Diggins!

Hi Folks,

I’ve realized that I’ve left out a chunk of my trip- the drive from New Plymouth/Taranaki to Wellington, the capitol, then the ferry from there to the south island, several days and nights in Kaikoura, a special place near the top of the east coast, and on down to Christchurch, where I spent a few more days, until I finally drove from there to Dunedin.

Well, there you go. Done.

















In New Plymouth, driving down the coast to surf, I really clued in on the radio. The lowbrow art of cheaply produced advertising jingles and skits is alive and well in New Zealand. Back in the U.S.A. I’m pretty sure this sort of small-business advertising has disappeared, evolving into something slicker and more subliminal. But anyone over 40 remembers the formula- a catchy phrase, often a weak pun on the advertiser’s name, sung to a snippet of disposable music, with a spoken pitch in the middle. I’m happy to report that, regarding its jingle aesthetic, New Zealand is attractively back in time. My all time favorite was for a construction company in Christchurch- Diggins. No music, just a “Bo Diddley” drum beat with a hilarious group male vocal chanting:

DIGA dig dig dig DIGA dig dig dig… DIGGINS!

A bit of attentive listening suggests that most of these jingles were created by the same production company- one starts to recognize the same vocalists, instrument and reverb sounds. I love the corniness, and also that as much as these wacky spots are advertising whatever, they’re also evidencing a healthy small-business economy. DIGGINS!

As I set out south from New Plymouth on my way to Wellington, I heard a trio of great radio shows, one after the other. The first was a phone-in garden advice show. There’s something soothing about rolling down the road, listening to questions about ailing plants posed by elderly women on a sunny fall morning, being considered by a pragmatic can-do kiwi gent. But the woman on the show that followed knocked this man’s expertise to the floor. She was an expert at removing stains. No- I haven’t put that powerfully enough. She was a terrifying idiot savant that had total recall over every possible unwanted chemical fusion issue and the exact method to rectify it. She also did not work from the confines of the radio station- she spoke, in an emotionless monotone, by phone from her home, somewhere where the birds sang loudly. Any problem with staining- ANYTHING- she knew the solution for, asking questions and giving directions in a flat, rapid-fire voice.

Caller: Hello Shannon! I’m so thrilled to talk to you!

Hello.

I just want to say you’re a marvel. I never miss your show.

(silence)

Ah, I have a problem with a shawl that was given to me as a present. It’s muslin…

(Interrupting) What colour?

Oh it’s a lovely dark purple. My youngest spilled to-mah-to sauce all over it. It was her birthday…

(Interrupting) What did you do then?

I put it to soak right off.

Tap water or fizzy water?

In regular water.

Cold water?

Oh yes!

Have you washed since it then?

Yes, in cold water. But it’s still stained.

So the red stain is gone, but the dark stain is still there.

Yes! How did-

The tomato pigment washed away but the olive oil base remained. With the cloth dry, scrub the stain with a bit of tea tree oil on panty hose.

Oh thank you, Shannon! You are a walking encyclopedia!

It will take the stain right out.



Epsom salts, steaming with a kettle, drying in the UV. After succinct questioning, her remedies came with the rapidity of a computer. They were almost always folksy- a bit of tea tree oil on pantyhose was offered over and over (try it!). But she was nothing if not pragmatic. One caller had spilled White Out. Without hesitation, her suggestion: White Out remover.

This frightening display of neurological surfeit was followed by a show with a lexicological theme. I’ve now forgotten the word I learned for dyslexia within a word; e.g. “aks” for “ask” (Evan?), but I learned the world “raillery”, which doesn’t mean the same as “to rail”. It means to engage in consensual negative banter, something I love to do with a very, very select few. So how about a call, Gregory? I could do with a bit of raillery.

Then the station began to fade, and my thoughts came back with me. Sometimes when I’m on a long drive, I feel like I’m my father. Hands gripping the wheel, jaw set in a grimace; eyes light blue and watery, squinting at the road ahead. A feeling of disengagement. It’s not a happy analogy, as family members reading this will understand. Those are the times when I feel most lonely on my Pretty Vacation, and truth be told, I prefer to avoid long solitary drives for that reason.

