Cleaning the Ipipiri, and Some Very Large Trees

I’m not sure if we’ve mentioned this yet, but Jen and I have yet another job. We are now working for the tour group “Fuller’s Great Sights,” cleaning their overnight cruise ship Ipipiri. Working for Fuller’s, a huge company, at least in NZ terms, has its benefits: free trips, bus rides, local discounts, and free ferry trips across the bay to Russell and back. And at $15 NZD/hour (about $12 USD/hour), it’s nearly the highest paying job either of us have ever had – and, once again, we’re cleaning toilets.

The Ipipiri has three decks and about forty rooms, each with their own bathroom. There are usually four of us making up the “ground crew,” as we’re euphemistically titled, and together we whizz through the rooms. We strip the beds, make them again, wipe fingerprints from the walls and dust from the table tops, vacuum, and clean the bathrooms, which for some ungodly reason are all done in white. We have three hours before the next tour bus pours on ship and we have to hurry back onto dry land, trying not to be seen as if we’re little house elves. Occasionally they give us muffins.

Today, using my nifty watch that was a birthday present from my brother, Jen and I timed ourselves making each double bed. It was very intense.

“Ahhh, I can’t get this hospital corner to work! We’re losing valuable time!”

“Duvet! Go, go, go!”

“Last pillow…and…TIME!”

Our first bed took us nearly four minutes to complete, but I am proud to report that we made our last bed in exactly two minutes and 48 seconds.

Jen would like to add that cleaning toilets has an added level of grossness when you have seasick people on board. Also, as one of the other crew pointed out, men have trouble aiming on solid ground - let alone on a rocking boat. Yeah. Gross.

The vacuums, however, are awesome. You strap this space-age, jet-pack-like container to your back and waltz around with the hoover rod in front of you like a goofy housecleaning robot.


Just so that you guys don’t think all we do is work in this place (although lately it feels like that) I’ve gotta tell you about the trip we took to see the kauri trees. The ancient kauris (some of them more than two thousand years old) are literally the most massive trees in the world.

Jen and I and Jamie visited the Waipoua Forest on the west coast. The verdant, towering, open forest carried the same feeling of majesty and strength as the redwood forests of California do. From Tane Mahuta, the tallest tree, to the quiet and shockingly pretty Cathedral Grove, I felt calm and very happy, there among these sacred creatures. Fifty meters above us, entire ecosystems sprouted from their branches. The Maori people believe they hold up the sky, and standing at their massive bases (some sixteen meters in circumference) it was easy to believe.

A NZ Christmas

Liz here, with news of our Christmas. (I’m sorry for the delay in posting. Because New Zealand apparently is against wireless internet, as I’ve come to believe, they decided to shut off the wireless at the public library for two weeks. Add to that the fact that our new flat is an internet-free zone, and none of the cafes here offer wireless, and it makes it very difficult to keep up with emails and blogs and applications to grad school and various things of that nature. I am currently huddled under a tree across the street from a hotel, stealing their $4/half hour wireless.)

Christmas here was bizarre. There is no other word for it. It was hot and brilliantly sunny; people were out riding jet skis and sky-diving, laying on the beach and sailing their yachts. I didn’t hear a single Christmas carol, and saw very few Christmas trees, lights, or giant inflatable santas. You know how the U.S. starts getting psyched for Christmas about mid-October, and the malls, yards, and shops of America become a sea of tinsel, lights, reindeer, and snowmen? Well, NZ goes too far in the opposite direction. On our walk to work on Christmas Day, Jen and I tried counting signs that it was a holiday. By the time we’d finished the fifteen-minute walk through the entire city of Paihia, we’d seen a jet ski rental employee wearing a Santa hat, a couple of elderly tourists in fake reindeer antlers, a bit of blue and red tinsel wrapped around a sign, and one Christmas tree inside a beachfront restaurant. That. Was. Literally. It.


Speaking of walking to work, the downside (or, one of the many downsides) of working in the service industry is that when everyone else wants to celebrate, you get to work twice as hard. Jen, Jamie, Lewis, and I all worked Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day. I was at work until one am Christmas Eve; on Christmas Day, Jen and I went in at eleven am and proceeded to run about like ants without taking a breath or sitting down until six pm.


I typically I had over two dozen tables to myself and was kept busy lying to everyone that their food would soon be out. Behind the bar, Jen was churning out eight to ten crème brulees per second, covered in powdered sugar and simultaneously pouring pints. At one point I handed her a docket for thirteen more desserts and thought about ducking.

