After Margaret deserted me in Wellington I made my way up to Palmerston North to visit Laura who is going to Massey University. She's trying to get into the vet school which I think is the only one in New Zealand. I found this kind of incredible considering the number of animals dwarfs the number of humans by far I think the ratio of sheep to people is something like 35:1?? So anyway I took the bus up to the heart-stoppingly exciting and cosmopolitan Palmerston North. Despite the fast paced life I found there we managed to scrounge up a really good time. The first night I got there I found out I had, THANK GOD, arrived just in time to witness the inaugural Mr. Vet pageant. Apparently they were beginning a tradition and aren't you lucky I was there to chronicle it's auspicious beginning? Anyway there were two strapping young men from each year in the vet school who were elected to...display their wares in a fiercely competitive flurry of swimsuits, formal wear, lab coats and "talent". Needless to say there was a lot of questionable dress and some unquestionable undress including a kilt, sparkly underwear, a briefcase full of condoms and other... equipment, tiny bathing suits, silk shirts, gold jewelry, too much body hair, and plenty of beer. We couldn't find any chairs left when we got there so we sat in the front on the floor between the front row couches and the stage. MY GOD, poor decision making on our part. For these particular displays of 'masculinity' we were both too close for comfort and in the case of the kilt, too low for comfort and I think we got a lot more than we bargained for with our dollar entry fees. *shudder*
The next night we went to see Laura's friends' horse and got to play around our in a field for a long time and then we had an awesome barbecue with maybe the biggest, juiciest (maybe still mooing?) burgers I have had in a long time. They were incredibly delicious which I think might be helped by the fact that I have yet to see a cow that didn't have plenty of room and plenty of green grass to graze on. Not a feedlot in sight. Laura also took me to the wool building (I'm not kidding, it exists) and instead of pictures there is just award-winning wool from every year since 1955 framed and hung on the wall. Incredible. Also a lot of animal skeletons and some preserved two headed calf/calves (?) and a five legged lamb. So basically Laura's grad school has a circus freak show included. She is so lucky. Anyway it was a lot of fun and anyone who tells you that Palmy is a boring place just has not done the right things. Then again, maybe they have less weird ideas of entertainment than I, or were there for longer than three days...
After an excruciatingly long bus ride I'm back in Auckland, having gone full circle and I'll be flying out tonight at 5:55 and arriving in Denver an hour and a half later. Maybe I'll spend some time on the plane figuring out the time zone thing (ha). Maybe I'll do that corny thing where I buy two newspapers from the same day. Maybe not. Anyway, It's been great I'm sure I'll think of more things to add here but for now,
CHEERS!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
All on my ooooowwwwwnnnnnnn, all by mysellllllffffffff (tuneless singing commences)
I am sorry to inform you, there has been a loss in the family. Two losses in fact. The first, and perhaps saddest of all was Rupert. The faithful, the hardy, the stoic, the red. While still on the South Island Margaret and I made the executive decision that Rupert should not be made to suffer a ferry ride ever again and we would put him out to pasture down in Christchurch. We put up an ad and waited. Not a single reply for two whole days and we were getting nervous. Did no one want this amazing van? Was no one enticed by our glowing description on Trademe? I mean, we were...brutally honest in our description so that's probably why it took so long, but we finally heard from Kirby. Yes. Kirby. He wanted the van for his son who races carts (whatever that means). We cleared all of our crap out of the van including all 19 of Margaret's 7/8 finished diet coke bottles from behind the driver's seat, parked him in the best lighting we could find and waited for Kirby to show up and take a look. After wandering around the van and looking inside and out Kirby sort of looked pensive and asked how much we wanted. We said 1500, he said 1200. I kind of tried to make it look like I was mulling it over just because I didn't want him to know I was practically shouting "Anything! Anything at all! Do you have any cookies? A good book? Sold!" and we made the deal. I was a little sad, I'll admit. I got a bit sentimental but I like to think of Rupert parked out in a nice pasture with some shady trees and only occasionally asked to ferry around some carts with Kirby and his son, probably singing Kumbaya and whatnot. Sigh.
