Change In Plans

ZOLA LEARNING THE DARK ARTS OF SHEEP SHEARING

Greetings from Blenheim, New Zealand! We are near the northern tip of the South Island.

The original plan was for us to fly from Christchurch to Nelson this morning, and then to take a puddle hopper from Nelson to our lodge in Abel Tasman National Park.

Last night, we decided to drive 450 kilometers to Nelson instead, and to take a water taxi.  India was happy to reduce the total number of flights taken.  All of us have found that we kind of like being in the car together.  Seeing the scenery was a bonus.  A few phone calls, and our plans were changed.

Our second breakfast at the bed and breakfast was not as dramatic as the first (i.e., I managed to not spill any coffee, we limited our kids’ access to the toaster).  Still, we were happy to get out and on the road.

The first 200 kilometers or so was attractive, but not particularly interesting.  Once we reached Kaikoura, where the movie “Whale Rider” was filmed, we were dazzled by the scenery.  Pale blue water, huge waves crashing over black beaches, green mountains rising behind.  It definitely made he drive worthwhile.

KAIKOURA

We went for a walk around a seal colony which was right on the beach in Kaikoura.  There were many signs saying “Seals will bite you.  Stay at least 10 metres away.”  Maybe because the big guys appeared to be asleep, or maybe because they are cuddly (although as big as WWE wrestlers), a lot of people were moving right in for close-up photos.  My guess is that the Kaikoura hospital treats a few seal bites every month.

The main attraction in Kaikoura is a sheep-shearing demonstration, which we stayed around to watch.  The shearer, Peter Smith, was very entertaining.  He let the audience feed a giant ram, named Ram Man, and introduced his sheep dog, Jed, before getting down to business.  Holding her in a Heimlich-maneuver position, Peter dragged a young ewe in for her first-ever shearing.  The sheep looked resigned, but not unhappy, as Peter guided the electric shearers over her legs, belly, head and back.  The pile of wool that came off was surprisingly big, weighing about 3 kilograms.

It took Peter about 4 minutes to shear the sheep.  The world record for an 8-hour day of shearing is 831 sheep, which works out to about 38 seconds per sheep.  An amazing feat of athleticism and endurance.  Hard on the back too.

From Peter’s running commentary, we learned more about sheep and wool then we ever could have hoped to.  A good time was had by all (possibly including the sheep).

From Kaikoura we drove another hour up to Blenheim, where we are spending the night.  Blenheim is pretty undistinguished, but convenient to the rest of the trip.  Tomorrow we will get to the water taxi in the late morning, and go across to Abel Tasman.

A LAUGH A MINUTE IN THE SHEARING SHED

Three good quotes from this week:

Zola, as we walked in the rain in Akaroa,
“You know what I find attractive? Girls with pigtails. Very attractive.”

Tallulah, as she admired herself in the mirror, wearing a new princess outfit,
“I’m as cute as a … as a … I’m as cute as a duck!”

Scott, our glamorous new friend and father of four boys from Orange County, on his philosophy as a father and husband,
“If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

Words to live by, all.

WEATHERING THE STORM AT THE ANTARCTIC CENTRE

Kia Ora again from Christchurch, New Zealand!

This was a good day that got off to a bad start.

For some reason, we are staying in a bed and breakfast, which is probably our least favorite of all accommodation types. We always feel as though B&B owners and other guests look askance at our noisy family and in-room sprawl.

Because we did schoolwork early in the morning (after being woken up by construction workers in the house), we showed up for breakfast at 9:15. We were not aware that the owners usually stopped serving at 9:00. Further opprobrium.

I immediately spilled two cups of coffee on the table cloth, then Zola dropped a piece of toast, butter side down, onto the carpet.  Tallulah toasted and buttered about a dozen slices of bread, and left them neatly stacked on her plate, with no intention of eating them.

Our host, slightly shocked by the breakfast carnage, announced that a driver was waiting for us outside.  The taxi to take us to pick up our rental car had arrived 20 minutes early. In hyper-egalitarian New Zealand, it was very awkward to ask the driver to continue waiting (in the pouring rain, no less) while we finished breakfast. Further opprobrium from the B&B crowd.

Our taxi driver, who turned out to be a gentle and patient man, entertained us on the drive downtown by describing all of the ways that New Zealand is superior to Australia.  The history was biased but interesting.  

After some moderate rental-car confusion at Hertz, we started our 90-minute drive down to Akaroa, on the Pacific coast.  We had to hurry to catch an 11:30 “swim with dolphins” boating trip.

The rain, the twisty mountain roads, and our lateness made for a nerve-wracking drive.  When we pulled up to the pier in Akaroa village, tires smoking, we found that the dolphin cruise had been cancelled due to bad weather. Given the high wind, pouring rain, rough seas, and 45-degree (Fahrenheit) air temperature, nobody was terribly disappointed. 

At this point, we were at serious risk of having a Dingle Day: a frustrating waste of time. We invented this name after a fairly disastrous day trip to Ireland’s Bay of Dingle, back at the beginning of our round-the-world journey.

In an effort to prevent a full Dingle, we found the coziest, most inviting pub in Akaroa, and stopped to revise our plans over hot cocoa and Diet Coke. With our guidebooks out, we discovered that we had stumbled into Harbour 71, one of the best restaurants in New Zealand.

We had a terrific lunch at Harbour 71, and then a beautiful weather-shortened walk around quaint Akaroa. The town had originally been settled by the French (who knew?), so the streets were all “Rues,” and tricolors were flying from most of the old buildings.

On the way back to Christchurch, we took the scenic “Tourist Drive” route. The road was set high in the volcanic mountains of the Banks Peninsula, looking down through steep green pastures to the ocean below. Like everything else in New Zealand: ridiculously beautiful.

HIGH ABOVE AKAROA

Plan B, as agreed at Harbour 71, was to check out the “International Antarctic Centre.” It is billed as “the world’s best center for experiential learning about Antarctica”. I’m not sure how much competition there is for the “world’s best” title, but the Antarctic Centre was flat-out awesome.

The first big room was a recreation of Scott’s Antarctic camp, with a deep-voiced narrator reading from the explorers’ diaries. Lights rose and faded, then real snow started to fall on us.

The main attraction was a huge freezer room, cooled to -8 Celsius, with an igloo and an ice slide. An electronic sign gave the temperature, wind speed, and wind-chill, with the ominous text, “Next storm begins in 6 minutes.” When the 6 minutes had counted down, there was some broadcast radio chatter of “Oh no, big storm coming.”

The lights went down, and a wind machine was cranked up to about 50 kilometers per hour.  The wind chill dropped to about -30 Celsius.  Tallulah howled for us to get out of there. We ended up taking refuge in the igloo, although I still really regretted having worn shorts.

SHELTER FROM THE STORM

The rest of the center had a live-penguin exhibit, an awesome HD video of Antarctic scenery, and loads of well curated artifacts and science exhibits. The kids ran around in a state of high excitement, dragging India and me physically to see the inside of a tent, or a smooth rock, or a giant model that shows how seasons are created by the earth spinning on its axis.

As we were leaving, we took a ride on a Swedish-built, amphibious half-track vehicle called a Hagglund. The driver blasted through an outdoor obstacle course at tremendous speed, jumping dirt mounds, climbing steep hills, fording a deep pond. We got bounced around like crazy in the back of the Hagglund, but it was definitely good, old-fashioned, redneck fun.

From Antarctica, we went to the Willowbank Wildlife Reserve for what turned out to be a quadruple-pack of evening entertainment.  First we did a very quick fly-by tour of the zoo on our own. At some points we were literally running past the cages, but it was fun to see more eels, wallabies, great bird life, and some gnarly feral pigs.

We rushed through the animal exhibits to be on time for the second event of the visit: a Maori cultural program. A heavily tattooed, fur-clad Maori woman led us on foot through the zoo, to a replica Maori village. On the walk, our group was “attacked” noisily by warriors (scared the pants off little Tallulah), had a peace conference, and was instructed about Maori language and culture. When we reached the village, the attacking warriors sang and danced and showed us the famous pre-battle haka. The whole program was incredibly well done, participative, and fun. The kids loved it.  There was a small group of non-English-speaking Japanese tourists with us, though, who looked completely baffled during the entire experience.

DOING THE HAKA

The third event was dinner, in front of a roaring fire.  By any standard, the food was good.  Considering that the restaurant was basically the cafeteria of a municipal zoo, it was truly remarkable.

The final event was the long-awaited “Kiwi Tour.”  A zoologist walked us through a lot of bird exhibits, including letting the kids feed honey to the big, brown Kea birds.

Eventually, we were shushed into silence and taken into the darkened kiwi area.  Kiwis are nocturnal, and, being nearly extinct and essentially helpless against all predators, they are justifiably nervous animals.  Tallulah and Zola were thrilled to finally see these birds up close.  

Overall, the Antarctic Centre and the Willowbank Reserve were just great.  It turns out they are affiliated.  Despite the small initial challenges, we ended up having a pretty terrific day.

FEEDING THE KEA BIRDS ON THE KIWI TOUR

SWATTING SAND FLIES ON THE SHIPS CREEK BEACH

Kia Ora from Christchurch, New Zealand!  We have had a very busy last two days.

Yesterday morning we woke at Lake Moeraki Wilderness Lodge to clear skies and India’s full agenda of activities.  As soon as we finished breakfast, we suited up with lodge-provided Wellington boots and rain gear.  We met up with Ben, the lodge’s awesome naturalist/guide, and drove 20 minutes down to Ships Creek.  I thought the name Ships Creek was hysterical, and couldn’t help asking repeatedly “will we be up here without a taddle?”  Despite making this lame joke several times, the only one who laughed was Tallulah.  I think she felt sorry for me.

Once we got to the beach, Tallulah flat-out refused to walk.  It was windy, and the sea was rough.  She had gotten confused about the order of the day’s activities, and was vocally concerned that we were going kayaking in the ocean.  She had also gotten used to staying back with Adrienne, doing “girl stuff” at the sheep-station homestead, while we went off on walks. Tallulah sustained and amplified her protestations.  India and I basically flipped a coin to see who would go on the walk with Zola and Ben, and who would take Lu to sit in the van in the parking lot.

Lu and I left the beach, and once we were out of the wind, she was fine.  We had a very nice, totally sheltered walk through the swamp on a boardwalk, and climbed a strange wooden observation tower, made with multiple aluminum household ladders.  The rest of the group met us, and we did the swamp walk a second time.  It was great to see Zola asking Ben a thousand questions about Maori legends, and laughing gleefully as he and Ben imitated bird calls and acted out ritual Maori warfare, 

In the early afternoon, we took a canoe and a kayak out on the river in front of the lodge.  Zola went in a kayak by himself, which was a character-building experience for him, I think.  We had been warned repeatedly to only go upriver toward the lake, avoiding the scary rapids just below the lodge.  We were a little concerned with Zola’s lack of kayak control.  He paddled in circles for a while, and was drifting slowly downstream.  We were on the verge of a dramatic canoe-rescue intervention when he figured it out, and saved himself. 

While I was on a conference call later in the afternoon, India took the kids on a walk down to Monro Beach, about 3 kilometers from the lodge.  Interestingly, India told me later, both kids hiked and ran the entire way with great enthusiasm.  Not a word of protest from either of them, even as the Wellington boots rubbed blisters on their little feet.

We all went part of the way back down the Monro Beach path at 5 pm, for eel-feeding time.  By dripping pig blood into the water, Ben quickly attracted 10-12 big, black fresh-water eels.  Ben and Zola fed the eels pieces of pork, driving the creatures into a slithering frenzy of slimy bodies and gawping, toothy mouths.  Lu was alarmed by the whole scene, and retreated 5 meters or so back from the river’s edge, into the rain forest.  Her favorite part of the experience was when Zola slipped on the rocks, and nearly fell into the midst of the eels.  Ben saved him, and India caught it on camera.

A CLOSE CALL

Before dinner, India and I went for a run together back down the Monro Beach track.  This is only noteworthy because it was literally the first time that we have left Zola and Tallulah on their own for more than a few minutes.  They and we knew that the lodge staff was there if they needed anything, but the plan was that the kids were to stay in our room and take care of themselves.  Tallulah was fine, but Zola, India and I were all nervous about this.  He took my watch, to count down the maximum of 40 minutes we would be gone.  India and I flew down to the beach and back in just over 30 minutes, my fastest run in my recent memory.  We got back to the hotel room before anyone panicked or got upset.  Success!

The last adventure of the day was going out to see glow worms after dinner. We walked along the deserted highway for about 300 meters, until we reached a muddy cliff face next to the road.  In the dark we could see hundreds of tiny, pale green lights hanging from the mud.  The glow worms use their luminescence to attract sand flies, which they catch for food in simple hanging webs.  Go glow worms!  On the walk back to the lodge, the ubiquitous Ben used his laser pointer to show us the Southern Cross, Saturn, the Pleiades.  When he pointed out three bright stars in a close row, I was thrilled to hear Tallulah shout from my shoulders, “That is Ryan’s belt!”

This morning we raced out of the lodge at 8:30 am, driving up the west coast to Greymouth, to catch the Tranz Alpine Express at 1:30 pm.  We had been told that the trip would take at least 4 to 4.5 hours, driving fast.  We were genuinely concerned about missing the train.  The road was generally pretty twisty and narrow, with many one-lane bridges over milky, glacial rivers.  About two hours into the drive, though, we had covered enough distance to realize that we were probably OK. In a fit of time optimism, we decided to make a fly-by visit to the Franz Joseph Glacier, 4 kilometers off the highway.

GLACIER IS OVER ZOLA'S LEFT SHOULDER

We parked as close to the glacier as we could.  With helicopters buzzing overhead, we selected the shortest trail that gave us a view of the glacier, and literally ran up it (Lu on my shoulders).  We got to the end of the trail, admired the glacier for a full 30 seconds, took a photo, and then ran back to the car.  In all, the side trip set us back nearly 40 minutes, which made catching the train a touch-and-go proposition again.  As we drove, the kids entertained themselves by singing endless camp songs, and then with a game called, “imitate Daddy’s scream when he went bungy jumping.”  Wholesome fun on the road.

In the end, we still made it to Greymouth, and found the station by 1 pm.  By coincidence, on the platform we ran into A.J., our Nebraskan interior designer dinner companion from three weeks ago at Ayers Rock.  He had just arrived from Christchurch, and was headed in the opposite direction, but we had 20 minutes to talk before our train and his bus both departed.  Nice kid.

ALL ABOARD!

 The 4-hour Tranz Alpine from Greymouth to Christchurch is reputed to be one of the most beautiful train rides in the world.  The second half of the ride was definitely pretty spectacular: lots of viaducts perched hundreds of feet above steep riverine gorges, long views of low, rolling mountains.  At the halfway point, dozens of kids boarded the train, on their way home after two weeks of government-sponsored mountain camp.  They ranged in age from 8-9 to 13-14.  Zola fled, afraid that we would suggest  he interview some of them.

When we finally arrived in Christchurch, we had an experience which made us melancholy and short-tempered for the rest of the day.  Our taxi driver was a woman about our age, who had recently emigrated from South Africa. I greeted her in my bad Afrikaans, and she and India and I started talking about South Africa versus New Zealand.

Intellectually, we know that someone who has emigrated permanently from their home country is likely to be very negative.  If South Africa weren’t a complete and irredeemable mess, why would she have left?  Still, her deep negativity, and talk of lawlessness and murder and corruption made us feel just awful.  She even invited us to have dinner with the Afrikaner expat community, who would “convince us to never set foot there again.”  

Would it be completely irresponsible if we were to move back to Cape Town?  Are we delusional and naive?  Are we crazy? Should we even vacation there?  Tough questions to ask ourselves at the end of another long day on the road.

Our spirits were lifted, and our travel mojo restored, when we walked to a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner.  We had not eaten Indian food since we flew out of Delhi in early December.  We were all excited to order our favorites (Zola ate basket after basket of butter naan), and to talk about the amazing things we saw and did on that part of our trip.  We bored our Varanasi-born waitress with stories about our trip to her hometown.  We even sent our Indian guide, Indrajit, a family “wish you were here” e-mail.

Tomorrow we are swimming with dolphins, and seeing the sights of Christchurch.  We will probably decline the Afrikaner dinner invitation, and continue believing that South Africa is wonderful and safe(ish).  We certainly continue to like our time in New Zealand.

SWINGING BRIDGE IN THE RAINFOREST

Greetings from Lake Moeraki, New Zealand!  We are back on the west coast of New Zealand, at the north end of the Southern Alps.  We are seeing firsthand again what 6 meters of rainfall per year looks like.

Happy belated St. Patrick’s Day.  The day reminded me of a story about Zola.  

Exactly a year ago, we were having dinner in Del Mar, California.  India and the kids had been out visiting me in San Diego for two weeks during their Spring vacation.  We were occupied with finding a house to buy, getting Zola and Tallulah into private school, and figuring out what our lives would be like when we moved to California.  

Driving back from Del Mar to our hotel in La Jolla, we got stopped in a police roadblock, designed to catch drunken St. Patrick’s Day revelers.  I was glad that I had not even had a glass of wine at dinner.  Unfortunately, Zola had fallen asleep at dinner, so we had laid him in the far back of the SUV for the short trip.  He was not in a seat, and not wearing a seatbelt, which I was sure would be some kind of horrendous felony in California, the nanny state.  

As we waited in line for the police officer to ask us his drunk-test questions, and to shine his flashlight in the car, I was sure that I was doomed to a huge ticket and fine at best.  In the meanwhile, though, Zola had woken up, and decided to camouflage himself in the back.  He pulled the stroller and some jackets over himself, buried his head, and kept very still.  Del Mar’s finest did not detect him.  After we drove away from the road block, he said he had been reading a spy book, and he figured this was what a spy would do.  It saved me that night for sure. 

We spent St. Patrick’s Day 2009 celebrating in Wanaka.  The day started with what is as close to a routine as we have on this trip:  India went for a run, kids and I had breakfast, Zola did math on line.  It was unusual for us, however, to be in the Dream House, and to have a small herd of alpacas to feed before breakfast.  They are almost comically cute and friendly animals.

