Manifest Destiny 2:

April 25, 2010

The damage report came back on the van. The motor is toast. In overheating I damaged the block. For $2500, I could get a new motor delivered from Auckland, installed and have the radiator and water pump replaced. While $2500 is a lot of money, it would likely cost me close to that to get a replacement. If I chose not to repair the van, several options were available to me. First, I could try to find a suitable replacement. Invercargill is not exactly a bustling metropolis. At 50,000 people, there is a weekly car auction but it’s not likely that I would find something good in my price range and I would have to sacrifice a week to wait for the auction.  I could take the bus to Christchurch, the largest city on the South Island, and try to find something there. Assuming I purchased a new used vehicle there I would have to drive it 8+ hours to Invercargill to pick up all of my gear from Orange Whip. Either way, I’m looking at a couple hundred dollars for food, gas and lodging not including the price of the vehicle. And, buying a new used car is no guarantee that car troubles won’t strike me again. Another option is to avoid owning another van. I could rent a van from one of the many camper van rental places but it would run me more than a grand for the estimated remaining month of my tour, but then I won’t have a vehicle when I make home somewhere. The last option is to bail on the travels and ship my gear north. I could start job hunting and settle wherever I get a job and buy a vehicle to suit my living situation. I’m just not ready to quit traveling. I am enjoying the freedom, the adventure and the flexibility. Ultimately, it makes more sense right now to spend the money and get the van fixed.

So what to do with the week and a half of down time? Fly to Australia of course! Many of you know Jaime Ustin. For those who don’t, she’s a close friend from Los Angeles. If I could only describe her with “B” words I would use “bubbly”, “blonde”, “booze”, “bars”, “boobs” and “ebullient”. Jaime has a fun and energetic way about her that sucks people in and makes them a believer. About 2 years back she decided to do a grad school program in Sydney. I suspect it was to meet boys with Aussie accents, but whatever her reasons Sydney seems to be a great fit for her and she’s always effusive about the city and her experiences. From the moment I mentioned the hint of an embryonic notion of the idea of moving to New Zealand she has been chirping away about me coming to visit. No better time than the present. Tomorrow morning I’m boarding a flight to Sydney.

This leaves the matter of a week plus of lost travel stories that I would have written about had I not been dealing with the van. To condense it, I met up with Tyler Eck—one of my brother’s surfing buddies and fellow Torrey Pines High School graduate—in Christchurch where he is doing an enology program. Tyler and I drove separately to Dunedin where we stayed with Michela Rizzo—the little sister of the roommate of a girl I used to date—who is taking valuable time out from partying at CU Boulder to party abroad at the University of Otago. The oldest university in New Zealand, it is known for its drinking culture. We were there for a weekend and town on Saturday night looked like the first scene in Saving Private Ryan where the soldiers storm the beach at Normandy. Except replace soldiers with students and then imagine them drunk. Kids were stumbling in every direction, impervious to the cold, basic traffic rules and any sense of wellbeing. Even though our nights were accounted for, Tyler and I did manage to explore the nearby Otago Peninsula for surf. There was a massive south swell and an equally fierce west wind which created some challenging and messy surf conditions. The first day we surfed a break called Victoria Bay which required us to hike 45 minutes across sand dunes to a penguin breeding ground. We didn’t see any penguins but we did get powerful, double-overhead beach break surf. I got worked. Tyler had a blast. The next day we surfed a much more accessible break called Allen’s Beach. I found a slightly smaller sandbar with a perfect peeling right hander with consistent barrels.

At the end of the weekend, Tyler had to return to school and I headed south to The Catlins. The Catlins are the remote rolling hills and generally unspoiled stretch of land between Otago and the Fiordlands. I checked out a lot of cool beaches, a blow hole 200 yards inland, a waterfall, penguin breeding grounds and a petrified forest only exposed at low tide before the van broke down. There are still a few attractions I want to go back and see, plus a few awesome surf spots that are begging for a cold water surf. Maybe in a week when I get back from Australia…

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April 22, 2010

Yesterday my van died. I am despondent. Gutted. Frustrated. My stomach is churning at the consequences. I’m in Invercargill, the southernmost city of NZ and not exactly a bustling metro I don’t know whether or not I will buy a new car here or even if I can. There isn’t much available in a population center maxing out around 50,000 people.

