Seven-Hundred and Counting!

Friday Night

Do you realize this is my 700th published post here on The Wormlips Scrapbook? Why have I done this? I don’t know. So I can look back and remember who I’ve been, I suppose. Certainly it’s not for an extensive readership. However, it’s a mildly engaged readership; to wit, if you’re the third person from now to leave a comment, it will be this blog’s 1000th. If it’s a long, thoughtful and original post, perhaps I shall reward you with a prize from New Zealand.

I can’t say I really like this hostel (Albatross) because, as I told you, the room makes me claustrophobic. I literally can’t walk between the beds, they’re so close. But there are nice young people here. There’s a family from Cologne, Germany, the young father of which loves to play the guitar. He was picking and singing softly, clearly in hopes that someone would join him in a song. No one did, not even his kids. Then he started to play something that suddenly inspired Syd and a young woman from Ithaca, sitting next to me, to chime in. Delighted, he came over to our table. At first I was too shy to sing along, but by You Are My Sunshine and Irene I was belting out the lyrics as good as the rest, a regular Tina Turner, except without the good voice or sexual gestures. I am demure. I haven’t sung for a very long time, so it was good for the soul and hard on the voicebox. We covered everyone from Joan Baez to Nancy Sinatra.

Other guests at the hostel are big into cooking, and throughout the evening brought out salad, shepherd’s pie, berry pie, kiwi fruit tart and home-baked bread to share. Syd made popcorn and I sliced apples. I just kept inhaling what was put in front of me.

Saturday

I could no longer stave off a cold. Luckily, I don’t feel bad. I’m just sneezy and stuffy and nose-blowy: not very attractive. I hope I don’t gross out my hostel-mates.

Today’s short (two-hour) drive took us up the coast on Highway 1 from Kaikoura to Picton. Along the way we crossed Ohau Creek where it pours into the ocean. We parked and followed the creek inland. It tumbles over rocks and swirls in small pools, and if you look carefully you can see pairs and trios of baby fur seals (kekeno) wrestle, bite and leap with apparent joy.

You know how heavily fur seals have been hunted, and it has been no exception here. But since the late nineteenth century the population has been recovering and is back to ten or twenty percent of what it used to be.

A ten-minute walk up the creek brought us to a high waterfall. At its foot, the pool is writhing with infant seals. The pups jump and nuzzle and wriggle, making the pool seem a living thing, in constant motion. One youngster flipped onto its right side, closed its eyes, and let the force of the falls float it around in arcs and spirals.

These little guys are about seven or eight months old. They were born by the sea at the mouth of the stream, but about three months ago they started making their way upstream. While their mothers are at sea going after arrow squid and lantern fish for supper, they make friends and build aquatic skills. It’s like Emmy’s “tiny school,” except without the glitter paint.

Every few days the babies go back to shore to get more mommy’s milk, and will do till they’re weaned and ready for the wide ocean world in October.

The drive was pretty, along the coastline, but as Syd pointed out, California has spoiled us. Few of these vistas are new to our eyes. One thing that’s different is that the Kiwis give most of their roadside culverts a proper name. And indeed, wouldn’t it be sad if they spent their whole culverty lives unknown, unrecognized? My favorite so far has been Snoutfield Culvert, a dozen kilometers before Waipapa.

This land is heavily grazed. I wish you could smell this picture, but you should be glad you can’t.

It seems to my untrained eye that the cattle are more destructive to the land than the sheep. Speaking of which, I got to see sheepdogs in action today, doing what their name suggests, and masterfully. The shepherd in this instance had no robe and crook, but a four-wheeler, speeding along the crest of a hill above the sheep paddock. Behind him streamed two loyal dogs who peeled off as one and started rounding up the sheep. The sheep ran at breakneck speed and the dogs ran faster, in broad arcs around the herd, discouraging the stragglers and the mutineers. It was mesmerizing and beautiful to see such natural canine efficiency and know-how.

The following picture is of the Awatere River. I have nothing to say about it, except that the bridge over it has a sign that informed us that “This is the second bridge of its type in the dominion.”

And speaking of dubious distinctions and superlatives, this sign in Picton captures the essence of superlative-manufacturing so rampant here.

Tonight we’re staying in Picton at the Tombstone backpackers, with a front door the shape of a coffin, named thus because it abuts the town cemetery. We have an ensuite room with enough space to open our suitcases, which makes me happy. After getting settled here, we went into town for a hearty lunch.

Afterward we took a two-hour hike along the Tirohanga Track, a steep trail that lifted us above the town for a panoramic view of the harbor that we’ll be departing from tomorrow on the InterIslander Ferry. We met a man who offered to take our picture.

He told us he’s from Christchurch and had to move because his house was rendered unlivable in the quakes. He’s a trucker who has just relocated to Picton. Part of our conversation went something as follows.

Ginna: How many kids do you have?
Man: I have three.
Ginna: How old are they?
Man: 18 and 16, and I’ve sort of been adopted by another.
Ginna: Oh really? And how old is that one?
Man: Three.
Ginna: That’s, uh, young.
Man: It’s hard to find a place big enough for all three kids, but I didn’t want to leave them behind. They’re like family.
Ginna: Well, yeah, I can understand that. Do they all get along?
Man: The two older ones do, but the three-year old is territorial. She lives in the shed out back.
Ginna: The shed?
Man: Yes, and she is going to be lost when her mother leaves her. We’ll see what happens.

At that point I thought it was best to head down the trail away from this weirdo. I mean, really: he acts like he’s being magnanimous to bring his kids with him. And who ever heard of a three-year-old choosing an adoptive parent? What kind of mother would let that happen? It was a full ten minutes later that I realized what had happened, with a discussion that might have gone like this.

Ginna: What a strange guy.
Syd: In what way?
Ginna: Well, he’s got these kids and he talked about leaving them behind. They’re not even out of high school.
Syd: What kids?
Ginna: His three kids that he brought with him from Christchurch.
Syd: You mean his cats?

Cats … kids: New Zealand pronunciation is problematic for me. Syd almost fell down laughing when she realized I got through an entire dialog on the wrong track.