Traveling Dina - Explore. Dream. Discover.

The rest of the day was almost comically typical.  I had a SuperShuttle pick me up at the Fraureishaus so I didn’t have to woalk with my backpack back to the Square.  The shuttle was actually early.  Whoa.

It took me a while to find the proper counter in the airport, and then waited ona short but painfully slow line to check in.  Air New Zealand only allows 17K (I think) for carry-on luggage, so I had to do some creative rearranging, including putting on all of my sweaters in order for my bag to ‘make weight.’  I’ve had my checked luggage lost (and luckily found, although once after my trip had ended) three times now, so now I *HATE* checking luggage.  I’m willing to do anything — ANYTHING! — not to.  (OK, almost anything…)

When we landed in Auckland, I noticed that the boarding time printed on my onward ticket to SF was… NOW.  Reaction?  “Oh, Shit!” The guy sitting next to me was also catching the same flight, and luckily he helped me navigate the small but sprawling airport to the next terminal — he’d done the walk several times before, but I doubt I would’ve found it without him, as we were supposed to “follow the blue line” which faded, disappeared, and reappeared at various intervals.

By the time I had to go through security (again!) I was nervous, rushed, and sweaty.  Finally, I made it onto the cabin and was lucky enough to get some of the last storage space for my backpack.

As I walked towad my seat, however, I noticed two children in what appeared to be the seats next to mine, for the second “Oh, shit!” moment of the day.  The blonde mom was across the aisle, and my window seat was empty.  She stood as I approached, and I knew what was next.

As a frequent single traveler, i am asked to give up my seat ALL THE TIME so parents can sit next to their kids.  i once gave up my window seat and suffered through 6 hours in the middle so a dad could sit with his 12-year-old child (he neglected to mention her age when he asked me to switch) who clearly hated him.  Nice.

This time, we had 13 hours of flying time, I paid a HUGE amount of money for the ticket.  There was NO WAY I was giving up my window seat.  I explained this as politely as I could — I’m usually a bit of a pushover, and asserting myself in this situation was actually pretty hard.  I felt bad, and offered to ask around for someone else who might be willing to take her aisle seat and give me their window, but she insisted I not do that — “I don’t want to make any more trouble.”  OK, trouble for me, but no one else?

She commented several times on being “SHOCKED” that I wouldn’t switch, and made several comments to the kids that were clearly designed to get me to want to take the aisle seat.  “Oh, you’ll have to keep your feet out of the lady’s lap!”  “Son, will you be able to sleep with daughter in your lap?”  “Now, try to be quiet…” etc.  Why she couldn’t take the middle seat to be next to younger daughter, and have video-game-playing son take the aisle seat was a bit of a mystery to me.

Interestingly, after I put my ipod on and refused to fall for any of her BS, that is exactly what she did.  So now I had to spend 13 hours next to someone who hated me.  Great.  But, once she got over being “shocked” and accepted her middle-seat fate, she was actually quite nice.  The 7 or 8-year-old son was fine across the aisle, and the daughter cuddled next to her.  We chatted breifly before I put my headphones back on, and the bad air seemed relatively clear.  Phew!

Air NZ has comfy seats and great entertainment — hundreds of choices of TV, movies, comedy, music, etc — although the user interface is a bit klugey.  I had my first shepard’s pie ever, which was actually quite delicious (and airline food no less!)  By hour #3 or 4, thogh, I was still bored, despite the great selection of video entertainment, cheesy magazines, and music, and it was hard to sleep.   Periodically there was bad turbulance, which had me once again praying, writing goodbye notes in my journal, and trying to calmly breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…  I hate turbulance!

Finally some sleep, a good breakfast, a long wait for the small bag I’d reluctantly checked (I was SURE it was lost, but it was just one of the last pieces out), a slow ride on the SuperShuttle, and, finally, that shell-shocked feeling of being back “home.”

A fabulous trip.

It went much too quickly.

My Air New Zealand flight back to San Francisco didn’t leave till the late afternoon, so I wanted to get in at least a little bit of tourist fun in Christchurch before I left.  I stopped into a ceramics gallery (where manyof the pieces on display were also for sale.)  Nothing particularly stood out — it felt more like a shop than a gallery — until I went into the second room, which had on display the works of maybe two dozen ceramic artists, all on the theme of “Tea Service.”

This was a pretty fascinating exhibit, exploring the intersection of form and usability, with pieces on both extremes, as well as in the middle.  All of the services had a pot and cups, but the presentations were all unique — a bird-themed tea service, a classic porceline-style pot, a pot and cups made entirely of mesh. It was a great exhibit.

