Scarfie Fashionista

Here I am, soaking up the last ray of sunlight streaming through the common room window before the “insulation process” begins—a tiresome process that is initiated as soon as the sun drops behind the neighbour’s house. Once the natural/free heater has officially been blocked, someone gives the insulation shout, yelling in an extremely authoritarian voice something along the lines of “Let the insulation process begin!” and we quickly run to the perimeter of the room, shutting all of the curtains, and closing all doors and windows to keep whatever waning heat is left from the afternoon inside the flat. The curtains are meticulously pulled to a close, tucking and folding edges behind furniture and anything we can find, because if even one inch is left uncovered, we’re sure to be shivering later. We employ many heating tricks to save warmth and our pocket books for hot chocolate, but those techniques will have to wait for another time. I feel compelled to inform you of the fashion trends in New Zealand, in case you feel so inclined to come visit me soon, you’ll know how to fit in like a true Kiwi.

First, I think a little compare and contrast is necessary—you will have to employ your imagination for this exercise, so if you’re feeling a bit sleepy, skip to the next trend and then come back. I’m sure the shock will wake you up! There is a major “scarfie” trend here in Dunedin, and the surrounding New Zealand area. To clarify, “scarfie” is the name for students at the University of Otago. Because of the cold weather most students bundle themselves up in scarves daily and so came to be called “scarfies.”

Moving on, the scarfie trend in Dunedin is mono-coloured. That is, everyone pretty much thinks only one colour will suffice in their wardrobe, BLACK.

Now, let’s compare my average winter attire to theirs. Here is what I wear on pretty much a daily basis.

On the other hand, your average scarfie will wear (from top to bottom): black headband/hair tie, some sort of black/grey makeup, black shirt/dress, black puffer jacket, black scarf, black skirt, black leggings/tights, and black boots. I would have a picture for you, but the all black attire is semi-intimidating, and I am too afraid I would set off some Kiwi code taking pictures of random girls on the street. Despite the fact that their style goes pretty much completely against mine—since their outfits match and mine consist of throwing on every pretty colour I have in my closet—my flatmates have told me I’m quite easy to spot from far away. For now, I’ll take that as a compliment.

The second, and perhaps the smallest in physical dimensions, major trend I have noticed are...STUBBIES!

Stubbies—“Finally the Kiwi Male was able to liberate his thighs to a breathless country” (L&P)

So named due to their extremely short and small nature, Stubbies are all too popular here in Kiwi country. Nevermind the chilly winter weather, it is nearly impossible to go a whole day without spotting some meaty man thighs glowing from across the street, barely constrained by the shortest shorts I have seen away from a swimming pool in the US, and even then they are uncommon there. When I asked my orientation leader at my arrival about this trend (I noticed it on my first day, if that doesn’t prove their popularity I’m not sure what will) I was told that the shorter the shorts, the manlier the man... I hope to never meet an All Blacks player in a pair of Stubbies; it would be a frightening sight!

Because of the Stubbies ongoing popularity, L&P, a sprite-like pop (soda if you’re not in Minnesota, or fizzy if you’re a Kiwi) launched an ad campaign to solidify the ultra coolness of Stubbies. If you’re up for the gruesome-hillarious sight of some extremely short shorts and large hairy man legs, I’d suggest you check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSFCvG6curE Just don’t say I didn’t warn you!

So, if you're planning (which I'm sure you all are) to visit me soon, throw away all the colour in your suitcase, cut off the ends of your shorts and you'll fit right in. Otherwise, the Kiwi Kindness makes them most accepting here of other styles, so feel free to wear the rainbow and I'll be able to pick you out in a crowd in .01 seconds.

Cheers!

Jaffa Jaffa Jaffa Jaffa Jaffa

Finally, we are all caught up. Now I can stop living in past tense and in another city, trying to strenuously remember old details already being replaced in memory by new happenings from the present.

As explained before, up until now I have been quite content and slightly chilled here in Dunedin, but that has all changed. I now realize that I have picked perfection by coming to live here. Why this steep escalation in feelings you may wonder, is it another passionate electric blanket in your life? Well friend, it’s even better.

There is a city-wide, week long, delicious and savory, beautifully spectacular CHOCOLATE FESTIVAL here.

I am in Cadbury Heaven.

The most fascinating event of the chocolate festival involved two of my favorite things in the whole world—chocolate and winning. Set at the tip top of none other than the steepest street in the WORLD, thousands of Jaffas were let loose and rolled down the street. At the finish there was a small tunnel where the first one through won the fabulous prize of… (drum roll please)… CHOCOLATE and grocery and petrol vouchers, and other mundane things not as impressive as the CHOCOLATE!!

Here is Baldwin Street, the steepest street in the world—so steep they put steps in parts of the sidewalk because it is too difficult to walk up the sidewalk!

Here is a Jaffa! It is sort of a mix between a Jawbreaker and a chocolate ball. The orange ones taste, get this, orangey chocolaty…

Per usual my flatmates and I were late to the Jaffa Race. We ran a normally 30 minute walk in about 15 minutes, when the huge mass of people that didn’t seem very big 10 blocks back started getting much larger. We managed to wide-eyed sneak our way to the middle of the pack, distracting the crowd with our exaggerated American accents, just in time for the second race. For the first time in history, we were going to watch purple Jaffas race down Baldwin Street. I’d like to say it was a fascinating amazing experience, but these things are pretty small and my eyesight isn’t too great. If you’ve ever seen The Mummy it is about equivalent to watching thousands of Scarabs rolling down a steep hill a block away. If you have never seen The Mummy, it looks like a dark purple blanket is being laid down the street.

After the race, kids with plastic bags were lifted over the fence to gather the loot of chocolate. They were repeatedly told by security that they shouldn’t eat the now dented dirty chocolates but I could see in their gleaming eyes that they didn’t care.

Of course after watching chocolate get hurled down pavement, we needed to eat some chocolate of our own and lots of it. So, we walked to the nearest 2-4 and bought our own mini Jaffas to try. Again, of course, we were not satisfied with just chocolate so we continued walking to the “best fish n’ chips shop in Dunedin” and watched as the workers deep fried our food to order, handed it to us in soaking greased paper, and devoured.

Overall, my living here has turned into a chocolaty greasy heavenly time, hopefully it will continue to be so.

Cheers!

Haggas Honking Holes

How did I get myself into this?

I was wedged between two rocks. My butt and legs were flailing around out of the hole for all below waiting for their turn to climb up the rocks and through the opening to see. I tried to worm my way through, mermaid style wiggling my body through the hole. I tried shaking my whole body, I tried head to toe squirming, I tried rocking back and forth—I must’ve looked like a beached whale. I was exhausted. Not only do wetsuits add at least what felt like 20 pounds, but my boots were overflowing with heaps of water sloshing about as I frantically heaved them around and my body was exhausted from the terror/work of making my way through a cave for two hours.

I managed to suck it in and squeeze through the rocks. I looked down to see one of our caving guides, Ian, hiding a smile as I grimaced back. He had definitely been watching my 5 minute/10 hour wiggle episode.

I went caving. It was in a place called Haggas Honking Holes—so named for the didgeridoo like holes in the cave, available to blow into and emit rumbling tones for all to hear.

For some reason, I thought I hadn’t had enough adventure in my life, so chose Haggas as my cave to explore—the more intense “wet” cave. The cave was made famous by a stint on Planet Earth, as well as where I’ve heard the terrifying movie was made about cavers who go into a cave and don’t come out alive, The Descent. But the guides may have been pulling my leg on that one. I think they enjoyed our terrified expressions a little too much…

Haggas is known as a wet cave to most people because of the waterfalls you abseil down through and the pools of water crawled in. To me, it was a wet cave, yes, because of the waterfalls and crawling pools, but mostly due to the countless times I clumsily stumbled in and/or got stuck, of course, in big pools of water, to the point where I had my own personal waterfalls coming out of my tall rain boots sloshing when I walked.

Regardless of the wet water and the bumps and bruises inevitable when someone like me tries to go on an adventure, caving was quite spectacular. Our guides, Ian and Ethan, were both nice and humorous. At one point they dropped us by our harnesses down a steep drop into pitch black darkness while we held ourselves in the fetal position so as not to hit anything. We were made to turn off our headlamps in the completely enclosed cave because,

“It is going to be a dark scary drop, so we might as well make it really scary!”

Still later, we turned off our headlamps again, this time in order to see the glowworms dotted along the ceiling, making a night light for the cave. I had never seen anything quite like it before.