PRINCESS AND ALPACA

At Tallulah’s insistence, we stopped at a tourist attraction called Puzzling World as we drove into Wanaka.  The outside of the building had lots of towers and gables jutting out at odd angles, and a sign promising that “Each Exhibit is Unique And/Or the Finest of its Type in the World.”

Puzzling World turned out to be very weird.  The lobby had tables with small wooden puzzles and games on them.  Asian tourists sat in groups, silently working the puzzles with feverish intensity.  The bathrooms featured a realistic mural of  a Roman bathhouse, done with “you are there” perspective.  

The Puzzling World exhibits themselves were all very large optical illusions: a mirrored room with the floor slanted down 15 degrees, and with water, golf balls, and a little sled all seeming to defy gravity by rolling/flowing up hill.  A room full of three-dimensional portraits that appear to move as you walk around with one eye covered.  The kids loved it, but India and I both felt a little nauseated.  We were glad to get back in the car, and continue on into town.

The small village of Wanaka is great.  It sits right on the lakeside, with a few stores (mostly skiing and hiking gear), and a few hostel-type hotels.  It is a very low-key ski town, much less flashy even than Queenstown, its big sister down the road.  The best restaurant we found is called The Cow: its logo is a picture of Queen Victoria, which is funny.  It has a huge outdoor fireplace and picnic tables.  The whole town seems to be gearing up for the winter ski season.  Between staying in the Dream House, seeing the spectacular beauty of the lake and mountains, and experiencing the ambiance of the village, we liked Wanaka a lot.

That afternoon, we drove halfway back to Queenstown, to the old mining village of Cardrona, to go horseback riding.  The riding center was happy to have Tallulah, the littlest wrangler, sit her own horse.  Our guide, Danielle, held Tallulah’s lead rope, and off we went.   This was further evidence that New Zealand is cool.  

We went on a trail ride high up in the mountains, for about two and a half hours.  Instead of just walking the whole time, Danielle had us all (including Tallulah) trot a bunch of times.  To Zola’s great delight, they even let us all (excluding Tallulah) canter.  I am a very poor horseman, and cantering on this big horse was almost as frightening as bungy jumping had been.  It went on for a lot longer, too.

By the end of the ride, India and I were getting nervous that Tallulah was so tired that she would not be able to hold onto the saddle horn any longer.  A few times we offered to take her on one of our horses, but the littlest wrangler rebuffed us vehemently: “I can do it BY MYSELF!”  Despite our worries, she was fine through the whole ride.  Of course, she was an exhausted wreck later on, but it was a happy kind of exhausted.

After the ride, we stopped for drinks at the landmark Cardrona Hotel, the second-oldest pub in New Zealand.  It dates all the way back to 1863!  In Istanbul or Fes, it would be called “the new place.”  Sitting in the sunny and green back garden, drinking Guinness, watching the kids play on the swingset, in touch with our inner Irishness, I thought “This is exactly what St. Patrick would have wanted on his day.”

The following morning, we had to pack up and leave the Dream House.  We shipped another huge load of excess baggage back to Nashville from the Wanaka post office.  It was possibly the most pleasant and efficient shipping experience of my life.  New Zealand is well organized around things like that.  

On the drive out of town, at Zola’s request, we stopped at the New Zealand Warbirds Museum.  The museum has six or seven fully restored old fighter planes, and hundreds of models and exhibits and photos.  Zola still sees war and war machines as impossibly glamorous and exciting.  What India and I noticed was that almost all of the WW2 pilots who are profiled in the museum died in combat during the war.  They were all about 22 or 23 years old.  Not much glamorous about that.

We drove north and west along Lake Wanaka for a long time, and then up into New Zealand’s Southern Alps.  Waterfalls were pouring off the mountains, and the interplay of the clouds and the sunshine made the long views even more spectacular.  It was an amazingly beautiful drive.

Eventually, the road ran along a wide river valley, and came to a t-junction when it reached the Tasman Sea.  We had reached the coast again. We turned right, and crossed a 500-meter-long one lane bridge.  All of the highway bridges in southern New Zealand seem to have only one lane.  It keeps everyone on their toes, and encourages a polite and co-operative society.  

Soon after, we arrived at the Lake Moeraki Wilderness Lodge, where we will be for the next two nights.  There are about 30 rooms here, but only three of them are occupied.  If the rain stops, we are planning to kayak, and hike, and walk on the wind-swept beach.  At dinner this evening, we sat with a glamorous and very engaging couple from Southern California.  Coincidentally, their third son (of four), is an Air Force Academy graduate, and is finishing flight school in Texas now.  Zola thought this was cool beyond belief.  We had a fun, late night at the lodge’s pub.

We continue to be dazzled by the beauty of New Zealand.  What a great place.

Greetings from Wanaka, New Zealand! We are told that the name of this town, correctly pronounced, rhymes with “Monica.” Easy enough for all of the Courtney Cox fans out there.

This morning we were still at Mt. Nicholas sheep station. Our terrific hosts, Bruce and Adrienne, watched the kids again while India and I went for another spectacularly scenic run. I’m running out of adjectives to describe how beautiful this part of the world is.

After breakfast (pears that Tallulah helped Adrienne pick from the orchard, skin, and poach), Bruce led us on a short, sharp hike up a hill near the farm house.

The movie “Water Horse” was largely filmed at the Mt. Nicholas sheep station, with Lake Wakatipu masquerading as Scotland’s Loch Ness. It fooled me, for sure.  In the movie, the all-important artillery gun was emplaced on a steep hill overlooking the lake.  This was the same hill that we climbed this morning. Knowing the location, it was easy to remember the visuals from the many scenes in the movie shot on that hilltop. Actually standing there was a little like seeing a minor celebrity at a coffee shop in New York.

From the hilltop, we could see 40 kilometers west down the lake, to the glacier-covered mountains. Looking the other direction, we could see sheep and horses and domesticated deer grazing far below us in their separate pastures (or paddocks, as they seem to be called in New Zealand). From far off in the woods, we could hear wapiti (big elk-like deer) screeching out their high-pitched mating cries. We stood in the sunshine, reveling in the glory of it all.