Next I went to the Christchurch Art Gallery (”Te Puna O Waiwhetu”), which is totally free! It’s in a gorgeous, modern, open metal and glass building.  I’m not sure how the museum is supported, but patrons are asked to leave a donation in the box on the way out — quite an anonymous way of contributing, as opposed to the “Free” museums in NYC which have a “donation” of $20 that you have to pay at the counter to get in…

I was particularly excited to see the exhibit of Maori weaving — the “Ngai Tahu” weavers — which had previously been on display in DC and, ironically, San Francisco.  There were amazing woven baskets, made from a form of New Zealand flzx and other native, natural fibers.  Several utilized synthetic dyes and other more modern materials such as wire.  There was even a woven backpack! There were baskets made of copper wire, paua shell
and feathers, of limited usefulness but fantastic works of art.  I was blown away by the complex patterns in the baskets; they were all truly gorgeous and inspriing.

There were also quite a few impressive cloaks and capes.  They were highly ornate, with a base of flax, decorated with multi-hued feathers, leaes, shells and hanging threads.  The women weavers would strip the flax themselves with knives made of shells, then prep the fiber by rolling it against their legs. The less traditional ones had colored fibers hanging vertically, in the “grass-skirt” style; they were fabulous, too.

There were also weavings by young, contemporary artists, art-school trained,using traditional techniqes and modern fibers.  One piece involved weavings around colored dowels and my heart broke with longing — I want to know how to do this!  Some of the other materials used were plexiglass, copper and feathers made into a checkerboard square; something made with fishing line and a UV panel; and a video displaying patterns.  This last one I found the least impressive — I’m simply not captivated by digital media as art the way I am by the most traditional forms.

In complete contrast to the Maori Weaving exhibit were some of the other exhibits at the gallery.  “Reboot” was a modern exhibit using found objects, dime-store trinkets and every-day items relabeled as art because of the context.  this is the stuff I don’t quite understand and feel unable to appreciate.  It seems more ‘camp” than “art” to me, things that might be more at home somewhere out on the Playa at Burning Man.  (A lamp blinking on and off, a replica of a light-switch, a bedsheet hanging on a wall, a giant inflatable bunny, a crude wooden boat painted white, for example…)

I did, however, like a few of the items in the contemporary gallery.  There was a set of crocheted pigs made with different materials (crochet!) that I liked (of course!) and a GIANT cow made entirely out of flattened corned beef tins which was quite impressive.

There was a fantastic, interactive children’s gallery, with “clues” and games to play with the art, including puzzles, a slidey board, and magnets in triangular shapes to make your own minimalist art.  The kids all definitely seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Definitely a worthwhile visit!

What’s the difference between a Latte and a Flat White? Not much, it seems.

According to Wikipedia, “A Flat White is a coffee beverage served in Australia and New Zealand, prepared with espresso and milk. The drink is generally made with 1/3 espresso and 2/3 steamed milk, very similar to the ingredients in a latte. The milk is prepared differently, with the volumised milk at the top folded into the lower layers. The resulting drink has only a very thin layer of froth at the top.”

“A latte is prepared since the early 1980s with approximately one third espresso and two-thirds steamed milk, with a layer of foamed milk approximately one quarter inch thick on the top. The drink is very similar to a cappuccino; the difference being that a spoon is used to separate the layers of foam and steamed milk in a latte, while the milk in a cappuccino is free-poured (lattes also typically have a far lower amount of foam).

“A latte can be differentiated between a cappuccino and a flat white by the proportion of milk to froth. A latte is recognised as having about one-third espresso, with steamed milk added, and holding about one centimetre of froth exhibiting latte art. A cappuccino is one third espresso, with one-third steamed milk added, and holding about one-third froth. A flat white is a serving fill of about one-third espresso, with steamed milk then added, and holding no froth.”

Thank you, Wikipedia!

I arrived back at Cathedral Square and headed off to the Frauenreishouse, or “Women Travelers Hostel”. It was only a ‘Seven Minute Walk From Cathedral Square!’ but with my backpack on and not quite knowing where I was going, it felt much longer, trudging through the unfamiliar streets.

I settled into my room and chatted for a while with the English girl who was hanging out there. Flatteringly, she thought I was about her age — 24 — and said that, even though she’d had a blast on the backpacker buses, she felt a bit old and understood how it wasn’t for everyone. She was taking a few days in CC to decompress and just not do anything (read: drink) before heading to Australia on the next leg of her trip.

I’d read about a new show being put on, and readied myself to go. I couldn’t convince my new roommate to come to the theater with me, so I headed off solo. I’d called the box office from Akaroa, and they said there’d be tickets available but to be sure to come on time as there was no seating after curtain.

