Lake Taupo

   The ride up to Lake Taupo was quite different from the other coach trips I had been on. This looked like typical city-to-city transportation, full of locals, some back packers, and some folks like me. The driver was not particularly friendly, and did not introduce himself, nor did he offer a running commentary, so I ended up looking around and dozing a lot as we cruised through the agricultural south-central part of North Island, (although, much of New Zealand could be considered agricultural) until we rounded a corner and golly gee, there was a volcano.

   Snow clung to the top of it, but it was definitely a volcano. And as we got closer to it, we were getting closer to my destination, Lake Taupo. According to the geological exhibit at Te Papa museum in Wellington, this was the Central Volcanic Plateau, and Lake Taupo is a caldera created by a huge eruption about 100 A.D. In fact, some theorists posit that the Taupo eruption 26,000 years ago was one of the pivotal events that led to the last ice age. Jack, the “Lord of the Rings” tour guide, said that the rocks in Wellington were once where Lake Taupo is now. And he’s not speaking of the landscape gravel, either.  Lake Taupo covers 238 square miles, is 610 feet at its deepest point, and the rocks – boulders – landed 230 miles away. Any questions?

   Speaking of “Lord of the Rings,” the Taupo region served as the filming location for Mordor, Emyn Muil and Mt. Doom.  Fit folk can tramp the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, a full-day hike across a rather apocalyptic landscape past volcanoes, fumaroles, lava flows, craters and lakes.

   Lake Taupo YHA hostel was another immaculate facility with friendly folks. Unfortunately, no free Internet access, but a nice kitchen and clean bathrooms. That is, clean until the person bathing next to me decided to pee not quite down the drain in the shower. Some people’s kids. However, none of my roommates decided to defile the room in anyway, so that was nice, and the second night I was there I actually had the room to myself. On travel day 101, I took bliss where I found it.

   Everything from parasailing to full-day sailing cruises to Maori rock carvings at Mine Bay were available, but being ever mindful of my (diminishing) resources, I chose to go exploring around the area to one of the (free) natural resources in the area, Huka Falls. According to several sources, the area is the most visited site in New Zealand. I set out on a cloudy morning to walk the 30-45 minutes to the Falls, and was careful to get a map and directions from the woman at the hostel desk. I had her use a highlighter to mark the route, explaining that I tend to get lost. She marked the route as far as the turn-off to the trail that connected to the Waikoto River, and said I’d have no problem the rest of the way. Right.

   After walking for about half an hour, I was not anywhere near the Falls. I had walked by the Lake Taupo Top 10 Holiday Resort. I had watched a couple Border Collies being put through their paces at the Taupo DogTraining Club. And finally, I got to a point where I knew I had gone too far and missed the turn. I took out my map, long past the point of being embarrassed or worrying what others might think of me. A man in a white minivan slowed down and rolled down his window.

   He: “Are you lost?”

   Me: “Well, I know I’m in Lake Taupo, but beyond that …”

   He:  “What are you looking for?”

   Me: “Huka Falls.”

   He: (laughing) “Oh, you’re miles from there!”

   Good to know.

   Me: “I know I’ve gone past the turn. How far back is it? I walked by the dog place.”

   He: “Oh, farther than that.”

   Me: “The Top 10 resort place?”

   He: “Just past that. Turn right. Looks like you’re going back into a parking lot. Keep going back – the trail starts as you get closer to the river.”

   Me: “Okay, thanks!” I started folding my map.

   He: “Do you want a ride?”

   I considered. He looked like a nice enough guy. Let’s see … alone, in a foreign country, no one knows I’m out here besides the gal at the hostel…

   Me: “Nah – I’m a good walker. But thanks!”

   I turned around, and off I went again. Past the dog place. Past the Top 10 camping place. The next turn, looked sort of like a resort, but it was a road going way back toward a parking lot, so I kept going past the really cool Maori carving of some sort of bird (a god, I’m sure) and found … cabins. And a restaurant that looked like it was closed and had been for some time. Gravel road curving around to what looked like a trail. 

    Then I heard the gun shots.

   Gun shots? Really?

   I paused.

   Yep, gun shots, and I think that weird smell might be gun powder, and if that’s the case I’m not going any farther, because I don’t really know if there’s a New Zealand version of “Deliverance.”

