Golden Bay

When you need to be somewhere that is far away, but close enough, there is no better place. The sun has finally come out, like a child grown impatient with a game of hide and seek. The turquoise water glitters under the sun’s rays and a silver road hidden under layers of sand is swept clean by the receading tide and a path of sea shells beckons from beneath inches of waters. It leads into the deep and out again, where on the other side a pale white beach has risen from the sea. Like the birth of Venus I ride the seashells to its shore. On all sides the azure waters lap at the sand. Sea birds dance on the wind as they take flight, weary of my presence. Underwater waves have smoothed the surface and my footprints are the very first and last. There is a release that comes with being utterly alone on a tidal island mere meters in size.

I lift my arms above my head and the music comes to me moving my body to the rhythm of an island beat. It is as rapid as the pounding of the surf and my feet kick up spray to the tempo of my blood pumping through my veins and around again. I dance in circles and figure eights and weave my way all over and round my island. The sky is blue, the sea is blue and my thoughts are as clear as the air before me.

The salty sea air slows my breathing and my footsteps with it. My feet, still enough to sink into the wet sand, pull me downward. The sea is the sirens calling me toward a watery grave and it scares me, this strong pull to be upside down and completly encompassed by its flowing touch. I want to bathe in it every day and eat of the shores each night. I want to dress myself in sea grass and scallop shells with clams as hairpins and sandals made of sand. I will ride a dolphin in the depths and hitch a ride back on a passing orca. As my feet sink deeper I live this life and am at complete peace, content to be above and below.


The tepid water falls away still and my island connects to an inlet, but I am still alone and cut off, and further off another island begins to rise. I transfer homes but the magic has faded and the moment is over. Standing, surrounded by water I am despondently aware of my status as an outsider. I do not belong below, waving with the kelp--an amorous duo; I belong above, on the island littered with the homes of shellfish; a trailer park besieged by a deadly tornado. Small, flat and white they decorate the edges, coming and going with the fluctuating tide.

As quickly as the islands appear they begin to sink back into the sea, Atlantis lost under layers of sand and salt water. Taking long, lazy strokes I make my way back to shore, civilization and reality. I build my castles on the sea but they too are wiped out by the tides, waiting to be built again, on another day, on another beach, by a different woman, changed by the world as the oceans change the shoreline.


February 17, 2007

Farewell Spit

The air is so clean it becomes a vacuum, pulling trees and plants alike inward until I can reach out and touch them from my spot on the chaise. The sweet aroma of new grass and fresh flowers wafts in as familiar and powerful as baking bread. The cicadas are at it again and the air is filled with their song. The chickens rustle in the brush down by the stream and it, in response, gurgles back.

Waiting, just behind the veil of noise the silence is waiting to be heard. It is waiting to move in and take my heart in a vice grip until once again I feel utterly abandoned, but the silence never comes and I can breath and the smells come through the window with the tree branches and songs of nature.

It is an idyllic setting. The Inlet is a house, cozy and converted into a home for vagabonds, gypsies and soul searchers. A wrap-around porch hugs the house like a skirt. It is rain beaten and sagging from the weight of the world on its planks. They come from all over, each carrying their own burdens, and the porch carries us all. It protects the house where the siding still bears paint and the structure, sturdy after all these years, stands tall in a harsh juxtapose to its sagging skirt and guardian.

Faintly, almost unnoticeable a fiddle is tuned, it is the background music. Mary begins to play and it takes center stage. The insects grow a little quieter and anyone doing dishes takes care not to clink the plates and rattle the silver lest they upset the wavering notes coming from the other room. She plays with a broken finger and not a person in the room can tell. You get use to hearing certain instruments; guitars and voices are the most common. We are so use to them that they can cease to move you or make a whole house stand still and listen. It could have been any number of instruments, a brass or a wind, achieving the same effect but today, in this home it is Mary and her fiddle.