The show was called “Bombshells”, a one-woman play that had just opened for its month-long run in CC. It had the “uniting theme of ‘women on the edge’”, about “…the madness which precipitates, inhabits or folows the point at which a woman’s private and public selves intersect.” Sounded pretty interesting!

The theater itself was in an arts coplex that I think was once part of a University. the antetheater ws small, with the box office, a candy window, and a bar with surprisingly reasonably priced beer, wine, and cocktails, (although only 3 tables and no other good congregation places.) Turns out, patrons can bring their drinks into the theater as long as they’re in the original bottles or plastic cups (as opposed to glass.) I quite fancied this idea, and thought it might make a nice addition to the American theatergoing experience, but then decided that American patrons are probably too rude and messy to make it a viable practice.

The other interesting thing was that the programs were on offer for a “gold coin donation,” meaning a $1 or $2 coin. I dropped my coin in the box and bought a program, which was pretty much a mimeographed trifold without a huge amount of information, but without advertisement, either. Very different from the Broadway-style “Playbill,” that’s for sure!

I was also lucky enough to have a front-row seat, and a great view of the stage, which was level with the first row, and tiny. The set, however, was gorgeous. There were 6 vibrantly hued panels of velour hung at varying heights from wrought iron, wooden, and other triangular-shaped rods as the backdrop for the forestage, which had 5 exquisitely crafted dress forms, 3 of them especially stunning in their artistry, combining form, function and beauty.

The most beautiful had symmetrical v-shapingon the shoulders and a shirring effect created by wrapping wire around and around from bust to hip; it was absolutely stunning. The long-torso dress form was made of copper, and another smaller one had thick coils forming spirals and leaves, a scarf thrown over one shoulder for effect.

The show itself was quite entertaining, and I thought the actress, a New Zealander named Ali Harper, was excellent. Normally, I don’t like “1-person” shows, but she portrayed all the characters as distinct and unique. (The only complaint I had was that I found it hard to understand her accent when she portrayed children, which was in a bit of a whiny, grating voice.)

The characters included a washed-up singer, a bride on her wedding day, a pre-teen in a talent show. I especially liked the portrayal of a post-middle-aged widow who’d had an unlikely romantic encounter with the (much younger) blind student she read to; the story was told interspersed with the character giving a talk about cacti at a meeting of the “Succulants Club”. It was really a great bit, and well done.

I also enjoyed her portrayal of a totally frazzled “stay-at-home” mom of three kids. the combination of watching her perform the actions of her day-to-day routinge — feed the baby, feed the kids, feed the dad, take kids to school, get the cleaning, go to soccer, do the laundry, get more food, etc. — juxtaposed with her iner monoogue and frenzied narration of her own life — “Still need coffee! What will the teacher think of me!? I’m a horrible mother! Must get coffee!” — was excellent. Being a mom of 3 kids seems like a daunting job indeed!

I enjoyed the show and the experience of going out to the theater, had a nice walk home, and got ready for my last night and day in New Zealand.

Although I’d already had breakfast and gone to the sea to spy dolphins, the day was still quite early. Even so, I’d missed the first shuttlebus back to Christchurch, and the next one wasn’t for several hours. So, I considered my options: Go back to the ocean and try to swim with the dolphins again, perhaps having better luck this time? Hang around town? Take a long hike? A short hike? Waste all afternoon on the Internet?

I decided on a nice, country lane hike in the sunshine. It was a delightful amble up a paved road, with blooming flower gardens and fragrant hedges lining every front yard. Except for the paved road and small, sided houses, the gardens reminded me of a platonic ideal of eden, the white-petaled hedges alive with snowy butterflies and tiny buzzing bees.

More amazing was slightly up the road, where a stand of tall, juniper-like trees stood, their dark branches overhanging the pavement. The trees were simply teeming with tiny little grey-headed, yellow-breasted birds, merrily snacking on the trees’ little blue berries. The birds would eat the berries in one happy gulp, preceeded with a joyous peep. In between berry-eating, the birds would sing: it was almost a charicature of birdsong, with twitters, peeps, flutters, chirps and melodies ringing out from the trees. The chorus made it seem like there were many more birds than I could actually see, hiding up in the crown among the green. I stood, entranced, for a good while, just watching them flit about, chatter, and eat.

Now, there was a time when I was really into birding — not “birdwatching”, thank you very much! — and I took a lot of pleasure in spending a few hours of my day with my binoculars, and Audebon book, and a notebook, heading down to the seashore or a meadow trail to locate and identify birds new to me. (Truth be told, I once spent a glasses-less half hour on a trail in Maine trying to indentify what type of raptor– think eagle, hawk, other taloned bird of prey — a large rock was. Oops.)

As I continued up the trail, I heard a strange flapping “whoot-whoot-whoot” of a large bird, and that birding instinct kicked back in. I took my binoculars and hunted around for the elusive creature, who I found “hiding in plain sight”, as it were, on a branch among the trees.

It was a New Zealand pigeon, easily identifiable because I had seen several of them in captivity at the various “Kiwi Houses” and such that I had visited. With its relatively large size, colorful green head, and dove-like demeanor, he was pretty much unmistakeable. A gorgeous, colorful, placid-looking bird, it was so much more impressive in the wild. I spent quite some time just watching it chill out on its perch, high above on a thin branch in the middle of the roadside thicket. It seemed odd to me that a bird of such size and markings would live so close to houses and people.

There were some more amazing — and amazingly simple — treats on my stroll, a simple stroll pretty much anyone could do, a sunny, gradual incline of low impact if taken at a slow pace. But it felt as if I was viewing the spectacular — things that, if I actually lived on the street, I would mistake for ordinary.

For example, a tree. A huge tree, atually. I backed against it, and estimated: it was a tree 15 Dinas wide, almost as if 15 trees grew and molded together to form an enormous trunk. This was one. big. tree. I could barely get it into one frame of the camera!

And then there were the cows. Shy, funny-looking black cows with white faces (and one all-brown one), they reminded me of gigantic tuxedo cats. As I approached the fence that lined the road, all of the cows, in one movement, started, then heaved their enormous bodies up and out of the muck they were sitting in or from their restful positions, clambored halfway up a small hill, and turned around to stare at me. They looked gentle and a little bit confused as to why they were up there on the hill. I hung out and watched them for a while, too.

There were other simple pleasures of the hike along with the birdsong and flowers and cows. I especially enjoyed spying a large, manicured garden hidden behind a hedgerow and fence. It reminded me of the kind of garden my father would love, with small lemon and apple trees, wooden benches and stone paths lined with lavendar and ornamental grasses. A peaceful oasis in an already peaceful town.

~~~

I took the 3:00 bus back to Christchurch, and this time, instead of a straight route, the bus driver stopped off at a few places to take picures of the scenic peninsula. He also made a quick stopover at a cheese factory, where I bought a particularly yummy New Zealand cheese called “Egmont”. I spent the ride listening to my Ipod and taking the wool yarn I had bought, unraveling the skein, and winding it into a ball — a rather time-consuming process when it comes down to it, but a decent way to spend a pleasant drive.

The majority of Day 18 was spent waiting for airplanes and buses, with a smaller amount of time spent in transit, as well as scratching the backs of my hands. Those sandfly bites, which had innocuous beginnings as pinpricks of pink and red on my skin, had erupted into full-fledged itchy welts. The folk wisdom goes that if you start scratching one of the bites, they will ALL start to itch, no matter where they’re located. Unfortunately, this bit of urban legend appears to be true.

And so after a rather strangely unemotional hug farewell to Greg at the Queenstown airport, I sat and waited quite a while for my 45 minute flight to Christchurch. One of the great things about NZ is that it’s actually quite easy and economical to fly from city to city. I’d bought my ticket the evening before for $69 NZ. An 8-hour bus journey would’ve cost at least $50, and wasted an entire day, so a flight seemed the way to go.

The airport was clean and quaint, with a very small number of gates. The 45 minute flight was smooth and the plane surprisingly large for such a short trip — I’m used to the mega air-sickness-inducing 16-person turboprops which go from Ithaca, NY to Philadelphia. This was a hundred-plus person jet; I was very happy.

The flight was uneventful, and unfortunately it was foggy (again) so I didn’t get to see any amazing scenery. Oh well! I arrived in Christchurch, whichhad quite a bit more commotion than Queenstown. I waited for a shuttlebus, which took me downtown to “Cathedral Square”, also known as “City Square,” a very pleasant little area with shops, restaurants, and, yes, a lovely cathedral. There was a small artisans market where I bought Maori pendants made of bone and paua shell for my friends, and looked at carvings and other crafts to pass the time. The vendors were friendly and chatty, as well, and there were some horrid street performers playing guitars, spinning hula-hoops, and putting on fairly unintelligible comedy acts.

Eventually, my shuttle to Akaroa, a seaside village out on the peninsula, arrived, and I boarded, put on my iPod, and enjjoyed the rlaxing 2 or so hour journey, filled with lovely rolling hills, ocean views and generally delightful scenery.

Akaroa itself was a very quaint, tiny ocean village. It was originally settled by the French, and a few indications of the French present still remain, with a European feel to the town’s layout and street names still labeled as “Rue,” hostels named “Chez le Mer,” and other French-like touches.

I enjoyed a pleasant walk along the bay down to the dock where my “Swim With the Dolphins” tour would be leavin gfrom the next day. The salty air, calm tide and squawking gulls, along with an absence of traffic and generally tranquil vibe reminded me a bit of a small, foreign Montauk, the seaside town out on the tip of Long Island I’d visit with my family every summer growing up.

I bought a container of marinated green-lipped mussells (one of the top NZ things I miss!!!) and sat at a seaside picnic table, eating them straight out of the container with my fingers and watching the waves. I followed that up wiht some seafood chowder on a restaurant patio, where I could watch the world go quietly by: middle aged couples strolling hand-in-hand, a grey-haired man feeding bread to the seagullys, sleek and shiny cats wandering down the streets.

I particuarly enjoyed watching those local kitties — Akaroa was the firrst place I’d really seen any cats at all, and there seemed to be quite a few well-cared for and happy-looking cats hanging out on the quay. They sat for hours, perched at the edge, staring at the seagulls and ducks bobbing in the water, waiting for their chance. I was able to pet a smart-looking cat with a nipped ear briefly, but clearly he was more interested in the avian life than in getting my love. Of course, the focus of my affection was towards a handsome black & white one who I would’ve taken home iwth me could I fit him in my suitcase.