We were sad to say goodbye to Bruce and Adrienne, who have been wonderful hosts and companions for the last few days. Tallulah and Adrienne seemed to have forged a particular bond, feeding the chickens, brushing the cats, tending the garden, and playing with the puppies. Lu was very sad that we were not “staying for six more days.”

ADRIENNE'S GIRLFRIEND

Just before we left, for some reason (probably Zola’s unceasing questions about war) we started talking about ANZAC, the Allied force made up of Australians and New Zealanders in both world wars. Both Adrienne’s father and Bruce’s father had fought with ANZAC in World War 2, and both had been prisoners of war. Bruce’s father was imprisoned in Austria for five years. Neither father ever discussed his war experiences in the presence of his children.

Coping in strong silence is a central feature of New Zealand masculinity.  It may explain why the men generally seem a little taciturn, or at least reserved. The second-hand war stories definitely reminded me how spoiled and fortunate I have been in my own life.

During the steamship ride back across the lake to Queenstown, Zola suddenly became very upset. He and I walked up to the bow together, thinking an “I’m the King of the World” moment would cheer him up. He told me he is tired of traveling, tired of always packing and unpacking, tired of saying goodbye. He said he wants us to put him on a flight to Nashville, where he can eat his Gramae’s chocolate cake, and spend time with his cousins. Eventually he stopped crying, and was OK again.  India and I have to ask ourselves, is this trip, this lifestyle consistent with responsible parenting?

After collecting our rental car near the dock in Queenstown, and treating the kids to Nutella crepes from the Hungarian crepe stand, we bid a fond farewell to Queenstown. A few days ago, I suggested that you could have a 2-week vacation in Queenstown, and do two different adventure sports each day for the whole holiday. For fun, we made a list as we ate our crepes, and came up with 28 different activities in less than five minutes. It is an amazing place.

On the way to Wanaka, we stopped at Shotover Canyon, so that Zola and I could do our second jet boat trip. After the initial trip a few days ago, our expectations were very high. On this excursion, we had a driver nicknamed “Chopper,” because he is a former helicopter pilot. One of his colleagues told us, in a friendly way, that Chopper is “a bit loose in the head.”

Chopper gave us quite a ride, scrabbling over the riverbed stones in shallow water a couple of times (a terrible noise), and actually clipping the canyon wall at speed once with the side of the boat. When he wanted to stay stationary for a few minutes, Chopper just drove the boat up onto whatever rocks were nearby, reversing out when he wanted to move again. My sense is that Chopper is tough on the maintenance budgets and the insurance premiums.

The 90-minute drive to Wanaka took us up over the Crown range of mountains: steep and twisty roads.  Queenstown to Wanaka would be an amazing bicycle ride.  We arrived at the house we have rented just before sunset.  As we pulled into the driveway, India immediately said, “This is the house I have been looking for.  In San Diego, in the plans for our house in the Beaverkill, in Cape Town.  This is the place.”

DREAM HOUSE

Her dream house is a long single story, made of polished concrete, aluminum, and floor-to-ceiling glass, combined in simple, clean lines.  The glass walls slide back to open the house completely to the outdoors.  From every room, the view out over the mountains is amazing.   It really is amazing to look at, and over the next few days we will find out how comfortable it is to live in.  The alpacas in the neighboring field seem friendly enough, and the west-facing lawn sculpture made for some very artistic sunset shots.

SUNSET IN WANAKA

Welcome to Wanaka!

CASTING PRACTICE

Greetings again from Mt. Nicholas sheep station. It was clear and sunny today, for the first time since we arrived in New Zealand. We took advantage of the weather with a full day of outdoor activities. Now, slightly sunburnt, and completely exhausted, we are in for a wee sleep.

India and I went for a run at sunrise. Bruce drove us about 5 kilometers from the house, to a dirt track next to the lake. With the sun rising behind us, and the mountains reflected in the lake’s still waters, we ran another 5 kilometers along the lake before turning and running all the way back to the house.  We found it a little difficult to find our rhythm, because we had to stop to open gates or cross rivers every 5 minutes or so. We both ended up with soaked feet.  It was one of the most beautiful runs I have ever been on. 

After breakfast, we went down to fish in Lake Wakatipu. Lu played on the rock beach, and even went swimming, while Zola, India, Bruce and I made cast after cast. There appeared to be fish in the water: occasionally they would leap out to taunt us. After 90 minutes, none of us had even gotten a nibble. Very different from the embarrassment of riches at Doubtful Sound. We decided to refer to the outing as “casting practice,” declare victory, and go off to play with the sheep dogs’ puppies.

In the afternoon, India, Bruce and I went for a fast walk around the mountain lagoon that supplies water to the hydropwer generator. The hydropower system is an incredibly simple pipe and water wheel with a generator.  It was built in 1953, and has been in virtually continuous operation since then.

Bruce told us a story about a group of nearby farmers, whose farms were being overrun by (non-native) rabbits about 15 yeas ago. The farmers smuggled over a virus from Australia which is lethal to this species of rabbits. After much drama, and stealthy action, including an exchange at sea of cash for vials of pathogen, and clandestine meetings in remote barns, the farmers successfully introduced the virus into the rabbit population.  The resulting pandemic has nearly wiped out the rabbits. The farmers stepped forward, boldly, and told the authorities what they had done.  They were greeted with shouts of adulation from the farming community, and by criminal charges from the federal police.  The story would make a terrific  movie, unless the rabbits are too cute and cuddly to be credible bad guys.

Tallulah and Adrienne had built a bonfire on the lakeside beach yesterday afternoon. Just before sunset, we went down to the water, lit the fire, and toasted marshmallows.  Both kids were surprised that New Zealand marshmallows were different from the ones they are used to.  A classic Zola quote: “Dad, these marshmallows seem very sweet, and they are quite soft and squishy.”  Maybe India had somehow been tricking them into toasting bran muffins on sticks back in the Catskills.

A SUBMERSIBLE THREAT TO MARITIME COMMERCE

Zola and I took advantage of the sun and the still waters to take the kayaks out on Lake Wakatipu.  Once we were on the water, he immediately became a U-boat, torpedoing my Allied merchant vessel.  Then he insisted that we do kayak jousting, which was actually sort of fun.

Overall, another active, beautiful day in sheep’s paradise, New Zealand.

Greetings from Mt. Nicholas sheep station, on Lake Wakatipu, New Zealand. We are spending the next three days here, getting a wee taste of authentic sheep-station life. The scenery is so drop-dead beautiful as to defy easy description.

This morning we boarded the TSS Earnslaw for our 40-minute trip up Lake Wakatipu to the sheep station. “TSS” stands for “twin-screw steamship,” which is exactly what the Earnslaw is. It was launched in 1912, and was state of the art at the time. With a full head of steam, and a long, mounful toot on the whistle, we cruised away from wonderful Queenstown, and out into the lake.

When the boat made its first stop, Chris, our host, picked us up dockside. He drove us 12 kilometers to Mt. Nicholas sheep station, where he and his wife, Adrienne, have built a small bed & breakfast.

The sheep station is huge: over 100.000 acres. The owners run 27,000 sheep and 3,000 cattle in beautiful free-range conditions that must populate the dreams of factory-farm livestock the world over. Plenty of food and clean water, perfect temperature, no predators. It isn’t clear whether the sheep appreciate the stunning views.

Bruce and Adrienne showed us around the house, and then took us down to the garden, Adrienne’s “great passion”. We picked apples and pears from the trees, and ate them as Adrienne gave us a tour. The garden was orderly and almost surreally productive, bursting with enormous vegetables and berries. We stood in the bright mid-day sunshine, eating marble-sized peas directly from the pods. The kids dug up carrots, washed them, and ate them on the spot.

Bruce and Adrienne are striving, in a very low key way, to make their operation as self-sufficient as possible. The organic garden provides nearly all of the vegetables and fruits. Their hens lay nearly two dozen eggs per day. The sheep and cows provide an almost limitless supply of fresh meat (don’t tell Tallulah).

They have even built their own small hydropower station, damming a small river, and channeling the outflow through a turbine. The lights flicker a little from time to time, but they almost never need their back-up diesel generators.

After lunch, Bruce took Zola, India and me on a hike. Tallulah was thrilled to stay with Adrienne, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, and picking and poaching fruit for tomorrow’s breakfast.

Bruce drove us up a narrow dirt track into the mountains for nearly 20 minutes. Zola leapt to the task of opening and closing all of the gates so that Bruce could drive through. We parked in a high alpine meadow, and tramped off into the hills.

The hike was just beautiful. We went down into a little valley, crossed a glacial stream, inspected a musterers’ bunkhouse built in about 1918, and climbed out onto an open ridge, above the tree line. On one side, we looked down on Lake Wakatipu, dark and still enough to reflect the mountains on the far shore in its waters. On our other side, rugged, snow-capped mountains as far as the eye could see. With binoculars, we could make out dozens of sheep, grazing peacefully in a grassy meadow at our same altitude. They were three kilometers away, across a deep, green valley.

Zola was very good on the hike, not even complaining about the totally inadequate Crocs he had insisted on wearing. He doesn’t seem to need his emotional warm-up (ie, vociferous complaining) period if there is someone outside of the family on a hike.

When we got back, Adrienne offered to watch both kids, and India and I took two kayaks out onto the lake. The water looked still from up on the mountain, but we were both intimidated by how rough (and cold) it was once we were on it. Bruce’s assurance that “the kayaks are actually quite stable, once you are used to them,” did not make us more comfortable. Even though we did not end up needing them, we were both pretty happy to have life jackets on.

At the risk of sounding like a one-note, “Wow, New Zealand!” piano, the kayak tour was spectacularly beautiful. We came around a bend in the lake (hugging the shore), and found ourselves in front of the massive Mt. Earnslaw, jutting impressively out of the lake. I really can’t get over how beautiful the scenery is (Plink! Plink! Plink!).

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Back at the house, we played a variety of lawn games, familiar from India’s and my childhoods, until dinner. For Zola and Tallulah (in particular), it was exciting to be introduced to frisbee, and badminton, and Nerf football, and that funny wiffle-ball game with plastic jai alai frontons. All we needed was Jarts and Toss-Across to round out the experience.

Adrienne told us that the vegetable garden is her passion, but that her roses are her abiding love. The lawn, overlooking the lake and mountains, is surrounded by spectacularly flowering rosebushes of all varieties. Plink! Plink! Plink!

Over dinner, Bruce told us about his experiences as a jet boat racer, and as a haberdasher down in Invercargill. He can hem a pair of men’s trousers in less than three minutes, and he blames a lot of society’s problems on the advent of weekend shopping. He and Adrienne have well informed, thoughtful views on U.S. politics, on global issues, and on the financial crisis. They have each run lots of marathons, including the famous 60-kilometer mountaintop Kepler’s Track race.

India let the kids eat by themselves in the kitchen, so it was great for us to have a lingering, adult conversation over a delicious dinner. Except for the scallops, everything we ate came from this farm.

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Tomorrow should be another day full of outdoor activity. India is still working off the energy she stored up while captive on the boat for four days in Doubtful Sound.

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New Zealand is pretty awesome.

GORF - GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED, REDNECK FUN!

Greetings again from Queenstown, New Zealand!  We are coming to really like this place: beautiful scenery, friendly people, and many opportunities to do stupid and reckless activities safely.  It has all of the best elements of a ski town, but less glitz, better weather, and cooler non-ski activities.  Fewer tattoos as well, it seems.  Today the sun was even out for most of the day, and the clouds lifted from the mountains.  What’s not to like?

I also really like the way New Zealanders talk.  They use the word “wee,” meaning “small”, in almost every sentence, and their accent rolls “Rs” and somehow transposes “eh” sounds into “ih” sounds and vice versa.  

We did a jet boat cruise this morning (www.shotoverjet.com), and Mike, the driver, said something like: “Now.  Litt me rrriv the injens a lettle, and we’ll take a wee trep up the reverrrr.  Might do a few wee spens on the way.”  Very leprechaun.

