Chance encounters

[Katie, Sandra, Daniel, Cat, Katie and me at John and Robyn's]


When our group of seven passengers, seven hiking backpacks, an assortment of groceries and three tents were cruising down the windy mountain roads of the Kauri Forest we passed a small handmade road sign for an artist's studio and gallery. We turned our packed station wagon around on the side of the road, past two toilets resting on the gravel road side and decided to pay a visit. (Our days are spent with minute by minute plans. Most days we don't know where we will sleep for the night, but somehow our open agendas has led us to interesting people and places so we don't intend to start scheduling any time soon.)

Snow White, our nickname for our rental vehicle, did not fail us this time. She delivered us to Diane and Seaborne, the artists, and connections that have taken us far. First the artwork was magical. Diane and Seaborne managed to capture spirit and life and seal them onto canvas usuing water and color. But the trip-changing encounter was with the elderly couple who were also in the
gallery.

John and Robyn, a couple in their late 50s from Whangerie, were traveling through Northland celebrating an anniversary and John's birthday. John chatted us up for a bit while we were all looking at the artwork, and casually mentioned we could stay with him and Robyn when we returned to Whangarie to return the rental car. We took his business card, carried on our seperate ways -- we went to visit a waterfall and camp at a beach.

Three days later, needing a place to stay, we rang up John.

John and Robyn adopted the group of us for three days. We were fed homecooked meals, enjoyed kayaking and fishing on the ocean-- which we could access through their backyard, slept in beds, rode horses (one of his employees has pollo ponies) and finally left chez-Keith with a car. They let us borrow one of their vehicles for the remainder of our time in NZ.

Now our group has become five. Felix is staying with artists up north, Sandra and Daniel are traveling together (we dropped them off in Auckland), and Katie, Cat, Katie and myself are traveling with the car and Adrien, a Frenchman we picked up in Coromandle (more blog posts will fill in the gaps soon!)through NZ.

John, who has connections to everyone and every industry in NZ, found us some temporary work in Waharoa picking asparagus. We pick for an hour or two in the morning, are off by 10:30 a.m. and then we think about what we want to do for the day and where we will sleep...so far we have slept in an Anglican church (made cookies in the kitchen and played hide-and-seek in the dark), camped by the river and were given a cabin (Cat decided to hitchhike into town and the man who picked him up offered us a free cabin to ourselves for the night). The randomness and blessings that we encounter every day is astonishing.



[John and Robyn]

Roadtrip odd and ends

Once you accept that everything, including your food will be covered in sand, camping on the beach is fantastic. Sleeping under the stars, listening to the ocean waves and watching the sun rise over the water is a magical experience.




There are 28 sheep to every one person in New Zealand, according to Toby, a German guy we met while camping at Cape Reigna. He was the copilot of the Barack Mobile – a van completely covered with a painting of Barack Obama and his slogan “Yes We Can.” Now we have adopted Mr. Obama's campaign line as our trip motto. “Can we drive down the 90-mile beach?” (the beach is a registered highway, but you have to make sure you only drive during low-tide.) “Yes we can!”

Rick- Rescued us from the Rain

Thursday, the sun was setting, rain was moving in and we were lost. We pulled over in a small harbor town of about 100 people, walked into the pub and ordered a pitcher of Red Lion beer. Soon the barista had found us a place to stay for the night, with Rick, a 70-year-old bachelor who lived atop a mountain overlooking the ocean and surrounding forests. He gave us two spare bedrooms, hot showers, Internet access and protection from the worst rain storm I've seen in New Zealand thus far.

We cooked dinner, he fed us a case of beer and bottle of wine, and we learned about his former wives.

Nick and Mo-- Germans 4, Americans 3

“Now all we need is someone with a guitar...,” Katie joked.

We'd found a beautiful beach to camp out on—no one else in site. We were going to fish for our dinner, build a fire and let Felix entertain us with his harmonica. Then a white van came up the gravel road and parked next to our station wagon. Two German guys, Mo and Nick, stepped out and with them came a guitar.

