Part Two

Lesley, a southern UK native, has been in this country for about as long as I have. We are similar in age and she reminds me so much of a my college roommate. Like Kaycee, Lesley lives for the moment. With little more than a vague suggestion at the possibility of mussels she grasped onto the idea that it could be done, and when I mentioned kayaking she knew we would have to give it a try. As we paddled out I thought back on my first time kayaking. Rarely have I kayaked when I don’t remember that eventful day, a day that should have put me off of one of my favorite outings, forever.

When I was younger many weekend days were spent at Morro Bay on the central coast of California. A natural bay, improved upon and intruded upon by humans it is also an estuary. A great sand spit reaches out into it, protecting the bay from the ocean’s waves and the wind. In most places it is so shallow that you can actually see to the bottom, through the murky cool waters of the pacific. We’d rent canoes and head out to the sand spit for a highly challenging game of hide and seek where we would try and track each other through ice plant, crushed sea shells and all other types of terrain commonly found on the dunes.

One such day we switched to a kayak. My father and I, glad to be free of the bulk and cumbersome actions of rowing, hoisted our paddles and laughed as the tide and the wind pulled us towards our most frequent destination. Years spent on these adventures should have wizened us to the realization that the return journey wouldn’t be so easy. As I think back I am certain that my father must have known, an ex-coast guard he had spent hours upon weeks on the sea, but he must of also figured it could be handled. Nothing, could have prepared him for what we were about to face.

In our many times exploring the estuaries and coves of Morro Bay we had, on countless occasions, encountered adverse current, tidal and wind conditions. The difference here was, and I can truly and without guile say, it was our equipment. Kayaks are shallow vessels. Your legs lie low and rest, more than post off a couple of small plastic foot rests. They are at best insufficient in a time of need. What compensates for this is the backrest. Attached with straps each rest can be adjusted to fit the needs and body shape of the user. But when the rest is missing there is nothing to hold you up and your stomach and your legs take a brutal beating.

Never, in all those excursions, has my father had to stop and rest at any point, let alone desperately grasping at a moored boat’s buoy. We were exhausted in our uphill battle to fight the current. Stomach, arms and shoulders screamed. Our calves and quads folded in on themselves in excruciating cramps sending us into reams of agonizing pain. What fools we must have seemed, on our way out gaily waving our paddles above our heads, as if propelled by sails. The ocean had shamed us for our mocking ways.

Years later and thousands of miles away Lesley and I had to pull hard against wind and current as we battled our way out to one of the many islands in the aptly named, Bay of Islands. From the coast it appears to be the largest. A gentle shoreline hugging its front side is the only reprieve from our struggle. Just as quickly as we enter the calm waters we are back out in the chop and fighting our way past rocks, rocks that harbor at their bases a collection of mussels so large that but one will fit in the palm of our hands. Lesley is unsure if this is the spot. Her friend, who told her of the harvest, had mentioned a small beach. And then we see it. Around a rock outcrop a small sandy beach. Tall trees and bushes rise up sharply on the steep slopes above and around it. It is a formidable landing with sharp rocks jutting on all sides.

Lesley is quite at home on and in the sea. She powers ahead of me in the kayaks and as soon as we have beached she grabs her goggles and swims out into the rough waters. I too am at home with the sea but there is something daunting about the way the waves break on, and the current pulls at the rocks. Unsure of my safety I follow her wake.

There are a series of rocks that jut out of the water just north of the island. They are sharp and cut our feet as we try to balance ourselves against them. Lesley and I learn the hard way that trying to swim with our feet results in bloody toes and little movement. She is moving about the area diving under the chop and searching the rock bases for shellfish trimmed in green. We feel we are out of luck when time and time again she surfaces with out sighting a single mussel over a centimeter in length. Then what we think is the jackpot. Lesley starts to dive down frantically. As she surfaces her hand rises out in a triumphant salute. Held tightly in it a mussel, a New Zealand Green Lipped mussel measuring three inches in length. She dives and surfaces and dives and surfaces. After a couple failed attempts her technique is honed and she surfaces each time with a mussel in hand. Once she holds up a mussel so big we break out into laughter. We are amazed at our luck. Just this one is enough to make us more than ecstatic.

It is tiring work and we trade places. She stands guard over our growing sack of mussels and I take to the sea. Still unsure about the strong current I wade into the deeper waters. She points into the foreboding darkness. There, the mussels are there, she says. Then I dive and my fears are but silly childish apprehensions. Beneath the waves and white wash the current gently flows and the sea grass waves to and fro. Near their roots the mussels have taken hold and grown. They cut my hands as I grasp at them. I am indiscriminate as I grab and pull and I come away with two or three or at a time. Our smiles grow broader and our eyes shine with joy and the stings of salt water.

Lesley again points into the water. Over there is where I found the big one, she says. I begin to dive for the new destination. The rust colored sea grasses cast shadows over the mussel beds, but I can still see that they are big. I come up laughing and Lesley joins in. In each grasp are mussels so big they fill my hands. We are ignorant to the cuts and scrapes on our hands and feet. Later that will smart when exposed to hot water and soap but for now there is only the joy of the harvest and the thoughts of our dinner to come.

We know it is time to stop when our greedy eyes see four-inch mussels as small.

