Go West, Young Men

Alright, folks. What you’re about to read is probably the longest singular post I’ll ever write – appropriate given that it chronicles what may be the most eventful trip of my study abroad experience. Allow me to begin by introducing the cast:

Jack – This superhero rock god needs no introduction.

Eddie – Jack’s gym buddy. Attends Davidson and swims like a fishie. Enjoys quoting Dane Cook.

Gabriel – Tall, dark, introspective, and often seen carrying an acoustic guitar. Some believe he could be the reincarnated form of Johnny Cash. Incidentally, Gabe doesn’t believe in reincarnation.
Shadowfax – Jack’s 1989 Toyota Corona. May slow considerably on long uphill stretches, yet all things considered, still the automotive equivalent of Lance Armstrong.

We planned to tour the Westland region of the South Island; the concept came about when my flatmate Zach had raved about his own trek through that particular area and I began looking into some of the attractions along the way. My penchant for anal-retentive research and planning is extremely well documented; you’ve probably already guessed that I constructed a detailed itinerary crammed with activities, directions, phone numbers, costs, estimated driving times, et cetera capped with a three-page bibliography. Well, you’re wrong. About the bibliography, anyway. The rest is pretty much spot on.

I know. Shut up.

The point is that I spent three days prepping our little group for pretty much any eventuality, and in doing so, I suppose that I declared myself de facto Team Captain. More on that later.

Our exodus began bright and early on Wednesday – we crammed three backpacks and a guitar into the trunk and hauled boogie towards Queenstown. Gabe had been there already and wasn’t too keen on it, but I had only seen the outskirts of the city and Eddie had never traveled in that direction at all. After spending the night at the center of town, though, I think we both agreed wholeheartedly with Gabe. Queenstown was absolutely gorgeous and packed with things to do – but at the end of the day it was just a massive ski resort. Prices were astronomical, public parking was nonexistent, and (perhaps most important for me) there was no aura of connection to the landscape. The awe-inspiring Remarkables and shimmering Lake Wakatipu provided the city with a beautiful backdrop, but their presence seemed marginalized by a malignant commercialism that cared only how these awesome natural phenomena might relate to property values. To me, Beach Street emanated the many of the same vibes as Newbury Street, buried within the heart of Boston. The difference is that Boston has a heritage and an evolving purpose based around commercialism – it’s natural there. Queenstown has cut itself adrift from the natural glory that is its birthright in exchange for gaudy materialism and the questionable loyalty of idle tourists. It’s worth noting that although travel agents tend to tout Queenstown as the country’s top attraction, New Zealand natives rank it thirty-sixth.

Please don’t take my words as an indication that visiting Queenstown wasn’t fun – quite the opposite. During the afternoon we hiked up Bob’s Peak on the outskirts of town; at the top we went on a ridiculous (and rather dangerous – Eddie flipped me when I tried to pass him on the inside) luge ride and befriended a couple of employees before heading back down at twilight in a gondola. Our new friends offered to show us their favorite nighttime establishment, so we ate dinner with them at the Waka Tavern, a quiet and cozy spot serving a small crowd of regulars seeking refuge from the utter chaos that emanates from Queenstown’s main drag each night. We slept at a similarly homey hostel called the Last Resort. Small, personal, and complete with a lovely TV lounge and frisky malamute pup named Cocco, the place was completely different from the rest of Queenstown and comes highly recommended by everyone in our group. This place also served as my introduction to RJ’s Natural Licorice – and an addiction has been born. I’m eating some right now, actually.

That evening, a cadre of Giggling Girls also staying at the Last Resort expressed their wish that we remain in Queenstown awhile longer. Lacking much enthusiasm for anything in the city apart from those girls, however, we politely declined and headed for Wanaka, a smallish town with a reputation comparable to that of Queenstown. That said, my flatmates had all raved about the place at one point or another so I kept my hopes relatively high.

The journey from Queenstown to Wanaka is deceptive. Even on topographic maps it appears to be little more than a two-hour jaunt northward along a major highway – easily accomplished on a half tank of petrol. This is not the reality. We began to realize this after the first fifty hairpin turns, when the petrol indicator light started blinking. “This’ll be an adventure,” Gabe reassured us. “One of us can hitchhike the rest of the way and bring back a gas can while the rest of us explore the mountain.” Unfortunately, I didn’t consider this much of a bright side – but fortunately, we began heading downhill a few minutes later and cruised the remaining twenty kilometers to a petrol station riding the brake.

From the moment we arrived in Wanaka I knew it was nothing like Queenstown. Sure, Matterhorn Backpackers was crammed with snowboarders from all corners of the earth – but the town had a relaxed, vaguely eccentric character that spoke of continuity between people, town, and landscape. And what a landscape! Watching the sunset from across the late was one of the most peaceful moments I’ve felt since arriving here – and that’s saying something. Another (very different) Wanaka highlight was the Cinema Paradiso, a cramped movie theater full of old sofas and attached to a decadent café. Halfway through our spy thriller, the lights came up and we received treats in the form of homemade ice cream and what may just be the best chocolate chip cookie in the world.

After our film had concluded, Eddie and Gabe decided to explore the pub scene. Wiped out from driving so much, I chose to stay behind. It was that fateful decision what caused my encounter with Anna and Renee. Extremely long story short, I walked into the communal kitchen searching for a writing utensil. Eddie and Gabe found me there several hours later, laughing my head off with a collection of older travelers, among them two Saucy Aussies with an itinerary similar to ours. We spent much of the next day running into each other at various scenic stops along the road to Franz Josef, and upon arriving at our hostel found we were sharing a dorm room with them and that Anna would be ice climbing the famous Franz Josef glacier with us the following morning. It was obviously meant to be!

I’m not even going to attempt to describe the antics of our newly enlarged troupe over the next twenty-four hours, but I will say that such chaos is rarely visited upon the sleepy town of Franz Josef. We were a veritable Mothra of mirth, a giddy Godzilla that left a visible patina of ridiculousness on everything it touched.

Anna and Renee couldn’t have entered our lives at a better time. Relations between Eddie, Gabe and I were becoming strained and none of us could quite figure out why until Anna artfully deconstructed our situation to me that evening. Essentially, she intuited that my detailed planning of our trip had given me an authority and responsibility I hadn’t really wanted, and so she encouraged me to allow my compatriots to take the reins – which was difficult for me but (to a certain extent) exactly what I managed to do from that point forward. The next day we bid farewell to Anna and Renee with promises to keep in touch and offers of hospitality in Australia and the United States, respectively. Then we scrapped my itinerary and voted to roll on towards Greymouth and the Monteith’s brewery.

At this point I think it’s worth reiterating what has become a theme of this blog: New Zealand scenery is impossibly diverse and tends to change drastically over very short distances. It’s rather like existing on the surface of a crumpled map of the Americas; you can travel from Colorado to Brazil to South Carolina simply by traversing a pair of ridges. And then there are the glaciers – larger than most cities, these massive sheets of winter slowly carve their way towards the sea through what appears to be a rainforest. The juxtaposition is quite startling.

We arrived in Greymouth on Sunday, which basically meant that nothing was open besides the New World grocery store and Monteith’s brewery – neither were the slightest bit engaging. I don’t enjoy beer much, but if I did, our flat and emotionless tour guide at Monteith’s would have completely quelled my enthusiasm. So although the town itself seemed pleasant enough, I think all three of us were more than happy to leave it behind. Our next destination was to be Akaroa, a former French colony on the Banks Peninsula outside Christchurch – but those hairpin turns and a widdly petrol gauge thoroughly thwarted our designs. We ran out of petrol just after sunset in the tiny (population sixty-eight) mountain hamlet of Arthur’s Pass, which consists of a YHA hostel, the Arthur’s Pass Store, the Wobbly Kea Tavern, and about twenty houses along the highway. Thoroughly sick of driving, we decided to spend the night – a compromise that rapidly metamorphosed into one of the best portions of the trip. The three of us ended up paying NZ$32 each that night for a mountain cottage with a fully stocked kitchen, wood stove, stereo system, and two full bathrooms. Between the driving, the stress of running out of petrol in the mountains, and the antics of the previous two evenings with Anna and Renee, I don’t think I’ve ever been more content to stretch out and do absolutely nothing for an evening.

