TgoneKiwi

You Know You're in Canada When...

2010-11-21T22:04:00.000-08:00

Long time no see, blogfans!

Once upon a time I started this blag for a wild journey I took to New Zealand (hence the name), however, at some point I became swept up in my adventure and thus was unable to maintain weblogging pace with unfolding events (i.e. I got lazy/distracted). Perhaps some day the adventure tale will be told in a volume called Rise and Fall of the Kiwi, or something of the like.

I just took a trip to Vancouver, BC (Canada) and thought, "maybe I should use that old NZ blog to make note on occasional less-interesting travel." So now you're up to speed. On the day after I arrived (last Monday), a friend emailed to give well wishes and I replied thusly:

...yep I got in fine and went to my nerdy engineering conference today, thanks for checking. ... Canada is weird because if you didn't know better, you'd think it was America. I'll have to keep observing and see if I can figure out what the difference is...

Now on the night of my return home I reflect back and yes, I knew the moment when I figured out the difference: you know you're in Canada when the Greyhound driver informs you that bear mace is not, in fact, allowed aboard the bus. "Bear mace?" I ask. "Ya'd be sarpris'd" he counters in a thick Canadian form of English. Hm, Canada is a different place, I realize. So now I'm just thinking of how many more You-know-you're-in-Canada-when- lines I can come up with. You know you're in Canada when... Burger King has poutine.

Thinking it a bit odd that people would bring bear mace on a bus from Vancouver to Whistler, I did, in fact, see a black bear the night that I took the Greyhound bus. No, not out of a bus window. As in, I was 30 feet from a wild bear at 2(?)a.m. after having too many drinks with Manny, my new Indian-English mate who runs this.

Luckily my fantastic hostel outside Whistler Creek had a free copy of BEAR SMART at the front desk and I had looked it over earlier that day while waiting for the local bus to the village.

Given this incredible packet of information, I knew exactly what to do:

OK I know what you're thinking: JESUS Trevor you could've been killed! Well maybe, but I was just doing what BEAR SMART told me!

Well, at least I sort of did #2. Switching gears, you know you're in Canada when... The New Amsterdam Cafe is exactly what it sounds like. This establishment was around the corner from the hostel where I stayed my last night in Vancouver, and yes there are people smoking pot in there, plain as day. Yes, it's supposedly illegal in Canada. Yes, the police know. It's seemingly some kind of strange legal gray area where there is just no enforcement of the law. No, I didn't partake (honestly!) but I had to stop in to see (and unavoidably smell) this for myself. The signs clearly read: "We DO NOT sell marijuana here. Do not ask." I buy an Odwalla juice drink and the employee of Asian descent with dyed dreads, tattoos, and piercings says, "That'll be $4.20." I laugh, "Haha, really? Did you guys do that on purpose?" "Nope." She is not entertained. Waiting on stoners all day must wear upon one's patience. Or maybe she was just out of it; I suspected she must have been high herself, from hours of second-hand smoke, if nothing else. I took a look at their collection of exquisite hand-blown glass hurricane lamps while I drank my expensive juice and then returned to the hostel.

Further short stories and photos will be posted in coming days. For now it's time to crash after that transcontinental flight. Seeya!

The Making of a Painter

2008-07-08T03:48:00.000-07:00

Setting off at dawn, I drove past foggy vineyard hillsides and over one-lane bridges whose end I could not see. Did they consider thick fog when they built all these one lane bridges? My next host, Craig, and I had not arranged what time I should show up, so I figured earlier was better than later. I rolled into Thames (pronounced “Tim’s” like the river in London) around eight and found the hostel, which I recognized by the website picture. It was reportedly the oldest building in town. It certainly looked old, built in a traditional New Zealand colonial style. Old-timey black and white photos of the facade with horses tied up lined the walls as I walked to the office.

“Hi, Craig?” I said as I saw a guy behind the desk with a goatee, looking to be in his early thirties. He looked at me with a “Yeah, who are you?” kind of face. “I’m Trevor, from HelpX.” “Ah, bloody hell, I wasn’t expecting you yet. Most wwoofers don’t show up until the afternoon, get a free night’s stay. Well, let’s get you all sorted.”

He gave me a quick tour of the first floor, taking me back to the kitchen to meet Dan, who was also working there. Dan was a big bald English guy with a thick accent. He was pretty chipper for that time of the day. I never figured out why, but half of the time his face had the eagerness of Christmas morning written on it. I also met Craig’s mom, Cheryl, who lived on the first floor of the hostel. I thought a mother-son hostel running team was kind of strange, but I guess it works for them (Mom, sorry but don’t get any ideas). Craig walked me through the lawn to a little single-story house next door where he lived. I got settled into my back room while Dan ate breakfast.

Soon we were three men standing outside with our arms folded, squinting in the sun up at one side of the old building. Dan and I were both here for one purpose: to repaint the building...the whole thing. Craig had told me he had a little painting work, but I didn’t imagine it would be this big of a job. The building was about thirty feet high and probably twice as long with wood panel siding. Craig wanted us to sand everything, fill all gaps and holes, and give it two coats of paint, not to mention the detail work around all the windows, balcony, and fire escape ladders. This was going to be a lot of painting...

Dan had already been here for a few days, so he was familiar with the place and took us out back to get the equipment. “Ah, mate, I sure’m glad to ‘ave some ‘elp.” I soon learned that nearly everything he said started with “Ahhh, maaate...” We started sanding away and traded information on each other. Dan had previously worked on trains in England and wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with himself, so he was on a working holiday in New Zealand, maybe immigrating. It was comforting to find out I can still do this when I’m 32! That’s plenty of time to play around. He came to Thames for a little while to get out of Auckland, where he had been washing backpacker rental vans by day and living in an apartment building with Chinese chefs by night.

We worked on through the day, stopping for lunch around 1 p.m. This stay was a bit different from others I had done because meals were not included. Craig certainly wasn’t going to cook for us, and Cheryl figured we would rather do our own thing, so I went out for lunch. They also wanted Dan and I to keep track of our hours so we could get proper remuneration (yes, Cheryl said that) for any labor over 4 hours a day. Also I got weekends off, or any two days of the week I chose. I decided to take off the very next day, since it was the first annual New Zealand Blues Fest.

Like most of things in New Zealand up to this point, going to the Blues Fest was not well planned, I just heard about it and decided to go (although I was strategically positioned nearby). I drove along the winding coastal road towards Whitianga (fit-ee-on-guh) that Saturday morning. My side of the road had only a few feet between the car and the water, no guardrail. It was comforting to cut into the peninsula on the twisting, steep, narrow gravel road after that. I waited in a line of cars and bought my ticket from a tent near the entrance. Luckily they weren’t sold out like Cheryl said they would be.

It was shaping up to be a long hot day in the sun. I slathered on sunscreen and donned my Indiana Jones hat. Despite the sign that said no cameras, I walked in with my big camera bag unchecked. Score. I wish more concerts were like that. They had the typical festival tents selling beer, fried food, giant bubble wands, hemp necklaces, etc. However this was their first go at the festival and they left out a few key things that I’m used to seeing: 1) Unlimited free water. Sure they had water to sell, but it was hot and you have to give people water. 2) Concert programs. No handouts to walk around with. I only saw one schedule posted, so I took a picture of it. 3) Shade. They definitely needed more spots for people to get out of the sun. Other than that it was pretty well run.

I didn’t know most of the bands, but several of the New Zealand openers were surprisingly good. I hopped between the two stages to get a little taste of everything. Although it was a blues fest, the music ranged from alternative rock to soul, with the blues being somewhere in between. The first act I really knew was Xavier Rudd, who brought his unique Aussie style of didgeridoo/slide guitar/drum rock. Then an American, Keb Mo, heading more in the blues direction with a modern twist, singing songs about women who left him, railroad tracks, old dogs, and all those things. I’m not sure why she was on the bill, but KT Tunstall’s Scottish pop-rock made for a better live show that I expected. In fact, I would even say she “rocked out.” If the music didn’t tell me, then her T-shirt did: “Too fast to live, too young to die.”

Another good American act, Wilco, brought an energetic set to fans who knew the words. I’m not sure if their lead singer, Jeff Tweedy, realizes he is turning more and more into Bob Dylan every day. The apex of blues that night was the legendary Buddy Guy. Good God, that man can play guitar. His face twisted in disbelief while he played, as if he himself could not fathom what was coming out; his hands possessed by some guitar-shredding demon. He played with his teeth. He played with a rag. He howled out unspeakable blues tales of women leaving him, and then rocked with a big smile on his face. Well, he showed everyone how it was done, and that was it for the night. I think concerts are worthwhile anyway, but it’s all the more rewarding to see an icon like that. I drove home the way I came, surprised that no one was on the same treacherous gravel road as me. I saw a few possums in the road, taking naps, so I let them be. Back out to the coastal nail-biter. I slipped back into my new house after 3 a.m. on this second day in Coromandel to dream of sugar plums, Buddy Guy, and painting.

Dan and I got to work early, because it was cooler then and the sun wasn’t so bright bouncing off the paint. He asked if I had seen any “right fit birds” (attractive females) at the concert. I told him it was pretty much the same as the rest of New Zealand. Dan was always wanting to talk about birds. “Ahh, mate, I got dis bird in me office in Auckland. She’s right nice to ‘ave a look at...” Or he would talk about a California girl he met, or this one or that one. I never determined if any were real.

During all of this talk, we actually got some work done and were slowly but surely making progress on this first side of the old building. We traded jobs between sanding, filling, rolling, or cutting in. I usually took the more ambitious hard-to-reach spots, since Dan was a little uncomfortable with heights. When he first saw me move on the scaffolding, he declared me “an absolute nutter.” I climbed up and down the inside or outside of the scaffolding with paintbrush between the teeth without thinking while he slowly assured his footing and moved platforms to safe places. This, combined with our size difference (I don’t consider myself small, but was in comparison to Manchester rugby-playing Dan) earned me the title of “me li’l monkey partner.”

As we moved to the front balcony, I decided it was a good idea to have some music to help pass the time so I brought out my laptop. We didn’t share many music interests, since Dan only seemed to like some American rap and whatever it is that’s played in clubs in the UK, but we got on okay. Dan and I painted on for about a week, with Craig alternating between doing a little supervision, working the office (surfing Facebook), and playing video games. Because of rain forecasts, Dan’s need to go to Auckland for immigration papers, and a general buildup of painting boredom, it was time to take a vacation for a week or so.

Finding the Joy in Wine

2008-06-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

Civilization! Concrete! Tall Buildings! Power lines! Buses! People. It was strange seeing these things back in Auckland after a couple of weeks of isolation on Great Barrier Island. As I passed several bustling pubs overflowing with green-hatted patrons drinking Guinness in the fading daylight, I was reminded it was St. Patrick’s Day. I was tempted to stop in for a pint, but had to catch a bus back to my car at the macadamia farm. I wasn’t exactly sure where my bus stop was, so I zig-zagged in basically the right direction until I hit a street blocked off by a lively St. Patrick’s day performance full of bagpipes and river-dancing. I went around and hopped onto my bus just a minute before it took off. Whew, the next one didn’t leave for another hour and a half.

When Henk picked me up at the bus stop I started telling him about my time out on the Barrier and my experience with the lodge. I was offered a bed not only for that night, but a couple of days if I needed it. My situation with potential work at a vineyard was unclear so I thanked him for that. He was going on a fishing trip the next day, to which I got a special invite. I figured I could do that then head over to the vineyard afterwards.

The next morning I got to see how my silver guinea hen had grown. It was just on the tail end of being cute before it turned into an ugly vulture-headed adult. We took off to meet Butch, Henk’s South African friend that was coming on the fishing trip too. We launched the small inflatable boat from a park about an hour away. Three people and gear seemed like a lot to have on the little boat, but they said four had been done many times in the past. We landed on a little island called Motuora and set up camp. I finally got to use the tent I brought with me! Fishing would be difficult with three, so they went out to catch while I stayed behind. I walked along the beach looking at sea scraps that had come ashore. I didn’t mind that I didn’t get to fish because I’m sure I wouldn’t catch as much as them, plus I had a relaxing time by myself.

They brought back a good catch of several fish each. I watched Butch fillet (they say filleT here) the snappers, helping to wash them in sea water afterwards. They cooked the fish on a small gas camping stove with some potatoes that we brought along. It was very good, being so fresh, but we ended up with more fish than we could eat. Later on in the night, we went searching for the elusive national symbol, the kiwi. Kiwis are nocturnal and rare, so most New Zealanders have never seen one in the wild. This island was home to a repopulation program. Since it was free of pests and predators, it made an ideal spot for raising adolescent kiwis which were later transfered to other protected park areas.

We walked around the hills with dimmed flashlights, listening for the sound of clumsy kiwi footsteps. None were spotted. We gave up and went back to camp to sleep. That night I heard distant bird calls from my tent, but had no way of knowing if it was kiwis, pukekos, or something else calling out. The next morning Henk and Butch went fishing early, coming back with a catch similar to the day before. We ate breakfast and packed up camp before piling into the little boat and zooming back in the direction we came. It was a quick but enjoyable trip.

That night back at the nut farm we enjoyed some of the fresh snapper and I stayed in my old room. I was grateful to have a place to stay before it was time to move on. The other alternatives would be camping somewhere, sleeping in my car, or spending twenty-something dollars on a hostel, although there wasn’t much in the area. So far I’d seen that the help exchange hosts can be very accommodating to their helpers. I guess that is the warm Kiwi hospitality.

The people at the vineyard told me I could come for a harvest the next day, so I packed up and left at the break of dawn. I was finally going south of Auckland! In all the time I had spent in New Zealand thus far, I had really seen very little of it, so I was glad to get further away. Later in the morning I pulled up a gravel driveway in a rural area called Pokeno. Next to a shack, a petite girl in baggy, dirty clothing was unloading large open boxes of grapes from her quad bike (four-wheeler). “Joy?”

“Yes, so you must be Trevor.” This was the lady with whom I was emailing about the vineyard work. She was tiny and didn’t look older than 30. I heard her accent and asked, “Are you American?” She was indeed. Not only that, but from a town I knew of in northern Ohio. Joy had never heard of Portsmouth. “So, we’re picking grapes today?” I said. “Yep, let me show you around.” We walked over the hill and before us lay a swath of grapevines, apparently ripe for the picking, with rolling green New Zealand hillside as a backdrop.

Already picking away in the rows of vines were eight young Indian men. “Oh, looks like you already have some help,” I said. “Yeah but we can always use more.” We walked into the rows and met her partner Andrew. He was a Kiwi and seemed very nice. “Have you ever picked grapes before Trevor?” he said. “Nope, first time.” “OK, it’s fairly difficult and takes a long time to master. See the grapes on the vine here?” I nodded. Holding up some shears he slowly says, “You take these shears, and you cut them off. Then you put them in the basket. Do you think you can manage that?” He was trying to be funny. “I think I can handle it.” He handed me some shears and watched as I cut my first grapes.

There actually was one difficult part, which was taking off the bad grapes. I say difficult because it was a judgement call. How bad is too bad? They are just going to be smashed up anyway. Bad grapes are soft and mushy and juice goes everywhere when you touch them because birds had picked at them through the protective netting. The idea was to just scrape off the bad parts and throw the remaining good grapes in the basket. After a while, it was easy to get a feel for it.

I was introduced to my fellow Indian pickers: “Guys, this is Trevor.” Without stopping picking, I got some mumbled “hey” before they went back to a rapid Punjabi banter amongst themselves. Andrew took off with Joy to work on some other things and I was left with my eight Indian comrades who were having lively conversation the whole time about who-knows-what. At this time I wish I knew some Punjabi. If I closed my eyes I could have imagined I was in a crowded Indian street market. I attempted some conversation and found out that some of them had pretty poor English while others spoke it fairly well. I got their names and where they were from at least. They were all students in Auckland, with several studying geology, a couple English, and one was going to be a doctor.

They thought I was a Kiwi. I guess to them it would seem obvious that a white person in New Zealand is from there, but I told them I was from the States. “Oooh, America!?” They wanted to go there and immediately asked what I was doing here. I tried to explain the idea of the working holiday to them, but they seemed confused. “So you had a job in America, but you now do not? Why this is?” They also wanted to know how much money the average person makes in America, and how much I made. I told them it varies a lot, because it depends so much on what you do, and also how much I made as an engineer. “And you come here to pick grapes!?” “Money isn’t everything,” I told them. “Are you so sure about that!?” Raj questioned, and they all laughed uproariously. Clearly money meant a lot to them.

Picking soon became monotonous. Cut the grapes, scrape off the bad part (if there was any...ooh, variety!), put them in a basket. Next. The Indians and I weaved between each other, sliding the baskets down the rows with our feet. The person leading the way down the row pulled apart the bird netting and lifted it up on top of the vines. It was like a bridal veil, being lifted to reveal the beauty beneath...more grapes. The good grapes were easy to handle, but the bad ones made my hands and shears and everything I touched sticky. It was very sunny and hot that day, which made it difficult to not wipe my sweaty face with my sticky hands. After hours of grape picking toil, it was time for a lunch break.

Andrew and Joy didn’t really explain what the plan was, so I followed my Indian counterparts and washed off with a hose next to the shack on top of the hill. They retrieved from their car a few metal containers with homemade naan and what I believe was dal. I couldn’t identify the other dishes, but nonetheless they offered some to me, which I gratefully accepted. We all sat in the shade of a tree and sipped some hot tea they also had. The weather really was perfect as long as we weren’t in direct sun. Their offer to share food was nice, but I felt bad that I didn’t have anything to share in return...or did I? I ran to my car and returned with the only thing I had to offer: a big bag of macadamia nuts. This was the first time my new friends ever had macadamias, but they turned out to be a hit.

Just then Andrew and Joy invited me into the building, which once inside I saw was more than a shack. It had a tiny kitchen, living room, bathroom, and even bedroom. Was I sleeping here? They offered me some of what they were having: pizza they made the day before. I was not alone in thinking it was excellent, for apparently they had the reputation of being the hosts with great homemade pizza. It felt a little strange that I was invited in and the Indians weren’t, but I gathered that the rest were working for pay. Based on what they told me, it sounded like there was some kind of older Indian pimp who hustled out these students in Auckland looking for seasonal work. I was just working for pizza and a bed that night. We got to talking about the usual thing that people do in these types of social situations, which is basically how everyone came to be in the same room at the same time. It turns out Joy had been a wwoofer like me, just doing a working holiday for what she thought would be a year. Then she met Andrew. Yada yada yada, they start the vineyard and here they are years later. So it appears traveling helpers can get sucked into the New Zealand vortex quite easily! Any grandmothers with grandsons doing a working holiday in New Zealand shouldn’t worry too much, there aren’t plans like the story above (...yet).

After lunch Andrew grabbed some passionfruit growing on the fence and threw them at us like hand grenades. The Indians had evidently not seen these and were puzzled about what to do with them. I was familiar with passionfruit by now, so I popped my dark purple egg open and sucked out the sweet orange and green seed pulp. Back to work. We finished up the pinot grigio in a couple of hours, at which time the Indians took off for another nearby vineyard. Us white folk stayed behind to finish the moving of all the grapes, and eventually Andrew loaded them with a forklift onto a truck. The grapes were taken off to be crushed that afternoon. We went into Pokeno to grab some cold drinks and then headed over to the same vineyard as the Indians had gone. The owners were friends of Andrew and Joy, so out of the goodness of their hearts, they volunteered themselves (and their helper) to finish the harvest.

This vineyard didn’t seem to have a bird problem, since I didn’t find any bad grapes, so this made the picking easy. These cabernet sauvignon grapes were tasty to snack on as we went along. A couple of hours later when we finished, the Indians took off for Auckland, telling me their room number in a student housing building so that I could stop by and hang out any time. The vineyard owner had his own pressing equipment so we started processing the grapes right away. Whole grape bunches went into the top, then stems came neatly out of one outlet while grape mash was pumped through another outlet into a huge plastic container in the garage. After the processing, we went swimming in their solar-heated pool and then shared some of their wine with cheese and discussion of this year’s harvests. All in all this seemed like a pretty sweet lifestyle.

Andrew and Joy took me back to their place, which was surrounded by even more grape vines. They had a picturesque dining spot out the back door that looked too good to be true. It was the kind of setting that some people might have at their house, but never use enough. Not Andrew and Joy, they ate dinner out here almost every night. So to fit tradition, we enjoyed salad, sausages, steak and more outside that night.
I did the dishes, learning their methods in the process. I’ve found everyone in New Zealand does their dishes a little bit different. This house had a rainwater system and it had been dry recently, so there was no water to waste. Maybe a little pre-rinse if the dishes were especially dirty, then they get scrubbed in the sink half full of warm soapy water, then...that’s it. “What about rinsing the soap off?” I asked. “There’s simply not enough water,” Andrew told me. They get dried with a dish towel as-is and put away. For the most part it seems like Kiwis are much better at conservation, but I don’t think it’s because they are die-hard environmentalists out to save the world (or at least New Zealand). It’s simply a matter of necessity and cost. If they ran out of water it would be hugely inconvenient. True it would be possible to have a water truck fill their tank, but it’s not cheap. This proves to me that incentivizing conservation can work and I recalled that most Americans don’t even think about the idea of running out of water.

After dinner we had some of their wine, listened to music, and chatted. This would have been a good place to stay for a couple of weeks, but they really only needed help with that day’s harvest so this was a one day, one night stay. I got a big bed in a separate part of the house where I settled and found they had one of my favorites, The Royal Tenenbaums, which I watched before going to bed even though I was getting up early. The next day I would be headed off to the Coromandel...

Ivan the Terrible

2008-04-21T01:46:00.000-07:00

Return to The Nut House

2008-03-25T02:59:00.000-07:00

Henk and Cheryl were glad to see me again back at The Nut House. After all, I found out they really did like me as a helper after they left a reference on the help exchange website:

“Trevor stayed with us for two weeks, wish he could have stayed longer! Not often a helper comes that fits all the criteria you look for! Hard working, great sense of humour, easy to have around, interesting, and interested! Thanks for the hard work Trevor you are welcome back anytime!”

They checked out my flash new ride and I brought my things back into my familiar room. Strange to have something familiar down here... Over dinner I told them about my last place, some exploring I did, and my (gay) hosts. This prompted an exchange of a gay tale of their own. Back in their sailing days they were good friends with a couple of gay guys. Both boats followed each other around to different ports and had great times together. Their daughters would go and play on the gay boat until one day Henk found some pretty raunchy magazines laying around in the bathroom. The girls were no longer allowed to go over to that boat unsupervised. Henk continued on by telling me that those two became successful drug dealers in New York City until they were busted. One of them died of AIDS in prison and the other partner visited them once in New Zealand to tell them all of this before also dying of AIDS. While this particular one strayed from their days at sea, I always found their boat stories interesting.

The new routine was that I would perform a full day’s work, nine to five (with a lunch break), five days a week in exchange for NZ$250 a week. That sounded like a lot to me, but when I realized the time I was giving them, it was less than seven dollars an hour. Cheryl had said two weeks, and I liked the sound of that. Two weeks = half of my car. Much of the work was restoring a wetland area on their property by planting native grasses that Henk bought and that we “borrowed” from a nearby municipally-owned wetland. This felt good, as if we were doing something environmentally positive. I had this idea in my head that farming was about the creation of life, like you are playing God. Growing the nuts that feed the chickens that give you the eggs that start your day of growing nuts and so on.

I soon learned that it was not just about creation, but about destruction also. He who giveth, taketh away. I suppose that is God-like, if you believe He or She is out there making hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes, and the occasional roller coaster death. There was a thin line between life and death on the farm, and it was undeniable that we committed genocide on many fronts. If you are not wanted, you are eliminated. The wetland areas had to be sprayed to kill all the alien grasses (such as Argentinean pampas grass; I swear I thought Henk said, “Pompous ass”) before we put in the new blond-haired, blue-eyed grasses. As I drove the tractor with the giant tank of Round Up, Henk used the long hose to spray weeds in the orchard. Anything that was not a macadamia tree was destined to die. Speaking of trees, we chain-sawed down a few more and did something more dastardly to a few big unwanted pines. I drilled holes in their trunks as Henk followed behind me, pouring diesel down the newly formed holes.

Most egregious of all was the rat baiting. We walked around with buckets of little green bricks that contained some special medicine for the nut-hungry rats. The bait contains a blood thinner that is commonly used for humans, but at a higher dose. After the rats eat enough, they begin hemorrhaging internally, causing confusion and loss of muscle control, then slip into a coma before death. A few days after some of our baiting, I found a poor young lad hunched over and quivering. He was not able to run away and it was easy to see he was on the way out. “Henk, what do I do with this?”, I said holding up the barely alive rat. “Oh we got one. Toss him over the fence.” This was the usual procedure for things not wanted. I felt bad because he was suffering. Like Lenny with more conscience, I popped his little neck and tossed him over the fence. We found several more in the following week as we did chores around the nut farm, but they had already met their maker.

On the brighter side of playing God on the farm were my little guinea hens. I say “my” because on the last visit I found some guinea eggs that we scooped up for hatching. The incubation period of a guinea hen is similar to a chicken, about a month. So adding up the weeks since I found them, they should be ready before my next departure. These eggs were slipped under a favorite chook of Henk’s named Nini. While the egg timer ticked away, the days seemed to fly by as I was doing more than eight hours of work most of the time. In the evenings I would sit by the kitchen and drink some red wine with Cheryl as she prepared dinner and as I got my internet time. Again I was treated as one of the family and went to their daughter’s house for a big family meal. Another night I went with them to a tennis and dinner party (strange sounding combination, but it worked out well).
We had beautiful weather in the middle of the week, but when it came to the weekend (my days off) there were torrential downpours and it didn’t seem worth exploring anywhere or hiking. I didn’t even go to the local A&P show (agricultural and produce...something like 4H) which was supposed to be a big deal. So instead I stayed in on a rainy day and did some reading, writing, and arithmetic. Okay, not as much arithmetic, but I entertained myself. After dinner we would eat ice cream with honey coated macadamias and watch cricket, a Gordon Ramsay show (such as The F-Word or Hell’s Kitchen), American Idol, or whatever movie was on. And when I say whatever movie, I really mean whatever. For some reason Henk and Cheryl got excited by the idea of catching a movie at the beginning even if it was bad and made for TV. “Cheryyyl! A mooovie!” Henk would call from the living room. “What is it?” “I don’t know, but it’s just starting.” Then we proceeded to watch the entirety of some dreadful Scandinavian subtitled film about an objectionable church chorus leader who always wanted to be a composer, not because he wanted to be famous but because he loved the music, and who quarreled with the priest, who turned out to be a pervert, about the role of music in the church. Bed time.

The work continued into the next week with a little creation here and a little genocide there. I felt like a boy again, digging holes and climbing trees. We built a fence that was for containing the sheep when they get moved between lots. I got my first New Zealand sheep experience when we herded them into the new enclosure...which turned out to be more difficult than planned. I walked in one direction through the macadamias to keep the sheep from running off as Henk flanked around on the tractor to drive them in. A few young ones split off and he followed on the tractor, calling with a high pitched sort of yodel that they liked. “Oodle oodle oodle ooo!” he called over the low rumble of the diesel engine. I kept walking to cut them off from the bridge over the creek when I heard the high whine of a tractor’s idle gear spinning up. I crouched to see under the trees just in time to catch a glimpse of the blue tractor careening down the hill out of control. It must have been going 50 km/h when it slammed through some trees at the bottom and went into the creek bed.

“Oh my God, Henk is dead,” I thought. I ran over to see Henk up the hill with his mouth open, speechless. He had hopped off to go after the young sheep, leaving the tractor on the hill. Since the parking brake didn’t work, he didn’t put it on. Usually that’s okay, but this time the tractor took off down the hill, all the way to the bottom where it was still running as it sat smashed between the trees on the bank of the creek bed. Luckily nobody got hurt. I’m just glad I didn’t do it! I wish I took a picture but this was serious business, no time for that. We cut the tractor out with a chain saw and reversed it up the bank, pulling with the Nissan 4x4. Amazingly there was little damage to the tractor itself since the back tray took most of the hit and got mangled. We were able to herd the sheep into the new enclosure where a local shearer make quick work of trimming off those wool coats. We treated a young sheep for fly strike, a condition when sheep are struck with flies, hence the name. The flies lay eggs in their wool, these eggs hatch, maggots crawl everywhere and eat wool. It’s pretty gross. We saw an advanced case and the more squeamish would definitely have lost their lunches. After the sheep were all sheared and we had given them de-worming medicine, I spent the rest of the afternoon giving the tractor some de-mangling medicine and it was as good as new. Well, at least as good as it had been that morning.

Another day when I took apart, cleaned, painted, and reassembled a nut de-husking machine, we had a pleasant surprise at lunch... “Come take a look at Nini,” Henk called. I came over to see her aiding a small chick out of the shell, the first one of the eggs I found. Within minutes of breaking out of the claustrophobic cell, the silver little thing was walking around cheeping. Henk said the silver ones were special and he had been waiting to get one of those. Later a brown one popped out but was kind of lame with a crippled looking foot. Over the next two days no more came out so we tossed the eggs (further elimination of those less superior). The brown one got lost as it was led around because it couldn’t keep up and so the little silver guy was the only survivor of the bunch. Before long this cute little thing would be a full grown ugly guinea hen. They grow up so fast these days.