(2 of 2)
January 26, 2007

Diving for Mussels (in two parts)

I arrived in Paihia today. The sun opened up and the blue green ocean called my name. It was spring break during the winter holiday. Young and old spread across the ocean shore, and though of no great size or scope in beauty it is a comfortable and relaxing place, free of pretence.

There are more backpacker accommodations in this tiny seaside town than in all of Auckland—New Zealand’s biggest city. I had arrived on my own. My partner stayed on in Wharehine to work for a carpenter painting houses for a few days. Already I look forward to his arrival. I am in love with this tiny seaside town and I think, hope, that he will too.

It was a stroke of luck ending up at the lodge that I did. My bus ride ended at the wharf, dropping us off at an information booth. The first off the bus I struggled to pull my bag on amidst a jostling swarm of elderly people, ruthless in their attempts to get their bags and get out of there. As the bus pulled away I stood alone anxiously anticipating my next move. Laden and ready to move I made my way to the information booth. With phone in hand I went through the backpacker brochures. My first four attempts all resulted in no vacancies. Then came my lucky call. The Peppertree Lodge was available and waiting.

Sight unseen I agreed to a two nights stay. As I walked down King Street, a street basically dedicated to backpackers, I eyed my earlier attempts and the lodges that I hadn’t gotten around to calling, but as I turned down the drive I was certain I had chosen the proper place. The advertised free kayaks were parked outside, just waiting to be put to use. A bicycle rack stood empty but it spoke of rides untaken and promised to fulfill.

Free tennis beckoned my as well. It was with a heavy heart that I sold my tennis racket back in the states. Bought when I played in high school it had remained one of my prized possessions all through the years. Now here it was free for me to enjoy once again. What I thought was the icing on the cake was only the beginning.

Physical comforts were catered to as well. My room, a light and airy place with crisp white sheets, ventilating windows and glass doors that open wide to let in the sea breeze and ocean smells. Our room for four even featured our own bathroom complete with shower. There is something so refreshing about paying very little for what feels like resort accommodations. With a backpacker’s budget but a taste for the finer things in life roughing it can only satisfy for so long. Thankfully, though unbeknownst to me, I was facing the freshest shellfish dinner of my life, complete with a fine bottle of wine.

I could not have been at the lodge for but thirty minutes when I was whisked off to dive for mussels off the beaches of a distant island. With little by way of a plan Lesley and I set off. I met Lesley as I was situating myself in my new home. I had planned to be here but two days, but I suspect it will be longer. She came in briefly to grab the bag of a mate. We were introduced then she was gone.

Last night was a big night in Wharehine. Our youth hostel hosted their weekly ten dollars all you can drink special. As beers are quite over priced we took it upon ourselves to make back our money. We drank and we talked and we made new friends. There were many new faces and few familiar ones. Many of the German speakers had moved on and in their place came the Spanish speakers. I was in seventh heaven. Though my Spanish is far from being even remotely good I still love to speak it, and speak it I did. It is a beautiful when I am frustrated by being surrounded by people who don’t speak any language I know to suddenly hear a language, that though is far from fluent to my ear is near enough.

Starting at around seven o’clock the people begin to trickle in. By seven thirty it is far more packed than I have ever even imagined at seeing it. Then, when eight rolls around and the evening has begun there is little standing room and all seats are coveted and carefully guarded. By getting in with the guardians of the chairs I was able to secure a spot for myself at the railing. We drank and we rolled cigarettes, the obvious preference in New Zealand, and drank some more. I like to think I got my money back, at least I hope so for otherwise the headache and upset stomach the next day sure weren’t worth it.

The next day in Paihia, with barely more than a power bar in me, but loads of liquids, I left my room in search of food and relaxation, what I found was an excursion and a new friend.

1 of 2
January 25, 2007

Lesley: My Kaycee Overseas

I would venture so far to say that I had the best roommate in college. One of the most gregarious and outgoing persons I have ever met, she made everyday fun just by the way she lived her life—for the moment. And then there was the side of her that was reserved and shy. This side came out whenever she dealt with authority figures. Lesley is very much like Kaycee.

On the briefest of suggestions to take out kayaks Lesley turned a relaxing paddle into a four-hour excursion featuring challenging currents, razor sharp rocks and dangerous diving—all in the name of mussels. After our adventure was over and we had learned the name of the island where we found our mussels she decided that the official name just wouldn’t suffice. So she changed it to Charisley (chair-is-lee) Isle. I must agree that I do find it more agreeable.

Kaycee once made up and named a drink that slowly spread around the town we lived in and the surrounding areas. We use to frequent the Frog and Peach in San Luis Obispo, California and it was there that we first tried Blue Moon. It is a Belgian white-wheat-ale, similar to a hefewiezen but lighter and with a more citrus taste. We were instant suckers for it. At this time we were also very fond of Black and Tans; we would show up at the bar order a Black and Tan, each, and a Blue Moon, each. This was how she lighted upon the wonderful idea of making a Black and Tan with Guinness and Blue Moon. Right then and there she coined it a Black and Blue and the drink and the name have spread. How like Kaycee, Lesley is to also come up with something new and catchy on the first try.

Lesley too is open and friendly. She is giving and kind. She eats cake for lunch and ice cream for an afternoon snack. Kaycee was always my partner in crime when it came to ingestible vices. The two of us would head out to a local bar and grill for happy hour food and free drinks courtesy the bartender who of course, thanks to Kaycee, became a fast friend.

