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Published: January 10th 2013
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I can’t remember whether I was coming or going, or where indeed that somewhere might have been. I’m not even sure if this particular conversation occurred before or after
The Lord of the Rings had cast its spells over us all. I do remember I was stood on an Underground platform somewhere beneath the streets of London, with a backpack slung over my shoulder when a man in a suit made eye contact, approached, and proceeded to talk to me. Having lived in London for the first twenty years of my life I was fully conditioned to know that this type of behavior isn’t customary, so it came as no surprise when fellow passengers abruptly stopped what they weren’t really doing, and stared.
It was the international backpackers’ frat-code which had enabled this breach of the social norms. It turns out Mr. Kiwi was the same age as me, and having seen my backpack he was curious to know where I was going, or where I had been. We chatted until the train came, and then chatted some more. He was nostalgic for his travels round Europe and I in turn was curious as to why he, a
Kiwi, along with legions of other antipodeans, had come to lay down shallow roots in old London town, a million miles from whence they came. “Money” was his answer… and I hadn’t been satisfied with that answer since. Why would he leave there to come here? Well I'm finally there to find out...
Having experienced the luxury of sailing into Auckland by ship, jet-lag wasn’t an issue and so we hit the streets immediately upon our arrival. Our first financial transaction was in procuring two large coffees to fuel our first day. Though having received two small coffees, I immediately made the barista aware of this error. This was met with a nod and a gesture towards the two steamy teensy-weensy coffees that stood between us. The penny dropped. In New Zealand these
are large. In retrospect, I should have known something like this would happen. Having lived and traveled through Canada and North America for most of the previous 2-years it is easy to become complacent to the idea that the entire world has yet to be super-sized. Ah well, no worries…until you realize you’ve just paid
large prices for
small coffees!
Now I’ll admit
I have a real fetish for wandering the aisles of supermarkets in foreign lands as it gives a fascinating cultural insight and beats the hell out of traipsing around tourist-tat markets. Partially caffeine-fuelled, we popped into the Kathmandu store as we planned to do quite a bit of camping in New Zealand and so needed to supplement our kit. It is no exaggeration to state that the prices of virtually everything in that store were beyond the realms of obscene. To make matters worse, stoves from North America are not compatible with fuel canisters from this part of the world, so in the bin went our stove. Neither do alien electrical appliances fit into the electricity sockets on the walls here. But don’t fret; we were able to buy one of those little plastic plug converters for
twenty eight dollars!!! How convenient for that brand (an Aussie one, which I won’t advertise) that it is apparently the only one on the Kiwi market. These things cost 20 cents in China, retail.
Okay hold up, I know what you are thinking: ‘This is an island at the ends of
Middle Earth. Things are bound to be expensive!’ …
Or so goes the theory. China is just as far from here as it is from Europe or North America. Like most things you buy, the device you use to read this blog is comprised of myriad tiny components designed, built and assembled from the four-corners of the globe. The world has shrunk since Hobbits roamed the land. The problem here in New Zealand is good old fashioned free-market competition, or lack thereof. The market is just too damn small over here and it just can't do its thing, apparantely.
It is important to understand that if I were visiting some strange foreign land differences would be expected and positively sought after. Here, well, I’d clearly let my guard down. Canada and New Zealand may both have the Queen on their money, but I had clearly been expecting a more quintessentially British reception in the latter. With their prices, return policies, and utter disregard for caffeine addiction, the Kiwis were not going to disappoint, yet it was precisely these similarities with old Blighty that were now spinning me out.
If we were here visiting from (expensive) London, England, we would not have found the differences particularly marked.
Kiva and Mandalay
Marlborough Sound However, having just arrived from the US where fuel, food, entertainment, lodging and other holiday essentials are cheaper, for various and tedious economic reasons, it came as quite a surprise. What I was in affect experiencing, on day one, was good old fashioned Culture Shock…or perhaps a perverse Reverse Culture Shock, through Alice's Looking Glass!
It was October, which upside-down here is springtime. It was also the Rugby World Cup, the largest sporting event ever held in New Zealand. Well actually, it was the lull between the group stages and the knockout stage, and people around Queen’s Wharf were chomping at the bit, subsisting off re-runs of group stage games in anticipation of what was to come. For us - well
me - this meant we could afford stepping away from a TV immediately without the threat of missing a try.
