Ohau do I love it here
November 26, 2005
Franz Josef, New Zealand
8:28pm
Just when you thought you heard enough about glaciers, we go to a town named after a glacier, or was the glacier named after the town? Who knows? And really. Who cares?
The last day on Lake Ohau was spent walking, or at least trying to do a walk with a boy that quite simply didn’t want to walk anywhere.
So we sat, over looking a river on a picnic table at ate raw carrots. Oh earlier in the day Steph yelled at me for eating the fourth last Ryvita. The fourth last. She was having a bad day. We now refer to it as the “Ryvita incident”. Everything is funnier when you are immersed in a giant land of fantasy.
Yesterday was travel day, and what a travel day it was. We had to cross the Southern Alps through the Haast Pass, one of only three roads that go through the Alps, opening up the gateway to the West Coast, which they affectionately call the “Coast” in NZ, even though the whole freaking country is coastline. It feels weird to being this close to our next eight weeklong stay in Nelson. I am a little bit anxious, mostly because I want the accommodation to be really nice, partially because we spent so much money on it, partially because we are staying so long, and partially because we will be hosting people for Christmas. I want it to feel like the home Onemana felt like. I want it to feel like, well, like a home. I think I am ready though, seven different locations in five weeks were hectic, and not something I could have done for the entire time away. So, while anxious, I am still eager to lay my bed on the same pillow for longer than seven days.
Back to the Haast Pass. It was stunning. Surrounded by mountains, we stopped and visited a waterfall.
We just able to get to the falls before the tour buses arrived. It is weird being in the middle of nowhere when suddenly a crowd of people is standing around you, staring into their digital camera viewers, talking in many different languages. We just smile and nod, meandering back to our 15-year old car that smells like burning plastic.
We ate lunch in the town of Haast. I had a chicken pie and a bag of green onion potato chips. My food regime takes a break on travel days. In fact, it has taken a break today as well as I sip my Montieth’s lively hopped pilsner beer, brewed just north of here in Greymouth. It’s very tasty.
Speaking of beer, last night, after we unloaded our gear in our little cottage in the middle of a trailer park, I drank too many beers. First I will rewind a little and tell you about where we are staying, because I know most of you reading got stuck on the words trailer and park. Holiday parks, as they are called here, are not the shabby redneck tornado tempting places like I original thought when Nicki, in Fiji, mentioned them as a possible option for our November journeys. They are actually quite nice, and as we are millionaires, we decided to forgo the many different holiday park accommodation options, which range from backpacker dorms to tree lodges, and priced accordingly. We of course took the most expensive option, which is the tree lodge, which is basically like a big hotel room with a single and a double in one room, with two hot plates, no oven, a mini fridge and a private deck. Needless to say, while not completely bummed out about our room, we definitely think it is overpriced.
But. And this is a fairly big but. As big as Ouisy Jefferson. There are people here. We are surrounded by people. People of all ages. We can hear them and see them and actually talk to them. And they talk back! And there is a bar on site. With pints and everything! So after a pasta dinner, we all went over to the patio so Steph and I could actually have a couple of drinks on a patio with all these strange people and Hudson.
One of the great things about traveling with a child is his ability to make friends with other kids, allowing us to make friends with the parents. Last night, before our first drinks were downed, Hud made friends with a boy the same age. Within minutes we had pulled up a couple of chairs and talking to Alex and Alex, I kid you not, a British couple that were touring NZ for a month with their two children Boris, a seven month old and Cosmo, a three year old. Boris and Cosmo. I should have a joke there, but it kind of stands alone. We drank and drank for about three hours, until all of us realized that our kids were up way too late and passed the overtired phase and now entering manic freak out stage. It was fun. I even smoked a cigar. I inhaled. Tobacco, I missed you. It’s time to miss you again. Al and Al were nice, but probably not the type we would hang with back home. Their edges were rougher than ours.
I continued my little adventure after, leaving Steph to deal with Hud, making my way to the one street in the small village of Franz Josef. I hit two bars in two hours and drank probably five pints. Putting my total at around 12 for the evening. I was drunk, but I did not fall down or go to some random party and almost break my nose. I did manage to be mean to Steph and she slapped me across the face. Something I do not remember. I regret that, but not the drinks. The pints were ice cold. And I did not have any cigarettes. Yay me.
Today, after a couple of Tylenols, perused the shops and Dept. of Conservation to decide on the walks we want to do. We also met a woman at the playground who did the exact same thing as us. Her and her husband quit their jobs in London, and our traveling the world with their two-year-old Martha. The only difference is they are renting their house. Chickens. It was odd how similar our lives and our stories were. Her father and stepmother are even coming here to visit.
We made our walk decision and drove to the car park of the Franz Josef Glacier, one of the two glaciers in NZ (the other is Fox Glacier, about 30km from here) to descend a mountain to sea level. This happens only here in NZ and in Argentina.
The walk was 90 minutes return, just about Hud’s maximum. A path weaves through a small forest until it opens to the glacial moraine and the glacier itself. This glacier looks like the mountain is sticking it’s tongue at you. From the distance where we first could see it, it did not look impressive, but as we approached we began to realize how big this frigid fucker really was.
At the face it stood at least 100 metres high. And it either descends or recedes (depending on the temperature) a least a metre a day. It was bizarre and interesting and fun to watch the people climbing it. Climbing it is something I debated doing, but decided it just wouldn’t be the same without the wonder and magic of my wife and son standing next to me. I love them both so much.
Half of my enjoyment is seeing what I see through their eyes.
Love to all,
J.
Eating icebergs and other diet tips
November 23, 2005
Lake Ohau, New Zealand
8:57am
This morning I met a truck on the other side of a one-way bridge. He had the right of way. He tipped his hat as he passed. I promise to be brief today.
Yesterday was our foray into the mountains to boat on the lake created by the ever-receding Tasman Glacier. The lake was a balmy one degree Celsius. We stuck our hands in for ten seconds upon instruction from our guide who looked very much like the impossible offspring of Coburn and Aaron.
He pronounced Glacier “Glassy are”.