After only two partial days together Lesley is getting ready to leave, and, though she has checked out, her stuff has remained in the room. True to Kaycee form she frets and fumbles over how to sneak her bag downstairs so the owners wont know that she hasn’t properly vacated the area. She took a shower too. Before the shower though she decided to wait up in the room until her hair had dried before going out. She just knew that they would see her hair and know she had used their facilities. In all reality the worse that would happen is a stern look or maybe a passive-aggressive comment and what harm would that do, still she paced, causing herself more pain in agonizing over it. This is not to be misunderstood as an obsession. It was more of a quaint preoccupation. As she stood in the doorway, preparing to make her daring escape she peaked out the door, then with a sheepish grin back at me she left. Oh how like Kaycee that whole maneuver was.

January 26, 2007

Parihaka Reserves, Whangarei

The locals call it a hill, but historically it was a great volcano that at one time, even before the Maori, it blew its top off, and in reality it is a spiritual awakening. There is a moment, when you are on the volcano, when history stands up, wraps you in its arms, and takes off to a place so long gone that only ancient remnants and our imaginations bring us hints of what life was like before I trod there.

As I walked I became a part of the story. My footsteps in the damp decaying earth forever changing the forest floor. What air I exhale is absorbed in the surrounding plant life; giving life in a place so dense with vegetation you can almost see the leaves competing for my carbon dioxide waste, and compete they must. Few people come here. In my four-hour hike I never once saw another person.

The walk to the volcano is as unassuming as the sight of the former mountain. From afar both look like an average spot. Somewhere you can experience in just about any corner of the world where it rains enough to turn the hills green in spring. The walk begins in the town and meanders through neighborhoods. The postie rides by on her bicycle delivering the mail. Up a street and down a street, I begin to think I am lost when time after time the road curves around and back again, but shying away behind some bushes along a driveway a fresh sign points the way and I am once again confident in my plans.

As soon as I step on the path the scenery changes from suburban quaint to natural beauty. The path wanders beside a river. It is connected to the sea and rises and falls with the tide. That seems to be a common theme around here. Sea birds and ducks alike swim along the banks. I am startled to see, amongst all the beautiful things nature has to offer, the ugliest duck I have ever laid eyes on.
With the body of a molting goose and the head of a turkey vulture it looks as if it would scavenge the waterways for anything dead or decaying. It swims with its head moving back and forth like a saw blade and it is not very popular amongst the more serene mallards. With a bad mood to match its looks the lone creature takes aim at every passing duck. The mallards easily stay out of its reach for apparently it is lazy as well.

At a small park nestled in a river bend the path curves and you begin the climb to the look out and war memorial at the top of Parihaka. The flora changes drastically and the forest envelopes you in shadows and the sounds of hundreds of cicadas, only they aren’t cicadas; the noise belongs to an insect that resembles a chubby cricket. It is a steep climb and at what I think is the halfway point I stop and rest. Sitting on the path I can see through the trunks of the great ferns and tall trees. I look past the treetops and fern leaves rising up below me and I can see out to the sea.

Though Whangarei sits on a harbor it is miles to the nearest beach and this is my first glimpse of the ocean in days. Moving with the currents it is flat and blue in some places and a silvery sea foam green in others. I try to smell the sea but the wet damp earth all around me is overpowering. The forest smells of life and death as the two intertwine and create one another. It is a beautiful hike, and spectacular in its own right, but it is not a far cry from much of the bush I have scene in other places, including the middle of Auckland, but I am enjoying the nature around me and the solitude keeps me at peace.


Nature is like a distant lover, it pulls you in and fools you into thinking you are safe and accepted and then it drives you away. As I left the top and made my way down the scenery changed drastically. Where once the land had been cleared for grazing and building reforestation has turned it into a nursery for kauris. Their slim straight trunks beguile the monsters they could become with time, if allowed. It is these monsters I am hoping to see. Few exist any more, and found in only very specific places I hadn’t heard much about their presence in Whangarei.

Past the nursery I am thinking about the kauri and the devastation caused to it by the settlers when a small sign, tucked into the bush, catches my attention. It is simple and confusing. “Pa, this way” with an arrow. As I had hiked upward I came across what I had thought to be the remnants of a European settlement. I was soon to learn that it was a Maori settlement, and more specifically, a Pa.

These early homes had been built into the mountain and the lava rock. Their many storage pits still dot the volcano. They look like shallow graves dug out of stone. Also carved out are terraces—risers that act as protection from warring tribes, and later, Europeans. These terraces were not successful in protecting the occupants. A great massacre occurred here during the Maori wars. Today the area is been mapped out for the public to see and learn from but the path has overgrown. It is hard to follow in many places and I lose it all together at the end of the loop and have to retrace my steps. It is obvious this is becoming a dark place once again. It may have been mapped but it is not being remembered or observed.

I stand in the middle of what once was the main establishment. A tree stump is visible through the middle of an ancient cooking pit. About five inches wide it grew for sometime between the end of the settlement and the discovery of the site. The place has the old feel of an attic. I try to absorb its history but the ghosts have gone, even they have abandoned the site.