The jet boat in Shotover Canyon definitely falls into the category of good, old-fashioned, redneck fun.  Mike raced the big jet boat toward canyon walls and rock outcroppings at about 70 kilometers per hour, swerving away at the last second.  He skipped across the rapids, and did 360-degree spins (”spens”) whenever he could.  Zola and Tallulah shrieked with delight throughout the entire 40-minute ride.  

We had been a little worried about Tallulah.  All morning she kept stomping her feet, and saying “I don’t want to go on another boat ride!”  She must have been concerned that we were going back to Doubtful Sound for another four days.  When we got to the jet boat, she found out that this trip came with special clothing - rain jackets and life vests.  Once clothes and gear are introduced into an activity, she always became an instant enthusiast. When we were on the actual ride, she said, “This is super-duper, super-duper, super-duper fun!”  We signed up to ride again (half price!) in a few days.

From the jet boats, we drove into town.  Tallulah and India went to the Bead Shop, an arts-and-crafts adventure we had been promising for days.  Tallulah made herself a beautiful princess necklace of plastic hearts, bells, a couple of shells, and a yin-yang.  She could have stayed there all day.  Zola and I went to all of Queenstown’s bookstores, stocking up for potential boredom when we arrive at a sheep station tomorrow.  Zola bought a huge reference book on World War I, and immediately started asking a stream of unanswerable questions, ranging from “Why do countries fight?” to “Did they have bazookas back then?” to “Why do they call them the Balkans?”  

We had lunch at a lakefront cafe, set directly next to a great playground.  Tallulah made friends with a little German girl named Emmy, and was thrilled to show off her new necklace, flip her hair around, and be generally girly.  We have deprived her of a normal social life for a long time.  There is a 50-kilometer running race in Queenstown tomorrow.  While we ate lunch, two young Scandinavian marathon-running couples, on some type of weird trans-continental endurance double date, stripped down and went swimming in the lake.  They looked cold.

After lunch, we rented bicycles at a sweet, but very low-tech, shop run by three generations of Thai mothers and daughters.  Actually, the youngest generation was a 3 year old named Jasmine, who became Tallulah’s second new friend of the day.

The bicycles were a bit comical. India’s bike, with Tallulah on the back, had loose handlebars, dodgy brakes, and no tread on the tires.  Zola and I were on an ancient tandem.  He alternated between riding with both hands in the air, whooping at passersby, and burrowing his helmet into the small of my back “like a pro racer.”  He did not seem to do a lot of pedaling.  We rode unsteadily out of town on a hiking trail, and made it almost to Frankton before turning around.  

EASY RIDERS

Back at the bike shop, while Tallulah and Jasmine played, Zola and I took two chopper bikes for a quick spin around town: banana seats, fat tires, long handlebars, the works. As we cruised up Shotover Street, looking like complete clowns, Zola said, in all seriousness, “Dad, we are nowhere near cool enough to ride these bikes.”  Speak for yourself, small person.  It was all fun until Zola had “a wee crash into a parked veheckul.” No injuries, no damage.

At the kids’ insistence, we walked through town to Steamer’s Wharf, and went to an ice bar called Minus 5.  Everything in the bar, including the glasses, is cut from ice.  We were given special overcoats and gloves, hit up for a colossal cover charge, and ushered inside.  Zola thought it was great, but Tallulah was somehow deeply (but calmly) freaked out by the whole experience.  Maybe it was the ice sculptures of monsters that she didn’t like, or maybe it was the dour Scottish bartender.  Either way, we were soon smashing our ice glasses at the door, as directed, and headed back into a warm New Zealand summer afternoon.

TOTALLY RIDICULOUS AT THE ICE BAR

By now it was late afternoon, and we went to sit at a lakeside bar called Wai.  The family had to endure my lame jokes related to the bar’s name: What? What’s the name? Why? Who? Who told you why? Why Wai? Wai wai wai, all the way home.  Terrible. 

Coincidentally, from the terrace we had a great distant view of The Ledge, 400 meters up a mountainside.  We watched several bungy jumpers hurl themselves out of the jump hut and into space, but we were too far away to tell if they screamed.  A honeymooning English couple was at the table next to us, drinking themselves into readiness for their  jump tomorrow.

As we walked back through town, we came upon a fashion show sponsored by the Salvation Army.  Tallulah and Zola both thought this was possibly the most glamorous thing they had ever seen.  Zola, in particular, was convinced that a horde of Victoria’s Secret models was going to come down the catwalk at any moment.  When the show ended (no Victoria’s Secret models), Tallulah was very excited to sashay up and down the catwalk herself a few times.  To my discredit, I taught Zola and Tallulah the Right Said Fred song, “I’m Too Sexy,” a few months ago.  Tallulah sang this aloud, as she shook her little tush up on the catwalk.

Queenstown is great, particularly when the sun is out and people seem to be having fun all around.  This was an afternoon that we would have gladly extended by another 6-8 hours.

Tomorrow morning we get up early, and take a steamboat across Lake Wakatipu to a wee sheep station.  We will be staying there for a few days, (theoretically) riding horses, mustering sheep, and somehow being productive.  It should be fun.

A LUGE RACE TO THE FINISH

Greetings from Queenstown, New Zealand!

Queenstown promotes itself aggressively as the “adventure capital of the world.” As India and I sit in front of the fireplace, hoarse from screaming and brain dead from multiple adrenaline overloads, we have to agree.

When we finally got back from the Doubtful Sound cruise yesterday afternoon (7 long hours from deck to door), we moved into a comfortable and stylish house on the outskirts of Queenstown. We were a little surprised to find the house in the middle of a subdivision under construction: the on-line photos showed open fields and mountain views. Once we were inside though, doing laundry and cooking dinner for kids, we realized that a dose of suburbia would be good for all of us.

This morning we did school, bought groceries, and India and I went for runs separately.  At noon, adventure day got started.

We drove down into Queenstown, and took a gondola up to a recreation area which seems to be called “The Ledge.”   It is on the side of a steep mountain, about 400 meters above the town.  Across the valley, the Remarkable Mountains were frosted with snow, and darkened with a layer of low-hanging clouds.  The mountains are aptly named. 