It was a nice feeling of certainty knowing that I had a two week paid stay at Chateau de Nut, but in the background I was plotting my next move. On the help exchange site I had spotted a listing that was out on Great Barrier Island, a small place 60 miles off the east coast of Auckland. I thought it would be interesting to go visit, but it seemed like a waste to go all the way out and just camp for a couple days. Doing a help exchange was the perfect solution! I had a good place to stay, people who knew the island, and plenty of time to explore it. So after two weeks of learning some horticulture, killing things, eating macadamias, and a second rainy weekend, I left my entry in their helper guest book, which paled in comparison to some of the Asian girls who had stayed there (see picture). I was off to The Barrier.

Stay On The Left (aka Fabulous Waitakere)

2008-03-05T16:28:00.000-08:00

At 6:30 in the morning Henk and Cheryl dropped me off as they went off to market and I found myself at a roundabout where 16 turns south. I think they were a little sad to see their helper go, but they know the life of the help exchanger and it was time for me to move on. It was a crisp Saturday morning that just begged for walking, or so I told myself. At a little over 45 kilometers, it would take me two full days of walking to get to my new place with Rob, so I should arrive there by Sunday night. I still hadn’t been able to get all my things in one bag. I had: the large backpack full of clothes, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, tent, and tools; the small backpack with books, papers, 3 bags of dry roasted macadamia nuts, and miscellaneous; and finally the camera bag strapped around me, but I assumed that would be separate anyway. This isn’t so bad, I thought, I can walk with this. About ten minutes later my hips were aching (since the big pack is designed to put the weight there). This is not good...just push on through it. Then, before seven in the morning, a car came by and stopped ahead of me. The driver popped his head out the right-hand window. “Care for a lift there, eh?”
My brain was all over, I hadn’t expected this. I did care for a ride, but at the same time I thought that would be cheating. I can’t set off for my first big walk and immediately get in a car. “No, I’m okay. Thanks though!” “Cheers mate.” I had been told many times over that New Zealand is quite possibly the last great hitchhiking country in the world. This was my first piece of evidence. Supposedly it was a viable means of transport for many backpackers, and I had figured this into my plan. I didn’t have to walk everywhere, I could take a ride when available. But I continued walking through the early morning fog with very few cars going by. It was all farmland around me and the view was pleasant, but nothing spectacular. I adjusted my straps to redistribute the load onto my shoulders more. I trudged along, just thinking about things, or nothing at all. Step after step. I came across some cows that were close to the road. They were curious and pushed by each other to get a closer look at this strange thing going past. I walked up to them to get my own closer look. Just normal cows with those dumb glazed over eyes. I could see the hot air condensing as it was coming heavily out of their wet nostrils. When I turned to keep walking they were startled, I think because of the shape of my body with the backpack on. They’re not used to seeing a creature like that...

I continued on with little action. The traffic on the rural road picked up as the day got older and I walked on the right side of the road so I could face oncoming cars (and trucks!), scooting into the thick grass to give myself room as they whooshed past. The sun was starting to beat down on me now and it was a good thing I had my new leather hat. The hat didn’t stop me from getting sweaty though, I was in a good rhythm now. Forgetting about the weight of the pack, I pressed on. Yes, I can walk a million miles like this, I’m unstoppable. I stopped. Time for a break. It’s important to take a break when you’re not tired, that way you won’t get too wiped out to carry on. I read in the shade for a little while, resting my shoulders, until I realized the ants found me and were crawling on me. I kept walking for more than an hour before I took another break, this time at a covered bus stop. I changed my sweaty socks to keep my feet dry. I recalled what Phil told me, that from his experience in the Finnish Army keeping your feet dry and healthy is the most important thing. I wanted to walk around a bit without the pack on so I crossed the street and the railroad tracks to answer the call of nature. Then I began foraging. No, not time for setting rabbit traps yet. I had seen some blackberry brambles as I walked earlier and now there was a good little supply here next to the tracks. I helped myself to all the ripe berries I could find (not many) and then ate some of the unripe red ones because their tartness was refreshing and they probably still had the vitamin C I needed. I even chewed on a few young pine needles because I remembered that Bear from Man Vs. Wild said they’re a good source of vitamin C. But chewing pine needles all day wasn’t going to get me any closer to my next accommodation, so I had some macadamias and water, then started walking again.

I was walking for more than 4 hours and it was approaching the warmest part of the day. I thought that pretty soon I should be on the lookout for a good spot to rest for a few hours to split the day in half. Then I could do the same amount of walking into the afternoon and evening and camp out somewhere, only to rinse and repeat the next day. A van pulled over on the opposite side of the road ahead of me. The van backed up towards me in the small nonexistent shoulder on the side of the road. I didn’t even have to walk up to them, this is first class service! “Hey mate, saw you walkin’ a few hours ago when we was drivin’ the other way. Thought you might like a ride,” yelled a fat, mustachioed head out the window from across the road over the noise of traffic. I thought for a second, and considering the weight of my pack, the heat of the sun, and the awkward yelling back of “No I’m okay go ahead” with hand waving motions, I instead decided to hustle across the road and go for it. My first hitching.

I climbed into the messy older van through the back sliding door and struggled to squeeze my big bag in. The driver introduced himself as Jon-Jon and in the passenger seat sat his female companion, whose name I don’t remember, but was similar to Jon. Jo? It didn’t seem appropriate to ask if they were married so I assumed they weren’t. It smelled like smoke and I saw why when they quickly lit up cigarettes. They offered me one and I respectfully declined. Jon-Jon and his little country honey had funny accents that included some kind of extra twang I didn’t hear on the morning news. He was a mechanic, which led me to ask him about the possibility of buying a car, since I was told this can be one of the best ways to get around for people on journeys of more than a few months. He recommended old Asian cars, but I could have figured that out. Jon-Jon needed to make a stop to see his mate, and they asked me if I minded. “I’d still be way back there if you hadn’t picked me up, so no, not at all.” We took a few back roads into increasingly worse looking areas and ended up in some kind of junk yard next to a large abandoned lumber mill that was being used as junk storage. As Jon-Jon wrestled himself out of the car, I could see he was more overweight than I first noticed. After he gave me and Jo a nice flash of ass crack from his sagging sweatpants, he grabbed his cane and hobbled towards the open warehouse door. Awkward silence.

I think I would have preferred the silence to feigning interest in Jo’s conversation. She let me know about some great concert coming up with White Snake, Poison, and possibly KISS. I also found out that she was mysteriously retired at her young age (mid thirties?) but I didn’t inquire further. A quick stop turned into more than ten minutes. I couldn’t help but think this must be one of those times when people meet in a junk yard to do “business deals”, things go bad, and the witness in the car is kept quiet. They won’t even find my body because it will be crushed into the trunk of a small rusty cube in the old car smasher. I promise I won’t tell anybody. I wasn’t even here. Who? Actually, we could see Jon-Jon talking to an older man who was leaning on a broken car that was not as old as the man, but still old. Eventually he made his way back to the car and as we pulled away he told us details about some cars he may or may not fix. Whew.

I told them what road I needed to go to, and it was fine if they dropped me off at some intersection, but they insisted on taking me to the place that I didn’t know exactly how to find. We spiraled up through the thick bush of Scenic Drive and every once and a while at breaks in the trees I could see why it was called scenic: without all the bush in the way you can clearly see downtown Auckland and the harbor from the road. Eventually we came to the address and pulled in to see attached to a post a piece of printer paper with “TREVOR” written in marker. I thanked J-J and J very much for the ride and they wished me a good trip. So, hitchhiking really is easy! The house looked like somewhat of a construction site, with saw horses and saw dust in the gravel driveway. There was a lot of sawing going on here. A newer Mercedes was parked there, so they must be doing okay. I went and knocked on the door expecting a warm welcome. After all, I had my own sign! But no answer. I could hear the radio on inside and figured maybe work was going on. I knocked harder. Still no answer. If I were walking I would have come in the next day, but I warned Rob I could be in early if I caught a lucky ride. I looked around and the house was totally surrounded by thick native forestry. Based on the road we came up, there was no where to go to kill time, just bush. I whipped out my laptop to check for wireless internet so I could call Rob’s cell phone, but there was none to be found. Out of options, I sat against my bag on the porch and did some reading.

About twenty minutes later, an older silver Honda Civic pulled up and I said hi to Rob. I helped him bring in the groceries and he showed me to my room, a small place with two beds and a little bit of junk. I got a tour of the house while he explained it was a constant work-in-progress. The house was about 80 years old and had been moved from somewhere in Auckland to its current location a couple years ago, via a cut down the middle, with the scar showing on one line of floor boards. There were a few bedrooms that were full of tools and construction material and my room was usually for whatever helpers they had staying there. He made some tea and we sat outside on the deck to talk. I told him about my journey there and he confirmed that I had been picked up by Kiwi white trash. He told me about the other kind: brown trash, or low income Maori and Pacific Islanders. That sounded bad, but I suppose it wasn’t any worse than white trash. I didn’t ask, but Rob looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a native Kiwi that used to be a mechanical engineer, at one point working on large industrial rapid freezers. In goes a hot cooked meal on one end, out comes a frozen dinner in less than a minute on the other. Apparently he didn’t like it that much, because now he was a paramedic and volunteer firefighter.

Speaking of which, he had to go to work in an hour. Another guy, Andre, lived in the house but was currently visiting in his home country Brazil. So after we talked some more Rob left for his paramedic shift, which he would not be back from until 6 a.m. I was not expected to do any work until the next day and I was expected to fix myself some dinner. When I looked in the refrigerator and cupboard, it was that kind of experience where the kitchen is full of food, but you still go, “There’s nothing to eat.” I ate Ramen noodles, tuna, and canned peaches while I watched a very good documentary from a Kiwi filmmaker about the current state and direction of the worldwide nuclear industry. While a Kiwi invented nuclear power, the country is strongly opposed to it. They had no wireless internet, but a decent DSL connection so I wasted plenty of time on that. Alone in a strange house in the middle of the forest there is no bed time. I still decided to climb into my lion-blanketed bed before twelve and read.

The next morning I got up around nine and amused myself until Rob rolled out around noon. We started on the project he had for me, finishing the side of the house next to the kitchen. This required some measuring and cutting of wooden pieces to fit the contour of the siding boards and plenty of painting. It’s a good thing I’m a decent painter and it’s something I enjoy, because I had the feeling New Zealand is short on painters. We had a little late lunch and he said, “Don’t fill up too much, we’re going to a place tonight that’s got lots of meat.” Lots of meat? I didn’t ask for an elaboration and he made a phone call to a guy named Fabio. Based on the conversation it sounded like Fabio worked at the place we were going to and would be there tonight. We finished working through the afternoon, but it didn’t feel like we had done much. I showered to get the sawdust and sweat off me. Long showers were forbidden because their water source is rain collected off the roof. I had asked Rob about my curious finding the night before: “Is the hot water supposed to be uhhh....brown?” “Oh that’s just the hot water heater. Got rust in it, eh. It’s clean.”

This might be a good time to point out that in typical (especially North Island) Kiwi English, any statement, question or exclamation can, and probably should, be followed by the ambiguous “eh.” It doesn’t mean anything in particular, but I have found that it is often accompanied by a raise in the pitch of voice the same way a question is, even though the speaker is not asking you anything or expecting you to say anything in response. This often causes me to fight back some sort of confirmatory response reflex. An example of the confusion: “Looks a bit cloudy, eh(?).” The tone of this would normally invoke someone to respond with something similar to: “Yes. It does look a bit cloudy.” But really the original statement was just, “Looks a bit cloudy” and was not asking for you to confirm the observation. This ranks as moderate on the confusion scale for someone who doesn’t say “eh” after every other sentence. But I digress.

Yes, I always wanted to say that. I put on my striped long-sleeve rugby shirt and cords and we took off for a place with a lot of meat. It was a fairly quick drive right to the center of Auckland from this seemingly remote place, less than a half-hour. We found free parking and Rob led us towards the water. I recognized the harbor-front area and had meant to take a look at the Minus 30 bar there. It is a bar made completely from ice, including seats and glasses. As Rob and I got closer, he explained that you can usually see into it through windows in another bar, but they were currently closed. Since it’s really expensive, I didn’t want to go in to have a drink, just a look. We came up to a place called Wildfire that was right on the water and went in. I guessed this was the place we were eating, but we didn’t get seating, Rob just blazed ahead into the restaurant and found Fabio. Wildfire was a churrascaria, one of those fancy Brazilian barbecues that give you meat on a sword. I had always wanted to go to one but never had the opportunity.

Rob and Fabio talked about the current tables and possible replacements. Then we walked into the back and looked at the staff lockers which needed to be fixed, then proceeded on to some painting and possible carpentry. It looked like Rob was going to do some work for them fixing things up. This made sense since he seemed to know what he was doing with the construction of this own house and I guessed that he was being a freelance contractor for these types of things. “We need to get a bunch of Brazilians to do this painting for cheap. Or I can get this guy to do it,” said Rob thumbing at me. Then they looked at some gaudy purple curtains in the main entrance, which Fabio said would take about $15,000 to replace. “I don’t think so,” said Rob and they continued on. After lots of talking it turned out we were going to eat here and not just do repair jobs. We sat outside by the water and each had a beer. “So how do you know these people? What’s your relationship to this place?” I said, expecting to hear that he does some contract work for his friend here in exchange for cheap meals. “Oh, I own the place.”

“Whaaa?” said my face. Wow I didn’t expect that. I mean, gaudy purple curtains aside, this was a really nice restaurant in a great location on the water in downtown Auckland. That cannot be cheap. I pressed on with questions. It turned out that he and Andre were not just roommates, but business partners. Between the two of them and one other guy they owned this and another Wildfire location. I was impressed and I aspired to be a paramedic. He was not just doing work for them, he was doing work to fix up his restaurant. And the curtains? “That’s not happening. Fifteen thousand is fucking ridiculous to spend on curtains that are never used.” As the waitstaff brought out appetizers, some of them acted as if they knew they were serving the boss. Others must have been new. I soon learned that this type if dining is a continuous onslaught of delicious food being served faster than you can eat it. First bread, hummus, oil, and exotic dips. Then salad. Then the multitiered antipasti tower. Then garlic butter sauteed shrimp. I didn’t really like mussels, but I tried the fresh New Zealand green-shelled mussels and I could have had a whole meal of them. I had rice and some other side dishes while waves of lamb, beef, chicken, and pork swords washed upon my shores. I lost track of how many different kinds of meat they brought out, but each one was more juicy and delicious than the previous. Brazilians really know how to show that man is on top of the food chain: by killing and eating every possible kind of animal in one sitting.

Once I was full, I felt a little disappointed that I had not eaten more because a meal like this doesn’t come by every day. I consoled myself by thinking, one man can only do so much. We didn’t need to pay for anything and I thanked Rob profusely for the great meal as we walked out and towards the viaduct. They had lively bars and good nightlife there, but we just strolled by all the huge yachts as he told me about the millionaires who come here seasonally. That seemed like a great life to just sail around with money pouring out of your pants and Rob told me it’s possible to get a job as part of the crew on the boats if I find a lucky opportunity. I stuck that idea in the back of my head for later. On the ride back up Scenic Drive we passed the burned-out shell of a car on the side of the road that was not there a few hours before. Apparently it’s not unheard of for thugs in Auckland to steal cars, go joy riding, and completely torch them on the side of the road when finished. Toasted cars or not, this night was vastly better then Ramen and tuna by myself in a strange place in the forest.

Over the next week, I spent a few hours in the middle of the day doing work on the side of the house. Rob didn’t expect me to get up at any particular time and he was in an out at odd times with the paramedic work. I enjoyed listening to newly downloaded music as well as old favorites on my laptop as I cut, nailed, or painted away. I mixed it up from Astral Weeks to Cobra Starship. I mostly made my own meals out of whatever I found around the house and it was pretty easy going. One day I took a walk into the closest hiking trail that led to Waitakere dam, one of the main water sources for the city of Auckland. A few signs had historical information and it seemed amazing that nearly a century before they had hauled everything up to the site on rail with mules. Although a thought crept over my mind that the water seemed awfully vulnerable. I mean, I didn’t know what kind of treatment it went through, but it would be easy for an evil genius to poison the water supply. Must be those constant thoughts of terrorism hammered into me by American government and media. Luckily for the fair citizens of Auckland, I left my poison at home.

Rob had gone to the airport to pick up Andre, who was coming back from Brazil. When we were eating dinner together that night, I asked Andre about his trip. I noticed he was a bit effeminate, and suddenly I had a thought: Rob and Andre aren’t just business partners, they’re partners. It all started to add up. I recalled the Cher DVD I found in my room next to Brokeback Mountain. Two guys living alone in the woods and owning a restaurant together...interesting. While the house was half a construction site, some of the decoration was far beyond what you would expect for a bachelor pad. I thought about it for a day or so, wondering if the proverbial “Gaydar” was working. The final piece of evidence I needed came when I considered the layout of the house and realized they were definitely sleeping in the same bed. It didn’t bother me that they were gay, it was just a mystery and I guess I expected that they would have said something in their profile on the help exchange website since some people are not so open-minded about that. But I suppose other people don’t need to announce they are straight. I think the only thing that made me a little uncomfortable was the couple times Andre watched me paint in the sun with no shirt on. I imagine it would be similar for a girl doing help exchange and having a straight guy watch her wash the car in a bikini.

February sixth was Waitangi Day, a national holiday celebrating the official peace accord between the Maori and European settlers (essentially subjugating the Maori to the British Empire). Rob said it was a national holiday and I didn’t need to work. He gave me the keys to his Honda and told me which way the nearest beach was. I informed him I had never driven in New Zealand before. “Aw, no worries. You’ll figure it out, eh. Just stay on the left.” Off I went. The stick shift on the left was surprisingly natural (call of duty for you, left hand) and the pedals were not flipped. The strangest thing was just being on the left, especially with no other cars around. If you are doing the same thing as other cars on the road, everything seems okay. But when you are alone going around a blind curve through the woods on the left side, it feels like a bad dream in which you’re about to meet your demise at the grill of a large oncoming truck. This is not right. No, not right. Left. Just STAY ON THE LEFT.
I made it in one piece to Bethell’s Beach, which was crowded because of the holiday. Cars were jammed in at odd angles all along the road, indicating any real parking was taken. I found some grass to park on and followed the others walking towards the water. On my trip I didn’t bring any sandals, which Kiwis call jandals. Don’t ask. Sandal-less and jandal-less, I walked through the hot sand with my Pumas on. The weather was perfect...somebody must have given the Sun the memo about Waitangi Day. The path opened up to a strip of wide beach that must have been a few kilometers long with bookends of rock on each side. There was a little volleyball action going, but mostly people walking and laying in the sun. Swimming was prohibited except for in a small section monitored by Bay Watch wannabes, since there was a strong rip current. There were excellent surf waves, but not many surfers today. They were probably at even better surfing beaches.

I slowly worked my way out to the far end of the beach towards what looked like a cave in the rock. It was a long walk and my hat and shirt saved me from the harsh sun. On the way I saw tumbleweed type plants bouncing along the sand and seagulls swooping around. I took off my shoes to walk in the water and wedged the sandy things onto the sides of my bag with the straps. There weren’t many people along the stretch of open sand, but there were two fishermen at the end near the rocks. There turned out to be two caves, one large and one small, but they didn’t go that deep. If I were shipwrecked I would definitely have lived in the big cave. Soon I saw I wouldn’t be able to walk further around the rocks in bare feet, they were far too jagged. Also I wanted to go see the other end and so I turned back. A family played fetch with German Shepherds in the water on the way back and it made me miss my old German Shepherd that was long since dead. When I came back to the swim area I put my towel and camera down and soaked up sun. Now we’re talking. This is vacation. I asked the people next to me to watch my stuff as I went in the water. I had been in New Zealand for weeks and hadn’t even been in the water yet! That seemed like a crime. It was colder than I expected, but worth the refreshing dip.

I headed past the rocks at the other end I hadn’t visited and saw a whole different cove over the dune ridge. The dry sand here was burning my feet and I reached to get my shoes from where I had stuffed them on the outside of my bag. To my horror, there was only one there. The other one had fallen off somewhere along the way, but I had no idea where. It could have been several kilometers back. I considered the possibilities: go searching for a long time and heroically find the missing shoe; go searching for a long time and give up after tragically not finding anything; forget about it and go home single-shoed or barefoot. If the shoe wanted to be a beach bum, I should let it. No, these were good shoes and I needed a backup pair in addition to my hiking/working boots. Also these were special, my brother had sent me these secondhand Pumas in the mail two years ago. While I hoped it wasn’t at the far end I visited, it could be, so I started off on the long walk for a second time that day. I didn’t spot it anywhere along the way of my original path and couldn’t find it amongst the rocks at the end. I figured it must have gotten swallowed by the sea. I considered throwing the second shoe into the Tasman, hoping that one day the two souls would meet up again in a watery grave like the star crossed lovers Made in Malaysia that they were. Dejected, I walked back to the car. I thought, “It must be around here somewhere.” Just then I remembered I had taken a walk out to the dune to get a picture earlier. Just maybe... The Amber Alert was out and I scanned the sands with my 300mm zoom looking for a lost brown child. Ah-ha! There it was, awkwardly close to a new resident: topless sunbather. Well I had to get the shoe at this point, so I shamelessly walked over to grab it and put it on. I wanted to keep on exploring that second end of the beach but I had been gone for several hours, so I headed back to get dinner. Stay on the left. When I got in without crashing the car, I saw that Rob and Andre had already eaten but had leftovers for me.

Rob had been telling me we can go fishing some time, and one day was open for both of them to go. I was thinking the owners of a restaurant must have a pretty nice boat. We started to load the van and Rob blew up a little inflatable raft as I thought, “This is the boat? Are we all going to be able to fit in that and have fishing rods?” I wasn’t sure of the situation, but loaded myself into the back of the van with our boat. I was glad I didn’t ask any dumb questions, because when we got down to the marina, we strapped the outboard motor to the little raft and puttered over to the real boat, a 30-foot Bayliner. It wasn’t super nice, but it was certainly respectable. It was bad weather, overcast and rainy, but we left anticipating it would clear up. Rob cruised us out to some kind of fishing sweet spot and we tried our luck. Just bites and we kept getting our bait (squid and some other kind of cut up frozen fish) stolen. It was just the two of us fishing. Andre went down to the lower quarters and laid on the bed. I landed something! I pulled it in and found at the other end a tiny little snapper. He or she was a good orangey color, but definitely under the legal size limit, so we tossed it back. Just when the weather was starting to turn and the sun came out, Andre was not feeling so hot and the decision was made to go back. Turns out it wasn’t seasickness, Andre said it was the sausage roll he got from the Asian bakery that morning. That could have been a good day out on the water.

I continued working through the next week when the weather was good. Up in the rainforest here it could rain sporadically a few times a day which would halt any outdoor painting efforts. At night it ranged between Rob, Andre, both or neither of them being there. They liked to relax with TV at night, which I wasn’t opposed to. Although I found out that most of (and the best) TV in New Zealand is really just American programming. I felt like I should spend “quality time” with my hosts, and if they wanted to watch TV and drink bourbon, then that’s what I did. I saw shows from the U.S. that I’d never watched before like Boston Legal, Dirty Sexy Money, and House. When they weren’t home at night I was online and spent time looking on TradeMe, the New Zealand analog to eBay. I kept thinking about my transportation situation and very badly wanted a motorbike for some reason. I mean, the walking thing was a good idea, but just not practical. If I had wheels, I could go where I wanted when I wanted. I had this vision of myself whipping through the wind and sun on beautiful country roads on my beat up yet trustworthy motorbike, not unlike Diarios de Motocicleta. Rob suggested I get a car or a van because I could sleep in it if I needed to. Good point. Also the more I looked into it, the bike thing didn’t make sense because they cost as much as cars and I needed to get licensed for it. I saw a repossessed van on the site and we went to go look at it on the same day Rob was looking at a new used car for himself. It was kind of beat up, but I didn’t care about that, as long as it worked. As I was looking under it for rust, Rob was checking the engine and turned it on. “Nope! It’s fucked,” I heard from under the car. The old diesel engine was leaking fuel and pronounced Dead On Arrival. So much for that. I continued looking at cars and vans online with little success. I wanted something reliable for under $1000 and those two requirements were often mutually exclusive.

One day Rob told me he saw a car on the side of the road that I should check out. I borrowed the Honda and took a peek on the road he mentioned. I took the number down for a ’91 Toyota Corolla wagon for $1100 and called it when I got back to the house. The owner was interested in showing it that night. I wondered if this eagerness meant there was something wrong with the car. I met the Samoan man and his son back at the car and took it for a spin. Everything seemed to be all right: didn’t overheat, parking break held under a little gas, okay shocks, oil didn’t smell or look burnt, didn’t puke smoke when started, no structural rust. His English wasn’t that good, but when I asked how flexible the price was, we got it down to $950. Hey, that’s under a thousand! I told him I’d sleep on it. I thought about it and it was basically just what I needed. Right price, seemed to run fine, and the back seats even folded down so I could sleep in it. My only hesitation was that the car had over 330,000 km on it. I didn’t think that I would find anything better, so I took out the money the next day and had myself a flash (Kiwi for “cool”) new car. I gave it a good test run the day after when I took it into Auckland to watch some dragon boat racing.

Meanwhile I had been trying to set up my next farm stay. No luck on getting a vineyard job yet and other places either didn’t need help or weren’t responding. Out of the blue I got an email from Cheryl. She said they needed help with some things and were going to post a new listing on the HelpX site, but wanted to see if I was around and interested first. This time they actually wanted to pay me! Having just dropped almost a thousand dollars (keep telling yourself it’s an investment and you’ll get that back...) and at a lack for other options, I agreed. That Sunday I did some work for Rob and Andre and they took me to a thank-you and goodbye lunch at a cafe in Waitakere called Elevation that had a great view of the city and harbor. Afterwards I loaded up my bags, which my new 1.6-liter car didn’t find heavy at all. On the drive up to the nut farm I had great radio-up, window-down weather and I laughed as I easily passed my entire walking distance in less than an hour. If I were a smoker, or better yet, James Dean, I would have defiantly flicked my cigarette out the window as if to say, “take that, walking.” As Lonely Planet suggested, buying a beater did look like the best option for those traveling for more than a few months. Pulling back into the nut farm, I was happy and felt confident that I made the right choice, even if I was backtracking.

More pictures from this adventure here.

Off to the Nut Farm

2008-02-19T01:52:00.000-08:00

I woke up early at the Top Floor backpackers to catch a bus to Helensville, near where my first farm stay would be. Of course no one else was awake, so I crept to a shower and then dragged all my things in the hallway to pack up. It was raining so I slipped the waterproof sleeve over my bag for the first time. The fact that I had this and got to use it made me feel like I was well prepared and knew what I was doing. Rain? No problem, let me just slip the rain-proof sleeve over my enormous bag. The walk to the Britomart, the main transportation station in downtown Auckland, took a little longer than I thought and I showed up around 7:30 not knowing exactly where the bus leaves from. An attendant at the info desk told me the bus left at 7:25 and I’d have to take the nine o’clock. Damn. Catching a bus should be easy. I called my host from a pay phone and told her I would be on the later one, that was fine. I decided to waste some time at the cafe in the station and got a long black. There was a slightly used paper sitting around so I picked it up and took a look. They had a huge puzzle section and I very easily slew the very easy sudoku problems then wrote in my journal. I kept my eye on the big station clock so I didn’t miss a second bus, and took off with about 15 minutes to make the walk. It didn’t take that long and I was glad, because what was that I saw out the window of the bus as I waited?
A...a moa? Moa! A moa. Yes. A legendary now extinct creature that I hoped to see while I was down here. Moas were 12 foot tall wingless birds that were hunted to extinction hundreds of years ago. Some cryptozoologists (very few crackpots) maintain there could still be a few left hiding deep in the bush...but this was downtown Auckland and it was just a statue.

After that bit of entertainment, the bus took off with me on it and I was headed for Helensville. It was a short ride, only about 40 minutes. Somewhere along the way I realized there was not just one Helensville stop, but many along the way, and I had no idea which one I was supposed to get off at. Cheryl, my host, said something about a gas station? I talked to the bus driver and told him I was doing a farm stay. “Do you know where people usually dropped off for farm stays?” He mumbled a something about farms, but had no idea. Great. So I rode along not knowing what was going to happen. Not yet to Helensville, we made a stop at a shopping center. As we pulled up a woman was looking expectantly in the windows. Who was she looking for? Me? I walked up to the front as the door opened. “Cheryl?” “Trevor?” Wow, this was my host! I got my things (wrestled unwieldy backpack through narrow bus aisle) and got out to say hi and shake hands with Henk and Cheryl.

