Change In Plans

Day Four

FIORDLAND!

Greetings again from Fiordland National Park! 

We are motoring back to the dock at Deep Cove, where we will start the 5-hour return trip: van over Wilmot Pass, fast ferry across Lake Manapouri, buses back to Queenstown.  

Last night I couldn’t sleep, and read all 532 pages of another Tony Park African safari thriller, called  “Far Horizon.”  It was completely implausible, but action packed and fun to read.  Also,  it was nice to be mentally transported back to hot, dry places like South Africa, Zimbabwe, and Zambia.

At about 2:30 am, there was a landslide somewhere at the edge of the cove where we were anchored: a loud roar followed by the cracking sound of many trees being broken.  For a long while after that, the boat rocked, and there was the noise of water dripping loudly onto (into?) the hull.  Lying in the bunk below the water line, I assumed that Chris would wake up and save us if the boat were actually sinking.

When India and I went out on deck in the morning, there was snow sticking halfway down all of the mountains surrounding the cove.  The temperature was just above freezing, and the snow had turned back to cold rain.  The irony of the weather (and my poor ingoing understanding of what to expect from the boat trip) was brought home as I repacked my baggage.  I guess I didn’t need to carry my running clothes, bathing suit, sunglasses, or swim goggles after all.  Swim goggles?

DOLPHINS!

Chris has proven to be an absolutely competent and reassuring captain, and is a very nice man.  That said, he is possibly the most taciturn person I have ever spent significant time with.  Over the course of four days, he has not asked a single question about us, nor has he offered any information about his life, his interests, or anything.  Even Tallulah and Zola stopped trying to help with the cooking, fishing, driving the boat, etc.  He makes the stereotypical New England farmer (or Maine lobsterman) seem positively chatty by comparison.  

We will be back in Queenstown in a few hours.  India will go on a long run, and celebrate with a Diet Coke.  We will rent a car, and take control over our movements and activities.  The kids will run around like uncaged monkeys.  Starting tomorrow, we will do the adventure sports that Queenstown is famous for.  Although a few drying-out days was not a bad thing, we may even treat ourselves to a glass of wine at dinner.  

Seeing Doubtful Sound has been a great privilege.  For a long time, we will remember the magnificence of the scenery, the wildness and the isolation, and the drama of the weather.  In retrospect (the travel planner’s friend), two days would have been enough. 

THE PRINCESS IN HER NEW PARTY DRESS

 

Greetings again from Fiordland National Park! 

Although we got through it without too much ill temper or bad behavior, on the third day our enthusiasm for the Doubtful Sound cruise crumbled a little.  More accurately, it melted in the incessant, driving rain. 

India and I had listened to the weather forecast last night on Chris’s maritime radio.  The dry, New Zealand-accented voice said things like “45 to 60 knot winds” and “driving rain throughout most of the day” and “unseasonably cold.”  Ugh.

The rain started last night after dinner, and rattled off the aluminum deck at least until I fell asleep.  When we woke up, it was still pouring.  Several new waterfalls had appeared on the mountainsides surrounding the cover where we were anchored.  We have definitely seen more waterfalls in the last three days than in our entire lives cumulatively before the boat trip.

With the rain pouring down, our distractions of the last two days – fishing and standing around on deck — would not be practical.  We had to become more creative in our efforts to entertain the kids.  We found an ancient deck of playing cards, and Tallulah, Zola and I played endless games of Go Fish.  I loaned Zola a 532-page airport novel called “Far Horizon.” I hoped that whatever sex scenes are in the book would be modest, and would not start until after page 300 or so, when he would be likely to have given up.  India worked with Tallulah on spelling words and handwriting for a long time.  Later she had Tallulah create a stage play with her menagerie of Little Pet Shop dolls.  Zola took over the play, and changed the storyline to a World War II battle.

Eventually, we gave in and let Zola play with his Nintendo DS for a few hours.  We are grateful that he has it, and that we bought a charger in Sydney.  India read a book called “Sideways: Travels with Franz K., Hunter S., and Kerouac” that I had finished yesterday.  I found the writer mildly annoying, but some of his travel stories amusing.  India has much less tolerance for his particular kind of whiny loserdom.

We motored around for hours, looking at steep hillsides and waterfalls through the windows of the cabin.  I took a shower in the very compact bathroom, and managed to get clean and not sprain my back, which I considered a victory.  Chris got out his rifle to shoot at (and miss) more deer, but Tallulah kept crying, “Please don’t shoot the baby, Mr. Chris.  Please don’t shoot the baby.”

