By Thom and Alida
Part 1
PART 1 PART 2 PART 3
Adventures in Kiwi Land
By Thom and Alida
Part 1
PART 1 PART 2
PART 3
PART1
Greetings from New Zealand!! We are very excited to be here and wanted to share our first week of adventure with absolutely everyone. However, it's pretty expensive to call all of you, so we decided the best way was to put it all down and just fire off a few copies of mail to all the friends and family. Most of what you'll read is taken out of the journal Thom and I started for this trip. (Thanks Katharine for the journal and the idea!) The rest has just come from our memory as we sat down to start this letter to you. We hope this finds each of you well and keeping warm way up there!
December
19, 1998
(Alida narrating)
The International terminal in Los Angles is very interesting. After walking through the typical domestic terminal and ending up here, I almost feel as though I've left the country already without even getting on the plane. Everyone surrounding us speaks little English and its very loud and chaotic. Where normally smoking is prohibited in all airports that I've ever been in, the International Wing is quite tolerant and in parts, quite smoky. On noting this, I remembered someone saying to me, Can you imagine telling a Frenchman he cant smoke?
Business class is very nice and the plane is simply the largest I have ever been in. Two stories! We are directed to our seats and made quite comfortable by the personable Australian flight attendants. There is a couple of crying babies - one right in front of us. I hope he wont cry for long. We have our own little TVs that come up from the armrest and a multitude of movies to choose from. Free drinks. Yet I'm still having a hard time with the fact that I'll be populating this chair, even with all its comforts, for the next 15 hours.
| The great plane begins to move down the runway. Here we go. It seems to run
forever without gaining any speed, lumbering under its own hugeness. Eventually, we ease into the sky and I see
Los Angeles growing small. I sit back and relax. Mmmm
bye bye Los Angeles. I snap back up in my seat. I press
my face violently to the window just in time to see my country disappearing behind the wing of the ridiculously
large tin can we're in. I panic. I am suddenly remembering the first time a friend asked me to go skydiving with them. Skydiving? Sure! I say confidently, not realizing just what I was agreeing to. The date was set for about a month from then and I occasionally thought ahead to the day I would be jumping out of the sky. Never with apprehension, simply with a dull curiosity as if it were really someone else jumping instead of me. Until I got in the plane with a parachute and jump instructor on my back that is. As we reach 14,000 feet in the small gutted plane, Metallica blaring unsettlingly in the background, the door is opened and people begin hurtling themselves out into the thin atmosphere. What have I done!? I feel similar to that now, seeing the good old USA slipping away from my sight. Perhaps the comfort is this like jumping out of that plane, I had reached a point of no return and knew I had to go on. Now, I must continue to New Zealand, and though it may shock or scare me, I know it will at least exhilarate me. |
|
Hour
12:
We've been sleeping off and on. We have set our watches to Kiwi time and its 4:00 am in the morning, Monday morning. It's still dark and there's nothing interesting out the window yet. I'm reaching my airplane tolerance threshold swiftly with no relief in site. I feel as though I'm in a desert with the horrid recycled air ceaselessly filling my lungs. I bet myself I could breath static electricity if I try hard enough.
They begin serving breakfast and I get up to brush my teeth and regain some
normality in my strange airplane encased life. The small bathroom always fills me with dread as I imagine bumping
my head and smacking my elbows into everything around me. I can only guess what it must be like for Thom something
out of Gulliver's Travels I'm sure. I make it through the now stunted morning ritual and back into my prison chair.
Thom is perky and I hate him. 
"Isn't
this great?" he says smiling. I slump down and fold my arms in response.
Breakfast is poached fruit and a broiled tomato. I opt for just the coffee, which for some reason seems to disturb
the flight attendant. "Are you sure?" she asks for the third time as though I was committing some crime
by not indulging in strangely cooked fruit for breakfast. Thom notes my mood and procures me a second cup of coffee
without even checking. I gratefully drink this and begin to feel human.
The sun is coming up and through the clouds I can see vast areas of ocean. My excitement is growing now as tiny islands begin appearing complete with contrasting white rings around them, signifying the white sand beaches I'm sure are there. I imagine myself lying under a palm tree on one particular island. Warm, (not recycled) air, the sun is beating down, cool drink in my hand, soft whooshing of the ocean, ahh I am suddenly yanked from my reverie by a basket of toast and muffins thrust in my face and accompanied by the words "more bakeries?" loudly chirped. I fight down the mean, static-breathing dragon that flares up within me and pleasantly decline.
Auckland:
December 21st 
We are now on final descent. The land is green and it appears that we've arrived at a giant golf course. We gather our personal belongings (as opposed to our impersonal ones) and file off the plane. We move with the herd towards Customs where we are supposed to declare all sorts of things including any food items. I am nervous and for some unknown reason, vaguely guilty. I have gum, Lifesavers and a bag of trail mix. I humbly present the offending food to the Customs worker, and to my surprise, he laughs.
"No need!" he smiles waving me through.
Next our passports are checked. Again, I feel a certain sense of guilt as though they'll take one look at my passport, and say "Just a moment Ma'am", and turn and walk away. After a whispered conversation with the security guard he'll come back and I'll suddenly find myself surrounded by dogs and guns and will discover that I look amazingly like a foreign spy they've been trying to apprehend for years.
Instead, the passport agent is a plump woman, Maori (the indigenous Polynesian
people to the area), and very friendly. She takes our passports,
stamps each one and says pleasantly, "Enjoy your stay".
After about 45 minutes we escape the baggage area with no further trauma and Olivier Duhammel, who is Thom's new boss, is waiting for us upstairs. I am actually relieved to hear the soft French accent because I can understand it better than the Kiwi one.
Our final business is to exchange our money 
(weird
more on that later) and then we climb into Olivier's car. There is a moment of confusion as Thom attempts to
get in the passenger side and realizes there's a steering wheel there. Of course they drive on the left side of
the road here.
As we speed down the road (and they do speed) I drink in as much of the air as possible. It's lovely and tropical smelling - a great relief after the wretched Sahara desert cleverly disguised as a plane. The trees are what I notice first no evergreens, just these lush, leafy things everywhere that I don't have a name for yet. It's like driving through a park and somewhere in all this foliage is a city of one million called Auckland. Everything is charming and quaint. It reminds me of San Francisco (though much cleaner) with all the hills and sudden views of bays and harbors. Many charming little cafés and shops fly by the window and I see people sitting outside enjoying the glorious air and sipping drinks.
We arrive in due course at the Heritage, one of Auckland's newest hotels, converted from a huge department store about a year ago. Check in went something like this:
Thom: Hello, we should
have a reservation for Thomas Bailey, please.
Girl behind counter: Roight then! We'll jus ave a lookeh?
Thom: Err okay.
Girl: "Ere it'tis! "kay Mista Bailey, got you cheeked in fo-ah week, eh?
Thom: Err...okay.
Alida: Do you know where I might be able to buy a hair dryer and curling iron? I understand that mine wont work here.
Girl: Theah's a heyah dria in the room just cheek the lit'el cupboard bayneeth youah closet, eh? Don't know bout a curlin wand think you may have to give Deek Smeeths a ring, kay? Theyahs one on tha co-nah.
Alida: (thinking, what the heck is a deeksmeeths?) Err...okay.
Girl: All roight then! Enjoy youah stay!
The room is very nice more of a suite really. Huge windows looking downtown and also over a part of the harbor. We say goodbye to Olivier, promising to call him the next day. We are exhausted, yet know that the best way to combat jet lag is to not sleep until night. I immediately fill the huge bathtub, keenly aware that I haven't showered since Saturday and its now Monday. Of course, we lost a day coming over, so its really only been 24 hours, but it helps to sound more pathetic if I think of it like that.
After we are both somewhat refreshed, we head downstairs for a real breakfast. We decide on eggs Benedict and orange juice. The orange juice arrives, freshly killed with the aroma of peel still about it. The food turns out to be very good though they did that strange broiled tomato thing again. Thom and I eat quickly, pay and are overjoyed by the fact that you don't tip for service in New Zealand. We laugh and think of our friend John Pavlat in California, who feels obligatory tipping is one of the great crimes against humanity. John (a.k.a. Mr. Pink) you would love it here.
We are on the corner of Windham and Hobson and head southeast towards Queen Street and the shopping district. The stores are the same yet different. Same advertisements everywhere, I can see McDonald's and a Burger King and then something called Dick Smith's electronics. I suddenly realize that this is what the hotel clerk was trying to tell me. Deek Smeeths. Electronics. Roight. The accent is going to take some getting used to. Everyone sounds like they're mouths are full and I wonder if they open them at all when speaking.
