Destination: Immortality (I don't know, it just came to me)

Saturday December 29, 2007

Well, it’s been quite a long time since I last wrote. And certainly a lot has happened. I have been without adequate internet for a while now. But am making up for it now.

So I left the small organic farm I was working on along the north coast of the South Island in order to traverse all the way down to the South Coast to meet up with Emma and Chris. We had scheduled a Christmas hike (they are doing a tramping holiday) and I needed to be at the trailhead two days before Christmas. So, this meant hitching some 300kms (I totally guessed, I have no idea how far it was). I think it was way more than 300kms. But anyway. I started off early in the morning where I was picked up by an old man in his pick up truck. We had a nice chat and the weather was amazing. He took me to the nearest larger town that was some 25kms away.

I then waited in this town for quite some time. The longest yet, about two hours. It sucked. But the sun was shining and I could stand in the shade of a tree at a good hitching spot. So it wasn’t all that bad. Only that getting up early hadn’t really helped me out.

I finally got picked up by this guy who worked for the ubiquitous vineyards and had blown a part on the irrigation mechanism so was returning from a trip in town to purchase a replacement. Well, that meant I got dropped off at this random turn off in vineyard country way out in the middle of nowhere. Immediately jumping to mind was Steinbeck’s descriptions of Salinas valley in….well whatever years he wrote about the Salinas valley in. Heh. Dry dry hills, golden brown with grasses that blew in the wind and rattled with the extreme lack of water. Brittle and dry. Dryness was tangible, like a color painted over the whole landscape. Even the blue of the sky was drained pale without the vividness of moisture. And the big puffy white clouds held no promises. I was there. Me and my large pack and sleeping bag under my arm. I hiked up the nearest hill, large and climbing and straight along the highway’s edge. Reaching the middle of the crest I dropped my heavy pack, the whole, not just the small of my back drenched in sweat, but even that didn’t feel wet, it simply radiated heat. With my sunglasses and white hat on. I stuck out my thumb jabbing it into the seldom but speeding traffic.

As it was now almost high noon, I knew I was screwed if I was left out there too long. But I figured such a sorry state as I was in was certain to arouse some sense of pity from the passing motorists. Well, before long, it did. And a man with a ragged haircut, if it had a more consistent thickness or ‘style’ one could call it a mullet, but it was more like a patchy sprouting of mane than anything else. With what would seem to be transition sunglasses on and Talking Heads blaring over the stereo he offered to take me all the way to Christchurch, a good 2.5-3 hours away. Great! Was all I could think, even though, the car and driver looked somewhat alternative. So, over the course of about an hour I had learned that this guy had been in a motorcycle accident, a coma for 6 days, and had been allowed to return to work only within the last year. He also considered himself living on ‘bonus time’ in regards to life and always saw the silver linings. Grrreat. I swallowed, laughed lightly as I was piecing all this information together through the relative unimportant small talk of driver and passenger. This, I told myself, was exactly why I was in New Zealand, doing what I was doing. This exactly. I was here to ride through beautiful ocean side scenery with a wacked out aged coma surviving head trauma hippie case, listening to Talking Heads. So with my lips slightly curled into some sort of smile at the taste of irony? Serendipity? Stupidity? What? Whatever it was, it was sweet, definitely sweet. We pulled off in Kaikoura for a light lunch and after a free beer we hit the road again. What a nice guy I thought.

After being dropped off on the north side of Christchurch, I then had to do more hiking than hitching. I was sort of in the suburbs of Christchurch (a relatively large city…certainly when you’re walking in the heat of the day with a large pack) so the public transportation wasn’t really an option. So I hiked along residential streets trying to get to the other side of Christchurch to continue down the coast. I had a delivery guy about my age with huge dreads pick me up and did nothing but smile and say sweet with every bit of conversation. He was also the third person who has told me they were too scared to go to the United States. (Doesn’t everyone have guns there?)