Finally, in the early evening, the rain stopped, and the clouds lifted.  A pod of about 40 dolphins swam alongside us for 20 minutes, which was amazing.  We could see snow on the peaks of the mountains surrounding us.  For the first time since we boarded, there were none of the biting sand flies in the air (apparently they don’t like the cold). 

Tomorrow morning we disembark early, and make the long trip back to Queenstown.  After the days of on-board isolation, my guess is that the small city will feel like Paris.  I am glad that we did this, and glad that we enjoyed it.  Over time, the abiding memories will be of the spectacular beauty, the fishing, the dolphins, and the family time together.  Not sure we could have survived two more days, though.

DOA: Dead or Alive hd

LOBSTER!

Greetings again from Fiordland National Park!  We have been generally enjoying our time on the good boat, Sea Finn, for two days now.

Technical notes on the boat: it is a 66-foot all-aluminum motor cruiser, with twin 600-horsepower engines.  The main living area is an enclosed cabin/bridge/galley room, about 8 meters long and 5 meters wide.  There are large windows on all sides. There are six cabins below deck, each with bunk beds.  In a pinch, the oat could sleep 18-20 passengers, but a normal group is about 12.  There is a large open aft deck, with two bathrooms (including showers).  Literally every external surface on the boat is made of brushed aluminum.

Last night we were exhausted, and in the very dark silence of the below-deck bunks, we all slept deeply.   I was woken up only once, by a booming noise that resonated through the aluminum hull of the boat.  It sounded like thunder, but came from underneath.  I found out this morning that it was, of course, an earthquake.  Apparently this part of New Zealand has small ones nearly every day.

Slightly confused by the time zones and the lack of sunlight, we thought we had woken up before 8 am.  Once we were on deck, we realized that somehow we had slept until nearly 10.  We had missed the tides that would have allowed us to go further up into Charles Sound, so instead Chris took us back to check the lobster trap.  He was visibly non-plussed, but assured us that the change in plans was OK.  We found six giants in the trap, each weighing 2-3 kilograms, and planned on having more lobster for lunch. 

As we motored back up the sound toward the Tasman Sea, we stopped several times to fish.  Who would have guessed that India, the human-rights mom, is a natural-born killer with a fishing rod?  She brought in the most fish, by far, including a blue cod nearly as long as Tallulah is tall.

DEER!

Chris spied three feral deer standing halfway an exposed hillside as we motored past.  Even with the binoculars they looked far away, about 400 meters.  Chris said that with his big gun, he would have shot one easily.  But he had left the big gun at home.  To Zola’s almost squealing excitement (Shhhh!) and Tallulah’s horror, Chris decided to shoot at them with the little .243 rifle he had bought.  He got off six shots, and got close at least once, but didn’t bring down a deer.  They ambled slowly into the deep forest, seemingly unaware that the loud bang! noise should have meant “run.”

We came out of Charles Sound and made another open-water crossing in the afternoon.  The sea was much rougher than it was yesterday: with swells running 3-4 meters.  Because she had slept through yesterday’s crossing, Tallulah was frightened to be bobbing and pitching in the open ocean like this.  She cried as the boat rose and fell, and waves crashed against the windows.  To distract Tallulah, we ended up singing loudly and badly together as a family.  We stuck with camp-song favorites and studiously avoided the “Gilligan’s Island” theme song.  In all of our travels, this was the only time she has really been scared.  Throughout our singing, Chris did not smile and Queen continued to play loudly over the loudspeakers, the only time music was played on board.

In the late afternoon, we moored in Deas Cove, and took “the wee boat” ashore.  There was a group of men filling scuba tanks from a compressor on the beach.  They were camping in a nearby government hut, and we spent 20 minutes talking to them.  They are the only people we have seen since we got on Sea Finn.  We went for a walk across a flat open area between the cove and the sound.  It was perhaps twenty acres across, covered by sandy stone and a forest of ghostly trees.  This area was created by a huge landslide during the big earthquake of 2003, leaving an open 100-meter-wide scar on the side of the steep mountain. The sand flies were out in unbelievable force during our walk.  At one point, I clasped Tallulah’s head in both of my hands, and killed about 30 flies that were in her hair.  Still, it was nice to stretch our legs, and the afternoon downpour waited until five minutes after we got back on the boat.

SHORE LEAVE!