Our last portrait with Rupert
But we also felt an elation, a weight of a couple thousand pounds of metal, bald tires foam mattresses and plywood had been lifted from our shoulders. So we got dressed up and went and bought a bottle of champagne. It was terrible, so we went somewhere else and bought another one, much better this time. Finally just as we were about to make a terrible decision to go into a club that was called Boogie Nights (yes, the sign looked just like the movie) who should we run into but Charlie Carter and Po! So thank god we ended up avoiding the club and instead went to a park with a little creek and watched ducks fight with each other and there were some eels in the creek too and a naked guy ran by. Sorry, I tried to just slip that in there but it kind of sticks out, no? Anyway I have no explanation other than that he'd probably had even more to drink than we had so we cheered and then ignored him. Weird night but good celebration and a nice way to see Rupert off.
The next night we went to see the Crusaders play the Stormers which was a good game even if it wasn't a very high score, there were several fights and at the end as time ran out the Crusaders ended the game by booting the ball right out the sidelines. Unfortunately this incredible kick was a little low and fast and absolutely SMASHED the TV announcer directly in the face. I mean it was an incredible hit. You just look at the kicker's leg which is the size of my torso and you can imagine how fast that must have been. I've been hit in the face by kicked rugby balls and it is absolutely painful but they were kicked by college age girls. Sorry feminists everywhere, but I think we can all agree there's a degree of difference there that you would be unwilling to personally test out. After the game we were wandering around and found the Twisted Hop which is an awesome little brewery kind of tucked away in this weird alley enclave. It had amazing beers and maybe the first actually hoppy beers I'd had in NZ. A welcome respite from the bland swill they mostly serve elsewhere. While we were sitting there this guy is sitting at a different table in full tails and a white bow tie. Just wait it gets better, he has got a perfectly waxed mustache, slicked back hair, he is drinking from a little metal tankard and then he lights up a pipe! We were full of speculation as to where he hid his time machine, and he has obviously noticed us staring at him with abandon. So we begin to feel a little like we're the ones being weird (go figure). I think I was ready to just write him off as just a quirky dude but then a kid who was about our age in a raggedy tshirt and jeans had come to sit with him and they obviously knew each other so I had to know what the deal was. I went over and it turned out that 'Barney' was a concert pianist who had just finished his show and this pub was the only place he ever came to drink because they had the best beer. He came so often that they kept that metal tankard just for him. Amazing
Anyway, to move on with the story we flew to Wellington on Tuesday and stayed for a few days and this morning at 5:30 AM our family suffered another loss. Margaret has left me to my own devices in this wilderness land full of huge predators and unforgiving landscapes. YAY! No, seriously though, at 5:30 this morning Margaret leaped from the top bunk and ran out the door of the hostel to get on a plane and commence 30+ hours of travel to get home. I think she might have gotten dressed first, I don't know it was all pretty hazy that early in the morning but I'm pretty sure she whisper-yelled "BYE!!!!" at me which was nice even if the other people in the room all heaved large and pointed sighs. So now I only have a week or so before I do exactly the same thing. What, you may ask, am I going to do with my last few days here? God only knows. I might keep you posted though, what with all of my free alone time.
Our last portrait with Rupert
But we also felt an elation, a weight of a couple thousand pounds of metal, bald tires foam mattresses and plywood had been lifted from our shoulders. So we got dressed up and went and bought a bottle of champagne. It was terrible, so we went somewhere else and bought another one, much better this time. Finally just as we were about to make a terrible decision to go into a club that was called Boogie Nights (yes, the sign looked just like the movie) who should we run into but Charlie Carter and Po! So thank god we ended up avoiding the club and instead went to a park with a little creek and watched ducks fight with each other and there were some eels in the creek too and a naked guy ran by. Sorry, I tried to just slip that in there but it kind of sticks out, no? Anyway I have no explanation other than that he'd probably had even more to drink than we had so we cheered and then ignored him. Weird night but good celebration and a nice way to see Rupert off.
