Sydney: California Reincarnate

As much as I want to be on the other side of the world, I can’t escape the fact that Sydney is a slice of California, albeit a very satisfying slice. Take away the “mate” and the “good on ya!” call outs, the fifty cent coins the size of beer coasters, the Union Jack flying from every flagpole, and the cars traveling down the left side of the road, and you are right back in the Golden State. The good news is that Sydney is a perfect hybrid cross of perhaps my favorite two American cities—San Diego and San Francisco.

Sydney has the same cosmopolitan swing of the City by the Bay (Jeannie is in paradise). There is a section on the west side of town called Paddington, lined with boutiques and couture (as I’m told) shops. The businesses share walls and stretch for as far as you can see. The three stories of space above the shops have been partitioned to apartments, reminiscent of the Victorian architecture of San Francisco. There is also a niche here for fine dining. Restaurants tend to skew to the upscale (which, for us, equates to breakfast at the corner mini mart). Of course, there is the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which beside the Opera House, is most certainly the icon of the city. The bridge is magnificent, and in all fairness, a worthy equal to the Golden Gate.

But beneath the metropolitan swagger, Sydneyites have an affinity for the beach and the sun that cannot be denied. There is a relaxed feeling to the city that reminds me so much of San Diego. The people here are the kind who will stop for a sunset, and maybe even applaud a spectacular one. My kind of people. The downtown waterfront is a near replica of my college town—grand yachts and small schooners, Princess cruise ships and retired naval vessels, small shopping villages and outdoor bars, even high-rise condos and a loft that looks like mine from the glory days. I think I might have lived here in a past life. And I wouldn’t mind living here in a future one.

The Seals of Kaikoura

Traveling south down Highway 1 through the wine lands of Marlborough, there is a coastal community halfway between Picton and Christchurch by the name of Kaikoura. Famed as a whale watching departure point, Kaikoura is also known for its “crayfish” eateries—the Kiwi nomenclature for lobster. We received a tip that delicious meals could be had there for a price that wouldn’t require us to skip breakfast the following day. So we made a bee line for the peninsula. What wasn’t made completely clear was that the backdrop for our lobster lunch would be taken from a dream. The Kaikoura peninsula is where the Southern Alps drop down to the sea. The contrast of snowcapped peaks against shimmering green waves is almost too much to comprehend. This is the kind of place you want to share with everyone you love—just so you can see the look on their face when they behold the view.

Between cracking lobster legs, we struck a conversation with the proprietor of the restaurant. He spoke frankly about New Zealand politics, Maori culture and influence, and the socialist ideals of his society. We enjoyed the chat, and I know he did too. I’m not sure if it was our lively discussion, or the sixty dollars we ultimately spent in his establishment, that led him to reveal to us a local secret. His secret turned out to be worth more than gold.

Following his directions, we backtracked twenty kilometers up the ocean road that had taken us into town. We abided by his very specific cues, passing the crayfish truck called Nin’s Bin, and parked Lau Lau on the side of the road next to the sign for Ohau Stream. It is here that a freshwater brook filters down to the Pacific from the Alps above. Grabbing our cameras from the van, we found the trailhead that hugs the stream, and followed it under the leaves of massive ferns and palms. The bed of the stream is lined with large boulders, a steady flow of snowmelt toppling over each rock. With the Pacific at our backs, we walked toward the sound of the falls—and then we happened upon perhaps the most remarkable phenomenon.

Thirty seal pups. Frolicking, playing, practicing for their circus debut. A fifty foot waterfall dropped to a circular pool, smaller than the one in the Bendel’s backyard. We stood on its edge, and the pups popped up at our toes to say hello. They jumped and dived. They barked and splashed. They flirted with us, and each other, with complete abandon.

Apparently during the month of June, when sharks lurk off the east coast of the South Island, mother seals guide their pups up the Ohau Stream to the safe oasis of the falls. The pups flop nearly a kilometer inland along the boulder strewn stream. They find a home in the freshwater pool at the base of the falls, while their mothers fish the coastal waters for food. We enjoyed their company, and their antics, for nearly an hour. Almost forgetting that nightfall was looming, we parted from our furry friends, and hustled back down the trail in the final minutes of daylight.

Ode to Lau Lau

So much adoration for a collection of metal, rubber, and plastic. We are so indebted to our beloved van. To Lau Lau, we write this love letter:

There was never an easier task than to name you. You became Lau Lau, after the Hawaiian luau delicacy. To the Hawaiians, Lau Lau is an expensive leaf, used to wrap only the finest ingredients of the feast—tender pork and rich seasonings. Like the protective leaf, you brought us into your encasement, and let us marinate inside your sheath.

You carried us across 1,200 kilometers of the most spectacular country we’ve ever seen. Your home on the islands is one we will worship for all times. You showed us the cities, run on coffee and bustling with energy, fashionable and trendsetting, full of surprise, multicultural and multifaceted. You showed us the towns, caught in mild winter hibernation, proud of their unique offering to the tourist, enchanting with their solitude and silence, their isolation and indifference. You showed us the wilderness, startling in its magnitude and intimidating in its force, so pure and inspiring, at times taken straight from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale, spectacular enough to make you laugh and cry all at once.

You were not always amenable. Sometimes you would stall in the middle of a zipping intersection. Sometimes you would growl and moan when you disliked the way you were handled. There was once when you refused to wake up. But you always came around when we needed you most.

Our time at the coast was perhaps the best. We’ve never enjoyed the road like we did then. Through your windshield, we saw the Southern Alps cascade down (straight down) to the roiling green sea. We didn’t know that nature could be constructed like that. We stood beside you on a black sand beach, and realized we were in the most beautiful place we’d ever seen. It was the three of us. And we will never forget.

Thanks for the memories, Lau Lau. We will always remember the van with the tags DMU 425.

Until we meet again,

Casey and Jeannie

New Zealand: Musical Surprises

Lionel Richie is a hero. Not the solo Lionel of the late 80’s and 90’s, but the godlike lead man of The Commodores. The guy is a music icon here. Not far behind in the ranks of idolatry is Billy Ocean. I hadn’t heard a Billy Ocean song in eight years before arriving in New Zealand—I’ve heard him every day since. Kiwis are counting the days to his New Zealand arrival. Ocean is doing a show in Rotorua at the end of June. The ad reads, “Don’t miss this rare opportunity to see Billy live in concert performing all his hits, and songs from his new album.” He has a new album?

New Zealand radio is an audio timewarp. They specialize in songs that make you say, “daaamn….” Disc jockeys in this country have somehow compiled a list of all the songs you haven’t heard in a decade but you can still sing along to every word of the chorus and verse. Having the radio on is like accessing the music vaults of your childhood. The Kiwi fascination with 1980’s soft rock is inspirational.

They've got some music of their own too. A new song called, “I’ll Always Be There,” is on heavy rotation in every bar, restaurant, and shop. The singer mentions being in a campervan, so it became an instant classic for us. Also, quit surprisingly, one of my favorite acts from home, The Flight of the Conchords, is popular here. They are a comical Kiwi band, but I had imagined they were marketed specifically for Americans. Not true. New Zealanders find them humorous, as well. As it turns out, Brett, is actually the lead in a band of his own here, called Black Seeds. Apparently it is serious music—looking forward to checking it out.

The All Blacks and The Rooster

Jeannie and I agree there is no feeling quite like being one with the local energy. There is something about becoming unified with a cause (especially when it is not previously your own) that is particularly liberating. When we woke up on Saturday morning we decided to be loyal All Blacks followers—the name of the beloved New Zealand national rugby team. The team name is derived from the jerseys, or kits, the athletes wear on the field—black from head to toe. There is a passion here for the sport that rivals the football fascination in Europe and Brazil. The heart of the country seems to beat with the All Blacks. So we bought tickets to the international match, and synchronized our hearts to the same beat.

France traveled to Wellington for the meeting, bringing with them a congregation of high-brow fans, touting red, white and blue, and carrying on in a Napoleonic fashion. (I said we were unified). We even saw a group of women all costumed as Mary Antoinette—only the French are brazen enough to travel to the opposite pole of the earth dressed like that. (You can see how it was easy to be unified).