So how did I get here and how did the Orange Whip die? Yesterday while driving through the Catlins my engine warning light came on. I wasn’t driving hard, or that fast, so it was startling. My engine temperature gauge was spiking beyond the redline. Cresting over a hill, I took my foot off the accelerator and coasted downhill to see if anything changed. As the tachometer retreated below 2,000 rpm the engine temperature backed off to just below the redline and the engine light went out. I checked the map and determined that it was less than 20 km to my destination of Curio Bay so I stayed light on the gas pedal and pushed on. Not that I had a lot of choice but to push on since the closest approximation to a town was Waikawa, a string of B&Bs and a town info center and I hadn’t gotten cell phone reception in 2 days. A mere 150 feet short of the Curio Bay parking lot, the van’s dashboard lit up with a bevy of warnings and then the engine cut out. I pulled over to the shoulder and sat for 10 minutes in a cold sweat as wisps of steam were visible from under the body. Even with my limited engine knowledge, I knew I had to wait at least until the engine was cool to check the coolant levels so I took an hour to explore the bay. It was lovely.

An hour and a half later I opened up the engine compartment and started to poke around. The radiator overflow reservoir was low, but not below the fill line so I opened it up and added to the full line. To the radiator I added a liter and half of water. Checking the dipstick, the oil level seemed fine and it wasn’t burned. The fan belt was tight. No real choice but to try to drive myself out. The engine turned over with a bit of effort but it sputtered to life and I turned myself back toward the main road with the intent of getting to Invercargill before sundown. No such luck. The engine temp spiked back to the redline within 5 km leaving a mere 80 km to Invercargill. I pulled over again, waited another fitful hour and emptied the last of my water bottles to the radiator. 4 more km down the road and I was back in Waikawa. I figured that at the least, the information center would have a land line telephone so I could call for a tow truck. At the information center, Bruce and his wife Gaye offered to help. They showed me the water spigot across the street at the fire station and I was able to add an additional 3 liters of water to the radiator before it was topped off. Bruce then used his flatbed pickup to tow me 20 km to Tokanui, the nearest town with a service garage. At the garage, Colin the octogenarian owner took 5 minutes to inspect my barely running engine, my steaming exhaust and the irregular idle speed before giving the grim diagnosis. He suspected a broken piston head. There’s a break in the seal of the engine block somewhere and my exhaust is steamy—which means a water leak. He suggested I attempt to limp to Invercargill in the morning. I spent the evening alone in the local tavern putting back beers and staring off into space. I slept in my van—possibly for the last time—in the parking lot of the service garage.

In the morning I topped off my radiator and attempted the 50 km push to Invercargill. I made it 8 km before I was redlining. It started to rain. I pulled over at the top of a hill and sat for an hour. 3 more liters of water to the radiator and I was able to make it 3 more km to Fortrose where I pulled into the info center/café and commissioned the shopkeeper to use his landline and find me a tow truck in Invercargill.

An hour later and Orange Whip was loaded onto a flatbed and I was sitting shotgun talking cars, motorcycles and wrenching (since I’m obviously an expert) with Jason the tow truck operator who is a 350 pound Harley Davidson enthusiast with a shaved head and a long, wispy red goatee. He drove me to town, showed me around and dropped the van off at a garage around the corner from my hostel. He couldn’t have been a nicer guy.

Colin the service garage owner in Tokanui guessed that any repair will probably take at least a week and will cost at least as much as I already paid for the car. I can hope that the fix is enough or I can risk another vehicle. The likelihood of finding a suitable van in Invercargill is very slim but today is Thursday and there is an auto auction on Wednesday so a detour to the mountains on a bus might be in my cards. Otherwise I will probably have to leave the bulk of my stuff at the hostel and fly to Christchurch. Once I find a van there, I will need to drive it the 500km back to Invercargill and pick up my gear. I have options but it looks like I’m going to be out a couple of grand.

The garage I dropped it off at will call me this afternoon with a prognosis.

April 18, 2010

It’s nice to travel with people. For much of this trip I have been alone. I am not lonely, but many, many hours have been spent with little more than the scenery to keep me company. Some nights I get to stay with friends in their homes, in a bed, with a hot shower and a meal accompanied by a napkin. When I’m not that lucky, I have to be aggressive to have company. I have walked up to a table of 3 and asked if I can join them for dinner. Other times I’ll offer to share a bottle of wine or my bounty of food. Being an extrovert on the road takes a lot of work. This past week has been my first opportunity to really travel with friends. As mentioned in my prior posts, I picked up Sally the English surfer in Blenheim and we worked our way down the coast. Her only requirement was that I drop her off in Christchurch on the afternoon of the 14^th so she could catch a flight to Auckland. As I mentioned before, in Kaikoura, I made friends with another beautiful surfer girl, Lauren. Lauren, Sally and I got along really well so the idea of traveling together seemed obvious.