The next night we went to see the Crusaders play the Stormers which was a good game even if it wasn't a very high score, there were several fights and at the end as time ran out the Crusaders ended the game by booting the ball right out the sidelines. Unfortunately this incredible kick was a little low and fast and absolutely SMASHED the TV announcer directly in the face. I mean it was an incredible hit. You just look at the kicker's leg which is the size of my torso and you can imagine how fast that must have been. I've been hit in the face by kicked rugby balls and it is absolutely painful but they were kicked by college age girls. Sorry feminists everywhere, but I think we can all agree there's a degree of difference there that you would be unwilling to personally test out. After the game we were wandering around and found the Twisted Hop which is an awesome little brewery kind of tucked away in this weird alley enclave. It had amazing beers and maybe the first actually hoppy beers I'd had in NZ. A welcome respite from the bland swill they mostly serve elsewhere. While we were sitting there this guy is sitting at a different table in full tails and a white bow tie. Just wait it gets better, he has got a perfectly waxed mustache, slicked back hair, he is drinking from a little metal tankard and then he lights up a pipe! We were full of speculation as to where he hid his time machine, and he has obviously noticed us staring at him with abandon. So we begin to feel a little like we're the ones being weird (go figure). I think I was ready to just write him off as just a quirky dude but then a kid who was about our age in a raggedy tshirt and jeans had come to sit with him and they obviously knew each other so I had to know what the deal was. I went over and it turned out that 'Barney' was a concert pianist who had just finished his show and this pub was the only place he ever came to drink because they had the best beer. He came so often that they kept that metal tankard just for him. Amazing
Anyway, to move on with the story we flew to Wellington on Tuesday and stayed for a few days and this morning at 5:30 AM our family suffered another loss. Margaret has left me to my own devices in this wilderness land full of huge predators and unforgiving landscapes. YAY! No, seriously though, at 5:30 this morning Margaret leaped from the top bunk and ran out the door of the hostel to get on a plane and commence 30+ hours of travel to get home. I think she might have gotten dressed first, I don't know it was all pretty hazy that early in the morning but I'm pretty sure she whisper-yelled "BYE!!!!" at me which was nice even if the other people in the room all heaved large and pointed sighs. So now I only have a week or so before I do exactly the same thing. What, you may ask, am I going to do with my last few days here? God only knows. I might keep you posted though, what with all of my free alone time.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Full Circle
We went to the Wild Foods Festival in Hokitika which was... sort of like a county fair but with large grubs, costumes and NZ's equivalent of the Blue Angels. We saw people dressed as Waldo, the power rangers, giant grubs, ballerinas (male and they had their own travelling barre - get it?), also a lot of people in camo and I got pictures of several overpowering mullets that shone out from the crowd like beacons of follicle abuse. People were eating these huge white grubs left and right which tasted "like peanut butter" "like chicken" "I didn't taste it, I just swallowed it whole". I declined to try them but there were guys at the entrance to the festival chopping apart rotten logs to peel these fat suckers out of them and putting them in a tin for a guy with a bullhorn to try to auction off to people watching. you could also get them cooked for the 'I'm-still-willing-to-eat-a-grub-but-for-some-reason-this-makes-it-a-better-idea' people. There were also the requisite um, how do I say this... bull testicles. But apparently people who sell testicles for a living are unanimously unable to spell (shocking, I know). We saw signs for "Testicals!!" or "mountin oysters- here!!!". Clearly the only reason I didn't try these is because I am such a good speller that I really can't condone these sorts of mistakes. Otherwise who knows. We ended up getting pretty well drunk, I got proposed to and we slept in our van with drunken people walking by all night banging on it or peering in or singing etc. When we woke up we realized we had been parked and drunkenly asleep in a Church parking lot. Good times. Anyway, I really enjoyed the hell out of the wild foods festival but honestly, I think it's probably the only reason to ever go to Hokitika.
Can you guess why we slept in the van?
Go Go Power Rangers!!
The delicious Hu hu grub...
I found Waldos!
The next day we drove up the West coast because I had found this flyer that advertised a place where you could make your own knives (!!!). We pulled in to a tiny family farm on the coast and proceeded to forge our own knives from these iron bars pounding them with hammers until I seriously thought my hung-over arm would probably just drop right off in the dirt where it would be eaten by the tiny fluffy used to be white dog. After a 9-4 day we now both have beautiful wooden-handled knives that we forged, ground, shaped and sharpened all on our own. Amazing. And don't mess with me.
After that it was off to Franz Josef Glacier, one of the fastest moving glaciers in the world. It can move up to 5 meters a day in the summer and at minimum about 1.5 meters per day year round. The only reason it is still there is because of the massive amount of rainfall they get on the west coast. We hiked up part of the glacier in the half day tour which was amazing and quite enough time for me to be lugging those prehistoric looking crampons that weighed about 20 pounds each. But we got some good fashion show pictures of our really delicate and feminine glacier couture.
After that it was off to Franz Josef Glacier, one of the fastest moving glaciers in the world. It can move up to 5 meters a day in the summer and at minimum about 1.5 meters per day year round. The only reason it is still there is because of the massive amount of rainfall they get on the west coast. We hiked up part of the glacier in the half day tour which was amazing and quite enough time for me to be lugging those prehistoric looking crampons that weighed about 20 pounds each. But we got some good fashion show pictures of our really delicate and feminine glacier couture.
