Piss-Up in 'kune

Looks like I've failed to provide timely updates on my adventures again. A lot has happened since last entry, but I primarily settled in Hawke's Bay for the end of the summer, painting houses, deep-sea fishing, and enjoying the sunniest region in New Zealand. Many more adventures have been had, but I will not hollowly promise to write about them or post pictures later; you've all seen the rate at which I pump these out, it just likely may not happen. After it all though I've ended up back in Wellington. Many of the friends I've made over my year in this country seem to have congregated here, and with the beachy weather of the northern summers gone for the year, I couldn't think of a better place to weather the onset of winter. Wellington is a lively city as I've described in a previous entry, dotted with cafes, bars, and never lacking in social events or causes to join for all walks of life. The attractive lifestyle and attitude here is hard to resist; it truly is a big town that manages to keep it's image as a tolerant and fun place balanced with the political happenings on issues like whether or not to put the 'h' back in Wanganui. However, in all the hustle and bustle of a functional and fun capital city, people seem to have forgotten about another capital- Ohakune, the Carrot Capital of New Zealand.

Ohakune produces two-thirds of the North Island's carrots, perhaps due to the late growing season and nutrient-rich soil from the nearby volcano/ski hill, but more likely due to the lack of more exciting available pursuits. Thriving three months of the calendar, this small resort town becomes seemingly lethargic during the rest (with the exception of the carrot carnival in July), leaving only the carrot-growers to lounge around each morning and chain smoke in front of deserted diners and empty rental shops. Miles from charming but only a stone's throw from interesting, a great volcano view and tepidly interesting railway history coaxed us in for the night. The colorful characters we met made it memorable.

Alecia and I scooted up to the table, dragging stools behind us with one hand, balancing full beers with the other. The Wellington couple we had just met followed suit, unravelling their scarves as they sat. The cozy cabin-style pub was at the tail-end of a shift from diners to drinkers, from full stomachs to empty drinks and liquid conversation.

"...yeah, I work with Americans at WETA. It's good to meet a few who get it so quickly, it takes most of my workmates a few years. They're always groaning, 'why does stuff take so long here? what the hell's wrong with the road rules? and why's the front of the car called a bonnet? Amish aren't supposed to be driving.' Don't get me wrong, good chaps 'n all, but seems like it takes 'em a bit to get used to our way of life over here. Eventually they come around but damn it's slow!" Quentin chuckled, gripping my shoulder. "Glad we found ya! Whatcha drinkin'?"

"Anything whisky," Alecia answered.

"Rocks?" He winked in reply to her nod. "Yeah, knew you were alright. I'll have them bring something special down." He looked over at me.

"Sounds about right." Top shelf whisky? Graphic designing for the Lord of the Rings gurus must pay, although Quentin had cheerfully described the love he had for his work and the WETA organization that had kept him at his job seven years running. His girl Charlotte hardly blinked at the order.

" We come up here lots, my parents own a vacay home. Mint as Welly is, it's great to get out to somewhere a bit more quaint. Plus they're selling in a month...I'm so gutted! Buying another vacation place closer to the city, getting up to that age where they can't really be bothered to travel all that far I guess."

"Shame, that giant carrot really is something," I replied, "Volcano's alright too!" Her eyes squinted, pulling her rosy cheeks up into a smile.

" Gettin' a little cheeky eh?" She winked. "That carrot has history ya know, it took two full years to get it approved, there was a lot of opposition! Women here considered it too phallic. A bit ridiculous eh? I mean it's bright orange, narrows to a point and has a green bush on top! What kinda guys were they runnin' around with? Anyways, I quite like it." She blushed. "For other reasons of course... This place really does swell up in winter. Eh Quent?" she asked, changing the subject. His dark eyes darted up quickly in a motionless nod, dropping back even more quickly to the load on his tray. Four whisky-rocks accompanied by four neat shots slid gracefully onto the table. As Alecia reached for a shot Quentin's arm reached out as well, gently grabbing her elbow.

" You wouldn't want to drink your chaser first, wouldya doll?" Deal sealed- we were getting pissed.


Several drinks later we were outside battling the autumn chill with the warm internal fuzz from the liquor. Quentin used his scarf to shield the flame as he lit a round of cigarettes. Mt Ruapehu loomed and several drunk locals hunched in the background. Puffs of steam, smoke, and laughter filled the semi-enclosed porch, pulsing with merry people under the moonlight.

"So foreigners always grill me about Lord of the Rings stuff... surprised you guys haven't! What they don't realize is that here, everyone had something to do with it, either was an ork or elf or supplied them with something or other. It's really not considered that cool here." Quent spoke animatedly, hands waving, scribbling on open air with the glow of his cigarette. "Really the best jobs were the runners, I used to sign all my mates up for that. Got one of them a job taking a few of the girls on cast around town one night. Posh eh? Then they took Elijah and--err, the hobbits out for a few drinks at Espressoholic. 'S how that place became famous, funny what Rings did to NZ."

"You say the Rings eh?" A short man with a mid-sized potbelly and full-sized voice limped up, tugging and twisting at the scraggle on his face. Liquor and Lord of the Rings twirled in my head while I tried in vain to blink away the man's hobbit-like qualities. "You with WETA? Yeah by the looks..." He cased Quent's wool overcoat, scarf, and well-manicured appearance. He grabbed the lapel of his jacket and tugged, more pulling himself towards Quent than vice-versa."You know Benny?" he asked, voice lowered. Quent smiled.

"Hell yeah, worked closely with him for years!" His eyebrows slanted a bit, voice dropping concurrently. "How do you know Benny?" Quent's confusion stemmed from the man's grey dreadlocks, badly stained teeth and tidily dishevelled style. His appearance was not that of a man with connections in the film industry.

"Fucker bought my house! Right over by the railway, 'magine 'twas more for speculative purposes. Bought my drugs too. Shit everyone on that set used to buy me drugs from me, had to the hours they was workin'! Made heaps then, those was the good days... By Criffins they was good!" He roared.

"By what?" I managed to ask through my smile.

"By Criffins! C-R-I-F-F- ins! Couldn't get enough drugs first time round... Damn good thing they made a trilogy! You have an accent on ya...." He leaned in close, head inches from my shoulder. 

"Whereabouts ya from?" he grumbled.

"The States, Northwest. Painting over in Hawke's Bay at the moment though, been in the country ten months," I answered with my now-well-rehearsed reply. I had been saying six months out of habit until about a month ago. "Good country ya have here!"