So caving for me was mostly a humbling experience, where I had to give in to the embarrassment of people watching me flop around like a fish to fit through small spaces and over large rocks, and up steep walls, and down waterfalls. But other than the humiliation and exhaustion of trying to seem like a fit accomplished caver, it was astonishing and strange. Thankfully, there were no near drowning/death experiences on this adventure, so I’ll take the humility.

Cheers!

Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush

I’m still feeling dizzy. Although it has been a long time since the wonderful day of my sister’s birth/a little holiday America likes to call Independence Day, my night was just too strange to go unwritten. Sit back and rewind your watches 2 weeks—you’re going to relive the evening of July 4^th, Kiwi style.

For the 4^th, after volunteering a bit of time in Rotorua, my orientation group (all 60 something of us) loaded on the buses for an evening spent at a mock Maori village, meant to teach the Maori lifestyle and traditions to its visitors. It was extremely interesting to learn about their history, watch their performances of song and dance, and gorge on some delicious food at the “Hangi.”

After the evening, we loaded back on the swaying bus. I say swaying because I was sitting in the very back row, and got the full experience as the bus rocked dangerously side to side while the rest of the students thundered on.

Our Maori bus driver, who we called Mark even though his real name contained 20 more Maori words in it, was really hyped up. He had enjoyed himself at the Hangi, and performed a Haka at the end of the night, entertaining crowds with his ability to bulge his eyes almost right out of his head and wiggle his tongue to no avail. This technique of bulging eyes/outstretched tongue is a Maori intimidation tactic and often used during their songs, or at the very least, the Haka. A Haka is basically a chanting pump up dance performed (usually only by men) before going to war, or more commonly, before Rugby games (which to the average Kiwi, is basically the equivalent of war anyway).

As Mark started the bus, he started talking about his cousin “Broch” (pronounced Brrrr-ah-gh-ck the ghck being a mix between a -ck and a gutteral more throat hacking german style -gh). I was more than a little confused as he continued asking if we all knew who this Broch guy was.

“You all know my cousin Broch, right? He was adopted into a Hawaiian family. Hawaiians and the Maori both migrated from the same place. We are cousins. Broch and I are cousins. Broch!”

I looked around and most of the other students seemed to be as confused about this cousin Broch business as me.

“Broch! BROCH! BROCH OBAAAAMA!”

The realization hit everyone at once, the bus erupted into peals of laughter as Mark continued,

“YOU WILL ALL SING THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER FOR MY COUSIN BROCH! YOU WILL STAND UP AND SING FOR MY COUSIN!”

A weak version of the national anthem began, and was immediately interrupted by Mark.

“IF YOU DO NOT STAND UP AND SING FOR MY COUSIN, YOU MUST COME UP HERE!”

He then menacingly whipped the bus door open, insinuating a non-participant’s fate.

He started up the Anthem again, this time a more rousing tone was used. The front row stood up immediately, as they were directly in the line of fire. A wave rose in the bus as each row stood, belting out the lyrics. I caved and stood for Mark’s cousin, despite my body insisting not to stand in the dangerous sway. I even pulled out some Madrigal harmonies to accompany the Patriotic tune.

When we finished, everyone sat down in their seats, anxiously waiting to see what was next to come. Sure enough, Mark wasn’t finished with us. He made us sing Karaoke to some American Pop songs, and then started up “The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round” for us all to sing. Once we reached the verse “the people on the bus go up and down,” of course participation was once again required and threatened with ejection if not given happily and fully.

We started curving into a roundabout as Mark told us he had one more song for us to sing that we would all know.

Suddenly he started belting out “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush” as he passed each exit from the roundabout, circling in it again. The bus seemed to speed up as his singing reached a louder fervor to be heard over the peals of laughter. He missed the exits again and again and again. Going around around around the roundabout seemingly faster and faster. I dizzily watched the car lights blur into one continuous circle of light. The vehicles waiting at the yield signs were piling into longer lines when he finally took an exit to loud applause.

“I suppose I should get my driver’s license someday, I appear to be quite good at this whole bus driving business”

He yelled over the flurry of voices as he swerved into the Kiwi Paka Hostel where an American Flag and balloons decorated the bar for our celebratory return.

You're My Girl

Rugby is to New Zealand what pizza is to my sister.

Ok, that may be a bit extreme, but honestly Rugby is the absolute of absolutes here on this island of 4 million. On billboards, it is common to see a few All Blacks (the NZ rugby team) flexing their demi-god muscles down at the passersby. In bars, one can gaze at cardboard cutouts of the hulks suggesting a certain type of New Zealand beer to sip on for the night. On TV, it is difficult to go an hour without spotting a commercial or a news update containing one of their monstrous thighs. In regular conversation, whether it be on the bus or on the street, the All Blacks are constantly praised and compared to France or Australia with mocking knee slapping laughter. In short, rugby is life to these people, and the All Blacks are what make it most worth living.

If you have never played/watched rugby before, such as me, you may be, just like me, wondering at all this hype. Fortunately I got the chance during orientation to learn how to play rugby, and I now wish for you the same opportunity.

All 50 or so of us lined up along the rugby line for our lesson and were split into two teams for practice. I was a little confused at first when our “instructor”—a guy technically from Kuwait but who had decided to adopt the Kiwi lifestyle—explained to us that you are never allowed to pass the rugby ball forward. The player with the ball can only pass backward. How do they get anywhere?? I wondered.

Sure enough, our team wasn’t getting anywhere. We would pass it back and back, getting further away from our goal, confused as to how this was supposed to score any points. After some coaxing from our instructor and a whole web of rules wound around my confused brain, we stopped doing drills and started scrimmaging. Eventually the passes backwards stopped being thrown so far back, and a bit of running forward ensued. Apparently, this meant we were ready to play a real game.

We lined up across from the other team and attempted a sad Haka that mainly consisted of mumbles and slapped chests. Finally, we started playing.

It was a bit rough.

There were a lot of turnovers as we went back and forth between moving not at all and moving a few feet. Suddenly, our instructor has the brilliant idea of utilizing the fact that no one ever passed to/guarded girls (per usual) to his advantage. He beckoned me over with big windmill motions.

“You’re my girl!” he whisper-yelled at me.

I half nodded half confused-stared at him, like I usually do when trying to decipher thick accents and strange use of terms.

“You’re my girl?” this time it was more of a question, and I realized he was asking me to actually take part in a play. I frantically nodded yes, made the most intimidating face I could muster, and grunted a little…

He explained to me his plan, appointing two other girls as my “protectors.” I was to stand along the sideline where the other girls had flocked to talk, he was going to throw the ball as hard as he could and I was going to catch it and run run run!

I walked over to the line, apparently not quietly enough in the grass, because I heard him shushing me, and turned around to see him gesturing with his finger to his lips for me to be quieter. I tiptoed to the sideline, seemingly more acceptable behavior as the shushing stopped.

I didn’t have to wait long for my moment of glory. He caught the ball, turned his body to the side and heaved it toward me. It was spiraling above my outstretched hand. I jumped, or rather leapt, and straight-up Randy Mossed it. I heard a few wow-gasps from the girls around me as they admired my catch. Naturally, I squealed as I ran as hard as I could, a bit terrified at the thunder of 25 kids running from the middle of the field toward me to tag me. I made it almost to the goal line before a few rough “touches” (it was touch rugby not tackle thank goodness) took me down hard. I was too ecstatic to notice, I had not only successfully caught a ball, I had made a good Rugby play, it was exhilarating. From the middle of the field I heard a loud yell ring out, “That’s my girl!”

I hope to start my professional Rugby career soon. I’ll send out preemptive autographed postcards to anyone who wants an invaluable item for the future J

Cheers!

Kia Ora! (“Kee-Oh-Rrr-Ah”)

Kia Ora! Although I have arrived in Dunedin, my home for a good chunk of time, I have not yet finished detailing the many exciting happenings of Orientation week. So I’ll give you a short update of now, and then go back to telling you some things from before—in case you are confused about the messy timeline. If only I could spend all my days writing and not elsewhere, we would be more up to date. No worries!

Now

I have moved into my flat on Castle Street—also known as the party street where many a couch has been set fire on the pavement outside. I have 3 flatmates—a Kiwi, a Californian, and a Texan. We get along extremely well—the cold weather is a good bonding experience as we huddle for warmth, bake cookies just to get oven heat, and hang out in the common room. I suppose I might as well admit it now in case you haven’t already guessed, I am pretty chilly here. It is not the outside that bothers me, my wool socks and I can handle that. Rather, it is the sub-zero inside temperatures that are pretty unbearable. Although it may only be 20-30 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside it tends to feel colder inside…don’t ask me why this cruel fact of life exists. I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, but I’m being extra good to hopefully reverse weather patterns with my awesome karma…

Anyway, because electricity is so expensive here, heaters are only allowed on special occasions due to their tendency to suck up large amounts of the electric bill. Hence, my new love affair with a little sweetheart I like to call 3 Cents a Night Electric Blanket. We spend many an hour together cuddling in bed, and are sure to be very happy together over the next few months, until I can move on to a more exciting relationship with a pair of shorts I’ve got my eye on.