By six it looked like a tornado had swept through town and somehow missed everything except the Swiss Café; we were the only place open for lunch in all of Paihia, and everyone decided they felt like Swiss food. When we finally closed, Kelly handed out glasses of champagne and we basically inhaled them. “My glass was gone in two seconds,” Jen points out. “Literally.”

With that said, Christmas had its points of loveliness. Our friend Dan, the one from England who moved to Auckland a few weeks ago, is here for the holidays, so we had a full house of lively company. Of course Jen and I had each other, which I was terribly grateful for. And there were the beautiful moments.

There was coming home from work at Christmas Eve and everyone collapsing together in the living room; friends over, lights on the tree, cookies on the coffee table. There was Christmas morning; we got up at seven am and gave each other our gifts, cuddled around the tree, the floor gradually disappearing under a sea of wrapping paper. There was opening our packages from home and having little signs of Michigan filter into the flat: our old stockings, my mom’s caramel corn, photos of family, heartfelt messages on Christmas cards. And there was Christmas night, when we opened Christmas crackers and ate nachos and mashed potatoes (yes, we decided to go with a very traditional meal) wearing our paper hats.

All the same, Jen and I switched the song whenever “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” came on my playlist, and we pledged together on Christmas Day that we’ll never miss a Christmas at home again, if we have anything to say about it. At three am here I called home; it was nine am there, and the presents had just been unwrapped. My family was all there, preparing to sit down to breakfast together. I’d had a lovely evening, but there are some times when you know your place – and my place just then was 8,600 miles away, at the long table with a steaming plate of waffles, among my lovely, lovely family.

Jen here – Liz and I really, really felt the absence of family: As everyone knows, Christmas is not about the trees or the cookies or the school vacation or snow – it’s about family. 100%. On Christmas Eve, I broke down and kept thinking that I was in the wrong place; that as much as I love New Zealand and the friends that I have here, I just knew that I belonged in Hamtramck, with my house upside down while my parents repaint our kitchen for the 3rd time, with my dog who always takes up ¾ of my bed when he sleeps with me, with my brother and sister teasing everyone….Man, all I wanted to do at that moment was fly home to be home with all of that. So I drove to this really awesome beach (yes! I’m learning to drive a stick shift – on the left side of the road!), and called my mom. And an ocean away, she did what any good mom would do: she read me “The Polar Express” over the phone, making me feel much better.

Baby Blue Penguin

Two afternoons ago on my walk into work at the Swiss Café, I came across a penguin. Or at least, I only had to go slightly out of my way to come across it. I was heading around the bluff that roughly divides Waitangi, the Maori neighborhoods where our new flat lies, and Paihia, the gaudier touristy side, and I saw a small group of people clustered at the ocean’s edge below. A few were crouched low, one holding a camera. I peered carefully at them, but the crowd was obscuring whatever they were looking at, so I trotted off the sidewalk, down the slight grassy hill, and across the beach to check it out.

And there was the penguin, a small blue one with wet feathers and flopping flippers. He was really impossibly small – smaller than a cat or a chicken – but very distinctively a penguin. I’d never seen one outside of a zoo before. This one was hurt, we all seemed to know. There was nothing obviously wrong with him, no gaping wounds or misplaced feathers, but the way he leaned back and forth on his belly on the rocks, where no smart penguin should be, seemed a clear sign.

There were about eight of us standing there; a couple from Germany, a girl with an unmistakably English accent, some local Maoris, a Japanese woman, and myself; a proper international greeting squad for the penguin. We peeled off one by one though; each person, myself included, mumbling something incoherent and vaguely apologetic as we left. It felt like leaving the scene of an accident; there was a sense of guilt about leaving the rumpled, adorable bird behind.

I have to say that it’s pretty rare to run into penguins while walking to work in Michigan. You know, now that I think about it, I don’t think it’s happened once; let alone run into a penguin in the company of people from at least four different countries. This is just one of the fantastic things about living in New Zealand that I’m coming to accept as some kind of normal.

For example, last night I trapped, in my bedroom, a giant insect. I mean, this was an enormous bug. It had a bulbous, intricately patterned green body and four enormous buzzing wings. I’d never seen anything like it. Shortly after trapping it and setting it outside, I found my second two-inch uber-slug of the night inching its way down the wall. Slugs on the walls, monster bugs in the closet, penguins on the way to work, and Germans mingling with Brits mingling with Chinese mingling with South Africans on the footpaths.

