into me thanks to centrifugal force. I was freezing and a bit sore, but it was fun, and worth it.
LJ had told us to keep an eye out for mullets in Westport, and as Craig drove us into town, he affirmed the fact that Westport was a bit of a backwater. Not heeding his warnings directing us to one and only one pub, later that night we made our way to a pub that was not the one he had recommended. Some of the boys had been there for dinner earlier that evening, and on the way, we crossed paths with Tyrone, a half-Irish, half-Spanish guy from Bilbao, Espana, who is presently teaching Spanish in Auckland (future career opportunities???). Anyway, the fact that we ran into him will become significant later in the night.
We hung out at the bar the rest of the night, playing pool and cards. We were the only ones in there, and the barman, a very friendly fellow, was clearly staying open just for us. Towards the end of the night, though, a couple of locals, men in their 60s, probably, came in for a few drinks. They seemed nice enough, though very clearly drunk and some, but we managed to make some small talk. Finally, we were ready to leave. Doing a quick glance around the room to see if we'd left anything, we spotted a sweater under a table where we'd been sitting earlier in the night. It looked kind of euro, and we assumed, after asking the bartender if he knew whose it was, that it belonged to Tyrone. So we grabbed it and left, passing by the 2 locals, outside for a smoke, on the way out. They said hello, clearly out of their gourds, and invited us to "get f--ed up" with them. We declined the offer and headed back to the hostel.
On the way, Kirk, a fellow from the bus who was travelling from the money he'd won playing poker online, put the sweater on as it was cold. When we got to the hostel, Kirk put his hands in the sweater's pockets and pulled out... a packet of New Zealand's famous "party pills" (marginally legal tablets of speed) from one pocket and an enormous bag of weed from another. Damn, Tyrone, what have you been getting into? As we sat there thinking about it, though, we realized that Tyrone, who had left the bar hours ago, had he been in possession of such sybstances, would have quickly realized he'd left them and made a beeline back to the bar before anyone noticed. That meant the sweater must have belonged to one of the 2 locals, who would not be happy that a bunch of frivolous backpackers had taken off with his stash. Seeing as it was an honest mistake, I walked back to the bar with Ric and Pete to return the sweater. The bar was dark, but we knocked on the door and the barman came out. We said "We accidentally grabbed this sweater. We think it belongs to one of the guys here earlier." The barman responded, "Yeah, it does, thanks for bringing it back," wished us good night, and off we went. No big deal.
Well, when we got back to the hostel, everyone who was still up was literally huddled together in the kitchen. As we enetered, they exclaimed "Oh my god, are you ok? We were so worried!" Apparently, while we'd been out, one of the locals had called the hostel and told the woman who owned it, who we had already realized was a bit off her rocker, that the backpackers staying at her hostel had nicked his sweater and if we didn't get it back immediately, he was going to come hunt us down. She, in turn, came into the kitchen and started yelling at the others, saying that this is a small town and we didn't know what sort of trouble we were getting into. The others tried to explain it was an honest mistake, but she'd have none of it, and said we were lucky that Ric, Pete and I were on our way to return it or she would have kicked every single one of us out.
We all slept with one eye open that night.
And the rest is to be continued...
Itinerary update
I postponed my flight to Oz for a few days because I needed some well-deserved rest after Queenstown. Queenie can ruin you if you let it. Anyway, I'll be flying into Australia on Sunday, the 15th, not yesterday. I'll be staying with my friend Cheryl from Tufts. If you care to send me anything, her address is:
601 / 172 Riley Street
Surry Hills, NSW
Australia 2010
It takes about a week and a half for a letter to arrive, and I'll be there until Sunday the 22nd... So you'll have to send it soon. :)
Blowin' in the wind (Wellington, NZ)
23-26 September
The busride from Gisborne to Wellington was a long one--10 hours. It had passed by relatively quickly, surprisingly enough. The only frustrating portion of the ride was when the passenger behind me didn't realize that headphones + nose in a book = a person who is probably content not being in a conversation. After being tapped on the shoulder by aforementioned passenger, I felt obliged to take off my headphones and converse, since he didn't take my nonverbal "leave me alone" cues. My conversation with the young Maori man was quite pleasant at first, and I honestly felt bad having rushed to judgment after realizing he just wanted to talk because his mom was dying of cancer and he was sad and needed company. As soon as he found out I was American, though, the conversation took an immediate downturn to how many brand names he had in his closet and how much he liked Tupac. I was happy when he got off the bus about an hour later.