The kayaks are pulled from the beams of the barn, cracking against old wooden planks and the hard earth as they slip from our grip and tumble to the floor. But their hulls do not crack and they are assembled on the car, one on top of another with paddles hanging out the window. It is a colorful and dilapidated contraption: my silver car, the yellow and white vessels, paddles as blue as the deep ocean. We bump and slide down the country roads. Riding on pavement, sliding on dirt and rocks. At a sharp turn both boats slide left and I instinctively take my foot off the gas, but they are merely adjusting and not falling. On the return trip they will be more securely attached.

The Whanganui Inlet is a national preserve and host to any number of wild fowl and underwater creatures. Brochures boast of rainforests but as we paddle out Mark and I both think that we have seen more rainforest on the drive out than on the bay.

Happy go lucky we plod on in the car. As we near our launch point the wind starts to pick up. Dust flies through the open window where the paddles hang out and a fine layer settles on the interior. It matches the layer on the exterior.
Pushing off into the choppy waters of a receding tide we have no plan but to paddle. We take aim at a near, though distant, shoreline. The waves and the wind put up a worthy fight. We battle our way out pausing only to wipe the stinging salt spray from our eyes, lest we let the boat list and are toppled by a wave. Water is pouring in and the level rises until all but our knees poke out. Risking a rollover to prevent a capsize we frantically pull at the cork stoppers in the bottom of the kayak. They resist freedom and it is a harrowing balancing act, fighting the waves and trying to muscle free a couple of bits of bark. The water level quickly drops as the holes unplug and the added weight drains away.

Made lighter and more buoyant we travel quickly, flying blind for the most part, till a shallow bottom stops our progress. I peak out from salt water caked eyelids. Spreading out for meters all around we have beached on a great green carpet, the rocky bottom trapping bright green algae as the waters recede. Paddles sink into sludge before lodging in the rock below. We punt alongside the green giant until the choppy waves carry us away and onward. There is no going around it though and our excursion is over before it even began.

To proud to express it, we silently exalt that the trip is over. Arm mussels scream in protest as we pull the kayak around. We have been battling the waves and wind for going on two hours with little headway. Straining at the paddles we achieve in turning back toward the coast where the tide pulls back but the waves, propelled by the stronger and more adamant wind, carry us forward. We lie back, laughing with exhaustion, and let the sea bring us in.

Pictures of Kaikoura

It just suddenly appeared, as I stepped off the road to cut through to the beach.


Hidden Treasures on the Beach



And then we went for a drive to a near by waterfall and seal colony

It had been raining on the drive up.



Down on the beach; perfect rocks, perfect shells, perfect life just sleeping away.




February 12, 2007

Dinner Party of Ocean Offerings

Oh the bountiful ocean; giving up her gifts she is the monastery of the world where all are welcome, but take only what you need. We breached her one rule and came home with much more. With her protective waters out to sea and her wares laid bare for all to see we went, we saw, we took. In the harbours of Motueka we picked up rock oysters, white with mineral deposits and green with algae. The slowly rising and receding tide of the bay leaving behind green slime on the jagged edges of the pearl bearers.

From the deeper waters of the inlet, where the water is constantly rushing one direction or another we pluck large dark mussels from where they cling to each other and the rocks. Not the famed green lipped mussels of New Zealand they are ignored and passed up, but these mussels are even more precious to me. Hidden inside their protective shell mediterranean mussels harbor meat as big as the shell. They are a rare and unexpected treat.

Further out still, in the still receding waters of the bay, hunkered down under the sand, cockles filter sand and sea water, easily spotted by the bubbles they leave behind. Deft fingers punch and pull the heavy, water logged sand and up come the prize. Our bag fills quickly and we are confident none are too small, but we neglect to recall the number we can take.

Separating and soaking our bountiful harvest our happy smiles turn to sheepish grins. We have taken more than our fair share, not by a lot, but still more than what’s fair. Slowly the idea comes to us, we will feed the lot, the people we have become acquainted with and close to. We will feed those who stay behind when the rest move on.
It is quite a production and suddenly I am a chef overseeing a staff of five. There is someone in charge of the noodles but I must season the water and am the deciding vote on the level of doneness. Three people take to salad making like a fish to water. They chop and dice and whip up a wonderful vinaigrette. And still I watch over them too. They want to add the feta and the dressing but it is early and all their hard work will turn to mush, I convince them otherwise. As I trot from station to station, checking on barbecued mussels and oysters, watching over browning garlic, adding butter to a sauce, I am a composer, a manager, a chef, an artist. It is our project but it will be my masterpiece.


We are timing the dishes just write and as it comes down to the wire there are a million places to be at once, but my staff, eager to please and perform are more than capable and I sneak a moment with a glass of wine. Chatting by the barbecue I hear a murmur inside.
Nervously but quickly I approach the group standing over the cockles, they are inhaling the aroma. I am pleased beyond words and I wonder if this is what life is like every time for an accomplished creator of anything. I feel the waves of happiness pass over me and go out and come back again. I am basking in the glow of a job well down and the slight blurring of edges from the glass of wine.
Dinner is delicious noises and clinking shells. The empty pile grows as the others diminish. More people gather and more plates are passed around. There is just enough for all; we are satiated. I pour more wine and soon the bottles are empty as well.

February 12, 2007

Like a Wildflower

There is something about flowers that pulls at me; they run so deep inside me they can be found in my veins. I search out perfumes that smell of gardenia and jasmine. A wisteria vine will whisk me back years and I am gardening with my mother. Peaceful as they grow I cannot resist the urge to pick them and adorn my hair. As I live I shall plant flowers in my wake and use the ones before me to decorate my life.

Flowers in a garden bring me serenity. There is order in their numbers and rows, even in the gardens that grow will with time. The structure, though restrictive, is comforting. A little order and the guiding touch of another are all that many of us search for. Even amongst my travels I find it. They settle down for weeks and months at a time. Those who travel alone are never alone for long; they group up and continue their journeys together. But every now and again you come across a gypsy so unique her presence glows and again I am drawn in.

Quiet and happy to observe she did not invite me to sit but once I was there she engaged me and soon I was wrapped up in her and desperate to drink her in. Her soft whispery voice told her tale. She had been in New Zealand for six weeks. She came here to learn English, but also, and more importantly to try to make sense of the events of the past year. She had lost her baby and I could see that it saddened her and I felt her pain running deep, but she was not devastated by it. She has gone out into the world searching and open to whatever the universe hands her. Her mine is “open to the journeys inside it.”

Yvonne is a flower that grows where she pleases. At the mercy of the elements, without a tending hand she is thriving. Cut a wildflower down and the next year, again, it appears. She is a wildflower that finds its way back to the garden and then out again. She does not belong with the rest of us, but on the open road and camping along beaches. She is fearless and open to the world and her surroundings.

I have been living amongst my ordered peers. This trip, my first venture into the wild brings me into contact with many others like me. Like a field of wildflowers we cluster together and travel the same roads, propelled by the same winds. We are together, but free to be. I am starting to put my roots down amongst the rest, but the pull home remains strong. For now though, I am content to sit outside the wall looking in from time to time.

February 7, 2007

Christchurch

The largest city in the south island, Christchurch measures up to its national hype. The city centers around a large gothic cathedral and from it stretch the streets, meandering along rivers, running alongside parks, stretching out to the sea and mountains. Colonial style buildings, once the homes of settlers were converted years ago into office spaces, restaurants, shops and travelers’ accommodations. Large outside patios and backyards provide a habitat for people and animals alike. Everything is as quiet as a Sunday picnic. Light laughter here and there but the majority of the city is slumbering, a constant nap stirring only from time to time to populate the busy shopping stores hanging onto the edge of the square. It is Super Bowl Monday and everyone in America is gathered around a television set. I heard rumor of a large outdoor screen being set for the big game but when I finally wander over it is deserted and the screen is blank. A few couples are sipping wine and beer under the canopies. I figure I have missed it until walking home I pass a sports bar, deserted as the streets of Pamplona after the bulls have; their television sets are tuned in to the most watched sporting event in the world. The game is not only playing but it’s not even half over. Priorities run different here.