The volcano holds more sights for me still. Tall trees rise up all around. Hopeful that these are kauri I examine them closely. Tall and straight they share two characteristics, but their bark is of the wrong color and is smooth in most places, though with each passing year an exterior ring is blatantly visible. Trying to count them proves to be a lost cause. Like an impressionist painting they are visible from afar but up close I get confused and cannot tell a scar from a year. I continue to try to talk myself into believing they are kauri when a giant rises high above the trees. I can’t see the leaves to identify it, the surrounding treetops close in above me, but I know what I am seeing.

The size and the bark are telling markers of the great trees. Like camouflage clothing spots of color shift in shape and size blending in with the shadows and shafts of sunlight. This bark, when pulled away leaves an indentation. Its legacy flows through the tree so that when cut it bends and warps under your fingers. As I look at it I am trying to come up with a way of conveying its sheer size and a song from childhood pops into my head. It is a song about a man with a very large wife. She is so large that when he goes to give her a hug he has to chalk where he began so he will know when to stop rounding her middle with his embraces. This tree is of a size that I would have to be “a huggin’ and a chalkin’ at least two times with the third just overlapping the first. Maybe I will come across another hiker working their way around in the opposite direction. The man in the song had just such an encounter around his wife.

Maybe it was my hopes or sheer determination to see a kauri but I couldn’t help but feel its presence. It permeates the air around it taking up even more space that its physical form. The forest is quieter here. These are things of reverence and the flora and fauna worship them as is befitting their status. From a meter away my skin tingles and my hair stands up on end singing in praise. The air has grown thicker than water and I feel myself being pulled deeper into the embrace of the forest and the magic of the mountain. We share our energy but the power of the tree is almost too much to bear and I have to move on.

Still tingling from my encounter my next jaw dropping moment almost achieves in breaking my heart in two. There, but three meters in front of me is the stump of a kauri even larger than the first. It is new. The jagged shards haven’t lost their golden hue, little debris has collected on the base and I am in awe that such a thing, after surviving so many axes over the years was cut down so recently and seemingly senselessly. I am driven to find an answer, something that will tell me this tree was chopped down because it was dying and posing a threat to the surroundings, but in its fall it has crushed the symbol of New Zealand. A number of silver ferns lay dead in its wake, and, even more devastating, younger kauris as well. On a steep slope it is held onto the mountainside by friction and young trees. In my mind’s eye I see a great rain causing the ground to slicken and I see the massive trunk slip from its hold and tumble with gravity destroying all living things in its path, and there are many.

A severe wrong has been committed and my heart has slowed. Against my better judgment I climb down the slope to sit upon the fallen giant. It is so freshly fallen that I worry for a moment that it isn’t as stuck as it appears but I am desperate to touch it in hopes of connecting with what once was its greatness, but once I am down there I know that what was there is gone. Dazed I can’t bring myself to leave. I can’t believe it is down—its power and mystery abandoned and betrayed. Now there is only one way to walk the park for if you come upon the felled tree first then it is all ruined. How can we enjoy beauty when we are first slapped in the face with destruction?

January 23, 2006

Politics and Religion

These are two subjects not to be discussed, but still they interest me and I broach them. In these recent travels I have come across many people from all places and walks of life. Their stories and their viewpoints interest me. Some are quite open and expressive about their views and others are more reserved or diplomatic. You can see them weighing their answer heavily for these are heavy topics. No one has denied me an answer yet so I will continue on in a quest to understand the ultimate in taboo topics.

A Jew from America went to Israel. When before she sided with the Palestinians what she saw made her side with no one. They all want peace and most are willing to negotiate and do what ever it takes to get the peace that they so desperately crave, but the few, yes, it is the few rotten apples that spoil the barrel. It was strange to her, that after all she had read and heard about in the news, that in Israel she was less discriminated against as a Jew than she was in America. As woman though, well that was beyond anything she had anticipated and she had tried to prepare for it.

I met a man from Argentina. He spoke of how Argentina needs dictators. For years they thrived under dictators—poor and elite alike, He was one of the elite. Now, with Néstor Kirchne there is a class system when in the past there was none. Before, anyone could be anything because the government paid for all levels of education. And while the economics of education hasn’t change it is the perception of people who do well that has. Kirchne has created a rift between the two classes. Now it is bad to be wealthy and this has been misconstrued to mean it is bad to improve your lot in life.

I met a group from Chile. They don’t think much of their first female present for she is just another puppet in the system that has ruled Chile for so many years. In their eyes Chile has not change and wont changed. It is a stagnant society.

There is a man from Berlin. He was there with the wall and after the wall, but he is of Turkish decent. He sees things in from a different standpoint. Turkey has been a democracy for many years now but he says that democracy is not something you can just hand people. Turkey has taken it too far and the results are slums on government property and a lack of education. According to him, under communist rule Turkey would be better off. Everyone would be educated and everyone would have a home. That is how he says life was like and it was pleasant.

There is an underlying theme to all of this. Democracy is not the answer. No one knows what it is but they all seem to agree that democracy is not it.

January 24, 2007

Early New Zealand Observations

Since we have arrived certain truths have made themselves self evident. Here they are in no particular order.

-Kiwis love to jay walk. We expect a race across the exressway or a trot across a downtown street, but not only do they jay walk frequently but with the stroll of a sunday walker in a peacful park--without a care in the world.

