To ease our readers’ minds, we are not and have not been in Christchurch. The earthquake there was horrible; the papers are full of shocking photos and it seems like the number of fatalities just keeps rising as the days go on. This one was much closer to the surface (just 5 km below as opposed to 33) than the one right before we came to NZ, in September. The destruction has been horrible. We’re tremendously lucky, really; in two or three weeks we’d probably have been in Christchurch.
Instead, here we are in the middle of the North Island; our thoughts are with the Christchurchians (or whatever they might be called), but our bodies are far away. I’m currently sitting on the comfiest couch EVER in the Rainbow Lodge in the city of Taupo, on Lake Taupo, New Zealand’s largest lake. Last night we camped a few km outside of town at a free campground on the river, but we moved into the city today so that we can have a couple drinks tonight (we hear of a pub with Bulmer’s cider on tap!) and not have to drive anywhere.
Our tents are outside on a wee strip of grass along the fence outside the hostel itself. In here, it reminds me of a small, hippie university: lots of bright colors and wind chimes, big shade trees, the smells of incense and coffee and cooking food, chipped ceramic mugs in solid colors lining the white shelves in the big kitchen, girls walking around barefoot in embroidered dresses.
This morning Jen and I hiked to the impressively blue Huka Falls and back; then we had a chilly swim in the wide, gorgeous river and drove into town. I finally got my chance to SAIL! We rented little 16’ boats on the lake and sailed around for an hour and a half; Jen and I in one boat, Jamie and Lewis in another, and Steven trying his hand at windsurfing (they only had one windsurfer.)
I gave Jen a proper lesson (she’s a sailing expert now) while Jamie and Lewis perfected their 360’s and tried to capsize the boat. : ) It was warm and sunny, there was a decent breeze, and the mountains of Tongariro National Park are just there in the background. When we brought the boats in, we dived cheerfully off the pier.
In short, our road trip (Achilles now running smoothly) continues to be awesome. We’ve just come from Rotorua, which is a thermal hotspot and smells like sulfur – we hiked there in an actual REDWOOD forest. Apparently kiwis brought over a bunch of Seqouia sempirvirens back in the late 1800’s and started a proper forest. It was gorgeous. We also took baths in hot mineral water, visited a giant Maori meeting house, and spent our nights plaqued by exceedingly noisy pukako birds. (Like small, shiny, black and blue chickens. The babies are goofy.)
Tomorrow we head to Tongariro to check out the mountains firsthand…
Friday, February 25, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Goodbye Paihia
Jen here - (This post was written a few days ago but wasn't able to be posted until today.)
We left Paihia yesterday morning.
We weren’t necessarily sad to leave the town of Paihia; we were really sad to leave our friends and co-workers. We’ll miss Jack and Ryona, the centabay owner and his daughter who first welcomed us to their family and to New Zealand. We’ll miss Holly, our fellow Centabay cleaner from Peru, who was always up for going out for a night of dancing. We’ll especially miss our Swiss “family.” We’ll miss Kelly, the owner of Swiss, who was always there to give advice and look out for us. As much as we gave here a hard time, she truly was a good boss. She was fair and treated all of her workers well. We’ll miss Peini, the Maori chef, who snuck us food and taught us about Maori culture. We’ll miss Julian and Jana, our German co-workers who were always smiling and up for…anything. We’ll miss Mani, our manager who*tried* to teach us all about being Maori gangster. :)
The day before we left, we packed up our bags, loaded up the car, said goodbye to Pam the landlady who still calls us all “Liz”, and moved out of the flat. We then checked into Centabay for one last night. We figured that we started our time in Paihia in Centabay and that we would end it in Centabay.
Liz and I had one last night working at Swiss and then after closing, Kelly had a small party for us on the deck. We put away all of the tables and chairs save a few, and sat on the deck reminiscing about the season. And as everyone parted, hugs and kisses were given and tears were shed.
We made a bunch of promises to see people again and so hopefully we’ll run into Holly in Queenstown, hopefully we’ll run into Jana and Julian along their travels in NZ…..but it’s horribly sad to think that we might never see some of these truly good people again. They were the friends who worked every day with us, went to the beach with us, drank with us, cooked with us, laughed and danced with us, shared secrets and gossiped with us, hugged us when we missed our family and friends back home……
We’ll really, really miss them.