After walking about 2km along a path created in the middle of the glacial moraine, we were outfitted with life jackets and led down to our boat. Three other couples signed up for the journey, including a preppy Netherland couple in their late forties (guessing), an interracial couple from just outside of Sydney (she was Asian and all blinged out in diamonds, he was meek, perhaps an accountant or actuary, working sixty hours a week to provide for his wife who bosses him around in broken English. He did not look happy) and the requisite Japanese couple whose fashions were just on the outside of hip, her hat so fauxburry it almost looked cool, until I realized it was attached to her lapel with a potato chip clip.
We were surrounded by the many peaks in the Southern Alps exceeding 3000 metres, including Mt. Cook and Mt. Tasman, the first and second highest mountains in New Zealand. Our small yellow dinghy felt like a palm in a touch football huddle.
It was almost smothering. The lake itself was not the crystal clear blue water you would expect from a glacial lake. It was grey, because of the constant rock and silt falling off the glacier as it recedes and melts. The glacier itself was also covered in rocks and dirt, at least the bottom third of it was, the accessible part. Ben, our guide explained that the top two thirds were that snowy shiny icy part, but the glacier we could boat up to was still impressive. It is a glacier after all. Can I say glacier one more time? Glacier. Thank you.
The best part for me, and I think for Hud, was driving right up to the floating pieces of ice, and grabbing a hunk and eating it. Yes, Hud has now touched and eaten a piece of an iceberg.
Swam the Great Barrier Reef. Ate an iceberg. Oh, and driven a boat.
Three years, 84 days old. Nice.
The whole tour took about three hours, including the walk and the drive in the small bus. The whole Aoraki/Mt. Cook region is a giant National park. You could spend weeks here doing all the walks and tramps. They also have helicopters and planes that land directly on the upper two thirds of the Tasman Glacier. A little out of our price range though. Ok, we thought about it. The once in a lifetime theory is a tough one to argue. Poverty does not win all the time.
I have decided to give serious thought to tramping. I am enjoying walking so much, both visually and how my body feels, that I want to push it a little. I am going to start extending my daily walks gradually past five kilometers and hopefully get to 8-10-12 in the next month or so. Sometime in mid-January I will hook onto a two-three day tramp in one of the two National Parks up in Nelson. Steph thinks it’s a good idea, so everything is a go.
You, of course, will get to read about it.
Or read about bags of peanuts and diet coke farts and the return of the stomach.
You just never know.
Love to all,
J.
November 21, 2005
Lake Ohau, New Zealand
9:05pm
I undo my shoes before I take them off now. I never used to. A sign saying ‘cattle stop’ does not confuse me. Shitty wool around a sheep’s bum no longer causes me to wipe more. Walking 5km before seven in the morning is not just something other people do. Lower back pain is frustrating. Mountains and streams are difficult to get used to. Reading 15 books in 6.5 months may be life’s greatest luxury. Sitting by a fire in a million dollar home writing in a journal may be a close second. Head shaking happens often. Head scratching again, a close second.
Hud sounds at least six years old. If I only really knew what a six-year-old sounds like.
“Are you done your walk Dad?” He says, holding the door open for me.
“Yes my boy I am done,” I reply, peeling off the hood, sweat droplets fall from my temple, land on his perfect foot.
“Was it a good walk?” Still holding the doorknob, shutting it behind me as I lean down gingerly to untie my shoes.
“It was great Hud,” I say, toe removing my sock. “I saw a dead bird”
“Come with me Dad, I made a fort.” Off around the corner, same pink feet smacking the concrete.
I guess I am over my angst and frustration with this place. The views are too nice to walk around with a scowl all the time. It may be the isolation. All three of the weeklong stays we booked during November were very isolated. The shorter stays were in cities or at least near civilization. Places I felt happier. Again, this all may be indicators for future settling locations.
Yesterday we went to Twizel, the small town 40kms to the north of us. Omarama is the small town 40km to the south of us. Lake Ohau Road literally is in the middle of the two towns. I forgot to ask if there were any feuds. Twizel was built for the tourist, as it is the last town before Mt. Cook, the mountain that hovers in the distance looking out from our deck. We visited their information centre and decided quickly to book a trip to take a small boat on a glacial lake on Mt. Cook to drink water directly off icebergs. And to think I came all this way to skip a Canadian winter. With the trip booked for Tuesday, we piddled about the town, visiting playgrounds, drinking flat whites (espresso with not as much milk as a latte), and picking up some produce from their very limited grocery store. We did not talk to anyone, so there are no colourful anecdotes about the locals. I think I miss writing about people. I seemed to be better at capturing the humour with human interaction. Steph and I are great, wonderful even, and it is amazing our routine of making each other laugh has kept us afloat this long, but sometimes I miss people, and it is apparent when I corner someone and talk their ear off. Something I never really did before.
I am changing. Evolving hopefully. But I can feel it, the wrinkles in the corners of my eyes, a new one almost every morning, aging, my mind big picturing, caring less about less and more about more. My baldness remains unchanged. My belly smaller. Hey. I have a penis. Imagine that.
On the way back from Twizel we stopped at a salmon farm to feed the fish and to purchase a nice fillet for the bbq. The bbq we have to bring inside every night. It was trippy, for Hud and I, tossing pellets into the netted tank and the salmon leaping and thrashing in the water trying to score the free meal. After, the gloved lady retrieved a nice $12 fillet and put it in an iced bag for us. I like salmon now. Another change for the better.
Last night was quiet. Hud sleeps right through the night here. It’s been a treat.
This morning I saw the sunrise from my sessile position. I pushed myself up from the bed, testing the new pain in my back. It was manageable so I peed and weighed myself like I do now. The great room revealed a storm in the distant mountains, whipping across the water and dusting the peaks with new snow. You could see the line between rain and snow. I debated rushing out and trying to beat the storm, but was glad I did not as within five minutes rain started pelting the deck. The news was my next best option.
Steph and Hud woke soon after and the storm disappeared as quickly as it started. I rushed out the door, IPOD locked on shuffle and began my walk. It is a road walk, but the road follows the edge of the lake, so I am missing nothing by walking on comfortable terrain. The walk starts from the deck, through a field of purple lupines, down a rocky unsealed road, to the main road, to a bridge 2.6km away. I cross the bridge, touch both sides with my wet shoe, and walk home. It takes 40 minutes. It is brisk but not breakneck. I can talk while walking but I could not sing. Sweat finds my back and head easily. It is a nice daily workout.