Daniel and I fished, unsuccessfully, and collected oysters that tasted like sand. Since we failed to produce a seafood feast, Nick made a fabulous spicy pasta sauce and penne noodles. Katie built a fire on the beach and we sat up listening to Felix jam –I held the harmonica to his mouth while he strummed on the guitar. We shared stories and fell asleep sometime after midnight.

Northland Roadtrip Day 1

Day one of our roadtrip north we traveled almost 200km up highway 1 by the graciousness of seven different drivers including two men from South Africa, a Maori man, a dad with his four-year-old son, and finally Kathy, a Kiwi woman who fancied trucks.

While driving Kathy would spot an 18-wheeler and shout, “There you are you cheeeky motherf******. You sexy thing. Ha!” Occasionally she would snap photos of the trucks with her digital camera as the trucks passed by.

I sat up front an held my end of the conversation as much as possible, but I know nothing about trucks, I don't have any children, ex-husbands or addictions, and I've never found truckers particularly sexy, so she talked and I nodded and smiled.

At first she said she was a freelance truck photographer, but then she admitted that she was unemployed, and didn't usually earn money from her pictures. I think it was more of an extreme hobby than a source of income.

She insisted that we stay at her house, but we were skeptical. We agreed to stop by and were greeted by a large German Shepherd who was missing his back hair and smelled like cat urine. Pete, and old man with wild white hair, was watching a Kiwi soap opera and Kim, a trucker Kathy met on a dating site, was on the computer. The house was littered with toys, trash and clothes and the walls were plastered with truck photos. It smelled of rotten food, dirty dishes, and dog urine. The furniture felt sticky, so we three opted to stand, complaining of cramped legs from the car rides.

We decided we couldn't stay...and told Kathy friends were expecting us in town by 9 p.m.

That night we camped in a public park, which was recommended by the police station, and slept soundly until the sky started spitting rain at 3 a.m. By 8 a.m. We were cold, wet and hungry and found our way to the public library. The library was the Mecca of wet, stranded travlers that morning and we met Sandra and Daniel.

After chatting for 10 minutes we all decided to rent a car together and head north, just as the sun began to shine.

Finding Felix, our first travel buddy

[felix]
Three days before Katie and I left Auckland to travel north we met Felix, a 19-year-old traveling artist. Katie found his profile on couchsurfing, a network of travelers who offer up a couch for other travelers or are interested in meeting travelers passing through town. Katie was searching for other travelers in Auckland who may be interested in traveling with us -- it's cheaper to rent a car with more than two people. Felix's interests – reading, writing, art, travel, outdoors – were similar to ours and our intuition told us he would all be compatible, so we invited him along. We couldn't arrange a meeting before departing the city, so we all met, bags packed, at the train station. “I'll be the German guy wearing brightly colored pants,” he said. And just in case he ended up being a weirdo Felix said, “You guys can always leave me if we don't get along.”

There on the train platform stood a blond boy, about 5'7'', wearing the bright red, orange and blue pants with a braided chin beard. We met, missed our first train and started hitchhiking north. Our plan was to hitchhike to Whangarie (pronounced Fangeri), which with 50,000 people is the biggest city in Northland, and then rent a car.

Heading North...

I just returned from a week-long road trip through Northland, the top of the north island.
Before we left Auckland, Katie and I met Felix, a 19-year-old German artist who is traveling through the country staying with other artists, and the three of us decided to hitchhike north until we got to Whangarie—the biggest city in Northland—then rent a car to visit the more remote locations.
Our trip was wonderful and I will add more posts soon, but right now I’m paying for the internet and I can’t be chatty.
The best part of our trip were the people we accumulated. Our party of three became five in Whangarie when we met two other travels, Sandra, a 21-year-old German girl, and Daniel, a 24-year-old Californian boy, who like us were hanging out in the public library waiting for the rain to pass. The five of us rented a car and traveled about 300 km north to the “topest of the top” as Sandra would say of Northland, also known Cape Reigna. There we met Cat and Katie, both from Ontario, Canada, who joined us for the rest of our journey.
During the week we slept on beaches, under stars, in a stranger’s home, in a public park, coped without showering for the week, ate bread by the bagful and shared our dreams, hopes, secrets, and histories.
I’m out of time…but I will post more soon!

Identity

When I was in highschool I wore high heels four out of five days a week. Even my flip-flops were wedge-heeled. I started wearing makeup when I was in my early teens (my mom sold arbonne cosmetics so it was easy to access free blush and concealer). I never spent a lot of money on my appearance (I was born inherently frugal), but I gladly accepted my mom's hand-me-down lipsticks and quickly learned how to filter through a thrift store to find the hidden gems.

Now I am living out of a 17 kg backpack (about 25 lbs) that inlcudes all my belongings for one year. Everything in my bag was packed for its practicallity, not style. Makeup, stylish shoes and hair conditioner were luxuries that required space and money that I couldn't afford. In their place I have malaria pills, a first aid kit, two pairs of hiking sandles, 12 sets of contacts, a southeast asia on a shoestring guidbook and a small neutral colored wardrobe.

Catching sight of my reflection in train's window is odd. Without eyeliner and mascara my eyes blend into the rest of my face and my eyelashes appear transparent. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself wearing my blue jeans, thermal longsleeved shirt, hiking sandles with wool socks and hair in a frizzy disaray and hardly recognize myself. I see a vague similarity to a person I used to be, but I can't quite identify who the new face belongs to.

I rarely have felt attractive on this trip, but I constantly remind myself that isn't important. I'm on an adventure to learn about different cultures, experience life with diverse peoples and discover and accept the person I am becoming (or maybe meant to be?). I want to live at peace in the skin I was given, whether it is decorated or natural. By the end of this trip I hope to have a better understanding of what identifies me as me.

My First WWOOF Hosts in New Zealand

Caril and Brian live 40 minutes outside inner city Auckland. You could refer to their neighborhood as a diverse suburb -- to the right is a housefull of college kids and to the left is an elderly neighbor who keeps a wild garden and beehives in the backyard.

The couple are in their late 50s-early 60s and have been together for 20 years as commited partners. Both had previous marriages and now have three grown children.

They have two cats, a collection of contemporary art and four shelves of books that inlcude Zen Buddhism, Jodi Picult and the "Feminist's Companion." Their pale green house is tucked in behind a stone wall and the back garden forgets is has boundaries. The house has high ceilings, all wood floors and one wall in the living room is painted yellow. They have a particular interest in Asian cuisine and a fridge full of condiments and tofu.

We share long dinner conversations about religion -- Caril became a wicken (spelling?) after being burned by her years in the Salvation Army and Brian explored Buddhism, Hinduism and Christianity among others, but neither is affiliated with a church or religion today.

I'm inspired by their friendship and genuine love and respect for oneanother. They haven't tired of oneanother's presence, and I often hear them laughing together through our adjoining bedroom walls. This Sunday morning the couple spent hours having breakfast at a local cafe and discussed magazine articles that fascinated them.

They each had a long and arduous journey before discovering oneanother and they attempt to never take for grantid this relationship that they almost never found.

Housekeeping: What is WWOOFing?

I refer to "wwoofing" frequently in my blog posts. So here is a bit about this network that is facilitating my travles...

World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (also known as Willing Workers on Organic Farms) is an international network of hosts interested in receiving workers into their homes and educating them on sustainability practices. In exchange for a place to stay, usually food and an educative experience wwoofers work about four hours a day for the host.

You're Hot Girl

"You're hot girl...you're hot."
"You're hot girl...you're hot."
(music interlude)
"You're hot hot hot."

These are the lyrics that are stuck in my head after my second day working for the fashion sale at the ASP Showgrounds in Auckland. In addition to the horribly repetitive (and incredibly dumming) music trapped in my head, my feet and legs ache from an 8 hour day standing on a cement and concrete warehouse floor. I'm also $30 poorer because my new and very temporary boss -- Leon -- forced me to buy a skin tight, brand t-shirt because my well-fitted (aka loose) plain tank top and sweater was not "fashionable."

My job consists of helping customers in the dressing rooms, hunting down different sizes (small or extra small) and colors, and arranging racks of clothes that require an engineer to understand the fabric contraptions.