No crampons yet, but giant boots
Margaret in the crack we had to squeeze through
Then it was down to Queenstown for Saint Patrick's day!! Queenstown was oddly reminiscent of home because it's a ski town and it seems like almost no one actually lives there, it's only tourists and adrenaline junkies searching out one of the many bungy jumps, sky dives, river boarding whatever adventures.
Us and Elvis Costello? on St. Paddy's
Now, I had been debating whether I really wanted to bungy jump since Wellington and I had not come to a decision until I saw the one outside of Queenstown off a bridge into the gorgeous turquoise glacier fed Kawarau river. Apparently it is the "original" bungy jump but who knows, it could be about as original as the original taco house. Anyway, I decided that I wanted to do that one because it was big (43 meters) but not the biggest in which you freefall for more than 8 seconds. I figured the less time that I had to pee my pants, the better. It. Was. Amazing. bizarre feeling of total lack of thought and then complete rush. But I am pretty sure I never want to do it again.
Ok, here comes the weirdest part of the whole thing. It wasn't the dubious decision to throw myself off of a bridge into a cold river on a windy day with a glorified rubber band strapped to my ankles. No, that was the sane part. The crazy part came when I was waiting for my photos and video and who should I see walking towards the exit from the place but my old high school Algebra teacher Mrs. Stiffler! I'm not even kidding. I was still all hyped up and shaky from the jump and that about made me pass out. So I ran over and talked to her, she had been thinking about doing it and decided against it but apparently I was the jumper she watched! I can't get over how weird it is to see someone like that in the middle of nowhere NZ. I mean really, the place just looks like a dusty rest stop until you actually park and walk down and see the bridge and all the crazies throwing themselves off of it. How sad is it, actually, that a bungy jump was really amazing and all but just let me catch a glimpse of a math teacher and - god help me- my heart about stops. You're reading the confessions of a true nerd here.
Ok, here comes the weirdest part of the whole thing. It wasn't the dubious decision to throw myself off of a bridge into a cold river on a windy day with a glorified rubber band strapped to my ankles. No, that was the sane part. The crazy part came when I was waiting for my photos and video and who should I see walking towards the exit from the place but my old high school Algebra teacher Mrs. Stiffler! I'm not even kidding. I was still all hyped up and shaky from the jump and that about made me pass out. So I ran over and talked to her, she had been thinking about doing it and decided against it but apparently I was the jumper she watched! I can't get over how weird it is to see someone like that in the middle of nowhere NZ. I mean really, the place just looks like a dusty rest stop until you actually park and walk down and see the bridge and all the crazies throwing themselves off of it. How sad is it, actually, that a bungy jump was really amazing and all but just let me catch a glimpse of a math teacher and - god help me- my heart about stops. You're reading the confessions of a true nerd here.
The bridge!
Next stop: Invercargill which is, well, not much to speak of. I liked it but it was pretty much a nondescript sort of town. However, when we got down to Bluff I really really enjoyed it. This might seem weird as it is about the smallest place we've been to here besides perhaps Hick's Bay on North Island and Margarett's been fiending to see a huge mass of people somewhere anywhere. Nevertheless we both really felt comfortable there. We took our requisite pictures at the sign at the end of highway 1 and then went for a walk along the coastline where you could see Stewart Island to the South. It cleared up to become a beautiful day and we spent a really nice night there.
Now we're back up in Dunedin and we're going to go see a movie about gangsters at 11 in the morning. Should set a nice tone for the day.
Oh, P.S. I forgot to say about Milford Sound which was amazing. We did an overnight cruise and saw some seals and about a googolplex sand flies as well as another glacier and other things. pictures maybe later I'm out of internet time and coins...
Friday, March 13, 2009
Excerpts from Molly and Margarett's Big Book of Kooky Stories
Abel Tasman in a sentence: Complete and total perfect beach overload. The place is a super tourist-y destination but I can see why and it was totally worth all the people. As far as backpacking goes, this was maybe the most civilized camping excursion I've ever been on including flush toilets, a maximum of maybe 3.5 hours of hiking per day and endless perfect beaches only broken by short forays into amazing woods and over some hills that gave you perfect views of the perfect beaches. That's 4 times if you were wondering how many perfects I fit into that paragraph (5). However, that said, we managed somehow to turn this luxurious jaunt in nature into a study on blood loss and near starvation. If there were any insect borne disesases in NZ Margarett would have them all and be dead. twice. Our ridiculous natural hippy "insect repellent" worked fabulously for me but Margarett looks like a leper from the knee down. We did manage to build a camp fire all on our own that lasted all night and we saw a tiny morpork owl that chastised us for being up late at night. We left from Bark Bay and took the boat back up to Totoranui where the car was parked. On the way they showed us a little island where fur seals have their pups and they were completely unafraid of the boat and swam right up next to it and showed off for us. Apparently they cool down by sticking their flippers up out of the water and waving them around. Like elephant ears. The pups make noises like a seal throwing up.
Afterwards we went back to Nelson and I had the best shower of my life. We went out for beers later and met Drew, a Texan who just finished mechanic school in NZ and his mechanic friend Chris from Australia. Apparently we're only able to meet mechanics here. And not hot ones. Or ones with teeth. We went back to Picton to retrieve Rupert finally, but we had a day before we had to return the rental car so we went to the Flying Haggis for some beers. Margarett wanted to just sit in a nice pub that afternoon and finish her book but it wasn't meant to be. We walked in to the pub only to be almost blasted back out onto the street again by the sound of a small Jewish-looking guy belting out Love Shack on karaoke. This was just tthe beginning of maybe our weirdest 24 hrs in NZ so far. We had walked in to the middle of a cruise ship group doing karaoke which was soon joined by a bachelor party all wearing these ridiculous fake tattoo arm bands and proceeding to get ridiculously drunk.
Anyway, I am really tired of typing and the weirdest parts of the night happened later to Margarett involving James Carter's younger clone and a spider in some salad and some really really nice and adorably polite swiss boys. Now we're going to go watch people eat really weird food in Hokitika.
Afterwards we went back to Nelson and I had the best shower of my life. We went out for beers later and met Drew, a Texan who just finished mechanic school in NZ and his mechanic friend Chris from Australia. Apparently we're only able to meet mechanics here. And not hot ones. Or ones with teeth. We went back to Picton to retrieve Rupert finally, but we had a day before we had to return the rental car so we went to the Flying Haggis for some beers. Margarett wanted to just sit in a nice pub that afternoon and finish her book but it wasn't meant to be. We walked in to the pub only to be almost blasted back out onto the street again by the sound of a small Jewish-looking guy belting out Love Shack on karaoke. This was just tthe beginning of maybe our weirdest 24 hrs in NZ so far. We had walked in to the middle of a cruise ship group doing karaoke which was soon joined by a bachelor party all wearing these ridiculous fake tattoo arm bands and proceeding to get ridiculously drunk.
Anyway, I am really tired of typing and the weirdest parts of the night happened later to Margarett involving James Carter's younger clone and a spider in some salad and some really really nice and adorably polite swiss boys. Now we're going to go watch people eat really weird food in Hokitika.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Well, It's been a long time since our lat post! After Rupert's last convalescence and revival we settled in and stayed in Wellington for over a week which was wonderful. In a fit of bitterness about rupert's last tantrum we posted an ad trying to sell the cranky breadbox "van" and had three half-hearted responses. One guy wanted to know all the details about rupert including "how many kms on the clock, any problems, any rust, condition of the tyres, how economical it is with fuel, what kind of stereo eg cassette/cd, and anything else you can think of that might interest us." Well, my first response was laughing in this guys face because, honestly, if he is that concerned about the details of the van he does not want this van. We finally decided to stick with the barely-motorized wreck that is our van because in his own difficult way, he's exacted a kind of wary attachment from us. He's currently resting safely in a car park by the ferry dock in Picton while we enjoy the hell out of the extra days left of Margarett's dad's rental car which has, among other incredibly novel attributes, functional brakes and the ability to accelerate. Amazing. 
Our Cuba Street Carnival decorations
Margarett has come to terms with her fundamental non-outdoorsiness after being rescued by a thirteen year old boy after drifting a surprisingly far distance down the Wanganui river without her boat. She also lost her shoes, sunglasses, shirt, and dignity, but gained some very clean fingernails and a healthy fear of trees. I, on the other hand, had a lovely float down the river IN my kayak and had a delicious cup of coffee with an old lady who owned a lavender farm where I used the phone to summon the thirteen year old hero. We had a long conversation about Obama while I waited for Margarett to catch up.