When I drove into Wellington I thought I had stumbled onto a hazing ritual for new sorority and fraternity pledges. Men and women alike were dressed up in all manor of costumes. Football players and cheerleaders from Ridel High, Oompa-Loompas, women in muumuus and men in muumuus they were all here to celebrate the Sevens, an annual rugby tournament, featuring sixteen international teams. The revelers’ voices combined to make one incomprehensible roar, but once the match was on the streets were noticeably empty and the bars bursting at the seams. They may not care for American Football over here but their love for sports runs deep.

In Cathedral Square and along the brick lined streets running out of it like spokes on a bike street performers work the crowds. They use similar techniques and I wonder where they learn their tricks. Crowds, when spread out look sparse, but group them together and you have an engrossed audience drawing others in. It appears that the veteran performers understand this rule and from time to time they break from the show to draw in the crowds. And how shamelessly they play on our weakness for children. A child volunteer is pulled from the crowd. He or she performs a multitude of tasks culmination in one final great one. The performer offers the child a five or ten dollar bill to really give it his or her all. But before the bill is handed over the performer asks the audience if the child deserves the money. The reply is a resounding yes, after which the child is presented with the money and the performer points out that watching someone perform, for their benefit, is indeed work worth five or ten dollars.

The evening before Waitangi Day a big concert is given in Hagley Park. In the great expanse of a park over 70,000 people attend. It ends with a fireworks display capable of being viewed from anywhere in the city. The symphonic orchestra plays Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture and cannons fire from across the park. A group of Maoris come out and perform the haka. The meaning is lost on the crowd. They do not see Napolean retreating from the Russian countryside before him like red ants after a meal. The watch the war dance but they do not see the ghostly fighters put up against the British. They ooh and awe over the popping lights in the sky; like adults scoffing at children with a firefly in a bottle they can not comprehend the enormity of what they behold, but the children do and we sit back amazed.

The next morning it is quiet out. Many shops are closed and it is basically impossible to get anything, of any importance, done. I will walk pass three closed grocery stores before I am finally able to buy supplies for my dinner and next day’s meals. The once busy park is now dotted with families picnicking. People rent kayaks and go for a paddle down the Avon River. Those looking for romance go punting and are pushed along. The ducks stay close, in case of food, but remain weary of humans.

Farther down the botanical gardens are alive with people and plants. Giant trees give off shade and surrounding them, like a fairy ring, people take shelter from the blazing New Zealand sun. In the flowerbeds themselves small plaques name the plants, but they have overgrown and you can’t always tell from where one plant was suppose to be and where it has ended up. The garden of useful plants is my favorite stop. On each plaque a symbol tells you if the plant is used for medicinal, herbal or edible purposes. Also within the garden are poisonous plants. Here’s to the gardener that finds poisonous plants useful.

February 6, 2007

Gray Day

Is there really such a thing as something we will want to do for the rest of our lives, or are we always in an ever evolving, forever changing state of affairs? Is it chaos or the evolution of all things?

The scenery leaving Napier is as disruptive and inconsistent as my current state. It is a fitting end, or perhaps it is a beginning. Past the golden pastures and grazing livestock, past the farmhouses and country cottages with white picket fences, past the seashore hiding a deadly undercurrent there lies a grove of great dead trees. Their bleached, skeletal remains could easily have been the inspiration for A Nightmare Before Christmas. Choked to death in the swampy water surrounding them now. A stagnant bog, algae thrives on its surface the harsh yellows and green of the primitive life forms standing out against the while trunks. The surface is covered by their presence, up until the very edge where the land suddenly rises sharply and it is again rolling grasslands. I imagine that this is what the world looked like right before the last dinosaurs died—life struggling to survive in an environment to harsh to sustain it. The water, dark and dank hides the remains of many but contributes to life as well. It is circular, taking and giving until it too will one day dry up and disappear. Something else will move in and take its place and the circle will be complete and able to continue around again.

I pass the swamp in less than 30 seconds, but it has made an impression on me. Without the swamp the land looks stable, in a state of production. Every few kilometers a new town with a church or a school, with immaculate lawns, and well cared for homes. The grasses are greener in the towns and the dairy cattle look straight out of a commercial for California cheese. Tress of all shapes and sizes, planted years ago, now provide ample shades for the front porches and sidewalks. And then the town is behind me and it is once again rolling ranch land with towering mountain ranges on either side. I am boxed in by them, but have no desire to try and cross them. That time will come.