Incidentally, have you ever tried stuffing a pita with salmon and Gouda cheese, then toasting it in the toaster and consuming it messily? I highly recommend trying this sometime. It’s pretty much the most delicious meal you can make without any work.

The next morning our little group made a startling discovery; during the daytime Arthur’s Pass is absolutely gorgeous. If you must be stranded somewhere for a day, this would be the place. Eddie and Gabe spent the morning scrambling over boulders to the base of the spectacular Devil’s Punchbowl waterfall while I hauled myself to the summit of Avalanche Peak and surveyed the entire region. The climb was fantastic – it followed an old streambed to the brushline and then tapered off, leaving me the freedom to chart my own course to the top. I was glad to have learned some basic snowcraft during the Pisa Range adventure – I could clearly recognize that much of the ridgeline was ripe for an avalanche. This may have been the reason that so few other trampers had made the trek that day, but I enjoyed the solitude. Plus, I ended up befriending some wildlife. While eating lunch at the top (sardines on wheat crackers and peanut butter sandwiches), a large alpine parrot charged me and stole a banana right out of my hand. Hollering in surprise, I lunged toward the bird – but it flanked me and opened my backpack before skittering off. I spent the next hour sparring with this incredibly smart creature as it perched just outside of my reach and made occasional passes at whatever edible I was holding at the time. That’s right, I found outsmarting a silly bird challenging. Yuk it up; I was mostly concentrating on taking some sweet pictures. Head over to Flickr and check them out; I think you’ll agree that they are worth losing some dignity over. Not all of it. Just some.

On Monday evening we finally rolled into Akaroa for what would be our last hurrah – or lack thereof. There was absolutely nothing exciting to do in this town, which may have been why I liked it so much. Boats bobbed in the harbor; lemons and grapes grew in the hills. The earth turned ‘round and I just leaned back and watched. The tenor was quite reminiscent of Cape Cod during the off-season, but Akaroa’s beauty remains distinct. It maintains, for one thing, a French theme – you want an example? We slept at Chez la Mer on Rue Lavaud and would have dined at the world-renowned restaurant C’est la Vie, were it open during the winter.

These things said, I didn’t consider Akaroa’s French connection genuine. Instead I saw it as a romanticized image of idyllic European life that made the town no less British at heart – just more colorful, relaxed, and food-oriented. Each of these components contributed mightily to my appreciation for Akaroa, but that last one holds a particularly special place in my heart. On Monday we ate dinner at Bully Hayes – the locals told us it was nothing special, but my stomach and taste buds firmly disagreed. The fresh mussels in herbed tomato chili were phenomenal, and both Eddie and Gabe demolished their succulent-looking salmon fillets in a matter of seconds. We capped the evening off by sharing a mouthwatering slice of dark chocolate cheesecake with fresh kiwifruit, mandarins, and blackberries. The next night we headed to L’Hotel for gourmet pizzas so good that we couldn’t bear to finish them that night. We would have gotten dessert there too, had we not already purchased the makings of chocolate chip cookies. What can I say? Akaroa seems to inspire this sort of thing.

I didn’t want to leave Akaroa, but by Wednesday morning I think we could all feel Ithaca calling to us. It was simply time for this odyssey to reach its conclusion. Furthermore, the semester has kicked into high gear and there’s a substantial amount of work to be done. The drive back to Dunners was uneventful. I stopped and bought some RJ’s Natural Licorice at a petrol station, and we witnessed yet another beautiful sunset as we reached the Otago coast – but all any of us really wanted was the security of our own flats and our own beds in a city we could call home. I dropped off my friends, cleaned out the white stallion that had served us so well over the last few thousand kilometers, and threw myself down into a comfortable chair at 505a Great King Street with a steaming mug of green tea.