"Ain't it? Welcome!" He was roaring again, expression beaming with aggressive sincerity as he gripped my hand and leaned too far back on his heels, slamming into a wooden beam. "Mighty glad to have met ya! Name's Craig!"

"So what ya do here in... 'kune ya call it around here?"

"Yeah mate ya catch on quick! Good ol' 'Kune..." His already glassy eyes twinkled as he looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "I make wooden vases. Ya know, like ya put plants in? I make giant wooden vases out of native timber, Kauri, Pohutukawa, use it all. Make 'em all out of one piece too, some damn near tall as you!" I suppressed a grin. Stocky but short, Craig just as easily could described the pieces as the same size as himself. With his slight bulge in the middle, the shape wouldn't have been that far off either.

"Sounds tricky! You must drill into the middle and hollow it out; how do you do that?" His eyes twinkled even more with pride.

"Ain't easy. Get those suckers down to ten mils thick!" he exclaimed, squinting his eyes and sticking his tongue out at his fingers, held narrowly apart. "It's friggin'... fuckin' hard on the ol' body mate, some of those trunks are 3,000 years old, just huge!" He threw his arms up in a circle. "Damn tough I tell ya, but what I lack in size I make up for in denial!" He swayed as if under the weight of the imaginary trunk his arms were encircling, taking a steadying step before continuing. "Gotta lift 'em with heavy machinery, get 'em situated on a sorta contraption that spins 'em round. Shit it spins! Had a block a' one fly off last month, cost me a tooth!" He lifted a lip, exposing a row of teeth that looked like they were barely clinging on anyways, less a couple goners. "Anyhoot, I use a custom drilling bit invented by my boss, near as long as you are! Smart shit he is, though don't tell him I said so. You visit the big carrot?" You couldn't miss the carrot; it is ten meters tall, situated on the main road at the city limit. Reputedly it is the world's largest model carrot. I nodded. "Good on ya mate! He carved that there sign."

"Not bad at all, saw that earlier. 'Ohakune, Where Adventures Begin' right?"

"Well now, that may be a bit of a stretch..." He started wheezing at this, clearing his throat after a solid minute. "Ol' 'Kune though, she ain't bad. Look you two," he said, throwing an elbow Alecia's direction, "if ya want come down tomorrow, I'll show ya my work." He steadied his sway long enough to give a nod and an exaggerated wink. "'Nuff about all this now though, good to meet some good 'mericans, let's grab a drink eh?"

The night stumbled on, leaving only our table drinking at its tail end. Charlotte and Alecia slurred shopping, promising to meet back up in Welly. Quent's eyes looked lost' and his brows looked quite concerned about this. Craig swayed and stumbled, more back than forth, occasionally slapping a hand on the table to steady himself. Surviving on whisky and whisky alone, he rambled on.

"Good mate-a-mine use ta work 'is boots off all year jus' ta head to Sturgis for that-there-n' biker rally. Loves 'is hog 'e does." Even Craig's chuckle seemed a bit slurred between the wheezes. "Good bastard, ain't all the smartest though, type a' guy doesn't 'ave as many bright crayons as the next... err no... 'is crayons ain't sharp as others. So this mate, 'e loves 'is bike so much 'e gets another mate-a-mine give 'im a big 'ol tattoo." He pointed at his upper arm and across a large part of his back, slamming his hand back down on the table as he had started to tip doing so. "Right 'cross 'ere. Biiig ol' tattoo. By Criffins it was big! One problem was 'ad though- mate was illit'rit. Now guy rides 'is 'og 'round 'Merica every year with this huge ol' tattoo says 'Hurley Durvison'!"

Getting over my laughing spasm at that point wasn't easy- buzzed as I was, the comical state of this man's mannerisms and our own intoxication wasn't lost on me. It called to mind my favorite Kiwi phrase for indulging to much- getting absolutely 'trolleyed.' I finally managed to catch my breath again, moving to wrap up the night as quickly as I could before it turned into tomorrow.

"Well Craig, rough a shape as you may be in, I'll be textin' ya tomorrow for a look at those vases."

"And by Criffins I'll answer!" he roared, stumbling against a bench and involuntarily sitting. He hopped up quickly and just about fell in the fireplace. "I'd be more'n --hiccup-- more'n happy to show such fine folks as you how I make'n the timber into a --hiccup--, jus' outta one piece! May not be the smartest but what I lack in brains I make up fer in denial!" I nodded, finally seeing the clarity in that saying. "N' the thing 'bout it is... ya see I'm a walkin' injry. This 'ere," he said lifting his pantleg and falling back onto the bench. "Chainsawr." His face took on a grave expression. "N' this 'ere? Stray dog. Thing jus' clampt on, fucker. Threw 'im in the truck to take him ta animal... the dog controllers. Made friends on the way though, poor ol' Tut- passed last year. Ten a' them we was companions." Craig started to tug his flannel shirt out of his jeans. " I'll show ya a real beauty..."

"Well Craig," I cut in, "sure lucky to have met a guy hospitable as yourself, it's the people that make the country here and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. This type of welcome and open acceptance has made my year here unforgettable. You'll be hearin' from us tomorrow." He grasped my extended hand heartily and, leaning back with all his weight, managed to pull me close, face somber and eyes nearly tearing with sincerity.

"Okey dokey."

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...

Scrambled Thoughts

This entry originally started as a rant against American ideals, a vent for my frustrations with the expectations to follow the norm and the rigid definition of success in my home country. After my time at University I felt trapped; it seemed that I had to be doing something, headed down some path toward a goal that had only become more vague as I questioned what I wanted out of life with increasing urgency. My desire to see the world almost began to seem like an escape plan, even to myself, and the need for justification I felt every time I told someone I just wanted to travel increased to the point where I was unsure of my own reasoning. I typed two pages, but then stopped. It sounded angry. It sounded whiny. Worst of all, it did not sound at all like the views and the open mind that I have worked hard to discern and develop in myself. It was garbage. If my laptop could crumple it would be in the rubbish bin now.

The main reason I originally had entertained traveling as a lifestyle was to figure out the perspectives of people from entirely different backgrounds, weigh them, and integrate them into my own. The most important and relevant education I’ve had to date comes from experience and relationships I’ve developed. Through the people I've met, no matter how radically different or similar, I have always come away with something, some new insight as to why people live their lives the way they do and what they value. The only constant I've found in these views is that, subject-to-subject, they are invariably different. I've met people that sacrifice all vices in the name of health. I've found people that put wealth and security above all. I've dined with possumers who claimed that it gave them livelihood through a mouthful of broken teeth and deer flesh. Unwaveringly, people find meaning and joy through life in radically different pursuits, no matter how seemingly simple or abstract. Every person has a unique take on life. This realization froze my fingers over the keyboard. To attack one system of values, no matter how different than mine, was to do the very thing I've vowed to avoid through travel and broadening my own life understanding.

I have been living in Christchurch now for about two months, and my last month has been spent living with a family, the Larasons. The blue-collar gods smiled when I mentioned to my friend Amanda that I had tiled and it so happened that her family was in need of someone with tiling experience. One bathroom, a few outside walls and a couple odd jobs later here I am, set to finally make my move north. The time I have spent here has been interesting. Though largely for financial regions, I've still managed quite a bit of fun, including playing human foosball at the MTV Snowjam concert and gazing at Jupiter and a globular cluster through a telescope twice the size of me. The bulk of my time however has been occupied by life with the Larasons.

Jerry, Rebecca, Walter and Amanda expatriated from America 18 years ago. Both kids are thoroughly Kiwi, while Jerry and Rebecca hover somewhere between. They are all outspoken about their viewpoints, and not afraid to challenge your ideals and justification behind them. Frankly, I found it frustrating at first! I quickly found myself defending every action and thought I had, defending the very country in which even I had found what I thought of as faults. If I mentioned I thought America offered many freedoms, it was met with "well that's what the government wants you to think." I defended my country. If I had a coffee, I was handed a pamphlet on all of its adverse health effects. I defended my habit. Defense became my first response, rather than contemplation and a more calculated rebuttal.

What I was defending against was simply a point of view, and though radically different than my own, with all the same validity. When I have an infected cut, I put antiseptic ointment on it. Rebecca takes gummy-bear vitamins with ambrotose. We are both here to talk about it, aren't we? Everybody has something worthwhile to say; an opinion, by its very definition, can never be wrong! In my time with the Larasons I've learned how to better take a statement from a foreign school of thought, set it aside for a moment, and evaluate it against my own, as well as to try and figure out where it is coming from. Though another one may not alter or even sway mine, how interesting would life be if printed and not handwritten? As we become through our life experiences, so become our thoughts and values! Living here has given me the chance to share quarters with people of a different and intriguing way of thinking, and has been the root of many interesting conversations.

My thoughts have turned to my trip north. My car is jacked up over the pit in Jerry's shop currently, and with a new cv joint and a lot of help from Jerry it will be roadworthy tomorrow! I recently bought a tent, a mountain bike, a sleeveless hoodie, a guitar, and two string-less ukuleles. I have not given up showering or eating meat yet, but at this rate we'll see...I have no plan. I have just enough money to be uncomfortable. I have a random couchsurf at a 67-year-old lady’s flat when I get to Tauranga. This is in a week. I also bought a can opener, three cans of tuna and some Ritz crackers.

Seven consecutive months of winter has turned me over to quite a bit of introspection. What does my current situation say about me and the values I hold? Functionally materialistic maybe? I like things, things I can use and things that make noise I can listen to and things that bring me pleasure. You can say the same about people who own yachts and backpack in slippers. However, my materialism seems to be more geared towards practicality. Am I comfortable with discomfort? If my ears are cold I never put a hat on until I can’t feel them anymore. My lack of a home for the next week or so, or any place to go for that matter, doesn’t concern me much either. This may relate to my hopeless romanticism, in this case the image of me sitting on the hood of my car in no more than a sleeveless t-shirt, bawling kumbaya at a fur seal. I also have found I enjoy awkward situations when abroad, there is always a great chance to pick up some nuance of a new culture while playing on your margin of error as a foreigner, however embarrassing this can be at times.

However others may view me, my life situation has come from the thoughts and values that I’ve come to find tangible through my own unique experience. It will never be the same as anybody’s, and acceptance of this fact as well as a willingness to realize that the same is true of others is a more daunting task often than it sounds. To gather ideas and learn from the life experiences of others, experiences foreign to any other person, requires first an ability to listen. To REALLY listen. To seek out the “why” behind their ideas, and to accept them as entirely valid for the person expressing them. Only then can you truly weigh the values of others against your own and see if any strike home with you or can be found in your own life experience. It is only through accepting an opinion as an absolute truth to that particular person that you can learn from them. This last month has shown me how hard this can be to do, as well as how enlightening it can be once you are able to.

I hope to meet many people over the next week. I hope I come upon a few hitchers simply to be able to help them out and chat about life here. I hope I find a wandering soul I can lend a harmonica while I wail away on a shitty guitar until my fingernails bleed. However, I have planned a solitary path for the moment. I have decided to head north through Rangiora, simply because I have to pick up my useless ukuleles there. After that I don’t know. What I do know is that any strangers I meet along the way I will give the most open ears possible, for they, like me, are just a person with one view, one human experience, and many stories to share.

Snippets and Snapshots

              Views from my flat. The Timeball in the first picture used to rise and drop with                   the tide, serving as an indicator to cargo ships coming to port.

Well, if I had accumulated any blog devotees I've probably lost them by now! It's been quite awhile since I've posted anything, and unfortunately (for you) too much has happened for me to fill you in on every little thing. Let me start with an apology to any wretched soul who has anticipated another entry, and follow with a lesson: don't expect consistency from a penniless, traveling English major who believes that purchasing a Subaru online and that day driving it on the left side of the road (for the first time) in the dark for two hours to a hot springs is a good idea.  As I have expatriated, apparently so has my common sense... Apart from this mini-prologue, I'm going to try and keep this entry a bit lighter and less laborious for the reader. I figure I can summarize my travels and current situation in three sections:

1. Recent Events of Questionable Consequence

2. A Day in the Life of a... Canadian?

3. A wee-bit-a'-munted-up Kiwi-English Translation

So, without further adieu or digression from the subject matter, and without drawing out already lengthy and difficult-to-read computer-prose that will leave your eyes watering mere words into the entry, for the sake of the reader, I give you my latest blog entry, hopefully the most accessible, direct and engaging entry to date and a model of brevity and concision for all of those (of which there will be many) to follow. We begin with a few events...

                    

 RECENT EVENTS OF QUESTIONABLE CONSEQUENCE

1. We did a tramp on Stewart Island........from now on a prolonged ellipsis will allot you laughing time. I caught a blue cod on rotten venison in a crowded 6-foot rubber dinghy. We ate the blue cod. It was decidedly better than rotten venison.

