Aotearoa – My Enduring Love of the Long White Cloud

I am sometimes asked which of the lands I’ve visited do I “love the most.” That’s a tough question. My affections are divided among many candidates, and no simple answer is possible. I will begin answering this question by posing a question of my own to you: “What is your definition of love?” Is love an exciting, passionate fling with someone or something beautiful, mystical, and unpredictable that you can never forget, or a stable relationship with a kind and reliable partner who sees you through good times and bad?

For me, the Dolomite mountains in northern Italy have played the role of the alluring mistress. They consist of multi-colored coral reefs thrust up from the darkness of the past into the light of the present moment and then sculpted into curious landscapes of weathered hoodoos and twisted plateaus. They are bewitching, provocative, and seductive. I will never forget the fun times I spent there. Yes, I’ve had brief love affairs with other exotic lands: Japan, Morocco, South Africa, and Namibia, to name a few, but none have affected me as strongly or as permanently as the Dolomites.

I would not, however, want to live there. Living comfortably from day to day requires a certain amount of predictability and compromise. The Dolomites constantly surprised and tested me. They provided me with an almost religious level of ecstasy that was impossible for me to maintain over more than a few days at a time. Such passion is exhausting, particularly for an old man. In contrast, Aotearoa (New Zealand) offered me more permanent, mundane, and valuable experiences similar to those found in a successful marriage that could be maintained over the long term. I would settle down with Aotearoa in a heart-beat if I could afford her inflated housing prices. Although I continue to seek out and mingle with other exotic and provocative destinations, I keep wanting to return to New Zealand. I have deserted and drifted back to Aotearoa three times since I first met her in 1991, and despite my fickleness, she always receives me warmly. Once the world becomes safe again, I will return to her, God willing.

On the surface, it is easy to see why I find New Zealand an easy place to feel at home. Everyone speaks English! Unlike Scottish, Irish, or Indian dialects, the English New Zealanders speak contains no heavy accent that we Americans have to reconstruct to understand what they are saying. I can easily access American movies, music, and fast food chains if I choose while avoiding the agita, violence, and hostility that I often experience in the United States.

Like any former helpmate one hasn’t seen in a while, Aotearoa has changed quite a bit since the first time I met her. In 1991 I took a train from Christchurch south to Dunedin that followed the coast. For some reason, the train stopped near Omaru and let everyone off to walk on the beach next to the tracks for about a half-hour. Oddly enough, the Christchurch-Dunedin train line no longer operated when I returned to New Zealand in 2005. I say “oddly” because a train line continued to operate from Christchurch northwards even though it passed through no cities as large as Dunedin.

I don’t remember much about Dunedin except that it was raining, and I cashed some travelers checks there. ATMs make traveling a lot simpler than it was back then. I spent only one night in Dunedin and took a bus early the next morning for unforgettable Queenstown. Queenstown was then, as it is today, the adventure capital of New Zealand. Back in 1991, however, the adventures were in their infancy. A.J. Hackett, the man who supposedly invented bungy jumping, ran a tavern in Queenstown where for $25, you could purchase a bungy jumping experience that consisted of a shot of whisky before you left for the Bungy bridge, a ride in an old van out to the bridge, the jump, a ride back, and a tee-shirt proclaiming your accomplishment.

When I returned in 2005, much had changed. A.J. Hackett’s tavern had disappeared, and a large, modern complex and viewing area had been built on the end of the bridge.

Many other changes had occurred between my 1991 and 2005 visits.

 1991 Queenstown was just beginning to become sophisticated. Its only movie theater was located in an old church where I sat in a pew to watch “Edward Scissorhands.” By 2005 a multiplex theater sat on a pedestrian mall next to glitzy shops selling status brands. My sophistication matched Queenstown’s in 1991. I had heard of curry before arriving in Queenstown but thought it was a condiment. I learned the truth about curry when I bought my first one from a hole-in-the-wall stand the first night I arrived. It was delicious: spicy, of course, and combined chicken and pineapple so well that they seemed made for each other. This, of course, is not true, but it certainly felt like it was at the time. Otherwise, in 1991, Aotearoa’s cooking usually left much to be desired. I recall that you could buy sushi back then, but it consisted of only two kinds: “Ebi”  which had a tiny shrimp on top, and “Maguro,” which, I kid you not, had tuna salad on top. Much of Aotearoa’s cuisine back then had been borrowed from Great Britain. There was lots of lamb, roast beef, potatoes, and blood pudding. Her gastronomical limitations had disappeared by my third visit in 2016. Outside of Auckland, I regularly ate at a Japanese restaurant that served every type of sushi you can buy here in the United States and washed it down with a Japanese soft drink, Kelpa, made from seaweed. There were also Korean, Thai, Indonesian, and even Turkish restaurants, and I never had to wade my way through blood pudding again. Aotearoa had clearly become an interesting cook while I had been away.