While I loaded my stuff in the back of their 4x4, they explained that this is not where I was supposed to get off, but they had instead intercepted me because they had some errands to run and it was on the way. Good thing that worked out, they had no way to contact me! They told me about themselves, expanding on my small knowledge of them based on the description of their online posting. They were an older South African couple who ran a macadamia orchard for the last eight years or so. They had a new small business this year selling their nuts gourmet style (instead of wholesale to distributors). Before all this started, they had been sailing around the world for 10 years! That was exciting. And before that they ran a banana and macadamia farm in South Africa. I had less exciting things to tell them about myself, but nevertheless they were interested in hearing about whether I had siblings and why I had come to New Zealand. I told them it was a variety of things, but mostly I was not satisfied with my job, sick of some things in the U.S., looking for an adventure, spending some time figuring out what it was I wanted to do with my life, and New Zealand is supposed to be a beautiful, fun, and nice place, so why not? They were satisfied with that and said they had helpers before with somewhat similar situations.

Our first stop was at another macadamia farm, except this one was different in that it had more processing capability and processed my hosts’ nuts, so we did a pick-up. Henk tried some nuts they had there (not his own) as we looked at a new sorting conveyor system they had. He mentioned they could be a little drier and have more crispness to them. He and the man there got into a discussion about drying and other nut-handling procedures. When we left in the car Henk told me those people’s nuts weren’t as good as his. I believed him and he seemed to know what he was talking about. Henk isn’t a nut snob, he just knows how to make better nuts. After all, he was a horticulturalist by profession. The next stop was at a honey processing place, where we picked up two 30 kilo buckets of honey. Henk and Cheryl sold a very unique product called macadamia honey. They explained to me that they often have people ask how they make honey out of macadamias. This was ridiculous of course, and only bees make honey. When they hire someone to bring in bees to pollinate their trees, all of honey from those hives is processed and voila, we have macadamia honey. The popular honey from the region is from the manuka tree ( or tea tree...as in tea tree oil) and macadamia honey wasn’t necessarily better, just different. In this facility they had huge vats of warm honey being poured, filtered, homogenized, etc. and it smelled amazing. We got to try honey straight from a warm stream and it was excellent. I didn’t see any milk, but I understood why the Children of Israel are waiting for their golden streams of milk and honey. I wanted to work there, but instead I left with my hosts that ran the nut farm.

On the way back we stopped for lunch at the Pukeko Cafe, pukeko being a common bird found in the area. I attempted to pay for my own meal, but was denied by Henk. “But I haven’t done anything yet.” It didn’t matter, I was under their wing. The quiche was good and so far in my experience they made excellent coffee in New Zealand. We talked more as we rode closer to their home and they told me about their “Princess.” Princess, or Princy as she was sometimes called was the borrowed pig from one of their daughters and was staying with them for the summer. They said she was such a sweet little thing and I envisioned one of those vietnamese potbelly pigs that aren’t very big. We pulled up to the house, which they built in a New Zealand colonial style, and unloaded the car, walking around to the garage door. To their horror, the garage door was busted open! A burglar had ransacked the place...and ate half of the dry pellet pig food. There was the guilty party, laying bloated on the cool concrete floor. And so I met Princy:

She was not a tiny, cute potbelly pig. Princess did have the potbelly, but weighed about 200 kilos, and was a large Maori breed of pig. We kicked her out and cleaned up the garage. By that time of the day it was too late to start any work, so they showed me my quarters. There was an apartment separate from the house and fully outfitted with two twin beds, bathroom, tv, and kitchenette. Apparently this was where they lived while building the main house. It was much more than I was expecting and the only downside was that the wireless internet didn’t reach out there. So far this place seemed great and on top of the beautiful house, impressive servant quarters, and general warmness of Henk and Cheryl, there was a nice view from the backyard where I could see the macadamia trees blending into the rolling hills of other property and finally disappearing into the faint blue water of Kaipara Harbour.

The next morning I had cereal and instant coffee in my kitchenette while watching the Channel 1 Breakfast show. I think I was amused by their authentic, unapologetic kiwi accents more than anything else. The biggest thing I noticed is that they say almost all their E’s different: “ten” sounded like a mix between “teen” and “tin.” I couldn’t help but think that they were pronouncing so many words utterly wrong, and they didn’t even know it. After breakfast it was time to start the first day of work on the macadamia farm. It wasn’t picking season, so instead there were lots of other miscellaneous things to be done. Top of the list was clearing the recent tree cuttings. These cuttings were not from the macadamia trees, but from the shelter belt, which is what they call a line of tall trees that divide property lines and protect whatever it is you are growing on that property from strong winds (especially important in kiwi growing). The cutting was not finished yet since the leviathan machine used to do it broke a wheel during the first go. Because of this I was lucky enough to see the cutting in action and meet the fine gentleman who did the deed. The large apparatus consisting of three massive spinning circular blades mounted on a crane, mounted on a tractor body was handled by a stout kiwi man that looked like he did nothing but cut trees and drive tractors. He was tan from long days in the sun, rough shaven, and wore tiny shorts that I think were actually swimming trunks and a faded blue tank top that read “FBI” with the subtitle “Female Body Inspector” as if to indicate his other line of work. He also was completely barefoot and smoking the entire time I saw him operating the machine, walking on gravel and stepping on cut tree limb debris. Needless to say (but I will say it anyway), I really regret not taking a picture of this man. Perhaps this was a legendary blokey bloke I was told about...although they were supposed to be wearing beaters from Speight’s, a New Zealand beer brand, not these alternative law enforcement uniforms.

But before all this second round of cutting even began, we were still clearing from the first and I got to witness Henk’s inventive use of his old blue Ford tractor. It made the clearing a lot easier when he drove it backwards, scraping the rear platform on the ground to push the branches the way we wanted. Thinking back, I really should have gotten some tractor lessons from this obvious master while I had the chance. For the pieces that were too large, almost trees by themselves, I was tasked with cutting them up. Now, holding true to my personal vow at trying left-handedness while I was here, chain-sawing went better than expected. No lost appendages. Actually it was pretty easy and Henk even asked me if I was left handed, since he noticed I started the chainsaw that way. I felled a couple of trees and we added those to the now massive burn pile by the pond. I hoped I could see this burn pile in action, which is serious enough to require permit from the local fire department. I joked that we could have a real barbie on this, to which Henk gave me a good reply. Sometimes one of the sheep in their small flock will get sick and die, and when this happens he just tosses them on the burn pile! Chops, anyone? But they don’t eat it, since you shouldn’t eat sick dead animals and also there is nothing left from this glorious summer pyre. Almost nothing. Days later I found a crispy sheep skull near the burn pile at the other end of the property.

The first day of work was physically difficult (hauling logs and branches in the summer sun is sweaty stuff), but at the same time rewarding. We had a nice family dinner together that night, mostly getting to know each other more. Cheryl told me she likes cooking, but would rather not clean up. This made me think about the unusual position I was in: some kind of mix between house guest and servant. They served dinner to me and yet I cleaned up for them. I move their tree limbs and they give me a bed and shower. I like this. After that the days flowed into each other, as they should during the summer, and I did different tasks for a few hours during the day and relaxed in the evening. They liked to get any hard outside work done early while it’s cool, so I was usually done in the early afternoon which left me free to nap or read or Skype to far off places from the porch. There was an enjoyable rhythm to our activities but at the same time there was something new every day.

I met the inhabitants of the farm. Besides Princy, there were the chooks, a colloquial term which generally refers to all genders and ages of chicken. The chooks thought they owned the place, and would walk right in the house if the door was open to eat the cat’s food. One time there was a chook in the dishwasher! Then they also had the guinea fowl, the same kind I remember from Texas. All these birds produced a large number of eggs, certainly more than Henk and Cheryl ate alone. I tried to help out in this department, but could only do so much since I didn’t have a stove top in my kitchenette to make myself an omelette for breakfast. They gave excess to their two grown daughters that live in the area. Farm fresh eggs with their deep orange yolk are much better than store bought, which come from imprisoned egg-laying robochickens. But I wondered, what about fertilization? They have a cock around, on duty 24-7, so am I going to break open an egg and have a disgusting slimy baby chicken fetus fall out? I was an ignorant city boy, so I inquired about this. You can tell if an egg is fertilized by a barely noticeable white streak coming off the yolk. However a baby chicken will not start growing unless mother nature’s built-in timer is kicked off by the precision warmth of a hen’s bum. Fresh eggs can actually be kept around for up to a whopping 3 months (!) if they are rotated every once and a while, unlike store bought eggs which are dead on arrival and will go bad very soon if left out, and don’t even last that long refrigerated.

I also met the sheep. They are quite skittish, but easily lured in by the prospect of fresh macadamias. Yes, macadamias keep the whole place running: they are fed to the sheep, the chooks, Princess, and occasionally the hired help. Despite their timid nature, we (me and the sheep that is) met again in a different way later, when we had sausage for dinner. “Henk, this is good sausage. Is it made locally?” “Why yes, that’s sheep sausage from some of ours.” This was followed another night by grilled lamb chops...all part of the great circle of life. That’s right Simba, some day all you see will one day be yours...actually they did have a nice balance on the farm and it seemed very sustainable. The water came from a bore (deep groundwater well) and was kept in a wisteria covered tank after it went through the treatment system. All the wastewater from the house went through an exit treatment system and then watered the gardens. So that’s what makes the flax grow so big...

My other main task was taming the gardens, an annual event at the macadamia farm. The New Zealand flax is different from the flax you’re thinking of; no flax seeds for Omega-3’s and not the blue flower used for dye. These are pleasant little pointy plants when young, but soon turn into huge creatures that require discipline from a bush knife (machete)...left handed, of course. I spent many hours hacking limbs off the flax and decapitating agapanthus, but it wasn’t too horrible since I usually got a tea break midmorning. Being a spinoff of British society, the Kiwis drink a lot of tea and so I followed suit. It’s no real replacement for coffee, but a nice change of pace. Occasionally we had cake with the morning tea, as if I wasn’t well-fed enough. At most every meal we had I was expected to get seconds, since I was a growing boy, and this resulted in me eating upwards of five meals a day. And if this wasn’t enough, there were snacks of macadamias whenever we worked with them. I helped with the packaging of the nuts, which they sell at weekend markets like Matakana.

Saturday morning we got out the door at about 6 a.m. to get to the Matakana farmer’s market. Like most places, the landscape looked interesting that early in the morning. The orange sunlight was absorbed by fog looming over the land we passed as we drove. I helped unload and set up their stand, but wasn’t really expected to do more. I wandered around town, but it really thinned out into farm land down the main drag within a kilometer or so on each side, so there wasn’t much to see. The farmers market had everything from local garlic to local wine, and I sampled what I could as I wandered, entertained by the all-male retiree jazz trio playing. For lunch I grabbed a whitebait fritter based on Henk’s suggestion. Whitebait is a term for baby fish of several species that are (should be) clear when raw and white when cooked. They are eaten whole like sardines or anchovies, but don’t have a strong fishy flavor. My fritter was cooked in front of me by an Asian woman and when it was handed to me on a slice of white bread, I poured chili garlic sauce on the hundred little eyes looking up at me. I regret not taking a picture of it, because I like to take pictures of my food when I’m traveling. It helps when remembering things. You can look back and say, “Ooh, that was really good!” or, “I remember getting sick after that.” But I felt slightly foolish taking a picture out in the open of my fritter staring back at me. I think in the future I should pretend I am a culinary photographer...well with no picture I still remember it being a tasty lunchtime snack. As Henk and Cheryl gave out samples and answered how honey is made from nuts, I read in the shade by the stream. They worried that I was bored, but it was really a good leisurely day. Hey, at least I wasn’t chopping at flax. They had a good sales day and when we were all packed up, we went for a picnic at a nearby beach. Besides the view of blue water, I noticed the beach was littered with immaculately unbroken shells for the shell collector. These could make a nice bathroom collage for someone, but I had neither the time nor the interest for that. The other unusual thing about this park was that next to the beach a fenced-in area began. I asked Henk about this and he told me they dropped poison in the area to kill all foreign creatures like rats and possums, fenced it in, and repopulated it with native creatures, including kiwi. Sounded like they were only keeping the Aryans, but I guess the rats shouldn’t be there. Vineyards swooshed past in the warm sun on the ride back, a good view as Cheryl and myself took naps.
Sunday we tried a new market in Titirangi for selling nuts. Similar setup procedure, but this one was at some kind of community center and Henk and Cheryl were not happy about being stuck inside the gymnasium between the lamp lady and the all-natural baby sling lady. They would have done better outside between the hot sauce lady and the biogarden family. I took the recommendation to walk down the beach and I set off not knowing exactly where I was going. Titirangi is set in the south of the Waitakere Ranges, a large natural bush park west of Auckland. There are over 250 kilometers of walking tracks in Waitakere and getting lost is not uncommon. I found an entrance to a path that was not only marked by signs for the beach, but also some kind of memorial for a lost hiker. Undeterred, I entered the path hoping I would find the beach. I didn’t see how you could get lost, the path was clear. It was quiet besides a slight hum of background insect life and the koo-koos or kee-kees of birds often heard and seldom seen. I only passed one or two other hikers on my journey. The secluded sub-tropical forest is a good place to let the mind wander: you follow your thoughts in the same way that you follow the path before you. What could lie around the next turn? One never knows, but we must be prepared for the unexpected in life. The path indeed came out to a beach, but it was not like the one the day before. First there was a community center hall that was full of middle-aged people doing Tai-Chi or some other meditative martial art, but to Caribbean sounding music. I didn’t feel like joining in at the time so I headed towards the water. This was not a sandy beach for laying down towels. It clearly had a large tide and now was low tide. There was a long stretch of mud, rock, and ugly broken mussel shells with no one around to enjoy it. Despite the unappetizing beach scene, I walked out towards the water to explore. The edges of the mudscape away from the water were more interesting, covered by rocks worn smooth over centuries, which were in turn being made un-smooth by small shelled inhabitants. I walked back feeling slightly disappointed that the beach was not white sand covered in bronzed blondes needing a fresh coat of SPF 2 from someone, surfer dudes giving free lessons on their extra boards, and spontaneous volley ball games with its participants entreating me to join in as captain. I still enjoyed my jungley walk back.

At the market, Henk are Cheryl had disappointing sales to report and asked where I went. I told them about my trip and they said, “Oh, that’s where that hiker was just mysteriously killed not two weeks ago.” It turns out the memorial I saw was not for a lost hiker, but rather one that was murdered. Nice to know after I walk through there. With this news, I grabbed a little lunch. I tried a local favorite, the sausage roll, which is exactly what it sounds like: ground sausage rolled up in a flaky crust. From what I understand it serves a similar roll to the hot dog in American society...or the pylsa in Icelandic society. In the warm weather I read about the major New Zealand ski resorts as I ate, hunting for the one I wanted to work at this upcoming winter. The market ended early afternoon and we packed up most of the nuts we brought. Henk declared it the second worst sales day in the several month existence of their business. I decided I could no longer work and play in the sun without sunglasses or some kind of hat. I hadn’t seen any sunglasses around, but earlier I had seen a man selling all varieties of hats at the market. I discussed my requirements with him and the hat man recommended an Australian style oil skin hat that could safely be smashed up in a bag. I bought it at a fair price and felt like Indiana Jones wearing it, so the day was not a total loss.

