It is overcast in Welly, cold and drizzling as I finish J's basement steps. I call T and make arrangements meet her at the bus depot in Martinborough. J drops me at the train station, I arrive in Martinborough a little later than I thought but T is waiting patiently to take me out to the farm. The road winds on forever, the usual incredible NZ scenery, typical back country with rolling hills that seem to go on forever stretching to the sea or vanishing in the distant horizon. T assures me it is only a 20 minute drive, I sneak a glance at my watch, we have been twisting and turning on rural roads for more than half an hour with no farm in sight. I can't help but wonder if I am being spirited off to some remote backwater never to seen or heard from again.
As if to reassure me we are actually going out to the farm T points to a tiny speck of light at the bottom of a monstrous gorge and proclaims "there's the house". I strain my eyes to see the faintest outline of a bank of lights, it is too dark to see anything else. Another 10 minutes of hair pin turns and yawning gulley's, we are at the bottom of the valley approaching Mt. Mable Station - the farm.
Tea (dinner) as the Kiwi's call it, is cold by the time we get there. I step out of the Land Cruiser only to be swarmed by three bare footed urchins all clucking at the same time. Company is an endless source of fascination for the kids. I am unprepared for the sight that greets me when I walk in the house. The domicile is a sea of chaos with kids running in circles around the newcomer, there is stuff and kids everywhere. A small cheerless fire in the stove does little to ward off the damp chill of the Kiwi winter. I am swarmed by P who is 10 and the only girl (she also runs track events bare footed), C a twelve year old boy, P a nine year old boy and the little fella D who is five. I give the kids CDN flags, lapel pins and tattoos ( I scored a heritage package of Canadian swag to give away on my trip). Within 10 minutes the kids have decorated their arms and legs with the tattoos. We polish off our tea which satiates my hunger and it is off to feed the lambs. Each of the kids has a small lamb which they are raising and have to bottle feed twice a day. The lambs practically tear the milk bottles out of the kids hands as they greedily suck the contents dry. We go back to the house, the kids are still bare foot in spite of the 3 degree temps. M and T have 4 kids, 2300 sheep, 300 cattle, 8 Jack Russel Terriers, 6 pig dogs, 4 sheep dogs and a small flock of chickens.
Sam, a neighbour, shows up with his sheep shearing kit bag stuffed to the gunnel's with beers. He proceeds to work his way through the contents of the bag while I watch with rapt fascination nursing my third. We sit around the kitchen table and I am regaled with tales of ringworm, parasitic infections, swine flu and other nastiness they have been dealing with on the farm. M (the host) tells me about the pin in his leg from an accident in the bush a few years back when he rolled his Rino quad like vehicle and was pinned under the machine for over six hours half submerged in a stream. M is also a rodeo competitor so tough goes with the territory. By the way he informs me with a chuckle, "we'll be using the Rino to go boar hunting tomorrow."
Sam polishes off another beer which disappears in his large ham like paws, I have lost track, is it an even dozen yet? I marvel that he must have the bladder of a bloody camel. T and M toss back a case of canned bourbon and cokes, no one else seems to have use the loo with the exception of moi, but then they are two decades younger than their Canadian guest!! Sam empties his kit bag and heads home. We trundle off to bed, I am sleeping in one of the kids rooms. A coil spring grinds into my back over the course of the night and I don't have my contact case so I decide to wear them to bed, big mistake. I wake up at 3am to the sound of a croupy cough, the lenses are glued to my eyeballs and feel like sandpaper. I peel the lenses off and toss them aside, damn it's back to wearing my glasses. I drift back to a fitful sleep alternating between freezing and some level of discomfort on the waffle like mattress. At 6am I hear tiny feet pad down the hall and stop at the door of my room. The door opens and a sliver of light ends any hope of sleep. P pokes her head in the door "Steeeeeve would you like to feed the lambs? Her Kiwi brogue inflecting her speech. "I would love to" I manage to croak back.
It is the start to one of the strangest days of my life.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Date with a Dentist
I arrived in Welly on the morning train, my appointment with the toothenheimer is at 3pm so I decide to do some chores around J's house. The right side of my face is tender and swollen like a chipmunks cheek. I buck up some wood and work on a set of exterior stairs that lead to the basement. Many homes here don't central heating, however J's does, good thing as it is cold and damp.
The time finally arrives and J drives me to the appt. asking if I need a ride home. She is tired and I don't want to be a bother so with the usual aplomb I tell her I can get back to the house no worries. As the Tui beer ads say "yeah right". The dentist Dr. M is an attractive Irish lass who loves the outdoors, hiking and canoeing, we hit it off right away and then she asks me to open wide. You know that feeling when a medical professional looks at the problem and doesn't say much but sighs and calls for a lot of foreign sounding instruments, then in a falsetto calm voice tells you to relax, we'll get to the root of the problem. One minute I am looking at hiking maps pinned on the office wall and suddenly I am staring at the ceiling with one rather large needle being inserted into my gum. Since I am male we can't show any pain or weakness but when my your eyes start watering you know it hurts. For forty five minutes I say nothing in a vain attempt to be the tough guy but it hurts like hell. It hurts so much that it actually stopped hurting for a few moments that was when I realized I had crossed the pain thresh hold.
The chair tilts up and the tears roll down my face, still I stoically say nothing. My real concern is the cost and whether I can pay for the procedure with the little cash I have, given that my credit card is close to being maxed out because someone forgot to make a payment before he left. Dr. M looks at me and asks if I am okay. I nod and attempt to smile which of course makes for a ludicrous face given the freezing is still at work. I stand up and almost pass out quickly regaining my footing and exit thanking Dr M as I go. At the reception desk I reach into my pocket for my cash and realize it's not there, somewhere along the way I have lost almost $300. I dig out my Visa card and pray that the financial Gods are at work, my card is processed no problem.
In a haze of latent pain and suffering I turn the wrong way after leaving the dentists office. J told me which road to take to get back to her house, of course I forget the name of the road but find one that sounds very much like it and start heading up the hill. One thing you have to understand about Welly a large majority of the city is built on a bloody hill, so up I go, trudging along holding my cheek looking very pathetic. I climb forever my calves are burning from the hike.
In an hour I am at the top of the hill looking for J's house, suddenly I realize I am in the wrong area as nothing looks familiar. The hillside is a mix of housing and trees with beautiful sweeping ravines that lead down to the business section of the city. I spot a house that I think is J's and realize I am too far west. I hike back down the hill but decide to go through the forested ravine to save time. I only have my dress shoes on with no gripping soles. The hiking route that I start on quickly becomes a narrow pathway with pitches that are at a 60 degree angle, once I start down there is no stopping. I literally swing from tree to tree grabbing a hold to slow myself down (a theme that will be repeated in a later adventure). I nervously make my way down the slick soil based hillside praying that I am not going to be lost in this urban forest, to be found curled up in a fetal position by some family out on a Sunday hike. At the same time the freezing begins to wear off, the pain is unbearable, fortunately my current predicament precludes being able to focus on anything other than staying on my feet. After a half hour descent I end up in someone's backyard. I scramble out of the forest and I am back where I started about 100 metres away from the dentists office.
Now any sane individual would ask to use the phone and call J for a ride, or take a cab. Remember I said I had no money I also didn't have the contact number for J's place. Confidently I walk further east and boldly charge back up the another street slogging my way up the hillside again. My tooth no longer hurts but the rest of my body isn't doing as well and I am getting tired. I make it to the top of the hill again only to realize that I have made the same mistake twice. The topography looks all too familiar, I am back at that same spot again, all roads do lead to Rome! This time I stay on the beaten path and follow the street back down, once again I am back at the dentists office, however this time it is closed for the day.
A little more clear headed now I realize I needed to go east not west. I re-trace the route that J drove and start recognizing some familiar landmarks. I also know that if I don't get it right this time there won't be a third trip I will just curl up under a tree and sleep. Fortune smiles upon me and I find the right street. I crawl up a long winding set of stairs that snake through yet another beautiful forested area, although the beauty is lost on me at this particular moment. By the time I arrive at J's it is after six o'clock I am exhausted and she is relieved to see her wayward guest finally made it back home.