We hit a local pub to cool off and take a rest. We sit, enjoying our Guinness while one of us says every couple of minutes, "oh my God we're in New Zealand!" just in case we could possibly forget or something. Locals come in and out of the bar, speaking in their native tongue. We strain to understand but fail. I try to order a Black and Tan and somehow manage to offend the bartender who says (I think) that he would never ruin a Guinness that way. I note that as one of the things never to do in NZ.
By now its getting late, we've walked about almost all day and are simply dropping in our shoes. We return to the hotel and sleep hard. Of course, we awake promptly at 5am not being used to the time change, or the season change for that matter. It's a strange feeling that when we left Portland, we were encroaching upon the shortest day of the year and the temperature was somewhere around 15 degrees F. (-0 Celsius.) Now, upon arrival in Auckland we were greeted with "Kia Ora!" (Maori for Be Well), temperatures in the upper 70's (24+ C.) and its December 21st the Summer Solstice.
We spent Tuesday with our relocation agent, Sarah Sherratt, who is exceedingly nice and looks like Jamie Lee Curtis (For some reason, Thom seems to take special notice of her). It's her job to make sure we have temporary housing (outside of the hotel) and then to help us into something more permanent when the time comes. We drive all about the city in her Mitsubishi Pajero, which looks something like a very small Isuzu Trooper.
Now, I must say something here about the driving. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before and that's quite a statement, myself coming from Boston. People don't think twice about riding 3 inches off your bumper going 50 mph, nor passing you on either side so close you can count the paint molecules on their Nissan Bluebird whatever that is. In a moment you can have two gigantic tour buses riding on both sides of your tiny car ready to crush you at the slightest sway between them. Sarah is of course, unaffected by all of this and continues to chatter on politely about the neighborhoods we will be going through - all the while she is driving maniacally through the busy streets of Auckland. I try to ignore the traffic ordeal and pay attention to where we are going.
We drive though areas with names such as Mt. Albert, St. Mary's Bay, Ponsonby, Point Chevlier (Pt. Chev to the locals), Parnell (very trendy) and Mt. Eden. Most of these neighborhoods consist of adorable little bungalows all with beautiful front lattice work and climbing roses smothering this. It's your worst suburbia white-picket fence nightmare and Thom and I love it.
After a while Sarah asks if we'd like to stop for lunch and coffee, which we do, at a little outdoor café called Sierra. They are serious about their coffee down here and like it strong. I think you could probably stand your spoon up in most of it. Also, as a spoiled American I was shocked that they don't have Half N Half only "milk". I think its 2% though it has a strange watery blue color that makes me believe otherwise. So I get a Latte. Pretty universal, cant go wrong with that, I think. Turns out - I thought wrong. If I had chest hair, mine would be curling after that first sip. I think Thom's is when he looks at me in pain. I smile through the black tar substance and wonder what to order that wont hurt me. Corn fritters with avocado. Safe? Indeed! Though the coffee can be used for chemical warfare, it appears the food everywhere is just great.
Oh almost forgot about the other drink. Spirulina its called. Seaweed. That's right. Seaweed. Looked rather like strained peas in a glass. Sarah was pretty excited about this one and insisted we at least give it a try.
Oh well, when in Rome.... So we do and maybe our tastebuds were still incapacitated from the coffee, or maybe we're a little more open-minded than we thought, but it turned out to be quite good. As a matter of fact, I have a quart in the refrigerator right now. Or should I say, one litre.
We check out several apartments for our 60-day temp housing and decide on
one right on the waterfront, aptly called the New Yorker.
We move in on Christmas Eve and realize we need to hit the grocery store right away if we're to eat anything on
Christmas day. Apparently, the entire city empties out and nothing is open on the 25th. Sarah drops us off at what I would consider
the mall, and wishes us a Merry Christmas. We will take a taxi home.
Up the escalator we walk through the corridor lined with stores Crabtree and Evelyn, The Limited, some men's clothing stores, there's also a food court and its incredibly crowded. Strangely, there is a Woolworth's Supermarket located at the back of this mall and with horror we realize that the entire population of Auckland is in there shopping. Having no other choice, we join the throng and begin one of the most unforgettable experiences of my young life.
There is no logic to the store. Things are simply placed on shelves wherever
there is room. Children run wildly. People are actually barefoot. I want peanut butter and am deterred and fascinated
by something called Vegemite 
and the jars
of clover butter and mint jelly that are everywhere. We cant decide on chicken, ham or beef for the dinner and
argue loudly in our thick Yankee accents as the stress of shopping in a foreign country on Christmas Eve becomes
too much. I find chicken flavored potato chips and practically flop on the floor laughing. Thom is not amused.