During my first (1991) visit to Queenstown, I rented a mountain bike and pedaled the 15 miles out to Arrowtown, the site of New Zealand’s 1862 gold-rush. Its population had decreased significantly from the 7000 person peak of its heyday, though glimmers of those busy times could still be seen in its few remaining businesses and buildings.

In 2005 I took a bus out to Arrowtown and then set off to a real ghost town (Macetown) that was moldering away up in the hills beyond. I followed the Arrow River for about 5 hours, often having to wade from one side to the other. In one of the scenes from “The Lord of the Rings,” the bad guys galloped their horses across this river just outside Arrowtown. There was some sort of cable with a bucket that could take me across the river near there,  but the waist-deep water was warm, so I put my backpack on my head and wallowed across instead.

I crossed the Arrow River 22 times before I eventually reached what was left of Macetown. Most of the wooden buildings were gone, but a few stone buildings were left. The trail in was long and rough. I wondered how people got windows and other building materials in there. At its peak, Macetown sported a store, a bakery, and 300 residents.

By 1921 there was only one resident left, who promptly declared himself Macetown’s mayor.

I hadn’t planned my hike to Macetown very thoroughly. I didn’t research how long the hike would take. By the time I walked in and had taken some pictures, it was 5:30 p.m. I knew it would be dark long before I reached Arrowtown. I put my camera in my backpack and started jogging back the way I came. I started thinking about the rock-filled trail back and how difficult it would be to navigate in the dark. The many crossings of the Arrow river also worried me. I jogged a little faster. After about 20 minutes, I heard a roar behind me. It came from an old Toyota Land Cruiser with a snorkel exhaust. I put out my thumb, and the Toyota slid to a stop. The driver pointed to the back seat, which I climbed into next to a young hunting dog. “You’re lucky we came along.”

“Yes,” I said. I was afraid I’d be on the trail, long after dark.”

The trail was narrow in some places with boulders that the Toyota would have to thread its way around.

“We still might not make it before dark.”

“Don’t worry,” said the driver. “I know a shortcut that will get you into town in no time at all. There’s only one fast way out of here, and that’s down the river”.

He then fiddled with some buttons that locked up the rear axle and then thundered down an embankment into the river. Water splashed up over the hood onto the windshield. He turned on the windshield wipers and punched the accelerator to the floor. We were lurching from side to side as we sped over the slippery river rocks, the engine was thundering, and the dog next to me was barking as his tail waved back and forth almost in time with the wipers. In some places, the water was so deep it began to seep in through the door sills. He was right. It didn’t take long for us to roll out of the river and onto a dirt road just outside Arrowtown. I thanked him and headed to the bus stop where I caught the last bus into Queenstown.

Gold was also discovered closer to Queenstown on the Shotover River. At one point, miners built a huge dam to block up the river so they could search for gold in the dried-up river bed. The river has been long since flooded, and jet boars now scream over old mining claims. Tourists can also squirm into wet suits and boogie board down the river. I engaged in neither activity during the times I stayed in Queenstown. I thought both activities cost more than they were worth doing.

When I left Queenstown in 1991 and again in 2005, I took a route running up the South Island’s west coast.  Both times I spent a couple of nights in the small village of Fox Glacier. Even New Zealanders consider the South Island’s west coast residents independent and “different.” I became aware of these qualities when I left my room for dinner on a Sunday evening. All bars across New Zealand were supposed to be closed on Sundays. When I entered the dining room/bar, I found the window shades pulled down, the front door locked, and the bar packed with drinkers. Washing down some fried eel with a large beer, the local police Sargent was chatting with his mates. The Sunday operation was a community secret that no one was going to reveal. I ran into similar situations elsewhere on the West coast. It didn’t take me long to become part of the secret when I ordered a beer with my dinner. I did find the seating arrangements a bit odd, however. Only men sat at the bar and at a few side tables, while the women all sat at other tables. There were no couples. I surmised that if there was any young love in Fox Glacier, it decided to remain home rather than “get the hell out of this god damned house and away from you.”

The village of Fox Glacier is a pretty interesting place. It contains a glow-worm trail which you can explore at night. The glow-worms saturate a muddy bank, and they immediately turn off when you clap your hands. They then slowly blink back on, one after the other. Fox Glacier also possesses, you got it, the Fox Glacier. In 1991 I booked a tour to climb the glacier.

