THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY

PART I: THE GOOD

I needed to get out of town. There had been a series of annoying events in my life (more on that later) and a change of scenery was in order, so I hopped back on the Stray bus for a four-day loop around New Zealand’s southern coast. It was a relief.

First stop was Milford Sound. The ride to and from there was astounding. We drove alongside Lake Te Anau and were soon surrounded by mountains and rain forests. Eventually we encountered enormous walls of rock with countless little waterfalls cascading down into the valley. Awesome stuff.

Milford Sound was one of the four or five places I promised myself to see while in New Zealand. Above, you will see what Milford Sound looks like in good weather (I did not take this photo). Below, you will see what Milford Sound looks like in a deluge, which is what I encountered. Instead of giant mountains next to the sea, I saw thousands of raging waterfalls. The area has one of the wettest climates of the planet (roughly 20 feet of rain annually) and we felt every drop. I could only stay on our boat’s deck for a couple of minutes at a time for fear of destroying my camera. It was impressive, but the rain was a bummer. Gotta go back on a clear day.

That night we headed for the village of Tuatapere – the Sausage Capitol of New Zealand. We made a visit to a local farm where the owner demonstrated how to shear a sheep. I didn’t actually do it, but I got to hold a sheep down and then shove it down a slide into the “shorn bin.” It’s much more humane than it sounds.

Next morning we were off to Stewart Island. To get there, we took an hour-long cruise from the tip of the South Island. The weather was unusually warm (70s compared to 40s in Queenstown) and I contemplated taking a dip in the nice clean water. Too many sand flies, though. There is a tiny village on the island that reminded me of coastal Maine, but a bit more modern. I bet it is a nice place to stay for the summer. The island is actually quite large and undeveloped. I am sure that there are some nice long hikes to be had. Some of the other Stray people went fishing, so we had a nice big fish dinner. Yummy.

Early the next day we took the ferry back to Invercargill. I haven’t gotten seasick since I was 13, but I did that morning thanks to an empty stomach and the winds of the Roaring 40s. Once I got some food in my belly on dry land, I was fine. We spent the day driving through a beautiful area called the Catlins. I haven’t been to Ireland yet, but the Catlins resemble what Ireland looks like in my mind – impossibly green fields rolling gently towards a rocky coast. Very few people live in the Catlins, so there is little to spoil the beauty of the place. It was the perfect antidote to the majestic but imposing landscape back at Milford. We stopped at a beach and found a rather surly sea lion on the beach. She had a tag on one of her flippers and kept shooing us away with sand.

That night we arrived in the city of Dunedin (pronounced dunn-NEED-in). I had been sleeping on the bus and it was a bit of a surprise to wake up in a city. Many of the local people are of Scottish decent and there is a definite Scottish feel to the place (Dunedin is Gaelic for Edinburgh). There are lots of gothic buildings and gargoyles. Also in town is the Speight’s Brewery. Speight’s is one of New Zealand’s top selling beers, and we did a brewery tour. I didn’t pay much attention to the process, but we got to do a tasting at the end. Again, yummy. I liked Dunedin and wished that we had more time there, but we were off early the next morning. We made a couple of stops along the way. One was a beach north of Dunedin where there are weird boulders that resembled the alien pods from “Cocoon.” The dead stingray was sort of cool, too.

It was a beautiful but long drive back to Queenstown. We made one last stop in the town of Cromwell where there is a bridge over a great big lake. Our driver told us that Stray staff members all have to jump off the bridge during their training trips and that we should all do it. I was a bit hesitant, as the water was freezing and the bridge was about 30 feet up, but some Dutch kid and I did it anyway. Below you will see the precise moment when we hit the water. Several gallons of water went up my ass. It still hurts.

PART II: THE BAD

(No Photos Necessary)

Here on the other side of the world, it is winter. It is cold. Not Boston in January cold, but cold. As I write this, a flurry is dusting the trees outside with snow. The surrounding mountains are magnificent. Down in Queenstown, the annual Winter Festival is in full swing with parades, concerts and other events. The ski fields (down here they call them “fields,” not “slopes”) are open and everyone in town seems to be in a good mood… everyone, that is, except the residents of Chateau Ugo.

Chateau Ugo is the name I have given to the house I have been living in for the past two months. It is named for Ugo, the Brazilian guy whose name is on the lease. Every Wednesday, my fellow flatmates and I give Ugo our rent money and he delivers it to whomever it is that actually owns the house. At first, he seemed like a nice enough guy. He appeared to be a laidback dude with decent taste in music. The other residents of the house were cool, and the rent was ridiculously cheap considering the house’s location. I figured that I had lucked out and made a terrific find. How wrong I was. Simply put, Ugo is a douchebag.

The shit really started to hit the fan when the refrigerator broke down. The moment I noticed it, I alerted Ugo. Seeing as the fridge preserved the food of five people, including Ugo’s, you’d figure that he’d do the responsible pseudo-landlord thing and call the refrigerator repair shop the next morning. Nope. For two long weeks, we went without a fridge. All of us had to completely alter the way we shop for food, being careful not to purchase perishables. I pressed Ugo on this issue several times. You’d think that in the age of cellphones he could have made a simple call on his lunch brake and have the whole situation solved, but no. I was the one who actually called the repair place to make an appointment. That appointment was eventually cancelled when Ugo decided to rent a new fridge instead of fixing the old one. Since all of us had to throw away a bunch of food, you’d think he might compensate us monetarily. Nope. Not only did he not give us anything, he decided that it made sense to charge us an extra $5 per week for the privilege of having a working fridge. We bitched and moaned about this, but he wouldn’t budge. Dick.

During the same time period, we ran out of firewood (I know that I griped about this issue in my last post – deal with it!). Neither central heating nor proper insulation come standard in New Zealand, so a regular supply of firewood is necessary to keep the house warm. We had no wood for two weeks and could see our breath in the living room. You think Ugo made the call for the eventual wood delivery? Of course not. That was left to Ivan, our other Brazilian roommate who was smart enough to jet off to Fiji because he was sick of Ugo’s shit. And it was I, not Ugo, who stayed home to receive the wood delivery when it actually arrived. Oh yeah, I was there to receive the $5/a week fridge, too.

Once Ivan left, Ugo decided that he needed to have another one of his countrymen in the house. Enter Jose. Jose was a nice guy. Another Brazilian, he was about 6’2” and had a gut that could gestate triplets. Unfortunately, his grasp of the English language was even worse than Ugo’s. Seriously, he didn’t speak a word. Verbal communication was impossible. At least with Ivan, I could talk. Living with Jose was akin to living with a Samba-obsessed Teletubby. Jose left a couple of weeks ago and was replaced by Tiago… Jose’s brother. Seemingly every night, we get a steady stream of Brazilians coming over to party with Ugo and Tiago. Guitars, smoke, and the Portuguese language blast through the halls ‘til the wee hours.

All this has taken its toll on my fellow housemates and me. Max (from Argentina) is leaving for Tahiti on Thursday (lucky bastard) and can’t wait to go. Julia (from France) has had it the worst. She’s been here for six months. Before I arrived, she had arranged to share her room with a female friend of hers from back home. Two days before the girl was to arrive, Ugo moved Ivan into the room without saying a word to Julia about it. Who knows what happened to her friend? One day, Julia closed a door a bit too loudly for Ugo’s taste and he threatened to throw her out on the street. Had he actually done that, I would have called the cops immediately. As usual, he was all talk.

The last straw was yet another goddamn issue with the refrigerator. Ugo tried to convince Julia, Max and me that since he bought the original fridge himself (which is laying dormant on the porch) and that it broke down while we all were living here, that we each owed him $40 because all of us could have done something to bring about its demise. Bull…….shit. We all refused. Julia and I both gave him our two weeks notice and announced our intent to leave the house. Julia is perfectly content to live in her car (she did it all winter last year) and I would rather be in a hostel than put up with this crap anymore. Since we gave our notice, the house has gotten even more Carnival-esque. I met the dude who will replace Max as my roommate. Three guesses which country he’s from. With all due respect to the millions of decent Brazilians out there (what’s up, Gaya!), if I wanted to party like I’m in Rio each night, I would have skipped New Zealand and stayed in Framingham.

I’m sure that it will improve around here, but man, it’s taking a long damn time! It’s been more than two months since I arrived in Queenstown, and I just now am starting a steady job! Starting this week, I will be waiting/bartending at a restaurant in town. I still might have to get another side gig to keep the money flowing. I’m looking at other flats now, and they aren’t cheap. It will be a massive relief when I get one. Expensive or not, it will be worth it.