-Their work to live lifestyle is revealed in how few shops are open before ten and unless they are a restaurant or bar all stores close at six o'clock on the dot. Outside of Auckland everything closes at five.

-A Kiwi will compare Auckland to San Francisco but the asian influence found in the many lit sign boxes hanging from the awning is a glaring difference.

-The weather is truly as fickle as they say. On a walk to the Auckland Domaine, a giant park and sports complex, a drizzle turned into a downpour. The awning we took cover under soon attracted others and collectively we waited five minutes; the rain slowed and we continued on our way.

-Perception is in the eye of the perceiver. A five minute downpour and gusty winds is the extent of what I have seen of this storm that "threatens to devestate the North"

January 14, 2007

Loneliness

Loneliness is a powerful feeling and when it strikes it can easily be mistaken for something other than. Though I have felt the pangs of being far from home and explored their cause there are times when it comes on in a strange way and leaves me feeling anxious and claustrophobic. The easily recognizable moments do seem to last the longest but there is within them a feeling of understanding. You know what you are feeling and why and though it is terribly depressing you take comfort in owning the moments and its effect on you. The triggers can vary greatly.

Days after arriving in Auckland we bought mobile phones. Now in and of themselves phones aren’t necessarily depressing but the one-year contract that came with them caused me much heartache. With my uncertain and lengthy future looming before me I found myself in a dark and wet city far from home, my family and anything remotely familiar. I’d only just arrived and already wanted desperately to go home. Only I have no home. And then I rationalized that if this were a vacation I most likely would not feel as such. I didn’t sleep well the night prior and there was little to no privacy at the hostel. All I wanted was my own room and my own bed. I don’t have either. What a sorry state of affairs I was in. But the moment passed and I was once again in a new and exciting place with places to explore and moments to experience.

Settled in as we are at Morning Star Farm I can still at times feel homeless. Manna plays through the stereo and suddenly I miss California desperately. The Maoris are beautiful people full of culture and history. Their cuisine is as unique to them as Mexican cuisine is to its people, but in my heart they are nothing compared to what I have left behind. I miss the close family structure and small stature. I miss the food and the music. I miss the language and trying to translate snippets of conversations. I had never before understood that not only were so many people assimilating to my culture but I to theirs as well. I feel a line separating me from the Maoris. I wish to cross it but I fear I will still see myself as just a visitor. I miss Mexico and its influence on me.

These are the moments when I feel lonely for my home I have left behind. Though they can be painful with their sudden and powerful effect I know from whence they came and why. These are own-able feelings. They have a place and reason that is easily recognizable; and then there are the heart-stopping anxiety driven crippling episodes when I find myself completely and utterly alone in a world so big and empty I will never find my way out of it again.

There have been two such moments since my arrival. The enormity of their effect on me and the negativity of it are baffling for they only come on in the most pristine and graphic displays of nature without human evidence. When on a hike or out pulling ragwort in the bush I suddenly find myself surrounded by gorse and it begins to close in on all sides of me. An incomprehensible fear, so strong I am convinced my intuition is telling me to flee from where I stand, takes hold and all that keeps me from running back to human civilization is my complete and utter inability to move my feet. Not only do the scope of my feelings cause me anxiety but the unknown of why or from where these feelings suddenly come on.

It took quite some time for me to associate the despair with feeling all alone. There are moments when we suddenly see our place in the world. The Transcendentalists believed this was how we should aspire to see our world around us on a constant basis. We are like opaque balls bouncing against each other inside a transparent sphere of containment, and sometimes our own ball becomes transparent as well and we can see every other ball in relation to each other and ourselves. Once while riding my horse through the riverbed in my hometown I had such an experience. I saw, for a moment the size of the world, within the universe, and my place on it. It is a feeling of complete release. You suddenly understand that all is as it is meant to be. It is working like a clock works, continuously and with little interference. Though short in length the experience has stuck with me and again I have felt it.

This feeling of being completely alone is the dark side of understanding as the Transcendentalists do. I saw my self and it was as if the world had abandoned me.

January 19, 2007

A Typical Day on Morning Star Farm

Breakfast is an event in which the whole family partakes. Dave, landlord and friend, usually joins in as well. Never a grand affair it is a jovial one. Breakfast time activities can range from playing a game or reading a book to singing songs and spilling breakfast all down the front of ones self in an effort to keep Little Wing out of the bowl. This later activity is usually reserved for the youngest. Breakfast its self consists of porridge—a concoction of oats and water with berries or flavoring added in at times—it is then topped off with home made honey, yogurt and milk. Or you can have cereal. As is the Kiwi and British style tea with milk and sugar is the standard accompaniment. Breakfast is the one meal eaten inside of the home. There is no formal call to breakfast. Spoon and I taking our reprieve inside a large bus opposite the home can hear the family waking up. Lilly’s high-pitched baby voice resonates most clearly, as do the footsteps of anyone walking across the bare wooden floors. We wander over slowly and separately to join the family in the traditional breaking of the fast.

For breakfast this morning I had a bowl of Wheat-Bix, a compressed wheat flake biscuit that when moistened turns to mush. To wash it down a cup of tea and to round out my breakfast some yogurt with honey and bran flakes. Fynn and I played Sword Quest, a book that would be the gorilla in the evolution of video games. Lilly stood on a stool next to the hot stovetop and played with scissors. There surely must be special order of angels looking after children and I think these children have more than one each.

