Northern New Zealand is RAD!

I'm just going to say it. New Zealand is awesome.  Awesomer than Australia, in fact.  Its just a little more sophisticated, a little less blowhard, more tasteful all around.  And the Lord of the Rings scenery just keeps giving.

Most everyone we spoke to pooped all over the North island and encouraged us to head our heinies south and as quickly as possible. But I'm going to go ahead and stand up for the North Island. Auckland is a beautiful city with cool neighborhoods, every kind of Asian food solidly executed, a gorgeous harbor, and friendly people. Waiheke island, about a ½ hour ferry ride from Auckland is bougie paradise. Having a gorgeous day, we hiked all over it and ate at a fancy resto in our hikies.  People happily chatted to us about the local brew, the weather, their dogs, and which beaches to hit up.  From where I'm standing, the rep for snottiness was unfounded. 

And then there's the northern tip. We went up to Paihia expecting to spend a couple of nights and ended up staying for 5. The lady at the Sunseeker Cottages was endlessly obliging when, each morning, I waddled up to the main house clutching my CapitalOne card to play with her German shepherd and extend our stay for another night.

Besides our awesome day in Russell and sailing in the Bay of Islands, we did a fair amount of driving.  We drove to Manganui to eat famous fish and chips (worth the hype) and visited the largest living Kauri tree.  We hiked by the coast and wandered the adorable shops in Paihia. We visited the grounds where the treaty between the Maori and the colonists was signed and saw the ancient war canoes the Maori used to attack the whities. 

World famous, says so right on the sign. 

bigasstreeandme

 attaque.

The South island is amazing, but when we go back to NZ (and we will), I would be hesitant to skip the north.  It has ever so much to offer.  NZ is at the top of our list of places we want to visit again, and for longer next time. The smaller, hipper, thinner version of Australia, the Kiwis got it going on.

WWOOFin.

This is a little overdue, but I'd be remiss if I didn't include the tale of one of the most bizarre weeks we've had on this trip. At my insistence, Ed and I spent a week “working” on an organic farm 30 minutes from Dunedin on the south island of NZ.

The week we spent with our hosts, a couple in their 60's (we'll call them Ann and James) who moved from the city 20 years back to take up a back-to-nature lifestyle was 50% strange, 20% awkward, 10% fun, and 10% other. We spent an exhaustive amount of time on the Worldwide Organization of Organic Farming's website, trying to identify folks that didn't look crazy and accommodation with them that didn't look ranky janky. We did our best to vet them, but she was an absolute nutter and the cottage we stayed in was filthy, vermin infested and unheated. 

On the shelf in the "kitchen" area of the cottage.  I'm guessing expired. 

We worked about 4 hours a day in exchange for our narsty room and, actually, quite delicious board. The lady of the house fancies herself a gourmand. She's a good cook and seems to enjoy having an excuse to overeat which her WWOOFers happily provide. Our days consisted of weeding, feeding the animals, clearing brush, and prepping for the weekly farmers market. Oh, and listening to James talk about what he was going to do and then taking naps in a rocker. 

I actually quite enjoyed the work. Weeding for hours on end was hypnotic I just had one fundamental problem with the arrangement that took me a few days hurdle. The farm is horribly mismanaged and a sickening money loser. Ann has “diversified” potential earnings and now the farm raises pigs, sheep & chickens, breeds Jack Russell Terriers, grows lettuces, fruit, saffron, edible flowers & nut trees, has 25 planted acres for logging, makes beer, cultivates honey, etc., etc., etc....... As you may have guessed, none of these ventures is profitable and continually investing in Ann's new ideas has forced her to keep working past retirement age and James to talk about working and also to take out a reverse mortgage on their home.

James is a certified builder. He and Ann both talk about the home they've lived in for 20 years as if they moved in last month. Out of 15 generously sized rooms only 4 or 5 are inhabitable. The rest are collapsing, unfinished (no insulation), have holes in the floors or walls, or are stacked with junk. The gorgeous, 100 year old home and cottage have fallen into ruinous squalor in the hands of these two. There are rats in the walls, animal feces on the rugs, and a cluster fly infestation in the bedrooms.  She's a candidate for hoarders without a doubt.  If it were our house we'd burn it down and take the insurance money.

Perhaps I would be less critical if Ann wasn't also a giant bitch. At first, I thought they were just wacky hippy anti-establishment farmers. That was until night number two, when I got into a dinner-long argument with the lady of the house. She began to lecture us on the massive conspiracy behind Western medicine – how Dr.'s push people toward unnecessary, risky surgery because it “makes them feel clever,” that the entire medical profession is already aware of what causes cancer but doesn't want to out the truth because it would diminish profits for the industry (plastic is the cause, in case you didn't know), and that even in life-threatening situations emergency room staff should consider holistic medicine before prescribing drugs. I held my tongue for about 15 minutes before I couldn't resist the bait any longer and then the joust began. 

