Dedication to Uncertainty

Anybody reading this likely has forgotten I ever embarked on a road trip to the north island, or possibly that I even had a blog. It's funny how caught up in life you can get, and that's exactly what happened to me. Travel and uncertainty takes dedication, and I proved my allegiance through sleeping in my car at parks, improving my three guitar chords with bottles of cheap wine, and a photo-shoot of a Canada goose with a Swiss guy on the beach in Kaikoura. Leisure was the name of the game during my last week on the South Island; even my mountain bike rides were punctuated with breaks at interesting pubs and wineries. The sight from the Interislander ferry as I left didn't make it easy to say goodbye. The South's trademark bluffs cut a swath through the blanket of dense vegetation, scars on the furry arms of the fjord that hugged me as I left. The South Island of New Zealand, a fertile land replete with awesome mountain vistas, beautiful rocky seashores and warm, inviting people truly is a special place in the world.

Welly

Arriving in Wellington, New Zealand's capital and portal to the North Island, my road trip instantly sputtered. A planned two-night couch-surf turned into two months, several jobs and a sushi addiction. Rolling green hills funnel the bulk of the kiwi-standard city's 180,000 residents and buildings into an intimate harbor with a cruisy city vibe. Walking down streets that smell of perfume and light cigarette smoke, a handful of people say hello while the rest completely ignore you. The allure of the intriguing mix of anonymity and intimacy floats among the cafes of Cuba street, where young businessmen sit and hand-roll cigarettes with their afternoon brews. Art parks hide among buildings that half-heartedly aspire to scrape the clouds. The deferential urgency of a place filled with bizarre cafes, buskers and a blend of politicians and artists alike offered a unique experience that I seized without a thought, all but vanquishing my desire to head to Mt Maunganui. Getting shit on by a pidgeon is even considered good luck by some, rather than a cause to get upset! It doesn't happen much though, the pidgeons population resides around the level deemed tolerable. My second day there I was applying for jobs.

Temp work landed me a few fun gigs, notably making coffee at the Wellington Lions' rugby matches. The meathead in me was glowing when I got to hold the coveted Ranfurly Shield, the most prestigious trophy in domestic rugby in New Zealand, won from Auckland this year in the Air New Zealand Cup. Making free crap-cappuccinos on a failing machine and chatting up drunken rugby fans was almost ideal, but came to an end when Welly lost to Canterbury 7-6 in the championship. Aside from sparse cafe one-dayers I was out of work, but not for long. Two jobs came up almost simultaneously, so I simply took both.

Greatest job I've had in New Zealand: Driving around the hilly Northland region of Wellington, blaring rock music and donning a black bandana and t-shirt bearing the words "Giving Oral Pleasure Since '96" across the back. Who knew delivering for Hell Pizza could be so much fun?

Worst Job I've had in New Zealand: Trying to make coffee at a cafe in the cold financial district, with a 7am start after a 45-minute walk from my flat, and a joyless, ghetto Malaysian lady screaming in my ear "Mo' mocha! You put not 'nuff mocha! What wrong wit you?" Our shouting matches stayed pretty even throughout the month I was there, only losing my edge when my voice finally departed.

As much as Wellington charmed the wanderlust right out of me, I felt it slowly seeping back through the gaps in the rain clouds. The name "Windy Welly," as it is infamously referred to, does not quite encapsulate the full scope of Wellington's micro-climate. More suitable would be "Wind-scourged Welly, where rain pisses sideways on your chin." Despite guarantees from the Welly-zealots of better weather to come, the only two times I had consecutive decent days I was trapped warding off the screams of an irate Asian lady with a steam wand. With just enough green in the surrounding hills to remind me I was stuck in a city, my thoughts turned to sunshine and the beaches of the north. After convincing my flattie Joze to come along and bidding farewell to some good friends, I quit my jobs, we loaded up our guitars, tent and one set of silverware, and headed north without a map or a plan. I may have rolled a tear, tossed by the wind back at my favorite kiwi city to date, and the closest place I've had to calling home yet in my travels.

The Tongariro Crossing

We eventually ended up in Whakapapa Village in National Park, the hub for the Tongariro crossing. My only plan to date had been to do the crossing at some time, a 20 kilometer hike amidst three volcanoes: Mt Tongariro, Mt Ngauruhoe, and Mt Ruapehu. Joze seemed game, so we slipped unnoticed into the campground late that night and were out in the early morning, snickering at our stratagem as we drove towards the trail-head and the rising sun, peering at us through the mist as the frost crystals burned off. 30 ks later (after the side-trip to the summit of Mt Tongariro and the weary walk back to our car), we had hiked up glaciers, through fields of mist and past sparkling emerald pools. I warded off hypoglycemia long enough to smile at Joze from under my sun-blistered nose, my face looking much like the oxidized iron of the volcano. "Not a bad hike eh?" She wobbled, her darker skin having fared better than mine but perhaps more exhausted from climbing glaciers in slick-bottomed Air Force Ones. "It was ok."

After "conquering" the volcano, a term I quit after repeated slaps for insinuating that nature could be conquered, we decided on a beachy week of leisure on the Coromandel Peninsula. We caught five or six days of perfect weather as we beach-hopped the peninsula. Seven? It didn't matter, neither of us had anywhere to be. I further fried myself on the golden sand, dipping in the crisp ocean and relishing the burn of the salt on my raw skin. Finally, a summer after nearly a year of Fall-Winter-Spr...-Fall-Winter-Spring! From simplicity and heat spawned heaven. We lackadaisically foraged for seafood, eventually cracking open some kina (sea urchin), scooping away the waste and scraping the tan streaks of soft substance from the sides. Even Joze's reminder I was eating ovaries didn't curtail my enthusiasm. It was a memorable week - tent sleeping on beaches, hiking a gorgeous coastline, and digging a hotpool on a thermal beach with an empty peach can (a pursuit we soon gave up when a significantly larger and better thought-out pool opened up) provided just what was in order after seven weeks in a city that stays hopping until the wee hours: relaxation in nature.

Pretty damn good. That's how my road-trip-turned-two-jobs-and-a-flat went. Other stories abound, more to be put into writing in a bit more literary fashion surely in the future. Joze took a bus back to her hometown for a job, and I wound down from my down-winding with a weekend of plays, boogie boarding, and a visit to White Island (Whakaari to the Maori), New Zealand's largest volcano, a fascinating island jutting up from the ocean 48ks out to sea. The Cocciarellas, as great a hosts as they are friends, treated me like royalty! A wonderful send off! It hurt to say goodbye, having tasted Mt. Maunganui, my ever-elusive final destination, but a fruit picking job four hours south awaited...