Lauren has her own car, “Nitro”—a beat up blue Subaru Legacy hatchback with a spidered windshield and a thick coating of dust. Unlike my luxury accommodations, Lauren lives a more modest traveler’s life. When night falls, she slides her surfboard under the car, lays out a sleeping bag and big blanket and sleeps diagonally across the trunk and a folded down seat. Bags of groceries, toiletries, cookware and clothes all managed to fit in the floor well between the back and front seats. It made me feel silly for having all of my comfort toys. Well, it made me feel silly until nightfall and I retreated to my totally flat bed with sheets and a comforter; then I felt a lot better about it. Either way, Lauren was mobile and excited to travel with us for a few days before she had to meet her friend in Queenstown.

After our time in Kaikoura on the beach, we went to the Hanmer Hot Springs (overrated, expensive tourist trap) and Grey Lake camping area (isolated, quiet and green) as a trio. After Sally was dropped off at the Christchurch airport, Lauren and I stayed in Christchurch (dirty and forgettable) for a night and Lake Tekapu (otherworldly blue water) for another. One really takes for granted the daily social interactions with friends and family. It was so nice to be able to share a joke, prepare a meal together or keep a running conversation. I have really missed that and it wasn’t apparent to me until I had it back. The cliché is that solo travels are to find the things that are missing within, but sometimes what’s missing is external. I don’t mean to say that I was missing friendship before I left, but making fresh connections reminded me how important that bond is in my life. Now that the girls are gone and I’m back on my own, I already miss them.

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April 13, 2010

Driving out of Blenheim, nothing was apparently different between the North and South Islands. Grassy rolling hills stretched for miles offering browning grasses for autumnal grazing. If anything was different it was that the farms were getting bigger and the homes spaced further apart. Sally and I were driving down the motorway in the early afternoon and the strong sunlight belied the mild temperatures. Rounding a bend maybe 40km out of town, the hills dramatically grew to mountains much steeper than anything I saw on the North Island. The motorway hugged the coastline, hemmed in by craggy ridges. Off to the left side of the road emerald blue waves lapped at the rocky, black sand beaches. I couldn’t help but think of those random beachside towns on Highway 101 between Ventura and Santa Barbara.

Within a few hours we arrived in Kaikoura, the town named for a rocky peninsula crowded by seals and frequented by whales. According to Maori lore, Maui the demigod was using the South Island as a canoe for fishing. He caught Te Ika A Maui (the fish of Maui)—better known as the North Island—and used Kaikoura as a foothold to reel in the fish. What this has to do with traveling I have no idea, but it never hurts to establish context within obscure earth creation stories. So we arrived in Kaikoura looking for a place to free camp. Just north of town some campervan roofs were visible from the roads. Following the most obvious gravel road we came to a series of rocky, grassy clearings next to the beach. Stunning was the first word that came to mind. To the west, we were at the foot of a glacier covered mountain range; to the east, we were a few feet above the high tide line feeling the subtle sting of cold ocean water making cold air. We made camp and braved a night of cold, blustery winds. Wind direction didn’t really matter since it was either sweeping across the ocean or glaciers and both were enough to send us to bed in sweatpants, sweaters, socks and hats.

In the morning we woke up to shoulder-high, peaky surf and a couple of cars filled with surfers checking it out. It took a few minutes to summon the courage to brave what I assumed was going to be 40 degree glacial runoff. I checked the surf guide book and learned that the surf spot was called “Meatworks” because the slippery and shallow rocks eat feet. Very exciting! I eventually filled my bladder with enough green tea to keep me warm and was forced into the water. Getting in the water wasn’t too bad as it was a balmy 58 degrees! During my surf session I started talking to a cute blonde girl named Lauren. She’s a classic Ventura County surfer girl at the tail end of a 3 month solo tour of the South Island. After almost 2 hours in the water, she was visibly shivering in her tattered wetsuit and my feet were inflexible and numb. I invited her to join Sally and I for a cup of hot tea and we both caught waves in. The walk, nay, crawl out of the water made the surf break name apropos. My feet were bleeding and achy and every step over the uneven cobble was painful and difficult. Eventually, I warmed back up over a breakfast of baked beans, bread, banana and hot tea. By noon the sun was hot and heavy jackets and socks were shed for t-shirts and sandals. There seemed to be a 6 hour window of each day where summer was eternal and winter only a rumor.

After an afternoon hike around the Kaikoura Peninsula nature reserve we went back to the Meatworks campsites and found our new friend Lauren. Sally made camp and the sun was inching toward the mountain tops so I took the last hour of sunlight to hike to a silty, glacial runoff stream and go fishing. The idea was better than the execution as the stream was fast flowing, shallow and rocky. No fish but I did catch a cool picture with my self-shot timer. That evening we built a big bonfire and sat around it drinking wine with a wacky Kiwi couple who was 14 hours into a bourbon and cola binge.