My tooth is healed thanks to some great dentistry and I am ready to return to my flat. Tomorrow I am meeting my farming buddies from the pub, it is time for the great NZ boar hunt.
The time finally arrives and J drives me to the appt. asking if I need a ride home. She is tired and I don't want to be a bother so with the usual aplomb I tell her I can get back to the house no worries. As the Tui beer ads say "yeah right". The dentist Dr. M is an attractive Irish lass who loves the outdoors, hiking and canoeing, we hit it off right away and then she asks me to open wide. You know that feeling when a medical professional looks at the problem and doesn't say much but sighs and calls for a lot of foreign sounding instruments, then in a falsetto calm voice tells you to relax, we'll get to the root of the problem. One minute I am looking at hiking maps pinned on the office wall and suddenly I am staring at the ceiling with one rather large needle being inserted into my gum. Since I am male we can't show any pain or weakness but when my your eyes start watering you know it hurts. For forty five minutes I say nothing in a vain attempt to be the tough guy but it hurts like hell. It hurts so much that it actually stopped hurting for a few moments that was when I realized I had crossed the pain thresh hold.
The chair tilts up and the tears roll down my face, still I stoically say nothing. My real concern is the cost and whether I can pay for the procedure with the little cash I have, given that my credit card is close to being maxed out because someone forgot to make a payment before he left. Dr. M looks at me and asks if I am okay. I nod and attempt to smile which of course makes for a ludicrous face given the freezing is still at work. I stand up and almost pass out quickly regaining my footing and exit thanking Dr M as I go. At the reception desk I reach into my pocket for my cash and realize it's not there, somewhere along the way I have lost almost $300. I dig out my Visa card and pray that the financial Gods are at work, my card is processed no problem.
In a haze of latent pain and suffering I turn the wrong way after leaving the dentists office. J told me which road to take to get back to her house, of course I forget the name of the road but find one that sounds very much like it and start heading up the hill. One thing you have to understand about Welly a large majority of the city is built on a bloody hill, so up I go, trudging along holding my cheek looking very pathetic. I climb forever my calves are burning from the hike.
In an hour I am at the top of the hill looking for J's house, suddenly I realize I am in the wrong area as nothing looks familiar. The hillside is a mix of housing and trees with beautiful sweeping ravines that lead down to the business section of the city. I spot a house that I think is J's and realize I am too far west. I hike back down the hill but decide to go through the forested ravine to save time. I only have my dress shoes on with no gripping soles. The hiking route that I start on quickly becomes a narrow pathway with pitches that are at a 60 degree angle, once I start down there is no stopping. I literally swing from tree to tree grabbing a hold to slow myself down (a theme that will be repeated in a later adventure). I nervously make my way down the slick soil based hillside praying that I am not going to be lost in this urban forest, to be found curled up in a fetal position by some family out on a Sunday hike. At the same time the freezing begins to wear off, the pain is unbearable, fortunately my current predicament precludes being able to focus on anything other than staying on my feet. After a half hour descent I end up in someone's backyard. I scramble out of the forest and I am back where I started about 100 metres away from the dentists office.
Now any sane individual would ask to use the phone and call J for a ride, or take a cab. Remember I said I had no money I also didn't have the contact number for J's place. Confidently I walk further east and boldly charge back up the another street slogging my way up the hillside again. My tooth no longer hurts but the rest of my body isn't doing as well and I am getting tired. I make it to the top of the hill again only to realize that I have made the same mistake twice. The topography looks all too familiar, I am back at that same spot again, all roads do lead to Rome! This time I stay on the beaten path and follow the street back down, once again I am back at the dentists office, however this time it is closed for the day.
A little more clear headed now I realize I needed to go east not west. I re-trace the route that J drove and start recognizing some familiar landmarks. I also know that if I don't get it right this time there won't be a third trip I will just curl up under a tree and sleep. Fortune smiles upon me and I find the right street. I crawl up a long winding set of stairs that snake through yet another beautiful forested area, although the beauty is lost on me at this particular moment. By the time I arrive at J's it is after six o'clock I am exhausted and she is relieved to see her wayward guest finally made it back home.
My tooth is healed thanks to some great dentistry and I am ready to return to my flat. Tomorrow I am meeting my farming buddies from the pub, it is time for the great NZ boar hunt.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
A hole in my head
Tuesday a.m.
I wake up later than usual which is a cause for concern. My tooth is throbbing so I avoid eating much just a spot of tea and toast. I answer emails, and the talk to J who decides that I need to see a toothenheimer sooner than later. She calls back, I have an appt for Thursday afternoon. Until then I can subsist on saline rinses and scotch. In the evening I ride down to the pub which is closed, I circle back and decide to cycle through town although there will be nothing happening. As I pass a pedestrian on the sidewalk his cell phone illuminating his face he calls out to me.
"Hey mate where you headed"
I circle back and we exchange pleasantries it turns out H's family owns a small vineyard on the other side of town. I walk my bike as we talk telling him how much I am enjoying the local Pinot Noir even the Pinot Gris although I am not a white wine fan.
"Why don't you come back to the house you can try some of our wines" H offers. He is a young fella in his early twenties. I accept his invite and we walk to the vineyard where he lives in an apartment above the wine cellars. The house dates back to the late 19th century, another example of colonial architecture the house is beautiful.
"It's rented right now my folks are at the other house in the country" H opens the door to the winery and we enter. Fragrant aromas tickle my nose. The walls are bordered by huge barrels with names written in chalk on the tops of the barrels.
"They're our individual vintages" H explains as he pops a large cork on a huge keg of Pinot and offers me a sniff. We trek upstairs and plop down on opposite sofa's, H rounds up some samples, beginning with a five year Chardonnay which is superb. We eventually finish that bottle off and H offers a taste of some brandy he made 8 years ago. He brings out the 3/4 filled dusty bottle and uncorks it offering a generous glass. It is superb, smooth and mellow, it goes down a little too easily. Next is a French cider then we get into the Pinot Gris, as we drink more vino we discuss the worlds problems in detail offering our own take on possible solutions to climate change, corrupt governments and the perfect woman. The bathroom is too far to negotiate so the second story deck comes in handy, ah the luxuries of being a male.
H proves to be an enigmatic host, as he trots out more vintage treats tongues loosen in spite of a three decade age difference, H seems to be hip to many worldly issues. More brandy and a subsequent offer of a vineyard tour in the morning. I even offer to be a volunteer pruner for the day, if I can rise and shine to get back there the next morning. As each glass is drained the chances of an early morning seem more remote. In spite of my best efforts I am a poor lush hangovers can last for days in my reality. That is all lost in the moment, hell I'm on holidays enjoying an evening of alcohol and male bonding, pour me another brother.
3a.m.
I have left H's about fifteen minutes ago and managed to wobble half kilometre down the road back to my flat weaving from side to side narrowly missing the ditch on several occasions. Half an hour later I have managed the ten minute ride. My tooth no longer bothers me, as a matter of fact I can't even feel my teeth. I do know one thing, in the morning my brain is going to hurt. I swallow a couple of IB Profens and a huge glass of water quickly falling fast asleep some might call it passing out, but isn't that something you do in college?
8 a.m.
Cobwebs, dry mouth and a low dull throbbing are my bedfellows this a.m. I hop into the shower believing that if I keep moving I won't feel the effects of some very sugary alcohol. I get on my bike and peddle like the devil is on my tail. J and D my adopted Kiwi parents must wonder where the hell this crazy Canuck goes everyday on the bike. I arrive at H's feeling a little better. H is all ready with his pruning gear I am outfitted with the same. We head out to the vines and he demonstrates how to remove the old growth taking care not to prune the root vines but paring the plant down to a small nub with a couple of grandparent branches left to support the new growth. I work for a few hours or to my maximum capability given my weakened condition. H suggests a breakfast downtown. I am certainly ready for some grub and off we go. Kiwi's are incredibly resilient, bright kind folks, the lady at the cafe remembers my preference of tea the service is second to none. Oh and there is very little if any tipping here, the theory being that servers make enough dough they don't need a tip. I counter that when I pay for breakfast with a small remuneration for a job well done.