PART III: THE UGLY

Behold John Travolta in "Hairspray." L. Ron Hubbard almighty!

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN(STOWN)

It has been more than a month since I arrived in Queenstown. It has been occasionally fun and often frustrating. As I wrote in my last entry, I arrived at an awkward time to be job hunting. This is a ski town and the snow won’t arrive until June, so most places are not hiring seasonal employees just yet. It will be a big relief when they do! Until then, I shall continue to do the temp jobs that have kept me busy over the last few weeks.

My primary temp job has been picking grapes on local vineyards. Lots of you at home have asked me about this - Is it as beautiful as I imagine? Do you get to stomp the grapes? What kinds of grapes? Which wine label? Do you get any free wine? What are the working conditions? How do they treat you? Does this give you any insight into the plight of the world’s migrant workers? And so on…

Here’s the deal. Most of the vineyards I worked on were about an hour outside of Queenstown, so I usually woke up at about 5:30AM and walked into town where my fellow workers and I were picked up in vans and driven out to the vineyards. Once we arrived, we were given buckets and pruning shears and proceeded to walk down the enormous lines of vines snipping off the good grapes, and then dumping them into huge tractor bins. We got three breaks over the course of the day and then were driven back to Queenstown. Not much to it, really. Almost all of the pickers were other travelers and I had lots of interesting conversations with people from all over – the USA, England, Scotland, Chile, Brazil, Uruguay, France, Japan, Israel, Mexico, Italy, Argentina, Germany and other spots. It was nice to be working outdoors and usually the locations were usually quite pretty. We picked Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir, and Riesling. Riesling was the worst because they burst easily and made everything sticky. Oh, yeah. No grape stomping or free wine. Frosty mornings weren’t much fun either.

Most of the picking was for Gibbston Valley Wines and a couple of other winemakers. The owners were nice, for the most part. One of them was a guy from Providence who came to Queenstown to ski twenty years ago and never left. He had an interesting habit of wavering between his native Rhode Island accent and his adopted Kiwi one. On my last day we worked at a place closer to town where the owner was a bit of a dick. He and his daughter micromanaged everything to an insane degree. We were discouraged from talking too much, as it would slow us down and it was costing him a lot of money (minimum wage) to give us the privilege of picking his grapes. He even fired an English guy because his picking method was a bit too efficient when compared to his own. Turd.

As for gaining insight into the plight of migrant workers… well… every job I have had since college has only lasted a few months. Only one had health benefits. Work has taken me to the mountains of New Hampshire, abandoned insane asylums around Boston, the Mojave Desert, the sprawl of Los Angeles, the streets of New York City, and now vineyards in New Zealand. I haven’t had a room to myself for seven months. I’m short, tan, and can speak Spanish. Who are we kidding? I AM a migrant worker.
The harvest is done for the year, so I’ll continue doing temp jobs until places start staffing up. I spent last week working in a timeshare complex where I had to clean and then reseal the coating on stone tile floors. That sucked. I also had to replace about twenty beds and mattresses. That was an easy gig, but it made me realize how weak my arms have gotten over the last few months. Overall, I have lost some weight and my legs are strong from walking everywhere, but whatever upper body strength I had before (granted, there wasn’t much) has gone to crap from lack of exercise. Gotta start doing pushups or something.

My house is interesting. I am the only native English speaker. My roommate Max is from Argentina, but his family is from the blondest corner of Austria. I get to practice my Spanish with him, which is cool. Also in the house is Julia from Paris who is never home much and two Brazilian guys, Ugo and Ivan. Ugo is our landlord and is into music in a big way. Ivan has traveled all over the place and speaks English, Spanish, Italian, and probably a few other languages. He is a concierge at the nicest hotel in town and has lots of interesting stories about the super-rich guests that stay there. With the exception of illegal drugs, he will hook the guests up with whatever they request. This includes whores, as prostitution is actually legal in New Zealand. Every big town has at least one brothel, and there was a funny article I read recently about a formerly quiet, churchy mountain town that has now turned into a low-rent sex resort. And no, Mum, I haven’t partaken.

My house is also very cold. Apparently, Kiwis do not believe in central heating. Every house I have seen in Queenstown has a wood burning stove in the living room, space heaters for the bedrooms, and very little in the way of insulation. Problem – we just ran out of firewood and it will take a few days for a new delivery to come in. Also, I don’t have a space heater for my bedroom yet so I have to get bundled up in my sleeping bag. Having just enjoyed two summers back to back, the cold is kicking my ass and it’s gonna get colder.
As for Queenstown, it has its charms and its annoyances. For scenery, it is hard to beat. The mountain views are stunning, and will be even more gorgeous once the snow arrives. All the crazy adventure activities are at my fingertips, but I haven’t had the time or money to enjoy them yet. The cultural breakdown here is quite different from other spots I have been. The farther south you get in New Zealand, the whiter it gets (unless you count all the Brazilians). In the five weeks that I’ve been in Queenstown I have met tons of travelers and immigrants, but sadly not many locals. I miss the Maori influence that was much more dominant up north. Sometimes it feels like I could be in any ski town in the world and not necessarily New Zealand. There are way more Americans down here than I have met elsewhere in New Zealand, which is actually kind of nice. Sometimes it’s a relief to hear another voice like mine that doesn’t give a shit about soccer, rugby, or (most especially) cricket.
I’ve been hanging out with a lot of Brits lately, and I’ve made some interesting observations. These people have a deep, passionate love for the song “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers. There has not been a single night I have been out on the town where I haven’t heard it played at least seventeen times to the delight of Her Majesty’s spastic younger subjects. I am not a huge Killers fan. They have some good songs and the lead singer’s got a decent voice, but they’re a bit too Euro-synthy-prettyboy-dandyish for my personal taste. Like most people, I assumed they were British upon first hearing them, so I suppose it makes sense that the Brits love them. When I learned that they’re actually from Las Vegas, I was quite surprised. I’m not exactly sure what I expected a band from Las Vegas to sound like, but it wasn’t The Killers. Anyway, I think I could live a very happy life without hearing “Mr. Brightside” ever again.
The Brits (and really the entire Commonwealth) have a similar affection for the movie “American Pie.” I like “American Pie” just fine. It’s a funny movie. I even saw “American Pie 2” in the theater. I didn’t bother with “American Wedding.” I assumed that the world’s appetite for the naughty sexual hijinks of American teenagers had been satisfied. How wrong I was. At my local video store, I counted no less than five “American Pie” movies and they were all rented out. I asked my English buddy Xander why they love these movies so much. He’s a little younger than me, and he said that it was the first time he’d seen a funny movie about teenagers having sex. Granted, I have seen more movies than most sane people and was born in the 1970s, which makes me old, but have “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and all the lame teen sex comedies that followed it faded so quickly from the zeitgeist? Don’t young people today know that Eugene Levy walking in on Jason Biggs having sex with a pie is just an echo of Phoebe Cates walking in on Judge Reinhold pleasuring himself? Or that Sean Penn used to be funny? It’s all very sad. Anyway, so passionate is the former British Empire’s craving for all things “American Pie” that any movie that has horny teenagers doing funny things (i.e. “Eurotrip”) gets billed as “in the spirit of ‘American Pie.’” Surely there are horny teenagers in England. If they love these movies so much, why isn’t there an “English Pie” franchise?

So, yeah. It will be a big relief when a steady job comes along, not only so that I can enjoy all the crazy stuff in Queenstown but also to let me see some of the other spots nearby. It’s less than a two-hour drive to Milford Sound, which is very high on my list of places to see, as are Glenorchy, Christchurch and Dunedin. Until then, I’ll just keep on keepin’ on and searching for firewood.

FINDING NEVERLAND

I know, I know. Almost a month with no updates. Shameful. I’ve been kinda busy.
The first of April was a busy day. I got up early to catch the 8:30 ferry from Wellington to the South Island. The weather was nice, and I got lots of pretty pictures of the harbor, Cook Strait, and the fantastic coves and forests on the way into Picton. The whole trip took about three hours. I picked up the Stray bus, and a quick stop at a winery we were off to Abel Tasman National Park.

