Hokitika Wild Food Festival

March 10-11

Hokitika is overrun with the young this time every year. This is their Mardi Gras. They take over the bars and fall down in the streets. Tents dot the local beaches and public parking lots. There is no holding them back as they swarm into the town, their arrival as noticeable and sudden as the departure. They leave flushed from too much sun but paled by long nights and rough mornings.

The merriment centers on a one-day food festival complete with beer, wine and entertainment ranging from buskers to tribute bands. Anything seemingly astronomically displeasing was available. We gorged our selves on possum tail and huhu grubs picked fresh from a woodpile and speared before our eyes. Crickets roasted and served up in vodka laced jell-o cups slipped down the gullet as easy as pickled fish eyes. Local wineries provided a bit of normality while continuing the buzz brought on by the liters of beer carried in over the ten-foot fence we so easily scaled; the festival sells out months in advance.

From ten to seven we ate, drank and danced at the Wild Food Festival. All in a jovial mood we made the trek to the bars and as the sun went down we again moved on to the beach and our campsite where, like the multitudes already there, we made a campfire of driftwood. Giant logs, once belonging to ancient trees having survived and followed the currents of the ocean to be washed upon the shores of the West Coast, met their fate in the fires of tourists from around the world. We came from all over, most from New Zealand and Christchurch in particular but all corners of the globe were represented: within our own expedition California, Scotland and England.

As the night moved into the wee hours of the morning one by one we deserted our smoking fire pit. Some went to bed, others in search of new fires. They could be seen for miles stretching down the seashore, a plethora of golden orbs dancing on the sand.

Our man from Scotland wandered for miles up then down the beach. On the outward travel he found a fire and passed out next it, a heavy night of drinking rum and lager providing the blanket to keep him warm. As morning approached and the alcohol wore off he awoke to a face full of sand. It coated his ears and itched his scalp. It ran down his back and into his pants. It covered the backs of his legs and filled his shoes. He could feel it grinding in his molars and tickling the hairs in his nose. Instinctively he reached for his knapsack, the one he had so painstakingly searched for the night before. There in his grasp was a knapsack, but the wrong one. The sun just peaked over the horizon as he slowly and with much effort made his way back to us.

Try as I might I do not think that I could make up a character such as Maury. Driving down in the car he told us of his life in Scotland. How he had never been on a plane before boarding one to fly half way around the world and land in New Zealand.

Back home he had a car, a small two door hatchback, with a passenger side door held closed by a rope looped around the driver’s elbow. When making turns he had to grip the wheel to prevent centrifugal forces from pulling it out of the crook of his arm. Passengers would pay their way by taking over the task.

His uncle has one eye, lost the other when a tractor flipped over crushing him underneath. He wears a patch over it and married a prostitute. Each with their own scars they share their life together.

Miles from home Maury continues to live his life like no change of scenery has occurred. Once again he became familiar with a jail cell after sailing a water balloon out the car window into a stationary patrol car and the officer standing outside it. Their chase was inevitable but still Maury urged us on, our sensible driver merely pulled to the side of road. Sheepishly he fessed up, but with head held high marched from our car to the officer’s; at the police station we cheered him on as he did the walk of shame into the station. The weekend was over an hour later when, together again, we got on the road and headed home.

Harvest Coming On

Many would tell you that winemaking begins in the vineyard. If your grapes are not up to snuff then there is little a wine maker can do to better the end product. We are spending these last few days ripping through the vineyard, figuratively and literally. The vines have taken on new form. A newcomer to vineyard work I stepped up the vines with an untrained eye and a vague idea of what needed to be accomplished.

From my bedroom window in Paso Robles, California I had sat back and watched as field hands, moving like ants down a line, worked each row leaving behind sunlight spotted grapes and a blanket of green, leaf cuttings that go dry and crunch underfoot, a red carpet of a different sort. Over a thousand miles away I eyed the canopy with a mix of false bravado and amateur angst. My body language read of the prior but my mind reeled with the former.

Third bunches and lateral shoots jump out at me now; my deft fingers pluck unwanted plant life. Discarded, the leaves flutter to the ground, tickling my ankles. Grape clusters splatter on rock piles staining my boots with acid and sugars. Much of Nelson is planted on an old riverbed. Beneath the rows boulders, cleared out of the path of mowers and trimmers, pile up under the vines, hugging the bases. Between the rows a late crop of grass pushes past the dried clusters, wildflowers spring forth. There is much vigor in the rocky soil.