~~~

Although my hostel, the Chez le Mer, was run by a friendly New Yorker and had a garden and a chill vibe, I have to say, it was the most uncomfortable bed I have EVER slept on. I usually prefer the top bunk, but this night it was a most unfortunate choice (and the only option.) The mattress was resting on the typical slats of wood that make up a top bunk, but the mattress was so thin that not only could I feel the wood beneath me but my body sank into the air between the slats. It felt like my shoulder, butt and feet were hanging lower than my middle and thighs. It was horribly uncomfortable, made worse by the fact that every time the girl below me moved — which seemed to be about every 45 seconds — the whole bunk shook, and my rest was instantly disrupted. Halfway through the night I turned around and slept with my head at the foot of the bed. This was only a marginal improvement. When the girl below me had a coughing fit and position-rearranging party at 5 am, I gave up, got up, and packed up for the day.

So, after deciding I definitely did NOT want to experience the Skipper’s Road again, it was river rafting for me. I told my guide I was deathly afraid of falling in, and that I’d had some bad luck doing mellower rapids in northern California (but that had been with a friend and no guide…) He put me in a seat in front of him, “So I can catch you.” (Not that reassuring.) It was also the second rear-most seat aside from his, and supposedly the “safest” spot if one is trying to avoid ejection.

The beginning of the trip was just a gentle float down the beautiful Shotover river, which had been a great source of gold in the past. Evidence of the mining days was everywhere — big rusted pipes, twisted pieces of metal and huge things that looked like turbines and other random remnants of machinery decorated the banks here and there. We were told that under no circumstances should we stand up in the water, due to the unknown amount of wrecked mining littering the riverbed. I did not find this encouraging. But the calm water at the beginning of the trip was relaxing, so I didn’t worry too much.

Throughout the previous days of our journey, Greg had been complaining about sandflies — tiny little beasts who live in sand, but bite people everywhere, not just on the feet and ankles or other body-parts that might come in contact with sand. The welts are large and itchy, similiar to mosquito bites, but luckily, thanks to Greg attracting all of their attention, I hadn’t gotten any bites yet. My luck, however, was about to change.

Even though the 6 of us rafters (and one guide, who probably was clued in enough to use some “OFF” before the trip) were essentially covered from toe to wrist to head in neoprene and sexy bright yellow helmets, the crafy little insects had no trouble at all finding our hands and faces, pretty much the only naked flesh available. Rather than paddling through life-threatening whitewater, we were slapping the backs of our hands and our neighbors’ necks, shouting “I got the little mofo!” with triumph.

Luckily, while the pinch of the bite was unpleasant, the sandflies seemed to just leave a bunch of little red marks on my hands that didn’t really itch. (Yet.)

So aside from the discomforts of the nasty neoprene suit and the onslaught of pesky sandflies, the first half of the rafting experience was quite enjoyable — we were cruising at a nice clip down the gently but somewhat swiftly flowing river, surrounded by amazing, humbling scenery. The majority of the riverbanks weren’t “banks” at all but just hillsides and mountains that the river had carved through. If you’ve ever taken Route 80 from New Jersey to Pennsylvania (or vice versa) through the Delaware Water Gap, perhaps you’ve noted the incline of the mountains. Geologists call this incline “uplift”, terrain where first the rock is deposited in layers, then mountain-building forces push the layers up at steep angles. The mountains lining this rever reminded me of the Gap, it was that majestic.