He is ready to leave though all we've managed to get in the cart so far is a block of cheese and some bottled water.
We decide on ham, and over the next difficult hour, manage to scare up the rest of what we'll need. The total is
$NZ 239.00. I almost faint and then remember
the NZ dollar is worth about .56 cents to the US dollar. We gratefully leave.
The taxi ride is silent and we struggle up the stairs to our apartment under the load of plastic bags. The New Yorker is a very cool place. The floor plan is extremely open and the windows stretch to the dizzy height of almost 18 feet the ceilings are at least 20 feet above our heads. Our view is of the Waitemata Harbor, the historic Ferry building and huge ships coming in and out at all hours of the day. It's really quite lovely and when the sun is out (which is most of the time it seems) the water is perfectly brilliant.
Supper Christmas Eve is enjoyed at the Viaduct, a little seaside bar/grill also with a nice view. I have Sushi and Thom has the Bouillabaisse and once again, we are mightily impressed with the NZ food. Out waiter is from London and tells us we should live on "K" road (short for Karangehape) because its the "seedy" and fun part of town "you know", he says, "the red light district". Roight.
We head back home through the strong wind, which is always present this close to the water. What's on the Tele Christmas Eve in New Zealand? we wonder. TV here is interesting. Not the shows themselves of course, but the very way in which the stations are conducted. There are four channels here if you don't have cable, imaginatively called One, Two, Three and Four. For the most part, its bad American sitcoms Friends, Blossom, and Seinfeld.
Then there are the local soap operas. Very amusing. And commercials for such frightening food items as "Winner Taco" which turns out to be something of a chocolate covered ice cream concoction, depicted by a small boy growing into a polar bear after eating one.
Sadly, during the metamorphosis, the polar bear part takes a little long to catch onto, making it appear that the boy is growing moldy, not bear-like. I think I'll stay away from those.
Christmas day dawns bright and sunny temps in the upper 20's (that's warm) and we decide to head to the beach now, eat later. So we pack the rental car with sandwiches, ourselves, a small artillery of maps and head off up the coast towards Snells Beach. Now, Thom had driven briefly from the car lot to the apartment following Sarah the whole way, but this would be the first true driving experience on the open road.
We leave the city behind and turn onto the motorway (their version of the freeway) on which the speed is 100 kilometers per hour. I think that's 75-mph US. We are immediately terrified and while I'm convinced we're about to careen off the road on the left side of the car, Thom is sure we're going to hit traffic head-on on the right. I frequently interject our silent, stressful ride with sounds of terror and gasps of fright. Thom finds this less than soothing and is eager to tell me so
.
Snells beach is about an hour away. As we were told, most of the country is also heading to the beach, so very unlike the US where we would all be gathered about the tree opening loads of presents or eating ourselves silly. The countryside is absolutely spectacular with breathtaking views of the ocean and stunning little valleys with ribbons of blue water running through them. Sheep are, of course, everywhere that there is grass and we make typical imbecile sheep noises at them as we pass. We are now off the motorway and to our surprise, the road becomes very narrow, yet the speed only decreases to 80kph. This rather intensifies our apprehension and Thom is gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are white. Since he's one of those guys who likes to drive with his knees, I know this is a bad sign. We pray fervently for the beach to be near, as the feeling of running off the road and being hit head on does not ease up one bit.
Finally we are there and gladly get out of the car. The beach is positively wonderful and we lay about in the sand, admiring the clear blue water and palm trees all around. The sand is very white and soft, reminding me of the Sarasota beach in Florida. It squeaks when you walk. Suddenly I remember the hole in the Ozone layer. It's over Australia and part of New Zealand they say you can sunburn in less than 8 minutes. I reach frantically for the sunscreen and douse myself. I offer some to Thom who declines. He will regret that decision later.
I keep thinking that it just doesn't feel like Christmas. No snow no cold rain even. We're laying on the beach in paradise and simply love it.
Beautiful though it is, we decide Christmas ham sounds better so we jump back in the death machine and drive towards Auckland. The ride home is no better though there is a little less traffic. Back in the apartment we prepare to make dinner and realize we forgot pineapple for the ham. Thom, being the fabulous cook he is, tells me he will create a masterpiece from what we do have in the kitchen, which consists of honey, a banana and one apple. We have the traditional mashed potatoes, squash, bread, etc. and sit down to our first Christmas dinner 12,000 miles away from everything that we know. It's quite good, though the banana-ham is a little too tropical for our taste.
Thom says we can wash it off and the ham will still be fine because you cant possibly wash the taste of ham away. I think this is pretty funny and give him a hard time about banana-ham for the next couple of days. Until we go into the store, and right there in a New Zealand cuisine magazine is a whole article on cooking ham with banana's and how its all the rage. Thom, you're ahead of your time.
The next day we think the beach sounds nice again, although Thom has learned the hard way about not wearing sunscreen in NZ. Too late, he's so red on the back of his neck it hurts me to look at it.
We head to the West Coast this time, to the "black sand" beaches. Consulting the map, we discover the only way to Piha beach is on a long winding road marked "scenic route". That sounds nice, we think, jumping back into the car. Thom's feeling a little better about driving this day and we easily keep up with the rest of the crazed Kiwi's on the motorway. We're looking for the Scenic turnoff and find its a soft right through a rotary, or roundabout. This is something perhaps only Europeans and Bostonians know and its an evil creation that makes even the most road-savvy nervous. After going in several circles, we finally get off where we're supposed to and instantly find ourselves in a worse predicament than before.
They have just barely squeezed two lanes onto this road and as many hairpin turns as one can find. Thom and I look at each other and wonder, is this right? Suddenly a car passes us from the other direction and I let out a shriek followed by a colorful expletive from Thom, as we come within the smallest fraction of space possible to colliding head on with a native. After an awful moment during which we realize we're still alive and driving, we regain composure only to have it happen again. The Kiwi's are completely unfazed by this situation and we actually begin to have a line of cars backed up behind us because, incredibly, we're going too slow. What would be a 15 mph turn in the US is an 80kph road the entire way to Piha. Which is about an hour away still.
It goes on this way for quite a few miles Thom staring intently at the road, me watching us miss the rock outcroppings on the left by mere inches. This is not relaxing. We're going up hill around another corner now, and to our utter disbelief, someone passes us. Actually gets into the other lane and passes. At the soonest possible second, they get back into the left hand lane and resume driving like a maniac. Almost before they've moved back over however, a car comes along from the opposite direction also going about 80k, yet doesn't swerve in the least to avoid our insane passing friend. They simply drive by each other at break-neck speed avoiding an enormous collision by the distance of atoms.
I have taken the large road map of New Zealand and am holding it about an inch from my face. I care nothing for the scenery, only to get to the stupid beach alive. Thom is pretty amused by this despite being the lucky guy in the driver's seat. The ride progresses and I think that the drive to Snells was an absolute cakewalk. Who needs death-defying rollercoasters? Why did these people feel the need to invent bungee-jumping when there is the Scenic Route to Piha for thrills??
I peek out from behind my map to see if we're almost there. That was a mistake. All of that going up hill put us at the top of a cliff overlooking the west coast. Gone are the rock outcroppings and in their place are 1,000-foot drops to the sea with only small wooden fences between you and a sure death. Somehow we make it down to Piha alive on the only road in and out. Upon arriving however, I decide it was almost worth the drive.
Because the beach is so isolated, there are almost no houses, one tiny general store and one gas station. The rest is wild, cliff-line beach with enormous mountain-sized rocks sticking up out of the water. Of course the Kiwi's in their never-ending quest for something to have a heart attack over, are clinging to these rocks like so many ants, hundreds of feet above. Thom and I opt for the beach view and notice right away that the sand is indeed black on this side, and hot. We plop down and try to forget the nightmare drive and relax.
We lie there, warm and content, feeling the sun pleasantly upon us. I'm on my stomach and just to the point where I could fall asleep. Suddenly, I'm in an oven, one inch from the top coil and someone has turned the broiler on high. Thom and I sit up and are instantly blinded. Apparently, we weren't lying in the sun at all there was a cloud cover, which moved on through leaving us to fry on that black sand. We make a run for the water stupidly declaring, "ouch ouch ouch" with every step. I can practically here my skin sizzle as I run right into the ocean. I look back up the beach and cool, calm Kiwi's are watching us with stifled smiles. Thom and I wonder if we should just tattoo "yank" on our foreheads and have it over with
Since then we have both enjoyed the little city apartment we're in, dining out and just meeting people here. It's really quite fantastic in so many ways. We can hardly believe we're here after all of the planning and talking it seemed it would never happen.
Neither of us really begins working until around the 11th of January when the office opens back up. This is holiday season for NZ and even the children are on their summer vacation until February. By then, we'll hopefully be settled at a more permanent address and will certainly write again to let everyone know where we're at.
We love and miss you,