Now, that you are caught up on my new hot and cold love life, let me share with you a Maori experience from a little while back…

Then

The traditional greeting in New Zealand, that I consistently hear/see, whether it be in a nightclub or the grocery store, is Kia Ora.

Our bus driver to the Maori Traditional “Hangi” dinner last week during orientation translated “Kia Ora” for us in 55 languages!! His American-English words he so willingly adopted a nice flat American nasal accent for were:

hello

howyoudoin

whazzzzup? Whazzzzup! Whazzzzup?

thank you

and so on.

In simple terms, Kia Ora is a greeting, a farewell, and an expression of gratitude.

In more complicated terms, Kia Ora describes the deep Maori connection to the spiritual world within every person. Sounds sort of cheesy at first meet, but it is actually quite beautiful.

Typically, when two Maori people greet one another, they clasp their right hands in a handshake, brace themselves with their left hand on each other’s shoulders, and touch noses twice—each time breathing out a short breath of air through their noses. The touching of the noses is the exchange of “the breath of life.”

Kia Ora itself translates into: Kia- “to be” Ora-“alive”

Thus, by greeting someone with a Kia Ora, you are recognizing her or his one and precious “life force” breathing within. This life force is not restricted to one’s personal being. With a formal traditional Maori greeting, the Maori chief gives a short speech, recognizing the presence and assistance of three different entities travelling with the persons present. First, Io or God—the spiritual being who created all of Heaven and Earth and is always present. Next, the person’s ancestors and loved ones—who profoundly influence and protect our lives. Finally, one’s own life force—flowing through the body and connecting with the world surrounding it. This life force (or spirit) is depicted by the Maori in their dances, where the Maori constantly quiver their hands as they move. The small shaking illustrates the sacred breath of life moving within the person and are an absolute necessity to any Maori dance.

A simple “Kia Ora!” encompasses this entire philosophy of God, ancestors, life, and so on into its two short words.

So if you ever come across a Kiwi who greets you with one, make sure to say it back!

The Maori performers before our Hangi dinner

21 Foot Drop

My wet suit, booties, helmet, and lifejacket were all tightly secured and checked over by me at least 10 times. I relearned the basics of whitewater raft paddling and commands including my favorite, “Hold on! Get down!” Where I got to hold onto the side of the raft and slide from my seat on the side down into the floor of the raft. I just liked it because I got to sit somewhere sturdy and not do anything. The five other girls and I didn’t feel extremely confident about our rafting abilities, but our Kiwi in-raft guide molded us into military rafting machines as he barked commands.

The raft next to me was stacked. I’m not sure how they ended up with all the body builders, but I was beginning to regret not moving over there when a spot was open as I gazed back down onto my fellow rafters who averaged about 5 feet each… As our guide pumped up the raft to ensure optimal ability and safety I noticed the guide next to our raft slacking on his pumper-upper duties. Our guide kicked his raft a few times, and told him he should pump it up more. With a few choice words, the other guide more or less ensured its perfection. I naively felt relief—even though I didn’t end up with Schwarzeneggers, at least my raft was the proper firmness!

We hopped into the van as best we could with heavy wet suits weighing us down and drove down to the drop off point. Our guide decided last minute we needed to go down first, so we took the top raft off the trailer, which just so happened to be the last one placed there, which just so happened to be the raft belonging to the dang slacker guide. Now we not only had a group of frightened weaklings, but a squishy raft as well…I had no idea how greatly this would affect the next hour of my life.

After going through some small rapids, and practicing our rafting commands until reaching the precision of the North Korean army, it was time for the largest waterfall rapid, or as our guide called it the “oh crap,” except he didn’t say crap…

Our guide had us paddle over to the bank before descending the 21 foot drop. He pulled a branch off a plant and stood up, clearing his throat and looking somber.

“Do you know what this plant is?”