Monday was back to business on the nut farm. I was helping renovate a room in my apartment into the nut storage facility. Previously the nuts for their business were packed away into linen closets and any spare storage they had in the house. The direct quote from Cheryl was, “I feel like I’ve got nuts coming out my ears!” I wired up some florescent lights, painted, and helped refurbish some cabinets to finally make what we unofficially called “The Nuthouse” into a working space. While I enjoyed the work there and it felt like home away from home, I knew I needed to move on and see more of New Zealand. I had contacted some other hosts through a few of my networks, but with no success. I particularly wanted to go to Waiheke Island. Situated next to Rangitoto, this little paradise was full of vineyards and people wishing to be near Auckland, but still removed. There was no work to be had there at the time and I decided I should get away from Auckland, but still no luck on landing work elsewhere. I got a surprise email from a host I hadn’t contacted and that started with the salutation “Dude,” continuing something like “got some easy work if ya keen.” This could be promising!

A guy named Rob was looking for some help, but didn’t really say what kind and it unfortunately wasn’t away from Auckland. In fact it was significantly closer to Auckland than the nut farm. Through a series of emails I found out little else about the place other than they are doing some improvements and need help. At least it’s a change of pace. I decided to take off the following weekend instead of going to market again. Now, I had this original idea before I came down that it would be really cool to walk everywhere. Everywhere. While possibly (definitely) difficult, I figured it would be worth it because I would really get to soak up more of the country and hey, I wasn’t in a rush. I could take it slow, I have at least a whole year. It will make me more physically fit and carbon free! So at the end of a pleasant week of gardening and watching the Australia Open finals with Henk and Cheryl, I was headed off for my second farm stay. For my last night with them, Henk and Cheryl took me to Murwai Beach for some sight-seeing and then we ate dinner at their daughter Justine's house. The beach had truly awesome views of cliffs fighting off the Tasman Sea and was great for surfing and swimming. I was impressed with Justine and her husband Joe’s house, a hundred year old villa that they had bought from somewhere in the city, cut in half, and moved to the country. Before dinner we were all easily entertained by Lily, their chubby little nearly one year old that had spent some time with us at the nut farm. The dinner of lamb chops, chicken wings, South African sausage, New Zealand wine, and all the supporting characters of pesto stuffed mushrooms, salad, etc. were an excellent send off for my journey the next day. After all, I needed to stock up on calories since I would be walking for about two days straight! Possibly.

More photos of this adventure here.

Auckland and the Bloody Sky

2008-02-07T04:14:00.000-08:00

[Editorial note from the last story: watching coverage of the U.S. presidential race on TV down here, I was reminded of something I saw at Big Day Out. All day a jumbo screen next to the big stages showed fun camera angles and whatnot of the live performances. Along the top ran small messages about upcoming performances, reminders to get water, and you could even text a message from your phone to go up there for all to see. I was pleasantly surprised to see a message about “Freedom for America...Vote Ron Paul 08”! This was followed by the less spectacular “Luv U Sunshine” but I was still surprised to see Ron Paul got all the way down here!]

The Kiwi International Airport Hotel was nothing special and it was time to get out of there. It was situated close to the airport and therefore not close to anything in Auckland, which is a sprawling city anyway because of both its population and geography. It’s a strip of land between two harbors that holds over a million people. So the city stretches out pretty far, but also has plenty of sail boats and beaches to balance out the disadvantageous sprawl. If I was going to walk to my first farm stay, I needed to start now to get there Monday. But I hadn’t even seen Auckland yet! I decided I should take it easy at first, see the city, and catch a bus to my first farm stay. Derick was also interested in heading into the city, so we talked about it over breakfast which was not free. I think it cost about $12, or half the price of the room, for continental breakfast that included yogurt, cereal, fruit, coffee, toast, etc. I made sure it was worth every penny and loaded up. As my old roommate Arash would say, at a buffet you’ve got to eat enough to make money. Since they didn’t have king crab legs, that was a little harder to do, but I did guiltlessly swipe two single serving sized boxes of muesli. I also was privileged to try Vegemite for the first time. This curious substance is condiment popular in Australia and New Zealand and is composed of yeast, barley and some other mysterious things. As I understand it, it is to be spread on bread products mostly. Vegemite is a savory thick brown paste, and after I put it on my continental toast I likened it to soy sauce, if only you could make soy sauce into a peanut butter-like consistency. Well that was fun, no more Vegemite for breakfast. Apparently Vegemite has a close cousin called Marmite, which is more popular in New Zealand and there is a heated ongoing debate about which is better. Considering my first experience, they can keep both.

After checking out, we walked out to the bus stop across the street and waited, not knowing anything about the bus system. Does the bus even come here on Saturdays? I also found out that my bag was already on the unwieldy side, and I couldn’t really fit everything in the one big bag, I had to use my smaller backpack too. This was not a good sign for the future of walking... There was a large strawberry field behind us, with people picking in massive strawberry picking hats. I envied their hats. A Chinese woman walked up to the bus stop. This is good, a bus is probably running. We talked to her and confirmed there should be a bus coming soon. In the mean time we awkwardly chatted. She moved here from China a year ago because of the work opportunities, and was working at the farm next door coordinating their shipments. She was not able to give suggestions on what to do in Auckland because she didn’t seem to do much herself, but nonetheless was very helpful. In fact, not only did she tell us where we could get a hostel in the city, she got off with us and walked us there!
A Eurotrip several years back was the last time I was at a hostel, so I tried to recall previous experiences to ready myself...international unemployed orphan patrons, F+ hygiene, bunk beds... Down in New Zealand, they are generally called “backpackers” not hostels, but all the conditions checked out. After paying the 20 New Zealand dollars for a night at the fabulous Top Floor Backpackers, I dropped my stuff in a room that, despite the fact it was almost noon, was dark, unventilated, and had several hibernating backpackers inside. Time for a walk around town. The hostel was conveniently close to the main drag in the downtown area, Queen Street. I needed sunscreen still, so I dropped into a pharmacy only to find average-sized bottles cost almost about $26! I preferred this price rather than more burn on top of my (only) slight burn from my big day out before. I continued to aimlessly wander down Queen Street, which dumps out onto Waitemata Harbor and looks something like this:
The harbor looked nice and I could see why they called it the City of Sails, there were sailboats docked everywhere [not pictured here]. Wandering around away from the water didn’t reveal anything too special about Auckland to me, especially because I was in a particularly touristy area. One can’t help but notice a prominent feature of the Auckland skyline called the Sky Tower. This huge needle holds restaurants, bars, gift shops, national communication network hardware, and they even let you jump off of it. Bungee jumping off the Sky Tower, let alone going up it, is not free. I didn’t know the prices, but not free sounded like too much on this first walk around. The jump isn’t even a free fall. They use fancy Hollywood stunt trick cables to slow you down. Maybe that makes it last longer like sipping a fine wine as opposed to chugging it, but I will have to ask someone who did tried it. After I had enough wandering, I headed back to the hostel for the Saturday night barbeque.

This was actually a really nice feature that I’ve never seen at a hostel before. Across the street I bought some white New Zealand wine to have during the barbeque social hour. I found it hard to tell who worked there and who just happened to be doing things in and around the kitchen. I sat with Derick and some other young people I saw. They were from a city on the South island called Dunedin (pronounced something like “dun-EEd'n”). They also went to Big Day Out and were of the hardcore variety: dark clothing, facial piercings, and tattoos. But they were inviting and easy to talk to. Smoking was popular with young people, except they didn’t have packs of Marlboros or whatever one would expect in the U.S. They instead had a don’t-leave-home-without-it survival pack comprised of a pouch of loose cut tobacco, papers, filters, and a lighter. By the way they were smoking, you would think they actually did need this to survive. When they finished smoking one, the rolling process for another started almost immediately. And so it went for hours, but we were outside so it wasn’t too smoky. For a small two dollar donation, we got a dinner of salad, noodles, sausage, potato salad, and more from the assorted staff and non-staff. After dinner, drinking continued with entertainment provided by various iPod wars being waged over the old stereo that had a few cones blown out. There were a mix of stories passed around about what people were doing there, discussions of what songs were being played, and a variety of old tales being told. When I told them I was spending a year traveling between farm stays, they said I should visit the South island. There I could work on large sheep farms and meet “Blokey blokes.” I asked what this meant, but they found it difficult to explain what exactly a bloke was (now after asking around more I have come to find that blokey bloke means something like manly man). I asked them about more local lingo, since Kiwi English not only sounds different, but also has different meanings for English words I know. I asked what a “tosser” is, because I heard that at the concert. They explained that a tosser is like a wanker, hand motion included. With unknown words described by unknown words, I wasn’t getting very far. Not everyone was young, and it was hard to figure out what some of the older people were doing there. There were Australians, Americans, Kiwis, Germans, Dutch, Canadians, and who knows what else. When it was getting late, a large group wanted to mobilize “out” but I was thinking of going on a hike the next day so I held back and crashed in the room.

The next day I got up relatively early compared to all the other lifeless bodies in my room. I went out for some breakfast and to get a few more supplies that I needed, such as a travel towel that I didn’t buy in the U.S. and that probably would have been a lot cheaper there. Ignoring a bum I saw sleeping nearby, I stopped in a well forested park on a hill to eat my brioche and drink my coffee:
It looked like they were filming a movie or TV show in the park, but nothing too exciting and I was not asked to be an extra (or a star). I came back to the hostel to find Derick and our Dunedin friends were just getting up from hangovers. The story is that they didn’t go out to bars, but instead got more drinks from a local shop and went to a park, maybe the same one I was at that morning. There were at least 15 of them drinking in the park, which did not go unnoticed by the local authorities. The police showed up and were telling them to move along, but after some warming up, the cops let the kids wear their hats and even took the group photos, which I saw. This evidence made me wish I had gone along, but I was reminded by the hangovers that I probably did the right thing to enjoy the day. Derick and I caught a ferry over to Rangitoto (meaning “bloody sky” in Maori), a small volcanic island across the harbor which has well-preserved plant and bird life. It was once the home of some sort of small penal colony, and then reborn as a summer vacation spot to have a bach (pronounced “batch”), which is a little beach cottage. A halt on building in the 30’s killed the bach colony, and the island is now a nature reserve that’s great to hike and explore.
The forty or so passengers scattered off the ferry, making way for new escapees of the island to catch the ferry’s return trip. There were several things I wanted to see on the island, including New Zealand’s largest black back gull colony, the rare kidney fern grove, and the old ship wreck at Boulder Bay on the North coast. But there was probably not enough time for all that if I was going to the summit and catching the last ferry back of the day. Derick was planning on not catching the last ferry because he was going to camp on the neighboring Motutapu Island. I was tempted to do so, but I had a bus to catch the next morning. The path to the summit was rocky, but was normal gravel unlike the surrounding landscape of lava rock. It was hot out and I wondered if the one liter of water I brought was enough. I asked Derick about his wilderness experience as we walked and it turned out he was a pro. Even though he was from Kentucky, he spent a fair amount of time being a wilderness guide in Alaska. I could learn a lot from this guy! The people who had it easy were those who paid extra for a tour a la Farmer John’s hay ride. While delivering what was surely riveting commentary about Rangitoto, the tractor driver pulled a small train of passengers on the dusty road up to the point where only walking was possible. A wooden path twisted up to the top, with views through the trees that improved with the altitude.

Being a volcano, Rangitoto had a crater, but the crater rim wasn’t the highest part. I didn’t really figure that one out, but then again, I’m not a volcanologist...yet. The top had a great 360 view of the harbor, including surrounding islands and Auckland. It felt like a much more rewarding way to see the view than going up the Sky Tower, which I could clearly see. On the way back down it was worth a stop at the lava caves. Not just caves, lava too! Well actually the caves were formed by flowing rivers of lava. Unfortunately for me, these flowing rivers weren’t there anymore, but the caves were still cool.

The hike back was downhill and easy. It had cooled off and foreboding skies threatened above. As I got onto the last ferry of the day it started raining. I was glad I wasn’t camping out. I had the privilege of a nice warm bed in the hostel, which probably had bed bugs, since Derick and I had bites that couldn’t be explained otherwise. Being bitten by bugs is bad enough, but somehow made worse if it’s while you’re sleeping. Oh well, just one more night here (this time on top of the sheets) then I am off to the first farm. Once back in the city, I spent some time in an internet cafe, eating my lamb kebab and calling my first host with my computer. She sounded very nice and I was all set to get on the 7:25 am bus. Not knowing when I would be back in the area, I felt like I had a good taste of Auckland. Then again, that was probably all I needed since every New Zealander and visitor told me to get away from there as soon as possible. Okay, I’ll do as I’m told! ...in the morning.

More pictures from this adventure available at: http://picasaweb.google.com/thkemp/AroundAuckland

The Battle of New Zealand

2008-01-29T20:33:00.000-08:00

I surprised myself by sleeping a lot on the plane ride. It was almost a full night’s sleep, interrupted by brief repositioning, but really I shouldn’t be too amazed because I do have the uncanny ability to fall asleep in almost any situation if I so choose...and sometimes when I don’t so choose. But I felt good and it seemed okay that I was waking up as the sun was rising, just as the flight attendants wanted, never mind time zones and all that. I’ve heard lots of people complain about transpacific flights, but overall it was a smooth ride and went by pretty quickly, so don’t let that stop you from going to China (or New Zealand, as the case may be).

Upon arrival, I still wasn’t sure what to expect about my visa, because I read that the immigration officials will most likely ask about all the requirements, one of them being either a plane ticket out or proof that you have a bankroll sufficient for a ticket and enough to live there for a year. I wondered how one would prove this. $4,000 in-pocket? Printout of internet banking statement? I didn’t have anything like this, but all the options I thought of as proof seemed impractical so I just let it go. It seemed okay, they were greeting me warmly already:
At the immigration checkpoint, the line was moving swiftly but was still fairly long, so I looked around at who else was joining me here. Based on looks, maybe a few Americans. Lots of Asians. Okay, some returning Kiwis (accent is a dead giveaway)...oh, some Maori! Maori are the indigenous New Zealanders whose culture is not just a tourist gimmick, they are really still around. In fact their culture and language is on the rebound...or so I read, but hey, here are some in my first half-hour.