It is on these sorts of occasions that I start to curse. Creatively. Colorfully. I mutter oaths, I shout in short guttural barks, I sigh, I whine. If anyone happens along at these times they generally turn around or cross the street. Finally, I get so frustrated, I start to get all teary and sound (even to myself, even in the throes of this mood) like a child. I asked, godammit, I asked the fucking woman at the desk for directions, I know my limitations, so I asked and I STILL get lost? Jesus-f-ing-christ! WTF?

   And so on.

   So I stomped back and it was the next street where I was supposed to turn, and go waaaay back in the parking lot (actually, a road to a parking lot) where, eventually, signs pointed the way to the trail. At that point I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to keep going or not. I was tired, my feet hurt, my water bottle was almost empty … But then I thought, “oh, this is going to be such a great blog entry.”

   I had read, and been told, that there was a geo-thermal area by the river where a warm stream meets the Waikato. Several people were splashing around, some with swimming pool floaties, others just resting along the rocks along the edge. Even though I had worn my bathing suit under my clothes, I kept walking, determined to make up time. Once I relaxed, I started to enjoy myself. The river was wide and placid, subtle ripples of current pulled at the bank.  The trees and tree ferns were lush. The trail was quiet, once I passed a talkative French family. And the path didn’t take nearly as long to walk as I was told it would.

   Just like in the movies, you hear the falls before you see them, and it wasn’t long after I heard them that I saw them. Lovely. Crowded viewing platforms, but lovely falls. If the day had been sunny, the view and photographs would have been spectacular. As it is, they’re still pretty good. The water really is blue and white, melt-off from the snowy volcanic peaks filtered through layers of rock. I watched as a speedboat cruised just at the edge of the spillway, its occupants getting soaked. And then I walked back the way I had come.

   Two dietary supplements are guaranteed to soothe sore feet: ice cream and chocolate. In this case, I had neither (yet) and was desperately hungry for real food. Any energy from the breakfast peanut butter sandwich had long since worn off, so lunch was the first order of business. I selected what they said was lasagna, and it certainly had noodles and cheese and tomato-ee sauce, but, after having been married to an Italian, I know it was not lasagna. However, it was served with something green and leafy called salad, so I ate it all. And lo, it was good.

   Taupo has a museum, as well, which I was determined to see, so that was the next stop after lunch. And while it had a picturesque garden and rose gardens surrounding it, and a wonderful jewelry exhibit, I couldn’t pay much attention.  After the museum, shopping for souvenirs for family and a merino wool and possum fur throw for me. Found both, and bargains at that. One more night in Taupo, and then I was off to Rotorua and its geothermal waters the next morning.

The Trans-Coastal to Picton and across to Wellington

   Having been awakened by the dulcet tones of a fat man coughing up a hair ball, I dragged myself out of bed in the morning for a 6:15 a.m. shuttle back to the train station for the Trans-Coastal trip. This train was shiny and new, with outlets on the seats where you could plug in earphones and listen to recorded commentary. I grew tired of the canned commentary, so I ignored it and made up my own as we cruised along. At that point, I was a little let down. After the Trans-Alpine the day before, the Trans-Coastal was the ride that was overrated.

   The best thing about the trip up to Picton for me was stepping out onto the observation car, letting my hair blow around, and smelling the sweet clover from the paddocks. Sheep dotted the green hills. Cows dotted the green hills with cow patties. And soon, there was the Pacific Ocean on our right. A gray day, but nonetheless, a picturesque scene.

   At Picton, I checked in at the ferry terminal and cruised for three and a half hours to Wellington, New Zealand’s capital where the first thing I did after checking into the hostel was catch a bus down to Te Papa, the museum of just about everything. The exhibit “Unveiled,” 200 years of wedding fashion from the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, was on view. The gallery was awash in carefully preserved lace, tulle, and various weaves of silk. 

   Among the notable gowns was the Christian La Croix gown “Who Has the Right?” and the iridescent purple taffeta Dita Von Teese wore when she wed Marilyn Manson. Gwen Stefani’s self-designed gown was there, too, but the real highlight was getting to see meticulously preserved hand-made Belgium lace and hand-worked satins. The light was dim and photographs were not allowed, so I spent a lot of time with my nose nearly against the glass, evading gallery security guards while trying to see whether that silk was cut on the bias or if that skirt was a jacquard or a taffeta.

   Three New Zealand designers created gowns for the Te Papa “Unveiled” show: WORLD, Lindah Lepou, and Jane Yeh. Check out their gowns and comments here.