Remember “Hook,” Steven Spielberg’s flawed attempt to update the Peter Pan story? One thing that always bothered me about that movie, even as a 13 year-old, was how artificial the Neverland scenes looked. The sunlight wasn’t natural and the sets… well… they looked like sets. The design team obviously put an enormous amount of work into creating them, but I was always conscious of the fact that the whole thing was built and filmed on a soundstage. It never came to life for me. In my imagination, Neverland was a lush, beautiful place with sparkling waters, green mountains, and little coves filled with sexy mermaids - not some art department wank-fest. In my imagination, Neverland looks like Abel Tasman National Park.
The park is named for the Dutch explorer Abel Tasman, who is credited with being the first European to spot New Zealand. The waters of the park are an amazing shade of translucent green. There are dozens of little islands and coves, all covered with lush greenery. Imagine the coast of Maine with its craggy rocks and rolling hills, but with swimmable water and you start to get the picture.

I did a four-hour hike with some of the people from the Stray bus – a young couple from England, a girl from Scotland, and a girl from Canada who was undoubtedly most hyperactive human being I have encountered in my 28 years. She was sweet, but she was so relentlessly perky that I wanted to suffocate her with my quick-dry towel. I managed to enjoy the hike anyway. We walked through the coastal forest and met up with a catamaran in a gorgeous little inlet. When we first stepped on the beach, I spotted a stingray in the water. After a quick lunch, we went sailing, which was terrific. The weather was perfect.
The next day, we headed down the spectacular west coast. Lush does not begin to describe it - lots of big mountains, forests and crazy rocks for the surf to crash upon. After an overnight stay in Barrytown (there was a pub and a place to make your own knife, but no town to speak of), we headed for the town of Franz Josef and its glacier. With the exception of flying over Scandinavia and Greenland on my way back from Russia ten years ago, I had never seen a glacier before. It was pretty damn cool (no pun intended). It looks like, well… it looks like a giant river of ice flowing down a gorge. You know, something you want to climb!
So, yeah. I climbed a glacier. After being fitted with special boots, crampons, and a supercool ice picks, myself and eight others were guided up the… um… the glacier (sorry to keep using the word “glacier” - it has no synonyms). It was surreal. Seriously, how often do people get the chance to climb a fucking glacier? The guide was constantly using his pickaxe to chop steps out of the ice for us newbies. We had to squeeze through narrow passages and sometime jump from one block of ice to another. Slipping in the wrong place could have sent us down into icy caverns where a dark, icy death was pretty much guaranteed. The higher we climbed, the narrower the crevasses became. We got stuck in one for the better part of two hours. The guide tried very hard to find a way out, but we eventually turned around and headed back down. Once we got back down to the bottom, the guide pointed out just how far up we had climbed - about ¾ of the way up. I asked him how high up he usually takes people. He said that he had taken our group up higher than any group had gone in more than a year. That felt pretty badass. I slept well that night.

Oh yeah. Peeing on a glacier is interesting. The blue ice makes your urine appear day-glow yellow. It’s like cartoon pee.
The next couple of days consisted of more spectacular driving down the west coast. It was beautiful, but with one major drawback – the fucking sandflies. Sandflies fucking suck, literally. They are horrible little gnat-like creatures that crave human blood. The second we hopped off the bus to have lunch on the beach, they swarmed us. It was impossible to enjoy the views, they were so relentless. Fuck you, sandflies!
I hopped off the bus for four days in Wanaka. Wanaka is a beautiful little town on the edge of a huge lake and surrounded by the Southern Alps. There were some great walking trails with some terrific views.I considered trying to find a job and flat there, but it was kind of dull and expensive, nice views notwithstanding. Instead, I opted to seek my fortunes in Queenstown.

Ah, Queenstown! Spectacularly insane Queenstown! Man, did I pick the wrong week to show up! Upon my arrival on the Tuesday after Easter, I was suddenly surrounded by hundreds of Americans. I had gotten used to being the only American in New Zealand. No more. Hundreds of American college students who were studying in Australia had hopped over to Queenstown for their Easter break. And they were not backpackers. They were rich kids who had come to party. Queenstown had turned into an Alpine Cancun. Fittingly, I went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner where I was instantly reminded of my first nights out on the town during my days at Cape Cod Sea Camps, the nights when a large group of loud and indecisive frat/sorority kids would take over a restaurant, change their orders twice, demand separate checks, and generally drive the wait staff insane with their stupid requests. Man, did they piss me off. In light of my country’s current standing in the world community, I try to do my best to be courteous, patient, and informed – you know, the things Americans aren’t supposed to be. It’s tough to do that when you’re surrounded by a bunch of spoiled douchebags doing their damndest to reinforce the stereotypes. GGGGGggggggrrrr! Frustrating! Anyway, the TriDeltas took off over the weekend, and my job hunt began in earnest. Thanks top its dazzling geography and location, Queenstown is the biggest tourist destination in New Zealand. The skyline is dominated by an aptly named mountain range called the Remarkables, the most jagged, gothic mountains I’ve ever seen. They are reflected in the waters of fifty mile-long Lake Wakatipu. The activities are endless: skydiving, bungy jumping, jet boating, canyon swings, horseback riding, helicopter tours, mountain biking, sailing on an America’s cup boat, and skiing in the winter. There are hotels, bars and restaurants all over the place. Getting a hospitality job should be no problem for an experienced guy like myself, right? WRONG! We are in the early months of New Zealand’s autumn (they don’t call it fall). The summer folks have left, and the winter crowd won’t show up for six weeks. Everywhere I went, people told me “Come back in June.” Given my current financial situation, that doesn’t really work. I will most likely have to pick grapes on a vineyard or do hotel housekeeping for a few weeks until the town picks up a bit. What illegal Mexicans are to America, backpackers are to New Zealand.

At least I found a nice flat. It is a ten-minute walk from town, and is actually cheaper than my former digs in Taupo. Cleaner, too. I share a room with a guy from Argentina. Also in the house are two Brazilian guys and a French girl. They all speak English, which is a plus. The house is very quiet, so far. Kind of boring, too. I’m sure that I will have lots of fun around here once things get busy. Until then, I’ll just continue my current routine of dropping off resumes, admiring the mountain views, and perusing the local bookstore’s magazine rack without actually buying anything, which is exactly what I used to do in LA between film jobs. You can take the boy out of Hollywood, but you can’t take Hollywood out of the boy.

Speaking of Hollywood, I saw “300” a few days ago. It was entertaining, but so grotesque that I had to laugh out loud on several occasions where I think the director had intended me to be thrilled or titillated. Remember that “South Park” episode where they had a running tally of each time the word “shit” was uttered? Someone needs to do that with “300” counting the times the characters say “Sparta” (or, more accurately, “SPAAAAAAAAARRTAAAAAA!!!!). The movie never pretends to be realistic, and that’s part of its charm. Still, I have a funny feeling that ill-informed kids everywhere will believe that ancient Sparta was populated with a bunch of superbuff (and curiously blonde) dudes in their underwear who did battle with hordes of 9-foot tall Persian trannies and their mutant minions. Seriously, what was with that hunchback seduction orgy? There was actually an actor credited as “Transexual (Arabian) #3.” Jaysus! I hope he/she usues the success of "300" to launch a fantastic career. Allah knows that the world is craving more stories about Arabian transexuals.

On the Road Again… in Three Parts

It has been a crazy couple of weeks, so this is a long one.

(Huh-huh, huh-huh, I said "long one!")

PART I: THE TAUPO TRAP

I was going to leave Taupo on the 14th but I stayed until the 20th. I did this for two reasons. #1 – I wanted to do the Tongariro Crossing but the weather was bad, and #2 – I decided it would be more fun to do St. Patrick’s Day with the friends I made over the past three months rather than celebrating with strangers in Wellington. I am glad that I stayed, but it was an exhausting week of good-byes and partying. It was not a clean break.

I fell into what is known locally as The Taupo Trap. In a nutshell, The Taupo Trap is a phenomenon in which foreign travelers stop off in Taupo to work for a little while but end up staying much longer than expected. They typically get paid just enough to live, eat, and have fun, but not quite enough to move on to somewhere else. Inevitably, friendships and relationships spring up. People get comfortable and attached. Also, there are tons of things to do in Taupo (in summer at least). The lake, rivers, mountains and forests are beautiful and the nightlife is pretty damn good for such a small town. Taupo is a nice place, and it wouldn’t be a sad fate to stay there permanently. Buuuuuuuut, I only have a one-year visa and I had to get moving before the weather turns too cold to enjoy the great outdoors.