2. We played Presidents and Assholes for drinks on a dairy farm outside of Timaru with the same kid (Chris) who took us fishing. The names "Pants," "Kiwi-Man," "Love Muffin," and "Cuddlebum" were dubbed. I will not say how or to whom, and please don't ask.

3. We played in the disc-golf tournament at the Queenstown winter festival. Jordan and I tied for fourth. Julie and Katie took seventh. There were eight teams. Somehow we still weaseled a bottle of champagne out of the deal.

4. I took second in a free Hold 'Em tournament in Queenstown, winning a $50 bar tab right before leaving the city. We had to stick around an extra night to make use.

5. We watched yellow-eyed penguins, the rarest in the world, hop up treacherous bluffs to nest. Hmm...

6. Weak Sauce's battery quit us in a snowstorm. Jordan had to rev the engine every time he wanted to use the windshield wipers, while I frantically defrosted the window with a dirty old sock

7. Jordan, Julie, Katie and "The Sauce" left Christchurch. I stayed on a couch I found on couchsurfing.com for a week with a kiwi host, along with a German kid we later nicknamed "efficiency."

8. I found a temporary flat looking out over the harbor in the Lyttleton suburb of Christchurch. Here I now reside.

9. I went to Hanmer Hot Springs for the weekend with my couchsurfing friend, a 40-year-old Scotsman, and a lesbian nurse couple. My new shoes were stolen at the pools.

10. I got a bartending job at Elevate bar and restaurant. I showed up for work yesterday and it was explained that I would be serving, not bartending. I am currently looking for jobs.

11. I simultaneously bought a white 1990 Subaru from a university kid and introduced the word "fly" as an adjective to the kiwi language.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A... CANADIAN?

I'm just going to describe a day, that's all. I have no routine, and if anything my life becomes more sporadic daily. Take some snippets from today, for instance.

"It's nine o' clock, time to wake up! It's Nine O' Clock, Time To Wake Up! IT'S NINE O' CLOCK, TIME TO WAKE UP!!!" I had an alarm in high school that had settings for a rooster, church bells, and a bugle. My new phone-alarm is far worse, and much harder to snooze. To its credit though it does kick you right out of your sweetest dreams and into the day, and by 9:30 I was at my bay windows, mug of brew in hand, staring down at the bustle of ships navigating Lyttleton's loading docks. Kat sat at the computer in a robe, while Tom perched next to her on the futon. 

"Ha, does nobody in this house have a thing to do today?" After my four-hour orientation at work yesterday I had earned a day off. My new flatties both shook their heads. 

"Just takin it easy. Guy's at work, probably cook some fish tonight, but other than that not much else," Kat, Guy's fiancee, responded. Guy seems to be at work often, managing the marketing for two ski hills and Chill, a "Winter Adventures" operator. The name is apt to describe my new living situation; Kat's a photography student, Guy and Tom both ski and surf religiously, and all three abide by the Southland philosophy of life-- just chill. Always reluctant to leave this haven they've created on our hill above the ocean, I lingered over my coffee and the view as long as possible before swooping up the keys to my 18-year-new Subaru and heading out the door. 

Every day I head into the city I pass through a tunnel a few kilometers long. Lyttleton is in a way its own town, separated by both distance and attitude from the more lively, urgent, and landlocked center. The tunnel is a good transition point, marking the moment in each day where I either snap to attention or unwind, depending on which way I am passing through. Today I had to open a bank account, apply for an IRD number, and sign my work contract. I drove a bit slower through the tunnel.

After all of my errands I stopped to fill up my gas tank. Until New Zealand I'd never found it prudent to carry $100 bills. When my tank topped off at $101, I actually had to dig for an extra coin to cover it, all the while regretting my decision not to buy a 50cc Vespa scooter. Saving the money would have been worth the humiliation. Feeling cheated and angry, I felt that I had to go for something a bit more prudent- I rang up my friend Amanda to go get $8 sushi lunch boxes in the city center.

Christchurch is known as The Garden City due to the uncanny amount of land-area occupied by public parks and gardens. People ride their bikes all over and walk their dogs, poop-scoop bags in hand. Several streams descending from the North converge into one river, which lazily slips through the city out to the ocean. The sparsely chirping birds and calculated presence of nature are just enough to remind you that you're stuck in a city. I reflected on this while chewing on my tuna rolls.

My tenancy at my current flat is up in two weeks due to a prior agreement, so I spent the next few hours looking at flats I found on TradeMe, the kiwi version of eBay. I occupied my driving time with cursing, swerving, and fist-shaking as I searched for non-existent street names. There is no reason that a road, when it continues absolutely straight, should ever change its name at an intersection.

I stopped by work to look at my schedule. Each day was represented by a box, each containing two times. Logically the start and end of a shift, right? Mine indicate 11am-5pm, and I cracked a joke about my "wee six-hour shift" to my new boss. He explained that the two times were both start times, indicating a split shift with just enough time between the two to do, as the kiwis would say, "fuckall" with. I have split shifts every day this week.

On my way out I met my co-worker Byron. After a brief introduction the inevitable "Where ya from?" came up. "Guess," I said. He furrowed his brows and clasped his hands, index fingers pointed at his chin. He eventually lowered his hand-gun, leveling at my chest. "You're Canadian." It was the fourth time today and at least the 100th time this trip. Only one in four people correctly guess American. One in one hundred have sworn I am Swedish, and one in 50 say, "Umm..... Middle Eastern?..... Somethin'.....hmmm..." 

A WEE-BIT-A'-MUNTED-UP KIWI-ENGLISH TRANSLATION

'Wee'- tiny. 

'Munted'- screwed up. Actually, more 'f*cked' when used in context 

'Sweet-as'- replaces cool or awesome, as well as numerous other words yet to be deciphered

'Cheers'- Thanks. No problem. 

'Togs'- bathing suit. I know because I innocently left mine somewhere.

'Good 'on ya!'- way to go, good job. This is often shouted for some reason.

'How ya goin?'- How are you? How are things?

'Tea'- tea. But more commonly, dinner.

'Reckon'- people of all ages actually 'reckon' here, not just the philosophic elderly

'Gutted'- I feel awful, or 'dangit!'

'CV'- resume. Don't say resume here, people look at you weird and go back to what they were at

'Biscuit'- cookie

'Proper'- if something is real or genuine, it is actually "proper," such as a good pub

'Rubbish'- trash

'Bogan'- hooligan

'Boy racer'-bogan in a fast car

'Road Warriors'- the actual name of an NZ gang that get way to much TV airtime for being a bunch of high school punks in souped-up Hondas. This entry will not appear on the NZ version of my blog

'Lolly'-candy. Kinda grates the ears, huh?

'Shag'- hehe. I think back to Austin Powers every time I hear this. 'Randy' is common over here as well

'Bro'- Aww, bro! Yeah, it's still common here.

'Bum'- Butt

'Loo'- toilet

'Super-loo'- massive toilet complex

'The Trots'- diarrhea 

'Deep Breath'- a beer after work. Maybe that's unique to my flatties, though...

'Flatties'- roommates

'Bloke'- Guy

'Bonnet'- Car hood

'Boot'- Car trunk

'Pack a sad'- to break or die. Or to leave I guess, I had a guy tell me his wife packed a sad on him

'On the piss'- getting drunk

'Pissed'- already drunk

'Piss-up'- a gathering at which to get drunk

'Pissing down'- raining. actually pissing down the worst I've seen while I write this

'Take the piss out of'- to ridicule or mock

'Root'- to have sex. there is no other meaning for this word, so careful at rugby matches, you don't want to root on the whole team...I actually told people I rooted for the Packers. No joke.

'Tomato sauce'- ketchup, but sweeter and a bit spicier. and not served with 'chips' unless requested

'Zed'- the letter Z

Light enough? Disclaimer: This piece is to be free from scrutiny in all areas grammatical or structural. Yes, elements of cheesiness, dryness, and erraticism were used to obtain a cheap laugh or two, and I am not ashamed of this. Briefly-

My several cracks at Christchurch do not indicate a distaste for the city. It definitely is a great hub for kiwi culture and a personable city. Amazing views of the snow-dusted alps and frothy ocean abound, and nature is never too far. However, now that I have finally found scattered moments to sit and think about what I want to get out of my time here, I have lost my feeling of content with simply being in a beautiful foreign country. No matter how special the city, and Christchurch is nothing extraordinary, it is still just that- a city. Though each may be markedly different and radiate culture of a particular nation, I think the true culture of a place must be in the natural beauty and the people who revel in it. People, and even the cities they build, are a product of the nature and surrounding geography; people are where they are for a reason, as are cities. As much as people can make a place, the place truly makes the people, and I think the root of cultural identity is much closer to the land itself. At least here it is. A virtual Garden of Eden for surfer Adam and ski-bunny Eve, New Zealand is a place where nature gives its all to humanity and the people actually give back. As I write this it becomes even more apparent- contrary to what I decided just weeks ago, and what I still believed just hours ago, I don't think Christchurch is the place for me. Going on 'heaps' of local advice and even urging, I'm seriously considering packing up at the turn of the season to head to Mt. Maunganui, a somewhat sleepier surfer town situated on the east coast of the North Island... 

Ron and Beth- Just a developing whim, but I might be closer than originally thought when you both return! 

A Fishing Funk

Weak Sauce at Gunn's Camp, broken down the day after we got her

Invercargill! The place to come if you want to see raucous teens racing their obnoxiously loud Subarus and Hondas down the main strip or 60-year-old women dancing wild at a Drum and Base club at 2AM. It's not all bad though, it has crosswalks that actually change when you hit the button and plenty of shows to go and see at night. We came here from Te Anau, stopping to journey through a limestone cave network, made more interesting with two shared fading lights and several narrow passageways that required sick contortions of our bodies to squeeze through. We saw some interesting caverns though, many covered with scattered glow worms and involving treacherous sprints around the edge of deep, surely bottomless puddles. We made it though! We also stopped at Dusty's Bar, the lone tavern in a small town of Clifden, and had the best seafood platter of the trip, along with "the best Speights beer on tap in New Zealand," according to one elderly local, the sole customer other than us. After arriving at Invercargill, we decided to stay here through the weekend before venturing to Stewart Island. Between the Aqua Center, Jordan sleeping under a bush in just his sleeping bag, and Julie and Katie dancing to the hypnotic beat of a drum-and-base DJ and finally convincing Jordan and I to join, it's been quite an enjoyable few days here. We even took a few Subarus and Hondas in Weak Sauce! (our Toyota van, for those who missed the first blog entry). I think we ended up at about .500 in our short-lived racing stint, and the phrase "You've Been Sauced!" was coined in our victorious moments. We also just bought tickets to a reggae show featuring DJ Jahred, Irie Eyes Soundsystem, and Koile to check out tonight before taking off early tomorrow to catch the 9AM ferry. Good fun.

A recent event did occur that I've been struggling with, one that some will find silly or scoff at maybe, but I'm going to tell you about it anyhow for personal remedy for the guilt...


Weak Sauce rolled to a halt on the gravel shoulder of the Riverton-Wallacetown Highway, giving a final lurch, sputter, and sigh before we settled just yards from the Oreti River.
"Ahh, the elusive fishing access." I pointed out a small trail that dropped over a steep bank, winding under the bridge. Two days before, Jordan and I had driven around for hours looking for a mythical access sign. New Zealand, land of phantom rivers and dyslexic cartographers, ended up besting us and we wound up spending the day in quaint-yet-artsy downtown Gore, visiting a few museums and nearly weeping every time I saw the sign procalaiming the town "The Brown Trout Capital of the World," posted under a huge sculpture of a brown striking a fly.

"Looks like we're gonna get some fishing done today!" I'm one of the rare few who get an actual adrenaline rush as something as simple as the thought of trout fishing. Hopefully I don't find myself in an assisted living facility someday dancing on the table when I win on multiple cards at Bingo night. However, the prospect of fishing this esteemed river in the trout fishing Mecca of the world had me glowing as it may any trout enthusiast.

After giving Jordan a once-over of the basics, I set down the river. The sluggish Oreti spat and burbled in front of me as I began peppering eddies and troughs with my lure. The day was comfortably overcast; amongst the murky current, soft dark of the day and trace amounts of water seeping into my shoes from the spongy grass lining the bank, I felt right at home. I've gotten to know many a river in Montana on these terms, with the sun flickering through high soft spots in the stratus, flashing off of the water just seconds at a time. It's like a candlelight supper where your date just sparkles, stares back, and doesn't speak. Perfect.

