Advertisement
Published: February 22nd 2009
Edit Blog Post
A stark contrast to hot, vibrant Rotorua, I was greeted my first day in Wellington with grey clouds hanging heavily over a windy, damp metropolis. Chic cafes lined every street, calling to me like sirens with promises of silky cappucinos as I navigated my way through herds of pedestrians in muted business casual.
Windy Welly, as it is affectionately called, is the San Francisco of the Southern Hemisphere: a city on the bay with cute white victorian houses built high into the surrounding hillsides. Although it lacks the earthquakes and some of the vibrancy of America's favorite hippy town, Welly still keeps up its reputation as the art and cultural capital city. Wellingtonians will like to tell you that you can dine in a different restaurant every day for two years and still not go to them all. They are eager to point out their thriving theater scene, and direct you to the hipper than thou boutiques that line Cuba Street.
It rained for most of the two weeks I spent in Wellington, the beaches and sunburns I had grown accustomed to fading into distant memory. My plan was to
wwoof as close to the city as possible, so I
could enjoy free room and board while exploring New Zealand's capital. The first farm I tried was in a place called Whiteman's Valley just north of the city. Surrounded on all sides by modest green tufts of pasture and cultivated forestry, my temporary home happened to be within a Steiner community. The family of five lived according to Rudolf Steiner's principles, which involved biodynamic agriculture, anthroposophical medicine (a kind of homeopathy), vegetarianism, and trying to live 'off the grid' as they say, as much as reason would allow. For instance, part of the biodynamic agriculture meant that, although the family was vegetarian, they kept pigs, sheep, and chickens because they believed in simulating a natural and balanced environment. The three girls, aged 11, 13, and 15 attended the local Steiner school. Although there are many arguments both for and against Steiner school education, I can only say in my experience that I thought it was beneficial for the kids I met. They were all very mature for there age, hearty, capable, and well-mannered.
While the family was nice, they were also incredibly busy, with the mother trying to juggle parent meetings, building and gardening projects, and her own healing centre.
The father commuted to work everyday in Wellington. And so, after being assigned my morning chores, I found myself left to my own devices; confined and isolated. I began a steady routine that involved drinking four to five cups of tea per day whilst staring out the foggy windows as the wind and rain blew over the valley. One good thing that came out of my time there was another wwoofer who's friendship endured after she left the farm. A bubbly, quirky girl from Birmingham, Rimca had escaped the clutches of her traditional Indian parents and come to New Zealand on the pretense that she would be continuing her medical school training with a residency here. But unbeknowst to her Brahmin mother, she was pursuing a career in acting on Wellington's stages. Most of the wwoofers I have met here in New Zealand have simiallar stories to Rimca's. They are trying to 'find themselves' in one way or another and the New Zealand lifestyle is condusive to just that. An isolated place with so many camping and hiking options, one can go tramping on a 'Walkabout' for weeks, allowing the rustle of the leaves to direct you in life's mysterious
ways.
But I was in Wellington now, and rather than walkabouts, I set my sights on finding some people my own age to party with. I met them through couchsurfing: a great organization for travelers wanting to soak up local culture and opt out of hostels. I hooked up with a band of artists and musicians who hosted me for a few nights in Wellington's bohemian southern karori district. Six of them stayed in a converted stockings factory; a sweet loft space which came complete with indoor swings. An eccentric bunch, they took me around the city to see the gardens and galleries, after which their theater friends would come by for a dinner party and some wine. The thing that strikes me is that the artist types I knew back home would usually whip out some pasta or maybe tacos if people were coming over for dinner. But Wellingtonians make a roast! Perhaps its the old english crown lingering in their blood, but the comfort food type of dinners I had always pictured my grandma eating seem to be the staple here. No one seasons food past some salt and pepper, and they still call dinnertime "tea", something that
still perplexes me:
"What did you have for your tea?", "Oh, just some beef stew and potatoes." But my timing in Wellington was lucky, as it coincided with the Cuba Street Carvinal, a street festival which I am told is pretty much the highlight of most Wellingtonians' calendar year. Around thirty local acts performed at stages lining Cuba street in a one day festival with a Rio theme. I was even more lucky in that two of the flatmates I was couchsurfing with were actually performing at one of the stages; an experimental fusion of sounds I can't even catagorize. Of course, some Samba bands were imported from South America for the event, and with the setting of the sun began a mardi gras type of parade that drew crowds five meters thick along the sides of the streets and up the lightposts. While the parade was vibrant, this of course was not Rio, but contemporary and clean Wellington, and I couldn't help but feel that there was an element of passion lacking from the crowd. It made me kind of sad, because as much as I am falling in love with New Zealand, I can't help but miss the
type of sassy and spicy people I get back home.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.15s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 11; qc: 48; dbt: 0.0524s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb