My Guardian Angel Must Be a Kiwi

Travelers the world over spread legends of Kiwi hospitality. I heard of this phenomenon when I was traveling through Australia. A few fellow travelers had recently been to New Zealand and told tales of dinners and beds offered from complete strangers. I listened attentively, but figured these stories rose from special circumstances, or perhaps were tall tales. After all, the nickname for New Zealanders originates from their native bird, the Kiwi, which is naturally shy. My two and a half months in Kiwiland, however, proved the legends to be true.

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While on a mission to the east coast of New Zealand’s north island around the New Year holiday, Tom and I arrived at a remote campground near the mouth of the Wairere River. We had been driving all day and it was quite late when we finally drove through the entrance gate. My spirits sank when we saw that the campsite was full, as there wasn’t another for miles.

There was a second small, closed gate to a privately-owned paddock just above the public site. Tom went to check it out while I waited in the car in frustration and impatience, wondering why he was even bothering. It was clearly private property and I was sure we would just have to sleep in our tiny Toyota Starlet on the side of the road. Tom returned, however, with a grin. He got in the car and proceeded to drive through the private gate. It had been opened by a short, white-haired woman who was waving us through.

As we unloaded the car and began to set up our tent for the night, the woman introduced herself as Irene. She offered us a lantern and showed me around her campsite. There were a few other tents, a couple camping trailers, a long picnic table, a full kitchen equipped with sinks, cookware, a grill, and a few burners, a shower, and two new, clean, long-drop toilets. There was even an old agitator behind the kitchen.

Irene has been camping on that particular paddock since she was a little girl. For the past 60-some years, Irene’s family has consistently returned, despite the farm to which the paddock belongs being passed from owner to owner. Irene, along with her daughter, Debbie, Debbie’s husband, “Buzz”, and their two sons, Jade and Brock, comes to the paddock for several weeks every summer, and a few odd holidays and long weekends throughout the year.

For the next 4 days, Tom and I became adopted family members to Irene’s clan and had full access to their camp’s luxurious facilities. They gave us fuel for our car when we didn’t have enough to get back to town. They showed us the nearby secluded beach and took us fishing. They lent us their kayaks to enjoy a New Year’s Eve paddle down the Wairere River. We joined them and their friends at the public campground for a rowdy New Year’s Eve party. And they even gave us an enthusiastic hoorah when both Tom and I tried out their traditional “apron dance.” They invited us to their annual New Year’s lamb roast and Buzz cooked us a fresh fish breakfast with free range eggs on our last morning there. 

Irene usually denies other campers access to her private paddock, even if the public site is full. On that particular night, however, she extended a warm welcome to Tom and me. Maybe for many reasons or maybe none at all - we’ll never know. But Irene was our guardian angel that night.

The Country of Smiles

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Orchids and Luxury

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Oz: Act Two

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En Zed

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Aotearoa

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The Tremendous Trio

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Oz

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Video Fixation

Watching other people's home videos is everyone's favorite pastime, isn't it? Well, if you haven't had your fix of home videos from your winter holiday visit with your folks or your early summer family reunion, take a look at mine. Over the next few days, I'll be posting photo videos from each leg of my round-the-world journey. They're homemade on Picasa and it's the first time I've worked with the program, so please bear with me.

And if after watching these, you still haven't had enough, I'm sure my mom's got some old videos she'd love to show you of me drooling as a baby.

She's Back!

After an excessively long intermission of finishing up travel, visiting friends and family, moving to England and getting settled, I'm back to blogging. With many more tales to tell from my trip around the world, as well as new stories of living in England, I've got plenty to say. So stay tuned!

Roads Less Travelled

Due to the fact that I am living in England as a British citizen, I am not permitted to drive on my U.S. driver’s license, nor my international driver’s permit. Instead, I must earn my British driving license by completing the long, arduous process of obtaining a provisional license, driving under restrictions in the company of a licensed driver, studying the British highway code, passing a theory test and finally, passing a rigorous and precise practical driving test.

As I face this annoying obstacle, I find myself reminiscing about my first experience driving on the left side of the road. It happened on New Zealand’s south island, on an inland road (in fact, I think it’s actually called Inland Road), somewhere between Lewis Pass and Kaikoura. Danielle, Malila, and I had taken Ben’s campervan for a two-day mission from Christchurch to Greymouth, up to Kaikoura, and back down to Christchurch. It was two days of driving, from east coast to west coast and back in less than 48 hours.