This is New Zealand. And for all of its lack of Christmas cookies or wireless internet, I love that I’m here.

A Photo Update

Our Argentinian friend Jonny's incredibly awesome new Maori tattoo. The tattoos tell a story; each part of Jonny's tattoo represents part of his extended family.

Me! Enjoying a nice boat trip.

Jamie and Lewis, our awesome Scottish flatmates.

Some very chill sheep on Urupukapuka Island.

The Bay of Island's famous "Hole in the Rock." We've all seen it at least twice now. I still think Pictured Rocks in the U.P. has something on it.

Dolphins by our tour boat in the bay!!


And last, a lovely image from our backyard.

Christmas Preparations...in NZ

Jen here –

As Liz and I have been trying to prepare for Christmas, we’ve been noticing a few…differences between New Zealand and the U.S....

1.) Christmas Trees – This difference is HUGE. At home, having a Christmas tree is pretty much a necessity of Christmas. Here…it’s like... “Oh, that’s nice. A Christmas tree. We had one once.” WHAT?! A friend stepped in and saved us from having a treeless Christmas - He is friends with a “Coconut” (a man originally from the Cook Islands), who promised to cut down a Christmas tree from his backyard and bring it over to our new place. Liz and I were pumped and excited to have our own real Christmas tree.

Taira (the Coconut man), pulled up to our drive and I ran out excitedly to see the tree. They got out of the car and pulled out a ….pine….bush. Yes, I think a bush is probably the best way to describe it. Taira, who has been living in New Zealand since he was 21, put the Christmas bush up in the house in the typical New Zealand tree-putting up way: He walked into the flat, assessed the height of the ceiling (only by looking), went out, hacked off the top of the bush, brought the bush into the house, jammed the bottom into the bucket we had bought (New Zealand does not have tree stands, only buckets), and jammed the top of the tree into the ceiling, spraying out the top of the branches against the ceiling. Liz and I stood there the whole time, shocked. There was no careful, “Oh, 3 inches more to the right! Shoot! No, left! No, I mean MY LEFT! AHHH!!!!!” There was no nice symmetry to the tree, I mean, bush. HUGE branches come out everywhere. I think the tree is as tall as it is wide.

But. As much as we give it a hard time, it is a “tree”. And it’s ours. And we’re so, very grateful for Taira in cutting it down from his backyard for us.

2.) Lights – There’s no place in Paihia to buy Christmas lights and so I went to Keri Keri, (a “town”?) about 25 minutes drive away, and I bought 2 boxes of 50 lights for about $9 apiece. I got home and Liz and I started putting the lights on when we realized….In New Zealand, each strand of lights has only one plug “thing” on it. At the other end, unlike how IT IS BACK HOME, there is no, plug hole (if that’s the right word), for another strand of lights to plug into. And seeing as we only have one outlet in the entire living room that is located on the opposite side of the room of the tree and only one extension cord, we were only able to put one strand of lights on. As Liz said, “New Zealand needs to get its crap together.” We could have just moved the tree closer to the outlet, but the floor of our flat slants at about a 10° angle (no joke), so the tree that was fitted by Taira for one corner of the flat would have been way to tall for the floor closer to the outlet.

*Note – I just got back from talking to a Kiwi about the Christmas light situation. I told him of how the light strands work in the US and he said, “Ohhhh….right. That seems like a good idea…..” But that was it! His response was kind of like an afterthought, like, an “Oh – that’s a good idea…maybe someone will invent those here in about 20 years…Right…back to the beach….”

**Note: This Kiwi just got a part in “The Hobbit.” He’s about 5’3”, has long, wild, brown hair, and giant hairy feet. HOW AWESOME IS THAT?! **

3.) Christmas cookies – New Zealand really doesn’t do Christmas cookies. Nope. Well, they call cookies “biscuits” here, but no Christmas biscuits either. I was asking Kelly at work, “Right – so like, no sugar cookies? No butterballs (or snowballs as Liz calls them)? No Christmas biscuit exchange?” Nope. NOOOOO holiday cookie spirit here.

4.) Marshmallows – As part of our Epic Christmas Cookie Plan, I was going to make the Rice Krispie holiday wreaths. You know, the green wreaths with cinnamon hots as the berries? Well, I went to the store and then realized, “Ohhh…. Shoot. That’s right. New Zealand has crap for marshmallows.” Their marshmallows here are weird for 3 reasons:

a. They’re white AND pink. And white and pink marshmallows are always mixed together. You can’t buy one bag of white marshmallows, say, and one bag of pink. Oh no. They come together.

b. All of the marshmallows, both pink and white, are covered in this like, hard, protective powdered sugar shield. If some country decided for some strange reason to nuclear bomb New Zealand, the marshmallows would be JUST fine. No worries.

c. The pink ones taste….weird. Liz and I can’t put a flavor on it. They’re … just…like…kind of disgusting. You eat one and you’re chewing and everything is normal, and then you’re like, “What the…..?”

So. I had already bought the food coloring (after having to drive about 25 minutes away to get some food coloring) and the “Rice Pops” (aka Rice Krispies), and so I wasn’t going to just NOT make them. I bought 2 TINY bags of the marshmallows for $4 APIECE. How’d they turn out? Well. Umm.. they’re alright. But New Zealand doesn’t have red hots and so they kind of just look like huge green blobs. Huge green blobs that taste like pink marshmallows.

But as much as Liz and I pretend complain about the tree continuously falling over for LACK OF A PROPER TREE STAND, how baking shortening for cookies just does not exist here in New Zealand, and that New Zealand as a whole doesn’t really….well, doesn’t reeeeally get into the Christmas spirit...

Liz and I have done our best to bring a Michigan Christmas to our flat and new friends. My paper chain (thanks Cha Cha Mary!), taped together with electrical tape found in a old hostel room, is strung around the living room; the tree is decorated with tiny white lights, paper snowflakes, candy canes, and two ornaments (thanks Mrs. Dengate!); the kitchen table is covered in different Christmas cookies, and there’s a large Christmas dinner in the works at our flat for all of our closest friends.

We just need some snow and we’d be all set.

Thinking of you all!

Things I Miss

From Liz:

I've been extremely happy here in New Zealand lately: I'm working on a new piece of writing, I've been working more, our new flat is AWESOME and all ours, and the weather is beautiful. But as Christmas approaches, and now that we've spent nearly three months here, I'm realizing that there are some things I really miss about home. For example:

1. Being able to go out and get food later than 10 pm
2. Bars that are open past 1 am
3. BAGELS (also scones - the ones here are actually biscuits, I swear)
4. Diner breakfasts with hash browns and waffles
5. Real coffee (seriously, it's all instant here, and they've never heard of iced coffee)
6. Hmmm, this list is very food-based...
7. SNOW - and going outside and getting all cold and slushy and then coming in, dripping, to a warm house, and cuddling into a sweatshirt and blanket and having a hot cocoa (it's like ninety degrees here and blazingly sunny)
8. My mom's Christmas cookies and caramel corn, and trees with lights on them outside
9. Oak trees, spruce trees, hemlocks, ivy
10. Movie theaters, and free wireless everywhere


I'm sitting outside the library at the moment and sweeaaating from the heat.

Our Very Own Flat

From Liz:

Look at me, I'm even using the word "flat" instead of "apartment." NZ is catching up to me. Pretty soon, Jen and I will be not only taxed, employed temporary residents of NZ; we'll be taxed, employed temporary residents with our very apartment and address. Earlier today we officially signed the tenancy agreement for an adorable flat a few minutes walk from the hostel where we're currently living, right next to the big grocery store. Jen and I, and Jamie and Lewis, are officially moving.

There were several reasons for our decision. One, we're sick of cleaning every single morning - it'll be so nice to have a day off once in awhile, so we can go on overnight camping trips or just sleep in once in awhile. Two, as the hostel gets busier and busier, it's so frustrating sharing a kitchen and fridge space with seventy other backpackers and never having any alone time. Three, this way we can get a morning job a few days a week, still have days off, and save more money. (If you consider that the minimum wage here is $12.80, and we work for two hours a day, seven days a week, we're essentially spending almost $175 a week each to live at the hostel. Not worth it.) Four, it's just going to be SO COOL to have our very own apartment.