Not long after the sun came up and we were enjoying a breakfast of eggs and tea on big piece of driftwood on the beach, a fellow named Nicholas wandered up the beach and started chatting with us. A humorous and genuine mix of Spicoli and Tom Hanks from Castaway, Nicholas was a San Diego lifeguard chasing the eternal summer. He invited us to join him and his Czech campmate Joseph on a paua hunt before lunch. Paua is the Maori name for abalone and it’s bountiful and legal fishing in NZ. I jumped at both the opportunity and Nicholas’ enthusiasm. An hour later, the three of us guys were standing on the edge of the water while Nicholas offered an earnest pagan prayer to Mother Ocean.  They were armed with knives and I a screwdriver as we waded into the shallow water. Paua hunting is done at low tide in rocky areas. One climbs around the rocks, feeling the smooth surfaces for the telltale bump of a shell. The shells the shape of an egg cut in half the long way. Large enough paua are the size of an open hand and cling to rocks with a big foot like a giant snail. A prying tool is used to separate the foot from the rock while the other hand holds the shell in the chaotic surf. I tried various depths and only had success when the water was calmer and at least shoulder deep. Any shallower and I was fighting with the waves, any deeper and I spent too much air trying to get down to find the abalone. Nicholas and Joseph had a much more successful go of it as they were aided by snorkel masks. After we snagged a collective 10 paua, we made our way back to the camp to make lunch. To clean our bounty, a knife was used to separate the animal from its shell. The entrails discarded and the ugly black and green flesh washed in clean water and then pounded flatter for easier cooking. We fried them up on a beach wood campfire with vegetable oil, garlic, onions and fresh lemon juice. It was a delicious feast and the idea of catching, cleaning and cooking our whole meal gave our raggedy band of gypsy campers a sense of satisfaction that could only be capped with an afternoon nap in the warm sun. The 5 of us got together again in the evening to build a giant campfire, drink beers and cook a massive dinner of sausages, fire baked potatoes, grilled corn, a salad and marshmallows. It was an epic day.

Yesterday we decided to make it our last day at the camp. Sally has to be dropped off on the 14^th in Christchurch and I was feeling antsy about staying in any place—even one so idyllic—for so long with winter fast approaching. Lauren was keen to join us and suggested a day at the Hanmer Hot Springs up in the mountains. Before we left, Lauren, Joseph and I surfed the famous right hand point break Maungamanu and scored shoulder high peeling walls that zipped down the line in 200 yard long makeable sections. We surfed until she was numb and my shoulders were cramping. It was difficult to leave such a beautiful and stunning place, but there are more adventures to be had.

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April 9, 2010

“The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer in San Francisco” – Mark Twain

The words aren’t coming to me today so everyone is getting the Cliff Notes version of a blog entry.

5 days ago I arrived in Wellington, the capital city of New Zealand. Wellington is like a 1/5 scale model of San Francisco. Geographically, they are both hilly and surround a protected bay. Both have crappy weather and cold, biting winds. Both have a strong affinity for culture, arts, cafes, museums and nightlife. And both have the little brother complex from having to deal with their better known and larger neighbor (Auckland/Los Angeles). I had fun in the city and it was a welcomed but expensive change from the isolation of the tiny beach hovels on the East Coast.

After 3 days in the city I took the ferry across the Cook Strait, through the Marlborough Sounds to Picton and drove to Blenheim. This is the heart of the Marlborough region and its famous wineries. In Blenheim I picked up Sally, the English surfer that I met about 6 weeks ago in Mt. Maunganui. She has been hanging out and working for a friend in Christchurch and was looking to do some camping and surfing before she flies back to England in a week.

Yesterday we did a bus wine tour that took most of the day. The Marlborough region is famous for its white wines—Sauvignon Blanc in particular. In addition to Sauvignon Blanc we also tried quite a few Reisling, Pinot Gris and Chardonnay samples. Supposedly, the mild climate is perfectly suited for the subtle and softer white wine varietals, but too cold for heavier reds. We went to 7 wineries (Lawson’s Dry Hills, Villa Maria, Highfield, Mahi, Seresin, Farmingham and Wairau River) and had lunch at Highfield before we returned home. My favorites were Seresin, Mahi, Framingham and Wairau so if anyone comes across any of their wines, go ahead and buy a bottle and you can blame me if it sucks. After the wine tour we returned to the campsite where I power-napped while she set up the tent. Who says chivalry is dead?

We’re leaving today for Kaikura, a beach town half way between Blenheim and Christchurch. Hopefully there is some surf.