Reassurance and the Pisa Range

Hey everybody! It’s been awhile, but I haven’t given up on you. Please rest assured that I shall continue to update you as to my whereabouts whenever I’m not busy doing other stuff. You’re really that important to me.

Over the weekend before last, I celebrated the completion of several significant assignments – what’s that? You had forgotten that I’m attending school down here? Incidentally, so had I – by skipping off to Queenstown with Aaron and a motley assortment of kiwis from OUTC (the Otago University Tramping Club) for a moderately strenuous backcountry adventure. The plan laid out by Fearless Leaders Amy, Rodney, and Elke involved trekking up into the middle of nowhere alongside the Roaring Meg gorge and crossing some decidedly Lord of the Rings-style territory, then ascending into the clouds and beyond on the Cadrona Pack Track, trudging along snowy ridges and absorbing some fantastic views along with all those UV rays… ahem!

Anyway, everything went pretty much according to plan, and against all odds we got some wonderful weather. Check out the pictures Aaron has kindly supplied for my Flickr account and think happy and possibly cinematic thoughts of Rohan and Helm’s Deep.

I had hoped to provide y’all with a far more detailed account of the Pisa Range adventure, but before I could compose one I found myself venturing forth once more – this time for a weeklong odyssey from sea to Tasman Sea. This journey was of such titanic proportions that I quite honestly forget pretty much everything about the Pisa Range. Sorry. I’m planning on making it up to y’all with an extra-sweet series of entries regarding this second, larger adventure – so dry your eyes and read on, kiddies!

Where Credit is Due

I’d just like to vocalize my graditude to Zach, Ulla, and Aaron for their gorgeous photos over the last few weeks. I may receive a new camera of my own in the next few weeks, but until that time comes, continue to enjoy the pictures of New Zealand taken by these great friends of mine!

I’ve been up to quite a bit over the last week or two; hopefully soon I’ll post detailed accounts of Cadbury World, sushi consumption, and so forth. Stay tuned!

Bisztro: Jack’s First Slow Food Experience

One of the wonderful things (among many) about New Zealand is the relatively tame price of fine cuisine. I’m not sure why it’s so inexpensive; my guess would be a combination of the availability of quality ingredients and the intensely competitive business environment. Anyway, NZ$30 is still a hefty chunk of change, but that sum purchases meals here that would cost US$70 anywhere else.

Realizing this, I’ve worked some fancy dining into my budget for the year. My first stop: a secluded little place called Bisztro that came highly recommended by Adrienne (and she knows fine dining – she’s an acknowledged foodie who used to live in Paris). Today was Ulla’s birthday, so armed with cash and a suitable occasion, off we went!

Now I’d just like to reiterate – when I say “fine dining,” I refer to the sort of restarant I never thought I’d feel comfortable going to. Bisztro was intimate and lavishly decorated, and when we arrived nobody else was there. The menus were supposedly in English, but pretty much every other word was French. When the food arrived, every dish looked like an arteest had labored over it to the exclusion of all else for quite awhile – though in fact, our orders were filled only an hour after we placed them.

Such is the nature of slow food. It’s supposed to be slow. With that bit of rocket science explained, I’m pleased to report that the experience was well worth it. Those itty-bitty portions that look like a clever way to trick rich people into starving are much more filling than they appear, and if you consume the food as sluggishly as they make it, every savory bite goes through a profound metamorphosis of texture and flavor. I spent almost an hour consuming a piece of lemon sole (I think) wrapped into the shape (and size) of a small apple and stuffed with mussels, some kind of caviar (I think), and almost microscopic potatoes. Best hour spent ever. Well, maybe not quite the best, but getting there.

My one disappointment with Bisztro was the selection of drinks. As a pretentious cocktail hobbyist, I believe that beverages hold intrigue and magic of their own. Good food properly paired with a well-crafted drink can take a phenomenal meal to the level of sublime, and appreciating new sensory experiences is something I believe far too many of us lose as we grow up. I know I’m only twenty – but it’s still remarkable how quickly everything become mundane, isn’t it? One of the only things that keeps me chipper and sane sometimes is forcing myself to walk home a new way or consider some new aspect of a particular rock outside the flat.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Listen to this guy – he calls himself sane and extols the virtues of staring at rocks in the same sentence.” In response I present the following impassioned defense: shut up.

Anyway, I figured that since I love mixology and I’m legally of age in New Zealand and I’m about to have my first slow food experience, I should consider ordering an aperitif. I wanted something novel, something that would tantalize and intrigue my tastebuds. Unfortunately, Bisztro couldn’t deliver. Their bar simply wasn’t stocked by anyone who knew anything about cocktails. They had several products with famous names, but very few were compatible with any of the others, and though I racked my brains I couldn’t think of a drink I wanted that Bisztro could make. And they were using sour mix! It’s fascinating to me that restaurants determined to present patrons with food containing only the finest and freshest local ingredients don’t think twice about serving their beverages with citric acid and high-fructose corn syrup.

Needless to say, I didn’t end up getting an El Floridita or Americano. I chose the beverage of champions and stuck with water which, incidentally, complements any meal whatsoever with aplomb.

Nighttime Adventures

Sorry about the recent lack of updates; I’ve been working and catching the flu and stuff. Luckily, these fun activites have been tempered with adventure – most of which has been related to visiting pubs on Thursdays.

Every Thursday night, about twenty American and Scandinavian students gather at the north end of George Street and make our merry way to the Robert Burns Pub, a charming Scottish establishment where septuagenarians gather to hear other septuagenarians play rousing jazz standards. The relative lack of rowdy students makes this the perfect opportunity for us to socialize and catch up with friends we haven’t seen over the course of the previous week. Anyway, the Thursday before last I had just struck up a spirited conversation with two charming gentlemen named Gabe (North Carolina) and Xander (Colorado) when we were suddenly interrupted by a grizzled and very tanked regular to our immediate left.

“If you coul’ drink anyfing roight now, whadjou drink, friends? For th’ next ten minutes, ev’ryfing you drink is on me!”

Drouin may have been a drunkard, but he was also remarkably insistent. After declining politely several times we finally consented to a round of Scotch and some of the craziest conversation I’ve ever been privy to. Over time it became clear that when Drouin wasn’t downing beers and foaming at the mouth with excitement, he loved to hunt and fish and thought New Zealand was the greatest nation on earth. “Feckyeh!” he’d exclaim heartily. “New Zealand born’n raised!”

However, although Drouin was clearly a happy and harmless soul, he was still an eccentric drunkard; he made the three of us just a bit uncomfortable. So despite our new friend’s insistence and my adoration for Glenlivet on the rocks, after that first round we somehow managed to politely extricate ourselves from Drouin’s chemically enhanced generosity and exited the bar.

Our encounter with Drouin turned out to be just one of many strange occurrences that night, but everything else was far too “you had to be there” for me to effectively recount.

Flash forward a week and it’s yesterday. We’re back at the Robert Burns and Xander is telling some friends about our encounter with Drouin (who is also on the premises – he’s laughing and flecking and foaming with another guy across the room from our little group). Unfortunately, Xander’s narrative gives these rather unscrupulous friends a bright idea and they head off engage with Drouin hoping to score free drinks. This sort of behavior really made us sad; we could tell that Drouin enjoyed these kids’ attention tremendously, but he also ended up spending well over a hundred dollars on them – a hundred dollars that I somehow doubt he really had.

The whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth, so Gabe and I decided to leave and explore the nightlife elsewhere. We brought along our friends KC (Hanover) and Laura (London) and headed for The Octagon (a large downtown square with an extremely high concentration of classy restaurants and bars). We eventually found ourselves burning up the dance floor to live covers of Stevie Wonder and Billy Joel at the Lemon Room. The crowd of (mostly) New Zealanders was intrigued; the majority had never even heard of swing dancing, and a few people actually pointed and took pictures when I started doing the continuous pretzel with KC. I’m not even that good – Gabe is a much better lead than I.