The Ledge has a few hiking trails, and a good restaurant, but the main attractions are the adrenaline activities: roller luge, hang gliding, and bungy jumping. The hang gliding was closed, but it wasn’t clear if that was due to the high winds or the two hang gliding fatalities in an accident on Tuesday.

Yesterday afternoon, in a fit of pre-meditated boldness, India and I had booked and paid for bungy jumping from The Ledge.  We were scheduled to check in at 2 pm today, but had arrived about an hour early.  

We filled the nervous interlude by riding the roller luge, a cement track which you descend on a small, motorless go cart.  The roller luge required helmets and another chair lift further up the mountain.  The rules require that every passenger’s first luge ride is on the “Scenic Route,” which meanders gently down the hillside.  After one scenic ride, Zola and I were free to race each other down the slightly faster “Advanced Course.”  In our second run,  Zola failed to negotiate a curve at speed on the advanced course, went flying off the track, somehow jumped a low curb, and landed on his wheels on the scenic course.  He proceeded down the scenic course as if nothing had happened, and we all laughed about it at the bottom.

Eventually, it was 2 pm, and we tramped down to the bungy-jump check in.  When we had registered in town yesterday, Zola told the woman at the counter that he was only nine, which made him too young to bungy jump.  Today he had decided he was keen to try it, and was wondering whether we could stretch the truth on his age a little.   He was disappointed when the woman at the mountainside check-in was the same as the one down in town yesterday, and she greeted him with, “How is my nine-year-old friend doing today?”

The jumping hut was cantilevered out from the mountainside, 143 meters above the ground.  The trio in the jumping hut seemed serious, experienced, and reasonably sober.  After they weighed me, they strapped a (reassuringly high quality) climbing harness on, and gave me a short briefing.  Then they invited me to have a look over the edge.  Holy Toledo!  Long way down.  Because the mountainside drops away another 260 meters to the center of Queenstown, it seems higher than it really is.  The peek over the edge was very scary.

Pierre, the jump master, guided me back about 2 meters from the edge, and said, “On the count of one, run and dive.  5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1. Go, go, go!”  I was too busy being scared to internalize that he had done the instructions and countdown without taking a breath, or asking if I had any last words.  India and both kids were standing on a catwalk about 20 meters away, blowing kisses and preparing to take pictures.  

I rubbed my face, gulped hard, and asked Pierre if he was happy that the harness was absolutely secure.  He responded, “Yes I am.”  He paused for half a second, and said, “Look out at the horizon.  5 - 4 - 3 -2 - 1.  Go, go, go!”

And so I went, screaming my lungs out, over the edge. 

AAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!

The fall was very quick; 2-3 seconds before the bungy cord caught me, and I bounced back up.  My body was terrified as soon as I jumped, but by the time my intellect caught up, I was hanging there safely.  A truly wild and cathartic feeling.

To be honest, I  was surprised that India wanted to do this as well.  She gets no thrill from driving fast, or from sliding, rolling, or sledding down hills.  On bike rides she is notorious for being the first to the top of any hill, and - riding the brakes the whole way-  the last to the bottom.

Still, after many years together, she has not lost the ability to keep me guessing.  As soon as I was off the harness, she was strapping into the Bungy Swing.  We both thought that the swing would be more innocuous than the jump, but I think it was much more intense.  She was lowered out onto a cable 140 meters above the mountain, attached by two long ropes to the jump hut.  

India “pulled her own rip cord” as instructed, and was sent sailing out into space.  She dropped 40-50 meters to the bottom of the arc, and then swung up the other side.  She didn’t even scream, cool customer that she is.

JUST PULLED THE RIP CORD - AAAAAAGGGGHHH!

LOOK CLOSELY - SHE IS THE BLACK DOT IN THE CENTER

After she was winched up and unharnessed, we walked to the restaurant, and ordered lunch for the kids.  India and I both were a little shaky, and definitely confused in our heads from the adrenaline rush.  We forgot her camera case in the jump hut, and then forgot the camera itself in the restaurant.  We could not figure out the logistics for splitting into two groups, so that she and Lu could go shopping.  I couldn’t add 58 + 38 to figure out the prospective cost of buying photos of our experience.  It was a weird set of neurological aftershocks.

Eventually, India and Lu did go down to the village.  They were cold and tired, and had seen a shop full of little girls’ clothes that was having a going-out-of-business sale.  Zola and I stayed to do more luge races, and so that I could jump again.   My ticket was the bungy-jump equivalent of an all-you-can-eat buffet.

When we went back to the jump hut, the team was on a “legally mandated 30-minute safety break.”  When they returned, Zola asked what they do during this time.  Pierre, the jump master, said, “We drink hard liquor, of course.”  Ha ha.

I ended up only jumping two more times.  Before I went, Zola and I had front-row seats as a chubby young Englishwoman chickened out (for lack of a better word) dramatically.  Three times they counted down from five.  She took two running steps, but stopped, windmilled dramatically, and clung on to the jump-hut wall.  Eventually, Pierre unclipped her and sent her away in tears.

Just before my third jump, Pierre said, “You know, the proper way to do this is to dive.  You have been screaming impressively, but kind of leaping out feet first.  Let’s see a dive this time.”   This was by far the scariest part of the adventure.  My heart is racing as I write about it 10 hours later.  I pitched headlong over the edge, screaming, and I laughed uncontrollably as they winched me back up when I stopped bouncing.

Frankly, after that, I was a wreck.  I don’t know how many jumps it takes before it is no longer scary, but we have a long way to go.

Zola and I went back up to the luge track, and had several very satisfying races down the advanced track.  He always managed to just beat me, after we traded paint a few times in the home stretch.  Good, old-fashioned redneck fun.

Tallulah got some wonderful dresses, and a glittery princess crown and scepter.  We ended up shopping for cold-weather gear in Queenstown for a couple of hours.  During most of this time, I was a walking zombie: exhilarated, but physically shaking, and very, very tired.  Zola just wanted to go back and do more races.  Eventually, we made it back to our house, out for a very nice dinner, and now off to bed.  I don’t know how the kids felt about all of this.

This was a fun day.  Tomorrow we have jet boating, mountain biking, and something called a “funyak”  New Zealand is definitely growing on us.  

HOORAY! MOM AND DAD ARE STILL ALIVE!