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April 4, 2010 - Part 3

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Driving out from Hawke’s Bay the afternoon sun drenched the rolling hills and the mountains in the distance. Adam Carolla and Bill Simmons Podcasts gave a welcomed reminder of home. My funk was clearing with each passing mile. I had no fixed destination but I knew I would be eating canned tuna and ritz crackers for dinner and sleeping in the van. Somehow, this made me feel better. I drove for an hour before pulling over and consulting my trusty NZ Surfing Guide book for a destination. Nothing was noted for another 100km of motorway so I turned off at the next road that, according to the road map, made it all the way to the ocean. This part of NZ is sparsely populated (surprise!). Strings of farm towns dot the motorway at random intervals, some offering little more than 3 buildings clustered at the crossroads. Unlike the US Interstate Systems, the motorway doesn’t bypass towns or skirt the edges to maintain traffic speeds. Rather it splits them like a civil engineer was playing connect the dots. While the Bay of Plenty and Hawke’s Bay hilly farmland melted softly to the ocean, the East Coast of the North Island offered no such geographical reprieve. The mountains and hills rarely top 1000 feet of altitude this side of the Ruahine and Tararua Mountain Ranges but they drop abruptly into the ocean in shear cliffs. Along the coast there are no roads running north and south, only east and west like ribs from the motorway backbone. The roads themselves vary greatly from paved, two-lane roads with sporadic passing lanes to narrow gravel paths showing almost no trace of human use. Street signs are almost comically scarce. On the map the road will take the name of one of the towns or rivers it traverses but in real life there is just a 6” tall and 2’ long yellow marker pointing obliquely in the general direction of the destination. Waione, Waimiro and Waihoki Valley look very similar on a sign at 60 mph. Don’t get me started on Mangatoro versus Mangatuna. This unanticipated measure of unpredictability adds an extra sense of adventure to the journey.

On my road map Herbertville was on the water and roughly facing south—the direction of the current swell. It seemed as good as any destination. When the paved road turned to dusty gravel I drove for 30 more minutes until it ended in a tiny encampment not even shown on my map. Whakatiki had about 10 baches (vacation houses) and 30 “No Camping” signs. The sun was getting low so I turned around and worked back up the gravel road to the paved road and took the next fork pointing south-ish. This road took me past the comically named Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupkaiwhenuakitanatahu. This “peak” was so non-descript that even through there was a sign in front of it I still don’t know if I was looking at the correct ridge. Attached is a photo so you can judge for yourselves. An hour later the sun was set and the eastern horizon was quickly turning blue to purple and I was camping on the outskirts of Herbertville.

In the morning, I awoke to howling offshore winds rocking the van and ripping through the unimpressive surf. It held no allure so I made my way back to the motorway, resumed southbound and then back out to the coast at Castlepoint. It was Good Friday and the whole Easter weekend is a national 4 day holiday so the vacation town was bustling. Plus, the surf was head high and pumping. Stiff offshore winds were tearing the lips off of the breaking waves in long feathers of spray giving the wrapping sandy beach a very tropical feel. The main cove was protected from the sea at the southern end by a tall rocky outcropping with a picturesque white lighthouse. I followed my surf guide past the end of town to a really crowded sandy beach. Because the tide was only an hour from peak low tide the beach and far cove were accessible by car. I followed the dozens and dozens of cars out to the waters edge at a surf spot called The Gap. The Gap is just that—a narrow gap in the rocky outcropping that extended from the headlands parallel to the beach to the lighthouse. Approaching waves ricocheted between the rocks in all manners of reflected chaos until recombining in a ski-jump ramp of a wave. The tight and wedgey takeoffs were never in the same spot even in sets. The lineup was crowded with weekend warrior kooks who would bail their boards at the sight of a set regardless of who would be in the path of their tethered projectile. After an hour or so in the water I was sitting way outside and dropped in deep on a set. The section started to close out and as I pushed around the foamy edge some asshat dropped in on me. I only saw the black of his wetsuit against the whitewater before I felt his board hit mine between my feet. Somehow he rode through it with my board stuck under his and his momentum ripped my leash off while I was underwater. I popped up expected to see someone bobbing near me but all I could see was the back of his head as he continued his ride to shore. Everyone else in the lineup was giving me blank looks as I shouted obscenities while swimming in. Then, in a really surprising twist, I watched the jackass check his board, check mine and walk up the beach without ever turning to look for me. I was furious and when I got to my board it only got worse as there was a 4” gash in the deck that broke through to the foam. This was a ding that had to be repaired before I could surf again.

Fuming, I walked back to the van and changed. It was 4pm and if I hurried to town any surf shops might be open for another hour. As I got back onto the paved road I came up to a beachfront house with three dudes in wetsuits holding boards. I stopped and asked them about the nearest surf shop. They laughed and told me there might be one in Masterton, a 2 hour drive away but it would definitely be closed for the holiday weekend. They asked what I needed and then generously offered to help me repair my board. Ben, the fourth guy—not wetsuited—and I took a few minutes to clean and patch the dings. We got to chatting and he offered for me to stay for dinner. The house was a company bach and rentable by employees for $100 a night. Staying for the long weekend were Ben, Phil, Jamie, Dan, Joy and Julz (Jules in kiwispeak). After a hearty pasta and rice dinner I hung out with the late 20-somethings and chatted about all manners of life and travel. It was really nice to accompany a group of friends and they treated me as one of their own. The sun was long gone and they offered me the spare bunk bed. We drank wine and played board games until midnight.

In the morning, the wind was blasting side shore at roughly 30 knots making the surf a mess. We lounged around until lunch before the wind finally eased up to a less ridiculous 20 knots and offshore. Ben, Phil and I ventured to the north end of the cove to a break called Slipperies. The car park in front of the break was full but only 2 guys were in the water. The sun was out and the water was sapphire blue. The small creek in front of the break pushed a steady sand plume into the lineup creating long sandbars. Perfect barrels peeled both left and right on each wave. We surfed for 3 hours, taking turns catching 3 and 4 second long crouch down barrels. Because there was no crowd, our motion was perpetual. Paddle for the wave in blinding spray. Feel for the drop in the wave. Stand. Bottom turn and crouch. Kick out and paddle back to the lineup. 3 glorious hours. My arms and shoulders ached for hours. I exchanged phone numbers with the gang before leaving. They all live in the Wellington suburbs so hopefully they’ll make another cameo in the blog.

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April 4, 2010 - Part 2

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I met Nadya a few weeks back while in the Coromandel. She and her mother were traveling together and were the only other people at the lookout over Cathedral Cove when I asked her to take my photo. It’s the picture where I’m looking off to the side like a bronzed surfer god with the scattered islands of Mercury Bay in the background. They walked off in their own direction after the photo and I thought nothing of it until later in the day when I ran into them at the Cove and we struck up a conversation. Nadya invited me to borrow some of her spare snorkel gear and we went for a swim in Gemstone Bay. At the end of the afternoon we exchanged numbers and she invited me to stay in her spare bedroom whenever I was passing through Hawke’s Bay. Fast forward 10 or so days and I was pulling off the motorway outside the Napier city limits and down the tree-lined road to her house. Tree-lined is an understatement. Nadya is renting the guest house in the middle of an apple and kiwi fruit orchard in one of the many wine making regions of NZ. Her 2 bedroom house is weathered but sturdy, stylish, light and airy. Barely visible from the driveway, the inauspicious front porch belies the spacious back porch and the Jumanji-like growth of the herb and vegetable garden. Everywhere you look plants are spilling their confines, offering their bounty to open hands. The wife in the main house has a serious green thumb. Common to orchards in NZ, the plot boundaries are fenced in by tightly spaced trees pruned to make a solid barrier against gusty winds. The houses are bathed in a warm, still air saturated with the vinegar sweet aroma of overripe apples fermenting on the ground. Bucolic and peaceful, this feels like a home.

Nadya is the yin to the orchard’s yang. Standing 5’4” she is a dynamo of nervous energy. Her toned shoulders and short cropped asymmetrical haircut project an asexual confidence and strength. Born in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia to doctor parents from prominent families she set off at a young age to make her own path in the world and match the success of her industrialist grandfather. At 22 graduated from Russian medical school and was accepted into an orthopedics residency in Charlotte, North Carolina. Upon completion she bounced around the US working as a doctor and picking up adventure sport hobbies. Independence and wanderlust are firmly engrained in her personality. For the 3 nights I spent at her place she audibly fretted in her thick Russian accent over whether to commit to a plane ticket to Christchurch or Auckland for her upcoming 5 day vacation. The amount of energy and stress she put into the decision would have been excessive for a new home purchase. A resolute and headstrong person, she actively pursues instability and avoids commitments. We talked a lot about relationships and she was quick to condemn men for not being emotionally sensitive enough. She is a curious paradox to say the least.

Her hospitality, however, was excellent and very welcomed. Not only did she provide me a room but she also made me a huge meal the first night. We had Russian style ground beef and vegetables with a Greek yogurt vegetable salad and crustini with caviar and Russian vodka. I didn’t come empty handed to the table, though as I brought a couple bottles of local wines and the promise to teach her how to surf. We set this up before I got to town so she was ready with a rented board and wetsuit. She was ecstatic and a quick learner in the water. The conditions weren’t great but she was standing on whitewater waves on her rented board within the first hour and eagerly continued until exhaustion.