When the band took a break we moved on the the Craic, which advertised itself as an Irish tavern but turned out to simply be a pleasantly weathered and homey pub with a toasty fireplace. But then, after sitting down and chatting for a moment, we met Richard, Scotty, and Blair.

Blair appeared first – or rather, Blair’s foot appeared first. With a great loud thunk it came down on our table, followed closely by a hairy arm and a woozily leering face. “Sorry,” Blair said. “I got tight hamstrings. Gotta stretch ‘em out.” Then he tried to take his foot off the table and crashed to the ground, spilling beer all over himself and hitting two or three surfaces on his way down. In another instant he was back, this time with two slightly less intoxicated friends, Richard and Scotty. Richard was the most articulate of the three, and we actually had a very good conversation with him about what New Zealanders thought of the Americans in their midst and our respective travel plans. This was punctuated, however, by frequent outbursts of fighting, rousing song, and licking (you read that right) between Blair and Scotty. Richard began to teach us a common New Zealand pub game while Scotty attempted to don a Super Mario mask he had produced from somewhere and Blair leapt across tabletops and ineptly flirted with women hanging onto the arms of their annoyed but amused boyfriends. Eventually Blair grew bored, joined our drinking game, and prompty lost. Without a word he stood, dropped his pants, ripped off his shirt, chugged a pint of beer, and tipped over backwards. I’m not sure anyone in attendance had ever laughed harder.

That said, we prompty cut Blair off, and our little group decided to say our goodbyes to Richard and Scotty; they were eyeing KC and Laura with just a little too much hunger, and Blair was plainly just out of control. At that point we decided to call it a night and headed home, observing several more “you had to be there” situations along the way.

Most drunk people annoy me in the United States. I’m not yet sure why they’re so interesting here.

Driving on the Left Side of the Road

It’s really not that hard. I thought it would be absolutely horrible, but because the wheel is on the right side of the car it’s quite intuitive. The driver remains closest to the center of the road, just like in America. I only freaked out once, and that was because of a weird roundabout at the end of a one-way street or something.

I clearly functioned well; now you’re probably wondering how the car held up. I’m pleased to say that despite a smidge of trouble getting out of the starting gate (see my post on Christchurch) the automobile is now an absolute stallion. She actually runs just like my dad’s Corolla, despite being about a decade older. How does Toyota do it? The Western World may never know…

And where was I going?

Zach, Carrie, and Brian (the other partial owners of the car) are skiing in Queenstown this weekend, leaving me its sole possessor. I’ve thus decided to spend some time in solitude, exploring my immediate surroundings in greater detail. This afternoon, a great grey mass of clouds rolled in and I rolled out – to Tunnel Beach, a popular two-hour hike just southwest of Dunedin. The track begins spectacularly, heading over a ridge by the car park and straight into the presence of the awesome Pacific, stretching on endlessly until it becomes indistinguishable from the clouds. One can then tramp down a steep hill to a series of mudstone formations forming cliffs a hundred feet above the crashing waves. The track’s namesake, though, is a narrow tunnel bored deep into the rock; at low tide it widens into the sole entrance to a beautiful, secluded cove.

After this stop, I drove back a few kilometers to the east for a third trip to the Peninsula. I reached the World War Memorial – a small tower atop a four hundred meter peak overlooking the city – just as the sun kissed the top of the western mountains. I navigated home by following the glow of Dunedin’s evening lights simultaneously rising into the darkening sky and twinkling in the lapping waves of the harbor.

New Zealand’s scenery keeps on surprising me – completely new landscapes seem to come and go kilometer by kilometer. The road to Tunnel Beach winds through Dunedin’s Glasgow-inspired architecture to the shores of Portugal, then up into the hills of Vermont. The Peninsula is reminiscent of Maine on the harbour side, and Ireland where it faces the Pacific. Travelling to Christchurch is akin to repeatedly teleporting between Bavaria and Hawaii, while the Christchurch region itself could easily exist in Colorado or Nevada – aside from the fact that it’s surrounded by what appear to be the Swiss Alps. And through it all, the land somehow also retains an otherworldly quality that is distinctly New Zealand’s own. I’ve yet to figure out exactly what this characteristic is, but it’s everywhere, and it’s breathtaking.

Fun Facts Part One

Okay, this is my last post for the evening. What can I say? There’s so much to talk about – and I really don’t feel like doing my homework right now. Did you know…

- New Zealand is the only world power with the spunk to stand up to the United States on the issue of nuclear weapons. The government has actively enforced a ban on nuclear powered/armed vessels since the 1980s, when the David Lange administration turned away the USS Buchanan because the United States refused to confirm or deny its nuclear capacity. The ensuing firestorm of debate ended at the Oxford Union in 1985, where David Lange bruised his opponent Jerry Falwell and the official position of the United States with the following speech:

David Lange at the Oxford Union 1985

- Buying New Zealand agricultural goods in the United States is usually more energy-efficient than purchasing comparable domestically produced goods, despite the massive distance New Zealand products must be transported. Much of this efficiency can be attributed to the South Island of New Zealand running almost exclusively on renewable energy and the country’s rigorous commitment to increase their environmental edge at every possible opportunity. New Zealand was named the most environmentally healthy country by Yale Univerity’s Environmental Performance Index in 2006; it defeated even the Scandinavian countries despite a comparative lack of financial resources (New Zealand’s GDP per capita hovers around $26,000; Norway’s exceeds $46,000).

- The human population of New Zealand is approximately 4 million. The ovine (that means sheep) population is ten multiples of this figure.

- That tongue-protruding eye-bugging face that Maori warriors and rugby captains always eem to make serves two purposes. In combat it simply intimidates and distracts the enemy. However, it also serves a key role in powhiri – a ritualized ceremony of extending hospitality to foreigners. The beginning of this elaborate rite consists of exceptionally impressive Maori warriors threatening their guests with spears while waggling their tongues and chanting, then laying gifts directly at their feet. This allows the Maori hosts to exhibit the strength and security they offer while simultaneously presenting guests with the opportunity to demonstrate their mana, a form of supernatural energy that bestows physical and spiritual strength, fortitude, and bravery. Should the guest exhibit the guts to bend before this massive show of force and accept these gifts – rather than run screaming in abject terror – the warriors abandon their threatening demeanor and take their place among the most generous hosts among the cultures of the world. What about those foreigners who choose to make a break for it? In days of yore, they would have probably ended up on the dinner menu, actually.

Le Tamarillo

What on earth is this slightly squishy reddish-orange ellipsoid? Is it really edible? Initial field reports issued an unequivocal negative.

After deriving great mirth from the expression on my face, our resident expert Adrienne informed me that the tamarillo’s skin is absolutely vile and the fruit itself isn’t fit for human consumption until poached in something sweet.

Thanks for that, you saucy minx.

Jack is Distracting Himself

I apologize for not telling y’all sooner. From this point forward, photo updates will be few and far between because my camera has been stolen. Yes, you heard me. Alright – so I left it on a bus. But we were the last passengers to egress, our stop was the last one of the evening, and I phoned less than ten minutes later looking for it. The driver said it wasn’t there.

It was a nice camera.

I’m actually quite impressed with myself for managing to remain composed throughout the whole ordeal. As I’ve told my parents, at least I lost the camera in a place worth photographing. ‘Twould have been far worse to leave it or myself at home and miss that which this country has to offer.