My nose happily back in my book, I barely noticed that darkness had begun to fall. Pausing in thought, I looked out the window to spot a menacing grey sea meters away rolling in an equally grey darkness. It was a dangerously beautiful welcome to Wellington, the real windy city.
After deboarding my Intercity bus, I hopped on a city bus to my hostel and met Tamas, a Hungarian man without a country who has become my partner in fate. Destiny has dictated over the past few weeks that we continue to bump into each other unexpectedly and completely randomly (in a supermarket, walking past a cafe) in various cities throughout New Zealand. However, anytime we actually make plans to meet up, something happens and our plans fail. Our serendipitous encounters, nonetheless, are welcome and I hope they continue as we follow a similar trajectory across the globe.
That night was an early one for me--funny how 10 hours on a bus can make you utterly exhausted. The next morning, fate again stuck a hand in on this journey of mine, and I met a girl named Ditte Jensen, whose name will be forever engraved in my mind, as I have assumed her identity. What's that, you say? Let me explain. I had explored the north island on my own, as I knew I'd be meeting up with Lance and would have a car for a portion anyway. However, as I had only 2 1/2 weeks on the south island, and was still feeling a bit lonely after having left Lance in a McDonald's parking lot in Gisborne, I decided I'd hop on one of the many organized tours through the south island. There are a number of companies that run coaches throughout New Zealand. Along the way, you stop at times for hikes or random museums dedicated to possums. You also have the option of hopping off in any town we stay overnight and waiting for another bus to follow, be it 2 days later or 5 months. It's a nice system, and while I like to organize things myself, knowing my time was very limited, I liked the idea of having everything organized for me.
Anyway, blah blah blah, I was looking to hop most likely on a bus called the Kiwi Experience. I mentioned this to the now infamous, in some circles anyway, Ditte, who had purchased a Kiwi ticket for both the north and south islands but had only ended up using the north island portion of the ticket. She offered to sell me her ticket at a discount, and I agreed. And thus was born Ditte Allison Jensen. I go by my middle name, in case you're wondering.
The truly entertaining portion of this story must wait until I get to my entry on the south island and my Kiwi experience. First, the rest of Wellington.
After my illegal transaction (during the course of which I lost my ATM card somewhere. At least karma avenged my cheating ways quickly) I set off to the quaint, artsy, bohemian Cuba St., where I had a long black (coffee) and some brekky. And then I fell in love. Don't worry mom, I'm not running off and eloping yet; it was a museum, not a man, that won my affection. I don't know how normal this is, but whatever.
The name of the object of my affection is named Te Papa, and it may sound like I am exaggerating when I say I fell in love with it, but I swear, it was the most amazing museum I have ever set foot within. Dan, you'd have loved the first floor of this place, dedicated to the flora and fauna of New Zealand. Very visually appealing and colorful, with life-size models of animals and plants, contemporary and ancient, accompanied by commentary on select species by New Zealand children. There was also a hands-on discovery zone with all sorts of microscopes and puzzles intended for children. I of course had a ball. Outside the first floor, the museum had reproduced native New Zealand bush and a little cave system. There were also rocks that had stood as silent witnesses to the passing of time since 200 million years before the dinosaurs. I was humbled.