Getting off to work is no hustled task either. After breakfast a period of rest and degestation, consisting of more games or reading time. Currently Out of Africa is my book of choice. A gift from my older sister it is a fitting read for my current situation and setting. This place too is at once wild and civilized. Rules and mannerisms, quite different from my own take some getting use to and a degree of pondering to understand their significance. I wonder at the inevitable feeling of superiority that accompanies a person settling a new land. This is something difficult to shake loose and no doubt leads to many complaints about the newcomers. I try hard not to be one of these. By ten thirty we head for the hills.

Ragwort is a tall weed. With leaves like carrot tops and bright yellow flowers that bloom in bunches it is beautiful to look at and harmless to people, but it is deadly to livestock. We set about the 40 acres pulling all we come across.

With their bright blooms the weeds are easy to spot and thanks to frequent and recent rains they are easy to pull out, but beyond all that it is a difficult task. The hills are pocked with hoof prints. Little flat land makes it easy and likely to twist an ankle if the utmost care is not taken when walking. The icing on the devil’s cake is the favorite growing grounds of ragwort. Deep within the spiny branches of gorse and nestled in the vines of prickly wild blackberries the impudent weed makes its home. My arms and legs, covered in scrapes and pokes, look like a bad case of acne after a catfight. The children caper through the hills keeping themselves occupied with songs and make believe worlds. From time to time the come back, navigating their way through the mountains of gorse, to Emily’s side. After a couple hours one or both of the kids will grow tired and we head back home to lunch.

We dine in the outdoors on a table made of a slab of kauri. It sits close to the ground and measures five feet by two and a half. Stumps are seats and the grass underfoot our napkins. Lunch too doesn’t vary much. Sandwiches made with “chutney”—a word here meaning anything chopped up and preserved. From plums to cucumbers all things can make chutney. Additionally we lay on avocado, cheese—of a type I am not familiar with though it is white and mild in flavor--, tomatoes and, popular amongst the children, butter. We munch on carrots and fresh picked plums. Another pot of tea is prepared to wash down the mid day meal.

By now it has grown quite hot and the beating sun sends everyone indoors. Lately the children have taken to watching a movie, though strictly against the rules before three in the afternoon. We laze about the hottest part of the day. Swims in the inlet aren’t possible as the tide has gone out and won’t be back in until late in the evening. As four o’clock approaches Morningstar Farms begins to stir once again. Now tasks can arrange from cutting back tall grasses and weeds to building a porch for the outdoor shower and bush bath. A bush bath is a wonderful thing, and I think unique to New Zealand. The farm’s bath is a claw foot tub over a fire pit. Light the fire in the pit and the bath warms up. It is simple in concept and execution. We are erecting a fence of downed fern trunks around it for added privacy.

As another avenue of employment we are put to work clearing land near an old out building. I try to work the sieve. It is a comedy of errors bordering on a comedy of horrors as time and time again I nearly achieve taking my leg off. The sieve is an awkward and difficult tool to master. It seems it is not so much a twisting at the waist as a pulling across the body. Time and time again I try to achieve the result of cutting even one blade of grass but the only thing making contact is the handle as the blade glides harmlessly by, its curve gently moving the offending weeds out of the way.

What would take mere moments with conventional tools can take days and even weeks with human power. Slowly we cut back the tall grasses and invasive berry vines. The once choked fruit trees sigh in the pleasure of freedom.

Dinnertime comes around. Emily is quite the cook and so far most meals are vegetarian consisting of items from the garden. Garlic, harvested and dried, hangs from the porch providing the yearly supply. Last night’s dinner casserole featured parsnips. Beetroot, zucchini, capsicum—bell pepper, and an assortment of leafy greens and peas make their way to the dinner table. We set a net in the inlet with hopes of a catch with the incoming tide. Flounder and mullet frequent these waters. Mullet is particularly fond of inlets as it favors brackish waters.
These days we are exhausted after dinner and head off to bed almost immediately after. Though some nights the musician hidden in each family member comes out and they gather to play and sing. I slink off to the computer; my creative outlet as invaluable to me as theirs to them.

January 18, 2007

Life and Death

On a farm, as in life, all things are circular. As the tide goes out the starts of saplings are seen rising out of the mud in the banks along the inlet. Between the new growths stands the dead. Young saplings stunted by the coming of the tide and deadly doses of salt. The dead outnumber the living five to one. What once were green fresh shoots now resemble rotting rope, made taught by years of resin and sea spray, Algae and other unsightly debris have collected around their bases, slowly increasing in size as it gathers about once young stems and eventually covering them completely. The small sand crabs that live in the banks of the inlet feed off the banquet left behind by the outgoing tide.

The two ducklings in the care of the drake and their mums are no longer with us. Perhaps a weasel or a stoat got into them or perhaps the house cat with his long legs and watchful eye. Despite showing little to no interest in the Little Wing he is still a predatory animal full of instinct, and grace under pressure. The morning found him lying contently by the chicken house. Maybe a dinner of duck has put him in the mood for poultry. Unfortunately for his diet there are no chicks of yet.