After my return, we chilled for a bit, Steph and Hud painting and me putting together our lunch for our planned picnic. I made a bean salad with carrots, celery and feta and locally grown lettuce, a wee bit of oil and balsamic and dill. I made two pb and j’s, more carrots and celery, a fruit cup for Hud, two slices of leftover oven pizza, two red apples, a green apple and two plums, a plastic container of watered down orange juice for Hud, litre of water for Steph and I to share. A feast for kings. Or wayward jesters.
We drove further up Lake Ohau road to Round Bush Reserve, a small camping/picnic area right on the shore of Ohau. We had to shoo a herd of cows and I backed the car down near the water. We ate in the back as the wind was quite cold.
The car sat beneath the red blanket of Beech mistletoe, which grow wild here in the Ohau forest. Steph posed for the appropriate picture.
After lunch we drove further up the road, passed the most isolated motel in the world, most isolated with the nicest view. Weatherall Motel.
If you murdered someone and needed a couple of nights to get your shit together, this is where you should come. It is on the edge of the lake, at the beginning of a sheep station, at the base of a mountain. I almost wanted to get a room just to see what it cost. Steph said $50, I thought more.
Up the road still, through at least two mobs of sheep, over four cattle stops and one ford we found the turn off we were looking for, Temple Valley Reserve. We wanted a short walk to end our day. A small board listed three walks, two over two hours, the last, a one-hour return walk. Perfect. We set out up the mountain. It weaved slowly up, through forests and fields, across waterfalls and through felled trees.
It was marked by orange triangles, a perfect game for a three year old, who overcame his weariness to race ahead to try and find the next marker. He was a trooper and will sleep well tonight. The walk was perfect length and even though the rain returned to soak us all, it still felt great to be in such clean, open, big air. My lungs get pinker by the minute.
After we came home Steph built a fire, while I napped, resting my back after a day full of activity. We ate the salmon, which I coated in lemon, coriander, teriyaki sauce, lemon pepper and sea salt, letting the bbq do the rest. Steph made nice jasmine rice with cashews and mango chutney. Broccoli and cauliflower accompanied. It was delicious.
It’s almost ten now and I can feel myself slipping off, the fire cracking and spitting beside me.
Tomorrow its icebergs and glaciers. Today was waterfalls and mountains.
I look forward to the morning walk now.
I look forward to the new lines at the corners of my eyes now.
Love to all,
J.
November 19, 2005
Lake Ohau, New Zealand
9:05pm
Irritability creeps into me at the oddest times. It maybe the bouncing around the country. It maybe the fact I am back on the new age Jason regime. It maybe my big toenail growing sideways into my calloused skin. It maybe the combination of all three. The fact remains my fuse was short today. Today being the first full day in what could be one of the most beautiful places on the planet.
Staring into Steph’s eyes excluded.
Who the hell do we think we are? We are staying in about a two thousand square foot home looking directly at one of the biggest mountains in NZ, windy Lake Oahu thrashing about beneath our huge deck. It’s a rock star’s home in the middle of nowhere. And when I mean nowhere I mean at least 40km from a town with perhaps 500 people living full time. It feels like we were dropped from a space ship and told to populate this bountiful location. I am Adam. I think. I hope. Where’s my rib?
Travel day from Queenstown was highlighted by stopping first in Arrowtown so my little Georgia O’Keefe could pick up supplies to satisfy another goal of hers on this trip; painting. The other stop we made was at the first bungee jump site ever.
It was not the biggest drop, and I mentioned this was one of things I wanted to try on this trip and what better place to try it then at the original bungee location.
I didn’t jump. I barely even contemplated it. I am fat fucking chicken. I think Hud was even disappointed in me. It did not exceed my own sorrowful chagrin though. Maybe with Tony when he arrives in December.
The drive was quite tame until entering the Southern Range and its Mars-like terrain. It was only about 200km away, but with the winding roads, the pee stops and the groceries in Omarama, we turned off highway on the Lake Ohau side road around 2. It was 19km from the turnoff and very quickly we were able to see the mountains in the background, snow crested and ominous, begging us to come closer. We wondered where the lake was and with 5km to go we rounded a corner and were met by the placid lake, welcoming us with a smooth blue hand. We stopped to take a picture.
We caught our breath. We continued on.
Lake Ohau Village is not really a village, more a pretty darn new real estate development in a location not used to humans. Sheep yes. Possums probably. Humans no. We pulled into the carport of our ultra modern looking house. There was firewood stacked waist high, driftwood piled on top for kindling. Yes Heather. Driftwood for kindling.
We found the under the rock key and entered.
It is difficult to describe the feeling when I walked in. I liked the size of the place right off. The last two locations we all shared a bedroom and that is just cramped. This was a two-bedroom house with a large (34ft by 21ft) great room. Now when I say great room, the image of hardwood and big rugs and roaring fires comes to mind. Not here.
It is stark and modern. Clean lines, smooth wood paneled fireplace, stainless steel appliances. The floor is smooth concrete, with individual rocks pressed into it. It feels like the floor of a high school. In fact, with the 15 ft high ceilings, it almost feels like we are living in a high school. I want to drain a jump shot off one of the walls. And I would drain it. The net wouldn’t move.
The best part of the place is the view and the deck. One entire wall of the great room is glass. All in panels you can open in entirety. This walks onto a deck about half the size of the great room. And looks out over Lake Ohau with its mountain range backdrop. It is a legendary view and by far the most dramatic piece of scenery I have ever witnessed.
So why do I sound disappointed? Maybe I expected less modern and warmer accommodation. It is so white. Not one piece of art hangs on the walls. The furniture is ok, its cheap, it does not match the grandeur of the house. I guess I feel out of place in such wannabe Feng Shui surroundings. There is not a clean line on my coke bottle body anywhere.