Almost at the desk, I heard the familiarity of an American accent from the guy ahead of me. He looked young from the back of his shaggy head. Maybe he was on an adventure too? But he was busy immigrating and I was up next. I wasn’t asked about the exit ticket or money at all when I told them I was there for a Working Holiday. I just had to show them a printout of my visa, which could have easily been forged with any word processing program (in case you are thinking of breaking in). This gave me my “work permit,” in the form of a stamp in the back of my passport. By the way, I did get funny looks and questions every time I showed my passport since the picture is from six years ago when I had dreadlocks.

After breaking into the country, I noticed that in the baggage claim area that they had a courtesy desk giving out free coffee and tea. They are nice here! The little old lady’s semi-British accent seemed appropriate for the spot of tea she was handing me. My giant backpack came out on the belt still encased in the oversized United see-thru plastic bag I put it in, but it looked like the airline workers’ gloves were replaced with cheese graters. I wondered when this TSA regulation came into effect. I opened it up like a little kid at Christmas so I could strap it on, since carrying it any other way didn’t make sense. New Zealand appeared to be surprisingly strict about bringing in plants, food products, etc. and had signs about equine influenza dangers prominently displayed. I remembered having some Trader Joe’s fruit snacks on me which were actually made in New Zealand. Despite the fact that I was just returning them, I declared to avoid the possible $200 fine for illicit pirate booty fruit snacks. I told the fruit police that it was packaged fruit snacks and they waved me through. Easy enough.

I sipped my tea while I tried to figure out what I was doing, in hopes that it would help some. There was a little area that looked like it was made just for lost backpackers and had an entire wall of brochures ranging from hostels to the Naked Bus to blackwater rafting. I barely spoke the words, “Kiwi International Airport Hotel” to the attendant before she politely told me to pick up one of the phones and dial 24. I didn’t know the phone system well, but this told me there were no more than 99 phones in the country. Simple yet elegant. Over at 24, someone at the hostel that I reserved in the last couple days said they would sent the (previously promised via website) free shuttle. It was supposed to be ambiguously “outside,” so I wandered out to find warm sunshine, tropical-looking trees, sweet-smelling air, and bearded men in turbans with idling taxis. I asked if they knew about my shuttle and one replied with a (Pakistani?) accent that it was at door eight. They must get asked this a lot.

By door eight stood a young girl and guy. Hey, that was they guy from the immigration line! They were talking about Big Day Out. “Are you guys going to Big Day Out?” The guy was and the girl wasn’t. She was Australian, on a pit stop here from China before going home. He was indeed American and also confused about what he was doing. I like this guy’s style. I found out his name was Derick, and when the van showed up Derick headed for the shotgun position. Since they drive on the left side here, the wheel is flipped and the driver jokingly had to tell him he wasn’t driving and should get in the passenger side...the left side. The Kiwi International Airport Hotel, which is really more of a combination motel and hostel, stood true to its name, having a huge kiwi sculpture perched on top [didn’t bother with a picture; in retrospect, should have]. By the time we got there it was about 9 a.m. and they had a shuttle leaving for the concert festival soon. My room wasn’t ready yet, but I needed a shower. This being Friday, I think I hadn’t showered since Monday. It would be nice to blame that on sleeping in the airport from the cancellation, but I was definitely able to bathe at home Wednesday. I guess I was trying to work my way into the backpacker lifestyle. When I asked, they let me shower in a used room of the motel variety, but that was all I needed. I also made myself a cup of coffee with the instant packs that the previous residents hadn’t utilized. I quickly repacked my bag, stuck it in the storage room, and we were off. The stadium was several kilometers away, and based on the gate opening time it was best to take the hostel’s shuttle there, which was $10 each way. I could see transportation costs were going to add up.

It was sunny and warm by mid morning, so I could tell it was going to be a great festival day, and a terrible day for a pale boy coming from winter. I had realized a while back that sunscreen was something I forgot to pack, but figured I would buy some on arrival. I didn’t get the chance yet, but I was sure they would have some at the concert. So I rode along with my camera, wallet, sunglasses, and spanish leather water bag. Picking up my will call ticket was easy and I headed for the front gate. On the way, I talked with Derick and a young Kiwi couple that was also staying in our hostel. Someone posted along the path to the front gate asked us if we wanted “party pills.” The young couple explained that these were something like speed and actually legal in New Zealand. Apparently some kids had been dying recently from a little too much partying. None of us felt like partying, so we proceeded, saving more partying for others. At the front, children were ready to rock and un-something the world:
The Big Day Out website said no video cameras allowed and I was surprised it didn’t ban detachable lens SLR cameras, aka “professional cameras.” Of course at the gate they had a different sign which declared that no professional cameras were allowed. Now if a professional photographer was on hand, she could have told the front gate staff that she would never use my camera in a professional shoot, but we all know there is no arguing with a sign. And if I wasn’t being paid to take pictures, how could it be professional? I’m pretty sure you have to be paid to do something in order to be a professional at it. Reluctantly, I gave them my “professional camera,” bag, two extra lenses, etc., with the promise that it would be returned to me if I returned to them the equally valuable postage stamp sized numbered piece of paper. No pictures of the Big Day Out, but I was determined not to let that change the size of my day out.

Some band that I never heard of and that wasn’t very good was playing on a smaller stage. Recalling the back of my Lonely Planet book that said New Zealand has a very high UV index, I knew I needed to head for sunscreen. The first aid tent had some but required a donation of any amount. I didn’t have any canned food, so I gave them a kiwi dollar coin and got a nice-sized squeeze of the white cream. I applied liberally and even put it all over my head since I had extra and I just cut my hair as short as it’s ever been. I really should have brought a hat. I took a good tour of the whole grounds using my new colorful booklet as a guide. It was a pretty typical festival setup with several smaller stages, two big ones in the stadium, a techno tent (the “Boiler Room”), and vendors everywhere. The attendees looked like a mixture of the Bonnaroo and Ozzfest crowds, except half ugly and mostly from New Zealand. A good number of mohawks, dreadlocks, and bad dye jobs. Ill fitting clothing, of the tight, baggy, long, and short varieties. The Tool shirts indicated to me that these people were here to see Rage Against the Machine, like I was. Except I wasn’t wearing a Tool shirt. Both because I don’t own one and if I did, it wouldn’t have been one of the five T-shirts I brought. I was highly temped to buy Rage shirts that they had in the fashion of The Battle of Los Angeles, except they had “The Battle of New Zealand” written on them. Something like this:

I’m shocked that I can’t find a picture of one online right now. Anyway I thought they were very cool, and apparently so did everyone else who was wearing one. I sat and looked at the lineup for the day and drew up a plan in my book. I stuck to it like clockwork:
Antagonist was hardcore from NZ and not that special. I liked Die! Die! Die! and Cut Off Your Hands, but COYH would have been better suited for a night show. Anti-Flag was some decent political punk from Pittsburgh. They talked about George Bush and told the mosh pit to love each other. The Bleeders didn’t have anything special to offer, the singer (screamer) wasn’t very good, and should have been skipped except there was nothing much else going on at that time. I took a sit during their set to get out of the sun. I got sunscreen 4 times throughout the day and was wishing I had coins to donate that were worth less than a dollar, but the price on the curry chicken from the Indian food vendor was (in)conveniently rounded. Very unfortunately, when I was slathering myself in anti-sun liquid the second or third time I inadvertently slathered my sunglasses away and didn’t notice until a few minutes later. I backtracked in hopes that I would at least find sunglasses that looked like they had been trampled by horses in a chariot race. No such luck. I liked those a lot. They were polarized, I think for fishing, and I found them an indeterminate amount of time ago. All good sunglasses are found, not bought. I could only hope that they went to someone less fortunate, like an underprivileged (squinting) child in Borneo.

The Spoon show was very good, especially since I got close. It felt like being a Keepon for almost an hour. Billy Bragg was good, in a more rare classic rock kind of way. It was just him and a guitar on stage, but he made it work. The Nightwatchman was also just a man and a guitar on stage, but Tom had a vendetta. Billy Bragg watched approvingly from backstage as Tom belted out tales of mistreated union workers and even did a cover of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap (originally by AC/DC) but replacing the lyrics to make it about the Bush administration. He even brought out Serj Tankian, who happened to be around because he moved to New Zealand, for a song that is going to be on the new Nightwatchman album, due out in coming months. Rushing to catch Arcade Fire, I ran smack into a wall of disappointment and equally disappointed sweaty people. The main stages were setup with a European festival style front pit area, that funnels people in from further away to keep crowding down to a reasonable level. At this point they closed entry to the front area because it was already full. People up front needed to leave before they let more in, and the mob was not happy about this. I watched Arcade Fire from further than I would have liked, but they were still excellent. The eleven-tet brought the full album sound, complete with french horns, pipe organs and all.

I had never heard of Shihad, but they were local favorites and before they even played I was impressed by their position in the lineup. I think their sound was deserving of this. They have an almost U2 grandeur about them, but in a harder rock format. If you are playing in the torrent world and like rock, they are definitely worth checking out: http://thepiratebay.org/tor/3652998/Shihad_-_compilation. By this time, members of the mob were climbing the center pit entry gate structure and the crowd was chanting “LET US IN!” Shihad had to stop playing a few times so they could make announcements about them getting down off the gates. The stopping of the show prompted most of the crowd population to turn against the extremists. Yelling ensued and I heard things like, “Christ on a stick, get down ya bugger!” and “Good on ya, wank” as they threw bottles in an effort to get them down. I enjoyed the obscenities that were meaningless to me, but I think the bottles really drove down the troublemakers. Despite earlier indications that the gates might be broken down by angry, bloodthirsty New Zealand Rage fans, I knew all hope was lost for getting in the center pit at this point. I went to jockey for a positon for the Rage show, despite the fact that that gave me a bad angle for Bjork. She brought her usual wacked-out full stage type presentation with lots of colors and costume changes. It was excellent, but the Rage fans were restless and Icelandic electronica was not satisfying their appetite for being told to not do what they tell ya. I felt sorry for Bjork because she was actually getting booed by a large number of people who just wanted to see more of another band, but it didn’t affect her show at all. At the end of Bjork was a side show farther away from the main stages called Lords of Lightning, that involved two men fighting with lightning. Yes, real bolts of high voltage electricity. Apparently this fairly amazing stunt was the brainchild of an electrical engineer that couldn’t stop playing with capacitors in his garage. I could see that this was an attempt by the event planning people to thin out the crowd before anarchy and violence was about to start, but to no avail.

There was a large amount of buildup to Rage’s entrance, with giant red rebel star flag displayed prominently on stage. I was disappointed at how far away I was, despite earlier attempts at positioning. Crammed between sweaty rock fans, I decided I was happy to get to see Rage at all, considering I could be sitting in LAX still. I was just glad they were even back together and to think, I got to see the Battle of New Zealand! The crowd went wild when the band came out and they sounded explosive. It was like they had never broken up. Zack’s newly fashioned latino-fro bounced as he encouraged the crowd to turn their radios on and off. They played all the songs a little slower than usual, I think so that people could hear all the lyrics. Later in the show during “Wake Up,” Zack made a speech about...well about a lot of things. Among them, he refuted the negative coverage they got from Rupert Murdoch’s Fox News about their call for a war crimes trial against Bush. He told New Zealanders that the United States still thinks it’s the number one power in the world. He encouraged them to stop buying U.S. products and start protesting their wars. That was probably the pinnacle of the show, and it felt good to be around all the young people wanting to change the world, even though they would probably forget and not do much in the end. They took off after that, which started a huge wave of chanting to get them back on. At this time I realized I had moved about halfway closer to the stage than where I started because of all the acres of jostling and moshing pushes people around pretty easily. The view was actually not bad. If only I could breathe and there weren’t elbows constantly flying at me. Rage came back out for a good multi-song encore and finished it up with “Freedom.” Always a classic.

Supergroove was on afterwards, I suppose to let the crowd depressurize so as to minimize the amount of cars to be flipped and set on fire. I went to some of that but remembered the shuttle pickup was at around 11:30 and I needed to get back for that. Attempting to get my camera back at the front gate, I pulled out a mash of paper that could not be read. My precious return ticket had all but dissolved in my pocket after being soaked in kiwi sweat. I told them I had a black camera bag and described the contents to the staff. As they gave it to me I was glad nobody else came to them with no ticket describing something similar. Like finding a needle in a haystack, I bumped into Derick on the way out and we headed for the van pickup together, comparing shows we had seen throughout the day. I wish I got to see some other bands that were playing at the same time as what I did see, but such is the downfall of a multi-stage concert festival. Oh well, I saw who I came for. On the ride back to the Kiwi International Airport Hotel I thought about what I was going to do the next day, since I had no plan. Maybe start the 50km walk to my first farmstay, maybe hang around Auckland. Who knows. Either way it was a good first day in New Zealand.

Leonard Said Okay

2008-01-22T20:11:00.000-08:00

Well hello! Fancy seeing you here. This is my first entry in the Trevor Kemp New Zealand Adventure Weblog©! Enjoy.

Sunday night before I “left” for New Zealand I was spending some pre-departure time with friends and realized I was supposed to leave the country in 19 hours for about a year (?) and hadn’t packed my bag yet. Hm, interesting. With this realization I got slightly panicked and decided that staying up all night was a pretty good idea, not just for packing but also because New Zealand is around 14 hours off from US Eastern Standard Time, depending on whether or not either country is on Daylight Savings Time (NZ currently is, since it’s summer). I figured if I turned my body clock upside down before I left, it would be spot-on down under. Well obviously I didn’t finish packing Sunday night, but got it pretty well done. On Monday I needed to be at BWI around 4pm to catch my flight and I spent most of the day gathering all the things I hadn’t thought of in the last 2 weeks and re-packing my bag, since the plan was to have only 1 big pack. Let’s take a look at the checklist:

5 T-shirts, check
2 pairs shorts, check
1 pair pants. wearing them, check
tent, check
sleeping bag, check
camera, check
laptop, check
compass, check
binoculars, check
assorted carabiners, check
a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, check
etc.

Okay, good to go. In doing all this I had no time to run out and do a couple things such as photocopy my passport so I figured I’d do that on the way to the airport. After a pretty panicked day of getting ready to leave for who knows how long, my dad showed up to take me to the airport. Surprisingly, neither Harris Teeter nor Rite-Aid had a photocopier (as well as helpful employees), so off to Staples it was. There I was elegantly guided through the labyrinth that is the color photocopying process by a nice young lad. I quickly had color photocopies of my passport and driver’s license. Let’s go! Riding up to the airport I felt anxious. Nervous. Do I have everything? Probably not. Did I do everything I needed to before leaving? No I don’t think so. Visa? Not the “It’s everywhere you want to be” kind, my New Zealand Visa. Yes, I had a printout of the email they sent me and that was all I needed as far as I knew. Passport? Passport. Passport! Passport where are you? Paaaassspoooooort! “Dad, I think we need to turn around.”

