Archive for the 'Culinary' Category

A Completo Meal

Published
by
elizabeth
on December 7, 2008
in Chile, Culinary and Finances
. 1 Comment

Saturday, December 6, 2008

dsc00854We have quickly given up on Easter Island’s cuisine. It is bland, unimaginative, and grossly overpriced, the latter which is explained by the island’s remote location. (I did learn, however, that most locals tend their own gardens, which explains the terrible vegetable situation in the grocery store: I’m just relieved to know that no one is going to die of scurvy.) Most menus offer fish, chicken, and beef, and each dish is accompanied by the exact same sauce and sides. We typically like to hang out in local restaurants, but there aren’t any. Because of food costs, most islanders eat at home; therefore, nearly everything is a tourist-oriented restaurant. Bummer.

dsc00853As someone who enjoys experiencing a place through its food, the whole situation is a travesty. I’d be happy to throw my pesos at a worthwhile meal, but rather than fighting the situation, we’ve decided to go the cheapest route possible. And we’ve managed to ferret out the one place in town where locals seem to congregate: the hot dog wagon. (For some inexplicable reason, Latin Americans love eating food out of mobile units.) I’m not what you’d call a hot dog person. In fact, I eat approximately one hot dog a year, usually at the annual Isotopes baseball game. I know they’re supposed to be gross, comprised of all sorts of iffy animal parts (my vegan friend, Nikki, is dying right now), but believe me when I say that the Chileans have elevated the hot dog to new heights with the invention of the completo. The completo is basically a dog piled high with all the crap you can imagine: chunks of fresh tomato, a generous smear of guacamole, squiggly lines of mayonnaise, ketchup, and mustard.

dsc00851We stumbled on the hot dog wagon - if it has a name, I don’t know it - one night, when it was entirely too late to be eating and I was grumbling about the price to quality ratio of the local fare. A little corner, lined with three wagons like you might find in a carnival, glowed warmly in the twilight. A group of colorful plastic chairs and tables was scattered under a grove of shady trees, packed with obvious locals, and when I saw a banner declaring “Completos” on one wagon, I was sold. Not only are they the busiest place in town, but the proprietress is super friendly, and the handmade pineapple and guava juices are out of this world at an unbeatable price. Maybe that’s why I look so completely delighted in this photo (the proprietress insisted that the turtle pose with me)? We’ve been back twice, officially ending my once-a-year-hot-dog embargo.

dsc00846Next we’re keen to visit the lady who sells grilled food at Anakena Beach. Given the remoteness of the island, we typically pack a lunch for a day out, but are growing tired of sandwiches. We hatched a plan to be at the beach everyday for lunch, so we stopped by today to see what her hours are. “All day, anytime, I sleep here,” she replied. After walking us through her delicious and reasonably priced menu, she gave us a tour of the parrilla, where skewers of chicken were hissing next to pescado wrapped in a foil jacket. Within minutes we were fast friends, she explaining her friend’s health problems to us and kissing me on the cheek.

The food situation is looking up.

Gone Fishing

Published
by
maikael
on December 5, 2008
in Celebrations/Holidays, Chile, Culinary, Culture and Lodging
. 1 Comment

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Our downtime on Easter Island has been spent in our casita, named for the French-Rapa Nui couple who own it. We have scarcely seen the wife since our airport pickup, and we’ve only spotted the enigmatic French husband in profile - a long, slender, Aqualine nose and wavy dirty-blond hair always pulled into a ponytail - as he passes our patio daily in his SUV. Instead, our care has been entrusted to the wife’s extended family, who seem to live out their lives in our backyard engaged in all manner of activity including: child care, barbecuing, impromptu construction on our casita, car repair, and, of course, drinking. Add to this scene the constant visits of friends and relatives, blasting music, barking dogs, and squabbling chickens, and you have damning evidence that the long tentacles of Latin American culture have reached even here.

But don’t get me wrong; our hosts are quite friendly. On my first night I met several of the male members of the family, and was promptly invited to go fishing with them the following night. I thought it a strange time to go, but it seemed a great chance to get off the beaten path and gain a window into the culture. I warned them that I’m prone to motion sickness, but was assured that all fishing would take place on the seaside. When I showed up at the designated time the next evening, no one seemed hurried to go. One of the men, named Mateo, was watching Scarface with Al Pacino, apparently to improve his English; he explained to me that fishing had to wait until the moon dropped below the horizon, lest the fish see the awaiting net. He produced a harpoon and told me that it’s sometimes used as a more sporting way to fish. As we waited, more and more people showed up, including an uncle of Mateo, an older bronzed bald man, who was incomprehensibly drunk, but somehow still walking.

dsc00816Around midnight, six of us loaded in to a mint green 28 year-old VW bus named Claudia. Claudia could not be started by traditional means, but had to be jumped by popping the clutch while rolling, meaning that I would be pushing the bus many times over the course of the night. A beer was produced, seemingly from thin air, and we were off as Claudia roared to life, copiously backfiring.