Danielle had been doing all of the driving on the trip thus far, as she was already accustomed to driving on the left side.  But when we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere and the road straight as far as our eyes could see, Danielle and I decided this would be a good time for me to give it a whirl. I hopped into the driver’s seat, surveyed my surroundings, and was immediately lost. I was sitting on the right side of the car instead of the left, the stick shift was to my left instead of my right, and the indicator lever was on my right instead of my left. Ack!

I started up the van, voiced a reminder to myself to stay on the left side, and merged onto the road. Despite crawling at a snail’s pace, I seemed to start off fairly well. Though, I repeatedly attempted to shift gears with the door handle. My brain was having to bend so far away from habit that I was getting a headache.

I steadily began to feel more comfortable and picked up some speed until, much to our dismay, the landscape turned from flat fields to rolling hills. There was no straight stretch of road in sight. I’m sure it would have been beautiful scenery if I had had the nerve to look away from the road for one second.

As was bound to happen, a car approached us from the opposite lane. We closed the distance to the upcoming curve and I silently repeated, “stay to the left, stay to the left, Stay To The Left, STAY TO THE LEFT!!!! AAAAAYYYEEEE!!” Phew. We made it.

But suddenly, Danielle squealed in fear. I thought we’d made it past the other car in one piece! What was she on about? Apparently, I had veered the van so far to the left to avoid the other car that the passenger side, and thus, Danielle, were precariously close to falling off a steep bank. Oops!

After we’d recovered, I checked the gas guage and noticed it was getting a bit low. No problem, we would stop at the next town to get some fuel. Only there was no next town. At least, not one with a gas station. Rural “towns” in New Zealand seem to consist of only two or three buildings, which are often just houses and maybe a small cafe. We had to make whatever remaining gas we had last all the way to Kaikoura. So, here I was, driving on the left side for the first time on a curvy, hilly road through the middle of nowhere in a large campervan, and having to coast in neutral as much as possible to stretch the little fuel we had left. Awesome.

Despite indisputably breaking numerous New Zealand traffic laws after that day on Inland Road, I gained plenty of practice driving on the left side and became quite accustomed to the country’s roads and driving etiquette.

As New Zealand is still quite rural, most of the roads are barely wide enough to be considered two lanes. They are narrow, windy, hilly, and often unpaved. The speed limit on open highways usually ranges between 80-100 km/hr, though drivers seem to go whatever speed they please. If you are planning to turn left onto another road or into a parking lot, and a car facing you from the opposite direction is also planning to turn onto that same road or lot, you must yield to the opposite car. If someone is passing you, you pull to the left side of the lane and slow down a bit to let them pass safely. The passer usually expresses her/his thanks with a double honk of the horn, and all is well.

The road signage in New Zealand is brilliant. It’s as if the roads know exactly where you want to go and tell you the easiest and quickest way to get there. You could undoubtedly get by without a map if you needed to. Just take the main road out of town and follow the signs to your destination, whether it be another town, a tourist attraction, or even a church or marae. And the suggested speed signs at every curve in the road are impossible to miss, or even ignore, due to their ostentatious size.

New Zealand takes it’s road safety seriously. It is illegal throughout the country to use a mobile phone while driving. And the only billboards you will see outside of the cities feature road safety messages such as “Slow Down. It’s That Simple,” or “nvr txt n drive”.

Here in northern Cornwall, the roads are of similar shape and terrain. Some are so narrow that if you meet another car, one of you must reverse to a gate opening or a widening of the hedgerow in order to pass. Of course, there is a load of unwritten, yet very traditional etiquette involved in determining which of you must reverse.

Thankfully for me, speed regulations and car spedometers are set in miles-per-hour, rather than kilometers-per-hour as one might assume. Beyond that fact, however, I am unaware of the traffic laws specific to Britain, as I’ve been traveling only as a passenger thus far. A week or so ago, while catching a ride to a nearby town, I took note of a sign that said, “Adverse Camber.” HUH??

Better start studying.

Photos

I have found a much quicker way to upload photos! I've switched from MobileMe to Picasa and have uploaded some more recent photos. Please bear with me as I'm still trying to figure out the best way for you to view them. For now, here's some slideshows:

Coffee, Uncovered

The mystery has been solved! Thanks to Pania (I know I’ve misspelled her name), a friendly barista in Taupo, I now know the hidden truth behind the coffee scam served hot in cafes throughout New Zealand.

On a short mission to Taupo this week, Tom and I came across a funky café in Acacia Bay called L’Arte. Lonely Planet calls it “a fantastically artful café in an ebullient sculpture garden with a gallery alongside.” Spot on. Located on a country road on the way out of town, this café serves up brightly colored dishes full of healthy veggies, and rich, luxurious home-baked goods for those with no will power. For visitors with some time to kill, the sculpture garden and art studio are a visual delight, featuring everything from mosaic-tiled walkways and furniture to bronze figures dancing among the flowers.

The friendly staff at L’Arte seemed happy to answer my targeted questions about the coffee they serve. Pania, a knowledgeable barista, clarified that a short black is one shot of espresso, whereas a long black is two shots. Some people add hot water to a long black, and some add hot or cold milk to cut the bitter taste. A flat white is two shots of espresso with silky steamed milk. A latte is two shots of espresso with silky steamed milk. Aha! So there really is no difference between a flat white and a latte!

Pania explained that a flat white used to be made with only one shot of espresso, making a latte a stronger version of a flat white. However, nowadays everything is made with double shots, so the only difference you might see between a flat white and a latte, depending on the café, is that a latte might be served in a larger cup, making it a bit milkier by nature.

So, the lesson is thus: before ordering milky coffee in New Zealand, check the size of the vessel in which your drink will be served. If the flat white is served in the same sized cup as a latte, order the flat white. It is almost always the cheaper version.

Espresso With Milk, or Espresso With Milk?

Since my arrival in New Zealand two months ago, my coffee intake has drastically increased. People here live on caffeine, often drinking 4 or more cups of coffee every day. But the coffee here is dramatically different from that with which I am familiar.

If you order a cup of coffee in the United States, you get a cup of filtered, drip coffee. I always ordered mine black, believing that cream and sugar only mask the true taste of coffee. When I arrived in New Zealand and entered the first of too many cafes, there were no displays or other obvious options for different flavors of coffee or varieties of beans. There seemed to be no indication that I could choose a dark blend vs. a medium blend, or a french roast vs. hazelnut. So, I ordered “a cup of coffee”, to which the barista responded, “what kind”? Huh?

Kiwis do not choose between flavors or blends. Instead, they choose between a “flat white”, a “long black”, or a “latte.” No, these are not derogatory racial terms. They are coffee-based drinks. Strike that. They are espresso-based drinks. Kiwis don’t take their caffeine lightly. They fill up their tanks numerous times a day on multiple espresso shots. A flat white, long black and latte are just different forms of getting coffee smack. Or are they?

In my search to discover which form of caffeine I prefer, I have tried each one of these drinks. A long black seems to be two shots of espresso, to which you can add milk, hot or cold. Check. A latte seems to be two shots of espresso with some milk froth at the top. Check. A flat white seems to be two shots of espresso with some milk froth at the top. Ummm.

It seems to me there is no difference between a flat white and a latte, other than size, and that a long black is only different in its lack of frothy consistency. In a quest for the truth I have asked at least 4 baristas what the difference is between a flat white and a latte, from which I have received 4 entirely different answers. One barista said something about the amount of water that is added to one versus the other. Another barista spouted out something about the milk, and one explained the only difference is the size of the vessel in which the drink is served. The fourth barista mumbled her way through an inaudible answer, leading me to believe she had no idea what she was talking about.

At this point, I’m thinking that either all baristas in NZ have no idea what they’re serving, or more likely, that there really is not much difference between a flat white and a long black, other than the price.

My quest for the truth continues…

A Mischievous Case of Horsing Around

While I currently have a travel companion, I have begun to feel the need for new friendships to fill the natural desire for human connection. So, I have made a new friend: a horse named Case. Case is a race-trained thoroughbred who, due to a leg injury, was destined for death in the UK until his current owner, Michelle, saved him from the glue factory and brought him to New Zealand. As Michelle is pregnant, she cannot ride, so Case now lives a simple life of grazing and trotting about in a paddock near the beach. His grazing territory also happens to be my current home.

When I first arrived at the paddock, I surveyed my surroundings and melted into a silent puddle of emotional distress. "What am I doing here," I thought? "What have I gotten myself into?" I was standing in the middle of a field dotted with piles of horse manure. There was a tent for a bed, a hole in the ground for a toilet, and a stream nearby for a bath. I immediately felt dirty and couldn't imagine worse living conditions.

Teetering on the edge of a tearful breakdown, I needed to distract myself from falling apart. I wandered to the lower field to greet Case, my new paddock-mate.

Now, if you know me at all, you know that I am not comfortable around horses. Despite having had riding lessons at the impressionable age of 9, I am still unfamiliar with horse behavior, but quite familiar with the fact that they are much bigger and stronger than me. Perhaps my fear has something to do with the fact that every time I take a nose-to-tail trail ride (which all paid rides seem to be) I end up with the horse who enjoys backing its riders into a large bush or trotting straight down a steep mountain rather than taking the leisurely curved path with the rest of the group. I imagine animal whisperers would say that it’s not the horse, it’s me; that the horse can sense my fear and knows I cannot control it. To them I must ask, do you suppose it might be the fact that the poor animal has its nose in another horse’s butt for hours on end, day after day? I, for one, know that I would not enjoy that particular occupation and would likely get a bit perturbed with whoever was on my back, forcing me to follow a manure-dropping rear.

As you can imagine, I stopped a fair distance away from Case to say hello from afar. Much to my surprise, Case looked up and immediately walked straight toward me. I stood frozen as he stopped at my feet, sniffed around, and then exhaled from his nose onto my chest. My step-sister, a former equestrian with a talent for communicating with animals, once told me this is a sign of friendship and affection from a horse. Did Case sense my sorrow? Could he tell that I needed some comfort at that moment? Perhaps my step-sister and her animal whisperering friends are right. Maybe horses have some sort of intuitive sense. Or maybe Case read my aura. Who knows? I do know that Case’s seemingly compassionate gesture made me feel better.

From that point on, Case and I developed a friendship; one which I’m sure, for my part, borders the line of unhealthy and possibly insane. I greet Case every morning and ask him about his day when I return from an outing. He often follows me around the paddock and has been known to attempt a nuzzle while I’m watering a bush. If I’m napping in the afternoon or simply not paying him enough attention, he stands outside the tent and heaves a few heavy harumphs.

After a few days of our stay at the campsite, Case had become accustomed to our presence and decided we were safe enough to play with. Unfortunately his “play” consisted of knocking things over and raiding our food boxes. I have emerged from the tent numerous times to the site of tipped chairs, water bottles strewn on the ground, and everything covered in a considerable amount of horse slobber. I decided, much to the amusement of my travel companion, to train Case to refrain from opening our chilly bin (cooler) and licking our food boxes to death. Remembering episodes of Dog Whisperer, I pushed Case’s head aside while making an obnoxious “ehhh” sound every time he licked the food box. My futile attempts continued for about 45 minutes before Case became entirely annoyed, swished his tail, and trotted off. Of course, as soon as we went to bed, he continued his mission of raiding our food supply. Eventually, we wised up and now store our food away from Case’s reach.

It’s been almost a month since my arrival at base camp, and Case’s friendly company has helped to change my perspective about my living conditions. I’ve actually grown quite fond of our rustic, quaint home. Now, when I take in my surroundings, I see a different scene. I see a quiet home in a field of daisies bordered by wild bush and pines. I see a proper toilet (a wooden box topped with a seat and lid over a long-drop hole) and a vanity (a shelf and mirror tied perfectly between two branches), a guest room and pantry (another tent), and even a kitchen counter (two tree stumps and an old door). And I genuinely look forward to bathing in our secluded freshwater stream amongst flowering reeds (though admittedly not on cold days).

Case has ceased his destructive antics, for the most part, and has proven to be a good friend and paddock-mate. He continues to be social, follow us around, and ask for attention. He even may start to pay some rent. Someone has posted a card on the local grocer’s bulletin board requesting to buy horse manure. Score!

Make a Difference

As a Board Member of Higher Ground Youth Challenge, I set a personal fundraising goal every year. Unfortunately, I fell short of my goal this past year. Therefore, I am starting early in 2010 to make sure I reach, and hopefully surpass, my goal.

Higher Ground suffered greatly from the recession this past year, much like most other non-profit organizations working in human services. The problem is, though, that when Higher Ground doesn’t raise enough money, the kids suffer the lack in the program.

Higher Ground is run almost entirely by volunteers. Only our Executive Director is minimally compensated for part-time work, despite the fact that she puts in full-time hours. In other words, almost all funds raised for Higher Ground go directly to the kids – sending them to our summer camp and to the mentoring activities throughout the year.

The unfortunate truth is that if we don’t raise enough money early this year, we will have to cut out one of the camps. That means that about 20 girls or boys who could greatly benefit from a chance to do more than just dream will miss that opportunity. About a third of those girls or boys will be returning campers, meaning they’ve been to one or two camps in prior years. You may think that means they don’t need another week at camp, but in fact, the returning kids look forward to that week more than the newbies. The returning campers know that during that week they can show up as the person they truly want to be. They can break out of their daily routines in rough neighborhoods and schools and be a leader for their teammates.They can challenge themselves to go one step further than they were able the year before and complete that high-ropes course or trust fall.

Stan, our Program and Camp Director, always says that all we need to do is change these kids’ course by one degree. It may seem to be a minor impact now, but as they travel along down that new trajectory, they get further and further away from their original course.

Take, for example, my first mentee. We’ll call her Becca. She and I connected two years ago at the first camp I volunteered for. We quickly became good friends and she made some progress toward positive choices in her life. Then, this past spring when circumstances and people in her life steered her away from the Higher Ground program, Becca chose out and our mentor/mentee relationship ended. She missed camp this summer and several mentoring activities. I was disheartened, thinking we’d lost her and that I could have tried harder to make a bigger difference in her life.

A few months later, after I’d been connected with a new mentee, Becca called me saying she was sorry about the way things had happened, she missed the Higher Ground community, and she wanted back in the program. Seeing her true commitment to fulfilling her role as a participant, of course we welcomed her back. While she has a new mentor now, Becca and I correspond regularly as friends. I am extremely proud of her for stepping up, holding herself accountable, and initiating re-engagement in the program. I am also proud to hear from her that she has pulled up all of her grades this year, has her driver’s license, and has a part-time job.

The kids of Higher Ground Youth Challenge have changed my life. Despite being half way around the world, my dedication to them has not changed. I am asking for your support to give them one week that could change their life, as it did for Becca.  Make your donation or pledge early this year. Help give a kid a chance to do more than just dream, one degree at a time.

http://www.highergroundyc.org

Technology: Helping or Hurting?

In the transition between computers before I left home, I managed to lose everyone’s contact information that I’d spent hours entering into my system. Please email me your address, phone number, and email address so I can redo it all. Thanks.

From Beauty to Beast

I've never considered myself a high-maintenance woman (though I'm sure some ex-boyfriends are now muttering under their breath). I've never worn heaps of makeup and my experimental hair-dying phase was over years ago. I keep it simple when it comes to personal hygiene and grooming, choosing a razor over wax, bar soap over body wash, and natural deodorant over anti-perspirant. And while I enjoyed curling or straightening my hair and wearing the occasional cute sundress back at home, I knowlingly entered into a life of simplicity when I left. Traveling with all your belongings in a backpack forces you to let go of some creature comforts that you might normally rely on. Not to mention the compromises and shortcuts you have to make when sleeping in vans and tents and bathing in whatever water you can find.

While I have saved money by living in a tent on a friend's land for the last couple weeks, and enjoy the natural adventure that is bathing in a freshwater stream, I have begun to look a bit of a mess:

-In an effort to spend less at the laundromat, I've been washing my clothes all in one load. My whites are now a dingy dishwater color, and several shirts are now twisted and misshapen with threads falling out the seams.

-I am on my 4th pair of sunglasses. The first pair was crushed on my head when climbing into campervan #2 in Fiordland National Park. The second, and my favorite, pair was lost to the sea gods while sailing on a particularly rough and windy evening on the Pacific Ocean. I've already had to superglue the third pair's frame back together, and I've gotten a 4th pair as a backup, just in case.