Although I saw some rather odd behavior from the  South Island’s west coast inhabitants from time to time, their independence and self-reliance also produced some examples that I found remarkably admirable. When I got on the bus to leave Fox Glacier, a tiny girl of around 5 years old got on ahead of me. She paid the driver and sat down on the seat across from him. She then amiably chatted with him throughout the trip. She debarked the bus several hours later when we reached Greymouth. Neither the driver nor any of the passengers seemed the least bit surprised by such a little girl traveling so far by herself. Developing independence early is obviously taken for granted by the denizens of the South Island’s west coast.

In 1991 I took the Tranz Alpine Express across the Southern Alps to Christchurch. I’m not going to describe the train trip because this rail line exists primarily for tourists’ entertainment, and I am sure there are already thousands of illustrated posts sitting on the internet anxiously waiting for you to visit. In 2005 I took a bus from Greymouth to Murchison and later on to Nelson’s Abel Tasman Park, which I will discuss later. Christchurch deserves a much fuller description. It formed the hub for my South Island excursions. I stayed there twice during my 1991 trip and twice in 2005. It evokes a British university town’s ambiance with its University of Canterbury (where I stayed for 2 weeks in 2005) and the University of Lincoln. It is also called “the garden city” for its numerous English gardens and parks.

Many, if not most of the supply flights to and from Antarctica leave from an airfield in Christchurch. Sitting next to the airfield is the International Antarctic Center, a museum that displays Antarctica’s history and current activities. There are some hands-on displays as well as an experience that some, though not all of you, might want to undertake when you visit. You first bundle up in a heavy parka and enter a refrigerated room. Then fans are turned on so that you can experience the sub-zero wind chill of Antarctica. I, for one, think I benefited from the experience. Although I like to explore distant lands, I’ve crossed Antarctica off my bucket list.

About a 50-mile drive from Christchurch, the little village of Akaroa skirts a deep blue bay on the Banks Peninsula. A huge extinct volcano formed the peninsula, and its collapsed caldera formed the bay beside Akaroa. Akaroa was originally a French colony, but the colony’s sponsor had to return to France for supplies after he dropped off his colonists. By the time he got back, the Maori and the British had signed the Treaty of Waitangi, making everyone living in New Zealand British subjects. The French departed soon after.

The countryside in and around Akaroa is beautiful and provides many hiking trails for those who want a decent workout.

If you decide to visit Akaroa, I suggest you take the route from Christchurch along the south coast of the Banks Peninsula. At a spot your map might label “Birding’s Flat,” which lies just before where the road begins to go up and over the side of the old volcano, you will find an extraordinary pebble beach that is definitely worth a stop. It is covered with thousands of colorful agates that have been tumbled smooth by streams running off the volcano and the ocean’s waves. You can find gem sized pebbles of quartz, jasper, and greenstone there. I am told that Aotearoa gives away her baubles to whoever seeks them at several other locations along her oceanic skirts. I am in no position to criticize her liberality.

In 2005 rather than go directly from Greymouth over the Southern Alps to Christchurch, I took a bus first to Murchison and then on to Nelson. Murchison has had its share of tragedy, which its little museum documents fully. The worst disaster was a 7.3 magnitude earthquake that killed 17 people and shook most of Murchison’s houses off their foundations. I hadn’t realized how high Murchison’s valley was while I was there, but it became apparent when I later took a bus on to Nelson the next day. The bus descended mile after mile around hairpin turns until it finally reached the rolling hills outside Nelson.

Nelson is a wonderful place where I think I could settle down for my final years. It has a fine local art museum, workshops where you can learn bone carving and other crafts, organic restaurants, and a thriving live music scene. However, its best feature is its proximity to the Abel Tasman National Park, a narrow strip of coastline that continues for over 50 kilometers. I spent three nights camping in the park while walking from one end to another. There’s not room enough here for me to describe all my adventures in the park, but if you ever run into me, buy me a beer, and I’ll chew your ear off for a couple of hours.  However, I will post some pictures below to give you an idea of what the park was like.

After a week, I left Nelson for Blenheim, the largest city in the Marlboro wine-growing region. I rented a bike and engaged in wine tasting at a dozen vineyards. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of this area because, in 2005, I was using a medium format camera that was too large for me to carry and pedal a bike at the same time. That’s too bad since a few of the vineyards were rather photogenic.

A few days later, I traveled down the coast to Kaikoura, whose recent claim to fame occurred in 2016 when a massive 7.8 earthquake destroyed much of the town and cut off its land access with the rest of the country. I’m glad I visited it in happier times. A bottomless ocean trench came in very close to shore, making it one of New Zealand’s best whale-watching spots.

In 2005 I headed south to Christchurch, where I flew home. The first time I traveled to New Zealand (1991), I was heading in the opposite direction. I took a bud from Christchurch to Picton on the northern tip of the South Island. Somehow I possessed a “free’ ticket to Wellington on New Zealand’s North Island. I can’t remember how I came by it. It might have been part of a rail/bus pass package, or it might have been included in my air ticket to New Zealand. What mattered then was that I had to get to the North Island that day to connect with the next leg on an around the pacific plane ticket.

Picton was barely a spot on the map, and the airport was only two steps up from being a grassy field. I rushed from the bus to arrive in time to catch my flight, but then sat in the tiny waiting room for 2 hours. Finally, the pilot arrived and announced that gale-force winds were pouring through the strait between the North and South Islands and that if they continued, he would have to cancel the flight.

My heart sank. Wellington, where I would land on the other side of the strait, was hundreds of kilometers from Auckland, where I was supposed to depart for the next leg of my journey.  If I didn’t leave the South Island today, I didn’t think I’d have enough time to make my morning flight out of Auckland. My “Around the Pacific” ticket was purchased through a “bucket shop” and was non-refundable, nor could it be modified. Buying a regular ticket to make my way home would cost a lot more money than I had at the time. Also, I didn’t know where I would stay overnight in little Picton. Naturally, I was willing to take my chances and eagerly boarded the plane. So did the other four passengers. We took off. At first, everything seemed fine. We were cruising along smoothly: the landscape below green and cheerful, and the sky bright blue. Then, five minutes after we reached the ocean, the plane began to lurch and shudder. The plane’s engine sporadically hummed and loudly cleared its throat. As the plane bounced up and down, the seat belt above my lap and the seat below took turns slamming into me. Luggage moved around restlessly under the seats. A brother and sister of about 14 or 15 years of age reached across the aisle in front of me to hold hands and began praying. I took comfort by reminding myself that I’d rather die than run out of money on the other side of the world. That thought wasn’t able to fully overshadow my natural desire to survive.  A strong wind shear blew across Wellington’s airport’s tarmac as we came in for a landing. The wind was blowing the plane sideways and lifting one wing above the other. I watched the wing outside my window come within one foot of hitting the ground. Somehow the pilot righted the plane, and we landed all in one piece. Despite what you might have heard from her friends, this was the first and last time that Aotearoa seemed to want to kill me. Whatever differences we may have had during this first trip had been sorted out when I returned in2005.  I

took a night bus from Wellington to Auckland and made it to the Auckland airport that morning for my flight’s next leg.

2015

I returned to New Zealand in 2015. Since I had already explored most of the South Island during my two earlier visits, I decided to concentrate on the North Island during this visit. I rented an apartment in Howick, a suburb of Auckland, for the winter and used it as my base as I took short trips around the North Island. I packed no hammock-tent or sleeping bag on this trip because my old bones pled for more comfortable sleeping arrangements. (Growing old is an unfortunate and humbling experience). Howick is a great base for exploring the North Island. Nearby, (one mile), hydrofoil ferries can take you quickly into Auckland or out to Waiheke Island. Howick contains numerous restaurants, bars, coffee shops, and stores that will make anyone’s stay there very comfortable. My favorite spot in Howick was a tapas bar where I would reminisce about Sweden with the beautiful Swedish bartender who was temporarily staying with her aunt and uncle in Howick. Yes, Howick could be that cosmopolitan while remaining a bit of a backwater.

The first time I visited Auckland from my base in Howick, Christmas decorations were still hanging everywhere. There might not have been any possibility for a white Christmas in Auckland, but its decorations certainly made the city feel full of the Christmas spirit.

Auckland offered many fine cultural activities. The Auckland City Art Gallery curated some fine exhibitions of modern and more traditional art. It also operated a nice coffee shop overlooking the street in front of the museum from where I

watched some young people shoot a movie one afternoon.

Shakespeare’s “The Tempest” was also playing in a pop-up theater while I was in New Zealand.

I didn’t travel into Auckland very often, however, because Howick was itself so damned interesting. It hosted an open-air heritage museum that showcased pioneer life in early New Zealand.

There were also plenty of jogging paths around Howick and a lot of great photo opportunities.

Howick’s proximity to the ferry terminal also benefited from quick and easy access to Waiheke island. Waiheke sports many beaches, top-end restaurants, and wineries where Auckland residents congregate on weekends. While the island hosts many vacation homes, it is close enough to Auckland for some to live there permanently and take the ferry to Auckland for work. There are 25 wineries on the island. Though I lived in Howick for three months, I admit that I kept returning to the same two or three wineries because some vineyards were not open to the public, and some could only be reached by car.

My favorite winery was Stonyridge Estate, where people would gather to listen to a DJ or live music on Sunday afternoons. There was a bus stop nearby, and the long driveway into the estate was a pleasant walk through sun drenched arbors. Once there, I would order a glass of the estate’s champagne, sit on the lawn, listen to the music, and delight in the moment.

If I felt more active and thirsty for craft beer, the Wild on Waiheke beer garden just down the road offered archery, horseshoe throwing, some sort of electronic skeet shooting, and delicious pizza. I think  Wild on Waiheke also made their own wine, but the beer was so good that I never sampled it.

After a month of orienting myself to Howick, Auckland, and Waiheke, I started to explore other spots on the North Island. First, I traveled to Gisbourne, a port town that once supported a canning industry but today serves as a marketplace for the surrounding farms and a base for lumber export. It also supported an excellent historical museum where I learned about the now-defunct canning industry and ancient Maori culture. The city was also the location of another rather unusual museum (?). It called itself a “technology museum,” but it resembled a huge partially organized junkyard.  There were buildings full of rusting vehicles, farm machinery, and even old broken computers. It was a mess but was also one of the most fascinating places I’ve ever spent a half-day rummaging through “the exhibits” and photographing them.

On my way to Gisbourne, my bus passed within a few dozen miles of the Lord of the Rings Hobbiton set. In case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t visit the set. A day tour from Auckland cost almost $200, and the experience wouldn’t worth the price. I was told that the set would be packed with tourists once I got there, and it would be difficult to get a clean shot of the Hobbit abodes. An earlier tour could get me on the set before the regular tour buses arrived, but this early access would cost a couple hundred dollars more.  I thought, why bother when my photos would probably be duplicating the tens of thousands of photos already taken there. However, I did  tap into a photographic goldmine when I decided to travel to Napier for its “Art Deco Days.” In 1931 a strong earthquake struck Napier and the surrounding Hawke’s Bay region. 256 people died in the quake. (At this point, I have to admit that earthquakes are the one continuing drawback to living with New Zealand). Art deco was popular when the earthquake hit, and since most of the town was destroyed by the earthquake, most of the town was rebuilt in the art deco style. Today Napier contains the largest concentration of Art Deco buildings in the world. Once a year, the locals dress up in 1930’s costumes to celebrate “Art Deco Days.” The streets are filled with antique autos, 1930’s music, and dance routines. It was all a great deal of fun, interrupted by a few thoughtful moments, such as when I allowed myself to consider the transient nature of life while listening to an 80-year-old woman in period dress play “As Time Goes By” on a grand piano in the town’s historical museum.

I also visited Taupo, which conveniently enough lies at one end of Lake Taupo. Taupo is the North Island’s answer to the South Island’s Queenstown. It is the center of the North Island’s hiking, kayaking, mountain biking, para-sailing, and other outdoor sporting activities. Lake Taupo is New Zealand’s largest lake covering 616 square kilometers. The area is highly volcanic, with several active volcanos spouting off steam in the Tongariro National Park a few miles south of the lake. The lake itself is the flooded caldera of a huge ancient volcano. The lake’s water is generally cold, but there are a few beaches where hot water bubbles up from volcanic seams below. While the area’s natural beauty would normally inspire my photography, I found the dining room made from an old airliner at the local McDonald’s restaurant, the most surprising site in or around Taupo.

After living with Aotearoa’s beauty and hospitality for three months in 2015, I felt ready to make a home there. Buying a house would be costly, but building a new future is always costly. However, after I returned to my farm in upstate New York, my old doubts and fears about making choices that I could not easily unwind overwhelmed me. What if there were prettier destinations that I haven’t visited yet. Did Aotearoa really suit and complete me? I admit, she offers a healthy, tasteful, interesting life, but she can also throw earthquake, and volcanic eruption fits when you least expect them! Such erratic behavior could wipe out whatever pleasantly stable retirement life I was seeking. No. though I still love Aotearoa dearly, though I will certainly return to her,  I’ve decided to continue searching the world’s other possible havens where my future happiness may be shyly hiding.  I will search for perfection where I have always searched for it: “on my road less taken.”