Our first stop was a volcanic moon rockscape on the edge of town, jetting into the ocean. Mateo handed me an underwater flashlight, which I casually turned on. The beam hit the water and Mateo exclaimed, “No, no! Be careful to never point the light at the water because the fish are intelligent. They associate light with danger and will swim away.” Two of the men had donned wetsuits and snorkel equipment, two pairs of white cotton socks on their feet. Waves were crashing furiously into the rocks, splashing frighteningly high into the air. “They’re actually getting in the water?” I asked, surprised. “Si.”

dsc00807Mateo explained that they study the waves to learn their cycle to understand the currents, then get in the water with a long net with floaters and weights, and direct the fish into the nets. The fish are scared into the nets by the powerful flashlights, as one man on each end of the net directs them inward. It is one thing to hear this and quite another to witness it. The men slowly lowered themselves into the black water from our elevated perch, somehow impervious to the pounding waves. I could barely see them from even a short distance away. Soon, they were far out, flashlights waving wildly. “Did you see that fish!?”, Mateo asked excitedly, catching details that I could not see with my untrained eyes.

dsc00806Mateo was not participating that night, but was critical of their technique. “We all have a different tecnica,” he said, “but you can clearly see that they have left an escape route for the fish on one side.” I asked him about the lucrativeness of fishing. A certain base amount is used to feed the family, but the surplus is sold at market the next day. A typical catch brings $400 US dollars, but their best night netted them - no pun intended - a whopping $1,200 US dollars. Two of his uncles have died in fishing-related accidents. One of them devised a method of weights to sink himself to a depth of over 60 meters - no oxygen tank, of course. Once the desired depth was reached, he cut his weights and harpooned a fish and started to ascend. He had miscalculated the amount of time it would take to reach the top, and drowned.

dsc00814Scarcely 15 minutes had passed and it was all over. The net was tightly wrapped around a wooden stick and thrown into the bus. After a small push, Claudia awoke from her deep slumber, and a fresh beer was produced. We drove to a patch of flat land with yellowed grass, where the net was slowly unrolled and trapped fish started to magically appear, which were removed and placed in a bin. As if by magic, the drunk uncle roused to life, and slowly approached me. It seemed he wanted to impart a few pearls of wisdom to me. He exclaimed, “Las mujeres…” His index finger jetted fiercely into the air to accentuate his point. I was eager to hear what he had to say, certain he would solve a life mystery about women for me. What followed was a series of slurs in Spanish and Rapa Nui, backslaps, and maniacal laughter, apparently pleased with what he had just conveyed. He jetted his hand out, miscalculating in both height and distance, and it ended up somewhere around my clavicle. I took his hand and shook it, and felt a surprising amount of power, given his age and current state.

The two men in wetsuits asked me how to say bebe in English. “Baby,” I said. They were referring to the 17 year-old apprenticing with them. He appeared resentful, in the way teenagers do. I had the opportunity to talk with the 17 year old while the men went out for a second round of fishing. He was born on Easter Island, but had lived much of his life in Tahiti, and thus spoke French. I asked why he wasn’t going to school, and he told me he had been expelled for smoking marijuana, but could return next year if he wished. But that was not in his plans, he said. He would fish for a year, and then go to France to join the Foreign Legion. “Like the movie with Van Damme, you know?” I nodded. The fishermen submerged from the water. “Baby! Come and help us!” Defeated, he went over.

We went for a third, and, as it turns out, ill-fated round of fishing. Just as they were about to enter the water, a boat came by with a powerful floodlight. There would be no more fish to be had, and everyone promptly called it a night. It was not the most bountiful catch, but it would be enough to feed the family for a few days. We drove the 17 year-old to his house, and Mateo told me that Claudia is notorious for waking neighborhoods of people up. Claudia promptly backfired, as if showing her appreciation.

It was four in the morning when we arrived home. Mateo invited Liz and I to a traditional fish BBQ the next day. “You came out with us, so you get to share in the fish.” The drunk uncle, awake once again, delivered another slurred sermon, let out a large belly laugh, grabbed the back of my head, and gave me a hard head-butt. A fitting end to the night.

* * *

The next day we smelled something good coming from the backyard, and wandered outside to find a dozen whole fish crackling over a rustic parrilla fashioned from half of an oil drum. We joined the family circle that had already assembled, and were promptly offered “lay-mon ston-ays.” After agreeing to god-only-knows-what, we were passed a citrus-colored can of Lemon Stones, a curious mix of bad beer and lemon juice, and were relieved when a bottle of Chilean red wine was introduced minutes later. We discussed the events of last night, and I asked more about the drunk uncle. Apparently, he has been known to drink for up to three days straight, and had refused to go to bed the previous night.

When the fish was done, we were served first. A huge pua was placed on each of our plates, alongside fresh greens (where were they getting these vegetables?); roasted kumara, a South Pacific sweet potato; and a mound of yellow arroz fashioned after a volcano, with a plume of mayonnaise on top. We pried away the silvery paper-thin skin and dug into the white flesh. It was one of the best fish I had ever eaten. Even Liz, who hates seafood, nodded enthusiastically and exclaimed, “Que rico!” The rest of the family ate their fish hunched over the grill, which had been transformed to a kind of communal table. “It keeps the flies away.” When we were done, the remains of the fish were thrown back onto the grill. “An offering, so that next time we’ll have good fishing.”

***

Admittedly, when we first arrived, we were a little disappointed with our accommodation. The rooms weren’t as quaint and the view not as spectacular as our usually-trusty Lonely Planet had led us to believe. We briefly considered switching places, but the fishing expedition made us a part of this cozy little family. It’s a little like being in the mafia: once you’re in, you can never leave. And much like real families, for better or worse, they’re your family. And these folks have made us honorary members of their families - at least for the next week.