When we thought the flag-waiving francophiles couldn’t be more audacious, they committed an act that outdid any sort of sporting insolence I’ve ever witnessed. They delivered the ultimate disrespect on foreign turf. Just before the starting whistle, a rooster was tossed to the pitch from the front row of the field level section. Its erect tail feathers were painted a brilliant blue, its midsection was pure white, and from the neck up it was blood red—a living, breathing, extremely frenetic embodiment of the French flag. The rooster, surely flabbergasted after being sprung from a smuggled sack, dashed and cut from side to side, darting up and down and across the field—80,000 eyeballs fixed on its painted plumage.

A brute squad was quickly formed. Six security guards in neon yellow vests chased the bird from sideline to sideline. The French supporters jeered with delight. The match officials watched at first with amusement, but as the rooster continued to avert capture, it was easy to detect their impatience. Had one of the guards not grabbed hold of a wing in the next moment, I think one of the defenseman for the All Blacks might have tackled the rooster himself. With the cock caper put to an end, and the Antoinette impersonators sufficiently rallied, the match finally got underway.

By halftime, the rooster had been all but forgotten, as the All Blacks jumped out to a ten point lead. Fans rose from their seats to visit the concession stands, in search of fish and chips and cold Steinlager. I was preparing to do the same, when a collective gasp filled the stadium air. The rooster was back. Back in black. Like the dark knight, it paraded proudly across the pitch. No one chased it now. It strutted like only a rooster can—washed clean of its tricolor paintjob, and redone in a monochrome black. It had a new attitude. The crowd went nuts. The All Blacks, and the Kiwi supporters, had exacted their revenge.

My Tongariro Expedition

Blind chance led me to the experience that will define my travels through New Zealand. Driving south from the geothermal region of Rotorua, Jeannie and I arrived in the lake town of Taupo. Nestled beside the largest fresh water lake in the Southern Hemisphere (the lake is of the same name), Taupo is a small town that exists primarily as a launching point for all things hair-raising. New Zealanders have an addiction to adventure and the outdoors, and they have capitalized on a brilliant combination of the two with a burgeoning tourism industry. Anything you can imagine that will give you a legal high can be found in Taupo—skydiving, luging, jetboating, rafting, bungee jumping, canyoning, even zorbing and shweebing (you’ll have to look those up). While all of these are sure to induce an adrenaline rush worth the cost of admission, I was told the most thrilling endeavor in Taupo is the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

Regarded in New Zealand as the most epic single-day trek, the Tongariro Crossing is an 18km hike across the Mangatepopo Valley and the South Crater between the Ngauruhoe and Tongariro Mountains. During the winter months (of which we are settled deep into right now) the Crossing is not permissible without a guide. Because the trek is through New Zealand’s most treasured National Park (Tongariro is revered by Kiwis in the same way we admire Yellowstone), they are able to regulate who enters and exits the trailhead. The Crossing is apt to sudden changes in weather that can disorient even the most experienced mountaineers. Severe cold and wind create bulletproof ice that latches to the ridge of the crater, making it impossible to cross without crampons, and sometimes the use of an axe. The Crossing is also volcanically active.

I learned all of this at the counter of an adventure outfitter in the center of town. As I stood at the counter, with the mountain nearly casting its shadow over my shoulder, Jeannie peered at me with big, timid eyes. With one look I knew exactly what she meant to say—“I’ll get my nails done, you go on the trek.”

The next morning I was up two hours before dawn to catch my bus to Base Camp. I met my guide for the day, a quick-witted New Zealander with the chapped lips of a mountain dweller, and the rest of my trekking crew, a multi-national group of about thirty. There was only one other American on the bus, a Minnesotan expatriate living in Australia. My guide fitted me with sturdier shoes and my crampons, sold me a hat and a pair of gloves for ten New Zealand dollars, and prepped me with cautionary tales of hikers gone astray. He boasted the forecast was in our favor for the day, but warned that completing the full Crossing was still not certain. As the sun rose over distant eastern hills, we saw clear skies over the mountain. Things looked promising, but we would have to wait until we reached the rim of the South Crater—the highest and most exposed point of the trek—before we would know if it was safe to continue. After promising to heed all warnings and directions, my boots were on the trail.