Part of the fun of hte gentle part of the river was having our guide — another partially bearded, slightly scrawny and youthful looking kiwi — command us like a professional rafting outfit, barking stroking orders like a coxswain. “Forwards! Backwards! Forwards, left! Hold on, get down!” We practiced this last one in anticipation of the heavier rapids — basically, grab on to a rope in the middle of the boat, wedge your body between the seats, and pray. (Well, the “pray” part, perhaps only applied to me.)

The rough, class IV rapids, when they came, were definitely scary, but over pretty quickly. The first ones were crazy, but we as a raft team negotiated them pretty well. Although we got totally swamped by the chilly water (and perhaps I executed the “Hold on, get down!” slightly before it was commanded), we made it through without losing any member of the raft crew.

Some of the other rafts weren’t so lucky, and we waited over to the side at the bottom of the rapid, and pulled out of the flowing water and into our raft a shell-shocked, very small woman in her late 30’s or early 40’s. Safe in the raft but soaking wet and a little blue in the lips, she had a look on her face of utter bewilderment. Periodically, she’d look down at her hands, which appeared to have a few recently-broken fingernails, and wouldn’t stop shaking. Apparently, she’d flown out of the raft, her head had gone underwater, and she’d bumped various parts of herself on rocks, rafts and other debris as the whitewater hurled her downriver. I’d gotten a little whack on the head with a paddle as they’d hauled her in for the river, but I was glad for that whack and ever so thankful it wasn’t me who’d gotten dunked. I felt really bad for her, but wasn’t sure how to offer comfort. It had clearly been a traumatic experience for her, and we still had several more rapids to clear.

Luckily, we made it through the rest of the “scary” rapids with no more ejections. At one point, our raft got stuck between a rock and a rapid, and no matter how hard we paddled, we went nowhere — but if we stopped paddling, we would flip. “Keep forwards! Don’t stop!” our wispy guide yelled over the rushing water. Finally, another team who was parked over on the riverbank threw us a rope, and we were able to pull ourselves out of the rapid and into the quiter water.