First Impressions

Published
by
elizabeth
on December 3, 2008
in Chile, Culinary and Culture
. 0 Comments

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

I can’t remember what I thought Easter Island would be like, now that my first impressions have been formed, but I’m sure it must have been shaped by what I knew would be one of the smallest places I would ever visit in my life. To say that Easter Island is out of the way is an understatement. It is one of the most remote inhabited places in the world (which is to say there are more remote places; it’s just that nobody lives there), nearly 4,000 kilometers from Chile’s mainland and 3,800 kilometers from Tahiti. It is literally in the middle of nowhere.

dscf5759There are a lot of remarkable, head-scratching things about Easter Island beyond its claim to fame, the giant, carved-stone figures that have insured its place in the history books for all of eternity. These figures (known as moai), some stretching as far as 12 meters high, are a mystery in themselves: how did humans manage to carve and erect something so grand, and why? Of course there are the usual alien theories, but regardless of what you believe, standing at the foot of these behemoths, perched at the ocean’s edge, transports you to another time.

Although the island is considered, anthropologically, to be a part of Polynesia, it is governed by Chile. While this island has been inhabited for thousands of years, Chile doesn’t enter the picture until much later, when it annexed the island in 1888. It was solely governed by a wool company, which ran the island de facto until the 1950s. It wasn’t until the 1960s, after a period of military rule, that Easter Island was opened to the world. As part of Chile, the national language in Spanish, though people speak Rapa Nui, the local language, too. (Rapa Nui also refers to the local name for Easter Island, which the Spanish call Isla de Pascua, just to confuse matters more.) So while many of its cultural roots and traditions lie squarely in the things we have come to associate with Polynesia - physical features, language, food, music, architecture - it straddles Latin American life.

We arrived on a bright, blustery morning, one of only a handful of passengers who disembarked the Santiago-bound flight. Only 40,000 tourists a year filter through this airport, serviced by only one airline who connects to Easter Island through only two cities twice a week. Much like Bhutan, you’ve really got to want to come here, which is reflected in the type of visitors it attracts. No one ends up here by accident, and it isn’t your “cart me around on a tour bus” crowd. It’s an independent group, who all seem a little rugged and eccentric and want to be left alone. And yet, given the island’s diminutive size, I am already running into people from our flight and recognizing other tourists after 24 hours.

We quickly cleared customs, being processed by Max Rojas, the name of one of Maikael’s friends from Costa Rica, which we took as a good sign. We somehow managed to sidestep the $131 “reciprocity fee” that is required of American visitors, perhaps our reward for entering the country via untraditional routing. Groups of residenciales owners, holding handwritten name placards and limp flower leis, waited for their patrons outside, the door manned by an airport employee in jeans. We were greeted by Tita and her brother, who hauled our backpacks into the trunk of a beat-up blue Hyundai Accent.

dscf5794There are 3,800 people who live in an island that is roughly 10 miles by 15 miles. Hanga Roa is Easter Island’s only outpost, which is tiny. As we trundled down the main drag - a modest thoroughfare lined with the usual shops and restaurants - I was struck by how much smaller this place was than I ever dreamed. (Interestingly, Maikael found it to be much bigger than he imagined.) I was astounded by the ocean of blue that cradled the island, visible from nearly everywhere. It is the deepest, clearest blue I’ve ever laid eyes on, a stark contrast to the ocher landscape (all the trees were chopped down years ago), studded by huge chunks of inky basalt rock. After a short nap we set out to explore town. “If you get lost, just ask for Tita’s house,” said our host. “Everyone will know where I’m at.” A stop at the tourist office revealed a map of town and not much else. As our only source of cash, we crossed our fingers that the ATM machine would work, one of only two in town, both of which only accept Mastercard (luckily, it did).

Cashed up, we set out in search of food, our stomachs suddenly reminding us that we hadn’t had a proper meal in nearly 24 hours. We quickly realized that, while the siesta has died out in most of the Latin world, a sign of ever-encroaching globalization, it was still alive and well in Isla de Pascua. This sleepy town was napping, and most shops were shuttered until 5:30. We settled instead on ice cream, the heladeria tucked inside a small pedestrian mall, boasting flavors like mango-orange and guava, “la fruta de la isla.”

I was keen on empanadas, and our guidebook highly recommended a restaurant in town specializing in just that. The tourist office had marked its location on the map, and as we wandered back and forth down the same block, never making its acquaintance, we began to think it had burned to the ground. I finally wondered if the restaurant we had passed three times, with a quaint porch, was the place, despite its sign stating otherwise. As it turns out, the restaurant had two names, one of which was covered by thick green foliage. “It’s good to be back in Latin America again,” I thought.

dsc00792“Estas abierta?” I asked the woman on the porch. It wasn’t open until six, so we went grocery shopping first. There are no supermarkets here, but a collection of small grocery stores. We stopped at the one regarded as the most stocked by our guidebook, making our way past a life-sized Santa Clause that guarded the entrance. He sprang to life as we passed by, his “ho ho ho” singing (in English) obviously brought to life by our movement. Inside, the dark store was stuffed to the gills with crap - glassware, cutlery, Christmas ornaments, stacks of clothes - but no food to speak of. We continued down the street to another grocery-looking store, which seemed to be brimming with life, always a good sign. Here, there were massive gaps in the shelves where food should have been, looking like a Jack-o-Lantern. The meat was grey and fetid, swarming with flies. I made my way over to the produce aisle, and was greeted by limp lettuce, molding citrus, and shriveled tubers. So while I could buy The Simpsons’ brand marshmallows, there wasn’t a fresh vegetable to be had. I began to get a little freaked out that we were spending 11 days here.

dsc00795We fared a little better at the neighboring store, stocking up on fresh-baked rolls, turkey and cheese, but I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live in such a far-flung place, where nearly everything must be imported from the mainland. Rather than pondering the origins of this ancient island, which motivates most visitors, I am more interested in the mystery of how modern people grapple with living in such a remote place. And not just any remote place, but a place that sits in the cradle of all humanity. I saw a band of children roaming through the streets, like kids nearly everywhere in the world, laughing and kicking up dust as they flew through like whirling dervishes. “They probably have no idea of the significance of where they live,” I thought. It’s just home. They will grow up one day and move somewhere or visit someplace, and somebody will ask them, “Where did you grow up?” “Easter Island,” they will respond innocently, not realizing the weight of such a place.

By 6:15 the empanada place hadn’t reopened, but we took a place on the porch anyways, pretending like we belonged. Two women sat smoking in a sunny corner, hunched over a spread of tarot cards, whispering quietly amongst themselves. Eventually the doors sprang open, and we waited for menus, then drinks. “The Coke’s a little warm,” said the young waitress, someone’s daughter. There is no ice here. Women passed through as we waited for the empanadas, everyone knowing everyone. I munched on the piping hot pocket, doughy and rich, feeling both entirely out of place and very much at home.

Tahiti Dreams

Published
by
elizabeth
on November 30, 2008
in Culinary, Culture, French Polynesia, Goals/Dreams and Lodging
. 5 Comments

Sunday, November 30, 2008

We all entertain irrational dreams, that seem to sprout out of nowhere but hang on for dear life. They need not be big or impossible, only persistent. For years I dreamed of owning a red chenille couch and having a window seat that I could curl up in, and when those things actually materialized, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In this same token, I’ve always dreamed of staying in an overwater bungalow. I’m not sure where or when this dream took root, but I suspect it has to do with watching one too many shows on the Travel Channel. The idea of actually sleeping over the water, in a thatched palapa hut to call my own, completely enchanted me.

French Polynesia happens to be one of only a handful of places in the world where overwater bungalows are commonplace, and when we decided to make a three-day stopover in Tahiti on our way to Easter Island, I was dying to stay in one. A cursory glance at websites months ago revealed nightly room rates that skyrocketed towards $1,000, which I knew was impossible. As of a week ago, we still hadn’t made any reservations, and I had all but given up on this dream coming to fruition. But a few strategically-placed phone calls in the midst of low tourist season and a heightened economic world crisis revealed that an overwater bungalow could be had for as low as $300 per night. It was still a major splurge, especially by backpackers’ standards, but we decided to go for it. We made a deal with ourselves: we would live on fruit and sandwiches for three days to offset the cost of the room.

Tahiti is as fluffy as a marshmallow, the travel equivalent of watching a chick flick. The island vibes starts from the moment you board the plane. We were greeted with island tunes humming through the loudspeakers, and seats draped in every shade of blue imaginable. The flight attendants made three (three!) costume changes during the flight, but the theme was always the same: ruffles, tropical flowers, and bright colors. As we prepared to land, a video played to ready us for our arrival. After taking nearly 20 flights over the past four months, I’m accustomed to these videos by now. They usually involve a tutorial on how to fill out customs and immigration forms correctly, but this video showed three men happily strumming guitars as smiling passengers filed past. Seriously. The customs form was like none I had ever seen. There were separate check boxes for “Vacation” and “Honeymoon,” and they inquired as to what leisure activities I’d be taking part in during my stay in Tahiti.

dscf5644When we disembarked the plane in the warm, humid air, I could hear the strains of tropical music wafting over the tarmac. There, at the entrance to the airport, sat three men clad in tropical-print shirts, strumming guitars, happily singing, in the dead of the night. I’m pretty sure it was the same three guys from the video. “Oh my god,” I said to Maikael, “it’s the Tahitian Welcome Wagon!” Then, a throng of women passed out flowers to tuck behind our ears. I had just stepped into the most archetypal vision of Island Paradise, which would usually make me want to puke, but instead I sniffed the fragrant flower as a broad grin stretched across my face.

After a garland of fresh flowers was placed heavily over our shoulders, we made our way to the resort, where we stayed in a basic room the first night (another part of our cost-savings plan). In the morning, we were transferred to our overwater bungalow for the next two nights, but not before making a trip to the grocery store down the block. After leaving the luxurious compound, we walked down a busy road, feeling very much like we were back in the developing world again. When we stepped into the run-down “Supermarche,” we felt as if we had stepped into a Bastille Day extravaganza. Although Tahiti is part of French Polynesia, I never stopped to consider the influence that the French might have had on this little tropical island. A giant rack of baguettes greeted us at the entrance, the sign indicating that they were sourced from at least six different boulangeries. Every single person in the grocery store had a baguette - or sometimes two - tucked into the crook of their arm. There were even extremely long plastic bags that had been specifically manufactured to accommodate the elongated loaves. Red, white, and blue bunting hung from the ceiling, and the cheese counter was overflowing with imported French brie. A long row of wine provided one choice: Bordeaux. The checkers did not speak English, and everyone in line sighed as we produced a credit card and tried to stumble our way through the transaction.

It was just like being in France, only better, because I could also buy ridiculously cheap and sweet papayas with my Bordeaux.

dscf5686We loaded our goods into a broken down Heineken box and made our way back to the hotel. The overwater bunglows sat perched on a small series of boardwalks stretched over a shallow coral reef, and the water glimmered a brilliant turquoise as bright tropical fish darted amongst the dark coral. I was afraid that I’d be disappointed, that the bungalow wouldn’t live up to my expectations, but it exceeded my wildest dreams. It was the size of my first studio apartment, boasting wall-to-wall wooden shutters that could be levered to let the ocean breeze blow through. The bathtub sat snugly in a corner, providing an expansive view to Moorea, the island next to Tahiti. So not only could I take a bath, which is exciting enough for me after four months of showers, but I could take a bath and look at an island. Our private patio jutted over the water, and we proceeded to spend the next 72 hours primarily planted on our deck chairs overlooking this beautiful scene.

dscf5712That night, as we slathered peanut butter and jelly on the best baguette I had ever eaten, we watched the sun set over the ocean, just beyond the reef. The sky was on fire, casting a watercolor oil slick over the water. It was one of those moments that I have from time to time on this trip, where I wonder, “Am I really here right now? Am I really living in this dream?”

dscf5713There was nothing cultural or “authentic” about this part of the journey. The Tahitian dance performance that we overheard from our patio, with the drums thumping in the distance, was the closest we got to Polynesian culture. But I am bathed, read, rested, and gorged on the most buttery brie cheese imaginable.

(i.e., you)

Published
by
elizabeth
on November 16, 2008
in Culinary, Culture, Lodging and New Zealand
. 2 Comments

Sunday, November 16, 2008

Many people rent camper vans to make their way around New Zealand. The distances are large and towns small, so having a van to live out of for a few weeks makes sense. Our favorite are the Wicked vans, a company that has somehow managed to elevate camper vans to cool status by painting them with hip graphics, from Spy vs. Spy to mock graffiti. When we knew our friend, Tim, was meeting us in New Zealand, we investigated renting a Wicked van to toodle around the country for three weeks. But we quickly learned that their vans are really only suitable for two people. We were scrambling to make arrangements from Bali, with very limited email access, and the folks at Wicked advised us that a third person could be accommodated by “tenting it” outside the van. We quickly dashed off on email to Tim explaining the potential plan: “if we go the camper van route, someone will have to sleep in a tent (i.e., you).”

Our intention wasn’t to force Tim to stay in a tent, nor to sound like heartless jerks. But that’s how it came out, and Tim reports that our email instantly became a joke at work. No one could pass Tim in the hall without saying, “i.e., YOU!” and chuckling to themselves.

Needless to say, the camper van idea quickly died, and we’ve been staying in a random assortment of accommodations throughout New Zealand. When we received an offer to stay in Dunedin, one of the world’s southernmost cities, with Beverly, a former New Mexican who is friends with Jackie, one of our workout pals from our local YMCA, we jumped on it. Although the original plan had been for Maikael and I to stay with her, Beverly graciously offered all three of us to stay in her apartment during our visit to Dunedin.

dscf5233Dunedin was primarily settled by the Scots, and the town’s name is Gaelic for Edinburgh. It’s obvious to see why Dunedin was selected as a Scottish outpost: rolling green hills surround the historic town center, which is ringed by a lovely harbor. We parked our car outside the Regent Theatre and heard the sound of bagpipes drifting through the streets: this was the Scotland of the southern hemisphere.

Beverly showed us to her apartment, a darling, historic building built by local confectioner Richard Hudson as staff quarters, perched high above town with sweeping views of the harbor. She then graciously handed over her apartment to the three of us, offering to stay at her daughter’s house in “The Harry Potter Broom Closet” during our visit, the kindness of strangers astounding me once again. Maybe we could finally redeem ourselves for that “i.e., you” comment?

dscf5224After we settled in we made our way to her daughter, Shane’s, house, who had prepared a tres New Zealand dinner: local wine, meat pies, and Pavlova for dessert. We met Beverly’s four grandsons, cool kids who were not only well-mannered, but able to participate in adult conversation. Peter is the oldest at 11, followed by Oliver, Theo, and Linus, the youngest and most extroverted at five. They provided a history of Dunedin from a youthful perspective. We learned that thousands of Jaffas, a New Zealand candy, are raced down Baldwin Street each July, which proudly holds the distinction of the World’s Steepest Residential Street, with a 19 degree slope. They made fun of our goofy American accents, and we egged them on by asking them, “How do you say ‘fish and chips?’” “Fush and chups?” Oliver responded, cautiously.

The boys are real Kiwis; as not-yet-teenagers, they are accomplished outdoorsmen. They sail, run, hike, bike, fish, camp - you name it. They also know to operate a TIG welder.