It took about four hours to reach Wellington. Since I plan to come back through there and spend more time (it’s a great city, full of art, and set on hills like S.F.), I only booked one night at the hotel-like YHA. It was Saturday night, and the city was buzzing with people out on the town. I went book shopping. Using my Rough Guide’s reading list, I picked up two books by New Zealand authors- Nights in the Gardens of Spain by Witi Ihimaera and Fifty Ways of Saying Fabulous by Graeme Aitken. Both are gay-themed, so go figure. I also blew twenty bucks on Colin Wilson’s Spider World trilogy, which I read twenty years ago, and gobbled for the next few days. Pure escapism- I wonder if my father did the same thing?

Woke up early to find groups of very drunk people still splashing around, and the same street musicians playing that had been at it the night before, guitar echoing queasily against the bricks. I warmed up Herbert and made my way to the ferry. I’ve done the ferry trip before, so I found an empty cabin and fell asleep on a coverless bunk, in my clothes. I slept as we passed through Wellington’s harbors, and the short, bumpy trip across narrow Cook’s Straight that separates the north and south islands. I slept through the slow, beautiful passage through the Marlborough Sounds, only waking as the ferry made a long, slow circle, backing into the dock. I staggered out into the bright sunshine and was confronted with this sight:



The next part of the trip was well known to me, and I was looking forward to it. Leaving Picton, I drove south through the dry grass hills of Marlborough, toward the east coast. Marlborough is the famous wine-producing region of N.Z. Although I saw grapevines everywhere, more than anything the countryside reminded me of the desolate topography just north of Los Angeles, around the Grapevine. A drought was in effect, as there had been two years ago when I was last there.

Drive, drive, drive. Anticipation kept the dad-like feeling at bay. After about half an hour, I reached the coast.


Kaikoura is one of my favorite places. The Kaikoura range is breathtakingly dramatic. Layers of mountains ascend one behind another, ridges delineated by shimmering, dreamlike mists. A train runs next to the highway, frequently passing through tunnels cut into the bare rock of the coastal cliffs. The ocean was an opaque, milky greenish-grey, with whitecaps but no wind. Between rock reefs were steep beaches, where oncoming waves met backwash, gathered and stood for an instant, boiling in place five feet tall, before smashing violently on gritty sand. Hokusai waves.


I surfed this place, with a mind-boggling view of snow in the mountains. The air at sea level wasn’t nearly as cold as that, but I was back in a full wetsuit and “footies” (Hi Diane!). It's definately winter in the south island.

Kaikoura town is picturesque, but I didn’t take any photos, not this time. I rented a cabin at a little place south of the town proper, and read Spider World ‘till I couldn’t keep my eyes open. It had been a long day.

The next morning I got up and walked to the beach by the campground. This is what I saw:



Note the train tunnels. Good waves were breaking nearby, there was a small pack of surfers and I could see they were being competitive with one another. I went back to the place I had surfed the other afternoon and had fun with just a few others. I’m still feeling crowd-shy after my bad experience at Raglan.

I finished surfing and was on the road for Christchurch by noon.
The drive was- brace yourselves- picturesque, with the exception of the last hour or so, well into the flat agricultural landscape of the Canterbury Plain. Christchurch is flat and a bit “blah” also (although it’s on a river and that area is pretty). However, it’s a big city and, perhaps to compensate for it’s lack of personality, there are some great restaurants. I stayed an extra day, just to explore them. The only pictures I took there, by the way, were those signs (top of last entry) in the windows of stores near the hostel.

Well, you’re just about caught up. Another day of driving, more minor déjà vu’s from two years ago (hey, there’s the row of trees where I pulled over and peed and put on that Katey Red and Dem Hoes CD…). Lots of music (thanks Jon and Gregory), stops for Magnum Classic ice cream bars, rest stops with the predictable Abandoned Roosters, finally swooping down the big hill to Dunedin. I’m still trying to capture, if possible, the feel of this wonderful city in photographs. Next blog. Miss you all- comment if you feel like it, it always makes me happy. Don’t be afraid to have nothing to say. I’m not.