The other thing irking me about this place was the list of rules and dos and don’ts that accompanied the e-mail with the key location. It also highlighted satellite television on the website. So far I have been able to get the two local NZ channels you can get anywhere in the country and 8 different religious channels. I get a Kurd channel. I get a Chinese channel. ESPN? Nope. If I did my mood would be much brighter. But that is not really a big deal; I did not come halfway across the world to see the NBA. It just would have been nice to read a sports ticker or one fucking game that does not involve a try or a wicket. I am whining I know.
The owner of this place lives in Melbourne and my guess is she spends maybe 4 weeks here a year, the rest of the time renting it out to rock stars and pretend writers and artists like us. All the magazines are marked with an identifying tag, in case we really wanted to steal a 2004 Air New Zealand magazine. With such fierce winds, all outdoor furniture including the bbq must be brought in every night, and there is such a vacuum created with the wind, that all open doors must be latched or they may shatter on return impact. It’s almost scary.
I think I am just complaining to complain. And because this is sometimes an actual journal and not just a desperate plea for attention, I get to write what I want, even if there are a thousand tiny violins out there playing just for me.
Today the highlight was skipping rocks.
It actually cheered me up more than anyone would understand.
Tomorrow we are going to Twizel. If it’s nice, we may go for a swim in Lake Middleton, the smaller, warmer, less violent next-door neighbour to Lake Ohau.
The lake where I skipped rocks. This last three weeks I feel like one of those rocks.
Sinking will not be tolerated.
Love to all,
J.
November 17, 2005
Tussock Cottage, between Arrowtown and Queenstown, New Zealand
9:33pm
I am not really serious about writing tonight. I am just watching Steph bend over and pack our dry goods in our green environmental bags. These bags have replaced our dog poo plastic grocery bags. We are so earthy. Especially as we peel away in our oil coughing 1991 Subaru wagon, chica in the front seat cackling as she shines up her Gucci sunglasses, me eating personal Dairy Milk chocolates, secretly wishing my son could be old enough for a Gameboy so he would stop pressing his bored yellow sandals into the small of my back.
We are leaving tomorrow. Away from Arrowtown and Queenstown. Away from civilization and into the mountain range, onto the secret lake, into the plush home we dreamed about six weeks ago. Lake Oahu near Mt. Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak at over 3700 metres. It looks like the mountain range lakes you see on postcards, reflecting off each other, not knowing which is real, which is rippled fake. I just want it to be bigger.
The last two days were mildly jammed packed with Asian type hysteria. We slammed Arrowtown in five hours, whipping in and out of the tourist stores until finally settling into a great Thai food restaurant for a cheap lunch. This was after visiting the Chinese Settlement, the New Zealand tribute to the Chinese that bravely ventured here to find gold during the rushes back in the 19th century. The settlement was boring and ridiculous and almost insulting as it felt like a bone being tossed to the Chinese for their limited input to the gold rush back in the day. They actually had a sign put up in front of basically five bricks saying it was the ruins of sum yung guys home. Whatever. It was old. It was gone. Why am I here?
Next up, watching grade school chicks and low rider undies bend over and fake pan for gold in the river as their isle of lesbos teacher watched. It was a gold country field trip. Funny thing about watching all these wee girls get together to listen to their teacher explain the gold panning history, was the random tour bus Asians sticking their noses into the huddle to listen and take pictures like these poor girls were part of some giant show. The girls were so polite. I would have been less so.
Steph and I watched the whole scene and giggled. Hud threw rocks. It was nice especially because the sun kept getting our eyes.
That was yesterday. I am at today and barely can remember yesterday, beyond the pubescent crack flashes and Pad Thai burps. Today started with a drive to Queenstown and poking and muttering about until the bus picked us up to take us to the jet boat. We signed up for jetboating the first day we arrived. It was the extreme adventure thing we decided to do.
It was awesome.
The boat sits 14 people. The boat goes over 80kms an hour. The boat weaves in and out of Shotover River canyon, within inches of the cliffs. The boat can ride in under 8 inches of water. The boat does 360 degree spins over and over again.
It was awesome.
Beyond its awesomability, was the fact that our stoic, sometimes serious son Hud, rode this boat like a bad mule, never once showing an ounce of fear or a smidge of hesitation. He tackled the adventure like an end around sweep. He is the king, always making me feel guilty for doubting his fearlessness.
After jet boating we sucked drinks at a pub looking at mountains. It was all Irish and tasty and cut too short by responsibility. Luckily when we got home, Lee took us in and fed us curry and wine and we talked until our kids’ bedtime.
We talked about the variety of our lives, the comfort of our choices and the laughter in our stupidity. She is just a wee bit older than us, but just as young in spirit. We all held the mike intermittently, without me once thinking someone dominated.
Although I did ask Steph later on if I talked too much. She said I didn’t. But I think I did.
Love to all,
J.
On the right track
November 16, 2005
Tussock Cottage, between Arrowtown and Queenstown, New Zealand
5:40am
Hud is the greatest child that ever escaped the mellow moist confines of a womb.
Just as he gets used to a location, we leave, and he just asks: “Will there be toys at our next home?” He then gets all swaddled up in his booster seat, surrounded by all his toys, a blanket we force on him, our transferable cold food in a soft cooler in the seat next to him, and falls asleep. When he wakes, we are at a new location, and he runs around, grin goofy and large like a thirsty puppy, asking again where the toys are. If there is none, which there is not, he asks to go on the trampoline that does exist on the lawn near the firewood. At night he sleeps in a bed conconcted from a cot mattress and lots of pillows. He truly thinks this kind of life is the life of every three-year-old. Little does he know how lucky or unlucky he is. And we are even luckier to have him. What a golden egg.
Animals highlighted the last two days in Parukanui. A couple of mornings ago, after my walk, I was hanging my blue wool socks out to dry near the perfect spider webs, and heard a rustle in the water larger then the occasional surface breaking fish. I looked over and saw the familiar wet brown sheen and whiskered nose of a seal. A seal mere feet from where I stood. It was twirling and hunting the bountiful fish in the inlet. It almost looked like he was toying with the fish, as his twirls and leaps out of the water were Sea World worthy.