The first two hours were spent tramping along the frozen valley floor toward Mt. Ngauruhoe. This spectacular volcano is also known as Mt. Doom in the movie, The Lord of the Rings. It rises up from the valley to a height of 2,300 meters, and is presently covered in snow from the craggy peak to the base. It is inspiring. My fingers were frostbitten, but I couldn’t be deterred from capturing the mountain on my camera.

When we reached the base of Mt. Doom, we gathered as a group and took our direction for the next stage of the hike—Devil’s Staircase. This forty minute climb is as much a test of will as it is stamina. I suppose they are able to call it a staircase because of the stone steps carved out of the cliff by years of heavy-booted adventurers. The staircase belongs to the Devil for obvious reasons. I think the Irishman who had fallen in line behind me during the ascent must have exhausted every expletive he knew. His language certainly made the staircase owner proud.

From the top of the final step, we were able to look back upon the valley from which we came. The day was still clear, and you could nearly see to the ocean. In the distance, the ice and snow gave way to lush vegetation, and further beyond, groves of Redwood trees dotted the hilltops. Ahead of us now was the South Crater, a bowl-shaped piece of arid land left by the blast of Mt. Ngauruhoe two thousand years ago. It would take an hour to cross, and from its opposite rim we would determine whether or not the complete Crossing was in our future. Halfway across the crater, the ice became too thick to continue without the aid of crampons. Through previous sections of the trail, rocks and large stones had penetrated the ice, allowing for stability and traction. Now our footing was simply one expansive sheet of wind-frozen water.

For the first time in the day, I was forced to reckon with just how cold I was. My fingertips were unrecognizable beneath my gloves. My mouth was too numb to form words. And I thought with one more wind gust that the moisture running beneath my nose might harden to ice. The wind was strengthening now, and it pushed in front of it an ominous cloud—a cloud that very deliberately wrapped its gray fingers over the rim of the crater. Our blue sky was polluted.

I could sense anxiety from our guide. He attempted to keep the mood light with the same humor he’d been practicing all morning, but between jokes, I watched him study the clouds with a nervous eye. We continued to the top of the rim, until finally we were in the cloud. The wind blew the hardest now. It seemed to come from all directions at once. There was no way to put it at your back. We had reached the highest point of the trek, from where the Emerald Lakes are visible, but I couldn’t see more than ten feet before me. The cloud swirled about us, as we huddled like Emperor Penguins on a glacier. The wind picked up dry snow from the ice and sprayed it at us like sand. The choice was clear—we had to turn back.

There was a sliver of blue sky remaining on the horizon from where we had come. We descended the rim now with great purpose. I let myself imagine for a moment if I had been on the rim alone. Not needing any more spinal chills, I quickly diverted my thoughts and focused again on getting down to the crater below.

Interesting Intersection

There is an intersection in New Zealand where the Earth’s most natural wonder meets Mankind’s most shameless commercialism. It is here you will find the entryway to Hell’s Gate Geothermal Park and Mud Spa in Rotorua.

Suckers for a good gimmick, Jeannie and I fell hopelessly into the clutches of Hell’s Gate. The proprietors have somehow pried a piece of sacred land from the Maori (ancient residents of the area) and partitioned it into a thirty minute Disney-like walk of mud pools and sulphur springs. Despite the profit-making, the site is remarkable. The insides of the Earth are on display. Openings in the crust give way to boiling pools of liquid. Mud explodes into the sky in fits of fury. Pure white steam billows from behind rocks and trees, giving an otherworldly feel to the environment.

The walk was cold, so we were easily enticed to a soak in the mud spa. The brilliance of their ploy was now on full display. Neither of us can deny, the spa was enjoyable. So I allowed myself to look beyond the merchandising of Mother Nature, and let Jeannie smear hot mud on my face.

Road Trip!