A couple of weeks before I left, the last girls moved out of the house I was living in. Thusly, the Rotokawa House mutated into a multinational testosterone-fueled flophouse. Burping, farting, and ball scratching increased exponentially. Beer was ever-present and the dishes were never, ever clean. Broken glass and cigarette filters littered our yard. I am pretty sure that Domino’s made at least two deliveries each day. Even when it was warm outside, someone was always stoking the wood-burning stove. One of my Kiwi flatmates had a runty Jack Russell terrier named Nevis who had a gum infection, a broken foot and liked to shit all over the place. I will not miss that dog. Interestingly, the house was much quieter after the girls left. Dudes are much less chatty when there are no ladies around to impress. Still, I sort of miss the place. I made a few good friends there and had some fascinating wallpaper (see below).

I was getting sick of my hair. It hadn’t been cut since late October and was getting a bit high-maintenance. After weighing the pros and cons of growing it long again, I resolved one night to buzz it all off… almost. I decided that I wanted to have a Mohawk for a day. My friends with hair clippers were happy to help out, and for roughly twelve hours I got in touch with my Native American roots and sported a very floppy Mohawk. I didn’t have the industrial strength gel that would have been necessary to keep my hair sticking up, so I finished the shaving job off the next morning. Woo hoo! No shampoo for at least two months!

St. Paddy’s Day was predictably crazy. The partying began early and didn’t quit. It was great to have a last hurrah with my newfound friends in Taupo, but it ended badly. After I went home for the evening and was getting ready for bed, I took a bit of a spill. It was pitch black in my room. Something was in the middle of the floor when it shouldn’t have been. Whatever it was, I tripped over it and did a faceplant on my carpet. My nose gushed blood and I got some minor rug burn on my face. Back in my senior year of high school, my anatomy teacher Mr. Platt warned all of us to be wary of injuries to the area between our eyes and the tip of our nose – an area he called The Danger Triangle. According to Mr. Platt, a harsh blow to The Danger Triangle could easily bring about one’s demise. Remembering that sage advice, I ran to the bathroom and cleaned up my nose. It didn’t take long. The next day I emerged from my room with scratches on my forehead and nose. With my freshly shaved head and facial injuries, I looked the part of an English football hooligan after a night of pints and punches. I wish I HAD been in a fight. It would have made a much better story.

PART II: THE FOOTSTEPS OF DOOM

I got back on the Stray bus on Tuesday morning. We headed for the untamed wilderness of Tongariro National Park and its famous walk, the Tongariro Crossing. The Tongariro Crossing is a roughly 10-mile trail through the volcanic areas of Mt. Ngauruhoe and Mt. Tongariro. Anyone who has seen the “Lord of the Rings” movies has seen this place on film. It was used to film many of the scenes where Frodo, Sam & Gollum are climbing up Mt. Doom. It is incredibly rugged, bizarre and awesome. Mt. Ngauruhoe (pronounced “Now–roo–ho–ee”) was amazing to behold. It is only about 2,000 years old and is perfectly conical. It last erupted in the 1970s. Some people in my group actually climbed to its summit, even though our driver told us we didn’t have enough time to do it. I wish I had gone with them.

Instead, I stayed to the track, which was nonetheless astounding. There were incredible rocky slopes, green and blue thermal lakes, red volcanic craters, steam rising from the ground, and endlessly breathtaking views. It was unlike anything I have ever seen before. The whole walk took about five hours and I’d love to do it again someday.

After a day’s rest, I went up Mt. Ruapehu, which was in the news recently. Two days before we arrived in the park, the crater lake at the mountain’s summit burst through its natural dam sending tons of water, mud and rock down into natural spillways for miles around. This kind of landslide is called a lahar (nope, I hadn’t heard that word before either). It went down the opposite side of the mountain, so we were never in any danger. In the winter, people ski down Ruapehu on the Whakapapa Ski Field. In the off season, you can take a chairlift a good way up the mountain for hiking and sightseeing, which looked pretty damn cool to me, so I did it.

The rocks on Ruapehu were incredibly jagged. It seems amazing that if I came back in only a couple of months, those rocks would be under several feet of snow, with thousands of skiers sliding gracefully down the slopes. This area was also used in “Lord of the Rings,” and I found myself in a similar predicament to Frodo & Sam at the beginning of “The Two Towers.” I was climbing over a bunch of rocks when the clouds rolled in. Neither I nor the weird South African guy I was climbing with could tell where we were going in such poor visibility. When the clouds lifted, we realized that we were going in circles. After that, we stuck to the marked trail.

PART III: WINDY WELLINGTON

The next day, we began the trek to Wellington. Along the way, we stopped to see some of the debris from the lahar. I am guessing that we were at least ten miles away from Ruapehu’s summit, and there was mud everywhere (check out the photo below). Pretty cool, especially since there were no human casualties, injuries, or even property damage. The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful – lots of farmland and sheep.

We arrived in Wellington in the late afternoon. It is a beautiful city and kicks the crap out of Auckland. It lives up to its nickname, Windy Wellington, as it lies at the southern tip of the North Island. The Cook Strait, which separates the two main islands, is a major bottleneck for winds that otherwise get stuck on New Zealand’s mountain ranges. Physically and atmospherically, Wellington is like a miniature San Francisco. There are steep hills and harbors all over the place and unlike Auckland, it is very compact and has a lot of character. I dig it.

Of course, Wellington is home to Peter Jackson’s many filmmaking enterprises. There are several tours one can take to see the moviemaking sights in the city. Instead of paying $100 to have some dude show me around, I decided to seek these spots out myself. It wasn’t hard. The “get off the road” scene from “The Fellowship of the Ring” was filmed in Mt. Victoria, a big public park within walking distance from my hostel. I’m pretty sure that I found the spot where the Black Rider first sniffs out the hobbits. If not, it sure looked like it. I also made my way over to the rather spooky neighborhood of Miramar, which is home to Weta Workshop, Weta Digital, Park Road Post, Camperdown Studios, and Stone Street Studios. Compared to the filmmaking facilities I’ve seen in the States, these studios are pretty small and unassuming (from the outside, at least). Park Road Post has a cool Frank Lloyd Wright-esque design, but the other buildings looked right at home next to the construction and automotive enterprises that surround them. It just goes to show that talented people with vision and ambition can make great movies without Hollywood’s grandiosity. Currently, the second “Narnia” movie is being shot there and I saw some signs for the art department for “Avatar,” James Cameron’s first movie since “Titanic.” I will definitely be checking this place out more after my loop of the South Island.

My face has healed up nicely, and I will probably stay in Wellington for a couple more days. There are lots of sights I still want to check out. I still have to book my ferry to the South Island and hope for good weather. It was a lot tougher to leave Taupo than I thought it would be, but I am loving the new places I am seeing and the people I am meeting. Everyone should come here sometime in their life.

Might As Well Jump!

I was bored last Thursday. After two and a half months of tending bar and riding around on my bike, life in Taupo had become a bit tedious. The crystal clear waters of Lake Taupo and the Waikato River had lost a bit of their allure and my second bungy jump didn’t give me quite the same jolt as the first. In an effort to liven my dreary existence, I did the natural thing and jumped out of a plane.

Skydiving is very popular here in Taupo. There are three competing skydive companies in town, and I have flatmates that work for each of them. Some work in the office. Some pack the parachutes. One pilots the planes. Two of them have made skydiving their careers and have jumped literally thousands of times. I figured it was time to take advantage of my connections and signed up to jump with the good people at Taupo Tandem Skydiving.

Upon my arrival at the hanger, I was fitted with a close-fitting jump suit that made me resemble a mentally challenged superhero. You get to choose to jump from an altitude of either 12,000 or 15,000 feet. Wannabe badass that I am, I opted for the full 15,000. If you’re gonna be a bear, be a grizzly.

We were all packed extremely tight on the plane. There were five or six jumpers with a tandem guide for each, and everyone was basically sitting in each other’s lap. My tandem jumper was a guy from Sweden named Markus whom I had met at a party a couple of weeks back. It was a relief to see a familiar face, but still a bit awkward as I was not only strapped to him but sitting snuggly in his crotch. Why is it that on this trip I keep finding myself in physically awkward situations with Swedish dudes named Markus (or Marcus)? Remember Swedish Marcus from Zorbing? There was also a cute Israeli girl on the plane named Moran. Think about it: if we were to have hit it off and gotten married, she would be Moran Moran. That’s almost as good as Tamarvin, eh Jeff? Gotta love those Israeli girls.