   I stayed until they were ready to kick me out at 9 p.m., but got to speak with a gallery docent about not just the gowns, but the social sensibilities that fashion embodies. In our culture there is this idea of The Gown, The Wedding, The Day, The Man, usually in that order. When I edited a weddings publication for the Kansas City Star’s magazine division, the intent of the advertising sales people was to push that fantasy, the dream, the dress that’s too expensive but get it anyway, the wedding that costs $50,000 but do it anyway, even though that’s a down payment on a house, The Wedding must be done. The groom seemed like a prop. And having been once divorced at that point (an unlikely candidate for a weddings publication, but there you have it) I well understood that there is something that follows the orgy of conspicuous spending and that is called A Marriage.

   Once again, Elizabeth Gilbert’s name came up and this idea of The Man and how this idea of romantic love is perpetuated in young girls’ minds. Prince Charming and his cohorts ride in and take her away from all this. I used to believe that this protestation of feminists and their ilk was really sour grapes; they were just a bunch of lesbians who didn’t want a prince, anyway, so they’re going to tell the rest of us that there really isn’t one. That might be true. My prince came in with a white BMW in which, after five years, I drove off into the sunset.

   Anyway, when I edited the magazine I made sure that there was always some sort of article that reminded couples (read: brides) to prepare themselves for the inevitable post-wedding let-down. Now that you’ve spent an entire year (or more) of your life planning for one day, what now? What happens after that adrenaline rush? Now that you’re not the center of attention, Little Miss Bride, what are you going to do?

   But even those thoughts hovering around my awareness like so many soap bubbles over the happy couple didn’t stop me from being fascinated by the gowns. I have the convenient excuse of being a seamstress, so I can look at these garments from the perspective of design and workmanship, which I think is part of what the exhibit is supposed to be about. Never mind that there was a big screen showing footage of several society and royal weddings and that there was a cluster of women ranging from 15 to 50 sitting transfixed on red velour upholstered divans draped all around with tulle.

Because at the end of the day, after all the social analysis, there is beauty and there is love and that’s what people want to see. And there’s really nothing wrong with that.

   Since I didn’t get to see more than “Unveiled” at Te Papa, I resolved to return the next day – after my “Lord of the Rings” tour. If you know anything about the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy, you might know that Peter Jackson directed all three films. You might also know that he is a New Zealand native, and all of the films were shot here. What you might not know, however, is that Peter Jackson pretty much built the film industry in New Zealand, which is in Wellington. In fact, this effects industry is so good, Steven Spielberg has started coming to New Zealand instead of calling up his buddy George Lucas at Industrial Light and Magic. Hopefully that information helps dispel the idea that I might be some sort of nerd.

   However, the tour guide, Jack, was. A nerd. And a happy one at that. He worked in Information Technology for 20 years, for a government agency, sounded like. And now, he said, “I can’t really remember why.” About eight years ago, Jack and some buddies started Rover Tours, a service that shuttles paying customers around for half-day or full-day tours of the Lord of the Rings filming locations around Wellington. I took the half-day tour which started with Jack picking me up at the hostel, taking one look at me and stating, “Oh, it can’t be her. She looks much too stressed to be on holiday.” All the better reason for this tour, Jack. And don’t worry, the antibiotic is working.

   We were barely out the door before he launched into how he was horribly crushed, that he got terrible news that day:  he learned just that morning that the casting call for The Hobbit is at 1 p.m. January 28 and neither he nor any of his partners would be able to attend because they have cruise ships dropping multitudes of cruisers off for tours. Personally, I thought that getting your company on a cruise ship’s excursion menu is a pretty sweet deal, but I didn’t say that.  Instead, I made the appropriate sympathetic noises, especially when he said that they are looking for men with large biceps. I was glad that Jack knew his biceps were not big.  Maybe then he didn’t feel quite as bad about missing the casting opportunity.

   One stop and five people later, we were off to the first of the sites, the Great River Anduin where, you might remember (or you might not) the Fellowship of the Ring ended up camping, and where Boromir ended up getting killed, etc. Jack had a whole binder of stills from the film that showed the locations quite well so we could compare what we were seeing with the actual scene. Next, we were off to Rivendell, the home of the elves, where Frodo, thanks to Elven Princess Arwen’s desperate ride, recovers from the wound received from one of the Nine Black Riders.  (Digression: Liv Tyler, who played the elf princess Arwen does not ride. Hates horses. That whole thing was done by a stunt double. Christopher Lee, who played Saruman also hates horses, since one of his best friends died being thrown from one. Just some fun facts. Christopher Lee also happens to know exactly what sound a person makes when he’s been stabbed in the back.)  

    Jack had a hobbit-sized sword, either a faithful reproduction or one from the movie – and a cloak for anyone to pose in. Martin from Canada was happy to oblige. Then, a spot of tea (or Elevensies, as the Hobbits would say) and off to Isengard where there is still a barely visible indentation of the road that Gandalf traveled to the Saruman’s tower.  We had to guess what the final location was. I got it first – the road through Fanghorne Forest where the first Ring Wraith comes hunting for Frodo. For those of you who remember, it’s in the first movie; it’s the “get off the road” scene where the horse and undead former king stand above them. Fabulous stuff. At the end of the tour, we all got a map that Jackson drew of the two islands with all the sites highlighted. And a good time was had by all.

   After lunch, I stopped by the Portrait Gallery of New Zealand which, funny enough, displays portraits of those who have been important to New Zealand’s formation and progress; among them is Sir Edmund Hilary, the first man to reach the summit of Mount Everest. But in the very back of the gallery, behind the wall, around the corner, was a small exhibit of daguerreotypes. These were not old images, but current portraits, the exhibit  “Reflecting Mana”- portraits of Tainui by AlanBekhuis.  The images were provided courtesy of the Paul McNamara Gallery, an important collection of ten daguerreotypes which complements the main exhibition. They are intricately made on silver sensitized with the halogens iodine and bromine. Alan's specialty is to mount daguerreotype portraits, framed and lit in their own boxes. His authentic leather wooden cases are of exceptional quality and are used internationally.

   The daguerreotype is named for Louis Daguerre who created the first form of photography. The technique is juuuust a bit fussy. Take a copper plate, coat it with silver gelatin and polish it to a mirror finish, then load it into your frame and let the image develop. It is immediate, and incredibly fragile – the image can be rubbed off by a finger. The pay-off is that daguerreotypes are three-dimensional, have a depth that photographs just don’t show.

   Once I finished chatting about the daguerreotypes and the method with the gallery manager, I returned to Te Papa to an exhibit called “Blood Earth Fire” which concerned itself with the volcanic environment of NZ and where I got a review of natural science. Ready everybody? The earth is made up of a crust, a mantle, and an outer and inner core. Everything gets hotter the farther you dig, but we’ve never really gotten very far into the crust. Here’s the thing about New Zealand: the crust here is half as thick as anywhere else. That means that convection currents of the hot mantle make that crust less stable, and it’s easier for the crust to shift (earthquakes) and for molten stuff in the outer and inner core to get out (volcanoes) in the Central Volcanic Region, or CVR.

   New Zealand broke off from Australia a few years ago (somewhere between 65 and 80 million) and since then has been rising and falling depending upon the tectonic activity of the millennia. The Pacific Plate picks on New Zealand, too (not just us over in North America) sliding under the Australian plate, forming the central Alpine Fault. And I think that we all know that fault lines are where earthquakes come from.

   Anyway, it was all very fascinating. After that, I went to Cuba Street, yet another hip, young, edgy, snazzy neighborhood with people who sport tattoos and piercings in interesting and unusual places. A few vintage shops are there, along with a few touristy souvenirs shops. Cuba Street is also a pedestrian mall, so buskers are out in number, too. A young girl was singing – up on stage, alone, with a rudimentary sound system, and two homemade boxes covered in construction paper, hand-lettered: “I’m saving up for a new piano.” Sheesh. How can a person not throw a coin or two to the cause? But the best busker by far was by the train station - see the guy to the right in the kilt with the bagpipes.

   That was pretty much it for Wellington. In the morning, I caught a coach up to Lake Taupo, smack dab in the aforementioned Central Volcanic Region.

 

The TranzAlpine to Christchurch

   When Herman the German (aka Stefan) and I were booking these two weeks, I was quite definite about wanting to travel the Trans-Coastal train route from Christchurch to Picton where I would then take the Inter-Islander Ferry to Wellington, New Zealand’s capital city. The best way to get from the west coast to the east coast is via the Trans-Alpine train, which goes over Arthur’s Pass and several viaducts. But in my (admittedly limited) research about the Trans-Alpine, I read a review (on-line) that it was overrated and that the scenery wasn’t much to write home about, save your money and buy a nice merino wool and possum fur sweater.

The beginning of the journey - pretty, but not particularly inspiring.

   Well, first of all, a merino and possum sweater costs a LOT more than a train ticket, but I admit I was apprehensive about the journey when we started off and I saw a lot of this. But, it turns out that the Trans-Alpine is not overrated. I’ll be the first to admit that I am not as well-traveled as I would like to be. The summer after college backpacking through Europe was not on my post-graduate schedule. Following a man to a different city was, however, and I stayed in that city for 16 years. The point is that I have nothing much to compare this train trip to – although the scenery was reminiscent of Glacier and Yosemite National Parks. Arthur’s Pass and the viaducts overrated?  Not a chance.

   Along the way there was a commentary from one of the conductors, but with the Kiwi accent and the way she ended all her sentences as though they were questions, I had a hard time understanding her. Here are some of my notes: 

   Lake ??? holiday homes worth around a ½ million … lots used to be about $30 k. now $300 k Lake is ??? square kilometers.

   Lake ??? orange tint – crayfish – important fishing destination

   Coal train from ??? 30 cars, each containing 30 tonnes of coal

   The note about coal is actually important, since the railroad line between Christchurch and Greymouth was primarily constructed to transport from large reserves that were discovered in 1848 on the west side of the island near Greymouth.  Since the harbor at Greymouth wasn't deep enough to handle large ships, the government built the railroad now used by TranzAlpine to access the  deep water port at Lyttelton, near Christchurch.  By the way, even though the coal has high sulfur content, it’s exported to China where “dirty” coal is regularly burned.

Closer to the mountains...

   We crossed the Alpine Fault that stretches 6oo km up the spine of the south island, the on-land boundary of the Pacific and Australian plates. According to geologists, the fault is due for a whopper in the next 40 years. Sound familiar? No word on whether the quakes that happened in 2010 and 2011 were the predicted whoppers.

   Otira, which is not a city, or a village, but a hamlet with a population around 50 people, was next. A few years ago, a couple passengers on the alpine route noticed that the Otira hotel was up for sale and bought it – then noticed once the transaction was complete that they had also purchased the town hall, the swimming pool, etc. They were offered $1 million for the lot last year and declined.  Not much to the place: tiny miner’s cottages with rust-streaked corrugated roofs, their identical faces differentiated only by lattice or ornate porch posts.  Every building is in a different state of repair. Sheep graze in a narrow paddock between front yards and the train track. The train stopped here to pick up a couple of passengers before going through the Otira tunnel and on to Arthur’s Pass when everyone was ordered back inside for the duration.

Otira, complete with sheep in the paddocks.

  The Otira Tunnel was started 1908 and completed 1923 and at 8.5 kilometers (5.3 miles), it was the longest in the British Empire at the time and one of the longest in the world.  The climb from Otira to Arthur’s Pass station is about 820 feet on a 1 / 33 gradient. From the ‘60s until the late ‘90s, electric locomotives were used to haul trains through the tunnel so that diesel fumes didn’t build up in the enclosed area.  The electric locomotives were decommissioned in 1997. Now, after the train enters, there is a sophisticated fan system (read: I don’t quite understand how it works exactly because the information online is vague) extracts diesel fumes.  We swayed through the tunnel a full 20 minutes, and even with fans running, the air was thick. There was a five minute stop at Arthur’s Pass Station, about 2400 feet above sea level.

   Although the scenic qualities of the route had become apparent by that time, the really good stuff was ahead as we crossed steel girder bridges. The highest viaduct on the route is the famous Staircase Viaduct, which is 240 feet above the Waimakiriri River. I didn't have the stomach to be out on the observation car, so I did my best from my seat.

   The ride terminated at Christchurch. Most of us know that Christchurch, New Zealand experienced a magnitude 7.1 earthquake in September 2010. The shaker devastated the central business district of the city, and the area is still cordoned off, official vehicles only, braces on building fronts, rubble in the streets (whether from the start of repairs or the accumulation of damage debris).  Since that quake, others have struck: February 22, 2011, magnitude 6.3; June 13, 2011, mag. 5.6 and yet again the same day, a 6.3. The before and after photographs I found here are dramatic and kind of cool to look at.

   There was a little glitch in the plans where the shuttle driver dropped me off at the wrong hostel, which turned out to be the right hostel, but then was scheduled to pick me up the next morning at the other hostel … No matter. I had a room (a single one!) which was quite comfortable until someone decided to start a car that had a screeching fan belt at midnight. Then there was the crew that came in from the bars around 2 a.m. And the person who got up around five, clearing his throat and spitting up phlegm. Oh, and the drain that sounded like someone peeing right outside my window. Other than that, it was a great night. One sobering thing – when I checked in, I had to provide a contact name and phone number back in the states. Just in case there was another big earthquake. As a person to resides a few scant miles from the San Andreas and its shenanigans, this should have been of little note. But it wasn’t.

   The most distinctive thing about Christchurch that evening was the quiet. At six o’clock, the city should have been in rush hour, such as rush hour might be in a city of 360,000 souls. But no, not much traffic, even the birds chirped sotto voce. The Garden City is very much a city desert, full of buildings that are uninhabited and/or uninhabitable. Chain link fences surround every other lot; if a person owned a waste disposal business, they’d be in clover right now. According to the shuttle driver, Christchurch has had 10,000 quakes in the past 16 months, starting with the big on in September 2010. Whether these have been bona fide holy-cow-did-you-feel-that-there-was-another-one quakes or not, I don’t know. But it wasn’t the first time I had heard the figure.

Ok, it was a volcano, not an earthquake. Anyone else see the irony?

   The next time you walk down the street, look at the businesses you pass. Chances are there will be an assortment: a doctor, an attorney’s office, a convenience store, a few cafes, maybe a church. Now consider how many people those businesses employ. How many of them have families to support. How many suppliers are dependent upon those businesses for their own livelihood. And how many employees those suppliers have. And how many family members. You get the idea. We can read about Christchurch in the paper or hear about it on the news and think, those poor buggers, whew, thank God it wasn’t us sitting here on a ticking bomb. I think it’s worth more than a passing thought.

This broke. my. heart.

   There’s so much more to this city that I didn’t get to see – disasters have made much of it impassible. It’s worth noting, though, that Christchurch is one of four cities in the world that was planned on a central market square (Philadelphia is another, and I can’t remember the other two). It’s also referred to as the Garden City because of the acres of green space set aside for public enjoyment. In fact, Hagley Park is 407 acres and home of the annual flower shows, the Festival of Flowers in February and the Ellerslie International Flower Show each March. I could go on and on, but all I would be doing is reporting what I’ve researched on-line, since I didn’t get to see and experience it myself.

   Next, on to Wellington via another TranzScenic train across the Canterbury Plains, beside the Pacific and up to Picton, and then across to Windy Wellie.

To Fox Glacier and Greymouth

   Tired and still a little sick, I couldn’t help but want to be home, wishing that I had a greater attentiveness and appreciation for all the wonder around me. But there comes a time while traveling when one becomes jaded, and I had reached my low while in Auckland’s Ponsonby neighborhood when I found myself thinking, “If I see one more ‘funky, hip, back-from-the-brink’ inner suburb populated by skinny yuppie mums and their precious children strapped into expensive German-designed strollers, shopping at stores with minimalist interiors that sell minimalist clothing, with maximalist price tags, I will lie down on this sidewalk and shit myself.”

   About 15 minutes later, Herman-the-German and I booked this final two-week extravaganza through the country.

We stopped here along the way ... I think it's Thun

  So I hopped on yet another coach on what was shaping up to be a fabulous Queenstown morning, destination: Fox Glacier Village where I would see one of the glaciers that still exists, but is in gradual retreat, and has been since 1750. Incidentally, its retreat has sped up since 1950. I’d like to impart a whole lot of local color and info about the drive and what I saw, but honestly, I can’t remember much. I know only that my head ached, and that I kept coughing for no good reason and felt like I was constantly trying to swallow an acorn. The drivers were quite nice, chatted quietly at intervals about the countryside and its rich history. They did their job. I did not do mine.

   We were about an hour away from Fox when the driver played a DVD about Fox Glacier helicopter tours and offered to call in a flight reservation at our next stop if anyone wanted to take one. I approached him when we stopped and asked some questions about the flight, and he assured me that it was well worth the money. But when he called, he was told that the didn’t have another person who wanted that tour at that time, and flights only take off with two or more paying passengers. That saved me from myself, although I do believe that’s the way to see a glacier.

Yes, that dirty snow is indeed Fox Glacier.