Update: I found a podcast for the stain lady. I haven't listened to it, but perhaps you can. It's a bit down the list of shows, and it's Stain removal with Shannon Lush. Judge for yourself if I'm being hyperbolic:

http://www.radiolive.co.nz/AudioPodcasts/tabid/109/Default.aspx

Some Sort of Sign

Hello Idlers and Procrastinators,

I’m in Dunedin, where I’ll be for four more weeks. I feel really blessed- this flat is wonderful, with a stunning view and a really nice housemate (Jakob, a grad student at the University of Otago). Huge thanks to Nic, a Dunedin surf photographer (and phenomenon), who was kind enough to put a mention on her popular blog that I was looking for a room for rent… and to Rafael, who responded with an offer of a room in his lovely home, and was trusting enough to do our business by email and a phone call to Sweden, where he’s currently vacationing with his family.

Dunedin is about my favorite city in New Zealand- so much so that I’m impatient to get out there and explore, on this beautiful day. I’m afraid getting you caught up will have to wait a little while, but fear not- the evenings are getting longer as we slide into winter’s chill here in the lower hemisphere, giving me plenty of time to write to you. Until the next installment of P.V., I’ll leave you with a few pictures of what I see when I look out the window.

Love to all…







Oh, by the way- I retouched Florian's surf photos (corrected exposure and straightened horizons) back in the ever-unpopular "Glory!" entry. Maybe this will inspire a torrent of comments (currently lacking) in that posting.

Warning: Surf Content

Hi,

Hope you all are doing well. I wish I knew- I miss you all.

But I will say our troubles are all relative. Have you been hearing the news about food shortages in Haiti, and about immanent food shortages in many other countries? I don’t know where it’s all headed (god, November/January can’t come soon enough), but I’m glad we at least have one another, to be kind to and care for.

I’ve been fine. I’ve been lax about keeping up with this blog because I’ve been sick, and haven’t had the moxie, verve or pep. But I’m better now, and hope to be a bit more on top of things, including Pretty Vacation.

(By the way, thanks Janet and Jon for your sinus voiding tips, which I tried and it helped. If ever you should meet at a cocktail party, you now know you have at least one thing in common).

At this moment, I’m sitting in a dimly lit lounge of a hostel in Christchurch, listening to The Scissor Sisters at low volume on headphones, in an effort to tune out the movements of my fellow lodgers I’m feeling anti-social, and would be in my room writing, but the socket doesn’t work. So- hi everyone! Today I am a geek.

I made my way from Opoutere back to Raglan, driving from the east coast to the west, which took about two hours, and spent the night. I’m sad to say that I went surfing in the late afternoon at Indicator, and got verbally harassed by local surfers, defending their territory, essentially. This has happened to me there in the past. The effect is very dispiriting.

I’ve had plenty of fun at Raglan, but with countless other places to try, why bother?
I decided to make it a priority to seek out more obscure, uncrowded surf spots.

The next morning I made the beautiful drive down to the Taranaki region, about three hours south of Raglan, also on the west coast. The first third of the drive is through gently rolling green hills, farmland, and the occasional small town. Then the landscape becomes rugged, twisting through rocky gorges and the wonderful, unique N.Z. mix of pine trees and tree-size ferns that cling to the steep, volcanic hills, descending to twisting rivers and creeks. The final third of the trip is along the coast, and reminds me a lot of the drive from San Francisco to Santa Cruz, but longer, more rugged and less developed (and the houses that
are there are either on farms or just more funky and humble).

I didn’t take too many photos during the drive. For road one thing- I was driving! But mostly, I just wasn’t feeling very good. Recently, with you and this blog in mind, I’ve made a bit more of an effort to pull over and try to capture the beautiful vistas one sees routinely while whizzing along. But I’ve found that most of the time, the “scenic roadside” pictures don’t quite communicate. In the next installment, I’ll include a few, so you can judge for yourself.

One funny thing I’ve been experiencing throughout this trip has been tricks of memory and déjà vu. Because I was last in New Zealand only two and a half years ago, I still remember details and half-remembered things about- oh, just about everything. City layouts, hostel layouts, particular cups and saucers (the octagonal plates at Opoutere!). I remembered to turn off Cameron to Lemon Street, and found the hostel I liked in New Plymouth without looking at a map.