The flat has two bedrooms, a kitchen/dining room, a very big "lounge," a very small bathroom, and a wild, beautiful garden full of flowers both in front and in back. Our elderly, partially deaf landlady lives on the second floor; she told us to think of her as "our grandma upstairs," she uses apostrophes correctly, and she has three nice cats. We each pay $400 a month, which is good for Paihia at high season, and affordable with our jobs - and she's okay with us taking off in February to travel.

All in all, we're extremely satisfied. Stay tuned for pictures of our new abode!

The Epic Cape Brett Hike

Liz: typing like this
Jen: typing like this
Both: typing like this

We have returned from an epic jaunt from Rawhiti (RAFF-it-ee) up and down the mountainous cliffs to the tiny hut below the lighthouse on Cape Brett. My legs are still sore: squatting to pick up a dropped set of keys makes me wince, and while it normally takes a Hell Week with Leim to give me shin splints, I’ve got them now. Looking back though, it’s like I’ve already forgotten how much some of those hills sucked, and how I thought I might literally pass out from heat exhaustion or dehydration or both and tumble from a cliff; those things fade, and the only word left in my head is “awesome.” It was awesome.

Jen and I, plus the reluctant trio of Dan, Lewis, and Jamie, set off Monday morning. By the time we’d done our cleaning for the day (we had to get up at seven to accomplish this), been to the shop for biscuits and more water, actually packed our bags, found bandannas, waited in the parking lot for the liquor shop to open*, driven to Opua, taken the car ferry across to Russell, and driven the nauseating miles to Rawhiti, it was after eleven am. People kept reiterating that the “people who were lazy” were on the trail by eight am. The smart ones started at daybreak. We rolled out at 11:21, some of us more enthusiastic than others. Dan, Lewis, and Jamie apparently never go hiking. They’d certainly never been backpacking. Lewis and Jamie kept telling us how back at home, they often get rides to their pub, which is fifty meters from Jamie’s front door.

Liz and I were actually pretty worried about how everyone would fare on the trip. Liz and I who had planned the trip were pretty pumped and were looking forward to a good challenge. Dan, Lewis, and Jamie…well, Liz and I were SERIOUSLY concerned there was going to be an ACTUAL mutiny on the trail. No joke. An actual mutiny.

It’s 16.3 km from the start of the trail to the hut (just slightly over ten miles.) This doesn’t sound too far, and I was wildly over-confident at the start of the trip. The trail, however, made its way up and down the steepest hills I’ve ever encountered, so that soon, ten feet in a row of flat ground was something we cheered about. To make it worse, it was hot and muggy, and we were almost immediately drenched in sweat, as if we’d taken a trip underneath Niagara Falls without those cool blue slickers. All of the sugar in my blood quickly decided to get out of there (my hypoglycemia’s been acting up), apparently finding the miles of rocky slopes ahead too daunting, so I was left to stagger on without it. Frequent stops for bananas and trail mix became necessary. In all, it took Jen and Alex just over six hours, Jamie and I seven, and Dan and Lewis eight hours (they stopped for a nap) to make it to the hut.

The trek, however, exhausting as it was, was beautiful. Every time we burst out of the trees onto the peak of a new hill, gasping for breath, a new and entirely stunning view would be waiting for us: crystal blue water, raging white surf, and green islands stretching on hundreds of feet below us. The sloping mini-mountains, covered in tree ferns and palms and sloping into the wildly blue sea, were exactly as I’d pictured New Zealand before arriving. The happiest sight, of course, was popping out of a ninety-degree blur of shrubbery and suddenly seeing the hut, with its cheerful red roof, below us in the rolling waves of grass.

Jamie and I staggered down the hill and collapsed in the thick grass, on a steeply sloping hill over the sea. The sun was still out; the white hut looked gorgeous nestled in the downy green above the rolling blue waves. Jen appeared from below; she'd been swimming in the ocean.

Jamie and I followed her lead and picked our way down the stairs and ancient pulley ramp to sea level. As they’d warned us, the water was speckled with tiny blobs of jellyfish. They were everywhere. One particularly giant one caught our eye. It drifted back and forth in the swells at our feet, looking very angry and dangerous (or at least as angry as it’s possible for a transparent blob to look.) Jamie and I eyed it nervously. “F*** off, jellyfish,” Jamie said. “Get out, you wanker.” Apparently the jellyfish did not understand Scottish, because he stayed right there, waiting for us.

