“The only good possum is a dead one.” This quote sums up the New Zealander’s attitude toward this small furry marsupial that is protected in Australia and runs rampant in New Zealand. There are 70 million possums in New Zealand, according to the official census. Since possums are nocturnal and skittish, there are likely a few more here. At a count of 70 million they outnumber the humans 70 to 4 and the sheep 2 to 1. That’s a lot of possums.
In case you’re not in the know, a possum is a marsupial (carries its young in a ventral pouch, like kangaroos and wallabies) that looks like a cross between a rat and a cat. It’s about two feet long with small sharp claws (for climbing), a long, bare, prehensile tail (for hanging and balance), a long snout and large reflective eyes (like a raccoon). They have very fine, soft, brown to grey fur.
Possums eat only the newest growth on the vegetation of New Zealand, and so inhibit the productivity of the vast expanse of rainforest, especially on the west coast of the South Island. To be precise, they consume 21,000 tons of new vegetation every night. Every night. Yes, that means every time the sun comes up in New Zealand, 42,000,000 pounds of vegetation have been eaten, processed, and excreted by possum GI tracts. And used to make more possum babies, of which there are many in a litter. (They reproduce like rabbits, in fact.)
So what do you do with possums in a country where they’re not native and so destructive to the native habitat? First, you run them over with your car. On our bus ride from Wanaka to Fox Glacier we had a couple of folks who saw a dead possum on the side of the road. Considering the animal “cute,” these folks emitted a collective “Awww,” as if to say, “How sad that the poor cute thing is lost to the world.” The driver came over the intercom—because he wanted us all in on this lesson in New Zealand culture—and said, “Bullocks! There will be no weeping and moaning over possum roadkill. If anything, we’ll drink to its demise. If you’re ever driving around New Zealand and see a live one, run it over!” He then proceeded to explain the background to such a cultural hatred of the species.
You can also kill possums (which, as should be clear by now, New Zealanders take great pleasure in doing) and use their pelts for all sorts of clothing and home goods. One of the most expensive materials in the New Zealand clothing industry is merino wool (especially soft wool made from a specific variety of sheep found in New Zealand) blended with possum fur. Since possum fur and merino wool are the same thickness, they can be blended together. The resultant fabric is über-soft. If you’re not into wearing possum remnants, then the least you can do is hang the pelt on your wall and say that you’ve done your bit for nature conservation in New Zealand.
Disclaimer: Remember, kids, don’t kill possum in Australia. It’s against the law and the Greenies over there will drink to your demise instead. Make sure you’re in the right country Down Under before you take off on your possum hunt!
Finally, you can eat possums. This hadn’t really occurred to me until our bus stopped somewhere between Franz Josef and Hokitika on the west coast at a place called “The Bushman’s Centre.” As it turns out, “Bushman” is New Zealander for “hick” or “redneck” or “hillbilly.” The tourist centre (at the doors of which you were greeted by large plastic statues of red-eyed possums) was an architectural marvel after the shanties of bayou Louisiana and rural West Virginia. There were signs at the café making fun of the “city-slicker” drinks served in places like Auckland, Wellington, and Wanaka: “long black,” normally referring to a half espresso, half water, was understood by a Bushman to be “Michael Jordan”; a “flat white,” akin to a latte in many areas, was here “an Englishman run over by a car.” Outside on a fence post sat a toilet bowl with a sign that read, “Ladies’ toilet.” Quite a place to take tourists. I wonder if New Zealanders bring their kids here to see how the other half lives.
Oh, and they serve “Pete’s Possum Pie.”
Pete is the Bushman’s version of Mikey from the old Life cereal commercials. From all the things labeled with his name on the menu, it seems that Pete would eat anything the other kids wouldn’t eat. Next to the glass case with sandwiches labeled “pig, tomato, and cheese,” was a heated cabinet with “possum pies: $4.00.” Like a beef pot pie—you know, the kind you get in the freezer section of your local grocery store—but with possum.
Perhaps it is the fact that New Zealanders refer to possums as “vermin”; perhaps it is because the visage of a possum resembles that of a large rat; perhaps it is because it’s a soft furry animal that, the last time you saw one, was flat on the hot asphalt with a tire tread running down its back; whatever the reason, there’s a visceral response to the idea of eating possum. The initial thought of it is sickening. Only a Bushman, someone with baggy overalls and a penchant for the obscene, would consider eating possum. But here it was: Pete’s Possum Pie.
The answer is yes: I paid my four dollars and ate one possum pie. Possum tastes surprisingly like chicken.
~emrys
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Ministry Everywhere
While in Dunedin we met a man staying overnight in our backpacker from Auckland. He was in Dunedin on a business trip rather than holiday, so we was an outlier in the backpacker culture. We got to talking and he found out that I am a pastor-to-be. He mentioned that his father had been a Seventh-Day Adventist pastor, so he had been raised as a minister’s kid.
He had a taste for discussion of philosophy, so we rambled on about it for a while. At length he asked if I wanted to play checkers (there was a chess and checkers board at the backpacker), and I agreed to it. It turned out he was rather good at the game—he said from hours of playing on the computer at work—and so I learned a few of the basics of strategy from him. It had been years and years since I’d played the game.
When it was discovered that I was willing to engage in philosophical discussion and that I was a sort of Christian thinker, he turned our discussion towards the problem of evil in the world, and then further to the matter of ethics. As the conversation progressed, it seemed that his interest in good, evil and ethics was not simply academic—then again, for whom is it truly academic? He alluded to a few dilemmas in which he found himself, especially given his current line of work in the stock market and investments. He observed that it was difficult to be an economist and stock market player without succumbing to, or at least supporting, human greed and selfishness.
Though we were not able to solve any of the world’s big problems, I came away from that long, deep conversation with a greater appreciation for how some people walk through life with more questions than answers. Some of those questions can cut to the very quick of how and why we live the way we do. I reckon the world tends to give greater value to answers than to the questions, which might make it difficult to ask the really tough questions. Nonetheless, if there are others like this man from Auckland out there in the world, there is a market for folks who are willing to wrestle with the big overarching challenges of life. And for those who are willing to listen and help others in their own wrestling matches.
~emrys
He had a taste for discussion of philosophy, so we rambled on about it for a while. At length he asked if I wanted to play checkers (there was a chess and checkers board at the backpacker), and I agreed to it. It turned out he was rather good at the game—he said from hours of playing on the computer at work—and so I learned a few of the basics of strategy from him. It had been years and years since I’d played the game.
When it was discovered that I was willing to engage in philosophical discussion and that I was a sort of Christian thinker, he turned our discussion towards the problem of evil in the world, and then further to the matter of ethics. As the conversation progressed, it seemed that his interest in good, evil and ethics was not simply academic—then again, for whom is it truly academic? He alluded to a few dilemmas in which he found himself, especially given his current line of work in the stock market and investments. He observed that it was difficult to be an economist and stock market player without succumbing to, or at least supporting, human greed and selfishness.
Though we were not able to solve any of the world’s big problems, I came away from that long, deep conversation with a greater appreciation for how some people walk through life with more questions than answers. Some of those questions can cut to the very quick of how and why we live the way we do. I reckon the world tends to give greater value to answers than to the questions, which might make it difficult to ask the really tough questions. Nonetheless, if there are others like this man from Auckland out there in the world, there is a market for folks who are willing to wrestle with the big overarching challenges of life. And for those who are willing to listen and help others in their own wrestling matches.
~emrys
Fox Glacier á là Emrys
Yesterday I took a guided hike up onto Fox Glacier, one of the two glaciers that are easily accessible from the west coast towns on the South Island (the other one is Franz Josef Glacier, just a bit north).
Fox Glacier was originally named Albert Glacier for its discoverer. When New Zealand became a sovereign nation (I’m not sure the exact date on which that happened) her first prime minister was William Fox. PM William decided to visit Albert Glacier, and when he did so he enjoyed its beauty and its grandeur so much that he decided to re-name it after himself. (Apparently prime ministers can rename national features of natural wonder at will.) As our guide told us this story—we were mostly foreigners, you know—we scoffed at the arrogance of such a thing. But our guide added then, “Well, the move was not without merit. You see, he did produce a beautiful watercolour painting of the glacier which now hangs in Such-and-such a museum in Wellington.”
Mental note: while in Europe, paint a watercolour of the Charles Bridge and tell them to rename it the Emrys Bridge. Or do I have to become the PM of the Czech Republic first?
A glacier sliding down into temperate rainforest is a thing to behold. Fox Glacier looks as if God stood at the top of this long green forested gorge and dumped a trillion-gallon bucket of crushed ice down into the valley. As we approached the glacier by hiking up the side of the valley through hot moist, ferny forest, we were confronted by this massive flow of white chunks that stands about four stories high and fills up the valley from side to side. The closer we get, however, the more we see the grey streaks of dust and stone that are a part of the glacier, built up over years of rockfall and dust landing on the ice then being covered by another winter’s snowfall. The pressure of gravity pulling the glacier down the gorge makes the whole mass buckle and crimp along the top surface forming long cracks, deep crevices, and spiky ridges. The top surface of the glacier is like a miniature alpine mountain range in itself.
I had expected the surface of the glacier to feel like snow. Instead, it felt like the surface of a half-melted, half-hardened snow cone (as you get at the carnival). And sharp! One little slip while trying to position a photo I was taking sliced up my knee. Definitely not powdery snow. Rivulets of clear water run down the glacier’s surface and collect in pools, some as big as a quarter and others like a bathtub. The silt settles to the bottom of the pools—or gets stuck on the surface of the ice—so the water is pure.
It’s blue. The whole glacier when struck by the sun has a luminous pale blue colour, as do the pools that collect on the glacier’s surface. When the ice cracks and streams erode a cavern in the ice, the walls glow with a light that resembles the sky. Truly awesome. God did a good job with glaciers.
Before we get on the surface of the glacier our guide gives us crampons to strap to our boots (given to us by the company—the wearing of someone else’s boots has a whole other story to it) and up we go on steps cut fresh every morning by the guide company. As he hops along ahead of us like a mountain goat in the Alps, we trudge along and try to get the hang of stepping down flat-footed. No heel-toe, heel-toe here. The crampon’s right in your instep, so you’ve got to set your foot down flat to get a grip. After a couple hundred metres we’ve got the feel of it and make good time.
It’s about 80 degrees out, but we’re standing on a phenomenal amount of ice. Still, we’re in shorts and t-shirts and wearing lots of sunscreen. It’s quite comfortable. I look back toward the valley and the coast and see that the air is making heat-ripples off the surface of the glacier. Who thought I’d ever see hot air rising from ice?
We peek down into long blue ice-caves. We gawk at mountains of ice thrusting above us into the blue sky. We marvel at huge boulders floating on top of white cresting waves of ice (didn’t they teach us in school that rocks don’t float?). We see a strip of red sand buried in the glacier from Australia, when a storm carried the silt across the Tasman Sea, dumped it on the west coast of New Zealand, then left it to be snowed on and frozen into the history of Fox Glacier. We look up the valley to the craggy blue-white teeth of the seracs, remnants of an ice fall, that tower over us in an attempt to bite the sky. We look over at the walls of the valley where the glacier has advanced in past years and scraped the rock clean of trees, ferns, and moss. We marvel at how hard our guide works to cut new steps into virgin ice with his ice pick, jumping like a goat and swinging like a lumberjack. We hold our breaths as we stagger down steps that would never pass OSHA codes in your house, and heave a sigh of relief when we’re all at the bottom. (Speaking of OSHA, I didn’t sign a wavier for this journey, either.)