The next day we hiked Te Mata peak. The mountain is not big but the trails up are really steep and meander from sweeping grass fields to dense forest of indigenous trees to majestic groves of California Redwoods. I forgot my running shoes at the Wu household in Auckland over a month ago and have survived hiking in my sandals. Nadya and Te Mata kicked my ass. She manages to focus her ample energy into a near sprint up the path while I trudged along, fighting to keep my sandals on and from slipping off the crumbling limestone precipices. Nadya was barely breathing at the top but I was huffing and puffing, sweating and trying to work the cramps out of my calves. The exercise was good and the view from the top was peaceful and reminiscent of central Europe. Small streams drain the Hawke’s Bay watershed, marking the landscape like a dark green highlighter through the taupe grasslands. Somehow the highly structured right angles of vineyards interrupt the patchwork of irregular farms. Tiny white hovels humbly offer shelter while deferring space to the chosen flora sharing fenced in space. The less modest residents of Havelock North might disagree, but this is not the place to live if you want to get rich. This is where peaceful symbiosis between man and crops exists through moderation and enthusiastic work.

Napier is the crown jewel of Hawke’s Bay. Marginally different from Hastings—it’s sister city 20 km down the road—Napier boasts of ocean views, a multitude of vineyards and a plethora of Art Deco buildings. The city was destroyed by a massive earthquake in 1931 and then rebuilt over the next 2 years in the popular style of the day. Today, tourists from all over the world flock to see some incredibly boring 3 and 4 story buildings in an otherwise unremarkable town. The Art Deco buildings were the second most overrated tourist attraction in NZ behind the hot springs of Rotorua.

It’s possible that my souring disposition colored my experience in Napier. After my rough day in Gisborne, I was worn down. Travel fatigue, constant itching and homesickness made me pensive and brooding instead of enthusiastic and open. I missed my friends and my family. I missed being able to veg out on the couch and watch 4 hours of mindless tv. I miss carne asada burritos. I missed speaking un-accented English with people who share my idioms and jokes and sense of humor. I miss easy, cheap communication and internet access. It is tiring to always filter through accents, to strain to understand people. I have no home, no anchor, no guarantees. I have eschewed conventional responsibilities but my personality won’t let me get away from it all. This has to have purpose. Purpose is that metaphorical life roadmap that I have always followed. Growth is the goal and that cannot happen without struggle and pain and insecurity and reflection. And I’m ok with that but it is not easy to accept on a day-to-day basis. Reflection comes from honesty and that is the most difficult emotion. Even alone I try to translate my experiences into a real-time blog entry in my head. I have a terrible time being in the moment and experiencing it for what it is. This is a valuable coping mechanism for preventing panic if I’m stuck on the sand dunes outside Gisborne but distracts from the wholeness of the experience. About 5 years ago I attended a self-help seminar at the invitation of my good friend Joshua Enders. At the seminar the speaker was talking about how we need to let go of prior experience and to life each day of life with innocence and excitement. It was one of the most confusing and frustrating pieces of advice I have ever received. It is my antithesis and I know and have accepted that. I am very much an engineer and that means my life is experience distilled into relevant compartments. This also means a voyage into the unknown is difficult and at times uncomfortable.

My funk lasted 5 days.

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April 4, 2010 - Part 1

I’m back in civilization and I have a lot of updates so this is going to be a 3 parter.

Part 1 of 3:

As I was leaving the East Cape the weather turned foul. It wasn’t sudden and rather paralleled the change in scenery as I moved from the voluminous brushstrokes of green around the cape to the rolling hilly grasslands of Gisborne and the Bay of Poverty. The Bay of Poverty is a misnomer but Captain Cook was the captain of Endeavor, the first ship of European explorers to see and land on NZ so he got to name it whatever he wanted. Sure there were already inhabitants who had given it a name many centuries prior, but he had the advantage of written language while the Maori natives only had the Haka. The Haka, for those not in the know is the traditional Maori war dance. It is most notorious as the pre-match dance of the All Blacks, the NZ national rugby team, but its roots are steeped in traditions many centuries old. I have yet to see it performed live but it is supposedly quite ferocious and exciting. Captain Cook thought so because upon landing in present day Gisborne in 1769, the locals did the Haka to announce their presence with authority and Cook’s men opened fire killing 6. Irked that he didn’t get to restock supplies before their hasty retreat Cook did what any fine English captain would do and bestowed the place with an ignominious name to shame any of the then current and future occupants: hence, Bay of Poverty.