H and I bid farewell with the promise to catch up in the following weeks. He is off to university in the fall and I wish him luck. As I ride back to the flat I am gobsmacked by the generosity of Kiwi's and how willing they are to share their lives with a bloke from the other side of the world. When I get back to the flat I sneak between the sheets revelling in the smell of fresh clean white bed linens and a comfortable bed. Thanks to my Kiwi Mum and Dad I never wanted for a comfortable place to rest my head. My toothache has returned with a vengeance thank God I see the dentist tomorrow.
Kiaora
I wake up later than usual which is a cause for concern. My tooth is throbbing so I avoid eating much just a spot of tea and toast. I answer emails, and the talk to J who decides that I need to see a toothenheimer sooner than later. She calls back, I have an appt for Thursday afternoon. Until then I can subsist on saline rinses and scotch. In the evening I ride down to the pub which is closed, I circle back and decide to cycle through town although there will be nothing happening. As I pass a pedestrian on the sidewalk his cell phone illuminating his face he calls out to me.
"Hey mate where you headed"
I circle back and we exchange pleasantries it turns out H's family owns a small vineyard on the other side of town. I walk my bike as we talk telling him how much I am enjoying the local Pinot Noir even the Pinot Gris although I am not a white wine fan.
"Why don't you come back to the house you can try some of our wines" H offers. He is a young fella in his early twenties. I accept his invite and we walk to the vineyard where he lives in an apartment above the wine cellars. The house dates back to the late 19th century, another example of colonial architecture the house is beautiful.
"It's rented right now my folks are at the other house in the country" H opens the door to the winery and we enter. Fragrant aromas tickle my nose. The walls are bordered by huge barrels with names written in chalk on the tops of the barrels.
"They're our individual vintages" H explains as he pops a large cork on a huge keg of Pinot and offers me a sniff. We trek upstairs and plop down on opposite sofa's, H rounds up some samples, beginning with a five year Chardonnay which is superb. We eventually finish that bottle off and H offers a taste of some brandy he made 8 years ago. He brings out the 3/4 filled dusty bottle and uncorks it offering a generous glass. It is superb, smooth and mellow, it goes down a little too easily. Next is a French cider then we get into the Pinot Gris, as we drink more vino we discuss the worlds problems in detail offering our own take on possible solutions to climate change, corrupt governments and the perfect woman. The bathroom is too far to negotiate so the second story deck comes in handy, ah the luxuries of being a male.
H proves to be an enigmatic host, as he trots out more vintage treats tongues loosen in spite of a three decade age difference, H seems to be hip to many worldly issues. More brandy and a subsequent offer of a vineyard tour in the morning. I even offer to be a volunteer pruner for the day, if I can rise and shine to get back there the next morning. As each glass is drained the chances of an early morning seem more remote. In spite of my best efforts I am a poor lush hangovers can last for days in my reality. That is all lost in the moment, hell I'm on holidays enjoying an evening of alcohol and male bonding, pour me another brother.
3a.m.
I have left H's about fifteen minutes ago and managed to wobble half kilometre down the road back to my flat weaving from side to side narrowly missing the ditch on several occasions. Half an hour later I have managed the ten minute ride. My tooth no longer bothers me, as a matter of fact I can't even feel my teeth. I do know one thing, in the morning my brain is going to hurt. I swallow a couple of IB Profens and a huge glass of water quickly falling fast asleep some might call it passing out, but isn't that something you do in college?
8 a.m.
Cobwebs, dry mouth and a low dull throbbing are my bedfellows this a.m. I hop into the shower believing that if I keep moving I won't feel the effects of some very sugary alcohol. I get on my bike and peddle like the devil is on my tail. J and D my adopted Kiwi parents must wonder where the hell this crazy Canuck goes everyday on the bike. I arrive at H's feeling a little better. H is all ready with his pruning gear I am outfitted with the same. We head out to the vines and he demonstrates how to remove the old growth taking care not to prune the root vines but paring the plant down to a small nub with a couple of grandparent branches left to support the new growth. I work for a few hours or to my maximum capability given my weakened condition. H suggests a breakfast downtown. I am certainly ready for some grub and off we go. Kiwi's are incredibly resilient, bright kind folks, the lady at the cafe remembers my preference of tea the service is second to none. Oh and there is very little if any tipping here, the theory being that servers make enough dough they don't need a tip. I counter that when I pay for breakfast with a small remuneration for a job well done.
H and I bid farewell with the promise to catch up in the following weeks. He is off to university in the fall and I wish him luck. As I ride back to the flat I am gobsmacked by the generosity of Kiwi's and how willing they are to share their lives with a bloke from the other side of the world. When I get back to the flat I sneak between the sheets revelling in the smell of fresh clean white bed linens and a comfortable bed. Thanks to my Kiwi Mum and Dad I never wanted for a comfortable place to rest my head. My toothache has returned with a vengeance thank God I see the dentist tomorrow.
Kiaora
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Triumphant Return
Jane picked me up at the airport bless her. I am invited to a 21st birthday bash. Apparently 21st birthdays are big deal here, after that it is all downhill! The weather is ugly, cold and rainy with a curtain of fog descending on the city. I spend the day bucking up some wood and stacking it by the fence then I start working on the stone walkway to the basement. Before I know it the ladies have all the party gear ready, it is Jane's good friend Tessa's daughter's birthday a blended family celebration and I am the interloper. I volunteer to be the camera guy and float around taking picts most of the night. Of course the party is located at yet another house on a hill. I have never seen so many houses perched on hills in my life. According to Jane most people wear running shoes to negotiate the steep inclines and change into their party shoes when they finally get to the house. The party is fun, but I am tired, tomorrow I will be back in Martinborough to do some writing and of course biking.
The wknd is behind me, Sunday was declared a non-writing day. It is a dreary Martinborough Monday, dull and overcast, after all it is winter here what did I expect. I head out to the bank to check on my dwindling finances. The Akoroa trip was a little more costly than I expected so it will be a week of bike riding and writing, or so I think. As I step out of the bank I run into good ole galloping gums.
He has his arms crossed and is glaring at me. "And where is your helmet?" He inquires trying to look stern faced.
"I know I'm supposed to wear it, but I'm thumbing my nose at the coppers." I reply.
A impish grin lights up his face. "I'm proud o' ya mate that's the way ta do it."
Before he even takes a breath he launches into another bloody story. I am trapped again only this time I convince him to go to the pub where I shout him a beer while he yammers away. I drift off in the middle of the story and drink most of the small jug of beer. Tomorrow I am invited to the Potter's (my hosts) for dinner. I gaze around the pub while Tony talks it is fairly busy for an afternoon early in the week. My molar aches and then the pain subsides, I choose to ignore it. Tony finally winds down and I excuse myself we part company and I head back to the flat. I feel tired and out of sorts. I make myself a quick dinner on the hot plate and attempt to watch tv, with only two channels, one rather fuzzy, there is not much to watch so I catch up on some journaling. I use a saline rinse to try and calm my throbbing tooth and down wash down a couple of pain killers with a glass of wine. It is obvious my tooth will need some attention, I am unsure what to do there is no dentist in town the nearest toothenheimer is 20 k away. Oh well tomorrow is another day I'll figure things out then. Kiaora.
The wknd is behind me, Sunday was declared a non-writing day. It is a dreary Martinborough Monday, dull and overcast, after all it is winter here what did I expect. I head out to the bank to check on my dwindling finances. The Akoroa trip was a little more costly than I expected so it will be a week of bike riding and writing, or so I think. As I step out of the bank I run into good ole galloping gums.
He has his arms crossed and is glaring at me. "And where is your helmet?" He inquires trying to look stern faced.
"I know I'm supposed to wear it, but I'm thumbing my nose at the coppers." I reply.
A impish grin lights up his face. "I'm proud o' ya mate that's the way ta do it."