After the experience in Raglan the night before, I was keen to catch a wave by myself. The afternoon was beautiful and clear, with strong offshore winds that scrubbed the sky blue and are perfect for surfing. After a short search (within city limits, no less!), I found what I was looking for:

The next morning the sky was brilliant blue, with the offshore wind still blowing strong.
I followed a little one-lane farm road to its end, and then clambered over fences, crossing cow pastures to discover this place:

Turning 180 degrees from the surf, we see this:

This part of the country takes its name from Mt Taranaki, which dominates the landscape. Usually the top of the mountain is hidden by cloud. This morning, this whole week in fact, it was entirely clear- and a thrill to behold while surfing.

Although I didn’t capture them here, squares of cultivated land run up the gentle curve of mountain’s lower region. The effect is of looking up to look down on their patterns.

The countless perfect surfing reefs that ring the shore of Taranaki are the product of lava flow from the volcano. Here at this spot, two surfers were making their way out over the rocks. I took a close-up to illustrate the process one has to go through to get in (and out). Remember my Indicator story?

Looking north, I saw spray from perfect waves spinning along other reefs. I decided to leave these two to themselves, and find another spot.

For the next two days I surfed this place. You parked at the terminus of another farm road, and then walked for half an hour (some surfers drove little farm vehicles) along a driftwood-covered beach to a headland where a beautiful left-breaking wave peeled along for ages.

The beach was a long, long crescent. A broken wave would reach the shore, then it’s whitewash would sweep away from where I sat watching, rushing along the curve of the bay at twenty or thirty miles and hour, for several kilometers. I wish I could’ve filmed it, or could describe it better. It had a motion of symmetry that I’d never seen before- it was hypnotic, like a bird flying in one spot, or a yo-yo- Oh I can’t describe it.


But it was profoundly relaxing.

I’ll be in Dunedin tomorrow, where I’ve rented a room in a house for a month. I want to put this up, raw and a bit boring, just to offer something new, but I’ll have more time soon to communicate a bit more thoughtfully. Oh Blog! As hideous as your moniker! “Word” does not even recognize you, and scratches an angry red welt under your homely name…

Opoutere

Hello Bloglodytes,

How have you been?

I’m sitting at a table in the barn-like twelve-bed dorm at Opoutere YHA, drinking a cup of tea and attempting to distract myself from a sinus infection. Note to self: be sure to drain all seawater from snout upon exiting ocean. Also might be a good idea to dump drinking water that’s been sitting in a hot car for days. A butterscotch taste probably isn’t wholesome…

I hadn’t been sleeping well in my tent (am I getting too old for such larks?), so I moved into the dorm, and I’m glad I did. This wonderful room was originally a bunkhouse for a goldmine that predates the circa-1909 schoolhouse. It has a twenty-five foot ceiling, big old plate glass windows and joy of joys- it’s all mine. The busy season seems to have passed. You’ll see it the photos of the YHA grounds. No people.



The only negative was a faint musty smell; a few sticks of Nag Champa (courtesy of Gregory, thanks!) fixed that.

So I’m happy to say I’ve been sleeping like a log. Days have been spent cooking and snacking, exploring the walks around Opoutere and looking for surf (I found a bit. I won’t bore you with the details- I’ll bore Keith privately, by email). Evenings I’ve been reading, eating and playing/fighting with Garageband, the Mac music-writing program. I’ll be here until Monday, and then begin to make my way down to the south island.

I’ll be sad to leave. The estuary, forests and beach at Opoutere are my favorite places in New Zealand, and this YHA is my favorite place to stay.

I’ve taken a few photos that only begin to suggest how lovely it is. Like most photos, what they can’t communicate is how the vistas connect together; what you experiences as you turn around, look up and down. Also missing are the sounds. A whole jungle of exotic birds call and sing to one another, particularly in the morning. Behind and beyond them is a gentle wash of wind in the trees, mixed with the sound of the surf. It all has a bewitching effect on the people staying here- they’re mellow and respectful. You see lots of reading.


To start off, here’s the kitchen. Note the gas stove. It’s the only budget hostel I’ve been to that offers one. This can be seen as a gage of the maturity of the guests here- I’m not sure I’d trust some of Solscape’s cooks, boiled and stewed themselves, not to blow the place up.

(Please remember I had to clean the Solscape kitchen every morning, hence the attitude. It was like the-morning-after-the-party…every morning for 45 days. And I wasn’t even at the party)!


