Kiwiland Chapter One, 31 days

Well, we found ourselves drawn to leave the states to learn how to live sustainably, tramp through wildness and enjoy the relaxed and companionable kiwis of the island nation of New Zealand.

Adam and I have been in kiwi land for one month, and of course traveling with Adam, adventure begins each time the sun rises.

First big adventure was the flight over, dragging a bag we both could have slept in cozily, filled with bikes and another with backpacking gear. The bag was 32 kilos and we almost missed our second flight, as it was 2 kilos too heavy and the airline lady must have started off her day without a cup of coffee. Oh well, it’s always fun to work up a stinky sweat running through the airport before sitting on a long flight next to strangers. Amazingly, our selves and our bags all made it to Christchurch without delay.

The first few days we established our home base, a “family” of bike nerds from his former downhill team, Cam and Amy and their dog Tony (aka “Sausage”) make up the nucleus, and many others orbit through the couches and spare beds, ourselves included. I spend the morning and afternoon of day 2 purging myself of all that was American in my system, suffering a bit of airplane food poisoning (my fate for choosing the Gluten-free option, must have sat there for ages!) while Adam gets oriented and takes care of business, finding groceries, a van, making plans and putting his bikes back in order.

Our first kiwi adventure begins on a whim. We wake up day 3 in NZ and he putters on the internet, looking for a van and instead finds news of a music festival a few hours up north. Of course we would want to dance our way into a new country! We buy tickets from a shop in town, and as we are still vanless, find ourselves standing by the side of the road with backpacks and thumbs out. My tummy is still quite touchy and unfortunately our first ride is from a Maori man who never gets tired of pinning it around the corners, a certain adrenaline seeker who lost a few teeth in a snowboarding accident and part of his gut to some tummy rot bug I was hoping I didn’t have living inside me! The NZ highway is a windy two-lane road and leaves me feeling like a spew, but he was quite the tour guide, and left us at a cheery one-stop-shop to find our next ride. I recovered while Adam enjoyed the biggest falafel burger ever seen, made by a lovely, hospitable kiwi who knows all the locals and sets us up in the best hitching spot. We are quickly picked up by a livestock truck driver, whose skills driving a big semi through one-lane bridges amazed while the scenery from such a high vantage dazzled. Our last ride was from Jimi, the bare-chested, dreaded and sun kissed ticket salesman Adam had met earlier in the day. We ride all the way to the top of Takaka Hill, notorious van killer, and Adam sets me up in a beech tree forest where I fall fast asleep, music floating in from a distant stage.

Jimi welcomes us into his camp of musicians, providing a 10x10 acoustic lounge, massage trains, cold beer, tall bikes, kitchen and of course good company and a lively dance crew. The festival is full of incredibly relaxed hippy folk of all ages, but the grounds have ample room for running around and enjoying whatever you fancy. A big kiwi festival, being a country of 4 million, is an intimate crowd with plenty of space to enjoy a good groove. Of course Adam and I caught plenty of dancing, ranging from electrorganic French Caribbean beats to dub with the Mad Professor. We also found a couple of interesting workshops, a reflexology lesson left us primed for nap time, a drawing session covered me in charcoal and a Tao of Farming lecture took us on a journey to the river and let our minds flow over the possibilities of water-based agriculture. The festy was located right next to the Abel Tasman national park, so just a short stroll down a beech wood path we found plenty of hikes and mountain bike trails to enjoy. Adam and I took an afternoon stroll to Howetts Hole, an incredible chasm filled with jungle, possibly the mouth of the South Island. A photo vortex that makes your knees feel like jello, no bottom in sight. I was inevitably drawn to a few stellar food booths that fed the majority of us. An ayurvedic chef serving sublimely spiced lentils and rice topped with sweet and spicy banana chutney tempted me to sign on as his devoted apprentice. But maybe I would have more fun running away with the 3 Italian kiwis who built an outdoor wood fire pizza oven, mixed dough in a kiddy pool and rolled up a smoke to enjoy while rolling out delicious pizza pies filled with spice. A solar warmed shower and a squatting perch over composting toilets completed our introduction to kiwi land.

We hitch back to Christchurch to gather our belongings and buy our house, Rupertina, a 1985 Toyota Hiace equip with bed, stove and dresser that bumbles along on a small petrol tank and leaves us stranded on top of a pass at the end of our first tank, expecting to go a few more kilometers before it puttered out of energy. Luckily a kindly fisherman was winding up his reel for the day and toted us back to civilization. We visit a surfer yogi friend we met at the festival on our way to our first help exchange. He has a for sale sign outside of his small bach in Waikuku beach, a simple house within walking distance to swimmable, surfable ocean waves and a nice yard out back under the shade of a walnut tree, beans and tomatoes cultivating the soil, offers enough space for the yoga studio he hopes to build one day. Through our travelers’ eyes, he sees his place anew and an old fire is rekindled to remodel his prime real estate.

A few days later we are enjoying tea (dinner) and wine with Sheryl (chef and Mum), Richard (jolly boss-man), Alex (the lanky grom of 14 years), Lucy (the possibly pregnant princess pup) and Rusty (the roly poly bisquit eating vacuum cleaner). The vineyard at Marble Point is a certain kind of paradise, nestled in the mountains, near east and west coast with thousands of trails to explore, a river sparkling in the canyon below for swimming after a hot day in the vines, not to mention wine, farm fresh food and companionable hosts. We are not living with hippies but sustainable folk enjoying a simple life of growing vines. Richard grew up on a farm and continues to raise pigs, chooks, and sheep to roast each night for tea, along with a big garden full of veggies and plenty of fresh eggs. I couldn’t be happier in the kitchen they built, gas stoves, two ovens and sharp knives, Sheryl was educated and worked as a chef before the vineyard so I am eager to learn how she cooks up such a mean tea every night! The house uses greywater systems, solar water heaters, and is made mostly of windows that look out on a spectacular view, bringing in fresh breezes and cool air or soaking up warmth from the sun.

Our job description is varied but each task is generally a mountain of monotony, the secret to a good wine. Strolling along the vines, ordering unruly tendrils, pruning water shoots and unnecessary vines, raising wires so they have more room to stretch towards the sun, rescuing plants blown down by the wind, each requires a minute of attention that spans 55 long rows of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, Riesling and Sauvignon Blanc. A lot of time to let the mind chatter and hum.

This week on the vineyard we have been putting up nets to keep the birds from devouring the harvest, transforming the vines into a strange clone army of aliens. There are a lot of birds in New Zealand, they sing some amazing songs, but I suppose if you are a viticulturist you don’t want them around this time of year. This is the only task that is less monotonous but still a test of patience and tolerance, probably the only thing that really gets Richard’s (boss man’s) blood to boil. Frustration level is high, trying to lay the nets over 5 or 6 rows at a time, a renegade sail flowing behind a tractor, tangling and twisting as it goes. And these nets aren’t light, so there is a lot of gristle being built this week. And of course our fearless leader commanding the unruly ship through the vines has a pirates booty full of swear words lined up to describe the experience. He reckons it might be better for his sanity to sit there with a shotgun for the next couple months.

Other than work, we frequently visit the nearest town, Hanmer Springs, a tourist magnet featuring a strange mix of relaxing hot pools and adrenaline stimulating activities. For a tourist town, it’s not that bad as it hasn’t sold out, the shops are all local and most of them sell ice cream. A common sight is chubby folks wandering about in swim trunks and a t-shirt, towel slung over the shoulder, smiling as they lick their ice cream cones before they melt in the hot sun. On our excursions to town, I am learning how to pilot Rupertina, a manual column shift with no power steering and the driver’s seat on the wrong side. I drive awkwardly on the Left Hand Side of the road, a task that leaves me giggling helplessly and one that we save for weekdays when it is less likely I will run over said tourist.

We also find time to go on adventures into the woods and mountains. Our first tramp was a route Adam devised that took us through two national parks, over two mountain passes and back to Hanmer Springs. We start out hitching and get a ride all the way to our turn off and find ourselves dropped mercilessly into the epicenter of sand fly battle, where humans are laughably doomed. We set up our only haven, the North Face tent, and wait for the water taxi to take us to the start of our tramp 23 hours later. We spend a good chunk of time marveling at the buzzing thunder so many small bugs can create and cheer on the few wasps that wander into our tent space, vacuuming up the itchy bugs in a miraculous pounce. Camaraderie is formed easily in these circumstances with braver souls than ourselves, a chuckling Englishman enjoying his supper while being supped upon himself.

Our ship finally sails and we have just enough daylight left to make it to the first hut so we start off on a speed hike through beech wood forests, muddy trails and damp fields. It is steamy but the smells are diving after spending so many hours in a stuffy tent. I am elated and enchanted by the hobbitesque woods, blue lagoons and clean, crisp water that fills my boots each time we find a steam in our path. By the time we arrive we are inevitably damp and stinky, but the palace we find welcomes us with a warm fire, a clothesline, and a handful of friendly folks enjoying tea by candlelight. Kiwi huts in the back country made my jaw drop, this one slept 36, had a woodstove and a sink with water piped in from the river, a shed out front for firewood and toilets over yonder. Environmental impact in the backcountry, reduced, and conversation with other trampers, inevitable!

Our next day begins with a leisurely morning, drying out clothes by the fire. Rumors of promising sunshine pleasantly awake me from my slumber, blue skies replacing the cloudy, damp blanket of the night before. Today we wander up the river, past Blue Lake (a stunning turquoise where we dip our hot feet while enjoying salami and cheese in the afternoon) to Lake Constance, another stunning blue with no outlet but reflections of the mountains revealing its source. We climb up and over the first scree field of the tramp to get to the other side of the lake where we’ll camp. It has me huffing and puffing in the hot sun, envisioning a refreshing swim while I admire the lake from above. As we scramble back down to a rocky alpine shore, we find a patch of squishy moss that will serve as another night of luxury accommodation. We eat our curried couscous, tuna and surprisingly sweet dehydrated veggies while admiring the mountains, me a little daunted as Adam points out the pass from which we will view our little patch of moss tomorrow afternoon.

The sun is out, the scenery is breathtaking and the little alpine man bounds up the hill, carrying most of our food and gear. He disappears behind a ridge as I gimp along with an unhappy knee, humbled by Adam’s paradise and a little resentful at the ease with which he flourishes in the higher altitudes. Of course he bounds back to shower me with compliments, encourage me up the slippery scree and share the view as I plod up and over the Waiau pass. The only way to climb a mountain is step by step. We do a few 360s and a small hoorah at the top, admiring a landscape carved of stone and water, a place that humbles while strengthening the will and letting the spirit free. On the other side, we find solid rocks to clamber down nimbly bimbly, a fresh mountain stream to refill our waters and a field of wild flowers to enjoy calories wrapped in tortilla before continue down to the flat lands below. The rest of the way down is uneven terrain shrouded by bushes that has me stumbling and cursing as I twist my knee a bit more. At the bottom I plunk down in the river and let the water refresh my tumultuous self, a little beat up but determined to continue on. Peanuts, chocolate and raisins devoured, we keep going for another couple of hours over impressive avalanche fields, grassy flatlands, steams and through beech wood bushes. One last river to ford and we pass a couple of horses, the bivvy we were planning on staying in occupied by a couple of hunters. No matter, I plunk down under a tree, get out the good bye sand fly and watch the branches sway overhead while adam readies our home for sleeping. Springy beech wood ground and many strange dreams later finds another blue skied morning, the sun slowly filling the valley as we tramp off through damp fields towards home. The morning is blissful, following a river through flat lands in no real hurry. A lovely stroll passing more variations of the color blue, gnarled beech trees, wild horses and startling a flock of wild geese we stand and watch circle for along while. We stop for lunch at the turn off to the pass home, next to a perfect swimming hole where we gleam white and are spotted, of course, by the two horseback hunters from the night before. We swim on and they pass in the distance. Adam gets out the map and I grimly prepare for our last up and over, a gravel road in the hot sun. More chocolate, please! Slathered in sunscreen and water bottles brimming, one step two step repeat, we head home. On the other side, Adam spots a trailer pulling away and with his mad cyclocross endurance he runs with backpack bouncing to catch them. Sure they would disappear before he even got near, I watch the crazy boy run and the gap shorten. Over the next hill I see that he is at their window so I start my own form of hustle and we score a ride back with the two hunters that get to give us grief for being caught in our skinnies.

Back on the vineyard we enjoy a bowl of muesli, yogurt and fresh fruit, happily massaging sore muscles.

Our first month in New Zealand is a promising introduction to kiwis, vineyard care, living off the farm, sipping wine, tramping through the backcountry bush, and grooving on top of the island. A few more weeks of work at Marble Point than we are off in the van, bringing along the bumbling blueberry for a bit more adventure.