Zola was very clever in asking Chris whether he could take a turn at the helm.  He said, “Chris, how old were your sons when you let them drive the boat?”  Chris looked over from the wheel and said, “About eight, I figure.”  Zola made the observation, “That’s interesting.  I’m nine.”  There was a long, awkward silence before I said, “Yes, Zola, but you aren’t Chris’s son.”  He was unsuccessful, but I was impressed that he approached the question this way.

This evening we will have another meal of fish that we caught, and we are planning to  watch Chris’s only other movie: “The Patriot”, starring Mel Gibson.  On day two, so far, so good.  We are all still sane, still enjoying ourselves, and still marveling at the spectacle of Doubtful Sound.

QUICK, BEFORE IT RAINS!

FISH!

Greetings from Fiordland National Park, on the southwest corner of New Zealand’s South Island!  We are aboard the mighty SeaFinn, finishing the first day of a four-day private boat tour around the Doubtful Sound area.

The trip down to the boat was a five-part adventure in itself.  A short taxi ride to a 2-hour ride on large bus (with unceasing driver monologue) to a 45-minute ride on smaller bus, to a 45-minute “fast ferry” ride across Lake Manapouri.  We left the large tour group at the far end of Lake Manapouri, met our captain and host, Chris.  He drove us on a moderately hairy 45-minute van trip on the dirt road over Wilmot Pass.  The road was the most expensive to construct, per linear foot, in all of New Zealand. Finally, we walked down a slippery hill, across a gangplank, and boarded the SeaFinn.   All in, including waiting-around time, it took us nearly six hours to get from hotel to boat.

Based on what we know about our likes and dislikes, this boat trip through the fjords could be a disaster.  India is not able to run or walk or even spend any real time off the boat: the mountain terrain is pathless and too steep.  It is cold outside, and intermittently pouring with rain.  The kids are cooped up on board, with no games, and with only us and Chris for company.  For the first time since we started traveling nine months ago, I am completely cut off from the outside world: no internet, no BlackBerry, no cell phone coverage.  There are no shops or other boats or people or any evidence of civilization.  There are clouds of vicious, biting sand flies everywhere.  We had arrived in Queenstown too late on Saturday evening to buy our own supplies, so there is no alcohol, juice, or even Diet Coke on board.   No chance to remedy the situation and no turning back.

Despite this avalanche of negative leading indicators, we have had a great time on the boat thus far, and I am not quite sure why.  I think it is some combination of the following:

1- having Chris here.  He is a very calm, competent, and experienced captain, defined by his precise movements and easy manner.  It would be unthinkable for us to fight or be disagreeable in his presence.  On a boat this small, his “presence” should be prefixed with “omni.”

2- the magnificence of our surroundings.  Tree-studded hills shoot almost vertically out of the black water of the fjords, rising about 1,000 meters into the low clouds and mist.  Huge waterfalls gush and hiss down the hillsides.  There are literally no other people around, and the wildness is beautiful like nothing else we have seen.

FISHING!

3- we have been too busy to not have fun.  For a long time, as we motored up Doubtful Sound, we just gaped at the scenery.  The first time we stopped, Chris said, “Do you want to fish?”  I said, “I’m not sure I know how.”  He said, “It’s easy.”  He handed me a spinner rod, its big hook baited with a piece of sashimi.  I dropped the line in the water, let it sink 40 meters to the bottom, and reeled in an orange sea perch literally eight seconds later.  Among India, Zola, and me, we caught 30 fish in two hours, keeping a few perch for bait and blue cod for dinner, and throwing the rest back.  I think we were all OK with killing the fish, but we were slightly happier when we caught and released.

FIORDS!

We have been on continuous lookout for dolphins, for albatross, and for feral deer on the mountainsides.  Tallulah has been fascinated with Chris’s cooking (he moves gracefully between the galley and the pilot’s bridge as we motor).  Zola has been fascinated with the GPS, the fish finder, and the depth gauge.  He also enjoyed helping Chris bait and set a trap for lobster.  At lunch, he served more lobster than four of us could possibly eat.  We have all had time to read.

Chris got our full attention as we motored out of the calm waters of Doubtful Sound, and crossed 20 kilometers of “Roaring 40s” open ocean (the Tasman Sea). The swell was “only” 1-2 meters, and  the SeaFinn was absolutely designed to be stable in open water like this.  Still, as we bobbed up and down in the waves, India, Zola and I held hands and stared out at the cold sea.  Tallulah slept soundly in a bunk below.  We were all a little relieved when we motored into the calm waters of Charles Sound.