I navigated the bank for about an hour, cutting away behind the tall, gnarly brush to the nearby pasture and back, casting when I could but producing no results, just a few costly hang-ups on the unpredictable submerged timber. Eventually the steep bank gave way to sheer cliff, forcing me back upstream. On my way, another snag left me with one hand-made silver spoon, tarnished with rust but retaining its action well enough. It's hard not to let frustration destroy a day like I was having, but I tried my best to mold it into some sort of resolve and convinced myself that just one fish would be adequate for my first full day out. I trekked back to the most promising spot I had seen, a turnout swirling above several boulders and a short, sloping rapid.

My first cast and I was hung up. Just as a guttural curse escaped my lips it morphed into a high-pitched whoop in the same breath; I'd felt a tug. Logs don't tug. Ten feet out I saw the flashy yellow-brown and spots of a monstrous brown trout. Logs don't look like monstrous brown trout. As the fish ran with a power intensified by the current and that far outstripped that of any fish I'd had on a line in Montana, I reached an overwhelming ecstasy that I've seldom experienced. Cars must have whizzed past on the nearby highway. At some point Julie and Jordan must have come running, I vaguely remember barking at Julie to grab the camera and somewhat cruelly yelling at Jordan to "get the hell out of the way." All I could focus on was the beast I had on, tugging and flipping as my line wildly etched out our struggle on the surface of the glossy pool. I had a battle on my hands.

The fish shot for the rapids just feet downstream. I tightened the drag to control the line that was now whizzing out of my reel, but inevitably the fish flopped over a boulder into the rapid below. Hopping over a log to avoid an uphill battle, I repositioned while the fish settled in a large eddy and lugged at my line like a scrumming rugby player, giving me a good five or six seconds to settle my footing and loosen the drag on my tensed line. The fish gained a few feet and shot up a chute between two of the boulders, almost snagging the line as I threw my rod into the air and then yanked it back down, giving him a few more feet to run to the top of the pool I had originally hooked him in. When he finally ran toward me, I spun the reel to catch up the slack, gaining the first inches of a battle where my inches were dwarfed by the seeming miles of line required to give a fish this size, especially on 7 lb test line.

Inches mattered. The fish's next run toward rapid water I was able to cut short, coercing it out into the more open water where I again gave it more line but at least cut its advantage to a minimum. We struggled a few more minutes in the open river and finally the trout's stamina began to fade, but not after greatest game of give-and- (mostly) take I had ever played.
Time in these matters becomes irrelevant, and I think this is partially responsible for the euphoric feeling. It's man and nature, nothing else. The fish has nowhere to be but free. Man has nothing to do but best the fish. The whole concept of time, a creation of man, is flushed away in nature downstream of all concern. I don't know a single angler who would quit the battle with the fish I had on for anything, be it a child's birthday, business meeting, or even his own wedding. Shouldn't an angler's wife be understanding of the infatuation that most fishermen find in the beauty of nature and its inhabitants? If not, it's a doomed marriage anyhow. I was in the middle of the most beautiful, wordly and unworldly experience that I know of, something so natural and wild that your periphery melts away and the narrow tunnel that is one event in an eventful life expands to be your everything. Then I ruined it.

Finally more tired than I, the trout became cumbersome. No longer were its darts for freedom so fierce and defiant. Where it formerly lunged it now just rolled, flashing its bulging white belly as a tired but powerful tail propelled it away from the bank till the line pulled taught, forcing it to circle around and do it all again. It was close enough that I could tell it was hooked well. Three barbs flexed through its tough, thick skin, two from the tough upper area behind the nostrils and one through the tongue and jaw. The rusty spoon dangled, periodically spinning a loop as I pulled my prize closer and closer to shore.

My conservative and self-servingly pessimistic estimate of the fish is 26 inches. A fat 26 inches. A gigantic 26 inches. It was a fish some live their whole lives to even glimpse. I've met many an angler who have spent thousands of dollars and years of dedication in pursuit of this exact fish, the beautiful creature that now ended up resting in a pool at the feet of a penniless 24-year-old with only one rusty lure left in his cheap plastic tackle box. To relive the next few moments is and will be horrible for me for my entire life.

I had no net. My New Zealand budget doesn't allow for a net. I didn't need a net-the fish was hooked, exhausted, and resting just feet below me. I slowly slid my rod back with one hand and reached for the head of the lure, going gently for the left gill with the other. Seeing my approaching hands the fish gave one more desperate, powerful flop. I reached for my rod, looking to give it just a bit more slack, grasped it, and picked it up. Or I tried. Focusing on the fish while I had slid it behind me, I had stuck the reel under a taught vine. My tip raised in the air but my caught rod didn't give. The snap may have been the most sickening sound I've heard in my life.

Still the fight wasn't lost though. The spent fish just sat there, even after I leapt off of the foot-high bank into the knee-deep water beside it. The river curled around me as I reached under the fish's belly and tried the double bear-paw to scoop it onto the bank. It was too heavy. Too slippery. The last lethargic, instinctive wiggle was enough to send its enormous mass plopping back into the water and careening down the rapids. I could see it for a good few seconds as the fish slipped out of my life. At least physically. I still suffer mental anguish from one particular fish from my past, anguish that will surely be dwarfed by this event.

It may be self-indulgent to dwell on a fish. So many worse things can and surely will occur throughout the course of my life. Fishing, and more particularly a single fish at a single place on a single day, is just a sliver of life. However, for me the portion has grown throughout my years in Montana, possibly second only to New Zealand for trout fishing. My love for the sport and respect for the fish I go after has grown exponentially. They are beautiful. They are mysterious and quirky, and on any given day you are just as likely to be tricked by the fish as you are to trick them. They are great eating. I've killed many a fish before, but I do not regret any and have made use of all I have killed.

One of the most respected fish I've landed I killed pointlessly with a stupid mistake. The trout, if it even survives the exhaustion I fought it to, will have a period of rest and then will have to feed to replenish. With a mouth pinned shut by three barbed prongs, it won't be able to. Numerous random event between the courses of two lives resulted in a beautiful moment where our paths crossed and I got the pleausure to grapple with an amazing feat of nature. I fought it perfectly, with the exception of one moment of carlessness. Not only did I lose perhaps the largest brown I will ever catch, but I killed one of the most beautiful creatures I've come across in my life.