The sale, sponsored by a company out of Melbourn, is appropriate for those disinterested in clothing that will make it through multiple seasons for both quality and style reasons.

Leon, however, takes the business of fashion very seriously. He told me today to "F****** sell the stuff" when he sent me out in the rain and cold to push flyers at people taking their children to the "Jack and the Bean Stock" play in the neighboring pavillion.

He also likes to refer to all the brands he sells as "hot" or "very hot."

"This brand is very hot. All the celebrities including Misha Barton are wearing it."

"I'm sure you know this one [insert my confused and desperate smile]. This is hot in the states."

But I like to refer to Leon as frigid for not caring whether I freeze out in the cold in my tank top and sandles, which aren't weather appropriate in the 15 degree celcius (spelling?) (low 50s F) but meet his "fashionable" criteria. Usually he is in an overcast mood and seems to have a luke-warm personality -- of course he rarely acknowledges my existance long enough for me to make an accurate judgement of his character...

The upside of the situation is that the sale only lasts 10 days and then Katie and I will be more financially secure as we travel the rest of New Zealand, plus we are treating ourselves to two free days of no work in the Bay of Islands. Not a bad trade off really.

Working for the Kiwis

Katie and I tramped around the city yesterday, stopping in and out of hostels, in search of temporary paid work (hostels have bulletin boards where they post temporary job opportunities for their residents). Finding two to three weeks of employment in NZ was our plan all along because we ducked out of the states almost a month early and lost out on some extra income, but for the first week in the city we didn't find anything.

We are too early for the mass fruit picking season, which hires hoards of backpackers like ourselves every year.

Then we found hope in a help wanted immediately ad for a fashion expo.

I phoned Phil (name on ad).

"Hi My name's Jeanna and my friend Katie and I are looking for temporary work while we are in NZ," I said.

"Great, Come to the ASP Showgrounds for an interview at 11 a.m. tomorrow," Phil said.

"OK, what are we doing"... click, beeeppppp, I almost managed to inquire what we would be interviewing for when our phone booth connection was lost. I hung up on my future employer.

Katie and I did show up for the intervew. We walked an hour in the wind and mist, showing up in our best attire- we packed for backpacking not retail, and joined our four fellow high-heeled interviewees.

We were all interviewed individually by Leon, who showed up an hour late, and by this time at least I know I will be working in some capacity with clothes in a huge warehouse.

Leon wasn't concerned about what I was wearing or that I had no experience in retail or that I wasn't a Kiwi (nickname for New Zealanders), and he hired me on spot.

"Training for sales starts tomorrow at 11 a.m. then you will be on the floor until 6," Leon said.

"How long does that job last?" I asked.

"Probably two weeks," he said.

So there you go. I have a job in New Zealand for "probably" two weeks. Still don't know what the proper uniform is or exactly what I will be doing, but I don't think it will be a highly demanding or skillful job. The income will be lovely though.

Mini meltdown

It's Wednesday, 11 a.m., and Katie is out sawing apart a tree (part of our wwoofing assignment today), and I'm inside crying.

I just lost a lengthy email to my mom, which after a bit of modification would have made a decent blog post. It took me over half and hour to write, and I'm a slow typer and slow, laborous writer...writing for me is an effortful task. Trying to sound witty and insightful often works me into such a sweaty distressed state that I have to pace around the computer, wringing my hands with excess anxiety. So the worste thing about losing my writing was I was happy with what I wrote. For a type A, recovering perfectionist, This rarely happens.

So here I am a melted mess on the floor, when I remember my resolution to not cry so much. I'm trying to practice not falling apart, especially over insignificant matters, but obviously it's not going well.

The comforting thing I know about myself is that I rise to challenges...I just struggle to handle the "manageable misfortunes" that happen on a routine basis. Give me a tragedy or seemingly impossible scenario and I will take it head, formulate and plan and take action without losing a beat.

Well, another good thing is that I usuallly stop crying after about five minutes and return to a functioning state, bright-eyed and optomistic. I have a two-second rebound rate...until the next email is lost.