I yelled out to Steph and Hud and they came running, Steph admittedly thinking I was playing a prank. We all watched as the seal leapt and spun and got his fill before moving back out the inlet and on to the wet sand to sun himself. After a good drying off, he waddled along the sand, very Chapinlesque, before plunging back into the inlet to swim out to open water.
Another wild kingdom moment here in New Zealand.
The other highlight, and this is not mine to talk about, but I will summarize, was Steph’s horse riding adventure. It was one of the things Steph said early on she wanted to do. She had never been on a horse so she diligently found a suitable company to satisfy her mild dream. I made the appropriate jokes about her excitement was due to anticipating something that big between her legs and she of course shook her head wondering who was older, her son or her husband. Hud and I came with her to the small farm up the coast, near the entrance to Otago Harbour. Two women were grooming and saddling the six horses due to ride that afternoon.
Steph was latching on to a group of five that were booked at the same time. The two horse woman were exactly that, horsewomen. They were dusty, stinky, broad shouldered, sun wrinkled, decked out in riding pants and black boots. They talked to each horse like they were humans, scratching their asses and checking their tails for poo like it was normal, which I suppose it was to them.
Hud and I left Steph and had a little father/son adventure time of our own. We went to a park and then to McDonalds, where Hud met another boy named Brooklyn. They played in the giant play land while I read the paper and ate Hud’s meal and then mine. We drove back to pick up Steph and she was sore, but beaming, explaining her initial fear of horse back riding was quickly replaced by her fear of heights as the horses climbed and then descended very large hills on very thin paths. She was happy though for satisfying one of her goals on this trip.
We drove home and began packing up. The week in Parukanui turned out to be great, especially after my initial hesitation about the rustic nature and size of the place.
The scenery surrounding the cottage has to be close to the best we have seen so far. Such raw, beautiful views that I never even conjured before arriving here. I had no idea I would be watching a tide go in and out as coastal birds of all kinds picked and mewed over the many shellfish left exposed. All with giant golden green hills in the background. And a rumbling multi-coloured train running twice a day, like the tides, to boot. All in all pretty awesome.
And now here I am. Immersed in the awesome once again. Queenstown is New Zealand’s answer to Whistler, although less like a village and more like a mini-city. It is very close to a number of ski fields for winter fun, and also serves as the adventure capital of New Zealand. Queenstown boasts you can ski dive, bungee jump from the world’s first bungee jump, and jet boat down the Shotover River all in one day. The town itself is way too busy for my liking. Too many cars and not enough stoplights. It felt dangerous as all the Range Rovers and hippy vans sped through roundabouts. We did end up booking a trip on a Jet Boat this Thursday. It’s a jet-propelled boat that speeds down the Shotover River in six inches of water doing speeds of 50 miles an hour. It comes within inches of the chasm walls and can go through level 3 rapids. It takes 25 minutes and cost a lot of money, although less because Hud turned out to be free. Our hosts here have done it and Lee, the wonderfully charming woman, told us “It feels like your going to die”
They call it Thrill Therapy. Should be interesting.
Our cottage for the next three nights is quite plush. It’s a one bedroom but not to small. All the finishing’s are beautiful including the artwork and silverware. Our hosts, Lee and Jaap, a kiwi and a Dutch, are a little bit older than us, with kids nine and 11, are very nice. We talked for a while before dinner as Hud jumped on the trampoline. After 20 years in Australia and a year in France where they ended up staying in Peter Mayle’s house while he wrote Bon Appetite, they settled here beneath the mountains in Queenstown. They run a small shuttle service company to keep them afloat. It’s nice life.
So we are here until Friday, before disappearing into our own mountain oasis on Lake Ohau.
I am already stoked about the jet boat.
Love to all,
J.
November 12, 2005
Purakanui Inlet, 20 kms outside of Dunedin, New Zealand
8:59pm
Nighttime writing. Sky is still quite bright. Wisps of grey clouds echoed with pink lay on the top the valley surrounding the inlet. The tide is on its way back, covering all the muck, the cockles, the pipi, the mussels, bringing them all back to life. I wonder if there is a difference; in eloquence, or joviality, or basic tone from writing in the morning or in the evening. I wonder even if objectivity would be available to me, or would I just cede that I am specifically an asshole at any hour of the day.
Tonight we met a woman and her son on an after dinner walk. Dinner was steak and broccoli and French fries. No beer. No wine. The woman was large beneath the equator, so big the fat looked fake, and her son’s head was very round, the perfect compass circle. She did have beautifully clear blue eyes. She was American, from Denver, moved here a year and half ago with her musician husband. Never been here before, just up and left, could not afford the reconnaissance visit. Now, as she put it, they have found the perfect spot here on Parukanui Inlet. Her son is seven and goes to a semiprivate school. They invited us over tomorrow so Hud could play with some new toys. He was into it, so we will go after breakfast.
“I went on a train,” Hud randomly boasted to the woman from his swing made from an old car tire.
Which we all did, yesterday, and all had a good time doing so. The train is a tourist train traveling 48 kilometers from Dunedin to Parangaki on tracks and trains the Dunedin city council purchased years ago after the line was shut down. Tauri Gorge Railway was reasonably priced for a four hour round trip which made our son very very happy.
Every kid at every different age goes through stages of what they truly dig in regards to toys and life periphery. For a long time now, Hud’s really been into trains. It started with Thomas and his set back home, and has not faded since, tracks and trains being the first things he picks up in Duplo, or Lego, or any cheap rip off in dollar stores that work for four or five seconds before snapping in half. He also points out all the train tracks on our extended road trips, and if we are lucky enough to see an actual train, like we do on occasion here at the cottage, it’s basically a manic medley of announcements of he saw a train, a train, there’s a train, did you see the train, I can see a train,..etc. So when we confirmed our little journey, he was needless to say, a little excited. The anticipation itself was wonderful.
The actual journey was stunning as well. Following a river at the bottom of a gorge basically the entire time, crossing it on viaducts built 150 years ago, by Chinese and New Zealand men on horses. The engineering behind it all was mind-boggling. The pictures only do it mild justice. What we were able to capture pretty well was Hud’s happiness and wonder for at least the journey out to Parangaki. Two hours is about the maximum time on one subject for a three year old. On the way back, flirting with random blue haired women was the subject of choice. For him, not me.
Again, in our specific car, we had to be the youngest by at least 25 years. We did manage to come away basically unscathed by idle chatter, although Hud managed to woo a couple of comments from some of the elderly patrons and their flesh coloured hearing aids. There was a loud woman from somewhere in the US south who kept us all up to date on her sleeping patterns and her general laziness about her trip to New Zealand. It seems like a long way to come to be lazy, although I question myself about the same subject on occasion. I just do it in the mirror or silently in my brain like normal people.
After the train pulled into the station and we disembarked, Hud remarked immediately and politely that he would like to go on another train. I tussled his hair and admired his insatiability. We drove home. That was yesterday.
I just remembered that I am missing a day. The day we went to Dunedin to investigate tourist options, including the train. Steph and I ended up not getting along to well again, probably travel day residue. The only real highlight was the creepy transsexual in the second hand bookstore where I purchased two new books. The fact that she (I use that pronoun loosely) was a transsexual was not creepy, although I will admit to some mild shivers, it was the fact she was sitting there, not sifting through titles or browsing in any way. Steph and I concluded she was there staring out the window in defiance, as the other half of the bookstore was a Christian library/book store. It was like she was waiting to be kicked out, so she could play the blasphemic martyr card and run screaming into traffic.
I kept on waiting for her to sneak up behind me and whisper in my ear with painted lips covering stubble:
“I can smell your testicles.”
Thus leaving me with the only option of pulling a tall bookshelf on top of my welcoming, cringing body.
So. Today. Today was a farmer’s market in the morning in a steady downpour of rain. We bought a chewy stick of bread, really creamy brie cheese, fresh tomatoes the size of well, testicles, a brownie, homemade hummus and a small a bag of organic carrots. This was the lunch we were going to eat after visiting New Zealand’s only castle, Larnach Castle, located on the Otago Peninsula, a mere 15 minutes outside of Dunedin.
William Lonarch, a British descendant born in Australia, built the castle in 1867 after falling in love with land easy to fall in love with. After years of troubled times and troubled marriages, the Barker Family purchased the castle in 1967 and began restoring it to its former glory. The castle itself was not huge, but still interesting, especially since they roped off none of the rooms, and all the furniture and accouterments remain alive and available in their opulence. They only drag was the request not to take photos for restoration and security reasons. The first I understand, the latter I do not.
The grounds and gardens of the castle was what I enjoyed, furthering my theory that this trip has aged me about thirty years. I even started wearing my pants just below my nipples. It’s just more comfortable.
We ate our picnic in the car as rain still fell quite heavy. Our next goal was to drive to the end of the peninsula, not far really, and geographically the right thing to do. Hud fell asleep quickly and we reached the end, and found two sleeping sea lions. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.
We drove to the other side of the Peninsula, now actually seeking out sea lions, and took our groggy son on shoulders to Allan’s Beach, a secluded spot ten minutes from a parking area in the middle of a forest smack dab in the middle of nowhere.
No luck. No seals or sea lions and it was pissing and windy but for some reason it still was a cool place to be. Probably the closest to the Antarctic I will ever get in my life. Especially since we are skipping Invercargill.
So an interesting couple of days. Three more sleeps until we are on the road again to Queenstown.
Wow. It’s almost ten o’ clock. Way past my bedtime.
Love to all,
J.
Any new listings?
November 10, 2005
Purakanui Inlet, 20 kms outside of Dunedin, New Zealand
8:43am
Many tribulations are bound to occur when traveling with someone, for this long, this intimately, no matter how much love is involved. Travel days are the worst for Steph and I, because both of us suffer anxieties regarding the drive and what the next accommodation has in store. Steph’s anxieties are generally milder and more internalized, where mine are severe and bouncing all over the place for the whole world to see. This causes strife between us and can explode in quite nasty bursts of vitriol and venom, sadly not always hidden from our son. But like most things that burn so hot, it does not last and before one of us has a chance to grab the big butcher knife, we are cajoling and power hugging once again.
I love her. She is my best friend. I hate her. She is my best friend.
Such was the case on our drive from the spectacular city of Christchurch, down Highway 1; to the exit for the cottage we are presently staying for a week. I loved Christchurch. My favourite city so far. It had everything you could want in a city. Massive downtown park, with a gentle, thin river running through it. A huge square, about three city blocks, serving as a meeting place, with a giant chess game you could sit and watch, various greasy food trailers, cafés, jugglers, information centre, internet hot spots, with all the cool streets branching out from all sides. If I were to design a city, this is where I would begin. It was clean, hip and historic.
Our last day in the city, I got my hair cut and we did some banking for our glam stay coming up in a week or so. In the afternoon we drove to the Christchurch beaches, about ten minutes from the square I just described, another boon for this great city. The tide was out, so all the rocks and caves were exposed, with thousands of mussels attached to them, in various stages of growth.
We drove around for a long time, just checking out the supporting suburbs of Christchurch, which look nothing like the cookie cutter jobs back home. But we don’t have the sprawling vista of the aquamarine ocean, or the gigantic hills where all the houses sit either. That night we had a coconut, chili and lime chicken stir fry with accompanying full glasses of pinot. We packed as much as we could and all went to sleep in one room, leaving the other full queen bedroom barely touched. There is something nice about Hud having his own bed in the room with us, and maybe portent of the studio apartment we’ll have to get back home.
The next morning, after both Steph and I’s 5k walk, I tetrised the luggage in the car and we were off at around 10am. This drive meandered along the coast and through the hinterland and was neither spectacular, nor that boring. Steph was at the wheel, giving me a chance to soak in the sights, and take pictures of various road signs.
Including this real estate gem
Location, location, location. Yes I am 36 years old.
We stopped a couple of times for gas and leg stretches, and eventually made it to our exit around 4pm. This is when Steph and I start the little bickers and jabs because we know we are close to our destination.
This cottage was booked online, just like all the others, but we took a chance by not seeing any pictures of the inside. In fact, the only picture on the website, was one of people in a rowboat, rowing away from the cottage. They were smiling in the picture and we were unsure if they were happy, or happy to be rowing away from the place. We also read some of the comments of previous renters and they all glowed and raved about what a little oasis the cottage was, so comfy and quiet, it was basically what sold us, even though we are perfectly aware it could be the owners writing the comments or eliminating all the bad ones. Whatever, the price was totally right for a week, and we wanted to be right on the water, which this place boasted.