The Hollyford Tramp

1. Some falls along the way 2. Jordan on one of the several wire bridges

3. Lake McKerrow

Well, it's been a bit delayed and I hope at least somewhat anticipated, but I finally found time for my first journal entry on our New Zealand adventure! Our trip definitely hasn't lacked in excitement. We flew into Queenstown, a busy little resort town on the South Island and set about finding transportation. After a bit of searching and whirlwind deliberation we landed a 1989 Toyota TownAce campervan, which we purchased from a middle-aged Chilean ski instructor who seemed bent on highlighting how easy the title transfers are in New Zealand, claiming one could steal and sell a vehicle with little more than a forged hand-written note from the previous "owner." I had a bit of a feeling he had some first-hand experience. We departed Queenstown soon after, and the van clunked along wonderfully all the way to Te Anau, serving as a cozy accomodation after we shed the saggy pillow and worn sheets that were generously thrown in with the deal. After camping for a night however, our new pride and joy's alternator gave out at Gunn's camp, the last speck of civilization before the trailhead. Not to be defeated, we went ahead with the trek anyhow, leaving our now aptly named "Weak Sauce" to rest by the trailhead.


The Hollyford tramp is a hearty endeavor, especially for first-timers..........Get the snickering aside...........We hiked four days to our destination over diverse jungled terrain, catching weather half of the time and spending two hours our first night stumbling over what little ground two headlights shared between four people could illuminate. Trials aside, we eventually reached our destination, Martin's Bay, although it was on a particularly rainy night and in rather daunting circumstances...







Three hours into our last day found Jordan and I dripping wet in the thick of the jungle staring into the beady, hollow eyes of a ghostly figure draped in a glistening bright yellow rubber rain-gown. Human beings are scarce in the off-season here, especially in the Southern reaches, so it almost felt necessary to make conversation.


"How you doin'?" I asked. The gaunt figure just swayed slightly, seemingly from the force of the rank steam puff that escaped his tightly-cinched hood. I figured he may not have heard over the fuzzy patter of the jungle storm so I repeated myself, though somewhat more meekly. He swayed again, surveying me as a drunkard may another round.


"Martin's Bay ya 'eaded to?" he wheezed. I just nodded. "A coupla miles, ah, yay, a wee bit up..." He raised his arm and pointed down the trail with his bony pinky finger, clutching a handful of animal traps tightly with the others. I expected more to follow but he just swayed, arm raised, suspending the traps over the wet bed of mucky foliage.


"Oh," I finally let out, "well thank you! Have a nice day!!" Trying to muster false enthusiasm and at the same time restrain it is a task I apparently have yet to master; in retrospect I think I let out more of a squeak. We quickly resumed our march down the trail, leaving the haunting figure squinting after us, a squint that didn't break even as he bent to pick up an unmarked burlap sack with tufts of dark fur poking out at the seams.


During encounters like this I always find it difficult not to recall middle-school English lessons on foreshadowing. This creature of the bush would have been the perfect predecessor to woodland chainsaw carnage in a sappy horror novel. Either that or a culprit in the mysterious disappearance of household pets from a gated community. It's hard not to feel on edge after crossing a being like this, especially in an element so different than you're used to, but I somehow did manage to gather my nerves by the time we arrived at the hut.


The rain had thickened considerably, and the pale Kiwi winter sun had slipped around the mountain at the back of the bay. Nearly bumping into the sign, we looked up at our flat for the night, scarcely illuminated in the flat light. It was immediately apparent we were not going to be sleeping alone. The sagging clothesline suspended over the porch held a variety of tattered wool and thermal gear, the only ubiquitous quality being that each looked as though a colony of mice had mistaken it for a piece of cheese. Jordan and I threw exhausted glances at each other and approached the hut a bit more wearily than warily, although my nerves were definitely back at attention. Slinging our packs up on the chicken-wire covered boards of the deck, we surveyed our surroundings a bit more closely.


"Well, it definitely looks like someone's been here a bit," Jordan pointed out, looking at the rubbish in the front.


"Yeah, more than a wee bit," I replied. I nudged the mountain of driftwood at my feet with my toe. "It's almost like someone's liv-" The word died on my tongue as I noticed, hanging on the line between a pair of blue thermal underwar and an orange hunting cap, two bloody pelts from animals I couldn't identify. Straining past them I pegged the hunk of meat hanging from the bush as a deer leg. "Huh." Jordan opened the door to go inside.


This hut definitely had residents that felt comfortable enough to establish some degree of permanence through the off-season in this public area. Two gas stoves and an array of canned goods hogged the majority of the counter, sharing it only with a pile of bones in the corner. A linen rack pinned behind the iron stove supported twice again as much as the outside line held. The distinct scents of stale tobacco, old sweat, burnt meat and the composting of our own unwashed bodies fought for the atttention of my nostrils. I kicked at ab empty 20 kilo bag of flour and looked over at Jordan, who was holding up a men's magazine vertically.

"Well, at least they've got this going for them," he said, flicking through the crinkled fold-outs. He settled on a big-busted blonde. "I guess if I had to be stuck out here I'd want her along too." He tossed the magazine back on the table, forcing a cloud of rolling-tobacco granules into the air.

"I suppose this'll be cozy," I said as I looked around the room. It's smaller than the rest, but at least we have plenty of firewood, and we should get some good views of the bay when it clears up."

"Yeah, it'll be fine. Better than pitching a tent," he replied, signaling the raindrops echoing off of the metal roof. We set about starting a fire and jockeying for room to dry our drenched gear.

About an hour later a loud thump on the porch announced an arrival. Our heads both swivelled, expecting to find Julie and Katie, but instead observed a hulking red-bearded man whose bulk dominated the entryway. Accompanying him was a dark hound with a mass no less awesome. I skipped a breath as the door shot open.

"Ey, newcomers!" he somehow softly roared. "Didn't expect any this late." We both mumbled greetings in return. He looked at us for a moment, blinking away the raindrops pooling at the end of his dark red curls and falling away into his eyes. A smile sprang up between his plump cheeks that seemed at the moment sinister.

"So...." I hesitated, not sure how to adress the Kiwi version of Paul Bunyan, "looks like you're out here for a bit!!" I think my false enthusiasm actually squawked rather than squeaked that time.

"Yee, we're possuming! Well, we're tryin' to possum but this bloody weather....bumped into me mate a bit down the track, said a coupla yenks were 'eaded this way, 'ere yee are!"

"Yeah, we have a couple more on the way, they shouldn't be long," Jordan replied. "You said you're doing what?"

"We're possuming! 'untin possum! Name's Von by the way!" He extended a paw down to where we were perched on a bench. "N' that there, that's Spot, me 'untin mate!" Spot whimpered. We shook hands, still a bit awed at this different breed of man who was efficiently shedding gear and tossing even more on the already over-laden racks.

"So, do a lot of people possum around here?" Jordan asked.