It was a fern thing.

“This is the silver fern, the beloved plant of New Zealand (it was seriously just a leaf) worn proudly by the ALL BLACKS (the Kiwis are dead serious about their rugby mate) right over their hearts to show their love of New Zealand (he rambled off into some more cheesy pep up talk that I lost as the thickness of his accent increased to the point of absurdity as the passionate speech heightened in fervor).

“You will each put one of these leaves in your lifejacket, next to your heart. It will guide and protect us, just as it guides and protects the ALL BLACKS in their blablabla (this guy cannot be serious)

“I will also put a silver fern on the front of the raft (he scrambles to the front of the raft, shakily (the powerful speech really must’ve got to him) trying to tie a droopy looking leaf to a metal ring) and if it is still there at the end of this trip…(long pause as he looks into our wide eyes as we notice the huge waterfall we are steadily approaching with our guide standing awkwardly in the front of the boat not the back where he’s supposed to be steering us away until we’re actually pepped up and ready)…well then mates…we have done a sweet as job.

He turned around and realized the impending waterfall, finally causing him to scramble to the back of the boat where he was needed and steered us back to the shore. After going over the game plan—paddle as hard as possible to the end of the waterfall and then hold on and get down for the drop, as well as ensuring that we had all stuffed the dang weed down our lifejackets, we headed toward the fall.

I admit, I was terrified. And based on the heavy silence adopted by my fellow crew, they were pretty scared themselves. We paddled our little hearts out, heaving forward and backward, forward and backward, forward and backward.

“HOLD ON GET DOWN!”

We dove from our seats on the side in a unison the Olympic synchronized swimming team would be proud of, clutching the raft with white wet knuckles as the raft flew over the edge.

Crash. Head. Water. Water. Water. Light. Water Water Water. Air.

I didn’t even get to see over the edge. All I managed to experience was the cold heavy pull of rapids as the boat, the uninflated boat (dang guide), folded upon itself as it was not firm enough to withstand the waterfall. The back of the boat flopped onto the front. The guide fell on top of me, crashing his face into my helmet. Suddenly I was underwater. It felt a bit like being stuck in a washing machine, seeing the outside through a small circular window but not being able to get to it. Through the inevitable panic, I managed to see light and tried to swim toward it, but something heavy was keeping me down. I pushed up and kicked. Nothing budged. I moved my hands alongside it, all the while trying not to be pulled around and around unsuccessfully fighting the need to inhale. I felt my hands run up the side of it and I bobbed to the surface, pushing the raft away from me as it continued to try to hold me under. Air. Coughing. Slight emotional breakdown.

As soon as I popped up, I saw the guide on top of the upside down raft. He lassoed something and pulled. The raft flipped upright as he jumped, landing inside. He was yelling if everyone was alright, yelling to get in the boat, yelling and counting, yelling yelling yelling.

At this point I was still being swept by the current, but at least I could breathe air. I tried to swim against it toward the raft, but the whole fight for my life underwater thing really tuckered me out. I managed to grab an outstretched hand and get pulled into the raft. The others were coughing up water just as me, a few were hyperventilating a bit. We shivered as the guide told us to paddle hard. All this time we had been travelling fast toward the next set of rapids, and that just wasn’t cool.

We managed to paddle hard away from them. The guide looked us all over. Sheepishly smiling, muttering sweet as, and asking how we were again. Our kayak spotter told us exactly what happened—it was so quick we hardly had any idea. As we collected ourselves, and moved on to the next rapids, at this point smiling and laughing as we relayed each of our experiences, I looked down into my lifejacket.

Peeking out at me was the Silver Fern.

In Pictures...

Kiwi Paka

My home at the Kiwi Paka in Rotorua...

A closet that doubled for a bedroom, HP style :)

In New Zealand, when they tell you it is a bedroom, they mean it. It is a room for sleeping on a bed and not much else. No worries.

Tale of Two Cities

Oofta. It has been a whirlwind of days. Apologies for the gap of communication, this post will be quite long as I have many exciting happenings to relate. I made it to New Zealand, “no worries” (a beloved Kiwi phrase). Although New Zealand is quite a progressive country in environmentalism and the likes, ie over 70% of their power derives from renewable resources such as wind, water, and the geysers bubbling outside my door right now, they are not so progressive as far as internet goes. There is hardly any wireless, and where it exists, it is quite slow and expensive. No worries, I have found my way to the World Wide Web and am here to tell you of my travels.

Arrival

After landing in Auckland at 5 in the morning, I felt quite rested and just a little greasy. I was able to watch an array of movies on the plane—there were 65 to choose from! As well as a few tv shows, a few chapters of Robinson Crusoe, and the flight progress just to make sure they weren’t lost or anything. I feel I should give a bit of a shout out to Air New Zealand as they were terribly nice and accommodating. Not only was my dinner amazing and my seat quite comfy (although I wasn’t in the second floor of the plane where the rumor is they got full beds and ottomans—emphasis on the ottomans as that is usually the word the other students would shout at me when describing the second floor luxuries) but I was routinely offered freshly squeezed lemon water and alcoholic beverages—which Mom and Dad, I declined.

Anywho, back to Auckland. Landed. Waited 4 hours for slowpokes. Bus ride. Sightseeing tour. Dormant volcano. What?? Yeah! Dormant volcano! It was a bit scary swerving up a volcano on tiny winding roads in a huge coach bus on the wrong side of the road mind you, but the view of Auckland was amazing. The crater in the middle was also sweet as. Oops, let me explain.

Terms

I have not yet caught on to the incessant cussing that my fellow Australearn students seem to have so willingly adopted (our bus driver, Dusty, can barely breathe a word without coloring it up a bit) but I have taken in a few tamer phrases. One of these being “sweet as.” Sweet as what, you may ask? Who knows. It seems the Kiwis rarely bother to finish a sentence. Just add an “as” onto the end of a word or two and you’re good as. Although terribly annoying at first listen when you keep waiting for someone to finish their sentence, in New Zealand there are times when there are no comparable words to describe the experience anyways. New Zealand is spectacular as.

Volcano Crater

Back to Arrival

So, after driving back down the volcano, we toured the harbor a bit. Auckland is known as the city of sails—made clear by the thousands of sailboats docked in the harbor. We’ll see if I can master technology and get some pics in here. After that tour, a short lecture on New Zealander lingo, and a much needed shower in our humongo hotel, exploring was necessary. My fellow Australearners tend to move in mobs, and Auckland was no exception. I managed to join a herd of 20 or so through the bustling streets of Auckland down to the ferry. This was no simple task. Not only were we a huge group, but we were a huge group constantly looking down thewrongway of the street before we meandered across. Fortunately, the large city of Auckland was accommodating—every so often the stoplights would actually all turn red, and then pedestrians could walk whichever way they like, frontways-sideways-diagonal-J walking-K walking-do a little dance in the middle of the road-sweet as. The ferry was fun, the island of Devenport (our destination) was beautiful. Another volcano was hiked. This time without a tour bus. We opted to climb straight up the steep incline through the mud and grass, too impatient to take the nicely paved walking trails created solely for the purpose of safety and easy walking. This easy walking was apparently too simple for us Americans. I almost paid for this poorly made decision with my purse and person as I slid down the hill with nothing to grab onto but mud. Flats were a fashionable but not practical decision... Needless to say, we took the stairs on the way down.

City of Sails

View of Auckland from Mount Victoria in Devenport

Auckland was a breathtaking city. Apart from the bungee jumping contraption outside our hotel erupting with side splitting screams every few hours, it was quite a pleasant atmosphere. A city of 1.5 million, Auckland houses a third of New Zealand’s total population. Queen Street is a shopper’s paradise, particularly a well-off shopper. The harbor provides a view no matter where the location. Every corner some sort of narrow alleyway peeks through, blinking with unique coffee shops and bars. I wish I could’ve enjoyed it longer, but we were off the next morning before the sun rose.

Rotorua

After declining vegemite on my toast for breakfast, our 50 passenger bus set off for Rotorua—land of bubbling geysers, Maori, caving, and rafting! The three hour bus ride passed quickly with jokes frequently offered for laughs by Dusty, as well as the blasting of Dusty’s favorite tunes—Classic Rock. The bus passed through where the town of Hobbiton from Lord of the Rings was filmed, although we were up too high to make out any hobbits below. Finally, we reached Rotorua where I am now living Harry Potter style. I think I’ll leave it at that. I’ve no doubt extremely bored you by now with my babbling. Plus, I enjoy the thought of leaving a cliffhanger blog. Cheers and Happy 4^th!