Margarett has come to terms with her fundamental non-outdoorsiness after being rescued by a thirteen year old boy after drifting a surprisingly far distance down the Wanganui river without her boat. She also lost her shoes, sunglasses, shirt, and dignity, but gained some very clean fingernails and a healthy fear of trees. I, on the other hand, had a lovely float down the river IN my kayak and had a delicious cup of coffee with an old lady who owned a lavender farm where I used the phone to summon the thirteen year old hero. We had a long conversation about Obama while I waited for Margarett to catch up.
Rainy day kayaking
After our little jaunt down the river we went back to Wellington where Margarett's dad met us and we began our light-speed tour of the South Island in order that he saw as much as possible in 6 days. We made it all the way down to Dunedin by Tuesday seeing the Christchurch Antarctic Museum, penguin feeding, the Moraki Boulders, and the Albatross Colony along the way. I don't think we stopped anywhere for more than 30 minutes except to sleep and drink wine. Thoroughly enjoyable and we are considering this to be our preview for the trip we will now take at a crippled snail's pace.
First though, we are going to do the Abel Tasman over this weekend which is going to be absolutely amazing.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Mechanics of New Zealand
When thinking back over the last couple of weeks, the most salient mileposts aren't the spectacular beaches or cozy pubs, but the memorable mechanics of New Zealand. There was Roger, of course. You never forget your first. But you know all about him. Then there was the tow truck driver who veered out of traffic and all the way onto the sidewalk to answer his cell phone. There was the Duran Duran fan who told us all about his annual motorcycle pilgrimages to the south island on the Queen's birthday weekend. And then there was Rob.
Rob was summoned during our latest breakdown, which occurred last friday in the town of Dannevirke. Rupert lurched to a shuddering halt at about 5:05 pm, just after the rigidly enforced closing time of every garage, mechanics, and junkyard in the country. A call to AA prompted the arrival of a truck bearing the ominous words "Rob's Salvage," and a little, round, gnomelike man emerged. After a few minutes of quiet grumbling he discovered that our distributor cap was full of shards of shredded metal (!) and advised us that we were going nowhere fast. Molly caught a ride with Laura and Anni to Wellington for the start of the super 14 while I, being far less excited about rugby, remained to keep Rupert company.
Despondency set in around 7. If New Zealand had tumbleweeds, they would have been rolling down the main street of Dannevirke. I ate terrible chinese takeout in my motel room while watching a british comedy that made it look nice to be old.
As instructed, I called Rob at 9 the next morning. He hadn't had any luck finding a new distributor the day before, and I didn't have much hope that anything would have changed overnight. He told me to come over, so I drove down the freeway in third gear with my hazards on and coasted down the driveway of 14 Makiriki lane, closely watched by two lazy-looking cows. A woman answered the door.
"Oh, you're here about the van. Come in, Rob's gone to get your distributor." I felt awkward at first. It seemed apparent that she'd only recently gotten up; she wore slippers, and was making a pot of coffee. "Would you like some breakfast? Toast? How about coffee?" She poured me a cup and I asked her if Dannevirke was her hometown. "No no, we just moved into town about ten years back. We farmed out in Hawke's Bay, sheep and beef. Over four thousand head of 'em. I'm from the Coramandel myself." It felt good to be in a home again, and we chatted while I played with the cat and she ate toast. Rob appeared shortly, sneaking through the back door with a single red rose and an impish, toothless grin. His wife's back was to him and he made an elaborate shushing gesture as he reached around and presented it to her in a surprising flourish. "Happy valentine's day darling!"
So it turned out he did find a distributor, but it didn't come from just any junkyard. "High School demo model. From the auto shop. They'll give it to you for 60 bucks but only if you give them your old one so they can inspect it in class." Deal. I waited while he consumed two turkey sandwiches and most of a two-liter bottle of Coke, fortifying himself for what I feared might be a lengthy process. 45 minutes later, though, we were cruising smoothly down the road on a test drive and talking up a storm, mostly about his six children. When we got back, I mentioned in passing that my dad liked old cars, and Rob got a funny look on his face.
"Wanna see something?"
"Sure"
"Wanna bring your camera?"
"Do I need it?"
"Yeah."