Before he even takes a breath he launches into another bloody story. I am trapped again only this time I convince him to go to the pub where I shout him a beer while he yammers away. I drift off in the middle of the story and drink most of the small jug of beer. Tomorrow I am invited to the Potter's (my hosts) for dinner. I gaze around the pub while Tony talks it is fairly busy for an afternoon early in the week. My molar aches and then the pain subsides, I choose to ignore it. Tony finally winds down and I excuse myself we part company and I head back to the flat. I feel tired and out of sorts. I make myself a quick dinner on the hot plate and attempt to watch tv, with only two channels, one rather fuzzy, there is not much to watch so I catch up on some journaling. I use a saline rinse to try and calm my throbbing tooth and down wash down a couple of pain killers with a glass of wine. It is obvious my tooth will need some attention, I am unsure what to do there is no dentist in town the nearest toothenheimer is 20 k away. Oh well tomorrow is another day I'll figure things out then. Kiaora.
The postman's farewell
We finished the postal outport tour by stopping at Robin's house and picking up his Japanese exchange student. We finish the tour with some picts of Akaroa ending up in town for a late lunch at the fish and chip shop by the waterfront. After a good nosh of trans fats we bid each other adieu with the promise I will send the picts as soon as possible.
I am pretty tired the hopping in and out of the van all day has been draining. My last shot is a pair of gum boots parked by the door of the grocery store. I had seen this at the pub, if your boots are too dirty they are left at the door and you walk around in your sock feet. Kiwi's are such neat people they respect each other's property. I hike back to the hostel and collect my things. The bus picks me up outside Chez La Mer (the hostel). The driver is still wearing her annoyed look when she lectures me about returning to the bus on the right day. She was looking for me at the tourist booth, rigggght I'll bet she looked for about 30 seconds hah hah. I had a great time in Akaroa as the bus slips through town I leave behind memories of my bike rides, the postman, and of course my french amigo, I wonder where he is? The little french village has been replaced by rolling terraced hills that run down to fertile valleys. The sun is setting when I get back to Christchurch and Base X also known as party central. Hmmm the same young folks are still on the same computers as when I left two days ago.
I dive into a lamb curry and a beer at the hostel pub, heavenly and priced to sell at $12 for the pair. I set my alarm for the following morning as I have to catch the shuttle to the airport. It's cheaper to fly than to take the train or the ferry. I can't sleep so I head downstairs and Skype Dad at home I spend most of the time looking at the top of his head as he hasn't quite got the Skype thing mastered yet. It is amazing I can talk to anyone back home for free and it feels like we are in the same room. Cool. One of my upper molars tingles a bit, a warning of what is to come of course I pay it no heed and finally fall asleep. Good night.
I am pretty tired the hopping in and out of the van all day has been draining. My last shot is a pair of gum boots parked by the door of the grocery store. I had seen this at the pub, if your boots are too dirty they are left at the door and you walk around in your sock feet. Kiwi's are such neat people they respect each other's property. I hike back to the hostel and collect my things. The bus picks me up outside Chez La Mer (the hostel). The driver is still wearing her annoyed look when she lectures me about returning to the bus on the right day. She was looking for me at the tourist booth, rigggght I'll bet she looked for about 30 seconds hah hah. I had a great time in Akaroa as the bus slips through town I leave behind memories of my bike rides, the postman, and of course my french amigo, I wonder where he is? The little french village has been replaced by rolling terraced hills that run down to fertile valleys. The sun is setting when I get back to Christchurch and Base X also known as party central. Hmmm the same young folks are still on the same computers as when I left two days ago.
I dive into a lamb curry and a beer at the hostel pub, heavenly and priced to sell at $12 for the pair. I set my alarm for the following morning as I have to catch the shuttle to the airport. It's cheaper to fly than to take the train or the ferry. I can't sleep so I head downstairs and Skype Dad at home I spend most of the time looking at the top of his head as he hasn't quite got the Skype thing mastered yet. It is amazing I can talk to anyone back home for free and it feels like we are in the same room. Cool. One of my upper molars tingles a bit, a warning of what is to come of course I pay it no heed and finally fall asleep. Good night.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Acrophobics beware
The scenery is stunning as Robin wheels the van up and down the coastal roads. The postal truck creeps along the one lane roads barely touching the edge before it drops off to the jagged shoreline below, a mere 500 or 600 metre drop of death. The odd farm or coastal home cling to the hillsides. Off in the distance the snow capped peaks of the South Island Mountains frame the rustic picture of a typical N.Z. post card view. It seems that every curve in the road reveals a different scenic landscape. Sheep and cattle dot the coastline pastures, zig zag paths allow them to traverse the otherwise inaccessible hills.
I shudder and can't look down as we careen close to the gravel strewn edge of the road. One minute we are roaring up a hill and then careening down the other side in an almost roller coast like ride. The odd church or community hall are the only disruption to an unending vista of scenery. I snap away with my camera, Robin graciously stops to allow me to grab shots which I will later share to help promote the postal tours. In Decantur Bay we stop for tea (also known as lunch). Robin spreads a table cloth, a thermos of tea and some home made scones, out on an ancient picnic table. The Bay provides a stunning backdrop for such a scrumptious snack. Life is good I feel truly blessed. The air is pure and clean, the sun is shinning and Robin proves to be an amiable host chatting about life on this beautiful island, I am envious.
The next leg of our journey takes us deep into some very remote farm country. I am disappointed, I haven't seen any sheep yet, the quintessential N.Z. scene. Robin tells me we may not see any at all as farmers have turned to raising cattle for bigger profits so sheep aren't as plentiful as they once were. A few moments later we round a corner at the top of a huge hill, the road is jammed with sheep two border collies race the circumference of the flock corralling and cajoling their charges. We sit and watch the scene as the farmer on an old 100 CC motorcycle arrives to chat up Robin, I climb out of the van and snap away.
Our next stop is a small church perched like a swallows nest on a cliff. Robin delivers the mail and I take more pictures. I get back to the van and Robin is chatting with a strange looking chap on a quad, he has a white haired mullet with a balding pate and mutton chop moustache. Each knuckle on his fingers is tattooed when he smiles half his dental work is missing. This is Norm the "possum hunta" a man before or after his time. It turns out that possums are running rampant in the N.Z. countryside and blokes like Norm trap and kill them for the farmers. Norm gets a good price for the hides and a better price if he plucks the fur that is then mixed with wool to make winter garments. We bid Norm adieu, just as we are getting into the van a young farmer comes around the corner on a small motorcycle towing two calves in a cage with the mother plodding along behind. He is frustrated with the old cow as it is his second trip down the mountain this week "to retrieve the awld bugga". I laugh recalling my own childhood days on the farm chasing wayward cows.
Off they go up the mountain, the motorcycle chugging with the calves held prisoner in the cage and mom reluctantly following. The cow refuses to let us pass swerving in front of us each time we try to sneak by, her large posterior forming a black and white wall. Robin chuckles "You're certainly getting an eyeful today mate some days there's no one on the route."
We bob and weave up and down roads like a punch drunk boxer. Auld Joch waits patiently by his mailbox he leans on Robin's window when we stop at the mailbox. "Ya forgot me pills yestaday, I rang up the chemist to tell em ya know." He smiles revealing a few missing teeth. Robin hands him his prescription and I am reminded how important mail service still is here. Robin shakes his head and smiles the old bloke sure missed his pills. At the next curve we drive up to a tree trunk mail box looking like something out of Winnie the Pooh. As we pull up the mailbox a younger woman comes out of the house and presents Robin with an upside down mini ice cream cake. "Crikey just what I need for my cholesterol" He puts the cake on the console of the van to be consumed later when I am not looking.
I am struck by the relationship Robin has with the people on his route they are his people, kind hard working country people - the best. I am reminded how we are losing rural populations to the city New Zealand seems to be no different than Canada. Another tiny village and back to the roller coaster ride as we round a turn the ocean is played out before us a spectacular vista that stretches as far as the eye can see. We pass a dusting of snow on the side of the road, I do a double take. "Are we up that high?" I inquire.
"Oh yes mate as a matter of fact school had to be cancelled the other day, the kids were really disappointed"
He laughs "but the mail got through" He winks to reinforce the message.