Road Trip 101
(Liz here)
1. Never Gasp for Breath While Gazing Out to Sea (Turn Your Back on the Waves)
Saturday and Sunday nights, we camped at Taputaputa Bay, just south of Cape Reinga (the northern tip of New Zealand.) Another lesson could be, “Always choose the campground with the biggest waves.” We set up our tent with a couple dozen others on a stretch of grass looking out across a swath of white beach, with bright green bluffs and cliffs on either side and a roaring surf.
These were the biggest waves I have EVER swum in, and I’ve been in some biggies. Our estimates are probably biased (when a wave is spinning you around like a small piece of driftwood, it seems impossibly huge) but they were probably somewhere between 5’ and 8’ waves; people were actually surfing on them. It’s deliciously scary to see a wall of water that’s much higher than your head moving toward you in the surf. We spent a couple hours both days happily getting pummeled. Of course, we occasionally got slammed into the sandy bottom, or swallowed a big mouthful of seawater (hence our lesson learned), but we made sure never to go out deeper than waist-high.
2. Sea Water is No Good for Making Pasta
We cooked our first dinner in a pot of fresh sea water and it tasted horrible. It was so salty it made my throat hurt. There was also the unfortunate side effect of a crunchiness that pasta salad should not possess.
Luckily, as we were forlornly trying to down it on the picnic table, next to our mini tent and my little one burner propane stove (everyone else had these behemoth tent-houses and big portable grills) a small Asian woman came over and offered us fried rice. At first we kind of thought it was a joke, or a strange sales tactic, but turns out she had a leftover pot of homemade fried rice, and we must have looked pitiful enough to warrant it. It was delicious.
3. While Sandboarding, Keep Your Arms in Tight
Sunday afternoon, we rented two sandboards from a little petrol station and spent a couple hours exploring and sandboarding down the Giant Te Paki Sand Dunes on Ninety Mile Beach. It felt like we were in an endless desert or, even more, on the set of Star Wars on some distant planet.
Zooming down the dunes was pretty awesome, but I did have a magnificent roll towards the bottom when I stuck out my arm in a misaligned theory that I might guide my board and sent myself into an impressive triple barrel roll. I’m still rubbing sand out of my ears.
4. If You’re Going on a Really Long Road Trip, Make Sure You Have a Decent Car; and for God’s Sake, Change the Coolant if it’s Brown
You can probably see where I’m going with this.
Driving away from Cape Reinga yesterday morning, our little Toyota Corona (we have named him Achilles) started to make a horrible rattling noise. It sounded painful when you turned Achilles on, like we were slowly torturing him by allowing him to run. We cringed for twenty straight minutes until we hit the first petrol station, with the idea of pouring in some more oil; we were pretty low. Naturally, they had sold out of oil, so we struck on. Unfortunately, we were in the middle of nowhere with no garage, no mechanic, and so we decided to keep on and pull over at the nearest service station.
But two km later, the car sounded so painfully, loudly BAD that we pulled over, across the road from a small emu farm (I am not making this up.) When Steven popped the hood, a cloud of smoke rose out. We discovered a river of brown coolant merrily escaping from underneath the car. Achilles had been hit by the proverbial arrow, and we were in the middle of nowhere.
Over the next couple of hours, several events occurred: We discovered we had no cell phone coverage. Steven hitched a ride back up to the petrol station, where he called AA (the Automobile Association, of course) and the nearest garage to find out about towing. Meanwhile, the guy who lived on the farm across the street from where Achilles had fallen came home and drove over to check us out. He turned out to be a friendly, elderly South African who looked under the hood and proclaimed the problem to be our water pump; after which, he allowed us to feed his emus. (Emus are some scary creatures, lemme tell you – but they love bread.)