After eating dinner, blue cod that we had caught and venison that Chris had shot earlier in the week, Chris turned on the DVD player.  We watched an Anthony Hopkins movie called “The Fastest Indian.”  It is a true story about a likeable elderly motorcycle racer from New Zealand, who set a land-speed record on the salt flats in Utah in 1963.  It is the most popular movie ever made about New Zealand, and it was great.

We will see how the next three days go.  All of this good will and serenity may evaporate once the novelty of the trip wears off.  Four days without a glass of wine or the New York Times on line.  Who knows what may happen?  The enforced leisure and on-board austerity may also wear on our nerves, and we could end up bickering like kids in the back seat of a station wagon on a long drive. 

Or, we may be entering a new phase of the trip, where we are embracing travel instead of just experiencing it.  Time will tell, but we are off to a good start.

Greetings from Southland, New Zealand!

We are motoring south in a giant bus, headed toward our three-day boat cruise on Doubtful Sound. The sun has just risen over the mountains and sheep pastures. The tiny slice of New Zealand we have seen this morning has been at least as beautiful as we hoped it would be.

Aside from us, the average age of the passengers on board appears to be about 106. I’ve never actually been on a giant tour bus like this: the huge panorama windows and sky lights are pretty awesome. Like a filibustering Senator, our driver, Keith, has been giving non-stop commentary since we left Queenstown two hours ago. He just finished a detailed history of the New Zealand deer-farming industry.

Our time in Queenstown was too short to form much of an opinion about the place. As the “adventure travel capital of the world,” it has a ski-town feel. Lots of young athletic tourists, 110 pubs. From our hotel room, we heard laughing and shouting (and at least one fist fight) going late into the evening. It is definitely beautiful, with a dark lake surrounded by craggy, low mountains

We went for a walk last night, and saw a small, drunken troupe of fire jugglers performing in a pedestrian mall. Zola and Lu thought they were extremely cool. One performer fell down several times, as his flaming devil stick flew into the small crowd, and he laughed maniacally. A female fire eater walked the perimeter of the performance area, cracking a bull whip. Weird.

We will be back in Queenstown for several days, after the Doubtful Sound cruise. In the meantime, everyone has fallen asleep on board (despite Keith’s filibuster), and rain has started to pour down outside.

Adventure awaits in New Zealand.

PostScript- moments after I wrote this post, Keith stopped the bus and woke everyone up. Those of us going to Doubtful Sound (as opposed to Milford Sound) were herded in the rain onto a smaller bus. An elderly man slipped or collapsed, climbing the stairs into the new bus, and tumbled backwards out the door. Fortunately for him, he fell directly into India’s arms, and she saved him. Maybe he was flirting. This driver is silent, and both kids fell back asleep immediately. We just passed a deer farm, a branch of agriculture I now know more about than I would ever have expected.

Greetings from Queenstown, New Zealand!

We left our hotel before dawn, and raced out to Sydney airport for the final time.  Zola’s early wake-up routine is becoming very predictable.  He literally moans several times, then sits bolt upright, then cuts loose with an angry and loud tirade about airline schedules, about hating whatever place we are traveling to, and about how he did not sleep “even one wink, not even one wink.”   It is not particularly pleasant, but it is over in less than 60 seconds.  Then he is fine.  We need to get him to go to bed earlier.

We were sorry to be leaving Sydney, and could easily have spent another week exploring the city.  It feels as though there is a lot of Australia to see on future visits.

Even though Sydney-Queenstown is a very popular once-daily route, Qantas only services it with a small 737.  Apparently the runway is too short for a larger jet.  Also, as we were told, the approach to the airport is very tricky through the mountains.  

India, who is a very strong and brave person in every other dimension, has become an increasingly nervous flyer during our trip.  The facts about the runway length and the tricky approach were enough to set her on edge.

The flight to Queenstown is supposed to be about 2 hours and 20 minutes. About an hour into the trip, the pilot did a slow 180-degree turn.  To his credit, he immediately got on the PA system, and announced that we had a mechanical problem, and would be returning to Sydney.  He paused for a few long moments, and then specified the problem: cold air had created a small crack in the outer pane of the double-glazed windscreen in the cockpit.  ”Nothing to worry about, folks.  We just have to go back to Sydney because this is a problem they wouldn’t be able to repair in Queenstown.”

India was certain that we would be plunging to our deaths within seconds.  I moved to sit next to her, and proceeded to say many unhelpful things, like, “Your fear is totally irrational,” and “Qantas is the safest airline in the world.  Remember Rain Man? and “Why can’t you just stop being scared?”  I was comforted by the fact that the pilots maintained altitude at 38,000 feet, thinking that if they were worried about cabin pressure they would descend.  I explained my theory to India, and added, also unhelpfully, “You are the only one worried about crashing.”  She did not hit me at any point, but would have been justified if she had.