It hasn’t yet ceased to amaze me how much New Zealand looks like California. I wonder if I will ever grow old of the constant showing of familiarity, but for now I am grateful for it. Grateful as I would be to suddenly see an old friend or hear my name called out in a crowd. I had made friends in Napier, friends that I will probably see before anyone from back home. I am starting to belong and in doing so I feel myself being pulled further and further away from my life before and I know that I can never go home; the scenery will have changed, and the people, but most of all I will have changed beyond any going back. At least that is the hope.

For almost four hours there is nothing new to look at. Each town is as the one before, each house resembles all the others and the pastures contain the same animals, be they cattle, sheep for elk. But it has come time to cross the mountains and drive into Wellington. It is then that the scenery abruptly changes. No more are there golden grasses and cornfields, gone are the slowly curving roads and flat drives, now we climb, with sharp cutbacks bordered by breathtaking drops and sheer cliffs that tower above. Part of the range that keeps the east coast so dry this area is lush from all of the moisture it has garnered for itself. The giant king ferns have returned. A flash of metallic on green and I know I have passed the silver fern. The foliage is dense the mountainside dark green.

The gray sky grows closer the higher I climb and soon the car is motoring through a cloud. All visibility beyond the edge of the road is lost and a viewing station at the top of the mountain is deserted. New Zealand’s rainforests are in the South Island, but if I didn’t know any better I’d say this was it. A world apart the car carries me onward.

February 3, 2007

A Diamond in the Rough

Within one of New Zealand’s lesser-known grape growing regions is an appellation based solely on its soil. It’s the only one its kind in the country. For 18,000 years a river flowed through what is now called Gimblett Gravels, during that time fertile soil was rushed down stream and deposited on the banks. These areas now make up much of New Zealand’s “fruit bowl”in Hawkes Bay. Highly fertile the area is ideal for the myriad of fruit trees planted about.

While the soil was washed down stream years of sediment settled on gravel over sixty meters deep. For years this river raged on covering what would become highly sought after growing ground for syrah, Bordeaux varietals, and even tempranillo. Pinot gris and chardonnay now flourish as well. In 1870 a great flood shifted the river and through human interference its course has changed little since. Not too long ago the region was almost lost again. Ideal not only for grape growing but a gold mine of a quarry as well a lengthy legal battle was fought over the rights to the land. The grape growers, though underdogs at the time prevailed and now we can drive through the countryside stopping every few hundred meters to drink some of the finest wines in New Zealand.

Small or large Gimblett Gravels wineries are starting to make a name for themselves throughout New Zealand and the world. Not to long ago all we ever heard about was Marlborough sauvignon blanc or Central Otago pinot noir, but now thanks to a few key wineries word is getting out. One of the wineries most responsible for the regions growing international fame is Hatton Estate. Producing fewer than 10, 000 cases a year the majority of their wines goes over seas and is served in such restaurants as the French Laundry in the Napa Valley and at Charlie Trotter’s in Chicago. Using a hands-on approach to marketing he travels the world peddling his wines and using the power of the personal touch.

When I set out tasting Hatton Estate wasn’t even on my list of wineries, but acting on a recommendation from an employee a Trinity Hill, a winery that makes the only tempranillo in New Zealand, I found my self driving down a dirt road past row upon row of vineyards. Every few meters a new sign naming the winery that owns the grapes. Names like Te Mata and Villa Maria jump out at me, there is even a block owned by Cloudy Bay.

My first view of Hatton Estate makes me smile. This is what I have come to New Zealand to find. A large corrugated metal warehouse houses the wineries handful of equipment. What once was dairy equipment has been converted into fermentation tanks and bins. The hoses and fittings too come from that industry. The tasting room is two barrels with a wood plank placed over them acting as a bar.