Call everyone you know—Jeannie is camping! Okay, so our “tent” does have a six speed manual transmission in place of a zipper fly opening, but still, she is getting in touch with her National Geographic side. To be honest, our home for these seven days in New Zealand is nothing short of remarkable. At 2.7 meters tall (about 9 ft for those north of the hemisphere), our abode is classified as a 2-berth camper van, and is replete with fridge, dual stove top, dining table, double bed, flat screen television, DVD player, toilet, shower…everything but the kitchen sink—oh wait, there is a kitchen sink. So Jeannie’s not exactly eating grubs from the underbellies of mossy logs, but as a firm believer in baby steps, I am embracing every minute of this experience.

We became acquainted with Lau Lau, our affectionate moniker for the Ford Freedom diesel van, in Auckland on Tuesday morning. Kea Campers is the outfitter, and they have over delivered on our expectations to this point. A cheery gent, named John, picked us up from our airport hotel the morning after our arrival, and provided us with a free forty minute lift to the depot. A sturdy man with a crooked and easy grin, John used every minute of those forty to help us plan our weeklong itinerary. John has guided three-week trips across the country more than sixty times. I was his astute mentee, scribbling his wisdom in shorthand on the back of a white envelope. By the time we arrived at the depot we were proper Kiwis, ready explore the wonders of the North and South Islands.

What we weren’t ready for was driving a manual two-ton vehicle down the opposite side of the street. (Full disclosure for those who don’t know: I didn’t learn to drive a stick shift until last summer, and when I did, it certainly wasn’t with all traffic rules completely reversed!) And here’s a note to those who haven’t yet tried, changing gears with your left hand is an entirely different undertaking. I once spent two months brushing my teeth with my left hand (“just in case”), but I am far from ambidextrous. And yet, it is amazing what you can accomplish when you have no alternative—and an encouraging wife. Flustered, and captured in a moment of doubt, Jeannie fixed on me and confessed her trust in my ability, actually saying she believes there is nothing I cannot do. Never having felt quite so manly, suddenly I was confident, and away we went, bumping down the left hand side of the road, drawing honks from fellow Kiwis.

First Class to Fiji

The Travel Gods threw us our first jump ball. We arrived at the Honolulu airport two hours early for our dawn-break flight to Nadi, Fiji—a fortuitous layover location for our passage to Auckland. After twenty “Hawaiian minutes” in queue we learned our aircraft had been diverted to Samoa. I then learned that Samoan aircraft diversions rank highly among the things that make Jeannie squirm. Something about an airplane making an unexpected landing—even though I’m quite sure it arrived without trouble—on a South Pacific airstrip can be rather unnerving. Our stopover on the island nation was scheduled to last two hours, with a New Zealand bound flight departing in the early afternoon. We were derailed by the Samoa situation.

Presented with our first mishap, we looked at each other with adventurous smiles. Our nervous grins grew larger when the Air Pacific attendant informed us that flights leave for New Zealand daily—once daily, to be precise. And just like that, the potential for adding a 24th country to the itinerary was in our laps. So Jeannie, as is customary when presented with a challenge, took the wheel and determined to make our inaugural international day a bit more memorable. Three hours later, our plane arrived at the gate. As we descended the jetway, Jeannie dipped into her carry-on and produced a shiny tiara, beaded with plastic pink stones, and completed by a two-foot white veil—the merchandise of a new bride. When she dons it I’m not sure what shines more, the reflective heart-shaped center piece or the bared teeth beneath her upturned lips. The headdress screams, “Upgrade Me!” And naturally, that is exactly what happened.

The ensuing flight was most certainly the most delightful of my avian career. Larry, our Fijian attendant, provided service fit for royalty. Champagne, followed by coffee, coconut muffins, tropical fruit, yogurt, omelets, French toast, champagne, chicken sausage, hash browns, cookies, tea, Cassava snacks, guava juice, and finally champagne—all while the vast expanse of the South Pacific passed underneath, dotted by the kind of clouds that make a mariner rejoice in equatorial weather.

When we expressed our gratitude and offered countless vinakas (Fijian for “thank you”), Larry informed us that of the eight first class chairs, five had been booked for catering. Only three passengers showed up, leaving all of the trimmings for two more fortunate souls. He smiled, pointed to the sky, and said, “somebody’s watching.” I looked at Jeannie, who said, “I wonder who that is…” with the smiling eyes of a knowing wife.