Back in southern California whilst sitting in a caravan, some two-months back, I had negotiated a very competitive car-hire rate over Skype for a 2000 model Nissan Sunny ($20NZ per day!). This was our ride on the North Island, as we pointed it south east from Auckland and passed through a town called
Thames, population 6,000, and then headed north as these big-towns dried up. And just like that, a couple hours from Auckland we were headed into sparsely populated isolation. It is really lovely up (down) there and we drove north until the road ended, set up camp on a two-mile long deserted beach, played in the sand, watched the sunset, cooked up some camping grub, and went to bed to the sound of the surf. That night as we slept, New Zealand’s worst environmental maritime disaster unfolded as oil from the MV Rena, which ran aground on a reef off the pristine east coast, began bleeding into the Bay of Plenty.
Up early, we headed back south to enjoy the reverse scenery in the morning light, crossing over to the other side of the peninsula for more beach action before reaching Waihi Beach in the late-afternoon. Here we opted to fork out for a little plastic cabin with kitchenette in a Top 10 Holiday Park, rather than bother pitching the tent. The kids could boingy about on a huge bouncing pillow, go crazy in the playground, or hit the pool with momma whilst papa stood contentedly flipping minty-lamb
chops on the BBQ and sipping local pinot in anticipation of the night’s entertainment: England vs. France.
However come kick-off, momma and the kids were zonked, and quite frankly bored, falling asleep before half-time, which is just as well.
"The Poms looked like they'd spent more time tossing dwarves, licking faces with old girlfriends and sexually harassing hotel maids…" wrote Kiwi satirist Graeme Simpson. England’s game did improve in the second-half, but not nearly enough. As I convalesced over the bottom of a second bottle, I pondered how easy it is to be philosophical in such situations…Less rugby means more New Zealand – unless you’re a native of course.
We skipped the actual beach at Waihi Beach, and got a head start on the day by getting lost trying to navigate through Turanga on our way to Rotorua, an active volcanic zone. This is apparently
“the best of New Zealand all in one place!” where tourists come to experience the performance of local ‘indigenous Maori culture’. But trying to avoid situations which would trigger my mind to enter theoretical overload, having just submitted my graduate thesis on just such a topic I escaped with
my sanity intact, after buying some small large pizzas, pit-stopping at some bubbling puddles and hot pools, and a playground for the kids.
When there was Rugby, we stayed at organized campgrounds and when there wasn’t we sought out New Zealand’s more primitive (gratis), but any less eventful, camping spots. So despite the cost of coffee and MB tinternet usage, this network of free and virtually free campsites allowed us to keep the costs of our trip pleasantly low.
Wellington, the capital, meant a hotel stay (which reminds me of another quirky annoyance: hotel checkout times in New Zealand are 10am!). Getting lost on the way to find it in the drizzle, up there in the hilly suburbs, reminded me of Richmond upon Thames. When the rain subsided we spent our time exploring springtime Wellington, riding the tram to and from town and coming home at night through Wellington’s Botanic Garden with nothing more than glow-worms and memory to guide us through the pitch-black labyrinthine trails. Before our departure from Wellington, we spent time visiting the truly fantastical (and free) Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa down at the waterfront: Highly recommended,
particularly if you have kids.
South Island After just over a week on the North Island it was time for a change of car and change of islands as we boarded the ferry to the South Island, and truth be known, the destination that really gets the pulse racing.
In our new-old rental car we headed along the fractal coastline of The Marlborough Sounds, a network of sea-drowned valleys extending west of Picton. We pitched camp before nightfall, consumed some more wine under moonlight, and drove back along this beautifully shattered coastline in the morning to take in New Zealand’s wine country.
Throughout our time in New Zealand we, for want of a better word, interviewed people in quasi-anthropological style, particularly expats, as to what they liked living here. One particular expat, a sommelier from Australia, shared a rather fruitful conversation with us over a few glasses of wine in the Wairau Valley. A recurring theme we heard was that New Zealand is a great place to bring up kids: a Play-Doh nation, if you will. In support of this argument she said she liked New Zealand because it was how Australia had been 15
years ago. Now I was in Australia 15 years ago as a fledgling backpacker, and to be honest I was not seeing the resemblances. But knowing what I know, this type of rhetoric is frequently used to refer to a place that is perceived untrammeled or ‘uncorrupted’ by the complexities of modernity.
Jennifer was at a conference a couple months ago, here in Shanghai, along with teachers from Singapore, Mumbai, Fukuoka, … Apparently, when the teacher from Auckland introduced himself it was with the self-deprecating disclaimer that New Zealand wasn’t “nearly as exciting” as any of the other places mentioned. When Jennifer relayed this story to me I was aghast...truly…Now if he’d mentioned how hopelessly expensive the internet is there, or those pesky sand flies on the south Island, fair enough. But
exciting???