While the first floor was obviously geared towards the kiddies (and you consequently had to endure screaming children tripping you constantly), the other floors appealed more to the adults. The second floor dealt with the changes the New Zealand landscape had sadly borne witness to over the past few hundred years. The idyllic landscape of green rolling hills that I adore and see as iconic of New Zealand bears no relation to the native bush and massive kauri forests that once covered the land here. A land that was previously only 5% grassland is now 51%. On the other hand, 85% of New Zealand's land was once covered in forest. Of that original amount, only 25% remains. The massive botanical redefinition of New Zealand really struck me, and I find it strangely odd that vistas we see as definitive of New Zealand really have nothing to do with what the land should look like. Furthermore, New Zealand has the unfortunate distinction of having the greatest number of native species of fauna that are now extinct. So what caused this huge upset? Logging, of course, and clearing land purposefully for farms. The biggest disruption, however, was the introduction of non-native species into a region whose isolation had created species with few natural defenses. The sardonically funny thing is that a lot of these introduced species came to New Zealand not out of necessity but as a comfort to the European settlers who missed home and for whom NZ was simply too exotic. Of course, none of the truly massive disruption occurred until the European settlers arrived. How is it that the cultural group that became most powerful was also the group that time and again caused the most disruption and destruction, not only of plants and animals, but also of cultural groups that actually seemed to get it have a much more healthy and sustainable relation with their surroundings and each other?
At any rate, I'll leave the ethnocultural debate at that, at least until I read Guns, Germs and Steel. I will say, however, that the Te Papa also provided me with a great admiration for the Maori culture-- for one because of the way the Europeans destructive ways were contrasted with the Maori attitude towards mother nature: in sum, they didn't own the land; the land owned them. Also, the third floor of the museum was dedicated to the Maori culture and customs, and also to the lengthy struggle they have faced in trying to maintain their land. I am not informed enough of the Maori culture and history at this point to comment too much, but I have certainly developed a deep respect and curiosity, a curiosity which I plan to pursue. It's funny, because I had assumed that the NZ and Oz portions of my journey would be more like Elizabeth Gilbert's Italy: a pursuit of pleasure (that's a reference to Eat Pray Love, best book ever), while the main goal of my journey, the internal, introspective and, for lack of a better word, spiritual pursuit, would occur in SE Asia and India. Te Papa opened my eyes, however, and reminded me of a rich tradition and belief system here in front of my face. It also reawakened the anthropologist within. I had forgotten about her. It's nice to have her back. I look forward now to spending a bit more time in the Outback in Oz now that I have her within me again, and seeing what the Aborigines have to teach me.
Enough of this weird multiple personality stuff, on with Wellington. I bumped into Tamas at the Te Papa, the second in our now extended history of random encounters, and we shared some Indian food, coffee and good conversation the rest of the evening. That was nice as I had just started to feel a bit lonely inside the museum. Funny how fate sends someone along your path just when you need them. I was all alone in my 6-bed dorm room at the hostel that night, so I took advantage of the rare moment of solitude and the inspiration I had gathered from my conversation with Tamas to write a bit.
Anyway, the next day I strolled through the waterfront and down to the unimpressive Parliament building, which didn't even warrent a picture, and then took the cable car up to the botanical gardens. The gardens were beautiful. Unfortunately, it was frigidly cold, and Wellington's ever-present gales didn't help, so I made my way back down to the Te Papa. Mind you I had spent 6 hours there the day before. Must be true love. That night I went with some girls from the Magic bus (a Kiwi competitor) who had moved into my dormroom to a local backpackers' bar, where I got teased by the Magic driver since I would depart with Kiwi the next day. Little did I know that at that same bar were a number of future friends, people I'd join the next day on the Kiwi bus, and with whom I'd grow close as only people travelling together and sharing space and experiences can grow. I recognized a number of their faces on the bus the next day, and from now on will truly never forget them. My Kiwi adventure as Ditte Jensen was set to begin.
Just keep truckin' (Hamilton, Raglan, Coromandel Peninsula, Whakatane, East Cape, Gisborne, NZ)
18-22 September: Road trip with Lance
Meeting back up with Lance after 2 years of not seeing him at all was a bit surreal, but welcome. For those of you who don't know the background, Lance was the tour guide during the trip I chaperoned through New Zealand and Australia with 40 out of control high school kids two years ago. He's a great guy, and we've been in touch ever since. It was nice to see him again, and also a bit of a relief to be united with someone who actually knew me and with whom I could have a conversation with that didn't start with "So, how long will you be in New Zealand?"
At any rate, Lance was in town to help his parents move from his childhood home in Hamilton, on the east coast of the north island, across the country to Whakatane, on the west coast. In the meantime, however, he had a few days to take me on a road trip and show me the land within which he grew up. Our road trip would provide me with the opportunity to see incredibly isolated parts of New Zealand that most tourists never got the opportunity to see. Plus I'd get to take a road trip with a good friend. I couldn't wait!
After Lance met me in Hamilton, we took off the next morning over to Raglan, a surfing ground made famous in the movie Endless Summer. The area is composed of 3 major surfing breaks, from easiest to most difficult. From Ngaranui Bay, the bunny slope for surfers, the road rose steadily up. Rocks that at first sloped gradually down to a crashing surf rose into impressive cliffs with a blue ocean spraying over offshore rocks below. Unfortunately, the only good break that day could be found at Ngaranui. Lance hopped sure-footedly across the rocks for a bit of a surf while I sat reading and writing. The air was brisk and cool, but refreshing. Not a bad way to spend a morning.
After a late breakfast in town at Raglan, we stopped by Lance's childhood home and then headed
out to the Coromandel Peninsula, on the other side of the island. Fortunately a cross country trip doesn't take nearly as long in New Zealand as it would take in the States, and after a few hours of brilliant emerald hills dotted with sheep and cows and thatches of trees, a sapphire sea started to peak out beyond the green. And it wouldn't let you forget it. At the top of every hill and around every bend, it surprised you again and again with its brilliance. The day was beautiful and clear, and sunshine sparkled off the surface of the water as waves rolled into shore. The sheep still munched away on their grass, oblivious to the beauty surrounding them. The road finished its ascents and descents through the hills, and settled itself into a winding corrider next to the sea. Cliffs rose to my right as the sea shook hands with the land not even 3 meters below us on our left. It was brilliant. We stayed in Coromandel Town, on the northwest portion of the peninsula. We had a porch and a view of the sea across the way.
The next day, we headed out to take a walk through the bush and spot some kauri trees. The manager of the hotel where we stayed promised quite a few kauri, but we only managed to spot one. Didn't matter, the walk was refreshing. I'm astounded by how quickly the solitude of shade of the bush (forest for those not from this corner of the world) can suck you away in seconds from civilization. The sounds of exotic birds quickly drown out any other sound, and you truly feel very far from home in the middle of nowhere, but in a remarkable way.
After our bushwalk, we took off heading west on the 309, a winding dirt road that cuts across the peninsula. Along the way, we stopped at a waterfall whose basin invitied us for a swim. Unfortunately it was way too chilly. We also took a bushwalk through another kauri forest, and this one provided us with many more kauri. In the middle of absolutely nowhere, we stumbled upon a little shop with fruit and other products from a farm nearby, and I discovered the delicious wonder that is manuka honey. Manuka honey comes from the tea tree plant, which is all over NZ, and apart from possessing many health benefits, is also delicious, especially on toast.
The 309 sadly became paved again, and brought us into Whitianga. We stopped at Hot Water Beach, where at times you can dig a hole and soak in naturally warmed hot spring water. Unfortunately the hot springs phenomenon wasn't working that day, but I still enjoyed a nap in the warm sunshine and Lance had another surf. Across the way was a little artist community with a shop where I bought a great wooden ring with a shell inset. I of course promptly lost the ring before the end of the week.
