Change In Plans

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!).

p>

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.

p>

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.

p>

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!

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.