The recurring theme that New Zealand is somehow culturally behind the times struck me as a major reason many younger people attempt to seek their fortunes elsewhere, partially for the money, but mostly because of the feeling that nothing of value or worth happens way out here. This is a little ironic when the contemporary tourist increasingly seems to strive for
‘authenticity’ and this authenticity is achieved, or maintained, through its non-contamination by the present. This results in a paradox; of wishing to visit the past, as nostalgic tourist, yet in reality yearning for all the trappings of development and modernity. Tourists increasingly set off to find the past; whereas Kiwis, it seems, go in search of the future.
Australians in contrast, seem to have transcended their insecurity at being ‘boringly’ stuck at the end of the world, in large part due to the kudos they gained after the 2000 Sydney Olympics when Australia, and Sydney in particular, was able to showcase its undoubted gorgeousness to the wider world. Visitor numbers to New Zealand’s capital Wellington rose 50% in the decade following the first Lord of the Ring’s move. Yet for all the kudos the trilogy has brought to New Zealand, it falls short in one major area: Hobbits, Dwarves and Elves, for all their personable attributes, don’t exactly represent Kiwi culture.
There are only 30,000 people down the entire west coast of the south island and the towns really get quite lonely down there as the road winds past the glacier towns of Franz
Southern Alps
Mount Aspiring National Park Josef and Fox Glacier. You can certainly find sparseness in North America, Canada in particular, but there it is the sheer scale of the place that dwarfs the population density. Little New Zealand manages to accomplish this sense of space due to its sufficiently sustainable 4.4million population, of which over seventy percent live in urban areas (here in Shanghai I can likely look out over more people than that from my kitchen window).
This doesn’t leave a whole lot of people to populate all those wonderful in-between bits. This is the reason New Zealand is perfect for Middle-earth; Tolkien’s mythical Europe of 7,000 years ago; wild unadulterated landscape as far as the eye can see as we continued inland past Haast and through the valleys, where we spent a night camping alone at a government campsite, in the chilly shadows of Mount Aspiring National Park. We wound up through the valleys and over the mountains past Lake Wanaka, stopping at Arrowtown, a gentrified former gold rush town for afternoon tea, before continuing to Queenstown where we had our requisite dose of Xtreme – dare I say
“exciting” - activities, more rugby (Australia/New Zealand), and picked the brains
of more local expats.
Milford Sound Milford Sound was the Raison d'être, the thought of which motivated me most when I thought of coming all the way out here to
Nueva Zealandia. Add to that, the fact that Milford is poetically positioned right down there, tucked away in the southern folds of the country, two weeks travel from where we started, made it all the more tantalizing.
It may have been the grand prize, but Milford Sound is one of the wettest places in New Zealand; over half the days in a calendar year see rain. Anxiety and expectation saw me seek out the weather forecast from the hierarchy of local experts in Queenstown. The weather was considered severe enough that flights to Milford Sound were cancelled due to the inclement weather. The roads were still open but consensus was that if we even made it down there, through one of New Zealand’s most scenic drives; we wouldn’t be seeing much of what was there when we arrived. Add to this the fact we’d planned to camp, made the decision quite a bold one.
I studied the weather
in depth. Not just the generic daily aggregated statistical tripe served up to the media, but went to the source, studying satellite images, wind directions and pressure patterns. When it came to a decision, time
or lack thereof, was on our side; meaning it was never or now. We’d be traveling through some miserable weather to get there, if that was in any doubt the morning we rose to depart it was challenge enough to get our luggage the four-feet from the door to the car without being swept away.
The trip down was no less than terrible the entire way, with rain relentlessly pummeling our car as we sped foolhardily through the valleys we needed to traverse in order to reach our destination. The last hour or so as we gained altitude before the final pass on SH94, through Fiordland National Park. The squall became a thick and menacing sleet. And, as the road wound down again on its final approach back to sea level the saturated valley walls streamed with water.
The road ended at Freshwater basin, where we were met with a gnarly sky, blustering winds, and zero precipitation. It was
as if Milford Sound formed a bullpen for the storm, a forward operating base before its all-out attack on the island.
We had booked tickets on the first boat out into the Sound the following morning, but before that I had something to attend to. Even though the trees amongst which we camped protected us from the worst of the wind, they also blocked out a good percentage of the light. However, on mornings like these alarm clocks aren’t needed, as my eyes sprung open just at that moment the sun was contemplating its reappearance at dawn. I grabbed the car keys, the camera and stealthily slipped from the tent.
As I parked down at the water’s edge, the moon was still visible as sunlight begun reddening the peaks which soared out of the sound. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. I bounced around to different spots with camera in hand like a kid on Christmas morning for what seemed like forever. It is said time flies when you’re having fun, so I can only surmise that what I was experiencing has another name.
I aroused the sleepy-heads upon my
return; we cooked some porridge, made some tea and headed back down to the harbor for our pre-arranged boat trip. One of the advantages of journeying out here in the storm meant we were one of only a handful of people at the dock that morning. No mean feat when you consider Milford Sound sees a million tourists per year. However this story has a final twist. The lack of tourists meant our boat was cancelled. Since the weather was perfect I was about to pirate my own ship for the journey when we were informed that all the companies operating tours that morning would gather together their tourists and put them all on a single boat. We were twelve. We had inadvertently been upgraded to a nature cruise on a smaller boat, and weren’t complaining. During our tour I spotted a whale. The captain/nature guide thought I was mistaken until he saw it for himself. It was only the second time he had ever seen a whale inside the Sound in the seven years he had been captaining the boat. Milford Sound lived up to all expectations, and then some.
The trip back out was a
sunshine bonanza all the way, enabling us to stop and see everything we hadn’t on the drive in. Short on DVDs for the kids we pulled out Kiva’s Canadian pre-school circle-time favorites CD and proceeded to sing along to “I am a Pizza,” “Sticky Sticky Sticky Bubble Gum,” “Elephants Have Wrinkles” and others… When I was a kid there was no CD player, let alone in-car DVD players: on our perennial campervan road trips through the Scottish Highlands we used to potter along with
Brothers in Arms purring from the cassette player and me praying for a break down – answered alarmingly regularly - so that another unscripted adventure could begin.
Back in Queenstown we stayed back at the same hostel, the owner upgraded us to a larger family style room with en suite kitchen facilities. We visited a yearly festival at Wanaka, the kids particularly enjoyed, and raided a charity store for extra bedding for our trip up into the Southern Alps, taking in Twizzle, Aoraki Mount Cook and Lake Takapo, blazingly bright sunshine, pure air, snowy peaks, high contrast, cerulean heaven skies and vivid turquoise lakes.
We checked into an organized campsite
in a town called Timaru, down by the coast, the night of the Rugby World Cup final. It was a hard fought low-scoring dog-fight of a match, the home team was outplayed, but the locals found it, dare I say, exciting.
If you’re not fortunate enough to hail from a civilized country you may be unaware that New Zealand is the current world champion. Another thing you may not be aware of is that our next destination, Christchurch, suffered an MM IX earthquake (equivalent intensity to that of San Francisco 1906) less than a year before and much of the historic city centre was still in the midst of regeneration and considered unsafe and off-limits as aftershocks intermittently jolted weakened and partially collapsed buildings.
We drove out to Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula and camped. A one-time French settlement which despite a visiting Cruise ship (docking here instead of Christchurch due to the earthquake damage) had the morning after the night before feel to it, in no doubt due to France’s defeat in the aforementioned Rugby World Cup the previous evening, and the fact that the Kiwis were doubtless still recovering.
In Christchurch we were unsure of what to do since the city’s must-see highlights were now off-limits or rubble. Fortunately Web Ellis,
the actual World Cup, was due in town, to be victoriously paraded by its captors. This prospect didn’t excite Jennifer in the least, until I informed her that if we were to one-day settle down in New Zealand our son would inevitably become acculturated to the sport of Rugby and its deep and inviolable connection to the national culture. It is also a possibility that New Zealand may never again win and if our son were to discover that once upon a time we went shopping for toiletries the day the trophy came to town he would not be best pleased.
It was the kind of unbridled national joy even the most cynical anti-nationalist rugby-phobe could appreciate; the atmosphere was febrile and infectious, fun was had by all, it was inescapable. A symbolic and poignant end to our trip in New Zealand and to the residents of Christchurch whom had lives, their city centre, and their rugby matches taken from them in the earthquake, but whom were the worthy recipients of the ultimate Kiwi pick-me-up
that day.
Perhaps that guy back in London laying down shallow roots had it right…Money not as an end in and of its self. But, money as a store of productive and intellectual energy; money as tool for the future, a tool to bring him home, to New Zealand, to reap what he has sown.
We hope to be back one day, like the many Kiwis themselves who return, like salmon, to where the water runs clear…even if Webb Ellis makes no such promises.
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RJT
Rachael
William Webb Ellis
Well there I was, enjoying reading your blog and observations about my homeland, admiring the photos, and then you ruined it all with that terrible sentence, "It is also a possibility that New Zealand may never again win". My heart stopped beating for a moment in time. Then I realised that of course you are wrong!! Here's to our successful defense in 2015.