We walked to the shed on the back corner of his property, and he peeled the tarp off of a 1914 Model T Ford. "My Grandad bought it new here in New Zealand. Never drove it in the rain. All original. Last thing that happened to it was a repaint in the thirties when my dad backed it into a tree. Still runs too! You gotta crank it. I'm fixing it up for my daughter's wedding. It's in a year-should give me just enough time." It was extremely beautiful. The top was this rich brown leather, the headlights like tiny hurricane lamps you had to light by hand. There was no gearshift, but three different pedals which all did strange and counterintuitive things. I cooed appreciatively and he told me how he'd been offered 200,000 US dollars for it but would never sell it. "I don't owe anybody anything. I don't need the money. It's the kind of thing you wanna hang on to."
He undercharged me and I overpayed, though the whole thing came out costing less than 50 bucks in the states. I can't wait to show the pictures to pops.
Rob was summoned during our latest breakdown, which occurred last friday in the town of Dannevirke. Rupert lurched to a shuddering halt at about 5:05 pm, just after the rigidly enforced closing time of every garage, mechanics, and junkyard in the country. A call to AA prompted the arrival of a truck bearing the ominous words "Rob's Salvage," and a little, round, gnomelike man emerged. After a few minutes of quiet grumbling he discovered that our distributor cap was full of shards of shredded metal (!) and advised us that we were going nowhere fast. Molly caught a ride with Laura and Anni to Wellington for the start of the super 14 while I, being far less excited about rugby, remained to keep Rupert company.
Despondency set in around 7. If New Zealand had tumbleweeds, they would have been rolling down the main street of Dannevirke. I ate terrible chinese takeout in my motel room while watching a british comedy that made it look nice to be old.
As instructed, I called Rob at 9 the next morning. He hadn't had any luck finding a new distributor the day before, and I didn't have much hope that anything would have changed overnight. He told me to come over, so I drove down the freeway in third gear with my hazards on and coasted down the driveway of 14 Makiriki lane, closely watched by two lazy-looking cows. A woman answered the door.
"Oh, you're here about the van. Come in, Rob's gone to get your distributor." I felt awkward at first. It seemed apparent that she'd only recently gotten up; she wore slippers, and was making a pot of coffee. "Would you like some breakfast? Toast? How about coffee?" She poured me a cup and I asked her if Dannevirke was her hometown. "No no, we just moved into town about ten years back. We farmed out in Hawke's Bay, sheep and beef. Over four thousand head of 'em. I'm from the Coramandel myself." It felt good to be in a home again, and we chatted while I played with the cat and she ate toast. Rob appeared shortly, sneaking through the back door with a single red rose and an impish, toothless grin. His wife's back was to him and he made an elaborate shushing gesture as he reached around and presented it to her in a surprising flourish. "Happy valentine's day darling!"
So it turned out he did find a distributor, but it didn't come from just any junkyard. "High School demo model. From the auto shop. They'll give it to you for 60 bucks but only if you give them your old one so they can inspect it in class." Deal. I waited while he consumed two turkey sandwiches and most of a two-liter bottle of Coke, fortifying himself for what I feared might be a lengthy process. 45 minutes later, though, we were cruising smoothly down the road on a test drive and talking up a storm, mostly about his six children. When we got back, I mentioned in passing that my dad liked old cars, and Rob got a funny look on his face.
"Wanna see something?"
"Sure"
"Wanna bring your camera?"
"Do I need it?"
"Yeah."
We walked to the shed on the back corner of his property, and he peeled the tarp off of a 1914 Model T Ford. "My Grandad bought it new here in New Zealand. Never drove it in the rain. All original. Last thing that happened to it was a repaint in the thirties when my dad backed it into a tree. Still runs too! You gotta crank it. I'm fixing it up for my daughter's wedding. It's in a year-should give me just enough time." It was extremely beautiful. The top was this rich brown leather, the headlights like tiny hurricane lamps you had to light by hand. There was no gearshift, but three different pedals which all did strange and counterintuitive things. I cooed appreciatively and he told me how he'd been offered 200,000 US dollars for it but would never sell it. "I don't owe anybody anything. I don't need the money. It's the kind of thing you wanna hang on to."
He undercharged me and I overpayed, though the whole thing came out costing less than 50 bucks in the states. I can't wait to show the pictures to pops.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Breakdown, Mt. Manganui, East Cape and Napier
We finally made it to Thames by the skin of our teeth and camped in a beautiful valley campground outside of town. They had bikes for free and we rode around on the beach and down into the town to watch the Wellington sevens tournament in a bar. The couple of days we spent there were mostly recovering from the epic van experience but nevertheless we decided to brave the drive across from Thames to the East Coast. Everything went more or less as before with the van but we had some kind of serious lapse in judgement and decided to just push through to Whakatane. We got SO CLOSE but as we were going up a hill to get on the expressway outside of Tauranga the van had a final tantrum and died. We tried to start it. We tried again. Nothing. We put on sunscreen, ate all the remaining fruit in our cooler, and called AA, New Zealand's version of the AAA but its members bear a certain resemblance to what you might think of in the American version.