I shudder and can't look down as we careen close to the gravel strewn edge of the road. One minute we are roaring up a hill and then careening down the other side in an almost roller coast like ride. The odd church or community hall are the only disruption to an unending vista of scenery. I snap away with my camera, Robin graciously stops to allow me to grab shots which I will later share to help promote the postal tours. In Decantur Bay we stop for tea (also known as lunch). Robin spreads a table cloth, a thermos of tea and some home made scones, out on an ancient picnic table. The Bay provides a stunning backdrop for such a scrumptious snack. Life is good I feel truly blessed. The air is pure and clean, the sun is shinning and Robin proves to be an amiable host chatting about life on this beautiful island, I am envious.
The next leg of our journey takes us deep into some very remote farm country. I am disappointed, I haven't seen any sheep yet, the quintessential N.Z. scene. Robin tells me we may not see any at all as farmers have turned to raising cattle for bigger profits so sheep aren't as plentiful as they once were. A few moments later we round a corner at the top of a huge hill, the road is jammed with sheep two border collies race the circumference of the flock corralling and cajoling their charges. We sit and watch the scene as the farmer on an old 100 CC motorcycle arrives to chat up Robin, I climb out of the van and snap away.
Our next stop is a small church perched like a swallows nest on a cliff. Robin delivers the mail and I take more pictures. I get back to the van and Robin is chatting with a strange looking chap on a quad, he has a white haired mullet with a balding pate and mutton chop moustache. Each knuckle on his fingers is tattooed when he smiles half his dental work is missing. This is Norm the "possum hunta" a man before or after his time. It turns out that possums are running rampant in the N.Z. countryside and blokes like Norm trap and kill them for the farmers. Norm gets a good price for the hides and a better price if he plucks the fur that is then mixed with wool to make winter garments. We bid Norm adieu, just as we are getting into the van a young farmer comes around the corner on a small motorcycle towing two calves in a cage with the mother plodding along behind. He is frustrated with the old cow as it is his second trip down the mountain this week "to retrieve the awld bugga". I laugh recalling my own childhood days on the farm chasing wayward cows.
Off they go up the mountain, the motorcycle chugging with the calves held prisoner in the cage and mom reluctantly following. The cow refuses to let us pass swerving in front of us each time we try to sneak by, her large posterior forming a black and white wall. Robin chuckles "You're certainly getting an eyeful today mate some days there's no one on the route."
We bob and weave up and down roads like a punch drunk boxer. Auld Joch waits patiently by his mailbox he leans on Robin's window when we stop at the mailbox. "Ya forgot me pills yestaday, I rang up the chemist to tell em ya know." He smiles revealing a few missing teeth. Robin hands him his prescription and I am reminded how important mail service still is here. Robin shakes his head and smiles the old bloke sure missed his pills. At the next curve we drive up to a tree trunk mail box looking like something out of Winnie the Pooh. As we pull up the mailbox a younger woman comes out of the house and presents Robin with an upside down mini ice cream cake. "Crikey just what I need for my cholesterol" He puts the cake on the console of the van to be consumed later when I am not looking.
I am struck by the relationship Robin has with the people on his route they are his people, kind hard working country people - the best. I am reminded how we are losing rural populations to the city New Zealand seems to be no different than Canada. Another tiny village and back to the roller coaster ride as we round a turn the ocean is played out before us a spectacular vista that stretches as far as the eye can see. We pass a dusting of snow on the side of the road, I do a double take. "Are we up that high?" I inquire.
"Oh yes mate as a matter of fact school had to be cancelled the other day, the kids were really disappointed"
He laughs "but the mail got through" He winks to reinforce the message.
Closer to the South Pole
One of the very civilized aspects of New Zealand is the ability to travel the country by air relatively cheaply. I flew to Christchurch from Wellington for $55.00 which is cheaper than the train or any other mode of transport.
I am back to hostel living for the South Island trip staying at Base X, which turns out to be party central in the South Island or at least Christchurch. I wander the city and take in some sights. It is Monday night also know as Quiz Night in the local pubs. I meet a couple of Aussie chaps and we shout each other a couple of beers. When I attempt to leave the larger of the two grabs my arms and shames me into staying for another beer, I reluctantly agree, after all national pride comes into play and I don't want them to think Canucks are wimps. His mate regales me with stories of huge crocs and ventures as far as to offer that Steve Irwin was a distant friend of his. I manage to slip away when they are distracted, a wave and a smile and I am out the door. After a day of walking the city I grow bored of CC so I book a bus tour for the next day to Akaroa a small french fishing village on the coast at the edge of an ancient volcano.
The hostel in town is lovely, a small house with a guys and gals dorm, and they have bikes so I decide to stay. The bus tour is a day tour only and my disappearance causes some angst for the bus driver. Oh well as I am cycling through town the tour bus passes me, the bus driver frowns and the sweet little old Scottish ladies that I befriended on the trip down wave from the windows. Goodbye ladies have a pleasant trip. Later that night I meet my roomies at the hostel, a young Frenchman from the south of France and an even younger German kid. Adrian the French kid verbally harangues me wanting to learn more English . He tells me last night he slept in a tent in a farmers field only to be rudely awakened at 6am when the farmer almost ran over his tent. I open a bottle of wine and suddenly roomies come out of the woodwork like roaches when you turn off the light. I share my wine and we share stories laughing and comparing notes. Adrian wants me to hitch-hike with him to Dunedin. I explain that I am going with the postman in the morning to deliver mail to the out ports. Of course Adrian invites himself along, I try to explain that there is no room but he smiles and pretends not to understand. I toss him an apple from my back pack. The German kid, Adrian is lying on his side listening to our exchange. Adrian looks at his phone and asks me what the word "cawdles" means in English. I tell him there is no such word but he spells it out, C-U-D-D-L-E-S and I tell him it is a term of endearment and a good start in communications with a woman. He smiles and sits up in his bunk. Suddenly I feel like George from "Mice and Men". Adrian assures me as I turn out the light that he is going with the postman in the morning. He tries once again to entice me to hitch. At his insistence I turn the light on again and he shows me a sign which reads "If you give me a ride I will share my cookies". "We weel get lots of rides to Dunedin Steve you go with Adrian yes". He assures me it works every time, I tell him I will sleep on it, I turn the light off again and we all fall asleep.
The gentle ping of my alarm wakes me and I hit the shower. Damn, no towel, the one thing I forgot so I use a hand towel and my t-shirt to dry. Adrian is up and heads to the other bathroom and shower, a perfect time to slip out and meet the postman. Just as I head down the street I hear a voice and turn to see Adrian rushing to catch up. It is a cool morning ( 2 or 3 degrees C) a light frost paints the ground as the sun struggles to appear from behind some clouds. Robin the postman is already loading the mail when I arrive with a nice warm scone fresh from the oven and cup of green tea I sit on the steps and wait enjoying the early hour, the peace and tranquility of the small village sipping my tea.
Adrian waits for Robin who flatly turns down his proposal to join us. "Sorry mate Steve is taking some pictures today and we have no room". Adrian smiles and waves goodbye to me a few moments later we pass him standing at the side of the road displaying his cookies sign, waving a bag of oatmeal cookies at cars as they pass. I feel a slight twinge of guilt but know that he will be fine, he smiles as we pass. Robin is around my age a friendly face hidden under a carpet of salt and pepper beard. He is a grandfather a few times over, he and his wife have a contract to deliver mail, he also is the local school bus driver (the postal van doubles as a school bus) and he takes tourists on his route. I am advised to do my seat belt up as in N.Z. the driver is ticketed if the passenger doesn't wear a seat belt. Later on the trip I will see the wisdom of requiring a seat belt, N.Z. roads rarely go in a straight line anywhere twisting and turning through mountain passes that would scare even the most stalwart mountain goat. I have this sinking feeling that my fear of heights will be tested today. We spend the rest of the day traversing roads etched along the edge of a six million year old volcano. The seat belt clicks in place and I get my cameras out ready to grab some of the most spectacular scenery the island has to offer.
I am back to hostel living for the South Island trip staying at Base X, which turns out to be party central in the South Island or at least Christchurch. I wander the city and take in some sights. It is Monday night also know as Quiz Night in the local pubs. I meet a couple of Aussie chaps and we shout each other a couple of beers. When I attempt to leave the larger of the two grabs my arms and shames me into staying for another beer, I reluctantly agree, after all national pride comes into play and I don't want them to think Canucks are wimps. His mate regales me with stories of huge crocs and ventures as far as to offer that Steve Irwin was a distant friend of his. I manage to slip away when they are distracted, a wave and a smile and I am out the door. After a day of walking the city I grow bored of CC so I book a bus tour for the next day to Akaroa a small french fishing village on the coast at the edge of an ancient volcano.