India summoned a flight attendant to get more details.  The flight attendant, also a mother of young kids, made a special effort to explain, and to alleviate India’s concerns.  Soon after, the chief flight attendant came over and said exactly the same things.  They must teach a technique in flight-attendant school, because both women locked their gazes on India’s eyes, and did not blink while speaking.  They gave us a bottle of champagne to drink, to “take the edge off.”

We landed safely in Sydney.  Across the aisle from us, passengers from the Czech Republic were talking and gesturing excitedly.  The Czech man closest to me leaned over and asked, “Where are we?  In what city have we landed?”  Speaking very slowly and loudly (American!!!), I explained that we we had landed in Sydney, and that we would take off again in two hours.  He asked, “Are we in Sydney?”  And I said, “I think so.  They are giving us each $20 to have lunch.”  He turned back to his countrymen, and explained in rapid-fire Czech.

As we disembarked, the pilots let Zola and me have a look at the crack.  It was as if someone had thrown a brick through the (outer pane) of the windscreen.  To tell the truth, I was more nervous after seeing it.

We had a brief discussion over our Qantas-comped lunch about just staying in Sydney, and canceling the New Zealand part of our trip.  In the end, of course, we walked back out to the plane and got on.

The landing in Queenstown came as advertised: low and fast through the mountains, and then down hard on a short runway.  India and I applauded as we rolled to the gate, but no one followed our lead.  Fortunately the flight had been without turbulence or other incident (except for the terrible “Quantum of Solace” being the in-flight movie), and she was completely relaxed.

New Zealand customs and quarantine was hard core.  They inspected my hiking boots carefully for fungus, x-rayed everything we brought into the country, and sprayed the wheels of our stroller with disinfectant.  Island country.

As we rode into Queenstown, my own anxieties started to rise a little.  We are basically at the end of the world here.  It is very beautiful, but places like this fuel my insecurities about isolation, lack of control, unstructured leisure time, and personal irrelevance.  Queenstown itself is the “adventure sports capital of the world,”so I figured we would be OK once we got into the bugee jumping and jet boating and luge.

My anxieties became more pronounced, though, after I called our tour company, to see whether we could push back tomorrow’s 6:30 am departure by a few hours.  There is a 2-hour time difference means we would need to be out of bed by 3:45 am Sydney time).  The nice woman on the phone explained at length that we had to leave early, because we need to take a taxi to a bus to a large boat to a 4×4 to get on the boat where we will be sleeping for the next four days.  Not sure what else there will be to do on the boat.  We have been told to expect “lots of relaxation time.”  We will be traveling for five hours tomorrow morning, starting from one of the most isolated places I have ever been.

Both India’s and my anxieties are probably tedious to read about.  Hers are more understandable, because dying in a plane crash is a normal thing to be afraid of.  My own anxieties feel more like emotional immaturity and spoiled brattishness.  They definitely put me in a foul mood, and drag down team morale a lot.  To be honest, these anxieties are probably wrapped up in larger life uncertainties: about where we will go when our trip ends, what we will do, who we will be.  There are a lot of decisions for us to make, and this is the last official stop on the NeverNever Land tour.  

We will be up early again tomorrow, bracing for Zola’s morning tirade.  Intellectually, I’m sure the Doubtful Sound cruise will be amazing, and my anxieties will “vanish like a billabong in a drought.”  That expression was a real headline in today’s Sydney paper, referring to a bankrupt businessman who has gone missing.  Under any circumstances, my guess is that this will be the last blog post for a few days.

Two short PostScripts:

1- Tallulah wore her pink Uggs all day again.  I think she wore them to bed as well.  Despite the long day, anxious parents, my foul mood, and general uncertainty and instability in their lives, they were terrific.  Tallulah asked, “Do you think Rosemary will go to New Zealand as well?”

2- When we were at Uluru, our guide told us that the last time the flies were so bad was when they were constructing the lodges five years ago.  Many of the construction workers got terrible eye infections, but it was never established whether the infections were transmitted by the flies directly, or caused by workers touching their eyes a lot more to brush them away.  Regardless of the cause, both of my eyes have been infected nastily since we left Uluru.  Fortunately, the first-aid kit that India packed in the Catskills last August has great antibiotic eyedrops.