The car park turns out to be a campground swarming with hordes of shrieking children a mere 5 km from the town itself. We set off down the blazing sidewalk and made it not five minutes when we were surprised by a cheerful honk. I guess Roger must live in the neighborhood, because he picked us up and took us to town, inquiring thoughtfully about the 40 minutes we had been apart.
The episode with our attentive rescuer Roger and his screwdriver technique inspired us to finally name the van. Previously we had thought about naming it Rupert, but after the breakdown we decided that Rupert was a whiny hypochondriac with serious asthma and our fixed up van needed a new name to match its new ability to actually drive us places. So we named it Roger Sparks and we have decided that Rupert is now a kind of derisive insult like "stop being rupertish" or "you're ruperting". Roger Sparks is a very flamboyant German or Eastern european van. Possibly a body builder with a strong maternal instinct.
Anyway, turns out Mt. Manganui is a little...boring. Like Santa Cruz with no hippies. Everything closes by about 7:30 (a disturbing pattern in New Zealand in general) and the only people who really talk to you are overly friendly and sunburnt men named Brett. There was a large gathering of people all watching a game which can only be described as "lie down in the sand and then run towards a stick while wearing a speedo and cap." Fortunately the car was cheap and easy to fix and we were on the road after the long weekend.
Our route took us around the East cape towards Gisbourne on a twisty mountain highway lined with pohutukawa trees and dead possums. There are no big towns on the way, just tiny, predominantly Maori villages and endless empty beaches. Margarett collected enough shells that she has to ship them home to her mother for safekeeping because we ran out of room in the van.
Now we're in Napier, we've had too much coffee and we need another glass of wine. We're going to go get Art Decoed. You figure it out.
Our Rupert-enforced rest stop outside Mt. Manganui
A brief hour later a truck pulls up and out leaps Roger in his fashionable lime-green reflector vest. He tears open our front seat and between questions about Obama and Minnesota (the only state he hasn't been to, apparently) begins to jab screwdrivers into our engine. He pokes around and periodically tells Margaret to turn the key or not turn the key while he generates a lot of sparks. In the end he calls us a tow truck and tells us not to worry because he's told the guy to tow us to a car park that is near a pub and a liquor store. We are no longer worried. It turns out we stalled out on the very last hill before we could have gone cruising down into the resort hotspot and surfing capital of New Zealand, Mt. Manganui. 
Not such a bad place to be 'trapped'
The car park turns out to be a campground swarming with hordes of shrieking children a mere 5 km from the town itself. We set off down the blazing sidewalk and made it not five minutes when we were surprised by a cheerful honk. I guess Roger must live in the neighborhood, because he picked us up and took us to town, inquiring thoughtfully about the 40 minutes we had been apart.
The episode with our attentive rescuer Roger and his screwdriver technique inspired us to finally name the van. Previously we had thought about naming it Rupert, but after the breakdown we decided that Rupert was a whiny hypochondriac with serious asthma and our fixed up van needed a new name to match its new ability to actually drive us places. So we named it Roger Sparks and we have decided that Rupert is now a kind of derisive insult like "stop being rupertish" or "you're ruperting". Roger Sparks is a very flamboyant German or Eastern european van. Possibly a body builder with a strong maternal instinct.
Anyway, turns out Mt. Manganui is a little...boring. Like Santa Cruz with no hippies. Everything closes by about 7:30 (a disturbing pattern in New Zealand in general) and the only people who really talk to you are overly friendly and sunburnt men named Brett. There was a large gathering of people all watching a game which can only be described as "lie down in the sand and then run towards a stick while wearing a speedo and cap." Fortunately the car was cheap and easy to fix and we were on the road after the long weekend.
Our route took us around the East cape towards Gisbourne on a twisty mountain highway lined with pohutukawa trees and dead possums. There are no big towns on the way, just tiny, predominantly Maori villages and endless empty beaches. Margarett collected enough shells that she has to ship them home to her mother for safekeeping because we ran out of room in the van.
Now we're in Napier, we've had too much coffee and we need another glass of wine. We're going to go get Art Decoed. You figure it out.
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