Anyway, it was off again through brilliant scenery. I can't get over the sheer number of absolutely isolated beaches tucked here and there along the coastline. Around every other bend, we stumbled upon yet another completely isolated beach whose white (and sometimes black) sands abutted rocky cliffs and whose beauty easily surpassed any beach I have ever seen anywhere in the States. And they were all empty! Granted, it's still early spring, but it's not like there were any parking lots or anything nearby. The mindset is just completely different; in the States, any area of coastline with a beach immediately comes with resorts and a pricetag, even just for access. In New Zealand, the amount of unspoilt coastline is remarkable. I hope it stays that way.
Lance and I made our way into Whakatane, where a number or his family members live. We arrived right as darkness descended upon us. We stayed on Ohope Beach, a few kilometers over a hill and through more winding roads (all the roads in NZ are winding and hilly, I think). Ohope Beach is 11 kilometers of unbroken sand with views of the East Cape (thanks, Let's Go New Zealand). We stayed across from the beach, and woke up to walk outside to a view of the rolling waves of the Pacific. Lance took me on a tour through Whakatane, where high bluffs and the Whakatane River meet the ocean and fisherman wait patiently with their nets for whitebait.
Next it was on to the East Cape. The East Cape is one of the most isolated areas of the north island, and few tourists get the opportunity to see its beauty. As we drove, the land again rose, and the sea again played a game of hide and seek with the rolling hills. We went down to a town called Te Araroa, which consisted of 2 streets nestled within a dusty plane. We stopped at the only grocery store in the area, which was really a convenience store, for supplies for dinner. The isolation was utterly remarkable. The evening consisted of a feast of noodles and canned salmon and a glass (or more) of wine on a porch overlooking a hill descending into the sea.
Lance had to head back to Hamilton the next day to help his parents move, but first we drove down to Gisborne, passing through Tokomaru and Tolaga Bays. I grew instantly jealous as we stopped at some land Lance's family owns RIGHT on the ocean in Tokomaru Bay, then inspired and ready for some night shooting at an old meat factory on the water. Tokomaru Bay once was a thriving port, and the decrepit mill building facing the sea, along with the long wharf marching out into the ocean, were testament to this history. Train tracks were laid within the pier and once held trains that transported goods from awaiting ships to the factory. The tracks, wharf and factory are no longer in use, but would provide a brilliant spot for some photography under the full moon. Unfortunately, it was daytime and the full moon was a long way away.
Along the way, Lance entrusted me to have a hand at the wheel of his car. Mind you, they drive on the left in NZ, and the steering wheel is on the right. The car was also a stick. Although I almost drove us into the side of a bridge (in my mind, the rest of the car was to my right, but in reality, it was to my left. Oops) and ended up on the wrong side of the road one or two times, I didn't do that badly!!
Finally, it was off to Gisborne. It was a sad goodbye with Lance; I had grown accustomed to the company, and it was a bit depressing to be yet again a nameless person in a small far-away town. Gisborne's charm cured me quickly, though. The road into town is paved with an endless coastline of beautiful beaches, and within town, a blue river provides even more brilliant scenery, along with a great place to sit, have a beer, and reacquaint yourself with solitude. Which is precisely what I did.
Still, I was a bit lonely, nostalgic even. The relentless and unstoppable passing of time began to weigh heavily on my mind, and I started to wish I was Billy Pilgrim, from Slaughterhouse Five, possessing the ability to become unstuck in time and able to revisit those moments that had slipped so quickly through my fingertips before I'd even had a firm grasp on them. I commenced the long walk back to the hostel, a former convent, interestingly enough, and made myself some dinner. I sat down at the dining room table and noticed a bookcase behind me. As I turned to browse through the titles, the first book I spotted, wouldn't you know, was Slaughterhouse Five. Is that serendipity or what?