Six hours after first donning our crampons the group descends the last set of ice-steps to the valley floor. The temperature jumps from 75 degrees to 85 in the sunny forest and we make the wearying hike back to the bus. When I get home I’m tired and hungry, but filled with memories of majestic sculptures broken and carved by weather and gravity: one of New Zealand’s great natural wonders. Well worth it.
~emrys
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Fox Glacier
We arrived in Fox Glacier on Saturday afternoon and wandered through the village. A quaint little place. Upon inspection of the map of town we realized that there wasn’t a whole lot to do that you could walk to so we rented a couple of bikes. Go cross-training! So we biked out to a lookout point where you could see Fox Glacier, Mt. Tasman and Mt. Cook. It was beautiful and a fairly flat ride- even better. Going back towards town we stopped at Lake Matheson to check out that scene. Lake Matheson is one of the most photographed places in New Zealand because when all elements are aligned you can get reflection shots of the two mountains on the lake. Even when all is not perfect, it’s a pretty great view, and that was on our itinerary for Sunday after church. So after visiting Our Lady of the Snows church (Ginny- for whatever reason, little Catholic church made me think of you) we set out to walk down to Lake Matheson, do the loop around the lake and then head back. My mission was to get 11 miles under my belt as a training walk, Emrys’s mission was to play photographer. So after I’d walked around the lake and half way again, we headed back to town and crashed for the afternoon!
Today was glacier hike day. I took the half day hike, knowing that there’s a lot of uphill I decided that I’d be a happier camper if I stuck with the short (4hr) hike. As I write, Emrys is still off on the all day hike (7hr) and I’m happily showered and organizing photos! It was a great experience. The glacier was beautiful and the weather was great. Unfortunately I got in the group with Billy Goat guide who’s objective was to get in and out the fastest, rather than allow his group to enjoy the scenery and experience. So aside from being frustrated about being rushed it was pretty good. The “uphill stairs” as described in the promotional material was a bit of an understatement. I definitely got more cross-training. We spent the better part of 90 minutes climbing and descending stairs in the rainforest.
So tomorrow we’re off to Franz Josef to check out another glacier. This one apparently is more heavily traveled and in a different kind of setting. We’ll see what it brings.
Today was glacier hike day. I took the half day hike, knowing that there’s a lot of uphill I decided that I’d be a happier camper if I stuck with the short (4hr) hike. As I write, Emrys is still off on the all day hike (7hr) and I’m happily showered and organizing photos! It was a great experience. The glacier was beautiful and the weather was great. Unfortunately I got in the group with Billy Goat guide who’s objective was to get in and out the fastest, rather than allow his group to enjoy the scenery and experience. So aside from being frustrated about being rushed it was pretty good. The “uphill stairs” as described in the promotional material was a bit of an understatement. I definitely got more cross-training. We spent the better part of 90 minutes climbing and descending stairs in the rainforest.
So tomorrow we’re off to Franz Josef to check out another glacier. This one apparently is more heavily traveled and in a different kind of setting. We’ll see what it brings.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Church in New Zealand I
Part of the joy of being part of the body of Christ is going to worship with other congregations. It’s sort of like going to visit long lost cousins whom you’ve heard rumours about their living in far away places, but haven’t had occasion to visit. Now that we’re here, we got the chance to visit some of those cousins, to worship with them, and to see how they do what we do every Sunday.
Our first Sunday in New Zealand we had poorly executed intentions. Having walked by First Church of Dunedin (the Presbyterian congregation founded by settler-pastor Thomas Burns—nephew of the poet Sir Robert Burns) several times in our first day in the city, we saw that the congregation had three services every Sunday: one at 9:00am, one at 11:00am, and one at 5:00pm. Since I was feeling ill and we were enjoying sleeping in, we decided on the 5:00pm service.
No one was there. The church was open but the sanctuary was empty. We checked the signboards inside the front doors and noticed a bulletin of service times for January through April. They were at variance with the board at the gates of the church property. Sadly, no worship for us that Sunday.
About mid-week the next week we had made the acquaintance of one of the hostel staff members, a young woman from Zimbabwe named Idah. Another worker told us, upon my inquiry about Maori Christian churches, that Idah might know. Well, Idah did not know directly about Maori Christian services, but she invited us to her congregation. It is a church plant by a Zimbabwean Pentecostal denomination. So the next Sunday we worshipped with them; their usual space at the university was not available, so they worshipped at the home of their deacon.
We were the only two white folks there, of perhaps nine people plus a group of rambunctious children. They made us feel welcome, though it being my first experience having regular Sunday worship in someone’s home I felt a little out of place. But this is how the first Christians met and worshipped, after all. I could get into it. Eighty percent of attraction is proximity, right?
What seems to take more adjustment for me is Pentecostal worship. (For those of you who aren’t familiar with the jargon, “Pentecostal”—with a capital P—refers to a style of worship that takes its central inspiration from the story of Pentecost in chapter 2 of the book of Acts. At the first Pentecost the Holy Spirit came down visibly upon the fledgling church and, among other things, allowed Jews from all over the world to understand each other even though they did not speak each other’s native languages. “Pentecostal” denominations are generally known for their fervency in prayer and exercise of spiritual gifts, especially “speaking in tongues.”)