Speaking of New Zealand’s natural bounty, a motley assortment of international students took a bus from Dunedin across the Otago Peninsula yesterday. This was my second experience with the Peninsula; the first time, I almost cried at its desolate beauty. On this occasion my friends and I maintained our composure but couldn’t contain an occasional gasp as we drove past sheer cliffs dropping down to beautiful baby-blue waves; groups of seals playing on rocky beaches; a pair of dramatic rainbows standing parallel to one another along sandy shores pounded by sudden squalls and little whitecaps. The Otago Peninsula protects Dunedin by bearing the brunt of the ocean’s wrath. This wildness only adds to the location’s primeval allure.

That little taste of adventure got me itchin’ for something bolder, so I’ve stitched together a rough itinerary for one of my South Island grand tours at the end of the semester. If all goes according to plan I’ll spend twenty days traveling up the coast with stops for tramping, kayaking, gourmet vineyard tours, waterskiing, jetboating, wildlife tours, dolphin swimming and hang gliding! Here’s the best part: all of this stuff plus accomodations, food, and petrol will cost approximately NZ$1500. That’s my new goal – to reach November 10 with slightly more than one-point-five grand remaining. I’ve done the math and determined that it’s possible; I may actually have a bit to spare. Should this be the case, I think I’ll blow it all on postcards for y’all. I might even keep some for myself. It’s not like I can take my own pictures anymore.

Sigh.

Friday the Thirteenth and Rugby in Christchurch

Everyone always says that nothing actually happens on this day. Let it be said no more. This past Friday I bought a car with my friends Zach, Brian, and Cari. Twenty minutes and a rugby ticket purchase later it broke.

Disbelief rapidly became depression. On the eve of our greatest triumph – a massive adventure to explore the city of Christchurch and see the All Blacks destroy the Springboks – our transportation evaporated in the blink of an eye and we were (collectively) down NZ$1500. We spent most of the evening sitting in silence. I started binge eating toast with hazelnut spread and went to bed at three.

The moment the date changed, however, so did our luck. On Saturday morning we brought the car to a mechanic and decided to tempt fate and shell out a bit more trying to get to Christchurch. We put ourselves on the waiting list for pretty much every coach bus and hostel waiting list in the city. Around noon we got calls from the mechanic, bus company, and New Excelsior hostel in quick succession. Long story short, the car is getting fixed for cheap and we sprinted twenty blocks from the bus stop to Jade Stadium just in time for the…

Haka!

New Zealand was just awarded the right to host the Rugby World Cup in 2011. I think the organizers were simply terrified of them. Most other teams are; the All Blacks are often considered the best squad in the world. And they do the Haka.

I quite enjoyed the rugby match – it’s absolutely brutal (think American football played at the speed of basketball without pads or helmets) and I would never play, but observing it was phenomenal. Needless to say, the All Blacks gave the South African Springboks a sound thrashing and took the Freedom Cup. But the fans seemed to downplay of their team’s performance as lackluster; they’re hungry for the World Cup title and apparently won’t even settle for Saturday night’s 33-6 score against the formidable South Africans.

After the game we went out on the town… or not. Actually, we made it about two blocks from our hostel before the desperation and debauchery on every street corner sent us scurrying for cover. Christchurch had a vibe similar to that of Auckland – the whole place was crawling with utterly obliterated young girls in designer clothes and too much makeup being (rather willingly) harassed by equally drunk forty five year-old men. Not cool or fun. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that various sexually transmitted diseases breed in Christchurch puddles. It really makes me appreciate Dunedin and Middlebury, which actually feel somewhat… I don’t know, as if the rules of law and morality have some semblance of meaning.

But even the cesspool that is the Christchurch nightlife can’t shake the New Zealandness of the place. On Sunday morning we began exploring just outside the city and took a gondola ride to a ridge overlooking Lyttleton Harbor on the Banks Peninsula – a dramatic landform comprised of the slopes and craters of two ancient volcanoes. Gorgeous, as always. We tramped for hours and even climbed some sheer rock faces, taking plenty of pictures with Zach’s camera. Have a look at Flickr to see some of the better ones!

Anyhow, I’ve rambled for long enough. The point is that we managed to turn an extremely depressing scenario around – primarily because every day must end, even Friday the thirteenth.