When Steven returned, he told us the cheapest option was to join the AA ($195 for a membership) and then immediately ask for a tow. However he hadn’t been able to do this over the phone because he doesn’t have a credit card – so we crossed the road and walked up to our new South African friend’s house, where he let us use his phone – AND hand feed his adorable calves. (Seriously, at this point for me it was basically worth the hassle.)
A few card games later, an enormous flat-bed truck arrived; we winched Achilles aboard, and Steven and Jamie went in the cab with the big Maori driver, while Jen and I sat in our car on the truck’s back. It was very bumpy and illegal up there, but an exciting experience. We got dropped off at the nearest garage – forty km further south, in the depressing small town of Hohoura. The mechanic offered us a sunny patch of grass next to the highway to camp on, quoted a staggeringly high estimate, and said it MIGHT be done tomorrow. Just as we were despairing, a small man waltzed over and offered us a tow to Kaitaia, the next reasonably sized city. “This guy looks like he’s about to rip the sh!# out of you,” he said. “Anyway, there’s a couple of us traveling together, we’re all helping each other out.”
So, two minutes later, we were hooking up our Corona to a muddy Jeep with a ROPE; albeit a thick rope, but rope nonetheless. The Jeep JUMPED the car he was traveling with so we could all get on the road, and we rolled out. Steven put the car in neutral and braked and steered; the rest of us sat in the Corona around him, marveling at the situation.
We made it to Kaitaia basically problem-free, and Brett, the Jeep man, dropped us off right in front of the Toyota garage, and even walked us in, where he knew everyone behind the counter, and introduced us as his ‘new friends.’ When we offered gas money, he threatened to “tow us right back again,” and told us to go get ourselves a beer.
This morning marks only the fourth day of being on the road, but the past three days have already taught us a number of valuable lessons:
1. Never Gasp for Breath While Gazing Out to Sea (Turn Your Back on the Waves)
Saturday and Sunday nights, we camped at Taputaputa Bay, just south of Cape Reinga (the northern tip of New Zealand.) Another lesson could be, “Always choose the campground with the biggest waves.” We set up our tent with a couple dozen others on a stretch of grass looking out across a swath of white beach, with bright green bluffs and cliffs on either side and a roaring surf.
These were the biggest waves I have EVER swum in, and I’ve been in some biggies. Our estimates are probably biased (when a wave is spinning you around like a small piece of driftwood, it seems impossibly huge) but they were probably somewhere between 5’ and 8’ waves; people were actually surfing on them. It’s deliciously scary to see a wall of water that’s much higher than your head moving toward you in the surf. We spent a couple hours both days happily getting pummeled. Of course, we occasionally got slammed into the sandy bottom, or swallowed a big mouthful of seawater (hence our lesson learned), but we made sure never to go out deeper than waist-high.
2. Sea Water is No Good for Making Pasta
We cooked our first dinner in a pot of fresh sea water and it tasted horrible. It was so salty it made my throat hurt. There was also the unfortunate side effect of a crunchiness that pasta salad should not possess.
Luckily, as we were forlornly trying to down it on the picnic table, next to our mini tent and my little one burner propane stove (everyone else had these behemoth tent-houses and big portable grills) a small Asian woman came over and offered us fried rice. At first we kind of thought it was a joke, or a strange sales tactic, but turns out she had a leftover pot of homemade fried rice, and we must have looked pitiful enough to warrant it. It was delicious.
3. While Sandboarding, Keep Your Arms in Tight
Sunday afternoon, we rented two sandboards from a little petrol station and spent a couple hours exploring and sandboarding down the Giant Te Paki Sand Dunes on Ninety Mile Beach. It felt like we were in an endless desert or, even more, on the set of Star Wars on some distant planet.
Zooming down the dunes was pretty awesome, but I did have a magnificent roll towards the bottom when I stuck out my arm in a misaligned theory that I might guide my board and sent myself into an impressive triple barrel roll. I’m still rubbing sand out of my ears.
I could probably come up with some lesson learned from our excursion to Cape Reinga, where we saw the meeting of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean (you can actually see an outstretching line of waves colliding) and ate beans on bread, or from my short solo hike from Cape Reinga back to our campsite (a beautiful coastal stretch that was supposed to take 2.5 hours and took me one – haHA!) There are lessons to be learned from sitting on the beach under a full moon and watching the waves after dark - or from sleeping in a three-man tent with four people and five hundred mosquitoes.
