Haere Mai

That title means “Welcome to y’all.”

From How Tawhaki Climbed Up to the Skyland from Maori Tales of Long Ago by A. W. Reed:

“It’s many years since I swung on the moari [long rope] and I never thought to do it again.”

… “You weren’t afraid, were you?”

“Oh, yes, I was,” Popo said. “That’s why I did it. If I hadn’t been afraid there wouldn’t have been any need to do it.”

. . .

I dreamed last night that I had been staying with my mother but had to return home to CA to reality and was having a meltdown. Before getting on the plane I went to a restaurant with my sister and her family. I completely flipped out at the waitress because she brought me lamb, which I’d told her I don’t eat. I stomped and squawked in fury. Everyone in the restaurant hated me, which made me misbehave even more. When I calmed a bit, my sister wouldn’t even acknowledge me, except to say that we could no longer be sisters, so great was her shame. Nothing I said would change her mind. She sat in stony silence, ignoring me, her husband and boys by her side.

. . .

It’s hard to get out of bed in the morning. Here, I’m trying to absorb a little radiant warmth before emerging into the great outdoors.

While toasting myself, I spotted a young girl out the window who seemed fairly unperturbed by the wind and cold.

I’ve been calling our lodgings B&Bs but they’re really backpackers’ hostels, with giant kitchens in which passers-through prepare their own meals, and central eating and gathering areas for genial conversation. They are largely unheated. I’m not the only one who relaxes in a cozy chair while bundled up in coat, scarf, hat and gloves.

New Zealand’s online weather report has a useful feature: it tells you how many layers of clothes you need to wear. Today I followed its advice to the letter.

Kiwis love to make fun of Americans here: our funny accents and big cars. The conductor on the train, the second Campbell we’ve met, stood by us during our half-hour ride to Wellington and cheerfully ribbed us. The owner of our current hostel and his father are also having a blast comparing our two cultures, with theirs emerging superior.

I asked two Kiwis if their accent is different than that of an Aussie since I’m not experienced enough to detect it myself. They said theirs is a gentler sound. I’ll have to double-check with an Aussie. With that introduction, here is your pronunciation lesson for the day:

• HAY-lo: hello
• Noiss: nice
• Woota: water
• Gow: go
• Boosh: bush

And here is some new lexicon for you, gleaned during today’s jaunt to Wellington:

• Grotty: filthy
• Jab: injection
• Long drop: outhouse
• Soldiers: toast slivers
• Take the Mickey [mekkie] out of: take the fun out of
• Sweet as [swate-EZ]: positive response. [See also great stuff] “Can I take your ticket? [Hand it over.] Sweet as!”
• Question, such as “Do you want to go to the pub?”
  Answer: Yee-eh. Nah. Yee-eh, yee-eh. [The equivocation shows your conversation partner that you’re really thinking deeply and respectfully about their question.]

Today’s adventure was a visit to Wellington, New Zealand’s capital because of its central location. A half-hour train ride from Plimmerton landed us downtown, from whence we set out into the unknown.

Our first stop was the Department of Conservation. I don’t know if Jill is reading this but I bought her and me some fingerless possum hair gloves there, and also got an 80-page New Zealand map that I hope with ease some of our navigational woes. My hope is that we can kill off Miss GPS so I never have to listen to her silken-voiced, Kiwi-accented lies again. She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I can just picture her inside that box, smirking as she watches us struggle. “In 400 meters, make second right. Heh heh heh.”

Next we had brunch at a cafe called Olive, and then wended our way to some indigenous art galleries and then to Te Papa, Wellington’s famous museum. One floor is dedicated to natural history. Here is the famous possum, endangered in Australia and a pest here.

Wellington is known for being rich in the arts. There were colorful fountains and sculptures and even literature posted on signs.

We hiked over to Wellington’s cable car that rode us up the hill to a botanical garden that was too cold and wintery for this weary traveler to choose to explore. We did stay up there long enough to pose for a picture…

… and to enjoy the views…

… before going back down the hill.

We went back to Olive on Cuba Street to split eggplant canelloni and pear and gorgonzola salad, followed by the most delicate creme brulee. It was well after dark by the time we began the long walk back to the train station and the equally long walk back to our hostel. We have to get up at 5:30 tomorrow to try to find our way to the ferry that will cross us over Cook Strait between two oceans: the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific.