Holla at Your Boy

I would like to give a shout out to the middle-aged drunken Kiwi men that I have met on this trip. You fucking rock!

I would like to applaud you for being so unlike many of your international counterparts. There are many reasons for this, the main one being that you aren’t creepy sleezeballs. You don’t hit on young girls and you don’t make crude remarks about women. You are friendly and respectful and you are really just out to have a good time and get wasted with whoever is around. I would like to thank you for the free beers/barbeque/cigarettes and everything else you provide with absolutely no strings attached. I would like to thank you for being hilarious and incoherent without being obnoxious. You have renewed my faith in older men and it has been a pleasure getting to know you. You can also drink me under a table and in the morning you are usually awake and ready to go while I feel like crawling under a cold wet rock and dying. That at least triples how awesome you are in my book. From West Auckland to “9T Mial” Beach you have made my experiences at hostels and campgrounds a thoroughly pleasurable one and for that I owe you.

I just hope uttering this aloud doesn’t jinx my incredible luck with your kind, I have a feeling that it won’t.

Harvest Time

We wake up at sunrise. The morning air is chilly. I down French-pressed coffee and smoke Dunhill cigarettes. We head to the bus. We walk up the gravel road to the vineyard. The air is cool. The sun peaks out over the hills. We get our clippers and tubs and sit down on the dewy grass. We reach for the bunches of grapes. We remove the sticky, rotten ones, sickly pink and glistening. The garnet juice pours down our hands. We pick out the hollowed ones that collapse and deflate between our fingers. We leave the raisins because they add color and sweetness to the wine. We brush the gnats out of our faces and we blow the spiders from the bunches. We inch down the rows filling tubs as we go. The air is hot and the sun hangs overhead. Sometimes the wind stops. We rinse our tacky hands. We lie in the shade devouring our sandwiches and fruit. We search behind every last leaf; we seek every grape from every vine, in every row, in every yard. We squint in the sun. We act calmly amidst the curious wasps and bees. We have one more row to go. We gather closely and fill the last tubs of the day and walk off into the sunset.

Our Lucky Day

We arrived in Waiheke frustrated and impatient because we couldn’t find affordable accommodations and we hadn’t yet heard from Stonyridge Vineyard about when/if work would start despite the many texts and emails we had sent. Once we were there we also learned that the buses were few and far between and the entire island is a mass of hills. (I have been walking up hills since the day we arrived and it has not gotten any easier).
So we figured fuck it, we will stay at the hostel and go to Stonyridge on Friday and if work hasn’t started we can at least talk to them face to face.
We apprehensively walked up to the vineyard that morning and were greeted by Summer the winemaker. She told us that today was a fun day for the ladies that worked in the café all summer but that we were more than welcome to join in. She said that we weren’t being paid, but that we could get some free wine and get bumped to the top of the picker’s list. why not? She took us to a yard of Chardonnay vines and all these giggling girls began picking the plump and gorgeous grapes deciding on what to name this completely female-produced wine. The grapes look like autumn. They are iridescent and hold a rainbow of colors inside; they hang off the vines like tiny little soap bubbles and the sun shines through them to reveal reds, purples, greens, pinks, yellows and oranges. We filled tubs with these bunches and hauled them to the truck (or ute in Kiwi speak).
Next we broke open some champagne and dumped the bins into the de-stemmer. It’s so cool to watch a machine chomp down on grapes and spit out the stems. The grapes fell into a large cask while we sat back and drank. Once the tubs had been emptied, Summer said to take off our shoes because we were going in! Two at a time we jumped into the giant wooden vat and stomped around the grapes. They are cold and slimy, kind of like curdled quicksand, or how I imagine that would feel like. We tightly grasped the sides of the cask as we vigorously bicycled through the knee-high crop until our legs felt like jelly. All smiles, we left the vineyard with some Fallen Angel wine and promises of gainful employment.

Thanks to Summer for being the most awesome winemaker ever, and thanks to Colleen for posting the slideshow of our amazing day.
P.S. They decided to name the wine “Forbidden Fruit” since it is unspoiled by the Adams of the world.

Year of the Red Panda?

Red pandas bring good fortune, or at least that’s what the folks at Sky Tower’s Casino wants you to believe.

Getting By With A Little Help From Our Friends

Once back in Auckland, Paula volunteered her sister Leonie’s house to us. However, Leonie and her 6 roommates were suffering from the stomach flu, so Amberly graciously offered up her apartment until the vomitfest stopped. Cold beer, spicy chili, The Office, laughter and lively conversation between good friends, it felt a lot like being home. Although she hates being thanked, I must show my gratitude to the most lovely and gorgeous host in Auckland!
Next we were off to Leonie’s. She lives off K’ Road which is chock full of everything you need, bars, second hand shops, cafes, clubs and prostitutes, oh my! She lives in what may be the most incredible college house that I have ever seen. It’s down a fairly obscure road with nothing but industrial buildings and a large motorcycle shop. You take the road down a block farther and nestled between Auckland’s Old Folks Ass. and an unnamed warehouse resides the unassuming flat. It’s so far from civilized life that the “Maori Queen” brings her customers down the way regularly. As you may suspect, it’s trashed as only a college house can be and super homey in all its grunginess. The huge backyard is filled with empty beer cans, overgrown grass and ratty sun chairs, it’s also completely sheltered by buildings and high tin fences. Thus making it the perfect party house. I feel I should also take this opportunity to thank Leonie for giving us free reign over her room for the three days we were there (including when we drunkenly arrived at 3am on St. Patrick’s Day).

Love & The Dead

As a kid I was completely and totally obsessed with the movie Beetle Juice. I would pop it in the old Beta Max machine and watch it over and over again. Barring the adult humor I didn't understand (like the suicidal beauty queen or the suit being strung along the endless miles of bureaucratic paperwork that has overwhelmed the ever-increasing world of the deceased) I was enthralled with the characters and each of their quests for fulfillment. I remember being taken by the love between Alec Baldwin’s and Geena Davis’ characters Adam and Barbara, especially in one of the scenes nearest the end. Otho uses the handbook for the dead to resurrect the ghosts into the world of the living. They are thrust into their old wedding garments and within seconds of their crossing the void between the world of the dead and that of the living they have aged beyond recognition. I can still picture the tenderness with which Barbara helps reattach Adam’s unhinged jawbone and gingerly caresses hisface. Or the most poignant of shots, when they take in their last gazes of each other and tightly grasp each others withered, vine-like hands as they slowly crumble into dust. That to me, as a child, and even now, is the perfect symbol of love. I am a bit strange.

Rugged Northland- Part 2

The next morning was rainy and we were a little pissed because we were driving to Cape Reinga the northernmost part of New Zealand, the end of the world, the point of departure for the spirits leaving the land of the living and the point at which the Tasman sea and the Pacific ocean collide. We packed up the car, stopped in a store for some yummy breakfast? pies and headed up to the edge of country. Its incredible, there is a lone tree at the departure point for the spirits and no one can explain how it survives there, precariously clinging to the jagged rocks, the ocean constantly pounding its base, breathing in the toxic and salty air. If you are standing face to face with the lighthouse and you look out to the left you can see where the Tasman and Pacific crash into one another; huge waves are conjured out of nowhere and the seas spiral around each other in such amazing patterns. Its really spectacular, and I've heard that on sunny days you can see the mixing of the blue pacific with the green of the Tasman.
From there we headed back down south. Stopped at the irrationally serene oceanside town of Opononi, and visited Jamie's old chicken friend perched at the overlook point. We drove down the windy forest road to the 2000 year old kauri tree, Tane Mahuta, stopped to see some impressively carved 45000 year old kauri trees including the store's very own bored out tree staircase, we saw basalt rock boulders, which Paula and Ryan tell me are the same rocks found in the Blackrock Desert, in some German guy's backyard, some of which he had defaced with gaudy yellow spray paint to make them look more anthropomorphic (the spiny dragon taking a bath in the river was a bit far-fetched). We made it home in time for a thoroughly yummy and partially homegrown meal cooked up by the most amazing tour guides in NZ, Ryan and Paula.