Depending on who you ask Nelson receives slightly more or slightly less rain than Hawkes Bay, for like the northern wine region the surrounding mountains hold many oceanic storms at bay, many, but not all. Enough rain makes it over the mountains to make it an ideal location for growing apples, pears and a number of root vegetables, but not so ideal for grapes. Growing here is a labor-intensive process—this year more so than others. Already the mechanical trimmer and leaf-plucker has been down these rows multiple times, but the vines are not to be deterred and now we stand, pulling at what shade we can ripping through the vineyard, giving light and room to the ripening fruit.

The harvest looms overhead, a rain cloud threatening to dump on already saturated ground. Ours will be a flood of unripe fruit.

Changing Times

Harvest is approaching rapidly. The grapes hang down, heavy and full, pregnant with juice and ripening sugars and acids. They burst with the pressure of rain and shrivel from the heat of the sun. The birds fly down in attack formation. They come as one, grab the berries whole and fly away. The unfortunate few get caught up in the nets. I try to free them but the rat terrier is quick or a well-aimed rock from the vineyard manager finds its mark and the war is no closer to being won. The wind whips down from the mountain range, on the tail of a pressure change. The chilly breaths raise goose bumps on my arm while the hot sun beats down on my neck. Black clothing reflects and absorbs the heat. There is little shade out in the rows. I huddle close to the vines. By mid afternoon the shadows grow long but the sun blazes on.

I can get lost in my thoughts in the mundane tasks of the vineyard. Lazily plucking at wind blown nets my mind recreates the past and wanders into the unknown future. As the days grow shorter my life, the one I have been living in ignorance and without great influence stretches out in front of me. I see my hiccups and wrong turns like potholes in city streets. Every misspoken word and phrase, every unintentional and intentional harmful utterance plays on my ears, scratching into my conscience, refusing to be ignored—the popping of balloons at a child’s party, seemingly harmless but stabbing me to the core.

Whomever I was is being forced upon my present state to learn from and be better for. I can watch my history like a movie, fast forward and rewind, pause, slow down, repeat. All the experiences I tried to record over stack upon each other and I know; I see clearly the effects of trying to change the past and I know that the only possible route is to learn from it.

Childhood dreams are tumbling down, washed over by waves of realization and reconciliation. I forgive myself my trespasses, but dwell on the task of avoiding them in the future. How long now have I stepped back, after the fact and seen where it, whatever it is at that moment, went wrong? Now is the time to pause. I give myself homework.

Settling Down in Nelson

Transitions and changes is the mantra of the backpacker, and just when I think I have settled into the rhythm of travel and new adventures daily I am settling in, in a town that has until now not known that I existed. The sound of the ocean breaking on the sandy shore, just minutes from where I stand, reaches my ears, these are waves I have never heard before but will become well acquainted with, with time. Time stretches out before me now. Weeks pull away into the distance, months so far off that not a glimmer registers on the horizon. I have lived a year in three months and now must slow to match the rhythm of the world around: the satiated, the stagnant and me. Theirs is a life of processes driven by worriless days and careless nights, it is hard to see that they work and live but easy to see that they do it effortlessly.

Staying in place, in one place where I get to know street names and shop owners, where I can make a special request and be around to receive it. I have an address and a bank account. I have a car and a job, things I gave up to come out here, to hunt and explore to find something new. This can’t be the end to give it all up just to arrive at my departure point. As my time flattens out and I become use to my new habits and repetitions my feet grow heavy and I see that I am starting to put down roots. There are people here I will miss and restaurateurs who know my name. I have a favorite bar and a regular seat. I am a local, drinking with and laughing like all the rest, and then I open my mouth and I am just another outsider, momentarily infiltrating their ranks. They are use to my kind and I see others just like me everywhere I go.

We adopt the dress and the pace but soon we will be seen trudging down the highway thumb out looking for a new road to hoe. Once more into the wild with a rucksack and a rapidly dwindling savings account, where a budget means having food to eat at all, let alone enough. We do not need all or as much as we think. We can get by on so much less