I am accustomed to a regularly structured liturgy, in which predictably timed or marked prayers are offered by the leader of worship, by congregants in unison according to a printed prayer, or by individual congregants silently or in an ordered manner. (One of the semi-official mottos of the Presbyterian church is “everything decently and in order.”) So when our brothers and sisters in this Zimbabwean congregation began praying each at his or her own pace, in other languages, and with voluminous energy, it took a moment for me to get used to it. It’s freeing, in a sense, to know that I am free to pray however and whatever I am called to pray at that moment. Nonetheless, I felt an undercurrent of chaos, as if some potential unity had been lost.
But we did some worship-dancing. The impropriety of free, rhythmic movement is, I think, a tragedy of the Anglo-Saxon Western church. As we sang with these Zimbabweans, we clapped with the semi-present rhythm of the pastor’s synthesizer, and in time the Africans started to dance. It was a sort of line-dance that one would start and the others join in, a joyous unity of movement with the song. I sensed little emphasis on perfect unity—of pitch in voice, of rhythm in dance, or of the words of the song (I had never heard these songs before)—but emphasis that we were worshipping God with body and voice. Good stuff.
~ emrys
Our first Sunday in New Zealand we had poorly executed intentions. Having walked by First Church of Dunedin (the Presbyterian congregation founded by settler-pastor Thomas Burns—nephew of the poet Sir Robert Burns) several times in our first day in the city, we saw that the congregation had three services every Sunday: one at 9:00am, one at 11:00am, and one at 5:00pm. Since I was feeling ill and we were enjoying sleeping in, we decided on the 5:00pm service.
No one was there. The church was open but the sanctuary was empty. We checked the signboards inside the front doors and noticed a bulletin of service times for January through April. They were at variance with the board at the gates of the church property. Sadly, no worship for us that Sunday.
About mid-week the next week we had made the acquaintance of one of the hostel staff members, a young woman from Zimbabwe named Idah. Another worker told us, upon my inquiry about Maori Christian churches, that Idah might know. Well, Idah did not know directly about Maori Christian services, but she invited us to her congregation. It is a church plant by a Zimbabwean Pentecostal denomination. So the next Sunday we worshipped with them; their usual space at the university was not available, so they worshipped at the home of their deacon.
We were the only two white folks there, of perhaps nine people plus a group of rambunctious children. They made us feel welcome, though it being my first experience having regular Sunday worship in someone’s home I felt a little out of place. But this is how the first Christians met and worshipped, after all. I could get into it. Eighty percent of attraction is proximity, right?
What seems to take more adjustment for me is Pentecostal worship. (For those of you who aren’t familiar with the jargon, “Pentecostal”—with a capital P—refers to a style of worship that takes its central inspiration from the story of Pentecost in chapter 2 of the book of Acts. At the first Pentecost the Holy Spirit came down visibly upon the fledgling church and, among other things, allowed Jews from all over the world to understand each other even though they did not speak each other’s native languages. “Pentecostal” denominations are generally known for their fervency in prayer and exercise of spiritual gifts, especially “speaking in tongues.”)
I am accustomed to a regularly structured liturgy, in which predictably timed or marked prayers are offered by the leader of worship, by congregants in unison according to a printed prayer, or by individual congregants silently or in an ordered manner. (One of the semi-official mottos of the Presbyterian church is “everything decently and in order.”) So when our brothers and sisters in this Zimbabwean congregation began praying each at his or her own pace, in other languages, and with voluminous energy, it took a moment for me to get used to it. It’s freeing, in a sense, to know that I am free to pray however and whatever I am called to pray at that moment. Nonetheless, I felt an undercurrent of chaos, as if some potential unity had been lost.
But we did some worship-dancing. The impropriety of free, rhythmic movement is, I think, a tragedy of the Anglo-Saxon Western church. As we sang with these Zimbabweans, we clapped with the semi-present rhythm of the pastor’s synthesizer, and in time the Africans started to dance. It was a sort of line-dance that one would start and the others join in, a joyous unity of movement with the song. I sensed little emphasis on perfect unity—of pitch in voice, of rhythm in dance, or of the words of the song (I had never heard these songs before)—but emphasis that we were worshipping God with body and voice. Good stuff.
~ emrys
Friday, January 27, 2006
Malls & Liability
When I travel somewhere, be it inside the United States or outside, I tend to look out for things that are similar to and quite different from the same things at home. I carry with me a certain level of expectation that there will be differences between home (whether that be Pennsylvania, Durango, Colorado, or the U.S. in general) and any place I visit. There are certain places in which I expect more similarity and places in which I expect less: I expect that a visit to Nairobi, Kenya will reveal more cultural differences than a visit to New Zealand, for instance.
Carrying expectations has a certain danger to it. Of course, this is an exciting danger because have one’s expectations challenged or shattered altogether can be quite a learning experience. It can also be transformative in that it helps one to look at oneself through a suddenly different lens.
I had occasion, while we were staying in Wanaka in central Otago, New Zealand, to peruse the magazine section of a drug store. I picked up the December 2005/January 2006 edition of New Zealand Geographic, a publication for New Zealanders that examines issues and places relevant to New Zealander life. I opened the table of contents and was captivated by one word in the title of one of the feature articles: “mall.”
I turned to the article and read it through. (I rarely read magazine articles through, especially when I’m standing in front of the rack in a drug store.) The author reported on his examination of a phenomenon that has apparently been of some concern to New Zealanders (and especially North Islanders) for a few years: the expansion of mega-malls and “hyperstores” (like Wal-Mart in the U.S.) and their dominance on the mercantile landscape. In his twelve-page article he discussed the problems of urban sprawl, hyperstores crushing the viability of small local businesses, the significance of intentional “city-centres” that were designed by merchants rather than town councils, and the meaning of shopping as recreation.
Change all the place-names, and it could have been an article in Time or Newsweek about the United States.
Here I was, operating under the expectation that New Zealand did not struggle with issues of urban sprawl and commercial land use; after all, is this not the country in which one-tenth of the land is national park, which spends so much energy on conservation and wildlife preserves? But here was the evidence, in black and white, that New Zealand is mulling over the same issues as my home. Fascinating.
But we’re not in the United States, and (alas) no one is paying me to write a cultural comparison article. So instead of mulling over this matter too much, I spend an afternoon with Sara riding an Aqua Bike (see earlier entry). The next day we go out together on Lake Wanaka on kayaks for an hour. Today we rented bicycles and helmets from the hostel and rode down to a great view of Aoraki and Mt. Tasman. After all, this may be the last time we’re in New Zealand, so we’ve got to soak up this place, just as we soaked up the penguins and the sea lions and the albatrosses in Dunedin. We’ve been doing some active stuff.
We’ve been doing some dangerous stuff, come to think of it.
We could have fallen off the Aqua Bike (or been pushed), hit our heads on the paddle-wheels, and drowned. I could have tipped over a kayak, got my foot stuck, and smashed my head on a rock. I could have hit a rock on my bicycle and been thrown into a barbed-wire fence. Heck, I could have been attacked by a randy sea-lion.
And who would be responsible?
According to the running trend in the States, not me. No, the vendor would have been responsible: the one who rented us the bikes, the kayaks, and the ten-yard exposure to the sea lion. I’m sure of it. Because I never signed a waiver.
Sara noticed it first: we haven’t signed any paperwork to waive our rights since we landed on this archipelago. Not a single line. The only things we’ve signed are credit card receipts, so the New Zealanders can take our money (which we’ve been glad to give them—vive l’economie Kiwi!). We’ve been on a cruise in which our boat could have been struck by lightning, the lifeboats failed, and all the passengers eaten by sharks in the Tasman Sea. But did the cruise company give a rip about liability? Nope! “Welcome aboard!” was all they said.
It’s rather unsettling, I have to say, as a conscionable American in a strange land. After all, these people do speak English, don’t they? Sure, they pronounce things differently, but don’t they know the word “suit”? “Tort”? “Negligence”? What’s wrong with them? Don’t they care that one of their customers, victim to a strange occurrence or freak accident, might take them to court and take every penny from them? Don’t they see the danger? Don’t they look out over this sea of tourists and see schools of money-hungry, accident-prone sharks waiting for the scent of blood so they can have their class-action feeding frenzy?
I guess they don’t. And nobody else around here seems to notice. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe I’m just different because I’m from the United States.
~ emrys
Carrying expectations has a certain danger to it. Of course, this is an exciting danger because have one’s expectations challenged or shattered altogether can be quite a learning experience. It can also be transformative in that it helps one to look at oneself through a suddenly different lens.
I had occasion, while we were staying in Wanaka in central Otago, New Zealand, to peruse the magazine section of a drug store. I picked up the December 2005/January 2006 edition of New Zealand Geographic, a publication for New Zealanders that examines issues and places relevant to New Zealander life. I opened the table of contents and was captivated by one word in the title of one of the feature articles: “mall.”
I turned to the article and read it through. (I rarely read magazine articles through, especially when I’m standing in front of the rack in a drug store.) The author reported on his examination of a phenomenon that has apparently been of some concern to New Zealanders (and especially North Islanders) for a few years: the expansion of mega-malls and “hyperstores” (like Wal-Mart in the U.S.) and their dominance on the mercantile landscape. In his twelve-page article he discussed the problems of urban sprawl, hyperstores crushing the viability of small local businesses, the significance of intentional “city-centres” that were designed by merchants rather than town councils, and the meaning of shopping as recreation.
Change all the place-names, and it could have been an article in Time or Newsweek about the United States.
Here I was, operating under the expectation that New Zealand did not struggle with issues of urban sprawl and commercial land use; after all, is this not the country in which one-tenth of the land is national park, which spends so much energy on conservation and wildlife preserves? But here was the evidence, in black and white, that New Zealand is mulling over the same issues as my home. Fascinating.
But we’re not in the United States, and (alas) no one is paying me to write a cultural comparison article. So instead of mulling over this matter too much, I spend an afternoon with Sara riding an Aqua Bike (see earlier entry). The next day we go out together on Lake Wanaka on kayaks for an hour. Today we rented bicycles and helmets from the hostel and rode down to a great view of Aoraki and Mt. Tasman. After all, this may be the last time we’re in New Zealand, so we’ve got to soak up this place, just as we soaked up the penguins and the sea lions and the albatrosses in Dunedin. We’ve been doing some active stuff.
We’ve been doing some dangerous stuff, come to think of it.
We could have fallen off the Aqua Bike (or been pushed), hit our heads on the paddle-wheels, and drowned. I could have tipped over a kayak, got my foot stuck, and smashed my head on a rock. I could have hit a rock on my bicycle and been thrown into a barbed-wire fence. Heck, I could have been attacked by a randy sea-lion.
And who would be responsible?
According to the running trend in the States, not me. No, the vendor would have been responsible: the one who rented us the bikes, the kayaks, and the ten-yard exposure to the sea lion. I’m sure of it. Because I never signed a waiver.
Sara noticed it first: we haven’t signed any paperwork to waive our rights since we landed on this archipelago. Not a single line. The only things we’ve signed are credit card receipts, so the New Zealanders can take our money (which we’ve been glad to give them—vive l’economie Kiwi!). We’ve been on a cruise in which our boat could have been struck by lightning, the lifeboats failed, and all the passengers eaten by sharks in the Tasman Sea. But did the cruise company give a rip about liability? Nope! “Welcome aboard!” was all they said.
It’s rather unsettling, I have to say, as a conscionable American in a strange land. After all, these people do speak English, don’t they? Sure, they pronounce things differently, but don’t they know the word “suit”? “Tort”? “Negligence”? What’s wrong with them? Don’t they care that one of their customers, victim to a strange occurrence or freak accident, might take them to court and take every penny from them? Don’t they see the danger? Don’t they look out over this sea of tourists and see schools of money-hungry, accident-prone sharks waiting for the scent of blood so they can have their class-action feeding frenzy?
I guess they don’t. And nobody else around here seems to notice. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe I’m just different because I’m from the United States.
~ emrys
Transportation Paradigm Shifts
So today we took the bus ride from Wanaka to Fox Glacier. Our itinerary showed that we’d get on the bus shortly before 9 in the morning and arrive in Fox Glacier shortly before 4 in the afternoon, so we settled in for what we thought would be a long haul bus ride. My American mind set on getting from point A to point B was rather surprised to find the bus stopping merely 30 minutes into the ride: a photo op stop. Okay, that works… I like taking pictures! The ride continued in the same such way, late tea stop, photo stop, photo stop, lunch stop, photo stop, photo stop, offload passengers stop, pick up passengers… ok, now we finally made it to point B: Fox Glacier! I think the longest time we had to actually sit on the bus was 45 mintues!
Liberating Aqua Bikes
We arrived in Wanaka on Thursday morning, walked across the street from the bus stop to the hostel, dropped our bags and set out to explore this beautiful, quiet little lakeside town. We walked two blocks down to the lakefront and one of the first things that caught my eye looked like adult sized tricycles with three HUGE wheels- maybe 4 or 5 feet in diameter and they floated on the lake. I asked Emrys what they were and “oh, they’re just paddleboats”. Well they didn’t look like any paddleboat I’d ever seen and I wanted to go play! So I used the excuse of cross-training since I’ve been doing lots of walking and not much cross-training for the half marathon- pedaling is definitely cross-training. So we found the rental desk and decided to come back in the middle of the afternoon when the sun was high and it was warm out.
Then it was off to take pictures and wander around. We found a little takeaway place boasting fish and chips so Emrys was out to give this one a shot. True to English form the fish and chips were served wrapped up in newspaper and he said they were “pretty good”. Since I’m not a fan of fish, he’s on his own in his search of the best fish and chips. I just test the chips – and mostly chips are chips.
We did a little writing, photo organizing and settling in to our home for two nights then it was off to play! We paid the fare to take the Aqua Bike out for 40 minutes- twice the general time allotment. The guy behind the desk asked if we were sure- oh yeah, we’ll be fine. Then we were instructed: “Go on out to the dock and liberate yourself an aquabike and enjoy”. So we did.
It was not only an awesome view around the lake from 80 meters off the shore but it was a good work out to boot.
Just when I was getting in to the groove, a maniacal look crosses Emrys’s face, he looks at me and says “Now pedal backwards!!” Since when has he taken such a hands on position in my training- I thought to myself, then asked him. He said he was trying to help me get a “rounded cross-training session”. Uh-huh! Don’t get me wrong, he’s been entirely supportive, asking if I need to work in training walks in our travels, going with me on the days that I don’t feel like going, etc; just never so vocally directive about it. So we pedaled backwards for a while and then Coach E directed that we pedal forward again. Then it was out around a buoy. When I responded to one of his directives with a jab to his ribs, he threatened to throw me in the cold water for entertainment value. As you can tell we had a blast!
Off to the market to replenish our food stuffs, then back to post everything to the internet while we have WIFI; lazy evening of dinner and cards at the hostel patio, chatting with a local wine merchant, and some R&R. I totally see why this is where the kiwis come for their family vacations- it’s a great little place
Friday was spent with more R&R induced by the heat- probably near 90 during the peak heat. We enjoyed paddling around out on the lake with some rented kayaks, some ice cream from a local creamery, reading, writing, getting caught up on some e-mails and groceries for the next few days as we’re told there’s not a market in Fox. So now we’re washing some clothes and headed for the grill to make dinner and tomorrow we’re off to the west coast to see some glaciers. Stay tuned!
Then it was off to take pictures and wander around. We found a little takeaway place boasting fish and chips so Emrys was out to give this one a shot. True to English form the fish and chips were served wrapped up in newspaper and he said they were “pretty good”. Since I’m not a fan of fish, he’s on his own in his search of the best fish and chips. I just test the chips – and mostly chips are chips.
We did a little writing, photo organizing and settling in to our home for two nights then it was off to play! We paid the fare to take the Aqua Bike out for 40 minutes- twice the general time allotment. The guy behind the desk asked if we were sure- oh yeah, we’ll be fine. Then we were instructed: “Go on out to the dock and liberate yourself an aquabike and enjoy”. So we did.
It was not only an awesome view around the lake from 80 meters off the shore but it was a good work out to boot.
Just when I was getting in to the groove, a maniacal look crosses Emrys’s face, he looks at me and says “Now pedal backwards!!” Since when has he taken such a hands on position in my training- I thought to myself, then asked him. He said he was trying to help me get a “rounded cross-training session”. Uh-huh! Don’t get me wrong, he’s been entirely supportive, asking if I need to work in training walks in our travels, going with me on the days that I don’t feel like going, etc; just never so vocally directive about it. So we pedaled backwards for a while and then Coach E directed that we pedal forward again. Then it was out around a buoy. When I responded to one of his directives with a jab to his ribs, he threatened to throw me in the cold water for entertainment value. As you can tell we had a blast!