-I have cuts, scrapes, and bruises all over my legs.

- I have at least 10 sandfly bites on each foot and I CANNOT STOP SCRATCHING!

-I can't remember the last time I wore makeup.

-I just had to cut off 3 inches of my hair due to some serious damage from sun, sand, wind, and surf. My formerly silky, healthy hair, has turned to a course mop with a spongy consistency.

-I can now easily walk barefoot over gravel and volcanic rock, but I'm not sure I will ever get the bottoms of my feet fully clean again.
-My fingernails have been taken over by cuticles and I'm not sure whether the dark coloring on my knees is tan or dirt.

I have become a she-beast and am convinced I am doomed to a life of filth.

Reflection

In the last 8 weeks, I’ve crossed one ocean and one sea and have traveled to and through more than 30 cities and towns by plane, bus, car, boat, and van.  I’ve slept in 14 different beds, including a plane, two tents, a boat, two vans, a guesthouse, a hotel, and 6 houses. I’ve peed in more bushes than toilets and have bathed in everything from seawater to rainwater, from treated water to freshwater streams. I’ve seen dolphins, whales, seals, sea lions, stingrays, bioluminescent phytoplankton, penguins, wallabies, frogs, water dragons, and a wide variety of different bird species, including owls, kookaburras, keas, tuis, pelicans and albatross.  I’ve met countless people from all areas of the globe, several of whom I now call friends.  And I’ve only just begun.

This adventure began as a seed planted in my brain many, many years ago. That seed didn’t begin to grow until Spring of this year when enough courage, confidence, circumstance, and most of all, support, gathered together to motivate me.

2009 was a year of transformation for me. I gained a large amount of confidence and gumption, and finally broke into the adventurous woman I’ve always wanted to be. Whether snow-shoeing, skiing, rock-climbing, camping, or hiking, or even just developing deeper friendships, I began to realize my past perceived limitations were purely based on fear, and that I am more than capable of achieving anything I put my mind to. My involvement in Higher Ground Youth Challenge had a large role in this personal growth. We teach the kids that with 100% intention and a supportive community they will reach their goals. I suppose you can repeat something only so many times before it starts to sink in to your own psyche.

In early May, I met a couple people who, despite serious health concerns and personal strife, continue to live their dreams, traveling the world for exploration and conservation purposes. They reminded me that life is precious and short, and we never know what fate awaits us. Rather than waiting for the right time – whatever that was supposed to look like – I decided to get off my tucus and make my dream happen now. And here I am.

Thus far into the trip, my travels have been admittedly self-indulgent. I have had new adventures almost every day and am continuously transported into stunning scenery and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. After the initial excitement of the trip has worn off, I find myself still wondering about the purpose behind my journey. I have met many wonderful people, some of whom have greatly impacted my life, and some whose lives I have apparently changed, as well. I participated in a 3-day sailing voyage with a group of Vanuatuan and Maori men, among others. I bonded with one of the younger Maori men while singing Disney showtunes together (there was a lot of down time on the boat and I hadn’t packed a book). He was so inquisitive about the world, and about the U.S., in particular. I was humbled by his eager curiosity, realizing that my egocentric assumption that the world knows all about the U.S. is clearly incorrect.  And he reminded me to view the new people and places I encounter with unjaded eyes. In return, I told him a bit of what I know about the world, and particularly my home country. He told me I am “one of the coolest and bravest chics I’ve ever met” – a compliment that I can’t understand, but am wholly grateful for.

If this journey serves no other purpose but to impact some of the lives I encounter, then I can only be pleased with the outcome. It feels entirely arrogant to say that, but it also feels entirely selfish to say that I hope this journey has a large impact on my own life. I’m hoping for some clarity from this adventure, as I find myself mulling over the question of what I’d like my life to look like. Shall I watch the news to stay aware of the suffering around me? Or shall I keep the TV off to stay blissfully ignorant? In other words, do I live my life traveling the world to serve those less fortunate? Or do I settle down in one place, gather a home, family, and material goods around me, and live my life ignoring the constant reminder in my head of the suffering and needs of others? Where is the balance? I may grapple with these questions for the rest of my life.

For now, let’s see what the next 8 weeks bring.