But the most important lesson we’ve learned so far is:
4. If You’re Going on a Really Long Road Trip, Make Sure You Have a Decent Car; and for God’s Sake, Change the Coolant if it’s Brown
You can probably see where I’m going with this.
Driving away from Cape Reinga yesterday morning, our little Toyota Corona (we have named him Achilles) started to make a horrible rattling noise. It sounded painful when you turned Achilles on, like we were slowly torturing him by allowing him to run. We cringed for twenty straight minutes until we hit the first petrol station, with the idea of pouring in some more oil; we were pretty low. Naturally, they had sold out of oil, so we struck on. Unfortunately, we were in the middle of nowhere with no garage, no mechanic, and so we decided to keep on and pull over at the nearest service station.
But two km later, the car sounded so painfully, loudly BAD that we pulled over, across the road from a small emu farm (I am not making this up.) When Steven popped the hood, a cloud of smoke rose out. We discovered a river of brown coolant merrily escaping from underneath the car. Achilles had been hit by the proverbial arrow, and we were in the middle of nowhere.
Over the next couple of hours, several events occurred: We discovered we had no cell phone coverage. Steven hitched a ride back up to the petrol station, where he called AA (the Automobile Association, of course) and the nearest garage to find out about towing. Meanwhile, the guy who lived on the farm across the street from where Achilles had fallen came home and drove over to check us out. He turned out to be a friendly, elderly South African who looked under the hood and proclaimed the problem to be our water pump; after which, he allowed us to feed his emus. (Emus are some scary creatures, lemme tell you – but they love bread.)
When Steven returned, he told us the cheapest option was to join the AA ($195 for a membership) and then immediately ask for a tow. However he hadn’t been able to do this over the phone because he doesn’t have a credit card – so we crossed the road and walked up to our new South African friend’s house, where he let us use his phone – AND hand feed his adorable calves. (Seriously, at this point for me it was basically worth the hassle.)
A few card games later, an enormous flat-bed truck arrived; we winched Achilles aboard, and Steven and Jamie went in the cab with the big Maori driver, while Jen and I sat in our car on the truck’s back. It was very bumpy and illegal up there, but an exciting experience. We got dropped off at the nearest garage – forty km further south, in the depressing small town of Hohoura. The mechanic offered us a sunny patch of grass next to the highway to camp on, quoted a staggeringly high estimate, and said it MIGHT be done tomorrow. Just as we were despairing, a small man waltzed over and offered us a tow to Kaitaia, the next reasonably sized city. “This guy looks like he’s about to rip the sh!# out of you,” he said. “Anyway, there’s a couple of us traveling together, we’re all helping each other out.”
So, two minutes later, we were hooking up our Corona to a muddy Jeep with a ROPE; albeit a thick rope, but rope nonetheless. The Jeep JUMPED the car he was traveling with so we could all get on the road, and we rolled out. Steven put the car in neutral and braked and steered; the rest of us sat in the Corona around him, marveling at the situation.
We made it to Kaitaia basically problem-free, and Brett, the Jeep man, dropped us off right in front of the Toyota garage, and even walked us in, where he knew everyone behind the counter, and introduced us as his ‘new friends.’ When we offered gas money, he threatened to “tow us right back again,” and told us to go get ourselves a beer.
This is how we find ourselves at the Main Street Lodge in Kaitaia, a place described in every guide book as nowhere you want to spend any amount of time. (The cashier at the supermarket literally laughed out loud when I asked if there was anything fun to do.) In a few hours, though, we should have Achilles back, with his brand new water pump, cam belt, clean coolant, and refilled oil (total bill: $660.60* – thank god we get to divide it by five), and the road trip will carry on!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Finally, a Few Photos...
The amazing view from our place of work...
Lewis, Steven (the new one!) and Jamie, our awesome Scottish flatmates and soon-to-be traveling companions. (And check out J and L's new tats...)
A view of our super cool flat!
And...the new car!!! Pretty sleek, eh?
