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