(I know it sounds like I am setting this place up to be a disaster, but in fact, it is pretty delightful. It just took me awhile to get used to it, so I am going with my first mood.)
It was about 20 minutes off the main highway, with various twists and turns until finally we drive along water’s edge and reach the mailbox described in the e-mail. We have to park the car here and carry our luggage down a path. The owner’s e-mail actually said, “if you have a lot of luggage, you may want to use the pull cart”. If we have a lot of luggage. I feel like Jennifer Lopez we have so much luggage. They probably do not get yearlong travelers so let the unpacking begin. The cottage is about 400 metres from the road, along a narrow, but too narrow path. After thirty or forty trips we finally got all our stuff to the property. Steph located the hidden key after we originally thought to be locked out, causing us to yell at each other for very little reason. It was time to investigate the cottage.
First thing you notice, obviously, is the water. The cottage sits on Parukanui Inlet, off of Parukanui Bay, off of the South Pacific Ocean, very close to Otago Harbour, which leads to Dunedin, the South Island’s second biggest city. The Inlet is tidal, so when we arrived at low tide, it was three quarters wet sand. Behind the sand is a mountain; with yellow goldenrod mixed with coniferous trees and the familiar New Zealand green we already take for granted. Very beautiful, and even more spectacular was the howling train that began snaking across the mountain within moments after we arrived. Hud thought this was pretty damn cool. Steph and I thought it was pretty damn beautiful. I love the sound of the occasional train. No matter the hour.
The cottage itself is old, but refurbished. It has one bedroom attached to the kitchen attached to the living/dining area. It is all told about 700 square feet, so pretty small compared to huge Christchurch apartment. This turned me off at first, because my grand novel writing plan needs alternative quiet space. I have since decided to put the novel on hold until December 1st, when we are in one place for 8 weeks. It’s just simpler and I will have more time to focus. There are two other bedrooms, but they are not attached to the cottage, bunkies basically, and not something we can put Hud in overnight. The bathroom is also not attached to the main cottage, but it is a full bathroom, with a smart heater and a shower. All in all, it is rustic, but very quant and cute.
Steph of course loves it. It has all the little country home knick-knacks, including a wallpaper history book dating back to 1870. It also has a fully operating iron stove. It’s not the only stove, but one they bought and had inserted into the fireplace. I made a black pepper beef stir fry with broccoli, red pepper and carrots in the cast iron pot on the stove last night, which I have to admit, was pretty cool.
There is also a small rowboat available for use, so Hud and I went for a quick row yesterday morning, at high tide, when the almost the entire inlet fills with water. I also had to retrieve a neighbour’s boat that came unhooked yesterday afternoon. The tide was going out so it took me awhile to row back to the boathouse, against the surprisingly strong tidal current.
I have now saved a cow and a rowboat on this trip. Karma dude, karma.
Yesterday we just drove around, checking out the area, visiting more playgrounds, seeing more beauty. Today we are driving to Dunedin, poke around, and take care of some business.
Steph and I are still questioning our future and remain perplexed with what we want to do with the rest of our lives. It is difficult to always focus on the present and appreciate what you are experiencing. It sometimes it gets clouded with the darkness of future uncertainty.
We have 18 weeks left of this trip, so much left to see and do.
Love to all,
J.
When or if?
November 7, 2005,
Christchurch, New Zealand
7:39am.
Odd dreams last night.
Dreams of movie star siblings on sheep farms, one of them snobbish, the other quite affable, one correcting my pronunciation of the author Jeffrey Eugenides (Middlesex, the book I just finished, top five, if not top three), the other sibling touching my knee and smiling, causing stirring in places that should not stir. Woke up to Hud’s face, smushed full of grog, asking for a cuddle. He climbed in; I peed, came back and moved him to his own single bed beside ours. I lay there, hands behind my head, thinking about all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about until it was time for my walk.
Now, after 52 minutes and 6km, I sip coffee amidst the musky pong of my own morning body, and write because television has lost its appeal.
Christchurch is a great city. Although we have yet to see it full weekday buzz, the pace and lush malaise of the weekend was definitely appealing. There are many clock towers and old (by NZ standards) churches and cathedrals.
We walked through their massive city park, which is split many times by the Avon River. It is much more British here, in architecture and people. There is less of a Maori influence, and strangely, way more Asians. Punting boats can take you, for a fee, along the shallow water of the Avon, the punters wearing the traditional circular hats and striped shirts, pushing the giant stick off the river bed, offering a tour if you let him, or silence if you prefer.
We thought it was a little too expensive so we watched another couple enjoy the forced romanticism of it all.
We stopped at the playground of course, continuing Australasian Playground Tour 2005, and Steph and I drank bad coffee and watched our son run around on spongy fake grass, smiling like a jester and demanding we push him on the swing. After the park we walked through the rose portion of the Botanical Gardens, and while internally I am struggling with it, I did enjoy the roses at their absolute peak of bloom, where the vivid petals seem to be begging for a hug.
At the end of the park, a Saturday market began, mostly crafts, with nothing too impressive. Hud ate a trailer bought tomato and chicken panini as we watched, waiting for any scraps to fall on his jacket for us to gobble on. Later Steph had the best looking chicken soulvlaki on a pita (a tribute to the Danforth she admitted) while I watched and then snapped at her because of my returned exile from food.
We fought a little bit after that, mostly me being an idiot, being hungry and confused about my manhood because I enjoyed the Botanical Gardens. I was able to turn it back to light and fluffy, but not before suffering the aggressive chin of my beautiful wife. Those who know her will be picturing her bugged eyes, and jutted jawbone right now. Aggro-chin we call it, because we name everything for easy humour reference.
Today we have no real plans. Some internet maintenance, including the posting of this, and maybe take a drive to see the outskirts of the city. Tomorrow’s destination is 300km south of here, just north of Dunedin. We did not see any pictures of the inside of the cottage, so it should be interesting.