After getting to the other side of Christchurch I was picked up by a Nigerian who had been living all around the world for the past couple decades. He had recently moved from Dubai (crazy!) which as you’ll all recall is in the United Arab Emirates, and is also the hometown of my freshman year roommate Ajoy. He was great, really chatty and nice. Ended up going on a HUGE rant about Bush and actually got quite passionate and emotional about it. (he had seen some of the effects of the Bush Administration’s foreign policy in his travels) I had to agree, and although I can not in the slightest identify with that administration of the parts of America that are even tangentially related, I still couldn’t fight an overwhelming sense of guilt. It’s pretty plain and simple that we’re fucking things up, and fucking them up badly. The embarrassing part is how high a price we as Americans are willing to pay for complacency. That’s the source of the guilt for me, I think, the absolute lack of dignity in the American people when confronted with the ills of the world (American created or otherwise). Every now and then I run into the obliging soul which either out of guilt or some self convincing acknowledges the disproportionate amount of good the United States does abroad when compared to other countries as well as the bad. And while I do agree (but to a lesser extent than others), the good the United States does abroad simply isn’t enough. But anyway, that’s a rant that rains on our parade of complacency.

So the Nigerian gave me a great ride almost to my stop-over destination of Timaru, before heading across the island to the West side to meet my friends. I was then picked up by a retired rugby player from Tonga. We had a great chat about sports, rugby, soccer and endurance sports. It was simple but entertaining. He was very friendly and although it’s cliché, he laughed like a bass drum (he looked like one too).

Arriving in Timaru and stumbled into the second hostel I saw (as I walked around scoping out each one I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking to myself how Crosby and Brian would be irked to more than just annoyance (just pick one!)). It was a wonderful hostel. My room was for 10 or 15 people and there was one other person in there. I got a twin bed that wasn’t a bunk! AND, the room was window on three sides. It gave a panoramic view of the town and harbor and ocean. Absolutely gorgeous. I woke up to the sunrise the next morning and just smiled back and the humble but persistent waves. Perfect. The owner of the hostel even gave me a ride out of town so it would be easier to hitch. What a guy. I was quickly picked up by a guy who worked in Sales and Marketing (for whom I forget) but he was exactly what you’d think of an old fashioned salesman…old fashioned? No, like, well, just a salesman. Which meant we had no trouble at all with conversation. He even drove past his destination in order to drop me off at mine. A small town that began the long stretch across the mountainous middle of the South Island. Within 5 minutes of being dropped off in Geraldine, I had the fortune of being picked up by a family (young couple and their 2 year old daughter). Where were they going? Queenstown, where was I going? Queenstown. Where was Queenstown? About 5-6 hours away. SCORE! They bought me lunch, chatted to me a ton, gave me their contact info in Auckland (for when I travel the North Island) and pretty much cried when they dropped me off in Queenstown. We stopped at scenic points along our drive for photo opportunities and I played games with their daughter Rachel. A Mauritian, a South African, and the daughter born Kiwi. It was wonderful. Like a family road trip, but not my family. Good times.