After about twenty minutes of rushing at the water’s edge and then stepping back, wilting with fear at a glance from the blob, I decided to man up and took a running leap into the water. When I surfaced, gasping for breath, muttering “Freezing, freezing,” Jamie sighed heavily. “I have to go in now,” he moaned. “F***.” And he jumped in as well. As the water was about as warm as Lake Superior in late May, we quickly made our way out again, swimming frantically and keeping both eyes out for the mad jellyfish.

It was only later, back in Paihia, that we learned that NZ has zero stinging jellyfish. At least we went in; the cold water was mercy to the layers of sweat that had built up over the day.

The rest of the evening was spent in various activities, most of them involving either eating or lying in a prone position. Dan and Lewis eventually appeared, muttering curses and walking half bent over, as if crippled underneath the weights of their backpacks. Lewis admitted he’d left the vodka some ways back on the trail to lighten his load, although Licorice (the stuffed sheep) was still with us. Jamie revoked his Scottish status for the night, disgusted. [Liz and I took away his “man cards” as well.] We all ate a giant meal of spaghetti and instant mash inside the hut at the big wooden table and drank cold white wine out of tin mugs. 

The sun set over the ocean and our little hut at the end of the world was wrapped in a warm layer of shadow.

Late at night, after the sun had gone down, a few of us made our way BACK UP the hill in almost complete darkness to the lighthouse (the rest chose not to go and threatened to literally punch us if we talked ANY more that day about hiking up hills…). The view and experience at the top were completely worth the long hike up. We sat in silence next the lighthouse, on the top of a giant rocky cliff, watching the light beams circle the dark horizon. And we sat there under the cloudy, starless sky, listening to the ocean swell breaking on the blacks rocks below.

There is not much different to tell about the second day – the hike back. Dan, Lewis, and Jamie spent most of the morning plotting ways to find a ride on a boat home instead of walking, but eventually we all resigned ourselves to the trek. First, however, we needed more water – the six of us only had about two litres of water between us for the 16.3 km back, so, and at 10:30 am, the “Dolphin Seeker” cruise boat pulled near our rocky beach. Dan swam out to retrieve a large trash bag of water bottles while excited Japanese tourists on the deck above snapped photos of the poor hikers who hadn’t packed enough water.

On the long, hot, exhausting hike back, Jamie and Lewis almost disowned Jen and I as friends for bringing them along, Dan sprained his knee and spent the rest of the day hobbling along with a big stick, and we played way too many rounds of the “Latter Game”, but we made it back eventually, in a noisy cloud of football chants and curse words. We’d done it. Sweaty, odorous, and aching, we were back. It was a sweet feeling. We took the curves at a million miles on the way home and immediately went for fish burgers and chips, followed by a beer, followed, at long last, by a shower, and the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.

“This has gotta be what’s so great about backpacking,” Jamie noted, while hunched over his greasy Vinnie’s burger. “I’ve never, ever, had a burger that tasted so good.”

*Seriously, camping with Scotsmen is a whole new event. Instead of asking, “Right, do we have matches? Food? Shelter?” the only question is, “Who has the whiskey?” Then maybe, “Should we get some vodka as well?” We later discovered that Lewis’ pack contained a fifth of vodka, a bag of crisps, a bag of biscuits, and a stuffed sheep (“Licorice.”)

Speaking of camping with Scotsmen – I think the f-word was used about every other sentence, making the Scotsmen’s pain and supposed hatred of hiking even funnier to Liz and myself (although we tried to keep our laughter and amusement under control).


As we sat there at Vinnie’s, finishing our trip while eating fish burgers and chips, we felt surrounded by the love of our “family” here. Dan, with his sprained knee (probably from getting these sprinting "A-zones” where he would literally shoot ahead of everyone on the trail, running full speed down rocky passes to the laughter and amusement of everyone): a good guy who always looks out for us two girls and whose random comments sometimes cause us literally to fall over with laughter. Lewis, our Scottish friend who lovingly “slags off” us girls just as if he was a little brother. Jamie, another truly good guy who always tries to keep us motivated and happy, and who always had a water bottle or banana ready when we thought we might be near collapse. We love them all, and can’t imagine living in Paihia without them. As much as threats were made while hiking up and down the cliffs (Lewis: “Liz and Jen said it would BLOODY take FOUR HOURS for this walk! *&#$.....) our "family’s” hike to Cape Brett brought us all together, and will always bring a smile to our faces. And even Jamie and Lewis reluctantly admit this. : )