Lest I paint too grim a picture there were some good moments. James is a lovely, if lazy Scottsman who's company we really enjoyed. When he could get a word in or wasn't being berated by Ann for his very existence he entertained us, ran interference, and taught us dirty Scottish folk songs. He played the accordion, was handy with a chainsaw and seemed genuinely saddened when we left.

The other best part was the puppy from the most recent litter that they were looking after while the new owner was on holiday.  Toby followed us from garden to garden, played in our cottage, and could be found in my arms anytime I wasn't holding a shovel or a hoe. Only 9 weeks old, he still had that puppy head smell of melting rubber and was happy exploring the world with his puppy teeth or sleeping on my lap. 

Oh, Toby.

We also really loved our day at the farmer's market which we spent half of wandering the other stalls and sampling the merch. We bought an outstanding pinot noir from the Otago Valley that we cracked open in our cottage that afternoon and Ed became expert at lighting roaring fires from wet lumber in our freezing cottage.

Given my urge all week to put together a proper business plan for the couple, and Ed's wont to get their business online and budgeted properly I'm not sure we're cut out to be farmers. But we did learn that we can sell the crap out of anything that grows if you put us behind a farmer's market table. We also confirmed our love of puppies. Oh, and that large pigs are really quite scary. 

 So. Effing. Big.

I was never such a slacker when I had a job.

I have seriously been on island time since, like, April.  I'm counting New Zealand as an island.  Or two.  Anywho, I have oods to catch up on and now have reliable Rarotongan internet as my blogging steed. 

I'd like to blame wedding prep and subsequent marrying for my off the gridedness, but that would be unfair to the institution and to the good folks at our bungalow resort that actually did the work.  To be honest, I've just been incredibly lazy.  I've also found that the longer we're gone the fewer times each day that I'm like "hey, look at this crazy thing, I wonder what this means?" and more like "do you want to rent a DVD?"

I guess at some point (month 9?) the novelty of travel wears off.  Which isn't to say its less fun.  In some ways, I prefer this phase because now it all feels like bonus time.  We're relaxed about what we do and see each day.  Rather than buying tickets to go to "Island Night" for traditional dance and barbequed pig or whatever, we're psyched to take long walk on the islands' back roads.  An evening of home made dinner in our bungalow (spaghetti & champagne tonight) rates as highly as finding a hidden bar that serves cobra hearts.  Its not less fun than it was before, its just less intense. 

There is a quote in "We Need to Talk About Kevin" where the narrator, a former travel book author, writes "Countries all have different weather, but they all have weather of some sort, architecture of some sort, a disposition toward burping at the dinner table that regards it as flattering or rude.  Hence, I had begun to attend less to whether one was expected to leave one's sandals at the door in Morocco than to the constant that, wherever I was, its culture would have a custom about shoes."  Sing out, girl.

Hitched.

Its the weekiversary* of our teensy wedding in the Cook Islands.   It was awesome.  And reading the super lovely responses from all our peeps was almost as special as the afternoon itself.  So best.

Ed loves feather pens

 tropical flowers smell good

not going

 

 dancing with myself

* I promise to never use this word again. 

Travel tally

We've been on the road for almost 10 months and, at some point, I naturally started categorizing "visitor's stuff to do" into like and dislike columns.  This way, when wandering into a new city/town/organic farming situation, we can quickly separate the shit from the chaff and plan our assault.  Perhaps in the future I can apply this method to my task list at work and invite lists for social gatherings.

Again!	Enough!
Sand Dunes	Desert
Ruins	Tribal Villages
Mountains	Caves
Beaches	Hot springs
College towns & neighborhoods	Government centers
Traditional Massage	Traditional Dance
Mausoleums	Cemeteries
Markets	Wet Markets
Malls	Shopping Streets
Street food	Street Performers
Temples	Churches
Walking	Taxis
Tuk Tuks	Vans
Trains	Buses
Animal Conservancies	Zoos
Art Museums	Folk museums
Galleries	Local Handicrafts
Big Rocks	Monuments

From the animal conservancy archives:
This is a Tasmanian Devil.  They're dying in droves because they carry a form of cancer that is contagious among the species, transferred through biting (which they a lot).  Also, they aren't as cute as I thought they'd be.  This one is chewing through bone.