Friday, February 11, 2011
“Where is your mother???”
Liz here:
When I was maybe ten or eleven years old, I was out on a canoeing trip with my parents and brother and our family friends, the Applegates, making eight of us in all, on a Michigan river. It was a beautiful late summer day, pretty hot out, and as we rounded a bend we came across an old railroad bridge with a few teenagers standing atop of it. As we watched, they leaped off one at a time: Splash! Splash! Splash! They hit the deep water with yelps of glee.
They spotted our canoes and yelled out to us to come join them and take a leap off the old bridge. By the time we’d paddled up to it, they were back on top. “Come on!” they yelled. “Get up here!”
“I don’t think so,” Claudia Applegate, basically my second mom, hollered back. “Where is your mother??”
“At home, where she should be!” one of them yelled back. By then the rest of us were already laughing. Since then, the line has become sort of an inside joke with us; whenever one of us four kids does something a little rash (and we’ve done our fair share of jumping off northern Michigan cliffs, and other exciting things), our understanding moms will sigh and say, “Where is your mother?”
Well, today I jumped off a bridge of my own. Jen and I, and Jamie, Lewis, Steven, and some German guy who turned up went on over to the Waitangi road bridge this afternoon and took turns jumping off. It’s quite high; nothing crazy, but twenty-something feet I’d guess. The water below is super deep, though, and the Maori kids jump off all the time so we knew it was safe. We all climbed over the rail, stood on the trestles sticking out, and jumped off, a few times each. Man, it’s such a rush, that moment when you push off and you can see the water below you and feel the fall.
The whole time, though, I was thinking about Claudia, and what she’d be asking. Unfortunately, both my mother and my mom number two are back in Michigan, and much too far away. All I can do, for the moment, is tell them the stories - because they’re at home, where they should be.
This is a shout out to my family and the Applegates: I wish you guys were here to share in the adventures with me. I miss ‘Gate time very, very much.
When I was maybe ten or eleven years old, I was out on a canoeing trip with my parents and brother and our family friends, the Applegates, making eight of us in all, on a Michigan river. It was a beautiful late summer day, pretty hot out, and as we rounded a bend we came across an old railroad bridge with a few teenagers standing atop of it. As we watched, they leaped off one at a time: Splash! Splash! Splash! They hit the deep water with yelps of glee.
They spotted our canoes and yelled out to us to come join them and take a leap off the old bridge. By the time we’d paddled up to it, they were back on top. “Come on!” they yelled. “Get up here!”
“I don’t think so,” Claudia Applegate, basically my second mom, hollered back. “Where is your mother??”
“At home, where she should be!” one of them yelled back. By then the rest of us were already laughing. Since then, the line has become sort of an inside joke with us; whenever one of us four kids does something a little rash (and we’ve done our fair share of jumping off northern Michigan cliffs, and other exciting things), our understanding moms will sigh and say, “Where is your mother?”
Well, today I jumped off a bridge of my own. Jen and I, and Jamie, Lewis, Steven, and some German guy who turned up went on over to the Waitangi road bridge this afternoon and took turns jumping off. It’s quite high; nothing crazy, but twenty-something feet I’d guess. The water below is super deep, though, and the Maori kids jump off all the time so we knew it was safe. We all climbed over the rail, stood on the trestles sticking out, and jumped off, a few times each. Man, it’s such a rush, that moment when you push off and you can see the water below you and feel the fall.
The whole time, though, I was thinking about Claudia, and what she’d be asking. Unfortunately, both my mother and my mom number two are back in Michigan, and much too far away. All I can do, for the moment, is tell them the stories - because they’re at home, where they should be.
This is a shout out to my family and the Applegates: I wish you guys were here to share in the adventures with me. I miss ‘Gate time very, very much.
Friday, February 4, 2011
New Friends and Rugby Games
The five of us were sitting around the living room Thursday night, playing “Name that Song” and laughing hysterically, when Jen suddenly shouted, “There goes the hedgehog!” She’d seen him (my under-the-window pal) scurry by just outside the big sliding glass door. Like a shot I had grabbed a dish towel (beware of spikes) and was after it. “It was a huge one,” Jen was saying as I myself scurried into the night.