Off to the market to replenish our food stuffs, then back to post everything to the internet while we have WIFI; lazy evening of dinner and cards at the hostel patio, chatting with a local wine merchant, and some R&R. I totally see why this is where the kiwis come for their family vacations- it’s a great little place
Friday was spent with more R&R induced by the heat- probably near 90 during the peak heat. We enjoyed paddling around out on the lake with some rented kayaks, some ice cream from a local creamery, reading, writing, getting caught up on some e-mails and groceries for the next few days as we’re told there’s not a market in Fox. So now we’re washing some clothes and headed for the grill to make dinner and tomorrow we’re off to the west coast to see some glaciers. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Serendipity in Queenstown
We only had one night in Queenstown, and finding a place to stay the night there was my responsibility. Let me say that this is a major affair because Sara likes to have things planned out to the furthest extent possible, as far as possible in advance.
I am not the same way.
I prefer to take things as they come, and plan things as needed. For instance: to discover what I’ll be having for dinner on any given night, my preferred method is to wait until 4 or 5 pm and see what my stomach craves. I will then make a trip to the grocery and find those things necessary to fulfill my needs. Sara is different. Sara would much rather make a single trip to the grocery, once a week, and not have to return. This idea necessitates, of course, having a week-ahead plan of cooking needs.
I can’t tell you what I’m going to want for dinner on Wednesday. I just can’t. Nor could I tell you where we were staying in Queenstown last night. I figured, Hey, we’ll just step off the bus and find a hostel with some open beds, starting with one to which folks in Milford Sound pointed us. They would be staying at a particular hostel that night, and told us to check it out.
So we get off the bus in city-centre Queenstown. It’s about 8 pm; the downtown is alive and active. We get a tip from the bus driver that the hostel we seek is over a block, up a block, and over a few blocks. Good. No problem. Until we get over a block and up a block. Then there’s a problem.
It’s up hill.
For me: not a problem. But you see Sara does not do hills very well. She’s great with distance over flat ground (such as walking 13.1 miles on a beach next month), but incline does her in. So here we are, ascending this hill, and I can imagine the “I-told-you-so”s coming. We should have planned this in advance. That way we could be sure that we were climbing this hill toward two beds that actually exist.
They didn’t. The hostel’s manager had retired for the evening already, and the reception desk did not invite inquires after hours. Sigh. We walked halfway down the hill again (did I mention that the central southland is quite hilly?) and pulled out the guidebook. Aha! Here’s another option. It’s just—up that other hill.
So I left Sara sitting on a grassy corner, the sun setting behind the mountains, while I climb the hill and scout out our next option for a hostel. As I climb the hill, I reflect on our circumstances. Queenstown: the hottest tourist spot in the southland, catering especially to thrill-seekers (like bungee jumpers) who would rather spend their big bugs on experiences and stay in hostels at night. Summer: the busy season, when it’s warmer than the northern hemisphere and cooler than the miserably hot North Island. After 8 pm: after hours, when many backpackers and hostels close down their front desks.
I stop reflecting on our circumstances and keep walking up the hill. Enter Flo and Garlic, two guys with backpacks looking rather tired and walking in the other direction.
Emrys: Hey, are you guys looking for a backpacker?
Garlic: (in Down Under accent) Yeah! Have you found one?
Emrys: No, we’re looking for one, too.
Garlic: We were going to try Burly’s, this one up the street.
Emrys: [internal monologue] What’s that smell? Is that coming from this guy? [My hall director fifth sense kicks in] That’s not alcohol . . . and it’s not mary jane. What drug is that? [aloud] Yeah, we just tried that one. There’s no one on duty. Have you tried the Salty Dog?
Garlic: Yeah, we tried them earlier today. They had two beds in separate dorm rooms.
Emrys: [internal] Well, why didn’t you take them? [aloud] Are they still open?
Garlic: We don’t know.
Emrys: Well, I’m going to go have a look.
We wished each other luck and I proceeded to the next target. Full up. Sigh. They directed me to another one “right next door,” but I couldn’t find it. So I headed back to Sara’s location, wondering how she’d take it if we ended up sleeping under the stars in a public park. When I got there, she was sitting with these two guys I had met earlier. They’re all there on the corner commiserating about being homeless for the night.
We pulled out our guide, and Flo had a cell phone. So he called a hostel we had looked at much earlier in our travel planning, and they had four beds. Perfect! Flo booked them under his name (which is how I know it) and hung up. So, Flo, where is this place? “I don’t know,” he says. Thanks, Flo.
Garlic pulled out a tourist map and Sara found it: it’s down that street and . . . up that other hill.
On the way to the lodge, we found out that these two guys are labourers on temporary work permits to New Zealand. One’s from Australia, the other’s from Germany. They were working up north picking fruit until too much rain got them laid off. So they found a connection with a construction company in Queenstown, starting tomorrow. One of them, a guy pierced several times visibly and with tattoos on his neck and forearms, is carrying a blue bag.
“Mate, I’ve got to get rid of that smell.” “What is it?” I ask, sensing my opportunity to find out the name of some strange new mind-altering substance used in the southern hemisphere. “Garlic marinade. I had a packet of it that blew up in my bag. It reeks.” It sure does! Now I can place the smell and I know that I don’t want to be near it all night. I wonder if I’ll get the bunk right above this guy, whose bag (and everything in it) reeks of vinegar and garlic.
We show up at the lodge, and Sara asks if, by chance, they have a double or twin room available. Sure enough, they’ve got one twin left. So we take it, managing a little more privacy (for this night) than the dorm room bunk beds and escaping the smell of garlic marinade gone astray. It turned out to be a good evening, even if it was a bit hilly at the start. Still, Sara may not let me “plan” any more overnights. We’ll see; I’ll take that as it comes.