Never gets old.  Want for pet:

Its going to be weird when we come home and the lists I make shift from the above to endless and inane to do's.  My brain will again be chocker with appointments that need keeping, correspondence that needs returning and the practically mundane.  Dislike.

Lest you're getting misty at this last point, weep not.  I'm in the Auckland airport waiting to board our flight to Rarotonga.  Like.

Insert pirate joke here.

Boating in Australia and New Zealand is incredibly popular and often the best way to see the sights.  Surrounded by water, the good people of Oceania have figured out how to incorporate boats into tourism, entertainment, and daily transport.  I've always loved being on boats, and we've been super jazzed to be afloat exponentially more than usual since being down here.

Our last night in Sydney, we stayed with the Brightons in Cronulla.  Barb is the big sis of one of my besties from SU.  We went out for a sail and a dip; wine, cheese, and sunset included.  It was awesome! Only Dave had the stones to dive in from the mast. Made us want a sailboat.  And to know how to sail a sailboat.

From Auckland, we took a day trip to Waiheke island and hiked all over it, often through private property, which the locals graciously endorse.  Its beautiful and WASPy and nautically themed.  Apparently there are also white sand beaches there, but we hoofed it to the south shore where there were ruins of old boats, an equestrian club, and plenty of strangers' dogs to accost. 

After Auckland, we headed north to the Bay of Islands.  We stayed in an amazing cottage (Sunseeker Cottages in Paihia, if ever you're in the 'hood) overlooking a valley and tooled around the area for a few days.  We saw a ton of stuff and really dug it up there, so perhaps that bit merits a separate post.  One of the days, we went out on the boat pictured below for a day-long sail around the islands.  We anchored in a bay for a swim, a hike to a bluff vista, and a picnic lunch on deck. 

Once on the South Island of NZ our first itinerary item was a trip to Milford Sound.  About 4 hours from Queenstown on the windy-est roads since Pai, we took the early boat out because we'd read there would be less traffic on the water.  We basically had the joint to ourselves.  It was a quiet and nature-filled few hours as we traveled through the sound and were reunited with our old buddy, the Tasman Sea. 

We'll likely only be land lubbers for a few more days before we head to the Cook Islands, where we'll be in and on water for almost a month.  We'll be taking a break from cultural exploration and replacing visits to temples and climbing up shit with snorkeling and competitive seafood eating.  Expect scintillating tales of tan lines from the South Pacific...

The one where I complain about Australian food, or, first world problems

We're in New Zealand now, where people can not only identify raw vegetables, but also enjoy eating them. Our 2+ months in Oz sometimes felt like a great pre-slaughter fatten up. We didn't love Australian food (save a few outstanding meals), and were told on many occasions that the Aussies weren't too fond of American fare neither. Which poses a question about taste. We all started off as Brits eating, presumably, gruel and salted meats. Have the intervening hundreds of years changed our taste buds so drastically that we can't even recognize the same things as “good”?

My beef with Australian food (pun intended) is the same issue I've had on occasion in the mid-west (no offense Chicagoans, but I think if you dig deep you'll know where I'm coming from). Vegetables are rare and when available, they're cooked, fried, or flavorless. Salads in Australia are often a pile of toppings – bacon, cheese, meats, on a bed of lettuce. “Veg” as defined in the pubs is boiled root vegetables in boiling water juice on a plate. Its gross and my jeans are too tight. Which would be okay if I'd eaten lots of lovely foods. Said jeans were too tight at the end of Tokyo but I earned those 5 lbs through competitive izakaya visiting and shochu cocktailing. After Australia, I just feel used.

Australian food also tends to be criminally under seasoned. There must a hyper effective anti-salt marketing machine at work on the island. The belief is widely held, and was explained to us more than once (unprompted), that fish n' chips is alright unless you add salt at the table. To be clear, deep fried food is okay, salt is not okay. In fact, having gone to MacDonald's at the airport I was surprised to note that the McChicken, with its breading, cheese, mayo, and single lettuce leaf, is a government approved “healthy meal.” Unless, I would suppose, you added salt. Because otherwise there's none in there and you're looking hot like OG Richard Simmons.

And back on the Mid-western tip... The Aussies enjoy their mayo. Its a sweet concoction (more Miracle Whip than Hellman's) and can be used as a substitute for any sauce a chef has included in his menu but never tasted. I had sugary mayonnaise served both as Caesar salad dressing and as Hollandaise.  Just. Why.

As an American, I'm not one to throw stones on the dietary leanings of another country. But when a nation that prides itself on beef chooses not to season or dry age at even the fanciest of steak houses, my vote is going to have to be for the Outback Steak house chain of America. Rather than, say, an actual steak house in the outback.  Which we ate at.  They served "veg."