He WAS huge. About three times the size of my little Pippo at home: the size of a rotund puppy or a very, very small cat. I found him sitting quietly under a spiky bush, very still, like it might make him invisible. I readied myself for a chase, but when I settled the towel over him, he didn’t even budge. I just picked him up. It was almost too easy.
It was basically, like, the coolest thing that has ever happened to me. Jeff (he was thus titled by Steven, for reasons unknown) was an extremely chill hedgehog. Within minutes, his spikes were laying flat, enabling some nice petting. I ditched the towel.
I did let him back out into the yard eventually, but it’s nice to know he’s around whenever I want a good cuddle.
In other news, last night we attended my first ever professional rugby game: The Auckland Blues vs. the Wellington Hurricanes. It was a pre-season game, but the stands were still quite packed and excitement was high. There were more people in Kerikeri than I’ve seen yet.
Watching rugby is extremely exciting, especially when it’s all taking place just a few meters away. Guys get smashed into the ground or skid along the grass for several feet. It was a fast-paced game: lots of running, some very poor kicking. The final score was 33-22 (Blues won.) And the THIGHS of these guys. Holy crap. They’re literally the size of tree trunks.
Afterwards, Jamie and Lewis (major rugby fans) got the autographs of their favorite All Blacks players (the All Blacks is New Zealand’s very, very good international team.) Also I hugged one of them. He was extremely sweaty.
He WAS huge. About three times the size of my little Pippo at home: the size of a rotund puppy or a very, very small cat. I found him sitting quietly under a spiky bush, very still, like it might make him invisible. I readied myself for a chase, but when I settled the towel over him, he didn’t even budge. I just picked him up. It was almost too easy.
It was basically, like, the coolest thing that has ever happened to me. Jeff (he was thus titled by Steven, for reasons unknown) was an extremely chill hedgehog. Within minutes, his spikes were laying flat, enabling some nice petting. I ditched the towel.
I did let him back out into the yard eventually, but it’s nice to know he’s around whenever I want a good cuddle.
In other news, last night we attended my first ever professional rugby game: The Auckland Blues vs. the Wellington Hurricanes. It was a pre-season game, but the stands were still quite packed and excitement was high. There were more people in Kerikeri than I’ve seen yet.
Watching rugby is extremely exciting, especially when it’s all taking place just a few meters away. Guys get smashed into the ground or skid along the grass for several feet. It was a fast-paced game: lots of running, some very poor kicking. The final score was 33-22 (Blues won.) And the THIGHS of these guys. Holy crap. They’re literally the size of tree trunks.
Afterwards, Jamie and Lewis (major rugby fans) got the autographs of their favorite All Blacks players (the All Blacks is New Zealand’s very, very good international team.) Also I hugged one of them. He was extremely sweaty.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
We Are Not in the United States
Liz Here:
I’m currently reading a nonfiction book from the library called “Lunch in Paris,” about a young American woman who moves to Paris. For how different New Zealand is from France, it’s amazing how much many of her experiences mirror ours here.
Before coming here, I’d never appreciated the infinite conveniences that come from living in the United States: the variety of stores, the fact that you can get something to eat after ten pm, the amount of gas stations, Meijers. The ability to drive to a place that is open 24/7 and pick up some potting soil, potato chips, organic couscous, DVDs, and lingerie all in one go? That is distinctly American, it turns out. Especially if you can get all of those things without breaking the bank, or even a hundred dollar bill. (Depending on the lingerie, maybe not even a fifty.)
There’s this part of the book where the author, Elizabeth Bard, is talking about how her friends and family just don’t get the difficulties of being in this other country. Her mom is visiting, back when she’s living in England, and comments on how horrible the curtains are. “Why don’t we just go get some new ones?” she says. This is Elizabeth’s response:
I looked at my clock; it was nine pm on a Sunday. The comment made me instantly and disproportionately furious. It was as if my mother didn’t realize she’d gotten on a plane at all. There are exactly three stores in central London that sell curtains, all of them are on the other side of the city, and none of them is even close to being open at nine pm on a Sunday night. Do you see a car? Do you see a shopping mall? Is there a Bed, Bath, and Beyond between here and the tube station? No, no, and no, we CAN’T just go buy some new curtains.
I know everyone at home means well, the very best, in fact, but back in the U.S. I imagine it’s hard to grasp the realities of Paihia, or a place where we lack access to both a car and public transportation. (There is no such thing as “city buses”; the only buses are massive tour ones that run twice a day between the biggest cities.)
“How could I make [my mom] understand that just going to post office…was sometimes an all-day project?” Bard writes. “My friend Amanda asked…’So, when do you think you’ll be going back to work?’ I didn’t know how to say it any other way: ‘Honey, this IS work.’”
In the beginning, Jen and I got so many suggestions about how to make our time more fulfilling: “Why don’t you just find a clinic to volunteer at? A park to work for? Go see more places?” It sounds so easy, I know. But here, you don’t “just do.” We don’t have internet. We don’t have cars. Our phones often run out of credit, and we can’t get anywhere open to top them up for maybe a day, or longer. When you want to go somewhere, it’s probably closed, even if it’s supposed to be business hours. And there are no nature centers or clinics needing volunteers in Paihia. The biggest grocery store here doesn’t even sell coffee filters, for god’s sake.
I’ve stopped holding a grudge against this little town; at least, pretty much. I just know that I’m appreciating our big country of convenience stores, buses, and opportunities way, way more than I ever did before. Here is my homework for everybody: Drive to a Meijer this week, or a Whole Foods, or even just your local GAS station. You don’t need to buy anything. Just revel at the huge array of choices spread before you.
I’m currently reading a nonfiction book from the library called “Lunch in Paris,” about a young American woman who moves to Paris. For how different New Zealand is from France, it’s amazing how much many of her experiences mirror ours here.
Before coming here, I’d never appreciated the infinite conveniences that come from living in the United States: the variety of stores, the fact that you can get something to eat after ten pm, the amount of gas stations, Meijers. The ability to drive to a place that is open 24/7 and pick up some potting soil, potato chips, organic couscous, DVDs, and lingerie all in one go? That is distinctly American, it turns out. Especially if you can get all of those things without breaking the bank, or even a hundred dollar bill. (Depending on the lingerie, maybe not even a fifty.)
There’s this part of the book where the author, Elizabeth Bard, is talking about how her friends and family just don’t get the difficulties of being in this other country. Her mom is visiting, back when she’s living in England, and comments on how horrible the curtains are. “Why don’t we just go get some new ones?” she says. This is Elizabeth’s response:
I looked at my clock; it was nine pm on a Sunday. The comment made me instantly and disproportionately furious. It was as if my mother didn’t realize she’d gotten on a plane at all. There are exactly three stores in central London that sell curtains, all of them are on the other side of the city, and none of them is even close to being open at nine pm on a Sunday night. Do you see a car? Do you see a shopping mall? Is there a Bed, Bath, and Beyond between here and the tube station? No, no, and no, we CAN’T just go buy some new curtains.
I know everyone at home means well, the very best, in fact, but back in the U.S. I imagine it’s hard to grasp the realities of Paihia, or a place where we lack access to both a car and public transportation. (There is no such thing as “city buses”; the only buses are massive tour ones that run twice a day between the biggest cities.)
“How could I make [my mom] understand that just going to post office…was sometimes an all-day project?” Bard writes. “My friend Amanda asked…’So, when do you think you’ll be going back to work?’ I didn’t know how to say it any other way: ‘Honey, this IS work.’”
In the beginning, Jen and I got so many suggestions about how to make our time more fulfilling: “Why don’t you just find a clinic to volunteer at? A park to work for? Go see more places?” It sounds so easy, I know. But here, you don’t “just do.” We don’t have internet. We don’t have cars. Our phones often run out of credit, and we can’t get anywhere open to top them up for maybe a day, or longer. When you want to go somewhere, it’s probably closed, even if it’s supposed to be business hours. And there are no nature centers or clinics needing volunteers in Paihia. The biggest grocery store here doesn’t even sell coffee filters, for god’s sake.
