Safety Room day 54 : Goodnight & Sweet dreams.

Saturday the 16th of April, 2011.

Dear friends, it has been a while since my last post (around two months, in fact).
Following the Fairlady registering her displeasure with gearbox troubles on Day 67, things turned from bad to worse; much, much worse.

We got a good-ish night’s sleep in our wilderness hideaway and enjoyed a peaceful morning before packing Mutley and heading back into civilisation: Nelson.
Knowing that we were walking a tenuous line and that at any point the Fairlady might make good on her whispers of mutiny, we chose not to linger or even turn on the camera and instead set off quickly on our journey home.

The confines of our vinyl clad cockpit was thick with an air of tense anxiety, and we’d not gone more than half an hour when calamity struck.

As we rounded a steep and poorly cambered corner with relative speed, the sound of one explosion shortly followed by another accompanied the Fairlady jerking slightly to the left.  The odd location of the sound drew Andis immediately away from suspecting the gearbox, and instead assumed a double blowout of the rear tyres, while I with nothing else to logically check, glanced into the rear vision mirror expecting to see cogs and the like littering the road as the gearbox spilled it’s innards out behind us.  What I saw instead was not dark metalwork and sparks, but still something that instead struck a discord of both familiarity and oddity; something about the reflection in the rear vision mirror was not quite right.
A glance into the wing mirror to further troubleshoot our problem was all I really needed; the trailer had exploded.

Andis and the 45km corner

Our things were spilling all over the road as we dragged a sideways and lidless trailer along behind us.  Andis says he can’t remember specifically what word I chose to yell at this point, but it was an expletive none-the-less.
Kind passers-by helped us with the clean up, and both Andis and I wish for all the world that we could have gotten some of the real calamity on film – at least a photo – but there wasn’t really the time for it as we scrambled to clear the road of our hazards.

Corner location in relation to Nelson.

It remains uncertain as to whether this was Mutley’s last act of defiance, or rather the Fairlady assuring that she would be absolutely going straight home.  At any rate, Mutley could no longer be towed due to the buckling of one wheel, which meant that EVERYTHING had to get packed into our small vintage sports car: most intense game of tetris, ever.

Redistribution

Despite being quite short of space, we managed to bring home Mutley’s stripped lid which now hangs on our dining room wall as a tribute to the little troublesome trailer that was.

View from the road

If anyone knows anyone who’s close to Nelson, we’d very much like to know if the trailer is still where we stashed it.  A return trip is planned for later this year but before embarking we need to know that it’s not all for naught.
If we can’t retrieve it, we’ll construct a replica for all the pick-ups we still need to film 🙂

Where sleeping dogs lie.

Day 67 : Returning home Part Two.

Sunday the 13th of February, 2011.

We lie in wait

Our 67th day started at a the Hawthorn Lounge, a crowded Poker bar in central Wellington.  After pretending to play cards for a while we returned to the Fairlady and made our way to the Interislander terminal for check in, which was all without hassle and rather boring.  The ferry took off almost the moment we sat down, and the beautifully smooth sailing allowed us to grab some patchy sleep.

As we disembarked back onto our home soil I remarked on an odd burning smell coming through the vents, which is never ever a good thing.
As we headed from Picton to Nelson an unusual trembling of the gear stick caught my attention right before it popped out of 5th gear.  Though the Fairlady would go back into 5th, she wouldn’t stay there for more than a few minutes defiantly kicked the stick back out into neutral.
Much concern followed as we continued to a spot where we could make camp in Nelson and catch up on some much need sleep.  Upon waking a few hours later in the afternoon the course of action we had to take was becoming obvious.
The Fairlady, it seemed, had had enough.  After carrying us well over 7,000 kilometers in just 67 days, a threatening grumble was starting in objection.
The thought of holing ourselves up in Nelson and getting to know some of the locals seemed attractive while we got her fixed, but the real issue was money.  With hardly enough cash left to get ourselves home over the week we had remaining, it was unlikely we had anywhere near enough to repair / replace the gearbox, so making a b-line for home was one of the most (perhaps sadly) sensible decisions we’d had to make so far.

We took a swim in the stunningly clear river that ran by where we’d set up camp and panned for gold before making dinner for the night.  New Zealand is a stunning place to just get out and have fun in the wilderness ~ this you could do since the first human footfall on this awesome land, and can absolutely still do now.  I LOVE this country.

p.s.  I guess rather than 8 days left, it’s only 2 now

Day 66 : Returning home Part One.

Saturday the 12th of February, 2011.
9 days left.

A Jem in action

Wellington’s weather was so much better to us this time around as we left our dream mid-city skody apartment for an early meeting with local friends Jem Yoshioka and Timothy Greig, and for the record, Fidel’s on Cuba Street is one of the better cafes around if you’re looking for good food.  Following breakfast we talked music for the documentary with Jem, a talented musician and visual artist, before taking a wander and sitting down to an interview to hear her opinions of immigration from an ethnic make-up that is 1/4 Japanese (cool!).

Knowing we had a long day ahead of us with the ferry crossing back to what we now fondly call our ‘home country’ at 2:20am, we tried to take it easy and caught filmic clips of the parliament buildings and the Wellington urban-life.
Deciding that we’d like to share the back-log of stories we’d written with you all, we sought out the internet to update you and ended up back in the same watering hole we’d fallen into some 54 days earlier.
The nostalgia was bewildering as we mulled over the travels we had undertaken; as we both pitied and envied our past selves who had sat here tired and spent, but with so huge an adventure ahead of them, and what an adventure indeed it had been.

Wishing we had at least a week more to spend filming and recording Wellington city, Andis and I made rough plans to return to finish the job sometime in the future before he caught some sleep and I uploaded 160MB worth of data for you all to read 🙂

As we headed from the backstreet where we’d parked the Fairlady to the Hawthorn Lounge to kill some time before booking in to boarding the ferry, we passed a small average looking car parked up and filled with young glammed up people snorting lines of cocaine as they prepared for a night out…  I imagine that people did hard drugs 30 years ago too, but it still shocked us a little.  If it hadn’t, I guess that would tell more of change within New Zealand than the act itself.

Day 65 : Best laid plans.

Friday the 11^th of February, 2011.
10 days left.

With the number of days left on the road dwindling, we feel a rising sense of dread or even panic as the banality of everyday life looms. After today, we only have Saturday before we cross on the Interislander at 2:26 am Sunday morning. After that, it is barely a week until we absolutely must be back in Dunedin. We had driven the previous evening from Alton to Anna’s hometown of Dannevirke at the foot of the Ruahine Range, 40 minutes East of Palmerston North. It was a decidedly strange feeling taking the road northeast after the Manuwatu Gorge; it was the first time we had been driving the same highway in the same direction. We had stayed in Dannevirke on Day 15, 50 days previously and the amount of time that had passed was made plain when a six week old baby was revealed to be the same four day old newborn we’d met when we first rolled into town.

Anna here to once again finish up posting:
At 10pm on a Saturday night it is as difficult to find accommodation in Wellington city as it was to find edible food on a Sunday night in Auckland.  Downtown Backpackers was one of the first places we stopped into to see if they had any beds free, but it wasn’t until we returned an hour later after driving through streets teeming with ‘nightlife’ in search of something better than shared dorms ($24 each), that oddly the free rooms had changed and a private double on the 6^th floor was empty for $65.

Leaving our dear Fairlady on the street down below, we took the elevator to the 5^th floor (as far as it went) then climbed the stairs to the 6^th. Just like in the movies, there were narrow corridors sprouting off everywhere littered with poky looking doors that hid endless existential scenarios. Andis opened the door to our room, number 605, revealing to us a space no larger than 3 x 3.5mtrs that contained a double bed, a 14inch tv, a small sink which clung casually to the wall, and collection of shelves and drawers akin to that which your older brother had back in the 80s.
I became particularly excited by the pin board and 8 pins – that was just cool! And the small window which opened out to a view of the Bluebridge ferry coming and going from our homeland to here was akin to those in high-rise apartments that look out onto a noisy, smoggy New York street (yet of course a Good Deal better).

You could say it was love at first sight. Our room, and the shared bathroom we later checked out was scungey enough to be authentic, yet immaculately clean enough to be very enjoyable to inhabit.

Day 64 : I’m not filming tears.

Photos to come

Thursday the 10^th of February, 2011.
11 days left.

As neither of us had set an alarm our sleep carried on and on in the old school in Alton. The longer we slept though the longer we stayed there, and despite knowing that we had go today, neither Andis nor I wanted to in the slightest.
We dragged our feet while packing, but it was still too quick. Shane came over to say goodbye so we made him do an interview with us, and then we made Davina to one too; they were brilliant.
We filmed some of the famously talented Alton bowling club who were having a tournament day and I sympathised with a 79 year old man and his woes of website updates (contemporary!!).
We knew we were about to miss out on a long list of exciting activities, but without the cash to change our ferry crossing we had to leave today.
We stopped back off at Shane and Kirsten’s dairy farm to say goodbye and do some pick-up filming, and not surprisingly met a small crowd of new faces, given the very welcoming open door policy they hold.
I had wanted to film saying goodbye to this very special bunch of people, but the strength it took just to ward off my tears kept me fairly inhibited and quiet as I struggled to keep a tight smile on my face.

You don’t see Alton as you drive from New Plymouth to Wanganui along State Highway 3, it’s a few kilometers inland with just a little sign that’s easily missed.
For no explainable reason we were possessed with the urge to camp at some random and remote spot, and found ourselves at a small pub to get help from four smiling strangers, who gave us more than we ever could’ve imagined.
In just one and a half days the amazing folks at Alton left a sizable imprint on not just our documentary, but also our lives. If you’re ever in the lower West of the North Island be sure to take a moment to stop into The Alton Hotel for a drink and a feed, and when you see John behind the bar, or run into Davina, Shane, Tappy or the lanky young Flash, make sure to tell them we say hi.

Day 63 : It’s what he Doesn’t say…

Photos to come

Wednesday the 9^th of February, 2011.
12 days left.

When considering this day, it’s difficult to fathom that it was just one. Rising at 5:30am could have something to do with it, but so too could the whole other way of life we soaked up as we got to better know those we had met the night before in The Alton.

The pre-dawn is a stunning time that so few of us are regularly familiar with, but is of course the time in which dairy farmers are hard at work within one of our countries strongest industries.
The sound of trudging about in gumboots is a particularly nostalgic one for me, and in the delicate stillness of the pink morning the deep thock-thock echoed down the road along with us.
The curious stranger who met us walking toward his cowshed kindly let us know that this wasn’t the farm I thought it was, and as with most small communities though, he could easily tell us where to find him, and then ten minutes down the road pulled up along side us to drop us there personally; “because I wouldn’t want you to get lost” he’d said. Remarkable.

On the farm

Until I’d seen it myself, I had no idea that an unfamiliar face could frighten a young cow to the point of climbing over a rail directly in front of them that was at least a meter high.  It turns out that cows are very sensitive, intelligent creatures, and those going through the shed at the time knew little other humans than those who regularly milked them.  Attempting to find an alternative route into the shed, I then managed to scare even more of them, which left me felling pretty damn terrible.

Shane Hurley with us townies.

All came right though and as the next lot came through Shane, one of the great people we’d met the night before, led us down into the pit where we met his lovely wife Kirsten and filmed some milking.
For those of you who have never been in a milking pit, learning to dodge the randomised ejections from the rear end of a cow, and coming to understand how far the splatter can reach, is an amusing learning curve that I think everyone should experience. It’s like mixing a

A cluster of houses in Alton - from atop a small hill on Shane Hurley's farm.

scene from Indiana Jones with Russian Roulette.

After chatting about milking, riding on the quadbike and jumping electric fences, we sat down in their beautifully restored big old villa to talk culture and local change over breakfast.
One thing I have certainly come to learn while making this film is that interacting with new people for only short periods of time, say a few hours, tells you almost nothing about them and in some cases lead to significant misconceptions. That morning as we got to know Shane a little better, I came see that one has to listen quite carefully to this charismatic and sharply astute Taranaki farmer.

Our cheery host Davina who had taken us in as two lost strangers from the road, drove us 20 minutes out of town to her farm nestled within a sheltered valley then lent us her car to drive the further 10 minutes on to the Patea dam. As we parked at the camp site that had been our intended destination the night before

~ Cows ~

and looked out over the lake which was pretty yet a little dull, Andis and I realised how lucky we’d been to have gotten lost, and mused over the strange unexplainability of wanting to head in such a remote direction to camp as well as the compulsion to stop at The Alton for directions.
I think sometimes Fate does a terrible job at blending in it’s ‘coincidences’. Only 14 hours after conceding

Anna vs. Lawnmower

that we had taken a wrong turn, we could easily say that this was one of the best mistakes we’d ever made.
Back in Alton under the veranda of a school closed for well over a decade, Andis wrote post’s in the hot afternoon sun while I mowed lawns (I love mowing lawns), and the day finished with a great pub dinner. Awesome.

p.s. Cyril, you were right.

Day 62: Loss lies in knowing the way.

Tuesday the 8^th of February,2011.
13 days left.

This day has been shortlisted for the Limp Celery awards;
“When Serendipity Attacks”
&
“Best 180”.

The heavy beating of the rain on our solid roof spoke to us of sensibility and comfort; we wanted to stay another night here at Oakura Beach Holiday park rather than heading back out into the now hostile wilderness but our budget scolded and spurred us into up-ing anchor once again. Heading back into New Plymouth we found ourselves to be in sullen, restless moods which meant that by unspoken agreement, little work relevant to the documentary was done. Instead we took in some sights of the town, and boiled eggs on the shore of the Tasman Sea. Eventually we gathered enough motivation to gain an audio interview with some passing Australian tourists who like us, thought that New Zealand’s attraction signposting was an Epic Fail, and even attempted to climb the clock tower, only to find our way barred by a locked gate and an owl after the first flight of stairs. By the time we left town it was approaching six in the evening. We were aiming roughly for Wanganui though as eight rolled around, we realised that it was getting to the time of night at which to make camp and we were still miles from it.

Owl : Gatekeeper of the New Plymouth Clock tower

When we considered the time it would take to backtrack then travel the correct route, it appeared that it would be faster to get to Wanganui. I mentioned this to Anna expecting her to agree that our tight time schedule would be better served by heading onward, only to have her insist on the dam. I would later learn that she felt that we had not done anything crazy in a while, and she thought we should see what would happen. Best. Rationale. Ever.
We managed to reach the rural settlement of Alton before the directions we had received became muddled, so Anna voted we stop in to the Alton Hotel for directions. Being a man and therefore not needing directions, I voted to try and find our own way, so we stopped at the Hotel.

At around 9:30pm with our map in hand Anna marched toward the door only to be stunned to shy silence by four individuals awaiting her entrance just meters within the building, sitting in a close semicircle along the bar; drinks in hand with unwavering smiles of curiosity.

Within an incredibly short period of time Tappy, John, Shane and Davina had convinced us not only to stay for a drink at ‘The Alton’, but also to stay there in the town, because as Davina so apty said; “It would be rude not to.”

As Anna sipped at her poison of choice; Gin, my drink was decided for me; a Billy Badass.

I was told that I didn’t want to know what was in it and that I had to shot it as quickly as possible, then following my compliance I learned exactly how spicy a good deal of Tabasco Sauce was when mixed with a nip each from two hard liquors.

Anna’s Tip of the day: When you get the feeling that ‘reasonable thought’ might prevent you from what you’re about to do, try singing really loudly; it drowns it out.

Day 61 : Lunch with a Goat & dirty French sheets.

More photos to come

Monday the 7^th of February, 2011.
14 days left.

Today started with incredible exhaustion; Andis and I packed our things in an auto-mode of zombie like walking minimal verbalisation.
At the Stratford New World we stared vacantly at the locals, absent mindedly studying the different faces which seemed similar enough to suggested a phenotype distinct to the area.

The goat was ever watchful

In search of a lime thinkshake for my lunch, we stopped at the Northern Dairy on the main road, which not only has an expansive, sunny picnic area around the back where you can share your lunch with a selectively friendly goat, but also makes one of the best thickshakes in the country.
* when I told the maker of said drink – a green-eyed part Maori girl – she cheered and high-fived me. I felt cool 🙂

At some point along our trip from Stratford to Oakura we came across this beautiful site: Mt Taranaki!

A local born friend of mine suggested Oakura Beach Holiday Park as a good place to camp which was just a short drive past New Plymouth for us, and after some easy sign following in Oakura we pulled up outside and investigated their rates.
The dubious weather clouded what should have been an easy decisions, as for $16p/p a tent site 20mtrs from the sparkling black sand beach could be had. Erring on the side of caution and going with a cabin instead, we considered it one of the best decisions we’ve ever made as just 3 hours later while we dried off from a personal investigation of the waves, the outside became inhospitable to anything other than fish.
To exchange an extra $33 to be saved from a stormy night in a leaking tent is certainly a worth while investment.

Sometime in the late evening I found myself absently admiring the nice olive green color of the single sheet I have which I’d washed and hung out the day before in Stratford. It captured my attention for longer than simple admiration could account for, and I found myself wondering why I was mesmerized by this sheet, until suddenly it struck me; my sheet wasn’t this lovely color, my sheet was a pinkish brown. After not only comparing it to a pillowcase that should have exactly matched it, but also looking everywhere for the correct colored sheet, I firmly concluded that those giggling French tourists must have decided to pull a prank on me.
As I exclaimed in disbelieving outrage I recalled how in the morning when I’d gone out to collect my washing, my sheet had somehow managed to skew itself on the line ever so slightly : which I took to be further evidence of French tampering.
Little do they know that the joke’s on them, because I hated that pinky brown colored sheet and much prefer the olive green shade of this new one. The only irritation toward their hyjinks that lingers is how long it’d taken me to notice.

Tip of the Day: Yes, goats will try to eat your sheet, and once they grab onto something their bite strength is alarmingly greater than my ability to pull.

Day 60 : The Forgotten World Highway

More photos to come

Sunday the 6^th of February,2011.
15 days left.

Today we drove on a highway that despite it’s name suggests, has been mentioned and recommended to us more times than any other single place or stretch of road in the whole country (2^nd place goes to the West Coast of the South Island).

Nom nom

 

As we made our way excitedly along the Forgotten World Highway, we got the sensation that at any moment a dinosaur might be ambling across the road around the next turn and as much as I enjoy writing far too many words to describe something, I cannot describe this road to do it adequate justice. It really must be seen to be believed. Best of all is where you’ll end up in the middle of it: the republic of Whangamomona. No, it’s not New Zealand anymore, it’s Whangamomona. We stopped there for lunch and discovered that the pub didn’t have a tap outside were we could fill up our water can, because they have to get their water trucked in,. . . I guess they’re lucky the New Zealand government doesn’t take them seriously or they’d have some export/import issues with that I’d imagine.

The Republic of Whangamomona

 

We thought it possibly a very good idea to get an interview from one of the citizens as to why they didn’t want to be a New Zealander, but time constraints made us reluctant to stop there too long. As we left we noticed a sign that recommends you obtain a passport for ‘safe’ passage, which was a tad disturbing and lessened the regret of not meeting more of the locals.