   I did have a driver reserved to take me out to the glacier observation point. Murray has been driving for quite a while, I think, if the potent cigarette smoke/body odor combination in his van is any indication. Joe, the coach driver, had pointed out Murray where he was parked by the curb. I popped my head into the van, giving him a start, I think, and informed him that I was his four o’clock date. He said he’d be at the hostel to pick me up.

   I dragged my suitcase and my acorn-swallowing self up the street to the Ivory Towers Lodge Hostel which, oddly, was neither ivory nor towering. In fact, the hostel was a yellow weatherboard house? Old hotel? With blue trim. Ivory Tower Lodge Hostel is the sort of place that someone might call funky, or unique, or full of character. After checking in and walking down a hallway on carpeting that might once have been a color, and opening the door to Room 2, I called it time to check out. I had reached the point – actually remain at the point – that if I smell pasta cooking in a hostel kitchen, I gag. No pasta was cooking here, but the room was approximately 10 X 12 and contained three sets of bunk beds. The last free (top) bunk was for me. None of my roommates were there, but their stale hiking boots and damp towels were. I’ve become a creature of smells, I guess, and since I was not congested with my ‘flu, I could smell everything entirely too well.

   Before I could turn around and walk out, Murray had arrived. He provided commentary all the way out to Fox Glacier in an impenetrable Kiwi accent, which is a cross between Australian (she’ll be right, mate!) Scottish (oh, there’s a wee car park) and Cockney (well I says to him I’d do it meself). Anyway, he pointed out where the glacier was in 1750, where it was in 1850 and where it was in 1950. Now, it’s a good kilometer back from that point. I hiked along the trail up to a point where the photo cutout of a ranger and a word bubble said, “If you’re not with a guided hiking group, you have to stop here.” Okay. I got my photographs and walked the 20 minutes back.

   One expensive dinner later, my quest for different (better) lodging began. I found a place next door to Ivory Tower. The room needed airing and smelled faintly of mildew and mustiness, but it was my mildew and my mustiness for the next few hours and I planned to enjoy it. Never mind that I coughed nearly all night because of the mildew and mustiness – I was not sharing a room with smelly hiking boots and young girls with the pong of wet puppies. I even got a free continental breakfast in the morning – and they had peanut butter! Things were looking up.

   The next leg of the journey was from Fox Glacier to Greymouth, where I would catch the Trans-Alpine train to Christchurch. Steve the coach driver was a ringer for Willem Dafoe, if Willem Dafoe was skeletal, had wavy reddish hair, wore aviator shades and had receding gums.  But Steve had a great speaking voice and a lot of knowledge about the area and its history. I happened to overhear that he studies Medieval England in his spare time, and has figured out information about Antarctica that he was told by government officials to keep to himself. “we’re not from here; that’s all I can say.”

Here are some highlights:

·        Whatarea, a widening in the road called a town. Public toilets, a convenience store with some sort of chocolate chip and herb muffin, a farm supply, and a gallery that was voted best in New Zealand. It is in possession of 4,000-year-old sperm whale bones and incredible jewelry carved by Maori.  Steve praised the older couple who purchased earrings as being wise to buy there where they were assured of quality and a fair price.

   The Bushmans’ Centre (a steal at $1.8 million if you’re interested in buying) sports a giant sandfly and a sign on the door: “If you can’t laugh, you’re in the wrong place.” The entire place is about game, and not Monopoly. Heads on the walls, deer in an enclosure out back, ‘possum pie on the menu. But the Australian Brushtail Possum is not the same as our North American large rat-looking possum. In fact, it was introduced to New Zealand in 1837 to establish a fur trade, with disastrous results. There are no predators in NZ. None. So the varmints have over-run the islands. You can't order a 'possum pie, either, because New Zealand government requires restaurants to purchase ‘possum meat only from a government approved source. Such a source does not exist. The edict is in place because of the wide-spread aerial poisoning campaign to rid the country of the scourge that destroys forest habitat and eats bird eggs.  Brief Digression: New Zealand has NO indigenous mammals. None. Most native birds are flightless (the kiwi, for instance) so are defenseless. The Brits brought over bunnies, because they’d be good food and fun to chase on their pretty horses; they also brought deer, which were fun to chase, too. But although chased, many deer and bunnies got away, so they proceeded to reproduce like, well, bunnies, and eat away at the bird’s habitat. Solution: bring stoats and weasels to take care of the rabbits. When the stoats and weasels arrived they reached the consensus: why eat a rabbit that runs away when you can get a bird that’s never seen a predator? The kiwi, NZ’s national bird, is endangered now.
·         We stopped to pick up a 94-year-old man who raises goats, and were warned that he might smell a little bit like his cloven-hooved friends. He did. A little old thing, barely bent, and still had a frizz of white hair. His sweater had goat hair woven through it. Immediately, the woman across the aisle from me placed a small package in the seat next to her. “Where is he going to sit? He might sit by me!” she hissed. As it turned out, he did the next best thing and sat right in front of her. I have smelled goats before and found his odor pungent, but not as offensive as, say, the bouquet of a co-ed hostel dorm room. He got off the bus at the next stop, and the odor dissipated soon enough, but not before the same woman could confide that she “could smell that man.” I pointed out that at 94, he was doing great to be catching a bus anywhere, and when I’m 90 and raising goats, I hope to sit in front of a person just like her.

·         A stop in Hakitika and the Jade Factory, where carvers can be observed from a platform outside their glass-enclosed workshop. Since we arrived around lunch time, only one was at his post. Instead, I walked into a store called The Possum People and chatted with a woman about the ‘possums. As I mentioned above, the possum in New Zealand is not the same as our North American over-sized rat 'possum. These guys look like an Ewok crossed with a raccoon. Problem is, they are munching their way through the two islands and destroying the habitat of native wildlife. They also spread bovine tuberculosis. She said that about 1 million are trapped each year for the fur trade, and 2 to 3 million are killed with 1080 poison, mostly in remote parts of islands. The government insists that there are around 70 million in the country, but the woman scoffed: "If that was the case we'd be tripping over them in the street." While the fur trade decreased in the 1980s, due mostly to PETA folks spattering fake blood on fur coats, commercial value has recovered with China being the biggest buyer. I was tempted to buy a pair of gloves or a hat, but then remembered that I live in Death Valley with golf courses. Instead, I hurried over to a pharmacy and spent $11.20 for 24 ibuprofen tablets in an effort to reduce the size of my throat acorn.
·         New Zealand’s natural resources: Steve said that New Zealand is really a gold nugget with a little dirt thrown over it. Talk about opening up the National Reserves for mining has been met with a resounding “NO!” from the people, so the government has done the next best thing and started to build oil platforms off the South Island shore. Steve said that NZ has the second largest oil reserves in the world and has agreed with Saudi Arabia to cap the wells for 150 years to keep the price of oil inflated. When the wells are in production, they will be using the frakking method of extraction. I said a prayer for the marine life in the area.

   And by the time we got to Greymouth, the drugs were working.

View from my room at the YHA Hostel in Greymouth.

   When I walked into the Greymouth YHA Hostel, I smelled … nothing. Air. Fresh air. No cleaning agents, air fresheners, backpackers, food cooking … nothing. Come to find out that the hostel is cleaned with only three natural ingredients – coconut oil, lime and orange. The windows were open. A cool breeze. Faint scent of the sea. And although I was booked into a four-bed dorm, there was only one other person and only one very neat suitcase sat at the end of one bunk. Downstairs, a common room had comfortable furniture arranged around a fire place. The sun porch was set up as a TV room with a selection of (free!) DVDs. In the kitchen, no fewer than five bins were arranged against the wall for recycling plastics, paper, shopping bags, landfill waste and compost. The kitchen was spotless. I was sure to tell the girl at the check-in how nice that was.

   Downtown Greymouth is not extensive, and is typical of most small towns. A few cafes, bars, outdoor equipment outfitters, hotels down by the train station, a couple galleries, and a book store. More bakeries that concoct chocolate chip and fruit muffins. A couple notable stops: Jade Boulder Gallery, which really does have a jade boulder inside. The artist, Ian Boustridge, started getting interested in jade when he was only a kid, and has been carving since 1976. His work is inspired by pre-Columbian, Asian and Maori art, and his work is widely collected. Although the items at the gallery were a little bit out of my current price range, the work was stunning. Unfortunately (but not surprisingly) photography was prohibited.  The Left Bank Art Gallery housed in the restored New Zealand Bank building also has a stunning collection of jade by artists of national/international repute. In New Zealand, jade is a stone of particular importance to the Maori (indigenous) culture, used for knives and ornaments for thousands of years.

   Then, at 1:30 p.m. I got on board the Trans-Scenic Kiwi Rail train to cross Arthur’s Pass and spend a night in Christchurch, yes, the city that has experience 10,000 quakes since the 7.1 quake on September 2010.