I’ve stopped holding a grudge against this little town; at least, pretty much. I just know that I’m appreciating our big country of convenience stores, buses, and opportunities way, way more than I ever did before. Here is my homework for everybody: Drive to a Meijer this week, or a Whole Foods, or even just your local GAS station. You don’t need to buy anything. Just revel at the huge array of choices spread before you.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wild Hogs
Liz here:
I bring to you today POSSIBLY THE MOST EXCITING NEWS YOU HAVE HEARD THIS WEEK:
THERE IS A WILD HEDGEHOG LIVING OUTSIDE OF OUR APARTMENT.
Everyone’s been saying they have wild hedgehogs here. I’ve heard tales of hog sightings outside people’s front doors, or crossing the road, or hiding in hedges. But I certainly hadn’t seen one, and frankly, I was beginning to suspect it was a fantastical myth.
(Quick note to those of you reading this who don’t know me that well: I LOVE hedgehogs. I have one, at home – a wee little guy named Pippo who is ridiculously adorable. I find their snorts and spikes nothing but endearing. So, lemme tell you – a country where they roam the streets is a country I have a fondness for.)
So just as the reality of them roaming the streets was becoming doubtful, last night as I was falling asleep I heard a familiar snuffling and snorting outside the window. Something was huffing, puffing, moving around in the shrubbery. “Oh my god, it’s a hedgehog,” I whispered in delight, and immediately got up to find my headlamp and an old, empty fuel bottle. I put on the light and leaned out the window, dropping the bottle into the middle of the bushes.
I expected the little guy to come running out, but all that happened was that the night went silent. I peered around, shining the light as far as it would reach – but nothing. Still, I KNEW. There was a hedgehog right outside.
This morning, in the bright light of day, I went on a reconnaissance mission. Sure enough, in the shrubby bushes under my window, I found him. A fat, spiky, brown and white hedgehog asleep in a handmade leafy nest. I was fantastically delighted. Within minutes I’d brought out all of my housemates to take a look. They suggested scooping him up and keeping him as a pet in a bucket, but I prefer to think of him out there in the wild, eating bugs and going exploring right outside as I sleep peacefully, just meters away.
All of a sudden I like New Zealand just a little bit more.
I bring to you today POSSIBLY THE MOST EXCITING NEWS YOU HAVE HEARD THIS WEEK:
THERE IS A WILD HEDGEHOG LIVING OUTSIDE OF OUR APARTMENT.
Everyone’s been saying they have wild hedgehogs here. I’ve heard tales of hog sightings outside people’s front doors, or crossing the road, or hiding in hedges. But I certainly hadn’t seen one, and frankly, I was beginning to suspect it was a fantastical myth.
(Quick note to those of you reading this who don’t know me that well: I LOVE hedgehogs. I have one, at home – a wee little guy named Pippo who is ridiculously adorable. I find their snorts and spikes nothing but endearing. So, lemme tell you – a country where they roam the streets is a country I have a fondness for.)
So just as the reality of them roaming the streets was becoming doubtful, last night as I was falling asleep I heard a familiar snuffling and snorting outside the window. Something was huffing, puffing, moving around in the shrubbery. “Oh my god, it’s a hedgehog,” I whispered in delight, and immediately got up to find my headlamp and an old, empty fuel bottle. I put on the light and leaned out the window, dropping the bottle into the middle of the bushes.
I expected the little guy to come running out, but all that happened was that the night went silent. I peered around, shining the light as far as it would reach – but nothing. Still, I KNEW. There was a hedgehog right outside.
This morning, in the bright light of day, I went on a reconnaissance mission. Sure enough, in the shrubby bushes under my window, I found him. A fat, spiky, brown and white hedgehog asleep in a handmade leafy nest. I was fantastically delighted. Within minutes I’d brought out all of my housemates to take a look. They suggested scooping him up and keeping him as a pet in a bucket, but I prefer to think of him out there in the wild, eating bugs and going exploring right outside as I sleep peacefully, just meters away.
All of a sudden I like New Zealand just a little bit more.
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