Generally, the rapids were exhilerating, and the quiet water pleasant. But, after getting soaked by the rapids, I was decidedly COLD. Plus, I was not amused by the other rafters’ and guides’ wont to play splash games. I kept getting smacked with facefulls of cold water that shocked my system and made it hard to see. Playing the pacifist role and not splashing back made no difference except making myself an easy target. I tried to hunch down and hide during the periodic moments of splashing, but I felt it kind of ruined what could’ve otherwise been a peaceful journey. Still, it was an overall positive experience, and I’m glad I had the courage to go!

~~~

For our last night together, Greg and I decided to splurge and went to a steakhouse. Greg got beef of some sort (which was very good) and I decided to try the cervena, or farmed deer — something that was not only on my list of things to do in NZ but that we’d seen today at the farm! It was amazingly delicious. Done medium rare, the meat was pink and melt-in-your-mouth, like-butter soft. It had a fillet-like flavor, but even richer, though not “strong” or “gamey” like we think venison might be like. Apparently, the fact that the deer is farmed and not wild accounts for its buttery texture and mild, delicious flavor. I can’t wait to see if I can find some at home!

After our morning farm encounters, we had a quick snack of chicken nuggets and fries (still avoiding drippy sandwiches and meat pies at all costs) and headed over to Queenstown River Rafting, or Green River Rafting, or Whatever River Rafting Headquarters (it seemed as though they were the same company, anyway.) We got on a rickety white bus with school-bus style seats towing a trailer loaded high with six or so big, 7-man yellow inflatable rafts.

We drove about ten minutes to a set of buildings that made up the changing station at the endo f the river run. We hopped out, and I got kitted up in my second Size 0 wetsuit of the trip. All changed into our 5mm thick neoprene overalls, jacket and booties, we waddled back over to the bus, hopped on, squeezed ourselves into the tiny seat, and got set for the 35 or so minute journey to the riverhead where we were to put in.

On the way, a friendly, tow-headed, young kiwi lad gave us a lighthearted rundown of the joys and risks of rafting. Just as I was thinking I might very well choose to just skip out on the dangerous-sounding rafting adventure and take the bus home, we turned onto the famous (or infamous) “Skipper’s Road”, a “class B” “highway” that is highlighted in rental car contracts as being forbidden to drive on. Apparently, heavy vehicles and trailers were also “not recommended,” but Queenstown River Rafting likes to live on the edge.

And what an edge it was! Skipper’s Road is more like a dirt and gravel path. One car-legnth wide, vehicles need to use turn-outs to allow traffic to flow or pass. At first this was fine, but as we slowly trundled up the windy lane, gathering elevation, the drop-off at the edge of the road became more and more precarious.

The views were gorgeous, but the road a bit too narrow, our vehicle a bit too unwieldy, and the drop-off a bit too extreme for me. I’d read a traveler’s tale about a woman in a horrible bus accident in rural Cambodia, and I kept replaying the details of it in my mind. despite trying to not focus on my anxiety and the apparent risk of our little Sunday drive, i kept visualizing us tumbling over the edge, my body sandwiched between hard ground, glass, metal and greg’s body. every curve, it was all I could do to keep from squealing, and I must admit that several times I turned from the window and buried my face in Greg’s neoprene-clad shoulder.

Our impish guide remarked, “Oftentimes, people who thought they weren’t so keen on the rafting decide to go for it rather than take the bus back.” After too many long moments on this precarious, winding ridge road and a way too-close-for-comfort incident with a blind curve and a jeep, I was firmly one of “those people.” Rafting it was!

Greg and I kind of wanted to spend our last day together persuing common activities, so we tried to find something we were both interested in doing. He made it pretty clear that he was done with hiking, and I wasn’t particularly interested in doing a Jeep “Safari” of Lord of the Rings (LOTR) filming locations. So, we settled on a river rafting trip, as Queenstown is kind of known for its rafting. I was even able to let Greg and the Info Center chick convince me to do the more “extreme” trip, which has about 8 class III-IV rapids instead of 2. (The higher the class #, the more “exciting” the trip, i.e. the rougher the rapids and the more likely the raft may flip or someone may get thrown out.) Yes, I’d completely lost my mind.

But three weeks of seeing all those promotional flyers with pictures of happy people bungee jumping and skydiving made me feel I needed to show at least a little spine before I left New Zealand. We concluded that the Tongoriro Crossing didn’t really count — that’s just a little weather on a volcanic ridge, right? Plus I have no proof I was actually there. so, river rafting it was.

But first, we decided to head over to the “Deer Park Heights,” a hilltop game farm that had LOTR filming sites for greg, and feeding of tame “wild” animals for me (although I think Greg loved that part just as much as I did…)

We drove the loop road, curving steadily up the hillside, passing fenced fields of cool animals like real miniature horses and giant, immobile bison. we drove on to the first “feeding station”, which was just a huge coin-operated pellet dispenser. We placed a coffee-can sized tin under the spout, inserted our $1 coin, pulled the handle and… whoosh! Tin full o’ nuts. We started feeding the few miniature horses behind a fence (”When feeding the horses please supervise children as the animals can be frisky.”) when I sensed a presence behind me.

I turned to look. Just past the road, slowly but steadily ambling up the rise were four or five absolutely magnificent animals, moving gently and taking us in with huge, round, long-lashed eyes. At first we thought they were llamas, but they were so friendly, gently, clean and soft… Aaaah, alpacas! The leader was jet black with a knowing, confident look, and it was clear he wanted some nuts.

The alpacas were all taller than me, and it was intimidating to be looking such large creatures, with thier large teeth and formidible girth, in the face. But oh! How soft they were! They didn’t really appreciate being pet, though — only fed — and they were fairly aggressive about getting their nutty pellets. I gave the can to Greg so he could relieve me of some of the attention.

