-New Zealand = NZ
-N = En
-Z = Zed (no kidding--that's how they say it here)
-Ergo, En Zed = New Zealand (I'm reminded of the line in The West Wing when Josh believes the phrase "post hoc, ergo propter hoc" means "after hoc, therefore something else hoc." God I love that show.
It was a grey and balmy afternoon when my friend Sara Davis and I landed in Christchurch, New Zealand (South Island), sleepy, starving, and ill-prepared to handle the unusually intense customs procedures that greeted us at the international arrivals hall. Evidently we were not seen as a threat to national security, though, and we caught our shuttle to Omega Car Rentals without a hitch. The driver might be my new favorite person in the entire world--when he saw "Pike Place Market" stenciled onto my canvas bag, he proceeded to rant about how the Pike Place doughnut holes are the best in the world. Why yes, sir. Yes they are.
We successfully navigated our way to our hostel with the use of three maps--each providing a close-up of a different region of the city--and only a handful of hasty U-turns). The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the charming Little England ambiance of Christchurch. Pale cobblestones lined outdoor mall avenues, and the Avon River snaked its way under bridge upon European bridge, past willows and manicured gardens with fountains and white-headed ducks that are not actually called white-headed ducks, but that's what I'm going with since I'm not up on the technicalities of New Zealand's native bird species.
After a late night (for no particular reason), we had an early morning: up at 6:00 for a 4.5-hour drive across the narrow girth of the island to the east coast town of Westport. Though this was where we ate and slept, it was not by any means our destination. The local cafe won the town some endearment points in my book for offering delicious homemade thai pumpkin soup as the day's lunch special, but aside from that, and the fact that the grocery store was called New World, and the four minutes of radio reception we were able to pick up along the main drag, Westport was not quite where the action was. Oh no. The "action" lay about 20 kilometers south, in the booming metropolis of Charleston: population 150 (plus about 70 sheep). It was here that we began our "Underworld Rafting Adventure," or what Sara fondly refers to as "Underwater Rafting" because "underwater is a much more common word."
It began on a bus. I feel inclined to mention this because it was on this ten-minute bus ride that we experienced the magical phenomenon about which I had been dreaming for weeks prior to the trip: we were forced to yield on the one-laned muddy gravel road for a herd of sheep. A herd, I tell you. Thousands. And by thousands, I mean probably twenty. It was like watching an army amass. Not that I've ever seen an army amass, but I imagine it would look a lot like twenty sheep barreling down the road. So anyway, the sheep passed (sadly), and the bus took us to this adorable train named Dorothy. We were taken on a slow ride along the eastern flank of the Nile River and through a primeval forest with giant tree ferns that made me feel like I had suddenly been transported to the set of "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves." You know, I've never really thought about it, but that's an incredibly disturbing film concept.
We suited up--wetsuits, socks, rubber-soled booties, wetsuit jackets, life jackets, webbed flipper gloves, and hard hats with headlamps--grabbed an inner-tube, and trekked up 119 wooden steps to the mouth of the Nile River Cave. I'd never been inside a cave before, and I didn't know how my evil claustrophobic alter-ego would handle the darkness and cramped quarters, but it was actually huge, and I maintained complete control of all of my many conflicting identities. There were only a handful of times when we had to bend down significantly to fit underneath the low-hanging ceiling, and about half of those times, little vertically challenged Sara didn't have to bend at all. We explored the two upper levels of the cave which were teeming with stalactites and stalagmites and this incredible giraffe-pattern that seemed to be wallpapered to the arching limestone walls. At the third and lowest level--the level of the "underwater" river--we climbed onto our inner-tubes, turned off our lights, slipped on our webbed glove paddles, and tilted our heads back to see millions of glowworms dangling in masses from the ceiling. It was one of the most unreal, breathtaking moments of my life.
The next morning we let ourselves sleep in until 6:30 before heading off for another 4+ hours of southward coastal driving. Our one major stop for the day was at the Pancake Rocks on Dolomite Point in Punakaiki National Park. (You can imagine the fun we had butchering the names of all these places. At one point we passed Lake Pukaki, and because we'd been wrong with the pronunciation of practically every other location in the country, we decided on "poo-cocky." I have no idea if we were remotely close). The rocks were awesome--heavily eroded limestone that formed layers when the sea pushed through a series of vertical blowholes during high tide. Sara and I agreed that the spectacle would have been greatly improved with some high-quality Vermont maple syrup, but I suppose they were okay without it.
Continuing our drive toward Haast, we made a quick pit-stop at the two major glaciers--Franz Josef and Fox--that each lead guided tours up through the ice. I had wanted to climb one, but Sara wasn't too keen on the idea. We settled on looking at them, which wasn't quite as exhilarating, but a heck of a lot less cold. As we approached our car to leave, we got almost to the driver's side door when we noticed a movement inside the vehicle. Then we noticed a hand. And a face. And then Sara looked down the parking lot and noticed our car. If anything, this trip cemented the utter awkwardness that is my existence. To make things worse (because really, if you've already embarrassed yourself, why not rub it in?), I pulled Sara away from this other person's car with the other person inside it and said--a little too loudly--"Sara, that's not ours. Walk away. Walk away fast." I'm frequently alarmed by the magnitude of my own awkwardness.
And since we're on the topic of idiotic Olivia decisions, I find it fitting to include my suggestion that evening of driving five minutes from our hostel in Haast--our Haastel, as we called it--to the beach to each white chocolate Tim Tams (heavenly biscuits) and watch the sunset. About the only part of that plan that was successfully executed was the setting of the sun. I hadn't anticipated the sub-zero hypothermic winds. The sheep didn't appear ruffled, so I figured it was no big deal. I think I took about an hour to thaw, and that was after weathering the cold for just under three minutes. Add to that the crazy showering system at the Haastel that required $0.50 for seven minutes of hot water, and after inserting my coin into the box and turning on the tap, I quickly realized that no hot water was going to be released from that showerhead any time soon. And all I wanted was for the blood to return to my digits. It eventually did. The next morning.
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