Anyway, seeing as skydiving combines several fears (flying, heights, falling, traveling at great speed, invasion of personal space, and general fear of death) into one giant phobic extravaganza, the tandem jumpers are trained to put you at ease. They do so by telling dirty jokes to break the tension. As the plane gained altitude and we all sat in a straddled mass, Markus decided it was time to test out his comic stylings:

“Hey Mike, what’s the difference between a hard-on and a Ferrari?”

“I don’t know, Markus.”

“I don’t have a Ferrari.”

Even though my flatmates had told me that my tandem guy would do this, I still think that’s a pretty good joke.

Once the plane reached 12,000 feet, the first group jumped out. Watching those people suddenly disappear was bizarre. One minute, you are riding in a plane with a bunch of strangers. The next, they are jumping out of the door and plummeting to the earth. We 15,000 footers still needed to climb for another 5 minutes or so as the air got thinner and thinner. I was the first one of our group to go. Markus pushed me towards the door and I dangled my legs out. I leaned back so that I could get my exit photo taken (see above), and then we jumped.

From 15,000 feet, you get a full minute of freefall. I spent the first 30 seconds screaming and looking straight down. Markus tapped me on the head, which was my reminder to put my arms out to feel the wind and have a look around. We spun around a bit and watched clouds fly by. The only sounds I remember were my own screams and the wind. It wasn’t scary so much as it was surreal. Complete sensory overload.

After falling 10,000 feet, Markus pulled the chute. It wasn’t a violent jerk the way you think it is from TV. It takes a few seconds to slow down, and then you still have a several minutes to slowly drift back to earth. It becomes very quiet. Markus spun us around so I could enjoy the spectacular views of the lake, mountains, and forests. I spent too much time looking straight down, which makes you dizzy. I began to wonder, if I were to vomit at that point, would the vomit fall at the same rate of speed or would it just drift away like the 12,000 foot jumpers? I managed to keep my lunch down, and we drifted to the surface. We landed in a field right next to the hanger. Solid ground never felt so good.

I paid my bill (TTS’s policy is that you pay “upon survival”) and got my ride back into town. So much adrenaline was pulsing through my body that I could barely speak or form coherent sentences for the first hour. I went to bed early that night.

In other news, for the first time since the late 1980s, I did not see all of the Oscars. They were replayed at 10pm Monday night ‘round these parts. I made it through the first couple of hours (boooooooooring) and then the Indian food I had bought for dinner decided it that it hated me. Around the time Jennifer Hudson accepted her I’m-A-Better-Actress-Than-Beyonce trophy, I headed for the bathroom for an extended visit. I finally caught Marty’s acceptance speech on YouTube and I am psyched that “The Departed” won. It was by far my favorite movie of last year, even though I didn’t see many movies.

Come to think of it, here’s a list of notable movies from 2006 that I have not seen:

Little Miss Sunshine
Children of Men
Pan’s Labyrinth
Babel
Dreamgirls
The Queen
Flags of Our Fathers
Letters from Iwo Jima
X-Men
Superman Returns
The Illusionist
Marie Antoinette
Apocalypto
Cars
Happy Feet
Monster House
Blood Diamond
Casino Royale
Stranger Than Fiction
United 93
World Trade Center

Granted I didn’t really want to see all of these, but in any other year I would have seen most of them just to satisfy my movie cravings. At the moment, I have other priorities.

I gave my notice at work and will be hopping back on the Stray bus on or around March 15th. Next on my itinerary are Tongariro National Park and Wellington. I’ll probably stay in Wellington for a few days to get the lay of the land (Knock Knock, Weta!) before I catch a ferry to the South Island. Once I get there, who knows? I don’t have a real plan. Everyone says that it kicks the North Island’s ass. Hard to imagine that.

The Cartoons Are Coming! The Cartoons Are Coming!

Sssshhhhhhhh!!!! Listen! Can you hear it? That guttural chortle echoing across the land? That there is the corpulent ghost of Orson Welles enjoying a hearty belly laugh at the expense of the city of Boston. No doubt, Welles is looking down at the Hub from his billowing thundercloud made of fish sticks with a knowing smile, reflecting on how little human nature has changed in the seven decades since his “War of the Worlds” broadcast. Once again, a bunch of 20-something artists has triggered the nerves of a paranoid culture. The key difference is that Welles did it on purpose.

I am writing this from the living room of my boarding house in Taupo, New Zealand, about as far away as from my home city as I could geographically be. Recently, I have been updating all of you on my adventures in the Land of the Long White Cloud. The recent uproar and apparent near-pandemonium back home grabbed my attention and amusement. I felt the need to comment.

I caught wind of The Great Aqua Teen Hunger Force Scare of 2007 a few days ago on Yahoo.com and later on a rebroadcast of ABC News. To see marble-mouthed Mayor Tom Menino and newly minted Governor Deval Patrick throwing hissy fits over a marketing campaign for a movie version of a stupid cartoon was hilarious and dumbfounding. They both resembled a pair of junior high school vice-principals enraged over a cherry bomb being unleashed in the school’s toilet system. Come to think of it, a cherry bomb is a hell of a lot more destructive than the strategically placed Lite-Brites that unintentionally set of Mass Hysteria (get it?).

Was it unfortunate that Boston’s safety workers had to be deployed and that apparently the entire city came to a stand still costing the city a huge amount of money over a false alarm? Of course. It is also unfortunate that in a city with an enormous student population no one thought to ask a college student or recent graduate what they thought these fiendish-looking black boxes with crazy little light bulbs and (OH SHIT!!!) D sized Duracell batteries might be instead of hitting the panic button. For a city that nourishes the brains of many of the smartest people in America, Boston looks pretty retarded right now, especially considering that the same covert ads (oooooooohhh, how shadowy!) were placed in several other cities with no notice. Pity poor Deval Patrick. We all had such hope for him, and a bunch of bird-flipping cartoon characters have made him look like a jittery ass on national television.

I remember my first encounters with Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Some of my friends in LA tried to turn me on to its surreal charms, without success. I tried to find the laughs, I truly did. No luck. I wrote it off as one of those goofy pieces of entertainment that can only be fully enjoyed in a dorm room choked with bong smoke, just like “The Wizard of Oz” with “Darkside of the Moon” playing and every Phish album ever recorded. I certainly never imagined that those talking French fries, meatball and milkshake would one day strike terror in the hearts of my homeland’s elected officials. I fear someday soon that all major cities will be evacuated due to a promotion for the new Simpson’s movie. Sideshow Bob would be approve.

Okay, okay, it probably wasn’t a smart thing to put mechanical boxes on bridges and other important buildings. I know that we are living in dangerous times (have there ever been safe times?) and I have little doubt that the military and other government agencies have foiled and continue to foil horrific plots against American citizens that we will never know about, but c’mon! I seriously doubt that any serious advertising agency would intentionally design a campaign for any product to purposely be perceived as a terrorist threat. The two guys who were arrested for putting those boxes in place are obviously a couple of starving artists who meant no harm whatsoever. They didn’t make any bombs, and it probably never crossed their or their boss’ minds that people might think they were bombs. They are NOT terrorists or criminals, and any time they spend in jail is pointless and unjustified. That being said, I have a hunch that those who designed the campaign back at the agency will be enjoying promotions and hefty bonuses. Millions of people who had never heard of Aqua Teen Huger Force now have some knowledge of its existence, and there will be some curiosity factor. You can’t buy that kind of publicity, but you can give credit for it.

So, my fair Boston… Beantown, Cradle of Liberty, Hub of the Universe, sleep soundly tonight. You are, for the moment, safe from The Terrorists. But for your own good, please elect and hire some young hotshots from the enormous local talent pool into public service and safety positions. Having a few young hipster whippersnappers on staff could have saved you tons of money and anxiety. And let those two dudes out jail. One or both of them could go on to make the next “Citizen Kane." Oh yeah, and watch more cartoons.

P.S. I don’t get the Daily Show around here. I am sure that Jon Stewart and Co. had a blast with this story. If anyone has a link, please send it this way! Thanks!

Workin' For A Livin'

Many apologies for a month’s delay in my blogging. I have spent the last several weeks in Taupo working my ass off and saving up money, which hasn’t left much time for adventuresome activities. Also, no pictures this time. My life isn’t all that photogenic at the moment.

Still, it has been interesting. Christmas didn’t feel like Christmas. The folks at my hostel had an all-day barbecue with a Secret Santa. As is usual with Secret Santa and Yankee Swap-type scenarios, I stupidly opted to unwrap one of the unopened gifts rather than rob someone of a nicer one. My big Christmas gift for 2006: a Winnie The Pooh soapdish and toothbrush holder. Truth be told, I really didn’t want much of anything. My backpack is enormous and is stuffed to the gills already.

Most of the local hospitality workers are foreign travelers, and there is a little network to put us all to good use. All of Taupo’s businesses and lodging seem to be run by a very small group of people, all of who know one another. When I mentioned that I was looking for a job, people immediately told me to stop by one place and talk to this guy ‘cause he knows that guy and that guy can help you find a flat and so on and so forth. I feel like my Irish ancestors arriving in America and immediately being sucked into a Boss Tweed/Tammany Hall-type organization the moment they hopped of the boat. So far, no one has asked me to vote for them or beat up a rival hospitality workers gang, but you never know.

Once I started my bartending job, I decided to move into more economical housing. At the advice of some of my co-workers, I checked out a house about a mile out of town. It is owned by a guy who, of course, also runs a couple of other local hostels. The price was right (NZ$100 per week), so I moved in a couple of days later. The place has seven rooms with two people in each room. Along with a few Kiwis, my housemates hail from Ireland, England, Scotland, Holland, and other parts of the US. Most of them are nice, but sadly they are also slobs. I lucked out with my roommate, a Scotsman named Wayne. He’s a cool guy, and we seem to be the house’s cleanest residents. Thus far we are the only people who regularly wash our dishes or take out the garbage. Basically, it’s a bit like my sophomore year at college, only with funny (or funnier) accents.

Since I have had time to catch my breath in Taupo, I have been able to see more clearly the subtle differences between New Zealand and the land of my birth. Outpost of the Empire that NZ was and is, there is a British slant on many themes. Besides the whole driving on the left thing (something I find more terrifying than bungy jumping), the letter “Z” is pronounced “Zed,” the NZ$20 note is blessed with the glorious visage of Her Majesty The Queen (or is it Helen Mirren?), they actually care about the game of Cricket, Robbie Williams is very popular, and they generally turn a blind eye to Michael Jackson’s freakishness. When it comes to food, French fries are called chips and a meal is never complete without some form of sausage. There is a condiment called “tomato sauce” that looks like ketchup, smells like ketchup, and is packaged just like ketchup. It ain’t ketchup. It resembles very thick, cold tomato soup, and it sucks. When it comes to casual attire, it is socially acceptable for dudes to walk around in bare feet and short shorts (like the ones my Mom used to buy me in 1991, about 5 years after their coolness had expired) while sporting a mullet or even a bleached rat-tail. Seriously, they still have rat-tails here! And they bleach them! Shirts are optional in most situations. Occasionally, I’ll spot someone wearing a t-shirt or cap supporting an American sports team. Tragically, they are usually Yankees merchandise, but I have seen a number of Celtics t-shirts, so they haven’t all sold their souls to Satan.

I haven’t mentioned smoking. I am not a smoker and I don’t like the smell of cigarette or cigar smoke (I do kind of dig the smell of pipe tobacco), but I am not one of those self-righteous assholes who consider smoking to be a crime against humanity. I hate those PSAs they play on TV at home that portray tobacco companies as genocidal regimes. Everyone knows that smoking is bad for you. The same can be said for eating bacon. I say choose your vice and don’t trouble others with it. That being said, those obnoxious PSAs and other anti-smoking campaigns are clearly having an effect on younger Americans. Of the travelers I have met, I’d estimate that at least 60% are smokers. Granted, I haven’t met many Americans here, but I am constantly running outside to hang out with my new foreign friends and watch them light up with greater frequency than I ever did with my buddies at home. If I only hung out with non-smokers, I would be very lonely and bored. One funny thing is that most of the cigarettes in New Zealand must be hand-rolled. At first, I thought everyone was rolling joints, but no. Pre-rolled cigarettes are way more expensive around here, so everyday I watch new (mostly) European arrivals struggle with rolling papers and filters. With all the heckling I get for being American, at least I can say that we are making better progress in the battle against nicotine than our neighbors. Take that, Terrorists!

Anyway, I will probably stick around Taupo for about three more weeks. There are lots of things to do around here (sailing, skydiving, jet-boating) but they are all pricy. I haven’t gotten much sunshine lately, so I gotta make up for it down the line. When something more interesting happens, I’ll let you all know.

Merry Christmas From Mordor!

Okay, I am not actually in Mordor, but I can see it from here. Pictured above, at great distance and thick cloud cover, are the mountains of Tongariro National Park where many of the Mordor scenes from Lord of the Rings were filmed. The three big mountains (actually active volcanoes) are Mt. Tongariro, Mt. Ruapehu, and Mt. Ngauruhoe which played the part of Mt. Doom. There is a world-renowned hiking trail through the area, which I will attempt in a few weeks. Even though it is a good distance away, it is nice to see a little snow at Christmastime.

But let me back up a bit...

The Stray Travel people screwed up and abandoned me in Gisborne for one extra night. There are far worse places in the world to be stranded, so it wasn’t a big deal. They even paid for me to get an intercity bus to Rotorua the next day. Along the way, we stopped at Huka Falls, a waterfall on the crystal clear Waikato River. It was 15 minutes of pure whitewater viewing pleasure before we headed off to Taupo.


For the first few days, there wasn’t much to see due to crappy weather. When it cleared up, the views proved to be spectacular. Taupo sits on the northern edge of Lake Taupo, which is a volcanic crater that was formed about 26,000 years ago during a massive eruption that supposedly was 100 times more powerful than Krakatoa. There was another eruption in 181 AD that caused crazy sunsets all over the world. Mt. Ruapehu last erupted in 1996, so there is a chance I can see some liquid hot magma.

I spent my first night at the Urban Retreat Backpackers. They stuck me in a tiny, windowless room right next to the big common area/TV room/bar. That kind of sucked, so I moved to the Go Global Backpackers the next day, where some cool folks I met in Raglan were staying. It is a decent enough place with cheap beds and interesting residents from all over (as seen below).


The cold, wet weather did not deter me from doing my first bungy jump! A few of us went to Taupo Bungy on my second day. If you get there before 11 AM, you get a cheap jump (NZ$79) and I always try to be thrifty with my Near Death Experience Fund. The location was gorgeous (no pun intended). The jumping platform juts out over the Waikato River from a 150-foot cliff. The technicians (or whatever you call them) adjust the bungy cable to the appropriate tautness for your weight and give you the option of being dunked in the river. It was already raining, so I went for the wet option. It is ridiculous how casually you entrust your life to the guy strapping the cable to your ankles. He did so with all the exuberance and enthusiasm of a DMV employee. He and his assistant urged me to the edge of the platform and told me to lean forward. I complied, and screamed “OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTT!” as I plummeted to the river below. I dipped to just below my waist before being snapped back up in the air for three or four more bounces. As I dangled upside down with my soaked shirt covering half my face, a raft appeared beneath me. The girls onboard extended a pole for me to grab, so that I could be lowered onto the raft and be transported back to dry land.

It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. This was mostly due to the bored, surly attitude of the bungy technician team. They put me through the process so matter-of-factly that I didn’t have time to consider (or reconsider) my actions. I got to see a video of my jump, but I was too cheap to buy the DVD or pictures, so you’ll all just have to take my word that I actually did it.

Just around the corner from the bungy are some thermal hot springs that feed into the river. A few people from the hostel and I got some beers and hopped in the water, which was hotter than a bath. I think the cold rain actually made the experience more interesting, with steam rising up from the water. Primordial, dude!

So, I like Taupo and got myself a job. I am currently employed as a bartender at the Plateau restaurant. They hired me on the spot with almost no questions asked. Everyone in this town knows everyone, and they like to help each other out, which is cool. My hostel is having a big Christmas barbecue, so I won’t be too lonely. I figure that I will try to find a flat around here and will stay around for a month or two to save up some cash. It seems like a good place to be, and the views are gorgeous.

This will be my first Christmas away from home, which is a bit strange. It means so much to me to get all of your comments and kind words on this blog!

I wish all of you the happiest of holidays!

Hail to the Chief!

It has been a comparatively quiet couple of weeks since my last entry. I opted to spend some extra time (and money) to explore the East Cape of the North Island. This is not part of Stray’s main circuit, so we only had a small van. The passengers were only myself, a carsick German girl, and a very jolly French-speaking Swiss girl who sounded exactly like Ana Gasteyer’s impression of Celine Dion. Our driver, Dave, picked us up in Rotorua and took us Eastward. The coastline was amazing – lush forested mountains next to the ocean. There were few signs of civilization. We would pass a few houses from time to time, but no real towns. The majority of the local population is Maori, and there is very little work to be had.

