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Posted at 03:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)
The mother-f'ing sandfly. I don't not love it, I DETEST it with every pore of my being. Unfortunately, the feeling is not mutual.
Here's what explorer James Cook had to say about the little devils in his journal:
‘The most mischievous animal here is the small black sandfly which are exceeding numerous … wherever they light they cause a swelling and such intolerable itching that it is not possible to refrain from scratching and at last ends in ulcers like the small Pox.’
Posted at 03:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (5)
First stop: Wanaka, advantageously situated at the southern end of Lake Wanaka with stunning views of Mt. Aspiring across the lake. I was anxious to get to Wanaka and the Festival Of Colour, a five-day celebration of the arts, but when we arrived, we were hard-pressed to find any evidence of the festival at all. If there had been fabulous events, we missed them. To assuage our immense disappointment, we took a couple bike rides around the lake. And found the real Festival Of Colour, on the banks of Lake Wanaka.
Posted at 01:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)
Posted at 08:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)
At this point in my story, I pick up a travel companion. You may remember Craig, the owner of the Catlins hostel where I had such a lovely time. Well, he joined me in Queenstown for a hiking and biking trip up the West Coast.
Posted at 08:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)
For three days in the village of Mt. Cook, it rained and rained and rained. The sun broke through for about 2 hours on the second afternoon, but New Zealand’s highest peak never materialized. As with any great monarch, an audience with Aoraki is never assured.
The following is the the Maori legend of Aoraki:
The story of Aoraki is about four brothers who made a huge mistake and that mistake became the mountain range known today as Te Tiritiri o Te Moana (The Southern Alps).
The story begins when there was only darkness. Out of the darkness came Maku (moisture), who married Mahoranuiatea and they has a son called Raki. Raki married Pokoharua-te-po and their sons were Aoraki, Rakiroa, Raaraki and Rakiroa. They all lived in a special place in the heavens, where they had everything they could ever want. Until one day, Pokoharua-te-po became upset because Raki had fallen in love with another woman, Papatuanuku (Earth Mother). Raki descended from his home in the heavens to the earth, where he married his new love. Pokoharua-te-po just cried and cried.
Aoraki and his three brothers became angry because of what their father had done to their mother and they decided to visit Papatuanuku. They climbed into their magical canoe called Te Waka o Aoraki and descended from their home in the heavens, sailing across a great ocean called Te Waonui o Takaroa (The Great Ocean of Takaroa). Aoraki and his brothers journeyed for a long, long time until they found the new wife of their father. They gazed at Papatuanuku as she lay across the ocean with their father and realised their father was really in love with her.
Aoraki and his brothers decided that they should return home to comfort their mother who had remained in the heavens.
Aoraki stood in the magical canoe and began the sacred chant that would make the canoe rise back into the heavens. But he made a mistake in the chant and instead of returning to the heavens, Aoraki and his brothers remained on earth. Strong winds began to blow and the sea began to rise. Aoraki and his brothers panicked when they realised they were stranded on earth. The storm became stronger and the canoe turned on its side. Aoraki and his brothers climbed onto the side of the canoe and waited for someone to come and rescue them. They waited for a long, long time, but no-one came. Slowly, as time passed, their hair turned white and their bodies became as hard as stone.
Finally, Aoraki and his brothers became snowcapped mountains. Aoraki, the eldest of the four brothers, was the tallest peak of the mountain range and is known today as Aoraki, or Mount Cook, with his brothers sitting on either side of him. Their canoe became the land we live upon today, known as Te Waipounamu (The Greenstone Waters), but the ancient name our ancestors gave the South Island was Te Waka o Aoraki (The Canoe of Aoraki).
Source: Te Karaka Makariri/Winter 1998 p48
Posted at 08:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)
As I mentioned once before in this blog, Kiwis are prodigiously proud of their military history. Despite a 1915 population of just over a million, 18,000 Kiwis died in World War I, 2700 of them in the battle for Turkey, which began on April 25, 1915. That date is commemorated each year in both New Zealand and Australia as Anzac Day, a day to honor the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.
I spent Anzac Day with Pauline, one of the owners of Two Bobs Flashpackers in Alexandra. We started out the day with a parade in neighboring Clyde, where her partner Lloyd marched as part of the volunteer fire brigade, followed by a beautiful hike to the Rob Roy Glacier. We ended the day with quiz night at the pub – which we won!* – and a lovely blue cod takeaway.
*We won despite the fact that they gave us no points for getting the definition of xenophobia correct – they said it was the fear of the number 13, while I knew it was the fear of foreigners.
Posted at 08:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)
Curling is my last best hope for a trip to the Olympics as an athlete. My sister Lori and I both landed at this conclusion – separately. It didn’t matter that neither one of us had ever curled. We just figured that a sport that doesn’t require much physical prowess wouldn’t require an 18-year-old body or 15 years of practice.
So imagine my glee at stumbling upon Maniototo Curling International in the small south-central town of Naseby, which, it turns out, is New Zealand’s curling capital. The sport was introduced here by Scottish gold miners in the latter half of the 19th century, looking for a way to pass the time during the long, bitter winters. Of course it made perfect sense to play an outdoor game on ice. But I digress…
While I was waiting for my lesson – the lesson that would launch my Olympic curling career – I had the great fortune to watch the practice sessions of the senior national teams from New Zealand, Canada, Sweden, and Australia. There was an international tournament in Dunedin the following week. They made it look so easy.
Then I got my time on the ice. There are several different ways to bowl a stone, but I was really only interested in the real one, the one where you lunge gracefully across the ice and gently release the stone in the desired direction. Well, they won’t actually let you release the stone until you can get yourself to the line having picked up your hand and put it back on the stone twice. After the third successful attempt at this, you can let it go. I think I managed it once. And that was after several humiliating falls. My instructor took pity on me and let me bowl the damn stone anyway.
I’m not terrible (as the video will attest), but I don’t think USA Curling is going to be calling anytime soon. Maybe after 15 years or so of practice.
Posted at 01:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)
Posted at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)
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