notes from a wild, wild wonderland

Well, I can now say that I’ve been carsick. It’s never happened before, but there is always a first time, right? Especially in Wonderland . . .

It happened on the return drive from the Wildfoods Festival, so I’ll get to that in a minute. First, though, the drive to the Festival. I left with friends Risa and Wei on Friday afternoon, and, following another friends’ flatmate’s mother (we were staying at their house), we drove through the Canterbury plains, the Southern Alps, and to the West Coast. The drive there was pleasant enough, and we all had our cameras out for most of the journey. (Jack, I think this was Lord of the Rings territory.) We drove all the way to Gladstone, NZ, a “suburb” of Greymouth. I should note here that at 15,000 people, Greymouth has the largest population of any “city” on the West Coast. That night, after unpacking at Chris’ house, we took a walk to the beach, went out for pizza with Chris’ mom, and settled in to our accommodations—a tarp. (see the picture below)

For my first “camping” trip ever—if I can call it that, despite the fact we did no tramping!—I had quite the adventure. While falling asleep under the stars sounds very naturey and romantic, and while the stars were prominent without any city lights, it was rather cold. I was unaware that hats, sleeping mats, wool socks, and head lamps were standard gear for sleeping outside. Without Chris’ house—and its plumbing—about 20 meters from our tarp, I might have panicked. After a long night, I finally awoke to daylight, which meant I’d survived and could go inside. About an hour and a half later, with the help of a “cup” (of tea), colour returned to my fingers. The toes took a bit longer.

A note to Aunt Cindy: While I am a lover of nature, my love is from afar; I am not, by any definition, outdoorsy. Unfortunately, I am discovering this reality about 5 months too late and am simultaneously realizing that everyone else is a lover of nature of the up-close variety.

Soon, we left for the festival in Hokitika, another of the larger towns on the coast. Over the weekend, though, the town probably tripled in population due to an influx in “uni” students and the twenty-something crowd. The food—if it warrants that label—was indeed wild. I quickly assumed the role of photographer, although I did try a gorse scone, strawberries and ice cream, and plum wine. After several hours, and a steady crowd at the beer tent (yes, there was one just for beer), the festival became a bit rowdy and vulgar, and I’ll leave it at that.

The next day I headed back to campus with Chris and his parents, as the other friends I’d come with wanted to go for a tramp near the coast. I’d had enough of the outside for one weekend—we probably spent 8 hours in the sun. Unfortunately for Chris, and for the rest of us who got to hear about it, he got badly burned all over his arms, neck, and face by the sun. Thanks to two layers of block at SPF 55, I stayed nice and pale. The ride back took about three hours, just a little longer than usual because of the queues of cars at bad turns and inclines. After an hour or so in the back of a manual pick-up truck, the jolts of the car and the curves of the road started to make me sick. The ride wasn’t all bad, and we listened to “Top New Zealand hits” such as Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” and the Dixie Chicks’ “I’m Not Ready to Make Nice.” I’m not sure how the Kiwis relate to songs like those, but I guess they are just other examples of New Zealand’s importation of everything from other places. As much as I tried to enjoy the ride as a cultural experience, I couldn’t have been more relived to get back to my industrial, ever-messy, and concrete flat.