My luck in Gissy (as the locals call it) wasn’t much better. Supposedly, it has the finest weather in NZ. I got blustery winds and sideways rain. I was hoping that the rain would wash off the week of accumulated dust, dirt and cow shit but it only rehydrated everything into a slimy film covering the lower and back half of the van. Not that the 4 linear blocks of the city center had me at rapt attention but the weather was enough of a deterrent that I decided to find a place with an ocean view to sit and read for a while. I followed the beachfront road away from town and the parking lots turned to grassy sand dunes with tire tracked entries about every 200 meters. There were numerous cars parked on the dunes so I figured it was kosher and drove until I had my own section. Driving along the ruts in the grass I came up on an escarpment and turned left to follow the path parallel to the water. The heaps of discarded tvs and household products told me that I wasn’t exactly blazing any trails so I took that as de facto certificate of drivability. Not 100 feet down the one way path and I could feel my tires sagging and losing traction in the soft sand. The first rule of off-roading is to keep moving if at all possible. I stayed on the accelerator and tried to straddle the sandy ruts and stay on the grassy bit for traction until progress stopped. At this point I followed the second rule of off-roading which is not to dig yourself too deep a hole. Getting out and inspecting my situation the rainfall immediately doubled in volume. I grabbed the shovel out of the back of the van and set to clearing my path and digging out. Turns out the grassy parts were loose and deep and the rutted parts were hard packed and firm. Adding insult to injury, there was no way to get down and dig under the van without rubbing against the cow shit slime that coated the side panels. Damn.

2 hours later the belly of the van was sitting squarely on the sand, roughly 30 pieces of soaked driftwood off the beach were rubbed black from my spinning tires and not a single car had driven by. Digging was getting me nowhere but sandy(ier) and wet(ter); I needed to be towed out. I started walking back toward town, toward the random cars parked without incident on the dunes. The first guy I came across drove a small coupe so he drove me back toward town to look for anyone with 4WD. It didn’t take long to find a morbidly obese Maori guy with a flatbed truck who was agreeing to help even before I finished explaining my predicament. He towed me out with a casual nonchalance and offered a quick wave before driving off. The generosity and compassion of Kiwis strikes again!

Exhausted, wet and sandy I decided to spring for a hostel and a hot shower. Peeling off my clothes I realized I had been bit all over my face, neck, arms and legs by sandflies. The bites are red and itchy like mosquito bites but these were under my clothes and in my beard and much, much itchier. I was looking to get a haircut and shave at the time but I was at risk of looking like a leper with the clusters of itchy, red bumps so I have abstained for more than a week.

Gisborne got two huge thumbs down from me and I took off early in the morning. I did, however, take my first passenger from the hostel. Gino is a 26 year old German guy who makes his bones in the hotel and service industry. He had been traveling around the country looking for a hospitality related job to no avail. Down to his last few ducats he had resigned to hitching for a couple of weeks. Unlucky for him, it was still raining. Luckily, he and I were both headed for Napier so I offered him a ride with the understanding that he would have to humor any stops for surf. 

The drive from Gisborne to the Mahia Peninsula is only 75 or so kilometers but the tight curves and switchbacks made it really slow going. This gave Gino and I plenty of time to get through pleasantries and into real conversations. Gino took this opportunity to really put his personality out there. Turns out that all of the girls in Gino’s life are either fat, ugly, whores or fat ugly whores. Gino also finds the Nazis hilarious; not Springtime-for-Hitler hilarious but rather a darker humor that was pretty unsettling. When he spelled his last name for me, he made sure to mention that it had two S’s like the SS before laughing uncontrollably for 2 minutes. Maybe there’s a cultural barrier there but I felt weird.

When we finally got the Mahia Peninsula, getting out of the car to check the surf was a welcomed reprieve. The peninsula marks the east end of Hawke’s Bay and points south. The location and orientation make it both a swell magnet and there is always a beach facing the right direction to receive waves. I checked some of the cooler sounding breaks—Blacks (named for the black rocks), Rolling Stones (named for the ominously loud boulders that roll around the break when the surf is big), Tracks (named for the train tracks) and Point Annihilation (guess!)—before determining that the south-facing Opoutama beach break was the only spot worth the paddle. An hour of fighting closeouts and I had my exercise for the day. Back in the car Gino took my silence as an opportunity to talk for the remaining 3 hour drive to Napier. If there is a silver lining, the feeling of being annoyed at someone was at stark contrast to the pangs of loneliness that had started to come over me during my last few days in the East Cape. I dropped Gino off in the center of Napier and sped off toward Nadya’s house.