The children take the news in stride. This isn’t the first time death has come to their farm. Days before we arrived Little Wing’s brethren were all but wiped out in one full swoop by the drake. The two now lost ducklings were the only siblings to survive, but apparently not for long. Cattle come and go as well. A walk around the property reveals final resting places for adults and calves. Standing over them like sentinels magpies suddenly take flight, a curse on my presence in their raucous cries. They take cover in the near by gorse—a grey green bush that when left to its own devices can grow to the size of a large house. Covered with spiny needles their only soft feature is the pale yellow flowers that peak out as shy muscles looking for a morsel to eat. What would be but an ordinary flower on an ordinary plant becomes a symbol of good in the otherwise seemingly unholy on this god-awful plant.

What New Zealand lacks in dangerous and predatory animals it makes up for in plant life.

January 17, 2007

First Impressions of a New Zealand Farm

January 15, 2007, (Edited and Rewritten January 19, 2007)

The reality can never be as great as the fantasy but on first glance this has come close. On the west side of the north island developers have not yet moved in and the area remains much unchanged from when the settlers began changing the landscape years ago. Where once stood great kauri trees, -as slow growing as the great redwood back home-, now show rolling pasture lands. These trees with their very straight trunks were widely used in construction. Used for building homes and boats as well as in carvings their numbers have decreased rapidly since Europeans first settled. The farmers and ranchers of the area struggle to make a balance between maintaining their land for their livelihood and working to restore its original and natural state.

Tucked far from the road the home of squatters Emily, Bogey, Finn and Lilly is a compound of idyllic child rearing quality. Wild grasses mowed short make up the lawn and play areas. A stream that empties into a nearby inlet runs alongside the home. There are chickens and ducks and as nature would have it, ducklings. The garden, though without order, is tidy and full of things for the children to eat and learn about. Finn knows why weeds need to be pulled and talks about composting as others his age would speak of bicycle rides and train sets. As the tides move in and out a deep inlet grows and shrinks along side their property. This is their seaside home; a far cry from what was expected, but perfect in its own way.

The next morning Spoon and I head out to the pier just down the driveway and pull a couple of kayaks into the water. It is a clumsy caper as we try to board from a too high pier and/or a too steep bank. The muddy bank alternates between suctioning my Rainbow sandal and slicking the surface so that I make splits trying to keep out of the outgoing tide. Spoon takes a different approach. His kayak half-in-half-out of the water he gets in and scoots the vessel the distance. Afloat we take off in opposite directions. I head upstream. The banks curve and narrow then widen again. The water, a murky brown, hides the bottom from sight. Once, long ago, these waters were the blue of the bay. Now years of deforestation has caused silt and mud to slowly move in and fill in many of these inlets and much of the harbor bottom.

Their property acts a grazing land for about two-dozen head of cattle. They roam freely about the hills held in by a couple of strings of electric wire. Held taut by post spaced far apart they are an effective form of containment if not as a physical barrier then a mental one. Closer to the home a bit of rope keeps an obviously pregnant heifer and aging gelding out of the garden. There seems to be, though, a Houdini amongst these docile and seemingly mindless creatures.

The tide bends around another curve and close to the bank and red and white cow is standing stalk still staring at me. It seems she is not in the confines of the electric fence. I paddled near for a closer look and in doing so effectively herder her back up and over the electric fence. Something makes me think it is not so electric. A few days later I will find the same cow up to her nose in the garden. Just as gracefully as she leapt the fence she will step over the rope holding back the heifer and gelding. I worry for her safety for she ventures from the herd in her out of pasture experiences.

I seem to be alone in my concerns, alone in any of my concerns for that matter. Last evening a fellow wwoofer practiced Poi or fire dancing. Finn joined in with the fun as well. It was then I heard the first rule of the house. “Don’t bring your smoldering fire stick into the house.” It came out more as a comment than a scolding. With out a pause Emily rushed Finn outside and relit the six year-old’s fire stick. Twice as long as he is tall Fynn swung it effortlessly about his head upon a raised bit of earth in the shape of a circle. I was later to learn that he was born on that earth, in a teepee. Boggy set about building the home shortly after. Funny how a newborn can speed things up.



“Emily!” Lilly cries out from the porch outside their home. The porch, of good size is covered with an old sail and vigorous grape vines cling to the supporting poles. Heavy bunches of green, taut grapes hang down like dried herbs from rafters. Lilly plays in the shade of the sail and vines with Little Wing, the most recent addition to the family. From the sandbox a tall and lanky cat doesn’t seem to paying the duckling much mind, but when he licks his lips I wonder if it is hunger or coincidence. “Emily we need a bath!” Lilly is eager for her mother’s help for she wants to share a tub with Little Wing. Emily wastes not time coming to her youngest one’s aid for she is eager to get her into a bath. Already naked from the waste down the four year-old has spent her days getting as dirty as possible. Remnants from a honey jar raid have attracted dirt, leaves and bees.

On The Road Again

January 14, 2007, On Hwy 1 toward Wharhine Road via Wellsford.

We head north on the Main Line—a skinnier shorter version of a bus. After a long and tiresome evening of phoning wwoofing hosts up and down the country we awoke to a response from our original destination.