At the southern end of the Forgotten World Highway is Stratford, a town who’s streets are largely named by a Shakespeare fan, and according to my Grandma the town clock has Romeo and Juliet figures within it that pop out of it at certain times.
We followed road signs to the Stratford Top Town Holiday Park, who’s title is beguilingly akin to the known and trusted Top Ten Holiday Park’s which feature all over the country.
The British lady who greeted us in the stifling oven of a reception area, had a HUGE collection of Princes Diana and Prince Charles porcelain covering the large wall area behind her. I tried to act casual. I had figured that people must collect this stuff because I’d seen it occasionally available at 2am on infomercials, but I didn’t think I’d ever meet one in the flesh.
The camp grounds were covered in brightly flowering gardens (and hanging baskets and planter boxes) everywhere which distracted you for a while from noticing the predominance of pink paint.

A small incident (that will be more relevant in tomorrow’s post) occurred while I was hanging some washed laundry out to dry in the meticulous manner that I enjoy so much (I felt I was in as good a place as any to act neurotically compulsive). While carefully straightening and pegging, I was frequently distracted by the sensation of being made fun of as a small group of middle-aged French tourists sat casually yet intently watching me near their campervan around 20 meters away. Their conversation was frequented by chuckles and giggles as they chatted and I wished for all the world at the time that I at least knew some French.
The experience stuck with me enough to mention it to Andis when I came back inside, and as the evening deepened I made mock casual, paranoid checks on my drying items.

Day 59 : What?! You guys are Kiwi’s!

More photos to come

Ngaherenga DOC campsite

 

Saturday the 5^th of February, 2011.

 

The day began with repeated tapping of the Snooze button on our 10:00 alarm, which meant I was not out of bed until after midday. It was the lure of breakfast Kit-Kat which finally roused Anna, and the demolition of our camp began. To sum up our camping experience at Ngaherenga, it was equal parts rain and insects. I tired to measure the experience in percentages, but I couldn’t think of anything that rhymed with ‘mosquitoes’ that wasn’t a Mexican foodstuff. Turns out making a rap parody is harder than it looks.

Anna here to finish off this post:
So it turns out that not all the DOC campsites are awesome.

Heading back to Taupo to capture the town on film, we were greeted by the single most hottest and humid day I can ever recall, and languishing deliriously in the heat I found I could hardly make intelligent conversation let alone interview someone and every small aspect of the day was transformed into a laborious issue. Incredibly, we survived long enough to consider eating dinner, and tried not to squabble between ourselves over the small decision to get fish & chips. As we stumbled into the attractive open fronted store we were a little stunned to discover a very kiwi-looking couple behind the counter, which is when I realised that I had now come to expect fish & chip shop owners to be of Asian descent. As iconic kiwi as fish &chips are, in my mind they were now iconicly run by Asians. As we waited for what turned out to be Very Awesome fish & chips, Andis and I chatted with the owners about their minority status and I pondered the very contemporary identity of those who make up our country today.

Somewhere over the last couple of days we sat down and managed the sad task of planning out precisely when and how we needed to return home, so I can tell you know just for the sake of context that we have 16 days remaining.

When we consider that it will have been a total of 75 days since we left Dunedin, around two and a half months, we’re left in a quiet surprise saying “wow, that’s a long time’, and we’re reminded how much we miss our families and friends and our puppy who wont be small anymore. But when we realise that we have a little over two weeks remaining, the feeling of reluctance to return to our ‘ordinary’ lives and the fear of stagnation and boredom grows.
At some point we got used to traveling and our longing for the routine and familiarity of home faded. Traveling became home. Our tent became our bedroom and the stars the streetlight that shines through the curtain.
Filming became automatic, like getting up and going to work: some days you love it, some days you hate it.
We adjusted to this way of life sometime before today’s 59^th day, but I wonder, how long does it take for an immigrant who might not speak the language? What about for a reluctant individual who’s family has made the decision for them? How long would it take to like a country you had no say in moving to and people who are wary of you because your body language is so culturally different to theirs?