~emrys
I am not the same way.
I prefer to take things as they come, and plan things as needed. For instance: to discover what I’ll be having for dinner on any given night, my preferred method is to wait until 4 or 5 pm and see what my stomach craves. I will then make a trip to the grocery and find those things necessary to fulfill my needs. Sara is different. Sara would much rather make a single trip to the grocery, once a week, and not have to return. This idea necessitates, of course, having a week-ahead plan of cooking needs.
I can’t tell you what I’m going to want for dinner on Wednesday. I just can’t. Nor could I tell you where we were staying in Queenstown last night. I figured, Hey, we’ll just step off the bus and find a hostel with some open beds, starting with one to which folks in Milford Sound pointed us. They would be staying at a particular hostel that night, and told us to check it out.
So we get off the bus in city-centre Queenstown. It’s about 8 pm; the downtown is alive and active. We get a tip from the bus driver that the hostel we seek is over a block, up a block, and over a few blocks. Good. No problem. Until we get over a block and up a block. Then there’s a problem.
It’s up hill.
For me: not a problem. But you see Sara does not do hills very well. She’s great with distance over flat ground (such as walking 13.1 miles on a beach next month), but incline does her in. So here we are, ascending this hill, and I can imagine the “I-told-you-so”s coming. We should have planned this in advance. That way we could be sure that we were climbing this hill toward two beds that actually exist.
They didn’t. The hostel’s manager had retired for the evening already, and the reception desk did not invite inquires after hours. Sigh. We walked halfway down the hill again (did I mention that the central southland is quite hilly?) and pulled out the guidebook. Aha! Here’s another option. It’s just—up that other hill.
So I left Sara sitting on a grassy corner, the sun setting behind the mountains, while I climb the hill and scout out our next option for a hostel. As I climb the hill, I reflect on our circumstances. Queenstown: the hottest tourist spot in the southland, catering especially to thrill-seekers (like bungee jumpers) who would rather spend their big bugs on experiences and stay in hostels at night. Summer: the busy season, when it’s warmer than the northern hemisphere and cooler than the miserably hot North Island. After 8 pm: after hours, when many backpackers and hostels close down their front desks.
I stop reflecting on our circumstances and keep walking up the hill. Enter Flo and Garlic, two guys with backpacks looking rather tired and walking in the other direction.
Emrys: Hey, are you guys looking for a backpacker?
Garlic: (in Down Under accent) Yeah! Have you found one?
Emrys: No, we’re looking for one, too.
Garlic: We were going to try Burly’s, this one up the street.
Emrys: [internal monologue] What’s that smell? Is that coming from this guy? [My hall director fifth sense kicks in] That’s not alcohol . . . and it’s not mary jane. What drug is that? [aloud] Yeah, we just tried that one. There’s no one on duty. Have you tried the Salty Dog?
Garlic: Yeah, we tried them earlier today. They had two beds in separate dorm rooms.
Emrys: [internal] Well, why didn’t you take them? [aloud] Are they still open?
Garlic: We don’t know.
Emrys: Well, I’m going to go have a look.
We wished each other luck and I proceeded to the next target. Full up. Sigh. They directed me to another one “right next door,” but I couldn’t find it. So I headed back to Sara’s location, wondering how she’d take it if we ended up sleeping under the stars in a public park. When I got there, she was sitting with these two guys I had met earlier. They’re all there on the corner commiserating about being homeless for the night.
We pulled out our guide, and Flo had a cell phone. So he called a hostel we had looked at much earlier in our travel planning, and they had four beds. Perfect! Flo booked them under his name (which is how I know it) and hung up. So, Flo, where is this place? “I don’t know,” he says. Thanks, Flo.
Garlic pulled out a tourist map and Sara found it: it’s down that street and . . . up that other hill.
On the way to the lodge, we found out that these two guys are labourers on temporary work permits to New Zealand. One’s from Australia, the other’s from Germany. They were working up north picking fruit until too much rain got them laid off. So they found a connection with a construction company in Queenstown, starting tomorrow. One of them, a guy pierced several times visibly and with tattoos on his neck and forearms, is carrying a blue bag.
“Mate, I’ve got to get rid of that smell.” “What is it?” I ask, sensing my opportunity to find out the name of some strange new mind-altering substance used in the southern hemisphere. “Garlic marinade. I had a packet of it that blew up in my bag. It reeks.” It sure does! Now I can place the smell and I know that I don’t want to be near it all night. I wonder if I’ll get the bunk right above this guy, whose bag (and everything in it) reeks of vinegar and garlic.
We show up at the lodge, and Sara asks if, by chance, they have a double or twin room available. Sure enough, they’ve got one twin left. So we take it, managing a little more privacy (for this night) than the dorm room bunk beds and escaping the smell of garlic marinade gone astray. It turned out to be a good evening, even if it was a bit hilly at the start. Still, Sara may not let me “plan” any more overnights. We’ll see; I’ll take that as it comes.
~emrys
In a Nutshell
Milford Sound- OUTSTANDING!!
Now we've passed through Queenstown and are in Wanaka which is great. We're both working on a bunch of blogs to post date so check back in the next two days- we have WIFI here- a first since getting here!
More photos are up... enjoy and check back in the next day or so for all of the stories to go with the photos!
~sjt &e
Now we've passed through Queenstown and are in Wanaka which is great. We're both working on a bunch of blogs to post date so check back in the next two days- we have WIFI here- a first since getting here!
More photos are up... enjoy and check back in the next day or so for all of the stories to go with the photos!
~sjt &e
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