Months ago, when this trip was still in its planning stages and merely more than a dream we made contact with a family in the northern part of Auckland. Based on the description set forth in the wwoofing guide we expected to be greeted by the largest natural harbor in the southern hemisphere and a rural countryside. Unfortunately miscommunications put our plans on hold for they had other wwoffers taking up residency on their farm when we checked in prior to landing. Fortunately time was on our side this time. I plan to take an immediate dip in my brand new, exorbitantly expensive bathing suit. The New Zealand dollar may not be as strong as the American but that doesn’t keep them from raising their prices to equal stature.

It is early into the bus ride and the driver is not instilling much confidence in me of his abilities. I was taking a pause from jotting down these thoughts when I notice us speeding toward a red light. Unfamiliar with the rules on the roads, I supposed that buses received a go ahead. I was proven wrong as the wheels locked and we slid into place at the stopping line.

We have made it out of Auckland alive. It is New Zealand's largest city with under one million people in its immediate vicinity and just over one million people in it and its outlying areas. Just thinking about the fact that Los Angeles has more people in it than all of New Zealand makes me ever so joyous to be aware from there.

To leave Auckland and head north one must first cross the water. There is a great bridge that spans the harbor Auckland overlooks. From there the city of sails reveals its namesake. The docking yard is filled to the gills with sail boats in varying states of repair, ability and country of origin; even the unique and ancient chinese junk finds a home here. At the entrance to the harbor a small island boasting one rocky edge and a two square meter beach beckons me and I know a sail is not far in my future.

At our first stop the bus doors open manually and a package is handed over for delivery. This bus is a currier of non-human cargo as well.

Passing through the different towns on our route north I notice the unfortunate image of new track homes, but I suppose it was an inevitable epidemic. Backed by pasture land the scenery looks fresh out of a real estate advertisement from whence I just came. And just like that we crest a hill and a light turquoise ocean spans the horizon. Oh glorious New Zealand. Nowhere are you more than 40 miles from the great sea. Unfortunately Kiwis like to speed on the sea and the tranquil azure surface is upset with the wake and exhaust of many a seadoo. As the road curves around again we leave the ocean view for a countryside dotted with grassland and small woods of varying trees and plants. What look like palm trees reveal themselves as yet more King Ferns reaching high above the surrounding branches.

We've Only Just Begun

Auckland New Zealand

In the middle of Auckland a park, bordered by forest, rises above the harbor. From the top to the bottom it covers half a square mile. It's forest is so dense that the only routes through are the planned walkways. Trees of all kinds abound. Magnolias, sycamores, palms and many more that I can’t even begin to name, and ferns. Ferns that are mistaken for palms because they reach so high, these are King Ferns. Silver Ferns are almost as plentiful and like the king are tall but where the king is dark brown and green the silver is just that, silver. There is a tree so large that its trunk is the width of a spa. Large buttress roots spread out and up while thin, thread like roots hang down from the branches in thick bunches and encircle the base like a curtain drawn shut.



From atop the hill that is that park the sounds of tennis drift up, finally at the bottom of a long hot hike I am greeted by two of my favorite sites. It is the Heineken Open. A men only tournament that takes place each year in Auckland. I checked the line-up but it has been years since I immersed myself in that world and its players and no names jump out at me.

It has begun to rain: A tropical drizzle complete with humidity that makes you thankful for the drops. I open my face to the sky and pray that they find me. It is never hard enough to drench nor cold enough to chill but I struggle in and out of my sweater trying to find the perfect combination of protection and ventilation. I curse myself for returning my rain jacket back in the states. Here I will need it. We have arrived just with the storm and no amount of rain is going to keep me from exploring my new home in the early days of getting acquainted.

After spending one hundred sixty dollars on a hotel room complete with our own kitchen and sitting room we were ready to move into the world of backpacking. We set out with our packs upon our backs, already a few articles lighter and made way for the hostels. We chose to forgo the bus system in favor of a walk through the park, and though it did not disappoint three hours later and exhausted on our feet I couldn’t remember what hostel I had reservations at, and we had already struck out twice. Finally a familiar name: Base Backpackers. Check in wasn’t until one. Grateful to be free of our loads we stowed our bags and Spoons guitar and set off to explore. 



The Auckland Art Gallery features many free exhibits. This month “A Lighter Touch” described as “European works by painters including Edgar Degas, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, Paul Nash and Henry Moore” among others. I saw a painting by Picasso: a jug of water and lemon on a table. It felt empty and incomplete. And a sculpture by Degas: a woman pulling on a stocking. So much like Rodin’s style--all bumps and thumb prints, no lines or smooth surfaces; it never ceases to amaze me what forms art takes on. We saw an exhibit featuring a Kiwi artist and another featuring the works of a Maori with a focus on the faces of many historical figures. Men and women their blue tattoos jumping out against the contrast of their grayed hair. I was dazzled. Spoon and Spence were enthralled.

Spencer and I met while waiting in line at LAX. Both bound for New Zealand we exchanged pleasantries and chatted about our trips. He will be here for six months. The three of us walked to our gate. We met up again in Fiji and killed three hours together. Then we left the Auckland airport together but split up on the bus. He headed for Base and us for a hotel. I hoped to see him again. After checking into Base we’d walked but half a block when a familiar figure was suddenly at my side. Spencer joined us on a walk to a smaller park in the middle of downtown. It was drizzling but beneath the canopies of the park's trees we were sheltered. I mentioned the art exhibit. We went in search of it.

January 12, 2007