Rugged Northland- Part 1

Our first road trip in New Zealand! Paula and Ryan graciously offered to drive us around and show us the best bits of Northland! On Friday morning after a delightful breakfast of fresh picked wild mushrooms, bacon, poached eggs and toast we departed for the biggest city in Northland, Whangerei. It was rainy and pretty dismal, the plains on the eastern side of the island were flooded, cows were tip-towing around the fresh marshes searching out little pads of grass. Houses along the road are built precariously on top of barrels and cinderblocks, since I suppose it floods often. The rivers along the sides of the road were swollen and the bridges barely cleared the freshly bulging waters. The sky was still gray and sullen so we decided to see Watchmen. A perfect rainy day activity.
We headed north with no particular destination in mind. The first stop was glowworm caves....closed due to flooding. A bit disheartened we continued on our journey. The skies had completely cleared and we were excited for a day filled with sunshine and good times. We drove to the much acclaimed Bay of Islands only to discover that the ocean had become incredibly muddy due to the floods runoff. We opted not to take a swim. We found an awesome lookout point on the top of a wee mountain, it was cool to see the exact points where the muddy rivers ran into the ocean.
We found another billboard for a glowworm cave AND kiwi house, since we hadn't seen any flooding this far north, we figured it would be open. The directions led us on a dirt road, that kept going and going for 20 km, we felt sure we had been had; there was nothing but abandoned farms and vacant lots of land interspersed with patches of forest. Then we found another sign attached to an electric fence. “Kiwi out Ostrich in” said the small, faded and elusive sign. What the hell does that mean? So we kept on, the dirt road transformed back into a paved road but we still hadn't the faintest idea of where we were going. Then out of nowhere we saw the turn in and ascended the road to the nocturnal house. We turned into an empty parking lot, the cafe was locked up, the tourism pamphlets were sun bleached and covered with spider webs, the entire place was deserted. A weathered, old, tattooed man drove up and offered to show us around for the low price of $10/person, but first he had to get some eel food. He returned with an ice cream container of wet cat food and we followed him down to the river. It was teeming with eels most were 2-3 feel long and slithering up the rocks mechanically opening and closing their mouths. Eels are creepy. He started throwing the cat food into the water and more and more came until there were about 20 eels slithering in the water. We pet a few (they feel just like stingrays) and watched the nearly blind clumsy creatures grab at bits of the cat food we had thrown in the water. Afterward, the man filled up a container with buggy birdseed and we went to see the saddest ostrich who ever lived. He explained that the rent on the kiwi was too much so the “Chinaman” that owned the place had gotten an ostrich instead (kiwi out ostrich in). He said that there had been two but one had died, and it looked like this one was no better off. Ryan bravely held out handfuls of birdseed for the ravenous ostrich. Afterward Ryan suggested that we tell the SPCA since it is probably the worlds most ragged and unhealthy ostrich. Next stop glowworm caves. We took a little wooden track through the forest, the signs were covered with dirt and the path was filled with plant matter that no one had bothered clearing in years. He handed us a flashlight and warned us not to put our hands along the left side of the cave because it was filled with weta's (they look like gigantic crickets) we had a good look around and discovered that it was a pre-fab cave, no doubt built by the dubious Chinaman we had heard so much about. He turned out the lights and we sat awkwardly in the dark waiting for our eyes to adjust, Katie turned to me and whispered, “this is when he kills us”. Slowly tiny little dots of glowing green lights appeared. It looked a lot like a night sky, if stars were day-glo green, the little glowworms tended to live in bunches like tiny constellations. We followed the man along the track to the kiwi house. It was damp and dark and condensation and grime had built up on the glass walls of the deserted habitat. His flashlight swung around illuminating a stuffed kiwi in another tiny display, strange and morbid, behind a slimy glass enclosure. He led us up around the track and back over the tiny river to our car. We asked if there was anywhere in the area to stay the night and he offered us a nice caravan that slept four on his property for $10/person, Paula chimed in with the polite save ,“oh thanks, but we have to get dinner first”. He said that the Chinaman's nocturnal house had been closed down for 5-6 years and that he was maintaining the property and showing around what few visitors had been lured in by the strange and enticing “kiwi out ostrich in” signs along the main road.
We headed up towards Kaitaia, which Lonely Planet describes as, “the highlight of no-ones trip to NZ” And I can honestly say if that is the worst of New Zealand, I can breathe a sigh of relief right now.
We got some deliciously fried road food and headed to the backpackers camp near 90 mile beach. Unfortunately, they were booked solid due to a 3-day fishing tournament at the beach. Irritated, we got back in the car for the thirty minute drive to “Houhora Heaven” Backpackers park. We arrived shortly before nightfall and lucky for us they had one remaining room available. For a mere $20/person ($10 US) we had a bed to sleep in that wasn't in some sketchy old man's caravan. The lady told us there were heaps of fishermen staying the night and that it would be best for us if we were friendly and got on well with them. Tired, hungry and relieved we headed to our cabin. There were indeed fishermen, very drunk fishermen, in our camp. One old man who looked like Santa on vacation, his middle aged son, two Indian gentlemen and one Maori, whose name was Da. They offered us beers and the like and regaled us with drunken nearly incoherent tales. Da said the best way to get a Maori to do anything was to say that he couldn't. As in, “you can’t drive the crane that's on the top of that 40 story building you don't have a license”, to which the Maori will inevitably respond by driving the crane he is absolutely not qualified to drive. Santa told us about a man he had seen coming out of the bush, “he was an Afganistani, no wait he was a Jew. He was an Afganistani Jew” to which his friend replied, “oh, you mean that seagull”. That's pretty much how the night went, they talked nonsense and we laughed, they offered us beers and we happily drank them. They were still going hard when we went to bed and left to fish well before we woke up, essentially, Kiwi fisherman do not fuck around.

Tanuki: An Ode, A Lament

spindly harbinger of death
curled around my feet at night
lithe and poised, you sit calmly, licking your lips amidst the rain and wind
soundlessly sneaking about the yard
anything that dare cross your path will have its brains removed from its skull
and you, oh considerate feline, will drag the lifeless body inside
a neat pile of corpses
as a gift and offering
thanks for the zombie rabbits
and headless mice

When Dream Died, I Think He Draped His Cloak over New Zealand

A farm sky is always very dark, as it is unsullied by the vast reaching fluorescence of large hyper-illuminated cities. A farm on the edge of the world has the advantage of being far removed from modern cities as well as largely surrounded by dark, solemn oceans which reflect but cast no real light of their own. This is where I currently find myself, truly appreciating for the first time, just how bright the moon is. Once your eyes adjust to the saturated darkness, you see that the moon (a quarter full on the night I am describing) not only reveals the forms and shapes of the landscape but also offers a sliver of depth for the ill-equipped and often unused rods in my eyes. I can distinctly make out individual trees and see fence posts up on the hillsides. Most things are visible but they are so extremely subdued that they adopt a whole new form. Greens become muted and grayed; they almost look sun-bleached. The road is no longer rocks and gravel but a slightly lighter path that curves into nothingness, the grasses with their sharp blades jutting up from the ground become hazy and blurred against the darkness of the sky. Noises become sharper and anything touching my skin is immediately exaggerated to ten times its actual size in my overwhelmed imagination. My mind races to fill-in the missing pieces and make sense of the entirely new landscape before me. Then I look up. The sky is black, an intense, velvety, endless black. A black of such alarming and profound depth that it is almost frightening. If you could touch the sky it would feel viscous and smooth and thick and soft. The stars are piercing and infinite and some of them dance and a few are pale pink, others clear blue and some are greenish or glow a bright orange. They shoot across the sky frequently and fade into the arrant night. They are decadent push pins holding up the sky (dare I say the sky is bedazzled?) The Milky Way is skim milk and seeps into the unfathomable heights of space. If you stare at one spot for long enough you can see the tiny satellites making their arduous journey across the sky. The plush night sky is immense and consuming, it’s inviting and cold, it’s utterly unbelievable.

That innocent Bible tells about the Creation. Of what- the universe? Yes, the universe. In six days! God did it. He did not call it the universe- that name is modern. His whole attention was upon this world. He constructed it in five days- and then? It took him only one day to make twenty million suns and eighty million planets! What were they for- according to his idea? To furnish light for this little toy-world.
-Satan relating to Michael and Gabriel his incredulity towards the Bible and of human being's unwavering devotion to it's writings in Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain.

First Days in New Zealand

Before I left for this year-long adventure in New Zealand, people kept asking me, “aren't you nervous?” or some would say, “seriously, you are leaving tomorrow, you haven't packed yet?” The answers were always, “no, I'm not nervous, but I'm sure I will be” and “fuck off, I always pack the night before”. I never got nervous.
Thirteen hours in a plane situated 35,000 feet over the vast expanse of the Pacific, I casually pondered the odds of a successful water evacuation (pull the strings, or, if that doesn't work, manually inflate the life vest using the tubes located on either side). Thank god for 6 consecutive episodes of The Mighty Boosh or I may have taken the consideration seriously. We landed in balmy Auckland at 5am, the airport was just beginning to stir with the anxious excitement of people in transit. We had no idea where our hostel was in relation to the city, nor were we sure how to get there. I asked a cute old lady standing guard at the information desk what to do, she directed me to the airport shuttle bus to Auckland CBD (Central Business District) and we were off. I was never nervous.
We've been in NZ for two weeks now, one week in Auckland and one week outside of Dargaville, no real job leads and no where we need to be. No car to take us there and no idea what we are really in for once we leave the safe haven of these most lovely and beautiful farms along Te Maire Road. I am not nervous.
We have found some promising and not-so-promising Wwoof farms. One farm promoting themselves as heavy on chainsaw work and comedy (Mid-nineties comedian Gallagher have you relocated to NZ?). Or better yet, good old Humpy Patch, where one can make witches brew and play with animal phoo (followed by endless exclamation points). Or, our personal favorite, “we live in a unique situation, there is no electricity or roads..a torch and plenty of insect repellent will be useful...your ideas are always much appreciated”. You know in cartoons when someone has a really good idea and a light bulb goes on above their head...yep? But, there are heaps of really lovely sounding places, so I am not nervous.
Right now as I type, the wind is walloping our tin roofed house, sometimes it sounds like rubber tires are being flung at the base of the house. The rain is pelting down on the Eastern side, distorting the views from the windows, so much so that it looks like the yellow wildflowers are vigorously shaking their tiny little xanthous heads in obstinate disapproval. (Rain-stained windows make nature look angry?) The wind shakes the house as it screams through its cracks and slams its open doors and I do not feel nervous.