When we met up with the family the next day, the kids proved they’re made of both brains and brawn. Peter asked us what we thought of the recent US presidential election, weighing in with his opinion of Barak Obama. As we made our way towards the nature-rich Otago Peninsula in the car, Peter asked, “Have you ever been in a protest?” “No,” we responded. “I have!” he said, cheerily. He was clearly opposed to the construction of a new rugby stadium, that would only be used a few days a year. What was wrong with the old one? he wondered. His civic-mindedness overrode an obvious penchant for sports. Kiwis are nothing if not resourceful, caring deeply about making the most of one’s resources. This is the first place in the world where I’ve seen a hybrid taxi cab, painted bright green.

We taught them all about calling “Shotgun!” on car trips which, in retrospect, might not have been the smartest thing to teach four brothers. (Due to our American accents, I’m pretty sure that Linus thinks it’s called “Shutgun,” and will consequently go through life as a pop culture pariah.) Then we passed along “Slug Bug” and “Popeye;” again, teaching four boys a game whose primary objective is punching other people was probably not the smartest thing. When we reached the Royal Albatross Refuge, which shelters these massive birds with three meter (nine feet) wing spans, Tim excitedly told the boys about throwing bread at birds when he was little. Within minutes, Oliver was chucking pebbles at low-flying seagulls. It’s obvious that none of us are parents.

dscf5219On the Monarch Nature Cruise, we spotted New Zealand Sea Lions, who lounged lazily on the sandy shore. Elephant Seals beached themselves on the rocky slopes, and New Zealand Seals arched gracefully through the water like dolphins. Unfortunately, no Northern Royal Albatrosses were flying, as it was nesting season, but we did spot Royal Spoonbills, with their cupped beaks, and Blue Penguins, the world’s smallest. But the real action was on the boat, where we were teaching Linus “knock-knock” jokes. Of all the impressionable things we imparted, that had to be the stupidest.

“Knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Albert.”

“Albert who?”

“Albert TROSS.”

Repeat ad nauseum for the next hour.

Soon, Linus was making knock-knock jokes using any material at hand. He was a hobo trolling for junk, using whatever he might find to craft a truly terrible joke. If we mentioned a serviette, which we explained was a napkin in our goofy brand of English, we knew that within ten seconds we were going to be offered a knock-knock joke that had something to do with a serviette. “You’ve got to get some new material, man,” Tim encouraged.

dscf5241After another great meal at Shane’s house - this time Chicken Chile Enchiladas, a reminder of home - we drove to Signal Hill to take in views of the city as eerie, cotton candy cloud swirled overhead in the twilight. We watched the lights of Dunedin flick on all at once, twinkling in the distance. Next stop? Baldwin Street, where we gunned the car to the top of the hill and coasted down the other way, delighting Peter. Maikael, Tim, and Peter commenced a race to the top of the hill. Peter stayed a few paces ahead, winning by just a nose, but Maikael said it was obvious that he could have raced to the top well before any of them. But Peter was a gracious winner, a “no big deal” attitude being the most prized in New Zealand. There is no room for tall poppies here, braggarts who try to prove that they’re better than everyone else. In fact, the whole national attitude is one of “aw shucks,” which is why we like it so much.

A Walk in the Woods

Published
by
elizabeth
on November 14, 2008
in Culinary, Lodging and New Zealand
. 3 Comments

Friday, November 14, 2008

dscf4925The start of the Milford Track feels as if you’re beginning an epic journey. Instead of driving to a trail head and unceremoniously beginning a 33.5 mile walk into the woods of New Zealand for four days, we loaded a bus, then embarked a boat which would deposit us at the far end of Lake Te Anau to begin the hike. As we careened through towering fjords on the glassy water, it felt as if we were sailing into another world, which we were. We made our way down the ramp, shouldering enormous packs stuffed with clothing to meet any weather challenge and four days worth of provisions. After breathing a deep sigh we looked at each other and set off, one foot in front of the other.

The first day was easy - a two mile jaunt to the Clinton Hut. The sun shone brightly and I thought, “This isn’t so bad!” By late afternoon all the hikers had made it to the Hut, and we had an opportunity to size each other up. Perhaps because it’s blindingly obvious, the brochures fail to mention that you’ll be spending the next four days with the same group of 40 hikers. The Milford Track is a one-way trail that must be completed in a certain amount of time: your success hinges on being able to hike enough distance each day to make it to the next hut. So while you are considered an Independent Walker, you unwittingly find yourself as part of a large group, progressing at the same rate.

I watched with fascination as a group of humans, from all walks of life, who are usually busy but suddenly have nothing to do, came together in the middle of nowhere. Puzzles were assembled. Books were read. Others stared blankly into space. A few conversations erupted, but when dinner rolled around, no one felt comfortable enough to sit too close at the communal tables. We quickly organized ourselves by language groups, just like the boroughs of New York. The German speakers sat together, ringed by the Dutch. The English speakers divided into Kiwis, Australians, Americans, and Europeans. Groups then subdivided by age.

dscf5150My favorite character emerged from the background, a man I immediately dubbed Crocodile Dundee. He was an Australian who looked frighteningly similar to Steve Irwin, with sun-streaked, tousled locks topped off by the classic Akaba bush hat. He wore a full khaki uniform, as if he was about to embark on a safari; the top was unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest and chunky gold chain. His wife wore a matching outfit, her hat festooned with a leopard-print silk band that flowed down her back. It was Katharine Hepburn straight out of The African Queen. He flopped around the kitchen preparing dinner in Homer Simpson slippers, loudly cracking bad jokes at just about anything.