I didn’t really want to leave these magnificent creatures — I was falling in love with a soft, white alpaca, who hummed when he came near me and eventually kneeled down on the ground to rest. “Alpacas are gentle, elegant, inquisitive, intelligent and observant.” Basically, they rock. But we pressed on, to see what else the farm had to offer.

Well, if we thought the alpacas were a bit iffy on the personal space issue, we hadn’t seen anything yet. I suppose I should’ve been more prepared, what with the “be sure to watch children from crowding animals” warning along with traumatic memories of childhood petting zoo experiences, but I was indeed NOT prepared for the full-on goat onslaught to come. These were goats on a mission, and they weren’t just the cute little baby goats. they were full0grown, horned, demanding, HUGE papa goats after my can of treats. I put the can on top of the car, and the goats tried to get up there and get it! It was mass goat chaos. I did enjoy seeing a hugely pregnant mama goat waddle around, and watching Greg feed the crowds was fun.

Back up the road, we fed a few llamas, and had the thrill of actually hand-feeding deer. The deer who aproached us, though, were even bigger than the alpacas, and truly intimidating. (Luckily, the deer with the 10-point antlers stayed farther away.) One deer got right up in my face as I walked backwards and aggressively went after my can of treats. I freaked out and dropped the can, and the deer had a field day. Greg ran out and rescued the remaining food, but the deer kept sticking thier whole faces in the can, crowding him and covering him in gross deer-drool. Still, it was a thrill. I can’t forget that big, black pulsing nose as the deer approached me. Crazy!

We kept being set upon by goats — “ambushing bastards”, as Greg called them — and even as we drove around to take in the amazing views there were goat speedbumps lying everywhere, looking up at us lazily, refusing to move unless we got out of the car to feed them.

We drove down to feed some loudly braying donkeys, including one who must’ve been naughy as he was all off by himself. The sound he made as he watched all his frinds get fed was truly heartbreaking. A donkey’s bray is a horrid, grating sound, but to me it’s also filled with all the sorrow in the world. It truly pierces the heart.

There was a particularly funny moment when we drove to the donkey paddock. “Do you smell something?” Greg asked. I ddin’t, and went off to feed the donkeys. When I returned, he’d discovered the source of the odor — a HUGE, wet, steaming cow patty, flattened by the first tire, and directly under Greg’s door. PRICELESS!

We started the day off slowly, with phone calls back home reassuring everyone we haven’t been eaten by confused rabid sheep, a stop-off to copy Greg’s already full 1 GB memory card onto CD, and the requisite Flat White for D.

That done, we set off to trek to the bottom of the glacier I’d walked on the day before. The distance makes a glacier seem much smaller than it really is. Only when seeing a person standing near its edge is it’s sheer massiveness understood from afar.

The walk from the viewpoint to the glacier’s edge ws closed off, but we decided to walk it anyway (along with lots of other people.) It was a plasant, mostly level walk, picking the trail out amidst flat rocks and pebbles left by the melting ice. The river was the same gorgeous slate-grey, reflective color of the rain-swollen streams we’d been seeing over the last week, fed by the rivers pouring forth from underneath the glacier itself, as well as countless towering waterfalls originating in the mountains and tumbling down to the valley below.

At one point, some DOC workers (I’d call them “Rangers” but they lacked the cool hats) came to ask all of us stupid tourists if we’d “noticed” the barrier we’d had to climb over to come onto the track. They warned us that only those with “experience” should be hiking, but it was our choice. So, we went a bit further, but thankfully were able to resist the foolish but kind of almost irresistable temptation to run up and touch the glacier. As we stood, gazing upon its majesty, the glacier came alive. We heard an echoing crack, then a roar as a huge chunk of ice seperated from the face and came crashing down.

Fox humored us two more times with masive chunks of ice shearing off its face and landing with a crumbling crash at its foot. We high fived our decision not to venture too close. The last fox thrill I had was spotting a wild green parakeet (aka “Kea”) flitting aroundi n a bush by the overlook. Not as monumental as falling ice, but cool nonetheless.

The rest of the day was spent on a beeline to Queenstown, with a few stops for quick hikes and photo opportunities along the way. Lake Matheson’s classic shot of the towering peaks of Mount Cook and Mount Akora (I think) reflected in its waters was obscured by bad weather, but the walk through a moss-covered forest was still delightful. We passed countless slightly scary and ever-longer one-lane bridges, and stopped at a salmon farm, where the salmon swam in sad circles in their little round pens, but their smoked flesh in the store was cheap and tast looking.

We enjoyed the remarkably tender and mild cold-smoked salmon at Haast beach, another Tasman Sea shoreline wild with wind and driftwood. We spied on orange-billed Oystercatchers as we ate the salmon with our fingers and gazed into the stormy sea.

We also stopped for countless waterfalls — the noisy Roaring Billy Falls, the tall and spindly Thunder Falls — and took a short hike through a forest of ferns and palms out to the polished stones of a vast and empty riverbed.

Walking out into the empty riverbed was eerie, as if something was wrong. We expected to hear the roar of rapids coming to fill up the space at any moment. I felt truly insignificant, there amont the pebbles of the naked riverbed, the gorge towering up the sides.

Then we passed through the charming town of Wanaka, where we surely would’ve passed a few evenings had we not been pressed for time. The town is on a gorgeous lake and has a friendly, laid-back feel, plus came highly recommended by a friend. But we decided to push on to Queenstown, and I spent the dwindling light in the car finishing up a New Zealand wool beanie for Greg, to show my appreciation for him spending part of his vacation with me. (And, of course, I’m obsessed with making beanies.)

After settling in at our lovely but slightly out-of-town hostel, we set out for some food, and wound up having a FANTASTIC sushi dinner. The soft-shell crab roll was flavorfull and moist, and all the nigiri sushi (big slabs of fish on rice) were thick and fresh. Then we ordered venison tataki, which is quick-seared, then ice-cooled venison (think “tartare” but seared on the edges). It was unbelievably delicious. So much flavor! I could’ve eaten it all night, but we restrained ourselves, and just enjoyed a slightly-more-than-reasonable amount of food. Yum!