The floor is wet and the faint smells of iodine and sulphur dioxide hang in the air. They are busy cleaning for the upcoming harvest. It is less than a month away. The winemaker quietly moves about the spacious room and comes and goes. I recognize him from his picture in the numerous articles collected by the winery. Ben, working the cellar door knows his stuff and answers all of my questions as well as providing insight into the terroir. It is closing time but he does not rush me. We sit down and talk about the winery and taste the wine.

The vineyard was first planted in 1993 and they have remained 100 percent estate grown ever since. Of the nine wines I tried four of them are heavily exported to the United States. As I taste I begin to think that this is what great New Zealand wine should taste like. Still subtle and quiet on the nose and palate they are complex and well balanced.

Of the two merlots the Gimblett Road 2004 is my favorite. Twenty-four percent cabernet, it has a bigger nose than any red wine I have tried in New Zealand. Packed full of blueberry and black pepper and I was surprised at the strong fruit element. With a great mouth feel, smooth tannins and toasty oak on the palate I would have a bought a bottle on the spot had I been in the market.

Apparently I had arrived on a great day for they were releasing their 2004 Carson’s Cabernet. Made up of 74 percent cabernet franc and 26 percent cabernet sauvignon this wine had a beautiful nose of hints of mushroom, game, violets and peppermints I spent almost ten minutes simply sniffing this wine. The bottle had done beautifully in storage. Any harsh tannins had disappeared leaving soft and supple feelings behind. The palate reflected everything on the nose and there wasn’t a vegetal element to be found, a problem I have come across with many New Zealand cabernets.

Of the three red wines Hatton Estates exports to the United States I have to tip my hat to the Tahi, a 2002 cabernet, merlot and cab franc blend, with The Doctor, a 2005 syrah, coming in second. The Tahi was my favorite because of how unusual it was while still being a great wine. In the beginning the nose stumped me but once I let my mind wander I started noticing sea salt and bread. With a little aeration it opened up even more and out came blackberry and hints of jabanero. On the palate: many of the same surprises with a beautiful base of chocolate covered cherries and a mineral finish.

The Doctor also stumped me at first until I finally decided that the pepper I was smelling was fresh cracked red pepper. Sticking with the New Zealand there was very little fruit on the wine but a nice meaty characteristic of jerky. The palate, with a little fruit had hints of plum. It is by far the best syrah I have had here to date.

New Zealand is very young when it comes to making wine. Few wineries are older than ten years old and many of their wines reflect this. Additionally they are still working out the kinks in developing their own style, but places like Hatton Estate make me confident that before long New Zealand will be a world player in more than just sauvignon blanc.

Feathered Friends

The Feathered Friends

New Zealand’s birds think they are of regal blood. They walk with their heads held high, and there’s not scuffing of the feet either. As if Andalusians on parade the kick up each foot--every step is deliberate. With their flashy colors and high stepping ways it is no wonder they garner all the attention while the shy kiwi shirks about at night as if ashamed of his drab colors and squat build.

The Pukeko seems the most arrogant while the Tui is hot on his heels. Blue-black feathers shimmer in the sunlight, his bright red beak and legs stand out as flares in the night. He is a Doctor Seuss character. And how haughty when he walks! The dark tail feathers flick up with each step revealing a white undershirt, a gentlemen lifting his waistcoat to take a bow. Comparable to a crow they are matched in size and absurdity by the magpie. The magpie’s wings are black with white spots. He sports a yellow beak and looks as if out of child’s coloring book, complete with long tail feathers. If the Pukeko is the queen’s guard then the Magpie the court jester.

Thinking much too highly of himself, like a too short police officer, the Tui commands your attention everywhere he treads. The size of a pigeon they comically bob their heads with each step, and keeping in time the legs step up and down like soldiers on the march. The Tui has a brown body and shoulders, their wings and tail are of an unassuming black but the sharp beak and legs are of an uncompromising yellow. Beneath their feathers they too wear white undergarments, visible only when in flight.

As common as they are precocious the Pukeko, Magpie and Tui are of no great importance to the average Kiwi, but to the visitor from a far off land, their presence makes the New Zealand fairytale all but complete.

January 31, 2006