One thing I have noticed in New Zealand is how well people maintain their properties, particularly in poorer areas. When you drive across rural (and not so rural) parts of America, you see house after ramshackle house with rusting cars and other assorted junk rotting away on the front lawn. Around here, the houses may be small and simple, but they are mostly clean and well kept. I don’t know if they have stricter environmental laws or just better junk removal, but it nice to see. They may be poor, but they take care of what they have.

Our first stop was the village of Hick’s Bay. Driver Dave informed me that our hosts for the next two nights would give us a traditional Maori welcome and that since I was the only guy on the bus, that I would be our group’s chief. Not only would I have to present our group’s boarding money as a gift, but I also had to speak on the group’s behalf, since women are not allowed to speak during the ceremony. I was not expecting this.


Upon our arrival at our hostel, we all had to sit on one side of the porch while Joe, the owner, greeted us in Maori and then English while all of the hostel’s other guests (all female) sat behind him in silence. He told us about the area’s history, a bit about Maori culture, and what was expected of us as guests. It was then my chiefly duty to present our boarding money and speak a bit about where I was from and why I was visiting the East Cape. I don’t recall much of what I said, but I must have done something right, because Joe later invited me into his house for tea. He asked me more about why I was in New Zealand and about America in general. He said I did not seem like “most Americans.” I’m pretty sure that was a compliment, but I didn’t press him on it. As it turns out, his daughter is now in New York studying - no bullshit - film editing! How crazy that a girl of Maori and Scottish decent from one of New Zealand’s most rural areas is now in NYC studying the same thing as a Boston boy visiting her home on the other side of the world! Anyway, it was a nice chat with Joe.

As we finished our tea, Joe informed me that as chief I was also responsible for coordinating dinner - which the women would prepare. All I really had to do was tell one girl to do the salad, another to do the pasta, and another to work the barbecue. To my great surprise, all of them did what I said while I enjoyed some wine with the other men joining us. I kept wondering how my mother and sisters (and indeed, most American women) would have reacted to this scenario. The dinner turned out great (mostly due to my coaching, I thought), and Joe insisted that the ladies have first dibs on the food since they had worked so hard. They also had to clean up afterwards while I built a campfire on the beach. To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it’s good to be the chief.


Hick’s Bay was very beautiful and quiet. There were lots of cool trees and rocks. It was a great place to do some reading and take some pictures, but it got kinda boring after 36 hours. The girls at the hostel weren’t much fun so I was eager to move along, my status as chief notwithstanding.


The next morning, we headed off to the East Cape lighthouse, the most Easterly lighthouse in the world. It sits atop a big hill next to the Pacific and looks out over the inventively named East Island. We had terrific weather, so the view from the top was great. We then headed south along the coastal road. The landscape bore an amazing resemblance to parts of California. I could have sworn we were diving through Santa Barbara, Napa, or Marin County - rolling golden hills, vineyards, and patches of redwood trees filling up the little valleys. The ocean was a beautiful emerald green.


Our next stop was Tatapouri Beach, just north of Gisborne. The hostel we stayed at doubles as a headquarters for a scuba diving outfit. One of the guys working there took a bunch of us walking out to of the reef just offshore where we got to watch him feed stingrays. They were huge! About 3 feet in diameter. They were swimming all around our feet, and the guy told us to stand still, lest we disturb them and meet a Crocodile Hunter-esque fate.

The next day, I hopped off the bus in Gisborne to check out the area. The city’s two claims to fame are its geographical location (the first city in the world to see the sun) and its place in history (Captain Cook’s first landfall in New Zealand). Nowadays, it is mostly known for its surfing and Chardonnay.

The first couple of days were unseasonably cold, wet and windy. After spending two restless rainy days in the hostel, I went for a walk on the beach with a girl from England, a guy from Germany, and another guy from Canada. To our surprise, a photographer from the local paper hopped of the dunes and asked to take our picture as we ran giddily down the beach. The next afternoon, we found our picture on the front page of the Gisborne Herald at the local corner store. The ladies at the store actually asked us to autograph the paper!

Yes, Mum. I will send a copy home.


The weather cleared up on Monday, so I spent the last couple of days surfing. I heard on the news that a little boy was attacked by a shark on the very beach where I learned to surf in Raglan. Maybe it wasn’t so bad leaving there after all (I still wanna go back, though!). There are a few cool people at my current hostel and the town is halfway decent, but I am getting antsy to move on. Stray can’t pick me up until Friday, so I will spend the next couple days living cheaply and (hopefully) surfing. The next big stop will be Taupo, which lies on the shores of the New Zealand’s biggest lake (really a gigantic volcanic crater). I have heard that it is beautiful there, with lots of goofy adventure activities and mountain views. In all likelihood, I’ll have to get a job around there and stick around for a while.

I have no clue where I will be or what I will be doing for Christmas or New Years. A lot of backpackers seem to be headed for the big cities (Auckland, Wellington, and Christchurch), but it is reportedly very difficult to find accommodation. I’m making all of this up as I go along anyway, so I’ll figure something out.

Surfin' Safari

I have done enough crazy shit in the last two weeks to fill five blog entries, but since this is MY blog where I make the rules, you’ll just have to read one big fat entry and deal with it.
After leaving the Bay of Islands, I had one day back in Auckland for shopping and tying up loose ends before I took off on Stray’s New Zealand circuit. Warmer clothes needed to be purchased and excess baggage stored at the International Exchange Programme’s office. I was then off to the town of Hahei on the Coromandel Peninsula. The ride was spectacular, with crazy mountains covered with green, gnarly trees. I kept waiting for Juan Valdez to emerge from the forest with his trusty donkey in tow bearing coffee beans.
Upon arriving in the village of Hahei, most of our group went kayaking to the stunning Cathedral Cove. It was the most perfect little beach I have ever seen – soft white sand, walls of volcanic rock, wild trees clinging to the cliffs, crystal clear water, surreal rock formations and islands out in the bay, and a huge cavern than leads from one beach to another. Absolutely gorgeous.That night we had a Thanksgiving barbecue. I was one of only two Americans in the group, so I took it upon myself to tell the group about the Pilgrims and Wampanoags. Everyone seemed genuinely interested. I am guessing that there were about 25 of us sitting at picnic tables eating beef and sausage instead of turkey. Ironically, it was probably the closest thing I have ever experienced to the actual Thanksgiving – halfway across the world with people from at least five different countries. That night, I snuck down to the beach and saw more stars than I have ever seen with the naked eye. The next day, we took off for the west coast surfing town of Raglan. The landscape was straight out of “The Goonies” – rocky cliffs, dark sand and a raging ocean. Supposedly, Raglan has the longest left hand break in the world, and was featured in “The Endless Summer.” We stayed at the Karioi Lodge, by far the coolest hostel I have been to. It is a tiny set of buildings up in the rain forest, a good 15-minute drive out of town with a view of the Tasman Sea. They have hiking trails up through the forest, a ropes course, a flying fox (more on that later), a supercool lounge area, a sauna, and the offices of the surfing school.

About surfing…

SURFING. IS. AWESOME!!!!
I FUCKING LOVE IT! I should have done it a long time ago. Actually, I did try it once on Cape Cod five years ago and failed miserably. No more. Thanks to the good people at the Raglan Surfing School, I am now a Surfer Dude. I stood up and rode many a wave all the way back to shore. When I think of all the lame weekends I spent sitting on my ass in Southern California when I could have been surfing! Grrrrrr! At least I know now. I spent three extra days surfing in Raglan and did not want to leave. I asked the hostel if they needed any help, but they were all staffed up. Damn it! I am sure I’ll make it back up there, eventually.

So… back to the flying fox. A flying fox (or zipper line) is basically a very long cable suspended from one tree to another at a steep angle. From this cable hangs a little seat that goofy people like myself can sit or stand on to ride very fast through the trees. It is a lot of fun. Pretty much everyone at the lodge did it a few times, especially at night when you couldn’t see where you were going. It was rumored that some people have been known to do this whilst butt naked. No one was actually doing it, though, so I volunteered to strip down and swing through the trees like the naked Tarzan I always new myself to be, hoping to inspire others to do the same. About 15 people watched me drag my bare ass up the hill and ride the thing to the bottom au natural. A nice girl from England even snapped a photo, but it didn’t come out very well. Everyone got a big kick out of my little stunt, but no one elected to do the same. I mean, c’mon people! I exposed myself in the name of group camaraderie, and no one followed! It was pitch black and you could barely see anything anyway! Pussies.