The hostel in town is lovely, a small house with a guys and gals dorm, and they have bikes so I decide to stay. The bus tour is a day tour only and my disappearance causes some angst for the bus driver. Oh well as I am cycling through town the tour bus passes me, the bus driver frowns and the sweet little old Scottish ladies that I befriended on the trip down wave from the windows. Goodbye ladies have a pleasant trip. Later that night I meet my roomies at the hostel, a young Frenchman from the south of France and an even younger German kid. Adrian the French kid verbally harangues me wanting to learn more English . He tells me last night he slept in a tent in a farmers field only to be rudely awakened at 6am when the farmer almost ran over his tent. I open a bottle of wine and suddenly roomies come out of the woodwork like roaches when you turn off the light. I share my wine and we share stories laughing and comparing notes. Adrian wants me to hitch-hike with him to Dunedin. I explain that I am going with the postman in the morning to deliver mail to the out ports. Of course Adrian invites himself along, I try to explain that there is no room but he smiles and pretends not to understand. I toss him an apple from my back pack. The German kid, Adrian is lying on his side listening to our exchange. Adrian looks at his phone and asks me what the word "cawdles" means in English. I tell him there is no such word but he spells it out, C-U-D-D-L-E-S and I tell him it is a term of endearment and a good start in communications with a woman. He smiles and sits up in his bunk. Suddenly I feel like George from "Mice and Men". Adrian assures me as I turn out the light that he is going with the postman in the morning. He tries once again to entice me to hitch. At his insistence I turn the light on again and he shows me a sign which reads "If you give me a ride I will share my cookies". "We weel get lots of rides to Dunedin Steve you go with Adrian yes". He assures me it works every time, I tell him I will sleep on it, I turn the light off again and we all fall asleep.
The gentle ping of my alarm wakes me and I hit the shower. Damn, no towel, the one thing I forgot so I use a hand towel and my t-shirt to dry. Adrian is up and heads to the other bathroom and shower, a perfect time to slip out and meet the postman. Just as I head down the street I hear a voice and turn to see Adrian rushing to catch up. It is a cool morning ( 2 or 3 degrees C) a light frost paints the ground as the sun struggles to appear from behind some clouds. Robin the postman is already loading the mail when I arrive with a nice warm scone fresh from the oven and cup of green tea I sit on the steps and wait enjoying the early hour, the peace and tranquility of the small village sipping my tea.
Adrian waits for Robin who flatly turns down his proposal to join us. "Sorry mate Steve is taking some pictures today and we have no room". Adrian smiles and waves goodbye to me a few moments later we pass him standing at the side of the road displaying his cookies sign, waving a bag of oatmeal cookies at cars as they pass. I feel a slight twinge of guilt but know that he will be fine, he smiles as we pass. Robin is around my age a friendly face hidden under a carpet of salt and pepper beard. He is a grandfather a few times over, he and his wife have a contract to deliver mail, he also is the local school bus driver (the postal van doubles as a school bus) and he takes tourists on his route. I am advised to do my seat belt up as in N.Z. the driver is ticketed if the passenger doesn't wear a seat belt. Later on the trip I will see the wisdom of requiring a seat belt, N.Z. roads rarely go in a straight line anywhere twisting and turning through mountain passes that would scare even the most stalwart mountain goat. I have this sinking feeling that my fear of heights will be tested today. We spend the rest of the day traversing roads etched along the edge of a six million year old volcano. The seat belt clicks in place and I get my cameras out ready to grab some of the most spectacular scenery the island has to offer.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Tangled Tango
I didn't really sleep well after my All Blacks celebration. Somehow I manage to stagger to the shower and shave. The razor blade sounds like a buzz saw crossing my face. I feel like shit and look even worse.
Today is my Tango lesson and I can't miss the class it is already booked and my Tango friends would be disappointed. For a brief moment I contemplate knocking on the Potter's door and feebly excusing myself . A deep rooted Canuck pride prevents me from doing the sensible thing, besides I can hear them up and wandering around. Oh my head hurts - shit.
I am ready early and wander in front of the house pacing back and forth aimlessly, trying not to be ill. The air feels good but I can't look at, let alone eat any food. I swear off drinking for at least a fortnight (as the Tui beer ads say "y'ah right") as I rub my throbbing temple my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I make a pathetic sight in the early morning light. The Potter's take me to the bus I feel like a son saying goodbye to my Mum and Dad they have been wonderfully helpful and now wait patiently with me for the bus. I bid them farewell, thanks, cheers see you guys in a week.
The bus glides over the rolling hills as the highway cuts a path to Featherstone I repeat my mantra "I will not be sick - it works. I find myself standing on the platform at the train station, my suitcase feels like I am carrying a lead weight, my head feels worse the sunglasses help a bit.
In a couple of hours I am in Welly once again, the sun is shinning and I feel better but dead tired. I can't help but wonder how the Maori warriors, Sam and Wolly are faring this morning. I straggle along the stunning waterfront boardwalk, the beauty lost on me my only goal is to get thee to the Nomad's Hostel and a bed. A couple of hours sleep will see me right. Check in isn't for several hours but the bloke at the front desk takes one look at my pathetic washed out face and gives me the room card. I collapse on the bed fold myself into a neo-natal position and drift off to sleep. Bliss is mine. Two hours later my head still reminds me I hurt my brain last night but I throw on my sports jacket, leather shoes, pinch my cheeks and bravely face the day, okay the afternoon.
The Tango is a storied dance unlike any other rumoured to have started in the brothels of Buenos Aries it is a dance of concentration, serious foot work and body language. I meet up with Jane of the Tango we grab a bite at Fidel's on Cuba St. and are off to my first lesson. Sarah a beautiful young gal in her very early 20's works with me to school me in the basics of the Tango.
"Don't look at your feet Steve look at my chest and lean in" She innocently coaches.
"Are you kidding me Sarah, as a high school teacher I have been trained to look anywhere but there" I reply gap mouthed.
"Right here Steve look at my chest not your feet" She insists.
With a shrug I give in and we start to sway, after a few moments I begin to get the basic idea of the dance and then the lesson is over. We head back to Jane's house in the hills for a bite to eat before the dance that evening. As the ladies get ready I clean up the kitchen. They are dressed to kill, I quickly realize a big part of the Tango is getting natty and dressing to the nines. My golf shirt, airline wrinkled sport jacket and creased slacks pale by comparison. We pack into Jane's little car and snake down the hillside to the centre of the city. Hillside slips challenge even the most veteran of drivers. Slips are mudslides which crumble to the road from the steep mud cliffs that surround the city. Hair pin turns and sudden swerves are all part of the fun as we barrel down the narrow streets.
My role for the evening is to be photographer so I hide in a corner and snap picts. I am too inexperienced to dance as the male always leads in the Tango the lady provides the panache and glitz. The hall is dimly lit proving to be a major lighting challenge for my camera. I am in illustrious company, an Oscar winner who doesn't mix film talk with Tango nights - darn! A legislative legal eagle who drafts legislation writing current laws for the government and an award winning novelist who writes speeches for high ranking government officials. It is all about the Tango though, and these folks are serious. There is no idle conversation while dancing, bodies sway and partners lean in to each other. One chap likes the fancy moves, the next shuffles slowly across the floor partner in tow. A woman traces the outline of her partners leg up to his thigh, a foot flick, a knee bend and definitely no smiles which puts some people off the Tango.
One of our Tango group, Suzanne drops the hint that a newly minted Tango student might like to give it a whirl. I hesitate and develop a sudden attack of nerves.
"I think I'll wait thanks" I hide behind my camera and snap more picts. The little voice from deep in my gut questions my rationale What is wrong with you a beautiful woman just asked you to dance and you chickened out shame on you, an imaginary finger wags in my face.
After a long period of contemplation I screw up my courage and ask Suzanne if she could show me a few steps. A chap that is with her offers his take on my dilemma.
"That's the stuff mate just move your feet, it's no that hard"
Fated words to be sure but I take the leap and we slip on to the floor, she guides me through the dance. I am a wreck by the end but I didn't step on any toes, however I don't get asked again hmmmm. I assume my role as camera geek one I easily don to suit the moment. The evening ends without the newbie doing any further damage to the storied dance.
As we walk back to the car Jane asks me if I like staying at the hostel. I tell her it is affordable but that it's not comfortable with doors slamming at all hours of the night coupled with the fact that you never know who your are rooming with. She asks if I would like to stay at her place. Suddenly I am not longer staying in the bowels of the city in a co-ed dorm room with a bunch of people at party central. Instead I will wake up to a breathtaking view of the harbour and city. Tomorrow I head off to the South Island but for now I am revelling in the peace and quiet of my new digs. Thank God for the Tango.
Today is my Tango lesson and I can't miss the class it is already booked and my Tango friends would be disappointed. For a brief moment I contemplate knocking on the Potter's door and feebly excusing myself . A deep rooted Canuck pride prevents me from doing the sensible thing, besides I can hear them up and wandering around. Oh my head hurts - shit.
I am ready early and wander in front of the house pacing back and forth aimlessly, trying not to be ill. The air feels good but I can't look at, let alone eat any food. I swear off drinking for at least a fortnight (as the Tui beer ads say "y'ah right") as I rub my throbbing temple my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I make a pathetic sight in the early morning light. The Potter's take me to the bus I feel like a son saying goodbye to my Mum and Dad they have been wonderfully helpful and now wait patiently with me for the bus. I bid them farewell, thanks, cheers see you guys in a week.
The bus glides over the rolling hills as the highway cuts a path to Featherstone I repeat my mantra "I will not be sick - it works. I find myself standing on the platform at the train station, my suitcase feels like I am carrying a lead weight, my head feels worse the sunglasses help a bit.
In a couple of hours I am in Welly once again, the sun is shinning and I feel better but dead tired. I can't help but wonder how the Maori warriors, Sam and Wolly are faring this morning. I straggle along the stunning waterfront boardwalk, the beauty lost on me my only goal is to get thee to the Nomad's Hostel and a bed. A couple of hours sleep will see me right. Check in isn't for several hours but the bloke at the front desk takes one look at my pathetic washed out face and gives me the room card. I collapse on the bed fold myself into a neo-natal position and drift off to sleep. Bliss is mine. Two hours later my head still reminds me I hurt my brain last night but I throw on my sports jacket, leather shoes, pinch my cheeks and bravely face the day, okay the afternoon.
The Tango is a storied dance unlike any other rumoured to have started in the brothels of Buenos Aries it is a dance of concentration, serious foot work and body language. I meet up with Jane of the Tango we grab a bite at Fidel's on Cuba St. and are off to my first lesson. Sarah a beautiful young gal in her very early 20's works with me to school me in the basics of the Tango.
"Don't look at your feet Steve look at my chest and lean in" She innocently coaches.
"Are you kidding me Sarah, as a high school teacher I have been trained to look anywhere but there" I reply gap mouthed.
"Right here Steve look at my chest not your feet" She insists.
With a shrug I give in and we start to sway, after a few moments I begin to get the basic idea of the dance and then the lesson is over. We head back to Jane's house in the hills for a bite to eat before the dance that evening. As the ladies get ready I clean up the kitchen. They are dressed to kill, I quickly realize a big part of the Tango is getting natty and dressing to the nines. My golf shirt, airline wrinkled sport jacket and creased slacks pale by comparison. We pack into Jane's little car and snake down the hillside to the centre of the city. Hillside slips challenge even the most veteran of drivers. Slips are mudslides which crumble to the road from the steep mud cliffs that surround the city. Hair pin turns and sudden swerves are all part of the fun as we barrel down the narrow streets.
My role for the evening is to be photographer so I hide in a corner and snap picts. I am too inexperienced to dance as the male always leads in the Tango the lady provides the panache and glitz. The hall is dimly lit proving to be a major lighting challenge for my camera. I am in illustrious company, an Oscar winner who doesn't mix film talk with Tango nights - darn! A legislative legal eagle who drafts legislation writing current laws for the government and an award winning novelist who writes speeches for high ranking government officials. It is all about the Tango though, and these folks are serious. There is no idle conversation while dancing, bodies sway and partners lean in to each other. One chap likes the fancy moves, the next shuffles slowly across the floor partner in tow. A woman traces the outline of her partners leg up to his thigh, a foot flick, a knee bend and definitely no smiles which puts some people off the Tango.
One of our Tango group, Suzanne drops the hint that a newly minted Tango student might like to give it a whirl. I hesitate and develop a sudden attack of nerves.
"I think I'll wait thanks" I hide behind my camera and snap more picts. The little voice from deep in my gut questions my rationale What is wrong with you a beautiful woman just asked you to dance and you chickened out shame on you, an imaginary finger wags in my face.
After a long period of contemplation I screw up my courage and ask Suzanne if she could show me a few steps. A chap that is with her offers his take on my dilemma.
"That's the stuff mate just move your feet, it's no that hard"
Fated words to be sure but I take the leap and we slip on to the floor, she guides me through the dance. I am a wreck by the end but I didn't step on any toes, however I don't get asked again hmmmm. I assume my role as camera geek one I easily don to suit the moment. The evening ends without the newbie doing any further damage to the storied dance.
As we walk back to the car Jane asks me if I like staying at the hostel. I tell her it is affordable but that it's not comfortable with doors slamming at all hours of the night coupled with the fact that you never know who your are rooming with. She asks if I would like to stay at her place. Suddenly I am not longer staying in the bowels of the city in a co-ed dorm room with a bunch of people at party central. Instead I will wake up to a breathtaking view of the harbour and city. Tomorrow I head off to the South Island but for now I am revelling in the peace and quiet of my new digs. Thank God for the Tango.
An All Blacks Night
I must apologize for my tardiness in getting back to this blog but the system wouldn't let me back in to my own blog to add more chapters hence the new title - partII
I had a wonderful couple of days riding my bike and meandering around Martinborough. It is a liberating feeling to have time to just wander and explore. I have fallen madly in love with New Zealand, the pace of life, the people and natural beauty. Of course while push biking around town I bumped into good ole galloping gums, off we went to the pub for a couple of pints. Fortunately Tony had to go to Mass so I was somewhat spared from a prolonged dissertation. As we were sitting outside enjoying the first hint of spring while quaffing a pint, Jancis (Mrs. Potter of Middlearth fame) drove by with Maree, they both waved. The smile on Jancis face said it all - poor bugger's got stuck with galloping gums again.
Back at my flat I gather a few things together to prepare for my Christchurch (South Island) adventure. The Potters have graciously offered to take me to the bus at 7:55 in the morning. My stuff has finally dried, it takes two days to dry here as there are few dryers and plenty of clotheslines. I scarf down a garlic chicken curry stir fry that I cooked on my one burner element. It's raining again, bollocks, to hell with it off I go on my trusty bike, can't hide in my rabbit warren forever! I head down New York Street aiming for JAQ'S pub home of the biggest screen to watch the game. It's a big night, the All Blacks, the national rugby team that is the pride of N.Z. are tangling with the Wallabies (Austrailia) it promises to be a good game. The match is treated with same reverence as we reserve for our beloved hockey hero's.
I feel a bit out of sorts when I arrive at JAQ'S, the blokes all look at me with the "where the hell did he come from on a bloody bike?" I belly up to the bar and order a pint of Tui's then wander into a cavernous room framed by two large couches. I plant myself on one and sip my beer as the Tri-Nations Rugby match starts. The game begins with the Haka, a Maori war dance that the All Blacks do to intimidate their opponents (no the All Blacks are not all black guys). Suddenly two Maori rugby fullbacks book end me on the couch. They are built like brick shit houses and have no necks, or at least none that are obvious to the casual observer. A pint of beer looks small in their meaty clutch and doesn't last long as soon find out. My new mates are Shaun and Wooly (Willy) they spend a good part of the game explaining what is going on. Each time the home team scores they jump up and hug each other catching me in the middle, crushed between these two gentle giants. I get into the spirit and spirits the game ends with the good guys winning keeping the N.Z. reputation intact.