Before dinner Ranger Ross, who must have been at least nine feet tall, took us on a walk with his pipe cleaner legs and knobby knees. He provided us some information about the local flora and fauna, including a spindly tree whose leaves actually change shape as they mature. But what he was really fired up about were the stoats. These weasel-like creatures wreak havoc on local bird-life, necessitating the use of stoat traps along the Milford Track. Ranger Ross assured us of their value, elucidating staggering statistics about stoat carnage. (Disappointingly, stoat captures were down in the 2005-2006 season.) To really drive the point home, he passed around a stuffed stoat after dinner. Nothing brings a group of people together like taxidermy.

As night fell, people began streaming into the bunk houses, which were rustic but cozy. I suddenly began channeling vague recollections of being a 12-year-old at Camp River Ranch in Carnation, Washington. Although nobody announced it was bedtime, it was as if we had all entered into an unwritten agreement to hit the hay at the same time. A room full of adults shrugged into snug sleeping bags and read books or chatted quietly by flashlight, and as I drifted off to sleep I worried that I would oversleep and never make it to the next hut on time.

dscf4960Those fears were put to rest the next morning, when I was wrenched out of a deep sleep by a loud rustling noise. It was early - barely 6 am - and someone was packing their bags. It was as if they were painstakingly unwrapping the world’s largest candy bar. Soon, everyone in the bunk began stirring. The woman next to me — who I had noticed was wearing a very hip felt fedora the day before, not your average outdoor gear - shot out of bed and tracked down the offender. “Why are you getting up so early?” she demanded. He explained that he was trying to be the first on the trail so that he could make it to the Mintaro Hut before anyone else. I hadn’t realized that we had signed up to be on The Amazing Race. Suddenly everyone was out of bed, their disgust at having been roused out of a deep sleep replaced by an undercurrent of competition coursing through the room. I was pretty sure that a fist fight would break out before this was all over.

Most of us were rather inexperienced walkers, few having ever completed a multi-day trek. But a group of hard core hikers soon emerged. They seemed to be completing some sort of rigorous endurance training, ensuring they were always the first ones up and out. I rarely saw them because I was nearly always the last on and the last off the trail, but I heard through the grapevine that they had completed another multi-day trek a day before starting the Milford Track. They kept to themselves and drank boxed wine, which I coveted.

The Germans seemed to be the heartiest group, undoubtedly cultivated through long walks in the Black Forest. They were deterred by nothing - lack of sleep, rugged terrain, the notorious New Zealand sandflies, none of it mattered. They also had a propensity for cooking gourmet meals. Rutabagas and golden onions were whipped into fancy cassoulets, as they spread deeply veined blue cheese onto crisp crackers. We couldn’t help but be gripped by jealousy as we sipped our Cup O’Noodles night after night (after night).

***

dscf4988By the second day we had the sense that we were deep in nature. We hiked alongside Coke-bottle streams, aquamarine and glassy clear, revealing the depth of its contents. Curtains of lacy moss draped from the limbs of trees, spreading their crooked arms over the trail to create a shady canopy. Suddenly the forest opened to reveal a deep valley lined by massive, rocky walls. Shawls of clouds wrapped snug around distant cobalt peaks, which we walked impossibly towards. We felt tiny - absolutely infinitesimal - in their wake. These are valleys that could swallow you whole. Emerald ferns like tasseled fringe swung from the mountainsides, an ancient and prehistoric landscape. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had stumbled into Jurassic Park. Still not a drop of rain, I thought.

Our group was briefly separated on the second day, and I spent lunch with Crocodile Dundee and his wife, huddled under a wooden awning. I learned that they had once driven 23,000 miles around Australia over six months. We laughed and told stories as their small camp stove warmed a pot of tea.

dscf5154The hike was full of all sorts of interesting people, and by the end of the second day barriers swiftly fell, and we were no longer divided by country or language group. The difficulty of the task we are tackling is binding, and by the end of the second day it was a regular United Nations around the dinner table. We talked for hours with The Two Irish Guys, who have been traveling for over a year. There were The College Girls, foreign exchange students living in New Zealand who were completing the Milford Track as their last hurrah before going to their separate corners of the globe. Then there was The California Camera Guy, who stopped to take pictures of everything, accompanied most frequently by The Vermont Filmmaker, who just finished his first movie. There are The Hip Australians, The Hard Core Kiwis, and The Belgians. There were The First Germans and The Other Germans, designated by the point in time in which we met them. There was Bullshit Girl, who teaches us how to play the card game of her namesake and is getting ready to start her Peace Corps assignment in Thailand. We talked and played cards and told stories and laughed, and I felt once again - like I did in Bali — that I was at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. The camaraderie that so quickly sprang up amongst the fellow hikers was astonishing, and I wondered if our world leaders shouldn’t all be forced to hike the Milford Track together.

dscf5187I realized that, for me, the hike wasn’t about the hike. I like the idea of liking the outdoors, but what kept me going each day was knowing that I would walk through the door of the cabin at the end of the day and spend a cozy evening with these interesting people. We passed through stunningly unreal landscapes hours a day, which I admired and appreciated. But walking 10 miles in a day is difficult. Walking 10 miles over mountain peaks, on rocky trails, lugging 30 pounds on your back - and knowing you’re going to start the process all over again the next morning - is just plain daunting.