"Aw, yee, there's good money to be 'ad in possumin'!" Von then enthusiastically broke down the possuming trade for us. Possum fur apparently is in high demand around the world due to its hollow composition and thus insulating quality. The current market will pay between $100-115 per kilo of possum fur, depending on who you know. A kilo of fur requires 10-12 possums, depending on their size, and with luck a trained possumer can pull in 35-45 possums per day, although the current possum-pulling rate was much lower due to rotten weather. All told, 600-700 possums a month is a good goal to shoot for.

" So what do you do to get the fur off of the possums once you trap them?" I queried.

" Use a 'ammer!" Takes one to stun and two to slew! What ya do is knock out the possum, n' when ya do it releases its fir!" By now it was apparent that Von spoke animatedly all the time, and this multiplied when he spoke of anything possum, which he pretty much constantly did. "Then when it's out ya just gently rub yer thumb along its back and the fir comes off like butter! Ya collect it in yer bag kill it with yer second 'it with the 'ammer, n' move on to yer next possum!"

"And what with the possum?" I ventured.

"Well we usually leave 'em, but they're quite tasty if ya just fry 'em up in a bit o' butter!" Before we could even reply we heard a second thump on the porch, this time a ghoulish figure devoid of pigment. "Yee, that'd be me mate, Kevin."



The door creaked open and the slick yellow hood fell back, revealing a face that was at least a bit more marginally human but still ominous. tall, slim, and pale, Kevin's close eyes seemed to pull at his nose, triggering much similarity to the rodent he was hunting. Long scruff almost hid the indent between his pointed chin and nose that served as a mouth, which inside contained sparse teeth arrayed in random alignment. A wavy mop topped him off, stuck in place so that not a greasy hair shifted when he moved his head. The effect of his craggy countenance was intensified by Von's gas lantern, now the sole source of light in the cabin. Finally, after a long sway, he spoke.

"'Ey." Throwing down his gear, he stiffly walked to the bunks in the back of the room. Without a word, he pulled off his boots and rubbed his feet. It was Von who stoked the conversation.

"Any possums?"

"Nay."

"Yee the weather's a killer. Glad these yenks 'ere made it."

"Yay, saw em' on the trail. Made it all right didya?" he asked, finally acknowledging us.

"Yeah, a bit wet but we made it!" Julie and Katie had since arrived, slowly pulling off their ponchos as they took in this strange new environment. Kevin just nodded, leaving the room in silence as he glanced quickly back and forth between us, eyes shifting each time contact was made. His gaze finally settled on the crackling wood stove. "'ope yer 'ungry, cause yer dinin' with us tonight."



The stoves roared to life as Kevin slammed down the leg of deer I had seen earlier and began slicing medallion-sized morsels of tender red deer while Katie and Von peeled carrots, potatos, and other veggies.

"I loik that yer all around, we don't have to sit here and just talk possum. All we ever seem to talk is possum, eh Von?" Kevin had taken a break and carefully but quickly rolled up a cigarette scarcely wider in diameter than a toothpick, seemingly lighting it with a flick of his fingers.

"Yee, we definitely talk our share of possum 'round 'ere!" Von's dominant voice blended with the crackle of frying venison.

"Yay we do." Kevin took a short puff off his cigarette and put it out. "It was nice to talk about some politics n' other things, I moight like to do it more often had I the chance." There was a long pause as Kevin looked lost in thought, re-lighting his cigarette. "See, the thing 'bout possums is they really is pests, they need killin' anyhow."

"And why not make some money on it?" Von chipped in. Kevin leaned forward putting his cigarette out and intently focusing, having become more talkative as the night progressed. "I mean it ain't easy out 'ere in the bush, but it ain't too bad either. You take all the people with these degrees who ain't ever 'ad a hard day n' they make things the way they are. But they don't 'ave a clue on life, nothin' practical anyhow, they just 'ave a degree n' that makes 'em right. Ain't that right Von?"

"Yee." Kevin re-lit his cigarette.

"Ain't nothin' against those people who get degrees, if they choose, but that just don't make 'em right. Ya can possum, ya get some other skills, ya can life like this 'ere n' there ain't nothin' wrong with this, at least not for a bit. Ya need a practical skill, that' it."

"And what do you do for fun out here, you have and music around or anything?" I asked. Von turned around with a big grin, deer bone in one hand and candles in the other. "We make our own, we sing eh Kevin? We're just a coupla 'appy possumers!" He roared in laughter while Kevin just nodded contently, relighting the nub of his cigarette. "Candlelight dinner anyone?!" Our oat-fed bodies just stared at the elaborate meal laid before us.

"It's a feast!" someone exclaimed.



"Yee, it is."



"Yay, it is."





We ate the best meal of our trip to date that night, sharing laughs with a strange but wonderful duo that just happened to have a radically different lifestyle. The next night we feasted again, paying them back with a few sea runner brown trout that I caught and cooked up. Aside from the great company, Martin's Bay was beautiful and we caught a full day of almost balmy weather. A large arm of sand hugs the mouth of the river dumping out of Lake McKerrow into the ocean, beyond which you can watch 10-meter breakers crash over each others' crests, causing a perpetual dull roar. Large slick boulders dominate the shore all the way out to a peninsula opposite the sand spit, where we were able to hang amidst a large colony of fur seals, getting within feet of a few. The only downfall was the volume of sandflies, which come at you in waves and are impossible to escape. The true pest of the Southland, they are far more numerous and harder to kill than possum, and thus more widely despised. However, all said it was a wonderful experience and a great introduction to this beautiful country. On our hike out we several nights with a slipper-toting foursome and one night with a large crowd of raucous jet boaters, all of whom we made fast freinds with. We already have invited to Auckland and one of the boater's pubs in Graymouth, an opportunity for chaos that we almost surely won't miss. As rigorous as the hike was (around 90 miles in nine days, much of it vertical), all ended well. The fine folks at Gunn's camp even picked us up a new alternator belt while they were in town, so we escaped with only one push start!

1. Tasman Sea at Martin's Bay Hut 2. A wee seal from a colony of hundreds

We're staying at a hostel in Te Anau tonight, plotting our next move further south towards Stewart Island. It's much more comfortable than our acommodation last night, which was quite sparse and simple-our van parked in the parking lot of The Moose bar. Anyways, I've been up far too long working on this blog (2:45am now, tomorrow America!). I'll keep posting as chances arise, and until then I hope you enjoyed this one, my first blog entry ever! Ciao!



Mike