My new mates insist on having a few beers, a glance out the window at the pouring rain and I am in, cheers mates. Willy gives me the low down on every woman who walks by on the way to the ladies loo.
"That one there's the butcha in C watch out she likes raw meat" He leans over elbowing me in the ribs. On one of several trips to the bar I spot a bottle of 12 yr old single malt scotch on the bar. After explaining to the pretty young barmaid what "neat" means to a scotch drinker I saunter back to my seat with the lads. Shaun decides he might like to try a shot so I fetch him one and leave my charge card at the bar to start a tab. I hand Shaun the drink which he knocks back like a shooter. The warm buzz from the whiskey gives him a jolt and of course now Woll wants to try one. Off I go to fetch hither some more of natures nectar. When I get back another Maori brick wall named Charley has joined us. They have been tossing back Jagermeister, red bull and beer all mixed in one drink. The Karaoke grinds on behind us sounding a little less offensive, the scotch is having it desired effect and I share the grin that my new Maori friends have pasted on their faces. Life is good no worries here mate. The boys keep downing their horrid concoctions I am stunned at their ability to drink. At one point they are so knackered that they down my scotch by mistake, Sherry the manager graciously replaces the liquid gold with two drams courtesy of the house. After several bleary eyed toasts and too many beers I bid adieu to my new mates with a Maori forehead bunt (not recommended) and the promise to return for a Hakka lesson in the near future.
I manage to find my way to the door only to have Sam, a local farm manager insist that I have another drink. At 6'6" I am not about to argue with this giant of a man. His wife winces as he reels on his feet and passes wind that has the same effect as a WW1 mustard gas attack. He then turns to me and accuses me of passing wind. His wife punches him in the shoulder and Sam smiles down at me with a devilish Kiwi look and asks "what're ya drinkin mate?" He sways on his feet I am not sure which one of the two of me that he is addressing.
"Water" I manage to mumble while pushing the door open to allow some air in and mitigate the stench .
"Naw, yah gotta have a beer mate c'mon" He goads me.
"No thanks just water" I mumble in reply knowing that another drink would put me into the black hole of alcohol excess and bed ridden for two days. Sam relents after another pounding from his wife and wobbles over to return with a glass of water shooting me a look of pity. I am already dreading my a.m. bus and train ride to Welly in just over four hours. Sam wants to know about moose to make his point he holds his thumbs to the side of his head like a pair of antlers and bellows "mooooooosssse" at me. We have a conversation or as close to a conversation as you can have when two drunks encounter each other in the wee hours of the morning. I manage to extricate myself from the crew after an invite to visit their farm and go pig hunting when I return from the South Island.
I leave the bar and weave home on my bike the rain has stopped and the air feels great. The town is quiet and at peace, the smart folks went to bed hours ago. I flop into my own bed sliding between the starched white sheets and pass out. As I drift off I wonder what the farm will be like hmmmmm zzzzzzzzzzzz!
I had a wonderful couple of days riding my bike and meandering around Martinborough. It is a liberating feeling to have time to just wander and explore. I have fallen madly in love with New Zealand, the pace of life, the people and natural beauty. Of course while push biking around town I bumped into good ole galloping gums, off we went to the pub for a couple of pints. Fortunately Tony had to go to Mass so I was somewhat spared from a prolonged dissertation. As we were sitting outside enjoying the first hint of spring while quaffing a pint, Jancis (Mrs. Potter of Middlearth fame) drove by with Maree, they both waved. The smile on Jancis face said it all - poor bugger's got stuck with galloping gums again.
Back at my flat I gather a few things together to prepare for my Christchurch (South Island) adventure. The Potters have graciously offered to take me to the bus at 7:55 in the morning. My stuff has finally dried, it takes two days to dry here as there are few dryers and plenty of clotheslines. I scarf down a garlic chicken curry stir fry that I cooked on my one burner element. It's raining again, bollocks, to hell with it off I go on my trusty bike, can't hide in my rabbit warren forever! I head down New York Street aiming for JAQ'S pub home of the biggest screen to watch the game. It's a big night, the All Blacks, the national rugby team that is the pride of N.Z. are tangling with the Wallabies (Austrailia) it promises to be a good game. The match is treated with same reverence as we reserve for our beloved hockey hero's.
I feel a bit out of sorts when I arrive at JAQ'S, the blokes all look at me with the "where the hell did he come from on a bloody bike?" I belly up to the bar and order a pint of Tui's then wander into a cavernous room framed by two large couches. I plant myself on one and sip my beer as the Tri-Nations Rugby match starts. The game begins with the Haka, a Maori war dance that the All Blacks do to intimidate their opponents (no the All Blacks are not all black guys). Suddenly two Maori rugby fullbacks book end me on the couch. They are built like brick shit houses and have no necks, or at least none that are obvious to the casual observer. A pint of beer looks small in their meaty clutch and doesn't last long as soon find out. My new mates are Shaun and Wooly (Willy) they spend a good part of the game explaining what is going on. Each time the home team scores they jump up and hug each other catching me in the middle, crushed between these two gentle giants. I get into the spirit and spirits the game ends with the good guys winning keeping the N.Z. reputation intact.
My new mates insist on having a few beers, a glance out the window at the pouring rain and I am in, cheers mates. Willy gives me the low down on every woman who walks by on the way to the ladies loo.
"That one there's the butcha in C watch out she likes raw meat" He leans over elbowing me in the ribs. On one of several trips to the bar I spot a bottle of 12 yr old single malt scotch on the bar. After explaining to the pretty young barmaid what "neat" means to a scotch drinker I saunter back to my seat with the lads. Shaun decides he might like to try a shot so I fetch him one and leave my charge card at the bar to start a tab. I hand Shaun the drink which he knocks back like a shooter. The warm buzz from the whiskey gives him a jolt and of course now Woll wants to try one. Off I go to fetch hither some more of natures nectar. When I get back another Maori brick wall named Charley has joined us. They have been tossing back Jagermeister, red bull and beer all mixed in one drink. The Karaoke grinds on behind us sounding a little less offensive, the scotch is having it desired effect and I share the grin that my new Maori friends have pasted on their faces. Life is good no worries here mate. The boys keep downing their horrid concoctions I am stunned at their ability to drink. At one point they are so knackered that they down my scotch by mistake, Sherry the manager graciously replaces the liquid gold with two drams courtesy of the house. After several bleary eyed toasts and too many beers I bid adieu to my new mates with a Maori forehead bunt (not recommended) and the promise to return for a Hakka lesson in the near future.
I manage to find my way to the door only to have Sam, a local farm manager insist that I have another drink. At 6'6" I am not about to argue with this giant of a man. His wife winces as he reels on his feet and passes wind that has the same effect as a WW1 mustard gas attack. He then turns to me and accuses me of passing wind. His wife punches him in the shoulder and Sam smiles down at me with a devilish Kiwi look and asks "what're ya drinkin mate?" He sways on his feet I am not sure which one of the two of me that he is addressing.
"Water" I manage to mumble while pushing the door open to allow some air in and mitigate the stench .
"Naw, yah gotta have a beer mate c'mon" He goads me.
"No thanks just water" I mumble in reply knowing that another drink would put me into the black hole of alcohol excess and bed ridden for two days. Sam relents after another pounding from his wife and wobbles over to return with a glass of water shooting me a look of pity. I am already dreading my a.m. bus and train ride to Welly in just over four hours. Sam wants to know about moose to make his point he holds his thumbs to the side of his head like a pair of antlers and bellows "mooooooosssse" at me. We have a conversation or as close to a conversation as you can have when two drunks encounter each other in the wee hours of the morning. I manage to extricate myself from the crew after an invite to visit their farm and go pig hunting when I return from the South Island.
I leave the bar and weave home on my bike the rain has stopped and the air feels great. The town is quiet and at peace, the smart folks went to bed hours ago. I flop into my own bed sliding between the starched white sheets and pass out. As I drift off I wonder what the farm will be like hmmmmm zzzzzzzzzzzz!
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