dscf5004After two days of walking I am the wobbly-legged one at the Chicago Marathon, slowed to a snail’s pace but bound and determined to cross the finish line nonetheless. Nearly everyone passed me, especially The Germans. My ankles were swollen, sporting huge knots which only Advil and tight socks seemed to have any effect on. I puffed and panted, stopping to yell obscenities from time to time. My only saving grace was the weather: it was not hot and it still hadn’t rained a drop. Had either of these conditions occurred, I’m not sure I could have mustered the strength to continue. Those photos in the brochure of people wading through waist-deep water was no joke. We learned that the Milford Track receives 60% more rain than sun a year, and the chances that you’ll get positively drenched are excellent. The Track follows the Clinton River for much of its course, so it doesn’t take much rain to flood the trail. We frequently saw long, metal poles lining portions of the trail with arrows pointing straight ahead: when water covers the track, it guides hikers in the proper direction.

I couldn’t imagine anything worse. But some masochists apparently seek out this Track for the opportunity to wade through rivers of water. The Milford Track seems to bring out the oddballs, hikers and rangers alike. As we passed through the trail, we were greeted by a different rangers, all with varying degrees of peculiarities. One railed against the extreme measures of wearing waterproof gear on the trail. “What are we, allergic to water? I prefer to get my socks wet before I start tramping.” It takes a special person to live in the middle of the woods.

dscf5142Our days quickly fall into a familiar routine, not unlike being an old person. We wake up at six, eat lunch around 11, wolf down dinner at five, and are in bed by nine. On the third morning I hear a commotion in the room. I peer out the window and see crystal-clear, blue skies. This is the morning we are to pass Mackinnon Pass, offering the best views of the entire trek, and the weather couldn’t be more perfect. Everyone is throwing their gear into their packs (after three days of hiking I am now qualified to use words like “gear” and “pack”), and is excited about the prospect of actually seeing the Pass, which is rare. We’re all on the trail by seven o’clock, and after a steep, two and a half hour climb we reach the summit, the scene that greets us is simply unreal. We feel as if we have walked onto The Lord of the Rings movie set. The sky is a dramatic blanket of blue, punctured by gnashing rows of blindingly white, snow-capped peaks. Thin banks of cloud rest in the valley below. A guide tells us that this weather only occurs two or three times a year, and we feel incredibly lucky to be here, in this moment. No one wants to leave, and we spend over an hour taking in the views and snapping photos. We take turns chasing away keas, New Zealand’s notoriously shameless birds who are known for their thievery, from each other’s packs. I overhear Crocodile Dundee tell someone about the time he actually encountered a crocodile. Life is good.

***

There are two ways to complete the Milford Track, as an Independent or a Guided Walker. We fall into the former group, which means going it completely on your own. Whereas we haul around our own food and sleeping bags, Guided Walkers receive all their meals at separate huts along the way, which also boast better amenities. At each “pit stop” on the trail there are separate entrances for Guided and Independent Walkers. We feel like we’re in the Deep South in the 1950s.

A rivalry has sprung up between us and The Guideds. That’s what we call them: The Guideds. We run into them from time to time; they are usually sprinting past us because their packs are so light. When California Camera Guy asks two Guideds what it’s like, they gush about hot showers, cushy beds, three square meals a day, and a full bar. They are just as curious about our digs, to which Camera Guy responds, “Well, the spa isn’t up to my unusual standards, but it’s alright.”

The Guideds are smug. Maybe it’s the jealousy talking, but we make fun of them incessantly behind their back. We roll our eyes as we overhear them complaining about how heavy their packs are. We call them “grandmas” and “lame.” We are real hikers.

The rivalry reaches a whole new level the final day of the hike. On the boat back to civilization, a Guided tells Crocodile Dundee that he doesn’t know what he would have done without hot showers. Crocodile Dundee tells him that he wouldn’t have done it any other way because “you spend 10 times as much to walk the same trail.” The Guided retorts that he was able to “really focus on his walking.” On the bus ride back to town, Vermont Filmmaker and California Camera Guy report that, after being taunted by some Guideds, they left some “presents” along the trail for them. We howled as told us about the the branches that had “accidentally” fallen across the path, tears streaming down our eyes. It was stupid and childish, but that was the point, to feel like a kid again.

dsc00714We stumbled over the finish line at 2:30 pm yesterday, our legs and joints aching fiercely. We stank intensely, having worn the same clothes and done without a shower for four days. We proudly took our photos by the sign that heralds that we’d completed a 33.5 mile hike. Never in my life did I ever think I could accomplish something of this magnitude. I’ve never considered myself much of an outdoors person, but I’ve finally earned the right to call myself a hiker. We all enjoyed the opportunity to simply put one foot in front of the other for an entire day, with no other care in the world. It was especially nice to have concentrated time to catch up with our friend who we haven’t seen in four months amongst some of the most beautiful scenery you can imagine . And after talking for days about our first meal back in civilization, we celebrated that night over juicy steaks and lamb and a big bottle of local red wine. The toast was obvious: “to surviving the Milford Track.”

And those extra pounds I packed on in Australia? Nearly gone.