Travel Tips: Oahu

Climb Diamond Head (the view of Waikiki is spectacular), Sip a sunset Mai Tai at the Banyan Court on the waterfront at the Westin Ala Moana Surfrider, Eat the fish tacos at Duke’s, Rent a paddle board at the Hilton Hawaiian Village Lagoon (it’s easier than it looks), Bodysurf at Sandy Beach Park (the break that Obama made famous on his recent vacation), Visit the Dole Plantation on Hwy 99 en route to the North Shore (slurp a pineapple smoothie in the garden), Order the half-plate Shrimp Scampi and half-plate Lemon and Butter Shrimp at Giovanni’s Shrimp Truck in Hale’iwa (it looks scary—you have to trust me), Scoot by Waimea Bay Beach if the lot is full (it’s not worth messing with parking), Go one mile north just passed Pukukea and have an even more gorgeous beach to yourself, Stop for the Shave Ice in Historic Hale’iwa Town (make sure to get ice cream in the bottom, and try the Azuki beans), Hula down to the nightly Luau at Paradise Cove (though not the most authentic of experiences, it is fun and worth the spend—you’ll feel good about a little culture to balance your beach and Mai Tai splurge).

Foreign Flavor--Just a Pinch

If we are learning to ride a bike, Hawai'i is our set of training wheels. That which is different and exotic is what stirs the traveler’s appetite, and our time on the island has certainly whetted our pallets. The soft feeling of the air against your face, the smell of brilliant tropical flowers growing freely against the sidewalk, the hypnotic strum of a ukulele—these are the elements that awaken you to the fact you are not at home. Yet in the distance, an American flag waives above the still blue waters of Pearl Harbor.

The comforts, the ease of access, the freely spoken conversations—we are not taking them for granted now. We know that in the coming days our ability to connect to our world, as we know it, will be altered. But our week here has not been entirely without challenges.

On Wednesday, we stopped briefly for lunch in a small teriyaki shop, hoping to take culinary advantage of the strong Japanese influences in Oahu. Jeannie (always knowing exactly what she wants) asked the cashier for white chicken breast meat with her rice bowl. The unsettled employee crossed her brows and replied with the catch-all Hawaiian phrase—“ehh?!” This response is less a word than it is a brisk exhalation of air. It also serves as an indication to move on. Not grasping her tone, Jeannie asked again. This time the cashier replied with a dismissive, “yeah,” and collected our money. Our teriyaki bowls arrived on the counter a moment later, the chicken grizzled and striated. I took great delight as I crunched it between my teeth and dreamt of ordering lunch seven weeks down the road in Beijing.

Jeannie and I are enjoying the process of getting to know each other as travelers. Of course, in our time together we have mastered the domestic shuffle across the states, and we’ve been south of the border more than once. But the tone in these first days on the road is different. We both understand we are each other’s homes. For the next four months we belong to the world, and we belong to each other. We are each other’s keepers. We are learning to make concessions for the greater good of the trip and for our own individual experiences. We will see the world from the same footprints, but through different eyes. We are committed to embracing this fact.

Vagabonding

Just as the wedding decompression commences, the globetrotting exhilaration begins. Such is the pace we have set for our lives. And neither of us would change a thing.

It has been years since I have felt the heart palpitations that can be induced only by the anticipation of extreme travel. The spirit of the vagabond has begun to permeate my being. It brings entirely unique feelings of joy, enthusiasm, and anxiety. My eyes are ready to see, my ears ready to listen.

I am filled with the energy of a child on the first day of school. I have jitters at the thought of meeting new people and making first impressions. I am prepared to learn and accept my new lessons. I am anxious about getting lost, but thrilled to rediscover our way. I am now fully aware of that feeling you get when you know you are on the edge of something big—something that will change your life and make you new.

This time in Hawaii will be a balance of honeymooning and housekeeping. We are newlyweds, and are enjoying the quiet bliss of a love changed by our vows. We are also only days away from crossing the distinct line of vacationers to vagabonds. There is much to do before we are off the American grid.