After a thorough pat-down and subsequent rummage through all pockets had been done, I saw it. Just sitting there. Sitting there on the glass of the color copier at Staples...in Alexandria...as we were at cruising speed up to BWI. This is not good. This is the thing that does not, is supposed to not happen to real people. It felt like Home Alone and I had left Kevin McCallister there all by himself. How could I have done that? Really it didn’t matter and we just needed to go get it. With great skill (i.e. several wrong exits taken and illegal U-turns made) my Dad maneuvered us back to Staples. Just as I walk through the automatic-open doors I hear “Trevor, I have something for you.” It was the same guy that helped me make the copies and I knew he was probably laughing inside. No time!

The traffic wasn’t bad for a late Monday afternoon up to BWI and I made it with a solid hour to check in and do the security hokey-pokey. Amazing. I said goodbye to my Dad and the airport process was flawless. There was all kinds of time to spare. I ate a big plate of oily Manchu Wok chinese food to tide me over for LA (and so that I was doing something besides thinking about how nervous I was). Then I decided to start off on the right jounal-writing foot by pulling out the empty journal Mark and Lisa gave me. After a couple pages, a man at the United counter came on the microphone with a normal, muffled, barely discernible, “Ladies and gentlemen,” and I thought, “Yes, boarding time.” But he spoke in a very awkward way. He continued with a slow, confused sounding, “There appears to be something wrong with the plane...aaaand we don’t know what it is...”

Hm, that’s not the normal thing you hear before boarding a plane. This got all the anxious passengers in a stir but we were at the mercy of United Airlines. Back to the journal (which is not this, by the way). Sometime later the same all-knowing employee came back on and said something to the effect of, “We’re going to be doing a standard repair and checkout process that will take at least an hour and fifteen minutes, so the plane won’t leave any earlier than that. Take the opportunity to go walk around or eat and we’ll keep you updated as we can.” Thanks. Actually that did help me, since earlier when I was already on a roll with the passport thing, I had another “goof-up” (for lack of a better four-letter word to precede “-up”). In dumping out my pocket contents for them to be medically X-rayed, I realized with slight horror that I was putting my full set of keys into the grey plastic bin. I was fairly certain that these keys did not open or start anything in the South Pacific and wasn’t sure why I had them in my pocket. This would have been okay with the exception of a BMW key belonging to someone named “T” (hence the TSBMW plate). My dad was supposed to sell it for me (another thing I failed to do before leaving) and that would be hard to do if it couldn’t be opened or driven. I took this hour and fifteen minute golden opportunity to go back out to the main terminal and try to mail it, rather than sending it from LA or Fiji or New Zealand. I found a FedEx box that I could use. I had never used one of these magic boxes that only requires you to fill out an envelope with which you soon part. Feeling a little suspect about the whole thing, I did the deed and left. Upon return to the gate, I had enough time to settle into my seat when I heard those awful words. “Ladies and gentlemen, United Airlines will be canceling flight 307 to LA.” Fantastic.

Not knowing what this meant for me I did as I was told and went to the main ticketing/check-in desk in the main terminal to get a new replacement flight. But, like an old dog that has died, the replacement is somehow never really as good as the original. The man “helping” me said he was having trouble confirming the new trans-Pacific flights, but in the end had just moved all my flights just one day. That’s okay, I will still get in in time for the Big Day Out Festival on Friday. Instead of the 2-day buffer I had originally planned, it was just one. This was fine. I got a $135 taxi voucher to take me to Dulles, since I got an earlier flight to LA from there and it’s closer, fully knowing I was going home, not to Dulles. My major problem at the moment was that I was going home to a BMW whose key was now in an impenetrable FedEx fortress just a few hundred feet away. After speaking with official airport personnel (old lady at an Info Desk) and a sympathetic yet helpless FedEx employee on the phone, I determined it was impossible to retrieve the key unless I stood guard at the box until the next day’s pickup. Whatever, I’ll just pay for the delivery and the key will go where it needs to (hopefully).

It just seemed like a security flaw that no one at the airport could open this box. What if there were a bomb in there? I feel fairly comfortable mentioning “bomb” and “airport” in the same sentence, knowing the Department of Homeland Security is probably scanning this blog, because they can’t get me in New Zealand. Anyway, I’m sure they would be able to open the box. I suppose that ruins the plot a bit, mentioning that I am in New Zealand (for all you know). But I guess that is okay since you’ve been wondering that the whole time and this entry is getting pretty out of control in terms of length and detail. But it’s entertainment for me since I’m sitting in my hostel next to the kitchen where an older lady with some kind of unidentified leg sores is playing an out of tune piano while a young Japanese girl wearing a faded and authentic-looking “Michael Jackson Japan Tour ’88” T-shirt is singing along in an equally out of tune fashion to a song I don’t know. So I listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot with my Icelandic Secret Service style headphones on my Macbook Pro and continue writing a blog that will later be posted at an internet cafe for three New Zealand dollars per hour. If nothing else, it should be good entertainment for my friends who are paid to play on the internet half the day because they have no other tasks at hand. If you think this is you and you are being singled out, sadly that is not the case, this refers to quite a few people I know. Why don’t you just move to New Zealand?

On the cab ride to Alexandria (thanks United), I try to chat it up with the driver. I guessed he was from Kenya and this turned out to be correct. Guessing nationalities of cabbies and chatting it up with them is a skill I learned from my friend Mohammed and which I am still perfecting. Apparently the election violence in Kenya is really not as bad as the media makes it out to be, and is mostly just in Nairobi (he knows, he was just there). Also I was informed that the man who lost the election had actually been telling people to strike out in violence. Good thing he lost. When I asked him about the upcoming US election, he said he favored Hilary but wasn’t eligible to vote. I told him I would vote for Ron Paul if he was by some chance the Republican candidate. He had never heard of Dr. Paul.

Back at home, my Dad was pretty surprised to see me, since I should have been halfway to LA by that time. Turns out AT&T hadn’t suspended my phone service yet, so I took the rare opportunity to non-prank prank text some friends about the fact that I was available to hang out. I got some confused half-angry texts back about the fact that that wasn’t funny. Ashley came over and invited me to dinner with her and Ben the next night just in time for me to realize I had voicemail...“This is Kathy from United Airlines in Chicago. You were booked for some flights tomorrow due to a mechanical failure of your plane, but I am calling to tell you you should NOT get on your plane at Dulles Airport tomorrow. It appears Air Pacific can’t get you a flight out of LAX until the 20th...” Air Pacific, if you are reading this: you are the bane of my existence. I will attempt to avoid too much detail on what actually happened with the entire airline situation, as it was very painful and confusing and that generally reduces entertainment value, as you can see below.

It turns out the guy at the airport who booked my flights to all be bumped one day was not allowed to do that because the second two flights were Air Pacific, not United. Calling them back, I was told there was not a single flight I could take before the 20th, thereby missing the Big Day Out, around which I had planned my flight and for which I already bought a ticket. It turns out I was eligible for a full refund from CheapTickets.com since my initial outbound flight had a mechanical failure and I hadn’t been on a plane yet. I could buy a new ticket for later in February and save about $300, more than making up for the price of the concert ticket. But I wasn’t obligated to do anything, and I could go at anytime (just not before the 20th). I could wait awhile. I didn’t even have to go to New Zealand. Why was I going again? I don’t need to go, I can just stay. And do what? No I have to go, my friends threw a surprise going away party for me. That means I have to go. I’ll sleep on it.

Tuesday I was very useless and woke up late. After all, I wasn’t even planning on the being in the country and had idea what I was doing, so no big deal. Plus my body clock was supposed to be 14 hours ahead...right. I spent a good portion of the day explaining over Gmail chat to friends at work that I was indeed still in the country and in fact not a Gmail ghost. I still didn’t know what I was doing about the situation until I talked to Ben. Ben was excited for me to go because he knew I really wanted to, plus he wants to quit Bechtel and move to New Zealand too. At least he can live vicariously through me. Also Ben felt that a great injustice had been dealt from somewhere in the direction of the airline industry. Let me tell you a couple things about Ben: 1) he has a burning passion for justice and b) he can do amazing things with customer service, dealing with companies, shopping around, policies, etc. Please get ahold of him if you ever need to:

buy a camera
do anything on eBay
handle relationship problems
get paid more by the same people to do the same thing because you are somehow living in many places at the same time
get free breakfast at a hotel because there was a fire while you were eating and the staff told you not to leave
be in another country on the other side of the world in less than 36 hours

(All real examples, by the way). Upon further encouragement, I called United back and was told there was 100% absolutely no chance I was able to get on another flight besides one that matched what I originally booked. I told this to Ben and he went to action. Even though still at work, he called United telling them that he (Trevor Kemp) very much needed to be in New Zealand no later than Friday morning local time. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but within less than an hour I was told I had the appropriate flights the next day. Wow. Now there is something to celebrate over dinner at D’Acqua during D.C.’s Restaurant Week. Dinner was great and I was all set to go the next day. Didn’t even need to pack my bags! Just put the passport in my pocket...

Wednesday morning I showed up extra early to Dulles to avoid any problems and get my new paper tickets printed out. Condensing further desk-front airline problems, it turns out that Jackie, the United employee who I (Ben) talked to the previous day, was not allowed to do what she did, which was put me on an Air New Zealand flight that was direct from LA to Auckland that day. This incorrectness was confirmed by the Dulles United manager who called Jackie and told her this. Whoops, sorry Jackie. I did lots of haggling and finally told them to just send me to LA, I’ll figure it out there. The original woman I was working with felt sorry for me by this point and decided she could do something to help. “OK here is what I’m going to do: I will print you a boarding pass for the Air New Zealand flight, and staple it to the back of your original ticket. I can’t print you a ticket for that flight because Air Pacific hasn’t paid us for it. They won’t look at the ticket when you go in, especially if it’s busy. So go fast! They will scan the boarding pass and not look at the ticket until the plane takes off.” “Is that illegal?” “No.” Not really caring whether it was or not, I asked some clarification questions then thanked her profusely. I headed for my LA flight, not sure if I was really going to New Zealand in the next 24 hours, or if I’d spend a few nights in Hotel California.

The first flight was easy and went by surprisingly fast. My bag was supposed to automatically go through, but that just made me think it was going to New Zealand without me. LAX is a bit difficult to navigate, as they try to cope with ever increasing demand, so I had to shuttle to a totally different area. I had at least 5 hours to kill though, just more time to wonder whether or not I would make it with my counterfeit boarding pass. I did other things like reading and email to avoid sitting there thinking, “I am trying to get on a plane, and I don’t have a ticket for it.” When the time finally came around to board, it was very crowded. This was a 100% capacity 777 flight. I thought this was to my advantage, because they would check the boarding passes quickly. Surrounded by Kiwis and potential Kiwis, I anxiously approached the front. They were boarding through 4 desks. Which was the best? Could I even choose? Were they using magnifying glasses and X-rays and valid-ticket-sniffing-dogs on the person in front of me? I couldn’t see. My turn. Just the usual polite hellos and whatnot, and a brief look at the boarding pass. This will be fine. Oh no. Oh no! She’s turning it over! “Let’s see. Hmm...oh. Oh. We’re going to have a problem here.” Heart stops slightly. “Ahem, really? What seems to be the problem?” “This is an Air Pacific ticket for another flight.” “Oh yeah, my flight got cancelled and they put me on this one. They said it would be fine.” I could feel the long line of passengers behind me thinking, “C’mon man, what’s the holdup!?” or, “Oh great, this guy is taking forever.” The desk attendant flipped out a cell phone and made a call, eyes sweeping the crowd. “I’m going to have to call somebody on this one.” Pause. “Hi Leonard, I’ve got a guy here with an Air Pacific ticket that needs to be signed over. What are we going to do about that?” Long Pause. Head nodding. “Can we get them to endorse [pay for] it now?” I had been previously told Air Pacific will not, WILL NOT endorse it. “Can they do it later? Mh-hm. Okay. Okay? Okay.” Turning to me and looking surprised, she said, “They don’t usually do this, but Leonard said okay. You’re lucky.” Leonard said okay. Leonard said okay!!!

Leonard, I don’t know you, but if you are reading this, you are the coolest. Thank you, I will sing your praises. Let it be known that Leonard is the man in a box somewhere who will get you onto a plane for which you have no ticket. Yes! I grabbed my things, said thanks, and quickly went down the airplane boarding chute that reminds me of a tube in a fancy hamster cage. Except the hamster can go all over the place and see through the orange plastic. I can’t see through it and I can only go on the plane. But that’s okay, that’s where I want to go. I imagined the lady with my ticket coming to get me, because there was some mistake. “Leonard called back. You’re not getting on this plane.” Or armed guards. TSA officers with guns. “Sir you’re going to have to come with us.” I would tell them, “but Leonard said okay!” as they dragged me away. But that didn’t happen. I found my way to 44E and sat, trying to look nondescript, so they wouldn’t find the guy with no ticket who wasn’t supposed to be on the plane. I waited for an overhead announcement that the plane was overbooked and someone wasn’t supposed to be here. When they made the door closing announcement I knew I was set. FAA rules prohibited them from opening the door again. I was home free.

I made a polite “Hi” to the guy next to me. He was a Kiwi, but neither one of us were feeling chatty. Not like the lady across the aisle. But it wasn’t annoying, so I played along when she aimed her chatter at me. Laughing and making stupid comments about the blankets. I was entertained by the accent. The 777 back-of-seat-TVs were great, especially because of their programming. They had travel shows that guided you around major New Zealand cities and points of interest, movies, games, TV, etc. Somehow I didn’t feel like a movie even though they had good new ones I hadn’t seen. I wanted to dive into Kiwi culture, so I watched the tour shows, then the 2005 Rugby World Cup final. If you haven’t seen the synchronized dancing, yelling, and chest-beating that the All Blacks team does before a match, it’s really pretty amazing. It really says, “You’re not just going to lose to us, you’re going to die.” Then I switched over to some Flight of the Conchords. I had the first season DVDs that Noah gave me, but it was much easier to look at the back of the seat rather than break out my laptop. I had some good (also free) New Zealand white wine while I watched. Reading a book felt taboo, since they turned off the cabin lights and each person’s reading light spilled onto the passengers around them. So I decided I should get my sleep, tomorrow’s going to be a long day. I drifted off, thinking about the fact that when I wake up, I will be a lot closer to that little island called New Zealand.