The men’s bathroom. It’s lavender- you know I like it. Really nice showers, too, with extra bathmats… I dunno. Just really nice touches here and there. Purple flowers are poking their way in through frosted glass. When you’re traveling you notice these things, and really appreciate them.


Here’s the little living room. No TV, no radio. Nice book and map collection, a good reading light. And look at the view:



Above, a section of the outside grounds. These are little double and triple bed cabins.

Let’s walk to the beach. We head down the driveway, past the mailbox, and turn left on Opoutere road. Looking back, this is what we see:


A lot of these outdoor photos are really nice if you click on them, which blows them up to fill the screen. Do try it.

Opoutere road runs right up along the edge of the estuary (which is a protected nature reserve, as is the forest and the beach). These magnificent trees are called Pohutakawas. I think they’re just magical, surreal, like two or three different trees grafted together, something out of Dr. Seuss.

The patterns their meandering branches create against a horizon are like those we see when craning our heads and looking straight up into a “normal” forest canopy- do you see what I mean? In the high summer they produce dazzling red flowers. I’m utterly taken by these massive trees, and took a lot of photos.



See how they hang over the water. Further out are mangroves, which are slowly but surely filling the estuary.


Sprays of flax-like fronds sprout at the cruxes of the bows of the trees.
The dock for kayaks (which are available for free at the YHA is near this spot.


Just a bit further down the road is this pastoral view. There’s an adorable Shetland pony in the yard of one of the small farms on the inland side that runs up to you when you beckon, and enjoys being pet and scratched. Sorry I didn’t get a photo. Also, in one of these little farms lives a fellow who, completely out of character with the image I’m trying to portray, occasionally lets blast some of the most disturbing karaoke singing you’ll ever hear. The YHA receptionist tells me that he’s perfoming “death metal”.

Just past the place pictured last, we turn right, and head down a short road to the grass parking lot for the beach. We then reach the wood bridge that crosses the estuary.


Crossing the bridge you really start to go under a spell…you hear your slow footsteps on wood over the water. Sunlight shimmers and fractures in the mangroves.


At the end of the bridge, the forest begins. Here I try to show (in vain) the totality of what surrounds us. Looking into the forest-


And back toward the path to the bridge, and the steep, half-domed hill looming up directly behind the YHA. There’s a fun footpath to the summit.


And here, again, I must remind you of the qualities of sound I mentioned earlier. As you step into the forest, the sound changes. The deep layer of fallen pine needles has an anechoic quality; sounds at ground level hush. Yet at the same time, from above, the wash of wind and creak of swaying branches flares up, like cool flames. If it had been a month earlier, high summer, a huge oscillating buzz of cicadas would dominate. But now it’s fall. Birdsong blends with the remaining cicadas. And as we drift along, the sound of the surf starts to grow.


And grow. The path slowly changes from pine needles to blue white sand.

And you reach the beach. The cool dark of the woods give way to brilliant white light.


If it was hard before to portray a sweeping sense of space, it’s impossible now. Looking south we see this:

The spit of sand at the mouth of the estuary- a sanctuary for the endangered Dotterel. The rock formation in the foreshore is Opoutere’s icon. Sheep (natch!) graze on the hillside. The distance to the hill is perhaps a kilometer.

Turning and looking north, our eyes are drawn to a group of islands. The largest (or nearest) island has visible stands of timber-forest and what were (or still are, I can’t tell) cultivated fields. Imagine living out there. .


Beyond this island are more islands. The closer we look-


The more fantastic and dramatic they appear. What an exhilarating landscape! Look at that conical island.


Back to the beach, looking north. Once, I decided to walk to a big tree-covered rock formation at the far end (a small island, really). The distance is deceiving. The far hillside never seemed to get any closer. My guess is it’s about four kilometers. Here, using my camera’s zoom, and later creating a close-up on my computer, I noticed two figures walking that I hadn’t been able to see at the time. I think this close-up photo begins to give an idea of the sense of massive scale in this place.



The first time I saw this place, it took my breath away. Finally, I sat down on the sand. Above the water line it was fine white powder. At the waterline it was tan, and lined with shells. I looked more closely...


How beautiful! You could fall further and further inward into detail, just as you wanted to soar further and further outward, to the magic islands, to the farthest hills.

How do you keep a hold of this sense of perspective? How do you hold it, and not let it go?