It did have a little rowboat, so I am hoping my morning walks can be trading in for morning rows for a week. My legs feel fit, my ass taut, but my arms still feel drunk, wobbly, like hocus pocus grade school number two pencils.
Love to all,
J.
November 5, 2005
Christchurch, South Island, New Zealand
9:04pm
Feel a little guilty for not writing in Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, but with only two nights and one day, it was difficult to find the time, or the space, to write with the concentration this journal deserves.
Travel day went fine. Both today and the trip from sheep farm to Wellington. Talk about sensory overload. Went from nothing but sheep and vast green farmland, to high rises and suits and bar scenes in just under five hours. It was a little much at first and then felt perfectly comfortable as the latter was much more familiar than the former.
The hotel/apartment I booked online turned out to be perfect. A one and a half bedroom with full kitchen facilities we did not use once. It was right downtown so we were able to park our car and leave it there until this morning. I say this as a partial foreshadow.
A long time ago we planned to spend our one full day in Wellington, visiting their national museum, Te Papa. We read it was one of the best museums in the world and we were not disappointed. From covering all the geological wonders of New Zealand to all the odd fauna that live here, to its origins both from a Maori POV and from the European, we-want-to rule-the-world settlement POV. All done with interactive touch screen technology and voice activated displays. It even had a house you could enter with a reenactment of the 1931 Napier earthquake. Very cool.
Steph, being the supermom she is, called in the morning and signed us up for the 1:30 story reading in the preschool section of the museum. Being quite ignorant of preschool shenanigans, I was partially interested to see how Hud playing with kids he did not know. Well, he continues to shine, now one of the more confident children, answering questions, trying on the costumes, and racing around showing all the other kids how to work stuff.
Steph is in awe of the dramatic difference from when we first set foot here in NZ and she joined all the playgroups. It may sound repetitive, but it is so nice to witness your child’s mushrooming confidence. You can feel him starting to rule the world.
After the museum we walked the Wellington harbourfront, and I was impressed by the set up and the cleanliness of the city.
They take such pride in their cities here. I love Toronto, but I do not get the same kind of sense of civic responsibility and pride as I do from the people here. I keep on looking for ways to bring it back home, make it commercial even, I think cynically, but then I stop, sluice back to reality and join Hud and Steph playing at the pristine park.
Now this may be shallow, but my favourite part of our day in Wellington was after the museum, after the park. We flippantly decided to have a drink at one of the many bars right down on the water. Hud seemed up for it, so we found a nice table with an umbrella with glass wall preventing our son from leaping into the ocean. So we sat, at around 4pm on a beautifully sunny Friday afternoon, as all the suits tore off their ties finding there own perfect tables, and drank three beers for me and two Chardonnays for Steph. Hud stuck to cranberry juice. Maybe it was because we were so isolated so recently, but I was digging the vibe and the beautiful people filtering in and out of the patio, some locals, some tourists like us, all sunglassy and happy to be thirsty and alive and out among the living. So many of the guys reminded me of me just six months ago, some even reminded me of six years ago, sans the responsibility of son or dog to immediately go home to. The times where I would call Steph to meet up with us and she would say sure, or tell me she already had plans and maybe we would hook up later to take a cab home together. So young, so foxy, sitting on patios and chatting up not really that pretty waitresses or joking around with the table of guys or girls or both behind us. I got caught up in nostalgia and made me think maybe city life isn’t all that bad. Then Steph mistakenly insulted me and I just wanted to go back to the room to sulk. I only sulk when insults ring true. This one did. So it was more an accurate observation than an insult. Still made me feel bad though.
The night held nothing more than sleep and organization for the morning’s ferry trip to the south island. I woke up just before six to start the last minute fridge packing and other random anxieties I needed to quell before my mini travel day panic attacks begin. Steph and Hud woke up shortly after, so I decided to dump the first load of overnight bags at the car. It was parked behind the hotel so I lugged the four bags down the elevator into the lot and tossed them in the trunk.
Checked the watch. 6:30am. Money. We had to be at the ferry terminal at the latest 7:45 and it was only five minutes away, part of the plan when I booked the hotel. I tossed the keys in the air and caught them and began walking back to our room. Two steps later, I thought to myself, why not just turn the ignition, check to make sure every thing is kosher. Why I thought this, why it even occurred to me to pack my large body into the driver seat and slide the long key into the ignition, something I never do, is beyond me. I find quite baffling now. But when I did, and turned the key to hear the heart stopping sound of absolutely nothing, my panic began escalating. The car was dead, the battery was dead, a light was left on, for two days, no sound at all when I turned the key, not a click, not a hum, not even an evil laugh. The ferry was my first thought, 130 bucks down the drain as we bought the most affordable ticket 6 weeks ago. Why was it the most affordable? Non-refundable, non-transferable. The next thought was the room in Christchurch. Another hundred and a half down the tubes, and then to find another room in Wellington for the night was another outlay of cash. Mostly I just used the money excuse as a reason to worry. Mostly I was just bothered by the potential inconvenience of it all.
It all turned out, obviously, as AA (their CAA) came at 7:10am, boosted me and we were idling in line at the ferry terminal by 7:40am, giving the battery ample time to recharge and leaving us five minutes to spare before last boarding.
The ferry was fine, not as visually spectacular as I hoped, or maybe it was but we spent 90 minutes in the basement of the boat to let Hud play on the giant pillowed playground with all the other kids.
We did manage to catch the sight entering Marlborough Sound and approaching the Picton Port on the south island.
The drive from Picton to Christchurch took just over four hours, with Hud sleeping for the first half, and generally content the second half. So far what we noticed about the south island is the land is not as green, more the colour of wheat, but still grassy, and the water is way more turquoise. Why for either we have no idea. Still wicked to see turquoise water and snow capped mountains within the frame of one camera click.
The place we are in now is a two-bedroom ground floor apartment we found online back when we were in Onemana. It is just under the size of our house on Harcourt and way nicer. Why anyone would pay the equitable amount for a hotel room I have no idea.. It’s amazing.
A place like this in Toronto would go for about $2000 a month.
I wish we could find a place this nice when/if we come home.
Like that if?
Love to all,
J.