Since then, I have earned a reputation as The Naked Flying Fox Guy. I have bumped into several people since then who recognize me from the incident, even if I don’t remember them. Just this morning, there was a very cute Dutch girl making breakfast at my current hostel who recognized me. Sure enough, she was one of the spectators that night.
Since I couldn’t stay in Raglan any longer, I headed off to Rotorua. Here in Rotorua, there are lots of geothermal pools, bubbling mud, and geyser-type thingies. The air smells funny. There are tons of activities around here – white water rafting, luging, Maori cultural shows, and Zorbing. Zorbing is hilarious. A zorb is a large plastic ball with a hollow center than can fit up to three people. “Zorbonauts” take a short ride up a hill, climb into the zorb, and roll down a grassy slope. Basically, you pay $35 to be put through a washing machine’s spin cycle for about 45 seconds. It is one of the goofiest things I have ever done, and was totally worth the money. Here’s a picture of me post-zorbing with Swedish Marcus from my Stray group. Rafting was fun, too, but the trip was only an hour or so long. There was a 7-meter waterfall and lots of “Jurassic Park”-style greenery. Still, it was not as cool as the New River in West Virginia. One thing this trip has inspired me to do is to explore more of America when I return.

All in all, New Zealand has been awesome thus far. I only have two big complaints.

#1 – Virtually all coffee here is made from espresso. Granted, this makes it taste better than your typical American coffee, but you cannot just go into a café and order a regular cup ‘o Joe. Black coffee is called either a “Short Black” or a “Long Black,” depending on how much water they use. If you want milk or cream, you must order a “Flat White,” which is actually more like a latte or cappuccino. All I want is a regular coffee with cream and ½ a sugar, people! Is that so hard?
#2 – The faucets here totally suck, at least in the hostels. 90% of the sinks I have encountered have old-timey separate spigots for hot and cold water, forcing me to mix water in the basin to my desired temperature. This makes the rinsing of contact lenses a challenge, along with shaving and the washing of hands, face and feet. I know some of you are going to knock me for washing my feet in the sink. Trust me when I tell you that it must be done. When you spend 75% of your time in Teva sandals and no socks, your feet can get downright nasty, and I don’t want to alienate my fellow travelers with stinkiness. If it is only your feet that are dirty, taking a shower is just wasteful. Sink washing is clearly the best option. It just sucks that I have to plug up the sink, fill it with hot & cold water, add soap, contort myself so that I can stand on one foot while washing the other, switch those around, drain the sink, fill it with clear water, rinse, dry, and then drain the sink yet again to wash my hands and begin the process all over again.

Anyway, I must soon decide whether I should head south to Taupo (big mountains by a huge lake, bungee jumping, skydiving) & Tongariro National Park (crazy volcanic landscape where they filmed the Mordor scenes in “Lord of the Rings”), or pay an extra fee to explore the East Cape (gorgeous coastline featured in “Whale Rider” and more surfing!) for a few days. Such difficult decisions. Woe to me…

I keep forgetting that I will be here for an entire year and that there is really no need to rush. A great but tough thing is when you meet terrific people on your bus who are on a different timetable. They are your best friends for a day or two, and then they get bussed away, often never to be seen again. Sometimes you bump into them down the road, but by then you’ve made all new friends and lines get blurred. With all the language barriers, cultural differences, close living quarters, partying, rapid-fire friendships and romances, I am amazed how well everyone gets along. I haven’t seen a single serious argument or even the most minor of scuffles. Everyone just wants to have a good time (knock on wood).

Oh yeah… I gonna hafta get… ya know… a job… soon. I will definitely need to work for a while before I head off to the South Island. I have heard that things are more expensive down there, but are even more spectacular. We shall see…

Escape From Auckland

My money transfer came through, so I have hit the northern road. I have signed up with Stray Travel to take me around New Zealand. They are one of three or four touring companies that compete for the money of backpackers such as myself. Stray promoted themselves as being the travel company for people who want to have more of an adventurous, mind-broadening trip (translation: more hiking & rafting, less rich drunken European teenagers). Since I am here for a year, I signed up for their most generous package. It allows me to travel all over the country as many times as I want. I even get to hop off and hop on at any point, too. Pretty sweet. Their drivers all seem like cool people. There are still plenty of drunken Europeans, but they’re a little older and have less money than those whippersnappers on the Kiwi Experience busses.

As a bonus for buying their most expensive package, Stray has sent me on a sort of free trip to the Bay of Islands, where I have been since Thursday. It is pretty nice up here. I am staying at the Pipi Patch Lodge in the town of Paihia. Paihia is one of the first stops for Auckland escapees, so I have bumped into a lot of the same folks I saw in the city. There is a little road here with about five hostels on it, and the Pipi Patch is clearly the one where backpackers come to party. These people have amazing stamina. I mean, I love to knock a few back and jump around like the goofball that I am… but every night? I don’t know how their brain cells or wallets survive.

On Friday, my little group took a trip up to Cape Reinga at the northernmost tip of New Zealand. Along the way we stopped to see a Kauri forest. Kauris are great big trees that Europeans loved to cut down and turn into masts for their ships. I guess they were pretty big. Not Redwood or Sequoia big, though. The Good Old US of A still has the biggest damn trees in the world and no amount of Kiwi eco-progressive conservation effort is gonna change that!

We then drove on the flat sands of Ninety Mile Beach. It is really only sixty-four miles long, but whatever. Our supercool van drove up a river (!) where we encountered giant sand dunes. We climbed to the top and slid all the way down on boogie boards. I had never inhaled sand before. If you feel the need to climb to the top of a giant dune and slide down it, wait for a calm day.

Next was the road to the tip of Cape Reinga. It was cloudy, but still spectacular. From the lighthouse you can watch the Pacific Ocean colliding with the Tasman Sea. The water was a shade of blue I have never seen before. There were Portuguese Men-of-war all over the beach, and I almost stepped on several of them.

Surreal moment of the week: Saturday night at the Pipi Patch, they had a Love Boat theme party. Lots of people came dressed up as various characters from the show. I was tempted to mention that my first paid job in the movie business had me working with none other than Ship’s Surgeon Bernie Koppel, but I didn’t want to be too boastful. Now for the really weird part. To get the party started right, a bunch of guys, mostly gigantic Maori dudes, performed a Haka. A Haka is a Maori war chant and dance. They are loud, scary, and awesome and I was psyched to see my first one in person. It WAS awesome, but picture THIS being performed by guys dressed up like Isaac and Captain Stubing. Very weird.

Yesterday, a bunch of people from my Stray group went sailing on a great big yacht. I hadn’t been sailing for years, and it was great. We cruised around a bunch of islands and got to hop off on one of them. Lots of cool trees, jagged rocks and tidal pools. I was tempted to go swimming, but it is still a bit cold around here. There was a nice breeze, so we moved along at a good clip. Fun!

I am getting a bit sick of hearing criticisms about America. A few folks (mostly Europeans) feel the need to tell me how much they don’t like America’s policies and culture. Usually these are people who have never actually been to America and have little to no knowledge of how the government works. In light of the recent elections, I try to explain a bit about congress and what Democrats and Republicans (and others) stand for, but it does little good. To them, George W. Bush is America and vice versa.

I wish I could get it through to them that America is a huge, diverse and amazingly beautiful country, that we have more natural splendor than you could possibly digest in a lifetime, that despite the actions of certain politicians we still have hundreds of millions of intelligent and reasonable people, that we’ve exported technology, medicine, culture, music and freedom of speech all around the world and if people really didn’t want it, they wouldn’t buy it. Some people don’t want to hear that though, and no amount of politeness or rational explanation on my part will change their minds. I wish I had the balls to ask these cultural critics to name one country that has a perfect track record and no skeletons in its closet, but I don’t want to be rude. Kill ‘em with kindness, I say.

Most of the travelers who actually HAVE made it to the states have lots of good things to say. They love our cities, our landscapes, our people, our movies, and especially our music. I hope all those critics will eventually jump across the pond and see what they are missing. Until then, I’ll just try to hang out with the cool people from all nations who are here to see THIS amazing country and leave preconceived notions behind.


Oh yeah, here's me with a Kiwi bird. Happy, Comerford?