In Queenstown, I began to worry. I had heard a lot about the place from almost everybody. It was a huge tourist town, full of foreign visitors from the States and Europe. It was overpriced, full of douchebags and in general revolting in terms of Culture. Well, trying to hitch out of there was a disaster. It was fairly late in the day, (the latest I had ever tried to catch a ride) since our leisurely road trip had taken so long. While it was a boost to the ego to get honks and waves from carloads of cute girls, it would’ve been nicer to catch a ride. Then, as the sun was getting low in the sky and I was beginning to worry about where to stay (I strongly was considering rolling out my sleeping bag off the road, hidden somewhere) the local teenagers began their nightly prowl (fuck I though, it’s a Saturday) I had several stop and ask me where I was headed, only to be told, sorry, we’re just going down the street, with a stupid guffaw and punched accelerator. Thanks guys. Plenty of unfriendly stares and general menacing ways from the local ruffians. Great, just what I want to deal with as dusk approaches. But then, after and hour and half, and panic level beginning to escalate, a merciful driver stopped over. A Czech guy, who happened to be going part of the way to Te Anau, where I was trying to go. He didn’t speak much English, and I by no means could pass off any Czech. However, we had a sparse but cordial conversation. I told him I knew the Czech word Pozor! And that I had recently been there. He said he never wanted to go back, heh, ok dude. Linkin Park on the stereo made it rough, but the Lord of the Rings scenery we were driving through was breathtaking. And at dusk? Beautiful. So that was awesome and made the silent car ride, jusssst fine. Then, when we reached his turn off, we stopped for a toilet break and a smoke (him, not me). He then got back in the car and said, I’ll drive you the rest of the way. Uh? Really? Are you sure? Yesh, Yesh, I’m sure. Well, hot damn. Because there was no way I was going to catch another ride at 8pm in the evening with 50 k to go. So this dude, drive 100 kilometers out of his way to take me to Te Anau. Talk about ferkin awesome. Unbelievable, this guy was great. So I obviously, bought him a beer in Te Anau when we arrived. And thankfully, I caught the hostel right before closing and they had vacancy. Smooth, Sean, Smooth. So that was that. I walked around Te Anau, spent about 15 bucks on two beers at a bar I ate at for dinner by myself. I know sad, right? The bus load of overweight, sun-burnt female tourists from Britain just didn’t seem the mood I was after. So I tucked in early with a little JLPJ (john l. parker jr.) and called it a night.

The next day, I ran the errands I needed to before departing for my four day trek through the mountains (carry out what you carry in, yikes) and I almost had forgotten I needed to take food. Heh. Don’t know why, but it just slipped my mind. That would’ve been bad…

Then, as if by providence, I ran into Emma and Chris at the local pizzeria. Perfect. The rest is history. We spent the next four days hiking through gorgeous mountains in Fiordland National park and staying in huts that were fantastic.

It rained the first two days we hiked which was a bummer, but then was perfect sunshine on the most beautiful and longest hiking day. It rained on the way out again, but that’s ok. We were going back to civilization. We spent Christmas with 45 other hikers in a hut way up in the mountains with a Park Staff that were a bit loopy but full of Christmas cheer. They made us all mince pies (which are GOOD) and we sang Christmas carols by Candlelight. It was pretty much perfect. There is some good camera video that Emma took of Chris and I attempting singing. It’s pretty god awful. I was surprised to find myself (out of the 45 hikers, many being from Southeast Asia, or Germany, or well, I suppose non-English speaking or non-Christian countries) to be one of the only ones who knew so many of the lyrics so well. Comment of the night by some Aussie, that he was surprised to find that most Christmas songs were hymnals…ok these people obviously didn’t grow up going to Church…sigh, so yes, the Catholic boy knew all the Christmas hymnals, hilarious. He’s a Religious Studies major to boot, HILARIOUS. Quality night nonetheless, except for our wine, which came from a box, it was not quality, it was quantity there that did the trick.

And now, we’re recovering in Queenstown, with nothing really to report, except that it lives up to its reputation as douche-city with super expensive shit. Think Vail. Yeah, like that, except the people aren’t hot. They just dress the same. That’s harsh. Because Queenstown is on a beautiful lake nestled in beautiful mountains, situated in the center of a whole area of seriously kick ass outdoor adventure activity. But, still, downtown. Think Vail. Bleggghh.

I know that was long. But I forgive you all. Because I know you had thoughts of ditching out or mutiny, but I knew you’d appreciate having read it all in the end. So I forgive your infidelity.

Not to continue this with worthless shit. But something I think I forgot to tell you all. Iced Coffee here is NOT iced coffee. Which I thought it was when I first got here and would order. Until, I realized that in New Zealand, iced coffee is a coffee float. It’s coffee with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top with whipped cream and chocolate flakes. It’s really really good. No wonder it’s 5 dollars. I am really sorry that was so long. But you guys had adequate warning and knew that without recent postings we were due for a doozy. So is that cool?

If you’re interested. Believe it or not. These were the short versions of the above events. If you’re interested in any in particular for further depth, jussst ask me. Yeah hah hah. Schweet.