Kindness of Strangers

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.

When 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.

We 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.

That 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?”

There 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.

You may have noticed that I’m looking a little tired these days. In fact, the deep, purple bags under my eyes have taken up permanent residence. Simply put, I am tired. Given this compounding factor, nothing seemed to be going my way today, from debating whether to stay in Dunedin another day to receiving the wrong sandwich at lunch. After a crying jag at lunch, I stuffed myself into the backseat of the car and spent the next six hours in an iPod-induced daze. By the time we arrived in Christchurch this evening, all I wanted was a real hotel with a bathtub, a hip bar, and free wireless Internet access, all of which was promised to me at Hotel SO.

When we arrived to discover the Hotel was entirely booked, I crumbled. We quickly moved onto the Lonely Planet’s top pick for the city, Jailhouse. I sulked in the car while Maikael and Tim inspected the premises. They enthusiastically returned to the car, promising me a cool night of accommodations. The sky was grey, the buildings were grey; it was pretty much perfect. I stepped through the bars and into a real jail, which was decommissioned in 1999. This is hands down the best hostel we’ve stayed at on this trip. We ran up the stairs, looking sufficiently institutional. The doors to our rooms are heavy metal things, and our bed linens are jail-striped. Everything is brushed metal and industrial. The toilet/water fountain combos from the former cells, great metal behemoths, now serve as planters. Even the toilet seats are clear resin embedded with barbed wire; someone had fun designing this place. We took a walk through solitary confinement, and the room next door was left intact, boasting colorful art and inscriptions from the previous occupants (read: lots of naked ladies). The only creepy thing is when the door to my room slams shut; it echoes throughout the corridor, as I await for the warden to shout, “Lights out!”

I even got my Internet access and was finally able to finish uploading our photos to the South Island New Zealand and Milford Track albums. Who would have thought that access to the outside world would have been so easy in lock-down?

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.

Dunedin 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?

After 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.

On 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.

After 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.

Friday, November 14, 2008

The 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.

My 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.

Those 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).

***

By 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.

The 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.

I 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.

After 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.

Our 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.

We 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.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

When I was a kid, I spent every weekend with my father. My parents have been divorced since I was two, and their joint custody agreement dictated that I spend non-school days with him. As it was, spending time with my father was like entering a different world where even the furniture seemed foreign.

The centerpiece of my bedroom were massive solid stained wood Ethan Allen bunk beds, laid out like an L. Despite their solid appearance, climbing on the beds revealed an unfortunate alternate reality. The entire construction would start to creek and moan, and the slightest movement of my body would amplify the beds into a terrifying wobble, belying a potential structural failure.

Picking the lower or upper bunk was the toughest choice. On one hand, I could sleep on the bottom and risk getting the top half of my body crushed by 500 pounds of oak. On the other, I could take my chances on the top, riding the giant bed down, perhaps only suffering spinal injuries and a lifetime of physical therapy.

***

Undoubtedly one the biggest disappointments of this trip has been having to prearrange accommodations much of the time, as we’ve been traveling much of the world during high season. I was, however, completely confident that we would visit Australia during shoulder season, and would have our choice of prime rooms.

My first inkling of my faulty thinking came in the form of a tall, frizzy-haired Aussie man we met while hiking in 100 degree weather in Cappadocia. He had the air of a slacker who drank his fair share of beer and enjoyed the ladies. As we walked, he proclaimed that, if we were lucky, the greatest party in Australia, the Melbourne Cup, could coincide with our visit and we’d be wise to book ahead. The most famous horse race in Australia, the Melbourne Cup apparently surpasses even the Kentucky Derby in its popularity, warranting a public holiday. It may have been the dehydration, but I quickly removed this thought from my mind.

Two weeks before arriving to Melbourne, we started to hear lots of press about the Melbourne Cup. I asked Liz if the big event would take place during our visit. Yep. Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately contacted several hostels and hotels. My dream of having our pick of rooms quickly evaporated as place after place informed us they had already been completely booked for quite a while. Then, the well-regarded Claremont Hotel informed us that they had a private double room available with bunk beds but shared bathroom during our desired dates. Panicked, I quickly snapped it up.

“It won’t be so bad,” Liz and I reassured each other. She quickly claimed the bottom bunk upon check in, relegating me to six nights of high-altitude sleeping. The bed itself must be a model Ikea sells direct to hostels and university dormitories. It has a minimalist, mass-produced appearance, with thin, black painted steel bars which give the feeling of a hospital bed. My bunk lets out an ear-splitting, prolonged creak each time I lay down or get up, and a coil pokes my hip when I try to sleep on my side. The ladder to the top bunk has two small hooks holding it in place, and climbing must be an exact science, or it will pivot from the top and crash loudly back into the bed frame. Each trip up and down makes me lament the loss of the pliable bones I once had as a child, making bunk bed sleeping possible.

Getting older (I am in my 30s, after all) has gifted me something else: the need to pee at least once during the night. If I’ve had a few drinks, double that number. Once trivial, the process of going to the bathroom has lengthened to a 10-minute ordeal. The process goes something like this:

1. Sit up in bed as quickly as possible to minimize the god awful creaking sound.
2. Slide body to the end of the bed and hang my legs over the edge, taking care not to castrate myself on the metal “footboard.”
3. Slowly lower myself down the ladder, taking care not to bang ladder against the bed frame or, worse, fall and break bones.
4. Rummage through clothes to find something presentable for my public appearance in the hallway.
5. Slip on flip flops, taking care not to step on the trick floorboard, which also makes a god awful creaking sound.
6. Go to bathroom, making sure not to close our room door too loudly, waking up the entire floor.
7. Reenter room, taking care to avoid the trick floorboard, while disrobing.
8. Make the perilous journey back up the ladder, slide the upper half of my body on the bed, legs flailing helplessly in the air.
9. Mentally prepare for god awful creaking sound #2, flipping my body around and quickly laying back down.
10. Ponder the absurdity of this process for an additional 10 minutes.

This was not our first experience with bunk beds. In Fremantle (see Backpacker Hell post), we also landed a bunk bed room at the Old Firestation hostel. Our saving grace was that the bottom bunk mattress was sized for two people. But many of our hostel rooms have come with two twin beds, separated by a small nightstand. Experiencing this very Ward and June Cleaver-esque sleeping arrangement is certainly not conducive to modern marriage. “Good night, Ozzie,” Liz calls through the darkened room. “Good night, Harriet.”

Saturday, October 18, 2008

We’ve stayed in our fair share of hostels on this trip, which have surprised us in their variety. In many cases we’ve stayed in historical homes in quiet hamlets, and have chatted with retired couples, families, and middle-aged travelers. But it was only a matter of time until we stayed at a real backpacker’s youth hostel. You know the kind I’m talking about: a congregation of shirtless twenty-somethings (at least the dudes) on journeys of enlightenment, who employ self-rolled cigarettes, techno music, joints, and beer as the trusty tools of their trade?

This was the scene that greeted Elizabeth and I upon check in at the Old Firestation Backpackers hostel in Fremantle, a quirky and artistic suburb of Perth. We had just survived a three and a half hour overnight flight from Bali, followed by a few hours of sleep in the airport terminal, and finally negotiating our rental car on unknown streets. As a former fire station, the building has a beautiful, historic air, with a surprising number of nooks and crannies that would make M.C. Escher proud. We quickly checked in, dumped our luggage, and headed into the town.

Our time in the downtown, reminiscent of Main Street USA, was productive enough. Half-drunk due to lack of sleep, we exchanged some books, purchased toiletries, Elizabeth bought a new T-shirt (she hated the shirt she was wearing so much, having served its baggy purpose through the Middle East, she had the store throw it away), and got haircuts. My lack of mental facilities peaked at lunchtime, when I took minutes to decide whether I wanted bread with my pasta dish. We made a beeline back to our room for a bit of sleep.

Waking up, we couldn’t help but notice the faint sound of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and the sound of clinking glass penetrating our walls. Leaving for dinner, we saw a small group of men gathered at a large picnic table, conveniently placed outside our door. Surely, we thought, they will be gone by the time we get back.

Upon returning, the small group had morphed into a brigade training for alcohol nuclear war. The music had reached a fever pitch, with European techno blasting from a karaoke machine. Two men were engaged in a fierce drunken battle of table tennis. We were outnumbered, so we stealthily entered our room and got ready for bed. Elizabeth, clearly disgusted, exclaimed, “I’m too cute for the Old Firestation,” and then jammed her iPod headphones in her ears, cranked up the volume, and promptly went to sleep. Taking her lead, I grabbed some earplugs, fell asleep immediately, woke up realizing I had never inserted the earplugs, put them in my ears, and fell asleep again.

You may never guess it, but I enjoyed blissful sleep that night. Even twenty-something backpackers have their limits, I suppose, and they finally retired to bed in the late hours of the night. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter anyway. The morning was overcast and eerily quiet, except for the random squawk of a seagull. I stepped outside the room, and saw a vision of the post-apocalypse with copious empty bottles littering the table and floor. The only signs of life were the clean-cut and responsible-looking ones who we had never laid eyes on before.

I made my way to an oddly placed bathroom entitled “The Philosopher’s Shower.” Inside, someone had painted an “Under the Sea” theme, replete with mermaids and a variety of colorful fish, but the centerpiece was that of a pair of enormous black-rimmed “Philosopher’s” spectacles, much like I imagine those described on that billboard in the Great Gatsby. Like many public restrooms, former guests had obviously spent time in this bathroom and pondered the world only to scribe their wisdom on the wall. Comments ranged from the inane, “Check out ya big ride!”, to the surprisingly deep, “I have pondered the world’s problems and I concede…I am at a loss.”

Elizabeth could not wait to check out, and we quickly packed so we could start our big drive south. Handing our keys over to the Italian desk clerk, he asked how our stay was. I was surprised to find that this was a hard question for me to answer. In truth, there were a few other guests in the over 30 crowd, and the 20 year olds I talked with were uniformly nice and interesting people. I muttered something about it being a bit noisy, but that earplugs helped. He looked truly apologetic, but I quickly asked how he likes the hostel life.

“I love it!,” he quickly responded. “I live in a beach side apartment,” he conceded, “but our guests regularly live here from six months up to two years. We even had a guy who lived here for three years! Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in any other place in the world.” He spoke with such conviction, how could I not believe him?